The Longest Pleasure

Helen quivered, her knuckles white as they gripped the receiver. ‘Rafe, please——’ She despised herself for begging, but she suspected she wouldn’t get much sleep until she knew the truth.

There was another ominous silence, and then he made a derisive sound. ‘No,’ he said, after a moment. ‘She seemed perfectly all right yesterday evening. Your conscience needn’t trouble you. Not on that score at least.’

Helen replaced the receiver without answering him. Uncaring at that moment what Adam might think of her behaviour, she moved almost automatically towards the grill, pulling out the pan and flipping the steaks over. She needed the reassurance of accomplishing so familiar a task to give her time to recover from Rafe’s attack, but even so her hands shook abominably.

Adam let her attend to the steaks without comment, but when she moved towards the fridge to take out the salad, his voice arrested her. ‘I assume that was a call from Wiltshire,’ he remarked quietly. ‘Is something wrong? You seem—distraite.’

Summoning all her composure, Helen took a deep breath before turning to face him. ‘I’m just—in shock, I suppose,’ she murmured, hoping he would not probe. ‘That—that was my grandmother’s agent. I’m afraid he and I have never seen eye to eye.’

‘Ah.’ Adam inclined his head. ‘Well—I shouldn’t let anything some old peasant says upset you. You know what these rustic types are like. Unless you keep them in order, they get an inflated idea of their own importance. And they’re so used to dealing with pigs, they begin to sound like one!’

The graphic portrait Adam described brought the ghost of a smile to Helen’s lips. The image of Rafe as some hoary old farmer, deep in pig-swill and manure, with brutish features and a straw dangling from his mouth, was so far from the truth as to be laughable. But she didn’t contradict him. The chances of the two men ever actually meeting one another were negligible, and Rafe’s behaviour had only reinforced her determination to get rid of him as soon as possible.

‘That’s better,’ said Adam now, seeing her smile. ‘Come on, darling. It’s not the end of the world. Oh, I know it’s a shame that the old lady died so suddenly. But isn’t it better? From her point of view, at least? You wouldn’t have wanted her to be in pain.’

‘No.’ Helen felt an involuntary shiver prickle her spine. But Adam was right. Nan could not have suffered for long. With a determination born of desperation, she put all thoughts of her grandmother—and Rafe Fleming—aside. ‘You know,’ she added, ‘I think I would like that bottle of wine after all. Would you mind?’

CHAPTER TWO (#u27f0c2c2-352b-5eac-bcc5-64d1489e55cd)

AT TWO o’clock Helen gave up the struggle to try and sleep, and got out of bed. Pulling on a beige silk wrapper over the lacy folds of her nightgown, she padded out of her bedroom and into the kitchen. Switching on the light, she opened the fridge and took out a pint of milk. Then, taking down a copper-bottomed pan from the rack above the drainer, she poured half the milk into it.

A few moments later she trailed into the living room carrying an earthenware mug of hot milk. It was chilly in the large room, the heating having been turned down before she went to bed. Helen adjusted the thermostat before crossing to the windows to draw back the heavy curtains, and then sank down into an armchair close by. Whenever she couldn’t sleep, she always opened the curtains. It was so reassuring to know that other people were not sleeping either.

Far below her, London still breathed, like a beast reclining after making its kill, she thought fancifully. Yet, to someone unused to its wakeful vigilance, the fairylike brilliance of its lights must have seemed an alien phenomenon. For herself, she was used to it. Seven years of living in the capital had given her a sense of identity with its busy streets, though she still remembered the peace of Castle Howarth with a nostalgia undiminished by time.

Castle Howarth! Her tongue appeared to lick a smear of milk from her lips, and she felt the same constriction in her throat she had fought earlier. It was just as well Adam couldn’t see her now, she reflected wryly. He had thought she was over the worst, and so had she. But she wasn’t. The inescapable fact that her grandmother was dead was the reason she was sitting here now. She would get over it; eventually. But not without some heart-searching; not without some remorse.

Adam didn’t understand, she knew that. His was a logical brain, to which an excess of emotion was self-indulgent. He couldn’t conceive why she should be so distressed over the death of an old lady she had seen only a handful of times in the last three years. Helen shook her head. Undoubtedly, he had a point. It was self-indulgent and hypocritical to display such grief when she had done so little to warrant it. As far as Adam was concerned, she was behaving illogically—and just a little egotistically—expecting him to comprehend her feelings when they were so uncharacteristic of the young woman he thought he knew.

The evening had not been a success. In spite of the heady bottle of claret Adam had produced, Helen’s behaviour had thrown them both off-key, and she was relieved when he agreed she should still have the early night she had planned. Even so, he had made one final offer to go with her, and her taut refusal had not repaired the situation.

‘I think you’re allowing this whole affair to assume unreasonable importance,’ he said, after observing his fiancée’s attempt to swallow a mouthful of her steak. ‘I’m trying to be patient, Helen, but I honestly don’t understand why you’re so upset. I assume you must be blaming yourself in some way, though how you can be held responsible for the death of someone who, on your own admission, was almost eighty, is beyond me!’

Helen had not tried to reason with him. She had suspected that any attempt on her part to try and explain would have resulted in exactly the kind of scene Adam would most deplore. So, until she had regained control of her wayward emotions, she was unable to offer any defence.

The hot milk was cloying and, putting it aside, Helen lay back in her chair. It was snowing now, she saw with some surprise—tiny frozen flakes floating past the windows, covering the roofs below with a thin crust of white icing. It reminded her of Rafe’s warning about the weather at Castle Howarth. It was always worse in the country. Without the frequent movement of traffic to keep the roads clear, whole villages were soon cut off, and Castle Howarth was no exception. She ought to have watched the forecast on television, she thought ruefully. She had no desire to be diverted into a snow-drift.

They had always had a lot of snow at Castle Howarth, she remembered wistfully. When she was young she had loved the cold frosty mornings, when her fingers tingled and the snow had been deep enough to cover her rubber boots. Sometimes the pond had frozen, and if Mr Dobkins had pronounced it thick enough, Nan had let her go skating. Nan! Helen’s breath caught in her throat. Oh, Nan, she thought miserably, why had their relationship floundered? After all they had meant to one another, how could such a thing have happened? They had been so close. The only surviving members of a family stricken by bad luck and misfortune. They should have fought for what they had.

Sometimes, she wondered if it had not begun when she was four years old. That first occasion when she had learned of Rafe Fleming’s special place in her grandmother’s affections. Had she really been hurt—or jealous—of Nan’s stand over Rafe’s rights? Hadn’t she secretly resented her grandparent’s defence of someone she considered her inferior? What an abominable little prig she must have been, she thought with disgust. But Rafe Fleming had always brought out the worst in her.

She sighed. She probably brought out the worst in him, too. Certainly, when she was fifteen, she had done little to warrant the unprovoked assault he had made on her, and it had taken years for her to recover from that particular anguish. What had made it worse was that she had been too ashamed to tell her grandmother. Rafe had expected her to, she knew. She had been aware of his wary eyes watching her on more than one occasion. But it was something she could not share with anyone, and unconsciously she blamed Nan for it.

Of course, after Rafe had gone away to work, it had been easier. Outwardly, at least, her life had gone on as before. But there was something missing; the innocent faith she had had that Nan could protect her from any danger was gone, and in that realisation had been sown the first seeds of dissension.

She knew it had been because of Rafe that she had insisted on striking out on her own. His accusations, however unfounded, had soured and festered, and as soon as she was eighteen, she had announced her intention to get a job. But not in the village, or even in the nearby town of Yelversley: Helen proposed to go to London, and nothing could dissuade her.

Not unnaturally, her grandmother had not wanted her to leave. There was no reason for her to take a job, she said. There was plenty to do at Castle Howarth. Not least, be a companion to her, she suggested. Now that Paget was getting old, she needed someone younger to handle her correspondence. But Paget—Miss Paget, of Helen’s pre-school days—had stayed on long after her young charge had need of her. She and Lady Elizabeth got along together very well, and even had she wanted to, Helen knew she could never replace her.

At last, convinced that her granddaughter meant to find employment in the city, Lady Elizabeth had offered to make enquiries for her, with friends and acquaintances. But Helen had refused to accept any help. She wanted to do this herself, she said. She wanted to prove to her grandmother—and anyone else who might be interested—that she was capable of supporting herself, of being independent; she had worried the old lady, she knew, but her freedom had meant more to her than Nan’s peace of mind. Another barrier between them, she acknowledged now, the distance creating a gulf that was mental as well as physical.

To begin with, she had found it very hard to live alone. She had known few people in the capital, and the temporary receptionist’s job she found hardly paid her food bills. Without the allowance her grandmother had insisted on paying her, she wouldn’t even have been solvent, and she had fought a losing battle with her conscience every time she cashed a cheque.

Her meeting with Melanie Forster had come at a time when she had seriously begun to question the sense in what she was doing. It was January, and having just been home to Castle Howarth for Christmas, Helen had been made acutely aware of the shortcomings of the life she had chosen to lead. Everything at home had been so warm; so familiar; returning to her poky, one-roomed flat in Kensington, she had been sorely tempted to abandon her bid for emancipation.

A few years older than Helen, Melanie was another ex-pupil of St Agnes, and that had been sufficient reason for their friendship to develop. Unlike Helen, Melanie was a Londoner, born and bred. Her mother was dead, and her father was a politician, struggling against a failing economy to sustain the life he had always led. In no time at all, their house in St John’s Wood became a second home to Helen, and she was always welcome, whenever she chose to call.

It didn’t take long for Helen to discover that Melanie was looking for someone to help finance a business venture she was considering. She owned the lease of a small shop in Beatrix Street, and she wanted to use the shop to sell antiques. Looking back, Helen occasionally wondered whether Melanie’s insistence that they should be friends had been as innocent as it had at first seemed. Certainly, as Lady Sinclair’s granddaughter, she must have seemed like a gift from the gods. Melanie needed finance, and after some persuasion on Helen’s part, her grandmother had agreed to advance her the money. After some initial hiccoughs, Pastiche had opened, and right from the beginning, their gamble had paid off.

The success of the shop had exceeded their wildest dreams. The combination of Melanie’s shrewdness and Helen’s instinctive feeling for old furniture and paintings had proved effective, and the position of the shop made it a focal point for tourists. It was also true that Helen’s striking appearance and forthright manner had disarmed some of the toughest dealers in the trade, but it was their mutual skill in business which had made the venture a success. If Melanie’s talents were best employed in selling, Helen had found her niche in uncovering items of value in the most unexpected places. Because she was young, and feminine, old people tended to trust her, and she acquired a reputation for honesty and fair dealing. She had patience, and compassion, and although the shop’s turnover couldn’t match the larger of their competitors, their profits pleased their accountant.

Of course, her grandmother had known of her success. Helen had been unable to hide the pride with which she had returned her grandmother’s investment to her—with interest. Besides, she had since admitted that she had also wanted Rafe to hear what she had done. Knowing Nan, as she did, she felt pretty sure he would hear of it, one way or another. And this awareness, in its turn, assuaged a little of the bitterness she felt every time she thought of him.

Tom Fleming’s death had been, she supposed, the final contributory factor to the breakdown of her relationship with her grandmother. At the time, she had thought no more of it than she would of the death of any of her grandmother’s employees. It was sad. He had been comparatively young—only fifty-seven—but these things happened. It was the way of the world. She had not attended his funeral but, once again, her grandmother had not expected her to. She had sent condolences to his widow—and, reluctantly, to the family—but that was all.

The first inkling she had had that Rafe had come back to Castle Howarth had come a few weeks later. Helen had driven home for the weekend and, after parking her car in the courtyard, she had walked nonchalantly into the house. It had been a dull November day, she remembered, and she had been anticipating warming her hands over the open fire in her grandmother’s sitting room. Nan had always kept an open fire in her sitting room, even though the other rooms were heated by rather ancient radiators.

The sight of Rafe Fleming, lounging in the armchair opposite her grandmother, taking tea, had caused a feeling much like a body blow to Helen’s midriff. It wasn’t so much seeing him—although it had been some years since she had done so; it was the apparent intimacy of his relationship with her grandmother; the cosy way Nan was sharing her tea with him, and Rafe’s evident ease in these familiar surroundings.

Of course, the impact of his presence had twisted like a knife. The hatred she still felt for him had never faltered. What shocked her most was the ability he still had to strip her of her defences, and although her anger sustained her, she was shaken to the core.

And, as always, her frustration had turned on her grandmother. Had she no conception of what it meant to her to come home and find him—the usurper—occupying her place? she demanded wordlessly. Didn’t she know what he was like? Couldn’t she see the kind of man he was?

But, of course, only the bitter voice inside her answered. No, it said, her grandmother had no conception of Rafe’s real character. She didn’t know how he had teased and tormented her granddaughter over the years. She didn’t know of his sexual exploits, or of the near-rape in the long meadow, which had left Helen wary of any man, good or bad. So far as Nan was concerned, he was almost family; the son she had never had. And Rafe took damn good care not to jeopardise their relationship by showing her his darker side.

To his credit, Rafe had not lingered long after Helen’s arrival. With the sinuous grace that had always come so naturally to him, he had risen to his feet at her entrance and offered her his seat. The fact that she had refused it didn’t seem to trouble him. The cool green eyes she remembered from her nightmares were as enigmatic as a glacier. The polite words that moved his lips gave no inkling of what he was really thinking, but he must have made the right noises because her grandmother had noticed nothing amiss.

For her part, Helen had barely glanced at him. After that first visual confrontation, she had avoided looking at him: but for all that, she had been unable to prevent his image from imprinting itself on the insides of her eyelids. She recalled thinking that Tracy would have been impressed to see him now. He had fulfilled all her girlish fantasies, and the slim, good-looking boy had become a lean, attractive man. He was different, though; she sensed that. His face was still familiar, but it was tougher; harder. Evidence of the life he had been leading, she had assumed, her lips curling contemptuously when she was unwillingly reminded of how slavishly she had once hung on his every word. What a fool she had been, she thought wryly. Thank God she had had the good fortune to find out what he was really like, before it was too late.

But the news Nan had had to impart had driven all other considerations out of her head.

Rafe had apparently offered to take his father’s place on the estate. As Helen was absorbing this unbelievable piece of information, Lady Elizabeth had gone on to say, with evident satisfaction, that he was doing it for her! In a pig’s eye! Helen had thought furiously, but her grandmother would hear no dissent. If Rafe was willing to leave an apparently secure position with Chater Chemicals and return to Castle Howarth as her agent, she was grateful, and there was no one else she would trust implicitly.

Of course, Helen had been unable to hide her disapproval, and the weekend had been an unmitigated disaster. Helen had returned to London on Sunday afternoon, and that was the last time she had visited her old home. The few subsequent occasions when she and Nan had met had been in London, and although at Christmas, particularly, she had felt a sense of loss, Adam’s entry into her life had filled the empty space.

It was strange, she thought now, her hands involuntarily seeking the tail of her braid and spreading the hairs between her fingers; Rafe had been the cause of the rift between her and her grandmother, and yet they had never actually talked about it. Oh, she had grumbled about him when she was younger, just as she had when she was four, but Nan had never allowed a discussion on the subject. Even that last weekend at Castle Howarth, when the news of his appointment as agent had been the most obvious talking-point of all, Rafe’s name had seemed taboo. Why? Why wouldn’t her grandmother listen to reason? Had she really been indifferent to his faults, or had Rafe actually seemed a paragon to her? Whatever her reasoning, she would never know now, Helen reflected with bitter acceptance. But when she drove down to Wiltshire in the morning, she would assume her role as Castle Howarth’s mistress, and nothing Rafe said or did could change her opinion of him …

Helen left the motorway at Basingstoke and took the A30 to Salisbury. It would have been quicker to go via Andover, but she was chary of crossing Salisbury Plain in the worsening weather conditions. At least the more southerly route looked a little less hazardous, but by the time she reached the old cathedral city, her windscreen wipers were clogged with driving snow. It was just as well Adam couldn’t see her now, she decided wryly. He worried if she drove in frosty weather, and today would more than justify his concern. The snow was thickening by the minute, and she thought how fortunate it was that she had set away early that morning. It hadn’t even been light when she drove out of London. The going had been slow but it was only a little after twelve when she drove into Salisbury.

She hadn’t stopped at all during the journey, but now she was obliged to do so, the physical needs of her body demanding relief. The car-park of the Blue Boar seemed to offer the easiest solution, and after locking the doors of the Porsche, she struggled across the slushy yard and into the hotel.

It was years since she had last used the old hotel’s amenities, but she remembered her grandmother bringing her here for afternoon tea during shopping trips to the city. The entrance from the car-park brought her into the carpeted corridor next to the powder-room, and she made use of its facilities before walking on into the attractive reception lounge. A log fire was burning in the huge hearth, and several people were clustered about the chintz-covered settees, drinking tea or coffee, or eating some of the delicious sandwiches the management provided for guests only requiring a snack meal.

Helen hesitated on the fringe of the group, wondering if she really had the time to wait for sandwiches. There was no sign of the waitress, and while it would have been pleasant to relax in front of the fire, she was apprehensive of becoming stranded.

She was also aware that her appearance had attracted an undue amount of attention. Not caring much for anything beyond keeping dry and warm, she had dressed in a black jumpsuit and long leather boots, with a knee-length orange parka overall. It was its vivid colour which was attracting attention, she decided, ignoring the fact that to the residents of the quiet hotel she herself was an exciting diversion. With her pale skin showing just a hint of becoming colour, and her smoky-purple eyes shadowed with anxiety, she was quite startlingly beautiful, without the silky richness of her hair to add to her individuality. In the conservative surroundings of the Blue Boar’s panelled lounge, she was as alien as an exotic bird of paradise, and it was difficult to ignore so many curious faces.

At that moment, she caught the eye of the hotel receptionist, and with a smile of acknowledgement, he came out from behind his desk to walk towards her. At last, she thought, looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder. If he could just tell her how long it would take to get something to eat, she could decide then whether or not she had the time.