The Longest Pleasure Read online

‘It can, and it will; once I have the men and the opportunity to instigate the work,’ agreed Rafe mildly. ‘That’s why I’m telling you this.’ His lips twitched. ‘I knew you wouldn’t want to destroy the place where we first met!’

  Helen’s fists clenched. ‘You’re joking, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ He stepped back again to allow her to negotiate the steps, and Helen wished she had the guts to push him into the frozen depths of the lily pond behind him.

  ‘Anyway, you’ll be happy, I know, to hear that I’m now at your disposal,’ he remarked, dogging her footsteps back to the terrace. ‘We can talk as we walk, if you like, or if you’re feeling cold, we can go back to the house.’

  Helen halted, her nostrils flaring at his outrageous arrogance. ‘Our—appointment is for half past ten, Mr Fleming,’ she declared, keeping a tight rein on her temper. ‘As it is now only ten minutes past the hour, I see no cause for continuing this discussion. I will see you in the library at half past, as arranged. And now, if you don’t mind’—this with undisguised sarcasm—’I’d like to continue my walk alone.’

  She saw her words had struck home by the spasmodic tightening of a muscle in his cheek. Evidently he was unused to anyone countermanding his suggestions, and she had inadvertently chosen exactly the right method to put him in his place. The cool green eyes flared with sudden emotion, and she knew the same swift shaft of fear she had felt the previous day. But then, with admirable constraint, he controlled whatever instinct had evoked that burning look and, with a gesture of dismissal, he sauntered away.

  Helen found her own legs curiously unwilling to support her after he had gone, and she stood for several minutes wondering if she had the strength to make it back to the house. It was all very well fencing words with Rafe Fleming, but experience was teaching her that even when she thought she had won, he could still leave her sapped of all energy.

  He was waiting for her in the library when she finally made her way there, some ten minutes later than she had arranged. But her hair had taken some time to restore to order, and although she had not bothered with make-up earlier, now a rosy-pale blusher was adding warmth to the anxious pallor of her cheeks. She was not looking forward to the coming interview, particularly after what had happened already that morning. But she had to discuss the funeral arrangements with him. She had no alternative.

  Rafe had added a black suede jacket to the clothes he had been wearing earlier. It matched his pants, and gave him a more formal appearance. But he wasn’t wearing a tie, and the smooth brown column of his throat rose from the unbuttoned neck of his shirt. He looked sleek and attractive—and dangerous, she thought fancifully. No woman should have to deal with a man like him. Not when her own position was still to be defined.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,’ Helen began unwillingly, feeling obliged to make some concession to his patience, and Rafe shrugged.

  ‘Why be sorry?’ he countered, not moving from his position in front of the hearth. ‘Unless you’re having second thoughts, of course. I’ve noticed you have a tendency to jump into deep water, and then start casting about for a life-line.’

  Helen closed the door and gazed at him indignantly. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You do it all the time,’ he said half-irritably. ‘You haven’t changed much, have you? You still don’t have the courage of your convictions.’

  Helen’s brief moment of compunction fled. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean—second thoughts? Why would I have second thoughts?’

  ‘Your arrival here,’ said Rafe wearily. ‘You kept me waiting deliberately. Have the guts to admit it!’

  Helen gasped. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ She hurried towards the desk that was set squarely under the windows, as much to seek the comfort of its support, as to hasten the interview. ‘That would be childish, wouldn’t it, Mr Fleming?’

  ‘Almost as childish as continuing to call me Mr Fleming,’ he conceded flatly, ‘when we both know our relationship has gone far beyond that stage.’

  Helen jerked out the leather chair from the kneehole and subsided into it. Then, resting her arms on the worn tooled surface of the desk, she made an effort to take charge of the discussion. ‘Does it really matter what we call one another?’ she inquired tightly. ‘I want to know where you’ve been and who you’ve contacted. And I’d also like a list of any mourners you think I might—overlook.’

  Rafe left the hearth to come and take the chair opposite her. It brought him down to her eye-level, which should have been an advantage, but the width of the desk seemed scarcely sufficient to combat his penetrating gaze. In addition to which, he rested his hands on the desk, a scarce twelve inches from where hers were lying. Her eyes were drawn to those long brown fingers, relaxed now, but inescapably linked to the bruises she had found on her body after his assault in the long meadow. They were hard hands, strong and unyielding. Much like the man himself, she thought tensely. And she had to prove she could be just as invincible.

  ‘All right,’ he complied after a moment, and it took an immense effort of will-power for Helen to sustain her composure. ‘I’ve arranged for the usual notices to be run in the local papers and I’ve sent the information to The Times. I’ve spoken to the vicar at St Mary’s, and Storrer’s in Yelversley are handling the actual interment, just as the old lady would have wished. Oh, and I’ve spoken to Frank Graham, your grandmother’s solicitor——’

  ‘I do know who Frank Graham is!’

  ‘—and he’s informed me that there are to be no flowers, by request. Any donations are to be sent to Christian charities. Okay?’

  Helen swallowed. ‘I see.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Helen moistened her lips. ‘You said—people had come to the house——’

  ‘Yes. Do you want a list of them, as well?’

  Helen coloured. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Why not?’ Rafe withdrew his hands and lay back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. ‘I’d have thought you would want to know what I said to them. Aren’t you afraid I might have influenced them as I’m supposed to have influenced the old lady?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  But she knew. She should have guessed Miss Paget would be unable to keep that kind of information to herself. Helen was only grateful she had not entirely revealed her hand.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ Rafe said now, his thick lashes veiling the expression in his eyes. ‘You apparently told Paget I was an out-and-out bastard! Poor old soul, she tried to be discreet, but without your grandmother to confide in, she was desperate!’

  ‘Putty in your hands, I don’t doubt!’ retorted Helen tightly, pressing one fist inside the other. ‘But as a matter of fact, I didn’t use those terms. I merely said that I thought you were an—an opportunist.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I still think so.’

  Rafe expelled an oath and got abruptly to his feet. ‘You know, Miss Michaels,’ he said unpleasantly, ‘if it wasn’t for the old lady, I’d make you eat those words. And enjoy it! But because of her, and because of—other things—you’ve got a stay of execution. But one day—one day …’

  Helen gulped back her apprehension and forced herself to look up at him. ‘Are you threatening me, Mr Fleming?’ she inquired in what she hoped was a challenging tone, and his mouth twisted.

  ‘Take it any way you like, Miss Michaels,’ he retorted grimly and, without waiting for her response, he strode savagely out of the room.

  Helen ate a solitary lunch in the dining room. Miss Paget was apparently keeping out of her way and Mrs Pride volunteered the information that Rafe had gone into town.

  ‘Yelversley?’ exclaimed Helen, in some surprise. ‘But aren’t the roads blocked?’

  ‘With luck he’ll be able to get through in the Range Rover,’ said Mrs Pride comfortably. ‘There have been snow-ploughs out all morning, I don’t doub
t, and as there hasn’t been another fall, well,’ she shrugged, ‘traffic has to be kept moving, doesn’t it?’

  Helen bit her lip. ‘You don’t suppose the roads are open as far as Salisbury, do you?’ She frowned. ‘I left my car in the hotel car-park, and I’d really like to have my own transport.’

  ‘I wouldn’t risk it. Not today,’ declared Mrs Pride, shaking her head. ‘I mean—Yelversley’s one thing. Salisbury’s something else. Use the old Daimler, if you need to get about. Where were you planning on going?’

  Helen lifted her shoulders. ‘I—well, I did think of going and having a few words with the Reverend Morris. It is still Mr Morris who’s vicar of St Mary’s, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bless you, yes.’ Mrs Pride frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know …’ Helen pushed the slice of quiche Mrs Pride had brought her aside and cupped her chin in her hands. ‘So many things seem to have changed around here.’

  Mrs Pride’s expression softened. ‘Rafe’s been getting at you, has he?’ She grimaced at Helen’s widening eyes and shrugged her bony shoulders. ‘He promised he wouldn’t, but I know he’s been feeling pretty cut up ever since your grandmother died.’

  Helen blinked. ‘He’s been feeling cut up?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Pride did not notice the irony in Helen’s tone. ‘I mean—you can understand it, can’t you? If he’s known the old lady was sick for some time, so should you have known. It wasn’t fair of her to put the whole responsibility on Rafe’s shoulders. I know he wanted to get in touch with you before this. Whenever there was some problem here, he thought you should have been involved, but your grandmother would have none of it. “I can’t trouble Helen,” she used to say. “She has her own life to lead. She doesn’t feel about the estate like we do.”‘ She shrugged. ‘Only towards the end I think she began to realise Rafe might have been right.’

  Helen was aghast. ‘You’re saying Rafe blames me——’

  ‘—for neglecting your responsibilities? Yes, my dear, I’m sure he does. Like I say, you can’t blame him, can you? Oh, I’m not passing judgement or anything like that. I know what it’s like when you’re young and fancy-free. You don’t always think about what you’re doing, whether you might be hurting somebody, unintentionally or not. But you have to admit, your visits here have been few and far between ever since you moved to London, and you can’t honestly expect a lot of sympathy when you haven’t done anything to deserve it.’

  ‘I’ve seen my grandmother——’

  ‘In London. Yes, I know. But you know Lady Elizabeth, Helen. She didn’t really enjoy those trips to the city. She was always happiest here. In her own home.’

  Helen winced. ‘I never got that impression. I mean—I know she loves—loved Castle Howarth, but I always thought she got a kind of fillip out of coming to town.’

  ‘Which just proves Rafe’s point, doesn’t it,’ declared Mrs Pride, brushing an imaginary crumb from the table. She gave the girl an appealing look. ‘Perhaps you oughtn’t to be so hard on him, if you take my meaning. He’s only been doing his job, you know. The job your grandmother paid him to do.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  HELEN’S conversation with the Reverend Peter Morris was no more satisfying. She had found the old clergyman in the church, conducting a compulsorily arranged inspection of the heating system which was presently suffering the consequences of inadequately lagged pipes. In company with Ted Mansell, the local plumber, he was hurriedly dispersing every available container to catch the water dripping from several leakages in the cloakroom and vestry, and although he greeted Helen warmly, he was evidently more concerned with the damage that might be effected to church property than with any grievances she might raise.

  ‘I somehow don’t think this was what was meant by our Lord when He said: God will provide,’ he remarked ruefully, after placing one of the silver salvers that usually carried the collection beneath a persistent drip. He got to his feet with an evident effort and gave Helen a worried smile. ‘But needs must, when the Devil drives, as they say. Though I must admit our present unfortunate situation owes more to the meanness of our local committee than any wickedness on his behalf.’ He grimaced. ‘Of course, there are those who would argue that the Devil directs the hands of those members of the committee that—oh, but you’re not interested in this, are you, Helen?’ he added, expelling an impatient breath. ‘You have enough to contend with, I’m sure, even if young Fleming has taken most of the burden from you. I expect he’s been a tower of strength in your hour of need. I know your grandmother depended upon him, and I’m sure you can, too.’

  ‘Yes.’ It wasn’t easy to say the word, but it was expected of her, and Helen guessed she would receive no help here.

  ‘Yes, a fine young man,’ continued the vicar, wiping his hands on the hem of his cassock and gesturing for her to precede him into the main body of the church. ‘But I expect you know that. And I don’t suppose you’re here to discuss his character. Let me say, first and foremost, how sorry I was to hear of her Ladyship’s unexpected demise. She was a good woman, a good friend to the church, and I know she’ll be sorely missed in the community.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Helen forced herself to respond and he continued:

  ‘Of course, Rafe must miss her terribly. They were so close, you know. He did a lot for your grandmother, one way and another. And Lady Elizabeth was not one to ignore her responsibilities.’

  ‘No.’ Helen’s tongue circled her cold lips. Even inside the building, their breath was clouding the air, and she was glad she had not been persuaded to discard the vivid parka. But it was not just the chill of the atmosphere that was cooling her blood at that moment. It was the implication behind the old clergyman’s words that was troubling her. What did he mean? That she, Helen, had neglected her responsibilities? Or was he warning her that her grandmother might have rewarded Rafe’s solicitude in a more practical way?

  ‘Poor Rafe,’ went on the old man surprisingly, shaking his head. ‘It hasn’t been easy for him. And no one knew that better than Lady Elizabeth.’

  Helen swallowed. ‘You mean—because both his parents died so young?’

  ‘Well, that was quite a blow,’ agreed the vicar, closing the vestry door behind them and surveying his church with a faintly lugubrious expression. Then, turning once more to the subject in hand, he added: ‘Even an adopted child forms an attachment to the people he lives with.’

  ‘Well, of course.’ Helen had never doubted it, and once again she wondered what Mr Morris was getting at. ‘I imagine they were the only parents he had ever known,’ she volunteered, not wanting to pursue this topic, but feeling obliged to humour the old man. ‘To all intents and purposes, they were his mother and father. Just—just as my grandmother took the place of mine.’

  Mr Morris linked his hands together and frowned. ‘Oh, but Rafe knew his parents—his real parents, I mean,’ he exclaimed. ‘He must have done. He was—let me see—three or four when he was brought to Castle Howarth. Quite old enough to remember something at least.’

  Helen’s eyes widened. ‘But I thought—I mean, I naturally assumed he was just a baby when….’

  The thunderous knocking on the vestry door interrupted her, and raising an apologetic hand, Mr Morris went to open it. It was Ted Mansell, his face florid with the effort of working in the confined space of the tiny cloakroom that adjoined the vestry, the knees of his overalls damp and dusty.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, Reverend,’ he declared, his sharp eyes seeking Helen’s striking figure with evident approval, ‘but I think you ought to come and take a look at these joints.’

  ‘Joints?’ The clergyman was briefly bewildered, and Mansell offered Helen a knowing grin.

  ‘The joints in the pipes!’ he exclaimed, his manner far from respectful. ‘I think I’ve found the trouble, but it’s going to be expensive.’

  ‘Isn’t everything these days?’ The vicar raised his eyes heavenwards for a moment before looking back at H
elen. ‘Oh, well! You will excuse me, won’t you, my dear? I don’t think you need concern yourself over the arrangements for Lady Elizabeth’s interment. They’ve all been taken care of, and so long as we don’t get an immediate thaw, we should be able to avoid Noah’s solution.’

  He chuckled at his own joke, and then, before Helen could voice any protest, he gave a farewell salute before disappearing through the doorway into the vestry.

  Outside, the afternoon was giving way to premature evening, the sky darkening as a sharp wind blew up from the west. There was no further snow forecast—according to Mrs Pride—but it was already starting to freeze again, and the road beyond the churchyard was like glass. Getting behind the wheel of the Daimler, Helen hoped the tyres would hold her. She wasn’t used to the big car, or its automatic transmission, and she would have much preferred her own vehicle, with its powerful little gearbox and anti-locking brakes.

  Still, in spite of her fears, she made fairly good progress out of the village. A couple of near-skids warned her that she should drive more slowly than she was accustomed to doing, and it wasn’t until she was within sight of the estate’s gates that the sudden awareness of the vehicle behind her made her act irresponsibly. She had been concentrating on the road ahead and paying scant attention to her rear-view mirror, so that the dark green image that suddenly presented itself caused no little impact. It had to be him, she thought savagely, ignoring the fact that Rafe was making no attempt to hustle her and, wrenching the wheel around, she charged recklessly between the stone gateposts.

  How she avoided scraping the Daimler’s bodywork along the rugged stone, she never knew, but the relief that she hadn’t only encouraged her to pursue the same frantic course. With the old car rocking from side to side, she accelerated down the track Rafe had cleared earlier, with the Range Rover’s headlights falling farther behind at every turn. It was mad, but it was exhilarating, too, knowing that in this way at least she was bettering him. She had told him she was a good driver, she thought triumphantly. Now she was proving it.