Duelling Fire Page 17

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Laura had heard the muffled words, and Sara hastily put her fingers over the mouthpiece.

  ‘Do you mind? she exclaimed, sliding off the velvet armchair and moving away from him. ‘I’m speaking to Laura.’

  ‘I know it,’ he said indifferently. ‘Janet told me.’ He lounged into the armchair she had just vacated and crossed one booted ankle over his knee. Then, with lazily caressing eyes, he asked: ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Sara couldn’t look at him, and turning her back, she leaned against the wall. ‘Look, someone’s come in,’ she said, speaking to Laura again. ‘I think I’d better call you back.’

  ‘Okay.’ Laura sounded puzzled, but resigned. ‘He sounds male. Is it the boy-friend?’

  Sara glanced round at Jude, then she turned back to the phone. ‘No,’ she said distinctly. ‘No, he’s not my boy-friend. He’s my aunt’s.’

  It was as well she was replacing the receiver when Jude’s hand came down on hers, otherwise she would have dropped it. ‘You little bitch!’ he grated, and she quailed before the furious glitter of his eyes. ‘You can’t still believe that trash, can you? After last night? Oh, God!’ his lips twisted contemptuously. ‘You do believe it, don’t you? Lord Almighty, I could wring your little neck!’

  He released her wrist so suddenly, Sara almost stumbled, and she had to grasp the table to support herself. ‘I—I don’t know what you mean,’ she cried, her mind refusing to expand any further, and with a grunted oath he grabbed her arm again and dragged her after him into Harriet’s sitting room.

  The small desk where Harriet usually answered her letters was bare at present, but Jude seemed uncaring of the fact that its drawers were private. With a cold suppressed violence that chilled Sara to the bone, he wrenched out the drawers one by one, spilling them and their contents over the carpet. He was evidently looking for something, though for what, Sara couldn’t imagine, and she gulped in apprehension when he suddenly gave an angry cry of triumph.

  The paper he thrust at her was old and mellowed, but as with all such documents, its contents were still intact. Briefly, it was a birth certificate, Jude’s birth certificate, signifying that on the seventeenth of January 1951, Harriet Elizabeth Ferrars had given birth to a son.

  Sara lifted her eyes to Jude’s in some confusion. ‘But—but this—–’

  ‘I think its authenticity is unmistakable, don’t you?’ he demanded bitterly, and she quivered.

  ‘But—but this means—–’

  ‘—–that Harriet is my mother. I know. Do you doubt it? Can you think of any other reason why I should feel responsible for her?’

  Sara shook her head. ‘But I thought—–’

  ‘I know what you thought,’ he retorted coldly.

  ‘It was a reasonable mistake.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘You know it was.’ Sara looked down at the birth certificate again. ‘But—but your father’s name—it’s missing.’

  ‘I told you I was a bastard,’ he declared flatly. ‘So I am—Harriet’s bastard. That’s why you hadn’t to know the truth.’

  Sara was bewildered. ‘But why? Why not? I—I’m not shocked or anything.’ She lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture. ‘You should have told me!’

  Jude’s mouth twisted. ‘I thought the truth would have dawned on you by now. I’d forgotten what consummate deceivers women can be. Even after—well, even though you let me—take you last night, you still believed I was Harriet’s lover!’

  She looked at him helplessly, seeing the pain and contempt in his expression.

  ‘You—you know why I let you—make love to me last night,’ she said at last. ‘I couldn’t help myself. I—I love you.’

  ‘You—love me!’ His laughter was crueller than anything she had ever heard. ‘Oh, now I’ve heard everything.’ He used his boot to kick the strewn papers on the hearth. ‘You don’t love anybody but yourself, Sara. You’d better save that line for Rupert. He’s the one Harriet’s chosen for your future husband!’

  He left her then, striding out of the room without a backward glance, leaving her to stare dry-eyed at the mess he had left behind him. She hoped if Janet came in she would not imagine she had done this, but as she was indirectly responsible, it was up to her to clear it up.

  She tried not to look at the letters as she gathered them all together. Harriet’s correspondence was nothing to do with her, and she had no doubt her aunt would be furious if she found out what Jude had done. And she would certainly find out that Sara now knew Jude’s identity. Sara herself intended to tell her.

  One letter, however, did attract her unwilling attention. It had an Indian stamp on it, and when she reluctantly examined the envelope, she recognised her father’s handwriting. Puzzled, she turned the letter over, and as she did so something else Jude had said came back to her. He had told her her father had written to Harriet, but she had denied it. Certainly she had known of no such letter, and Harriet had never admitted to being in correspondence with Charles Shelley.

  It was not something she would normally do, but these were hardly normal circumstances, she reflected dryly, as she drew the letter out of the envelope. She had to know why her father had written to Harriet without telling her anything about it.

  There was a photograph of herself inside the letter, and it spilled out on to the floor as she unfolded the sheet. It had been taken in India, only a few weeks before her father died, and showed her wearing the sari, beside the swimming pool at the hotel in Calcutta.

  Even more puzzled, she looked at her father’s handwriting, and as she read what he had written a sense of pain and indignation gripped her. Harriet should have told her, she thought in growing horror, she should not have kept this from her. Oh, how could she have kept this news to herself when it put an entirely different reflection on her father’s death!

  The letter was simple enough. It was a plea for help: not for himself, but for his daughter. Charles Shelley had written that he had recently discovered he had cancer, and that he had only a short time to live. The drugs! thought Sara aghast, and read on. Her father had obviously contacted Harriet in the hope that she might give Sara a home after he was dead. He wrote that he had persuaded his doctor to keep the truth from Sara, and although there had been a post-mortem, the true circumstances of his illness had never been revealed.

  That was something she had to think about, but more cruelly, Harriet had left her in ignorance. She had let her go on thinking her father had taken his own life because he couldn’t face his debts, when in fact he had been trying to save her from the inevitable cost of his own illness. Harriet had even pretended she had only learned of Charles Shelley’s death through the newspapers, when in all probability he had arranged that she should be informed.

  It took her fully an hour to restore the desk to rights, and she was closing the last drawer when Janet appeared in the doorway. Right on cue, thought Sara bitterly, in no mood to cross swords with her, and faced the older woman in silent defiance.

  ‘Are you all right?’ The Scotswoman eyed the girl’s revealing appearance with unexpected compassion. ‘Ye havenae been crying, have ye? The young master went storming out of here like a thundercloud, an’ now ye’re obviously upset.’

  Sara bent her head. ‘I’m all right, Janet. I must be picking up a cold, that’s all. I—I’ll go and get dressed. If you’ll excuse me—–’

  ‘Your lunch—–’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid I’m not very hungry.’ Sara forced a faint smile of apology.

  ‘Wouldn’t ye know it!’ Janet put her hands on her hips. ‘And himself not wanting the guid food I’ve prepared either.’

  Sara pressed her hands together. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are ye?’ Janet pursed her lips. ‘An’ what’s been going on here, that’s what I’d like to know? What has young Jude been telling ye? It cannae ‘a been anythin’ guid.’

  Sara sighed. ‘I’d really rather not talk about it.’

 
; ‘Would ye nae?’ Janet squared her shoulders. ‘Away wi’ ye, I can guess. I warned Miss Ferrars he’d never stand for it, but no, she wouldnae listen.’

  Sara hesitated, curious in spite of herself. ‘You—warned Harriet?’

  ‘Aye, I did.’ Janet sniffed. ‘Denying her own flesh and blood! Is that the behaviour of a respectable woman?’

  Sara expelled her breath tremulously. ‘But why did she do it? Surely—surely people must suspect—–’

  ‘Och, it was nae a secret till you came.’ She snorted. ‘How could it be? When herself brought the laddie here to spite his lordship!’

  Sara was growing more and more confused. ‘Lord Hadley?’ she asked faintly, and Janet nodded.

  ‘’Twas a cruel thing to do to both of them, I said it at the time, but a woman scorned is still a powerful enemy, and Miss Ferrars doesnae forget a grudge.’

  Sara moistened her lips. It was becoming obvious Janet thought she knew more than she did, and rather than betray her ignorance Sara improvised a little.

  ‘I—I suppose Lord Hadley resented Harriet having—having her son living with her,’ she probed, and Janet, intent upon her story did not notice the tremor in her voice.

  ‘Och, he was furious at first,’ she agreed. ‘And with guid reason, I suppose. It wasn’t as if he hadnae paid for his mistake. Yon laddie had the best education money could buy, and his lordship himself approved of the couple who took the charge of him when he was a babby.’

  Sara quivered. ‘You mean—you mean—Jude is Lord Hadley’s son?’ she breathed incredulously, and Janet turned to her with accusing eyes.

  ‘He didnae tell ye?’

  ‘Not that, no.’ Sara shook her head.

  ‘Och, weel—–’ Janet shrugged her shoulders philosophically. ‘Ye deserve to know. Seeing as ye know the rest.’

  Sara sought a chair and sat down with rather a bump. ‘I’m beginning to understand now.’

  ‘Aye.’ Janet hesitated a moment, as if regretting her sudden burst of confidence, but then evidently her affection for Jude overcame her misgivings. ‘Ah, weel, it’s all water under the bridge now.’

  Sara looked up at her. ‘Won’t you tell me when Jude came to Knight’s Ferry? You said—it was a cruel thing to do, bringing Jude here. Why?’

  Janet sighed. ‘Lord Hadley and Miss Ferrars—weel, when she was a lassie, she had some notion of marrying his lordship, but it wasnae realised. He was promised to his cousin Margaret, and he married her.’

  Sara nodded. ‘Jude—Jude tried to tell me something of this,’ she murmured, remembering their conversation in the library. Only she had been too stubborn to listen to him, and he had lost his temper …

  ‘Aye, I guessed he would.’ Janet folded her hands. ‘It’s no a pretty story. My mistress must have regretted her recklessness many times over, but by then it was too late.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Janet considered her words before continuing: ‘To begin with there were nae children to the marriage. Don’t ask me why. Sometimes it happens that way. Weel, his lordship came courting my mistress again, and she, fool that she was, let him have his way with her.’

  Sara knew a momentary amusement at the old-fashioned words, but then the graver aspects of the situation weighed down on her again.

  ‘Ye’ll hae guessed, she became pregnant, and ye can imagine what manner of scandal that would hae caused. His lordship arranged for her to go away, to a little village in Scotland, where naebody knew her, and she could hae her baby in peace and comfort. That was my village.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Of course, he had to promise her all manner of things to make her do his bidding. Maybe he had some mind to put his wife away and take another. But then it was discovered that Lady Hadley was expecting a babby, too, and my puir mistress was out in the cold.’

  Sara could feel sympathy then for the young Harriet, alone and unmarried with a baby on the way. Things were different in those days. Unmarried mothers were social pariahs, and the whole situation took on a new aspect.

  ‘Weel, after the laddie was born, Lord Hadley arranged for him to be brought up by a respectable couple in Sussex, and young Jude attended the same boarding school as his half-brother.’

  So that was why Jude and Rupert knew one another so well, thought Sara, as the pieces of the jigsaw began to fall into place. Their familiarity stemmed from their schooldays. It also explained why she had never heard of Jude, and why he had never accompanied her aunt on any of her visits to Sara’s school. But how strange. To visit her cousin’s daughter, but never her own son!

  ‘Ye’ll know his lordship’s wife died when young Venetia was born,’ Janet went on more reluctantly now, and when Sara nodded: ‘It was then that my mistress’s bitterness was born. Och, I told her it was madness to care after all these years, but she did—and who can say she didn’t deserve some consideration?’

  ‘She—expected Lord Hadley to marry her?’

  Janet nodded dourly. ‘It nearly killed her when he told her he’d never do it. He couldnae. He knew that if he married my mistress, she’d expect him to adopt Jude legally. An’ how could he do that, and deprive his son of his birthright?’

  ‘Oh!’ Sara understood it all now. ‘So—so Harriet brought Jude here to live with her, knowing how Lord Hadley would feel.’

  ‘Aye, as I said, it was a cruel trick to play. Particularly on Jude.’

  ‘I believe it.’ Sara was aghast. ‘But—–’ She looked up again. ‘He does seem to care for her.’

  ‘Och, that’s right, he does.’ Janet sniffed again. ‘He’s that kind o’ mon. He may resent the mess she’s made of his life, but he’d no hurt her.’

  ‘The mess?’

  ‘Aye. He’d taken his final exams at the university, ye see. He was going to study law. Miss Ferrars persuaded him to give that up, and brought him here, to work for his own father.’

  ‘And—and what did Lord Hadley do? He gave him a job.’

  ‘Och, have ye nae seen the two o’ them together? Jude and his lordship, I mean. Sure, the mon thinks the sun shines out of him, and puir Rupert suffers in the comparison.’

  ‘You’re saying that—Lord Hadley loves Jude?’

  ‘Aye, that I am.’

  ‘And do his children know?’

  ‘Rupert and Venetia?’ Janet shrugged. ‘I suspect Rupert has guessed. Venetia, no.’

  ‘Oh, now I see—–’

  ‘—–why Miss Ferrars gets so upset over Jude’s friendship with his sister? Och, she has no need to worry. Jude’s no interested in his own sister. His interest lies in another direction, I’m thinking.’

  Sara, seeing the way Janet was looking at her, felt the familiar tide of embarrassment sweeping over her. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, shaking her head vigorously. ‘Not—not after what’s happened. I don’t think he’ll—ever—forgive me.’

  Janet frowned. ‘It’s a bonny mess, I’ll say that.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sara rose rather unsteadily to her feet.

  ‘Ye care about him, don’t ye?’ Janet’s eyes were intent. ‘Miss Ferrars was more perceptive than I thought. Och, why ever did she conceive such a plan!’

  Sara blinked back her tears, unable at that moment to either care or comprehend what plan Janet was talking about now. Her head was aching with the weight of all she had learned this morning, and she had no clear idea of what her own actions should be.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘HOW could you, Harriet!’

  It was later the same day, and Sara was standing beside her aunt’s bed in the hospital. After taking some aspirin she had put on her clothes and asked Rob if he would drive her into Buford. She wouldn’t have dared to drive Jude’s car anyway, and the Rolls-Royce was still in the garage being repaired, but Rob and Janet owned a small Austin, and it was this that had brought her to town.

  ‘Darling, please sit down and stop glowering at me,’ Harriet declared now, waving to the chair behind Sara. ‘Can’t we sit and discuss this
like civilised people, without you attracting the Ward Sister’s attention?’

  Sara hesitated, but then, giving in, she slumped down into the chair, gazing at Harriet with wide accusing eyes. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘let’s discuss it. But first of all, will you tell me why you lied about my father?’

  Harriet shifted her pillows into a more comfortable position and then gave the girl facing her a cool appraising look. ‘I?’ she said icily. ‘I did not lie about your father, Sara. So far as I remember, the circumstances of his death were never discussed.’

  ‘We discussed him dying. We discussed the funeral arrangements—–’

  ‘Yes. And you told me that a post-mortem had been conducted.’

  ‘It was.’ Sara took a deep breath. ‘They—they told me he had died from an overdose.’

  ‘So he did.’

  ‘Yes. But they omitted to tell me he’d had cancer!’

  Harriet’s mouth thinned. ‘I never knew you were a sneak, Sara. What else did you find while you were routing through my desk?’

  ‘I didn’t—rout through your desk. Jude—Jude pulled the drawers out when he was looking for his birth certificate, and I—I put them back again.’

  ‘I see.’ Harriet regarded her without liking. ‘Well, what was I supposed to do? Announce to you on your arrival that your father had been chronically ill? That he had taken his own live to save himself more pain?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’ Sara was horrified. ‘I know—I knew my father. You don’t understand how things were. Medication was so expensive—–’

  ‘And he was a compulsive gambler!’ declared Harriet brutally. ‘You’re defending a man who gambled on your own future.’

  Sara was pale. ‘He thought he knew you. He thought you might care.’

  ‘And I did,’ retorted Harriet shortly. ‘I wrote to you. I offered you a home. What more could I have done?’

  Faced with that implacable fact, Sara was helpless, and Harriet went on: ‘Just because Jude’s been filling your head with his own grievances it doesn’t give you the right to come here and criticise me. All right, perhaps I should have told you your father was terminally ill. But what good would it have done? Would it have made you feel any better? Do you feel better knowing the truth?’