Rooted in Dishonour Page 4

  The hall struck chill after the heat outside, but it was a welcome coolness, accentuated by marble floors and pillars, and a high arched ceiling that focussed on a circular stained glass window two floors above. Arched doorways led into the apartments that opened from the hall, and immediately ahead of them, a fan-shaped staircase split at the first landing to coil around the outer wall to the second floor. The staircase, like the floor of the hall, was made of marble, veined and fluted, and elegantly mounted by an intricately moulded wrought iron balustrade.

  Yet, for all its elegance, the house had a vaguely neglected air, Beth thought. The bowls that surmounted the pedestals set about the hall should have been filled with flowers, but they looked dry and dusty, and no one had bothered to sweep away the leaves that had been blown in through the open doorway and presently shifted underfoot.

  'Where is my daughter?'

  Willard was speaking to Jonas, and Beth turned her attention to the elderly servant.

  'She's lying down, sir,' Jonas informed him, rather uncomfortably. 'She wasn't well this morning, and she sent Marya across to Mister Raoul—'

  'Yes, I know about that,' replied Willard, rather tautly, and looking at his face, Beth saw that he was beginning to look drained again.

  'Willard—' she began, and as if anticipating her

  words, he turned to Jonas and said half impatiently:

  'Has a room been made ready for Miss Rivers?'

  'Yes, sir,' Jonas nodded, and as he did so, Raoul and the maid came into the hall carrying the cases.

  'Where do you want these?' he asked, but Beth moved forward at once and said:

  'I can manage my own cases. If you'll leave them here, I'll deal with them later.'

  'Marya can deal with them,' stated Willard uncompromisingly, and Raoul's dark eyebrows quirked mock- ingly.

  'I'll take yours up,' he commented, looking at his employer, and Willard nodded, saying shortly: 'You know where to go.'

  The maid was small and dark, not as dark as Jonas, but almost. Her gaze flickered half enviously over the other girl, and Beth felt the first unfamiliar pangs of knowing herself helpless in the face of Willard's domination.

  'If you'll follow me, miss?' Marya asked politely, and Beth was bending to pick up her vanity case when Willard said:

  'Leave that, Beth. The maid will come back for it. Go with Marya now. She'll show you your room. Which is it?' he asked, transferring his attention to the maid. 'The blue suite?' Marya bobbed and nodded her head, and Willard looked satisfied. 'Good. I'll follow you up.'

  Beth caught her lower lip between her teeth, glancing first up the stairs to where Raoul had reached the first landing, and then back at her fiance. 'Willard—'

  'I've told you, I'm coming up,' he insisted testily, and she had no other choice but to follow the maid.

  The rooms on the first floor were along a white-panelled corridor, the central area being given over to what appeared to be reception rooms. Beth guessed that in the days when servants were plentiful and the master of the big house had lived in some style, there had been balls and dinner parties in these echoing rooms which now accommodated only a widower and his daughter, and a handful of domestics. And his wife, she added silently to herself, remembering her own reasons for being here, but it seemed unreal. Right now, the noonday heat had created a somnolence that filled the house itself, and even her own advent seemed an intrusion.

  Following Marya along the corridor they passed an open door and glancing in, Beth was disconcerted to find Raoul Valerian straightening after depositing Willard's suitcases at the foot of a square four-poster bed. The action must have caused his hat to fall from his head, for he had bent to pick it up, and as he straightened Beth couldn't help noticing how thick and smooth his hair was compared to Marya's corkscrew curls. Then he turned his head and looked at her, and she found herself quickening her step to follow the maid.

  Her rooms were, she found, next door to Willard's. Marya showed her into a light, airy bedroom, with cream walls inset with blue silk panels, and a matching blue bedspread whose fringe trailed to the mosaic tiling of the floor. The bed itself was similar to Willard's, but smaller, and there was a continental armoire in which to hang her clothes, and a pair of chests, in the drawers of which she could keep her lingerie. There was no dressing table as such, although the circular mirror which stood on one of the chests was obviously for that purpose. Everything about the room was old, but serviceable, and apart from a little dust here and there, evidence of careless housekeeping, it was very tasteful.

  'Thank you, Marya,' Beth said now, as the maid put down her luggage. 'This is very nice.'

  'The bathroom is through there, miss,' Marya told her, her smile apparently reserved for someone else. 'I'll get the rest of your things.'

  'Just a minute...' Beth had to ask. 'Is—was this—I mean, did this room belong to the—the first Mrs Petrie?'

  Marya shrugged. 'I work here for two years only,' she said, and left the room.

  While she was gone, Beth wandered to the windows. Long chiffon curtains hid the handles of the french doors, but they were ajar, and Beth pushed the curtains aside and stepped out on to the balcony. As she had expected, these rooms overlooked the front of the house, and from here she had an uninterrupted view of the ocean. A sweep of white sand descended to waters that were white at the rim but deep turquoise further out. The beach seemed to shelve quite rapidly, and she thought of swimming out there, submerging her body in the water, drifting with the tide ...

  'Is everything to your liking?'

  Beth turned back into the room at the sound of Willard's voice. He was standing rather heavily in the doorway, supporting himself against the jamb, and she hurried towards him anxiously.

  'Darling, everything's perfect, but I have to say it—you do look tired. Won't you rest for a while? I'm sure— everyone would understand.'

  Willard drew a deep breath. 'Yes,' he conceded with a faint smile. 'You're right, I do feel absolutely shattered. But Clarrie's preparing lunch—'

  'Clarrie?' Beth frowned, and then shook her head.

  'Well, never mind now, I'm sure you could have some lunch in bed if you're hungry. I'll fetch it up to you myself.'

  'You're so good—and so beautiful,' he breathed huskily, reaching out a hand to touch a coil of silvery silk which had fallen over one shoulder. 'Do you like your room? It was Agnes's, you know. Barbara must have known that I would want you next to me.'

  Beth swallowed a momentary sense of unease. It was the first time Willard had mentioned his first wife by name. And as to Barbara's motives for giving her the room ... She found it harder to be charitable about that, too.

  'Come along,' she said now. 'Let me help you to your room. And you can tell me who Clarrie is.'

  Willard went with her willingly enough, and Beth saw to her relief that Raoul had departed. She helped Willard on to the bed, and then began very efficiently to strip the clothes from him.

  'Do you have any pyjamas here?' she asked, looking around, and he nodded towards the chest of drawers in one corner.

  'In there,' he said wearily, and she was glad she did not have to start rummaging his suitcases looking for night- wear.

  His room was very similar in design to her own, with yellow hangings instead of the blue. She folded back the bedspread and helped him between the sheets, then went to the windows and closed the shutters, instantly cutting the illumination in the room to a filtered twilight.

  'Now,' she said, approaching the bed again. 'Shall I bring you some lunch, or would you rather rest a while?'

  'I'd rather rest,' Willard confessed reluctantly. Then he reached for her hand. 'Beth, I'm sorry about—about Barbara. She'll come round, I know she will.'

  It was the nearest he had come to admitting that anything was wrong, but Beth had not the heart to ask him questions then. Instead, she bent over him and kissed his forehead, saying softly:

  'You just rest. Everything will work itself out, you'll see.'


  But in her own room again, Beth couldn't help conceding that she had sounded more confident than she actually felt. Yet anger was a great morale-booster, and it was with irritation she pondered the kind of woman who would let her sick father return home without making any attempt to greet him.

  Marya had returned in her absence with the rest of her things, and with a sigh, Beth hoisted her largest case on to the bed and unlocked it. She was halfway through unpacking its contents when there was a knock at her door.

  'Yes?' she turned automatically, and Marya's face appeared again.

  'Clarrie says that lunch is ready, miss,' she announced, her eyes flickering with evident interest over the shreds of underwear strewn across the coverlet.

  'Oh. Thank you, Marya,' Beth nodded, and with a casual shrug left what she was doing. 'I'll come down now.'

  'Yes, miss.'

  Marya went ahead along the corridor, her slim hips swaying suggestively under the plain white shift which appeared to be the only garment she was wearing. An apron was tied about her waist, but it only emphasised the sinuous limbs beneath the material, and Beth found herself resenting the girl's careless sensuality once more. Even so, she had to admit that her own pants were clinging rather tightly to her legs and that the fastening, of her bra dug uncomfortably into her heated flesh.

  They descended the elegant staircase, and walking down it for the first time, her hand running lightly over the smooth wrought iron rail, Beth couldn't help feeling a sense of achievement. She was to be mistress here, she thought disbelievingly, and a shiver of excitement feathered along her spine.

  Marya crossed the hall and went through one of the arched doorways into an enormous open living area. Regency striped couches, their covers slightly faded with age, were set about the room, there were hand-carved chairs with velvet-cushioned seats, and a French escritoire with rose-leaf marquetry. There were tables and stools, and more contemporary cupboards, and a vast open fireplace filled with logs for burning. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of Willard, in the robes of some university, painted, Beth suspected, some twenty years before.

  They went through this room and out through double doors on to a patio, shaded by a canopy that extended from the wall of the house. It was here that lunch was laid on a square, glass-topped table, flanked by wrought iron chairs with attractively cushioned seats. The table was set for two, but Beth immediately explained that her fiance would not be joining her.

  'I will tell Clarrie,' said Marya at once, and went away, leaving Beth to admire the blossom-hung trellis that marked the boundary of the gardens which stretched away from the back of the house. Roses grew in wild profusion beyond the trellis, and she recognised other (lowers that were common enough in England between the lush banks of semi-tropical vegetation. But nature had repossessed much of what had once been formal walks and arbours, and while the mass of shrubs and creepers was colourful, it was also untamed and uncultivated.

  Marya came back with an extremely fat woman whose lace nevertheless creased into a smile when she saw Beth.

  'So you are.Mister Willard's fiancee, are you?' she asked, regarding the girl critically. 'Mmm, a little young perhaps, but woman enough, I think,'

  Beth's cheeks flamed. 'Are you Clarrie?'

  'That's right.' The fat woman dug a finger into the mound of flesh that swelled above her middle. Tse the cook here. I used to be nursemaid to Miss Barbara, but now I'se the cook.'

  Beth couldn't take offence. 'Did Marya tell you that— that Mister Willard doesn't want anything to eat right now?'

  'She did.' Clarrie nodded. 'I seen him earlier. Jest after you come.' She paused. 'Miss Barbara says you was his nurse. How is he? Is he really better?'

  Apart from Jonas's evident affection, it was the nearest thing to concern that Beth had heard expressed, and she responded to it. 'He's still very weak,' she admitted. 'His heart is recovering from the shock, but the muscles are still strained. He must take things easily for a while. Maybe six months. Only time will tell.'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  Clarrie was digesting this thoughtfully when on impulse Beth asked: 'What about—Miss Barbara? When will I get to meet her?'

  Clarrie's generous mouth drew in. 'Miss Barbara will come down in her own good time,' she declared ex- pressionlessly, turning towards the house. 'I'll get the food.'

  The meal was delicious—melon balls served with ginger, a shellfish salad that filled her plate, and fresh fruit to follow—but Beth could not do justice to it. She tried to tell herself it was because she was alone, because she had no one to talk to, but it was more than that. She felt curiously vulnerable, and it was not a pleasant experience.

  When the meal was over she waited for Clarrie or Marya to come and clear the table so that she could ask them whether they thought it would be all right if she went exploring. But after lingering over her coffee for more than half an hour, with the shadows on the patio lengthening all the while, she eventually left the table and walked back through the huge living room to the hall.

  Beyond the archway which led into the living room, long corridors stretched away on either side which she guessed led to the two wings she had seen from the drive. Directly opposite the living room, another archway gave on to what appeared to be a formal dining room, with a long table hedged about with ladder- backed chairs. Here there were more portraits of Willard and his horses, but she was reluctant to venture further without his permission. She was not his wife yet, and besides, she wanted him to show her his home. Even so, it was borne in on her that they couldn't possibly live in all the rooms of this echoing mansion, and the sense of space was somehow intimidating.

  With a sigh, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, passing Willard's door on silent feet. The faintly droning sound she could hear indicated that he was sleeping, and a relieved smile curved her lips. At least he was home and at peace. Everything else would work itself out.

  To her astonishment, someone had been into her room in her absence and unpacked all her cases, hanging away her pants, skirts and dresses in the armoire and folding all her lingerie into the drawers of the chests. Remembering Marya's inquisitive interest in her clothes, she guessed it must have been her, but somehow the knowledge did not please her. Then she chided herself for her ingratitude, and resolved to thank the maid next time she saw her.

  As if by a magnet, she was drawn to the windows once more, and she looked out at the ocean yearningly. Surely Willard wouldn't object if she just went for a walk along the beach, she thought restlessly, but her damp clothes mocked her detachment. If she went down to the beach now she would be unable to resist going into the water, and that was something she did not intend to do.

  She flicked a glance towards her bathroom, and then, coming to a decision, she opened the armoire and pulled out a simple cotton skirt and a sleeveless vest. Collecting clean underwear from the chest, she walked into the

  bathroom and turned on the taps of the shower.

  However, the fitments of the bathroom proved to be more efficient than the plumbing. The water coughed and spluttered its way out of the pipes, and what was more it was icy cold. Beth gasped as the chilly spray probed her warm flesh like frozen needles, but at least it achieved her purpose. When she emerged from the shower to towel herself dry she was shivering, and the ocean outside no longer seemed so appealing. But the heat did, and after brushing her silky hair until her scalp tingled, too, she left her bedroom once more.

  The house could have been empty. She saw no one, and she walked outside with a distinct feeling of isolation. The gravelled sweep of the drive curved into a shimmering haze, and she was glad she had put on canvas shoes instead of sandals as the stones crunched under her feet. She crossed the lawns that fronted the dining room she had seen earlier, and walked between the trees to where she could see the sparkling glitter of the water. The salty tang was stronger here, and she breathed deeply, looking along the curve of the bay that arched away to her left.

  The house was set on a r
ocky bluff overlooking a lagoon, and in the distance she could hear the sound of the water breaking on the reef. Shading her eyes, she looked towards the horizon, and then allowed her head to move, taking in the whole sweep of sand that stretched away to her right. It was completely deserted, and while she had not liked the emptiness of the house, a beach had never looked so inviting. She felt like Robinson Crusoe must have felt, discovering that he was alone on the island, and unable to resist, she descended the rocky slope to the sand.

  Kicking off her shoes, she allowed the grains to squeeze between her toes. It was incredibly warm, but not uncomfortably so, and she did a little dance of pure enjoyment. Then she ran to the water's edge and allowed the creaming foam to wash the sand away, giggling as it ran away beneath her causing widening eddies as her weight made a deepening impression.

  She turned and looked back towards the house. She thought she could pinpoint which windows were hers and Willard's, and she wondered if he had awakened yet and was wondering where she was. But no, she decided. He would probably sleep for most of the afternoon, and he would not expect her to sit around in her room waiting for him to wake up.

  She decided to walk along the shoreline for a while. It was hot, but she was not one of those people who burned easily, and considering her Scandinavian fairness, she tanned quite easily. A short walk would not harm her, she resolved, and at least the sea would keep her toes cool.

  The beach curved, and ahead of her some distance away she could see the jutting arm of the headland. The colour of the water was greener around the headland, and she guessed it was much deeper there where the rocky outcrop made swimming hazardous. But she never tired of looking at the translucent shallows, catching her breath as tiny sandcrabs scuttled out of her path.