Duelling Fire Page 6

  Yet— Her hands fell to her lap and she gazed at her pale reflection, mirrored in the glass above the dressing table. Had her own behaviour been so blameless? When he caressed her breast, had she thrust him away? When his tongue had stroked her mouth, had she pressed her lips together? And when she felt the shameless length of him thrust against her thighs, had she squeezed her legs together and denied the provocation?

  She knew she had not. To her eternal shame, she must accept that somehow he had overcome her natural reticence and invaded that part of her which hitherto she had been able to control. Indeed, until tonight she would never have believed any man could so subjugate her to his will. But now she had learned that this was not so, and she must guard against anything like it ever happening again. It was frightening to suspect that one might not always be in control of one’s own destiny, and her hands shook unsteadily as she twisted them together.

  Perhaps it was just a passing thing, she thought, seeking to excuse herself. Her father’s death had been a terrible shock. She might be more susceptible because of her disturbed emotional condition, although that in itself did not explain her wanton behaviour. What must Jude have thought, when she arched herself against him? she wondered in dismay. What false opinion of her must he have formed because of her abandoned conduct? Perhaps he had assumed she was used to men touching her in that way. Her skin crept at the thought.

  With burning cheeks she got up from the bed to remove her wrapper, her reflection drawing her attention once again. Her mouth was soft, bruised, and when she touched it with a trembling finger, she winced as her tongue tasted blood. Dear God, she thought wildly, how on earth was she going to face Harriet in the morning? And what could she say if Jude chose to betray her?

  Her parting words to him threatening as much had been simply bravado. How could she tell Harriet what he had done, when by doing so she could only cause her pain? But equally, how could she go on living in the same house as a man who had shown he had no respect for any woman?

  To her dismay, Sara was awakened by Harriet herself, with a breakfast tray. Her face hot with embarrassment, she scrambled up on to her pillows as the older woman stood smiling down at her, and realised with anxious misgivings that this was another point against her.

  However, Harriet wouldn’t listen to any apologies about oversleeping, and seated herself on the end of the bed, evidently prepared to stay and chat. ‘I knew you’d be tired, my dear,’ she declared, her calm expression showing no signs of the distress she had suffered the night before. ‘I said to Janet, we’ll let her sleep. After all, there’s nothing spoiling.’

  ‘But what time is it?’ Sara shifted unhappily, the full recollection of the night’s events returning with unpleasant definition. If she had overslept, it was hardly surprising. Her troubled brain had not succumbed to exhaustion before the first birds began their morning chorus.

  ‘It’s a little after ten o’clock,’ Harriet replied blandly, and Sara almost overset the orange juice on the tray.

  ‘Ten!’ she echoed blankly. ‘Oh, Harriet! What must you think of me? I can’t remember when I last stayed in bed until this time.’

  ‘Then it will do you good,’ averred Harriet firmly, pointing to the tray. ‘Go ahead, eat your breakfast. We can talk as you enjoy your meal.’

  In all honesty, Sara would have been satisfied with orange juice and coffee. Her head felt heavy, and the prospect of the day ahead filled her with apprehension. But because Harriet was there, watching her, she managed to eat a slice of toast and marmalade as well.

  ‘I thought you’d prefer the more continental style of breakfast to bacon and eggs,’ Harriet remarked, as Sara buttered her toast. ‘I never touch fried food myself, but Jude generally has the whole bit—cereal, bacon, toast!’ She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of distaste. ‘Yet he never seems to put on weight as I do.’

  It was Sara’s opportunity to mention what had happened the night before, but of course she remained silent. She could not bring herself to destroy their association, before it had even begun—and he probably knew that, damn him! she thought, clenching her fist—before discovering Harriet was watching her with a curious expression on her face.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, and Sara felt a wave of colour sweep up her throat at the anticipated question, ‘you weren’t disturbed last night, were you?’

  ‘Disturbed?’

  Sara repeated the word to give herself time to think, but Harriet took it as an answer. ‘Obviously you weren’t,’ she said, with evident relief, fingering the double string of pearls that circled her throat. ‘Er—there was some disturbance outside. Poachers, I should imagine. Lord Hadley’s gamekeepers often come across traps that the village youths set to catch hares and rabbits, and while they’re a nuisance—the rabbits, I mean—trespassing is an offence.’

  Sara poured herself coffee, steadying the pot with both hands. For an awful moment she had wondered if Jude had divulged her visit to the library the night before, suitably edited, of course, to cast suspicion on her motives. After all, there had been that argument between Jude and her aunt, and she would hate Harriet to think she had been spying on her.

  ‘It’s a lovely morning,’ Harriet declared now, getting up from the bed and crossing to the windows to draw the flimsy drapes aside. ‘See, the sun is shining. I thought we might go for a walk after you’re dressed.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, I’d like that.’

  Sara thrust the tray aside, determining not to let the night’s events spoil her first day at Knight’s Ferry, and Harriet came back to the bed to smile affectionately down at her.

  ‘I thought we might walk up to Linden Court,’ she said. ‘So wear something nice. Lord Hadley has an eye for a pretty girl, and you really are—exceptionally pretty.’

  It was a little disconcerting having to choose something suitable to wear, but at least it was distracting. Left to herself, Sara would probably have worn jeans and a chunky sweater, but Harriet’s request had left her in something of a quandary. She could wear a skirt, she supposed, but surely trousers were more suitable for walking in the country. And besides, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to catch the eye of some spry old man, whose only claim to fame was an hereditary title.

  She eventually compromised, and chose a dark brown corded pants suit, the waist-length jerkin accentuating her slim waist and the swelling contours of her hips. With it she wore a cream knitted cotton shirt, leaving the top two buttons unfastened to expose the plain gold chain which had been her father’s last present to her.

  Janet appeared to collect her breakfast tray as Sara was putting her bed straight, and the elderly housekeeper looked somewhat taken aback to find the girl doing her job.

  ‘There’s no need for you to make your bed, miss,’ she declared tersely. ‘I can just as easily do it, when I’m doing the others.’

  ‘I don’t mind, really.’ Sara straightened the quilt and stood up. ‘I’m not a guest here, Janet, I’m here to work. And if there’s any way I can help you, please just let me know.’

  Janet sniffed. ‘You’re Miss Ferrars’ niece, miss. That’s family. And family don’t make beds. Not while I’m here to do it.’

  There was no trace of warmth in her voice as she said this, and Sara gave up. ‘Very well. If you don’t want me to make the bed, I won’t. But I meant what I said. I do want to help.’

  ‘Huh!’ Janet snorted, and as Sara was going out of the door, she saw the Scotswoman throw back the quilt and begin tugging the sheet free of the mattress. It was a blatant display of wilfulness, and Sara felt absurdly hurt as she went down the stairs.

  She looked about her somewhat apprehensively as she entered Harriet’s sitting room, but there was only Harriet in the room, seated at the desk. She looked up with a smile as Sara appeared in the doorway, and the girl stepped eagerly into the room as she put down her pen.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Harriet, getting up from her chair, and viewing the girl with critical eyes. ‘Are you ready? I was jus
t preparing tonight’s menu while I waited. You do like most things, I hope. You’re not a finicky eater.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Sara shook her head. ‘I don’t have many preferences. Living—living with Daddy, I had to get used to all kinds of food.’

  ‘Of course.’ Harriet’s eyes were sympathetic. ‘Well, shall we go? I’ve told Janet where we’ll be.’

  Sara nodded, and Harriet picked up a sheepskin jacket as they left the room. This morning the older woman was dressed in tweeds and a silk blouse, but once again her style and elegance would have complimented a woman half her age.

  It was crisp outside, still quite chilly, but wonderfully fresh. Sara, remembering London and the pervading smell of diesel in the parks there, breathed deeply, inhaling the fragrance of tulips and irises, growing in abundance along the paths.

  To her relief, there was no sign of Jude as they emerged into the spring sunlight. Only an elderly man could be seen, working in the borders of the drive, and he raised his cap to Harriet as she called a greeting, before returning to his labours with evident enjoyment.

  ‘Rob,’ said Harriet, by way of an explanation, as they took the path that led around the side of the house. ‘Janet’s husband. He looks after the gardens, tends to the car, that sort of thing. And he’s quite a useful plumber and electrician, if he puts his mind to it.’

  Sara nodded. ‘A handyman, in fact.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Harriet agreed. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without them.’

  ‘Do they have any children?’ asked Sara, following Harriet past a well-tended vegetable garden to where a high brick wall marked the boundary of the stables. They could hear the horses long before they could see them, and Sara’s nails curled into her palms in expectation of the coming confrontation.

  ‘Fortunately no,’ Harriet was replying, as they entered the stable yard. ‘Fortunately for me, I mean. Janet has markedly motherly tendencies. I fear children would have interfered with her dedication to her job.’

  Sara thought that she had not noticed such tendencies in Janet, but then she hardly knew the woman. And it had been evident that she had real affection for her employer. Perhaps Harriet was a little selfish in thinking of herself first, though no doubt Janet was quite content in the niche she had contrived for herself.

  A boy of perhaps sixteen years was in the process of grooming a tall chestnut stallion when the two women appeared. It was a beautiful animal, its coat sleek and shining, and it tossed its head arrogantly as Harriet approached.

  ‘Now, now, Minstrel,’ she soothed the horse gently, and it allowed her to put her palm on its muzzle, and stroke its mettlesome head. ‘Isn’t he lovely?’ she asked of Sara, as the boy stood politely waiting to one side. ‘All of five thousand pounds of horseflesh! But don’t you think he’s worth it?’

  Sara had never been close to such equine perfection, every inch of its coat polished and gleaming. She even forgot her apprehension in her admiration of the beast, and when a man’s voice spoke behind them she started in confusion.

  Her involuntary movement made the horse prance about a little skittishly, and the boy took possession of the controlling rein, walking the animal about the yard until it was calm.

  And it was all for nothing, thought Sara impatiently. The man in a sweater and riding breeches who had heard their voices and come to join them was not Jude, but an older individual, with greying brown hair and a gingery moustache.

  ‘Lovely morning, Miss Ferrars,’ he greeted Harriet politely, switching his gaze to Sara and including her in the salutation. ‘I see you’ve been showing this young lady our prize exhibit. But did you know Midnight foaled this morning?’

  ‘No!’ Harriet clapped her hands together. ‘I—well, I haven’t spoken to Jude this morning. I imagine he was here. He hasn’t slept in his room for nights.’

  The man nodded. ‘He was here, Miss Ferrars. Gave her support, that he did. Come and see the result. I think you’ll be pleased.’

  The stable was dark after the brightness outside, and warmly redolent of leather and disinfectant. The man led the way to the stall farthest from the entrance, and Sara leaned over a half door to see a wobbly-legged colt nuzzling its mother’s thighs. To her immense relief they were alone, and she could only assume that Jude was in bed, sleeping off the effects of his broken night.

  ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Harriet broke into excited laughter. ‘Oh, Barnes, do you think he might emulate his father? Just imagine—a two-year-old to equal Mazarin!’

  The groom chuckled. ‘You’re going some, Miss Ferrars. That little stud hasn’t even had his first feed yet. You leave him to me. We’ll make another Minstrel of him yet.’

  Harriet sighed, and Sara followed her rather reluctantly out of the stables. The little creature had been fascinating, but listening to Harriet and the man, Barnes, talking, it appeared the older woman’s interest in horses stemmed only from a desire to breed a winner. Sara was disappointed. She liked animals, and in spite of what she had said to Jude, she had looked forward to riding again. But judging by the thoroughbreds she had seen, there was nothing here suitable to her limited talents.

  Leaving the stables behind, they struck out across open parkland towards the grey walls of Linden Court. Set on its knoll, with the sunlight reflecting from its many window panes, it looked tall and majestic, and Sara couldn’t help a certain thrill of anticipation at the prospect of meeting its owner. It seemed so unlikely that anyone could own anything so huge and stately, and she wondered again at Harriet’s connections with the family. She supposed it accounted for the fact that Jude called Lord Hadley’s son by his given name, although in that regard, Rupert Hadley had not behaved with any distinction. Indeed, if she had not known better, she would have supposed their positions were reversed, with Jude displaying all the arrogance one might expect from landed aristocracy.

  There were deer in the park, shy creatures that quivered in the shade of budding chestnut trees, watching their progress with wide nervous eyes. Below the terrace of the house, carefully tended lawns disclosed croquet hoops, and away to the right were the netted walls of tennis courts.

  ‘The grounds are open to the public on certain days of the week, all the year round,’ Harriet offered, as Sara gazed about her. ‘And part of the house is open, too, from May until October. Not the family apartments, of course.’

  Sara nodded, and checked her boots for mud as they climbed the steps to the terrace that ran along this side of the building. A peacock strutted proudly away as they crossed the flagged walk, uttering its own peculiar cry as it disappeared among the rhododendrons.

  ‘Who lives here now?’ Sara asked, as they approached an arched door, set at one end of the terrace. Evidently this was not the front of the house, but Harriet seemed to know where she was going.

  Harriet paused to speak to her. ‘Don’t look so apprehensive, darling. There’s only James and Rupert. Oh, and Venetia, of course. But she doesn’t really count.’

  Sara frowned. ‘Who is Venetia?’ She shrugged a little blankly. ‘Who is James?’

  ‘James? Why, James Hadley, of course. Rupert’s father.’

  ‘Sara gulped. ‘You mean—Lord Hadley?’

  ‘Who else?’ Harriet shrugged. ‘Oh, isn’t this nice! Our host has come to meet us.’

  Sara turned as a man of about sixty emerged from the building. Tall, and still very erect, he crossed the terrace towards them with an easy, loose-limbed stride that denied the lines that bracketed his face, and the iron grey hair lifting in the breeze. He was wearing brown trousers and a tweed jacket, and his clean-shaven face was friendly as he took hold of Harriet’s hand.

  ‘I saw you from the window,’ he declared, and Harriet smiled in return.

  ‘How nice of you to come and meet us,’ she declared. ‘James, this is Sara. Quite a surprise, isn’t she?’

  ‘How could any relative of yours surprise me?’ remarked Lord Hadley gallantly, shaking the girl’s hand. ‘How do you do, Sara. Welcome to Linden Cour
t.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sara found herself smiling too. He was so unexpectedly nice, and approachable, and she saw Harriet nodding approvingly as their host ushered them into the house.

  They entered the private wing of the building, the square carpeted hallway giving access to the family apartments, Lord Hadley explained, for Sara’s benefit. It was not unlike Knight’s Ferry, with its panelled walls and curved ceiling, but the coat of arms above the fireplace was rather feudal, and it was on a much larger scale. Two dogs rose from their position in front of the fire that burned in the immense hearth as they entered the hall. Irish wolfhounds, Sara guessed, admiring their proud shaggy heads, and their host involuntarily confirmed this opinion as he drew her attention to them.

  ‘Did you ever see two such hapless creatures?’ he declared, as they came to examine the new arrivals. ‘My son bought them as watchdogs, but as you can see, they’re not much use. If you don’t cause a fuss, they’ll eat out of your hand.’

  ‘They are beautiful, though,’ Sara exclaimed, as one of them licked her fingers. ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Troilus and Cressida,’ he responded wryly. ‘My son’s choice, of course. We call them Troy and Cress for short.’ He shook his head. ‘Come along. We’ll have coffee in the morning room.’

  The morning room turned out to be a comfortable living room, its plain walls adorned with hunting prints. A wide fireplace smouldered with logs, and two huge sofas faced one another across an Oriental rug. The walls were lined with cabinets containing a variety of glass and china ware, and two round tables stood in the window embrasures, spread with copies of Horse and Hound and Country Life.

  Lord Hadley saw his guests seated and then rang the bell for service. As he stood between them on the hearth, Sara couldn’t help thinking how typical of the country gentleman he was, the stem of a pipe visible above the pocket on his breast, his booted feet set apart, the leather highly polished.