Moon Witch Page 8

  Jarrod had not returned to Malthorpe. He had work to do in London, and instead he telephoned J.K. frequently, always asking about Sara's health, but making no attempt to discover for himself if she was all right.

  Sara had plenty of telephone calls, boys she had met at Howard Lawson's party, trying to make dates with her, all of which she refused. Howard himself was the most persistent, once driving over to the Hall to see her, only to find a pale reflection of the girl he had enjoyed dancing with. Sara seemed uninterested in everything, and was not particularly tactful when turning down his invitation to take her to the theatre in Leeds. He went away rather annoyed, but Sara didn't seem to care, much to J.K.'s chagrin. He liked Howard, and had hoped Sara would make friends with him.

  A month after the disastrous night she was taken ill, J.K. came to a decision. He told Sara about it while they were having dinner one evening.

  'How would you like a couple of weeks in the West Indies?' he asked, surprising her tremendously.

  Sara's eyes widened and theft she dropped her gaze. 'Do you want to go there?' she asked, frowning. 'I should have thought you would rather go to the Continent.'

  J.K. gave an impatient exclamation. 'What! With floods in Italy and France, and one of the coldest winters recorded behind them? No, Sara, the Continent just won't do!' He studied his soup with some intensity. 'Besides, I wasn't planning on taking you myself!' He sighed. 'You know what Philip's like, he's a bit of a worrier, and he doesn't recommend energetic pastimes like travel just now.'

  Sara frowned. 'Then how?--oh, J.K., I'm not planning to go alone.'

  J.K. sighed again. 'Stop jumping to conclusions, Sara! I wasn't suggesting that you should go alone. Heavens, if you were to go alone, you could stay a lot longer than a couple of weeks. But two weeks is all the time Jarrod can afford just now!'

  'Jarrod!' Sara's eyes nearly popped out of her head. 'Jarrod! What has Jarrod got to do with it?'

  'Well, everything, obviously. It was my idea, but he will take the responsibility!'

  'Oh no! No!' Sara left the table somewhat jerkily. 'I don't want to go away with Jarrod. Besides, it wouldn't be right.'

  'Why?'

  'Well, I don't suppose he's all that keen.'

  J.K. frowned. 'What Jarrod says about it is beside the point. It's the least he can do after what happened !'

  Sara looked at him. 'Oh, J.K.! Have you asked him already?'

  'Of course.'

  Sara lifted her shoulders helplessly. 'What did you do that for, without telling me?'

  'Well!' J.K.'s frown deepened. 'Quite honestly, Sara, you're worrying me. You mope around here all the time. You haven't even continued with your driving lessons! You refuse to go out with young Lawson, and you seem completely enervated. I realise that in addition to your illness you may be feeling more acutely now the absence of your grandfather, but nevertheless, the change will do you the world of good!'

  Sara shook her head as Hester offered her the smoked salmon, and perched on the edge of the table in the corner. 'Well, really, it is just the after effects of my illness,' she protested. 'There's absolutely nothing wrong with me.'

  'So you say. But I know this weather is depressing, and living here with an old man like me isn't exactly exciting. No'--he held his hand up when she began to protest--'no, Sara, you need a change of scenery, and Jamaica is a beautiful place.'

  'Jamaica?'

  'Of course. You'll stay with Jarrod's mother, naturally. Helen would be most upset if Jarrod went there and stayed anywhere else. Besides, the house she owns in the Blue Mountains has its own swimming pool, and the climate is marvellous at this time of the year.'

  Sara felt her interest increasing in spite of herself. The prospect of spending two weeks with Jarrod had seemed exciting, but disturbing, and she was not altogether sure that such a prolonged period in his company would not arouse emotions inside her which she was desperately trying to subdue. She did not know why she felt this way; certainly Jarrod had never seemed at all interested in her-- conversely in fact, she was a nuisance to be tolerated and nothing more.

  But staying with his mother was different. She had plenty of natural curiosity, and she would like to meet the woman who had been J.K.'s wife.

  'Well?' prompted J.K. 'What have you to say now?'

  Sara sighed. 'I don't know what to say.'

  'Do you want to go?'

  Sara moved uncomfortably. 'Does Jarrod want to go, surely that's more to the point?'

  'Any objections Jarrod may have are purely selfish ones,' replied J.K., wiping his mouth with his table napkin. 'Don't concern yourself with Jarrod's affairs. Now, come and finish your dinner.'

  When dinner was over Doctor Landry arrived to play chess with J.K. After having a glass of sherry with them, Sara left them to their game, wandering aimlessly about the house, restless and incapable of settling down with a book as she usually did.

  Her mind was active with the problem of the proposed trip to Jamaica. She would not have been human had she not felt excited at the prospect of two weeks in the sun, away from the damp and cold of England at this time of the year. But she wished J.K. had mentioned it to her before asking Jarrod. She would have liked to have been there, to gauge his reactions to such a request. Of course, it must all have been done by telephone, Jarrod hadn't been near them for weeks.

  She entered the library, closing the door and leaning against it. A huge fire burned in the grate as usual, and in the firelight the room looked warm and inviting. A cream telephone stood silently on the small bureau in the corner, and as her eyes flickered over it, an idea occurred to her. If she were to ring Jarrod herself, speak to him personally, she would be able to ask him about the trip, discover for herself what he had to say.

  In theory it seemed a good idea, but in practice her nerves took over. Her voice trembled as she asked for the number, and her hand shook as she listened to the ringing tone. It seemed to ring for ages and ages before anyone answered it, and she was beginning to feel a sense of relief that he was not there, when the receiver was lifted and a woman's voice said the number. At first Sara thought she had a wrong number, but then she realised from the sounds of music and laughter that there must be a party going on, and that very likely the person who had answered was one of the maids. She was about to say it didn't matter, when she heard the woman say, to a third person:

  'I don't know who it is, darling, they haven't answered yet. Perhaps they're in a coin box and haven't the change.'

  Sara swallowed hard, felt a shiver run up her spine and then heard Jarrod say: 'Who is this?' in a short abrupt tone.

  'It's me--Sara!' she managed, very quietly, and he said:

  'Who? Sara? Oh, is something wrong, Sara? Is my father ill?' His voice was only slightly warmer.

  'Er--no, Mr. Kyle, J.K. is fine.' Sara stumbled over the words, feeling awkward and immature. Was that woman, the one who had called Jarrod 'darling', still listening to their conversation?

  'Then what is it, Sara?' There was the faintest sign of impatience now.

  'I--I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Kyle,' she stammered. 'But--but--privately!'

  'Look, Sara, there's a party going on here, I can't possibly have any lengthy discussions with you at this moment!' His attitude was wholly impatient now.

  And as though his words triggered off some defence mechanism inside Sara, she felt her own anger rising. 'Oh, that's all right, Mr. Kyle,' she said coldly. 'Sorry I bothered you. Goodnight!' and she slammed down the receiver.

  After she had done so, she felt contrite. After all, he was entertaining, and maybe she was being unreasonable ringing him at such a time and expecting him to speak to her, but then she hardened her heart as she remembered his cold impatience, and hunching her shoulders she moved closer to the fire. She would have to content herself with waiting until he decided he had time to visit them at Malthorpe.

  She was startled out of her wits when the telephone started ringing. She rose at once to answer it, and then hesitated
. It could be Jarrod! And if it were, she didn't want to speak to him. The effort of calling him in the first place had taken all her energies, and she was not willing to enter into any further arguments this evening.

  The ringing stopped, and she realised that Morris or one of the servants had answered it. She relaxed, and lay back in her chair. She ought to be feeling happy and contented, living here in such luxury without a care in the world, yet all she felt was an emotional disorder that was heightened every time she considered going to Jamaica with a man who obviously found her nothing but an annoying responsibility.

  The library door opened after a brief tap on its panels, and Morris stood there. 'Excuse me, Miss Sara,' he said, 'but Mr. Jarrod is calling you from London. Will you take the call in here?'

  Sara jumped jerkily to her feet. 'Oh--oh yes, all right, Morris. Did--did he say why he was calling me?' She swallowed hard. 'Are you sure it's not J.K. he wants to speak to?'

  Morris half-smiled. 'Definitely you, miss,' he replied kindly, as though aware of her discomfiture.

  'Yes--yes, all right, Morris, thank you.' Sara gingerly lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle, and Morris withdrew, leaving her alone. 'He--hello, Sara Robins speaking.'

  'Sara.' Jarrod's voice was taut. 'Don't ever hang up on me again!'

  Sara shivered although the room was hot. 'I--I didn't hang up on you,' she protested, her anger again dissipated by nerves. 'You--you were obviously busy. I didn't want to trouble you any more.'

  'Rubbish!' Jarrod sounded furious. 'Anyway, I'm alone now, for the moment at least, so let's have it. What do you want?'

  Sara took a deep breath. 'I really want nothing at all, from you,' she replied stiffly. 'I--I had a notion to ask you about something, that was all. I realise I was stupid; it was not the time or the place. I guess it doesn't matter anyway.' This last was said rather pathetically.

  Jarrod seemed to be controlling his temper with difficulty. 'Sara,' he began, 'I shan't ask you again! I want to know why you rang--now!'

  Sara hesitated. 'Well, if you must have it, it's about this--this proposed trip J.K. has planned for Jamaica----'

  'And?' he prompted impatiently.

  'You don't want to take me!' It was a statement rather than a question.

  'Did J.K. tell you that?'

  'No. Not exactly. I guessed.'

  'Did it ever occur to you that your unsophisticated attempts at estimating my opinion might be wrong?'

  Sara sighed. 'J.K. ought not to have mentioned it to you without my knowledge. I don't want to feel beholden to you I'

  Jarrod gave a short laugh. 'Don't you now? And don't your wardrobe, your car, and your present status make you feel beholden?'

  Sara felt a hard lump in her throat. 'Th--that's a terrible thing to say!' she whispered, unable to find any healthy resentment inside her. 'Oh, how can you? How can you?' and with shaking fingers she replaced the receiver on its cradle, sitting staring at the telephone with tortured eyes. She had never felt so desolate, not even in those awful first days after her grandfather's sudden death. She had known Jarrod was hard and cynical, but he had never been so cruel to her before.

  As before the telephone began to ring again, but Sara moved away from it, and when Morris tapped at the door to tell her that Jarrod wanted her again, she merely shook her head dumbly, forcing the unshed tears to remain stationary. She wouldn't--she couldn't speak to him again!

  Morris gave up after a moment, and went away, but he came back again, looking concerned. 'Won't you please speak to Mr. Jarrod?' he asked. 'He is most insistent.'

  'No--no, Morris. Tell him--tell him I've gone to bed.'

  Morris sighed, and closed the door, and after a few minutes the door opened again, but this time it was J.K. He was frowning, and Sara sighed heavily.

  'You've been speaking to Jarrod,' he said, looking intently at her. 'Did he ring you?'

  'Yes--at least--oh, I suppose you already know anyway, I rang him first.' Sara hunched her shoulders.

  'But why?'

  'I wanted to ask him about the trip to Jamaica. I knew he didn't want to take mel Oh, J.K., I wish you hadn't asked him. He's too absorbed with his life here to want to take a stupid teenager to the West Indies! Then, when I rang, there was this party going on, and a woman answered, and Jarrod didn't want to speak to me, and I hung up on him,

  and he got mad----' Her voice trailed away, and

  she lifted her shoulders in an eloquent gesture. 'That's all!'

  'All! All! Isn't that enough? Good lord, Sara, whatever possessed you to attempt to speak to him tonight? You might know he wouldn't be tactful. Jarrod seldom is. At least, so far as we are concerned.'

  'Tactful!' Sara bit hard on her lower lip. 'He was horrible! Horrible!' She buried her face in her hands, the hot tears forcing their way between her fingers, and dropping into her lap.

  'Oh, my dear!' J.K. went down on his haunches beside her. 'For heaven's sake, don't cry, darling! Jarrod didn't mean it, whatever he said. He might be cynical and selfish, but he's not intentionally cruel.'

  'Isn't he?' She rubbed her eyes blindly. 'I think I hate him!'

  'Don't be silly, Sara. Whatever did he say to upset you so?'

  'I--I--I said I didn't want to feel beholden to him--for taking me to Jamaica, of course, and he said--he said--oh, he said I already was beholden to him--for--for everything!'

  J.K. made a grunt of annoyance. 'Well, Sara,' he said, sighing, 'I suppose in a way you are. Did he say he wanted to be rid of that responsibility?'

  Sara looked up. 'N-o,' she said slowly.

  'Well, there you are then!'

  'Oh, it's not as simple as that,' said Sara, taking out her handkerchief and drying her eyes. 'He doesn't have to say everything. I just know!'

  'I think you're letting your imagination run away with you,' said J.K. firmly 'Now, come along, come and watch Doctor Landry get his just deserts. I've cornered him, and he can't possibly escape!' He smiled encouragingly.

  Sara nodded, and allowed him to lead her from the room, but inwardly she was as distraught as before.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LATE that night, when Sara was lying sleeplessly in her comfortable bed, she heard the powerful roar of a car's engine coming up the drive. Immediately, her senses were vibrantly alive, as she realised it could only be Jarrod at this time of night. No one else would have been allowed through the gates, and she felt a quivering sensation in the pit of her stomach. Why had he come back so unexpectedly? Had he spoken to J.K.? And if so, what had been said?

  Sliding out of bed, she slipped her arms into the sleeves of the amber-coloured quilted housecoat that lay at the foot of her bed. She had to be certain that it was Jarrod. She had to see him for herself to know he was actually there.

  Opening her bedroom door, she stepped out on to the dimly lit landing, padding silently along to where the balcony fell away into the beautiful well of the hall. A lamp glowed on a polished chest in the hall, illuminating the heavy door, and casting a mellow glow on the dark carpet. Outside, she could hear a wind moaning through the trees, and the silence was almost tangible.

  Then a car door slammed, and a few moments later a key was inserted in the door, and it swung inwards to admit Jarrod. Dressed in a dark overcoat over a dark suit, the swarthy cast of his tan made a vivid contrast to the lightness of his hair. Tall, and lean, moving with the smooth, lithe grace of a predator, he epitomised all that was sleek and powerful and disturbing to Sara, and she pressed a hand to her lips as she realised the emotions he aroused in her were not at all as simple as hatred. In all her young life she had never wanted to touch a man, never experienced a sensual awareness of her own body and its needs and desires, never imagined in her wildest dreams that she might find herself physically attracted to a man twice her age. Yet she was; there was no denying it now that she had seen him again, and she needed time to assimilate her feelings. She was not in love with him--love wasn't like this. Love was a gentle thing that grew with warmth and
affection, not this vibrating turmoil that desired a satisfaction that was wholly alien to her. She could understand at least now how Lauren must feel, if she was attracted to Jarrod. Knowing he met a lot of women, this Tracy Merrick in particular, knowing he was fully capable of satisfying his senses without any lasting ties, must be a tortuous experience.

  Sara turned her back on the scene down in the hall as Jarrod shed his overcoat, and flicked through the small pile of mail that awaited him on the hall salver. She would not think about it any more; she would put it right out of her mind. She would not allow herself to think of him in this way. It was senseless, it was stupid--it was degrading! He was only a man!

  Wrapping her housecoat about her, she smoothed her hair, and turned to make her way back to her bedroom. But she had not been conscious of the swift passage of time and in those few moments she had taken to gather her emotions, Jarrod had mounted the stairs and now stood regarding her cynically some two feet away.

  'Oh!' Sara gasped in astonishment.

  'Good evening, Sara,' he said sardonically. 'How nice of you to provide a welcoming committee!'

  'I didn't--I mean--excuse me!' She would have brushed past him, but he halted her easily, his fingers about her small wrist.

  'Don't go,' he mocked her, 'you and I haven't finished our conversation!'

  'We--we can't discuss anything tonight,' she said, trembling in his grasp. 'Please let me go--I don't want to arouse your father by having to shout for help!'

  'What makes you think I might do something to make you want to shout for help?' he murmured huskily, regarding her rather more intently, making Sara acutely conscious of the scarcity of her attire. With her hair loose about her shoulders, she was unaware of the elusive quality of her allure, but Jarrod was aware of it, his own senses heightened by their argument earlier, and the violent, savage journey he had made from London, as much in contrition as anger.