The Longest Pleasure Page 8

  ‘Oh——’ Helen spread her hands in a rueful gesture. ‘It’s always cold in London.’ She hesitated a moment, and then determinedly seated herself in her grandmother’s chair. ‘So—how are you, Paget? You look tired.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ Miss Paget’s eyes flickered away from her companion. ‘Are you?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, as they say,’ Helen remarked lightly. And then, realising something more was required of her, she added: ‘I’ve been thinking of getting married, as a matter of——’

  ‘Married!’ Miss Paget’s agitation was totally unexpected. ‘Oh, no! You mustn’t!’

  ‘Mustn’t?’ Helen echoed the word disbelievingly before she realised Miss Paget was referring to the present situation. She hurriedly reassured her. ‘No,’ she said gently, leaning towards the old lady and touching her sleeve. ‘Not now, of course. Don’t upset yourself, Paget. Adam—my fiancé—he quite understands that what’s happened is bound to delay things.’ But did he, she wondered doubtfully. That particular aspect of the situation had never been discussed.

  Miss Paget did not look too convinced and, changing the subject, Helen brought the conversation back to her original theme: ‘I suppose this has been an upsetting time for you. Nan’s death; it must have been quite a shock.’

  ‘It was.’ Miss Paget bent her head. ‘She always maintained she was so well. But Dr Heron says she’d had angina for years.’

  ‘Angina?’ Now it was Helen’s turn to be shocked. ‘And you never knew?’

  ‘None of us did,’ declared Miss Paget sadly. ‘Except maybe Rafe——’

  ‘Rafe!’ Helen was staggered.

  ‘I suspect she confided in him,’ the old lady continued. ‘They were very close towards the end.’

  Mrs Pride’s intrusion with their coffee gave Helen time to gather her scattered senses. And as she did so, she realised this was the opportunity she had been hoping for. It was hard not to succumb to the impulse to tell Miss Paget how she really felt about Rafe’s influence over her grandmother, but she held her tongue. There would be time enough to explode that particular bombshell. For the present, it was better if Miss Paget thought her interest was innocent.

  ‘I think you said Rafe had lived in the house for the past two years, didn’t you?’ Helen ventured casually when they were alone again and, as she had anticipated, Miss Paget was not unwilling to answer questions of a more personal nature.

  ‘Almost,’ she replied, watching Helen attending to the coffee cups. ‘Ever since his mother died.’

  Helen lifted her head. ‘Mrs Fleming’s dead!’ She had hardly known the woman, but she was surprised all the same.

  ‘Yes, it was a tragedy,’ agreed her companion ruefully. ‘Poor Rafe! To lose both his parents so quickly after one another. Of course, Mrs Fleming had had cancer for years, you know. I think everyone was surprised when Tom went first.’

  Helen pushed the old lady’s coffee towards her, not trusting herself to hand the cup to her. In spite of her determination not to be so, she was nervous, and she had no desire for Miss Paget to notice the weakness.

  ‘So, that was when he moved in here?’ she prompted, refusing to feel any pity for him. No doubt it had worked out very well from his point of view, enabling him to prey on an old woman’s sympathy.

  ‘Your grandmother insisted,’ Miss Paget declared, lifting her cup and nodding over the rim. ‘And it’s been much better, having a man about the place; permanently, I mean. Two old women living alone: we used to be very vulnerable.’

  ‘Here?’ Helen couldn’t prevent the exclamation, but she hurriedly amended her tone. ‘I—wouldn’t have thought you were in any danger here.’

  ‘We did have that attempted break-in,’ Miss Paget reminded her sharply. ‘And one’s always reading about muggings in the newspapers. Besides, your grandmother liked having Rafe around. Ever since that business with Antonia Markham, I think she liked to know what he was doing.’

  Helen smoothed her palms over her knees. ‘Antonia—Markham?’ she murmured, feeling an unwelcome stab of an emotion she refused to identify. ‘Who was—is—Antonia Markham?’

  ‘You remember the Markhams, don’t you?’ Miss Paget seemed to see nothing wrong in the question, even though it was hardly relevant. ‘They own High Tor. Antonia’s a couple of years older than you, but don’t you remember? You used to go to school with her brother.’

  ‘Oh—Julian Markham! Yes!’ Helen remembered him now. ‘We were in kindergarten together.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Miss Paget finished her coffee and set down her cup. ‘I knew you couldn’t have forgotten them. I believe you and your grandmother were invited to Antonia’s wedding. Only—of course—you were in London, so Lady Elizabeth … didn’t go.’ Just for a moment, Miss Paget’s confiding tones faltered. Evidently, she had just remembered to whom she was speaking, and Helen hurriedly urged her on:

  ‘Antonia’s married?’ she ventured, wondering at her own sense of relief, but the old lady ruefully shook her head.

  ‘She was,’ she murmured. ‘But it only lasted a couple of years. About four years ago, she came home again. That was when she took a fancy to young Rafe.’

  Helen felt as if she was moving into ever deeper waters, but something was compelling her to go on. She wanted to know everything about him, she consoled her conscience, and ignored the small voice inside that insisted this was prying.

  ‘Thank heavens it wasn’t serious.’ To her relief, Miss Paget went on without any prompting. Apparently her desire to gossip far outweighed any scruples she might have, and Helen guessed she missed her grandmother’s sympathetic ear. ‘I was sure Rafe had more sense than to get involved with a girl like that,’ she added with a little snort. ‘Not that you can ever be entirely certain, of course. It was worrying while it lasted, I can tell you. Lady Elizabeth was very relieved when Miss Markham took herself back to London.’

  Helen absorbed this information silently for a moment, and then she remarked guardedly: ‘He’s never been married then?’

  ‘Who? Rafe?’ Miss Paget gave her a curious look. ‘No. No, of course not!’

  Why ‘Of course not!’ Helen wondered, but that was one question even she was too discreet to ask. Still, to her knowledge, Rafe had a perfectly normal interest in the opposite sex and, just because he had once assaulted her, was no reason to assume he had any other dubious proclivities.

  ‘My grandmother—trusted him, didn’t she?’ she tendered after a moment, realising she had now reached the most difficult part of the discussion. ‘I mean—she must have done, mustn’t she? To invite him to live in her house.’

  There was a prolonged silence and then, just as Helen was deciding she would have to look elsewhere for her answers, Miss Paget cleared her throat. ‘Of course she trusted him,’ she said, and there was a note of accusation in her voice now, which had not been there before. ‘Who else would she turn to? After you—abandoned her!’

  Helen had expected something like this, but even so she was taken aback, and because of that she was reckless. ‘Is that what he said?’ she demanded, casting caution to the winds. ‘Is that how he insinuated his way into her affections? By using my short-comings to endorse his own advantage?’

  ‘No!’ The old lady was appalled and, clutching at her shawl, she got painfully to her feet. ‘No, that’s not true!’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Helen knew she was beyond redemption, but she had to make one last effort. ‘Oh, come on, Paget! He’s fooled you, just like he fooled my grandmother! The man’s an opportunist! He’s been using Nan to—to feather his own nest!’

  The cliché was unworthy, but just at that moment Helen couldn’t think of an alternative. She was trying desperately to appeal to someone who by her very frailty, proved her fallibility. For heaven’s sake, she had to make her see that Rafe was out for all he could get.

  Miss Paget was horrified. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, turning blindly towards the door. ‘Oh dear! I suspected this would happen. I to
ld Rafe, but he wouldn’t listen to me——’

  ‘You told Rafe!’ Helen came to her feet in one shocked motion. ‘Just—just exactly what did you tell Rafe?’

  ‘No.’ Miss Paget shook her head. ‘No, I don’t want to talk about it any more. I knew I shouldn’t have come in here, but I did think that—that out of respect for your grandmother, you might desist in these—these unfounded accusations against a man who has never done you any harm!’

  Helen caught her breath. ‘You can’t believe that!’ she exclaimed in a strangled voice. ‘Paget——’

  ‘My name is Miss Paget, if you don’t mind,’ the old lady declared, with a dignity that would have touched Helen had she not felt so betrayed. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me …’

  There was nothing Helen could do but let her go. It was obvious she was not going to find an ally in Miss Paget, and by speaking out as she had, she had probably destroyed any chance of keeping the initiative. Still, she had not completely betrayed herself. Rafe would only be able to guess what her next move might be. Thank heavens she hadn’t blurted out her intention of getting rid of him to the old lady. Miss Paget was evidently one of his staunchest supporters, and Helen could imagine her outrage if she had suspected what Helen was thinking.

  Helen was unhappily aware that the situation was proving to be far more complex than she had imagined. She had thought it would be a comparatively simple matter to dispose of Rafe Fleming, but that was before she had known the extent of his influence. Heaven forbid! but her grandmother might have left him something in her will! She could only hope that if she had it would prove sufficient to take him many miles away from Castle Howarth.

  Helen slept badly. She tried to convince herself it was the lumpy mattress, which she doubted had been shaken since the last time she stayed here, but she had to admit her unease was not just a physical discomfort. It was one thing to tell herself she was tough enough to cope with any situation, and quite another to prove it. It wasn’t easy to face the censure of someone she had always held in great affection. Besides, if Miss Paget felt the way she did, and she wasn’t even a relative, how must her grandmother have felt? Oh, Nan, she pleaded, after switching on the light and discovering it was after three o’clock and she had barely closed her eyes, help me! Please, help me!

  She must eventually have lost consciousness around four, but she was awake again at seven and too on edge to make any further attempt to sleep. Instead, she slipped her feet out of bed and padded over to the windows, shivering as the chilly air turned her breath into steam. It was still fairly dark outside, but the snow provided its own illumination. It lay, like a blanket, over everything, turning the bushes that bordered the drive into faceless sentinels. Lawns, gardens, pathways; all had been obliterated beneath its concealing cloak, and although the snow was no longer falling, Helen guessed it would take days to return communications to normal. She had tried to ring Adam the night before, only to find the phone, too, was out of order. She hoped he had not worried about her. As soon as the lines were open again, she must reassure him.

  Allowing the curtain to fall back into place, she walked determinedly into the bathroom. The old clanking radiator was still cold, and she was eager to have a wash and put on some warm clothes. Of course, the water issuing from the taps was cold, too, and she thought with some nostalgia of her flat in London. She had become used to taking its efficient heating system for granted, but she felt no encouragement here to potter about in her flimsy nightgown.

  A pair of dark blue ski-pants which, on the spur of the moment she had added to her suitcase, proved to be the ideal attire, and teamed with a baggy, hip-length, emerald-green sweater, they soon banished her outer chill. The inner chill she was still experiencing was less easy to dispel, but she refused to let her depression influence her resolve.

  Her hair presented no problem. She simply coiled it at her nape as she usually did, unaware that the severity of the style exposed the rather vulnerable curve of her mouth and cheekbones.

  By the time she had unpacked the suitcases she had abandoned the night before, she was feeling infinitely warmer and more confident, and when the radiator began to grunt its protest at being forced into use again, she decided it was time to go in search of breakfast.

  The kitchens and larders, the still-room and the butler’s pantry, most of which were no longer in use, were attached to this wing of the house. It was the proximity of the domestic apartments, her grandmother had told her, that had dictated which part of the house Lady Elizabeth had chosen to occupy. Besides, there was an orangery tacked on at the back, and the old lady had enjoyed sitting there on mornings when the sun was warm but the outdoor temperature was not.

  Mrs Pride was in the huge kitchen, an enormous room that had been designed in the days when Castle Howarth had had an equally enormous staff of servants. The wide hearth could still be used to heat the great ovens which rose on either side of it, but these days the electric cooker had made them virtually obsolete. Even so, a blazing log fire still crackled in the grate, warming the stone flags beneath her feet, and adding a glowing warmth to the rows of gleaming pans. Two towering Welsh dressers faced one another across a rectangular pine table, already set with a dish of creamy yellow butter and half a loaf of bread. Judging by the dirty plates and the deliciously lingering smell of bacon, someone had already breakfasted, and Helen didn’t need a crystal ball to guess who that someone had been.

  ‘Why—Helen?’ exclaimed the cook in some surprise, withdrawing her hands from the ball of dough she had been kneading on a board at the end of the table. ‘You’re an early riser. I was going to fetch you your breakfast in half an hour or so. If I’d known you were up——’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Really.’ Helen entered the kitchen awkwardly, pushing her hands into the pockets of her pants. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she added after a moment. ‘A strange bed, I suppose.’

  ‘Not what you’re used to, I daresay,’ declared Mrs Pride, rinsing her hands at the square porcelain sink. She was a tall woman, thin and angular, not at all like the image the term ‘cook’ created. Yet, for all that, she had always been a jolly person, kind and good-humoured, and from what Helen could remember of the night before, she didn’t seem to be bearing any grudges.

  ‘It was difficult to relax,’ Helen said now, forcing a small smile to her lips. ‘It’s been such a shock, you see. I had no idea that anything was wrong.’

  ‘None of us had,’ agreed Mrs Pride, nodding as she dried her hands. ‘But—your grandmother was a proud old lady. She didn’t want our sympathy then, and she wouldn’t want it now.’

  ‘No.’ Helen shook her head, and endeavouring to speak casually, she said: ‘Something smells good.’

  ‘That’d be the bacon I cooked for Rafe earlier on,’ replied the cook at once. ‘You pour yourself a cup of that coffee off the stove and I’ll soon have you a nice cooked breakfast ready.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Helen held up a hand in protest. ‘I mean—thanks all the same, but I couldn’t eat a cooked breakfast. I will have some coffee though. And perhaps a slice of toast.’

  Mrs Pride grimaced. ‘If you say so. But it seems to me you could do with a bit more flesh on those bones. Still, I suppose this isn’t the time to expect an improvement in your appetite. But once the funeral’s over …’

  Helen unhooked an earthenware cup from the dresser and filled it from the pot on the stove. Then, pulling out a chair from the table, she sat down. Mrs Pride’s words had given her pause, and she needed some time to think about them. She had said ‘after the funeral’, as if Helen would be staying on after her grandmother’s body had been laid to rest. But how could she? How could they expect her to? Her life was in London now. And even if she could persuade Adam to allow her to keep the house, there was no reason to suppose she would have any more time to spend here than before.

  She sighed, and took a sip of her coffee. It was strange, but until she actually came here, she had not realised how important her decision
would be. It was easy to dismiss the lives of other people when all she remembered were names, not faces. But soon—at the funeral, if not before—she was going to have to meet the people who had relied on her grandmother for their livelihood and who now relied on her for the self-same reason. People like Billy Dobkins, for example; and the tenant farmers, Amos Robinson and the like; not to mention all the people in the village who relied on the Castle Howarth estate for patronage and employment. Naturally, if the estate was sold intact there was no reason to suppose the new incumbent would not employ its workers as before. But who had that kind of money, or inclination, in this day and age? And if the farms were sold individually, the tenants might not have the funds to secure their future.

  Of course, the decision could be taken out of her hands, she remembered, with some relief. If, as Adam had suggested, the estate had to be sold for death duties, the problem would no longer be hers to solve. But she couldn’t help remembering her grandmother telling her the responsibility would be hers one day. After all, her mother had been Lady Elizabeth’s only offspring, and she owed it to her grandmother and to her mother not to abdicate her position too eagerly. She cradled her coffee cup between her palms, warming her hands almost absently. There was nothing she could do until her grandmother’s will was read. Perhaps by then she would have a firmer grasp of the situation.

  ‘There you are.’

  Mrs Pride set a plate, a knife, and a rack of toast in front of Helen. Then she turned to take a jar of chunky, home-made marmalade from the fridge and placed that within reaching distance, too.

  ‘Oh—thank you.’

  Helen had hardly been aware of the woman cutting the bread or dropping it in the toaster. But now she obediently took a slice and spread it rather thinly with butter.

  ‘I’ll get you some more coffee,’ said Mrs Pride, lifting Helen’s cup and carrying it to the pot. ‘You might look a bit less starved when you get some food inside you. You hardly ate a scrap last evening. It doesn’t do any good to watch your weight when the temperature’s below zero.’