Hell Or High Water. Anne Mather
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Horton sighed. ‘You’ll find your own way to the devil, I suppose,’ he muttered.
Jarret shook his head and sat up again. ‘So how about you coming with me instead? Then you could keep an eye on me, ensure that I ate the right food and got to bed at a reasonable time, and didn’t sleep with any strange women!’
His stepfather’s lips twitched in spite of himself. ‘Oh, no!’ he denied at once. ‘I’m not your keeper, nor would I want to be. And as for removing myself to the wilds of Wiltshire at my time of life—no, thanks!’ He paused. ‘But you go, Jarret, son, you go. I’m all in favour of that. I’m in favour of anything that will make you happy.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Jarret leant across to squeeze the old man’s arm, and they finished the meal in a companionable silence.
It was after four when Jarret arrived back at his apartment. Despite the unsatisfactory beginning to his day he felt reasonably content, and half inclined to anticipate the journey to Thrushfold with some enthusiasm. If the house was any good, the sale might be completed before the end of May, with the long lazy days of summer to look forward to. In previous years he had gone to Bermuda and to Cannes, and last year he had spent some time on the west coast of the United States, but the prospect of spending the summer in a home of his own was appealing, and he wondered how he would react to so much isolation.
Vivien Sinclair’s reactions were characteristically opposed to his leaving London.
‘Jarret, you can’t!’ she wailed, when he casually mentioned the idea at dinner that evening. ‘Honey, you’d die in a place like that! Come to Barbados with me next week. You know I’ve got that modelling assignment, and you could work at the hotel while I was at the studios.’
Jarret grimaced. ‘No, thanks,’ he declined gently. ‘I need to work, not to play baby-sitter while you take off your clothes for someone else.’
‘But Jarret,’ she protested, clasping one of his hands in both of hers, regardless of the interested eyes of theirwaiter, ‘when will I see you, stuck out in this Godforsaken hole——’
‘Hardly a hole,’ he corrected her dryly, removing her fingers. ‘Now, do you want yoghurt or ice-cream to finish, or shall I just order coffee for two?’
‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ she protested sulkily, pulling a handkerchief out of her handbag and sniffing miserably into it. ‘You can get me a brandy with my coffee instead. I need something to sustain me after what you’ve just told me.’
Jarret shrugged and summoned the waiter, and ordered the drinks with the minimum amount of fuss. Then he relaxed in his seat while Vivien recovered her humour, apparently immune to her tearful performance.
‘And when do you leave?’ she ventured at last, when it occurred to her that she was doing herself no favours by causing a scene, and Jarret looked up from lighting a cheroot through the narrowed fringe of his lashes.
‘It’s not even definite yet, Vivien,’ he told her flatly, putting his lighter away. ‘I’m going down to see the place tomorrow. I’ll know more about it after that.’
‘But how did you learn of its whereabouts anyway?’ she exclaimed, putting her handkerchief away. ‘Thrushfold! In Wilshire? I’ve never even heard of it.’
‘The county is Wiltshire,’ Jarret amended, realising he might as well tell her the whole tale. ‘Margot Urquart told me about it. It belongs to an old school friend of hers.’
Vivien evidently suppressed the retort that sprang to her lips, and asked about the house with as much detachment as she could muster. But later that night, when they were alone in her apartment, she could not deny the need for reassurance that only he could give.
‘You—er—you wouldn’t consider marrying Margot Urquart, would you, Jarret?’ she probed, caressing his ear with mildly anxious lips, and Jarret’s laughter came from deep down in his throat.
‘No,’ he agreed, turning his mouth into her nape, and she breathed a sigh of relief as he kissed her.
‘WHEN did you decide all this?’ Helen Chase rounded on her mother in uncharacteristic aggravation. ‘Couldn’t you at least have discussed it with me first?’
Mrs Chase expelled her breath on a long sigh, and then replied carefully: ‘We have discussed it, Helen. You know that as well as I do. And there is no other solution.’
‘How can you say that?’ Helen made a gesture of frustration. ‘After Charles and I are married——’
‘Yes? After you and Charles are married—what?’ Mrs Chase viewed her daughter with fond affection. ‘My dear, Charles won’t want to live at King’s Green, and as far as keeping two homes going is concerned …’ she shook her head, ‘It’s simply not feasable.’
‘But there must be something we can do.’ Helen paced restlessly across the room, the silky dark hair that resisted all efforts to curl curving under her chin as she moved. She wore it in a simple but effective style, parting it centrally, and allowing the two sides to hang loosely to her shoulders; but now she pushed it carelessly behind her ears, too disturbed by what she had learned to pay any attention to her appearance.
‘There’s not,’ her mother assured her now, resuming the sewing which Helen had interrupted. ‘Since your father died things have gone from bad to worse, and it’s a relief to me to know that you at least aren’t going to suffer by it.’
‘Am I not?’ Helen sounded less than convinced, and her mother looked up once again.
‘Darling, you’re getting married in August. And naturally I’m hoping we can stay here until then. Your father would have wanted it that way. But after the wedding …’
Helen hunched her slim shoulders. ‘I still think you’re acting hastily. I mean, anything can happen between now and August.’
‘Nothing that’s likely to make the slightest improvement in our financial position,’ replied her mother dryly, used toher daughter’s attempts to dissuade her from even considering the idea of selling. ‘And quite frankly, my dear, I’m tired of living this hand-to-mouth existence.’
‘But why involve Margot Urquart?’ demanded Helen, clinging to straws now. ‘I mean—oh, you know what she’s like! And this man, whoever he is, is just the latest in a long line of hangers-on——’
‘Jarret Manning is hardly a hanger-on, darling,’ Mrs Chase remarked evenly, returning to her sewing.
‘Jarret Manning!’ Helen pursed her lips. ‘Imagine selling King’s Green to someone like him!’
Her mother showed a little impatience now. ‘I enjoy Jarret Manning’s work, Helen, and I see no reason for you to criticise the man when you don’t even know him.’
‘Nor do you,’ retorted Helen shortly, and her mother subjected her to a pitying appraisal.
‘It seems to me, Helen, that whoever eventually buys King’s Green, you won’t be satisfied. At least, with Margot’s intervention, we may be spared the humiliation of having to advertise the house and show crowds of curious sightseers over the grounds.’
‘What makes you think Jarret Manning isn’t just a curious sightseer?’ demanded her daughter crossly, and Mrs Chase uttered a sound of irritation. ‘Well,’ continued Helen defensively, ‘he was born in Stepney or Tooting or some such place, wasn’t he? Hardly the background of someone who might find the peace and beauty of King’s Green to their taste!’
‘You little snob!’ Mrs Chase stared at her daughter as if she had never seen her before. ‘Is that what you really think? Is that how you feel? Have I brought you up all these years to regard other people with such contempt?’