Hell Or High Water. Anne Mather
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She glanced up at the trembling prisms of a chandelier, at the polished carving of the staircase, and realised how much she would miss all this if she had to leave. Marrying Charles somehow had always seemed such a distant thing, and if she had thought of King’s Green at all, it was in terms of her coming here, with her children, bringing them to see their grandmother, and showing them the places where she had played when she was young. She had never pictured the house belonging to anyone else, and even the home Charles was buying for them, beautiful though it was, could nevermean as much to her as King’s Green.
With these thoughts for company she opened the doors to the porch, her unusually pale features remote and uncompromising. To the man and woman awaiting her reception she appeared cold and indifferent, her casual appearance belying the cold hauteur in her face.
In contrast, Margot Urquart seemed warm and animated, her green silk suit complementing the sunflower brightness of her scarf. Careful make-up had taken years from her finely-drawn features, and Helen could quite see that in the right light she might be taken for thirty-five or younger. The stark sunlight of morning was less sympathetic, but nevertheless Margot had a certain feminine appeal that was ageless.
However, it was the man standing slightly behind her who drew Helen’s eyes. She had known what to expect, of course, she had seen his picture on the back of her mother’s book, but even so, she was totally unprepared for the man himself. A photograph was flat, two-dimensional, limited by the demands of black and white, whereas the man who was accompanying Margot was flesh and blood, and infinitely more disturbing than any clever likeness. The picture, for instance, had shown him to have fair hair, but not that silvery fairness that lay smoothly against his scalp, without requiring any unsightly hairdressing. Also, he was darker-skinned than she had expected, absurdly so, considering the lightness of his hair, with blue eyes shaded by long gold-tipped lashes. He was not handsome, his appeal was much more subtle than that, and the faintly mocking twist to his mouth convinced her that he knew that as well as she did. In consequence, Helen stiffened still further, and it was left to Margot to say, rather doubtfully:
‘Mrs Chase is expecting us. Will you tell her we’re here, Miss—er——’
Helen’s reserve broke into unwilling explanation. ‘I’m Helen,’ she said, half believing Margot knew that already, but the other woman’s astonishment seemed genuine enough.
‘Helen!’ she exclaimed. ‘Good heavens!’ A certain trace of waspishness entered her tones now. ‘But you wereonly a schoolgirl the last time I saw you.’
‘That was three years ago, Aunt Margot,’ Helen replied politely, steeling herself not to respond with the implied immaturity. ‘I’m twenty-one.’
Aunt Margot clearly didn’t like the designation, but she was forced to ignore it for the time being. ‘I thought you must be an au pair Alice had employed,’ she explained, glancing half apologetically at her escort. ‘Darling, this is Alice’s daughter Helen. Helen, I’d like you to met Mr Jarret Manning.’
‘How do you do?’ Jarret Manning held out his hand, and Helen was forced to take it. It was a firm hand, hard and masculine, but she had noticed the endearment, and withdrew her own after the briefest of clasps, murmuring her acknowledgement as she invited them inside.
‘Oh, this hall!’ cried Margot dramatically, as the doors were closed, and the sunlight shafted from the windows on either side. ‘Isn’t it beautiful, Jarret? Don’t you think so? The panelling is so warm—so mellow! It’s walnut, you know, and the carving on the stairs is by Grinling Gibbons.’
‘Really?’
Jarret Manning arched his brows, and Helen, catching his eye at that moment, felt a sense of irritation. What was Margot trying to do? Was she attempting to sell the house to him? Did she think they needed her assistance? It was humiliating!
‘Mummy is in the drawing room,’ Helen said now, leading the way across the hall, wishing for the first time she had taken her mother’s advice and changed. She was very conscious of Jarret Manning behind her, of his eyes on her, appraising her, assessing her, looking at her tight jeans and imagining she had worn them deliberately.
Mrs Chase came to the drawing room door as she heard their voices, and Margot rushed to embrace her. ‘Alice, my dear!’ she exclaimed, with her usual effusiveness. ‘It’s wonderful to see you again. Telephones are simply not an adequate substitute. I declare, you look younger every time we meet.’
‘It’s good to see you again, Margot,’ Mrs Chase assured her, meaning it, her eyes moving to the man who followed the two women into the room. ‘Hello, Mr Manning. I feelI know you already. I expect Margot’s told you I’m a great fan of yours.’
Helen drew back against the wall beside the door, wishing she could melt into the panelling. Her mother’s first words had convinced her that she had dismissed her earlier anxieties about the Hetheringtons from her mind, and the excitement of meeting Jarret Manning had apparently erased her reservations. Watching the two woman as they fawned around him made Helen feel physically sick, and with a feeling of desperation she edged through the doorway.
‘Where are you going, Helen?’
Her mother’s sharpened tones arrested her, and with a look of resignation marring her solemn features, she halted. ‘I thought I’d go and change, Mummy,’ she said, realising it was as good an excuse as any. ‘I—er—I’m sure you and Mr Manning have things to talk about, and I shan’t be long.’
‘Don’t be,’ her mother advised her shortly, her expression mirroring her disapproval. ‘After we’ve had a drink, I want you to show Mr Manning over the house. You’re so much more knowledgeable about its history than I am.’
Helen accepted this without a word, aware that Margot liked that idea no more than she did. But there was nothing either of them could say. Jarret Manning seemed indifferent to all of them, standing on the hearth, gazing up at the painting above the fireplace with an ease of familiarity that Helen found infuriating. It was as if he already owned King’s Green, she thought bitterly, wishing the house was hers so that she could refuse to sell it. Tall and lean, and aggressively masculine beside the delicate tracery of the marble, she could almost imagine him dressed in close-fitting breeches and riding boots, instead of the expensive suede suit he was wearing, a riding crop in his hand, one arm resting on the mantel, very much the master of the house.
He turned at that moment and caught her eyes upon him, and immediately a trace of amusement lifted the corners of his mouth. It was as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, and that he also knew how angry it made her. He was everything she disliked most in a man, self-assuredand over-confident, convinced that he knew everything there was to know about women, and supremely egotistical about his own appeal to them. Well, he didn’t appeal to her, she thought contemptuously. And if he thought he could make silent passes at her, he was mistaken! With a scathing sweep of her lashes she turned on her heel and walked across the hall to the stairs with all the hauteur she was capable of.
In her own room, however, a little of her confidence left her. Sitting down on the side of her bed, she stared moodily down at the engagement ring on her finger. It was infuriating, feeling so helpless in the face of her mother’s determination, particularly when it seemed likely that Jarret Manning might agree to buy. She didn’t want someone like him living at King’s Green, she thought impotently. He was not right for Thrushfold, and he was not right for the house.
Realising she was wasting time, and that if she did not hurry her mother might well come looking for her, Helen got up from the bed and stripped off her shirt and jeans. Then, raiding her wardrobe, she pulled out a shirtwaister dress of polyester fibre, with a bloused bodice and a swinging skirt, and added high-heeled sandals to complete the ensemble. The colours, a blending of blue and violet, accentuated the sooty darkness of her eyes, and with her hair newly brushed and silkily lustrous, she felt better able to cope with the demands that were to be made on her.
Downstairs again, she could hear Margot extolling the virtues of the paintings Helen’s great-great grandfather had collected. ‘There were so many wonderful artists around at