Rooted In Dishonour. Anne Mather
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this—I mean, did this room belong to the—the first Mrs Petrie?’
Marya shrugged. ‘I work here for two years only,’ she said, and left the room.
While she was gone, Beth wandered to the windows. Long chiffon curtains hid the handles of the french doors, but they were ajar, and Beth pushed the curtains aside and stepped out on to the balcony. As she had expected, these rooms overlooked the front of the house, and from here she had an uninterrupted view of the ocean. A sweep of white sand descended to waters that were white at the rim but deep turquoise further out. The beach seemed to shelve quite rapidly, and she thought of swimming out there, submerging her body in the water, drifting with the tide …
‘Is everything to your liking?’
Beth turned back into the room at the sound of Willard’s voice. He was standing rather heavily in the doorway, supporting himself against the jamb, and she hurried towards him anxiously.
‘Darling, everything’s perfect, but I have to say it—you do look tired. Won’t you rest for a while? I’m sure—everyone would understand.’
Willard drew a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he conceded with a faint smile. ‘You’re right, I do feel absolutely shattered. But Clarrie’s preparing lunch——’
‘Clarrie?’ Beth frowned, and then shook her head. ‘Well, never mind now, I’m sure you could have some lunch in bed if you’re hungry. I’ll fetch it up to you myself.’
‘You’re so good—and so beautiful,’ he breathed huskily, reaching out a hand to touch a coil of silvery silk which had fallen over one shoulder. ‘Do you like your room? It was Agnes’s, you know. Barbara must have known that I would want you next to me.’
Beth swallowed a momentary sense of unease. It was the first time Willard had mentioned his first wife by name. And as to Barbara’s motives for giving her the room … She found it harder to be charitable about that, too.
‘Come along,’ she said now. ‘Let me help you to your room. And you can tell me who Clarrie is.’
Willard went with her willingly enough, and Beth saw to her relief that Raoul had departed. She helped Willard on to the bed, and then began very efficiently to strip the clothes from him.
‘Do you have any pyjamas here?’ she asked, looking around, and he nodded towards the chest of drawers in one corner.
‘In there,’ he said wearily, and she was glad she did not have to start rummaging his suitcases looking for night-wear.
His room was very similar in design to her own, with yellow hangings instead of the blue. She folded back the bedspread and helped him between the sheets, then went to the wndows and closed the shutters, instantly cutting the illumination in the room to a filtered twilight.
‘Now,’ she said, approaching the bed again. ‘Shall I bring you some lunch, or would you rather rest a while?’
‘I’d rather rest,’ Willard confessed reluctantly. Then he reached for her hand. ‘Beth, I’m sorry about—about Barbara. She’ll come round, I know she will.’
It was the nearest he had come to admitting that anything was wrong, but Beth had not the heart to ask him questions then. Instead, she bent over him and kissed his forehead, saying softly:
‘You just rest. Everything will work itself out, you’ll see.’
But in her own room again, Beth couldn’t help conceding that she had sounded more confident than she actually felt. Yet anger was a great morale-booster, and it was with irritation she pondered the kind of woman who would let her sick father return home without making any attempt to greet him.
Marya had returned in her absence with the rest of her things, and with a sigh, Beth hoisted her largest case on to the bed and unlocked it. She was halfway through unpacking its contents when there was a knock at her door.
‘Yes?’ she turned automatically, and Marya’s face appeared again.
‘Clarrie says that lunch is ready, miss,’ she announced, her eyes flickering with evident interest over the shreds of underwear strewn across the coverlet.
‘Oh. Thank you, Marya,’ Beth nodded, and with a casual shrug left what she was doing. ‘I’ll come down now.’
‘Yes, miss.’
Marya went ahead along the corridor, her slim hips swaying suggestively under the plain white shift which appeared to be the only garment she was wearing. An apron was tied about her waist, but it only emphasised the sinuous limbs beneath the material, and Beth found herself resenting the girl’s careless sensuality once more. Even so, she had to admit that her own pants were clinging rather tightly to her legs and that the fastening of her bra dug uncomfortably into her heated flesh.
They descended the elegant staircase, and walking down it for the first time, her hand running lightly over the smooth wrought iron rail, Beth couldn’t help feeling a sense of achievement. She was to be mistress here, she thought disbelievingly, and a shiver of excitement feathered along her spine.
Marya crossed the hall and went through one of the arched doorways into an enormous open living area. Regency striped couches, their covers slightly faded with age, were set about the room, there were hand-carved chairs with velvet-cushioned seats, and a French escritoire with rose-leaf marquetry. There were tables, and stools, and more contemporary cupboards, and a vast open fireplace filled with logs for burning. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of Willard, in the robes of some university, painted, Beth suspected, some twenty years before.
They went through this room and out through double doors on to a patio, shaded by a canopy that extended from the wall of the house. It was here that lunch was laid on a square, glass-topped table, flanked by wrought iron chairs with attractively cushioned seats. The table was set for two, but Beth immediately explained that her fiancé would not be joining her.
‘I will tell Clarrie.’ said Marya at once, and went away, leaving Beth to admire the blossom-hung trellis that marked the boundary of the gardens which stretched away from the back of the house. Roses grew in wild profusion beyond the trellis, and she recognised other flowers that were common enough in England between the lush banks of semi-tropical vegetation. But nature had repossessed much of what had once been formal walks and arbours, and while the mass of shrubs and creepers was colourful, it was also untamed and uncultivated.
Marya came back with an extremely fat woman whose face nevertheless creased into a smile when she saw Beth.
‘So you are Mister Willard’s fiancée, are you?’ she asked, regarding the girl critically. ‘Mmm, a little young perhaps, but woman enough, I think.’
Beth’s cheeks flamed. ‘Are you Clarrie?’
‘That’s right.’ The fat woman dug a finger into the mound of flesh that swelled above her middle. ‘I’se the cook here. I used to be nursemaid to Miss Barbara, but now I’se the cook.’
Beth couldn’t take offence. ‘Did Marya tell you that—that Mister Willard doesn’t want anything to eat right now?’
‘She did.’ Clarrie nodded. ‘I seen him earlier. Jest after you come.’ She paused. ‘Miss Barbara says you was his nurse. How is he? Is he really better?’
Apart from Jonas’s evident affection, it was the nearest thing to concern that Beth had heard expressed, and she responded to it. ‘He’s still very weak,’ she admitted. ‘His heart is recovering from the shock, but the muscles are still strained. He must take things easily for a while. Maybe six months. Only time will tell.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Clarrie was digesting this thoughtfully when on impulse Beth asked: ‘What about—Miss Barbara? When will I get to meet her?’
Clarrie’s generous mouth drew in. ‘Miss Barbara will come down in her own good time,’ she declared expressionlessly, turning towards the house. ‘I’ll get the