Storm In A Rain Barrel. Anne Mather
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into gear and raised one hand in farewell as they began their journey.
Domine lay back in her seat feeling overwhelmingly shaky now that she had left all that was familiar behind her, and for a few minutes she stared blankly out at the awful weather and thought she would never experience a storm without remembering this afternoon. James Mannering did not speak to her at once, giving her time to collect herself, and manoeuvring the sleek car out of the gates and along the rain-washed country roads. The Convent of the Holy Sisters was situated about five miles from Guildford, and it wasn’t until they reached the main road to London that her companion glanced her way.
‘Well?’ he said, somewhat wryly. ‘Are you going to cry? Or will you save that for tonight—in bed?’
Domine stared at him in astonishment. She was unused to his blunt manner of speaking, and endeavouring to assume a little of his candour, she replied: ‘No, I shan’t cry now, Mr. Mannering. As for tonight, I don’t even know where I’m to spend tonight!’ She compressed her lips to prevent them from trembling.
Mannering gave her a lazy stare. ‘Don’t you? Didn’t the solicitor explain the situation to you?’
‘I haven’t seen the solicitor,’ replied Domine tightly.
Mannering frowned. ‘Is that so? You mean it was all done by correspondence?’
‘Of course. Besides, what could the solicitor have told me? From the tone of his letter, he seemed as surprised as me!’
Mannering’s frown deepened. ‘Now why were you surprised, Domine? Did you expect to be Henry’s heiress?’
Domine clenched her fists. ‘I think you’re most objectionable, Mr. Mannering!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t imagine anything. Great-Uncle Henry wasn’t old—at least, not that old. When I was eighteen I expected to go to college, and afterwards—well, I suppose I just thought I’d get a job and find somewhere of my own to live.’
Mannering gave her a wry glance. ‘Okay, I’ll accept that,’ he nodded. ‘I’m sorry if I’m riding you, kid. Perhaps I’m so used to the rat-race I’ve forgotten there are still mice around.’
Domine flushed. ‘You still haven’t answered my question. Where am I to stay? Where am I to live?’
Mannering drew out his cigar case and lit a cigar before replying. Then he said: ‘Tonight, you’ll stay at my apartment—in London. Tomorrow we’ll drive up to Yorkshire.’
‘To Grey Witches?’ exclaimed Domine, in surprise.
‘Sure, to Grey Witches!’ He frowned. ‘I don’t intend to sell the place, you know. What’s the matter? Doesn’t that appeal to you?’
Domine shook her head. ‘I didn’t think about that either,’ she murmured, wondering with a sense of excitement whether Grey Witches was to be her home. It would be wonderful to have a real home after all these years.
Mannering gave an exasperated shrug, and then they encountered a stream of traffic entering London and for a time his attention was focused on negotiating a series of traffic lights. Domine looked about her with interest. She had never really visited London. When she was younger, living with her parents in Nottingham, it had never appealed to her, and afterwards Great-Uncle Henry had avoided it like the plague. ‘Nasty, unhealthy place,’ he had called it, and Domine had been too inexperienced to offer an opinion.
James Mannering’s apartment was the penthouse of a block of luxury dwellings, and once inside the air-conditioned environs of the lift Domine forgot the vile weather outside. The lift swept upwards smoothly, and then whined to a halt at the thirtieth floor. They stepped out on to a pile carpeted corridor that led to double doors into his apartment, and Mannering went ahead of her, using a key to admit them.
Immediately a suave little man appeared from the direction of what she later learned to be the kitchen, and Mannering introduced him as Graham while he removed his overcoat.
Domine smiled, and shook hands, and Mannering said: ‘Graham is a gentleman’s gentleman. He was employed by Lord Bestingcot years ago, but he’s been with me for about ten years now, haven’t you, Graham? He’s endeavouring to instil the attributes of a gentleman into rough clay like myself!’ He smiled, and Domine was surprised at the change it brought to his harsh features. She was begining to see why Susan had thought him attractive. There was something particularly masculine about him, and his hardness, she thought, would appeal to some women.
Graham took Domine’s gaberdine, and suggested they might like some coffee, but after ascertaining that dinner would be ready in about fifteen minutes, James Mannering waved him away.
‘We’ll have something a little more appetizing,’ he remarked, and nodding, Graham went to attend to the meal. Then Mannering looked at Domine, standing hoveringly by the door. In truth, she was still recovering from the impact the apartment had made on her, with its plate-glass windows, giving a panoramic view of the city, and the soft carpet underfoot into which her feet sank. There were deep red leather chairs, and occasional tables made of ebony, while in the alcoves, fitted shelves supported books, hi-fi equipment, and a super-luxury television set. The room was lit by tall standard lamps designed in sprays, while the heating was concealed but comfortable. And despite its artistic design, the room was the kind of place where one could relax without worrying too much about ultra-tidiness. Just now, a pile of manuscript lay on a side table, while some magazines were strewn on a low couch. It had a lived-in air, and Domine wondered whether Great-Uncle Henry had ever been here.
‘Come and sit down,’ invited James Mannering, indicating the couch. ‘Take your shoes off; make yourself at home. If you’re to be my ward for the next six months, we might as well get used to one another.’
Domine hesitated, and then she stepped forward, and did as he suggested, subsiding on to a couch that was softer than anything she had previously experienced.
‘Now! What are you going to drink?’ he asked, walking over to a cocktail cabinet. ‘Port, sherry, Martini? Or just some fruit juice?’
Domine bit her lip. ‘Fruit juice, please,’ she said, folding her hands in her lap.
He glanced round at her, looked as though he was about to protest, and then seemed to change his mind. ‘All right,’ he agreed, and mixed her a lime and lemon. ‘There you are!’ He poured himself a stiff measure of whisky and swallowed it at a gulp, then he poured another before coming to sit opposite her, on a low chair, regarding her with lazy, yet intent, blue eyes.
Domine sipped her drink, and looked about her nervously, wishing he would not study her so intently. She could feel the colour sweeping up her neck and over her ears, washing her face a brilliant shade of tomato. Then he seemed to grow bored with embarrassing her this way, and said, instead:
‘Haven’t you any questions you want to ask?’
Domine looked down at her glass. ‘Heaps,’ she agreed candidly.
‘Well, go on, then. Ask?’
Domine felt tongue-tied for a moment. ‘Have—have you written many plays?’ she asked tentatively.
Mannering lay back in his seat regarding her impatiently. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he exclaimed. ‘What does that matter? Come on, Domine, stop being such a mouse for once, and speak your mind! Doesn’t it bother you that Henry should have thrust you so heedlessly into my hands?’
Domine’s fingers tightened round the glass. ‘Of course it bothers me. In fact, I wanted to speak to you about that. It—it might be a good idea if I stayed here—in London, I mean. I could easily get a job, and I suppose there are bed-sitters and things—’
‘Oh, no!’ Mannering raised his eyes heavenward. Then he stared at her again. ‘Oh, no, Domine, most definitely, no! Old Henry knew exactly what he was doing when he handed you into my care. He knew that once I’d seen you, talked with you, got to know what kind of innocent you really are, I wouldn’t dare to let you out of my sight. Leave you here in London, indeed! Good God,