Long Cold Winter. PENNY JORDAN
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was he, Autumn wondered, and what was he doing here? Her lonely childhood had turned her into something of a daydreamer, and as though he sensed that she was curious about him, he turned to look at her, his eyes losing their cool indifference and surveying her with an intensity that brought the swift colour to her cheeks.
She had gone off duty shortly afterwards, but the next day Mary had been full of their new visitor.
His name was Yorke Laing, she had informed Autumn, and he had been ordered to rest by his doctor following a bout of ‘flu.
‘Yorke Laing.’ Autumn had savoured the name, wondering why it should have such a familiar ring until she remembered who he was. Surely the Yorke Laings of this world did not recuperate from their illnesses in tiny little hotels perched on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors? The South of France or somewhere equally glamorous seemed more in keeping.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ Mary breathed as Yorke walked past the desk. ‘And I bet there isn’t much he doesn’t know about women!’
Yorke turned and smiled at them and Autumn flushed vividly, and Mary’s shrewd eyes noted her changing colour.
The other girls in the hotel had been inclined to tease Autumn at first, when they realised how inexperienced she was, but they were on the whole kind-hearted and their teasing had given way to affectionate protection, and although at nineteen Autumn was only a couple of years their junior they tended to treat her very much as the ‘baby’ of the staff.
It was only since she had come to work at the hotel that she had realised how old-fashioned her upbringing had been. Her parents had been killed in a road accident when she was still a baby, and she had been brought up by a spinster aunt of her father’s, who had lost her own fiancé during the First World War. Emma Kane had been a product of an era that brought up its daughters to be ‘correct young ladies’ and she in turn had brought Autumn up in the same mould. A small private school had given Autumn an excellent education, but as she had always held herself a little aloof from the other girls she had never made any close friends, and the result was that the gap between herself and other girls of her generation had steadily grown wider.
When Aunt Emma died Autumn had been shocked and dismayed. The little cottage in the Yorkshire Dales had been sold and, completely alone for the first time in her life, Autumn did not know what she would have done if her aunt’s solicitor had not very kindly recommended her as a trainee receptionist to the owners of the hotel.
Over the months Autumn had grown accustomed to the other girls’ teasing, which was never malicious, and had even dated boys whom they had introduced to her, but none of the dates had been memorable enough to make her want to repeat them.
She had never been in love in her life, and when Yorke Laing smiled at her in slow, deliberately enticing way, she felt both excited and terrified.
‘I think he fancies you,’ Mary whispered enviously. ‘I told you he would prefer blondes.’
Autumn glanced uncertainly at her friend, not sure if she was teasing her.
‘Honestly, you’re the limit!’ Mary complained. ‘Didn’t that aunt of yours tell you anything?’ She heaved a sigh and put her hands on Autumn’s shoulders, turning her round to face the mirror. ‘Now, take a good look at yourself,’ she instructed.
Autumn stared at her own familiar reflection. Her hair was long, and curled gently on to her shoulders, hesitant blue eyes staring back at her between their fringing of black lashes. Beside Mary’s petite plumpness she felt gangly and awkward, oblivious to the delicate slenderness of her own bones or the inherent grace with which she moved.
‘You’re hopeless!’ Mary announced. ‘There isn’t a girl here who can touch you for looks, Autumn, but for all the use you make of them, you might just as well be a nun. Don’t you know how men look at you?’
How did they look at her? Autumn wondered, and then remembering how she had felt when Yorke Laing smiled at her, she blushed and turned away from the mirror to busy herself with some papers on her desk.
She was only on duty until lunchtime and had promised to go shopping with Mary during the afternoon. Mary wanted some new shoes and she had persuaded Autumn that she needed a pair too. Autumn liked Mary; she was the eldest of a large family, cheerful and outgoing, and it was she who had coaxed Autumn into experimenting with make-up and clothes, showing her how to apply a discreet touch of eye-shadow and glossy lipstick.
Autumn was alone on the reception desk when Yorke Laing came back. She had just been about to go off duty, and the sound of his voice, husky and faintly quizzical, made her blush furiously as she examined the pigeonholes for his mail.
There was nothing for him, and she started to tell him so with a faint stammer, when he smiled, making her catch her breath, as he asked when she went off duty.
‘Now,’ she told him without thinking. ‘Did you want something? I could…’
‘I was wondering if you’d care to spend the afternoon with me,’ he told her suavely. ‘Perhaps show me something of the district.’
Her heart, which had started to pound with excitement, dropped. Of course! He knew nothing of the area and merely wanted a companion for the afternoon. He had only asked her because she happened to be there.
Stammering and blushing, she explained to him that she was going shopping with Mary.
‘Another time, perhaps,’ he said smoothly as her relief came to take over from her, but when she related the incident to Mary later, the latter took her to task over her lack of guile.
‘You should have told him you were free,’ she scolded. ‘Fancy passing up a date with him to come shopping with me!’
‘He only wanted someone to show him round the area,’ Autumn told her uncomfortably.
‘Look, love,’ Mary announced, taking her by the arm and dragging her across the road, ‘men like Yorke Laing don’t need to look for companions; they just take their pick from the willing victims flocking at their heels.’ She glanced at Autumn’s face and gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Perhaps it’s as well you didn’t go with him. You’re such an innocent, you wouldn’t know where to begin with a man like him.’
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