In The Millionaire's Possession. Sara Craven
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doesn’t matter,’ Helen said quietly. ‘I already know what he looks like.’
And I know the way he looked at me, she thought, remembering her sense of helpless outrage as his gaze had moved over her body. And that glinting smile in his eyes …
She swallowed, clearing the image determinedly from her mind. ‘But thanks for doing that, Lottie. It’s always best to—know your enemy.’
‘Even better not to have an enemy in the first place,’ Lottie retorted, rinsing the beans in a colander. ‘Especially one with his kind of money.’ She went to the dresser to fetch a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. ‘Did you tell Nigel how your interview went?’
Helen hesitated. ‘Some of it. He was really pushed for time, so I couldn’t go into details.’
‘And you’ll be seeing him this weekend, no doubt?’
‘Actually, no.’ Helen made her voice sound casual. ‘He’s got a party to go to. A duty thing for his chairman’s birthday.’
Lottie stared at her. ‘And he hasn’t asked you to go with him?’ She sounded incredulous.
‘Well, no,’ Helen admitted awkwardly. ‘But it’s no big deal. It will be a black tie affair, and Nigel knows quite well I haven’t anything to wear to something like that.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘He probably wanted to save me embarrassment.’
‘For the same reason he might have considered buying you an evening dress,’ Lottie said with a touch of curtness. ‘He can certainly afford it.’
Helen shrugged. ‘But he didn’t,’ she said. ‘And it really doesn’t matter.’ She paused. ‘Of course it will be different when we’re officially engaged.’
‘I hope so,’ Lottie agreed drily, filling their glasses.
‘And what about you?’ Helen was suddenly eager to change the subject. ‘Have you heard from Simon?’
Her friend’s face lit up, her blue eyes sparkling. ‘The dam’s nearly finished, and he’s coming home on leave next month. Only two weeks, but that’s better than nothing, and we’re going to talk serious wedding plans. He says from now on he’s only accepting contracts which allow accompanying wives, so I think he’s missing me.’
Helen smiled at her teasingly. ‘You can’t leave,’ she protested. ‘How are the locals to give dinner parties without you to cook for them?’
‘I promise I won’t go before I cater for your wedding reception,’ Lottie promised solemnly. ‘So can you please fix a date?’
‘I’ll make it a priority,’ Helen returned.
She was in a thoughtful mood when she walked home that night. There’d been a shower of rain about an hour before, and the air was heady with the scent of damp earth and sweet grass.
She was delighted at Lottie’s obvious happiness, but at the same time unable to subdue a small pang of envy.
She wished her own life was falling so splendidly and lovingly into place.
Yet Nigel seems to be managing perfectly well without me, she thought sadly. If only we could have talked today—really talked—then maybe we’d have had Lottie’s romantic kind of evening—and night—after all. And he’d have bought me a ring, and a dress, and taken me to Sussex. And he’d have told everyone, ‘This is my brand-new fiancée. I simply couldn’t bear to leave her behind.’
She’d started the day with such optimism and determination, yet now she felt uneasy and almost frightened. Nothing had gone according to plan. And miles away, in a glass and concrete box, her fate had probably already been decided.
I need Nigel, she thought. I need him to hold me and tell me everything will be all right, and that Monteagle is safe.
She walked under the arched gateway and stood in the courtyard, looking at the bulk of the house in the starlight. Half-seen, like this, it seemed massive—impregnable—but she knew how deceptive it was.
And it wasn’t just her own future under threat. There were the Marlands, George and Daisy, who’d come to work for her grandfather when they were a young married couple, as gardener and cook respectively. As the other staff had left George had learned to turn his hand to more and more things about the estate, and his wife, small, cheerful and bustling, had become the housekeeper. Helen, working alongside them, depended on them totally, but knew unhappily that she could not guarantee their future—specially from Trevor Newson.
‘Too old,’ he’d said. ‘Too set in their ways. I’ll be putting in my own people.’
You’ll be putting in no one, she’d told herself silently.
I wish I still felt as brave now, she thought, swallowing. But, even so, I’m not giving up the fight.
Monteagle opened to the public on Saturdays in the summer. Marion Lowell the Vicar’s wife, who was a keen historian, led guided tours round the medieval ruins and those parts of the adjoining Jacobean house not being used as living accommodation by Helen and the Marlands.
Her grandfather had been forced to sell the books from his library in the eighties, and Helen now used the room as her sitting room. It had a wonderful view across the lawns to the lake, so the fact that it was furnished with bits and pieces from the attics, and a sofa picked up for a song at a house clearance sale a few miles away, was no real hardship.
If the weather was fine Helen and Daisy Marland served afternoon teas, with home-made scones and cakes, in the courtyard. With the promise of warm sunshine to come, they’d spent most of Friday evening baking.
Helen had been notified that a coach tour, travelling under the faintly depressing title ‘Forgotten Corners of History’ would be arriving mid-afternoon, so she’d got George to set up wooden trestles, covered with the best of the linen sheets, and flank them with benches.
Placing a small pot of wild flowers in the centre of each table, she felt reasonably satisfied, even if it was a lot of effort for very moderate returns. However, it was largely a goodwill gesture, and on that level it worked well. Entries in the visitors’ book in the Great Hall praised the teas lavishly, particularly Daisy’s featherlight scones, served with cream and home-made jam.
For once, the coach arrived punctually, and as one tour ended the next began. Business in the courtyard was brisk, but evenly spaced for a change, so they were never ‘rushed to death’, as Mrs Marland approvingly put it. The weather had lived up to the forecast, and although Monteagle closed officially at six, it was well after that when the last visitors reluctantly departed, prising themselves away from the warmth of the early-evening sun.
The clearing away done, Helen hung up the voluminous white apron she wore on these occasions, today over neatly pressed jeans and a blue muslin shirt, kicked off her sandals, and strolled across the lawns down to the edge of the lake. The coolness of the grass felt delicious under her aching soles, and the rippling water had its usual soothing effect.
If only every open day could go as smoothly, she thought dreamily.
Although that would not please Nigel, who had always made his disapproval clear. ‘Working as a glorified waitress,’ he’d said. ‘What on earth do you think your grandfather would say?’
‘He wouldn’t say anything,’ Helen had returned, slightly nettled by his attitude. ‘He’d simply roll up his sleeves and help with the dishes.’
Besides, she thought, the real problem was Nigel’s mother Celia, a woman who gave snobbishness a bad name. She liked the idea of Helen having inherited Monteagle, but thought it should have come with a full staff of retainers and a convenient treasure chest in the dungeon to pay the running costs, so she had little sympathy with Helen’s struggles.
She sighed, moving her shoulders with sudden uneasiness inside the cling of the shirt. Her skin felt warm and clammy, and she was sorely tempted to walk round to the landing stage