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‘She’ll be fine,’ Nigel had said. ‘She just needs a bit of time to get used to the idea. And to you.’
But she’s known me since I was thirteen, Helen had thought, troubled. And even then I don’t think I was ever on her A-list.
Thought it—but hadn’t said it.
Still, Mrs Hartley’s sensibilities couldn’t be allowed to intrude any longer—or any further. Helen suspected she was the kind of mother, anyway, who believed no girl would ever be good enough for her only son. Nothing useful would be achieved by putting off the announcement any longer.
Because, whether the committee’s decision was for or against the restoration of Monteagle, she was going to need Nigel’s love and support as never before. And surely, in spite of the demands of his career, he would understand that and be there for her—wouldn’t he?
It irked her to realise that Marc Delaroche, however despicable his motives, had actually taken more interest in the house than Nigel had ever shown. And he was right about the State Bedroom, too. Her grandfather wouldn’t have wanted it left untouched, like some empty shrine.
Instead, it should be top of her refurbishment list and opened to the public. She might find the Charles the Second legend distasteful, but a lot of people would think it a romantic story, and let their imaginations free on the use that giant four-poster had been put to during the King’s visit.
She went up there with a notebook and pen and took a clear-eyed look round. The ornamental plaster on the ceiling was in urgent need of restoration in places, and there were timbered walls waiting to be exposed underneath layers of peeling wallpaper. The ancient Turkish carpet was past praying for, but it was concealing wooden floorboards that the original surveyor’s report had declared free of woodworm or dry rot, and she could only hope that was still the case.
The silk bed hangings and window curtains were frankly disintegrating, and couldn’t be saved, but their heavy embroidery was intact, and still beautiful.
Helen recalled that Mrs Stevens at the village post office, who was a skilled needlewoman, had told her months ago that if the elaborate patterns were cut out carefully they could be transferred to new fabric. She’d suggested, too, that the embroidery group at the Women’s Institute, which she chaired, might take it on as a project.
First catch your fabric, Helen thought, doing some rueful calculations. But at least she knew now what her first priority should be, even though it was galling that she’d been alerted to it by Marc Delaroche.
But if I get the money from the committee I might even feel marginally grateful to him, she thought. Maybe.
She was sitting at the kitchen table on Friday evening, going over some of the estimates her grandfather had obtained and trying to work out the inevitable percentage increases for the intervening period, when Lottie arrived with the new batch of guidebooks.
‘Hey, there.’ She gave Helen a quizzical glance. ‘Got any good news for me?’
‘Not yet.’ Helen gave a sigh. ‘And I was so sure I’d hear this week.’
‘Actually,’ Lottie said, ‘I was thinking of something more personal than the grant application.’ She looked around. ‘All on your own?’ she enquired, with clear disappointment.
‘Not any more.’ Helen pushed her papers aside and got up to fill the kettle. ‘Who were you expecting?’
‘I thought Nigel might be here and had my speedy exit all planned,’ Lottie explained. ‘So—where is he?’
Helen shrugged as she got down the coffee jar. ‘Arriving tomorrow, I guess. I haven’t heard yet.’
Lottie frowned. ‘But his car was in the drive at his parents’ place earlier. That’s when I put two and two together about the party.’
Helen stared at her. ‘Lottie—what on earth are you talking about?’
‘Oh, hell,’ her friend groaned. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve put my foot in it. I was so sure…’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s just that Ma Hartley rang me this afternoon, all sweetness and light, wanting me to quote for catering a ‘very special buffet’ next month. She was so pleased and coy about it that I jumped to the obvious conclusion. I’m so sorry, love.’
Helen spooned coffee into two beakers with more than usual care. ‘Nigel’s probably planning it as a big surprise for me,’ she said calmly, ignoring the sudden churning in her stomach. ‘Although I can’t really imagine his mother turning cartwheels over it. She must like me better than I thought,’ she added, without any real conviction.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ Lottie said ruefully as she stirred her coffee.
‘No, it’s fine,’ Helen assured her. ‘And when I do see him I swear I’ll be the world’s most astonished person.’
That would be an easy promise to keep, she thought, when Lottie had gone. She was already bewildered and disturbed by his failure to contact her when he must know how she was longing to see him.
Well, she could do something about that at least, she thought, and she dialled the number of his parents’ home.
She’d hoped Nigel himself would answer, but inevitably it was his mother.
‘Oh, Helen,’ she said, without pleasure. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t a terribly convenient moment. You see, we have guests, and we’re in the middle of dinner.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said. ‘But I do need to speak to him.’
‘But not this evening.’ There was a steely note in Mrs Hartley’s voice. She sighed impatiently. ‘Oh, well. Perhaps if there’s something particular, he could call you tomorrow?’
Oh, nothing special, thought Helen. Only the rest of my life.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘I look forward to hearing from him.’
But it wasn’t true, she realised as she put down the phone. She had a feeling of dread, not anticipation. And once again Nigel’s mother had succeeded in making her feel excluded—as if she had no place in their lives.
When she and Nigel finally managed to talk, Mrs Hartley’s attitude was going to be one of the topics of conversation, she thought grimly.
When she awoke next morning, it was to intermittent sunshine and scudding clouds driven by a sharp breeze.
Unpredictable, she thought as she dressed. Rather like my life. But a good day for touring historic houses rather than going to the beach, so let’s hope the queues start forming like they did last week.
Well, not quite, she amended hastily. At least this time Marc Delaroche would not be part of them.
She was on her way to the kitchen when she saw the post van disappearing down the drive. At the door she paused, and drew a deep, calming breath before entering.
‘Any phone calls for me?’ she enquired, making her tone deliberately casual.
‘Nothing so far,’ Daisy told her, putting a fresh pot of tea on the table.
‘What about mail?’
‘A couple of bills,’ Daisy said. She paused. ‘And this.’ She held out an imposing cream envelope embossed with the committee’s logo.
Helen’s stomach lurched frantically. She wiped her hand on her jeans and took the envelope, staring down at it. Reluctant, now that the moment had come, to learn its contents, slowly she pushed the blade of a table knife under the flap and slit it open.
The words ‘We regret’ danced in front of her eyes, making it almost unnecessary to read on. But she scanned them any-way—the brief polite lines that signified failure.
George had come into the kitchen and was standing beside his wife, both of them watching Helen anxiously.
She tried to smile—to shrug. ‘No luck, I’m afraid. They try to help places that have suffered some kind of terrible devastation, like earthquake sites. It seems that rising damp, leaky roofs and dry rot aren’t quite devastating enough.’
‘Oh, Miss Helen, love.’
She sank her teeth into her lower lip at the compassion in Daisy’s voice, forbidding herself to cry.
‘Does this mean you’ll have to sell to that Mr Newson?’ George asked, troubled.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to do that. I’m never going to do that.’ There was something else in the envelope, too. A note in the chairman’s own hand, she discovered, wishing her well. ‘Mr VanStratten and Monsieur Delaroche argued very persuasively on your behalf,’ the note added, ‘but eventually it had to be a majority decision.’
Her hand clenched round the paper, crushing it. That—lecherous hypocrite, speaking up for her? she thought incredulously. Dear God, that had to be the final blow.
Aloud, she said, ‘There’ll be something else I can do. Someone else I can turn to. I’ll call Nigel. Ask for his advice.’
‘He hasn’t been so helpful up to now,’ George muttered.
‘But now the chips are down,’ Helen said with more confidence than she actually felt. ‘He’ll find some way to rescue us.’
Rather than run the gauntlet of his mother’s disapproval again, Helen rang Nigel’s mobile number.
‘Yes?’ His voice sounded wary.
‘Nigel?’ she said. ‘Darling, can you come round, please? I really need to see you.’
There was a silence, then he said, ‘Look, Helen, this isn’t a good time for me.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but please believe that it’s a far worse one for me,’ she told him bluntly. ‘Something’s happened, and I need your advice.’ She paused. ‘Would you prefer me to come to you instead?’
‘No,’ he said hastily. ‘No, don’t do that. I’ll be about half an hour, and I’ll use the side gate into the garden. I’ll meet you by the lake.’
‘Bringing your cloak and dagger with you, no doubt,’ Helen said acidly. ‘But if that’s what you want, then it’s fine with me.’
She’d spoken bravely, but she rang off feeling sick and scared. Suddenly her entire life seemed to be falling in pieces, and she didn’t know why, or how to deal with it.
Whatever, facing Nigel in working clothes wasn’t a good idea. She dashed upstairs and took another quick shower, this time using the last of her favourite body lotion. From her scanty wardrobe she chose a straight skirt in honey-coloured linen, with a matching jersey top, long-sleeved and vee-necked.
She brushed her hair loose and applied a touch of pale rose to her mouth.
War paint, she thought ironically, as she took a last look in the mirror.
Nigel was already waiting when she arrived at the lakeside. The breeze across the water was ruffling his hair and he was pacing up and down impatiently.
‘So there you are,’ he greeted her peevishly. ‘What the hell’s the matter?’
‘I think that should be my question.’ She halted a few feet away, staring at him. ‘You don’t tell me you’re coming down, and then you avoid me. Why?’
His eyes slid away uncomfortably. ‘Look, Helen—I know I should have spoken before, but there’s no easy way to say this.’ He paused. ‘You must know that things haven’t been good between us for quite a while.’
‘I’ve certainly realised we don’t see as much of each other, but I thought it was pressure of work. That’s what you told me, anyway.’ She clenched her shaking hands and hid them in the folds of her skirt.
‘And what about you?’ he asked sharply. ‘Always fussing about that decrepit ruin you live in—scratching round for the next few pennies. You’ve had a good offer for it. Why not wise up and get out while it’s still standing?’
She gasped. ‘How can you say that—when you know what it means to me?’
‘Oh, I know all right,’ he said bitterly. ‘No one knows better. I discovered a long time ago I was always going to play second fiddle to that dump, and you took it for granted that I’d settle for that. No doubt that’s what you want to talk about now. What’s happened? Deathwatch beetle on the march again?’
‘I do have a serious problem about the house, but that can wait,’ she said steadily. ‘What we obviously need to discuss is—us.’
‘Helen, there is no ‘us’, and there hasn’t been for a long time. But you refuse to see it, for some reason.’
Her nails dug painfully into the palms of her hands. ‘Maybe because I’m in love with you.’
‘Well, you’ve got a weird idea of what love’s about,’ Nigel commented sourly. ‘Frankly, I’m sick and tired of this ‘hands off till we’re married’ garbage. I’ve tried everything to get you into bed, but you’ve never wanted to know.’
She bit her lip. ‘I—I realise that now, and I—I’m sorry.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘I thought you were prepared to wait too.’
‘No,’ he said brutally. ‘Men only beg for so long, then they lose interest.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s only ever going to be one passion in your life, Helen, and that’s Monteagle. No guy stands a chance against a no-win obsession like that.’
She said carefully, ‘You mean—you don’t want me any more?’
He sighed. ‘Let’s be honest. It was a boy-girl thing at best, and it certainly didn’t make it into the grown-up world. Although I hope we can stay friends,’ he added hastily. ‘Face it, you’ve never been interested in sex—or even curious. A couple of kisses have always been enough for you. But now I’ve met someone with a bit of warmth about her and we’re getting married. I brought her down this weekend to meet my parents, so I really don’t need you ringing up every five minutes.’
‘I see.’ Helen swallowed. ‘You know, I had the strangest idea I was engaged to you myself.’
He shrugged. ‘I know we discussed it,’ he said awkwardly. ‘But there was nothing definite. For one thing, I’d have had a hell of a fight on with my parents.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Helen said unevenly. ‘I always knew they didn’t like me.’
‘It wasn’t that,’ he told her defensively. ‘They felt we were wrong for each other, that’s all. And they didn’t want me tipping everything I earned down that money pit of yours, either.’
He paused. ‘I have ambition, Helen, and I’m not ashamed of it. I want a wife who can help with my career—someone who likes entertaining and can provide the right ambience. Let’s face it, you’d hate that kind of life.’
The wind was cold suddenly—turning her to ice.
She said quietly, ‘And I haven’t any money—to make up for my other deficiencies. Isn’t that part of it?’
He gave her an irritated look. ‘Money matters. Are you pretending it doesn’t?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Particularly when I’ve just been turned down for my grant.’
‘Well, what did you expect? Clearly they don’t want to throw good money after bad,’ he said. ‘That’s not good business practice.’
She winced painfully. ‘Nigel,’ she said urgently, ‘I—I’m trying to save the home I love. I thought you might be able to suggest something—someone who could help. Who might be prepared to invest in the estate…’
‘This is a joke—right?’ His tone was derisive. ‘I suggest you look round for a rich husband—if you can find someone as frigid as you are yourself. And how likely is that?’
The pain was suddenly more than she could bear. She took a step towards him, lifting her hand, driven by a half-crazy need to wipe the sneer from his face.
Nigel retreated, throwing up an arm to ward her off, his smart brogues slipping suddenly in the mud created by the recent bad weather.
Helen saw his face change from alarm to fury as he overbalanced, teetering on the edge of the lake for a moment before he fell backwards into the water with a resounding splash.
He was on his feet instantly, dripping and crimson with rage. ‘Bitch,’ he shouted hoarsely, as Helen turned her back and began to walk, head bent, towards the house. ‘Bitch.’
She was trembling violently, her breathing an agony, every nerve in her body striving to continue putting one foot in front of another so that she could reach sanctuary before she fell on her knees and howled her hurt and misery to the sky.
She was too blinded by his cruelty even to see that someone was standing in front of her until she collided with a hard male body and recoiled with a cry.
