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‘Are you all right?’
‘Mmm,’ he nodded. ‘Just a slight headache, that’s all. I’ve got something I can take for it when we get to the flat.’
Helen didn’t waste any more time. The Volkswagen was easy to handle, and she swung out of the parking area and into the stream of traffic with the expertise born of experience. She had been driving since she was seventeen, and even Barry had had to concede that she was good.
It only took a matter of five minutes or so to reach Gainsborough Crescent, and she parked the car at the kerb before reaching into the back for her basket.
Morgan’s hand closed on her arm, however, preventing her from reaching it. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said, thrusting open his door and getting out, and reluctantly she went ahead into the building.
Gainsborough Crescent was a terrace of tall Victorian houses, most of which had been converted into flats now. Families were no longer so large as to require half a dozen bedrooms, and the rooms on the attic floor were snapped up by students wanting an economical bed-sitter.
The flat Helen and Barry were to occupy was on the first floor. It was small—just a bedroom, a living room, a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom, but at least it was all their own. The furnishings were the prime drawback. Nearly all the furniture had done service for more years than Helen would have liked to have guessed, and she hoped it wouldn’t be too long before they could buy and furnish a house of their own.
Leading the way into the living room, she realised that this was the first time she had ever actually invited anyone there. Her mother had seen the flat, of course, but Barry’s parents were waiting until they returned from their honeymoon and they could have a proper flat-warming.
Morgan closed the door behind him, glancing about him appraisingly as Helen bent to light the gas fire. The room was chilly, but the fire created a warm glow, casting enveloping shadows over the worn patches on the hide-covered couch.
Morgan walked straight through to the kitchenette, and when she followed him she found him taking two tablets with a mouthful of water direct from the tap.
‘Hey,’ she exclaimed, ‘we have some glasses!’ But he shook his head and straightened, saying:
‘It’s okay, they’ve gone. Now—do you have a frying pan?’
They ate in the kitchenette, seated on stools beside the breakfast bar. Morgan had grated the cheese while Helen beat up the eggs, and then while she made light, fluffy omelettes, he opened the wine. His headache seemed to have disappeared as suddenly as it had come and she was relieved, aware that ridiculous as it might seem she had been concerned about him.
Although the wine was unchilled, it had never tasted so good and they drank the bottle between them. Helen felt quite reckless, drinking so much in the middle of the day, and she hoped that by evening the feeling of lightheadedness would have evaporated.
Morgan insisted on washing the dishes afterwards, and Helen commented on his efficiency. ‘A man can learn to do a lot of things if he has to,’ he replied, with a wry smile, and she knew he was referring to the break-up of his marriage.
‘I suppose—Andrea helps,’ she commented, picking up a tea-towel to polish their glasses. ‘I mean—she’s fifteen, isn’t she? Almost grown up.’
‘Almost,’ he agreed, a frown drawing his brows together. ‘Yes, she does what she can. But she was ill some time ago, and she’s never really properly recovered, I’m afraid.’
Helen stared at his profile, wondering if she dared ask what was wrong with her, and then chided herself for her inquisitiveness. It was nothing to do with her, after all, and yet everything about this man troubled and intrigued her, and it was impossible for her to remain unmoved by his statement.
‘Ill?’ she said now, concentrating on the glass. ‘How—ill?’
‘She contracted pneumonia,’ said Morgan flatly, and her murmur of dismay was barely stifled before he added: ‘You wouldn’t expect that in Africa, I suppose, would you? But in certain circumstances, it’s quite possible. It’s left her weak and—apathetic. What she needs now is care and encouragement, but God help me, I don’t have the time to give it to her.’
Helen finished drying the glass and set it down with exaggerated precision. Then, as he had finished washing the dishes and was drying his hands, she ventured: ‘Are—aren’t there any centres where she could go? You know—to be with young people of her own age?’
‘Not in Nrubi, no.’
‘There are in Engl—–’
‘I know that!’ He spoke harshly, and then, as if regretting his outburst, he muttered: ‘I’m sorry, but that’s one of the reasons why I came here. I thought, if I could persuade Susan to come back with me, to stay a few weeks—two, three months maybe—she might be able to help Andrea, give her back her confidence, show her that there are other people who care about her just as much as I do.’
‘And?’
The word came automatically from Helen’s lips, and Morgan looked at her as he rolled down the sleeves of his cream silk shirt. ‘No,’ he said dispassionately. ‘It wouldn’t work. I can’t take Susan back there, even if she wanted to go, which I doubt. She and Andrea would have nothing in common. I doubt if she’d even get close to her. Andrea’s too—sensitive. Susan would scare her, and besides, she’s far too much of a liability. I have enough responsibilities as it is.’
‘I see.’
‘The pity of it is, I know that if I could get her to come to England, let her get to know my father, she’d be all right when—–’
He broke off abruptly at that point and strode through to the living room, and after a moment’s hesitation Helen followed him. He was standing before the fire, staring down into the flames, and she watched him for a few moments before saying awkwardly: ‘Are you cold? Shall I turn the fire up?’
He turned then and she saw the look of strain he had worn a few minutes before had been erased. In its place was the polite mask of detachment he had worn when she first met him, and she felt curiously disappointed. Not that she wanted him to confide in her, she told herself impatiently, but the silent protestation did not quite ring true.
‘I’m not cold,’ he said now, with a slight smile. ‘Are you ready to leave?’
‘To leave?’ Helen glanced behind her. ‘I—well, I had intended to do some housework this afternoon. To leave—to leave the flat ready for when we get back from—from Majorca.’
‘From your honeymoon,’ agreed Morgan dryly. ‘I see.’ He paused. ‘But how will you get back to town?’
‘I can catch a bus,’ declared Helen shortly, realising she sounded offhanded and despising herself for it. But she had hoped he would offer to wait for her, which in itself was a stupid thing to expect.
‘All right.’
Morgan reached for his coat from the back of the couch where he had thrown it before having lunch, and Helen stood by tensely while he pulled it on. Then, checking the knot of his tie, he walked towards the door.
‘Thanks for lunch,’ he said, and she forced a faint smile.
‘Thank you,’ she countered, wrapping her arms protectively about herself, and he made a dismissing movement of his shoulders.
‘Do I tell Barry I’ve been here or not?’
Helen shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’ She pressed her lips together for a moment to prevent them from trembling. ‘I don’t suppose it matters.’
Morgan stared at her for a long disturbing moment, and then with an exclamation, he wrenched open the door. ‘I’ll keep it to myself,’ he declared harshly, and the door slammed heavily behind him.
Helen’s hands went towards the panels after he had gone, fingers spreading against the dark wood as if to repel the feelings that swelled inside her. Then, withdrawing her hands again, she pressed them tightly together, forefingers resting against her parted lips. It took several minutes to get herself in control again, before she turned to face the room behind her with the tight ball of suppressed emotion in her throat almost choking her.
She was getting married on Saturday, she kept telling herself over and over again. This was to be her new home. In less than three days, she would be Mrs Carson, Mrs Barry Carson, and here she was, allowing herself to indulge in futile fantasies about his own stepbrother. A married man, moreover, who had never at any time given her reason to suppose that he found her attractive, too. All he had said was that he liked talking to her—talking to her, nothing else. But nothing could alter the fact that she was attracted to him, which seemed totally disloyal to the man who was to be her husband.
Yet as the immediacy of the situation passed, and practical issues reasserted themselves, she began to put things into perspective. What was happening to her was not so unusual, after all, she told herself reassuringly. It was natural that in these final few days before the wedding she should have second thoughts about giving up her freedom. It was probably quite common for girls to imagine themselves attracted to some other man, particularly if the other man was hard and tanned, and disturbingly alien to her way of life. Why, even Susan had said what an attractive man he was, and she was his sister. Even so, it took her a long time to summon any enthusiasm to do the dusting and vacuuming she had planned, and when she left the flat it was with a feeling of escape…
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c82e8202-e291-537a-bb5c-78678df39657)
BY Thursday evening Helen was congratulating herself on her common sense. What had happened the previous afternoon had been the culmination of a build-up of tension, a natural escape valve which had opened and allowed all the pent-up emotions she was feeling to break loose. Now she was herself again, her emotions were no longer in any danger of exploding, and she could face the future with increased confidence.
She dressed for her parents’ dinner party with extra care. She wanted to look good, for Barry’s sake, she thought affectionately, sliding half a dozen gold bangles on to her wrist. She had chosen to wear silk harem trousers in a particularly attractive bronze shade, teaming them with a buttoned shirt that almost exactly matched her hair. The colours gave her an all-over golden look, and the unbuttoned neckline of the shirt exposed a smooth length of creamy throat and the faintest shadow between her breasts. Round her neck was suspended a gold amulet which her father had brought back from North Africa after the war. It was Egyptian in origin, and the light caught the lettering that circled its coinlike design.
Jennifer pulled a face when Helen joined her parents downstairs, but her whistle of derision merely hid a mild sisterly jealousy. Mr Raynor smiled his approval, and her mother contented herself with saying: ‘You do look nice, dear, but don’t you think you ought to wear a sweater? It’s an awfully cold evening.’
‘Not in here, it isn’t,’ interposed her husband mildly. ‘Stop fussing. She looks beautiful. I’m proud of her.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Helen flashed him a smile as the sound of a car turning into their drive came to her ears, and with a twinge of trepidation she realised their guests had arrived.
Jennifer went to open the door, wearing a long dress for once in deference to the occasion. Helen could hear her calling a welcome to Mr and Mrs Fox, and as her parents moved out into the hall to greet their visitors, she dutifully followed after. There was nothing to be alarmed about, she told herself severely. Barry was here now, and he would see that she had no time to worry about anyone else.
But when the Foxes came into the hall, Barry was not with them, and seeing Helen’s anxious face, Mrs Fox exclaimed immediately:
‘Now don’t get upset, Helen. Barry’s not coming. He’s been off colour all day, a head cold, I think, and I’ve insisted that he stays home tonight to make sure he’s fully recovered for Saturday.’
‘That’s right.’ Mr Fox added his reassurance to his wife’s. ‘Morgan’s had a look at him and he says it’s nothing serious.’
‘I—I see.’ Suddenly the evening loomed ahead fraught with uncertainty. ‘Well, if you’re sure…’
‘He’ll ring you tomorrow,’ said Mrs Fox comfortingly, patting her arm, and as she did so, Morgan came in through the open door.
Tonight he was wearing a dark grey lounge suit, that looked almost black in the subdued lighting of the hall, but it was evidently new and fitted much better than his other suit had done. It threw his light hair into stark relief, complementing the darkness of his tan.
‘I locked the car,’ he said to his father, tossing the keys in his hand, and then turned to Helen’s parents, greeting them with ease and friendliness. To Helen he addressed the politest of smiles, complimenting her on her appearance with characteristic detachment.
Mr Raynor closed the front door, and Mrs Raynor led the way into the sitting room. While their parents exchanged small talk about the weather and helped themselves to a drink, Jennifer took the opportunity to ask Morgan when he was going back to Osweba.
‘In about ten days, I guess,’ he replied good-humouredly. ‘I promised Andrea I’d be back before her birthday, and that’s in just under a month’s time.’
‘How old is she?’
Jennifer was not troubled with shyness, and he smiled. ‘Fifteen,’ he answered. ‘Fifteen years old.’
‘So she’s fourteen now. Like me.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’ll be fifteen in April. Where does Andrea go to school?’
‘She doesn’t,’ replied Morgan ruefully, and Mrs Raynor turned to reprove her younger daughter for asking so many questions.
‘Things are done differently in Africa,’ she said, giving Jennifer a quelling look, and Jennifer muttered that she wished she lived in Africa if that was the case.
‘You’d find life very boring, I’m afraid,’ said Morgan, accepting a Scotch and soda from Mr Raynor. ‘No clubs or discothèques, very little television and practically no cinemas.’
‘What do you do, then?’ asked Jennifer, aghast, and Helen nuged her in the ribs and told her to mind her own business.
‘I don’t mind telling her,’ said Morgan, his eyes meeting Helen’s with faint mockery. ‘We swim, and play tennis. And we read a lot. And occasionally we go into Charlottesville and have dinner at the Yachting Club.’
‘Do you have a yacht?’ exclaimed Jennifer, in awe, but Morgan shook his head.
‘No. But I have use of one when I need it. I have a very good friend in the government who lends me his from time to time.’
Helen looked down into the Martini her father had handed her. It didn’t sound a boring life to her. On the contrary, she thought how satisfying it must be, living quite a simple life, using his skills as a doctor to treat people of a different creed and culture. She wondered why he wanted to bring Andrea back to England. She would miss the kind of life she was used to, and no doubt she would miss her father, unless he planned to come back to England to live, too. Her heart missed a beat. What would she do if Morgan came to live in York again? If he moved into Banklands with his father and stepmother now that Barry was getting married and moving away? There was no reason why he shouldn’t, if that was what he wanted, but the prospect of finding him there when she visited her in-laws filled her with a ridiculous sense of dread.
She helped her mother to serve dinner. Mrs Raynor had no daily help, only old Mrs Latimer who came in two mornings a week to do the rough work, and as she was in her seventies now, more often than not Helen found herself cleaning up after her. But Mrs Raynor wouldn’t hear of asking her to leave, and besides, she enjoyed the gossip the old cleaner usually had to impart. Mrs Raynor herself worked three days a week as a dental receptionist, more to get her out of the house than any need for the extra money, but on her days off she and Mrs Latimer put the world to rights over pots of tea in the kitchen.
The meal was delicious, as usual—soup and fish, and a sweetly basted duckling in orange sauce. No one could find much room for the raspberry meringue that followed, but Morgan gallantly had a second helping, earning Mrs Ray-nor’s undying gratitude.
Afterwards, they all adjourned to the sitting room again. Helen, strung up and nervous, perched uneasily on the arm of her mother’s chair until Mr Raynor, noticing her restlessness, said:
‘Take Morgan into the study, Helen. I’m sure he’s not interested in all this woman’s talk. Show him that book I bought in Harrogate last week. All about his part of the world, it is. It’s a collector’s piece. I’m sure it would interest you, Morgan.’
Morgan, who had been seated on the couch between his stepmother and Jennifer, rose to his feet politely. ‘If Helen has no objection,’ he essayed smoothly, and after a moment’s hesitation, she got off the chair arm and walked towards the door.
‘Can I come?’
Jennifer’s treble was overridden by her father’s denial, and while her sister grimaced her disappointment, Helen led the way along the hall to her father’s study. Perhaps she should have invited Jennifer to join them, she thought, as Morgan leant past her to open the study door. She wasn’t at all sure her nerves were proof against being alone with him again.
The book her father had bought was lying on his desk and while Morgan closed the door, she went towards it determinedly, pointing at its worn leather binding. ‘It’s a guide to Southern Africa,’ she declared jerkily, ‘published before the First World War. My father collects books, as you can see.’ She gestured towards the book-lined walls. ‘And this book interested him because just recently he was reading Burton’s book about his pilgrimage to Mecca.’
Morgan seated himself on a corner of the desk, leaning over the book to turn the pages. ‘Your father’s interested in Africa?’ he queried, and Helen moved round the desk as she nodded.
‘He—he was there during the Second World War. North Africa, at least. They say it’s the most exciting continent, don’t they? That it gets into your blood? Maybe that’s why my father finds it so fascinating.’
‘He’d like to go back there?’ Morgan asked, straightening and folding his arms, and she shifted uneasily beneath his gaze, fiddling with the amulet that hung around her neck.
‘I—I think so. Not that he’s ever tried. He and Mum—well, they usually spend their holidays in Spain, but perhaps after Jennifer grows up they’ll have the chance to be more—adventurous.’
‘Adventurous?’ echoed Morgan wryly. ‘Is that how you see it?’
He slid off the desk then and to her horror came towards her. Her mouth went suddenly dry and her tongue clove to her palate, but she could not move. Every intimate thought she had ever had about him rushed through her mind in a chaotic stream, and weakness brought a betraying tremble to her knees. What was he going to do? she wondered desperately. Had he guessed why she was so nervous in his company? Had he sensed the paralysing awareness she felt in his presence that made a mockery of her feelings for Barry?
When he stopped before her, she almost swayed against him, but his hand reached out and lifted the gold amulet on its chain, and when he moved closer it was to read the inscription.
‘Do you know what this says?’ he asked, and the normality of his tone was like a cooling draught against her forehead.
‘I—what—oh, no! No.’ She shook her head, and as she did so, the chain moved sinuously against her neck. ‘It—it’s in Arabic, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Morgan’s brows had drawn together in a frown as he observed her agitation, but with a tightening of his lips, he read: ‘Follow thy desire while thou yet livest!’ He dropped the amulet again. ‘Such things were engraved on the walls of temples and tombs. Rather too late for their inhabitants, but not a bad maxim for the mourners at the funeral feast.’
Helen’s tongue appeared to moisten her upper lip. ‘Is—is it a maxim you follow, too?’ she asked unsteadily, aware that for some reason he was angry with her, but unprepared for the violence her words evoked.
‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘No one can. Not unless one is totally without conscience.’ His tawny eyes raked her upturned face with grim bitterness. ‘Are you totally without conscience, Helen? Is that why you’re looking at me like that? What do you want me to do, I wonder? Does a last-ditch affair appeal to you, before the bonds of matrimony tie you down? If so, you’re wasting your time here. Find somebody else to satisfy your desires, because I happen to have a conscience, and whatever Barry thinks of me, I respect him!’
For a minute, Helen was too stunned to answer him, but then a kind of guilty indignation came to her rescue. ‘How—how dare you?’ she gasped, choking on the words. ‘I didn’t invite you here, and I certainly didn’t want to spend any time alone with you! You’ve mistaken a natural effort on my part to act in a polite and friendly fashion towards my fiancé’s brother for something quite ludicrous, and embarrassed us both. You’re despicable! I think you’d better leave. You can make whatever excuses you like to my parents, I don’t care, but I hope I never have to speak to you again!’
She whirled on her heel to make her grand exit, but almost against his will, his arm came out barring her way, and when she turned in the other direction he stepped into her path. There was a look of torment in his face, his mouth twisting with self-derision, and then he reached for her, his hands curving around her nape, compelling her firmly towards him.
‘God, Helen…’ he muttered with a groan, and all her talk of despising him went for nothing beneath the demanding possession of his mouth.
Her head swam with the first touch of his lips. It was all one with the caressing compulsion of his hands on her neck, his thumbs probing the hollows behind her ears, his fingertips exploring the source of her spinal cord. Her hands were crushed between them and when she moved her fingers they encountered an unbuttoned opening in his shirt and curled inside. His skin was warm and roughened with hair, and when she separated more of the buttons from their holes she felt the responsive constriction of his muscles.
His mouth left hers to seek the hollow of her neck, and his hands slid down her spine to her hips, drawing her close against the hardening muscles of his thighs. She had never been so close to a man’s body before, but instead of wanting to pull away, she pressed herself to him, arching her body and creating an intimacy between them that destroyed any hope of dismissing this embrace as the casual result of enforced proximity. They were both fully aware of what they were doing, and his tortured breathing was the only sound she could hear.
It was his hands on her upper arms that finally separated them, forcing her back from him while he still had the strength to do so. Her eyes, seeking his face, could see the actual physical control he was exerting and the strain it was putting upon him.
‘You’re crazy, do you know that?’ he demanded, pushing back his hair with an unsteady hand, but when she made a sound of protest and swayed towards him again, he turned his back on her and put the expanse of her father’s desk between them. ‘Stop it, Helen!’ he ordered tautly. ‘We can’t do this. My God, anybody could have come in and found us!’ He broke off, shaking his head disbelievingly. Then he went on: ‘That sister of yours, for example. How do you think she would have felt if she had come in? How would she have reacted finding her sister in another man’s arms only two days before the wedding!’
