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Ruth knew she couldn't ignore him completely, so she said: “I have a Mini myself,” in rather terse tones.
Sharning was the next village to Cupley where the Stephensons had their estate, and it wasn't long before the lights of the houses came into view. The tail lights of a car ahead turned out to be Peter Forrester's and pretty soon they were turning between the gates of a well-lit hotel. They parked the cars, and the two girls walked ahead into the building.
“You don't mind, do you, Ruth?” Julie whispered rather anxiously as they entered the foyer, and Ruth knew she couldn't disappoint her.
“No, of course not,” she denied. “Is this where we leave our coats?”
It was a larger hotel than Ruth had expected with several bars and a small dance floor in the lounge. A three-piece group was playing and the room was filled to capacity. Patrick suggested that they had a drink in one of the bars and went into the lounge later, and the others agreed.
Because of the throng of people and the hum of noise, it was possible for Ruth to relax somewhat. Peter was quite an amusing companion when he lost his initial shyness, and Patrick had his own brand of humour to offer. Certainly Ruth's lack of conversation did not appear to be noticed and she sipped her way through three vodka and tonics quite happily.
Then Patrick suggested they tried the lounge again, and they left the bar to push their way into the larger room. It was not quite so crowded as it had been earlier and Peter drew Julie determinedly after him on to the dance floor.
Left with Patrick, Ruth panicked. “If you'll excuse me,” she began, “I must go to the cloakroom –”
Patrick's fingers caught her upper arm. “Why?”
Ruth flushed. “Why do you think?”
“Can't you wait?”
Ruth was taken aback. “If you must know – no!”
“I don't believe you,” he murmured, looking down at her burning cheeks. “I don't think you want to go at all. I think you're avoiding being alone with me.”
“Are you going to let me go?” she demanded hotly.
“No. At least – not yet. Come on, I want to dance with you.”
She was forced to go with him. His hold on her arm was very sure and in any case she didn't want to cause a scene. Once on the dance floor he drew her closely into his arms, and while some of the couples were dancing apart from one another, he refused to let her go.
And after a while She didn't want him to. There was something infinitely desirable about being as close to him as this, her hands imprisoned against the silk material of his shirt, feeling the heat of his chest and the heavy beat of his heart beneath her fingers. He had his arms about her waist, and they moved slowly in time to the music.
“Now this isn't so bad, is it?” he queried softly, against her hair.
Ruth shook her head. “No,” she conceded huskily.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
“Sorry?” Ruth tipped her head to look at him. His face was very close and she quickly averted it again. “Sorry about what?”
“About this morning,” he replied quietly. “I'm afraid I was very rude.”
Ruth quivered. “That's all right.”
“Well, thank you. I behaved quite boorishly. I don't usually – but I had my reasons.”
Ruth's palms were moist. “Yes?” she prompted, relaxing against him completely.
His withdrawal was immediate, a physical detachment of his body from hers. But when he spoke again, he sounded as amiable as before.
“I'll try and explain. The last time I was in England, about five years ago, Marion spent the whole time trying to marry me off to some distant cousin of hers.” He sighed reminiscently. “Oh, Celia – that was her name, by the way – was a charming girl, and I've no doubt she'd make some man a charming wife, but not me!”
Ruth knew something was expected of her and assuming an indifference she did not feel, she said: “And you thought I was another candidate, is that right?”
It was amazing, she thought to herself, how inconsequential she could sound when something inside her seemed to be screwing her up in little knots.
“That's correct,” he smiled, and it was a disturbingly intimate smile. “But then this afternoon Marion explained who you were and of course I felt rather a fool.”
“Who – who I was?” Ruth was confused. “Who am I?”
His eyes glinted with humour. “Don't you know?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, you're Joseph Farrell's daughter, of course. An heiress, no less, and certainly in no way likely to be looking for the first unattached male that comes along. Besides, I'm sure that when you marry, your father will make sure your husband to be has more to offer you than a physio-chemist's salary!”
Ruth digested this. “I see,” she said slowly.
“So I suggest we forget what happened this morning, and start again,” he continued. “It will teach me not to be so conceited, as you said!”
Ruth didn't know why, but she suddenly felt badly in need of a drink. Pressing her hands against his chest and separating herself from him, she said: “Do you mind if we go and sit down again now? It's rather hot in here.”
“Not at all.” He released her at once. “We'll go and get another drink. The others will find us later. I must admit I'm finding it pretty exhausting myself.”
In the bar they found a table and Ruth swallowed her fourth vodka and tonic as though it were her last. But something unpleasant had happened to her, and she didn't want to think about it.
No longer under the strain of imagining he was being manoeuvred into marriage, Patrick became relaxed and charming, the perfect companion in fact, although Ruth couldn't appreciate it. She watched him when he was not looking at her, noticing every small thing about him, from the slightly darkening line of his jawline to the long flexible fingers holding his glass. He wore a signet ring on the smallest finger of his right hand, and a plain gold watch on his wrist. There were hairs on his wrist, too; wrists that were already tanned like the rest of him, and she wondered whether he spent much time out in the hot South American sun.
Looking down into her almost empty glass, she tried to school herself not to think of such things. It was ridiculous really. Here she was, imagining herself in the position of wanting the inaccessible. It wouldn't last. At the moment he was different from the men she knew, that was all. A novelty, in fact, and like all novelties it would wear off. But in the meantime it was agonising …
Breakfast the following morning was a family occasion, and not a bit like the previous day. It was the first day of the working week for Julie's parents, and they each were preoccupied with their individual activities. Marion Stephenson ran various committees in the district and helped with the Meals on Wheels service, while her husband had his estate duties to attend to.
Patrick Hardy did not put in an appearance, and Ruth told herself she was glad. She would be able to leave without meeting him again, and she refused Julie's suggestion that she might wait until after lunch to drive back to town. It was a relief to bid them all good-bye and get behind the wheel of her Mini. Julie was disappointed, of course, but Ruth made a mental note to telephone her as soon as she got home and make some arrangement for her to come and stay.
Her father's house stood in a mews off Eaton Square. Tall, narrow windows flanked a white front door which was guarded by tubbed acacias. Once used as a coaching stable, it had been superbly altered and modernised by an architect friend of her father's, and now it was a very attractive dwelling. The ground floor had been given over to garages and the servants’ quarters, and a whitewood staircase led to the first floor drawing room. It was spacious and elegantly furnished, her father never did anything by halves, but although its contents were rare and expensive there was never any feeling of coldness or impersonality. It had always been a home in every sense of the word.
Her father was not at home at this time of day as Ruth had expected, but Mrs. Lawson, the housekeeper, came upstairs to see if she had had lunch.
“No, I haven't,” said Ruth, shedding her cape in the centrally heated atmosphere. “But don't bother with a lot for me, Mrs. Lawson. I'm not particularly hungry.”
Mrs. Lawson folded her hands. “Did you have a nice weekend, miss?”
“Yes, very nice, thank you.” Ruth lounged into a soft leather chair. “Tell me: is Papa dining at home this evening?”
The housekeeper nodded. “As far as I know he is, miss. Why don't you give him a ring? I'm sure he'd be glad to hear from you. He misses you, you know.”
Ruth traced the pattern of the grain with her finger. “You think so?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Lawson drew in her lips. “He doesn't work all the time, you know.”
“I know.” Ruth reached for the phone. “All right, Mrs. Lawson. Thank you.”
Joseph Farrell's office building stood in a side street off the Bayswater Road. The receptionist who answered recognised Ruth's voice at once and said: “I think Mr. Farrell's left the building, miss, but I'll just make sure for you.”
A few minutes later, Ruth heard her father's voice, still bearing traces of his Lancashire background. “Is that you, Ruth? You're back then.”
“Yes. Were you going out? Have I stopped you?”
“It can wait. It was nothing important. I was just going for a beer with Andy.”
“Was that to be your lunch?” exclaimed Ruth reprovingly.
“I suppose so. That and a pie, I shouldn't wonder.”
“A pie and a pint,” said Ruth, unable to hide her amusement. “Well, how about taking me to lunch instead?”
Her father hesitated. “I could do, I suppose,” he conceded slowly. “But I have this meeting at two o'clock …”
“Oh, Papa!” Ruth heaved a sigh. “Then you don't have time, do you?”
“Not really, lass.”
“All right, forget it. What time will you be home this evening?”
“Not late. About six, I should think. D'you want me to take you out to dinner instead?”
“No. No, it doesn't matter.” Ruth recalled the way her father liked to relax after a busy day at the office. “I'll see you tonight then.”
“Fine. Fine. Had a good weekend? Did you give my regards to Jim?”
“James, Papa, James! Julie's father doesn't like being called Jim!”
“Huh!” Her father sounded unimpressed. “Jim was good enough for your grandfather, and it's good enough for him.”
“All right, all right. See you later.”
“You will.”
Julie replaced the receiver and sat staring at it with a rueful sense of pride. Joe Farrell cared for nobody's arrogance, and nobody got away with anything like that with him. He had no time for snobbishness and conceit, he said he couldn't afford such luxuries, and that was in part responsible for his tremendous success. He could, and would, talk to anyone, and anyone could talk to him. No one in the Farrell organisation could say they had never met the boss; he made it his business to know everyone.
Leaving the drawing room, Ruth carried her case up a second flight of stairs to the turquoise and white luxury of her bedroom. Dropping the case on the silken bedcoverings, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the taps. A bath would relax her, would perhaps lift the weight of depression from her shoulders that had settled like a shroud since she drove away from Julie's home that morning …
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_527ab4dd-06cd-5f37-9e84-081177d90f9d)
THREE days later, Ruth was sitting up in bed having breakfast when Mrs. Lawson came to tell her she was wanted on the telephone.
Ruth glanced at her watch. “It's barely nine o'clock,” she exclaimed. “Who is it? Are you sure it's not for Papa?”
“No, miss. It's a Mr. Hardy. Do you want to speak to him?”
Ruth thrust the breakfast tray aside. “Did you say Mr. – Hardy?”
“Yes, miss. Shall I ask him to ring back?”
“No. No, don't do that. I'll get it.” Ruth thrust her legs out of bed, reaching for the matching negligée that went with her wisp of nylon nightgown. “Thank you, Mrs. Lawson.”
As she ran lightly down the stairs to the drawing room Ruth realised that Mrs. Lawson was surprised at her behaviour. Normally, she refused calls before ten o'clock, preferring to have her bath and dress before facing the demands of the day. But this was different, and she refused to analyse why.
Breathlessly she lifted the receiver, and said: “Ruth Farrell speaking.”
“Hello, Ruth. Have I got you out of bed?”
“As a matter of fact you have.” Ruth tried to control her breathing.
“Don't you have extensions?”
“No, Pa – my father doesn't agree with them. He thinks the sound of a phone ringing is the most unpleasant way of being woken up.”
“He could be right.” Patrick sounded amused. “Well, I hope you'll forgive me for calling so early, but I wanted to ask if you'd have lunch with me.”
“Today?” Ruth felt as excited as a schoolgirl faced with an unexpected treat.
“Yes, today. Are you free?”
Ruth recalled that she was supposed to be lunching with Lucy Fielding, the wife of one of her father's directors, and immediately dismissed the engagement.
“Yes. Yes, I think so.” She hesitated. “Where are you phoning from?”
“My apartment.”
“Your apartment?” Ruth couldn't help being surprised. “I didn't know you had an apartment.”
“I didn't – until Monday. I leased it then.”
“I see.” Ruth swallowed hard. “It's – It's in London?”
His tone was dry. “Naturally. Queen Anne Gardens.”
“I know where that is. It's off Marylebone Road, isn't it?”
“I gather you know London very well.”
“I've lived here for thirteen years,” she answered defensively, stung by the sarcasm that was faintly evident in his voice.
“Have you? You don't look old enough.”
“You wouldn't think that if you could see me now,” she retorted, smiling to herself.
