Duelling Fire

‘He seemed very nice,’ Sara conceded, a little awkwardly, and Harriet nodded her agreement.

‘He is. He’s a little wild, of course, a little reckless, perhaps. But charming, nonetheless.’

‘Not to mention the fact that he’s heir to his father’s fortune,’ inserted Jude drily, and Sara suddenly realised what his earlier statement had meant. Not air, but heir. She had met the heir that afternoon.

Harriet ignored Jude’s mocking comment, and offered Sara more tea. ‘I—er—I’ve known Rupert’s father for a number of years,’ she said. ‘Lord Hadley, you know. This house was once part of the Hadley estate. You may have noticed Linden Court on your way here.’

Sara glanced awkwardly up at Jude, then she nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ she confirmed. ‘It looks a beautiful building.’

‘It is.’ Harriet’s mouth curved, whether reminiscently or not Sara couldn’t quite judge, but for a few moments she was silent, thinking. ‘I’ve always loved it. Ever since my father bought Knight’s Ferry.’

‘More than three decades ago,’ inserted Jude flatly, bringing Harriet’s eyes back to him. ‘You’ll excuse me, I’m sure, if I go and check on Midnight. Unlike the rest of us, she can’t call for help.’

When the door had closed behind him Sara expected her aunt to make some explanation for his conduct, but she didn’t. Apart from offering the information that Midnight was a mare who was presently in foal, Harriet said no more about him, returning instead to Sara’s reasons for coming to stay with her.

‘I think we should show you your room first,’ she declared getting to her feet, and Sara copied her. ‘After all, we want you to be happy here, and you can’t possibly decide that you want to stay, before you’ve even looked over the house.’

‘I’m sure it will be perfect,’ protested Sara, picking up her jacket and her handbag as she followed her aunt out of the room. ‘Honestly, Aunt Harriet, I’m so grateful to you for inviting me. Where I sleep is of little importance.’

‘Oh, you’re wrong.’ Harriet turned to smile at her as they began to mount the carpeted stairs. ‘And my dear, would you think me horribly conceited if I asked you not to call me Aunt Harriet? I mean,’ she hastened on rather apologetically, ‘when you were a little girl—well, it was a token of respect. But now we’re both grown-ups, your calling me aunt does seem rather silly, don’t you think?

Sara lifted her shoulders. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘You don’t mind?’ Harriet was endearingly anxious, and Sara shook her head.

‘Of course not. Why should I mind? After all, it isn’t as if you are my aunt really.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Harriet looked pleased. ‘So, it’s just plain old Harriet from now on, hmm?’

‘Harriet,’ Sara agreed, realising that no one else would describe her father’s cousin as either plain or old.

The staircase curved in a graceful arc to the gallery above. A railed balustrade overlooked the hall below, and wall sconces illuminated several white panelled doors and two corridors leading in opposite directions, to the separate wings of the house.

‘This is my room,’ Harriet declared, indicating a door near the head of the stairs. ‘I’ve put you in the rose room, which is along here. It’s quite a pretty apartment, so I hope you like it.’

They walked along the corridor which lay to the left of the gallery. It was a wide corridor with a number of doors opening from it, and a long window at the end which allowed shafts of evening sunlight to stripe the dark red carpet. Harriet stopped at one of the doors and thrust it open, then preceded Sara into the room, switching on the lamps.

Sara’s first impression was of a comfortable sitting room, set with a desk and armchairs, and even a table for taking meals, if she chose. But as her eyes surveyed the room she saw that the living area was only half the apartment. A wide archway and two shallow steps gave access to the sleeping compartment, where a square four-poster bed was daintily hung with chiffon drapes. Everything—the carpet, the silk curtains at the windows, the drapes above the bed, even the patterned quilt itself—was tinted a delicate shade of pink, and Sara had no need to wonder why this was called the rose room.

‘The bathroom’s through here, of course,’ declared Harriet, mounting the two steps and indicating a door at the far side of the bedroom. ‘Well, what do you think? Do you like it?’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ Sara was bemused. It was so vastly different from the austere little room she had expected. ‘You really oughtn’t to have gone to so much trouble.’

‘Trouble? Trouble? It was no trouble, my dear.’ Harriet came down the steps again, and with a surge of sudden gratitude Sara hugged her. ‘Really,’ she averred, with what the girl felt was genuine sincerity. ‘It’s the least I could do for dear Charles’s orphaned daughter.’

Sara sighed. ‘But you hardly saw us,’ she exclaimed, guiltily aware of their neglect. ‘Harriet, I don’t know how I’m going to be able to repay you.’

‘Oh, we’ll find a way,’ declared Harriet, squeezing her shoulder warmly. ‘And now I must go and check that everything’s organised for dinner, or your opinion of our hospitality will suffer a distinct setback.’

Left to herself, Sara wandered about the apartment. Her suitcases, she saw, had been deposited on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, and her step faltered a moment as she thought of the man who had brought her here. The relationship he had with Harriet was certainly a strange one, and she pushed aside the unwilling suspicion that it was more than that of employer and employee. After all, Jude had worked for her aunt for ten years. He had said so. And the familiarity of their association could well be the result. But what did he do? What was his designation? And why should it matter to her, when she was unlikely to have anything to do with him?

There was a ready supply of writing paper and envelopes in the desk, and Sara decided she would write to Laura this evening. The older girl had been much concerned about her decision to accept Harriet’s invitation, and it would be a relief to her to know that everything had turned out so well. Indeed, Sara doubted she would believe that such a fairy godmother still existed, and she was looking forward to describing the house to her, and this room which was so delightful.

There was plenty of hanging space in the long fitted closets, and realising she was probably expected to change for dinner, too, Sara hastily rescued her keys and unlocked her suitcases. The drawers of the dressing table and a squat little chest took all her underclothes and nightwear, and there were lots of hangers to take her suits and dresses.

One of the suitcases and the holdall contained her personal possessions. These were treasured mementoes and photographs, newspaper cuttings of her father’s, the silver-backed brushes he had bought her on her eighteenth birthday, and the books she had collected over the years. She stood a framed picture of her father on the dressing table, and set out the silver-backed brushes, and as she did so, she reflected how little she had to remind her of the man who had had such an influence on her life.

The evening shadows were falling by the time she had unpacked her belongings and taken a quick shower. The bathroom adjoining the bedroom was just as charming as the rest of the apartment, and Sara had taken pleasure in the cream tiles, each displaying a pink rosebud, and the rose-tinted bath, that was sunk into the floor. She showered in the fluted perspex cubicle, taking care to keep her hair dry, and then padded back into the bedroom to decide what she should wear.

A simple black dress seemed appropriate, and would equip her for any occasion. Until she knew what the routine was at Knight’s Ferry, it was safer to follow her instincts, and the dress she chose was plain, but exquisitely cut. Her father had bought it for her, in one of his more extravagant moods. They had been staying in Monte Carlo, and he had had a good win at the Casino—or so he had said. Since then, Sara had learned that Charles Shelley had seldom been out of debt, but like all gamblers he enjoyed spending money, and he was never mean when he was in funds.

Before putting on the dress, Sara gave some consideration to her make-up. A plum-coloured eyeshadow toned with a deeper-tinted lip-gloss, while a touch of mascara darkened the silvery tips of her lashes. Her make-up was light but subtle, and in no way compared to Harriet’s immaculate appearance, which must have taken her hours to apply. Nevertheless, the result had been startling, and Sara wondered whether that was why her aunt had been late.

Her hair offered no problems. It was straight and silky; she brushed it until it shone, and then confined it again at her nape, this time with an ivory clasp.

The dress slid easily over her hips, caressing her skin sensuously. Although it was made of some manufactured fabric, it had the feel of silk, the dipping cowl neckline exposing the curve of her throat. Wide sleeves were drawn from a loosely draped bodice, and the wrap-around skirt opened from waist to hem. Fortunately, the generous cut of the overlap prevented any immodest display.

The little carriage clock on the mantel chimed the half hour as she was adjusting the strap of her shoe, and she caught her breath. Seven-thirty, she thought, with some trepidation. And Harriet had said dinner was usually served about eight.

Realising she would have to go down, Sara cast another glance at her appearance. Did she look all right? Was her lipstick smudged? An anxious finger discovered it was only a shadow cast by the lamp beside her bed, and she relaxed. Heavens, why was she so nervous? What had she to be afraid of?

Shrugging impatiently, she decided she would have to go. This was no time to have second thoughts, to wonder whether she had done the right thing. And besides, it was all so much different from what she had anticipated. Harriet was charming, her house was delightful, and she was going to be happy here.

Thrusting her fears aside, she opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Someone had turned on the lights, and the corridor glowed in the artificial illumination cast from beneath bronze shades. Its mellow patina gleamed on brass and polished wood, and as she descended the stairs she was struck by the simple elegance of the hall below. Now that a glittering chandelier had been lit, the panelling had a rich, lustrous sheen, and its earlier, gloomy appearance was quite dispelled by a huge bowl of spring flowers resting on an old-fashioned umbrella stand. There was a semi-circular table, with an oval silver tray—for letters?—Sara wondered musingly, and a little velvet armchair with curly wooden arms, set beside the little stand that held the telephone.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sara was uncertain where she should go. Harriet had only shown her the small sitting room, and she was looking about her doubtfully when a door behind her opened and the man Jude appeared.

He evidently intended eating dinner with them, she thought, viewing the dark trousers and fine suede jacket he was wearing. Even his brown silk shirt had a lace jabot, though he wore no tie, the strong column of his throat dark against the fabric. His dark hair had been smoothly combed and lay thick against his head, with only the merest fraction overlapping his collar at the back.

His appraisal of her was no less comprehensive, she realised, flushing as he detected her eyes upon him. ‘Well, well, Miss Shelley,’ he remarked sardonically, propping one hand against the jamb. ‘You look lost. Can I help you?’

‘I—I was looking for Harr—for Miss Ferrars,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Do you know where she is?’

‘Still dressing, I should think,’ he answered, moving his shoulders in a dismissing gesture. ‘Come and have a drink with me.’ He nodded to the room behind him. ‘We usually foregather in here.’

‘Oh—very well.’ Sara wasn’t enthusiastic, but there wasn’t much else she could do, so she crossed the floor towards him, stiffening as he stood aside to let her pass, and she smelt the faint aroma of Scotch on his breath.

‘Why do I get the impression your name should be Lamb, not Shelley?’ he remarked lazily, and she cast an indignant look up at him.

‘Lady Caroline Lamb was associated with Byron, not Shelley,’ she retorted, pleased to have thwarted him, but he was not finished.

‘I might have been referring to Mary Shelley,’ he pointed out drily, his grey eyes showing amusement. ‘But actually, I wasn’t even thinking of them.’

Sara was confused, and showed it. ‘Mr Jude—–’

‘Just Jude,’ he corrected. ‘And before you ask, it was a quotation from Isaiah I was referring to. Now, shall we have that drink?’

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