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Follies
‘Mmm, your tea-party.’ Helen picked the least dangerous avenue out of his questions. ‘Are those people all friends of yours?’
Oliver shrugged, not interested. ‘Acquaintances, mostly, not many friends. Except Tom Hart. He’s very different, and rather formidable.’
Helen remembered the dark, intense face among the pink- and-whiteness of the English upper classes, and smiled a little. She remembered him, too, as much less formidable to her than the closed ranks of Oliver’s social peers.
‘Don’t change the subject, anyway,’ Oliver reprimanded her. ‘Don’t you like talking about yourself? Every other woman I know adores it.’ He leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands behind his head, waiting for her to speak.
Helen was silent. How could she talk to this suave, privileged young man about any of the things that mattered to her? She knew, instinctively, that Oliver would just be puzzled, and probably embarrassed, if she told him about the problems that beset her now. She had no desire to talk to him about her father, or even her mother and brother at home in their underheated little house. And then, the things that didn’t really matter were so dull. She couldn’t hope to amuse Lord Oliver Mortimore by giving him the details of her quiet, work-filled life and the few small diversions that she allowed herself. She felt herself colouring under his stare before her resolution to stay true to herself came back to her.
‘No,’ she said coolly. ‘I’d prefer not to talk about me.’ The amiability in Oliver’s face didn’t fade, but Helen was aware that he was staring at her with a shade more curiosity in his eyes. Unexpectedly, she grinned at him. ‘Doesn’t that make me fascinatingly different from all the other women you know?’
Oliver shrugged briefly. ‘Different, anyway.’ He raised his hand in a gesture to the barman to show that he wanted more champagne.
Aware that she had dampened the conversation, Helen cast about for a neutral topic to fill the silence between them.
‘Where do you live? When you’re not in Oxford, I mean.’
Oliver frowned over his tankard. ‘Quite near here. At least, my family does. Thankfully, as a younger son, I’m not expected to involve myself too closely in all that.’ Helen could only guess at what ‘all that’ might be. She had a dim vision of a feudal hierarchy presided over in baronial magnificence by Oliver’s father. What would he be? A duke? A viscount?
‘What about you?’
Helen told him the name of her home town and Oliver looked blankly back at her. ‘Ah. Is it nice?’
‘Not especially. But then we can’t all have Gloucestershire estates.’ I shouldn’t have said that, she thought, as soon as it was out, but Oliver only smiled his brilliant smile.
‘No,’ he agreed as if she had made a telling point. ‘It’s a pity.’
Helen was realising as she sat in her corner, caressed by the glow of the champagne and the warmth of the log fire, that she and Oliver were even further apart than she had first thought. They might as well have come from different planets. Yet, surprisingly, the knowledge excited rather them depressed her. Covertly, Helen watched him lounging opposite her. He was playing absently with his silver tankard, turning it to catch the reflection of the fireglow. His fine blond hair was reddened by the warm light and his cheeks were faintly flushed by it. The aquiline features that reminded Helen of a marble knight on a marble tombstone were softened, so that he looked – as he did when he smiled – more like Oliver himself than Oliver the scion of a noble house.
I want him. The words sprang into Helen’s head unvoiced, and for an instant they shocked her. What do you want, she made herself ask. A share, came back the answer from the other, hidden Helen. To share a little bit of him, because he’s exotic and glowing and – perhaps – more than a bit dangerous. And to share through him all those things that I admire and have never had, like certainty and assurance. Not the money, or privilege necessarily, except that those things make it easier to have the others. I do want him, she thought, but I’m not making a very good job of getting what I want. If I was Flora or Fiona, I could giggle and gossip; maybe he’d think I was stupid but at least I wouldn’t be sitting here in silence.
As if to help her out, a waiter in a sleek, black jacket came over to their corner.
‘Your table is ready, Lord Oliver.’
‘Great. Are you ready, Helen?’
Under his casual demeanour, Oliver sometimes displayed beautiful, rather old-fashioned manners. His hand was under her elbow to help her negotiate the single step up into the dining room. He waved aside another hovering waiter and pulled out Helen’s chair himself, settling her into it and shaking out her thick, white linen napkin before laying it across her lap.
‘What d’you think?’ From across the starched white cloth Oliver waved around the little dining room. Helen peered about her. The light outside was brilliant, but in here it was all absorbed by dark walls and heavy oak furniture. Small, shaded lamps on each table cast pools of light, but the rest of the room was dim. There were only a dozen tables. The other diners were mostly much older than Oliver and Helen; men with port-wine complexions and silvery moustaches, women with high voices and well-cut tweeds.
‘I’ve never been to one,’ Helen told him, ‘but it looks like I imagine the dining room of a gentleman’s club.’
Oliver laughed, surprised. ‘You’re quite close. Except that the food’s a million times better. And, considering it’s really only a country pub, it has the most amazing cellar.’
He means wine, Helen reminded herself, dispelling the image of a mysterious cobwebby recess beneath her feet.
Oliver nodded to the still-hovering waiter. At once a bottle was reverently brought, wrapped in a white napkin. Oliver tasted the half-inch of red wine which was poured into his glass, frowning, intent. Then another sharp nod to the waiter gave him the signal to fill Helen’s glass. She watched, intrigued, then picked up her glass and sniffed at it as Oliver had done. The wine smelt rich, fat and beguiling, quite unlike the smell of any wine she had tried before. And a single sip told her that it was indeed something very different.
‘This,’ said Oliver, ‘is burgundy. Gevrey-Chambertin, Clos St Jacques. Not quite the very greatest, but as good as one can find almost anywhere.’ He turned his glass to the light and looked at it intently, then drank. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, and Helen knew that she was forgotten.
After a moment Oliver looked up again and recollected himself. ‘One comes here for the game,’ he told her. ‘We’re having grouse, okay?’ She nodded, not caring if they were going to eat penguin.
In fact the food, when it came, didn’t appeal to her. The meat tasted strong and not very fresh. Helen ate what she could and gave all her attention to Oliver. In response, he set out to amuse her. She realised that when he chose, he could be excellent company. He made her laugh with stories of his own casual irresponsibility, and he swept the conversation along without making any more awkward demands on Helen’s self-protective quiet. He seemed to live in a world of parties, weekends in Town, as he called London, dining clubs – and, even less intelligibly to Helen – dogs and horses.
‘Do you do any work?’ she asked.
‘Not a jot.’ His beguiling smile drew her own in response. ‘I shall get a Third, of course. Just like my father. And his father, for that matter. My brother didn’t bother with a degree at all. What difference does it make?’ He shrugged amiably. ‘More wine?’
Halfway through the meal Oliver drained his glass, tipped the empty bottle sideways, then signalled to the waiter to bring another.
‘Another?’ Helen said it out loud, in spite of herself.
‘Of course another.’ Oliver looked faintly surprised. ‘The days of the one-bottle lunch are, as far as I am concerned, ancient history.’
He drank most of the burgundy, but he took care, too, to refill Helen’s glass whenever she drank a little.
After the grouse came thick, rich syllabub in little china cups, and then brandy which made even Helen’s fingers warm as she wrapped them round the glass.
When they had finished, one of the self-effacing waiters brought the bill. Helen tried to look away, but curiosity dragged her eyes back to Oliver’s negligently scribbled cheque. It was for an amount almost exactly equal to the money she would have to live on for the rest of the term.
When they came out into the late afternoon sunshine, Oliver’s eyes were hooded and he was talking just a little more deliberately than usual, but there was no other sign of how much he had drunk.
Once again he flung open the Jaguar’s passenger door with a flourish and waved her towards it.
‘Can you drive all right?’ she asked, knowing that it was a pointless question.
‘Perfectly.’ His arm came round her shoulders again and with one finger he raised her chin so that he could look down into her eyes. ‘Don’t worry so much,’ he told her. ‘Don’t be so frightened of everything.’ His hand moved to tangle itself in the mass of black curls and Helen felt the tiny, caressing movements of his thumb against her neck. He smelt of leather and wool and very faintly of dark red burgundy. For a moment they stood in silence. Helen was waiting, half apprehensive and half eager. Then Oliver laughed softly, deep in his throat. ‘You seem so timid. But you aren’t, really, are you? What door do I have to open to let the other Helen out?’
The other Helen. She caught her breath, thrown off balance by his sudden astuteness. Ever since he had kissed her, up in her bare room at Follies House, two Helens had been sparring inside her. She had no idea which one was her real self. How could she begin to find an answer for Oliver?
He didn’t wait for one. Instead, he took her hand firmly and guided her into the car. ‘Come on. We’ve got things to do.’ Oliver hoisted his leather coat out from behind the seats and tucked it around her. Helen buried her nose luxuriously in the sheepskin lining.
‘Where?’
‘I told you. To see a man about a dog.’
The car shot forward. Oliver was driving even faster than before, but it seemed to Helen just as competently. He was very sure of where he was going.
The sun was low behind the trees now, and the shadows were thickening between the hedges in the narrow lanes. For a mile or so they skirted a long wall that looked as if it might enclose a park, then suddenly Oliver swung the wheel and the car skidded in through a gateway flanked by tall stone posts. They passed a low building that might have been a gatekeeper’s lodge, its windows warmly lit behind drawn curtains. Beyond the lodge was a driveway, arched over with massive oak trees. As they sped towards it, Helen became aware of the dark, crenellated bulk of a big house sitting squarely on a little rise ahead.
Beside her, Oliver’s face was expressionless.
To one side of the house was an outcrop of lower buildings, and Oliver turned the car decisively towards them. A moment later they were in a cobbled yard, the roar of the Jaguar’s exhaust thrown back at them by the enclosing walls. Oliver vaulted out of the car and simultaneously one of the stable doors swung open. A shaft of yellow light struck across the cobbles.
‘Evening, my lord,’ said the little man who had come out to meet them. He was toothless, brown-skinned and dressed in moleskin trousers and a coat so ancient that all the colour had been drained out of it.
‘Hello, Jasper,’ said Oliver, grinning at him. ‘Where are they?’
‘End barn, my lord.’
‘Come and see them too, Helen. This is Jasper Thripp, by the way. Miss Brown, Jasper.’
‘Evening, miss,’ said the little man, and hobbled towards the door of the end barn.
Uncomprehending, Helen followed them.
Inside the barn were the mingled smells of bran, paraffin from a heater, and warm milk. In a large box near the heater was a beagle bitch, surrounded by a warm, wriggling mass of brown, black and white-patched puppies. Oliver stooped over them, murmuring endearments to the mother as he lifted each pup in turn. His face was soft in the harsh light cast by the bare, cobwebbed lightbulb overhead. As he turned the puppies to and fro, running a practised finger over their legs and backs, Helen saw that his hands were long and sensitive like the hands in an eighteenth-century portrait. At length he nodded and smiled at Jasper. ‘Three first-rate, and a couple more pretty good. Yes?’
Jasper sucked at his toothless gums. ‘Yup. I’d say so. She’s done well this time, the old gel.’ They were talking as equals now.
When the last of the pups had been gently returned to the security of its box, Oliver moved aside briskly. The softness was gone from his face, replaced by the more familiar authoritative mask.
‘We’ll give them a couple more weeks, then pick the ones we need for the pack.’
‘Right you are, my lord.’
Master and servant again, Helen thought.
‘And now, let’s have a drink before I take Miss Brown off. There’s a bottle in the tack-room safe.’
They retraced their steps to the door from which Jasper had emerged. The tack-room was stuffy and crammed with ranks of saddles and bridles, folded horse-blankets, combs and brushes and mysterious bottles and jars. Oliver was rummaging in an ancient green metal safe. Triumphantly he produced a whisky bottle and three thick tumblers. Helen shook her head at his invitation, but Oliver and Jasper both took liberal measures.
The old man drained his at a gulp, murmuring first, ‘Here’s to ’em, then.’ Oliver tossed back his drink too, then stood up to go.
Jasper eyed him. ‘Will you be taking Cavalier or The Pirate to the Thursday meet?’
Oliver was zipping himself into the aviator’s coat. He took Helen’s hand and squeezed it.
‘Neither. Got to work this week.’ Seeing Jasper’s face, he laughed delightedly. ‘Well, rehearse anyway. I’m in a play, did you know?’
‘I’m sure you’ll be the star of the show, my lord,’ said Jasper drily and picked up a saddle from one of the pegs. It was clear that he had a low opinion of anything that took the place of hunting in his lordship’s life. Oliver was still laughing as they climbed back into the car together. Helen could swallow her curiosity no longer.
‘What is this place? The house? Who’s Jasper?’
It was almost completely dark now and she could barely see Oliver’s face. But she did see that he hesitated a moment before answering, poised with his fingers on the keys in the ignition. And she was certain, too, that after a moment’s hesitation he looked backwards over his shoulder in the direction of the big house. Then the car’s engine roared into life again.
‘Jasper is an old ally of mine,’ he told her. ‘He’s part groom, part gamekeeper and a fund of useful knowledge. He taught me to ride when I was about three. Nell – the dog you saw – is as much his as mine, and he’s in charge of the pups. I’m the Master of the House beagles this year, and I want to present the best of the litter to the pack.’ There was pride in his voice as he spoke.
He does belong with another world, Helen thought. I don’t know what he’s talking about half the time.
As an afterthought, Oliver said quietly, ‘And the house … it’s where my parents live.’
The car surged forwards so fast that Helen was jerked backwards in her seat. She settled back, ready for the return drive to Oxford, but Oliver merely drove down the little rise away from the house, took another road across twilit parkland from which a damp mist was already rising and drew up in front of a cottage that might have belonged to a groundsman. It was screened on three sides by tall trees and all the windows were dark.
Helen followed Oliver through the drifts of leaves to the front door and stepped inside after him. When the lights came on they blinked at each other.
‘Home,’ he said.
The door had opened straight into a low, square room. It was shabby, filled with a mixture of what looked like outworn drawing room furniture and outgrown nursery pieces. The atmosphere was unmistakably welcoming. Helen looked round at the worn chintz covers, overlapping and unmatching rugs and the plain cream walls with an air of relief. She suddenly felt more comfortable with Oliver than she had done all day.
‘Make yourself at home while I do the fire.’ He knelt down at the open hearth. ‘Or, better still, be an angel and make some tea.’
The kitchen was at the back. Helen hummed softly as she rummaged in cupboards to discover thick red pottery mugs and a homely brown teapot. When she carried the tray in, Oliver was lying on a rug in front of the fire, his head propped against the sofa cushions. He watched her as she put the tray down on the floor and then rocked back on her heels to meet his eyes. Oliver patted the cushions beside him, but Helen ignored him for a moment. Instead she poured tea into the red mugs and then handed him one. Then she wrapped her thin fingers round her own. Emboldened by the cosy domesticity of the little room, she asked him, ‘Why do you call this home? If your parents live over there?’
‘I’ve used this little house to escape to for years. When I was younger, to escape from the family. Nowadays, when I’m here, which isn’t often, it’s to avoid the tourists.’
‘Tourists?’
‘Mmm. The house is open to the public. Hordes of it. We’ve retreated to one of the wings, like survivors in a sinking ship.’
‘What is this place?’ Helen asked again.
‘It’s called Montcalm.’
Of course. Oliver’s father, then, was the Earl of Montcalm. And this blond boy who was laughing at her in the firelight came of a family whose history stretched back to the Plantagenets.
‘Didn’t you know?’ he asked her.
‘No,’ Helen said humbly. ‘Or, if I did know who you were, I’d forgotten.’
‘How lovely.’ Oliver was laughing delightedly, and her own laughter echoed his. ‘Come and sit here.’
Helen went. Her head found a comfortable hollow in the crook of his shoulder, and his chin rested in her hair. In front of them the fire crackled and spat. Helen let her eyes close, thinking of nothing but the sound of their breathing and the immediate sensations that lapped around her. Oliver’s sweater was rough against one cheek and the heat of the fire was reddening the other. She felt his mouth moving in her hair.
‘Comfortable?’
‘Mmm.’
Gently, Oliver began to stroke her cheek. Instinctively, Helen turned her face closer to his. Her body felt soft, warm after the day’s bright cold and relaxed with the ebbing of tension.
Very slowly, Oliver bent his head and kissed her mouth. Even as she felt herself respond to him, answering his kiss with a kind of hunger that surprised her, Helen heard a cold little voice inside her head.
You know that there will be no going back, after this?
You could still stop him.
You could still play safe.
No. I don’t want to be safe. I don’t want to lose him. I don’t care what happens. This is all that matters now. This room, the firelight, the roughness of the rugs beneath us. Oliver.
His hand was on her breast now and his mouth was more urgent over hers. Like a suicide pushing away the lifebelt that drifted within reach, Helen shut her ears and eyes and let herself be submerged in him.
‘You look so fragile,’ he whispered, ‘but your strength is all inside, isn’t it?’
He lifted her from the cushions and peeled her sweater off. Her eyes focused on his hands, portrait hands, insistent as they took off the rest of her clothes. Helen’s skin was creamy-pale, but the light and warmth made it rosy now. Intently Oliver’s fingers traced the line of her collarbone and the tilt of her small breasts, ran over the smooth flesh that stretched tight over her ribcage and then grasped her waist. She felt herself pulled towards him and her hands reached, in turn, at his clothes, wanting to touch him too.
At last, they faced each other, kneeling naked in the red glow.
‘Now,’ he said, and she echoed him on a long breath. Helen’s fingers slid over him as he waited for her.
The dreamy languor which had bathed them both was gone in that instant. A flash of longing for him swept through her, making her gasp aloud. Her fingers knotted in his hair as they came together and her head arched back, and further back, as his mouth slid from hers to her throat, and then to the hardness of her nipples. His hands explored her, relentless now, and she felt herself open to him like a flower.
‘Oliver,’ she murmured, ‘Oliver.’ It was the first time she had called him by his name, but she felt as though it had been in her head for her whole life. His eyes were closed and his breath was coming in quick gasps.
Still kneeling, Oliver lifted her effortlessly and then drew her down on top of him. He pierced her with a single thrust and at once she felt a wave of pleasure so intoxicating that she cried out loud. Her legs wound around him, jealously imprisoning him inside her. Poised, they moved together, at first slowly and then fiercely, unstoppably.
Helen felt the deep buried stirrings of her own climax with the first low moan in Oliver’s throat. Her back arched, taut, as he ground deeper into her. Then her fingers clenched, once, and fell open as the liquid currents shot through her veins, pulsed, extinguished everything except the man within her and then, slowly, exquisitely, receded.
By infinitesimal degrees, time started up again. Helen lifted her head from where it had sunk against Oliver’s shoulder. Looking down at him she saw that his face was soft, just as it had been when he bent over the tiny pups. Sweat had damped his fine blond hair so that it lay close against his head and his eyelashes were dark and spiky. For an instant, Oliver looked almost vulnerable. Helen stroked the hair back from his face and laid her cheek against his.
Beside them the fire sank deeper into its own red heart.
After a moment Oliver stirred and smiled lazily at her. ‘So that was the door.’
‘Door?’ Helen was bewildered.
‘The door to let the other Helen out.’ He chuckled. ‘You surprised me. So much heat under that cold skin.’
Helen felt herself blushing, and uncertainty took the place of the peaceful satisfaction of the moment before. Had she done something wrong? Her knowledge of sexual matters was so slight that she might well have. She had simply trusted in the force of her own instincts to guide her and she had believed that Oliver was doing the same. Now, she saw, that could have been a mistake. It was all so confusing, not least her disconcerting longing to please him.
What was the right thing? She felt that he had been surprised by her refusal of him the other evening, and now after her passionate surrender of herself, he was no less surprised.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ she asked simply.
‘Wrong?’ His blue eyes were very bright. ‘No, of course not. You were charming. Just not very like other girls. Or like what I expected.’
I’m not like Flora or Fiona, Helen thought. Or like Vick. I know that. But what did he expect? She wanted to ask him, wanted to make him talk, but the words eluded her. Instead, she became uncomfortably conscious of her nakedness, and she reached out for the tangle of clothes beside her. Quickly, acutely aware of the clumsy awkwardness of putting on clothes, she pulled on her crumpled shirt. Then she saw that Oliver was looking away from her, into the depths of the fire. He seemed utterly unconscious of his body, and at once Helen regretted her prudish scramble to get dressed.
Uncomfortable, unexplained hot tears pricked behind her eyes. What’s the matter with me, she asked herself bitterly.
Oliver lay calm and unmoving. His body was evenly and deeply tanned, every inch of it. Helen knew that meant remote, exotic beaches, or very fashionable ones where everyone was free of stupid inhibitions. He looked fit, too, with the flat belly and developed muscles of the all-round athlete. Alongside him Helen felt herself bony and uncoordinated, as well as pallid from lack of sunlight. There had been too many weeks of not caring what she ate, too many nights with very little sleep.