Green Lightning

‘Beautiful!’ Miss Patterson declared enthusiastically, and then turned, a smug smile lifting her lips, as the door behind her was suddenly opened.

Helen, about to steer the Land Rover round to the garages, froze in her seat, but it was only the homely form of the housekeeper that appeared. However, her scandalised gaze took in the newcomer in her elegant suit and behind her the dusty Land Rover, with Helen clutching the wheel.

‘You didn’t go to meet—oh, Helen!’ Mrs Gittens exclaimed impatiently, and then came quickly down the shallow steps to meet the new employee. ‘You must be Miss Patterson,’ she added, holding out her hand. ‘I hope you had a good journey. You must be tired after coming all that way.’

‘It wasn’t all that far, really,’ Helen’s adversary assured Mrs Gittens smoothly, allowing her hand to rest for just a second in that of the housekeeper. ‘But I must admit I’m glad to be here. My spine feels as if it’s been done some permanent damage!’

‘The Land Rover’s built for practical purposes, not for comfort,’ Helen began, only to have Mrs Gittens give her a reproving look.

‘I should go and put it away, if I were you,’ she advised, eyeing her employer’s niece with a knowing air. ‘Mr Heathcliffe may be back directly, and I doubt he’ll approve of your choice of vehicle to go and meet a visitor.’

Helen hunched her shoulders. ‘Her cases are in the back,’ she declared, making no attempt to remove them, and with a sound of impatience Mrs Gittens went back up the steps and summoned old Arnold Wesley to come and give a hand.

However, Helen could not let the old man haul the cases out single-handed. If it had been John Garnett, Mr Wesley’s young apprentice, she would not have minded, but Arnold Wesley was only kept on because he had been at Matlock for more than fifty years. With a sign of frustration, she jumped out of the vehicle, dragged both cases out on to the gravel, and then jumped back in again and restarted the engine.

Miles Ormerod, who looked after the estate vehicles and acted as chauffeur when the need arose, was in the garage yard, polishing the bronze Mercedes Helen was supposed to have taken to meet Miss Patterson. He grimaced when Helen stood on her brakes in the yard, and came round to open the Land Rover door for her as she switched off the engine.

‘You look flushed,’ he remarked as she got out, and Helen glared at him. As children, she and Miles had often played together in the fields and woods around Matlock, and that familiarity lingered still in a certain kind of affection.

‘She’s here,’ Helen said now, thrusting her hands into the back hip pockets of her tight jeans. ‘And she’s just as repulsive as I expected.’

‘Repulsive?’ Miles looked surprised. ‘I thought you said Heath described her as slim and blonde and—–’

‘Oh, he did!’ Helen interrupted crossly. ‘And she is. I just mean—well, she doesn’t like me.’

‘Don’t you mean you don’t like her?’ asked Miles gently, propping himself against the bonnet of the Land Rover. At nineteen, he was two years her senior, but for all that, their eyes were almost on a level. Helen was a tall girl, though by no means as willowy as Miss Patterson, and in recent months she had seen a different look come into Miles’ eyes when he was alone with her. She knew he found her attractive, and she thought he was attractive, too. But for so long Heath had occupied all her thoughts, and she seldom saw Miles as anything more than a good friend.

Now, however, she propped herself beside him, basking in the warmth of his understanding. Even Mrs Gittens had turned against her, she thought miserably, and if Miss Patterson told Heath about the Land Rover …

‘What’s wrong?’

Miles took the curling tail of her braid between his fingers and tugged sympathetically, and Helen turned to look at him. ‘Why do you ask that?’ she demanded, fighting back the impulse to confide in him, and his lips twisted wryly as he surveyed her troubled face.

‘I know you pretty well by now,’ he essayed quietly. ‘I guess it was something this woman said. What’s the matter? Did she tell you she and Heath are more than just friends? Oh, come on, Helen, it won’t be the first time, will it? There’ve always been women around Matlock Edge.’

Helen’s chin jutted. ‘She said—she said Heath had said I was a spoilt brat,’ she muttered in a low voice, then stared at Miles resentfully when he was unable to suppress his mirth. ‘I didn’t think it was funny!’ she declared, straightening away from the Land Rover, and would have left him then, had he not turned and prevented her.

‘But don’t you see?’ exclaimed Miles, imprisoning her with one hand on either side of her. ‘You are a spoilt brat! That’s why you’re so choked up about it.’

‘I am not!’

Helen was indignant, but looking into Miles’ grinning face, she felt a corresponding response rising up inside her. ‘You’re a pig!’ she muttered, pushing her fist into his midriff, and then sobered abruptly when he bent his head towards her.

His lips were soft and moist, pressing on hers with sudden urgency, but although Helen was glad of his friendship, this was a development she had not anticipated. It was true, they had fooled around a lot this year, and once or twice she had let him kiss her, but not like this. Now, Miles’ lips were parting wetly, and his hand was groping clumsily for the full breasts outlined beneath the clinging material of her tee-shirt. He was pressing her against the side of the Land Rover, the metal was digging into her hips, and she realised with a sense of revulsion that he was becoming aroused.

‘For God’s sake, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

The harsh invective tore them apart as successfully as brute force might have done. Even so, Helen realised afterwards, Heath had only just been able to control the urge to strike the pair of them. Distracted, as she had been, by the unexpected fervour of Miles’ embrace, she had failed to hear her uncle’s car approaching, but turning now, she saw the dark green Porsche parked only feet away. Its door was still open where Heath had thrust it when he had emerged like a raging bull, and her eyes clung to the sleek lines of the vehicle to avoid looking into Heath’s dark and furious face.

‘I asked what the hell you thought you were doing,’ he snarled now, taking a step towards Miles, who stood mutely to one side. ‘Damn you, Ormerod, do I have to thrash an answer out of you? How long have you been familiar with my niece? How long has this been going on?’

‘Nothing’s going on, Heath,’ mumbled Helen unwillingly, lifting her dark eyes to his face. She had never seen Heath so furious, and while she suspected it was mostly to do with her going to fetch Miss Patterson in the Land Rover, she didn’t like the ugly look he was directing at Miles. ‘Honestly. Miles was just—kissing me, that’s all. Nothing to get so steamed up about.’

It wasn’t exactly the truth, but right then she only wanted to relieve Miles of the responsibility for what had happened. After all, she had invited it. She had come here, begging for his sympathy. If she had got rather more than she bargained for, she couldn’t entirely blame him for that.

As it happened, she might have saved her breath, however. Heath ignored her, stepping close to Miles, and forcing the younger man to tip his head to look at him. ‘Just remember this,’ he said savagely, ‘if you so much as lay a finger on my niece again, I’ll break your bloody neck! Do you hear me?’

‘I hear you.’ Miles pushed his lips forward in a desperate effort of defiance, but Heath was already turning away.

‘Come with me,’ he ordered Helen grimly, starting back towards the house, and with a little gesture of condolence to Miles, she had no choice but to obey.

CHAPTER TWO

PREPARING for dinner that evening, Helen found herself going over those stormy minutes with Heath again and again, trying to discover how it was everything had gone so wrong. If only he had not come upon her and Miles like that; if only she had not stumbled into explanations he had not asked for; if only she had acted a little more maturely, she might not be feeling so miserable now.

Sighing, she sank down on to the padded stool in front of her dressing table and surveyed her reflection with brooding disgust. Tears always left her looking all blotched and puffy around her eyes, and she had cried for an hour after Heath had let her go. Even her nose looked as if she was going down with a cold, and she doubted if even a heavy make-up could disguise what she had been doing.

Resting her elbows on the polished wood, she sniffed dejectedly. Why was it that she always came out of their arguments feeling like a victim, while Heath could dismiss her one minute and talk casually to Mrs Gittens the next? It wasn’t fair! She wasn’t a child any longer. But Heath persisted in treating her like one, and she always seemed to end up proving he was right.

It wasn’t as if she had got angry with him for treating Miles like he had. On the contrary, if she was honest she would admit that she had been more than a little relieved when Heath had appeared, even if his entrance had precipitated another fight. Miles’ behaviour had warned her of the dangers inherent in their relationship, particularly as she was not interested in him that way, and she thought she ought to be grateful to Heath for that.

Nevertheless, her uncle had not been prepared to forgive and forget. The minute they were out of earshot, he had turned his contemptuous gaze upon her, and his belittling appraisal had done nothing to restore Helen’s self-confidence.

‘How long?’ he demanded, his green eyes raking her face with grim intent. ‘How long has that oaf been allowed to touch you?’

‘He didn’t—he hasn’t—I mean, it wasn’t what you thought, Heath,’ Helen started unhappily. ‘It was just—well, when I brought the Land Rover back, he—he sympathised with me.’ She tucked her chin against her chest. ‘I—I suppose I asked for it.’

Heath halted abruptly by the gate leading into the orchard. ‘What do you mean? Had you had an accident in the Land Rover? I’ve warned you about driving too fast before—–’

‘I wasn’t driving too fast,’ protested Helen helplessly. ‘And I didn’t have a crash.’

‘Why would he need to sympathise with you, then?’ Heath grated, his lean face taut with impatience. ‘What’s happened, Helen? What have you done? You might as well tell me, before Mrs Gittens does.’

Helen lifted her face unwillingly. Comprehension was dawning, and she didn’t like what she was thinking. ‘You mean—you mean—you haven’t seen Mrs Gittens?’

‘No. I drove straight to the garage. Why?’

‘Oh, God!’ Helen’s shoulders sagged. ‘But—I thought you knew. I thought that was why you were so mad—–’

‘I knew? I knew what?’ snapped Heath irritably, grasping her by the shoulders. ‘For heaven’s sake, Helen, get to the point. What is it I’m supposed to know?’

Helen shook her head. ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Remember what?’

‘Where—where you asked me to go this afternoon?’

‘Where I asked you to go?’ declared Heath blankly. ‘No, damn you, I don’t—yes! Hell, yes, of course I do!’ He stared down into her troubled face with growing comprehension. ‘The Land Rover!’ he snarled. ‘You went to meet Angela Patterson in the Land Rover!’ His fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh of her upper arms. ‘Lord, I’d forgotten all about her!’

That was reassuring, at least, thought Helen tremulously, but her reassurance was shortlived. Her words had driven every trace of warmth out of Heath’s face, and the hard green eyes were like lasers boring into her.

‘You little bitch!’ he swore violently. ‘You self-willed little hellion! You deserve a damn good hiding, and one of these days I’m going to give it to you!’

His ill-chosen words brought her back from the brink of self-pity, and dragging together what little confidence she had left, she faced him bravely. ‘It’ll take a better man than you, Rupert Heathcliffe!’ she declared courageously, and tearing herself out of his grasp, she ran the rest of the distance to the kitchen door. There was a back staircase that led from the kitchen to the upper floors of the house, and ignoring Cook’s startled face, Helen took it. She doubted Heath would follow her, and she was right; but she didn’t stop until the door of her room was closed securely behind her.

Now she got up from the stool and surveyed her domain with troubled eyes. It was more than three hours since she had had that confrontation with Heath, and she was dreading the prospect of joining him and Angela Patterson for dinner. Mrs Gittens had brought her this news, tapping tentatively at Helen’s door and clucking her tongue reprovingly when she saw Helen’s tearful face.

‘You should have known better,’ she declared, tidying up the clothes Helen had left strewn across the soft pink carpet, and shaking her head at the silk wrapper which was all the girl was wearing. ‘You’d better get some clothes on. Your uncle’s sent me to tell you he expects you to join him for dinner this evening. He wants you to meet the young lady who arrived this afternoon.’

‘I have met her,’ muttered Helen sulkily, sitting crosslegged on her bed, but Mrs Gittens only gave her an old-fashioned look.

‘From what I hear, you refused to speak courteously to the young woman,’ she responded drily. ‘And if you don’t want Heath coming up here and dragging you down by the hair, I’d suggest you made a little effort to be civil.’

Helen sighed now, running the tips of her fingers across the quilted damask covering the wide bed. She supposed she would have to change into something suitable for the evening, but how she wished she dared ignore the summons. The idea of eating dinner in Angela Patterson’s company was not appealing, and whatever Heath said, she would never forgive him for speaking to her the way he had.

Her room at Matlock Edge overlooked the side and back of the house. Away to her right, the wooded slopes of Jacob’s Hollow cast long shadows as the evening sank into dusk, and bats had started their wild erratic swooping between the trees. Below her, at the back of the house, were the tennis lawns and swimming pool, the trellises that hid the changing cabins from view bright with creamy yellow roses.

The room itself was spacious, and the furnishings matched their surroundings—long fitted wardrobes, a square dressing table, with leaved mirrors, and a huge bed, big enough to accommodate half a dozen people.

Helen remembered how lost and frightened she had felt when Heath first deposited her in that bed. But he had always been able to soothe her baby fears away. She knew he had stayed with her many nights, nights when she had awakened screaming from a terrifying nightmare to find he was there to comfort and reassure her. Later, when he had returned to his own room, she had missed his calming influence, but she had always known he was just along the corridor, and she could always go to him if she was frightened.

His mother had objected, of course. Mrs Heathcliffe had still been living at Matlock Edge in those days. Her husband, Heath’s father, had died suddenly when Heath was only nineteen, and he had left university to come and handle his father’s affairs. Heath had been twenty-one when Helen came to live with him and his mother, and Mrs Heathcliffe had lost no opportunity to deride his reckless decision.

‘It’s not as if the child’s a blood relative!’ she had argued. ‘People will talk, Rupert!’

His mother was one of the few people who still called him Rupert, but her pleas had been to no avail. Heath had been adamant. Helen’s father had had no living relatives, and Heath and his mother were the only people able to claim a relationship with the child, the only people between Helen and a life in Council care.

Scrubbing fiercely at the unwanted dampness of her cheeks, Helen slid back the doors of the fitted wardrobes and surveyed the rack of clothes. Thank goodness Mrs Heathcliffe didn’t live with them any more, she thought fervently. Heath’s mother had never approved of her son’s decision, and had lost no opportunity to try and make the girl regret that she had been brought to Matlock Edge.

As the years went by, Helen learned to ignore the petty slights, the studied insults, the painful jabs in the ribs Mrs Heathcliffe used to administer if she was sure her son was out of the room, and eventually, when she was ten, Heath’s mother had taken herself off to live in Manchester. She had an apartment there, and Heath visited her dutifully every month, but Helen’s continued existence had caused a rift between them that was difficult to breach. Even so, Mrs Heathcliffe was not unhappy in Manchester. She played golf and bridge, and she took regular trips abroad for her health, or so she said, but privately Helen thought it suited her to let Heath feel she had been hurt by his loyalty to the child, as she had always dubbed her. He was so much more generous that way.

The clothes confronting her did not inspire any enthusiasm. Helen much preferred jeans, or slacks of any kind, to the more feminine items in her wardrobe, and in consequence, the clothes she possessed were mostly out of date. She so seldom ate dinner with Heath these days, she had taken to having her evening meal brought up to her room, preferring to curl up in front of the portable television to facing a lonely hour in the morning room. On those occasions when she did join Heath for dinner, she had generally worn a blouse and skirt, but somehow she knew Angela Patterson would not appear at dinner dressed so prosaically.

On impulse, she pulled out one of the party dresses she had worn less than two years ago. A flouncy thing, made of some synthetic fibre, it had not suited her even then, but after wearing school uniform all day, it had seemed a pleasant relief. Now, however, she saw it for what it was: a puerile attempt to make a gauche adolescent into a soignée adult, and she grimaced at her own taste in choosing it.

Sighing, she allowed her hand to brush lightly along the row of garments. What else did she have? she asked herself unhappily. If she had asked Heath for new clothes, no doubt he would have bought them for her, but she had been too busy showing off on her motorcycle to realise that proving herself as a woman was more important than aping Heath’s abilities. It was too late now. She had to wear something from this collection, and if she didn’t hurry up, Heath would have something else to get angry about.

A quick shower freshened her body, and rummaging in her drawer for clean panties, she returned to her appraisal of the wardrobe. If she wore any of these she would be a laughing-stock, she thought, pulling off a flimsy flowered nylon, which had crushed her breasts in such a way it was practically indecent. She would have to wear a blouse and skirt, as before, and hope that Angela Patterson did not appear in something too dissimilar.

She was fumbling with the buttons of her blouse when the door opened behind her, and expecting Mrs Gittens, she turned with an appealing grimace. ‘I know, I know,’ she was beginning, ‘but I can’t seem to get these buttons fastened—–’ and then she broke off abruptly as Heath let himself into the room.

He had changed for dinner, into a lightweight dark brown suit that complemented the darkness of his skin and the silvery lightness of his hair. It clung to his lean frame with loving elegance, accentuating the supple lines of his body and the powerful length of his legs.

‘Oh!’

Helen turned sharply when she saw who it was, bending her head deliberately to concentrate on her task. But not before she had noticed, with some relief, that he was no longer glaring angrily at her.

‘Here, let me,’ he offered briefly, coming behind her, so that for a moment their reflections mingled in the lamplit illumination of the dressing table mirrors.

‘No. I mean—you can’t,’ muttered Helen, more thumbs than fingers now with him watching her, and growing impatient, he laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her round to face him.

‘Why can’t I?’ he demanded, brushing her clumsy hands aside and deftly inserting buttons into holes. But she noticed that when his fingers accidentally touched her breast he withdrew his hand immediately, turning his eyes away from the sudden tautness of its crest.

He left her then, walking across the room half impatiently, as if unwilling to say what must be said. But finally he turned and faced her, and a little of the anger he had exhibited earlier was back there in the agate hardness of his eyes.

‘Look,’ he said at last, ‘I guess we were both a little reckless this afternoon. I spoke—hastily, I admit it. I’m not saying it wasn’t warranted. It was. But—well,’ he thrust one hand to the back of his neck, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you the way I did.’

Helen’s lips trembled, and she turned her back on him again to unfasten the strip of leather holding the end of her braid in place. ‘Who says you hurt me?’ she asked, her voice annoyingly unsteady, and Heath uttered a muffled oath before striding back to where she was standing.

‘Mrs Gittens told me you’d been crying,’ he essayed quietly.

‘Oh—Mrs Gittens!’ Helen tugged fiercely at the hair she was releasing from the braid.

‘Yes, Mrs Gittens,’ agreed Heath, once more putting her hands aside and taking over. He allowed the thick silky hair to slide sensuously through his fingers. ‘I suppose I was speaking out of turn. You’ll be eighteen next year. Old enough to get married, if you want to. Certainly too old for me to object if you choose to allow young Ormerod to kiss you.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ Helen tore her hair out of his grasp and reached for her brush. For a moment, she had thought he was regretting his anger over her treatment of Miss Patterson. Instead, he was actually condoning the way Miles had treated her! ‘I’m not interested in “young Ormerod”, as you call him!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t patronise me, Heath. You’re not my father!’

‘Maybe not. But I am old enough to be so,’ he retorted, his own tone responding to the sharpness of hers. ‘Anyway, as it seems obvious you don’t desire my forgiveness, I’ll go, and allow you to complete your toilette.’

The trace of mockery in his words was not lost on Helen, and she longed to say something to wipe that look of smugness from his face. But it would not do to antagonise him yet again, particularly with the prospect of the evening looming ahead of her like a visit to the dentist.

So instead, she said: ‘Thank you,’ and allowed him to walk to the door before adding in an undertone: ‘I’m glad you’re not still cross with me, Heath.’

‘I don’t remember saying I wasn’t,’ he retorted, his mouth twisting in acknowledgement of her counteraction. ‘I just want you to know I’m not indifferent to the fact that you’re growing up.’

Helen turned, her hair curling irrepressibly about her shoulders, her face suddenly alight with sudden hope. ‘Do you think so?’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed flatly. ‘You make me feel quite old,’ and before she could respond, he had let himself out of the room.

Dinner was just as awful as Helen had anticipated.

They ate in the family dining room, which was one of the smaller rooms at Matlock Edge, with a circular dining table that dated from the eighteenth century. In daylight, the dining room looked out over the patio at the back of the house, but tonight the lamps were lit, and only the urns of flowers that flanked the french windows were illuminated from inside.

The dining room was panelled in oak, with delicately-carved clusters of rosebuds decorating the wood. The ceiling was high and moulded, and although there was a crystal and bronze chandelier suspended over the dining table, they mostly ate by lamp or candlelight, on those occasions when Heath had company.

As Helen had expected, Angela Patterson was present at the dinner table, sleek and self-satisfied in an ice-blue chiffon creation that left a good deal of her shoulders bare. She was not tanned, as Helen was tanned, from days spent almost exclusively outdoors. Her skin was white, whiter than any skin Helen had ever seen before, and smooth as alabaster, and just as soft.