The Waterfall Of The Moon

“I see.” Ruth thrust her hands into her trousers’ pockets. “So you won't be going riding.”

“I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, Ruth.”

“Don't be silly. It's not your fault. But it's a glorious morning. Frosty, of course, but the sun's breaking through.”

“Well, you go if you want to,” suggested Julie. “Ask Mike to join you. He could use my horse.”

“I doubt whether Mike is even awake yet,” replied Ruth dampeningly. “Don't concern yourself, Julie. I shan't go. I might even decide to drive back to town after all.”

“This morning?”

“Why not? There's not much else to do.”

“Oh, dear!” Julie propped herself up on her elbows. “Don't do that, Ruth. I've had my tablets and I'll probably be fine by lunchtime. Why don't you stay over until tomorrow? You've got no particular reason to get back to town, have you? You can always telephone your father.”

Ruth hesitated. “I don't know,” she began.

“Well, think about it,” appealed Julie. “Please. And don't go before lunch whatever you decide.”

“All right.” Ruth smiled at her friend's concerned face. “I won't.” She turned towards the door. “I'll go now and leave you to get some rest. We can talk later.”

“Marvellous!”

Julie sank back on her pillows looking pale and drawn, and Ruth let herself quietly out of the door.

As she descended the stairs again she saw Patrick Hardy standing in the hall. Slowing her step, she half wished she could have turned and gone back up again without him seeing her, but he had heard her. He came to the foot of the stairs and resting one hand on the banister, said: “How is Julie?”

Ruth halted two steps above him. “She has a migraine.”

“So she won't be going riding?”

“No.”

“Will you?”

“On my own? No, thanks.” Ruth was abrupt.

Patrick regarded her mutinous face tolerantly for a minute, and then he said quietly, but distinctly: “I didn't mean you to go alone. I'll come with you – if you still want me to.”

Ruth stared at him with the warm colour rising in her cheeks. “You don't have to do that.”

“I know I don't have to. Do you want to go, or don't you?”

Ruth took a deep breath. “I'd love to,” she answered simply.

“Good.” He moved away from the stairs. “Then I suggest you go and put on some more clothes. I'll wait for you in the lounge.”

“All right.”

Ruth nodded, and turning sped back up the stairs. The blood was pounding through her veins, and she was filled with a sense of expectancy out of all proportion to the occasion. It was the very last thing she had expected, but there had been no thought of refusal.

Zipping herself into a warm navy blue parka, she tried to school herself to calmness. What was she about to do, after all, but go riding with a cousin of Julie's father? That should be nothing to get so excited about, and she was courting trouble if she thought it was. It was simply that Patrick Hardy was a kind and polite man, taking pity on her because her friend wasn't well. He didn't really want to take her riding. The situation had practically been forced upon him.

Downstairs, she entered the lounge with a faint sense of trepidation to find Patrick standing by the windows, a warm sheepskin coat accentuating his dark masculinity. He turned at her entrance and said: “I've told Cook where we're going. Apparently no one else is up yet.”

Ruth made a gesture of acquiescence and then they both moved out into the hall. He had apparently informed the groom, too, that they intended going riding, because as they descended the steps at the front of the house, a stable boy appeared leading their two mounts.

It was exhilarating to have the wind tugging her hair, tangling it into wild disorder, as they went down the drive and across the road and into the meadow. A rime frost had cast a film of white over the grasses and they crunched with a curiously satisfying sound under the horses’ feet.

They didn't speak much to begin with. Patrick was obviously in no hurry, allowing his mount to pick its way as he took an encompassing look at the countryside. Ruth, on the other hand, was accustomed to these surroundings, and she gave the mare its head, galloping on with careless grace.

Eventually he caught up with her and their pace slowed to negotiate a belt of trees, coming out on to a grassy hillside overlooking a village in a valley, the sound of church bells ringing in the clear air.

“There's nowhere in the world where the sound of church bells on a Sunday morning sounds quite so charming,” remarked Patrick, reining in beside her, and taking out his case of cheroots. Cradling the lighter against the wind, he lit one of the narrow cigars and exhaled blue smoke with enjoyment. “We have churches in Puerto Roca, but their bells never sound like this.”

“Puerto Roca?” Ruth frowned. “That's where you live?”

Patrick nodded. “That's right.” He dismounted. “Shall we walk?”

They walked in companionable silence for a while, leading the horses, until Ruth said: “How long do you expect to stay in England, Mr. Hardy?”

Patrick shrugged. “Six or seven weeks. I'm not sure. Why?”

He was very direct and Ruth flushed. “I was interested, that's all. Perhaps you'd like to come and have dinner with my father and myself one evening when you're in London.”

“That's very kind of you.”

He was polite, but non-committal, and Ruth glanced at him a little impatiently. She could read nothing in his expression, however; he was an enigma, and that knowledge did not please her.

They were passing through some trees when Ruth tripped over a root, and in trying to save herself caught her hair on the bare, twig-like branches protruding from a thorn bush. She cried out in agony as her scalp was almost wrenched from her head, and with watering eyes endeavoured to free herself. But it was useless; her tangled hair clung to the bark, and it hurt more than ever when she tried to extricate it.

But she scarcely had time to make more than a cursory examination before Patrick was bending down beside her, taking off his gloves, and disentangling the silken strands with gentle fingers. He was very close to her suddenly, his breath mingling with hers, and when his fingers brushed her cheek tingling impulses of awareness ran down into her neck. Then she was free and he helped her to her feet. She brushed herself down with a careless hand and made a helpless gesture.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling warmly. “I don't know how I should have managed without you.”

“Don't you?” His tone was ironic, and he appeared to be watching her rather intently.

“No.” Ruth combed her fingers through her hair in an effort to create some order.

“Oh, I'm pretty sure someone would have happened along at just the right moment to play knight errant to a lady in distress!”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged again, turning away to gather up the horses’ reins. “Just that you're the type of young woman who usually manages to get into difficulties at the most convenient times.”

Ruth didn't quite know how to take this. He had spoken in his usual polite way, and yet she sensed a note of reproof. Why?

Walking round him, she said: “Do you mind explaining that remark?”

“Surely it's obvious.”

“I'm afraid not. Not to me, at least.” Ruth felt a vague uneasiness invading her stomach.

“All right, Miss Farrell.” He held her gaze deliberately. “What do you want of me?”

Ruth was taken aback. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I think you do. But I'll explain anyway.” He took his gloves out of his pocket and began to put them on. “For some reason best known to yourself, you want me to pay attention to you – to be interested in you!”

“How – how dare you?” she gasped, but he went on as though she had not spoken.

“You invite me to ride with you – you even invite me to your parents’ home for dinner – and on the acquaintance of a couple of hours. Finally, when no apparent success is being achieved, you use the oldest trick in the book – that of feminine weakness in adversity!”

“That's not true.” Ruth was indignant. “You're not honestly meaning to tell me that you think I tripped over that root deliberately? That I tangled my hair in that bush just so you could rescue me?”

He made a dismissing movement of his shoulders. “And you didn't?”

“Of course I didn't.”

Ruth stared at him angrily, grasping her horse's reins with clenched fists. Her immediate impulse was to get on the mare's back and ride back to the house as quickly as she could. Once there, she could collect her belongings and leave without meeting this objectionable male ever again.

But such behaviour would only strengthen his belief in her childishness, and that she could not allow. Summoning all her coolness and composure, she said icily: “At least my conceit could never measure up to your own, Mr. Hardy!”

She thought he might be angry then. She thought he might make some retaliatory remark which would enable her to vent her own pent-up anger on him. But she was wrong. He burst out laughing.

Tears stung her eyes. No one had ever laughed at her before and it was a humiliating experience. Grasping the pommel, she climbed abruptly into the saddle, and digging in her heels urged the mare forward out of the copse of trees. She didn't care which direction it was taking her. She just wanted to put as much distance between herself and Patrick Hardy as she possibly could.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN she finally returned to the house it was long past lunchtime, and Julie met her in the hall looking most concerned.

“Ruth!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? We were getting quite worried about you.”

“I'm sorry.” Ruth managed a smile. “I'm afraid I went further than I intended.”

“You shouldn't go so far alone,” reproved Julie, shaking her head. “I didn't think you'd go riding at all when I couldn't go with you.”

Ruth hesitated. “No – well, it filled the morning in.”

“Yes,” Julie nodded, and Ruth guessed she knew nothing about Patrick Hardy's involvement. “Well, the meal will be cold now. Shall I ask Cook to make you an omelette or something?”

“Heavens, no!” Ruth took off her parka and slung it over the banister ready to take upstairs. “A sandwich in the kitchen would be fine.” She glanced round. “Er – where is everyone?”

“Mummy and Daddy and Patrick are in the library having coffee. I was watching for you. Patrick said if you weren't back in fifteen minutes he would go and look for you.”

“That was kind of him.” Ruth's tone was dry, but Julie didn't notice it.

“Yes. Well, come along into the kitchen. We can talk there. Mike came up this morning before leaving for London. I think he expected to see you, but he said he couldn't hang about because he has to be back in College tonight, or something.”

“Yes, that's right. He does.” Ruth nodded, accompanying her friend into the warm, delightfully odorous atmosphere of the kitchen. “I'm glad he's gone, though. Sometimes he can be rather intense.”

Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons’ cook, soon provided Ruth with a plate of home-cured ham and salad, and a jug of steaming coffee which the two girls shared. Seated at the table talking, Mrs. Morris dozing over her knitting at the fire, created a feeling of warmth and security, and Ruth felt some of the chill which had entered her stomach that morning leaving her. Not that she mentioned such things to Julie. Her brief association with Patrick Hardy would not bear examination, not yet.

“You are staying until tomorrow, aren't you?” Julie asked now. “It's almost three o'clock. It will be dark in an hour.”

Ruth hesitated. She didn't want to stay, but having committed herself to the extent of leaving it too late in the day to drive back in daylight, she didn't see what else she could do. Her father did not approve of her driving far at night.

“All right,” she agreed. “But I must ring Papa.”

Julie smiled at her friend's use of the Victorian form of address. Ruth had always called her father Papa, it was a kind of pet name, and had caused a good deal of amusement when they were at school.

As Ruth dressed for dinner that evening her misgivings returned in full measure. After all, she had told Patrick Hardy that she was leaving that afternoon. After what he had said this morning, she was quite prepared to believe that he would think she had stayed on for the sole purpose of seeing him again. Pacing about her bedroom, she considered making some excuse not to go down, but then squashed the idea. She was not a coward. She would go down to dinner and she would show him that she had absolutely no interest in him whatsoever!

Her choice of evening wear was limited. She had come down ostensibly for one night only, for the party, and apart from the dress she had worn then, she had nothing else suitable. Still, he had not seen her at the party and it was a most attractive gown. Made of cream velvet, gathered beneath her breasts to fall straight and smooth to the ankle, long sleeves reaching a point at the wrists, it was the perfect complement to her intense fairness, the low round neck revealing the creamy flesh of her throat.

Even so, she trembled a little as she descended the stairs and crossed the carpeted hall to the lounge where Julie's father and mother usually had an aperitif before their meal.

She was the last to arrive, and therefore she felt as if she had timed her entrance, which simply was not so. Nevertheless, her appearance did attract attention and she focused determinedly on Julie's mother, refusing to look in Patrick Hardy's direction.

However, Mrs. Stephenson was unaware that they had been introduced, and to Ruth's chagrin she drew her towards him, smiling and saying: “You haven't met Ruth, have you, Pat?”

Patrick, dark and slightly foreign-looking with that amazing tan, looked disturbingly masculine in his evening clothes. The men were not wearing dinner jackets, but they were both dressed in dark suits. Seemingly unperturbed by the situation, he said: “We have met, Marion. We had breakfast together, didn't we, Miss Farrell?”

Ruth's lips felt stiff. “Yes. Yes, that's right,” she said uncomfortably, aware that Julie was staring at her in surprise.

“Oh, I see,” Marion nodded. “You must both be early risers.” She smiled. “That's all right, then. We all know one another.”

Ruth moved back to Julie's side and accepted a glass of sherry from her father. Then dinner was announced and they all walked into the dining room which adjoined the lounge, where the buffet tables had been laid out the night before. To Ruth's relief, conversation was general and there were no awkward silences. Like herself, the Stephensons found Patrick's experiences in South America fascinating, and in spite of her antagonism towards him, Ruth found herself listening with increasing interest.

Once she looked up and found his eyes upon her and for a brief moment she was hypnotised by their grey penetration. Then Julie's father said something and his attention was distracted, but the small incident served to unnerve her and she spent the remainder of the meal with her eyes glued to her plate.

When dinner was over, they all adjourned to the lounge for coffee, and Ruth seated herself beside Julie on a low couch. Julie's father and Patrick Hardy were standing by the windows. Their conversation had turned to farming matters, and Mrs. Stephenson came to join the girls, shaking her head in resignation.

“Sooner or later your father always brings the conversation round to the practical applications of modern research in methods of breeding,” she remarked, sitting down beside them. “Poor Pat! I'm sure he's not really interested in such things.” She sighed. “Still, I shouldn't grumble. We did well to get through dinner without James mentioning the hormone treatment he's considering using in the battery houses!”

Julie giggled, and Ruth was unable to prevent herself from casting a surreptitious glance towards the windows. But the two men seemed engrossed in what they were saying and did not appear to have noticed Mrs. Stephenson's slightly caustic comments.

When her mother picked up a magazine and began flicking through the glossy pages, Julie turned to Ruth and murmured in an undertone: “You didn't mention that you'd had breakfast with Patrick this morning.”

Ruth moved her shoulders carelessly. “I forgot about it.”

“I gather he didn't live up to your expectations,” remarked Julie wryly.

“I wouldn't say that,” Ruth was determinedly casual.

Julie raised her eyebrows. “Even so, last evening you seemed fascinated by him –”

“Don't be ridiculous!” Ruth glanced uncomfortably towards Julie's mother, but fortunately she seemed not to have heard them. “I was curious to know who he was, that was all. I told you at the time.”

“I know.” Julie studied her friend's hot cheeks speculatively. “Oh, well, if that's how you feel.” She shrugged. “How about playing some records in the library?”

Ruth jumped at the chance to get out of the same room as Patrick Hardy, but Mrs. Stephenson looked up as they got to their feet. “Where are you two going?”

“To play some records,” replied Julie. “You don't mind, do you?”

Her mother frowned. “Not exactly.” She looked towards her husband and Patrick Hardy. “But really, James can't monopolise Pat all evening. I'm sure the man must be bored to tears as it is. Why don't you bring some records in here, Julie? Some of your less noisy ones, I might add. You young people could dance.”

“Oh, Mummy, really!” Julie was not at all suited. “How can Ruth and I dance in here – in front of you?”

“Well, why not? Young people don't seem to require partners these days, do they?”

Julie sighed and Ruth felt a twinge of impatience. It seemed they were not to escape so easily.

“All right,” said Julie at last. “I'll get the records.”

“Good.” Her mother smiled up at Ruth. “Come and sit down again, and tell me where you went this morning.”

“This morning?” Ruth subsided rather quickly.

“Yes. On your ride.”

“Oh – oh, yes.” Ruth gathered herself. “I'd forgotten.”

Julie came back with several records of groups popular at the moment and some more orchestrated pieces. Ruth joined her by the stereo equipment and managed a rueful grin. “Never mind,” she whispered. “I'm sure your parents will soon get tired of listening to these.”

“Let's hope so.” Julie was glum, but before they had time to put any records on the turntable the sound of a car accelerating up the drive came to their ears.

“I'll get it,” exclaimed Julie eagerly, and was out of the door before anyone could protest.

“I wonder who it can be,” remarked Mrs. Stephenson, laying aside her magazine, and the men were distracted from their discussion.

“Probably Hayes about the point-to-point,” replied her husband. “He said he'd let me know when it was to be held.”

But when Julie came back into the lounge she was accompanied by a young man whom Ruth recognised as Peter Forrester, one of the guests at the party last evening.

Mrs. Stephenson smiled a welcome. “Oh, hello, Peter. This is a pleasant surprise.”

Peter Forrester was a thin, attractive young man in his late twenties. Recalling what she knew about him, Ruth decided he looked very much the outdoor type he was. His father farmed the land to the north of Julie's father's estate, and Peter had been to agricultural college and was at present acting as bailiff for another landowner in the district. Ruth also knew that he was very fond of Julie and that she would probably finish by marrying someone exactly like that. Julie was a country girl at heart, and although she enjoyed coming up to town and staying with Ruth and her father, deep down she preferred the open spaces.

Peter looked awkwardly round the company, and said: “Well, actually, Mrs. Stephenson, I didn't realise that Ruth was staying over for another night. I thought Julie might be on her own. I was going to suggest taking her out for an hour or two.” Julie visibly brightened, but her mother merely nodded. “Never mind, Peter. Now you're here, you can stay. Julie was just about to put on some records, weren't you, darling?”

Julie hesitated, looked mutinous, and then acquiesced. “Yes, Mummy,” she murmured resignedly.

Ruth was feeling rather de trop. “If you'd like to go out with Peter, Julie, I don't mind,” she began.

“Nonsense.” Julie's father entered the conversation. “Julie knows better than that –”

“Perhaps I might make a suggestion.” Patrick Hardy's voice was quietly compelling. “Why don't we all go out for a while? We could drive into Devizes and stop off somewhere for a drink.”

Julie's mother looked at her husband questioningly. “Do you want to do that, James?”

Ruth's nails curled into her palms. No one was asking her opinion, and the very last thing she wanted was to be thrust into Patrick Hardy's presence for several hours.

James Stephenson considered the suggestion frowningly. “Well, I'm not really enthusiastic,” he admitted. “I was looking forward to a quiet evening.”

“Good.” His wife looked as though this submission had pleased her. “I don't particularly want to go out either. But you four can, can't you?”

Ruth felt terrible. She couldn't be placed in such an intolerable situation! “I – I don't particularly want to go out either,” she said.

“Don't be silly, Ruth!” Mrs. Stephenson overruled her protest. “Of course you do. We're just too old, that's all.”

Ruth looked helplessly towards Julie, but Julie was far too delighted with this turn of events to do anything to help her. There seemed nothing for it but to agree.

“Fine.” That was Patrick Hardy again. He walked across to where the three young people were standing. “I suggest you and Julie go in your car, Forrester, and Miss Farrell and I will go in mine.”

Ruth looked up at him angrily, trying to compel him to look at her and witness her frustration. But he seemed indifferent to her feelings completely, and she was forced to accompany the others into the hall to collect their coats.

In fact, Ruth had no coat, only a tweed cape which she wore for all occasions, but at least it was warm and she shrugged herself into it, spurning anyone's assistance.

“There's a good pub outside of Sharning,” said Peter, helping Julie on with her coat. “The Beeswing, do you know it?”

“I'm afraid not.” Patrick pulled on a dark grey overcoat with a fur lining. “But you lead the way – we'll follow.”

“Okay.” Peter was obviously feeling pleased with himself. “Ruth knows the Sharning road and it's just beyond the village.”

“Right.”

Patrick nodded and they all went outside to get into the cars. Ruth had to wait while Patrick brought his car out of the garage and the others waved and drove off as the Mini came to a halt beside her. Patrick pushed open the door from inside and Ruth got in quickly, folding her long skirts about her legs.

“I hope you don't find this too confining,” he commented dryly, as she was wondering how he managed to get behind the wheel. “But I needed some form of transport and as I don't intend to do any great distance this seemed ideal for towns.”

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.