The Waterfall Of The Moon

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

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.

“I'm not without imagination,” he remarked quietly, and Ruth felt an awful weakness invading her lower limbs. She sank down on to a nearby chair and smoothed the transparent material of her negligée over her knees.

“Wh – what time do you suggest we have lunch?” she queried, changing the subject completely.

“Tell me where you live and I'll pick you up – say about twelve.”

“All right.” Ruth gave him her address, waiting while he made a note of it. “I'll see you later, then.”

“With luck.” He sounded pleased. “G'bye.”

Ruth replaced the receiver with fingers that were not quite steady. During the past few days she had succeeded in putting thoughts of him to the back of her mind, and if her dreams were haunted by the sound of his voice and crazy visions of a tropical landscape, she had put it down to nothing more than a fleeting obsession.

But now he was here, in London, and she was going to have lunch with him, and the knowledge filled her with expectancy.

First, though, she had to ring Lucy Fielding and make some excuse not to lunch with her, and then she went upstairs again and began examining the contents of her wardrobe. Mrs. Lawson came up after her and stood in the doorway looking concerned.

“Are you going out, miss?”

“Later, Mrs. Lawson. I suppose my father's gone already.”

“Yes, miss. He left just before nine.”

“Hmm.” Ruth nodded, and continued looking critically through her wardrobe.

“It's today you're having lunch with Mrs. Fielding, isn't it, miss?” Mrs. Lawson had an excellent memory – unfortunately.

Ruth swung round. “I was,” she admitted reluctantly. “But I'm not now. I'm lunching with Mr. Hardy instead. If Mrs. Fielding should ring to ask how I am, tell her I'm still in bed.”

Mrs. Lawson gave her an old-fashioned look. “Why? What's wrong with you?”

“I've got a migraine.”

“You don't get migraine.”

“She doesn't know that.” Ruth gave a mischievous smile. “You won't let me down, will you, Mrs. Lawson?”

“I suppose not.” Mrs. Lawson gave a reproving smile. “But who's this Mr. Hardy? Does your father know about him?”

“Actually, no. But don't worry, he's eminently respectable.”

“Is he?” Mrs. Lawson's tone was dry.

“Yes. You'll see him anyway, just to put your mind at rest. He's calling for me at twelve. Will you let him in?”

“All right, miss. It seems I shall have to.” Mrs. Lawson turned to go. “Will you be in to dinner this evening?”

“As far as I know, I shall.” Ruth didn't want to think about dinner. By dinner time this lunch would be over …

She was ready and waiting when he arrived. She had chosen to wear an apricot jersey mini-dress, and her ankle-length black fur coat was draped across the back of a chair in readiness. Her hair was loose, as usual, falling against her cheeks from a centre parting.

Mrs. Lawson showed Patrick upstairs into the drawing room where Ruth was waiting. It was obvious she was curious. Patrick was vastly different from her expectations and no doubt she was wondering how they had met.

“Will there be anything else, miss?” she asked politely, folding her hands.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Lawson.” Ruth shook her head giving Patrick a welcoming smile.

“Very well, miss.” Mrs. Lawson withdrew and Ruth relaxed.

“Will you have a drink before we leave?” she asked, realising that her voice sounded breathy, even to her. But in a navy suede suit and cream overcoat, with that slightly detached air about him, he unnerved her. His age had added maturity and it was this as much as anything, she realised, which made her feel at a disadvantage.

“No, thanks,” he replied now, looking round the room with interest.

“All right.” Ruth lifted the fur and began to put it on. “I am ready. I just thought you might prefer a drink here …”

He turned his attention to her. “Do you want a drink?”

In truth, Ruth felt badly in need of one, but she shook her head lightly. “No. Let's go. I'm hungry.”

The Mini was waiting outside and he put her into it before striding round to get in beside her. Ruth's lips twitched as she pictured Mrs. Lawson's surprise if she peeped through her curtains and saw their mode of transport. No doubt she imagined he drove an Aston Martin at least.

They managed to park quite near the restaurant in Soho he had selected. Small, and rather exclusive, Ruth was surprised he had known of its existence, until he went on to explain that its owner was a friend of his.

He was immediately recognised, of course, and clearly well liked. The owner appeared, and in the dimly lit bar, seated on tall stools, Ruth was introduced to him and to the bartender, who happened to be the owner's son. Then she had to listen while Patrick explained what he had been doing these past few years, and was roundly chided for being away so long without coming back to see them. Sipping her Martini, Ruth felt that familiar sense of inadequacy that she always seemed to feel in his presence assailing her. She didn't know why. He had no background to speak of, no inherited estates or titles to intimidate her, no money even; and yet he succeeded in making her feel the interloper, the outsider as it were. How could he return after five years in Venezuela and be able to take up exactly where he left off?

Of course she knew the answer. He was that kind of man. People and places did not intimidate him. He was intelligent, as well as interesting, and he knew that what he was doing was worthwhile, and not simply a way to fill his time. He worked because it was his career, his means of livelihood, and all of a sudden she wished she had some purpose in her life.

But then, had she been a working girl, he would probably not have invited her out to lunch in the first place. There might have been some problem of her getting the wrong idea …

Finishing her drink, she pushed her glass forward. “May I have another?”

Patrick interrupted what he was saying to look at her. “What? Oh, yes. Sorry. Same again, Frank.”

“Thank you.” Ruth accepted the second Martini moodily and as though aware of her increasing resentment, Patrick finished his Scotch and slid off his stool.

“Shall we go through to the restaurant?” he suggested quietly. “What can you offer us today, Marco?”

Feeling rather childish, Ruth preceded them through an archway into the small restaurant adjoining. As usual he had mentally put her in her place, and her appetite had depleted alarmingly.

After a consultation with Marco, Patrick decided upon Lobster Thermidor, and rather than spend a lot of time studying the menu, Ruth said she would have that too.

After Marco had gone to attend to the arrangements, Patrick lit a cheroot, and said: “I'm sorry if you thought I was rude just now. But it is five years since I've seen Marco, and Italians are such gregarious people.”

Ruth shrugged. “That's all right.” She was feeling so miserable that even his apology meant little to her.

“Do you like this place?”

“I've never been here before.”

“The food is excellent.”

“Good.” Ruth played with her glass, avoiding his eyes.

“What's the matter?” He frowned. “You've become morose. Why? I thought you wanted to come out with me. You seemed bright enough when I called for you.”

Sighing then, she looked up. “I'm perfectly all right. And I shouldn't have come out with you if I hadn't wanted to.”

“Fine. Then let's behave as though we're enjoying ourselves. What sort of wine appeals to you? White burgundy – hock?”

“I don't really mind. You choose.”

He studied the wine list with frowning concentration. She knew she was annoying him by her attitude, but she couldn't seem to help it. It was ridiculous behaving like this. She had looked forward to their lunch together, and she was letting her own stupid emotions spoil it. If he wanted a casual companion then it was up to her to behave that way, or otherwise he would find himself some other girl more than willing to take what he was prepared to offer with no strings attached. And the idea of him with another woman was not to be considered.

Putting her glass aside, she said: “I'm sorry.”

He looked up now. His eyes considered her broodingly. “Are you?”

“Yes. I'm afraid I've been behaving rather childishly. Forgive me.”

He raised his dark eyebrows. “Why have you been behaving childishly?”

His question startled her. “Just put it down to pure bad humour,” she suggested lightly, but she sensed he was not wholly deceived.

“Very well. Now, shall we decide upon the wine?”

The meal was delicious and Ruth made a good imitation of enjoying it. But all she really did was push her food round the plate and put a couple of choking mouthfuls into her mouth. The wine helped to wash it down, and she managed to keep his attention distracted by talking about Venezuela and the problems of life in a foreign country.

They left the restaurant just before three, and Ruth stood waiting while he buttoned his coat and put up his collar. A chill wind was blowing and there were particles of snow in the air. It was a day for hugging firesides and she wondered what he intended to do now.

“Come on,” he said, taking her elbow between his gloved fingers. “I'll take you home. I have to meet a business colleague at four.”

“Oh, I see.” Ruth ignored the hollow sensation inside of her. “Well, I can get a taxi if you'd rather.”

“I have time,” he said firmly, and they walked swiftly along the street to where the Mini was parked.

The traffic took all his attention at this time of the day, and they hardly spoke until they were turning beneath the arched entrance to the mews where Ruth lived. He stopped the car by the door and Ruth turned to him politely.

“Thank you for taking me,” she said, rather stiffly. “I enjoyed it very much.”

“Did you?” His smile was ironic. “I'm glad. So did I.”

Ruth opened her door and slid out, half expecting him to do the same, but he didn't.

“Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye.”

He inclined his head and then leant across to slam her door before turning in a semi-circle and driving away. She watched his brake lights appear at the entrance to the mews and then the Mini disappeared from view. Taking a deep breath, she opened the front door and went inside, running up the stairs to her room without stopping. When there was a knock at her bedroom door a few minutes later, Ruth was face down on the bed, sobbing her heart out.

The door opened a fraction and Mrs. Lawson's kindly face appeared. “Miss Ruth?” she said wonderingly. “Why, miss, whatever's the matter?”

Ruth lifted her head reluctantly. “Nothing's the matter,” she denied chokingly. “Oh, please, Mrs. Lawson, go away and leave me alone …”

If Mrs. Lawson informed Ruth's father that she had come back from lunch in a rather distressed state, he was tactful enough not to say anything, and Ruth was glad. By dinner time she had composed herself again, and the very last thing she wanted was to be reminded of the afternoon.