‘So pleased to meet you, Miss Shelley.’
Rupert Hadley had put his hand through the window, and with a feeling of disbelief Sara offered her own. His hand, despite his hard riding, was quite soft, and she guessed the leather gauntlets he wore protected his skin from any abrasion.
‘How do you do?’ she responded politely, not quite knowing how she ought to address him, and his lips parted broadly to reveal uneven white teeth.
‘Are you staying with Miss Ferrars?’ he enquired, making no move to go, but before Sara could reply, Jude interposed for her.
‘Sara is Harriet’s niece,’ he declared, his grey eyes challenging her to contradict him. ‘She’s—er—she’s come to stay with us for a while. Her father died recently, and Harriet’s her only relation.’
‘I see.’ Rupert Hadley was evidently intrigued by the combination of silvery-tipped lashes and long green eyes, but as if he was in charge of the situation, Jude chose to break up the gathering.
‘We must be going,’ he said, walking round the car to slide in beside Sara again, and she stiffened instinctively when he leant half across her to make his farewells to the other man. ‘See you later, Rupert,’ he remarked, and Sara was aware again of a certain proprietorial note in his voice. But the brushing of his shoulder against her arm and the lean hardness of his thigh pressed briefly against hers during the exchange robbed her of any other speculations.
Rupert Hadley watched them go, a rather stolid figure in his tweed hacking jacket and fawn breeches. He didn’t wear a hat, Sara noticed, and his fair hair lifted slightly in the breeze as they passed. But it was not this that caused her to look back over her shoulder. It was the sudden uncanny feeling that she had seen his face before, and she was still giving this consideration when they turned between stone gateposts and negotiated the narrow drive which led to the forecourt in front of the house.
Knight’s Ferry had probably originally gained its name from the fact that the River Rowan glinted in the late afternoon sunlight only a dozen yards from its doors. Sara guessed there had once been a ferry to cross the wide stretch of calm water, but no doubt time, and the erection of bridges, had robbed it of any usage. Still, she could not deny a surge of pleasure as she looked at the mellowed old building, with its ivy-covered walls and leaded dormer windows, the turrets she had seen earlier like some medieval reminder of the days when fortification was a way of life. The house belonged to no particular period that she could identify, and she surmised it had been added to over the years. Now it sprawled like a matron gone to seed, large and comfortable, but lacking in elegance.
Sara was admiring the gardens when the door to the house opened, and a woman appeared at the head of a short flight of steps. Immediately, her momentary sense of reprieve was over, and she turned her attention to where Jude was unloading her suitcases, silently begging for his intercession.
‘Sara! Sara, my child! How good it is to see you after all this time!’ Harriet Ferrars’ words were warming and disarming, and Sara’s gaze was drawn back to her as the woman advanced towards her.
Her memories of Aunt Harriet were vague, and in her brief experience people generally aged quicker than memory allowed. That was why, although she knew the woman could not be much more than fifty, she had expected someone who looked middle-aged and matronly, a little like the house, she mused, struck by the simple comparison.
But Harriet Ferrars did not look middle-aged or matronly. Indeed, if Sara had not known the truth, she would have estimated her age to be somewhere in her thirties, and that only because of her carriage and maturity. Her face and figure were those of a much younger woman. Her skin was virtually unlined, and the two-piece suit she was wearing, in dusky blue silk jersey, accentuated the slender line of her hips and the shapely length of her legs. Her make-up was faultless, her hair, a rich chestnut brown, worn in a loose casual style. She was little like the girl’s image of her, and Sara knew a moment’s trepidation for the things that Jude had told her.
Then she was embraced with genuine affection, the kisses that were delivered on both cheeks leaving a delicate fragrance of Eau de Lancome behind them. ‘Sara,’ Harriet said again, drawing back and shaking her head. ‘My dear, you are simply delightful!’
Sara coloured, as much from the knowledge that Jude was watching them and could hear every word as from any embarrassment at the effusive comment.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, forcing a smile. And then: ‘It’s good to see you again, too, Aunt Harriet.’
‘Yes.’ Harriet held her at arm’s length for a moment, surveying her with a thoroughness Sara found quite disconcerting. But after a moment her aunt released her, and tucked a confiding hand through her arm.
‘I was so sorry to hear about your father, my dear,’ she said, broaching the subject Sara least wanted to talk about. ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you. That’s why I sent for you. One needs relatives at a time like this.’
‘Shall I put the cases in the rose room?’ asked Jude, interrupting them, and Harriet glanced round at him with a barely perceptible tightening of her lips.
‘You know as well as I do that that’s the room I’ve chosen for Sara,’ she declared, an edge to her voice, and Jude shrugged his shoulders rather mockingly as he bent to pick up the luggage.
‘Come along, dear.’ Harriet patted Sara’s hand and urged her towards the house. ‘It’s still cold, despite the sunshine. But I think you’ll find you’ll be comfortable here.’
‘I’m sure I shall.’ Sara wanted to say something, some words of gratitude, but it was difficult with Jude’s sardonic presence right behind them, and she waited until they had entered the spacious entrance hall before offering her awkward thanks.
‘My dear, don’t think of it.’ Harriet cast a thoughtful glance at Jude’s back as he strode vigorously up the stairs with two of the cases, and then gestured towards a door across the hall. ‘Come along. We’ll have tea in here. I told Janet to make it, as soon as I heard the car.’
Sara looked about her in some bemusement as they crossed the hall and entered a warm, attractive sitting room. Whereas the hall had been oak-panelled and a little dark, despite the rich red pile of the carpet, the room Harriet showed her into was light and airy, with long french doors that opened on to the garden at the back of the house. A low stone balustrade surrounded a flagged terrace, which in turn gave on to the gardens, and beyond them, the river.
The room itself was decorated in a bright, cheerful style, with chintz-covered armchairs and a long sofa. There were cabinets against the walls, housing a variety of china and ornaments, a kneehole desk liberally covered with papers, and bookshelves flanking the open fireplace, where a real log fire spluttered in the grate.
Harriet closed the door and then looked happily at her guest. ‘There now,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this cosy? Come along, take off your coat. I’m sure you won’t need it in here.’
Sara was sure, too. As well as the open fire, there were also radiators, and she guessed the crackling logs were just an attractive adjunct to the real heating system. Smiling, she unfastened the buttons of the warm suede jacket she had worn with corded pants, and revealed the cream woollen jersey she had worn underneath.
Harriet helped her off with her jacket, dropping it carelessly over the back of a chair before gesturing that Sara should take one of the armchairs that faced one another across the hearth. Sara did as she suggested, holding out her cold hands to the blaze, and Harriet came to sit opposite, smiling her satisfaction.
‘So, Sara,’ she said, resting her arms along the arms of the chair, long fingers with painted nails hanging over the end. ‘How was your journey? Not too arduous, I hope. Trains can be so unreliable, and whenever possible I use the car.’
‘It was all right.’ Sara spoke rather nervously. ‘The trains were quite punctual, actually.’
‘But we were not, is that what you’re saying?’ asked