‘You intend to marry him?’ Rowan asked dazedly.
Antonia shrugged. ‘I haven’t been able to work out yet whether he’s the marrying kind. But it makes very little difference these days. And there’s always been a—rapport between Carne and me. There are too many other distractions in London, but up here in the back of beyond he shouldn’t be too difficult to manipulate.’
‘I see,’ Rowan managed.
Antonia shot her a sideways glance. ‘I hope you do, sweetie. I’m sure you’ll know when and how to be diplomatic, and I’m relying on you to keep Sybilla out of the way too.’
The gradient was increasing sharply all the time, and there were frequent bends, so Antonia had to concentrate all her attention on her driving while Rowan sat silently beside her. So much, she told herself wryly, for being tempted into the realms of fantasy. From now on she would reserve her romantic dreams for her stories where they belonged.
What had she been hoping for anyway? A scene like something from an old Hollywood film where Carne would have seen behind the façade of the skinny sixteen-year-old and murmured, ‘My God, but you’re beautiful?’ And even if he had done, what then? She might be three years older than he had been led to believe, but even so she was a lifetime behind him in experience and sophistication. When he wanted a woman, it was obvious that his choice would be someone like Antonia, voluptuous and more than capable of catering to all of a man’s needs. Well, not quite all. Rowan’s sense of the ridiculous came to her rescue. Antonia couldn’t keep house or cook, but what would that matter in the light of her other eminently desirable attributes? She had called herself a fool, but she was worse than a fool, she was pitiful. And here she was in a situation where she was going to be hurt—a situation entirely of her own making. She could have stood out against Antonia. After all, if her stepmother’s plans came to fruition she would be in no need of the allowance from the Winslow estate. And Rowan herself could have found a grant to support her through her degree course. Other students survived; she could have been one of them. And now she had burned her boats behind her, it seemed. Once this strange summer was over she would have to pick up the threads of her life and Start over again. It was a bleak prospect, and it was no comfort to realise that she had brought it all upon herself.
‘What a road!’ Antonia’s derisive comment focussed her attention on the immediate present. ‘It’s more like a track. And do you see that notice?’
Rowan did indeed. It informed travellers quite unequivocally that the road was unsuitable for traffic in winter conditions.
Antonia shuddered. ‘Thank God I intend to be well away from here before the winter!’
‘But you said …’
‘None of my plans include settling down in this backwater,’ Antonia said dismissively. ‘Why, Carne doesn’t even spend that much time here himself.’ She changed down again. ‘Where the devil is this house?’
‘It’s right ahead of us,’ Rowan said almost laconically. No other house, she supposed, would have six-foot stone gateposts each surmounted by a carved stone raven.
Antonia turned the car cautiously into the gateway and up a steep gravelled drive, bordered on each side by a rocky wall supporting a mass of rhododendron bushes just coming into bud.
They seemed to be literally on the side of the mountain and still climbing, and as they turned the last curving bend, it was obvious why. Raven’s Crag seemed to have been built as an extension of the rock itself. It was starkly modern in concept and yet seemed to blend in better with its surroundings than a more traditional design might have done.
Above them, a large stone platform jutted out, supporting a covered terrace with glass roof and walls, with a view, Rowan realised, of the whole valley beneath. Beside this, a flight of stone steps led upwards to an entrance at present hidden from view at the side of the house. Below the terrace, and facing them, a row of wide workmanlike doors concealed garages and stores.
‘What a marvellous place!’ Rowan got out and stood drinking in her surroundings.
‘For mountain goats,’ Antonia said sourly as she joined her. ‘I hope there’s someone to carry our cases up those steps.’
Rowan looked about her. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone about at all,’ she said doubtfully. ‘Shall I go up and ring?’
Antonia leaned back against the car and lit one of the despised cigarettes.
‘What a splendid idea,’ she approved rather mockingly. ‘I can see you’re going to be a tower of strength, my dear.’
Rowan went up the steps two at a time, glad of the opportunity to stretch her legs after the hours of travelling. At the top, a massive door confronted her. There didn’t seem to be a bell, but there was a massive wrought iron door-knocker in the shape of a raven’s beaked head and Rowan used it without hesitation. The noise seemed to echo and re-echo through the house, and was followed by a long and deep silence.
It seemed an eternity before Rowan heard a shuffling footstep approaching. The door swung open and she was confronted by a small slender woman with very white hair. Her face was lined and she leaned heavily on a stick, but her eyes were blue and clear.
‘The door,’ she said in a quiet precise voice, ‘was not locked. You were expected.’ She looked Rowan up and down, missing nothing from the brown hair parted in the middle today and tied into two bunches to the denim-clad legs. ‘You must be the child Rowan,’ she commented. ‘Where is Antonia? Why is she not with you?’
‘She’s down by the garages. We were wondering whether there was anyone to help with the luggage,’ Rowan said rather helplessly.
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘There’s myself.’
‘That isn’t exactly what I meant,’ Rowan said uncomfortably.
‘Then I’m afraid you must manage as best you can,’ the other one said with finality. ‘There’s no one else. Now you must forgive me if I don’t await your return, but I find it difficult to stand for any length of time. I shall be in the drawing room—the door on the right. Perhaps you and Antonia would care to join me for tea.’ She gave Rowan a cool rather remote smile and limped away.
Rowan returned back down the steps rather more slowly. Antonia looked up as she approached and threw away her half-smoked cigarette with an impatient gesture.
‘You’ve taken your time,’ she said. ‘Where is everyone?’
Rowan lifted one shoulder. ‘There’s no one—except for an elderly woman who I gather is Sybilla.’
‘No one at all?’ Antonia’s lips parted disbelievingly. ‘But where’s Carne? He must be around somewhere.’
Rowan turned towards the boot of the car.’ Apparently not,’ she said shortly. ‘If you’ll give me the keys I’ll start getting the stuff out. There’s some tea waiting for us.’
‘Tea?’ Antonia gave a strident laugh. ‘I’ll need something stronger than tea after a day like this!’
She picked the smallest case and started up the steps with it, leaving Rowan to follow with the rest of the luggage as best she could. Rowan was panting by the time she reached the top again. The front door was standing open and she walked through and dumped the cases and the typewriter down on the gleaming honey-coloured parquet floor with a feeling of relief.
She straightened herself, moving her shoulders ruefully, and took stock of her surroundings. It was a large square hall, and very light. When she looked up, Rowan realised that she could see right up to the roof of the house, which at this point seemed to consist of a massive skylight. The upper floors were reached by a wrought iron spiral staircase. A table stood against one wall, its antique