Mr Fox was in the textile trade, and while some years ago his firm had suffered a recession, in recent months things had begun to improve. The introduction of chemicals into the wool fibre to enable it to be machine-washed without shrinking had rallied an already increasing demand for woollen products, and Helen knew Barry expected a generous donation towards the deposit on their house when they decided to buy. This mercenary streak in her fiancé was the only fault she abhorred, but she was sure that once they were married he would stop depending on his stepfather for every large outlay he had to make.
Banklands was a nice house, Helen thought. Built of Yorkshire stone, with square walls and a solid appearance, it had become almost a second home to her in recent months, and Mrs Fox already treated her like a second daughter.
It was Barry’s mother who met them when they entered the panelled hall of the house, looking much younger than her forty-seven years in a simple, but expensively-styled, gown of apricot silk. She exchanged a warm smile with her son, offered her perfumed cheek to his fiancée, and then said: ‘Oh, good. I’m glad you’re here. The dinner’s going to be ready a full fifteen minutes before we expected, so if you’d like to go and have a drink I’ll tell Mrs Parsons we’ll be ready at a quarter to.’
Helen removed her jacket and left it on the padded chair at the foot of the stairs, and then walked at Barry’s side across the carpeted floor and into the Foxes’ drawing room. This was the largest room in the house, with the high corniced ceiling of a bygone age. Mr Fox had employed a firm of interior decorators to do the house through just over a year ago, and now the tall walls were hung with gold-figured silk which exactly matched the tapestry work on the olive green sofas that faced one another across the width of the hearth. The thick carpet underfoot was green and gold, too, while the furniture was soft colours, teak and walnut, with an ebony baby grand piano to grace the window embrasure.
Mr Fox was standing on the hearth as they entered, talking to a man who was stretched lazily on one of the sofas, his head resting against the upholstery, his legs extended across the hearth. The man got to his feet politely as Helen and Barry entered the drawing room, and like his father he smiled as they approached.
But there the resemblance ended. Morgan Fox was an inch or two taller than both his father and Barry, and infinitely leaner. His skin, startlingly brown against that of the other men, was stretched tautly across his features, accentuating the hollows in his cheeks and drawing attention to the curious yellowish cast of his eyes. But it was his hair that attracted Helen’s interest—so pale as to appear silver in some lights and such an unusual contrast with such dark skin. His clothes, too, did not fit as snugly as Barry’s, as if he had lost weight recently; yet there was about him an aura of sensuality that required no further propagation. Altogether a disturbing man, Helen thought, shocked by her instantaneous recognition of this.
If she was disturbed by her reactions to Barry’s stepbrother, Morgan at least did not return her feelings. His polite smile of greeting did not reach those peculiar eyes, and almost immediately he turned to Barry, asking him what they would both like to drink.
‘I can manage, thanks,’ retorted Barry offhandedly, and asking Helen if she would like the usual, he went towards the bar which, when closed, was completely concealed behind a row of bookshelves. Presently, however, it stood open, displaying its mirror-lined interior, glittering with an array of bottles and glasses. Judging by the two empty glasses resting on the mantelshelf, Helen guessed that Morgan and his father had been imbibing already, which might account for that air of brooding detachment about him.
To cover the slight moment of embarrassment Barry’s behaviour might have caused, Helen exchanged a look of apology with Mr Fox and then smiled at Morgan. ‘Did you have a good journey?’ she enquired, hoping she sounded more casual than she felt, and was relieved when his father remarked:
‘I was just saying to Morgan how far away Africa always seems, and yet one can fly there in a matter of hours.’
‘Yes,’ Helen nodded. ‘The world’s getting smaller all the time.’ Then, realising her words were trite, she flushed as Morgan Fox’s eyes rested fleetingly upon her.
‘Have you travelled much—Helen?’ he asked in the space that followed, and she quickly made a negative gesture.
‘Oh, no, not really. Not any distance, anyway. Just to Spain—and to France. For holidays, you know. I went to France with the school, actually. Barry went too, as it happened, but he was older than I was and I didn’t know him very well in those days.’
She was chattering, and realising she was, she shut up, offering a look of apology to Barry as he came to rejoin them. He handed Helen a Martini and soda and then, raising his glass to her, took a mouthful of his own gin and tonic.
‘Is it cold out?’ asked Mr Fox, indicating that Helen should take a seat, and she sank down on to one of the low sofas as Barry said: ‘Not as cold as it was earlier. The wind’s dropped.’
‘I expect it still feels pretty cold to you, Morgan, doesn’t it?’ his father commented wryly, and his son moved his shoulders in a dismissing gesture.
‘The nights can be damn cold where we live,’ he replied evenly, turning to lift his glass from the shelf. ‘Can I get you another drink, Dad? Or is that your limit?’
Mr Fox agreed to have another Scotch, and he accompanied his son to the bar as Barry dropped down on to the sofa beside Helen. ‘Drink all right?’ he murmured, the coolness he had exhibited towards his stepfather and Morgan evaporating as he looked at her, and she nodded.
‘How—er—how long is Morgan staying?’ she asked in a low voice, hoping to take the tension out of the situation, but Barry’s lips tightened as she mentioned his stepbrother’s name.
‘I don’t know. Ten days—a fortnight, maybe. He’ll be gone by the time we get back from our honeymoon, thank God!’
‘Why?’ Helen stared at him aghast, and his pale cheeks darkened with sudden colour.
‘Oh, I don’t know. He just rubs me up the wrong way, I suppose. Coming back here. Acting like he Owned the place. Offering me a drink!’
Helen smoothed the pad of her thumb round the rim of her glass. ‘Well, this is his home, too,’ she observed reasonably, and her fiancé gave her an impatient look.
‘It’s not his home. His home is in Nrubi, wherever that might be. It’s a pity he didn’t stay there.’
Helen sighed, and then Susan Fox erupted into the room with her transistor, slim and attractive in purple pants and an embroidered smock. ‘Hi, Helen,’ she greeted her brother’s fiancée lightly over the din of the pop programme being broadcast, and then went to join her father and Morgan by the bar. ‘Can I have a Martini?’ they heard her asking, before Morgan said something in response that made them all laugh.
Beside Helen, Barry stiffened, and she felt a reluctant sense of sympathy for him. He was jealous, she realised regretfully. For so long he had commanded Mr Fox’s undivided attention that he had come to regard it as his right. Morgan’s blood relationship to his stepfather was a thorn in his side, but it was only a temporary thing. Why couldn’t he see that? wondered Helen uneasily, herself aware that Morgan Fox was not a man one could ignore.
She was seated beside Morgan at dinner. In the spacious dining room they were seated at the square mahogany table which Mrs Parsons had decorated with slender silver rose holders, and the candles in the silver candelabrum gave off a delicate perfume as they ate. There was minestrone and roast beef, accompanied by real Yorkshire pudding, and a steamed pudding to follow.
‘Real north country fare,’ said Mr Fox with satisfaction, as Mrs Parsons brought in the apple dumpling, and Morgan gave him a wry smile.
‘You’re making me wish I’d never left home,’ he remarked, wiping his mouth with his napkin, and Mrs Fox regarded him reprovingly.
‘You look as though you could do with some