‘Come with me,’ he ordered Helen grimly, starting back towards the house, and with a little gesture of condolence to Miles, she had no choice but to obey.
PREPARING for dinner that evening, Helen found herself going over those stormy minutes with Heath again and again, trying to discover how it was everything had gone so wrong. If only he had not come upon her and Miles like that; if only she had not stumbled into explanations he had not asked for; if only she had acted a little more maturely, she might not be feeling so miserable now.
Sighing, she sank down on to the padded stool in front of her dressing table and surveyed her reflection with brooding disgust. Tears always left her looking all blotched and puffy around her eyes, and she had cried for an hour after Heath had let her go. Even her nose looked as if she was going down with a cold, and she doubted if even a heavy make-up could disguise what she had been doing.
Resting her elbows on the polished wood, she sniffed dejectedly. Why was it that she always came out of their arguments feeling like a victim, while Heath could dismiss her one minute and talk casually to Mrs Gittens the next? It wasn’t fair! She wasn’t a child any longer. But Heath persisted in treating her like one, and she always seemed to end up proving he was right.
It wasn’t as if she had got angry with him for treating Miles like he had. On the contrary, if she was honest she would admit that she had been more than a little relieved when Heath had appeared, even if his entrance had precipitated another fight. Miles’ behaviour had warned her of the dangers inherent in their relationship, particularly as she was not interested in him that way, and she thought she ought to be grateful to Heath for that.
Nevertheless, her uncle had not been prepared to forgive and forget. The minute they were out of earshot, he had turned his contemptuous gaze upon her, and his belittling appraisal had done nothing to restore Helen’s self-confidence.
‘How long?’ he demanded, his green eyes raking her face with grim intent. ‘How long has that oaf been allowed to touch you?’
‘He didn’t—he hasn’t—I mean, it wasn’t what you thought, Heath,’ Helen started unhappily. ‘It was just—well, when I brought the Land Rover back, he—he sympathised with me.’ She tucked her chin against her chest. ‘I—I suppose I asked for it.’
Heath halted abruptly by the gate leading into the orchard. ‘What do you mean? Had you had an accident in the Land Rover? I’ve warned you about driving too fast before—–’
‘I wasn’t driving too fast,’ protested Helen helplessly. ‘And I didn’t have a crash.’
‘Why would he need to sympathise with you, then?’ Heath grated, his lean face taut with impatience. ‘What’s happened, Helen? What have you done? You might as well tell me, before Mrs Gittens does.’
Helen lifted her face unwillingly. Comprehension was dawning, and she didn’t like what she was thinking. ‘You mean—you mean—you haven’t seen Mrs Gittens?’
‘No. I drove straight to the garage. Why?’
‘Oh, God!’ Helen’s shoulders sagged. ‘But—I thought you knew. I thought that was why you were so mad—–’
‘I knew? I knew what?’ snapped Heath irritably, grasping her by the shoulders. ‘For heaven’s sake, Helen, get to the point. What is it I’m supposed to know?’
Helen shook her head. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Remember what?’
‘Where—where you asked me to go this afternoon?’
‘Where I asked you to go?’ declared Heath blankly. ‘No, damn you, I don’t—yes! Hell, yes, of course I do!’ He stared down into her troubled face with growing comprehension. ‘The Land Rover!’ he snarled. ‘You went to meet Angela Patterson in the Land Rover!’ His fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh of her upper arms. ‘Lord, I’d forgotten all about her!’
That was reassuring, at least, thought Helen tremulously, but her reassurance was shortlived. Her words had driven every trace of warmth out of Heath’s face, and the hard green eyes were like lasers boring into her.
‘You little bitch!’ he swore violently. ‘You self-willed little hellion! You deserve a damn good hiding, and one of these days I’m going to give it to you!’
His ill-chosen words brought her back from the brink of self-pity, and dragging together what little confidence she had left, she faced him bravely. ‘It’ll take a better man than you, Rupert Heathcliffe!’ she declared courageously, and tearing herself out of his grasp, she ran the rest of the distance to the kitchen door. There was a back staircase that led from the kitchen to the upper floors of the house, and ignoring Cook’s startled face, Helen took it. She doubted Heath would follow her, and she was right; but she didn’t stop until the door of her room was closed securely behind her.
Now she got up from the stool and surveyed her domain with troubled eyes. It was more than three hours since she had had that confrontation with Heath, and she was dreading the prospect of joining him and Angela Patterson for dinner. Mrs Gittens had brought her this news, tapping tentatively at Helen’s door and clucking her tongue reprovingly when she saw Helen’s tearful face.
‘You should have known better,’ she declared, tidying up the clothes Helen had left strewn across the soft pink carpet, and shaking her head at the silk wrapper which was all the girl was wearing. ‘You’d better get some clothes on. Your uncle’s sent me to tell you he expects you to join him for dinner this evening. He wants you to meet the young lady who arrived this afternoon.’
‘I have met her,’ muttered Helen sulkily, sitting crosslegged on her bed, but Mrs Gittens only gave her an old-fashioned look.
‘From what I hear, you refused to speak courteously to the young woman,’ she responded drily. ‘And if you don’t want Heath coming up here and dragging you down by the hair, I’d suggest you made a little effort to be civil.’
Helen sighed now, running the tips of her fingers across the quilted damask covering the wide bed. She supposed she would have to change into something suitable for the evening, but how she wished she dared ignore the summons. The idea of eating dinner in Angela Patterson’s company was not appealing, and whatever Heath said, she would never forgive him for speaking to her the way he had.
Her room at Matlock Edge overlooked the side and back of the house. Away to her right, the wooded slopes of Jacob’s Hollow cast long shadows as the evening sank into dusk, and bats had started their wild erratic swooping between the trees. Below her, at the back of the house, were the tennis lawns and swimming pool, the trellises that hid the changing cabins from view bright with creamy yellow roses.
The room itself was spacious, and the furnishings matched their surroundings—long fitted wardrobes, a square dressing table, with leaved mirrors, and a huge bed, big enough to accommodate half a dozen people.
Helen remembered how lost and frightened she had felt when Heath first deposited her in that bed. But he had always been able to soothe her baby fears away. She knew he had stayed with her many nights, nights when she had awakened screaming from a terrifying nightmare to find he was there to comfort and reassure her. Later, when he had returned to his own room, she had missed his calming influence, but she had always known he was just along the corridor, and she could always go to him if she was frightened.
His mother had objected, of course. Mrs Heathcliffe had still been living at Matlock Edge in those days. Her husband, Heath’s father, had died suddenly when Heath was only nineteen, and he had left university to come and handle his father’s affairs. Heath had been twenty-one when Helen came to live with him and his mother, and Mrs Heathcliffe had lost no opportunity to deride his reckless decision.
‘It’s