Anne Mather - The Longest Pleasure

Helen’s hand came up and struck his cheek almost without her volition. The first realisation of what she had done came with the stinging pain in her palm, and she looked down at her hand half-incredulously before transferring her disbelieving attention to the reddening weals on his face.

‘I——’ she began, but she was not allowed to finish what she had been going to say. She thought she had been about to apologise, but afterwards she was never actually sure. What happened next wiped all coherent thought from her brain, and by the time he released her, her head was spinning so badly it was an effort to even keep her feet.

She remembered Rafe reaching for her, and she remembered lifting her arms to protect herself. She was sure he was going to retaliate and she was half prepared for him to hit her, but he didn’t. Instead, he jerked her towards him, clamping her shaking body to the muscled strength of his, and fastening his mouth to hers with grim determination.

‘Is this what you want?’ he snarled, and she felt a hot moist pressure forcing its way between her lips and her teeth and into her mouth. It was his tongue, and she almost gagged when he thrust it back towards her throat in an ugly parody of sexual possession. ‘You should have told me!’ he taunted, and her skirt rode up to her hips as he forced his leg between her thighs. ‘Sandra said this was what you wanted, but I didn’t believe her!’

‘God! I—don’t!’ she choked, dragging her mouth from his with a supreme effort, and trying to turn her head away. But it was useless. He was so much bigger and stronger than she was, and she couldn’t escape his hand behind her head, forcing her face back to his. His mouth was devouring her, possessing her lips with a feverish urgency, making her senses swim beneath a torrent of brutal adult emotion. She hated him for hurting her; she fought his rough passion all the way; and yet, in some remote corner of her mind, she sensed he despised himself for touching her as much as she did, and for that she knew a reluctant feeling of compassion. She would never forgive him; but she could pity him.

He let go of her as suddenly as he had grabbed her. So suddenly, in fact, that Helen’s legs would not support her. She sagged down weakly on to the grass, her head turned instinctively away from him, and she was not aware that he had left her until the silence told her so. Only then did she realise how much she was shaking; only then did she feel the tears on her cheeks and taste her own blood in her mouth. She felt bruised and abused, her girlish fantasies torn apart by a savage storm of reality. But no one— no one —least of all her grandmother, would ever hear of this from her lips …

‘TELEPHONE, Helen!’

At the summons, the slim dark girl who had been working on a painting in the storeroom at the back of the shop came obediently to the door. ‘For me?’

‘For you,’ agreed Melanie Forster, holding out the phone. ‘Not your tame viscount though, darling. It is a man, but not one I recognise, actually.’

‘A man?’

Helen wiped her hands on the cloth she had been using to clean the painting as a frown furrowed her forehead. She couldn’t imagine any man who might be calling her at work that Melanie wouldn’t recognise, and just for a moment a frisson of alarm curled up her spine.

Then, impatient at her fears, she reached for the receiver. ‘Helen Michaels,’ she said briefly. ‘You wanted to speak to me?’

‘Yes.’ She knew a moment’s relief that the male voice was as unfamiliar to her as it had been to her friend, but the respite was short-lived. ‘I have a telegram for you, Miss Michaels. From Castle Howarth in Wiltshire. It reads: Lady Elizabeth Sinclair died this morning at 4 a.m. Funeral, Friday, 11 a.m. Fleming.’

Helen realised afterwards that she must have fainted, for when she opened her eyes she was lying on a chaise-longue in the back room, with Mr Stubbs, their handyman-cum-caretaker, leaning anxiously over her and Melanie wringing her hands just behind him.

‘Oh, thank heaven!’ Melanie’s relief was audible as her friend’s lids flickered, and Helen blinked a little bewilderedly as she took in her surroundings.

‘There you are, Miss Forster. I told you it was most probably the fumes of that chemical that did it,’ declared Mr Stubbs, stepping back and shifting the electric fan heater nearer. He straightened his rotund little body and nodded. ‘No need to call the doctor; no need at all. What Miss Michaels needs is a hot cup of tea. Like an ice-box in here, it is. I’m away to make a pot now.’

‘Thank you, Stubbs.’ Melanie cast a resigned glance after the busy little man, and then came to squat down beside the couch. ‘So—how are you feeling, love? I hope you realise you scared me half to death. In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never known you to pass out!”

A spasm of pain crossed Helen’s face briefly as the reasons for why she must be lying on the couch came back in a deluge. But she managed to control her emotions for Melanie’s sake and, sniffing, she said a little shakily: ‘I don’t make a habit of it.’

‘Thank God!’ Melanie shook her head. ‘But you’re all right now? Who was it for Pete’s sake?’

Helen managed to lever herself up against the buttoned velvet upholstery, and then said quietly: ‘It was a telegram. My grandmother died this morning.’

‘She did?’ Melanie moved to perch on the edge of the cushion. ‘That would be the old lady who lived in Wiltshire, right? But surely, you must have known that she was ill.’

‘No——’ Helen moistened her lips. ‘At least—well, she is— was —quite old. But I didn’t realise she—she——’

‘It happens to all of us, sooner or later,’ said Melanie consolingly, and then grimaced. ‘Oh, that sounds awful, but you know what I mean. Still, I can see it’s been quite a shock for you. Even though you didn’t see much of her, did you?’

‘Don’t remind me,’ groaned Helen, turning her face against the buttoned velvet as a wave of guilt swept over her. It was more than a year since she had seen her grandmother, and then only briefly, during one of the old lady’s infrequent trips to see her solicitor in the capital. And it was almost three years since Helen had last visited Castle Howarth. Her life in London filled her days to the exclusion of anything else, and besides, since Tom Fleming died she had had no desire to visit the estate and meet his successor.

Which reminded her of the telegram once again. Rafe Fleming’s doing, certainly, she guessed. There was no doubt that he was the ‘Fleming’ behind that cruel little missive. No one but he would have used such bald words to convey so distressing a message.

Mr Stubbs’ reappearance with a tray of tea prevented Melanie from asking any further questions and Helen was grateful. At the moment, she was having the greatest difficulty in coming to terms with the fact that Lady Elizabeth was dead, and her throat constricted tightly at the knowledge that no one—not even Paget—had troubled to call her before it was too late.