Anne Mather - Duelling Fire

The guard muttered something under his breath, which she suspected had to do with the amount of luggage she was conveying, and then sniffed grudgingly. ‘Well—no harm done,’ he conceded, settling his cap more firmly on his head, and she acknowledged the faint reparation before tackling the trek to the barrier.

The man who had taken the tickets from the half dozen other commuters who had got out at King’s Priory watched without expression as she transferred herself and her luggage to the gate. Then, after he had punched her ticket, he turned away, and Sara was left to make her own arrangements in the departing draught from the train.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much,’ she muttered broodingly to herself, as she stepped through the barrier and surveyed the empty lane beyond. There was no sign of any vehicle, other than a beaten-up wreck occupying the yard behind the stationmaster’s office, and her lips tightened impatiently as she realised she didn’t know what she was going to do.

Evidently, King’s Priory was just a country halt, used for the most part, she suspected, by farmers and the like. There was no pretty village street opening up beyond the station, no taxis, not even a bus stop that she could see, and her heart sank miserably at this unwelcome prospect. Aunt Harriet—or perhaps she should say Miss Ferrars, right now the familiar appellation seemed less than appropriate—had known what time she was due to arrive. Surely she could have ensured there was someone available to meet her, even if it was only a taxi Sara herself would have to pay for.

She sighed, and glanced back at the station. It was quite a pretty halt, she conceded reluctantly. There were anemones and violets growing among the stones that made a kind of rockery at the back of the platform, and tulips still grew between the posts of the signpost, a vivid splash of colour in the chilly air of late afternoon. If only she did not feel quite so alone, she thought with a sudden rush of misery, but she quickly quelled the unworthy feeling as purely one of self-pity.

The welcome sound of a car’s engine rapidly dispelled her dejection. There was no one else waiting, and surely no other train due. The person who was driving the car had to be coming for her.

The car that eventually ground to a halt beside her was not at all the kind of vehicle Sara had expected. Used to the rather sedate tastes of her father’s contemporaries, she had assumed her aunt would drive a Rover or perhaps a Volvo, or some similar kind of comfortable saloon. The sleek red Mercedes that confronted her was of the two-seater sporting variety, and even as she acknowledged this, she saw to her regret that the man levering himself from behind the wheel was far too young to be Harriet Ferrars’ husband— had she had one ! Obviously she had been mistaken in imagining this was her transport, but she couldn’t help the unwilling awareness that the driver was giving her a more than cursory appraisal. Indeed, his interest bordered on the insolent, and Sara turned her long green eyes in his direction, and returned his stare with deliberate arrogance.

He really was quite something, she conceded reluctantly, even while she resented his intrusion into her life. Lean and dark and indolent, with harshly attractive features which were so much more distinctive than mere good looks, he had a lithe sinuous physique that complemented the leather jacket and tight-fitting jeans he was wearing. He was tall, too, though not angularly so, and Sara was not unaware of his powerful shoulders and the hard muscularity of his thighs.

He slammed the car door and came round the bonnet without removing his eyes from hers, and Sara’s gaze faltered in the face of such blatant audacity. Just who the hell did he think he was? she asked herself indignantly, and summoned a freezing hauteur to combat his brazen effrontery.

‘I guess as there’s no one else around, you must be Sara Shelley,’ he remarked, as she was preparing her set-down, and her jaw sagged disbelievingly. ‘Is this all your luggage?’ he added with a wry grimace. ‘Or is the rest coming by carrier?’

Sara gathered herself abruptly. ‘This is all,’ she replied stiffly. ‘Did—did Miss Ferrars send you? I don’t believe she mentioned you.’

‘She wouldn’t.’ The man unlocked the boot and began heaving her cases inside. ‘And sure, it was Harriet who sent me. Belatedly, as you’ll no doubt have gathered.’

He sounded as if he hadn’t wanted to turn up here at all, and Sara could only assume he must be the son of some friend of Aunt Harriet’s. Or perhaps he was another relative, she reflected thoughtfully, then coloured when she realised he had finished stowing the cases and was waiting for her to get into the car.

She was glad she was wearing trousers as she subsided into the passenger seat. At least she didn’t have to worry about keeping her skirt over her knees, although she doubted that her escort was aware of the consideration. Having disposed of the introduction, he seemed indifferent to her feelings. He had neither apologised for being late nor apprised her of his identity, and Sara resented the unspoken assumption that she should be glad that he had come at all.

The Mercedes’ engine fired at the first attempt, and the sleek vehicle nosed its way out of the station yard. There were wild flowers growing in the hedges, and the faint smell of early broom in the air, and determining not to let his attitude disconcert her, Sara made an effort to be polite.

‘How—how is Miss Ferrars?’ she enquired, folding her hands in her lap, and as she did so, she realised how little she really knew of her father’s cousin. She hardly remembered the brief occasions they had met, all of them when she was only a schoolgirl, and more interested in the dolls and icecreams than in the lady who had provided them. The visits Harriet Ferrars had made to Sara’s school had been few and far between, and in the latter years she had not come at all. Her father had excused her on the grounds that ‘Harriet has problems of her own,’ although what those problems were he never specified. And once Sara had left St. Mawgan’s, she realised shamefully, she had never even thought of ‘Aunt’ Harriet—until the letter arrived.

‘She’s okay,’ her companion said now, glancing sideways at her. ‘Just as autocratic as ever. Or don’t you remember anything about those outings you made together?’

Sara moistened her lips. ‘I—remember the cream teas.’

‘Yes.’ The curve of his lips was faintly derisive. ‘I guess you would. Harriet always thought that everything had a price.’

Sara frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He paused. ‘I guess what you want to hear is that she’s looking forward to your arrival. She is.’ Again that mocking twist to his mouth. ‘She has great plans for you.’

Sara gazed at him somewhat resentfully. Exactly what was his relationship to Harriet Ferrars, and why should he speak so disparagingly about someone who obviously trusted him?

‘You haven’t told me your name, Mr—er—–’ she said stiffly, waiting for his insertion, and with a shrug he conceded the point.

‘Jude,’ he offered carelessly. ‘Just Jude. You’ll get used to seeing me around.’

‘Will I?’ Sara could not have been more surprised. Did that mean he worked for Harriet? It must. Yet she had never dreamt Harriet was affluent enough to employ anyone, much less a chauffeur. And yet what else could he be? Though he was so far removed from Sara’s image of a chauffeur, it seemed almost ludicrous. How old was he? she wondered, permitting herself a fleeting assessment: twenty-eight, thirty ? Certainly no more, and surely he was far too familiar for an employee.