Anne Mather - Duelling Fire

‘You really don’t know much about Harriet, do you?’ he suggested now, as the car ran between Elizabethan cottages flanking a village green. It was very pretty and picturesque, and for a moment Sara was diverted by the unexpected charm of her surroundings. But then, a challenging glance from eyes of a curious shade of light grey caused an uneasy pang of apprehension to sweep over her, and her fingers curled painfully into her palms.

‘I know enough,’ she declared, irritated that he should think he could speak to her in this way. ‘I probably know her as well as you do. Er—how long have you been working for Miss Ferrars?’

‘Working?’ He gave her a mocking look. ‘Let me see. Would you believe—ten years?’

‘Ten years!’ Sara was silenced. If he had been working for Aunt Harriet for ten years, then he probably knew she had only seen her aunt once in that time. It had been on her twelfth birthday. Her father had been covering a military take-over in some remote South American dictatorship, and she had been so pleased that someone had arrived to prove she had not been completely forgotten. Aunt Harriet had taken her out for tea, and over lemonade and cream cakes she had been the recipient of all Sara’s thwarted confidences. Remembering this now, realising that this man had been working for her aunt at that time, she inwardly cringed at her own naïvety. Had Aunt Harriet relayed her confidences to him? Had her girlish chatter been the source of some amusement to them? The idea was humiliating. But then another thought struck her. Aunt Harriet had driven herself that day. She remembered distinctly. She had been driving a rather ordinary saloon car, and surely if she had had a chauffeur he would have been with her.

‘I didn’t know Aunt Harriet had a chauffeur,’ she tendered now, realising that if this man did work for her aunt, then it was no doubt foolish to antagonise him until she saw for herself how the situation developed, and then turned bright red when he burst out laughing.

‘What makes you think I’m the chauffeur?’ he exclaimed, when he had sobered. ‘Do I look like a chauffeur? I’m sorry, I’ll have to take stock of the way I dress if I do.’

Sara pressed her lips together. ‘I naturally assumed— —’

‘What did you naturally assume, I wonder?’ Dark lashes narrowed the grey irises. ‘Why should you think I was Harriet’s chauffeur? What did she tell you?’

‘Nothing about you, anyway,’ retorted Sara hotly. ‘And as to why I thought you were the chauffeur, I don’t see in what other capacity you could serve my aunt.’

‘Don’t you? Don’t you really?’ His lips twisted. ‘Well, don’t worry about it. All will be explained in the fullness of time.’

Sara shook her head. ‘I wish you’d tell me. I don’t want to make any more mistakes.’ She held up her head. ‘I didn’t realise there would be anyone else—what I mean is—I understood I was to be her companion. I thought she lived alone.’

‘Harriet? Live alone?’ He took his eyes from the road to stare at her incredulously. ‘My God, you really don’t know her, do you?’

Sara’s colour refused to subside. ‘Perhaps if you were a little less scathing, and a little more helpful,’ she ventured.

‘What? And spoil Harriet’s fun? Oh, no.’ He shook his head derisively. ‘Well, cool it. We’re almost there.’

‘Are we?’

Sara’s apprehensions increased as they left the village behind to plough farther into the rolling countryside. Acres of wooded hillside gave on to luscious green pastures, grazed by herds of brown and white cattle. Across the fields she could see the spire of a church, and the thatched roofs of other cottages, and here and there a white-painted farmhouse, looking totally at home in the landscape. It was a rural scene, a placid scene—but Sara’s thoughts were anything but placid as she neared her destination.

‘Where—where does Miss Ferrars live?’ she asked, her troubled thoughts urging her into speech. ‘The address was just given as Knight’s Ferry, Buford, Wiltshire. What is Knight’s Ferry? A village? Or the name of her house?’

‘That’s Knight’s Ferry,’ declared her companion flatly, as the road mounted a slight rise and they looked down on the turrets of a sprawling country mansion. ‘Didn’t you know? Harriet’s father was a wealthy man, and she was his only offspring.’

‘No!’ Sara could not believe it. She turned bewildered eyes in his direction. ‘I thought—I mean, I assumed—–’

‘—that she was some lonely old lady, in need of your care and protection?’ he finished for her drily. ‘Nothing could be farther from the truth.’

Sara shook her head and turned to look at the house again, but they were on the downward slope, and tall hedges obscured the view. All she could see was another house in the distance, standing on a knoll, which made it visible from the road. A larger house, she estimated, backed by an imposing sweep of firs, and with acres of parkland falling away to where she guessed her aunt’s house was situated.

She caught her breath, and her companion, misinterpreting her reaction, said cynically: ‘Yes, impressive, isn’t it? Linden Court.’ He paused. ‘Lord Hadley’s residence.’

‘Is it?’ Sara’s voice revealed her uncertainty, and as if taking pity on her, his eyes darkened with unexpected sympathy.

‘Poor Sara,’ he said, and her indignation at his casual use of her Christian name was superseded by other, more disturbing emotions. ‘You really don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for, do you? Just don’t let Harriet eat you alive!’

ANY response Sara might have made to this remark was thwarted by the sudden eruption of a horse and rider into the road in front of them. It all happened so quickly, Sara was full of admiration for her companion’s swift reactions as he stood on his brakes. The Mercedes swerved only slightly, the tyres squealing on the gravelly surface, and they halted abruptly only a few feet from the animal’s rearing hooves.

‘Bloody fool!’ Jude muttered savagely, thrusting open his door, and as he did so the rider swung down from his sweating mount to confront him.

Sara found that she was shaking, too, but she watched with some trepidation as the two men faced one another with apparent recognition. They were not at all alike, she acknowledged inconsequently. The man Jude was so dark and aggressive, the other man mousey-fair and conciliatory. It was obvious in the way he held up his hand in mitigation, and the disarming smile of apology that split his gentler features.

‘I’m most awfully sorry, Jude,’ Sara heard him say contritely, soothing the fretful horse with his hand on its muzzle. ‘I had no idea you’d be coming along here right at this moment. Juniper wanted to take the hedge, and dammit, I just let him.’

Jude shook his head impatiently, but he was evidently mollified by the other man’s attitude. ‘You’ll kill yourself one of these days, Rupert,’ he declared roughly. ‘This may be a quiet road, but it’s not a private one, and I don’t think your father would approve of being presented with a bill for a new Mercedes, do you?’

‘Heavens, no!’ the young man grimaced. ‘Pater and I are not exactly on the best of terms as it is, right now, and Juniper breaking a leg would be the last straw!’

‘Yes, well—–’ Jude’s expression was not incomprehensible, Sara thought, bearing in mind that the horse was not his concern. ‘So long as we understand one another, hmm? I wouldn’t want Harriet upset.’

‘Lord, no,’ the young man chuckled, and watching them Sara wondered what kind of a relationship two such opposites could have. That they knew one another very well was obvious. What was less obvious was what they might have in common.