Anne Mather - Lure Of Eagles

‘Oh, yes?’ Mark was sceptical. ‘And who will do the housework? You? You’ve never picked up a duster in your life.’

‘That’s not true.’ Domine pursed her lips. ‘I’ve looked after my own room for years.’

‘Big deal.’ Mark hunched his shoulders. ‘That means you only have half a dozen other bedrooms to look after. Oh, and three reception rooms, of course, and the dining room, and the kitchen——’

‘All right,’ Domine broke in on him then. ‘All right, so we need some help in the house. Why shouldn’t we be able to afford it, if we both had jobs?’

Mark sniffed. ‘I do not intend taking some grubby little job, just to keep this place in cleaning fluid!’

‘Mark!’

‘I’m sorry, but I’m not.’ He was adamant. ‘All the same, something has to be done.’ He frowned. ‘I wonder what Lisel is like. Really like, I mean. Not this sainted creature Aguilar talks about.’

Domine moved her shoulders uncertainly. ‘She can’t be like Uncle Edward, or Grandpa wouldn’t have had a good word for her.’

‘She can’t be like me, you mean?’

Domine half smiled. ‘No one could be like you.’

‘Thanks!’

‘Oh, Mark …’ She got up from the chair and moved slowly across the room. ‘Couldn’t you try——’

‘Don’t say it,’ he interposed quickly. ‘Accept it. Griffons is going to have to be sold.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. Unless I can work something out.’

‘Like what?’ Domine was sceptical now.

‘I don’t know.’ Mark looked thoughtful. ‘If only I could get to meet Lisel! If only I could talk to her. I bet she’s not as virginal as Aguilar makes her out to be.’

‘Mark!’ Domine stared at him impatiently. ‘Can’t you ever consider practical solutions? It doesn’t really matter what Lisel is like, so far as I’m concerned. I have no intention of asking her for money.’

‘Not for money, no,’ remarked Mark slowly. ‘But a job, perhaps. A legal adviser. How’s that? A sort of—right-hand man.’

‘Señor Aguilar will never allow that.’

‘But Señor Aguilar won’t be here, will he? Lisel will.’

‘Did Señor Aguilar say that?’

‘Well—no.’ Mark was evasive. ‘But she’s got to come to England, hasn’t she? I mean, how else is she going to run the business?’

Domine raised her dark eyebrows. ‘I suppose she could appoint a—legal adviser, as you say.’

Mark jack-knifed off the couch, a white line appearing round his lips. ‘You don’t think— no ! She couldn’t.’

‘Couldn’t what?’

‘Appoint Aguilar as—her legal adviser?’

Domine hesitated. ‘Well, I shouldn’t think so. I mean, he probably has an occupation of his own. In Lima, or where-ever he lives.’

‘Then why has she sent him over here?’

‘Mark, don’t ask me, ask him! I don’t know, do I? He says he came because Lisel was too shocked by the news to make the journey, that naturally, for someone like her, making a trip to England needed to be thought about, considered——’

‘I know what he said,’ snapped Mark irritably. ‘But is anybody that unworldly? In this day and age?’

‘I expect so,’ said Domine. ‘After all, she does live in a rural area. Why shouldn’t she be shy and retiring?’

‘Because, if she’s Uncle Edward’s daughter, she would be more like him!’

‘Why? You’re not at all like Daddy.’

‘No. But you are.’

‘Oh, Mark …’ Domine was tired. ‘I don’t want to talk about this any more tonight. I want to go to bed.’ She walked towards the door. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Shortly,’ replied Mark, resuming his position on the couch. ‘You go on up. See you in the morning.’

‘Yes.’ Domine was reluctant to leave him, but she really had no choice. When Mark was in this mood, he was better left alone. ‘Goodnight, then.’

‘Goodnight.’

With the doors closed behind him, Domine mounted the stairs slowly, absorbing the peace and beauty of the building. The staircase had been hand-carved by a master of his craft, and the chandelier which illuminated the square hall below was a brilliant example of cut glass. The portrait at the head of the stairs was Grandpa’s with a smaller one of Grandmama and her two sons further along the gallery, but Domine’s favourite was the painting of her horse, Minstrel, that Grandpa had bought her for her fourteenth birthday. She supposed he would have to be sold, too, and she made a mental note to speak to Mrs Grant at the riding school, to see if she would take him. He was a gentle creature, and she would rather he was sold to someone she knew so that she might see him again from time to time. And then she remembered what Mark had said about selling Griffons, and a lump came unbidden to her throat. If the house was sold, she didn’t think she would be able to bear living in the neighbourhood, so it didn’t really matter who bought Minstrel.

Her bedroom was a quiet sanctuary, and she closed the door wearily, leaning back against it as she surveyed her domain. It was a spacious room, made the more so by the use of light colours and pale wood. Her bed was wide and comfortable, its sprigged coverlet a hangover from the days of her childhood. The old-fashioned wardrobes she had once had had been replaced by a modern vanity unit, and there was a walnut desk where she used to do her homework, and a stereo music centre, with speakers set up near the ceiling. She had always been given everything she wanted, but she realised, too, how much she had taken for granted.

Moving away from the door, she tugged off her belt and then, on impulse, surveyed herself in the long mirrors. Her outfit was not so outrageous. At least the smock was not transparent, and she had worn a strapless bra. She dreaded to think what he might have thought of her in tight jeans and a skinny-knit sweater, and then decided she would like the opportunity to find out. It might be quite amusing to shock a man like him, to show him exactly how far she dared go. What had she to lose, after all? After tomorrow she might never see him again. No, tomorrow evening she would wear the black satin cat-suit she had been saving for a suitable occasion. Then let him look at her with that supercilious, holier-than-thou expression!

Of course, by the next day her indignation had waned. The cold light of a February morning was sobering, and the more immediate anxiety of deciding her future dispelled her aggression of the night before. Mr Holland, her grandfather’s solicitor, had asked her to come and see him at ten o’clock, and in the activity of preparing for the appointment she had little time to think of childish retaliations. She dressed in a brown suede pants suit, with leather fringing at the cuffs and hem, and was gathering up her handbag preparatory to leaving the house when the telephone rang.

As she was right beside it, she answered it, picking up the receiver automatically and giving their number.

‘I would like to speak to Miss Temple, please,’ said the deep accented tones which had haunted her dreams, and she was tempted to drop the receiver there and then, and get Mrs Radcliffe to tell him that she had already left. But before she could formulate any defence, he added: ‘That is Miss Temple, is it not? How fortunate that I caught you.’

‘Caught me?’ Domine spoke faintly. ‘I—don’t understand …’

‘You have an appointment with Holland this morning, do you not?’ he suggested. ‘I hoped to reach you before you left for his office.’

‘Oh?’ Domine was gathering herself with difficulty, holding the phone with both hands to disguise the tremor of her wrist. ‘Why?’

‘Because I wanted to invite you to have lunch with me,’ he replied smoothly. ‘And because I also wanted to ask you not to make any decisions about your future until you have spoken to me.’