The Longest Pleasure

Helen sighed. ‘I know that,’ she said, somewhat tersely. What did Miss Paget think she was? An idiot? ‘I—just wondered why you had invited him to join us this evening. I had—hoped we might have an opportunity to talk.’

Miss Paget looked from Rafe’s knowing face to Helen’s, and then back to Rafe again. ‘I’m afraid you don’t understand, Helen,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘When—when I said Rafe lived here, I didn’t mean—on the estate.’

‘You didn’t?’

Helen was confused, but before she could begin to comprehend what Miss Paget was telling her, Rafe intervened: ‘What Paget is struggling—unsuccessfully—to convey is that I live here, in the house,’ he told her. ‘The old lady had one of the guest rooms and the maid’s room adjoining it turned into a self-contained suite. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this is where I always eat. When I’m at home.’

Helen stared at him. ‘You—live—here?’ She couldn’t believe it.

‘For the past two years,’ said Miss Paget, evidently relieved that the onus had been taken from her. ‘It was what your grandmother wanted. She liked having a man about the place again.’

Helen said nothing, but her expression was eloquent of her feelings. So, he had actually insinuated himself into the house, had he? While she had been working to make a go of the shop, he had been working his way ever further into her grandmother’s confidence. Heavens, no wonder he had had the nerve to go through her grandmother’s correspondence looking for her address! He was probably used to taking advantage of his position! But not for much longer …

‘You look pale, Helen,’ he remarked now, and her nails drew blood in her palms. God, how she wanted to wipe that smug expression from his face. And she would—just as soon as her grandmother’s body was out of the house.

She didn’t remember how she got through dinner. Mrs Pride served the food herself, and Helen knew she must have said something to her, but she didn’t remember what. The meal—a savoury minestrone soup, followed by a joint of beef—was as appetising as Mrs Pride’s meals usually were, but Helen was too choked to even taste what she was eating. She swallowed little, pushing the food around her plate so that it would look as if she had eaten more than she had. But she was aware that Rafe was not deceived, and even Miss Paget looked a little anxiously at her plate, as if she was in some way to blame for Helen’s lack of appetite.

Refusing any dessert, Helen made her escape as soon as the meal was over, saying she would take her coffee in the sitting room. ‘If that’s all right with you,’ she remarked to Rafe, as she got up from the table, her eyes glittering with malevolent sarcasm, and he made a careless movement of his shoulders.

‘Why not?’ he drawled, making no attempt to deny that he had the right to choose, and her blood boiled.

‘Perhaps you’d join me, Miss Paget,’ she invited tensely, turning to the other occupant of the table. ‘I would be grateful.’

Miss Paget looked flustered, but as Helen had suspected, she had no convenient excuse. ‘Well—if you’d like me to,’ she mumbled, gathering the folds of her shawl about her shoulders, and Helen inclined her head. ‘I would.’

It was Helen’s first visit to her grandmother’s sitting room since she got back, and it was heart-achingly familiar. A piece of the crochet-work Nan used to enjoy was still lying on the arm of the chair she always sat in, and her spectacles were propped on the mantelpiece. It would have been so easy to give in to the emotional demands of the situation, but Helen could not permit herself that indulgence. If she allowed her feelings to get the better of her, she would never be able to meet Rafe on his own terms. Somehow, until this was over, she had to keep her feelings under control and, to do that, she had to know more about Rafe’s influence over her grandmother.

Miss Paget came into the sitting room with evident reluctance, and Helen made an effort to put her at her ease. ‘I believe it’s still snowing,’ she said, nodding towards the curtained windows. ‘What a pity we didn’t have a white Christmas.’

Miss Paget gave a birdlike nod, and seated herself in the chair Helen indicated. ‘We had a white New Year,’ she offered, holding out her hands towards the logs smouldering in the hearth. ‘Was it cold in London?’

‘Oh——’ Helen spread her hands in a rueful gesture. ‘It’s always cold in London.’ She hesitated a moment, and then determinedly seated herself in her grandmother’s chair. ‘So—how are you, Paget? You look tired.’

‘I’m all right.’ Miss Paget’s eyes flickered away from her companion. ‘Are you?’

‘As well as can be expected, as they say,’ Helen remarked lightly. And then, realising something more was required of her, she added: ‘I’ve been thinking of getting married, as a matter of——’

‘Married!’ Miss Paget’s agitation was totally unexpected. ‘Oh, no! You mustn’t!’

‘Mustn’t?’ Helen echoed the word disbelievingly before she realised Miss Paget was referring to the present situation. She hurriedly reassured her. ‘No,’ she said gently, leaning towards the old lady and touching her sleeve. ‘Not now, of course. Don’t upset yourself, Paget. Adam—my fiancé—he quite understands that what’s happened is bound to delay things.’ But did he, she wondered doubtfully. That particular aspect of the situation had never been discussed.

Miss Paget did not look too convinced and, changing the subject, Helen brought the conversation back to her original theme: ‘I suppose this has been an upsetting time for you. Nan’s death; it must have been quite a shock.’

‘It was.’ Miss Paget bent her head. ‘She always maintained she was so well. But Dr Heron says she’d had angina for years.’

‘Angina?’ Now it was Helen’s turn to be shocked. ‘And you never knew?’

‘None of us did,’ declared Miss Paget sadly. ‘Except maybe Rafe——’

‘Rafe!’ Helen was staggered.

‘I suspect she confided in him,’ the old lady continued. ‘They were very close towards the end.’

Mrs Pride’s intrusion with their coffee gave Helen time to gather her scattered senses. And as she did so, she realised this was the opportunity she had been hoping for. It was hard not to succumb to the impulse to tell Miss Paget how she really felt about Rafe’s influence over her grandmother, but she held her tongue. There would be time enough to explode that particular bombshell. For the present, it was better if Miss Paget thought her interest was innocent.

‘I think you said Rafe had lived in the house for the past two years, didn’t you?’ Helen ventured casually when they were alone again and, as she had anticipated, Miss Paget was not unwilling to answer questions of a more personal nature.

‘Almost,’ she replied, watching Helen attending to the coffee cups. ‘Ever since his mother died.’

Helen lifted her head. ‘Mrs Fleming’s dead!’ She had hardly known the woman, but she was surprised all the same.

‘Yes, it was a tragedy,’ agreed her companion ruefully. ‘Poor Rafe! To lose both his parents so quickly after one another. Of course, Mrs Fleming had had cancer for years, you know. I think everyone was surprised when Tom went first.’

Helen pushed the old lady’s coffee towards her, not trusting herself to hand the cup to her. In spite of her determination not to be so, she was nervous, and she had no desire for Miss Paget to notice the weakness.

‘So, that was when he moved in here?’ she prompted, refusing to feel any pity for him. No doubt it had worked out very well from his point of view, enabling him to prey on an old woman’s sympathy.

‘Your grandmother insisted,’ Miss Paget declared, lifting her cup and nodding over the rim. ‘And it’s been much better, having a man about the place; permanently, I mean. Two old women living alone: we used to be very vulnerable.’

‘Here?’ Helen couldn’t prevent the exclamation, but she hurriedly amended her tone. ‘I—wouldn’t have thought you were in any danger here.’

‘We did have that attempted break-in,’ Miss Paget reminded her sharply. ‘And one’s always reading about muggings in the newspapers. Besides, your grandmother liked having Rafe around. Ever since that business with Antonia Markham, I think she liked to know what he was doing.’

Helen smoothed her palms over her knees. ‘Antonia—Markham?’ she murmured, feeling an unwelcome stab of an emotion she refused to identify. ‘Who was—is—Antonia Markham?’

‘You remember the Markhams, don’t you?’ Miss Paget seemed to see nothing wrong in the question, even though it was hardly relevant. ‘They own High Tor. Antonia’s a couple of years older than you, but don’t you remember? You used to go to school with her brother.’

‘Oh—Julian Markham! Yes!’ Helen remembered him now. ‘We were in kindergarten together.’

‘That’s right.’ Miss Paget finished her coffee and set down her cup. ‘I knew you couldn’t have forgotten them. I believe you and your grandmother were invited to Antonia’s wedding. Only—of course—you were in London, so Lady Elizabeth … didn’t go.’ Just for a moment, Miss Paget’s confiding tones faltered. Evidently, she had just remembered to whom she was speaking, and Helen hurriedly urged her on:

‘Antonia’s married?’ she ventured, wondering at her own sense of relief, but the old lady ruefully shook her head.

‘She was,’ she murmured. ‘But it only lasted a couple of years. About four years ago, she came home again. That was when she took a fancy to young Rafe.’

Helen felt as if she was moving into ever deeper waters, but something was compelling her to go on. She wanted to know everything about him, she consoled her conscience, and ignored the small voice inside that insisted this was prying.

‘Thank heavens it wasn’t serious.’ To her relief, Miss Paget went on without any prompting. Apparently her desire to gossip far outweighed any scruples she might have, and Helen guessed she missed her grandmother’s sympathetic ear. ‘I was sure Rafe had more sense than to get involved with a girl like that,’ she added with a little snort. ‘Not that you can ever be entirely certain, of course. It was worrying while it lasted, I can tell you. Lady Elizabeth was very relieved when Miss Markham took herself back to London.’

Helen absorbed this information silently for a moment, and then she remarked guardedly: ‘He’s never been married then?’

‘Who? Rafe?’ Miss Paget gave her a curious look. ‘No. No, of course not!’

Why ‘Of course not!’ Helen wondered, but that was one question even she was too discreet to ask. Still, to her knowledge, Rafe had a perfectly normal interest in the opposite sex and, just because he had once assaulted her, was no reason to assume he had any other dubious proclivities.

‘My grandmother—trusted him, didn’t she?’ she tendered after a moment, realising she had now reached the most difficult part of the discussion. ‘I mean—she must have done, mustn’t she? To invite him to live in her house.’

There was a prolonged silence and then, just as Helen was deciding she would have to look elsewhere for her answers, Miss Paget cleared her throat. ‘Of course she trusted him,’ she said, and there was a note of accusation in her voice now, which had not been there before. ‘Who else would she turn to? After you—abandoned her!’