Follow Thy Desire

Barry barely glanced at his niece, but Helen studied the portrait with avid curiosity, trying to gauge something of the girl’s personality from that small likeness.

‘She doesn’t look much like you,’ remarked Susan, with her usual lack of tact, but Morgan merely smiled.

‘Oh, she is, I assure you,’ he said, pushing the picture back into his wallet. ‘There are more ways than one of resembling someone.’

‘Do you mean she’s brainy?’ demanded Susan, rolling her eyes in mock derision, but her mother reproved her, saying:

‘I expect Morgan means that she likes the same things he does,’ which aroused a contemptuous snort from Barry.

‘What are we supposed to infer from that?’ he enquired unpleasantly. ‘When she can’t even be bothered to turn up for the wedding?’

‘Barry!’ Mr Fox halted the conversation there, and Helen felt as embarrassed as if she had been a party to her fiancé’s outburst. ‘I think we’re all suffering from a bout of pre-wedding nerves, and as I’m sure Morgan will be glad to get to bed, I suggest you take Helen home now, hmm?’

Barry looked as if he would have liked to have said more, but his mother’s disapproval, added to that of his stepfather, kept him silent. Morgan said nothing and it was left to Susan to break the ominous silence that had fallen.

‘Can I come round tomorrow and try on those sandals you said I could borrow?’ she asked lightly, as if nothing untoward had occurred, and Helen rose to her feet, nodding her relief.

‘Of course,’ she said, as Morgan and his father rose, too. ‘It’s Sunday, so come whenever you like.’

‘All right.’ Susan grinned cheekily up at her older brother. ‘You can take me, if you like. You’d like to meet Helen’s parents, wouldn’t you?’

Barry’s face was reddening again, and Helen urged him towards the door. But outside, with her goodnights said and the irritation of Morgan’s polite farewell colouring her tones, she exclaimed:

‘What on earth did you think you were doing? Speaking to your stepbrother like that! Embarrassing everybody!’

‘Embarrassing you, you mean, don’t you?’ retorted Barry moodily, leaving her to close the passenger side door herself and striding angrily around the bonnet. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you!’

‘What’s got into me?’ she echoed, as he pulled away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve been spoiling for an argument ever since we got into the car to come here.’

‘Oh, have I?’

‘Yes, you have. And it’s purely jealousy, that’s all. You’re jealous because your stepfather is making a fuss of his own son. His own son! Don’t you think you owe it to him to be polite, whatever your private feelings might be?’

Barry did not answer and they covered the test of the distance between Banklands and her parents’ house in silence. But after he had brought the car to a halt and Helen made to get out, Barry’s hand on her arm stopped her, and in the light from the street lamps she saw his scowl of contrition.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered grudgingly, and she knew it was up to her to make the next move.

‘So am I,’ she murmured, and his lips brushed lightly across her cheek and found hers.

For several minutes there again was silence in the car, but this time of a much more satisfying sort. Nevertheless, when Barry’s hand probed beneath the fastening of her jacket, she gently pushed him away and thrust open the car door.

‘We’ve waited this long,’ she reminded him lightly, and he bowed his head in reluctant assent.

‘Okay,’ he said, leaning across to close the door again. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night? You haven’t forgotten we’re going to Peter and Liz’s, have you?’

‘Tomorrow evening?’ She shook her head. ‘Of course not. What time will you pick me up? About seven?’

‘About then,’ he agreed, and with a smile he left her, the Triumph reversing away noisily into the quiet road.

If Helen’s parents had expected a long discussion about Morgan Fox’s arrival, they were disappointed. After the briefest of explanations about the dinner party and why she should be home by half past ten, which was early for her, Helen excused herself and went to bed, glad that Jennifer was not around to add her voice to the proceedings.

But in her room she found that sleep was very far from her thoughts. For the first time, she really began to contemplate the implications of the step she was taking, and to wonder whether Barry would have recovered his good humour so willingly if they had already been man and wife. She had never really considered that Barry might be a jealous person. In truth, she had never ever given him cause to display such feelings, content as always just to be with him, to know herself cared for and protected, the envy of many of her friends. Barry was everything any girl could ever wish for—tall and dark and handsome, with a good job with good prospects, and no financial problems. He had always treated her with gentleness, respecting her rather old-fashioned notions of chastity, realising that if he tried to force her to do something she would regret, he would lose her loyalty and trust.

This evening he had displayed an entirely unknown facet of his character, and why? Because she had shown a quite natural interest in his stepbrother. What had she done, after all? Spoken to Morgan at dinner, and shared a perfectly innocent joke with him. It was ludicrous for Barry to get angry over something so innocent. Good heavens, if she had been found in Morgan’s arms he could not have reacted more positively, short of actual physical combat, and the injustice of his behaviour brought a wave of resentment sweeping over her.

Untying the waistband of her skirt, she tore it off impatiently, tossing it carelessly on to the bed. She should have said more, she fumed, unlacing her jerkin. So why hadn’t she? The answer was as unpalatable as the question, and she pulled her silk wrapper over her shoulders with fingers that were not quite steady. The truth was that deep inside her she knew Barry had had some justification for his suspicions. Not that he could have known that, of course. Her feelings had been well hidden. But she couldn’t deny that Morgan Fox disturbed her in a way that she had never experienced before, and that knowledge had left her feeling raw and exposed. She remembered once, some years ago, a girl she used to go to school with had asked her whether she had ever lost control with a boy. Helen had regarded the girl rather pityingly and replied that she didn’t believe in all that nonsense; that people said things like that to excuse their own inadequacies. The girl had retorted tartly that if that was what she thought, she must be either stupid or frigid, and Helen had never forgiven her for throwing her remarks back in her face. Tonight, however, she felt strangely vulnerable to that memory, as if she stood on the brink of some certain revelation that would put paid once and for all to her sane and ordered existence.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_9a0aafde-89cd-5ba2-ba95-a03c3ee73c7d)

HELEN was in the garden, helping her father to clear away all the leaves and broken twigs left by the winds of the past week when Jennifer came charging out to tell them that Susan had arrived accompanied by her stepbrother.

‘Barry?’ exclaimed Helen, looking up, and then coloured as Morgan Fox came round the corner of the house.

‘No. Me,’ he announced wryly, as Helen’s father walked to meet him. ‘How do you do? You must be Mr Raynor.’

‘That’s right.’ Helen’s father shook hands, removing his gardening glove to do so. ‘Nice to meet you. How are you finding England after all this time? Cold, I expect’

Morgan’s mouth lifted slightly. ‘Cold, indeed,’ he agreed, as Mr Raynor passed him, indicating that he should follow him into the house, and then he looked back at Helen: ‘Good morning. Are we interrupting anything?’

‘Oh, no. No.’ Helen shook her head quickly, noticing how much better his cream denim pants fitted him, the thigh-length sheepskin jacket accentuating the width of his shoulders. ‘We—er—we were just tidying up the garden. It’s been quite windy this last week and everywhere is covered with leaves.’

‘Hmm, autumn,’ drawled Morgan, making no effort to follow her father through the conservatory and into the warm kitchen. ‘I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to smell woodsmoke on frosty air.’

Helen shifted awkwardly, conscious that her brown chunky sweater had holes at the elbows, and that her jeans after several washings clung to her like a second skin. ‘I expect you’d miss the heat, though, wouldn’t you?’ she ventured, licking her lips. ‘I mean—you must regard Africa as your home.’

His lips twisted then, and his eyes when he looked at her were cold and calculating. ‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed flatly. ‘There’s no chance of me coming back to live in England, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

‘I—I’m not afraid!’ Helen was indignant. ‘I only meant—–’

‘I know what you meant. I’ve had it from Barry since I got here. I forfeited my right to live at Banklands when I married Pam and went to live in Osweba!’

‘Did he say that?’ Helen was aghast.

‘In so many words.’ Morgan sighed, and then made a dismissing gesture. ‘Oh, forget it. I have. As it happens, I have no desire to come back to England. My—work is in Nrubi. But there’s still Andrea…’

‘Your daughter.’

‘Yes.’ He glanced towards the house. ‘We’d better be going in or your parents are going to suspect we’re conducting some illicit liaison.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Helen quietly, and then on impulse she added: ‘Why did you mention your daughter? Does she want to come to England? I thought—when she didn’t come with you…’

‘I know. And you’re right. She didn’t want to come, but not because she’s indifferent. She—well, she’s very shy.’

‘But we—the Foxes, that is—they’re her family!’

‘I know that.’ Morgan’s eyes had lost their calculating gleam, but they were still cool as he changed the subject, saying: ‘I’ve asked Barry what you would like for a wedding present, and he says I should ask you. What about it? Have you any ideas?’

Helen scuffed her booted toe in the soil at the edge of the path. ‘Oh, I—anything you like.’