Green Lightning

His ill-chosen words brought her back from the brink of self-pity, and dragging together what little confidence she had left, she faced him bravely. ‘It’ll take a better man than you, Rupert Heathcliffe!’ she declared courageously, and tearing herself out of his grasp, she ran the rest of the distance to the kitchen door. There was a back staircase that led from the kitchen to the upper floors of the house, and ignoring Cook’s startled face, Helen took it. She doubted Heath would follow her, and she was right; but she didn’t stop until the door of her room was closed securely behind her.

Now she got up from the stool and surveyed her domain with troubled eyes. It was more than three hours since she had had that confrontation with Heath, and she was dreading the prospect of joining him and Angela Patterson for dinner. Mrs Gittens had brought her this news, tapping tentatively at Helen’s door and clucking her tongue reprovingly when she saw Helen’s tearful face.

‘You should have known better,’ she declared, tidying up the clothes Helen had left strewn across the soft pink carpet, and shaking her head at the silk wrapper which was all the girl was wearing. ‘You’d better get some clothes on. Your uncle’s sent me to tell you he expects you to join him for dinner this evening. He wants you to meet the young lady who arrived this afternoon.’

‘I have met her,’ muttered Helen sulkily, sitting crosslegged on her bed, but Mrs Gittens only gave her an old-fashioned look.

‘From what I hear, you refused to speak courteously to the young woman,’ she responded drily. ‘And if you don’t want Heath coming up here and dragging you down by the hair, I’d suggest you made a little effort to be civil.’

Helen sighed now, running the tips of her fingers across the quilted damask covering the wide bed. She supposed she would have to change into something suitable for the evening, but how she wished she dared ignore the summons. The idea of eating dinner in Angela Patterson’s company was not appealing, and whatever Heath said, she would never forgive him for speaking to her the way he had.

Her room at Matlock Edge overlooked the side and back of the house. Away to her right, the wooded slopes of Jacob’s Hollow cast long shadows as the evening sank into dusk, and bats had started their wild erratic swooping between the trees. Below her, at the back of the house, were the tennis lawns and swimming pool, the trellises that hid the changing cabins from view bright with creamy yellow roses.

The room itself was spacious, and the furnishings matched their surroundings—long fitted wardrobes, a square dressing table, with leaved mirrors, and a huge bed, big enough to accommodate half a dozen people.

Helen remembered how lost and frightened she had felt when Heath first deposited her in that bed. But he had always been able to soothe her baby fears away. She knew he had stayed with her many nights, nights when she had awakened screaming from a terrifying nightmare to find he was there to comfort and reassure her. Later, when he had returned to his own room, she had missed his calming influence, but she had always known he was just along the corridor, and she could always go to him if she was frightened.

His mother had objected, of course. Mrs Heathcliffe had still been living at Matlock Edge in those days. Her husband, Heath’s father, had died suddenly when Heath was only nineteen, and he had left university to come and handle his father’s affairs. Heath had been twenty-one when Helen came to live with him and his mother, and Mrs Heathcliffe had lost no opportunity to deride his reckless decision.

‘It’s not as if the child’s a blood relative!’ she had argued. ‘People will talk, Rupert!’

His mother was one of the few people who still called him Rupert, but her pleas had been to no avail. Heath had been adamant. Helen’s father had had no living relatives, and Heath and his mother were the only people able to claim a relationship with the child, the only people between Helen and a life in Council care.

Scrubbing fiercely at the unwanted dampness of her cheeks, Helen slid back the doors of the fitted wardrobes and surveyed the rack of clothes. Thank goodness Mrs Heathcliffe didn’t live with them any more, she thought fervently. Heath’s mother had never approved of her son’s decision, and had lost no opportunity to try and make the girl regret that she had been brought to Matlock Edge.

As the years went by, Helen learned to ignore the petty slights, the studied insults, the painful jabs in the ribs Mrs Heathcliffe used to administer if she was sure her son was out of the room, and eventually, when she was ten, Heath’s mother had taken herself off to live in Manchester. She had an apartment there, and Heath visited her dutifully every month, but Helen’s continued existence had caused a rift between them that was difficult to breach. Even so, Mrs Heathcliffe was not unhappy in Manchester. She played golf and bridge, and she took regular trips abroad for her health, or so she said, but privately Helen thought it suited her to let Heath feel she had been hurt by his loyalty to the child, as she had always dubbed her. He was so much more generous that way.

The clothes confronting her did not inspire any enthusiasm. Helen much preferred jeans, or slacks of any kind, to the more feminine items in her wardrobe, and in consequence, the clothes she possessed were mostly out of date. She so seldom ate dinner with Heath these days, she had taken to having her evening meal brought up to her room, preferring to curl up in front of the portable television to facing a lonely hour in the morning room. On those occasions when she did join Heath for dinner, she had generally worn a blouse and skirt, but somehow she knew Angela Patterson would not appear at dinner dressed so prosaically.

On impulse, she pulled out one of the party dresses she had worn less than two years ago. A flouncy thing, made of some synthetic fibre, it had not suited her even then, but after wearing school uniform all day, it had seemed a pleasant relief. Now, however, she saw it for what it was: a puerile attempt to make a gauche adolescent into a soignée adult, and she grimaced at her own taste in choosing it.

Sighing, she allowed her hand to brush lightly along the row of garments. What else did she have? she asked herself unhappily. If she had asked Heath for new clothes, no doubt he would have bought them for her, but she had been too busy showing off on her motorcycle to realise that proving herself as a woman was more important than aping Heath’s abilities. It was too late now. She had to wear something from this collection, and if she didn’t hurry up, Heath would have something else to get angry about.

A quick shower freshened her body, and rummaging in her drawer for clean panties, she returned to her appraisal of the wardrobe. If she wore any of these she would be a laughing-stock, she thought, pulling off a flimsy flowered nylon, which had crushed her breasts in such a way it was practically indecent. She would have to wear a blouse and skirt, as before, and hope that Angela Patterson did not appear in something too dissimilar.

She was fumbling with the buttons of her blouse when the door opened behind her, and expecting Mrs Gittens, she turned with an appealing grimace. ‘I know, I know,’ she was beginning, ‘but I can’t seem to get these buttons fastened—–’ and then she broke off abruptly as Heath let himself into the room.

He had changed for dinner, into a lightweight dark brown suit that complemented the darkness of his skin and the silvery lightness of his hair. It clung to his lean frame with loving elegance, accentuating the supple lines of his body and the powerful length of his legs.

‘Oh!’

Helen turned sharply when she saw who it was, bending her head deliberately to concentrate on her task. But not before she had noticed, with some relief, that he was no longer glaring angrily at her.

‘Here, let me,’ he offered briefly, coming behind her, so that for a moment their reflections mingled in the lamplit illumination of the dressing table mirrors.

‘No. I mean—you can’t,’ muttered Helen, more thumbs than fingers now with him watching her, and growing impatient, he laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her round to face him.

‘Why can’t I?’ he demanded, brushing her clumsy hands aside and deftly inserting buttons into holes. But she noticed that when his fingers accidentally touched her breast he withdrew his hand immediately, turning his eyes away from the sudden tautness of its crest.

He left her then, walking across the room half impatiently, as if unwilling to say what must be said. But finally he turned and faced her, and a little of the anger he had exhibited earlier was back there in the agate hardness of his eyes.

‘Look,’ he said at last, ‘I guess we were both a little reckless this afternoon. I spoke—hastily, I admit it. I’m not saying it wasn’t warranted. It was. But—well,’ he thrust one hand to the back of his neck, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you the way I did.’

Helen’s lips trembled, and she turned her back on him again to unfasten the strip of leather holding the end of her braid in place. ‘Who says you hurt me?’ she asked, her voice annoyingly unsteady, and Heath uttered a muffled oath before striding back to where she was standing.

‘Mrs Gittens told me you’d been crying,’ he essayed quietly.

‘Oh—Mrs Gittens!’ Helen tugged fiercely at the hair she was releasing from the braid.

‘Yes, Mrs Gittens,’ agreed Heath, once more putting her hands aside and taking over. He allowed the thick silky hair to slide sensuously through his fingers. ‘I suppose I was speaking out of turn. You’ll be eighteen next year. Old enough to get married, if you want to. Certainly too old for me to object if you choose to allow young Ormerod to kiss you.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ Helen tore her hair out of his grasp and reached for her brush. For a moment, she had thought he was regretting his anger over her treatment of Miss Patterson. Instead, he was actually condoning the way Miles had treated her! ‘I’m not interested in “young Ormerod”, as you call him!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t patronise me, Heath. You’re not my father!’

‘Maybe not. But I am old enough to be so,’ he retorted, his own tone responding to the sharpness of hers. ‘Anyway, as it seems obvious you don’t desire my forgiveness, I’ll go, and allow you to complete your toilette.’

The trace of mockery in his words was not lost on Helen, and she longed to say something to wipe that look of smugness from his face. But it would not do to antagonise him yet again, particularly with the prospect of the evening looming ahead of her like a visit to the dentist.

So instead, she said: ‘Thank you,’ and allowed him to walk to the door before adding in an undertone: ‘I’m glad you’re not still cross with me, Heath.’

‘I don’t remember saying I wasn’t,’ he retorted, his mouth twisting in acknowledgement of her counteraction. ‘I just want you to know I’m not indifferent to the fact that you’re growing up.’

Helen turned, her hair curling irrepressibly about her shoulders, her face suddenly alight with sudden hope. ‘Do you think so?’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed flatly. ‘You make me feel quite old,’ and before she could respond, he had let himself out of the room.

Dinner was just as awful as Helen had anticipated.

They ate in the family dining room, which was one of the smaller rooms at Matlock Edge, with a circular dining table that dated from the eighteenth century. In daylight, the dining room looked out over the patio at the back of the house, but tonight the lamps were lit, and only the urns of flowers that flanked the french windows were illuminated from inside.

The dining room was panelled in oak, with delicately-carved clusters of rosebuds decorating the wood. The ceiling was high and moulded, and although there was a crystal and bronze chandelier suspended over the dining table, they mostly ate by lamp or candlelight, on those occasions when Heath had company.

As Helen had expected, Angela Patterson was present at the dinner table, sleek and self-satisfied in an ice-blue chiffon creation that left a good deal of her shoulders bare. She was not tanned, as Helen was tanned, from days spent almost exclusively outdoors. Her skin was white, whiter than any skin Helen had ever seen before, and smooth as alabaster, and just as soft.

In her white blouse and dark blue pleated skirt, Helen felt as if she was wearing school uniform again, and she guessed Miss Patterson was enjoying the evident contrast between them. It made her wish she had worn the floral nylon after all. At least then Heath would have been forced to notice her. With her burgeoning young body bursting from every seam, he could hardly have failed to do so.

It soon became obvious that Angela Patterson had made good use of the time Helen had spent sulking in her room. She and Heath were already on the best of terms, and Helen wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Miss Patterson had called him Rupert. But she didn’t. She addressed him as Mr Heathcliffe, though she spoke his name with a certain air of intimacy, and the conversation between them was relaxed and easy, as if they had known one another for years, instead of just hours.

‘How fortunate for me that I went to Matt Hodge’s party,’ Heath remarked, while Helen was making an effort to swallow the mouthful of lamb she had been chewing for the past three minutes. ‘He and I are not exactly friends, more business associates, and it was only because I wanted to speak to him about a certain export order that I went along.’

‘It was fortunate for me, too,’ responded Angela Patterson eagerly. ‘I mean, I didn’t know what I was going to do. The rent on my apartment was due, and as you know, my qualifications don’t exactly equip me for any ordinary job.’

‘What are your qualifications, Miss Patterson?’ Helen interspersed politely, ignoring Heath’s sudden intake of breath, and the older girl uttered a tolerant laugh.

‘Oh, I’m afraid, like you, I was brought up expecting not to have to work. Mr father was a successful author, of technical books, you understand—–’ this for Heath’s benefit, Helen was sure—‘but when he died, the death duties were crippling. I’m afraid I was left almost destitute, my only accomplishments to dress well and look pretty!’

She turned helpless eyes on Heath as she said this, and Helen wanted to curl up with embarrassment. Dear heaven, she thought, did Angela really think she could get away with that? Surely no one could expect to make such a statement without being laughed out of sight. But apparently Heath had accepted it, for, as Helen was gazing at her incredulously, he went on:

‘The ideal accomplishments so far as I’m concerned. I suppose I am to blame for allowing Helen to persuade me that she was happy here at Matlock, doing nothing but race that noisy machine of hers. It’s time she began to look like my niece, not to mention act like it. I’m beginning to believe my mother was not so far wrong when she said I was letting her grow up like a gipsy.’