Hell Or High Water

‘It’s not my house to sell.’

‘But if it were?’

Helen moved her shoulders helplessly, avoiding those blue eyes which seemed to have the cutting strength of steel. ‘I—I expect I might have to,’ she conceded, and with an exclamation he let her go.

‘But not to me,’ he inferred coldly, and she turned away from him to descend the stairs without giving him a reply.

Several rooms opened off the hall below. The drawing room, the music room, the dining room, the library—Helen did not know which to choose after their contretemps upstairs, and she waited for him to join her before making a decision. Jarret, however, seemed in no hurry to continue, and she had to wait some minutes while he examined the carving on the balustrade.

‘Grinling——’ began Helen reluctantly, only to have him interrupt her words.

‘—Gibbons. Yes, I know,’ he finished sardonically. ‘Only Gibbons died in 1720, so how do you account for that, if the house wasn’t completed until much later?’

Helen’s face flamed. No one had ever questioned the authenticity of the carving before, and it was disconcerting to have him do so. It was true that the likelihood of Gibbons having completed the carving was in some doubt, and her father’s assessment had been that it had probably been a pupil of Gibbons who accomplished the work.

‘I—it’s open to speculation that—that perhaps it was a pupil of Gibbons who completed the carving,’ she admitted. ‘But the style is his, and that’s what’s important.’

‘Is it?’ He descended the final few stairs to stand beside her. ‘A connoisseur might disagree with you.’

Helen tilted her chin, annoyed that she still had to look up to him, despite her five feet six inches. ‘Are you a connoisseur, Mr Manning?’ she enquired as coolly as she could, and the humour in his expression annoyed her almost more than his sarcasm had done.

‘You obviously don’t think so,’ he said, pushing back his hair with lazy fingers, his eyes far too knowing for her peace of mind. ‘Shall we go on?’

As he had already seen the drawing room, Helen opened the doors into the dining room, standing back as he passed her to walk thoughtfully round the well-proportioned room. The panelled window embrasures overlooked the gardens at the side of the house, and attracting as it did the early sun, it provided a warm oasis on colder mornings. It had always been one of Helen’s favourite rooms, and she waited with some reluctance for his verdict. It was an elegant room, the beige walls hung with panels of moiré silk, the carpets, with their distinctive design, brought back many years ago from the Caucasus. Much of the furniture was not original, however, although the dinner service residing in the long serving sideboards was Worcestershire porcelain. Ruched curtains framed long windows, and were matched in the deep blue cushions of the chairs that faced one another across the hearth.

‘Do you use this room often?’ Jarret queried, indicating the damask cloth and silverware which Mrs Hetherington had laid ready for lunch, and Helen hesitated.

‘If—if you mean, do we give many dinner parties nowadays, the answer is no,’ she replied at length, watching him push his hands into the pockets of his pants, unwillingly aware of the strong muscles of his thighs. ‘I—er—the room is used by—by the family most days.’

‘The family?’ He arched his brows.

‘My mother and me.’

‘Ah!’ He nodded his head. ‘I gather you have no brothers or sisters.’

‘No.’

‘And your father’s dead.’

‘Yes.’

Helen resented this interrogation, but she didn’t see how she could refuse to answer him, and with an obvious gesture she stepped back into the hall. It was another few seconds before he joined her, and her features had set in controlled lines. It was as if he was deliberately delaying her, and she wished her mother or Margot would appear and take this unwanted duty from her.

‘The music room,’ she declared shortly, throwing open the white panelled doors that led into a smaller, but equally attractive room. Here, one or two pictures still adorned the walls, portraits mostly, of long-dead Chases, whose likenesses would be of little value to anyone else. The carpet was Chinese, the grand piano reflected the warmth of the bowl of primroses that adorned it, and several pieces of eighteenth century mahogany gleamed with the patina of age. There was a small escritoire, a folding, gate-legged table, and a walnut bracket clock, whose ticking filled the quiet room with a steady rhythm.

‘Do you play the piano—Miss Chase?’ Jarret asked, strolling towards the stringed instrument which dominated one corner of the room.

‘I used to,’ she admitted, her words clipped and unwilling, and with a wry smile he seated himself at the piano and ran his long fingers over the keys.

At once she recognised the melody of a popular tune of the day, mellowed to a lilting refrain that tugged at the heartstrings. Then, just as she was considering making the scathing comment that he was abusing the age of the instrument, he switched to a Chopin prelude, and drew the very soul from the poignant phrase.

His eyes sought hers as he finished with a final sweep of the keys, and feeling obliged to say something, she tried not to sound as if she was envious. ‘You’re very accomplished,’ she averred, glancing meaningfully towards the doors again, and his rueful grin denoted his acknowledgement of how reluctant she had been to compliment him.

‘Faint praise?’ he murmured, as he passed her into the hall, and she closed the doors behind them with a distinctive click.

The library was a cooler room, having the benefit of the north light, but seldom welcoming the sun. Nevertheless, the book-lined walls were warming, and the desk set squarely before the windows was an ideal place for anyone to work.

‘Did your father use this room?’ Jarret asked casually, wandering over to the desk and running his fingers over its tooled leather surface.

‘Yes.’

As always, Helen was non-committal, but this time Jarret persisted. ‘What did he do—your father?’ he asked, propping himself against the side of the desk and folding his arms. ‘A country gentleman, was he? The local squire? Or did he have to work for his living like the rest of us?’

Helen was shocked into speech. ‘I don’t think my father’s affairs are anything to do with you, Mr Manning,’ she declared, preparing to make her exit, but his next words arrested her.

‘As I see it, there has to be some reason why you dislike me so much, Miss Chase,’ he observed pleasantly. ‘I’d like to know what it is, that’s all.’

‘And—and you think learning about my father’s occupation will help you?’ she exclaimed.

‘Let’s say I’m interested in your background, as you’re obviously interested in mine.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on …’ He rested his chin on his chest, looking up at her through the thick length of his lashes. ‘You think I’m coarse and uneducated, thoroughly unsuitable to own King’s Green!’

Helen’s lips worked silently for a moment, then she said: ‘When my father inherited King’s Green, we owned the land for—for miles around. He—he was the squire, yes, but he worked hard for the estate, and only the high cost of living and the taxes he had to pay forced him to sell most of it.’

‘I see,’ Jarret nodded, but Helen had to disabuse him.

‘However,’ she went on, ‘if you think I—I object to—to you because I think you’re socially inferior, you couldn’t be more wrong!’

‘No?’

‘No!’ Helen swallowed before continuing. ‘What—what I do object to is—is Margot Urquart bringing her—her boy-friends here and pretending that they have the money to buy a place like this!’

She realised she had gone too far long before Jarret’s dark features mirrored his contempt. She didn’t know what had possessed her to speak so candidly, unless it was his scornful comments about her father. She did know practically nothing about him, after all, and although shesuspected Margot was helping to finance his property speculation, she had no way of proving it.

‘So that’s what you think,’ he commented flatly, his lips curling with dislike. ‘My, my, what a devious little mind you have, to be sure! You really think I would let Margot buy me a country retreat?’

Having gone so far, Helen had no choice but to go through with it if she wanted to save her self-respect. ‘Why not?’ she asked now, lifting her shoulders. ‘She’s bought everything else, hasn’t she?’

He was off the desk and confronting her before her shaken senses could acknowledge her mistake. He had been close before, when he had detained her at the top of the stairs, but not as close as this, nor breathing down upon her with all the fiery ferment of his anger. His breath was not unpleasant, and it was flavoured by the Scotch her mother must have offered him, but its heat was unmistakable, combined as it was with the ice-cold glitter of his eyes.

‘You little——’ His harsh tones cut off the expletive with brutal vehemence, and Helen, who had never suffered such an assault before, shrank back in alarm. ‘What the hell do you think gives you the right to pass moral judgment on me, or Margot? What is it to do with you how we live or how we act? And if Margot chooses to spend her money in a way that suits her best, why should she have to defend herself to you?’

Helen shifted unsteadily under his gaze, momentarily numbed by the fierceness of his attack. ‘I—I—I don’t care what Margot does, as—as long as she doesn’t expect—us to—to condone it,’ she stammered, struggling to recover her dignity. ‘And—and intimidating me isn’t going to make me—change my mind, Mr Manning,’ she added bravely.

‘No?’ Unexpectedly his eyes dropped to the modest neckline of her dress, and it was all she could do to prevent herself from clutching the collar about her throat. ‘Then perhaps I should give you a sample of what you’re missing, mmm?’