Since the affair by the stream that morning, she had seen nothing more of her uncle, but his warning about the school in Switzerland had not gone unheeded, and she was doing her utmost to behave as he would wish.
As soon as he had showered and changed, Heath had taken himself off to his business meeting in Bradford, without even so much as a cup of coffee, according to Mrs Gittens. ‘Just got in his car and drove away,’ she told Helen severely, as she served her her breakfast in the morning room. ‘His face was black as thunder—what had you been saying to him? I’d stake my life it was something to do with you and that little outing you took earlier on.’
‘I really don’t know,’ Helen had affirmed determinedly, her fingers crossed below the level of the tablecloth. This was something she could not discuss even with Mrs Gittens, who had taken care of her since she was a toddler. No matter how mad Heath made her, she would never confide her feelings about him to anyone.
Angela Patterson appeared during the meal, slim and delectable in a sleeveless shirtwaister and cream strappy sandals. ‘I only ever drink coffee in the mornings,’ she had assured Mrs Gittens, after surveying Helen’s plate of scrambled eggs with a faintly horrified eye. ‘Some of us need to count the calories,’ she had added, for the younger girl’s benefit, and Helen, whose appetite had suffered by the morning’s upheaval, abruptly lost all interest in the food.
It had been awful having to remain at the table while Angela drank her way through three cups of black coffee and asked various questions about the routine at Matlock Edge. Bearing Heath’s warning in mind, Helen had been politely civil, and Angela had responded by giving a smug little smile now and then, as if she knew perfectly well why Helen was on her best behaviour.
When she had finally had enough, Mrs Gittens suggested that Helen should show Miss Patterson around the house, to acquaint her with the whereabouts of the living rooms and so on. But Angela had soon grown bored with looking into the library and the music room, and the blue and gold elegance of the drawing room, and had suggested a tour of the gardens might give her a better understanding of the layout of the house.
Shrugging, Helen had dutifully led her outside, showing her the tennis and croquet lawns, allowing her to admire the delicate tracery of the sunhouse, which Heath’s grandfather had had erected for his wife when she fell ill in 1924.
Evidently the kidney-shaped swimming pool met most with Angela’s approval, and at her suggestion, the two girls changed into swimsuits and spent some time playing in the water.
‘That hair will really have to be cut,’ Angela declared, when they climbed out to sun themselves on the cushioned loungers set on the mosaic tiling of the patio. Watching Helen squeezing the water out of the silken rope, she shook her head disapprovingly. ‘Long hair’s out of fashion now, anyway,’ she added. ‘I think we’ll have it cut, something like mine.’
Helen didn’t make any response, although the idea of having all her hair cut off was not appealing. She had always had long hair. She liked long hair. But if that was what Heath wanted, what could she do about it?
Angela’s appraisal of her body was disturbing, too. It made Helen uncomfortably aware that last year’s bikini no longer provided an adequate covering, and the burgeoning fullness of her breasts had begun to overspill the skimpy bra. But last year she had not had this problem, and as soon as she could, she made herself scarce and went to change.
At lunch, Angela concentrated on finding out more about Heath’s lifestyle. With the excuse of needing the information to equip Helen for the future, she successfully discovered that her uncle was a member of the board of several different companies, and that as well as Matlock Edge and the apartment in London, he also owned a villa in the South of France and a palazzo in Venice.
‘How delightful,’ she remarked, her tongue circling her lips as if in anticipation. ‘You were a lucky girl to be adopted by him. Not all uncles are so generous.’
‘Heath didn’t adopt me,’ exclaimed Helen shortly, stung by the unknowing reminder of their relationship. ‘My name is Mortimer—I told you. Heath’s sister married my father.’
‘Does it matter?’ Angela was not particularly interested in their relationship. ‘I doubt if your father could have given you the life your uncle has. It’s not going to be easy to find you a husband to match up.’
‘I don’t want a husband!’ Helen was indignant, but Angela wasn’t listening to her.
‘How far is it to Manchester?’ she asked, getting up from her chair. ‘I think we’ll begin this afternoon. I’m sure we can do better than what you’re wearing.’
And so here they were in Manchester, thought Helen wearily, dreading the afternoon ahead. Clothes had never interested her, beyond a natural desire to wear something in which she felt comfortable. Jeans had always provided that comfort, and the prospect of buying more feminine attire had no appeal whatsoever.
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