you to close the gate? I doubt your uncle wants his horses wandering over his flower beds.’
Clenching her fists, Helen sprang out of the Land Rover, racing back to close the gate, blinking the smarting sting of tears from her eyes. Heath hadn’t said that, she told herself fiercely, Heath wouldn’t say that! But she was very much afraid he had!
It wasn’t easy hiding her feelings from Miss Patterson. She had never tried to hide her feelings before, always acting instinctively, spontaneously, never dissimulating or concealing anything from Heath. She had thought he had been that way with her, too. She had never dreamt he had thoughts and feelings so dissimilar to her own. She had certainly never expected him to talk about her to a stranger, or to speak of her in such a contemptuous way. She felt hurt and humiliated, almost as humiliated as that night at the pool, and it wasn’t easy to cope with this situation under the mocking eyes of Miss Patterson.
There was a sweep of gravel before the house, in the centre of which was a stone fountain. Helen drove the Land Rover grimly in the half circle it took to reach the front door, and then braked with rather more control before indicating that her passenger should alight.
Miss Patterson got out surveying her surroundings with evident pleasure. Her gaze absorbed the jutting façade that flanked the door and the windows on either side, then spread to the long wings, with their leaded, mullioned panes. Above the first floor, a tiled roof sloped to attic windows and tall chimneys, unused now, and acted as a backdrop to the arching façade.
‘Beautiful!’ Miss Patterson declared enthusiastically, and then turned, a smug smile lifting her lips, as the door behind her was suddenly opened.
Helen, about to steer the Land Rover round to the garages, froze in her seat, but it was only the homely form of the housekeeper that appeared. However, her scandalised gaze took in the newcomer in her elegant suit and behind her the dusty Land Rover, with Helen clutching the wheel.
‘You didn’t go to meet—oh, Helen!’ Mrs Gittens exclaimed impatiently, and then came quickly down the shallow steps to meet the new employee. ‘You must be Miss Patterson,’ she added, holding out her hand. ‘I hope you had a good journey. You must be tired after coming all that way.’
‘It wasn’t all that far, really,’ Helen’s adversary assured Mrs Gittens smoothly, allowing her hand to rest for just a second in that of the housekeeper. ‘But I must admit I’m glad to be here. My spine feels as if it’s been done some permanent damage!’
‘The Land Rover’s built for practical purposes, not for comfort,’ Helen began, only to have Mrs Gittens give her a reproving look.
‘I should go and put it away, if I were you,’ she advised, eyeing her employer’s niece with a knowing air. ‘Mr Heathcliffe may be back directly, and I doubt he’ll approve of your choice of vehicle to go and meet a visitor.’
Helen hunched her shoulders. ‘Her cases are in the back,’ she declared, making no attempt to remove them, and with a sound of impatience Mrs Gittens went back up the steps and summoned old Arnold Wesley to come and give a hand.
However, Helen could not let the old man haul the cases out single-handed. If it had been John Garnett, Mr Wesley’s young apprentice, she would not have minded, but Arnold Wesley was only kept on because he had been at Matlock for more than fifty years. With a sign of frustration, she jumped out of the vehicle, dragged both cases out on to the gravel, and then jumped back in again and restarted the engine.
Miles Ormerod, who looked after the estate vehicles and acted as chauffeur when the need arose, was in the garage yard, polishing the bronze Mercedes Helen was supposed to have taken to meet Miss Patterson. He grimaced when Helen stood on her brakes in the yard, and came round to open the Land Rover door for her as she switched off the engine.
‘You look flushed,’ he remarked as she got out, and Helen glared at him. As children, she and Miles had often played together in the fields and woods around Matlock, and that familiarity lingered still in a certain kind of affection.
‘She’s here,’ Helen said now, thrusting her hands into the back hip pockets of her tight jeans. ‘And she’s just as repulsive as I expected.’
‘Repulsive?’ Miles looked surprised. ‘I thought you said Heath described her as slim and blonde and—–’
‘Oh, he did!’ Helen interrupted crossly. ‘And she is. I just mean—well, she doesn’t like me.’
‘Don’t you mean you don’t like her?’ asked Miles gently, propping himself against the bonnet of the Land Rover. At nineteen, he was two years her senior, but for all that, their eyes were almost on a level. Helen was a tall girl, though by no means as willowy as Miss Patterson, and in recent months she had seen a different look come into Miles’ eyes when he was alone with her. She knew he found her attractive, and she thought he was attractive, too. But for so long Heath had occupied all her thoughts, and she seldom saw Miles as anything more than a good friend.
Now, however, she propped herself beside him, basking in the warmth of his understanding. Even Mrs Gittens had turned against her, she thought miserably, and if Miss Patterson told Heath about the Land Rover …
‘What’s wrong?’
Miles took the curling tail of her braid between his fingers and tugged sympathetically, and Helen turned to look at him. ‘Why do you ask that?’ she demanded, fighting back the impulse to confide in him, and his lips twisted wryly as he surveyed her troubled face.
‘I know you pretty well by now,’ he essayed quietly. ‘I guess it was something this woman said. What’s the matter? Did she tell you she and Heath are more than just friends? Oh, come on, Helen, it won’t be the first time, will it? There’ve always been women around Matlock Edge.’
Helen’s chin jutted. ‘She said—she said Heath had said I was a spoilt brat,’ she muttered in a low voice, then stared at Miles resentfully when he was unable to suppress his mirth. ‘I didn’t think it was funny!’ she declared, straightening away from the Land Rover, and would have left him then, had he not turned and prevented her.
‘But don’t you see?’ exclaimed Miles, imprisoning her with one hand on either side of her. ‘You are a spoilt brat! That’s why you’re so choked up about it.’
‘I am not!’
Helen was indignant, but looking into Miles’ grinning face, she felt a corresponding response rising up inside her. ‘You’re a pig!’ she muttered, pushing her fist into his midriff, and then sobered abruptly when he bent his head towards her.
His lips were soft and moist, pressing on hers with sudden urgency, but although Helen was glad of his friendship, this was a development she had not anticipated. It was true, they had fooled around a lot this year, and once or twice she had let him kiss her, but not like this. Now, Miles’ lips were parting wetly, and his hand was groping clumsily for the full breasts outlined beneath the clinging material of her tee-shirt. He was pressing her against the side of the Land Rover, the metal was digging into her hips, and she realised with a sense of revulsion that he was becoming aroused.
‘For God’s sake, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
The harsh invective tore them apart as successfully as brute force might have done. Even so, Helen realised afterwards, Heath had only just been able to control the urge to strike the pair of them. Distracted, as she had been, by the unexpected fervour of Miles’ embrace, she had failed
