Shelter Page 4

  She tapped on the door lightly. “Is there anything I can do, ma’am?” she called.

  There was a pause in the retching. “Just go away, Ryder, and leave me alone,” came a strained voice from within. Elizabeth pulled back slightly from the door, but it would be a dereliction of duty to do as Lady Helen requested.

  Minutes later the door opened and Helen Charteris emerged, pale-faced, trembling slightly. Elizabeth offered her arm and the other woman took it gratefully. Together they walked back to the bedroom. Once inside, Helen flopped onto the bed and lay there staring up at the ornate rose that decorated the center of the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

  “It’s all right, ma’am. My mother was the same during her confinements.”

  Lady Helen looked at her sharply. “What do you mean? It’s a stomach upset, nothing more.”

  Elizabeth bowed her head slightly. “As you say, ma’am.”

  From the bed Lady Helen sighed deeply. “Oh, who am I trying to fool? Myself, I think. I keep telling myself it’s not happening, but all the signs are there.”

  “Have you told the master?”

  Helen’s face hardened, her lips becoming a thin line, closed in bitterness. She remembered vividly the moment of conception. She and her husband, William, had been sleeping at opposite ends of the house since his return from North Africa. It was an arrangement she’d initiated the day he arrived back at Dunbar Court with Tom Hooper in tow, and the child. The argument that followed his arrival was fierce and acrimonious, and she almost packed her bags and left that day, but a compromise was reached to avoid a scandal. They would live together as husband and wife in name only. The child would be seen by the world as a result of Tom Hooper’s dalliance while abroad on active service. He was a bachelor and as such had no reputation to lose. But from that day Helen denied William access to her bed, and life returned to as near normality as could be reasonably achieved in the circumstances.

  Until one night two months ago.

  She’d gone to bed early and was reading when the door to her bedroom burst open and William stood in the doorway, swaying slightly. From the bed she could smell the whiskey fumes, but she said nothing, trying to ignore him by concentrating hard on the page of her book. What happened next she couldn’t ignore.

  Some would have called it rape, if in law a husband could rape his wife. William explained it coldly as a husband exercising his given conjugal rights, and they never spoke of it again.

  But now the results of that night were becoming evident, and she knew she could no longer pretend otherwise.

  “Get my clothes,” she said to Elizabeth. “I can’t lie here all day.”

  “Forgive me for asking, ma’am, but have you seen the doctor?”

  “I suppose I should, shouldn’t I?” Helen said, pushing herself up into a sitting position. “I’ll telephone him and make an appointment.”

  “And if there’s anything I can do, ma’am, anything at all, you will say.”

  Helen Charteris ran her fingers through her disheveled hair and smiled at her bleakly. “What would I do without you, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth started slightly. It was the first time since coming to work here that Lady Helen Charteris had ever called her by her Christian name. “Anything at all,” she said softly, and went through to the dressing room to get her mistress’s clothes for the day.

  In the morning room the french doors were open to the garden and the sound of a child’s laughter floated in on the mild summer breeze. Helen got up from the table, walked across, and looked out at the garden.

  Tom Hooper was there, digging in one of the flower beds. Her husband was on all fours on the grass, the child, the reason for the gulf in their relationship, perched precariously on his back. “Horsey!” the child cried, digging his feet into William’s sides, and holding on to the collar of his shirt. To the left of them a middle-aged woman sat, sewing. Mary was the child’s nanny, and her olive skin glowed richly in the morning sun. Of course her name wasn’t really Mary. That was given to her just for convenience because nobody could pronounce her real Arabic name. She was another of the intruders William had brought back with him.

  Whenever Helen came into contact with Mary the mutual dislike that bristled between them was almost tangible. The woman’s hooded eyes flashed dangerously, and her protective manner toward the child became even more evident. Helen had no doubts that if the occasion arose, Mary would sacrifice her own life for that of the boy. And should anyone threaten her charge, then she would react with all the savagery inbred in her.

  Helen closed the french doors, shutting out the noise, and went back to reading the newspaper. Later she telephoned the doctor and made an appointment to see him that afternoon.

  She had to stop crying. She’d done nothing else since receiving the confirmation from the doctor. The doctor himself thought they were tears of happiness and offered his congratulations and a handkerchief, but there was a terrible hollowness inside her—as if someone had just ripped out her heart.

  She tapped on the glass separating herself from the chauffer and gestured for him to pull over to the side of the road. Once the car stopped she opened the door and stepped out into the afternoon sun. They were midway between Dunbar Court and Dorchester and they’d pulled into an entrance to a farm. In the distance she could see fields of sheep, grazing contentedly. Beyond them a tractor trundled across a field. Above her head gulls swooped and dived, calling to each other, their strident voices filling the air.

  She walked up and down a few times, trying to compose herself, ignoring the curious looks she was getting from the chauffer. No doubt he would report back to her husband, telling him of her strange behaviour. Apart from Elizabeth, there was no one in the house she could trust not to go running to William. He paid their wages and demanded absolute loyalty. She wondered now why she married him. Was he so very different before he went away to war? She couldn’t believe he was, but since his return to civilian life their relationship had foundered. They no longer conversed as they once did, and when he looked at her now there was no love in his eyes, only a sort of half-hidden contempt.

  She had done nothing wrong. She’d sat at home while he was away fighting, eschewing a social life, waiting patiently for him to return, the loving and dutiful wife.

  And this was how he repaid her. No reward for the loyalty he set such store by. Not even the common decency to hide the evidence of his philandering. Instead he’d brought the child into their midst, paraded him under her nose like some kind of trophy. She felt sorry for the poor bitch of a mother—God alone knew what happened to her.

  Anger was starting to replace self-pity, and the tears were drying on her cheeks. No more tears, she thought. He would never again bring her to such a state of despair. And one day she would have her revenge. One day she would make him pay dearly for planting his unwanted seed within her.

  “I thought you’d better know, I’ve just got back from the doctor’s,” she said. William Charteris was sitting at his desk in the study, working on some papers. He didn’t even look up to acknowledge her presence. She continued, undaunted. “I’m pregnant.”

  He shuffled the papers in front of him. “Is it mine?”

  She felt the anger pierce her composure like a hot wire, but she suppressed it. “I won’t even dignify that remark with an answer,” she said calmly. “The child is due in February next year. I will expect the finest medical care. I wish to have the child at home and you will employ a full-time nurse for the last two months of my confinement. And when the baby is born you will hire a nanny to look after it, because I certainly will not. Afterward I will be going away for a while. A cruise possibly, or maybe a tour of Europe.”

  Finally he looked around at her. The contempt in his eyes had deepened, making them seem like dark and dangerous pools. She almost flinched under his penetrating gaze, but she stood her ground, chin raised defiantly, daring him not to agree to her terms.

  “Anything else?” he said.

  “I’m sure there will be, but I’ll tell you as and when I’m ready.”

  He nodded slowly and went back to shuffling his papers. “Very well,” he said.

  “And that’s all you’re going to say?”

  “I think you’ve said enough for the both of us, don’t you? I’ve agreed to your terms, now go away and leave me to my work.”

  The anger she’d been holding down finally erupted. Tears filled her eyes and her hands curled themselves into fists. “No,” she said. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, for me to pack my bags and just slip away, like some thief in the night? Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to give you that satisfaction. I’m still your wife, and it’s a role I’m going to play to the hilt. I’m going to drag every last shred of courtesy and consideration from you, and I’m going to make you pay for what you did to me. If you don’t want me in your life anymore, then you go. Leave this house and take your precious bastard with you.” She stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her, then leaned against it, letting the tears flow once more. Something stirred in her stomach and she threw her hand across her mouth and ran to the bathroom to be sick.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Laura stood in the shadow of the house and watched the lorry maneuver the caravan up the winding lane. She couldn’t believe that more than three months had gone by since the meeting with Maggie in the coffee shop. It had been a long struggle to get to this point, and without her parents’ injection of cash, and Maggie’s willingness to compromise her ethics enough to ensure that her offer was the one to be accepted, she would never have made it.

  The lorry was struggling around a bend in the lane that led up to the house. She’d watched for thirty minutes while
the driver negotiated the narrow tree-lined lane, towing the caravan that would be her home for the next three months while she oversaw the renovation work.

  “He’s making heavy weather of it, isn’t he?” Shaun Egan was standing at her side, watching the lorry’s progress. Shaun was her project manager—a master builder who had been with her since her first house. He was a tremendous asset. A superb craftsman who put his heart and soul into every project, and ran the building operation like a military campaign, bringing in carpenters, plumbers, bricklayers, and electricians only when the project required them, and making sure they all worked to his exacting standards. He was also a marvelous interpreter of working drawings, bringing out facets of the architects’ work in a way that often surprised the architects themselves. Dublin-born with a mischievous twinkle in his tourmaline-green eyes, and a sharp tongue to unleash on those he thought weren’t pulling their weight. Laura had come to rely on him heavily. Losing Brian from the business would be difficult, but not insurmountable. To lose Shaun would have been a disaster. But he’d made it clear when the first threads of acrimony had appeared in her and Brian’s relationship that he would stick by her, irrespective of the dissolution of the partnership. And it heartened her to know that Shaun respected her as much as she respected and valued him.

  “How’s the demolition coming along?” she asked him. It was the first job on the project, getting rid of the crumbling outhouses that Maggie’s agency had set such store by.

  “I’ve got Pat and Dean working on it. Should be finished by lunchtime. Then, if you’ve no objection, we’ll burn the timber in the field back there. The bricks we’ll save for the time being. They match the bricks of the house, so they might come in handy. Besides, it’ll save on the number of skips we need. I figure we’ll try and keep traffic to a minimum until we get a few dry days, else that lane will end up as little more than a quagmire, and we’ll get nothing up here.”

  “Good idea,” she said. “Now who’s that?”

  A green Range Rover had appeared at the end of the land and was driving up it slowly. The lorry towing the caravan finally passed through the gateway and drew alongside them; the Range Rover was just behind.

  It pulled up a few yards away from them and a young man stepped out, saying a few words to the large and shaggy Irish wolfhound that was occupying the passenger seat. The man was tall, dressed in country tweeds with a bright blue shirt and a knitted tie. On most people the attire would have looked absurd and pretentious, but the young man carried it off with aplomb. His face was lightly tanned and aristocratic, his fair hair swept back from it, shining in the early morning sun.

  He approached Laura, hand extended. “Sorry to arrive uninvited,” he said as Laura took his hand and shook it. “Richard Charteris. I’m your closest neighbour. Thought I’d better pop over and introduce myself.”

  “Laura Craig. This is Shaun . . .” But Shaun had moved across to the Range Rover and was peering in through the side window. The dog responded with a bout of ferocious barking and Shaun took a step backward.

  “Don’t worry about Socrates. He’s a noisy bugger but quite harmless. Quiet, Socrates!” Richard called. The dog silenced immediately, his long tail beating a tattoo on the leather upholstery. Richard turned back to Laura. “Sorry about that; he loves making new friends. Not unlike his master. So, what do you think of the old Hooper place? Bit of a wreck at the moment, but not so bad that it can’t be put right.”

  Laura smiled. “That’s what I intend,” she said.

  “I’m sure.”

  Richard Charteris was handsome and utterly charming, and Laura found herself glancing down at his left hand, checking to see if anyone had already laid claim to him. There was a large gold signet ring on the middle finger of his left hand, but the wedding finger was bare.

  “So which is your house?” she said, racking her brain to try to remember the surrounding dwellings.

  “Dunbar Court. Just over the rise.” He gestured airily away to the east.

  “I’m impressed,” she said, and immediately regretted the choice of word. She’d passed Dunbar Court a number of times in the months she’d been coming up to look at the house. It was a sprawling Regency-style building with later additions, sweeping landscaped gardens that included a lake, and its own maze. She often looked longingly at the place as she’d driven past, wondering what it must be like to actually live in such a grand setting.

  “It’s a house,” he said. “Much like any other.”

  “Not in my experience,” Laura said. His modesty seemed natural; otherwise she would have instinctively found it annoying.

  “Oh, it’s big all right, but the upkeep has its own share of drawbacks. I have an apartment in London, and given the choice I’d spend most of my time there. Unfortunately Dunbar Court has a very large estate and my mother finds the running of it rather taxing. So I find myself spending more time here in Dorset than I’d like.”

  Laura found herself warming to him. His manner was self-deprecating and very attractive. “Would you like a coffee, Mr. Charteris? I’m afraid the kitchen’s a disaster area, but the builders have a primus and a jar of instant. Best I can do in the circumstances.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” He had the ability to concentrate fully on what she was saying, but at the same time she gained an impression that he had taken in the whole site with an all-encompassing gaze. “Oh, and please, call me Richard.”

  For the next thirty minutes, both of them clutching mugs of steaming instant coffee, she took him on a guided tour of the house, explaining her plans for renovation, pointing out the finer period details that she intended to keep and elaborate upon. He was enthusiastic about her plans, and full of admiration for her design conceits. “So you plan to live here while all this work is carried out?”

  They’d emerged at the front of the house and Laura had just outlined details of the ornamental carp pond she planned to build here. “Oh yes,” she said. “I’m going to live on-site while the work’s being done—hence the caravan. That way I can keep an eye on things, and I’m always on call if Shaun—you met him earlier—has any problems with the plans.”

  “On-site? A strange choice of phrase . . . unless of course you don’t intend to live here once the house is renovated.”

  “I don’t,” Laura said bluntly. “I specialize in taking old properties and turning them into holiday lets. It’s my business,” she added proudly.

  A cloud passed over Charteris’s face, muddying the bright blue eyes, making them look hooded and slightly dangerous.

  “You seem to have a problem with the concept,” she said. She found herself hoping she hadn’t alienated him before she had even got to know him.

  He shook his head. “Not me. I’m all for free enterprise. But you might encounter problems with some of your other neighbours. They’re not all so progressive as Mother and me.”

  “I’d like to meet her,” Laura said. She said it simply as a polite reaction to his words, and was surprised to find she meant it.

  “I’m sure she’d like to meet you too. She has a bit of a soft spot for this place. Old Tom Hooper, who lived here, was head gardener at Dunbar Court until his death. My mother and he were as thick as thieves, always planning new improvements to the gardens at the Court. She was delighted when she heard this old place was to be sold. She likes to think of the house being inhabited again . . . as if it will bring back just a little of old Tom. Since his death Mother’s interest in gardening has waned somewhat. I think she’s lost heart.” He paused for a moment, running a hand through his thick blond hair. “Just a thought,” he said, “but it’s Mother’s birthday on Friday and we’re having a few friends over for drinks. You’d be very welcome to come.”

  She walked with him to the Range Rover, not sure she was ready for that kind of socializing just yet.

  He sensed her hesitation. “You could bring someone with you. Shaun perhaps?”