Dark inheritance (19 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BARBARA was disappointed that she received no reply to her letter to Dominic, but consoled herself with the
thought that he had probably not had time to catch the boat at any of its few remaining ports of call. The day of their arrival at Tilbury was as cheerless as the day o their departure had been—more so, in contrast to the warmth and colour they had left behind them—but she was so eager to return to Crags Height and TXtrnini that she did not notice her surroundings and could
barely conceal her impatience to leave London behind.

To her surprise Mark volunteered to drive them to Wales and they stayed the night at the hotel in Park Lane where she had had her interview with Dominic, leaving early the following morning.

Mark's racing car was not the most comfortable for a long journey, but Aunt Elite was ensconced amidst cushions in the back, while Barbara took the bucket seat next to the driver. He was competent at the wheel and drove with the dash and speed she would have expected from him, yet always with an ultimate caution.

It was nearly dark before the car roared through the steep village high street and climbed the narrow hill road, swinging in at the wrought-iron gates and drawing up at the door of Crags' Height with a squeal of brakes.

Stiff from the journey, they mounted the steps to the hall and Emily led the way across to the dining-room where a substantial supper awaited them.

"Mr. Rockwood sends his apologies, but he had to go to Hereford first thing this morning. He hopes to be back some time this evening."

Barbara swallowed her disappointment. "Did he say what time he's returning, or leave any message?"

Emily looked at her curiously. "Why, no, miss. Were you expecting any?"

"No, it was just that I thought perhaps he might have left me some instructions," she said lamely as she helped Aunt Ellie sit down.

Mark sauntered in, threw his coat over the back of a chair and flung his driving gloves beside it. "I've put the car in the garage. Now what about a drink?" He moved to the sideboard and helped himself liberally. "Care for one, Barbara?"

"No, thanks."

"Don't drink on duty, eh?"

"I really don't feel like one."

They sat down and started to eat, but the food was tasteless to her and she made a mere pretence of enjoyment, glancing frequently towards the door and straining her ears to hear the sound of a car. But neither of her companions seemed to think anything amiss, and they were chatting desultorily over their coffee w the loud slamming of the front door announced the return of the master of the house.

Footsteps crossed the hall and Barbara's heart-beats quickened. But the footsteps halted at the study door and it opened and shut.

"My dear coz seems to have returned," Mark said laconically. "Obviously eager to welcome us home."

Barbara bit her lip. "Perhaps he doesn't know we're here."

"He must do, unless he thought my car in the garage a mere figment of his imagination."

Miserably aware that he was right, Barbara said nothing. Then unable to control herself any longer she stood up. "If you'll excuse me I'd better go and see him."

Heedless of Aunt Ellie's surprise and Mark's speculative stare, she went out of the room and across the hall, hardly pausing to receive a reply to her knock at the study door before going in and closing it behind her.

Dominic was sitting at his desk in front of the large window, the brown velvet curtains drawn behind him.

"Dominic darling!" She ran across the room. "How wonderful to see you again! I thought today would never end." She halted abruptly at the foot of his desk, suddenly aware that he had made no movement towards her.

"How are you, Barbara?" His voice was quiet and completely unemotional.

"I—I'm all right." A faint chill began to pervade her. "How arc you?"

"Very well, thank you. I take it my aunt is all right?"

"Perfectly."

"Good."

There was a pause and Barbara could scarcely believe that she and Dominic were talking to each other as if they were the merest acquaintances—as if she had never lost herself in the rapture of his embrace or thrilled to the ardour of his passion. Hardly daring to credit the cold doubt creeping into her mind, she moved a step nearer and looked into his face, seeing the stern set of it above the hard white of his collar.

"Dominic, I
Aren't you glad to see me Is an
thing the matter?"

He avoided her gaze. "Why should there be?"

"Because when we parted we—" She stopped a
enlightenment dawned. "Is it because of my letter?"
She put her hand on his arm, suddenly filled with relief.
"I'm sorry if it made you angry. I know I was wrong not to tell you in the beginning, but I promised Aunt Ellie not to and when I first met you it didn't matter.
It was only when we fell in love that I Oh, Dominic, you're surely not annoyed because I kept my singing a secret? I nearly told you that last night on the boat,
but I was frightened of what you'd say. Then after you had left I felt guilty at letting you love me without knowing all about my life." The words rushed on.
"I think I'd have told you almost immediately if hadn't found out about Gina de Courccy. That mad
mc even more frightened of telling you. You do believe
me, don't you? That was the only reason, I swear t you." Her voice rose, and realizing she was almost shouting she stopped abruptly.

Dominic disengaged himself. "Really, Barbara, don't
you think you're making rather an issue of it? If you wanted to keep your singing a secret that was your privilege. I assure you it doesn't matter to me one way or the other." He moved towards the fireplace, rang the bell and went on conversationally: "I think I'll order some coffee. I had dinner on the way back from Hereford, but that was some time ago and the drive was rather cold."

Barbara stared at him incredulously, unable to believe this was the only response he could make to her appeal, that this disinterested man uttering banalities was the
same person who had begged her to love him only a few
weeks ago.

"Haven't you anything else to say to me, Dominic? Don't you understand what I've just been telling you?"

He flicked open his cigarette case. "I'm sorry you find my answer inadequate, but I haven't the least idea what you expect me to say. You must appreciate that we're no longer cruising in the Mediterranean and the make-believe world has been left behind. This is Crags' Height, Barbara, and Crags' Height is reality." She swayed against the desk, but he went on: "I did hope to have been able to make this clear in a far less obvious
way, but I'm afraid your impulsiveness rather forced my
hand. But then, of course, you always were impulsive."

She drew herself up, her eyes stricken. "There's no need for you to make any excuse. It may be that I'm
to blame for forgetting my position in your house, Mr.
Rockwood," Then with all the dignity at her command she walked quickly out of the room.

Unable to endure the idea of facing Aunt Ellie and Mark again, she ran upstairs to her room and locked the door behind her, throwing herself face down on the bed. But the relief of tears was denied and after a while she stood up, went across to the window and drew the curtains automatically. It was. impossible for
her to stay here now, impossible to live under the same
roof as Dominic. She loved him too much to be able to revert to their former relationship of employer and paid companion. For her there was no turning back the clock, no resuming of a casual friendship, and her only solution was to leave Crags' Height as soon as possible.

But even in this most bitter moment she could not let Aunt Ellie down, could not leave her until another companion had been found. If Dominic was not embar
rassed by his actions she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how bitterly she was hurt, and would
at least endure her position until she could leave with dignity and composure:.

During the next few days Rockwood seemed to spend
as little time as possible in the house, only dining with Mark and herself in the evening. He would sit morosely at the head of the table and leave it to have his coffee alone in the study. Barbara would have found the following week unbearable without Mark's companionship, and she warmed to his cheerful kindliness and good
humour. Although she knew he had been aware of his
cousin's interest in her on the boat and must have sensed the change in his attitude to her since their return, he never by word or deed referred to it, and it was this comfortable acceptance that helped her through the ensuing days.

Her determination to leave as soon as possible was however forestalled by Aunt Ellie, for as Barbara had feared the journey by car had proved too much for her frail constitution, and after going to bed on the night of her return the old lady remained confined to her room. The doctor called every day, but there was little he could do apart from advocating complete rest, and Barbara was hard put to it to keep her amused for she was fretful at knowing Mark was in the house and she was unable to see him.

"What's the good of having him here if he can't amuse me?" she complained at the end of one particularly tedious day.

"The doctor says he excites you, Aunt Ellie. You'll be able to have him up when you're a little better."

"He'll probably be gone by then," was the peevish reply. "You know very well he never stays here long." The old eyes regarded her unwinkingly. "Mind you, he does seem to be staying more now than he ever used to. Would that have anything to do with you?"

Barbara laughed awkwardly. "Good heavens, no! Now don't start getting silly notions in your head. Mark and I are friends and nothing more."

The old woman sighed. "In my young days a man and a girl couldn't be just friends. How unromantic you moderns are!"

"People today have to be too practical to remain romantic."

"That sounds very cynical, my dear—not a bit like you. Don't tell me Crags' Height is affecting you too."

"I don't know what you mean. Crags' Height is like any other house."

"But the atmosphere—the loneliness."

"The loneliness of a house is nothing compared with personal loneliness," Barbara said quietly. "A house the Welsh hills can be as happy as a semi-detached in Pimlico."

"How nice that sounds! I've always wanted to live near other people." Aunt Ellie fondled the young hand. "I'm glad you're here, my dear—promise never to leave me."

"I'm afraid I can't do that." Barbara sat down on the edge of the bed. "I wasn't going to mention it just yet, but now you've brought the subject up I think it's only fair to tell you that I
am
thinking of leaving."

"But you can't! You love it here, you just said so. Have I done anything to offend you? Oh, Barbara, don't leave me." Aunt Ellie began to cry quietly and childishly.

Barbara swallowed. "Of course you haven't done anything to offend me. And it isn't that I don't like being here. But you know very well that when I first came I told you I wanted to get back to my singing eventually. Perhaps you don't remember?"

"Of course I remember. But you said you weren't allowed to sing for a year and it isn't a year yet. You're forgetting that, aren't you?"

-No, but "

"Well, then, why discuss it? In another six months we can think about it again. For the moment you're not to dream of leaving. Now kiss me good night and run along downstairs—and no more talk about going away from Crags' Height."

Barbara bent and kissed the wrinkled cheek, and after
making sure that the bell and magazines were within easy reach did as she was told and went downstairs.

Although Aunt Ellie's insistence that she remain at Crags' Height had been touching, it did not deter her. Indeed the reliance the old woman placed on her made it even more important that she go away before it became any stronger, and when she reached the bottom
of the stairs she halted, wondering whether to go and tell
Dominic immediately or to wait until after dinner. Then deciding it would be best to speak to him alone in the study after dinner, she opened the door of the drawing-room and went in for the first time since her return.

The room was in darkness but through the undrawn curtains the moon shone silver, accentuating the eerie stillness. The occasional tables and large empty vases threw grotesque, dim shadows that seemed to loom up mysteriously with a life of their own, and she moved further into the room and switched on the light. The sudden brilliance banished the ghostliness and made the room look merely uninviting and cold, and she went to
the fire place to switch on the electric fire standing in the
grate, moving nearer as the bars glowed into life. She turned away from the fireplace, and as she did so her eyes lifted involuntarily and she drew back with a start.

The bare patch on the wall over the mantelpiece had been covered by a portrait—one of the loveliest por
traits
she had ever seen. It showed the head and shoulders of a woman—a beautiful, fragile-looking woman with a heart-shaped face and willful red mouth. The nose was straight and thin, the eyebrows finely arched and fly-away and the hair long and fair, drawn
back from the forehead and (lowing loosely down either
side of the poised neck. But the eyes were the most expressive feature; very large and intensely dark, they bespoke the joy of living yet held a hint of tragedy, as though the spirit were at war with the flesh, and they had been painted so that whichever way one moved they seemed to be following, alternately pleading an
gay-

This must be Dominic's mother. The position of the painting and the fact that there was no other picture of this woman in the house made her suddenly sure, and she stared up at it, trying to see some resemblance to Dominic in the taunting face. But except for the dark eyes there was no likeness, and she supposed he must have taken after his father whose portrait in the study showed a strong, rugged face—it must have been from him that Dominic had inherited his stalwart built and stern good looks.

With a start she heard the dinner gong booming through the house and with a last look at the portrait went into the dining-room. As usual the meal was a silent one, only Mark attempting to make conversation, and Barbara was glad when Dominic left the table, for to sit opposite him night after night was becoming more unendurable as time went on.

As Dominic's footsteps echoed across the hall and the study door shut behind him Mark put down his napkin and looked across at her enquiringly.