Inherit the Skies (20 page)

Hugh had left and as Bertha scolded her, saying she did not know what was wrong with her, Sarah had experienced that strange contrary little feeling of disappointment. She did not want to be alone with Hugh, did not want to place herself in circumstances when a repeat performance of the other afternoon would be possible, yet was aware of a restlessness yawning in her almost like hunger.

Since then he had sought her out whenever possible and although they were not alone for long enough for any serious developments yet he managed to touch her sometimes on her breasts or bottom or between her legs, starting the quivers of prickling excitement inside her at the same time as arousing embarrassment and panic and afterwards she experienced again the peculiar sense of anti-climax and a perverse longing for more.

Her greatest regret was the loss of their former easy friendship. In many ways the years had exacerbated Sarah's isolation for her continued absorption into life at the big house had meant she no longer had any friends among the village children. The girls she had known had all left school now and had positions of one kind and another in service but even before they had gone away the gap between their world and Sarah's had grown for they looked on her as someone who had got ‘above herself.' She had tried to rekindle at least some of the relationships, particularly with Phyllis, who had grown into a plump pretty girl with an enviable carefree attitude to life, but they no longer had anything in common and imperceptibly Sarah was beginning to grow impatient with her old friends even while longing to share their secrets and their celebrations. The comprehensive education she was receiving and her taste of life at Chewton Leigh House was changing her, setting her sights higher than theirs and making her search for something more than they could give her, yet she was not a part of the ‘gentry' either. They were kind enough to her, her every need was catered for, and yet she was not one of them.

Sometimes Sarah felt she belonged nowhere.

Only Hugh had treated her as a person in her own right, a girl he teased as he teased his sister, made a fuss of and actually liked. Only with Hugh had she felt neither ashamed of the remnants of her Somerset burr nor embarrassed by the more genteel tones she had unconsciously adopted. Only with Hugh could she relax and be herself. And now that ease had gone forever, lost in a sunny field along with her innocence.

Still there was always Sweet Lass, Sarah comforted herself as she left the cobbled yard and slipped in at the open door of the stables. Though she had never completely overcome her nervousness of some of the big powerful hunters in the stables she loved the little mare dearly. Sweet Lass was a strawberry roan, game and willing yet as gentle as her name implied and from the moment Gilbert had introduced them Sarah had known she could never be afraid of Sweet Lass. Now as she entered the stable the mare heard her and whinnied softly, pawing the floor gracefully in greeting.

Sarah crossed to her stall and the big nose came out to nuzzle her. Sarah stroked it gently.

‘Hello, my love! And how are you today? I expect you wish you could be out in the meadow with the other horses. Never mind it won't be long now and you will be. Tom says you'll have your foal before the week is out.'

Sweet Lass prodded at Sarah gently but insistently. Sarah laughed.

‘I know what you are looking for. It's cupboard love, isn't it? Just cupboard love!'

She opened the paper bag and took out a sugar lump, offering it to Sweet Lass on the palm of her hand. The mare took it, crunching delicately, and Sarah gave her another.

Dim as it was in the stable she did not notice the shadow as someone entered and with the straw underfoot his boots made no sound.

‘Well hello there, Sarah! What are you doing inside on such a fine day?'

She swung round, her hand still outstretched to Sweet Lass with yet another sugar lump. Hugh was standing in the doorway leaning nonchalantly against the wooden post.

‘You made me jump!' she said accusingly but her heart had begun to pound and her voice was not quite level.

‘You haven't got another headache, I hope,' Hugh said. The mock solicitude was not lost on her.

‘I came to see Sweet Lass,' she said defensively. ‘ She's due to foal any day now.'

‘Rubbish,' he said. ‘You came to see me.'

‘I did not!'

She could not see his face because of the shadow but she knew from his voice that he was smiling.

‘Of course you did. At least – I hope so! Though I must confess I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.'

‘I told you I came to see Sweet Lass!' she snapped. ‘But now I have to get back. Mrs Pugh will be expecting me.' She thrust another sugar lump at the mare and started towards the door. He did not move. His tall frame half filled the doorway. ‘Please let me pass.'

‘You are not in such a hurry, surely,' he drawled. ‘You've only just come.'

Unable to leave without brushing past him she turned back to the horse, rubbing the nose that was still resting over the top of the stall.

‘When is your father coming back?' she asked, trying to change the subject and defuse the situation though knowing she was effectively trapped.

‘Oh, he'll be away for a couple of weeks yet,' Hugh replied. ‘Blanche received a letter from him this morning. He is very impressed with Santos Dumont's work and he has been invited to stay on a little longer. Santos Dumont thinks his flying machine will be ready for a test flight very soon.'

‘It must be very exciting for him.' The breath was tight in her throat; she could scarcely breathe.

‘Yes. But we don't want to talk about Santos Dumont, do we? We've got better things to do.' His tone was overlaid with meaning. In the humid atmosphere of the stable she could almost smell the desire on him. Panic, pure and simple, swept over her. How could she have wished even for a moment to be alone with him again after that afternoon at Bury Woods? It had been wrong, really wrong. She must ensure it did not happen again.

She made a determined effort to get to the door.

‘I really have to go, Hugh.'

His hand shot out, imprisoning her wrist.

‘Not until you tell me when you are going to come out with me again.'

‘I'm not.'

He pulled her close, so close she could feel his breath on her face and the heat emanating from his body.

‘Oh yes you are. I told you, Sarah – you're mine!'

His lips found hers and his hand took her breast squeezing roughly. For just a moment the dangerous dark excitement rose in her and against her will she found herself wanting him to handle not just one breast but both, not just her breasts but her whole body. The pressure of his lips was brutal yet exhilarating; she felt herself draining into him. Then as his hand moved down between her legs the panic returned, contradictory yet undeniable and all-consuming.

‘No!' With one hand she tried to stop his exploring fingers, with the other she pushed at his chest, trying to thrust him away. ‘Will you stop, please! We mustn't!'

‘Why not?' His breath was ragged; she could feel the tension mounting in him.

‘Because it's wrong. Because I don't like it!'

‘Oh yes you do,' he contradicted her. He had her blouse open now though she had not been aware of him undoing the buttons. His hand crept inside her camisole and the palm, hard against the rose pink tip of her erect nipple made the weakness flood through her again. ‘You do like it, Sarah!'

‘I don't! I don't! You're bad, Hugh!'

‘No worse than you. You could have stopped me if you had wanted to. But you didn't.' He was kissing her again, speaking disjointedly between those kisses, his lips moving down her throat towards the breast which he had now freed from the covering of her camisole. ‘Oh Sarah … Sarah …'

He was drinking her in now, the feel of her, the taste of her, the sight of her, beautiful, just as he had known she would be, even here in the dim stable. She struggled in spasms as the conflicting emotions swayed her, for in spite of the growing eagerness of her body she knew it was wrong … wrong …

‘You're mine.' His lips tugged at her nipple and he hoisted up her skirt; to Sarah it seemed he had become an octopus with hands everywhere.

‘Hugh, stop!' she screamed. ‘Leave me alone!'

‘You're mine!' he grated. His arm slid down behind her knees and he lifted her bodily, carrying her as easily as if she had been a child, back into the stable. There at the far end a few bales of hay formed a low ledge. He put her down on it, holding her down with one hand and tearing at her dress.

‘Hugh – my frock!' she protested, almost weeping.

‘Take it off!' he ordered, towering over her.

‘No! Please!' she was screaming.

Neither of them heard someone else enter the stable. The first Hugh, demented with desire, knew of it was when a hand grabbed his collar from behind, hauling him off her. Taken by surprise he could offer no resistance; he stumbled blindly, falling against the half open door of one of the stalls, and Lawrence's fist, connecting with his chin, jerked his head back and sent him flying backwards into the stall.

‘What the hell do you think you are doing?' Lawrence yelled.

For a moment Hugh lay half-stunned in the mucky straw then he was on his feet, passion turning to blinding anger.

‘Stay out of this, Lawrence!' He tried to push past and Lawrence hit him again. This time Hugh was more prepared. He rode the blow and went for his brother like a bull. Within seconds they were fighting, trading blows as they had not done since they were children, racketing around the walls of the stall.

Sarah cowered briefly against the bales of hay, then as the full horror of what was happening came home to her she scrambled to her feet. The two young men were on the floor of the stall now, rolling over and over in the straw.

‘Stop it! Oh please, stop!' she sobbed, vainly trying to separate them.

It seemed to her the fight would never end. Lawrence was perhaps the bigger of the two but Hugh's athleticism eventually told and he scrambled up, standing over his brother threateningly.

‘Get up, Lawrence. But if you hit me again so help me I'll kill you!'

Lawrence sat up slowly, his hand covering his face. Between his fingers his nose streamed blood. It poured down over his white shirt front; even in the dim stable Sarah could see the spreading stain.

‘How dare you interfere!' Hugh spat at him, his voice trembling with rage and unsatisfied lust.

‘You were hurting Sarah!' Lawrence said nasally. Already his normal truculence was returning in the face of his brother's angry ascendancy.

‘I wasn't doing anything Sarah didn't want. Why did you have to come in here, poking your nose into what didn't concern you?'

‘I heard voices. I heard Sarah screaming …

‘What Sarah and I play at is our own business.'

‘But …'

‘Sarah wasn't screaming. She was laughing. Don't you know the difference, you big oaf?'

‘It sounded like screaming to me.'

‘How would you know?' Hugh asked sarcastically. ‘What do you know about anything? How many girls have
you
had, I'd like to know?'

‘You know damned well I haven't had any.
I
treat them like a gentleman.'

‘More fool you. You think they admire you for it? Do you know what Sarah calls you?
Sobersides
and
Stick in the Mud
. Isn't that true, Sarah?'

She could not answer. She was close to tears now from shock and fear and the sight of Lawrence sitting there in the straw, his nose streaming blood, as if he and not Hugh were the one in the wrong was too much for her. It was wrong, all wrong – and not least because in spite of all he had done she could still feel Hugh's animal attraction, the more so because he stood there crowing, undisputed leader of the herd. ‘Isn't it true, Sarah?' he insisted, determined not to relent until his victory was complete. ‘ You do call him those names?'

‘Yes, but I don't mean it unkindly,' she whispered.

‘There. Now get out – brother!' Hugh ordered. ‘Get out and leave us alone.'

She wanted to run then. She wanted to follow Lawrence, thank him for interfering on her behalf and wipe the blood away from his face, but her legs seemed to have become lumps of jelly. She leaned against the corner of the stall watching him go and when Hugh's arms came around her roughly she had no resistance to offer.

‘Now, Sarah, I believe we have some unfinished business,' he grated at her.

In the dim stable Sweet Lass whinnied in distress but there was no-one but Hugh and Sarah to hear her and they were otherwise occupied.

‘Sarah, please come to my sitting-room. I wish to speak to you,' Blanche said.

It was the next day. Sarah had been summoned to the big house and she had gone there dressed neatly in her best gingham, her heart quaking, for she was sure the summons meant trouble.

The moment she had entered the door she had known she was not mistaken. She had passed Hugh in the hall just going out. He was wearing his riding clothes and his face bore the scars of yesterday's scrap – a black eye and a swollen lip. He looked at her without smiling, raised one eyebrow sardonically and lowered it quickly as if the facial movement was painful to him, and went on out of the door.

Like the other half of the couple in the weather-house which stood on the Pughs' mantlepiece, Blanche had appeared in the doorway of the dining-room. Her expression was inscrutable as always but if anything her lips were tighter and her voice, commanding Sarah to accompany her to her sitting-room, was cold as charity.

Wretchedly Sarah followed the straight line of her back up the stairs.

Blanche's sitting-room was off her bedroom, a study in cold blues and greys. Not even the profusion of ornaments and knick-knacks could give it warmth. Sarah had never been inside the room before, now although too nervous to notice a single detail she was aware of its general ambience and her spirits sank still lower.