Love Forbidden Page 5

  Only the thought of Charles’s worried face kept her from speaking the words that were trembling on her lips and, when she had reached the door, she looked back with what she hoped was dignity and said quietly,

  “Goodbye, Mr. Huron.”

  “Good day, Miss Milbank.”

  He had not moved from beside the desk and in the light coming in through the soft curtains that veiled the window she had the impression that his eyes were hard and the expression on his face harsh.

  Then she closed the door behind her.

  The valet was waiting in the outer lobby.

  “Here’s the full address of our house in the country, miss,” he said. “I thought you would like to have it and the telephone number. I have also written down the butler’s name. Mr. McDougall it is.”

  “How kind of you!” Aria exclaimed.

  The valet smiled.

  “It makes things easier if we all work together, miss. That’s what I always say. You’ll find Mr. McDougall a very reliable man.”

  “Thank you!”

  Aria took the piece of paper and slipped it into her handbag.

  “I’d like to wish you the best of luck now that you’re coming to us,” the valet said.

  Aria thanked him and shook his hand.

  She would have liked to stop and ask the man innumerable questions, but she thought that Mr. Huron might hear her, so she walked away down the empty corridor, feeling suddenly very apprehensive now that the die was cast.

  “Twenty pounds a week!”

  She had to say it over to herself to give her confidence and attempt to restore that sense of excitement that had been hers when she left Mrs. Benstead’s agency. But she knew that Dart Huron’s manner had dispersed her first excitement so that it would not return.

  It was only as she walked into the lift and saw herself in the mirror that she realised she had a bright patch of colour in either cheek. It was anger, she thought, that had brought them there. Anger at his manner towards her and at all that he had insinuated and suggested.

  As she stepped out of Claridges into the busy street, she had an insane desire to go back and say that, after all, she had changed her mind. She had a feeling that the whole thing was a mistake, that nothing good would come out of it and that even the money was not worth what she might have to endure.

  It was not often that Aria was depressed, but she felt now as if a wave of depression and anticipation hung over her like a cloud.

  Metaphorically speaking she shook herself.

  ‘I am being ridiculous,’ she thought.

  And yet that uncomfortable feeling of having been subtly insulted made her seethe with anger and resentment all the way to the station.

  Her train for Hertford was leaving in a quarter-of-an-hour. Aria seated herself in the corner of a Third Class carriage and attempted to read an evening newspaper. The words danced before her eyes. She kept seeing, instead, the face of a man whom she had at first thought attractive but who now, she had decided, repulsed her.

  His words kept echoing in her ear – words spoken coldly and with a personal detachment that was somehow even much ruder than if he had accused her openly of falling in love with him.

  ‘How could Mrs. Cunningham have been such a fool?’ she asked herself. ‘And all those other women who had worked for him and grown to love him?’

  If he had been equally unpleasant to them, they must have been demented to have dared to show him the truth of their emotions. And yet perhaps, unaware of what might happen, he had shown them the charm that had been so very obvious when he spoke to the blonde beauty he had escorted round Queen’s Folly.

  It was fortunate that he not asked for her address, Aria thought. But if he had, she supposed she would have been quick-witted enough to give the name of the farm or even of one of the cottages in the village. He was very trusting in taking her with so few enquiries, but apparently he had implicit faith in Mrs. Benstead and Aria could well understand her desire not to lose so lucrative a client.

  She pulled the piece of paper that the valet had given her out of her handbag. It was thick, white, expensive writing paper and was engraved Summerhill House, Puddlefield Green, near Guildford, Surrey.

  Aria wrinkled her brow. Somehow she felt that she had heard of Summerhill before. She could not remember where and after a moment resolutely she opened her paper again, striving to think of something else.

  But the headlines were not particularly interesting and after a moment she turned to the gossip page.

  Then, as her eyes glanced at it casually, she felt herself start, for there was a picture of Dart Huron in the centre of the page.

  It was not a good portrait – an informal snapshot taken of him on the polo field – but there was no mistaking his high cheekbones and deep-set eyes, the way his dark hair grew back from his square forehead and the almost aggressive prominence of his chin.

  The paragraph beneath the picture told Aria at least one thing she wanted to know.

  “Mr. Dart Huron’s polo team scored a resounding victory at Hurlingham yesterday against Lord Cowdray’s team. Mr. Huron is the American millionaire whose feat in flying under Brooklyn Bridge in his private aeroplane was recorded in this paper last year. Mr. Huron, who inherited vast estates in South America, is interested in many things. He has explored unknown parts of Brazil and Peru and has written a book on the Indian tribes that has had an enormous sale in the United States. Mr. Huron, if legend is to be believed, has Indian blood in him, for one of his ancestors, it is said, was a Chieftain of the Iroquois tribe from whence he gets his name.”

  That would account for his high cheekbones, Aria thought. Perhaps, too, for the unusual look about him. He had not seemed like the ordinary American. This was something else, something that had, in fact, attracted her and now repelled her.

  There were a few more words at the bottom of the paragraph.

  “While Mr. Huron is in this country, he has rented Summerhill House near Guildford. It is expected that he will entertain there extensively as he did on a previous visit.”

  Aria remembered now where she had heard of Summerhill House. There had been pictures of it in an old copy of Country Life that she had found in the library at Queen’s Folly. She could not remember much about it except that in the pictures it had looked like an Italian villa, white and supported by pillars with a wide terrace in front of the windows.

  So there was Indian blood in him. Red Indian! She wondered if that would, indeed, make him different from other men. Was that why so many women loved him?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the carriage door being opened and somebody stumbling into the carriage just as the guard blew his whistle and the train started to move. A girl sank down on the seat opposite Aria, the porter threw her suitcase on the floor and slammed the door.

  “That was a narrow squeak!”

  The girl smiled in a friendly fashion at Aria, who smiled back. She was rather pretty in a heavy somewhat buxom way. She had fair hair, frank blue eyes and now she took a handkerchief out of her bag to wipe her face. It was a large sensible handkerchief and she wiped her face vigorously before she put it back in her bag.

  “I thought I had missed the train,” she said. “The traffic was awful. I ran like a stag down the platform and I didn’t think the porter would keep up with me.”

  She bent to move her suitcase out of the way of Aria’s feet.

  “I’m always frightened of missing trains,” Aria said, feeling it would be unfriendly not to be conversational.

  “My train from the North was late, that was the trouble,” the girl said. “It didn’t get into Euston until nearly four o’clock. I thought at first it was just hopeless to try to catch the connection, but I’ve done it.”

  The girl settled herself more comfortably in the corner seat.

  “Have you any idea what time we reach Hertford?” she asked.

  “About a quarter-past-five,” Aria replied.

  “Are you getting out there?�
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  Aria nodded.

  “Yes, I don’t live very far from Hertford.”

  “Oh, really, how interesting, well, interesting to me! You see, I’m going to visit a farm near there. Plover’s End is the name of it and Mr. Fuller’s the farmer. Do you know him?”

  “I have heard of him.” Aria replied cautiously.

  She was anxious not to say more. She did, as a matter of fact, know quite a lot about Fred Fuller, who was a byword in the neighbourhood for the way he drank and what was locally called his goings-on with the girls’.

  Mrs. Fuller was a rather pathetic, crushed little woman whom Aria had met on various occasions. But her husband was an unpleasant man and although some of their property marched with Queen’s Folly both she and Charles contrived to see as little of the Fullers as was possible.

  “Oh, do tell me about them,” the girl opposite said. “You see, I’m thinking of going there as a pupil.”

  “As a what?” Aria enquired.

  “A pupil. I want to learn farming. You look surprised. Most people do when they hear me say that. Father wanted me to go into business, but my mother didn’t want me to do anything. There’s no reason for me to work, but somehow I cannot sit about doing nothing day after day.”

  “What made you think of farming?” Aria enquired.

  “I’ve always wanted to be out of doors and to have something to do with animals,” the girl answered. “You see, living near Liverpool, I’ve never had the chance to have anything but a dog of my own. I’ve always wanted to milk cows, look after chickens and to learn to plough. Instead of which I’ve had to go to tea parties with Mother and listen to Father talking about the variations in trade. He owns a whole chain of stores all over the North. My name is Tetley,” she added. “Betty Tetley.”

  “And mine is Aria Milborne,” Aria said. “As a matter of fact my brother’s farm is quite near Plover’s End.”

  “Oh, is it?” Betty Tetley said eagerly. “Well, perhaps we shall see something of each other, that is, if I go there.”

  “Tell me what being a pupil on a farm involves,” Aria asked.

  “Well, I don’t know much about it myself,” she replied. “We just saw the advertisement in The Farmer and Stockbreeder. We answered it and Mr. Fuller wrote a nice letter saying that I could live in the house with his wife, that he would teach me everything about farming and we would only have to pay one hundred pounds for my year’s board and keep.”

  Aria’s eyes widened.

  “You mean you have to pay?”

  “Oh, but of course!” Betty Tetley answered. “And that’s cheap really. I should have to pay more if I was apprenticed to any other trade. Why, the secretarial colleges charge an awful lot. I forget what it was my cousin paid where she went, but it was a great deal more than that.”

  “Yes, I see,” Aria said. “But I never thought of there being farm pupils.”

  “Well, you have to learn somewhere. And, after I have done this for a year, I might go on to a college, in fact I intend to do so. My father has bet me I shall get tired of it before that. He doesn’t know. It’s what I’ve always wanted to dot”

  There was so much enthusiasm in her voice and an expression almost of ecstasy on her good-humoured, frank little face that Aria found it hard to find words in which to tell her that the last place she ought to go was to Plover’s End, with Fred Fuller.

  This was obviously some new idea of his. He was always complaining that staff were hard to get and that was not surprising because a lot of decent men would not stay with him.

  Aria could well imagine what, would happen to this girl once she went to Plover’s End. Fred would be charming to her, of course, and he wasn’t bad-looking in a coarse rather flashy way.

  There was always the chance that she would be foolish enough to fall in love with him. Then she would find herself in a terrible mess. There were half-a-dozen local girls who had lived to rue the day they had met Fred Fuller. And, as far as he was concerned, he was safe enough.

  There was always his wife drudging along in the background looking after the children and apparently indifferent to what he did or how he behaved as long as he gave her enough money to keep the house going.

  On impulse Aria bent forward.

  “Listen!” she said. “I don’t know whether your father and mother have made enquiries about Plover’s End, but I don’t think that you would be very happy with Mr. and Mrs. Fuller. It’s not a very happy house. If you want to be a pupil on a farm, why not come to my home?

  “My brother is very anxious to get help and he has a mixed farm where you could learn everything you want to learn. He is very nice, except that he was a prisoner in Malaya and was badly treated by the terrorists so that at times he becomes utterly exhausted and his nerves get the better of him.

  “But nobody works harder than he does and you could live at Queen’s Folly and my old Nanny would look after you. She is a very sweet person who has looked after both my brother and myself since we were children.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Betty Tetley said. “And Queen’s Folly is such an unusual name. Is it a very old house?”

  “Elizabethan,” Aria said. “I think you would like it. Most people think it very beautiful.”

  “I would love to come and see it,” the girl said. “But what ought I to do about Mr. and Mrs. Fuller? Shouldn’t I see them first?”

  “Yes, of course,” Aria said. “I expect they will be meeting you at the station. But you might suggest that you have other people in the neighbourhood to visit and come over to us before you make a decision. I dare say Mr. Fuller would bring you in a car. If not and you ring up, I will come and fetch you myself.”

  “I say, it’s awfully kind of you,” Betty Tetley said a little shyly.

  “I think really I am being selfish because I know that my brother would like to have you to help on the farm,” Aria remarked.

  Then suddenly her face clouded.

  “There is only one thing. I suppose your parents would think that Nanny was a sufficient chaperone? We treat her as if she was one of the family. I suppose really she’s more of a companion now than a Nanny. She has meals with us – or rather we have meals with her, because she usually cooks them.”

  “I am sure that would be all right,” Betty Tetley said quickly. “Father and Mother aren’t a bit stuffy about that sort of thing. They know I can look after myself.”

  How blind some parents were, Aria thought. They always imagined their children could look after themselves in the most impossible circumstances. And yet she would not have given sixpence for Betty Tetley’s chances of looking after herself where Fred Fuller was concerned.

  “Of course, I don’t want to press you,” she said. “But it just seemed that, as you have come all this way, you might as well see two farms as one. My brother is Sir Charles Milborne, by the way.”

  She saw Betty’s eyes widen slightly and realised that the child was impressed. That, at any rate, might swing the decision in Charles’ favour and save her from Fred Fuller. But still, one never knew. Girls were funny creatures. She might take a fancy to Plover’s End and that would be that and Aria could do no more. At the same time it would be nice for Charles to have a pupil, for Nanny to have someone to look after and a hundred pounds would always come in useful although they would have to spend most of it on feeding Betty.

  The train ran into Hertford exactly on time. As they came out of the station Aria saw Fred Fuller, in a rather loud sports jacket and a cap pulled over one eye, waiting beside his new Land Rover, which had only been delivered a few weeks earlier.

  There was one thing she had to admit – that rotten though he was as a man, Fred was a good farmer. He made Plover’s End pay, which was more than she could say of poor Charles.

  After waiting for ten minutes Aria caught a bus, which set her down about a mile-and-a-half from Queen’s Folly and she started to walk home across the fields. In the winter this short cut was impossible and it meant going
round by the roads, a distance of well over three miles. This evening the fields were dry underfoot and the warmth of the day was dispersing to the soft mist rising from the distant river.

  Aria suddenly felt a warm affection for the countryside that she knew so well and which was somehow so much a part of herself that its every aspect seemed as dear and familiar as a person she loved.

  The hedges budding green, the chestnuts just ready to break their sticky buds, the glimpses of the bluebells vividly blue in the woods and the primroses on the banks made her feel, with a sudden aching nostalgia, that she could not leave them.

  This was her home, this was where she belonged. However much money she earned, however much she was offered, how could she leave it all?

  And Charles needed her too. She knew how to talk to him when he was tired and how to inspire him when he was low and miserable. Nanny fussed over him too much. To her he was always the little boy who must be cosseted and put to bed because he had eaten too many green apples.

  ‘I must be mad to think I can go away,’ Aria told herself and then she remembered that pile of bills on Charles’ table – bills that would be whittled down very considerably by the sum of twenty pounds a week.

  She stood for a moment as she reached the stile leading to another field. Ahead of her in the distance she could see Queen’s Folly.

  It stood a little higher than the ground surrounding it, its red bricks warm in the glory of the setting sun. It was so lovely that she felt as if she wanted to cry at the sight of it, so old and yet so impervious to the passing of the years, that one felt as if it must stand for ever, a monument of the past and yet still with a vision of the future.

  Was any sacrifice too great when it came to the point of saving Queen’s Folly?

  Aria was smiling as she came through the front door to find Nanny still sitting at the table in the hall, although it was after six o’clock and the door should have been closed to visitors.

  “Oh, there you are, dearie!” Nanny cried, rolling up her knitting and getting to her feet. “I’ve got the kettle on the boil and you’ll be wantin’ a cup of tea, I’m sure of that. Did you have a long day? It must have been real hot in London.”