Green Lightning. Anne Mather

the scales of civilisation, or see her dripping with water, her hair all wet and mussy. Touching her own rope of silky black hair, presently confined in a thick braid over one shoulder, Helen recalled how glad she had been of its length to hide her blushes, the harsh words that Heath had uttered making her want to die of shame and confusion.

      The narrow lanes around Starforth gave on to the wooded beauty of Jacob’s Hollow, and beyond, the valley of the River Pendle. To the south and west lay the industrial areas of Yorkshire and Lancashire, but Matlock Edge was set in the rolling beauty of the Pendle valley, whose only claim to the twentieth century was the tall stone chimneys of Deacon’s Woollen Mill. Heathcliffes were in the textile trade, too. Heath’s grandfather had founded the company, and Heathcliffe’s Worsted had been produced in the West Riding since 1908. The fact that the West Riding was now West Yorkshire made little difference. Heathcliffe’s Worsted still had a name for quality, and although Heath’s father had diversified and Heath himself had interests in various other industries, the original mill continued production. It had been modernised, of course. Heath had used the profit from some of his other interests to maintain the standards of employment his grandfather had always insisted upon, and although other mills had had to close during the recent recession, Heathcliffe’s had managed to keep their heads above water.

      ‘Is it much farther?’

      Miss Patterson’s enquiry brought Helen out of her reverie, and glancing sideways at her passenger, she unwillingly shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, changing gear to negotiate the hazardous bends of Matlock Bank. Then, shrugging her shoulders carelessly, she added: ‘That’s the house, over there.’ She pointed. ‘It’s only another mile to the entrance to the estate.’

      The older girl surveyed the stone building outlined against the backdrop of fields and woodland with evident interest. And indeed, Matlock did look rather impressive, thought Helen uneasily. Who could fail to admire its irregular yet aristocratic lines, the walls even from this distance darkened by the flourishing creeper whose scented blossom pervaded the house with its perfume? It was the kind of house anyone might wish to own, and she had always felt proud to show people her home in the past. But Miss Patterson was different. Somehow, Helen had the feeling, this woman was going to bring unwelcome changes to her life, and she wished with all her heart that Heath had never espoused the idea of finding her a companion.

      The house disappeared behind hedges as the road levelled off at the foot of the bank, and Miss Patterson sank back in her seat, a faint smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘So that’s Matlock Edge,’ she remarked half to herself. ‘Your uncle must be a wealthy man.’

      Helen did not respond. Gnawing at her lower lip, she was unhappily aware that her previous outburst about Miss Patterson’s interest in her uncle had not been so wide of the mark, and whether or not she seriously considered herself a contender for the role of mistress of Matlock Edge, she certainly would not object to being entered in the lists. Helen’s jaw jutted frustratedly. Heath couldn’t be interested in Miss Patterson, could he? With so many other women to choose from, he wouldn’t get involved with his niece’s companion, surely! Helen’s lips quivered. Why did it matter so much? she asked herself angrily. There had been women before; no doubt there would be women again. So why object so strongly to just another candidate for his bed?

      The truth was that since she had left school, there had been no other women at Matlock Edge; at least, not for any length of time. The glamorous females who used to haunt the schoolroom when she was a little girl, and later on proffered gushing congratulations at her skill on the tennis court or her prowess at swimming, had given way in recent years to the wives and girl-friends of business colleagues, and she was no longer obliged to put on her party frock or recite her party piece in front of simpering felines who couldn’t wait to get Heath into bed.

      Helen wasn’t exactly sure when she had realised that this was their objective. She had not been a particularly precocious child, at least, she didn’t think so, but gradually, as her own body’s processes started to mature, she began to understand why all those girls had hung about him. Heath was attractive—very attractive. He was tall and lean, not especially muscular, but possessed of any easy grace of motion that gave all his movements a peculiarly sexual appeal. His hair was silvery fair—though his skin was not—and smooth, requiring no artificial conditioner. His features were slightly irregular—high cheekbones, a nose that was not entirely straight, and a strong uncompromising chin. But it was his eyes that gave his face its sensual magnetism; set deep beneath hooded lids and shaded by thick stubby lashes, they could spear a person with living steel or melt an ice-cap with emerald fire. Helen remembered those eyes first when her parents died—her stepmother had been Heath’s only sister—and the three-year-old orphan had been totally disarmed by their tender loving kindness. She still recalled how he had gathered her into his arms and carried her away from the memory of how her parents had died, trapped in their car beneath the wheels of an articulated lorry, and he had been carrying her ever since, she brooded, in one way or another …

      The lodge gates stood wide, and old Jenkins, the lodge-keeper, scratched his head disapprovingly as Helen swept between them. No doubt he was wondering where she had been with the Land Rover, Helen thought impatiently, hoping his old eyes had not glimpsed her passenger.

      An expanse of sloping parkland separated the house from the road, liberally swept with spreading oaks and shady elms, ideal for the protection of privacy. Helen knew that Heath’s grandfather had bought the house in the early part of the twentieth century, but although its walls were Georgian its interior owed much of its comfort to more recent innovations. Heath kept horses in the park, and the grounds around the house were private, but the rest of the estate was on lease to tenant farmers, whose produce helped to make Matlock Edge almost self-sufficient. They grew their own fruit and vegetables, they slaughtered their own meat and poultry, and dairy produce was always fresh and delicious, owing nothing to artificial preservatives.

      ‘Who else lives in the house?’ Miss Patterson asked, as the Land Rover approached the white-painted gate that separated the garden of the house from the park. ‘It’s so big. It must have a dozen bedrooms! Surely you and your uncle don’t live here alone?’

      Helen’s lips tightened. ‘Why not?’ she demanded, stepping on the brakes with more aggression than caution, and throwing the other girl forward in her seat. ‘Heath and I don’t need anyone else. Apart from the servants, of course.’

      Miss Patterson took the time while Helen was climbing down and opening the gate to gather her composure, and when the younger girl got back into the Land Rover, she said tersely: ‘You really must stop behaving like a schoolgirl. I imagine your uncle can’t wait for someone to come and take you off his hands.’

      Helen’s jaw clenched. ‘My uncle, as you call him, made a mistake when he employed you, Miss Patterson. And if I don’t like you, you’ll very soon be making the return journey to London.’

      ‘I think not.’ Miss Patterson was complacent. ‘Mr Heathcliffe warned me that you might be difficult. He—er—he said you were a—spoilt brat, and that anything I could do to get you off his back was all right with him!’

      ‘That’s not true!’

      The words burst from Helen’s lips in angry denial, even as her brain warned her not to show her feelings to this woman. Whatever Heath had said, whatever she felt about it, she should not, she must not, let this Miss Patterson know she could get under her skin.

      ‘I’m sorry, but it is true,’ declared Miss Patterson smoothly, lifting a languid hand and gesturing behind them. ‘Oughtn’t 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