The Waterfall Of The Moon. Anne Mather

Julie might be on her own. I was going to suggest taking her out for an hour or two.” Julie visibly brightened, but her mother merely nodded. “Never mind, Peter. Now you're here, you can stay. Julie was just about to put on some records, weren't you, darling?”

      Julie hesitated, looked mutinous, and then acquiesced. “Yes, Mummy,” she murmured resignedly.

      Ruth was feeling rather de trop. “If you'd like to go out with Peter, Julie, I don't mind,” she began.

      “Nonsense.” Julie's father entered the conversation. “Julie knows better than that –”

      “Perhaps I might make a suggestion.” Patrick Hardy's voice was quietly compelling. “Why don't we all go out for a while? We could drive into Devizes and stop off somewhere for a drink.”

      Julie's mother looked at her husband questioningly. “Do you want to do that, James?”

      Ruth's nails curled into her palms. No one was asking her opinion, and the very last thing she wanted was to be thrust into Patrick Hardy's presence for several hours.

      James Stephenson considered the suggestion frowningly. “Well, I'm not really enthusiastic,” he admitted. “I was looking forward to a quiet evening.”

      “Good.” His wife looked as though this submission had pleased her. “I don't particularly want to go out either. But you four can, can't you?”

      Ruth felt terrible. She couldn't be placed in such an intolerable situation! “I – I don't particularly want to go out either,” she said.

      “Don't be silly, Ruth!” Mrs. Stephenson overruled her protest. “Of course you do. We're just too old, that's all.”

      Ruth looked helplessly towards Julie, but Julie was far too delighted with this turn of events to do anything to help her. There seemed nothing for it but to agree.

      “Fine.” That was Patrick Hardy again. He walked across to where the three young people were standing. “I suggest you and Julie go in your car, Forrester, and Miss Farrell and I will go in mine.”

      Ruth looked up at him angrily, trying to compel him to look at her and witness her frustration. But he seemed indifferent to her feelings completely, and she was forced to accompany the others into the hall to collect their coats.

      In fact, Ruth had no coat, only a tweed cape which she wore for all occasions, but at least it was warm and she shrugged herself into it, spurning anyone's assistance.

      “There's a good pub outside of Sharning,” said Peter, helping Julie on with her coat. “The Beeswing, do you know it?”

      “I'm afraid not.” Patrick pulled on a dark grey overcoat with a fur lining. “But you lead the way – we'll follow.”

      “Okay.” Peter was obviously feeling pleased with himself. “Ruth knows the Sharning road and it's just beyond the village.”

      “Right.”

      Patrick nodded and they all went outside to get into the cars. Ruth had to wait while Patrick brought his car out of the garage and the others waved and drove off as the Mini came to a halt beside her. Patrick pushed open the door from inside and Ruth got in quickly, folding her long skirts about her legs.

      “I hope you don't find this too confining,” he commented dryly, as she was wondering how he managed to get behind the wheel. “But I needed some form of transport and as I don't intend to do any great distance this seemed ideal for towns.”

      Ruth knew she couldn't ignore him completely, so she said: “I have a Mini myself,” in rather terse tones.

      Sharning was the next village to Cupley where the Stephensons had their estate, and it wasn't long before the lights of the houses came into view. The tail lights of a car ahead turned out to be Peter Forrester's and pretty soon they were turning between the gates of a well-lit hotel. They parked the cars, and the two girls walked ahead into the building.

      “You don't mind, do you, Ruth?” Julie whispered rather anxiously as they entered the foyer, and Ruth knew she couldn't disappoint her.

      “No, of course not,” she denied. “Is this where we leave our coats?”

      It was a larger hotel than Ruth had expected with several bars and a small dance floor in the lounge. A three-piece group was playing and the room was filled to capacity. Patrick suggested that they had a drink in one of the bars and went into the lounge later, and the others agreed.

      Because of the throng of people and the hum of noise, it was possible for Ruth to relax somewhat. Peter was quite an amusing companion when he lost his initial shyness, and Patrick had his own brand of humour to offer. Certainly Ruth's lack of conversation did not appear to be noticed and she sipped her way through three vodka and tonics quite happily.

      Then Patrick suggested they tried the lounge again, and they left the bar to push their way into the larger room. It was not quite so crowded as it had been earlier and Peter drew Julie determinedly after him on to the dance floor.

      Left with Patrick, Ruth panicked. “If you'll excuse me,” she began, “I must go to the cloakroom –”

      Patrick's fingers caught her upper arm. “Why?”

      Ruth flushed. “Why do you think?”

      “Can't you wait?”

      Ruth was taken aback. “If you must know – no!”

      “I don't believe you,” he murmured, looking down at her burning cheeks. “I don't think you want to go at all. I think you're avoiding being alone with me.”

      “Are you going to let me go?” she demanded hotly.

      “No. At least – not yet. Come on, I want to dance with you.”

      She was forced to go with him. His hold on her arm was very sure and in any case she didn't want to cause a scene. Once on the dance floor he drew her closely into his arms, and while some of the couples were dancing apart from one another, he refused to let her go.

      And after a while She didn't want him to. There was something infinitely desirable about being as close to him as this, her hands imprisoned against the silk material of his shirt, feeling the heat of his chest and the heavy beat of his heart beneath her fingers. He had his arms about her waist, and they moved slowly in time to the music.

      “Now this isn't so bad, is it?” he queried softly, against her hair.

      Ruth shook her head. “No,” she conceded huskily.

      “I'm sorry,” he said.

      “Sorry?” Ruth tipped her head to look at him. His face was very close and she quickly averted it again. “Sorry about what?”

      “About this morning,” he replied quietly. “I'm afraid I was very rude.”

      Ruth quivered. “That's all right.”

      “Well, thank you. I behaved quite boorishly. I don't usually – but I had my reasons.”

      Ruth's palms were moist. “Yes?” she prompted, relaxing against him completely.

      His withdrawal was immediate, a physical detachment of his body from hers. But when he spoke again, he sounded as amiable as before.

      “I'll try and explain. The last time I was in England, about five years ago, Marion spent the whole time trying to marry me off to some distant cousin of hers.” He sighed reminiscently. “Oh, Celia – that was her name, by the way – was a charming girl, and I've no doubt she'd make some man a charming wife, but not me!”

      Ruth knew something was expected of her and assuming an indifference she did not feel, she said: “And you thought I was another candidate, is that right?”

      It was amazing, she thought to herself, how inconsequential she could sound when something inside her seemed to be screwing her up in little knots.

      “That's correct,”