CHAPTER FIVE.

JULIE let herself into her bedroom and closed the door, leaning bade against it rather weakly. Her first morning's work was over, and although her fingers ached from keeping up with the flow of his dictation, it was her mind, her sensitivities, which felt most abused by his bruising narrative.

Of course, she had had no experience of working with a writer before, and consequently, her ideas of someone composing a novel inclined towards the romantic image imposed by films of poets and artists of another era. The reality was much different Rhys Edwards did not need to wait for inspiration, he did not need to search for words to express himself. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to say it, and the three thousand words or so he had dictated that morning had already built up a picture that tortured Julie's fertile imagination.

Until now, she had not given a lot of thought to the kind of book her employer might be intending to write. Besides, as he had apparently not written a novel before, it had not seemed unreasonable to suppose that perhaps what he wrote would not be acceptable. But even without the publishers' letter confirming their interest in the project, Julie knew that the story Rhys Edwards was telling was sure-fire material. It was a piece of compelling fiction which no one could be quite sure was not factual, with just sufficient information, just sufficient use of known names, to make the plot ambiguous.

As yet, they had barely touched on the main theme of the story, but his descriptions of the prison conditions in a guerilla stronghold in Central Africa were horrifying. The man who, Rhys had explained, was to be the main character in the book was being held by the guerillas, and his treatment at their hands aroused all Julie's sympathies and indignation. There was a wealth of feeling in the words Rhys used, and taking it all down on her notepad, Julie felt herself to be an actual part of the creation. In consequence now, she felt drained, both physically and spiritually, aware that she had never experienced anything so mentally exhausting in her life.

Straightening away from the door, she walked across the room, catching a glimpse of herself in the long wardrobe mirrors. There was a pencil smudge on her chin and her hair was escaping in untidy strands across the dark wool of her tank top. But it was her eyes which drew her attention, dark and disturbed, the lids heavy with weariness. A faint flush of colour crept up under her skin. She looked different, aware. Almost as though she had just indulged in some devastating emotional scene. Her tongue appeared as she wet lips suddenly dry with dismay. Was this how Rhys Edwards had seen her?

Was he aware that he had, in some strange way, seduced her with his words?

As soon as the thought entered her head, she dismissed it. Heavens, she was becoming fanciful! She was allowing his undoubted literary ability to a.s.sume qualities it simply did not possess. She had worked hard all morning, she was tired. What more natural than that her eyes should mirror that purely physical state?

Without asking herself why, she marched into the bathroom, and sluiced her face thoroughly under the tap. Fortunately, there seemed no shortage of hot water, although she used it barely lukewarm in an effort to cool her heated cheeks. She was brushing her hair when someone knocked at her door.

Taking a deep breath, she went to answer it, half expecting to find William outside as before, but instead it was Mrs. Evans, The housekeeper did not appear any too pleased at being obliged to deliver messages, and she said shortly: "Mr. Edwards said to tell you your lunch is being served in Master William's room."

Julie was surprised and relieved. At least that would enable her to avoid another confrontation with her employer until she was sure she was quite in control of herself.

"Thank you for letting me know," she acknowledged with a smile, but the housekeeper turned away.

"Better hurry up before it gets cold," she muttered, as she went away along the corridor, and Julie hastily secured her hair and made her way to William's room.

It was not difficult to find. His door was ajar, and when he heard her footsteps, he called: "In here. Julie, I'm here!"

Julie pushed open the door into a room not unlike her own. There was the same high ceiling, the same shabby appointments, the same marble fireplace. Only the bed was different William's bed was a simple divan, and he was sitting up in it, looking towards the door, a grin of satisfaction spreading over his thin features. Beside him, a trolley had been unfolded to form a small circular table set with plates and serving dishes.

"Come cm in," called William, when she hesitated in the doorway. "I didn't feel hungry at first, but when Mrs. Evans told me you were joining me, Julie, I knew I was going to enjoy my lunch."

Julie sighed, closing the door so that the heat generated by the fire should not all escape. "I don't remember giving you permission to call me Julie," she observed, approaching the bed.

"Well, I can't call you Miss. Wood all the time," he protested, looking appealingly up at her. "I mean-'well, you are only four years older than me, you know."

"Four years is quite a considerable time at your age," she retorted, and he made a face.

"Now you sound just like my father,' he grumbled. "Oh, sitdown.

You can use that chair." He indicated a basket-woven bedroom chair.

"You must be hungry after working all morning."

"Yes." Julie brought the chair to the trolley-table and sat down. "It has been rather hectic."

"I know." William grinned maliciously. "Dulcie's had her. nose put right out of joint."

"What do you mean?" Julie frowned.

"Well, she did come to the library, didn't she? I mean, she came up here grumbling about my father turning her away."

"Oh, I see. Yes." Julie remembered that moment when the door had opened and Dulcie's small face had appeared. But this time Rhys had had no time for her, sending her away with evident impatience, intent on the work he was doing to the exclusion of all else.

"She said she doesn't like you," went on William, clearly determined to arouse Julie's annoyance and succeeding, except that she was equally determined that he should not know about it.

"Dulcie is only six years old," she said, using the defence Rhys had used earlier in the day. "I imagine living here, in such remote surroundings, she's not really used to mixing with other people."

William snorted. "She hasn't lived here long enough to be affected by it, one way or the other!"

Julie had been taking the lids off the serving dishes, discovering a delicious-smelling meat and vegetable stew, to be followed by apple pie and custard. But she looked up at his words, curious in spite of herself. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Wasn't this-I mean, isn't this-" She floundered, aware that she had almost committed herself to more knowledge than she was known to possess. "Isn't this-Dulcie's home?" she finished lamely.

"I suppose it is now," agreed William dourly, helping himself to the stew and then handing the ladle to Julie. "But she doesn't like it any more than her mother does."

Julie ladled some of the stew on to her own plate, and picking up her fork began to eat. It was not her affair, she was telling herself impatiently, aware that William's words offered a tantalising challenge. It was no good allowing herself to become involved with the personal affairs of the occupants of Devil's Mount. She was here to do a job of work and goodness knows, that was going to be difficult enough, without making herself a party to William's petty intrigues.

All the same, curiosity was a trying companion.

Making an effort to divert their conversation into less personal channels, she said: "This stew is delicious, isn't it? Just what we need on a cold day like today."

William allowed that it was all right. "Mrs. Evans isn't a bad cook,"

he conceded grudgingly, "but she's not much good at anything else.

She can't keep staff, you know. But perhaps that's because people round here don't like her. She comes from up north, you see.'

"Up north?" Julie looked at him disbelievingly. "She has a distinct Welsh accent."

"I know. But she's from Bangor. That's 'up north' to these people."

He spoke scathingly, and Julie said: "Don't be so patronising, William!" in reproving tones.

"Well, it's true." He was not to be outdone. "We have had girls working here, girls from the village. But they don't really like us either, I suppose, so perhaps it's not all Mrs. Evans' fault."

"I think you're exaggerating, William," she retorted, with some asperity, finishing the stew on her plate and pushing it aside. "You seem to have a hang-up about people not liking you. Perhaps you don't try hard enough to like them."

"My father says that sometimes people get their priorities mixed up.

He doesn't seem to care if people don't like him. But I do."

Julie sighed, irritation making her reckless. "Why should you a.s.sume that the people from the village don't like you?"

"Because of Uncle Richard."

Julie picked up a knife. It seemed impossible not to return to the problems of this family. "Would you like a piece of apple pie?" she asked, cutting into the crisp pastry, and William sighed rather exaggeratedly.

"Do you want to know about Uncle Richard?" he asked, after she had set a dish of fruit pie and custard in front of him.

Julie tackled her own dessert. "Not particularly, William. I 'think I'd rather hear about you. How long is it since you-left school?"

"My last school, you mean?" William considered the question.

"Oh-about five months, I suppose."

"Five months!"

"Well, there was the summer holidays, you see, so I suppose actually it has only been about two months.'

Julie shook her head. "And are you going back?"

"I can't. They won't let me. My father was asked to take me away at the end of last term."

The question "Why?" hovered on Julie's lips, but again she kept silent. William's problems were just as personal to the family as anyone's. But this time William did not ask whether she was interested. He plunged straight on with his explanation.

"You see, when Uncle Richard was killed, I knew Da would come hope. Nerys would make sure of that. And he'd always said he'd open up Devil's Mount again, and I couldn't risk her persuading him to stay in London, when I wanted so much to live here-"

Julie interrupted him then. "William, please! This has nothing to do with me. You will persist in discussing your family's private affairs. I was only curious to know how much of a gap in your education there had been."

William hunched his thin shoulders, the bones sticking through the cotton material of his striped pyjamas. Whether it was deliberate or not, Julie could not be sure, but he could a.s.sume a pathetic air which aroused all her sympathies.

"I thought you'd be someone I could talk to," he muttered, sniffing resentfully. "I thought you'd be interested. But I suppose you only came here out of curiosity."

"That's not true!" Julie stared at him impatiently. "You . know very well how I came to be here."

"But you didn't have to accept the job, did you? I mean, after you found out I'd been lying, you could have turned it down. What changed your mind? Meeting my father? Women like my father. That was why he wanted someone older for the job. So that Nerys wouldn't object!"

"William!" Julie pushed her dish aside and began gathering the dirty plates together. "Whatever your father's reasons for employing me, and you must know that you were instrumental in achieving that, I'm here now and I'm not-regretting it."

"You're not?" William looked up at her.

"No. But I shall be if you persist in using me as a sounding board for your biased speculations. I'm not interested in the whys and wherefores, only in the present. I want us to be friends, too. But not so we can gossip about every other member of the household!"

William regarded her broodingly. "What else is there to talk about?"

Julie sighed. "Why, heaps of things. As soon as you're up and about again, we'll go for walks, explore the cliffs, go into the village..." She paused. "What are you interested in, yourself? Do you like reading-or music? Do you play an instrument?"

"Do you?"Julie shook her head. "We were talking about you. But yes, as a matter of fact, I play the guitar. Not very well, but well enough to amuse myself.'

"Have you brought it with you?"

Julie chuckled. "You must be joking! What would your father have said if I'd arrived at Devil's Mount complete with guitar case? I'm here to be a secretary, not an entertainer."

William smiled then, and his lean features fleetingly mirrored a little of his father's charm. She felt an overwhelming sense of compa.s.sion towards him, realising that since coming here William's world had been limited to the kind of introspection that bred his fantasies about people not liking him. Somehow, at weekends maybe, she would have to find time for William, and she realised with a pang that free time was going to be a very spa.r.s.e commodity at Devil's Mount.

When she returned to the library after lunching with William to transcribe the pages of shorthand she had taken down that morning, there was no sign of her employer. Not that she needed his a.s.sistance.

He had explained his working methods very clearly that morning, and no doubt he had other duties to attend to during the afternoon.

However, he had not said how many copies he wanted of the typescript, and she hesitated for a while before inserting two carbons.

She had completed more than half the copy when Nerys appeared.

This afternoon, the older girl was dressed in a soft cashmere sweater and a finely pleated skirt, both in shades of lilac which toned with her lipstick and eyeshadow. The fluffy curls which framed, her small face gave her a childlike air, but there was nothing innocent about the long, purple-coated nails which plucked at the double string of pearls about her slender throat She came into the room without invitation, and looked casually over Julie's shoulder at the page in the typewriter.

"Working hard, Miss Wood?" she queried silkily.

Julie felt like covering the page with her hands. She didn't know whether Rhys Edwards would approve of anyone else reading his novel until it was finished. With a flick of her wrist, she unwound the page, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g it up into a ball and dropping it into the waste bin.

Then, as she took three clean pages and inserted carbons between them, she managed to cover the pages she had already typed with a blank sheet.

"That was careless," she said, with feigned annoyance. "It's so important to be-accurate."

Nerys had straightened when Julie pulled out the sheets from the machine, and her expression revealed she was not deceived by the younger girl's behaviour.

"So efficient," she murmured, leaving the desk to cross to the windows. "I must congratulate Rhys on his choice of typist."

The use of the word "typist" was deliberate, but Julie didn't mind.

Until she knew the situation here better, she was prepared to suffer a little insolence.

"Thank you," she said now, as though accepting Nerys's. sarcasm as a compliment, and was gratified to see those lilac- painted lips tighten with annoyance. - "Tell me, Miss Wood," Nerys hadn't finished with her yet, "whatever attracted a girl like yourself to work in a place like this?" She spread a hand expressively.

Julie hesitated. "It's-different," she said at last "I felt like a change of scene."

"But you used to live in London, I understand."

"Just outside, actually."

"But you worked in London."

"Yes."

"And you'd exchange that, for this"

"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Edwards."

"Perhaps you are not aware that my husband was the Marquis of Llantreath, Miss Wood. Although I must admit that now my husband is dead Rhys does not intend to use the t.i.tle, I still consider myself Lady Llantreath, do you understand?"

Julie pressed her lips together for a moment Then she nodded. "Yes, my lady,' she said obediently.

Nerys half smiled. "So you don't think there's any difference in working here from working in London?"

"I didn't say that exactly. It's just that-well, my work in London was boring. I worked in a solicitor's office, and it was very repet.i.tious.

Working for-Mr. Edwards is-interesting."