'I really don't know,' Helen had affirmed determinedly, her fingers crossed below the level of the tablecloth. This was something she could not discuss even with Mrs Gittens, who had taken care of her since she was a toddler. No matter how mad Heath made her, she would never confide her feelings about him to anyone.

Angela Patterson appeared during the meal, slim and delectable in a sleeveless shirtwaister and cream strappy sandals. 'I only ever drink coffee in the mornings,' she had a.s.sured Mrs Gittens, after surveying Helen's plate of scrambled eggs with a faintly horrified eye. 'Some of us need to count the calories,' she had added, for the younger girl's benefit, and Helen, whose appet.i.te had suffered by the morning's upheaval, abruptly lost all interest in the food.

It had been awful having to remain at the table while Angela drank her way through three cups of black coffee and asked various questions about the routine at Matlock Edge. Bearing Heath's warning in mind, Helen had been politely civil, and Angela had responded by giving a smug little smile now and then, as if she knew perfectly well why Helen was on her best behaviour.

When she had finally had enough, Mrs Gittens suggested that Helen should show Miss Patterson around the house, to acquaint her with the whereabouts of the living rooms and so on. But Angela had soon grown bored with looking into the library and the music room, and the blue and gold elegance of the drawing room, and had suggested a tour of the gardens might give her a better understanding of the layout of the house.

Shrugging, Helen had dutifully led her outside, showing her the tennis and croquet lawns, allowing her to admire the delicate tracery of the sunhouse, which Heath's grandfather had had erected for his wife when she fell ill in 1924.

Evidently the kidney-shaped swimming pool met most with Angela's approval, and at her suggestion, the two girls changed into swimsuits and spent some time playing in the water.

'That hair will really have to be cut,' Angela declared, when they climbed out to sun themselves on the cushioned loungers set on the mosaic tiling of the patio. Watching Helen squeezing the water out of the silken rope, she shook her head disapprovingly. 'Long hair's out of fashion now, anyway,' she added. 'I think we'll have it cut, something like mine.'

Helen didn't make any response, although the idea of having all her hair cut off was not appealing. She had always had long hair. She liked long hair.

But if that was what Heath wanted, what could she do about it?

Angela's appraisal of her body was disturbing, too. It made Helen uncomfortably aware that last year's bikini no longer provided an adequate covering, and the burgeoning fullness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s had begun to overspill the skimpy bra. But last year she had not had this problem, and as soon as she could, she made herself scarce and went to change.

At lunch, Angela concentrated on finding out more about Heath's lifestyle.

With the excuse of needing the information to equip Helen for the future, she successfully discovered that her uncle was a member of the board of several different companies, and that as well as Matlock Edge and the apartment in London, he also owned a villa in the South of France and a palazzo in Venice.

'How delightful,' she remarked, her tongue circling her lips as if in antic.i.p.ation. 'You were a lucky girl to be adopted by him. Not all uncles are so generous.'

'Heath didn't adopt me,' exclaimed Helen shortly, stung by the unknowing reminder of their relationship. 'My name is Mortimer-I told you. Heath's sister married my father.'

'Does it matter?' Angela was not particularly interested in their relationship. 'I doubt if your father could have given you the life your uncle has. It's not going to be easy to find you a husband to match up.'

'I don't want a husband!' Helen was indignant, but Angela wasn't listening to her.

'How far is it to Manchester?' she asked, getting up from her chair. 'I think we'll begin this afternoon. I'm sure we can do better than what you're wearing.'

And so here they were in Manchester, thought Helen wearily, dreading the afternoon ahead. Clothes had never interested her, beyond a natural desire to wear something in which she felt comfortable. Jeans had always provided that comfort, and the prospect of buying more feminine attire had no appeal whatsoever.

Miles dropped them in Piccadilly, with the arrangement that he should pick them up again in three hours. The young man looked sympathetically at Helen as Angela shepherded her out of the vehicle, and Helen reflected that she would rather spend the afternoon fighting off Miles' advances than trail around fashion shops with Angela.

One of the larger department stores had a teenage department, and Angela made straight for this, cringing rather affectedly at the raucous sound of music that emanated from that section. She turned her nose up, too, at the collection of gaudy garments hung out for display, and although Helen liked one or two of the drop-waisted dresses, she didn't offer any objections when Angela turned them down.

'You don't want to look like a tart, do you?' she demanded, marching out of the store, and Helen shrugged her shoulders, not really caring, one way or the other.

By the end of two hours Helen had various items of apparel to her credit.

To give Angela her due, she did have good taste when it came to clothes, and the couple of dresses, the brown suede skirt suit, and the simple caftan for evening wear did bear the mark of style and expert tailoring. She found fault with anything Helen chose, even if it was something simple like a shirt or a sweater. She insisted that the girl left everything to her, and although her head was spinning after trying on so many discarded items, Helen was satisfied that Heath would approve of Angela's choice.

It was while they were enjoying a cup of tea in a cafe in the shopping precinct that Angela saw the hair salon. 'The final touch,' she declared, shunning Helen's suggestion that her hair should wait for another day. 'You want your uncle to be proud of you, don't you? Come along, then. We don't have that much time.'

The stylist who attended to them was a man, or at least he looked more like a man than a woman. Nevertheless, he did have hennaed hair and he wore make-up, and his voice, when he addressed them, was not so much lower than Helen's own.

'You want the hair cutting, you say,' he declared, tipping Helen's face from side to side and chewing on tinted lips. Helen had worn it loose to come to town, and she had to admit after trying on so many garments it did look more tumbled than usual. If only it was straight, she thought, like Angela's, then perhaps it would not look so bad. But it was wild and curly, and crinkly from the braid, and she reflected that to someone like this, it probably looked neglected.

'Well, I'll see what can be done,' he said at last, and Angela nodded.

'Good. I'll come back in about an hour. Don't worry about the payment.

Just send the bill to Heathcliffe, Matlock Edge.'

'Matlock Edge,' repeated the man frowning. 'Ah, yes, I have heard of Mr Heathcliffe. Very well, madam, leave it to me. You can rely on Ricardo to do a good job.'

'Are you sure-' Helen began, half ready to suggest that perhaps they ought to consult Heath before embarking on something as momentous as cutting her hair, but Angela had gone. Content that she had done all that was required of her for the present, she was weaving her way down the precinct, too far away already to offer a.s.sistance.

'If you'll follow me ...'

The man indicated that Helen should follow him into the larger salon at the back of the shop, and with a feeling of desperation, Helen obeyed. Could she ring Heath even now? Could she beg him to allow her to keep her hair the way she had always had it? But no, she didn't know where to contact him. And besides, he had already given his orders.

The sight of several other girls being attended to by other stylists was rea.s.suring, but Helen couldn't forget that they were here by choice. She wasn't. She was being coerced by blackmail, and her chin jutted resentfully as she put all the blame on to Heath.

'Is something wrong?'

The man had seated her in an empty chair, and was presently a.s.sisting her to put on a salmon pink overall. 'Oh-no. No.' Helen met his reflected gaze in the mirror unhappily. 'It's just-well, I'm not sure about this, you see.

I don't know whether I want my hair cut.'

The man smiled. 'Your mother was very certain.'

'My mother-oh! No, she's not my mother.' Helen coloured in amus.e.m.e.nt, wondering what Angela would have to say to that. 'She-er-she's just a-a friend of my uncle's, that's all. She thinks she knows what's best for me.'

'I see.' The man frowned and came round the side of the chair to look at her. 'Then let me show you something, will you? Wait here. I will not be a moment.' He lifted a hand. 'One moment, please.'

When he came back, he was carrying a dark wig, almost the same colour as Helen's hair. But unlike her hair, it was short and straight, exactly styled in the way Angela had directed.

'Give me a moment to secure your hair in a knot-so,' he declared, twisting her own hair into a corkscrew. 'Now, we slip the wig on like this. Just there. Now we see an impression of what your-uncle's friend is expecting.'

Helen gasped. Until that moment she had not realised how much hair contributed to a person's appearance. Shorn of the dancing ma.s.s of curls, her features looked different altogether, and she didn't like the alteration, she didn't like it at all.

'You see, your face is not thin and angular like your friend's,' explained Ricardo. 'Your features are fuller, younger; time enough for such severe styles when you are older. For now, I would suggest you allow me to trim the ends, to give the hair a little style, perhaps. To make it short would be sacrilege. It is beautiful hair. You should enjoy it.'

'Yes.'

Helen nodded, although she suspected he was actually saying that as she was more generously built than Angela, she needed all the help she could get. Remembering Angela's remarks at breakfast, she couldn't help but agree with him, viewing her own voluptuous curves with some distaste.

Nevertheless, if wearing her hair long a.s.sisted in distracting attention from her disadvantages, the last thing she should do was have it cut. With a sense of hurt indignation, she guessed Angela Patterson had known this, and her nails dug into her palms at the realisation that without Ricardo's sensitivity, she could have ended up looking fat and frumpish.

When the older girl returned some fifty minutes later, Helen was seated in the waiting room, flicking through a magazine. She had never felt so relieved about anything in her life, and even Angela's burst of impatience could not disturb her.

'It has been cut, madam,' Ricardo averred, in answer to her irate enquiry.

'But the young lady did not wish me to cut it short, and I had to agree. It would have been unsuitable.'

Angela's lips tightened. 'What have you done with it, then?'

'Oh, I have cut away the split ends, shortened it a little, so that it can be worn without becoming tangled, washed it, had it blown dry. A comprehensive job, I can a.s.sure you.'

'Don't you think it looks nice, Miss Patterson?' asked Helen politely, unable to resist the small dig, and Angela gave her a frosty look.

'For the moment,' she conceded, and Helen was aware of the threat in her voice. 'Come along now. Ormerod will be waiting.' Her eyes flicked back to Ricardo. 'I'll tell Mr Heathcliffe you'll be sending your bill.'

Ricardo inclined his head, apparently unperturbed by the implied criticism, but as Helen followed Angela out of the salon, her nerves were taut. Once again she was remembering what Heath had said that morning, and she prayed that her recalcitrance would not arouse his anger.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Helen was in bed when Heath came home. She couldn't see the lights of his car, but she could hear the sulky purr of its engine as he cruised round to the garage, and she wondered with a sense of bitterness who he had spent the evening with.

When she and Angela had arrived back at Matlock Edge late that afternoon she had learned that Mrs Gittens had had a phone call from Heath, saying would not back for dinner. His reason was a business meeting in Leeds, but Helen had heard that excuse before. Nevertheless, she did get a certain satisfaction out of witnessing Angela's disappointment when she came down to find only two places set at the table.

'Does your uncle often dine out?' she asked, adjusting the shoulder strap of the elegant black sheath she was wearing, and Helen shrugged.

'Sometimes,' she conceded, not prepared to admit how often Heath was absent from the dinner table, and Angela made an annoyed grimace as she resignedly took her place.

Helen had not bothered to dress up for the meal. In the blouse and skirt she had worn to go to Manchester, she felt drab and uninteresting, and aware of Angela's eyes upon her, she avoided eating any of the fattening foods Mrs Gittens put before her.

A spicy fish soup was followed by roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, but Helen avoided the roast potatoes, which were her favourite. She concentrated instead on the broccoli, carrots and runner beans that accompanied them, drawing a troubled comment from Mrs Gittens when she came to clear the plates.

'What's the matter, la.s.s?' she demanded. 'Are you sickening for something? It's not like you to be off your food, and I remember well you didn't eat your eggs this morning.'

Helen avoided Angela's eyes. 'I ate lunch, didn't I?'

'Lunch was salad,' declared Mrs Gittens. 'Rabbit's food. A young la.s.s can't survive on lettuce and green beans. Come on now, Cook's made a rhubarb crumble for dessert. You'll enjoy that, won't you?'

Helen's mouth watered. 'Could I just have cheese and crackers?' she asked uncomfortably. 'Honestly, Mrs Gittens, I'm not hungry. I'll have some fruit later on, but it's too hot to eat stodgy puddings.'

'Huh!' Mrs Gittens plainly didn't believe her, and it didn't help to feel Angela Patterson's knowing eyes scorning her efforts. She couldn't wait for Mrs Gittens to leave the room to mock the younger girl's insistence, allowing her hand to slide suggestively over her slender figure with real enjoyment.

'So you've taken my words to heart,' she remarked, cradling her wine gla.s.s between her two palms and surveying Helen over the rim. 'Not before time, I'd say.'

'I knew you would,' responded Helen tensely, wishing she could tell her how she really felt, and Angela allowed a derisive laugh to escape her.

'I've never had a problem with my weight,' she declared smugly. 'I've been a size ten since I was sixteen. Being a size fourteen can be so limiting.

So many of the most attractive garments aren't made in the larger sizes.'

'I wouldn't exactly call a size fourteen large!' retorted Helen, despising herself for arguing, but indignant at Angela's deliberate attempt to provoke her. 'Mrs Gittens in a size twenty, and I know friends of mine who have to buy size sixteen in pants.'

Angela's lips twisted. 'Suit yourself. But you have to admit, designers do tend to favour the slimmer figure. Don't worry about it. You can't help it.

Some of us just have a fatty problem.'

'I don't have a fatty problem!' exclaimed Helen, unable to prevent the angry retort. 'My skin's clear, and I never get pimples!'

Angela smiled. 'Then why are you dieting?' she asked, in silken tones, and Helen had no polite response to give her.

Now, lying in bed, listening to the steady drone of Heath's motor, Helen wished she dared get out of bed and go and meet him, as she used to when she was younger. Often on nights when she couldn't sleep, she had tiptoed down the stairs at the sound of the front door closing, giggling conspiratorially when Heath raised his fingers to his lips. But since the incident at the pool, she had not attempted to leave her room, and she kicked the sheet aside frustratedly at the realisation that those days were gone for ever.

Unwanted, the memory of what had happened that morning returned to torment her. Heath had been so angry, she reflected miserably. He had acted as if it had all been her fault, and yet when he had kissed her, she had been unable to free herself, even had she wanted to. It was as if he had wanted to punish her, and punish himself at the same time, but inexperienced as she was, she knew it had all got out of his control. She touched her lips tentatively, aware of a certain sensual enjoyment when she did so. It was strange-in the past two days she had received two very different kinds of kisses, but she knew instinctively that in spite of Miles'

aggression, Heath's had been the most dangerous.

A hollow thud announced the closing of the outer door, and Helen listened tensely for Heath's footsteps up the stairs. Although Matlock Edge was a large house, the stairs were old, and years of experience had alerted her to their every creak. He didn't come upstairs immediately, and she guessed he had gone into the kitchen to get himself a drink of milk. She used to share that drink with him, perched on a corner of the kitchen table, eyes sparkling at the unexpected treat ...

With a dejected sniff, Helen rolled over on to her stomach, uncaring that the absence of the sheet meant that her b.u.t.tocks were exposed to the air. It was too hot to wear a nightdress, even if Mrs Gittens did cluck reprovingly about young ladies and modesty, and she buried her face in the pillow, wishing she could sleep.

The sound of Heath's footsteps coming along the corridor caused her to shuffle a little more determinedly against the pillow, and then she froze into immobility when her door was suddenly opened. A shaft of light from the hall outside cast its brief illumination across the bed, and her breathing almost stopped. But then the light disappeared, the door closed again, and she expelled her breath weakly at the realisation that he had gone.

The next morning, it all seemed like a dream, but she knew it wasn't, rationalising what had happened with the realisation that Heath had probably looked in on her hundreds of times over the past fourteen years.

After all, she was generally asleep when he came home, and she only hoped he thought that last night, and did not bring up the embarra.s.sing subject of her nudity. It was already a bone of contention between them, and she could imagine the mileage Angela Patterson would get from such a juicy piece of gossip.

Nevertheless, she couldn't prevent the wave of colour that swept up her cheeks when he came into the morning room to find her already at the breakfast table, and it didn't help when he seated himself opposite her and regarded her with quiet intensity.

'I'm sorry,' he said, startling her still further, and she looked up at him quickly, before resuming her concentration on the slice of toast on her plate.

'Sorry?' she mumbled, helping herself to marmalade. 'I don't know what you mean. You're often late for breakfast. As you can see, Miss Patterson hasn't even put in an appearance yet.'

'I wasn't talking about breakfast, and you know it,' he declared heavily.

'Helen, stop pretending you're going to eat that slice of bread! You've already spread two lots of marmalade on it, and it looks positively revolting.

Just put your knife down and look at me. I promise it won't hurt at all.'

Helen wiped her fingers on her napkin without speaking, then unwillingly lifted her chin. 'I didn't know you were going to come into my room,' she muttered uncomfortably. 'It was such a hot night, I couldn't get to sleep with the covers on.'

Heath's thick lashes narrowed the green eyes. 'You were awake last night?'

Helen sighed. 'Yes.'

'You didn't say anything.'

Helen caught her breath. 'No.' She moved her shoulders helplessly. 'What would you have had me say? Goodnight, Heath?'

'Why not?'

'Why not?' Helen shook her head. 'And I suppose you would have done the same.'