told herself.
He was stringing her along, playing a cruel joke. He had to be. Didn't
he?
'Revenge,' he'd said. 'A dish best eaten cold.' No joke in that, she
thought, and a long aching shiver ran through her.
He returned with the tray, which he set down on a table in front of the
sofa.
'Cream and sugar?' he asked.
'Just cream, please,' said Joanna, staring down at the carpet. She
accepted the cup he handed her, and swallowed some of the strong,
powerful brew. It seemed to put heart into her—to give her the
courage to make one last appeal to him.
She put the cup down, and said, 'Tell me something—why are you
doing this?'
For a moment he said nothing, and she went on hurriedly, 'I mean,
you don't need to—to force women to be with you. So why me?'
'Because you've been a thorn in my flesh for too long and for too
many reasons,' he said quietly. 'And because I know that I wouldn't
have got within a mile of you in any other way.' He smiled with a kind
of reminiscent bitterness. 'Every time I met you socially, you used to
look at me as if I were the worst kind of dirt. You seemed to be
encased in ice, always at a distance, even when you were a little girl.
You were either away at school, or shut up in that big barracks of a
house.' He paused, his mouth twisting slightly. 'Or riding round in
your father's car like a little princess.'
'I remember that well,' she said savagely. 'I remember those yobs
throwing stones at us, while you egged them on.'
She'd been so frightened. She'd cowered in the back seat beside her
father, holding his arm, listening to the jeering and catcalls and the
thudding of missiles against the side of the car.
'Who are they, Daddy?' she'd wailed.
'They're local scum, my pet, not worth your notice,' Anthony
Chalfont had said scornfully. 'Sit up, Joanna, and show them you're
not afraid. Harris, hurry up and get us out of here.'
She'd been scared half to death, but she'd obeyed him, lifting her chin
and staring disdainfully at the gang of youths at the side of the road. It
was then she'd seen him.
He was taller than any of the others, and standing a little way apart.
He was wearing the same anonymous jeans and sweater, yet there
was something about him that told her that he was different. That he
was the leader, and always would be.
He was smiling, openly enjoying their discomfiture, as the chauffeur,
cursing under his breath, edged the big car along the narrow street. He
saw Joanna and laughed out loud, pointing at her, and calling out
something to the others.
Thick mud splattered the window beside her, and Joanna cried out
and jerked away.
'It's all right, sweetie,' her father said gently, as the car gathered speed
out of Northwaite. 'They've gone.'
'They're vile!' she said passionately, looking at the mud dripping
down the window. 'They've spoiled our car. And that big boy was the
worst. He was laughing, making them do it. Who was he?'Her father's
mouth compressed. 'I've no idea, Joanna,' he said repressively. 'I can't
be expected to know the identity of louts from the slums.'
Some instinct told her that he was not telling her the whole truth, but
now was not the time to pursue it. Instead, she bearded Harris while
he was cleaning the motor which was his pride and joy.
'Is the car going to be all right, Harris?'
'Reckon it will, Miss Jo. No great harm done.'
'That's good.' She stood watching him polishing the chrome. 'Why did
they do it, do you suppose? We didn't even know them.'
Harris shrugged. 'Times are hard just now, Miss Jo, and tempers run
high sometimes.'
'Oh.' Joanna wasn't sure what he meant, but there was something
more important she wanted to ask. 'Harris—that boy—the one who
was making the others throw stones at us. Who was he? My father
said he didn't know.'
'Happen he didn't recognise him, Miss Jo,' Harris said laconically.
'He's been away to school and grown a fair bit since your father last
laid eyes on him.' He
He was stringing her along, playing a cruel joke. He had to be. Didn't
he?
'Revenge,' he'd said. 'A dish best eaten cold.' No joke in that, she
thought, and a long aching shiver ran through her.
He returned with the tray, which he set down on a table in front of the
sofa.
'Cream and sugar?' he asked.
'Just cream, please,' said Joanna, staring down at the carpet. She
accepted the cup he handed her, and swallowed some of the strong,
powerful brew. It seemed to put heart into her—to give her the
courage to make one last appeal to him.
She put the cup down, and said, 'Tell me something—why are you
doing this?'
For a moment he said nothing, and she went on hurriedly, 'I mean,
you don't need to—to force women to be with you. So why me?'
'Because you've been a thorn in my flesh for too long and for too
many reasons,' he said quietly. 'And because I know that I wouldn't
have got within a mile of you in any other way.' He smiled with a kind
of reminiscent bitterness. 'Every time I met you socially, you used to
look at me as if I were the worst kind of dirt. You seemed to be
encased in ice, always at a distance, even when you were a little girl.
You were either away at school, or shut up in that big barracks of a
house.' He paused, his mouth twisting slightly. 'Or riding round in
your father's car like a little princess.'
'I remember that well,' she said savagely. 'I remember those yobs
throwing stones at us, while you egged them on.'
She'd been so frightened. She'd cowered in the back seat beside her
father, holding his arm, listening to the jeering and catcalls and the
thudding of missiles against the side of the car.
'Who are they, Daddy?' she'd wailed.
'They're local scum, my pet, not worth your notice,' Anthony
Chalfont had said scornfully. 'Sit up, Joanna, and show them you're
not afraid. Harris, hurry up and get us out of here.'
She'd been scared half to death, but she'd obeyed him, lifting her chin
and staring disdainfully at the gang of youths at the side of the road. It
was then she'd seen him.
He was taller than any of the others, and standing a little way apart.
He was wearing the same anonymous jeans and sweater, yet there
was something about him that told her that he was different. That he
was the leader, and always would be.
He was smiling, openly enjoying their discomfiture, as the chauffeur,
cursing under his breath, edged the big car along the narrow street. He
saw Joanna and laughed out loud, pointing at her, and calling out
something to the others.
Thick mud splattered the window beside her, and Joanna cried out
and jerked away.
'It's all right, sweetie,' her father said gently, as the car gathered speed
out of Northwaite. 'They've gone.'
'They're vile!' she said passionately, looking at the mud dripping
down the window. 'They've spoiled our car. And that big boy was the
worst. He was laughing, making them do it. Who was he?'Her father's
mouth compressed. 'I've no idea, Joanna,' he said repressively. 'I can't
be expected to know the identity of louts from the slums.'
Some instinct told her that he was not telling her the whole truth, but
now was not the time to pursue it. Instead, she bearded Harris while
he was cleaning the motor which was his pride and joy.
'Is the car going to be all right, Harris?'
'Reckon it will, Miss Jo. No great harm done.'
'That's good.' She stood watching him polishing the chrome. 'Why did
they do it, do you suppose? We didn't even know them.'
Harris shrugged. 'Times are hard just now, Miss Jo, and tempers run
high sometimes.'
'Oh.' Joanna wasn't sure what he meant, but there was something
more important she wanted to ask. 'Harris—that boy—the one who
was making the others throw stones at us. Who was he? My father
said he didn't know.'
'Happen he didn't recognise him, Miss Jo,' Harris said laconically.
'He's been away to school and grown a fair bit since your father last
laid eyes on him.' He
Similar Books
