lighting a cigar. ‘And what did you tell her?’
His father smiled. ‘I told her—you’d been—busy!’ His tone was mocking, and Sara was aware of the antagonism between them like a tangible thing in the air.
Jarrod turned to the stairs, taking them two at a time without replying, and his father gave a satisfied little chuckle before taking Sara’s arm to lead her into the long, high-ceilinged lounge.
Sara’s attention was taken by the magnificent décor. The carpet, cream and thick-piled, was the background for deep red and black chairs and the dark polished wood of a corner cocktail bar. There was an enormous television set combined with a radiogram, while concealed lighting above the high coving drew attention to the extravagantly carved ceiling. It was like something out of a film set, and she gasped.
‘Do you like it?’ asked J.K., looking pleased.
‘I—I think it’s marvellous, Mr. Kyle,’ she exclaimed. ‘I—I didn’t know places like this existed in Yorkshire!’
He laughed. ‘Oh, Sara, what a refreshingly youthful remark! And you must call me J.K. Everyone does. It at least distinguishes me from my son.’
Sara did not know how to answer, so she merely smiled, and J.K. rang the bell to summon the maid. ‘Sit down, Sara,’ he said, nodding to a low couch. ‘I want to hear all about you—and your grandfather.’
She subsided on to the couch as he indicated, smoothing the skirt of her dark blue pinafore dress. She wondered what the servants would make of her. She was hardly the usual kind of visitor to Malthorpe Hall. It was so beautifully warm, too, and she thought there would be no need to wear warm clothes in these surroundings.
A neatly uniformed maid brought a tray of tea and placed it on a low table near Sara, and after she had gone, J.K. seated himself opposite her, and said: ‘Can you handle a teapot?’
The cups were small and wafer thin, but Sara managed to accomplish the feat of handling the silver teapot without accident, adding cream and sugar to J.K.’s at his instigation, and only cream to her own. There were sandwiches of ham and salmon, and small scones oozing with jam and fresh cream, but she ate very little, her throat still rather constricted with nerves.
J.K. glanced at a gold cigarette box afterwards, and said: ‘Did your grandfather allow you to smoke?’
Sara smiled, shaking her head, ‘No, not that I was particularly interested—Mr.—I mean J.K.!’ She flushed.
‘Very good, too. It’s a filthy habit in women. But still, it does give one something to do at interviews and suchlike. Anyway, Sara, come on: tell me about yourself. Your school, your plans, what you and old Jeff used to do together.’
He was very easy to talk to, much less frightening than his son, and Sara soon found her nervousness dispersing in the warmth of his interest. She told him about everything, even the Masons, describing her life with such attention to detail that J.K. became really intrigued, to the extent that he forgot the passage of time, and it was only when Morris knocked and entered, interrupting them, that he glanced at his watch.
‘Will the young lady be staying for dinner, sir?’ Morris asked politely.
‘Well, as it’s already almost seven o’clock, I think that would be the most sensible course,’ said J.K., nodding across at Sara. ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘Oh, but—I mean, I’m not dressed for—dinner,’ stammered Sara awkwardly, recalling Jarrod Kyle’s presence with some misgivings.
J.K. gave a deprecatory gesture. ‘That’s of no importance, my dear. I shan’t be changing now, and I don’t suppose Jarrod is still at home. Eh, Morris?’
‘Mr. Jarrod left half an hour ago,’ said Morris evenly. ‘He told me to tell you he might be late.’
J.K. smiled sardonically. ‘Did he? How thoughtful of him! All right, Morris. Dinner for two.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Morris withdrew, and J.K. rose to his feet and crossed to the cocktail bar.
‘What will you have to drink?’ he asked. ‘You must have something. Something innocuous, of course.’
Sara swallowed hard. ‘Wh—what do you suggest?’
‘Oh, I don’t know—how about a small sherry?’
‘Yes. That would be fine.’ She relaxed against the red upholstery, thinking with relief that Jarrod would not present his disturbing presence at dinner. Then she frowned. If Jarrod had left, how was she going to get home? ‘Mr.—J.K.?’
He glanced round. ‘Yes?’
‘If—if your son has left—how will I get home? I mean—is there a bus service, or something?’
J.K. shook his head. ‘Naturally Potter will take you in the car.’
‘Potter?’
‘My chauffeur. Now, there you are. I think you’ll find that to your liking.”
Sara sipped the sherry pensively, wondering where Jarrod Kyle had gone.. Obviously he would have plenty of friends and acquaintances in the district. She wondered if he was married. And where was J.K.’s wife?
‘Is your wife——?’ She halted abruptly. It was none of her business after all. Turning red, she hoped he had not noticed her words. But of course he had, and he said:
‘Go on! What were you going to ask? I think you’re entitled to ask a few questions yourself. I’ve done most of the questioning so far. Don’t be nervous!’
‘Well, I was just going to ask where your wife was,’ said Sara.
J.K. nodded. ‘My wife is in Jamaica,’ he said easily. ‘She lives there.’
‘Oh!’ Sara’s mouth belied her astonishment.
He smiled, swallowing some of the Martini in his glass. ‘Do you think that is an unconventional relationship? Don’t be afraid to say.’
Sara shrugged. ‘Well, do you live here?’
‘Most of the time,’ he nodded.
‘Then yes, I do think it’s unconventional. Are you divorced?’
‘No. Just separated, through choice. Helen is not like me; she likes the social life. She also likes a warm climate. Several years ago she developed a mild congestion of the lungs. She was advised not to winter in England, so’—he shrugged—‘she moved to Jamaica.’
‘And you?’
‘Well, for a while—in fact for many years—we had discovered we had nothing in common. Our lives were quite separate. It was a natural course of events that she should eventually leave.’
‘How awful!’ Sara sighed. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Why be sorry? Helen is happy, and so am I. We’re not enemies. We’ve been quite civilised about it since Jarrod was about—oh, seven or eight years old.’ He poured himself another Martini. ‘Helen came from a wealthy Yorkshire family. I think she fell in love with me, although I’m not certain of that. At any rate she was sufficiently interested to marry me, and in so doing provide me with the necessary funds to expand my business.’
Sara’s eyes were wide. ‘You mean—you married her for her money!’
J.K. lifted his shoulders. ‘How cold and calculating you make that sound, Sara. How capable young people are of exposing life to the cold light of day! I would say we married out of a mutual need, at that time. I’ve repaid Helen every penny of the money she loaned me. I don’t consider my actions so despicable.’ He sighed, as he watched the revealing expressions crossing her face. ‘I suppose you do.’
Sara bit her lip. ‘Oh, really—J.K.—it’s nothing to do with me. I mean—I don’t know all the facts or anything. I’m not your judge.’
‘No,