Raw Silk. Anne Mather

all, her father had a point. Robert really did know nothing about Oliver Lynch. If she was perfectly honest, she’d have to admit that she’d only sympathised with him because she’d been intimidated by Oliver Lynch’s tall, dark presence.

      ‘So, what did you think of the man?’ Reverend Hayton prompted now, and Fliss realised that her careless words had got her into even deeper water. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss Oliver Lynch with her father. Particularly as her reaction to him had been so disturbingly confused.

      ‘He seemed—very nice,’ she said carefully, avoiding making any statement that might initiate a follow-up. ‘Um—I think I’ll go over to the church. I promised Mrs Rennie I’d help her with the flowers.’

      Her father looked as if he might have some further comment to make, and she balled her fists in the pockets of the linen trousers she was wearing as she waited for the verbal axe to fall. But all Matthew Hayton said was, ‘Ask Mr Brewitt to check on the communion wine, if you see him,’ before pushing his spectacles back in place and returning to his sermon.

      Outside the pleasantly cool environs of her father’s study, the air was hot and decidedly humid. At this time of year, any long spell of hot weather was usually followed by a bout of thunderstorms, and the sky had that ominous overcast sheen that often heralded bad weather.

      Other than that, the village looked rather pretty at the moment. The cottage gardens were filled with every kind of flower imaginable, and sunflowers and hollyhocks rose thickly above the rest. There were geraniums, too, in great numbers, spilling from every hedge and border, and tumbling riotously from stone urns and planters. Only the lawns looked rather parched, because sprinklers had been forbidden.

      The vicarage garden was no different from the rest, and Fliss, who invariably ended up having to do the weeding herself, viewed its dried beds with some misgivings. The church did employ a caretaker, part of whose duties was to keep the grass neat in the churchyard, and to look after the rather large gardens of the vicarage. Church fetes were always held on the back lawn, and it was important to keep the weeds at bay. But Mr Hood was really too old now to do all that was needed. Even with a tractor mower, he found it hard to pull his weight. Not that the Reverend would ever force him to retire, thought Fliss affectionately. Not as long as Mr Hood wanted to work. Until he chose to retire, the job was his.

      Walking up the gravel path to the vestry door, Fliss lifted the weight of her hair from her neck with a slightly weary hand. She really ought to have her hair cut, she thought ruefully. Or confine it permanently in a braid. Having long hair might look nice, but it certainly wasn’t easy to handle. And it could be rather tiresome at this time of year.

      Still, it wasn’t really her hair that was making her feel so tired all of a sudden. The truth was, she wasn’t sleeping well. These warm, humid nights left her feeling limp, not rested, and the problems Robert was having were creating troubles for her, too.

      Ever since their engagement, Robert’s attitude towards her had become more and more possessive, and she wondered if it was because she had so far evaded giving in to his demands that he was so aggressive. Since Rose Chen came on the scene he had become increasingly persistent, and he was no longer willing to make compromises. He wanted her, he said. Not at some nebulous date in the future, but now. Nothing in his life was certain any more, and he needed her with him to keep him sane.

      Her protestations that she was with him, that possession was nine-tenths in the mind anyway, didn’t persuade him. How could he feel she was really his when she drew the line at the bedroom door? he asked. When two people loved one another, there should be no lines, no barriers.

      Of course, there were other arguments: that she was prudish and old-fashioned—arguments she couldn’t really defend. Perhaps she was both those things, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Sex had never figured highly in her thoughts.

      And the truth was, although she liked Robert, and cared about him, after her experience at college she didn’t know if she had it in her to feel any more deeply than that. There were women—she had read about them in magazines—who were happily married, with a handful of children, who’d never known what real passion was. The importance of feeling loved, of feeling wanted, was what they cared about. Orgasm—a word which was freely bandied about today, and which her father abhorred—was not something she was eager to experience. She was sure it was vastly over-rated; something men had introduced to try and get their way.

      She sighed. Not that that conclusion in any way solved her problem. She still had to deal with Robert’s plans for their future. If only she were a more emotional person, she thought wistfully. It wouldn’t seem so coldblooded then, discussing the terms of her surrender.

      When she reached the porch, she noticed a car parked at the kerb, just beyond the lych-gate. It was a black saloon, long and sleek, but nothing like the racy sports car Rose Chen and her escort had arrived in a week ago. She expelled her breath rather relievedly, not really appreciating, until that moment, that she’d experienced a moment’s unease. It wasn’t that the sight of a strange car alarmed her, she assured herself. Because of its history, the old church occasionally attracted visitors in the summer months. It was the association with that other strange car that had startled her. And the realisation that she was not looking forward to meeting Oliver Lynch again.

      Entering the church, she immediately felt the sense of peace that always invaded her consciousness whenever she did so. Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be a wife at all, she reflected thoughtfully. She got so much pleasure from spiritual things; perhaps she ought to consider becoming a nun.

      She was smiling to herself, thinking how horrified her father would feel at this suggestion, as she pushed open the door into the choir. It was quite dark in the church, the overcast sky leaving the pulpit in shadow. Mrs Rennie hadn’t put on any of the lights; indeed, there was no sign of Mrs Rennie at all. Instead, a man was standing at the foot of the nave, gazing silently up at the altar.

      Fliss’s heart skipped a beat, and, although she endeavoured to calm herself, the realisation that she wasn’t alone had given her quite a shock. But it wasn’t just the presence of a solitary man that had startled her. It was the awareness of who that man was that had her wishing she were any place but here …