Sweet Bondage Read online

  SWEET BONDAGE

  SWEET BONDAGE

  Dorothy Vernon

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This Large Print edition published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2007. Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781445824710

  U.K. Hardcover ISBN 978 1 405 64116 6

  U.K. Softcover ISBN 978 1 405 64117 3

  Copyright © 1982 by Dorothy Vernon

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd., Chippenham, Wiltshire

  Cover illustration © AudioGO Ltd

  1

  When Gemma bought the handbag at the church jumble sale, she had no idea it would figure in a chain of events that was going to land her in deep trouble. If the handbag hadn’t been pointed out to her she wouldn’t even have seen it. She had popped into the church hall on her way home from work, not to look at the jumble, but in the hope that the cake and produce stall would supply something tempting for her supper. The good ladies of Ash-le-dale were all worthy cooks who liked to show off their versatility as well as their skill. And so the obligatory assortment of Yorkshire parkin, scones, and cakes was complemented by mouth-watering pizzas and savory pies.

  It had been exceptionally busy at the library where Gemma worked. She’d had to skip lunch to do some cataloging which Miss Davies, her superior, had thrown at her, apologizing that it should have been completed days ago but had slipped her mind. Gemma’s stomach had started to grumble around four o’clock, but not one word of complaint had passed her lips. She liked Miss Davies and didn’t mind putting in the extra effort to get her out of a fix. It meant, though, that she was ravenous now, but too weary to think of preparing anything satisfying to eat, thus her hope that the cake and produce stall would solve her problem.

  Her luck was in. Although there was very little left she spotted just one, probably the last of a batch, of Mrs. Topliss’s famous Cottage Pies. It was in an oval earthenware dish, which was returnable, and Gemma knew from past experience that a delectable mixture of minced beef, onions, ketchup, and herbs lay beneath the mashed potato topping. She handed over the money and was happily carrying her trophy away when she heard her name called. Turning her head she saw a hand waving for her to come over.

  ‘Gemma, I’ve been trying to keep this hidden all day on the off chance that you’d pop in. I couldn’t imagine anyone else having it but you. What do you think?’

  It was a clutch bag in soft, luxurious leather, dove-gray in color, the same shade as Gemma’s eyes. But it wasn’t that which said that it was tailor-made for her.

  ‘Look, it’s got your initials on it. G.C. Gemma Coleridge.’

  They both knew that the monogram on this hand-made clutch bag, which came from a prohibitively expensive shop in Knightsbridge and which could be Gemma’s for a donation, had originally stood for Glenda Channing. Glenda was Gemma’s age, twenty-two. As they were both petite and shared the same fair coloring they bore a passing resemblance to one another. But after that, all similarity ended.

  Glenda was the adored and pampered only child of estranged parents. She had chosen to live with her father, Clifford Channing, the property tycoon. Her mother lived in the south of France. Home for Glenda was ‘The Hall,’ as the large Edwardian house on the outskirts of Ash-le-dale, a beauty spot in the Yorkshire Dales, was known locally. The table she sat at glittered with fine crystal and candelabra; the food she ate was prepared by a French chef and served to her by servants. She received a generous allowance from her father and had charge accounts in all the top stores. The freedom of the world was hers, and she made good use of it, always jetting off somewhere. The exotic places that Gemma could only hope to read about in the travel section of the library were commonplace to her.

  Gemma was an orphan. She lived alone in a cottage at the end of the village, a low, stone-built dwelling with tiny windows jutting deep into the solid walls. The plumbing was temperamental, the kitchen range ancient, and sometimes, especially when the snowdrifts crept up the door, she was lonely. Church jumble-sale days excepted, she cooked her own meals, which she ate at the kitchen table, and she paid her own bills. She held her head high and was proud of being beholden to no one.

  She looked at the clutch bag with pensive longing, because it was an exquisite thing, but before she could open her own handbag to take out the money to pay for it she had to fight down an uprising of fierce pride that rebelled at taking someone else’s cast-offs. She was never certain afterward why she bought it. Was it because she hoped that by having it in her possession some of Glenda’s glamorous lifestyle might rub off onto her? Or because her neighbor was so pleased to have saved it for her and she was too tender-hearted to disappoint her by saying she didn’t want it?

  Having bought it she abandoned it on the back seat of her old red Mini, giving the Cottage Pie front seat priority where she could keep an eye on it. Running the car was expensive, but it was a necessary extravagance, providing her with a means of transport between the village where she lived and the market town of Ashford, where she worked and did most of her shopping. The bus service linking the two points was atrocious, only operating on the even hours, and there was talk of even that service being axed.

  Things carried on as normal for the next two weeks. She went to work and came home, driving her Mini through the superb scenery of the dales, small in compass, but magnificent in detail, with the narrow road curving in and out between the folds of the hills. Houses were dotted like pearls among the skeletal winter trees and the limestone crags provided a dramatic backcloth.

  When she married Barry Holt, if she married Barry, and the if was getting bigger every day, she would have to move to town because village life didn’t appeal to him. Not that there had been any talk of marriage between them, or even of an engagement, but in these parts when a man ‘walked out’ with a woman on a regular basis it was understood that the eventual outcome would be a walk down the aisle.

  She woke up one sparkling, frosty morning to the knowledge that it was Thursday and she didn’t have to see Barry for two whole days. The fact that she was pleased about this gave cause for thought. A further bonus was that it was her day off. The past few days had been even more frustrating than usual and it was a treat not to reach for her workaday tweed skirt and library smock, and instead feel the soft fullness of a dress in lavender-colored wool round her narrow hips and the anticipation of a morning’s shopping and browsing.

  She breakfasted on toast, marmalade, and coffee, washed the dishes, and put them away, and slid her arms into her warm sheepskin-lined jacket. On a last-minute impulse she transferred the contents of her everyday handbag into the gray clutch bag she’d bought at the jumble sale and locked up her little cottage in a cheerful mood.

  She stowed her boots in the car, because she could drive better in her shoes, and set off, maintaining a pace suitable to the road. It occurred to her that if circumstances did take her away she would miss this switchback ride along the narrow road boxed in on either side by parallel, and apparently never-ending, drystone walls.

  She glanced into her driving mirror and was perturbed to see Glenda Channing’s white Lincoln Continental coming up behind her at speed. She intended to pass her, of course. It was all right for Glenda. A scraped wing wouldn’t give her household budget the jitters. Gemma’s own foot went down on the accelerator, keeping her eyes peeled for a good place to pull over. Being forced to the side in this overbearing, inconsiderate way was no unusual occurrence and as she pulled onto a grass verge she was fuming. Glenda Channing thought she owned the road. Not
only that, she didn’t even have the courtesy to acknowledge Gemma’s courtesy in giving way as she passed and sped on her way.

  Gemma arrived at Ashford still feeling indignant. As it wasn’t a market day she easily found parking in the square and made for the shops, looking at the frivolities, unserviceable satin mules and French perfume in cut-glass bottles, but buying necessities, three very functional yellow dusters and a scrubbing brush. The groceries she intended taking back with her had still to be purchased as she paused at Betty’s Cafe. It was run on Victorian lines, cakes displayed on tiered cake stands, fine china and silverware, and an atmosphere of genteel, bygone elegance. Luxury never comes cheap and Gemma only meant to peep in at the bow-fronted window and then do what she normally did, walk on. But this once, something, she would never know what, made her open the door and walk in.

  Perhaps it was something to do with her unsatisfactorily drifting relationship with Barry, or her pique at being forced to the side of the road by the quiet elegance of Glenda’s custom-built car, but she felt strangely restive and self-critical. Surely it was up to her to choose the direction of her life, not sit back listlessly and accept what she was being given.

  As it was between times the morning coffee rush had dwindled off and the lunch-time crowd wasn’t yet congregating, so she had her pick of the tables. She chose one by the window with a nice view of everything going on. She gave her order to the waitress and sat back in patient expectation. The waitresses seemed to be taking advantage of the lull to grab their own tea break. An idle glance out of the window showed her Glenda Channing walking by. Glenda seemed to check her step as she caught sight of Gemma, and then she came into the cafe. This didn’t surprise Gemma because it was the sort of place that Glenda would patronize; what did surprise her was the purposeful way Glenda strode to her table and asked if she might share.

  Gemma was too taken aback to say anything but ‘Of course.’ She waved a hand in the direction of the other chair. ‘Help yourself, Miss Channing.’

  Could it be that Glenda was feeling ashamed of her earlier lack of consideration? If so, how amazing, but what had brought about the change of attitude? On the previous occasions when their paths had crossed Gemma had tried to be friendly but had always been given the big freeze.

  ‘Call me Glenda,’ the other girl said, forcing a somewhat pained smile to her lips. ‘We are, after all, neighbors. I’ve been feeling for some time that we should get acquainted. Admittedly, I could have picked my time better. I’m afraid I’m not in a very good mood.’

  Gemma hardly needed to be told that. There was a petulance about Glenda’s pretty features that was unattractive and her doll-blue eyes were dull and sulky.

  It was Barry who had once likened Glenda to a doll. He had meant it as a compliment, because he ogled Glenda in rapt fascination whenever she came into view, but Gemma thought that if someone had said that about her she wouldn’t have been flattered. And if she were a man she wouldn’t be attracted by a china facade. The face to draw her eyes might not be as blatantly beautiful, but it would shine with intelligence and warmth and humor, and because it was a very human face the eyes would give out storm warnings when the occasion arose, but the mouth would never develop the pout of a spoiled child. She was unaware of this, but she could have been describing herself.

  Suddenly Glenda thrust her chin forward and declared, ‘I envy you, Gemma. Your life is so uncomplicated.’

  What a stupid remark! It brought things that had been simmering all morning to a fast boil.

  Before she could stop herself Gemma replied in heated retaliation, ‘What do you know about my life?’ What did Glenda know about stamping library books all day and smoothing out difficult subscribers and battling cheerfully to keep ahead of the bills? Glenda wouldn’t look at satin mules and French perfume and buy yellow dusters and a scrubbing brush! What did she know of feeling trapped, of serving a sentence of sameness, of getting up and making breakfast for herself and washing the dishes and clearing them away, and then going to work and coming home and preparing supper and washing the dishes and clearing them away all over again? Or of seeing Barry on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays with routine regularity? Glaring at Glenda she said, ‘Substitute boring for uncomplicated and you’d be nearer the mark’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything,’ Glenda said quickly, biting her lower lip. She added crossly, ‘I’d rather be bored than in the mess I’m in.’

  ‘I’m sure Daddy will get you out of it. Contrition quickly followed the thought Perhaps Glenda was in real trouble. She was certainly the type to attract it.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let fly at you. Is there anything I can do to help?’ It was not in her nature to shout at someone because she was feeling let down by life and too inadequate to do anything about it. Regretting her outburst, she said, ‘Why don’t you talk about it? It might help.’

  ‘What could you do?’ The contempt in Glenda’s tone didn’t match the speculation in her eyes, which had been there from the moment she’d caught sight of Gemma sitting in the cafe and been prompted to come in and join her.

  ‘I could listen,’ Gemma sugested, ignorant of what was in the other girl’s mind.

  Glenda’s chin lowered. Her expression turned guarded in a way that was almost furtive. ‘It’s all been talked out, and everything has been decided very sensibly and rationally—but not by me. I suppose I’ll take the course I’ve been told I must take, but that’s not the point. It should be my decision. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Oh, yes, most definitely,’ Gemma said, though with no idea what she was agreeing to.

  Glenda’s chin lifted and a smile of self-indulgence came to her mouth. ‘Thank you. I knew that you would be on my side.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. I’m not taking sides. How can I when I don’t know what it’s all about?’

  ‘And I know that you would help me if you could,’ Glenda continued as if Gemma hadn’t spoken.

  ‘If I could, yes,’ Gemma admitted lamely, ‘but I don’t see—’

  ‘I’ve got to get away—away from them both. What’s the good of escaping from the clutches of a domineering father to fall under the influence of someone who shows all the signs of being even more domineering still? I refuse to be bullied into doing something I might regret later. I’ve got to think this out for myself.’

  ‘Well—good for you,’ Gemma applauded.

  What did one say in such circumstances? Even if she didn’t know what was going on she agreed with Glenda’s verdict of having the right to decide her own destiny. Hadn’t her own thoughts just run a similar course and arrived at this same conclusion?

  Changing the subject, Glenda said, ‘My car was making a funny noise when I drove into town this morning.’

  Gemma bit back the unsympathetic retort that it had sounded all right to her when Glenda had attempted to run her off the road and let her finish what she was saying.

  ‘I’ve taken it to the garage that does Daddy’s cars, but—and it’s a terrible nuisance—they’re so jammed that they can’t look at it for at least an hour and I need transport now.’

  Gemma would have thought that the Channing account was too valuable for Glenda not to snap her fingers and get instant service. Her eyebrows lifted speculatively.

  The implied question was ignored as Glenda’s doll-blue eyes widened in appeal. ‘I wouldn’t ask if the situation wasn’t desperate, but . . . No,’ she said, her lashes sweeping down in a gesture that conveyed despair and touched Gemma’s heart, ‘it’s not fair of me.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t ask.’

  Gemma would have been very dull indeed not to know what she was getting at. Without hesitation she opened her bag, ironically the same clutch bag which had originally belonged to Glenda, took out her car keys and placed them on the table. ‘If it isn’t too much of a come-down and you really do need transport that badly, my car is parked in the square. You’re welcome to borrow it.’

  Glenda’s mouth lifted in triumphant laughte
r. ‘Do you mean it?’ And then, before Gemma could have second thoughts, ‘Thanks so much, you don’t know what this means to me.’ To which she added the unexpected rider, because a daughter of Clifford Channing had not been brought up to think of anyone but herself, ‘How will you get home?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll catch the bus.’

  Again there was something not quite genuine in Glenda’s smile. ‘No, I’ve a better idea. Why don’t you collect my car for me—if you’re up to it?’

  That ominously thrown taunt was no doubt meant to pay Gemma back for suggesting it would be a come-down for Glenda to drive the Mini and, if she were frank about this, she wasn’t up to driving Glenda’s car. It was as if Fate had been listening to her petty grumbles about the dullness and lack of purpose in her life and had said, ‘Right, this girl needs to be taught a lesson.’ It had thrown down the gauntlet and there was nothing Gemma could do but pick it up—pick up Glenda’s car for her from the garage and accept the challenge.

  ‘If you trust me with it, I’ll collect it with pleasure,’ she announced.

  ‘Splendid!’ Glenda said, sealing the bargain. ‘Meridith’s look after Daddy’s cars, as you probably know. The mechanic said he’d leave it in the forecourt when it was ready. Here—you’ll need the keys.’ She placed them on the table. ‘Why the look of surprise?’

  ‘Oh . . . nothing really. I just thought the keys would have been left with the mechanic. I always have to leave my keys when I take my Mini in for service. I suppose they’ve got spares for yours?’

  ‘Er . . . yes, that’s it. The garage keeps spares.’

  ‘How shall we change back? Would you like me to come round to The Hall this evening to effect the swap?’

  ‘Yes, do that.’ A smile played about Glenda’s mouth. ‘Come in time for cocktails, if you can make it,’ she added softly.

  ‘I’ve nothing else arranged,’ Gemma said in acceptance. Cocktails at The Hall! That was one for the book. ‘Thank you, I’ll look forward to it.’