Rose in the Bud (5 page)

Most of its contents had been pillaged from capitals like Constantinople, and to him it seemed to represent the garish. He asked her whether she had ever seen Notre Dame in Paris, and when she had to admit that she hadn’t he shook his head as if her education had been neglected.

“One day,” he insisted, “you will have to see it! I couldn’t allow you to go through life without seeing Notre Dame.”

Lunch was a light-hearted meal that lasted far longer than Cathleen’s lunches normally lasted, and under the influence of the excellent food and the well-chosen wines—although, as always, she was particularly abstemious—she found herself drawn on the subject of her past life and background, and slightly revealing sidelights of it that she would not otherwise have disclosed caused him, occasionally, to smile a little, and on other occasions to look thoughtful. For instance, when she revealed that of her two daughters her mother adored Arlette his dark brows actually met together in a frown ... and he did not seem surprised when she explained that Arlette, who had adopted the name Brown when her mother married again, had had a father who had proved unsatisfactory to her mother, and whose early demise was something of a relief to her, quite unlike the simple, admirable qualities of Brown the clergyman. But Brown the clergyman had never had any money, and Mrs. Brown did not seem able to forgive
him
for that. Cathleen, who quite obviously had adored her father even more than Arlette was adored by her mother, made the admission sadly.

But when she said that Arlette had to be forgiven some of her less satisfactory qualities—which, no doubt, she had inherited from her father—because she was so beautiful
—really
beautiful, Cathleen insisted—he looked at her in genuine
surprise.

“But, my dear Cathleen,” he said—and by this time they were on Christian name terms—“your sister is no more beautiful than you are, and as a painter
I would say that you have the more expressive features.” He leaned towards her, looking into her transparent eyes. “There are times when I think you are incredible,” he admitted, “with that rose-leaf skin of yours, and those golden eyelashes which you are clever enough not to darken save at the tips. Arlette, on the occasions that I met her, struck me as much too heavily made-up, and a little too conscious of her own good looks to impress other people with them. She could be charming, of course, but she was also moody.”

“Perhaps she was unhappy?” Cathleen said, watching him, and always eager to discuss the subject of her sister.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps. But are we not all unhappy at times
?
”

“Perhaps—do you think she was in love with—Paul di Rini
.
..
?
”

Instantly his expression altered, became wary. “Paul is an engaging young man, and I believe feminine hearts frequently beat quicker at his approach, but I could not say. It is very likely that she would be attracted by him, especially as she must have seen quite a lot of him while she was living at the
palazzo.
If she fell in love with him and took any advances he made to her seriously I blame the Contessa for not warning her about her nephew. When he marries he will marry for money, because the di Rinis are hard up, and not because a pretty English girl temporarily engages his fancy.”

“I—I see,” Cathleen said.

He looked hard at her.

“And while we are on the subject of Paul I don’t think it is really necessary to warn you against him,
but...”
He hesitated for a moment, and then decided to continue. “You made an admission to him that was a little unwise, but having made it you must be on your guard. You told him that a large sum of money had been left to you recently, and when Bianca pressed you to stay with them last night it became immediately
cl
ear to me what she had in mind. A pretty young English girl
without
money is a very different thing from a pretty young English girl who has just inherited a comfortable competence
... or perhaps it is even larger than that
?
”

She was about to admit to him the size of her ‘comfortable competence,’ when he h
el
d up his hand to stop her.

“No, no, I do not wish to know! It is no affair of mine! But you must be cautious in your dealings with the di Rinis, and however persuasive Bianca is when she repeats to you her invitation to stay at the
palazzo
—as she will do!—you must not be tempted. Not even for a moment. Be firm and say that you prefer your hotel, where you are perfectly comfortable!”

“Oh, but I am—and I do!” Cathleen assured him earnestly. But she could not honestly believe that Paul would transfer his attention to her from her sister just because he suspected she had money of her own. And inwardly she couldn’t refrain from smiling a little when she thought of Paul’s face if she de
ci
ded to take advantage of his ignorance and lead him on, and then later—perhaps when it was too late!—admit to him the truth.

“Well, we don’t want to spend the whole of the day talking
ei
ther of your sister or Paul,” Edouard said, a little impatiently, when she seemed disinclined to abandon the subject. “I have no doubts that Arlette is perfectly safe somewhere, and when it suits her she will reappear, and possibly try to
claim
some of your inheritance,” with a dryness that surprised Cathleen since it was the very thing Arlette was capable of doing once she did decide to disclose her whereabouts. Arlette had a weakness for all the luxuries money buys, and her fingers itched uncontrollably when she knew that someone
cl
ose to her had a little something put aside.

It was always, “Well, lend it to me and I’ll pay you back!” But she never did pay back. Even Mrs. Brown had to admit that Arlette was a bad borrower, because she never paid anything back.

Not even affection. She took quite a lot, but she never gave it out. And that was why Cathleen seriously wondered whether it was Paul di Rini’s position that had tempted Arlette rather than Paul di Rini himself.

In order that they should get well away from the subject of Arlette—or Bridget—Edouard made a determined move from the lunch table, and as neither of them wanted coffee they went out into the brilliant world of sunshine, blue skies and sharp, blue-black shadows once more.

They spent the afternoon exploring the lagoon in Edouard’s superbly comfortable motor-launch. They visited the picturesque island of Murano, about a mile to the north of the main island, and Cathleen was shown the twelfth-century church—which Edouard thought more worthy of a visit than St. Mark’s—and the even more romantic island of Torcello, which had a remarkable cathedral with some beautiful Byzantine mosaics. It became clear to Cathleen as the afternoon advanced that the ancient Venetians had loved churches, and as a slight change of diet she found the Lido, with its wonderful stretch of sand and glorious bathing, something of a relief. Edouard said he would call for her the following morning early, and, if she agreed, they would spend the blistering hours before lunch bathing and sunbathing. After that—if she once more agreed to lunch with him—he would take her as far as Chioggia, an ancient and picturesque port, where he had done a lot of painting in his time, and which was an ideal place to laze away a sunny summer afternoon ... the kind of summer they had in Venice, anyway.

Cathleen, who felt sunburned and happy after the day she had already spent in his company, expostulated that she couldn’t possibly continue to take up so much of his time, but he merely smiled at her, squeezed the slim bare arm his lean, brown, artistic
fingers
were encompassing, and assured her almost solemnly that if she was willing to take up his time he was more than willing to allow her to do so.

Before they returned to the hotel they had drinks at the same caf
e
table in St. Mark’s Square they had occupied that morning, and it was then that Edouard pressed her to have dinner with him.

“You have seen Venice by day, now you must see Venice by night,” he insisted. His dark eyes were not nearly so inscrutable as they gazed at her across the table, and, in fact, there was something in them that made her flush slightly, and for the first time in her life her heart beat wildly as if with a foretaste of extraordinary excitement. Almost casually, as he bent towards her, his hand covered one of hers, and he examined the pretty pink fingernails with interest.

“You have lovely hands,” he said softly. “You should be able to paint well, or do fine needlework.”

“I can’t even draw,” she told him laughingly, “but I do do needlework.”

“One day I will teach you to paint.” He looked up at her for an instant, and then away. “Wear the white dress to-night—the one you wore last night—and put those pretty pearl drops in your ears—they suited you.”

She smiled.

“They’re the only ear-rings I possess.”

“You’re not fond of jewellery?”

“I’ve got a necklace of garnets my aunt left to me, and one or two bracelets, and a cameo brooch. I don’t suppose Signorina Bianca would wear such a thing as a cameo brooch.”

She didn’t know why she added such a thing, but it seemed to cause him to frown temporarily.

“It shouldn’t matter to you what Bianca wears. She has the di Rini jewellery, some of which is excellent, and some vulgar; but she won’t possess it much longer unless Paul marries money.”

“You don’t think she is interested in the idea of marrying money herself?”

He looked slightly startled for a moment, and then he frowned and threw away his cigarette.

“I suppose most women wish to marry for money—or at least, where there is some money,” he remarked as he rose. “Just as men can be tempted by it. Now, shall we return to the hotel
?
”

CHAPTER IV

When t
hey reached the hotel the first person Cathleen saw waiting for her in the main entrance hall was Count Paul di Rini. At first, when she caught sight of him in conversation with an attractive, dark-haired young woman behind the reception desk, she received the impression that he was making enquiries about something or someone, until he turned and came quickly towards her, ignoring Edouard in the first few moments of recognition.

“Signorina Brown!” he exclaimed. He put forth his hands and clasped both of hers. “Bianca and I have been searching for you everywhere! The hotel said you were in for lunch, but that afterwards you went out again.” He glanced with an air of displeasure at Moroc. “Presumably with you, Edouard
?
Were you the ‘gentleman’ with whom Miss Brown lunched?”

“I was.” Edouard’s expression was faintly challenging.

Count Paul seemed to relax a little. He made a shrugging movement with his shoulders, as if deploring the enterprise of some people, and then once more seized hold of Cathleen’s hands and this time retained them in a slightly moist grip.

“You are looking delightful, Miss Brown,” he told her, “and as if you have been soaking up the sun. Did you ever know sunshine like this in England?”

“No, never,” she answered. Actually, she was acutely aware of the fact that, in the process of ‘soaking up the sun’ she had acquired a slight shine on the
tip of her nose, and her hair felt definitely untidy. The smart white outfit she had put on with such pride that morning felt crumpled and soiled.

She noticed that in his buttonhole—and he was very smart this afternoon, very much the owner of one of the oldest
palazzos
in the district, with an aristocratic disdain for all lesser mortals around him (particularly obvious tourists, at whom he glanced as if they had no right to exist)—he wore a slightly wilting red rosebud, and it caused her to remember the gift of red roses she had received that morning. With a slight shock—for the last thing she wished to believe was that it really was Count Paul who had sent her the flowers—she wondered whether it was purely a coincidence that his buttonhole had obviously been purchased in the same florist’s that had despatched the roses to her.

“Bianca and I have decided that we must call you Cathleen,” he said, as if he expected her to feel mildly flattered, at least. “After all, your sister was Arlette to us, and you cannot continue to be Miss Brown. It would be ridiculous!”

“Quite ridiculous,” Edouard agreed, in an extremely dry voice.

Paul turned and looked at him. Despite the lustre of his eyes they were bleak and cold.

‘Bianca was expecting to see or hear from you to-day,” he told him. “Apparently last
night
you made some sort of an arrangement.”

“If we did I must have a very bad memory,” Moroc returned quietly. “An inexcusable memory!”

Paul shrugged again.

“Well, there is little point in our standing here like this. I have run Cathleen to earth, and now I have to pass on to her Bianca’s invitation. To-night we shall be dining at Francini’s, and we look for the pleasure of having you join us, Cathleen. Edouard, too, if he has nothing better to do,” with very little
empressement
in his manner, however.

Cathleen looked at Edouard, and she expected him to shake his head instantly. After all, he had already invited her to have dinner with him, and unless he released her from the invitation she couldn’t accept another. She would much rather have dinner with Edouard—whom she felt by this time she was getting to know a little—in any case; but, to her astonishment, the same thing happened that had happened the night before. One moment he had been planning to take her home, the next he had casually resigned the pleasure to Paul. Now he smiled at her as if he was up against major opposition, made a slight, expressive gesture with his hands, and spoke coolly.

“There was something I was planning to do, but I’m sure Cathleen will enjoy Bianca’s party best. And if Bianca is labouring under the delusion that I planned to meet her to-day I shall have to make my peace with her. For my part I accept.”

Paul offered no comment. He looked at Cathleen, and the bleakness vanished from his eyes.

“And you,
signorina
?
” he asked.

“Thank you, I—I shall love it,” Cathleen answered, rather stiffly; and when Edouard remembered that his boatman was picking him up at six o’clock and turned to hurry away she barely acknowledged his departure, and forgot to thank him for the exceedingly pleasant day she had passed in his company.

Paul, who had pe
r
mitted her to snatch away her hands but was gazing down at her as if she was good enough to eat, expressed himself as delighted that he would see her that evening.

“I shall call for you here myself,” he said, “and it will be a pleasure I shall look forward to.” He
glanced down at the rose in her belt and detached it and cast it away in disgust. “That thing is dead,” he said. He regarded her thoughtfully. “Now what, I wonder, are your favourite flowe
r
s? Not orchids
...?
No,” he shook his head emphatically, “you do not suggest to me orchids. But camellias, yes. Or gardenias!” He glanced at his watch as if he had a commission to execute. “Tell me, Cathleen, what is the colour of the dress you will be wearing to-night?”

Cathleen was so surprised that she didn’t answer immediately. For one thing, she hadn’t the least idea what she was going to wear that
night ...
except that the white dress Edouard had asked for would not now be worn. She didn’t know why she was so certain about that in her own mind, but she was, and the only explanation she could think of afterwards was ... acute disappointment.

“Well
?
” the Count demanded, as if he was mildly impatient. “What will you be wearing, Cathleen?” Cathleen thought for a moment. She had brought three dresses that would be suitable with her, and one was black lace. Black lace seemed a fairly safe thing to wear in any case.

The Count was enchanted.