Royal Purple (11 page)

“The old lady can’t eat you, you know,” he said whimsically. “And in any case, I’ll have a word with her myself, so that some measure of her wrath will be deflected from you and descend upon me!”

Lucy glanced at him, a sudden ray of hope in her heart. If he accompanied her inside, perhaps—perhaps the Countess might invite him to remain and have a drink, or even to stay to dinner. They had much better food nowadays, and Augustine would b
e
quite up to coping with an unexpected guest.

Especially if it was for Lucy’s sake. August
i
n
e
had become quite attached to Lucy lately, and ever since the house had been filled with flowers, which she had never doubted for a moment were the tribute of a serious admirer, she had displayed an interest in Lucy’s young man which was a little embarras
s
ing at times to Lucy herself.

But no sooner had the car stopped outside the house than the door was opened and Augustine appeared in the opening looking harassed. She put a finger up to her lips as if to enjoin caution on Lucy’s part, and when the girl stood beside her in the hall she whispered:

“Her Highness is in one of her tantrums, and you’d better be ready with a very good story to explain the reason why you’re late,
mademoiselle
!”
She looked up swiftly at the tall form of Avery, and dropped him something that was very nearly a curtsy. “Good evening,
monsieur.
I’m sure
mademoiselle
has had a very pleasant afternoon—”

From the rear of the hall a harsh voice interrupted her.

“Augustine! If that is Miss Gray, tell her I wish to speak with her at once! And if she is not alone, tell the young man who has condescended to bring her back at last that I would like a few words with him also!”

Lu
c
y looked in almost a frightened fashion at
Augustine, and the old servant shrugged her shoulders, as if the whole situation was beyond her, and in any
c
ase she was not responsible for it. But Paul put Lucy gently aside and strode down the length of the hall, with its dingy furnishings, to make his apologies to the Countess.

She stood leaning on a slender ebony cane with a handsome gold-mounted top, and although she had taken little pains with her dress, and her absurd auburn wig was askew, as usual, there was something so strikingly dignified about her that he instinctively slowed his steps as he drew nearer to her. He bowed, very meticulously, in front of her, and then straightening himself and clicking his heels—not as if he was an ordinary young man in a casual but well-tailored suit, but a courtier who knew precisely in front of whom he was standing—he put back his head and looked at her very levelly.

Behind him Lucy could see his squared shoulders, and although she couldn’t see his square jaw she knew that it was very square at that moment. She heard him say gently:

“I am very sorry indeed,
madame,
if I have kept Miss Gray out longer than the length of time you gave her permission to remain away from you. It was entirely my fault—”

“I’m perfectly sure it was,” the Countess snapped back at him, with a hint of venom in her voice. “Miss Gray is a goo
d
girl, and in the six months I’ve kn
o
wn her she has never failed to keep a promise she has made to me. Not until this afternoon! And as you’re the individual who took her out gallivanting then you’re the
o
ne I hold responsible for a piece of discourtesy
!”

Once more he bent his head in a mildly abject manner.

“You have every reason to be annoyed,
madame,
and I’m truly sorry—”

“Being sorry isn’t good enough,” she said. “Come in here
...
!
” She indicated the door of her sitting-room, that was standing open. “There are one or two things I would like to say to you, Mr.
Avery.
A few things I would like to ask you! I hope you are not on duty in your capacity as an hotel employee this evening, for I may make you a little late.”

He stood aside for her to precede him into the room, but she refused to budge until he had entered the room himself. But before that he turned and looked at Lucy, and Lucy felt suddenly despairing as she realised that this was the moment when she had to say goodbye to him. And there had been nothing at all said about another meeting!

She had spent several wonderful hours in his company, and now she didn’t know when she would see him again!

He held out his hand to her, and he smiled at her gravely.

“Goodbye, Lucy,” he said. (And at least he wasn’t afraid to call her Lucy in front of the Countess.) “I’ve enjoyed today tremendously, and thank you for allowing me to take up so much of your time.”

The Countess clucked.

“You’ve certainly done that,” she said. “At least I hope you’ve got to know one another reasonably well,” in so dry a tone that Lucy wondered for an instant whether she was joking. Until she saw the animosity in the old eyes. “But not too well, I hope!”

CHAPTER X

FOR the next week Lucy had little opportunity to think of anything but the Countess, and the duties that were expected of her in her capacity as a paid
companion, for her employer developed a chill that confined her to her bed for several days, and after that she was so peevish and difficult for several more days that life in the gloomy maisonette seemed to have nothing but a dark side for the girl who was only twenty-two.

The Countess seemed to enjoy making as many demands as she could think of of the two who were paid to look after her. Augustine toiled up the narrow flights of stairs with endless hot water bottles, and Lucy was never allowed to permit the fire to die down into what she considered a comfortable glow. The Countess insisted upon a roaring fire threatening the soot-caked chimney all the time, and at night it had to be banked up so that it couldn’t possibly go out. Lucy considered it was fortunate the weather had taken a nasty turn for the worse, and instead of warm spring sunshine and gentle breezes a gale that seemed to be blowing straight off fields of Arcti
c
ice raged outside.

March was going out like a lion, and the temptation to dwell upon the thought of Kensington Gardens—and Surrey lanes!—was not so strong when everyone who passed the windows looked blue with cold, and new spring hats were banished to the backs of wardrobes in favour of close-fitting head-s
c
arves.

The Countess sat up in bed protected from every draught by numberless shawls, and congratulated herself because she had been clever enough to choose such an inclement spell to stay confined to her room. She refused to see a doctor although she had quite a nasty cough, and Augustine had to make constant infusions of herb tea which the patient drank with the same gusto with which she drank champagne, and Lucy was required to rub her chest with a combination of camphorated oil and something that smelt even more abominable every few hours. In addition, loaded trays of nourishing food were carried up to the sickroom also every few hours, and the local greengrocer opened his eyes very wide at the vast quantity of grapes, and countless oranges, which were purchased for (and obviously consumed by) the invalid.

As a result of this anything but Spartan method of dealing with a bad chill the Countess von Ardrath threw it off successfully before a week was out. But she declined to throw off the role of one weakened by illness for some considerable while after that.

She leaned heavily on Lucy’s arm when she returned to the sitting-room for the first time, and had one of her coughing spells in the middle of the room while she looked round it for some evidence of a devoted admirer’s need to proclaim himself.

“What, no flowers?” she said, between wheezes. “Has something happened to that young man of yours since he doesn’t appear to have made contact with his favourite florist recently? At any rate, not on your behalf!”

Lucy’s colour deepened, but her eyes were just a shade resentful. Since the night when Paul Avery had been forced into a private interview with the Countess, Lucy had heard nothing at all from him. Not a single telephone message had Augustine had occasion to repeat from him
...
and as for flowers, or even a note, nothing like that had been received from him.

After the Countess had had her talk with him—and they had remained closeted together for fully half an hour—he had departed without making any request to say another farewell to Lucy, and although she had been hiding in the shadows of the hall at the moment of his departure he hadn’t once looked back, or cast a glance over his shoulder, to make certain she wasn’t anticipating anything of the sort. It had seemed to her that he had escaped with haste, and with the maximum of determination to get outside the house—and remain outside it in the future
?
—and the Countess had stood watching him with both hands pressed on the handle of her
c
ane, and a curious expression in her eyes when Lucy stole anxiously to her side.

“Always remember, my dear,” she had remarked, with a distinctly curious note in her voice, “that the course of true love never did run smoothly. And you will be wise to expect many devious twists and turns before you approach anywhere near happiness.”

Now she turned and looked at Lucy and saw the hurt and bewilderment in her eyes. She patted her arm a little awkwardly, for her fingers were stiff with rheumatism.

“Cheer up, child,” she said. “There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. And one day you may hook a monster!” She grinned a little wickedly, and amended: “A monster fish, I mean!”

Once seated in her chair, with rugs piled over her knees, she asked for the pile of brochures which she had instructed Lucy to collect from travel agents only the day before. She uttered comments as she glanced at each in turn, and the colourful representations of idyllic holiday resorts on the Continent, and even as far afield as South America, made her nod her head in approval.

“This is the sort of thing,” she declared. “Somewhere where we’ll get nothing but sun, and sea, and so many flowers you won’t need to have them sent to you by doubtful young men who keep you out late when I particularly request that you be brought home at a certain time.”

“But Mr. Avery apologised
...”
Lucy put in hastily.

Her employer waved a hand to silence her.

“Does it matter very much whether Mr. Avery apologised or not
?
And naturally, since he is by birth a gentleman, he offered some sort of apology! No, my dear,” looking up with an odd kind of gleam in her eyes at Lucy, “I have plans for you, and one day you’ll have to admit that they are excellent ones! They involve romance and a husband and enough money to keep you comfortably for the rest of your life, and unless there is enough money I most certainly will not give my consent to your marrying anyone.” Lucy bit her lip. She also steeled herself to meet the ki
n
d of opposition that was absurd in the circumstances.

“Forgive me,
madame
,”
she reminde
d
the old lady, “but you haven’t any right at all to attempt to arrange my life. And whatever else I do, or do not do, I shall never marry for money
!”

“Hoity-toity!” exclaimed
madame,
putting back her head to study her. “And listen to the child! Whatever else she does, or does not do, she will never marry for m
o
ney! Then how do you propose to pay the electric light bills, and vulgar things of that sort? And they have to be paid, you know. Food has to be bought, and children have to be clothed and educated! Even I, who was born a princess, have discovered that without money you are as nothing
...
and without a few jewels to sell to raise money in moments of dire necessity you are less than nothing!”

“But I wasn’t born a princess,” the girl pointed out eagerly. “And if it ever becomes necessary I can work.
”

“To keep a husband? To keep children?” the Countess demanded. “My poor child, what a future to look forward to! And what a singularly simple child you are if you imagine that the little skill you have will enable you one day to keep rabbits, let alone a family!”

Lucy was about to retort that she could always train for something, or use her hands in a despised domestic capacity if it became really essential, when she wondered why they were talking in such a fashion. There was no question of her embarking on such responsibilities. Not merely was she unmarried, but there was no man in her life who seemed likely to ask her to exchange, her single status for the status of a married woman. One man had displayed a fleeting interest in her and kissed her
...
She turned away from the bright and curious eyes that watched her, but the Countess was perfectly well aware of the thought that had occurred to her.

She knew that her young companion had been living for the sound of the telephone, or even the ring of the door-bell, during the past week, and the fact that she had been disappointed had not dimmed her memory of a dark, attractive face. She would go on thinking of that dark, attractive face until some other face appeared on her immediate horizon that would cause it to recede into the background.

“We’ll go to Italy,” the old lady announced briskly, having come to a decision. “Italian men are very attentive, and some of them are almost ridiculously impressionable. I still have some highly influential friends in Rome, and they’ll introduce you in the right quarters. We might rent a villa in Florence for a month or so. It’s a pity I can’t take over something princely and splendid in Rome itself, but I might wangle a couple of invitations for us
...”
The door opened, and Augustine appeared, looking pleased and flurried.

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear the telephone,” she said almost reproachfully to Lucy. “It’s for you—Mr. Avery!”

Lucy fled away without pausing to ask permission of her employer, and the Countess threw up her hands in mock despair.

“What a moment to choose to interrupt my plans!” she exclaimed. Then, more severely: “You should have told him Miss Gray was out,” she reproved the hovering servant.