The Questing Heart (10 page)

'No, I can't see you as a soldier,' she agreed. 'But if your family were Service people, where did your talent come from?'

'My mother was... is ... an actress. When Dad died she took off, hadn't any use for babies. I believe she's married again several times.'

An edge crept into his voice and Clare felt a throb of pity, Not surprising that he was a cynic, and he had never forgiven his mother for abandoning him.

'I'd no idea I had been engaged by a famous man,' she said shyly.

'But you've been working for a famous woman,' he gibed. 'Monica Cullingford's name is nearly as well known as my nom-de-plume in some circles.'

'But you're not in the same class,' Clare declared.

'How do you know?'

'I saw one of your plays in Manchester. This one,' she touched the file folder.
'Autumn Fires.''

'And did you like it?'

She hesitated. 'It was very clever,' she hedged.

'I asked if you liked it. Of course it was clever, even my most biased critics allowed that.'

Remembering his warning, she still sought to prevaricate; it had been very well done, beautifully acted—but Chris cut her short.

'Come, let me have your honest opinion,' he urged. 'I'd like to hear it.'

'Very well, I didn't like it. I don't care for superficial comedies, and it was horribly cynical.' He looked annoyed and she realised she had blundered. 'Of course that's only my personal opinion, or should I say taste? It had a long run.'

'Of course you're too immature to understand it.'

She should have said no more, but his charge of immaturity nettled her.

'I was old enough to hate it for its cruelty.'

'Who to? A lot of old cows making fools of themselves?' Chris had risen to his feet and was scowling at her.

His anger sparked hers; after all, he had asked for her opinion.

'They were to be pitied, not mocked—but I don't believe you're capable of human compassion.'

'I've no use for mawkish sentiment,' he snarled. 'Naturally, having been with an authoress renowned for her romantic rubbish, you wallow in shallow sentimentality. You're only an ignorant little adolescent. A lot of use you'll be to me!'

The falcon eyes were glittering, but she answered coolly, 'I can still type ... and spell.'

'I hoped for a lot more than that—sympathetic understanding, honest criticism ...'

'That's what I gave you.' Clare too had risen to her feet and they were facing each other over the table, both too angry to choose their words. 'But you couldn't take it.'

'Take it from you? What do you know about female psychology? I tell you, all women, both young and old, are bitches.'

'Thank you, but then you don't consider I'm a woman, do you? Merely a precocious teenager. You consort with painted sluts like Signora Albanesi and believe they're representative of the whole sex. Decent respectable women don't interest you.'

She ought not to have mentioned Violetta, but the woman's voluptuous beauty had haunted her, and if it was from her sort that Christopher judged women no wonder he had a low opinion of them.

He said: 'By decent respectable women you mean yourself. Let me tell you you're no better than the sluts you despise. It's simply that you haven't been aroused.' He came round the table and murmured softly, menacingly:

'It's time you learned something about yourself, my Brown Sparrow. That underneath that facade of virtue you've all the natural urges that make other women sluts, as you call them. You haven't got that passionate mouth for nothing.'

Clare's heart began to pound against her sides. By her own foolish words she had provoked a situation with which she could not cope. She did not know this fierce, angry man who was quite unlike the suave indolent Christopher with whom she was familiar. She had stupidly wounded his vanity, in spite of what he had told her about authors resenting unfavourable criticism, and she had insulted the woman he loved. The atmosphere of this forbidding place had affected her, awaking violence to meet violence, and violence was what Chris intended as he advanced upon her with an evil glitter in his eyes.

All her fumblings towards fuller experience vanished in sheer panic, as she backed away from him, whispering faintly:

'No ... please, Chris ... no!'

'You wanted experience,' he said brutally. 'You shall have it. And think yourself honoured that I'm prepared to teach you.'

Her fear was swamped in furious anger at his arrogance.

'Honoured by your attentions?' she cried, and struck him with all her force across his sneering mouth. It was the worst thing she could have done, for her action excited him. He mastered her in one swift movement, twisting the offending hand and arm behind her back. With his other arm he crushed her against himself and his mouth came down on her with punishing ferocity.

According to Monica, Clare should then have experienced a surge of rapturous response, especially as she was more than half in love with her aggressor. Actually she felt only bewilderment and pain. Her failure to reciprocate, her stiff unyielding body against his arm, doused Christopher's spurt of passion. He released her so suddenly that she staggered, and walked back to his chair.

Clare eyed him apprehensively, fingering her bruised mouth. If she were due for instant dismissal she would be in a terrible predicament, but nothing would make her beg for mercy from the tyrant who had assaulted her.

Chris said coolly, without looking at her, 'I'm sorry about that, but you shouldn't have slapped me. That's a very provocative thing to do.'

'You provoked me,' she retorted.

'Nice little girls like you are supposed to turn the other cheek,' he gibed.

She did not deign to answer this sally and started to collect the papers she had been sorting which had been scattered by his violent action. Her mind was still seething with questions, the first and foremost being how she was to extricate herself from an impossible situation.

'Let them be,' he told her impatiently. 'It's time we got ready for dinner.'

'I don't think I could eat any dinner,' she said frostily.

'Now you're being ridiculous. Of course you must eat some dinner. You need food to help you recover your temper.'

'I like that!' she cried, her eyes flashing stormily. 'You lost yours.'

'That's no way to speak to your boss,' he rebuked her.

'I'll treat you with respect when you deserve it,' she muttered rebelliously, and Chris whistled.

'Wow, I've got me a tartar for a secretary, and having brought you up here, in the belief that you were a meek little mouse, it seems I'm stuck with you.' He regarded her ruefully but with the familiar mocking glint in his eyes, so that Clare was reassured. 'I must say that temper becomes you,' he went on reflectively. 'You're quite handsome when your eyes blaze, but don't do it too often, Miss Sparrow, or I won't answer for die consequences.'

'I'm sorry,' she said quietly, 'I said some very foolish things. I won't offend again, Mr Raines.'

'Forget it;' he told her lightly. 'Actually I don't mind a little ... er ... argument occasionally, it breaks the monotony.' He made a mocking bow. 'Now, Miss Underwood, if I might suggest it's time you prepared yourself for the meal of which we must partake in state for the sake of the staff. Must keep up appearances, you know. We can eat in dignified silence if you would prefer it.' She had to laugh.

'Very well, Mr Raines. I'll be ready in a few minutes. And perhaps we should essay a little polite conversation? For the sake of the servants.'

She went into her room, and Chris watched her go with an oddly tender expression on his face.

C
LARE
was a little exercised as to what to wear for dinner. The new silk gown, she decided, was too grand for an informal tete-a-tete. The dowdy dresses of Monica's regime were definitely out. There remained the despised cotton print, which was sleeveless, and with a little manipulation she could lower the neckline. She added a beige open-knit shawl which Monica had bestowed upon her, remarking that she hated the colour and Clare might find a use for it. Tonight she had, and a string of beads completed her out- i fit, which she decided was quite adequate.

The light was fading as she stepped out into the corridor, wondering if she should proceed downstairs. The twilight did not linger in Italy as it did in northern climes and it would soon be dark. A sudden blaze of light flooded the passage, for in spite of its isolation the
castello
was fitted with electricity, and also quite modern plumbing. Clare saw Christopher at the far end of it coming towards her. He had, as he had said he would, put on a brown and blue check jacket with a blue de over a white shirt, and his hair had been smoothed into a dark cap. He looked very tall and a little menacing as he strode towards her, and it seemed to her there was an ominous glitter in his amber eyes. It flashed into her mind that she had not yet been forgiven for that ill-advised slap and she might expect further retaliation. Involuntarily she quailed, shrinking back against the panel of her bedroom door.

But his voice was normal, as he said easily:

'Hullo there! I came to fetch you. Why are you skulking in the shadows?'

'I ... I didn't know where the switch was.' She was aware that her voice had trembled. She had tried to dismiss the incident earlier in the evening from her mind. If she were to continue in Christopher's employ it would only be possible on an impersonal basis. He had apologised and she blamed herself for provoking him. In future she must guard her tongue and remember her position, which in their solitude was inducive of too great intimacy. Now that she knew he was a successful and popular man of the theatre she must accord him greater respect and consider herself privileged to work for him.

But when he came swooping towards her down the passage, something very far from impersonal stirred within her, an awareness that he was a man and she was a woman, and that they were alone in this isolated place except for the servants and she was very far from indifferent to him. Her nerves tingled as she awaited his approach, half expecting some further demonstration of displeasure. His words had sounded innocuous enough, but he was unpredictable.

He halted in front of her and offered her his arm.

'Allow me to conduct you to the
salotto di pranzo.'

'And what may that be?' she asked, timidly laying her hand on his coat sleeve.

'Dining room, of course, and it's awe-inspiring.'

They proceeded side by side along the corridor, Clare very conscious of the muscular arm beneath her hand. Chris had found time to bathe and shave and a whiff of after-shave lotion reached her nostrils. It was not going to be easy to keep the distance between them if he treated her so casually, more like a fellow guest than an employee. Not that she had any real objection to that, except that it was like playing with a big cat. If she overstepped the limits of his tolerance he would cease to purr and claw her, the difficulty being she had no idea of how far she could go without giving offence.

The head of the stairs was ill lit and shadowy, and he said cheerfully that this was where the ghosts congregated.

'Is the place haunted?' she asked doubtfully.

'Of course, all the best castles have their spectres. This one will have inherited a few from the older building, victims of the bloodthirsty dukes who used to hold sway here.'

'I don't believe in them,' she said scornfully.

They were descending the stairway into the great hall, the corners of which were filled with gloom and felt eerie.

'Perhaps you'll be converted by the time we come to leave.'

Clare repressed a shudder; there was a creepy atmosphere about these lower rooms that were built on the scene of so many terrible deeds.

'I refuse to be scared,' she said firmly.

Christopher chuckled. 'Intrepid, aren't you? It'll be the ghosts who are scared.'

'You sound as if I were some sort of dragon,' she said reproachfully. She wanted to appear soft and feminine to him, but since she had repulsed him he seemed determined to make out she was some sort of Amazon.

'No, only a sparrow,' he teased her. 'But sparrows can be very fierce little birds, and they peck.'

They had reached the dining room and the butler, major- domo, or whatever his position, was waiting to receive them. He was an animated little Italian called Roberto. The lower rooms of the
castello
were vast marble-floored apartments and would be quite impossible to heat in winter. Though some of the original outer walls had been incorporated into the new building, its large windows were modern. Heavy damask curtains covered them tonight, and the furniture was antique. A big refectory table was in the centre of the room with carved wooden chairs at each side of it. The light from sconces high up on the walls was poor, and had been supplemented by candles. Two magnificent three-branched candelabra were set in the centre of the end of the table where their places had been laid. Christopher sat in a throne-like chair at the head, with Clare on his right hand. Another maid, not Emilia, waited on them while Roberto poured their wine—Chianti since they were in Italy. Chris addressed some remarks to Roberto in Italian in which Clare caught the name of Signora Albanesi, more than once although, Roberto called her Madama, a reminder of the real owner of the castle in which Christopher seemed so much at home.

To Clare her situation became more and more unreal. She had been engaged to do clerical work for Christopher Raines and she should not be sitting at this table like an intimate friend, and Signora Albanesi would probably resent her presence if she knew of it. Would they be expected to dine in this stately manner every night, or was Chris merely showing off to impress her? She found her environment oppressive, and Roberto's bright inquisitive glances disconcerting. She would much rather have her meal upstairs if it could be arranged. During the temporary absence of the servants she asked if that were possible.

'Have a heart, Sparrow!.' Chris exclaimed with mock reproach. 'Would you condemn me to eat alone in this mausoleum? I'm relying upon you to frighten the apparitions away.'