The Questing Heart (11 page)

'I'm sure it isn't correct to dine with your secretary,' she told him. Mrs Cullingford had never eaten with her except afternoon tea. Clare had been served her dinner and lunchon a tray. She was not sure what the procedure should begin a ducal house, but she was certain she should not be sitting there with Chris like ... like his wife!

'My duties, may I remind you, end at nightfall,' she went on, 'and I'd appreciate having my evenings to myself ... to get on with my book.'

'How unsociable,' he returned. 'Surely there's no great hurry about your book, and you'll be gaining new impressions all the time.' He leaned towards her, a wheedling note coming into his voice, his clear actor's voice that had been trained to express so much even when he meant nothing. 'If I increase your salary will you consent to act as companion as well as secretary?'

'I couldn't take any more from you, Mr Raines, you've already been more than generous.'

'Independent, aren't you? Why don't you get all you can out of me? You know I'm rich enough to pay handsomely for my whims.'

'Because I'm not mercenary, though you may not believe it.'

Roberto's return cut short their conversation. He carried a huge bowl of fresh fruit for dessert. They had been served an Italian meal of soup, followed by lasagne, then slabs of veal in a savoury sauce. Chris was eyeing Clare appreciatively. The soft candlelight became her, giving her skin an alabaster sheen, making her eyes appear shadowed and mysterious. He noticed the length of her eyelashes and the delicacy of her profile cameo-clear against the sombre background of the room. Clare moved uneasily under his scrutiny, wondering if he were finding fault with her dress. Defensively she drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. She must present an unflattering contrast to the opulent and stylish Violetta with whom he had presumably dined the night before. He was actually comparing them, but decided that Clare possessed a grace and serenity that was entirely lacking in the Italian woman, who suffered from a restless boredom.

Clare's gaze wandered round the room seeking distraction from the self-consciousness Christopher's penetrating regard was beginning to cause her. Her attention was caught by a painting set between two of the long windows. Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the dim lighting, she could see it was a woman with red hair.

'Is that the Signora?' she asked.

It was the hovering Roberto who answered her.

'Si, si, signorina.''
He went to the wall and pressed a switch. A light came on above the picture so arranged to illuminate it. It was the head and shoulders of a girl in a white silk gown trimmed with lace; lace too covered her head from beneath which her gorgeous hair streamed down her back. Though it depicted a very youthful Violetta, the expression of the great brown eyes was world-weary, as if she had left her innocence far behind, and her beautiful mouth had a discontented droop.

'Bella
,' said Roberto with reverence. Evidently he greatly admired his mistress. 'Ze old one ... ze dead
maestro
had it painted when zey marry.' .

'Verita,'
Chris agreed absently, staring at the picture with fascination and, could it be, a faint repulsion.

Roberto withdrew, leaving the light on above the portrait. Chris continued to stare at it while he mechanically peeled a peach. Finding his abstraction oppressive, Clare said:

'She doesn't look very happy.'

'Would you be if you were married to a man old enoughto be your grandfather?' he demanded angrily. 'What she has become now is the result of that mismating.'

'What a barbarous custom!' Clare exclaimed. She knew that such arranged marriages were still contracted among the upper classes in that country, but this was the first time that she had come across an example. 'But she's free now?'

'Very much so,' Chris observed drily. 'Oh, Enzo wasn't a bad old stick, I knew him quite well, but no husband for a young girl.'

'And he rebuilt the castle?' Clare asked, realising that Chris must be an old friend of the Albanesi family.

'And installed plumbing and lighting; a wasted effort, because Violetta wants to sell it. It's a dead world up here now, all the young people are drifting to the towns; they see no fun in trying to scrape a living from barren soil. Most of those still left in the village work here in the castle. Roberto's got a wife and two kiddies there; he lives out, you know, and he knows better than to bring his offspring here.'

'Why?'

'Vio doesn't like children. Fortunately she didn't have any—Enzo was past it.'

'Oh!' Clare looked blank. She had always understood that Italians adored children. 'I love them,' she said simply.

Chris turned his gaze upon her; his sunny humour had vanished since Roberto had illuminated the portrait, as if some malignant influence had reached out from it to him.

'You'll change your tune when you've had some,' he said nastily.

'I'm sure I shan't! I wouldn't mind a dozen.'

'God, what an awful prospect!' His eyes narrowed to needle-points and his voice roughened. 'What are you going to do about it? You'll have to begin soon if you want so many. Perhaps you're ultra-modern and don't think a husband is necessary?'

She knew he was trying to bait her. Some reminder of Violetta had raised his ire and he was venting his ill temper upon her. If he hoped to shock her she would disappoint him; she was not going to allow herself to be provoked into any further display of emotion tonight. She returned equably:

'No. I believe in family life and I'd be content with a couple if ... if the right man comes along.' She did not look at him, suspecting he was sneering. 'I'm only twenty, so he probably will. You see, I'm very fond of my father and I wouldn't be without him. I would want my children to love and respect theirs.'

'So you admit men have their uses.' There was an edge to his voice and she remembered too late that this was a painful subject; he had never known his own father. 'I thought I detected in you a hint of militancy. I suspected you were an ardent supporter of Women's Lib, but perhaps I wronged you?'

She thought that by his own showing Violetta had been a victim of a system Women's Lib would deplore, but all she said was:

'I don't support it because it's against nature. Men and women aren't equals, they're different, and each has their right spheres. Men have a greater urge to prove themselves than women, but women have more patience and endurance to put up with them.'

'Quite an epigram. I shall look forward to reading your book.'

'Oh no!' The idea of Christopher's satirical eye scanning her pages caused her to shrink. 'I couldn't ever let you do that.'

'You can't stop me when it's in print.'

She sighed. 'If it ever is.'

'You've one of the most expressive faces I've ever met,' Chris exclaimed, abruptly changing the subject. 'It alters with your emotions. I can almost see your thoughts.'

'Oh lord, I hope not!' Clare ejaculated, horrified, for there was a great deal she wished to conceal from him. Possibly he expected her to fall in love with him; he must have an extensive following of fans, hysterical women who mobbed him on first nights, so that he was used to easy conquests, and what sort of a fight could a brown sparrow put up against his magnetic personality? He had set out to charm her in a careless casual way, believing she would immediately become his willing slave, anxious to flatter his ego. But even a sparrow had some pride, and she had no intention of pandering to his vanity by openly adoring him. She was too outspoken and already they had clashed, probably would again, and she was determined he should not discover how he affected her.

'Why, are your thoughts so unprintable?' he demanded with his impish grin. 'I'd never have thought it of you, Miss Puritan Underwood. I'd imagined your mind was as limpid and pure as a spring of fresh water.'

'You talk a great deal of nonsense,' she said severely. 'Now, if you'll excuse me I'd like to get back to
Perfidious Passion,
as you've dubbed my manuscript.'

'We haven't had our coffee yet,' he objected.

She said she would not wait for it and it might keep her awake.

'You're heartless, leaving me here alone.'

'You have the Signora.' She indicated the portrait.

He uttered an imprecation and striding up to the picture, switched off the light. Clare watched him with puzzled eyes, wondering if he had quarrelled with the beautiful Italian, but that seemed improbable since they were in her house. Perhaps Violetta had not been sufficiently impressed by the Radford legend and he was piqued.

'I'll have the coffee sent up to our sitting room,' he decided. 'I'll read while you work.'

'Oh, but ...' She knew she could not write a line if he were present to distract her thoughts.

'You can use my typewriter.'

'The noise would irritate you,' she protested, though the offer tempted her. She did riot possess one of her own and had used Monica's surreptitiously when that lady was out. She had been considering if she could manage to hire one to complete her script.

'I'm used to it, it won't worry me,' he told her.

Roberto came in with the coffee tray and was peremptorily ordered to carry it upstairs. He followed them to their sitting room, then after depositing his load on the table, he proceeded with much gesticulation to wish them
buona notte, piacevole riposo e sogni dolci,
with his small black eyes wandering from one bedroom door to the other with sly meaning. Finally he bowed himself out.

'Sorry, darling,' Chris said nonchalantly as he poured the coffee. 'I'm afraid by bringing you here I've fatally compromised you. Do you mind?'

'Not at all, but it might be awkward for you. After all, your doings are news, aren't they?'

'You mean Cedric Radford's are,' he corrected her. 'These good folk only know me as an acquaintance of the Albanesis, so I'm in no danger. That's nearly all milk, so it won't keep you awake.'

As he handed her the cup their fingers touched and a thrill ran up the nerves of her arm. 'Thank you,' she said breathlessly, and retreated to the furthest seat away from him.

He regarded her action quizzically. 'I'm not contagious,' he observed, 'but perhaps you're wise to keep your distance. You aren't really going to write, are you? You look tired.'

'I am a bit,' she admitted. 'I think I'll call it a day.'

'Sensible girl, and don't forget I'm just opposite if ... something goes bump in the night and you feel scared.'

'Thank you, Mr Raines, but I'm not easily scared.'

She wondered if he had raised the subject of ghosts to offer her an excuse to pay him a nocturnal visit, and a little shiver of excitement ran down her spine. She would not dream of being so brazen, but she had the sensation of really living at last, she wouldn't have to confess now that she had never been tempted and her virtue was preserved by necessity, not choice, she knew, or thought she knew, what would happen if she went to Christopher's room, and the prospect was both alluring and frightening, but naturally nothing would ever induce her to seek his arms.

'Hard luck on me,' he grinned while his eyes glinted wickedly. 'I hope you're not disturbed, because I want you to be at your best and brightest in the morning to deal with my dictation.'

Clare put her empty coffee cup on the tray and wished him goodnight. Once inside her room she hesitated whether to lock her door, but Chris would hear the click of the key and she could imagine his sarcastic smile. Upon investigation the problem was solved for her. There was no key. But once she was in bed in that strange haunted house, the knowledge of his proximity was comforting rather than alarming and she fell asleep at once.

Breakfast was brought to her room and defiantly she dressed in slacks and tank top, which seemed to her more suitable apparel for this country retreat. Chris was already in the sitting room when she went in, and gave her a brief glance, raising his eyebrows, but made no comment. He dictated to her at great speed, prowling round the room and she was hard put to it to keep up with him. But she found he interspersed his flow with long pauses while he collected his thoughts and she had an opportunity to check her notes. Then he would ask her to read back what she had written, often delete it and start again.

'You read intelligently,' he told her, 'and you've a pleasant voice. Dialogue is meant to be spoken and it comes alive when I hear it. I can tell then what's wrong with it.'

The play was a bright piece of nonsense about a young dramatist who needed an idea for a play to win a competition but was suffering from a mental block. Using an old formula brought from Delphi, he tried to invoke the Muse of Comedy to inspire him. He succeeded so well that Thalia materialised in human form and refused to leave his side until the work was finished, much to the annoyance of his fiancee. This gave rise to many evocative situations and misunderstandings, for no one would believe she was not human—the whole handled with brilliant wit and somewhat reminiscent of
Blithe Spirit.

Chris worked until lunch time, the meal being brought upstairs to them. Then he said he was going for a ride in the hills and she could type out the contents of her notebook ready for him to correct upon his return.

'Did you say ride?' she asked, thinking she had misheard him.

'Yes, Violetta keeps a couple of nags here. Do you ride?'

She shook her head, the circumstances of her life had precluded any sport beyond the basketball she had played at school. She had not been good at it.

'I suppose you ride, swim and ski, all that sort of thing?' she asked a little wistfully, thinking the exercise accounted for his muscular fitness.

'Yes, and so does Violetta. She's an expert sportswoman.'

He went off, leaving her to reflect upon the inequalities of life. Violetta had beauty, and not only the opportunity but the ability to excel at sports. Clare had a mental vision of the redhead skimming down a piste in company with Chris, and the two of them galloping over the countryside together. Each careless revelation Chris made widened the gulf between her and her employer; they lived in different spheres, and that was something she would do well not to forget in the forced intimacy of this mountain retreat to which he had brought her.