The Questing Heart (12 page)

The summer days flew past, following the same routine, except that as the days grew hotter they rose earlier and ceased work at noon, taking their lunch out in the courtyard, where Roberto erected sun umbrellas to give them shade and brought out canvas loungers on which they could recline throughout the early afternoon. Chris wore nothing except a pair of shorts and rapidly acquired a deep tan, but Clare obstinately clung to her slacks and top. It did not seem to her proper that she should over-expose herself in the presence of her employer. Roberto thought they were mad, a darkened room with the curtains barring out the sun as soon as it gained strength would be much cooler, but they ignored his hints. Clare had seen his cottage in the village where his plump wife and two bonny children had shyly welcomed her. They could not see much of Papa, for he was at the
castello
early and late and he never brought them within its precincts.

At four o'clock, they were brought a cup of tea, and then they worked indoors for a couple of hours before they showered and dressed for dinner which they continued to take in the
salotto di pranzo,
which, Chris pointed out, was much cooler than upstairs, so that Clare had yielded to his desire for her company, which was mainly because he wanted to discuss his play, in which he had become completely absorbed. Never again was Violetta's portrait illuminated, though Clare often fancied that her brown eyes were watching them.

There was no telephone at the castle, and mail was delivered daily, though it was often late. From the correspondence she dealt with, Clare realised that
Olympian Intrusion,
which was the provisional title of the play, was already bespoke, and a tentative cast was being assembled, though a theatre had not yet been found for it. Chris himself was to play the leading man.

The certainty that her days at the
castello
were numbered depressed Clare, and she felt she had been foolish to leave Mrs Cullingford's more permanent employment. Her own book was hanging fire, though she had plenty of leisure to work at it in the afternoons if she so wished, and again after dinner, she had no inclination to tackle it. For if Christopher was absorbed in his play, she was absorbed in him and was loth to lose any moment of his company. He had become the most important thing in her life and all her thoughts became centred in him. It was a consolation to know that she need never wholly lose touch with him, for since he was a public figure she would be able to see him act, read his plays and reviews, and also his short stories, for these he dashed off occasionally when the mood took him, long after she had ceased to work for him.

He was engaged upon a story now, saying he would let the play simmer for a while, a tale about Liguria and its. folklore which displayed a depth and imagination she found lacking in his dramas. He was a very versatile man.

At last came the day when Chris said he could not do anything more to
Olympian Intrusion
until it went into rehearsal, when there would be sure to be alterations to make. Unlike Noel Coward, who was reputed to be able to turn out a play in three days, he was a slow worker, meticulously selecting every word and re-writing over and over again.

'You know I'm entitled to a month's notice,' Clare reminded him, wondering if he would dispute this after the arbitrary way he had acted over Mrs Cullingford's rights.

He dropped the papers he was reading and stared at her.

'Of course you're staying with me. You don't think I'm going to dispense with your services just when I've got used to you? You can lodge in Bloomsbury or some such place and come to my flat every morning.'

Clare drew a long breath. She had not dared to hope that she might be retained to become part of his London life. But would she be capable of dealing with the agents, managers and awesome types that comprised his associates? She guessed that her duties would be far more exacting than anything she had done hitherto, while her relationship with Chris became far more formal. The easy companionship, more friends than employer and secretary, that they had slipped into would cease, and it might be better to break away from him before becoming involved in the worries and jealousies of his professional life. Here in isolation they had spent many pleasant hours together, her eager interest in his play stimulating his invention, and she had been careful never to criticise adversely. He had in fact become to a certain extent hers, while he had no one else to turn to. Back among his colleagues she would become merely a useful cypher to take his orders and be blamed for his mistakes; she rarely made any herself.

'I don't know that I can do that sort of work,' she said doubtfully.

'What sort of work? Don't be so modest, Sparrow. You know you can do anything you set your mind to.'

'But it'll all be so different from here, and London is so big and bustling, I'll be scared of it...'

'Not with me to protect you.'

'You'll have too much else to think about. Crowds of adoring fans...'

'Ah, so that's it, is it? You fear for your exclusive rights?' The amber eyes glinted mockingly. 'You mustn't be selfish, darling; an actor is dependent upon the adulation of his public. But you'll see me every day, or nearly every day, and you know I can't get along without you.'

Clare sighed, wishing that were true. Chris as usual was trying to coax her into doing what he wished. She supposed she would give in to him, she had little will to resist. The life he offered to her would broaden her experience, teach her sophistication, and she would welcome the opportunity if she were more indifferent to Chris. She did not usually lack courage to tackle any new task. She was no longer anxious to gain emotional experience, for she had felt its pain. Since coming to the
castello
she had learned that fundamentally she was not a career woman, nor had she any wish for cheap sensation. What she desired was her own home and a husband, and for that husband to be Christopher Raines, which was as likely of achievement as flying to Mars. Chris was a brilliant butterfly anxious to avoid being pinned down to any responsibility. He had told her that his grandfather had left him the old house in Sussex in which he had spent his boyhood and he had immediately sold it.

'Your family home?' she had asked, a little shocked.

'What of it? Who wants to be tied to an ancestral home nowadays unless to use it as a showplace? When I'm in Town I rent a service flat, when I'm abroad—castles.'

To her it seemed distressing that he had no roots, but he did not care; he wanted to be free to come and go as he pleased. Even Violetta had been unable to attach strings to him.

In the end she agreed to go to England with him, but although
Olympian Intrusion
was completed, Chris seemed in no hurry to leave Italy.

'We'll have a few days of leisure before facing the hurly- burly,' he decreed. 'I always feel a bit drained when I've completed a masterpiece.'

He glanced at her challengingly as if he expected her to query the worth of his play. So far she had evaded giving a direct opinion on it. To her it seemed a slight frothy piece and she preferred something nearer to a reflection of real life, but it would probably be a success, as the era of the kitchen sink drama was drawing to a close, and the chief part was tailored to fit Cedric Radford, whose name was always a draw.

'I'm sure you do,' she returned non-committally, not rising to the bait, and he looked disappointed as if he would have enjoyed a tussle with her, but she was not going to expose herself for his amusement.

She gained the impression that he was waiting for something to happen before he left Italy. He had an air of expectancy and he often looked at her searchingly as if about to reveal some secret, but he always thought better of it. Then one morning she thought she understood.

She was clearing up his papers, answering the few business communications that needed replies. Contrary to what she would have expected, he was meticulous about his commercial transactions and paid his bills promptly. Christopher was outside in the courtyard talking to Roberto; Clare could see them through the window. The Italian was as usual gesticulating wildly as he described some incident, and Chris was laughing. A character very similar to Roberto was depicted in his play. Clare watched him wistfully, noting how good-looking he appeared in white shirt and riding boots—he had been out on horseback—the bright sunlight picking out bronze lights in his dark hair, the mischievous amber eyes glinting.

The bonnet of a big car came through the gateway followed by the long length of the latest Ferrari model. Christopher's face changed as he saw it, the light died out of it, to be replaced by a certain wariness. Roberto uttered ecstatic cries and ran to open the car door.

An elegant figure descended from it wearing perfectly fitting fawn slacks and a matching tunic, a green scarf about her throat, a flimsy bit of tulle, and though she was wearing sun-glasses, there was no mistaking that red hair.

Violetta Albanesi had come in search of her truant lover.

C
LARE
stayed up in the suite throughout the long day and Christopher did not appear. He was, she presumed, with the Signora Albanesi, and since Violetta's apartments were in the opposite wing, no sound reached Clare. She watched the servants bring in the masses of luggage from the car, and her heart sank. The castle's mistress must be intending to make a long stay. Roberto drove the Ferrari round to the back where the outbuildings were, leaving the courtyard deserted. Nor did he put up the umbrellas and bring out the chairs; evidently Violetta, like himself, preferred the coolness of darkened chambers indoors. Darkened rooms with Chris beside her.

Emilia brought Clare's lunch to her on a tray. She was excited by the new arrival and deluged Clare with a flood of Italian of which she understood very little. She gathered that
la signora
was resting and
il signore
was with her. Then there was a lot about
il pranzo,
from which Clare deduced that her dinner also would be brought up to her. The secretary had been put firmly in her place, and Chris no longer needed her company.

She did all she could to his papers and the room looked unusually tidy when she had finished, for when Chris was there he scattered books, scripts and articles of clothing all over it. She collected a tie, a pair of socks which he had asked her to mend, and a pullover, and boldly carried them into his room. She had never entered it before and found it was a replica of hers, but with only one window, and including another ponderous armoire. Emilia had put Chris's clothes away when she made his bed, and there were no signs of his occupation; even his hairbrushes had been consigned to a drawer in the dresser. Of photographs or any clues to his personality there were none.

Clare withdrew with a sigh and going into her own room, took her manuscript out of the case where she concealed it and tried to concentrate upon it, but her efforts were unsuccessful. Her ears were strained to catch any sound from the other parts of the castle, and her thoughts wandered to Violetta. Did Chris intend to leave her entirely alone for the period of the Signora's visit, and how long did she mean to stay? He should be leaving for London, but he had lingered, hoping no doubt that she would come. Now she was here, he would give her priority. Once Clare would have welcomed a period of leisure, but now she was longing for Chris's presence and the prospect of being deprived of it indefinitely was bleak.

Abandoning all attempts to work upon her manuscript, she started a letter to her father. She had told her parents of her change of employment and had soon after her arrival described the castle to them, saying it belonged to friends of Mr Raines, implying that they were in occupation. In his reply Alf Underwood had said he hoped that she would not become above herself, mixing in such high society, as he hoped she would eventually return to work in a Manchester office.

'Mother and I miss you,' he wrote. 'We're not getting any younger. When you've had your fill of foreign parts we want you home again.'

Clare wondered what he would say when she told him her employer was Cedric Radford and she was contemplating plunging into the theatrical world. She could not inform him without Christopher's permission, and he must give it before she went to London, for her parents were entitled to know the whys and wherefores. She was afraid her father would take a dim view of the proceedings, for he was all for solid respectability and considered stage folk were riff-raff. She had not told him what Christopher wrote and he had gained the impression that he was a middle- aged author of serious books, which she had allowed him to go on thinking. She was not being deliberately deceitful, but she dared not be too explicit for fear her parents would worry. Though she insisted she had a right to choose what she did, she was too fond of them to want to cause them any anxiety.

She supposed she would eventually return to them, but she wanted to see a little life first. What she had not wanted to do was to fall seriously in love; she welcomed a little light flirtation, it made her feel feminine and desirable, but her feeling for Chris was unfortunately deepening the more she saw of him, and she was unable to regulate it.

She had begun to cherish wild impossible dreams, as foolish as any besotted teenager's; but the coming of Violetta Albanesi would soon put them to flight and teach her a salutory lesson. She might even be able to conquer her unruly heart. The spectacle of Chris in love should diminish him. No man is at his best when he is fatuously adoring ... someone else.

Since she would not be going downstairs, she did not bother to change but remained clad in the trousers and tank top which she had persisted in wearing in the daytime as being more suitable to her environment than the elegant garments Chris had chosen for her. Those dresses would serve well for her job in London—if she ever got there, which she often doubted.

She sat in her window watching the purple dusk creep over the mountains and fill the valleys with inky shade, feeling a little sorry for herself. There was nowhere she could go, no one to talk to unless she went to the village to play with Roberto's children, and it was too late for that. The air was heavy with the presage of a storm, and lightning flickered occasionally behind the mountains, illuminating their stark crags. It only wants a thunderstorm, she thought drearily, to make this place really awesome.