The Questing Heart (13 page)

Quick footsteps sounded hurrying down the corridor and light bloomed in the adjacent sitting room. The imperious knocking on her door could only be Christopher, and her heart leaped. Without waiting for her to open it, he pushed i it ajar.

'All in the dark?' he exclaimed, and switched on the light. Clare rose from her seat by the window, cramped by her long reverie, and blinked in the sudden illumination.

'I believe you've been brooding,' he declared. 'Though the lord knows what you've got to brood about. You look like a drowsy owl. You'd better get cracking. We're dining an hour later tonight and I want you to put on that dress we bought in Nice, the copper-coloured silk.'

Astonished, Clare tried to collect her scattered wits.

'I'd rather stay up here,' she faltered.

'That you won't. I want you to meet Violetta. She's your hostess, isn't she? And I want you to look presentable.' He glared disparagingly at her slacks.

'But that dress isn't suitable,' she said earnestly. 'I'm not a guest, only your employee. If I must come down, it would be better if I wore one of my old dresses, the brown or the grey. It would be much less conspicuous.'

'Do you want to look a dowd?' he snapped. 'Vio'll think I dragged you out of an orphanage. Must I repeat I want you to do me credit? You'll do as I say.'

His day with Signora Albanesi did not seem to have improved his temper. Clare searched his face anxiously, wondering what devious purpose lay behind his order. It seemed strange that he wanted his secretary to dress up to - meet ... his mistress? He had told her Violetta was that, though she had not altogether believed him. His eyes were glittering with suppressed temper. Again she thought; they must have quarrelled. Was he using her as a stooge to make the other woman jealous? The other woman ... the necessary ingredient to a romance. She laughed and her eyes sparkled with sudden excitement. If he wanted her to play a part in his little drama, she was quite ready to oblige. It would be interesting to watch the reactions between these two, even if it proved a little painful. She was so ignorant about the nuances of love.

'Very well,' she agreed. 'How long have I got?'

He glanced at his wrist watch. 'Nearly an hour.' Some of the anger faded from his eyes and he smiled. 'I knew you wouldn't let me down.'

With which cryptic utterance he withdrew, leaving her still more puzzled. Why was it so important that she should look well?

Clare showered in the bathroom, aware from the sounds that Christopher was similarly employed in the one next to it. The copper-coloured dress fell in shimmering folds to her feet, leaving her neck and shoulders bare. She had never worn such a revealing gown before, and she decided they were rather nice. Wryly she recalled dressing for Monica's
soirees.
Then she had been forced to conceal what small attractions she possessed; tonight for some obscure reason Chris wanted her to display them. As a concession to her humble status, for it behoved her to be modest, she draped the beige shawl over her naked shoulders, but its wide crochet mesh only added to their provocation, showing as it did glimpses of her pearly flesh. She put on a gold cross and chain, which was not real gold, about her throat. It had been a confirmation present from her father, and she wished that she had a jewelled necklace to complement her dress. It looked as though it needed one.

Her toilet complete, she hesitated, suddenly shy at the prospect of going downstairs. She wondered whether Chris was still there and went through into their siting room. The door to his bedroom was ajar, and hearing her movements, he came through to join her. He was in waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, his jacket dangling from one hand. It was the suit she had seen him wearing in Nice and she noticed how the trim cut of the vest emphasised his supple waist.

'Help me on with this,' he held the jacket out to her. 'I must have put on weight since I've been here, the damn thing has got too tight.'

Clare took it from him and helped to ease it over his broad shoulders. It fitted without a crease. The little intimate action made her heart beat faster and brought colour into her pale cheeks.

Chris turned round and surveyed her.

'Very nice,' he complimented her. 'I must give you a necklace of topaz to give it a finishing touch.'

'I couldn't accept jewels from you, but it's a nice thought.'

'My Puritan Sparrow,' he scoffed, but his eyes were kind. 'Let's go down and face the interloper who has disturbed our peace.'

'She's hardly an interloper in her own house,' Clare objected as she preceded him out of the room.

'She is when she's leased it to me. Someone told her I'd got a woman here and she had to come and find out if it were true. Well, you'll give her something to think about, darling.'

So that was it! Chris resented Violetta's invasion of his privacy and this was his way of getting his own back. Violetta was to be shown that if she listened to rumours they were not without foundation. If the Signora really cared it was a cruel thing to do, nor did it reflect creditably upon her own position which was actually quite legitimate. Clare felt sympathy for the Italian woman and resentment on her own account. She made a movement towards her room, intending to tear off the misleading gown, but the dinner gong reverberated through the house, an old-fashioned summons which apparently the castle's mistress demanded, for Clare had not heard it before. Christopher seized her arm.

'Come along, you've no time to powder your nose and it doesn't need it. We mustn't keep Her Royal Highness waiting.'

They met Violetta Albanesi on the landing between the two branches of the stairs, descending at the same time that they were. She wore black chiffon that veiled but did not conceal her rounded limbs to which the underslip clung. Emeralds glittered on her neck and in her ears. Her big brown eyes were heavily mascaraed and had a sleepy, sexy look; her full mouth was like a scarlet flower. There was something decadent about her that marred her beauty, the aftermath of too much experience of nameless things. She was Lilith, the predecessor of Eve, who had no soul.

At the sight of Clare on Chris's arm, her eyes widened and lost their somnolent expression. Though the girl was only average height, the long dress made her look tall, emphasising her slenderness, and her youthful bloom caused the woman opposite her to appear middle-aged. Descending with Christopher's elegance beside her they were an attractive couple, suitably paired.

'So this is the secretary?' Violetta said insolently. She had a deep husky voice and she spoke English without any accent.

'Miss Underwood,' Chris introduced her. 'Clare, may I present Signora Violetta Albanesi, our hostess. Clare is a very efficient secretary, Vio.'

'She looks it,' Violetta sneered. 'In my youth secretaries were treated like upper servants and stayed with the governesses upstairs. Nor did they flaunt themselves in low dresses.'

'But these are democratic days,' Chris purred. 'One man or one woman is as good as the next. Of course if you prefer, Clare and I will eat upstairs while you're here.'

'Absurdo!'
the Signora snapped. 'I have agreed that she shall dine with us to satisfy your socialist notions, so you should be satisfied. I try to move with the times, however offensive I find them.' The brown eyes flickered over Clare with reptilian malice. 'Cristofo must pay you very well,
signorina,
for you to be able to afford such expensive clothes.'

This rude remark, with all the hidden significance behind it, stiffened Clare, who had begun to wilt under Violetta's antagonism. She lifted her head and looked straight into the Italian's eyes.

'I fail to see that my financial standing is anything to do with you,
signora.'

To her surprise, Violetta laughed.

'The girl has spirit,' she said to Chris.
'Bene,
I have no use for doormats. Shall we proceed, or my good Roberto will be frantic that the food grows cold.' She moved towards them. 'Your arm, Cristofo,
per piacere,
to support my ageing footsteps. You, Clara ... was that your name? ... are young enough to be able to carry your own weight.'

Her heavily ringed hand closed possessively over Christopher's sleeve and as Clare followed them down the central stairway, she was seething with indignation at the Italian woman's insolence, but she had lost all awe of her. If Violetta tried to humiliate her during dinner she would give back as good as she got!

But Violetta didn't. Her earlier aggression forgotten, she laid herself out to be a charming and polite hostess, Clare might have been a welcome guest; but Clare was not deceived, she knew that Signora Albanesi disliked and despised her and was suspicious of her relations with Chris. She was reminded of a famous picture, 'Supper with the Borgias', where Cesare smilingly presents the poisoned cup to his shrinking guest. Violetta looked as though she could be a descendant of that murderous family and she would like to put poison in Clare's wine, for her eyes were inimical though her lips smiled. Involuntarily Clare glanced at the Chianti bottle, but they had all shared it, and she was being fanciful. The slightly sinister atmosphere of the room engendered such thoughts.

Violetta made no attempt to hide her infatuation with Chris. She sat at the head of the table with the other two on either side. Repeatedly her hand touched his sleeve possessively and her languid glance sought to meet his eyes. Once she touched her wineglass with her lips and handed it to him.

'Drink where I have drunk, it is a pledge, my friend.'

Pledge of what? Clare wondered. Chris looked embarrassed, but he obligingly drank the wine.

His feelings were not easy to gauge. He gave no sign of reciprocation, but being English he would try to conceal what he felt. Clare watched him closely across the table and occasionally he met her eyes with glinting amusement in his, almost as though he were diverted by his hostess's tactics. He did not appear to return Violetta's passion, but Clare knew he was a master of subterfuge.

The chatelaine began to tell them legends about the castle, including those relating to the supernatural. Its most persistent haunter was a young girl who had thrown herself out of a window to escape the evil intentions of the duke who had then owned the castle and brought her to it against her will.

'She was confined in the room which you now occupy,' Violetta fixed her eyes on Clare. 'You know there is a deep drop into the valley from one window. It was from there she threw herself. It is said that she returns on stormy nights and her face has been seen outside the window wailing to be let in.'

Clare wondered if her hostess's object was to frighten her, the air was heavy with coming storm tonight, but the story was too unoriginal to move her and Chris laughed with open scorn.

'The fallacy in your tale is that at the time the wicked Duca Rufino lived here there were no windows of any size, most of them being arrow slits, through which it would have been difficult to fall.'

'Bene, perhaps the tale has become distorted and it was from the battlements above that she hurled herself,' Violetta admitted. 'But it is generally accepted that she did exist and people swear that they have seen her ghost.'

'Your superstitious peasants would see anything,' Chris said contemptuously. 'Clare, for whose benefit I imagine you've dug up this tale, is of a different calibre. Personally I find it difficult to believe any denizen of your village hovels could prefer death to the comforts of the castle, which though rudimentary according to our standards must have been a vast improvement upon what she was used to. Presumably the wicked duke rewarded favours bestowed upon him, even if only to the extent of satisfying meals.'

A cynicism characteristic of Christopher's philosophy, Clare thought ruefully, while Violetta sighed.

'Ah,
amico mio,
you are of a mind so material! In the days of chivalry maidens preferred death to dishonour, or were supposed to do. But nowadays,' she shrugged her beautiful shoulders, 'honour is despised.'

She fixed her malicious gaze upon Clare, who to her annoyance felt herself blush. Signora Albanesi evidently believed that she was there to serve Chris in more ways than one.

The vast gloomy room was the right setting for ghosts. The electricity which was generated by the castle's own plant was erratic and tonight the light was poor, and the candles seemed to burn less brightly in the oppressive atmosphere, casting strange shadows. Chris's white-clad figure seated opposite to Clare looked grey, merging with the obscurity behind him. Only the buttons on his waistcoat and his cuff-links gleamed in the candlelight, which also picked out the jewels Violetta wore with points of fire. Her hair looked black and together with her dress was part of her background; only her face showed palely lit by her great malevolent eyes above the green sparkle of the gems at her throat. The wine in their glasses might have been dark blood, but by some trick of the uncertain illumination, Clare's silk dress glimmered with a golden sheen and the cross on her white neck stood out.

'You wear a talisman against the evil eye,' Violetta observed, noticing it. 'A wise precaution in this evil place.'

'The home of your ancestors,' Chris reminded her. 'Were they all so wicked?'

She set her elbow on the table and resting her chin upon her hand, stared at him.

'Incredibly so.' Her deep husky voice drew out the word. 'The men were murderers and robbers, the women wanton. Enzo should have let it crumble into dust instead of preserving it.'

'That would have been a waste.' Christopher was unimpressed by Violetta's histrionics, neither did he seem to be affected by the ominous atmosphere, which was causing Clare to feel vaguely apprehensive, as if something unpleasant was about to occur. 'He made a summer palace out of it,' he went on. 'And its situation is superb. But couldn't you get main electricity installed? Your generators are always letting you down.'

'It is too far to come.' Violetta's expression was almost comical. Chris was spoiling her drama by his practical comments. 'Roberto will look at the batteries tomorrow, they must need attention.' She turned her gaze back to Clare, who she sensed was more impressionable. 'Do you fear the dark?'