The Questing Heart (14 page)

'Not in the least,' Chris answered for her, but Clare shivered. She thought Violetta was right, the miasma of past wickedness lingered over the vault-like structure of these lower rooms. It is said deeds of violence leave an impress in the air and that is the origin of apparitions. The
castello
was not a pleasant place to be in in the dark with a storm brewing.

Chris noticed her unease. 'You're too sensitive to suggestion,' he said to her. 'But don't let our good hostess get you down. Violetta revels in the macabre. Think what a fine scene this would make in your novel.'

Clare gave him credit for wanting to distract her, but his method was unpleasing to her. There was no need for him to have revealed her literary endeavours to this strange woman so that she could mock her. It showed how lightly he considered them—a child's ploy—but to her they were important. Giving him a reproachful glance, she said coldly:

'I don't aspire to write a melodrama.'

Violetta's sultry regard became fixed upon her curiously.

'So you too are a word-spinner—you and Cristofo must have much in common. What a
bambino
you could create between you, genius on both sides!'

Clare's face flamed at this extraordinary remark and she hoped the dim light concealed her embarrassment. Signora Albanesi's eyes shifted in time to note the expression of extreme distaste that crossed Christopher's face as one of the candles wavered and flared, and her own registered satisfaction.

He said lightly: 'What a thought! But genius dies in a generation. The children of gifted progenitors are rarely remarkable.'

'And you,
amico mio,
want no little torches to carry on your flame?' Violetta asked eagerly.

'I can't see myself as a family man.'

'Si.'
This was the confession that she in her torturous way had been seeking to extract. 'Me, I am of your mind, which is
fortunato,
for I am told I cannot have little ones.' She put her hand over his where it lay on the table. 'We are very
simpatico,
are we not? To you I can confide my closest thoughts. This summer palace, as you call it, that you so admire, it can be yours if you say the word.'

Clare turned cold. Violetta was ignoring her as if she and Christopher were alone, for after using her to extract the information that Chris did not want children, which Italian husbands considered the purpose of marriage, she regarded her as a piece of furniture. There could not have been a clearer declaration of intent. Violetta wanted to assert her claims. Though Clare had suspected a liaison between the two of them she had begun to hope it was over. Christopher had left Nice because Violetta had come between him and his work, and he had not seemed very pleased by her unexpected arrival at the castle. The Italian had come to clinch the matter and oust her supposed rival. She was too subtle to insist upon Clare's instant dismissal, instead she had fallen in with Christopher's wishes regarding her. But if the upstart was to dine at her table, she would make the meal as unpleasant as possible for her and show her her place without actually denouncing her. The mention of phantoms had been an attempt to frighten her. Her talk of her brutal ancestors a hint of what she might expect if she were foolish enough to remain; her possessive attitude towards Chris an indication that he was her property. Was the Italian capable of violence, if she thought Clare was trying to thwart her? Clare pushed the sick fancy away from her. Tomorrow she would talk seriously to Chris. If Signora Albanesi intended to stay at the castle, she would ask to be sent home; she could not stay there under such circumstances.

The entrance of Roberto with the coffee saved Chris from the necessity of having to reply to Violetta's offer of the castle, and presumably her hand in marriage. Clare could see that his face wore the bland enigmatical expression that it always did when he did not want to betray himself. Was he tempted? she wondered. The castle might appear forbidding, but it was a fine property and he liked » it, and Violetta was a beautiful woman.

When the man had gone, Violetta's mood switched, or perhaps she had belatedly decided that Clare's presence was a deterrent and was holding her fire until she could get Chris alone again. She chattered lightly about mutual acquaintances in Nice, ignoring Clare, much to the girl's relief.

When they finally rose from the table, she said to Chris:

'You will come with me, si?'

'Not tonight,' Chris said firmly. 'I must work. My directors have set a deadline for my play and I've still corrections to make. Come, Clare, you'd better discard your glad rags and get busy.'

Clare saw Violetta's eyes glow red and if she could have slain her, she knew she would gladly do so. But with Christopher beside her she dared not even abuse her verbally, since she did not want to antagonise him. In silence they mounted the stairs, while Violetta swallowed her rage, Chris looked amused, and Clare felt relief to be released from the oppression of the dining room. Never again, she vowed silently, would she be persuaded to endure another meal there.

Where their ways parted, Violetta paused and looked at Chris.

'Later,
amore mio?'

'No, it'll be much too late.' His face was like stone.

Signora Albanesi gave him one swift glance, then with a muttered,
'Buona notte
,' swept up the branch of the stairway to her apartments. Clare and Chris went up to their gwn corridor which seemed a haven of refuge.

'I thought you'd finished your play,' Clare said tentatively as they strolled down the dim length of the passage.

'Of course I have, but I had to make some excuse,' he returned. 'What devilish caprice prompted her to come after me here? I had to spend all day walking in the hills to keep out of her way.'

A surge of joy swept through Clare, lightening her heart. He had not been with Violetta, as she supposed!

'I wish you'd told me, I'd have come too,' she said, recalling her solitary day.

'Too hard going for you, Sparrow, though I'd have liked your company—besides, there was no way of letting you know.' He sighed. 'We were so comfortable until she came.'

'Weren't you rather unwise to accept her hospitality?' Clare ventured to suggest.

He ran his fingers through his hair. 'I like this place and I thought she was involved in other distractions,' he explained. 'Apparently the other fellow wouldn't play ball.'

Clare felt profound relief. Not only was Christopher no longer enamoured of the beautiful Italian, but he was not even jealous of his supplanter. Recalling the lady's venomous glances, however, she felt they were in an awkward situation to say the least of it. Chris did not seem to be perturbed, though he must know he was the target of Violetta's desires and she would not let up easily. Clare hoped he would decide to move on on the morrow.

They reached their rooms and as Chris opened the sitting room door, the light responded feebly to the switch. A brilliant sheet of lightning flared outside the uncurtained window, filling the room with lurid light. Chris went to a cupboard and brought out a box of candles and several boxes of matches.

'The electricity will probably fail altogether,' he observed, glancing at the dimming bulb. 'Knowing this place I came prepared.'

Meeting her questioning glance he grinned.

'I used to stay here often when Enzo was alive. No, though I sympathised with Violetta I never tried to cuckold him. I have some morals.'

You waited until he was dead, was her unspoken thought. She could not rid herself of the conviction that there had been something between him and Violetta, whatever he said now. She recalled her first sight of the two of them together in Nice. They had looked like lovers then.

Clare took the two candles he offered her together with a box of matches, and even in the feeble light her pallor was noticeable.

'I'm afraid you had a trying evening,' Chris said kindly, 'but I needed your chaperonage.'

'The duties of a secretary are manifold,' she observed wryly. 'But Signora Albanesi didn't seem to recognise my role.'

'She's shameless,' he declared. 'The things she said!' He grimaced. 'Imagine being tied to such a man-eater!'

She hesitated, then asked anxiously, 'Shall we be leaving tomorrow?'

His mouth set in a firm line. 'I'm not going to let her drive me out, we'll go when I'm ready. After all, I'm the tenant.'

He pulled off his jacket and moved towards his door. Another brilliant flash illuminated every object in the room in its hellish glare, and he turned back to say:

'Not nervous of storms, are you? We're in for a stinker.'

Clare shook her head. Normally she was not, but in her present grim environment the prospect of a bad storm was not very pleasant, though she was not going to admit that to Chris.

'Well, you know where I am, wake me if you're scared.'

He disappeared whistling cheerfully, his mercurial spirits recovered from the oppressive scene downstairs, nor did he seem to be worried about the embarrassing presence of Violetta. He never did face up to any situation until actually confronted by it, and the problem posed by Signora Albanesi could wait. Clare envied him the easy way in which he could shrug off any difficulty, assuming it would resolve itself. But Violetta was a force he would have to reckon with, unless he decided to run away. She hoped fervently that he would not disappear as he had done all day, leaving her behind to pack up and follow him. She did not put it past him.

She went reluctantly into her bedroom and drew the thick curtains over her windows to shut out the menacing storm, then got into bed by the light of one of the candles. She would like to have left it burning, but knew it would not last long and she might need both her candles later on. She lay awake for some time, but the rumble of the thunder seemed to be receding; they had escaped the storm after all. Gradually her tired limbs relaxed and she fell into troubled sleep, dreaming vividly and horribly. Nightmare visions assailed her ... Violetta turned vampire, avid lips against Christopher's throat ... a white spectral form knocking at her window ... and finally a crashing crack of thunder brought her wide awake.

W
ITH
shaking hands Clare struck match after match in her endeavours to light the candle, still enmeshed in the evil miasma of her dreams. Eventually she succeeded and looking at her watch saw it was just after four o'clock, the dead hour when vitality is at its lowest ebb. The thunder was booming and crashing overhead almost without pause, for the high altitude of the castle immersed it in its clouds. She could see the continual flash of lightning through the chinks in the curtains. She had wakened from nightmare into a nightmare world and she was badly scared, longing for human contact, and she wished that Chris would knock upon her door. But the great house seemed empty as a tomb —probably Was, for most of the servants slept in their village homes, except for Violetta at the further end of the building and Christopher. He had told Clare to waken him if she were frightened and surely he could not be sleeping through the racket overhead? She would go into the sitting room and hope that he might come to her.

She slid out of bed and pulled her dressing gown on over her flimsy pyjamas. It was a plain flannel garment that had seen much wear. Some day, she had promised herself, she would buy something more glamorous -with Christopher's princely salary, but there were no shops in the vicinity. She knotted the cord about her waist, thinking that at least it was unrevealing; she was more modestly covered than in the controversial evening dress. She would not want to appear before Chris in a provocative negligee.

The curtain was still undrawn in the further room, and the continuous lightning filled it with an eerie glare. She stood for a moment blinking at it, the candle flickering in her hand. Was it her fancy or was there a white shape outside the window? Clare gave a muffled cry, dropped the candle which instantly went out, and ran to Christopher's door, bursting in without knocking.

He was not asleep. He was standing at the window, which he had thrown open so that the room was full of rushing wind. He wore only his pyjama trousers, his naked torso exposed to die storm, and he was laughing with wild exultation at its fury. He looked as primeval as the elements, a creature far removed from his normal elegant self, an embodiment of natural virile force. The lightning flickered over his bare tanned body, playing on the rippling muscles and the fine down upon his chest, while the wind whipped his hair into wild disorder.

Clare paused transfixed just within the doorway, believing he must be another fantasy created by her over-stimulated imagination. This was Pan or Bacchus, a nature god from the realms of myth and legend. Sensing her presence, he turned his head and saw her.

'Ah, Sparrow, isn't this a magnificent sight?' he cried gleefully. 'Come and enjoy it.'

He swooped towards her, throwing a sinewy bare arm about her waist, propelling her to the window. Holding her clamped to his side, he turned his face to the storm. Through the cloud wrack she could discern the black humped shapes of the mountains, and every detail in the courtyard was revealed in the lightning flashes, the geraniums being tossed unmercifully, the few bushes by the wall tormented bundles of swaying leaves.

She was conscious in every tingling nerve of Chris's body pressing against hers, the constricting arm circling her waist,, and her heart beat so loud and fast she was sure he must hear it above the war gongs of the thunder. Abruptly he turned towards her, bringing up his other arm to enfold her in a close embrace. It was so fierce and tight she thought her ribs would crack. His mouth came down on hers, hot and searing. The elemental forces surging round them, the man's passionate' urgency awoke something primitive in Clare also. She did not shrink this time from being embraced. Her arms went up to enclose his neck, the loose sleeves falling away from them so that she could feel his cool smooth flesh. Impatiently he pushed the gown off her shoulders and now she was crushed against him with only the thin stuff of her pyjama tunic between their chests; she could feel the fast beat of his heart thudding above her own as if a single pulse throbbed through them both. Then for the first time she knew desire, a dark flood submerging her, but not yet located. She wanted him to go on kissing her for ever and her being to be submerged in his.