The Questing Heart (17 page)

The question of expense settled it. She had not enough money with her to pay her fares without his assistance, her month's salary being due, and she doubted if he would give it to her even if she could bring herself to ask for it. He did not like being opposed. Also she had glimpsed the ranges of the Alps in the distance and was eager to continue their journey, for she was unlikely to come this way again and she wanted to see all she could.

Chris noticed her wistful glance towards the mountains and laughed:

'Go on, Sparrow, you know you're longing to travel on. I promised you you'd find life with me exciting, and we haven't done so badly up to date. Who knows what further adventures await us over the hills and far away?' His expression changed as he noticed how tired she was looking. 'It won't be too much for you?'

'Despite the company?' He grinned. 'You can forget I'm there, I'll be too engaged in coping with the traffic to bother you with conversation.'

They continued their journey through the lovely valley of Aosta with the snow-capped mountains all around them and passed into France through the Mont Blanc tunnel, the longest road tunnel in the world. Chris drove fast but was not reckless and made occasional brief comments on the scenery. They rested in an Alpine valley through the hottest part of the day. He wanted to get to Dijon where he proposed to spend the night, but it was still far distant. They had come over two hundred miles and had as far to go again.

He was known to the family who ran the guest-house where they stopped, who gave them a good meal, a warm welcome and curious glances at Clare. Monsieur was perhaps at last engaged?

'Yes,' Chris replied without blinking, and Clare blushed.

She had to endure congratulations and her health being drunk, though she could sense the good people were puzzled to know what Chris saw in her.

'Peut-etre elle a un bon dot
,' she heard their hostess murmur -tcf her daughter who was waiting upon them. Alas, Clare had no dowry.

The lounge was empty, all the visitors being out upon various expeditions, and Chris immediately fell asleep after drinking his coffee. Clare's brain was seething with impressions of mountain vistas, shimmering lakes and speeding traffic, so it was some time before she dozed. Almost at once, it seemed, Chris was shaking her shoulder, saying it was time to take to the road again, and she stumbled half- dazed to the powder room to bathe her tired eyes.

They travelled on through varied scenery and heavy traffic. From time to time they passed huge juggernauts hauling goods on the long run from Northern France or Belgium to Italy. Some had come from as far away as Britain.

'If ever I give up drama I'd like that job,' Chris told her.

'Driving lorries?' she was incredulous.

'Yes. I'm incurably restless, but I'd prefer Australia where they travel for thousands of miles.'

Could any woman ever persuade him to settle down?

It was very late when they eventually reached Dijon and Clare had difficulty in concealing her weariness. She did » not want Chris to think she was failing. She wanted very much to complete the journey with him now, in spite of the embarrassment she had felt at the guest-house. It was, as he had told her, an adventure.

As it was the holiday season and they had no reservation they had difficulty in finding accommodation for the night. After many fruitless enquiries, they finally found a hotel which had one double room available.

'You'd better have it,' Chris said to Clare. 'I'll sleep in the car.'

She glanced at his face, drawn with fatigue, and knew she could not sleep in comfort while he tried to do so in the car.

'The chauffeur must have the room,' she said firmly. 'You need rest more than I do. I'll manage on the back seat.'

'I couldn't possibly allow that, Clare,' he said shortly.

They were in the vestibule of the hotel and the reception clerk looked at them in perplexity.

'It is a good room,' he urged, 'two beds, a bathroom. Monsieur will find nothing better.'

Clare drew a deep breath. 'Book it, Chris, before someone else does,' she said urgently. 'We'll share it.'

His eyebrows went up. 'You don't mind?'

'I ... I'm not a prude, and you must have a good sleep in a proper bed. We'll manage somehow.'

Christopher's lips twitched. 'Bravo, Sparrow,' he said.

He made the reservation. The clerk made no comments on their passports and tactfully addressed Clare as 'Madame'. The hotel had a perpetual influx of various types all day and every day and he was not interested in their relationships.

They took what they needed for the night from their cases, and went up to the room. It contained a double and a single bed, and was connected with a small bathroom fitted with a shower. Chris looked round it approvingly.

'I could take that thing,' he pointed to the quilt on the bigger bed, 'and sleep in the bathroom if you'd feel happier,' he suggested.

'Oh, don't be absurd,' Clare exclaimed crossly, disturbed by the intimacy of their surroundings. 'You'll sleep in the double bed. Bathroom indeed, what would I do when I wanted to wash?'

'As Madame says!' He inclined his head mockingly. 'But we must have some food, the restaurant is still open.'

He was looking at her oddly. and she preceded him downstairs wondering if she had been too rash, but surely he must be far too exhausted to feel erotic?

The place was full of tourists 'doing' France in all sorts of garb, so that they were quite unremarkable. A late supper was being served to visitors back from a long all-day trip. Clare was too tired to eat much in spite of Chris's urgings, but she drank thirstily of the iced lemonade, refusing anything stronger, and the coffee when it came.

'Will you go up first, or shall I?' Chris asked, stifling a yawn.

'You'd better, or you'll fall asleep over the table,' she replied, wondering which would be the more embarrassing —to find him in bed or he to find her, but his yawns decided her.

He stood up. 'I'll be in bed and asleep in a couple of shakes of a cow's tail,' he assured her. 'Bless you, Sparrow, you're most forgiving ... and trusting.'

His words left her with a warm glow, as she watched him thread his way out of the dining room. She wondered why he was pushing himself so hard—surely there was no need? Perhaps when he rang London he had been urged to hurry, but he was naturally impatient and when his mind was set on a project he could not linger.

She waited ten minutes, then followed him, timidly tapping on the bedroom door before she went in. He was as he had promised sound asleep with the bedside light turned on beside him, his clothes dropped anyhow on the floor. Clare picked them up and folded them, feeling like a mother with a small boy, throwing anxious glances towards the bed, but Chris never stirred. She went into the bath- j room, undressed, showered, and swathed herself in her dressing gown. Returning, she went to his bed and stood looking down at him. The bed was covered by a quilt, the original of the now fashionable duvets, and it had slipped off his bronzed shoulders. Very gently she drew it up again to cover him. Relaxed, the lines of tiredness smoothed out, his face appeared much younger, almost boyish with the I vulnerability of sleep.

Tenderly Clare brooded over him, her own fatigue forgotten; in sleep he was all hers. She loved him, she knew that now, and there would never be anyone else for her, and it was much, much more than mere sexual attraction. She had come to understand his quicksilver temperament. He ran from any threat to curtail his freedom, that was why he had left Violetta, who was becoming too possessive. He took things as they came, enjoying each fleeting sensation, discarding it when it began to bore him and passed on to the next experience. He found her useful, even had a sort of careless affection for her, but would forget her when he reached London and the production of his play absorbed him.

As if he sensed her presence, he moved in his sleep, his eyes half opened and she drew back hastily.

'Take a note, Clare,' he murmured. 'Opening of Act Two ... delete ...' He turned over and sank into deeper slumber.

Clare smiled wryly, and switching off the light, climbed into her own bed. It took the frenzy of a thunderstorm to make Chris aware of her femininity. Normally all she was to him was a machine. She lay in the dark listening to his quiet breathing. She would never be so near him again, for tomorrow they would make the Channel coast and cross to England, but he was quite oblivious of her proximity, lost in the artificial world of the theatre that paradoxically was the only real thing in his life.

When she woke in the morning he had gone down to breakfast and she again had to hurry through her toilet not to keep him waiting.

Christopher's rate of travel was so exhausting that Clare found she was incapable of taking in any fresh impressions by the time they reached the sea, much less contend with the problem of her future. When she closed her eyes the unending road continued to unwind before her inner vision, but she derived a sweet contentment from sitting beside Christopher hour after hour watching his expert handling of the car and his keen hawk's profile intent upon his driving. They did not speak much, only to comment upon places of interest they passed, or Chris would address less competent drivers below his breath in uncomplimentary terms. She came to recognise them all, the over-cautious ones who hugged the crown of the road at a snail's pace, but were unwilling to be passed, the reckless young men who cut in when they should not, risking life and limb in their haste, the speeding coaches with their loads of sightseers, also unwilling to give way, and of course the juggernauts that Chris wanted to drive. She wished they could go on for ever and avoid the inevitable parting at the end.

They reached the coast in the prescribed two days, but were too late to embark. Clare was accommodated at a
pension
for ladies only. What happened to Chris she did not know. Most of the people staying in the
pension
were elderly, some of them English, and anxious to talk to a compatriot ... about themselves. Clare saw in them herself forty years on and felt depressed. Her adventures were over and her future work would be in an office. With Chris she had blossomed into brief and stirring life, but now she would sink back into her former colourless existence.

She had yet to tell him that she was leaving his employment. She hoped he would express a little regret, but with his production filling his mind she feared he would spare her scant thought.

They boarded the ferry at noon and with the car safely bestowed went up on deck. It was a chilly squally day and most of the passengers preferred the crowded but warmer saloons and bar, so they had it to themselves. Clare wore her trousers and an anorak which she had unearthed from her cases with a scarf tied over her head and felt the reverse of chic. Chris also wore an anorak and was bare-headed, looking very different from the well-tailored figure she associated with Violetta. Sky and sea were grey as they stood side by side at the stern rail watching the coast of France disappear. Soon the familiar white cliffs of Dover would come into view on the other side, and to Clare after her sojourn in the South of France the Straits looked cold and bleak, matching her present mood.

'You'll be driving straight up to London?' she enquired. 'When we've landed.'

'Such was my intention. Nothing to wait for, is there?'

'No. If you'll drop me at some place convenient to you when we get there, I'll get a taxi to Euston and I should be home by night. I ... I've decided I'd better go back there, Chris.'

She kept her eyes on the sea and waited tensely for him to question her, make some protest, try to persuade her to stay perhaps, but all he did was to agree unconcernedly:

'Yes, perhaps that would be best.'

Clare felt that she could have hit him; he was willing to let her go without making the slightest effort to deter her. It showed he valued her services not at all.

'What will you do?' he asked. 'Get another job? I can't see you spending your days in idleness.'

'I can't afford to,' she snapped. He owed her some salary, but she could not bring herself to ask for it.

'Oh well, I daresay I can arrange some compensation for you,' he announced casually, and as she started to protest, interrupted with, 'I'm much in your debt and shall be more so.'

'You won't, I shan't be working for you.'

'No, that would be rather infra dig; I'll have to get me another secretary, worse luck.'

She glanced up at him, puzzled; his eyes were fixed on the sea and he seemed miles away from her.

'Infra dig?' she queried.

He brought his gaze back to her, the amber eyes critical. 'I don't much like that thing round your head, but I suppose it's practical on a day like this. Yes, well, I've been thinking.
Olympian Intrusion
is to have a try-out in Manchester and I'll be coming up in about six weeks' time. Prior to that we'll be rehearsing hard and I shan't have any time for personal affairs. Meanwhile you can break the news to your parents and get them accustomed to the idea of our engagement, then you can present me to them when I arrive.'

Clare stared at him blankly, aware of mounting consternation.

'But, Chris, surely we aren't going on with this ... this charade? I mean, it was only what you might call an emergency measure. I ... I thought you'd forgotten all about it.'

He met her wide gaze with a curious intensity in his that she could not decipher, then he turned his head away.

'You credit me with a very short memory,' he told her curtly. 'Perhaps it had slipped yours?' He relaxed suddenly and laughter crept into his voice. 'Don't you think that after the last few days during which we've actually slept together, I should be a heel if I didn't make an honest woman of you?'

'But... but that would mean getting married.'

'We might even have to go as far as that,' he said lightly. 'But marriage is a knot easily untied nowadays. Of course it would be ... what do they call it... a marriage in name only, another stock situation in your romantic fiction. I wouldn't want to spoil you for your real husband, the man who is going to give you those children you want ... you see, I do remember quite a lot of what you've told me.'