The Bay of Moonlight Page 3

  'I don't know when I've seen such pretty hands before. You ought to make money out of them... become a photographic model! And the rest of you looks pretty good to me, too,' leaning just a little nearer to her. He wrinkled his nose. 'I like that scent you use.'

  Philip Saratola bowed. Sarah felt so ridiculously embarrassed that her embarrassment showed in her face.

  Frank Ironside glanced round carelessly.

  'Who was that? Oh, the kids' father. You'd think he owned the place, wouldn't you, from the looks he distributes around him! Talk about condescension! But then the Portuguese are all like that... or his type are.'

  Sarah stood up.

  'I really must go to bed now,' she said. 'It's getting late.

  He was obviously disappointed.

  'But I'll see you tomorrow?' There was something frankly pleading in his attractive grey eyes. 'What about making a day of it together? We could go out into the country... hire a car!'

  'I - I'll see.' She wanted to escape as quickly as possible, before the father of Maria and Roberto returned, and she couldn't remember feeling quite so agitated for a long time. 'I - I'll see,' she repeated.

  'If you could make up your mind tonight we could start off nice and early. I know a garage where I could pick up a car ... not terribly expensive. But of course, everything would be on me! I'd simply love it if we could spend a day together, Sarah.'

  She smiled at him waveringly.

  'Wait until after breakfast tomorrow.'

  'Well, of course, if you need all that time. But you've only got a week before you go back to England. It isn't long!'

  'No, I know it isn't. Good night, Frank!'

  She sped away across the lounge, and in the lift she felt as if she had been running up several flights of stairs and deprived herself of the ability to breathe easily. The uniformed lift attendant gazed at her in mild surprise, and when they reached the second floor swung open the lift door and said good night to her punctiliously.

  He was thinking that she had always appeared quite calm and composed when in the company of her aunt. But it was quite true that sometimes when the cat was away....

  He gazed after her admiringly as she retreated hurriedly along the corridor, and then descended to pick up Senhor Saratola, who was too preoccupied even to notice when he said good night to him in the same punctilious way.

  Sarah slept badly that night - for the first time since her visit to Portugal - and she could only attribute it to the fact that she felt strange without the knowledge that her aunt was in the next room, and with the knowledge that for the next seven days she was on her own. And she didn't want to become involved on the last seven days of her holiday.

  She breakfasted in her room - on the balcony outside her room, as a matter of fact - and was half-way through her coffee and rolls when a tap came at the door and the chambermaid entered. The girl carried a sealed envelope out on to the balcony and handed it over to Sarah, and at the sight of her name inscribed in precise masculine characters the latter felt surprise well over her. For she knew immediately that that was not the handwriting of Frank Ironside. For one thing, it was distinctly foreign, and for another from the moment her fingers touched the envelope she knew the communication had nothing whatsoever to do with her new American friend.

  She slit open the envelope while the chambermaid stood waiting as if she expected to be entrusted with a verbal reply. There were only a few lines on a sheet of hotel notepaper, but they were very much to the point ... quite astoundingly to the point, in fact. Dear Miss Cunninghame,

  If you could come along to my suite I would be very grateful. Something has happened that makes it imperative I should see you. I will wait here for you.' And it was signed, 'Philip Saratola.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sarah stood outside the door of the suite and waited for it to open, wondering whether the expression of the ungracious elderly maid would have altered very much since she saw her last. The fact that she was elderly and that her charges were young and active might possibly explain why she appeared to have a grudge against fate, but in Sarah's opinion it did not give her the right to refuse a box of sweets on their behalf.

  On more than one occasion when she had seen her shepherding the children she had thought her attitude brusque in the extreme, and they had given the impression of being distinctly cast down. But then children who played all day on their own and had no adult to take a genuine interest in them were liable to be cast down.

  But when the door opened - almost immediately, in fact -?it was Philip Saratola himself who stood there. He looked relieved at sight of her ... in fact very noticeably relieved.

  'Come in, Miss Cunninghame,' he said, standing aside for her to pass him in the doorway. 'I can't tell you how very much I appreciate your prompt response to the note I sent you. I'm afraid it was rather like a - well, a summons. But, in actual fact, it was an appeal. I do hope you realized that I would not have contacted you if the matter had not been urgent.'

  There was certainly something rather harassed about his expression, but at the same time she couldn't help but feel that he was not as welcoming as he had been the day before. He was glad to see her, but the fact that he had sent for her plainly embarrassed him.

  And she sensed that he disliked being embarrassed.

  'I do hope nothing is wrong?' she said, and he shook his head.

  'Not really. That is to say, well, obviously something is wrong, or you would not be here. But it only affects the children adversely in one way.'

  'And that way is ...?'

  He indicated a chair for her to sit down on, and it was an elegant drawing-room-chair that matched most of the furniture in his extremely luxurious private sitting- room. Sarah had thought that her aunt was being rather extravagant by insisting on two bedrooms separated by a private bathroom, and with one very large balcony that they could share. But this suite was plainly one of the prize ones, for the sitting-room was extremely large, a little too formal, and even regal, for comfort, and it plainly served the purpose of a dining-room as well as a sitting-room. There was an enormous sideboard decorated by an outsize dish of fruit, a big round table near the window gleaming with damask and sparkling with breakfast china and silver, and a rather rigid plush-covered settee on which a couple of Maria's dolls were seated in some state, while a surprisingly tattered- looking teddy bear occupied the other end.

  Books belonging to both children were scattered about the room, and Sarah was astonished that Carmelita permitted this. She had thought of her as a dragon who would adhere rigidly to the rule that there was a place for everything, and everything in its place. But apparently this was not so.

  She moved instinctively and gathered up a couple of books from the carpet, then looked round apologetically as she placed them on a side table.

  'I'm sorry, senhor, but I'm used to looking after children, and it becomes a kind of habit after a time,' she explained.

  He was regarding her very intently.

  'I was given to understand that you are accustomed to dealing with children,' he surprised her considerably by informing her.

  She stared back at him.

  'Now I wonder how....' Then she broke off, frowning. 'There is something wrong, isn't there, senhor? That is why you have sent for me? Because of one of the children?'

  'Not one of the children. Carmelita has had a nasty fall and injured her leg, and has been taken to hospital.' He waved a hand to indicate the table. 'That is why, so far, no one has breakfasted. The children are in their rooms and have instructions to stay there until someone can be found who can be trusted to take charge of them. I could, of course, have asked a member of the hotel staff to take over temporarily, but I did not wish to do that because Maria and Roberto are not accustomed to strangers and it is serious enough that their routine should be interrupted in this way. You, Senhorita Cunninghame, have spoken to them, I believe, on several occasions, and were kind enough to buy sweets for them yesterday. I decided to appeal to y
ou.'

  'But—' and her brows were still wrinkled - 'why me? I mean how did you know I'm accustomed to dealing with children?'

  He looked faintly perplexed, and then a little impatient.

  'I'm afraid I cannot recall who it was who passed the information on to me, but it was almost certainly someone who had had a conversation with either you or your aunt. You are on holiday here in Lisbon, but you have looked after children at home in England, and you are, I believe, returning to take up further training. That is no doubt an excellent thing, but I am offering you practical training here in Portugal if you choose to remain, and from your own point of view I should think that would be quite valuable. You have obviously to earn your living, and I will naturally pay you whatever salary you ask. Indeed, you have only to mention it, and put forth any other stipulations that occur to you. I am willing to listen!'

  'Really, senhor!' She felt as if her breath had been taken away, and at the same time she was amazed by his calm air of assurance - for it was quite obvious he did not expect her to refuse, although he knew nothing whatsoever of her commitments. 'You do seem to have found out quite a lot about me ... although it was most certainly not I who was your friend's informant. It is possible my aunt made disclosures that were quite unintentional, but I'm quite sure she didn't intend them to be put to practical use. As a matter of fact, it is all arranged that I return to England at the end of the week—'

  'Quite, quite!' But he was obviously unimpressed, and she marvelled that when he first acknowledged her existence in the dining-room she had thought he had a slightly diffident and rather charming air that sat well on one with his aristocratic pretensions and forebears. She had also been slightly puzzled by the remarkable effect his eyes had upon her, but that was now explained by the fact that he was closely related to Maria. They were Maria's eyes without the furtive look, deep and dark and opaque, and yet lustrous at the same time. Eyes that one might find it difficult to forget... and, in a way, disturbing.

  She didn't yet know why.

  'Quite,' he repeated, with the air of one who was accustomed to brushing small difficulties out of his way. 'But is it absolutely essential that you return to England at the end of the week? I mean, are you committed to return?'

  'You mean, am I already employed?'

  'No, no.' He shook his head with a further display of impatience. 'I am aware that you are not employed at the moment. I will be honest with you, Miss Cunninghame. I have no reason to doubt my information. You are temporarily free, but you are returning to England because ... someone is hoping to see you soon? Someone will meet you at the airport when you arrive?'

  She shook her head, smiling a little because it was a long time since anyone had met her when she arrived at either airports or railway stations. Even Aunt Constance had awaited her in the hotel when she joined her at the commencement of the holiday.

  'No, senhor, no one will meet me, and the particular day on which I arrive is not important.'

  'Meaning that your parents—?'

  'My parents are dead, senhor.''

  He looked grave immediately.

  'I am very sorry, senhorita. I offer you my sincere sympathy.'

  She felt inclined to laugh ... not because she hadn't missed her parents badly for the past five years but because of the way he put it. She didn't feel disposed to inform him just then that her parents had both been involved in an accident, and she somehow gathered that he knew all about her Aunt Constance. He proved that a second or so later by inquiring:

  'And Miss Cunninghame, your aunt? Does she not make herself responsible for you up to a point? Is she not particularly interested in your welfare?'

  'Oh, yes, up to a point,' Sarah admitted. 'But I'm a free agent,' she added, wondering whether she would shock him by lie bald statement of a fact, that from the point of view of a formal, family-minded representative of an impeccable and somewhat austere line, might also strike him as a trifle avant-garde and not quite respectable. 'I make all my own decisions, and so do most girls of my age at home in England.'

  His eyebrows barely lifted.

  'If you will not consider me rude may I inquire what that age is?'

  'I'm twenty-four.'

  'By Portuguese standards,' he surprised her by observing coolly, 'old enough to be married and the mistress of a home and family!'

  She flushed, aware that he had accepted her somewhat brash admission of her complete freedom and place upon it another interpretation ... that having arrived at the age of consent - and, indeed, passed it - she had not yet found anyone to marry her! Or for some reason, marriage - which was a logical outcome of emancipation - had been difficult to arrange.

  He saw the faintly outraged flush that invaded her cheeks and smiled slightly.

  'However, I think you look very young, Miss Cunninghame,' he told her kindly.

  She decided that it was time for her to put a few leading questions, and did so.

  'And what about the children's mother?' she. asked. 'Will she approve if I accept your offer of employment?'

  'She is English like yourself. I'm quite certain she will approve.'

  'And will she - won't she be returning soon to - to take over the children ?'

  He shrugged.

  'I really have no idea. She will probably spend several months in England, and then she will go to America. She might be back in Portugal by the autumn.'

  'But isn't that a little - vague?' It was her turn to be shocked. 'Surely the children are her responsibility primarily—? It's hardly fair that you should have to make all these decisions and cope with emergencies.'

  He shrugged again.

  'I do not mind. I am their closest relative, and the head of the family, so naturally it is my duty to look after them.'

  'But—' What an odd way to look at things, she thought. 'Their closest relative and the head of the family!' And what about being deprived of the company of his wife for so long? Such a beautiful wife, too!

  'In Portugal,' he explained to her, in the same kind tone as before, 'families are very close-knit units, and the responsibility for every member is shared amongst them. When Maria and Roberto have to be taken care of - well, I take care of them. It is my duty, no more, no less! Although, naturally, I am fond of them—'

  She stared at him.

  'I should hope so!' she thought.

  'I am in actual fact quite strongly attracted to them.'

  Her eyes grew quite round as she stared at him.

  'Forgive me, Senhor Saratola,' she began, 'but it would be difficult not to be attracted to Maria and Roberto—'

  'I am happy to hear you think so! As their uncle—'

  'Uncle?'

  'Of course. What other relationship did you suppose existed between us?' As her face turned slowly crimson his eyes grew really amused. 'So that is it, is it? You are attributing to me a family when in actual fact I am merely the head of a very large branch of a family, and without even a wife of my own as yet. Maria and Roberto are my brother's children, and my sister-in- law has every right to leave them for a while if she wishes to do so because she has not yet entirely recovered from the shock of her husband's death. It was a very great blow. He was thrown from a horse when out riding one morning, and died in hospital a short while later. The children were undoubtedly affected - particularly Maria. And that is why I insist that whoever takes charge of them - from now on, since Carmelita was by no means an ideal choice - must have a genuine love of children, and be prepared to make allowances if one of them is a little difficult sometimes. Roberto, who is eight, will be going to school very soon, and escape the influence of petticoats, but Maria is delicate and backward and a little wayward. You might have to cosset her for a bit, although she is nearly ten. Would you do that?'

  'Of course.' She was overwhelmed by the enormity of the mistake she had made, and also by pity for the children. 'In the circumstances one would have to handle her very gently.'

  'I'm glad you agree.' He smiled at her in th
e way that he had smiled at her the day before. 'You betrayed your liking for children, senhorita, when you took the trouble to bring them a gift last night. Will you improve on that liking and convince yourself that you are needed here, and that England can wait for you for a while at least since your ties in your own country do not appear to be strong?'

  'Until Carmelita is released from hospital?'

  'No, Carmelita is too old to be put in charge of the young again. She will be pensioned off when she comes out of hospital, and - do not worry! - taken care of.'

  She bit her lip as she wondered what to do. She realized that he was paying her quite a signal honour in inviting her to look after his niece and nephew. But, on the other hand, she was not used to Portuguese ways, and she might not fit into a Portuguese household. Fortunately, there would be no difficulty over language, for both children spoke English beautifully, and so did Philip Saratola.

  She thought of her Aunt Constance and wondered what she would advise ... and then felt fairly certain that she knew what her aunt would advise.

  She apologized for her stupidity in mistaking him for the children's father, and then asked whether she could have a little time to think the matter over. She was quite prepared to look after the children for the rest of that day, if he would like her to do so, but she would like more time to consider whether she would be justified or not in cancelling her return air flight to London.

  He studied her rather shrewdly.

  'The young man I saw you with last night,' he said, rather softly. 'Are you perhaps planning to see more of him?'

  She coloured almost defensively and shook her head immediately.

  'No, not really.'

  'But you have some sort of an arrangement to see one another while you both remain in the hotel?' with sudden, almost freezing, coldness. 'I beg your pardon, senhorita, if I have intruded unwarrantably upon your time,' and he was actually walking towards the door to open it for her and dismiss her when she acted purely upon impulse, and caught at his arm and assured him that he was entirely wrong. She had no plans to do anything at all special while she remained in Lisbon. She was as free as air.