And Be Thy Love Page 9

  “Robert...! Armand, please, please let me go... !”

  She managed to get her mouth free, and she beat at him with her fists.

  “Let me go...! Armand, please...! This is cowardly...!” He let her go at once, but he was pale, and breathing hard. He looked at her as if he disliked her.

  “Have you any more accusations to hurl at me?”

  “No.” She was still a little frightened, and her mouth felt bruised. She put up a shaking hand and touched it. “No.”

  “And you’re not prepared to retract anything you’ve said?

  You—you believe it all?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him almost defiantly, although her heart was hammering away within her, and behind the defiance was a feeling of abjectness because his face was colourless and his eyes were blank with hurt—and that hurt sent knife thrusts through every sensitive part of her being, and she wanted to dissolve into weeping. To weep for their lost love, and their wonderful time together, that had been something stolen out of both their lives, because none of it was real. “I believe you were merely amusing yourself—not only at first, but—most of the time! I was something new in your experience, and you couldn’t resist the temptation to—well, to take advantage of a rather unique situation. If you had ever been serious you would have told me the truth about yourself—at least you would have done so this afternoon!”

  She pushed the hair back wearily from her brow, and inconsistently enough she thought of Monique, rushed off her feet in the huge and rather primitive kitchen of the chateau, and waiting for her to keep her promise and hasten downstairs to help her by laying the table for dinner.

  “Go, please,” she begged. “I must make myself respectable and go down and help Monique.”

  “You are not a maidservant here.”

  “No, but Monique is run off her feet, and it isn’t fair to expect her to do everything. She has waited on me so much, I must help her now.”

  He sent her a long, and distinctly curious, look, and then turned away abruptly, and stared at the floor, only partially covered by a threadbare carpet.

  “Very well—if that’s the way you feel about things! About Monique amongst others...! But if I assure you that, in future, however great the temptation”—very drily—”to take advantage of a unique situation, I will never attempt to thrust unwelcome attentions on you, and that so far as I am concerned at any rate you are safe for all time from becoming the mistress of a French playwright—with or without a more permanent establishment that can be safely recognised, according to the habits of my countrymen!—will you promise not to do anything impetuous, such as packing up your things and departing from here hurriedly? You still need a holiday— a rest! And Marthe is very anxious that you shall have that rest! So, in order to please

  Marthe, if no one else, will you give me your word to stay on here for a time?”

  She swallowed. Misery was swamping her, and at the same time she was worried by the thought of Monique.

  “I could stay on here and—and help Monique! I would be happy to do that! I mean, so long as your guests remain....”

  He turned back and looked at her with a kind of harsh mockery.

  “You will wait on them for me? That is most kind— particularly as Diane Montauban is used to rather a lot of waiting on!”

  She winced, but he didn’t notice the wince.

  “And she might even turn you into a kind of personal maid, if you are willing! But in that case we shall have to think up a suitable recompense for you, won’t we?” even more harshly. “A salary, perhaps? Because I should hate Diane to receive the minimum of attention.”

  She walked past him in the direction of the door.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “but I must go!”

  “Certainly.” He moved aside from the doorway. “And may I say that it was a pleasant little diversion while it lasted, Mademoiselle Darcy?”

  CHAPTER IX

  Caroline had no clear idea how the rest of that evening passed. She only knew that it did eventually pass somehow, and that she had very little time to devote to her own problems because the new arrivals caused personal problems to fade into the background before the varying demands they made on an insufficient domestic staff. A hopelessly insufficient domestic staff.

  Monique grew hot in the kitchen, and consequently flustered. Nevertheless, the dinner she eventually served was well up to her highest standard, and Christopher Markham, who was the somewhat insular type of Englishman abroad who could put up with pests and pestilence in British Protectorates, but quickly grew tired of Continental cooking, praised the meal unstintingly.

  Possibly the near proximity of Mademoiselle Montauban, wearing something flame-coloured and startling—even in the eyes of hardened Parisians—had a good deal to do with his enjoyment of the highly seasoned courses. And although he had driven a good many miles that day, and was feeling very weary, he never once failed to reply brightly to any remark she addressed to him, and to look as if he was anxiously awaiting the next remark when it was slow in coming.

  Helen Mansfield did her utmost to monopolise Armand, whom she addressed as Comte’ in her rather broad American accent. He listened to her flow of experiences resulting from a very comprehensive world-tour, commencing almost as soon as she left school, with a faintly abstracted air, but was never-failingly polite and attentive and an extremely courteous host to all four of the guests he had never expected to entertain—at least, not in his remote chateau. Occasionally his dark eyes rested rather thoughtfully on Diane, who was never too preoccupied with her Englishman to spare him her slow, seductive smile across the table appointments and the centre-piece of flowers Caroline had arranged there, but Caroline herself he pointedly avoided looking at. And as Miss Mansfield left him with little excuse for looking at anyone but herself this wasn’t really as noticeable as it might otherwise have been.

  Lady Penelope talked throughout the meal almost nonstop to Caroline, and her disclosures were all connected with her schooldays in Paris, and the escapades she and Caroline’s attractive grandmother had got up to, including one when they received and accepted invitations to a ball without the knowledge of the principal, and arrived back in their dormitories afterwards through the connivance of a little between-maid and a back door which was normally kept locked. On that occasion Caroline’s grandmother had worn white satin and violets, and had fallen madly— although only temporarily—in love with a Ruritanian prince on a visit to the French capital. It had been a most exciting evening, followed by enormous boxes of chocolates and colossal bunches of violets being received at the school for weeks afterwards.

  “But in the end your grandmother married a clergyman, and settled down very soberly and happily,” Lady Pen concluded, with a faint sigh for what might have been. “And I never married at all!” She looked at Caroline with bright blue eyes that twinkled, in spite of having to make such an admission. “I was born Penelope Pinder, fourth daughter of an impoverished earl— although later in my life I was left a small fortune by a devoted aunt!— and Penelope Pinder I’ll almost certainly die...! And now, does anyone mind if I go to bed? Fm finding it extraordinarily difficult to keep awake after my hectic experiences of the past few weeks!”

  Nobody raised any objections to her going to bed, and Caroline by that time was feeling strangely exhausted, as if she had lived through experiences that had drained her mentally and spiritually, as well as physically. And although she had no idea at what time the others retired, she went upstairs herself shortly after Lady Pen, and when she said goodnight the four she left in the big salon looked as if they might remain where they were for several hours, at least.

  Helen Mansfield was as bright as when she started out that morning, and Diane Montauban had the sleepily contented look of a cream-fed kitten. And neither of the two men looked as if they had the least desire to be anywhere other than where they were. Only Caroline, conscious of Armand’s persistent cold avoidance, was—or felt—the odd man out. />
  The next morning she rose early, without waiting for Monique to bring her a tray of early morning tea, and went down into the kitchen to help Monique. The latter was so pleased to see her that her eyes brightened considerably, and she agreed at once when Caroline suggested she should take up Lady Pen’s tray.

  Lady Pen looked even more diminutive in her enormous halftester bed than she looked in her tweeds. Whilst in Paris she had bought herself some completely unsuitable nightwear, and

  Caroline was a little taken aback by the incongruity of her appearance as she approached the bed. But the brightness of the old lady’s extraordinarily vivid blue eyes banished almost immediately any desire to be critical.

  “Don’t draw the curtains so early in the morning,” Lady Pen begged. “I’m never quite at my best very early in the day, and I like to get used to the fact that it’s daylight.”

  Then, as if she only suddenly realised that it was Caroline who had brought her her tray, she looked pleased and patted the side of her bed.

  “Come and sit down, my dear, and talk to me! You know,” she admitted, her eyes hanging a little enquiringly on Caroline’s smooth, fair, English face—so like, she wanted to keep on emphasising, the face of her grandmother—“I haven’t been quite able to satisfy myself what it is you are actually doing here? Diane Montauban is a different cup of tea altogether, but you— well, you must forgive me, my dear,” the blue eyes twinkling still more in spite of a certain solemnity of expression, “if I’m a bit stupid, but you don t look the type of young woman with whom Armand might normally be expected to associate—in a strictly unconventional way, if you know what I mean!”

  Caroline did know, and she felt herself colouring rather brilliantly.

  “I tried to explain to you last night how I came to be here,” she said, occupying herself with pouring out a cup of tea for the shrewd old lady. “The—the Comte tried to explain to you, too, I think! “

  This was true, for Armand had formally introduced her as a friend of Marthe Giraud who was staying at the chateau.

  “Yes, b u t . . . L a d y Pen shook her dyed tresses, confined by a cap of nylon net and lace, as if this was likely to prove a little beyond her. “Young women like you—young women of your type—don’t normally accept hospitality from a bachelor unless there is someone else in the house to—well, to act as a kind of chaperone! Not that I’m suggesting,” hastily, “that you need to be chaperoned—at least, you probably don’t need to be chaperoned, but Armand is—well my dear, I absolutely adore him, and he’s quite a darling, but his reputation is not all that I can approve of! I may be his godmother, but possibly for that very reason I can’t approve of everything he does!”

  Caroline winced as if she had been struck by several flails at this reference so early in the day to Armand’s unfortunate reputation, but if it had only been Robert de Bergerac the old lady was besmirching she would have defended him hotly. As it was the Comte de Marsac she had nothing to say—at least, only sufficient to clear her own reputation in the eyes of Lady Penelope.

  She explained about her illness, and Marthe’s unavoidable absence, and Lady Pen gradually looked a little more knowing. In fact, she looked surprisingly knowing.

  “It is so like Armand to wish you to stay on here and have your holiday as if nothing had happened—he is the soul of generosity!—but it is a little unlike him to stay on here himself under the circumstances.” She looked at Caroline thoughtfully. “As I said just now—half terrified that you might take offence, and the last thing I would wish to do would be to offend my Caroline’s granddaughter!—you are not the type with whom Armand would start an affair, and there are several excellent hotels in Le Fontaine where he could have put up for a few nights if he was needing a little rural quiet, and they would almost certainly have made him very comfortable at the village inn. But in fact he stayed on here...

  She went on regarding Caroline very thoughtfully, and the girl found herself wondering—and feeling sharply curious about it— why this shrewd little woman of the world (as she undoubtedly was!) should be so firmly convinced that Armand would not start an affair with her. An affair that would be meant to terminate some day!

  And perhaps because some of her puzzlement showed in her eyes, Lady Pen endeavoured to explain, gently: “Armand has a sort of code, and he likes to match his weapons with his opponents—or people who are likely to become involved with him in some way or other! Diane Montauban, for instance, although I believe she comes of an excellent family, knows all the rules....And he wouldn’t hesitate to have an affair with her (which he is probably having at this very moment, hence her arrival here yesterday afternoon!) and if he never becomes serious about her, she won’t be hurt, because in her heart she doesn’t expect him to be serious. Helen Mansfield, on the other hand, as nicely brought up as you have been, would make him an excellent wife—and between you and me and the gate post, that is one reason why I have brought her here! I thought that Armand might recognise what an excellent wife she would make—with money of her own, an undemanding disposition, and a certain healthy charm— and make up his mind and settle down with her. At least,” her old eyes all but glued to Caroline’s infinitely revealing face, “that is what I did think...” Caroline was glad that she had come to the end of her sugary biscuits, and looked as if she would like some more, and she stood up eagerly and offered to fetch her some.

  “I thought you would like to have your breakfast tray a little later on,” she explained. “Monique is quite good at English breakfasts, if you would like something more substantial than rolls.”

  “No, thank you my dear, I have to think of my figure nowadays,” smiling at her nevertheless as if she was already conscious of feeling affection for her. “But I shall stay in bed until lunch time, if that won’t cause any inconvenience to anyone.”

  Caroline assured her that it would cause absolutely no inconvenience, and the old lady recommended her to get out into the sunshine, remarking that she hardly looked strong enough to be bearing other people’s trays up to their rooms, and she hoped she wasn’t about to perform the same service for Mademoiselle Montauban, or Miss Mansfield.

  “They are both thoroughly fit, and they can wait on themselves,” she said, “if Monique can’t manage it. But you can

  go down and sun yourself, my dear.”

  Caroline went down, but not to “sun herself”, although after a more or less sleepless night she was feeling curiously used up. Pierre had once more been pressed into service, and he was unwillingly laying a breakfast table on the terrace, as he had done once before, when Caroline joined him, and she at once took the cutlery and the napkins out of his hand, and said she would do it herself.

  “You go back to your kitchen garden, Pierre,” she said, gently. “I know you hate this sort of thing.”

  Pierre gave her a grateful look, and then vanished without any more pressure having to be brought to bear on him. And it was while she was allocating the cutlery, and giving it an extra polish with a spare table napkin, that Diane and the Comte came along the terrace.

  Diane was wearing a candy-pink-and-white striped dress that breathed Paris all over it—especially as the neckline was very low—and about her absurdly slender waist was a deep belt of glowing rose-coloured suede that matched her rose-coloured finger and toenails, peeping from open sandals. Her sleek hair was banded about her head so that it looked like a satin cap of sable highlighted here and there with russet, and her eyes were huge and dark and provocative as they roved between the Comtes face and the breakfast-table.

  Without looking up Caroline was aware that her hand was resting familiarly in the crook of Armand’s bare, tanned arm.

  “Well, this is nice,” Diane declared, as she surveyed the table laid beside the parapet. “In Paris, of course, I wouldn’t be up at this hour of the morning, but in the country one feels differently about early rising. Also, of course, one sleeps better.” Her eyes rested speculatively on the English girl’s face. “But you,
Mademoiselle Darcy —you do not look as if you slept in the least well! There are shadows beneath your eyes, and you are pale—or is that because you are still something of the invalid?” There was something mocking in the enquiry, as if she was perfectly well aware of the reason why Caroline had passed a sleepless night, and it amused her a little. But Armand, who had been trying to avoid looking directly at Caroline, accepted her observation as an excuse to do so, and instantly he frowned swiftly.

  “I told you before that you are not a maidservant, Carol,” he said sharply. “It is not your job to do things that Pierre could very well do!”

  “Isn’t it?” Diane leaned really heavily on his arm, and looked up at him. “What is Mademoiselle Darcy’s job, and why is she here at all?”

  Caroline did not wait for his answer, but sped away to the kitchen, and when she returned she was bearing a basket of crisp rolls fresh out of the oven, and a crock of the golden butter Monique had sat up late the night before shaping into a near impersonation of a swan drifting tranquilly, as the swans on the moat drifted tranquilly. The breakfast party had been swelled by being joined by Helen Mansfield—in tight blue jeans and a crisp white top, that made her look very wholesome indeed, if not quite as feminine as she ought to look by comparison with the extremely feminine French girl—and Christopher Markham, and all four were leaning against the parapet and looking down into the moat when Caroline made her reappearance. Christopher, possibly a little piqued by

  Diane’s open transference of her allegiance to Armand— who, after all, was her first conquest as well as her host— moved to take the basket of rolls from Caroline, and also the crock of butter, and as he did so he sent her a more discerning glance than he had hitherto done. As a result of that glance he swiftly pulled out a chair for his fellow countrywoman at the table, and smiled at her as if there was something more between them than the bond of owning the same nationality.