“I—I only wanted to know whether—whether you were, perhaps, getting over things a bit. . .?” she managed at last with almost painful shyness.
He absent-mindedly helped himself to another lump of sugar, and watched it drop with a little splash into his tea.
“That sort of thing one either gets over—fairly soon. Or it gets over one—if you can follow me?” looking at her obliquely.
Rose shook her head rather helplessly.
“You mean that it’s—the initial shock that’s the worst?”
“In my case I think it was—yes!”
“But”—she helped herself to a sugary biscuit and bit into it with a feeling of agitation in her breast—“I should have thought—I mean . . . when one loses someone—one cares for, it’s the feeling of loss that grows worse with the—with the passing of time! At least that’s how I felt when—when Daddy died . . .” “Yes, that’s what I mean,” he agreed gravely. “That is the feeling of acute loss—irreplaceable loss. But there is the loss which is more superficial, and in that case it’s the pride that is more badly damaged. And, believe me, damaged pride is a very unpleasant thing to live with for any length of time!”
Rose looked up at him with a feeling of wonder and disbelief. Was he trying to tell her that his love for Heather Willoughby had not been so overwhelming that when she let him down he had not suffered an acute loss—but rather it was the damage to his pride that had worried him?
She could understand the horrible laceration to his pride—a man of his years, and in his position, to be treated so shabbily in the eyes of everyone who knew not only him, but the woman who had promised to share his life! Even she felt herself writhing as she thought of the horrible callousness of it, the lack of imagination that made it possible for a woman to do such damage. But he had been in love with Heather — it had been the one thing everyone had seemed certain about while the wedding preparations were going forward.
“You see, Rose,” Sir Laurence explained—as if he was making the explanation to someone very young and simple, which she actually was— “there are degrees of love, like everything else. There are degrees of hate, fear, resentment— anything you like to mention! And sometimes one doesn’t discover until afterwards the particular category into which one’s emotion can be placed.”
“I see,” she said, but he smiled a little because she didn’t sound in the least as if she saw at all.
“I don’t think you do, my child,” he remarked. “Which makes me more than ever certain that you will have to be very careful when the time arrives for you to fall in love yourself! Don’t imagine yourself in love, and don’t get carried away by it! Not,” he added, watching her as she bent in some confusion above the teapot and the hot-water jug, “that I believe you ever will imagine yourself in love, Rose.’ With that hair and the disposition which I feel certain goes with it, you’ll probably fall so headlong that it would be fatal for you if anything went wrong.”
She didn’t dare to glance at him, but he seemed to find her an interesting study for several seconds, and then he got up and walked away to the window.
“So you see, Rose, there was a certain amount of justification for what you said to me that last
night at Enderby,” he remarked at last, when she had begun to feel that he had forgotten her.
She was silent because she didn’t know what to say.
He turned and looked at her.
“Do I disappoint you? I’ll confess I was somewhat surprised myself when I made the discovery that I was obviously a person of superficial emotions.”
She wanted to reassure him that she didn’t think he was—but then there was the evidence of the woman she had seen him with the night before, the rather dazzling Italian woman. Had he already transferred his interest—such interest as he was capable of feeling in any woman—to her? Rose felt a sudden feeling of immense concern rise up in her, and the concern looked out of her eyes, but he was at a loss to understand it.
“If you’re more or less—reconciled—to what happened in October, and you miss Enderby very much, why don’t you go home again?” she heard herself asking, because she suddenly had to know.
He looked down at the tip of the cigarette he had just lighted, and he seemed to contemplate it thoughtfully before he answered.
“Because at the moment I find Rome attracts me very much—it has something I don’t want to say good-bye to yet awhile,” he admitted, and Rose felt her heart sink. . .
The flat bell rang suddenly and sharply, and when he went to open the door Rose heard a woman’s voice talking to him in a soft and pleasing Italian voice.
“I do not interrupt anything important?” she asked.
“I find you alone, my dear Lance? Yes?” “No, as a matter of fact I am not alone,” Sir Laurence replied as he ushered her into the sitting-room. “Miss Hereward—my ward,” looking directly at Rose—“is with me. But you have already met, so there’s no need for introductions.”
Rose had an impression of almost overpowering elegance—the sharp contrast of an immensely smart black suit and white accessories, scarlet lips and brilliant eyes—as Signora Bardoli held out her hand to her. The younger girl stood up, feeling for some reason absurdly self-conscious, and felt the rings hidden by the immaculately gloved fingers biting into her own hands. Signora Bardoli had a cool smile on her lips as she looked her over, and there were few details of Rose’s appearance that escaped her.
“How very pleasant we should meet again so soon,” the lovely Italian observed in rather an odd voice, her eyes barely smiling. “Can it be that your guardian has been overcome by the thought of his neglect, and is endeavouring to make up for it?”
She looked round, half mockingly, at Sir Laurence, but the expression on his face gave away little.
“Rose and I haven’t seen much of one another lately, it’s true,” he admitted quite briskly, “but she’s hardly the type to require a constant eye on her. Are you, Rose?” sending her a faint smile.
“That was not the opinion you held last night,” the signora reminded him very sweetly. “You were a little concerned to see her receiving so much attention from that handsome young Camillo de Lippi. But perhaps you have discovered that Rose has not lost her heart to him?” with arching delicate brows.
“There is no question of a girl of nineteen losing her heart to—anyone,” Sir Laurence returned, rather more brusquely than briskly this time.
His unexpected visitor laughed indulgently.
“Oh, come now, Lance! It is possible to lose one’s heart at almost any age, and at nineteen I was already a married woman.” She looked at Rose as if there was something about her that amused her. “But in England, of course, your girls do not mature quite so quickly. However, nineteen!...” Again her eyebrows ascended, and the arch look in her eyes Rose definitely did not like. “Do not let him bully you, Rose, or coerce you! Love is an experience we can none of us afford to miss.”
As Rose, feeling not only embarrassed but as if all the pleasure of the afternoon had vanished from it for her, turned away to pick up her jacket and put it on, she heard the other woman add softly to Sir Laurence:
“As you, my dear Lance, would surely be the last to deny!”
Sir Laurence helped Rose on with her jacket, but he said with a suspicion of a frown between his brows:
“I will take you back to your hotel, Rose, but there is no great hurry. Unless you are in a hurry
yourself?”
“Don’t attempt to pry into the girl’s list of engagements,” the signora rebuked gaily, but this time his frown was quite noticeable, and she explained quickly that she had only looked in to remind him that the night of the twenty-second was one he must keep absolutely free.
“The Princess de Boccacello is giving a dance for her daughter on that night, and we are both invited. The Princess was insistent that Sir Laurence Melville should receive an invitation,” smiling up at him as if she was sure the flattery would please him, wh
ich it actually didn’t appear to do. “And it is to be a most important dance, with all Rome hoping to be there. Although, of course, there will be many disappointments when invitations are not received.”
Sir Laurence said nothing, and Rose pulled on her little hat and picked up her handbag and gloves. Signora Bardoli looked at her in a leisurely, approving manner.
“How charming!” she commented. “You have very good taste, little Rose, for one so young. Or does Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett select your wardrobe for you? You are fortunate in having two people so actively interested in you!”
Rose was glad when she was in a taxi, and once more alone with Sir Laurence, driving back to her hotel, but Sir Laurence still appeared to be frowning.
“I intend to see quite a lot of you, Rose,” he told her, “while you remain in Rome—and, incidentally, I do, too! And I mean to have that talk with Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett as soon as possible, so don’t let her think up any more excuses for avoiding me, will you?”
Rose murmured something non-committal, and thought vaguely that it didn’t matter to her very much whether he saw Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett or not. She was no longer any real concern of his, and he had affairs of his own to attend to. Why didn’t he attend to them and leave her alone?
She felt strongly, just then, that she would prefer it.
CHAPTER IX
When she got back to the hotel she found that Camillo had been endeavouring to establish contact with her, and the next morning a mass of roses arrived for her from one of Rome’s leading florists. They were every colour, from palest pink to creamy yellow, and only one was scarlet as heart’s blood. Camillo arrived hard on the heels of his floral tribute, and Rose saw him downstairs in one of the public lounges.
He looked at her reproachfully when she entered, noticing immediately that the scarlet rose was not tucked into the front of her dress as he had half hoped. He was reproachful, too, because he had wanted to take her out to lunch the previous day, but he had been given to understand that she was lunching with the Englishman whom he had met the night before. Rose had not thought it necessary to explain that for five years she had looked upon Sir Laurence as her guardian, and it was plain from Camillo’s slightly sullen eyes and injured speech that he resented any encroachments on what he was beginning to look upon as his own particular preserves—whether permanently or not!
Looking at him and thinking, as she always did, that his appearance was almost too romantically perfect for the modern age in which he lived, Rose found herself recalling Sir Laurence’s warning against him, and the type he represented. The play-boy type with aristocratic connections, and in fact a lot of noble blood.
Rome, she had discovered, in just over a fortnight, was filled with young men like Camillo, scions of ancient families, not always backed by the generosity of an uncle, but nearly always good-looking in a somewhat spectacular fashion, and the possessors of a great deal of charm.
But she liked to think that Camillo really was charming, that he was sincere and courtly and
natural, and not prepared to risk his future happiness in order to secure a rich wife. Without being in the least seriously attracted by him—she was armoured against dangers of that sort in a way Sir Laurence was never likely to guess, or so she sincerely hoped—she did like him very much, and she felt slightly angry with Sir Laurence because, as a result of their conversation yesterday, she might already be beginning to look with doubt upon a very attentive escort. So very attentive, in fact, that it did sometimes worry her.
Camillo was prepared to forgive her for her defection of the day before if she would promise to accompany him to the Princess de Boccacello’s dance for her daughter on the night of the twenty-second. Rose was almost touched by this invitation, for out of all the young women he must know in Rome—and had known for a long time—that he should pick on her, a mere tourist, as she looked upon herself, was at least evidence that he liked her very much indeed. And when Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett heard about the invitation she made no attempt to conceal her approval.
“You must have a new dress for the occasion,” she said. “Something very special! We will call upon Signor Carmello, who is a very old friend of mine, and see what he can design for you. He will love the opportunity, for not many young women have quite the quality of your looks, Rose.”
Rose was often a little embarrassed by Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett’s insistence on harping on the quality of her looks, which she herself was too modest to admire very seriously. And in her school days she had considered that red hair was very definitely a handicap, especially when it was allied to definitely greenish eyes.
But Signor Carmello, when he saw her, was as enthusiastic as Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett had felt sure he would be. He brought out lengths of material and held them up against her, and in the end he decided that ice-green taffeta with some very light touches of silver embroidery would do much for the exquisite tones of her skin and hair.
The material was draped on her, and young women knelt at her feet with pins, and by the time they departed Signor Carmello was looking, thoroughly pleased, and Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett was willing to wager that not even the Princess’s daughter would look as attractive as Rose on the night of the dance.
But Rose herself felt oddly depressed, and a little worried—especially when the woman she would persist in regarding as her employer started talking about letting her wear her emerald bracelet and drop ear-rings on the night of the dance. Both the bracelet and the earrings had been recently reset, and Rose knew their value was far beyond her to replace if she should lose them. In fact she never could replace them. In addition to which this sort of thing could not go on, for she was after all only a stranger to Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett, and there was no reason at all why the old lady should behave with such extraordinary generosity towards her.
She often thought she would much prefer it if she really was a companion drawing only a modest weekly wage, or if she could do more to actually repay the amount laid out on her appearance, and present luxurious way of living.
But whenever she hinted at feeling very much under an obligation Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett would smile as if she herself was well content and slightly amused because anyone so young should be conscious of obligation, and assured her more than once:
“Don’t worry, my dear. One of these days I shall be well repaid! I feel it in my bones that one day I shall be very proud of you,” and Rose’s anxiety was not lessened but increased by this prophecy concerning her future.
Returning from Signor Carmello’s elegant modern salon in one of Rome’s most modern quarters, the girl was actually feeling as if she was overhung by a shadow, and the shadow only partly lifted when she discovered that Sir Laurence was waiting for them in their hotel. Sir Laurence looked as if he had been waiting very determinedly for the moment when the heavy plate-glass doors yielded to their entrance, and Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett, when she saw him rise up from one of the deep, comfortable chairs in the shadow of a solid bank of exotic hothouse flowers, looked almost as determined that she was not going to be waylaid in this fashion.
“This is not an hour of the day when I am at my best, Sir Laurence,” she said a little tartly, although her bright eyes regarded him with just a hint of approval because of his extremely masculine and very personable appearance. “However, if you care to drink an aperitif with us I can spare you ten minutes or so before going up to dress.”
“I would like to have ten minutes with you alone, Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett, if you don’t mind,” Sir Laurence returned—a trifle grimly, Rose thought, and then noticed that he looked at her rather pointedly.
Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett smiled with unusual acidity.
“You can take a hint as well as anyone else, I expect Rose?” she said. “Go upstairs and enjoy a leisurely bath while I talk to your former guardian.”
The way she deliberately accented the words “former guardian” did not cause Sir Laurence to look any less grim; but before Rose took her departure he stopped her with a gesture.
/> “Just a minute, Rose! I was wondering whether you would have dinner with me tonight—if Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett has no objection?” very dryly.
There was silence for several seconds, and then the old lady shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s up to Rose,” she declared. “I am not her keeper.”
Rose felt all her pulses give an absurd little leap, and then the beat of her heart slowed as she remembered Signora Bardoli. Was this a night when he could not see her, and therefore was somewhat at a loose end? And being at a loose end, was that why he wanted her to dine with him?
She looked at Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett as if for guidance and a general directive, but her employer shook her head with a faint smile.
“You must make up your own mind, Rose!”
So Rose coloured faintly and said that she would be very pleased to accept the invitation, and Sir Laurence said he would call for her in about a couple of hours. And when she had finally left them and was on her way up to her room in the lift, he looked round at the somewhat smug-faced elderly lady who had just given an order to an extremely obsequious waiter, and remarked:
“So you’re not really trying to influence her against me?”
“My dear Sir Laurence,” Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett returned with the tartness to which she was addicted at times, “I have already told you that I am not Rose’s keeper, but I don’t mind letting you know that I have plans for her! If you chose, when your wedding arrangements became unstuck, to disappear into the blue and leave her to the care of your housekeeper at Enderby, and with no other more detailed plans made for her, you can hardly blame me if she decided that she preferred to be free of your guardianship! And in any case it’s absurd that a man of your age should be guardian to a young woman of her age—an extraordinarily beautiful and very charming young woman at that!”
“I quite agree,” Sir Laurence returned with an imperturbable expression. “And that’s why I have formed another plan for Rose’s future! Do you care to listen to me while I outline it?”
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