by Susan Barrie
"I won't be too tired," she assured him, and wished just for a moment that his concern for her would abate a little—or that his insistence that she must always be feeling tired would not, as it appeared in danger of doing, assume the proportions of an obsession.
She wanted to let him know that she had come alive for the first time for weeks—that every unpleasant memory she had ever had had been driven out, completely exorcised. Looking at him, and dwelling upon the thought that he was her husband, had been enough to make her feel light-headed and wonder why she, out of all the many women he must have known, had been selected by him to share his life—all the rest of his life!
Tonight she hadn't even remembered that he himself had put a period to it, and that that period had been one year! At the end of one year they were to review the matter and there might be no question of sharing the rest of his life, or he hers.
She remembered it now, when he looked at her with that faint pucker of anxiety between his brows and a slightly distant or detached look in his eyes—or was it that they were shadowed by the extent of his concern? She wished she could be quite sure which it was.
Philip, having assured himself that she would be all right, gave her a brief smile and turned towards the door. But before he reached it, he seemed to hesitate and turned back to her.
"I'll look in and make sure you are all right before I go to bed myself," he told her. "But don't keep awake, and I promise I won't disturb you."
And then without another word he left the room.
Lindsay undressed mechanically and climbed into bed. She felt as if all her joy in the evening just ended had been quenched by his abrupt departure He hadn't even said goodnight to her! And yet once, at Alison's, he had stooped over her and kissed her and called her darling!
She lay for a long time listening for his returning footsteps. But she heard nothing and a sensation of drowsiness which would not be kept at bay stole over her. When she realised that it was about to swoop down on her and blot out her consciousness altogether she reached out a hand and switched on her bedside light, but even that could not keep her awake. When Philip at last entered her room without the slightest sound she was lying with her cheek pillowed on one hand, the other still flung out towards her reading-lamp.
Philip put the exposed arm beneath the sheet very gently, and then switched off the light. He stood listening to her even breathing, and then he bent lower over her and lightly touched her cheek with his lips.
Instantly, to his consternation, she stirred and murmured his name.
She put out a hand to grope for him, but he had retreated into the shadows beyond the bed. Her heart started to labour quickly again, and she was not at all sure whether she had dreamed that touch on her cheek. She had been dreaming. She had been back in Alison's flat, and Philip had been in the room with her…
And then she heard the unmistakable light closing of the door, and she knew that it was not a dream. She lay staring into the darkness and wondered why she had not forced herself to stay awake.
CHAPTER SIX
The next evening, just before dusk, they arrived at the Villa Carlotta—the property of Lucy Cristoli, born Lucy Blackwood, daughter of a Hampshire clergyman, who had married an Italian when she was very young and been a widow for years. Known as the Contessa dei Cristoli Rinaldi, she had lived cut off from all connections with her old life for so many years that she had ceased to bother about them, and the only connection who bothered about her Was her godson, Philip Summers.
She was very fond of Philip, because he was a little like herself. The years, and an early bereavement, had hardened her, and the shell she had built around herself was difficult to penetrate. Philip, she knew, was like that, too—not because of an early bereavement, but because of early handling. She was curious to know what Philip's bride would be like.
The villa, white and rambling, was remote and well away from the little village that nestled at the foot of the hill. A moss-covered stone wall and wrought iron gates protected it from the road and the winding drive was lined by dark cypresses.
An ornamental lake lay in front of the villa, the last of the dying sunset reflected in its waters, and banks of flowers—their colours enchanting against the white walls—filled the air with their perfume.
Everything was so still, so hushed, that Lindsay found herself wondering whether, while she semi-dozed over the last lap of the journey, Philip had wafted her into an enchanted world, where nothing they would come upon would be quite real. "Well?" he said, glancing at her sideways as he brought the car to rest before the wide front door of the villa. "What do you think of it?"
Lindsay rubbed bemused eyes.
"Is it real?" she asked.
"Oh yes, quite real." He was smiling. "It's so seldom disturbed that one gets the impression that it might be under a kind of spell. But I can assure you it isn't."
He went round and helped her to alight. She was a little stiff but not really tired. She had enjoyed the drive and more than once had wished it might go on for ever—just she and Philip seated side by side without any need to talk and the knowledge that now, at least, she had the perfect right to be with him.
Philip was about to exclaim that he was afraid the journey had been rather too much for her,, when she shook her head quickly and prevented him.
"No, it hasn't—and I'm not!" His eyes twinkled as they met hers. "I'm not any more tired than you are."
"Well, I'm certainly not entirely worn out, but you're only a little girl and you've got to be cosseted whether you like it or not." A certain amount of amusement remained in his eyes but they were quietly obstinate at the same time. "Come along, and let's get you and the luggage inside."
An elderly manservant appeared, and Philip, recognising him at once, greeted him warmly. His old eyes peered up eagerly at Lindsay. Philip made the necessary introduction.
"This is my wife, Domenico." He spoke in fluent Italian and the old man blinked at Lindsay admiringly while Philip asked him questions, and then Philip passed on the information that the contessa would not receive them that night, but that everything was ready for them inside the villa, and that all they had to do was to enter and take possession of all but the contessa's private quarters which were in the west wing.
Lindsay was infinitely relieved when she heard that she would not be required to make the acquaintance of her hostess that night, for although Philip had spoken warmly of her and apparently saw nothing in the least eccentric about her, Alison had prepared Lindsay for a certain amount of eccentricity. And the end of a day devoted to travelling was hardly the best time to come face to face with it for the first time, or so Lindsay felt.
But once inside the villa she became convinced that mixed up with the contessa's eccentricity—if any—was a good deal of open-hearted generosity, unless Philip held an especially warm place in her heart. The table in the dining-room was already laid for an evening meal, and it was an oasis of colour and brilliance in the midst of a sea of black and white tiled flooring. An old-fashioned chandelier was already glowing softly and the crimson velvet curtains remained looped back before the windows to allow the beauties of the Italian night to look in at them whilst they dined.
Upstairs they had the choice of several bedrooms, with bathrooms adjoining. But the principal bedroom reminded Lindsay of the hotel in Milan and the room where she had spent the night before with its huge bed and thick, luxurious carpet. A silver-framed Florentine mirror hung on the wall, and the dressing-table was loaded with silver-stoppered toilet-bottles, trays, and trinket boxes.
"Do you think you'll feel a shade isolated in here by yourself?" Philip inquired whimsically, as he stood looking about the room and then back at his wife's slender figure, drooping a little in a linen suit. "It was rather an impressive room you occupied last night, but this is quite something, isn't it?"
Lindsay was not quite sure what was meant by the look in his eyes—in addition to that faint whimsical gleam—as they rested upon her
, and so she turned away in a certain amount of confusion as she answered.
"I think on the whole I'd prefer something smaller, and we don't have to use this room, do we?"
"I imagine it's been got ready for us."
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Then, in that case—"
"In that case you'd better try and accustom yourself to the vast-ness, and I'll have the dressing-room next door to give you a feeling of security."
She stood there forlorn, unsure of herself and suddenly very tired. She wanted to protest that he was entitled to a more comfortable bedroom to sleep in than the one that had been intended for use as a dressing-room, but she was afraid he might misunderstand and, feeling her forlornness and her uncertainty increase, she turned to look into the Florentine mirror.
In its reflection she saw Philip looking at her.
"Shall we go and eat now? Then you can get to bed early and in the morning you'll feel more like yourself. In the morning, too, I want you to meet my godmother."
In the morning Lindsay did feel very much more rested and inclined to feel rather more optimistic about her entire future than she had done when she lay down in bed the night before. Then, if she hadn't been quite so weary and drifted off to sleep almost immediately, she might have been actively unhappy because in spite of all the adoration—and it was adoration, of a kind that was never likely to grow any less—she was prepared to pour at the feet of one man whose name she now shared, that man was beginning to make it clear to her that whatever else he desired from her it was not love.
Just before she fell asleep, a sudden question sprang into her mind. In that case, why had he married her? But fortunately oblivion had overtaken her before she could even attempt an answer.
With her curtains drawn back and brilliant morning sunlight flooding her room, she was prepared to grasp thankfully at the one great advantage she possessed over all other women. She was Philip's wife, and she could be near him—always, if he didn't ever decide that their marriage had been a mistake!
Her breakfast was brought to her in her room by one of the rosy-cheeked Italian housemaids she had glimpsed the night before, and she was informed, when she looked surprised and faintly horror-stricken because her bedside travelling-clock informed her that it was really late, that the fact that she had not been disturbed earlier was by the Signor's orders.
"He wished you to sleep late, Signora," the maid explained with a smile, as she placed the tray carefully across Lindsay's knees.
Lindsay looked down at the crisp hot rolls on the tray, the golden pats of butter and the cherry jam, the fruit and the steaming coffee, and realised that she was feeling really hungry for the first time for weeks.
Later she dressed herself in one of her new, crisp dresses, and went downstairs to look for Philip. She found him lying very much at his ease in a comfortable wicker chair in the wide veranda in front of the villa, but he sprang up as soon as he caught sight of her.
She realised that he was looking at her critically. Her linen dress, the faint pink of a hedge-rose, made her look almost like a schoolgirl, and it also sent a wave of reflected pink colour over her cheeks. His eyes looked deep and blue and tranquil.
"That's fine!" Philip exclaimed. "You slept well, I can tell."
"Can you?"
"Yes." He was smiling at her. "In spite of the proportions of your room, and a bed that is also several sizes too large for you."
He pulled forward a chair for her. As she sank into it and he stood looking down at her, she thought how bright and alert he, too, looked this morning. It was a very warm morning, promising greater heat as the day advanced, and he was wearing beautifully cut grey flannel trousers and a silk shirt open at the neck. Lindsay recalled that she had once decided that he was not handsome, in spite of his regular features and thick dark hair. But as she looked up at him her heart turned over.
He was a pillar of strength, and whatever happened he would never fail her. She was so certain of this that a curious sensation like moisture pricked behind her eyes as she gazed at him, and his expression grew quizzical.
"Is there something about me of which you approve rather strongly this morning?" he asked, and she realised that her eyes had given her away. She removed them quickly from him and stared at the blaze of colour in front of her.
"You gave orders that I was not to be disturbed this morning," she said. "That's why I slept late."
"Quite right," he agreed. "And I'm glad you did sleep late. You look much better for it."
She peeped at him shyly.
"I feel much better," she admitted.
"Good!" he exclaimed softly. "And now that we're here at last how do you think you're going to like it?"
She gazed beyond the sea of flowers, to the distant quiet gleam of the lake, and the slender, cypress-trees that rose behind it motionless against the blue of the sky.
"I think it's wonderful, and I love the sensation of being cut off from—everything."
"You don't think you're going to be bored here?"
Bored, she asked herself, with Philip? Would that ever be possible? Too intensely aware of him, perhaps, but never bored. Even if they were on a remote island, utterly cut off, she could never be bored while he remained near to her. If only it was possible to let him know the way she felt about him, and about being here with him… A tiny flush of colour stung her cheeks, and he stared at her because it almost suggested excitement.
"I'm quite certain I'm not!"
He leaned towards her.
"Lindsay, my godmother has asked us to have lunch with her today. You're not really afraid of meeting her, are you? I can assure you she'll take to you immediately."
Her eyes smiled at him.
"How can you be sure of that?"
"I don't know, but I am sure."
She looked down at the skirt of her dress, and her fingers smoothed it carefully.
"Of course I don't mind meeting her, Philip. I think she has displayed great generosity in placing her villa at our disposal like this, and she is your godmother, too. For that reason alone I ought to—I ought to be glad to meet her."
"But you're just a little bit hesitant?"
"No—not really."
He studied her downcast eyelids.
"Don't be afraid that she'll attempt to—to probe too much. She may think thoughts of her own, but she won't embarrass you by asking you any awkward questions. And I've told her all about you in my letters—"
"It seems odd," Lindsay murmured, "that I should be going to meet someone who has known you all your life, Philip."
He smiled. "If we're not to keep the contessa waiting—a thing she finds it hard to forgive!—we'd better go in, and I'll introduce my wife to her for the first time. Come along."
And Lindsay felt that uncontrollable colour in her cheeks deepening, for she could still scarcely believe it when he referred to her as 'my wife'.
When she caught her first glimpse of the contessa she wondered why she had been in the least afraid of meeting her. For the owner of the Villa Carlotta was so tiny that on first acquaintance there seemed little about her to inspire even a faint feeling of awe. But after talking to her for a few minutes, Lindsay became aware of the intensely bright eyes watching her in a face that was as pale and smooth as ivory, although she was obviously very old. The eyes were grey—a shrewd English grey—and they seemed to find Lindsay's face an interesting subject for study.
She welcomed the girl politely, and asked after her health, but only her godson won a smile from her, as he bent to kiss her cheek.
Then the grey eyes softened, and she put up a pale, bony hand and patted his cheek as a return gesture of affection.
During lunch, which was served with great ceremony, the contessa spoke entirely to Philip, asking about his latest hotel venture and pressing him for details of his future plans. Anything and everything connected with him seemed to interest her, but Lindsay had the feeling that she was being excluded altogether from the lunch-party until it was
practically over, and coffee was being served; then her hostess, fingering the heavy rope of pearls at her throat, said directly to Lindsay that she would like to talk to her alone, if Philip would leave them together.
Philip, with an encouraging smile at his wife, rose to his feet apparently accustomed to being dismissed in this summary fashion by his godmother, and as soon as they were alone the contessa asked Lindsay to take a chair nearer to her.
"My hearing is not what it was," she explained, "and you have a very quiet voice. Also I want to have a really good look at you."
Lindsay had received the impression that her hostess was having a really good look at her all the time lunch lasted, but she could have been mistaken, as she realised. The contessa might have been concentrating all her attention upon Philip while appearing to study his wife.
"That's better!" the old lady exclaimed, lowering a small gold-handled lorgnette she used and lying back in her chair. "You are most attractive, my dear, and the type I imagined might, one day, attract Philip—really attract him, I mean! I never imagined he would marry much before he was in his mid-thirties because he's the cautious type, but when he did marry I felt it would be someone fair rather than dark, because that intense darkness of his would not match well with one of his own colouring. That was one reason why I was so much against the young woman called Alison, who at one time seemed to be making a good deal of impression on him."
"A-Alison?" Lindsay found herself stammering a little over the name.
"Yes." The contessa was beautifully complacent. "She married a friend of Philip's—a man called Larne—and then found herself left a widow early in her life. I was very much afraid that Philip would make the mistake of asking her to marry him, but I am glad to say he did not."
"I know Mrs. Larne quite well," Lindsay found herself confessing a little stiffly. "In fact, I've been staying with her right up until the time I married Philip."
"Oh, really?" the contessa murmured. "Well, in that case you'll know whether they are still good friends or not, but I don't mind telling you I was immensely relieved when he wrote and told me all about you! You didn't sound a bit like Alison Larne, and you were so much younger; I thought that was a good thing, too. My own husband was a good many years older than I was when we married, and we got on splendidly… However, we won't waste our time discussing that."
