by Isobel Chace
She put a large saucepan on the stove to boil for the spaghetti and began to prepare the tomato sauce she had planned to have with it. She was trying to find the grated Italian cheese when Rupert came into the kitchen and stood for a moment watching her.
“What do you want?” she asked him at last, when she could bear his silence no longer.
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“Isn’t this war between us rather childish?” he asked casually.
She was surprised into looking fully at him. The shadows from the unshaded electric light made his face look almost gaunt and the waves in his dark hair weren’t nearly as noticeable as they had been earlier.
“It wasn’t of my making,” she retorted. She began to squash the hot tomatoes, enjoying the feel of the thick red juice that formed in the pan below.
“Wasn’t it?” he asked. He reached down the vinegar for her and handed her the bottle.
“But Jacob's always talked about his work to me,” she found herself protesting. “It makes the evenings more interesting, not that I ever understand very much of what he’s doing. But everyone has always congregated at our place—they’ve been people to talk to!”
“I see,” he said. He stood at her elbow, watching as she stirred the sauce. “Would you like me to explain the present project to you?” he asked her at length.
“I don’t want to know anything secret!” she said crossly. But she did. She badly wanted to know why Jacob had been brought out to Tunisia.
“I think I can explain it to you without giving anything away,” he replied calmly. “I hadn’t thought about it being lonely for you,” he added.
“Well, it isn’t really. At least not yet.” She smiled almost reluctantly. “All right,” she said, “I admit I’m curious! Wouldn’t you be?”
He laughed.
“Yes,” he admitted. He looked at her collection of kitchen knives with distaste, selected the sharpest-looking one and began to peel and cut up the pile of onions she had put out. “It’s all to do with reafforestation,” he began. “I guess you know that large areas of the world consist of nothing but sand-dunes? Most of those areas were once good, arable land, and mankind is rather belatedly coming around to the conclusion that it would be nice for them to be so again. The trouble is that the sand-dunes are apt to shift, slowly stifling everything that comes within their path to death. Quite a light wind can move a hell of a lot of sand. It starts with the tiny particles that blow along the top and those in turn hit the slightly larger particles, galvanising them into action, and, before you know where you are, the sand is moving forward, blasting everything as it goes. I say blasting because that’s exactly what it does. When we go over to the site I’ll show you what happened to a forest of trees there.”
“And you’re reclaiming the land?”
“That’s right. Of course the government has been doing it for some time. They divide the land into little squares, build windbrakes, and then plant them up. But they’re having to cut down what forests they have to build the windbrakes. With our system, we’re spraying the ground with this substance that stops the sand from blowing about and planting quick-growing trees, such as acacia or eucalyptus, and hoping for the best.”
“You mean you’re hoping the substance will hold the sand for long enough for the trees to get started?” Rosamund asked.
“We’re hoping so,” he agreed. “We’re not only trying it out here, though. India, Australia and a couple of other places all have pilot projects going also.”
Rosamund peered into the saucepan at her sauce and decided it was thick enough.
“It sounds a rather strenuous programme,” she said mildly. “I hope you’re not expecting Jacob to do much of the spraying?”
Rupert looked perfectly grave.
“He’ll probably do his share,” he replied.
“He isn’t very strong,” she began.
Rupert’s head went up and his dark eyes were cold.
“He knew what he was in for when he volunteered to come,” he said abruptly. “He won’t thank you for interfering. He’s not an old man yet.”
Rosamund blinked angrily.
“But I’ve always—” she began.
“Exactly. But a man should make his own decisions, my dear. Let him stand on his own two feet.”
Really, the man was quite impossible! She accepted the chopped-up onions from him, disliking him intensely, and began to fry them. Hadn’t he ever heard that women had their rights too? That they too were considered able to make decisions nowadays and didn’t always have to accept what the man in their life told them?
He washed the knife he had been using under the tap.
“You and your mother have practically smothered the man in Jacob,” he went on cheerfully. “Leave him alone and give him a chance!”
She didn’t answer him because the only thing she could think of to say was, “I hate you!” and that wouldn’t have sounded either dignified or adult.
“My mother loved him dearly,” she said instead.
He gave her one of his cool, amused looks.
“Heaven spare me from a woman’s love,” he retorted. “I don’t like being possessed in any way. I’m a free man and I intend to stay that way.”
Rosamund straightened her shoulders and glared at him.
“You probably will! I suppose you think a man’s love is much less possessive!”
He smiled slowly.
“Touché,” he acknowledged. “But then women like being possessed.”
Without any warning to herself, Rosamund’s hot temper exploded.
“What a conceited, egotistical, stupid, remark! How superior do you think you are?”
“My word,” he said, and she knew that he was teasing her. The uncomfortable conviction grew on her that perhaps he had been all along. “For a dumb blonde you pack quite a punch,” he added admiringly.
“I’ve had practice,” she said grimly.
His eyebrows went up, giving point to his amusement.
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” he agreed smoothly. “I’ll grant you one thing, my sex is very easily bluffed by the packaging.”
So he had had the last word after all and, maddeningly, he had left her wondering whether he had meant that she wasn’t as dumb as she looked or, simply, not nearly as nice. Either way it didn’t seem very complimentary, and she was frankly relieved when he left her alone in the kitchen and went off into the dining-room to set the table. It seemed odd having a man doing such chores around the house, she could never remember Jacob doing any such thing even when her mother had been alive, but it didn’t make her like Rupert any the better. She would have much preferred it if he had sat upstairs with Jacob and left her severely alone. The less she had to do with him the better.
The evening meal was a strained affair. Only Jacob was supremely unaware of the undercurrents between his two companions.
“What are you going to do tomorrow?” he asked Rosamund.
She wished she had a nice, urgent programme that she could produce to impress them all. As it was she could think of nothing in particular that she had to do.
“I’ve invited a friend of mine to dinner,” Rupert told her abruptly.
“I shall make arrangements to be in, then,” she replied coolly.
His lips twitched appreciatively.
“Do that. I think you’ll like her,” he smiled.
So it was a woman he had invited! Rosamund’s curiosity flickered into life. She really couldn’t imagine any woman that would be paragon enough for Rupert to admire. This she would have to see to believe!
She dressed very carefully the following evening. She knew, because her looking-glass would have told her so, even if her friends had not, that she could wear practically anything and that it would look something on her. It was not only her features that were lovely, but she moved well and she had nice hands and feet. The dress she chose, in severely tailored royal blue wild silk, was formal without being elab
orate and made her look quite devastatingly beautiful. With steady hands she darkened her eyebrows and added some eye-shadow, then regarded herself critically. Whatever Rupert’s girl friend looked like, she decided, she would give her a good run for her money! She grinned at herself in the glass. It wasn’t often that she deliberately sought to make an impression, but it would be fun to take Rupert Harringford down a peg or two.
About the dinner itself she had rather more doubts. She had bought a leg of lamb from the butcher at the foot of the hill, completely forgetting that she had no oven in which to cook it. Yamina had taken one look at it and had burst into a flood of excited speech. Finally she had led a protesting Rosamund to the house next door where the Lella spoke a little French.
It had been the first time Rosamund had seen her next-door neighbour. She was young and pretty and, at first glance, might easily have been French. She was also very pregnant.
“Please come in,” she said rather breathlessly when she had seen who it was.
Her house was very much the same as Rupert’s. It too was build round a small courtyard and there was a certain similarity in the discomfort of the furnishings. It was quite evident that such things as polish and well-sprung chairs had not yet come to Tunisia.
Yamina had seated herself also, explaining with much laughter why they had come. Their hostess had handed them each a pale green soft drink that tasted of almonds and had prepared herself to listen.
“If you have a large roast you must take it to the village oven,” she had explained at last. “Yamina will take it for you if you like, but it will be better if you go with her to collect it later so that you will know where to go in future.”
So that was how they managed! A communal oven! Rosamund had been rather naively pleased with the whole idea, and she had accompanied Yamina round the corner of the street to where a dour old man fought daily with the vagaries of his wood-fired oven. Sitting with the other women, most of them holding their veils closely over their faces, she had been delighted to think of her food being cooked in such a way. Now that she was faced with the imminent prospect of serving the meal she wasn’t so sure.
She went down to the kitchen and busied herself with the last-minute preparations, putting on the soup to get hot, and trying to work out a system whereby she could get the rest of the meal hot as she needed to. It took quite a lot of organisation with only two functioning gas jets to work with and she was rather pleased with herself when she felt she had been successful.
She was still in the kitchen when she heard Rupert arrive and the sound of feminine laughter going up the stairs. Somehow she had not expected that the woman would be French, but there was no mistaking the difference in pitch of her voice and she became more curious than ever to see her.
Her shoes made a slight clatter on the marble steps as she ran up them, and everyone in the room turned to look at her, bringing a slight flush to her cheeks. She saw the Frenchwoman’s eyes widen at her appearance and wondered briefly if she had made too much of a simple dinner party, but Rupert remained as coolly indifferent as ever.
“So you did stay in,” he greeted her. She wondered crossly who he thought would have cooked the dinner if she hadn’t, and nodded briefly.
“Félicité, I want you to meet Jacob’s stepdaughter.”
“Oh yes, indeed,” Jacob said from the other end of the room. “I should never have produced anything so lovely!”
“Very lovely!” Félicité agreed without any warmth. Her interest wavered and then died completely as she turned back to Rupert. “Are we drinking whisky?” she asked him pointedly.
Rupert smiled.
“If you like,” he agreed with an affectionate look. “Where will you sit?”
Félicité chose the only comfortable chair in the room with unerring instinct, and for the first time Rosamund was able to see her properly. She was very small, no more than a bare five feet, and she looked expensive. She wasn’t in the least bit beautiful and she didn’t pretend to be, but she was as smart as paint and she wore her sophistication like a smooth china shell all round her, prettily but without much gentleness. She was probably exactly the sort of woman that Rupert would most admire—and the sort of person that Rosamund liked least.
“Will you have a whisky too?” Rupert asked Rosamund.
She shook her head.
“I think I’ll stick to the wine,” she said. She liked the local wines. She found them palatable without being heavy and they were marketed at a price that didn’t make her flinch with shock every time she bought a couple of bottles.
Félicité smiled. She smiled a great deal with her lips, Rosamund noticed, but it was seldom that it reached up to her pale green eyes.
"How feminine of you, my dear,” she drawled, “leaving all the spirits to the men!”
Rupert laughed.
“That’s your astute French blood talking! Rosamund is all woman!” He said it in a mocking kind of way that put her very much on her dignity.
“I’m sure she is,” the Frenchwoman agreed. Her pale green eyes slid over Rosamund’s dress and legs and a slight frown appeared on her perfectly made-up face. “What do you do?” she asked. “I mean when you’re not trailing around after Jacob?”
Rosamund tried to look indifferent.
“I’ve had a couple of secretarial jobs,” she said.
Jacob chuckled.
“It’s never easy for her to keep a job,” he put in. “She’s far too attractive for the average office. They never want to employ her for long!”
Rosamund blushed.
“Oh, it isn’t quite as bad as that!” she said hastily. It had only happened once that she had been obliged to leave an office because of the pestering attentions of her employer.
Félicité looked amused.
“It’s apt to happen when one is young and gauche,” she said smoothly. “Later one learns how to control these things—if one wants to, of course.”
Rosamund pressed her lips together to keep back an angry retort.
“I think I’d better glance at the food,” she said instead. “I find timing rather tricky as yet.”
Félicité nodded graciously.
“You must tell us when you want us to eat,” she said. “It never pays to keep good food waiting.”
At least that was one good point in her favour, Rosamund thought as she went downstairs, if she could persuade the two men to come to the table on time. She cast a swift look at the food and then went into the dining-room to make sure that the table was properly set. She had bought some flowers in Tunis and had arranged them with elaborate care, and she thought now that they really did look very pretty. She had also found some wrought-iron candlesticks, badly made and badly finished off, but beautiful in a perverse primitive way, and she lit the candles she had put into them. The finished effect was pleasing and normally she would have been pleased with it, but today she knew that Félicité’s quick eyes would note the cheapness of the articles on the table and would be quick to criticise.
But why should she care? she asked herself. It was Rupert’s house and these were presumably his possessions and the things he liked. If he didn’t mind the young Frenchwoman pulling them to pieces, why should she? But she couldn’t help being a little on the defensive about them all the same.
“I can see you haven’t imported much from England,” Félicité had commented as she sat down at the table. “Not worthy of the Harringford silver, my dear!”
Rupert had glanced round the table with an air of surprise as though he had never really noticed it before.
“It didn’t occur to me to enquire too deeply as to what was in the house when I took it,” he said finally. “Actually I think it looks rather pretty. It’s the kitchen that’s really sparse.”
Rosamund flung him a grateful glance. So he had noticed after all! She wondered if that had been why he had said so little about the ghastly meal they had had on her first evening there. She had made amends, she thought, for that tonight
. The lamb was soft and succulent and the vegetables were such as she had not tasted in England for years. Perhaps it was that they were able to grow them so quickly, or perhaps it was for some other reason, but they had quite twice the flavour.
When she brought in the second course she caught Jacob’s eye and made a face at him. For years they had shared their likes and dislikes of the people who had come to their home in companionable good humour. But on this occasion he glanced away and his lip started to twitch nervously. Surprised, she sat down quickly on her seat, and became aware that Rupert was watching her through his dark, lazy eyes. She tried to tell herself that she didn’t care, that she could like and dislike whom she pleased, but she felt a little unhappy about it all the same, as though she had been rude to one of his guests. Even her relationship with her stepfather seemed to be changing under his influence, she thought bitterly, and stirred restlessly under his gaze.
“Will you have a little more?” Rosamund asked Félicité anxiously, trying in some way to make up for her quite unreasonable dislike for the other woman.
Félicité smiled absently.
“No, no more, thank you,” she said brightly. “I’m sure you won’t be at all offended, for it was a beautifully cooked dinner, and Rupert is such an old friend that of course he already knows, but the secret is that I don’t really care very much for English cooking.” She paused, glancing round the table. “It isn’t very imaginative, is it?” she said finally.
Rosamund looked down at her plate and said nothing. Rupert bent forward and glanced at her.
“Well?” he asked her provocatively. “Surely you aren’t going to let that one lie?”
She smiled sweetly across the table.
“I’m not sure I’m in a position to judge,” she said smoothly. “I’ve always understood that the French were obliged to invent delectable sauces because their meat was usually bad as it took so long to get it from one place to another!”
