Roberta Leigh - It All Depends on Love

by Roberta Leigh

  No answer. She knocked again. Still no one came. Perhaps Bobby had forgotten she was coming and gone out?

  Ah, well, she thought, descending the steps, at least I made the effort. She was walking off when the door behind her opened. Turning, she saw a leather-jacketed young man in the doorway, sporting a black coxcomb hair-do.

  'You the doctor?' he questioned, giving her the onceover.

  'Don't be daft,' a second young man with a rainbow-coloured frizz answered over his friend's shoulder. 'She's too young,'

  'Stop it, you two,' Bobby said, coming up behind them. 'Glad you made it, Doc. Come in. Jeff, Tim, this is the lady who saved my life.'

  'You wasted your time!' Jeff of the rainbow frizz informed her, and the others laughed and led Tessa into a small kitchen, where a bare wooden table was set with gaily coloured mugs and a packet of biscuits on a plate.

  'Found your way OK?' Bobby beamed, pulling out a chair for her.

  'First go,' she smiled, strangely at home with these young men. Punks they might be, but they were friendly as puppies!

  'Come to admire Bobby's work?' asked Tim—the one with the coxcomb—cutting into her thoughts.

  'What's there to admire?' Bobby cut in, bringing across the kettle.

  'You're dead right,' Jeff agreed. 'You need a magnifying glass to make out some of your carvings.'

  'It keeps the wolf from the door,' Bobby shrugged, passing round the biscuits.

  'I'd like to see them anyway,' Tessa said politely, envisaging the little animals and gnomes one found in markets. The reality when, a half-hour later, she followed Bobby into a curtain less room with a scattering of cushions on the floor stunned her into silence.

  Cute little wood animals and gnomes one found in markets? She'd eat the very words! Here was no punk's pastime, but artistic talent with a capital 'T'. It screamed out at her from every intricate frieze hanging on the walls, each one a landscape in wood. Awed, she moved closer to examine them. One depicted, in minutest detail, a steam-engine in an English country railway station; another steam-engine puffed proudly along the top of the Peruvian Andes; a third chuntered across an African landscape filled with antelopes, giraffes and elephants, that left her wondering where Bobby had learned such understanding of their magnificent bodies. What an eye he had! As brilliant as his magic hands. And then there were half a dozen street scenes, each filled with people, cars, tower blocks—all the hoi polloi of urban life meticulously etched and carved from mahogany, teak, pine, silver birch, the different woods adding colour and lustre.

  'These are magnificent,' she gasped. 'Have you shown them to an art gallery?'

  'I tried once, but the fellow wasn't interested.'

  'Then he was a fool.'

  'You're having me on?'

  'I'm off duty all day,' she ignored his question, intent on her plan, 'and I'll come back with boxes and wadding for packing. I don't want to damage the carvings.'

  'What are you going to do with them?'

  'Show them to a friend of mine who has a gallery in Mayfair.'

  'You're aiming high,' Bobby said, scratching his head.

  'It's no more than you deserve. When I've finished with you, Bobby Millet, you'll be famous and rich enough to visit every single steam-engine in the world!'

  Graham Koster, whose Bond Street gallery was the venue for young artists, was a friend of her godfather's, and greeted her warmly as one of his assistants helped Bobby carry the boxes into his office.

  'Be completely frank with us,' she whispered to Graham as the carvings were ranged round the room. 'I don't want you giving us false hope.'

  'That isn't my policy.' Carefully he examined the carvings while she and Bobby waited.

  'I'm sorry Doc's wasting your time with these bits and pieces,' Bobby said after what seemed an hour but in reality was only a few moments. 'I'll repack 'em and go.'

  'Not until we've discussed a contract,' Graham said.

  'You mean you—you like my work?'

  'More than like—I'm bowled over by it.'

  Within weeks Bobby was in a studio of his own, subsidised by Graham, who assured them he was taking no risk.

  He was proved right six months later when Bobby had his first show and sold every single piece, other than his best landscape which, red-faced and mumbling—the only time Tessa found him lost for words—he presented to her.

  Then, with money in the bank, he went off to visit his beloved steam-engines, returning the following spring, ready to work again…

  Tessa smiled reminiscently as she thought of the warm May dawn when, passing his studio on her way home after a long and exhausting emergency operation, she'd noticed his light on and gone to check he was well…

  'Don't you ever sleep?' she asked when he opened the door, the wood shavings in his hair attesting to work rather than illness.

  'Don't you?’ �he riposted.

  Smiling, she entered his room. 'Working on anything new?'

  'Yeah. I met a silversmith the day I came back from Peru,' he said, 'and we're having an exhibition together.'

  'Graham doesn't like showing two artists at the same time.'

  'He won't have a choice,' Bobby stated. 'The silver is sort of incorporated into the wood carvings.'

  'Do you have a new piece to show me?' Tessa asked.

  'Push, push!' he chided. 'Give us a few months…'

  And she had. But it was August now, and time to pay him another call. With a day off in front of her, she went into the house to telephone him.

  'Coming back for good?' he asked at once.

  'Not yet.'

  'I don't like it when my doc's ill.'

  'I'm not ill,' she said at once, 'merely overworked. But I'm almost better, as you can see for yourself tomorrow, if you're free.'

  'I'm always free for you. Come early and I'll treat you to lunch.'

  At eleven next morning Tessa presented herself at Bobby's studio, disappointed to find the walls bare, though a few unfinished carvings on the large trestle-table by the window attested to his working.

  'I was hoping you'd have something to show me,' she murmured, determinedly nonchalant because she knew he hated being pushed.

  'I have,' he chuckled. 'But because of the silver and gold on them we keep them at the silver vaults. Jack— that's the guy I'm working with—has a stall there. We'll pop over there, and then have lunch.'

  An hour later saw them wending their way through the conglomeration of stalls and little shops in the silver vaults—set beneath the London pavements in Chancery Lane, and famed for its antique silver.

  Jack turned out to be a slightly older edition of Bobby without the punk hairdo, though the silver he sold was antique and ultra-conservative.

  'It's what the tourists like,' he explained to Tessa, 'but my personal work is nothing like this.'

  'Show her,' Bobby ordered, urging Tessa round the back of the stall, where Jack surreptitiously uncovered the pieces he and Bobby were preparing for their exhibition.

  Tessa was mesmerised by their originality and beauty. Bobby's magnificently carved jungle landscapes gleamed with cunningly inset slivers of gold and silver. They glinted on the wooden trunks of trees, the wing of a flying bird, the muzzle of an animal. In a seascape, sailing-boats sparkled with a delicate tracery of golden rigging, and a full blown schooner, so alive it looked ready to sail off, glided upon billowing silver waves.

  'Has Graham seen these?' Tessa asked.

  'Yesterday,' Bobby replied. 'He's already set a date for the exhibition.'

  Delightedly, Tessa straighted, then hurriedly bent down again.

  'You ill?' Bobby asked.

  'No.' She bent lower.

  'Yes, you are. You're white as a ghost.' Bobby put his arm around Tessa in concern.

  'You're, imagining it.'

  But he wasn't; nor had she imagined Patrick and Ingrid two stalls away from them! How awful it would be if he came over to her, and Bobby gave away her identity! There wasn't even time to tell Bo
bby about her charade!

  Surreptitiously she rose a fraction and glanced over her shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief as she saw Patrick and Ingrid move off in the opposite direction.

  'What the hell's wrong?' Bobby asked. 'You're shaking.'

  'From hunger,' she fibbed, regretting the lie when Bobby insisted on taking her to a nearby Italian restaurant and stuffing her full of pasta.

  Only as they were sipping their espresso did she come clean as to the real reason for her pallor, and Bobby laughed till he cried.

  'You, a teenager in a miniskirt?' he said when he could finally speak. 'I don't believe it.'

  'It suits me,' she informed him airily.

  'I bet you look sensational,' he agreed, 'but not like my doc.'

  'You make me sound awfully stuffy,' she protested, and he started laughing again.

  'This Patrick of yours will blow his top when he finds out the truth. When are you going to tell him?'

  'Soon. I'm not sure exactly when.'

  'You haven't fallen for him, have you?'

  'What a silly question.'

  'I'm waiting for a silly answer.'

  'Of course I haven't,' she said. 'He's brilliant at his work——-'

  'Like you.'

  'And he can't stand career women.'

  'Like you!'

  'Exactly,' Tessa said.

  'Then come clean with him and return to London. Jokes have a nasty habit of backfiring.' Bobby pulled a face. 'Fancy me telling you what to do! It doesn't seem right.'

  'You're no longer my patient, Bobby, you're a friend, and I'll always welcome your opinion.'

  As she drove away from London, Tessa thought over everything he had said. He was right, of course. She was becoming too involved with Patrick and it could lead nowhere she was willing to go.

  She was despondently ruminating on this when she entered the kitchen and found Mrs Benson pounding at a mound of dough.

  'Late-night baking?' Tessa asked, smiling with an effort.

  The housekeeper grunted, her usual smile missing, and Tessa knew instantly that something was wrong.

  'It's the Georgian bowl,' the woman said with the briefest of urging. 'The one Mr Anderson inherited from his great-grandmother. I went to clean it this morning and it's missing.'

  'You must have mislaid it,' Tessa consoled.

  'No, I haven't. It's always kept in a special place in the silver cupboard. Right at the back, behind a vase. But when I went to bring it out, it wasn't there.'

  Tessa instantly remembered the night of Patrick's business dinner, and the open kitchen door through which Henry had escaped that evening. Dear lord! It was her fault for not locking the house properly. Heaven knew what else was gone! Shaking, she collapsed on to a chair.

  'It's my fault, Mrs Benson, not yours,' she whispered, and went on to explain why.

  Relieved that she wasn't to blame for the missing bowl, Mrs Benson did her best to comfort Tessa. But nothing she said overcame Tessa's guilt. Indeed, the more Tessa thought over what had happened, the worse she felt. It was because of this nonsensical charade, and her toing and froing between Greentrees and the Hall.

  'I'd better ring the police,' she said.

  'I've already done that. As soon as I couldn't find the bowl,' Mrs Benson said.

  'What did you tell them?'

  'That we'd been burgled. But I was in such a state I—

  I——-' She shook her head. 'It was a good thing Mr

  Harper arrived when he did.'

  'What's Mr Harper got to do with it?' Tessa asked sharply.

  'He and Miss Mortensen saw the police car turn in here as they were leaving the Hall this morning for London, and he came in to find out what was wrong. As I said, I don't know what I'd have done without him—I was so upset that the police couldn't make head or tail of what I was saying. But Mr Harper took me round the house and the only thing missing was that bowl. And it's worth a fortune!'

  'Don't remind me!' Tessa muttered. 'I'd better ring Uncle Martin and tell him. It's early morning in New Zealand, and I may catch him before he goes out.'

  Tessa had never been more grateful for the miracle of the telephone than she was when, within ten seconds of dialling, she heard her godfather's voice twelve thousand miles away and learned that the Georgian bowl, far from being stolen, was with a jeweller in Iverton, who was mending its handle.

  'I didn't think to mention it to Mrs Benson,' he concluded. 'Please tell her how sorry I am.'

  Tessa did, the moment the call was over, and then rang the police to explain the bowl was safe.

  'I think we should tell Mr Harper too,' Mrs Benson suggested, and Tessa, reluctant to go to see him, telephoned instead.

  'He went to London with Miss Mortensen,' Withers informed her, 'and I'm not expecting them till tomorrow.'

  So he and Ingrid were spending the night in London! In one bed, no doubt—it was hard to imagine Ingrid's missing such an opportunity.

  Rubbish! her inner voice argued. I thought you'd decided Patrick wasn't the sort to mix business with pleasure.

  He isn't, said Tessa's logical mind.

  Oh, yeah? came the nasty little voice again. What free, red-blooded male could resist a beautiful woman who sets out to entice him?

  So what if he didn't resist? After all, he was a free agent and could do as he liked with whom he liked! It was only the fact that he might be doing it with Ingrid that was infuriating! She wouldn't have cared a jot if it were with another girl.

  At least, that was what Tessa told herself as she firmly refused to let other thoughts surface.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tessa was halfway through her morning's work at the Hall, helping Withers go through the china-room, when she heard the throaty purr of Patrick's sports car.

  It was an effort to restrain herself from rushing out to him. What a surprise he'd have if she did. Yet it wasn't because she wanted to see him, merely to let him know the bowl wasn't missing. Considering his kindness to Mrs Benson yesterday, the least she could do was assure him there were no burglars currently in the district!

  She was at the door of the china-room when he strode in, handsomer than ever in a pale grey formal suit.

  'I want to talk to you, Tessa,' he bit out.

  'Same here,' she said eagerly.

  'Come to my study in ten minutes.'

  Not giving her a chance to reply, he turned on his heel and went out, his face set in such uncompromising lines that she was positive he had seen her at the silver vaults. As she thought of Bobby's dyed hair and earring, her mouth twitched with humour. Did Patrick honestly expect work-shy little Tessa to hang out with pin-striped City gents with rolled umbrellas?

  'You'd better not keep Mr Harper waiting,' Withers cautioned her. 'The china will be here when you come back!'

  Nodding, Tessa set off for the west wing, her good humour vanishing as she saw Ingrid in the main hall, as satisfied as a cat that had swallowed the canary! Where was the girl's subtlety? Or didn't she care if everyone knew she had spent the night in Patrick's bed?

  'Where do you think you're going?' Ingrid demanded, suddenly appearing in front of her.

  To the big white chief!'

  'How often do I have to warn you not to bother him? If there's anything you wish to know about anything, ask me'

  'I always do,' Tessa said without inflection. 'But he ordered me to go to him.'

  Ingrid's lips tightened. 'In future I'll make sure he lets me deal with you.'

  'Have you ever thought he might enjoy talking to the staff?' Tessa couldn't resist saying. 'Mr Harper might find it just the thing to relax him!'

  Ingrid's laugh was scathing. Talking to you is hardly relaxing. I'd describe it as stupefying.'

  Speechless, Tessa awarded this round to the Swedish girl, and felt a most unladylike urge to take a swipe at the lovely face in front of her. 'Do you have to be rude?' she asked.

  'Coming from you, that's quite a question! But actually I was merely stating the o
bvious. Patrick has to keep his mind free for his work, not clutter it with domestic trivia and inane chatter. Why, only last night he conceived a sensational way of increasing the information on a disk.'

  Tessa nearly asked, 'What time last night?' But though she bit back the question her expression gave her away, and the smile that curled Ingrid's mouth was answer enough.

  'Far be k from me to come between a genius and his creativity,' Tessa managed to say, 'but I wouldn't boast about it if a boyfriend of mine concentrated on work when he was with me!'

  'That's where we differ, my dear. Mr Harper and I are on the same intellectual level, and his knowing I understand his work is one of the things that makes us close. Beautiful girls are easy to come by when you've as much to offer as he has, but to find one with brains as well——-'

  'Oh, boy, do you love yourself!' Tessa laughed, and walked away. In the face of such conceit there was nothing else to do. Yet she had to concede the girl wasn't conceited so much as realistic. She was a stunner, and clever with it. And what was worse, she was clever in Patrick's field. Though he was adamant in his dislike of career women, he'd probably feel quite differently if the woman's career centred around himself!

  Arriving at the study, she drew a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  'What were you doing in the vaults yesterday?' he demanded the instant she entered.

  So he had seen her. 'I was shopping.'

  Tor a silver dinner service?' he enquired sarcastically. 'I'd have thought a street market more your scene.'

  'Shows how little you know me,' she said perkily.

  'Enough to know you stole Mr Anderson's bowl!'

  'What?' Tessa stared at him in horror. He might regard her as a scatter-brained low-brow, but did he really think her a thief? True, she had done her best to make him think her feckless, but had never given him cause to doubt her honesty.

  'Well,' he grated, 'aren't you going to defend yourself?'