by Jane Corrie
It was then that she thought of the remark passed by the lovely brunette at the airport, and some of her complacency left her. She could have been referring to some other incident, yet Cara could not convince herself of this.
She turned restlessly in her chair, no longer drowsy as she thought of the woman who had placed her elegant fingers to her lips to throw him a kiss, and of her own resolution to make light of the unfortunate incident should she ever get the oppor-
tunity to talk to the man involved. But how could she have done? How was she to know that he would turn out to be the son of her father's patron?
Her frown deepened as she realised she had missed a golden opportunity. She ought to have mentioned the incident straight away, even though he had not recognised her as the belligerent young girl he had persuaded to return to the village with him six years ago. She sighed; even if she had had her wits about her, it might have been rather embarrassing for both of them, and he had certainly not liked the earlier allusion made by his friends at that dinner party, neither had Cara, come to that. It was better left—besides, she told herself comfortably, he was too sensible a man to let such an incident worry him, and there was no possible chance now of the matter leaking out. The village had been swallowed up by the building of the airport, and although the villagers had been settled further up the roadway, so much had happened in the last six years that there was little chance of anyone recalling what had taken place the day before Cara Vernon was sent back to England.
The one person who would have remembered, and who had been the instigator of the event, TuTu, had since passed on to join his ancestors in greener pastures, for her uncle had written and told her of his death a year ago. The news had made Cara very sad, for in her fond imaginings she had seen herself going to seek him out on her return to Totorua. He had been such a great friend of her father's and would have been happy to learn that she was going to work at the same hospital as her father had.
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So there was absolutely nothing to worry about, she told herself happily, and her thoughts turned to lighter matters, such as purchasing some material to make herself some pareus. She did not-intend to wear conventional dress in her off-duty hours, not in this climate, anyway. Of course, she would have to confine herself to the precincts of the home Pierre Morelon had in mind for her, for it wouldn't do to go wandering around the streets in a pareu, as comfortable as the native dress was, since it might cause some speculation, and Cara wanted no such attention drawn to her.
Tomorrow, she mused drowsily, she would take a trip into town to make the necessary purchases for what she termed as her 'coming-home' dress.
CHAPTER FOUR
LATER that day, after her uncle had returned from work, Cara brought him up to date with the recent happenings. The interview, she told him, had not gone exactly as she had expected. `I'm not too sure of the Matron,' she told him with a rueful grin. 'I'm certain that if I hadn't been able to obtain that reference, she would have found some way of opposing my appointment.'
Her uncle, who had settled himself in his favourite chair and was just glancing through the evening paper, took his attention away from it long enough to nod understandingly. 'Can be very awkward females,' he commented dryly. 'I remember coming up against a veritable dragon in Bart's.' He peered over the top of the paper at Cara and gave her a smile. 'Not that the patients were St Georges by any means, myself included, if you follow my meaning. It seemed to me,' he ruminated slowly, 'that she had sacrificed her life for the good of others, and had just come to the conclusion that the human race wasn't worth it! '
Cara chuckled at his philosophy; he might well have a point there, she thought reflectively. Take Miss Besson, the name of the Matron who had interviewed her. One could not call her a happy person; dedicated maybe, since Cara did not know her well enough to be certain on this point, but she did know a happy person when she saw one, and Miss
Besson did not come under this category—frustrated, was more applicable here, and this was more or less what her uncle had implied about the other Matron.
Uncle Theo resumed his perusal of the paper, and Cara's thoughts roamed on. It was possible, she mused, that the responsibility of the job could get one down at certain times. Perhaps she had had a very tiresome morning before the interview. She sighed inwardly; considering all things, it would be better to withhold judgment. There was time enough to prove her earlier theory, and she hoped she was wrong and would find, Matron a gentle, understanding person, and a good friend. In spite of Cara's good intentions this image simply would not jell, and she had a shrewd suspicion it was going to be a case of stepping lightly over what would prove to be very thin ice!
Impatiently she shook these depressing thoughts away, and once again demanded her uncle's attention by telling him of Pierre Morelon's offer of a villa in the vicinity of the hospital, and wasn't it good of him?
With what sounded like a regretful sigh, her uncle put down his paper and gave her his whole attention. 'It's what I thought he would do,' he commented mildly. 'I only met his father once. A good man, and a good friend to your father. I'd say his son takes after him. He didn't have to provide other accommodation for us. If I hadn't already fixed myself up I'm sure he would have seen me settled, too.'
'Oh, I'm sure he would! ' agreed Cara enthusiastically. 'He was so understanding about the reference. I felt awful asking him for one, but he didn't
even question it. Just asked his secretary to provide the necessary.'
She was silent for a few seconds, then seeing that her uncle was about to lapse into the financial columns of the paper once more, asked, 'Have you any idea of where this place is? The place he has in mind for me, I mean?'
Her uncle frowned, whether from irritation at being kept from his paper, or whether he was giving the matter some thought, Cara wasn't sure, but when he spoke it seemed to be the latter. 'It's probably the small place in that courtyard off the boulevard. It's only a stone's throw away from the hospital, if one uses the passageway through the covered archway.' He coughed delicately. 'Er—I believe it's been empty for some time now. Not that it's been neglected in any way—I noticed that when I passed by there a few months ago. Still as pretty as a country cottage. French architecture, of course, very pleasing to the eye.'
Cara stared at him in dumbfounded delight, for she knew the place he was referring to, tucked away as he had said in a small courtyard off the main street. Could that be the place Pierre Morelon meant? Oh, she did hope it was ! Why, she couldn't think of any other place nicer than that one. It had always caught her imagination, and had given her a sense of surprise to find such a dwelling tucked away in the middle of the town's busiest section.
There had been a touch of mystery about it, too, she recalled as her smooth forehead creased in an effort of memory. Her brow cleared as she pinpointed the occasion when she had asked her father about the cottage, since its proportions did not war-
rant any other title. Her father, she remembered, had said something vague on the lines of—yes, someone did live there, and had hastily changed the subject, much to the young Cara's disappointment.
Uncle Theo, she thought curiously, had shown the same reluctance to discuss the matter, and remembering his delicate cough, a sign that he was slightly embarrassed, heightened her curiosity. A thought then struck her that made her want to chuckle, and she gave her uncle, now determinedly ensconced behind his paper, a look of wicked amusement. Dear Uncle Theo, without realising it he had given her the clue to the mystery. So that was it! Someone's mistress had occupied it! It was a 'love nest', and had Cara been a few years older when she had first asked about it, she would have been a little quicker off the mark!
In her mind's eye she was standing again in the small passageway off the main street looking through to the courtyard at the villa with its miniature garden. She remembered frothy lace curtains against latticed windowpanes. It had, she thought, a look of unreality about it, and gave you the fe
eling that if you blinked your eyes or looked away suddenly, the next time you looked it would be gone, the only surprise being that it was still there.
Another thought then presented itself, and this time not such a happy one. If the villa was owned by the Morelon family, and had indeed been used for the purpose suggested by the unwillingness of Cara's menfolk to discuss the matter, then only a member of the family could have put it to such a purpose.
Jean-Paul Morelon! Her brows raised as the answer hit her. It could be no one else, since she plainly remembered her father mentioning once that his patron's family had always had business links in Totorua, but had not resided there until Jean-Paul decided to consolidate all his interests in the island, and had taken up residence there several years before Cara's father had taken the hospital post at Jean-Paul's instigation.
A tiny frown knit her forehead. What had become of whoever it was that had lived there? Had Pierre Morelon given her her marching orders now that his father was dead? No, he would not do that, Cara was sure. Even if he had not approved of the alliance, he would not have been so heartless, and he had been very fond of his father and would not have wanted to go against his wishes. She sighed. The logical answer was that she too had died. Heartbreak perhaps, at losing her lover?
Cara gave herself a mental shake. All this was pure conjecture based on her fertile imagination, and she could be wrong. The sentimental side of. Cara's nature hoped that she was not wrong, for in spite of her placid outlook on life, she was a romantic at heart. She could also be wrong, or her uncle could be wrong, in his supposition that she would be offered the villa. At this point a deep chuckle escaped her and made her uncle give her a startled look over the top of his paper. 'Just thought of something funny,' she explained quickly, hoping she could make up a plausible lie to justify her uncle's curiosity if need be, but to her relief he nodded absentmindedly and resumed his reading. Not much of a one for social chatter, was Uncle Theo, and this suited Cara admirably.
On this particular occasion it was a blessing, for had he had any inkling of his wayward niece's thoughts at that time, or indeed of the events that had sparked them off, he would have insisted on some other accommodation being found for her. As it was he would remain in blissful ignorance—as would the man who was being so helpful in getting her other accommodation.
She had been thinking of Cathy's reaction to the news when she heard the full story, and for a split second had envisaged her incredulous reaction to the latest development. The fact that she had had to apply to Pierre Morelon for a reference was startling enough, but add to that highly intriguing situation, the abode to which she had been designated—or could possibly be designated—and you had the makings of an extremely embarrassing mixture.
Her amusement faded swiftly on this last thought. Oh, dear, it wasn't really funny at all. So many complications could arise out of the situation. Her teeth caught her lower lip as the anxious thought that she ought to have made some reference to what had happened all those years ago passed through her mind. Ought she to ask to see him again? Could she somehow idly turn the conversation back to earlier times, something on the lines of, 'Oh, by the way, do you remember dragging a reluctant truant out of the jungle and taking her back to the village?' That was as far as Cara got in her imagination, and it was going to stay in her imagination, for there was no way that she could see of bringing such a scheme to fruition. She would rather forgo the chance of living in the villa than refer to the past, and soon found herself devoutly hoping Pierre
o
Morelon had other premises in mind for her.
Cara ought to have known better, for two days later the odd feeling she had experienced when she had come face to face with the very person she had earlier hoped to avoid, of some kind of spell that fate had bound around her and Pierre Morelon, revisited her when she received confirmation that she had been allotted the villa.
It was as well for her that she did not have a great deal of time in which to brood on this subject, since the letter she received from Pierre Morelon granting her the lease also told her that it was ready for occupation, and he hoped she would find it a pleasing substitute for her old home. The key, he told her, could be picked up at any time during office hours, as his secretary now had it in her keeping. He ended the letter with a kindly wish that she found her new post an interesting and satisfying occupation.
Some of Cara's earlier doubts dispersed with the letter. He was such a kindly man, she was stupid to worry over possible repercussions—most of which were only in her mind anyway. For all she knew, the villa could have been used to house some old retainer of the Morelons—say a governess, or a housekeeper. She decided not to dwell too much on this theory since she was certain that her earlier deductions had been correct. It did, however, help to alleviate her qualms; in this case ignorance was bliss, and Cara did not intend to seek enlightenment!
Within three days of the date she was due to start her duties at the hospital, Cara had moved what few possessions she owned into the Villa Pepite.
The name of her new home she had found on a small plaque attached to- the wall beside the front door, now mostly obscured by a trailing vine that bore a gorgeous purple trumpet-shaped flower, and Cara couldn't have agreed more with the choice of name for such a delightful dwelling. It was exquisite, she thought happily as her eyes roamed over the small sitting-room she was standing in.
Frilled organza curtaining, of the same type that she had seen earlier, protected the privacy of the room, for the sitting room looked out on to the courtyard and small garden fronting the villa. The furniture was feminine without being fussy, or to be more precise, of a feminine taste rather than masculine.
As the villa had been let furnished. Cara did not have any problems regarding furnishings, or having to provide herself with any household article, not even cutlery, for she discovered a canteen of cutlery in one of the kitchen drawers on her initial tour of the villa.
Although small, the villa provided all the necessary requirements for pleasant living conditions. There were two bedrooms, one just large enough to accommodate a double bed, that had, Cara noticed, a silk bedspread of a peach hue. It matched the drapes of a bow-shaped dressing table, which supported a large oval mirror with gilt edging that put Cara in mind of a doll's house she had once seen and admired in the window of a large London store.
The thick lilac carpet and the purple velvet curtains at the window gave her the same feeling of unreality. The room was not unpleasing, yet it had a dreamlike quality about it that made Cara feel
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like Alice in Wonderland, and she rather expected to meet the White Rabbit round the next corner.
It was not a room she would have felt at home in, and she was grateful that there was a second bedroom. This was more to her taste, although even here the feminine influence was the dominating factor, though not quite so prominent. The single divan was covered with a green and white striped bedspread. The off-white carpeting and the ivory curtains were more to Cara's taste, as was the small unadorned but beautifully grained dressing table. The walls, papered in an embossed eau-de-nil design, and free from embellishment, also received her approval. Yes, this would be her room. It might be a little on the cramped side as far as walking space was concerned, but nevertheless it contained all that she could possibly want.
The bathroom was next to her bedroom, and consisted mainly of soft pink tiling around the walls and on the floor, with the fittings in a black marbled glazing that Cara would have to learn to live with, since there was nothing she could do about it.
The villa almost came under the heading of two up and two down', but not quite, for a cosy little dining room had been tucked in between the sitting room and the kitchen, that just lifted it out of that category. Not that Cara was complaining, for it was ideal for her purpose, and just as enchanting inside as the outside had tantalisingly suggested to casual passers-by, those that had discovered its existence. Tucked away as it wa
s behind the busy boulevard, it evaded the curious attention it might otherwise have received.
Now that she had unpacked, she had time on her
hands to attend to her correspondence, and decided to write a letter to Ermyntrude, giving her the latest developments, and telling her about the cosy villa she had been so fortunate in obtaining.
When she had finished Ermyntrude's letter, she thought about writing to Cathy, but was not sure just how much to tell her. In the end she decided to only give the details of the interview, and how she had had to obtain another reference from a local person, but did not give names. It would be a long time before Cathy was able to visit her on the promised vacation. She would have to save first, and knowing Cathy, Cara knew this would be no easy task for her, in spite of the good salary she had negotiated from the health farm, that had amazed Cara, and brought an amused chuckle from Cathy. `Well, you should see what they charge their patients for just one week,' she had said airily. 'They wouldn't even miss what they're paying me.'
Her duty on the correspondence front now done, Cara wondered if she ought to give her uncle a ring to find out how he was settling in at the club. As Pierre Morelon had been so punctual in finding her alternative housing, her uncle had taken it as a delicate hint that they were now ready to carry out the next stage of the airport development. There was no reason, he had told Cara, why he shouldn't move too. It would only be a matter of contacting the club and arranging the collection of his personal effects. Not that he had a lot, since the villa had been leased to Cara's father furnished, as was the villa now leased to Cara.
After ascertaining that all was well that end, and that he was pleased with the room he had been
