“Neither am I,” he admitted. “This looks easy enough, though. Shall we?”
Not surprisingly, Ron was an expert dancer, smooth, relaxed, masterful, guiding my body with his, moving with a fluid, athletic grace, in perfect time to the music. My hand resting lightly on the back of his neck, I peered into his eyes, pleased with the faint half-smile that played on his lips, intensely aware of his warmth, his strength. He made no attempt at conversation, and that pleased me, too. As we danced, I let my mind drift, visualizing the kind of future I could hope to have with an athletics instructor. Sweat shirts, gym shoes, medicine balls. I could just see myself huddled on a wooden bleacher in the cold, trying to smile as the home team thundered across the field or, better yet, playing hostess to a group of jovial, ebullient boys who made hearty remarks about my husband, the coach. No, it was a shame, but it wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do at all; but it was nice to have such an attractive beau just the same, nice to be dancing with him, having him hold me.
“Thinking about me?” he inquired.
“Perhaps.”
“I hope you were. I hope you think about me a lot.”
“I’m having a wonderful time, but perhaps I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t encourage you—”
“Nonsense,” he said.
“I’m not your kind of girl.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“I’d never do, you see. I’d always be—”
“Shut up,” he said gently, “and dance.”
Ron and I were permitted one more dance together before the boys began cutting in, just as he had predicted. The stag line was very active, and, amazingly enough, I seemed to be one of their main targets. I danced with strapping young undergraduates with shoulders like fullbacks, their cheeks ruddy, their hair damp with perspiration. They were an energetic lot, bursting with vitality, grabbing me tightly and swirling me around with abandon, flirting outrageously. A brown-eyed rogue with dark-blond hair asked me where I’d been all his life. A lanky youth in a plum velvet suit showed me how to do the frug. A soccer star with sensual mouth and curly black hair asked me if I’d like to step out for a breath of fresh air. I asked if he had a Volkswagen. He looked startled, protesting vigorously as one of his teammates cut in. It was a novel experience for me, all this attention, this rush, and although my feet were trampled on, my ribs crushed, although I was jerked and pulled and hugged and bruised, I loved every minute of it.
Now and then I caught glimpses of Ron, dancing with a plump academic matron in royal blue and smiling as she stumbled out of step and gushed vivaciously, swirling around the floor with a slender lass in red velvet jump suit and gold bangles, two-stepping sedately with a dignified, decrepit dame in purple crepe, her hair quite gray, a large hearing aid in her ear. Music rose and fell in crashing waves. The air was charged with electric excitement. I greeted each new partner with a smile. I waltzed, I fruged, I did my best at all the unfamiliar dances, and soon the eager young faces began to blur, colors began to melt, and I was conscious only of my aching feet, my aching ribs, finding it more and more difficult to smile and fend off the more aggressive lads. I was vastly relieved when, finally, Ron rescued me and took me over to get a cup of punch.
“You’re a smash,” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such a stag line.”
“It’s the dress,” I retorted.
“Tired?”
“Exhausted.”
“You look radiant. You’re glowing.”
“It’s probably fever. Thank God you finally cut in.”
“Feel neglected?”
“Hardly. I’ve had half-a-dozen immoral propositions. I’ve been asked to attend a house party, a graduating exercise, a cricket match, a hunt ball, and one affluent-looking chap suggested we spent next weekend together on the Cote d’Azur. He was rather cute. I almost accepted. You were kept rather busy yourself, I noticed.”
“Duty done,” Ron said in martyred tones. “If I have to dance with one more talkative wife—”
“You danced with some gorgeous youngsters, too.”
“Brazen little vixens. Threw themselves at me. I don’t know what the younger generation is coming to!”
I laughed, and Ron grinned sheepishly as he fetched our punch and led me over to an empty table beside a towering rubber plant. It was nice to sit down, to relax, to watch all the activity without being a part of it. Apparently tireless, the combo was still going strong, though they’d long since discarded their black velvet jackets and removed their ties. Balloons bobbed and floated, red, green, blue. Streamers billowed. Someone had poured a bottle of vodka into the punch. It was delicious. I sat and sipped and felt very, very content, the stress and strain of the past two days momentarily forgotten. Blond hair damp, white tie crooked, tuxedo a little the worse for wear, Ron sat across from me, proud of me, pleased with himself, not finding it necessary to talk.
We had hardly finished our punch before people started coming over to the table to chat, mostly females, middle-aged women with strident voices who cooed over Ron and invited him to faculty teas and expressed their delight at having him as “part of the team.” Occasionally they had husbands in tow, bewildered, distracted fellows with graying temples who would have much preferred an easy chair by the fire and a good book to this crush. We might have been holding court, I thought, as one couple left and two grandly dressed females took their place. I knew several of these people through Ian, and Ron introduced the others, visibly striving to attach the right name to the right face. Although he joked and chatted and endured their transports with ease, I could tell that he found it something of an ordeal. When, after awhile, we were finally alone again, he took out a striking gold cigarette case, offered me one and lit his own when I shook my head.
“What a pretty gold band,” I remarked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that kind of cigarette before.”
“They’re a special brand,” he said. “I order them from France. Nasty habit. I only smoke when I’m under stress, and all these chattering biddies are enough to—Christ! Here comes Nancy Randolph!”
Petite in pale-blue organdy, blonde curls bouncing, Miss Randolph was as frilly, as fluttery, as nauseatingly cute as Ron had said. Although she would never see thirty again, she giggled and showed her dimples, carrying on like a not-overly-bright sixteen-year-old, pink mouth pouting, eyelashes aflutter. Many men, I knew, found such antics adorable, but although Ron had assured me he didn’t, one would never have guessed it. Gallant, charming, grinning boyishly, he introduced us. I smiled. Miss Randolph smiled. We loathed each other. Tugging at his arm and displaying more dimples, she insisted he dance with her. Ron said it would be a pleasure and, crushing out his cigarette, led her onto the floor.
Left alone at the table I glanced around the vast room, not looking for anything in particular. We had been here over two hours now, the crowd was already beginning to thin somewhat, and I still hadn’t seen Stephen Brent. I thought it strange not to have seen him. Perhaps he had decided not to come. It was just as well. It had been an extremely pleasant evening thus far, and his appearance would certainly have spoiled it.
Ron and the scintillating Miss Randolph had disappeared into the midst of the crowd on the dance floor. I decided another cup of punch would be just the thing and left the table to fetch it. I didn’t return to the table but, instead, took my fresh cup and stood along the wall beside a cascade of streamers, and, glancing idly about, I saw her almost immediately. Surrounded by a bevy of youngish, attractive professors, she held forth in one corner, wearing a leaf-brown sheath slit up the sides, an exotic necklace of red and purple-red amethysts around her neck. Bangs fluffed across her forehead, sharp, narrow face aglow with sensual delight, she reached up to stroke a lean cheek. The men fairly hung about her, five of them in all, all in tuxedoes, all edging closer to touch, to tease. She radiated vitality and sexual magnetism, I couldn’t deny it. Honora had it, and they loved it.
Stephen did not form a part of the charmed circle,
but I realized that he must be here somewhere, and even as I had the thought I could feel the power of his stare. It was almost as strong as touch, causing me to turn, to meet his eyes. He was standing twenty yards away, near one of the doors, a severely disapproving scowl on his face. Brows lowered, mouth tight, he glowered at me, looking as though he’d like nothing better than to murder someone with his bare hands. He was wearing narrow black trousers, a handsome white jacket and a creased red satin cummerbund. His black silk tie was crooked, making him look even more rakish. I met his stare with cool indifference. Finishing my punch, I set the cup down on the ledge behind me. Stephen approached, shoving a tipsy lad out of his way with totally unnecessary violence.
“What the hell are you doing here!” he thundered.
“Enjoying myself immensely. At least I was—”
“No smart quips! I’m not in the mood! Where are the children?”
“At the movies,” I said calmly.
“I thought I told you to go to the movies, too!”
“Indeed? I wasn’t under the impression you had any right to give me orders, Mr. Brent.”
“This crowd—anything could happen!”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s right! You don’t!” he interrupted brutally.
“Really, Mr. Brent—”
“Shut up!”
His rage was indeed magnificent. He seemed to smoulder with it, his eyes crackling with blue fire, the corners of his mouth rigid, hands balled into fists. I stood against the wall, Stephen directly in front of me, the cascades of streamers half concealing us, the noise and activity all around providing a curious isolation. I should have been indignant, outraged by his proprietory manner towards me, but I wasn’t.
“That … that dress—” he stammered.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“You look like a bloody tart! You’ve been acting like one, too.”
“Now just a minute—”
“What are you trying to prove, Miss Martin?”
“I’m not trying to prove anything!” I was angry now, my cheeks burning. “You have no right to speak to me that way! It’s none of your bloody business what I do. And speaking of tarts—your date seems to be playing that role with practiced skill. Look at her—”
“I couldn’t care less what Honora does! She was merely my excuse for coming here. I came here on business. I came here to look, to listen, to try and pick up some kind of lead that might help us, and what happens? The minute I walk through the door I find you in the arms of a hulking brute in a powder-blue jacket, a whole line of grinning hooligans waiting to cut in and have their turn—”
“They’re perfectly charming boys! I was flattered—”
“Don’t interrupt me! I spend all my time hanging around, standing behind potted plants, keeping my eye on you—”
“I never saw you,” I said sweetly.
“Credit me with a little skill. I didn’t intend for you to see me! I suppose you think you’ve been clever, pulling a stunt like this. And who the hell is that golden-haired Apollo you came with? The famous Ron, I suppose! I don’t like his looks!”
“Why—I believe you’re jealous.”
“Jealous? Jealous!” It obviously took the greatest restraint to keep from grabbing me by the throat and strangling me to death on the spot. “Of all the numbskulled, harebrained, half-baked, sillyassed, totally ridiculous ideas I’ve ever heard! If you think—”
The music stopped abruptly. There was a round of applause. Stephen left the sentence hanging in midair. People began to mill about, waiting for the next number to begin. On the bandstand, the boys were wiping their faces, hair clinging in wet ringlets about their heads, white shirts soaked with perspiration. A great many people ambled over to stand near us, making it impossible for him to continue his heated denunciation. He stood by my side, glowering, jaw rigid, dark brows lowered over smouldering blue eyes. I didn’t see Ron anywhere. I wondered if he was still in the clutches of the vivacious Miss Randolph.
“Why, Mr. Brent—”
Stephen was both startled and appalled to find himself confronted by a merry, rotund, middle-aged woman with sleek black hair, snapping brown eyes and heavily powdered jowls. She was wearing a very ill-advised dress of red satin, overlaid with darker red lace, a corsage of wilting pink-and-white rosebuds pinned to her shoulder. She introduced herself as Mrs. Willoughby-Hampton, Doctor Willoughby-Hampton’s wife, and said she’d been absolutely fascinated by his lecture Monday. Pre-Columbian art had always been a favorite of hers, she admitted, she simply adored it, and it was wonderful to hear someone speak with such authority, such positive brilliance on the subject. She continued to prattle on, cheerfully oblivious to his expression of stark horror, and when the music began to play again she patted his arm playfully and looked up at him with a coy smile.
“I do declare, they’re playing another waltz. I adore waltzing, don’t you? So pleasant. I wonder if you’d do me the honor—”
He was trapped. He quite plainly longed to make a very insulting remark, but I doubt if Mrs. Willoughby-Hampton would have noticed if he had. Determined to dance with him, she fairly tugged at his arm, and, casting a murderous look at me as though it were my fault, he let himself be pulled onto the dance floor. My delighted laugh didn’t improve his disposition one bit. Mrs. Willoughby-Hampton was still prattling contentedly as they were swallowed up by the crowd.
I felt exhilarated, exuberant, all the earlier weariness completely gone. The dance was a tremendous success. I’d never enjoyed myself so much. Everything was glorious, the balloons, the streamers, the noisy, merry youngsters, the lilting music. There had been quite a lot of vodka in the punch. I wondered if I could possibly be a bit tipsy. I smiled as Ron made his way over to me, an exasperated look on his face.
“Thought I’d never get away from that woman!” he exclaimed. “The table was deserted. I wondered where you could have gotten to—”
“I wanted more punch,” I told him, smiling.
“That guy you were talking to—the one with the crooked tie and the satanic eyebrows—who is he?”
“Someone I once met in London.”
“Surly looking bloke. Seemed to be angry about something.”
“He came to Abbotstown to give a series of lectures and got roped into attending the dance against his will. He doesn’t approve of them. I think dancing’s against his religion—”
Ron didn’t persist. I told him I’d love a third cup of punch, and he fetched it. We went back to the table we had occupied earlier. The waltz ended. Another number began, livelier, drums pounding with a savage rhythm. I didn’t see Stephen anywhere. He was probably out there in the middle of the crowd, trapped with Mrs. Willoughby-Hampton. The thought of the two of them performing the Jungle Jump together made the mind boggle. Ron lit another cigarette, tapping his fingers on the tabletop, looking at bit wrought up after the encounter with Nancy Randolph.
“Was it that bad?” I teased.
“It was worse! A grown woman who talks baby talk should be put away! I wanted to brain the wench.”
“She obviously adores you.”
“I guess I should feel flattered. I don’t. I feel persecuted. I came here to be with you, and we’ve hardly had a moment together. I’m not sure this was such a bright idea. Maybe we should leave. I’d much rather go park somewhere until it’s time to pick up the chil—Oh no!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Honora Dunne. She’s headed this way.”
To do him justice, I must admit he did grumble under his breath, but as soon as Honora neared the table he leaped to his feet, the look of exasperation replaced by one of fervent anticipation. Honora Dunne was the only woman I had ever seen who could undulate while standing still. Leaf brown sheath clinging to her fulsome curves, red and purple amethysts resting on half-exposed bosom, she smiled a provocative smile, her brown eyes full of invitation. To say he grinned from ear to ear might be exaggerating, but not much. Ho
nora said “Hi, sweet.” He said “Hi.” I said nothing at all. Neither of them would have heard anyway. They were already heading for the dance floor, Honora clinging to his arm with sinuous grace.
The combo played a frug. The lanky lad in the plum velvet suit, spying me all alone at the table, hurried over, executed a mock bow and asked me if I’d like to go another round. I said I’d be delighted. He brushed a mop of coal-black hair from his forehead, pulled me to my feet and led me into the midst of the crush. His name was Horace. He was perhaps nineteen, charged with energy, elated to have me all to himself. Not for long. A fox-trot followed the frug. The hulking brute in the powder-blue jacket gripped Horace’s shoulder, thrust him aside and slung his arm around my waist. His name was Dave. He had an XKE Jaguar. He wanted to show it to me. I told him I preferred Volkswagens. Bill cut in on Dave and Eddie cut in on Bill and Reginald, who wanted to weekend on the Cote d’Azur, cut in on Eddie. Finally, after a crowded half hour, the combo broke for another rest spell. My youthful admirers had all been claimed by their respective dates, and I found myself standing alone near one of the doors. Neither Ron nor Stephen were anywhere in sight. Nor was Honora. Perhaps she and Ron had stepped outside for a cigarette, or perhaps Honora had brought her own Volkswagen. At any rate, I was vastly relieved to have a chance to catch my breath.
Looking up a minute or so later, I saw a girl staring at me. I didn’t recognize her at first. She was lovely, cheekbones high and sculptured, rich coppery waves piled on top of her head. Her face was pale, making the gray-green eyes seem even larger. She was wearing a simple yellow dress and standing beside an extremely handsome, sullen-looking boy in a suit of rust-brown suede, exquisitely cut to flatter his lean, muscular physique. The shirt beneath his jacket was dark beige silk speckled with brown and black, Byronic collar flowing over the lapels. He was glowering, and when the girl turned to say something to him, his expression grew even fiercer. He said something sharp and took her arm, but she pulled away from him and started toward me. It was Cynthia Ward, Augusta’s niece.
Meet a Dark Stranger Page 16
