Peter’s mouth tightened. “She has the third interest, which means she is needed every time there has to be a casting vote. If Sonia doesn’t appear this weekend, Grandmother could cut her out of her will and Sonia would be left penniless.”
Melissa remained silent. Sonia might consider herself a self-supporting working girl, but money was behind her like a cushioning wall; money for her to fly over to Nice for the weekends; money for her to buy clothes and jewelry.
“All you would have to do it to pretend to be Sonia for the weekend.”
“I couldn’t possibly!”
“Why not? I assumed you were Sonia when I first saw you, and Grandmother is too sick to be alert to any difference; and the others haven’t seen Sonia for over eighteen months.”
Melissa looked into his urgent green eyes and wavered. It would be a challenge to see if she could act like Sonia for the whole weekend. Before she shifted to London she had been an enthusiastic bit player in her local drama group, and she knew that a personality was rather a matter of how you held yourself, and how you spoke rather than the actual shape of features.
She thought of Sonia, impulsive, generous and self-willed. To let Sonia down after all she had done for her was unthinkable. She thought of her home, her mother so immersed in visiting her father that she would not even notice whether she came home or not. She thought of her fiancé, Bob, preoccupied with his bookwork and stocktaking. He was another one who wouldn’t notice she was missing for the weekend.
“If you are sure?” she asked.
Peter’s face lightened. “Good girl. It will just be until after lunch tomorrow. I’ll bring Sonia to heel before next week.”
Melissa kept her thoughts to herself. It was hardly tactful to suggest that Sonia might be too involved in her new love interest to find time to visit her family.
Peter turned the car around, and it sped on and on through the countryside. Melissa listened as Peter talked rapidly and concisely and Sonia’s background opened up.
Mrs. Hamilton, left a widow with three young children when her husband lost his life in the tragic accident at the factory, had struggled and schemed to salvage the house and the business.
“It was only her iron hand that dragged the business through the bad years.” Peter’s voice had frank admiration and affection in it. “Sonia’s father was her only son, and I think it nearly broke her heart when he and his wife were killed in the car accident. She never had much time for her two daughters. The business dominated all our lives. I think Grandmother would have stuffed us all in for fodder if it had needed it.”
There was bitterness in his tone. Melissa listened quietly. Was this the riddle of Sonia, who had fled the family rather than be engulfed by the responsibilities of the family business?
“With all the disunity and fighting in the family, there has been a fair amount of rivalry. Pamela and her parents would stop at nothing to get Sonia pushed out. Yet it was Sonia’s father who actually got the business on its feet and making a profit. The new process he invented and patented has put money into all our pockets.”
“The family doesn’t sound very close,” Melissa volunteered.
She remembered a dream world when her family was safe and secure around her, her brother teasing and affectionate, and her father protective and sheltering. It was hard to visualize a family that hated each other right through to the third generation. No wonder Peter Darcy had the outjutting chin and compressed mouth of a man who had to watch which way he stepped.
“The Davenports consider the business as a cow to be milked, and refuse to vote any money for the new equipment needed. If I wanted to vote through any major changes, I have to go halfway around the world to get Sonia to cast her vote with me.”
“And Sonia always votes with you?”
The light died out of the eager green eyes, and his face closed up. “Sonia always votes my way. It is a long-standing arrangement.”
Melissa felt rebuffed and was silent. Of course it was a natural arrangement if their relationship was as close as his attitude indicated. She wondered why she felt so depressed, and decided it had been a tiring few hours.
“Tired?” he asked.
Melissa shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. The car turned down by the small fishing village and back up the hill along the narrow hedge-lined lane, to swing past the ornate iron gates and along the winding drive that led to the house.
It stopped in front of the large, stone, Georgian-style house. It was just on dusk. A light glowed through the fan-shaped windows over the portico.
“Well now, Sonia Hamilton, welcome to Pengleat House,” Peter said.
Melissa stared at the closed front door, her mouth dry. Suddenly, she was terrified. Her masquerade had begun.
Two
Peter held her arm firmly as he steered her through the open doorway into the wood-paneled hall. He paused and looked towards some double doors. From behind them came the quiet murmur of voices.
He shrugged, motioned towards the graceful curved staircase, and followed Melissa up. Melissa stopped at the massive oil painting on the landing. Sonia, blonde hair piled high, laughed down at her, blue sash floating out from the nipped-in waist of her dress.
“Grandmother,” commented Peter. He opened a door and dropped her case inside. “Get changed and we can have a drink before dinner.”
“I haven’t anything suitable,” confessed Melissa, remembering her shabby blue woolen frock.
”Sonia always leaves half her wardrobe here.” He pushed her through the door. “Ten minutes.”
Melissa opened her mouth to protest, but he was gone. She might be wearing Sonia’s red suit, but that didn’t mean she was going to help herself to Sonia’s other clothes. She felt for a light-switch and clicked it on. She smiled her pleasure as she inspected the room.
It was charming! The carved four-poster bed dominated the room, its blue frilled cover picked up by the blue wallpaper. Blue and white flowers were arranged in the deep blue bowl on the big dressing table. The ceiling to floor windows had blue drapes across them.
A pale-blue padded velvet chair stood austerely between the long windows.
There were enough of Sonia’s deft touches in it to make her feel comfortable. She could sense Sonia jeering at her for her scruples about borrowing her clothes. Melissa opened one door. It led into a small bathroom, neat and modern, but harmonizing with its white and blue floral tiles. The other door opened into a large closet, jammed with clothes.
She looked doubtfully at the row of dresses. What would be considered suitable as a dinner dress in this house, or more important, would be considered suitable for Sonia to wear? She went through the rack, and pulled out two of the less flamboyant gowns. The black lace was severe and high-necked, but came down in a daring backless plunge. It looked very like Sonia, but Melissa put it back. She was sure she didn’t have the confidence or flair to wear it.
The blue velvet looked demure enough, and in the shade of blue that matched Sonia’s eyes.
Melissa changed hastily. Once it was on, she stared at her reflection and blushed. Despite the long sleeves, the neckline sat very low and square across her breasts.
She opened up the dresser drawer. It was a clutter of ribbons, scarves, pins and brooches.
How very like Sonia to leave the room in such a mess! As if she would be back the following day to clean up.
She looked for a pin to catch the low-cut bodice together, and her eye was caught by a curiously designed sapphire brooch. She picked it up to study it. It looked very old, almost antique, the sapphires cunningly designed to be interwoven bluebell heads.
She looked at it. It would make the pinned-down bodice look less obvious if she used the brooch. She hesitated a few seconds longer, then she shrugged. Her mouth curled ruefully. If she was going to take over Sonia’s wardrobe, she might as well use her jewelry as well. She consoled herself, as she pinned the brooch in the center of her bodice that it couldn’t be very valuab
le if it had lain in the clutter of ribbons and scarves for the past two years, and she knew that Sonia wouldn’t mind.
She stood back and stared at her reflection, face intent. With the blonde wig hiding her high forehead and the short curls emphasizing the oval chin the likeness was uncanny. Their eyes weren’t the same color. She had grey eyes, and Sonia’s were a piercing bright blue, but the blue of her dress reflected the extra color into her eyes.
It was odd that she had lived with Sonia for so long without either of them remarking on the resemblance between them. Of course, all anyone ever noticed about people’s features was the expression. Her face was always colorless and expressionless. Sonia had a mocking, mobile face, and an arrogance that tilted her chin and shaped the posture of her body.
Melissa arched her eyebrows a fraction, and looked mockingly at the mirror. The resemblance sprang into full-blown life. It was Sonia laughing at her from the reflection in the mirror.
An impatient knock sounded. She swept over to the door, the velvet moving in stately, comforting folds around her. It was a pity that none of the tumbled heap of evening shoes fitted, but her own court shoes were neat and unobtrusive beneath the velvet skirt.
Peter had changed into a well-cut dinner jacket, and looked an elegant stranger. Then he nodded his approval, admiration in his eyes. Melissa blushed, remembering that she didn’t think of him as that much of a stranger.
“Smart girl! Just remember to treat your Uncle Harold and Aunt Cynthia with the utmost disdain.” Melissa looked apprehensive. He patted her arm. ”Pamela’s parents. Cynthia is one of Grandmother’s daughters.”
He took her arm and they went down the stairs towards the hum of voices behind the double doors. Melissa’s throat was dry, and her knees shaking. She was suffering from a bout of stage-fright, only she knew there would be no friendly cast around to tease her out of it.
Peter paused at the door, squeezed her elbow and gave a reassuring smile. Then he pushed open the door. Pamela, dressed in a clinging gown of white crepe, stood with her back to the door. She spun around as they entered, disbelief and dislike chasing across her face as she saw Melissa.
An older woman stood over by the fireplace. She had faded blue eyes set in an unhappy, fretful face and carefully dressed grey hair with flecks of ginger in it. Melissa guessed this would be Aunt Cynthia. A squat elderly man sat in a low chair on the other side of the fireplace watching her through his horn-rimmed glasses. She inspected him carefully without smiling. This could only be Uncle Harold.
“Well, well, we are honored!” He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked her up and down with deliberation, not bothering to hide his dislike. “Our little Sonia, herself!”
Melissa clenched her fists. No one in her entire life had ever spoken to her in such an unpleasant manner. She raised her eyebrows and forced her mouth to smile. She felt the dislike hardening her eyes.
“Good evening, Uncle Harold, Aunt Cynthia, so nice to see you both.”
She managed to drawl out the words, trying for Sonia’s mocking tone, and turned her back on them as Peter reached for the heavy decanter.
“Sherry, Sonia?” It was an order rather than a question.
Melissa held out her hand for the glass, and stood beside him. She was grateful for his solid, reassuring presence. There was a startled, respectful look in his eyes as he watched her.
Pamela moved closer, and also watched her, with a puzzled look on her face. Peter poured her out a glass of sherry, and took over a glass of whisky to Uncle Harold.
“Decided to come after all, my pet?” Pamela’s voice was low and husky, but there was no denying the venom in it.
Someone else who didn’t like Sonia, Melissa decided, trying not to shiver. “Why not,” she answered with a shrug.
It was a very French shrug, and it belonged to Sonia. It was the first time Melissa had ever attempted it. It must have been successful, for the puzzled expression vanished, and hate sprang up in the sharp green eyes.
“You fool! Do you think that you can get around Grandmother this time?” Pamela’s red mouth curled, and her long lashes came down over the alert eyes. Like a cat, thought Melissa, a hateful demure cat, with claws neatly tucked away.
“Another glass, Sonia my love,” drawled Peter.
Melissa relaxed with a small sigh. No wonder Sonia was so reluctant to face these relatives who hated her so bitterly.
“I was just saying to Sonia, it is a good time to talk business. It is so rarely we are all together at once,” Pamela said.
Melissa took a sip of her drink, and shrugged again. “Who’s interested in business?”
Uncle Harold stood up, still holding his glass, and cleared his throat. “Our little Sonia is always prepared to take her share of the profits though,” he sneered.
“Just a nice, informal little meeting of directors,” Pamela suggested.
“Not over dinner,” Peter interrupted curtly.
Even as he spoke, a very old man dressed in rusty black shuffled in and opened the doors to the dining room.
“It’s served,” he announced.
Peter put a warm hand on Melissa’s elbow and steered her through into the dining room.
It was large and gloomy, despite the fire, with the table set up with ornate silver and flickering candles. The old man gave Melissa a disapproving glance out of watery eyes, and shuffled over to the sideboard to where the hot dishes waited.
“We could discuss the new equipment after dinner,” Aunt Cynthia suggested. She sat down, fussing with her serviette and shot a sharp glance at Melissa as she spoke.
Once again, Melissa felt panic grip her. What should she do now? From a long way off, she remembered Sonia’s inevitable charm for warding off unpleasantness. She tilted her chin up and smiled.
“We can discuss it later,” she recited.
There was a concerted sigh from the three Davenports, and then silence. Perhaps they, too, had often heard Sonia come out with that very bland but annoying phrase. The old man served them and they ate. Peter kept up an urbane conversation on trivialities; the weather, the state of the park, the alterations that had been done to the garden.
There was a big high-backed chair at one end of the table. Melissa kept glancing at it.
Pamela caught her eye.
“Going up to see Grandmother this evening, Darling?”
“Of course.”
So the big chair belonged to Grandmother. Odd how her personality lingered, dominating the table.
“Sure of your welcome, Darling? Last time you got barred from the family presence.” There was an undercurrent of malice in Pamela’s voice.
Peter broke in smoothly, his voice dry and practical. “Of course, she will pay her respects. That is why she made the trip down. How long have you had the new car?”
Pamela was diverted, and started to sing the praises of her new car. The conversation continued more smoothly on to mutual friends and places. Melissa toyed with her food.
Peter said Sonia ignored her relatives, so perhaps her silence wouldn’t arouse comment.
She realized with a fresh chill that if she tried to join in the conversation, her complete ignorance of people and places would mark her as an imposter.
Once again, she thought how stupid she had been to agree to Peter’s desperate idea of passing her off as Sonia. She wasn’t the stuff imposters were made of. She lacked the iron nerve and quick wits necessary for success.
She said as much to Peter when he ushered her out of the dining-room and on to the terrace, whisking her away from the dinner-table almost before the others had pushed their chairs back.
“Nonsense!” he replied. “You are the most remarkably quick-witted girl I have met for years. You are doing a marvelous job.”
Melissa flushed with pleasure, thankful for the concealing darkness. The genuine admiration in his voice was very flattering.
“I think you must be a very accomplished actress. Your way of drawling and that way yo
u shrugged your shoulders, was Sonia to the life.”
“I have lived with her for quite a long time now,” she explained. She shivered suddenly, aware of the lack of warmth in the velvet dress.
“You should have a wrap,” Peter said. “Only we won’t risk going back to get one.”
He slipped off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. With one arm on her elbow, he walked her down the curving shallow steps that led to the garden. Melissa paused. The path wound down in the faint light, to vanish in the blackness of the shrubbery.
“Shouldn’t we go back inside?”
“And have Uncle Harold carry on about the expensive safety equipment I want put in? If you are forced into voting, and the imposture comes out, the fat will really be in the fire.”
Melissa started, missed her step and stumbled. Peter held her firmly. “This is a lot safer.”
“If you say so,” she agreed meekly. Suddenly the humor of the situation struck her. Her dimple appeared, and her lips curved up into a smile. “Do we really have to grope around in this pitch-black garden all night just to avoid the Davenports?”
In the faint light Peter saw the dimple and laughed in sympathy. It was a carefree, spontaneous laugh, that didn’t belong with the jutting jaw and compressed lips of the man she had only met this morning.
“Much safer.”
He led her around the dense shrubbery and down some more steps. They reached a cleared paved space on the edge of the cliff. The coastline spread below; the moonlight glinting on waves that murmured as they rolled into the small bay to break on the dark sands.
“You can’t see it tonight,” Peter explained. “But there is quite a safe path leading down to the old boathouse.”
Melissa looked around and spotted a stone bench. She sat down, huddling Peter’s coat more closely around her shoulders. It was a magnificent view, but the wind was cold. Peter strolled over to sit beside her.
“Grandmother loved her garden and this view. She spent years working and planning it.”
“Is she very sick?”
Peter shrugged. “She has a bad heart, and she is nearly eighty. She is staying alive through sheer will-power.”
The Lonely Heart Page 2
