by Anne Weale
"Oh, really, this is too much!" Joanna began impatiently. "I'm too tired to———"
"No, you're not. You're scared," he cut in briskly.
She gaped at him. "Scared?" she repeated blankly. "Why on earth should I be scared?"
"I'm not sure." He leaned against the arm of the sofa. "The most obvious reason is that you're expecting some retribution for your antics earlier on.'"
Joanna swallowed. "If we must have a'tête-à-tête at this hour perhaps I could have a cigarette," she said frigidly, slipping off Neal's jacket and laying it over a chair.
Charles raised his eyebrows a fraction, but he didn't comment. By a supreme effort of will, she managed to keep her hand steady as he held the lighter for her.
"Thank you," she said coolly, and sat down with her back to the light.
"Now don't say 'What antics?' " he went on. "Because you know very well what antics."
"I suppose you mean my singing — though it's not a very flattering way to refer to it," Joanna said airily. "You can hardly blame me for that, Charles. It was Neal's idea."
"But you don't deny that you were trying to shock us?"
"No, I don't deny it. Why should I? Since I've waived my fee for this visit, I feel justified in behaving as I please — within reason. I don't think it upset Grandmother."
"On the contrary, she was highly amused," he conceded.
"But you weren't, I gather?"
"I didn't say that. I thought you did the second number very well. Tell me, does your heart always speed up to that extent when you're working?"
Joanna drew carefully on the cigarette, and wondered how people could make a habit of smoking when it tasted so acrid and unpleasant. "I don't follow you."
"I took your pulse," he said mockingly. "It was phenomenal."
She flushed. "Probably because your grip was cutting off my circulation."
"Oh, surely not." He came round the end of the sofa, sat down beside her, and took hold of her hand. "It certainly isn't bruised."
With every instinct urging her to snatch her hand away and jump up, Joanna forced herself to stay motionless. What is the matter with me? she thought wildly.
"Look, I'd like to get to bed," she said at last, when he seemed likely to go on studying her fingers indefinitely. "Can't you come to the point — whatever it is?"
He laid her hand gently on the cushions, and stood up. "I think you're right," he said, in an odd tone. "It is a bit late for a discussion. We'll talk about it tomorrow. You know where the switches to the staircase lights are, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, of course," she exclaimed impatiently. "But — talk about what, Charles ?"
He was already at the french windows. "I'll tell you — tomorrow," he said maddeningly. "Goodnight, Joanna. Sleep tight." And before she could insist on an explanation, he had moved lightly across the terrace and was out of sight.
With mingled curiosity and vexation, Joanna bolted the windows, stubbed out her wasted cigarette, and switched off the lamp. Then she felt her way carefully to the door.
There was enough moonlight in the hall for her to see the staircase without finding the switch. But as her hand touched the newel post, she heard the muted note of an engine starting up, and she paused.
What was it about Charles that made her so hypernatur- ally sensitive to every subtle gradation of tone, every glance and gesture? She was even peculiarly aware of him when they were both talking to other people. It was as if… as if she had become magnetized by the man, so that whenever he was present she was struggling against a… what? Attraction? Oh, no — of course not! If anything, she disliked him. He was too positive, too overbearing, too knowledgeable.
Too much a man, perhaps? The suggestion seemed to come from a small inner voice. Wasn't that why you couldn't jail in love with Yves — because you felt a weakness in him? Yet now that you've met a man who isn't weak, you're half afraid of him?
There was a large orb of polished mahogany topping the newel post. Joanna leaned against the post and rested her hot forehead on the cool surface of the wood. But why am I afraid? she thought distractedly.
Because you know what a man like Charles could do to you, the voice seemed to answer. He could steal your precious detachment, destroy all your plans and ambitions. He could make you fall in love with him.
"No!" Her reaction was so violent that she said the word aloud, startling herself with her own voice. Her heart was thumping again, her mouth dry. He can't — I won't she thought desperately. I don't want to fall in love, not with anyone. I don't want to be dependent.
She was half-way up the stairs when there was a rustling sound in the corridor and the landing light was switched on. Joanna stopped short, blinking. Then Mrs. Durrant appeared at the head of the staircase. She was wearing a blue wool dressing-gown and a thick mesh setting net. There was a film of night cream on her face, and without rouge and with the net stretched across her forehead she looked sallow and plain.
"You!" she exclaimed, in a taut voice. Then, sharply: "Where is Vanessa?"
Joanna climbed the rest of the stairs. "In bed, I should think. Charles said she had gone up."
"But he's only just left. I heard the car."
Joanna nodded. She was too preoccupied with her own emotions to see that there was a suppressed agitation in her aunt's manner, an almost feverish glitter about her eyes.
As Joanna moved to pass her, she shot out a hand and seized the girl's sleeve. "Why did she go to bed? What happened?" she demanded urgently.
"I suppose she was tired," Joanna said vaguely, trying to withdraw her arm. Mrs. Durrant's nails were digging through the silk.
"Of course she wasn't tired!" the older woman snapped impatiently. Her eyes narrowed and gleamed. "You've been with him — alone!" Her voice had a hissing note. "What were you doing down there?"
Joanna edged backwards, repelled. There were beads of moisture bursting through the skin-food on her aunt's nose and chin, and her nostrils were dilated and quivering.
"We weren't doing anything," she said helplessly. "I'd been in the garden with Neal, and then Charles said he wanted to speak to me."
"What about?"
"I don't know yet. It was later than he'd realized, so he said he'd leave it till tomorrow. Hadn't we better go to bed, Aunt Monica? It must be nearly two o'clock."
For one instant, Mrs. Durrant looked so wild and venomous that Joanna expected her to strike her. Then, with a visible effort of will, the woman regained control of herself. She still looked angry and hostile, but her voice, when she spoke, no longer had the rising note of hysteria.
"I hope you haven't disturbed Mother, coming up at this hour," she said frigidly. "This evening was sufficiently taxing for her without your waking her up." And, with that, she wheeled round and disappeared into her room again, leaving Joanna to turn out the lights and go to her own bed in an even more troubled frame of mind.
She was roused the next morning by an insistent tapping on her door. A quick glance at her wristwatch showed that it was nearing quarter to eleven, and with an exclamation of dismay she tumbled out of bed and shrugged on her nylon housecoat.
Opening the door, she found it was Neal who had woken her.
"Sorry if I broke up a good dream," he said cheerfully. "But it's such a marvellous day, I thought we might run over to the coast for a quick bathe. It's only fifteen miles, so we can easily be back by lunch-time. The others have all gone to church."
Joanna pushed back her tumbled hair and blinked. It had been almost dawn before she had finally closed her eyes, and then to sleep only shallowly.
"Oh, Neal—I don't think so," she said wearily. "I feel like death, and anyway I haven't got a swimsuit with me."
"Borrow one of Van's," he suggested.
"No, I couldn't do that—not without asking her first. To be honest, the most I feel up to is a quiet sunbathe in the garden."
"Okay, we'll bask together. Maybe you'll feel more lively after lunch," he agreed equably. "I say,
do you always lock yourself in at night?"
Until he mentioned it, Joanna had forgotten that she had locked the door the night before. And, just now, she had been too dismayed at having overslept to be aware of having to unlock it again.
Now, as she remembered the reason for such an unusual precaution, a wave of embarrassed color suffused her face. "No—not usually," she admitted. "I—I must have done it absent-mindedly."
Her flush and the hint of a stammer made Neal look faintly perplexed. But he made no comment.
"Well, I'll get Alice to rustle up some toast and coffee for you. See you downstairs."
"Neal——— " Joanna hesitated, biting her lip. "Look, why don't you have that bathe?" she said, managing a smile. "As a matter of fact, I've several letters to write, so I could do with a couple of hours alone."
He stared at her searchingly for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, all right, if you don't want me around." he answered shortly. And before she could protest, he had gone off down the corridor.
After she had washed, Joanna put on a sun-top and yellow shorts. She would change into a dress before the others got back from morning service, but in the meantime, shorts were more relaxing—and she certainly needed relaxation at the moment.
Leaving the bedroom, she caught sight of the door-key again and made a wry grimace. It seemed silly now, but last night's scene with her aunt had left her nerves jangling. Long after she had climbed into bed, she hadn't been able to dispel the memory of the malevolent expression which had momentarily contorted Mrs. Durrant's features. And when a board had creaked in the passage, she had been convinced that someone was skulking in the darkness. Nonsense, of course, but then everyone's imagination tended to work overtime in the still small hours. Anyway she had had to lock the door before she could attempt to drop off.
Neal had gone when she went downstairs, and she had a snack breakfast in the kitchen with Alice. Then, with her writing case and the Sunday papers at her elbow, she settled down for a peaceful hour on the terrace.
After ten minutes in the sun, with the scent of roses drifting on the light breeze and the sound of somebody's lawn mower corning from a distance, her eyelids began to droop. Lying full length on the comfortable wicker garden couch, she let herself drift off to sleep.
When she woke up, Charles was sitting nearby with a tall glass of lager in his hand.
"Oh, heavens—what time is it? I've got to change," Joanna exclaimed in alarm. She felt as ir she had been asleep for hours.
"No hurry, it's only just twelve. The others won't be back for an hour yet. They're calling on some friends after church," Charles said easily.
Joanna sat up and smoothed her hair. She wondered how long he had been there, and wished she had a shirt to slip over the scanty sun-top.
But, whatever he had done while she was asleep, Charles was not looking at her now. His dark head was resting against the back of his chair and he was looking up over the tree-tops that screened the bottom of the garden.
"I thought you'd be out with Neal," he said casually, after a silence of several minutes.
"He's gone to the coast for a swim. I felt more like lazing." There was a jug of iced fruit rap on the table now, Joanna discovered. She poured some into a tumbler and jostled the ice-chips for a moment.
"Was the inertia genuine or strategic?" Charles asked lazily.
"Genuine, of course. I didn't sleep too well."
He turned his head and looked at her. "You could have decided to give him a mild set-down."
"Why should I do that? I like Neal—very much."
"I gathered that last night," Charles said dryly. He lit a cigarette. "Were you going to let him kiss you?"
Joanna drew in a breath. "I don't know what you mean," she said flatly.
He sighed. "Look, Joanna, this ploy of hen-witted innocence is wearing pretty thin. You're mulish and sometimes misguided—but you aren't stupid."
"Perhaps you'd prefer it if I told you to mind your own business," she retorted sharply.
He laughed. "Why not, if that's what you mean? But, in this case, it is my business."
"I'd certainly like to know how you work that out," she said acidly. "Since we're both over twenty-one and free agents, whether we kiss or don't kiss seems to be up to us."
"Did you want him to kiss you?" he asked, in an odd tone.
She forced herself to speak casually. "Not specially. But I don't take the view that a kiss must have some tremendous significance. It's often just… something enjoyable."
Charles didn't reply at once.
After a moment, he got up and strolled to the other end of the terrace, then back again. Whatever he was thinking, it was not reflected in his face.
Suddenly, pushing her feet further over, he sat on the end of the lounger. "Don't let Neal's feckiessness mislead you, Joanna," he said abruptly. "Under that gay playboy manner he affects, he's really pretty emotional." 1 Joanna sipped her drink. "While you, Cousin Charles," she said sweetly, "are so superhuman that you have no emotions at all."
Charles's eyes narrowed. "Is that meant to crush my ego—or could it be a challenge?" he enquired softly.
Joanna gasped. "Why, of all the conceited, arrogant !" she began.
He flipped his cigarette into the flower-bed and leaned towards her, his hands gripping the wicker arms of the lounger.
Instinctively, Joanna shrank back against the cushions.
"You surprise me, Cousin Joanna," he said softly, silkily. "I wouldn't have thought you were the type to panic."
Joanna swallowed. "You've an odd sense of humor," she said coldly. "I'm afraid I'm not amused." But although her chin had come up, and she met his eyes, her heart was thudding.
Charles bent a fraction closer. "What makes you think I'm joking ? I may not be as susceptible as young Neal, but I'm not entirely immune to a pretty face. And, as you said just now, a kiss needn't change a relationship. Let's just… enjoy ourselves." His hands shifted to her elbows and drew her towards him.
"Please, Charles—stop baiting me," she said, in a stifled voice.
His eyes mocked her. "You don't have to be coy, sweetheart."
Her fists clenched. "I'm not being coy," she flared hotly. "Will you let me go!"
"Why? Is my touch so repugnant to you?"
Joanna set her teeth. Then, so suddenly that she fell back against the cushions again, Charles let her go. His ears, sharper than hers, must have heard a footfall in the drawing-room. When Alice came through the french windows, he was standing up, finishing his lager.
"Will you be staying to lunch, Mr. Charles?" the maid enquired.
"No, thanks, Alice. But I wouldn't mind another glass of this if you've got some on ice," he said casually.
After she had gone, he lit another cigarette. "I'm sorry about that, Joanna," he said briefly. "I suppose it was unfair to bait you. But at least it proved my theory."
An apology—even if it wasn't made in a particularly penitent tone—was the last thing Joanna had expected.
"Oh, really? What theory?" she asked stiffly.
"That, under the veneer of sophistication, you're a good deal less self-possessed than you'd admit."
Joanna examined her nails. "Perhaps I am," she conceded lightly. "But I don't think your… experiment was very conclusive. I'm fairly used to that sort of behaviour from other men, but naturally didn't expect a pass from you."
His mouth twitched. "It was hardly a pass, d'you think? But anyway, why not from me ?"
Joanna floundered for a moment. "Well… you just don't seem that type," she said awkwardly.
"What type?"
"Oh, heavens — must we discuss it?" she exclaimed, on an exasperated note.
"It might teach you something you don't appear to know," he replied mildly. "Most men are 'that type,' my girl. It's their motives and approach which vary. And even when you're dealing with a proverbially phlegmatic Englishman, you can't just fling out a challenge without getting some reaction," he ad
ded sardonically.
Joanna opened her mouth to deny that she had meant to challenge him. But she had an uncomfortable feeling that he was right, that she had wanted to spark some reaction.
She changed tack. "Aren't you taking a good deal for granted?" she asked crisply. "Or is it inconceivable that any girl should be immune to the fatal Carlyon charm?"
He laughed. "A woman doesn't have to be attracted to a man to want to prove to herself that she has some effect on him. Throwing out lures is a basic feminine instinct."
"Well, at least you concede that you can't dazzle our entire sex," Joanna said negligently. "But I wouldn't rely too heavily on that odd bit of amateur psychology, if I were you. The women in Merefield may be like that, but it isn't universal."
A car approached the house and she got to her feet. "I must change."
"Don't forget we have a date tonight," Charles called, as she reached the french windows.
Joanna looked blank.
"The Drurys invited us to supper, remember? I'll pick you up about seven. No need to dress up." Even at twenty paces she could see the glint of devilment in his eyes. "And afterwards we'll have a nightcap at my place, and I'll show you my… record collection," he tacked on blandly.
* * *
Joanna spent the afternoon talking to her grandmother, Neal had not come in for lunch and she could not help feeling that he was behaving rather childishly, and that there might be an element of truth in Charles's warning to her.
Cathy and Vanessa were playing tennis at a house down the road, and Mrs. Durrant had gone out to tea, so Joanna and Mrs. Carlyon had theirs in the shelter of the arbour.
"Monica doesn't like eating in the open, but I think it's rather fun," Mrs. Carlyon said gaily, after Alice had brought out the big silver tray with its load of pretty china and covered silver warming-dishes.
Eating a hot buttered scone while the old lady adjusted the little three-legged spirit burner, Joanna thought that the relationship between her grandmother and her aunt was more like that of a mischievous little girl and her disciplinarian governess.
"Mm… these are delicious," she said presently, biting into a wafer-thin cucumber sandwich.
