by Anne Weale
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure that I know that myself,” he said with a short laugh. “Are you ready to go? It’s nearly ten, though I daresay Leonie will be late. Punctuality is not one of her virtues. I’m meeting Jacques later.”
“Yes, I’ve only to put my hat on. Justin ... I wish you’d tell me when I irritate you.”
“Why on earth do you say that?”
“If we’re to get on we’ll have to be honest with each other. I do want to be a ... useful wife to you.”
His eyebrows shot up. “A very dutiful sentiment.”
“Don’t laugh at me. I’m serious.”
“I’m sorry.” His black eyes glinted. “The next time you jar my sensitive nerves I’ll send you a memo.”
Then, more seriously, he said, “If I’m boorish at times you must put it down to living alone for rather longer than most men. Otherwise I think we will both be well advised to take life as it comes without checking our progress too often. That won’t always be easy, but it’s the best method.”
As it happened Leonie arrived promptly at ten, looking very attractive in a gray hopsack suit with a turquoise blouse and turban, so Andrea had to hurry.
“We will see you again about six o’clock,” Leonie told Justin as they prepared to leave.
He accompanied them out to her Renault and, bending down to the window on the passenger side, said, “Take care of her, Leonie. Goodbye, little one. Have a good time.”
Then, lifting her hand from the rim of the door, he turned it over and dropped a light kiss on the palm. As they drove off leaving him standing on the hotel steps, Leonie said, “You are fortunate, cherie. Englishmen have very strong characters and they are kind to children and dogs, but, in my experience, they are not at all good lovers. Of course it is preferable to have a husband who is kind and considerate to one who is an expert at love but not kind. But the best of all is a kind man who is also a charming lover. I think Justin is like that. The Spanish blood makes him more romantic than other Englishmen.”
Andrea made a noncommittal sound and was thankful that the heavy traffic made it impossible to pursue the conversation.
She looked back on the first shopping expedition as one of the most pleasurable experiences of her whole life. Her love of beautiful clothes was not, like that of many women, based on vanity. She had a connoisseur’s appreciation of exquisite fabrics, elegant lines and perfect workmanship.
“Is there a better way to spend money than to make yourself beautiful for your husband?” Leonie demanded when Andrea looked guiltily at the pile of packages accumulating in the back of the Renault. “Justin is very rich. A few thousand francs will not ruin him, petite. Ah, if I had your figure I would be the most glamorous woman in Paris.”
She patted her own trim but well-rounded hips and gave a mock sigh of despair. “You are indeed very fortunate. Your husband is handsome, gallant and wealthy. It is the perfect combination.”
Andrea flushed, wondering how Leonie would react if I she knew the truth. They returned to the hotel laden with parcels, and by the time the men arrived the sitting room was strewn with discarded wrapping paper and drifts of pink and blue tissue. At the sight of the confusion Jacques gave an exaggerated groan and warned Justin that he was undoubtedly bankrupt.
Justin studied the swirl of pale green chiffon and lilies of the valley that Andrea had been trying on when they came in.
“Very pretty,” he said. “I can see you enjoyed yourself.” He indicated the disorder of parcels, but this time there was no cutting edge to his tone.
When the Bechets had left Andrea set about clearing up her shopping and Justin had a bath. She was still busy when he brought her an aperitif and stayed to talk.
“How did you get on with Leonie?” he asked.
“Very well, she’s such a friendly person. Actually we were rushing about too fast to talk much. Have they any children? She didn’t mention any.”
“Not now. They had one boy, Charles, but he died two years ago in a polio epidemic and Leonie can’t have any more. Naturally it was a great blow to them, particularly as the child had always been very robust and lively.”
“Oh, how dreadfully sad!” Andrea exclaimed compassionately. “What a good thing I didn’t ask her if she had any.”
“She wouldn’t have minded. Oddly enough, neither of them is embittered. In fact Jacques was telling me today that they are considering adopting a boy. They feel that all the things they would have given their own son shouldn’t be wasted.”
Andrea put the last parcel away and sat down to relax with her drink.
“Do you think there always has to be some flaw in people’s lives?” she asked thoughtfully. “I mean that one can never have everything one wants.”
“It depends what you mean by everything. Most people I have one basic objective—money, power, fame or perhaps love. They want other things as well, but to a lesser degree. Some reach the basic goal, some don’t. Quite a few get what they want and find it isn’t as good as it looked from a distance, or they spend their lives chasing a rainbow without noticing the pot of gold under their noses. It is said that contentment doesn’t come from having all you want, but from making the best of what you have.”
She would have liked to ask him what his own basic objective was, but something held her back.
The days passed with surprising swiftness, and all the time Andrea was discovering unsuspected facets of his character. On their last night in Paris they dined at Maxim’s before going to the opera and then to a nightclub in Montmartre. Unlike the noisy overcrowded “bals” and students’ clubs in St. Germain des Pres, it was a quiet place with tables secluded by high wooden partitions and lighted by candles. As they arrived a girl was leaning against the piano singing a melancholy blues number in a husky contralto, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, her hips undulating in time to the languorous rhythm.
After a light supper they danced. Perhaps it was only as a concession to the intimate atmosphere of the club that Justin held Andrea closer than usual, but she was very conscious of their nearness and the strength of his arm about her. It was after three o’clock when they left and the streets were deserted.
“Are you tired or do you feel like a stroll?” he said.
“I’m not a bit tired.”
It was true. She felt the renewed vitality that comes in the early hours of the morning, and after the close atmosphere of the club, the night air was cool and refreshing.
Justin tucked her hand through his arm and they walked at a leisurely pace, their footsteps echoing in the silence.
“Will you be glad to get home?” he asked, looking down at her in the dimness.
“In some ways. I’m looking forward to showing Jill the things I’ve bought and telling her about the opera and our onion soup breakfast at Les Hailes the other morning and all the other places we’ve seen.”
“So you have enjoyed it?”
“You know I have. It’s been wonderful—like something out of a dream.”
“And now we have to come back to reality,” he said in an odd tone.
He must have felt her stiffen slightly, for he said, “Are you still afraid of me?”
She swallowed. “I’ve never been afraid of you. Why should I?”
“Not consciously, perhaps.” There was a pause before he said, “ ‘Afraid’ may be the wrong word. ‘On guard’ is better. I told you once that we are two of a kind. You’re still not sure of that, are you?”
“I don’t know what you—”
What happened next had a nightmare quality. They were passing a narrow alley when a dark figure suddenly emerged from the shadows and growled something in rapid French. Justin’s arm tensed and he replied in a voice that she had never heard him use before.
The man accosting them snarled a retort and made a threatening movement that was abruptly arrested as Justin’s fist shot out and caught him in the stomach with a force that sent him reeling backward. A moment la
ter the man regained his balance and lurched forward with a snarl of rage, something glinting in his upraised hand.
With a swift movement Justin pushed Andrea behind him and parried the blow. Then the two men were locked together in a violent struggle.
Andrea watched their grappling figures in petrified horror. The tough was shorter than Justin but more heavily built, and for a few ghastly seconds it seemed certain that he must win. But it was over as quickly, as it had begun. There was a howl of pain, a metallic clatter as something hit the curb and the thug crashed backward against the wall and slumped into an inert heap.
“Justin! Are you all right?” Andrea darted forward and clutched his sleeve.
He was breathing hard and swaying slightly, but to her amazement she saw that he was grinning.
“Sorry about that. We ought to have taken a taxi,” he said huskily, raking back his tousled hair.
“But what happened? Why did he attack you like that?” she demanded.
“For money. You sometimes get roughnecks lurking around the clubs in this quarter, hoping to intimidate nervous tourists into handing over their loose change. It’s not as popular a livelihood as it used to be.”
“What are you going to do with him?” she asked, looking distastefully at the huddled bulk on the sidewalk.
“Nothing. I don’t think he’ll try it again for a while,” Justin said calmly. He stopped and picked something up. “I’ll keep this as a souvenir.”
Andrea drew in her breath as she saw the vicious-looking cutthroat razor.
“He might have killed you,” she said in a choked voice.
Not with those gorilla like tactics. Come on, I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night.”
“I suppose you haven’t injured him?” she suggested nervously, remembering the sickening crack as the man’s head hit the wall.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. He wouldn’t be a grave loss to the community.” Justin was grinning again. Then, seeing her face, he put his arm around her shoulders and said gently, “I’m sorry. It can’t have been very amusing for you. If I had thought there was any risk of this happening, I wouldn’t have suggested walking. The fellow will come around presently. They have very thick skulls.”
Five minutes later they were in a taxi and Andrea was recovering from the shock of the incident. It was not until they were back in their room and Justin had poured out two stiff shots of brandy that she noticed he was keeping his right hand in the pocket of his dinner jacket.
“What’s the matter with your hand?”
“Only a scratch.” He tossed the brandy back in one gulp.
“Let me see it,” she said firmly.
Arching an amused eyebrow at her determined tone, he took his hand out of his pocket. He must have wrapped a handkerchief around it when she was not looking. At the sight of the blood seeping through the linen she gave a little cry of distress.
“Why on earth didn’t you say you’d been hurt? Is it very deep?”
“Don’t fuss, child. A small cut won’t kill me,” he said lightly.
“Probably not, but you can’t leave a trail of blood through the hotel. Come into the bathroom and I’ll clean it up for you,” she retorted with some asperity.
Justin allowed himself to be hustled into her bathroom and, making him hold his hand over the basin, she unwrapped the stained handkerchief, biting her lip at the sight of the long gash from knuckle to wrist.
“This ought to be stitched. There’s bound to be a doctor in the hotel or somewhere near. I think we should call one,” she said anxiously.
“Think again,” he said tersely.
Andrea opened her mouth to protest, but his black brows drew together in such a forbidding scowl that she thought better of it and began to administer what first aid was possible with her limited equipment.
“There, that’s the best I can do, so don’t blame me if you get blood poisoning,” she said crisply, pinning the end of the improvised bandage into place.
“No, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” The scowl had gone and there was a glint of laughter in his eyes as he rolled down his shirt sleeve and fumbled with the cuff link.
“I’ll do it.” She pushed his good hand aside and fastened the link.
He watched her clean the basin and wash her hands.
“What would you have done if that chap had beaten me up?”
“I’ve no idea. Run for help, I suppose.”
“Most women would have had hysterics at the outset.”
“Most men would have handed over their wallets. I believe you enjoyed it.”
“It’s a long time since I’ve had a scrap like that. I doubt if you would understand. In spite of civilization, the primitive urge to fight is still pretty strong in most men. Like a woman’s instinct for homemaking and child care.”
“I don’t see how anyone can enjoy violence,” she said with a shiver.
“Would you have preferred me to let him get away with it?”
“No, I suppose not,” she admitted reluctantly. “He deserved to get some of his own medicine. But it was still a hateful thing to happen.”
He explored the deepening bruise on his cheekbone and winced slightly.
“If I have a black eye tomorrow they’ll think you’ve been knocking me about.”
“Let me look.”
With gentle fingertips she touched the place.
“Short of putting a piece of steak on it, I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”
“Never mind. It isn’t the first crack I’ve had.”
He took hold of her wrist and held her hand against his cheek. She could feel the clean-cut line of his jaw, and the roughness of stubble. For a long moment their eyes held, hers concerned, his unreadable. Then he moved her hand so that his lips were against the palm.
The other day when he had kissed her hand, she had taken it as a gesture for Leonie’s benefit. Now they were alone, and the pressure of his mouth sent a faint tremor down her spine. What he had said was true. She was afraid of him. Not so much of his anger or passion but of something in the man himself, some hidden force which she sensed but could not understand.
“Our plane leaves at midday. We’d better get to bed,” he said, letting go of her hand. “Have you an aspirin or something to help you sleep?”
“I will be all right.”
“Thanks for patching me up. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She waited to hear the bedroom door close and then turned to the mirror and stood gazing at her reflection as if to find the answer to her question in the troubled green eyes looking back at her.
They landed at London airport in the early afternoon, and it was while they were driving home that Justin told her that he had arranged for her rooms to be decorated during their absence.
“I hope you’ll approve of my choice,” he said. “Naturally you can make any alterations you want to.” She was surprised and pleased, but could not help wondering why he had not told her earlier and consulted her taste.
Hubbard was waiting to welcome them and said that tea was ready in the library.
“Could it wait for a few minutes? I’d like to see my room,” Andrea said.
“By all means.” Justin led the way upstairs.
He had shown her over the. whole house during their engagement, and she remembered that the large bedroom overlooking the square, which had been unoccupied since his mother’s death, had been decorated in shades of blue, a color that was not one of her favorites and that gave the lofty apartment a chill appearance.
But when Justin opened the double door and stood aside for her to enter, she found that the room was completely changed. Now everything was white and gold with touches of eau-de-nil. The blue rugs on the parquet floor had been replaced with thick white broadloom and the walls were white with gilded moldings. White damask curtains with gold-fringed lambrequins framed the three tall windows; the plain mahogany bed had been removed and in its place, on a low dais,
was a large divan with a head of quilted green satin to match the satin bedspread banded with white lace. Of the former furnishings, only a fine Spanish cabinet of rich Coromandel and a graceful loveseat reupholstered in white velvet remained.
“The bathroom was in most need of doing up. Let’s see what they’ve made of it,” Justin said, before she could comment on these alterations.
She followed him into the adjoining bathroom and saw that the old-fashioned glazed paper on the walls had given place to primrose tiles from floor to ceiling. The bath and basin were black with silver fittings and pale yellow shower curtains, and the cane drying chair was cushioned with vivid turquoise toweling.
Once again Justin gave her no chance to say anything before walking through to the small sitting room that also adjoined the bedroom. Here the white and gold theme was accented by crimson velvet cushions on the white chintz-covered chairs and a red and gold lacquer escritoire.
“There’s supposed to be a hidden compartment in this if you can discover it,” he said. “I hope you like the general effect.”
She shook her head, unable to find adequate words to express her pleasure.
“It’s perfect!” she told him a little breathlessly.
“Good. I would have discussed it with you before the wedding, but I thought you had quite enough to do as it was.”
“Did Madeline help you?”
“No. I told the decorators what I wanted and they submitted sketches. I had a rough idea of the type of thing you liked. They wanted a lot of frills and flounces, but I didn’t think them in character.”
“Oh, no. I hate pretty-pretty rooms. It’s terribly kind of you to take so much trouble.”
“Not at all. It’s one of my responsibilities to see that you are comfortable,” he said smoothly. “Now shall we go down?”
Somewhat deflated by his detached attitude, she said she would come down in a moment or two. When he had gone, she washed her hands and renewed her lipstick. There was a bottle of bath oil and a drum of talcum powder on the glass shelf above the basin. Both were her favorite brand. Was this coincidence, or had Justin asked Jill’s help in choosing them?
