stay and talk to me while I eat.”
Madeline sat down on the chaise-longue and pleated a fold of her skirt. She had to tell Amalia about Victor’s invitation, and it was really silly that she distrusted her voice. When her employer licked a buttery forefinger in a rather speculative fashion, she hurried on : “Dr. Tourelle’s included in the invitation, and he’ll be driving me to Jezara tomorrow evening.
I said I’d go. I knew you wouldn’t mind, Amalia.”
“Far from it, dear child.” Amalia beamed across fondly at the slender figure in a sleek tan skirt and white pin-tucked blouse. “A daughter couldn’t have done more for me than you’ve done this past week sitting up with me and blotting me dry each time I had one of those darned rigors. A drive to Jezara and dinner with some interesting strangers will make a nice break for you. Will you be dressing up for the occasion?”
Madeline was thankful Amalia had chosen this topic, for she didn’t want to talk about Victor. She hardly knew at the moment how she was going to behave towards him when they met tomorrow; she only knew that she shrank from encourag-ing the cordiality that was like playing with a tiger. His purrs were no guarantee that he wouldn’t bite.
“I have a rather nice blue dress. I think I shall wear that,”
she replied.
“What about a wrap, honey?” Amalia asked. “There’s the drive home, remember, and the desert’s always cold once the heat of the sun has died away.”
Madeline mentioned a velvet stole, but Amalia said at once that it wouldn’t be warm enough. She pointed to the cedarwood fur closet at the other side of her bedroom and insisted that Madeline sort around in there for something. “That white fox cape is real pretty and much too youthfully styled for me … try it on, honey. There, it looks a picture ! Pull the collar up about your face and take a look at yourself in the mirror.”
Madeline obliged more or less to please Amalia, but there was no denying the fact that the cape was a beauty, hugging her in its snowy luxury and intensifying the blue of her eyes.
“I suppose if I suggested you keep the cape, you’d turn all British and independent on me?” Amalia chuckled.
Madeline smiled an agreement. “I’ll borrow it with pleasure. It’s gorgeous, and these people are rather important, aren’t they?”
“Very much so.” Amalia pressed the bedside bell for her lunch tray to be taken away. “Now Morocco’s an independent country its administrators are people to whom we owe respect and courtesy. The Sheikh Raschid is also an extremely well-bred and educated man, and you’ll find that he and his wife live in quite a European-style. I’m sure you’ll enjoy meeting them. It will also do Victor good to relax for a few hours.
That young man works far too hard … he reminds me of my Henry ! Not in appearance, I don’t mean, but in several other respects.”
Madeline was replacing the white fox cape, and hearing a servant come in for the lunch tray she hoped this would divert Amalia.
The bedroom door closed and Madeline spun round.
“Would you like me to read to you for a while, Amalia?” she asked. “There was a copy of the Woman’s Companion in the post this morning and I noticed a new serial has just started.
The story looks like being a good one.”
Amalia wasn’t in the mood, however, for fictional sentiment. She reached over to her bedside table for the leather-encased photograph that always stood there and scanned her husband’s thin, sensitive face. “Henry and I were cousins. We knew each other almost from our cribs,” she said softly. “He was a dear, but so very obstinate. Obstinate men are the devil, but if Donette gets her hooks into our doctor she may succeed in planting him in a fashionable eye practice in Paris, where he’ll maybe ease up on the amount of work he puts in.”
Madeline drifted to the long windows overlooking the garden where bright birds flitted across the lawns, looking like flowers in the grass. Victor, oozing charm in a fashionable practice, was an impossible picture, but Donette might yet succeed in landing him … he wasn’t always the cool and imperturbable doctor with only work on his mind; like other men he had his vulnerable moments. A picture sprang into Madeline’s mind of how it would have been had he caught Donette on that sun-hot path yesterday. The hard pain of his hands would have brought a husky little murmur out of her throat, and something far removed from mockery would have flared in his tawny eyes.
In a while Amalia drifted off to sleep, and Madeline decided to wash her hair. She always used a shampoo perfumed with meadowsweet, and as she lathered her hair in her bathroom she breathed England and was filled with nostalgia.
Right at this moment Dad was probably in one of his beloved greenhouses potting seedlings while Aunt Cissie would be bustling about in the house, whisking cakes into the oven and telling the dog to get out from under her feet.
Madeline towelled her hair for a minute or so, then she decided to let it dry in the sun on the terrace. Installed comfortably in a cane lounger, it was inevitable her thoughts should drift homewards again.
Then she tensed as a slim, vivid figure stepped through the glass doors of the salon and strolled to where Madeline lay drying her hair. Donette glittered a smile and leant against the parapet with all the casual elegance of a model. Her butter-milk dress was exquisitely simple and her shoes were high-heeled. Her sleek, stroked look was indicative of who had given her lunch that day.
“Do you always wash your own hair ?” She raised her slender eyebrows at Madeline. “Ciel, I could not bear the mess and the bother of it. You set it yourself as well, eh ?”
“My style is a fairly simple one.” Madeline managed a fairly friendly smile. “And I’m afraid I haven’t the kind of hair that retains elaborate sets. On me they’re a waste of money.”
Donette’s nail varnish caught the sun as she touched a hand to her own dusky hair, which could be piled, looped, and coaxed into a dozen different styles, all of them capable of adding to her provocative looks.
“You are beautifying yourself for tomorrow evening, yes ?”
She smiled, but her eyes were hard. “What a bore to dine with a pair of Moroccans, who are not permitted to drink wine.”
Madeline almost flashed back that she would find it boring to mix with Raoul Lestrade’s slick, brittle crowd, but such a retort might have sparked off a quarrel, and she didn’t want Amalia upset. It was better to take Donette’s little digs in silence; as she had been expecting one or two today she was fairly armoured against them.
“Over luncheon at the Mamounia, Victor was telling me that it is diplomatic for him to accept these occasional dinner invitations. I think he would have preferred Max to have ful-filled the engagement. At least,” Donette drooped her tinted eyelids, “that was the impression I received.”
Miaow, Madeline thought. By all means paint a picture of Victor lifting his shoulders in a Latin shrug. Such an annoyance that he was obliged to escort l’anglaise to this dinner at Jezara. Il taut vraiment! A smile flickering on his lips, maybe a light touch of his fingers on Donette’s wrist, which carried as always the gold slave bangle. Late the other night, awakened by a stir in her aunt’s room, she had appeared in floating black nylon, that bangle still glinting on her wrist.
Beyond the terrace the cypresses speared a sky which had deepened to a rather steely blue. The palm leaves clapped in a restless way and Madeline wondered if it was going to rain.
Donette followed her glance to the sky. “The weather bureau has predicted a storm,” she purred. “It will cool the air, but there is no telling when it will start. I do hope it is not saving its fury for your soiree tomorrow. Victor would not chance carrying a car passenger through a storm … and that would be such a disappointment for you, no?”
“Of course it would,” Madeline quietly replied. “I’m looking forward a great deal to meeting Tahar’s parents.”
“There are no other aspects of the evening to which you are looking forward ?”
The question flicked at the temper Madeli
ne was determined to control. Like many quiet people she was capable of being roused to stormy emotion, and Donette would revel in a spat with her. It wasn’t only that the other girl’s immaturity fed on dramas, with herself as the central figure, but Madeline knew she wanted a showdown concerning Victor. She wanted the satisfaction of saying he belonged to her.
“Well?” she insisted. “A man like Victor cannot help but make an impression upon people, so do not pretend you are unaffected.”
“Naturally I’m impressed by him,” Madeline admitted.
“He’s a brilliant and dedicated man, and I admire the work he does.”
“I am not referring to his work … and you know it.”
Donette jabbed in the words like snake venom. “Come now, you are not the innocent one my aunt and my cousin like to believe. Your cool looks and air of reserve do not fool me in the least and I am warning you not to get any ideas about Victor!”
“You have no need to issue warnings on that score, Miss Samson.” Madeline swung her legs over the side of the lounger and stood up. Her facial skin had a tight feel. She knew she was pale. “Dr. Tourelle has personally assured me that you have no rivals, and quite frankly it would have suited me to have Dr. Berault’s company tomorrow evening. I find him far more congenial than his compatriot, who is one of the most arrogant men I have ever met in my life.”
“And why should he not be so ?” Donette’s teeth glittered.
“Victor is of the French aristocracy. When his grandpere dies he will be the Comte de Tourelle.”
Donette savoured the title. Marriage with Victor would make her a Comtesse, and even if she failed to get him to Paris she would be in a position to queen it over the European section of Marrakesh. That was the prospect she was in love with, and Madeline turned away quickly and went indoors.
She was crossing the vestibule to the stairs as Brooke came out of the study. He was carrying a wad of quarto sheets secured by a paper-clip, and his eyes lit up when he saw Madeline. “Just the girl I want ! ” He hobbled over to her, taking in with frank appreciation her freshly washed hair and the halter sunsuit she was wearing. “I’d like you to run an eye over my article, Madeline mia. I think you’re going to approve, but don’t be afraid to bowl me out if there’s anything in it you don’t like. Shall we go into the salon?”
“No the study.”
She preceded him. He shut the door behind them with a definite little click, and Madeline didn’t have to look at him to know he was pleased that she had chosen to be alone with him here. The clouding sky outside filled the room with shadows, and Madeline curled into the padded window seat with Brooke’s article. While she read it he smoked a cigarette and lounged against the big desk, an open-necked shirt outside his slacks for coolness. He was down to the butt of his second cigarette when Madeline finally glanced up from the typewrit-ten sheets.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” he demanded.
“It’s first-rate, Brooke.” There wasn’t a shade of doubt in her voice. “I should think you’ll be able to sell this in New York as well as in London. It’s colourful and it grips, and there isn’t a thing in it that needs altering.”
“You really like it, eh?” A flush of pleasure ran up under his tan. “You’re not buttering me up?”
“You don’t need buttering up, my lad.” She came and smilingly laid the article beside him. “You’re a talented writer, and if you’ll take my advice you won’t waste your talent idling about and acting the playboy.”
“Maybe I need the incentive of responsibility.” He stubbed his cigarette, then glanced into Madeline’s eyes. “We’re not in the moonlight now, and there’s no Eastern music playing in a court of velvet shadows, but my heart’s feeling just the same.
More so, for you’rc sweet as a sandy kitten with your hair all fluffed. Honey, come close and let yourself know me a little better.”
But it was he who came close; lean, faintly rakish, a pulse in his throat catching Madeline’s glance. It mystified, that tiny throbbing pulse. It was so alive, an infinitesimal part of the entire man, and yet should it cease to beat … the wonder and terror of life struck through her, leaving her speechless before its implications.
“Your eyes, Madeline !” Brooke’s hands were on her waist.
“Blue as heaven heaven ” He suddenly had her close, locked to him in a kiss that bruised. When it was exhausted she wrenched free of him, storm-clouds in her eyes.
“How dare you kiss me like that ! ” She was furious with him.
“I happen to be crazy about you, that’s why !” His voice was defiant, his eyes dark as jades. “Oh, I know what you want romantic love, tender adoration, all that jazz. Grow up, Madeline ! There isn’t anything very tender about being in love … it’s a cruel and clamouring hunger…
“Oh, hell,” he raked back his hair with unsteady hands, “I’m saying all the wrong things, making the situation worse.
You want an apology for that kiss, huh, then we can be friends again? Friends? A man with a girl like you? Be your age, sweetie.”
“You’re the one who’s acting like an adolescent, Brooke,”
she said coldly. “Being grown up is being in control of your feelings and not inflicting them on people unless they’re wanted.”
“And I take it you don’t want what I happen to feel for you?” he demanded savagely.
“If that demonstration just now was an indication of your feelings, then I can certainly do without them,” she agreed icily. “Maybe I’m a bit square, but I don’t happen to enjoy being pounced on.”
“I didn’t mean to grab you, but it hasn’t been easy these past weeks living in the same house with you, seeing you each day girls who play it cool have more come on than the other sort, whether you know it or not.” Then he shrugged, picked up his article, and flourished it. “Anway, thanks for the nice things you said about this.”
He hobbled from the room, leaving Madeline alone in its shadows. She sank down in the window seat and her hands found the cold comfort of each other. Yesterday it had seemed possible that she might drift into a closer relationship with Brooke, but not on a tide of wild kisses. Despite what he had said, she knew in her bones that romantic love was possible, and she wanted the tender strength of a man who believed in it as well.
The threatening storm built up to a climax the following day. Madeline came out of Amalia’s room as a tongue of lightning licked along the gallery, followed by a snarl of thunder.
As though the lightning had cut a rent in the cloudy sky, down roared the rain, and when Madeline reached the bottom of the stairs Brooke was coming out of the salon. He had been on the terrace and his slacks were peppered with rain spots, while his silk shirt clung wetly to him. “That lot caught me on the hop,” he laughed ruefully. “I hate feeling tacky and I’m going up to change.”
As he passed Madeline he skimmed a look over her face.
“You’re pale ! ” His grin petered out. “Scared of storms, honey ?”
“Not particularly ”
“Still furious with me?”
“No. I don’t bear grudges.”
“Sweet of you!” He gave a derisive grin, then made his way upstairs, one hand holding the wrought-iron balustrade, the other swinging a transistor radio, which crackled with static.
The storm vented its fury for over two hours, snatching petals from the flowers in the garden, turning the sanded paths to red streams, and whipping the crests of the palms back and forth until their metallic leaves almost whined. Madeline did some typing for Amalia, sat through a bickering lunch with Donette and Brooke, and finally escaped to her room. She slipped out of her cotton dress and lay in her slip under the mosquito netting of her bed. She closed her eyes and courted a nap, but the rain was still drumming on her balcony and playing on her nerves.
She grabbed a book, while the rain seemed set to go on for hours.
When Madeline’s little travelling clock warned her that it was four o’clo
ck she slid from her bed and went into the bathroom to run herself a tub of warm water. It wasn’t wise in this sort of climate to bath in too-hot water, though the atmosphere was decidedly cooler since that downpour. She crumbled a cologne bath cube and watched the water grow cloudy. She dipped a toe, turned off the tap marked chaud and ran in a little cold.
Ten minutes later she was rubbing down with after-bath cologne, whose cool fragrance clung as she slipped into her lingerie. She rolled web fine nylons on to her slim legs, then she swivelled to face the mirror of the toilet-table. Here in this land of sunshine she had to pamper her skin each night with a moisturizing cream, and though she was acquiring quite a deep tan she was thankful to see that her skin was keeping soft and smooth. She saw her lips twist in a wry smile as she feathered on foundation cream. Had there been any question of her working out here permanently she would no doubt have gradually lost the bloom which she had at present. Yet it wouldn’t really have worried her, were she of use and feeling herself needed.
Face powder flew as she lavishly patted it on, then smoothed it away. She hazed her eyelids lightly with blue shadow, applied a mascara wand to her lashes, and coloured her lips rose-amaranth. The ritual of making-up helped her to maintain a mood of calmness, and after she had arranged her hair in a soft, upswept style and lightly sprayed it, she put on her dress an ice-blue georgette tunic over a wild silk sheath the exact colour of her eyes.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. The fairness of her hair, combined with the glow of her mouth and her eyes, were a striking contrast to her peachy tan. Her dress was perfect. Everyone especially Donette would think she had taken special pains to look her best.
She slipped into blue shoes with slender heels, and added a pair of amethyst clips to her ear-lobes. Her father had given them to her when she was eighteen. “Eyes of blue, always true,” he had smiled.
Madeline applied skin perfume and dared a second glance at her blue and mimosa reflection. Calmness was evaporating, and she wished wildly that when she went downstairs she would find Max awaiting her. He would smile, lightly kiss her wrist, and apologize charmingly for coming in Victor’s place. “There was an emergency,” he would say. “Victor could not get away, so, voila, I am here ! ”
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