Musical hats were played in a while by the children who had been allowed out of bed, one of the nurses having provided a record player and several lively records. Someone else had collected together an assortment of hats, including a bowler, which was picked for elimination purposes. Each time the music stopped the child wearing the bowler had to drop out.
The fun was swinging along with the children marching round to the music and passing the hats from head to head, when the little girl on whose bed Madeline was sitting broke into dimples and excitedly waved her windmill at someone near the entrance. Madeline didn’t have to look round, the ac-celeration of her pulses told her who had just stepped through the batwing doors. Out of the edge of her eye she saw the dazzle of a snowy jacket. She slanted him a conventional smile, which he returned, then he was bending over the little girl and accepting a jelly-baby out of the bag in her hand. Was Sophie enjoying the party? Ah, so she had had strawberries and cream? How delicious !
Madeline listened to his deep, soft Latin voice, consumed by a tenderness that was unmistakable. She loved him! She felt she wanted to die of it, for it was a love he would never return.
The shock waves of realization were still sweeping through her when Victor glanced towards her. “I have just seen Van Cleef,” he said. “He is to accompany Amalia and yourself to Mazagan, is he not?”
She nodded. Her composure was dangerously shaken, but she had herself in hand. “Amalia needs a break after that nasty bout of malaria, and I’m looking forward to the trip myself.
Now Brooke’s ankle has mended we’ll be able to swim together and do a bit of exploring.”
Her bright, anticipatory voice was incredible in the circum-stances, for she was racked by pain at the thought of not seeing Victor for a month. Her heart yearned for him as she took in his crisp brown hair, startling topaz eyes, and those firm, well-cut lips that had felt so warm when they had pressed her wrist. Sparks flew up her spine, and almost immediately heat from them spread over her skin in case he had pierced her mind in his disconcerting way. For one wild moment she had imagined herself in his arms, his mouth stealing across her cheek to her lips… .
“I am sure you will like Mazagan.” He held Sophie’s tiny, sticky hand and smiled upon Madeline with aloof friendliness.
“I wish you a happy time there, Miss Page.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
It was with a sense of relief that she eventually saw Brooke stroll into the ward. He was still walking a trifle gingerly, but this didn’t stop him from playing tail-on-the-donkey. His blindfold couldn’t have been all that secure, for he soon found his way to Madeline and triumphantly tailed her.
She joined in the games, sang songs with the children, and succeeded in looking carefree. But she knew when Victor left the ward; it was as though the sun went behind a cloud, leaving her cold and dismal.
The following day they left for Mazagan, starting their journey just after four o’clock when the desert had grown cooler.
Brooke drove them in his smart cream and biscuit-coloured convertible. It was speedy as a hare, but in deference to his aunt he maintained a steady pace, chatting all the while to Madeline and seemingly oblivious of the fact that she did more listening than conversing.
Louise, who came with them, had brought sandwiches in a cool-pack so they kept fresh, along with a large Thermos of coffee and a couple of cans of beer for Brooke. They pic-nicked by the roadside in the dusky coolness, counting the stars as they appeared in the sky, and breathing the spicy tang that rose out of the sun cracks that were now filling with dew.
The desert seemed to wear a grey chiffon over it, which was pricked here and there by the lights of nomadic tents. A goat boy wandered by followed by his flock, piping a plaintive tune on a flute and looking as though he had not a care in the world Brooke went after him with the remainder of their sandwiches and a chocolate bar. He came back smiling. “I wonder how many boys from our part of the world would thank me so graciously for a couple of ham sandwiches. Some of these people have the manners of princes.”
“Henry used to say that,” Amalia murmured. “They have so little of what we term the necessities, but the grace that God gave to man survives in them while we have lost it. We worship mechanical idols and follow ambition, and consequently we’re a lesser people than we were. Such a pity !”
They returned to the car and just under an hour later were swooping into the forecourt of the Hotel Marhaba.
The entrance was impressive and flanked by marbled columns, with uniformed porters who sprang to hold open the glass doors and to collect their baggage from the boot of the convertible, which would then be driven round to the hotel garage. They filled in visitor’s forms at the marble reception desk, then crossed a sea of aquamarine carpet to the lift, which was operated by a chocolate-coloured boy in livery.
“We’ll see you in the restaurant in half an hour, Brooke,”
Amalia said to her nephew, whose room was on the floor above her own suite and Madeline’s room. Louise was to sleep in the dressing-room of her mistress’s suite, an arrangement agreeable to both, for Amalia had been sleeping rather restlessly since her bout of malaria, and Louise, a treasure if ever there was one, liked to be on hand to quieten her nerves with cocoa and maybe a chapter or two of a romantic novel.
Madeline’s room was seaward-looking, with a double bed swathed in netting, whitewood furniture, lambswool rugs, and long glass doors opening on to a balcony deep in tubbed flowers and shaded by an awning. A siesta lounge and a palmwood table awaited her pleasure under the awning, while pale green jalousies were controlled from inside her bedroom in case she preferred to take her siesta on her bed. The luxury of the place, with its adjoining shower and bidet, left her stone cold. Maybe the Madeline she had been when she had first come to Morocco might have been impressed, but a subtle change had taken place within her; gone forever was the girl who had worked for a glossy magazine, who had thought it a bit of a thrill to live in a Moroccan villa for a few months and help compile a biography. Such a life now seemed empty to her.
A maid came in to unpack her belongings. Madeline indicated that she leave out a cream silk dress patterned with a Gauguin design of tropical flowers, then she showered, returned to her bedroom to don the dress and apply a dash of carmine lipstick. It went well with her tan and the sleek fall of her golden hair. She looked in a holiday mood if she didn’t feel in one.
She shook her head at her reflection. “Snap out of the blues, my girl!” she ordered. “You owe Amalia some return for her generosity in providing you with this holiday, so pull up ! Take it like a narcotic and think about your future when the holiday ends.”
The restaurant had a Continental atmosphere, and Amalia was soon hailed by several of the wealthy Americans either staying here or dining with friends. A couple of the younger men at the tables gave Madeline the eye, and she couldn’t quite suppress a smile as she felt Brooke’s fingers close on her elbow as they proceeded to their table. An arrangement of hibiscus stood on it, while it was within range of the orchestra without being submerged by the music. There was a dance floor and men in tropical dining kit partnered women in cool chiffon or backless silk.
A waiter appeared with menus, and Madeline, with no real edge to her appetite this evening, had some Cantaloupe melon, then fried chicken with peas and baby potatoes, followed by a pancake. Amalia ordered a Perrier-Jouet champagne, her glance resting rather thoughtfully on Madeline as the wine waiter cradled the champagne bottle in a napkin and popped the cork. The golden wine frothed into stemmed goblets, the bubbles catching little brilliant points of light from the overhead lights.
“Here’s to a swell holiday for all three of us,” Brooke said, raising his glass to his aunt, then to Madeline. “Cheers !”
After dinner they went into the cocktail lounge, where they were joined by friends of Amalia’s, including the Harringtons, part of the Long Island society to which Amalia and her husband had belonged. The couple had a yacht
, the Swordfish, which was moored in the yacht basin, and after everyone had settled with their drinks and cigars had been lit up, Harman Harrington informed Amalia that they planned a short cruise in a few days’ time and maybe she and her nephew, along with his “pretty girl”, would join the party?
“What do you say, children?” she enquired benignly, taking a sip at her pineapple cocktail and looking not unlike Paula Harrington, who also had tinted, shingled hair, Cartier pearls around her throat, and that warm air of sociability that was one of the nicest things about Americans. She beamed upon I Madeline, seated beside Brooke on a lounger; his arm lay along the back of it and the tips of his fingers just touched her shoul-c der.
“I’m sure you two young people would love to come cruising with us,” she said. “There’s nothing more romantic than the deck of a boat when the moon is full.”
“Now, now, Polly !” Harman Harrington waggled his cigar at his wife and quirked his grey moustache in a jovial smile.
“None of your matchmaking. I know it’s one of your favourite pastimes, but you’ve got to remember this little girl here is a Britisher and they’re kind of reserved when it comes to romance.”
Having said this, he gave the ice in his bourbon a tinkle and winked at Madeline.
There was a delusive, champagne gaiety in the smile she gave back. “The cruise should be fun,” she heard herself reply.
But when Brooke’s warm hand cupped her shoulder, a dart of panic ran through her. Oh, why had she said she would go?
She had better back out again plead a tendency to sea-sickness, for these people obviously thought she was going steady with Brooke, and she didn’t want to hurt him in any way.
She was about to plunge into a white lie, when one of the other women leant forward and said : “I do like your dress, my dear. That lovely, simple line blended with that perfectly cute design is surely Maison Fleur? No? Well, you could have fooled me. I always shop at Maison Fleur on the Rue Saint Florentin when I’m in Paris. What a city enchantant! Greg and I always stay at the Georges Cinq, where I promise you the most interesting people put up. Then there’s the Crillon Bar. Brooke,” the petite brunette shifted her mink stole and swung a look at him, “you must know it well, being on the sidelines of journalism?”
“Sure, I know the Crillon,” he smiled. “And I might add that I don’t expect to hover on the sidelines of journalism very much longer. I’m thinking of plunging right in … for the best of reasons.”
Madeline’s heart fluttered at the implication behind his words, relieved when Harman Harrington said to him : “Come on, you young dog, join me and the other boys in the card-room for some poker. I’m sure the girls want to talk secrets, and if I partner Greg here you can double up with Les and we’ll have ourselves a bit of fun.”
“Yes, run away, you men,” said the brunette with ‘mad about clothes’ written all over her. “Only don’t drink too much bourbon, Greg. You know you’ll have dyspepsia all day tomorrow, and we’re doing a tour of Azzemour.”
“See you early tomorrow for a swim,” Brooke said close to Madeline’s ear, then the men cut loose, the broad one with reckless eyes, Greg Annderson, beckoned a waiter in passing and obviously put in an order for the bourbon he had been told to go easy on.
“Let me warn you now, honey,” Lilane Annderson pressed a jewelled hand down on Madeline’s slim, tanned arm, “men are just big boys. Humour Brooke, smile at his jokes they’ll probably be as awful as Greg’s and see he gets regular meals.
That way you’ll keep him happy.”
“W-we aren’t engaged,” Madeline stammered, looking and feeling rather trapped.
“Well, don’t let that worry you,” Lilane laughed indulgently. “Anyone can see you’ve got him hooked. Nice guy, Brooke. Got a dash of the devil in him Amalia knows that
but wild colts make the best long runners. I should know.
Greg’s got a stable and we dabble in racing.”
An hour later Lilane, who had done most of the talking, glanced at her wristwatch, a lovely JaegerLe Coultre, then rose to her feet. “I’m going to prise Greg away from that game, otherwise we’ll never get to Azzemour in the morning.
Good night, girls !”
“I think we’ll go up now,” Amalia decided.
“Don’t forget about the cruise,” Paula Harrington said when the lift settled to let her out. “We’re off on Thursday.”
Madeline said good night to Amalia at the door of her suite, then went into her own room. She put on a lamp and for a long while she sat on the bench in front of the toilet-table and stared into her own faintly shadowed eyes. Brooke’s a nice guy ! The words echoed through her mind, while something else haunted her heart. The way Victor had walked from the children’s ward yesterday afternoon, not looking back, not car-ing that she was coming here with Brooke.
She sank her face on to her arms, and love that should have been a thing of joy in her was a fierce, rebellious pain.
Then her head shot up. Fingers had tapped lightly on her door, and when she opened it she found herself face to face with Brooke. He leant against the jamb and pushed a hand through his chestnut hair. “Hullo !” he said.
“Shouldn’t you be saying good night?” she asked, glad the light in the corridor was fairly dim and that he couldn’t see fully the ravages wrought by that half hour of torment she had just gone through.
“ ‘Good night, good night, parting is such sweet sorrow,’ ”
he murmured smilingly. “I just came to remind you of our swimming date in the morning. Afterwards we could find a seashore restaurant and lunch together, then go and take snaps of each other on the battlements of the old Mazagan castle.
How does that programme strike you?”
“Sounds good to me.” She stood slim in the doorway, not resisting his arms as they came round her and drew her close to his white tuxedo.
“One kiss, then I’ll go,” he whispered. His lips touched her cheekbone, lingered a little longer on her mouth. “I love you.
Sleep on it, sweetheart.” He strode away with these words and went running up the stairs at the bend of the quiet, carpeted corridor.
CHAPTER IX
MADELINE slept the deep sleep of the mentally exhausted and awoke at six to the tinkle of the alarm she had set on her travelling clock. She knew without being told that Brooke would take coffee to the beach, and having looked over her balcony at the Atlantic, which vibrated blue and silver under the early sunshine, she splashed her face with cold water, slipped into the camellia-pink bathing suit she had bought in Marrakesh, and swung over it a white towelling poncho that left her legs long and honey-smooth beneath its short hem. She threw into her beach bag a petalled swim-cap, sun-specs with white frames that matched her bareback sandals, and a striped towel.
A few bars of “Deep Purple” were whistled below her balcony, and feeling almost desperately carefree, she hurried out of her room, took the stairs to the almost deserted foyer, and joined Brooke. He was freshly shaved, white-shined, athletic and trim. “Hi, beautiful !” His kiss had scored a direct hit on the tip of her nose before she could step back. His eyes twinkled as he showed her a Thermos. “Good old Louise,” he said.
The tangy Atlantic breezes ruffled their hair as they strolled through the hotel gardens to the cliffs that led down to the sea. Rust bougainvillea lay in swathes over low walls, balls of red-gold peeped through the dark glossy leaves of globular orange trees, while the bright flames of red-hot pokers licked upwards towards hedges of pendulous white lilies. The lawns were kept green by sprinklers, already shafting sprays of silvery water, and here and there stood circular teak tables shaded by coloured parasols in readiness for guests who liked to breakfast outdoors.
They followed the soft boom of waves and the tang of seaweed and soon found the stepped path that led down to a golden beach, deserted but for several graceful white egrets.
“Good, we’ve got the place to ourselves,” Brooke exulted, toss
ing down his towel and burying the coffee flask in the feathery sand. Madeline’s towel joined his, and after she had scooped her hair into her swim-cap she ran down the beach, leaving Brooke to flip off his shirt and slacks under which he had on his trunks. She gasped as the icy, sapphire sea en-closed her, then swam out quickly to get her circulation going, skimming down and around with the effortless grace of the good swimmer, then coming up for a breather. She glanced round and trod water. Where was Brooke?
Then a laughing gasp escaped her. Something long and sleek had dived up from among the rocks and mischievous hands had grabbed her ankles. Down the pair of them went, sporting like fish, then doing the back-hand crawl side by side to the beach. They ran to their towels and rubbed down briskly. Madeline tingled with the enjoyment of their swim, tossing off her cap and combing her fingers through her hair, her bare toes deep in the sand. Her damp suit clung to the proud young curves of her body, and Brooke smiled and began to pour coffee into a pair of orange plastic cups.
“Great, wasn’t it ! ” he said, handing her one of the cups as she sat down beside him.
“Marvellous ! Thanks, Brooke.” She sipped the hot coffee, holding her cup with both hands, blue eyes forgetful for a while.
Far out a yacht cut through the liquid shimmer of the sea, while the boom-boom of those cascades of silver-blue were soothing as a deep heartbeat close to one. “This must be a swell place for surf-riding,” Brooke remarked, long, hard legs drawn up in front of him, the sun burnishing his chestnut hair, which was a deeper shade on his chest.
“Have you ever done any ?” she asked.
“Sure, at San Onofre in California. It’s wild. You paddle out on a surfboard, wait for a really big swell, then start to move with it. You can do from thirty to forty miles an hour, and when you go down that wall of roaring water wow !
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