"Don't wait for me," she said carelessly. "You go back to the others. I will join you when I am ready."
On her way back to the saloon, Justine passed the open doorway of what appeared to be a small library. The walls were lined with closely packed shelves of books, and the only pieces of furniture were two or three deep leather chairs, and a table strewn with periodicals and French newspapers.
To Justine, books were like a flame to a moth. The open door, the lamp left alight on the table, the rows of coloured bindings were a lure she could not resist. Stepping across the threshold, she began to walk round the shelves, reading the titles. Presently, unable to decipher the faded gold lettering on one volume, she took it from its place and opened it
It was a calf-bound edition of Chamfort's Maxlmes et Pensées. She turned the pages, scanning a line here and there, she came upon a sentence which made her pause and murmur the words aloud.
"La plus perdue de toutes les journées est celle oú l'on n'a pas ri."
"The most wasted of days is that on which one has not laughed," someone translated, from behind her.
Turning with a start, for there had been no sound to warn her of his approach, she saw David Cassano watching her from the doorway.
"I—I hope you don't mind my coming in here," she said awkwardly. "The door was open and I saw all these books, and I couldn't resist having a look at them."
"Why should I mind?" he asked pleasantly.
"Well . . . perhaps it wasn't very polite of me."
"On the contrary, I am glad to find you here. I want to talk to you," he answered.
"Oh? What about?" she asked nervously. Instead of enlightening her, he came across and looked over her shoulder at the book she was holding. "Ah, Chamfort Do you agree with that particular maxim?" he asked, watching her with that peculiar intent expression which made her feel like a specimen under a microscope.
"I suppose there is some truth in it," she said.
"I'm sure Julien would agree with it."
Justine slid the book back into its place on the shelf behind her and pretended to be looking at its companions. "Yes, I expect he would."
"You like him, don't you?" he said lazily.
She stiffened. "I like all the di Rostinis. Madame has been very kind to us."
"You are not obtuse, Miss Field. I think you know what I mean."
"Yes, I like Julien. Is there any reason why I shouldn't?" she enquired distantly, still with her face to the bookshelves.
"Not as long as you appreciate his weaknesses. He's a selfish young cub."
She turned at that, her grey eyes angry and scornful. "Don't you think that's rather an unpleasant thing to say about someone behind their back? Julien admires you enormously," she added, with a thrust of sarcasm.
"He envies me," he agreed cynically. "I doubt if he has given much thought to my personal qualities."
"Perhaps that's just as well," she retorted caustically.
The sardonic lift of his eyebrow made her flush an bite her lip. "I beg your pardon. That was rude. I'm sorry," she said, in a goaded voice.
"There's no need to apologise. You are probably , right," he said carelessly. "But it is not my character which is at issue."
"I think I'm capable of making my own judgment about people, thank you, m'sieur," she answered stiffly. |
"You are certainly very acute in your judgment of me," he said dryly. "But unfortunately it is not from me that you stand in danger, Miss Field."
It was Justine's turn to raise her eyebrows. "Danger?" she echoed, with what she hoped was a look of faintly I amused incredulity."
"The danger of being hurt—badly hurt."
She willed herself not to show any change of expression. "I must be very dense," she said airily. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
A flicker of impatience showed in his hard eyes. "I'm talking about a hot-blooded and self-indulgent boy, and an impressionable and totally inexperienced girl," he told her, with a trace of sharpness. "It's a dangerous combination, and one which could do great harm—to the girl in question."
Justine flinched as if he had struck her. For some moments she couldn't speak, she was so outraged.
And then, to her own astonishment, instead of angrily telling him to mind his own business, she found herself saying with acid politeness, "You forget ... I am what is known in England as a blue-stocking, m'sieur. I am much too busy helping my father to have time for flirtations. Women like me are not interested in men—except to prove our superior intellect. As you warned Julien yourself, he will have no luck in this quarter."
It seemed he had forgotten his remarks about her that first evening on the terrace. He frowned, and looked, momentarily puzzled. Then his eyes narrowed, and Justine had the satisfaction of seeing a gleam of annoyance in them.
But her advantage was short-lived. Even as she was congratulating herself on .taking the wind out of his sails, his mouth began to quirk at the corners.
"So that's why you dislike me so much," he said provokingly. "Well, I'm sorry if I hurt your pride, my dear. But you must know the saying about eavesdroppers never hearing good of themselves."
"I wasn't eavesdropping!" she flared. "You were sitting directly under my window, and your voices woke me up from a nap. I couldn't avoid overhearing."
"In that case I may count myself fortunate that I wasn't the victim of an unfortunate 'accident,'" he said mockingly. "You have such a fiery temper that I'm surprised you were able to restrain yourself from emptying your water jug over me."
It was on the tip of her tongue to say childishly, "It would have served you right if I had!" but she set her teeth and said nothing.
"Oh, come now—" he went on disarmingly, "you are too intelligent to bear a grudge. I admit I was entirely wrong. You are not at all like the popular image of a learned English female. Be magnanimous, Miss Field. Accept my most humble apologies"—and he held out his hand to her.
For a moment he looked so genuinely contrite that Justine was almost placated. But then a lurking glint of amusement in his eyes made her ignore his offered hand.
"Very well," she replied, with chilly politeness.
"That doesn't sound very friendly," he commented dryly.
Before Justine could answer, there was an urgent tattoo on the door, and one of the stewards came in, speaking to his employer in rapid Corsican.
Cassano answered with what sounded like a terse instruction. Then he turned to Justine, his dark brows drawn together. She knew before he spoke what he would say.
"Your father has been taken ill."
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN they reached the saloon, Professor Field was lying on the floor, unconscious. Another of the stewards was in the act of slipping a cushion under his head. Julien and his sister were standing helplessly by—the front of Diane's dress all stained and spattered with brandy from an overturned glass. Madame di Rostini, shocked but composed, was directing the steward to loosen the Englishman's collar and tie.
"Father!" Justine flew across the room, and fell on her knees beside him. "What happened ... did he faint? What happened?" she demanded of the steward.
The man scrambled to his feet, clearly very much relieved that his employer had come to take charge of the situation.
He said, in French, "I think it must be a heart attack, patron. The old man was in great pain before he collapsed."
Cassano knelt and felt the Professor's pulse. As he did so, the sick man groaned and began to come round.
"It isn't his heart. It's his stomach. He had an attack the other night," Justine said distractedly. "Please—we must get him to a hospital. Your motor-boat—"
Within minutes, the Professor had been lifted on to a couch, the others were being taken back to the island, and the crew were under orders to get the yacht to Ajaccio as fast as possible.
For Justine, the voyage was a nightmare. Her father, although no longer unconscious, was in such excruciating pain that he could not speak,
but lay with closed eyes, groaning and writhing as the spasms seemed to increase in intensity.
There was nothing she could do but crouch beside him, bearing his grip on her hand in white-faced silence, and praying that the doctors at the hospital would be able to ease his agony.
As soon as they berthed, two ambulance men came on board and transferred Professor Field to a stretcher. With Justine and Cassano accompanying him, he was driven to the Hospice Civil Ste. Eugenie. There, Justine answered questions put to her by a young doctor, and then her father was wheeled away on a trolley and she was shown to a waiting-room.
The following forty minutes were an even worse ordeal than the crossing from Pisano. Cassano glanced through some dog-eared magazines. Justine sat staring at the door, tensing each time footsteps approached in the corridor.
She was thankful he did not attempt to comfort her. She could not have borne any conventional expressions of sympathy and optimism. Yet she was glad of his presence for it forced her to control her emotions. If she had been alone, it would have been harder not to cry.
After they had been waiting for half an hour, he went outside for a few minutes, and came back with two cups of strong black coffee.
"Thank you," she said huskily. "I'm sorry we've put you to all this trouble. You've been very kind."
At last the door opened, and the young doctor reappeared. As Justine sprang up, he said, "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long, mademoiselle. Naturally you are very anxious. However, you will be relieved to hear that your father is more comfortable now."
"What's wrong with him? Do you know?"
"We cannot say with certainty, but his condition suggests an obstruction of the intestine. It will be necessary to perform an exploratory operation."
"You mean now?—Tonight?"
"No, probably tomorrow morning. There are various tests to be completed before we can operate."
"I s-see," she said unsteadily. "May I see him for a few minutes?"
"It would be better not to disturb him at present. If you come back in the morning—I suggest about eight o'clock—you will be able to see him before he goes to the theatre. You must try not to worry too much," he added kindly. "You may be sure he will have every attention."
"Yes . . . thank you," she answered hollowly.
The doctor excused himself and went away. Cassano took Justine's arm, and led her along the corridor. She submitted to his touch like someone dazed, and it was not until they were outside the building that she pulled herself together, and said, "Monsieur Cassano, I haven't any money with me. If you could lend me a little, I will pay it back tomorrow."
"You are shivering. Put this on." He took off his coat and held it out for her to slide her arms into the sleeves.
It was much too big for her. But the silk lining was warm from his body, and she was in no state to care for appearances. As if she were a child, he fastened the buttons and turned the sleeves back at her wrists.
"You had better call me David," he said. "Now, why do you need money?"
"For a hotel. I must stay near Father. I can't go back to Pisano with you."
"I'm not going back tonight. You can sleep on board Kalliste. This is no time for you to be alone. Anyway, the hotels are usually full at this season." And with this he put her into the taxi which had drawn up alongside them.
Two hours ago, that authoritative tone would have annoyed her. But now she had no spirit for argument. All her feelings were focused on her father.
"Very well ... if you're sure," she agreed wearily.
It was only a few minutes drive back to the waterfront. A deckhand was on watch near Kalliste's gangway. He was lounging on a bollard when the taxi drew up, but he jumped to his feet when he recognised the car's occupants, and hurried forward to open the door for them.
As Justine stepped from the gangway on to the deck, an elderly steward appeared.
David said, "Battista will show you to your cabin. Ask him for anything you need. He is a grandfather. You need not be shy of him." Then he walked away along the deck leaving Justine to follow the steward below.
If she had been familiar with the layout of five-hundred-ton private yachts, Justine would have guessed that the 'cabin' to which she was conducted was the stateroom designed for the owner's wife. Dominated by a huge seven-foot-wide double bed, it was even more spacious and luxurious than the lilac bedroom where, earlier, Diane had repaired her make-up.
The bed had already been turned down and, on it lay a white chiffon nightdress and a pale blue dressing-gown. A pair of pretty brocade slippers had been placed neatly together on the carpet near the pleated silk valance.
"Your bath is ready, mademoiselle," the steward told her. "If there is anything you require, you have only to send for me." He indicated one of several push-buttons on the base of the white bedside telephone.
When he had gone away, she ventured into the bathroom. The water in the sunken pink bath gave off a faint pine fragrance. Everything she would need had been set out for her—a new toothbrush, paste, a face flannel, talcum powder, a bath cap, even a brand new bristle hairbrush and tortoiseshell comb.
When she had bathed and dried herself on one of the thick soft towels from the heated rail, Justine padded barefoot into the bedroom and put on the filmy white nightdress. She had never worn a nightdress before, and this one was fit for a trousseau. The dressing-gown, too, was obviously very expensive. She wondered where they had come from. Surely the shops must have been closed hours ago? But no doubt, if one was very rich, anything was obtainable, no matter what the time of day or night.
After she had brushed her hair, tidied the bathroom, and folded her own cheap clothes, Justine wandered restlessly round the bedroom, worrying about her father.
A major operation at sixty-eight ... the thought made her shiver suddenly. Even when the patient was young, there must always be a degree of risk. How much greater was the risk for her father?
There was a tap at the door. "Come in," she called, expecting Battista.
But it was not the steward. It was David. He was carrying a silver salver with two cut-glass tumblers on it When he had closed the door, he crossed the room and set the salver on a low table between two chintz-covered chairs.
"This is an anxious time for you. It might be a good idea to talk for a while. I daresay you won't find it too easy to sleep tonight," he said, as be straightened. "Are you comfortable here? Have you everything you need?"
"Oh, yes—yes, thank you." She realised he was waiting for her to sit down, and followed him across the room, the long skirts of the blue silk robe swishing softly on the velvety pile of the white carpet "About this—" she said, awkwardly, indicating the robe. "You must let me know what all these things cost."
His shoulders lifted slightly. "Don't worry about that now. Come and drink this cognac. You may not like it, but it will do you good."
"I do hope all this hasn't made poor Madame ill," said Justine, as he handed her one of the glasses. "It must have been a fearful shock to her. Diane will be upset too. Her dress was ruined—not to mention the stain on your carpet Oh, dear, what a disastrous evening."
"I don't think you need concern yourself on Madame's account She is physically frail, but her nerves are very sound," he said easily. "The carpet is a trifle. It can be dealt with. As for Diane's dress, I've no doubt she has a dozen others. Tell me, is there anyone in England who should be notified of your father's illness?—Anyone you would like to send for?"
"Father has one sister . . . Aunt Helen. But they aren't very close. He wouldn't want me to send for her."
"What about you? Wouldn't you like to have her with you?"
Again Justine shook her head. "She couldn't come at the moment. Her daughter is expecting a baby any time now. I'll write to her, of course—but not until all this is over. There's no point in worrying her unnecessarily. Anyway, I can manage. We have funds at the Banque de France here. If Father signs an authority, I can draw what money I need."
"Are you insured against this kind of contingency?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes, I shan't have to worry about the hospital bills. We're covered for illness and accidents."
He said, "There is something I don't understand. Surely it's very unusual for an archaeologist to work alone as your father does? He has you to help him, of course, but I was under the impression that any major excavations were the work of a team of specialists nowadays."
"Well, yes, that's true in most cases," Justine agreed. "Some of the big sponsored expeditions do have a very large staff. It depends where the site is, and what they expect to find. Father doesn't like working on that kind of project There's so much administration and supervision that the director has hardly any time for practical work."
"But surely it's rather a waste of time and effort for you to do the preliminary digging yourselves?" he said, crossing his long legs. "Isn't it customary to use students for the unskilled work?"
"Yes, a lot of directors do. Father prefers local labour."
"Why is that?"
"Well, for one thing, not many students are used to hard manual work, and they haven't the stamina for it They're better at semi-skilled jobs like marking the small finds and pottery washing. But even then they tend to waste time chatting, and fooling about."
"I see," he said dryly.
Justine flushed. She had not meant to sound priggish, but she felt sure that that was what he thought her. She said, "I expect you think we're mad anyway . . . spending our lives grubbing for broken pots."
"Not at all," he responded mildly. "But I believe it's possible to become too immersed in one's métier. I can understand your father's dedication. I think you're rather young to be equally committed."
Her colour deepened. "I'm twenty-three—that's not so very young. I—" She stopped short, blinking. Suddenly, for a second or two, everything had gone out of focus and a queer clouded feeling had come over her. "I like being committed," she finished.
He did not seem to notice her pause, nor did he pursue the subject. For not far away, perhaps on one of the fishing boats moored further along the quayside, a man had begun to sing.
Anne Weale Page 7
