by Isobel Chace
A CANOPY OF ROSE LEAVES
Isobel Chace
Deborah Day wasn’t exactly heartbroken when her fiancé jilted her, but she was thankful to have this fascinating trip to Iran to distract her. All the same, she could have done without the continual reminder of Ian in the shape of his disconcerting brother.
CHAPTER ONE
Deborah Day sat in the corner of the sofa facing the television and pretended to watch the moving figures before her. Now that she had actually arrived she felt considerably less courageous than when she had first made up her mind to come. In the safety of dear, familiar England it had seemed the answer to all her problems. Now, in the unfamiliar, unknown surroundings in which she found herself, those problems had magnified themselves out of all proportion and she felt completely overwhelmed by them.
Unhappiness was a newcomer in her life, but it had already left its mark on her face, shadowing her eyes and giving her mouth a defenceless look that had not been there before. It had been more of a shock than even she knew to find herself suddenly alone in the world; she who had never been alone, but who had always had loving parents, affectionate friends, and the security of the man who was going to marry her some day between her and the rest of the world.
Her parents were still there in the same house in England, helpless in their anxiety to comfort her. Her pride, something she had never known she possessed, had risen overnight as an insurmountable barrier between them. Not even to them could she admit that to all intents and purposes her life had come to an end in the few brief moments that Ian had allowed her when she had insisted that he tell her face to face that he was not going to marry her after all, but had already met and married someone else in a whirlwind romance that had left him breathless and somehow completely different from the Ian she had always known.
‘But what about the shop?’ she had asked him, seizing on the one thing they still shared between them.
‘What about it?’ he retorted.
‘I don’t see how we can go on being partners—’ she had begun.
‘I don’t see why not.’ He had frowned at her, looking at her as though she were a stranger to him, and not a very welcome one at that. ‘I can’t afford to be sentimental about the shop,’ he had gone on. ‘I have a wife to support now and you know as well as I do that I haven’t any other source of income. Nor have you, come to that. But there isn’t any reason why we shouldn’t go on making a good thing of it in the future. You’ll like Anne when you get to know her and she’s only too willing to help out whenever she’s needed.’
‘Big of her,’ Deborah had commented bitterly.
Ian had scratched his head, his face shiny with embarrassment. ‘Yes, well, it’s time we branched out a bit. You’re a much better buyer than I am, Debbie. I’ve been thinking for some time that you’re wasted just serving in the shop. Anne has a whole lot of ideas as to the things we might do. She thinks you ought to go on a trip abroad and do some buying there for us.’
Oh, she does, does she? Deborah had asked herself viciously. And what does she know about it?
‘It’s my shop,’ she had said aloud.
‘Ours,’ Ian had contradicted her. ‘Think about it, Debbie. We could do with some good contacts. We specialise in stuff from the Middle East, but we’re all the time doing our buying at second hand. You’re always talking about travelling abroad and seeing places, and why not? This is your great opportunity! You could start off in Persia—’
‘I couldn’t,’ she retorted. ‘I don’t speak a word of the language, and it isn’t the sort of place a woman goes by herself!’
‘Of course they do! Don’t be stuffy, Deb. Besides, my brother is there for a couple of years and he’ll keep an eye on you. Just think of the stuff you could get for us there I You know how excited you were by those Qalamkar printed cottons we got hold of last year, and there’s always a market for Persian carpets. It’s the chance of a lifetime!’
Deborah had been unable to share his enthusiasm, but neither could she bear to go on seeing him day after day, just as if nothing had happened between them, and she had finally agreed to go to get away from him and from the pretty, bubbly girl he had married in preference to herself.
She hadn’t allowed herself to think beyond the point when she would leave England. She had gone through her preparations like an automaton, hating everything about it. Her father had taken her to Heathrow and had seen her on to the aeroplane for the six-hour flight-to Teheran.
‘Don’t be too unhappy, darling,’ he had said when the time had come to say goodbye. ‘Ian would always have disappointed you sooner or later. I’m thankful that it was before you married him.’
Deborah had presented him with a tight face. ‘I suppose you’re glad I’m going away too!’ she had said evenly.
‘I’ll tell you that when you come back to us,’ he had answered.
A few weeks earlier she would have apologised for deliberately trying to hurt him, but now even such a simple action was impossible for her. ‘Perhaps I shan’t come back,’ she had said.
Her father had only smiled at her. ‘Perhaps you won’t,’ he had agreed easily. ‘One can’t go back to exactly where one was before, and a very good thing too! You have better things waiting for you in the future.’
She had twisted her mouth into a smile. ‘I wish I could think so. You sound like that song that there’s only one way to go and that’s up, but I don’t see any sign of it. Everything doesn’t come up roses for me. That’s for the Annes of this world.’
‘Rubbish, my dear,’ her father had rebuked her. ‘You’ve yet to meet the man who’ll turn your life into a bed of roses. Ian hasn’t the right romantic touch!’ Her eyes had met his, smiling quizzically at her, and she had laughed despite herself. They both knew that Ian hadn’t a romantic bone in his body. But then neither had she—or so she had always thought!
‘It would be nice to think so,’ she had said, sounding forlorn even to herself. She couldn’t imagine any other man but Ian stirring her senses. Even less could she imagine herself ever allowing herself to fall in love again. Now that she knew the dangers and the pain of rejection she would never go running forward into any man’s arms again. Her puppy days were over with a vengeance. She would test everything that was said to her from now on, no longer sure of her place in the sun, never doubting that she would be liked and petted by all and sundry. ‘Goodbye, Father. Tell Mother I’ll be just fine, won’t you?’
Her father had nodded his silvered head. ‘As long as you keep telling yourself that!’ he had bargained with her. And she had told him she would, even while she sighed as she said it.
Now it wasn’t a case of telling herself anything. She was far from being fine and there didn’t seem to be any point in not admitting it to herself. Here she was, stuck in the lounge of a hotel that she knew she couldn’t possibly afford to stay in for long, too scared to go out and find herself some cheaper accommodation. If only she spoke Farsi, or hadn’t allowed herself to be frightened by the shadowed aspect of the covered bazaar, chide herself for her fears as she might, she could not bring herself to set out again into the town by herself.
The television programme had changed without her even noticing it. One or two Europeans staying at the hotel had drifted downstairs waiting for the dining room to open. Against the local population they looked very pink and white and the women laughed too loudly. Yet they were nice people and kindly in their own way. Most of them stopped and spoke to her, anxious to include her in their own gaiety, but even such a brief involvement was more than she wanted at that moment. She hated her own society, but she hated that of others still more.
‘Miss Day!’
She jumped at the sound and turned her
head, looking up at the stranger through her eyelashes. His face was stern and unsmiling and he was quite dark enough to be a Persian. She extended a hand towards him, wondering who he was. ‘Yes, I’m Deborah Day,’ she said. ‘How do you do?’
‘I had not expected to find you in.’ He sounded sorry to find her there at all. ‘Ian didn’t tell me which hotel you were staying at and I’m afraid I tried most of the cheaper ones first, or I would have been here earlier.’
‘Ian?’ she said blankly.
‘My brother. My name is Roger Derwent.’
‘Oh!’ But Ian was fair and still had the gangly look of youth. This man looked as though he had never been young, but had been born of living stone and weathered by the elements into something that didn’t know the meaning of ordinary human weakness. She was more than a little scared of him.
‘I had a letter from Ian saying that you would be arriving in Shiraz today,’ he went on just as if she had not spoken, which to be fair to him she hardly had. ‘You work for him, I believe. He must be doing better than I thought!’
Deborah felt annoyed. ‘I work with him,’ she said carefully.
But Roger Derwent wasn’t listening. ‘He would have done better to come himself,’ he barked out. ‘What good does he think you can do here?’
‘It was just as much my decision that I should come—’
‘Ian was always a fool!’
She stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
A muscle jerked in his cheek. ‘How did he expect you to manage here by yourself? If ever anyone was less likely to be able to look after herself, I’ve yet to meet her! You look scared stiff now! What kind of inducement did he offer, Miss Day, to get you to come? Or did he tell you that I would be here to look after you and would make all your arrangements for you? Well?’
Deborah thought he was the rudest man she had ever met. ‘If Ian asked you to look me up, I am sure he had nothing more than the usual courtesies in mind,’ she answered with a tartness that edged her voice with frost. ‘If I couldn’t look after myself, Mr. Derwent, I shouldn’t be here.’
Roger Derwent’s look of complete disbelief gave her a nervous feeling in her middle. How dared Ian imply that she was only an employee in their shop? she wondered to herself. If his brother had known she was the co-proprietor perhaps he wouldn’t have been quite so scathing in his condemnation of her.
‘Pretty young women should be kept at home!’ he insisted.
She opened her eyes wide. ‘Aren’t they welcome here?’ she murmured.
‘Too welcome! The Iranian male is not accustomed to unescorted young women doing business with him. He will promise you the world and will enjoy himself at your expense, but you will be fortunate indeed if he takes you seriously.’
‘Seriously?’ she repeated. ‘In what way?’
‘In any way,’ he emphasised. ‘Go home, Miss Day. I’m sure Ian will welcome you back with open arms—’
Deborah with an effort remained impassive. ‘Didn’t Ian tell you he’s married?’
Roger Derwent’s sharp eyes studied her shadowed face. ‘The last I heard, he planned to marry his partner in that boutique of his to gain control of the business. I suppose you made some kind of an attempt to come between them? Ian always was the susceptible kind. Is that why you’re feeling so sorry for yourself?’
Anger vitiated any hurt that Deborah might have felt at his words. ‘I am Ian’s business partner,’ she said dryly. ‘It was me he was going to marry, but he married someone else instead.’
If she had expected Roger Derwent to be embarrassed she was disappointed. His eyebrows shot up, giving him a vaguely satanic look. ‘Lucky girl!’ he congratulated her. ‘Is that what sent you flying out here?’
‘I suppose so,’ she admitted. ‘Neither of us could afford to buy the other out—’
‘He could have left you in possession!’
Deborah shrugged. ‘Anne had her own ideas about that.’ She lifted her chin. ‘And so did I! A change of scene suited me very well. I’ve always wanted to see something of the world. Besides,’ she added, ‘I have a much better idea of what we can sell in England than Ian has. It’s I who have made the boutique the success it is, whatever you may think!’
‘Beauty plus brains,’ he said easily. ‘And afraid of your own shadow.’
‘I am not!’ she denied. ‘And even if I am, it’s no business of yours, Mr. Derwent. I’m sure Ian would never have written to you about me if he’d known you were too busy to be bothered by your brother’s friends. Please don’t let me keep you any longer!’
He gave her a tolerant smile and sat down on the sofa beside her. ‘I rather think I deserved that rebuke,’ he acknowledged, looking remarkably unrepentant, ‘but I still mean what I said, Debbie. I’m not belittling your business prowess, nor your ability to recognise a good bargain when you see one, but Iran is not the place for a young woman to be on her own.’
She set her mouth in a stubborn line. ‘I’m not going home for such a silly reason! If I don’t go looking for trouble I probably won’t find any. You can’t persuade me that any artisan will care if the hand that offers him money is male or female. When they see I’m serious about it, they’ll be only too willing to do business with me. I’m not afraid!’
He made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat. ‘And who will you run to when you find your motives are misunderstood? Did you think of that before you rushed headlong into disaster? Or did you, like Ian, presume that I would come to your rescue?’
‘I never thought about you at all!’
His disbelief touched her on the raw and she averted her face lest he should see the hot anger in her eyes.
‘No?’ He sounded disbelieving.
‘No! I can’t say I didn’t know you existed because Ian did mention he had a brother in Iran, but I didn’t think about you at all!’
‘Are you quite sure of that?’
‘Quite sure!’ she snapped. ‘And if I’d known how unlike Ian you are, I should have taken precautions to see that we never met at all! I find it hard to believe that you are his brother—’
‘Perhaps because we’re only half-brothers—we had different mothers. I scarcely knew my father as a boy at all, and Ian rather less. I imagine my upbringing was rather different from his,’ he added dryly. ‘He was the son of a happy marriage.’
‘But you are your father’s elder son,’ she pointed out. ‘He set Ian up in business. Didn’t he do the same for you?’
Roger Derwent gave her an amused look. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law,’ he remarked. ‘I was cut out of his life as completely as my mother was. Children of a former marriage are an embarrassment as often as not. But my mother and I managed very well on our own.’
Deborah was rather shocked by his matter-of-fact tones. ‘Did your mother marry again?’ she asked him, almost anxiously, as though it really mattered to her.
‘No,’ he said. ‘She went back to the academic life which suited her far better than marriage to my father did. I followed in her footsteps. I have few of the social graces that sit so easily on Ian’s shoulders.’
That was true, she thought, but it didn’t seem to matter as much as it had a few minutes ago. ‘Are you terribly clever?’ she asked him, trying not to sound as awed as she felt.
‘Terribly!’ he mimicked her tone. Then more seriously, ‘It depends what you mean by clever. I have no difficulty passing exams and I’m one of the top men in my own field, but I’m less clever when it comes to human beings. I avoid them whenever I can.’
‘Is that why you have no time for me?’
His expression was unreadable as he studied her face, allowing his eyes to wander slowly over her until she moved restively beneath his glance.
‘I don’t suffer fools gladly,’ he said. ‘Nor do I enjoy hurting the defenceless.’
‘And I’m both?’ Deborah didn’t like the picture of herself that his judgment had held up to her.
‘Defenceless, yes; b
ut rather less foolish than most of Ian’s girl-friends have been.’
Her eyes flashed with indignation and he laughed. ‘I suppose that’s fair,’ she said coolly. ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t care for arrogant men any more than you tolerate fools.’
‘Am I arrogant?’ He was obviously surprised by her choice of adjective. ‘I would have agreed with you if you had said I was confident—’
‘Over-confident,’ she insisted.
She was amused when he gave his whole attention to the matter. ‘I think not,’ he said finally. ‘But you are entitled to your own opinion,’ he added with obvious reluctance.
‘Of course,’ she acknowledged, and smiled at the look of distaste on his face. He wasn’t as intimidating as she had thought him at first. ‘Why did you come to Persia?’ she asked him.
‘I was offered a temporary professorship at the Pahlevi University here in Shiraz. The tuition is in English there—not that that would have bothered me, I wanted to learn Farsi anyway. One of the greatest civilisations the world has ever known had its roots in Iran. I wanted to get to know it better.’
She was impressed, but she wasn’t going to admit it if she could possibly help it. ‘And have you learned Farsi?’ she questioned him lightly. Of course he had! While she hadn’t even bothered to find out that that was what the language the Iranians spoke was called! No wonder he thought her stupid!
‘Some,’ he said.
Meaning that he spoke it fluently, she supposed. ‘Ah, but can you read it?’ she rounded on him.
He was amused by the thrust. ‘Of course,’ he said simply. ‘What use would it be if I couldn’t read documents in the original? I already speak and write Arabic and they use the same script, so it wasn’t very difficult for me.’
‘Would it take me long to learn?’ Deborah asked him. ‘How would I go about it?’
‘You won’t be staying long enough to make it worthwhile. I shall write to Ian myself and tell him that you’ll be returning to England as soon as I can book your flight. He, at least, should understand how impossible it is for you to remain here by yourself.’
