No Just Cause

by Susan Barrie

  NO JUST CAUSE

  Susan Barrie

  When Mary Pentallon insisted on introducing her brother James to her friend Carole Sterne, Carole was not in the least interested. Why should a rich, handsome man of the world wish to meet a quiet little school teacher?

  Yet within a week, Carole and James were engaged! But it was not by any means a whirlwind romance, as this charming story shows.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CAROLE sat on the side of her bed and attended to a snag in one of her stockings, while Marty—Marty the beautiful and the elegant, who should have been named anything but Martha—roamed round the room and pulled open her drawers and marvelled at her limited amount of wardrobe space, while outside Paris rumbled and roared and was soaked in afternoon sunshine.

  “I don’t know how you manage to be so tidy,” she said. “Not just a neat top layer—” poking beneath the surface of an underwear drawer to be certain—“but orderliness all the way through! Did your Great-aunt Miranda bring you up to be so horribly methodical about everything?”

  “I’m not methodical about everything.” But Carole closed the lid of her work-basket carefully, having finished with it. “However, I hate living in a muddle, and when you’ve got to share with someone else you have to be tidy.”

  “I agree it’s beastly sharing with someone else.” Marty went to the window and flung it wide. She knelt on the window-seat and looked down—down into the courtyard of the old-fashioned Paris house that was entirely suitable for a young ladies’ finishing school, although the aristocratic family that had once looked upon it as their town house might not have felt entirely happy at the sight of a young lady’s ‘smalls’ adorning a window-ledge on the opposite side of the court. And in the cloistered garden beyond the court some restless spirits were energetically banging a tennis ball about, and at least two ‘female forms divine’ were unashamedly inviting the kiss of the sun in swim-suits as they lay on a strip of emerald turf.

  Marty appeared temporarily diverted by the sight of the young ladies in swim-suits.

  “I don’t think Miss Dove would approve of that,” she remarked, “if she were here. It’s perhaps fortunate for all of us that she was called away to England bang in the middle of the first heat-wave of the summer. Tonight, fate being so kind to us, I can wear my new pink chiffon.”

  “For what purpose?” Carole asked, joining her at the window. “You’ve had two late passes this week already. You won’t get a third.”

  “Won’t I?” smiling wickedly with dark blue, long-lashed eyes. “That’s what you think, my sweet, because you’re not an intriguer ... and that’s why I mentioned how fortunate it is that Miss Dove is away! Mademoiselle, who is now in complete charge, won’t bat an eyelid when I tell her my brother insists that I have dinner with him tonight, and that my brother’s friend would be utterly disconsolate if you couldn’t make the party up into a foursome.”

  Carole looked startled, and quite unbelieving.

  “But I don’t even know your brother, let alone your brother’s friend,” she pointed out to the younger girl. “And while you’re a pupil here, my job is to instruct. Pupils have special treatment, because those responsible for them pay fat fees, and the Board of Governors loves them. But I receive a salary, and I’m lucky to have the job in any case, so I can’t look for favours. I have so much free time a week, and that’s that!”

  “Rubbish!” Marty exclaimed, the smile deepening in her eyes. “Your great-aunt paid fat fees for you for two years, and you’re so obliging you fit into a kind of niche here, which makes you indispensable. I have but to ask Mademoiselle for a pass for you and she’ll issue it at once.”

  “But I don’t need a pass,” Carole said protestingly. “I’m going to wash my hair tonight, and write a few letters. After that I’ll stroll in the Luxembourg Gardens, or simply sit in the garden here.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Marty told her. “You’ll have dinner with me, my brother, and a certain fascinating French Comte.”

  Carole stared at her. She was nineteen, but she could easily have been in her early twenties. She had shoulder-length, gleaming black hair that was without so much as a kink, although it was easily manageable and looked marvellous swept to the top of her head. Her eyes were an almost kingfisher blue, and nearly always a bright sparkle dwelt in them, as if she was in either a derisive mood or a mood that was as brittle as blown glass and reflected humour much as a sheet of deceptively calm water reflects sunshine. For a nineteen-year-old she had as much poise, sophistication and glamour as a woman of thirty, and her clothes were an indication of her extremely adult outlook.

  No jeans, shapeless sweaters or careless make-up for her. She had her deliciously simple little day dresses, charming suits and cocktail and dinner ensembles made for her in Paris itself, and other essential items were collected in the Rue de la Paix. Her hairdresser looked after far more important feminine heads, and her expert on beauty culture really was an expert. A nineteen-year-old English schoolgirl would never have secured an appointment in his salon if her brother hadn’t been attached to the Embassy, and between them they could lay claim to a fortune.

  Miss Martha Pentallon, of Ferne Abbey, in Cumberland, had the entree to the most exclusive Paris houses, and despite her youth and supposed immaturity received numberless invitations.

  Beside her Carole felt awkward and really immature. In actual fact only two years separated them in age, but a stranger might have been forgiven for mistaking her for the junior one of the two. And although she knew that her own colouring was exciting, and many people thought her pretty, a far larger number of people thought Marty positively shattering so far as looks and general appearance went.

  The real tie between the two girls—the one still a pupil of Miss Dove, the Principal, the other a paid helper who had no real qualifications for teaching—was the five years they had spent at the same boarding-school in the South of England. And now they were fond enough of one another in a way ... although Carole often suspected that she was fonder of Marty than Marty was of her.

  Marty was too casual and remote a person to be fond of anyone for long, or in any deep sense. Thinking about her sometimes, when she had nothing better to do, and time hung heavily on her hands, Carole wondered how she would react when a man appeared on her immediate horizon with whom she could fall in love.

  Would she find it easy to fall in love, or would she find it difficult? Might it, perhaps, take a long, long time before something so overwhelming as a stormy, tempestuous love swept her off her feet?

  “Don’t be silly,” Carole said, with impatience. “I’ve just said that I don’t know your brother, although considering the length of time that I’ve known you that is, I suppose, a little strange.”

  “It’s silly because you’ve always refused invitations to meet him, but you’re not going to refuse this one.” Marty wagged a rose-tipped finger. “Remember when I all but implored you to stay at Ferne with me for Christmas, when James was at home? You considered it more dutiful to spend Christmas with your aunt! And there have been other occasions when I wanted you to visit Ferne ... and meet James. Since his arrival in Paris there have been numberless opportunities, but you just wouldn’t. You’re so shockingly pig-headed at times it’s almost a vice.”

  “There is absolutely no reason why your brother should wish to meet me,” Carole declared obstinately, since she had no desire at all to make the acquaintance of Marty’s brother. Wealthy young men at the Embassy were most decidedly not up her street ... and would probably not welcome her in that street if someone attempted to force them to do so. “He has lots of friends and worthwhile things to do, and meeting his sister’s old school chum isn’t one of them. For goodness’ sake spare him.”

>   “Then I’d like you to meet the Comte Armand de Sarterre,” Marty avowed winningly.

  Carole looked at her still more suspiciously.

  “You mean you have already met the Comte de Sarterre, and your brother has suggested dinner with him and the Comte, and you think three is an awkward number. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Unabashed, Marty admitted it.

  “Three is an impossible number, and Armand has just returned from the South American jungle where he’s been looking for a secret city, or something of the sort. I find him interesting to talk to, and I can’t talk to him with James sitting sulking because he’s overlooked, and bored. With you he needn’t be bored, because you can talk quite entertainingly when you feel like it, and also you’re pretty enough to capture his interest. Yes; I really mean that,” as Carole looked blankly unbelieving.

  “You have quite a lot of pretty girl friends in Paris. Why don’t you ask one of them?”

  “Because I want you to meet James.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “All the same, it’s true. I’ve wanted you to meet him for ages.”

  “Only last week you were telling me you were afraid he had fallen in love at last ... with an undesirable widow!”

  “Oh, well...” Marty turned away with a shrug, and lifted the stopper of a perfume bottle on the dressing-table. “Widows are a kind of natural hazard with someone like James, who is frightfully good-looking as well as horribly rich, as you know. By this time I’m quite sure he’s got over her. And, in any case, you don’t have much fun. I’d like you to enjoy yourself for a change, Carole,” turning back to her almost impulsively, and extending a hand. “Get away from this nun-like atmosphere and find out what life is like under the bright lights.”

  Carole’s greenish-grey eyes reflected a look of amusement.

  “Is it a nun-like atmosphere?” she enquired whimsically. “With a couple of elopements in recent months, and corsages in cellophane cartons finding their way here fairly regularly? Would you say the male element was entirely and permanently lacking? I don’t think Miss Dove would agree with you!”

  But Marty was concerned only with her own affairs ... hers and Carole’s.

  “Say you’ll make up a four,” she begged. “I’ll lend you a mink stole, and my gold mesh evening bag.”

  “It’s too warm for a mink stole,” Carole replied, “and I have an evening bag of my own. But I don’t have a suitable dress.”

  “Then you can borrow one of mine. You can choose whichever you’d like. Come along to my room and you can take your pick.”

  “And let your brother into the secret of my parsimony?” Carole demanded, with a touch of indignant scorn. “I hope I have a little more pride than to appear before him for the first time wearing one of his sister’s dresses, which he would probably recognise immediately!”

  Marty sighed with frustration and impatience.

  “Of course he wouldn’t recognise it,” she exclaimed. “How could he possibly recognise every single one of the dresses I possess? Besides, I was thinking of something new for you ... one I bought last week. It would look adorable on you. Do, at least, come and look at it!”

  “No. I’ll wear that water-green silk thing I bought for your last Speech Day celebrations. At least it’s never been worn since.”

  “Then you’ll come?” Marty hugged her in her enthusiasm. “Good for you! And I remember the dress ... Everyone said you looked like a dryad in it. It was a triumph. James will simply love you in it!”

  “I doubt it,” Carole commented drily. “In fact, I doubt very much whether your brother is going to enjoy himself at all this evening.”

  But Marty smiled at her, with one of her flashes of impishness.

  “Like to bet on it?” she said. And then: “I wouldn’t risk it, if I were you! James is something of a connoisseur.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHETHER James was a connoisseur or not, Carole did not greatly care what he thought of her as she dressed for the unexpected dinner-party that night.

  It was seldom that she went out to dinner, or indeed went anywhere apart from the popular haunts of the girls who received their additional polish—intended to fit them for a social or business life later on—at Miss Dove’s exclusive establishment, situated in one of the most exclusive districts of Paris. These included non-cultural places of entertainment like cinemas, theatres—although only when the play could be vetted beforehand by a mistress capable of deciding whether it contained anything to which a parent or guardian could take exception—ice-skating rinks and indoor swimming-pools, and an occasional tea or cabaret at one of the better restaurants when it was somebody’s birthday or somebody else acquired funds.

  Apart from these diversions there were the museums and galleries they were forced to visit as part of the curriculum, and as Paris abounded in such institutions there was never a dull moment ... Or that was the general idea behind the Principal’s boast that the young ladies entrusted to her care led a broader, fuller life.

  Only favoured young ladies like Martha Pentallon led an even broader, fuller life, and she was the envy of all those who watched her speeding forth in luxurious cars, and knew that when the telephone rang it was highly likely another invitation was about to be transmitted to her; and if it was not received over the telephone, it would probably come by post.

  Now, tonight, it was Carole’s turn to be envied, although she was far from envying herself. She knew that her pale green silk with the modest clusters of crystal beads on the hemline and bodice was not really the sort of dress one should wear to make one’s first appearance in a smart Paris restaurant ... almost certainly one of the smarter Paris restaurants. And her tiny brocaded evening purse and simple satin slippers simply did not stand comparison with Marty’s sophisticated gem-encrusted bag, and her dizzily high-heeled hand-made shoes of gold brocade that matched the exquisite gold embroidery on her floating, pale pink chiffon dress.

  And as it rained before they set off, and the temperature lowered itself dramatically, she wore a three-quarter coat of rose-pink velvet trimmed with sable, and nothing could have been more breathtaking than her appearance when her brother’s car swept into the courtyard. Beside her, waiting at the top of the steps, Carole felt like a Cinderella whose fairy godmother had failed to do very much in the way of fitting her out for the evening; and as she hugged her plain wool coat—her church-going coat, as she thought of it—around her, and the rawness of the evening set her shivering a little, she wished that she wasn’t by nature quite so independent, and that Marty’s offer of a mink stole—even a white mink jacket—had been humbly and gratefully accepted by her, instead of rejected out of hand.

  James Pentallon looked up at her curiously as his car came to rest at the foot of the steps. It was a long, and definitely rakish-looking car, pure white like a lithe white greyhound, and as it was not a recognisable English model she suspected that it was Italian. Its engine had a soft roar to it that rose and fell like the waves of the sea; but she only discovered that once she was ensconced in the seat of honour beside the driver, while Marty was tucked away in the back.

  Before that she had to be introduced, and the car’s engine died into complete silence as its owner switched it off and alighted with a slightly bored air of having nothing very important on hand, and all the time in the world to do it in. He greeted Marty with a careless inclination of the head, and then stood still and surveyed Carole as if he was surveying an exhibit that had been produced for his inspection.

  Carole felt her cheeks grow pink with embarrassment as he studied her. He was an exceptionally tall and graceful man who might be somewhere in his middle thirties, and he had an air of natural indolence that sat well upon him. His eyes were indolent—although as blue as Marty’s—and his chin and jaw, although strong, were not precisely reassuring. Carole received the impression that they were too finely modelled, just as his mouth was almost beautifully shaped, but with a kind of derisive sweetne
ss at the corners.

  He had Marty’s sleek black hair, and her finely marked brows, but his eyelashes were more astonishing than hers. At times they actually hid his eyes, and effectually concealed what he was thinking.

  He was correctly dressed for the evening ... very immaculately turned out. His car might pander to a certain unconventional streak, but when it came to escorting his sister out to dinner he was as formal as if she was, in a sense, a special trust.

  “Miss Sterne?” he said, holding Carole’s hand lightly, but firmly. “Miss Carole Sterne? I hope that doesn’t mean you’re stern by nature as well as by name?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Marty reproved him with a humorous look. “She couldn’t be stern if she tried ... But she does teach, you know, and she isn’t just a pupil like me. You’ll have to treat her with more respect than you treat me, because she’s twenty-one ... very nearly twenty-two!”

  “You fill me with uneasiness,” James Pentallon confessed, looking anything but uneasy as his blue eyes smiled in a curious fashion at Carole. She received another swift impression about him, and that was that he was used to smiling at women, and it would never occur to him that his smile could fail to quicken the pulse beats, particularly when it was a young and inexperienced woman he smiled at. “What do you teach, Miss Sterne?” he asked, as if he was filled with admiration because she was capable of teaching anything. “Is it something I ought to learn? Something that might very well improve me?”

  “Of course not,” she answered, and felt herself blushing still more furiously. “As a matter of fact, I’m not a qualified teacher. I just assist.”

  “And whom do you assist?”

  “Oh, I mean I generally assist. Sometimes it’s Matron, sometimes someone else. Sometimes I do secretarial work.”

  He shook his head at her.

  “You astonish me,” he said. “Such potential brilliance, and you a friend of Marty’s. I suppose you know that she’s incapable of storing up knowledge ... She’s like an empty vessel.”