A Very Special Man

by Marjorie Lewty

  Benedict Dane smiled and said, ‘Well, I hope he won’t mind if we avail ourselves of his good taste. I happen to know this particular vineyard personally and I shouldn’t like to miss the chance of supporting my friends.’

  Chloe watched him, a smile hovering. How men did love to show off their knowledge of wines! Roger had gone through this same routine each time he took her out for a meal and she had been impressed at first, until she began to get a decided feeling that most of it was bluff. Now, listening to her host chatting to the wine waiter, she was able to allow herself a small feeling of amused superiority.

  When the waiter had gone Dane turned to Chloe and said, ‘Surprising to come across one of the rare Spanish table wines that has real class. Usually we’re quite content with being tops in sherry and we leave the blue riband of table wines to the big boys in France and elsewhere. But this one I’ve ordered is really rather good. Wine’s my business, by the way,’ he added casually. ‘My company imports.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ she murmured. Drat the man! Each time she thought she had discovered something about him to criticise he immediately proved her wrong. She battled in silence with her annoyance while they drank their soup. ‘Soup all right?’ queried Dane solicitously.

  It was creamy, and tasted subtly of lobster. ‘Delicious,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Good!’ He was the perfect host, wasn’t he? She allowed herself to resent his good manners. Why couldn’t he just tell her why he had invited her out, instead of behaving as if this were a first date and he was out to make an unforgettable impression on her?

  The wine arrived with the duckling. When the ceremony of tasting and approving had been duly gone through and their glasses were filled Dane said, ‘I hope you’ll agree with me that this is something rather special.’ She caught the professional pride in his voice. ‘I’m sure I shall,’ she said politely. She might not like the man, but she wouldn’t deliberately hurt his feelings by failing to appreciate his precious wine. ‘But I’m afraid,’ she added, ‘that I haven’t got what’s called an educated palate, though.’

  ‘No? Oh, we’ll soon change that.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Try it.’ The dark eyes smiled into hers and she looked away hastily and picked up her own glass.

  Even an uneducated palate had to recognise that he was right—this wine was something special. It tasted to Chloe of spring flowers: cool and crisp and fragrant. She told him so and added with a small grin, ‘I suppose that sounds hopelessly silly, doesn’t it? But, you see, I don’t know the language of wine.’

  He laughed. It was the first time she had heard him laugh aloud and she had to admit it was a good sound, deep and full and uninhibited. ‘Oh, you mustn’t worry about that. There’s a great deal of rubbish written and talked about wine. One genuine response is worth the lot. Spring flowers—yes, I like that.’

  His eyes hadn’t moved from her and under his scrutiny her heart began to beat uncomfortably. ‘Perhaps you could use me in your advertising department?’ she suggested, and then wished she hadn’t, for the remark sounded disgustingly pert.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘That’s quite an idea, but no, I have other plans for your immediate future, my girl.’

  ‘Plans?’ Her eyes were very wide and very blue. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘All in good time. Eat up your nice lunch first, there’s a good girl.’ His voice was mocking, the little devils were dancing in his eyes again. ‘You look as if you would dearly like to smite me.’

  He really was maddening. ‘I would,’ she said through clenched teeth.

  ‘I’m sure it would be a most enjoyable experience. Perhaps we could defer it until after the duckling? It would be a pity to be turned out for riotous behaviour.’

  ‘Oh!’ gasped Chloe helplessly and bit her lip in mortification. The wretched man evidently thought she was flirting with him. She glanced across the table at him and thought there was amusement in the dark eyes that met hers, but he said quite seriously, ‘It’s a shame to tease you. But I do think our business discussion would be better postponed until after lunch.’

  So it was a business discussion! He was evidently going to offer her a job of some sort. Of course that was what she had expected all along, wasn’t it? She hadn’t really imagined that his sudden interest in her was personal. So why did she feel this quick stab of something very like disappointment?

  ‘Tell me about Kenilworth,’ he said. ‘It’s an interesting old town, with that great, brooding, ruined castle. But so far it’s only been a name in a history book to me.’

  He couldn’t have chosen a better subject to put Chloe at her ease. She found she could remember much of the history she had mugged up when she was acting as guide to the castle in her final year at school. She found, too, rather to her surprise, that she could talk to this man about it; about the long story of the castle starting way back, nearly a thousand years ago, and providing the stage for so many great events^ for rebellions and treason, for siege-and surrender, for plotting and scheming against kings, for the love stories of queens.

  ‘I used to sit there sometimes,’ she said, ‘when there weren’t any visitors to show round, and picture that grandest of all occasions—the time when Robert Dudley received Queen Elizabeth the First there. I could close my eyes and see the great procession with torches and with girls dressed as nymphs of the lake, coming out to greet the queen when she rode in on her white horse, gorgeously attired and glittering with jewels and stiff with satin and brocade. And as she reached the castle there was a great peal of music and trumpets, guns thundered out, and all of a sudden the sky was full of fireworks. What a party that must have been—it went on for days and days. Dudley had everything organised to amuse his royal guest—masques and tableaux all about the pagan gods. The park was full of mimic gods and goddesses, with all the offerings: cages filled with birds, enormous baskets of fruit, sheafs of corn, wine vessels of silver and clusters of grapes. Oh, I can see it again now.’ Chloe’s blue eyes were very bright. Then she glanced doubtfully at the man opposite. ‘Am I boring you? You shouldn’t have asked me about Kenilworth Castle—I’m apt to get carried away.’

  He smiled. ‘I must remember that. And no, you aren’t boring me. Quite the reverse,’ he added. ‘You bring the past to life. It seems to be quite a knack of yours.’

  ‘Knack?’ She frowned at him puzzledly as the waiter brought coffee to the table.

  ‘Um. Let’s drink our coffee quickly and then I’ll show you what I mean.’

  Ten minutes later they were back in the car with its nose pointed towards Leamington. ‘Where are we going?’ Chloe asked, but even before Dane took the turning that led to Woodcotes she thought she knew.

  He swept up the drive and brought the car to a halt with a flourish before the peeling front door. ‘There you are,’ he said, waving a hand towards the house. ‘There’s your job if you’ll take it.’

  ‘Painter and decorator? Oh, I don’t think…’

  ‘No, you’ve got it all wrong.’ He got out of the car and came round and opened the door for her. ‘I’ve already lined up a firm to do the donkey work.’ He named the largest and most expensive firm of local contractors. He evidently intended to do the thing in style; a firm like Laceys wasn’t going to take on a new customer who was likely to argue with them over estimates.

  She said, ‘But if you’ve got Laceys on the job, why should you want me? Or anybody else? They’re a super firm; all you have to do is tell them what you want and they’ll do it.’

  They were strolling round the side of the house now. No rain swept along the verandah today. The sun was shining. The air had a soft spring warmth and the scent of narcissus came from somewhere inside the green tangle of weed that covered the flower beds beside the lawn.

  Dane said, ‘Not so. Laceys will do the donkey work, but what I need is someone to lead the donkey.’

  She shook her head. ‘I still don’t see where I could possibly come into all this.’

  ‘No? W
ell, I said we had things to discuss. This seemed a good place to discuss them. On the spot.’ I They walked up the steps of the verandah, which looked shabbier than ever in the sunshine, with its flaking paint and rotting boards. A wooden seat stood with its back to the house, facing the lawn. The rain of yesterday had washed it reasonably clean, but Benedict Dane took out a handkerchief and dusted it carefully. ‘Suppose we sit down?’

  Chloe sat rather stiffly at one end of the seat while he lounged back in the opposite corner, his long legs crossed.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Explanations. First, what I’ve bought this house for. Eventually I plan to live here, to make it my home, but that’s for the future. Just now I want it for a place where I can bring my business colleagues— somewhere less impersonal than a hotel, where we can talk things over and get to understand each other on working weekends.’

  ‘Sounds like the Prime Minister at Chequers,’ put in Chloe flippantly, and then wished she hadn’t when he went on without smiling.

  ‘I think I told you that my company imports wine. It’s a tie-up with the Spanish side of the family, of course. That’s how the connection first arose. My grandfather, who started the company, went to Spain to see the vineyards and married the daughter of the house—my grandmother—and brought her back to live in England, where she never quite managed to settle down. When my father and his brothers were old enough, they took over the English side of the business and my grandfather and grandmother went back to Spain. There have always been the two parts of the family you see, in close connection, both as a family and business-wise. My father married an Englishwoman. He was killed at the end of the war, flying a fighter plane. My mother died soon afterwards, when I was about two. My uncle survived the war and carried on the English side of the business and I went back to Spain, to be brought up by my grandmother there, although I came back to England to stay with my aunt and uncle quite a bit, and later I came to school here. When I’d finished my education I took my place quite automatically in the family business and mostly Eve spent my time shuttling backwards and forwards between London and Seville. But my parents were British and I am too, so when we decided to open a new office in Birmingham I couldn’t resist the opportunity of putting down roots somewhere near. Are you getting the picture?’

  Chloe nodded. ‘I think so.’ Although she couldn’t for the life of her see why he was telling her all this. ‘At present you’re going to use Woodcotes mostly to entertain your business colleagues.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the general idea.’ He was looking at her thoughtfully, half-questioningly, in a way she was beginning to get used to.

  ‘I think I see,’ she said. ‘But where do I come into this?’

  ‘You’re looking for a job, I gather, somewhere around this neighbourhood. I need someone to be on the spot here, to keep an eye on things, to act as liaison between me and the contractors. Later on, to give me a hand with the furnishings and fitting out of the house.’

  ‘But why me?’ Chloe was looking rather blank, but inside something was stirring at the thought of seeing Woodcotes come back to life.

  ‘You seem the very person. It struck me yesterday that you had a proprietorial interest in the house.’

  ‘An affection for it,’ she corrected. And because that sounded rather foolishly sentimental she added, ‘I just like houses, I always have. I can’t resist an empty house. I like wandering round, furnishing it in my mind. Silly, of course, but harmless. I expect most people have some dotty compulsion like that.’

  He was sitting up now, leaning a little towards her, arms resting on his knees. ‘Your sister told me your engagement had just been broken off, that you’re at present not wildly enthusiastic about either men or marriage. Do you mind my knowing?’

  Chloe shrugged. ‘Why should I? It’s quite true.’

  ‘Why did you break it off?’

  She stared at him. He didn’t look like a man probing offensively into a girl’s love life. He looked like a man interviewing someone for a job. ‘I didn’t break it off,’ she said, in a flat voice. ‘He did.’

  His dark brows rose. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that?’

  ‘I really don’t care if you believe it or not. It happens to be the truth. And as you’re so interested perhaps you’d like to know why. A typical man’s reason, of course. Roger wanted me to move out from my aunt’s house, where I’ve been living for some time, and take a flat. He thought it would be more—accessible. For him, of course,’ she added. ‘When I didn’t see it his way he got angry. He said I didn’t want a man, all I wanted was a doll’s house to play with. He said I was—’ She broke off, amazed at herself. There wasn’t the slightest reason why she should treat this man as a confessor—or a psychiatrist. She didn’t need either. She tried to think of some word to fill the gap, but nothing came.

  Benedict Dane said calmly, ‘He no doubt said you were frigid?’

  She gasped. ‘How did you know he said that?’ Was it true—could it be true? Was it something a man would know, just looking at her? She had a sinking feeling, as if she had just suspected she was working up for some nasty illness.

  His dark eyes assessed her slowly, thoughtfully. He might have been weighing up the merits of some particular vintage of wine. Then he smiled and shook his head, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘you don’t look that way to me at all. And the reason I knew was that it’s the only defence a man has. Your Roger no doubt felt rejected, his ego was attacked, or so he thought, and so he came back with the usual cliché. It’s intended to hurt, but it doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘Thanks very much for setting my mind at rest.’ Chloe laughed, a light, brittle little laugh. Suddenly she found herself disliking the man beside her very much; disliking his patronising tone, his arrogant assumption that she would answer his questions, even the most intimate ones. ‘But all this is rather off the mark, as you seem to be offering me the job of playing with a doll’s house?’ Her lip curled. She didn’t really care now what impression she made on him because she had absolutely no intention of taking any sort of job with him. ‘You’re not requiring a wife, I take it?’ she added with heavy sarcasm.

  There was quite a silence. He had resumed his former position, sitting back in the corner of the wooden seat, long legs crossed. His dark eyes didn’t leave hers for a second, and to her annoyance Chloe found herself unable to look away.

  At last a small smile pulled his long mouth down at the corners.

  ‘You’re quite wrong, Miss Martin,’ he said. ‘A wife is exactly what I am requiring. How do you feel about accepting the job?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Chloe caught her breath in sheer surprise, choked for a moment or two, and found herself quite unable to speak. When she could she heard herself say in a high, unnatural voice, ‘Aren’t we rather wasting time? If you’ve brought me out here to offer me a job can’t we talk about that instead of joking about personal things?’

  He said quite calmly, ‘You don’t ask a girl to marry you, even on my terms, without being a little personal about it. And I assure you I’m not joking.’

  ‘B-but you can’t…’ spluttered Chloe, and relapsed into stupefied silence, trying to find the words that would express her outrage at this cold-blooded suggestion, and at the same time cut this insolent man down to size. But nothing came, and as her legs felt curiously weak and she doubted whether they would support her if she got up and tried to walk away in a dignified manner, she had to sit there, bubbling inwardly like a small volcano, and let him talk.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s been a shock to you,’ he was saying. ‘I’m sorry.’ But he didn’t sound sorry at all, he sounded merely impatient. ‘If I could have led up to it gradually I would have done, but there wasn’t time. I realise that twenty-four hours is a very short time for us to get to know each other, but as soon as I saw you yesterday, here in the kitchen’—he jerked his head backwards towards the house—‘I knew you were the one I wan
ted.’

  Chloe found her voice temporarily. ‘You mean—you want—you’re serious? But you can’t—can’t…’ Her throat dried up again.

  ‘Can’t have fallen in love at first sight?’ he finished for her, crooking his mouth half apologetically. ‘Well, perhaps not. Would you have expected me to?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything,’ she blurted out. ‘This whole conversation is too ridiculous for words!’ Having managed two consecutive sentences she felt marginally calmer.

  He had been watching her closely all this time, that much she had been aware of, evidently giving her time to pull herself together. Now he said, ‘At least hear what I’ve got to say before you turn the idea down out of hand. No, don’t sit on the edge of the seat as if you were going to make a bolt for it at any moment. Just relax.’ Relax! As if she could possibly relax when her inside felt as if it were tied up in knots. But she sat back on the seat, folded her hands on her lap, and tried to look as if she was completely in control of herself and willing to humour him by listening.

  ‘That’s better.’ He smiled at her and then at once became serious again. ‘I’ll make this short. The pivot of the story is my grandmother, who brought me up, as I told you. She’s very old now and I hear from her doctors that she has only a short time to live. She is very much a Castilian, very proud, very stubborn, perhaps a little arrogant, intensely loyal. Orgallo, we call it,’ he added with a brief smile, ‘and I love her dearly and wouldn’t hurt her for the world.’

  In spite of herself Chloe was interested. Orgallo was a word she was familiar with, from her visits to Spain. She imagined she could see this man’s grandmother, a matriarch in black, sitting straight as a ramrod, her white hair piled high under its black lace.