For the first time in her life she stood upon an all-black carpet, and the effect was a little strange. The walls of the room were golden, like a tea-rose, and the curtains and the coverlet on the low French bed were of tea-rose coloured moiré silk. The dressing-table stood in a petticoat of yellow satin, and the bathroom adjoining glowed like the smooth sides of a peach. It was the sort of bedroom that belonged to a film-set, and not an English country house. Mallory felt that so strongly that she could only gaze about her in obvious astonishment.
Serena looked at her with a kind of triumph when she saw how taken aback the governess was.
“Isn’t it a wonderful room?” she demanded. “Wouldn’t you love to sleep in it?”
“Quite candidly,” answered Mallory, to her disappointment, “I would not. It’s a room for a princess.”
“But Sonia is a princess,” the child declared emphatically. “Isn’t she, Mrs. Carpenter? Isn’t she, Rose? She’s the most beautiful person in the world, and she dances divinely. I’ve seen her—I’ve seen her as the ‘Sleeping Beauty’ and as a dying swan, and as an ice maiden. Uncle Raife thinks she’s beautiful, too, and that’s why he’s had this room got ready for her. It’s her room—nobody else would be allowed to sleep in it...”
“You talk too much, Miss Serena,” Mrs. Carpenter said disapprovingly. “And you’re getting in our way up here, so stop fingering that crystal bowl, and put those brushes back on the table, and go downstairs with Miss Gower. Haven’t you any lessons to learn?”
“I can’t learn any lessons,” Serena flung back at her with pleased defiance, “because we haven’t got any books for me to learn from, except dull old books from the library. And Uncle Raife does think Miss Martingale beautiful...”
“Serena!” Mallory exclaimed, in a voice which caused her pupil to swing round reluctantly and follow her, pouting a good deal, from the room. But outside on the landing she had the last word.
“Well, just wait until you see her, and her clothes! You haven’t got any like them—not even a little bit like them...”
“My dear child,” Mallory reminded her gently, “I’m only a governess.”
Serena had the grace to look faintly ashamed. She slipped a repentant hand into Mallory’s.
“All the same, I like you,” she said. “I like you even better than Miss Martingale!”
Two days later, it being the first day of March, which had come in like a lamb, the master of Morven Grange returned to his home in Herefordshire about four o’clock in the afternoon. The old house looked peaceful and mellow in the declining daylight; every window shone, and smoke ascended into the fading blue above the twisted chimneys. In the drawing-room there were banked-up sheaves of lilac, and every bowl and vase was filled with a positive blaze of spring flowers, which brought the freshness of the out-of-doors into the elegant and beautifully-furnished room, centrally as well as electrically heated, so that the wide white Adam fireplace was flower-filled also.
Phipps, in his best black, waited on tenterhooks in the hall for the sound of car wheels on the drive, and the moment when he could swing wide the front door. And when that moment arrived Mallory, who with Serena beside her, had watched from the great window at the head of the stairs for the cars to draw up—there were actually three—made her escape to the school-room, dragging a most unwilling Serena with her.
After all, argued the child, they were missing all the fun of the arrival, and why did they not go downstairs into the hall to welcome the visitors as well as her uncle? She knew Miss Martingale—she had had tea with her in the drawing-room when she came to Morven before, and had gone down often after dinner to be made a fuss of and entertained. Her uncle liked having her downstairs...
But despite all these coaxings and arguments, Mallory remained firm, and her edict was that they must remain out of sight in their own quarters until such time as they were sent for, or Serena was sent for. And in the end Serena was won over to good humour and acquiescence by the promise of being allowed to stay up and have dinner with Mallory in her own sitting-room, after which there were no further attempts at persuasion so far as going downstairs was concerned.
Their meal was served to them more than an hour before the main meal in the dining-room downstairs, and during that time, while they sat cosily at Mallory’s little gate-legged table, and Rose brought up special tit-bits from the kitchen with which to tempt Serena, there was a great deal of coming and going in the corridors outside, and the whole house had a different atmosphere because it was now filled with visitors.
Mallory thought of Mrs. Carpenter’s lament that her peace ended when visitors arrived, and she was inclined to agree with her. For the opening and shutting of doors, the rustling movements outside her own sitting-room, the little bursts of low-toned conversation and occasional snatches of laughter—masculine as well as feminine—made her feel that the house had been taken over by an unseen army.
They were enjoying their sweet when the door suddenly opened, without any warning knock such as Rose tactfully always gave, and Raife Benedict walked in. He was already dressed for dinner, and Mallory’s first impression of him, received in the midst of sudden confusion, was that he was almost startlingly handsome, with his white shirt front throwing into prominence his dark and swarthy skin, and his sleek blade hair. Her second was that for the first time she saw him in a thoroughly amiable mood, and that his strange brown eyes actually held little dancing points of laughter, and his white teeth—very hard, strong, and perfect teeth—gleamed in a smile.
“Well, well,” he observed, as he took in the fact that they were obviously enjoying a meal, and that Serena was plainly quite content, “you seem to be very comfortable, both of you! Had you forgotten that you possessed an uncle, my infant, and that he was coming home to-day? I looked for you downstairs when we arrived.”
Serena let forth a delighted shriek and simply flew at him. To Mallory’s considerable amazement he allowed her to wind both slim arms about his neck and almost strangle him with her hug, and she even found herself holding her own breath lest his immaculate neckwear should come to any harm.
“Oh, Uncle Raife!—dearest, belovedest Uncle Raife! Miss Gower wouldn’t let me come downstairs and she said I could have dinner with her in here instead.”
“Did she, indeed?” He managed to free himself from the clinging arms, and then inserted a careful finger inside his collar and made sure that his beautifully tied bow-tie was not seriously disarranged. “And I take it that you prefer having dinner with Miss Gower in her sitting-room to coming and finding out whether I still exist? Incidentally, Sonia has been asking after you, and she wants to see you after dinner, if Miss Gower will bring you down.”
He crossed over to an arm-chair beside the fire and dropped into it, stretching his long legs out before him as if he was tired and glad to relax. He rested his dark head against the cushions, and Mallory could see how the light from the shaded lamp on the table was reflected in the polished waves of his hair. His eyes regarded her smilingly, but also she thought a trifle mockingly.
“So Miss Gower conquers! Miss Gower is already Favourite No. 1.”
“Nothing of the kind,” Mallory returned quite seriously, feeling the situation should be clarified. “I was not at all sure whether you would want us downstairs, but Serena was keen enough to see you. Too keen,” she added truthfully. “I had difficulty in keeping her up here.”
“Nevertheless, you succeeded, and Serena is an impetuous young woman, and accustomed to having her own way. You must be dealing very competently with her.”
“Thank you,” Mallory replied to this, with her customary rather deceptive demureness. “But Serena is not all that difficult.”
“I am relieved to hear you say so,” he told her. “I have been accused so many times of all but ruining my niece, and it is a load off my mind to know that I have not entirely done so.”
He held out a hand to the niece concerned, who instantly clambered like a responsive kitte
n on to the arm of his chair.
“I have a present for you, Infant, and you shall see it when you come downstairs after dinner. I wonder whether you can guess what it is?”
Serena looked thrilled and made excited guesses. “Another big bottle of perfume from Paris? Or chocolates!” she cried.
“I haven’t been to Paris, as you very well know, and your consumption of chocolate is already far too high for the welfare of your teeth.” He produced a cigarette-case and offered it to Mallory. “You smoke, Miss Gower?”
“Thank you.” She accepted a cigarette, and as he came slightly nearer to hold his lighter to the end of it she could feel, rather than see, his eyes, with those strange, mocking, darting lights, boring into her own. His brown, strong-fingered hand held the lighter very firmly, and she did not need to take more than one quick, slightly nervous puff. “Thank you,” she repeated.
He lay back in his chair again, drawing lazily at his own cigarette, and his eyes roved appreciatively round the room.
“You are very cosy in here. There is a nice, homely atmosphere,” he observed, and he certainly sounded as if he meant it.
“It is a very nice room indeed, and so is my bed-room,” she said, thinking that perhaps she ought to thank him for them. “I am very comfortable here, Mr. Benedict. Mrs. Carpenter has done all that she can to make me so.”
“Has she?” He sounded quite casual. “Well, that’s a good thing, anyway. You won’t be tempted to desert us suddenly.”
“I don’t desert when it is my job,” she told him, resenting that slight, sarcastic slur in his voice which was seldom absent from it for long—when he addressed her, anyway.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed, approvingly, but again she was afraid he mocked.
Serena was catching at his arm and trying to attract his attention again.
“What is my present, Uncle Raife? Tell me,” she coaxed. “Please do tell me!”
But he merely laughed and shook her off and rose and said he must be going.
“The gong will sound any minute now, and I mustn’t keep my guests waiting. After dinner you will not only be told but see your present.” He looked across at Mallory again, noting that she was wearing a simple dark dress unrelieved by any ornament, but that she managed to look remarkably attractive in it just the same. “Let Serena wear something pretty to-night, and dress yourself up, too, if you feel like it. I have quite a few friends downstairs, and you will probably get some entertainment out of the evening.”
It was permission to make an attempt to do so at least, which was a concession, she realized, when she was merely the governess.
With a careless pull at one of Serena’s curls he went out, and with his departure something forceful and virile departed also from the little sitting-room. And away down in the depths of the hall the great Burmese gong began to send forth its summons to dinner.
Serena was so excited that dressing her was a matter of some difficulty, and as this was Darcy’s evening off Mallory had to take over the task of making sure her appearance left no room for criticism. She wanted to put on all sorts of trinkets, but Mallory forbade this, and in the end she looked altogether enchanting in a dress of broderie Anglaise, with a satin ribbon looped through her curls, and black patent-leather shoes. Mallory was more simply attired in her only evening frock, a misty grey georgette, which exactly matched her eyes, and with which she wore her mother’s pearls, loaned to her in case she should ever need them.
Behind the drawing-room door when they reached it they could hear sounds of mirth and a great deal of conversation. Mallory was about to knock and await permission to enter, but Serena unhesitatingly thrust open the door, quite sure of her welcome, and stood beaming upon the threshold of the long, flower-filled, softly-lighted room.
Mallory had a confused impression of sleek heads of men and black dinner-jacketed forms, and dresses which repeated all the tints in the rainbow, seen through a haze of cigarette smoke, which was curling upwards to the Adam ceiling. One pair of eyes, enormous and green as a cat’s, and blackly lashed, gazed languidly across at her from the depths of the most comfortable armchair in the room, and their owner had her feet on a footstool, and it was about her that all others seemed to be gathered, like courtiers paying homage before the occupant of a throne.
“Why, Serena!” exclaimed this green-eyed beauty, in a voice that was as languid as her looks—and that she was beautiful no one could ever dispute, for hers was a beauty of colouring as well as perfection of feature, her complexion flawless as a paper-white rose, her lips red and inviting, her hair a coronet of silken black braids wound about her shapely head. And the dress she was wearing must have cost far more than even a popular ballerina could afford. “Come here, child I Come and see what we’ve got for you!”
There was a basket on the rug in front of the glowing electric fire, and Serena made straight for it, holding her breath when out from it emerged a pure white Siamese kitten, whose ears and tail had not yet acquired that delicate chocolate hue which would distinguish them later on. Its eyes were as blue as cornflowers, however, and Serena picked it up, crooned over it delightedly. “Oh, how perfect,” she cried. “How perfect!” She looked up at Mallory, and her eyes were sparkling.
“Hold it, Miss Gower,” she invited, thrusting the kitten at her. “It’s as soft as silk.”
Mallory took it from her gently, and the little creature, terrified by so many strange humans collected around it, nestled against her as if seeking protection, and unexpectedly loud purrs filled the room.
“Why, it likes you,” Serena cried, as if amazed. “It likes you even better than it does me! Look, Uncle Raife, the kitten really likes Miss Gower!”
“The kitten has probably got good taste,” Raife Benedict observed, tossing away his cigarette in order to lean forward and tweak one of the soft white ears. “And Siamese kittens especially are reputed to have good sense as well.”
His eyes, without any sign of humour in them, seemed to be looking curiously at Mallory.
Sonia Martingale’s voice, also as soft as silk, but with a note like ice behind .the unruffled laziness of it, remarked with apparent casualness:
“I am not at all fond of cats, Siamese or otherwise. I much prefer dogs.”
And she, too, was looking at Mallory, but there was no friendliness at all in her gaze.
Her host looked down at her, an odd smile curving his lips.
“Poor Sonia,” he said teasingly, bending over her caressingly to pat her hands. “Didn’t the kitten purr loudly enough for you? Never mind!”
“I don’t mind,” Sonia assured him, looking up into his dark face with a brilliant smile. “My own dog comes into my room in the morning and gives me the most tremendous morning greeting, licking me all over the face. So why do I have to bother about any other animal?”
“You don’t have to bother about anything or anyone—they bother about you!” Raife assured her, leaning negligently against the white marble fireplace and carelessly lighting another cigarette. “And if you ask me, you possess an extraordinarily sensible dog!” There was a look on his face as he studied his most beautiful guest which Mallory found it a little difficult to understand, for altogether there was a little flicker of something like tenderness in his eyes as they watched her, there was undoubted amusement behind the tenderness, and Sonia, she was quite sure, sensed it. She did not look too pleased.
“I am tired,” she announced suddenly, and assuming the look of a wilting flower all at once. “I suppose I am not very strong yet, and it has been a long and tiring day.”
“Then you must go to bed early,” he said at once.
“I loathe going to bed early.” She looked at him reproachfully.
“Then we will all do something to amuse you and make you forget your tiredness,” and he came and sat on the arm of her chair and picked up one of her perfect hands, and this time his expression as he looked down at her was all tenderness, and Mallory concentrated all her attention on
the kitten when she saw it softening the outline of his rather hard mouth.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mallory had only the vaguest recollection of what happened during the remainder of that evening when she thought about it afterwards. She knew that Adrian came across and spoke to her, and that he seemed glad of the opportunity to do so, and that she was introduced to an elderly man with a keen, business-like face and unusually white hair and shrewd eyes who had something to do with Miss Martingale’s professional life, and was as noticeably drawn to her as were all the other men in the room. Then there was Miss Martingale’s dresser—apparently an old friend as well—a plump, suburban kind of little woman, who ran liberally to rows of unreal pearls, and ought never to have worn purple velvet, because of her high colour. But she was friendly enough to Mallory, and plainly delighted and a little overawed by her surroundings.
There was also the local doctor and his wife and daughter, the latter a tall, slim girl with reddish hair and clear brown eyes who looked often and thoughtfully at Adrian. She, too, was particularly friendly to Mallory, and when they sat side-by-side for a short time they exchanged quite a few confidences considering the extreme brevity of their acquaintance.
Jill Harding explained that she worked in London as a model, but she had been ill, and was at home for a few weeks to recuperate. She invited Mallory, when she, got some free time, to visit them, and also to bring Serena, if she found it impossible to leave her behind.
“That child has been well-nigh ruined by her uncle, but she’s a bit of a poppet all the same,” she said.
“Oh, there’s nothing very seriously wrong with Serena,” Mallory voiced it as her opinion. “Nothing, that is, that can’t very easily be put right—with her uncle’s co-operation, of course,” she added.
“Um!” Jill exclaimed, in a low voice. She was watching the host dividing his attention between his most important guest and her own mother, and her straight dark eyebrows met in a little frown. “Pity he doesn’t get married to someone who could really mother the child. All children are the better for someone who can at least act the part of a mother.”
The Black Benedicts Page 5
