by Susan Barrie
“Damn!” exclaimed Richard Trenchard, and looked at Melanie ruefully over the fallen chair which he immediately afterwards stooped to restore to the upright position.
Melanie felt the confused blood surge upwards over her face and neck, and she knew that her eyes were confused also.
He said, with a rather odd smile, surveying her. “I’m afraid that was my fault! You looked like a startled colt just then—”
Mrs. Abbie came briskly into the hall to let him know that the telephone was ringing in the library, and when he returned from answering it his demeanor appeared to have undergone a complete change, and he was brisk to the point of curtness.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to start getting rooms ready, Abbie. Miss Brooks can lend you a hand. Miss Gaythorpe and one or two other friends of mine are at Haveringford Junction, and they appear to be stranded, since no hire car will risk bringing them here. I’ll have to get the car out and go and collect them, and if I get stuck in a drift it will be just too bad!”
But he did not get stuck in a drift—or, at any rate, not for any serious length of time—for just as the church clock chimed twelve delicate strokes at midnight, which seemed to quiver in the icy air, Melanie, who had retired to bed soon after his departure, opened her eyes and caught the sound of his returning car coming up the drive.
She also heard the sound of laughter and voices stabbing the silence of the night like the harsh tinkling of Japanese windmills, and Mrs. Abbie descending the stairs to open the front door and admit gusts of louder laughter which echoed throughout the quiet, serene house where only the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall had hitherto broken the stillness.
She thought of the fire crackling in the chimney in Miss Gaythorpe’s room—the most attractive room in the house, getting all the benefit of the morning sun—which she had assisted Mrs. Abbie by lighting herself. And of its pale peach hangings and quilted bed-head, and the black and peach bathroom adjoining. Brigid would be staggering up the stairs with her luggage, and no doubt it would soon be scattered all over the room, her gossamer underthings and probably a quite startling neglige in which she would drift about the corridors in the mornings. Sylvia Gaythorpe was exactly the type of ornamental female who would almost certainly know the value of drifting and looking like something ethereal from another world, especially in a small but ancient and beautifully equipped house whose, owner she undoubtedly had formed an intention of impressing if she could.
But whether Richard Trenchard was the type who was impressed—really seriously impressed—by theatrical impersonations of that sort Melanie could only conjecture. At least he had a sufficient amount of admiration for her to invite her to his house!
There were sounds of coming and going from the kitchen to the dining-room, and from the dining-room to the drawing-room—where yet another fire had had to be lit!—which went on for yet another hour, and perhaps longer. And then Melanie fell asleep again thinking of Mrs. Abbie’s repressed indignation, and the difficulty she was probably experiencing at keeping it out of her face, particularly as, from her point of view, the house was seriously understaffed—and would be over Christmas!—and she had to get up early in the morning.
It might have been about three in the morning when Melanie once more awoke, to find that the moon was still almost painfully bright outside her window, and someone was pacing up and down on the crisp snow which covered the terrace. She could hear the measured tread of quiet footfalls—oddly muffled yet distinct in that all-enveloping stillness—and curiosity led her to defy the cold and creep across the room to her window.
Her employer had come to a standstill outside, and was standing smoking a cigarette and gazing up at all the hills and valleys in the moon, and apparently relishing the sight, although he was hatless and without a coat. She could see his black dinner-jacket and the line of his white stiff collar below the sleekness of his black hair. There was an air of calmness and remoteness about him, and a suggestion that he was given up to quiet reflection, although he had recently been entertaining guests who were now in bed, and after his recent drive to prevent them being marooned at Haveringford he should have been feeling the need of bed himself.
Melanie wanted to call down to him that it was unwise to stand there risking a chill, but she knew she must not let him know that she was watching him. Perhaps the excitement and the disturbance of the past few hours had left him with a need for something less potent than a redheaded film star and her bevy of chosen, particular friends—or it could be, of course, that now that she had temporarily withdrawn herself from his sight he chose to dwell upon the thought of her out there in the whiteness of the still, clear night!
And then the curtain she was holding back from her window slipped out of Melanie’s hand, and the movement caused him to glance upwards quickly, almost suspiciously. Melanie, in her old but comfortable warm red dressing-gown with her dark hair tumbled on her shoulders, looked down at him almost panic-stricken. But only for a moment, and then she flew back to bed.
There was perhaps half a minute of absolute silence, and then a small shower of gravel was flung at the window. Melanie cowered beneath her eiderdown. A second shower of gravel struck the glass, and she crept out of bed and approached the window again.
Richard Trenchard, with his back to the moon this time, was making signs to her to open it. She did so, very carefully, to avoid waking the rest of the house.
He came close to the wall and stood looking up at her. “Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked.
“What are you doing down there?” she demanded of him, in a penetrating whisper. “You’ll catch your death of cold—”
“Why aren’t you asleep?” he repeated.
She drew the red dressing-gown closely across her chest, and he thought that she looked like a dark-haired witch gazing down at him with her luminous eyes.
“I’ve been asleep. I think it was you who wakened me.”
“Sorry,” he told her. “I’m sorry also about the mistletoe! Did you think I was going to bite you, or something?” Although he could not see it she flushed painfully in the darkness.
“I’m afraid you rather took me by surprise.”
“Then you shouldn’t have been taken by surprise! How old are you? Didn’t you once tell me you were twenty-two?”
She nodded.
“Twenty-two and—never been kissed! At least, apparently not under the mistletoe!”
He signed to her to close the window again.
“Before you catch pneumonia,” he said. “And go to bed and sleep this time.”
“Good night,” she called, before she softly closed the window.
But he did not answer. Instead he turned away with one of his abrupt movements, and she heard his footsteps disappearing round the corner of the house. She stood clinging for several rather long-drawn-out minutes to the window curtain before she obeyed him and went back to bed. She was thinking that, had she but had the sense to realize it, that bunch of mistletoe attached to the lantern in the hall had presented her with an opportunity which might never come her way again—an opportunity to feel the arms of a man whose fascination for her was growing daily about her for a few all-too-brief seconds, and his lips...
She crushed the soft silk of the curtain into a kind of rope in her hands, and the moon riding high in the sky outside seemed most disconcertingly to wheel and dip and dazzle her, and leave her feeling strangely dizzy and lightheaded. For she could no longer think calmly of such a thing as the cool, faintly cynical, intensely masculine lips of Richard Trenchard, successful playwright, approaching hers, even under the mistletoe, without being conscious that it was the one thing in life she wanted more than anything else. And it was the one thing in life she must school herself to do without...
CHAPTER TEN
ON Christmas Eve Mrs. Duplessis called with a selection of Christmas gifts, and an invitation which she extended to all to have dinner with her at some time during the festive season. But wit
h a house full of his friends, whom he could hardly expect her to entertain, Richard found it a simple matter to refuse, and his sister displayed few signs of being upset by his refusal.
She had Potch with her, and Peter took the utmost exception to him—probably regarding him as an oddity—and created one of his all-too-frequent diversions by overturning an occasional table when charging in pursuit of the alarmed poodle. Mrs. Duplessis quite plainly formed a bad opinion of Peter, but as Melanie rescued her pampered pet and banished the offender to the kitchen she was prepared to overlook the offence. She drew Melanie aside on the excuse of asking her to let her see over the house, and in the dining-room shut the door and looked meaningly in the direction of the room they had left, where Sylvia Gaythorpe, her mother, two of her admirers and one of her girl friends were reclining languidly after lunch.
“So Richard is behaving foolishly for about the first time in his life!” she remarked.
Melanie appeared faintly surprised, and looked as if she did not entirely comprehend the drift of Mrs. Duplessis’ rather acid observation.
“Is he?” she murmured. “I—in what way do you mean—?”
“That Gaythorpe girl! She’s out to get him, you know!”
Melanie elevated her eyebrows, and tried to look mildly astonished.
“Is she? Mr. Trenchard seems to admire her, and of course she’s very beautiful—”
“Beautiful!” Eve scoffed. “A film star—cleverly made-up, as they all are!—and as grasping as a professional money-lender! She’s quite well aware what she’s doing—she and that mother of hers, who’s as poor as a church mouse. Apart from an occasional success I don’t believe the girl earns very much, either—certainly not enough to maintain the standard of life she aspires to! And Richard really has made a success of his life, and she’s probably the reason why he bought this house—”
Melanie felt her heart sink a little because, over the past few days, she had begun to incline more and more to that opinion herself. Living under the same roof with anyone as glamorous as Sylvia—cleverly made-up or not!—with her extensive wardrobe of expensive clothes which must certainly eat up the greater portion of her salary, it would have been next door to impossible to believe that the eyes of any discerning man could ever wander anywhere else. Sylvia had everything—looks, charm, personality, ability, sex-appeal—and in addition she knew how to make the most of what she had!
“But I thought he bought it because of his niece—after all, Noel had to have a home...”
Mrs. Duplessis glanced at her pityingly.
“My poor child, you’re so completely unworldly that you don’t realize the working of some men’s minds. My brother is no fool—in fact he’s pretty hard-bitten!—but having escaped marriage when he was young he is now rapidly approaching that time of life when a green-eyed innocent mask of a face like Sylvia Gaythorpe’s could easily sweep him off his feet! But believe me he’ll regret it if he does marry her! However, that’s his affair...” She shrugged her shoulders, as if whatever happened she could not be bothered to intervene, and went across to the curtains of dull gold brocade and fingered them.
“I don’t know what Richard paid for this material, but I could have put him on to some far heavier if he had only asked me,” she remarked, changing the subject. “And gold is not a color I would choose for a dining-room. A warm russet tone is better—or better still crimson! Crimson goes so well with very dark oak.” And so, thought Melanie, not altogether agreeing with her, did an almost sage-green carpet and a bowl of long-stemmed heavily purple violets in the centre of a long refectory table very nearly as dark as ebony.
When she had gone Melanie went out into the kitchen to help Mrs. Abbie with the afternoon tea. Brigid had rather badly scalded her hand the day before, and the domestic problem was becoming rather acute, with so many people in the house and only a village “char” to lend extra assistance. But Melanie was always glad to do anything she could to help, although Mrs. Abbie protested that it was not her job.
“If it isn’t it doesn’t matter,” Melanie retorted to that. “Somebody’s got to do it, and you can’t do everything!”
She wheeled the trolley into the drawing-room, and placed the tray with its load of gleaming silver and really exquisite Minton china on a little table convenient to the elbow of Mrs. Gaythorpe, as the senior lady present. Sylvia, curled up like a kitten in her comfortable chair, and wearing slacks of emerald velvet and a white high-necked sweater with her initials in green upon the pocket, looked as if she had barely yet recovered full possession of her senses after a doze, and she eyed the tea-tray in much the same manner as a pampered cat eyes a saucer of cream.
“The cup that cheers!” she exclaimed, smothering a yawn behind one very white and languid hand. “I do actually believe I’ve been asleep! In which case I hope I didn’t snore?”
“Darling, you know you never snore,” Mrs. Gaythorpe reassured her fondly, and Tony Malpas, the weedy young man who seldom seemed to take his admiring eyes off her, instantly seconded this reassurance.
“All the same, I think I heard an occasional rather suggestive grunt,” Richard Trenchard teased her, lying back in his own chair and looking as if at least he found it pleasant to relax in his own home.”
Sylvia gazed at him reproachfully.
“How unkind, Richard! Even if you did snore I would never let you know that you did!”
“That would be supremely tactful,” he told her. “‘But I am not always supremely tactful.”
“You have a cook, or a housekeeper, who makes the most mouth-watering scones,” sinking her pearly teeth into one—which had, incidentally, been made by Melanie— with zest. “And that reminds me that tonight is Christmas Eve, and I hope we’re going to do something unusual to mark it as an auspicious occasion? Apart from hanging up our stockings, and that sort of thing, I mean.”
“Don’t tell me you still hang up your stocking?” the host exclaimed disbelievingly, eyeing her with a mocking gleam in his eyes. “Sheer nylon was never intended to stand up to the weight of even a diamond necklace! And who would offer less than a diamond necklace to Miss Sylvia Gaythorpe, star of stage and screen?”
“Pearls would do,” she murmured dreamily, staring into the glowing heart of the fire. “Creamy pearls with a faint shimmer like satin, and just the merest tinge of pink in them! Somebody once told me that there are so many different shades and varieties of pearls—the genuine article, of course—to suit almost all skins, and I think mine would be enhanced by the ones I have described. Don’t you, Mother?”
“Gentlemen, please note!” Richard murmured.
He looked upwards at Melanie, acting as a kind of unofficial parlormaid and handing round cups of tea and the various edibles.
“My dear Miss Brooks,” he exclaimed protestingly, “don’t you ever relax like the rest of us, even at Christmastime? I’ve put away my work—in fact I’ve locked it up, so that that canine spirit of mischief I presented to Noel won’t make an evening meal of it!—but you seem perpetually to hover as if always on the brink of doing something useful. And I don’t like people being useful about me when I’m determined to be lazy myself!”
“They’re a bit short-handed in the kitchen,” Melanie explained, “and there’s actually rather a lot to be done with so many people in the house.”
It was not her intention to sound in the least critical, and certainly not censorious, but she thought she detected a frown between his well-marked brows. Sylvia, however, merely glanced at her coldly, and, determining not to be side-tracked, addressed herself to Richard.
“Richard, darling, if Miss Brooks likes to be conscientious about her job that is her affair, and it’s hardly up to you to grumble if one of your employees likes to pull her weight.” She paused for an infinitesimal half-second to allow this to sink in, and Melanie thought she deliberately stressed the word “employee.” Then she continued persuasively: “But we are going to dance or do something tonight, aren’t we? I’
ve got the most breathtaking frock I’ve brought specially for the occasion with which to dazzle your eyes, and I think your Mrs. Abbie ought to rise above herself and provide us with a truly outstanding dinner. I fancy roast stuffed turkey, iced asparagus, a soufflé light as feathers, some cheese straws—and a bottle of something exciting in which to drink to your first Christmas in your own home!”
“As a matter of fact,” her host informed her smoothly, “we did the night I arrived — in champagne!”
“You did?” The bleakness in her voice caused him to smile very slightly. “But whom do you mean by ‘we’ ...? Did you have a party?”
“Oh, no,” quite casually, “there was only Miss Brooks, Noel, Mrs. Abbie and myself!”
“I see.” The temperature of the room seemed to drop by several degrees as she sat there—no longer sprawling comfortably like a kitten—endeavoring to digest this intelligence. “Then it would be rather unnecessary to repeat the performance tonight!”
She glanced across at Noel, whose natural shyness prevented her from taking very much part in the conversation that was carried on by the guests, and forced a sudden, bright smile to her lips.
“Come upstairs with me, Noel,” she invited lightly. “I’ve something rather pretty to give you for Christmas, and you can wear it tonight if you wish. I don’t imagine Miss Brooks is going to insist that you retire to bed on Christmas Eve like an infant, and have your supper taken up to you on a tray? If she is I advise you to revolt, and I for one will support you!”
She stood up in her green velvet slacks and tossed the colorful hair back from her shoulders, and without even glancing at her host, and keeping her white chin disdainfully erect, swept with much grace to the door. And after a moment of hesitation Noel followed her, and crept after her up the stairs.
