Cast a tender shadow

by Dix, Isabel

  Cast a tender shadow by Isabel Dix

  After a whirlwind courtship, Kate had come to France to be married to Antoine Savoney-Morlet —and she still could not believe what had happened after that. 'For she had been tricked, by Antoine's venomous mother, into marrying his cousin Charles instead, while Antoine had simply vanished from the scene. Charles assured her that he had no designs on her, that in due time Antoine would come to claim her — but could Kate trust any of them now?

  printed in Great Britain

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information

  retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent

  purchaser.

  First published 1981

  This edition 1982

  © Isabel Dix 1981

  ISBN 0 263 74039 0

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE nightmare varied only in detail; the essentials were always the same. She stood listening to the wedding service, the gauzy veil covering her face, the comforting touch of his fingers on hers. The words were eternal, moving whatever the language, and although they were being spoken in a tongue with which she had only a short acquaintance, in her mind she was hearing the beautiful age-old ones from the Book of Common Prayer.

  She knew enough French to be able to respond at the proper places, and it was only when they moved into the vestry of the tiny church that the horror began. For when the bridegroom raised the veil from her face to kiss her, she looked not at Antoine, but into the eyes of a total stranger.

  Kate Ellerdale woke with a start, her pitiful sobbing stifled by the cover which she pressed against her mouth while her wide bewildered gaze flitted round the luxurious sundrenched bedroom. Instinctively the slender hand moved from her mouth to wipe the stinging tears from her cheek. She gave a shuddering sigh of relief that she was awake, that she had escaped from that repetitive horrible dream, but still her eyes moved restlessly about the room in a desperate search for the reassurance she sought.

  The bedroom was familiar, and yet . . . She knew that wall of cupboards whose light wood doors concealed enough space for the clothes of the Queen of England. Then on that dressing-table she could see her own jars and bottles, the pretty pink and navy make-up bag she had bought before she left London. And through the slightly open doorway on the opposite wall the exotic gold and pink tiles of the bathroom could just be glimpsed and she knew that she had bathed there more than once in recent days. Then total recollection flooded back, clouding the brilliance of the violet eyes and causing the white teeth to catch painfully at the trembling lower lip.

  It was true, then. The nightmare was more than a sleep-disturbing dream, it was a haunting reality, one which had been with her for almost a week. Since that day in church when, after the wedding service, she had realised that she was married to the wrong man. To someone she had never seen before in her life.

  It had all begun so romantically, so idyllically two months ago in England. She had been catapulted from the relatively humdrum, rather boring routine of photographic modelling to the infinitely more exciting and certainly more glamorous world of high fashion. A friend of a friend had introduced her to Kulukundis, the brilliant young Greek designer who had arrived like a comet blazing across the London scene. And the very next morning he had rung her suggesting that she might care to model his next collection.

  Of course Kate had been suspicious, for even in the short time he had been in the public eye Kulu had established a reputation second to none in a world

  where almost anything goes. And when she had mentioned at that morning's photograph session that she had a date with Kulu there had been one or two rather snide references to the 'casting couch'. Beverley Ann Davies had been particularly scathing.

  `Well, so you're going to give in at last, Katie dear.' There was no mistaking the sour envy in the voice, no escaping the discontented droop that marred the beautiful mouth as she surveyed her colleague in the mirror in the tiny dressing-room they shared.

  `No.' Over the past two years Kate had learned that the only way to deal with bitchiness was to ignore the little barbs. 'It's purely a business meeting, Beverley Ann. Dear!'

  `I bet.' The tall blonde girl leaned back against the wall, watching Kate struggle out of the skin-tight motor-cycle gear which had featured in a hairspray advertisement, then stand for a moment in pants and bra fiddling with the zip of a muslin dress which she was to wear for the vermouth feature. 'You know, you'll have to watch your figure, Katie. You're putting on a pound or two of weight, and from what I hear Kulu insists on absolute Twiggys to wear his clothes.'

  Momentarily shaken from her musing thoughts, Kate turned to glance in the mirror. 'Do you think so, Beverley?' She put an anxious hand to the firm swell of her breast while she twisted about, studying her reflection anxiously.

  `Yes.' There was a hint of triumph in the other girl's smile. 'You're looking almost . . . well, buxom, I suppose the word is. Mind you,' she made a pretence of comforting, 'although he likes his models to be laths, there's no saying what Kulu's personal preferences are.

  After all, he's used to Greek women and they're inclined to be—well covered.'

  So when Kate, in a state of some alarm, presented herself at Kulu's flat for the interview, she scarcely knew whether to be relieved or piqued that his interest in her was so professional, without even the most oblique suggestion that he had the casting couch in mind

  `Yes,' he decided, chewing on a long black cigar, 'I like the way you move. You've studied ballet, I guess.' And when Kate admitted that she had gone to classes for many years he nodded approvingly. 'Good. It's time you English girls realised that cool elegance isn't enough. But anyway, you'll do.' With a wave of a languid hand he dismissed her. 'Fix terms through your agent and come along next week. We've a lot of work to do and I'm not prepared to put up with poor work or bad time-keeping.'

  And Kate found herself out on the doorstep, smiling ruefully at the idea that she had gone there prepared to fight for her honour if necessary. Later, when she had started work for Kulu, she learned that he was for the moment obsessed with a long-legged red-haired Texan and presumably all his energies were expended in trying to bring her to heel. Or to bed, more likely.

  Working with Kulu was a challenge that no girl could ignore, and Kate revelled in the exquisite clothes which were shown to buyers from all over the world and in glamorous settings such as she could have scarcely imagined. It was against the background of a famous stately home in Dorset that she first met Antoine, and strangely that evening, when his dark eyes were making her blush with their blatant admira-

  tion as she whirled or drifted along the catwalk, she had the fleeting sensation that somewhere she had seen him before. There was something vaguely but persistently familiar about the set of his head, the dark, almost black eyes, almond-shaped under thin dark eyebrows. But that was impossible, for he later said that his appearance here was simply by chance, that he had come along to the fashion show to support the charity for wh
ich it was being held that particular evening, and because a friend who had found at the last moment he had another engagement had given him the ticket.

  When the show was over, the girls, wearing their own Kulu clothes which were sold to them at cost, were allowed to mingle with the guests. Katie, wearing glowing cotton voile in shades of violet and mauve, found herself talking with a group of the international jetsetters who appeared to make up the majority of the audience, responding, with the veneer of sophistication she had cultivated so assiduously, to the flattery of the men who gravitated in her direction.

  She was laughing at a joke made by a tall middle-aged man in the dazzling white robes of an Arab, sipping a glass of champagne, when she realised that the man she had noticed so persistently during the show was at her side. She felt his eyes, the ones that seemed so vaguely familiar, rake her profile with an intense intimate glance and when he spoke there was no procrastination.

  `It is so warm, mademoiselle.' The accent was foreign as she had known it would be, although his command of English was almost perfect.

  `Yes.' She turned towards him, the violet eyes encouraging him over the rim of her glass. 'Yes.

  Such a beautiful evening.'

  `Shall we walk on the terrace?'

  `That would make it perfect.'

  Together they stepped out through the floor-length window close to where they had been standing, out into the darkening world, all the noise, chatter and brilliance of the great house seeming to drift away from them. As if they alone were real, all the others shadows, thought Kate dreamily. They didn't speak but walked the length of the house, their feet moving soundlessly over the mellow old paving stones towards the balustraded edge of the terrace and the flight of shallow steps leading down to the rose gardens. They stood silently savouring the soft scents of the warm evening, the spicy musk of rose and dianthus, the faint sweetness of a laburnum tree as its golden flowers faded and fell on to the sun-hot stones. Then, turning to her, he took the glass from her hand, placing it beside his on the stone balustrade close to where they stood. And he kissed her.

  Soon they were so wildly in love that their constant wondering questions about the coincidence of that first meeting ceased to amaze. It had nothing to do with Antoine's friend who couldn't use the ticket and was all to do with fate which had guided him along an inevitable path. So they assured each other as they wandered blissfully through the London parks and gardens during the warm evenings of that everlasting summer. And Kate knew with perfect simplicity that she had never been so happy in her life.

  It was sheer tragedy and disaster when the time came for Antoine to return to France, when the business of negotiating the wine contracts which had kept him in London came to an end. Even while she kept assuring

  herself that France wasn't so very far away, she had the feeling that the remote part where Antoine's family had their château and vineyards was much more cut off than the rest of the country. That much she had deduced from certain things he had told her about his life there.

  But even that was to be no obstacle, for on the very last evening, after they had dined in a smart little French restaurant, he proposed to her. They were walking along Park Lane, hearing the whispering swish of a light breeze moving through the leaves high above their heads, pausing to kiss as they were so constantly impelled to do. And then he asked her.

  `Oh, Antoine !' There was a glitter of tears on her long lashes as she looked at him, but for the moment she seemed incapable of further speech.

  `Come, cherie The dark boyish face teased as he looked down at her. 'Surely this is no time for crying?'

  `I'm not. At least . . . It's just that I'm so happy.'

  `That's logical. Feminine but logical.' The hands circling her waist tightened, his expression grew serious. 'Does that mean your answer is yes?'

  `Of course!' She reached her hands round his neck and brushed her mouth against his. 'I shouldn't have thought you would need to ask.' Her voice had grown husky.

  `But I do.' For a moment she thought a shadow, a brief fleeting look of uncertainty passed over his face, but it was so vague that it was probably some trick of the lights cast briefly over them from the passing traffic. 'I do, my sweet. A girl like you . . . Oh, I do.' And his face came down to hers, kissing her with a passion that left her breathless.

  And that was the end of their wild impetuous courtship, for the very next morning he flew back to his home with her firm promise that she would follow in a month's time and that they would be married as soon as she arrived.

  `Don't forget, my love,' his farewell kiss had been full of an aching sadness which only later did she begin to understand, 'don't forget that I adore you. Whatever happens...'

  `Don't say that!' In a sudden unexpected gesture of fear Kate laid her face against his chest, wrapping her arms tightly about him. 'Oh . . .' she gave a tremulous apologetic little laugh, . . say you adore me. But nothing's going to happen.' She looked up into his face with a determined smile. 'Nothing is going to happen.' She repeated the words in a whisper that excluded all the busyness of the great airport. 'Except that you and I are going to marry soon, and live happily ever after.' Her eyes searched the dark handsome features as she tried to imprint each detail on her memory. 'I hope, Antoine, that your mother won't be against our marriage.' Something about the way he had spoken gave Kate the impression that his mother would be a very formidable woman who always managed to get her own way.

  `Of course she will not. When she sees you she will love you as much as I do.' A faint smile touched his mouth. 'Almost as much as I do.' Kate searched his face again, and when his plane had eventually taken off she wished she could rid herself of the idea that he was much less confident than his words suggested.

  But when a month later Kate flew out to Lyon for her wedding, she had almost forgotten her misgivings.

  Certainly it was discouraging that she had been met at the airport by the chauffeur instead of Madame Savoney-Morley or by Antoine's stepsister Bernice. Antoine she had not expected as he had suddenly had to fly off to Hamburg.

  `But,' he had assured her over a crackly line the previous day, 'I shall be back as soon as possible. And certainly in time for the wedding.'

  Only the drive through the wet cold grey French countryside behind the silent sullen-looking chauffeur was not the welcome Kate had expected. Neither was this the France she had expected. She shivered a little as they climbed out of Le Puy by a road that twisted, giving wide, constantly changing views of a bleak landscape interrupted by weird volcanic contortions almost like deformities.

  The light was beginning to go by the time they turned off the road, driving for what seemed like miles along a twisting path shrouded by high bushes before finally turning through the gates which proclaimed to the world the importance of the Savoney-Morlets. With a sigh of relief Kate sat forward on her seat as the limousine came to a halt in front of the great house, looking in vain for a door being thrown open in welcome, even the twitch of a curtain that would have shown that someone inside was interested in her arrival.

  Madame Savoney-Morlet was darker than her son and so lacking in charm that try as she would Kate could see no resemblance between them. She was older than the woman Kate had expected, with a wrinkled face which heavy make-up and dark lipstick did little to improve. The eyes were deep-set and brilliant under drooping lids that gave the face a watchful, slightly

  sinister appearance that Kate found chilling.

  `Mademoiselle.' Kate, standing in the centre of the hall where she had been left by the maid, stared at the intimidating figure and felt her hand taken in a brief reluctant grasp. Then as she turned to lead the way into the salon Madame embarked in such a torrent of rapid French that the girl was totally lost.

  `I'm sorry, madame,' even the most simple words seemed to have fled her brain, 'I'm just beginning to learn your language, but have not made much progress so far.'

  Madame turned to stare at her for a moment, then as if realising t
here was nothing to be gained by a one-sided conversation she began to speak in heavily accented English.

  `So, mademoiselle.' Madame poured some very weak tea and handed a cup across the marble table where Kate was perched on the edge of an uncomfortable chair covered in faded damask. 'My son tells me you are a mannequin.' Disapproval showed in every line of her face.

  `Yes.' Kate sipped the tasteless cool liquid. 'That's how we met—at Werne Abbas Manor,' she added, hoping the name of the famous house would impress her hostess.

  `And you have parents?' Madame showed no sign of having heard of Werne Abbas.

  `Yes.' A tiny hint of defiance crept into Kate's voice as she made up her mind that there was nothing to be gained by allowing Antoine's mother to dominate her completely. Obviously she was a bully, and the only way to deal with bullies is to stand up to them. So she had been told! She swallowed, trying to control her

  nervousness. 'As I told you in my letter, madame, I have a mother and a stepfather. Unfortunately they are travelling in South America at the moment and I cannot contact them.'

  `And it is usual in England,' Madame's thin arched eyebrows almost reached the black hairline, `it is usual in England for girls to marry without their parents' advice or permission?'

  `Not usual.' Kate put down her cup with a trembling hand. 'But I am of an age to decide these things for myself' Not for the world would she have admitted to this cold unfriendly woman that her marriage plans had that hint of the clandestine which her romantic nature had always sought and which circumstances had obligingly provided. Only now was the cold hand of doubt clutching at her heart. But as she stared at the woman opposite she saw a slightly amused, almost smug expression pass over her features. It was a look Kate could not understand but one which caused her some trepidation.