The Golden Peaks (6 page)

A
nd now sh
e is resting, and Sturm will get her better,” he said.
Then, more matter-of-factly;
“
Sturm is a great man
. I have the highest opinion of him—and I am not alone in that.
She could not be in better hands
.”

Silence fell upon them once more
, and Celia gave herself up to the pleasure of the drive, and the comfort of
the car. There was
enough moonlight now for the countryside to be
faintly revealed to her, for her to catch glimpses of the rushing
river when the road climbed
close
to it, to see t
h
e soaring shapes of the mountains. Although she was weary
after her outing and so muc
h walking, it was almost with r
el
uctance that she realized they were
almost back at the Rotihorn a
s the car began its steep climb to the hotel. It leaped up the sharp gradients, in strong contrast to
the car that had first taken
C
el
ia up to the rest centre, and swept
into the courtyard before the hotel.

Anneliese was standing at the entrance, talking to the one of the hotel guests and enjoying the cool night air. She smiled with pleasure as she as she saw the car sweep up towards her, and murmuring an excuse to her companion, she went to meet it. She was astonished when the car door opened and
Celia stepped out, and only partly reassured when Celia turned ba
ck
to the car, and said:

“Thank you for the lift, Mr. St.
Pierre
.”

“It wa
s a
pleasure,” he said formally.

“Goodnight, sir.
”

“Goodnight, Celia.”

Celia smiled at Anneliese and went into the hotel. Anneliese watched her go, with a slight frown on her forehead. Then, with the slightest shrug, she turned back to Kurt.

“I had coffee and a light supper taken to the chalet,
”
she told him, smiling on him most charmingly.

“
That was thoughtful of you, Anneliese. If there is nothing here that needs my attention, I will go straight over.
”

“Nothing,” she told him, still smiling.

“Then I’
ll
put the car away now. Goodnight, Anneliese.”

“Goodnight
.
”

She went into the hotel. Celia was talking, in the corridor leading towards the office, to Geoffrey Crindle. He, too, had looked admiringly at Celia in her London-tailored suit and provocative hat, and was now lamenting the fact that she had not said it was her free day, when
h
e would have been d
el
ighted to escort her to Interlaken, and enjoy the chat she had promised him. Anneliese took fresh notice of C
el
ia, observing the beautiful dark red hair, the clear skin, the bright smile. Where had Mr. St Pierre picked her up? at Interlaken? or only in the village? or perhaps merely here at the bottom of the hill? And why was Mr. Crindle so interested in her? Looking down on her with an almost proprietary air Anneliese de
ci
ded that it would be wise to watch Celia and know what she did with her time.

If C
el
ia expected any change in her relationship with Kurt St. Pierre as a result of their drive and talk together, she was doomed to disappointment He was very busy preparing for Easter and an influx of visitors, and spent a good deal of time at the Bellevue on the shores of Lucerne.

When he was at the
Rotihorn
, it seemed that Anneliese and Johanna were the only people in whom he had an interest. Anneliese, too, was extremely busy, and outside her work, Celia saw little of her. When Mr. St Pierre and Anneliese wished to work undisturbed (not an easy thing in a hotel where guests had never-ending small requests and problems), they worked in the chalet, and frequently Celia saw Anneliese’s shining golden head surmounting the
slender
body as it swung along the pathway from the garden.

For Anneliese, these periods of work in the chalet were the highlights of her existence. Sometimes she went there in the afternoon, but more often she was kept busy in the hotel at
that
time, and would then walk over to see him after dinner. This, she preferred, because there was then a wonderful quiet in the chalet which was never found in the hotel, even at its most peaceful moments; and
she
could be sure of having Kurt to herself, her dear Kurt, her beloved Kurt her altogether satisfactory, coveted
Kurt ...

Sometimes she wondered if he knew of her adoration. It
sometimes
seemed to Anneliese that there had never been a
ti
me
in her life when she had not adored him. Her father had
taken
good care of Kurt at a time when the boy, left without parents, had needed care: he had helped and fathered Kurt all through his boyhood and young manhood; and Kurt had often been at the large house in Zurich where Anneliese lived. They had come back to it at holiday times, Anneliese from her school, Kurt from his for a short visit: Anneliese scarcely yet a schoolgirl, Kurt almost a man; yet even then she had been thrilled by him. He had achieved, at an early age, and in his own circle, a reputation as a mountain climber, and
she
had been proud to have him at her parties, to have him as a guest in her father’s house. At twenty-one, he had control of the money left him by his parents, but he continued to work in other people’s hotels until he was twenty-five, when he bought his own, the
Rotihorn
. From that moment, he had prospered; seeming to be possessed of energy for two men as well as his business acumen; and from that moment when
A
nneliese was sixteen, she had decided to become, his secretary, and had worked with a most
ama
z
ing
pertinacity towards that end.

Sometimes, as she worked with him in the chalet, it scarcely seemed possible to her that he should be unaware of her feeling for him. Surely it must be an almost tangible thing there in the air between them, so strong a part of herself as it was, but he never recognized the existence of her love, or gave her the least encouragement Always there was between them the easy friendliness
born
of their long acquaintance, with a covering of formality due to their business relationship. But this same friendliness, because it was of such long standing, had in it the
el
ement of indifference that brothers and sisters can sometimes have for each other; seemed to debar any other, deeper feeling for her on his part. At times, it was almost enough, simply to be with him, to be making coffee for him in the small kitchen of the chalet to be listening to his deep voice dictating to her in any one of four languages, or to his sudden ringing laugh when she said something that mused him. At other times, it was not nearly enough, and she wanted him
close
to her, wanted to wake him to an awareness of her, wanted passionately to evoke a re
s
ponse to her love. And Anneliese had always been able to have what she wanted, had never had to wait so long as this for satisfaction. Her parents, her three brothers, had always made her their darling—there was a tacit unders
tanding
among them that if Anneliese wanted something they must help her to get it
.
Perhaps only Anneliese’s father realized that where Kurt was concerned, none of them would be able to h
elp
her; and that it was a matter for herself and Kurt. The rest of her family were anxious that she should marry Rudi, the son of a wealthy jeweller, who had asked her so
man
y times (and been refused) that Anneliese had lost count of the number.

One evening, when they had been working hard for more than two hours after dinner, and had come to a weary stop, Anneliese went into the small kitchen to make coffee for them. She rar
el
y came into this room to perform any small task without imagining herself the mistress of it;
dreaming that it and the rest of the chalet and Kurt himself were hers. She carried the coffee into the living room, and Kurt said:

“Can you come to the Mirabella with me, Anneliese?” She looked up, and pondered for a moment.

“What a time to ask me, when we are so busy!”

“For two days only—perhaps three.”

‘Two or three days! Only! Why, I cannot manage to be away for two or three days now. It is impossible at the moment. All these bookings for Easter, and so many inquiries, and so much to do. No, really I think it cannot be done.”

“Pity. I need somebody.”

“Maria at the Mirabella will help you.”

“She will be as busy with her work as you are with yours. But think no more of it. Something can be arranged. Perhaps there is somebody else there.”

“I should hope so,” said Anneliese dryly. “They have a big enough staff down there.”

“A much bigger hotel to run.”

They drank their coffee. Kurt asked about her parents and brothers and for a few minutes they talked of them. “And Rudi?” asked Kurt “How is
he
?”

“Ach! Rudi.”

“What has Rudi done to deserve such contempt? Do you hear from him?”

“When do I not hear? He writes twice a week.”

“And you write twice a week?”

“Not once. About once in a month.”

“How
unkind
you are, Anneliese.”

“Once I start to be kind to Rudi, my peace is for ever at an end.”

“His only crime is that he adores you too mu
ch
.”

“I have no patience with him. I do not wish to discuss him. Rudi writes, Rudi’s mother writes, my mother writes —all of the same thing. When will I consent to this marriage? When will they understand that I do not wish to marry Rudi?”

“Seriously, Anneliese, he is a fine young man.”

“We will not speak of him.”

“As you
say ... Y
ou really think you cannot
manag
e the Mirabella, Anneliese?”

“Really, it would be difficult. It would
m
ake such a
muddle here. I think I should stay.
”

“Very well.”

Next morning, he packed his bag for a few days at the Mirabella in the south. Once he had arranged
thing
s
there, and was satisfied that everything was going as it should, he could safely leave everything in his manager’s hands, and spend the busy Easter period at the Rotih
orn
. It was an exceptionally sunny,
clear
morning, and he whistled and sang as he shaved and dressed. Roberto, the hotel porter brought him his breakfast from the hotel, and Kurt sat down to his hot rolls and coffee. He would stop at the office for a short session with Anneliese and
then
he would be off. It would take most of the day to reach the Mirabella, but perhaps he could manage a pr
eliminar
y discussion of affairs that same evening. Then a full day of work tomorrow, and with luck, he would be able to return the fo
ll
ow
in
g day; at most, the day after. Impatient to be off, he despatched his breakfast quickly, picked up his bag, and walked the pathway to the hotel.

Pity about Anneliese, he thought. She was so efficient and could be the soul of discretion; while Maria at the Mirabella, efficient as she also was, had not Anneliese’s discretion, and one
co
uld never be sure that the privacy of private matters was safe in her hands. It was her un
cl
e who was manager there and he was definitely
indispensable s
o Maria must be endured. Maria would have to do.

He dropped his bag
in the hall. He told Roberto to bring round the car. He gave a brisk good morning to the
guests he encountered,
inquired about their activities, and hoped they were being well looked after. He turned into t
he corridor
that led to his office, and saw Celia
emerging
from the dining room
.
The sunlight fell on her, and made a brilliant aureole of her auburn hair. She was
smiling,
and seemed to reflect all the freshness and clearness of the
morning He was struck by a sudden thought.

“Celia,” he called.

She turned her head and looked inquiringly in his direction.

“I want you.”

She walked towards him, and he watched her as she came.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Celia, you were a secretary, were you not?

“Why, yes, sir.”

“Could you
tak
e
dictation in French and German?

“I don’t
think
so. No, I’m fairly sure I couldn’t.”

“Pity. I need a secretary for a couple of days.”

“Is Anneliese ill?” asked Celia quickly.

“No. Anneliese is quite all right.” He hesitated, deep in thought.

“I could probably take dictation in English, and then turn it into Fren
ch
and G
er
man,” she said. “If it would
be useful to you, sir.”

“Ah, that would do. Right. Then pack an overnight bag Celia, and be ready in half an hour. No
,
an hour. You are coming to the Mirabella with me.”

She stared at him in surprise. He said:

“Well?”

She took a deep breath.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

For a moment, there was an expression in his dark eyes that puzzled her, but before she could give it a name, it had gone.

“Good. I will arrange about your work here. You go
and get ready.”

“I feel I ought to ask what and why,” she said.
“
But one thing, Mr. St. Pierre
—
do I need my uniform?
”

“Cer
tainly
not. Your ordinary clothes.”

He turned to go into the office. Celia made her way towards the stairs, feeling a little dazed. What an extraordinary
m
an
he was, she thought. Was this a normal part of routine in this place? Why could not Anneliese go?

She hurriedly took off her uniform, and stood before her wardrobe, wondering what to wear. Obviously, Mr. St. Pierre would not want her to look dowdy. And she had
heard that the Mirabella was grand. Yet she must still look like a secretary. Well, and why shouldn’t a secretary look well turned out, Celia asked herself, taking down her nicest suit.

Kurt went into his office. Anneliese was working there, surrounded by papers and books. As he entered, the telephone bell rang, and she smiled at him as she answered it with all the politeness and kind inquiries that were inseparable from even the most business-like telephone conversations. Then she turned to face him.

“Off this morning, to the Mirabella?”

“Yes. Anything I need to see before I go?”