Heart Specialist (5 page)

To him, Valentine was the type who was out for her own advancement, and that was why he had snubbed her in the beginning. If he had known about Miss Constantia
’
s will earlier, he would probably have urged her to put it right before it was too late, and her money would not have gotten into the grasping claws of a little English adventuress.

It was quite possible that he was embarrassed by the bequest Miss Constantia had made him, because he didn
’
t really need it; but no doubt he would put it to excellent use when his first squeamishness over accepting it had worn off. He was not, so far as she knew, a married man, but as a fashionable doctor he almost certainly did a lot of entertaining and maintained a bachelor establishment suited to his status. If his car was anything to go by, the best was just about good enough for him!

And he looked like a bachelor—hard, resistant, self
-
sufficient. If his life brought him in contact with so many members of her sex, from all walks of life—and some of them, no doubt, very highly placed ladies indeed—he had probably experienced a certain amount of difficulty in remaining single. But a man would have to be of more pliant material than he was to exchange a way of life that suited him for one that probably wouldn
’
t. She could imagine him being, above all things, in complete control of his head, whatever his heart might dictate on occasion.

She had decided, on the whole, Frenchmen were rather like that. They were brought up to assess value, rather than to be dazzled by appearances and soft beguiling ways. That was why they took so naturally to marriages of convenience. They were like sensible shoppers who always paused to ask the price and to be quite sure about it before committing themselves to buying anything. And afterward, when they were married, their wives developed the same characteristics and became the most wonderful bargainers for goods for their households, never being stuck with the inferior article, or succumbing to the weakness of purchasing something expensive just because it was expensive!

Even Miss Constantia, lover of France, its ways and everything about it, had admitted that. Frenchmen were the most exacting husbands, although the emotional demands they made of their wives quickly lessened to more suitable proportions. After all, marriage was not an emotional affair—emotion was often outside the home! And wives didn
’
t object because the running of a home and the bringing up of a family really was fun to them.

Valentine had seen them in the market going through the lettuces and examining the fruit. She had been faintly horrified by the earnestness they brought to their shopping expeditions.

The wife of Dr. Daudet, if he ever possessed one, would never be expected to examine lettuces or fruit, but she would have to give value if she ever became
a
part of his life.

Thinking these things, Valentine wandered on in the sunshine, and she was glad that she had not taken a taxi. She had just spent a full hour with Maitre Dubonnet in his office. Maitre Dubonnet was a very charming Frenchman, and whether his charm was all on the surface she didn
’
t know, but he had been very kind and understanding from the moment he called to visit her in the apartment earlier that week. He plainly didn
’
t think she had done anything to influence Miss Constantia, or get her to alter her will in her favor within a few weeks of being taken on as her secretary-companion; on the contrary, he had assured her that Miss Constantia had confessed to a great attachment to her young employee.

Miss Constantia was not the sort of elderly person who formed violent attachments, and he had every reason to believe that her reasons for altering her will had been perfectly sound and logical according to her views. It was not unnatural that she should remember her doctor so generously, for she had admired him for years, and their brief acquaintance had obviously taught her to admire Valentine as well. Maitre Dubonnet, with the gallantry of all Frenchmen, had expressed his own opinion that the legacy would not pass out of Valentine
’
s possession at the end of a year, for it was quite certain she would marry. To him there could be no shrinking from marriage when an extremely comfortable income was involved, to say nothing of a house whose contents alone were worth many more thousands of pounds in English money, and millions of French francs. He laughed outright when Valentine said that one didn
’
t just pick up a husband in the same manner that one picked up a new piece of furniture for the home, or even a new outfit of clothes.

“
My dear Miss Brooke,
”
he said at parting,
“
you will find husbands, or prospective husbands, shall we say, lurking under every gooseberry bush—
”
this would have amused her extremely under ordinary circumstances
“
—from now on, and it will only be a matter of selecting the one you find the most pleasing to yourself. You are a young woman whose future is very well endowed, and you are—if I may say so—utterly enchanting! You may call me at any time if there is any advice I can offer you!
”

But as
she
wandered
beneath the colonnades of the rue de Rivoli, looking into the windows of the shops that catered to every sort of tourist appetite, Valentine felt, as she had felt from the moment she first heard of her legacy, in a kind of fog of bewilderment.

Why
had Miss Constantia left her the money, and why had she made the stipulation about marriage? Because she had never been married herself, and her money had never really brought her any happiness? Because she wanted a little of it to bring happiness to a young woman whom she favored?

But to rush into marriage in order to oblige Miss Constantia would almost certainly bring disaster in its train!

She stepped off the curb near the Hotel Meurice and very nearly put an end to her existence there and then, because a big car swept past her and only just avoided touching her when she stepped back quickly. She felt perturbed as she stood there on the edge of the curb, wondering whether she would ever get used to the swiftness and purpose of Paris traffic. The big car had slowed, and an elegant young woman in the seat beside the driver
’
s was looking backward with curious eyes, and Valentine knew that it was she herself who had aroused the curiosity. She also knew whose car it was and who was at the wheel. Her heart beating with a mixture of nervousness and strange sluggish resentment, she plunged out into the middle of the stream of traffic and managed to throw herself into a taxi and give instructions to the driver.

As the taxi shot past the big car she kept her head averted, but even so she had an impression of delicate dark eyebrows that arched and a scarlet mouth that smiled with amusement. Dr. Daudet, she had the very definite impression, was frowning.

She countermanded her instructions to the driver long before they reached the destination she had given him, and he set her down near a little open-air restaurant where the tables were already filling up rapidly, although it was early for lunch.

She liked the look of the restaurant, its gay awning and the vines that had been trained to run along the supporting columns. The little tables were spruce with check cloths; there was a vase of flowers on each, as well as a bottle of
vin ordinaire.
She sat down at one of the tables. The sunshine dappled her, finding its way through the vines and under the awning, and she took off her hat and shook out her soft gold hair. A waiter with admiring eyes appeared instantly to receive her order.

Valentine hadn
’
t meant to lunch out, but all at once she decided that she didn
’
t want to go home yet. Martine wouldn
’
t worry, because she was always suggesting that she take little excursions, and from the point of view of a Frenchwoman, the shops were irresistible. She would have understood perfectly if Valentine, having come into so much money, disappeared into one or two of the more exclusive shops and started to accumulate an entirely new wardrobe.

But Valentine hadn
’
t yet begun to realize properly that the money was hers to spend. One day perhaps, she might begin to feel the urge to do what any really feminine woman would do under the circumstances, and start buying a few new things for herself, but that would only happen when the shock of all that had happened to her recently had passed off.

She ordered an omelet and a salad, and although they had none of the perfection of Martine
’
s omelets and salads, she was enjoying her outdoor meal and thinking that this was the sort of thing she must do more often, when a young man sat down facing her at the table, after apologizing for inflicting himself on her. He made the apology in English, with a cultured English voice, and she looked up with that sudden warm feeling of pleasure that one always experiences when encountering a fellow countryman in a foreign capital.

“
Of course I don
’
t mind,
”
she assured him swiftly.
“
And in any case, all the tables are filled, aren
’
t they?
”
she said, looking around her.

“
Yes, I
’
m afraid I
’
m a little late today—normally I get here earlier!
”
He smiled across at her, his teeth very white, like blanched almonds, his face rather thin and brown, his eyes as blue as her own.
“
It would be much too obvious if I made the observation that you
’
re English! I should think anyone could tell you are English before you so much as part your lips!
”

“
Oh!
”
She laughed.
“
Yes;
I
suppose
I
do give my nationality away rather easily. I have absolutely no characteristics that could stamp me as Latin—but then neither have you.
”

“
Neither have I,
”
he agreed, and they bo
th
laughed.

They looked at one another while the waiter hovered.

He saw a young woman who was obviously in her very early twenties, with a cloud of soft gold hair that swung on her shoulders and eyes as blue as a summer sky. Her skin made him think of apple orchards in Kent, and the delicacy of her features recalled something perfect, like a cameo. Her mouth was particularly delightful, because it curved easily into a smile, and there was a dimple at one
corner
of it that could play havoc with a susceptible man
’
s feelings, especially if they were not rigidly controlled. She wore a trim tailored suit and a white blouse, and although Frenchwomen were supposed to deserve the palm for chic, she was something more than chic. She looked as if Nature had fashioned her for its own pleasure and had then provided her with all the gentle attributes of a careful upbringing and the instincts of what is still known as being a
“
lady.
”

She saw a young man in his late twenties, or possibly; early thirties, with well-brushed brown hair and a jacket that had leather protectors on the cuffs and the elbows. It looked like a rather shabby jacket, and his corduroy trousers were definitely shabby, and he, too, could never be mistaken for anything other than what he was.

He looked as if he had put in a year or two at one of the universities and was very studious and probably fond of poetry. But it would be modem poetry, she decided. He would have little in common with either Keats or Browning.

“
The name is Peter Fairfield,
”
he told her, his eyes revealing the admiration she filled him with.
“
I
’
ve been discovering Paris for about six months now, but I
’
ve never seen you before. Why? Is the answer that you
’
re new to Paris?
”

She shook her head, so that the golden cloak of hair fascinated him with its rich rippling movement as it swung against her neck.

“
I
’
ve been here three months, and my name is Valentine Brooke. I don
’
t make a habit of having lunch at little places like this, so perhaps that
’
s why you
’
ve never seen me. Although Paris is hardly suburban, is it?
”
she said with the dimple appearing at the
corner
of her mouth.

He agreed with her. He also ordered precisely the same as she had ordered and insisted that she share a bottle of wine with him. He thrust the bottle of
vin ordinaire
aside and called for the wine list, and the waiter handed it over with a wealth of understanding in his heart. This was the way young people should meet, particularly when they spoke the same language and had looked a little lonely before coming into contact with one another! The girl hadn
’
t merely looked lonely, she had looked as if she wasn
’
t quite certain she was a part of this world—or rather, that the world that surrounded her
was
her world. She had been fighting against some sort of abstraction that had her in its grip, and there had been a hint of wistfulness at the
corner
s of her smile and in her eyes.

But now all at once it had gone. It had disappeared magically, like morning mist with the first kiss of the sun, and the young man
’
s reserve had also gone. The waiter had become accustomed to the sight of this particular young man and knew that he was normally very reserved. But now, as if he had put aside a cloak, he had come to life.

Valentine never quite knew how it was—normally
she
didn
’
t get into conversation very easily with young men who found it necessary to share a lunch table with her—but after the first quarter of an hour of sitting together at that little table with the check cloth with the sunshine pouring its molten gold all around them and the shadow of the vine leaves flickering on the cloth, she and Peter Fairfield seemed to know all that was vitally important about one another. She knew that he had an apartment in the Montparnasse quarter, and that his uncle who had an estate in Norfolk gave him an allowance, that it wasn
’
t a very big allowance and he was hoping to astonish the world one day with a book he was writing about the Greek islands. He had lived on the Greek islands, was capable of becoming lyrical about the light and color and the people, and he thought that his book could be very easily adapted to become a play, or even an operetta, if he could find someone to compose the music. A friend of his was willing to have a shot at it, and between them—who knew?

Valentine was quite fascinated by the perfection of his strong and beautiful teeth as he smiled, and she confessed that she had always wanted to visit the Greek islands herself—although she hadn
’
t been aware of it until today! And then she told him, all in a rush, about herself. Miss Constantia, and her legacy, and she saw his eyes grow wide with amazement as he listened.

“
Any snags?
”
he asked.
“
Or is the money just yours to do with as you will?
”

“
Well, as a matter of fact, it won
’
t be mine—really mine—until a year is out,
”
she confessed, playing with the cutlery. Suddenly she felt acutely embarrassed at having to make the admission she had to make, having gone so far.
“
Miss Constantia wasn
’
t in the least eccentric, but she did have rather a
‘
thing
’
about marriage—she never married herself, you see—and
...
and
I
have to marry within a year if I want to keep the money!
”

“
I see!
”
he said. He stared at her.
“
Any particular future husband selected for you, or is that part of it left to you?
”

“
It
’
s left to me.
”
She went on playing with the cutlery and avoiding his look, and then she laughed lightly.
“
But of course one doesn
’
t marry for
...
for reasons of that sort. I don
’
t suppose Miss Constantia herself honestly expected that I would rush off and do so just to secure her money, and she probably wanted me to have a year without feeling that if I didn
’
t work I
’
d starve, and perhaps to enjoy myself a little. She was terribly kind and thoughtful, as well as generous.
”

“
Hmm!
”
Peter Fairfield exclaimed.
“
And she
’
d probably become imbued with the French idea that it
’
s a good thing to marry for practical reasons, not for emotional ones only. And I must say the French have a divorce rate that is lower than in England, much lower, so that system probably has a lot to commend it.
”

“
But you wouldn
’
t say it was a good system?
”
she asked, surprise in her clear blue eyes.

He smiled,
“
Shall we say it could be good in parts—like the curate
’
s egg!
”
And then his smile turned a little wry.
“
But this is not the sort of thing I wanted to hear from you. I wanted to hear that you were perhaps studying over here, or even that you were employed here—as you appear to have been for the last three months. Three months wasted so far as I am concerned!
”

She smiled back.
“
It
’
s strange that we should have met like this, isn
’
t it?
”
she said a little shyly.

“
And we could meet again—or I
’
d like us to meet again. But how can I ask a young woman of means—and
such
means!
Fifteen million francs
—to let me show her some of the sights of Paris, when she
’
d probably want to pay for every taxi we shared together! No!
”
He shook his head sadly.
“
We won
’
t be able to meet again.
”