Royal Purple (15 page)

CHAPTER XIII

BEFORE Saturday arrived Lucy did a certain amount of thinking, along lines that disturbed her.

She was beginning to have no doubts at all as to the importance of the impact Paul Avery had made on her life, but she had a great many doubts concerning the quality of his interest in her. And everything about him puzzled and bewildered her to an extent that made her long for someone in whom she could confide them ... Not someone like the Countess, who had several times expressed her opinion that young men picked up casually during the course of what should halve been a purely business transaction (she was inclined to overlook the fact that Lucy owed a lot to Paul Avery, and but for the fortuitous circumstances that had placed him on hand at precisely the right moment, she herself would be short of two thousand guineas) were hardly likely to prove satisfactory. Or someone like Augustine, who had been starved of romantic interludes for so long that Lucy’s little ‘affair’, as she called it, seemed to her entirely right and proper, and beautifully unconventional and straight out of a modern novel.

Not that Augustine read many
modern
novels, but
she dipped into stories in magazines occasionally—the shop round the
corner
, where she bought provisions, was ran by a friendly little woman who passed them on to her—and Lucy’s unexpected encounter with the tall dark man who bought flowers in such generous quantities when his interest was aroused had all the highlights of one of those stories.

She wanted to know all that Lucy would tell her after one of her outings with Avery, but Lucy was cautious about creating wrong impressions. The first two occasions when she had met him in the park and had lunch with him had been wonderful, and perhaps it was natural that she should have returned home glowing with so much ill-concealed excitement and happiness that Augustine should have drawn wrong conclusions. But the night of the party at the Renshaws’ flat was an entirely different affair
...
and it had provided Lucy with so much food for thought that, in order to digest it, she felt she needed time and quiet, and some outside assistance as well.

One thing was absolutely clear to her, and that was that Paid was not just an ordinary waiter. She didn’t think he was an ordinary man pursuing an ordinary job for ordinary reasons. He was not even an ordinary Seronian, and she was quite certain the Countess knew it. The Countess had had a long and secret talk with him that had not, apparently, improved her opinion of him—since it was obvious she would have discouraged Lucy from pursuing the acquaintance if she could; and the only thing the highly partisan old lady would admit was that he was a gentleman.

A gentleman she trusted to behave, otherwise she wouldn’t have allowed Lucy to see anything more of him at all. She would have sent him about his business after that very private talk with him and ordered him not to darken her door again ... or something almost as dramatic.

But the very fact that she had done nothing of the kind sometimes puzzled Lucy. She was willing for the girl to be taken out and about and amused, but she was making preparations for a trip to Italy that would nip the acquaintance in the bud, and encouraging Lucy to think of her future as something that was still quite unsettled.

Paul Avery had no part or lot in it
...
that was either the Countess’s intention, or as a result of some information which she possessed she was adopting a practical attitude, and hoping that Lucy would adopt a practical attitude also.

But until Sophie Devargue arrived from America, Lucy was prepared to be completely impractical and to go on living in a dream in which (in spite of her constant fear that she would wake up!) a man with whom she had fallen irrevocably in love from the moment that she met his eyes across a display counter in a jeweller’s shop was in love with him. She had so little experience of men that she could not a
c
cept it that a pair of eyes as dark and deep and unusual as that particular pair could lie
...
especially after he kissed her in a way no man casually interested could possibly kiss.

Or could he?

Even on the drive back to town, after that afternoon at the cottage, there had been one or two doubts. But they vanished like a breath of cold air when the sun comes out when he spoke to her at the other end of a telephone wire. An evening of feeling slowly more and more bewildered, more and more uncertain of the type of man with whom she had allowed herself to fall so hopelessly in love, had not created a really big doubt—one that could shatter her, or show in her face so that those around her were enabled to guess how foolishly she had been dreaming—until Sophie Devargue had been brought into the room by her hostess, and Paul was so unmistakably overcome.

There was no doubt about it, he was delighted. He found it almost impossible to express his delight. And Ulla Renshaw had beamed all over her face, as if she knew how much pleasure she was giving to them both.

Sophie, the exquisite young woman whose photograph adorned Paul’s desk, and Paul—the best-looking man in the room!—had stood clinging to one another’s hands and gazing at one another, and Lucy had been temporarily forgotten. True, it had only been very temporarily ... but she had wished it wasn’t ne
c
essary to take him away from his friends in order to drive her home to Alison Gardens, and she was sure Ulla Renshaw considered her introduction to their circle that night had been a little ill-timed.

But Paul had declined to say goodnight without lingering a little
...
and he had re-created the dream when he took her into his arms as if he knew she was expecting it and made it impossible for a brief while for doubts to exist. If only he had said the one thing she wanted above all else to hear him say! If only he had said, “I love you!” Then doubts wouldn’t have had the power to destroy her peace of mind again, for she would have believed him, and whatever happened in the future she would have clung on to her belief in spite of everything.

But all he said was:
“...
You intrigue me, amongst other things!”

And she had said stupidly that the Countess was taking her to Italy to find her a husband, and even in her own ears it had sounded crude and vulgar and naive, and unworthy of a young woman who had just allowed herself to be passionately kissed, and returned the kisses with equal fervour. Definitely surprising in such a young woman!

No wonder she had sensed a recoil on Paul’s part, and that he had parted from her without any more tender moments. With a certain casual carelessness that kept her awake for hours when she got indoors.

The Countess had betrayed quite a lot of curiosity about the people she met at the party, and she had wanted to hear as many names as Lucy could remember. She arched her eyebrows when Lucy mentioned Princess Sasha Karadin, and Ulla Renshaw’s name didn’t appear to be entirely unfamil
i
ar to her. Then she shrugged her shoulders.

“Ulla is quite a common name in Seronia,” she remarked. “And of course I’ve met Princess Sasha. How did she react when you were presented to her?” she enquired, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“I wasn’t exactly presented to her,” Lucy admitted.
“
At least, not at first. She came over and sat beside me and asked me a lot of questions.”

“About what?”

“Mostly about you,
madame
.”

The Countess looked amused.

“Did you succeed in convincing her that I still have the use of my faculties, and that I am not entirely senile? What else did she want to hear about me?”

“She seemed to think it a pity that you are not more sociable, and that so few people see you these days.”

“Tush!” the Countess exclaimed. “We were not all as fortunate as she was when the trouble arose in Seronia. She and her husband had a great deal of money invested in this country and in America, and they were not rendered destitute when they had to leave their homes. In any case, I never liked the woman!”

“It appears that she is Mr. Avery’s godmother.” Lucy said quietly, as if she was secretly hoping to impress.

The Countess reached out and gently touched her cheek.

“You and your Mr. Avery! When are you seeing him again?”

“He—he asked me whether I could be free on Saturday.”

Her employer studied her with sudden intentness.

“You do realise, don’t you, child, that he is not the sort of man you can take seriously? We know nothing about him—or very little about
him
, and beyond the fact that you find
hi
m pleasing there is little I can advance as justification for the curious weakness I keep betraying every time I hesitate to order
hi
m bluntly not to come here again. I honestly
think
that that is what I should do.”

“Oh no!” Lucy exclaimed, and it was a cry from the heart.

The Countess sat back in her chair and shook her head of auburn curls at her.

“So it has become as important as all that, has it? You foolish child! You ridiculous
chi
ld to throw yourself away on the very first bidder who comes along! Not,” with an increasing dryness in her voice, “that I would be willing to wager that you have already received a proposal from our Mr. Avery. Have you?” with a touch of sharpness that dyed Lucy’s cheeks scarlet.

She had to admit that it was not as serious as all that.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” the old lady declared, the acid note still in her voice. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure
...
that is true enough. But I don’t think the gentleman we are discussing is the type to marry anyone
in haste. He struck me as having a very level head on his shoulders, and as he must be nearly thirty he can’t be too impressionable. Which is all to the good, as you are obviously highly impressionable.”

Lucy would have denied this with a certain amount of indignation at any other time, but now it didn’t seem to matter. The Countess was trying to prove that Paul was a sophisticated man of the world who had no real interest in her, and it made her feel rather sick. It was quite possible it was true, for making the discovery that a person ‘intrigued’ one was a very long way from making the discovery that one was in love with a person.

Her employer continued, wagging her stick at her: “I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself, my dear! It’s the easiest thing in the world for a woman to do when there’s a man in the case. How do you know he isn’t already entangled with some woman or other? Engaged to one!”

Lucy’s voice sounded faintly strangled as she answered, “I don’t.”

“Well, there you are!” The stick wagged triumphantly. “You can’t even be sure that he isn’t married, if it comes to that. Although from the little I’ve seen of
him
I’d offer the opinion that he doesn’t look married.”

Lucy’s grey-green eyes appeared suddenly so tormented that the Countess relented, and she lowered her stick.

“Lucy, my child,” she said with sudden softness, “I’m terribly fond of you, and I want you to be happy one of these days, so I’ll tell you this about your young man ... I liked him. That is to say, I could like him.” An extraordinary expression crossed her face, and she looked away from Lucy—stared a little blindly at the opposite wall. “We got on very well while we talked, and I perceived he had charm. I also
decided that it wasn’t merely a surface charm, and that he’s honest. When he makes a statement he means it, but unless he makes a statement he’s
c
autious. But caution is a good thing, and I forgive him that. T
o
o many young men rush on their fate, but he’ll never do that.”

Lucy leaned towards her. Her voice was husky, appealing.

“
Madame
,”
she pleaded, “you do know something about him, don’t you? His godmother—?”

“Was an acquaintance of mine at one time,” the old lady admitted coolly.
“But what of that?”

“Would she be likely to stand godmother to the child of people who—well, who wouldn’t object very strongly if their son became a waiter one day?”

The old lady tapped her stick almost angrily. “Forget this waiter business!” she ordered. “It’s a phase, and it doesn’t mean anything. An experience.
”

“Then his people would object strongly if they knew that he had become a waiter?”

The stick thundered on the floor.

“I should most certainly hope they would!
I
would, and although I don’t
happen to be one of his parents I do happen to be—”

She broke off, and east away the stick as if it had offended her.
“
Oh, let’s stop talking about this obsession of yours, and please don’t try to trap me into saying things I might afterwards regret saying!” For the first time the Countess actually glared at Lucy, and two spots of colour had invaded her face that made Lucy’s two spots of colour high on her cheekbones look pale by comparison. To Lucy’s dismay she seemed to be trembling with agitation, and she suddenly looked very old. “I don’t want to talk about your Mr. Avery, and it doesn
’
t matter to me whether you see him or you don’t see him. It’s your funeral if you’re heading for a major disillusionment, and when it happens don’t blame me and say I didn’t warn you! I do warn you, and if you’ve got any sense
...”

There was silence, and then Lucy whispered: “Yes,
madame
?”

“Oh, keep your appointment on Saturday, but don’t make another for the next Saturday. I am going to be quite firm and request that young man to stay away from the house
...
my
house!”

She said it as proudly as if it was a castle instead of a maisonette. But all Lucy caught was the note of finality in her voice, the harsh, adamantine note that boded no good at all for her own future happiness, and didn’t appear to make the Countess very happy either.

She stumped from the room without the aid of her stick, and Lucy came behind her with it in her hand.

“Men,” the old woman muttered under her breath. “How happy I am nowadays that I don’t have to waste my affection on any of them
!”