Not entirely because it imperiled her tenure of the position she so much needed and desired was she sorry that she had assumed that the youthful man was her employer’s son; she was sorry to have hurt the woman, and her voice had shown that she was hurt. She hated to hurt any one. Life took care of that. It kept such a lot of heartaches up its sleeve which it dealt out impartially like cards from a pack, making sure each human got a few in his hand to make of them what he could.
The fact that Nicholas Hoyt’s roadster had brought the new secretary from the station would not help the situation if Mrs. Newsome heard of it. Was it her custom to shoot her first husband’s nephew full of poisoned arrows as she had this afternoon? With a family feud and a long-lost son hovering in the offing the atmosphere creaked with drama.
Even the gentleman trainer from the Hoyt stables had hinted at it. Of course he would take the side of his “boss.” His face had been in the background of her mind ever since she had stepped from the roadster; all following events had been superimposed on it. The line of his mouth had done the trick. He looked like a man secure in his own strength, one who would rather enjoy plunging headlong into trouble to champion a cause.
She glanced about the rooms. She had been so perturbed when she entered that she had not noticed them. How lovely! The decorator had seen to it that they were gay and foolish in spots, dignified in others, but charming always. Perhaps it was because she was home-hungry that she loved them already, loved the little balconies outside the French windows, the cool green walls touched with silver, the turquoise hangings, the turquoise draping of the crystal and silver laden poudreuse of the boudoir. There was delicate apricot on a chair or two, apricot cushions on the chaise longue and softly shaded lamps on small tables. The dressing room was wardrobe-walled; the bath was the color of amber-green waves with a shower curtain of shimmering silver fabric; beyond was a room ivory and apricot with a moleskin cover on the bed.
Comfort in the lap of luxury. It would be wonderful to settle down for a while here and feel the warm arms of a home close about her. If ever again she had money ahead she would have a pied-à-terre somewhere. No more traveling from place to place for her.
Settle down! Here? She wouldn’t be allowed to after her blunder. Only another woman could understand how her mistake had cut Mrs. Newsome’s pride. Suppose she had to start all over again looking for a position? What of it? Her father had said the last day they had been together:
“Remember, Sandy, that the future holds nothing that your unconquerable soul, your faith, your trust cannot meet.”
Had she an unconquerable soul? Time alone would tell.
“ ‘The King of France and forty thousand men
Marched up the hill and then marched down again,’ ”
she hummed defiantly.
Some one knocking. Perhaps Mrs. Newsome would not wait until morning; hadn’t Mr. Damon warned of her rages? Perhaps this was a personally conducted return ticket. Maddening to have fallen down the first hour on her first job. Sandra bit her lips to steady them before she called:
“Come in!”
A maid entered, an elderly maid in black silk gown and an incredibly fine muslin apron. Her crinkly hair, which once must have been red, was streaked with gray; her eyes were a twinkling brown; her lips parted on blatantly false teeth.
“I’m Bridie, the head chambermaid, Miss. I came to see if I might’n help ye unpack. The housekeeper thought ye looked kinder white.”
Sandra felt as a condemned hero of fiction is supposed to feel when a reprieve is waved in his face. Why not unpack? It wouldn’t take her long to put her things back into her bags if she had to leave in the morning. She controlled an impulse to hug the friendly woman.
“Thank you, Bridie, I would like your help if you have time to spare. Here are the keys.” Tears rushed to her eyes. She blinked furiously. “What is the matter?” she indignantly demanded of herself? “Second childhood?” Apparently she had a talent for registering emotion, she should have tried Hollywood, she would not have been obliged to resort to glycerine tears with her present supply of real ones. She met the maid’s keen glance and smiled.
“Don’t mind me, Bridie. I’m always a little upset in a strange place.”
How that silly excuse would have amused her father. She upset! She, who had reveled in strange places, who never had been happier than when unpacking and arranging their few household goods in a strange city.
The woman wagged her head in comprehension. “An’ why wouldn’t ye feel strange? Lately lost yer Pa, the housekeeper tells me.” She unlocked a mammoth bag. “Sure an’ ye’ll like it here, fine. I come to this house as a gur-rl more’n twenty-five years ago, an’ I ain’t never felt no desire to leave it except to go see my folks in Ireland.”
Perched on the bench before the turquoise-draped poudreuse, hands clasped about one knee, Sandra smiled at the woman lifting the gowns from their tissue wrapping.
“Ireland is beautiful, Bridie. I spend months there not so long ago. Talk about horse-racing. They do it well in Dublin.”
The conversation went smoothly after that, slurring its Irish way over dropped d’s and throaty ye’s, getting more brogueish with every reminiscence, cementing friendship by love and admiration of the same places in the same country. The maid’s eyes were soft with memory as she hung the last frock in the wardrobe, placed the last pair of gold sandals on the shelf.
“Anything more I can do for ye, Miss?”
“Nothing, thank you. You have done more than unpack for me. You have cheered me unbelievably. I’m on the crest of the wave now.”
“Sure an’ you look it. Your eyes are as sparklin’ as a still Irish lake reflectin’ stars in an Irish night sky. Don’t ye get lonesome, now. Do ye like dogs, Miss?”
“Adore them.”
“Then you don’t never need be lonesome here. Tomorrow I’ll bring Bud an’ Buddy up to see you. They’re big but they’re like me: they’re friendly with them they like, an’ sure they’re missing Mister Nicholas something terrible. Good-night, Miss.”
Sandra looked at the door Bridie closed behind her. Tomorrow! Would she be here tomorrow? Suppose she lost this position—there were others. The woman’s friendliness had left her heart in a glow, her courage gay.
Later, as she fastened a jeweled clip to the shoulder of her white dinner frock, she nodded to the velvety eyes of her mirrored reflection, eyes which still showed the strain of the last tragic year. The realization that the sheen of satin artistically accentuated the contrast between her dark hair and the magnolia tint of her skin, curled her vivid lips up at the corners.
“Beginning to feel young and flippant and gay again, aren’t you?” she asked her reflection.
The shock of surprise had accomplished one thing: it had crystallized the hazy memory which had tormented her since she had heard her employer’s name. With newsreel clarity had appeared the picture of herself in a London hospital, waiting to see her father, reading an account of the doping of a race horse and the fate of the trainer responsible for the ugly trick. At the end of the column had appeared a brief but spicy account of the marriage of an American widow, internationally known as a breeder and exhibitor of horses, to one of her late husband’s jockeys, Curtis Newsome.
And a few hours ago she had stupidly referred to the husband as the woman’s son. Had she made an unforgivable break?
The eyes she met in the mirror flashed. A deep dimple dented one corner of her mouth. She nodded approval.
“That’s right—laugh. You haven’t received your congé yet, and you have one friend at court—Bridie, perhaps two more—Bud and Buddy. The three B’s.”
She picked up the photograph of her father in its tooled leather frame which she had placed on the mantel.
“I’ll keep your philosophy in mind, Jimmy Duval. ‘Today is the tomorrow you were worrying about yesterday.’ I’ll dig in my fingers and toes and hang on. After all, the mistake was not entirely my fault. Why the dickens didn�
��t Mr. Damon say that ‘young Newsome’ was the woman’s husband?”
The remembrance of her bétise accompanied Sandra down the curved stairway, through the hall to the threshold of the library. Even with many softly shaded lights which glowed like cloudy jewels, the great room seemed somber. Mrs. Newsome, in a black frock spattered with discs as gold as her modishly dressed hair, smiled a welcome to the girl hesitating in the doorway. Sandra sighed relief. She was forgiven.
The metamorphosis in her employer was startling. Had her maid discovered the fabled Fountain of Youth? Her skin looked firm and fresh and delicately tinted. Brilliant court earrings cascaded to her beautiful shoulders; one bare arm glistened with sumptuous bracelets. She seemed years younger than she had in the afternoon. Perhaps Curtis Newsome had seen her only in the evening before he asked her to marry him. Sandra glanced at him curiously as, attired in impeccable dinner clothes, he leaned over the puzzle table oblivious of what was going on in the room. A tall, brown-haired man was working with him.
Her eyes went back to Mrs. Newsome who was talking with a man whose back was toward the door.
“Come in, Miss Duval, and meet …”
The man turned.
“Philippe!” Sandra exclaimed incredulously. Was she dreaming, or was this really Philippe Rousseau whom she and her father had seen often in London?
Evidently he was as surprised as she. The whiteness of his face startled her. His usually wistful dark eyes sharpened to steel points. Once he had protested that he loved her, but, even so, seeing her wouldn’t make him look as if he had seen a ghost. He had been a little shabby when she had known him; his clothes were smart in cut and material now. So quickly that she wondered if she had imagined his pallor, his color swept back.
“Sandra Duvall Of all people!” He caught her hands in his.
“I’m positively dizzy with surprise, Philippe.” She returned the pressure of his hands even as she thought, “Funny that I should feel so thrilled at seeing a man who only tepidly interested me before. Is it because I’m in a strange country?”
“Why should you be surprised? Didn’t I tell you last winter that my—my people had come from this town?”
Sandra’s brows contracted. Had he told her that? He had appeared avidly interested in her father’s stories of his boyhood days in Melton, days upon which the older man had dwelt more and more as his strength failed. His amazement at seeing her accentuated the tinge of foreign accent which gave a fascinating individuality to his voice and diction. She freed her hands, suddenly conscious that she and Philippe were being curiously regarded by Mrs. Newsome and the two men at the table. She crossed the room.
“Excuse my excitement, Mrs. Pat. Mr. Rousseau was in London with his horses last winter when I was there. And—”
“Oh, that’s all right. Glad for you to meet a boy friend here. Curt, where’s Estelle?”
Curtis Newsome joined his wife in front of the fireplace. “Search me. She’s always late, isn’t she? Greetings again, Miss Duval.”
“Oh, you two met in the library, didn’t you? Seems as if Estelle might be on time when she is staying in the house. She makes me mad. She’s so cocksure of herself. Here she is. At last!”
Mrs. Newsome frowned at the small, exquisite girl on the threshold whose hair was the latest word in tint, Venetian gold; her skin was colorless; her lips, her glittering fingernails, her long, jeweled cigarette holder matched her coral satin shoes. Between shadowed lids her eyes glinted green. Her black frock was diaphanous. Sparkling bracelets weighted her left arm. As she smiled beguilingly at her hostess and began a pouting explanation, Sandra said in a low voice to the man who stood close beside her:
“Glamour, the lady has glamour, Philippe. Hasn’t that word pushed ‘IT’ out of the cinema vocabulary? I have seen her type in beach frocks at St. Jean de Luz; in backless swim suits at Cap d’Antibes and the pool at Biarritz; in tweeds on the golf links at Le Torquet; in leather jackets, ski-trousers and boots in Saint Moritz; trailing gorgeous gowns, and glittering with jewels in the most up-to-date resorts of the chic internationals, but I never expected …”
An uncanny awareness that she was being observed checked the amused observations with which Sandra was bridging Philippe Rousseau’s disturbing silence. Her eyes were drawn as to a magnet to the narrowed, speculative eyes of the tall, brown-haired man who had been at the puzzle table. Something in his expression accelerated the beat of her heart. He was suspicious of her. Why? Was he the claimant to the magic millions who was being encouraged by Mrs. Newsome? Was he really the son of Mark Hoyt, or was he an adventurer taking a long chance at winning a name and fortune? Life certainly promised to be thrilling here.
The golden girl nodded to him. “How’s the fight going, Jed?” She came close to Rousseau and pretended to adjust his black tie.
“You are to take me out to dinner, Philippe.”
He frowned. “Have you met Miss Duval, Estelle?”
“What a man! Trying to teach me manners, are you?”
Sandra felt her color mount as the ice-green eyes appraised her. “The new secretary? She has the cosmopolitan touch. Why will old Ben Damon insist upon strewing the pathway of youth with temptation?”
Her mocking glance at Curtis Newsome pointed the remark cruelly. He colored to his fair hair. His wife gasped. Sandra looked her contempt as the girl walked away clinging to Philippe Rousseau’s arm.
“No one minds Mrs. Carter, Miss Duval.” The man whose suspicious eyes had challenged her was speaking. “She prides herself on being a spade’s-a-spade person, though why it is necessary always to call a thing by its right name I have yet to find out. The regal Huckins has announced dinner. Shall we follow the others?”
“After all, these spade’s-a-spade persons have their uses,” Sandra answered lightly. “Not until she asked you how the fight was going did I realize that possibly you were the long-lost son I have heard so much about.”
He frowned down at her. “You have a curious sense of humor, Miss Duval. What’s the big idea pretending that you don’t know who the claimant is?”
Something in his voice had the effect of ice-cubes coasting down Sandra’s spine. In an attempt to control an involuntary shiver she protested gaily:
“Looks as if we’d embarked on a twenty-questions party. I’ll start it. Who is the claimant?”
“Still bluffing? Lovely ladies must be humored. The claimant is your—apparently—old friend, Philippe Rousseau.”
CHAPTER V
“Philippe! Philippe, Mark Hoyt’s son!”
The words whirled round and round in Sandra’s mind. The dining room seemed to rock to their rhythm as she looked across the refectory table at Rousseau. Curious the effect he had on her. Just as the appearance of a character in grand opera is accompanied by his own special motif, so Philippe’s appearance seemed always companioned by a double, a chevalier, in festive array; not excepting the dashing hat with its sweeping feather and cloak and sword.
He the long-lost son! Incredible. Why had he not mentioned the fact in the weeks he had come so often to their rooms in London? Of course his thoughts had been occupied with the horses he had brought to race, but he had listened with absorbed interest to her father’s reminiscences of his youth and the exploits of the “Three Musketeers of Melton.” She had thought then that he was merely showing the courtesy of a younger man to the oft-repeated tales of an invalid; now she knew that all the time he had had the knowledge of his inheritance up his sleeve.
This was the second shock since she had entered Seven Chimneys a few hours ago. She must drag her mind from this one or Mrs. Newsome would think that she had engaged a dumb secretary. She forced her attention to her surroundings. The room was walled with a colorful pictorial paper. The heavily carved furniture was black with age. The decorator had gone horsey when planning the room. There were fox heads on the consoles; horse heads embellished the andirons; two prancing silver horses formed the centrepiece which held fragrant Templar roses; lig
hts from tapers as crimson as the flowers were reflected in a thousand tiny facets on crystal. Hunting scenes were etched on the goblets; the place plates had hunting scenes in black and gold and red on their borders.
The man named “Jed” was on her left; she was at the left of Curtis Newsome who faced his wife at the other end of the table. Just opposite, Estelle Carter smoked incessantly. As her appraising green eyes alight with mockery challenged hers, Sandra hoped that she would remain a perfect lady and not give way to a primitive urge to throw something at her. Philippe Rousseau sat between the Venetian blonde and his hostess.
It was with difficulty that Sandra kept her eyes from his handsome, rather melancholy face, from the long, feminine fingers with which he smoothed his clipped mustache. Philippe heir to all this gorgeousness! It was unbelievable. The man named Jed had accused her of bluffing. Did he think her an accomplice or whatever the person is who backs up the claimant for an estate? That would be funny if—if it weren’t rather terrifying.
“Miss Duval,” the voice at her left sent the ice-cubes coasting again. Was this “Jed” one of those man-eating cross-examiners one read about? “Know enough of periodism to describe this room for a house beautiful magazine?”
Sandra relaxed. “Not much, at best my knowledge is spotty. I recognize the paper either as an original Zuber made in Alsace Lorraine in 1793, or a marvelous imitation. The horses in the centrepiece are 18th Century Renaissance, and the candlesticks are straight Georgian. The hunt picture set in over the mantel looks like a genuine Henry Alken. After that I’m a lost soul straying in the wilderness.”
“Loud cheers. You have discovered all the points that count; the rest is Mrs. Pat’s hand in the décor, like that terrible daub above the fireplace in the library.”
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