Summer Lightning

by Jill Tahourdin

  She was glad to do so; her legs felt suddenly weak.

  She took a cigarette from his proffered case, and let him light it. Drawing on it, she waited, obstinately silent, for his explanations.

  He remained silent, too, studying her, his expression inscrutable. She felt her color begin to rise.

  “I suppose you’re very angry with me, Miss Linden,” he said at last.

  “Bewildered, rather, Professor Vining.”

  He grinned—rather endearingly. “It was rather a volte-face, I admit. And it still goes against the grain, I’m afraid.”

  Seeing her stiffen, he went on quickly, “This sudden invasion has altered the whole situation, you see.”

  “I’m not sure I do see.”

  “I gather my cousin proposes—intends to make a long stay at Santa Clara. It was willed jointly to Dick, her husband, and me, though my mother occupies it for her lifetime. So Louise can, in point of fact, stay as long as she chooses.”

  “But...”

  “It would be doing me a great favor—little as you probably feel I deserve it—if you would stay on to do the work you came out for and—well, help me out by coming to live with us at Santa Clara.”

  “I—really, I...” Chloe stammered.

  He paid no attention. “My mother, I should explain, is an invalid, and seldom leaves her room. It would be a great help in every way,” he finished with emphasis, “if you could bring yourself to do as I ask.”

  Though she considered he deserved a snub, she knew she wasn’t going to administer it. She went so far as to demand with spirit, “You’re prepared to risk my baneful influence on your team at the dig?”

  His eyes twinkled. “No option.”

  She couldn’t help laughing.

  She had meant to carry off this scene with immense dignity. She hadn’t intended to agree till he had properly humbled himself. But it was no use—she simply didn’t want to fight him.

  She still wasn’t clear why Mrs. Carlyon’s arrival had caused him to change his mind so promptly, but she didn’t much care. The thing that mattered was that she was to remain in Malta.

  “All right, then, I’ll stay,” she said. “I would have been very sorry to go back without having a chance to justify Ronnie Fairfax’s sending me in his place. And besides, I do want time to see Malta, now I’m here.”

  “So you shall. Do you drive a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then Mark will fix you up with a local license.”

  “I have my International.”

  “Have you indeed? That makes it simple. One of the cars at Santa Clara will be for your use when you want it.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  His eyes twinkled again. “Am I? I wonder.”

  Standing up, he held out his hand to pull her from the low settee.

  “Can you amuse yourself till lunchtime?”

  “Of course. You forget it’s all new to me.”

  “And exciting?”

  “Wildly.”

  He smiled and left her, and she watched him go, thoughtfully, before stubbing out her cigarette.

  Firmly, she cautioned herself against feeling too elated. Still more firmly, against weaving romantic dreams around a man who had shown her plainly enough that she was only to stay on sufferance, because it happened to suit his schedule.

  But her heart refused to be cautioned. It sang and wouldn’t be bidden.

  She knew perfectly well what had happened to her. She had fallen head over heels in love with Dominic Vining. At first sight, like the heroine of a magazine story. Unasked. And most unreasonably—for what did she really know about him?

  Well, she was going to live at Santa Clara, work with him, share his daily life. What more could a girl newly in love ask?

  Except, of course, to have her love returned. Unlikely as that seemed at present, she glowed at the possibility. And there was no law against a girl trying to make her employer fall in love with her, was there? But it looked like being as tough an assignment as she had ever handled...

  Strolling out in the open, she found a courtyard with flowers in tubs and chairs and tables set under gay umbrellas. People in summery clothes and sunglasses sat under the umbrellas reading, or chatting with Mediterranean zest.

  Chloe found a vacant table and sat down. By now the sun had a crystal brilliance, and its heat was that of a real summer day at home.

  She sat blissfully absorbing it, and sipping the long, cold lime drink she ordered.

  At another table a beautiful Latin young man in pearl gray and sideburns tried persistently, with a wolf’s single-mindedness, to hold her glance. But it passed over him dreamily, unseeingly. Crossly he asked himself how these English women could be at once so maddeningly desirable and so cool...

  CHAPTER THREE

  The club where they met for lunch was in Valetta. Its cavernous entrance, a long tunnel piercing the tall massive battlements, Chloe had glimpsed last night.

  Dominic parked the car down in the square in Kingsway, the strident main street. It teemed with humanity and echoed with voices and raucous radio music.

  “On our left the Royal Library, on our right the Grand Palace. That’s where the Grand Masters of the Knight of St. John held court during the two centuries when the Order found sanctuary in Malta,” Dominic told them. “It’s Government House now.”

  “But what a lovely city,” Chloe exclaimed as she looked around her. Tall cream houses with ornamental stone balconies, stately palaces—she hadn’t dreamed of such elegance, such architectural splendor.

  “ ‘A city built by gentlemen for gentlemen, where every house is a mansion, and every mansion a palace,’ ” Dominic quoted. “Wait till you’ve seen some of the interiors—the Cathedral of St. John, the Palace armory and tapestry chamber and so on. They’re amazing.”

  Louise broke in impatiently, “Must you be so guidebook, darling? I die for a really cold dry martini.”

  “Very well, Louise. I expect the club barman can manage one for you.”

  “Then let’s go—if Miss Linden can tear herself away.” There was a distinct edge to her voice. Was Mrs. Carlyon not going to be friendly? How awkward that could be, with both of them staying at Santa Clara.

  In the club a pleasant-looking, animated group of people were enjoying pre-lunch drinks and the day’s gossip.

  The men were mostly in naval uniform. Though there was a sprinkling of soldiers and civilians, the general atmosphere was distinctly nautical. There was even a tubby little rear admiral with a monumental wife and a ravishing young daughter.

  Dominic led them to a comfortable corner and ordered martinis for Louise and Mark who, with Robert, had met them in the foyer, a pink gin for Robert and dry sherry for Chloe and himself.

  As she watched him lighting a cigarette for Louise, Chloe had a sudden sense of danger—of the runaway possibilities of a situation involving Dominic and his cousin’s wife. She had an intuitive certainty that there had been something between the two of them in the past, and that Mrs. Carlyon was determined to rekindle it.

  During lunch, however, Chloe got the impression that Louise wasn’t quite as sure of her welcome as she pretended. She talked and laughed too much, on the extreme edge of gaiety. She drank the wine Dominic offered her too fast, too carelessly.

  A good many heads turned, from time to time, to look at her. Some faces—male, mostly—expressed interest, speculation; more had faintly raised eyebrows, a hint of disapproval.

  All in all, it wasn’t a very enjoyable meal for Chloe. She sat silent, listening, for Louise monopolized the talk as well as ignoring her as far as possible.

  Robert Tenby, however, took the first opportunity to speak a line he had generally found effective as an opening gambit. “I say, we must see more of each other, Miss Linden.”

  “Must we?”

  He looked a little crestfallen, though she hadn’t meant to be snubbing. “Well, I’d like it. And I’d hoped you might, too,” he said eng
agingly.

  Chloe smiled. “I’m afraid I’m going to be very busy. I’ve come to Malta to work, you know,” she said with a glance at Professor Vining.

  “But even wage slaves like you and me must play some time—mmm? You’re going to work for Vining on the dig?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’ll be all right,” Robert said easily. “We’ll enlist my brother’s help.”

  He went into action when the talk—steered there determinedly by Louise—turned to naval festivities.

  “There’s a match for a cup at the Marsa polo ground on Saturday. It should be quite good. I’d be delighted if you’d bring Mrs. Carlyon along sir, and have tea with me afterward,” he told Dominic.

  Louise blew him a kiss. “Of course we’ll come, my pet.”

  Glancing at their host, Chloe again had an impression of that barely concealed irritation. However, he said pleasantly, “Thank you, Robert. If we can spare the time from work.”

  “Of course you’re invited, too, Miss Linden.” Robert’s look was guilelessness itself.

  “Oh, thank you. I’d love to come.” The words were out before she stopped to think.

  The swift color rose in her cheeks as gray eyes met her own across the table.

  “I think we must arrange our working program before you make any social engagements, Miss Linden.”

  His manner was courteous enough; his voice so chilly that she felt gooseflesh rise along her arms.

  Wow! I asked for that, she thought vexedly.

  As she murmured an apologetic, “Of course, Professor Vining,” she noticed Louise. Louise was watching her discomfiture without a trace of woman-to-woman sympathy or friendliness. Her eyes held derision, cool appraisal, and even, Chloe realized with surprise, malice.

  She resents me, Chloe thought. But why? What have I done?

  Robert gave her a comical, rueful grimace.

  “I know how it feels. Like when my captain has me up on the mat,” he murmured. She smiled, her spirits restored.

  They finished their coffee, lit cigarettes.

  “Sorry to hustle,” Dominic said, “but it’s high time we got along to Mdina, and work.”

  As they stood up, Louise tucked her arm possessively through his.

  “Work! Phooey to that. You mustn’t be pompous and dreary, my pet, now Louise is here at last.” The words, in her deep, carrying voice, caused heads to turn.

  Without replying Dominic called their waiter, signed the bill, and led the way out. Robert, maneuvering himself next to Chloe, touched her hand and whispered, “May I telephone? You’re at Santa Clara? I must see you again soon.”

  “Remember, I’m a working girl.”

  “As Louise would say, phooey to that. So long.”

  Louise had slid into the front seat with Dominic, chatting vivaciously. Chloe got in behind with Mark and looked around, alert and interested, as they left Valetta and the long, crowded main street behind them and drove into more open country.

  She saw with delight that it was full springtime—the magical Mediterranean spring that almost overnight throws a brilliant, flowery patchwork over the winter-scarred, stony earth.

  She had met it before—in Corsica, in Majorca, in Greece.

  “Isn’t it heaven?” she said to Mark; but Mark had overeaten and was too somnolent to do more than nod vaguely.

  She feasted her eyes on massed poppies, marigolds, pink asphodel, blue iris and crimson clover. She could smell the wild thyme that carpeted the verges.

  They passed through another tall, apricot cream village and skirted the bosky gardens of the palace of San Anton. A little distance ahead was a hilly ridge. Green terraced slopes of tender young vines and fig trees led up it toward high, massive ramparts. Behind these she glimpsed a storybook citadel, with rounded domes and tall towers.

  “That is Mdina,” Dominic said, half turning his head to include her. “They call it ‘the silent city.’ I’m afraid you’re going to find it far too dull and quiet for your taste, Louise.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll soon wake it up,” she assured him blithely, taking off her bizarre sunglasses to get a better look. “My dear, it looks terribly phony, doesn’t it?”

  “Phony?”

  “Untrue. Like a backdrop. Or like something thought up by a Hollywood mogul.”

  Dominic said nothing, eloquently, and Chloe saw Mark grin.

  They were climbing a steep length of road that turned sharply to the right into an open garden square. Here red buses stood like panting dragons, crowds milled around food stalls, radios played full blast, horns tooted, donkeys brayed and fireworks exploded shatteringly overhead.

  “Did you say silent, darling?”

  “This is Rabat—and today happens to be one of their festas,” Dominic said testily. “Mdina is inside the ramparts.”

  They crossed a bridge over a wide moat, dry now, very wide and deep. Ahead of them was a high stone archway with heraldic carvings.

  They passed under it into a dreamlike city of stately apricot cream palaces, churches, convents, divided from each other by meandering paved alleys, only just wide enough for a car to pass. In an open square a vast cathedral raised its towers and domes. A friar walked softly, reading his breviary. A line of young men was entering the gates of what might be a college for priests.

  It certainly was silent. Only the whisper of their tires broke a silence that could almost be felt.

  Louise stared around her with candid disbelief.

  “My goodness, it is a movie set after all,” she exclaimed. “I bet it’s hollow behind.”

  Chloe saw with amusement that Professor Vining was having considerable difficulty in controlling his temper.

  Luckily they seemed to have arrived. They turned right into an alley where massive gates, set in a high blank wall, opened from within at the discreet toot of their horn.

  Passing between these, they pulled up in a shady, flowery courtyard. A fountain played tinkling music in a stone basin. In one corner a curtain of bougainvillea glowed purplish crimson.

  Louise clasped her hands and gazed around her at the massive walls, broken by tiers of long windows with out-curving wrought-iron guards.

  “Our palazzo in Malta, yours and mine, Dominic. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am,” she said intensely.

  Chloe saw Mark grin again. He seemed to be finding Louise as good as a play.

  An Amazonian woman, swarthy-faced and wearing the black garments of the island peasantry, had arrived from the house to help the porter with the luggage. The pair of them hauled out Louise’s expensively matched set of pigskin with gold initials, and Chloe’s two light bags.

  Dominic went over and spoke a few rapid words in Maltese, and the woman nodded impassively, glancing at Chloe.

  “That is Lotta, our housekeeper,” he said, returning. “She will show you to your rooms.”

  “Oh, but you must take me on a tour of the place first, Dominic dear,” Louise insisted gaily.

  “Mark will take you.”

  “No, darling, you.”

  He shrugged.

  “Very well. Then perhaps Miss Linden would like to go upstairs with Lotta.”

  It was an order. Obediently Chloe followed Lotta up a curving marble staircase, and skidded in her wake along miles of black and white marble squares like a chessboard. She glimpsed—and marked down for further consideration—the handsome portraits, very dark and Old-Masterish, that brooded on either side, and the splendid suits of armor standing beneath the long windows and looking as if at any moment they might step forward and engage each other in battle.

  As they passed a half-open bedroom door Chloe stopped, startled by a noise like the rapping of a stick on the floor. Lotta stopped, too. A harsh, imperious voice called out, “Lotta, is it you? Who is that with you?”

  Lotta swung around and pushed the door wide open with her knee.

  “Contessa, it is the new young lady.”

  “A young lady? What do you mean? Bring
her in here at once.”

  Lotta beckoned Chloe inside the room. It was vast and gloomy, with a painted ceiling, massive dark furniture, a deep-piled carpet, heavily draped curtains of thick silk damask drawn across the windows and a monstrous four-poster bed. In the bed, propped against a mound of pillows, lay a handsome old woman. Her snow-white hair contrasted oddly with her dark olive complexion. Her fine, dark eyes were full of a restless brilliance.

  His mother, Chloe thought. I can see a resemblance. It’s easy to see where he got his looks—and temperament.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Chloe Linden.”

  “English?”

  “Yes. I’ve come out here to do some photography for Professor Vining.”

  She smiled as she spoke and the old lady’s hand, splashed with the brown stains of age and heavy with rings, stretched out to take hers in a surprisingly strong grip. The brilliant eyes studied her for an embarrassingly long time.

  Suddenly the old lady began to laugh, with a sort of relish. “Well, well. So you are going to work with my son, are you? An English girl—and a pretty one. Excellent. Welcome to Santa Clara, my dear. Tell me, where is your home?”

  “I live in London, contessa.”

  “With your parents?”

  “No. With my godmother, Lady Stanton.”

  The white head nodded approvingly. “The wife of the vice admiral? Ah, of course. I knew her when they were here in the island. A long time ago. I hope she and Sir Amyatt are well?”

  “He died two years ago.”

  “Ah. A great loss. And so she is your godmother? And your parents? Are they still alive?”

  “Only my mother. She has married again and left England.”

  “For where?”

  “For Nassau. Her husband has an estate there.”

  “I visited there once. It was even hotter than Malta. And your father—was he in the Navy, too?”

  “No—in the Colonial Administration.”

  “So.”

  Chloe had the feeling that she had been weighed up, placed and found acceptable.

  “You poor child,” the contessa went on kindly. “Santa Clara must be your home while you are in Malta. I’m very glad indeed you have come, though Dominic didn’t tell me. So, we shall see...”