Camilla had a naturally serene expression, and it was enhanced by the clothes she wore ... simple, exquisite. For her first night on Ure she wore wine-red silk that was skilfully swathed and otherwise clinging, and a pair of ruby bracelets on her elegant wrists caught the flickering beams of the candles in their silver sconces. She was dark and just a little bit old-fashioned in appearance, but it was a taking old-fashionedness. Actually, when she stood side by side with Alaine on the worn rug before the fireplace she looked rather like his sister, having the same faintly amused dark eyes and mobile, quizzical mouth.
But it was no comfort to Judy that she was like Alaine. She was no connection of Alaine’s, no connection whatsoever, and it was plain to see that he thought her an unusually charming and very attractive personality.
When he handed her a glass of sherry before dinner he did it with an air that caused Judy, secretly, to bite her lip; and she merely felt foolish when he came across to the couch where she was at last ensconced with her own glass of sherry ... provided after he had attended to the wants of Miss Greystoke.
Aunt Grace was another cause of embarrassment to Judy. She made no pretence of the fact that she had been most curious to meet the young Australian girl, and after they had been introduced she dragged her chair up close to the couch and announced that she intended to get better acquainted. Which meant that she put Judy through a positive catechism concerning her background, her life in Australia, and all those large numbers of sheep that roamed the Australian outback, and were so immensely profitable when they found their way into the open market.
Whether or not Miss Urquhart was attracted by Judy it was impossible to tell. It was plain that she was not repelled by her, but she made no comment when the subject of the unfortunate strained ankle came up. Miss Greystoke was intensely sympathetic, and professing to know quite a bit about first-aid was ready to examine the ankle more thoroughly. But Judy declined her offer somewhat hurriedly.
Miss Urquhart, with her bright blue eyes on the shapely foot that was receiving so much attention, began to look a little more thoughtful. And by the time Amanda found her way into the room she was looking quite pleased.
Amanda had changed even more hurriedly than Judy, nevertheless she looked as if she had spent quite a lot of time on her appearance. She had put on a navy-blue shantung dress, and it was sufficiently well tailored to emphasise the delightful slenderness of her figure. Her hair had received a brisk rub with a silk handkerchief and looked like beaten copper in the combined light of the sunset and the candle flames— actually there were only two branches of candlesticks on the mantelpiece, but they made the room look shadowy and mysterious.
Amanda’s golden-brown eyes looked shy as she came forward to be greeted by the others. She had had no time to apply mascara to her ladies, but the merest touch of blue eye-shadow on her white eyelids lent her eyes a liquid, arresting quality, and the heat from the kitchen stove had put a flush in her cheeks that also had its effect on her eyes. They looked bright and eager despite the quality of diffidence.
“Ah, so there you are!” Alaine exclaimed, the instant she pushed open the door. As he had three ladies on his hands requiring relays of sherry it was a little surprising that he noticed her so soon, but Amanda would have been grateful if he had not noticed her at all, for his interest instantly focused his aunt’s attention on her.
“Well, I never!” Miss Urquhart exclaimed. “So the Australians really are democratic. It’s the little maid-companion!”
Alaine’s dark eyebrows went upwards. He was looking devastatingly handsome in a midnight-blue doublet and impeccable falls of lace at neck and wrists, and it was small wonder that Camilla Greystoke seemed to derive a great deal of quite noticeable satisfaction from simply letting her eyes rest on him.
“Maid-companion?” he echoed. “What do you mean, Aunt?” with quite a sharp note of interrogation in his voice.
Amanda moved forward quickly to prevent any awkwardness.
“I’m afraid it’s my fault that Miss Urquhart got the wrong idea about me,” she said hurriedly. “I’ve been helping Jean in the kitchen, and I took her up some hot water; so she rather gathered that I ... well, that someone employed me!”
Alaine’s black brows drew together in a frown. “Someone employed you? Who?”
Amanda made a gesture with her hands.
“Well, no one, exactly, but... Judy’s been awfully good to me,” and she smiled at her friend.
Miss Urquhart wagged a disapproving finger at her.
“You gave me quite clearly to understand you were some sort of a domestic here. You were wearing a coarse apron, you had smudges of flour on your face, and Jean was quite obviously making use of you. That shouldn’t happen to guests.”
“It certainly shouldn’t,” the host agreed, and he sounded so annoyed that Amanda could hardly believe the evidence of her ears—or her eyes, if it came to that—when she saw the way he frowned at her. Scowled at her was perhaps a better word. “You are a guest here,” he said, with emphasis, “and if Jean needs help in the kitchen she can get it from the mainland. She has any number of relatives who would be willing to help her out I disapprove of you doing chores in the kitchen.”
There was a dark, angry flush rising under his tanned skin.
Amanda smiled at him, and accepted the glass of sherry he put into her fingers.
“Help is expensive,” she reminded him in an undertone that couldn’t possibly reach the ears of the other guests, and considerably to her astonishment he suddenly looked as if he might actually be tempted to bite her.
“Well, of all the impertinence!” he exclaimed. “Do you dare to imply that I can’t afford even a—an extra pair of hands in the kitchen?”
Aunt Grace’s ears were preternaturally sharp, and she moved over to them.
“Well, you know very well that you can’t,” she said, shortly, addressing her nephew. “But that,” she added, “doesn’t excuse this young woman for deceiving me. When I take people into my confidence I expect to be able to trust them,” lowering her voice to a hissing whisper and subjecting Amanda to a baleful glare from her vivid blue eyes. “For all I know to the contrary you’re a contestant yourself. Do you own a lot of sheep like that chit on the couch?”
Amanda, sipping her sherry and feeling suddenly relaxed and entertained, answered her with the truthfulness that was part of her nature.
“Not even half a sheep,” she replied, very softly.
“Any other assets?”
“I’m as poor as a church mouse.”
“Then you’re not a contestant,” Aunt Grace said with more distinctness, and led the procession into the dining-room where she took her place as if by right opposite her nephew at the foot of the table.
To-night Jean had really worked miracles, and the dining-table shone not merely with, polish, but with the gleam of the candles in their sparkling candelabra. Duncan must have worked hard with the silver polish, for the examples of fine Georgian silver were without blemish, and that went for the cutlery, too. The glass sparkled and the centrepiece of roses was a surprise to Amanda, who would never have believed Jean was sufficiently artistic to arrange such a bowl of roses.
And the napkins had been hurriedly laundered and starched and stood up without effort. Not even Alaine’s ruffles were more immaculate. Jean herself wore a crisp apron to wait on them, and Duncan had unearthed something in the nature of livery to serve the wines.
There was claret with the soup, hock with the main course, and liqueurs were brought to table with the coffee. For a man in straitened circumstances Alaine Urquhart managed to maintain quite an enviable wine-cellar, and as she thoughtfully consumed her own portion of goose and refrained from commenting on the excellence of the loganberry crumble Amanda found herself wondering how he did it.
Perhaps the cellar was a legacy from his ancestors. But, somehow, she doubted it. The bottles weren’t old and cobwebbed enough.
After dinner they all returne
d to the drawing-room, and Aunt Grace with cool intent insisted that Miss Greystoke should delight them with her singing voice. The previous night it was Amanda who had sat at the spinet, but to-night it was Camilla. A pleasing, graceful figure in wine-dark silk, she sat on the old-fashioned piano stool and enchanted them with extracts from her repertoire.
She really had a superb contralto voice, warm and rich and entirely suited to the mellowness of the room in which they sat, and she had her audience much more than spellbound. Judy, prepared at first to be bored, was plainly startled by such perfection, and Aunt Grace applauded enthusiastically when the performance was over. Alaine went up to the piano and laid his hand on Miss Greystoke’s slim bare shoulder and thanked her with such a glow of excitement and pleasure in his dark eyes that she actually coloured. The appreciation Amanda had aroused in him the previous night was lukewarm and barely noticeable by comparison, which was not perhaps surprising as Miss Greystoke was at the very pinnacle of her success, and accustomed to holding vast audiences spellbound, and not just a handful of people in a shabby old drawing-room that was only made bearable by the discreetness of the lights, and was like a faded piece of tapestry in broad daylight.
Aunt Grace, after watching the two at the piano and seeing how well they were getting on with one another—Alaine, apparently, understood quite a lot about serious music, and Miss Greystoke made room for him on the piano stool in order that they could discuss it in greater comfort—went across to Judy’s couch and enquired how much she had enjoyed the unlooked-for treat, and because Judy’s pleasure was subsiding at the sight of Camilla and Alaine with their sleek dark heads practically touching upset her, she made the kind of rejoinder that did not entirely deceive the elder lady, and with her thoughts still dwelling on sheep she sat down on the foot of the couch to soothe the younger girl.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” she said, as if she understood perfectly, “we can’t all be accomplished, but we can all have something. You, I’m sure, have a great deal!” and the complacency in her eyes caused Judy to feel a little surprised, since she had no idea of the interest the old lady had in her.
Judy said pettishly, “I think I’ll try and hobble up to my room.” And as if he had eyes in the back of his head, and ears that missed nothing, Alaine rose and came across to her and promptly offered to carry her up. Instantly Judy melted, allowed herself to be lifted off the couch, and smiled into his eyes.
“Humbug!” Aunt Grace exclaimed, when she had left the room, and Miss Greystoke looked thoughtful ... extremely thoughtful. Amanda felt suddenly a trifle sickened, and even a little revolted. Judy with only one idea in her mind was bad enough, but to have a sophisticated singer like Camilla Greystoke joining in the competition made the whole thing seem nauseating.
Amanda sat staring at Camilla in the candlelight, and Camilla suddenly lifted her head and smiled at her. She crossed the room until she could sink into a chair beside Amanda’s.
“You know,” she said, in her liquid, lovely voice, “I’m beginning to feel slightly bemused by this place. It’s enchanted.” She gazed out of the window at the summer dusk, and the liquid notes of nightingales reached them from a copse not far from the open window. The singer's dark eyes looked slightly mesmerised. “Do you understand what I mean? This place”—she waved a hand to indicate it—“it’s so old, so mellow, so filled with memories. When I first saw all that growth out there, and had my stockings practically torn to pieces, I wondered why I was allowing myself to be brought here. But now I know that Miss Greystoke was doing me a quite fantastic favour when she suggested I should accept her nephew’s hospitality. It’s true I only intended to stay for one night, but—”
“And now?” Amanda asked, watching her as if she was fascinated by the strange state of captivation in which the other appeared to be living and moving.
Miss Greystoke spread her white hands. The ruby bracelets twinkled like thousands of over-bright eyes in the candle flames.
“I have to be in Rome by the end of next week, but Mr. Urquhart has issued a very emphatic invitation to me to stay on here. I ought not to allow myself the luxury, but—” she gazed at Amanda with dream-filled eyes—“it’s not often one meets two such sympathetic persons as Miss Urquhart and her nephew, and I don’t believe I can tear myself away ... yet. I shall send for my secretary and he can join me here. Mr. Urquhart is perfectly willing to put him up.”
“What!” Amanda felt positively startled, and before she realised what she was saying she asked: “But what about Jean—and Duncan?”
A little of the friendliness died in Miss Greystoke’s eyes.
“What about them?” she asked coldly.
Amanda endeavoured to explain without giving offence.
“They’re already rather overworked. This is a big house, and not at all easy to run. I thought it an awful cheek when Judy and I missed the boat and Judy sprained her ankle and we had to put up here ... and I still think we haven’t any right to stay on here. Mr. Urquhart is having a severe strain put upon his hospitality. I feel guilty.”
“Then couldn’t you do something to relieve the strain?” with a smile that had the coolness of freshly melted snow.
“I give Jean a hand in the kitchen, because I think it helps...”
“I wasn’t think about Jean, I was thinking about Mr. Urquhart.”
Amanda realised she had perhaps asked for that.
“I see what you mean,” she said. “And, as for me, I’m ready to depart to-morrow, but I don’t think Miss Macrae’s ankle is strong enough yet. It would be awkward if we began our travels again while her ankle is still weak.”
“Very awkward,” Miss Greystoke agreed.
Amanda glanced at her.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t very tactful just now,” she said ruefully. “I more or less intimated that you aren’t really welcome here, but I’m sure you are. As a matter of fact, Miss Urquhart was brought here to act the part of chaperone because it didn’t seem quite right that we should be living here—Judy and I—in a bachelor’s house with no one to make it less of an ordeal for Mr. Urquhart. So, having arrived, I don’t imagine she will expect us to leave immediately.”
Camilla Greystoke leaned forward and patted her knee.
“All the same,” she said gently, “it might be a good thing if you didn’t delay your departure for too long. After all,” with a meaning look, “it does look rather obvious, doesn’t it, when you’re both so young and attractive? I’m sure Mr. Urquhart doesn’t think it odd, but the world might. And it doesn’t do to offend the world at your age.”
“No, I’m quite sure you’re right,” Amanda agreed, but she bit her lip rather hard because it was fairly obvious the anger was not greatly drawn towards Judy ... and for a reason that was as primitive as the island of Ure.
“And, you know, I don’t want to sound sceptical, but it did strike me that Miss Macrae’s ankle is not as bad as she herself might be inclined to believe. Perhaps,” with that repellent softness, “if she tried walking on it more often, and did not insist on turning Mr. Urquhart into a kind of beast of burden—”
Brisk footsteps echoed on the flagged floor outside the door, and Alaine returned to the drawing-room. His aunt was absorbed in laying out patience cards, so he refrained from disturbing her and walked across to his two guests, who were apparently talking in a reasonable state of accord.
As Amanda glanced up at him he met her eyes and smiled slightly.
“Your friend is about as heavy as a feather,” he observed. “I’m sure she doesn’t eat enough. She makes me think of moonbeams and gossamer.”
Miss Greystoke also glanced up at him and remarked with some dryness:
“Then that’s rather fortunate for you, since you had to carry her up all those stairs. Even moonbeams and gossamer acquire a little weight after the first flight, I should think.”
Alaine took up his position before the fireplace, reached for his pipe in the rack on the mantelpiece, and shook his head.<
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“I assure you it’s fantastic, she weighs so little.”
“I really think she ought to start using that foot,” Camilla said, as if her only interest in life was the wellbeing of Judy’s small but shapely injured member. “It doesn’t look very badly swollen to me, and if it’s only a slight strain exercise should improve it.” Then, as if she feared she might have sounded just a little catty, she smiled with extraordinary sweetness and added, changing the subject altogether: “I’ve just been telling Miss Wells that I’m falling in love with your island and your Tower, and since you’ve been so good as to press me to stay here for a few days I’m going to get my secretary, Michael Manners, to join me. I’m afraid I’m always a little bit lost without him, and as he’s arriving at the Three Goats tomorrow I’ll telephone and ask him to come across, if I may?” on a gently appealing note.
Alaine smiled.
“Ask him to come and stay here by all means, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to use the telephone to do so because we don’t possess such a thing. I’m afraid Ure really is primitive.”
She looked amazed.
“Do you know,” she said, “it never even occurred to me there was a house left in the world without a telephone.”
Alaine’s smile was distinctly curious.
“Ure has neither a telephone nor electric light,” he said—and he said it with emphasis, as if he wanted to make an impression. “And in the dead of winter—if it’s a bad winter—we get cut off from the mainland by snow and ice. How would you like to live here then?”
Bride of Alaine Page 8