Jasmine Harvest

by Jane Arbor

  Still with his eyes narrowed, he addressed the glass roof and the arching vine above it, “My cousin! How formal can you get? You and Berthin were on Christian-name terms with each other already when I showed up, weren’t you? And you know I meant all the details and conditions of my father’s will, without which no one ever considers the story worth telling. You heard those too?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But you weren’t all that interested?”

  “I was going to say Betsy told me before I met you—”

  He turned his head and fixed her with one lazy eye. “Before?”

  She laughed diffidently. “All right. Before I thought we had met, and it seemed to me to be gossip which wasn’t really my business. Or hers either, and I believe I said so.”

  “Huh! You underrate our small-town curiosity down here. Don’t you know that, metaphorically speaking, the Croisette is cluttered from end to end by our eager ears pinned close to the ground? However, I can imagine you making a virtue of the role of the studiedly deaf Wise Monkey, though you could spare a thought for poor Betsy, canvassing sympathy for me and getting nothing but a snub for her pains!”

  Caroline began a protest, “I didn’t say I—”

  But he cut her short, changing the subject to ask, “How are you making out at the villa? Which room has Betsy given you?”

  “The one at the east end. From the balcony I almost, though not quite, saw the sun rise this morning. It’s the one where there are some books of yours, and I’ve borrowed one of them. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. Which one?”

  She told him and he nodded. “One of my more faithful stand-bys too. That’s my favorite room as well. The other one is bigger, but that’s the one I always use when I sleep there alone.”

  “When you—?” Caroline managed to bite back the rest of her echo, but the sheer gaucherie of it and all it implied sent a furious color racing into her cheeks. Open-mouthed and confused, she met Paul’s full, amused gaze, but his comment was oblique.

  “You know,” he said conversationally, “it’s always seemed to me there should have been a fourth Wise Monkey—a female one who thought no evil, whatever the provocation!” Then he laughed. “All right, I confess I angled for it. You shock so attractively that you’re a downright gift to irresponsibles like me. One can pay out a line and then sit back and watch you bite ... Easy. In fact, so too easy that one shouldn’t take advantage. So here goes—hand on heart, Mimosa’s wilder parties have always been strictly stag; only my more benighted or bemused guests have ever stayed the night; it has never been rented out as a love-nest and I’ve slept there, alone by choice in your room, more times than I can count. There! That’s my honorable amend, and if I’m willing to forgive you for harboring nasty suspicions on no evidence at all, what about our now going over the house as we planned and in the perfect amity and accord which we swore to last night? Will you come?”

  As he levered himself from his chair and his hand invited hers, Caroline was glad that he couldn’t know what she was thinking. For it was that she knew now just what the phrase “magnetic charm” meant.

  In a man it was a drawing power which kept you acutely, on-your-toes conscious of him while he was there, and made you only too aware that he took light and warmth with him when he left. It defied analysis, except that though there was something audaciously “little boy” to it, there was even more that was totally adult—compelling, vital ... essentially male. Betsy had been right. Paul had it in full, unmistakable measure. And Roy Sanders had had it too. The only difference was that, magnetized by Roy, she had been innocent enough to believe that it had been all and only for her; that she switched on the power with her coming, that no one else felt the pull of it, but as long as he knew she did, Roy was content.

  But of course he hadn’t been. He’d been extravagant, profligate with it, seeing no future in hiding a talent like that under a bushel. And Paul Pascal didn’t either ... But after Roy, thank goodness, she was warned, forearmed. Now she could know the momentary, heady delight of melting a little to a look, a smile or the intimate pressure of fingers without letting them mean anything which would carry over into pain. It seemed that, simply by being themselves, the Roys and the Pauls of this world could hurt the Betsys but not the twice-shy Carolines. She had nothing to fear from Paul because, thanks to Roy, she hoped for nothing from him. And that was how she wanted it. Well ... didn’t she?

  The house was much as she was prepared to find it—the smaller rooms which Paul used looking lived-in and carelessly comfortable; the more formal ones dignified and rather chilling. There was a magnificent hall which gave sheer up to a domed skylight in the roof and from which a graceful double staircase led on to the mezzanine floor, its walls hung with family portraits and some Fragonards. On the upward journey Paul indicated them with a brief wave of his hand, but on their way down again he took Caroline over to one which she guessed was a painting of his mother.

  It showed a woman lovely through serenity and humor rather than by feature. It was only half-length and was dateless by reason of the filmy draping of tulle about the shoulders and the ageless madonna style of the hair. Caroline looked for the likeness to herself of which Betsy had spoken and saw it certainly in Madame Pascal’s fairness of skin and hair and the clear light grey of her eyes. But that was all. Paul’s mother, if the artist hadn’t flattered her, had done something which Caroline thought she would count herself fortunate to achieve when the time came—she had come to terms with middle age and made it beautiful, as mere youth rarely was.

  Paul was saying, “Maman by Therot. I believe she was about forty-five at the time. But tell you something if you won’t misunderstand me? When you did that guided missile act into my arms on the train, I don’t believe I saw you as much as I—recognized you.”

  “Recognized me?”

  “Well, look for yourself at Maman’s coloring and her eyes!”

  “Ye-es, I see, but—”

  “And supposing, when you are her age, you wore your hair smoothed down from here—so, as hers is—” his forefinger lightly indicated a parting from widow’s peak to crown—“I’d say anyone would take this for a portrait of you. Look again.”

  She did so, but shook her head. “Oh, no, because it’s not a matter of features nor even of coloring and hair-styles. I think your mother must have been a lovely woman from—from inside, and that’s what makes her face more expressive than I can ever hope mine will be.”

  He shrugged. “You’ve got something there. Maman did glow, and short of turning you inside out, I wouldn’t know whether you compete or not. But since I loved her—this, bless you, for at least reminding me of her—” With which, his finger as light beneath her chin as it had been on her hair, he tilted it in order to touch the merest feather of a kiss between her brows.

  For a second time that afternoon the quick color washed and ebbed in Caroline’s cheeks. She began, “That wasn’t—” but checked, realizing that protest made too much of a gesture which could have meant as little to him as it should to her. Instead she said quietly, “I’m glad—if my likeness to her helped more than it hurt. How long ago did she die?”

  “About ten years. Of a virus infection that was diagnosed too late. I’d had her long enough to appreciate her value to me, but I hadn’t even begun to repay her for all she had done and been.”

  Caroline said, “I don’t think mothers expect repaying. I hardly remember mine, but I know what you mean. When my father died suddenly two years ago I was haunted for ages afterwards by all the things I told myself I might have done for him and hadn’t, and even more by the thought of the little luxuries he wouldn’t afford for himself, but which I meant he should have as soon as—”

  She broke off at a sound from below and they both looked down into the well of the hall to see a foreshortened Betsy standing there.

  “So there you are,” she called up. “Simone unbent so far as to allow you had lunched in the garden-room. B
ut you weren’t there, so I gave her the slip and galloped in here to find you.” When they went down to join her she linked her fingers round Paul’s arm and, bracing her feet against the side of his, hung outward at full stretch of her arms. “Paul, darling,” she coaxed childishly, “can I beg something to drink? Something cool and long and bubbly for pretence. My tongue is positively lolling!”

  “Of course, infant, if you’ll stop playing levers and fulcrums with the help of my person, ’Melie shall bring something to the garden-room. But you’re not getting hard liquor between meals at this hour of the day, so don’t think it. You got a message that I phoned to ask you to join Caroline and me for lunch, I gather?”

  “Yes. I hadn’t rung up by then to say I’d met some of the gang in the town and if Caroline didn’t mind, I shouldn’t be back for lunch. But before she went home, Marie managed a note for me in some sort of English saying Ursule had ‘suffered a chute,’ which I took to mean she had had a fall somewhere, and that you had collected Caroline at the cottage and brought her up here to lunch. You should know,” still clinging to his arm, she addressed Caroline across him as the three of them walked out to the garden-room, “this character simply abhors eating alone and will go to any ends to avoid it. Well, won’t you?” she challenged, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

  He murmured, “So really tactful of you, honey, to imply that, lacking a companion for luncheon, I scoured the hedgerows and, faute de mieux, raked in Caroline. To pay you out, you can know that we lunched on turtle soup—as for Lord Mayors—oysters, ortolans, sucking pig and angel food, with all the wines to match, and didn't leave crumb or drop for you!”

  Betsy giggled, “I don’t believe it! What are ortolans anyway?”

  No one bothered to tell her. Over the tall glasses of iced fresh lime juice which the maid who had served lunch brought to the garden-room at Paul’s order, they talked about Ursule Pascal’s accident and Caroline told Betsy of her promise to visit Ursule while she was ill.

  Betsy dismissed that with an indifferent “Rather you than me,” and added in mock suspicion, “How come, by the way, that you broke Simone’s resistance enough for her to allow you to lunch alone with Paul?”

  “Ah—” it was Paul who answered, “you see, Caroline had a diplomatic card to play. She twined herself round Simone’s heart-strings by convincing Simone they shared a passion for cats and kittens.”

  Betsy pouted. “Well, given a hint one could worm into Simone’s favor by it, who couldn’t put on an act about kittens?”

  “You couldn’t,” he quashed. “The operative phrase was ‘cats and.’ It’s only genuine cat-lovers who don’t regret that kittens grow up, and I daresay it hasn’t escaped Simone that Clementine’s matronly charm leaves you cold. Caroline, on the other hand, didn’t have to put on an act. She fell as hard for Clementine as for the new family, with the result that Simone has invited her, in your set’s jargon, to have herself a ball with them whenever she likes.”

  ‘Oh—” Betsy allowed the monosyllable and her pause to dismiss the argument before adding, “Talking of balls, I’ve been thinking, Paul, wouldn’t it be a smashing idea to give a party? Say as a sort of welcome for Caroline or any other old reason—it doesn’t matter. But something more than just cocktails. Dancing and idiotic games and maybe fireworks as a climax. What do you say?”

  He regarded her lazily. “In what capacity do I ‘say’? As host or guest?”

  “Well, as a bit of both. I mean, I’d give it, but if I wanted a crowd, find I should, the villa is rather small.”

  “In other words, you’d prefer this place as a stamping-ground? All right, but only on the condition that I’m not cast as a hybrid guest. In my own house I give the party and I play host—agreed?”

  “Why, yes, if that’s the way you want it. Thanks awfully. But you’ll need a kind of hostess too, won’t you, and I’d adore to—”

  “Maybe you would, my cabbage, but—no. You and Caroline shall top the guest list and you can vet it to see if all your buddies are invited. But if I think the occasion calls for a, hostess, I’ll choose my own, if you don’t mind.”

  “And no prize offered, I suppose, for guessing whom you’ll choose?”

  “None,” he told her coolly. “It’ll be Ariane.”

  “As if we couldn’t guess! But, Paul, why her?”

  “Because she’s decorative to a degree; her poise is something out of this world; she has hostess-ship down to a fine art and not least she happens to be a friend of mine. Fair enough?”

  Betsy allowed reluctantly, “I suppose so, if that’s how you feel about her, and if being a good hostess is manipulating people like pieces on a chessboard, then I couldn’t agree more. But the party was my idea, even if I’ve let you snaffle it, and don’t I qualify as—as your friend too?”

  His tone indulgent, “My lamb, you can have the party back if you want it and if you can cut it to measure for the villa without tearing the place apart. And naturally you qualify ... Though do I have to specify what as?”

  She sat forward, eager eyes only for him, her lips parted. “Of course. Tell?”

  “Well, then, surely as the most engaging sugar-and-spice-and-all-things-nice that has happened to me for years—what else?” he teased her.

  “Only as—? Just little girl? Oh, Paul!”

  As she recoiled, her face clouding in mortification, Caroline covered up for her by rising and thanking Paul for her luncheon. He got up too and so did Betsy.

  “When do you plan to lay on the party?” she asked him.

  His arm went lightly across her shoulders. “Any time you like,” he told her. “Come over again tomorrow and we’ll go into conference on the details—hm?”

  “I’ll do that. Love to,” she said, smiling again, mollified. It was Caroline who felt shame at second hand for her, that she should show herself so unwary, so vulnerable to a magic which Paul scattered at random, careless of its fall-out. And it was Caroline who looked at the word her mind had chosen—magic—and knew with sudden devastating clarity that she had been wrong to believe that the spell couldn’t work for her, that she was proof against it.

  She wasn’t. She was within range too...

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT was a week before her doctor allowed Ursule Pascal to get up, and during that time Caroline had visited her daily, after having arrived the first morning to find Berthin struggling defeatedly with chores which she expected Simone would have handled for him.

  Caroline had taken one glance at the pile of saucepans still encrusted with particles of their late contents; at a stove which reeked of burnt milk; at the kitchen floor bearing grim evidence of the hens’ trespass on it, and with a “Let me,” had gently but firmly ousted Berthin from his labors at the grease-ridden sink.

  She cleaned it down, poured fresh hot water, stacked the washing up tidily and set to work on it while Berthin, whom she set to sweep the floor, had related how Paul, true to his promise, had brought Simone over the previous evening, only for Ursule to rout her with a high-handed refusal to allow her to lay a finger on anything in the house.

  “They are at daggers drawn, these two, you understand,” Berthin had explained. “But their hostility goes deeper than the rivalry of two excellent housewives. Which is why, though I let Paul overrule me, I knew the idea wouldn’t work. Nor did it. Paul dropped Simone here and left; Ursule, who was fully awake by then, heard us talking down here, and from then until I was forced to drive Simone back again, apologizing all the way, I was kept running between the two of them, doing my best to tone down their tirades against each other as I went!”

  “But was Ursule well enough to argue about it?” Caroline had queried.

  Berthin sighed. “My dear, you shouldn’t underrate virtuous indignation as a stimulant. When Ursule said, ‘You hear, Berthin, I will not have that woman in my house!’ and when Simone made it equally clear that she couldn’t wait to get out of it, I had to fear for the effect on Ursule if I allowed the row t
o go on. But of course when I returned from bundling Simone home, the reaction had set in and I had to call. Lanvin for permission to give her more of the sedative he had ordered for her than he thought she would need. That made him ask if she was being kept absolutely quiet and put me to the choice of lying or admitting that she wasn’t. I’m afraid I took the coward’s way and lied,” he finished ingenuously.

  Caroline had nodded sympathy. “I don’t blame you. But what now?” she asked.

  “Well now—” Berthin made a shelf of his linked fingers on the top of the broom handle and rested his chin on it—“Lanvin is organizing a twice-daily call by the district nurse, and though one may whistle in vain for domestic help in the season, it’s just possible I can land a youngster from Villon to cope with this kind of thing.”

  “Marie—the maid at the villa, you know—may know of someone,” suggested Caroline. “And—but I’ve told you this already!—if I can be of any help at all, I’ll willingly come every day until your sister is better.”

  “You would? But I couldn’t ask you to make a duty of it, you’re on holiday!” Berthin protested.

  “Not officially.” Because it was so easy to talk to him she had found herself confiding her suspicion that her French wouldn’t get much practice in Betsy’s company or in her set, and telling him that she would be really grateful for the chance to speak it regularly to him and to Ursule who, she understood, had no English at all.

  He had demurred that the gratitude would be all on their side, but he had made no secret of his welcome for the idea. And so, during a week when Betsy was kept happy planning the party with Paul, Caroline went regularly to the cottage and counted the time well spent.

  For it was, in miniature, the France her nostalgia had longed to rediscover—its so-different domestic ways, lavish here, pared-to-the-bone economical there; its care and its marketing and its cooking regarded without question as a fulltime job, and whoever its nominal head, the real reins of its government in feminine hands. She obediently shopped to Ursule’s direction—never by telephone and by the single kilo and litre for freshness; she cooked—in butter and with wine and bouquets garnis; she left meals in readiness for Berthin’s irregular homecomings and carried tempting invalid trays to Ursule, and had her reward when Ursule was extravagant with praise of her as a homemaker par excellence.