The Song and the Sea

by Isobel Chace

  THE SONG AND THE SEA

  Isobel Chace

  Charlotte Hastings came to Europe from New Zealand to have her voice trained for singing— but instead found herself diving in the Red Sea with the father she had thought dead, Nick, a charming marine biologist, and Monique, a beautiful French girl.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The lift lurched ominously upwards. Charlotte Hastings watched with interested care the creaking rope that ran through the centre and seemed to be its sole support. It was difficult to believe that this was indeed Paris. The French, she had been told again and again in her father’s letters, were brilliant engineers. But haphazard, she had mentally added since her arrival the night before. The television set had not gone for the last six months; the lights worked backwards, only coming on if you turned them off; and the cooking arrangements were exactly the same as they had been in the time of Louis XIV! Indeed, it was open to doubt whether the kitchen had even been distempered since those days.

  Her father had chuckled delightedly at her astonished dismay. Everything was well as long as the plumbing held up, he had told her. Unfortunately last year something had gone wrong with that as well, and for five long weeks there had been a long line of buckets filled with water all down the corridor. Charlotte, who had grown up with the hygienic standards of a much younger country, was frankly horrified, but wisely guessing that this stranger who was her father was enjoying the novelty of shocking her, she had held her peace and had prayed silently that the plumbing would indeed ‘hold up’!

  The lift came to a shuddering stop and Charlotte stepped gingerly out on to the landing. She had only half an hour to herself before her father would be home. Half an hour in which to change her clothes and to cook a presentable meal that would prove conclusively that other people besides the French had some culinary skill—though in that skill she almost despaired of producing anything at all.

  With her mother, she had often cooked an oyster stew in a billy-can on an open fire, lying lazily on the still warm beach in the moonlight. But that had been in New Zealand, before her mother had died, leaving her suddenly and rather frighteningly alone. Oyster stew was not possible with Parisian prices, though, and so she had reluctantly decided on another dish, consisting of finely-minced steak fried lightly in oil and garnished with onions.

  The first thing to do was to change her clothes. Charlotte wanted to look both chic and adult that evening. It was imperative that her father should see for himself that she was no longer a child, but a young woman quite capable of looking after herself in London—or Rome. In fact wherever it was that she could study best—and that, she had decided, was unfortunately not Paris. The vocal masters who could do most for her were of the Italian school, and Paris seemed to her to be influenced far more by Germany than Milan.

  It had been her mother who had discovered that she could sing and who insisted that she should be properly taught.

  “We can begin here in New Zealand,” she said. “But one day you must go to Europe and find out from the masters whether you will be able to sing opera or not.”

  “But why can’t they tell me here?” Charlotte had objected, and her mother had looked uncomfortably sad.

  “In some ways,” she had said, “New Zealand is very far away. We are amateurs when it comes to theatre or music, we don’t pretend to be anything else.”

  During the years of painfully mastering the correct breathing techniques and practising endless scales, Charlotte had wondered whether she really wanted to be an opera star, but her mother had been adamant.

  “A great voice is a gift to the world,” she had insisted. “And sometimes, just sometimes, I think you have a great voice.”

  And then her mother had died, leaving her daughter everything she possessed, which, although it was not a great deal, was enough to see her comfortably through her training and perhaps a few spartan years when she would not yet be earning very much.

  It had come as a shock to discover that she had a father living in Paris. The solicitor had mentioned him casually in passing, piously hoping that he would not do anything to upset the will, for it was just possible that he might consider he had some claim on his wife’s estate, seeing that there had been no legal form of separation between them.

  It had even struck Charlotte as funny that his profession should turn out to be that of marine biologist, for if there was one thing that she wanted to know nothing about, it was fish. Long ago, she had once been given a very pale goldfish which had been so horribly transparent that the majority of its innards had been only too visible. It had been a plain fish by any standards, and added to the dead ones that littered the fishmonger’s clean white slabs, it remained the sum total of Charlotte’s knowledge of marine life. Not including oysters, of course, but they had the sense to inhabit shells and didn’t make revolting facial expressions at one through a sheet of glass.

  It had not been quite so funny when her father had insisted that she pack her bags and travel to Europe to be with him. Europe, yes, for she could begin to fulfil her mother’s ambitions for her there, but sharing a flat with her unknown father in Paris was quite a different matter. She wasn’t at all sure what he would expect of her.

  She stood in her bedroom, gazing, at herself in the looking-glass, trying to see herself with her father’s eyes. Last night he had professed himself pleased with her dark coloring and her high cheekbones that pulled the skin from her eyes, giving them an odd slant and making them crinkle in the corners when she was amused.

  “I hate to interrupt,” a man’s voice said from the doorway. “But are these onions for the soup Seamus has been talking about all afternoon?” Charlotte swung round, affronted by his casual intrusion.

  “No, they are not!” She tried to look tall and calm, but had a suspicion that her harassed embarrassment was only too apparent. “We’re not having soup anyway,” she went on breathlessly.

  The man looked her up and down with calm interest.

  “I’m having soup,” he said. “I’ve got the stock boiling nicely, but I need some more onions.”

  “Well, you can’t have those! Go out and buy your own!”'

  He grinned. He couldn’t be English with that look in his eyes, she decided.

  “I can’t,” he excused himself. “I don’t know what onion is in French.”

  She didn’t believe him. She was certain that his French was fluent and idiomatic—especially idiomatic! Just as the way that he wore his clothes had a distinctly Gallic flavor, his T-shirt making quite sure that no feminine eye failed to notice his strength of arm or the straightness of his back.

  “Go away,” she said. “I’m changing.”

  He looked at the sea-green dress she had put out on her bed.

  “Into that?” he asked.

  “Why not?” she demanded, goading into arguing with him.

  He shook his head sadly.

  “Isn’t it just a little too jeune fille to impress Papa? You want to go a little more Left Bank, my child.”

  She made a little gesture of distaste and he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Ah well,” he sighed, “if you don’t take good advice ... I shall approve of your choice, of course, but Seamus has grown more sophisticated with the years. Or perhaps it’s just that he’s never really grown up and hankers after black silk and heavy perfumes.”

  Charlotte, who had thought the Left Bank was exclusively tight trousers and unwashed hair, was silent, considering whether it was possible that this extraordinary man knew what he was talking about when it came to her unknown parent.

  “I haven’t any scent,” she said at last.

  He grinned.

  “It’s easy to see that you are British,” he said quizzically. “You’d
better acquire some quick. Baths are at a premium in France, you know, that’s why they produce all the very best smells!”

  She chuckled. It was such an absurd fantasy.

  “You make it sound like a slum!” she exclaimed.

  “It is a slum,” he said solemnly. “But a civilized slum. I know, believe me! I’ve been living in a chambre de bonne for the last month!”

  Later she was to find out what that meant. Most flats, she discovered, had a maid’s room attached, somewhere in the attics of the building, which were let out to students and others for very small rentals, the servant problem being exactly the same in Paris as it is almost everywhere else in the world now.

  “It seems so crowded after New Zealand,” she burst out, and promptly wished she hadn’t, for the last thing she wanted was for anyone to know that she was homesick.

  “No Latin Quarter in Wellington?” he asked.

  “I didn’t live in it.”

  “You get used to it,” he assured her. “This isn’t the most salubrious part of Paris, and the French prefer people to things. They like to sit and talk and watch the world go by, and anything that interferes with that is apt to get neglected. Give it a week and you’ll be doing it too.”

  His unexpected sympathy brought the tears to her eyes.

  “Do you mind if I change now?” she asked quickly.

  His hands flew out in an expressive gesture.

  “Thanks for the onions,” he said. “I’ll save the rest for later when I’ve seen how you fill that dress!” An impertinence that made her forget all about New Zealand. Who was he anyhow that he should make himself so at home in her father’s apartment?

  She shut the door carefully behind him and was tempted to shoot the bolt as well. She would have done too if she could have been quite sure that his ears were sufficiently far away not to hear the squeaky noise it made.

  As it was she changed into her green dress in a rather, defiant frame of mind, mentally daring her father to find fault with her choice. It was not by any means an evening dress. She had thought that that would be overdoing it with only the two of them to eat the meal. It was a simple , day-dress in a style that flattered her and made her feel comfortable, or at least it had until now, despite the low-cut neckline. But then she had good shoulders that looked well uncovered.

  There was a faint shadow of temper in her dark eyes, she noticed, as she made up and used the eye-shadow with greater abandon than she had ever done before. The result was effective. It gave her a naughty look that pleased her. See how she filled her dress, indeed!

  When she had finished, she was determined not to go near the kitchen. She would cook for her father and herself later, when he had finished his wretched soup. But the smell of onion was tantalizing. And that other smell that could only be warm bread.

  “How long will you be?” she called out.

  He appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “Getting hungry?” he asked.

  She nodded, and he shook the wooden spoon he was carrying at her.

  “Come and do some work, then,” he commanded her.

  He circled round the room, looking at her from every angle, nodding appreciatively.

  “Not bad at all. Stockings straight, petticoat not showing and a nice figure to boot! What more can any man ask? You may stir the soup while I heat the bowls.”

  He handed her the spoon and shepherded her through the doorway into the kitchen.

  “Who are you?” Charlotte demanded.

  “Don’t you know? I’m Nicholas D’Abernon.”

  “Oh,” she said, seeing that some reaction was expected of her. “French!” she added to herself under her breath.

  “Not French at all!” he contradicted her. “Norman possibly.” He considered the point. “Yes, you might just say Norman, if you go back to 1066 and all that. But actually my family lives in a freezing cold house on the outskirts of a small village called Stoke D’Abernon. We used to live in a palace, but ‘Cromwell knocked it abaht a bit’, and my father did the rest with a few sticks of dynamite. Said the blasted place ate money!”

  “And did it?” Charlotte asked, meekly stirring the soup.

  “Probably,” he said indifferently. “I know we could never afford to have electricity because the rate was fixed according to the acreage of the building and we could never afford the standing charge. I remember how hurt I was when I got a flat in London and found that there it all depended on how many points one had!”

  Charlotte giggled, a little gurgle of laughter that caught her unawares.

  “It all sounds very uncomfortable,” she said.

  “Very,” he agreed. “But at least I had the satisfaction of knowing that wherever I lived in the future was bound to be more comfortable.”

  “In a chambre de bonne?” she asked with disbelief.

  “Touché!” he retorted. “But that’s a temporary measure only while Sea Fever is being fitted out with her new equipment.”

  Bewildered, Charlotte stared at him.

  “A boat?” she hazarded.

  He gave her an odd look.

  “You seem to be blessed with a singular lack of knowledge about your father,” he said at last. “Don’t you know anything about his mode of existence at all?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Not much,” she admitted. “Should I?”

  “Well, considering that you are to spend the next two years' of your life in close attendance, I should have thought it was as well.”

  She dropped the wooden spoon into the saucepan with a clatter.

  “But I’m not!” she denied passionately. “I’m going on with my training, and I can’t do that in Paris!”

  “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Haven’t you finished your schooling yet?”

  She started to laugh, sitting on the one chair, but her laughter changed to tears and she wept with abandon, her face in her hands and her elbows popped up on the kitchen table.

  Nicholas D’Abernon looked down at her with concern, giving the soup a quick stir to save it from burning.

  “What are you?” he demanded crossly, putting his hands firmly on her shoulders and forcing her round to face him.

  “I’m a singer!” she sobbed.

  His hands dropped to his sides and he began to laugh.

  “My God! Seamus’s daughter a singer!”

  “What’s so funny in that?” Charlotte sniffed.

  “You’d think it funny too, if you’d ever heard him singing in his bath!” he told her frankly. “But why all the tears?”

  She wiped her face on the back of her hand.

  “I must look a mess,” she said apologetically. “I’d better go and wash my face.”

  With a swift movement she passed him and ran into the bathroom. Whatever had made her behave so foolishly? she asked herself angrily. She who never cried, or only very rarely, under extreme provocation. Nicholas D’Abernon would think her a fine fool! And so she was!

  She could hear her father’s key in the lock and the heavy tread of his feet as he made his way to the kitchen. She had meant his homecoming to be so different, with herself feeding him well and then singing to him, wheedling him into allowing her to go on to London. Still, there was just a chance that it was not too late, she comforted herself. She would go and cook the meal now and perhaps Mr. D’Abernon would realise that he wasn’t wanted and would go away.

  The two men were seated round the kitchen table when she went into the kitchen. They had brought in a third chair for herself and had piled the hot French loaves of bread at one end.

  Her father smiled at her, his eyes crinkling in the same way that hers did. It gave her an odd feeling to see it, as though they belonged to each other. Only they didn’t, of course, because he was a complete stranger, and it was her mother who had brought her up and had done everything for her.

  He broke one of the loaves in half and handed half to her.

  “Sit down, my dear. Nick is a dab hand at onion
soup, and you may as well get used to his cooking because it’s considerably better than mine.”

  A generous helping of soup was put before her and a spoon came spinning across the table.

  “Where’s the butter?” Nicholas D’Abernon asked.

  Her father pointed.at a cupboard with his knife and in a second a great slab of butter was dropped on to the centre of the table.

  “But—” Charlotte began, but only Nicholas made any pretence of listening to her. Her father was too busy buttering his bread.

  With a sigh, she picked up her spoon and began to drink the soup. It was surprisingly good, with just enough salt and hot enough to bum her mouth. She looked up and found Nicholas's eyes still on her.

  “You’ll feel better with that inside you,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Another dustbin crashed down to join its fellows on the pavement. Charlotte pulled the blankets up more firmly under her chin and sneezed. It was far too early to even think of getting up; it was not yet six o’clock, and it had been nearly two before Nicholas had finally roused himself and had gone home. Never in her life had she heard two men talk as he and her father had done. They had talked solidly for at least seven hours with unabated enthusiasm, discussing the new equipment that was going aboard the boat known as the Sea Fever. Charlotte had listened idly to them, understanding only a fraction of what they were talking about, but content because she was warm and comfortable.

  Her father had got out some glasses and had opened a bottle of wine with a nonchalance that spoke of long acquaintance with the art. She had wondered then how it had been that her mother had ever married him. Mrs. Hastings had maintained that the Irish did nothing but “bend the elbow” and had watched Charlotte’s Irish blood with care. There had never been anything stronger that a rather nasty sweet sherry in the house, and as Charlotte hadn’t cared for it, she had gone without.

  This wine had been quite different. It had been rough and raw against her palate and had left a warm track the whole way down her. She suspected that it was both young and heady, and felt quite absurdly guilty when Nicholas had poured her out a second glass.