Moonrise Over the Mountains

by Lilian Peake

  Ewan was soon back and a glass was put into her hand. He joined her in her vigil and he did not attempt to talk. The sun sank behind the mountains, casting great grey shadows across the water. Although the air in the room was warm, Gayle shivered involuntarily at the loss of the sun’s heat as well as the sight of it. Her mind had grown chill, even if her body had not.

  Here and there a speedboat left its spreading trail in the twilight. The gentle splash of the oars of a rowing-boat caused a minor, momentary turbulence. The great shadows lengthened.

  At the same moment their heads turned towards each other and their eyes met. Surely there were only two of them in that room? Surely everyone else had gone? What was Ewan looking for with his delving, frowning gaze? He moved his head abruptly and the voices faded in again.

  Ewan put his glass on a table and took Gayle’s, putting it beside his. The sound of music drifted over the talk and laughter.

  “There’s dancing in the ballroom,” Ewan said, an edge to his voice. “Will you join me?”

  He was, in a way, her host. She could not refuse and tell him, ‘Ask your fiancée, not me.’ But still she hesitated. Where was Carla? Would she come and take him away again? Would he abandon her, Gayle, as soon as they entered the ballroom?

  “I could,” he said, “act the heavy employer and order you to join me.”

  “I’ll come,” she answered.

  He smiled at her surrender and his hand found hers, swinging it between them. He said, “You’ll have to leave your lonely self behind. There’s no solitude in there,” nodding towards the source of the music.

  “One can grow tired of one’s own company.” She knew it was an admission which would make him smile again, and smile he did, as if he had won a victory.

  In his arms was excitement, in his eyes a look she could not define. It wasn’t—was it?—admiration? How could it be when his fiancée was one of the most beautiful women it was possible to meet? Gayle’s eyes slipped from his, but he dangled his bait and caught them again, asking her a question so that she had to look at him.

  “Enjoying your first steps on foreign soil?”

  How could she answer? Tell him, It would be wonderful if it weren’t for the fact that you are engaged to be married, if Carla was not your fiancée and if I were instead ... The thought slipped into her consciousness like a latecomer at a concert hoping to reach his seat unnoticed. But it caused such a disturbance every other thought was, for a few seconds, sent into a turmoil.

  “What’s the matter?” Ewan asked. “You look as though an avalanche has hit you.”

  It has, she thought. I’ve just realised I can’t marry one man when I’m deeply in love with another.

  “Yes, thank you,” she answered his question primly. “I’m enjoying it very much.”

  How childish can I get? she wondered. But with her emotions scattered to the four winds and blowing about uncontrollably, she could think only in platitudes.

  “But,” she said after a few minutes’ silence, and having regained a little of her normal composure, “I still don’t feel you’re getting your money’s worth. I’m not doing any work.”

  “You aren’t? Look about you, Miss Stuart. All around are beautiful dresses, a number of them worn by equally beautiful women. The dresses are the brain children of the great Hirondelle himself. Many of those women are his models, groomed to perfection. Tomorrow they will be displaying his gowns at the Hirondelle fashion show. You study the dresses—regard it as a vital part of your work. And while you’re so conscientiously pursuing your studies, I’ll do likewise. I’ll do some research on the women!”

  He pulled her close and whispered, “Pay great attention to the dresses, Miss Stuart. Note their cut, their style, their length and colour because those are what women—the kind who, I hope, will soon be patronising Pascall and Son—will be wearing in a few months’ time.”

  “Why,” she asked irritably, “should I worry what the women customers of Pascall and Son will be wearing in a few months? I’ve been given notice to leave the firm.”

  “I’ll correct that,” he said equally irritably, “you were not given notice. You resigned. And since you still have well over a month of your time left with Pascalls, I’ll expect you to take as much interest in your work as your good salary and your high status merit.”

  She tried to disentangle herself from his arms. “Please will you let me go?”

  “Why?” He forced her to dance on. “Because I pulled rank and reminded you who I was? And more important, who I represent—the management of Pascalls? Because I had to reprimand you and remind you that since we shall be paying your salary until the day you leave, we’ll expect you to give your unflagging loyalty to the firm until that day?”

  Her cheeks burned and she wanted to run away and hide in her room. “Just what do you think I am?” she whispered fiercely, fighting the desire to cry and the pain of his tightening grip at the same time. “Will you let me go?”

  “You’re making a scene. Unless you want to attract the attention of the entire room instead of just the couples around us, you’d better stay where you are,” his arms settled even more firmly about her, “and,” smiling mockingly, “follow me wherever I lead.”

  “It’s unforgivable,” she muttered as they danced, “to treat me as your equal one minute and the next to humiliate me by reminding me of my place, which is strictly subordinate to you, owner, managing director, the great white chief himself.” She looked up quickly, expecting to see his lips tighten, but they were smiling. It was his eyes that were cool and the look in them quelled her rebellion more effectively than any reprimand he might have spoken.

  There was a lowering of voices all round the ballroom and for a few moments all dancing ceased. Heads turned towards the entrance where a couple stood, pausing as if to gain the maximum attention, although by the interested staring of eyes they must have known it was already theirs.

  Ewan watched, head raised, eyes blank and cool, as his fiancée posed as only she, a model, knew how to pose, in the doorway. Beside her stood a man, tall, fair, good-looking, probably twelve years her senior. Carla was holding his arm and gazing up into his face as if he were the only man in the world for her.

  Gayle glanced at Ewan, trying to read from his expression how he was taking his fiancée’s apparent adoration for the man at her side, but Ewan’s face was mask-like. If he felt hurt he was hiding the feeling successfully. But no man in love with a woman, Gayle argued, hating Carla for what she must be doing to him, could endure without pain the blatant admiration for another man such as Ewan’s fiancée seemed to be displaying towards her companion.

  As the couple advanced, the dancers made way for them as if they were of royal status.

  “Darling!” Carla’s hand came to rest on Ewan’s arm. Now she had two men within her grasp. “Meet Pierre, Pierre Hirondelle,” her laughing eyes flashed up to the tall, fair man, “my employer. Pierre, Ewan Pascall, for whom I used to work.” Ewan nodded, Pierre smiled and extended his hand Ewan, with some reluctance for which Gayle could not blame him, shook the hand briefly.

  “So we meet,” said Pierre, “employers, past and present.” His eyes moved towards Gayle. “And your little friend, Monsieur Pascall?”

  Carla said carelessly, “The girl who took my place as buyer in the store. Gayle Stuart, Pierre Hirondelle.”

  “Ah,” said Pierre, his eyes busy and admiring, “to you, Mademoiselle Stuart, I must be pleasant, eh? You might order some of my designs for your customers?”

  “Well, I—” Gayle hesitated, looking up at Ewan for guidance, but it seemed he had none to give. “If the price were right, I might consider—”

  Pierre laughed loudly and in a slightly affected way. “She is the good business woman already, is she not, and so young?” He went on, withdrawing his arm from Carla’s hold, “If you played your cards right, mademoiselle, I might, shall we say, lower the price a little?”

  Carla drew in her breath, Ewan stiffe
ned and Gayle dropped her eyes. Then she smiled at Pierre. “I do business in the accepted, conventional way, Monsieur Hirondelle, not—”

  ”Ah, but that is exactly what I mean, mademoiselle.” He held out his arm. “You will dance with me?” To Ewan, “You will allow me?” To Carla, “You will excuse me, chérie?”

  The fact that Carla’s blue eyes were flashing and Ewan’s nod was abrupt in the extreme did not seem to affect Pierre Hirondelle. He put his arm lightly round Gayle’s waist and led her to the floor. He held her so that he could gaze into her eyes. “You are angry with me, Gayle, for taking you from your partner?”

  Confused, Gayle avoided his eyes. “I’m not angry with you, Monsieur—”

  ”Pierre, please. We have the whole evening in which to get acquainted, have we not? Let us begin right, eh?”

  Gayle was puzzled. This man was not only Carla’s employer, he was a famous couture designer. The great and the rich were his clients, his name was known throughout the world. Why was he being so charming to an insignificant young woman called Gayle Stuart?

  As if in answer he pulled her close, murmuring into her hair, “You are so attractive, Gayle, so unspoilt. You will be my friend for the evening? You will not desert me, like Cinderella, on the stroke of midnight?”

  He did not seem to require an answer, only to be allowed to talk uninterrupted. He let his gaze wander over her. Did her dress, Gayle wondered, meet with the great designer’s approval?

  It seemed he was delighted by her appearance. “You will let me design a dress for you and you alone? And you will wear it at the functions you, as a buyer, will attend? Not only are you beautiful,” he raised her hand to his lips, “but you must, in your position, mix with many fashionable women.” He laughed again in his affected way. “You will be my ambassador—a very attractive one—who will, perhaps, persuade others to buy my dresses?”

  The fact that Gayle was shaking her head did not deter him. “You have seen my sign, my—how do you say it—my trademark? Une hirondelle, a swallow which, in English, is the meaning of my name. I will present you with a handbag, given only to the favoured few, with my swallow on it. Then everyone you meet will believe you are dressed by me and you will be the envy of them all!”

  Gayle laughed because it seemed to be expected of her, but she was growing uncomfortable. His attentiveness was embarrassing. She glanced round, searching for Ewan, and found him with Carla in his arms, dancing as closely as only a man who, as her fiancé, was as intimately acquainted with her as he must be.

  As Gayle looked at him he glanced her way. His eyes became narrow and condemning. Gayle coloured and turned back to her partner. Did Ewan think she was encouraging this man with his incredible offers of gifts and model gowns?

  “What is worrying you, chérie?” Pierre’s eyes retraced the track which Gayle’s had made. He murmured coldly, “The beautiful Carla is doing her best to please her partner.”

  “She is, after all, his fiancée, Monsieur—I mean Pierre.” He glanced down at her, smiling.

  Then his eyes grew cool as he contemplated the ‘beautiful Carla’ again. “So she tells me. When they marry, she has warned, she will not work for me. So I lose an excellent model and, when I take her about, a wonderful advertisement for my gowns.” He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of his sorrow at losing such a valuable employee. “But with an attractive woman in my arms,” he pulled her closer, “I must not get melancholy. There will be other models, other women, willing to work for me in her place.”

  It seemed the pattern was set for the evening. Only once after that did the group change partners. When Gayle for the second—and last—time found herself in Ewan’s arms, he did not look at her. His hold was indifferent, his eyes, which gazed over her head, were cool. Was he, Gayle wondered, watching his fiancée doing her ‘best to please’ her present partner?

  Ewan said coldly, “Hirondelle was talking to you at length. Anyone who didn’t know otherwise would have thought you had known him a lifetime. What was he saying?” She was silent. He looked down. “You’re not telling. Was it so private, so intimate?”

  “He was talking about Carla,” she snapped. “And—and me. Paying me compliments.”

  “He’s an old hand at it. He has to flatter his wealthy women clients. It’s part of his stock-in-trade. If he didn’t, his customers would never return.”

  “All the same,” Gayle said defiantly, “it’s nice to hear a man’s praise now and then, instead of his constant censure.”

  Eyebrows lifted and a cynical smile formed. “You wouldn’t be getting at me? You want me to tell you how beautiful you are, how enchanting, how sweet?”

  “It would make a pleasant change.” She looked up at once, regretting her words, annoyed that she had allowed him to know what he said about her mattered. He was smiling into the distance, but again his eyes were cool. “But even if you did pay me compliments,” she went on, “they wouldn’t be sincere, so I wouldn’t believe you.” The smile had gone and she stumbled over his feet at his expression. She wished the music would stop, but it went relentlessly on. Trying to change the subject she said,

  “Pierre—“ The eyebrows flicked up. “He gave me permission,” she mumbled.

  “Carry on, Miss Stuart. I haven’t said a word.”

  “But I know what you’re thinking.” His sarcastic smile persisted. She knew how to remove it. “Pierre has offered to make me a dress.”

  The smile was removed—at once, and anger took its place. “In payment for what? No man offers a woman a commodity worth hundreds of pounds—because that would be its worth—for nothing.”

  “How can you smear such a spontaneous, generous offer with such a sordid meaning?” she responded fiercely.

  “You can’t mean what you’re saying? My God, woman, if you do, you need educating. No, better, you need showing what a man expects from a girl if he makes such an offer. Let me know when you require a lesson. No need for advance warning. Just tell me the time and the place and I’ll be there.”

  “Will you stop being so insulting?”

  The music ended and he released her—into Pierre’s waiting arms. Carla, pulling Ewan into a nearby comer, curled her arms round his neck and held up her lips for a kiss. The kiss was given at once.

  Pierre said, “Gayle, cherie, shall I tell you how I behave when I am with a beautiful woman? I eat them, then,” pulling her dose and kissing her ear, “like the emblem that represents my name, I swallow them whole!”

  Gayle laughed, forcing herself to respond with a gaiety she did not feel. She knew instinctively that such a response would annoy Ewan Pascall, whose own behaviour at that moment was causing her considerable pain. “But, Pierre,” she said, smiling into his eyes which were gazing into her own, “if you do that you would hardly get the taste of her and—“

  ”Ah, this is how I get the taste of a beautiful woman.” His lips descended and held hers. Then he lifted his head, turned it and said, in an oddly cool voice, “Carla, please excuse me. Come, sweet Gayle, dance with me, my arms are empty without you!”

  As midnight approached, Gayle could not hide her weariness. Pierre said, “You are tired, Gayle? You arrived only today?”

  “Yes, this afternoon.”

  “Then you must rest. I shall escort you to your room. Carla,” there was a sharp note in his voice, “you will be at the rehearsal tomorrow morning, please, at nine o’clock exactly.”

  Carla gave a low, sweeping curtsey. “Mais oui, monsieur,” she murmured, keeping her eyes virtuously low, then raising them in a flash of provocation. But Pierre turned to Ewan. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Pascall. You will forgive your little employee if she retires to bed?”

  Ewan’s eyes, hard and cold, implied that he would forgive his ‘little employee’ nothing. “Miss Stuart is a free agent,” was the clipped reply. “As far as I’m concerned, she’s off duty. She can go to her bedroom whenever she wishes and with whoever she likes.” His gaze, as it contemplated her, iced ov
er. “She’s a big girl now. She can indulge herself in whatever way she chooses.”

  Gayle coloured and Carla smirked. Then she linked her arms round Ewan’s neck, pressed against him and murmured, “I’m a big girl, too, darling. Will you come with me so that I can retire to bed?”

  Ewan’s hands Tested on Carla’s shoulders. He whispered with a smile, “You wear my ring, Carla. Who better than I to help you on the road to sweet oblivion?”

  Pierre’s arm found Gayle’s waist and he caught her free hand and lifted it so that it rested round his waist. “Come, cherie, we will walk as one to your suite.”

  Carla’s voice followed them jeeringly. “Bonne chance, Pierre. You’ll need all the luck you can get where Miss Stuart’s concerned.” Her voice turned harsh. “She’s as prim and proper as they come. You may even have to get down on your knees before she lets you—“ The string of words stopped abruptly as though she had been forced into silence.

  Pierre turned. “Ma chère Carla, after the ease with which so many women allow one to violate them these days, it will be refreshing and also a challenge to have to beg for permission.”

  Carla’s eyes rested on Gayle and darkened with hatred. She muttered to her employer, “May you never live to regret what you’re about to do!” She swung back to Ewan who, after giving Pierre’s companion a scathing, disgusted look, put his arms about the girl who was clinging to him and gave her the kiss she was clamouring for.

  In the bedroom Pierre took Gayle’s hands. “You are not married, little one? Nor even engaged?”

  “I have a boy-friend. He lives next door.”

  Pierre laughed. “Ah, the wonderful boy next door. You will marry him?”

  “We’re planning to marry. He has exams to pass first and then he must find a job.”

  He looked down at her then. “Come, we will talk on the balcony.” He leant on the balcony rail and they watched the lake shimmering and golden flecked with reflected lights There were voices from Ewan’s room next door, broken by long silences and sighs of contentment.