"It's very kind of Madame to invite me to join them, but I don't want to intrude," Justine said doubtfully. "Couldn't I have supper on a tray up here in my room?" she suggested diffidently.
"Oh, no, that would not do at all, mademoiselle," Sophia said, looking quite shocked. "Madame would be most offended. Dinner will be served at eight o'clock, but you must come down a little earlier to take wine with Madame in the salon. Now I must hurry back to the kitchen."
After she had gone, Justine took a couple of aspirins, and lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. But it was difficult to relax now that she was faced with the ordeal of the dinner-party. What worried her the most was that she had nothing suitable to wear.
Justine had spent so much of her life in trousers that, on the rare occasions when she did wear a skirt, she felt self-conscious and ill at ease. She owned two skirts, a pleated (and seated) tweed one to wear in England, and a grey denim one with large patch pockets for hotter climates. She had never had a pair of sheer nylons, and her footwear consisted of one pair of stout walking shoes, two pairs of serviceable brown sandals and some rope-soled canvas espadrilles.
However, in spite of her nervousness, the quiet of her shuttered room presently lulled her to sleep. She was woken by the sound of voices from the terrace below her window. For a moment she was afraid she had overslept. But a glance at her watch showed that her nap had only lasted for twenty minutes. Nevertheless her headache had gone, and she felt considerably refreshed.
As she yawned and stretched herself, she could hear the conversation on the terrace quite clearly, and recognised one of the speakers as David Cassano. Presumably the other voice was that of Madame's grandson.
They were speaking French, and were discussing the merits and faults of various cars. Most of their remarks were too technical for Justine to follow, and would have been equally meaningless in English.
And then, suddenly, the younger man changed the subject, and said, "So you have met the archaeologist's daughter? What is she like? Pretty? It must be very boring for her, hanging about here with no amusements while her father searches for antiquities. No doubt she will be glad of some company."
Justine stiffened, wondered how to let them know they were being overheard. But before she could make some kind of warning sound, David Cassano spoke again.
"Don't raise your hopes, my friend. You will have no luck in that quarter. Miss Field is what is known in England as a blue-stocking. She is much too busy assisting the Professor to have time for flirtations."
"A blue-stocking? I do not know this expression. What does it mean?" the other man asked, in a puzzled tone.
"It means she is clever—but not clever enough to disguise the fact," Cassano explained dryly. "Such women are not interested in men."
"How can you tell if you have only exchanged a few words with her?"
"I have met her type before," was the careless answer. "If she is to join us at dinner, let us hope she will retire early. The erudite English female is never at ease in male company. Either she suffers from the curious delusion that, if she relaxes her guard, improper advances will be made to her. Or she feels compelled to prove that she is not merely equal to men, but of greatly superior intellect."
Justine heard the other man laugh. He said, "You make her sound formidable. But my grandmother said Miss Field was quite young ... a pleasant girl. Is it possible you are piqued because she did not respond to your advances?"
"My dear Julien, unlike you, I am past the age of regarding every woman in sight as a potential conquest," Cassano answered sardonically.
"In your case a conquest isn't necessary. You have only to show interest, and they fall into your arms, lucky devil," the younger man said, with a chuckle.
"Unfortunately, they frequently presume interest when it does not exist," Cassano replied, in a bored voice.
There was a pause, and the clink of a glass being set down on a table.
"I have never met one of these serious-minded brainy girls before," the younger man said thoughtfully; "I am intrigued. I wonder if she is really so different from the rest of her sex. It might be amusing to find out."
"Try by all means—but I think you will change your mind when you see her," Cassano warned him. "And if I were you, I shouldn't try to draw her out by asking about her work. If you do, we shall probably be subjected to a long and extremely dull discourse on Etruscan funeral rites, or something equally boring. Come on: we had better get changed."
For some moments after they had gone, Justine lay very still, her long brown hair fanning out over the square French pillows.
Then, in one explosive movement, she sprang from the bed, ran to the window, and flung wide the louvred shutters. Sunlight poured into the room, dazzling her. She put her hands over her eyes and leaned against the sill, trembling.
In all her life, she had never before experienced such a wild surge of anger as that which had swept her a moment ago. It had welled up inside her like a sudden spasm of nausea, overwhelmed her for an instant, and left her shocked and ashamed. She had not known that anger could be a physical thing ... an almost ungovernable impulse to lash out, to scream, to snatch up the nearest breakable object and smash it to smithereens.
The discovery that she was capable of such a violent and primitive reaction was horrifying to her. She had been brought up to believe that emotions, like physical appetites, must always be rigidly disciplined. According to her father, the measure of a civilised person was the ability to subordinate feeling to reason.
Until a few moments ago, she had thought she had this ability. But now, although the full force of her anger had spent itself, and she could see that it was wholly unreasonable to let what she had heard upset her, she found it impossible to control the fierce resentment which still smouldered inside her.
It was no use telling herself that David Cassano's opinion should be a matter of complete indifference to her. Nor did it help to admit that most of what he had said about her was true.
She knew she wasn't pretty, or even attractive. She knew she had none of the social graces. But it was one thing to know and accept her limitations—and quite another to hear them put into words by someone else.
Hateful man! she thought hotly. What right has he to criticise me? Just because he has money, and owns that ostentatious yacht, he seems to think he is some kind of super-man. I wish Father were here. He would soon cut him down to size.
By now it was half past seven, and time for her to dress. But first she had to put her hair up. She had never had it cut. As a child, she had worn it in a single thick waist-length pigtail, but since her sixteenth birthday she had coiled the braid into a bun and secured it with strong black hairpins. Because it would have been easier to wash, and not so hot and heavy on her neck, she had once suggested having it cut. But her father had pointed out that they were seldom within convenient reach of a hairdresser, and it would be difficult for her to crop it tidily herself.
Tonight, she plaited it even more tightly than usual, and thrust the pins into place as if she were jabbing them into a wax effigy of David Cassano.
When her hair was done, she put on a plain white shirt blouse, and the denim skirt, and buckled the straps of her sandals.
If I had a dinner dress, I wouldn't wear it, she told herself defiantly.
But then, unbidden, came the memory of the dress she had seen the day she had lunched with Aunt Helen . . . sea-green chiffon flowing from a high beaded bodice. Light from concealed spotlamps had made the crystal-scattered bodice glitter and gleam like the path of the moon on the sea.
In a dress like that almost anyone would look lovely, she thought wistfully.
Her eyes grew dreamy as she imagined herself floating gracefully down to the salon, her hair arranged in an elegant Grecian coiffure, her lips and eyelids tinted with delicate colour like those of the girls in London. How astonished they would be when they saw her, poised in the doorway. Even David Cassano would lose his aplomb for a moment.
<
br /> She caught sight of herself in the mirror—a tall angular girl with scratches on her bare brown legs—and the daydream burst like a bubble.
Despising herself for her lapse into such fatuous wishful thinking, Justine squared her shoulders and went down to dinner.
The salon, on the ground floor, was the most beautiful apartment in the house. It was fully eighty feet long, with six tall glass doors leading out on to the terrace. Between the doors, and all along the opposite wall, were alcoves designed as settings for classical statues.
Since Justine and her father had been at the villa, the furniture in the salon had been shrouded in dust covers. Tonight, these had been removed, revealing some of the finest French eighteenth-century furniture she had ever seen. There was not much of it—several brocaded Louis XV chairs, a chaise-longue, two black laquer commodes, and a bureau plat lavishly adorned with ormolu. They were arranged in the centre of the salon, where an Aubusson carpet covered the marble floor, and they looked pathetically sparse in the vast room which must once have contained many more fine appointments. But, in the soft flickering glow of the candlelight, even these few remaining pieces evoked some of the formal grandeur of the villa's past.
Madame di Rostini was seated on one of the fauteuils, with her feet on a footstool, and a young man standing beside her. David Cassano was sitting on the silk-covered chaise-longue. Justine did not glance at him, but she was aware of him rising to his feet as she entered the room and advanced, stiff with nerves, towards her hostess.
"Good evening, Miss Field," said the old lady, with a gracious inclination of her head. "Allow me to present my grandson."
Julien di Rostini was not much older than herself, and very good-looking. As his smiling dark eyes appraised her with frank curiosity, a wave of colour suffused her thin sun-browned face.
"Enchante, mademoiselle."
To add to her embarrassment, he did not shake her hand, but stepped forward, bowed, and raised it gallantly to his lips.
"And this is Monsieur Cassano, whose yacht you will have seen in the bay, and who is to be our guest for a few days," Madame went on, indicating the older man.
"Good evening," Justine said stiffly, avoiding his eyes.
"Miss Field and I have already met, madame. She was at work near the excavations when I walked over the island this afternoon," he explained. Then he added, "But of course we have not been formally introduced," and he held out his hand, so that Justine was forced to take it.
As he must have seen her foolish blush, she thought he meant to mock her gaucherie by also kissing her fingers. To her relief, he confined himself to a firm English-style handshake. But his clasp did last rather longer than was strictly necessary, and he made her look directly at him.
How he did it, when she meant to keep her gaze on his tie, Justine did not understand. All she knew was that, as their hands met, she found herself impelled to look up at him.
To her surprise, his eyes were not dark like Julien's as she had expected. They were grey—the same colour as her own.
They were set under drooping lids which gave his face, at first glance, a look of cold world-weary indifference; But the lazy lids were misleading. The eyes beneath them were alert and shrewd and calculating.
As he released her hand, Madame said, "You will take a glass of pastis, Miss Field?"
"Yes . . . th-thank you," Justine said unsteadily. For she had an unnerving conviction that, if David Cassano had not wished her to escape his scrutiny, he could have held her in a kind of trance, like a snake hypnotising a rabbit.
Julien brought the pastis to her. "You must be very tired after working in the heat of the sun all day, mademoiselle. Surely you do not dig the ground yourself?"
"Sometimes . . . but not today. I don't mind the heat I'm used to hot climates," she told him, forcing herself to smile. She turned to his grandmother, and said awkwardly, "I hope you will excuse my clothes, madame. We need so much equipment that we can't bring much personal luggage. I'm afraid I have nothing more suitable."
"There is no need to apologise, Miss Field. I understand," Madame di Rostini said kindly.
But she herself was wearing a long dress of stiff black silk, with lace at her throat and wrists, and both men had changed into lightweight lounge suits.
Feeling wretchedly out of place, Justine sipped her drink and listened in tongue-tied silence to the smooth exchange of conversation which the other three carried on until Sophia came to announce that dinner was served.
Julien helped his grandmother to rise. Although she always sat very erect, she walked with short faltering steps, and needed two sticks to support her. Tonight, she left one stick beside her chair, and took the young man's arm, smiling up at him in a way which made it very clear he was the apple of her eye. Justine wondered what had taken him to Paris, and where his sister was. She was glad the old lady was not alone after all.
As Madame began her slow shuffling progress towards the imposing double doorway, its elaborate architrave surmounted by an Imperial eagle, David Cassano turned his attention on Justine.
It occured to her suddenly that, with his hooded eyelids and prominent high-bridged nose, he was not unlike the bronze eagle over the door. Sophia had said he was 'someone of importance.' She wondered how he had attained his position—and how many people he had crushed to achieve his eminence.
As if he could read her thoughts, his hard mouth curled into the enigmatic half-smile which she remembered from their first encounter.
"May I take you in, Miss Field?" He bowed, and offered his arm.
Reluctantly, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, sensing the malicious amusement which her lack of savoir faire afforded him. Slowly, interminably slowly, they followed the others to the dining-room.
"What time will you father get back?" he asked her.
"I'm not sure. He went over with some men from the village. He'll have to wait till they are ready to come home."
He said, "You should have gone with them. Ajaccio is a pleasant town."
"I know. We spent a few days there before we came to Pisano. But I was behind with the indexing, so I couldn't spare the time to go today," she said stiffly, trying not to be so aware of the warmth of his arm through the expensive mohair cloth of his sleeve.
"Do you always put duty before pleasure?" he asked, with a hint of mockery.
She gave him a brief upward glance. "My work is a pleasure, Mr. . . . Monsieur Cassano."
She had hesitated over the title because somehow, in spite of his surname and dark complexion, the French form of address seemed wrong for him. As she had noticed earlier, there was no trace of a foreign intonation in his idiomatic English. On the other hand, he spoke French equally fluently. Her mouth tightened as she remembered his remarks on the terrace.
When they reached the dining-room, Madame di Rostini invited him to sit on her right, with Justine on her left, and Julien at the foot of the table.
It was during the second course—freshly caught langoustes served with an oil and vinegar dressing—that Julien drew her into the conversation by saying, "Have you found any valuable relics yet, mademoiselle? What kind of treasure are you looking for?"
Justine happened to have her mouth full at that moment and, before she could speak, Cassano said, "Archaeology is not a treasure hunt, Julien. Miss Field and her father are seeking information—not gold."
"Information?" the younger man queried, raising an eyebrow.
"As I understand it, archaeology is a scientific reconstruction of the manners and moeurs of past civilisations. The discovery of what you call treasure is incidental. Am I right, Miss Field?"
"Yes—quite right," Justine agreed.
"And that surprises you?" he asked, with a glint in his eyes.
She managed to hold his glance. "It is surprising how many people do think we are looking for buried treasure," she answered evenly.
"I should not think you will find much information about the past on Pisano," Julien pu
t in. "Until my family came here, it was uninhabited."
Justine turned to him. "There were people here long before your family, monsieur. I expect you know about Aleria, the Roman city which French archaeologists have excavated on the east coast of Corsica. The Romans were here, too. We've found coins and ceramics which prove it Aleria was built on the site of an even older Greek city, so perhaps the Greeks—" She stopped short, remembering Cassano's quip about the Etruscans.
"The Greeks . . . you think they came here also?" the young man prompted.
"It's a possibility," she said, looking down at her plate. "However, ancient history isn't a subject which interests most people, so I won't bore you with our theories."
David Cassano said, "On the contrary, we are fascinated. Do go on, Miss Field. What are your theories?"
Justine glared at him. She could not help it. He had said she would be a bore and, to prove his point, he was deliberately inciting her to be one.
"They aren't mine . . . they are my father's," she said coldly. "If you are really interested, I'm sure he will be pleased to explain them to you," she added, unable to resist the small thrust of sarcasm.
He lifted his wineglass to his lips, his grey eyes narrowed and appraising. As he drank, watching her over the rim of the beautiful antique goblet engraved with the di Rostini crest, she felt the same disturbing sensation she had experienced when they shook hands—as if he were exerting some kind of will-power upon her.
He replaced the glass on the table, and stroked the stem with the tips of his long brown fingers.
"I noticed this afternoon that you are confining your excavations to one relatively small area," he said. "What made you decide that particular place was likely to be more fruitful than any other?"
Since she could not avoid answering a specific question, Justine said frigidly, "Before we asked Madame's permission to work here, we took some aerial photographs of the island. It's a common preliminary nowadays. As you seem unusually well informed about archaeology, m'sieur, you may know that the position of all the Etruscan tombs north of Rome was plotted by air photographs."
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