The song drifting through the open portholes sounded like a lament, and the strong true tenor of the singer made it more haunting than any she had heard before. Justine leaned her head against the wing of the chair and closed her eyes. As she did so, a wave of lassitude swept over her, and the misty sensation returned. She felt as if she were floating far out to sea, with the song and the strumming of the guitar gradually fading in the distance.
As the last note died away, she was dimly aware that something in her hand had been taken away. With an effort, she opened her eyes and saw David bending over her. But whatever it was he said to her was in a foreign tongue which she could not understand. Then, like an image in still water when a ripple disturbs the glassy surface, his dark face blurred and was gone.
When Justine awoke the next morning, she was lying in the huge ornate bed, and the ceiling above her was patterned with golden reflections from the sunlit sea outside the ports. She was not alone. Battista was standing by the bed, smiling and bidding her good morning. He was holding a wickerwork tray with short legs at either end of it
In some confusion, for she had been dreaming when his voice roused her, Justine sat up and piled the pillows behind her. Then the steward placed the tray across her lap, and bowed and went away.
When she had finished breakfast, she slid out of bed and went to the bathroom, where she decided it would be a good idea to have a cool shower—if she could discover how to operate it. At first she turned the dial the wrong way, and a fierce downpour of almost scalding water burst from the rose above the bath. But she quickly reversed the controls, and eventually achieved a more gentle stream of tepid water.
As she was drying herself, she discovered that her clothes had disappeared from the stool where she had left them. But, as she was on the point of ringing for Battista, she noticed that the door of one of the cupboards in the bedroom had been left open. Her blouse and skirt were inside the cupboard, on hangers, and her underclothes were on a sliding shelf. During the night they had been spirited away and beautifully laundered.
By the time she had dressed and done her hair, it was a quarter to eight She left the stateroom and, wondering where her host would be at this hour, found her way back to the deck.
Justine had never seen the famous Bay of Naples, but she was inclined to doubt that its beauty could surpass that of the Golfe d'Ajaccio. From where Kalliste was berthed, the mouth of the gulf was out of sight, and the city appeared to lie on the northern shore of a mountain-encircled lake.
As she stood at the rails, shading her eyes from the dazzling morning light and admiring this splendid panorama, she heard David's voice, and turned to see him coming along the deck. He was accompanied by a stocky middle-aged man in a white uniform. As they approached her, the man gave Justine a dignified salute before taking off his gold-braided cap and revealing a head of close-cropped greying ginger hair.
David introduced him as Angus Stirling, the yacht's master. Captain Stirling shook hands, made some civil remarks, and then excused himself.
"I didn't realise you had a captain," said Justine, when he was out of earshot. "I thought you commanded Kalliste yourself."
David looked amused. "Did you indeed? You have a higher opinion of my qualities than you care to admit," he said quizzically. Then his mouth took on a wry twist. "But I'm afraid the truth is that you have very little idea of what is involved in handling a vessel of this size. Stirling is a remarkable man. I'm lucky to have his services. The reason you did not meet him at dinner last night is that he does not care for social occasions. But make no mistake about his position. It is he who commands Kalliste. I am merely the owner. Come, it's time we were on our way to the hospital. I've ordered a taxi."
At the hospital they did not see the sympathetic young casualty officer who had admitted Professor Field the night before. Another doctor, an older man with a somewhat severe manner, came to talk to them. He told Justine that her father was due to go to the operating theatre at ten. The operation would take about three hours, and it was unlikely that the Professor would come round before early evening. If she telephoned about seven, they would give her news of his condition. But she would not be able to see him until the following day.
"May I see him now?" she asked diffidently.
The doctor had replied that a short visit was permissible, providing the patient was not excited. Then, before she could ask any of the questions which were worrying her, he summoned a nurse to take her to the surgical ward, and hurried on his way.
"But I still don't know what's wrong with Father," she exclaimed in dismay, turning to look up at David.
He was eyeing the departing doctor with a rather grim expression on his face.
"Don't worry—I'll find out for you," he said reassuringly, his look of annoyance softening as he met her anxious eyes. He gestured for her to follow the waiting nurse. "Off you go."
Justine found her father lying in a high white bed, looking so grey-skinned and haggard that it took all her will-power to hide the alarm she felt, and to say with a semblance of cheerfulness, "Hello, Father. How are you feeling?"
"Damned uncomfortable," Richard Field said irritably. "I suppose you've been told they're going to open me up? I only hope the fellow who does it knows his job, and isn't an incompetent butcher."
"I'm sure they have very good surgeons here," said Justine, sitting down by the bed.
"I wanted to speak to you last night, but they told me you had gone. Where did you spend the night? I take it you didn't go back to Pisano?"
"No, I slept on the yacht. Monsieur Cassano has been very kind. He brought me here this morning. I expect he'll go back to the island after lunch. I must find a room somewhere near. Father, I don't want to bother you, but could you give me a note to take to the bank? I need some money for the hotel, and meals and so on."
"I can't see why it's necessary for you to put up in Ajaccio. You may as well go back with Cassano, and get on with some work," said the Professor. "There's no point in us both being idle."
"But I want to be near you," she protested. "I can't go back while you're in hospital."
"Nonsense!" he retorted testily. "There is nothing you can usefully do here, and a great deal to be done at Pisano."
Justine braced her shoulders. "Well, it will just have to wait," she replied, with unwonted resolution. "I can't possibly concentrate on work while you are in here, especially when the island is so cut off. I'm sure you wouldn't leave me, if I were ill. I must stay, Father—at least until you're convalescent"
It was the first time she had ever asserted herself and, as soon as she had spoken, she expected to have her head bitten off. But, to her surprise, after glowering for a moment, her father said grumblingly, "Oh, very well . . . very well. But only for a few days." And he summoned a passing nurse to ask for a pen and paper.
Justine stayed with him for about twenty minutes until a sister came to give him an injection, and she had to leave. As she rose to go, she was seized by the agonising thought that something might go wrong during the operation, and she would never see him again.
Dear God, please don't let him die, she prayed, in terror.
David was waiting when she returned to the main entrance hall. As he heard her foosteps on the polished floor, and turned towards her, she had an extraordinary desire to put out her hands and have them taken in his strong cool grip.
"How is he?" he asked.
"He seems fairly comfortable, but he looks very ill. Were you able to find out anything?"
He nodded. "Yes—I'll explain it to you as we go."
"Go?" she echoed blankly. "Go where?"
"You can't spend the day biting your nails in that depressing waiting-room. The time will pass more quickly if we go for a drive."
"Oh, no, I must stay. I may be needed. I can't go out while Father is in the theatre."
"Yes, you can—and you will," he said firmly. "There is nothing you can do for him at present. Come along." And he took her by the arm,
and propelled her out of the building.
The taxi which had brought them to the hospital was still there. David gave a brief instruction to the driver.
To Justine, he said, "Try not to worry so much. It isn't necessary. Your father is going to be all right. If he had consulted a doctor some time ago, this operation wouldn't have become necessary. But the damage can still be repaired. In three months from now, he'll be as fit as he ever was."
She clasped her hands in her lap, and looked out of the window. "What did they tell you was wrong with him?"
"It's a thing called diverticulitis ... an inflammation of the colon. Usually it responds to conservative treatment Your father must have been in considerable pain for weeks for it to have reached this stage."
She said unsteadily, "It's all my fault. I knew he wasn't well. I should have made him see a doctor."
"My dear girl, you can't blame yourself. If your father wouldn't take your advice, the fault is entirely his own," he informed her bluntly.
"But why wouldn't he admit he was ill? What possessed him to try to hide it?" she exclaimed bewilderedly.
"I imagine he thought it was something incurable, and was afraid of having his suspicions confirmed."
"Afraid?—Father? Oh, no, that can't have been the reason."
"Why not?"
She turned to look at him. "Well, because it doesn't make sense. He isn't that sort of person. He wouldn't be afraid. He'd want to know the truth."
David studied her for a moment, his grey eyes narrowed and enigmatic. "Don't you think it's time you realised he isn't infallible?" he said dryly. "The most brilliant men have some human failings, you know."
She flushed, and bit her lip. "I suppose you think it's peculiar of me to—to admire him," she said, in a low voice. "I know it isn't fashionable. The smart thing seems to be for children to despise their parents."
"And that shocks you, I suppose?"
"Yes, it does. I don't understand it. I would rather be old-fashioned," she said stiffly.
David did not pursue the subject, and there was an interval of silence until he said suddenly, "How did you sleep last night? Did the noises of the harbour disturb you?"
"No, I slept like a log until Battista came in with my breakfast." She wrinkled her forehead. "It's very odd ... I can't remember going to bed."
"No, you wouldn't. I put a powder in your brandy, and you went to sleep in the chair," he said casually.
Justine gaped at him. "You mean y-you drugged me?" she stammered dumbfounded.
His mouth twitched. "There's no need to look so scandalised. My intentions were entirely honourable. I didn't want you to lie awake half the night, worrying." He lit a cheroot, and eyed her with a gleam of mockery. "And if you're wondering how you got into bed, I carried you there."
It was precisely what she had been wondering, and the answer made her blush a fiery red. For, if he had put her to bed, he must also have taken off her robe, and seen her in that flimsy nightdress. Her face burned, and she felt a queer tightness in her throat.
They did not speak again until, about twenty minutes later, the driver halted the car on a winding and lonely stretch of road. As far as she could judge, they were now about ten kilometres from Ajaccio and, as there was no village in sight, it seemed a peculiar place to stop. David climbed out and, as soon as Justine had followed suit, the taxi moved off and left them alone on the roadway.
"Well walk the rest of the way. It will give us an appetite for lunch," he said. "There's a chestnut forest about half a mile ahead, but in the meantime you had better wear these or the light may give you a headache." And be handed her his own expensive smoked glasses.
David set an energetic pace and, although she was accustomed to brisk walking, Justine had her work cut out to keep up with his long loose-legged stride. They had gone about a quarter of a mile when they met a huddle of ewes in the charge of a small peasant boy. Justine, somewhat out of breath, was glad to stand still for a space while the sheep ambled leisurely by. David said something to the boy which made him grin and nod his tousled head.
He caught her eye, and said—rather ironically, she thought—"Myself, twenty-five years ago." Then he turned and began to walk on.
As she followed, a pace or two behind, Justine found it difficult to relate this tall man, with his innate air of authority and sophistication, with the kind of ragamuffin youngster they had just passed. Although she had supposed that there must be an essence of truth in it, she had never quite believed Julien's story about David's background. But now, suddenly, she knew that she did believe it, because there was something in him which made any attainment possible.
It was cool in the chestnut forest. For nearly an hour they walked through this peaceful green world. The dim light and the arching branches overhead, gave the forest something of the atmosphere of an ancient cathedral. Justine, thinking of her father, found herself soothed and comforted, and was grateful to David for bringing her here.
They came out of the forest not far from an underground spring gushing from a crevice in an outcrop of granite.
"If you're thirsty, try a drink from the stream. The water is quite safe," said David.
She was thirsty. Kneeling by a small cascade, she drank from her cupped palms. The water, ice-cold from its source deep in the hillside, was delicious.
When she sat back on her heels, she saw that David was lounging on a stretch of turf with his back against a boulder.
"The village where we're going to have lunch is down the valley, behind that ridge over there," he told her. "But we aren't expected till one, so we may as well stay here for half an hour. It's a pleasant spot, don't you think?"
"Lovely," she said, looking round. "It's a lovely country, Corsica."
"Come over here and be comfortable," David suggested, from behind her. When she glanced over her shoulder, he crooked his forefinger and indicated the place beside him.
"I'm quite comfortable here, thanks," she said, looking quickly away again.
"You're not still nervous of me, are you?" His voice was lazy and amused.
"I never was," she said untruthfully. "It's—it's just that I'm not used to meeting people."
"You didn't teem to have any trouble establishing a rapport with young Julien."
"He's different," she said unguardedly.
"Ah, yes, he didn't commit the unforgivable sin of calling you a blue-stocking . . . and that still rankles, I fancy?"
She gave an unwilling laugh. "No, I'd forgotten about it. Anyway, it's true, I suppose."
"What would you like to be? An ornamental creature like Madame St. Aubin?"
His shrewdness was always disconcerting, but this time It was also curiously painful. "I should think everyone would like to be as lovely as Diane," she answered lightly. "She's the most beautiful-looking person I've ever met"
David made no comment and, after a moment she could not resist glancing at him, and saying, "Don't you think she's lovely?"
"Oh. certainly," he said negligently. "But I don't think you would really enjoy having those looks. You may think you would, but you haven't considered the consequences."
"What consequences?" she asked, puzzled.
He raised one knee and rested his forearm on it, the cheroot held lightly between his first and second fingers. "If you were as beautiful as you would like to be, I might not be able to resist making love to you—and I'm sure you wouldn't like that at all," he said derisively.
For the second time that morning, Justine felt her face growing hot. She said, with a tartness which surprised her, "Well, at least I have had that distinction. From what I heard you saying to Julien, I gather it's usually the other way about—though I can't say I've noticed Diane 'presuming an interest when it doesn't exist" she added, quoting his own words.
For an instant she thought she had at last succeeded in getting through his guard. Under his dark skin, the muscles at his jaw hardened slightly.
Then he laughed, and said without ranco
ur, "I seem to have ruffled your feathers on several counts. But I'm afraid you must acquit me of vanity. If I suffer from a superfluity of feminine attention, it's not inspired by my personal attributes. It's the depth of my pocket, not the charm of my character, which makes me popular."
Justine felt something tickling her wrist, and blew away a small insect. She said, "You're very cynical. I suppose, if one has money, one is bound to come across some sycophants. But most people aren't like that. And it's not as if you—"
"Go on ... it isn't as if I what?" he prompted intently.
"Well, it isn't as if you were an—an objectionable person," she said awkwardly.
"Really? I had the impression you found me exceedingly objectionable," he remarked provokingly.
"You know that isn't true," she said, in a low voice. "How could it be when you've been so kind to us?"
"My dear child, bringing your father off Pisano wasn't such a notable service that you need feel obliged to like me," David said dryly, as he got to his feet
He held out his hand to help her up. Unexpectedly, when she was standing, he took hold of her chin, and tilted her face so that she was forced to look up into his eyes.
"You underestimate yourself, you know," he said carelessly. "If you wished, you could be very attractive. Not in the same class as Madame St. Aubin—but engaging enough, in your own way." And, with a casual pat on the cheek, he let her go, and began to lead the way down the hillside.
It was a half hour's walk to the village further along the valley, and Justine was still fuming when they arrived in the cobbled square in front of the church. Their taxi was parked under some trees, but the driver had disappeared, probably into the nearby bar.
Justine was surprised when David stopped at the foot of a flight of worn stone steps, and gestured for her to precede him. At the top, outside a massive iron-studded door, be pulled an old-fashioned bell rope.
The woman who answered the bell gave a cry of pleasure when she saw who had rung it. Judging by the warmth of their greetings, it seemed that she and David were old friends. Her name was Maria Bussaglia and, after he had introduced them, she took Justine to a bathroom where she could wash before lunch.
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