"I'll try," Justine said dubiously. "But if he won't listen to you and the doctors, I doubt if I can influence him. How long do you think it will be before he is fit to leave?"
The Sister said it would probably be three weeks before the Professor could be discharged, and at least a further eight before he was fit enough to resume an active life.
"You haven't told him, have you?" Justine asked anxiously.
"No, we have not committed ourselves."
"Thank goodness for that! If he realises he's going to be convalescent for the best part of three months, he'll worry more than ever," Justine said wryly. "Oh, dear, what a difficult situation. Thank you, Sister. I'll do my best."
As soon as he saw her, Richard Field said querulously, "Now look here, Justine, I want you to find out exactly how long I've got to be laid up in here. These confounded hospital people are behaving as if I were non compos mentis. I won't stand for it If they refuse to give me a straight answer, then it's up to you to get it out of them."
Justine sat down on the chair provided for visitors. "I've already asked them, Father. I don't think they can say with any certainty. It all depends on you yourself. You simply must rest and relax. It's the only way to get well quickly."
"You can spare me the soothing platitudes. I've heard them all before," he growled impatiently. "How can I be expected to rest when I'm treated as if I were senile? I want a definite prognosis. In fact I insist upon it."
"Oh, Father, you mustn't!" she exclaimed, as he made a feeble effort to raise himself.
But, even as she reached out to restrain him, the Professor slumped on his pillows with a stifled groan of pain and exasperation.
"Damned officious bureaucrats," he muttered weakly. "Even the litte chits of nurses treat me like a doddering old fool. It's quite intolerable!"
For several minutes, Justine listened to his complaints in troubled silence. Then, suddenly, her patience snapped.
To her astonishment, she said severely, "Oh, do stop grumbling, Father. You're wearing yourself out and it doesn't do a bit of good. If you hadn't been so foolish in the first place, you wouldn't have needed an operation. And if you keep carrying on like this, you'll take twice as long to get better."
The instant the words were out she expected to have her head bitten off. But, for some seconds, her father was too astounded to speak and, before he had recovered from the shock, she went on hurriedly, "I don't mean to be unkind, but you are being rather silly, you know."
"Silly! Silly!" he expostulated "What the devil do you mean? I think you forget yourself, Justine. Don't imagine that you can start badgering me."
'He's flustered,' she thought. 'It's the first time I've ever stood up to him, and he doesn't know how to deal with it."
"I'm not badgering you, Father," she said quietly. "I'm simply telling you the truth. You've had a major operation. You can't expect to get over it in a matter of days. If you rest, and do as you're told, you could be out of here in three weeks.
"So they did tell you something?" he said sharply. "Why didn't you say so before? Who said it would be three weeks?"
"The Sister," Justine answered. "But I'm not supposed to have told you, so if you don't want to get me in hot water, you'd better not mention it. But it will be much more than three weeks if you won't do as you're told and rest properly."
"Oh, very well. . . very well," he said irritably.
"Shall I ask if I can come again this evening, Father?" she suggested. "If you wish," he replied, without enthusiasm.
"Goodbye," she said gently, and put her hand on his for a moment.
Down in the main entrance hall, she went to the women's cloakroom where she took off her headscarf and shook out her hair. It still felt strange to have no weight on the nape of her neck. As she applied a light touch of lipstick, she knew that it was only because her father was ill that he had accepted her strictures so mildly. Would she have the courage to stand up to him when he was better? Or would this tenuous new confidence wilt at his first slashing sarcasm?
As she walked out of the building into the sunlight, a hand grasped her elbow, and she found David beside her.
"Oh, you startled me! What are you doing here?" she asked, conscious that her heart was beating much faster than it would have done had anyone else accosted her unexpectedly.
"I'm going to have lunch with my sister. I thought you might like to come," he said, steering her towards a small open car with the name of a hire firm painted on the boot.
"Where's Diane? Isn't she coming?" Justine asked, as he put her into the passenger seat.
He walked round the bonnet and settled himself behind the wheel. "Unfortunately she has an appointment to have her hair done. Of course if you object to being seen with me without a chaperone—" he said, with an amused glance.
Justine tugged at her skirt, which had ridden high above her knees. "You know I don't," she said shortly.
He laughed, switched on the engine, and slid the gear lever into reverse. As he twisted round and laid his arm along the top of her seat to back out of the parking space, his fingers brushed her shoulder for an instant. She knew it was only an accidental contact, but it sent a slow tingle through her.
"How is your father?" he asked. "I gather they only allowed you to stay a few minutes."
"Yes, but I can look in again tonight, the Sister says. He's not being a very good patient, I'm afraid. I managed to calm him down a little by saying that he should be discharged in three weeks. But it'll be much longer than that before he can work again. I don't know what to do for the best. I daren't tell him the whole truth until he's stronger, but on the other hand there's no point in my going on with the dig single-handed. I can't possibly finish it alone before he comes out of hospital and, when he does, I think we shall have to go back to England."
"How long would it take you to complete the dig if you had a team of helpers?" David asked.
"I don't know," she said doubtfully. "It would depend how intelligent they were. But where would I get a dozen men? All the men on Pisano are busy fishing. Anyway, it would cost too much to employ a team."
"Not necessarily. I could put twelve men at your disposal, and it wouldn't cost you anything," he said casually.
Justine gaped at him, dumbfounded. "B-but why?" she stammered, after a moment. "Why should you help us? I mean, you aren't specially interested in archaeology. I don't understand."
"Yes, I suppose it must seem rather a suspect proposition," he said sardonically. "You're too shrewd a judge of character to credit me with the capacity for an act of disinterested philanthropy."
Justine flushed and bit her lip. "You know that isn't true," she said, in a low voice. "I didn't mean that at all. I think you're a very kind person. You rescued Julien when he lost all his money in Cannes. You've looked after me. If you were a ... a hard man, you wouldn't have bothered with either of us."
"Oh, so he told you about that, did he?" David said, mildly surprised. "I should have thought he'd have preferred to forget it — reckless young fool. Well, I can assure you I wouldn't have helped him if he hadn't been Pietro di Rostini's son."
The road was clear now, and he slanted a mocking smile at her. "No indignant protests? I thought you had a soft spot for him."
"I like him—yes. Perhaps I don't expect as much of people as you do. Though even you probably did some foolish things when you were his age."
"When I was his age, I was running my first hotel up at Calvi."
She said, "That's what I don't understand about this offer you've made. You're a business man. How can you afford to put twelve of your men to work on the dig? You won't be here much longer, will you? I thought you were always on the move, supervising your hotels."
"Normally, yes — but it so happens that I'm staying here until the end of the season this year."
Her heart gave a queer little lurch. Until that moment, she had not realised that, subconsciously, she had been dreading the day when his business in the city would
be finished, and he would cruise out of her life, and she would never see him again.
"I don't know what to say," she answered uncertainly. "It's extraordinarily generous of you."
"Well, think it over. Discuss it with your father, and let me know in a day or two. Personally, I think it would do you good to have a complete rest for a few weeks, but that's up to you."
The drive to his sister's home took the best part of two hours, for the road up into the mountains was so narrow and circuitous that it was impossible to travel at more than forty kilometres an hour, and very often their speed was considerably less.
"My sister is married to a schoolmaster," David said, when they were nearing their destination. "They have four obstreperous youngsters, and pets all over the place. You aren't nervous of dogs, are you?"
Justine shook her head. "I like animals. Do they know you're bringing a stranger with you?"
"Yes, I telephoned them this morning." His mouth quirked up at the corner. "I told them you were a very learned female archaeologist, so they had better be on their best behaviour."
The village where his sister lived was perched on a shoulder of mountainside not far below a great forest of lariccio pines, the giant trees which the Romans had used as masts for their galleys. The village itself was surrounded by terraces of cultivated land, and dominated by a tall campanile, and a church with a domed roof.
As David stopped the car, a woman came hurrying out to meet them. She was small and slight, with fair hair and hazel eyes. Justine's supposition had been right. She was not in the least like her brother.
"David! How lovely to see you again," she said, in English, embracing him. "It's ages since you last came up. I wish you would come more often. Never mind, you're here now. How are you? You look very fit."
"I'm always fit," he said, smiling, his arm round her shoulders. "Mary, this is Justine Field. Justine, my sister, Madame Ghilardo."
"How do you do, Miss Field. Welcome to our home." With a friendliness which put Justine instantly at ease with her, Mary Ghilardo came forward to shake hands.
"I'm sure you are longing for a cold drink, aren't you?" she asked. "It's such a long, hot, bumpy drive from Ajaccio. Come in where it's cool, and relax. The children are all out playing somewhere, and won't be back till lunch, so we can talk in peace for half an hour." Leaving David to get something out of the boot, she led the way through the house to a large tile-floored living-room where a wide modern window framed a magnificent view across the valley.
"What a happy room," Justine said impulsively, when she was seated in a deep comfortable chair, and her hostess had brought her a glass of chilled orange juice.
Perhaps 'happy' was a curious adjective to use, but she could think of no other which described her reaction more accurately. The room was not strikingly decorated. It contained no fine furniture or ornaments. By some people's standards, it might have seemed shabby and untidy. The loose covers were faded and mended, the rugs had threadbare patches, and there were books and toys scattered about. But it was a room which, to Justine's eyes, immediately gave the impression of being the heart and hub of a large, busy, loving family.
Mary Ghilardo glanced round her living-room and laughed. "It's very different from David's elegant drawing-room," she said cheerfully, as her brother came in with his arms full of parcels.
While he helped himself to orange juice, his sister opened her present and, from a nest of white tissue, lifted out a creamy cashmere jacket, lined and faced with pale blue silk.
"Oh, David, it's charming!" she exclaimed. "Let me try it on." She jumped up and went to a mirror to see how she looked in it. "You'd be surprised how chilly it can be in the evenings at this altitude," she said, over her shoulder, to Justine. "Isn't this nice? I love the feel of cashmere." And, to David, "Thank you, my dear."
As they smiled at each other, Justine sensed that, although they bore so little resemblance, there was a very strong bond of affection between them.
David glanced out of the window, and saw his brother-in-law coming along the road from the village. He said he would go to meet him.
When he had left the room, Mary laid the jacket back in its box. "I wonder what he's brought for the children?" she said, glancing at his other gifts. "I didn't tell them he was coming. When they see the car, they'll guess who's here and rush in like a pack of hounds." She gave the kitten-soft cashmere a final stroke before putting the lid on the box. "He's such a considerate person. Most men in his shoes would give cheques, or possibly jewellery. David never does. He really takes trouble over his presents. This is just what I'd have chosen myself. He doesn't spoil the children either. He adores them, and he could spend the earth on them. But he knows it's much better for them if he buys quite cheap, ordinary things." The lines round her hazel eyes crinkled. "I'm sure he'd love to smarten up this house for us. But we're perfectly happy as we are, and my husband would hate feeling under an obligation to him."
Nicolo Ghilardo, whom Justine met a few minutes later, was a short, thickset man in his middle forties, with kind dark eyes, and flecks of grey above his ears. He greeted her as warmly as his wife had done, and then she went off to help Mary in the kitchen.
The babel of barking and high, excited voices had subsided when she returned to the living-room, and the four young Ghilardos were opening their presents. The smallest, a little boy of five, was perched on David's lap. He alone had inherited a likeness to his mother. The other three were black-haired and olive-skinned, and showed no trace of the English strain in them.
With reluctant politeness, they stood up to bow or bob as their uncle presented them.
"English today, please," said David when; after the introductions, they began to chatter again. The children obediently changed from their own language to Justine's.
As their mother had surmised, their presents were not the extravagantly expensive toys with which David could have indulged them, had he wished. Francesco had a plastic building kit, Carlo a kite, and the two eldest children books.
Presently, David shooed them off to wash, going with them to supervise Francesco's ablutions. His easy way with them surprised Justine. His own way of life was so remote from this domestic atmosphere that she would have expected him to pay only the most casual attention to them. Instead, he seemed genuinely to enjoy their company.
Lunch was a simple wholesome meal of soup, salad, cheese and fruit
Afterwards, Justine volunteered to help Mary with the washing up, and the men went outside with the children.
"I gather David has told you about our parents," Mary said, giving her guest an apron to protect her dress from splashes. "It's odd how I take after my mother, and he after our father."
"No, your brother has never mentioned your parents. Someone else told me the story," Justine answered.
Mary looked surprised. "Really? — Who?" Then, when Justine had explained how she had had it from Julien, and be from his grandmother, "Oh, I see. Yes, she would remember, of course. It caused quite a sensation at the time. Then some other nine days' wonder happened, and most people forgot all about it It's strange David didn't tell you."
"I suppose he assumed that I knew about it," said Justine.
Mary put on a pair of rubber gloves. "Poor David," she said, with a sigh. "I'm afraid he is still very bitter about the way my mother's people treated her. She was never bitter herself. She used to say that she had had more happiness with my father in their few years together than most people have in a whole lifetime. But her life was terribly hard after he was drowned. David adored her. He couldn't bear to see her struggling to make ends meet. The Cassanos were very good to us, but they were all desperately poor themselves. Even when he was quite a small boy, David's burning ambition was to make a lot of money for her. The irony of it is that it's from the people he hates so intensely that he's inherited his financial genius."
She began to wash the dishes. "I think if she had lived, and he could have given her a lovely house and every comfort,
it would have exorcised his hatred. But unfortunately she died before he was really on his feet, and ever since there's been this core of hardness in him. It's hard to explain what I mean. When he's here with us, he doesn't show that side of his nature. Probably he hasn't shown it with you either. But I know that, in his own world, he's different — cynical, even rather ruthless. As you know, most of the crew of Kalliste are related to us, so things filter back that he wouldn't tell us himself."
Justine said, "Well, to be honest, I didn't like him much when I first met him. But he's been incredibly kind to us."
Mary smiled at her. "I'm glad he's taken you under his wing. It's good for him to be with someone like you — someone young and unspoilt and sincere. Most of the women he meets are frightful creatures — ravishing to look at, of course, but completely amoral, and out for all they can get. I've met some of them, and they make me shudder. What is this Madame St. Aubin like? She isn't after him, is she?"
"Oh, no!" Justine said positively. "She's chaperoning me." She coloured slightly. "Not that it's at all necessary."
Mary laughed. "I'm afraid it is," she said ruefully. "David has a scandalous reputation. According to the gossips, he's a satyr of the deepest dye." Her mouth took on a wry twist. "I'm afraid there's an element of truth in it. But what can you expect when a man has a great deal of money, and is attractive too? Women simply fling themselves at him. He would have to be super-human to resist them all." She put the last of the plates on the draining board, and gave Justine a look of rather amused curiosity. "Don't you find him attractive?"
Justine felt herself blushing. "He's very good-looking," she said awkwardly.
"He isn't really, you know," his sister replied dispassionately. "He has a fine physique, but he isn't handsome. I don't know what it is about him that makes most women so susceptible. Tell me more about Madame St. Aubin. She's a widow, I believe. Why are you so sure she isn't chasing him? She's a rara avis if she isn't. Is she pretty?"
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