by Hilary Wilde
Frank Parr chuckled. ‘So what? Nothing. Just my cheeky inquisitiveness. Sorry, Miss Crane. Now seriously, how come you’re here sitting talking to me when you should be dancing?’
‘I was dancing, but . . .’
‘No one very enticing, eh?’ Frank Parr chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t do to have handsome men on the staff. Bad enough the girls’ crushes as it is. Just think, they have crushes on me!’ he laughed.
‘And why not?’ Megan asked, her eyes demure.
He chuckled. ‘You don’t fool me, girl. I know I’m one of those men who might just as well not exist.’
Megan remembered what Miss Tucker had said: that Frank Parr had an outsize inferiority complex.
‘And what’s wrong with you?’ Megan asked. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’
‘Mademoiselle, you are so sweet . . .’ Frank Parr said dramatically, lifting Megan’s hand and kissing it.
At the same moment the curtain was jerked back and Craig Lambert stood there.
‘I’ve been looking for you, Miss Crane,’ he said accusingly.
Megan and Frank Parr both stood, Frank obviously having a little trouble to get up.
‘I was tired,’ Megan began.
‘Can you blame her?’ Frank Parr joined in. ‘The miles she’s flown, the new life, leaving her father . . . I bet you miss him, Miss Crane . . .’
Megan felt her eyes fill with tears. Perhaps that was why she felt so alone. All her life her father had been there, needing her, yet being someone she could turn to at any time. And now there was no one. No one she could trust.
‘Yes, she must be tired,’ Craig Lambert said curtly. ‘Just one dance with me, Miss Crane, and then off to bed.’
Megan hesitated. She had no desire to dance with this man she couldn’t trust, yet . . . Like all the things he said to her, it hadn’t been a request but a command.
‘Thank you, Mr Lambert,’ she said demurely, but as she said goodnight to Frank Parr, he winked at her.
On the floor, in Craig Lambert’s arms, Megan felt everyone must be staring at her, and talking about her, she thought unhappily. Was Mr Lambert making the situation any easier for her by insisting on dancing with her?
All the same he danced well and in a few moments she lost the tension she felt and relaxed, delighted without realising it at the way he led her, his long legs covering the ground with surprising speed. As the music came to an end, he smiled at her—one of his rare smiles which made them more noticeable.
‘You’re a good dancer,’ he said.
She was so relaxed she could be honest. ‘I was just going to say the same to you. I enjoyed it.’
‘I’m glad,’ he told her, and led her off the dance floor. ‘Now, time for bed.’
‘Should I say goodnight to Miss Tucker?’ Megan, conscious of the eyes on them, asked nervously.
‘I’ll explain,’ he said, and led the way to the central hall with the beautiful curving staircase.
They were silent as he escorted her to the door of her flat. Megan felt ill at ease, wondering if she should talk ; wondering, too, if he always escorted the staff to their flats?
He waited as she fumbled in her small diamanté-trimmed handbag; he waited until she had opened the door and turned to say goodnight. Then he frowned.
‘It’s not very wise, Miss Crane, on your first night here to sit alone with one of the staff. Already the girls are talking about you, because you’re the youngest and most attractive member of the staff, but surely for your first night . . .’
‘I didn’t know he was there. I was tired and found the seat . . .’
‘I see,’ Craig Lambert said, but she knew he didn’t. Nor did he believe her. ‘Frank Parr has been with us for some time. He’s a brilliant artist, gifted with the art of passing it on to others. Hitherto he has been without any blemish on his character.’
Megan’s cheeks were flaming red; she was so angry, she felt herself shaking. Are you suggesting I was trying to seduce . . .’
Craig Lambert chuckled. ‘Hardly, Miss Crane. You’re not the type. Unfortunately Frank Parr has a sentimental heart and you might . . . well, I’m just warning you, Miss Crane, we do not tolerate affairs among the staff. I would advise you to avoid being seen alone with Mr Parr in future.’
‘But that’s absurd,’ Megan said angrily. ‘He was the only really friendly one. I’m not going to snub him simply because . . .’
‘You aren’t?’ Craig Lambert’s voice rose slightly. She stared at him and struggled to regain control of her temper.
‘Please believe me, Mr Lambert,’ she said, her voice still uneven. ‘Mr Parr was not making passes at me, nor is he the sort of man to do so.’
‘Why was he kissing your hand?’ Craig Lambert demanded.
Megan could laugh. ‘It was a joke. Miss Tucker told me he had an outsize inferiority complex.’ She paused for a moment, wondering if she should tackle him about saying she had such a complex, but decided not to at the time. It could wait!’ Then he said some of the girls had crushes on him and he said he couldn’t understand it as he was the sort of man who might just as well not exist. I remembered what Miss Tucker had said, so I treated it as a joke and asked him what was wrong with him and that I’d enjoyed our talk. Which was true,’ she added defiantly, ‘because he was the most friendly one of all I’ve met tonight. So he said something like Mademoiselle, you are so sweet and kissed my hand. It was just . . . well, one of those things. It didn’t mean anything to either of us.’
‘I see,’ Craig Lambert said slowly, but she knew he was not believing a word she had said. ‘So long as you’re both aware that it meant nothing. You are, however, very young and Parr is a romantic. We can’t afford to lose our dancing teacher as soon as she arrives.’ He turned away, but she acted without thought, clutching him by the arm.
‘Mr Lambert, why did you sack Miss Pointer?’ she asked.
He turned back and looked at her. His face changed, it was just as she had seen it before, as if it was made of stone.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is my business. Goodnight.’
CHAPTER III
Megan’s first few days at the Lambert School were not too happy, but her real shock was to come on the fourth day.
When she awoke the morning after the social evening, she went and stood by the window, drinking in the beauties of the deep blue sea and the foam-tossed waves, and then she shivered. How was the job going to turn out? She felt she had so many enemies, which was perhaps rather absurd, but Frankie Parr had been the only really friendly one.
She washed and dressed quickly, choosing a rather demure pale blue dress, and went down to the dining room. The girls were all sitting at their tables and the roar of voices hit her as she walked in. She stood still for a moment, looking round, then she heard a soft whistle. Looking in that direction, she saw Frank Parr, beckoning to her from where he sat at what was, obviously, the staff table.
Sitting by him, as he talked and joked, she found some of her nervousness go. Several other members smiled and spoke to her, but it was Frank who seemed to have taken her under his wing.
‘Did the old devil tick you off for sitting alone with me?’ Frank Parr asked Megan suddenly.
Her red cheeks made it impossible for her to deny it. ‘In a sense, yes, but when I explained . . .’
‘He said he understood. Right? I suppose he warned you to keep away from me?’ Frank Parr’s eyes were amused as he watched her tell-tale cheeks. ‘I know. I’m the Don Juan of the college.’ He made a dramatic movement of his hand going across his heart, and Paul Taft, sitting opposite, frowned.
‘It’s hardly fair to Miss Crane to attract attention, Parr,’ he said curtly.
Megan remembered Paul Taft from the dinner the night before. He had been so quiet until he scolded the girl.
Frank Parr laughed. ‘How can she avoid attracting interest, Taft old boy, when she’s such a choice dish?’
‘Really, Parr!’ Paul Taft looked disgusted and then turned to
Megan. ‘Please forgive my friend for his brashness. I trust that you will be happy with us.’ He spoke with almost pedantic politeness, yet Megan found herself liking him.
‘I understand, Mr Taft,’ she said with a smile. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t take Mr Parr seriously.’
‘Oh, woe is me, alack, alas!’ Frank Parr pretended to groan. ‘She’s seen through me already. I have no hopes!’
It was the same all through the meal, with Frank joking and making Megan laugh, and even dour-faced Mr Taft’s mouth kept quivering as if he was trying not to smile.
After that, Megan consulted her rota lists and made her way in search of the right room and her pupils. It turned out to be far easier than she had expected. Indeed, the actual teaching was the easiest part of her life those first days. The pianists, generally elderly men, were charming and really gallant, playing well and with feeling. The girls, chatting away until she stopped them, seemed to be eager to try her new ideas of dancing.
Perhaps it was the meals that were the biggest trial. Megan would go and join the staff at their table, hoping she might find an empty seat by Frank Parr. Usually she did, and then it was all right, but if she sat next to another member, a ‘stranger’ really even though they had been introduced, it was rather an ordeal, for the questions came pounding at her like the waves against rocks.
‘Weren’t you lucky to get this job?’
‘I imagine you have some relation who knows the Lamberts?’
‘What made you come out here—wouldn’t life in London be more fun?’
‘How long have you known Craig Lambert?’
The last question was the one most used and Megan began to get tired of constantly saying she had only met him once and that was three weeks before. She often wondered how much Miss Tucker had told them, but no one mentioned Miss Pointer, the dancing mistress, who had been sacked for some unknown reason and Megan Crane swiftly moved in to take her place.
All the same it worried Megan, though she couldn’t see that any of it was her fault. Perhaps Craig Lambert had been displeased with Miss Pointer for some time and had therefore made enquiries for her replacement? That would explain a lot of things.
That evening she had her first bridge lesson. There were quite a few other pupils, mostly girls over fifteen, and with Frank Parr’s jokes, it was rather hilarious. There was probably more laughter than learning, Megan thought once when she glanced up thinking she had seen Craig Lambert glancing in the doorway, but did that really matter? They would all learn bridge more easily if they enjoyed doing it.
Oddly enough, apart from that quick glimpse which might, she thought, have been her imagination, Megan didn’t see Craig Lambert until the fourth day. By then she had begun to settle down, had made several friends among the staff, and of course, there was always Frank.
She had just finished a class and was wearing her leotard as they had been doing modern dancing and she had demonstrated the way it should be done while Mr Anstruther, the elderly pianist, had clapped impulsively when she finished so the girls had joined in. Afterwards Mr Anstruther, his white hair slightly ruffled, for he had a knack of running his hands through it when he came to the end of whatever he was playing, said:
‘You are too good a dancer to be teaching, Miss Crane.’ He spoke gravely as he collected his music together.
Megan had flushed happily. ‘Thank you,’ she had said.
‘It was a pity you had to stop training, but blood is thicker than water, isn’t it?’ Mr Anstruther said, then sighed. ‘What a lucky man your father was to have a daughter like you!’
The girls had streamed out of the room and Megan gave it one quick look round, for things were apt to be left behind and it was easier to trace their owners if the class concerned was known. So it came about that she left the room alone and was startled to find Craig Lambert waiting in the corridor.
‘Miss Crane,’ he asked in that authoritative, snapping manner, ‘could I have a word with you?’
‘Of course,’ she said. Wondering what she had done wrong this time, Megan followed him to a small room lined with books. Just inside the door Craig Lambert stood on one side, letting her go through ahead, then closing the door.
‘I’m going into town this afternoon and I see you are free, so I wondered if I could give you a lift, Miss Crane? I’m sure you’re eager to see your brother. You’ve heard from him?’
The sun was making the sea glitter like a million diamonds, Megan saw, as she stared out of the window, taking a deep breath, for she must be on her guard now, and careful of what she said.
‘No,’ she answered with equal curtness, for it was no business of Craig Lambert’s.
‘You mean to say he hasn’t written or telephoned? Surely a brother . . .’ There was the amused sarcastic note she hated in Craig Lambert’s voice.
‘I don’t think he knows I’m here,’ she said. ‘Unless my father wrote and told him.’
‘But surely you want to see him? Your own brother?’ The sarcasm was growing more intense and Megan’s nails dug deeper into the palms of her hands as she controlled her temper. ‘Or Georgina, his very beautiful wife. Aren’t you good friends with her, either?’
Megan could feel the colour in her cheeks. ‘Georgina and I were never friends. I hardly knew her when she married Patrick and they went abroad almost immediately.’
‘I see. A very strange relationship. I would have thought you would be eager to meet them. Anyhow, I’ll take you in this afternoon. Meet me at the front at two-fifteen,’ he finished quickly, turning, opening the door and waiting for her to go out.
It was a ruthless brush-off, Megan thought as she hesitated. What should she do? she asked herself. Tell him the truth: that she had no desire to see either Patrick or Georgina, or would he immediately think she was involved with them? She just didn’t know what to do. Or if she went, would he go with her? Using her as an instrument to erase Patrick? Yet how could she be used in such a way? Surely she was exaggerating the whole thing?
So she nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Lambert,’ she said politely, and left the room.
As the door closed behind her, she sighed. If she had had any idea there was to be so many complications, she would have refused the job. She had no desire to hurt Patrick— after all, he was her brother, and as nice old Mr Anstruther had said, blood was thicker than water!
She dressed carefully after lunch, choosing a leaf-green silk suit, carefully making up, wondering if Patrick would recognise her. Three years ago, she had been little more than a schoolgirl. Now . . . ? She frowned at her reflection: if only she didn’t look so young, she thought.
The white Rolls was waiting for her. Craig Lambert walked out of the front door just behind her.
‘Full marks,’ he said. ‘Punctual to the second.’
She glanced at him quickly, but could see no smile. So he wasn’t joking? Who did he think he was, anyhow? she asked herself. A sergeant-major?
The road went along the coast, with the palm trees bending against the wind and the little sandy coves most inviting on this hot day. It was a much shorter way than the one they had driven when she arrived and she remembered that Craig Lambert had said he had wanted to show her the beauties of the island. Very thoughtful of him, and, considering his behaviour over other things, rather surprising.
They drove through the small town, along the wharf, past the jetty. No schooner was in, so there were few people on it, but still people crowded the pavements by the shops, and the cars and cycles seemed to be having a perpetual fight. Past the town, everything changed. It lost the tropical old-world look that had delighted Megan and suddenly became almost American in its modernisation.
The tall pencil-like hotel soared up into the sky, the grass before it was scattered with brightly-covered sunshades tilted over tables. Along the front were all sorts of enticements for the tourists’ children. Donkey rides; a pool with self-piloted small boats; small zoos with monkeys and snakes apparently their main attraction.
&nbs
p; ‘It seems so unlike the other side of the island,’ Megan said, so surprised she forgot to watch what she said, as she had warned herself to do earlier.
‘Naturally,’ Craig Lambert said, his voice bitter. ‘This is not my land.’
She turned to look at him. ‘The rest is?’
‘Yes. Seven-tenths of this island is mine, but the rest is not. Surely you’ve heard of the Lambert Folly?’ When she shook her head, he went on: ‘As you know my grandfather bought the island and built the school. Unfortunately my father was a different kind of man. A gambler . . .’ He paused, and repeated the word as if it left a nasty taste in his mouth. ‘A gambler. He gambled with the land as his money. Always there have been people after the island, seeing it as a good tourist centre. I bought back most of what my father had sold . . . but I haven’t got it all back,’ he said, almost sadly, Megan noticed, and then he added: ‘yet.’
There was a strangely disturbing threat about the way he said yet, a vicious ruthlessness, she thought. In other words, no holds barred, but he was going to get back the whole island!
Now the car was pulling up before a single-storied building with large curtained windows and above the door, the notice:
‘CRANE DANCING STUDIO’
On the other side was a very modern single-storied house with an enormous picture window and a garden, bright with vividly red, yellow and blue flowers and two palm trees, moving gently in the wind.
The chauffeur opened the door of the car and Megan got out. Her hands felt damp. How was Patrick going to take this? she wondered worriedly. Maybe—and this thought had not struck her before—maybe he would see her as Craig Lambert’s accomplice . . . or he might even think she had come out to see if he was telling the truth and really needed the money he asked for. It seemed to her that no matter what she did, she would always be suspected.
To her dismay, she found Craig Lambert walking with her to the front door. She rang a heavy bell whose carved handle jangled as she pulled it.
‘I’ll fetch you at five o’clock,’ Craig Lambert was saying, turning away as he spoke, just as the door opened.