by Hilary Wilde
Megan hurried to the front door, but even as she went to ring the clanging bell, the door was opened and Patrick stood there.
‘Good. I was afraid you’d fall out. We haven’t danced together in years. We’d better get to work. We’ve got to be good.’
Where dancing was concerned, Patrick was not only a perfectionist but a hard taskmaster. She was quite exhausted when they stopped for a coffee break. Then she had the chance to ask how Georgina was and Patrick looked surprised.
‘Didn’t I tell you she was in hospital? The doctor doesn’t seem to know what’s wrong, so she’s in under observation. That reminds me . . .’ He hurried from the room and returned in a few moments with a dark wig, tossing it to Megan. ‘Try it on.’
The wig was made in the elaborate built-up way Georgina’s hair was set, but Megan couldn’t even fit it on, for her own blonde hair was too long and thick.
Patrick, pacing the room impatiently, was annoyed. ‘We’ll get in Louis, he’s Georgina’s hairdresser, and see what he can do. I’ve also got a make-up girl and after lunch the dressmaker is coming to alter Georgina’s dresses, because she’s much bigger built than you and we can’t have the dresses falling off.’
‘Is the man here, Patrick?’ Megan asked.
‘The man?’ Patrick looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Oh yes, the man. Yes, he is. Now let’s have another go . . . you weren’t too good . . .’
Back to the studio they went, and Megan danced as she hadn’t danced for years. In a way she was enjoying it. Patrick was a good dancer when he was in a good mood . . . but she decided she wouldn’t like to be his permanent partner, for he had a nasty habit of shouting at her if the slightest thing went wrong.
They had a light lunch, then the dressmaker, a tall dark-haired woman, came, pursing her lips thoughtfully as she tightened Georgina’s dresses so that they fitted Megan— beautiful, expensive, pearl-decorated dresses, one white, one green. Louis, the hairdresser, worked hard, but when he had finished and they all looked at Megan’s reflection in the mirror, Louis shook his head sadly.
‘I could never make you look like Georgina. You are too different, but you are both beautiful.’
Patrick said much the same, though not so politely.
‘It can’t be helped—we’ll just say nothing to the man. He knows I dance with my wife and he may take it for granted that you are my wife, and if he’s heard she had dark hair, we can always say it’s dyed. Now . . .’
Back to work, and when the time came to bath and dress ready for the evening, Megan ached all over. It was only because she was out of training, she told herself, but all the same, she was glad this was a one-night show!
Everything was different when the moment came. The excitement raced through Megan’s veins like magic as Patrick led her into the huge ballroom at the hotel, bowing to the audience while Megan curtsied. There were several flashes of light and she could see some of the visitors standing near the orchestra with small cameras. Then the music began . . .
It was the music that had the magic in it, the rhythm, the harmony, as they began to dance. She had no feeling of nervousness, no worry at all as she simply relaxed and let the music lead her.
Afterwards as they bowed again and again to the roar of applause and clapping, Megan seemed to come back to life. It had been like a dream . . .
‘You are so good a dancer,’ exclaimed Gaston, coming to stand close beside her, taking her hand in his and kissing it. He looked round, but Patrick had vanished. ‘You are so much better than Georgina. You should be Patrick’s partner. You will dance with me?’
The orchestra had begun to play again and gradually the great empty floor was getting covered with dancers. Gaston took her in his arms and they danced.
Megan felt his cheek brushing hers, the way his fingers curled round her hand. He turned his head to smile at her.
‘My mother—she told you?’ he asked.
‘She told me what?’ Megan hedged for time, for he had startled her.
‘That we are to be wed.’ He smiled almost triumphantly.
‘But that’s absurd . . .’ she began.
‘Why is it absurd?’ he asked as the music stopped and they came to a standstill. She saw that he had danced her off the main floor and they were standing in a quiet deserted corner near the bar. He kept his arm round her, turning so that they stood side by side as he bent and kissed her.
Even as he did, there was a sudden flash of light, and Megan pushed him away.
‘What was that?’ she asked sharply.
Gaston frowned. ‘What was what?’
‘That light . . . it flashed.’
‘Probably a car outside. It happens as they park.’ He pulled her close to him again. ‘Tell me, Megan, why is it absurd? You will not marry me, is that what you say?’
‘Look, Gaston . . .’ Suddenly Megan knew beyond a shadow of doubt that though Gaston had a strange effect on her, it was not love. ‘I don’t know you and you don’t know me.’
‘We could learn to know one another. It makes my mother happy,’ Gaston began, his face breaking into the smile that must, Megan thought, have broken the proverbial thousand hearts.
‘That’s why you want to marry me, isn’t it?’ she asked him.
He looked startled, his arm falling down. ‘You are suggesting . . . ?’
‘Miss Crane?’ Craig’s deep authoritative voice interrupted them. ‘There you are. I couldn’t find you. I’ve come to fetch you.’ He came striding across the end of the room towards them.
Gaston moved forward. ‘It is far too early. The evening has not begun.’
Craig looked at him with contempt. ‘The evening, as far as Miss Crane is concerned, is over. I agreed to her dancing with her brother.’
‘But not with me?’ Gaston smiled. ‘You are her guardian?’
‘No, I’m her employer. Collect your things and change, Miss Crane. My car will be outside the Studio.’
Megan hesitated as she looked from one man to another. It was the first time she had seen them together and the difference in them was almost amazing. Craig, a well-built man with his square chin and high forehead, his short dark hair, dark eyes and that ugly yet handsome look, made Gaston look like a university student with his long curly hair and that strangely fascinating smile. Craig was a man, but Gaston . . .
‘Yes, Mr Lambert,’ she said meekly, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
She turned and hurried out of the hotel and into Patrick’s house, went to the guest room where her clothes were, hastily changed, removed the make-up and brushed out the carefully curled hair.
Craig was in the car when she went outside. He didn’t speak as he drove away and then abruptly, without looking at her, said:
‘Your dancing was superb. I wonder Patrick didn’t make you his partner.’
Megan turned eagerly. ‘You saw us?’
‘Of course. Unfortunately I came in a little late, so I missed the first dance. He’s a good dancer, too, your brother.’
‘He’s a perfectionist. I wouldn’t like to work for him. Maybe that’s why he and Georgina keep quarrelling—he’s so convinced he’s always right.’
A smile hovered round Craig’s mouth. ‘Maybe he is.’
Megan laughed. ‘Maybe, but he needn’t shout about it.’
‘Did the man you said would be there say anything? I mean, offer him the job he wants?’
Shrugging, Megan shook her head. ‘I have no idea. As soon as we stopped dancing, Patrick vanished and . . .’
‘Gaston Duval took over,’ Craig said drily. ‘Is he serious?’
Startled, Megan looked at him. ‘Serious? Oh, I see what you mean. He says he is, but I think he’s only saying that to please his mother.’
‘His mother?’ Craig’s voice changed. ‘You’ve met her?’
‘Yes, the other day. It seems Gaston wrote and told her he was going to marry me.’
‘Marry you?’ Craig’s voice rose. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
<
br /> Megan laughed a little uncertainly. ‘Of course not. It’s just what he says, that he wants to marry me, but I don’t think he does.’
‘Then why?’
‘Because, as I said, he wants to please Madame Duval. She’s English.’
‘I know. I met her many years ago when I was a schoolboy—a beautiful woman, but hard as nails. Gaston is an only child and very spoilt.’
‘That’s what she said . . .’ Megan stopped abruptly as she glanced at him. ‘She said he was like Patrick, and I think she’s right. Patrick can get anything out of my father, anything he wants.’ She added wistfully: ‘Dad never loved me. He just makes use of me.’
‘He may be the type of man who finds it difficult to show emotion.’
‘He shows plenty over Patrick,’ Megan said bitterly.
‘So when young Gaston told you he was going to marry you, what did you say?’ Craig’s voice had changed, was almost accusing.
‘I said it was absurd, that we didn’t know one another and . . . well, then you came along.’
‘And had I not come along?’ They were nearing the school now as Craig asked that.
Megan looked at him. ‘I’d have said the same. I don’t even know him.’
‘But you find him very attractive?’
‘Well . . .’ she hesitated. ‘He is rather fascinating . . . that smile and . . . but that isn’t love,’ she added solemnly.
‘It isn’t?’ Craig drew up outside the school front door and turned to look at her. ‘Then what is love?’
‘I . . .’ She looked round her, anywhere away from his eyes that seemed to be looking right into her mind. How could she tell him the truth—the truth she had known as Craig stood by Gaston and she could compare them—the truth that she loved Craig, loved him with every single inch of her. ‘Loving is wanting to make a person happy, to feel the person needs you.’
‘A romantic idealist!’ Craig sounded amused. ‘You’re very young,’ he added, getting out of the car and walking round.
But she was too fast for him, battling with the car handle but getting out as he reached her. You’re very young, he had said. Just as she had thought and feared, that was how he saw her.
Fortunately she was so exhausted physically that her worried thoughts failed to keep her awake and she was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. In the morning, her body ached a little and her limbs felt stiff, but it was Sunday, so there wasn’t much to do. She managed to avoid the rest of the staff. After lunch she slipped away to sit with her book in a shady corner, sheltered by great rocks balanced perilously on one another, the shade supplied by the palm trees. But she couldn’t read. She sat, her hands clasped round the book as she gazed blindly into the distance.
Now she was in real trouble, she told herself. There was no doubt in her mind whatsoever—it was Craig she loved.
Could there be anything more impossible than that? First of all, there had been her impossible dream of the island, and she had found it. Now there was the impossible dream of being Craig’s beloved wife . . . What hope had she that such a thing could ever come true?
Craig saw her as a very young person. It was not a passionate or exciting description. A young person he was sorry for and very patient with . . . not the sort of woman he would seek to be his wife.
What sort of woman would he love? she wondered. Someone with a husky voice and beautiful features like Petronella Weston?
It was four days before she knew. And as it was in a time of shocked surprise, the knowledge didn’t help in the least.
It all began with a curt order from Miss Tucker to present herself immediately, so Megan hurried to the headmistress’s room. As she entered, she saw that Craig was standing by Miss Tucker’s side, both silent as they watched Megan walk across the room.
Never had the room seemed so long, never had Megan felt so nervous, for never had she seen Craig look like that . . .
He held out a newspaper. ‘Look!’ he said curtly.
Megan’s hands were trembling as she obeyed. She caught her breath with dismay, for it was the island’s newspaper and on the front page were two photographs. One of her dancing with Patrick—the other of her in Gaston’s arms as he kissed her.
The headlines were: Famous Lambert School’s Dancing Mistress finds Romance.
‘I . . .’ Megan looked up, horrified, unable to speak.
‘I told you that no one was to know you were taking part in the exhibition dancing, Miss Crane.’ Craig’s voice was cold as ice, it seemed to cut its way through her. ‘You knew they were taking photos?’
‘I saw a few flashes. I thought it was the hotel’s guests.’ Megan’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I did ask Gaston what it was, but he said a car’s head-lights as it parked. I had no idea. I told Patrick that no one was to know.’
‘A likely story!’ Miss Tucker chimed in. ‘The harm you’ve done to the school since you came! You should never have . . .’
‘Miss Tucker, kindly leave this to me,’ Craig snapped.
The headmistress looked as if she was about to explode, but she moved back, sat down and waited.
‘I told Patrick . . .’ Megan said. ‘He told me he wanted the man to think I was Georgina . . .’
‘Your name is there,’ Craig snapped. ‘Georgina, it seems, is in hospital. This is not the type of publicity we’re seeking. I . . .’
Megan was very close to tears. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Lambert. It was awfully good of you to let me help Patrick, but if I’d thought anything like this would happen . . .’ She stopped speaking, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. ‘I had no idea . . .’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Craig told her slowly. ‘I trusted you.’
‘I told you not to. We don’t want girls of that calibre here. I told you from the beginning that she was most unsuitable, quite apart from her being mixed up with those dreadful people,’ Miss Tucker exploded.
‘That’s all, Miss Crane,’ Craig, ignoring the angry woman by his side, said curtly. ‘I would suggest that for the next few days you remain in your flat. I’ll arrange for food to be sent up. It will give you a chance to complete the dancing programme for Mr Taft.’
‘Stay in my flat?’ Megan, feeling stunned, echoed.
‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘We may get journalists here and I don’t want you to make things worse.’
Megan looked at him, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Please believe me,’ she said. ‘I had no idea, no idea at all. If I had . . .’
The tears were so horribly near falling that she turned and ran, hurrying across the hall and up the stairs, going into her flat and flinging herself on the bed.
How could Patrick have been so wicked? So cruel? So selfish—for this would mean the end of her job. She wouldn’t be asked back next term, that was for sure, she thought as she wept.
But worse was to come, for on the third day Miss Wilmot arrived, coming to see Megan in her flat.
‘Miss Wilmot?’ Megan said, delighted to see someone who would break the miserable loneliness she was suffering, and went forward eagerly to greet her, but stopped dead as she saw the anger on Clare Wilmot’s face.
In her hand were several English newspapers as well as a French one. ‘The harm you’ve done with these photographs—and the news,’ she said. ‘Parents are ringing me from all over the world. This isn’t the sort of publicity they or we want. How could you behave so badly? It was good of Mr Lambert to give you the job in the first place, despite your unfortunate relationship with Patrick Crane and Gaston Duval. How could you do this to him?’
Suddenly the most awful thing happened, for Clare Wilmot’s composed, beautiful face seemed to crumple and she sank into a chair, her hands hiding her face.
‘How could you . . . how could you do this . . . to Craig?’
Megan stood stiffly and silent. So Clare, too, was in love with Craig?
‘I knew nothing about it, Miss Wilmot. I told Patrick I was allowed to help him but t
hat no one must know and . . . I don’t suppose you believe me,’ Megan added.
Miss Wilmot lowered her hands. Streaks of mascara ran down her cheeks. ‘Lambert School means so much to Craig—I know that. I know, too, that it needs to be modernised, that Miss Tucker must go, but Craig’s heart is too soft about her. She’s due to retire next year, so he wanted to wait until then . . . but this . . .’ Clare Wilmot touched the newspapers. ‘Goodness only knows the harm you’ve done. Gaston Duval is known everywhere as a jet-set playboy, kissing every girl he meets. I’d have thought you’d have had more sense. How can we trust the girls with you? As for letting them photograph you . . .’
‘I didn’t . . .’ Megan bit her lip. No one would believe her. She knew that. No one at all, least of all Graig.
‘Look,’ Clare Wilmot’s voice changed, became almost wheedling, ‘the best thing you can do is to resign and leave the island. Craig won’t want to hurt you. But if you go, he’ll be glad. You’re nothing but a nuisance. In any case, when I come out here permanently, I wouldn’t keep you. I consider you’re far too young. Next year, when Miss Tucker goes, I’m going to be headmistress. Craig and I will run the school together.’
Megan began to see light—and she didn’t like what she saw.
‘You and Craig . . . ?’ she said slowly.
Clare Wilmot nodded. She went to the mirror and cleaned her face, speaking over her shoulder.
‘Of course. We’ve known for years, but there was no hurry. We’re still young.’
‘And . . . and you think I should resign?’
Clare Wilmot swung round, looking pleased. ‘It’s the only solution. Write a note to Mr Lambert and I’ll arrange for your flight back to England. There, that’s not too bad,’ she said, peering closely in the mirror. ‘Goodbye,’ she added, leaving the flat.
Megan stood very still, her hands pressed to her face. Yes, now she came to think of it, Clare Wilmot was the sort of woman Craig would marry. Beautiful, dignified yet efficient, witty, friendly yet firmly sure of herself in every way, she would make a perfect wife.