by Susan Barrie
The colour receding slowly from her cheeks—and she was not now so much afraid that it had been revealing colour since he had such a poor opinion of her—she lifted her head, and once more looked him full in the face.
“How do you know that it didn’t once cross my mind that I could hold you to our engagement if I wished?” she asked. “And I mean hold you to our engagement ... not demean myself by demanding cheques, and that sort of thing!”
The whole aspect of his face changed. It grew cold, and a little set, as he answered her.
“I don’t know... Except that I rated your intelligence rather higher than you apparently rate it yourself. No woman—not even Marty’s friend, for whom she entertains, I believe, a genuine affection—could force me into marrying her if I did not wish to do so! You might as well get it into your head, Miss Sterne, that I am not to be married easily ... and if that really was your idea when we started this business you should get rid of it with as little delay as possible!”
Carole coloured this time for an entirely different reason, and because she knew she had deserved that quick-fire response to her suggestion. At the same time, if he could defend himself so well why had he ever entered into an engagement? Why didn’t he simply tell Chantal that he had no intention of marrying her?
Because he was still fighting against his love for Chantal...?
She turned and walked swiftly down to the edge of the lake, and he followed her. Seething now with resentment, and wishing she was miles away from Ferne Abbey, and that she had never seen or heard of either Marty Pentallon or her brother, Carole stood gazing out across the placid surface of the lake to the little island that floated picturesquely in the middle of it, with a tiny temple to Diana standing on a small bluff backed by a group of weeping willows. It was all almost too picturesque ... And it belonged to James Pentallon, and she felt she hated it. Just as she was beginning to hate Ferne Abbey.
James approached her, and spoke quietly, standing beside her.
“You know very well that I never had any doubts of you, Carole. Don’t be silly,” he said.
“Then why do you ask me to marry you now?” she asked stiffly.
“Because I think it’s a good idea.”
“Why is it a good idea?”
He shrugged.
“You seem to be without any form of real protection, you have to earn your own living—and that’s absurd when you look as you do—and unless I do something about it you’ll have to find another job when you leave here. Therefore I suggest that you marry me, and that will do away with the necessity for looking for another job. You’ll have quite a big enough one here, acting the part of mistress at Ferne, and giving dinner-parties and so forth to my friends. Marty’s too scatterbrained to be much good at that sort of thing. Besides, I don’t think she’s really keen.”
“So you think I could become a kind of unpaid hostess?” She bit her lower lip hard. “Do the things that Marty doesn’t wish to do?”
James smiled, but he looked slightly puzzled at the same time.
“Not unpaid, precisely. As my wife you would receive quite a generous allowance ... In fact, you could have anything you wanted. You would be an entirely free agent here, with permission to make any alterations that appealed to you. And as my wife, of course, you would enjoy security. Your future would be secure.”
“Any other advantages?” she enquired, a rather high colour burning on her cheekbones. “Can’t you think of some other inducement to make the idea really tempting?”
Her head was high—and, not for the first time, he noticed what a gracefully poised head she had, very small and shapely, rather like floss silk. And although she was wearing a very simple dress—definitely not one of his sister’s—she managed to look dainty and desirable, if a trifle too thin at the moment. She needed fattening up, he thought ... Or perhaps caring for would be a better way of putting it.
He didn’t suppose she had had a great deal of affectionate care in her life.
“You would be my wife,” he said, as if that was enough.
Her face was slightly averted from him, but he could catch a glimpse of her creamy cheek, and the colour that burnt beneath the skin. It seemed to him that she was still biting her lower lip rather hard. “What sort of a wife? In name only, of course?”
“If that’s the way you would prefer it.”
She turned completely away from him, and took a step or two in the direction of a clump of reeds.
“And would you expect me to entertain people like—like Madame St. Clair, once I was married to you?”
“Perhaps,” he answered.
She turned round and confronted him. The spots of colour in her cheeks seemed to be literally scorching her skin, and her small, square chin was quivering, to match the slight quiver of her lips.
“Then I think you ought to know that I feel as if I—I’ve been insulted,” she told him.
She was about to run away when his hand shot out and he caught her wrist, and he jerked her round to face him.
“What do you mean?” he asked icily. She had never seen his blue eyes so cold, and at the same time so furious. “To be asked to become the wife of a Pentallon is not an insult—” But the brilliant hazel beauty of her eyes insisted that it was as she glared at him with parted lips. “It’s an honour! You are the first woman I’ve asked to marry me, and if your reaction is the kind I can expect in future it’s the last time I’ll do so.”
“That in itself proves that you’re merely having a kind of a game with me,” she told him wildly. The slight breeze from the lake was blowing her hair about and she looked as she confronted him like a wild-eyed sprite. “If you really wanted to marry me you wouldn’t dare to talk about the next occasion when you made the same offer to someone else. It’s insulting!”
For a moment he looked so surprised that his expression was almost ludicrous. And then he burst out laughing.
“You little idiot! If you accepted me I wouldn’t be in a position to make the same offer to someone else, would I?”
“I’m not in the least likely to accept you—”
He still had hold of her wrist, and before she could anticipate what he intended to do he had dragged her up against him and his arms closed round her.
“What do you want me to do?” he demanded, breathing rather more quickly. “Tell you I’m violently in love with you? Prove myself by kissing you?”
He forced back her head by slipping his fingers beneath her chin, and in the strong July sunlight, on the edge of the lake, his mouth descended on hers, and she had her first experience of what it was like to be kissed by a man in a temper, a man whose pride had been upset, and a man who had so little regard for the way in which she reacted that his hard mouth bruised her lips with what she afterwards thought about as complete, cynical carelessness.
Apart from that, the kiss—and it was the first she had ever received—took her breath away, deprived her for the short while that it lasted of the power to move or object in any way, and then filled her with such indignation that it was a matter of swift action following upon thought when she lifted her hand and struck him smartly across the face.
He let her go at once. His eyes were almost lividly dark, his mouth ugly.
“If you ever do that again—!” she began.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her gratingly, “I won’t!”
They both turned away at the same time, and they both started to walk back to the house. Within a few yards of the terrace steps they encountered Marty, who had been straddling one of the stone lions, and had lifted her hand to wave to them before she realised that both their faces were as black as thunder. Then, because she was extremely quick-witted, she lowered her hand and walked to meet them instead of calling out a careless greeting.
“Hullo!” she said, looking first at Carole, and then at her brother.
James ignored her altogether, took the terrace steps in a couple of strides, and then vanished through the open french window
s of the library.
Marty looked comically at her friend for an explanation, and as it was not forthcoming she voiced the obvious question:
“What’s wrong? You and James look as if you’ve had a fight!”
Carole, who was trembling all over with a strange mixture of emotions—paramount amongst which was anger—answered in a shaking voice:
“Your brother kissed me!”
“What!” Marty looked first astonished, and then delighted. “Is that all?”
“And he asked me to marry him.”
“What?” Marty fairly shrieked. She flew down the steps and embraced Carole, giving her a rapturous kind of a hug. “I’m delighted! I’m much, much more than delighted! Now there’ll be no more danger of that awful St. Clair woman being brought into the family! Or any other of James’s undesirable female friends! You and James will settle down splendidly, I feel sure of it! You’re absolutely right for one another, and I couldn’t be more pleased if I’d arranged everything myself. And, as a matter of fact, I did help, didn’t I—? Suggesting that James should get himself engaged to you to pull wool over Madame St. Clair’s eyes...”
Carole surveyed her coldly.
“So it was you who thought up the idea of a mock engagement?”
“Yes, of course. I thought it was a good idea. And it’s worked, hasn’t it? Since James has asked you to marry him he must be right off Chantal...” And then a thought struck her, and she sounded suddenly rather less confident. “But I can’t understand why you and James both look so grim.”
“Can’t you?” Carole regarded her with a strange fixedness, and there were still bright spots of colour burning on her cheeks. “Well, I’ll tell you! Your brother asked me to marry him, kissed me, and I smacked his face ... All in that order!”
“What!” Marty gasped.
“I smacked his face,” Carole repeated, as if that in itself was an achievement. Her slim breasts were heaving agitatedly up and down under the thin material of her dress. “I’ve never been so insulted—” But Marty had started to wail.
“Oh, he’ll never ask you to marry him again! Not if you smacked his face! James is the old-fashioned type who’d never forgive a thing like that ... And in any case, why did you?” wheeling on her friend in sudden indignation.
Carole attempted to explain.
“Because he asked me to marry him, and I know he doesn’t want to marry me, and ... because he never even said he wanted to marry me, and only a few days ago I caught him kissing Madame St. Clair!” Her hands were clenched down at her sides, and her voice shook. “It was bad enough having a mock engagement, but to be asked to marry him in order to act as a kind of buffer between him and the women who want to marry him ... that was too much!”
Marty looked as if she still did not understand all that had taken place while she was not on hand to witness it.
“Well, in that case, why did he kiss you?” she asked, at last. “If that’s the only reason he wants to marry you.”
“I don’t know ... Yes, I do know.” Carole put a hand up to her lips as if she would wipe away the humiliation of that kiss. “It was because I dared to refuse him, and he simply couldn’t understand it!” She gazed at Marty with withering contempt in her expressive grey-green eyes. “He simply didn’t understand it because I didn’t say ‘Yes’ immediately, and fall at his feet in thanks for his benevolence! He never doubted for one moment that I would say ‘yes’ ... and when I didn’t—when I more or less flung back in his face he told me I should have been grateful for the honour he had paid me and kissed me as I never want to be kissed by anyone again!”
And as her bruised lips were actually hurting her she covered them with her handkerchief.
But Marty wailed afresh.
“Oh, how could you be such an idiot?” she demanded. “He’ll never ask you again, never! I know James, and he’s like that!”
“Don’t worry,” Carole returned, pushing her way past her and up the steps. “The very last thing I want him to do is to ask me again!”
Marty followed her up to her room, and there she discovered that Carole intended to pack and leave the house immediately; and it was only after intensive discussion and argument that she persuaded her to remain on at Ferne Abbey for a few more days, at least. She pointed out to Carole that James had not intended to insult her, and that if he had kissed her against her will it was because she had provoked him. James always reacted badly to being provoked ... Always had, and probably always would. And if she wanted to be absolutely fair Carole would have to admit that James had treated her with the utmost consideration from the moment that she had agreed to pose as his fiancée ... And if he was not to look an absolute idiot—in the eyes of his own servants, too—she simply could not pack up and return to Paris as if he was a thing of no account.
Then, too, she, Marty, wanted her to stay. She had been looking forward to some happy, carefree weeks at Ferne Abbey, showing Carole all sorts of things that she knew would interest her, and making sure that she had a good time. She was fond of Carole. She would be really distressed if the programme was altered and Carole proved not merely unreasonable but difficult. And as James was not in the least likely to repeat his offence of the morning there was absolutely no reason why she should not stay.
“For my sake, if not for James.” She looked pleadingly at Carole, and Carole began to melt a little and to recollect the many kindnesses that she had received from Marty, the frequent offers of clothes and trinkets and all sorts of other things in the days when James had not entered into the picture, and Carole was unable to accept an invitation because she had nothing really suitable to wear.
Marty was self-centred, and she did not always treat people well ... But she had always treated Carole well. The two had actually grown up together, had developed a genuine affection for one another; and now Marty was appealing to Carole, though there seemed no sound or sensible reason why she should do so. At any rate, Carole could not think of one.
It was not enough to point out that Mrs. Bennett would think it odd after putting Carole into the White Suite, and having her introduced to her as her future mistress. Mrs. Bennett must have been well aware that James Pentallon was not the type of man to marry a girl like Carole ... Not willingly.
Mrs. Bennett had seen more than one of his other lady friends!
However, at last they descended to the dining room for lunch, and although James appeared for it and behaved more or less as if everything was completely normal and natural, and he had not had his face slapped in his own grounds that morning, Marty did not pass on to him the information that Carole had relented to the extent that she was prepared to stay on at Ferne Abbey for perhaps a couple of weeks, although certainly not longer.
James did not look as if this information would have interested him. He crumbled bread on his plate with strong, rather restless fingers, and surveyed the various dishes as they were brought to table with a slight frown between his black brows, but otherwise he was quiet and preoccupied.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE next day was Sunday, and it passed very quietly, with the owner of Ferne Abbey driving his sister and Carole to church and sharing a pew with them while the elderly vicar—who had heard something of an engagement that was about to be announced at the Abbey—beamed at them over his spectacles while delivering his sermon, and afterwards congratulated them impulsively during the process of shaking hands in the porch.
“You must forgive me if I’m being anticipatory,” he requested. “But I gather the Abbey is going to have a new mistress very soon. I understand you’re going to be married!” He pumped James’s hand enthusiastically up and down. “I do assure you I’m delighted! Really delighted!”
James, slightly taken aback—or at any rate, unprepared—murmured something awkwardly, and then presented Carole.
“This is Miss—er—Sterne,” he said. “Carole, the vicar has known me since I was a gangling schoolboy. I don’t think anything I could have done in
those days would have delighted him ... Or anyone else, if it comes to that! But thankfully we sometimes improve as we advance towards maturer years. I sincerely hope I’ve improved, Vicar?”
The vicar chortled delightedly, as if at a tremendous joke.
“Nonsense,” he denied, “you were always a very charming youth, and the only depredation I recall is the fact that you once robbed my orchard. However, I forgive you freely for that now, and I’m sure Miss Sterne is going to be very happy. You, also, my dear James, of course!”
Carole felt herself blushing furiously as he retained her hand in his long, scholarly fingers. He was looking at her very kindly, and she was sure he meant every word he said. He really was wishing her and James well!
She managed to free her fingers and thank him stiltedly at the same time.
“You’re very kind,” she said in a small voice.
Marty, who was close behind her, came to her rescue.
“You must come and have dinner with us one night, Vicar,” she invited him. “Now that we’re back at the Abbey we mean to do a lot of entertaining. We’ve been away from it for so long that the old place has got horribly dull and neglected. You will come, won’t you?”
“But of course, of course,” he assured her. He beamed at her delightedly, too. “How you’ve grown up, my dear! It seems only the other day that you were a child, too.”
They drove away, while one or two members of the congregation stood in the shadow of the lych-gate and watched them, and Carole sat beside James, and Marty sat in the back of the car. James was looking very dark and distinguished in a particularly well-cut dark grey suit, and Carole had selected a neat navy-blue silk dress for the occasion, with a matching hat of navy-blue straw perched on her gleaming golden hair. Marty, in the back, was in hazy larkspur blue, and she looked beautiful and remote as she leaned against the back of the seat.