Dorothy Quentin - The Inn by the Lake

by The Inn by the Lake (lit)

  Jonathan was stunned. A less civilised man would have had his mouth hanging open, his eyes on stalks. He had expected changes in Nicole . . . their little shopping expedition in Lugano had opened his eyes to her possibilities ... and of course she would have to be dressed up for a show like this ball. He had not expected such a complete transformation. It wasn't only the dress, though that made her look enchanting; it was the poise of the girl, the way she seemed so happy dancing with her cousin. With that stuffed shirt, Nigel Stannisford.

  It gave him a queer, cold feeling down his spine, in spite of the warmth in the ballroom, the fragrance and soft lights, the music and the girl he held in his arms. Only this afternoon he had been thinking of Nicki as she had been on his arrival at Lugano—that slim, shabby, boyish little gypsy . . . and now in a few short hours they had turned her into a lovely young woman. He was not oblivious of the other male eyes glancing at Nicole, lingering on her radiant face.

  And he had come here to give her moral support!

  Fortunately he managed to smile across at Nicki, fortunately his face did not give away his thoughts.

  "What are you looking so pleased about?" Frances demanded.

  He stooped a little to reply, transferring the smile he had managed to produce for Nicki to Fran. She was taller than Nicki, a very different type; one would never think of Frances as a sweet, wild child. . . .

  He pulled his thoughts up abruptly, wishing he had not come. Aunt Bella had been right off the mark this time. Except, of course, that Frances and her mother were pleased; he could not very well avoid the realisation that Fran was falling in love with him—or thought she was—and Lady Lavinia had practically given her public blessing to the idea. Jonathan was sorry for Frances, who was missing a lot of fun with her own young set to dance with him—but she had almost demanded it, and it was her party—

  "I was thinking what a magnificent show you're putting on tonight, young Fran—nice party. I haven't seen Fourways look like this since I was at school."

  "If you're trying to remind me that you're old enough to remember me in my cradle, forget it, Jonathan!" The Honourable Frances laughed up at him knowingly.

  "But I did," he assured her with mock gravity. "I was a schoolboy, admittedly, but the last time I came to a party here you were three years old—a little horror!"

  "Poor old man, I'm glad you can still dance," she teased him gaily, but she was seething inwardly. For the rest of the evening she would try different tactics, dance with the younger men, make him jealous. "I'm glad you are enjoying it, anyway," she added lightly. "We were afraid you'd be stuffy as usual and not come, and that would have ruined my evening!"

  "My dear child"—he laughed shortly, feeling a hypocrite and a humbug because he was trying to be avuncular with Fran, whereas Nicki—a year older than Fran—did not make him feel at all like an uncle—"nothing can spoil one's twenty-first!"

  Frances was no fool, though she was willing to be foolish over one particular man. She had seen the tenderness in his eyes when he smiled across at Nicole Berenger. She remembered suddenly that he had brought her back from Switzerland. She glanced up at him shrewdly. "There's something fascinating about your little friend, Nicole," she ventured thoughtfully. "Mother was quite taken with her, and, of course, Nigel is head-over-heels already."

  "Is he?" Jonathan was dryly non-committal.

  "Oh, Nig knows which side his bread is buttered, I daresay, but Nicole is a girl any man could fall for, isn't she? Your dear aunt and uncle didn't tell us you were bringing home a raving beauty!" Fran tried again, casually,

  He laughed shortly. "Because I hadn't described her as a raving beauty, I expect. She's only a child, Fran—"

  "Oh, you're infuriating!" Frances gave him a little shake as the music ended and he handed her over to her next partner. She suspected him of posing a little in his attitude towards young girls; he was not as old as all that. Yet the fact remained that he had not married . . . and Fran had no intention of throwing herself away for any lost love. She would keep one or two men in reserve, just in case. . . . Only a child, indeed!

  It was at the buffet supper that Jonathan came over to speak to Nicole. Until then they seemed to have been separated by an ocean of shining parquet floor, by an army of people. Nigel greeted him before moving away to speak to some of his other friends. Nicole and Jonathan were left standing by the laden buffet, decorated with flowers and garlands of greenery and tender ferns. In the ballroom beyond the orchestra still played—the last tune before the supper interval. There was a gay crowd at the buffet; the colours of the women's dresses set off by the sombre black-and-white of the men, and much laughter and snatches of conversation. Frances was the centre of a laughing group at the far end of the table. For a brief moment Jonathan and Nicole might have been alone, as it is possible to be alone in a crowd.

  "Well?" He dropped the little word at her, the lines round his eyes deep with laughter and something else she could not fathom. "You look different, Nicki—like a fairy-tale princess or something. Quite a stranger."

  She flushed a little beneath the skilful make-up. "So do you." There was a tiny, half-defiant gasp in her low voice. "I've never seen you in this grandeur before! Now you look like Jonathan Grant, the famous surgeon . . . the so successful surgeon. And I thought you said once you did not like dances, parties!"

  Somehow she had turned the tables on him. He could not guess that she thought he looked heartbreakingly distinguished in his evening clothes, yet removed still further from her; that she was bitterly disappointed because he was laughing at her, instead of praising her lovely dress.

  He said ruefully, "Aunt Bella made me come tonight, Nicki. She had the mistaken idea that you might need a friend among all these strangers. That you might even be—scared."

  So he had come to look after her . . . not merely to dance with Frances, who obviously adored him. Nicki's blue eyes were shining like the Swiss gentians as she looked up at him; her tender mouth smiled a little, suddenly. "Oh, but I was terrified! How kind of Aunt Bella, how kind of you, Jonathan. I thought you had gone away and left me to my fate."

  Incredibly, there were tears in her eyes. As he passed her the champagne cup their hands touched for an instant, and he knew that she had not changed. Under the hubbub all round them he said quickly, "I'll never do that, Nicki. I'll always be your friend. I want you to understand that, if they try and force you to do anything you don't want to do. Anything at all. Will you remember that?"

  It was as much as he dared say. She trusted him, she had always trusted him, so completely. Yet he could not encourage her to throw away a fortune for his sake. If she chose Nigel and great wealth, that was that; but the choice must be hers, freely made. He would not stand by and see her being forced into anything.

  "I'll remember." She blinked back the tears. "It seems such a long time since yesterday, Jonathan! And this morning your Miss Denbigh made me feel like a worm."

  He grinned suddenly. "Come and see the garden, that's the place for worms. Let's get out of this."

  The grounds of Fourways were magnificent, the smooth velvet turf of the terrace was guarded by high elms. Lanterns were hung in the trees and among the flowering shrubs, and the night was warm and scented. From the edge of the terrace the house was gloriously illuminated, and from the open french windows of the ballroom a great swathe of golden light made the grass look like a glowing emerald.

  "Old England at her best," Jonathan said quietly, when they had turned at the sloping edge of the terrace. Most of the guests outside were strolling near the house. Here in the shadows they were quite alone. Jonathan, standing beside her, seemed very tall, very dark; as he had said, they were suddenly like strangers.

  "It's beautiful, like something out of a book," she agreed softly, "but too grand for me. I wouldn't like to live always in a mansion, Jonathan."

  He glanced at her smilingly. "You haven't done so badly tonight, Nicki. You look magnificent. I didn't know you could dance." />
  At last he had praised her, though "magnificent" was not the adjective she longed to hear. She was suddenly absurdly happy. "No, we never went to any of the café9 on the lake, did we? Because Pietro was ill. ... I hope he is not missing me too much, il poverillo."

  She said naively, "It is easy to dance with Nigel. He is very good."

  He's had plenty of practice, Jonathan wanted to snarl, but grinned instead. "Well you can dance the next one with me, and suffer for my sins."

  "To please Aunt Bella?" she asked with shrewd mis-chief.

  "To please Aunt Bella," he agreed gravely, adding quietly, "And don't fret your heart out over Pietro, little one. We'll have him over soon."

  "Oh, you haven't forgotten," she cried happily, and the music started again, dragging them indoors. But waltzing with Jonathan was very different from dancing with Nigel, Then she had been just a young girl wearing her first pretty dress, a little intoxicated by the music, the atmosphere of gaiety, the novelty of power. In Jonathan's arms she forgot the rest of the world entirely; they were like one per. son. . . .

  "Why," she said in sudden surprise, "you can dance even better than Nigel, your leg is not stiff any more!"

  "Don't talk," he commanded abruptly. "Let yourself go—just let your feet listen to the music."

  She was very willing not to talk. It was all she asked, she thought childishly, to dance like this with Jonathan. If only they could go on like this for ever, until he forgot the woman who had spoiled his life; until he forgot that she, Nicole, was in his eyes a silly child. . . .

  She did not feel a silly child any more. That much, at least, Joyce's careful shopping and Nigel's admiration had done for her. And with Jonathan's strong but gentle hold of her body she knew she was a woman, and a woman in love. He must be very blind or very bitter, she thought, not to realise the strength of her love, holding her close like this.

  "Thank you, Nicki." The music had stopped; he was leading her back to Nigel, who was waiting with a quizzical expression on his lazy, good-natured face. "I'm leaving now, I have to operate in the morning. I'm afraid we shan't see much of each other for a while, but you can always get hold of me through Aunt Bella. And if Joyce and young Nigel bother you—" He broke off abruptly, though they were still half the length of the ballroom away from her waiting escort.

  "Don't worry about Nigel, I like him. I'm sorry for him. I think my grandfather treated him abominably," Nicole said softly, to Jonathan's amazement. He had not expected Nicki to be sorry for Nigel. Anything but that. She added with quaint dignity, "And I will not bother you at your rooms again."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FOR NICOLE it was a long, tedious month that followed the Milburs' ball. Jonathan had been right. . . they saw nothing of each other. It was true that, during his absence in Vietnam and his long vacation, work had piled up for him—professional consultations, treatments, operations, and conferences. But Nicki thought he could have made time to see her, if only for a few moments, if he had wanted to ... and she was determined not to contact him through Aunt Bella again unless there was some real crisis in her life.

  She wrote regularly to all of them at the albergo, making light of her loneliness and boredom, describing in some detail for their entertainment the house of her grandmother, the new clothes she had been given, the grand ball that had been her entrance to local society. But she did not emphasise the cost of her new status; she laughed at it, so that they could laugh at it too.

  There are so many things a young lady must not do here, she wrote to Emilio, smiling as she wrote, though her heart was heavy. There is a harbour full of little boats, but I cannot go and row myself about the sea wearing the clothes I have always worn; it upsets Grand'mère to see me looking like a ragamuffin, she says, but I think she is frightened of what the servants will think! I must go down in a pretty summer frock, and hire an old boatman to take me out—ME!

  She did not write that she was bored, bored, bored with living in a house that was staid and fusty with Victorian stuffiness; with having no work to do, and no one of her own age to play with, except perhaps Nigel at the week-ends. She went exploring the old town alone, always ending up by the harbour, and wrote careful descriptions in her letters. She was looking forward passionately to having Pietro for a visit. Helen had indulged her by consenting to the little boy's coming. Nicole hardly realised herself how much she missed the children, and having the responsibility of their welfare; the scoldings of Lucia and the laughing teasing of Emilio. She watched the post eagerly for the flimsy air-mail envelopes bringing her news of Gandria, but they were few and far between. Emilio, though he enjoyed her letters, was lazy about replying to them. Old Lucia could not write, though she sent Nicole many loving messages and admonitions. Nicki had to reply on Bianca's careless scribbles for her news, and Pietro's large, childish writing was most faithful of all. Pietro was looking forward to his trip to England as passionately as Nicki herself, though she knew it was chiefly so that he would have something to brag about when he went back to school.

  Osterley House, after the dramatic impact of her arrival and the Milburs' dance, had settled down again into its slow, precise routine that revolved round a frail old lady, And though she had developed a real affection for Helen, Nicki's young vital strength had no outlet in that direction. She was for ever guarding her impulsive tongue so as not to upset her grandmother. She was for ever having to do things she did not really want to do.

  "They are making a robot of you, Nicki Berenger!" she told her reflection savagely one day. She was wearing jodhpurs and brogues polished like chestnuts; a well-fitting jacket that had been tailored for her by Nigel's own tailor. Correct wear for young English lady going riding. . . .

  The rebellion of years made her resent being turned into a young lady, the habits of her free life at the albergo made all these new restrictions irksome. In a quiet way she was being sent to school again . . . and there were so many little things to learn! Yet even as she stared so savagely at herself in the mirror she knew she looked nice in riding clothes, in the beautifully tailored things. And in spite of herself she felt drawn to so many English customs; already she loved the coast, the harbour, the rolling hills and the moorland above—her English blood felt suddenly, wonder-fully at home. Everywhere except at Osterley House, a fact she tried hard to hide from Helen in case it hurt the old lady's feelings. If only—if she could have lived in one of the fishermen's cottages down by the wharf, or even in one of the small moorland farms! There were days during that hot July when Nicole—used to the much greater heat of Lugano—felt she would stifle.

  There was a riding school beyond the town, on the road up to the moor, and almost every week-end Nigel drove her up for her riding lesson. Nicole had never had much to do with horses beyond taking apples and sugar to the line of patient carriage-hacks that waited by the lake-side in Lugano to take tourists for drives. At first she was frightened, the mount they gave her at the school seemed enormous, but she was too proud to confess her fear to Nigel and the riding master, and after a few lessons she conquered it. She grew attached to old Prince, who was docile in spite of his size, and quickly learned how to control him.

  "You should come up several times during the week," Nigel told her, "then in a short time you'll be able to ride with me over the moor."

  Mr. Bates, the riding master, was an Australian. He taught her to have a good seat by riding bareback at first, with only a single rein. "Get the feel of your horse, make yourself part of him, learn to control him as much with your knees as with the rein," he advised patiently. He was a big, loosely knit man still brown from many Australian summers, and he looked clumsy until he sat a horse. He liked Nicole because she was different from the average run of his pupils; he understood all about her first fears though she never mentioned them, and he admired her because she laughed and picked herself up quickly when she took her first toss, jumping.

  "Get right back on again," Mr. Bates grinned encouragingly, "and make him take
that hurdle feeling that you're cemented to his back!"

  "Do I have to jump?" Nicki pleaded, but there was laughter in her eyes as she rubbed her aching behind. She knew that the fall had been her fault, and not Prince's.

  "Certainly you have to jump." Mr. Bates led her mount up to her. "This is a hunting county. By Christmas you'll be taking fences with the best of 'em."

  "I shall never hunt," Nicki proclaimed stubbornly. "I should hate it. But I suppose I must learn to jump—" She thought, by Christmas I may not be here. . . .

  There had been no time limit laid down for her visit. She had made it plain that it was only a visit, that she should be free to go away when she chose. Yet in her heart she knew that she would not find the hardness to leave her grandmother very easily.

  She threw off her sombre thoughts as she remounted. In July Christmas seemed a long way off, and there was Pietro's visit coming closer and closer. Pietro, she thought, would love to learn to ride ... she could pay for his lessons out of her allowance.

  One day when she and Nigel were riding down from the moor, her face flushed and laughing from her first good gallop, her curls blown by the wind, Jonathan passed them in his car. He did not stop; he was on his way to an urgent call at a lonely farmhouse, and Nicole had not even seen him. But for days he carried about with him the vision of her laughing, radiant face as she turned to say something to her cousin; her easy seat on the big horse, her obvious enjoyment. He knew nothing of the many painful lessons that had preceded that day, the back-ache and the fears, or that Nicki had something to be triumphant about because both Nigel and Mr. Bates had complimented her, and she no longer had any fear of Prince. She could control him, or any horse, and there was something wonderfully exhilarating about a gallop across the moor. For a little while she had been free. . . .

  "You're only pint-size, but you have good muscles," Mr. Bates had teased her.

  Jonathan remembered only the look on the girl's face, her laughing ease, the cut of her riding clothes. So the experiment of turning his little wild goose into a young lady of fashion, with all suitable accomplishments, was succeeding. . . .