One was plumpish and clad in a morning coat over striped trousers; there was an air of satisfaction about him, for he rubbed his hands together as he talked and wore an unctuous smile. His tall companion fixed Tina’s gaze—those tanned, irregular features and darkly lashed blue eyes were unmistakable. She was looking at John Trecarrel. Perhaps, unconsciously, she gave a small gasp, and he heard it, for in that moment he looked at her. A black eyebrow quirked above a sea-blue eye, then recognition dawned in his eyes. He said something to the man beside him, then three long strides had brought him to Tina.
“The girl on the cliff!” His fingers clicked. “Tina Morton?”
“Manson!” Her laugh was tremulous, and as their hands met she noticed the faultless tailoring of his grey town suit and how distinguished he looked with his hair brushed smooth so that the small wings of silver glinted at his temples.
“Well, this is a surprise!” he exclaimed, smiling down at her. “Have you taken a day off from work to come and see my exhibits?”
She shook her head. “I—I've left Chorley—for good!” she blurted.
“What's that ?” He bent lower as in sudden acute shyness she glanced away from him, towards a long, silver-grey fish with tigerish teeth. The bared teeth looked ready to snap at her. Then John Tre-carrel took hold of her chin and made her look at him. His eyes were every bit as blue as she remembered them . . . his lean, dark, rather whimsical face was again doing the oddest things to her heart.
“You’ve snapped your leading string, eh?” he drawled. “How interesting.”
She didn’t quite understand the inflexion in his voice, but his hand had dropped to her shoulder where it pressed her reassuringly into further speech. In a low, none too steady voice she told him what had led to her decision to come to London. “I found it impossible to stay with my aunt any longer,” she wound up. “I think she wanted me with her just to have the satisfaction of— of—”
“A whipping-girl,” John Trecarrel put in with that cruel-kind perceptiveness of his. ‘Someone to take the lash for her, because in her narrow, bitter mind she blames everyone but herself for her loveless life. Good luck to you for getting out, Tina!” A smile ran those attractive creases beside his eyes. “We must celebrate your emancipation— can you lunch with me?”
“I’d love to!” She flushed with pleasure at the suggestion.
“Good.” He gestured round the gallery. “Seen all you want to see in here?”
“Well—would you take me round and tell me how you came to create each subject?” she eagerly asked.
“Child,” he broke into a slight laugh, while quite unexpectedly the color deepened under his tanned skin, “are you that interested?”
“Of course.” The smile that touched her mouth was gentle, more assured, for that faint flush of his made him very human ... less of the deity who dwelt in regions far above those she could ever aspire to. “I know hardly anything about sculpture, but yours have something breathing about them. Like that beautiful thing called ‘The Kiss.’ ”
“H’m,” he grinned, “no man worth his salt could resist that kind of flattery from a female. Come along then . . . now this fishy creature here is a barracuda, a sea tiger that hunts its prey in Caribbean waters . . .”
For almost an hour Tina toured the gallery with him. Some of the elegantly dressed visitors, socially prominent, from their speech and manner, made attempts to draw him into their smart cliques, but with a cool air of politeness he kept aloof, a hand at Tina’s elbow. They were near the plate glass doors when a woman in a rather fantastic hat called his name in a cooing but demanding voice.
“Come on!” he hissed at Tina, and the next moment the doors were swinging shut behind them and they were out on the pavement. His car was parked just round the comer, he added, and as they walked along in the sunshine he said that society belles bored him to distraction with their arty talk that meant nothing. Tina basked like a petted kitten in the warm knowledge that he didn’t seem to find her a boring companion.
A few minutes later they were sitting in a sleek saxe-blue car and heading in the direction of the West End. They would lunch at a place called L’Aperitif, he decided, shooting a look over Tina’s suit and neatly disposed legs when the car throbbed at some traffic signals.
She felt his glance. Her fingers curled over her clutch bag, her heart gave a queer throb as he moved the handbrake and brushed her with his arm.
“I quite thought that by now you’d be back on your island, Mr. Trecarrel,” she said, as the powerful car surged forward again.
“Friends and business contacts have kept me here rather longer than I planned.” A pause, with a hint of deliberation about it. “A bit of luck, eh? We might not have met again.”
Despite the emotion that gripped her throat she was able to murmur a fairly steady reply, but as the sunshine glittered on the Gothic band on his left hand she found herself averting her eyes . . . as though from a warning signal she didn’t want to take notice of.
Chapter Two
“IT'S been quite a while since I came to England,” he said. “I’m going home in ten days’ time. I’ve promised Liza, she’s my young daughter, to be home in time for the end of term holiday she gets from her school. She attends a boarding school and we don’t see a lot of each other.”
He spoke fondly, but a glance at him showed Tina a dent between his eyebrows that could have meant that he worried about the child. “Isn’t her school on the island?” Tina asked.
“No, it’s at Barbados. A bit of a way to send her, but there she mixes with British children. I wanted that for her rather than a cosmopolitan atmosphere, which I think creates too much pre-cosity in a child. Or does that sound pompous?”
“It sounds sensible, and very loyal of you,” Tina smiled.
He turned into a narrow side road and spotting a space between a row of parked cars he braked there, but before opening the door to get out, he looked directly at Tina. “I suppose, having taken this plunge into a brand new life, you’re feeling nervous and out of your depth. Are you fixed up with a job yet?”
She shook her head. He was close enough for her to breathe his after-shave lotion, lemony and clean. The dent in his chin held a fingertip of shadow. His wide, rather beautiful mouth, lined at the sides, shook her heart as she looked at it. She suspected in this moment what was happening to her and could hardly bear to remember that after next week he would be gone from England’s shores.
“Let’s go and have lunch.” He threw open the car door. “We should get a table.” And as they entered the restaurant, he caught the eye of the head waiter, who came over at once, greeting him by name and assuring them that a table would be available in half an hour. They went into a lounge where deep, low, velvet chairs were arranged beside informal tables with gay drink coasters and amber glass ashtrays on their glistening surfaces. Tina’s heels sank into the carpeting as they walked to a pair of chairs in a secluded corner. They sat down and John Trecarrel beckoned a white-jacketed waiter.
“What do you fancy to drink?” he asked Tina.
She could only think of tomato juice or orange squash, and she nodded when he suggested a gin and ginger ale with ice. “Sounds lovely,” she agreed.
“Daring, eh?” He was laughing at her, and she liked it. Liked him, this place, the whole marvellous world in this moment.
He ordered a Tom Collins for himself and when their drinks arrived, he settled back with a comfortable sigh. “Now we can talk, uninterrupted by your flattering preoccupation with my busts and beasts, and those peculiar people who collect celebrities as more normal folk collect debts.” He raised his glass to Tina. “Here’s luck to you in London.”
“Thank you!” Then, half shyly, she added: “Here’s luck to you—on Ste. Monique.”
He narrowed his eyes over the rim of his glass, his smile when it came on was a trifle bleak. Tina at once dropped her glance to the glass in her hand, watching the pieces of ice with their star-burst centres.
<
br /> “Drink up,” he said. “Gin settles the nerves.”
So he knew she was on edge, even though she was enjoying being here with him? She took a cautious sip at her drink, found it quite enjoyable and took a deeper gulp.
“You musn’t go on feeling guilty because you’ve walked out on an intolerable situation, Tina,” he went on. “After all, your aunt chose of her own free will to go North with these relatives of hers, so you haven’t let her down in any way. I can’t see you letting anyone down—you’re rather the self-sacrificing sort, aren’t you, child?”
She was startled into looking at him. He wasn’t smiling. His face wore a sudden formidable look, his eyes gazing beyond her, back down the years, as though he were thinking of someone else with a similar disposition.
Tina wanted to touch his hand and say personal, impossible things, like: “Don’t let your memories hurt you, please. I know they can’t be recaptured, but you have loved and been loved.”
As he came back out of his trance he raised a hand at the waiter, serving at a nearby table. “Repeat, please!” His voice was harsh, his eyes narrow slits of fierce blue. Tina shivered and realized how little she knew of life and men. She felt, beside this man who had once loved deeply and passionately, like a gauche child.
“What kind of a job are you thinking of getting?” he asked.
“Oh—secretarial work.” This was a safe topic and she clutched eagerly at it. “I am a shorthand typist and I thought, if I acquire some experience as a secretary, I might try for a job abroad. I mean,” she gave a laugh and cradled the cold, slender glass that held her drink, “I might as well see something of the world now—now I’m free.” “I know one or two businessmen in London, maybe I could help you get a job ... ah, thanks!” he turned to pay the waiter for his drink, and when he glanced back at Tina, he broke into a sardonic smile at the wide eyed way she was regarding him. “It’s all right, I have no ulterior motive,” he drawled meaningly.
“Oh, I know!” She flushed and her confused gaze ran down the tiny silver anchors spattering his tie. “I didn’t mean—”
“Blast my tongue!” He put a quick hand across the table and, after a momentary hesitation, Tina slipped her cold one into its waiting warmth his lean fingers closed tight and hard about hers. “Men can be damnable brutes—it’s been, you see, a long time since I’ve known someone like you. Forgive me?”
She nodded, but she was thinking of Sidney Hutton and what he would have expected in exchange for his offer of employment. Was it inevitable that the bitterness you learned from others must sour fresh associations, budding friendships? Couldn’t you trust to instinct? It seemed you coudn’t. She had wondered for a wild moment why John Trecarrel, a famous celebrity of the art world, should show an interest in a country mouse of a typist.
“What are you thinking?” he demanded.
“You’re being very kind to me, Mr. Trecarrel. Giving me lunch, offering to find me a job—”
“You’re lost and lonely, like a big-eyed kitten.” He broke into a grin. “Wouldn’t I do the same for a kitten?”
She had to laugh, and after that was more relaxed with him. They dined at a wallside table, below a long mirror, where they shared a comfortable cushioned seat. Their waiter presented them with large menu cards, with L’Aperitif lettered in dashing gold across the front of them. Inside there was a selection of highly priced dishes from which to choose, all of them printed in French.
Tina felt her companion’s glance, then he came suddenly closer to her and helped her select her meal. He was all charm, now, consulting with the wine waiter on a suitable white wine to accompany their salmon cutlets. It was delicious, sending a glow through Tina’s veins, and before she could stop him the waiter had refilled her glass as their chaudfroid of chicken arrived at the table, accompanied by heart of lettuce and ruby rings of tomato. They finished the meal with sliced peaches in kirsch, then dark coffee in doll-sized cups.
“Do you miss the sea now you’re in London?” John Trecarrel asked, facing Tina with a lazy smile, the tension gone out of him.
“I expect I shall later on,” she admitted. “Right now I’m fascinated by the shops and the crowds.” “But fundamentally you aren’t a crowd person, eh? Where are you staying, at a girls’ hostel?” She nodded.
“You didn’t leave any boy-friends back in Chor-ley, I take it?”
“Oh, no.” Her grin was impish. “I’m not exactly the sort boys go for. I mean, they like glamor, don’t they?”
“Do they?” His smile grew quizzical. “It’s a long time since I was a boy. I’m thirty-nine, Tina. Does that seem a great age to you?"
“Of course not.” She looked surprised, for he didn't seem the sort of man who worried much about his personal effect on people, least of all on someone as unsophisticated as herself. Were she a soignee woman of the world ... then he might be curious about the impression he was making on her.
“What sort of a man do you think I am, Tina?” His eyes held hers, a definite curiosity in them. “Kind, thoughtful, generous?”
“Yes,” she said, and she couldn’t add that she also thought him an unhappy one.
“Yes,” he agreed, “I’m all three. Most men are —with certain reservations. They can also be unthinking, possessive and cruel.”
“Are you warning me to be careful of the men I—I might meet up here in London?” Tina queried, flushing slightly in case he was also warning her not to develop a youthful crush on him, merely because he showed her a little passing concern and kindness.
His left eyebrow quirked above an aqua-blue eye. “Forgive the lecture,” he drawled. “The life you led down in Chorley has kept you young for your years in some respects, and though boys of your own age might be dazzled by surface glitter, there are older men who prefer shyness and a lack of sophistication. And mature men, my child, often know how to Charm the shyest bird off her perch. They know they represent the father-figure, one of the most subtle and potent dangers young, lonely things like you can encounter.”
“Well, thanks for the lecture,” she 'half laughed, “but I’m not a child. I know the difference between genuine kindness in a man a—and the other thing.”
“No, you don’t.” A look of tired exasperation crossed his face. “You haven’t a clue why I’ve given you lunch, and why I’m going to ask you to spend the afternoon with me.”
Her eyes widened. The startled leap of her heart parted her lips as her breath caught.
He pulled a mocking face at her. “I want to buy some presents for Liza, and you’ll know better than I what will appeal to a young female thing of nine years. I don’t imagine she still wants dolls and teasets, do you?”
Tina shook her head. A smile was spreading over her face. He might be unthinking, possessive and cruel, but not today, not to her! Nothing else mattered beyond this moment, that he not only asked her to spend the afternoon with him, but he wanted to share with her the intimacy of buying presents for his child.
“Is Lizabeth like you?” she asked, when they were driving towards Piccadilly.
“Yes, she’s a Trecarrel,” he replied. “She was rather an enchanting moppet when she was small, now, of course, she’s at the leggy, intense stage. A man knows what to do with babies, he just dandles them, but as they grow older they develop fads that are a little harder to understand and handle. Girls, the eternal mystery to man.” He shot a grin at Tina, who met it, as neatly curled beside him as a small cat. She had her own mystique, as most girls have with her smoky eyes and the fragile tilt to her cheekbones. Her porcelain-pink lip coloring emphasized the heart shape of her mouth.
“I have a Corot back home on the island, of a flaxen haired child reading by a lamp,” John Tre-carrel said. “You could have sat for it. The facial bones have a similar shadowed delicacy—ah, I want to stop here at Dunhill's for some tobacco!”
He left her in the car while he went into the shop, and, not normally curious about her looks, Tina sat up and stared at her reflection i
n the mirror of the little tidy-table in front of her. By no stretch of the imagination could she be called pretty, and with a rueful laugh she sank back in her seat and gazed out of the window beside her. She could see John Trecarrel. through the big window of Dunhill’s. He was talking to the man behind the counter, at ease, tall and distinguished in his impeccable grey suit. A man from another world, who said charming, casual things, like that about the Corot, without meaning them to be taken seriously. It was a subtle man-woman language and he must momentarily have forgotten that Tina was as much a stranger to it as she was to Hebrew.
She watched him stride out of the shop, and as he came to the car, Tina felt her nails digging into her clutch bag. So this was what made Kitty Longway’s cheeks turbulently pink, and Tessa Neal’s eyes wistfully glow—a man—that mysterious force that clicked a little switch inside a woman and made her light up.
He slid in beside her and gave her that quick smile that crinkled his eyes. He didn’t speak, and there was for Tina an unnerving enchantment to the moment. For now, for this brief span of time, he was content to be with her, and his smile told her so.
They drove to Debenham and Freebody, where he consulted his daughter’s measurements in a notebook and gave Tina free choice in a selection of smart outfits for the child. She was particularly taken with some pierrot pyjamas and he laughingly agreed that Liza would appreciate the fun of them. Then at Swaine and Adeney he bought her a saddle. Liza was a good little horsewoman, he said, and something clutched hard at Tina’s throat. She saw the child, leggy and intense, stretching up to be a womanly companion for her lonely father when she was home from school. She saw him, riding a hunter beside his daughter's pony, his glance upon the young head and certain things about her—though she was a Trecarrel— bringing her mother vividly alive for him.
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