Rose in the Bud

by Susan Barrie

  Cathleen felt the revealing colour rush into her cheeks as she looked up at him.

  “Mr. Moroc!”

  He protested at once.

  “Do we really have to be so formal?” He was immaculately dressed in a light grey suit, collar and tie, although most of the people around him were far less formal, and he looked very brown and fit in the shadow of the cathedral ... and beautifully shaved, and by far the most fastidious man so far as his appearance was concerned that Cathleen had ever met. “I know we met for the first time yesterday, but I did have the pleasure of seeing you twice, and last night I was very disappointed because I was not permitted the pleasure of seeing you back to your hotel.”

  Cathleen wondered whether he really meant what he said about being disappointed because there was really nothing to prevent him seeing her home the night before ... only Bianca di Rini. And either he was not in a position to deny Signorina di Rini the gratification of some of her whims, or else he had derived far greater pleasure by remaining behind at the palazzo with her.

  “Oh, I had no right to drag you away from the party,” she said, aware that the warm colour in her cheeks was fading slowly, and since he was not wearing sun-glasses the admiring expression in his eyes as they rested on her quite openly could not be misunderstood. It was, in fact, so openly admiring that she wondered for one wild moment whether it was he who had sent her the red roses. “It was a very successful party, wasn’t it?” she said, at a loss for something more inspired to say.

  “Was it?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Bianca is a good hostess, and one is never dull with her choice of friends.” He bent forward and peered at her glass. “What are you drinking?”

  “Campari and soda,” she answered. “I wanted to try it.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “No.”

  “Then have a long cool lime and soda. Something tells me you will prefer that.”

  He summoned the waiter, and the fresh drinks were brought. She had no idea what his was, but the waiter seemed to understand perfectly what he liked, and it was contained in a tall glass with ice chinking at the bottom of it, just as there was ice chinking at the bottom of her glass.

  “What are your plans for to-day?” Edouard asked, when Cathleen had made the discovery that her lime and soda was delicious. “Have you anything very intensive worked out, or are you simply being lazy on this your first day?”

  “My first free day,” she corrected him. “Yesterday I had to visit the Palazzo di Rini.”

  “With very little result, I’m afraid ... except that Paul was obviously smitten by those Irish eyes of yours.” Once more he bent forward, and this time she realised he was admiring the red rose tucked carelessly inside her belt ... and as she was wearing another white dress the effect was extremely pleasing. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Someone sent you roses this morning, yes?”

  She coloured brilliantly once more.

  “The ridiculous thing about it,” she confessed, “is that I have no idea who it was who sent them. There was no card in the box.”

  “Really?” His eyebrows went up. “Now we all know the message of red roses, but I think if I had been consulted in good time about flowers for you I would have selected something just a little less ostentatious. White roses, perhaps ... or partly opened very pale pink ones.” His eyes, so dark and deep that they had a strange magnetic effect on her, studied her thoughtfully. “To me you suggest a half-opened rose ... a rose in the bud! So yes, I think I would have sent you rosebuds!”

  Cathleen was conscious of a ridiculous sensation like disappointment. She had never really believed that it was Edouard who had sent her the box of flagrantly expensive roses, and yet not knowing anyone else in Venice to whom she could attribute the desire to give her such pleasure she had been secretly inclined to believe that it might have been Moroc. It was fairly obvious that he was not a poor man, and floral tributes to him probably meant nothing at all—he probably spent half his time sending flowers to pretty girls, although somehow she couldn’t quite believe that. But if it was not Moroc who was it?

  And then her disappointment was added to by a feeling of distaste.

  Not the Count? Oh, no, not Paul di Rini! Who had become so much involved with Arlette that she had disappeared for some reason. Cathleen was beginning to be quite certain of that.

  “You look concerned,” Moroc said, looking across the table at her with slightly narrowed eyes. “Is something wrong? Are you worried lest the identity of your unknown admirer should displease you when you eventually discover it?”

  And for a moment there was something mocking and embarrassing in his eyes.

  “Oh, no, no!” she exclaimed, wondering why it was that at one moment she felt at ease with him, and the next he either did or said something that could have indicated that he was actually making fun of her. “As a matter of fact,” she confessed, “I don’t believe the roses were for me at all. I think there was a mistake.”

  “Yet were they not addressed to Miss Cathleen Brown?” he stated rather than asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, I think you can take it that the roses were for you.” He dismissed them from his mind and their conversation as if they were no longer of the slightest importance, and asked her once again what she proposed to do to while away that first free day of her holiday.

  “Because if you have no fixed plans I was wondering whether you would lunch with me, and then submit yourself to my expert guidance in the matter of sightseeing? And I presume, like all tourists, you do wish to do a certain amount of sightseeing?”

  His invitation took her aback again, and then pleasure showed in her face. She remembered the old-fashioned gondola he had unearthed from some boatman’s yard the evening before in order that she should do something she had always wished to do, and she decided that he was really kind. His eyes were smiling at her more whimsically, and he patted her hand as it rested on the table.

  “Don’t look so surprised, my dear. You are charming, and I have nothing to do ... nothing that can’t wait, that is. When the urge to paint seizes hold of me I go to ground in such a complete fashion that you’ll find it difficult to unearth me, but for the moment the urge is not upon me. I am free to put myself at your disposal, and I shall be as disappointed as you will probably be when you find out who it was who sent you roses if you decline to make use of me. Now, as we shan’t get a better lunch anywhere than we will at the hotel I suggest that we have it there ... and before that I think you might be permitted to look at the inside of the cathedral. After that I will take you to Gino’s for an aperitif before lunch; and after lunch...”

  It was such a comprehensive programme for the day that Cathleen wondered whether he had thought the whole thing out the night before, or whether he had grappled with the problem over breakfast. She hadn’t the smallest wish to oppose any of the suggestions he made, and she was flattered by the amount of his time he was prepared to place at her disposal—for some reason she was certain that Bianca di Rini’s tight little smile would disappear altogether if she had any idea of the amount of time—and she thanked him gratefully for his interest, and for being, as she put it, ‘so very kind.’

  “You’ll find out later whether I’m kind,” he told her, smiling with a touch of quizzicalness. “Whether by nature I’m kind, I mean ... But somehow my own impression of myself has never included the application of that word. I could think of others ... but not kind!”

  She felt his hand beneath her elbow, and he helped her to her feet.

  “Now, you’ll find it very cool inside the cathedral. You won’t need to wear those dark glasses, either. I dislike dark glasses on an attractive young woman because they interpose a barrier between me and the changing expressions in her eyes!”

  Looked back upon afterwards, it was a highly successful day. Cathleen knew she had never lived through such a day in her life before. So much colour and warmth and richness and gaiety became a part of it that she could hardly b
elieve it as the hours went by. She had intended to do some lonely sightseeing, instead of which a man who knew all there was to know about the fascinating city of Venice was at her elbow to explain everything that needed to be explained, to draw her attention to sights she might otherwise have missed, and to make absolutely certain she enjoyed her day.

  To begin with the cathedral took her breath away temporarily, and it was some time after they emerged from it that the glitter and the beauty faded from before her eyes. She would have liked to spend a very long time there absorbing the atmosphere of antique mystery, but Edouard said they could return to it on another occasion, and in any case he did not seem to think it the most important item on his list of ‘musts’ for her to see.

  Most of its contents had been pillaged from capitals like Constantinople, and to him it seemed to represent the garish. He asked her whether she had ever seen Notre Dame in Paris, and when she had to admit that she hadn’t he shook his head as if her education had been neglected.

  “One day,” he insisted, “you will have to see it! I couldn’t allow you to go through life without seeing Notre Dame.”

  Lunch was a light-hearted meal that lasted far longer than Cathleen’s lunches normally lasted, and under the influence of the excellent food and the well-chosen wines—although, as always, she was particularly abstemious—she found herself drawn on the subject of her past life and background, and slightly revealing sidelights of it that she would not otherwise have disclosed caused him, occasionally, to smile a little, and on other occasions to look thoughtful. For instance, when she revealed that of her two daughters her mother adored Arlette his dark brows actually met together in a frown ... and he did not seem surprised when she explained that Arlette, who had adopted the name Brown when her mother married again, had had a father who had proved unsatisfactory to her mother, and whose early demise was something of a relief to her, quite unlike the simple, admirable qualities of Brown the clergyman. But Brown the clergyman had never had any money, and Mrs. Brown did not seem able to forgive him for that. Cathleen, who quite obviously had adored her father even more than Arlette was adored by her mother, made the admission sadly.

  But when she said that Arlette had to be forgiven some of her less satisfactory qualities—which, no doubt, she had inherited from her father—because she was so beautiful—really beautiful, Cathleen insisted—he looked at her in genuine surprise.

  “But, my dear Cathleen,” he said—and by this time they were on Christian name terms—“your sister is no more beautiful than you are, and as a painter I would say that you have the more expressive features.” He leaned towards her, looking into her transparent eyes. “There are times when I think you are incredible,” he admitted, “with that rose-leaf skin of yours, and those golden eyelashes which you are clever enough not to darken save at the tips. Arlette, on the occasions that I met her, struck me as much too heavily made-up, and a little too conscious of her own good looks to impress other people with them. She could be charming, of course, but she was also moody.”

  “Perhaps she was unhappy?” Cathleen said, watching him, and always eager to discuss the subject of her sister.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Perhaps. But are we not all unhappy at times?”

  “Perhaps—do you think she was in love with—Paul di Rini...?”

  Instantly his expression altered, became wary. “Paul is an engaging young man, and I believe feminine hearts frequently beat quicker at his approach, but I could not say. It is very likely that she would be attracted by him, especially as she must have seen quite a lot of him while she was living at the palazzo. If she fell in love with him and took any advances he made to her seriously I blame the Contessa for not warning her about her nephew. When he marries he will marry for money, because the di Rinis are hard up, and not because a pretty English girl temporarily engages his fancy.”

  “I—I see,” Cathleen said.

  He looked hard at her.

  “And while we are on the subject of Paul I don’t think it is really necessary to warn you against him, but...” He hesitated for a moment, and then decided to continue. “You made an admission to him that was a little unwise, but having made it you must be on your guard. You told him that a large sum of money had been left to you recently, and when Bianca pressed you to stay with them last night it became immediately clear to me what she had in mind. A pretty young English girl without money is a very different thing from a pretty young English girl who has just inherited a comfortable competence ... or perhaps it is even larger than that?”

  She was about to admit to him the size of her ‘comfortable competence,’ when he held up his hand to stop her.

  “No, no, I do not wish to know! It is no affair of mine! But you must be cautious in your dealings with the di Rinis, and however persuasive Bianca is when she repeats to you her invitation to stay at the palazzo —as she will do!—you must not be tempted. Not even for a moment. Be firm and say that you prefer your hotel, where you are perfectly comfortable!”

  “Oh, but I am—and I do!” Cathleen assured him earnestly. But she could not honestly believe that Paul would transfer his attention to her from her sister just because he suspected she had money of her own. And inwardly she couldn’t refrain from smiling a little when she thought of Paul’s face if she decided to take advantage of his ignorance and lead him on, and then later—perhaps when it was too late!—admit to him the truth.

  “Well, we don’t want to spend the whole of the day talking either of your sister or Paul,” Edouard said, a little impatiently, when she seemed disinclined to abandon the subject. “I have no doubts that Arlette is perfectly safe somewhere, and when it suits her she will reappear, and possibly try to claim some of your inheritance,” with a dryness that surprised Cathleen since it was the very thing Arlette was capable of doing once she did decide to disclose her whereabouts. Arlette had a weakness for all the luxuries money buys, and her fingers itched uncontrollably when she knew that someone close to her had a little something put aside.

  It was always, “Well, lend it to me and I’ll pay you back!” But she never did pay back. Even Mrs. Brown had to admit that Arlette was a bad borrower, because she never paid anything back.

  Not even affection. She took quite a lot, but she never gave it out. And that was why Cathleen seriously wondered whether it was Paul di Rini’s position that had tempted Arlette rather than Paul di Rini himself.

  In order that they should get well away from the subject of Arlette—or Bridget—Edouard made a determined move from the lunch table, and as neither of them wanted coffee they went out into the brilliant world of sunshine, blue skies and sharp, blue-black shadows once more.

  They spent the afternoon exploring the lagoon in Edouard’s superbly comfortable motor-launch. They visited the picturesque island of Murano, about a mile to the north of the main island, and Cathleen was shown the twelfth-century church—which Edouard thought more worthy of a visit than St. Mark’s—and the even more romantic island of Torcello, which had a remarkable cathedral with some beautiful Byzantine mosaics. It became clear to Cathleen as the afternoon advanced that the ancient Venetians had loved churches, and as a slight change of diet she found the Lido, with its wonderful stretch of sand and glorious bathing, something of a relief. Edouard said he would call for her the following morning early, and, if she agreed, they would spend the blistering hours before lunch bathing and sunbathing. After that—if she once more agreed to lunch with him—he would take her as far as Chioggia, an ancient and picturesque port, where he had done a lot of painting in his time, and which was an ideal place to laze away a sunny summer afternoon ... the kind of summer they had in Venice, anyway.

  Cathleen, who felt sunburned and happy after the day she had already spent in his company, expostulated that she couldn’t possibly continue to take up so much of his time, but he merely smiled at her, squeezed the slim bare arm his lean, brown, artistic fingers were encompassing, and assured her almost
solemnly that if she was willing to take up his time he was more than willing to allow her to do so.

  Before they returned to the hotel they had drinks at the same cafe table in St. Mark’s Square they had occupied that morning, and it was then that Edouard pressed her to have dinner with him.

  “You have seen Venice by day, now you must see Venice by night,” he insisted. His dark eyes were not nearly so inscrutable as they gazed at her across the table, and, in fact, there was something in them that made her flush slightly, and for the first time in her life her heart beat wildly as if with a foretaste of extraordinary excitement. Almost casually, as he bent towards her, his hand covered one of hers, and he examined the pretty pink fingernails with interest.

  “You have lovely hands,” he said softly. “You should be able to paint well, or do fine needlework.”

  “I can’t even draw,” she told him laughingly, “but I do do needlework.”

  “One day I will teach you to paint.” He looked up at her for an instant, and then away. “Wear the white dress to-night—the one you wore last night—and put those pretty pearl drops in your ears—they suited you.”

  She smiled.

  “They’re the only ear-rings I possess.”

  “You’re not fond of jewellery?”

  “I’ve got a necklace of garnets my aunt left to me, and one or two bracelets, and a cameo brooch. I don’t suppose Signorina Bianca would wear such a thing as a cameo brooch.”