'Take what off?'
'Your glasses. I feel as if I'm talking to a mask!' She stopped abruptly, appalled at her rudeness. 'I'm sorry. I had no right to say that.'
He half smiled, slowly raised his arm and removed his glasses.
For the second time since they had met Carolyn looked at his eyes, and once again a wave of sympathy engulfed her, making her long to touch the silky eyebrows and the delicate skin at his temples. He blinked once, twice, then lifted his hand to put his glasses on again.
'Don't,' she said involuntarily, and put her hand on his arm.
For a long moment they gazed at one another, then deliberately he put his glasses on the table behind him and moved close to her. Instinctively she drew back, and he put out his bandaged hand and stopped her.
'Keep still, Carolyn,' he said quietly, 'I'm just as entitled to look at you.'
Golden brown eyes looked into green, then everything blurred as his face came close and his lips pressed down on hers. For an instant she resisted, but the touch of his mouth evoked so deep and unexpected a response that she put her arms around his neck and drew him even closer.
'Alvin,' she whispered. 'Alvin.'
For an answer he drew her closer, pressing her body so tightly against his that the heavy thudding of his heart seemed to be a part of her. Carolyn lost all sense of time, experiencing a desire she had never felt before, nor even realised she was capable of feeling. Words of endearment beat in her brain, but could not be uttered, and instead she clasped him closer and cradled his head as though he were a child.
With unexpected suddenness he let her go, retreating to the edge of the desk as though it was a safety barrier. 'I'm sorry,' he said huskily, 'I had no right to do that.'
'I'm glad you did. At least it shows we're not enemies.'
'Does it?' He put on his glasses, once more resuming his air of blankness. 'You're still Peter Kolsky's widow, aren't you? And Piotr still your stepson.'
'What difference does that make?' 'All the difference in the world.'
'I don't understand you. What do you mean?'
He shrugged and turned away from her to press the buzzer on his desk, speaking into it as he did so. 'Would you please tell Mr. Nichols I'm on my way to his office.' He released the lever and crossed to the door. 'Coming, Carolyn?'
Cheeks red, she preceded him into the lift, close to him physically yet in reality worlds apart.
CHAPTER EIGHT
During the drive back home Carolyn mused on Alvin Tyssen's strange behaviour. One moment he had held her in his arms and kissed her, and the next he had pushed her away as though the very sight of her offended him. Instinctively she knew there must be a reason for his behaviour, for he was not a man given to acting without motive; yet the reason for his dislike was as motiveless to her as it had been in the beginning.
Did he still believe she had married Peter because she had known of Piotr's inheritance? The thought made her so angry that had she been driving the car herself she would have turned it round and driven straight back to see Alvin. It was time she had it out with him. His dislike of her was something she could no longer tolerate.
Tears filled her eyes and angrily she blinked them away. Why should it matter to her what Alvin thought? Why was he so important? It was a question that did not bear answering, but though she refused to analyse her fear, she could not stop the feeling of excitement that filled her at the thought of seeing him again.
'I must find out why he dislikes me,' she decided. 'I won't let him keep hedging. He's got to tell me what's on his mind.'
Mrs. Nichols drew the car to a stop outside the front door, and they had just climbed the steps when Betty opened the door for them and remained hovering in the hall.
'Your dresses have come,' she said excitedly to Carolyn. 'Ever so many parcels there were. Dozens!'
'Whatever has Darien sent?' Carolyn looked at Mrs. Nichols in astonishment. 'I only ordered a couple of things.'
'He obviously thought you needed a complete wardrobe.'
'I guess maybe by his standards I do!' She moved to the staircase. 'If you'll excuse me I'd like to go up and have a look.'
'You don't need to be excused, Carolyn,' Mrs. Nichols' voice was as cool as it had always been. 'You're mistress here and you can do as you like.'
It was an unexpected snub, and Carolyn turned quickly and went upstairs. The hostility surrounding her was becoming intolerable, and this, coupled with Alvin's enigmatic behaviour, had become more than she could bear. If only there was some way of letting Piotr inherit his money without her having to stay in this house, surrounded by people who hated the very sight of her. Despondently she entered her bedroom and stared at the dresses which Betty had carefully unpacked and placed on the bed. The brightly coloured wools wavered and blurred as her eyes misted with tears of self-pity, and she was angry with herself for allowing other people's dislike to affect her. As long as she herself believed she was doing the right thing she must not allow herself to be upset by a dislike that stemmed only from jealousy.
Yet surely Alvin had no reason to be jealous because she was Piotr's guardian? The inheritance was a pittance to a man of his wealth. Damn the man! Once more she was allowing him to penetrate her thoughts. If she didn't take care she would become obsessed with him.
She walked over to the bed, lifted up one of the dresses and went over to the mirror. She held the cherry wool up against her body, marvelling at the way the colour heightened the glow of her skin and brought out the golden glints in her hair. A tremor of pleasure went through her and she dropped the dress on a chair and reached out for another one. She must forget that she was surrounded by people who resented her. There was a fortune of clothes at her feet and she would be crazy if she did not enjoy every moment ahead of her.
When she entered the drawing-room that evening she was wearing one of Darien's dresses: a grey-green jersey the same colour of her eyes. Its style was reminiscent of the Tudor period, with a tight-fitting bodice, matching collar trimmed with honey-blonde mink and a full, flowing skirt that clung to her waist and then fell in flowing folds to the ground.
'Well, well,' Jeffrey said in astonishment. 'Fine feathers make fine birds, and you're the best-looking bird I've seen for years!'
'As complimentary as ever,' she said dryly.
'Don't mind him.' Ella spoke from behind her and Carolyn swung round with an exclamation of pleasure. Here at least was someone who liked her. 'I didn't know you were back.'
'I returned this afternoon. I didn't want all the arrangements for the party to be completed without me.'
'But they are,' Jeffrey said blandly. 'All you have to do is to look beautiful and docile.'
'I could never look beautiful,' Ella said, 'and it wouldn't be good for you if I were docile.'
Jeffrey opened his mouth and then closed it again, and Carolyn wondered what he had wanted to say, and why he had decided not to say it. She glanced at Ella and noticed that the girl's mouth was trembling. Had she anticipated a denial from
Jeffrey that she was plain? An assurance that she was loved for herself and not for her money?
Carolyn looked at Jeffrey again, but his expression was fathomless, and she wondered whether he felt anything at all for Ella. Poor girl, she deserved so much more.
'You haven't answered me.' It was Ella speaking, and Carolyn blinked and realised she had been asked a question.
'I'm sorry,' she apologised, 'my thoughts were miles away.'
'So I see. I just wanted to know if there was anyone you'd like to ask to the party.'
'I've already asked Derek and his sister. He's doing a portrait of me.'
'What a lovely idea! Is he a Canadian too?'
'No. I met them over here. He's rented a cottage on the shore road. His sister was Warden in an orphanage up north, but she had to retire because she was ill.'
'I must say you know how to pick your friends,' Jeffrey said. 'I suppose you talk about children the whole time.'
&n
bsp; 'It's better than talking about men,' Carolyn replied.
'Ouch!' Jeffrey grinned. 'I think it's time for dinner, don't you?'
As usual the food was extremely simple and Carolyn made up her mind that she would talk to Cook about it. The woman was certainly capable of doing much more and there was no reason why, with the money available, they should go on eating in such a simple fashion. It was time she asserted her authority. Being diplomatic was getting her nowhere, and if she was still going to contend with dislike, she might as least do something to merit it. Mrs. Nichols had told her frequently enough that she was now in charge of the house, and first thing in the morning she would assert her right.
Coffee was served in the drawing-room, and as soon as it was over, Mrs. Nichols stood up and asked Ella to have a look at the dress she was going to wear for the engagement party. 'I bought it locally,' she said. 'I must get used to my new position.'
'But Alvin told you to go to Darien,' Ella replied.
'I changed my mind. I can't go on accepting your charity.'
'It isn't charity, Mrs. Nichols.'
'It's sweet of you to say so,' Mrs. Nichols answered, 'but I'm afraid it is.'
'That could apply to me too,' Jeffrey said. 'I'm not worth half the salary Alvin pays me.'
Ella turned scarlet. 'It isn't fair to say that! You're very clever.'
'Not in business, sweetheart. I loathe it. There's no point in hiding the truth. Alvin pays me what he does because I'm marrying you. If it weren't for that, he wouldn't even give me house room, let alone make me a director.'
'If there's anything else you'd rather do, you know I can afford to——-'
'Don't say any more!' Jeffrey's voice was sharp, and he swung round abruptly and walked over to the piano. Ella looked at his back and then stood up. Uncertainty was visible in every line of her body, and Carolyn was overwhelmed with pity for her. How dreadful to love a man and feel that he was only marrying you for what you could give him.
'Come and see my dress,' Mrs. Nichols' voice was as bland as ever, completely ignoring the exchange of conversation that had just taken place. Without a word Ella followed the woman from the room and Carolyn sipped her coffee and fought with herself to keep diplomatically quiet.
Jeffrey remained by the piano as though frozen there, and Carolyn was on a second cup of coffee when he suddenly lifted up the lid and ran his fingers along the ivory keys. His expression changed, becoming enwrapped in what he was doing, and he sat down and continued to play, his eyes closed, his hands moving over the keyboard as though he was mesmerised.
The music that filled the room was the most beautiful Carolyn had heard: a sad, haunting melody that made her want to cry, and she was disappointed when he stopped as abruptly as he had begun and moved away from the piano.
'That was beautiful,' she said. 'What is it called?'
'It hasn't got a name.'
'Who is it by?'
'It's mine.' He looked at her quizzically. 'Surely Mother told you I wrote music? "A little hobby of Jeffrey's," ' he mimicked. ' "Something to keep him occupied during the winter evenings." '
'Sounds more than that to me,' Carolyn said. 'If you can write music like that, it should be more than a hobby.'
'Don't suggest it should be my life's work. Composers are two a penny—that's why most of them starve.'
'Some of them succeed.'
'Leonard Bernstein,' he shrugged, 'Allen Lerner.'
'That's right. So why not you?'
"You must be joking.'
'I'm not. Play me something else.'
'No.'
She continued to look at him, and with a half murmur of apology he sat down at the piano again. This time the music he played had the lilting quality reminiscent of Offenbach, yet with a beauty entirely its own. This was no dull tune thumped out by a young man with more ambition than talent. This music was beautiful and overflowing with inventiveness.
There was a final crashing chord and he swung round to face her. 'End of the performance,' he said. 'Don't ask me to play again.'
'I don't need to.' She set down her cup. 'The musical you're doing for the party… you're doing it because you're hoping someone will hear it and offer to back you, aren't you?'
'On the contrary,' he said dryly. 'I'm doing it for fun. I don't believe in fairy godfathers!'
'It's more than likely someone will hear it—someone important. Alvin must know lots of people in the theatre.'
'Alvin knows lots of people everywhere, but it's never affected my life.'
'I think you're being dishonest with yourself,' Carolyn said.
'I'm a realist. I grant you I've got talent, but you need more than that if you're going to succeed. You've got to have luck.'
'How do you know you haven't?'
'How lucky has my life been so far?'
'I wouldn't know,' Carolyn replied. 'You're the best judge of that. All I do know is that you can't sit back and wait for something to happen. You've got to go out and make it happen.'
'I haven't got the temperament.'
'I can see that,' Carolyn said. 'You enjoy being a mummy's boy!'
The colour left his face, but when he spoke his voice held no anger 'You misjudge me, I'm afraid. I was all set to take a chance on my work when my sister left home. It was a shock for my mother—more of a shock than you're ever likely to realise. She became ill and I promised I'd stay with her till she was better.'
'And you remained ever since.'
'I looked after the estate. We assumed it was going to be mine.'
The usual feeling of guilt that Carolyn had experienced every time this remark had been made, was no longer present, and she was able to take Jeffrey's reply at its face value.
'To hell with the estate. You were given the talent of being able to create beautiful music and you didn't do anything with it. That's stupidity and weakness.'
'All right,' he admitted, 'maybe it was. But now I'm being sensible. I'm marrying Ella Tyssen. Do you suggest I concentrate on writing a musical and tell her we're going to live on air pies?'
'She'd rather do that than have you live on her brother.'
Once more the colour left his face, and this time when he spoke there was anger in his voice. 'You would have made a good Robin Hood. You know where to aim the arrow.'
Her reply was forestalled by the return of Ella and Mrs. Nichols, and there was no more chance to talk to Jeffrey alone. But lying in bed that night she thought about their conversation and wondered what chance of success his marriage to Ella would have. Could he go on indefinitely with a job he found boring? Would not the time come when he would turn against Ella? The questions were unanswerable and were superseded by the knowledge that if Aunt Agatha had not left Piotr her money, Jeffrey's position would have been completely different today.
It was the early hours of the morning before she finally fell asleep and she only awoke when Betty came in with her breakfast and the news that Derek was waiting downstairs to take her to his cottage.
'He looks a bit impatient,' Betty said in a whisper. 'He keeps muttering something about wanting to begin while the light is right.'
Carolyn pushed away her tray. 'I'd completely forgotten he was coming,' she exclaimed, and hurriedly began to dress.
Derek was impatiently pacing the hall as she ran downstairs, but his expression lightened as he saw her. 'Come along,' he said quickly. 'The light is perfect and I want to get your colour while I can.'
He bustled her out to his car, wasting no more time in conversation, and she was amused at the change in his attitude. When it came to work he obviously took himself seriously. What a pity Jeffrey did not do the same.
Margaret was dusting the living-room when they entered the cottage, but Derek allowed Carolyn no time to say more than a brief hello before pushing her up the stairs to the room he had turned into his studio. He had placed a chair by the window and he motioned her to take it.
'How do you want me to pose?' she asked.
&n
bsp; 'I don't,' he said sharply. 'Just sit and relax.'
She did as she was told and watched with interest as he took off his jacket, put on a paint-spattered linen coat and moved over to the easel set up on the other side of the room. For the first hour he painted in silence, occasionally stopping to stare at her, his eyes half closed, but at half past eleven, Margaret came up with some coffee and as he sipped it he started to talk, continuing to do so even when he resumed painting.
He was an extremely good raconteur, as she already knew, but she learned a great deal more about his past life as he told her how he had travelled round the world on a banana boat, then acted as a steward on luxury cruises and finally ended up by squiring rich American widows on South American holidays.
'Couldn't you find one to marry?' she asked with interest.
'Plenty,' he chuckled, 'but I always felt that when I settled down it would be with a young wife and not an old one!'
'What made you decide to come back to England?'
'Margaret's illness. From now on it's society portraits and a regular income!'
She laughed. 'Do you think you'll stick to it?'
'I must. Margaret needs taking care of. Her pension isn't enough, you know.'
'You're very fond of her, aren't you?'
He nodded. 'She brought me up. There's ten years' difference between us.'
'I wouldn't have thought so.'
'The beard makes me look older,' he said with a grin. 'Would you like me to shave it off?'
'That's your decision.'
He put down his brush and peered at her. 'Have you ever been kissed by a man with a beard, Carolyn?'
'Once,' she said softly. 'By you.'
For a moment he looked disconcerted, then he threw back his head and laughed. 'Begorra, you're right! But that wasn't a proper kiss. I can do much better when I try.'
He strode over to her and swung her up into his arms in one sharp, swift movement. Held in his grasp she felt small and defenceless, yet his strength left her unmoved, and involuntarily she thought of Alvin and the enormous energy behind the tightly controlled facade.
Rachel Lindsay - Mask of Gold Page 11