by Vaso
'Probably.' She laughed, a sound of sheer delight. 'As you know, I went out with Gary last night, and he thought he ought to tell me that already it's being whispered that I'm your mistress.'
'I imagine he was very anxious for you to deny it?' Kemp ventured tautly.
'Well, yes, since he regards me as one of his favourite girl-friends,' she confided in a lilting tone that was full of amused pleasure.
He gave her a sharp, assessing look, noting the glimmer of suppressed laughter in her eyes.
'And did you deny it, Valli?' he asked silkily.
The laughter surfaced enchantingly again. 'In an oblique sort of way,' she Conceded happily. 'I gave a secretive little smile and told him that you and I were just good friends.'
Kemp laughed with genuine.amusement. 'You really are a witch . . . How you manipulate those young idiots!'
'They like it.' Her mirth died suddenly and a hint of the old tragedy turned her mouth bitter. 'Kemp, I don't want you to think I played with Philip in the same way. Innocent as I was then, and ignorant of the extent of my . . . my power, I did at least realise that he was someone who took both himself and life very seriously. I never teased him.'
'Forget Philip,' he advised abruptly. 'Remembering does you a disservice ... It chases the laughter from your eyes, leaving you looking sad and far more experienced than you actually are.'
Valentine's eyes opened very wide. 'And isn't that what you want?' she asked in a carefully controlled little voice.
'No, my dear, it isn't,' he drawled, pushing back his chair and standing up. 'You've to be at your enticing best, flying all that bright beauty like a banner if you're still intent on the great seduction idea . . . Or have you abandoned it?'
Her smile was a gradual, shatteringly lovely thing. 'No, I haven't,' she assured him in a slow, silvery voice.
'I've been waiting for it,' he told her ironically.
'Somehow the right time and the right place haven't coincided,' she said reflectively, tilting her head to one side as she looked up at him. 'I'm biding my time until you're in an appropriate mood, you see.'
'Your attempt should be a memorable occasion,' he laughed.
'Attempt?' she queried musically. 'Oh, but Kemp, I shall succeed.'
'That I doubt, sweetheart. You see, I can only be seduced when. I want to be,' he told her smoothly, his amusement evaporating. 'God, Valentine, haven't you yet realised that, enchantingly lovely though you are, that dark power which is causing you so much bitterness and suffering only extends to a certain type of man ... A man like Philip. You're probably wise to avoid Henry van Wyk as well, but can you honestly imagine either Gary or Adam throwing their lives away when they finally realise that you don't love them and never will? And even less than them, can you affect me. I would never die for you, Valli. Nor can you seduce me unless I allow you to. Think about it.'
With which warning, he went from the room, leaving Valentine to reflect on his advice, finally coming to the conclusion that he had merely been playing a word-game, trying to deflate her self-confidence.
Both Sylvie Hattingh and Salome Jansen approved of the idea of a party and in the days that followed, the three of them became as busy as the men who were bringing in the grapes, constantly consulting each other. Neither of the women seemed surprised that Valentine should take most of the arrangements upon herself and she was grateful when they left the final authority to her. She had discovered in herself a flair for organising such affairs, knowing exactly what she wanted, and she was determined that Fleurmont's harvest party should be one the entire district would remember and discuss for months to come.
Then, at the end of March, the last of the year's vintage was brought in on a glittering blue and gold day. They watched the final load, decorated with the autumnal colours of the Cabernet vine's leaves, come in, and there were smiles all round. Even Kemp's frustration at being responsible for all this was sublimated for the moment, Valentine thought as she stood between him and James Hattingh.
'I see you're smiling, Freddie,' James challenged the Coloured man who had joined them.
'Ja-nee! Die oes is in,' Freddie conceded pensively in his own language,
'The harvest is in,' Kemp repeated reflectively. 'Another wine year over with.'
'Ja!' Freddie's smile disappeared, but he sounded more satisfied with life. 'A celebration, a short time of quiet, and then- it all starts again, the pruning, planting and tilling, worrying all the summer, wondering what the next vintage will be like.'
'Man! You're only so pessimistic because Salome is unfailingly cheerful,' James laughed. 'Gome on, I can see Binnie and your Trevor getting in everyone's way again.'
As the pair departed, Valentine touched Kemp's arm.
'But you, Kemp?' she asked when he looked at her ' enquiringly. 'All that long process Freddie mentioned; will you be here for it?'
'I don't know, Valentine,' he said expressionlessly, shaking his head, and the sun on his hair made it seem almost fair. 'I haven't decided yet.'
'What's causing the delay?' she ventured quietly.' 'You're a decisive man, usually, aren't you?'
'There's no immediate need for a decision.' He smiled derisively. 'Were you thinking of offering me advice?'
'I wouldn't dream of it,' she denied haughtily. A smile flashed out. 'Well, I suppose I might, I have in fact, but I would never expect you to be influenced by anyone's recommendations, Kemp. In the end, you'll always do exactly what you want to do.'
'You'd do well to remember that,' he said bitingly, but she laughed, shaking her head.
He was warning her not to anticipate victory, she knew, but her purpose remained fixed.
Smiling, Valentine returned to the house. Another wine year was ended and the young wines would be racked and filtered in the cellars, ready for the vital tastings. Tonight the workers would hold their own noisy celebrations, financed by the estate, down at their quarters, while she—she had her own party to prepare for.
Because it was her own, she reflected, a present she was giving to herself, something she would be able to recall with pleasure one day when she looked back on this time of pain.
It was her party and she was going to be the star. She looked at the sky happily. She had made alternative arrangements lest the weather change, but it had remained clear and it was going to be a hot night, probably one of the last that season, so the party would be outside.
Later in the evening she set about dressing and making up for the star's role, and for once in her life she was ready at the time she had meant to be.
The hostess, she had come to the decision, ought to be tastefully dressed, so the dress she had chosen was less outrageous than many of hers, and without a flounce to be seen, but as well as being ejegant it was infinitely seductive, its fit revealing every tender line and curve of her young body. Of midnight blue taffeta, it was pencil-slim and strapless, and slit to near the top of one thigh. Her high-heeled sandals were strappy creations of crisscrossed silver and gold, and about her throat and one upper arm she clasped snake-like strands of entwined silver and gold, and similar strands were visible among her shining dark curls.
Luxuriously perfumed and exotically made up, Valentine put a smile on her face and went to enjoy her party.
CHAPTER EIGHT
'ARE you and Kemp by any chance announcing your engagement tonight?' James Hattingh asked Valentine as they whirled among the other pairs of dancers.
'No, I'm afraid not,' Valentine replied with a smile that was both radiant and mischievous.
'Not yet? Sylvie was saying only the other day how perfectly matched you are.'
Valentine lowered her eyes demurely. Regret filled her. She and Kemp could have made a perfect match, if only . . . But how many people down through the ages had brought out, and with what poignant truth, that saw about those last two words being the saddest of all? For there still burnt like some perpetual flame within her, the unfaltering knowledge that Kemp was the right man for her.
T
he Hattinghs were not alone in their assumption of a relationship between her and Kemp. Several people who had spoken to her tonight had coupled them, so obviously his essential Tightness for her was evident to them as well. Valentine knew she was compounding the erroneous rumours by not swiftly denying them, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to disabuse them of the idea that she and Kemp were a pair. She derived a curious, bittersweet pleasure from being linked with him, however mistakenly, as, if all these people were confirming that moment of recognition her very first sight of him had brought.
Only Emma Ducaine failed to see them as a well-matched pair, or perhaps she did subconsciously do so, and that was why she was fighting so hard.
Valentine looked for the girl, saw her dancing with Kemp once more, and felt a pang of compassion. To-
night Emma had plainly sought to adopt her rival's style, for her soft spring green dress bore the characteristically elaborate frills and flounces of the style Valentine had made her own and then eschewed tonight. Unfortunately, while a pretty girl, Emma lacked Valentine's height and slenderness, and would have suited something simpler. Her personality, too, lacked the essential frivolity which was complemented by such frothy creations.
The party was a perfect one. Valentine smiled complacently as James relinquished her to an insistent Adam and went to join Sylvie. Perfect, and all hers. Kemp had told her to spend as much as she wished and his generosity had freed her to demand only the best, although she was wise enough not to equate quality with expensiveness. The catering firm was the best she had been able to find, the band was a well-known one from Cape Town and the outdoor decorations and lighting were exquisite. The guests were clearly enjoying themselves and they made a beautiful sight, especially those who danced. The women were a joy to look at, she thought, in their myriad colours. It was as if a host of exotic flowers bloomed in the garden just for this one night.
And at the centre of them, the lure to which everyone's eyes kept returning, was Valentine herself. She was fey tonight; strength and purpose and a hint of mischievous delight gave her a light that shoneffrom within, and James had not been alone in assuming that this must be a special occasion for her. She drifted past their startled eyes, shimmering with loveliness. Queen for a night, she was utterly sure of herself, and her wondrous smiles were breathtaking while her eyes sparkled like jewels at one moment and glowed luminously the next. Her partners gave her little rest, for Adam, Gary and Desmond, and others as well, were all there, anxious to be seen within that aura of sheer magic which surrounded her. She was a creature from the realms of faerie, an effortless fantasy combining pure wild romance with a certain dark glowing power whose mystery made the intelligent fear for her.
Kemp was one who saw it. 'Such unmatched loveliness must surely mean you're doomed, my poor Valli,' he taunted gently when he danced with her.
'Not if I can help it,' she murmured.
'The men are all in despair . . . and the women despairing in a wholly different way,' he went on mockingly.
'I don't believe you. They're all enjoying themselves.'
'And enjoying watching you enjoying yourself. It gives people great pleasure to look at you, and the artifice and trouble that go into enhancing your natural beauty would suggest that you take your responsibility seriously.'
'My responsibility ... is to give pleasure?' she queried thoughtfully.
'You're richly blessed,' he told'her with a slight smile.
'And cursed. You know that.'
'There's usually an antidote to curses.'
'Ah, yes, but that's in the fairy stories,' she reminded him whimsically. 'A quest fulfilled, and the curse is lifted.'
'And aren't you straight out of a fairytale?' he derided.
Her smile was ravishing. 'No. I'm quite simply—a woman,' she told him liltingly.
'And glorying in it.' He paused. 'I've noticed how very infrequently you refer to yourself as a girl as most of your sex and age would do. Yet there's so much missing from you as a woman. You're not a whole woman by any means. You never cry, for a start.'
Her bright lips puckered in mock disappointment. 'Incomplete. Aren't you proud of me then, Kemp?'
'You're a born flirt,' he informed her in a derogatory tone. 'But tonight . . . you're perfect. As perfect as one of the stars up there. Yet a dark star, I rather think.'
'You make me sound . . . I'm not evil, Kemp,' she protested, serious for a moment.
'Not in yourself, no,' he conceded grimly. 'It's that
doom I mentioned. You could be the catalyst to great tragedy so very easily.'
'Could—and have been! Is that what you're saying?' she asked sharply, stiffening.
'Ah, no, Valentine!' he said resignedly. 'Don't let your enjoyment be marred. Tonight is for pleasure.'
Yet he it was who had brought forth the jarring reminder of her past. Deliberately? Why not, when he despised her? Revenge was all that interested him. Dear God, if only there was not this past tragedy lying between them like a great impenetrable wall———
Dancing with him was a sweetness to break her mind. A deep throbbing awareness made -her lethargic so that she was doing little more than swaying in his arms. Her eyelids, coloured with a dark frosted blue, felt heavy, and they dropped, languidly, over her eyes.
'Valentine?' Kemp's lips were close to her temple.
'Do you remember that time we danced together at that restaurant in Stellenbosch, Kemp?' she asked dreamily, with a little break in her voice. 'On my birthday.'
'Forget that,' he adjured harshly.
Her lashes fluttered upwards to reveal to his hard gaze the languor in her sapphire eyes.
'I just wanted to say—this makes up for that,' she told him with a little smile. 'I like dancing with you . . . this way.'
He laughed, drawing her closer but still holding her lightly, and her desire became an intolerable weight. Her limbs were heavy with it and there was a fiercely pounding ache deep within her, a hunger she would not allow him to callously frustrate again.
He seemed to know how close she was coming to putting her sworn plan into action because, as they drew apart when the music stopped, she saw that his expression was very hard. 'Vintage Valentine,' he praised cruelly. 'All seduction. Your tactics are worthy of the greatest courtesan and with anyone but me, my dear, they'd undoubt- edly be successful. But keep it up. I'm enjoying the spectacle.'
'I hate you,' she said in a level voice, smiling brilliantly because people were watching them.
With anyone but him, he had said. Valentine turned away, wondering for the first time if perhaps victory was going to be harder to achieve than she had confidently imagined. With anyone but him . . . Because Kemp still hated her on Philip's behalf. Obviously.
A little later, going to her bedroom to renew her lipstick, Valentine knew Emma had spotted her and was following. She sighed. Tonight was not a time for confrontations, but if Emma was determined to speak to her there was little she could do to avoid it.
She was already seated at her dressing-table when Emma appeared in the doorway.
'I want to speak to you, Valentine.'
'I gathered that.' Valentine sorted through the various lipsticks in her large partitioned make-up box. 'Yes?'
Emma came further into the room. 'I'm appealing to you,' she began resolutely.
'To my better nature?'
'If you like.' Emma was very earnest, pleading. 'Leave Kemp alone, Valentine.'
'Why?' Valentine found the lipstick she wanted and took the top off, concentrating on her own reflection although Emma's image had appeared in the mirror as well.
'Because he'll never take his proper place among us with a woman like you. You're preventing his . . . his becoming one of us.'
Valentine shook her head slightly. 'He'll never truly belong to this milieu, Emma, but that has nothing to do with me,' she said quietly. 'Can't you see the truth of that? Kemp Irvine will never be a member of any group of people. He's one, alone . . . Think of t
he eagle, soaring in freedom. The rest of us are like butterflies, fluttering close to the earth.'
'Yourself included?' Emma asked curiously, and hope had entered her voice.
But Valentine lifted her head with all the arrogance of truly self-aware beauty and power, saying, 'I could soar with him.'
If he would only let her, the bleak thought followed.
'But why should you have him?' Helpless tears had sprung into the other girl's eyes as she recognized something far beyond her ability to contest. 'I'm in love with him. But you, Valentine . . . Why Kemp? Please . . . You could have any man you want!'
'Suppose that it's Kemp I want? What then, Emma?' Valentine enquired coolly. Satisfied with the bright smoothness of her lips, she closed the tube of lipstick and turned to look at the girl. She continued more gently, 'You're being very silly, you know. If you want a man, you set out to work on him, win him, with your own worth. Attacking your rivals can serve no purpose.'
'I hate you—I despise you!' Emma exclaimed tempestuously, angry frustrated tears overflowing as she retreated. 'And I know this, Valentine McLaren—so does Kemp. He might make you his mistress, but he'll never rnarry you. He'll never forget what you did to Philip de Villiers.'
She whirled out of the room and Valentine heard the rush of her feet as she departed—probably seeking one of the bathrooms in which to cry out all, her lovesick jealousy, Valentine guessed sympathetically.
She turned back to her reflection once more. A shadow seemed to lie in the depths of her sapphire eyes. Emma was so wrong in most of what she thought she knew of Kemp, having invested his enigma with the ideal personality she wanted him to have, but she had been correct, horribly correct, in that last statement she had flung at her. Kemp would never forget—or forgive—what had happened to his cousin.
Later that night Kemp and Valentine were to be seen dancing together again. The band had cleverly reserved all their most romantic tunes for the latter half of the party, by which time any inhibitions would have dissolved in the prevailing spirit of conviviality and new friendships had been formed.