by Anne Hampson
It was twenty minutes to eight when Martine arrived at the magnificent white villa that was soon to be her home. She had on a long dress of pale green organza, low-cut and fitting snugly to her curves. The skirt was full-flowing from a nipped-in waist; the whole design was simple, its attraction in the colour combined with the expert cut. Over it she wore a cape of black velvet and she carried a black velvet evening bag trimmed with tiny silver beads. A last glance in the mirror had more than satisfied her and, as she stood on the top of the flight of white marble steps leading to the front door of the villa, she knew a sense of excitement which totally overshadowed the depression that had settled on her after Kelvin's departure.
'Miss Lawson. Please come in.' The manservant who opened the door smiled as he stood aside for her to enter. 'My master is expecting you. He say for me to show you into the salon and he will be with you in one—two minutes.'
'Thank you.'
'My name is Hermes,' he submitted as he closed the door. 'If you will follow me, please.'
Martine glanced around as she passed through the hall, noting the huge urns of copper and bronze in which palms and poinsettias and many other plants and flowers flourished. A bougainvillaea climbed round an archway, its roots set in a massive pewter vase whose handles were fashioned in a style similar to those of ancient Greek vases that Martine had seen in the Athens Museum. Wealth and good taste characterised everything, both in the hall and in the salon into which she was being shown. She felt awestruck, rather dazed, as she tried to accept that this was to be her home, that she would be the mistress here, with servants, too. Somewhat timidly she moved around the room, fingering Georgian silver candlesticks, Sevres china and the incomparable Chelsea-Derby group set so delightfully on a Jabobean oak table by the window. The carpet seemed like foam rubber beneath her feet, the drapes were of Italian silk, beautifully embroidered. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and saw that it had been decorated with gold leaf and distinctive strap-work.
She swung around as the door opened. Luke, superlatively attired in a suit of buff linen with a white shirt beneath the loose-fitting jacket, stood for a long moment, his appraising eyes travelling over his visitor from her gleaming head to her dainty toes peeping from the silver kid sandals she was wearing. She coloured adorably, and passed her tongue over her lips that had quite suddenly gone dry. She felt embarrassed, ill-at-ease, inadequate. But Luke came forward as if aware of how she was feeling, his hands outstretched. She shyly put hers into them, noticing his swift glance at her ring. She was drawn close; she felt the warm gentleness of his hand as he tilted her chin so that he could look into her eyes.
'You're more lovely than ever,' he murmured, taking her cape from her shoulders and dropping it on to a chair. Then he kissed her, his hand sliding into her hair, curling round it, bringing golden strands to his face. She was vitally aware of his attractiveness, aware that a thousand women would love to be where she was at this moment. How had such a man come to choose her for his wife? Despite the fact of his not loving her, it still seemed like a miracle that he had ever even noticed her. His hands cupped her face; she knew the delight of the musky smell of him which seemed to mingle with a pervasive blend of heather and wild thyme— after-shave, no doubt, or maybe an expensive body lotion. Whatever it was it stirred her senses, stimulating the desire for closeness, for the sensitive touch of his hands, the contact of his flesh with hers.
'I—I'm sorry to be late,' she managed at last. 'I was—er—delayed.'
'You took too long in getting ready?' He quirked an eyebrow and added, 'It was worth it so I shall forgive you.'
'Kelvin called,' she told him briefly.
'He did?' Luke's voice was terse. 'And what did he want?'
'He didn't believe I was engaged to be married.'
'That's understandable,' said Luke reasonably. 'After all, it's only four days since you and he parted.'
'He said I was crazy to marry on the rebound.'
'Are you marrying on, the rebound?' Luke moved with ease and grace towards a drinks cabinet. Martine thought he glided rather than walked.
'I suppose I must be,' she answered thoughtfully. 'I mean—the speed…'
'I firmly believe that if Kelvin hadn't broken the engagement then you would have. We have already agreed that Fate decreed that you and I would marry. We were destined to meet the way we did.'
'You would have—tempted me, while I was still engaged to Kelvin?' Martine moved towards a couch and sat down.
'Of course, when I realised I wanted you.'
'I might have remained loyal to Kelvin. After all, I loved him.'
'You'd have come to me,' he said confidently.
'As for loving him—' He broke off and turned and she saw the sardonic humour in his eyes. 'Who are you trying to convince—yourself or me?'
'I still love him.'
'What would you like to drink?'
'I do love him! What kind of a woman would I be if I could fall out of love so easily?'
'Ah, I see now what is troubling you. You've a guilt complex because you're not sitting at home weeping copious tears and telling yourself that your life is finished, that all you can see ahead is a long dark road with a lonely death at the end of it.' A laugh escaped him, a cynical laugh, harsh-edged and acting like a rasp on Martine's eardrums. 'You're young; your hurt's already begun to heal, and soon you'll be agreeing with me that there is no such thing as love between a man and a woman. You, my child, were no more in love than I was.'
'With Odette?' she asked, for the moment diverted from her own situation.
'As I said, it was nothing stronger than infatuation.'
But was it? Martine felt that Luke was glossing over it far too lightly, that he was adopting a cold resolve never to admit, even to himself, that he had ever been in love. He had been hurt, badly, and how could that be unless he had loved Odette? Loved her deeply and sincerely?
Without warning a heavy weight settled on Martine's heart. She did not want to know that Luke had been in love with another girl… and yet she did know, and she felt that nothing could ever erase the knowledge from her mind.
Luke was speaking again, asking her what she would like to drink.
'A dry martini, please.'
'On the rocks?'
She nodded her head. 'And with a dash of lemon, please.'
He smiled, poured it and brought it to her, standing for a moment above her, toweringly tall; his dark eyes settled on the glass in his hand as he moved it to hear the ice tinkle against the sides.
'There will be no dark road for you, Martine,' he said at last. 'You'll have children to care for, to take away any loneliness you might at this time envision.' He placed the glass on a small table close to her chair and turned away to get his own drink.
'Children, born without love between their father and mother,' she heard herself say in a low and husky voice.
'It happens all the time.'
'In Greece, yes.'
'Everywhere.'
'You will love your children?'
He turned, a bottle poised over a glass. 'Is that a challenge?' His fine mouth quirked. 'That, my dear, is paternal love and bears no relation to the love you insist can endure between a man and a woman.'
She merely sighed and sipped her drink. It was enough that she was to have him for a husband; she would not ask for more. Did she want more? The idea startled her and she shot him a glance, looking at his features as if seeing them in a different light. Love… No, why should she want his love? She herself had none to give so she could hardly expect love from her husband.
Dinner was in the elegant dining-room, in a setting of candleglow and antique china and cutlery. Music invaded the room from two speakers hidden somewhere in the wide pelmets.
'Shall I ever get used to all this?' Martine spoke softly, almost to herself. 'I feel I'm dreaming and shall waken to reality before very long.'
'This is reality, my dear.' His black eyes roved over her and she felt she was b
eing stripped. 'Not quite,' he amended, eyes glimmering at her disconcerted manner. 'Reality will begin with our marriage.'
With the first night, she thought, trying to imagine what it would be like to sleep with Luke. 'Kelvin says I'm mad, and he could be right.'
'Shall we leave Kelvin out of this? He's nothing to you now and I shall be glad when he's finished his book and taken himself off, back to his own country.'
'The book isn't half done yet, and he's without a secretary.'
'There are secretaries to be had if he looks around.' Luke eased back so that Hermes could serve him the main course.
'I suggested he get Sophia to do some typing for him.'
A low laugh escaped her fiancé. 'The mere suggestion that she should do a spot of work would be enough to make her throw him over.'
'You appear to know the girl well.'
'As I said, I've known her since she was twelve. Her parents came here seven years ago, having bought the house about a year previously.' He stopped and became thoughtful; Martine wondered if he were thinking of Odette and realised he must have begun keeping company with her almost as soon as she and her family arrived in Olympia.
Luke changed the subject, saying they must talk about the wedding and fix a date. Martine nodded, feeling excited in spite of the fact that she was entering into a loveless marriage. Luke told her of a dressmaker who would make her a gown that would look as if it had been designed and made in Paris.
'Bridesmaids,' he said. 'You must have someone you can ask?'
'I can only think of Thoula, the girl who comes in to clean for me.'
'She's a charming girl—engaged to Socrates, one of my gardeners. He's waiting for her to provide a dowry and it's taking time because she has only one brother working for it—along with her father, of course.'
'Dowry? She must have a dowry?' .
'The custom's dying out in the big towns, but in the small ones it survives, unfortunately. Socrates could marry Thoula if he wished because I've offered him a small villa I own not far from here, but he insists on a dowry, which is a house and land.'
'And Thoula's father and brother have to keep on working until they can buy this house and land?'
'The land's already there, for most peasants own land which they work to make a living. But the house is the burden; building costs are high and materials have to be brought from a distance. Thoula won't be married for several years yet.'
'Can't you persuade Socrates to forego the house?'
'I've tried.' He smiled faintly and said, 'Perhaps you could succeed where I have failed.'
'I shall certainly have a try.' Martine changed the subject, going back to the question of the bridesmaids. 'I'd like to have two, but I don't know anyone else.'
'I have a cousin. She'll be invited to the wedding so she could be a bridesmaid if you would like.'
'Yes, I would,' eagerly because she was keen to meet a relative of Luke's. She was surprised that he should be showing this much interest; it heartened her, imbuing her with an optimism which had been lacking up till now. 'What's her name?'
'Vasiliki. She's eighteen and betrothed to a boy who's away at London University.'
'It will be nice to meet her,' said Martine enthusiastically.
'I'm sorry I don't have many relatives. My mother died eleven years ago, and I had a sister who died in infancy. However, I do have this cousin, and her parents—my aunt Souphoula and Uncle Demos. You will meet them at the wedding.'
'I'm looking forward to having relatives. I've been on my own so long.'
He nodded thoughtfully. 'That's probably why you became engaged to someone as unsuitable as Kelvin,' he remarked.
He could be right, she thought—then suddenly realised that she was agreeing with him when he said Kelvin was unsuitable.
'We were well-matched!' she shot at him, chin lifting.
He regarded her admonishingly. 'Don't lie, Martine. You know as well as I do that Kelvin is weak, and a weak man is not for you.'
She made no comment, and a short while later she reluctantly said good night as he stood by her car while she switched on the engine and engaged the gear.
'Tomorrow, then. I'll take you along to see Antiopi, who will be delighted to have the order for your wedding dress.'
Chapter Four
The wedding was over, also the reception. The last of the guests had gone, leaving Martine alone with her husband.
'It's been a wonderful day.' She had to break the silence, a silence that seemed to be stretching to eternity. 'I liked your aunt and uncle. Your aunt's so patient with him. The way he fondles those worry beads would drive me to distraction. Why do so many Greek men twirl those things about all the time?'
Her husband's fine mouth quirked at one corner. He knew she was talking for talking's sake, knew she was uneasy—no, more than that. She was scared.
'Men need the beads to help them forget their worries. Greek women are not supposed to have worries,' he added swiftly, anticipating her question.
'Well, the only worry I have noticed is whether their wives and daughters are working hard enough in the fields!'
A low laugh escaped him. He moved towards her and she stepped back, freeing the delicate lace of her dress, which had become caught on the bold carving of a chair.
'Is this an act or are you genuinely afraid of me?' Luke took another step in her direction.
'All brides are scared.'
Another laugh, cynical this time and filled with mockery as well. 'Then I don't know what of. Few of them are without experience.'
'You seem to know.'
'I know how difficult it is to come by a virgin,' he said and laughed yet again as the colour flooded her face. 'Are you a virgin, Martine?'
She looked straight at him. 'You'd not have married me if you had had any doubts about that.'
'Correct. I hope I didn't make a mistake.'
Her chin lifted. 'You have all the arrogance of a Greek god!' she flashed. 'Perhaps you can tell me how Greek men can expect to marry virgins when they seduce every woman who comes their way?'
'Not every woman, my dear. Some women are respected because they deserve it, while others deserve to be treated like the wantons they are.'
She turned away, feeling the terrible loss of intimacy, of the thrill of togetherness which should have characterised this moment when at last they found themselves alone… on their wedding night.
'Come here, Martine.' Gentle the tone but commanding. She shook her head sadly and heard him repeat the order, this time with an imperative ring which demanded obedience. She moved, graceful and lovely in her flowing white gown, orchids in her hair, a diamond necklace at her throat—Luke's wedding present given to her last evening.
'Luke… I…' She had no idea what she wanted to say, but she did know that she wanted to run from him, to seek the shelter and safety of her own little apartment.
'There's nothing to be afraid of,' he murmured, his hands capturing hers, bringing her to him, then encircling her soft young body. 'Nerves are just a product of a certain attitude of mind, which is itself born of unproductive imaginings. Fear can be very much the same.' Without giving her a chance to comment Luke bent his head and kissed her on the lips, possessively and masterfully, yet with a certain gentleness, too, as if he would reassure her that he was no ogre whose savagery she had to fear. 'Come, Martine,' he murmured, his lips moist and warm against the tender hollow of her throat. 'It's time we were in bed. You need sleep.'
'Sleep?' like a drowning man clutching at a straw. 'You mean…?'
'If you prefer to be on your own tonight I'll not raise any objections.'
Relief swept over her like a deluge of warm, soothing water. She lifted her face involuntarily, offering her lips again in thanks and gratitude. 'You're kind… and understanding,' she breathed. 'Thank you, Luke.'
His smile was sardonic. 'It's only for tonight,' he warned. 'You know why I married you, so don't cherish any ideas that ours is to be a marriage of conve
nience, a marriage in name only.'
She coloured but managed to say steadily, 'I realise that this feeling I have at present is silly, and you need have no fear, Luke, that I shall expect you to—to keep away—er—all the time.'
The straight dark eyebrows lifted a fraction. 'That's as well, my dear,' he returned smoothly. 'I haven't the slightest intention of keeping away indefinitely. Haven't I just made myself clear on that score?'
She nodded. 'Yes, Luke,' and now her voice carried a meekness which came quite naturally under the present circumstances. 'You have made it clear.'
He kissed her again, gave her a little slap and told her to go to bed before he changed his mind.
She had been in her room for more than half an hour before she began to undress. What on earth was the matter with her? she wondered irritably. This was what she had wanted but had not dared to hope for—to be alone…
Or was it what she had wanted? Her eyes strayed to the communicating door between her room and Luke's. Was he asleep? She had heard him moving about, had noticed the sound of water through the wall of her bathroom, which backed up to his. He had been taking a shower, she had surmised. And now there was silence. With a sigh of impatience she laid the lovely dress over the back of a chair then stood before the mirror, hands pressed to her pale cheeks. This was her wedding night and she was alone. Her thoughts went to Kelvin, and to what this night would have been but for the intrusion of Sophia into their lives. Tears gathered in Mar-tine's eyes and she angrily brushed them away before they fell. Crying was futile. She had made a complete mess of her life with her impulsive wish for revenge. She was furious with herself, and even more furious with Luke for coming into her life at this crucial time. She hated him! She would run away first thing in the morning! Yes, she would go home to England, where she could begin to pick up the threads of her life again.
She moved nervously, knocked against a dainty Queen Anne chair and winced as it fell to the floor. But she saw with relief as she picked it up that it was not damaged. She was wide awake and, sure that sleep would elude her, she went to the window, opened it and stepped through on to the verandah. The moon was high over the sacred sanctuary, bathing the ruined temples with a soft, pearl-white glow. Gnarled olive trees took on grotesque shapes; an eagle glided and swooped and Martine closed her eyes. Some poor unsuspecting prey… What had Nature been about to make it necessary for one creature to kill another in order to live? Depressed, and still unable to understand this blank despondency that had taken possession of her, this soul-searching which produced no results, she re-entered the room and crossed it. She would have a bath, she decided. A bath was always soothing, both to body and spirit. She would feel better in a few minutes.