by Susan Barrie
They made a detour to include the Balearic Islands, and spent a night off Palma de Majorca, where Steve was impressed by the splendor of the dawn and the beauty of the islands against the backcloth of turquoise and rose before the sun came up. Then the illusion of a string of lost worlds floating in space was banished by the sight of white hotels and shop fronts and a harbor full of little ships and bigger ships and one or two, fabulous yachts like the Odette. But one thing that pleased her acutely was the trotting of horse-drawn carriages along the seafront, and although she had not gone ashore the night before, she had leaned on the yacht rail and listened to the strumming of a guitar that had floated clearly out across the water and reminded her that these were Spanish islands, and Spain was one of the countries she had lived in for a time with her father.
And every time she thought of her father her heart ached, and she wondered whether there would ever come another man into her life who would give her what her father had given her, and something else besides ... something that was even more important than security and companionship, and which she only dwelt on occasionally, but which she recognized was essential if a full life was ever to be hers. A full and complete life.
Naples and the Italian islands were also reminders of the past, but when she visited Naples for the first time and saw it with the eyes of complete inexperience she was not in a position to be critical of anything she saw. She was too full of wonder, for one thing, and there was so little money to spend that even a trip on a noisy street-car was a delight and a mild form of extravagance. And as for dinner at an hotel—an hotel that didn’t smell strongly of garlic, and was little better than a cafe that also provided accommodation for impecunious artists like her father, and her father’s wide-eyed daughter—well, that was something they didn’t aspire to, any more than they aspired to formal clothes for the evening.
But when she and her employer and her employer’s party went ashore to dine at a Neapolitan five-star hotel there was such a concentration of elegance amongst them that contemplation of any one of the guests was enough to distract the attention of a returning sightseer like Steve. And contemplation of even the back view of Gabrielle and as Steve usually came along in the wake of a shore-going party she had every opportunity to study back views—blotted out the rest of the scene for anyone who was in the least impressionable.
Gabrielle had brought along a wardrobe with her for the cruise that must either have been loaned to her by the Paris fashion house who employed her as a model, or someone with a bigger bank balance than her own had paid for it. Or it was just possible, Steve realized, that she was proposing to pay for it herself when she became the Comtesse de Courvalles?
In which case she must set high store on her chances of becoming a Comtesse!
But however she had managed to obtain such a collection of fabulous garments—every one designed, or such was the impression they created, expressly for her—it was Gabrielle who was the cynosure of all eyes wherever they went, and . who brought a look of pleasure to the faces of hotel waiters and every maître d’hôtel who bowed them to a table, and even had simple seamen and harbor masters eager to be the means of assisting her to set foot on dry land after she had come shooting across the mirror-like surface of the sea in one of the Odette’s immaculate launches.
Naples, with all its lurid color and its feverish activity, Vesuvius sending its eternal spiral of smoke up into the unclouded atmosphere of its flawless blue background, had nothing to offer that was as enchanting as Gabrielle on that night when, as a result of sheer good fortune, Steve came back to it for the second time in her life. Mademoiselle Villennes and Miss Trent were both dressed exquisitely, but they simply couldn’t hold a candle to the woman they knew to be their rival. The men all wore white dinner-jackets and black cummerbunds, and had the impeccable, groomed look of the perfect escort ... especially the host.
Steve was the only one who might have been going to a modest celebration, for she was wearing one of her simple flowered frocks that was not intended to set her apart.
Nevertheless, she enjoyed Naples that night, and for the first time she listened to the haunting music of the posteggiatori—which expresses all the romance of Santa Lucia, lovers and warm nights—while everyone was completely relaxed around her. No worries about how long the funds would last out, or how difficult it might prove to find the fare back to England. Only the smell of expensive tobacco and the heady fragrance of feminine perfume, murmurous conversations, light laughter, the soft gurgle of wine as it left the bottle, and the crooning of the sea on the shadowy beach.
She knew she was being afforded an intimate glimpse of how the rich live; and sometimes it was difficult to take it all in. And sometimes the thing that amazed her most was the tireless consideration of the host for his guests, and his constant efforts to provide them with distraction. The bartender had been right when he said there would be no boredom aboard the Odette. And even a complete outsider like Steve herself, who was of no real importance to anyone—although, perhaps to make up for his defection in Tangier, Neil Heritage had become most assiduous in the attentions he paid to her, and whenever they went ashore he was the one who remained close to her elbow—was never neglected or made to feel out of it when they were all together under the Comte’s eye.
She could feel that dark, contemplative eye fixed upon her quite frequently when she was sitting quietly sandwiched between two of his guests, and if she appeared to be too quiet he would sometimes address a remark to her that would bring her back into the picture. Although, he had expressed himself as disappointed in her, and she knew he was not really pleased with her after the incident in Tangier, that had placed her in the doubtful category of “perhaps not entirely to be trusted”, there were moments when his insistence on including her in arrangements made for the others surprised her considerably. And, no doubt, surprised the others as well.
It was not that she was likely to get into any serious trouble if she was left behind on the yacht, for there was no one to get into trouble with. The crew were all quite unimpressionable—possibly picked for that reason, when there were so constantly lovely women aboard—and the limits of the yacht forbade exploration that could lead her into difficulties. But she could be lonely in her small cabin, or even if she took advantage of the many amenities of the yacht and played gramaphone records in the lilac and lavender-grey main saloon, or read books or magazines in the well-stocked library that was jonquil-yellow and black, with some bright ruby velvet cushions on the corded-silk covered settees. The restless surging of a tideless sea that reflected the stars as if it was a mirror was not the most companionable music for a young woman of very little experience who no doubt indulged sometimes in dreams of her own; and so he took her along on the gay, planned outings, and it was up to her to extract every shred of enjoyment that she could from her opportunities, while being careful not to take advantage of them in any way.
Capri, which was entirely new to her—for her father had held the view that it was an island for the rich and the carefree—filled her with a good deal of admiration for its colorful shape rising out of the sea, and its famous Blue Grotto; but it was its sister island of Ischia that provided her with an experience which was a little unusual, and altered her outlook on the cruise ... or rather, began the alteration in her outlook on the cruise.
Ischia is not fashionable, but it has wonderful sandy beaches, and Steve felt curiously drawn to it. She wanted to explore and see as much of it as possible, but the others were all very lazy, and even Neil Heritage seemed loath to do more than lie about on the beach, with the hot October sun strong on his face.
They were all getting very brown, but in the case of the feminine complement of the party it was a carefully controlled tan. Gabrielle used so many lotions on her skin that Steve sometimes wondered how she managed to acquire a tan at all, and Rosalie Trent had given up protecting her complexion by keeping a sunshade more or less perpetually held aloft and had also taken to anointing he
rself at frequent intervals. Madelon, the youngest member of the trio of beautiful females, was brown when they left Monte Carlo, and she courted the sun heedlessly, and had perhaps the most wonderful coating of bronze of them all.
When Steve looked back at them, before she decided to slip away and see something of the island on her own, they were all reclining luxuriously in the shade of some overhanging rocks, and having consumed a magnificent picnic lunch which had been brought ashore from the yacht were all distinctly drowsy. Gabrielle was languidly applying one of her lotions to the exposed side of an extremely shapely golden-brown thigh which escaped from her very brief shorts, but Madelon, in a swimsuit, was lying on her face and allowing the sun to scorch her back. The elderly ladies were nodding under protective parasols, and Rosalie was elegantly propped against a rock and gazing dreamily through sun-glasses—which she never discarded while there was any danger, through glare, to her cool English grey eyes—out to sea.
It was a peacock-colored sea, with some tiny whitecaps edging it like lace a little way out. The sky was more the blue of a blaze of delphiniums in a border, and' Steve spared it an appreciative glance before she lowered that same glance to the male members of the party, who were less ashamedly in the arms of Morpheus.
Steve smiled. Neil Heritage had been smoking a very English-looking pipe, but it was now dangling limply from the unconscious fingers of his right hand. The Comte, in a white silk shirt and a pair of beautifully pressed grey flannel trousers, was laying flat on his back, his dark face upturned to the heavens. For an instant Steve felt a's if her eyes had to remain glued to the infinitely black half circles that were formed by the long, sweeping lashes that were lying on his cheeks, and the faintly aquiline outline of his arrogant nose and square chin.
Then she sighed—for a long time afterwards she had no real idea why she sighed at that moment—and started to run away lightly along the beach.
She knew that the picnic basket contained the wherewithal for making tea, if the ladies wanted it when the hour arrived, and that there was no intention of returning to the yacht until sundown, at the earliest. After long days at sea it was good to be on shore, and there would be few voices raised against the idea of making the most of such an attractive strip of terra-firma. Therefore Steve felt free for the time being ... free to be away on her own.
She wanted to store up all the memories that she could of this sun-soaked, place, and in sunless winter days ahead relive them. So, in her yellow shorts and matching strapless top, she ran like the wind, despite the heat, for at least a hundred yards over the exquisitely firm sand, and then slowed to a walk which took her well out of sight of the others, and finally paused and came to a standstill when the realization struck home that she wasn’t really free to do precisely as she pleased, and that she ought not to take advantage of the somnolent state of the rest.
Mrs. Trent might wake and want someone to help her wind a ball of the eternal wool which she carried in her knitting bag, or Madame Villennes might get into one of her fixed positions and require a little light massage before she could be assisted into an easier one. Madame Villennes suffered badly from rheumatism, which she was no doubt hoping this sunshine cruise would help to cure, but her granddaughter was no good when it came to exerting patience and being of help to the elderly.
Steve, on the other hand, had a lot of patience and a lot of sympathy for the afflicted, and in addition to being small and shapely her hands were gentle and strong. Madame Villennes was beginning to depend on her for a regular daily massage, and she didn’t hesitate to turn to her when she required anything in the nature of assistance.
But it was still quite early in the afternoon, and Steve was curiously disinclined to retrace her steps. The island spoke to her of many things ... freedom and simplicity, long, carefree, sun-soaked days, and a sort of uninhibited bliss. There was loneliness too—or there would be, if one lived here—but she had always been strangely attracted by the thought of life on an island, and after the ultra civilized manner in which she had been living for the past few weeks there was a sudden new charm in the thought of a semi-primitive existence.
Ischia might be bypassed by the main body of tourists, but it could hold a lot of charms for her, she thought, as she lay down as if impelled on the fine golden sand, and propped herself on her elbow and stared out to sea. She watched a fishing-boat bobbing rather dizzily on the oily swell, and imagined the fisherman returning home at the end of the day to a wife in a primitive cottage, who would have his evening meal ready for him. He would be dark and Italian, and she would be dark and Italian, and their lives would be hard ... but strangely satisfying, Steve decided, her eyelids beginning to droop as if there were tiny weights attached to them, and drowsiness stealing over her.
Think of all the wonderful dawns there would be, and the sunsets ... the starry nights! The purpose in life!
Her last conscious thought, before she drifted off to sleep where she lay in the protection of another outcrop of rock that formed a sort of cave about her, with an outlet to the sea, was that the Comte de Courvalles was dark and had that slightly swarthy look of the men who toiled here in the sun, but although he was virile and restless he preferred another way of life altogether. A soft-cushioned life!
She couldn’t imagine him finding existence on an island bearable!
Then the blinding light of sunset was in her eyes, and she was being shaken relentlessly awake. The Comte was kneeling beside her, and speaking to her reprovingly, sharply.
“You gave us all a fright because not one of us could imagine what had happened to you! Why did you wander off without permission and fall asleep like this?”
“Did I fall asleep?”
She sat up dazedly, and looked at him.
He smiled curiously, then all at once the smile was touched with softness.
“Did you fall asleep? You’ve been asleep for hours, you ridiculous child, and you decided that you would enjoy your nap in complete seclusion, hidden away behind these rocks where we wouldn’t think of looking for you! Or not until we’d looked everywhere else, anyway!”
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to be away for more than a quarter of an hour or so, but at first I ran, and then I walked so fast that I grew tired. I remember lying down here because it looked inviting, but I didn’t dream I’d fall asleep.”
As he helped her to her feet, she looked at him anxiously. Her hair was dishevelled and full of sand, and there was a warm flush in her cheeks under her light coating of tan. She was too fair to tan really deeply, but at least she no longer looked fragile, and in her yellow shorts and the clinging yellow sun-top she looked like a golden-headed boy ... a boy with violet-blue eyes that were shy and anxious, and an ardent, soft red mouth.
With his eyes on her mouth that quivered in her anxiety, the Comte said something quickly that was intended to be soothing.
“It’s all right now. You are found.”
“But you’ll think I'm always doing something to ... to cause you inconvenience,” she stammered. “For the second time you’ve had to come and look for me!”
He gazed at her without replying, then urged her gently forward along the beach, his hand behind her shoulders.
“But at least this time you didn’t slip away to meet someone unknown to me,” he remarked at last.
She turned to him impulsively, thinking how bronzed and somehow unfamiliar he looked in that dazzling light of the sunset that was turning the beach to brazen gold around them. Unfamiliar because, instead of his usual suave, dark good looks, there was a kind of rugged strength about his features ... a noticeable strength. The strength of the Italian fisherman who had to wrest a living from the sea and the rocky soil, and upon whose lot in life she had been dwelling before she fell asleep.
“But it wasn’t someone I knew I slipped away to meet before!” she exclaimed, a little unwarily. Then, floundering when she realized, too late, that she was being indiscreet, and couldn’t hope to be
believed: “At least, it was someone I had to meet, but ... I didn’t really know him. Not in the accepted sense of ... knowing someone.”
“Indeed,” he murmured smoothly. “Then might one inquire why you had to meet him?”
She made a little gesture with her hands.
“I’m afraid I can’t explain that, monsieur.” They were drawing near to the others, and she could see the Odette looking like a graceful painted picture of a yacht against a background of flaming sky and dark lavender-colored sea, and the white launches waiting to convey them along a path of gold to the waiting vessel. She sighed, without quite realizing why she sighed, and the Comte looked at her curiously.
“You will be sorry to leave Ischia?” he asked quietly. “Perhaps you had a very splendid dream,” a little dryly, “while you were asleep back there on the beach?”
But she shook her head.
“No, it isn’t that.”
“Then what?”
“I ... don’t know.” How could she tell him that it was the light pressure of his hand on her shoulder, the knowledge that in a moment now it would be gone, and he would be assisting his feminine guests into the launches? Exerting the same light pressure on Gabrielle’s shoulder, on her bare arm ... while Steve herself, if she required any assistance, would receive it from a seaman in a peaked cap and striped jersey!
She felt dismayed because she was beginning to understand more about herself than she had ever suspected there was to understand before, but the Comte chose' to place his own interpretation upon her silence.
“Perhaps you are fond of islands?” he suggested. “In which case we must find you others ... and ahead of us there should be plenty! But you mustn’t fall asleep on them when there is no one within earshot,” and she felt his fingers slipping from her shoulder and grasping her arm. “Into the launch with you, petite,” he said softly, and to her amazement she was helped first into the launch, while Gabrielle looked on as if astounded.