by Isobel Chace
‘I’m still going to Petra!’ She clenched her fists. ‘And I’m not staying here—not even to finish the frescoes!’
He brushed a tear from her cheek and smiled down at her. ‘I’ll keep you here somehow,’ he said. ‘If I don’t restore the frescoes, I’ll lose my tenancy of the castle.’ His smile grew wider. ‘I’ll write to your mother tonight.’
‘But—’ she began. ‘But nothing’s decided, is it?’
‘Isn’t it?’
She put an agitated hand up to her mouth. ‘You don’t have to kiss me to get your own way! You can’t make me—’
‘Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do,’ he soothed her. ‘Won’t you trust me thus far?’
She didn’t trust him at all, but then neither did she know what she wanted at the moment, other than to be held tight by him again. A fine fool he must think her to be in such a dither about nothing!
‘I’ll write to my mother too,’ she said, not quite sure whether this was meant to be a threat or a promise. ‘I’ll go and write to her now!’
CHAPTER VII
‘Well, that was a funny thing,’ said Lucasta.
‘What was?’
‘Gregory says that Gaston must bring Jean-Pierre down on Thursday night with him so that he can vet him before he flies off with Denise on Saturday.’
‘Vet Jean-Pierre?’ Marion echoed. ‘Whatever for?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know. What went on between you and Gregory last night? I hope you noticed how heavily tactful I was, keeping out of your way while you spent hours with him in that study of his?’
Marion hadn’t noticed. Indeed, she hadn’t given Lucasta a thought at the time. She had been far too busy trying to control the turmoil within her that Gregory’s kiss had let loose before it overwhelmed her carefully, completely.
‘He let me look at his ikons,’ Marion explained.
Lucasta grinned at her.’ His ikons or his etchings?’
Marion refused to be drawn. ‘What time is Gaston coming?’ she asked instead. ‘In the middle of the night again?’
Lucasta was immediately on the defensive. ‘Well, no one is asking you to wait up for him! He can introduce Jean-Pierre to you at lunchtime on Friday, and you’re forbidden to do a stroke of work after that until first thing on Monday morning!’
‘We’ll see,’ said Marion.
‘No, we won’t! It was kind of Gaston to bring Jean-Pierre with him, not that it was difficult to persuade him to come. I gave him your photograph to show around and the volunteers came flocking round. You know, Marion, you’re really very pretty! I hadn’t noticed at school. I just thought you were nicer than any of the other hens who try to burden our minds with useless knowledge.’ She chuckled at the expression on Marion’s face. ‘It was Gregory who pointed it out to me,’ she added mendaciously. ‘He said you had a face as revealing as a child in a candy store.’
‘I have not!’ Marion protested. ‘And I’ll thank you not to refer to your long-suffering teachers as hens. Have you no respect?’
‘Hen is a term of affection. Hen, henny, hinny, honey, they all came originally from the Border Country, or so Miss Blandish says, and she ought to know, because she was probably alive at the time.’
Marion strove to keep a straight face. She, too, had been treated to some of Miss Blandish’s eye-witness accounts of various events in history. ‘Miss Blandish can’t help being a little over-enthusiastic.’
Lucasta shrugged. She looked more curiously at Marion. ‘Gregory was right,’ she said faintly. ‘You do shine like a lamp when you smile. Like a good deed in a naughty world, he said. He was rather impressed when I told him he was quoting from Shakespeare. He asked me if I was sure, and of course I wasn’t, so he told me it came from The Merchant of Venice. Did you know that?’
‘Well, yes, I did,’ Marion admitted. “How far that little candle throws his beams. So shines a good deed in a naughty world.” ’
‘Gosh!’ said Lucasta. ‘Do you think he meant it as a compliment?’
‘No, I don’t’ Marion had remembered how the scene went on. “When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.” Nor did he see her when Denise was by. It was the perfect simile, she thought ruefully. She felt every bit as sad and forlorn as a candle whose flame had been snuffed out by some careless hand—Gregory’s hand!’I always smile at the wrong moment,’ she confessed ruefully. ‘Your uncle prefers a more sophisticated approach.’
Lucasta nodded thoughtfully. ‘Judith is as sophisticated as they come and very, very sure of herself. She leaves Denise standing! But I don’t think Gregory liked her at all. He amused himself wearing her like a carnation in his buttonhole, and he probably found it fun to ruffle her perfect hair-do every now and then, but mostly he looked contemptuous whenever she appeared on the scene.’
It was quite a picture and Marion could see it as clearly as if she had been there. ‘He isn’t contemptuous of Denise,’ she said. She hoped she didn’t sound as jealous of the French girl as she felt.
‘I don’t know about Denise. It’s just possible that Papa is the real attraction there. Papa Dain has only two loves in his life: darling Denise and his art collection. He makes money like some people win at Monopoly when they have all the right properties, but it’s all spent on acquiring more and more objets d’art, with Denise as prime exhibit—indeed the only exhibit, for he buries all his other treasures in burglar-proof vaults under his house and only allows the favoured few in to look at them.’
‘And Gregory is one of the favoured few,’ Marion said unnecessarily. Of course he was! Denise would see to that!
Lucasta put on a worldly-wise expression and sighed deeply. ‘He’s all lined up to be the next exhibit, if you ask me. He’s the most beautiful thing ever to have come Denise’s way. He’s a handsome devil when he wants to be!’
Marion made a face. ‘He’s too tall for me!’ she joked.
But Lucasta didn’t laugh as she had thought she would. ‘If he wanted you,’ she said, ‘he wouldn’t let a little thing like that stand in his way.’
Jean-Pierre was an apparently pleasant young man, with smiling eyes, and a willingness to be pleased by any member of the opposite sex who happened to come his way.
‘Comme tu es belle,’ he breathed over Marion’s hand when he was duly introduced to her.
Marion frowned at him, very much on her dignity.
‘Thank you,’ she said in freezing tones.
‘Formidable,’ he murmured. ‘When do we start for Petra?’ He smiled at Marion, a glint in his eyes that she didn’t quite like. ‘Will you climb up to the High Place with me? I shall be very nice to you!’
‘What’s up there?’ she asked cautiously.
His eyes snapped. ‘No people!’
‘The Nabateans, who came up from Saudi Arabia bit by bit and replaced the Edomites at Petra, worshipped their god Dusares up there. They probably adopted him from the Edomites as well as their country. His name means “He (Lord) of Shera.” Shera is the same word as Seir, by which name the district was known in the Old Testament Jehovah, or Jahweh, the god of the Hebrews, was also said to be He of Seir, and to inhabit rock called Beth El, the House of God. Dusares was symbolised by a Mock of stone, so they may have started out as the same person,’ Gregory told her.
‘But why a rock?’ she asked.
‘The Israelites weren’t particularly artistic, and the same was true of the people on the “other side of the Jordan” as well. Besides, they were trying to get away from the Egyptian brilliance in this field which to them symbolised the oppression and the false gods they had escaped with some difficulty. A block of stone was far more acceptable as it represented the likeness of nothing in heaven above or on the earth beneath. The Nabateans, who were artistic, probably inherited the taboo as they inherited so much else from the Edomites.’
‘But the Hebrew god—’
‘It took time for God to reveal Himself to mankind,’ Gregory said sardonica
lly. ‘The rock idea lingered for quite a while. ‘‘The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; The God of my rock; in him will I trust.” Haven’t you heard that before? And when Mohammed entered Mecca in triumph he found the temple there surrounded by three hundred and sixty idols in the form of blocks of stone and pillars, which he overthrew. It wasn’t by chance that the three great monotheistic religions came from the Semitic people. They too had the same beginnings, not only their gods. They are all the sons of Abraham: some through Isaac, the son of Sara; and some through Ishmad, the son of Hagar.’
‘I suppose so.’ she said. She saw the bored look on Jean-Pierre’s face and her conscience smote her. It had been nice of him to come and she had done nothing so far to entertain him. She set herself to draw him out to the rest of the meal, asking about his work and his family, and making herself take an interest in his replies.
But she scarcely heard a word he said. With Gregory there, no other man seemed quite real to her. Would it be like that for the rest of her life? She could shut her eyes and see him as clearly as she could with them open. She could see the way his dark hair curled into his neck; the stern line to his mouth; the hardness of the line of his jaw; and, most of all, his observant navy-blue eyes that she sometimes thought could look right inside her and read her thoughts as easily as she could herself.
She must have made a better job of looking as though she was drinking in every word Jean-Pierre said than she had thought, because there was no getting rid of him after lunch. He followed her round the castle, never moving more than a few yards away from her, and at every turn Gregory seemed to be there, watching them with a superior amusement until Marion could have slapped him—and Jean-Pierre too for making her feel such a fool.
There was no sign of Gaston and Lucasta anywhere. If they had been going out, Marion wished they had taken Jean-Pierre and her with them. Anything would have been better than the awfulness of trying to make him drink tea like a civilised person in the drawing room, a habit which he considered barbaric and English, especially when he had quite another entertainment in view.
‘You wanted me to come, no?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘You asked for me to come?’
‘Only because I didn’t want to play gooseberry by myself!’ she retorted.
‘Play gooseberry? What is that?’
She explained the term. ‘Lucasta is only seventeen and it’s my job to look after her,’ she finished somewhat primly.
‘But you are not seventeen! You were never meant to be a gooseberry, ma petite Marion. You were meant for much better things than that. Lucasta, she is well enough for Gaston, but you are far too pretty for anyone else but me!’
‘Jean-Pierre, I—’
‘You are shy, a little, no? But no one is shy of me for long. A few kisses, ma mie, and you will forget all about your shyness.’
He would have suited the action to the words, but Marion excused herself hurriedly and rushed out of the room. She stood in the darkened hall of the frescoes, trying to catch her breath and wondering what to do next, when she heard Gregory talking to Abou Hanim outside. The Bedu had his transistor radio by his side and the sounds of one of the famous Umm Kalthoum’s endless songs came clearly to her. She peeped out through one of the shuttered windows and saw the two men squatting in the dust, side by side, listening intently to the recorded voice of that most loved Middle Eastern singer. It was as if a spell had been cast on them by this latter-day idol from Egypt.
Marion smiled to herself. Seeing the effect Umm Kalthoum had on her audience, she had no difficulty in believing that the British had rated it of first importance to guard this extraordinary siren during the war, in case she should fall into Rommel’s hands and be used by the German propaganda machine. She could bend and sway the emotions of men for hours at a time, as one of her songs, “You are My Life” (Anta Umri) which lasts for one hundred and sixty minutes, in its own right bears witness.
If Gregory was going to hear her out, she could safely take refuge in his study until Jean-Pierre tired of waiting for her and thought of something else to do. Gregory couldn’t possibly have minded her going into the room where he worked, but it still felt like trespassing to Marion as she opened the door and slid inside. She turned her eyes away from the pages of the book he was writing on his desk and filled in time going from one to another of the ikons on the wall, studying them in detail while there was no one there to watch her.
After a while she forgot Jean-Pierre, and forgot that Gregory might come in and surprise her at any moment, so she nearly jumped out of her skin when his voice said from the doorway:
‘I thought you might be here.’
She coloured guiltily. ‘Has Jean-Pierre been looking for me?’
Gregory leaned against the jamb of the door, crossing his arms in front of him. ‘Didn’t you want him to?’
‘I hoped he might have a look round by himself.’ she confessed. ‘If I’d stayed around much longer I’d have poured his tea all over him!’
Gregory smiled. ‘You shouldn’t have been so oncoming at lunch. I’m afraid he took that melting look of yours at face value.’
‘Oh no!’
He laughed at her appalled expression. ‘Weren’t you thinking of him at all? I rather thought not.’
She smiled back at him. ‘How did you know?’
‘You can’t hide much from me, Marion Shirley. You hadn’t turned the light on.’ He laughed again.
‘But it would be dreadful if he guessed!’ she protested. ‘Only I’d much rather get on with the frescoes than entertain him. Is that awful of me?’
‘Terrible! Are you asking me to rescue you from the clutches of that young man this week-end?’
‘I expect I can cope with him.’ she retorted. ‘Anyway. I don’t see what you could do. You can hardly ask him to go away, can you?’
He didn’t look as though he rated her chances of coping with anyone to be above even. ‘I’d be a little more subtle than that.’ he said.
She edged towards the door before he could cast any more aspersions on her savoir faire. ‘I’ll manage,’ she determined grimly. ‘I have had followers before,’ she added just in case he had doubted it. ‘I’m quite a bit older than Lucasta and—’
‘As pretty as a picture!’ he finished for her.
She ignored that although she was glad that he thought so. ‘Yes, well, you don’t have to look after me. I’ve looked after myself for a long time now and I’ve never come to any harm.’
‘Somehow,’ he said drily, ‘I doubt your defences have been much tested in the past.’
Only by him! She stood before him, a still, dignified little figure, her face completely serious. ‘Jean-Pierre’s ammunition isn’t of a very high calibre.’
‘High enough to make a nuisance of himself!’ Gregory crossed the room and flung himself into the chair behind the desk. ‘I’m not prepared to take the risk,’ he pronounced. ‘I’m not leaving you on your own with that young cub on the prowl, and that’s that.’
‘But it isn’t any of your business,’ Marion pointed out. ‘I’d rather you left things alone!’ She began to feel uncomfortable under his steady regard. ‘You don’t even like me! You said so!’
‘You manage to amuse me more than most,’ he said, beginning to laugh.
She glowered at him. It was not the emotion she would have chosen to inspire in his breast. ‘I know that!’
He raised his eyebrows, his eyes holding a merciless gleam that was very disturbing to her. ‘If you’re going to stay, why don’t you sit down?’ he asked.
But she was in no mood to settle anywhere. She knew she ought to go back to the drawing-room and Jean-Pierre, but she couldn’t bring herself to go. She bit her lip, whipping up her independent spirit from the withered, craven stance that it wanted to adopt in his presence.
‘Why don’t you come to Beirut with me?’ he shot at her.
Oh, Denise would love that! Marion had no difficulty in imagining the French gir
l’s reaction to an additional passenger, and a female one at that, when she thought she was going to have Gregory all to herself.
‘I can’t. I can’t leave Gaston and Lucasta alone together. Besides, they’re only going to Petra because I want to go. Gaston’s booked a couple of rooms at the Rest House for tomorrow night. I have to go now!’
Gregory considered her thoughtfully. ‘I don’t like the sound of it,’ he said. ‘Never mind, don’t you worry about it. I’ll have a word with both Gaston and Jean-Pierre.’
His gesture was dismissive, but still she lingered. ‘It isn’t Jean-Pierre’s fault,’ she said after a while.
‘I’m well aware of that!’
‘He may want to go to Petra as much as I do,’ she reasoned.
‘I doubt it’ He put his hands behind his head and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Forget it, Marion, and sit down! Abou Hanim says Zein has taken to wearing lipstick—yours, I suppose?’
She nodded. ‘I hope it didn’t get her into any trouble?’
‘Not with her husband. He thinks it’s fine! But Basina, Umm Hanim, is rigid with disapproval. It isn’t always easy to be the older and less attractive wife. Couldn’t you give her a lipstick too?’
Marion peeped at him through her lashes. ‘If I do, you’ll have to bring me back a replacement from Beirut. I only have a couple left.’
His own eyes narrowed. ‘What colour?’
‘Something like the one I’ve got on,’ she murmured.
He stood up slowly, moving closer to the window and beckoning to her to join him. ‘I can’t see it if you will stand over there in the shadows. Come a bit nearer and let me see.’
But she took fright. ‘Any colour will do,’ she assured him.
He beckoned again and she found herself going to him like metal to a magnet.