`You can't always trust what you see,' Randal told her.
`She was ill with jealousy!' Marcy flung at him. He shrugged. 'I won't dispute that.'
`Then why did you deliberately make it worse?' His eyes were ice-cold. For good reasons.'
`What were they, Randal? The pleasure you were
getting out of making her feel pain?'
He sat up abruptly, his lean body instinct with temper. 'No, Marcy. Are you deaf? Julia was trying to belittle you all the time she was here, trying to make you sound like a . .
`An adolescent,' Marcy nodded. 'That's what I am, Randal.'
Their eyes met. There was temper in his blue ones, a cool assessment in hers.
`You were hurting Julia because your own mind secretly tells you the same things,' she told him. 'I'm much too young for you. I don't fit into your world. Julia does.'
`I don't want Julia,' he said harshly. 'I never have. And if you're under the impression that she's in love with me, think again. Julia is a clever, ambitious, intelligent woman, but I doubt if she's ever been in love in her life. Jealousy in her is not associated with love. It only means that she coveted the position of
being my wife.' He stood up and caught her thin shoulders, shaking her. 'Give me some credit, Marcy. I'm not a fool. Julia has been hanging around giving me broad hints for years. If I had wanted a suitable, very presentable wife she's been there, but I didn't.'
She looked up at him, her eyes anxious. 'Randal, I don't want to marry you.'
His mouth tightened. 'I'll make you,' he said forcefully. 'I can't let you get away from me, Marcy?.
`What do you want from me ?' she asked, bewildered, her eyes filled with alarm and bafflement. `You're rich. You could have any girl you asked. Why me ?'
`God help me, I don't know,' he said with a note of self-derision in his voice. 'You've got into my bloodstream.- I want you badly, and I'm going to have you.'
She was terrified of the determined sound of his voice, of the restless acquisitive gleam in the blue eyes. She felt an increasing helplessness in front of his pursuit. Totally inexperienced -with men, she had grown up in freedom in Cornwall, almost outside the modern world, plunged suddenly into it at eighteen when she came to London, drowning abruptly in a mad circus of newspaper publicity, intrigue, politics and at last her meeting with Randal. She had not yet felt the fierce touch of passion. Randal's lovemaking had puzzled, alarmed, astonished her. She had begun to feel curiosity, even excitement, under his arousing caresses, but she was very far from being in love with him. Had he been a boy of her own age she might have begun to learn the language of love on a novice
level, taking her first junior slopes with nervous excitement. But Randal had tried to sweep her away on the crest of an avalanche, and she was floundering out of her depth, in grave danger of total disaster, and deeply aware of it.
She walked towards the smaller of the pictures of a Dutch landscape and stared sightlessly at the pale colours, the dark trees and neat houses. Randal looked hungrily at her slight body, his face flushed and intent.
" 'Marry me, Marcy,' he said huskily.
`No,' she said, her voice grave. 'It would be a very stupid thing for us to do.' She looked round at him. `Randal, leave me alone. I can't cope with all this. But my instinct tells me that I mustn't marry you.'
For a moment there was a conflicting confusion in his face, a darkness in his eyes, a hard flush on his cheeks. She could feel the fight going on inside him. His hands clenched by his sides and he breathed erratically as if he were running a hard race.
Then slowly he visibly got control and his hands slowly unclenched. After a pause, he said levelly, `Then what are you going to do, Marcy ?'
`Go to drama school in the autumn,' she said. `Have fun. Learn about myself and other people.' She looked appealingly at him. 'I've got a lot to learn, Randal. And I want to learn it.'
_ He breathed deeply. 'And until then I suggest you go to Somerset and stay with my godmother,' he said. `I want you out of London for a while, Marcy, while the fuss blows over here. You can't go back to
Paradise Street until the whole thing is a dead nine day's wonder. Will you stay in Somerset until the autumn?'
She smiled at him. 'Thank you, I'd love to.' `Then I'll drive you down tonight,' he said. `Tonight ?' She looked surprised. `So soon?' Randal's mouth dented self-satirically. 'Your
presence here under my roof does appalling things to
my self-control, Marcy,' he said.
She flushed. 'Oh!'
He came over to her and took her head between his hands, kissing her mouth very softly. 'Your very innocence tempts me beyond belief,' he murmured. `Haven't you ever looked out of a window at newly fallen snow and felt an urgent desire to rush out and run through it? I'm accustomed to getting my own way, my darling. I'm well aware that you're totally inexperienced and unawakened, and I badly, want to be the man who wakes the sleeping beauty with a kiss.' His eyes rested on her pink mouth longingly. `Oh, Marcy, don't let someone else come between us. I'll wait as patiently as I can, but say now that you belong to me.'
`Don't ask me to make promises I can't keep,' she whispered, her brows uneasy.
He groaned. 'Oh, God, why are you so damned honest ?' He pushed her away. 'You'd better choose some more clothes from Anthea's room. Aunt Anne will be amazed if you arrive just in the clothes you stand up in, and those jeans of yours won't pass down in Somerset.'
`I can't take your sister's clothes,' she protested.
He gave her an infuriated look. 'You pig-headed child! Very well, I'll damned well choose some of them and get Walters to pack them for you. As soon as it's dark we'll go. I'll ring for a chauffeur to collect my car from Paradise Street and bring it round here.'
She laughed. 'How easily your life can be managed, Randal. Money really does smooth the way, doesn't it ?'
`It helps,' he agreed drily.
Was Julia telling the truth? Has the Paradise Street business cost you a lot of money ?'
He grimaced. 'I doubt if you could conceive how much.'
She watched him. 'What were you doing, Randal, buying me ?'
He laughed sardonically. 'Apparently I couldn't even do that.'
`I'm sorry,' she said, pitying him.
Randal looked at her with brief irritation. 'Don't look at me in that way, Marcy. I'm not one of your lame ducks.'
`I know you aren't,' she said cheerfully. 'This takeover bid has failed, but I'm sure your next one will be successful.'
His eyes narrowed at her. 'What's that supposed to mean?'
'Randal, I'll be at drama school for years. You'll find someone else, someone more suitable.'
Randal muttered under his breath, and Marcy laughed. 'Don't huff like the big bad wolf, Randal!' He gave her a sharp smile. 'Be careful, Marcy. One
day I'll come and blow your house right down and gobble you up unmercifully.'
`The little pigs escape,' she pointed out. 'It was the wolf who came to a sticky end.'
`I read different books,' he assured her. 'In my version the big bad wolf wins hands down.'
She laughed, feeling a great liking for him. He looked at her abruptly, and she could feel exactly what he was feeling, and a hot colour came into her cheeks, making her turn away.
He turned on his heel and left the room. Marcy sat down on the couch, feeling breathless. She tried to make sense out of her own confused feelings. She liked Randal. She had liked him on sight. There was empathy between them, a natural, instinctive understanding, so that she could sense his thoughts and even his feelings, although she often found them puzzling. She felt easy and comfortable with him except when that look came into his face. She had found him kind, funny, protective . . . yet there was always that look, a curious, hungry look, as if he were sometimes in need of something she was not giving him.
He was attractive. When he kissed her and stroked her hair she felt a pleasant, warm feeling. Her parents had never been demonstrative towards her as a c
hild. Caresses were almost unknown to her, and she found Randal's made her warmly languid, as if they made her bones melt, leaving her helpless in his arms. She was deeply curious about him, curious about how he felt, and how he made her feel, but she felt as if he had
presented her with a jigsaw puzzle she could not solve.
Was she falling in love with him? Was that the explanation of the odd sensations he aroused in her?
She recalled the moment when she had been swinging upside down in the tree in the garden at Paradise Street, and he had appeared so suddenly. She had looked at him, her hair tumbling backwards, and had lost her balance and fallen, to be caught in Randal's strong, hard arms.
Everything had begun at that moment. From the first instant she had felt an immediate, irresistible attraction towards him, knowing that he was someone she could like immensely.
She felt as if, like Alice, she had fallen down and down a great dark well at that moment, taking Randal with her, and now she had to regain her balance. The last two days had been a whirl of confused experience. -She had felt more, experienced more, in those two days than ever in her life before, but she could make no sense out of any of it. She needed time, and so did Randal, if they were not to make a disastrous mistake.
They drove to Somerset in the warm dark night, rarely talking. Randal seemed abstracted, and Marcy was relieved that he was not in the mood to talk, since she was facing the fact that soon she would say goodbye to him, and finding the idea oddly unpleasant.
As they left the outer reaches of suburbia behind they drove into an English countryside still marked with the vestiges of more ancient times—barrows
made smooth eruptions on the dark horizon of the hills, lonely houses with thatched roofs and black and white timbering appeared occasionally, there were the misty outlines of sheep on the cold downs. Now and then another car passed them, headlights glaring. Otherwise they drove on through a silent land.
Marcy grew sleepy and slid back against the seat, her head drooping, Randal glanced down at her, pushed her gently sideways so that his arm could just surround her, and drove on, feeling the soft weight of -her slender body against his side with a sensation of silent possession which made his whole face soften.
He turned into a white gate, propped open by a ragged stone, and drove on along a long, broad lane, with lime trees darkly lacing overhead, towards the distant outline of a long, white house.
Parking at the back of the house, he detached himself from Marcy and got out, then bent forward, lifting her into his arms, his hands convulsively holding her close for a second, his face buried in her soft hair. Then he straightened and walked towards the back door of the house. It opened as he reached it and a thin old woman in a flowered cotton dressing-gown peered at him, light shedding a circle around her.
`Randal!' whispered a voice, staring at the frail body in his arms. 'Come in.'
Randal passed her, kissing her wrinkled, soft cheek as he did so. 'Hallo, Chumble . .
In the same whispered voice the old woman said, `You'd better bring her upstairs. I've put her in the room Anthea uses.'
Randal followed her erect, thin figure up a flight of winding wooden stairs and along a corridor into a bedroom. Gently, with reluctance, he lowered Marcy's sleeping body on to the bed. She stirred, waking as the warmth of his closeness left her, and stared upward, blinking sleepily. 'Oh!' she yawned, then came awake suddenly, and started up, staring around.
`I'll help her get into bed, Randal,' said the old woman briskly. 'I've got a kettle on. Go down and make some tea.'
`I've got to drive straight back to London,' he said briefly. 'I just want to say goodbye to Marcy, Chumble.'
The old woman eyed him almost reprovingly, then nodded. She went out and Randal thrust his hands into his pockets, looking down at Marcy expressionlessly.
She drew her knees up and put her arms around them, almost defensively, her chin on them, looking at him.
`It's a long drive back to London. Do you think you should do the journey twice in one night ?'
`Never mind that,' he said. 'I have an appointment tomorrow at three. I'll get some sleep tomorrow morning.' He sighed deeply. 'Now listen to me, Marcy. I'll see that everything goes well at Paradise Street. Trust me.'
`I do,' she said simply.
He looked at her green eyes, then at her weary
mouth. 'In two days I'm due to fly to New York and
then to Canada,' he told her. 'I've got a round of
talks to get through over the next fortnight, then after that I've got to go to Japan. I can't get back to England for almost a month.'
Marcy felt a coldness on her skin, but she smiled. `I hope 'you enjoy your trip,' she said politely.
His mouth twisted bitterly. 'Oh, God, Marcy, I've never wanted to go anywhere less!'
She felt a strange compassion for him, and held out her arms in a childlike gesture of affection. Randal sat down and she put her arms around his neck, stroking the back of his dark head.
He looked into her green eyes, his face lined with weariness. 'Don't forget me while I'm gone,' he said huskily.
She leaned forward and kissed his tired mouth with - tenderness. 'I couldn't do that, Randal.'
His lips awoke under her softness and he began to kiss her in that hungry way of his, his hands trembling as he held her. Marcy was so tired. The warmth and comfort of his kisses made her languid. She slowly sank back on the pillows and Randal lay, softly kissing her, his hands moving over her restlessly. She was yieldingly responsive, her brain too tired to think, and barely noticed when Randal's hands began to move over her lace blouse, undoing her buttons, sliding in to find her warm smooth skin. Her eyes were drowsily closed, her slenderness relaxed, as he slid his mouth down her white throat and began to kiss her bare shoulders. 'Oh, God, Marcy, I love you,' he groaned, his mouth hot on her skin.
The door opened at that instant and the old woman in the floral dressing-gown came into the room,
carrying a tray which bore a cup of tea and some plain biscuits. She stopped, looking deeply shocked, and Randal sat up, his face darkly flushed.
`Randal ! What do you think you're doing ?' The old woman had a sharp, angry note in her reedy voice.
Randal looked confused. He glanced at Marcy, who, very pink, was pulling her open blouse together with trembling fingers. 'I must go. Marcy, I'll write to you. I . . .' His voice cut off as if he found it hard to speak. He looked at the old woman. `Chumble, look after her.'
The old woman probed his face with faded but still sharp eyes. 'I'll look after her, Randal,' she said, in a softer tone.
Randal nodded, then bent, lifting both Marcy's small hands to his mouth.
She felt his mouth burn on her palms, felt him hold them both briefly against his cheek, then he released them and walked out of the room.
Chumble put down the tray and looked oddly at Marcy. 'Drink your tea, miss. I'll be back when I've seen Mr Randal off.'
Marcy sat, sipping her tea, her blouse done up again. She was still feeling fluttering butterflies in her stomach after the moments when she and Randal had kissed.
The old woman came back and watched as she finished her tea and sat up straight. 'Now, off to bed with you,' she said briskly. 'I'm Chumble. I was Randal's nanny when he was a little boy. My real name is Miss Chumley, but he could never say it.'
Marcy smiled, that quick, radiant childlike smile
which had first made Randal's heart stop. 'It suits you,' she said. 'It's a lovely name.'
Chumble's face softened further. 'How old are you, miss?' she asked,' helping Marcy deftly with her gnarled old hands to get undressed.
March looked at her, a slight wry smile on her mouth. 'I'm just eighteen,' she said.
`Eighteen!' Chumble's face was dismayed. 'You're nothing but a child!'
Marcy slid out of the black velvet suit and stood in her bra and panties, a slender pale figure, her white skin gleaming. 'I know,' she said. 'I'm too young for him. I've told
him that, but Randal is very obstinate.'
Chumble had brought up the case which Randal had had packed for her, and was finding a nightgown. She held it up, a frown on her face.
`It's Anthea's,' Marcy told her. 'Randal said my own clothes wouldn't do for Lady Anne.'
Chumble gave her a quick, surprised look, but said nothing, pushing her into the white wisp of silk. Marcy clambered into bed and sat up, hugging her knees, the bright marigold gleam of her head even gaudier above the white silk.
`Walters packed them for me,' she said.
`Walters!' Chumble snorted. 'They'll have to be pressed. He can't pack handkerchiefs.'
Marcy grinned. 'I like him,' she said. 'And Anatole . . . they're both very kind.'
`The bathroom is down the corridor,' said Chumble, ignoring the statement. 'Breakfast is at nine. Lady Anne rides first thing in the morning, and
has a late breakfast. When you've recovered from the journey you could ride with her.'
`I don't ride horses,' said Marcy. 'I've never ridden.'
Chumble looked disgusted. 'You'll learn,' she said firmly. She moved to the door. 'Good night, miss.'
`My name is Marcy, Chumble,' said Marcy softly.
Chumble's thin lips twitched. 'Marcy ... what sort of name is that? You were never christened Marcy.'
'Marcia,' Marcy grimaced. But that's hateful ! Call me Marcy, Chumble.'
`Just as you like, miss,' said Chumble stiffly. Marcy's bright gamin smile shone out again. Was Randal a good little boy ?'
`A wicked one,' said Chumble, softening against her will. 'His mother doted on him.'
'Walters said it hit him hard when his mother died.' `Walters knows nothing about it,' said Chumble jealously.
`Didn't it ?'
Chumble met her probing green eyes with reluctance. 'I think it nearly broke his heart,' she admitted. She looked at Marcy oddly. 'She wasn't unlike you, miss. There's a portrait of her in the library. She was Lady Anne's cousin, you know, and they were very close. When Lady Anne dies she'll leave the portrait to Randal in her will, she says, but she won't part with it until she goes. She was very fond of Miss Natalie.'
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