One Who Kisses

by Marjorie Lewty

  'Yes, Mr St Just. Glad to see you back—the missus has got everything ready for you, and a meal too. She's up at your house now, she said she'd stay until you arrived.'

  'That's very good of her.' Piran turned to Polly, who was blinking around her in the quiet little station yard. She hadn't got her bearings yet, having only just been wakened as they came into the station. Never did she remember having slept so long or so soundly on a railway journey. Jules had slept all the time, too, and Piran had carried him out and deposited him, still only half awake, in the back seat of the big car. 'Polly, this is Joe Upshall, who helps me out in all sorts of ways in his spare time. Joe, meet my wife.'

  'Hullo, Joe.' Polly held out a hand, and he took it rather shyly. 'Very pleased to meet you, Mrs St Just.'

  Piran held open the back door of the car for her to get in beside Jules. 'I'll drive, Joe,' he said, 'I can't wait to get my hands on the wheel again after making do with a hired Fiat for the last month.' He slid into the driving seat and ran his hands over the wheel as if he loved it. Perhaps, thought Polly sadly, he was a man who loved his car more than his wife. Certainly, as they drove through the darkness, with the powerful headlights showing up what looked like open heath-land, he talked cars to Joe, sitting beside him, all the way.

  After a time they turned off the main road into a lane that switchbacked up hills and down. Polly held her breath as Piran took the tight bends at speed, but she supposed he knew every inch of this countryside, and she had to believe that he knew what he was doing. All the same, she was relieved when they finally passed through a tiny village, with lights glimmering behind drawn curtains in a row of cottages, and, after another short climb up a hill, turned into a winding drive and pulled up before an open front door where light streamed out from the house inside.

  Piran jumped out of the car as a plump young woman in a pink overall came out to meet them. 'Here we are, Mrs Joe. And this is my new wife, with one very sleepy young man.' As Polly was being greeted by the plump young woman he lifted Jules out of the back of the car and set him on his feet, where he stood blinking round dazedly. 'When can I see the dinosaurs?' he asked in a surprisingly clear voice, and Mrs Joe laughed and said, 'Bless the boy, you'll be wanting your supper first, won't you? Now, you come along with me and we'll find you something good to eat.' She held out a friendly hand.

  Jules turned to Polly uncertainly, but she nodded and smiled and he put his hand into Mrs Joe's and followed her into the house. Joe took two bags out of the boot of the car, and Piran lifted the other one and turned towards the doorway with a buoyant step—a man delighted to be coming home.

  He's forgotten all about me, Polly thought, and it was like a physical pain just underneath her ribs. She stood beside the car, her legs refusing to move, clutching her handbag and the book that Jules had brought with him for the train journey. It was her wedding day, and her husband had brought her back to his home, but never, even in the worst days of her childhood, had she felt more alone.

  Then, suddenly, as she stood watching him, Piran dropped the bag he was carrying, turned round and came back to her. 'I'm neglecting my bridegroom's first duty, aren't I?' Before she realised what he meant to do he had scooped her up in his arms and was carrying her up the steps and through the massive front door into a large, square hall, where a log fire was burning welcomingly.

  He put her down on her feet, with a grin. 'There, didn't I do that prettily? You can't fault me on that one, my darling wife.'

  He was teasing her, and all she could do was smile weakly because the sudden feeling of his arms round her and the pressure of his hard body against hers had deprived her of breath. She walked over to the fire. 'This is cosy,' she said, and shivered—but not because she was cold.

  Piran glanced at her pale face and said, 'You look washed out. Come along upstairs and have a rest until Mrs Joe has food ready for us.' Not waiting for a reply, he lifted their bags and led the way up a wide oak staircase. Polly followed meekly, all her rebellion fading away before the man's dynamism. Coming home seemed to have made him more vital than ever. Polly glanced round the impressive hall, with its oak furniture and huge inglenook fireplace and Mexican wall-hangings. If you had a place like this for your home, it wasn't surprising, she thought, and then— with a small shock of amazement—she realised that this was her home too.

  A narrow gallery ran round three sides of the hall. 'This is the guest-room,' said Piran, leading the way into a large, square room, furnished in what Polly thought was almost extravagant luxury. White pile carpet, a canopied double bed with floor-length Sanderson window curtains to match the bed hangings. A deep lounge chair, a walnut writing desk by the window. She took it all in at a glance as Piran was saying, 'I asked Mrs Joe to get this room ready just for the moment. We can make other arrangements later on, if you like, when you've seen the whole house.'

  Polly glanced at the wide silk-covered bed, and then caught Piran watching her and flushed abysmally.

  He grinned. 'Don't worry, I'm not going to do the brigand chief act. My own room is next door and I shall be working pretty hard for some weeks to come to meet my deadline. I shan't be exercising my—er— conjugal rights.'

  Polly was bereft of speech. He couldn't have put it plainer, could he? She really didn't interest him particularly. Perhaps, later on, when he had nothing better to do, he might consider sleeping with her. For the moment his work was far more important. She felt utterly deflated and rather sick.

  She looked at the enormous bed. 'Isn't there a smaller room I could have?'

  He clicked his tongue in sudden irritation. 'As I told you,. Polly, this room has been prepared. For goodness' sake, don't go on about it. Now have a rest and come down when you're ready.'

  He turned and went out of the room, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. Polly sank down into a deep chair upholstered in peach satin, which looked too exquisite to be actually used. She didn't quite know what she had expected, but it certainly hadn't been this—that she would be put in this enormous guest-room which looked as if it could house royalty without much further adornment. She wondered where Jules was and if he was getting anxious once again.

  She was too keyed-up to lie and rest. She prowled round the room, opening doors. Behind one she found a walk-in clothes closet; behind another a luxurious bathroom, with eau-de-nil fittings and every pot and bottle of toiletries she could imagine. Another door opened into a small room that looked like a dressing-room. There was a single bed, made up, and Jules's case had been placed on a chair beside it. He would be near her at night, and that was a relief.

  Polly went into the bathroom and washed her face and hands. Then, back in the bedroom, she unpacked her case, took out her own modest toilet things, and set them on the glass-topped dressing table. She brushed her hair, dabbed blusher on her pale cheeks and went out of the room on to the gallery. She would go and find Jules and reassure herself that he was all right. She stood for a moment, leaning on the carved oak baluster, looking down into the empty hall.

  'Where are you off to? I thought you were going to rest.' Piran's deep voice, still irritable, came from somewhere behind her. She spun round to see him, through the open door, standing in the room next to her own, bending over a desk.

  His voice, coming to her suddenly like that, always had the effect of flipping her stomach over, but she took a quick breath and replied, leaning her back against the baluster, 'You said I was going to rest. I didn't.'

  He glared at her angrily for a moment. Then he turned back to his desk, with a muttered word that she couldn't catch—which, she thought, was perhaps just as well. She hastened down the staircase, clutching the polished rail as she went, feeling that all the fiends were pursuing her. But when she reached the hall, she was quite alone. After some trial and error she found her way into the kitchen, where Jules was sitting happily in front of a big white Aga. On his knee was what looked like a bowl of bread and milk, and at his feet, gazing up at him, was a large black Labr
ador dog.

  Mrs Joe was at the cooker, stirring something in an orange-coloured casserole dish, from which rose an appetising savoury smell. She looked slightly flustered. 'Oh, Mrs St Just, it's you. I'm afraid supper isn't quite ready. I didn't know what time you'd like it.' She was a pretty young woman, brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a fresh complexion and a cheerful look about her. Polly liked her at sight; she was the first reassuring thing she had seen in this overpowering house.

  'No hurry,' she said, smiling. 'Just so long as the most important person is fed!' She went across to Jules and ruffled his dark hair. 'You look as if you've settled in, young man.'

  He beamed happily at her, wide awake now. 'I like it here,' he announced. 'This is Judy.' He put a rather tentative hand on the Labrador's head and she placed one floppy paw quite gently on his knee.

  'Judy's very friendly,' Mrs Joe said from across the room. 'She'll be glad to have someone to play with and take her walks. I've had her at our house while Mr St Just's been away, but she's fretted a bit.'

  She gave the casserole a final stir and came across to the table for a colander of shelled peas. Then she paused, looking at Polly rather shyly. 'Joe and I wanted to say as we were so glad to hear that Mr St Just had got married, and we hope you'll be very happy, Mrs St Just. It'll be lovely to have a proper mistress in the house.' Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth like a schoolgirl, her cheeks turning crimson. 'Oh goodness, I'm always putting my foot in it, like Joe says!' She grabbed the colander and whisked it back to the cooker.

  Polly stroked the Labrador's head thoughtfully. Mrs Joe must have been here at the time of Piran's marriage to his first wife. She must have known about the tragedy, and in the circumstances her remark seemed rather odd. Oh, well, it was all over now, and Polly hoped fervently that she was going to be considered a 'proper' mistress. She would do her darnedest, she vowed.

  After Jules had finished his supper Polly stayed with him and together they played with the big dog. Also, she found out from Mrs Joe where things were kept in the kitchen. 'I come in each day for about a couple of hours, usually,' she told Polly. 'But if you were wanting me for longer, just at first, I could probably manage it. I live down the hill in the village—we keep the general store there, and Joe and I take it in turn to look after the counter when the other one of us is out at work. Joe does the garden for Mr St Just, you see, and sometimes drives the car, like tonight.'

  Piran didn't put in an appearance and presently, as Jules began to look sleepy again, Polly took him up to his room and ran his bath and saw him into bed. It was quite like old times, at the home, when she had often helped with the younger children.

  She read to him for a little while from one of his books, by which time his eyelids were heavy again. Then, after showing him the communicating door to her own room, she tucked him in and promised to leave the door to the gallery ajar so that he wouldn't be quite in the dark.

  She went back into the big bedroom next door and changed the blue corduroy travelling suit for a soft woollen dress in a deep burgundy colour, one of the dresses Piran had bought for her in Paris. The mirror told her that—except for the shadows beneath her eyes—she looked confident and composed, almost like the wife of a rich and successful author. But as she left her room the butterflies in her stomach were telling quite a different story.

  Piran was standing in the hall. He looked up as she walked slowly down the wide staircase and she could see from his face that he was in a better humour. Evidently the work had gone well.

  He grinned. 'Very pretty!' She didn't know whether he was referring to her, or to the dress he himself had chosen. He linked his arm lightly with hers. 'Mrs Joe has prepared us something that smells very delicious. Come along and try it.'

  He led her into a large dining-room with a long refectory table and ladderback chairs. Polly stared admiringly. 'What a beautiful room! I love old furniture.' She wandered round, touching the carved oak bureau, the side table with twisty legs and a marquetry top, the cabinet housing a beautiful array of Spode china. 'I sometimes used to go to Christie's sales, just to look at the lovely things there.'

  Piran was watching her, an odd expression on his face. 'My parents furnished the house,' he said. 'They were great collectors. I took it over as they left it.' His face' clouded. 'But not everyone appreciates old things.' He shook his shoulders as if he were shaking off some unhappy memory, and then led Polly to the long table, a hand at her elbow. 'Mrs Joe has set us close together at one end,' he grinned. 'No doubt she believes we can't bear to be apart.'

  Polly shrugged. 'She'll soon learn differently,' she said in a light voice.

  That exchange set the tone for the meal, which was indeed delicious—a fragrantly succulent casserole of the tenderest beef, with tiny onions and button mushrooms and a subtle flavouring of herbs. Yes, Piran agreed, Mrs Joe was an excellent cook, but mostly he did his own cooking.

  'Well, you won't have to bother with that any more,' Polly told him. 'At least I can cook for you.'

  He gave her a look that she had no means of interpreting, as he poured ruby red wine into their crystal glasses. 'At least,' he echoed drily.

  Mrs Joe had gone home, but had left coffee already made, and Piran carried the tray into a small room next to the dining room, where a fire had been lit. 'This is what's known as the snug,' he told Polly, 'for obvious reasons. Tomorrow I'll introduce you to the drawing-room and the rest of the house, and I'll also turn the heating on. Meanwhile, use the electric fires as you need. Most of the rooms have them.'

  He explained the layout of the house while they drank their coffee, sitting on either side of the fire in leather easy chairs. He also explained the parking and shopping facilities in the small seaside town a few miles away. He might, Polly thought, have been briefing a new housekeeper—and in a way, she supposed, that was exactly what he was doing.

  Finally he leaned over and put his cup on the tray. 'We won't bother with the washing-up tonight,' he said. 'Mrs Joe has promised to come in early in the morning and she'll see to it. You can arrange the domestic matters between you.' He got to his feet. 'Shall we go up now?' he suggested casually.

  Polly's mouth went dry and her stomach flipped over. Had he changed his mind? Did he intend that they should spend the night together after all? Her knees felt like indiarubber as they walked up the stairs together.

  She went into the large guest-room and walked across to the dressing table. Every nerve of her body registered the fact that he had followed her in and through the mirror she could see that he had flopped down on the bed and was bouncing on it like a small boy. 'Very comfy,' he remarked. 'You'll be O.K. here?'

  She swallowed. 'I'm sure I shall, thanks.' Why didn't he just go away, for goodness' sake? The sight of him there on the bed, even his reflection, was turning her bones to water.

  She needed to do something with her hands, so she picked up a comb and ran it through her hair. She was aware of a movement behind her and then his face appeared in the mirror beside her own. He took a strand of hair between his finger and thumb. 'Pretty hair,' he murmured.

  Polly stood there as if transfixed, her heart pounding. And then she felt him lift her hair away and press his lips to the nape of her neck and a shudder ran through her body. She twisted away from him. 'Don't do that,' she said jerkily.

  'Sorry.' He was laughing at her. 'It was just to say goodnight. I'll go now. Sleep well, little Polly.'

  She stood where he had left her for several minutes and presently she heard the tapping of his typewriter in the next room. Like a zombie, Polly undressed, slid quickly into one of the gauzy white nightdresses that Alice had insisted on buying for her, and climbed into the wide bed. There were books on the bedside table and a lamp on a beautiful ormolu stand, but Polly couldn't have focussed on a word of print. She clicked off the light, pulled the bedclothes tightly up to her chin, and lay there shivering.

  It wasn't really cold, she assured herself, it was only that she was ten
se and nervous. Soon she would warm up and then sleep would come, and tomorrow would be better. She would establish some sort of routine, and there would be Jules to look after. It wouldn't be so bad.

  She could still hear the tapping of Piran's typewriter in the next room. He had almost certainly forgotten she was here, by this time. She closed her eyes and presently she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was the old nightmare that Polly hadn't had for years, and she wasn't awake yet. She was clawing her way up endless, crumbling steps, whimpering, trying to get a hand-hold on to damp stones, slippery with mosses and rough with gravel, that cut into her bleeding fingers. From somewhere above her a great deluge of poisoned water was sluicing down on her, nearer every moment. And somewhere in the water a slimy obscene monster lay in wait for her. She felt the wetness trickling on to her face and opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. Scream after scream died helplessly in her parched throat. Terror clawed at her as she began to waken. In the thick darkness she pulled herself up in the bed and fumbled for a light with nerveless fingers. Every second her panic increased as the blackness concealed terrible unknown threats. Light—light—she must have light or she would die a horrible death—her hands flailed around helplessly. Then there was a crash as the ormolu lamp tipped over on the bedside table and fell to the floor.

  A light snapped on, flooding the room, and Piran's voice demanded, 'What in the name of all that's holy is going on in here?'

  Polly stared at him, shocked and speechless, her eyes dilated in her pallid face. He came across the room and picked up the lamp, flicking the switch on and off with no result.

  'Is it—is it broken?' Polly whispered.

  He put the lamp down indifferently. 'The bulb's gone, that's all. What were you trying to do? Smash the place up?' His tone was sarcastic, his whole bearing irritable and impatient. He was wearing a silk gown in some dark colour, the girdle tied carelessly as if he had thrown it on in a hurry. It was obvious that he had nothing on underneath it.