same atmosphere lay on her own spirits. She felt tense,
restless, nervous.
Marie-Louise gave Sam and Kate a brief, indifferent
glance as she walked past, but Marc nodded to them, his
eyes sliding over Kate without meeting hers. He was
looking rather serious, she noticed. She felt relief flood into
her when the other two vanished inside. The first encounter
had passed somehow, and now she need not dread having to
speak to him.
At dinner Jean-Paul was unceasingly attentive, talking
to her, watching her, smiling at her. She was grateful for
the shield of his presence. Behind that shield she could
build up her defences again. Marc must not be allowed to
bulldoze them down again.
She and Jean-Paul each had a need of each other, she
was under no illusions about his flattering attentions. He
wanted to heal his pride, wounded by Pallas.
The rest of the table was more divided. Pallas barely
spoke at all. Sam was absorbed by his shish-kebabs and
sweet, orange-flavoured gateau. Helene seemed distrait and
nervous, and Mrs. Lillitos was apparently quite lacking
appetite. Marc spoke anxiously as she sent away her plate,
barely touched, but she unsmilingly shook her head,
obviously telling him that she was quite well.
Kate looked back at the time before the arrival of Marie-
Louise and Helene, and wished it was back. There had been
more ease in the party then. They had been quite happy.
After dinner Marc retired to his office. His mother went
to bed, with Helene in attendance, and Kate soon' followed,
feeling very low in spirits.
She heard voices from Mrs. Lillitos’s bedroom, and
thought that it was charming to see such affection between
Helene and her mother-in-law, particularly since Paul
Lillitos had died so long ago. Would Marie-Louise get such a
warm welcome into the family? She felt somehow, that Mrs.
Lillitos did not like the other woman. She was always polite
to her, yet there was a coldness between them. Marie-
Louise was always cloyingly eager to flatter Mrs. Lillitos.
Perhaps the older woman found that distasteful. Certainly
the quiet warmth between her and Helene was based, Kate
thought, upon respect for each other.
She washed, cleaned her teeth and got undressed, then
sat, in her frilly white nightie, staring at herself in the
mirror. She was thinner, she thought. There were new
hollows in her cheeks, a blue shadow beneath her eyes. Of
course, she had been ill. Her appetite had not yet recovered
since her attack of sunburn. But that did not account for the
little droop at the corners of her mouth, or for those tell-tale
shadows in her eyes.
A soft knock on her door startled her. She slipped on her
dressing-gown and went to open the door. Her heart leapt
into her throat. She stared, blue eyes wide and frightened,
at Marc.
He was wearing an elegant dark lounge suit, formal
white shirt and dark tie. He looked more like a successful
businessman than ever tonight.
“Yes?” she asked, holding her voice steady by an effort.
He looked at her dressing-gown, which she had not
buttoned, and which showed the scanty white nylon nightie
beneath.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deep, “I did not realise you
had gone to bed.”
She pulled the dressing-gown closer. “What did you
want?”
“To apologise,” he said abruptly. “May I come in for a
second? We need not close the door, if you are nervous about
the conventions.” Without waiting for an answer, he walked
past her into the room. Kate looked down the corridor, saw
nobody, and followed him, leaving the door ajar.
He stood by her dressing-table, looking down, his fingers
lightly touching the lids of cosmetic jars, perfume bottles,
her hairbrush. She waited, a few feet away, looking at the
back of his dark head.
Then he seemed to jerk himself together, turned and
looked at her, his face unreadable.
“I am sorry about that incident on the beach,” he said
formally. “I lost my temper.”
“You blame me for Jean-Paul,” she said quietly. “You’re
wrong. You should never have agreed to that arrangement,
you know. It’s that that has been at the bottom of the
trouble with Pallas all the time—she felt she was under
pressure, being forced to marry him.”
“Arranged marriages work very well,” he said de-
fensively, “and I am certain Pallas liked Jean-Paul very
much. I should never have sent her to school in England. It
has given her crazy ideas.”
She flushed. “Like falling in love and choosing whom one
marries?”
“Exactly so,” he retorted. “You chose whom you should
marry, and see what a mess you have made of your life!”
“You have no right to say that!” she said angrily.
“Isn’t it true?” he asked thickly. “Can you deny that Peter
Hardy is selfish and indifferent to you? All he thinks of is
his work. He doesn’t love you. He probably never has—or
only for a short while. I do not suppose he will ever fall in
love with anyone. He is too self-obsessed.”
“You mustn’t say this to me,” she said weakly, unable to
deny what had become obvious to her with every day that
passed since their first meeting. No man who loved her
could have abandoned her in a house where she would be
thrown into Marc’s company. Peter had not even noticed
that she was uneasy with Marc. If he had loved her, he
would have been aware of it.
“Your mother should have said it long ago,” Marc said
coolly. “Even Sam is aware of it. It is obvious to everyone
but you. Peter does not love you, Kate, and I do not believe
you love him.”
She felt her cheeks flame into scarlet and her eyes
seemed to lose the ability to focus. When her breathing
settled a little, she said huskily, “My feelings are my own
business. Was that all you wanted to say?” She was
suddenly terrified that he might guess her feelings for him.
He must go, she thought desperately. He must leave her
alone before she betrayed herself.
Marc thrust his hands into the pockets of his elegant
suit. “You won’t listen to common sense, then? You hand out
free advice to Pallas, to Sam, to me—why won’t you take
some back? Break off this ridiculous engagement and find
someone you can really love and who is a man, not a
dedicated boffin.”
She was so afraid that he would read her love in her eyes
that she said fiercely, “Perhaps I have—perhaps Jean-Paul
is the answer to a maiden’s prayer. Now, do you mind
going? I’m sleepy.”
Marc turned, like an automaton, his face rigid. “Very
well, good night,” he said stiffly, and then the door was shut
and Kate was alone.
She rammed her fists into her mouth, quiveri
ng with
agony. She could not possibly sleep now. She dressed again,
in jeans and sweater, and slipped out for a stroll in the
garden, but the thick heat of the air was no relief, and after
ten minutes she went back indoors, where it was cooler.
As she passed Mrs. Lillitos’s room the door opened and
Marc came out, his shoulders unusually bowed. He
straightened as they met, his eyes running over her jeans
and sweater in surprise.
“You’ve been out?” he asked sharply. “Alone?”
“I was too hot to sleep,” she said uncomfortably. He
moved closer and looked down at her, the grey
eyes narrowed. “Have you been thinking about what I
said?”
Before she could answer his mother called quickly from
within her room, and he turned back to answer her.
“Is that Kate?”
Kate looked in at the open door. “Yes, Mrs. Lillitos. I
couldn’t sleep as it was so hot.”
Mrs. Lillitos was sitting in a deep armchair with a jigsaw
puzzle on a tray in her lap.
She smiled. “Come and do this with me, then, my dear. I
cannot sleep, either. I am afraid there is going to be a
storm tonight, and I do hate them so.”
Kate went into the room. “I’m not very good at jigsaws,”
she said, “but I would like to talk to you for a while. I hate
storms, too.”
Marc had followed her in, and was standing watching
them. His mother looked at him severely.
“Go to bed, my son. You look very tired. I shall be quite all
right with Kate to keep me company. Young company
makes me cheerful, and Kate is such a pretty child.”
He nodded. “Very well, Mama. Good night.” He hesitated,
then added coolly, “Good night, Kate.”
His mother picked up a piece of blue sky. “Now, where does
this go, I wonder? All these blue pieces look the same
shape.”
Kate hunted for a moment or two, then at last managed to
fit the piece into place.
“It’s a hard puzzle,” she said. “Do you do many of them,
Mrs. Lillitos?
“It helps to pass the time. Marc is so absorbed in the
business, and Helene is always in the States. Even my
little Pallas is away at school.”
Kate felt herself flushing. Did Mrs. Lillitos know about
Jean-Paul’s change of mind? Had Marc told her that he
blamed Kate?
The older woman’s fragile hand suddenly reached out
and took hers.
“Ma chere,” she murmured gently, “there is no need to
look so tragic. You are worrying about Pallas, no? Comfort
yourself. I have had a long talk with Jean-Paul today. He
told me everything.”
Kate looked up, eyes wide. “Oh!” she breathed, with
relief. Then, “You haven’t told Marc?”
“Of course not, as Jean-Paul asked me not to do so, but I
think you are both wrong. My son is quite capable of
understanding the matter, if it is explained to him carefully.
Pallas is a girl of temperament. Like a wild bird, she flies
hither and thither, struggling. She needs Jean-Paul’s
steadiness, his gravity, his French formality. He would be
the perfect mate for her.”
“But, madame—” began Kate, and the other woman
smiled and shook her head, interrupting her.
“I know, I know—Pallas must think she has chosen him
herself. I agree.”
“You do?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Lillitos smiled. “Pallas wants to be
hunted, to be caught, but only with her consent. She does
not want to be sold like a cabbage in the market place.”
Kate sighed with relief. “Exactly what I think.”
“But do you think it wise for Jean-Paul to flirt with you in
order to provoke her into an interest in him?”
asked Mrs. Lillitos seriously. “People may misunderstand.”
She carefully fitted several pieces into her puzzle, without
looking up, and added, “As Marc does.”
Kate’s fingers trembled as she tried to fit another piece
into an odd-shaped hole. Mrs. Lillitos gently took the piece
away from her.
“No, ma chere, not there ...”
Kate looked up and their eyes met. Mrs. Lillitos searched
the wide blue eyes thoughtfully, then Kate looked down
again. They went on doing the jigsaw puzzle in silence until
a sudden crack of thunder heralded the awaited arrival of
the storm.
Kate saw her hostess flinch. “What we need,” she said
cheerfully, “is some soft music, to drown the sound of the
storm. Have you got a radio?”
“We would waken the others,” Mrs. Lillitos said
regretfully. “But there is a record player in Marc’s office.
We could go down there, couldn’t we? And his office is so far
away from the bedrooms that we would disturb nobody.”
“Won’t he mind?” Kate asked anxiously. She did not want
to run the risk of another row with Marc tonight.
“Why should he?” asked his mother, raising one fine
eyebrow. She groped for her stick. “Give me your arm, ma
chere, and we will solace our souls with music.”
Kate laughed, and guided her down the stairs and along
the corridor which led to Marc’s office. She had never been
in there before and for a moment her curiosity mastered her
manners. She stared round her, taking in the long, red-
leather topped desk, the steel filing cabinets, the
bookshelves and cupboards. It was a long, wide room,
probably the biggest in the house. The windows were
covered with wooden shutters. There was discreet strip
lighting down the middle of the room, and a thick grey
carpet on the floor. Leather-backed chairs stood about the
room. Everything was very tidy, very businesslike.
Mrs. Lillitos was watching her, with a faint smile. “You
are interested in the room?”
Kate flushed. “I’m sorry, I was being curious.”
“Naturally. Ma chere, my son works very hard. He is at
the head of a vast modern business complex. It is not a ...
what do you say? A nine-to-five job. He works all the hours
of the day, sometimes. He gets very tired, very irritable.
Because, of course, he is only a man. And men have needs
they are sometimes too proud to reveal.”
Kate plunged across the room, desperate to change the
subject, afraid of what she might hear. “Is this the record
player?” She knew that she was behaving rudely, but she
had to protect herself at that moment, against the pain of
hearing his mother telling her about his need of Marie-
Louise.
Mrs. Lillitos did not attempt to reopen the subject. She
sat down in one of the thick leather chairs, and listened to
the record Kate chose—a crashing piece of Wagner which
rode down the storm and made it seem irrelevant.
When the music ended, the storm seemed to be blowing
itself out, although rain still rattled against the shutters
and the wind blew the cypresses until their branches
scraped along the walls.
>
Kate put on another record, since Mrs. Lillitos seemed
reluctant to go to bed. This one was quieter, more conducive
to a state of drowsiness.
“Ah, Bach,” Mrs. Lillitos sighed, smiling. “Jean-Paul told
me of your fondness for him. Marc, too, loves Bach,
especially the Brandenburgs.”
Kate forced herself to smile. She wished she had not been
told that Marc loved her favourite composer. She wanted to
be able to listen to Bach in future without being reminded of
her brief, unhappy stay here on Kianthos.
They heard the record to the end and then went up to
bed. Mrs. Lillitos smiled and touched Kate’s hand, as they
said goodnight at her door.
“You have been very kind to me, petite. I have never
enjoyed a thunderstorm before!”
Kate laughed. “I’m glad you enjoyed this one— I did, too.”
They turned to part, when a loud hammering startled
them. It went on, growing in volume, and Marc’s door burst
open and he plunged out, wearing dark red pyjamas, his
black hair on end.
“What is it?” asked his mother.
He shot her a look. “Someone on the verandah ...” He
vanished downstairs, and they more slowly followed.
“Who can it be at this hour?” Mrs. Lillitos wondered.
Behind them doors opened, but, as the banging had now
stopped, after a moment, the doors closed again.
They found Marc standing in the hall with a young man
wearing a soaking wet jacket. As they arrived he ran out
again into the rain, and Marc came towards them, frowning.
“There’s been a serious rock fall on the Etrusci road,” he
said grimly. “Alex is going to try to get across to Epilison by
boat—the telephone lines are all down here.” He turned
towards the stairs. “I’ll get over to Etrusci now,” he said.
“The worst of the fall crashed on the roofs of the side street.
There are a number of people injured, Alex doesn’t know
how badly. They are just digging them out.”
“I’ll come with you,” Kate said urgently, as he turned to
go.
He stopped and looked at her, expression inscrutable.
“You?” His mouth twisted oddly. “No, stay here. It will not
be a very pleasant sight.”
“I did a first aid course last year,” she said quickly. “I
learnt how to cope with civil disasters. I can bandage,
diagnose ... do all sorts of things.”
He grimaced, hesitating. Over her head he looked at his
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