Strange Adventure

by Craven, Sara

  `What sort of rumours?'

  `Just hints that all might not be well with Vernon Carey—among others, of course.'

  Lacey gave a little perplexed frown. 'Well, Daddy hasn't mentioned anything in his letters, and he seemed quite cheerful when I was home at Christmas. What did the papers say?'

  Vanessa folded some tissue paper around a dress with rather exaggerated care.

  `I can't really remember. Nothing specific, of course. Just an impression, really.'

  `Just vile innuendoes, you mean,' Lacey said heatedly. `Some of these financial journalists are the limit! They're quite capable of starting trouble for a company just to get a story.'

  `This wasn't the gutter press,' Vanessa said slowly, 'or I might have agreed with you. But I daresay it is just a rumour. Things are tough for everyone these days.'

  They worked for a few moments in silence and Lacey thought over what had just been said with a growing feeling of unease. She recalled the strangeness in Reverend Mother's voice when she had said that her father might need her. Was there trouble brewing for Vernon—Carey of which she was the only one in ignorance? She made up her mind to ask Michelle about it at the earliest convenient opportunity.

  After a pause, Vanessa began to chat of everyday things—of the senior pupils' concert that Lacey would now miss, of whether she would continue her musical studies at Kings Winston and how she would otherwise fill her day.

  `Perhaps they'll have a change of heart when you get

  home and let you train for something,' she suggested cheerfully. 'Or you could help Fran Trevor with the stables, perhaps. You've always got on well with her, haven't you?'

  'Oh yes,' Lacey agreed abstractedly. It occurred to her that if she was living at home for good, she would probably be thrust more into the limited social life around Kings Winston and would be seeing more of Alan as well, but the thought didn't generate any enthusiasm.

  'And you will write, won't you, Lacey?' Vanessa persisted. There was a glint of tears in her blue eyes as she stared at her friend. 'I—I shall miss you, you know.'

  Lacey shook off her brooding mood and smiled warmly at her.

  'Of course I will, Van. And better than that, I'll ask Michelle if you can come and stay at Kings Winston for Easter.'

  She could see no real reason for Michelle to refuse and the thought gave her a touch of optimism as she carried her cases downstairs to the entrance hall where Michelle waited, her foot tapping impatiently on the parquet floor.

  The driver of the hired limousine stowed the baggage away in the boot while Lacey made her round of goodbyes to the Sisters and girls. Reverend Mother was last, accompanying them out on to the steps, ignoring the chill of the wind that made Michelle pull up the collar on her fur coat.

  'Goodbye, ma petite.' Reverend Mother traced a firm sign of the cross on Lacey's forehead. 'Think of us sometimes, and never be afraid of the richness of life.'

  Lacey's eyes were hot and blurred with tears as she walked down the shallow flight of steps and got into the back of the big car where Michelle was already waiting. She looked back once as the car turned slowly down the winding drive between the bare branches of the trees, registering like someone in a dream the tall, solid building and the tiny group of black-clad figures waving from the doorway, then the car rounded a bend and they were gone.

  She sank back into the soft upholstery feeling utterly bereft. Beside her Michelle was fishing in her handbag for the inevitable cigarette and clicking her lighter irritably.

  `What an age you made me wait!' she exclaimed. 'We will have to abandon any notion of an afternoon plane and fly back tomorrow instead. It will not be such a bad thing anyway. Perhaps we will do some shopping in Paris,' she added with a disparaging sideways look at Lacey's neat grey flannel coat and plain dark shoes.

  'But I've got plenty of clothes,' Lacey protested.

  'For a schoolgirl, yes,' Michelle gestured dismissively. 'But now you are a woman, ma chère, and you must learn to dress yourself accordingly. Your hair must be styled too.'

  `Oh, no.' Lacey clutched protectively at a strand of her rain-straight silvery fair hair and Michelle looked grudging.

  `Well, perhaps not,' she conceded. 'It has a certain—charm, I suppose, comme ca. And you can always wear it up when you wish to look older.'

  'Why should I wish to do that?' Lacey stared at her.

  Michelle gave a negligent shrug and looked at her sideways, her glance oddly speculative. 'If you do not, ma chère, then you will be the first girl not to wish to be so. Besides, your father will not wish you to appear at parties looking like a child.'

  `I'll be going to parties, then?' Lacey said questioningly, and her stepmother raised her eyebrows.

  `Mais certainement,' she replied sharply. 'What else did you expect?'

  `Oh, I don't know.' Lacey wriggled her fingers out of the gloves that every convent-trained girl wore as a matter of course when she went out. She had never cared for the feel of gloves on her hands even in the coldest weather, and it occurred to her that she no longer had to trouble about this little bit of discipline. She stole a glance at her stepmother, who was smoking rather jerkily and staring out of the window at the rather drab landscape with a slight frown. 'Michelle, is everything—all right? At home—with Father, I mean?'

  `Naturally.' Michelle gave her a long look. 'Why should it not be?'

  `Oh, nothing.' It was Lacey's turn to shrug. 'One—just hears things and I wondered ...'

  `You have heard what?' Her stepmother's tone sharpened.

  'Who has been talking to you? What has been said?'

  'Well, nothing really,' Lacey hastened to assure her, feeling oddly perturbed. 'But Reverend Mother said something odd—about me being needed, and Vanessa said there had been hints in the papers about the bank—that something might be wrong.' She paused, but Michelle made no immediate reply. Her frown, however, had deepened. 'If there is something wrong, I wish you'd tell me. You've just said I'm not a child any longer, so please don't treat me like one if there's something I should know.'

  There was silence for a moment, then Michelle gave a harsh little laugh and muttered, `Touché,' as she stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray beside her. Then she faced the girl sitting tensely beside her.

  `To begin with,' she said', your father has not been well. He saw a specialist last week and has been told he has a bad heart and must take care. I did not intend to tell you until we reached England, but you wished me to be honest, and I do not agree with your father that you must any longer be protected and sheltered from life. There are realities that very soon you must face, and this is one of them.'

  Lacey sat stunned. She moistened her lips. 'Is—Father isn't going to die?' It was a heartrending little cry.

  Michelle moved irritably. 'Mon dieu, non. At least, we must all hope—and pray too, as the good Sisters have promised to do at the convent, that he will live for many years. But he must avoid shocks and any sort of worry, so this—trouble at the bank could not have happened at a worse time for him.'

  'What sort of trouble?'

  `Lack of foreign investment—some unwise investments of his own. The world of finance is full of these ups and down and always your father has been able to weather any

  storms that came. People had confidence in him—in his name. But now it is whispered that he is a sick man, confidence is failing. There have been one or two resignations from the board, allegedly for other reasons, it is true, but it causes talk, and then the rumours appear in the newspapers.' She lit another cigarette. 'So—you will come home, and we will give a dance for you and on the surface

  all will be well. This is the facade that we must present to the world, and you must help.'

  Lacey lifted haunted eyes to meet her stepmother's. `What's going to happen, Michelle?'

  Michelle blew a reflective smoke ring and looked at the girl through narrowed eyes. 'We shall—overcome this crisis, or we shall be ruined,' she said almost idly. 'It is as simple as t
hat, ma chère:

  `I must get a job,' Lacey said half to herself. 'I—I don't want a dance or any of that nonsense. I want to earn money—and help Father ...'

  She bit back a cry as Michelle's fingers gripped her slender arms.

  'And what money could you earn? A drop in the ocean compared to what is needed,' Michelle said contemptuously. 'Be content, Lacey, and do as you are asked. Do not further complicate matters, I beg you.'

  Lacey flushed painfully. 'I'll do anything, of course,' she managed.

  'Will you?' That reflective note had returned to Michelle's voice and it puzzled Lacey. 'Perhaps I will remind you of that—one day, ma chère:

  The remainder of the journey into Paris was accomplished in silence. Lacey was glad to be left in peace with her churning thoughts. In the space of a few hours her entire world had been turned upside down, she thought confusedly. Even the security of her background which she had always taken for granted was no longer certain. Was it conceivable that her father could be ruined? He had always seemed so confident of his ability to keep ahead of the game even in difficult times that it did not seem possible that he could now be facing disaster. But other banks had collapsed, she knew. It was a chilling thought. Michelle had spoken calmly, but Lacey found herself wondering what private thoughts her stepmother might be harbouring. She had relished being the wife of a wealthy and successful man. How would she react to being married to a failure? Lacey shook herself mentally. Poor Father! She was condemning him unheard, treating him as if ruin was staring them in the face already.

  But it was the news about his bad heart that had really disturbed her. He had always been so proud of his health and energy, as if it were some private lodestar. Now he was sick and his business too was ailing. It was like some ill omen.

  When they arrived at the hotel, Lacey allowed herself to be shepherded up to the palatial suite reserved for them while Michelle went to the reception desk to arrange for an extension of the reservation. They lunched together in the suite on clear soup, followed by grilled trout, but Lacey was too disturbed and upset to eat very much. She was not keen either on the suggested shopping expedition, but Michelle was adamant that she should accompany her, so she gave in with a little sigh.

  In the end it was rather fun, she discovered. She would never be wholly at her ease with Michelle, but she had to admit that her stepmother had an unerring eye for colour and line and as the elegantly wrapped boxes began to mount up, Lacey experienced all the genuine pleasures that the possession of new and elegant clothes could give any young woman. She could not feel any real regret when her grey coat was replaced by smooth cream suede trimmed with fur, with high-heeled matching boots.

  `Aren't you going to buy anything for yourself?' she asked curiously when they were back in the loaded car and returning to the hotel.

  'Hmm.' Michelle consulted her wristwatch, then leaned forward and tapped on the glass partition separating the driver from the passengers. 'Driver! ' Briefly she directed him to take them instead to Jean Louis, the fashion house where, Lacey knew, she acquired most of her clothes.

  Lacey had always considered it was an odd way to buy clothes, to go into a showroom where there were no racks to pore over but just a few gilt Chairs where you sat and watched incredibly slender mannequins parade in the latest creations until you saw something that took your eye.

  Today it seemed that Michelle was in the market for evening dresses. Lacey admired the models being paraded with pure objectivity. There was nothing that would have suited her anyway. The models being shown were far too

  old and sophisticated, and Michelle and the vendeuse had their heads together in close consultation.

  Then, as the next model appeared on the catwalk, she sat up and gave a little gasp, wondering which of Jean Louis' wealthy clients would have the daring—or the figure —to wear such a gown. It was plain ,stark black with a long floating skirt that clung revealingly to the girl's hips. But it was the bodice that was the really eye-catching feature, consisting as it did of hardly more than two broad straps of the softly swathed material which barely covered the girl's breasts.

  Michelle sat up, her face animated, talking rapidly in French and gesturing to the vendeuse who hovered attentively at her side.

  Lacey's first shock gave way to disbelief. Surely—surely Michelle could not be thinking of buying such a dress? Whatever would Daddy say when he saw her in it? It was true she had an almost perfect figure, but still ... It would be almost too much for one of their sophisticated London gatherings, while for the quiet dinner parties that entertaining usually amounted to at Kings Winston. it would be totally outrageous.

  The black gown disappeared and was replaced by a mass of floating panels in printed chiffon without half the impact. It was obvious Michelle thought so too, for she was picking up her handbag and preparing to leave. Lacey would have liked to have asked which dress she had ordered, but her stepmother had a distinctly preoccupied air as they re-emerged on to the pavement, and Lacey decided to remain silent.

  Back at the hotel, Michelle asked if Lacey would care to dine with her downstairs in the hotel restaurant, but she refused politely, saying that she preferred to have an early bath and watch television in her dressing gown. She was not altogether surprised when Michelle changed into a dinner gown and disappeared on a cloud of expensive perfume, leaving her alone and not entirely sorry either. Certainly her stepmother would find the busy dining room and the passing crowds of far more interest than a quiet evening's television in the seclusion of her room.

  Lacey decided she would try on some of her new clothes after her bath. The bathroom to the suite was warm and luxurious and she revelled in it unashamedly. Bathing at the convent had been a hurried business of necessity, for there was always someone waiting more or less patiently to take your place. It was fun too to sample the various bath oils and soaps set out on the glass shelves. Such luxuries had been scorned as worldly vanities by the nuns, who had not encouraged their use by the boarders.

  When she had soaked for long enough, feeling some of her worries and tensions dissolve away under the soothing influence of the warm water, she climbed out, reaching for the white fluffy towel awaiting her on the heated rail. But as her wet foot encountered the bathroom carpet she felt something hard and sharp press into her sole and gave a little cry, hobbling sideways to escape the pressure. Wrapping herself in the towel, she felt about on the floor until she discovered what it was. It was part of a man's cuff link, an expensive trinket in gold and enamel in an elegant chequered pattern. Lacey pursed her lips as she stared at it lying in the palm her hand. It must have belonged to the previous tenant of the suite, she thought disapprovingly, and it did not say much for the standard of cleanliness at one of Paris's top hotels that it had not been discovered during the changeover.

  She decided that rather than mention it to Michelle, who would probably make a fuss out of all proportion to the incident, she would simply ring for a chambermaid and hand it over. The owner would probably want it back anyway. It was a distinctive design and it was only one of the links that had given away. It could probably be easily repaired.

  Still wrapped in the towel, she went into the sitting room of the suite and was just about to press the bell when the telephone on a table near the door rang with a suddenness that made her gasp. Without a doubt the call was not for her, and she picked up the receiver rather hesitantly. She was about to say, 'Madame Vernon's suite', when a deep, imperious masculine voice said, 'Michelle'?

  `Er—non.' Lacey transferred the receiver to her other

  hand and made an ineffectual grab at her slipping towel.

  There was a sound suspiciously like a muttered curse from the other end of the telephone, and then the voice said, 'Me sinhorite' and a click and the dialling tone told her that the anonymous caller had hung up.

  Lacey replaced her own receiver with a little slam. He had had no need to be quite so abrupt, she thought. After all, she was perfectly capable of taki
ng a message for her stepmother, and in French—only his parting shot hadn't sounded at all French but some other far less familiar language. She shrugged and trailed into her bedroom to get her pyjamas and dressing gown before tackling the chambermaid, who was more than inclined to take offence at the suggestion that the bathroom had not been properly cleaned. Had she not vacuumed the carpet with her own hands? she demanded of the room at large, and Lacey in particular. Lacey, who was beginning to long for her bed after a long and wearying day, was glad to hand over the broken cuff link and close the door on the woman's virtuous and slightly aggrieved insistence that it should be handed over to the manager on that instant.

  'I hope she wasn't expecting a tip,' she muttered to herself as she went into her bedroom and closed the door. She had left a note for Michelle beside the telephone. 'Someone rang. Wouldn't leave his name.'

  She did not find it easy to rest the first night in a strange bed, but this time she was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. It was a long time later when she opened bewildered and sleepy eyes, wondering what had woken her. Then she heard the sound again. It was Michelle laughing, that uncharacteristic full-throated, sexy laugh that belied her chic, rather cool. appearance. For a moment she wondered drowsily who her stepmother could be talking to at this time of night, then she heard the sound of a telephone receiver being replaced. So Michelle had got the message and probably identified the mystery man. All well and good, Lacey thought briefly before sleep claimed her once again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  'DEAR Vanessa,' wrote Lacey, 'It's hard to believe that I've only been at home for two weeks. It seems much longer. I was so happy to get your letter and know that you really are coming here for Easter. Kings Winston should be at its best by then.'