Gates of Dawn

CHAPTER ONE

MRS. DUPLESSIS gathered together the letters which were strewn over the satin top of her eiderdown, and then reached for her breakfast-tray.

“
You can go now, Melanie,
”
she said.
“
But remember you
’
ve a great many things to do this morning, and it
’
s important that you should get started on them without delay. But before you go you can hand me that new face-pack that
’
s on the dressing-table, and I can be studying the instructions. And if you meet Jeakes in the corridor tell her I shall want her half an hour earlier than usual. If my brother
’
s coming I shall have to be dressed to receive him, I suppose, although it
’
s a considerable effort, seeing that I have to keep such late hours.
”

She concealed a yawn behind her hand, and Melanie crossed the thickly carpeted space between the bed and the dressing-table, and then handed over the face-pack. She could feel that her employer
’
s eyes were following her a little critically as she moved, and then realized that it was the tailored slacks and the white polo-necked sweater she was wearing that were about to come in for a little adverse comment.

“
Whatever you do, Melanie,
don
’
t
go and meet my brother in that outfit,
”
Mrs. Duplessis implored.
“
It would bring down the wrath of the gods not only on your head but on mine, for of all things he most deplores a woman in trousers. Next to that he dislikes nail-va
rn
ish, so don
’
t wear any this morning, for I can
’
t stand his endless criticisms—they bring on my migraine quicker than anything.
”
Apparently it didn
’
t matter that her own nails were as scarlet as if they had been newly dipped in blood, thought Melanie, inwardly however, a trifle amused.

“
Very well, Mrs. Duplessis,
”
she said, acquiescing at once.
“
I
’
ll see to it that you are not upset on my account.
”

“
Good girl!
”
Mrs. Duplessis approved, rewarding her with a bleak smile while she started to butter a wafer-thin piece of toast.
“
It
’
s a nuisance that we
’
ve got to have him at all, but he isn
’
t likely to stay long, that
’
s one thing, and then we
’
ll be back to normal again. These famous men, you know, are always a bit trying. I don
’
t know why it should be so, but they have such uncertain tempers, and Richard was always a little autocrat, even in his schooldays.
”

“
Was he?
”
Melanie murmured, and Mrs. Duplessis, lying back against her lace-edged feather pillows, started to reminisce.

“
I can recall how he once refused to allow my mother to wear a black evening-gown because he said black did not become her, and she was too sallow for pearls. Of course, he was probably right, but in her place I would have worn what I pleased.
”

“
But your mother took his advice?
”
Melanie inquired, with interest.

“
My dear, she couldn
’
t very well do anything else! He hid the pearls, and he gave the black evening-gown away to her maid, and it was all very unpleasant and awkward while it lasted. But Richard, of course, got away with it, as he always got away with everything—and still does!
”

“
He must have a most forceful personality,
”
Melanie observed.

“
Forceful?
”
Mrs. Duplessis gave vent to a hollow laugh.
“
He
’
s altogether exhausting! If he
’
s going to buy Wold House I hope he
’
ll hurry up and make up his mind and then go away ba
ck
to London while it
’
s being got ready. I just couldn
’
t endure him about for long.
”

“
In that case I hope he will for your sake,
”
Melanie remarked, and thought, with a sinking of the heart, that that was the man she had instructions to meet at the station in a little less than an hour
’
s time!

Outside, in the corridor, she encountered Potch, her employer
’
s poodle, who was lying on a white sheepskin rug in the sunshine.

Potch fitted in so well with his surroundings that Melanie felt she could forgive him his absurd
“
lion-cut,
”
and as he came trotting eagerly
to meet her, intent upon entering his mistress
’
s room—where he would certainly not be welcome, with a facial treatment ahead of its occupant—she stooped and picked him up under one arm and carried him downstairs to the library.

This library, like every other room in this exquisitely compact, beautifully proportioned small Georgian residence, was very elegantly furnished. The deep midnight-blue carpet disappeared into every nook and cranny, and there were midnight-blue velvet curtains at the windows, and a vase of shaggy golden ch
r
ysanthemums on the knee-hole desk at which she usually worked.

Melanie stooped to inhale their curious tangy perfume before she started to get on with her correspondence, working at top speed because time was short and she had to make an alteration to her dress before leaving the house. Normally Mrs. Duplessis had no objection to her wearing slacks in the morning, and even encouraged her to do so because it was a type of informal costume she liked to indulge in herself. But today she would undoubtedly appear as only Bond Street could turn her out, and Melanie exercised her mind as to what she herself should wear.

In the end she decided on a grey accordion-pleated skirt and a primrose yellow jumper. It was not cold enough to wear a coat, for as yet the threat of autumn was merely in the early mornings, when the lawns were all spangled with gossamer, and the evenings, when a wood fire was most comforting burning in the little Adam fireplace in the drawing-room.

Melanie
’
s dark hair, powdered—or so it seemed in the sunlight—with gold-dust, went well with a yellow jumper—or the jumper went well with it. Her brown eyes, likewise full of strange little golden lights under the shadow of their long lashes, peered carefully at the road ahead as she piloted the low-slung, silver-grey sedan car, which was one of Mrs. Duplessis
’
most recent purchases, in the direction of the station. Away from her employer and the house and the duties which she sometimes found a bit trying, to say the least, the sense of exhilaration which she always experienced at the wheel of a car rose up in her, and she felt suddenly tempted to sing.

Her voice was light and gay like the morning, the wind whistled past the windshield, and the sky overhead was blue and unclouded. The magnificent moorland scenery around her was begin
n
ing to be tinged with the first triumphant colors of autumn, and the distant line of hills stood forth boldly, which meant that the weather would probably change before afternoon, but at the moment it was utterly perfect
,
and that, she felt,
w
as enough.

Potch, on the seat behind her—for she could never resist the appeal of the button-like eyes to be taken for a drive in the car
—
put his grey, well-manicured paws on her shoulders and lightheartedly nibbled at her ear, and she was quite content that he should do so, and in fact for the time being she was supremely content.

It was true that she was no longer her own mistress; that she no longer had a home of her own, or a father of her own who, despite his dreamy, unpractical ways, had never neglected to spoil and appreciate
her; that the future was uncertain and the present frequently left much to be desired. At the moment she felt that she had enough and to spare, and she sang all the way to the station. But when she reached the station her singing stopped abruptly.

The London train had not only arrived, but had deposited its few passengers, and most of them had already dispersed. In fact they had all dispersed except a tall and obviously impatient man who was pacing up and down in front of the bookstall.

Melanie took one look at him a
n
d felt her heart do a kind of uneasy descent into her stomach.

There could be no doubt but that this tall man was Richard Trenchard, author of at least half a dozen successful plays that were running in London and the provinces
.
He had the same unmistakably arrogant expression as his sister, the same faintly a
q
uiline nose, tight-lipped mouth, and in addition his chin jutted ominously. He wore no hat and his hair was as sleek and black as a raven
’
s wing, and he was so unostentatiously well
-
dressed that it was obvious he considered the
cult of sartorial elegance a cult worth following in addition to merely writing out cheques for his tailor.

Melanie, after one swift glance at him, realized that that suit of Scottish tweed, that chaste silk shirt and the old school tie which accompanied it—to say nothing of the
h
a
nd-se
w
n brogues, a
nd the light military
-style raincoat which
w
as draped across his shoulder
s—
had cost almost
certainly as much as the dress allowance she permitted herself for a single year.

Beside him, also in front of the bookstall, was a pile of pigskin suitcases, and for a short visit the number of them seemed a trifle excessive.

Melanie scrambled out from her seat behind the wheel of the car and approached him a little diffidently. He gazed at her with a kind of well-bred, if chilly, astonishment.

“
Mr.—Mr. Trenchard?
”
she got out, in her soft, shy, uncertain voice.

Richard Trenchard elevated an eyebrow.

“
Quite right,
”
he agreed.
“
But I don
’
t think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, Miss, er—?
”

“
Brooks,
”
she answered hurriedly.
“
Melanie Brooks is the name.
”

“
Indeed?
”
The other eyebrow ascended to a level with its fellow.
“
How do you do, Miss Brooks? If by any chance you
’
ve been sent by my sister to meet me here you
’
re a little late, to put it mildly. I
’
ve been waiting for at least ten minutes—possibly a quarter of an hour! Do you know anything at all about time-tables?
”

“
Oh, of course.
”
But she sounded abject.
“
But I think there must have been a mistake in ours. I thought I had heaps of time—
”

“
You should never think,
”
he informed her, with an edge like chipped ice to his voice.
“
You should always be quite sure.
”

Melanie flushed up to the very tips of her eyebrows.

“
I
’
m so sorry—
”

“
And being sorry doesn
’
t make amends!
”
And then all at once she thought there was something glimmering in his eyes—grey as roof slates with the frost upon them—and although he was regarding her with the utmost severity it was unmistakably a twinkle that softened their expression.
“
I
’
m a very bad person to keep waiting.
”

Melanie was strongly inclined to agree with him as she made an attempt to pick up one of his heavy suitcases, with the intention of bestowing it in the trunk of the car, but he stopped her with a quick hand laid upon her wrist.

“
My dear girl, those are far too heavy for you! Don
’
t be absurd,
”
he said, and she felt that once again she had blundered with both feet.

He lifted an imperious hand and the only porter on duty came hastening up to them. The cases were stowed away promptly and without incident, and then for the first time he noticed Potch sitting up rather doubtfully in the back of the car. He put out a hand and encircled the small black muzzle with his lean, bronzed fingers, and Potch responded by wagging a surprisingly eager tail.

“
So Eve still has this ridiculous creature!
”
he observed, regarding it with a kind of half quizzical contempt, and then he ran his eyes over the svelte lines of the car, and obviously approved what he saw.
“
The best is always just about good enough for my sister,
”
he remarked, with an odd smile on his lips.

Melanie went round to open the car door for him, but somewhat to her surprise he slid into the seat behind the wheel and started to inspect the gears.

“
You do wish me to drive you?
”
she inquired, wondering a little doubtfully whether her employer would approve of him taking over the control of her precious new car.

“
Certainly not,
”
he responded, looking up at her for the first time with
a
smile that revealed his hard white teeth, and a flash of undoubted humor in his eyes.
“
When I feel that my life has lost all its savor, and there is no longer anything in this world which has for me the sligh
t
est interest, then I will consent to be driven by a woman,
”
he told her.
“
But not,
”
he added,
“
until then!
”

And Melanie subsided on to the seat beside him, and allowed Potch to scramble over into her lap with the feeling that, whatever she or any other daring human being might ever say in
o
pposition to his wishes, he would always have his way, and therefore it was best merely to submit.