Rose in the Bud (8 page)

She turned and met his eyes, and her own opened wider with curiosity ... curiosity that she was unable to conceal.

“You say your pictures do not sell well,” she observed. “That, I’ll admit, surprises me, because I think they’re tremendous. They have a quality that is indescribable. You yourself probably know that.” He smiled a little more sardonically as if he would not, or could not, agree with her. “But judging by the fact that you own this
palazzo,
that its furnishings must have cost a great deal of money, that you own a fast motor-boat and seem to employ the man Giovanni all the time...”

“Quite right,” he told her, smiling now in amusement. “Giovanni is on my regular pay-roll, and so is his mother and a couple of his brothers. A place like this—” he waved a hand—“does not run itself. So what do you deduce from all that
?
”

“That you do not need to sell pictures.”

“Quite right.”

“Therefore you don’t bother to find purchasers for them.”

“Right again.” He moved closer to her and caught her chin and held it in his hand. “What does money mean to you, little one?” he enquired softly. “Now that you have enough of your own to make life pleasant what does it mean to you
?
”

She lowered her eyes quickly to the carpet. There it was again ... mention of what he believed to be a substantial legacy. Was this the time to undeceive him
?
Oughtn’t she to grasp the opportunity and tell him the truth?

Then, very slowly, she lifted her eyes, and what she saw in his caused her to feel as if her breath had been literally snatched away from her, and all thoughts of money and possessions were whipped away from her, too. Moroc’s face was serious, the mouth purposeful, the eyes dark and infinitely revealing. He breathed a little huskily, as if in protest:

“
Why
are you so sweet? So distractingly sweet! Your hair in the sunlight is molten gold, and yet when it is night it is shadowy as a brown mouse. Your eyes are like transparent pools, and your mouth—”

He caught her close, and this time she felt his mouth devouring her own, actually bruising it. His arms held her so fiercely she was afraid her ribs would crack, but it didn’t seem to matter
... Nothing mattered except the approach of the moment when he would put her out of his arms.

She couldn’t bear the thought of it. It detracted from the sheer bliss of being kissed by him, and it made her instinctively lift her arms and wind them about his neck. Although when, in almost the next moment, he unfastened her clinging fingers and put her quite deliberately away from him, she knew she had simply invited this attempt on his part to return to rationality.

He was pale, and he was breathing quickly, but he was not under the same sort of spell that she was under.

“Oh, Cathleen,” he exclaimed huskily, “I don’t want to fall in love with you! I have made up my mind that I will not fall in love with you, and yet—” Abashed as well as humiliated, she turned away and wandered over to his paintings. Giovanni came into the room with a tray of coffee, and Edouard called across to her to know whether she preferred it black or white. She was about to answer that she had no particular preference when she turned over one of the canvases, and he saw her stand stock still in amazement.

He walked across to her.

“But this—this portrait...” she said unbelievingly. “It’s Arlette! Arlette must have allowed you to paint her!”

“Yes,” he answered, regarding her with inscrutable eyes. “And what if she did
?
”

Speech almost failed her. The portrait of Arlette was as good as a living likeness ... and at the same time everything about Arlette, the beauty of her hair, her eyes, her remarkable skin, was enhanced. There was an atmosphere of unreality about the portrait, just as there was an atmosphere of unreality about the
corner
of the waterway. In each case the subject had received the kind of treatment that emphasised a quality that probably did not exist
... and which was a glamorising treatment in itself.

Arlette, as Edouard had seen her, had few defects. The weakness that Cathleen knew lay close to the
corner
s of her petulant mouth, and in the depths of her unlevel eyes, had not been faithfully reproduced. It was Arlette as someone infatuated by her might see her. And it was Arlette painted against the very velvet curtain that draped the model’s throne in the studio.

“You—you brought her here to paint her,” she whispered, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “I thought you said you never brought anyone here because you objected to them prying into your private life.”

“I don’t—and I do,” he replied shortly. He went across to the picture that she had placed against the wall and turned it abruptly with its face to the sea-green satin damask that covered the original painted wall. “Arlette acted as my model, and I brought her here because I couldn’t very well paint her anywhere else, and in any case she wanted the money. She was hard up.”

“You—you paid her for her services?”

“But of course.” He turned and regarded her in astonishment.

Cathleen bit her lip.

“You have many models like Arlette?”

“I have painted a good few beautiful women—yes.”

“You brought me here to paint me?”

“Certainly not. I shall never paint you.”

“You—you know where Arlette is to be found?”

“I have a vague idea.”

“You—will tell me—?”

“No,” he answered curtly, “because I know it’s the very last thing she would want me to do.” He walked up to her, and the expression of his eyes—his whole face—had altered so much that he could, she thought, have been a different man from the man who had caught her into his arms only a few minutes ago. The undisguised desire that she had seen in his eyes—unless she had imagined it!—had vanished, and in its place was a coldness and cautiousness that caused her, almost, to recoil from him. Before she realised what she was saying she heard herself level an accusation at him.

“You were in love with Arlette!”

Icily he replied, “I have never yet been in love with any woman! I do not intend to fall in love with any woman. I prefer to lead my life without disrupting influences. Women to me, although delightful to look at—and sometimes to paint—are unimportant. I tried to make that clear to you last night, but I don’t think you were inclined to believe me. To-day I had every intention of making it clearer still, but perhaps that is not now necessary. Arlette’s portrait”—he kicked it slightly with his foot—“has done that for me.”

She turned away, and agitatedly she moved into the centre of the room. Politely she heard him inquiring once more:

“You will have some coffee? Giovanni is very good at making coffee.”

But she answered like someone only partially
awakened from a dream that had been near reality: “No, thank you, I—I would prefer to be taken back to my hotel, if you don’t mind.”

He shrugged. His eyes could not have been more indifferent as he agreed immediately.

“As you wish, of course. I will summon Giovanni.”

CHAPTER VI

The n
ext day Cathleen explored the shops in the Mercana, which is one of the few Venetian landways which can be dignified by the title street. She was not in any particular mood for shopping—not even window-shopping—but she had to do something to kill time, and all at once time was hanging heavily on her hands. She was conscious of feeling very much alone in a world that was not her world, and a little afraid of the loneliness, because it could grow ... unless she decided to cut short her visit and return home to England.

For the first time, when the maid brought in her breakfast, she did not feel excitement because she was where she was, and already it was a brilliant day outside. No floral tributes arrived to either gladden her eyes or cause her perplexity once she had breakfasted, and when she left her room there was no one waiting for her in the marble-floored entrance and surveying her with dark, appreciative eyes as she stepped out of the lift.

The
shops in the Mercaria were interesting, and she couldn’t resist the temptation to buy one or two small things for herself. She also bought a present to take home to her mother, and some glowing Venetian costume jewellery for a fellow assistant in the little bookshop where she worked. Then she made her way back to St. Mark’s Square, where everyone who visited Venice made their appearance at least once, and usually many more times during the day, and ordered herself a cool drink at one of the pavement cafes.

It was not the pavement cafe where Edouard had joined her on her first day in Venice. She was careful to avoid that, as if the possibility that she might have to sit at the very same table was something she could not quite face up to. Not while she was still striving fruitlessly and bewilderedly to grow accustomed to the new image of Edouard, that he himself had projected for her benefit in the golden warmth of the previous afternoon.

She and Edouard had parted at her hotel after they returned from his
palazzo
with nothing more than conventional murmurs of farewell. Emotion had had her so firmly by the throat that she could barely thank him for taking the trouble to collect her, and all at once Edouard had become a complete stranger to her, cold, aloof, remorselessly detached, as if it was the simplest thing in the world for him to look upon her suddenly with complete detachment, and put her right out of his life.

He hadn’t suggested another meeting, and as it was she who had insisted on being brought back from the
palazzo
she could scarcely blame him for that. But she did blame him for deceiving her about Arlette, and despite his denials it seemed to her reasonably certain that he had had some sort of an affair with her sister, and undoubtedly he must have admired her or he would not have wasted time painting her.

She did not blame him because he had taken advantage of their brief acquaintance and made a certain amount of love to her. For after kissing her once he had made it quite clear that that was by way of experiment, and not intended to be repeated. It was the inevitable result of drifting for hours in a gondola at a time of night when there was nothing but magic on the waterways, and almost any young woman in such close proximity to a personable man might have felt tempted to allow him to kiss her before they parted.

For that kiss neither of them was really to blame. But she had known perfectly well that when Edouard took her to his
palazzo,
and she knew perfectly well—or rather, perhaps, she hoped—that they were to be together again for hours, the possibility that he would kiss her again was rather more than a possibility. In the breathless moment when she walked away and discovered Arlette’s portrait amongst the stacked paintings against the wall she had expected him to follow her and take her back into his arms.

She had been secretly craving for him to do that, with no real thoughts to spare for the paintings. But instead she had learned the somewhat brutal truth, that he was attracted by her but he didn’t want to become involved with her. He had no desire to become involved with any woman, and he had actually taken her to the
palazzo
to make that much clear to her. Or so he had said.

Even after twenty-four hours she felt herself go hot all over when she recalled his exact words.

“I tried, to make it clear to you last night, but I don’t think you were inclined to believe me. To-day I had every intention of making it clearer still
...”

The flush was so painful that she felt as if it scorched her skin, and at the same time she felt a little sick as a result of pure humiliation. How obvious he must have thought her, an eager young woman unaccustomed to the romance and glamour of a place like Venice, and certainly
quite
accustomed to the attentions of someone who looked as Edouard looked, and whose life was lived on an entirely different plane from that which she inhabited herself.

At first she must have amused him, and then she intrigued him ... perhaps because she reminded him of Arlette! The thought increased the humiliation.

That a man should be attracted to her because she looked like her sister was like being forced to swallow a bitter pill.

And then she remembered that she had been as distant as Edouard when they parted. She had been clever enough to conceal what she felt—the shock, and the spreading sensation of dismay—and at least he could not have received the impression that he had done her any serious harm. There had been as much indifference in her face when she turned it towards him as there was in his, and she had even managed to make her voice sound cool and indifferent when she said that final goodbye.

For, somehow, she did not believe he would seek her out again.

“Thanks for showing me Venice,” she said, without so much as a tremble in her voice, and with her small
chin
in the air. “I’m afraid I’ve used up a lot of your time, but at least I’ve seen more in a few days than I might have done on my own if I’d remained for weeks. And having seen so much I think I’ve made up my mind that I won’t stay very long.”

“Good,” he approved, with a ready crispness that was hardly flattering. “And when you get home to England you’ll have a few memories to cheer you through the long winter days.”

She bit her lip with ready resentment.

“I like England in the winter,” she told him.

He shrugged, and half turned away.

“Everyone to his, or her, taste,” he observed. Still they did not attempt to touch one another’s hands ... although their eyes met and held for rather a long moment.

“Goodbye,” she said stiffly. “And please don’t get hold of the wrong impression. I still mean to try to find Arlette!”

He smiled bleakly, for a fleeting moment.

“You would be wiser if you allowed Arlette to lead her own life,” he replied. And then he did turn away.
“
Au revoir
!”
he enunciated quite clearly.

“Goodbye,” she repeated, just as clearly.

As she sat sipping the last of her drink, and the shadows of the cathedral lengthened across the vast square that was full of the soft cooing of the pigeons, while the sky remained blue as an inverted bowl above her head, she told herself that at least she had learned something from her brief friendship with Edouard Moroc. She had learned that it was highly important to be cautious when a man was a complete stranger and inhabited a world with which she was quite unfamiliar. The more charm he possessed the more wary she should be ... as, apparen
tl
y, Arlette had not been.

If she had allowed herself to be taken in by Paul di Ri
ni
it must have hurt her badly when she realised the mistake she had made. And it could be one reason why she appeared to have gone temporarily to ground.

But, thought Cathleen, hardening her heart against Edouard and all his kind as she sat there with the caressing sunshine pouring over her, if anything was wrong, and she needed help, it shouldn’t be long before a determined relative stumbled upon a clue that should lead her to her wherever she was. And she was more determined now than ever to find Arlette.