The House of Seven Fountains (5 page)

At the sight of the steep unkempt driveway she was seized with real panic. Surely this could not be the approach to a luxurious mansion? Dense undergrowth bordered the stony rutted ascent, and as the car jolted slowly upward wild creepers rasped against the paintwork. With mounting fear, Vivien realized that Chen must be an impostor. Gripping the edge of the seat, she wondered if she dared jump out and race back to the road in the hope that a passing motorist would pick her up before the Chinese discovered her escape. If only she had accepted Julian’s offer to come with her!

But as she reached out her hand to unfasten the door, the car lurched around a sudden bend and with a gasp of relief she sank back against the leather upholstery.

The transformation was incredible! A moment ago they had seemed to be entering a wilderness, but now the drive was smoothly graveled, with trim grass verges flanked by well-kept shrubberies. Almost immediately they turned another
corner
and for the first time Vivien saw her inheritance—the House of Seven Fountains.

The car drew
drew to a halt, and before Chen had switched off the ignition Vivien scrambled out and stood gazing in wordless delight at the scene before her.

The house was long and low, with curling Chinese eaves and green shutters fastened back against the white walls. A broad
veranda stretched the full length of the facade and flowering vines twined around the slim columns supporting the roof.

In that moment Vivien knew with unshakable certainty that she had been right to come.

“This way, please.”

She was roused from her rapt inspection by Chen’s polite murmur. Without a word she followed him onto the veranda, through a massive teak doorway and into a dim entrance hall cooled by the whirring blades of overhead fans.

Six pairs of dark brown eyes met hers.

“These are your servants, Miss Connell,” Chen said.

Six sleek black heads inclined respectfully.

Like a commanding officer presenting his troops for inspection, Chen reeled off six Asian names. The last member of the household to be presented was a doll-like Chinese girl in a starched cotton tunic and wide-legged trousers. Her name was Ah Kim.

“Tuan Cunningham did not have women here, but hearing of your coming I took the liberty of engaging an
amah,”
Chen said in his faultless English.

“Thank you, Chen. That was very thoughtful of you.” Vivien smiled at Ah Kim and received a shy beam in return.

“Is it your wish that she should show you your room?” Chen asked.

“Yes, please. I was very hot on the plane. I should like to freshen up.”

“
Very good. I will order tea. When you have eaten and rested I will show you the house.”

He clapped his hands, and with the exception of Ah Kim, the servants disappeared. Chen spoke to the
amah
in Chinese and then, turning to Vivien, said, “She does not speak much English, but if you have difficu
l
ty in conveying your wishes you must ring the bell and I will come.”

When he had gone Ah Kim opened a door and beckoned Vivien to follow her. They passed through an anteroom and int
o
a much larger apartment where the atmosphere was surprisingly cool. Later, Vivien discovered that part of the house was air-conditioned. The windows were shielded by pale green Venetian blinds through which the sun filtered in a pleasant golden glow. Facing her was an enormous bed with an elaborate headboard inlaid with mother-of-pearl and a bedspread of ivory silk embroidered with crimson flowers. A low couch piled with brocade cushions, a massive carved wardrobe and a crimson lacquer bureau were the principal furnishings. The floor was laid with pale green tiles and there were several handsome Bokhara rugs. Adjoining the bedroom was a tiled bathroom, and while Vivien was taking a shower she heard her luggage being carried in next door. By the time she emerged Ah Kim had laid out fresh underclothes and a clean blouse.

When she had dressed and combed her hair Ah Kim led the way back to the hall and out onto the veranda where a tea cart had been placed beside a deep cane chair. Although she was still unused to the flavor of canned milk, Vivien drank two cups of tea and ate several wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches.

She had just finished when Chen reappeared and said, “Is it your wish that I show you the house now?”

“Oh, yes, please.” Vivien jumped up. “Did Mr. Cunningham have the room I am in, Chen?”

“No,
mem.
His room is on the other side of the courtyard.” Vivien felt that she would never forget that first conducted tour of the house. Each room seemed to be more beautiful than the last. As Chen explained to her, the house was built in a rectangle surrounding an inner courtyard so that every room had windows on both sides. During the hottest part of the day the blinds were drawn, but the diffused light was restful rather than gloomy.

When they came to the drawing room Vivien gave an involuntary cry of pleasure. Here everything was in varying shades of gray, from the dove-gray walls to the dark gray linen covers on the chairs and sofas. In England, such a color scheme would have been chilly and depressing, but in the tropics the effect was cool and spacious.

“This is my master’s famous collection of jade. It is very valuable and took him many years to assemble,” Chen said, leading her toward a large glass-fronted cabinet that was filled with strangely shaped bowls and carved figurines. Vivien listened with interest as he pointed out the most treasured pieces and told her their age and history.

They were about to leave the room when a painting, hung in an alcove, caught her eye. It was a picture of a white house overlooking a beach. Feeling some vague sense of recognition she moved closer and saw that it was signed in the lower
left-hand
corner
. M. Connell. No wonder it had stirred a memory. Here, on the wall of her godfather’s drawing room, was an enduring reminder of the lost haven of her childhood.

“The
mem
feels unwell?”

“No, no. I’m all right, Chen.” She blinked back the sudden tears that pricked her eyelids. “This is a picture of the house where I was bo
rn
. It was painted by my father. He died many years ago,” she said softly.

Chen made no comment, but a curious expression flickered in his black eyes for a moment.

“You wish to see the courtyard?” he suggested after a moment.

“Yes, of course.”

“This way, please.”

He drew up the blinds screening a glass door in the inner wall and unlocked it, standing aside for her to pass.

Momentarily dazzled by the unrelieved glare of the sun, Vivien preceded him through the door and found herself in a kind of walled garden. To her surprise there was a large tree bearing a mass of white blossoms in the center and, beneath it, a canopied swing couch. Beyond the tree was a sunken pool surrounding an ornamental stone pedestal.

“One moment, please,” Chen said.

He moved away and touched what appeared to be a switch on the wall of the house. There was a faint hissing sound and then, so unexpectedly that Vivien jumped, a curtain of water soared into the air above the pool.

“Why, of course—the fountains!” she cried excitedly, and ran across stone pavement for a closer view.

There were indeed seven jets, the tallest one issuing from the top of the pedestal and the other six cascading from the sides like the petals of some wonderful glittering flower.

“How beautiful!” she exclaimed. “And the sound—it’s like music.”

Like a delighted child, she stretched out her hands and let the soft veil of water fall onto them, each drop sparkling like crystal. When she turned to speak to Chen she found he had gone.

For the next hour Vivien sat in the courtyard watching the fountains play. Now and then a petal would drift down from the branches of the tree and once a butterfly with emerald wings fluttered past her shoulder. The sound of the fountains was
infinitely soothing, and presently she lay back on the swing couch and felt a peaceful drowsiness stealing over her.

When she woke up the sunlight had mellowed and Ah Kim was standing over her, smiling, holding a tall glass of lemonade with an ice cube clinking gently against the rim.

“
Mem
sleep good,” she said approvingly.

Vivien sipped the lemonade and glanced at her watch. It was half-past six. She wondered what time Chen intended to serve her evening meal and if she should dress for her date with Julian before dinner or afterward. The question was answered by the appearance of two of the junior houseboys bearing a table, which they set down beside her and proceeded to lay.

Then Chen came out.

“It was the custom of Tuan Cunningham to dine here. But if the
mem
does not wish it
...
”

“But I do. I can’t think of a nicer place to eat,” Vivien said quickly.

“Tonight
mem
goes to the club with Tuan Barclay so I order dinner one hour earlier,” Chen said, moving a fork a fraction of an inch and adjusting the placing of the cruet.

Vivien was about to ask how he knew that she was going to the club when she remembered that he had been standing nearby when Julian made the invitation. Although his face was an enigma, by indirect means she was finding out a good deal about her godfather’s number one boy. He was no ordinary servant, that was quite evident. His air of authority and his familiarity with each piece in the jade collection suggested that he had been on close terms with her godfather. She wondered what he felt about her advent. Did he secretly resent her coming? Was he suspicious of her? Did he realize that she was only here for a short time? Whatever the answers were to her questions, Vivien had a strong conviction that it was important to make friends with Chen.

The dinner was excellent; a feather-light omelet followed by deviled prawns and then fresh pineapple and cream.

When she finished Vivien asked Chen if she could see the cook to compliment him on the meal. A stout Chinese was summoned to her presence and with Chen as interpreter Vivien told him how much she had enjoyed her dinner. The cook bowed so low that she was afraid he would topple over, but when he safely righted himself his face was wreathed in smiles
and he burst out with a flow of Cantonese which, but for his toothy grin, could have been mistaken for an angry tirade.

“He says you are the daughter of the old
tuan.
He means that you have the custom of politeness that is not known to many of your race,” Chen translated for her.

W
hen
Vivien went
to her bedroom to change she half wished that she had not agreed to go to the club. She suspected that Julian was the type of man who expected his women friends to be immaculately dressed, and she had nothing smart in which to make her debut into the European community.

The choice lay between a pink gingham dress that she had worn all last summer and a homemade dress of apple-green silk. She was surveying both garments with dissatisfaction when Ah Kim tapped at the door and pattered in.

“Missy go club. I iron dress,” she announced.

Deciding that the green silk was probably the most suitable for the occasion, Vivien handed it over. She had had another shower and was brushing her hair when the
amah
returned. Freshly pressed, the dress looked more presentable, but nothing could hide the fact that it was too slack at the waist. Then Vivien remembered the cyclamen scarf she had bought at the airport in Rome. Ah Kim had put all her belongings away, but after a quick search she found the scarf in the top drawer of the tallboy. It was large enough to twist around her waist like a cummerbund with the loose ends falling over her left hip, and with the faulty waistline concealed, the whole appearance of the dress was improved.

“Nice,” Ah Kim said, nodding her head.

Just before eight Vivien heard the roar of an engine coming up the drive, and a few seconds later a low-slung cream roadster swung around the last bend and drew up in a flurry of gravel. As Julian sprang out of the driver’s seat, she saw that he was wearing a white dinner jacket and was thankful that she had not put on the faded pink gingham.

“Hello there. You look very cool and charming,” he said, coming onto the veranda and raising her hand to his lips in a gesture that would have seemed affected in any other man.

His glance took in the comfortable cane furniture and the streamlined cocktail cabinet that Chen had wheeled out a few minutes earlier.

“Hmm, quite a place you have here,” he remarked. “Your godfather had an odd sense of humor. The first part of the drive is certainly guaranteed to deter uninvited visitors.”

“Yes, isn’t it,” Vivien agreed, recounting how she had almost jumped out of the Rolls earlier that day.

“Poor kid. I ought to have come with you,” he said, smiling down at her.