Masquerade. Part 15

She paced the lounge angrily, and Emily who had been silently tidying the room was ordered to bring her some coffee.

Emily, who had never had much time for her mistress's spoiled and willful daughter, went away to get the coffee, muttering to herself. Barbara's contorted features did not deceive her, not for one moment. They were not due to grief at the death of her mother. Not she; she was only concerned about herself and Patrick Mallory. Not that he seemed particularly interested. Emily thought he seemed more than concerned about Miss Samantha, and as she was more than any sixteen, why not?

Barbara was too dramatic, too hysterical. Too egotistical too, by far. She forgot when she was acting and when she was not.

Meanwhile, Barbara continued her pacing. Her mind was in a turmoil. There were so many things to be done. And undermining everything was the memory of Patrick standing close to Samantha, his eyes concerned and gentle. For Samantha! It was deplorable. He thought she was sixteen, too. If she was, he would be old enough to be her j father. Had he no pride?

Why, oh, why were all her plans falling about her ears? First of all she had had to interrupt her own life and bring Samantha to London and acknowledge her as her daughter; then she had had to suffer the fact of Samantha's youthful exuberance and disarming manner with people against her own more mature, sophisticated charms, and now her mother had died leaving the whole weight of res ponsibility on her shoulders and the responsibility of Samantha was the greatest of all!

It was cruel; too cruel to be fair. And on top of all this had she now to stand by and watch, the one man she could ever remain faithful to make a fool of himself with her own daughter?

No! It couldn't happen. It could not be allowed to happen.

Something would have to be done. Oh, how could he?

Emily brought the coffee and retired to her own bed without even saying goodnight. It would soon be light, Barbara thought wearily. The next day was already upon her.

Lady Davenport was to be buried at Daven, It had been her wish that she should be laid to rest in the family vault there, so Samantha saw her proposed home in very diff erent circ.u.mstances to those she had expected.

Since that dreadful night when her grandmother died she had been living almost in a daze. She felt very much as she had done when her father died, for although she had known her grandmother such a short time, they had be come so close. She had lived automatically, mechanically, and only when Patrick was there did she feel any of the security which had suddenly been taken away from her.

Barbara was cold and aloof. She acted warmly enough in front of the pressmen who came to interview them and Rake pictures and as the papers gave the story plenty of publicity Samantha a.s.sumed that everyone would remark on her mother's bravery in the face of such a tragedy. But, alone with Samantha, she reverted to type and only her daughter bore the brunt of the bitter frustration she was feeling. Samantha did not realize that Lady Davenport's death was not the only thing troubling her mother, and j could not understand why she should be treated as though she were to blame. She never dreamed that Barbara might be concerned about Patrick Mallory and his concern for her daughter.

The publicity appalled Samantha in many ways. After all, she had always thought that a death in the family was a family affair and to have every detail of her grand mother's condition broadcast for all to hear seemed almost crude. To see Barbara dressed all in black, a colour which did the utmost for her fairness, playing the part of the desolate daughter clinging to Samantha for support through those terrible days was nauseating. Samantha did not doubt that Barbara mourned her mother's death, but her own position grew daily more intolerable.

Martin Pryor, the gossip-columnist, became a regular visitor and although Samantha kept as much out of the limelight as she could, Pryor did his best to include her in every article. He was still intrigued by her self-possession, which seemed out of place in a sixteen-year-old. Samantha, aware of this, wondered how long it would be before he too paid a visit to the registry as Patrick had done, and returned to confront Barbara with the facts. She dreaded to think what would happen when Barbara learned that Patrick himself, knew the truth, and her thoughts turned to who it was had exposed her.

There were times when Samantha wished desperately that she had never come to England, even while she knew she could never have lived her whole life without meeting Patrick Mallory at some phase of it The argument that she might never have known of his existence did not ring true any more, for surely they could have met in Italy. His mother's villa was not so far from Perruzio and it was not beyond the realms of coincidence that they might have met through her father. The way she felt about him proved that for her he was the only man she cared about, and although it was highly unlikely that anything more might come of it, she. was still glad she had known him and loved him.

Daven was a beautiful old Elizabethan manor house.

Surrounded by tall trees, its brickwork mellowed and fes tooned with ivy, it looked rather sad to Samantha. The drawn curtains at the windows showed blank faces to the world outside, and its melancholy owed much to the fact that old buildings seem to echo the feelings of those within; their walls and the servants at Daven were very sad at the death of their mistress.

Samantha drove down the day before the funeral, with Barnes, in the Rolls. Barbara was already there, supervis ing the arrangements for the following day and she had little time to spare for her daughter. Samantha was shown to her room and then left to her own devices and after bathing, and changing into slacks and a sweater she began a lonely tour of inspection. No one had said she should not look about if she wanted to do so, and she wanted to know more about the house where Lady Davenport had spent much of her married life.

She opened doors into rooms, long disused, even before her grandmother's death. Most of the furniture, swathed with ghostly white dust-sheets, eerily reminded her that for a long time only one person had required accommoda tion.

The furniture beneath the sheets proved to be very old, and much of the damasks on chairs and settees were faded and smelt a little musty. She knew very little about an tiques, but she did not need to be an expert to realize that a great many pieces were valuable. She recognized well-known examples of Sheraton and Chippendale among the curved legged chairs and drop-leaf tables, set with pieces of china and gla.s.s and porcelain. Carved porcelain figures which she thought might be Meissen were jostling beside the blue and white Wedgwood jugs and vases covered so carelessly that she was almost afraid to lift the sheets for fear of causing something to break.

In the huge library, books upon books lined the walls and as they too were not set in any order, she thought it was likely that they had not been disturbed for years.

The bed she slept in that night, after consuming a lonely dinner alone in her room, was huge and would have accom- modated at least half a dozen others. The mattress was a leather one, and Samantha, unused to the rather suffo cating warmth it provided, found it doubly difficult to sleep. It was a four-poster, and the ornate ceiling of the bed was draped with heavy velvet curtains, which could be let down to seal the bed off from the rest of the room. Lying there, almost too warm already, Samantha hated the feeling of being closed in that they gave her and consequently at first light she was awake and out of bed before the c.o.c.ks started to crow.

She swept back her curtains to let in the watery light from outside, and looked out on a placid scene which calmed her disturbed mind.

The extensive grounds spread away to the distant-hills, and in the foreground she could discern well-laid-out lower beds and green lawns, surrounded by box hedges and statuary. There was a small pool and she wondered if goldfish, swam in its icy depths.

She dressed swiftly in the slacks and sweater she had worn the night before and sped down the staircase, reaching the cold air with an involuntary shiver.

She had not explored outside the previous day and spent an enchanted hour discovering her domain. There were stables, as her grandmother had said, and the two hunters in the stalls delighted her, nuzzling her for sugar. The stable boy, who was all of sixty-five, gave her some to feed them and she won their friendship by helping him to groom them.

There was also a pony, a small black and brown thing, which followed her around and who she was sure she could grow to love. The stable boy told her it had not yet been named and she spent many minutes trying to choose one for her own amus.e.m.e.nt.

The funeral was to be at eleven o'clock and when Samantha returned for breakfast she learned that all the staff were to attend, dressed soberly in sombre blacks and browns.

Barbara drank only black coffee and smoked several cigarettes while Samantha ate some toast, and Samantha was glad when it was time to go and get ready.

A visit to Helene's before leaving London had provided her with a slim-fitting dark grey suit and a black and white Breton hat with a black band and black ribbons which hung over the brim at the back. Her hair curled out snugly from under the brim, framing her face, but her cheeks were pale and her eyes dark-rimmed and huge from weeping. Dressing for such an occasion had weakened her resolve not to cry Patrick arrived from London soon after ten. Although he must have arisen much earlier than was his wont he was as immaculately turned out as ever in a dark morning suit and a black tie. Over all he wore a fur-lined overcoat and he entered the hallway just as Samantha was descending the stairs.

Seeing him there, his hat in his hand, the fur collar of his coat turned up, against the chilly elements, his dark hair ruffled from the breeze, almost turned Samantha's heart over. He had become so dear to her, dearer still now that she was virtually alone in the world again. She could not count Barbara. She had shown only too clearly these past few days that whatever impulse had allowed her to admit Samantha to her charmed circle was fast waning and the sooner she returned to where she had come from the better she would like it.

"h.e.l.lo," said Patrick softly. "Are you all right?"

Samantha descended the remainder of the stairs at a run and stood breathlessly staring at him.

"I... I am now," she murmured simply.

Patrick's fingers curved round the nape of her neck and fee drew her unresistingly towards him. His coat was rough and smelt of tobacco and was wonderfully rea.s.suring against her cheek. For a moment they were alone in the hall and Samantha trembled in the grip of emotions too strong for either of them.

His fingers caressed her neck, persistently, arousing them, so that she looked up at him helplessly.

"We shouldn't -" she began, her cheeks burning.

"I know," he groaned, "but I need this," and he bent his mouth to hers.

It was a long satisfying kiss and Samantha clung to him shamelessly. She knew he was finding it just as difficult to release her and at last he had to push her gently away from him.

"Where is your mother?" he asked, forcing himself to) act naturally.

Samantha ran a tongue over her upper lip. "I think she's in the drawing room. The caterers are preparing a lunch ... for afterwards."

Patrick nodded. "And what will you do ... afterwards?"

Samantha shrugged. "I don't know. I honestly don's know."

Patrick fastened his coat again. Samantha had loosened it, burrowing close against his warm body.

"What would you like to do?" he asked.

Samantha bent her head to hide confusion.

"I'm not sure."

Patrick moved closer to her again. "Aren't you? Do you want to come back to London with me?" His voice was barely audible.

She looked up, her eyes startled, into his face and a that moment Barbara emerged from the drawing room into the hall.

She was wearing black. She had favoured a slim-fitting black coat with, a sable collar and cuffs. Her make-up was subdued but arresting, and the tiny black hat which was perched on her blonde curls drew attention to the delicate structure of her features.

Immediately Samantha drew away from Patrick and there was no further opportunity for her to answer his question.

"Darling!" Barbara walked towards them. "So you're here! I thought I heard the car a few minutes ago."

"You did, Barbara. I've been ... talking to Samantha," replied Patrick easily. "Is everything under control? Is there anything I can do?"

They moved away together, talking, and Samantha had time to gather her scattered wits. What on earth had Pat rick meant by that final remark? And what did it imply?

She was absolutely intrigued. This last encounter had confirmed one thing at least. He was attracted by her. But whether it was a lasting attraction or just a transitory thing she had no way of knowing. After all, he was a sophisti cated man with sophisticated tastes. He might find it pleas ant to dally with the wallflower in the garden, but surely when it came to picking he would choose the choicest bloom and the ignorant, uncultured daughter of an old acquain tance (or old flame) could hardly be cla.s.sed as that.

Why then had he invited her to go with him to London?

Knowing she was twenty-one he would be quite aware that she was perfectly free to do as she chose, but, as it was so melodramatically put, what were his intentions? He had never mentioned love to her. Theirs had been a purely physical attraction so far. What did he intend she should do there?

She shivered. The idea that occurred to her could not be put aside. Did he intend that she should live with him?

She hugged herself, closing her eyes momentarily. Al though she knew it was wrong, the thoughts that came un invited to her head could not be denied.

Would it not be nice, a small voice taunted her, inside her brain, if he did want you in that way? To execute his every desire? To know the ecstasy of his possession if only for a short time at least? Was not half a loaf better than no bread? A short period of heaven!

"Excuse me, but aren't you Miss Kingsley?"

Samantha's eyes flew open and she blushed, feeling foolishly as though her thoughts had been written on her face for everyone to read.

Before her stood an elderly man, dressed in a dark morning suit, his silvery head only slightly higher than her chin.

"Why, yes," she replied awkwardly, "I'm Samantha Kingsley."

"I thought you were." His eyes twinkled a little. "I'm sorry I had to interrupt your dreaming."

Samantha's colour deepened until she felt like a tom ato.

"Oh, please-" she began.

'No, don't apologize, my dear." He smiled. "I must introduce myself. My name is Bolam, Joseph Bolam. I was your grandmother's solicitor."

"Oh, yes." Samantha smiled in return, and her colour subsided. "How do you do? Are you looking for my mother?"

"Not especially. I wondered whether we might have a chat together. There's some time yet before we leave for the chapel, and I'd like to get to know you better. Your grandmother came to see me while she was in London and told me a great deal about you."

Samantha bent her head. "I only wished I had known her longer."

"Yes, I'm sure she wished that, too, my dear."

They walked together into the morning room. Like the other rooms much of the furniture was draped with sheets, but Samantha cleared a couple of armchairs and invited her guest to sit down.

"Tell me," said Mr. Bolam, when they were seated, "have you any plans for the future?

Samantha sighed. "Not really. I ... well ... I don't want to impinge upon my mother's life. She is a very ... busy woman."

"I'm sure. Barbara always was ... busy." Mr. Bolam hesitated only a moment over the last word. "I understand she has a play coming up in December."

"Yes, that's right. I believe Mr. Mallory, Patrick Mallory that is, has written a play for her."

"Ah, yes, Patrick Mallory. I have met him. Is he here today?"

"Yes. Actually, he and Mother are together at the moment"

Mr. Bolam coughed rather awkwardly. "Is it possible that your mother might marry again?"

Samantha swallowed hard. "You mean Mr. Mallory, of course."

"Well, there has been some speculation, hasn't there? Your grandmother seemed to think it was likely."

"Yes." Samantha shrugged her slim shoulders. "I really couldn't say. I know nothing about it. Barbara hasn't dis cussed it with me."

"And if they did, would you like to live with them?"

"Oh, no!" Samantha was vehement on that score. Live with Patrick and her mother! Knowing that they were man and wife!

It would be tortuous and dangerous!

"That's interesting." Mr. Bolam nodded and patter her knee.

"Don't worry, my dear. I'm sure you have no cause for alarm."

"Alarm?"

"A figure of speech," replied Mr. Bolam easily. He glanced at his watch. "I think we ought to join the others now. Time is getting on."

Apart from Barbara, Patrick, Mir. Bolam and Saman tha there were several old friends of Lady Davenport who lived in the neighbourhood who had been invited to join the family mourners. Emily, Lady Davenports personal maid and companion, rode in Patrick's car with Patrick himself and Mr.

Bolam, while other cars had been provi ded for the rest of the staff.

Samantha did not allow herself to cry in public, even though Barbara wept almost continuously. She found Pat rick of ten by her side and his nearness was a comfort to her.

The chapel stood in the grounds of the estate, and after the short service, it was there, in the family vault that Lady Davenport's remains were laid to rest.

Barbara's agent, Charles Barratt, had arrived front London also, and it was he who escorted Barbara back to the house in his car. Thus it was that Patrick offered Samantha a seat in his car for the return journey and she accepted. No one else joined them and they drove back alone.

Patrick glanced at her as she slid into the car, his eyes warm and gentle and Samantha had to force herself not to touch him, or to ask for his protection. When he joined her in the car, his thigh was close to hers, and she felt the palpitations of her heart.

She purposely avoided looking at him after that and stared unseeingly out of the car window instead.

"You're quite safe with me, you know," Patrick remar ked, as he swung the car round and drove back to the house.

"Safe?" Samantha twisted her gloves together in her lap. "I don't understand you?"

"Don't you? Well, my dear, you're acting as though I was the villain of the piece about to seduce you."