Masquerade. Part 2

Patrick shrugged his broad shoulders. "I guess we all are at times. Take-offs can be frightening, if you're not used to them."

Theft he looked up. "There, it's over. You can unfasten your safety belt now."

"Oh, thank goodness." She released the strap and re laxed in her seat.

Patrick unfastened his own, and then said: "Do you smoke?"

He offered her his slim platinum case, with the engraved monogram.

"Thanks." She took one and leaned forward to apply the tip to his lighter. Then she lay back again and looked speculatively at him.

Patrick lit a cigarette for himself and wondered, half-amused at his thoughts, why he was taking such an inordi nate interest in this girl. He rarely struck up conversations on aeroplanes, as they had a habit of becoming a bore. Besides, well-known as he was, people usually had ulterior motives in speaking to him. He had grown wary of the casual remarks pa.s.sed to him, and usually spent journey either reading or studying some aspect of his work.

But the girl did not somehow come into this category. She did not, appear to recognize him and was certainly unlikely to be connected with the theatre, dressed in such an outmoded way.

He drew on his cigarette, and looked again at her.

"What's your name?" he asked idly, his eyes narrowed.

"Samantha Kingsley," she replied at once. "And yours?"

"Oh!" Patrick hesitated. Now for it! Even if she did not recognize him, the name might mean something to her. "Patrick Mallory," he said reluctantly.

If he had expected a reaction he was disappointed. If was obvious his name meant nothing to her. He sighed gratefully.

Although he never lied about his ident.i.ty it was a pleasure to meet someone who knew nothing at all about him. "Are you going to London?" he asked.

"Well, to begin with, but not exactly there. Wiltshire. Is that near London?"

"Reasonably so," Patrick nodded, amused by her ex pression.

"You don't know much about England, do you? I thought you were English."

"I am. At least, I was born there, but I've lived in Italy since I was four years old,"

"Oh, I see." Patrick frowned. "And you've never been back?"'

"No. Never. My father preferred not to do so." Sam antha was silent for a moment and Patrick had the feeling that she was withholding much more than she had told him.

"And your father?" he probed, curious about this girl, and unable to stop the question. "Is he not going with you?"

"No. My father is dead. He was killed over a month ago."

Patrick frowned again. "I'm sorry." He studied his cig arette for a moment. The name Kingsley rang a bell some where and now she had told him that her father had been killed, he remembered where he had heard it. "John Kingsley," he said slowly. "Your father wasn't John Kingsley, was he?" Samantha's eyes widened.

"Why...why, yes. Did you know him?"

"No, not exactly. I met him in Milan at the exhibition. It was an excellent show. That must have been just before..."

Samantha sighed. "Yes, it was. I'm still a bit dazed about it.

And... and you liked the sculptures?"

"Oh, yes." Patrick stubbed out his cigarette. "Very much.

And so now you are an orphan?"

Samantha hesitated, "Not exactly." She halted awk wardly.

Patrick glanced curiously at her, and then seeing that she obviously did not want to talk about her immediate future, he changed the subject.

They talked about general things, books, art, music. Pat rick was not bored by her rather shy conversation. It was so refreshing to find a girl as comparatively untouched as she seemed to be.

"Tell me," she said suddenly, "what do you do?"

Patrick lit another cigarette, reflecting that he was smoking too much. The brief respite gave him time to think.

"I'm a writer," he replied, without qualification.

Samantha frowned, wrinkling up her brow. "What do you write?"

Patrick shrugged. He had no wish to become embroiled in a conversation about his work. His relief was overwhelming when the stewardess appeared at their side and asked them if they would like a drink.

Samantha looked up in surprise. This was all quite new to her. It was almost lunchtime, already.

"I'l have a tomato juice, please," she said quietly, but the stewardess had eyes only for Patrick Mallory. She knew only too well who he was and the influence he had in the theatre.

Besides, his physical attributes alone were a challenge in themselves to any woman.

"What will you have, Mr. Mallory?" she was asking gushingly.

Patrick looked up, his lazy eyes amused. "Scotch," he said easily. "And bring this young lady a sweet sherry in stead of tomato juice."

Samantha stared at him in surprise, and with obvious reluctance the stewardess moved away.

"You don't object, do you?" he asked half-mockingly.

Samantha shook her head slowly. "No, I suppose not." She bit her lip and looked thoughtfully at him. "Why did that stewardess act so strangely?"

Patrick grinned. "Strangely?" he mocked.

"Yes. You must know what I mean. She ... well..." She flushed.

Patrick looked at her through a haze of smoke. "When you get a bit more experienced, you won't ask questions like that."

"Won't I?" Samantha shrugged.

Patrick laughed softly. "Here are the drinks. Cheers."

"Cheers," she echoed slowly, and sipped her sherry.

Lunch was served soon afterwards, a delicious meal although it had all been pre-cooked. Samantha looked out on the fluffy cotton-wool world of cloud below the aircraft and wondered why people made such a fuss about flying. There was absolutely nothing to be seen and it did not seem so much different from bus-riding at home.

Home! She sighed. She had got to stop thinking about Italy as her home. Soon Daven House in Wiltshire was to be her home. There was no going back. If she returned to Italy it would be to marry Benito, but as the distance between them increased, she felt the ties between them decreasing.

She took the opportunity after lunch of going back to the ladies' room. She washed her face and hands and combed her hair. The eyes that stared back at her through the gla.s.s were scared eyes and she inwardly chided herself. Why should she feel scared? After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of. It was these women she was going to meet today who ought to feel ashamed.

Stiffening her shoulders, she walked back to her seat to find Patrick Mallory absorbed in some papers he had ex tracted from his briefcase. He did not even glance at her as she reseated herself beside him and Samantha found her thoughts returning to the problem of the next few hours. She felt that she was gradually becoming more and more nervous and she would be glad when this day was over at last.

Her eyes strayed once more to her companion, as though drawn to him. In profile his features were just as attrac tive and from his immaculate tailoring and ease of man ner she guessed he was a man who knew the world and what life was all about. He looked quite young arid she speculated about his exact age. He must be about thirty, she decided, and wondered whether he was English. His name was English enough and yet there was something slightly alien about his dark complexion and tawny eyes. Cat's eyes, Samantha thought. Like those of the tiger she had once seen in a traveling circus. Pondering, she won dered whether he was virtually quite as dangerous. He was very easy to talk to and she could understand a woman enjoying the attention he would devote to her. He treated Samantha rather like an overgrown schoolgirl and she wondered, whether she acted that way. It was rather disconcerting to find that after having thought yourself quite grown-up a man, like this man, could make you feel quite gauche. It was apparent that the men of the village could hardly be compared to Patrick Mallory.

He was a writer, too. She wondered what he wrote. He had not wanted to talk about that. But the stewardess obviously knew him and he had expected her to recognize his name.

From these thoughts she returned to thoughts of Ben ito. He had insisted on coming to the airport to see her off, and had made the scene she had half-expected. After his early capitulation he had changed and become sullen and resentful.

Samantha suspected that his family was to blame. They had not taken kindly to her plans for going to England. His mother had been quite blunt.

"Benito needs a wife," she had said. "Not some fly-by-night creature who goes shooting off to England at the whim of a relation she has not seen for seventeen years. Don't blame Benito if he finds someone else while you are away. Plenty of the village girls would give their right arm to have your opportunity with him."

There had been more in this vein, and Samantha had left, knowing that it was very unlikely that she would ever go back.

That was partly why she felt so scared. She had burnt her boats.

The villa had been rented by a young couple from Ravenna and Matilde had gone there to live with her sister. At the moment she felt in transit. She had nothing left for her in Italy and ahead!

Who knows!

She was roused from her reverie by Patrick Mallory. He offered her another cigarette and then said: "You were very thoughtful, just then."

Samantha smiled rather wistfully, Patrick thought.

"Yes." She smiled. "Have you finished your work?"

Patrick shrugged. "I don't suppose I shall ever be fin ished,"

he replied enigmatically.

Samantha digested this and then said: "How much lon ger now? Before we land, I mean,"

Patrick glanced at his watch. "Only about a quarter of an hour. Is someone meeting you?"

"Yes. My grandmother."

"I see. And are you going directly to Wiltshire?"

Samantha shook her head. "I'm not sure. My grand-mother is staying at the Savoy at the moment, so I don't really know" what her plans are."

"Is she indeed?" Patrick was impressed. This rather shabby little creature did not look the type to stay at the Savoy, but of course, appearances could be deceptive. "I hope you find London to your liking."

"Do you like it?"

Patrick raised his dark eyebrows. "It's a place to work. I prefer somewhere quieter when I have the time."

Samantha frowned. "Oh, dear. I hope I shall like it."

"Is it so important?"

She clasped her fingers together. "Terribly."

Patrick was more intrigued than ever, but he contained his natural curiosity. As a writer he was interested in people and he found Samantha a fascinating subject. She was so un-spoilt. It would be a pity if the life she was so ardently hoping to enjoy, changed her natural acceptance of life.

It was one-thirty, London time, when the aircraft touched down. Samantha lifted the light poplin coat which she had had lying beside her and walked rather shakily towards the exit of the aeroplane. Patrick followed her and was amused at her expression as she felt the cold in rush of air from outside the aircraft. It was a chill September day and Samantha hurriedly pulled on the light coat, shivering, Patrick smiled down at her. He made her feel quite small, for he was easily six feet in height and had broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips. "This is quite mild, you know," he remarked mockingly. "Wait until you ex perience an English winter!"

She looked up at him. He seemed to be her last contact with the familiar things of her life. "My father always said it was a cold climate," she murmured in a small voice.

Patrick felt something stir inside him. He could not understand what it was, but he suddenly felt responsible for this girl. She was not small or clinging, and yet she had a wistful air and he thought she would soon lose that gen tleness in the bustle of this busy city.

They descended the stairs and crossed the s.p.a.ce to the airport buildings. Formalities separated them and Sam antha was so busy with the unfamiliar procedure that she found she had lost sight of Patrick Mallory. Immediately her heart began to thump wildly, and a kind of panic invaded her system.

She looked round, searching for a sight of him, when a hand touched her shoulder and she swung round to find him behind her. She ran. her tongue over her lips and sighed in relief.

"I... I. .thought you'd gone," she whispered, thank fully.

Patrick looked solemnly down at her. "And?"

Samantha bit her lip. It seemed rather silly now that he was here again. "N... nothing," she said awkwardly.

"Come on.' Let's go," he said "softly, and taking a, grip on her arm above the elbow he urged her through the re ception lounge and out into the hallway.

A man in a chauffeur's uniform was eyeing them rather strangely and Patrick said: "Do you suppose he is Home connection of your grandmother's?"

Samantha shook her head. "I've no idea. Should I ask him?"

Patrick grinned. "Hardly. Look, wait here. I'l ask him. "

A few moments later Patrick returned with the chauf feur.

"Your carriage awaits, "he remarked dryly." Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, thank you." Samantha looked up at him. "Thanks for all your kindness."

"Think nothing of it," he remarked, easily. "You'll be fine.

And don't worry. Everything is for the best, you know."

Samantha managed a small smile and then turned and followed the chauffeur across the wide hall and out into the sweep of road beyond it. A ma.s.sive old Rolls-Royce awaited her and she was a.s.sisted into the back by the man who had introduced himself as Barnes, her grandmother's chauffeur and handyman.

The chauffeur went to stow her case in the boot and Samantha sat in the back feeling rather isolated. She would have liked to have asked to go in the front, but Barnes looked such a disciplinarian that she decided against it.