He gave a short laugh. “You know, Miss Yorke, you’re missing out somewhere. We have tourists who pay Hotel Mirador prices to soak in the atmosphere of Shiran; they’re milked right and left by the guides who take them to the holy tombs and other monuments—and leave us with the utmost regret.”
“I daresay they’re people with pots of cash and no home ties,” she said reasonably. “I always feel a little sorry for people who have to travel in search of sensation.”
With satire he said, “I suppose at the farm there’s a sensation every day?”
“Small ones, you know,” she answered, with a guileless nod of the bronze head.
“Weren’t you excited about coming to Morocco?”
“Well
...
yes. I’d never travelled by plane before.”
“And you think Shiran is merely
...
pretty?”
She hesitated, gave him the frank blue glance. “It’s as I rather expected a Moroccan coastal city to be, only more so. Actually, I was thinking rather intensely about something as we came in to land, and on the way to the hotel in the car I could only see the palms and the sea. Your esplanade is more or less a stock scene, isn’t it?”
“You may be right,” he said a little tersely. “I don’t know that I’ve met your brand of repartee before, Miss Yorke.”
“You think I’m too prosaic?”
He shook his head. “I think you’re asleep. Perhaps for your own peace of mind it would be better for you to stay that way while you’re in Shiran.” He got up, a tall,
wide shouldered
figure towering above her chair. Then he moved towards the door. “Make yourself at home in the suite, Miss Yorke, and
if there’s anything you need just ring for it.”
She came to his side. “Thank you. I hope I’ll have some success with your cousin.”
“So do I,” but he sounded doubtful.
He had half opened the door when someone knocked quickly and looked into the room. She saw a man in his early fifties, not very tall but handsome in a florid fashion. His black wavy hair was streaked with grey, his
olive-skinned
features were heavy and regular, and his dark eyes were bright and kind as he suddenly became aware of Sally.
“I am sorry,” he said with a thick foreign accent. “I thought you would be alone, Dane.”
“We were about to part,” Dane said in his most tolerant tones. “Monsieur Pierre de Chalain
...
Miss Sally Yorke, from England.”
“Ah, you come to help our poor Mike, no?” beamed the older man.
“I’ll do my best,” said Sally.
“Pierre is a family man,” Dane explained with a trace of satire. “He’s also my partner in the Hotel Mirador.”
“A small partner,” Pierre explained, “but I am certainly the manager here—a much more patient manager than Dane could be! The hotel was mine, mademoiselle—an old dirty place which could scarcely pay for my wine bill. Then comes Dane Ryland, with big ideas and the courage to carry them out. And now you see the Mirador, which is famous and has everything of the best. He is a genius in business, this Dane.”
“I thought he might be,” said Sally, smiling at the man because he was so extremely pleasant and frank.
Pierre de Chalain looked at her rather longer than was really necessary, a thoughtfulness in his expression. Then, very charmingly, he took her hand and bowed over it.
“Mademoiselle, you are a guest of the hotel. Will you allow me the privilege of dining with you this evening?”
“Miss Yorke,” put in Dane coolly, “has arrived only today. She’ll want meals served in her room till she’s accustomed to the place.”
Sally moved out into the corridor, inclined her head to the two men and walked along to her suite. She passed carved embrasure seats, damask armchairs, a rose quartz pedestal which spilled a profusion of pink camellias, and came to the pastel blue door of Suite Seven. She found her key and unlocked the door, crossed a white carpet which was thick enough to hide in and covered the whole floor, and stood in the doorway to the balcony. Then she turned and surveyed the sitting room. The chairs were purple, the curtains lavender, and the tables and cabinet were of rich dark wood, handsomely carved. The open doorway showed a vast bed; its covers, and even the quilted head, which was delicately shaped, were lavender, and it had a twin which she couldn’t see from here. In there, too, the white carpet spread to every wall, and there were deep purple rugs beside the beds for good measure. Sumptuous, lulling and yet vaguely exciting, the whole atmosphere had been planned for the rich tourist. The upper floors, Sally learned later, catered for people of more moderate means, but in their way they were as exotic as this.
At the moment, Sally was not impressed. Everyone knew that such palaces existed, and for her the Hotel Mirador was merely the place where she was to board while attending to Michael Ritchie.
Her patient sounded as if he might be rather a problem, but then nearly all adults
w
ho had been crippled were a little difficult to start with. Actually, she found herself rather eager to meet the young man; he challenged. In his way, of course, Dane Ryland was an even greater challenge, because it had been quite obvious a few minutes ago that he was disappointed in Miss Yorke.
Sally hadn’t wondered, back in England, what her employer would be like. She had seen the advertisement, felt that strange, urgent leaping of the heart when she had looked up the letter from Lucette which was postmarked at Tangier, and almost blindly written her application. Dane Ryland had stated, in a cool-toned letter, that she must present herself in London for an interview with a doctor who had been apprised of the details of the case. Within a fortnight, Mr. Ryland had engaged her and arranged for a London agent to send her an air ticket and French money. She hadn’t thought about him at all, personally; she had merely taken it for granted that, as he was an Englishman, he would be a conventional type. Which was silly, of course, because a man who left his own country to enter big business in a land like Morocco was very unlikely to be ordinary.
She turned back and looked out at the vivid green of the palms, the darker green of flowering trees. The man had asked disturbing questions, had known at once that she was country-bred, and had even seemed certain of himself in suggesting that she came from a large family. He had expected her to show excitement over Shiran, had put on quite an aloof, arrogant stare when that other man, Monsieur de Chalain, had asked if he might dine with her.
Dane Ryland, apparently, was something of an enigma. Well-bred and occasionally good humored, clever and possibly overwhelmingly proud of the fact that he had put himself at the head of the Hotel Mirador. He was as different as anyone could possibly be from the happy-go
-
lucky breed to which the Yorkes belonged. Which didn’t matter in the least. Sally would a million times rather be a Yorke than anyone else in the world!
She thought, dreamily, of the lake on the farm, of warm summer Saturdays spent climbing the rocks and swimming; she thought of winter, and of snow on the rounded hilltops, of sheep warm in their fold, of the big kitchen where the Yorkes spent long evenings round the brick fireplace. It was a beautiful old farmhouse; what had Shiran to offer to take the place of such heart’s warmth? Nothing at all, and she wouldn’t mind saying as much to the big, self-made tycoon along the corridor! Having arrived at which decision, Sally went through to turn on the water above the pearly pink bath.
When, she wondered, as she stepped into scented water and stared at pink walls, would she be able to get in touch with Lucette? A letter first, of course, and then they must meet, either here in Shiran or in Tangier. Though Tangier, she half remembered hearing, was a cosmopolitan city of vice and gaiety. Far better to insist on Shiran, though it was possible that Lucette would no more be able to travel south than to make the journey to England. What on earth could it be, this muddle that Lucette hinted at so volubly, yet would not explain?
Sally towelled and got dressed, chose a plain white sleeveless linen. She used a dab of powder, a rub of lipstick, then went into the sitting room, where she paused to decide what to do. It was dark now, the sky beyond the balcony a velvety black spangled with stars. It would be good to have a walk down in that garden or on the esplanade, and while walking she could decide where to have dinner. Sally went from the suite and along the corridor to the wide ornate staircase which curved down to the ground floor.
The vast vestibule spread cool and bright in front of her: the floor beautifully tiled in intricate patterns, the pink marble pillars meeting overhead in horseshoe arches, the reception desk curving away from the foot of the staircase and presided over by two white-clad receptionists. There was another pillared archway to the left, and beyond it the carpeted lounge, where the chairs were modern and gaily colored, its walls the pastel blue lined with gold which was uniform throughout the hotel. There were discreet servants galore. Quite a joint, thought Sally.
She walked out between the spacious marble portals, stood on a terrace which ran the whole length of the front of the hotel; then she moved along it diagonally, so that she came to the ornamental parapet with its spaced urns of flowering plants. Here she paused, to take in the wide esplanade, the endless strip of grass on the other side of the road, the regimented palms which had flowering ginger bushes between them. At least, Sally thought it was ginger bush, though one couldn’t be sure in the darkness about a plant one knew only from picture books. Beyond the bushes stretched the sea, a murmurous nothingness sprinkled with silver coins.
So this was Shiran. Vivid, brilliant, glittering even more at night than during the day. Surely one of the most attractive places in the world, yet Sally still felt no pull. I’m too earthy, she told herself contentedly; if I marry, I’ll go rustic in England for the rest of my life.
Naturally, Sally couldn’t yet know that, once one has lived in and known the people of a place like Shiran, one is never the same again!
At the end of the terrace she found a flight of steps to the garden, and she would have descended had not someone else been coming up them. She waited, and in a moment was face to face with Pierre de Chalain.
He bowed charmingly, exuding wisps of French toilet perfume. “Ah, good evening, Miss Yorke. Surely it is not necessary for you to explore alone?”
“I quite like being alone, monsieur.”
“You English are very strange. I have known my partner for more than four years and still I say it—you are very strange. If it is a stroll you are in need of, permit me to accompany you through the gardens. I would feel happier.”
“Can one come to harm so close to the hotel?”
“But no, of course not. It is merely that you are young and alone
...
and a woman.” Again the wide, kindly smile. “I am of an age to be your uncle, mademoiselle. You may trust me.”
“I shall be happy to trust you, monsieur.”
“Bon.
Then let us walk. The steps are shallow and there are six of them. I was about to go in and instruct someone to replace the electric bulbs in the torches here at the steps. They must have been removed this morning while repairs were taking place, and the maintenance man has omitted to finish his job. However, so long as they are replaced before the diners come for their evening promenade
...”
He cupped her elbow until she reached the path, dropped his hand and walked at her side. He was still on the same subject.
“I was not here when the repairs were made, or I would .have seen to it that the lights were in order. Mr. Ryland is very impatient of errors, you understand, and he takes it for granted that every workman is capable of finishing his task completely. I, who have managed this hotel ever since it was rebuilt under his direction, know that most of us are fallible. That applies also to myself.”
“It makes you human, monsieur. I’m one of those people who have to learn by experience, too. It’s a little hard sometimes, but when you do succeed you feel wonderful!”
“Indeed,” he said appreciatively as he glanced at her bloomy skin, her smiling red mouth and piquant profile, “you must have succeeded very often! You have a serene look, Miss Yorke. You are unspoiled, and I should say that you are generous and considerate.” He paused. “There is someone I would very much like you to meet. I felt it up there in Dane’s room when I first met you, and that is why I asked if we could dine together, but as you are not yet dining in public we must defer this important occasion.”
“Oh, but I think I will dine downstairs. I’m not used to eating alone. At the Beckmoor we—the staff—used to have our meals at a long table.”
“You liked it there, at the Home?”
“I loved the children, but the Home itself is rather drab. I’m hoping they’ll have me back—they’ve given me my holiday plus a leave of absence.”
He was still looking at her in the darkness—weighing her up, she surmised. And wondered why. His next remark was unilluminating; he seemed to have changed the topic.
“In any language, home is where the heart is, mademoiselle. My heart is here in Shiran. I have lived here most of my life. It will surprise you to learn that I married an English woman.”
“Really? And yet you still think the English are strange?”
“It was twenty-seven years ago, and she died only fourteen months after our marriage. She was unusual,” he said with sad whimsicality, “but I loved her. Now I have only our son.”