Never to Love (9 page)

“But what happened? Why did he attack you like that?” she demanded.

“For money. You sometimes get roughnecks lurking around the clubs in this quarter, hoping to intimidate nervous tourists into handing over their loose change. It’s not as popular a livelihood as it used to be.”

“What are you going to do with him?” she asked, looking distastefully at the huddled bulk on the sidewalk.

“Nothing. I don’t think he’ll try it again for a while,” Justin said calmly. He stopped and picked something up. “I’ll keep this as a souvenir.”

Andrea drew in her breath as she saw the vicious-looking cutthroat razor.

“He might have killed you,” she said in a choked voice.

Not with those
gorilla like
tactics. Come on, I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

“I suppose you haven’t injured him?” she suggested nervously, remembering the sickening crack as the man’s head hit the wall.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. He wouldn’t be a grave loss to the community.” Justin was grinning again. Then, seeing her face, he put his arm around her shoulders and said gently, “I’m sorry. It can’t have been very amusing for you. If I had thought there was any risk of this happening, I wouldn’t have suggested walking. The fellow will come around presently. They have very thick skulls.”

Five minutes later they were in a taxi and Andrea was recovering from the shock of the incident. It was not until they were back in their room and Justin had poured out two stiff shots of brandy that she noticed he was keeping his right hand in the pocket of his dinner jacket.

“What’s the matter with your hand?”

“Only a scratch.” He tossed the brandy back in one gulp.

“Let me see it,” she said firmly.

Arching an amused eyebrow at her determined tone, he took his hand out of his pocket. He must have wrapped a handkerchief around it when she was not looking. At the sight of the blood seeping through the linen she gave a little cry of distress.

“Why on earth didn’t you say you’d been hurt? Is it very deep?”

“Don’t fuss, child. A small cut won’t kill me,” he said lightly.

“Probably not, but you can’t leave a trail of blood through the hotel. Come into the bathroom and I’ll clean it up for you,” she retorted with some asperity.

Justin allowed himself to be hustled into her bathroom and, making him hold his hand over the basin, she unwrapped the stained handkerchief, biting her lip at the sight of the long gash from knuckle to wrist.

“This ought to be stitched. There’s bound to be a doctor in the hotel or somewhere near. I think we should call one,” she said anxiously.

“Think again,” he said tersely.

Andrea opened her mouth to protest, but his black brows drew together in such a forbidding scowl that she thought better of it and began to administer what first aid was possible with her limited equipment.

“There, that’s the best I can do, so don’t blame me if you get blood poisoning,” she said crisply, pinning the end of the improvised bandage into place.

“No, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” The scowl had gone and there was a glint of laughter in his eyes as he rolled down his shirt sleeve and fumbled with the cuff link.

“I’ll do it.” She pushed his good hand aside and fastened the link.

He watched her clean the basin and wash her hands.

“What would you have done if that chap had beaten me up?”

“I’ve no idea. Run for help, I suppose.”

“Most women would have had hysterics at the outset.”

“Most men would have handed over their wallets. I believe you enjoyed it.”

“It’s a long time since I’ve had a scrap like that. I doubt if you would understand. In spite of civilization, the primitive urge to fight is still pretty strong in most men. Like a woman’s instinct for homemaking and child care.”

“I don’t see how anyone can enjoy violence,” she said with a shiver.

“Would you have preferred me to let him get away with it?”

“No, I suppose not,” she admitted reluctantly. “He deserved to get some of his own medicine. But it was still a hateful thing to happen.”

He explored the deepening bruise on his cheekbone and winced slightly.

“If I have a black eye tomorrow they’ll think you’ve been knocking me about.”

“Let me look.”

With gentle fingertips she touched the place.

“Short of putting a piece of steak on it, I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

“Never mind. It isn’t the first crack I’ve had.”

He took hold of her wrist and held her hand against his cheek. She could feel the clean-cut line of his jaw, and the roughness of stubble. For a long moment their eyes held, hers concerned, his unreadable. Then he moved her hand so that his lips were against the palm.

The other day when he had kissed her hand, she had taken it as a gesture for Leonie’s benefit. Now they were alone, and the pressure of his mouth sent a faint tremor down her spine. What he had said was true. She was afraid of him. Not so much of his anger or passion but of something in the man himself, some hidden force which she sensed but could not understand.

“Our plane leaves at midday. We’d better get to bed,” he said, letting go of her hand. “Have you an aspirin or something to help you sleep?”

“I will be all right.”

“Thanks for patching me up. Good night.”

“Good night.”

She waited to hear the bedroom door close and then turned to the mirror and stood gazing at her reflection as if to find the answer to her question in the troubled green eyes looking back at her.

They landed at London airport
in the early afternoon, and it was while they were driving home that Justin told her that he had arranged for her rooms to be decorated during their absence.

“I hope you’ll approve of my choice,” he said. “Naturally you can make any alterations you want to.” She was surprised and pleased, but could not help wondering why he had not told her earlier and consulted her taste.

Hubbard was waiting to welcome them and said that tea was ready in the library.

“Could it wait for a few minutes? I’d like to see my room,” Andrea said.

“By all means.” Justin led the way upstairs.

He had shown her over the. whole house during their engagement, and she remembered that the large bedroom overlooking the square, which had been unoccupied since his mother’s death, had been decorated in shades of blue, a color that was not one of her favorites and that gave the lofty apartment a chill appearance.

But when Justin opened the double door and stood aside for her to enter, she found that the room was completely changed. Now everything was white and gold with touches of eau-de-nil. The blue rugs on the parquet floor had been replaced with thick white broadloom and the walls were white with gilded moldings. White damask curtains with gold-fringed lambrequins framed the three tall windows; the plain mahogany bed had been removed and
in
its place, on a low dais, was a large divan with a head of quilted green satin to match the satin bedspread banded with white lace. Of the former furnishings, only a fine Spanish cabinet of rich Coromandel and a graceful loveseat reupholstered in white velvet remained.

“The bathroom was in most need of doing up. Let’s see what they’ve made of it,” Justin said, before she could comment on these alterations.

She followed him into the adjoining bathroom and saw that the old-fashioned glazed paper on the walls had given place to primrose tiles from floor to ceiling. The bath and basin were black with silver fittings and pale yellow shower curtains, and the cane drying chair was cushioned with vivid turquoise toweling.

Once again Justin gave her no chance to say anything before walking through to the small sitting room that also adjoined the bedroom. Here the white and gold theme was accented by crimson velvet cushions on the white chintz-covered chairs and a red and gold lacquer escritoire.

“There’s supposed to be a hidden compartment in this if you can discover it,” he said. “I hope you like the general effect.”

She shook her head, unable to find adequate words to express her pleasure.

“It’s perfect!” she told him a little breathlessly.

“Good. I would have discussed it with you before the wedding, but I thought you had quite enough to do as it was.”

“Did Madeline help you?”

“No. I told the decorators what I wanted and they submitted sketches. I had a rough idea of the type of thing you liked. They wanted a lot of frills and flounces, but I didn’t think them
in character.”

“Oh, no. I hate pretty-pretty rooms. It’s terribly kind of you to take so much trouble.
”

“Not at all. It’s one of my responsibilities to see that you are comfortable,” he said smoothly. “Now shall we go down?”

Somewhat deflated by his detached attitude, she said she would come down in a moment or two. When he had gone, she washed her hands and renewed her lipstick. There was a bottle of bath oil and a drum of talcum powder on the glass shelf above the basin. Both were her favorite brand. Was this coincidence, or had Justin asked Jill’s help in choosing them?

Returning to the bedroom, she noticed the April issues of the leading fashion magazines on one of the bedside cabinets. The seascape hanging above the marble fireplace—at present filled with a mass of white lilac—was one she had admired in the window of a Bond Street art gallery several weeks ago, and there were a dozen other touches that told how carefully the room had been prepared for her
use.

Why, then, when she had thanked him for it, had Justin’s response been so offhand? Was he one of those people who disliked thanks or did he really expect her to take it as a matter of course?

When she reached the library he was already going through an accumulation of correspondence while Hubbard hovered in the background.

“I’ve put your letters on the table, madam,” the old man said. “Shall I pour the tea?”

“No, thank you, Hubbard. I’ll do it,” Andrea said with
a smile, wondering who could have written to her.

“You may find the kettle a little temperamental, madam. If you have any difficulty with it perhaps you would ring.”

“Thank you.”

She surveyed the low tea table with some amusement. Evidently afternoon tea was quite an elaborate ritual, very different from the quick brew that she and Jill had made after struggling home in the rush hour. It had been a matter of minutes to switch on the electric kettle, spoon tea into the old brown pot, set out the pottery mugs and collapse into a chair with a sigh of exhaustion. But those kitchenette “revivers,” as Jill had called them, were far removed from the dignified rites that she would be expected to perform from now on.

The table was laid with an immaculately laundered lace cloth and set with a handsome tea service of Queen Anne silver and Spode china. A copper kettle burbled gently over a gas stove and there was a choice of Indian or China tea. Buttered scones, fragile fingers of toast and crisp sausage rolls were keeping hot in covered silver dishes and there were plates of wafer-fine bread and butter rolled into tubes, two kinds of sandwiches, shortbread, fruitcake and creamy
é
clairs
.

Having poured the tea, Andrea left Justin to help himself to this prodigal variety of delicacies and began slitting open her letters. Most of them were circulars from stores soliciting her business, and there were a number of appeals from obscure charities and one from an individual.

“By the way, if any of those are begging letters I would throw them in the basket,” Justin said suddenly, looking up from his own mail.

She was a little shocked by the hardness of his tone,
and
perhaps realizing this he said, “If you want to help lame dogs, make sure they are genuine. You’d be surprised by the number of people who make a comfortable income by cadging.”

“How does one know if they’re genuine?”

“Generally speaking, if they write you a hard-luck story they’re sharks. People who really need help seldom beg for it,” he said dryly. “If you want to salve your conscience
there are plenty of recognized charities in need of funds.”

She tensed. “What do you mean—salve my conscience?” she asked stiffly.

“Don’t we all? This sort of thing, doesn’t make very comfortable reading for those of us who are on the safe side, do you think?”

He handed one of his own letters to her. It was an appeal from a society for the aid of displaced people in Europe and the Far East, but as she read it she wondered if this was really what he had meant.

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed soberly, handing it back and glancing at the lavishly spread table. How many people there must be who lived on food that was scarcely fit for animals.

“What would you have done if you had been poor?” she asked him curiously. “I mean, how would you have earned your living?”

“Gone to sea, I imagine,” he said. “Tell me, are you beginning to feel a sense of anticlimax now?”

“In what way?”

He shrugged. “Usually when people get what they want from life they feel rather lost at having no further aim. Or is there something else you want besides the material comforts?”

“What more could I want?”

His eyes were speculative. “I don’t know yet,” he said slowly. “I hope it will be something I can give you.”

“Sometimes
...
” She stopped abruptly.

He lighted a cigarette. “May I have some more tea? I wonder why you are always so nervous of saying what you think. Sometimes what?”

She filled the cup and returned it. “It wasn’t important.”

“My good girl, how many remarks are?” he said in a rather exasperated tone. “At least they keep a conversation alive, which is more than can be said for your habit of stopping short in midstream.
”

“All right, then. I was going to say that sometimes I think one of the reasons you married me was to take a sadistic delight in asking difficult questions,” she retorted with a flash of spirit.

He leaned back in his chair, his black eyes mocking.

“You look very attractive when you’re annoyed,” he said easily.

She was prevented from making a stinging reply by Hubbard, who came in to ask if they would be dining at home. A few minutes later Justin was telephoned and while he was talking she slipped out of the room to do her unpacking.

But when she opened the bedroom door she found that a maid in a dark silk dress and muslin apron was already at work.

“Good afternoon, madam.” The woman straightened up from bending over a suitcase.

“Oh
...
good afternoon. I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?
”

“No, madam. The housekeeper engaged me as your personal maid on Mr. Templar’s instructions. I came in only yesterday.”

“I see. Well, I hope you’ll like it here. What’s your name?”

“Miller, madam.” The woman did not return Andrea’s smile. She had a thin face with a beaky nose and pale blue eyes fringed by almost colorless lashes. Her sandy hair was screwed into a tight knot at the back of her head and the burgundy color of the staff uniform did not enhance her pale dry-looking complexion. She might have been a
n
y age between thirty and fifty.

“I was just going to unpack, but I see you’ve almost finished it,” Andrea said, searching for more suitable remarks.

“What do you wish me to put out to
n
ight, madam?”

“Put out? Oh, you mean clothes. We’ll be at home this evening. I think I’ll wear the black dress with the square neck, please.”

“And the shoes, madam?”

“It doesn’t really matter. The green ones will do. They’re old and comfortable. We’ve done so much sightseeing in Paris that my feet are a bit travel worn.”

Miller bared her large and prominent teeth slightly. This was presumably her version of a smile.

“What time would you like your bath, madam?”

Heavens,
thought Andrea,
if I have to go through this catechism three times a day I won’t dare to come in here.

Aloud she said, “I had a
bath this morning. I usually have them before breakfast or last thing at night.”

“Very good, madam.”

Since this seemed to be the end of her inquiries for the time being, Andrea murmured something indistinct and went into the sitting room.

Making sure that the door was firmly shut, she crossed to the couch, lifted the telephone on to her lap and dialed Jill’s number.

The distant bell rang five times before it was cut short and a breathless voice said, “Hello?”

“Jilly? It’s me, Andrea. We’ve just got back. How are you?”

“Fine. I’ve only just come in, that’s why I’m panting. Have you had a marvelous time? How’s Justin? I’m dying to see all your Paris finery. When can I come to see you?”

“Paris was marvelous. Justin’s very well. And come as soon as you can,” Andrea answered, laughing.

“How about tomorrow? Could you ask the chef, to rustle up an extra sausage or are you giving a housewarming banquet?”

“Idiot! That’s a date, then. Lu
n
ch tomorrow. How is Nick?”

“Fine. We’re both spending every spare minute decorating the apartment. I want your advice about some wallpaper I’ve seen. Now that you’re a lady of leisure perhaps you can come and give a hand with the curtains and things.”

“Of course. By the way, Justin’s had my room redecorated as a surprise. It’s wonderful, but I’ve just discovered I have a personal maid and she doesn’t match the room. I’m terrified of her already.”

They had an enjoyable ten minutes’ gossip, and when Andrea hung up she felt more cheerful. It was reassuring to know that in moments of stress she could confide some of her problems to Jill. The others she would have to face alone, but that was inevitable.