Authors: Unknown
Mr. Keane chuckled.
“One of those famous weekends ending up with a show and everybody doing a turn?” he asked. “I got let in for one of those once, and when my turn came, all I could think of was some not very respectable limericks! However, they went down very well! What did you do?”
“I—sang,” Lucy admitted reluctantly, and then, in a burst of confidence: “It was rather dreadful, because I’ve never done such a thing before in front of people —and one of them was Miss Singleton!”
“Oh—yes, the singer. One of Owen’s proteges—and a very successful one, I believe, though possessed by rather a troublesome sense of gratitude.”
Lucy could not hide her surprise.
“But if Mr. Vaughan has done so much for her, isn’t it natural—?” she suggested.
“No doubt,” Mr. Keane agreed drily. “But the peculiar thing about gratitude is that it’s something of a boomerang. If you have earned it, in time it can happen that you, and not the recipient of your help, become under an obligation—ah, here is Owen. Well, my boy, how is Louise now?”
“Not too bad, all things considered,” Owen told him. “Bertha has made her a cup of tea—the old dear brought over all the necessary tackle in a small case she insisted on clinging to all the way with the result that Customs were convinced it must hold something very valuable and insisted on going through it with a fine tooth comb! I only hope they couldn’t understand all the things she called them. Interfering young busybodies was the least of them!”
Mr. Keane laughed. Then Lucy suggested going to her room and left the two men alone. Mr. Keane looked at his nephew speculatively.
“You look almost as fagged as Louise does,” he remarked.
Owen shrugged his shoulders.
“The last year has been pretty busy,” he admitted noncommittally.
“H’m. And will I kindly mind my own business?” Mr. Keane suggested. “All right, I can take a hint.”
“Good,” Owen said laconically.
“All the same, there’s one tip I’m going to give you,” Mr. Keane announced.
“Well?”
“Be content to make haste slowly,” Mr. Keane told him. “In fact, at present, simply marking time would be even better.”
The eyes of the two men met and there was a certain grudging admiration in Owen’s.
“You see too damn much,” he complained disrespectfully.
Mr. Keane chuckled pleasurably. He was extremely fond of his nephew, but it would be against nature if, as the older generation, he did not get considerable satisfaction out of scoring a point off the younger.
* * *
Lucy’s room was large and airy and very pleasant. She liked the sense of space which the simple furnishings gave it and saw with appreciation that flowers had been put in the room just as they always were at Spindles, The maid who had shown her to her room had asked if she would like help with her unpacking, and Lucy, in her rather schoolgirl French, had said that she could manage alone. The girl had smiled, but she looked rather disappointed. Perhaps, Lucy thought, she had been quite pleased at the advent of someone almost as young as herself in a home where everyone else was considerably older. So Lucy obligingly changed her mind—only to be treated to a eulogy on the subject of—Owen! Therese had apparently been bowled over at first sight.
“So handsome, so distinguished, so much a man of the world!” she said enthusiastically, abandoning her task of putting away Lucy’s undies in order to roll her eyes up to heaven. “Mam’selle is very fortunate to have his constant companionship!”
“But I don’t,” Lucy assured her as emphatically as her command of French permitted. “I am Mrs. Mayberry’s secretary, and I shall be working here just as I do in England.”
But Therese was not in the least convinced.
“Ah—England, yes,” she agreed disparagingly. “But here—it will be different! Mam’selle will see!”
And then, since there was nothing else to excuse her lingering, she left Lucy to think over what she had said.
And just what she did think, Lucy was not quite sure. Certainly she was annoyed at the girl’s suggestion that romance could ever blossom between Owen and herself, but on the other hand, really it was so ludicrous as to be almost amusing. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders.
Therese would soon find out how mistaken she was!
But thinking of Owen had made her remember something else—Mr. Keane’s extraordinary remark about Marion being possessed by rather a troublesome sense of gratitude and of it being a kind of boomerang which had put Owen under some sort of an obligation—
Lucy sat down in the gaily chintz-cushioned armchair. Troublesome—obligation—it simply didn’t make sense. Owen and Marion were in love with one another. There simply couldn’t be any question of Owen experiencing any embarrassment! Certainly, he had shown no evidence of it that Lucy had seen. Besides—
Lucy shook her head and finally came to what seemed to her the only conclusion. Mr. Keane was a dear. She had always been' fond of him, and in his present friendly, relaxed mood, she thought she would come to like him still more. But that did not mean he might not have his own ideas about the suitability of the girl his nephew had chosen to be his wife. Certainly Lucy remembered that he had applauded her own decision to give up work when she got married. Yes, that might be it. Mr. Keane might think it would be better if Owen married someone who would devote all her time to him instead, in all probability, of giving much of it to her career.
“But whatever he thinks, there’s nothing he can do about it,” Lucy decided. “I can’t see Owen letting anybody tell him what he ought to do—let alone doing what they want if it doesn’t suit him!”
* * *
The next few days passed very placidly and, even Lucy admitted, happily. Mrs. Mayberry, eager though she had been to continue her book without delay, was so influenced by the beauty of the Villa des Fleurs and the holiday atmosphere that reigned that she was content to be idle. Which meant, of course, that Lucy had nothing to do either.
On the day of their arrival she had explored the grounds of the villa and had found to her delight that the glimpse of water she had noticed was a swimming pool complete with a diving board, and on the smooth tiled surround to the pool, cane chairs made comfortable with cushions covered in waterproof material.
She was gazing entranced at the limpid blue water, wondering whether she would be allowed to swim in it, when Owen startled her by speaking close to her. He had approached noiselessly over the smooth turf and was now standing beside her.
“So you've discovered my delight and joy,” he remarked, gazing, as she had done, at the inviting pool. “I always come here as soon as I can manage it.”
"I'm sorry,” Lucy said stiffly. “I didn’t realise—or I wouldn’t have come—”
She turned to go, but he blocked her way.
“Don’t be a duffer,” he advised her amiably. “This pool happens to be Uncle Stanley’s property, so I’ve no right whatever to claim exclusive use of it, as you’d realise if only you’d use those wits of yours.”
“No right, perhaps,” Lucy agreed. “But you may wish you had.”
“Well, I don’t,” he retorted flatly. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t read something I don’t mean into everything I say! It makes life so difficult. In fact—” he hesitated. “Lucy, will you do me a favour?”
“It depends what it is,” she replied cautiously.
“Not taking any chances, are you?” Well, here it is in words of one syllable—while we’re here, will you agree to a truce? I’d be most grateful if you could see your way to it.”
Lucy was too surprised to answer. Owen begging a favour! It was so out of character as to be incredible.
“But why?” she asked dubiously.
“You do like chapter and verse, don’t you?” he sighed resignedly. “All right, you shall have it. To begin with, it’s my sincere hope that despite her determination to get on with her book, Aunt Louise will so enjoy Uncle Stanley’s company that she’ll let things slide— which would be a good thing. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I think I do,” Lucy agreed thoughtfully. “I think sometimes she drives herself to work because it keeps her mind off the pain she suffers.”
“Exactly!” Owen agreed. “But none the less, that produces a sort of tenseness which doesn’t really do her any good. Now if she can achieve the same result nattering happily to Uncle Stan, she’ll relax. And nothing could be better for her than that.”
“Yes, but I don’t see—"
“Isn’t it obvious?” Owen sounded surprised at her lack of comprehension. “If she doesn’t work, nor do you. Now, if you’re hanging about at a loose end because you can’t stand the thought of spending an occasional odd hour in my company, she’ll spot it immediately, because we’re living at closer quarters here than at Spindles. And she’ll start feeling she ought to get down to work for your sake. But if she sees you’re enjoying yourself, or at least, appearing to, she won’t worry. See?”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” Lucy assured him. “But there’s one thing I don’t think you’ve realised. Mrs. Mayberry is a very kind person. If she thought I was enjoying myself, wouldn’t she pretend she didn’t want to work in order not so spoil my fun? And that would be dreadful because she does pay me to work.”
“You needn’t bother about that,” Owen assured her confidently. “When the writing bug really bites my Aunt Louise, no other consideration is of the least importance! I don’t say she’d actually yank you out of bed in order to get on with it, but precious near!”
It all sounded very convincing, yet Lucy hesitated, v Might it not be just another of his clever tricks? Though she could not imagine what it might be, wasn’t it possible that his real reason for suggesting a truce was something quite different—something he wasn’t willing to admit? She looked at him doubtfully.
“You’re quite right,” he admitted. “It’s one reason why —but not the only one.” He hesitated. “I don’t like begging for favours, least of all from you, Lucy, but the fact is I’m so damned tired that I can’t face up to an atmosphere of intolerance and misunderstanding—”
If, more than once this afternoon, Owen had surprised her, now she was really startled. Owen tired out! It didn’t seem possible, and yet when she looked closer she could see undeniable evidence that he was speaking the truth. There was a tenseness about the lines of his mouth and jaw, and his eyes were ineffably weary.
He smiled wryly at her.
“Makes me seem almost human, doesn’t it?” he remarked. “Well, there it is, my dear. I’m completely at your mercy, because if you choose to fight, you’ll win because I shan’t even try to defend myself! So what’s the verdict?”
For answer, Lucy simply held out her hand and Owen took it in a firm clasp.
“Thank you, Lucy,” he said simply. “I’m truly grateful!”
“No,” Lucy said quickly. “Don’t be grateful, there’s no need for that. But do be sensible—”
“All right, I’ll do what I’m told,” Owen promised with surprising meekness. “Though I can see you’re going to bully me unmercifully. What’s the treatment, Doctor?”
“I think you yourself probably know the answer to that quite well,” Lucy said severely. “Stop doing the things that have made you tired!”
“Out of the mouth of babes—” Owen marvelled. “But that’s rather negative. No other suggestions?”
“Yes—only do the things you really want to! At least —” she added hurriedly as an amused gleam came into his eyes, “so long as that doesn’t mean annoying other people. For instance, why not have a swim now— before dinner? You would enjoy it, wouldn’t you?”
“That,” Owen told her, “is sheer inspiration. Yes, I certainly should—particularly if you’ll join me?”
Lucy hesitated. That, surely, was making rather much of what Owen himself had referred to merely as a truce. And yet—why not? It would be heaven to slip into that warm, unruffled water, to feel it rippling smoothly past as one swam—to forget the past, even momentarily, in a purely hedonistic delight—
“The waters of Lethe?” Owen suggested softly, his eyes on her expressive face. “Let’s see how effective they are, shall we, Lucy?”
“Yes, let’s,” she said breathlessly.
* * *
Despite Owen’s assurance' that not only would it be better if Mrs. Mayberry did not work, but also that she would not want to, Lucy was not entirely reassured. However, as the days went by, it became more and more clear that he was right. Mrs. Mayberry was obviously happier and in better health than Lucy had yet seen her. She and Mr. Keane spent almost all their time together, talking, laughing and taking walks in the grounds. What was more, these walks were increasing in duration and distance and Mrs. Mayberry was sleeping better than she had done for years. As a result, Lucy felt she could enjoy herself with a clear conscience, and she was honest enough to admit that her truce with Owen contributed in no small degree to her pleasure.
For one thing it meant that with him she could go to places she could not have gone to alone, and for another, with the car practically at her disposal, she could go farther afield.
“Old Monaco first, and then Monte Carlo?” Owen suggested.
“Please,” Lucy replied, adding hastily: “If it won’t bore you—I suppose you know it all by heart, don’t you?”
“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say by head than by heart,” Owen said lightly. “Somehow one doesn’t take much notice of places if one is on one’s own. But now I shall see it afresh through your eyes. Come along!”
Perhaps because it was all so new to her, Lucy fell in love with everything she saw, whether it was the terracotta houses and villas of Monaco, dominated by the solid mass of the Palais Princier or the new, glittering buildings of Monte Carlo. She stood entranced in a cobbled square, its quaint houses like something out of a fairy tale—and yet she was just as enthralled by the prodigal display of such luxuries as she had never seen in the Boulevards, which surely existed solely for the benefit of multi-millionaires. At one moment her attention was caught by the flash of precious stones—bracelets, necklaces, tiaras, all rivalling one another in their chilly beauty, lace so fragile that one would be afraid to handle it, trinkets so delicious in shape and workmanship that one could hardly believe they were made by human hands—Lucy could hardly tear herself away.