Authors: Unknown
And yet, as they shook hands and momentarily their eyes met, Lucy saw amusement in Gwenda’s. Amusement—and triumph.
“She knows who I am,” Lucy thought, panic-stricken. “She knew I was going to be invited—perhaps she even wanted me to be! How utterly, utterly beastly! Oh, I wish I hadn’t come! I ought not to have done, whatever Owen said!”
And now, Dick was shaking hands with her, mumbling some conventional remark. And Gwenda was more amused than ever because, from his expression, it was clear that Dick had not been told that Lucy would be here and had not the courage to admit that he knew her.
Then, to Lucy’s intense relief, Mr. Kelsall took the centre of the stage.
“And now, I’ve got a surprise for you all.” he announced loudly. “And an especially delightful one, I’m sure, for Mr. Vaughan,” with a meaning glance in Owen’s direction before turning to the other woman who had arrived with Dick and Gwenda. “Take off your disguise, my dear!”
With a soft, rich laugh that Lucy was almost sure she recognised, the woman took off her hat and glasses. It was Marion Singleton!
There was a little chorus of surprise and pleasure from all the guests, but completely ignoring them, Marion turned to Owen.
“Well, aren’t you pleased?” she asked beguilingly.
Owen, rigid and showing no emotion whatever, had not joined in the general welcome. Now, as Marion held her hand out to him, he bowed over it formally.
“Naturally,” he said coolly. “But I must admit, considerably surprised. I was under the impression that you were fulfilling a series of engagements in Germany.”
“So I would be—if I hadn’t had trouble with my throat,” Marion explained with every sign of regret. “But I was ordered—on the best authority, believe me —not to sing for several weeks,, so what could I do but cancel the engagements?”
“Hard luck on you, my dear,” Mr. Kelsall remarked, clearly a little put out at Owen’s reception of his surprise. “And on the audiences who were to have heard you, but good luck for us!”
Marion turned to him.
“You’ve been so kind,” she said warmly, and then to anyone who cared to listen: “Mr. Kelsall had asked me to join this party right from the beginning, but I had to refuse because of my engagements. Then, when I had this distressing news, I wondered if I might presume on Mr. Kelsall’s kindness to suggest that I joined him here—”
“Delighted to have you, my dear,” Mr. Kelsall declared gallantly. “And you can take it from me that now we’ve got you, we’re going to take very good care of you, believe me!”
He put an arm round Marion’s shoulders and drew her very slightly to him. Lucy’s eyes fell. She did not want to look at Owen just then. It had been obvious that the pleasure he would otherwise have felt at Marion’s presence had been offset by the knowledge that she should not have been free to come. No doubt his fears had been relieved in one way by Marion's explanation, but he could not possibly like Mr. Kelsall’s over-familiar gesture. Owen, she thought sympathetically, was having an even worse time than she was.
“I want a drink,” Gwenda announced with a slight querulousness which suggested she disliked another woman taking so much of the limelight. “Dick, mix me a Pimms, will you? And do get the measurements right this time. The last one you did for me was horrible.” There was a little bustle, which did at least something to relieve the overcharged atmosphere, as all the newcomers were provided with drinks. Then the first bell for lunch was rung and the party broke up. Gwenda suggested that Lucy and Marion should come to her stateroom to prink before the meal.
“Of course, your cabin is all ready,” she remarked to Marion. “But I’d like you to see my room. It’s really something special.”
It certainly was. In all her life Lucy had never seen such a lavishly fitted and furnished room. To begin with, its size was incredible, even for so large a yacht as this, but even more, its colour scheme of rose and gold was almost overpowering. The curtains, the drapery of the bed and the skirt of the kidney-shaped dressing table were of shimmering rose satin. Chairs were upholstered in rose and gold brocade, and wherever possible were loops and ties of gold cord and braid. The carpet, into which one’s feet sank, was of a deeper shade of rose and the toilet articles on the dressing table were apparently of solid gold.
“Well?” Gwenda asked Marion. “What do you think of it?”
“I think it’s the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen,” Marion said with every appearance of conviction.
“It ought to be," Gwenda commented complacently. “It cost enough.” She turned to Lucy. “And you?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it in my life,” Lucy said truthfully, hoping that Gwenda would take the remark as a compliment.
Whether she did or not, it certainly amused her.
“I don’t suppose you have,” she commented. “I don’t suppose you earn as much in a year as it cost to do this up as I wanted it! Even Father made a fuss about it! ”
The remark was in such appalling taste that really there could be no answer to it, and fortunately Gwenda did not seem to think one was necessary, for she asked Lucy shortly if she would like to wash and opened the door which led to the bathroom, hardly less lavish than the bedroom.
When she returned, Marion and Gwenda appeared to be deep in confidences.
“I’m afraid my poor Owen was rather put out at me turning up like this,” Marion was saying regretfully. “You see, though we’re quite crazy about one another, we don’t quite agree over the importance of my career. He thinks I ought to keep on with it at least for a time, but I’d so much rather give it up and devote all my time to him—which I’m sure you will agree is only natural.”
“Yes, of course it is,” Gwenda agreed promptly. “Why should you work when he can afford to keep you in comfort?”
“Oh, that isn’t quite—” Marion began, when she realised that Lucy had rejoined them. With a slight but expressive shrug she went on: “But I mustn’t bother you with my affairs. Only I do want you and your father lo understand why he was a little bit— odd.”
At the lunch table, to Lucy’s relief, she had strangers sitting on either side of her. She might have been put next to Dick! But her relief was short-lived. Evidently appreciating that she did not really fit into these surroundings, one of her neighbours became curious.
"You're one of Keane's guests, aren't you?" he asked bluntly.
"Not exactly," Lucy explained coolly. "I came out here to work—as a secretary."
"Did you, though!" He glanced across at Owen and promptly jumped to the wrong conclusion. "I must say, one way and another, Vaughan does himself well!'
Lucy felt the indignant colour rising to her cheeks, but she kept her voice steady.
"I'm not Mr. Vaughan’s secretary," she explained. "I work for his aunt, Mrs. Mayberry, who is also at the Villa des Fleurs."
"Oh. Oh, I see," he digested this for a moment. "All the same, she doesn't seem to drive you very hard, not if she doesn't mind you spending your time on a jaunt like this!"
"Mrs. Mayberry is unfortunately the victim of rheumatoid arthritis and is so not able to come on a ‘jaunt' like this," Lucy could not keep a tinkle of ice out of her voice now. "I was invited simply to make the number up."
"Oh, was that it?”
Mercifully, at that point he lost interest in the subject and turned to the girl on his other side. Lucy’s other neighbour immediately claimed her, but to her relief, he was a fishing enthusiast and was more than content to describe his prowess at length with no other encouragement from her than. an occasional: "How interesting!" or "Do tell me about that—it sounds wonderful!
At last the meal was over. Lucy wondered how long they would be expected to stay, and noticed with relief that Mr. Keane was more than once glancing down at his watch. Evidently he would be as glad to get away as she would. As for Owen, evidently he had good-naturedly decided to make the best of the situation, for he was the centre of a little group who, having a “lion” in their midst, took it for granted that he would entertain them.
“And are all artistes temperamental?" a rather shrill voice asked.
“More or less, I suppose,” Owen agreed carelessly.
“And which is Miss Singleton?” someone else asked. “More—or less?”
Owen glanced briefly in Marion’s direction. She smiled lazily.
“Go on, tell them the truth,” she said encouragingly.
“Miss Singleton is in a class entirely by herself,” Owen said deliberately.
Just for a moment an odd expression flickered over Marion’s face. Then she smiled right into Owen’s eyes.
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it, darling,” she commented, and laid her hand briefly on his arm.
Mr. Keane stood up suddenly.
“I think, Kelsall, if you don’t mind, we must be getting along now,” he said pleasantly. “Time is getting on and I’m expecting a telephone call through from London that I don’t want to miss. Thank you very much for a most charming interlude—you must look us up some time at the Villa des Fleurs.”
Whether his final remark was anything more than lip service to convention was impossible to tell, but Mr. Kelsall took it literally.
“I’d like that,” he replied promptly. “We’re not leaving here for a couple of days or so. Would tomorrow suit?”
“By all means,” Mr. Keane replied. “Lunch? And —” he looked vaguely round the chattering groups, “your young people, perhaps?”
“Fine!” Mr. Kelsall agreed, clapping him on the shoulder. “And perhaps I'll have the pleasure of meeting your sister? I can’t say I’ve read any of her books—I'm not what you’d call a reading man, but I’ve a great admiration for those that can put their ideas down on paper. About the same time?”
“Excellent,” Mr. Keane said politely. “Lucy—?”
“I’m quite ready,” she replied quickly. “Oh, I must get my hat. I left it in your room, Mrs. Corbett.”
“Oh, just pop along and get it, will you?” Gwenda said indifferently. “You know the way.”
Lucy nodded and went in search of her hat, not sorry that Gwenda had not offered to accompany her. She found her way without difficulty, picked up her hat and was on her way back to the deck when a man’s figure intercepted her. It was Dick.
“Look here, Lucy, I’ve got to see you somewhere— alone!” he said in a low voice with a glance over his shoulder.
“I’ve told you before, Dick, we have nothing at all to say to one another,” Lucy said firmly. “Please stand out of the way.”
He took no notice of the request.
“If we’ve nothing to say to one another, why did you come here today?” he demanded doggedly. “You must have known I’d be here.”
“I thought it more than likely,” Lucy answered. “But unfortunately the invitation had already been accepted on my behalf, and I couldn’t get out of it without giving a good reason why. You know what the reason would have been—one that I don’t think you would like Mr. Kelsall to know, would you?”
She despised herself for using what practically amounted to a threat, but this was no time for half measures. Dick had got to be convinced once and for all that she meant what she said, and apparently she had achieved her aim, for he seemed to shrink visibly.
“Good lord, Lucy, you wouldn't do that, would you?" he asked in alarm. “There'd be the deuce—”
“I hope that I shall never need to," Lucy said significantly. “And now—"
He stood aside to let her pass, and then for a second she paused.
“Yes?" Dick asked apprehensively.
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if he realised that his wife had certainly known who she was—if she had not, indeed, actually manoeuvred the invitation. Then she changed her mind.
“No, nothing," she said, and hurried back to the deck.
Gwenda looked at her suspiciously.
“It took you a long time, didn't it?" she remarked. “Did you lose your way?"
“No," Lucy said crisply. “As he will no doubt tell you, I met your husband as I was returning, and I stopped for a moment to say goodbye to him."
Gwenda's eyes dropped, but not before Lucy had seen the enmity in them.
* * *
No one spoke much on the way back to the Villa des Fleurs, but later when they were alone, Owen apologised unreservedly to Lucy.
“I was utterly wrong to persuade you to go," he said. “Actually, Corbett himself didn't behave too badly—certainly he had no idea you were coming. One could tell that. But that wife of his—whew!" he whistled expressively. “One must admit the young man has feathered his nest nicely, but none the less, I could almost find it in my heart to pity him!"
“Please!" Lucy begged. “It wasn't—nice. But it’s over now. It’s better forgotten."
“You’re right, of course,” Owen agreed. “But before we do that, I’d like to tell you how much I admired the way you kept your end up. You kept the initiative in your own hands the whole time! And if there is anything I can do to make up for what I let you in for-—”
“There is,” Lucy said quickly. “Tomorrow—could you possibly see to it that I have a really good excuse for not putting in an appearance—except at lunch, of course. That can’t be helped. But apart from that?”
“I’ll see to that,” Owen promised. “And I might say, Lucy, that I wish to goodness I could find an excuse for myself as well. I really must have a word with Uncle Stanley about making such peculiar friends. He's really not safe to be trusted out alone!”
They parted on that light note with, Lucy could not help noticing, no reference to Marion's presence. But then, of course, there was no reason why there should have been. He was probably anxious about her voice, but certainly he would have got over his first reaction to her presence. And either way, why should he take her into his confidence?
* * *
Whether Owen was responsible for the decision or. not, the following morning Mrs. Mayberry announced that she simply must get down to work again.
“Not that I want to,” she admitted ruefully. “But if I don’t make a start soon I shall forget all that I’ve said already, and that means going back to check rather tiresomely. So—in about an hour’s time, Lucy?”
“Yes, of course, Mrs, Mayberry,” Lucy said with alacrity. “Which room would you like me to work in?”