Mistress of Brown Furrows (24 page)

“So long as you're back in bed well before midnight,” he said, “I shan’t worry.”

“Won't you?” Carol murmured.

She went into her room and pretended to be looking out a frock for the evening, and he came up behind her and suddenly stroked her hair.

“Not tired, are you?” he asked. “You seemed very quiet today. ”

There was anxiety in his voice—genuine anxiety, and she choked back the suddenly petulant words which rose to her lips.

“Of course not. Why do you always imagine that I'm tired?”

He smiled at her very gently.

“Because you're such a little slip of a thing, I suppose, and because, when you were ill, I used to be terrified you were not going to get better. ”

He picked up one of her hands and looked at it, the slender white fingers, the pretty, delicate nails, and then he carried it up to his lips and kissed it.

Carol bit her lip. Oh, Timothy, her heart cried, why do you waste kisses on my fingers when my lips are yours for the taking...? Oh,
Timothy!

She turned away somewhat hurriedly, almost snatching her hand away from him.

“I’d better hurry up and have my bath,” she said, “or I’ll be late. ”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

SO far as Carol was concerned, at any rate, the evening was definitely not a success.

Dinner at the big hotel where Viola and her party were staying was all that dinner in a modern luxury hotel—one of the recently re-planned and re-decorated Venetian hotels, with a modern ballroom orchestra, walled-in gardens and every other facility—could be expected to be, and most of the company were in holiday spirits and altogether carefree. Viola was wearing a spectacular new evening frock and acted the part of hostess with as much ease and finish as the Marchesa had acted in at lunch-time—but with not quite so much dignity or such complete consideration for her guests—and Brian Winslow was delighted to sit beside Carol, who was making her first appearance in public, as it were, for some time.

Carol wore a white lace dress over an underskirt of palest blue taffeta, with a matching blue taffeta stole round her shoulders. Her cheeks looked slightly fuller tonight and her light tan showed up on her arms and shoulders, and her grey eyes were clear if not particularly happy—at least, not radiantly so. And Brian thought she looked altogether enchanting, and so also did Timothy when he glanced at her.

Timothy was at Viola’ s right hand, where she usually managed to place him when he attended one of her dinner parties.

After dinner they danced for about an hour, and then the thrill of the evening, the trip up the canal in a gondola—or, actually, three gondolas—became the main item on the programme.

Timothy placed Carol’s cloak very carefully about her shoulders before they left the restaurant, for despite the pleasant warmth of the night he suspected that it might be cool on the water. Viola had so arranged matters that she and her principal guest—who was undoubtedly Timothy—were together in the first boat with the amiable little ‘Tiger’ making up the third member of the party; Nona Milbanke and her husband were in the second, and Carol and Brian were to be the occupants of the third. But Timothy hesitated before agreeing to this arrangement, not because he had any particular objection to Brian as an escort for his wife, but because he had lately grown to dislike the idea of the girl being away from his protective eye for any lengthy period. And although, presumably, the party would still keep together, they would be separated by a stretch of water and the dusky mantle of the night, and if she grew tired, or even exhausted, he would not be aware of it, and harm might result from the excursion. His experience at Christmas had decided him that in future Carol must not be allowed to look after herself—or, at any rate, not until he judged her more fitted to do so. So Timothy suggested a rearrangement of the party, including Carol amongst the passengers in his own boat, but Viola disagreed with him at once, declaring that he would soon be employing a dry-nurse for Carol if he went on like that, and the girl would begin to revolt.

“Leave her alone and let her have a good time,” she said, “and for goodness’ sake don’t fuss over her! You and Aunt Harry between you will turn her into the complete invalid if you go on like this. You’re like a hen with one chick, and you’re neither of you prepared to watch her grow up and spread her wings! ”

Timothy looked thoughtfully at Carol, but the girl experienced such a surge of indignation that her cheeks grew hot with it. What right had Viola Featherstone to make a remark of that sort, she asked herself? Even if in her heart she was inclined to agree with her—a little—she was still capable of feeling resentment because there was a suggestion that Aunt Harry and her husband had combined to spoil her, and she was weak enough to let them. Young and inexperienced and foolish, was Mrs. Featherstone s undoubted opinion of her, and no doubt in her heart she secretly pitied Timothy for landing himself with such an unsatisfactory wife.

An unsatisfactory wife!...

She was certainly that, but it was not because she wished to be either unsatisfactory or a burden, least of all to Timothy. It was apparently Timothy’ s desire that she should go on being regarded by his friends as someone who was particularly spineless, who brought him little happiness—for he did not look a completely happy man, not even when he was with her and being most attentive. He looked like a man who was fulfilling a duty, and who was prepared to go on doing so, and she, Carol, was beginning to feel and to look as if she was not even capable of appreciating his attentiveness. What she wanted was much, much more, but the world would probably decide that she was ungrateful. And they would feel sorry for Timothy.

“Mrs. Featherstone is right,” she said, rather curtly, to Timothy. “There is no need for you to fuss over me, and I shall be quite all right with Brian. ”

“I’ll take as much care of her as you would yourself,” Brian declared, with an absurd air of gallantry.

“Very well,” Timothy said, and he looked in slight surprise at Carol—or so she imagined. “If that is the way you feel,” and he followed Viola into the first gondola.

Brian helped Carol with elaborate care into their boat, the boatman eyeing them with appreciation, for he thought them a very well-matched couple indeed, and his romantic Italian soul took pleasure in the delicate moonlight-and-roses charm of the young woman, and the ardor which lurked in her companion’ s eyes. When he had guided them into the middle of the canal, and they were lying back and apparently enjoying this unusual method of transport, and the almost painful beauty of the night, he lifted up his clear, melodious tenor voice and started to sing for them, as the gondolier had sung for the young couples the previous night, while Carol and Timothy were on their balcony.

And this caused Carol to remember that shortly after that Timothy had taken her into his arms for the first time and kissed her. But he had not kissed her since....

At the same time, she could not refrain from finding a sort of sensuous pleasure in this unreal drifting beneath the stars with the moonlight making a magic of the water around them. The sleeping marble palaces on the banks, the tranquility of the violet sky above their heads, the breeze as gentle as the touch of butterflies wings which caressed her cheeks and her hair, these things were insubstantial and soothing and as pleasing as if she was living in a dream.

The lazy slap of the water against the sides of their gondola, the rhythmic movements of the gondolier and his fascinating Venetian song—no doubt one which had been sung for centuries in similar circumstances—the quaint bridges beneath which they passed, the amazing architecture all around all these affected her with a sensation of unreality, and for the time being she was able to relax.

Ahead of them Timothy’ s gondola had all but disappeared, behind them the Milbankes were bringing up the rear.

Presently Brian began to talk to her, being quite sure the gondolier could not understand a word of what he was saying, and he told her that he was returning to Paris the following day.

“Viola is staying, and she’ll let me know how you go on,” he said, as if it was of tremendous importance to him to learn of her progress. “You don’t look to me nearly half fit yet, and you must take care. That husband of yours may spend a lot of time looking after you, but he hasn’t yet learned the secret of making you even reasonably happy and contented. Viola agrees with me. She’s pretty observant, you know.”

“I’ve already gathered that,” Carol replied, with rather a cool note in her voice.

Brian glanced at her sideways.

“Of course, it’ s nothing to do with me, but that saying about May and December—well, there’s something in it, you know! Not that Timothy’ s exactly senile, but you’ re young even for your age, and—well, youth to youth, you know! And if it comes to that, age to age! Viola’s not precisely a spring chicken, although she certainly looks glamorous, and she and Timothy probably see eye to eye about a good many things. ... I mean, there isn’t much difference in their ages, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Carol confessed. And added: “I’ve never even thought about it.”

Brian reached over and patted her hands.

“Well, why should you?” he asked. “You haven’t seen much of Viola, I know. But she made up her mind years ago that Timothy was her property. I know you married him when you were in a bit of a spot—flung upon the world, sort of thing! — but if only you’d waited until you’d met me, or someone more or less like me—”

The gondolier was making a turn, and she was flung lightly up against him. He steadied her, inhaled the perfume of her hair, and watched her brush back a stray curl with a childish gesture.

“I shall do nothing but think about you when I get back to Paris,” he said, with a low, rather urgent note in his voice. “You’ ve got my address, haven’ t you?—Why can’ t you write to me sometimes? Please, Carol! Just a short note occasionally— even Timothy couldn’ t object to that! ”

“What did you mean,” Carol asked, ignoring his request, and feeling that she had to know, “when you said that Mrs. Featherstone had made up her mind years ago that Timothy was her property?”

“Oh, well”—Brian shrugged slightly—“nothing particularly incriminating, except that I think she’s rather fond of him, and in his way I believe he’s quite fond of her. She’s got something to her besides her looks, you know—she’s intelligent, she’s travelled a good deal, she knows quite a bit about the world. Sometimes even I find her most interesting.”

“And you think Timothy does, too?”

“Well—‘” Brian paused again. “Men like a woman

they can talk to, don’t they? Men of Timothy’s age, I

mean—”

“I suppose they do,” Carol said quietly.

“Someone to share their interests—someone to sympathize with them occasionally, when they’re feeling the need of sympathy. Viola’s pretty shrewd, and she’s got a lot of sound common sense. Her first husband got into the habit of leaning upon her, and it was she who helped him make a fortune. She’s got a good brain. ”

“In fact she’s got very nearly everything,” Carol commented. “Looks, brains, charm—and understanding! ”

“Yes, I suppose she has,” Brian agreed.

“And men need understanding! ”

Brian laughed.

“Only some men!...”

The others were waiting for them when they got back to the hotel, and Viola shook a wagging finger at them. “You must have enjoyed yourselves,” she said, “seeing that you’re twenty minutes later than any of us. But it’s been a wonderful experiment—I never knew gondolas were so exciting before.” She glanced at Timothy, who looked, Carol thought, unusually grim—for Timothy—and smiled at him in the same coy manner. “But for Tiger’ s presence I think I might have persuaded you to flirt with me in that romantic moonlight! Tiger would certainly have done so if you hadn't been there.”

Timothy did not rise to her provocative conversation, and she patted him lightly on the arm and said soothingly: “There, there, darling, Carol has returned safely, and I don't think she has been flirting very hard with my poor cousin. At least, I hope not! ” she added, looking at them archly.

Timothy took Carol by the arm and propelled her towards the entrance.

“I don’t approve of married women who flirt,” he said. And then he smiled at Viola, his own peculiarly charming smile. “Good night, and thanks for a most pleasant evening. ”

Carol echoed him:

“Good night! ”

Brian called rather wistfully after them:

“Good night, Carol! ”

Viola drew him within.

“It's no use,” she said, “she's got a husband! ”

“But I don't think he's the right husband for her,” he told her. Viola agreed with him.

“Well, as a matter of fact, neither do I! ”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

IT was a week later, and Carol rose early and, as usual, had breakfast in her room. Francesca, with a wide smile and a soft Italian morning greeting, brought it in to her on a tray, and Carol, in slippers and a dressing-gown, sat down to enjoy it near the window.

‘Enjoy’ it was perhaps not quite the right word, for she was not in the least hungry, or tempted by the crisp rolls, the golden pats of butter and the smooth honey, the fragrant-smelling coffee and the fresh fruit. Although the sunlight was streaming upon her through the window, and Venice at that early hour was most attractive, with the palaces on the farther canal bank soaring into a flawless blue sky, and a cool freshness in the air, she had not even the beginning of an appetite, and her look was quiet and thoughtful.