The Golden Peaks (10 page)

It was Anneliese who spent most time in Kurt’s company. He did not again take anybody to the Mirabella, but went alone on one occasion, and was often in telephone communication with his manager there. He frequently drove to the Bellevue, which was a shorter distance, and spent one or two nights there each time, but did not need a secretary. At the
Rotihorn
, it was Anneliese who was his right hand. Sometimes, she felt that she would die of despair if Kurt continued unaware of her love; but she tried to hide this and to be what he wanted her to be. She savored to the full every moment of being with him.

One morning, as Anneliese opened the letters that had arrived in the morning post, she suddenly exclaimed, so that Kurt turned quickly to look at her.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A letter from my father.”

“So?”

“Mutti is ill, and has been taken to hospital for a sudden operation.
”

“Anneliese, I
am
sorry.”

“He says it is not serious. He says not to worry. He says Mother will be quite all right; but I must go home to look after him and my brothers.”

“Oh,” said Kurt, realizing that it would be awkward to manage without her.
“
But you must go, of course. And don’t worry too much, Anneliese: I
think
if it had been really serious your father would have telephoned me.
”

“He says Mother will not be long in hospital, but when she comes home, I must care for her and nurse her. But that isn’t necessary, I’m sure. I’m not a good nurse, anyway; and it would be much better to have somebody else.”

“If she needs you, you must stay.
”

“But you need me too, and the busy season coming on. I will go home, and arrange for somebody to come in in my place. Perhaps I need not be long away. What will you do while I am gone?”

“I must manage. Don’t worry—we will manage.”

“You won’t replace me?”

“Of course not. You must come back the moment you
can.”

“I
don’t
want
to go. It will be so awkward for you— leaving you like this—without a secretary.
”

She looked so downcast that he patted her shoulder consolingly. After a moment or two of thought, he said: “We will try Celia. She will not be able to take your place, but perhaps she can hold the fort for a few days.
”

At that, Anneliese’s despair and annoyance were so great that tears slipped from her blue eyes over her cheeks.

“Oh, come, come
,
come,” said Kurt. “You mustn’t do that, Anneliese; perhaps Mutti is not so ill as you think. Have you a handkerchief?”

“Somewhere,” said Anneliese, but accepted his, and
suddenly
turned against his shoulder and wept
.

“Now come,” said Kurt. “There is nothing to weep about. I will t
el
l you what we will do. I will drive you home, and we will find out just how Mutti is; and we will take her a car-full of flowers. That is the very least I can do for her. Now stop crying, you silly child.”

After a while, she pulled away from him. She wanted to say to him that she was not crying for her mother, but because she must go away from him; and because while she was away, Celia would be taking her place, working
with Kurt.
But
her courage was not enough.

“I shall back the first moment I am free, she said.
“Perhaps
it need be only a few days. I will explain to Father how it lets you down
.
”

“That is better,” he said. “Now you go and pack your
things
and I will bring the car round.”

The bags were put into Kurt’s car, and they drove on together, the staff waving to her from the entrance and from the windows, loading her with messages of goodwill and sympathy. She looked so disconsolate that they
thought her mother must be very ill indeed.

Celia saw them go, too. She thought how kind it was of Kurt to drive so far with Anneliese, and wondered if more
than
kindness
was involved. She heard Inga saying to Johanna in the kitchen: “Well, of course, her parents have always been so fond of him, so good to him. I
’
m sure they look upon him as a son.” And Celia turned cold wi
th
despair. Suddenly, in a flash, she knew that she loved Kurt as she would never love anybody else. Suddenly, when the thought of Anneliese’s parents looking on him as their son came to her mind, she knew then it
w
ould make her desperately unhappy to see him married to Anneliese. Yet what other construction could Inga’s words have? Kurt was intimate with Anneliese’s family; it meant surely, only one thing. She turned away to occupy herself with some small task, until she could regain control of her nerves.

That same evening, late, Kurt returned to the Rotihorn. Roberto took supper over to the chalet for him, and he did not appear in the hotel. Celia was on late duty with Hertha, supplying last cups of coffee, or glasses of hot milk, or occasional cognacs. She wished he would put in an appearance, feeling that the mere sight of him would console her a little; but when at last she and Hertha walked up the stairs side by side, yawning vast yawns, he had not come. She could not even lie in her bed and think about him, for her tiredness was so great that she was asleep as soon as
she
was in bed.

Next morning, however, he sent for her when breakfast was over, and she went into the office.

“Good morning, Celia,” he said. “Sit down.”

“Good morning, sir,” she said, and sat.

“Well,” he said, “you have heard about Anneliese’s mother?”

“Yes, sir. I was sorry to hear it.”

“I think it is not too serious; and I think that Anneliese will try to get somebody to come in and look after her family. But for a few days, I am without a secretary.”

“Oh,” said Celia.

“Now can you switch over again, and come into the office and help, until she returns?”

Celia’s heart leaped in joy, but she managed not to show any outward sign of it.

“I will do all I can, of course; but I’m afraid I will be a very poor substitute. I should need your help, Mr. St. Pierre.”

“Naturally. Ask me anything you wish to know.”

“And the telephone is still rather a bugbear.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can manage. I have noticed how your languages have improved.”

She flushed with pleasure, over so small a thing as proof that he sometimes noticed her. Indeed, Celia, she told herself, you have reached a helpless and maudlin stage when you can behave so foolishly. “Well,” she said aloud, "I will try, and you must tell me when things I do are not satisfactory.”

“Then you had better come in right away.”

“I am ready now, sir.”

“Go and take off that uniform first, and leave it off until Anneliese gets back.”

“Yes, sir.”

She went upstairs to change into her ordinary clothes. She could not know that it always irked Kurt to see her in the uniform of his waitresses; but she was pleased, herself, to be wearing a knife-pleated skirt and a tailored silk shirt
.
In a few minutes, she reported back to the office, feeling as different as she looked; feeling a revival of confidence in herself with the abandonment of her uniform.

Roberto had to go and ask one of the emergency waitresses to come in and take Celia’s place. The staff did not raise their eyebrows at the sight of Celia in the office, well-groomed and well-tailored. Was she not a secretary? Was it not obvious that she should fill the gap? Besides, was it not obvious that the person interested in Celia was the
Englishman,
who had so much money and was very handsome into the bargain? They privately thought that Celia had only to lift her finger to make him hers, and they wondered why she had not already done it
.

But, to speak truth, Geoffrey was but little in Celia’s
thoughts
those days. Somebody else loomed much larger, a somebody that Celia already thought of as belonging to another woman. It was a sharp, and sometimes bitter, pleasure to be so close to him; to listen to his deep voice dictating; to smell the smoke of his cigarette; even to feel it wafting in front of her face. It was a pleasure to be savored for the short time that it could last.

CHAPTER
SIX

It
was
cool on this soft grass patch outside Geoffrey’s chalet, and after the heat of her walk to the rest centre, and this far on the return journey, Ce
li
a was grateful for the coolness. She could hear Geoffrey’s voice as he consulted with the foreman on a special point, and while she waited for him, she lay back on the grass and relaxed completely. She was still very tired, and she took the moments of rest thankfully, out of sight of the workmen, feeling the soft wind blowing about her face. Each morning,
she
woke charged with new energy from the wonderful air of the mountains, but several hours of coping with the people in the hotel exhausted her. Anneliese had been away only a few days, but already it seemed weeks to Celia, struggling through unfamiliar work, coping with several
language,
placating hordes of guests. She thought ruefully that it had been less worrying to wait on them at table, since any queries could be referred to Inga, or Johanna or the cools. She did not wish to be carrying queries continually to Kurt, so she worried through alone, and although she had avoided any serious mistakes as yet, there was always the feeling that pitfalls lay ahead of her. She was anxious
that
when Anneliese returned everything should be in apple-pie order.

This was the first time she had b
ee
n able to visit Dorothy since Anneliese’s departure; but Geoffrey, to whom
she
had lamented the fact that she was too busy to go, had at once volunteered to perform this
small
office for her. Celia had sent a letter and book by him to Dorothy, who was improving rapidly, and had received in reply a letter which waxed enthusiastic about her new friend. This afternoon’s visit had confirmed Dorothy’s
enthusiasm,
and had persuaded Celia that there was now very little about herself that Geoffrey did not know, since it seemed that she had been the main topic of disc
u
ssion.

“I mustn’t stay long,” she told Geoffrey, as he appeared swinging a light rucksack.

“I won’t keep you when you want to go,” he said, sitting beside her and unstrapping the rucksack. He produced a box of delicious cakes, and a Thermos flask of tea. Celia sat up in delight
.

“Oh, Geoffrey.”

“Oh, Celia," he mimicked. “I’m sure you miss your afternoon tea. So today you shall have it
.
”

“A cup of tea is just absolutely right at this moment
.”
They sat together drinking it. Celia said:

“Isn’t this a lovely place?” as she looked over the
valley.

“I’m in entire agreement with you,” he replied, “but then I find that I usually am. Rather a good omen, don’t
you think?”

“Of what?” asked Celia.

“Of our future relationship.”

“Some people would say that a little healthy disagreement is a good omen.”

“But not on fundamentals.”

“How long have you been here, Geoffrey?”

“In this country, most of my life. I went to England to school, of course; and I went back for the war, though they soon sent me off on various journeys round the world. But my f
a
th
e
r
financed a watch-making factory here, in the good old days, which enables me to live here now in this comparative luxury. The factory wasn’t actually here in
th
ese
parts, of course—that was a later idea of my own, to live just here.”

“And your parents?”

“Oh, they a
r
e still in Switzerland, but they like to live in towns. When St
.
Pierre lets you off the treadmill for a decent length of time, I’ll drive you over to see them—that is, if you would like it.”

“I should like it very much.”

“This treadmill business, Celia. When
do
you have time
to yourself?”

“Well, while Anneliese is away, I'm not reckoning on any; I took this afternoon because I felt so guilty about Dorothy. But normally, I’m quite well off for free time; but only occasionally do I get a whole day.”

“And when is Anneliese
co
ming
back.”

“She rang up again today, saying it would be in a few days.”

‘The quicker the better,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t like to see you looking so tired.”

“Oh, I can manage.”

“An
d I don’t like
your working with St Pierre.”

“Why ever not?”

“
Shut up in the office with him for hours.”

Celia laughed.

“How ridiculous you are, Geoffrey. Besides, if you knew the constant stream of interruptions we get ... it makes it almost impossible to do consecutive work.”

“
All the same, I don’t like it
.
You don’t go over to his chalet, do you?”

“No, I’ve never been.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“I
don’t think,” said Celia slowly, “that I approve of this ridiculous attitude of yours, Geoffrey; and nor do I like the constant gibing at Mr. St. Pierre, because goodness knows his
a
ttitude has been more than correct.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear, but you know what is the matter with me, d
on
’t you?”

“I don’t think anything is the matter with you.”

“Pretending innocence,” he said. “Seriously, Celia, you know what has happened to me, don’t you?”

“No,
Geoffrey. At least, perhaps I do—I don’t know— but I don t want to spoil things as they are. Everything is just right between us as it is.”

“
Not for me,” he said. “Not by a long way.”

“Don’t
t be impatient,” she said. “Such a lot of
thing
s
are
spoiled because they don’t ripen properly.”

‘I can’t help being impatient,” he said. “There are too many other men on this mountain for my comfort
.
”

“
But none of them interested in me.”

“
You can’t tell me that.”

“Except you.”

‘But that isn’t true. Heavens, I can see the way the men m the dining room look at you—as if they
could
eat you. St. Pierre, too, I expect.”

“Nonsense. He isn’t interested in me at all—only as far as my secretarial capabilities are concerned, anyway.”

Geoffrey laughed at that.

“My dear sweet innocent,” he said, “when did you come out of the schoolroom?”

“We started off,” said Celia, “by talking about us. If you are going on in this strain, I shall suddenly remember
tha
t I have a lot of work to do, and go away and leave you.”

“That would be a pity when there is some more tea here.” He poured it out for her. “Celia, darling, you are fond of me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, very, but please don’t go on and on about it
.”

“All right. Pax. But, you know, in the end, I always
get what I want.”

“Very bad for you,” said Celia, “and you must have been a very spoilt child.”

But she softened her words with a smile. It was amazing what her warm and friendly smile could do to him, and he could not believe that it did not have the same effect on everybody else.

After a while, she said she must go, and he decided to
walk down with her.

“Don’t overtire yourself,” he said, “will you?

“No. I’ll try not to.”

“I wish my chalet were ready—it would be a place
f
or you to rest. I wish I could do things for you, Celia.
”

“You could see Dorothy for me, Geoffrey.”

“Certainly I’ll do that
.
It
will bring me nearer to you.
”

“Oh dear,” she said.

“Sorry. I would go and see her, anyway, for her own sake, because she is a sweet child. And God knows how she can be so patient, lying there flat all day.”

They walked through the early summer afternoon. Geoffrey said suddenly:

“Ever done any climbing, Celia?”

“Never.”

“Care to try?”

“Yes I’d like to, but I think I’d be quite hopeless.
”

“Nonsense. I’d like to take you. Will you come with me some time?”

“I expect I haven't any of the correct things.”