White Heat (4 page)

Round the Cape they sailed, and then into the Indian Ocean. To Karin it was unbelievable, this succession of blue and gold days and wine-dark nights, with so many stars in the sky that she actually tried on more than one occasion to count them. Tom Paget, with whom she made the attempt
—
and she had long since forgiven him in his clumsy attempt to make a little light love to her, since he had promised he would not repeat the offence (without encouragement from her, that is)
—
thought it was delightfully childish of her to put her head back as she stood against the rail and solemnly begin to count. One, two, three
.
..

Usually, at this stage, she swayed a little, and he put out his hand to steady her, but she drew back swiftly. She looked at him wa
rn
ingly,
a
n
d he smiled one-sidedly. They had made a bargain, and he was keeping to it, but the tropical nights were a temptation in themselves, and as for the Indian Ocean ... well, by that time their relationship should have made some progress, he sometimes thought with a feeling of rebellion. If they were ever to get to know one another really well they had to do so this side of Australia, for after that they might never meet again.

But Karin was not the kind of girl one could get to know easily. Perhaps it was the aura of the vicarage that still clung about her. She was friendly, and there was a certain exciting sweetness about her, as well as an enchanting freshness. By this time Tom was well on the way to being in love with her, but he sometimes thought gloomily and that she didn’t appear to be well on the way to being in love with him.

He was right, for Karin was not remotely near to falling in love with anyone, although there was one man she had learned to detest more than any other man, and that was Kent Willoughby, who no longer played bridge with Mrs. Makepiece in the evenings.

Karin knew he would never forgive her for her reaction to the brutal kiss he had given her. Whether or not he actually thought she was the kind of girl who went about encouraging men who barely knew her to press their attentions on her she could only guess, but it seemed to her that he held her in very low esteem. Whenever he passed her
—
and it was inevitable that he should pass near to her fairly often in each twenty-four hours in such an enclosed space
—
he not merely failed to acknowledge her, but he actually looked through her. His green, cold eyes were as baleful as glass, and the set of his lips told her what a hard and unrelenting man he was once some antagonism had been aroused in him, or he considered he had a reason to be bitterly offended.

His place at the captain’s table made it necessary for him to address a few words to her occasionally during meal times, but they were limited to the barest formalities and drawn from him only when politeness or necessity dictated that he should open his lips to her. Although the situation that had arisen was no fault of Mrs. Makepiece’s, he was frigidly curt with her, and she received no better treatment. In bewilderment the widow looked elsewhere for companionship, and found it in an elderly widower who was more forthcoming than Colonel Ridley and whom there was no necessity for her to chase, as had always been the case with Kent Willoughby.

The life aboard ship was decidedly pleasant and Karin would have enjoyed it thoroughly but for the fact that a man who disapproved of her was a part of it. He took no active part in the sports, and held himself aloof on most occasions when other people were uniting to render the voyage as memorable as possible, and although there were one or two favoured females with whom he danced in the evenings
—
not one of them, however, as youthful as Karin — and one or two men with whom he drank in the bar, or who accompanied him during his parades on deck, his air of remoteness was more or less consistently maintained; and it was obvious to most of the passengers that he was not a friendly man, and not merely was he not friendly but he was frequently bar
el
y approachable.

Anthea Makepiece, resenting the fact that he snubbed her for no reason, became highly critical of him, and instead of attributing to him various devastating masculine charms insisted after her second attempt to re-establish amiable relations had resulted in yet another snub that the reason most women fawned on him was not because of any personal magnetic appeal he possessed, but because of his background and the rumour that had spread abroad of his being fantastically rich. She, personally, didn’t believe he was half as rich as most people imagined, but she did know something about his background. She had once discussed it with him at dinner. And as a result of probing deep into her memories she recalled that he had once either been married to a raving beauty and it had come unstuck, or the engagement had never got as far as marriage and that had been broken off.

Whether he was married or merely contemplating marriage, she could not, however, feel anything but sympathy with the woman who had had such a lucky escape. For the Kent Willoughbys of this world were extremely hard to live with, and when their coffers were so well lined that most doors were open to them, and there was nothing they could not obtain by signing a cheque, they became even more impossible, and it was hardly ever that their personal relationships lasted, or their own lives were a success.

From starting off by disliking the appearance of Kent Willoughby and being provided with just cause for detesting him, Karin proceeded to a stage when the very mention of his name merely bored her. She determined to take herself in hand and behave as if he did not exist, and instead of feeling young and gauche and awkward when enjoying herself in the company of
fellow
passengers
, she
remember
ed
only that she had a right to enjoy herself.

Mrs. Makepiece was her employer, and if she did not object, then no one else should. If Mrs. Makepiece, who had made herself responsible for all her expenses, did not look down her nose at her when encountering her by accident after she had been playing a strenuous game of deck-tennis with a bronzed young man in flannels
—
or shorts, or even bathing-trunks if it was a particularly scorching afternoon
—
and was looking tousled and lighthearted and carefree, or develop a glassy-eyed stare after narrowly avoiding a collision with her on the main staircase while she was wearing a Columbine outfit, or something of the sort, for a gala dance, and making her way a trifle heedless of the other passengers up to the lantern-lit deck, then of all people Kent Willoughby had no right to do so.

The fact that he never looked in the least tousled or hurried himself was no excuse. The fact that he was always impeccable in a dinner-jacket, and would have died rather than play tennis in bathing-trunks, was not an acceptable excuse, either
,
for the truth was he reduced a normal, healthily minded girl who had been brought up in an extremely careful fashion and was not trying to kick over the traces, as he possibly imagined she was doing, to a curious state of nervous self-consciousness at the back of which was an uneasy kind of guilt complex the moment he hove within sight, and her immediate reaction was to take to her heels in order to escape the silent censorship of his disdainful glance.

Young men like Tom Paget
—
and by this time she had quite a little
coterie
of admirers who did their best not to let her out of their sight — thought her sweet and fresh and enchanting, and desirable without being in the least forthcoming. And amongst the older men who admired her
—
including the one who had once described her as a ‘pale peach of a girl’
—
there was endless competition to be seen with her, or to do some little thing for her, or to be allowed to sit in a deck chair near her while she was reading a ship’s library-book.

But Kent Willoughby was the one man who avoided her as if she had a touch of plague.

He was unwilling, even, to go to her assistance when she needed it. When her pale blue headscarf blew out to sea and was lost to her for ever he was the one who was nearest to her and who could have prevented the loss if he had merely put out a hand. But the lean brown hand remained idly tucked away in his pocket, and his other hand grasped the stem of his pipe as he surrounded himself with a delicate aroma of skilfully blended tobacco.

He did not even say he was sorry afterwards when she stood looking wistfully out to sea because the pale blue headscarf was an expensive one and was a birthday present from her father only a few months before he died.

And when she went ashore at Capetown
—
alone because Mrs. Makepiece had been laid low with one of her migraine heads and could not accompany her, and the young men who usually formed her escort had already gone ashore because she insisted on remaining with her employer who finally decided she preferred to be left undisturbed in her cabin — he even failed to acknowledge her when they met by accident at the post-office.

She was despatching a bundle of mail to England for Mrs. Makepiece, and her was sending a cable
—
also to England. They were not more than a few yards apart at one stage of these joint proceedings, and although he lifted his head and glanced at her he did not so much as indicate by the flicker of one of his very long and thick black eyelashes that he recognized her.

Karin left the post-office and walked out into the blinding hot sunshine, and promptly lost her way. She had been warned not to venture even a foot or so from the main thoroughfares, and the shopping centre, but even so she took a wrong turning, and found herself lost in the maze of streets.

She was not alarmed, for this was a
modern
port, and although there were undoubtedly
corner
s of it to which it would be most unwise for her to penetrate, the overall appearance of the shopping area was both colourful and reassuring. There were endless gift shops, and shops devoted to the trifles that appeal to women. There were also hotels and restaurants, gardens and flowers. And with a brilliant blue sky suspended like a canopy above the white-walled buildings, and sunshine
streaking down like the thrust of a white-hot sword blade, there was unforgettable vividness and magic.

Karin was standing wondering whether she ought to take a taxi, and looking very slim and noticeable in her crisp blue linen, when for the second time since their acquaintance had started to ripen
—
although the ‘ripening’ had not been of an order she would have chosen herself
—
she heard the voice of Kent Willoughby addressing her sharply at her elbow.

‘Haven’t you any more sense than to stand about alone in an unfamiliar port looking as if you wish to attract attention?’ he inquired bitingly. ‘If you do want to attract attention you’re going the right way about it!’

Karin wheeled round and stared at him with wide open eyes. The linen was turquoise, and it made her eyes look slightly turquoise, also
—
particularly as she had a little turquoise eye-shadow on her lids
—
and her golden-brown eyelashes fluttered with surprise. The gleaming ends of her bright hair could be plainly seen beneath the large white straw hat she wore, and the smooth curve of her cheek had an enchanting apricot flush that was no doubt responsible for the interested glances that were being levelled at her.

Kent Willoughby’s was not an interested glance, but it was coldly critical. It was so critical, and so cold, that it actually caused her to stammer as she replied.

‘W-was I doing something rather foolish? It never even occurred to me that I might be obstructing traffic—’

‘You’re not obstructing anyone. You’re merely asking to be accosted at any moment ... or you were until I joined you!’

Startled, Karin cast a swift glance round her, and the apricot flush deepened as she observed the way dark eyes glistened as they dwelt on her; and perhaps it was because by contrast with the dazzling quality of the sunshine the shadowy interiors of doorways seemed to have a sable sinisterness about them, and white teeth revealed by expansive smiles acquired an alarmingly meaningful air when their owners had dusky skins and stood about in th
e
se indigo patches.

One gentleman in a tarbush and a striped suit even appeared to be licking his lips, and a youth in a shabby suit had his eyes glued to the English girl.

Karin’s colour faded, and she felt suddenly a trifle sick.

‘I-
I
see what you mean,’ she said falteringly.

‘I’m glad you do.’ Willoughby grasped her arm and stopped a taxi
—
a gleaming new one
—
at the same time. He gave an order to the driver in clipped English, and then helped her in. He didn’t make any inquiries concerning her shopping or her sightseeing, or attempt to find out whether or not she h
a
d finished what she set out to do when she left the ship, and as she was too shaken by what had just occurred to so much as lift up her voice she sank back in her
corner
and awaited the moment when they would be decanted at the docks.

But, considerably to her surprise, the taxi-driver’s instructions
—
which she had not properly heard
—
had not been to convey them back to the docks, but to drive straight to a hotel where Willoughby had stayed more than once in his life, and where he knew perfectly well they served excellent English, tea.