Rose in the Bud (4 page)

Edouard Moroc rose and came across the room to them. He spoke crisply, apologising for interrupting the conversation.

“But I am very much afraid I have to leave,” he said, “and if Miss Brown is going to give me the pleasure of returning her to her hotel—”

Bianca waved a still more impatient hand at him. “Edouard,” she declared, “I refuse to let you go. I have much to talk to you about, and Paul can see Miss Brown back to her hotel. In fact, he has every intention of doing so, haven’t you, Paul?” looking up at him.

“Every intention,” he replied smoothly. He put his hand beneath Cathleen’s elbow and helped her to her feet. “Come, Miss Brown, you will not deny me the pleasure of seeing you home? And Edouard and my sister have a personal problem to discuss. Shall we
go
?
”

Cathleen looked for a moment almost appealingly at Edouard—it had never occurred to her that she would have to return to her hotel in the charge of anyone but
him
—but following a brief period in which she was sure he hesitated he made a slight, expressive movement with his hands, and resigned her to her fate.

She felt the hot colour rush up into her face as if she had been rejected in favour of someone far more glamorous, and then turned away.

“Very well,” she said, stiffly, to the Count. “If you will be so kind.”

CHAPTER III

I
n
the morning she awakened to find the sun streaming into her hotel bedroom. After a somewhat restless night—and this was unusual for her, since she usually fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow— she gave herself up to the pleasure of simply lying and studying her luxurious bedroom.

It was bright and airy and
modern
, and yet there was a certain something that could have been Italian splendour overlaying, or underlying, the simplicity. The drapes were supremely elegant, and so was the bed coverlet and the white telephone beside the bed. Her own private bathroom had every
modern
fitment, and the thing she liked best of all was the amount of sparkling mirror. From every angle she could view herself, and in the capacious wardrobe space her well-chosen but not particularly extensive outfit of entirely new clothes was in no danger of being crowded or crushed.

And that went for the amount of drawer-space in which her gloves and her sheer s
t
ockings and all her other smaller items were deposited.

As she lay in bed, and the cloudless blue sky of Venice filled the entire window space, the already strong sunshine bathed the furniture and sparkled in the mirrors, she knew that she had but to reach out her hand and lift the telephone in order to order breakfast to be brought to her—the breakfast of coffee and rolls and delicious preserves that she had been looking forward to ever since she left England—she could hardly believe that she was where she was, and
that enough money to account for all her expenses was locked away in the manager’s safe.

She could stay for a week, a fortnight, or a month, if necessary, and her unexpected nest-egg would not be too badly depleted. She recalled that on her first visit to the Palazzo di Rini the day before, almost immediately after her arrival in Venice, and while she was still not very clear about what she was going to say to the di Rinas, she had somewhat impulsively disclosed that she had been the recipient of a recent legacy. Thinking back, she had an idea she had said something about having a “lot of money left to her’ ... Well, to people like the di Rinis a thousand pounds would almost certainly not represent a ‘lot’ of money, but to her it was a fortune. As an assistant in a small London book-shop, in receipt of a modest weekly wage—two-thirds of which she handed over to her mother for housekeeping—she could hardly believe her luck when a little-known aunt died and left her, in addition to the thousand pounds, a few items of old-fashioned jewellery and the charge of a couple of love-birds in a cage. The love-birds were a source of pleasure in themselves—although her mother, a vague but once very beautiful woman who spent her days reading books which she borrowed from the library and doing extremely fine needlework, had objected, at first strongly, to the idea of looking after them while her daughter was away. And as for the items of jewellery, one or two of them were quite pretty, and Cathleen had included them in her luggage when she left London Airport.

Her mother, who had always adored Arlette, had raised no objections to the trip to Venice
... indeed, she had encouraged the idea. Cathleen had split the thousand pounds down the middle and given her mother five hundred pounds, and with the remainder
Mrs. Brown considered she had every right to do as she pleased. But the disappearance of Arlette, who was four years older than Cathleen, was a cause of great anxiety. If no news could be gleaned of her as a result of the trip to Venice it was not yet quite clear what could be done to trace her, but something both relatives were agreed would have to be done, despite the fact that Arlette, an independent type, had always discouraged too much interest in her affairs.

Looking back on her first day, as she lay in bed, Cathleen had to decide that the results were so far negative. She had seen the two people who should have had some knowledge of Arlette’s whereabouts, but both of them pleaded complete ignorance. Indeed, it was quite obvious they disliked being questioned about the missing English girl, and although Arlette—or Bridget, as Cathleen and her mother always called her in the family circle—had written glowingly of all three members of the di Rini family while she was employed by the Contessa as a companion, and had practically insisted that she was about to be married, Paul di Rini quite as much as his sister seemed to dislike discussing her, and from that quarter it was fairly obvious to Cathleen she would receive little help in tracing her sister.

She was puzzled as to the reason why Bianca had so persuasively invited her to stay with them, but since she had no intention of becoming a guest at the
palazzo
she did not even dwell on the invitation as she reviewed the events of the day before. The one person she had met for the first time the day before she found it difficult to forget—at any rate, once she was awake —was Edouard Moroc, and as he was quite unlike any man she had ever met before in the whole of her life, and almost any young woman on meeting him would be inclined to register some positive reaction
about him, this was perhaps not so surprising.

After breakfast, and while she was still completing her toilet for the morning, the roses were brought to the door. She had never seen roses like them
... deep red, heavily scented roses, lying in a large florist’s box, but without any card to indicate who was the donor. At first she thought there must be a mistake, but the chambermaid, who had intercepted a page in the corridor and relieved him of the box, was quite definite that there was no mistake. Despite the absence of a card the label on the outside of the box was quite clearly
Miss Cathleen Brown.

Miss
Cathleen Brown ... not
Signorina
Brown.

Cathleen counted the roses and discovered there were two dozen. Two dozen red roses from someone who preferred to remain anonymous was an unbelievable thing to happen to her on her second day in Venice. She put them in water with the help of the chambermaid, who produced an extra vase for the pu
r
pose, and by that time the scent of the roses was filling the room.

The chambermaid chattered volubly in Italian, and from her arch look Cathleen gathered that she was quite certain she had an admirer. Cathleen, who was equally certain that she had no such thing, would have corrected this false impression if she had had enough Italian to make the effort worth while, but not having enough Italian she merely looked slightly embarrassed and kept shaking her head in bewilderment.

She decided to spend the morning behaving as if she was an ordinary tourist, and St. Mark’s Square was the first place where she lingered. She had had her first glimpse of it the day before, and had determined to sit at one of the pavement tables outside one of the intriguing-looking cafes at the very first opportunity, and drink a cup of coffee or a cool drink while the pigeons crowded about her feet. The pigeons were always being fed by tourists and they were both plump and bold. St. Mark’s Cathedral, with its fantastic Byzantine front, cast a great shadow across the square —which, in point of fact, is not a square at all, but a vast irregular space in which visitors spend whole hours at a time, either parading up and down and exclaiming at the architecture, or sitting at one of the little tables—and it was like a solid bulwark rising against the vivid blue of the sky. Cathleen, who was not accustomed to the intense heat at such an early hour of the day, was glad to put on sun-glasses while she sipped her drink and watched the crowds on the other side of the square, but that did not prevent her being recognised by a man who very quickly took
his
place on the opposite side of her table, after bowing as he stood above her and politely enquiring whether she had any objection.

Cathleen felt the revealing colour rush into her cheeks as she looked up at him.

“Mr. Moroc!”

He protested at once.

“Do we really have to be so formal?” He was immaculately dressed in a light grey suit, collar and tie, although most of the people around him were far less formal, and he looked very brown and fit in the shadow of the cathedral
... and beautifully shaved, and by far the most fastidious man so far as
his
appearance was concerned that Cathleen had ever met. “I know we met for the first time yesterday, but I did have the pleasure of seeing you twice, and last night I was very disappointed because I was not permitted the pleasure of seeing you back to your hotel.”

Cathleen wondered whether he really meant what he said about being disappointed because there was really nothing to prevent him seeing her home the
night before
... only Bianca di Rini. And either he was not in a position to deny Signorina di Rini the gratification of some of her whims, or else he had derived far greater pleasure by remaining behind at the
palazzo
with her.

“Oh, I had no right to drag you away from the party,” she said, aware that the warm colour in her cheeks was fading slowly, and since he was not wearing sun-glasses the admi
ri
ng expression in his eyes as they rested on her quite openly could not be misunderstood. It was, in fact, so openly admiring that she wondered for one wild moment whether it was he who had sent her the red roses. “It was a very successful party, wasn’t it?” she said, at a loss for something more inspired to say.

“Was it?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Bianca is a good hostess, and one is never dull with her choice of friends.” He bent forward and peered at her glass. “What are you drinking?”

“Campari and soda,” she answered. “I wanted to try it.”

“Do you like it?”

“No.”

“Then have a long cool lime and soda. Something tells me you will prefer that.”

He summoned the waiter, and the fresh drinks were brought. She had no idea what his was, but the waiter seemed to understand perfectly what he liked, and it was contained in a tall glass with ice chinking at the bottom of it, just as there was ice chinking at the bottom of her glass.

“What are your plans for to-day?” Edouard asked, when Cathleen had made the discovery that her lime and soda was delicious. “Have you anything very intensive worked out, or are you simply being lazy on this your first day
?
”

“My first free day,” she co
r
rected him. “Yesterday I had to visit the Palazzo di Rini.”

“With very little result, I’m afraid ... except that Paul was obviously smitten by those Irish eyes of yours.” Once more he bent forward, and this time she realised he was admiring the red rose tucked carelessly inside her belt
... and as she was wearing another white dress the effect was extremely pleasing. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Someone sent you roses this morning, yes?”

She coloured brilliantly once more.

“The ridiculous thing about it,” she confessed, “is that I have no idea who it was who sent them. There was no card in the box.”

“Really?” His eyebrows went up. “Now we all know the message of red roses, but I think if I had been consulted in good time about flowers for you I would have selected something just a little less ostentatious. White roses, perhaps
... or partly opened very pale pink ones.” His eyes, so dark and deep that they had a strange magnetic effect on her, studied her thoughtfully. “To me you suggest a half-opened rose ... a rose in the bud! So yes, I think I would have sent you rosebuds!”

Cathleen was conscious of a ridiculous sensation like disappointment. She had never really believed that it was Edouard who had sent her the box of flagran
tl
y expensive roses, and yet not knowing anyone else in Venice to whom she could attribute the desire to give her such pleasure she had been secretly inclined to believe that it might have been Moroc. It was fairly obvious that he was not a poor man, and floral tributes to him probably meant nothing at all—he probably spent half his time sending flowers to pretty girls, although somehow she couldn’t quite believe that. But if it was not Moroc who was it?

And then her disappointment was added to by a feeling of distaste.

Not the Count? Oh, no, not Paul di Rini! Who had become so much involved with Arlette that she had disappeared for some reason. Cathleen was beginning to be quite certain of that.

“You look concerned,” Moroc said, looking across the table at her with slightly narrowed eyes. “Is something wrong? Are you worried lest the identity of your unknown admirer should displease you when you eventually discover it?”

And for a moment there was something mocking and embarrassing in his eyes.

“Oh, no, no!” she exclaimed, wondering why it was that at one moment she felt at ease with him, and the next he either did or said something that could have indicated that he was actually making fun of her. “As a matter of fact,” she confessed, “I don’t believe the roses were for me at all. I think there was a mistake.”

“Yet were they not addressed to Miss Cathleen Brown?” he stated rather than asked.

“Yes.”

“Well then, I think you can take it that the roses were for you.” He dismissed them from his mind and their conversation as if they were no longer of the slightest importance, and asked her once again what she proposed to do to while away that first free day of her holiday.

“Because if you have no fixed plans I was wondering whether you would lunch with me, and then submit yourself to my expert guidance in the matter of sightseeing? And I presume, like all tourists, you do wish to do a certain amount of sightseeing?”

His invitation took her aback again, and then pleasure showed in her face. She remembered the old-fashioned gondola he had unearthed from some boatman’s yard the evening before in order that she should do something she had always wished to do, and she decided that he was really kind. His eyes were smiling at her more whimsically, and he patted her hand as it rested on the table.

“
Don’t look so surprised, my dear. You are charming, and I have nothing to do
... nothing that can’t wait, that is. When the urge to paint seizes hold of me I go to ground in such a complete fashion that you’ll find it difficult to unearth me, but for the moment the urge is not upon me. I am free to put myself at your disposal, and I shall be as disappointed as you will probably be when you find out who it was who sent you roses if you decline to make use of me. Now, as we shan’t get a better lunch anywhere
than
we will at the hotel I suggest that we have it there
... and before that I think you might be permitted to look at the inside of the cathedral. After that I will take you to Gino’s for an aperitif before lunch; and after lunch
...”

It was such a comprehensive programme for the day that Cathleen wondered whether he had thought the whole thing out the night before, or whether he had grappled with the problem over b
reakfast
. She hadn’t the smallest wish to oppose any of the suggestions he made, and she was flattered by the amount of his time he was prepared to place at her disposal—for some reason she was certain that Bianca di Rini’s tight little smile would disappear altogether if she had any idea of the amount of time—and she thanked him gratefully for his interest, and for being, as she put it, ‘so very
ki
nd.’

“You’ll find out later whether I’m kind,” he told her, smiling with a touch of quizzicalness. “Whether by nature I
’
m kind, I mean
... But somehow my own impression of myself has never included the application of that word. I could think of others ... but not kind!”

She felt his hand beneath her elbow, and he helped her to her feet.

“Now, you’ll find it very cool inside the cathedral. You won’t need to wear those dark glasses, either. I dislike dark glasses on an attractive young woman because they interpose a barrier between me and the changing expressions in her eyes!”

Looked back upon afterwards, it was a highly successful day. Cathleen knew she had never lived through such a day in her life before. So much colour and warmth and richness and gaiety became a part of it that she could hardly believe it as the hours went by. She had intended to do some lonely sightseeing, instead of which a man who knew all there was to know about the fascinating city of Venice was at her elbow to explain everything that needed to be explained, to draw her attention to sights she might otherwise have missed, and to make absolutely certain she enjoyed her day.

To begin with the cathedral took her breath away temporarily, and it was some time after they emerged from it that the glitter and the beauty faded from before her eyes. She would have liked to spend a very long time there absorbing the atmosphere of antique mystery, but Edouard said they could return to it on another occasion, and in any case he did not seem to think it the most important item on his list of ‘musts’ for her to see.