The Questing Heart (2 page)

'Oh, I do, I do—Clare will tell you I slave for my public,' Monica declared dramatically. 'But it's a labour of love.'

At the mention of Clare's name, Chris turned to look at her, divining that she was the person mentioned. She saw that his eyes were alight with derision and when he slid off the sofa arm and came to her for a refill, she said severely:

'You shouldn't laugh at your hostess. You're drinking her whisky.'

'You've got me wrong, I'm thrilled and intrigued to meet her.' He looked thoughtful. 'She'd make a wonderful character in a play.'

'Is that what you do? Caricature your acquaintances?' she asked acidly, for she was well aware of how Monica would appear as depicted by him.

'People are my raw material,' he returned, 'including yourself.'

The last was a concession to her presence, he could not possibly find her interesting, and she smiled wryly.

'I'm sure I'm too insignificant to be useful.'

'Don't be so humble. Incidentally, do you type these works of genius?'

'That's my job.'

Again Monica intervened and he left her, apparently with reluctance. Clare continued to study him, as he regained his perch on the sofa arm, with increasing curiosity, wondering what had brought him there, for Christopher Raines looked out of place in that gathering. He had a charm and vitality rarely met with among Monica's coterie, but having strayed into her orbit he was unlikely to stay there. The other men were too obviously seedy and second-rate to appeal to him, and he would make his way in the world. There was a force and assurance about him that was lacking in Monica's followers. Suddenly she felt angry. He had no right to make fun of them as she knew he was doing from the way his eyes assessed each in turn with that mocking glint in them. It was not given to everyone to command success, and failures should be regarded with compassion. That was a quality she doubted Christopher Raines possessed. He would go his ruthless way regardless of those fallen by the wayside, bulldozing his passage towards his goal. That was the sort of man he was.

The cadaverous poet Esmond Granville came strolling into her corner demanding a sherry, and she asked him kindly how he was progressing.

'I don't,' he said, shrugging his shoulders. 'This is the land of the lotus-eaters, too much sun makes one languid. I need the sharp tooth of the north wind to sting me into action.'

'Then you'll be leaving us?'

He glanced over his shoulder towards Monica. 'I can't „ tear myself away from the siren.'

Or her drinks, Clare thought. Esmond picked up his glass and glared at Christopher Raines over its brim.

'Playboy,' he sneered. 'He takes nothing seriously, nor has he ever felt the grip of poverty.'

'How can you tell?'

'By his arrogant manner, and look at his clothes.'

Clare examined then intently. Though Chris was casually clad as all the other men were, even her inexperienced eye could see that the cut and texture of his garments was superior to theirs, and he was wearing a gold watch on a bracelet of the same metal.

'Where did Mr Forbes pick him up?' she asked.

Again the poet shrugged. 'The casino, I expect.'

'But surely Mr Forbes can't afford to gamble?'

'Bless your innocent heart, Eustace's allowance was due today, and that's where most of it goes. Then he has to exist on a shoestring and dear Madame Monique's charity until the next lot comes.'

'But how foolish!' Clare exclaimed, her thrifty mind shocked by such idiocy. The Underwood family had learned the hard way the value of money and she had no understanding of a gambler's compulsion. It was this failing which had made Eustace Forbes an exile from his country.

'We can't all be wise,' Esmond retorted. 'But if you wish to be so, avoid Lothario.' He jerked his head towards the group in front of Monica. 'That type is a menace to womanhood, and to encourage him would be disastrous.'

Clare burst out laughing at this preposterous warning. Then she checked her mirth and glanced anxiously towards her employer, but Monica was too absorbed in Chris to notice her secretary's unusual behaviour.

'Thank you,' Clare said to Esmond, 'but I'm in no danger. Lothario, as you call him, won't give me a thought and I don't suppose we'll see him again.'

'One never knows,' Esmond observed, and wandered away. Clare looked again at Chris, who was receiving the full blast of Monica's attentions. Far from accepting Esmond's warning she wished there was some necessity for it. Instinctively she knew that Chris was a man who, in the modern phrase, could turn her on. She had hitherto not met one and that necessary erotic experience remained elusive. The interest he had aroused in her would have been a start, thus a heroine would be aware that she had met her fate, but this fate would walk out of her life without noticing her. A pity, for if he used people as prototypes for his creations, she could have utilised him very satisfactorily for hers.

Monica's
soirees
seldom lasted past midnight; even though when conversation flagged they resorted to cards,- they were apt to drag. But Christopher Raines did not stay until the end. He had, he said, another call to make. This time he did kiss Monica's hand as he took his leave. He had previously let slip that he might be in the neighbourhood for some time, and she besought him:

'Come again. Look in any time you're passing. As the Spanish say, my house is yours.'

'You're too kind.' But he did not promise to come again. He favoured Clare with a distant inclination of his head and a wave of his hand. She thought the room seemed darker when he had left it.

'That young man is a mere dilettante,' Monica pronounced, when he had gone. 'He will never achieve anything, he lacks application, but he's very decorative.'

The company agreed with her as they always did, except Clare, whose opinion was never asked. She thought Christopher Raines would succeed in whatever he undertook, » if he had not arrived already, for he carried the aura of success, but she had never seen his name on any publication in any literary magazines that Monica bought.

Monica retired as soon as her guests had gone, but Clare felt restless and reluctant to do so. It was a warm night and she wandered out into the strip of garden in front of the villa. It was built on a hillside above the Lower Corniche and looked out over pine trees to the sea. A bright glow to her left indicated the position of Monaco, and a similar golden haze but fainter than that of Nice. Motor headlights flashed in a unending stream along the road below her and the sea was dotted with illuminated yachts. Her employer had rented the villa for a couple of years and was always grumbling at the exorbitant rent. Clare thought she was foolish not to have chosen somewhere less fashionable and would herself have much preferred a less sophisticated place with fewer people about, but at night it was beautiful with all the glittering points of light.

She opened the gate and moved into the lane that connected the house and several other villas above and below it with the main road. Here it was dark in the shadows of the pines and the mountains above it. They were arid hills, these Maritime Alps, what greenery they possessed rapidly withering in the hot summer sun. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin as a voice said out of the dimness:

'Where are you going to, my pretty maid?'

She recognised the low mocking tones.

'Mr Raines! I thought you'd gone hours ago.'

'Gone and come back again, and I'm in luck, I see, no dragojjs on guard.'

'I don't understand.'

'Aren't my words clear, or perhaps I'm not so lucky? You go to keep a rendezvous?'

'Oh no, I'm just taking a stroll before turning in.'

'Then if I may I'll stroll with you, though I don't think the Corniche is a good place for strolling. You're liable to be run down by some maniac exceeding the speed limit. Wouldn't it be a better idea to go for a drive along the coast?'

'An excellent idea, if I possessed a car,' said Clare dryly.

'Mine is at your service. Shall we go?'

He was only a dark shadow beside her in the night and he did not seem quite real.

Clare was automatically about to refuse, when she hesitated. Caution and decorum demanded she should return indoors, but caution and decorum would never help her to find material for her book. Christopher's invitation was an opportunity not likely to occur again. She suddenly wondered if he had mistaken her for someone else.

'Do you know who I am?' she asked doubtfully. 'I'm only Clare, you know, Mrs Cullingford's secretary.'

'Of course I know you're only Clare, the little brown sparrow who poured my whisky for me.' He looked up into the trees above their heads, through a gap in which was the faint glimmer of a star. 'It's a fine night and the lights of the Promenade des Anglais are attractive. Only Clare might like to see them.'

'I would indeed.'

'Then what are we waiting for?'

He guided her towards his parked car, a firm hand cupping her elbow. Unused to such masculine courtesies, Clare felt a wave of exhilaration. She was actually being treated like a frail female instead of having to pick her own way down the steep lane; she had only contempt for the women who scoffed at such attentions.

Clare had been to Monte Carlo and Nice during the daytime, but she never went out at night, having no escort. She was unprepared for the blaze of light along the Promenade, the glittering sky signs, and the huge hotels like crystal palaces. Chris drove her right round the long sickle of the bay. Then he suggested stopping for a drink.

'At this hour?' she queried.

'There are no licensing hours in France.'

'But... but am I suitably dressed?'

'You're clothed, which is more than a lot of the visitors are,' he remarked drily. 'Why do you cover your neck and shoulders? Have you a birthmark or some such?'

'I have not!' Clare exclaimed indignantly. 'I dress modestly as is suitable to my position. What sort of a girl do you think I am?'

'A frustrated one,' he told her, which was so near the mark that she was startled. 'We'll find a cafe where anything goes. Suit you?'

Clare agreed eagerly. The dress she was wearing was what Monica liked her secretary to wear, a dark brown garment, long with very little shape and no style. She had posed her anxious question because the women she had glimpsed in the street were either wearing glamorous evening gowns or gay casuals. She did not want Christopher to be ashamed of the brown sparrow, as he had called her, among birds of so much brighter plumage. But Chris did not seem to mind. He drove away from the front into a square lined with palm trees drooping tired fronds, where there was parking space and conducted her to a cafe with tables and chairs spilling out all over the pavement. There was a smart hotel opposite to it, up and down the steps of which a continuous procession of people passed, exposing a great deal of suntanned, limbs either above or below. A string band inside the cafe poured out a medley of popular music, adding to the stir and bustle of the seething life around them. Clare watched the scene avidly, her wide grey eyes taking in every detail to impress it upon her mind for future reference, while Chris watched her eager face with amusement.

'Taking it all in?' he enquired, refilling her glass from the bottle of wine he had ordered.

'It's a long time since I've been out at night.' She turned to him with a brilliant smile. 'I haven't felt so alive for many a day.' The light caught the gold about his wrist, and she eyed him thoughtfully. 'You know, you're something of a mystery, Mr Raines. You pretend to be a struggling writer, but you drive a good car, you wear an expensive watch and the wine we're drinking isn't a cheap brand.'

'You're observant, a necessary quality in a writer.' He grinned boyishly. 'It so happens I'm on holiday and I like expensive things.'

'Don't we all... but...'

'You think I should look shoddy and unkempt, and subsist upon a crust in an attic? Picturesque but uncomfortable. I've had ... er ... a bit of luck lately and I can afford to indulge myself.'

Clare's early training did not approve of such extravagance.

'You should save for the lean times,' she said severely.

'Perhaps there won't be any lean times.'

'Aren't you being over-optimistic?'

'You, I fancy, lean towards over-caution. That's a mistake. You can miss so much by always thinking about rainy days.'

'You mean live for the moment and let the future go hang? I don't think that's a very praiseworthy philosophy.' He smiled at her earnest expression. 'Perhaps it's something to do with the air of this place,' she went on. 'I feel quite, reckless tonight.'

He laughed. 'That's out of character,' he mocked her. 'Prim little brown sparrows don't become reckless.'

Clare flinched at his simile, which was a little too apt, and wished she could discard her sense of responsibility that had hampered her all her short life. Chris seemed inflicted with no such burden.

'Did you bring me out to make fun of me?' she asked reproachfully.

'Good God, no! You intrigue me, I haven't met a girl like you for a long while.'

'I'm sure there are plenty around, though I don't suppose they move in your circles.'

'They certainly don't.'

She thought she had divined his motive. 'Do you want to study my reactions to put in a play?' she suggested.

'Now that's an idea.' The amber eyes gleamed mischievously. 'But I'm afraid Quaker girls are right out of fashion. The modern miss doesn't believe in the old- fashioned virtues.'

'Are you so certain I do?' she asked provocatively, and as he arched his brows quizzically, she leaned forward and said coaxingly: 'Won't you tell me what you
do
write about?'

He refused to be drawn. 'Anything and everything,' he stated evasively. Putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his clasped hands, he stared at her critically. 'Do you have to eclipse yourself even when you're off duty?'

Clare flushed a little under his close regard. 'You mean I'm not with it? Actually I can't afford a double wardrobe for off-duty days.'

'She likes you to appear as a foil to her exuberant personality?'