The Young Nightingales (6 page)

“You are.”

“Then you’ll all have to accept my apologies. Believe me, I’ve made the most frenzied haste since I got back
...
and I badly needed some careful grooming, I can assure you. This young lady can vouch for that,” and he glanced, round smilingly at Jane. “She allowed me to share her taxi from the station.”

“Share her taxi?” Astonishment flared up in her eyes as she allowed herself a swift glance at Jane and then away. “But why in the world did you need a taxi? Didn’t Henri meet you?”

“I’m afraid I neglected to inform Henri of the time of my arrival.”

“Oh, Jules! How ridiculously like you
!”

“Not at all. I’m most meticulous about such things when the matter is one of importance. But as I was simply returning from holiday and there are usually plenty of taxis to be had at that hour, why, I—” he shrugged—“I decided to give Henri and Marthe a surprise.”

She made a pettish gesture, as if she had had to put up with this sort of thing before.

“And what about me?” she pouted adorably. “Was it not important that you should get back to me
...?
And tonight
!”

“But of course.” He smiled at her in a way that made Jane, a looker-on, feel embarrassed. She heard him add softly, “But of course—of course, Chantal! You, at least, should be fully aware of that!”

Chantal paused for a moment, searching his face shrewdly with her remarkable eyes as if she was not entirely convinced despite his assertion, and then impatiently she tugged at his arm and drew him towards the gleaming glass doors of the dining-room. “Ah, well,” she exclaimed, as she apparently decided that a bird in the hand was worth half a dozen in the bush, and at least he was here at last, “I’ll forgive you since our guests are not to be kept waiting any longer, but we must go in at once. Come along and meet someone who is dying to get to know you...
”

Just before the glass doors swung to behind them he glanced back at Jane, still st
an
ding near the reception desk, and his expression was a trifle comical as he shrugged his shoulders at her.

The gesture seemed to indicate that he was a willing prisoner, and although it was highly likely there would be further upbraiding during the course of the evening, since Chantal was plainly a very possessive young woman, he was not in the least perturbed by the thought.

He was, in fact, looking forward to the evening that stretched ahead.

Jane turned back to the reception desk to pursue her enquiries concerning the Villa Magnolia, but the young man with whom she had previously talked had been replaced by a young woman who seemed to have a lot to preoccupy her at the moment, and Jane decided to leave her enquiries until the following day. Now, all at once, she felt very tired, and she would go to bed.

In the lift she found herself regarding the hand that her still unknown taxi companion— or at least, she did now know that his name was Jules—had gripped when he had wished her a happy holiday; and she found herself recalling what a very firm grip it had been, and how warm and supple and curiously strong his fingers had felt.

Jules ... a French name, of course. And the girl was Chantal. An utterly enchanting young woman who also looked as if she was badly spoilt and might be very rich, who was probably going to marry him.

Jane had caught a glimpse of both her hands, and there was no ring on the engagement finger of the left hand yet. But it was just possible that tonight’s dinner party was to be a form of celebration
...
and perhaps the ring would come later.

Jane tumbled into bed with the greatest relief, and after so many hours of travelling in a train—and sitting up all night in a most uncomfortable carriage—she fell asleep almost immediately, and the sun was high in the sky when she awakened the following day.

She was horrified when she glanced at her travelling bedside clock. Ten o’clock! And she had said that she would be at the Villa Magnolia by eleven o’clock!

She would have to hurry if she was not to create a bad impression on the very first day of meeting her new employer.

Outside her windows the lake sparkled, and the whole of St. Vaizey looked enchanting and exciting
... particularly the birthday-cake icing on the summits of the wall of mountains on the other side of the lake.

Jane lifted her eyes to them and wondered whether she would ever find herself anywhere near that challenging snowline. The forests of conifer that climbed to the snowline were every shade of green in the dancing sunlight, and after finding her eyes dazzled after a minute or two by the sparkle from off the lake she thought it must be wonderfully cool and dim and inviting in the hidden depths of the trees. In imagination she could smell the scent of pine needles and hear the strange echoing silence in her ears ... the silence of a remote, aloof, and almost inaccessible world, unless one was a mountaineer and knew how to climb. As her acquaintance of the day before apparently did.

She dressed herself with care in a shantung suit of palest yellow, and then went down to breakfast hurriedly on coffee and rolls and order a taxi. She paid her bill and was slightly startled by the enormousness of the charge for one night, but despite the ten per cent already added to the bill she added a modicum over to be distributed amongst the various members of the staff who had waited on her. Then, with directions as to how to reach the Villa Magnolia, and beaming smiles from the impressionable desk clerk of the day before who was once more on duty, she followed her luggage outside into the forecourt and settled herself comfortably in the large violet and black taxi.

The driver was an Italian from Lugano who gave her very little time to compose herself before they were off like a streak of light, skirting the motionless lake with its dazzling shimmer and steamers plying up and down it.

For one moment, before they started off, Jane lifted her eyes to the particular peak that fascinated her. If only, she thought, with a curious wistfulness, she really was a holiday-maker with nothing to do except explore and enjoy the scenery she would make an attempt to climb that peak—at any rate until she reached the dark, welcoming woods that clothed it like a garment well below the summit.

CHAPTER SIX

BUT she was not a holiday-maker, and in future she would have duties to perform and her life would no longer be her own to live as she had lived it before.

Nevertheless, she dismissed the momentary tendency to feel sorry for herself, and looked out eagerly at the changing scene as the taxi covered the distance between the Hotel Continental and the Villa Magnolia at the maximum rate of speed.

The desk clerk had been right. The Villa Magnolia was no great distance from the hotel, and like so many of the handsomer, somewhat Victorian style villas fringing the lake shore it was beautifully placed on a slight eminence overlooking the larkspur-blue water. It had gardens that, apparently, ran right down to the edge of the water—which meant that it had its own landing-stage—and the house itself was solidly built of cool grey stone that was painted white and had several pointed roofs like round towers stationed at the various angles of the house.

The first thing that impressed Jane about the house was the blaze of colour that made the gardens quite delightful. It was the season of the year when flowers were inclined to wilt in the July heat, particularly about the hour of noon; but the carefully tended borders of the Villa Magnolia were plainly constantly watered and as trim and orderly as the borders in the Kursaal Gardens, that Jane had already glimpsed on her journey from the hotel.

The blaze of colour, too, draped much of the house, for a splendid bougainvillea overhung the south wall, and a large and impressive conservatory had a torrent of pale mauve wistaria protecting it from the fierce heat of the midday sun. There were also many roses growing close to the house, and the scent of them drenched the air with perfume.

The taxi turned in at a handsome pair of wrought-iron gates and proceeded up a short drive to the front door of the villa. The taxi-driver alighted and off-loaded Jane’s luggage, and she settled the reckoning and watched him depart by the way he had come.

Then and then only did she press the bell at the side of the white-painted front door—overhung by a gaily striped awning to prevent blistered paintwork—and hear the sound of it shrilling loudly throughout the whole of the interior of the house, or so it seemed to her.

Almost immediately footsteps crossed the cool tiled hall, and a middle-aged woman servant appeared and opened the door. She stared for a moment a little reprovingly at the English girl, and then signified that she could enter.

“
The mistress has been expecting you for more than an hour,” she observed in a severe tone, and with an accent that proved she was as English as Madame Bowman herself. “Is this all your luggage?” she broke off to enquire with a sniff, as she surveyed the handsome piled-up suitcases and the hat-box.

“Yes.” Jane apologised for being late. “But I
’
m afraid I over-slept,” she admitted.

The woman sniffed again, and then remarked in an aside that Madame Bowman was always one for punctuality. But she stood aside to allow Jane to walk past her into the hall, and she said something about getting Andre to carry the luggage upstairs.

“This way, miss.” She led the way across the hall to a door with .a beautiful cut-glass handle and flower panels painted on it, and after tapping briefly apparently understood that she had received permission to enter, for she swung it wide. She stalked into the room, her starched white apron bristling, as it were, and announced that the young lady had arrived. Someone murmured something in a very low and dulcet tone, arid a jerk of the head indicated to Jane that she was to enter.

On the short journey across the hall she had felt quite charmed by the mixture of Victorian opulence and
modern
Swiss polish that overlaid
it like a couple of conflicting garments, and she realised that there were many treasures in the somewhat confined space—or possibly the heavy draperies and the quantities of flowers in enormous china vases made it seem somewhat limited. The walls were hung with heavy portraits, and there were solid chests and console tables loaded with bric-a-brac
.
At least two magnificent
jardinières
were filled with pot plants, and a couple of love-birds cooed at one another in a gilded cage that was hung beneath an arch.

Having seen all this Jane was, therefore, not so surprised when she entered what was obviously the main drawing-room, or
salon
, of the house to find that it, too, was crammed to capacity with a heterogeneous collection of furniture and furnishings. The carpet was a lovely soft Aubusson, and the curtains were faded lavender silk swaying slightly in the draught from the open windows. Every piece of furniture would have made an antique dealer’s heart leap—so much she recognised after one swift, comprehensive glance round—and the figure in the most comfortable easy chair the room contained caused something like an actual flood of relief to course through her.

For if
this
was Madame
B
owman—nonagenarian—then surely she had frothing to worry about? Not unless appearances in this case were unfortunately quite deceptive.

“Do come in, my dear,” the soft voice cooed, “and don’t take any notice of Florence if she scolded you for being late. She’s been with me for years, and she thinks she knows everything about me and insists that my life is run on oiled wheels. I’ll admit I’m not so very fond of too well-oiled wheels, but it’s nice to be well taken care of, and Florence certainly does that for
me.
”

Jane put out a hand and closed her fingers round the pallid ones that were extended to her,
and as Madame Bowman’s fingers were encrusted with rings the somewhat impulsive act was a trifle painful as the sharp edges of the stones cut into Jane’s flesh. She refrained, however, from wincing noticeably, and merely caught and held her breath for a moment as she found herself gazing into the handsomest pair of deep blue eyes framed in a network of wrinkles she had ever seen in her life.

Roger’s aunt had soft white hair that coiled itself naturally round her head, and despite advancing years her complexion had the fragile pinkness of the inside of a shell, and was delicately and carefully powdered. She used no other make-up, but an interest in dress was betrayed by the fine silk stole that was draped round her shoulders over a violet wool dress that was a little out of date; and in addition to the rings she wore a heavy chain bracelet and so many brooches pinned into the bosom of the dress that Jane felt the urge to count them.

Instead—deferring this fascinating occupation until a later date—she explained truthfully why she was exactly an hour late.

“I’m afraid I overslept,” she admitted. “The hotel was so comfortable, and the bed was unusually comfortable, and—well, I overslept
!”

“That’s perfectly all right, my dear.” Mrs. Bowman smiled at her. “The
g
reat thing is that you’re here! And I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you
!”

Jane flushed faintly, wondering what Roger had said about her in his letters.

“And I’ve been looking forward immensely to coming out to Switzerland,” she replied. “For some reason I’ve never been here before, and it’s all quite new to me.”

Mrs. Bowman indicated a chair facing her. “Sit down, child,” she said. “You look a little warm. We’re having a very hot July, and you’ll probably find it rather trying at first. But if you like boating we have our own punt moored to the landing-stage, and there are all sorts of excursions on the lake. I’m afraid I’m too old to go out very much myself, but you must certainly do so
...
indeed, I shall insist that you enjoy yourself as much as possible while you’re here.”

“Thank you.” Jane was aware that she was studying her keenly, and to judge by the pleased expression on her face she was quite satisfied with what she saw.

“You are so much prettier than I expected ... although Roger did say I’d find you charming. But a man of his type, already turned forty—or is it thirty, I always forget?—is sometimes inclined to
...
well, exaggerate a little, particularly if he’s very much impressed himself. And of course you don’t need me to tell you,”
s
milin
g
indulgently, “that my nephew admires you enormously.”

“I—er—does he?” Jane felt the colour increase in her cheeks, and she saw the other woman’s eyes twinkle. “Well, of course, we’ve known one another for a—for a long time
...
”

“Ever since you were quite a small girl! Yes,” Mrs. Bowman nodded her head vigorously, “I know all about it, and I must say I think it’s rather like a romantic story. The little girl grows up into a very attractive young woman and the hardened bachelor takes such a keen delight in her that she practically fills his life, and, naturally, when disaster overtakes her and her family he feels that he simply must do something to make the situation more bearable for her. So he insists that she goes away for a complete change of scene and occupation, and that’s where I, most fortunately, have been able to help him out.” Her face went grave all at once, and she bent towards Jane in sympathy. “My dear, I do realise that you’ve had a terrible shock, and you must allow me to say how very, very sorry I am. I understand that you and your father were very close...”

Jane nodded mutely. On such a subject she could not, as yet, commit herself to speech
...
not, at any rate, with a complete stranger.

Mrs. Bowman pressed her hand.

“But you’ll get over it, my child. You may not find it easy to believe me now, but you will. I know that when my dear husband died,” with a faint flicker of distress, “I was very much upset, but the years have taught me to live without him, and I’m reasonably content and quite happy to-day.”

“I—I’m glad of that,” Jane said huskily, and her new
employer smiled at her once more.

“Well, naturally, I had to mention
it ...
your recent sorrow. But now that you are here, I shall not refer to it again for some time, and I hope that you will find so many distractions here that you won’t even think of what has happened very often. After all, you are young. You have your life before you, and Roger is most anxious that I shall help you to forget. Indeed, I have been given careful instructions as t
o
how I am to handle you, and if I make any mistakes I’m sure he will find it hard to forgive me.”