Nurse for the Doctor Page 8

  “H’m!” Michael commented, after she had been working on his ankle in silence for five minutes, and he had never once removed his eyes from her. “Reverting to the subject of you and your uniform ... It is possible that without it you’re too attractive, Josie. And if you’re going to become a bit of an anxiety ...” There was a soft laughter-note in his voice, but there was also another note that prevented her lifting her head and looking at him. “And you must remember that we’re responsible for you, my mother and I.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, without even flickering her eyelashes. “I shan’t cause you any needless anxiety.”

  “You might not—but what about these impressionable Spaniards?”

  “Would you call the Marquis de Pahleiro an ‘impressionable’ Spaniard?” she asked, with rather a severe look round her mouth.

  “Well, not exactly ... That fellow must be getting on for forty, and he hasn’t married yet. But, then, he’s minus an arm, and no doubt he has some quixotic notions about the fairness of marriage under the circumstances. Although I don’t think many women would hesitate to take him on as a husband, with such vast estates to make up for the physical disability. To say nothing of the opportunity to become a marquesa!”

  At that Josie did lift her eyes.

  “I should think many women would be quite eager to take him on as a husband without the opportunity to become a marquesa!”

  She didn’t know why she spoke almost hotly, but she did.

  Michael’s eyes glinted again, and it wasn’t a particularly pleasant glint.

  “You mustn’t allow yourself to be carried away by a show of old-fashioned courtliness, little Josie,” he said, very softly. “The marquis is always an attentive host, whether his guest is male or female.”

  “I’m sure of that,” Josie heard herself saying, but her voice gave away the fact that she was a little confused, and she wondered why his warning didn’t have the effect of merely filling her with amazement because he should imagine it was needed, and nothing else.

  Suddenly he put out a hand and lightly touched one of her curls.

  “They keep in place better under a cap,” he said, almost broodingly. Then, rather abruptly: “Two nights ago I kissed you, Josie.”

  “Yes.” All in a moment her confusion subsided, and she looked him straight in the eyes. “And you put it down to the effect of Spanish moonlight.”

  He smiled a little oddly.

  “It could have been Spanish moonlight—or it could have been you, Josie.”

  Josie finished massaging his ankle, and then she stood up, looking and behaving as if his words had had no effect on her whatsoever. And the strange thing about it was that, although only two nights before those very words would have had a considerable effect on her, just then, with the morning sunlight filling his room, and he himself looking handsome enough to upset the beat of any feminine heart, she felt almost unmoved.

  In fact, the only effect his words had on her was rather extraordinary. She saw him greeting Dona Maria after a lapse of ten years, and looking quite thrilled by the meeting—and she saw Dona Maria bending over him and lighting his cigarette, generally fussing over him in a way he plainly found pleasant, since he submitted to it meekly. And she remembered herself dining alone on that first night. Not that that had really upset her in the least, but Michael had hardly noticed her absence from the dinner table. Of that she felt quite sure. And she remembered the concerned look on his face after he kissed her—his blaming it on “Spanish moonlight.” And the oddest thing of all was that it didn’t matter ... She even felt a little repelled because he had referred to that night.

  She turned away swiftly.

  “I’ll leave you now,” she said. “You ought to have a little rest before you start to dress. And when you want me I’ll be somewhere quite handy.”

  “But possibly not quite handy enough,” he remarked, a little obscurely, a piqued look about the corners of his shapely mouth as he surveyed her. “Josie, have I said anything to annoy you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, whatever you do don’t start wearing your uniform again. I was only joking about your Spanish admirers, and—I like you as you are, Josie!”

  “Thank you,” she returned, with little or no enthusiasm in her voice. And as she made her way to her own room the conversation that had just ended slipped completely from her mind as she became preoccupied with wondering what it would be like to ride pillion on a spirited horse like Ramirez, with Carlos de Palheiro up in front of her in the saddle.

  But she had no opportunity to find out during the next few days. The marquis, as Michael had truthfully stated, was an attentive host, and in addition to the Duveens there was Miss Sylvia Petersen to be kept entertained. And she seemed to require a lot of entertainment—especially from him. She sent him looks from her striking, blue-green eyes that told everybody else a good deal, whether or not they conveyed the same message to the marquis himself. It was possible—indeed, highly probable—that he was accustomed to receiving looks of that type from women who had brought to a fine art the business of transmitting such messages from underneath drooping eyelids, and Josie decided that he must by this time have learned the language of languishing glances.

  He was such a very attractive man, with a background of wealth and high position. And in addition he had a certain tenderness in his dealings with women—all women, she noticed, whether it was such an obviously arch and anxious-to-please, no longer young women like Mrs. Duveen, a far more elderly woman like his Aunt Amelie, or someone young and glamorous like the lovely American girl—and she put it down to the fact that he was a Spaniard, and Spaniards of good birth do have this tendency towards the supposedly frailer sex.

  Therefore it was a little difficult to tell whether his attitude to Miss Petersen was merely the result of his early training, combined with the natural gallantry of his instincts. But he did seem to behave towards her with rather excessive courtliness at times, and whenever he looked at her his eyes reflected a good deal of admiration. There was the connoisseur’s appreciation for something that was well-nigh perfect—at any rate, so far as the eye could detect—and a gentleness in the handling of that perfect thing because any other sort of treatment might prove disastrous to it. And occasionally—or so Josie had decided, as the result of discreet observation—there was a warmer flash in those lustrous dark eyes when Sylvia made a little impulsive gesture and slipped a rounded arm inside his own, or when she appealed to him to do something for her, or discovered a helplessness within herself that reached out and plucked at the protective side of his nature.

  And having almost certainly made up her mind about this extraordinarily pleasing marquis Sylvia brought to light most attractively the feminine helplessness that she pretended to despise. She was the lovely, porcelain-perfect, fragile, dependent woman whom almost any man—whether possessor of a Latin temperament or not— would have been anxious to serve in some way or other, in order to win one of her misty, green-eyed smiles, and hear the little coo of appreciation in her voice when she was pleased.

  And when she made her appearance in the evenings wearing one of her filmy evening frocks, with her hair like a burnished cascade round her shoulders, and her jewels drawing attention to the flawlessness of her skin, it was impossible for any man not to feel a quick, upward rush of admiration. Or so Josie felt certain, having noticed the way in which even Michael glanced at her sometimes, when his attention was not being claimed by Dona Maria.

  Dona Maria, like her brother, had so much natural charm, and such excellent manners, that it would have been just as impossible for a susceptible male to remain impervious to her for long. And Josie was beginning to suspect that Dr. Duveen was by nature naturally susceptible, and whatever bitter experience he might have lived through he was not the sort of man to go through the remainder of his life shunning women. It was true he had talked to her of getting thoroughly strong again and then devoting himself to his work. But
as well as the work there would have to be softer influences, for he was far too personable for it to be otherwise.

  He and Dona Maria seemed to have a lot in common, and Josie had the feeling that in spite of her unfortunate marriage the gravely beautiful Spanish girl had never forgotten her one encounter with young Michael Duveen. Although they had not met for ten years the very words she had used when greeting him had given her away: “It is a long time, Senor Michael...”

  Were those words the key to the reason why the marquis seemed always to have a certain amount of reserve in his manner when addressing the good-looking young Englishman who was his guest? While surrounding that guest with every possible evidence of consideration, and a desire to make him as comfortable as possible, and to aid in his complete restoration to health, there never seemed to be any real warmth—or any desire for a closer bond between them—in the attitude of the Spaniard towards the now not much more than semi-invalid.

  At times, Josie had even detected a kind of contempt in his manner—a slight curl of the lip when being drawn into a conversation with Michael—as if he accepted him as his guest because pressure had been brought to bear on him, and not because he had really wanted him as his guest.

  And she recalled that he, too, had said something rather odd to her at their first meeting. Referring to his sister he had explained: “She has suffered in the past ... In future I wish her to make her own decisions, without interference from anyone, even members of her own family circle.’

  Had he even then suspected that Mrs. Duveen had a plan, and that Michael might fall a willing victim to it? And because of something that had happened in the past—Maria’s and Michael’s past—was he prepared at that very early stage to do nothing but frown upon the plan?

  But since their arrival at the villa Maria and Michael had seemed not to care what other people thought about their instinctive drawing to one another. They obviously found a good deal of pleasure in one another’s society, and Maria drove the doctor about in her beautiful little cream-colored coupe; when they were not driving she was walking with him in the garden, eagerly offering him her arm as a support instead of the stick he disliked. But his ankle was growing rapidly stronger, and soon he would need neither the stick nor the arm.

  While they rediscovered one another, and Michael grew fit and tanned, the marquis drove his other, and far more desirable guest from his point of view—or, rather, allowed his chauffeur to drive them—about the beautiful Costa Brava coast. Sylvia Petersen was simply born to be driven in a limousine, and the marquis’s straight-backed, uniformed chauffeur—shut off from them by a glass partition—could do nothing to interfere with the hours of splendid isolation she passed with her host.

  It was true that he frequently pressed Mrs. Duveen to accompany them on these drives, but Mrs. Duveen for some reason preferred to be left behind to be superbly lazy at the villa; and when the marquis asked Josie if she wouldn’t like to see more of the countryside—his countryside—Mrs. Duveen prevented her admitting that she would like to do so very much by saying immediately that she had rather a bad headache, and would prefer it if Josie remained with her. After that Josie continued to take the hint, and apart from accepting the use of another of the marquis’s cars to drive her into San Fernando for some essential shopping, and a solitary visit to the hairdresser, she saw little of the world beyond the villa gardens in those early days of her stay.

  But one afternoon when Don Luis arrived at the villa and found her quite alone, she listened to some persuasive talking on his part and went off with him in a slightly rakish sports car which he drove rather recklessly. She didn’t find out about the recklessness until they started off, however, and she had no idea that the car—extraordinarily dilapidated to be the property of a close relative of a marquis—didn’t possess a hood. By the time she found out it didn’t seem to matter.

  The marquis had taken the whole party off for a visit to Montserrat, and with the disappearance of his car Josie had felt more alone, and slightly forlorn, than she had ever felt in her life before. It was true that the marquis had really pressed her to accompany them.

  There was plenty of room, he had assured her. The back of the huge car took five people with ease, and there was still room for two very comfortably in the space beside the chauffeur. And they would only be six if she went with them.

  But Josie saw Sylvia Petersen’s apprehensive glance—possibly she thought it was bad enough to have Mrs. Duveen thrust upon her for the whole of the afternoon—and the thought of being wedged between her and Dona Maria, while the marquis sat on one of the occasional seats facing her (if he didn’t elect to sit beside his own chauffeur) was too much. So she gazed rather stonily at Josie, who, after all, was only someone employed by the Duveens, and Josie once again accepted the somewhat noticeable hint.

  “No, thank you,” she said, very firmly, while the marquis gazed at her with a hint of vexation in his eyes (which, however, she didn’t notice). “You will be quite crowded enough without me, and I have some letters I must write.”

  She spoke with her eyes on Michael, being made comfortable in his seat by Dona Maria, and the marquis looked over his shoulder and followed the direction of her gaze.

  “Very well,” he said, and his voice sounded unusually curt. “If that is as you would prefer, then we will go.”

  But she was a little surprised to notice that he took the seat beside his chauffeur, and he was gazing rather sternly ahead—not at all as if he were looking forward to the outing—when the big car glided away.

  CHAPTER IX

  SHE WAS still standing and trying to make up her mind to go in and begin her letters when Don Luis’ car came sweeping up the drive.

  It had once been a very bright scarlet, but it looked a little tired in the strong sunlight, although there was no doubt about its capacity for speed. The roar of its engine actually startled Josie a little when it appeared round a bend in the drive, and she was about to retreat across the terrace when Don Luis sprang out and beckoned to her.

  “Senorita!” he called. “I beg you not to disappear. I wish to show you something of our Spanish countryside.”

  He was wearing a light grey flannel suit and a flowing tie, and he looked very careless and engaging as he stood smiling down at her. Not in the least like his impeccable cousin, whose sartorial perfection alone would set him apart in any company. And however friendly he might become, he would never forget his dignity. Don Luis didn’t seem to have much use for dignity.

  “Senorita Winter—or it should be Summer,” he assured her, as he took in the picture she made in her flowered frock and misty blue cardigan, because there was a slight nip in the air this afternoon—“I will accept no excuses because I know you are alone, and my cousin has already given me permission to escort you if I wish. And I do wish,” he added.

  “Do you?” She sounded a little doubtful, until she remembered that the marquis had also mentioned to her that Don Luis might be the right type to take her about, if she felt the desire to be taken about. Recalling his actual words: “He will not presume, and he will make you quite a pleasant escort,” she suddenly felt a little reckless, thinking of the many afternoons when the marquis and Sylvia Petersen had set forth together since her arrival at the villa. And although he had promised to take her pillion-riding, he hadn’t yet fulfilled that promise.

  It seemed to her just then that it was always “someone else” who was to be responsible for her, and that only Don Luis had actually plumped for her company.

  “Very well,” she said, and she smiled up at him brightly. “So long as that car of yours doesn’t roar like a tortured thing all the time.”

  “It doesn’t,” he assured her, smiling back at her gaily. “Only in spasms. And it is a little old, so you must not think harshly of it. We will coax it along for the first mile or two, and then we will give it its head—by which time you will be used to the roar.”

  “So long as it doesn’t break down,” she remarked,
as she took her place a little gingerly beside the driving seat.

  “It will not,” he promised her. “Inez has never let me down!”

  “Inez?”

  He waved a hand to indicate the scarred red bonnet. “The companion of my lonely moments ... I have for her a great affection, as you would say in English.”

  Just before they started off she put a hand up to her head.

  “Oughtn’t I to fetch a hat?

  But Don Luis shook his head.

  “You will not need a hat,” he assured her. “The wind will merely blow your curls about, and you will look charming.” His smile apologized for the audacity of his words.

  But after they had been travelling for a mile or so Josie began to wish she had fetched a head-scarf, if not a hat. A hat would certainly not have remained on in the rush of air that came at her round the inadequate windscreen. And when they started off there had been a gentle breeze, but after the first half mile the breeze became a gale that was not entirely the result of churned-up air. The day had begun with white clouds racing across the blue of the sky, and now those clouds were joining forces and becoming one rather sombre cloud that looked as if it would shortly obliterate every little patch of blue altogether. And on their right hand, as they dived like a snake along the coast road, the sea also began to look as if its mood would shortly be very bad-tempered.

  “Later we will have rain,” Luis prophesied; “but not yet. Before the rain comes I will find a little cafe where they serve English tea, and you will eat lots of very little rich cakes such as you would not obtain in England, and we will talk and you will tell me all about yourself, and the kind of life you live when you are not making yourself useful to two people I do not very much like.”

  “You mean—Dr. and Mrs. Duveen?” one hand held up to prevent the short ends of her hair being torn from her head.