The Sun and Catriona Page 4

  Leaning farther out, she turned her head to the right and saw that the narrow side street sloped steeply downwards. At the far end, she glimpsed the slender campanile of a church, and beyond the campanile a pencil-like shaft of blue betrayed the nearness of the sea. It didn’t look as if it could be more than half a mile away, and she remembered what Toni had said: Valletta was built on a peninsula.

  More than anything she wanted to explore, to slip into a pair of old jeans and go for a walk, but that wasn’t possible. When she looked at her watch she saw that it was now well past seven o’clock. She had to freshen up and change for dinner, and before doing that she needed to unpack.

  Catriona’s scanty wardrobe had not been improved by incarceration in a tightly packed suitcase. As she began putting things away in the vast hanging cupboard provided for the purpose, she realised, with a shock, that she had hardly anything suitable to wear. In England clothes had not presented any particular problem, and since she had recently purchased one or two summery items, she had imagined, when she packed that morning, that she was fairly well equipped for Malta. Now, for the very first time in her life, she felt almost ashamed of her own skimpy belongings. She only had a couple of crumpled cotton dresses, three pairs of jeans and a small selection of severely practical shirts and tops. None of it seemed exactly suitable for life in an aristocratic Maltese household. She didn’t buy expensive clothes—she had never been able to afford them—and she didn’t even own a pair of evening shoes. At least half her luggage was composed of painting equipment and as she looked at it, piled up in a corner of the room, she felt, just for a moment, faintly desperate.

  Then she took a firm grip of herself. She was a struggling artist, not a member of the jet set. At the moment, she didn’t spend money on clothes because she had priorities that were more important, and that wasn’t going to change. Not just because she had entered the employment of Peter Vilhena, anyway. In the morning she might go out and buy another dress—perhaps a skirt too, and a top to go with it. But that would be her limit. She wasn’t trying to compete with Antoinette.

  Inspecting the blue, sleeveless dress that was her only possible choice for evening, she told herself firmly that there was nothing wrong with it. It was rather plain, but it had cost quite a lot more than anything else she possessed and it suited her. It had suffered badly in transit, and she wished that she had an iron, or at least that she had the courage to ring the bell and ask for one. The bell was beside her bed, and for a moment she almost pressed it, but then her nerve failed her. In her own way the maid was as well turned out as Toni. What on earth would she be likely to think of a girl who arrived from England with practically nothing to wear?

  In the end, she resorted to the simple expedient of hanging the dress beside a window, and by the time she had taken a shower in the tiny bathroom adjoining her room it was beginning to recover fairly well. She brushed her hair and applied a little make-up, at the same time studying her reflection critically. In England the summer had been wet, and she hadn’t acquired any tan at all, but now she noticed that on the way from the airport her nose had come into contact with too much sunshine and the fair, sensitive skin had reacted angrily. It was red and sore, but there was almost nothing she could do about it. Desperately she wondered if there might be some way she could camouflage the damage. It looked so dreadful. Then she suddenly caught herself up.

  Did a thing like that really matter? Why was she getting so nervous about her appearance? Who was she trying to impress? Certainly not Count Vilhena. She told herself that she couldn’t care less what he thought of her.

  Cautiously she dabbed her nose with foundation cream, and the burnt area became a little less noticeable. After all, it was the sort of thing that could happen to anybody. By the time she was ready to go downstairs the blue dress had lost most of its creases and she decided that, on the whole, she didn’t look too bad. In any case, it was doubtful whether anyone would even notice her.

  Quietly she opened her bedroom door and stepped out into a gallery that seemed to run the entire length of the house. On the way up, attended by Carmen, she hadn’t noticed very much, but now she saw that the walls were adorned with pikes and cutlasses, halberds and rapiers. They were souvenirs, presumably, of Malta’s colourful history. Feeling that she ought to walk on tiptoe, she slipped along the gallery to the head of the uncarpeted marble staircase, her sandals making no sound as she crept downstairs.

  In the long hall at the bottom she lingered again, gazing around her in awe. Though there was little furniture in sight, the walls were lined with portraits—a long succession of black-eyed men and women. There were Renaissance nobles in doublets of crimson, priests with thin, ascetic faces, veiled women whose white fingers were heavy with rings. All of them, she supposed, were members of the Vilhena family, wealthy, proud Maltese aristocrats.

  They made her shiver and she turned away from them quickly. At one end of the hall a door opened into the passageway through which she had entered the house, and she hurried through it. She could hear the sound of voices. There seemed to be several of them and she guessed that they came from the courtyard. Though not usually shy, or particularly nervous, she felt a sudden urge to take flight.

  But she knew she couldn’t do that. Whoever these people were, she had to join them. Drawing a deep breath, she walked through the passage into the courtyard.

  Between the fountain and some hibiscus bushes a table and chairs had been set out and in the scented coolness she saw a small group of people were enjoying aperitifs. Peter Vilhena was standing beside the fountain, his right hand caressing the head of a magnificent borzoi, and it occurred to her that he looked rather sombre. He didn’t seem to be taking much part in the conversation.

  Toni, wearing a glamorous sarong-style evening dress, was curled up on a pile of cushions in the shadow of the orange-tree. Her hair was hanging loose, cascading down her back, and heavy gold bangles weighted her wrists. She looked like a figure from the Arabian Nights.

  But it wasn’t Toni, or even her brother, who drew and held Catriona’s attention. It was the third member of the group, a strikingly beautiful woman who was clad dramatically in scarlet.

  Feeling more uncertain than she had ever felt in her entire adult life, Catriona stood hovering in the shadow of the archway. By comparison with the two women reclining in graceful attitudes in front of her she was going to look little more than ridiculous, and for the second time she began to consider seriously the possibility of retreat. Then Toni caught sight of her.

  ‘Catriona ... come and join us!’

  All three heads turned in her direction, and Peter Vilhena accorded her an almost imperceptible bow.

  She felt herself flushing, but with a determined effort she went forward to join them.

  ‘Have a drink, Miss Browne.’ There was no expression whatsoever on the Count’s face, but, she felt certain, nevertheless, that he was taking in every detail of her appearance.

  Toni sent a friendly smile in her direction. ‘Have a lemonade, if you don’t want anything stronger,’ she suggested. With an expressive gesture, she indicated the other woman present. ‘This is Jacqueline Calleja. She is a friend of my brother’s. I have been telling her about you.’

  The scarlet beauty nodded graciously. She had perfect classical features, and the most beautiful brown eyes Catriona had ever seen, more striking even than Toni’s. Her thick black hair had been twisted into gleaming plaits that coiled themselves around her head, and her mouth, like her dress, was flame-coloured.

  ‘Hello,’ said Catriona. She was beginning to wish that the ground would open and devour her, complete with the blue dress.

  The vivid lips parted, smiling. ‘But what a pity. Your luggage has not arrived, Miss Browne?’

  Catriona felt as if the-sunburn on her nose were spreading all over her body. ‘I ... my luggage is here,’ she confessed awkwardly. ‘I didn’t bring much with me.’

  ‘Ah!’ Jacqueline Calleja smiled again. Sh
e gave the impression that she understood perfectly.

  Toni intervened. ‘The climate is so different here, and she hasn’t had time to buy anything yet—we whisked her away at a moment’s notice. It was too bad, but I’ll take her shopping in the morning.’ She collected some more cushions, and made them into a second pile. ‘Come and sit here, Catriona.’

  Still on fire with humiliation, Catriona sank gratefully on to the cushions. Then she saw that the Count was bending over her, holding out a glass.

  ‘Iced lime-juice, with lemonade,’ he said quietly. ‘You will find it quite innocuous. Of course, if you would prefer something stronger...’

  She shook her head hastily. ‘No. Thank you, that looks lovely.’ As she took the drink from him, she noticed the strength in his lean brown fingers, and when they brushed lightly against her own she felt as if his controlled energy sent a shock through her body. At the same time, in some strange way the contact seemed to calm her, and involuntarily she glanced up at him. But he had already moved away and was leaning against the fountain, paying no attention to her. The Borzoi had lain down at his feet.

  ‘Jacqueline is having dinner with us,’ Toni said brightly. ‘She is a television actress, and she’s going to tell us about her work.’

  ‘Not only television, darling.’ Jacqueline sounded slightly piqued. ‘I do take other parts as well, and my ambition is to be a very serious actress. I shall soon be playing in Twelfth Night ... I’m to be Olivia. I know an English director who says that part could have been written for me.’

  The Count set his glass down beside the fountain. ‘On stage,’ he remarked dryly, ‘one beautiful woman is very much like another. It is in real life that her theatrical ability is put to the test.’

  ‘Peter!’ The husky, heavily accented voice was reproving and indulgent at the same time. ‘You should not say things like that. Do you mean that we are always acting for your benefit?’

  He looked down at the top of her gleaming head. ‘Nearly always,’ he said lightly. ‘Some women, of course, are more talented than others, and consequently their performance is better—more convincing.’

  Somewhere in the depths of the old stone house a gong began to boom. Toni jumped up at once. ‘Let’s go in, I’m so hungry.’

  They dined in a quiet, white-walled room overlooking the street. As dusk began to fall, softly shaded lamps were lit and candles were placed on the table in front of them, but despite the approach of night it was still oppressively warm inside the house, and several electric fans whirred monotonously. Far off in the city a convent bell was tolling and Catriona began to feel that nothing was quite real. Could it be true that she had started the day in Berkshire—that only twenty-four hours ago she had been waiting at table in the dining-room of the Calverley Hotel? It was the sort of thing that only happened in novels. It was all too much to take in.

  They ate stuffed aubergines, followed by salmon cooked in white wine, and Jacqueline obligingly kept her promise to tell them all about her work. She seemed to lead a busy life, and to be very much in demand. Watching her lovely, exotic face, following her graceful gestures, listening to her seductive voice, Catriona decided that there was one role she would fill to perfection—and that was the role of Countess Vilhena. It was a part, too, that she obviously wanted. As she sat at Peter’s right hand, her back to a shadowy portrait, her eyes sparkling in the candle-glow, she looked so staggeringly perfect that it was hardly surprising her host seemed to find difficulty in dragging his eyes away from her.

  Catriona thought that surely it could not be long before he made up his mind. He had, it seemed, extensive business interests, mainly connected with boat-building, and he didn’t appear to allow himself much free time, but he probably wouldn’t find it difficult to make room in his life for Jacqueline. They would suit one another very well. She found them both almost equally infuriating.

  As for the crazy idea that she had been steadied by the touch of his fingers—well, that was something she had imagined. She was probably more tired than she realised.

  At last they reached the coffee stage, and Jacqueline drew her chair back. She looked at Peter beneath her lashes.

  ‘Darling, it’s very sad, but I must go.’

  He leant back in his chair, tapping lightly on the table. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because there is a party I must not miss.’ She shrugged, and stood up. ‘I would not bother about it, but it is a family celebration—my sister’s wedding anniversary. You know, she has been married for twelve years.’

  The Count’s brow puckered. ‘No, I did not know. You must forgive me, Jacqueline. I had forgotten that you had a sister old enough to have reached such a milestone.’

  She looked down at him. With one beautifully manicured finger she touched his hand as it lay on the table. ‘I didn’t say anything earlier because I thought it would spoil dinner. I know you wouldn’t want to go with me, darling.’

  ‘No.’ He looked at the slender finger still caressing the fine dark hairs on the back of his hand. ‘No.’ he repeated abruptly. ‘You were right.’

  ‘Ah, well, never mind.’ She smiled brightly. Then her glance fell on Toni, and an idea seemed to strike her. ‘Antoinette, you’re not doing anything? Not tonight?’

  Toni looked at her eagerly. ‘No...’

  ‘Well then, you must come with me.’ She turned to the Count, her eyes full of appeal. ‘Let her come. It will be a very respectable party.’

  Peter Vilhena glanced at his sister. ‘You may go if you wish. You will be safe with Jacqueline.’

  Toni’s eyes lit, and for a moment Catriona thought she was going to kiss her brother, but if any such idea did pass through her head she dismissed it. Instead, she said:

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, Peter!’

  To Catriona’s relief the invitation obviously did not extend to her. She saw Toni looking at her anxiously, and knew that the other girl would have liked to press for her inclusion. But it would clearly have been difficult for Jacqueline Calleja to envisage the possibility of treating a paid employee as an equal.

  When they had gone she lingered for a moment in the courtyard, under the far-off night sky. There were thousands of stars overhead, and she supposed the same stars were looking down on England, even if, at the moment, they might be hidden behind rain-clouds, and yet her own familiar world seemed light years away. It was as if she had crashed through a magic barrier into some other dimension, and her old life had been left behind. All at once she felt lonely and rather flat, and that shook her, because she was used to being alone.

  On the way up to her bedroom she passed the door that led to Peter Vilhena’s study. A light glowed beneath it, and she wondered what he was doing. She imagined him sitting at the big desk in the corner, his dark head bent, and she wondered whether he was thinking of Jacqueline.

  Upstairs, she wrote a short letter to the elderly aunt who was her only surviving relative, and then she got into bed. Her windows were wide open now, to the starlit night, and when she closed her eyes it seemed to her that she could hear the soft breathing of the city. But she hadn’t lost her feeling of isolation, and even in sleep she could not escape from it. She began to dream that she was alone in a small boat, drifting helplessly on unfamiliar seas, without even a compass to guide her. It was night, in her dream, and she seemed to see nothing but the faint glow of star-shine, reflected on the surface of still waters. There was no land in sight, and she knew that there wasn’t going to be.

  When she had been asleep for three or four hours, she awoke with a start to find that someone was tapping softly at her door. Lifting herself on one elbow, she switched on the bedside lamp, then reached for the towelling dressing-gown that she had left lying across the foot of the bed.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called sharply.

  The door opened, and a head appeared. ‘Catriona—? Are you awake?’

  Catriona sat up in bed. According to her watch, it was ten past two. ‘What’s the matter?’ she a
sked in bewilderment.

  Toni closed the door soundlessly and danced across the room to perch on the end of the bed.

  ‘I’m sorry, did I really wake you up? I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful party it was. It’s a shame you didn’t go.’

  ‘I didn’t feel much like going to a party,’ Catriona told her honestly. ‘Not tonight.’ She yawned, and wondered whether the other girl made a habit of rousing people from sleep every time she felt the urge to talk. ‘I’m glad you had fun, anyway. Were there many people there?’

  ‘Not really.’ Toni’s eyes were very bright, and there was a peach-coloured flush in her cheeks. ‘It was just a lovely party, that’s all.’ She sighed dreamily. ‘Jacqueline’s sister lives in the Old City. It’s beautiful up there.’

  ‘I thought this was the old city,’ Catriona objected, feeling an unreasoning antipathy towards Jacqueline’s sister.

  ‘It isn’t as old as Mdina. We’ll be going up there one day soon, and then you’ll understand. There’s nothing quite like it anywhere else in the world.’ Humming softly beneath her breath, she got up and drifted over to the dressing-table. Gazing into, the mirror, she gathered her hair into a coil and wound it around her head. ‘What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Does it make me look older?’

  Abandoning all hope of getting back to sleep within the foreseeable future, Catriona thought the matter over. ‘Why do you want to look older?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh—I don’t know.’ Toni’s colour deepened a little. ‘People take you more seriously, don’t they? If you’re not just a schoolgirl.’