The Sun and Catriona Page 9

  But she was haunted by the disapproval in a pair of dark, masculine eyes, and by the memory of Peter Vilhena’s voice. She could imagine what he would say to her if Toni’s little entanglement got out of hand. He would be angry, because he was so sure it was the wrong, thing for Toni, and he might be right.

  Anyway, she didn’t want him to be angry with her. The sudden realisation hit her as if somebody had slapped her face, and she stood stock still in the middle of the dance floor, seriously upsetting Paolo’s execution of a new step. It couldn’t, be ... it couldn’t really be that she cared what Peter thought of her. She remembered him as he had been when she first saw him in England—his arrogance, his conceit, his indifference to the feelings of other people, and then she thought about his behaviour since her arrival in Malta. He didn’t really see her as a human being. To him, she was just an employee, someone who had been engaged to take charge of his stepsister. In an abstracted mood he had driven her up on to the cliffs without even recollecting that she was beside him in the car. Then, for no reason, he had kissed her, thinking obviously of someone else, and that had been the final insult.

  Furiously, she bit her lip. What on earth had she been doing all evening? What had made her believe that she had some sort of duty to spy on Toni?

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, smiling brilliantly at Paolo. ‘I just remembered something, that’s all. It wasn’t important.’

  Two hours later the guests began to disperse and Catriona told Paolo firmly that it was time she thought about going too. Several times during the last hour he had suggested that she might like to go for a reviving walk in the garden, but on some pretext or other she had firmly resisted every such suggestion. Now he looked down at her ruefully.

  ‘You are going so soon? When shall I see you again?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m very busy, really. I have two jobs to do.’

  ‘I shall come and watch you paint.’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t know where I’ll be.’

  ‘I’ll find you.’

  ‘All right,’ she said lightly, ‘I’ll look out for you. And now I must look for Antoinette.’

  ‘Why? Antoinette can take care of herself.’

  ‘Maybe. But at the moment she’s my responsibility, and we have to go.’ Catriona glanced round the long room, now nearly empty of people, and made the discovery that Toni was definitely nowhere to be seen. Hurrying to one of the long windows, she looked out across the terrace. A conscientious manservant was already extinguishing fairy-lights, and the band was packing up. Two or three couples were giggling hysterically near the parapet that overlooked the lights of Sliema, but Toni wasn’t with them, and Catriona felt sudden panic spreading through her. It was all very well to have decided not to spy on Toni, but losing her was quite another matter. Where on earth could she have got to?

  She turned round, to find Paolo close behind her. ‘I can’t find Antoinette,’ she said, her voice clear and taut with anxiety.

  He shrugged. ‘Why worry? Maybe one of her boyfriends took her home.’

  ‘I wasn’t supposed to let her out of my sight.’ As soon as the words had left her lips she realised that they made her sound like a downtrodden Victorian governess, but it was true, all the same, and she felt guilty. She was, after all, being paid to do a job, and she had let her employer down. If she had no intention of earning her salary she ought not to be here, in Malta, collecting shelter and payment from the brother of Antoinette Caruana.

  She became aware of the fact that Gina was beside her now, and that she was looking a little anxious.

  ‘You must not worry, Catriona. I am sure she is safe. Old Mario is waiting to drive you home, and I expect when you get back to Valletta you will find her already there.’

  ‘Are you sure she’s not here?’ Catriona looked around her with a hint of desperation, almost as if she suspected the existence of a secret panel.

  ‘Yes, I am sure.’ The Maltese girl smiled in what was meant to be a reassuring manner. ‘Perhaps she was dancing with someone, and—and it was so hot this evening. He may have said “Let’s go for a drive—” ’

  ‘Well, who would it have been, do you think?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Gina shrugged a little uneasily.

  Feeling angry and frustrated, Catriona hesitated. It would be so simple just to ask about Vittorio Falzon—to find out whether he had been among the guests. Yet she couldn’t do anything of the kind without revealing that she knew of a link between Vittorio and Toni, and that would involve the betrayal of a confidence.

  She looked from Gina to her brother, and back again. ‘Well, thanks for a lovely evening. I suppose I’d better just go back to Valletta and see what happens.’

  Paolo accompanied her to the small gravelled area where cars had been left, and she tried not to sound impatient as she dealt with his repeated enquiries about the possibility of seeing her again soon. Mario had probably spent part of the evening, at least, in the kitchens of the Villa, but he was now back in the Citroen’s driving seat, and as Catriona approached he sprang out smartly to open a door for her.

  ‘Mario,’ she asked, ‘have you see Miss Antoinette?’

  He stroked his bare grey head. ‘No, signorina.’

  ‘They say she may have let someone take her home, but perhaps we ought not to go until we’re sure.’

  He shrugged. ‘If she is not here, then she has gone home, signorina.’

  Catriona hoped sincerely that he was right. She climbed into the car, and reluctantly Paolo closed the door on her. Smoothly they swung out of the car park and into the tortuous streets of old Sliema, and ten minutes later they were back at Palazzo Vilhena.

  A lantern burned above the front entrance, but otherwise the whole building appeared to be in darkness, possibly because most of the windows were shuttered. Catriona sprang out of the car, hurriedly thanking Mario, but when she tried to open the massive door she discovered, as she might have expected, that it was locked.

  Still hovering, Mario indicated an electric bell. ‘You must ring, signurina.’

  She did so, and a few moments later the door swung inwards, opened by Carmen. Thankfully, Catriona said goodnight to Mario and stepped inside.

  In the darkened passageway she gazed anxiously at the maid. ‘Miss Antoinette—has she come back yet?’

  ‘Si, signurina, half an hour ago. She asked me to get her a cup of chocolate, and then she went to bed.’ Carmen looked curious. ‘You had a nice evening, signurina? Can I get you something?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Catriona felt swamped by the relief surging over her. ‘I’ll—I’ll be going up to bed, too. Goodnight, Carmen.’

  ‘Goodnight, signorina.’

  Too discreet to betray any further curiosity, the maid melted away, leaving Catriona alone. The lamp beneath the image of the Virgin burned very brightly now, and its glow was somehow comforting. She leant against the door, feeling herself relax.

  How stupid she had been! Probably Toni had had a headache, and rather than spoil the evening for her English friend she had just asked someone to drive her home quietly. It could easily have been as simple as that.

  Poor Toni.

  Giving herself a little shake, Catriona began to move towards the doorway leading to the long hall. Then, abruptly, a door on the other side of the passage opened. It was the door leading to the Count’s inner sanctum, and it was Peter himself who was standing on the threshold.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Count Vilhena stood watching her in the glow cast by the tiny lamp. ‘Good evening,’ he said at last.

  ‘Good evening.’ Catriona felt awkward, guilty, like a schoolgirl caught creeping in after ‘lights out’.

  ‘I am glad to see that Mario brought you home, safely. You have just got in?’

  ‘Yes.’ When, she wondered, was he going to start making enquiries about Toni?

  He was still studying her, and though his face was in shadow she could feel the disapproval in his eyes. ‘Antoinette came in half an h
our ago,’ he told her suddenly. ‘I understand she was brought back by a friend. Someone she played with as a child.’

  Catriona turned towards him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began. ‘I didn’t intend—I really meant to keep an eye on her.’

  He bowed slightly. ‘I am sure you did. She came to no harm, in any case. I was not too worried about the Sciberras’ party. They are an excellent family—my father knew them well. When Gina and Paolo entertain there is always, I believe, discreet supervision.’

  Catriona could not remember noticing anything suggestive of parental surveillance, but the evening had certainly been well organised.

  ‘It was a very nice party,’ she said at last. In spite of the fact that Toni seemed to be in the clear, disapproval was still there, strong in his voice, and it made her feel uneasy.

  ‘So I understand. At least, I am told that you found it enjoyable. When Antoinette left, apparently, you were having what she terms a “good time”.’

  ‘Oh! But I wasn’t, really. I mean...’ She flushed. ‘It wasn’t quite my kind of party.’

  ‘Ah! And what is your kind of party?’ There was a note of interest in his voice which she had never heard before.

  ‘I don’t know, really. I like to talk, and listen to music.’

  ‘You don’t like to dance?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes, but I suppose it depends mainly on the people you’re with. That kind of thing.’

  ‘I see.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And you didn’t like the people you were with to-night.?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ What on earth was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she just say something noncommittal? Why, with him, did she always have to be so awkward?

  ‘You certainly sound rather flat,’ he observed dryly. ‘We shall have to find some sort of entertainment that appeals to you.’

  ‘The party was fun. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’ She took a step forward, and was about to say ‘goodnight’ when he spoke again.

  ‘Come and have coffee with me.’

  Catriona hesitated. A pulse at the base of her throat began to throb, and she moistened her lips. ‘It’s rather late, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but I’d like to talk to you.’

  She swallowed, trying to curb an absurd sensation of panic. Obviously, he was in a relaxed mood which she had never known with him before. With an effort, she forced herself to say calmly: ‘Thanks, I ... I’d like a coffee.’

  ‘Good.’ He stood aside, and she walked past him into the small, square room that he used as an office. As usual, the desk was littered with papers, and he seemed to have been working hard. Seeing him now, in a stronger light, she realised that he looked tired.

  For the first time she noticed that there was a large oil painting on the wall above the desk, and she went over to study it more closely. The picture showed a small yacht, all sails set, driven before the wind and riding the crest of a wave. Behind, a great expanse of sky blazed with stormy light, and there was no land to be seen.

  He walked over to the bell and pressed it. ‘The painting interests you?’ he asked.

  She nodded, slowly. ‘Yes, it’s remarkable. Do you know who the artist was? There’s no signature.’

  ‘The artist is dead,’ he said shortly.

  Catriona didn’t understand the note in his voice, and when she turned to look at him she was puzzled by the tightness about his mouth. She wanted to ask more about the painting, but every instinct told her that it would be better not to do so.

  When Carmen appeared he asked her to bring coffee, and as she left the room he once again directed his cool stare at Catriona.

  ‘Sit down.’ He gestured towards the only comfortable-looking chair in the room, a wicker rocking-chair that looked as if it might have been made on the island.

  She obeyed, but instantly regretted doing so, for he remained standing and she felt at a ridiculous disadvantage.

  ‘You look rather apprehensive,’ he observed. ‘Or at least, you did when you came in just now.’

  She tried to laugh. ‘I’m not apprehensive. Why should I be?’

  ‘I can’t answer that. I just feel that you have a tendency to regard me as a gazelle regards a prowling lion.’

  ‘I don’t see myself as a gazelle.’

  ‘I don’t see myself as a prowling lion, but the rest of the world tends to think differently, sometimes.’ When Carmen returned he instructed her to place the small silver coffee tray beside Catriona, and after the maid had gone he suggested that she should pour out. As she did so, she recollected that it was not the first time she had poured coffee in front of him. She remembered that evening at the Calverley Hotel.

  She saw him give a slight smile. ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘you’re not going to pour it over me.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ she protested, filling her own cup with fingers that, in spite of her efforts, refused to steady themselves.

  ‘Nevertheless, I do seem to have the most unfortunate effect on your approach to a coffee-pot.’ He sat down on a corner of the desk. ‘So you don’t like noisy parties. What do you like?’

  ‘I thought I told you,’ she said. The coffee was strong and stimulating, and as she sipped it she felt better.

  ‘I think you described the kind of social gathering you find congenial, but that’s not quite what I’m talking about. You say you are fond of people, conversation ... music. Do you find that these things make life worth while?’

  ‘Not by themselves. Of course not.’

  ‘So what does, in your estimation?’

  ‘That’s a big question.’

  ‘Yes. But you see, I’m curious about you. So strong, so independent.’ He turned and glanced at the painting behind him. ‘As you will have noticed, that yacht is struggling against heavy seas. Wind, water—everything is against her. Human life is like that, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I suppose it is, a bit,’ Catriona answered cautiously. ‘Though it’s true that for some people the weather always seems to be calm.’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘But you are not one of those people, I think. You are always prepared. Your defences are carefully co-ordinated. You are braced against the storm.’

  There was silence for several seconds.

  ‘That sounds dreadful,’ she said, trying to speak lightly. ‘I’ll have to do something about my image.’

  He studied her intently. ‘Where are your parents?’ he asked.

  ‘My father is dead. My mother’s in the Philippines ... I think. She—married again.’

  ‘I see.’ His voice was suddenly soft. ‘And how long is it since you were left to fend entirely for yourself?’

  ‘Not very long. I stayed at school until I was eighteen, you see. My grandparents’ trust fund paid for that.’

  ‘How old were you when your father died and your mother remarried?’

  He was cross-examining her, but she hadn’t the will to protest. Besides, there was a strange gentleness in his voice and in his manner.

  ‘Daddy died when I was fourteen, but my mother was already—they separated two years before that.’

  She dragged the words out, her voice husky.

  ‘You were very young when these things happened. Did you not find it hard to carry on?’

  Catriona shook her head. ‘Not really. Everyone has the strength to carry on, especially when they’re young.’

  ‘If we exert strength,’ he pointed out, ‘it’s usually for a purpose.’

  She looked at him. ‘Well, there always is a purpose. Life itself—that’s enough, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ he asked. “Life is very sweet, brother ... who would wish to die—Of course, it was a country man of yours who wrote those words. But life is not always sweet.’

  ‘Well, when it isn’t one just has to have faith,’ she said quietly. ‘Sometimes, of course, things can seem pretty black, but when that happens you just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Then—one day—you look around and realise you’ve
left the bad things right behind you. And sometimes the good things are just coming up over the horizon.’

  ‘What happens if one has lost one’s ability to appreciate the good things?’

  ‘I don’t believe one ever does. Of course, it’s possible to be stunned for a while, but then...’ She broke off, embarrassed. ‘I don’t know why you’re asking me all this. I ... you can’t possibly want to know what I think, and it’s getting very late...’ She stood up, as she did so absentmindedly gathering up the tray. After a moment, Peter also got to his feet.

  ‘I asked you because I wanted to know.’ He took the tray from her and set it down on his desk among the tumbled papers. ‘You had better avoid coffeepots in future—they seem to have a strange effect on you. Your hands are trembling again.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said, avoiding his eyes.

  He reached out and took one of her hands. Holding it between both of his own, he began to study the slim, capable fingers, the short, well-manicured nails. A strange feeling ran through her, almost like an electric shock, and her fingers began to tremble in earnest. She snatched them away and quickly, to cover her embarrassment, she mentioned Toni.

  ‘I ... I think I ought to go and see her. Just for a moment.’

  ‘Antoinette, I should imagine, has been asleep for an hour.’

  Catriona forced herself to look up at him, and found herself looking straight into his eyes. They were as dark as the night beyond the windows, black and velvety, and not for the first time she had the uncanny feeling that he could see into the depths of her soul. For a long moment they gazed at one another, and she felt herself held by a magnetic power so strong that she could not bring herself to look away.

  Then, somewhere, a clock began chiming twelve, and quite suddenly he turned away. He began to sift through the papers on his desk, and when he did speak his voice was casual.

  ‘Tomorrow morning I shall be going to Gozo. You know where that is?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a small island to the north of Malta.’

  ‘That’s right, our sister island. By Maltese tradition, the brightest jewel in the crown of the Mediterranean. The crown, of course, being Malta herself.’ He frowned abstractedly at a document lying in front of him. ‘I have a small boatyard over there, and it’s time I carried out a personal tour of inspection. If you like, you could go with me.’