Shadow of the Moon Page 18

  Mrs Gardener-Smith, who was distantly related to a peer, had an inflated opinion of her own consequence; but on hearing that Mrs Abuthnot was acting as chaperon to a young lady of title, a cousin of the Earl of Ware and the affianced wife of the Commissioner of Lunjore, she had hastened to make her acquaintance. She pronounced Lottie to be a sweet girl and Sophie a charming child, but she had not known what to make of the young Condesa de los Aguilares, and like others before her, Mrs Gardener-Smith could see little to admire in the girl’s unusual beauty.

  ‘Her father was a Spaniard, you say? It is a pity that she should be so sallow - and have such very black hair. And those eyes! I fear such colouring will be misunderstood in the East. It is almost oriental, is it not? She looks to be very reserved.’

  ‘I think she is shy,’ said kindly Mrs Abuthnot. ‘The poor little thing is an orphan, you know. But she is a dear child, and does not push herself forward at all. In my opinion Mr Barton is a singularly fortunate man.’

  There were others who were of the same opinion, but they were exclusively male. Winter’s unusual style of beauty might not appeal to Mrs Gardener-Smith, but it was very much to the taste of the male passengers on board the steamship Sirius, and in particular to Colonel Moulson.

  Colonel Moulson was a bachelor and a lover of women, and he fancied himself as a connoisseur of female charms. He had been a rake in his youth, and had managed in later years to purchase what he could no longer obtain by his own merits - a fact that his vanity would not allow him to admit. Advancing years had given him a taste for youth, and no young girl was safe from his ogling gaze and the sly pattings and pressures of his sinewy hands. Lottie and Sophie, who were too shy and inexperienced to know how to avoid his amorously-avuncular advances, were terrified of him. But Winter’s cool dark eyes had a way of looking through him that he found more than a little disconcerting, though as the affianced wife of one of his greatest friends he felt, he informed her, a special responsibility towards her.

  Winter could only be surprised that such an unlikable man should be a friend of Conway’s, but she concluded that Conway must of necessity, and in the course of his official duties, remain on friendly terms with many people whom he would not choose as friends in a private capacity. For Conway’s sake she tried to be as polite as possible to Colonel Frederick Moulson, and it was an easy enough matter to avoid being left alone in his company, there being a great many other men on board who were only too ready to make themselves agreeable to the young Condesa.

  There was, indeed, only one gentleman who appeared entirely uninterested in her. Captain Randall had not addressed more than a dozen words to her since her emergence from her cabin, and during the succeeding days, while the Sirius sailed southward through blue seas and the passengers spent the greater part of the day in sociable converse in the shade of the awnings, although he made himself pleasant to Mrs Abuthnot and won golden opinions from that warm-hearted lady, he never made one of the group who surrounded Mr Barton’s betrothed, and Winter came to the conclusion that he was deliberately avoiding her.

  The discovery filled her with a vague feeling of resentment, and she was forced to remind herself yet again that this man had spoken against Conway, and that had he not kept his distance she herself would have been compelled to avoid his society. The fact that he had come to her rescue during the early stages of the voygage, and had treated her with a casual familiarity that could only have been socially excusable had she been his sister, should not be allowed to weigh in the balance against his disloyalty. Captain Randall had obviously realized this, and therefore kept out of her way; which was understandable. What was not understandable was why she should resent it. She found herself covertly watching him and comparing him, to his disadvantage, with Conway.

  Alex Randall was slim and deeply tanned and undeniably good-looking. His rather hard grey eyes were fringed with black lashes as long as her own, and though he was not much above medium height (while the Conway of her memories was exceptionally tall) his slimness and grace of carriage conveyed an impression of more inches than he possessed. But Conway - blue-eyed and blondly handsome - was of a size to make Alex Randall appear insignificant by contrast, and his luxuriant corn-gold moustache enhanced his masculine beauty and compared most favourably with Captain Randall’s unfashionably clean-shaven countenance. Conway was also greathearted and the soul of chivalry, and he would have scorned to speak against a man behind his back as Captain Randall had done.

  Nevertheless, that irrational feeling of resentment remained. He might at least speak to her! After all, had he not been deputed to look to her comfort and safety? Mrs Abuthnot was more than kind, there was no Cousin Julia to criticize or correct her, and she should have been perfectly happy. But the fact remained that she was not. Despite the kindness of her new-found friends and the attentions of her fellow-passengers, she was troubled by vague and unformulated doubts and fears and a haunting sense of insecurity. She did not understand herself, despised herself for her inability to shake off the restlessness and uncertainty that possessed her, and continued to watch Captain Randall with feelings that wavered between resentment and unwilling curiosity.

  She had encountered him one evening in the dark passageway that led to the cabins, and he had stood aside to let her pass. Winter drew back her hooped skirts, for the passage was narrow, and was about to pass him when she changed her mind and stopped. Her crinoline, released, brushed the walls of the passage on either side and effectually prevented Captain Randall from moving.

  She said hesitantly: ‘I - I never thanked you for - for your help. It was most kind of you, and - and I would not wish you to think me ungrateful.’

  Alex bowed but he did not speak. A sudden colour tinged Winter’s pale cheeks and she said abruptly, her voice unexpectedly breathless: ‘I am sorry about - striking you with my whip. It was unforgivable of me.’

  ‘But entirely understandable,’ said Alex gravely.

  She waited, expecting him to apologize for the words he had said that day: confident, now that she had given him the opening, that he would retract them, or at least admit that he should not have spoken as he had; but he remained silent.

  The colour deepened in Winter’s cheeks and her chin lifted haughtily. She gathered up her wide skirts, and as she did so the ship heeled to a sudden fresh breath of the evening wind that blew off Spain, and threw her against him. For a brief moment his arms held her, and once again she was conscious of that warm sense of safety that she had experienced before on the first morning of the voyage. She lifted her head from his shoulder and saw that his eyes held a glint of something that was uncommonly like anger. Then he had set her on her feet again and walked quickly away.

  After that Winter made no further attempt to speak to him. She acknowledged his occasional brief civilities with even briefer replies, and found no difficulty in ignoring him.

  9

  The Sirius was to make a short stay at Malta, and the majority of the passengers had arranged to put up at hotels on shore as a welcome change from the cramped conditions on board. But engine-trouble having delayed their arrival by some hours, the moon had already risen by the time the Sirius steamed into the Quarantine Harbour.

  Mrs Abuthnot had been inclined, owing to the lateness of the hour, to remain on board, but the earnest entreaties of her daughters had finally prevailed upon her to leave, and presently, in company with others from the ship, they were cautiously entering one of the gondola-like harbour boats and being rowed across the dark waters to the landing stage. Supper and rooms were in readiness for them at the Imperial Hotel, and at the conclusion of the meal Mrs Abuthnot had decreed an immediate withdrawal to bed.

  Once again Winter found herself sharing a room with Lottie. But although it was late, she also found that she had no desire for sleep. It was wonderful to be on shore again and to feel solid ground under her feet in place of the uneasy decks of the Sirius; to smell the scent of flowers and earth instead of the salt winds and the mixed
aromas of shipboard. The very air of the hot, semi-tropical night called to the Southern blood in her, and she made no attempt to prepare for bed.

  Their room was stone-floored and bare of unnecessary furniture, and led out onto an arcade that surrounded an open courtyard where tropical plants grew in lush profusion. The outer door stood open onto the black shadow of the arcade and the moonlight beyond, and Winter pushed aside the heavy curtain that hung over it and looked out into the night.

  On the far side of the courtyard an orange point of light and a faint smell of cigar smoke betrayed the presence of a tall young man who leant against a stone pillar. Winter studied him for a moment or two and then spoke softly over her shoulder:

  ‘Lottie—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How much do you like Mr English?’

  There was a small gasp from Lottie. ‘Winter! How can you? … Why, I— Of course he is very agreeable, but Mama says—’

  ‘He is out there now: in the courtyard. Watching this room.’

  There was a swift rustle behind her and Lottie was at her elbow, breathing a little quickly.

  Winter said: ‘I do not think there could be any harm in your going out to … to look at the flowers? They are very beautiful.’

  Lottie said breathlessly: ‘Oh, no … I could not!’

  ‘Why not? Your mother has nothing against Mr English, has she? I heard her telling Mrs Gardener-Smith that he was a very nice-mannered young man and a relation of the Grimwood-Tempests.’

  ‘No,’ said Lottie unhappily, ‘Mama has nothing against him, only …’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘She … Mama thinks that I am too young to know my own mind where - where gentlemen are concerned. She says that I shall have many opportunities of meeting other and - and more eligible gentlemen in the near future, and she does not wish me to fix my interest until … until I have had that opportunity.’

  ‘And what do you think? Do you think that meeting other men will make you change your mind, Lottie?’

  There was a brief silence. Then: ‘No!’ said Lottie with soft vehemence. ‘No. But Mama will not permit me to speak to him other than in her company, and - and I could not go out there. It would be shockingly forward and un-ladylike in me to do so.’

  Winter did not reply for a moment or two. Then she said reflectively: ‘Someone, only the other day, gave me a piece of advice. He - they - said that common sense was nearly always preferable to a slavish regard for the conventions. I have often thought about that since, and it seems to me a very sensible view. I am sure it would be most unconventional of you to walk in the courtyard.’

  ‘Mama - Mama would see …’

  ‘But her bedroom does not face this way,’ pointed out Winter. She turned her head and looked at Lottie, and then quite suddenly she laughed; a soft gay laugh. ‘No, Lottie, you are quite right of course. You ought not to go. I don’t know what can have come over me tonight: I am trying to lead you into temptation, and you should say, “Get thee behind me, Satan,” and say your prayers and go to bed. And one day you will marry some vastly eligible gentleman of immense fortune, and say to yourself, “Oh, what a narrow escape I had in Malta"!’

  ‘Is that common sense?’ inquired Lottie with an answering laugh.

  ‘I think so,’ said Winter soberly. ‘I am not sure.’

  ‘But I am,’ said Lottie. ‘Quite, quite sure.’ She brushed Winter’s cheek with swift warm lips and slipped past her and out into the darkness of the arcade.

  Winter saw her move out of the shadows and into the bright moonlight, and saw the tall figure at the far side of the courtyard start forward: then a tangle of oleanders hid them from her view. Winter laughed again, but the laugh broke off in a sigh. She dropped the curtain and turned back into the room, but the sight of the plain iron bedstead with its shroud of mosquito-netting did not incline her to sleep, and the hot night and the white moonlight called to her with a restless urgency.

  On a sudden impulse she pulled up her wide skirts and unfastened her hooped crinoline. It fell on the stone floor with a click of whalebone and she stepped out of it, and having fetched a black lace shawl from among the few belongings that she had brought with her from the ship, threw this over her head, and gathering up the trailing skirts of her mourning dress, tiptoed quietly out into the night.

  The arcade was a tunnel of shadow broken at intervals by warm squares of light from other windows and doors that looked out onto it. There were several stone benches against the walls, one of which appeared to be occupied, and Winter trusted that Lieutenant English was making good use of his time. She herself did not intend to remain in the courtyard, and a few minutes later, having met no one except a few loitering and sleepy servants, she was clear of the hotel and hurrying down a narrow shadow-barred street.

  There were not many people abroad on that hot night, and those who were did not turn their heads to see her pass. Once a roistering party of passengers off a ship from Southampton passed her singing: ‘Polly, won’t you try me, Oh!’ in faulty harmony, and once a group of men in the uniform of the 47th Highland Regiment reeled down a side street, arms interlocked, roaring out the haunting, heart-tearing melody of the ‘Skye Boat Song’ - that lament for lost dreams and lost hopes and the lost cause of Charlie … Charlie the darling, the young Chevalier.

  The narrow street gave place to a silent square dotted with trees and overlooked by secretive shuttered houses with covered balconies and flat stone roofs, and Winter crossed it keeping to the shadows and avoiding the occasional late idler, her thin slippers making no sound in the warm dust. A cascade of scented creeper, its colour indistinguishable in the moonlight, tumbled over a high wall beyond which the tops of orange trees and two tall cypresses showed dark against the moon-washed sky, and a twisted fig tree leaned against it in an angle of a buttress. Winter paused beside the tree, eyeing it speculatively. It made an admirable ladder, and a moment later, laughing and a little breathless, she had reached the broad top of the wall.

  There was a garden on the other side, evidently belonging to a large private house that lay beyond a line of aloes and a cluster of orange trees on the far side of a wide lawn. The garden was full of trees, flowers and shadows, and the night was so quiet that Winter could still hear the faint sound of voices singing the ‘Skye Boat Song’, and from nearer at hand, in the house beyond the aloes, someone playing a plaintive melody full of odd, unexpected breaks and quavers on a guitar, and singing to its accompaniment in a language that was unknown to her.

  Beyond the quiet garden the flat-topped houses fell away to the harbour, and between the tree-tops and the jostling roofs she could see the shining floor of the Mediterranean. The smells of the South rose up about her, and the hot night was still and white and wonderful, and mysterious with the mystery that permeates every Southern night.

  Winter drew a long breath of rapture and settled herself in the shadows of the fig tree, leaning back against a convenient bough that stretched parallel to the top of the wall, and screened on three sides by broad leaves and a tangle of creeper. Something that had been closed and frozen inside her was awake and stirring, as though a tightly furled bud had felt the first warm breath of summer and was slowly unfurling. The ice of the cold years at Ware was melting from about her heart, and the blood of young Marcos de Ballesteros awoke and sang in his daughter’s veins.

  The lights in the houses were extinguished one by one, and as the moon sank the shadows in the garden lengthened and changed their shape, and a huge white moth, attracted by the scent of the flowering creeper, whirred out of the night and hovered within reach of Winter’s hand.

  The singer in the house behind the aloes and the orange trees had ceased his song and the night was strangely silent. So silent that Winter could hear the pattering of hooves of a small herd of goats that wandered across the deserted square, and the soft footsteps of someone who walked quietly towards her. She heard the footsteps come to a stop at the foot of the aged fig tree, and a mo
ment later there was a scraping sound and the branch against which she leant shook slightly, sending a scatter of fading blossoms from the hanging masses of the creeper showering down onto her lap. Someone was climbing the fig tree as she herself had climbed it …

  Winter shrank back into the shelter of the leaves and sat quite still, holding her breath. Her black dress with its powdering of fallen flowers merged with the shadows, and it was evident that the man who swung himself up onto the wall almost within reach of her hand had not seen her. He wore a dark shapeless garment that might have been a closely wrapped cloak, and though she could not see his face she could hear the sound of his quickened breathing. Through the thin screen of leaves that lay between them she saw him lean forward as though to look into the garden below, then he dropped lightly down into the shelter of a tangle of oleanders and geraniums that grew against the wall beneath him, moved to the left, and appeared to melt into the moonlight.

  There was no further sound, but Winter was convinced that he was still somewhere close at hand. Was he a thief, intent on breaking into the house to which the garden belonged? Or was there perhaps some Maltese Juliet awaiting her Romeo among the shadows of the orange trees? This was certainly a night for love and lovers, yet there had been something about that silent, swiftly moving figure that had sent a cold tremor down Winter’s spine, and she did not move hand or foot for fear that even the slightest movement might attract the hidden man’s attention. Then a door opened in the house beyond the aloes and the orange trees, and a square of warm light glowed against the hard black and silver of the night.

  Winter drew a breath of relief and was tempted to laugh at herself. The man who had come over the wall had obviously skirted the garden and knocked on the door of the house, and there could be nothing sinister about anyone who performed such an action. She could already hear a subdued murmur of voices from the direction of that open door, and presently she heard the sound of footsteps on a stone-flagged path. A moment or two later three men moved out of the sharp-pointed shadows of the aloes and advanced across the garden