Lucy (20 page)

So Andrew told his story as the light began to fade and the smells of the dew-laden flowers crept in from the garden, mingling with the Gallic smells of cooking, wine and herbs and garlic.

There was a little silence when he had finished. He could not see his aunt’s expression in the failing light. When she did speak, she surprised him.

“Poor girl,” she said softly.

“You mean you take her part?” said Andrew angrily.

Madame de Bercy rang the bell. “Marie,” she ordered. “Light the lamps … please. Oh, and Marie …”

The maid turned in the doorway. “When was your last day off?” asked madame.

The girl replied in halting English, “Eet was one month.”

“But you should have
told
me,” said Madame de Bercy, quite shocked. “I insist you take two days off starting right now.”

“Merci, madame,”
said the maid, her face wreathed in smiles.
“Mille remerciements,”
and she bobbed and curtsied and thanked her way out of the room.

“Now, what did I do that for?” said madame crossly. “I needed her tomorrow.”

She turned briskly to her nephew. “What was I saying? Oh, yes, about Lucy. My dear boy, have you any idea of what that girl must have suffered? It must have been like being on stage every minute of the day. And if she’s as beautiful as you say, she surely could have had her pick of titles, so I can’t see why you say she was trying to annex yours.”

Andrew hesitated. “But when she wrote me that letter,” he said, “she said nothing of love.”

“She can’t think much of your character, then,” said madame briskly. “And she was right. You thought the worst, didn’t you?”

Andrew nodded his head.

“There you are! And you probably thought it was all a joke when you first found out. I’ll wager if she seemed a bit weepy that you thought it was some feminine trick. Ah! I can tell from your blush. Your education has been sadly lacking. We women are capable of just as much, if not more, suffering than men. You can console yourself with some plump little matron at a house party but what can
she
do … except of course marry someone very quickly.”

“She wouldn’t!” gasped Andrew.

“Oh, yes she would,” said his aunt comfortably. “Human nature is an eternal surprise.”

MacGregor was thinking much the same thing as he leaned back in a cane chair on the terrace of Mr. Jones’s mansion and surveyed the elegant form of his visitor.

“So, if I understand you correctly, Lady Hester, you are blackmailing me for a large sum of money. And if I don’t pay up, you will send a report about my daughter, Harriet, to all the newspapers.”

“Crudely put,” said Lady Hester, “but correct.”

“And what if I say, like the Duke of Wellington, ‘Publish and be damned’?”

“Then I’ll do just that,” said Hester, enjoying herself. “Just think what Lord Northcliff’s dreadful papers would make of it? I can see the headlines in the
Daily Mail:
‘Nun’s last fling. Socialite’s daughter breaks the bank before taking the veil.’ And then of course if it should turn out that there is no such person as Miss Harriet and that Miss Harriet is really Miss Lucy with pillows inside her dress, how much better a story!”

MacGregor looked at her from under his bushy eyebrows. “And what if I were to tell you that my daughter, whichever one it happens to be, absolutely refuses point-blank to go near another casino and that the money you are asking would ruin us and that we should have to find jobs?”

“I would say,” remarked Hester languidly, “that hard work never hurt anyone.”

MacGregor surveyed her insolently from the top of her beautifully coiffed hair to the bottom of her white kid boots. “Were the roles reversed,” he asked curiously, “and I were, in effect, driving you out into the street—would you not plead for mercy?”

“I? Don’t be silly,” said Hester. “I am not such a poor creature.”

MacGregor pulled the antique bell rope vigorously which, in its turn, pulled a small electric switch near the ceiling and sent a very modern brrrrring echoing through the house.

One of Mr. Jones’s bad-tempered footmen promptly appeared. MacGregor addressed the footman, still keeping his eyes fixed on Hester. “Jean, will you go and tell Miss Lucy to come here directly. She may bring Mister Brent with her.”

When the footman had left on his errand, MacGregor noticed cynically that Hester seemed very flustered.

She put a hand to the lace ruffles at her throat. “Jeremy! Here?”

“Exactly,” said MacGregor, “and probably on the same errand as yourself.”

The door opened and Lucy and Jeremy were ushered in. Lucy rushed to MacGregor.

“Jeremy says—Jeremy will—”

MacGregor interrupted her. “I ken exactly what Jeremy says. Sit down, the pair of you!”

Lucy sat down beside MacGregor. Jeremy joined Hester on the sofa but did not look at her.

“Now that you are all seated, it’s my turn to make a speech,” said MacGregor.

He got to his feet and, crossing the room, lifted a small attaché case from behind the sofa. “Let me just show you what I have in this box of surprises. I was expecting your visit, you see.

“Ah, here we are. By some clever dealing around the city, I managed to buy up all your bills and IOUs, Lady Hester. And yours, Brent. I want them paid now. If they are not paid immediately, I shall take possession of your homes, furniture, jewelry—in fact, everything I can turn into hard cash.”

Hester and Jeremy were both white-faced.

At last Hester whispered, “What can I do? I can’t possibly pay. How shall I live?”

“Hard work,” said MacGregor, closing the case with a snap, “never hurt anyone. Or you can commit suicide and upset everyone’s holiday the way poor Didi upset the house party. Remember your reaction to Didi’s suicide, Lady Hester? ‘What a
dead
bore, that girl is,’ you said. And then you and Jeremy, here, giggled like mad because after all she
was
dead.

“There is, however, one way out.”

“What?” gasped Hester and Jeremy together.

“You will make it your life’s work to scotch any rumors about me or my daughter …” —the sorry pair nodded vigorously as hope began to dawn—”… and you will be married as soon as possible. That will stop you from preying on other people.

“We will make the agreement legal. If you stick to it, I will not foreclose on your debts.”

“But of course we’ll do anything you say, won’t we?” said Hester to Jeremy.

Jeremy looked at MacGregor and unconsciously echoed Miss Johnstone. “You old devil,” he said between his teeth. “You know we can’t do anything else.”

“Good,” said MacGregor briskly. “You shall see my lawyer tomorrow. And may I wish you both a happy marriage.”

He was still chuckling to himself as the would-be blackmailers left the room.

“How did you know they would try to blackmail us?” asked Lucy in bewilderment.

“I can recognize an adventurer or adventuress a mile off,” said MacGregor cheerfully. “And if I can’t, who can?”

Lucy winced so he hurriedly changed the subject. She was looking peaked. The roses had left her cheeks. She could not stay immured in this monument to the British sanitary system for the rest of her days. He would take her for a walk on the beach early tomorrow when no one was about so she could wear comfortable clothes.

Lucy agreed with a bright fixed smile on her face, thinking of the last time she had worn comfortable clothes and remembering Didi whose pretty, lively ghost still seemed to haunt the windy walks of Dinard.

* * *

When Lucy woke the next morning she was aware of a great change. She lay looking at the canopy of her four-poster bed and then at the tattered and frayed curtains, wishing idly that the benevolent Mr. Jones did not have such a passion for trying to authenticate everything. There were even gunshot holes all over the woodwork, supposed to give it a genuine old worm-eaten look.

She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes and climbed down from the great bed. Then she realized what the change was. The wind was no longer buffeting and howling around the house.

She threw open the shutters and the sun poured into the room. Far below, the beautiful aquamarine sea of the Brittany coast crashed in creamy waves on the silver beach. A little of the feeling of loss and emptiness began to leave her.

Lucy hurried into her clothes, choosing a linen skirt and a striped blouse. She pulled a pair of old sandals on her feet and ran lightly along the corridor past Miss Jones’s room, so that she would not wake her.

For the incessantly grateful Miss Jones would insist on coming too, fussing over Lucy and making her wear a shawl and carry a parasol.

MacGregor was already finishing breakfast when she arrived and looked indulgent when Lucy said she was anxious to get out into the sunshine and have her own breakfast later.

They walked amiably arm in arm toward the silver strip of beach far below, the strong scent of pine reminding them both of home.

“Have you heard from your mother?” asked MacGregor.

“I had a letter two days ago,” said Lucy. “She says she forgives me and that she will take the money after all. Father wants to open a pub.”

“Now I would have thought Mrs. Balfour would have considered a public house a verra sinful business,” grinned MacGregor.

Lucy smiled back. “Father wanted to do it and he’s the only person who can talk her ‘round. They’re going to call it The Countess of Marysburgh.”

“Fancy!” said MacGregor. “I can just see the old countess knocking back the pints in the bar and probably scratching her armpits at the same time. The habits that woman has. Did I ever tell you of the time I went into her bedroom and—”

“Yes,” said Lucy hurriedly.

They had reached the beach, lying smooth and shining under the hot summer sun.

“When I was a boy,” said MacGregor, “I used to love making mysterious footsteps on a virgin bit of beach like this. Oh, daft things. For example, if we both hopped together on one foot, your wee foot next to my big one, people would wonder what kind of strange human had emerged from the ocean.”

“Let’s try,” laughed Lucy.

“All right.”

They hung on to each other and, starting at the edge of the sea, hopped up the beach together, concentrating on their footprints.

As they arrived, panting and breathless, at the edge of some scrubby hillocks of razor grass, a shadow fell across them. Both looked up. Andrew Harvey was standing on one of the hillocks looking down at them. His face was very grim and set.

MacGregor released Lucy who had begun to tremble.

Andrew took a deep breath and opened his mouth and then closed it again.

He had sworn to himself that when he saw Lucy he would throw his arms around her and beg her to marry him. He had pictured the moment. She would be sitting quietly with her sewing at the end of some long room, maybe with a harp nearby to add to the classic picture. Her dress of creamy lace would billow at her small feet. Her little dimpled fingers would drop the embroidery frame and she would take out a wisp of handkerchief and begin to cry….

He had not expected to come across a very alive girl romping on the beach in an old faded skirt and a pink-and-white-striped blouse. Her feet in the worn sandals were bare and her hands, he noticed, were strong and capable.

He suddenly felt that he did not know her at all. So he did not make any of his carefully planned speeches.

He gave a small bow and held out his arm. “May I escort you, Miss Balfour-MacGregor?” he said.

Lucy nodded wordlessly and put her small sandy hand on his arm. They moved slowly along the beach.

Andrew stopped. His heart was hammering uncomfortably and something seemed to have happened to his voice.

“Lucy,” he began, and then faltered. Those wide light-green eyes looked up into his. He gathered his courage.

“Lucy,” he said softly. “Shall we begin again?”

He caught her whispered reply of “yes,” and bent his head. Her lips were very cool and salty but they grew warmer and warmer and clung to his so that the world went spinning away as Andrew closed his eyes and folded his arms tightly around her.

MacGregor stood forgotten at the other end of the beach. He felt his responsibilities as an adopted father very strongly. They should not be kissing in that uninhibited way in full view of anyone who cared to see them. It was just not conventional.

“Oh,
bugger
the conventions,” said the irrepressible MacGregor to himself and trotted lightly as a young man, back up the cliff.

The ushers, the croupiers, and the cashiers of the famous casino at Monte Carlo shook their heads as Viscount Harvey and his pretty bride left the casino giggling helplessly with laughter and hanging on to each other. They had just lost heavily at baccarat.

“Oh, Lucy,” cried Andrew when he could speak. “Just think of it. The Highland fairies must have decided that you had money enough. You lost every single game.”

“I’m so
glad
,” said Lucy, drying her streaming eyes. “I always felt there was something devilish about my luck at cards. Now your curiosity is satisfied, my dear. I need never see another casino again.”

Andrew unfurled her parasol for her and took her arm as they strolled along in front of the hotels and cafés overlooking the Mediterranean.

“Speaking of the devil,” said Andrew, “have you heard from the MacGregor?”

“I had a postcard this morning,” said Lucy. “He is still in America and seems to be making a fortune on Wall Street. Poor MacGregor! I wonder if he will ever settle down on that bit of land in Scotland he is always dreaming about.”

“Poor MacGregor, nothing,” snorted Andrew. “He is enjoying himself. Oh, lord! Look who is coming!”

Lucy glanced quickly along the promenade and then lowered her parasol to hide her face. “It’s Jeremy,” she whispered, “and with some old woman. Quick. Lean over the rail and stare at the beach until they pass.”

Jeremy and his lady came almost abreast of them and, to Lucy and Andrew’s horror, stopped to continue their quarrel.

“How many times must I tell you,” said the woman in a waspish voice, “that you are married to
me.
I will not have you ogling silly little girls. Furthermore, you are going to go on a diet and keep regular hours. Do you hear me?”