Part 9 (1/2)
”Yes, Mr. Mallory,” she said quietly, and rang off.
The commissionaire obtained a taxi for her and soon she was on her way. She was quite calm, although the but terflies in her stomach were not to be denied. If she gave way to panic she would be lost, and she had got to conduct this interview in a manner which Barbara would approve of. She did not want to appease Barbara, but her grand mother deserved her consideration, and Patrick Mallory must be made to see that she was not to be intimidated.
High Tower Road turned out to be a row of impressive houses with bas.e.m.e.nts and at least three stories with tiny attic rooms peeping out of the roofs. She had to admit it was an attractive area and she speculated on the price of the houses.
Several thousands, she presumed. How nice it was to be affluent!
Number thirty-four had a white door and a bra.s.s knocker and she paid and dismissed the taxi driver before climbing the three stone steps. She lifted the knocker and let it fall, and then waited, nervously now, hands in the pockets of her coat.
It was quite a mild day, but Samantha was still not used to the sudden change of climate and consequently still felt cold.
She supposed she was lucky she had not developed a chill or influenza or something, considering the weather, after her life in Italy.
Suddenly, the door opened and an elderly woman stood there. She was dressed in black and was wearing a checked ap.r.o.n, so Samantha supposed she must be his house-keeper.
”I...er... I've come to see Mr. Mallory. He is expect ing me,”
she said.
The woman smiled warmly. ”Oh, yes, you must be Miss Kingsley. Come along in, miss. I'll show you to his study.' He's waiting; for you.”
The central heating of the house was a pleasant change after the cool air outside and Samantha loosened her coat, looking about her with interest.
The hall was panelled in a dark oak wood, and the carpet underfoot was a dark red. A high window above the door let in plenty of light so that the hall was not dull, but merely subdued and restful. Several doors opened from the hall, while a corridor seemed to lead along to the kit chen quarters.
A wide staircase led to the upper floors, and several paintings mounted with the panelling. Paintings of men and women, dressed in the garb of days gone by. Darkly handsome men with black eyebrows which somehow re sembled Patrick Mallory and pale, waxen-cheeked women, with children gathered about their feet.
”This way, miss,” said the housekeeper, bringing her back to earth.
Samantha smiled, and followed the woman across to a door at the far side of the hall, below the curve of the stairs.
The woman knocked, and at the sound of a low: ”Come in,”
she opened the door.
”Miss Kingsley, sir,” she said, and ushered Samantha into the room, going out herself and closing the door behind her.
Samantha felt rather like a wrongdoer up before the judge, but she straightened her back and walked decorously into the room.
It was a very attractive room. After the stark modernity of her mother's apartment, she had expected something in like manner of Patrick's house, but she could not have been more mistaken.
This room, like the hall, was panelled, but there were cases of books lining the walls and it struck her as being more in the nature of a library than a study.
The room was dominated by a ma.s.sive mahogany desk, which stood square in the centre of the russet and green carpet.
Heavy curtains of a golden-coloured velvet hung at; the tall windows, while the seating arrangements comprised deep leather armchairs with green upholstered backs that looked well used and superbly comfortable. It was a warm, light, rea.s.suring room, and only the typewriter which stood on the desk lifted one into the twen tieth century. No telephone was here to disturb anyone who happened to be working, and Samantha could imagine Patrick engrossed in his work, to the exclusion of every thing else. Everything he did he appeared to do with a single-minded approach, like this summons to her to appear before him at once.
Patrick himself rose from behind the desk to greet her, his tall, broad-shouldered body seeming to minimize the generous proportions of the room. He was dressed this morning in tight-fitting dark slacks and a light wool s.h.i.+rt of royal blue, which had long sleeves and was open at the neck, revealing the darkness of the hairs upon his tanned chest. Every part of him seemed to be darkly tanned and Samantha presumed he must have spent the whole of his holiday, for she presumed he must have been in Italy on holiday, soaking up the sun. He was so attractive to her that she found herself blus.h.i.+ng for no apparent reason and was immediately put at a disadvantage.
”h.e.l.lo,” he said, his eyes appraising. ”How are you this morning?”
Samantha toyed with the b.u.t.tons of her coat. ”I'm fine, thank you.”
”Take off your coat,” he advised easily. ”It's warm in here.
You can, you know. I won't frighten you so much that you have to make a hasty departure.”
Samantha sighed, and slipped off the coat, allowing him to take it and put it over a chair.
”That's better,” he said. ”Sit down. Would you like a cigarette? Mrs. Chesterton will bring us some coffee in a short while.”
”Thank you.” Samantha had taken the cigarette before she thought about her actions, and she glanced up at him to see whether he had been expecting any reaction from her. He merely smiled his lazy smile, and Samantha sighed and took a long draw on her cigarette, savouring the relaxation it engendered.
Patrick reseated himself, only this time it was of the opposite armchair to hers, so that his eyes were continually upon her. He had the longest eyelashes of any man she had ever seen, and at times when his lashes veiled his eyes, she was sure he was studying her through them, without her knowledge. His presence disturbed her more than she liked to admit, and deep in her stomach she felt the begin nings of the fear she was later to realize. She was beginning to like him too much! Much too much, and like was such an insipid word to apply to a man like Patrick Mallory. She was sure a woman would either love or hate him, and last night Barbara had been an example of that fact. She had hated him, for the indifference he had shown her and this morning, when Samantha got the telephone call from him she had hated him too, for forcing her hand.
Now her feelings had changed. In his presence, with his attention directed at her, she felt entirely different. His charm worked with practically anyone, she realized that now, and she was no more likely to remain immune than anyone else. It was terrible to feel this way, particularly as she knew he was simply baiting her by making her come here, and that her mother had much more chance of appealing to him in this than she had herself.
Everything about him seemed to mock and taunt her, and she moved restlessly, saying: ”Can't we get this over with? I'm sure you're simply longing to make me squirm.”
”Now why should you imagine that?” he asked mock ingly.
”Samantha, honey, we were friends on the aircraft. Or so I thought. How was I to know you would appear as the daughter of the woman I... ?” he halted.
”Go on. You what?”
Patrick smiled. ”Later. First of all, I want to know why Barbara is spreading the rumour that you've been living in Italy with a nanny, when actually you've been living with your father?
And another thing, if John Kingsley was your father, why does Barbara say he died years ago?”
Samantha ran a tongue over her dry lips. ”Well, my parents were divorced. That's the truth o
the matter. Oh, Mr. Mallory, Barbara doesn't want any adverse publicity from this. Just imagine what would happen if it was dis covered that my parents were divorced and that I had been living with my father all these years ...”
”Yes.” Patrick exhaled a cloud of smoke from his cig arette slowly. ”So. That is the reason for all this intrigue?”
”I suppose so.”
Patrick frowned. ”That still leaves something else you said.”
Samantha sought about in her mind, trying to remember what had pa.s.sed between them.
”What was it?” she asked in rather a small voice.
”You said, if I remember correctly, that you had never been in England since you were four years old. You also said that your father preferred not to do so. Now I can understand that your father might find another country more to his liking after his unfortunate experiences here, but what puzzles me is how often have you seen Barbara during these past years? It can't have been very frequently with all her commitments!”
”No, not very frequently,” replied Samantha, wis.h.i.+ng she had not got to lie to him.
”And Barbara treats you like a long-lost daughter.” He smiled sardonically. ”My G.o.d, what an actress she is! No wonder she doesn't want this broadcasting. I can imagine Martin Pryor making a beano out of it all.”
”Martin Pryor!” Samantha's eyes widened. ”Do you know him?”