Part 18 (1/2)

”Exactly. Well, now you have your house and your es tate and your wealth, but much happiness may you get from it.”

”Thank you... for nothing!”

Barbara shrugged eloquently. ”Poor empty-headed creature,” she said sneeringly. ”What have you really got?

Nothing.”

Samantha wiped her eyes. ”And what about you?”

”Me?” Barbara smiled smugly. ”I have my work and my home in London amongst my friends. And even Patrick will return from California eventually. He'll for get. Men always do.

You may have a step-papa yet.”

Samantha looked up. ”And what if I decided to tell the press of my own accord?”

Barbara shook her head confidently. ”You won't, darl ing.

You haven't got it in you to be cruel. That's why you'l never get anywhere, be anyone. Besides, think of the mem ory, of Mother, you wouldn't like all her efforts to have been in vain, now would you?”

Samantha was defeated. As Barbara had said, she would not denounce her. Not now.

Barbara walked lazily to the door. ”I'm going to dress now,”

she said. ”I think I will go back to town after all. I've... er...

done every thing I came to do, I think.”

Samantha watched her close the door and then flung herself on the bed in a paroxysm of weeping. She had been unhappy before, but this was torment. All her hopes and dreams were shattered. Even the gentle love she had had for her grandmother seemed besmirched now by her mother's ugly words and accusations. Even this house held no joy any longer. It merely seemed another effort to keep her out of Barbara's life, and silence her for ever.

After a while she sat up and dried her face. Tears were for the weak and she would be weak no longer. There was nothing she could do tonight, but tomorrow ... tomorrow she would go away.

The decision made, she felt better. She had a little money that her grandmother had given her for her per sonal use and it would be sufficient to take her wherever she decided to go.

Once there, she would find work, get a job, forget she had ever known her mother or her grand mother ... or Patrick Mallory.

But where could she go? She knew very little about Eng land and had no friends here. In Italy there was Benito but that was no good either.

Then she remembered Matilde. She had said that should she ever need help she could be contacted at her sister's in Ravenna.

Surely if she went there she could find lodgings for a while until she could get a job and lodgings of her own. After all, she spoke Italian like a native. There was nothing to stop her from going there.

She twisted her handkerchief between her fingers. She had got to think. She would ring up the airport later and see if there was a flight tomorrow. Her pa.s.sport was in order. Soon she would be away from here and all the de ceit and hatred she had known would be in the past. What did it matter that no one knew of her departure? No one cared anyway, except perhaps Emily and she was gone now. Barbara would be glad to see the back of her and Patrick.. Well, he had made it plain what he thought of her.

Barbara left without seeing her daughter again and Samantha was glad. She could not have borne another argument. She felt too strung up and scared to think straight.

For once, she was acting impulsively. All her life she had thought before doing, now she was going and she did not intend to think about it until afterwards. She would have plenty of time for thought in years to come.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was almost a week later when Patrick turned his Aston Martin between the drive gates of Daven and drove smoothly up to the house. The house looked much the same as it had done the last time he was here and he was sur prised. He had thought that Samantha would have begun clearing out the rooms, drawing back the curtains and ban is.h.i.+ng the gloom.

Instead the house looked deserted and the only smoke curling from the chimneys seemed to be coming from the kitchen quarters.

He had had plenty of time for thought during the past few days and he knew now what he had to do. Whatever Samantha's feelings in the matter they had to have a talk, a serious talk, and he wanted to know once and for all where he stood.

He had told himself frequently that she was too young for him, not only in her age but in her awareness of life, but his emotions had never been aroused like this before and he had found he could not sleep nights worrying about her.

He had left in a temper the day of the funeral, partly due to his conversation with Samantha and her implied suggestion of what his invitation had meant, and partly because of the row he had had with Barbara. He had not meant to tell her he knew about Samantha's age, but when Barbara began talking about her frustration over the es tate his temper had got the better of him.

There had been some harsh words and he had left knowing he would not be allowed to see Samantha alone while her mother was there .

During this week he had wanted to drive here many times, but he thought it would be best to give her a little time to recover from the shock of her grandmother's death. Today he had decided he could wait no longer and directly after breakfast he had driven down.

Now, seeing the house in this desolate state, he felt a sixth sense warning him that all was not well. His stomach was churning and he felt his senses tingling with an un known awareness of disaster.

He slid out of the car and stood for a moment, hands in the pockets of his overcoat looking up at the house. Then he mounted the steps and rang the bell.

It tolled mournfully around the house, and he hunched his shoulders impatiently.

He did not have very long to wait before an elderly man servant opened the door.

”Oh, Mr. Mallory!” he exclaimed in surprise. ”What can I do for you?”

Patrick frowned. ”I'd like to see Miss Samantha, if I may.”

”Miss Samantha?” The old man's eyes grew puzzled. ”But she's not here... ”

Patrick clenched his fists in the pockets of his coat. ”What do you mean, she's not here?”

”What I say, sir. She left the day after the funeral. I thought you would have known that.”

Patrick felt an acute sense of anxiety. ”No. Why should I?”

The old man shrugged. ”Well, sir, Miss Samantha said she was leaving for London, and I presumed she would be staying with her mother there. As you know Miss Harriet so well, I naturally thought...”

”I see.” Patrick swung backwards and forwards on the heel and sole of his shoes. ”And have you heard nothing since she left?”

”No, sir. Oh, forgive me, will you come in?”

Patrick hesitated. ”No, I think not. There's nothing for me here.” He felt disturbed. Barbara and Samantha would hardly be living together in the circ.u.mstances, but this old man was not to know that.

”All right,” he said at last ”Thank you.”

The man smiled, and Patrick walked slowly down the stops and slid into the driving seat of his car. Setting the car in motion, he cruised slowly down the drive and out on to the road again. All the while, his mind was actively forking, puzzling on this turn of events. There was some thing about it that was not quite right. Why would Sam antha return to London? Where would she go?

He drove through the village. It was a small, country village with a general store-c.u.m-post office comprising its whole commercial trade. There was a small hotel, the Queen's Head, and a small church.