The Japanese Screen. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
anger against you.’
Susannah linked her fingers tightly together. ‘If you have any cause for complaint about my behaviour—’
Lucie shook her head impatiently. ‘No, no. Have I not just said I am sorry?’ She half turned. ‘I gather from Eduardo that you have had an enjoyable day.’
Susannah quelled the urge to tell Lucie Castana exactly what she thought of her as she caught sight of Eduardo’s concerned face. He was not ignorant of what had so nearly occurred, and there was appeal as well as anxiety in his eyes.
‘We had a – very enjoyable day, señora,’ she conceded at last, in expressionless tones.
Lucie studied her profile for a few moments and then walked towards the door. ‘So – we will forget this unpleasantness, si?’ she requested, unable to leave without gaining some sort of assurance from the girl.
Susannah made an indifferent movement of her shoulders. ‘Very well, señora,’ she agreed without enthusiasm, and Lucie had to be content with that.
Eduardo went to bed at seven o’clock and usually after this Susannah’s time was her own. Occasionally, when the Castanas were having a party, they asked her to remain in her rooms in case the boy needed her, but these occasions were not frequent.
Susannah herself did not go out a lot. She liked plays and sometimes a film, and if she was invited to a concert she enjoyed that very much, but she had no regular routine. Her friends were mostly girls from the training college she had attended, and although one or two of them were now married and introduced her to lots of suitable young men, she had no steady boy-friend. She was in no hurry to get married. Her background had not endeared the opposite sex to her, knowing as she did that her mother had been abandoned by her father when he found that she was pregnant. Or at least, that was her interpretation of her mother’s incapacity to care for her herself.
That evening, Susannah changed out of her formal skirt and blouse, donned an old pair of jeans and a chunky sweater, and settled down with the novel she had been reading for the past few evenings. It was a saga of family life in Cornwall at the turn of the century and up until now had inspired her interest. But this evening she found it hard to concentrate on imaginary characters when her mind kept wandering back over the real events of the day. She had no intention of accepting Fernando Cuevas’s invitation to dinner. She had been employed as a governess long enough to know that getting involved with either a member of the family or with a friend of a member of that family was simply asking for trouble. When she had worked for the American family, the Taylors, she had had plenty of opportunities, but she had learned her lesson well. Now she knew better than to cultivate relationships which in her position could only cause difficulties.
All the same, that did not stop her from thinking about him. He was the most attractive man she had ever met and although he did not possess the even good looks people referred to as handsome there was something disturbingly magnetic about deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes, a lean intelligent face, and smooth dark hair that appeared to need none of the oily hairdressing so loved by other Latin men she had met. She wondered how old he was – possibly between thirty-five and forty, but she couldn’t be sure. He didn’t look old, but the experience in his eyes betrayed an awareness not evident in the eyes of a younger man. She wondered why he had asked her to dine with him. What possible motive could he have? She didn’t believe his statement about enjoying talking to her, and she was not conceited enough to imagine that he might be attracted by her appearance. It would have been quite an experience, she acknowledged truthfully, but experiences sometimes required a payment she was not prepared to give.
The following day it crossed her mind that she really ought to ask Señora Castana for Señor Cuevas’ telephone number while he was here in London and ring and explain that she would not be meeting him that evening. But discretion got the better of valour. To bring up such a thing would only create more trouble, and she decided that if he did come to meet her and she did not turn up that would be that.
But as the day drew towards evening she had second thoughts. What if, when she did not go to meet him, he came to the house? What would she do then? What could she do? And how incensed Lucie Castana would be!
She put Eduardo to bed at seven o’clock as usual, said good night, and went to her own rooms. Señor Castana was due home tomorrow and Señora Castana had told her that she intended having an early night. There was no reason why she should not slip out of the house, meet Señor Cuevas and explain, and be back indoors again before anyone noticed her absence.
The decision made, she changed out of her uniform into a pair of rather shabby red velvet pants and a cream ribbed sweater, leaving her hair in the coronet of plaits she had worn all day. At five minutes to eight she left the house, not bothering with a coat but throwing a thigh-length cream cardigan about her shoulders.
It was a mild evening and the birds were still making a loud noise in the small park across the way. There were few people about. This small terrace of elegant town houses was occupied by a section of the community to whom walking was something one only did on the golf course, so she met no one she knew as she hurried towards the corner. There was no sign of Fernando Cuevas and unreasonably her heart sank. What did it matter? she asked herself impatiently. If he didn’t turn up, all the better. It would save her having to go into unnecessary explanations.
Reaching the end of the street, she looked up and down the wider thoroughfare beyond, but there was no one around who looked the slightest bit like the lean dark Spaniard she had come to meet. She sighed and consulted the broad masculine watch on her slim wrist. It was only just eight o’clock. He might conceivably be late. Traffic in London at this hour of the evening was notoriously unreliable, and it was quite easy to get trapped in a jam.
She drew her cardigan closer about her, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She might as well wait a few minutes. If only to satisfy herself that she had been wasting her time.
‘Good evening, Miss King!’
The quiet words spoken somewhere near her ear startled her almost out of her wits and she swung round on her heels staring in amazement at the man who was standing just behind her. He was quite close and she could smell a faint aroma of an after-shaving lotion. He was casually dressed in a tawny-coloured lounge suit and a roll-collared silk shirt that clung to the contours of his chest as he moved. His eyes dropped the length of her body in a swift appraising motion and then returned to her face again as he smiled approvingly.
‘I am glad you have dressed informally,’ he said. ‘I was afraid you might take my invitation to mean a dinner jacket affair.’
Susannah gathered herself. ‘No, no, you don’t understand, señor. I – I didn’t come to meet you, at least – not to go out with you.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What is that supposed to mean, señorita?’
Susannah folded the sleeves of her cardigan around her arms. I can’t dine with you, señor. I’m sorry. I tried to make it plain yesterday afternoon, but Señora Castana interrupted me, and—’
‘Basta!’ He cut her off with an impatient ejaculation. ‘Why can you not dine with me? You are here. You are ready. Where is the difficulty?’
Susannah gasped, ‘I’m not ready. Not like this!’
‘You look perfectly satisfactory to me.’ He shook his head. ‘Why did you come to meet me if you did not wish to dine with me?’
Susannah shrugged. ‘I – I was afraid you might come to the house. I didn’t want to cause any more – upset.’
‘With whom? Señora Castana?’
‘Does it matter?’ She moved a little away from him. ‘I’m very flattered, of course, but I don’t accept invitations from friends of my employers.’
Fernando Cuevas put out a hand and caught her upper arm preventing her further progress, his fingers hard and compelling. ‘Why not? Do your employers forbid it? Do they subject you to a very subtle form of moral blackmail?’
Susannah