September in Paris Read online

  “Because I haven’t anything else to do. If I cooked the meals and cleaned, I should probably be a wreck.”

  “You’d better find another zoologist to share the burden,” he said teasingly.

  After lunch Noelle gave the baby her bottle. Robert was sprawling on a rug, and presently he dropped off for his nap, the rabbit clutched to his chest. Noelle thought that Mark was also asleep.

  He was lying on his back, his arms cushioning his head, his eyes closed.

  When she had dealt with the baby, Noelle leaned back against her tree trunk and wedged her folded cardigan behind her head. It was warm, but only pleasantly so: the enervating heat of high summer was past and a cooling current of breeze stirred the grass. She must have dozed for a few minutes, for when she opened her eyes Mark had lit a cigarette and was reaching for the litre flagon of wine which they had put under a bush to keep cool. He filled two glasses, and moved over to give her one of them. He did not return to his former position but sat quite close to her, propped on one elbow, the smoke from his Gauloise drifting gently upwards. Suddenly Noelle was very conscious of his nearness. She knew that he was watching her, and, absurdly, her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the glass to her lips.

  “Did you enjoy your evening at the Crillon on Tuesday?” He spoke in an undertone so as not to disturb the sleeping children, but the question startled her and she almost spilled the wine.

  “Oh, yes. I—I didn’t see you there.”

  “I imagine not,” he said, without expression. “I passed you in the foyer.” There was a pause. Then he said, “How did you come to meet de Bressac?”

  “Oh, do you know him too?”

  “I’ve met him—and he has a reputation.”

  “His grandmother knew mine before the war,” she said. “I was going to see her that afternoon you offered to take me to Versailles.”

  Victoire whimpered in her sleep, and he waited until she had settled again before saying, “Does de Bressac want to paint you?”

  “Me?” Good heavens, no! Why on earth should you think he might?”

  Mark shrugged. His eyes were narrowed against the light, but there was no mistaking the tone in which he said, “It’s the customary gambit, I’m told.”

  Noelle stiffened. So this was not just a casual topic. “Customary?” she queried.

  “When I said he had a reputation, I didn’t mean as an artist.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “It may not apply in your case, but he’s known to have a fairly predatory approach.”

  Noelle finished her wine and put the glass on the turf. “He seemed very normal to me. I liked him.”

  “Are you seeing him again?”

  “I expect so.”

  “I think it would be wiser not to,” he said evenly.

  Noelle studied the toes of her sandals for a moment until, in an equally level tone, she said, “Don’t you think it’s a mistake to judge people by what others say about them?”

  “That depends on circumstances, and where the information comes from. In general, men don’t spread gossip for the sake of it.”

  “I think I’m old enough to make my own judgments.”

  “It isn’t a question of age, or worldly wisdom. You could have a perfectly harmless friendship with de Bressac—although I should be inclined to doubt it—but it could still have damaging side effects.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Noelle asked lightly. “Tell him that I’ve heard shocking stories, and that I’m too nice a girl to be associated with him?”

  “It isn’t a joke,” he said curtly, his mouth hard.

  Noelle felt the first spark of anger. She knew there was still time to gloss over the subject, but something drove her to say coldly, “Aren’t you being slightly Victorian? You make him sound like the wicked Sir Jasper. Well, even if he is, I’m not an innocent village maiden on the brink of ruin. Most men of his age have had a number of affairs. I daresay—” She stopped abruptly, her color rising.

  He laughed, but without amusement. “Don’t scruple to be frank, Miss Webster.”

  “All right. I was going to say that you probably have yourself,” she retorted with spirit.

  “The difference being that I’ve managed to avoid notoriety,” he said smoothly. “From this show of indignation I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve already fallen for de Bressac.”

  “Of course I haven’t!” Noelle said hotly. “It’s just that ... that I don’t believe he is an unpleasant person. It’s more than likely that the people who run him down are women who wanted to catch him.”

  “He’s no great catch,” Mark said dryly. “Apart from dabbling with painting, he lives on an allowance from his grandmother.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” she demanded.

  Robert woke up. “I’m thirsty,” he said, blinking. Noelle wiped his face and hands with a moist wash-cloth and gave him some lemonade from the vacuum flask. Then he began to fidget.

  Mark got to his feet and held out a hand. “Let’s take a walk,” he suggested.

  When they had disappeared Noelle propped her compact on the lunch basket and combed her hair. She wished she had not started an argument, but was still annoyed by Mark’s attitude.

  When they came back it was time to leave. Victoire had begun to grizzle, and Noelle found that the wine and the bright light had given her a headache.

  Back at the house, Mark carried the Moses basket upstairs.

  “Thank you very much Mr. Fielding. It was very enjoyable,” Noelle said stiffly as he lifted it on to the table.

  “I enjoyed it too.” He gave her an enigmatic glance. “Perhaps when you’ve cooled down you’ll think over what I told you.” A moment later he had gone.

  “What did Uncle Mark tell you?” Robert asked interestedly.

  Noelle controlled an impulse to throw something at the door.

  “Oh, nothing very interesting, pet. Come on, let’s get your hands washed for tea.”

  She shepherded him to the bathroom and listened to his chatter, but her mind was on Mark Fielding. She was beginning to revise her favorable opinion of him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Although the weather was still mild and sunny, the beginning of September had a noticeable effect on the city. The number of tourists in the streets began, to dwindle, the houses which had been shuttered while their occupants were on holiday came to life again. The shops began to display autumn coats and furs, and new bills were pasted on the boardings as the theatres reopened. Soon the autumn racing season would start.

  Noelle had made friends with some of the French children’s nurses in the Parc Monceau, and for several weeks, nursery topics and gossip gave place to serious discussions of the autumn collections. Everyone from cab drivers to cleaners seemed to take an interest in the new line. The stout lady in the tobacconist’s shop where Noelle sometimes bought postage stamps shook her head and mourned the passing of Dior.

  “Now, there was a true genius, mademoiselle. There is no one to equal him. Such flair! Such invention!”

  When Noelle retailed this remark to Alain—they were sitting in a pavement cafe in the Champs Elysees on her afternoon, off—he said, “But of course, petite. The haute couture is an important industry, and also gives much pleasure.”

  “Yes, but old Madame Gilles always wears sagging black crape and a hideous magenta cardigan. She’s the last person one would expect to take any interest in fashions,” Noelle pointed out. “In England the collections are considered rather a joke. People hoot with laughter at the new shapes, and most men think the whole thing is ridiculous.”

  “Ah, but in England you have never quite recovered from the Puritan regime,” he explained teasingly.

  He turned to beckon the waiter, and Noelle wondered if he really had such a bad reputation as Mark had made out. It was ridiculous of course, but now every time she was with Alain she had an oddly guilty feeling; and once or twice, when a tall, dark-haired man had appeared, she had had
to control an impulse to conceal herself. These obscure reactions puzzled her. She was used to making her own assessment of people and acting on it. Now, suddenly, someone else’s assessment was clouding her judgment.

  One evening, as Noelle was tidying up the day nursery, there was a rustling sound on the landing and Lady Tregan came in. She was dressed for a gala event and looked so magnificent that Noelle could only gaze at her.

  “Good evening, Nurse. Is Robert asleep?”

  Noelle gathered her wits. “Oh ... no, I don’t think so, madam.”

  “I always come to see him on special occasions,” Lady Tregan said smilingly. For the first time since Noelle had known her she looked gay and vivacious, and her manner was almost friendly.

  She moved to the nursery looking glass to examine her reflection for a moment. Noelle guessed that her ball dress had come from one of the great fashion houses. It was made of silver lame and moulded to her figure like a second skin, the clinging lines accentuated by a gauzy silver-green overskirt that floated out from the hipline in a shimmering cloud. Diamond and emerald pendants hung from her ears, and an emerald clip was fastened at the vee of her décolletage. Long gloves of supple white kid sheathed her arms.

  “You look wonderful, madam,” Noelle said impulsively.

  “Thank you, Nurse. I think it is quite a success. It is a Balenciaga from the new collection.” Lady Tregan turned towards Robert’s room, and the shimmer of the silver tissue reminded Noelle of a dragonfly flashing across a quiet pool.

  When Robert saw his mother his eyes grew very wide and his mouth opened in an O of wonderment. But when he stretched out his chubby hands to her, Lady Tregan drew back.

  “No, darling. You must not touch.”

  Afterwards, when she had gone, 'Robert said, “Maman looks just like a fairy, doesn’t she?”

  Noelle tucked him in and turned out the lamp. Later, when it was darker outside, she would come in and open the curtains.

  “Yes, pet, just like a fairy,” she agreed. But she could not help thinking that a mother who could be hugged and rumpled, and who never minded if small hands might be sticky, was preferable to a glamorous fashion-plate who could only be admired from a distance.

  After the baby’s last feed Noelle sat mending for a while. She had got ready for bed, but felt disinclined to sleep.' She wondered where the Tregans had gone, and imagined all the beautiful women and distinguished men who would be there.

  At eleven she brushed her teeth and went to bed. But she couldn’t sleep. The alarm clock ticked gently on the locker, but its steady rhythm was more irritating than soothing. She had the feeling that all over Paris people were dining and dancing and enjoying themselves, and that she was the only person who was shut away in a darkened room. It was almost midnight when, still wide awake and restless, she flung back the clothes and slipped into her dressing gown! Perhaps if she crept down to the library and found something to read it would help her to drop off.

  The door to the main part of the house creaked as she opened it. Bright moonlight streaming through the landing windows made it unnecessary to switch on the lights.

  It was not until she reached the foot of the staircase and turned towards the library that Noelle saw the splinter of light showing beneath the door. She paused. With the exception of Lady Tregan’s personal maid, it seemed probable that the rest of the staff were in bed. Perhaps whoever did the last round of the house had forgotten to switch off a lamp.

  She moved forward, but a noise made her halt again. It came again, and she recognized the sound as that of a drawer being opened. Suddenly she stiffened. A few days ago the morning newspaper, Figaro, had carried an account of a burglary on the Rue de Courcelles. It had been the second theft in that neighborhood within the past fortnight, and both robberies had been committed while the owners of the houses were at social functions. Now, with a shiver of alarm, she wondered if the same thing was happening here. The Rue de Courcelles was only a few streets away. Whatever event the Tregans were attending had probably been publicised beforehand, and it would have been simple for a thief to ascertain that the house would be empty tonight. Perhaps there was a safe in the library and he had also discovered that.

  Her thoughts whirled. Should she telephone the police from the drawing room? Or call Madame Duvet and Michel? Supposing the thief was armed? Better phone the police. Holding her breath, she turned back to the stairs. There was probably a telephone in one of the other ground-floor rooms, but she would never find it in the dark. She would have to slip up to the drawing room and hope the man did not make his getaway until help arrived.

  But before she had taken two steps, there was a slight click and the light disappeared. Noelle’s heart plunged, and she shrank behind a tall lacquer cabinet that stood against the wall. Had he entered by a window, or would he come into the hall to search the other rooms? Supposing he heard her frightened breathing or saw the whiteness of her pyjamas below the hem of her robe?

  At that moment two things happened. She heard the library door open, and at the same instant the moonlight dimmed. There was still enough light for the main outlines of the hall to be distinguishable, but not enough to reveal someone hiding in the shadows—if they kept absolutely still. As the light footsteps came towards the cabinet Noelle went rigid with fear. It seemed to her that her heart was thudding so loudly that the beats must be audible all over the house.

  The man came into view, passed her, then halted. He appeared to be wearing a raincoat and to be fastening some kind of case. She could hear the rustle of paper and the chink of a buckle. He seemed in no hurry, and as she stared at his tall shadowed form; less than two yards away from her, she saw a glint of metal and heard the click of a cigarette case being opened. Would he sense her presence? Any second now she would have to let out her breath. There was the rasp of a lighter, but no spark. He flicked it again, and in that fraction of time Noelle acted. The moonlight was brightening again, and just to her left, within reach of her outstretched arm, was an Empire console with two silver candlesticks upon it. Noelle stretched out her hand, grasped the nearer stick by its narrow stem, tensed and sprang.

  He must have heard her movement a second before she reached him. Her arm was raised to strike him when he side-stepped, turned and grabbed her upthrust wrist. There was a resounding crash as the candlestick hit the parquet, and then she was struggling to free herself from two powerful hands.

  “Noelle! For Pete’s sake...”

  For an instant the voice didn’t register and she went on twisting and straining. Then suddenly she went limp.

  “What the devil are you up to?” Mark said sharply, loosening his grip, on her arms.

  “I ... I thought you were a burglar.” She could hardly get the words out, and her knees sagged.

  His hands tightened again and he peered down at her. “My God, you could have split my skull. Here, hold on a moment.” He moved away, and suddenly the hall was full of light.

  Noelle shut her eyes. She was beginning to shake and felt sick.

  “What are you doing down here?” Mark was beside her again, his hand on her shoulder.

  She must have looked even worse than she felt, for without waiting for an answer he slid an arm round her waist and said quietly, “Come and sit down for a minute.”

  She was sitting on a hall chair and trying to recover herself when Lady Tregan’s maid came running down the stairs.

  “Oh, whatever has happened, m’sieur? That dreadful crash! It frightened me half out of my, wits. Mon dieu. The candlestick. I must call Madame Duvet.”

  “Now calm down, Colette. There’s no need to panic,” Mark said evenly. “If you want to be helpful, go and get a glass of brandy for Miss. Webster.”

  “Oh, poor miss! She is fainting!” Colette flung up her hands, then dashed into the library in a flurry of exclamations.

  Noelle stood up. “I’m not fainting at all. I’m perfectly all right,” she said shakily.

  “Sit down.” Mark pushed he
r back into the chair and stood over her.

  Colette came back with the brandy. “Ah, what an evening! First, madame’s gown is delayed. Then Mademoiselle du Val mislays her pearls. And now this! I tell you, m’sieur, it was the most alarming experience. As you know, I always wait up for madame on these occasions, and there I was, sitting quietly in the boudoir with my sewing, when suddenly there is this terrible noise as if the house were falling in. I—”

  “Yes, it must have been a shock, Colette,” Marie cut in tersely. “But there’s nothing more you can do, so you may as well go back upstairs.”

  “But, m’sieur—what am I to tell madame? This candlestick! It is ruined.”

  “It can be mended. I’ll explain to Lady Tregan tomorrow. There’s no need to alarm her when she comes home,” he said firmly.

  Colette looked curiously at Noelle, then back to Mark. “Very well, m’sieur. But it all seems very strange.” With obvious reluctance she turned away to the staircase.

  Mark glanced at Noelle. The spirit had restored some color to her cheeks and she was no longer trembling.

  “Come in here,” he said, indicating the library. Noelle did as he bade her. Her nerves were still taut, and she felt sapped of all energy, but she could move steadily now and the nausea had gone.

  In the library Mark snapped on an electric fire and moved it close to the couch.

  “I’ll have a drink myself. I wasn’t expecting to be ambushed,” he said dryly.

  She sat on the edge of the couch and watched him pour a drink from the cut-glass decanter.

  “I might have killed you,” she whispered huskily.

  “Well, you didn’t,” he said cheerfully. “Feeling better now?”

  Noelle nodded. Seeing him now in the light, she wondered how, she could possibly have mistaken him for a burglar.

  Mark took off his raincoat and sat down. He was in full evening dress with a row of medal ribbons on his coat. He straightened his white pique tie, lit a cigarette and leaned back.

  “Now what made you think I was a burglar?” he enquired with a glimmer of amusement.