THE GLASS CASTLEViolet WinspearA woman's mind is a jungle

Heron Brooks recalled Edwin Trequair's words and what he'd said afterward. It's the one jungle in which a man should never get lost.

Why, then, had he asked her to marry him? And why had she accepted? True, she'd be living in the fabulous house she had loved all her life ... but there had to be more to a marriage than mere comfort.

Yet her feelings for him were more of fear and curiosity than any other emotion. How could she hope to make him a successful wife?CHAPTER ONEHeron knew he was looking at her. She could feel his gaze upon her red hair and her pale hands upon the keys of the black piano. He was tall and lean, with the heavy-lidded eyes of a hawk, and she knew from her cousin Sybil with whom she was staying at Memory that he was a man of means who had recently bought a house high on the Turret, the steep hill that overlooked the estuary.Because Heron was usually a girl of composure she didnt like the feeling he gave her of trying to bend her will to his, so that she would look up from the keyboard and betray her awareness of him. He seemed so arrogant that he didnt bother to make small talk with the other guests at the party. It would be ridiculous to suppose him shy when he was so well-tailored, so much a man of discernment that he refused the champagne and drank Uncle Sauls best brandy.She smiled reluctantly to herself, and then turned her head in the other direction as a young man spoke her name. Heron, play some Chaminade! A pretty girl shouldnt play music composed by a man like Liszt. His passionate nature will do you no good.Fool! she retorted, but because he watched she gave Ben an extra fond smile. He was supposed to be in love with Sybil, but these days young men seemed to flirt with love rather than to burn with it.Im old fashioned! The thought amazed her, for to all outward appearances she knew herself to look the height of modernity. Id like love to be like a shock of lightning; a bolt from heaven; an eagle-like thing, tearing my heart and feeding on my soul.The realization was good for the music and she played as never before. The applause was gratifying. Usually at a party nobody bothered to notice the entertainer, but Uncle Saul had paid for her music lessons and it seemed only fair to repay him by showing the party guests what a dutiful and grateful niece he had.Dont you think our Heron plays champion? she heard her uncle say jovially to the tall individual with the gaze of a banker who rarely gave credit. Thats quite a drop of brandy, eh, Mr. Trequair? Bought up the contents of an old lords cellar and that bonded Napoleon was included.You were fortunateand do call me Edwin. The voice was cultured, sure of itself. That of a man who didnt care a rap what a mere girl thought of his opinion of her talents. He would know all about music, and all about living, and to let him know that she had overheard her uncles remark she ran her hands along the keyboard in a frilly finale to her performance. Then she jumped to her feet before he could pass an opinion and made for the terrace beyond the open French windows. It was a soft night and several couples were out in the garden swaying to their own inner rhythms of youth and longing. Heron ran down the steps between the balustrades that were like wide-stretched arms to the lawn. The silver tips of her shoes darted through the grass to the edge of the lake that was broken into a thousand gleaming ripples by the moon.When she was a child and this had been her fathers house, Heron had fallen into the lake. She always remembered the occasion whenever she came to stay at Memory as a guest. Someone had dived in and brought her out, a thin, youthful employee of her fathers who, after handing her over to her parents wet and howling, had slipped away before he could be properly thanked for saving her life. She never recalled seeing him again; the years had slipped away, but a house called Memory could not help but bring back memories.The lawn was cut close as a thick carpet and footfalls were silenced on its pile ... Heron almost fell again into the lake when a voice spoke suddenly above her head. You need not have been afraid that I found your playing that of a pretty dilettante.Afraid? She whirled to face the man and temper flashed in her grey eyes as they met his eyes in the moonlight. Do you imagine I care tuppence what you think of me?A subtle slip of the tongue, Miss Brooks. I was referring to your musical ability, not your person. But if you would like my opinion on that?No, thanks! She tossed her head and the moonlight set shimmering the hair that was more rose-gold than the red described by people when discussing Heron Brooks, the only child of a man who had gone bankrupt of money and life when his wife had died of one of those fatal illnesses that sometimes befall angelic women.Ill be a heathen! Heron had sobbed the words when they had told her at school, and she knew she had been kept from her mothers bedside by that distant man, her father. Distant as the stars now, both of them, yet when she looked angrily at this guest of Uncle Sauls she had the curious feeling that her parents were close by, and she shivered, and clutched her own arms, as if they were wet with water.Shall I fetch your wrap? He had sharp eyes, and fingers that came swiftly to the pleated silk of her dress, softly shaped to a young figure lightly clad beneath the silk.NoIm all right. Its a fine nightthe lake is very still.It appears to be still, he said, but beneath the surface there are secrets in hiding, and reeds that whisper together of things past.Are you trying to unnerve me? Heron drew delicately away from him, with an instinctive awareness of being in some sort of peril from this dark stranger who seemed so out of place at the birthday party of a carefree girl like her cousin Sybil. He was older than the young men who had been invited, and here in the light of that golden, almost gothic moon he seemed very tall and saturnine ... the moonlight slanted on to his face and showed her what she had not dared to look at in the drawing-room where the lights were more cruelly bright. He was deeply scarred from his left eyebrow to his jaw, and the mutilation made him seem more sinister, suggesting things in his life which she had only read about in books, or heard spoken of in whispers. He had gambled on four continents, people said, before settling down to respectable business in the East Indies. Someone, somewhere, had awaited him in the dark and ruined with a sharp knife what once had been a classic profile.I am sure I do unnerve you. When he lifted his cigar and drew upon it, a gleam of pure mockery showed itself in his eyes, as if his sole purpose in coming to this party had been to select a girl upon whom to practise his diabolic charm ... Heron resented being his choice, for she had heard the rumours which had followed him to the Glass Castle, the fantastic Victorian house which had been built long ago for a Northern wool merchant with more money to spend than any real taste in architecture.Heron was puzzled that Edwin Trequair should buy such a house ... unless the rumours were true and he had a mysterious wife whom he kept under lock and key at the Glass Castle.He looked the sort who might regard women as mere objects of idle amusement, or displeasure, and Herons temper began to smoulder. She was very much a girl of independence, who took a pride in being good at her job. She worked as clerk to a woman barrister at Temple Court in London, and was not amused at being picked upon by this saturnine East Indies man and told she was nervous of him. She was nettled by his casual elegance in a single-breasted dinner jacket worn with a silk evening shirt; she desired to prick his self-confidence.Do you always assume that you know everything about people youve only just met? she asked coldly. Youre a stranger to me and I dont presume to know your feelings ... in fact I dont presume to know anything about you.That is hardly a true statement, Miss Brooks. He spoke quite deliberately, and fixed her grey eyes with his, as if for years he had dominated people with just a look. I am sure your pretty cousin has regaled you with tales about my mysterious past, and the exotic Eastern mistress whom I keep locked up in my Glass Castle.Is the woman your mistress? Heron flashed. I heard she was your wife There she broke off and flushed to the roots of her red hair as Edwin Trequair gave a laugh that was like a softly rasping purr in his throat.You should beware of your redheads temper, he said, for it will always lead you headlong into the blushing truth unless you learn to control it. My dear Miss Brooks, I have no wife, nor have I a mistress under the roof of my Castle. Really, the things young girls will talk about when they get their heads together, and they manage to look so sweet and innocent even as all this lurid speculation is going on in their curious minds. Out in the East they say that the mind of a woman is a jungle, and it is the one jungle in which a man should never get lost.How interesting, Heron rejoined. I suppose the mind of a man is a perfectly controlled highway, with all his logical thoughts speeding along the track without a single hitch. No wonder men are so complacent ... and boring!Which I take to mean that you have not yet found a man who sparks you off ... as I believe the expression used to be? Having been out of England for a good many years I am no longer conversant with the slang of courtship. I imagine, in fact, that even courtship is out of fashion in this age of the permissive female. You would pick on the female to blame, said Heron.She is to blame, Miss Brooks, for men have always been promiscuous.Im glad to hear you admit it. Heron pulled her gaze from his and looked at the great splashes of moonlight on the lake. The light of the moon was also on her own figure, setting off the air of delicate distinction which some people took for a cool reserve, so that she was less popular with people than her cousin Sybil and yet was warmer at heart than her grey eyes revealed. In some measure her childhood had helped to make her wary of giving away the affections locked up inside her; her father had adored her mother too much to be able to transfer that love to Heron when she alone was left to him. And so she had grown up knowing that it hurt to love too much. It was better to be in control of your feelings, and so as a young woman she had a self-contained air that was deceptive. She wore a finely woven armour that no man had yet penetrated ... even her classic hairstyle added to the illusion that she was not to be ruffled or shaken by the hand of a mere man.You gaze at this lake as if it holds a great fascination for you, said Edwin Trequair. All the other girls at the party are gazing into the eyes of a young man and seeing there the mystery and the promise which you seem to see in the lake of Memory.Oh, Im not like other girls. She gave her slightly husky laugh. My cousin says Im a changeling because I fell into the lake as a child and I almost died there. Sybil says I listen with my eyes when I come here, as if Im searching for something I lost all those years ago. Sybil is rather like her name and not nearly as giddy as she appears. Her mother was sister to my mother, you see, and so were close cousins rather than kissing cousins.You dont kiss frequently, Miss Brooks?No! She gave him a rather affronted look. Did you follow me out here in the hope that I was the kissing sort and would be only too eager to oblige the tall, dark stranger from the East?Hope is the hardest diamond to find, he drawled, but with a dangerous edge to his voice. And I may be the spanking sort, who feels you are long overdue for some of the discipline you obviously lacked in your formative years. Be careful of me, young woman, Im not yet attuned to the cutting wit of todays emancipated female.I fully realize, Mr. Trequair, that you come from a land where the women speak with their hands in a praying attitude, heads bowed to the mighty tuan. It must be quite a shock for you to find English women so outspoken.Brazen is the word, he cut in. More brazen than the idol and more painted than the courtesan.Thank you! I shall sleep all the easier tonight for knowing what Tuan Trequair thinks of me.Your vanity, young woman, must be inordinate. You take a mans every remark as personal, as if only you were in occupation of his thoughts and his opinions. The dark-blue eyes swept her from head to toe, and never had she suffered a scrutiny that felt so much like an actual touch. As a matter of fact I can tell that your hair is truly red, and because you know that you have the fine white skin that goes with such hair youre wise and vain enough to refrain from using too much make-up. Your mouth is like Katesscornful and scorning. Your slim neck has never bowed to a punishment or a pleasure. You suit your nameyoure a wild bird, cool as water.Never ... never in her life had Heron been treated to a summary of her looks and her character in such a concise fashion, and she didnt know whether to be outraged or slightly flattered. He made her sound ... interesting, and she was vain enough to like the idea of being an interesting individual.Youre arrogant and outspoken, Mr. Trequair, and I suppose thats another sign of the way youve bossed it over your plantation workers for years. Well, Im not one of them and I dont like being spoken to as if I have no right to my own temper and my own opinions. Im not a doormat!Indeed not. Again that mocking laugh seemed to purr in his throat and it seemed to reveal a side to him that was more primitive than suavely cultured. It was a sound that played on Herons nerves in the most curious way ... as if for an instant she caught the sound of the jungle in the very English garden of Memory. As if the lake held the scaly shape of a crocodile and a tiger rustled the foliage of the elm and lilac trees. Oh, what nonsense! She tossed her head as if to clear her mind of such thoughts, and announced that she was going indoors.I shall be leaving soon, he said, and he fell into step beside her slim, silk-clad figure. Ive enjoyed our meeting, Miss Brooks, and I hope to see you again.I shall be going back to London on Monday, so I dont think it very likely that we shall see each other again You never know. He paused at the head of the terrace steps and stood a moment in her path. In the East theres a saying that if two people are curious about each other, then they are bound to cross each others path again. Curiosity is like the tiger following the scent of the doeYou are the tiger, I am the doe? Heron stood there in a drift of light from the French windows of the house and the look in her wide grey eyes was that of scornful youth. Really, Mr. Trequair, you dont make me eager for another meeting if Im to be torn limb and silk in order to satisfy your appetite. I shall avoid you when I come again to my uncles house.You go on Monday, so theres yet another day in which we might meet, Miss Brooks. He gave her a saturnine smile, and then before she could stop him he reached for her hand and drew it to his lips. They felt warm and hard as they brushed across her skin, and the shock of their touch was running through her as her cousin Sybil appeared in the centre of the open French windows, to stand there with amazed eyes fixed upon the tall, dark figure of the mysterious Edwin Trequair as he kissed the hand of Heron.Goodnight, Miss Brooks, he said, and the lids of his eyes drooped with lazy mockery as he ran his gaze over her face. Dont dream of tigers, will you?He released her hand, bowed his head to Sybil in passing, and then was gone leaving in his wake his words and a drift of cigar smoke.We-ell, said Sybil, you are a dark horse, Heron, running off with the fascinating East Indies man and letting him kiss you in that deliciously foreign way. Dad says hes English, but he looks almost Italian with that dark skin and that hawkish profile.Hes probably Cornish if his name is anything to go by, said Heron. And I didnt let him kiss mehe grabbed my hand in his high-handed way and I found the whole procedure hateful. And dont give me that old-fashioned look, Sybil! That man does not impress me!Well, I think hes awfully impressive, and for someone who has lived in the Indies he wears his clothes like a lord. I say, wouldnt it be exciting if he invited you to tea at the Glass Castleis he married, by the way?He probably has a harem, Heron said cuttingly. Tea at the castle, indeed! Id be a little fool to go up there without a couple of tough chaperones!Surely youre exaggerating. Sybil gave a trill of laughter. You know whats happening to you, Heron, youre getting like that woman you work for. You put everyone on trial before theyre proved guilty. I bet the truth of the matter is that Edwin Trequair is rather lonely. Why else would he have come to my party? Did you actually send him an invitation? Quite without realizing it Heron was rubbing the fingers of her right hand backwards and forwards against the back of her left hand, as if she were trying to erase the feel of those warm, hard lips.No. Dad invited him over the phone. They have some sort of business connection, and you know Dad! Hes always ready to oil the wheels when it comes to making deals. I didnt think the Indies man would turn up, and you could have bowled me over when he strolled in looking as if hed just come off the set of High Society. Sybil pouted her pink painted lips. I wish hed sloped off with me and kissed my hand, but I never seem to attract dangerous men. Only boys like Ben Blake seem to go for me.Ben is extremely nice, if a little flirtatious, said Heron. You should think yourself lucky that you attract the honey-bees and not the wasps. Its much nicer to be sweet-talked than stung, I can tell you.Did the dark hawk dare to sting you? Sybil grinned. Darling cousin, you do take life a little too seriously, and I suppose its mixing with all those barristers and silks that does it. They must be a very earnest bunch of people and naturally suspicious of everyone. If you had to go and work in London why didnt you take a modelling job, or become secretary to some dashing tycoon? In the first place I dont fancy being a clothes peg for a lot of idle women and their cohorts to gape at, and in the second place, dear romantic Sybil, most tycoons are fat and sixty and pay other people to do their dashing. Heron tilted her chin. I happen to like my job. I earn a decent wage and I dont have to sponge on Uncle Saul any more. He had to pay for my schooling and Im only too glad that I can repay him by being self-sufficient and independent now Im grown up.Dear Heron! Suddenly Sybil became serious and bending forward she planted a kiss against her cousins smooth, cool cheek. I only tease you because Im so fond of you. Shall we go in now and join the others for a bite of supper? Im ravenous, and Lilian is cooking us some sausages and bacon.Lilian was Sybils rather young stepmother, and unlike the stepmother of tradition she was, in the words of her stepdaughter, a pet of a person.The remainder of the party was more relaxing for Heron, but she was glad to get to her bed in the room she had slept in when this gracious old house, rather Tudor in design, had been the property of her parents and had not yet passed into the hands of Saul Kendall, who had made his fortune in the foundries of the North and whose first wife had been the sister of Herons mother, as lissom and delicate, and with the rose-red hair which Heron had inherited.Sybil took after her father, for she was fair in colouring and inclined to plumpness.Heron smiled to herself as she brushed her red hair and saw the gleaming reflection of it in the mirror of the vanity-table. She was very fond of Sybil and didnt envy her because she was fortunate enough to reside at Memory; the daughter of the house as Heron had been, with a wealthy and indulgent father who didnt mind how many friends his girl invited here.Less frequently did the old memories clutch at Heron, but again the feeling swept over her that tonight at Memory a ghost had walked and touched her for a brief moment there beside the lake. A shiver ran through her and her fingers were not quite steady as she loosely braided her hair before getting into bed. She sat a moment, slim and straight against the pillows, and allowed her eyes to travel around the bedroom to which she now came as a guest. Still the colour motif was silvery stripes against blue wallpaper, and patterned net at the windows blew softly in the night breeze. The white rug on the floor beside the single bed still bore the faint pink mark of the medicine spilled there when Heron had whooping-cough as a child. On the shelf above the small writing-bureau there were the books she had read over and over. Still within those worn covers were the fictional characters she had loved, and the poetry she had murmured to herself. Nobbin and Dobbin, the china horses, held between their rumps a set of Dickens. Great Expectations had always been her favourite book, for each character had seemed to be so vividly alive, and Pip had been so human for a hero.She pulled the cord of the overhead light and settled down against her pillows as darkness blotted out the books and the rug and the gently swaying curtains. The moon had shifted and was on the other side of the house, no longer shining on the lake where she had had that rather disturbing conversation with Edwin Trequair.Why had he kissed her hand? Did he really mean to see her again?She drifted off to sleep with his lean, dark face imposed upon her mind, but when the morning came, bringing sunshine, she had forgotten her rather disturbing thoughts about him.It was after Sunday lunch that Heron slipped away from the house and made her way to the churchyard where her parents were at rest. The early morning sunshine had given way to blustery clouds and the promise of rain, so Heron was clad in a hooded jacket of red worn over slim-fitting pants of dark green. She carried a large bunch of daffodils and tulips cut from the garden of Memory by the old gardener who had been there in her mothers time. Her mother had loved the April flowers, and the gold and grey of the April weather, and whenever Heron came to Memory she never failed to take to her mother the kind of flowers she had loved, for she had been rather like a spring flower herself, lovely and glowing for too short a time.As Heron walked through the open gates of the churchyard a few spots of rain fell on to the flowers she was carrying and she sent up a little prayer that it wouldnt rain hard and spoil the flowers. She made her way along the path that was so quiet but for the twittering of birds in the yews and the dark towering cypress trees. Here and there she caught the murmur of voices as other people tended the stone resting places of those they had loved. It was very peaceful, she thought. A secluded place cut off from the troubles and tribulations of life. Some of the stones were lichened and worn, and their epitaphs could hardly be read; but others were white and new, and upon one was a little stone bird with outstretched wings indicating that a very young life had recently flown away.Then Heron caught sight of the mass of mauve aubretia that marked the double stone bed of her parents, a thick cloak of the small lovely flowers to warm the stone with their brightness. And there she paused, the daffodils and tulips still in her arms, and read yet again the words which were engraved on the open stone book above the aubretia ... the words her father had chosen when he had lost his wife ... the words which never failed to revive for Heron the feeling of hopeless loneliness which he had felt.My wine hath runIndeed out of my cup, and there is noneTo gather up the bread of my repast.They expressed all that he had felt, and they were also words by Elizabeth Barrett Browning who had been the favourite poetess of Herons mother.Heron often wondered what it felt like to be loved so much, unto death and beyond it, and with a tiny sigh she knelt on the grass verge and arranged the gold and scarlet flowers in the stone vase beside the stone book. Their loveliness blended with the aubretia and the rain in the air brought out the scent of the flowers. Heron pushed back her hood and bowed her head in a small prayer. Then she rose to her feet and with her hair still uncovered she walked back along the path to the gates of the churchyard, leaving her parents together in their love, and felt stricken for a while by a sense of being alone in the world.Sybils parents were kind to her, but they were not deeply concerned for her future as they were naturally concerned for their daughters. They made her welcome at Memory, but when she left tonight for London they would drive her to the station and wave goodbye to her without realizing that she dreaded the return to her small silent flat in Bloomsbury.The feeling would slowly wear off, but it was always a wrench to leave the grace and warmth of Memory, where dogs barked and friends called, and the piano or radiogram were always in use, for both Sybil and Lilian were lively people.The flat was compact and painted in gay pastels. It was conveniently situated for Temple Court and the theatres of Shaftesbury Avenue, but she was not allowed a pet, nor a piano, and only a sea of traffic flowed beyond her windows.Heron loved the sea, and upon leaving the quiet churchyard she ran to catch a green, low-decker bus and paid the fare to Jocelyns Beach. She just had to have a breath of sea air before she left for London, and she caught a grin from the bus driver as she settled back in her seat. Not much of a day for the beach, he said over his shoulder, as he started the almost empty bus.I dont care, she said. I like the beach to myself.She alighted from the bus where a cobbled hill meandered its way to the seashore. Clouds rolled in from the Channel and shadows dappled the white cobbled wall that rambled downhill. She passed a dell filled with white bells giving out a honey smell that mingled with the tang of the sea and the stony sands that swept along beside it. An old shop filled with Victoriana stood at the foot of the hill and there she paused for a few moments to gaze in at the waxen dolls, the birds under glass, the big pottery jugs, and the items of furniture marked by time and the hands through which they had passed. Chains of big glass beads hung round the neck of a stuffed owl, whose beady eyes seemed to look into hers with a sly sort of mockery. A huge elephants foot stood on a bamboo table, and a brass gong seemed to quiver in the shadows, as if it still held the echoes of a tiffin summons, or a call to dinner in a white-panelled room where ceiling fans whirled angry wings at the big persistent moths.As this thought drifted through Herons mind she frowned and turned away from the dusty shop. She stood at the kerb and waited for a car to roar past before she crossed the narrow road. She recognized the two-seater as belonging to a boy-friend of Sybils, and she turned her head aside and hoped she had not been seen. The car flashed by and she was glad, and at the same time a little saddened that she should be left alone on the kerb, unrecognized in her red jacket and green pants, the hood of the jacket still thrown back from her red hair.She crossed the road and made her way along the path where trees rustled and leaves caught the rain. She walked along beside the endless line of small yachts and the wind as it sang in their moorings made a strange sort of sea music. She passed the Lady Audacity, an old sailor of a ship now used as a club by the yachters and forever chained to the beach. The old girl had a gipsy air, a romantically battered look ... almost a stranded look, for the tide was out and her chains were deep in the mud.Far out the sea sparkled in a truant ray of sunshine through the clouds, and Heron breathed the tang of sea mud and curling weeds and creatures in washed-up shells. She stood at the rail of some steps leading down to the sands and watched as small birds hopped among the rocks and searched for crumbs left by the morning sun-seekers. Heron stood alone and let her mind, her body, all her senses, respond to the loneliness of the sea and the beach. Her eyes were a silvery grey like the sea, and her hair tossed in the breeze like a bright banner.Once upon a time she had been part of Jocelyns Beach; part of this town on the edge of the estuary, attuned to its every church chime and greedy call of the seagulls. Now she was a town-dweller who came as a visitor, hungering for the sights and sounds and smells of the place she had always loved. Nothing made up for this, not even success at her job and the satisfaction of being independent. Nothing really compensated in the city, and suddenly she ran down the steps to the beach and bent like a child to pick up a tawny shell striped like a tiger. She polished off the grains of sand and stood there admiring it as the wind blew her hair about her brow. The years seemed to slip away and she was lost in her memories, a carefree child again chasing along the beach with Lonny her dog, running into the surf and feeling it cool and caressing about her ankles. Her tumble into the lake at Memory had not made her frightened of the water; she seemed to have a nature that responded to a challenge, and her eyes were unclouded and unafraid as she gazed at the sea and saw a solitary sail moving against the silvery-grey water. A hardy soul was out there, braving the wind and the fine sting of the rain as he drifted along the estuary and waited for the turn of the tide to bring him in.Good afternoon, Miss Brooks.The deep voice cut into her thoughts so suddenly that she almost jumped out of her sneakers. She whirled to face the owner of the voice; a tall man wearing a field coat with a storm collar, his long legs in narrow brown trousers. A man with black and silver hair ruffled by the wind, the skin of his face and hands saddle-brown. A man whose eyes caught the sea-light and glittered like dark sapphires in his lean, distinctive face ... made sinister by that long scar.Heron had no difficulty in recognizing him, and now she masked her nervous tension with an appearance of composure. Why, fancy seeing you, Mr. Trequair. You must have the tread of an Indian, for I didnt hear you crossing the sands.I think you were miles away in your thoughts. His eyes were world-wise, adept at reading the faces and minds of other people. Let me guess that this strip of beach, rambling all the way to Geesewell, is a favourite place of yours. Here you have left your footprints in the sand. Am I correct?Are you ever incorrect? Her fingers tightened on the tiger shell and she was acutely aware of how alone she was on this strip of beach with the East Indies man. The rumours about him rushed through her mind, and her impression of him last night was intensified now she saw his face by daylight, and noticed how searching were his eyes. He wasnt a modern man and carelessly unconventional ... he looked beneath the surface of a womans skin and he probed her secrets and made use of them.He was a disturbing invader of her privacy, and his warning that they would meet again was now a fact which she couldnt help but acknowledge, and resent.You mustnt let it disturb you, Miss Brookes, that there are people you will see and never see again, and others you will meet whom you would rather not run into. Life is often disagreeable in that respect. He smiled sardonically and his teeth were white against his brown skin. We seem, you and I, to have in common a fondness for solitary walks and the feel of the wind. But its rather unusual in a woman to like her own company, and to be careless of what the wind does to her hair.At once he made her conscious of herself as a woman who for a while had felt like the young Heron again, who used to come racing here to Jocelyns Beach when school was out, tossing off her pudding school hat so her red hair could romp free of its braid.The look she gave Edwin Trequair was not designed to hide her resentment that he should appear and scatter the old happy memories he could never share. She saw his left eyebrow twist, giving him an air of quizzical irony.You dont like me very much, do you, Miss Brooks? He said it quite without rancour, as if it didnt really matter ... as if in fact it rather amused him that she should react so fiercely against him.If you already know, she said, then I neednt confess my feelings. Im sure it doesnt bother you, for Im sure you must know that you have half the townswomen curious about you, and Im no longer a member of the community. I live in London.But I think your heart still lives here, he said, and his gaze was intent upon her face as he slid his hands into the pockets of his field coat. You know, its rather dangerous to dislike someone at first glance ... as dangerous as loving someone at first sight.Love ... the word ran through Heron like an electric probe. It seemed the very last emotion to associate with Edwin Trequair, who had such an air of sardonic knowledge of the world. The sentiments of love seemed as alien in this man as a flirtatious gaiety would have been alien in Heron. This lean, dark, hardened man would possess a woman, but there would surely be none of the divine companionship Heron thought of as love.II wouldnt know, she said, in her coolest tone of voice. Ive never yet fallen in love, at first sight or second. I should think it would be rather a foolish thing to do, to imagine yourself in love with a stranger.Of course, he agreed. Foolish, dangerous, and yet curiously exciting. Dont tell me that a girl with red hair has not imagined a love affair like a bolt out of heaven? Ah, you look shaken, Miss Brooks. Have I touched a nerve?No, she denied, for what business was it of his that only last night, as she played a Liszt prelude, she had visualized love as a pleasure close to pain ... a passion near to tears ... a joy with its heels in hell and its hopes in heaven. Such imaginings were not for sharing with Edwin Trequair. He was a stranger to her ... yet, looking at him as they stood beside the incoming sea, tossing its spray and washing the rocks, she again had the curious feeling that he knew something intimate about her. The knowledge seemed to lie deep in his strange, dark-blue eyes, smouldering there almost like a threat.She shivered as the voice of the sea made itself heard, and the rain began to fall with more insistence. She drew the red hood over her hair, and she cast a glance at the incoming tide. I must be getting homeI mean, I leave soon for London and I have to catch a bus to Memory.I have my car parked on the road, he said. The buses are slow on a Sunday and youll get soaked in the rain. Let me drive you home.She hesitated, but when she saw a derisive little smile edge his mouth she agreed to his suggestion. To refuse his offer of a lift would only convince him that she was rather afraid of him. Thank you, she said. I dont much fancy a long wait in the rain.They trod through the sand to the steps that led up to the path that led further along to the cliff gardens. The scent of the flowers was intensified by the rain as side by side they mounted the wide stone garden steps to the street. The rain darkened the empty timber seats that overlooked a fine view of the sea, and Heron turned for a final look at the running tide, for a final breath of the tangy air, before following Edwin Trequair to the sleek, grey, black-topped car that stood in the kerb.He went round to the drivers door and unlocked it, leaned in and opened the passenger door for Heron. She slipped inside and settled herself in the comfortable leather seat, and it was a relief that he joined her in silence and didnt speak until they had left Jocelyns Beach behind them and were coasting smoothly uphill. I shall be in London next week on business, he said. Will you snap off my head if I ask you to dine with me next Thursday evening?But why? She bit her lip, quite painfully. Im being impolite, but Im surprised you should invite me to dinner. Surely you have better things to do? The better things will be done by the evening time, when I shall be ready to beentertained.Yes, you do find it entertaining to bait me, dont you, Mr. Trequair?I might bait you, but youre clever at evading me, he drawled. Come, are your evenings so taken up with young men that you cant spare an older man a few hours of your time?I sometimes have work to do in the eveningsThen you shouldnt have, at your age, he retorted. It will cause lines beside your eyes, and theyre rather attractive eyes.Are youflirting with me? she asked, quite seriously.Im still not past it, he drawled. Do older men alarm you?Not as a rule Again he had forced a confession she would sooner have kept to herself, and in defence against it she had forced a laugh. Have you made this invitation as a sort of test of my nerve? And she defied him with her grey eyes with a sheen to them, light-catching, like oyster shell.Perhaps, he admitted. Youre a young woman of unusual character and you intrigue me. Id like to believe that I arouse the same intrigued feeling in you two rather deep people who find nothing very thrilling about the trivial frills of modern life. I noticed at the party last night that you were regarding some of those noisy young men with an ironical eye.And did you take that to mean that I preferolder men? She cast a quick, slightly indignant look at his profile, which was outlined in all its dark hawkishness against the grey light of the rainy day.I took it to mean that you prefer brains to brawn, he replied. A rare preference in a girl of twenty-two.How do you know my exact age? she demanded.It was just a lucky guess, he said smoothly.I dont altogether believe you, Mr. Trequair. I had the feeling last night that youyoud been making enquiries about me. You gave me the feeling that youknew things about me.This is a fairly small town and one gets to hear little things. By the way, my first name is Edwin, if you would care to try it out. If were to dine together it would be more congenial to be on first name terms, dont you agree?You seem to take it for granted, Mr. Trequair, that I shall dine with you. Youre very sure of yourself!Yes, of myself, but not always of other people. The way to overcome the hesitations and doubts of other people is always to take the initiative, so shall we agree to a further meeting next Thursday evening when I shall be in Town?Heron wanted to give him a flat refusal, yet the simple little word wouldnt allow itself to be said. It was as if some imp of curiosity had her in its grip and wouldnt let go. It was annoying, for she was usually so in control of her reactions and she didnt like the feeling that she was being controlled by a man ... being led into submission to his will like aa puppet. Her lips moved, and she was stunned by the sound of her own words:Very well. It will make a change to dress up for dinner in the middle of the week.Excellent. Yet he said it almost drily, as if he knew all about her inner reluctance to see him again. Nor did he broach the subject again until his car drew up in front of Memory. As she slipped out from her seat he came round to her side and for an instant her hand was locked in his and she was made aware of the strength of his grasp. It had a firmness, an assurance totally different from that of the young men who played tennis at Memory and were adept on the dance floor. It had almost a ruthless quality, as if he were a man who didnt let go of something if he really wanted it.Ill bid you goodbye until next week, he said, and as he looked down at her the rain beat against his head and made his black hair gleam. Dont change your mind, will you?What will you do if I do change my mind? She defied his eyes and tensed the fingers which he held in his.Be angry, he said, and let go of her hand, leaving not only the impression of his grip upon her skin, but leaving upon her mind the conviction that he had a deadly temper which it wasnt wise to arouse. She turned from him and ran up the steps to the front door of the house. She heard the car door close decisively, and the wheels spat on the wet gravel of the half-moon drive. He drove off, was gone, but this time Heron was unable to dismiss him from her thoughts.She felt that his touch had left upon her the forceful, secretive imprint of his personality. He came a dark stranger from islands far away, of cinnamon and tea, of temples and strange festivals. Heron felt that he had a power she had not encountered before, and she hurried into Memory as if to escape from the thought of his power, which had made her say she would see him again when she didnt really wish to do so.Did his power radiate from the radar glint of his eyes between the heavy eyelids ... or did it have something to do with his dark, scarred face, with its held-in emotions?She gazed back for an instant at the now empty drive and there was a kind of terror like the blue-edge of flame at the end of her eyes. Foliage and ferns and tree-bark mingled their scents in the rain ... he would enjoy tormenting her, she thought wildly.

CHAPTER TWOThe next few days in London were busy ones for Heron, and it also rained a lot so that her scarlet umbrella was to be seen bobbing back and forth across the courtyard of the Law Courts. At the end of each day she took home a briefcase of notes to be typed out for her employer, and she was busily at work when the telephone rang around nine oclock on the Wednesday evening.Heron glanced up with a frown as the pealing of the phone summoned her from the typewriter, where she was using an eraser on a long word which she had just misspelt. Dash it! The sound of the phone had made her jump and this was a sure sign that she was overtired and overworked, and pushing back her chair she went across to the sofa-table where the shrill little instrument was parked and picked up the receiver. A note of strain was in her voice as she gave the caller her number. She hoped to heaven it wasnt Miss Carnaby with a few more instructions regarding that hit-and-run case she was handling tomorrow.Heron, you sound tired. A deep male voice struck against her eardrum.Who is that? She had been so certain of hearing the melodious tones of the woman barrister for whom she worked that the brown-toned male voice threw her into a momentary confusion.Have you forgotten me so soon? Well, Im deflated. A drawl came into the mans voice, and right away Herons fingers clenched the flex of the telephone as she realized who the caller was.Oh, its you, Mr. Trequair! You took me by surprise.But you knew Id be calling you, he said. Or did you hope Id forget about tomorrow evening?To tell the truth Ive been up to my elbows in work and Im afraid it slipped from my mind.You were deep in it when the phone rang, eh? You sounded a trifle distracted.Yeshow did you know how to find me?My hotel suite has a telephone directory in it, and you have an unusual name. I also have tickets for the ballet. Gudrun Lewis is dancing and I felt you would appreciate her artistry rather more than one of the hairy new plays. Of course the tickets can be changed, Heron, if you would rather go to the latest exposition of body and mind.As he spoke her name again her fingers gripped the flex until her nails were biting into it. There was something about this man that made her want to rebel ... she wanted to tell him to go to Hades with his invitation, but with unerring insight (or had he been making enquiries about her likes and dislikes?) he had chosen to take her to the ballet, which she loved. As a child she had taken ballet lessons, but after her mothers passing they had been suspended by her father and never resumed.IIm wondering if I can get away, she said, grabbing at her courage before it got away. My employer is very busy at the present time and this keeps me busyIf you wish to say no to me, Heron, then say it, he broke in. I dislike women who feel they have to coat their excuses in sugar, like a nasty pill to be swallowed. If you cant or wont spend tomorrow evening with me, then I assure you I shant wallow in self-pity. Im offering you the ballet for your own consolation, not mine. I thought on Sunday that you looked like a girl who needed taking out. A girl who steeps herself in work not because shes unattractive to men, but because she finds most of themuninspiring.Do you consider yourself the exception? she flashed at him. Your arrogance is super-size, Mr. Trequair. It really is!I am merely older than you and have seen more of life and people. I can judge without passing sentence, as you do, in your arrogant youth. This time he spoke in stern, clipped tones, and Heron felt a quiver shoot through her, a curious blend of rebellion, shame, and a touch of fear.Youyou make me sound intolerant, she gasped. How dare you!Ive dared more in my time than a slip of a girl with a chip on her shoulder.ReallyI have no chip on my shoulder, she protested. Why should I? I have a good job, a good wage, and a flat of my own. I manage my life perfectly well without your accusation that Im a sour spinster without a man to keep my eyes shiningStop it! he broke in. In a moment or two youll be crying and blaming your tears on me. Youre overstrung and over-worked and that woman who employs you should be ashamed of herself for taking advantage of your will to work. All duty and no play will take the shine out of nice eyes quicker than anything else, so hear this, Heron Brooks. I shall be calling for you at six-thirty tomorrow evening. We shall dine at Guilberts in the Strand and go straight from there to the ballet. Do you hear me?How can I help but hear you when you shout? She blinked a sudden sting of moisture from her eyelids, and tiredness was like a weight on her heels so that she suddenly sank down on to the sofa and let the weak surrender to him sweep over her. Very well, if you insist on coming for me, then come!Youre too gracious, Miss Brooks. There was a click as he rang off and Heron was left gaping at the receiver in her own hand. He had managed not only to have the last word but he had reprimanded her, made her feel weepy, and slightly ashamed. She slammed down the receiver and told herself that she hated him. She stared at the carpet under her feet and saw the patterns swimming together in a blur of colour. No one had really cared for a long while that she always seemed to be working, and it really was ages since she had found time to go to the theatre, which she very much enjoyed.She rose to her feet and went into the small kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee, for she still had some more typing to do and needed to keep awake for at least another hour.It was ten-thirty when she entered her bedroom, and kicking off her slippers she made her way to the wardrobe and took a look at its contents. She had to decide on a dress for tomorrow evening and she had half decided on the pale-blue chiffon when she felt a sudden desire to treat herself to a brand-new dress. Why not? It would boost her morale, and show Edwin Trequair that she wasnt as out of the swing of things as he seemed to imagine. He seemed to think he was doing her a favour in taking her out, as if she were out of fashion with young men and could only appeal to his age group.How old was he? She brooded on the question as she prepared for bed. He had silver in his hair, but that wasnt always a sign of advancing senility. He had deep lines in his face, but the hot sun of the East would have baked his skin until it looked as dark and creased as a well-worn saddle. He had no beauty apart from his eyes, and they revealed nothing of his thoughts, gave away no secrets, held no revelations for a girl to read.She tried to imagine him with an exotic Eastern sweetheart, out there in the land of temple dancers. Despite the monkshood blue of his eyes, Edwin Trequair was no monk ... and at this thought a quiver ran again through Heron and she quickly got into bed, turned out the lamp, and closed her eyes against the man. But his face was there, against the dark screen of her eyelids. And the smile at the edge of his lips was there, mocking her youth with his maturity, matching his knowledge of women against her innocence of men.She spent her lunch hour the following day at the shop where in the happy, cherished days her mother used to buy her lovely clothes. The shop was still famed for its chic dresses, and Heron found exactly the right combination for dinner at Guilberts and seats at the ballet. It was of silk jersey in a stunning shade of jade-green, with full silky sleeves, a softly draped neckline, and a long graceful skirt. Directly Heron tried on the dress she liked it; it was softly clinging, softly swinging, and the colour was the perfect foil for her red hair.Yes, she said eagerly. This is the one. She didnt even flinch at the price, for she had not bought a really expensive dress for a long time and it was the kind of garment she could wear for a couple of seasons. The colour was right for her and the style was youthful without being too cute.Ill take it with me, she said. I shall be wearing it tonight.If youve a long string of pearls, said the assistant, as she carefully folded the dress into a box that still bore the spray-of-violets motif from Herons schooldays, theyll look so elegant with the dress.I do have some pearls, Heron murmured. They belonged to my mother, but Im rather superstitious about them.In this day and age? The other girl looked at her with amazed eyes surrounded by false lashes. Oh, my motto is to take things as they comeI think pearls are lovely and its a shame to associate them with tears. Anyway, I thought they only brought bad luck at weddings?Perhaps. Heron picked up her dress box and smiled goodbye. I love the dress!Your boy-friend will love it, Im sure.Boy-friend! Heron gave a little laugh as she walked from the shop through the swing doors into the April sunlight that sparkled on the silverware, the Regency furniture, and the glossy furs in the shop windows along Bond Street. Her own face was lit for a few moments by her sense of amusement and a passing male lifted his bowler hat to her, a quick gleam of appreciation in his eyes. Heron fled in case he spoke to her and jumped on a bus heading for the Strand, but she had to admit to herself that it felt good to be saluted for her feminine youth and her smile.Her successful lunch hour made up for the busy afternoon which followed, and the slight irritation of Frances Carnaby when she learned that Heron was not free that evening to turn reams of scribbled notes into readable pages of neat typescript.What do you mean, youre going out? Miss Carnaby, who was devoted heart and soul to her chosen career, gave Heron an astonished look. I hope you havent collected a follower, or have you joined a painting class? I hear theyre all the go.Follower!Again Heron was irresistibly amused; the word was so deliciously Edwardian, as if she were a kitchenmaid and Edwin Trequair the milkman or the butcher who had taken a fancy to her.A friend of Uncle Sauls is in Town and I promised to dine with him and go to the theatre. Hes been abroad for years and is rather a stranger to London.Then hes quite elderly? said Miss Carnaby, a note of relief in her voice, as if for a few anxious moments she had visualized her invaluable clerk in the arms of a prospective husband. Is he only in Town for the day?I believe hes going home tomorrow, said Heron, and in her minds eye she saw the lean, hard, upright figure of Trequair and wondered how hed feel to hear himself described as elderly. In all probability he was no more than forty-one or two and in the same age bracket as Miss Carnaby herself, but Heron didnt dare to mention this. It was wiser to let her employer believe that he was a contemporary of her uncles, for it stopped her from asking any more questions.Heron was lucky enough to get a bus as soon as she left Temple Court that evening and she arrived home at five-thirty and had an hour in which to dress for dinner. She soaked in Joie de Vivre bath water, dusted down with matching talcum and slipped into her lingerie. During the day she wore tights, which were practical and easy to wear, but an evening out called for filmy nylons with seams from ankle to thigh. They added a subtle elegance to the legs, she thought, even if ones escort was unlikely to see them under the long skirt of an evening dress.It wasnt until she was finally dressed that Heron felt a sudden nervousness sweep over her. Yet her reflection in the mirror assured her that the new dress suited her slim figure to perfection, the jade colour of the jersey silk a charming foil for her white skin and her nape-coiled hair. The jade-green had filtered into her grey eyes, and she was fondling her mothers rope of pearls and wondering whether to wear them when the sound of the door chimes startled her and the pearls dropped from her nervous hands to the dressing-table. She left them lying there, pale and glinting, and went to open the door.Edwin Trequair wore a superb topcoat over his evening suit, and he seemed to tower darkly over Heron as he stepped into the small hall of her flat. She knew that her own swift scrutiny of him had been returned and she wondered if he shrewdly guessed that the dress had been bought that very day to impress him with her sophistication. She felt the silky swing of the skirt as she led him into the lounge, where the sofa lamps were softly glowing.Would you like a drink? she asked. I can offer you some Scotch, for though I dont normally drink whisky I had a cold a few weeks ago and one of our Temple barristers insists that theres nothing like whisky in hot lemon to help cure a cold.A pinch of Eastern spices in the toddy would have been even more efficacious. Yes, please, a Scotch and water would be welcome. Edwin Trequair was gazing around the lounge as he spoke, so intently that Heron wondered if he had expected untidiness or a lack of taste. She was intuitively neat and had inherited from her mother a liking for nice things, and it gave her a sense of satisfaction that Trequair could not be critical of her small but tasteful flat.Thats a rather nice painting. He stood looking at the arrangement of bluebells and buttercups in a brass can, executed in oils so that the blue and cream and old-gold blended in a soft blur of colour. So you dont go in for the hard-line modern school of painting? No. She handed him his whisky, to which she had added a small dash of water. She guessed that he still found the English evenings rather cool and she wondered if he meant to return to the tropics in due course. Not that she meant to ask him ... she wasnt that interested in him. I like a painting to be representative of what it is, so long as it doesnt resemble a birthday card. Did you notice my tulip painting in the hall? No. He took a swig of his drink. I was too busy noticing you. Tonight you look like your mother What? She stared at him with astonished eyes. How would you know that?Quite simply and easily, so dont bristle like a cat with her privacy invaded. I saw the painting of her at your uncles house. She was very lovely and its a painting any discerning man would like to have. I offered to buy itHow could you! Heron could have hit him, for he said it so very casually, as if money could buy anything that its owner desired.How could I not? he drawled, his eyes expressionless as they dwelt upon her indignant face. It was there in a library your uncle and his wife never use, surrounded by a lot of calf bound tomes, and so I made him an offer which he accepted with alacrity.II dont believe you! Heron felt incredibly shocked that he should want her mothers painting, and she could not believe that Uncle Saul would part with it.Why should I lie to you? A tiny glint of mockery came into Edwin Trequairs eyes. Not everyone has your sense of the rightness of things, and I believe your mother and Sauls first wife were much alike. He may have felt that it was diplomatic to dispose of the portrait to me. I truly have it, Heron, and now it graces the library at my house, and I do read books.Youre quite unscrupulous, arent you? Heron sought a word that must scratch the hard soul of the man. Uncle Saul would never have dreamed of selling the portrait if you hadnt tempted him with money. I believe you search out peoples weaknesses and make use of them!Its one way to be successful in life, he said, finishing his drink. The ballet begins at eight, so we should be on our way to the restaurant. Are you wearing a wrap?Yes. She spoke shortly and was half-inclined to tell him what to do with his tickets for the ballet, but when she saw his eyelids droop with a lazy menace over the dark-blue of his eyes she turned on her heel and went into the bedroom. There she replaced the pearls in their case, for they were the ones her mother was wearing in the portrait and it would seem, if she wore them tonight, as if she were trying to look like a reflection of Ruth. Suddenly it seemed more strange than whimsical that he should wish to hang a painting of her mother in his library at the Glass Castle. A tremor of curiosity ran through Heron ... she had known as a schoolgirl that her mother was the sort of woman whom men worshipped, as they worship the Madonna. Collecting at the occasional parties at Memory, distinguished men of the arts and big business, who came like moths to the flame-hair and pale beauty of Ruth Brooks.Heron swung her cloak about her shoulders and tried to recall ever seeing Edwin Trequair in those far-off days. He would have been quite youthful then, and Heron had had the oddest feeling the night of Sybils party of something vaguely familiar about Trequair ... an intonation of the voice ... a misty recollection of the lean hardness of body. Now, as she picked up her bag and rejoined him in the lounge, she felt curiously like a schoolgirl again, on the fringes of the drama of life and love. Someone untouched as yet by the emotions that awoke desire, or adoration of another human being.She felt terribly young and vulnerable in that moment, yet the silver-grey cloak that enwrapped her was like a fine armour against him. Her hair was like flame against the silver, and her eyes were tempestuous, large and grey and filled with the nightlights of the city as they left her flat and he indicated the taxi-cab that stood waiting for them. He held the door and she stepped inside and sank back against the black leather. He joined her and the cab moved forward into the stream of traffic flowing into the West End.How London has changed, he said, gazing from a window. The old risqu glamour has given way to a risky ride in a blur of exhaust fumes and noise. It has become like any other city ... Tokyo, New York, Paris.And you know them all, Heron murmured, sitting cool and straight in her silvery cloak, with about twelve inches of black leather seat between her and her escort.Ive seen them all, he corrected her. You have to be born in a city to know it.And which one do you prefer? she asked him.Paris. He said without hesitation. Despite its modern spoliation it still retains a certain flavour ... a tang of wine and dark bread and love in long filmy stockings. Do I shock you, Heron?Do you intend to, Mr. Trequair?Im really going to insist that you call me Edwin. The use of my first name will help you to relax with me, for right now youre sitting as tense as if about to visit the dentist. As he spoke he closed the gap between them with his lean, dark-coated figure. I took you for a young woman who likes honesty, and yet you dont like it, do you, that Im frank with you? That I treat you as an adult instead of an adolescent, and it would be easy enough, for there are twenty years of living and experience between us. Im going to challenge you to a frank responseif you dislike me so much why are you with me right now?Because Im hungry, she said with sudden flippancy. I suspect that you enjoy good food and Ive had a few rushed lunches just recently. Im sure you wont offer me a cheeseburger, or a pie and Coke.Is that what you live on, young woman? He stared down at her in the flicker of the neons, invading the interior of the cab and playing their brash colours over her face. You work all day and most of the evening and you live on cheeseburgers? No wonder you look half-starved.Thank you. No one could accuse you of being over-gallant.Would you prefer to be flattered? Very well, Heron, you have a rare, unaware glamour which has nothing to do with the fashionable dress youre wearing. Its inherited, like your bones, your hair, and your Celt white skin. You have a lack of coquetry which doesnt set my teeth on edge. You are not entirely happy, but happiness goes in leaps and bounds. If, indeed, you were your cousin Sybil, then you would not be with me right now.Yet shes considered to be much prettier than I, and much livelier. Heron looked at him oddly. How do you know Im not happy? I have all I want, all I need Nonsense. He didnt cut at her with the denial but almost whispered it, as if it were an endearment. One day, Heron, when you fall in love, youll wonder how you could make such a statement.Love isnt everythingIt isnt love if it isnt everything. And as he spoke the cab pulled into the kerb and there was a discreet glow of lights etching the name of the restaurant, and a uniformed porter stepping forward to hold open the door of the cab as they emerged from it. There was without a doubt a glamour to the moment and Heron was aware of it as she entered Guilberts in her silver cloak, the tall, distinguished figure of Edwin Trequair at her side. She felt her pulses quicken with the subtle excitement of the place, for this kind of evening out was rare in the life of a working girl. She allowed her cloak to slide off into the hands of an attendant, and she was pleased she had treated herself to the silk jersey dress in such a chic style, for it made her feel good as she walked with her escort to their table. This was close enough to the orchestra for the music to be heard, but not so close that their conversation would be drowned.As soon as they were seated the menus were handed to them, and Heron felt the look which Edwin Trequair directed at her, and when she glanced over the edge of her menu she saw the sardonic lift to his eyebrow.The appetizers look good, he said, and a smile hovered way down in his eyes. Matje herring, langoustines, caviare, smoked salmon, mountain-smoked ham, vineyard snails. Am I tempting you?Yes, she admitted, and realized how very hungry she was, having skipped lunch to go hunting for a dress, and having merely blunted her appetite with a coffee and doughnut at her desk that afternoon.Then well have the hors doeuvres cart brought to the table and you can have a selection of everything. He beckoned the waiter and made his request, and when the sommelier appeared at his other elbow he ordered a wine called Blue Nun. Its excellent with caviare, he said blandly.Heron took the hint, but this time she felt amused by his irony rather than annoyed by it. She glanced in the direction of the orchestra and felt a stirring of pleasure in the music and in the atmosphere of Guilberts, with its gold-shaded table lamps, its Edwardian decor, and aroma of good food. She knew that men were looking at her, though her gaze was upon the flare of blue flames as crepes suzettes were tossed in a silver pan at a nearby table. She would have been very naive if she hadnt known that when she took the trouble to contrast a jewel-coloured dress with her hair and her skin she came alive, like a flame, and was a different person from the neat and efficient Temple Court clerk.Suddenly she was very curious about her effect on Edwin Trequair and she shifted her glance to him and felt an immediate jolt of the pulses as, she met his eyes directly upon her. She had to speak and the words were more provocative than she meant them to be. What are you thinking, sitting there, staring at me with your Siamese-cat eyes? They are exactly that enigmatic blue colour, and so oddly out of place in your sort of face. You should have dark eyes.Why? he murmured. I understand that Lucifer had blue eyes.Is that who you are? She gave a breathless little laugh. Well, I shouldnt be surprised, the way youve descended on a quiet seaside town and set all the tongues wagging. Are you planning a Black Mass in the near future?And if I were, witch, would you come to dance for me in your white skin?No, Id lock all my doors and draw all my curtains and make sure I had a bulb of garlic in the flat. She dared his eyes, which were so secretive and mocking and aware of devilish things. I dont altogether trust you, Mr. Trequair. You make me feelLike a mouse? he drawled. A white mouse hungry for a little Brie, but quivering with suspicion as she pokes forward her pretty nose to take a bite.I dont think Im foolish to be suspicious of you, she said, flushing slightly. When I saw you at Memory last Saturday night I had the feeling that youd been there beforeno, I dont mean as a guest of Uncle Sauls but years ago, when the house belonged to my parents. I felt that you wereAn intruder? he murmured. Someone from the past daring to return to shake a little dust out of old memories?Yes, she admitted. Id be naive if I didnt know why you now have my mothers portrait in your house. She was very beautiful, and she was faithful to my father, and other men remember that sort of woman. I believe that someone once dubbed her the Madonna and said she had hair and eyes exactly like the original. Yes, blue eyes, he said, but not like mine. The religious blue of chapel windows, so speckless that they seemed to let in the sunlight. Yes, she was a beautiful creature, and she has passed on some of that beauty to you, Heron. The slender, wilful, flamy side of it; not the angelic side that made men feel soothed of all care in her company. She was very serene compared to you, all the dangerous little spurts of fire drawn out of her into that wonderful Titian hair. She was truly Titian to look at, but you as yet are unfinished, unfledged, a heron with untried wings.And who are you? Heron resented his unsparing frankness, which left her feeling stripped of the sophistication which her jade-coloured dress had provided. The man who plans to teach me how to fly?The hawk and the heron. He quirked an eyebrow. Interesting, to say the leastand now comes the hors doeuvres cart to provide us with another interesting occupation.The waiter brought it smoothly to the side of their table and on the white-covered surface of the cart there was a colourful and varied selection of appetizers, including a pot of glistening dark caviare, a gourmet appetizer which Heron had once tasted at a wedding and which she had rather liked.Dare I mix it with herring and ham? she asked.Why not, in this age of democracy, when pop stars collect medals from the palace, and dukes of the realm have to turn their castles into holiday camps. Edwins smile was the very essence of irony, and he nodded at the waiter to supply them with a taster of everything, while the sommelier uncorked their wine and poured a little into a stemmed glass. Edwin tasted that, nodded his approval, and then sat back lazily to wait for the serving to be concluded.Heron shot a glance at him and decided once again that he was the most self-contained and certain man she had ever met. He said whatever it pleased him to say, and he flaunted convention with such suavity that he made Heron wonder just how far he meant to go with her.The waiters left them and picking up her fork Heron began to eat her food. There was an exquisite edge on her appetite and the food was delicious ... it was five minutes at least before she raised her head and found her host regarding her so intently that she paused with her burdened fork halfway to her lips. Youre really ravenous, arent you? he said. How often in a week do you go without a proper meal?Oh, I dont starve myself to be fashionably thin, but often the time seems to rush away and a coffee and a bun have to suffice. But I make up for it at the weekends. What, with double helpings of coffee and buns? he asked.No, she protested. I can cook, you know. Im very independent and quite good at looking after myself. Youve been out of England so long, Mr. Trequair, that you have no idea how emancipated we women have become. We can actually manage our lives without needing the support of a man; we can actually think for ourselves without getting the vapours.Drink your wine, he said casually. Yes, Ive heard all about the revolution of the sexes, and Ive seen some of it for myself, but Ill refrain from a comment about it. Mmmm, this caviare is good.Its terribly expensive. She took a sip of her wine, and noticed the glint of gold at his white cuffs, and for the first time she wondered how wealthy he was, and what it felt like not to count the cost of dining de luxe and living in a house like the Glass Castle. It had none of the quiet grace of Memory, but there was a fantastic sort of charm about the place, perched high above the wilder part of Jocelyns Beach, with its glass turrets letting in all that sky-water light. It might have been dreamed up by the brothers Grimm, and Heron felt sure that Trequair had bought it in a sardonic mood and was ironically amused by all the speculation that went on about him, and his house.Most women like a man to be lavish with his money, he drawled. In which case I shall choose the main course of our meal and you can choose the sweet. Agreed?Overruled, she said drily. What are you going to order?Canard au Riesling, with small baked potatoes and sprouts, with gravy, as you are not a young woman who starves herself for the sake of her figure.Sounds divine, she said, smiling into her wine. Youre the absolute tuan besar, arent you? I bet from a boy youve had all your own way and never known a setback in your life!Wrong, he said crisply. Im as self-made as the wool-merchant who built the Castle in which I live. Tell me, what do you think of my Castle?Its unbelievable, she replied. Built as if from the drawing of a child, and yet if the wind blew it off its perch Jocelyns Beach would never be the same again. When I was a schoolgirl we used to call it the castle of the ogre.And never has that description been more appropriate, eh? He looked so directly at Heron, and read her mind so easily, that the relief of the waiters arrival was acute.Mr. Edwin Trequair was not an easy man to be with, and yet Heron had to admit to herself that she felt a sense of stimulation in his company; a tingling of acid drops, the sting of fine cold sea-water, and the buzzing of wasps in the apple orchard of Memory, where she used to hide away as a child from the occasional wrath of her father. He had not been an easy man, but after the loss of her mother he had been far worse ... an empty man.The main course of dinner was enjoyably disposed of, and was followed by Herons choice of blackcurrant water-ice with raspberries and cream.Very pretty, commented her host, and he asked the waiter to bring them brandy, which was like fire on ice.How like you, she said. Always the sting in the tail.Quite. A smile flickered across his lean face, with its scarring, its hint of the wicked, and unyielding set to the jaw. The soft gold lights of the restaurant did not soften his face!They left for the theatre, and it was as they passed through Piccadilly that he leaned forward and locked his fingers about Herons wrist. Say my name. The harlequin lights of the Circus played over his features, lighting them and then casting shadows, so that the effect was curiously hypnotic. Say it, Heron, or I shall think youre afraid of being a friend of mine.A friend? The word was reassuring, and yet she was far from sure of what he truly wanted of her, this man who came from out of the past and hung in his house a portrait of her mother. Was it a friend that he wanted ... or was it a daughter?She felt the pressure of his fingers and she told herself that he had the most wicked face she had ever seen ... yet in the course of her work she had seen criminals with cherubic faces! She wanted to pull away from him, but instinct warned her of his strength. He had only to exert himself a very little and she would be in his arms!Thank you for a delicious dinner and for the flowersEdwin. The huge creamy gardenia with a bud attached were pinned to her evening bag; he had brought them for her in the foyer of Guilberts. The gesture had been unwanted by her, for there was something romantic about gardenias, and she didnt feel in the least romantic about Edwin Trequair. She sensed that he might be a lonely man, but everything else about him sent her in retreat from him. She was glad when his fingers slipped from her wrist and he sank back in his seat.And that, he drawled, was like wringing wine from an ice crystal. You still dont like me, do you?II dont really know you, she fenced.Knowing a man and knowing a woman are two different things, arent they?Are they? She felt she wanted to look at his face to see what he meant, but she refrained from doing this and assumed a look of cool indifference to the subtle insinuation of his remark.Yes, my dear. So different that you know it, and are made afraid of it. Girls are not like men, and I dont mean in the obvious sense. They are the centre of things and it frightens them even as it fascinates them. They are the flame and the moth.And what is man? She just had to ask, even as the lights of their theatre flared ahead of them.The guardian of the flame, or the destroyer of it, he replied, as their cab came to a smooth halt and he leaned forward to open the door. He stepped out and gave her a hand, which she had to take. She avoided his eyes and went forward to mingle with the other people surging into the foyer. No one ... certainly no man ... had ever spoken to her in the fashion of Edwin Trequair. After the ballet ... after tonight she wouldnt see him again. She gave a start as he caught up with her in the crowd. We have a box. He directed her towards the carpeted stairs, away from the protective crowd, and he gave her the feeling they were like clandestine lovers who must be alone.How very grand, she said, with a touch of flippancy. As if were a pair of film stars arriving at the ballet and being conspicuously coy about it. I do believe you enjoy a touch of drama.I enjoy a good seat, and the best stalls were taken by the time I telephoned the theatre. As he spoke he took her by the elbow, not exactly hurting her, but his fingers through the silk of her cloak were not gentle. You are the one who dramatizes a situation, and right now you imagine that all those people are picturing you as the reluctant girl-friend of a Byronic rake who must have you to himself, or else!Oh, what nonsenseIs it?Byron, indeed?Then lets say Conrad Veidt. His smile in that instant was so inimitably rakish that even Heron had to give way and smile as they entered their box. It was above the auditorium to the left of the stage, its seats upholstered in wine-red velvet, with gilded cupids decorating the front of it. It was carpeted and had wine-red curtains, and Heron was quite sure that Edwin Trequair had asked specially for a box; it would appeal to his ironic sense of humour to buy the best seats in the house: just as it had amused him for some sardonic reason to buy the Glass Castle.An attendant arrived with programmes and boxes of chocolates, and before Heron could protest that she was replete after their rich and varied meal at Guilberts, he had bought her a box of Black Satin and placed them on the parapet in front of her seat. The box was rather pretty, with a white swan painted on the lid; a swan gliding on a lake with willow trees along its banks.Are you always this extravagant when you take a girl out? Heron murmured, her nose in her programme.Lets say Im extravagant because I dont often take out agirl, he said. Tonight is as much as an innovation for me as it is for you, for were both inclined to be lone wolves, arent we? When I left England years ago to work in the East, I left my own generation and returned to find that young women I had known were now all married and secure in the bosom of a family of their own making. I found myself out of touch with the friends of my youth, for their ambitions and desires had run in a different direction from mine. We no longer spoke the same language, and so, feeling rather like Ishmael in my own land, I invited you to see the ballet with me. I seem to have retained some of the old romanticism, perhaps because Ive lived away from the so-called advance of civilization. It quite amazes me to see this theatre so full. Are people actually becoming bored by the timeless tunes and the plotless plays?Some of them, she said. It must have been quite a shock for you to return to a London so changed? Disfigured, he said. Like a charming woman ravished of her grace and made hard and meretricious. A steeple reaching into heaven is one thing, but those monoliths called flats are astounding in their joyless ugliness. The skyscrapers of New York have a sort of mad attraction the way theyre grouped and arranged, but these monoliths rush into the air, here and there, like concrete geysers. They must be designed in dark rooms, by men who dislike the human race.You sound quite angry. Heron looked at her companion in some astonishment, for he didnt seem to her a man who might be moved by the plight of other people. He seemed detached, almost armoured against the reckless emotions that drove others to tears and kisses ... and then the theatre lights began to dim and her attention was drawn away from Edwin Trequair as the conductor took his place below the stage. Applause greeted him and he accepted it with a bow, and then lifted his baton to begin the overture.Expectancy stirred through Heron and could be felt like a palpable wave through the theatre. Now everything was quite dim except for the rising of the curtain, and though Heron kept her eyes on the stage she was extremely aware of the man seated beside her, dark and still, and a little more human than she had supposed. Her fingers gripped the glossy cover of her programme, for it was disturbing to realize that he had deep emotions which he controlled and which did not control him, and that unlike a lot of men of his age he had not led a sedentary life and was as hard and lean as Litov, the young Russian who came leaping on stage for the Golden Eagle dance, winged, crested, bare-footed, with barbaric anklets chiming.Heron had always found ballet the most exciting of the arts, and she had never seen Litov dance before. He was like a barbaric idol come to life, with a power and a passion in his limbs which made his dancing both fierce and moving. He was followed by Gudrun Lewis, the petite cat as the critics called her, with her pixie ears and her high cheekbones tapering to a pointed chin. Her eyes were amber and slanting, and her hair was raggedly cut like an urchins. She was gamine, cat-like, small-boned, and swift across the stage. At the conclusion of her dance she was joined by Litov for a pas-de-deux, and Heron had never seen two people so in accord with each others movements ... it was like watching a pair of lovers, and yet it was all artistry, for Litov was a devoted husband and father, and Gudrun Lewis was known to be devoted to her career.So how can we tell, thought Heron; how can we really know if our feelings are real or false?During the interval Edwin took her to the bar, and it rather amused her that in the crush he had no difficulty in obtaining their drinks. You choose for me, she had said, still too bemused by the dancing to be able to make a decision, and he had chosen daiquiris with lime, which looked very fetching in the glasses.Youre enjoying the ballet. It was a statement not a question. I had the feeling while Gudrun Lewis danced that you would have made a good ballet dancer yourself, Heron. You have the body and the limbs for it, not to mention the temperament.I used to take ballet lessons when I was a child, she said.Yes, he murmured. I seem to remember that you didwhat became of them?They petered out. She stared into her daiquiri and tried so hard not to resent those little things he knew about her in the past; someone who came to dinner and bridge, and who heard about the doings of Ruths daughter from Ruth herself. Someone who had gone away suddenly to the Ear East, as if he could no longer stay only to come to dinner and bridge.I see, he said quietly. After your mother died.She nodded, and was rather glad when someone approached Edwin and spoke to him; a slim, rather good-looking man, wearing a plum-coloured evening jacket. Trequair! It is you, eh? After all this time? He had an attractive speaking voice, and it was his voice which made Heron take notice of him.Edwin gazed at the man for a moment, and then Heron saw his eyes narrow until he had almost a look of menace. For a moment she thought he was going to reject any recognition of the man, and then he said curtly, Yes, Harvey, its been a long time. How are you?Fit as a flea, old chap. A pair of sherry-brown eyes flickered over Herons face. It would be pleasant if you would introduce me to this lovely lady. His smile was quizzical, and charming as his voice, which had a curious seductive quality whose inflections she seemed to recognize. Yet his face was unfamiliar to her, and far too attractive to be easily forgotten.Heron, this is Lane Harvey, who was a conscript in the Army at the same time as myself. Harvey, this is Miss Brooks, who from her slightly perplexed look has probably recognized you.No She held out her hand to Lane Harvey, who took it and bowed over it in a way that was less English than his looks and his name. Your face isnt familiar to me, Mr. Harvey, but your voice For three years, Miss Brooks, I was the Voice of the Poets on radio. You may have listened to the programme now and again.Yes, she exclaimed. I tried never to miss it! You were really excellent as Shelley, and terribly amusing as Wilde. I was so sorry when you left the programme and someone else took over.I was offered a part in a play, he explained, and still he had hold of her hand. The play ran for a nice long while, and led to my being offered a residency with the Pavilion Players Group at BridenseaIncredible, she broke in. Why, thats only a few miles fromIncredible? he grinned. That I should be offered a niche with such a famous group of players?No. She shook her head and broke into a smile. Its just that I used to live quite close to Bridensea and I know the Pavilion Theatre. Ive enjoyed quite a few of their plays. She glanced eagerly at Edwin Trequair, but his face was without a smile; in fact he looked rather forbidding, as if he had no wish to know that Lane Harvey was connected with a theatre only a few miles from Jocelyns Beach. The words died on her lips, and in that moment the bell rang to summon them back to their seats.We must meet again, said the actor, looking right at Heron. How about after the show? We could go to a club?It will be late, Edwin said in a firm, cool voice. Miss Brooks works for her living and cant spend half the night in a dance club. Goodbye, Harvey.He led her away from the other man, and somehow she didnt have to glance over her shoulder to see that Lane Harvey was staring after her and the tall figure of Edwin Trequair. When they entered their box she pulled away from Edwin and took her seat as the lights began to go down.You were rather abrupt, she said. Werent you pleased to see him? I thought he was rather a charming man, but you treated him as if you didnt want to know him.My dear child, he only wanted to know me because I had with me a young woman who took his eye. Dont run away with the idea that we were Army buddies. We were merely in the same unit and saw some service together in the Far East. If Id been drinking at the bar alone he would have ignored me.I daresay, she said coolly. You arent exactly the most sociable man of the season.She felt him glance sharply at her when she said this, but the curtain had now risen on the next ballet and so he withheld his reply, or his rebuke. Feeling pleased at having needled him, Heron settled back in her seat to enjoy the dancing, this time with Litov as the Spectre of the Rose.It was strange, but Heron had the feeling that Lane Harvey had appeared like a spectre to Edwin ... she had sensed the enmity, the tension, the revival of old, unwanted memories.When she and Edwin left the theatre, he hastened her into a cab and gave her address to the driver. He didnt join her in the cab but leaned in to say goodnight to her.Ill ring you, Heron, he said. I hope you had a good time tonight?YesI did. There was a note of surprise in her voice which she couldnt quite conceal. The ballet was perfect, and so was dinner. I do thank youDont go all polite on me, Heron, he growled. Goodnight!Goodnight The door closed and the cab moved off, leaving Edwin Trequair in the milling crowd outside the theatre; leaving Heron to wonder why he chose not to drive home with her. She rested her head against the back of her seat and her fingers idly fondled the gardenia pinned to her purse. It had been an intriguing evening, but if he did telephone again ... if he did, then she would say she was too busy to see him.She had rather liked Lane Harvey ... but there was something about Edwin Trequair that played on her nerves and made her too aware of his dark and disturbing personality.He was generous, cultured, and he made good conversation ... but he had none of the easy charm of the other man. He was not at the mercy of female charms; in his company a woman felt that she was at his mercy, and that all the time he had the upper hand. Heron was too accustomed to the carefree attitudes of her own generation to welcome the dominance of a man who had spent many years in the Indies, the tuan besar whose word had been law, and whose every command had been swiftly obeyed.Well, she wasnt at his beck and call like some maiden of the Indies, and with this resolve in mind Heron let herself into her flat and switched on the light. It was as she dropped her key back into her purse that she noticed the gardenia and its bud were missing. They must have become unpinned when she had got out of the cab, and she told herself that the loss of the flowers was an omen that she would not see again the man who had brought them for her. A foot, by now, might have trampled their pale petals.

CHAPTER THREEA week passed, and then another, and Heron neither heard from Edwin Trequair, nor did she see him. She was relieved, for though he was an intriguing man he was also an unsettling one, and she gave herself to her work and forgot about him.It was on a Saturday afternoon and she was just about to brew some coffee when her doorbell chimed. She wasnt expecting anyone and the sound of the chimes made her nerves tighten. She brushed a hand over her hair and went to the door, and there stood a messenger boy with a package in his hand. Miss Heron Brooks? he enquired.Yes. She could feel the fast beating of her pulses as she accepted the package and signed for it. When the moment came to open it, she found that her hands were actually trembling. It was a rare occurrence for her to receive a present, and as it was neither Yuletide nor her birthday, then she knew the gift had not been sent by her cousin or her uncle.The wrapping fell away and a slim ruby-coloured box was disclosed. She lifted the lid, and there against white satin was a delicate, ruby-jewelled wristwatch, so perfect, so charming, that Heron caught her breath and knew at once that there must be some mistake. No one with whom she was acquainted would be sending her a gift so valuable, so the jewellers must have made a blunder in sending the wristwatch to her. And it was in that very instant that the telephone rang! Heron gave a start, and still holding the jewel-box she lifted the receiver and said a rather breathless, Hullo!Heron, that is you?Yes She had no need to try and place the voice, for the deep, decisive tones were those of Edwin Trequair. Her fingers tightened about the jewel-box and the lid clicked shut over the tiny face of the watch; in what seemed an endless moment of silence she heard the clock ticking on the bureau, and she almost heard the sound of her own heartbeats.I said Id call you, Heron. How have you been?Very busy, she replied, and she forced her voice to sound natural and unflurried. It was so silly to let her nerves be shaken by him, but she had hoped that he wouldnt contact her again; that she wouldnt have to find the courage to say that she didnt wish to see him any more.Ive been rather occupied myself, he said. Im having the Glass Castle redecorated, for theres some really monstrous wallpaper in some of those rooms, straight out of a Victorian parlour. Ive also made a bonfire of the stuffed sofas and the bamboo whatnots. Very little of the furniture was worth keeping, and Ive some rather nice pieces in storage. All the activity has caused a little more tongue-wagging, as you can imagine.Yes, she said, and pictured the scene of curiosity as the strippers and painters went to work on that quaint old house which had stood empty f