Kitabı oku: «A Savage Beauty», sayfa 3

CHAPTER THREE

DURING the following week, Emma endeavoured to put all thoughts of Miguel Salvaje out of her mind. But that was easier said than done. She had only to open a newspaper it seemed to see his face staring back at her, or some other advertisement of the fact that the Mexican pianist was presently giving a series of recitals with the accompaniment of the London Symphony Orchestra at the Festival Hall.

For the first time in her life she wished she had a close girl friend, someone of her own age in whom she might confide her fears and anxieties. But the girl she had been closest to had married some years ago and gone to live in the Midlands, and now there was only Victor, and of course she could say nothing to him. So she kept her thoughts to herself and concentrated her energies on her work at the agency.

Nevertheless, she was still taken aback when one afternoon her fiancé walked into the agency and after a casual word with Fenella came over to her desk. Perching himself on the side of the desk, he looked down into her face and said, without warning: ‘Miguel Salvaje is a favourite of yours, isn't he?'

Emma's hands trembled and she thrust them on to her lap so that he should not see them, but she could not prevent the colour from leaving her cheeks. ‘Wh – what did you say?’ she asked weakly.

‘Miguel Salvaje. You like his playing, don't you?'

Emma tried to gather her scattered composure. ‘I – I – yes, I suppose so. Why – why?'

Victor shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I've got these.’ He put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out two tickets. ‘They're complimentary. You know the sort of thing they distribute to firms. Well, these came into my hands, and I thought we might go. But as they're for this evening, I thought I had better give you warning.'

Emma swallowed convulsively. The very last thing she wanted was to attend one of Miguel's concerts. She didn't want to see him again, to feel that awful, irritable, unsettled feeling he generated inside her.

‘Oh, I don't know, Victor,’ she temporized awkwardly. ‘I – we're awfully busy here at the agency. I don't know if I'll be able to get away in time…'

Victor frowned, and then swung round to face Fenella Harding. ‘Hey, Fenella,’ he said. ‘There's no reason why Emma should work late this evening, is there?'

Fenella looked surprised. ‘Of course not.’ Her delicately plucked brows drew together. ‘Did you say there was, Emma?'

Emma shook her head. ‘Not exactly.'

Victor turned back to her. ‘Don't you want to go or something? I thought you liked Salvaje! You have his records.'

‘I know I do.’ Emma felt desperate. What could she say? How could she convince him she didn't want to go without arousing his suspicions? Victor could be a very possessive man. ‘It's just such short notice, Victor.'

‘Oh, come on. It's not a première I'm taking you to. It's a concert. Go home, get changed, and I'll pick you up about seven. We'll have a drink beforehand and supper afterwards, right?'

‘All right.’ Emma nodded and shrugging again Victor slid off the desk.

‘Must go. Got an appointment in half an hour. See you later, then, my dear.'

‘Yes.'

Emma watched him go through the door, tall and immaculate in his city clothes. Then she looked down mutinously at her typewriter. She had not wanted to go to the concert, but that didn't matter to Victor. So far as he was concerned, any opposition she might raise to his plans was purely negligible.

She was ready when Victor arrived that evening, dressed in a plain gown of purple wool that did not enhance her colouring. But it was a dress Victor had brought back from Italy after a business trip and she knew he expected her to wear it whenever she could. The black cape she wore with it was more becoming, but as her hair was confined in a knot at the nape of her neck, she still managed to look staid and matronly. Was this to be her role in life? she had asked herself as her fingers trembled fastening the zip of her dress. Constantly aware of the age gap between herself and Victor and his obvious attempts to close it in this way?

The Festival Hall was almost full when they arrived and as Emma had not examined the tickets Victor had been given she was unaware that their seats would be in the front row until they were shown into them. Her heart pounded heavily. Surely Miguel could not fail to see her from this distance if he chose to look. She sighed. Why should Victor have been given such exceptionally good tickets? Surely they would have had no difficulty in selling these seats when almost all the hall was full. She moved uncomfortably. Had Victor in fact bought these tickets especially because he knew she liked the music and only pretended they were complimentary? She glanced at her fiancé uncertainly. If he had done so, then she should feel grateful and not resentful at all.

The orchestra leader came in to a loud burst of applause and after several minutes interval the conductor appeared. Emma waited tensely for the soloist. There was a grand piano waiting for him, a beautiful instrument, sleek and highly polished. Like the performer, thought Emma, with a rising sense of hysteria.

And then Miguel Salvaje came out and weakness flooded her being. Tall, lean; his immaculate evening clothes complemented his dark alien attractiveness, and Emma sank down in her seat, praying he would not notice her.

He seated himself at the piano, the applause died, and Miguel began the introduction to Rachmaninov's second piano concerto. There was absolute silence in the hall, and Emma found her initial nervousness dispersing under the pure delight of the music. It was obvious that Miguel was interested only in the instrument under his hands, and his mastery cast a spell over the audience so that when it was over there was a moment's spellbound silence before the applause broke out. Emma found herself applauding just as enthusiastically, and only when he rose from the piano stool to take his bow and his gaze flickered over the front row did she realize Miguel had known she was there all the time. There was no element of surprise in the depths of his dark eyes, but they moved away before she could register any acknowledgment of that brief appraisal.

However, afterwards she had reason to doubt the truth of her earlier beliefs. At no time during the remainder of the evening did his eyes turn in her direction, and she began to wonder whether she had imagined the whole thing. But she had not been mistaken, she told herself angrily. He had seen her, but whether he had actually been aware of her presence beforehand, she was less positive.

Victor enjoyed the concert without any of Emma's misgivings. Unaware of his fiancée's mental agitation, he could not understand the unusual pallor of her cheeks as they left the auditorium, and suggested that instead of having supper out they should go back to his service apartment and eat there.

But Emma felt that food of any kind would choke her. Forcing a polite smile, she said: ‘I don't think that's a very good idea, Victor. Perhaps if you took me home, Mrs. Cook could make us some sandwiches…'

Victor hesitated, his square face showing his perplexity. Exhaling his breath noisily, he eventually nodded. ‘Oh, very well, then. But I only had a sandwich before the concert, and I'm quite peckish.'

Emma tucked her skirts about her as she got into Victor's luxurious limousine. ‘I'm sure we can find something,’ she observed comfortingly, and Victor nodded without enthusiasm.

In fact, Mrs. Cook was out when they arrived back at the house. Emma realized the housekeeper would not have expected them back so early, and hiding her weariness she made Victor comfortable in the lounge with a drink and then went herself into the kitchen to prepare the food.

There was plenty to choose from: cold ham, plenty of bacon and eggs, salad, a cold meat pie. Deciding Victor would prefer something hot, Emma decided to make a cheese omelette, and she was beating eggs in the pan when the telephone rang.

Frowning, she waited a moment to see if Victor would answer it, and when he did not, she dried her fingers on a cloth and went out into the hall. Lifting the receiver, she gave her number, wondering who could possibly be ringing at this hour of the evening.

‘Hello, Emma!'

The deep accented male voice was instantly recognizable and she almost dropped the receiver from her nerveless fingers.

‘Y – yes, señor?’ she murmured huskily.

‘You enjoyed the concert, si?

Any doubts she had had about his possible recognition of her presence fled away. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered, stiffly, politely. ‘You played brilliantly.'

‘Gracias, señorita!’ There was a trace of mockery in his tones. ‘I was sure your – fiancé – would use the tickets.'

‘You were sure – you mean—’ Emma broke off, breathing jerkily. ‘You sent Victor those tickets?'

‘But of course. Did you think otherwise?'

Emma glanced at the lounge door. It was closed, but she could not be sure that Victor could not overhear what she was saying. A pulse pounded heavily in her forehead, and her palms were moist. ‘I – I didn't realize,’ she managed unevenly.

‘But you came.'

‘Naturally.’ She infused a tone of indifference. ‘Why not? Was that why you rang? To find out whether I enjoyed it?'

There was silence for a long moment, and she thought with an awful feeling of bereavement that he had hung up on her. Then he said in a quiet voice: ‘No, I rang because I wanted to speak with you, to hear your voice. I want to see you, Emma.'

Emma's legs turned to jelly beneath her. ‘I'm afraid I can't talk now,’ she said uneasily.

‘Does that mean that you wish to talk at some other time?’ he queried lazily. ‘I gather the worthy Señor Harrison is there.'

‘How do you—’ she lowered her voice – ‘how do you know my fiancé's name?'

‘I made it my business to find out.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘Will he be gone soon?'

‘Why?'

‘I've told you. I want to see you.'

‘Tonight?’ Emma was horrified.

‘Why not? Tomorrow I have a rehearsal and another concert. My time is limited.'

‘I'm afraid that's impossible,’ she exclaimed, glancing again towards the lounge door.

‘Why is it impossible? Unless…’ his voice cooled perceptibly… ‘you sleep with this man Harrison—'

‘Of course not!’ Emma was furious. ‘I don't sleep with anyone!'

‘No?’ His accent was very pronounced suddenly. ‘What time will he leave?'

The lounge door suddenly opened, and Victor's broad frame filled the aperture. ‘What's going on?’ he demanded, sniffing strongly. ‘Is something burning?'

‘Oh, heavens, the omelette!’ Emma looked down at the phone helplessly, and Victor made an angry gesture.

‘Who is it?'

Emma put the receiver to her ear. ‘I can't talk any more now – J-Jennifer. C-could you ring tomorrow?'

Without waiting for Miguel's reply, she thrust the receiver down on the rest and fled into the kitchen, grabbing the smoking pan from the flame. The eggs were ruined, a brown and lumpy mess in the bottom of the pan.

Victor had followed her and looked over her shoulder critically. Wrinkling his nose at the remains of the omelette, he said: ‘Who's Jennifer?'

‘Jennifer?’ Emma sought wildly for an explanation. ‘You remember Jennifer. She – she and I used to be great friends before she got married.'

‘I thought that was Sheila.'

‘I did have more than one friend,’ retorted Emma, with an amazing amount of composure in the circumstances. She looked down into the pan. ‘Go and sit down again, and I'll make another omelette.'

‘No, thanks.’ Victor stretched his arms tiredly. ‘Quite honestly, after waiting so long my appetite's somewhat diminished.'

Emma bit her lip. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘So'm I.’ Victor turned and walked back into the hall. ‘I'll just finish my drink and then I'll go. You look tired. Aren't you sleeping well?'

Emma moved her head helplessly. ‘Reasonably well,’ she answered. She followed him into the lounge. ‘At least let me get you another drink.'

‘No, thanks. I've had enough. I have to drive home, remember?'

Emma nodded and stood uncertainly, twisting her hands together as he swallowed the remains of his Scotch.

‘What did she want anyway?’ Victor returned to the subject of the phone call and Emma who had thought that matter over made a deprecatory gesture.

‘Oh, she'd tried to ring me earlier, and when I wasn't in, she decided to ring back.'

‘Was it something important?'

Emma managed a smile, feeling the guilt burning in her cheeks. ‘Not really. She's – expecting her first baby.’ That was an inspiration and seemed to satisfy Victor at last.

‘Oh, well, I must go.’ He came towards her, taking her by the shoulders and holding her firmly as he bent to kiss her lips. It was meant to be a very chaste kiss, but Emma, disturbed and needing reassurance, allowed her lips to part beneath his, pressing closer against him.

Victor drew back at once, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth rather vigorously. ‘I must go,’ he said, his face flushed for once. ‘Good night, Emma.'

‘Good night, Victor.'

Emma pressed her lips together and accompanied him to the door. If only he showed a little more emotion! Heavens, they were to be married soon. What kind of a relationship were they going to have if he backed away from the most natural demonstrations of their love for one another?

Victor didn't kiss her again. He squeezed her hand warmly, and then went down the steps. Emma closed the door with a kind of suppressed violence, wishing for the first time in her life that she had a little more experience where men were concerned.

She had just finished cleaning up the kitchen when Mrs. Cook returned. The housekeeper came into the room looking in surprise at the scoured pan. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were eating out.'

Emma had not told Mrs. Cook they were going to the Salvaje concert. It was easier that way.

‘We were,’ she answered her now. ‘But I wasn't very hungry, so we came back here.'

‘So I see.’ Mrs. Cook took off her coat and went to hang it away. Emma realized she had accepted the explanation without elaboration and decided to say no more. There was no point in relating the circumstances which had led up to the present state of affairs unless she wanted to make more explanations. Instead, she said good night, and went up to bed.

But although she was tired, sleep was elusive. She kept wondering what Miguel Salvaje had thought of her abrupt ending of their telephone conversation. She was half prepared to believe that he might indeed come round to the house, but the dawn light was paling the sky when she at last fell into a deep slumber and no one had disturbed the silence of the night.

Mrs. Cook awoke her at ten with a cup of tea. Regarding Emma's pale face critically, she said: ‘You look terrible! Didn't you sleep?'

Emma struggled up and took the cup of tea. ‘Not very well,’ she conceded, pushing back her heavy hair. ‘What time is it?'

‘Ten o'clock. Do you want breakfast in bed?'

Emma grimaced. ‘No, nothing, thank you.'

Mrs. Cook shrugged and walked towards the door. Then she halted. ‘By the way, there was a telephone call for you.'

Emma's nerves tightened. ‘Already?'

‘Yes. That Miss Harding from the agency. She said to ask you whether you could go in this afternoon. Apparently she's short-staffed again.'

‘Oh!’ Emma put down her cup and lay back against the pillows. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose I could. Was that all?'

‘What more did you expect?’ Mrs. Cook was curious.

Emma shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing.'

‘Did you enjoy the concert last evening?'

Emma stared at her. ‘How do you know we went to a concert?'

‘Miss Harding told me. When I told her you were still in bed she asked whether you'd had a late evening.'

‘I see.’ Emma swung her legs out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. ‘Oh, well, it was no secret.'

‘Then why didn't you tell me?’ Mrs. Cook folded her arms. ‘Does Mr. Harrison know that Salvaje brought you home the night of the fog and then visited here a week later?'

Emma rose to her feet. ‘No, why should he?'

‘Strange that he should buy tickets for that particular performer, don't you think?'

Emma gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You're an inquisitive old woman, Mrs. Cook!'

‘I know it. I also know that while your father's away I'm responsible for you.'

‘I'm twenty-five, Mrs. Cook!'

‘I know that. But you're still my responsibility. If you ask me, there's something peculiar about the whole thing.'

‘Nobody asked you, Mrs. Cook.'

The housekeeper sighed and her expression became anxious. ‘Miss Emma! You wouldn't be thinking of doing anything silly now, would you?'

‘I don't know what you mean.’ Emma moved towards her. ‘Make me some coffee, there's a love. I'm not hungry, but I could certainly enjoy some of your coffee.'

Mrs. Cook moved aside reluctantly. ‘Oh, all right. Are you going to ring Miss Harding? She asked if you could ring her back.'

Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I'll give her a ring.'

She waited for Mrs. Cook to move out on to the landing and then she passed her on her way to the bathroom. She knew the housekeeper suspected there was more to this than she could possibly know, but now that she had learned about the concert what more could Emma tell her? There was nothing more.

Emma was in her bedroom, brushing her hair, when the doorbell rang. There was nothing unusual in that. Trades-people were always calling. But when Mrs. Cook came to the foot of the stairs and called up to her, her heart began to thump a little more vigorously.

‘Miss Emma! There's someone here to see you.'

Emma rose to her feet, looking helplessly at her unbound hair. It would take ages to fold it into its pleat, so she hastily plaited it into a thick braid and secured it with an elastic band. Her suit looked rather ridiculous with the childish hair-style, but it would have to do.

She hurried down the stairs and then came to an abrupt halt when she saw Miguel Salvaje standing below her. She wanted to turn and dash back up the stairs again, but he had heard her and swung round to face her.

‘Good morning, señorita,’ he greeted her, gallantly bowing his head, and Emma took a deep breath and descended the rest of the stairs.

‘Good morning, señor.'

Not one would have recognized the elegantly attired soloist of the night before as this casually dressed stranger. Close-fitting denim jeans topped by a navy roll-necked sweater and a waist-length denim jerkin disguised him most effectively, and he could have been taken for a student.

‘You are surprised to see me?’ he inquired, in his lazy accented voice.

Emma shook her head slowly. ‘N-not entirely,’ she admitted. ‘But—’ she glanced round to make sure Mrs. Cook was not hovering in the background, ‘I thought you had a rehearsal today.'

He tipped his head on one side. ‘I did. I do. But I am afraid I am – how do you say it – playing truant? Si?'

‘Si.’ Emma made a helpless gesture. ‘Why have you come?'

‘Ah!’ he shrugged. ‘Are you going to offer me some of that excellent coffee I can smell from the kitchen?'

Emma hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose so.’ She crossed the hall and thrust open the lounge door with rather jerky movements. ‘If – if you'll go in there and wait, I'll speak to Mrs. Cook.'

‘Very well.’ He did as she had suggested and with an exasperated shrug Emma hastened down the hall.

Mrs. Cook was busy at the sink and she looked up reprovingly as Emma entered the room. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Has he gone?'

‘No.’ Emma looked at the percolator bubbling on the stove. ‘He – er – do you think we could have some coffee?'

Mrs. Cook dried her hands. ‘I expect so.’ But her tone was not encouraging.

Emma sighed. ‘Don't look so – well, disapproving, Mrs. Cook. Why shouldn't I offer him coffee?'

‘Well, as you've asked me, I should have thought the reasons were obvious. Why is he here? What does he want?'

Emma set cups on a tray. ‘I don't know,’ she replied rather sharply. ‘Perhaps he wants to ask me if I enjoyed the concert.'

Mrs. Cook gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘Oh, yes! I suppose he visits all his patrons and asks them that!'

‘All right, all right. I suppose he wanted to see me.’ Emma was resigned.

‘Why?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Don't you?'

‘No.’ Emma picked up the tray. ‘Is this everything?'

‘Unless you want biscuits.'

‘No, I don't think so. Thank you.'

Emma carried the tray along to the lounge and entering found Miguel seated at the piano, playing very softly. But he stopped when she came in, and rising to his feet took the tray from her hands and placed it on the low table in front of the fire.

Emma subsided rather thankfully on to the couch beside the table and trying to control her unsteady hands, asked: ‘Cream and sugar?'

‘No. Black, please.’ He came to sit beside her on the couch, stretching out his long legs in front of him, resting his head back against the soft leather upholstery. ‘Hmm, this is very nice. Much nicer than a cold concert hall.'

Emma placed his cup of coffee on the table near him and then busied herself pouring some for herself. But she was conscious of him only inches away from her, and of the lean brown hand with its carved gold ring lying on the couch between them. His fingers were long; artistic, and yet masculine, the silky dark hairs on the back of his hand signifying its strength.

Emma lifted her cup and swallowed a mouthful of coffee without thinking, almost scalding herself in the process. She coughed, apologized, and then replaced her cup on the tray.

‘You are so nervous, Emma,’ he remarked lazily. ‘Why? What are you afraid of? Me?'

‘Of course not.’ Emma straightened her shoulders. ‘Er – what are you playing this evening?'

‘I do not want to talk about my work,’ he stated briefly, and she identified the note of impatience that had suddenly entered his voice. Then, softening, he went on: ‘Have you looked outside? It is one of your English autumn days that makes one feel glad to be alive.'

Emma glanced towards the windows. She could see what he meant. Pale golden sunlight was spilling over the stark bareness of the trees in the garden, gilding the dew-wet spiders’ webs with an unearthly jewel-like fragility. Even the pale colours of autumn were magically strengthened, and although she knew the air would be cold, Emma guessed it was as clear and fresh as good wine.

‘I want to be out in the day,’ he said quietly. ‘I want to drive to the coast, and feel the cold wind from the sea on my face. I want to feel free again!’ He stretched out a hand and tugged gently at her braid which hung almost to her waist. ‘And I want you to come with me!'

Emma trembled. ‘That – that's impossible, I'm afraid—’ she began, when his face darkened ominously.

‘Why? Why is it impossible? Always you say this to me! It is not impossible! Nothing is impossible! And what is more, I will not accept any more excuses from you!'

He had straightened from his lounging position and was glaring at her angrily, and Emma found her breathing somewhat constricted by that close scrutiny. But trying not to be intimidated, she said: ‘I am not making excuses, señor. I work in a secretarial agency, and I'm due there in a little under two hours.'

He flung himself off the couch and away from her, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘A secretarial agency,’ he muttered grimly. Then he turned to look at her. ‘And this is your final word?'

Emma rose nervously to her feet, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘I – I – what more cay I say, señor?'

‘My name is Miguel,’ he muttered broodingly, regarding her with a mixture of exasperation and malevolence.

Emma returned his gaze for a few moments, but then her lids dropped defensively before the intensity of his eyes. He remained staring at her for a while longer, and then he crossed the room to stand in front of her. Putting out a hand he lifted her chin, and her eyes flickered open. ‘Come with me, Emma,’ he murmured appealingly.

Although his fingers were cool, they burned her flesh where they touched, and she jerked away from him. ‘I can't.'

‘You mean you daren't,’ he returned bitterly.

Emma took a deep breath. ‘You place a very high value on your company, señor,’ she snapped. ‘I can assure you—'

But Miguel was reaching for her, his hands on her shoulders, impelling her towards him. ‘Be silent!’ he muttered impatiently, and bending his head he fastened his mouth on hers with devastating possession.

Emma struggled impotently for a few moments, but the hard muscles of his chest imprisoned her hands and they fluttered like birds trapped in a snare. His mouth hardened deliberately as she struggled and Emma felt her lips parting almost without volition. An awful weakness flooded her, all resistance ebbing away. His hands slid down her back to her hips, holding her firmly against him so that she was made aware of every muscle of his thighs. No one, least of all Victor, had ever kissed her so long or so thoroughly, and when at last he lifted his head she felt a sense of loss and dissatisfaction, as though her body yearned for a fulfilment it had not received.

But like a drowning man coming to the surface, sanity brought a sense of shame and humiliation, and although he did not move away when his hands fell to his sides she stepped several paces backward.

Miguel took a long narrow cigar out of his pocket and placing it between his teeth proceeded to light it with calm deliberation. ‘Stop looking as though I have seduced you,’ he remarked lazily. ‘For a woman of twenty-five, you're remarkably inexperienced.'

Emma gathered her scattered senses. ‘I'm sorry,’ she replied stiffly. ‘But I didn't ask you to find out.'

The corners of his thin mouth lifted. ‘No. But you didn't object either, did you?'

Emma uttered a gasp and turned away, pressing the palms of her hands to her burning cheeks, and with an exclamation he said: ‘Emma! Don't make such a thing of it. Now, go and get changed, and we'll go to the coast!'

Emma swung round. ‘Do you think I'd go out with you after this?’ she demanded in astonishment.

Miguel's face darkened. ‘I don't think anything, Emma. I know it!'

‘You can't make me!'

‘Can't I?’ His eyes narrowed.

Emma shook her head a trifle confusedly. ‘Why do you want to take me?'

‘Because I enjoy your company.'

‘But there must be other women – I mean – I'm sure I'm not the only woman you know in London.'

‘I don't – know – you yet, Emma,’ he replied disturbingly.

Emma took a shaking breath. ‘But I'm not your type. And besides, there's Victor.'

‘You want I should invite him also?’ Miguel raised his dark brows and Emma had to shake her head slowly. ‘So! Get ready. And please – wear something less – less unattractive.’ He flicked his fingers at the suit as though it offended him. ‘Don't you have any trousers?'

Emma hesitated. ‘I – I have an old pair of jeans,’ she faltered.

‘Good. Don't be long.'

And with that he turned his back on her and walked over to the piano. She left the room with the plaintive sound of lyrical pastoral music which she recognized as Grieg's filling her ears. Obviously, though he refused to discuss his music, it was terribly important to him. No one could coax such gentle melancholy, such compassion, from an instrument without awareness of the deep correlation between them. She had never experienced such a surging of emotion as was emanating from the keys, and she went out quickly and closed the door.

But in the hall, a chill feeling of apprehension settled upon her. What was she thinking of, allowing him to direct her movements like this? What did she know about him after all? His relationships, his background, his way of life? He could be married for all she knew, and very likely was. And what about Victor, and her job at the agency?

Mrs. Cook came out of the kitchen and saw her standing there. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, a look of concern on her face.

Emma sighed. ‘No, nothing's wrong, Mrs. Cook. I – er – I'm going out. With – with Señor Salvaje.'

Mrs. Cook looked horrified. ‘But I thought – that is – you rang Miss Harding and told her you would go in to work.'

‘I did. But I shall ring again and tell her I can't.'

Mrs. Cook shook her head, obviously confused and worried. ‘And what will you tell her? That you're going out with this – this piano-player!'

Emma's lips curved in an unwilling smile. No one could call Miguel Salvaje just a piano-player. It was sacrilegious! But she didn't contradict her.

‘No,’ she answered now. ‘I shall tell her I've got a headache.'

Mrs. Cook folded her arms. ‘And Mr. Harrison? What about him?'

‘Oh, I'm not seeing Victor until tonight. Besides, I shall be back some time this afternoon, I expect. Mig – that is – Señor Salvaje – has a recital this evening.'

Mrs. Cook could not have looked more disapproving. ‘I don't know,’ she exclaimed. ‘Telling lies to Miss Harding, going out with another man behind Mr. Harrison's back! What's got into you?'

Emma bent her head. ‘Nothing's got into me, Mrs. Cook. Good heavens, you're behaving as though I was planning to run away with the man! We're only driving to the coast. What harm is there in that?'

Mrs. Cook shrugged. “You know the answer to that as well as I do,’ she retorted. ‘Have sense, girl! What's a man like him troubling with you for, if it's not for – well, the obvious reasons!'

Emma clenched her fists. Mrs. Cook was voicing all her own fears and apprehensions and right now she didn't want to listen to them.