The house of strange music By Margery Hilton

[MooNy87]

CHAPTER TEN
GILDA missing! It was unbelievable. It couldn't be true. How could it happen? Linzi asked herself over and over again during the nightmare race back to Hillcrest. How could a little crippled girl simply vanish into the night? 'I don't understand it!' Mark kept repeating, his foot driving the accelerator flat to the floor. 'The woman must have made a mistake. She must be dreaming. Gilda can't have gone. It's impossible. Unless ...' His lean features set into a pale mask of anguish, and his unspoken fear communicated itself instantly to Linzi. Had Gilda been kidnapped? She dared not voice the fear, trying desperately to convince herself that it was all a nightmare, that those stunned moments when Mark turned from the phone to recount Mrs Brinsmead's frantic message had never happened. It had to be a mistake ... But the forlorn hope was swiftly quenched when the car roared up the drive and the figure of the housekeeper was outlined in the bright rectangle of light at the open door. Mark leapt from the car. 'What happened? How did -?' 'I don't know, sir.' The woman's hands clenched on the air. 'Oh, I'm so glad you came—I didn't know what to do— whether to -' Mark brushed past her, to rush across the hall and take the stairs two at a time. Mrs Brinsmead looked as white as death, and it was left to Linzi to close the heavy door on the cold night wind that swirled into the house. For the first time since leaving Red Manor she realised that they had left the others behind and it was possible that

Sharon and Andrew did not yet know of Mark's abrupt departure. When he had shouldered past Linzi after that startling announcement she had stood for a moment, stunned by shock and disbelief, then without thinking she had raced after him, straight outside without a thought of collecting her wrap, and had almost fallen into the car as he started to drive off. Now she stood irresolute, knowing she should telephone the other two, yet every instinct forcing her to follow Mark. The need to see for herself won and she sped up the stairs to where light streamed from the open door of Gilda's room. Mark appeared there, like a man who could not believe the evidence of his own eyes. 'She's not there! But how? Tell me how?' She looked past him, at the big familiar room with its pastel shades and its dainty furnishings, at the settee with the three dolls, their wide china blue eyes staring vacantly under silken lashes at the empty bed, the bed that had been slept in, plainly, but where the tousled, turned-back clothes revealed only a rumpled pink sheet and two frilled pillows slightly askew. Linzi ran to the bathroom, saw the light burning in its emptiness, then threw open the door that led to her own room. The light burned there, too, where Mark had already looked in the frantic minutes he preceded her. She opened the wardrobe doors, the cupboard, found them exactly as she left them, and ran back into Gilda's room to find him pulling back the window curtains. He swung round, his eyes demented with fear. 'Her dressing gown's on the floor here, by the bed.' Linzi picked it up, folded it without realising her hands did the motions, and saw him stoop to snatch up the small, furry blue slippers that still lay side by side on the floor by the bed. He stared

at them, then dropped them and shook his head. 'I'm going to phone -' Mrs Brinsmead caught up with them, appearing at the bedroom door. She said, 'I've looked for her, Mr Vardan, in there, and Miss Shadwyn's room. I thought she might have tried to get to the bathroom, because I was late in -' 'What time was this?' he cut in. 'Just before I phoned you.' Mrs Brinsmead wrung her hands. 'She was all right when I brought her cocoa up at five to nine. You see, there was a play I was waiting to see on television, so I asked her if she minded having it a bit earlier, just before it started, and she said no, and that she was feeling a bit tired and she'd read the thing her Aunty Sharon had left for her and she was -' 'What thing?' Mark snapped. 'One of those brochure things.' Mrs Brinsmead showed a flicker of surprise that he should question this at such a time. She crossed to the bed and drew a slim, glossy brochure the size of a small magazine from the shelf in the bedside cabinet. She held it out. 'It's for the special school you're sending Miss Gilda to after Christmas. She showed it to me—there's a picture of the swimming team and the two children who entered the special sporting events they have for paraplegics. She was having a little bit of a cry to herself, but I told her she'd beat them all if she really put her mind to it, and she said yes, she'd try hard, and,' Mrs Brinsmead paused unhappily and looked at Linzi, as though for some assurance that she wasn't to blame, 'then she said I hadn't to bother sitting up if I didn't want to, because you and Miss Shadwyn had promised to look in when you got home and if she was still awake you would tell her all about Red Manor and what Tony Tristam was like.'

Mrs Brinsmead sighed, and avoided Mark's stare as she went on more slowly: 'So I went back downstairs and watched the play. It finished at ten, and then I meant to get up and make myself a cup of tea and a bite to eat, and go up to get Miss Gilda's supper things. But I picked up the evening paper to glance at the headlines, and I must have dozed off, for the next thing was I heard the clock strike eleven. I don't know how I came to do that, I don't usually -' 'Never mind,' Mark said impatiently. 'Didn't you hear any thing? Anybody breaking in, or prowling round, or any suspicious sounds? Damn it all, you must have heard something, woman.' 'I didn't,' she said vehemently. 'It was like I told you on the phone. I put the kettle on for my cup of tea arid while it was on I went upstairs, quietly, because I thought she'd be asleep and I didn't want to disturb her. Her little bedside light was still on and then I saw the empty bed. Just as it is now. I couldn't think what had happened, and I said, "Gilda, where are you?" and she didn't answer. Then I thought she'd wanted to go to the bathroom and tried to get there by herself because there was nobody to help her—she did once, you remember, Mr Vardan? Rolled out on to the floor and tried to crawl and drag herself along, and you came in and found her on the floor and she was crying.' 'I remember.' Mark's eyes clouded. 'And then...?' 'Well, nothing.' Mrs Brinsmead shook her head hopelessly. 'She wasn't in the bathroom, and I looked in Miss Shadwyn's room, and I didn't know what to do. I mean, how could she be anywhere else but here? She couldn't be downstairs, poor lamb, I didn't know what to do, so I ran straight down to the phone and called you.' 'I'll phone the police.' Mark strode from the room, leaving the housekeeper and Linzi to stare at each other with wide, frightened eyes.

The same question loomed, unanswerable. What had happened to Gilda? How could she just vanish without leaving any apparent trace? Then Linzi exclaimed aloud, 'Her clothes!' She opened the wardrobe, checking quickly along the rack of garments. Mrs Brinsmead joined her, drawing out each pair of shoes in turn. She straightened. 'Her brown shoes aren't here.' 'Neither is her pink dress—the angora wool one.' Linzi whirled round. 'Look in the drawers, see if you find anything else missing. I'm going to see if her brown gaberdine is still downstairs.' Linzi hurried away and found that the coat was indeed missing from the hall coat rack. She turned breathlessly to find Mark crossing the hall. They both began speaking at the same time, then Mark stopped, letting her exclaim her discovery. He nodded grimly. 'The police are coming. They wanted to know if there's any sign of a break-in. We'd better start searching, but hadn't you...?' He stopped with a gesture, and Linzi became aware of her now incongruous-seeming attire. She turned away. 'I'll change as quickly as I can, then I'll help you.' All the time she was stripping off her evening clothes and thrusting into more sensible slacks and pullover Linzi's brain was trying to find answers. But she kept coming back to the same fear; that Gilda had been kidnapped. The dreadful possibility was not unfeasible; it must be fairly widely known that Mark was a wealthy man and that he was devoted to his only child. Gilda would be helpless to resist, and even if Mrs Brinsmead had not been dozing it was unlikely that she would hear anything from her sitting room with the television

going full blast. Even if a cry for help had been allowed to escape the child Linzi felt sick and frightened when she hurried downstairs. Suddenly the house had become filled with foreboding and she was aware of its dark vast ramble of unused rooms and corridors. She longed for Mark's nearness, the reassurance of his strength, and then when she found him in one of the big storerooms beyond the kitchen quarters her heart ached at the sight of his taut worried features. The longing to give comfort was intense, but how could she give anything but the empty phrases of hope? He brushed past her, his hand flicking out to check her when she would have switched off the light. 'I'm leaving the light on in each room as I check—but there isn't a sign so far.' When she looked at the great bolts and locks on all the outer doors, the securely fastened windows, some of which, in the store-rooms, the gunroom, and the old sculleries, were either barred or showed the unmistakable seal of disuse in cobwebs, Linzi began to feel their search for an intruder was wasting time. She wanted to rush outside and look for people to ask if they had seen any sign of a little girl ... If only the police would come ... They arrived in a very short time, even though it seemed an eternity to Linzi, and then all the explanations had to be recounted again. Linzi fretted with impatience while the young detective questioned Mark. At the mention of Red Manor he frowned. 'You say she's crippled. Did you leave her here alone?' His look and his gestures seemed to accuse and encompass the whole of the lonely old house.

'My housekeeper lives in.' Mark's voice was thin. 'Gilda is never left alone.' The detective nodded, then told his companion to have a look round while Mrs Brinsmead repeated her account. At Mark's request Linzi went with the constable, covering first the section of the ground floor she and Mark had already searched. The constable did not make any comments until they reached the vast old drawing room with its shrouded furnishings. 'Do you never got lost in here?' He smiled faintly at Linzi. She shook her head and closed the door. He glanced round, then pointed to the door at the far end of the passage. 'Where does that lead?' 'Into the other wing. We don't really use it.' He tried the door. 'We'd better have a look. Have you the key, miss?' Linzi went to get it, and for a moment thought that Gilda must have hidden it. After a hurried search she located it in one of Gilda's many boxes of 'treasures' and hurried downstairs again. But the secret wing gave up no secrets, nor any indication of what had become of the missing child. Back in the library the detective sighed and said: 'Upstairs now,' and Mark groaned. 'This is going to take hours, sergeant.' The detective looked sympathetic. 'We must, sir. You see, it seems logical to rule out the possibility that she played a childish prank and hid from you. You say she's unable to walk, and that she's a sensible child, therefore wherever she went she had to be carried. But we have to make sure she isn't still in the house.'

'She might be,' cried Mrs Brinsmead. 'Maybe she can't cry out to let you know ...' . Mark made no further demur and the upper floor was thoroughly searched, all the window fastenings carefully examined, without any trace of what they sought. They returned downstairs as Sharon and Andrew arrived. Sharon looked furious, but she quickly calmed down when she discovered what had happened. 'We didn't even know you'd left,' she cried, 'and nobody could tell us why. We knew something must have happened, but I never dreamed it was ... this.' Her hands fluttered and she went to him. 'Oh, Mark, try not to worry too much. We'll find her—I know it. I would sense it if—if anything dreadful had happened to her.' The young detective did not appear unduly impressed by this demonstration of feminine intuition. He put the photograph of Gilda which Mark had supplied carefully into his notebook and walked to the door. 'We'll do everything we can, sir. Now we've got this description. You'll let us know immediately if you hear anything at this end?' Mark nodded v bleakly, and the two policemen went out to their car. 'Are you all right?' Andrew had come silently to Linzi's side and put his arm round her shoulders. 'This is a shock.' She nodded, close to tears now that the reaction was setting in. 'I'm sorry I ran off without telling you, but when Mark got the message I just came with him, without thinking.' 'I understand.' His arm tightened. 'Come and sit down. You can't do anything at the moment.'

'We can search the grounds,' Mark said, disengaging himself from Sharon's hand on his arm. 'At least we'll feel we're doing something.' Andrew went with him, armed with torches, and the two girls huddled on chairs in the kitchen, sipping the hot tea which Mrs Brinsmead had made. The silence of despair descended as the long minutes dragged by, and when the phone shrilled they all started, eyes wide in faces drained of colour. Linzi moved first, running along the passage to the open door of the library. Sharon was close behind her as she lifted the receiver with a trembling hand. 'Who is it?' demanded Sharon. Linzi hardly heard her. The voice at the other end was almost the last one she expected to hear—the light, soft drawling voice of Alayne, now husky with puzzlement as she asked for Gilda. Linzi told her unsteadily, biting her Up as the distressed response came over the line. Then it was her turn to gasp at Alayne's startling message. Gilda had telephoned her an hour ago. 'I was out—I've just got back—but Janie was in the apartment and she said it was definitely a child's voice. She thought the name was Gerda at first, then she remembered my telling her about you all, and was sure it was Gilda. But in the middle of it all those darned pips went and the line went dead. Janie waited for the number to ring again, but nothing. I know it's late, but I had to call back. I couldn't imagine what would set her to call me at that time. It was nearly eleven, Janie thinks, though she didn't think to check the time,' Alayne paused. 'If only I'd stayed home! Mark must be out of his mind.' 'He is.' Linzi's knuckles shone white as she gripped the receiver. 'She didn't tell Janie where she was, or what had happened?'

'No.' Alayne's worried sigh came over clearly. 'Just that she wanted me, and where was I, and what time would I be back. God! If only I -' Alayne paused, and when she spoke again her voice was more controlled. 'Tell me, is there anything I can do? Shall I come up?' Linzi shook her head, uncaring that it was a futile gesture which couldn't be seen. 'We're waiting to hear from the police. Mark and Andrew are searching the grounds. But it's dark, and—and -' Her voice broke and she swallowed hard. 'I understand. Now listen, I'm going to clear this line. Tell Mark I'm praying for her, and please let me know the minute you hear anything. I don't think I'll be going to bed tonight,' she concluded wryly. Linzi put down the phone and hurried from the room, ignoring Sharon's detaining hand. She did not want to stop to recount the gist of the interchange between herself and Alayne; all she wanted was to find Mark and tell him that his daughter was apparently alive and well at eleven o'clock that evening. But the question still remained; where? It was impossible to trace the call, the police said, although they had immediately put a call round the local exchanges to see if any operator remembered putting through a call to the London number. But they were afraid it had been made STD from a call- box, and the child had not had sufficient change to extend the call—if it had been Gilda. They read the same doubt in each other's eyes : how could it have been Gilda? *** At quarter to one Mark phoned the police station to see if there was any news. It was a vain hope, and the chill of despair engulfed them again. Mrs Brinsmead suggested more coffee and Mark grimaced.

No one could face coffee, let alone food. Andrew went down to the lodge to let Nanny Tarrance know what had happened and tell her that he was staying at the house in case there was anything he could do to help. She thereupon insisted on coming back with him, and there were six worried people sitting in Mark's library, frustrated by their sheer helplessness to do something constructive. Mark and Andrew wanted to drive out and scour the countryside, but Sharon and Linzi, for once in agreement realised the futility of such an action. For where did they begin? How could they knock on every door? How could they keep in touch? And if a call came from the police how would Mark and Andrew be contacted quickly. The emergency call which had gone out before the late news bulletin would alert a tremendous number of people; perhaps one of whom might have seen or heard something to provide a clue to the whereabouts of the missing child. At one o'clock Mark begged the two girls to go and rest, but neither could bear the thought of trying to sleep, and a little while after this it began to snow. They watched from the window, the slow, thin drifting fall which gradually thickened into a soft curtain of white. The chill fingers of winter seemed to close round the house, their icy dominance penetrating the walls despite the warmth within and the glowing fire in the library. 'This is all we need!' Mark groaned. 'Even the damned weather The jangle of the phone cut into his words. With two strides he reached it, and in the sudden hush as he picked up the receiver Linzi hardly dared breathe. They watched his face, trying to read hope in the clipped monosyllables of his responses, then a sigh that was a physical pain ran through Linzi as he exclaimed:

'Thank God! I'll get over there right away and -' He stopped. A frown knit his brows, and his lips moved, shaping protests he seemed unable to voice until the person at the other end stopped speaking. Then some of the tension went out of his shoulders. "Very well—but I could save him the journey. It's a filthy night.' A pause, then, 'And she's safe? Unhurt?' There was the faint crackling response, then Mark fumbled the receiver back on to its rest. He pressed his hands down on the desk top, supporting himself, his head bent, for a few moments before he slowly straightened and turned. 'She's safe.' Strength seemed to have drained from him. He crossed to the drinks cabinet and splashed spirits into a glass, then gave a gesture which was an invitation to anyone who wanted a drink to help themselves. No one moved, and he sank into a chair, taking a gulp of his drink. 'She's with a Doctor Whyndale at Sheriff Wold.' 'Where?' exclaimed Sharon. 'Sheriff Wold. It's a small market town about twenty miles from here. No,' his breath expelled in a long sigh, 'don't ask me how she got there. There's a lot I don't understand, but apparently this doctor is much concerned about her. He's insisted on bringing her back himself.' 'At this time?' Sharon looked amazed. Mark shrugged wearily. 'Who is this Doctor Whyndale, anyway? And how did she come to be at this place, wherever it is?' demanded Sharon.

Mark got up and paced across the room, ignoring her questions. He stopped at the window and peered out into the darkness. 'I wonder how long it will take?' he muttered worriedly. No one replied, and after a short silence Nanny Tarrance touched Andrew on the shoulder and whispered something to him. He nodded and they stood up. Nanny went to Mark's side and said gently: 'We'll be going now, laddie. You'll be better without a lot of folk fussing around when she comes home.' 'No ...' Mark shook his head. 'Yes,' said Nanny firmly, 'I think the bairn'll be wanting her daddy and nobody else. If you need us we're not far away and you've only to ask.' With a glance round and a softly spoken goodnight she went from the room, and after a hesitation Andrew followed, pausing to put his hand on Linzi's shoulder and say his quiet goodnight to her. She returned it unsteadily and watched him go. Already the gala occasion at Red Manor seemed to have happened in another time, long forgotten, and the present stood still, waiting ... The headlights' wash of radiance and the soft swish of tyres on the thin icing of snow came exactly thirty-five minutes later. The portico light and the hall lights spilled from the house and clearly illuminated the big Daimler limousine drawing to a halt at the door. Mark ran out as the car stopped, and Linzi clenched her hands so hard the nails bit into her palms. The cold wind cut through her pullover, but for the moment she was not conscious of the cold, or of Sharon huddled into a fur wrap and shivering at her side. A big man in a sheepskin jacket and country cap was coming round the front of the car, speaking briefly to Mark, and then opening the

rear door. He put out one hand, checking Mark's move, and reached into the car. A moment later Sharon gave an incredulous gasp, and Linzi's hand fluttered to her throat. Then tears stung into her eyes and spilled over. For, supported between Mark and the stranger, Gilda came towards her. Walking. *** The thin drift of falling snow flecked Gilda's hair, and her feet left small black imprints in the white coating on the gravel. Linzi and Sharon fell back as the two men and the child entered the outer hall, and then Sharon recovered from amazement. She ran forward and seized the child's hands. 'I don't believe it! You're walking! Have you been a fraud all this time?' The child's face closed and her hands wrenched out of Sharon's grasp. She did not speak, but there was total rejection in every line of her slight body. Then her mouth crumpled and with a cry she turned blindly to her father. He swung her up into his arms, cradled her head against his shoulder, and uttered a shuddering sigh that was an unashamed sob. 'Darling baby,' he murmured brokenly. 'Is it true?' Her head moved convulsively against him, and he whispered: 'But why, my precious? Why did -?' 'I'm sorry, Daddy, I don't know. But I had to—because you were going to send me away—and marry Aunt Sharon, and I knew you didn't want me.' She gulped and fastened thin arms fiercely round

his neck. 'When she gave me the book thing about the school I thought it was all true that Mummy said about you, that you didn't want us, and when I broke my leg I heard you say to the doctor, "She will walk again? ".and he said he hoped so but they weren't sure of the extent of the damage, and then I knew I wouldn't because it was a punishment for what I did when I tried to make Mummy go back to you instead of going to the airport to go away with Uncle Bart and the car crashed, and it was my fault because I pulled the wheel and -' She couldn't go on for the sobs that shook her whole body, and Mark's face wore the expression of a man who had glimpsed hell. He covered her brow and the tangled hair with kisses and held her close, murmuring to her, trying to soothe her. Beside Linzi, the big grey-bearded man sighed softly under his breath. 'I knew it,' he whispered. 'It was a cry for help. This is why I felt I had to bring her back myself and see her father.' He took a step forward, and at the same time Mark turned. The look he directed at them was hard, but his voice was tender as he said: 'No, you won't be going to that school, my precious, nor will I be marrying anyone who doesn't love you as much as I do. We'll be going back home soon, and you'll go back to your own school, and see Jane and Caroline and Mandy again, and we're going to forget all this, for ever.' He drew a deep breath. 'Too many people have tried to tell me what to do best for my own child. In future I'll be grateful to be left to make my own decisions.' Sharon's mouth opened. 'If you mean me, Mark, I've only tried to help.'

'I'm aware of that, and I'm grateful. But now ...' He turned towards the stairs, holding his burden as though she was the most vital part of his existence. 'Gilda is going to learn to walk again—I think we both are.'

[MooNy87]

CHAPTER ELEVEN
LINZI slept late the next morning, after lying awake long after silence at last enfolded the old house. Now, roused by Mrs Brinsmead with a very welcome cup of tea, she saw that it was nearly ten o'clock and felt as though she had only just closed her eyes. The housekeeper drew the curtains, letting in pale liquid winter sunlight, and announced that the snow had gone. She turned and surveyed Linzi. 'Mr Vardan said you had to have your sleep out, but I thought you wouldn't want to sleep too long—gives you a headache, doesn't it?' Linzi nodded, sipping the tea gratefully. Her head did feel heavy and her eyes gritty from a very late night, the events of which were all rushing back into her memory. 'Last night was a bit of a turn-up for the book, wasn't it?' remarked the housekeeper, as though she had read Linzi's thoughts. 'Fancy that imp running away like that! Did she ever let on to you that her legs weren't as bad as she would have us believe?' Linzi shook her head. 'I still can't believe it.' 'Well, I reckon her father's trying to get to the bottom of it all this morning. They went into the library as soon as they'd finished breakfast, with that doctor. Seems he was a very important nerve specialist before he retired. Trust that minx to run into somebody like that—another man to dote on her!' Despite the trace of lip service to disapproval of Gilda's startling waywardness, there was admiration of the child's exploit in Mrs Brinsmead's face. She stood by the window for a moment, plainly disposed to stay and chat, then observed idly: 'Wasn't it lucky we got the big room done out for Alayne's mother and aunt? I was

thankful for it last night when Mr Vardan insisted that the doctor stay overnight instead of driving back in the snow. It didn't take five minutes to slip the fresh sheets on and put out a couple of clean towels. But men don't think, do they?' Linzi ate her biscuit and agreed that they didn't, and Mrs Brinsmead went on: 'Still, I didn't mind at a time like that. It was very good of him to look after Gilda and bring her home. There's no knowing whose bad hands she might have fallen into at that time of night.' The housekeeper stifled a yawn and made for the door. 'Mr Vardan must be tired—he sat up all last night beside her. She wouldn't leave go of his hand, even when she fell asleep, bless her. He was still there, looking all cramped and tired, when I went in at half-past eight.' Mrs Brinsmead reached the door, opened it, then closed it again. 'She's packing—says she's afraid of getting snowed up here and the Christmas rush starting in her boutique.' Mrs Brinsmead smiled meaningly. 'I reckon there's at least one person in this house that won't be sorry if she doesn't come back.' With another meaning look, to which Linzi had to content herself with a mere raising of her brows in response, Mrs Brinsmead departed. She had never been so human, Linzi reflected wryly as she got out of bed and pattered to the bathroom. By the time she was dressed and had finished breakfast it was nearing eleven. There was no sign of Gilda and her father, or the child's Samaritan of the night, nor did they emerge when Sharon came down with her bandbox and the case which held her ball dress. She left them in the hall and marched along the library corridor, to emerge a few minutes later with Mark. He carried her things out to her car, she said a cool goodbye to Linzi, and drove off without a

backward glance. Mark paused, inquired if Linzi had had her sleep out, and returned to the library. He looked dreadfully tired, drawn and heavy-eyed, but quietly happy, Linzi thought as she wandered into the empty lounge. Last night must have been a tremendous shock to him, to find his daughter missing, then to discover that she had regained the use of her legs, to the extent of running away from home, apparently without ever giving a hint of this to anyone, least of all the one person who should have been told, himself. And how had she got to the place where Doctor Whyndale had found her? How had he found her? And what had she meant in that heartbroken outburst about causing the crash which had ended her mother's life ? These were questions to which Linzi had no answers; answers which perhaps only Mark and Doctor Whyndale would ever know. Linzi pushed the puzzling elements of the whole business out of her mind. They were no concern of hers; soon, when Mark took his daughter back to their home in the south and Gilda returned to her old school, to pick up the threads of a normal, little-girl life while Mark reconsidered his musical career, there would be no place in their lives for Linzi. Hillcrest, and the Lilac Girl, would recede into the past, probably to become a forgotten memory. Suddenly she had a feeling that the house would rapidly lose its fascination for Gilda, and as Mark had stated so vehemently his dislike for the old place it was quite likely that he might decide to sell it. And this time, if Andrew's friend still wished to go ahead with his scheme to turn the house into a holiday home for handicapped children, there would be no abrupt cancellation of the sale. That must have been when he had the reconciliation with Lucille, she whispered soundlessly, and then, little more than a year later, it all began again, to end in tragedy ...

The trend of her thoughts were more than she could bear, and abruptly she turned away from her unseeing contemplation of the November-grizzled garden. She remembered Alayne, and wondered if, in the turmoil of the previous evening, anyone had thought to let her know. The American girl would be worried; she had plainly become very devoted to Gilda during the short time they had known one another. Linzi went out into the hall, to the little panelled recess where the other phone was, and dialled the London number. She knew that Alayne was unlikely to be in at this time of the day, but the porter of the block of flats where she was staying would pass on the message of Gilda's safety at the first opportunity. Doctor Whyndale left soon after this, regretfully refusing Mark's invitation to stay for lunch but accepting with obvious pleasure an invitation to dinner one night the following week. With a dry, 'And no more hitch-hiking with strange men, young lady,' and a pat on the cheek to Gilda he took his leave. 'I'll see to that, don't worry,' Mark said stringently. 'And now,' he regarded her anxiously, 'I think it's time you had a rest. We'll bring your lunch on a tray, then you must rest until teatime.' But Gilda had no intention of going to bed and she was quite adamant about it. Although she was very pale, with great dark circles round her eyes, Mark weakened, admitting he hadn't the heart to insist on obedience. 'She's spent long enough in bed and in a chair this year,' he said in an aside to Linzi, which Gilda patently strained her ears to overhear. He bent and brushed gentle fingers down her cheek. 'Just don't overdo it, and don't develop a cold from your night-raking, please, darling.' 'I won't, Daddy,' she promised blithely, 'I'm too happy.'

It was obvious that whatever doubts she had cherished regarding the genuineness of her father's devotion had been resolved, and also the real or imagined guilt that had lain secretly on her young conscience for many months seemed to have lifted. After lunch she curled up on the big chesterfield in the lounge and decided to make her confession to Linzi and Nanny Tarrance, who had popped up to see with her own eyes if the rumour already circulating the village was really true. When Gilda got up and walked unsteadily round the settee, then curled up again and looked proudly at her, Nanny Tarrance's eyes were moist. 'But when—how did it happen?' 'Oh, a bit ago,' Gilda said, somewhat evasively. 'A bit ago! And you never told anybody?' Gilda pulled a face, betraying that she was becoming a little weary of this question. She picked at a fraying break in the arm of the settee cover and mumbled, 'I couldn't—I wasn't sure.' 'Well, I don't know!' Nanny wagged her head, then looked at Linzi, as though to say: What do you make of it? When there was no helpful theory forthcoming Nanny turned a shocked expression to Gilda. 'And so you ran away to prove it. Whatever for?' 'I don't know. I just had to.' By now the frayed spot in the cover had quite a little fringe. 'Daddy knows now, and he's forgiven me. Doctor Whyndale was super—he wouldn't let anybody be cross with me except himself.' 'Oh.' Nanny weighed this somewhat smug statement, and waited for further elucidation.

'He gave me a lift. I never thought he'd stop when I held out my hand just outside your house, but he did. Then he wanted to know what on earth I was doing out alone at that time of night, and I said I'd missed the last bus—it goes at quarter to ten and it was about ten to then. And he said how did I know he was going my way, and I told him I wanted to go to Malton and this road leads there eventually. And then he said he wasn't going to Malton but Fernbridge, a tiny village outside Sheriff Wold. I was beginning to get scared because I was sure he didn't believe me. He started asking me who I was and which school I went to, and what did my father do, and had we lived here very long, and was I in the habit of stopping strange cars for a lift and what were my people thinking of to let me come so far away by myself to visit a cousin. So I asked him to put me off in Sheriff Wold and I would phone my father and he would come and pick me up, and he said no, he would take me home himself if I gave him the directions.' Gilda paused for breath, avoiding the eyes of her listeners. 'I was really scared by then, and all funny and shaky, and I told him I'd rather he didn't because my father would be mad if he knew I'd stopped a strange car for a lift. I asked him to drop me in the town because a friend from school lived there and I could say I'd stopped off there to see her on the way home.' Linzi closed her eyes despairingly, imagining the fear of the child and the plight her reckless action had led her into. Gilda went on, 'He said he didn't believe a word of it and he was going to stop at the next phone box and phone my people himself. We were coming to some traffic lights and I prayed they would turn red before we got to them. They did, and I said he needn't bother and thank you and this would be fine for me, and I got the car door open and got out. My legs felt awful, all watery as though they weren't there, and he shouted after me, but the lights changed again and he had to drive on, because of the cars hooting behind. I ran

round the corner and there was a transport cafe still open. I bought a cup of tea and sat behind two big lorry drivers so that I was out of sight of the door, and wondered what I should do. Then I saw my diary in my bag and remembered Alayne's new number was in. There was one of those open phone booths in the cafe and I couldn't reach very well, but one of the drivers dialled for me and said, "Blimey—kids are getting sophisticated these days, ringing their pals in London, just like that!" But Alayne wasn't there, only somebody called Janie, and then the pips went and it wasn't worth putting any more money in. I thought Alayne would tell me what to do next.' 'Oh, darling!' Impulsively Linzi got up and went to sit on the arm of the chesterfield. Firmly she removed Gilda's busy fingers from the task they were unconsciously so busy on and murmured: 'Leave a bit of that cover intact, pet.' 'I'll mend it—I'll go and get my sewing box.' Gilda was about to suit action to words, but Linzi put out a restraining hand. 'Presently. Tell me how you met Doctor Whyndale again?' 'He came back to look for me. He hadn't been able to get me out of his mind, and then when I got up in the cafe my legs wouldn't work and he had to carry me. But he was so kind he made me cry, and I couldn't help telling him about Aunt Sharon and my problem about Daddy not going away again because of me, and he never said anything all the way to his house, except that I hadn't to-be scared any more and he'd help me all he could. But after I'd had some malted milk and chocolate cake he said I'd have to go back to get everything straightened out the proper way, and he'd have to ring the police but it was a mere formality, because Daddy would have been so frantic with worry he'd go to them straight away. Then he said he would take me home himself, and suddenly I wasn't frightened any more.'

There was a silence. It seemed she had nothing more to add, and Linzi knew instinctively that she was not going to answer any more of the questions that Nanny Tarrance might ask. There was a worried look on the older woman's face, and a strange blend of concern and speculation in her eyes. Suddenly Linzi recalled an impression gained weeks ago that very first evening she arrived at Hillcrest, and looking at Nanny Tarrance now she knew it had not been a mistaken one. Now, as then, the old woman was troubled by something she was holding back—holding her peace ...? As though she sensed this Gilda uncurled her thin limbs and set her toes to the floor. She stood up slowly and took an unsteady pace forward. She paused, and held out her hand. 'Come with me, Linzi, please, I'm going to walk to Daddy.' She was very shaky those first few days, but with the resilience of youth she gained strength surprisingly quickly. It was still a wonder, and a mystery, and the child continued to hold her own counsel as to the exact moment she had made the momentous discovery that she could walk again. The approach of Christmas seemed to occupy her thoughts most of the time now. Lists of presents were written, agonised over, and torn up in favour of new ones. Her savings were counted over and over again, and the choice of a gift for her father a cause of much concentrated thought. The matter of his own gift to her was one for almost as much speculation, but he remained utterly impervious to all hints and all the devious cross-questioning his daughter was capable of. She wanted a bicycle. And so did several thousand other youngsters, was all she could prise out of him. Those were bitter-sweet days for Linzi. The sound of Gilda's happy laughter and her scampering feet brought a joy so intense it still brought a lump to her throat. But through it all was the knowledge she shrank from facing. One morning, the day after Doctor

Whyndale had dined with them during a wonderfully happy evening, she knew she must not defer any longer the decision she dreaded. She seized the moment while Gilda was stickily involved in the Christmas-cake- making ritual with Mrs Slaley and went in search of Mark. She found him copying manuscript and his smile at her turned her heart over. 'Congratulate me!' he exclaimed before she could speak. 'I've finished it.' 'Congratulations,' she said soberly. 'Did love win—or hate?' 'Do you need ask?' There was a little silence, and then she sensed the inquiry in his eyes was not entirely concerned with his question. She swallowed hard. 'I wondered ...' 'Yes, now what's worrying you?' The light-hearted mood he appeared to be in made it even more difficult to say what she came to say. 'It's about my job.' 'Your job?' His smile vanished. 'Here?' 'N-no, not exactly.' She looked down. 'My new one.' There was another silence, then he said, 'Well?' She took a deep breath. 'Obviously you—that is, Gilda— won't need me any more, not when you go back and Gilda goes to her old school. So,' she bit her lip, 'I'll have to think about finding something else in the New Year.'

There was no response. She looked up and saw the old impersonal mask reforming. 'I see,' he said at last. 'You want to leave.' 'No—that is -' She moved her hands hopelessly. 'I don't exactly want to leave, but I fully realise that my job here has come to an end, and with all the excitement I quite understand that it just hasn't occurred to you.' The tightening of his mouth unnerved her. She went on unevenly, 'It's just that I need to know when—when I'll be free, so that I can look for something else, perhaps a temporary post, until -' 'Yes, I see,' he broke in impatiently, and turned away. 'I had forgotten. Please feel free to accept anything you may find available in the New Year. I hope you'll stay until then, of course. We're having a few people over the holidays, and we'll probably drive down on the second of January. We could give you a lift down, if that date would suit you to terminate our agreement.' She nodded, unable to speak, and moved blindly towards the door. 'May I say I hope you'll keep in touch with Gilda, and come to visit her, perhaps at Easter?' She nodded again, and went from the room before the tears betrayed her true feelings. Not to keep in touch with him. Not to come to visit him, perhaps at Easter. Not to remember ever that once he had noticed her as a woman, as an attractive girl as well as a capable tutor-companion to his daughter. Only once ... *** A curious empty bleakness entered Linzi's spirit now that the matter was settled. She tried not to give in to useless regrets, to recognise

that she had taken the only sensible course, and she resolutely fought-the reluctance to begin the preliminary moves towards finding a new job. On impulse she wrote to her old headmistress, telling her a little of her life since she left school and of this, her first job after leaving teacher training college. Shyly, she asked for advice, and received a warm and friendly letter by return of post, inviting her to call and discuss the possibility of returning to teach at her old school later the following year. Another letter produced the possibility of a relief post for the spring term at a private school, but required an interview and a decision within the next ten days, and a third letter regretted that a more mature teacher with experience would be required. The first step had been taken, surely the hardest one towards the break, and each succeeding one would take her a stage farther from an impotent love which had no place in her life. At Mark's request she agreed to say nothing of her plans to Gilda until Christmas was over; by then, he believed, Gilda would be settling down to a more emotionally stable life pattern, and as she entered into the preparations for Christmas she believed she was successfully subduing her own forlorn emotional state. As long as she kept at a distance from Mark, tried not to meet his glance, scrupulously avoided his touch, invoked the strength of pride, and threw herself energetically into trying out every idea that Gilda's fertile imagination could suggest in the way of Yuletide she believed that one day she might start forgetting ... By the time the first visitor arrived the house was decked with colour and glitter, all of it contrived by Gilda with Linzi's aid. Huge sprays of holly cut out of green and red paper twined up the staircase, a hand-painted crib lit by a concealed torch and backed by a curtain of dark blue velvet shining with stars was set in the hall, bright mobiles spun gently from hooks overhead, and every dark niche had its colourful touch. Gilda's triumph was a giant cracker some five feet long with shiny scarlet paper and silver stars pasted

round its fat middle. A tiny gift for everyone had been painstakingly wrapped and labelled and hidden within, and the only flaw that caused a furrowing of Gilda's young brow was the lack of an almighty bang when the great moment of pulling came. By Christmas Eve the party was complete except for Alayne, who was driving up during the evening and would not arrive much before midnight. Gilda's godmother, Mrs Mead, and her jovial husband arrived before lunch, bringing a niece and nephew aged twelve and eight respectively, who provided youthful company for Gilda; midafternoon brought Mark's business manager, Don Willerby, and his wife, and Andrew and Nanny Tarrance came for supper. During the evening a party of youthful carollers came from the local church, old-fashioned lanterns held aloft on sticks, to sing the old traditional, well-loved carols. The sweet young voices rang clearly on the frosty air, and a hush descended on those gathered to listen. It came upon a midnight clear ... For a little while the goodness in men's hearts might overcome the hatred and strife of a sick world, to invoke the eternal message of love brought by the Babe born in a lowly stable nearly two thousand years ago. 'If only it could be like this always,' Gilda whispered, her fingers curling within Linzi's, and Linzi echoed the heartfelt sentiment silently. Mark invited the carollers in for glasses of punch, and suddenly the old house seemed vividly alive as it filled with the rosy-cheeked young people. Laughing, Don Willerby borrowed the fluffy scarlet tam-o'-shanter of the youngest caroller and passed it round the company, then peered in for a very rapid reckoning before adding his own 'making-up' contribution and returning it with a solemn bow to the giggling owner. 'I bet we'll beat the other lot with this,' she remarked in an audible aside to the senior in charge, which brought much laughter and the confiding explanation that the 'other lot' were the august of the church choir.

It was a wonderful Christmas, and it went all too quickly. No sooner had the ceremony of the tree taken place, the cries of delight from the recipients of gifts and the anxious, 'Sure you like it's from the givers, than it was time for church, then home to the feast and the Queen's message, the enforced rest afterwards and the juvenile business of nulling crackers, paper hats, guessing riddles, and the dismantling of the famous cracker which had been so solidly constructed that no amount of pulling would part it. Gilda got her bicycle—a miniature model in brooch form to stand in lieu of the real one she would select for herself when they returned home, and the gift which thrilled her most was the one from Alayne —an exact replica in antique gold of the locket with the Lilac Girl's portrait which Alayne had had made specially for her. 'I'm so happy,' Gilda sighed when at last she was persuaded unwillingly to bed. 'I kissed everybody under the mistletoe tonight. Did you?' 'Nearly everybody.' Linzi's face was in the shadows as she stooped to kiss Gilda goodnight. She had seen Mark kiss Alayne, and known the overwhelming temptation to forget all her vows and allow herself to drift where she might be drawn to the sweet salute. But she had taken care to avoid Mark and mistletoe. The joy could only renew the sorrow. *** The Meads left the day after Boxing Day, and the Willerbys the following morning. Andrew, somewhat to Linzi's surprise, had departed for Leeds on Boxing Day morning to spend the rest of the holiday with friends, and finally only Alayne was left. She stayed a further two days, taking a final nostalgic look round the secret wing before she travelled north to Edinburgh to spend Hogmanay with her mother's Scottish friends. Then she was flying home.

Gilda cried a little and clung to her before she got into the car, and Linzi was acutely conscious of the ending of a small era which would never come again. It was possible that Gilda would have her holiday reunion with Alayne, and quite possible that Alayne would make a return visit to England, but it would never be quite the same again and Linzi sensed that the child already recognised it would be so, and mourned a little for the loss. Only two days remained now of the old year, and the hours seemed to fly in the post-Christmas clearing away combined with preparation's for the move. Mrs Brinsmead had asked to be free on the first as her husband, who was a seaman, would be returning home the next day and she wanted, naturally, to open their own house in readiness for his homecoming, rather than let him go to his sister's as previously planned. 'He only has a three-day turn-round this time,' she explained apologetically, 'and it would be nice to be home together.' Mark agreed instantly. There was little left to do except lock up the place, and Nanny Tarrance had invited them to New Year lunch at the lodge. Linzi had a suspicion that but for this invitation Mark would have decided to travel south a day, or even two days earlier. By New Year's Eve she had reached the point of wishing it was all over. Although, as far as she knew, Mark had still not told Gilda of the parting to come, some of the bleakness in Linzi's heart seemed to find an echo in the child's. She was very subdued that evening and to her father's surprise announced that she didn't think she'd bother to stay up after all to see the New Year in. 'I thought you wanted to be our first-foot,' he commented.

'I did,' she lounged on the library window-seat, 'because of starting to walk again and all that. But Nanny says it's very unlucky for ladies to be the first-foot. It has to be a dark man.' 'I'm not dark enough?' His brows went up. 'Oh, I suppose so,' his daughter admitted, 'but you'd have to come in first.' Mark heaved a sigh. 'Ungentlemanly, or lucky? I've never been a superstitious person, but far be it that I dispute Nanny's wisdom—or risk allowing any more misfortune into this house. It's had more than its share,' he added bitterly. It was a sombre note on which to retire and awake to the dawn of a new year that seemed to stretch drearily into a future empty of heart's desire. This time tomorrow we'll be gone, Linzi thought bleakly as she walked with Gilda and Mark down to the lodge shortly after noon on a New Year's day bright with pale, frosty sunlight. Mark had scarcely spoken that morning, and she stole a quick glance at him, to see the dark profile set in the taut lines she remembered from that very first meeting at the little stone lodge which was their destination now. He turned his head suddenly, as though he sensed her regard, and she saw the cold wintry greyness had hardened his eyes as on that earlier occasion. Was it over four months ago? His expression was like that of a stranger, as though those months had never intervened, and she could find no softening of his mouth before she quickly averted her face. 'Don't drag on my arm, Gilda,' he exclaimed irritably. 'You're ten, not two.' 'Sorry.' Gilda, walking between the two adults and linking arms with them, seemed subdued, as though affected by their air of moodiness.

She disengaged both hands and with a little skip that still betrayed awkwardness managed to project herself a couple of paces ahead. Mark instinctively put out a hand to restrain and steady, and she shook it off. 'No, you haven't got to help me, anyway. The doctor said I had to try to be independent all the time as well as keeping on with my physiotherapy exercises. Will I be able to go riding when we get home?' 'I see no reason why not, if we can find a reputable school within reasonable distance.' He glanced at Linzi. 'Lucille always flatly refused to let her ride.' The name of his wife came as a cold shock, despite the dispassionate tone in which it was uttered. It was the first time he had ever referred directly to Lucille in this way, and suddenly the shadow of her lay cold on Linzi's heart. Not only Gilda's mother; Mark's wife, whom he had loved, must have loved dearly or would he have married her? Who had enchanted the youthful Andrew and won from him a loyalty that was still strong, five years of maturity later ... Their arrival at the lodge gate saved Linzi having to make any reply, and the warm-hearted hospitality of Nanny Tarrance instantly enveloped them. They had to have wine and cake first, for the New Year, and she hoped to goodness that Andrew and his friend wouldn't be late; they were driving from Leeds and expected to arrive by noon, and she didn't want dinner to spoil. Had Linzi and Gilda not been fascinated by the vast array of cards Nanny had received and which were strung from ribbons on each wall and crammed two deep along the mantelpiece and in every spare chink between ornaments, the sharp sidelong glance from Nanny that accompanied the word 'friend' might have prepared Linzi for what was to come. But she missed that certain glance, and so when the car drew up and Andrew's companion emerged, to be

drawn laughing and shining-eyed into the curve of his arm as they hurried up the path, a soft exclamation of surprise escaped Linzi. It was obvious that the acquaintanceship with Carol Drisedale, begun on the night of the gala at Red Manor, had blossomed into something much closer. Their fingers were still interlinked when they entered the sitting room, and there was a trace of awkwardness about Andrew when he faced Linzi, to exchange seasonal greetings and kiss her cheek. Carol looked like a girl revelling in love and being in love, and Andrew like a man for whom fate was moving with bewildering and slightly dismaying speed. When the large and leisurely meal was over Nanny began a brisk clearing away, aided by Linzi and Gilda, and Carol, after a soft secretive smile at Andrew, also volunteered her help. But Nanny shook her head, and without any protest Carol sank back willingly into the snug depths of the settee and the warm proximity of Andrew. .'I don't like it.' Nanny closed the kitchen door firmly and dashed wash-up liquid liberally into the bowl. 'He ought to have more sense. She's only seventeen!' Linzi took a tea towel from its peg and waited for the first dish to emerge from the steamy froth. She was uncertain of what response to make, of how to persuade Andrew's somewhat formidable little aunt that at twenty-six he would, with sense or otherwise, want to choose his own girl-friends, and how to convince her that Carol at seventeen today was probably more knowledgeable and more mature than many a twenty-year-old of Nanny's generation. She said gently: 'It may not be serious.' 'Serious? It's serious all right.' Nanny was almost attacking the dishes and the snowy lather swirled wildly in the bowl. Why didn't he come home once in the whole month before Christmas? Not for a

single weekend? Huh! Took him all his time to spare one day at Christmas away from her. He never let a girl take all his free time like this before. And there was I hoping ...' Nanny drew a deep breath and looked at the slender girl in blue quietly drying the big Willow Pattern dinner plates. For a moment the cold rush of the wind against the steam- glazed window was the only sound, then Nanny sniffed and plunged her hands back into the water. 'Too late for hoping now—not that there ever was any real hope, I'm beginning to think.' Linzi was silent. She knew very well what Nanny had hoped. A nice sensible lass like yourself ... The echo floated back from the past, and brought a surge of anger and despair. Was that all she suggested to people? A sensible person who would fill the bill of their requirements—for someone else? She stacked the plates jerkily, as though their sharp rattle could assert her reality. Not for the first time she was experiencing the strange sensation of being a kind of metaphysical onlooker. So many things had happened during her stay at Hillcrest, to people with whom she had become closely involved, but who despite this had remained totally uninvolved with herself. And tomorrow it would all be over. The thought brought panic, and a consciousness of the minutes racing by. The afternoon dissolving in casual sociality, in the tea Nanny insisted on dispensing at half-past four, and more talk that floated round her without making any personal impression, until the moment that Mark said it was time to go, and then they seemed scarcely to have been back in the house for five minutes before Mrs Slaley was saying that the evening meal was ready and it was a cold one and they could have it whenever they were ready.

Mark was silent, abstracted as he ate. Only Gilda chattered away, and Linzi felt that every mouthful would choke her. When it was over there was nothing else to defer the final task—packing. The little room which had been home for four months looked denuded when the small personal knick-knacks were stowed in her case and only the suit in which she was travelling remained in the otherwise empty wardrobe. She and Gilda each showered and got into their night things, and rinsed out the undies they had worn that day; by morning the small garments would have drip-dried in the bathroom and be ready to slip into cases along with the overnight things. 'That seems to be everything,' Linzi said at last. -Gilda surveyed the open cases, both almost full. 'It's only half-past nine,' she observed. 'It's too soon for bed.' 'It isn't for you, you know.' Linzi walked through into the adjoining room and checked Gilda's wardrobe for anything the child might have forgotten. One silky jumper remained in one of the fitted compartments.- She held it out and looked questioningly at Gilda. Gilda shook her head. 'It's too small. By next summer it won't fit me at all. Shall I go down and make some cocoa?' Linzi folded the jumper and, tucked it into a corner of Gilda's small case. 'You'd better take it with you, though. Now, if you pop into bed I'll make the drinks. Do you want a biscuit?' 'No, thanks—let me go down and make them, please.' Gilda tightened an errant red ribbon that held her thick tresses and looked pleadingly at Linzi. 'I love being able to do things again—please?' Unable to resist this plea, Linzi agreed. After all, her authority over Gilda was virtually ended now; it seemed pointless to try to enforce

it at this late stage. While she waited for the child to return she did a hasty revision of the big dress case which Gilda had insisted on packing herself. The youngster had made a creditable job of it, except for the layer of books which would soon bounce down among the: neatly folded garments once the case was moved. She made a separate parcel of them and sat down on the bed, suddenly conscious of weariness, to await Gilda's return. A full quarter of an hour had elapsed, and she was on the point of going out on to the stairhead to see if there was any sign of Gilda— or sound of a mishap with the cocoa— when she heard the music and stiffened. Unsteadily she stood up and crossed to the window, drawing aside the curtain to look down. The spreading rectangle of amber shone out beneath, touching the wet shrubs with ghostly gleams of brilliance. She pressed her forehead to the cold pane and listened to the melody which was now as familiar as the beat of her own heart. The lovely sweet lyrical theme, and the dark surging undertone. Love—and hate. Oh, Mark, she whispered soundlessly. 'Daddy's playing,' came the light child's voice from the doorway. 'I just went to say goodnight to him to save him coming upstairs because I thought he'd be busy packing.' Linzi nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. She did not want the rich milky cocoa, nor the chocolate biscuits which Gilda had brought; she wanted only to seek her own bed and the darkness, to speed the night away, and the inevitable parting. A clean break ... But she could not hurt the little girl, so she forced herself to eat a biscuit and sip the hot drink, and listen to Gilda's chatter while the sounds of the music whispered and swelled below. Gilda was disposed to reminisce, of the secret wing, of the picnic with Andrew and the advent of Alayne, of many incidents which now held poignant memories for Linzi. At last she stood up and said firmly: 'Bed, or we'll never be able to wake up soon in the morning.'

She slipped the white quilted dressing gown from the small shoulders and urged Gilda towards her bed. 'I haven't cleaned my teeth!' Gilda seized the dressing gown, shaking her head vehemently. 'Hurry,' Linzi said tiredly. She tightened the girdle of her wrap and wandered restlessly back to the window. The light still flowed out into the darkness, but Mark had stopped. Then a moment later the melody began, only to falter and die abruptly as so many times before. Three times it was repeated, until the crash of chords choked the tender theme with a dark stormy crescendo. 'I'm ready now.' She turned blindly to see Gilda standing by her bed. She drew the clothes up over her and tucked them in, then stooped to kiss her as she had done every night for four months. 'Goodnight, darling,' she whispered. ' 'Night, Linzi.' Two arms fastened round Linzi's neck and pulled her down close. 'I'm glad we're going home tomorrow, but I'm sorry we're leaving here. Are you?' 'Yes.' Linzi couldn't trust her voice to say any more. She disengaged herself gently and reached out to the lamp. 'Leave it on, please. I'm not quite -' Gilda started up. 'Linzi, are you crying?' 'Of course not!' She turned away sharply, before a second tear could follow the one the eagle-eyed Gilda had seen. 'Go to sleep,' she

whispered unsteadily, and escaped quickly into the privacy of the adjoining room. If only Mark had not started to play! The music had torn down all the painfully built defences she had gathered to her during the past few weeks. But for the music she might have maintained her frail control until the moment of parting, until the finality of stepping out of the car at the door of her home, until the goodbye without even a handshake to make the physical contact which could shatter her emotions. She had believed the composition complete. He had said: 'Congratulate me,' and she had asked: 'Which won? Love —or -?' and he had said lightly: 'Need you ask?' But the music tonight had not spoken of love. It had torn apart at the same moment of torment as on countless times in the past, to plunge into the torrent of despairing chords which seemed to cry their scorn of any belief in tenderness, in love. She stood by the neatly turned down bed, unfeeling hands smoothing the soft lilac frilling at the edge of the pillow, then turned to wander listlessly round the room. The open suitcase on the ottoman seemed to mock her, and abruptly she closed the lid on its potent reminder of the morrow. She stooped to pick up a thread from the carpet, paused to stare into her own mood-misted eyes through the dressing-table mirror, then reached sharply to snap down the light switch. The room was plunged into darkness and she stopped, her mind computing the fact she had not first put on the bedside lamp and busily making the small pattern for her next decision. To stumble across the darkened room? Or put on the main light again so that she could see, put on the little lamp, and return to switch off the main light? But instinct rejected the automatic reasoning minutiae of the

brain and drew her to the long ribbon of faint luminescence that shimmered down the chink between curtains not completely closed. Like a slender, graceful automaton she crossed the darkened room and parted the curtains. A half moon hung lazily, its light pale and winter hard against the midnight blue of night's infinity, and no sound stirred the stillness of the sleeping countryside. She looked down and saw that the light had gone below,, and an unbearable sense of loneliness overtook her. She might be the only living being in this dark silence. She did not know how long she stood there, her soft breath making a thin phosphorescent bloom on the glass, her lightly clad body as yet immune to the chill emanating through old crevices in the window timbers and stealing around her feet. She was scarcely conscious that she was making her farewell now, to the old house itself, to the child sleeping in the next room, to all the people who had helped make up the fabric of this brief part of her life, and most of all, to the man whose presence pervaded her every waking moment, and would continue to do so for a very long time to come. When she heard the sound of the door opening she felt no fright, only a rush of irritation. She gripped the soft velvet edges of the curtains and sighed impatiently: 'Oh, Gilda, go back to bed, for goodness' sake!' There was no reply and she swung round. Mark was standing in the doorway.

CHAPTER TWELVE SHE sensed his gaze searching the room, and saw his involuntary movement as that gaze reached the window and herself. 'I'm sorry.' His gesture was awkward. 'I didn't mean to frighten you, but --' 'You didn't frighten me.' Her voice sounded unreal in its clarity. 'I thought it was Gilda.' He reached for the light-switch and there was a flurry of soft steps behind him as he did so. Gilda appeared under his outstretched arm at the same moment as the dazzle of light flooded the room. 'Daddy! She might be asleep! Don't wake -' Gilda's voice petered out as she saw Linzi. 'I didn't—I thought you'd be -' Again the child's voice faltered, and before the look of sudden anger in her father's face she turned before the inevitable order rapped from his lips. He watched her clamber back into bed and then closed the door between the two rooms. He avoided Linzi's eyes as he said grimly: 'She told me you were crying.' 'Crying?' Anger rose in Linzi. 'Why should I be crying?' His shoulders lifted. 'She had no right to say such a thing.' 'Perhaps not. If it was untrue.' His mouth compressed, and there was a weariness in the way he turned, as though to leave. 'I merely had a notion I might offer comfort.' 'Comfort!' Linzi knew she was foolishly repeating his words, but sane and calm responses would not form themselves. Her hands trembled as they caught the girdle of her robe and feverishly tightened it. 'Why should I want comfort?'

'Yes, why?' Again that lift of his shoulders. 'Maybe because Tarrance got under your skin more than you bargained for?' 'Tarrance—Andrew?' A sudden weakness made her want to laugh hysterically. 'You thought -? Andrew doesn't mean anything to me in that way. I don't know why -' 'My impression was otherwise. Totally,' he cut in. 'Today, when you saw him, with that child, you looked as though someone, something, had taken your world away.' 'But I -' Linzi shook her head helplessly, halfway between tears and bitter laughter. How blind could a man be? She turned away, and suddenly Mark took a fierce step towards her. He seized her shoulders and spun her round to face him 'Tell me, are you in love with Tarrance?' 'No! I'm not in love with anybody!' She twisted against the strength of his hands. 'Let me go—you're hurting me!' 'I'd like to hurt you at this moment,' he gritted. 'Is this true?' 'Yes, it's true. What do you want me to say? That I love Andrew when I don't? What is it to do with you, anyway?' Hardly knowing what she was saying she forced her hands against his chest in a vain effort to free himself. 'It has everything to do with me.' His hands tightened. 'Linzi, do you have to leave us?' The question startled her into temporary submission. She stared up into his features and her mouth parted tremulously. 'Of course I have to leave you. How can I stay?' she whispered hopelessly.

'Because I want you to stay.' Inexorably he drew her close to him. 'And at this moment I believe I could make you stay.' In a moment of passionate madness her whole body became aware of the hard masculine strength of him, reaching out like a magnet to overcome all resistance. She wanted to succumb to that potent attraction, let her senses drown in the intoxication he wanted to evoke in her, but sanity prevailed and she stiffened in his arms. She bowed her head against his shoulder. 'No, Mark, please.. 'Do I still repel you?' he asked bitterly, his arms suddenly slack. 'Because of one foolish moment when I forgot an ancient propriety,' he added wearily. 'Repel? Is that what you think I -?' She felt limp out of the support of his arms, and an ague pervaded her limbs, seeming to drain her strength. She sank down on the edge of the bed and averted her head. 'I'm tired, please leave me alone, Mark.' A sigh shuddered through him, as though of defeat. 'Why did it take so long?' She did not know what he asked, and she was too dispirited to care. He turned away. 'But I know now. I love you, Linzi.' She thought she had dreamed the words, out of the fabric of her longing. 'I knew how much when I realised we were going to lose you,' he said unevenly, 'even though I'd always vowed I'd never love another woman. Not after Lucille.' The words and the voice were real, but all their sense not believable. She whispered bitterly, 'Did you love her so much?'

'At the beginning I was enslaved. Then I hated her.' His voice was ragged, almost harsh, then the life went out of it as he added: 'But this means nothing to you. I'm sorry, it was unforgivable of me to try to arouse you with a purely physical emotion.' He was moving as he spoke, towards the door, to walk out of her life, and she watched from within the frozen trance of disbelief. Then his hand touched the door and she broke free from the spell. She leapt to her feet. 'No, Mark! Don't go! Don't -' In the space of her words her feet winged her to him and her hands fluttered, still hesitant, still unsure, while the sombre veil of despair began to dissolve from his features, until he gave a cry to echo her own gasp and opened his arms. For long moments he held her, his hands convulsive on her back and his lean face warm and hard as it moved fiercely against hers. The joy of enclosing him with her arms was almost an agony, and then he murmured huskily: 'Is this true? Do you mean this? You're not -?' For answer she gave him her lips, and the sweet pliant curve of her body made him groan softly as he gathered her even closer. Long moment later he raised his head and looked down into blue eyes darkened with the ardour he had wrought. 'I believed you eternally cool, eternally untouchable,' he whispered. 'I still can't quite believe it.' 'Neither can I,' she whispered. 'You'll marry me?' She inclined her head, still a shade unconvinced that dreams do come true when one least expects them to. 'Very soon?'

'Very soon.' She raised her mouth to his cheek and whispered, 'I do love you, so much.' 'Tell me more.' His touch was gentle now, sensuous through the thin silk of her wrap. 'I always knew you weren't happy, apart from worrying about Gilda,' she said softly. 'I knew you'd been hurt, and I wanted you to be happy, but I never thought I'd be able to make you happy.' 'You're making a passable start,' he said on a husky note. 'But why did you avoid me like the plague all these weeks?' She tangled soft fingers in his hair. 'To save my sanity. You did tell me to stay away from you.' He sighed softly at the trace of reproach she could not keep out of her voice. 'I had to. I didn't want to risk being accused of trying the old seduction business. A young girl whom I respected, under my roof, and in that respect, under my care. And you were getting under my skin too quickly for my peace of mind. What with that, and Tarrance apparently first in favour, there was little else I could do, other than try to maintain a strictly platonic relationship. But often, when I was alone, at night, and I thought of you ...' Suddenly his mouth claimed her with a fierce hunger that told her more than any words of his longing. Abruptly he thrust her to arm's length. 'We—that is, I— shouldn't be here, not like this.' The dark warmth in his eyes emphasized the intimacy of the bedroom, and the soft clinging lines of silk that scarcely concealed the filmy nightdress which in turn revealed the slender curves and hinted at the secrets of her body. 'I don't want to leave you,' he said gruffly, 'this is a special time of joy which is unique. There will be many times of supreme happiness in our future together, but none will be quite the same as this moment of

discovery. I want to prolong it.' He hesitated, his eyes shadowing. 'There are also things I want to tell you, so that you'll be prepared for any snide little hints you may be given by so-called wellmeaning people once we return to London and the news of our marriage is known. And I want you to hear them from my own lips first. Can you slip on a coat or something and come downstairs for a drink?' Before I have to relinquish you until morning, his eyes pleaded. The thought of parting was no more welcome to Linzi, even as she realised the sweet folly of lingering here in Mark's arms. She took from the wardrobe the three-quarter-length camel coat in which she was going to travel the next day and slipped it on over her wrap. It looked slightly ludicrous atop the pastel lilac folds, she thought as she glimpsed herself in the long mirror, and she said so to Mark. But he shook his head. 'You've yet to learn, my darling, that the eye of love sees beyond mere outward show.' Taking her hand, he led her downstairs to the library, where he poured her a drink and then stoked new life into the dying fire before taking the other fireside chair. His eyes reflective, he said slowly, 'Some will say that I drove Lucille into other men's arms because I cared little for anything other than my career. Others will hint of her affair with a prominent political man and my supposed threat of blackmail to end the affair. Neither is true.' He paused, and Linzi waited, apprehensive of what she might hear about the woman who had once been the centre of Mark's world. For he had loved her first... 'Lucille never loved me,' he said quietly, 'even though she had played the part of the loving but neglected wife until she almost believed it herself. She was a young actress, with that flair for

extracting the utmost drama from any given situation which is essential to any performer. Unfortunately she insisted on carrying this talent into our private life. At first we were happy. She used to travel with me, until Gilda was born, when it wasn't suitable or fair, I felt, to subject a tiny child to so many changes of climate, time, and strange apartments. That was when the quarrels began. She wanted our life to go on exactly as before, and she had no qualms about leaving Gilda in the care of whichever au pair girl we happened to have at the time. 'She accused me of wanting to leave her so that I could have affairs abroad, and yet she made no secret of her own conquests. It was a long time before I realised that each of her affairs was a kind of challenge, a test of her power over me, and of the capacity of my love and forgiveness. Gradually I realised that she revelled in the dramatic reconciliations; they were the spice of marriage for her, and with that realisation my love died, until I didn't care how many lovers she took. The last three years of our marriage were a sham, a facade we maintained solely for the sake of our child. Then, two years ago, while I was in the States, she brought her lover here, the innocent Gilda's "Uncle" Bart, and that was when I decided to get rid of the place, offer Lucille her freedom, and try to start afresh. At first she blustered, told me she would take Gilda and make sure I saw as little as legally possible of my daughter, and then when she realised I was serious she suddenly capitulated and for Gilda's sake we began the whole miserable charade all over again. But it was Lucille herself who confided to her closest friend that I had threatened to make public her affair, knowing that her lover would take fright at the first hint of scandal. It was a complete fabrication, of course, but it spread round the grapevine in no time.' Mark paused and stared sombrely into the flames. 'I still don't know why she did it. I don't blame her, because I don't think she could help herself. She lived for excitement, parties, travel, and change. But she should never have married and had a child. She was too

volatile of temperament, too highly strung. But I find it hard to forgive what she did to Gilda.' Linzi felt her throat constrict. She wanted to go to him, to smooth and love away the dark bitterness of memory from his brow, but she remained silent, to let him end his account in his own time, knowing that after this night it would never be spoken of again between them. 'It wasn't until recently, after Gilda shocked us all, that I discovered the truth behind the accident, from Nanny Tarrance, and Gilda herself. As you know, it happened last March. We had come here in February because it was such a fine, early spring. I had a series of European concerts, the final one in Paris, after which I was coming back here and we were staying over Easter, before I set off on the Australian tour. We'd had the usual row before I left, she didn't want to stay here, and I'm afraid I lost my temper and told her to go where she pleased. But I never dreamed that she'd take me at my word and decide to leave me. Or that she planned to take Gilda as well. She waited until the day before the Paris concert, and then packed up here and told Gilda they were going home, and to meet me the following night. But she didn't know that Gilda had seen the airline tickets in her dressing-table drawer. She didn't tell the child until they were actually in the car, on their way, and you can probably imagine Gilda's reaction. She was panic-stricken, begged her mother to turn back, and in the argument somehow Lucille lost control of the car. It skidded, turned over, and Lucille never regained consciousness. 'They rang the house first, and Mrs Slaley told them I was in Paris and managed to find my manager's London number, then she ran down to the lodge and she and Nanny rushed to the hospital. They found Gilda in a frantic state, fighting the sedatives she'd been given after they'd set her smashed leg. She was clutching Lucille's bag, refusing to let it go, and all she could say was to beg them not to tell me. She was incoherent, still shocked, and with that great gash on

her forehead, but she implored Nanny to destroy the tickets. Her one coherent thought was that I shouldn't learn that her mother was going away from me.' He sighed deeply. 'I doubt if we'll ever know just how much psychological effect this had on Gilda's recovery. All these months she carried the guilty fear that she had caused , her mother's death, and there was the subconscious doubt that Lucille herself had instilled, that I didn't really care very deeply about leaving Gilda while I fulfilled my engagements abroad. I'm afraid that Gilda did begin to fear that my career meant more to me than my family, and began to doubt my affection for her. Doctor Whyndale believes it definitely retarded her recovery, and that subconsciously she retained her invalidism once she discovered that I was prepared to cancel all my future tours and stay with her.' There was a long silence, then Mark said wonderingly: 'Did you have any idea of what was going on?' 'You mean ...' Linzi looked at him, 'that she could walk again?' He nodded. 'No.' Linzi drew a deep breath. 'I had no idea, only those suspicions, or hopes, rather, that I told you about. The day of the picnic when she moved. And the day in the secret wing when she nearly fell out of her chair and I was positive she'd put out her feet to save herself.' 'I remember.' Mark got up to fill their glasses, then returned to his chair, his eyes reflective. 'It seems her one dream was to walk again, to give me the most wonderful surprise of my life, and quite some time ago she discovered that she could stand unaided, and take a few shaky steps forward. But she was frightened of Sharon, and all her old sense of insecurity, of my not really wanting her, erupted again and kept her silent. She wanted to be sure, and so she kept her

secret, until I told her I might marry Sharon. What an idiot I've been!' Mark clenched his hands. 'I believed that Sharon would complete our home again, that she would love Gilda as dearly as she professed to, and that it was indeed the only sensible thing to do. Gilda's flight was an impulsive, desperate protest against the disaster I was about to make of our lives. It certainly succeeded; it also helped me towards reading the truth in my own heart.' At last he turned and looked into Linzi's eyes again. 'I'm sorry to burden you with all the unhappiness of my past, but I wanted you to know it all first, before ...' He hesitated. 'Am I asking too much of you? To take on the added responsibility of helping me to give her the love and the stability she needs so much?' Linzi could not bear to see the agony of doubt haunting his eyes. With a choked little cry she ran to him, to be caught and pulled down into his arms, to be kissed with all the heartfelt longing of his deeply passionate nature. 'I never dared to believe I'd find love like this,' he whispered. 'Nor that it would be returned.' 'I thought you were falling for Alayne,' she said in a low voice, pressing her face to his. He laughed softly. 'Were you jealous? I wish I'd known! No, Alayne has one of those very happy, extrovert personal- ides which are hard to resist. She isn't like you or me, who hide our feelings for fear of rebuff.' He paused, his fingers tangling in Linzi's hair, then added wryly: 'Gilda had the same bright idea; that Alayne might make an admirable wife for me. Although she's very fond of Alayne, I suspect that it was a case of anyone rather than a marriage of convenience with Sharon. Did you know that she once suggested yourself as a possible candidate?'

'Me?' Linzi's cheeks grew scarlet, despite the fact that there was little need now for embarrassment over young Gilda's matchmaking ideas. 'She didn't!' 'Oh yes, she did,' Mark said wryly. 'Then she informed me that she thought you and Andrew had a special thing going for one another, and maybe I was too old for you,' he added feelingly. 'But not too old for Alayne!' Linzi could almost laugh now at the recollection of her many anguished surmises on that very matter. Then her expression sobered. 'Mark, do you think she'll accept me? I mean, being her teacher is one thing, but becoming your wife and -' Mark's lips interrupted the doubts. 'I think she'll take full credit, personally. Thank heaven I put off the evil moment of telling her you were leaving us tomorrow. I had vague ideas of saying you wanted to see your family, and then asking you to come back ...' 'Oh, Mark, if you knew how I dreaded the parting!' She put her face against his shoulder. 'I thought I would never see you again.' 'Did you, my darling?' He drew her close again, and for a while they were silent, until Mark stirred reluctantly and gazed down into the soft oval curve of the face that lay contentedly against his shoulder. 'I don't want to, my love,' he whispered, 'but we have to say goodnight. Having you in my arms like this is becoming too sweet a torment. So ...' his mouth feathered her brow and once again claimed the sweet trusting lips, 'till tomorrow, my dearest heart...' 'And all our tomorrows,' she said softly.

The End