Masquerade. Anne Mather

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      Patrick was more intrigued than ever, but he contained his natural curiosity. As a writer he was interested in people and he found Samantha a fascinating subject. She was so unspoilt. It would be a pity if the life she was so ardently hoping to enjoy, changed her natural acceptance of life.

      It was one-thirty, London time, when the aircraft touched down. Samantha lifted the light poplin coat which she had had lying beside her and walked rather shakily towards the exit of the aeroplane. Patrick followed her and was amused at her expression as she felt the cold inrush of air from outside the aircraft. It was a chill September day and Samantha hurriedly pulled on the light coat, shivering.

      Patrick smiled down at her. He made her feel quite small, for he was easily six feet in height and had broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips. “This is quite mild, you know,” he remarked mockingly. “Wait until you experience an English winter!”

      She looked up at him. He seemed to be her last contact with the familiar things of her life. “My father always said it was a cold climate,” she murmured in a small voice.

      Patrick felt something stir inside him. He could not understand what it was, but he suddenly felt responsible for this girl. She was not small or clinging, and yet she had a wistful air and he thought she would soon lose that gentleness in the bustle of this busy city.

      They descended the stairs and crossed the space to the airport buildings. Formalities separated them and Samantha was so busy with the unfamiliar procedure that she found she had lost sight of Patrick Mallory. Immediately her heart began to thump wildly, and a kind of panic invaded her system.

      She looked round, searching for a sight of him, when a hand touched her shoulder and she swung round to find him behind her. She ran her tongue over her lips and sighed in relief.

      “I … I … thought you’d gone,” she whispered, thankfully.

      Patrick looked solemnly down at her. “And?”

      Samantha bit her lip. It seemed rather silly now that he was here again. “N … nothing,” she said awkwardly.

      “Come on. Let’s go,” he said softly, and taking a grip on her arm above the elbow he urged her through the reception lounge and out into the hallway.

      A man in a chauffeur’s uniform was eyeing them rather strangely and Patrick said: “Do you suppose he is some connection of your grandmother’s?”

      Samantha shook her head. “I’ve no idea. Should I ask him?”

      Patrick grinned. “Hardly. Look, wait here. I’ll ask him.”

      A few moments later Patrick returned with the chauffeur.

      “Your carriage awaits,” he remarked dryly. “Are you all right?”

      “Oh, yes, thank you.” Samantha looked up at him. “Thanks for all your kindness.”

      “Think nothing of it,” he remarked, easily. “You’ll be fine. And don’t worry. Everything is for the best, you know.”

      Samantha managed a small smile and then turned and followed the chauffeur across the wide hall and out into the sweep of road beyond it. A massive old Rolls-Royce awaited her and she was assisted into the back by the man who had introduced himself as Barnes, her grandmother’s chauffeur and handyman.

      The chauffeur went to stow her case in the boot and Samantha sat in the back feeling rather isolated. She would have liked to have asked to go in the front, but Barnes looked such a disciplinarian that she decided against it.

      She was rather disappointed that her grandmother herself had not come to meet her. She had needed that feeling of being wanted and now all she had was a lonely seat in the back of the huge car, and only Barnes for company.

      In front of the Rolls, a low blue Jaguar awaited its occupants and as Samantha waited she saw Patrick Mallory emerge from the building with a small slim blonde clinging to his arm.

      The woman was one of the most beautiful Samantha had ever seen. Her hair was short and curly and she was wearing a wonderful leopardskin coat. She was small and daintily proportioned. Everything Samantha was not.

      Samantha felt her heart turn over sickeningly and wished Barnes had driven directly away. This was something she had expected and yet now she was seeing it she felt a pang. Of course it was to be expected. He was a sophisticated man of the world. There would be plenty of women in his life.

      Barnes got into the driving seat at that moment and the car was set in motion. Samantha leant back against the upholstery and sighed. She had no wish for Patrick Mallory to see her. Besides, he would probably have forgotten all about her by now.

      Barnes lowered the glass partition and said: “Did you have a good journey, miss?”

      Samantha roused herself to reply. “Yes, thank you.”

      Barnes concentrated on his driving and for the life of her, Samantha could think of nothing further to say. He would probably think her stupid, but it had been an exhausting day, both physically and mentally and she needed time to collect her thoughts.

      They drove swiftly and silently after that. Samantha got a confused impression of a grey, overcast sky and tall, sometimes grimy buildings. There seemed to be hundreds of cars, all going the same way and the sense of urgency communicated itself to her. There was a hustle and bustle she had never experienced before and yet, for all that, she found that now she was actually in England she did not feel a stranger. After all, this was her homeland, she was English, even if she felt and spoke more like an Italian.

      When the car turned into the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel, her underlying fears crystallized into actual terror and she could hardly force herself to get out when the door was opened for her.

      The chauffeur followed her inside and spoke to the receptionist.

      “Will you see that Miss Kingsley is taken up to Lady Davenport’s suite?” he said, smoothly, and Samantha’s eyes widened. Lady Davenport. Her grandmother was Lady Davenport. Her stomach turned over. This was even more frightening than she had expected.

      One of the bellboys took her suitcase and asked her to follow him into the lift. Speculative eyes watched their progress. Samantha was made uncomfortably aware of the limitations of her poplin coat and flat-heeled shoes.

      The lift halted on the second floor and she was conducted down the corridor to her grandmother’s suite. The bellboy waited until a maid opened the door and then Samantha was left in her charge.

      By this time Samantha felt rather like a parcel that was being handed round from person to person and felt sure her grandmother must be quite an awe-inspiring person.

      However, she seemed to have reached her destination, for the maid took her coat and said kindly: “Sit down, won’t you? Lady Davenport will be with you directly.”

      “Thank you.” Samantha complied with her instructions and seated herself on a low couch. The maid left the room, apparently to inform Samantha’s grandmother that she had arrived and Samantha looked round her with interest. It was a massive room, beautifully decorated, with a thick carpet fitting into all alcoves. The furniture was expensive and luxurious and the room was heated and wonderfully warm after the cold air outside the hotel.

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