Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

collection of fantastic novels by

bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Masquerade
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

Copyright

CHAPTER I

THE letter from England came only one month after the sudden death of her father. Samantha was still living in the shocked daze which had taken a hold on her when she had heard that her father’s car had crashed on the autostrada while she was driving from Milan to Bologna. A sudden puncture of a front tyre had caused the old saloon to skid dangerously, crossing the dividing lanes and colliding with a touring autobus coming from the opposite direction. The passengers on the bus had been shocked but unhurt. John Kingsley was dead.

Samantha was desolate; she had lived here so long in the small Italian fishing village of Perruzio with her father, sharing the villa and sharing his life. They had been so close. Too close, for now he was dead she felt she had no one. Even old Matilde, who had been housekeeper at the villa for as long as she could remember, could not make up for the emptiness she felt inside. She thought she would never feel secure or happy again.

John, she had always called him that, had been to Milan to open his first exhibition of sculptures. For years his talent had gone unrecognized, and then a visiting art enthusiast had been impressed and had arranged for John to have this exhibition in Milan. He had been there two weeks, writing home to tell Samantha of the sucess he was having; the commissions he was hoping to fill. He was driving home when the accident occurred, and Samantha reflected bitterly that it was ironic that he should be cut off from life just when all he had ever worked for was being realized.

The funeral had taken place in Perruzio, with all the villagers turning out to the little church where the Catholic father had said the Requiem Mass. They were all so friendly, so sympathetic, and yet Samantha could hardly bear their kindness. She only wanted to be alone, to grieve in private.

Her father’s affairs were in a sorry state. The villa was rented and although the exhibition was the beginning of his success, as yet there was little to show for all his years of work. He had had a small military pension, but that had died with him, and after the funeral was paid for there was very little left for Samantha. For the time being she was content to stay on at the villa, but she knew it could not last. Soon she would have to do something. Get a job, or alternatively accept the offer she had already been made. Her thoughts shied away from this inevitable conclusion. For, after all, what job was she equipped to perform? She knew some typing and could look after a small house, she could cook a little, but she did not think these attributes amounted to much in a modern world where every girl seemed to provide herself more than adequately to fit any position.

And now, this letter had arrived from England, the country she had never really acknowledged as her birthplace. She had lived in Italy since she was four years old and spoke Italian like a native. This was the only country she really knew although her father had always insisted that they spoke English when they were alone together.

John had told her that her mother had died when she was a baby and that she had no other relatives. He had left his life in England and come to Italy after her mother’s death to enable him to have the time and inspiration for his work. They had never had much money, but what they had had sufficed and life was cheap in the fishing village. Fish was plentiful and easy to obtain and Matilde made all their bread. They grew vegetables in the small garden on the cliff top and Samantha had always been content.

She turned the letter over in her fingers before opening it. It was an expensive envelope, that much she knew and she was doubly intrigued to learn its contents. It could only be from some friend of her father’s in England who had heard only recently of his death.

The letter which emerged from the envelope was written on headed letter paper, with the address: “Daven House, Daven, Wiltshire”, in tiny gold letters.

Frowning, Samantha turned to the end of the letter to read the signature. It was simply “Lucia Davenport”.

With a characteristic shrug of her slim shoulders, Samantha began to read from the beginning.

“My dear Samantha,

Since being informed, a few days ago, of my son-in-law’s tragic death, I have made arrangements for you to return to England. Of course, you must return here. We are your family and we want you. I am your grandmother, and since Barbara still refuses to act as a mother should, I myself will avail you of the facts.

Whatever your father may have told you to the contrary, your mother is very much alive. I suspect you are unaware of this. I will explain more fully when we meet. I am an old, old woman, my dear, and it would give me delight to have you come and live with me at Daven. My existence is now somewhat dull, but I would like to have a young person like yourself around me and I would try to see that you did find enjoyment and entertainment in spite of this.”

Samantha stared at the letter in amazement. Her legs felt as though they would no longer hold her and she sank down weakly on to the arm of a nearby chair, astonishment vying with disbelief. Could it possibly be true? Or was this someone’s idea of a cruel joke. With trembling fingers, she turned the page and read on:

“When your father’s solicitors contacted me, as your father had left instructions that they should if anything should happen to him, I immediately sent instructions for your journey to London. I myself will be in London to meet you, if you will let me know the date and time of your arrival.

Please do not think too much about this until we meet. You cannot possibly understand anything until the full facts are explained to you. Simply rest assured that we will welcome you here.

Yours affectionately,

Lucia Davenport.”

Samantha could not restrain the gasp of pure bewilderment that escaped her. She replaced the letter carefully in its envelope and stared unseeingly into space.

Could it possibly be true? she asked herself again. Had she indeed been living a lie all these years? Was her mother really alive? And if so, why had she never contacted her? And yet, if it was not true, who was there to do such a thing to her?

No, she decided at last. It must be true.

She reached to the carved cigarette box which her father had made, and extracted a cigarette. Lighting it she pondered on the turmoil that had now invaded her brain. Suddenly her empty life was full again. Full of strangers, claiming to be relations. A grandmother; a mother! Could she possibly have any brothers or sisters?

A hundred and one questions buzzed around in her head and she had no satisfactory answers to supply to them. The only way she would ever know would be to go to London as this “grandmother” of hers suggested and find out for herself.

The thought of uprooting herself from all that she had held dear all these years was a terrifying one. How could she leave Matilde? Of course, Matilde did have a sister who lived in Ravenna, not far away from Perruzio, but was it fair to expect her to leave, just like that?

And what if she did not like these strange new relations? After all, they had not cared about her until now. Why had John kept it all such a closely guarded secret? She had thought they had no secrets from one another, while her father was withholding something that could change her whole life!

She shivered although the day was already quite hot. She rose and crossed the polished wooden floor to the French doors which opened on to the verandah which overlooked the almost white sands of the beach, lapped continually by the smooth, creamy surf of the Adriatic. It was all so beautiful that it took her breath away. To leave all this, for some cold, grey English town, where the sun never shone and where people could not go out without their mackintoshes! John had painted a very gloomy picture of the country of her birth, but after all the secrets he had withheld, she wondered now whether London was indeed as bad as he had painted it. If there had been something there which he hated; something he had come to Italy to get away from, might he not see it with very different eyes from hers?

For the time being she felt she could not share her news with anyone. It was too sudden; too difficult to explain, even to Matilde.

Stubbing out her cigarette she turned and re-crossed the room. She walked down the tiled passage to her bedroom and stripped off the old jeans and sweater which were her only attire. She pulled on a diminutive bikini which she had made herself and caught up her long silky hair in a ponytail.

She left the villa, crossing the verandah and descending the sloping cliff to the beach. She ran eagerly into the warm ocean, allowing the cooling water to swirl over her head for a moment, before surfacing and swimming strongly through the waves. She swam almost every day, and in the water she could escape for a while the implications of the fateful letter. Soon she would have to go back, to tell Matilde and ask her advice. But for now, she forgot everything but the warmth of the sun and the sense of well-being the water always gave her. She was not aware that for the first time since her father’s death, she had cast aside her melancholy.

She was a strong swimmer, and looking back towards the shore she realized she had come farther than she had realized. Turning, she saw the stocky figure of a fisherman watching her and she waved, recognizing him. She soon reached the shallows again and waded up out of the water on to the beach.

Benito Angeli stood watching her as she approached him, his eyes warm and desirous. She was so fair, this English girl, with the silky mass of her hair falling wetly about her shoulders. Her green eyes surveyed him smilingly, and as she was a tall girl they were on eye-level terms.

“You are better, eh?” he asked in Italian. Samantha nodded. Although it was unlikely Benito would ever leave his native village, she had been teaching him English and she said now:

“Yes, thank you, Benito,” and he grinned sheepishly.

“It’s no good,” he went on in his own language. “I’ll never learn.”

“You won’t if you don’t try,” she replied in Italian now, and loosening her hair from its restraining band she flung herself down on the sand and stretched luxuriously. “The water is delicious!”

Benito knelt beside her. “You swim too far alone,” he remarked.

“I know.” She sighed and looked suitably chastened.

Benito was puzzled. Since her father’s death Samantha had had no time for idle chatter. But today, she was different.

Samantha, as though reading his thoughts, said: “To be quite honest, I’m a bit bemused. I had a letter from England this morning.”

“England?” Benito frowned. “You know someone in England?”

“Apparently so,” replied Samantha, rolling on to her stomach.

“Someone who knows your father?”

“Yes … at least ‘knows’ is rather an understatement.” She shook her head.

“So? Tell me, who is it from?”

He allowed himself to relax beside her, his fingers straying caressingly over her bare back.

But Samantha was not in the mood for petting and she rolled restlessly away from him and sat up.

“Don’t,” she said, irritatedly. “I’m serious. The letter was from my grandmother. Now do you understand?”

Benito lost his lazy air. “Your grandmother! But your father, he said that you had no relations!”

“I know.” Samantha hunched her shoulders. “But it seems I have. That is, unless someone is having a joke at my expense. And that’s not all. I also have a mother!”

“Madre de Dio!” Benito gasped.

“Yes, that’s exactly how I feel. So you see, I am presented with rather a problem.”

“And that is?”

“My grandmother wants me to go to England.”

“No!” Benito looked angry. “But you are not going?”

Samantha sighed. “I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

Benito leant towards her. “Cara, what about us? You know how I feel about you. I thought … I hoped … that soon now …”

Samantha nodded. “I know.”

She had been left in no doubt as to Benito’s feelings. They had grown up together. They had always been in each other’s company. He had taught her to swim, to handle a boat as well as any boy, to fish. John had not objected, although at times her father had been a little obtuse where Benito was concerned. He had not been able to see what was happening under his very nose. Perhaps, Samantha reflected, he had thought they were too close for anything emotional to come of it, but in Italy, it was the natural thing that children brought up together should marry, and Benito had never made any secret of his feelings. Benito’s family expected the match. Already there was talk of a small cottage becoming vacant in the village which would suit their needs. John Kingsley’s villa had too high a rent for any of the village folk and anyway, Benito would want to remain in the bosom of his family. And Samantha had always enjoyed their company. She adored the children, Benito’s nephews and nieces, but marriage was such a big step and in no time at all she could see herself with a family of her own and no possible chance of ever leaving the village again. Was this what she wanted? she had asked herself time and time again, and had always come up, unsatisfactorily, with the same answer. What other choice had she? Now that John was dead the problem had become daily a more difficult one. This letter had opened new doors, shown new horizons, and although the idea of leaving was frightening, yet she felt sure that this was her opportunity to see something of the world. How could she explain all this to Benito, though? How would he ever understand? He was content to live in Perruzio. He had a good life. He belonged with his family. And so might she belong with hers.

Benito had always taken her acceptance for granted and now to be confronted by this new Samantha was rather disconcerting for him.

“Why have they never come to see you?” he asked suddenly. “Why did your father say your mother was dead?”

“I don’t really know,” she admitted, sighing. “Perhaps as far as he was concerned, they were. But my grandmother was contacted by my father’s solicitors, so he must have decided that should anything happen to him, I was to know the truth. Of course, he would never think that anything would happen so soon. He was only a young man, after all.”

“But what about me?” Benito rose to his feet. “Surely your father knew about us?”

“He knew, and yet he didn’t know,” murmured Samantha. “Benito, I don’t think Father thought that there was anything more than friendship between us.”

Benito turned away. “And you let him think that?”

Samantha rose too now. “Of course not. I told him that we were very fond of one another. …”

“Very fond?” Benito spread wide his hands helplessly. “I adore you.”

Samantha compressed her lips. “I know, I know.”

“But you are going to let this new family of yours take you away from me,” he exclaimed angrily.

Samantha put her hands over her ears. “Don’t! I don’t know yet.”

Benito looked belligerent. “I won’t let you do this to me!”

Samantha turned and ran up the cliff to the villa, without answering him. Benito ran after her, and as he was not tired from swimming caught her easily.

“This is your home, carissima,” he murmured, in another tone.

Samantha looked gently at him. “It’s the only home I’ve ever known,” she whispered.

“And so?”

“I still can’t quite take it in,” she said. “Try and understand, Benito. How would you feel if you suddenly learned that your mother was still alive after you had thought her dead for all these years? I’m twenty-one now. I’ve never known what it’s like to have a mother. Naturally, I’m curious to see her. If only to find out what kind of a woman could desert her child to the extent that my mother has done. It must be at least seventeen years since she saw me.”

She felt a lump in her throat at this thought. Then she looked at Benito. Standing beside her in denim trousers and a rough shirt open at the neck, he looked dear and familiar, and she wondered why she was allowing the letter to come between them. If only it had never arrived! It would have been so simple to marry Benito and have his children. Living in Perruzio there would be no complications in their lives. Just as his parents had lived before them.

She slid her arm through his. “Don’t rush me, darling,” she murmured.

He looked dejected for a moment and then pulled her to him to press his lips to hers, his rough hands encircling her slim throat.

“Si,” he said softly. “I will give you time.”

They walked on up the cliff path until they could see the villa, lying peacefully as ever in the sunlight. But, to their surprise, there was a low black limousine parked at the entrance.

Samantha looked at Benito and raised dark eyebrows. Benito shook his head in reply.

“Are you coming in for some coffee?” she asked.

Benito smiled slightly. “I think I had better. We must find out who your visitors are.”

Matilde was in the hall when they entered the door. An elderly woman, her long black hair twined always into a bun on the nape of her neck, she looked at Samantha with relief in her face.

“You have company,” she said softly in Italian, indicating the door of the lounge where earlier Samantha had read the stupendous news. “From Milano.”

Samantha frowned. The day was gradually taking on the aspects of a dream. First the earth-shattering letter and now some strange company. Her limited existence was widening alarmingly.

Benito waited in the hall while Samantha went to change and put on a dress. She returned only a couple of minutes later, having towelled her hair almost dry and donned a simple shift of yellow cotton, another of her own creations. There had not been much money over to spend on clothes and she had found that buying material in the market and running it up herself left more over for essential commodities.

“Do I look all right?” she whispered to Benito, and he nodded. To his eyes she would look good in anything. Just to look at her sent the blood pounding through his veins, his heart thumping wildly. Soon, oh! soon, she must marry him. He could not wait much longer. He wanted her passionately. With her fair skin and almost white hair she was so different from the dark-haired girls of his own race and too long he had delayed already. Had they already been married when the letter came this morning, she would not have been able to talk to him as she had done. She would have been his wife, his property, and most probably, the mother of a bambino by now.

Together they entered the lounge to find two men seated in opposite armchairs, smoking and drinking the strong coffee which Matilde had brewed for them. They were both much older than the two young people, the younger of the two being about fifty years of age. They rose to their feet politely at Samantha’s entrance and the older man came to greet them.

“Miss Kingsley?” he asked, in heavily accented English.

“Yes.” Samantha shook hands cautiously. They looked all right, so she supposed that as they came from Milan, they must be business associates of her father. Perhaps they had something to do with the exhibition.

“My name is Arturo Cioni,” went on the man, “and this is my brother Giovanni.” He smiled. “We are your father’s solicitors.” He hesitated. “Do you speak Italian, Miss Kingsley?”

Samantha smiled and nodded. “Yes. Do speak in your own language if it is easier for you.”

“Good.” The man continued in Italian. “We have had a communication from your grandmother in England. I understand you have had the same. Yes?”

“That’s right,” Samantha nodded. “It arrived this morning. I must confess I knew nothing at all about having any other relations. My father did not tell me.”

“Yes, I know. But now your grandmother has instructed us to arrange for your flight to England. Was this explained in your letter?”

“Yes. I haven’t got over the initial shock yet.”

“Very understandable,” said the younger man, speaking for the first time. “I always advised your father that you should be made aware of the facts in case such an unfortunate contingency occurred. I think he found it hard to tell you. You had lived so long without this knowledge. I also think he was a little afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Yes. You were his only reason for living. Had you known that you had a mother in England, you might have insisted that you return there directly and see her. He might also have feared you would prefer her life to his.”

“Oh, how could he have thought that? He knew I adored living here. I would never have left him.” Samantha felt quite distraught.

“Please. Do not distress yourself unduly. Your father died a happy man. He never told you and your life was his to mould as he wished. I think that was all he ever asked.”

“Yes.” Samantha was unsure.

“Now. Let us get down to details,” said Arturo Cioni, in a more businesslike manner. “Your grandmother wants you to fly from Milan to London as soon as possible. Naturally your affairs here will be tied up quite easily. Anything further you need to know can be explained to you. The villa is too big for you to rent alone. Surely by now you must have made some plans for your future.”

“Not really,” murmured Samantha weakly, sinking down on to a chair, her face pale. Suddenly she felt the enormity of what was expected of her sweeping over her, and she felt quite faint.

Benito, familiar with the whereabouts of everything in this room, crossed to a small cabinet and drew out a bottle of brandy which her father had always kept there for medicinal purposes. He poured a little into a glass and returned to Samantha, handing her the glass tenderly.

“Drink,” he murmured softly. “It will make you feel better.”

Samantha obediently sipped the fiery liquid and felt it burn its way down into her stomach, warming her chilled body.

“Forgive me!” exclaimed Arturo, looking anxiously at her. “This must all have been a great shock to you. I am a clumsy oaf. I have tried to rush you. It is simply that your grandmother put such a sense of urgency into her communication that we lost no time in putting her plans into operation.”

Samantha stiffened. She wondered how great the gulf between her parents must have been. Knowing how sensitive John had always been, her mother must have hurt him immensely for him to pack up and leave the country like that.

“Yes,” she said at last, sipping at the brandy, “I understand. And … and he thought I should go to England when he died for all he never went back.”

“Time changes many things,” put in Giovanni. “Circumstances change even more. He knew that whatever you shared could not go on for ever. One day you would have to know the truth and then decide for yourself. What else can you do? Have you a job in mind?”

“We are betrothed,” said Benito, looking fierce. “Is this not job enough? Is her future not secure in my hands? Why should some stranger provide for her what I can provide and more besides?”

“Benito!” said Samantha, sighing. “Please! We are not betrothed. Not yet. I must have time.”

Arturo shrugged. “Should you decide to stay in this country, signorina, I will inform your grandmother to that effect. You need not write or communicate with her in any way if you do not wish to do so. It is in your hands. You are of an age now to please yourself, one way or the other.”

Samantha ran a tongue over her lips. “Naturally, I am curious,” she said. “Do you know why my mother and father separated?”

“They divorced,” said Giovanni. “That is all we can tell you. Your father confided in us, but we do not know the whole story. You must find that out for yourself.”

“I see.” Samantha finished the brandy and stood the glass down. She looked thoughtfully at Benito. He looked solemn and very angry. She could tell this from the way his eyes flashed when he looked at her.

Samantha bent her head for a moment, twisting her fingers together, and then said:

“It is nearly lunch time. Will you stay to lunch?”

“That is very kind, signorina,” said Giovanni, smiling. “We would be most grateful.”

“And after lunch, I will give you your answer,” said Samantha firmly.

Matilde was in the kitchen when Samantha went in search of her, leaving Benito to entertain her guests. She perched on the board at which Matilde was working and slowly began to explain all that had happened. Matilde did not interrupt. She was a very comforting presence and Samantha knew she would miss her terribly if she did decide to go away.

As they washed and prepared a salad, Matilde looked questioningly at the girl.

“And you will go to England?” It was a statement more than a question, and Samantha looked surprised.

“Do you think I should?”

Matilde shrugged. “I do not know, Samantha. I only know that if you do not you will spend the rest of your life wondering whether you should. What is there for you here? Marriage with young Benito. Five years marriage and who knows? You may find your life is not as full as you had thought. There would be no escape. Our faith does not recognize divorce. Once married you stay married for many long years. Be sure before you commit yourself to such a sentence.”

“Oh, Matilde. You make it sound so dreary.”

“And isn’t it? When you are young, and have the world before you, is not anything humdrum dreary? Will you really be contented with half a dozen bambini to look after? Benito is a good man. You could do no better in this village. But Benito is Italian. You are not. Never forget that. Whatever you have done in the past. However much you speak the language and become one of us, you are still English. I am sorry to sound disparaging, Samantha, but I think you know I am right. Your mind is not really undecided. Only your heart is fickle. You want the best of both worlds. You would like to be married, for a time, but this is not what marriage is for. Marriage is giving yourself into another’s keeping for ever. For as long as you live. Always remember this. No matter where you go, or who you marry.”

Samantha looked pensively at the older woman. “As usual, Matilde, you are right. But what about you? What will you do?”

Matilde smiled. “I am getting old. Too old to mind giving up my work. My sister is a widow. She lives alone in Ravenna. She will be glad of my company. She is not a poor woman, we will not starve. Do not worry about me, Samantha. Worry for yourself. Go and get what you want and hold on to it. Never be content with ‘second-best’. Just tell yourself, you are as good as anyone else, and you cannot go far wrong.”

Samantha smiled. “All right, I’ll tell the Cionis. And thank you for your understanding. I’m going to miss you.”

“If you come back, come to my sister’s in Ravenna. We will make something out. Don’t worry. Be strong, and honest, and you will survive. In life, strength of mind and purpose, solve most things. Don’t be a child. You are a young woman. Act like one and be independent.”

Benito was sitting moodily on the verandah, when Samantha went to tell him that lunch was ready. He looked up dejectedly at her approach and she felt guilty that she should be the cause of his depression.

“You’re going, aren’t you?” he said accusingly.

Samantha shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve got to, Benito.”

“I don’t understand you, Samantha. I always thought I did. I was wrong.”

Samantha spread her hands helplessly. “Would you want me to marry you and spend the rest of my life wondering whether I had done the right thing?”

“Of course not, but before this letter came there was no doubt.”

“There was no alternative either,” she reminded him, awkwardly. “Please, Benito, try to understand. I’ve never left this country since I was four years old.”

“I have lived here all my life.”

“But you’re Italian.”

“So will you be, when you become my wife.”

“In name only. Benito, I’m English.”

“I’ve never known it bother you before.”

“Oh, Benito, try … try to understand. I do think a lot of you, but if I go away I will be able to see things in perspective. If I love you, I will come back. You know that. If you love me you must know that love does not die simply because the two people concerned are separated.”

Benito frowned. He knew she was right and yet he was also afraid of what the separation might do. He was not as sure of her as he was of himself. He could see that she genuinely did not want to hurt him, and yet if she did go, would he ever see her again?

“If you are determined, there is nothing I can do to stop you,” he said coolly.

“There is,” she said desperately. “You could give me an ultimatum. I don’t think I would dare to refuse you then.”

Benito sighed and shook his head. “No, of course you are right. I could not force you into such a position. You are a free woman, Samantha. But please come back to me.”

Samantha flushed. “Oh, Benito, when you look at me like that, I wish I had never even seen the letter.”

Benito pulled her to him. “So do I,” he groaned, as he pressed his lips to her hair.

“And now,” he said, at last, “you must tell the Cionis of your decision.”

“Yes,” Samantha nodded. “And soon I’ll know the secret of why my mother acted as she did. I only hope she is not as horrid as she sounds.”

CHAPTER II

PATRICK MALLORY crossed the smooth tarmac of Milan airport. Ahead lay the gleaming aircraft which was to transport him back to London and the busy life from which he had enjoyed a brief respite. He always regretted leaving Italy after staying there for some time. It was his mother’s country and he had spent four idyllic weeks with her in their villa on the shores of Lake Como, soaking up the sun and relaxing completely. His life in London was hectic and sometimes nerve-racking. This holiday had been a godsend. Now he had never felt better. He looked tanned and fit and was ready to assume the responsibilities which were waiting for him in England.

He was a tall lean, attractive man in his middle thirties. His hair was very black and his olive complexion owed much of its darkness to the fact of his being half-Italian. His eyes were hazel, tinged with tawny lights and his expression was rather cynical. He had not the kind of square-cut good looks that are generally called handsome, but he had a whimsical charm which in itself was much more magnetic. He was quite aware of the effect he had on members of the opposite sex and could use his charm to good advantage if it suited his purpose. He had not lived thirty-six years without knowing a great many women, but so far he had found them monotonously the same.

Running a restless hand through his short hair, he mounted the steps to the entrance of the aeroplane, smiling his warm, attractive smile and causing the young stewardess to become blushingly confused.

She directed him to his seat and putting down his briefcase beside him he stretched his long legs luxuriously. Now that he was actually almost on his way, as it were, his mind was already leaping ahead to London and to his immediate plans on arrival. There was the new play, for example. That might take some re-writing to fit the stage.

Reaching up a lazy hand, he loosened the top button of his shirt beneath his impeccable tie. It was hot in the aircraft. It would be cooler when they took off. At least the journey required no further effort from him. He could sit back and enjoy it.

His thoughts turned to the woman who had been occupying much of his mind during the holiday. She would be waiting for him in London. He wondered whether it was time he started thinking seriously about settling down. A bachelor life was fine, but the idea of having a settled home appealed to him. His mother had said much the same thing to him when they had discussed his life. She wanted him to have children. His sister was married with six children and had been married now for over eighteen years. Of course, Gina was ten years his senior, but he ought to be turning his thoughts in that direction, he supposed.

He looked casually out of the window, surveying the airport buildings. Already it was nearly time for take-off. He was glad his mother never insisted on coming to the airport to see him off. He detested long farewells, particularly those made in public.

His attention was caught by two young people by the gate which led over to this aircraft. The young man was obviously upset and was trying, rather unsuccessfully Patrick thought, to hold the girl tightly to him and kiss her. Eventually he succeeded in his objective, but the girl broke away almost immediately and darted from him, and across the tarmac to the waiting plane. Apparently the young man had come to wish her goodbye and things had got rather emotional and out of hand.

Patrick felt amused. The girl looked English, but you never could tell these days. It could have been a holiday romance that had blossomed swiftly in the hot sun, or she could be an Italian leaving home for the first time for some reason. They were too intense, thought Patrick cynically. Why did young people always seem to feel things so intensely? He never had, at least he could never remember having done so. Perhaps he was singularly lucky, or alternatively not the sort of person to feel emotion deeply. At any rate, no woman had ever made a fool of him. He lit a cigarette. Well, he was glad he was past the stage for hearts and flowers. If he married, and it was a big “if”, it would be for practical reasons, not emotional ones.

A few moments later the girl came down the aisle with the stewardess and was deposited on the seat beside him. He looked at her with interest. At close quarters she was remarkably attractive, and he liked the way her hair fell straightly to her shoulders.

At first she was unaware of his scrutiny. She was too absorbed by her own feelings and he was able to regard her openly. He noted the long, curling black lashes, the tanned yet creamy complexion and the slight tip-tilt of her nose. Her dress was not fashionable and her shoes were flat and uninteresting, but in the right clothes he thought she would be quite arresting.

Suddenly, she became aware of him and looked abruptly at him. For a moment, Patrick held her gaze and then withdrew his eyes. Her clear expression did not embarrass him, but the girl’s face suffused with colour and she twisted the strap of the handbag in her lap.

A few minutes later, the engines roared to life and the sign requesting passengers to put out their cigarettes and fasten their safety belts flashed ahead of them.

Patrick fastened his safety belt with the ease of long practise, but the girl fumbled awkwardly with hers. Patrick, unable to prevent himself, took the straps from her unresisting fingers, and fastened it securely.

“Thank you,” she murmured, showing even white teeth, as she smiled shyly at him.

Patrick merely smiled in return and stubbed out his cigarette. The aircraft began to move with slow, deliberate grace and soon they were taxiing along the runway.

The girl gripped the arms of her seat tightly and Patrick found himself watching her again. She was obviously terrified, and for once he felt something akin to sympathy. Usually he had no time for nervous passengers.

“Relax,” he said easily. “We’re almost airborne. Is this your first flight?”

She nodded. “As far as I know,” she replied. “I’m rather a coward, I’m afraid.”

Patrick shrugged his broad shoulders. “I guess we all are at times. Take-offs can be frightening, if you’re not used to them.” Then he looked up. “There, it’s over. You can unfasten your safety belt now.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” She released the strap and relaxed in her seat.

Patrick unfastened his own, and then said: “Do you smoke?” He offered her his slim platinum case, with the engraved monogram.

“Thanks.” She took one and leaned forward to apply the tip to his lighter. Then she lay back again and looked speculatively at him.

Patrick lit a cigarette for himself and wondered, half-amused at his thoughts, why he was taking such an inordinate interest in this girl. He rarely struck up conversations on aeroplanes, as they had a habit of becoming a bore. Besides, well-known as he was, people usually had ulterior motives in speaking to him. He had grown wary of the casual remarks passed to him, and usually spent journeys either reading or studying some aspect of his work.

But the girl did not somehow come into this category. She did not appear to recognize him and was certainly unlikely to be connected with the theatre, dressed in such an outmoded way.

He drew on his cigarette, and looked again at her.

“What’s your name?” he asked idly, his eyes narrowed.

“Samantha Kingsley,” she replied at once. “And yours?”

“Oh!” Patrick hesitated. Now for it! Even if she did not recognize him, the name might mean something to her. “Patrick Mallory,” he said reluctantly.

If he had expected a reaction he was disappointed. If was obvious his name meant nothing to her. He sighed gratefully. Although he never lied about his identity it was a pleasure to meet someone who knew nothing at all about him. “Are you going to London?” he asked.

“Well, to begin with, but not exactly there. Wiltshire. Is that near London?”

“Reasonably so,” Patrick nodded, amused by her expression. “You don’t know much about England, do you? I thought you were English.”

“I am. At least, I was born there, but I’ve lived in Italy since I was four years old.”

“Oh, I see.” Patrick frowned. “And you’ve never been back?”

“No. Never. My father preferred not to do so.” Samantha was silent for a moment and Patrick had the feeling that she was withholding much more than she had told him.

“And your father?” he probed, curious about this girl, and unable to stop the question. “Is he not going with you?”

“No. My father is dead. He was killed over a month ago.”

Patrick frowned again. “I’m sorry.” He studied his cigarette for a moment. The name Kingsley rang a bell somewhere and now she had told him that her father had been killed, he remembered where he had heard it. “John Kingsley,” he said slowly. “Your father wasn’t John Kingsley, was he?” Samantha’s eyes widened.

“Why … why, yes. Did you know him?”

“No, not exactly. I met him in Milan at the exhibition. It was an excellent show. That must have been just before …”

Samantha sighed. “Yes, it was. I’m still a bit dazed about it. And … and you liked the sculptures?”

“Oh, yes.” Patrick stubbed out his cigarette. “Very much. And so now you are an orphan?”

Samantha hesitated. “Not exactly.” She halted awkwardly.

Patrick glanced curiously at her, and then seeing that she obviously did not want to talk about her immediate future, he changed the subject.

They talked about general things, books, art, music. Patrick was not bored by her rather shy conversation. It was so refreshing to find a girl as comparatively untouched as she seemed to be.

“Tell me,” she said suddenly, “what do you do?”

Patrick lit another cigarette, reflecting that he was smoking too much. The brief respite gave him time to think.

“I’m a writer,” he replied, without qualification.

Samantha frowned, wrinkling up her brow. “What do you write?”

Patrick shrugged. He had no wish to become embroiled in a conversation about his work. His relief was overwhelming when the stewardess appeared at their side and asked them if they would like a drink.

Samantha looked up in surprise. This was all quite new to her. It was almost lunchtime, already.

“I’ll have a tomato juice, please,” she said quietly, but the stewardess had eyes only for Patrick Mallory. She knew only too well who he was and the influence he had in the theatre. Besides, his physical attributes alone were a challenge in themselves to any woman.

“What will you have, Mr. Mallory?” she was asking gushingly.

Patrick looked up, his lazy eyes amused. “Scotch,” he said easily. “And bring this young lady a sweet sherry instead of tomato juice.”

Samantha stared at him in surprise, and with obvious reluctance the stewardess moved away.

“You don’t object, do you?” he asked half-mockingly.

Samantha shook her head slowly. “No, I suppose not.” She bit her lip and looked thoughtfully at him. “Why did that stewardess act so strangely?”

Patrick grinned. “Strangely?” he mocked.

“Yes. You must know what I mean. She … well …” She flushed.

Patrick looked at her through a haze of smoke. “When you get a bit more experienced, you won’t ask questions like that.”

“Won’t I?” Samantha shrugged.

Patrick laughed softly. “Here are the drinks. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” she echoed slowly, and sipped her sherry.

Lunch was served soon afterwards, a delicious meal although it had all been pre-cooked. Samantha looked out on the fluffy cotton-wool world of cloud below the aircraft and wondered why people made such a fuss about flying. There was absolutely nothing to be seen and it did not seem so much different from bus-riding at home.

Home! She sighed. She had got to stop thinking about Italy as her home. Soon Daven House in Wiltshire was to be her home. There was no going back. If she returned to Italy it would be to marry Benito, but as the distance between them increased, she felt the ties between them decreasing.

She took the opportunity after lunch of going back to the ladies’ room. She washed her face and hands and combed her hair. The eyes that stared back at her through the glass were scared eyes and she inwardly chided herself. Why should she feel scared? After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of. It was these women she was going to meet today who ought to feel ashamed.

Stiffening her shoulders, she walked back to her seat to find Patrick Mallory absorbed in some papers he had extracted from his briefcase. He did not even glance at her as she reseated herself beside him and Samantha found her thoughts returning to the problem of the next few hours. She felt that she was gradually becoming more and more nervous and she would be glad when this day was over at last.

Her eyes strayed once more to her companion, as though drawn to him. In profile his features were just as attractive and from his immaculate tailoring and ease of manner she guessed he was a man who knew the world and what life was all about. He looked quite young and she speculated about his exact age. He must be about thirty, she decided, and wondered whether he was English. His name was English enough and yet there was something slightly alien about his dark complexion and tawny eyes. Cat’s eyes, Samantha thought. Like those of the tiger she had once seen in a travelling circus. Pondering, she wondered whether he was virtually quite as dangerous. He was very easy to talk to and she could understand a woman enjoying the attention he would devote to her. He treated Samantha rather like an overgrown schoolgirl and she wondered whether she acted that way. It was rather disconcerting to find that after having thought yourself quite grown-up a man, like this man, could make you feel quite gauche. It was apparent that the men of the village could hardly be compared to Patrick Mallory.

He was a writer, too. She wondered what he wrote. He had not wanted to talk about that. But the stewardess obviously knew him and he had expected her to recognize his name.

From these thoughts she returned to thoughts of Benito. He had insisted on coming to the airport to see her off, and had made the scene she had half-expected. After his early capitulation he had changed and become sullen and resentful. Samantha suspected that his family was to blame. They had not taken kindly to her plans for going to England. His mother had been quite blunt.

“Benito needs a wife,” she had said. “Not some fly-by-night creature who goes shooting off to England at the whim of a relation she has not seen for seventeen years. Don’t blame Benito if he finds someone else while you are away. Plenty of the village girls would give their right arm to have your opportunity with him.”

There had been more in this vein, and Samantha had left, knowing that it was very unlikely that she would ever go back. That was partly why she felt so scared. She had burnt her boats. The villa had been rented by a young couple from Ravenna and Matilde had gone there to live with her sister. At the moment she felt in transit. She had nothing left for her in Italy and ahead! Who knows!

She was roused from her reverie by Patrick Mallory. He offered her another cigarette and then said:

“You were very thoughtful, just then.”

Samantha smiled rather wistfully, Patrick thought.

“Yes.” She smiled. “Have you finished your work?”

Patrick shrugged. “I don’t suppose I shall ever be finished,” he replied enigmatically.

Samantha digested this and then said: “How much longer now? Before we land, I mean.”

Patrick glanced at his watch. “Only about a quarter of an hour. Is someone meeting you?”

“Yes. My grandmother.”

“I see. And are you going directly to Wiltshire?”

Samantha shook her head. “I’m not sure. My grandmother is staying at the Savoy at the moment, so I don’t really know what her plans are.”

“Is she indeed?” Patrick was impressed. This rather shabby little creature did not look the type to stay at the Savoy, but of course, appearances could be deceptive. “I hope you find London to your liking.”

“Do you like it?”

Patrick raised his dark eyebrows. “It’s a place to work. I prefer somewhere quieter when I have the time.”

Samantha frowned. “Oh, dear. I hope I shall like it.”

“Is it so important?”

She clasped her fingers together. “Terribly.”

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.

A few moments later a door opened and Samantha looked round and rose tremblingly to her feet as an old lady came into the room, leaning heavily on a stick. She was very small and fragile looking, with grey hair and a lined face. She was dressed fashionably in a mauve silk two-piece and her eyes, which were a definite blue, twinkled a little.

Samantha stood before her, wondering what she should do; or say. Lady Davenport smiled. She had a warm gentle face and Samantha felt some of her trepidation leave her.

“My dear,” she said softly. “Samantha, you’re here!”

“Grandmother,” said Samantha slowly. “It sounds so strange. I never knew I had any other relations.”

The old lady made her way across the room until she was close to her and then said: “You may kiss me, my dear.”

Samantha bent and touched the soft cheek with her lips, and then the tension she had been feeling snapped and she put her arms round the old lady and hugged her, feeling tears coming to her eyes.

“There, that’s better,” said Lady Davenport, her own eyes a little moist. “Shall we sit down, my dear? My legs are not what they used to be.”

They sat, side by side, on the couch and Lady Davenport looked at her thoughtfully.

“You’re much more like John than Barbara,” she said, at last. “Oh, Samantha, you’ve no idea how I’ve longed to see you.”

“But why …?” Samantha halted.

“In a moment, my dear,” said her grandmother gently. “Let’s have some tea first, and then we can talk.”

The maid brought in a tea trolley, and for a while the clatter of the cups and the tinkle of spoons on bone china silenced both of them. They each seemed to be studying the other. Both had so much lost time to make up.

When they were finished, her grandmother offered Samantha a cigarette from a onyx cigarette box and after it had been lit, Lady Davenport lay back against the damask upholstery.

“And now! You feel refreshed?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” said Samantha, smiling.

“I was sorry I could not meet you at the airport, but I have a little trouble with my old body and my doctor insists that I rest after lunch every afternoon. Did Barnes find you satisfactorily?”

Samantha smiled reminiscently. She was thinking again of Patrick Mallory. “Yes, he found me,” she replied quietly.

“Good.” Lady Davenport bit her lip. She was obviously finding it difficult to begin. At least, Samantha thought, she was no ogre. She was a sweet old lady, but where was her mother?

“I suppose I must begin by telling you about my daughter,” said Lady Davenport slowly.

“My mother?”

“Yes, your mother. Barbara.” Lady Davenport sighed. “Your mother is my only child. She was born when both Harold and I were past believing we would ever have any children. I’m telling you this because Barbara was always spoiled and I’m afraid Harold and I were to blame. She grew up accepting everything as her right. When she met your father she wanted him, too. She was eighteen at the time and far too young really to know her own mind. They were married two months later. It was just after the war as you know, and Barbara was an up-and-coming actress in a London repertory company, mainly entertaining the troops and going on tours. You know the sort of thing. Your father was in the Navy and looked very handsome in his uniform. Lots of couples were getting married at that time and Barbara was so sure she was in love. Naturally, soon after the wedding John went back to sea and they saw little of one another for some time. By then you were a little over a year old.” She paused and twisted a ring round her finger.

“When Barbara found she was pregnant in the first place she was furious. She had to leave her career and come home to Wiltshire. After you were born, she could not wait to get back again.” She frowned. “Oh, my dear, I’m sorry about this, but you were an encumbrance.”

Samantha felt the tears come to her eyes, but she forced them back. “Go on,” she said, longing to know and yet dreading the inevitable.

“When John was demobbed, he came home to find you living at Daven with me, and a nanny, of course, and Barbara back in London. I did not mind. You were a delightful child and I thought the world of you. Unfortunately, John did not see it that way. He thought, and naturally so, that Barbara herself ought to have care of you. Before the war he had been a schoolmaster and he had seen the result of this kind of upbringing on a child whose parents were separated. At any rate, he took you away from me and got a flat in London. For a while the old attachment seemed to work on Barbara, John was so masterful and still a very handsome man. For a while she did only bit-parts and looked after you and lived with John.

“I was sure everything was going to turn out all right, now that John was home again. Barbara seemed happy enough …” She sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I must be frank, John found out she was having an affair with a film producer. He had probably promised her all sorts of parts in his films. He was a married man too.” Samantha felt dreadful. Was this the mother she had so urgently wanted to meet?

“By then, you were nearly four. John refused to speak to Barbara after that. Without our knowledge, he sold everything he could lay his hands on, drew his savings out of the bank and disappeared, with you. Later his solicitors contacted us from Milan to say that he was living in Italy and did not wish to let us know his address.

“Barbara seemed not to care and without her support there was little I could do. She began getting bigger and better parts and as the years went by she became famous. Now she is able to choose her own parts. She is a remarkably good actress, whatever her faults may be.”

“I can’t believe it,” exclaimed Samantha. “How could she do such a thing?”

“Barbara is wilful and single-minded. She always intended being a success and she has succeeded in her object. She likes men. There have always been men hanging around her. She’s like a child in many ways. She does not want to grow any older. The eternal Peter Pan.”

“But she must be quite old. I’m twenty-one.”

“Yes. She will be forty next birthday. But I defy anyone to guess her age correctly.”

“You still love her?” exclaimed Samantha, in wonderment.

“Yes, I love her. She will always be my daughter, my only child. My husband died when she was only seven years old. I blame myself really for the bad things she has done in her life. I was too easy with her. I denied her nothing.”

Samantha shook her head. “And … and did they divorce?”

“Oh, yes, there was a divorce. John’s solicitors had plenty of evidence. It was undefended and hushed-up. It was all over before she became famous. No one today knows anything about it.”

“Oh!” Samantha was silent for a moment. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of her. What does she call herself. Barbara Davenport or Barbara Kingsley?”

“Neither. Her full name is Barbara Harriet Davenport. Her stage name is simply Barbara Harriet.”

“I still don’t know anything about her.”

“No. Well, you have lived a rather sheltered life, haven’t you, and I doubt very much whether John would have risked you seeing much about her.”

Samantha felt herself shiver involuntarily. Altogether she did not much like the sound of her mother. She supposed it was natural that her grandmother should be able to see Barbara’s side of things, but from her own point of view Barbara had behaved abominably. She seemed to care for no one but herself.

“So she has never married again?” she asked now.

Lady Davenport shook her head. “No. She has never felt the desire to tie herself completely to one man. At least, she hadn’t. I think she is feeling a little differently now. There is a man … Well! That can wait.” Lady Davenport frowned and then straightened her back. Taking one of Samantha’s hands she said: “My dear, there is something more you have to know.”

Samantha felt apprehensive. What more could there be?

“What else?” she asked cautiously.

“Well, as I have told you, Barbara is a very famous actress today.”

“Yes.”

“And as such, she must appear to her public as a young and attractive woman.”

Samantha frowned. As yet she could not see what all this was leading up to.

“Go on,” she said. “Has she refused to acknowledge me as her daughter?”

Lady Davenport smiled wryly. “You are becoming wary, Samantha. I’m sorry about that.” She sighed. “No. She wants to acknowledge you as her daughter.”

Samantha swallowed. “So where is the problem?”

“You are twenty-one, my dear. That is the problem. Everyone would know, if she told them your age, that she was much older than she has claimed to be.”

“Oh, lord!”

“Samantha dear, try to understand. Barbara looks very young. At most she could be taken for thirty-two or three.”

“So! What is your suggestion, or should I say Barbara’s suggestion?”

“She wants you to agree to being a teenager …”

“A teenager!”

“Yes. Shall we say … sixteen or seventeen?”

“Absolutely not!” Samantha was indignant. “How can you ask me to do such a thing, after the way she has acted all these years? No, I refuse.”

Lady Davenport sighed heavily, and sank back against the couch.

“I told her you would not agree,” she said weakly.

“Well, why should I? I owe her nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I agree with you, my dear, but those are the only terms on which she would agree to me having you here. You haven’t heard everything yet. You are to live with me at Daven. You will only be in town very occasionally. It is only on these occasions when you need to be a teenager. Back home in Daven you will be able to be yourself. It is a quiet village. No one need know your true identity, if you don’t wish it so.” She took Samantha’s hand again. “Is this so much to ask, for myself? It was my idea that you came here. For so long I have wanted to know you. I’m a lonely old woman, Samantha. It would give me great pleasure to have you with me. Is there so much for you in Italy, that you cannot give it up?”

Her words brought Samantha up with a start. It seemed that there was very little for her in Italy. She had never expected such a thing as this to happen. She had been quite confident that her family would like her, she realized that now. Her only concern had been that she might not like them. Now, knowing the devious methods her mother had used all these years, it was not really surprising that such a proposition should be put to her.

She looked gently at her grandmother. Whatever Lady Davenport’s faults had been, she was a sweet and loving old lady. Samantha felt sure she could grow to love her too. They had so much to say to one another. Already she felt a kind of kinship with her. For a moment, she half-wished she had no mother to complicate matters. She could have lived with her grandmother quite happily without any qualms.

“And if I still refuse?” she asked. “Why couldn’t we live in Daven and forget about Barbara’s schemes?”

“Harold, my husband, left the house at Daven to Barbara. He left sufficient for me to live on comfortably, but the bulk of the estate is your mother’s. She could make my life a misery, if I disobeyed her wishes. As I’ve said, Barbara is a very single-minded person. If she is not crossed, she is charming enough. I’m too old now to start crossing swords with her, I’m afraid, and she knows it.”

Samantha was genuinely shocked. “Why, that’s terrible!” she exclaimed, a feeling of protectiveness towards her grandmother sweeping over her.

“Yes, well, I’ve told you the situation. That’s how it is.”

“But why, if she doesn’t want to have a daughter of twenty-one, why does she want to acknowledge me as her daughter, at all? Surely I could be a distant cousin, or a close friend … anything.”

Lady Davenport shrugged. “That is Barbara’s problem, not mine. I only know that she wants you … but as a teenager. Now, are you agreeable or not?”

Samantha rose to her feet, feeling slightly nauseated about the whole affair. The problem was really quite a simple one. Either she agreed to Barbara’s schemes or she could pack her bags, metaphorically, and go.

She felt that were she better acquainted with this country, that was exactly what she would do, but in her case, Italy was more welcoming.

Then there was the problem of what she could do. She was more than ever convinced that marriage to Benito was not the answer. He attracted her physically, but possibly only because they had been brought up in such close contact with each other.

And finally there was her grandmother. Try as she might, she could not rid herself of the feeling that she was needed here. Lady Davenport was very old. Might it not be kinder to her to agree to Barbara’s plans and then later, when Lady Davenport could not be hurt, explode her plans in her face?

Had she the right to leave her only relations, however tardy they had been in the past? She was needed now, albeit cunningly, and since her father died, no one had needed her.

She turned back to her grandmother, sitting hopefully watching her.

“You are young,” said the older woman quietly. “Couldn’t you afford a few months, a couple of years at most, out of your life?”

“I feel like a publicity gimmick,” said Samantha at last. “If I agree, do you think I could look sixteen?”

Lady Davenport smiled. “Easily. At the moment you look little older. Samantha, your life has been calm, untroubled. Your face shows none of the stresses and strains evident in the faces of some young people. Teenagers today are a provocative bunch at best, you might even find you enjoy it. I promise you, you will not find life dull.”

Samantha wondered what her father would think of her if he knew. After all, it was he who had virtually sent her back to her mother. She guaranteed he would never have agreed to anything of this kind. Subterfuge was abhorrent to him. And yet, her mind argued, had he not practised a certain kind of subterfuge himself, allowing her to believe her mother was dead when actually she was very much alive?

“All right,” she said at last, “I’ll agree. At least for now. I won’t guarantee my actions until I try out this masquerade.”

“Oh, my dear. I’m so glad, and so grateful. You’ve made me so happy.” There were tears in Lady Davenport’s eyes and Samantha felt glad she was able to make at least one person happy.

“And now,” said Lady Davenport, “we can get down to details.”

“What details?” Samantha was puzzled.

“Well, I’m afraid that Barbara has already given it out that she contracted a secret marriage, seventeen years ago, when she was seventeen. You were the outcome and your existence was kept a secret so that you might grow up without the usual hoo-ha attached to children of famous people.”

“Wait a minute.” Samantha frowned and stared at her grandmother. “How could she give that out? She didn’t know that I was going to agree.”

Lady Davenport looked uncomfortable. “My dear Samantha, Barbara banked on your acceptance of her plans. No one ever refuses her anything.”

Samantha shook her head. “Oh, God, so I’m just another pawn in her game.”

“Don’t, please, Samantha. Let it go. You won’t regret it, I promise you.”

Samantha was not convinced, but as the whole plan had her head in a spin already, she could not voice her objections. She felt heartily sick of the whole business, and wondered what was behind it all. There must be something. From what she had gathered about her mother, Barbara never did anything without good reason.

“And when do we leave for Daven?” she asked now.

Lady Davenport looked thoughtful. “Well, not for a week or so, I’m afraid. Barbara wants to have time to introduce you to her friends. She has planned parties, dinners, etc. When we leave, you will not need to worry about coming back to London for some time.”

“I see.” Samantha bit her lip. Dinners, parties! And she was to be sixteen again!

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