Loren's Baby

‘Who is it, Marcia?’

The impatient male voice from somewhere inside the house was vaguely familiar, and the woman turned automatically towards the sound. Caryn, half afraid she was about to close the door in her face, exclaimed: ‘I’m so sorry if I’ve come at an inconvenient moment, but—’

She broke off abruptly as a man appeared behind the woman. For a moment she was too shocked to do anything but stare at him, but perhaps he was used to the effect his appearance had on girls. And why not? Those harshly etched sardonic features, vaguely haggard in appearance, were apparently capable of mesmerising his viewers, and Loren had told her he got more mail than any other interviewer in his field. For all that, he was taller than she had expected, and his lean body showed no signs as yet of the dissipations he indulged in, and considering she knew he was at least forty, his corn-fair hair showed little sign of grey. Of course, he was deeply tanned from his last assignment in East Africa, the one Loren had kept all those cuttings about, and his hair was no doubt bleached by the sun, thus disguising any unwelcome signs of encroaching age, but in his dark mohair business suit, he didn’t look a day over thirty-five.

Recovering herself, Caryn realised both he and the woman were looking at her now, and colouring hotly, she said: ‘Mr Ross?’ annoyed to find her voice trembled a little as she spoke.

‘Yes?’ He sounded impatient now, and she felt resentful that he should. After all, she had not expected to find him here. Come to think of it, what was he doing here?

‘I—I’ve been looking for your house, Mr Ross,’ she said carefully, unwilling to say too much in front of the woman, and his expression suddenly changed.

‘Hey!’ he exclaimed, his impatience disappearing as swiftly as it had come. ‘You’re not from the agency, are you? My God! I never thought they’d send anyone so promptly.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Hell, I’ve got to be at the studios in half an hour. Can you wait till I get back?’

Caryn opened her mouth to protest that she was not from any agency, and then closed it again. Why not, if it served the purpose? She could easily explain her subterfuge when they spoke privately together.

‘Druid’s Fleet?’ she ventured, avoiding a direct reply, and he shook his head.

‘This is Druid’s Fleet,’ he explained apologetically. ‘I guess you saw the old sign on the gatepost. I keep that there to discourage unwelcome sightseers. That’s who we thought you were.’

‘Oh.’

Caryn was taken aback, and the woman, Marcia, gave Ross a curious look. Then Tristan Ross was inviting her in, and feeling only slightly guilty, Caryn stepped inside.

She found herself in a large open hall, with stairs leading both down and up. The floor was polished here, heavy wood blocks with a gleaming patina, that were an attractive foil for the skin rugs that enhanced its aura of age. There was an antique chest supporting a bowl of creamy yellow roses, and matching silk curtains billowed in the breeze beside the archway that led through to the dining room.

As Caryn followed Tristan Ross down the steps which led into the main body of the house, she was aware of Marcia coming behind her, and speculated on her relationship to the master of the house. His girl-friend, perhaps; or his mistress, she mused rather bitterly. He seemed to like to have a woman about the place. Loren had discovered that.

He led the way into a magnificent sitting room with long windows that looked out over the estuary. A padded window seat invited relaxation, or there were two squashy velvet couches, one either side of the stone fireplace, matching the heavy apricot velvet of the floor-length curtains. A coffee-coloured carpet fitted every comer, and the casual tables set around the room in no way encroached upon the feeling of space the room engendered.

Ross halted in the middle of the room and turned to face her. ‘Have you eaten?’

Caryn shook her head, but hastened to add that she wasn’t particularly hungry.

‘Nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘Marcia will see you get something that appeals to you, and I’ll be back in about two hours. I’m sorry about this, but I did warn the agency—’

‘It’s all right, really.’ Caryn didn’t want to get involved in discussions about the agency right now. ‘I—I don’t mind waiting.’

‘Very well.’ He raised his eyes to Marcia who was standing in the doorway. ‘Can I leave it to you to see that Miss—Miss—’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, you didn’t give me your name.’

Caryn thought quickly. ‘Er—Mellor,’ she got out jerkily. ‘Susan Mellor.’

She thought his eyes narrowed for a moment, but then he was walking swiftly across the room again, past her to the door. ‘Look after Miss Mellor, will you, Marcia?’ she heard him say quietly, and then she heard him mount the steps again to the front door. It closed behind him a few moments later, and she was alone with her unwilling hostess.

The silence that followed his departure was broken only by Caryn smoothing moistened palms down her skirt. Then she faced Marcia with an apologetic smile.

‘There’s really no need to go to any trouble on my account. I—er—I honestly am not very hungry.’

Marcia considered her silently, and it was unnerving. What was wrong with the woman? Caryn thought impatiently. Why didn’t she say anything?

‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked, and then realising how pointed that sounded, added: ‘I mean—it’s a very beautiful place to live, isn’t it? I love Wales. I used to come here as a child. We used to camp on the Gower peninsula …’

Marcia inclined her head, as if in acknowledgement of Caryn’s words, and then turned and walked away, across the lower hall and down two steps and through another door. Leading where? Caryn wondered. The kitchen, probably. What a taciturn creature she was! As if she couldn’t have said something!

Left to herself, she relaxed somewhat. Well, she was here, and she was within reach of her goal. Or at least within sight of it. And she had been given two hours grace to augment her defences.

She walked across to the windows and admired the view. Then her eyes dropped to the terraced garden that fell away beneath her, and to the wooden flight of steps which led down to the boathouse. Loren had said there were thirty-seven steps, and she had had plenty of time to count them. Dangerous for a child perhaps, but that was not her problem.

Dropping her handbag on to the padded chocolate-brown cushions of the window seat, she half knelt beside it, feeling the familiar pang as she remembered what Loren had suffered. Why should he get away scot free?

She had been kneeling there for some time, hardly aware of the light fading until the switching on of a lamp brought her round with a start. Marcia had re-entered the room in that silent way of hers, and in her hands she carried a tray.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered!’ Caryn exclaimed, sliding off the window seat, as Marcia set the tray down on one of the low tables nearby. But the smell of minestrone and fresh salmon was delectable, and she looked down on the meal the woman had prepared for her with undisguised gratitude.

Marcia spread her hands, and Caryn felt the guilt of false pretences colouring her cheeks once more. ‘I say—won’t you join me?’

Marcia shook her head. Her expression seldom altered, and Caryn was perplexed. Unless the woman couldn’t speak, of course. But she must be able to hear. She had answered the doorbell, hadn’t she? Yet how could she broach such a suggestion?

Marcia withdrew again, and with a shrug of defeat, Caryn seated herself on the couch beside the tray. She was hungry, she realised that now, and she remembered the old adage about fighting better on a full stomach.

But as she ate, she couldn’t help wishing she had been able to ring Bob and Laura before coming here. It was going to be so late now before she got back to the hotel in Carmarthen, and she hoped they wouldn’t worry. Still, he was in good hands, and that was the main thing.

Marcia reappeared with coffee as Caryn was finishing sampling the delights of a chocolate pudding. She had shed her overall to reveal a plain tailored grey dress, and looked more than ever like the lady of the house. Perhaps she was, thought Caryn doubtfully. Perhaps she should find out before Tristan Ross got back.

‘That was absolutely delicious,’ she said now, wiping her mouth on a napkin. ‘Did you make the minestrone yourself? I’ve never tasted anything nicer.’

Marcia nodded, and retrieved the tray after setting down the coffee pot beside it. She was about to withdraw again, and on impulse Caryn got to her feet.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t rush away on my account.’

But Marcia’s thin lips merely twitched slightly before she bowed her head and went away.

Caryn subsided on to the couch again. If Marcia wasn’t dumb she was giving a damn good imitation of being so. She sighed, and reached for the coffee pot. Oh, well! If she didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to talk. And maybe it was as well. She didn’t want to get involved here—not more than necessary, anyway.

Her coffee finished, she looked about her restlessly. There was no television, which was unusual. She would have expected him to have one in every room. Was he on this evening? Was that why he had had to leave for the studios in Carmarthen? Or was it simply a pre-recording for something that was going out later?

Getting to her feet, she wandered round the large room. It was a man’s room, she thought reluctantly. There were no ornaments to speak of, no china cabinet or collection of porcelain in sealed cases. There were bookshelves, but she couldn’t believe anyone actually read such heavy, boring tomes, and she longed for the sight of a paperback or a magazine, anything to fill the time until Tristan Ross returned.

A silver trophy on the mantelshelf turned out to be an award from the Television Academy of Arts and Sciences for his contributions to the popular news programme Action World, and beside it was a bronze shield denoting Tristan Ross as Outstanding Television Correspondent for 1976.

Caryn pulled a face and put the awards down again, wondering in passing whether a silver trophy would smash if it fell into the stone hearth. It probably would, but she was not brave enough to find out. She could imagine her stammering apology: ‘I—I’m s-sorry, Mr Ross. It—it just s-slipped out of m-my f-fingers …’

Outside darkness had fallen, and she went to take another look over the estuary. The lights of the village were comforting across the water, and here and there a mooring light winked on the rising tide. A person could get delusions of grandeur living here, she thought cynically. Remote from the problems of the world outside.

The sound of a car’s engine broke the stillness, and although she hadn’t heard him leave, Caryn guessed her host had returned. She glanced at her watch. Eight-thirty. She raised her dark eyebrows. He was prompt anyway; she should be thankful for small mercies.

A door slammed, and then surprisingly, a female voice called: ‘Marcia! Marcia, I’m back! Whose car is that parked at our gate? I almost ran into the wretched thing! ‘

Caryn stiffened. Another visitor? Someone well-used to coming here anyway. Who else had a key to the door? Her lips tightened as she thought again of Loren’s waxen features. Oh, Tristan Ross had such a rude awakening coming to him!