The Waterfall Of The Moon. Anne Mather
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the stairs, intending to go in search of Julie, when the maid she had seen earlier reappeared.
“Oh, Miss Farrell. I've spoken to Cook and she says would you like breakfast serving in the morning room? The other members of the household, those who take breakfast, that is, usually eat in their rooms on Sunday mornings.”
“I see.” Ruth paused at the foot of the stairs. “Did you know Mr. Hardy is in the lounge?”
“No, miss.” The maid looked surprised. “Perhaps I'd better ask him, too.”
“Yes, you do that.” Ruth half smiled, leaning back against the banister.
The maid disappeared into the lounge and emerged a few moments later nodding her head. “Mr. Hardy does want breakfast, miss. Would that be for two?”
“Why not?”
Ruth was amused. If Julie came upon them now, she would imagine Ruth had engineered the whole thing.
The maid went to tell the cook of the arrangements and Ruth decided to wait in the morning room. Picking up one of the morning papers off the hall table, she opened a cream panelled door and entered a sun-filled dining room. This was the morning room where the family usually ate breakfast and lunch, and the table was already laid with a pristine white cloth.
Seating herself at the end nearest the windows, she scanned the headlines desultorily, unconsciously waiting for Patrick Hardy to join her. When he eventually appeared, she pretended not to notice him, assuming an intense interest in the article she was reading.
“May I join you?” he enquired, before seating himself opposite her, and she looked up in feigned surprise.
“Oh! Oh, yes, please do.” She nodded and returned to her newspaper, unaware that a slight smile touched the corners of his mouth as he sat down.
The maid returned to ascertain their individual requirements, but Ruth only wanted fruit juice and toast. Patrick Hardy, however, agreed upon porridge followed by ham and eggs, sausages and tomatoes. Ruth, to whom a fried breakfast was slightly abhorrent, sat in silence as he waded through the enormous meal, thinly buttering her toast and drinking several cups of coffee. She was amazed at his capacity, wondering how he could remain so lean and muscular when her father, who really ate very little, sported the thickening waistline of so many of his colleagues.
By the time he had reached the toast and marmalade stage, Ruth was finished, but she remained at the table studying the dregs of coffee left in the bottom of her cup.
“I can't say I care for Marion's choice of coffee,” he remarked unexpectedly, wiping his mouth on a table napkin. “That's one commodity which is not in short supply where I come from. And excellent it is, too.”
Ruth looked up. “There are coffee plantations in Venezuela?”
“Some, yes. But Brazil is virtually on our doorstep, and it's the largest producer of coffee in the world.”
“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Have you been to Brazil?”
“Several times.” He drew a case of cheroots out of his pocket. “Do you mind? I'm afraid I can't offer you a cigaette.”
“I don't smoke,” replied Ruth, relaxing. “But I don't mind at all. I like the smell of good tobacco.”
He placed one of the long thin cigars between his teeth and lit it with a narrow gold lighter. Then he inhaled deeply, half turning in his seat to rest his elbow on the back of the chair. His eyes, Ruth saw now, were not brown as she had thought, but grey, and his lashes were long and thick. They were disturbingly intent eyes when they chose to be, and she rushed into speech, half afraid of their penetration.
“I suppose you've seen a lot of South America,” she suggested nervously.
“Quite a lot,” he agreed. “But there's still a lot I haven't seen and would like to. There have been so many civilisations – so many cultures. I find the whole history of the area absolutely fascinating.”
“But your work isn't concerned with history, is it?”
He smiled wryly. “Oh, no. My work is very much a contemporary thing. A product of the twentieth century in every sense of the word. But that doesn't stop me from spending every available moment delving into the past.”
“I'm afraid the only thing I remember learning about Venezuela was how it got its name,” confessed Ruth charmingly. “Didn't Christopher Columbus discover the Indians living in huts standing in water and decide it reminded him of Venice?”
Patrick dropped ash from the end of his cigar into the bronze ashtray in the centre of the table. “Well, you've got the facts there, but they're somewhat confused. Columbus did discover Venezuela as you've said, but it was another Spaniard, Alonso de Ojeda, who found Lake Maracaibo and the Indian huts standing in water. He called it Little Venice – Venezuela, as it is today. Did you know that the first Spanish settlement in the whole of South America was on an island off the coast of Venezuela called Cubagua?”
“Cubagua!” Ruth repeated the name slowly. “What a nice sound that has.”
Patrick shrugged. “It's principally a pearling centre now.”
“Do men actually dive for pearls?” she asked, her voice betraying her excitement.
“Well, it's not quite as simple as that,” he replied dryly.
“And where you work – what is it like there? Do you have tropical vegetation and rain forests?” Her eyes were wide.
He drew on his cheroot. “There are rain forests at the southern end of the lake,” he conceded tolerantly. “But they're not the romantic things you seem to imagine them to be. They stand in areas usually with a rainfall in excess of eighty inches with no apparent dry season, and humid temperatures up to ninety degrees.”
Ruth sighed, resting her chin on her knuckles. “But you live there,” she pointed out.
“Well, not actually in the rain forest,” he remarked, with a smile. “Part of the time I work in Maracaibo itself, which is Venezuela's second largest city, and they have skyscrapers and office blocks and the usual kind of traffic problems found the world over.”
“It sounds fascinating!” Ruth was enthralled. For all she had travelled all over the continent and visited the United States with her father, the places Patrick Hardy was talking about belonged to an entirely different kind of civilisation. She felt she could have gone on listening to his attractive voice all day.
Patrick studied her captivated face for several minutes after he had finished speaking, causing Ruth no small sense of consternation at the upheaval inside her he could so unknowingly provoke, and then he rose abruptly to his feet and leant across the table to press out the stub of his cheroot.
“You live in London, Miss Farrell?”
Ruth dropped her hands into her lap. “Yes, that's right.”
“And will you be leaving today?”
“After lunch, I expect. Julie and I are supposed to be going riding this morning. Do you ride, Mr. Hardy?”
“I have done,” he agreed, flexing his back muscles.
“Then why don't you join us?” she asked, pushing back her chair and standing up.
Although she was a tall girl, he was quite a bit taller than she was and consequently she had to look up to his face. He seemed to be considering what she had said quite seriously, and a ripple of anticipation slid down her spine.
“I don't somehow think Julie would second your suggestion,” he remarked at last, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“Does that matter?” Ruth tipped her head on one side in a purely provocative gesture.
“I think it might,” he commented dryly, turning aside from her. “Tell me: has the winter been very hard so far? I was looking forward to snow-swept