Loren's Baby. Anne Mather
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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!
Light footsteps ran down the stairs, and a moment later a girl appeared in the open doorway—tall, slim, almost as tall as Caryn, in fact, who always considered her five feet eight inches to be less than an advantage, with straight fair hair and smooth pale skin. She was one of the most attractive young women Caryn had seen for some time, and her orange jump suit accentuated the slender grace of her figure while exposing more of the unblemished skin than was absolutely necessary.
She stopped short when she saw the other girl, and stared at her frowningly. Competition? wondered Caryn dryly, although she felt positively gipsy-dark beside such Scandinavian fairness. She tanned easily, and her skin was already brown, its texture caring nothing for the burning at of the sun. She guessed this girl would have to be careful, or she would burn all too easily. And she probably was, Caryn conceded. She looked as if she spent some time caring for her appearance.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded now, and relieved to find someone who was not averse to speaking with her, Caryn answered:
‘Susan—Mellor. I—I’m waiting to see Mr Ross.’
The girl frowned and came into the room. ‘Why?’
It was a leading question, and Caryn hesitated. She had no qualms about evading an answer, but she was curious to know who the girl was, and antagonising her was not going to help. In consequence she gave the answer Ross himself had suggested:
‘The—er—agency sent me.’
‘The agency!’
The girl stared at her, and Caryn realised in dismay that if the next question was ‘What agency?’ she was stumped. What sort of agency might a man like Ross have contacted? Hysterical humour bubbled in her throat. She ought to be hoping it was as innocent as it sounded.
But the girl said: ‘Do you mean the Llandath Agency?’ and that was even worse.
Crossing her fingers behind her back, Caryn nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she agreed manfully. ‘The Llandath Agency.’
‘You liar!’
It was worse than Caryn had imagined. The girl was staring at her unpleasantly, and what was worse, the woman Marcia had come to reinforce the opposition.
‘Tris asked me to call at the agency,’ the girl declared, glancing round at Marcia for her