The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,1
on the wall.
“Please bring me a telephone,” she asked. The waiter did so and, to her discomfort, lingered nearby. She called Don’s office.
The familiar voice of the receptionist sounded. “Barweed and Stone, Investments. May I help you?”
“Let me speak to Mr. Madson, please,” Kathryn said.
“I’m sorr-ee, Mr. Madson is in conference.”
“I must speak to—” Kathryn began.
The line went dead.
With the waiter’s eyes upon her she dialed again, her fingers clumsy with nervousness and anger.
“Barweed and Stone, Investments. May I help you?”
“This is Miss Hendrix. Mr. Madson arranged to meet me for lunch at the Rive Gauche. I’ve been waiting an hour. Has something happened to delay him?”
Now it would be all right. The silly girl would remember that Donald had asked her to phone and tell Miss Hendrix he’d be delayed.
“I’m sorr-ee. Mr. Madson left an hour ago with a client. He didn’t say where he was going. May I take a message?”
Kathryn replaced the receiver on its cradle slowly. Get out of here quickly, her mind urged. How could Don do this to me! her heart protested. Humiliation and anger churned like opposing tides, confusing her thinking.
“M’sieu has been delayed?” smirked the waiter.
Somehow Kathryn managed to gather up her gloves and handbag, push back the chair and walk to the door. She knew that everyone in the small, glittering room was staring at her, commenting, amused or perhaps pitying.
Out on the busy street she looked again at her watch. Even if she walked back to the library, she’d be in plenty of time for work . . . . Then her whole body rebelled. She’d hinted about the purpose of this date to her superior in arranging for an extra hour off; she’d been coy and mysterious with her fellow-workers, answering their interested inquiries about the new—and unsuitable!—hat. She could not face their curiosity. Physically sick with disappointment, Kathryn boarded a bus that went in the opposite direction to the library.
The bus wasn’t crowded. Kathryn took a seat beside a window on the left-hand side of the bus. The vehicle jerked and swayed its way along beside the curb. Kathryn stared, unseeing, at the passing traffic, her mind drearily shuffling through the possible explanations for Don’s conduct.
Suddenly her eye was caught by the scarlet flare of a small elegant foreign car. A red light was momentarily holding the open car beside the bus. Driving it, dressed in matching scarlet, was a laughing, dark-haired girl, an exotic little creature whose gloved hands were competent on the wheel. She was turned in Kathryn’s direction as she made some laughing comment to the man seated beside her. The man—
It was Don!
Kathryn could not mistake the small, compact body, the dark hair sleekly waved, the small ears set so neatly against the head. She had been seeing that face in her romantic visions for months. Involuntarily Kathryn beat her fist against the window of the bus in a gesture part greeting, part challenge.
“Don!” she called, and rapped sharply on the windowpane to get his attention. “Don! It’s me, Kathryn!”
The girl driving the car glanced up, caught perhaps by the flash of movement of Kathryn’s hand. Her eyes, big and dark, rested for a moment on Kathryn’s face, then returned to the street. The red light had changed to green. As Kathryn watched, the girl made some remark and gestured toward the bus. Don flashed one quick glance over his shoulder, turned back, and shrugged. The red car shot away. The bus lumbered after it like a wallowing sea cow.
Kathryn fell back against the seat. At her shoulder, a fat woman breathing chili and garlic made a comment. “Somebody you knew? Prob’ly couldn’t hear you, what with all the traffic.”
Unable to find words to answer, Kathryn got up and pushed blindly past the well-intentioned woman. She had to get out now. She felt that everyone in the bus was speculating on her behavior, perhaps laughing at her. She reached the front entrance and waited for the bus to stop at the next light. The driver didn’t open the door.
“Out!” Kathryn said sharply.
The driver grunted and swung the door open. Kathryn stumbled to the curb and began to walk along the street. Boisterous gusts of wind whipped at her, battered and jostled her, caught the tears that were flowing down her cheeks. Don’s client, the person who had been even more important than a date made with Kathryn, was a beautiful girl—young, poised, obviously wealthy. She has everything, Kathryn thought miserably, while I had only—Don