One Who Kisses Read online

  But it was not to be. The querulous voice reached her above the rumble of the coach and the hum of talk from the other passengers. 'Ninette should never have married him. I told her so, I tried to stop her, but she was only eighteen and she thought this English artist was a kind of prince. Prince—pah!' She drew her thin lips together contemptuously. 'Oh, Maurice was a nice boy, but he was under the thumb of that brother of his—the one you saw. He tried to stop the marriage, he said Maurice was too young. And when he failed he cut Maurice's allowance. He was in charge of the money, that one, and he was mean.' She bit out another offensive word. 'Ma pauvre petite Ninette—to have her marriage ruined by that terrible man!'

  Once started the woman seemed unable to stop. The words poured out so quickly that Polly could only get a hazy impression of the story. But by now, in spite of herself, she was interested—mostly because of the little boy Jules, who now sat quietly in the seat in front, staring out through the windscreen as the coach buzzed steadily along the wide, busy road. Poor little boy, she thought, his father killed in a car accident when the child was only three. His mother, the young Ninette, delicate and forced to go out to work to support him. The story became like a Victorian melodrama, as the wicked uncle appeared now and again, trying to take the boy from his mother, and his grandmother who, it appeared, had practically brought him up, while his mother went out to work to earn their daily bread.

  'And now my poor girl is no longer able to support us this man wishes to stop the allowance altogether and take Jules away. Quel inhumanité!' Angry tears squeezed themselves from her beady eyes and ran down her cheeks, the mascara ploughing a dark streak through the heavy pinkish make-up.

  Polly began to feel sorry for her. She wasn't exactly an engaging personality, but it seemed she had had a very poor deal. Her son-in-law dead, her daughter harassed by this terrible, inhuman man who was forcing her to give up her child.

  The story continued as the coach ate up the miles towards its destination. It was just as well, Polly thought, that the passing countryside wasn't particularly interesting. Huge fields, so much vaster than English fields, with here and there a cluster of farm buildings, the tall houses looking so strange out in the countryside.

  Suddenly Jules could contain himself no longer. 'Look—look there!' he squealed. 'There it is, over there,' pointing through the window into the distance, where the two mighty spires of Chartres Cathedral soared up into the blue sky.

  'We're almost there, isn't that exciting?' Polly smiled at him as he twisted round in his seat.

  His grandmother sniffed and took a handkerchief from her voluminous handbag, dabbing her eyes and sighing a good deal. The passengers began to gather their satchels and jackets together and get out their cameras. The coach passed into the small town and pulled up in the shadow of the cathedral itself and the tourists began to pile out. Polly, hemmed in on the inside seat, waited for the woman in the red dress to leave. She would, she planned, hang back until she could see her way to shake off her garrulous neighbour, and hope that young Jules would manage to see what he wanted of the great building that towered majestically above them.

  At last the woman moved, took the boy's hand and they climbed down from the coach. Polly lingered until all the other passengers had left and then joined on at the end.

  But as she stepped down she felt a small, moist hand creep into hers and there was Jules, looking up pleadingly at her.

  His grandmother was scolding: 'Non, non, Jules, you cannot go trailing round the cathedral. It is too much for my legs, walking, walking. I cannot tolerate it. We shall go to that cafe across the road and you may have limonade and I shall rest myself. It is too hot to walk.' She took out a handkerchief and dabbed her forehead.

  'Oh, Grand'maman, please—' Jules's lower lip trembled and the hand that held Polly's gripped harder. 'I want to see inside. Oh, please let me go!'

  'Non, I told you—now stop whining.' She glanced at Polly. 'He is so naughty, he tires me out.'

  Polly swallowed the reply she would like to have made. 'I am going into the cathedral myself, madame. Would you allow Jules to come with me?'

  Madame jumped at it. The prospect of an undisturbed sit-down with coffee and cakes was too tempting to resist. She could even afford Jules a pat on the head. 'Go along then, Jules, and mind you behave yourself and say thank you to Mademoiselle.' To Polly she said, 'It is kind of you. I shall be in the cafe over there if you will bring Jules back to me.' She crossed the road, busy with cars and coaches, without any sign of the fatigue she was complaining of, and disappeared into the cafe.

  Polly and Jules stood hand in hand gazing up at the overwhelming west front of the cathedral. History was Polly's subject and she had read all about the great Gothic cathedrals of France, but the actuality was beyond belief. The sheer height and magnificence of the great building; the sculptured saints, standing elongated in their rows in every portal, staring out with their blind stone eyes; the incredible complexity of the carving and tracery that covered every inch of the portals—it was awe-inspiring, and Polly, who had meant to tell Jules something of what she had learned, found herself at a loss for words.

  Oddly enough, Jules didn't ask any questions. He, too, seemed struck dumb by the magnificence of the great building that soared up and up above their heads into the blue sky.

  Then he shook her hand gently. 'Mademoiselle!'

  'Yes?' She leaned down to him.

  'They built the spires so that they could reach up to heaven, didn't they?'

  'Yes, Jules, I believe they did.'

  A wide grin broke over his thin face, making him look more like a normal little boy. 'I told Grand'maman that,' he said triumphantly, 'but she said I wasn't to make up silly stories.'

  Polly fumed inwardly. She thought it insufferable to put a child down like that. She said, 'Would you like to go inside now, Jules?'

  They walked up the steps and through the opening in the massive central doorway.

  After the brightness of the sunlight outside, entering the interior was like walking into a black cavern. Polly drew in a breath, almost with shock, and she felt Jules's hand grip her own more tightly. The gloom and the chill and the echo of footsteps through the vast building was eerie.

  'It's dark,' Jules whispered, shivering. 'Why don't they put the lights on?'

  'I expect they will soon,' Polly reassured him. 'But it's easier to see the colours of the stained glass windows when the sun is shining through from the outside. Shall we walk round a bit?'

  Polly could have spent hours exploring the inside of the cathedral, where each window illustrated in detail some Bible story, or some event or social scene of the period. It was gloomy, certainly, but the light pouring in through the glass threw rich vibrant patterns of blue and crimson and purple and gold on to the massive walls and pillars.

  But Jules hadn't got over his fear of the dark. 'Shall we go outside again, mademoiselle?' He moved closer to Polly. 'And see the flying but-tresses?'

  'Yes, let's,' Polly agreed amiably. She could come inside again when she had delivered Jules to his grandmother.

  Back in the sunshine Jules cheered up and as they wandered slowly round the outer walls of the cathedral he pointed out various aspects of the architecture. It was amusing and rather touching to hear such a small boy talking so learnedly about octagonal towers, and facets, and gables. In some ways he seemed much older than the six years and a half that Madame had mentioned to Polly; in other ways he was a baby still, shrinking from the unknown. She got the impression of a solitary child, brought up among books rather than people.

  At last she said, 'I think we ought to be going back now, Jules. Your grandmother will be wondering where we are.'

  His mouth drooped. 'Oh, must we? I like being with you, mademoiselle,' he added shyly.

  'And I like being with you, Jules,' Polly smiled. 'But I think we should go.'

  He followed her obediently back to the west side, where they had parted from Madame. The traffic
had thickened and cars tangled and hooted, trying to find parking places. 'Look, there she is, said Polly, and waved as she spotted the familiar red dress with its decoration of roses. Madame was standing outside the cafe on the opposite side of the street, looking around with nervous, jerky movements of her head.

  She's worried about Jules, Polly thought; wondering where he's got to and if she was right to trust him with me. His mother had probably left him in her charge while she went out to work, and Madame must feel responsible for his safety.

  Polly felt a twinge of sympathy again for the woman. She must have had an anxious time, and her daughter too, with that awful man hounding them both. What did he think he could gain? He must surely know that he wouldn't be allowed to take the boy away from his mother?

  'Come along, Jules, your grandmother is over the road, waiting for us.' She held Jules's hand tightly, looking carefully at the traffic before venturing into the road.

  Then it happened. She heard the scream of brakes, a dull thud, another and another as cars rammed into each other from the back. Then pandemonium broke out as people began to run into the street. Some premonition made Polly follow, still clutching Jules. She couldn't see Madame through the mass of people. She would be there among the crowd somewhere—she must be. But Polly had to be sure. She elbowed her way to the front, heard an American voice call out loudly, 'I'm a doctor. Someone get the police—an ambulance—quickly!'

  A man pushed his way out of the crowd and the doctor went down on his knees beside a still figure that lay crumpled in the road, one leg stuck out at a shockingly crooked angle. There was blood on the road, the same colour as the rose-flowered red dress. The frizzy dark hair was hanging in dishevelled strands across the pallid face, where a long gash from temple to chin was starting to ooze horribly.

  For a moment Polly felt desperately sick. Then Jules tugged at her arm. He was half-smothered in the crowd, he could see nothing of what lay there in the road. 'What's the matter, mademoiselle? Is somebody hurt?'

  Polly drew in a deep breath. It was no good trying to deceive him, he would have to know soon. 'Jules, I'm afraid your grandmother has been injured,' she said, leaning down to him, pulling his small body against her. 'Don't be frightened, I'll look after you. There's a doctor here with her and they are sending for an ambulance to take her to hospital.'

  Jules didn't reply directly. He stared up at her and his dark eyes met hers with a curiously unchildlike expression. 'You will stay with me, won't you, mademoiselle? Promise!'

  'I promise,' said Polly gravely.

  The boy nodded as if satisfied, and said no more.

  After that everything was confusion. Police all around, shouting commands, clearing the crowd back, asking questions, writing in their notebooks. Polly was grateful for the help of the American doctor. His French was fluent—much better than hers—and when she had explained the situation to him he was able to explain it to the police. He drove Polly and Jules to the hospital himself, following the ambulance. 'This is my address in Paris,' he told Polly as he left them. 'I shall be there for a few days longer, and if there's any further way I can help, do contact me. I've explained things to the Sister-in-Charge, so I'm afraid all you can do now is to wait until they contact you and give you news of Madame's condition.' He smiled and shook Polly's hand and patted Jules's head. 'Good luck,' he said.

  After that it was just waiting and waiting, in a small room with a table in the middle and chairs arranged round the walls. After a time a nurse brought Polly a cup of coffee and a fruit drink for Jules. No, she couldn't give them any news yet.

  When Jules had finished his drink he laid his head against Polly and dropped off to sleep. She eased her arm round him, holding his thin little body tightly, feeling curiously protective. At the children's home where she had spent most of her life up to now, she could always be relied on to look after the little ones. She loved children—that was why she had wanted to teach.

  She dropped a kiss on Jules's dark hair. He was a serious, unusual little boy, and for some reason he seemed to trust her. She vowed to herself that she would see him all right, although just how she was going to do it she couldn't, at this moment, imagine.

  A long time later a doctor came in, an elderly man with grey hair and a kindly expression. Madame Brunet, he told Polly, was still in the operating theatre. It would be some considerable time before they could give any information about her condition. 'I would suggest,' he said, 'that you should take the boy home. I understand from my colleague who came with you that you are willing to look after him, n'est-ce pas? You understand that if you do not wish to do so the police will take care of him.'

  'Oh no,' Polly said quickly. 'He is used to me, I wouldn't like to leave him with strangers.'

  The doctor nodded under standingly. 'Bon. Bon. It is good of you, mademoiselle. We have the address here, it was found in Madame's handbag.' He handed Polly a slip of paper. 'Also the key of the apartment. You can find your way back to Paris, yes? Your best way is to go by train, there is a good service. Do you think you can manage?'

  'Oh yes, I'm sure I can,' Polly said eagerly. 'I hope Jules's mother will be at home when we get there. She won't know what has happened.'

  'I hope so too,' the doctor told her. 'We tried to contact Madame's address by telephone, but with no success.' He looked down at the small boy, sleeping trustingly in Polly's arms and smiled. 'Get him home to bed as soon as you can, mademoiselle,' he said.

  'I'll do that.' Polly stood up immediately, relieved to have something to do at last, and gave Jules a little shake. 'Wake up, Jules, we're going home,' she told him.

  It was nearly dark when the taxi put them down before an apartment block in a district of Paris that Polly didn't know at all. She paid the driver and stood looking up at the large, modern building. It had a luxury look from the outside and didn't seem to fit in with Madame's story of near-poverty imposed upon the family by Jules's close-fisted uncle.

  'This is your home, Jules?' She looked down at the boy beside her.

  'Oui,' he said listlessly.

  'And your mother will be home by now?'

  There was no reply, and Polly leaned down to look into his face by the light of the lamp over the entrance doorway. 'Jules—will your mother be home, do you think?'

  He shook his head. 'Maman has gone away,' he said stonily.

  This was a facer. Polly felt like saying, 'Why didn't you tell me before?' but of course that would have been absurd. Jules was a strange little boy and she had an idea that he was more shocked by what had happened than he had shown. 'Come along then, let's go inside. Will you show me the way?'

  A lift took them up to the third floor and Jules led Polly to a door along a passage on the left. She put in the key she had been given and pushed the door open.

  It led straight into a long living room. The first surprise was that all the lights were switched on. The second surprise was the tall man who raised himself quickly from a chair on the far side of the room when they entered.

  Polly felt her inside cramp with something like fear. This was Jules's uncle. The man who had quarrelled with Madame Brunet outside the coach this morning (it seemed like days ago!) The sinister figure who had ruined his brother's marriage and now wanted to kidnap his nephew and take him back to England. In a flash the whole story that Madame had so dramatically told on the way to Chartres ran before Polly's eyes like a cinema film.

  And the man advancing on her across the room was the villain of the story.

  He looked it too, she thought, and her mouth went dry. He was huge, well over six feet and broad with it, and so dark and forbidding that she began to shiver. The near-black eyes glittered under hooded lids and the long, firm mouth was drawn down into an expression of angry frustration.

  Polly felt like making a dash for it, but now that she had gone this far she couldn't just walk out and leave Jules to the mercy of this man. Anyway, what was he doing here? This was Madame Brunet's apartment and she had Madame Brunet
's key. He must have broken in.

  Polly had once heard that attack is the better part of defence, and being brought up in a children's home had taught her to stand up for herself. She said as coldly as she could, speaking in English because she knew from Madame Brunet that he was English, 'This is Madame Brunet's apartment. May I ask what you're doing here?'

  He ignored her words completely as he came nearer. She was icy cold now and her heart was thumping so violently she thought she would pass out, but somehow she managed to stand her ground. Then he was almost on top of her, furious dark eyes boring down into her soft blue ones.

  He was so close that when he spoke the deep, threatening voice vibrated through her head. 'Who the hell are you?' He threw the words at her. 'And what do you think you're doing with my nephew?'

  CHAPTER TWO

  Polly retreated backwards a couple of steps and felt Jules draw closer against her. She fought down a horrid sense of alarm. What could he do to her with Jules there?

  The man put a hand out, and she flinched, but he was addressing the boy and his voice was a trifle softer as he said, 'Hullo, Jules. Don't you remember me? I'm your Uncle Piran.'

  Jules only response was to draw further back behind Polly, from where he peered out at this intimidating stranger, like a frightened two-year-old.

  The man shrugged and turned to Polly again. 'Well, what have you to say?' he rapped out.

  She looked straight into the dark, glittering eyes, swallowed, and said stiffly, 'Madame Brunet has been involved in a road accident in Chartres. She's been taken to hospital and I understand she's undergoing an operation. At the hospital's suggestion I offered to bring Jules home. I naturally expected to find his mother here?' Her voice rose questioningly.

  'His mother is—' he paused, glancing down at the boy '—not here. Nor will be, I imagine,' he added dryly.

  His eyes moved over Polly, taking her in from head to foot, taking in the long, slender legs in their tight jeans; the thin white blouse with the frills that fell softly over her rounded young breasts; the wheat-fair hair that curved round her ears and fell to her shoulders. Something that felt like fear stirred uncomfortably in Polly's stomach as she became aware of the sheer masculine strength of the man. He had a light jacket over the checked shirt now, but it did nothing to disguise the whipcord muscles beneath. As his gaze travelled over her she felt the blood rising hotly into her cheeks.