Dorothy Eden Read Free Page A

the job. You’re reliable, and I thought the poor kid would like someone young and gay.”
    “How nice you are!” Kate said sincerely.
    Miss Squires, middle-aged and plain, and obviously unused to compliments, flushed.
    “I said nothing but the truth. But I hope it will be all right. This trip,” she added.
    “Why shouldn’t it be? Oh, you mean Francesca might be unmanageable?”
    “That, and her father. We don’t know about him, you see.”
    “But if he’s promised to let the child go.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “And I’m going to see the mother this afternoon.”
    “Oh, well, then—”
    As Miss Squires hesitated, Kate laughed. “I do believe you’re one of those old-fashioned people who don’t trust foreigners!”
    Miss Squires flushed again and said gruffly, “Not always without reason. Well, take care of yourself. Come down to the cottage for a weekend when you get back.”
    Rosita lay on a couch in a high-ceilinged, luxurious room in a house in Egerton Gardens. She was small and dark-haired, with a pointed, sallow face, and eyes that made Kate think fleetingly of Raphael’s “Portrait of a Woman.” It was not so much that they were full of secrets, as that they would like to seem so. No doubt this pose was quite successful with men.
    She did not look particularly ill, Kate thought. Her languid hand-shake seemed to be a pose, too.
    It was true that she was merely spoilt, probably disliking the thought of the long journey to Rome, or not wanting to risk another encounter with her ex-husband.
    There seemed little doubt that he would not be the only man in her life.
    Kate looked around the room, noting the couch with its pale green brocade covering, the curtains of rich crimson Italian damask, the gilt-framed mirrors, the cushions and small tables. Was this a good environment for a child of seven—a tense, unhappy and probably maladjusted child? With a hypochondriacal mother lying on a couch extending a languid hand to callers?
    She spoke in English that had only the slightest accent.
    “Miss Tempest, it is so good of you to come to see me. Mrs. Dix told me how thorough you are. That you want to find out about Francesca before the journey.”
    “It’s a long journey,” Kate said.
    “You are so right. That’s why I can’t possibly go myself, much as I would like to. But I really can’t stand it. All this upset has made me ill. Antonio behaving like this—”
    Her face puckered as if she were going to cry. She hastily controlled herself. If she were not ill, she was extremely nervous, Kate thought, and wondered why. Although the reason seemed obvious enough. A kidnapped daughter, and all the entailed fuss.
    “You’ll find Francesca a very good child, Miss Tempest. Even a little—how do you say it—solemn? She won’t give you any trouble. She doesn’t speak much English, but enough to get by. She’s well-grown for her age. Oh, and don’t forget her doll. She must always have her doll or there are fireworks at bedtime. Miss Tempest, you will take good care of her, won’t you?”
    “Of course I will.”
    “Mrs. Dix said you could be trusted. I wish I could go myself. I might have flown, but Francesca’s crazy, but crazy, about trains and boats, the Channel ferry—ugh!—and the Eiffel Tower.”
    “The Eiffel Tower?”
    “Yes, she adores going up it. To the very top. I hope you have a head for heights. I haven’t.”
    Rosita shuddered, and Kate suddenly wanted to laugh. This was going to be a light-hearted odyssey after all, with a child who adored continental trains, and Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Now she had become a person, and a person of definite character. Suddenly Kate was looking forward to meeting her.
    “Why are you smiling?” Rosita asked suspiciously.
    “I like the Eiffel Tower, too.”
    “Good heavens! How very extraordinary! Then the two of you should get on very well.”
    “Indeed we will,” Kate said cheerfully.
    She got up to go. The limp hand came