watched the girl, studying her reactions. She stood very straight and still, showing no emotion, and he wondered if she was as cold as she appeared. Surely the involvement in burying her own mother must have left some pain in her heart? He shrugged. British people were unlike his own countrymen. They were so reserved, so afraid to show their feelings. Didn’t they realize that that was what life was all about? That being involved, sharing pain and ecstasy, was part of the joy of living! Back home in Greece they would not have been afraid to cry, to shout their grief aloud. Just as in times of gaiety they were not afraid to show their excitement and pleasure. But his was a warm land with warm people, not cold and bare like this England of today.
He glanced round. His car was parked by the gate and he wondered whether the rest of this group had provided themselves with transport. He didn’t want to go to the girl’s home. Matt had said: speak to Joanne; that could be done almost anywhere. At his hotel, for example, which seemed much more suitable than someone’s living-room.
The service was soon over. The priest turned and put a reassuring hand on the girl’s arm, and then led the way back through the rows of headstones to the path. The girl followed him, her head bent, and Dimitri moved forward, allowing the priest to pass him before putting a restraining hand out and catching the girl’s arm.
‘Miss Nicolas?’ His voice sounded alien, even to himself, with its rather deep accent.
The girl halted and turned her face up to him, staring at him with wide curious eyes. Dimitri felt a muscle jerk in his cheek; she was so vastly different from anything he had imagined. She was not like Matt at all, except perhaps that she had his height and slenderness of build. Her face was oval, her skin creamy soft and flawless, while the widely spaced eyes were an amazing shade of violet and fringed with black lashes. Her mouth was wide also, but there was real beauty in her features, and her hair, as the concealing scarf slipped back to her shoulders, was that peculiar shade of ash-blonde which can appear white in some lights. It was long and straight, and fell against her cheeks now as she removed the scarf altogether.
‘Yes?’ she said now, questioningly, and her voice was slightly husky, but whether from emotion or not he couldn’t be certain.
Dimitri recovered himself and gave a slight bow of his head. He was conscious that the other members of the group had gathered about them, most closely the young man who had placed a possessive hand on her other arm and seemed poised to make some cutting retort to anything Dimitri might say. He was young, with overly long brown hair and the kind of arrogant youthfulness Dimitri had seen in the faces of students involved in demonstrations against authority. Obviously he considered Dimitri’s intervention unwelcome to say the least. But Dimitri was not perturbed. He was perfectly capable of dealing with any antagonism that might arise.
Now he looked again at Joanne Nicolas. ‘My name is Dimitri Kastro,’ he introduced himself politely. ‘I am the second cousin of your father, Matthieu Nicolas, and it is on his behalf that I am here.’ He paused, glancing rather impatiently at the attentive faces of the group around them. ‘Is there somewhere we might talk? My hotel, perhaps?’
Joanne Nicolas studied him with her composed violet eyes. ‘Dimitri Kastro?’ she murmured, shrugging her shoulders. ‘That means nothing to me.’
Dimitri controlled his impatience. ‘Why should it?’ he inquired bleakly. ‘However, you did write to your father, did you not, Miss Nicolas?’
‘To tell him of my mother’s death, yes, I did,’ she nodded.
‘Joanne?’ It was the young man who spoke now. ‘What is all this about?’
The girl shook her head, obviously not wishing to discuss her affairs here. ‘I wrote – to my father,’ she explained reluctantly. ‘I thought he had a right to know that – that Mother was dead!’ There was just a trace of emotion in her tones and Dimitri felt slightly relieved. She was not as indifferent as she would have them believe.
The young man frowned. ‘Heavens, why?’ he exclaimed, echoing Dimitri’s own sentiments. ‘He never cared about you, did he? Why should you consider him now?’
A middle-aged woman intervened. ‘Joanne,’ she said reproachfully, ‘you didn’t tell me you had written to your father.’
Joanne Nicolas looked impatiently at Dimitri. ‘I didn’t think it was necessary, Aunt Emma,’ she replied.
Dimitri glanced at the other members of the group. Then he looked again at the girl. ‘Miss Nicolas,’ he said, rather shortly, ‘I realize you are involved with your family at this time, but it is important that I should speak with you.’
She lifted her slim shoulders. She was wearing a coat of dark blue woollen cloth, its hem and collar edged with a silvery fur, and as she moved her head the lightness of her hair was startling against the darkness. At another time and in another place Dimitri would have found her disturbingly attractive, but as it was he felt a rising sense of frustration at having such difficulty in adhering to Matt’s wishes.
‘Perhaps you could come and see me tomorrow Mr. Kastro.’ She was speaking again.
Dimitri felt the muscle jerking in his cheek. ‘That would not be at all convenient, Miss Nicolas.’
The young man gave him an appraising stare. ‘Can’t you see that Miss Nicolas is upset?’ he inquired angrily. ‘She doesn’t want to be bothered with any – foreigners tonight!’
Dimitri stiffened. ‘I think we should allow Miss Nicolas to decide, don’t you?’
‘Oh, Jimmy, please!’ Joanne sighed. ‘Can’t you see I’ll have to speak to Mr. Kastro if he insists, after he’s come so far …’ She compressed her lips and looked at the others. ‘Aunt Emma, Uncle Harry, Alan, Mrs. Thwaites! Would you all mind? I mean – I don’t suppose this will take long, and there’s nothing more to do …’ She bit her lip suddenly.
The woman she had called Mrs. Thwaites came forward to press her arm understandingly. ‘Of course we don’t mind, Joanne,’ she said. ‘It’s only right that you should speak to this gentleman. Just because your parents were divorced doesn’t make you any the less your father’s daughter …’
Joanne frowned. ‘Oh, yes, Mrs. Thwaites, it does. My father and I are strangers to one another. This is a purely formal affair.’ She looked again at Dimitri. ‘Isn’t it, Mr. Kastro?’
Dimitri shrugged. ‘If you are ready … I have a car …’
The girl’s aunt snorted. ‘How do we know he’s who he says he is?’ she asked, tossing her head.
Dimitri put his hand into his jacket pocket and produced the letter Joanne had written to her father. He did it silently and Joanne studied it equally silently. ‘Shall we go then?’ she asked stiffly. The young man, Jimmy, caught her arm, but she merely shook her head, saying: ‘Go back to the house with the others, Jimmy. I won’t be long, but I’d rather be alone. Whatever Mr. Kastro has to say, it can’t take long.’
Jimmy chewed his lip. ‘All right, Jo,’ he agreed, but he was obviously put out by her attitude. ‘Do you want me to meet you in town?’
Joanne refused politely, and then said: ‘Where are you staying, Mr. Kastro?’ as though she wanted her family to know where she might be found.
‘The Bell,’ returned Dimitri uncommunicatively, and she nodded, turning to say goodbye to the others.
Dimitri
