Wings on My Heart E-Book

Barbara Cartland

• Herausgeber: Barbara Cartland Ebooks Ltd
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Eternal Collection
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 422

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Handsome, wealthy and some might say spoilt, Hugo, Lord Roxburton, the ‘Don Juan of St. James’s Street’ has all London’s beauties falling at his feet. But, one day when skiing in the mountains above St. Moritz, one of those feet lets him down. In agony from an injured ankle, he’s at the mercy of the icy elements – until a lovely Swiss girl called Utta comes to his rescue. And instantly his whole life and outlook are transformed.
Discovering that this innocent young beauty is a gifted skater competing for the Swiss Championship, he’s suddenly revolted by the attentions of high society fraud Carole Munton. When he finds out that Utta is none other than his deceased, older brother Andrew’s long-lost daughter, Hugo is determined to take her to Rox, his English family estate, to meet his sister Pamela and Grandmother Lady Loth.
Utta arrives in London bewitched and bewildered by its glamour. How is she to know Carole is lying when she claims to be pregnant with Hugo’s child? How is she to know the evil in her heart or that of the predatory ‘talent scout’ who tries to seduce her? Overwhelmed by the hopelessness of her love, Utta flees to the closest thing to home she can find, working at a tawdry London ice rink where the man who gave wings to her heart can never find her…

Leseprobe

1

“Damn and blast!”

The man put out his hand to where the ski, attached to his left foot, sprawled awkwardly in the snow.

“Damn!” he swore beneath his breath, knowing only too well that this meant that his holiday would be ruined.

It was always the same leg that let him down. He had broken it as a boy, skiing at Mürren one winter when there was not enough snow, and ever since he had had to take care of it.

He cursed again as with fingers that fumbled a little, he started to undo the straps.

A moment before he had felt as if he were winged, travelling swiftly through the air, almost godlike, as he sped down the mountainside. Now, with stabs of pain coming from his ankle, he felt very human and very impotent.

He freed his foot from the ski and started to unlace the heavy leather boot. His ankle was hurting almost abominably. Then, as he moved in an effort to get into a more comfortable position, he looked across the beautiful valley to the peaks beyond, and his face was suddenly grave.

It was getting late in the afternoon. There was that soft, luminous glow in the sky which preluded the swift coming of darkness. It would be damnable indeed to have to spend the night on the mountainside. Already, as he thought of it, he could feel the icy winds rising – winds blowing off the glaciers that could bite into a man’s bones and paralyse him.

St. Moritz lay below. How far in actual mileage he was not certain. It was a long time since he had undertaken this particular run. To reach the warmth and brilliance of the hotels would take perhaps twenty minutes, if one had sound legs and skis upon one’s feet. With a leg that hurt, that was to all intents useless, it might take a century to reach shelter.

Yet it was no use waiting here. Something had to be done and quickly. He tried to struggle to his feet using the loose ski as a crutch, and then, as he struggled, he heard a voice behind him.

“You have hurt yourself?”

It was the most welcome sound he had ever heard. He turned his head swiftly and saw that a girl was standing a little behind him. She was very small and, for a moment, he thought she was little more than a child. She was wearing black skiing trousers and a red windjammer with a hood, which framed a tiny, piquant face with a clear, transparently white skin and eyes that seemed surprisingly large and dark in contrast to the fair curls that played around her forehead.

“Thank goodness you have come!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid I need help. My ankle is badly sprained if it isn’t broken. I have had trouble with it before.”

“I am sorry,” she said. “How did it happen?”

“I suppose I took the turn too sharply,” he answered grudgingly. “It is a long time since I have been on this particular run.”

“It proves disastrous for many people,” she answered.

“It would have been more disastrous for me if you hadn’t come along,” he said. “We had better not waste time talking if you are to send me help before it gets too dark.”

He looked up at the sky as he spoke. Her eyes followed his and she nodded gravely.

“It will be dark before anyone can come to you. There is a hut a little further on. If you can get there, it will not be so cold for you while you are waiting.”

“A hut!” he said, “that’s good news.”

“If you could put one hand on my shoulder,” she suggested, “and lean on me, I can help you there.”

“Do you think you really can?” he asked. I am no lightweight and you – you are. . .”

“Tres petite!” she said with a smile that had something mischievous in it.

He raised his eyebrows a bit.

“You are French?” he asked. “I thought you were English.”

“I am Swiss,” she answered firmly, “but hurry, Monsieur, we must start if we are to reach the hut before it is dark.”

She held out her hand to him as she spoke. As he took it, he found, surprisingly, that she was stronger than he thought. Small though she might be, there was something wiry about her and a strength that he would never have suspected from her small and frail appearance.

Slowly, with difficulty, they proceeded side by side down the mountain, until finally they reached a small log-built hut perched precariously on the side of the mountain. It contained nothing but some rough planks, but the man was happy to sink down on them.

It had been hard going, moving on only one leg with the other one hurting abominably, striving to keep his balance without resting too heavily on the frail shoulders of the girl who had assisted him.

She stood now in the doorway, silhouetted against the deepening sky, just behind her head the first evening star was twinkling.

Looking at her, the man had a sudden, absurd notion that she was not human, but a sprite such as the ignorant locals believed in, attributing all their difficulties or good fortune to the good will or ill-humour of the immortals of the mountains.

“You will be out of the wind here,” she said. I will be as quick as I can.”

“I am extremely grateful,” he replied.

“But I have done nothing yet,” she smiled. “I will send back men with a sleigh and they will get you down safely, you can be sure of that.”

She turned to go and as she did so the man cried out,

“One minute! You have not told me your name.”

She smiled at him again. There was some unmistakable fairy-like quality about her.

“My name is Utta,” she answered, and then she was gone.

Hugo Roxburton lit a cigarette and sat staring out into the gathering darkness. He began to calculate how long Utta would take to get down the mountainside and then send help. However optimistic he might be, he could not imagine there was any chance of being rescued in under two hours. He knew by that time he would be very cold and very bored. And Hugo Roxburton was not used to being bored.

Intelligence, wealth, and good organisation assured for him that everything he desired and wished for, should be obtained with the minimum amount of difficulty.

“You know, you are very spoiled, Hugo,” his sister Pamela had said to him only a week ago.

“Why not?” he enquired. “People who do not get what they want in life are usually fools or weaklings.”

“Sometimes you frighten me, you are so ruthless,” she sighed.

He shrugged and walked across the room to stand looking out of the window on to the formal rose garden. Frost lay heavy on the ancient sundial and on the yew hedges, which had been planted several centuries ago and had seen nearly a dozen owners of Rox come and go.

“You have always been so lucky, Hugo,” his sister went on. “When the fairies attended your christening, they must have given you good fortune as a gift, though I have a feeling they forgot gratitude.”

“How do you know I am not grateful?” Hugo asked.

“If you are, you keep singularly quiet about it,” Pamela replied. “I always remember your face when we heard that Andrew had been killed mountaineering. It meant that you were heir to Cousin John’s title, to Rox – the money, the estates, to everything – and yet you didn’t even look surprised. It was just as if you had always known that you would inherit.”

“You are talking nonsense.” Hugo said a little sharply, then he turned from the window to smile at his sister.

“My dear Pamela, I had no idea you were so imaginative. Is it married life that has taught you to make a drama out of so little, or does being the wife of an eminent Cabinet Minister need imagination to make it tolerable?”

Pamela had only sighed again and gone from the room, but now Hugo Roxburton found himself remembering her words, the expression on her face. Why had she chosen that moment to reproach him with ingratitude? And yet why should he be grateful to anyone in particular for what had been, it seemed to him now, an almost inevitable train of events?

The previous Lord Roxburton had been his father’s cousin. He was a clever, distinguished man, who had married late in life an extremely beautiful, very wealthy American. They produced one son, Andrew, who was ten years older than Hugo, with whom, therefore, he had very little in common.

Andrew had been wild, even as a little boy he was always in trouble, always in danger. Twice he was nearly drowned in the lakes, once in the summer when his canoe capsized, and another time in the winter when he would go on the ice long before it was strong enough to hold him.

He had always wanted to climb to the top of the tallest tree in the park or scramble on the slanting perilous roofs of the house, however treacherous the slates and gutters might be from frost or rain.

If he drove a car, it was at eighty miles an hour, on roads on which no one prudent would venture at more than fifty. He was wild, he was impetuous, and he had no sense of danger whatsoever. It was almost inevitable that Andrew should be killed one way or another.

What Pamela had been intuitive enough to guess was true, that Hugo was not surprised. Somehow he had always known that Rox would be his. Known it even in the days when his father, the second son of a second son, talked about the need for planning his future, the financial difficulties he would encounter in his life. It was as if he had always been certain that such precautions were unnecessary.

One by one the lives between him and the title disappeared. By old age, war, and accident – one after another they went, until Hugo found himself the seventh Lord Roxburton and a very rich man.

His cousin’s American wife had died before her husband. Her money had been left to him and when Hugo inherited, he found himself owning not only one of the finest houses in England, but also a fortune in American real estate, which had come to him unconditionally.

“Grateful! I am grateful for that,” he said to himself, knowing that while his contemporaries were bowed under crippling taxes, he had American dollars to spend and to spare.

Hugo’s cigarette was finished. He chucked the stub away. Taking out his cigarette case he saw that there were only three left. He must ration himself, he thought, wait half an hour at least between each smoke.

It was getting very dark, soon he would be able to see nothing. He slipped his cigarette case back into his pocket and felt for his matches. A full box, fortunately. He wondered if he dared light himself a fire but decided against it. It would be awkward if he burnt the hut to the ground and still more uncomfortable from his own point of view.

It was very cold. He had taken off his gloves for a moment while he searched for his cigarette case and now he put them on again. His fingers were numbed, even in that brief encounter with the air.

In an effort to keep warm he swung his arms across his body to his sides, as he had seen taxi drivers do, and remembered how his mother had told him that when she was a girl, cabbies had always performed the same action while they waited on the ranks with their tired horses. The brisk movement got his blood circulating, but it seemed to make his leg throb even more unbearably, and to forget it he lost himself again in his thoughts.

He thought of Rox, with its gracious grey pillars and winged front designed by Robert Adam. How lovely it was, with its terraces encircling it like a necklace, with its lakes, silver beneath the grey skies.

Yet remembering he recalled how irritating Pamela had been on the last morning before he left for Switzerland.

“I hope you will have a good time, Hugo,” she had said. “I hear that Carole is in your party. When are you going to make up your mind to marry her?”

He felt, for no particular reason, extremely irritated at the question.

“My dear Pamela,” he replied, a trifle pompously, “is there any particular reason why I should make up my mind to marry Carole, or anyone else for that matter?”

She laughed at him because he appeared to be affronted.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hugo!” she said. “You know as well as I do that Carole has every intention of marrying you. She will manage it by fair means or foul. She is as used to having her own way, as you are. Besides, it is all so suitable. Do you realise the last three Lord Roxburtons have married American heiresses? You would be true to the tradition, and Carole is very attractive.”

“So are a large number of other women,” Hugo prevaricated.

“My dear, it is time you married,” Pamela said softly. “You have sown a large harvest of wild oats and Rox needs a mistress as well as an heir.”

“Dammit! You women are all the same – not content unless you are matchmaking. I don’t think I want to get married and that’s all there is to it.”

“Oh well, there’s always Eddie!” Pamela retorted.

She meant to be irritating and she succeeded. She knew, better than most people, what her brother, and for that matter most of their relations, thought of their cousin Eddie, who was heir presumptive to the title until Hugo should marry and have a son.

He was a middle-aged, boring little man, fastidious and effeminate in his ways, who collected Ming china. He lived in a flat in London where everything was as precious and as spinsterish as he was himself, and he had lately published a slim, elaborately bound book on the history of the Roxburton family.

“Eddie was saying only the other day that he would love to inherit Rox, if for no other reason than that he would have room for his china,” Pamela said mischievously.

Hugo was about to reply angrily, then he met his sister’s eyes and they both began to laugh.

“All right, you win!” he said. “I will get married if only to spite Eddie.”

“I really think it would be a good thing, darling,” Pamela said. “Your reputation has really begun to stink a little, you know that, don’t you?”

“Who cares?” Hugo asked.

“I do, for one,” Pamela answered, “and Walter for another.”

“Walter!” Hugo made a little grimace. There was no love lost between him and his brother-in-law, as Pamela well knew.

“Walter is doing very well,” she said. “There is every chance that he may be Prime Minister one day, and it is embarrassing for him to listen to all the things his friends say about you.”

“If you want to know what I think, he’s jealous,” Hugo answered. “If Walter has never put a foot wrong in his life, it is because he has not had the gumption to do so.”

“Now, we are not going to discuss Walter,” Pamela said firmly, “we are talking about your getting married, and the sooner you do so the better for all of us – including Walter.”

Hugo had groaned at the time, he groaned again now. He supposed everyone, however they were born, were cursed by their relations, but he found both Eddie and Walter almost intolerable – the former with his feminine spitefulness, Walter with his narrow, dogmatic manner of laying down the law and not admitting any argument except his own.

He had planned to have a holiday away from both of them and from his friends. But Carole had come with him and he had found himself not alone and free, but one of a party. That was Carole’s doing, as Pamela had said, she always got her own way. She would be worried now, he thought suddenly, wondering why he had not returned to the hotel.

She would be waiting for him in the bar at Suvretta House wearing one of those ridiculously expensive dresses labelled ‘après ski’, that looked so simple yet were in reality, a complicated product of brains and daring.

He had a sudden vision of Carole as she had appeared last night in trousers of black wool, with a jumper of midnight blue velvet trimmed with white mink. She wore dozens of charm bracelets dangling from her thin wrists and her earrings were a cascade of tiny bells. She used a strange oriental scent that was somehow characteristic of her. It made him feel almost a little intoxicated after the sharp, bracing air outside. And when they danced together, he had felt her warmth and animal magnetism and he very nearly said the words which he knew she was waiting to hear.

“Hugo, I love you so much.”

Her cheek was very smooth against his as she whispered the words in his ear.

Yes, she loved him, he was sure of that – as sure as one could be of anything where Carole was concerned. She was so rich, so beautiful, there were so many men who desired her, and she had flittered from one love affair io another – even as he had done. It was that feeling of similitude about them and of talking the same language which had first drawn them together.

He had heard so much about Carole Munton before he met her that he had felt certain that he would dislike her on sight. Apparently she had felt the same about him.

“So you are the Don Juan of St. James’s Street,” she had drawled in her soft Southern American voice.

Instead of feeling annoyed he had found himself smiling.

“I am delighted to meet the Cleopatra of Broadway,” he replied, and she had laughed at that.

“I have heard of your many love affairs,” he told her a little aggressively.

“And I of yours,” she answered. “How else does one gain experience?”

The question had been unanswered, then somehow they had both felt that the answer was there. This was what they had been looking for – each other – she on one side of the Atlantic and he on the other. And yet Hugo had waited.

“Why?” he asked himself now. “Why?”

What was the reason? Heaven knows he had given up being idealistic and absurd years ago. Women were all the same, more or less. You loved them, or thought you did, for a short while, then they faded out of your life, or you walked out of theirs.

He thought back over the women he had loved and made love to and who had loved him. He was not ashamed of their number. As Carole had said, it was all experience. What was horrifying was to realise how little they had meant. For a few hours, days, weeks, his heart beat faster when he saw them, excitement rising to desire – a hunger of the lips – an aching need for the softness of their bodies – and then the inevitable feeling of disappointment.

Yes, he had to be honest with himself. How remorselessly, inexorably, he had been disappointed. Had he expected too much? And if so, what had he expected? What could he have had more than he had actually received?

Hugo felt himself sigh. There were moments when he had thought he had found something wonderful beyond compare, but always the reaction had set in.

Women! women! He could hear himself reiterating blithely that there were too many of them in the world. But the next moment he would be intrigued by yet another. He would be chasing after some woman because the sweetness of a smile, the glint of an eye or the faint gesture of a hand had made him feel excited all over again.

Now he had come to the end of his philandering. Carole was the person he had been looking for and her wealth should add to the treasures of Rox, as her predecessors’ had done before her.

He could imagine Carole walking down the Long Gallery, standing at his side to receive their guests in the State Drawing Room. The Adam Dining Room, with its green walls, would frame her dark loveliness. Her long fingers would touch the yellowing keys of the spinet in the Music Room, and her little feet would dance on the polished floor of the great Ballroom, with its crystal chandeliers and Queen Anne mirrors.

Yes, Carole would make a beautiful chatelaine for Rox and they could re-open the house in London, which he had closed because it was too large for a bachelor.

“I love you, Hugo.”

He could hear her voice saying it. Yet even while his arms had tightened instinctively round her, he knew in some cold, critical part of his mind that she was making it too easy for him.

“Man must be the hunter!”

He tried to remember who had said those words, then remembered that he had found them inscribed in an old leather-bound volume in the library at Rox.

“Man must be the hunter!”

Carole was used to hunting her own prey. Hugo felt himself smile in the cold and darkness of the little hut. It was ridiculous to think of himself as being the prey of Carole, and yet there was enough truth in the idea to make him feel irritated and antagonistic at the very suggestion.

He took off his gloves, pulled out his cigarette case and then, as he felt in it, realised that his last cigarette had gone. He had smoked them almost unconsciously, his thoughts far away in England.

He was suddenly aware of being chilled through and through, then, as he felt himself shiver, he heard voices.

He shouted loudly,

“Hallo there, I am here.”

He spoke in English, and then, as he wondered if he should repeat the words in French or German, someone appeared in the doorway of the hut and the light of a lantern flashed into his eyes,

“You must be very cold,” a soft voice said. “Hans has brought some blankets – you must wrap yourself in them.”

“Why have you come back?” Hugo asked. “It is too far for you.”

“Hans and Ludwig might not have found you if I had not been there to guide them,” she answered. “They have brought their sleigh.”

She moved into the hut as she spoke and now at last, as his eyes got accustomed to the light, Hugo could see her face. She was smiling and her eyes seemed to dance like stars in the shadows.

“If we had been much longer, you would have been frozen to the ground,” she said. “Poor Monsieur! But now we shall soon be back at the hotel and the doctor will see to your poor leg.” She turned her head as she spoke and shouted to the men outside. “Be quick,” she said in German. “Lift the gentleman very carefully and wrap him in the blankets. Hurry, there is no time to be lost, he is very cold.”

The two men seemed galvanised into action by Utta’s voice. They came into the hut and almost before Hugo had a glimpse of them, big and rough in their dark windjammers and knitted caps, they lifted him gently in their arms and carried him to the sleigh outside.

Almost before he had time to get his breath to speak to Utta or ask a question, they were away. The sledge seemed to cut its way through the night air and the darkness, the men guiding it by instinct down the mountainside. Utta came behind, holding the lantern in her hand.

The journey took longer than Hugo had anticipated. It was rough going, more than once he had to bite back a cry of pain that rose to his lips. It was not only his ankle, but his whole body that was tortured by being bumped and shaken and rattled.

And then at last, when the journey had become almost intolerable and he was wondering how much longer he could stand it, he saw ahead of him the brilliantly lit windows of Suvretta House. He was back in civilisation.

The men drew the sleigh up to the door of the hotel. Hugo turned his head to thank Utta for rescuing him, but she was no longer with them – she had vanished, as if she had been in reality what he had first suspected, a sprite from the mountains!

2

Hugo lay in bed and watched his valet open the shutters and let in the morning sunshine. It was a very pale sunshine, for it was still very early in the morning and less than an hour ago the white peaks of the mountains, now radiant against the transparent sky, were shrouded in darkness.

Every morning of his life, Hugo was called at six-thirty. He had got used to rising early when he was in the Army, and he found now, as he grew older, that however many secretaries he kept or however many people there were to look after his interests, there was always a vast amount of correspondence, papers and documents which had to be dealt with day after day.

Those who considered him merely a rake, a man with too much money and far too much time on his hands, would have been astonished if they had seen how many details of his farm, estate and fortune Hugo dealt with himself – and usually while those who criticised him were still asleep.

Although he had gone to bed very late as he had been playing cards with his friends, he had been awake for some time before Smith came stealing into the room. His valet had an almost feline stealth about him, in fact he had a habit of turning up unexpectedly so that Pamela and many of Hugo’s friends swore that he listened at keyholes.

“You mark my words,” Hugo’s grandmother – a formidable old lady of nearly eighty – had said “that man of yours is up to no good. Nobody can tell me at my age that I am not a judge of character. If you ask me my opinion, he is either collecting evidence with which to blackmail you, or material to write his life story and sell it to a Sunday newspaper!”

Hugo had laughed.

“I was a Valet to a Nobleman?” he queried. “Or do you think The Secrets of Society would be more his line?”

His grandmother had not been amused.

“I am warning you, my boy,” she said solemnly. “Not that it’s not your own fault. The way you go on is an absolute encouragement to blackmailers and the like.”

Her words were scathing, but there was a twinkle in her eyes that Hugo did not miss.

“It must be in my blood, Grandmother,” he answered. “I wonder how you managed to get away with it all these years.”

She pretended to be outraged at his impertinence, but he knew that she delighted in being teased by him and that he was her favourite grandchild. Nevertheless, Hugo continued to employ Smith, to like and to trust him. He had been with him for over ten years, and whatever else he might be, Smith was a most efficient valet.

He turned from the window now and began tidying up the clothes which had been thrown carelessly on the chair.

“Come and help me up,” Hugo commanded.

“You had best have your breakfast in bed, My Lord,” Smith replied. “It’s chilly this morning.”

“What do you think I am – an invalid?” Hugo enquired. “I rested most of yesterday to please you and the doctor. Today my ankle is much better and I am going to do what I want.”

Smith looked disapproving, but he helped Hugo from the bed into his dressing gown and across the room to where a French window opened on to a small balcony. If the journey hurt Hugo’s ankle, he made no sign of it. When he was seated in the chair, Smith fetched a stool and lifted the bandaged foot gently on to it.

“Have you ordered breakfast?” Hugo enquired.

“Yes, My Lord. Eggs, cold ham, and coffee. It will be here at any moment.”

“Good. Now give me the letters that came last night.”

Smith had anticipated the request and had already fetched a huge pile of correspondence from the writing table in the corner of the room. He placed the letters by Hugo’s side and brought, at the same time, a tray containing pens and pencils and a large blotter on which he could write.

“Thank you, Smith. That will be all I want for the moment.”

Hugo put the pile of letters in his lap and for a moment he did not open them. The sun was warm on his face and he turned to look out of the window at the beauty of the view, the valley was white and gleaming, the sky palely translucent, the mountains peaking into the distance. It was as delicate as the first unfolding of a spring flower, and though he would not have confessed it even to himself, Hugo felt a sudden catch in his heart at the utter loveliness of it.

Then, as he looked at the trees that surrounded the hotel, heavy with snow and frosted until they glittered like an American Christmas card, he became aware of a movement immediately below him.

Casually he glanced down and saw that on the ice rink of the hotel someone was already skating. This was unusual. Hugo was used to seeing no one at this time of the morning. Later there would be attendants in uniform and crowds of smartly dressed guests from the hotel, skating or watching from the seats that were arranged round the rink. At twelve o’clock there would be a band and waiters in white coats would be in attendance with cocktails and sandwiches.

But at six-thirty in the morning Hugo, until now, had had an empty, white world to himself. He had liked the sense of solitude, the feeling there were no interruptions to his thoughts or his work, save the birds who would come and sit on his balcony and wait for him to throw them crumbs from his breakfast tray.

But this morning someone was awake as early as himself. Idly he watched. The skater moved across the ice, the balcony obscured his view, then he saw her again. She skated well, he thought, and then, as she came again within his sight, something made him rise from his chair.

“Here, wait a minute, My Lord. You can’t do that alone,” Smith said, and came hurrying across the room to his side.

Hugo let the man help him on to the balcony and there he stood looking down on to the rink below. There was nothing to obscure his view now and he saw at once that he had not been mistaken. He could not see the small, pointed face of the skater clearly, but now no red hood hid the pale gold curls, which seemed to dance with every movement of her body, and he was sure he had not been mistaken.

The opening of the door behind him and the clatter of plates and cutlery told him that the waiter was arriving with his breakfast.

“Come here,” he said to the man.

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“Do you know who that is skating down there?” he enquired.

“Oui, Monsieur. That is the pupil of Ernst Zippert.”

“The skating instructor?”

“Oui, Monsieur. That is Ernst there.”

The waiter pointed, and now Hugo saw there was an elderly man standing at the side of the rink watching every movement of the girl who was skating on the ice.

“And what is the girl’s name?”

The waiter put his hands to his forehead.

“I am afraid I have forgotten, Monsieur, or perhaps Ernst has kept it a secret. He thinks to win the International Championships with this pupil of his. Competitors are coming from all over the world to compete, but Ernst has been boasting in the bar that a Swiss girl will be the winner this year.”

“Indeed.”

Hugo watched the girl below for some moments in silence. She was good, there was no doubt of that. She was spinning now, a tiny spiral of blue and pale gold. Then she sped across the ice with a grace and swiftness that reminded Hugo of a bird in flight. He turned to the waiter.

“Go down to the rink,” he said, “convey my compliments to Ernst Zippert and say I should very much like to see him again. Tell him I should be honoured if he and his pupil would have breakfast with me when their practice is finished.”

“I will convey Monsieur’s message immediately,” the waiter said.

He went from the room. Hugo still stood in the window.

“She is good, My Lord,” Smith said suddenly. “If you ask me, it is worth a small bet on her being in the first three.”

“Good gracious, Smith, do they gamble on the championships?” Hugo exclaimed.

“Of course they do, My Lord. Now I come to think of it, I heard the odds last night. They were offering two to one against the German and English girls, but the Swede was odds on.”

“Well, here’s your chance to back an outsider,” Hugo said. “Now, suppose you give me some clothes. If Mademoiselle Switzerland is going to honour me with her company, I had better look respectable.”

There was no reason to hurry. Hugo was dressed and had waited nearly an hour in the sitting room opening out of his bedroom, before Smith ushered in his guests.

He had not been mistaken in guessing the identity of the girl who had been skating on the rink below – it was Utta. Her eyes were shining and her lips smiling as she held out her hand to greet him.

“You are better?” she said. “I am so glad.”

He had remembered that she was pretty, but now in the clear morning light she had a radiance that was almost indescribable. She had changed from her short, tightly fitting skating costume, into the skiing clothes she had worn the night she rescued him. But the hood was thrown back from her shining head and her cheeks were flushed from exercise.

Hugo thought, as he looked at her, that he had never seen anyone so alive or so vital. He turned to greet Ernst Zippert.

“It is a great pleasure to see you again, My Lord,” the grey-haired Swiss said, shaking his hand heartily. “I was hoping that you would come out this year. I did not know you had arrived.”

“I got here three days ago,” Hugo replied, “and I was, of course, coming to see you, but I had an accident. Didn’t your pupil tell you about it?”

Ernst Zippert looked down at Hugo’s bandaged foot and then glanced at Utta. Then he clasped his hands together.

“So it was My Lord you rescued?” he said.

“I did not know his name,” Utta replied.

“And you only told me that your name was Utta,” Hugo added. “Yesterday I wanted to write and thank you for your kindness to me, but when I enquired at the hotel if anybody knew someone called Utta, they told me there were dozens of girls in St. Moritz with the same name.”

“You do not know her then?” Ernest Zippert asked. “When I tell you who she is, My Lord, you will be very interested.”

“Well, who is she?” Hugo enquired with a smile.

“She is the grand-daughter of Nicolaus Kindschi.”

For a moment Hugo looked puzzled, then his expression cleared.

“Nicolaus Kindschi – the famous guide about whom the book was written?”

“The very same,” Ernst Zippert said proudly.

“Then I am very delighted to meet you,” Hugo said to Utta. “And I must congratulate you on having such a distinguished grandfather. The book about him was a bestseller in England for years.”

“You must not think me rude,” Utta replied, “if I tell you that my grandfather was not at all pleased about that book and does not like to speak of it. He said that he only did his duty. He did not wish to be made out a hero. When the author sent him a copy of the book, he burnt it.”

“Good Lord!” Hugo exclaimed. “But come and sit down. I have ordered breakfast – it should be here at any moment.”

Even as he spoke, the waiter who had carried the message to the rink came hurrying into the room with covered dishes, steaming coffee, golden pats of butter, and the scented flower honey that is indispensable on every St. Moritz breakfast table.

Utta sat down at the table with her back to the window. The sunlight played on her hair, making it seem almost as if a golden halo encircled her tiny head.

“Now, tell me what you are up to, Ernst,” Hugo said.

The Swiss instructor settled himself comfortably in his chair and the waiter whisked away the cover from a plate laden with sausages and eggs.

“You have been hearing things about me?” Ernst Zippert enquired.

“About you and a pupil who is, I am told, ‘a dark horse’ for the championships,” Hugo replied.

Ernst Zippert made a gesture with his hands.

“You see,” he said to Utta, “we can keep nothing to ourselves, nothing. That is why we practise so early, and yet, even so, someone is peeping from behind the shutters.”

“But I must practise,” Utta replied.

“Of course, of course,” Ernst Zippert agreed, “but if too many people see you, there will no longer be a secret.”

“You really think she is likely to win?” Hugo enquired.

Ernst Zippert looked at him.

“Do you remember Huldai?” he asked.

“Of course I do,” Hugo answered. “She was a world champion for two, or was it three years?”

“Three,” Ernst Zippert answered. “Well, Utta is better, you can believe me. I know what I am talking about – Utta is better than Huldi.”

Hugo raised his eyebrows and smiled across the table at Utta.

“You must be very good,” he said, but there was a little twist on his lips as if he was teasing her.

She looked at him without any trace of self-consciousness.

“Perhaps Ernst is wrong,” she said. “I cannot judge. I have never skated in any competitions, so how can I tell if I am good or bad?”

“You can only know what Ernst has told you,” Hugo said.

“Yes, that is true.” Her eyes seemed to light up as if sudden hope illuminated her from within. “I want to believe that Ernst is right,” she added simply. “We shall know in three days time for certain – when I try for the Swiss Championship.”

“That comes first?”

“Of course,” Ernst Zippert replied. “It is like this, My Lord. This year the Swiss Amateur Championship is being held here. Every important town in Switzerland will send a competitor and the choice of a girl to represent St. Moritz has been left to me. The winner of the championship will automatically be our country’s representative in the International Championships which begin two days later. Those are also taking place here, which makes it very easy for Utta and for me.”

“How long have you been working?”

“For a year,” Ernst answered. “Utta likes best to ski, but last year I saw her skating. As I watched her move across the ice I knew, I knew for certain she had the makings of a champion.”

“Your grandfather must be very pleased,” Hugo said.

To Hugo’s surprise, Utta put up her hands in horror.

“Hush, do not say such things,” she begged. “Grandfather does not know. He would be angry, very angry, with me, with Ernst, with Grandmama because she has let me do it. You understand, he does not like to be in the public eye. We just live quietly. He disapproves very much of . . . of . . . what is the word?” she asked of Ernst Zippert.

“Publicity,” he supplied.

“Yes, that’s right,” Utta said. “Publicity. Grandfather thinks it is wrong and degrading. A man should only be in the papers when he is born and when he dies.”

“What is he going to say if you win the championships?” Hugo asked.

“I do not know,” Utta answered. “I cannot bear to think of it, but Ernst says it will be all right – if I win. Personally, I think grandfather will be very angry indeed.”

“It will be too late then for him to interfere,” Ernst said, reaching out his hand towards the coffee pot.

Utta sighed.

“I worry about it very much,” she said. “Sometimes I think I was wrong to agree to it being kept a secret. If we had asked Grandfather to begin with, he might have said yes.”

“Much more likely to have said no!” Ernst replied.

“It all sounds very Victorian to me,” Hugo said, his eyes on Utta, watching the way the expressions would come and go across her face.

Everything about her was exquisite, he thought. Not only her looks, but the delicacy of her hands, the way her head was set on her shoulders, the neatness of her ankles, the way she moved so that every action was as rhythmic and graceful as a poem. No wonder Ernst Zippert wanted to make her a champion. No wonder he was afraid that someone might interfere and prevent him from training his discovery.

Hugo bent forward.

“And do you always, in other things as well, do exactly what your grandfather wishes?” he asked. “Is your training with Ernst the only time you have broken bounds, or do you sometimes get away and have a little fun?”

He was teasing again, but Utta answered him quite seriously.

“Ernst has made me very naughty,” she replied. “Usually I am good, very good. I love my grandfather very much. I am very happy with him and my grandmama. Because I love them, I want to do what they want me to do.”

“How admirable!”

Again there was laughter behind Hugo’s words.

As if she guessed that he was mocking her, Utta looked up at him a little uncertainly. She was very young, he thought suddenly. Too young for him to treat as if she was a girl of his own class, living in his own world.

Yet somehow, he found himself doubting what he had heard and what Utta and Ernst wished him to think. She was too pretty for him to believe that she was as innocent as she appeared. Living in St. Moritz, the playground of all nations, she must have come into contact with dozens of men. She would have learned from them that she was both pretty and desirable if she had learned nothing else.

Utta had finished her breakfast. She had eaten very little, but now she held a steaming bowl of coffee in her hands and glanced at him over the rim of the cup. There was something in her eyes, which he saw were gentian blue, fringed with dark lashes, that made him feel almost ashamed of the thoughts he had about her. And then he told himself, he was merely being a gullible fool. Women were women, wherever one might find them, they would lie and pretend anything to achieve their own ends, to create an impression which would make them more desirable and hard-to-get.

“I wish you every success,” Hugo said, but somehow his voice lacked warmth.

As if his tone woke Utta to her responsibilities, she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“It is half-past seven, Ernst!” she said. “I must go. If I am late getting home grandfather will ask many questions as to where I have been.”

“Where are you supposed to have been?” Hugo enquired.

“Skiing,” she answered. “I ski every morning for an hour before breakfast, but I am supposed to go to the north where there is seldom anyone about.”

“That sounds very unsociable,” Hugo smiled.

“It is best, I think,” Utta answered solemnly. “We have nothing in common with people who come to St. Moritz. They are visitors – we live here all the year round.”

“Well, as a visitor, I am very grateful to you,” Hugo said. “If you hadn’t come to my rescue the other night, I hate to think what might have happened to me.”

“You would have been frozen,” Utta answered.

“You would indeed!” Ernst Zippert disposed. “You know that run isn’t much used now, there has been too little snow for it to be really safe. Most people prefer to come down by Wegerhaitte.”

“I should have made enquiries before I started,” Hugo agreed. “It is entirely my own fault and I have no one to blame but myself that I have to hobble about like an old crock.”

“I am sorry about that,” Utta said.

“It won’t prevent me coming to see the championships though,” Hugo answered.

“I should like to say, ‘Don’t come’,” she said quickly. “I should like no one to be there. That is what frightens me – not the skating – but the crowds of people watching. Ernst says I shall forget all about them, but when I think of them I am afraid.”

It was almost as if she shivered at the thought, and Hugo had an absurd desire to put his arms round her and tell her not to worry. There was something small and pathetic about her in that moment, and once again he challenged himself for being a fool.

“I must go!” Utta said hurriedly. “Thank you very much for my good breakfast.”

She held out her hand and Hugo took it in his. Her fingers were soft and yet he sensed the strength of them, no one could be weak and fragile and a good skater. Once again he felt himself disbelieving this insistence on secrecy, the atmosphere she created of being obedient to the strictures of her grandparents.

“Listen,” he said. “We must drink to your success. Will you dine with me tonight?”

Utta shook her head.

“I am sorry,” she replied, “but that is quite impossible.”

“If not tonight, what about tomorrow?” he insisted.

“You do not understand,” she answered. “My grandfather does not know that I have been here skating with Ernst. He would be very angry if he knew I had come to Suvretta House. If I have not met you, how can I dine with you? Besides, I am never asked out to dinner.”

“Am I dreaming or is this the twentieth century?” Hugo enquired.

She laughed at that and he noticed, for the first time, there were two tiny dimples in her cheeks.

“You are English,” she said. “You do not understand.”

“Ernst is Swiss, but he can take a girl out to dinner,” Hugo answered. “What is all this about, Ernst?”

The instructor looked at Utta and shook his head.

“Nicolaus Kindschi is a strange man,” he said. I have known him for a great many years – in fact since I was a boy – but I cannot say that he is a friend of mine. Nicolaus has very few friends. He arranges his household as he sees fit and Utta is his grandchild.”

“And yet you have managed to climb over the garden wall, you old fox!” Hugo exclaimed. “Or maybe Utta has jumped over to you. Am I going to admit failure where you have succeeded?” He laughed and turned again to Utta. “Next time I invite you to dinner, Mademoiselle, I have a feeling that you will say yes.”

“I would love it!” she said quickly. “But it is impossible.”

She turned towards the door and Ernst Zippert followed her. She looked back for a moment and smiled at Hugo, the same smile she had given him two nights ago when she left him alone at the little hut on the edge of the mountain and went to fetch help. He had thought then that she was like a sprite – an immortal. Now he knew that she was unmistakably human but different, in some way that he could not describe, from anyone he had ever met before.

Utta and Ernst went from the room and almost immediately after they had gone the telephone on the table began to ring. Hugo knew instinctively who it was and for a moment he contemplated leaving it alone unanswered, and then, because its shrill, insistent tone annoyed him, he dragged himself within reach of the receiver.

“Hello!”

“Darling! I knew you would be awake. I was bored, I thought I would like to talk to you.”

“Good morning, Carole. I thought nothing roused you before ten o’clock.”

“It must be the air, or could it be excitement?”

“Excitement. About what?”

“Being here in Switzerland with you, of course.”

“There are two other people with us as well, or have you forgotten?”

“Darling! Do they count?”

“It depends what you mean by that.”

“Oh, Hugo!” Carole began to laugh.

“Why are you laughing?”

“At you, of course! You are always being so English, so cautious, so afraid of giving anything away.”

Hugo found himself unreasonably annoyed by the implication, even though he knew it was justified.

“It is too early for an abuse of nationalities,” he said stiffly.

“Darling, as though I would abuse you. What I really wanted to know was what you are going to do today?”

“I don’t know exactly. Aren’t you going skiing?”

“No, of course not, I am going to stay with you. Shall we take a sleigh ride with one of those fascinating horses covered in bells to draw us? Do let’s! They are so romantic.”

“Actually, I thought of watching the skating,” Hugo said.

“What, here or at the Palace?”

“I don’t know. Let us find out where they are likely to be practising for the championships.”

“At the Palace, I expect.”

“We might drive down there and have luncheon.”

“Can I come and have breakfast with you and talk about it?”

“I have had my breakfast.”

“Yes, of course, I forgot. You have it so early. Shall I come along and talk to you all the same, or would you be shocked to see me in my dressing gown?”

“I haven’t finished reading my mail.”

“What, yesterday’s? Well, that can wait until tomorrow. Let me come and make plans. There are so many things I want to do and I want to do them with you.”

“All right, come if you wish!”

“That doesn’t sound very eager, but I will forgive you. Goodbye for the moment.”