Black Coffee - Agatha Christie [5]
As she sat, Lucia gave a wan smile of gratitude to Caroline Amory. ‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed. ‘It’s passing already, in fact.’ Though she spoke English impeccably, perhaps too impeccably, an occasional inflection betrayed that English was not her native tongue.
‘I just came over all faint, that’s all,’ she continued. ‘How ridiculous of me. I’ve never done such a thing before. I can’t imagine why it should have happened. Please go back, Aunt Caroline. I shall be quite all right here.’ She took a handkerchief from her handbag, as Caroline Amory looked on solicitously. Dabbing at her eyes with it, she then returned the handkerchief to her bag, and smiled again. ‘I shall be quite all right,’ she repeated. ‘Really, I shall.’
Miss Amory looked unconvinced. ‘You’ve really not looked well, dear, all the evening, you know,’ she remarked, anxiously studying Lucia.
‘Haven’t I?’
‘No, indeed,’ replied Miss Amory. She sat on the settee, close to Lucia. ‘Perhaps you’ve caught a little chill, dear,’ she twittered anxiously. ‘Our English summers can be rather treacherous, you know. Not at all like the hot sun in Italy, which is what you’re more used to. So delightful, Italy, I always think.’
‘Italy,’ murmured Lucia with a faraway look in her eyes, as she placed her handbag beside her on the settee. ‘Italy –’
‘I know, my child. You must miss your own country badly. It must seem such a dreadful contrast – the weather for one thing, and the different customs. And we must seem such a cold lot. Now, Italians –’
‘No, never. I never miss Italy,’ cried Lucia, with a vehemence that surprised Miss Amory. ‘Never.’
‘Oh, come now, child, there’s no disgrace in feeling a little homesick for –’
‘Never!’ Lucia repeated. ‘I hate Italy. I always hated it. It is like heaven for me to be here in England with all you kind people. Absolute heaven!’
‘It’s really very sweet of you to say that, my dear,’ said Caroline Amory, ‘though I’m sure you’re only being polite. It’s true we’ve all tried to make you feel happy and at home here, but it would be only natural for you to yearn for Italy sometimes. And then, not having any mother –’
‘Please – please –’, Lucia interrupted her, ‘do not speak of my mother.’
‘No, of course not, dear, if you’d rather I didn’t. I didn’t mean to upset you. Shall I get you some smelling-salts? I’ve got some in my room.’
‘No, thank you,’ Lucia replied. ‘Really, I’m perfectly all right now.’
‘It’s no trouble at all, you know,’ Caroline Amory persisted. ‘I’ve got some very nice smelling-salts, a lovely pink colour, and in the most charming little bottle. And very pungent. Sal ammoniac, you know. Or is it spirits of salts? I can never remember. But anyway it’s not the one you clean the bath with.’
Lucia smiled gently, but made no reply. Miss Amory had risen, and apparently could not decide whether to go in search of smelling-salts or not. She moved indecisively to the back of the settee, and rearranged the cushions. ‘Yes, I think it must be a sudden chill,’ she continued. ‘You were looking the absolute picture of health this morning. Perhaps it was the excitement of seeing this Italian friend of yours, Dr Carelli? He turned up so suddenly and unexpectedly, didn’t he? It must have given you quite a shock.’
Lucia’s husband, Richard, had entered the library while Caroline Amory was speaking. Evidently Miss Amory did not notice him, for she could not understand why her words appeared to have upset Lucia, who leaned back, closed her eyes and shivered. ‘Oh, my dear, what is it?’ asked Miss Amory. ‘Are you coming over faint again?’
Richard Amory closed the door and approached the two women. A conventionally handsome young Englishman of about thirty, with sandy hair, he was of medium height, with a somewhat thick-set, muscular figure. ‘Do go and finish your dinner, Aunt Caroline,’ he said to Miss Amory. ‘Lucia will be all right with me. I’ll look after her.’
Miss Amory still appeared irresolute. ‘Oh, it’s you, Richard. Well, perhaps I’d better go back,’ she said, taking a reluctant step or two in the direction