Free King of the Castle by Victoria Holt Page A

ill-treated.”
    A smile twisted his mouth and his face changed. There might have been a glimmer of amusement there now.
    “How vehement you are! You might be fighting for the rights of man rather than for the preservation of paint on canvas.”
    “When would you wish me to leave?”
    “Not until we have talked, at least.”
     
    “Since you find you cannot employ a woman I do not think we should have anything to talk about.”
    “You are very impulsive, Mademoiselle Lawson. Now I should have thought that was a characteristic a restorer of old paintings could well do without. I have not said I would not employ a woman. That was your suggestion.”
    “I can see that you disapprove of my being here. That is enough.”
    “Did you expect approval of your … deception?”
    “Monsieur Ie Comte,” I said, “I worked with my father. I took over his commissions. You had previously approached him to come here. I thought the arrangement still stood. I see no deception in that.”
    “Then you must have been surprised by the astonishment you caused.”
    I replied shortly: “It would be difficult to do delicate work of this nature in an atmosphere of disapproval.”
    “That I can well understand.”
    “Therefore…”
    “Therefore?” he repeated.
    “I could leave today if I could be taken to the mainline station. I understand there is only one morning train from the Gaillard halt.”
    “How thoughtful of you to look into such arrangements. But I must repeat. Mademoiselle Lawson, you are too impulsive. You must understand my uneasiness. And you will forgive me saying so, you do not look old enough to have had a great deal of experience in skilled work of this nature.”
    “I have worked with my father for years. There are some who grow old and never acquire the skill. It is a feeling in oneself for the work, an understanding, a love of painting that is born in one.”
    “You are poetical as well as an artist, I see. But at… er … thirty or so … one would necessarily not have had a lifetime’s experience.”
     
    “I am twenty-eight,” I retorted hotly; and I saw at once that I had fallen into the trap. He had determined to bring me off the pedestal on which I was trying to take a firm stand and show me that I was after all an ordinary woman who couldn’t bear to be thought older than she was.
    He raised his eyebrows; he was finding the interview amusing. I saw that I had betrayed my desperate situation and the streak of cruelty in him made him want to prolong the indecision, to torment me for as long as possible.
    For the first time since I had set out on this adventure I lost my control. I said: “There is no point in continuing. I realize that you have decided I cannot do this work because I am a woman. Well, monsieur, I leave you with your prejudices. So I will go either today or tomorrow.”
    For a few seconds he looked at me in mock bewilderment but as I moved towards the door, he was swiftly beside me.
    “Mademoiselle, you have not understood. Perhaps your knowledge of French is not as expert as your knowledge of painting.”
    Once more I rose to the bait.
    “My mother was French. I have understood perfectly every word you have said.”
    “Then I am to blame for my lack of lucidity. I have no wish that you shall go … just yet.”
    “Your manner suggests that you are not prepared to trust me.”
    “Your own assumption, mademoiselle, I do assure you.”
    “Then you mean you wish me to stay?”
    He pretended to hesitate.
    “If I may say so without offence, I should like you to undergo a little test. Oh please, mademoiselle, do not accuse me of prejudice against your sex. I am prepared to believe that there may be brilliant women in the world. I am impressed by what you tell me of your understanding
    and love of painting. I am also interested in the estimates of damage and the cost of repairing the pictures you have examined. It is all very clear and reasonable.”
    I was afraid that my eyes had