Anne Mather - The Autumn Of The Witch

They had a pleasant afternoon out together. They had arranged to go to an exhibition of paintings and sculpture by a young artist friend of Allan’s and afterwards they attended a cocktail party given by the gallery’s owner who had sponsored the showing. Most of the young people there were known to both of them and they were invited to a party that evening to be held at the apartment of another young artist. Stephanie demurred, but with Allan’s encouragement finally agreed on the understanding that she must be allowed to go home first to change and to see her father.

It was about seven-thirty when Allan dropped her at her father’s house, a tall Georgian-fronted building which stood in its own grounds overlooking one of those small squares that abound near Regent’s Park. As she climbed out of the sports car she noticed a long, sleek continental limousine parked to one side of the front door and she frowned curiously. Certainly it was not a car she had seen before or she would have remembered its elegance.

‘I’ll call back in an hour,’ Allan was saying, and she turned absently to him.

‘What? Oh, yes, yes, all right, Allan.’ She smiled and raised a hand as he drove away with his usual ebullience, and then turned to enter the house.

She shed her gloves in the hall and hesitated as she heard voices emanating from the library. Surely her father and Jennifer weren’t arguing again, particularly as they obviously had guests, and yet she could hear her father’s voice raised in anger and she wondered with trepidation who could be arousing such antagonism. Could it possibly be something to do with the proposed merger? Had Pietro Bastinado come back with some new proposition?

She moved compulsively towards the library door and then halted. It was nothing to do with her after all, and yet if Jennifer was in there perhaps her father would be glad of an ally.

With sudden determination she turned the handle and opened the door. The library seemed full of people, but she realized that was because they all seemed to be standing instead of relaxing in the comfortable leather chairs. Jennifer was there and so was Harold Mortimer, her father’s chief accountant. Robert McMaster was leaning heavily on his desk and Stephanie’s heart went out to him before she looked at the man who faced her father across the desk; a man she had never seen before, although the man behind him was familiar; it was Pietro Bastinado.

Her intrusion caused all eyes to turn in her direction and as she met the gaze of the stranger her whole being seemed to suffuse with colour at the insolent penetration of his dark eyes. He was a man like no man she had ever previously encountered. Tall and lean, with a kind of latent virility about him, he was not a handsome man, and yet the carved planes of his face and the grim lines about his mouth and eyes were disturbingly attractive. His hair grew thick and black, low on his neckline so that it brushed the collar of his immaculate white shirt. His clothes fitted him closely and accentuated his masculinity, and from the deep tan of his skin she guessed he was no Englishman. It was an effort to drag her gaze away from that intensive appraisal and she looked back at her father.

Robert McMaster straightened from his stooping position and said: ‘You’re back, Stephanie. You might as well come in. This affects you just as much as any of us.’ He ran a tired hand over his forehead and sank down wearily into his chair. ‘It seems – I can’t go on.’

Stephanie’s brows drew together disbelievingly and she closed the door quickly and advanced towards the desk. Her gaze flickered over Harold Mortimer’s troubled countenance and the compassionate gaze of Pietro Bastinado before reaching again the sphinx-like remoteness of the stranger. With an impatient gesture she looked at her father. ‘What are you talking about?’ she exclaimed.

Jennifer, who had been standing to one side of the door, now spoke. ‘Robert is dramatizing the situation as usual,’ she observed coolly. ‘Signor Ventura has simply been outlining to us your father’s actual position.’

Stephanie’s brain refused to function. So that was who the stranger was, she thought frantically. Santino Ventura himself. The brains behind the organization that wanted to merge with W.A.A. No wonder his presence had caused her to feel apprehensive. But even so, what had been said?

She looked again at Robert McMaster. ‘Please, Father,’ she said. ‘As you said – I have a right to know if this concerns me.’

Santino Ventura moved now. He had been standing with his arms folded, regarding them all broodingly, but now he spoke:

‘Your father has sought to raise money on the strength of the proposed merger. That is to say, he has used the name of my organization in an effort to bluff his way out of an impossible situation. I can only say that I should have thought a man who has been in business as long as your father has been in business should know better than to try those kind of tactics with me.’

Stephanie listened in silence and then looked down at her father’s bent head. ‘Is this true?’

Robert McMaster, looked up. ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ he replied bleakly.

‘But it does!’ Stephanie stared at him. ‘I thought you intended to fight! I thought there was some way—’

‘There is no way,’ replied her father heavily. ‘Signor Ventura is giving me no choice. He has the choice to make, and for the sake of my employees I hope he makes the right one, that’s all.’

‘What do you mean?’ Stephanie was puzzled.

McMaster looked up at Santino Ventura with defeated eyes. ‘Signor Ventura has threatened to withdraw from the deal altogether.’

Stephanie gasped. ‘But – but – you’ve already – I mean—’

‘Exactly, Miss McMaster!’ Santino Ventura’s tones were cold. ‘Your father has borrowed on the strength of my name, because he hoped I would allow the deal to hang fire for a while, giving him time to show whether he was capable of making W.A.A. a going concern. But I regret that is not how I do business.’

‘But if you back out now the firm will collapse,’ she cried hotly.

‘I am quite aware of that.’

Stephanie turned desperately to Harold Mortimer, but he moved uncomfortably before saying: ‘I’m sorry, Stephanie.’

Stephanie shook her head incredulously. ‘But the firm is my father’s life!’ she exclaimed fiercely, turning back to Santino Ventura.

‘It was not my intention to create this situation,’ said the Sicilian expressionlessly.

‘And the alternatives?’ Stephanie caught Harold Mortimer’s attention.

The accountant glanced down at the file he was holding. ‘Signor Ventura could take over the airline,’ he replied heavily.

‘Take over! ’ Stephanie spread her hands. ‘But how? I mean even allowing for the fact that the business could collapse, surely McMasters are the majority shareholders?’

Jennifer spoke now. ‘It’s a question of doing what is right for the airline,’ she observed coolly. ‘And as there seems no question that your father is incapable of carrying on without—’

‘You mean you would sell your interest?’ Stephanie interrupted her angrily.

Jennifer shrugged. ‘Why not?’

Stephanie compressed her lips ‘Even so—’

Robert McMaster heaved a sigh ‘Your aunt feels as Jennifer does. Better to make something than lose everything,’ he said slowly. ‘Oh, leave it be, Stephanie. There’s nothing you or I can do now. It’s in Signor Ventura’s hands.’

Stephanie shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said helplessly.

She felt, rather than saw, Pietro Bastinado make an involuntary gesture as though he would have spared her father this final humiliation, but then Santino Ventura straightened and with indolent grace walked to the door and Pietro had to follow him. At the door Ventura turned to regard them all with sardonic appraisal. ‘I think our discussions are over for the moment,’ he observed smoothly. ‘I will return to my hotel and consider the situation. I will let you know my decision in due course.’