Authors: Mary Burchell
“You
’
re a darling, and I love you. If you want the slightly mysterious Laurence Clumber to take you home, who am I to stand in the way?”
“Celia!
He’s
not in the least mysterious!”
“Oh, I don
’
t mean in temperament. There
’
s nothing of the dark-eyed mystery man about him. I
’
d say his feet are very firmly planted on the ground. But you indignantly deny that you know anything of him, except through—of all things—a great-aunt. You even hint that you don
’
t like him. And then, with an air of challenging all comers, he
’
s determined to take you home. It
’
s rather thrilling, really,” Celia said pensively.
“It
’
s nothing of the sort,” declared Freda crossly. “It just happens that—that—”
“All right, my dear. You don
’
t have to tell me everything, just because I
’
m your sister,” Celia assured her, with the utmost good humour. “Let
’
s go down and see what our menfolk are doing.” Freda didn
’
t really want Laurence Clumber included under the heading of “our menfolk”, however temporarily. But it was not the moment to dispute that now. So down they went, and there was Brian waiting for them in the hall. And there was Laurence Clumber too, looking as though he had no other purpose in life but to escort Freda on her way.
While good-byes were being said and telephone numbers exchanged, Brian found time to whisper, “Thank you, Freda. You managed everything splendidly.”
She gave him a brief, half shy smile, which showed how much his approval pleased her. Then Celia kissed her warmly, repeated her good nights, and ran down the steps with Brian to a waiting taxi.
Freda stood on the steps, watching them go, and when she reflected on all that had happened since she had met them on those same steps a few hours ago,
she could hardly believe she was still the same girl.
“Shall we go?” enquired Laurence Clumber, just behind her. “My car is parked across the road.”
“Oh”—she turned to him quickly—
“
I must explain. There
’
s really no need for you to take me
home. You see
—”
“Now, that
’
s where you
’
re mistaken,” he assured her, pleasantly but firmly, and this time it was his fingers which closed on her arm. “I
’
m not the sort of chap to let a girl slap his face one minute and hang on his arm the next, without some sort of explanation.”
“I
didn
’
t
hang on your arm!” she said indignantly.
‘
Metaphorically speaking, in each case,” he amended, unmoved. “Anyway, the situation
’
s intriguing—and of your own making, don
’
t forget. You asked the wicked squire to take you home. He
’
s taking you.”
And, without any opportunity for further protest, Freda found herself piloted unresisting down the steps and across the road, to where a very handsome
-
looking car was waiting, at the opposite corner.
Short of stamping her foot in an undignified way and saying she would not go with him, there was little she could do. Besides, he was right—the situation was of her own making. He had accepted the role she had thrust on him. In all fairness, she must play her part now.
So Freda got into the car, and tried to look completely at ease.
“Where to?” he enquired, as he got into the driver
’
s seat, beside her. “I
’
m afraid I know only your weekend country address.”
Ignoring this little crack, Freda gave him the address of her bed-sitting-room near Earl
’
s Court, and proceeded to add instructions for getting there. But he said, “It
’
s all right. I know the district.
“Do you?” She was surprised, for she would have associated the owner of Crowmain Court with a somewhat more exalted locality.
“Certainly. I used to lodge there when I was a student. Nearly ten years ago,” he added reflectively.
And what,” enquired Freda, with more interest than she had intended to display, “were you studying?”
“Chemistry.”
“Oh,” she said doubtfully. “Then you
’
re a chemist?”
“In a modest, experimental sort of way,” he agreed.
And Freda immediately visualized
him
playing at being a chemist, while he waited for his great
-
aunt to die and leave him a fortune.
Presumably the thought was reflected in her face, because, after a moment, he enquired amusedly,
“What does that severe look mean?”
“N-nothing.” Freda was taken aback.
“Of course it does,” he assured her cheerfully.
And if you won
’
t tell me, I
’
ll tell you. You thought —
‘
Parasite! He just played around with a few bottles and test-tubes until someone else left him enough money to live on
’
.”
She flushed at the accuracy of his deduction. But she said firmly, “I did
not
think—
‘
Parasite!
’
It isn
’
t a word I use.”
He laughed immoderately at that, and seemed suddenly to be in an excellent mood.
“But the rest was a good guess?” he suggested, with unkind insistence.
“It really doesn
’
t matter.” She tried not to look as confused as she felt. “I don
’
t know anything about you, and I
’
m not sitting in judgment on you or
—”
“You are, you know,” he assured her good
-
humouredly.
‘
You think I
’
m a frightful bounder, just because I want your cottage. And you
’
re only too glad to attribute all sorts of unlikeable characteristics to me, in consequence. Which makes it all the more intriguing that you should have firmly picked me to escort you home. Why did you?”
“
I couldn
’
t help myself,” Freda explained, with more candour than tact. “I had to find someone on the spur of the moment—and
th
ere was no one else.”
He made a face.
“You do have a special talent for deflating one
’
s ego, don
’
t you?” he said wryly.
“Oh, I
’
m sorry,” Freda laughed, with a hint of contrition. “That wasn
’
t meant to sound disparaging. It was the literal truth. Both Br—Mr. Vanner and I knew it would be ill-advised for Celia to present me to her parents at this hour of the night, and without preparation. But she was very determined, so I thought the simplest solution was to pretend someone else wanted to take me home. You were the only one I felt sure would back me up without question.”
“Nice child!” He took one hand from the wheel and patted hers. “You couldn
’
t make handsomer amends. But what made you sure I would back you up?”
“I don
’
t know. But”—she turned that innocent glance upon him—
“
you did, didn
’
t you?”
“Yes,” he agreed, in a slightly surprised tone. “I did. But I feel bound to tell you that sheer curiosity played an unworthy part in my reaction.”
“I think you might be allowed that,” Freda told him with a smile, as they turned into her road.
“Is this the place?” He leaned forward to peer at the numbers, in the lamplight.
‘
Yes. It
’
s the second house from the end, on the left.”
He drew up outside the house and then turned in his seat to face her.
“Are you planning to go down to the cottage this weekend?” he enquired.
“Well”—she hesitated, self
-
consciously aware that Mr. Token had probably already started on the pleasant task of making her cottage habitable—
“
I thought I might perhaps—just see—how things are getting on.”
“Things?” he repeated, as though determined to have the situation in black and white.
“I shan
’
t actually be staying at the cottage for some time, of course,” she conceded. “But Mr. Token will already have started to put it in order and do some redecorating for me. I might go and see how far he has got. I
’
m not sure. In any case, it really isn
’
t the slightest good trying to re-open the argument, because
—”
“I wasn
’
t going to,” he assured her drily. “I was merely going to say that, if you intended to go to Crowmain this weekend, perhaps I might give you a lift?”
“A—a lift?” stammered Freda, completely taken off her guard by this unexpected approach. “But— but why?”
“Because I shall be going down there myself on Saturday morning,” he explained calmly. “And it
’
s a much pleasanter journey by road than by train and bus.”
“I
’
m—sure—it is,” murmured Freda, still a good deal nonplussed.
“Well”—he looked amused—”what
’
s the difficulty, then?”
“You
kno
w
what the difficulty is,” she returned
indignantly. “You and I
—”
she stopped, unable
to find any words in which to describe the equivocal situation between them. But he made no attempt to help her out.
“It
’
s very kind of you,” she began again, in as dignified a tone as she could achieve. “But I don
’
t think I should—I should make
use
of you, in the circumstances.”
“What are you doing at the moment?” he enquired good-humouredly.
“That
’
s different! I
’
ve explained.”
He laughed then, and unexpectedly put his hand over hers—but in the same light, inoffensive way he had before.
“We don
’
t have to be enemies all the time, do we?” he said, and as she glanced at him in a half
startled way, she noticed again how attractive he was when he laughed.
“No—of course not. But
—”
“May I call for you here, then, about ten o
’
clock on Saturday?”
“If—you like.”
“I like,” he assured her. Then he came round and opened the door of the car for her and smilingly bade her good night.
Freda felt there was more she ought to have said. Something which would make her own position crystal clear, so that he should not imagine that, in accepting his lift to Crowmain, she was in any way relenting about the cottage. But there seemed no way of doing this without labouring the point absurdly.
In any case, he waited obviously for her to put her key in the door, and having seen her do that, raised his hand in a half careless salute, got back into the car and drove off.
Slowly Freda mounted the stairs to her familiar room. It was, of course, exactly as she had left it when she went out, as she had believed, to a solitary evening at a theatre. And yet her whole world had changed.
But it was she who had changed, not the room. And the change was so overwhelming that she had to sit down, with her head in her hands, and try to sort it all out.
Celia! She was the dominating figure of an incredible evening. But there was also Brian Vanner. And—to a much lesser extent, naturally—Laurence Clumber. Four hours ago she had not known of the existence of the first two, and Laurence Clumber had simply been someone she hoped to see as little as possible.
Now Celia and Brian were vital figures in her life, and Laurence Clumber—well, there was really no reason to go into detail about him, even if she had, perhaps ill-advisedly, agreed to let him drive her down to Crowmain on Saturday.
Freda wondered how she was ever to sleep a wink, with so much on her mind. But of course, being a healthy young creature, she fell asleep almost immediately, and slept until her small but obstreperous alarm clock roused her to the duties of another day.
It was hard to have to rush through breakfast and take herself off to the office as usual when, all the time, she felt like the heroine of an adventure story. But nothing is stronger than habit. And, in spite of all that had happened to her the previous evening, Freda found herself surrendering to the routine of a normal day, with a cheerful resignation known only to those who have never queried the rightness of their having to earn their living in a hard world.
She would have liked to tell someone about the tremendous discovery that she had a sister. But Ellen Marley was away on a day
’
s leave, and there didn
’
t seem to be a suitable opportunity to tell anyone else. So she hugged the wonderful knowledge to herself and was happy about it in her own way.
Still under the somewhat sobering influence of a busy office day, she returned home, telling herself that she must not necessarily expect to hear from Celia immediately. But hardly had she taken off her hat when her telephone bell rang, and the moment she seized the receiver, Celia
’
s unmistakable voice said,
“At last! Darling, where have you been all day?”
“At the office.”
“What office?” Celia enquired.
“Well—the office where I work, of course. I earn my own living, you know. Don
’
t you?”
“No. Not very seriously.”
“O-oh. Most people do.”
“Yes. I know. And I
’
m aware that I
’
m a fortunate exception.” Celia spoke with engaging candour and what sounded like genuine gratitude. “But somehow, when you talked about owning a cottage and that sort of thing, I thought
—”
“Oh—
that
!”
Freda began to laugh. “I only acquired it a week ago. And anyway it was left to me in someone
’
s will. But it
’
s too long a story to tell you now. For all practical purposes I
’
m what
’
s known as a working girl, and on every day, except Saturdays and Sundays, I
’
m at the office. I
’
m sorry I wasn
’
t in before when you rang. But here I am now. How did your—your parents take the news?”
“They were frightfully taken aback,” Celia said f
rankly
. “Far more so than they need have
been
, I
thought,” she added with a puzzled note in her voice.
“But it
’
s a tremendous discovery for anyone to have to take,” Freda pointed out rather gently. “Even now, I feel almost stunned by it myself.”
“Yes, of course,” Celia agreed, but in a resilient sort of tone which ruled out any idea of her having been stunned. “Only—it
’
s a
nice
discovery, Freda.”
“For us most certainly. For them I suppose it might well be disturbing.”
“You funny girl. You seem to understand their reaction better than I do.”
Freda forebore to mention that she had been forewarned by Brian.
“Anyway,” Celia went on,
“
of course they want to see you. Indeed, their attitude seems to be that they can
’
t really accept the idea until they
have
s
een you.”
“I suppose that
’
s natural too,” Freda said slowly. But she felt chilled and disturbed at the prospect of appearing before the sceptical Vanners, however much she might, theoretically, admit the justice of their attitude. “When would they like to—to see
me?”
“
This evening, if you can manage it.
“
Yes. I could manage it.”
“But—Freda, please don
’
t mind about this—they want to see you alone. I mean—they don
’
t want either Brian or me there. They have some idea that we
’
re prejudiced. That we—or, at least, I— might interfere and influence things too much.”
“I see.” Freda tried to suppress the little flame of resentment which these words lit. But it was extraordinarily difficult not to be angry at having the role of probable imposter so obviously thrust upon her.
“Are you there?” Celia spoke a trifle anxiously, as though she thought the slight silence might mean Freda
’
s withdrawal in a huff.
“Yes, of course. I was just thinking. What time shall I come?”
“About eight-thirty?”
“Yes—all right.” Freda noted, in passing, that she was evidently not being invited to dinner with the Vanners until her credentials had been examined.
“Do you know
the address? I gave it to you last night.
”
Celia repeated an address in St. John
’
s Wood.
“
Yes—I remember.”
“And, Freda—don
’
t mind about their doubts. It will be all right. I
know
it will!”
“Of course. I don
’
t mind, really,” Freda insisted bravely.
But she did mind. She minded very much indeed. Not that anyone should entertain reasonable doubts of the story which Celia had probably poured out. But that she should be asked to prove her bona fides in such unfriendly circumstances.
However, there was nothing she could do about it, except go to the meeting with what dignity and courage she could muster. She must remember that she
was
no imposter, and that
sh
e had no reason whatever to feel either uncomfortable or apologetic. The facts—such as they were—must speak for themselves, and the Vanners must think what they would.