Authors: Anne Weale
On Christmas Day
the whole family attended morning service in the little village church, which had been decorated with garlands of holly and mistletoe.
“Look at the grandees,” Jill whispered to Andrea as they stood up for the first hymn.
On the opposite side of the church was a private pew enclosed by oak walls. In it stood Justin Templar and some other people, and the heads of three children were just visible.
Mr. Everard read the first lesson and Justin Templar the second, his deep, clear voice emphasizing the beauty of the Nativity story. During the sermon Andrea looked at his companions. The woman sitting beside him was obviously his sister, although her complexion was fairer and her beautifully dressed hair was dyed a silvery blond. She was wearing a magnificent sable coat, and when she put up her hand to touch one of her pearl earrings, Andrea saw the flash of diamonds on her fingers. But in spite of her furs and jewels she had a hard, discontented expression and looked very bored by the service. Beside her was a stout, florid-faced man of about fifty who kept clearing his throat, and Andrea thought that if he was her husband, perhaps this irritating mannerism accounted for her petulant look.
The other occupants of the pew, apart from the children, were a very lovely girl with red hair who kept glancing at Mr. Templar and a matronly woman with a hat made of purple birds’ feathers.
“The redhead is probably the latest bait. I expect her mamma hopes that the Christmas spirit will do the trick,” Jill muttered, following Andrea’s glance. “She looks a bit dim to me.”
After the service the congregation streamed out into the pale December sunlight, and the Everards were busy exchanging greetings with their neighbors, so Andrea drew aside and looked at the epitaphs on the lichen-stained gravestones. Some of them were in memory of people who had died as long ago as 1710, and she thought how different this sheltered little churchyard was from the vast Liverpool cemetery where her parents were buried.
“Good morning, Miss Fleming.”
Turning, she found Justin Templar standing beside her.
“Good morning.”
“You look like the spirit of Christmas,” he said with a smile, indicating her red jacket and the white fur beret on her head. She was carrying an enormous white muff to match the beret, and on the way to the church Michael Everard had teased her about looking like a female Santa Claus.
“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” she said, brandishing the muff and laughing. The villagers had stared at it in astonishment, for they were
n
ot used to the eccentricities of high fashion.
“And very becoming,” he said softly.
Once again Andrea felt slightly discomposed by the look in his black eyes. She was beginning to understand why he had such an unnerving effect on the less sophisticated Jill.
“A Merry Christmas, Miss Fleming.”
“Thank you. Merry Christmas. Goodbye.”
The presents stacked around the base of the tall
Christmas tree were opened after lunch, and Andrea was very touched to find that all the Everards had included her in the little ceremony. Knowing something of their tastes from what Jill had told her, she had brought gifts for them, but had not expected them to be returned.
That night when they sat around the fire in the drawing room, talking about past Christmases, she felt happier than she had done for ,a long time. Later Jill put on the radio and danced with her
fiancé
, and the three Everard boys took turns to partner Andrea.
Andrea slept badly,
and at first light she pushed back the bedclothes and got up. Careful not to wake Jill, she slid open the top drawer of the tallboy and found a thick primrose sweater and a pair of socks. Then, taking her tartan slacks and her brogues from the wardrobe, she scooped up her underwear from the chair by the bed and crept along to the bathroom to wash and dress. Back in the bedroom she scribbled a note to say she was going for a walk and foraged in her Christmas stocking for the orange wedged in the toe. The Everards all had Christmas stockings, and Jill had made one for Andrea, saying that no matter how old one was, half the fun of Christmas was waking up to find a bulky woolen sausage at the foot of the bed.
Hoping the dogs would not start barking, Andrea let herself out of the front door and peered at her watch in the dim gray light. It was just after eight, which meant she had an hour and a half to herself before breakfast. Leaving the garden by the back gate, she set up the narrow lane that led to the moor. It was a chilly morning and she swung out briskly, glad to be free of her tumbled bed and the sound of Jill’s steady breathing which emphasized her own restlessness. By half-past eight she was on the crest of a craggy spur of hillside with the village nestling below her like a child’s toy arranged in the hollow of a rough green and brown bedspread. She was warm now from the exercise of scrambling up the heathery slope, and sat down on a boulder to survey the view.
To the north and south the moors rolled away into the far distance, and London seemed a thousand miles away.
She had been sitting on the rock for some time and was peeling the orange when she heard the thud of hooves and saw a man riding across the lower slopes on a powerful black horse. Even before he was close enough for her to see his face, she recognized Justin Templar, and wondered why he was riding so early on a bleak Boxing Day morning.
About fifty yards away from her he dismounted and looped his horse’s reins over the branch of a misshapen silver birch tree. Then he walked up to he
r
.
“Good morning, Miss Fleming. I did not expect to find you on the moor at this hour.”
“I wanted some exercise,” she said, wrapping the orange peel in the pink tissue paper and putting it in her slacks pocket.
“I see you are not guilty of the townsman’s bad habit of dropping litter all over the place,” he said, sitting down on a nearby rock.
“Tidiness is my vice. I hate to see bits and pieces lying around anywhere. Would you like some orange?”
“Thank you. The air up here makes me hungry.”
She divided the orange and handed him half of it. He was dressed in a pair of well-cut but shabby riding breeches and a heavy gray sweater of the kind worn by Cornish fishermen. At that moment he did not look at all like a wealthy financier with every luxury that money could buy.
“
You know, you are the only woman I have met who looks presentable at half-past eight in the morning,” he said abruptly.
Andrea laughed. “It’s just as well there are no photographers around. I’m not much of a credit to my job at the moment,” she said, putting up a hand to smooth her windblown hair.
“On the contrary, you are very suitably dressed,” he said, appraising the pale yellow sweater and sleek-fitting tartan slacks. “I have no patience with women who come to the country in clothes that are meant for a town.”
He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to her. They smoked in silence for some time until he said suddenly, “When do you go back to London?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Will you have dinner with me one evening next week?”
She must have shown her surprise, for he said, “Is that such an unusual request?”
“No, not exactly. It’s just
that...” She
broke off. The man seemed to have a flair for taking her off guard.
“Thank you, Mr. Templar. I would like to.”
“My name is Justin, and I would prefer to call you Andrea, unless that is a privilege you confer only on friends of longstanding.”
“You may call me Andrea if you like,” she said dryly, thinking that he would probably do so in any case. On close acquaintance he gave the impression of being a man accustomed to having his own way and ignoring attempted rebuffs.
Apparently Jill was right about his having his eye on me,
she thought with an inward smile.
Perhaps he is bored with the redheaded house guest—and I am the nearest diversion.
“Why that speculative look?” he asked, watching her expressive face.
She decided she would match his directness.
“I was wondering why you want me to have dinner with you.”
“Isn’t that obvious? I like the look of you.”
“You make me sound like an animal at a fair,” she said indignantly.
“Human beings are less easy to judge. A woman may have the face of an angel and the brains of a hen.”
“In that case I had better prime myself with intelligent topics of conversation,” she countered.
He laughed and stood up. “Allow me to escort you home. Can you ride?”
She shook her head.
“Then it’s time you began. Come on.”
Amused and a little annoyed by his high-handed methods, she followed him down to the birch tree.
“Up you go.” As easily as if she were a child he tossed her onto the big horse. “Sit astride. Don’t worry. Jason won’t bolt.”
Untying the reins, he swung up behind her. “Comfortable?”
“Not very.”
“Never mind. It’s quicker than walking.”
As they rode back to the house, Andrea was very much aware of his arms encircling her waist. She sat up as straight as she could to avoid accidentally leaning against him and was glad when they reached the back gate and he dismounted and helped her down.
“Thank you. I’m just in time for breakfast. Goodbye
... Justin.”
“Goodbye, until next week.”
He gave her a casual salute and sprang back into the saddle, urging the black horse to a trot.
Watching him ride to the bend in the lane, Andrea wondered if she had been wise to accept his invitation. Later in the day she mentioned the encounter to Jill, who was very excited about it and declared that Justin was obviously in hot pursuit.
“He’ll probably follow you back to town and invite you to the Savoy for a champagne supper,” she forecast.
“He already has. Nothing specific. Just a general invitation to dine one night next week.”
“What did you say?” Jill asked eagerly.
“I accepted, but I might change my mind. I’m not sure that I like the gre
a
t Mr. Templar,” Andrea said thoughtfully.
They left Cornwall
on a cold, bright morning and arrived in London in the middle of a downpour of sooty rain which increased their feeling of post-holiday deflation. The apartment seemed very small and cramped after the spacious rooms at Moorhaven, and Jill was doubly depressed because Nick had to cover an assignment in the Midlands and would be away for several days.
“People are mad to live here,” she said gloomily one evening after a day of drizzling rain. “The subway has that horrible wet raincoat smell and everybody scowls and complains. Sometimes I wish I’d never left home.”
“You wouldn’t have met Nick if you hadn’t,” Andrea said, trying to cheer her up. “Let’s forget our waistlines for once and make macaroni and cheese.”
They were having supper in their tiny kitchenette when
the telephone rang. Answering it, Jill’s face brightened.
“
It’s the great J.T.,” she said in a stage whisper, disentangling the cord and handing the receiver to Andrea.
“Hello?”
“Andrea? Justin Templar here. How are you?”
“Deep in post-Christmas gloom,” she said feelingly.
“Good. Then an evening out is just what you need. I have tickets for the new play at the Haymarket on Friday if you’d care to see it.”
“I would love to.”
“I suggest we dine beforehand. May I call for you about six?”
“Yes. Thank you very much.”
As soon as they had said goodbye and she had replaced the receiver, Jill said, “When and where?”
“The Rattigan opening night on Friday. Dinner first.”
“What are you going to wear?”
“The black chiffon, I should think.”
“For heaven’s sake, you can’t wear that old rag. We’ll go shopping tomorrow and find something really dashing,” Jill said excitedly.
“But I don’t need a new dress. I’ve hardly worn the black one,”
Andrea
objected.
“Darling, I don’t think you’ve quite grasped it yet. Justin isn’t just
anybody.
He’s one of the richest men in London. Girls fall over themselves for a date with him.”
“As far as I’m concerned he’s a rather overbearing man whose chief recommendation is that he has tickets for a good play when I happen to feel in a January slough of despond,” Andrea said crisply.
But in spite of her refusal to jump for joy at the prospect of Friday evening, she did buy a new dress, much to Jill’s triumph.
She saw it in a store window the following morning when she was hurrying along Bond Street to an appointment, and went back at lunchtime to try it on. It was made of stiff blackberry-colored silk with a plain close-fitting bodice, long tight sleeves and a rustling bell
-
shaped skirt over a flurry of taffeta petticoats.