Authors: Mary Whistler
Right from the be
ginning
he had refused to look upon her as a young woman who was capable of acting the part of his future mother-in-law’s secretary— amongst other
things
; and had dismissed her in his charming, careless fashion as if she were nothing more than a schoolgirl.
But that didn’t prevent her losing her heart to him.
In point of fact it had dropped right out at his feet from the moment that he called her by that now familiar name.
Penny Wise
...
Penny Foolish from the moment that she consented to marry him, for how could she hug to herself a secret that would always have to remain a secret and not give it away in unguarded moments? How could she be happy keeping up such a pretence, knowing that he had no real use for her at all, and had only asked her to marry him as a kind of futile gesture—to Fate? To the unkind Providence that had deprived him of the woman he did love—and keep up the pretence for years?
“Don’t worry, Penny,” he had said reassuringly, after that second dinner. “I know you don’t properly realize what you’re doing, and that perhaps I’m depriving you of something
...
But keep that untouched look, and it’ll be worth while! At least you’ll never suffer disillusion!”
Wouldn’t she? she wondered. Was he right? Could you suffer disillusion if you expected nothing?
She was amazed at the speed with which he went to work, arranging the details of their wedding. He wouldn’t permit her to write to her Aunt Heloise and
inform
her of what had happened, and as she was not a minor there was no necessity at all for anyone’s consent to be obtained. The cook at Grangewood made a wedding cake which was never cut or eaten
...
to Penny’s knowledge, that was, for the reception was held at a small hotel in London, and to it were invited only a couple of Stephen’s friends, who also acted as witnesses.
The bride, in a simple suit of dark leaf green, with a heavier coat worn over it when they set off for the coast and the Channel port where they boarded a steamer for Calais, had a slightly dazed look in her brown eyes while the brief ceremony in a register office lasted, and afterwards there was none of the brilliance of a bride about her. Her golden hair, worn short, so that it was a little like a primrose cap, showed to advantage under the little green hat she wore, and her skin looked entrancingly fair with a slight, hectic flush rising up on her cheekbones when the well-known heart specialist who had given her away lifted his glass to toast her as a bride.
Then, as there was nothing to change out of, and they were all ready for the road, they set off in Stephen’s long black car to begin a honeymoon on the Continent that was never to become an established fact, and like the uneaten cake—reposing in a tin at Grangewood!—was never to provide them with memories.
Only one nightmare memory at the very outset.
CHAPTER IV
On t
he way down to Dover Stephen was in such
an
excellent humour that Penny, who was very quiet by comparison, glanced at
him
occasionally to find out how much of it was forced, and how much was genuine.
There had been one moment during the morning, just before they were made man and wife, when she had felt him grow stiff and taut beside her, and when she glanced at
him
she had seen that his lips were set. She would always remember the grim compression of those lips, the faint but noticeable pallor that showed up his dark eyebrows and the blackness of his hair as it lay sleekly against his head. In that moment she knew that he was renouncing everything in the nature of true happiness in the future, and such a wild alarm seized hold of her heart, such a panic because she knew definitely that she was doing the wrong thing!—that it very nearly got the better of her, and she only just stopped herself saying “No, no, I can’t!” when the registrar asked her if she would take Stephen Mervyn Blair to be her lawful wedded husband.
Afterwards, when it was all over, and Stephen’s two old friends were proffering their congratulations, Stephen seemed to undergo a kind of metamorphosis. His mood, which had been so intensely sober, so grave, became gay as if he hadn’t a care in the world—as if he was, indeed, a happily married man—and he caught Penny in his arms and kissed her on the lips and took her breath away for one ecstatic moment of time.
Then he suggested that they repair without delay to the hotel where they were to have lunch, and although there were only four of them, he made such inroads on the champagne already reposing in an ice-bucket beside their table that Penny began to feel a tug of anxiety at her heart.
Stephen’s eyes were like vivid blue flames, and his smile flashed brilliantly in his lean face. Even in moments of the utmost good humour there was a slightly sardonic cast to his features, and although his mouth was an unusually handsome mouth, it developed a twist when he smiled. Penny had often noticed before that it was a curiously dry twist, which rendered his smile a little mirthless, and when he lifted his glass to acknowledge toasts, the mirthlessness flashed out at the same time that his eyes glowed like blue jewels.
On the way down to Dover he continued to talk quickly and lightly while he drove, and Penny found it unnecessary to say very much because most of his talk centred round various episodes and incidents in his past life, and although they were often amusing her smile was a trifle forced.
She began to feel as if there was a lump in her throat that might presently rise up and choke her, and she yearned for just one word from him that would set this wedding day of hers apart from every other day in her life. A word that was not lightly spoken, or with a glib sound to it ... a word that she could treasure, even if it was only her name, spoken with the right sort of intonation.
But when he said her name at last it was with sudden soberness. He must have sensed how desolate she felt, sitting there on the seat beside him, close to
him
yet many miles removed from him, because there was no real bond between them. Not even a spark of genuine affection—on his side, at least. And she was only twenty-four, and she looked very slight and attractive in the dark green suit and the heavy top-coat that was a mixture of greens, like the occasional flecks in her huge brown eyes.
“Poor Penny!” he said, and there was genuine remorse in his voice as one of his hands left the wheel and covered hers. “This isn’t good enough for you, is it? Not a wedding day like this!”
She said nothing, because the lump started steadily to grow in her throat, and he stared ahead through the windscreen, which was becoming misted with a fine rain that was partly sea spray as they drew near to the sea.
“I’m sorry, Penny,” he said suddenly, with grave politeness. “I don’t suppose I should have drunk all that champagne at one go, but it seemed to help things a bit.” She saw him gnaw hard at his lower lip, and something inside her flinched and curled up in a kind of agony. “But you only had a very small glass of champagne, and you haven’t much to look forward to, have you?”
On the boat he looked after her as if she was a small sister of whom he was very fond, and as she was a poor sailor—although she managed somehow not to be sick, in spite of it being rather rough—she was grateful for the warmth and the comfort of his protection.
As she sat, tightly swathed in rugs, in a sheltered
corner
of the deck, where she could get enough salt
-
laden air to overcome the sensation of nausea, she found herself glancing in a secretive fashion at the bright gold ring on her finger, and the only comfort she had that day was in the knowledge that, from now on, she had a right to her husband’s protection.
They had dinner soon after they landed, and then they set off on the drive to Paris through a night that was dark and dismal with softly falling rain. The surface of the road was wet and glistening, and every time a car passed them its sidelights lit up the glistening surface. Stephen’s mood had altered yet again since they left the boat, and he was morose and taciturn as he sat behind the wheel.
Because of the poor visibility, and the fact that it was some time since he had driven on the wrong side of the road on the Continent, he decided against going straight through to Paris, where rooms were reserved for them at one of the bigger hotels; and, between struggling with a faulty windscreen-wiper that refused to function, and endeavouring to get the better of a mood of black depression that almost certainly had something to do with the inclemency of the night, he told Penny that he would stop at the next town of any size and make inquiries about accommodations for the night.
Penny didn’t really care what he did, the blackness and the dampness and the frustration of the man beside her making her feel that nothing was any longer of the smallest consequence. She knew now that she had made a dreadful mistake, and Stephen knew it too, and he was trying to rise above his mounting consternation by swearing softly at the windscreen-wiper, and cursing every motorist who passed them without dipping his lights.
Penny knew that, normally, he would never have behaved like that, with a very new bride beside him.
If, for instance, she was Veronica, and the same conditions prevailed, they wouldn’t matter at all.
She heard him apostrophizing petulantly the glassy surface of the road, and then a car came travelling towards them at terrific speed. Stephen had been letting his car out somewhat unwisely considering the conditions that annoyed him so much, and as the other car came on and its headlights bathed them he uttered an angry sound and trod on the accelerator.
Penny never knew what happened after that, but before it happened she had a wild impression of screeching brakes and tyres that skidded all over the road. Then there was a horribly loud noise that rose above everything else, and she knew no more.
CHAPTER V
When s
he opened her eyes she was in a very quiet room with white-washed walls, and a crucifix hanging on the wall at the foot of her bed.
To her amazement, as she turned her head very slightly, she looked up into the eyes of Aunt Heloise.
“Where am I?” she asked, in a voice that was so faint her aunt barely heard it.
Mrs. Wilmott was instantly afraid that she oughtn’t to have been allowed to say even that much, and she bent over her quickly and reassuringly.
“You’re in the Convent of the Sacred Sisters of the Holy Cross, and they’re looking after you splendidly, so there’s nothing to worry about,” she told her niece. “You mustn’t move, and it will be better if you don’t say very much just now, but if you’d like a drink there’s something cool here in a jug that I can give you.”
Eagerly she poured some of the liquid into a glass and held the latter to Penny’s lips, but Penny merely stared at her with enormous eyes. She wasn’t really seeing her aunt; she was looking down what seemed to her to be a long lane of a telescope, and trying to get a glimpse of a picture that would give her some idea of what had happened.
“Stephen?” she whispered, and because Mrs. Wilmott didn’t reply immediately she uttered the name again and lifted her head from the pillow. Such a blinding pain shot through her head that she gasped and sank back on the pillow. Aunt Heloise decided that this was the moment to summon assistance, and a couple of white-coifed nuns came quickly to the side of the bed.
Penny tried to make them understand that she had to have some information about Stephen, but the white figures merely smiled at her gently, and one of them took her wrist and held it. She heard their low-toned conversation, in French, but her brain refused to register what they were saying, and before they fell silent she was no longer aware of anything that was happening in the room, and Aunt Heloise took her place beside the bed again.
The next time she opened her eyes the small, whitewashed space was full of brilliant morning sunlight, and Aunt Heloise was no longer there. It was a doctor who felt her pulse, who beamed at her with Latin expansiveness, and assured her that she was doing very nicely. He spoke English with very little accent, and he sat on the side of the bed and tried to ascertain whether she had any other tender spots apart from the overwhelmingly tender spot that was her head.
“Don’t worry, young lady,” he said, as she tried to answer. “At the moment you feel as if a steamroller has run over you, yes?” He showed all his white teeth in a reassuring grin. “But that is not so, and in a week —two weeks—you will be out of here. I promise you that, Mademoiselle!”
At the word her eyes grew dark.
“My—my husband?” she insisted. “Tell me about him, please! Is he all right?”
The doctor rose and put away his stethescope.
“Your pardon, Madame, I forgot that you are a
married lady.” He withdrew to some inner room, and Aunt Heloise came out, looking as if she had spent the night in unfamiliar surroundings, and had had to make do with substitutes instead of her own personal belongings. She was tall and angular, addicted to trying colours like various shades of mauve, and normally her complexion was rather florid. But this morning her eyes looked heavy, and there was very little colour in her cheeks.
Penny didn’t need to be told that she was being determinedly bright as she sat down beside the bed.
“The doctor says you’ve had a remarkable escape,” she disclosed, as she started to fidget with the counterpane, and made restless passes over the somewhat coarse linen pillow-cases. “I wish I had you at Grangewood, you could be so comfortable in your own little room. But never mind, darling,
I’ll
soon take you home
—
”
Penny’s eyes were on her face, and her lips moved.
“Stephen?’ she asked.
Aunt Heloise made a clumsy movement and rose to her feet. She poured a glass of barley water and was so awkward over returning the jug to the table that she upset some of it and had to mop it up with her handkerchief.
“So clumsy,” she murmured, and then sat down again beside her niece. She took Penny’s hand and held it. “Darling,” she said quietly, “you mustn’t worry about Stephen, because the doctors say he’ll be perfectly all right, but at the moment he’s not as good as you are. He’s just a bit more hurt.”
Penny’s eyes contracted.
“How badly hurt?”
Mrs. Wilmott made a slight gesture with her free hand.
“He wasn’t conscious last night, but I believe he has come round this morning. But in any case, he won’t be allowed to stay here, because this is only a very tiny hospital—run by nuns, you understand—and the doctors think that in Paris he will receive much more expert treatment. He is being taken there by ambulance
...
Perhaps not today, but tomorrow.”
Penny made as if she would lift herself up in bed, but Aunt Heloise had received her instructions, and she skilfully prevented her.
“No, no, darling, you must be patient! It won’t help Stephen at all if you refuse to co-operate with the doctors and do silly things. Besides, your head hurts, doesn’t it?”
That was an understatement, but Penny wasn’t greatly concerned with her own head. In all the years that she had lived with her aunt she had never known her to call her darling so frequently in such a short space of time, and the fact that she seemed likely to go on doing so aroused a deep feeling of dread inside her. “Can I see him?” she asked, her lips very dry.
Mrs. Wilmott shook her head.
“Not—not now, darling. Perhaps tomorrow, before he leaves.”
“You mean they’ll take me to him?”
“We’ll see.”
But when the next day’s sunshine filled the little room, Stephen had left the Convent of the Sacred Sisters of the Holy Cross, and although Penny asked after him repeatedly she was merely told that the convent was in touch with the hospital by telephone, and she would be kept informed of her husband’s condition. Aunt Heloise tried to boost her morale by assuring her that Stephen would be magnificently looked after—that the hospital was wonderfully equipped, and they had everything to hand—but the one thing she did not tell her was that Stephen had asked after her.
Two days later, however, she was able to report—quite truthfully, Penny believed—that Stephen was improving, and two days after that it was considered wise to let her know that the improvement was being maintained. After a week of being confined to the little room, when she was allowed up for the first time, Penny was further heartened by the news that her husband was making progress, and the next day she learned that he was being flown to London to his own hospital.
“They’re bound to look after him there,” Mrs. Wilmott, still rather fulsome, assured her, “so you have absolutely nothing to worry about, darling!”
But Penny was so consumed with worry that it impeded her own progress, and by the time she was considered fit to be discharged and travel home to England she had been a full fortnight with the Sisters.
Aunt Heloise accompanied her back to England, and put up with her at the small hotel in Kensington which she herself had patronized for years. When she suggested that they go straight home to Grangewood Penny would not consider the suggestion for a moment, and to calm her Mrs. Wilmott agreed that perhaps it would be better to be near Stephen. Penny had the feeling that everyone was seeking to prevent her seeing for herself just how badly Stephen was injured, and as soon as she arrived in London she insisted on taking a taxi to the hospital, with Aunt Heloise still at her side.
Stephen was in a private wing at the hospital, and it was the matron herself who conducted them to his room. Penny looked to her quite unlike a bride of a couple of weeks, and she was so pale, and so consumed with anxiety, that she spoke to her very gently when she opened the door.
“Your husband has been looking forward to seeing you, Mrs. Blair.” Vaguely it struck Penny as odd that she should be addressed as Mrs. Blair. On the Continent she had been simply Madame. “We told him this morning that you were arriving back in London today.”
Aunt Heloise gripped her niece’s arm as the matron stepped towards the bed—which seemed to Penny very high, and very narrow, although the room was quite pleasant, with cool green walls and a lot of immaculate white paintwork—and announced their presence. From the bed came a low murmur.
“Hello, Sunshine! Where are you?”
In response to a signal from the matron Aunt Heloise allowed Penny to stand alone, and then she withdrew into the background. Penny heard a soft whisper:
“Ten minutes, Mrs. Blair!”
Stephen’s hand was groping for Penny, and after a few seconds in which she felt as if her heart would burst, she moved forward impulsively to the side of the bed, and caught at that wasted hand. It seemed to her that Stephen was simply enveloped in bandages, but most of them were concealing his head and face. His eyes were entirely covered, and she realized that he couldn’t possibly see her.
“Oh, Stephen!” she gulped, and then her legs gave way under her and she was glad of the chair someone thrust beneath her.
Stephen’s voice had a whimsical note in it when he spoke again.
“I believe you’re upset. Don’t be, Penny Wise! I’m doing nicely—or so they tell me—and although these bandages probably make me look as if I’m deserving of a vast amount of sympathy, I’m not as badly damaged beneath them as you might think!” His hand was still grasping hers tightly—more tightly than he had ever grasped it before—and his voice altered when he inquired how she herself was doing. “My poor little bride of such a few hours! I’m afraid I let you in for rather a bitter experience!”
“I’m all right now,” Penny assured him, a tear rolling down her cheek
...
although, of course, he couldn’t see it. “I was never very badly hurt, anyway, but
...
I was worried about you!”
“And do you think I haven’t been worried about you?” His voice was intensely grave, a little weaker than before because he was obviously overcome by quite a wave of emotion. “I’ve thought about you more or less continuously since I regained consciousness. You’ve come between me and these bandages so many times that I feel I’ve got you off by heart.” He laughed shakily. “That absurd golden fringe of yours
...
the way your hair attracts the sunshine! Have you still got golden hair, or have I turned it grey?”
“Of course not,” she replied, trying to laugh with him. “But at the moment I’m afraid it’s a bit of a mess, because I haven’t been near a hairdresser since
...
” she was about to say “the accident”, but amended it in favour of—“since we were married.”
“Just the same, I wish I could see you,” he said, with a wistfulness that caught at her heart. “Where are you staying, Penny, and who is looking after you?”
She told him, “Aunt Heloise. We’re staying at the Grantchester in Kensington in order to be near you.” He sighed.
“I never thought I’d live to be grateful to your Aunt Heloise. But if she’s taken charge of you then I am grateful.”
“She came all the way from the South of France as soon as the authorities notified her that I was at the convent. She’s been wonderful,” she added, because it was no more than the truth.
She expected him to ask, “And Veronica?” But he did nothing of the kind. Instead, he reached for her hand again, and when she slid it into his he gripped it convulsively.
“You’ll come and see me every day until they let me out of here?”
“Of course. If they’ll allow me.”
“Allow you?” His voice had a touch of the old arrogance. “Of course they’ll allow you. You’re my wife, aren’t you?”
Her heart expanded, and for the first time for many days and nights she felt warm and comforted inside. She was his wife, and he wanted her to visit him! He had thought of her a lot while he was lying there!
A sister whispered at her elbow that her time was up, and she stood up and bent over Stephen.
“I’ll have to go.”
“But you’ll be back tomorrow?” He seemed to be tugging her towards him, and she bent and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. Unfortunately she left a warm tear behind.
Stephen said good-bye huskily, and added:
“Bless you, Sunshine!”