To Journey Together (10 page)

The name was not so uncommon, she assured herself. It was ten chances to one that this was not Kenneth's Rosemary.

At first she thought she would tell Lady Connelton about the girl coming to apologize for having run Rudi down. She could mention the name quite casually and see if there were any reaction. For, she remembered from the overheard conversation in the library, Lady Connelton had evidently had some

acquaintance with Kenneth's Rosemary, whoever she might be.

But when she actually came to framing the sentences she was overcome by sudden shyness and knew that she could never carry off the scene with calm self-possession. So she decided not to say anything at all—just to leave things as they were, and hope that the girl would leave the village again without their meeting.

This was too much to hope in so small a place, however. The very next morning proved how vain a hope.

Sir Daniel had sent Elinor down to the countrified post office to enquire about a parcel expected from the London office, and, as she stood at the counter, a friendly, familiar voice greeted her. Turning reluctantly, Elinor saw that the girl in the charming blac
k and yellow ski
ing outfit was Rosemary Copeland.

She responded to the greeting and tried to look as amiable as possible, but Elinor was well aware that the glance bestowed upon her contained an element of mischievous interest and curiosity with which she could well have dispensed.

"How is—your brother today?"

"Mr. von Eiberg isn't my brother." Rudi might be able to keep up this sort of thing, but Elinor could not. "I think he is going on quite well," she added a little stiffly. Then she turned back to the counter and enquired about her parcel.

It had arrived, it seemed, but there were some formalities, which involved giving both the name of the sender and the recipient. Elinor determinedly focused her attention on the matter in hand, and hoped that the other girl would have drifted away by the time the transaction was completed.

This was not the case, however. As Elinor turned

once more from the counter, Rosemary Copeland,

who had obviously been waiting for her, fell into step

beside her and accompanied her out of the post office.

"I couldn't help hearing the name you mentioned

when you collected that parcel," she said, as they

started up the village street together. "Do you know Sir Daniel Connelton well?"

A most disagreeable sensation invaded Elinor—a feeling of the inevitability of something very unwelcome to come. But it was useless to prevaricate.

"He is my employer," she said, as calmly as she could. "I am his secretary."

"Are you?" The other girl stopped in her tracks for a moment. Then, as she trudged on again through the snow, she laughed on a note which held something of mischievous amusement and something of genuine annoyance. "So you are the girl the particular Conneltons chose in preference to me."

IT WAS quite the most uncomfortable moment Elinor had ever experienced. In the usual way, of course, she was the last sort of girl to be involved in a questionable situation and she had no idea how to cope with this one. She could only think how mortifying it was that this girl, of all people, should have been the one to see her do something which, innocent though her motive had been, would take some explaining even to someone who knew her well.

There was an awkward little pause, while Elinor tried to think of something graceful and casual to say. But, long before she could do so, the other girl went on, with the faintest note of amused malice sounding in her voice, "I like your Rudi von Eiberg. Is he one of the party?"

"Oh, no. We met him and his sister on the journey out. They happened to be coming to Ehrwald too."

"How very nice—for you," the other girl said, and this time her laugh clearly recalled the circumstances of their first meeting.

Try as she would to appear unaffected by this, Elinor felt her cheeks go crimson. And then, in a burst of candour which came naturally, if ill-advisedly, to her, she exclaimed:

"I know one doesn't usually go out of one's way to explain private affairs to strangers, but, since you must have got an entirely wrong impression yesterday, I'd like to say that I am not at all on—on kissing terms with Mr. von Eiberg. I was just—moved by something he told me—and it made me cry. And he —I suppose he thought that the best way of consoling me. It all sounds dreadfully silly put into words, but "

"It doesn't at all," Rosemary Copeland retorted lightly. "It sounds immense fun. I think I shall try crying a few tears of remorse on his shoulder. I

shouldn't a bit mind being consoled the same way." And she laughed.

"But I assure you " began Elinor. And then

she saw that it would have been much, much better to have left all this clumsy explanation unsaid.

She looked indescribably chagrined. At which the other girl, laughing and patting her arm—a familiarity which Elinor secretly resented—exclaimed, "Don't worry. I'm not the kind to tell tales."

Immediately Elinor knew that she was. She would tell them amusingly, and only just the least bit maliciously— but completely damagingly. Further protestations, however, would be less than useless, and, in any case, they had now arrived at the hotel.

"Are you coming in to see Sir Daniel and Lady Connelton?" Elinor asked stiffly. "You know them, don't you?"

"I have met her once or twice—not him. But—no, thank you, I don't think I'll come in without the moral support of Ken. Anyway, I've decided to leave Ehrwald today. I'm going on to Vienna."

Elinor could hardly disguise her relief.

"Perhaps we shall meet there?" Rosemary went

on.

"I don't think so," Elinor said quickly. "I haven't heard anything about our going to Vienna."

"One never knows," Rosemary Copeland said rather wickedly.

Then they parted with a few cool words, and Elinor almost ran into the hotel, hoping profoundly that she would never have to see that laughing, brightly inquisitive face again.

To her surprise, she found Ilsa and Lady Connelton chatting away in the lounge like old friends, though previously they had not seemed to have so very much in common. And, as Elinor approached, Lady Connelton looked up and exclaimed, "Here she is! Come here, my dear, and let us hear what you think of our little plan."

Elinor came and sat down, smiling and happy

once more to be with people who neither disconcerted nor alarmed her.

"How would you like to visit Vienna?"

Lady Connelton dangled the prospect before Elinor as one might dangle a toy before a child. And, in the ordinary way, Elinor's reactions would probably have had something of a child's delight and astonishment in them. As it was, following so immediately and with such disturbing coincidence on Rosemary's talk of meetings in Vienna, the proposal had an alarming, as well as a fascinating quality to it.

"I should—love it, of course," she began soberly. Then she glanced from one to the other. Both, she thought, had a slightly conspiratorial air. "Is it Sir Daniel's idea?" she enquired.

Lady Connelton rubbed the bridge of her nose reflectively, a habit of hers when she was considering her words.

"Not exactly," she admitted. "Not yet, that is. But I believe I might make him think it was, which is always such a help, of course, when you want a man to do something. He doesn't know anything about it yet. But I must say that I find the idea most attractive."

Elinor thought of seeing Vienna with Ilsa—and Rudi. She too then found the idea so attractive that she almost managed to thrust into the background the vague, uncomfortable possibility of running across Rosemary Copeland somewhere in that city.

But the fears refused to be entirely banished, and so she enquired, with a casualness which had considerable anxiety, "Would Kenneth come too, do you suppose?"

"Oh, I expect so. I don't think he has an unlim—

ited capacity for enjoying snowy scenery and rural

peace, any more than I have," Lady Connelton

replied briskly. "It is very lovely here, of course.

But—" her eyes sparkled—"I want to do some shopping, and Vienna is a woman's shopping paradise."

"You could either pick up the Arlberg Express,"

Ilsa suggested helpfully, "and go by train from Inns-

bruck. Or you could have a car and go at your leisure by way of Salzburg and "

"That's it!" declared Lady Connelton, full of energetic good-humour. "I think my husband has some business to attend to in Salzburg. We will all go together."

"You don't think he ought to have a longer rest here first?" Elinor bound felt to say, though her desire to make this trip was rising every moment.

"No, no," declared Sir Daniel's wife, a trifle cavalierly. "He is as right as rain by now. Just a little bored, which makes him think about symptoms he hasn't got. This change will do him a world of good too. We'll have a car and take our time—that's an excellent idea. But mind—" she added to Elinor —"nothing about this to my husband for the moment."

"Of course not!" exclaimed Elinor, who would never, in any case, have taken it upon herself to volunteer information to her employer unasked.

"I'll choose the best time and circumstances to let him know what a good idea he has had," Lady Connelton said, with a twinkle in her eye.

Then she took the parcel which Elinor had collected and went off with a satisfied air—possibly to find out if the circumstances were propitious for her husband's immediate enlightenment.

As she departed, Ilsa met Elinor's glance, and gave her the slightest roguish wink.

"Ilsa! What is that for?" Elinor wanted to know, as soon as they were alone.

"Comment on a neat piece of work," Ilsa retorted carelessly. "Now we shall have you in Vienna at the same time as ourselves. Rudi told me I was to see about it somehow."

"Rudi did?" Elinor was shocked. "Do you mean that this is a—a sort of put-up job?"

"Only in so far as all one's little plans to get one's own way might be called that." Ilsa smiled and shrugged. "You obviously couldn't come without your employers. Equally obviously your employers

must be made to see how much they would enjoy such a visit."

"Ilsa, you are shameless." Elinor laughed protestingly, and a trifle uncomfortably.

"Not at all. They will enjoy themselves immensely. We will even go to great trouble to see that they do. I like your Lady Connelton."

"Oh, so do I!" Elinor agreed emphatically. "She is a darling to me. More like a very nice aunt than my employer."

"It would be rather fun," Ilsa said reflectively, "if we could all go together."

"By car?"

"By car."

"There would be six of us," Elinor pointed out doubtfully.

"There are six-seater cars to be had," Ilsa replied coolly. "I am sure Sir Daniel knows how to get hold of one."

Elinor was silent, again feeling rather uncomfortable. It would, of course, be lovely to have Ilsa and Rudi with them, and if the Conneltons had of their own accord offered the von Eibergs a lift to Vienna, that would be one thing. But she could not quite escape the impression that Ilsa was once more getting ready to "pull strings" and that she was merely making use of the Conneltons for her own and her brother's convenience.

"Well, we'll see what Sir
D
a
niel
has to say about the whole thing," Elinor said. And if there was a faint hint of reserve in her manner, Ilsa apparently did not notice it.

Sir Daniel said "yes". Not, Elinor was relieved and pleased to find, because he was taken in either by his wife's good-humoured scheming or by Ilsa's more subtle "arranging", but because he genuinely liked the idea.

"I can't say I ever need much persuasion to go to Vienna," he told Elinor, with a reminiscent smile, when he broached the subject over dictation a morning or two later. "First place abroad I ever visited."

"Was it?" Elinor smiled at him sympathetically.

"I was a schoolboy then, before the first World War," Sir Daniel went on reflectively, as though in retrospect he looked at another world. As indeed perhaps he did. "It's the most romantic city in Europe, I suppose. London's the finest, Rome's the most beautiful, but Vienna is—or was—the real city of romance. You'll probably fall in love there—" he glanced indulgently at Elinor—"everyone does. That's when the Danube seems blue, you know. That's what they say—it's blue only when you're in love. Rather a muddy grey most other times, to tell you the truth. Well, well, it was blue enough for me that first time." He chuckled a little to himself. "I've forgotten what her name was," he added elliptically. "She was a dancer at the Opera, and old enough to be my mother, I expect. But she said six words to me at the stage door—and, I can tell you, the Danube was blue."

Elinor laughed delightedly, and looked at her employer with new eyes. She had long ago decided that she liked him very much, but she had not before suspected him of quite so much humour and understanding.