Once You Have Found Him

by Esther Wyndham

  Directly she got up to her room she put through a call to her own flat in London, but there was no reply. She had not really expected that there would be. Now that Ericka’s father knew that they were married they probably had no need of her flat any more, although they might have gone there to ring her up. She wondered more than ever what Erika had to say to her. Had there been a fresh development or was it just a friendly call? Well, whatever it was there was no means of finding out now. She would have to wait until Erika got hold of her, which would probably be at Dr. Francis’ tomorrow. Or would she try telephoning to the hotel again this evening? At this thought she said to herself, “The sooner I get out of here the better.” Not for anything in the world would she go through the Miss Duncan ordeal again.

  She began to pack in a frantic hurry and all the time her brain was working with a corresponding speed. Was this how criminals felt when they were trying to outwit the law? It was very like being chased in a nightmare. She felt as if she were alone against the whole world.

  How best was she going to work it this evening? How was she going to stop Romilly from learning the truth?

  The wisest course, she decided, would be to stay out with him as late as possible that evening; then if he insisted on dropping her back at her hotel, as he probably would, she could say that it was too late to introduce him to her parents as they would already be in bed. He would drop her at the door of the hotel and as soon as he was safely out of the way she could leave again. If the porter of the hotel thought it odd it just couldn’t be helped. In some way she must avoid dropping her luggage at the hotel when they got back to London. She might run into Erika, or some dreadful embarrassment might arise ... Would it perhaps be better to say that she would rather have dinner in Brighton? No, the chance of being discovered in this hotel where her real identity was known, seemed greater than any other. And she must find some means in the course of the evening to ensure that he did not telephone to her again, or rather to Erika. She wished now that she had told him that they were going to Paris the next day. If she could keep her head this evening all might yet be well.

  They left the hotel without mishap and Poppy did not expect any difficulty on the short journey to London, but an awkwardness arose even before they got to the station. Thoughtlessly she produced the return half of her third-class ticket.

  “I can’t imagine you travelling third,” he said.

  “Was I travelling third?” she asked with apparent artlessness. “I didn’t even know it. I just asked for a return ticket to Brighton. I must have been at the wrong pigeon hole. Does it make much difference?”

  “Only to the comfort of one’s legs. The seats are wider in the first class.”

  “You must suffer, having long legs like yours.”

  “One suffers in theatres and cinemas—or when one has to sit too long ... We’ll pay the difference on your ticket in the train.”

  When the ticket collector came along during the journey Poppy wanted to pay the difference herself but Romilly insisted on paying it for her. “I can’t give you mink and diamonds,” he said laughingly, “but at least I can pay a few shillings on your railway ticket. By the way, what has happened to all your jewels?”

  She made the same excuse as she had made to Philippa, that it was safer not to bring them to a hotel.

  They were sitting opposite each other in corner seats of the compartment and he was looking at her intently. “You look so different,” he said suddenly.

  “Different from what?”

  “From what you did at Hanbridge.”

  “In what way?”

  “You look quite English!”

  “It’s this suit, I expect. I bought it over here off the peg—”

  “It suits you—no pun intended! ... You look—how shall I put it?—I don’t quite know. More familiar, more approachable.”

  “Do you like me better like this?” She could not resist the question.

  “Will you be offended if I say yes?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “Can you tell me why?”

  “I think it is that seeing you as you are now, I feel that I could give you more.”

  “It means a lot to you, doesn’t it, this idea of giving to a woman?”

  “Yes, it means everything,” he answered simply.

  When they got to Victoria he asked her whether she wanted to drop her luggage back at her hotel. She only had one suitcase with her and he had already commented on this on the way to the station at Brighton. “You didn’t have as much as this when I met you at Pulborough!” he had said facetiously.

  “Would it be a bore to take it with us?” she asked. “Mother won’t be expecting me back yet.” She was terrified lest he should suggest going back to her hotel to meet her parents.

  “Not a bit. I thought of taking you to a little club of mine. The food’s quite good and there aren’t many places to go on a Sunday. But it’s still a bit early—it doesn’t really get going till nine—would you like to come to my flat first for a drink? I’d like to show it to you.”

  “Oh, I’d love to see it.” It would indeed be a joy to see where he lived.

  “Dennis may be there. I don’t know.”

  They took a taxi to Middle Temple Lane, and Romilly left Poppy’s suitcase with the porter at the lodge, and then they walked down the lane and turned left through an archway into Hare Court.

  “Do you mind a lot of stairs?” Romilly asked. “We’re on the top.”

  There were four flights of uncarpeted wooden stairs which smelt strongly of mice. When they got to the top Romilly said, “Oh, I see Dennis isn’t in.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the outer door’s shut. To shut the outer door is called here ‘sporting one’s oak’.”

  Romilly opened the outer and the inner door and they went in. Poppy felt immediately as if she were in another world. It was in rooms such as these that Charles Lamb must have lived, and she felt that she had stepped back into the eighteenth century. The sitting-room was panelled and beautifully proportioned. The two windows with deep window-seats looked out over the plane trees of Pump Court. There was a blessed sense of peace and a deep quiet.

  “Oh, but this is enchanting,” she said, looking round eagerly. “And what lovely furniture you’ve got. Is it yours?”

  “Yes, mostly. There are a few odds and ends of Dennis’s, but the flat is actually mine and we have an understanding that Dennis moves out when I marry.”

  What pain these words gave her. Who would live here with him? Would it be Daphne Cunningham? Somehow she could not imagine Mrs. Cunningham in these surroundings.

  All the furniture in the sitting-room was of antique walnut shining with the lustrous patina of generations of polishing. There was an open fireplace and Poppy could imagine how in winter the firelight would wink and glisten on the highly polished surface of the beautiful old tall-boy opposite. How cosy it would be with the olive green velvet curtains closed against the winter dark.

  “You look very thoughtful,” he said. “What are yea thinking of?”

  “How cosy it would be in winter.”

  “Yes, it is, and it’s extraordinary peaceful at all times. When the offices close at about six we have the Court practically to ourselves.”

  “It has such a tremendous atmosphere,” she said. “I have never known a place with so much atmosphere. It sort of grips you ... May I see the rest of it?”

  “Of course. It’s very old-fashioned and inconvenient in lots of ways, but it has its compensations.”

  “I should think the inconveniences, whatever they are, count for very little compared to the beauty and the peace.”

  “I’m glad you think so. That’s what I feel.”

  He showed her round the rest of the flat. There were two bedrooms, the larger of which was also panelled and fitted with deep cupboards; there was a bathroom with a geyser and a tiny cupboard of a kitchen.

  “We eat in the hall,” he told her. “We pull this
table out.”

  “I think it’s perfect—ideal,” she said. “I can’t see that there are any disadvantages.”

  “The stairs for one thing.”

  “Oh, they are good for one’s figure!”

  “It’s pretty cold in winter.”

  “But I’m sure one can warm it up very quickly.”

  “Yes, it does get beautifully warm when it’s lived in. It’s coming back on a Sunday night in winter that one feels it most.”

  “But is there any place that’s absolutely perfect?” she asked. “And wouldn’t one rather hate it if it were!”

  He laughed. “I see you’re determined to hear nothing against it ... I’m glad you like it so much. I must confess I’m a bit partial to it myself.”

  “I envy you living here. I think it’s utterly delightful.”

  “Surely you wouldn’t like it after all the luxurious places you are used to?”

  “I think it’s utterly delightful,” she could only repeat.

  “Let me get you a drink,” he said. “What will you have? Would you like a cocktail?”

  She had taken particular note of his bedroom while he was showing her around. It was a typical masculine room evincing very few signs of his personality, and it did not teach her anything about him. There were no photographs of any kind and the pictures on the wall were old aquatints of Venice. The books in the sitting-room told her more. They were books that had obviously been bought for reading and not for show, and she noticed among them many of her own favorites.

  “Do you work here as well?” she asked.

  “Oh, no. Haven’t you ever seen a barrister’s chambers? Mine are only just round the corner, but I wouldn’t like to live among all that mess and dirt and grimy law books.”

  “I’d like to see you in your wig and gown.”

  “Will you have time to come and hear a case?”

  “I’m afraid not. We are probably leaving on Tuesday and I shall have a million things to do tomorrow.”

  The club where Romilly took her to dine was somewhere in the maze of streets which is Soho. It had a charming roof garden which was open in summer and there was dancing to the music of a guitar and an accordion. She suddenly realized that she was not adequately dressed.

  “I should have changed,” she said ruefully. “I was overdressed for Goodwood and now I’m underdressed!”

  “I like you as you are,” he replied. “You look charming. Which reminds me, talking of clothes, I do hope that dress of yours will really be all right when it’s cleaned. I should hate to think it was spoilt, even though I don’t suppose I shall ever see it again. But I shall like to think of you wearing it.”

  “I shall think of you whenever I wear it,” she said truthfully.

  The menu was presented to them and as soon as they had ordered, he asked casually, “Have you seen anything of Arthur Bingle?”

  “No.”

  “Hasn’t he rung you up?”

  “No.”

  “I suppose that means that he is still with Daphne. Daphne’s father was taken ill, you know, and Arthur motored her over there last Sunday. She’s not back yet.” He sounded depressed all at once and Poppy experienced a most unpleasant pang of jealousy. She had never been so certain as she was at that moment that he cared for Daphne.

  He changed the subject abruptly. “I do hope everything comes right for you and Lew,” he said.

  “I hope so too,” was all she could find to say. “I hope things come right for both of us,” she added after a slight pause. She rather wished that he would go on talking about Daphne. Painful as it was to her it was better to know the truth.

  He raised his glass. “Here’s to us both,” he said.

  She touched glasses with him and echoed his words. “What will you do?” he asked.

  “In what way? How do you mean?”

  “If your father still goes on refusing his consent?”

  “We shall just go off and get married without his consent.”

  “You would really do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long will you give it—before doing that, I mean?”

  “We don’t intend to wait much longer.” Oh, how she hated this tangle of lies in which she had involved herself. She seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper and there was no extricating herself. Couldn’t they talk of something impersonal?

  “Will you let me know what happens?” he asked.

  “Would you like me to?”

  “Of course. We’re not going to lose touch now, are we? At least you’ll write to me. I sincerely wish you happiness.”

  “So do I you.”

  “Then you will write?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should like to know what you think of Paris.”

  She must tell Erika to write to him and let him know after a time that she was married. He need not know when the wedding had taken place.

  For the rest of the evening they talked about places abroad. He had travelled a great deal in Europe and he told her of everything he would like her to see if she got the chance. She must go to Venice if she possibly could, and to Florence. People as a whole were divided between the Venice-lovers and the Florence-lovers and seldom seemed to care for both places, but he saw no reason why one should not love them both equally. There was nothing irreconcilable about them.

  It must be wonderful to travel with him as one’s guide, she thought. “I wish you were coming with us,” she said aloud, and then regretted the remark when he answered, “Well, perhaps I’ll join you if you still happen to be in Europe when I take my second week’s holiday ... By the way, have you ever been painted?”

  “Yes, I have as a matter of fact,” she replied, remembering the young artist, a friend of Dr. Francis, who had recently painted her. It was such a relief to be able to speak the truth to him. “Why do you ask?”

  “I was only thinking how paintable you were. If I were an artist I should want to paint you.”

  They danced together a few times and she was delighted when he asked the accordionist to play “Some Enchanted Evening,” but there was an undercurrent of sadness now in the pleasure of being with him. She knew that this evening which they had spent alone together was not going to make it any easier for her to forget him afterwards. In fact it was going to be almost impossibly difficult. Judging from the unhappiness she had experienced during the past week at Brighton she could guess how depressing the future was going to be.

  She never wanted the evening to end and he did not seem to be in any hurry to leave either. It was only when the place was obviously on the point of closing that he said at last, “Well, I suppose we must go or we shall be swept out with the crumbs.”

  It was almost one o’clock. They had left her suitcase in the cloakroom and now they got it out and found a cruising taxi.

  “I’ll drop you,” he said, and he gave the driver the name of her hotel.

  “It’s been a wonderful evening, a wonderful day altogether,” she said as she sank back in the taxi. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Don’t try. It’s for me to thank you anyhow for coming out with me ... I suppose it really is good-bye this time if you’re off on Tuesday?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Let’s say good-bye now. I detest telephoning.”

  “So do I as a matter of fact. I thought you didn’t sound too pleased to hear me when I rang you up the other day!”

  “That was because I felt so ill.”

  They had reached the hotel and he got out and helped her out. The night porter took her suitcase. “Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand, “and thank you, thank you again for everything.”

  “Good-bye, Erika,” and his voice sounded strangely serious. “You will write?” and he leant forward and kissed her on the cheek.

  As she entered the hotel he got back into the taxi and drove off.

  “Have you got a reservation, miss?” the porter asked her.

  “No, I’m afraid I’ve made a mis
take. I’m in the wrong hotel. Would you mind getting me a taxi?”

  The porter looked at her very strangely but complied without a word. She tipped him handsomely but was conscious that he thought her at least slightly mad.

  She felt dazed, almost numb, when she got back to her own flat. All she wanted was to get into bed as quickly as possible and blot out this pain of parting in sleep.

  She looked in the glass at the place on her cheek which his lips had touched, almost expecting to see some visible sign of this kiss which had burnt into her heart.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE next morning, Poppy’s telephone rang just as she was setting out to work. It was Erika. “Thank goodness I’ve got you,” Erika said. “I tried you yesterday at your hotel—”

  “I know you did,” and Poppy told her briefly about her meeting with the Hanbridges and her embarrassment when she was “paged” at tea, and how Romilly had come up with her in the train and they had dined together.

  “Oh, dear, that makes it worse and worse,” Erika said. “Such a dreadful thing has happened. Dad’s become so reconciled to our marriage that he wants to stay in England a few days longer and give a wedding party for us of all the people we’ve met over here.”

  “That doesn’t sound very dreadful. It sounds like good news.”

  “You wait. He’s going to ask the Hanbridges.”

  “Oh, my goodness.”

  ‘Yes, it has been my goodness, I can tell you.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “There was only one thing to do, Poppy, I’m afraid, and I’ve done it. I had to tell him the truth. Don’t worry your name hasn’t come into it. Wild horses wouldn’t drag that out of me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “What didn’t he say! Oh, it’s been dreadful. I’ve never seen him so angry in my life. Poor, Lew came in for it too for allowing me to do such a thing.”