During the next week, Anne called in every day to see Mr. Jerome. There was not always work for her to do, of course. But even when there were no letters, she generally stayed for a short talk. At first this concerned only business. But, as they inevitably became on less official terms, their conversations became more informal.
Deborah appeared to have accepted the situation quite amicably by now. She was never specially friendly to Anne. But then Anne guessed that she was incapable of warm friendliness in her manner towards anyone. They passed the time of day agreeably to each other, and Anne always took care to see Deborah before going upstairs to Mr. Jerome’s room. She also inquired gravely about his condition, as though she recognised Deborah as the real fount of information about everything to do with him.
Towards the end of the week, Mr. Jerome said one afternoon:
‘We shall have to come to some arrangement about payment, Miss Hemming, now that you’re working for, me daily.’
‘Oh, no!’ Anne was shocked, and looked it. ‘Oh, please don’t think of that. Quite often there’s no work for me to do. And when there is, I—I like to do it.’
He glanced at her sharply.
‘If you still have some idea about making up for that earlier loss, please dismiss it. The incident is closed, you know.’
‘Thank you. I—know it is. I wasn’t really going to stress that point. It’s just that—’
j ‘Yes?’ said Mr. Jerome, who never allowed one to get away with an informative silence. He liked things in black and white. ‘It’s just—what?’
Anne coloured.
‘You’ve been very—kind and friendly to me, Mr. Jerome, and I appreciated being—being included in the discussion about the Firth & Farraday contract. I feel that all this has been something special, something a little outside the ordinary office framework. I enjoyed making my—well, my contribution to it. I mean that, just as Mr. Pennerley didn’t mind a couple of tiresome night journeys for the good of the firm, in an emergency, I have felt very glad to do some extra work, for the same cause. I—hope you will understand.’
He studied her in a cool, not unkindly manner.
‘Yes, I think I understand. It’s very nice of you. But rather unbusinesslike. I should have thought it was sufficient contribution to give up so much time on a holiday, without doing it unpaid.’
‘But I’m having a considerably longer holiday than I should have in the ordinary way, Mr. Jerome. Than I should if there had been no break in my—employment at the office, I mean.’
He laughed.
‘Something in that, I suppose. At the same time, I hope you can prolong your holiday until I’m fit to travel back to London. It’s very convenient—’ He paused, as though he suddenly found that an ungraciously inadequate word. ‘It’s a very nice arrangement for me, having you here.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’ Anne hoped that he didn’t guess quite what a glow of pleasure that gave her. ‘And certainly I can arrange to stay on longer.’
‘In that case, we must certainly come to some financial arrangement,’ he said firmly. ‘I can’t have you put to the expense of staying at a luxury hotel, just to suit my convenience.’
‘Oh, we’ll talk about that later,’ Anne declared airily, because the spurious feeling of wealth, created by Miss Stebbings’ legacy, had by no means faded.
He frowned, however, and started to say something else. But at that moment, Deborah came in, with the afternoon post.
‘There’s only one for you, David. From the office.’ She handed it over, and stood talking to Anne for a few moments about nothing in particular.
She was not, Anne felt sure, genuinely interested in the office side of her fiancé’s life. But she always affected to concern herself with it to some extent, as though to show that she had some connection with everything to do with him.
Although it was to Anne she was talking, she broke off immediately at the slight exclamation from the bed.
‘Is anything wrong, David?’ She looked across at her fiancé, who, with the letter spread out in front of him, was studying the contents with a frown. He even, Anne noticed, was biting his lip with some very strong emotion.
‘We’ve lost the contract, that’s all,’ he replied curtly, without looking up.
‘The Firth & Farraday contract?’ Anne cried, on a note of indescribable dismay and disappointment.
He nodded, still without looking up.
‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ Deborah said kindly, but without much concern. ‘But don’t upset yourself, David. There’ll be other contracts.’
He made no answer to this undoubted, but uncomforting, truth.
As for Anne, she could have cried. Somehow, in the excitement and satisfaction of having done all the work in connection with the bid for this particular contract, she had almost forgotten that there was anything competitive about it. She had never even thought of their losing it. Besides, both Mr. Jerome and Mr. Pennerley had been so confident.
Deborah waited for a moment, but as neither of the other two said anything, she gave a slight shrug.
‘It isn’t the end of the world. Don’t look so disconsolate, both of you.’ And, on this parting piece of inadequate consolation, she went out of the room.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ Anne said, with a little catch in her voice. ‘I felt so sure—I never imagined our not getting it.’
‘I felt ninety-nine per cent sure myself,’ Mr. Jerome admitted. ‘Though, of course, these things are never certain.’
‘Are you—terribly disappointed?’
He glanced up then, as though struck by her tone of voice.
‘I’m not exactly, reduced to tears,’ he said. ‘So please don’t be either.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You sound rather like it.’ He laughed suddenly, and held out his hand. ‘Come, cheer up. As Deborah says, there’ll be other contracts.’
‘Yes—of course.’
But she felt there would never be another contract quite like this one. It had meant so much, in more ways than one. Besides, Mr. Pennerley had said it was pretty nearly the biggest thing they had ever handled. Or would have been —if it had been theirs.
However, if Mr. Jerome was taking the disappointment well, it was hardly for her to insist on mourning. She managed to smile, as she put her hand into his and exchanged what she supposed might be regarded as a sympathetic handclasp.
‘The contract had its uses, even if we lost it,’ he said, almost teasingly. ‘It restored a valuable member of our staff to us.’
‘Oh.’ She laughed and bit her lip, for she was touched by that, as well as amused. ‘Thank you. But I’m afraid that isn’t very much, in comparison with the contract itself. Did Firth & Farraday send their refusal by letter to Mr. Pennerley, or just telephone him?’
‘Neither, up to the time of his writing.’ Mr. Jerome glanced back at the letter. ‘He hasn’t heard from them direct. But he ran into old Collins yesterday, and. found him all cock-a-hoop because he’d just heard that they had the contract.’
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Anne, knowing quite well that Collins & Sons were the closest rivals of Jerome & Pennerley. ‘That makes it even worse.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that.’ Mr. Jerome smiled. ‘A lost contract is a lost contract, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Anne retorted, with a fiercer air of partisanship than she realised. ‘They’re our chief enemies.’
Mr. Jerome laughed with unexpected heartiness at that.
‘No, no, Miss Hemming. We must draw the line at bloodshed, I’m afraid. I’m as chagrined as you are over this business, but I can’t have you whipping a stiletto out of your stocking if old Collins dares to show his face in our office.’
Anne looked rather annoyed and put out.
‘You think I’m silly and—childish about this, don’t you?’
‘No, my dear, I think you’re charmingly prejudiced, and quite extraordinarily comforting,’
was the incredible thing that Mr. Jerome said.
‘O-oh. I’m awfully glad if I was—comforting. You do really feel very bad about this, don’t you, even though you are making rather a joke of it?’
‘Um-hm. It may not be the end of the world, as Deborah so truly says’—the slightest hint of irony tinged his tone—but all the same, I can’t say that it makes one feel any better about it.’
‘I’m sure it doesn’t,’ Anne began heartily. Then she realised that any elaboration of the point might sound like criticism of Deborah. ‘Still, we did our best.’
‘Yes, we certainly did that. I’m only sorry that your hectic afternoon’s work went for nothing.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Anne said. And she smiled, and felt better as she remembered his saying that, at least, it had restored a valuable member of the staff to the firm.
‘I think you’d better stay and have tea with me, so that we can keep up each other’s spirits,’ he told her. And, almost before she had time to look startled, he added: ‘Run down and ask, Deborah if she can do with a third at tea-time. Tell her I think it will be good for my diminished morale.’
Anne smiled, and went off on the errand, though she was rather doubtful of Deborah’s reception of the message. For an incredible moment she had thought he was proposing a tete-a-tete tea. But she saw now that she had been foolish to suppose any such thing. Of course Deborah had tea with him every day. It would be a sufficiently searching test of her good nature, as it was, to ask her to accept an interloper.
Deborah, however, seemed determined not to indulge in anything like her earlier fit of resentment, whatever happened. She gave Anne her cold little smile—but it was no colder than customary—and said: ‘Yes, of course. I’m afraid this has been a personal disappointment for you too, hasn’t it?’
‘Well, I won’t exaggerate my part in things,’ Anne replied. ‘But it’s true that I did take a personal interest in the attempt to secure this Contract, and I can’t help feeling disappointed.’
‘You’ll get over it. Worse things than that can happen,’ Deborah said, with the air of one who rose superior to minor matters herself.
And, swallowing a certain amount of private indignation, Anne tried to assure herself that this was kindly meant.
Mrs. Eskin was out visiting. But Robin came in just as tea was ready, so he joined them, and completed what proved to be quite a gay foursome in David Jerome’s room.
Just before she and Robin left, Mr. Jerome made his first reference to his return to London. And, since he had not brought this up when he and Anne were discussing the probable length of her stay, she guessed the afternoon’s disaster had prompted the decision that it was time he returned and took over full management again.
Deborah obviously thought poorly of the idea.
‘You’ll have to hear what the doctor has to say,’ she objected quickly.
‘The doctor will also have to hear what I have to say,’ her fiancé returned dryly. ‘I should have been back in London a couple of weeks ago.’
A singular expression of sweetness and obstinacy came over Deborah’s face. But Mr. Jerome, Anne noticed, also looked obstinate—though not sweet. And she rather thought that, in a real tussle of wills, there would be no doubt about the winner.
That night she lay awake some while, thinking over the events of the last week or two.
Those few words about the return to London had had a curious effect on her. They had seemed, for the first time, to supply the links between the past, the present and the future, and to restore a sense of continuity which her lovely holiday had destroyed.
When she had shaken the dust of the office from her feet, and, so to speak, sailed away on the magic carpet supplied by Miss Stebbings’ legacy, she had almost seemed to acquire another identity too.
Living in unfamiliar luxury, basking in the attentive friendship of Robin, achieving an incredible degree of friendly intimacy with Mr. Jerome, had all combined to increase the sense of unreality—the impression that she had left for ever the familiar life of the Anne Hemming she had once been.
But now Mr. Jerome spoke of returning to that life. She began to see the future in terms of the office she had known for so long. She would go back there—to find most things unchanged. Only one subtle but powerful difference would exist, to remind her always that these exciting, romantic weeks had not been imagined. She would be on entirely different terms with Mr. Jerome.
Not that she expected him to carry over the friendly intimacy of the last few days into the life of his sternly disciplined office. She would be satisfied even if his manner became quite official once more. Because she would know—and he could not quite forget either—that they had shared both high hopes and bitter disappointment.
‘And he called me “my dear” and said I was “extraordinarily comforting”,’ Anne reminded herself. And she knew suddenly, with happy, frightened wonder, that his approval and praise had become the most important things in her world.
The discovery was so overwhelming that, for a little while, Anne could think only of the breathtaking fact itself. But presently, as she lay watching the moonlight moving slowly across the floor, picking out the rich, subdued colours of the carpet, she began to reflect on the implications of the discovery too.
If his opinion meant so much to her, what did he himself mean? Could she believe that she was suffering from nothing more than a romantic crush? Or must she face the fact that, if she returned to the office, she would be laying up a great deal of genuine heartache for herself?
He was engaged to Deborah Eskin. He would eventually marry her. It was, therefore, impossible that he could ever have any real significance in Anne’s life, even in the unlikely event of her being able to interest him to any great extent.
The traditional situation of the girl falling in love with her boss had always seemed to Anne rather silly and unrealistic. Now, with a chill of apprehension, she began to wonder if she herself were going to prove it real enough.
But it was absurd, she assured herself, to start with a few kind words and gratifying compliments, and deduce a whole romance from that. She scolded herself for reacting like some silly schoolgirl. And practically convinced herself that her own sentimental imaginings only amused her.
Then she fell asleep and dreamed of David Jerome,
The next day was Sunday. And, since officially there was no reason for her to visit Mr. Jerome, she forced herself—though with a difficulty which surprised and dismayed her —not to call at Greenslade at all.
As long as she could convince herself that nothing but a wish to be officially useful took her there, she could cling to the belief that she had no silly ideas about Mr. Jerome.
It was not Robin’s fault that a long-projected expedition to Ennerdale and Pillar Mountain somehow fell a little short of the carefree joy of earlier outings.
The weather was fine and clear, the scenery superb, and the row on the lake a welcome change from motoring or walking. But somehow the mood was not quite perfect. And, though they enjoyed themselves, there was not the joyous sense of oneness which had made their earlier expeditions so enchanting.
Anne hoped Robin was not aware of this. She even hoped that perhaps she imagined a situation which did not exist. But when they were driving back in the evening, past the grey ruins of Calder Abbey and through the smiling beauty of Eskdale, Robin said thoughtfully:
‘You’re beginning to reach out towards home and the familiar things again, aren’t you, Anne?’
And she knew he had noticed that the happy detachment of the earlier weeks had vanished.
She laughed protestingly, however, and said:
‘But I am still wholeheartedly enjoying my holiday.’
‘Yes, of course. Only other things are beginning to seem important too.’
She did not dispute the point. It would have been useless and disingenuous to have done so. She just said lightly:
‘I expect that’s always the way, after one
has been away specially long.’
‘I daresay,’ Robin agreed. And they said no more on the subject.
It had been a pleasant day. A day without a cloud, either literally or figuratively. But to Anne it had been incomplete; because she had not seen David Jerome.
The following afternoon, when she could legitimately go and see him, to inquire about correspondence, she felt quite a different kind of happiness. Not the supine content of the previous day, but an active, eager pleasure, which lit every step of the way with pleasant anticipation.
Mrs. Eskin, who admitted her, said:
‘David was asking about you only ten minutes ago. I told him I was sure you would come.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Anne smiled and ran upstairs with a light heart because he had asked for her.
His tone, when he said, ‘Come in,’ sounded slightly different from usual. And, when she entered the room, she saw why. He was up, in a dressing-gown, sitting in a chair by the window.
‘Oh, how splendid!’ She came forward eagerly, with a smile of congratulation.
But the look he turned upon her was completely unsmiling.
‘Miss Hemming,’ he said, without greeting her, ‘are you sure you posted that letter to Firth & Farraday?’
‘Why—why, of course.’ She looked blankly astonished. ‘There were other letters, at the same time.’
‘Ye-es, I think there were. Yes, I’m sure there were.’
‘And you are sure that you didn’t drop one—the really important one?’
‘Quite, quite sure,’ she cried, suddenly feeling and looking very frightened. ‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Only that Firth & Farraday never received that letter.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Anne actually felt herself go pale. She felt the blood drain away from her cheeks, leaving them cold and curiously stiff.
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