by Peggy Gaddis
Anice stepped through the door into a room that was small and specklessly tidy—and completely devoid of the lush luxury she had expected. The draperies were blue taffeta, but they were undeniably faded a bit. The furniture was good, but it had seen hard use. There was even a worn spot or two on the blue rug that covered the center of the floor.
“The bath,” said Mrs. Clarke silkily, “is at the end of the hall.”
For a moment Anice’s guard, rather carelessly held in front of women, slipped and she flashed hotly, “But this is a maid’s room!”
Mrs. Clarke’s eyes gleamed with an almost acrid amusement, but her voice was polite.
“Oh, no, Miss Mayhew, it’s a guest room,” she explained civilly. “Mr. Rutledge is a very kind man; he’s always bringing home odd guests, such as some people pick up stray kittens abandoned on the street.”
Anice caught her breath and her eyes went wide; there was fury in her small, shaken voice. “You’re insulting!”
Mrs. Clarke’s nicely plucked eyebrows went up a little.
“Why, Miss Mayhew, how can you possibly say that?” she protested. “I’m sure there have never been any complaints before. I am quite accustomed to taking care of Mr. Rutledge’s young ladies until he can find work and living quarters for them.”
She turned to the door, nodded pleasantly, and closed it behind her.
Anice was shaken with a blind, unreasoning fury. She had not missed the inflection in Mrs. Clarke’s tone. So Mrs. Clarke wanted her to know, did she, that Anice was by no means unique in Kenyon’s annals? That Kenyon was in the habit of bringing home what Mrs. Clarke would probably call “deserving females” and that the housekeeper was in the habit of looking after them? So Mrs. Clarke was her enemy, was she? Anice’s small fists clenched, and she set her teeth hard in her lower lip, her eyes narrowed and dangerous.
But she was much too shrewd to create an open break that would make it necessary for Kenyon to know that there was any ripple in the smooth surface of things. Perhaps in Mrs. Clarke’s eyes she might be just one of a long line of ‘deserving females’ whom Kenyon had helped, but Anice knew that she was something very different in Kenyon’s estimation. She had played her cards shrewdly and well, up to now. She couldn’t afford the luxury of losing her temper and fighting Mrs. Clarke. She must bide her time! But she was arrogantly sure of the ultimate results. And then—She drew a deep hard breath, and looked at the door and said to herself, “Just you wait, you white-haired bitch! The first thing I’ll do is kick you straight out of here on your—er—neck!”
She felt a little better and set about making herself at home in the shabby but quite comfortable room. She had thought of herself in a luxurious guest suite, seeing Kenyon daily; it was obvious that Mrs. Clarke meant her to do no such thing. But Anice was quite sure of her own superiority over Mrs. Clarke, and she grinned a little at the thoughts that went racing through her busy, clever, spiteful mind as she unpacked her overnight bag and spread the chiffon nightie and negligee lovingly across the bed, with its slightly faded blue taffeta spread….
In the morning, she was awakened from a sound sleep by the sound of a knock at the door, and as she sat up in bed and called, “Come in,” the door opened and a white-capped maid, her lavender chambray uniform crisp and fresh beneath a white apron, thrust her head into the room.
“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “Mrs. Clarke wanted me to tell you that breakfast is at eight. The staff dining room is at the other end of the hall. Be seein’ you.”
Before she could close the door, Anice gasped in outrage, “You mean I’m expected to eat with the servants?”
The maid stiffened a little and her eyes went cold.
“And so what?” she snapped. “If the servants don’t mind, why should you?”
Anice’s outrage deepened.
“Apparently you don’t understand,” she said sharply. “I’m Mr. Rutledge’s guest!”
The maid grinned and made no effort to conceal the contempt in her eyes.
“Sure. That’s why I said if the servants didn’t mind, you shouldn’t,” she drawled. “We’ve learned to be kinda broad-minded about Mr. Rutledge’s guests, especially the ones that occupy this room. Mr. Rutledge’s stray cats, we call ‘em.”
“Why you—” Anice strangled.
“Skip it,” said the maid, and the laughter had gone from her good-humored, rather pleasant face. “I don’t have to take smart talk from a little chippie like you. I’m a respectable girl and I earn my living—the hard way—by working for it. If you don’t like it here, why stay?”
She eyed Anice coolly and banged the door behind her.
Anice was silent for a long moment and then, her mouth thin and determined, she slid out of bed and dressed. Tight-lipped, she packed her overnight bag then looked about her, her nose wrinkling in disgust, before she went out of the room.
Halfway down the corridor to the door that separated the servants’ quarters from the rest of the house, she met Mrs. Clarke, just closing the door of her room behind her.
“Good morning,” said Mrs. Clarke pleasantly, and then her eyes took in the overnight bag, the hat and gloves that indicated Anice’s departure. “Oh, are you leaving us so soon?” she asked brightly.
“You didn’t think I’d put up with the insolence and bad manners of the servants, did you?” demanded Anice furiously.
Mrs. Clarke’s eyebrows went up a little.
“Oh, were the servants rude? I’m so sorry,” she said without in the least meaning it or even pretending to.
Anice seethed with rage, but she dared not reveal it quite yet. Instead she said as politely, as expressionlessly as Mrs. Clarke had spoken, “I would like to see Mr. Rutledge. I want to thank him.”
Mrs. Clarke’s shrewd dark eyes brimmed with laughter, though her expression was still polite and remote.
“I’m so sorry, but Mr. Rutledge is away for the weekend. If you cared to leave a message, or a note perhaps …?” she suggested.
“Thanks, that won’t be necessary. I’ll see him at the office on Monday—I work there,” snapped Anice.
Mrs. Clarke looked startled, almost a little shocked.
“Really—The boss is slipping!” she commented dryly. “It’s the first time he’s ever brought one of the office help home with him.”
Anice’s anger spilled over.
“I shall most certainly tell him of the treatment I’ve received at your hands—and that maid’s. I’ll see he fires you,” she cried out rashly.
Mrs. Clarke studied her for a moment and then she laughed and forgot her slightly grande dame manner.
“You poor little fool!” she said scornfully. “Don’t you realize even yet that you are no more important to Kenyon Rutledge than some small stray animal he might have picked up and dropped at the nearest vet’s and forgotten the next moment? Have me fired? I really ought to smack your face for that! Why, I’ve known Kenyon Rutledge since he was in diapers—matter of fact, I’ve changed ‘em for him. I was his mother’s maid, and then his nurse; I’m almost one of his family. Nobody in the world could persuade Kenyon to fire me—not even Mrs. Lawrence! And as for you—run along, child, you bore me! And use the service elevator—we don’t like people like you going out the front entrance!”
She stood aside, smiling, amused, contemptuous, and Anice dared not trust herself to speak, lest she lose all control of herself and follow her impulse to fling herself upon the infuriating creature, kicking, biting, screaming.
Outside the apartment house, she hailed a taxi and gave the address of the small, exclusive and by no means inexpensive women’s hotel where she had been living since she left Phyllis’ apartment. And she put in the rest of the weekend mapping the campaign that was twice as important now as before she had had to accept Mrs. Clarke’s insult. Before, she had only meant to marry Kenyon in order to get her hands into the Rutledge estate. But now the only way she could punish Mrs. Clarke was by becoming Kenyon’s wife then discharging her
and discrediting her in some way so that she would never again be in a position to be insulting.
On Monday morning she was at her desk in the big outer office of the Rutledge firm when Kenyon came through the door. She all but held her breath. Would his eyes seek her out? Would he look for her? But he did not; he merely offered his usual “good morning” that took in the entire office and went briskly on into his own private sanctuary. A little later Anice saw Phyllis go into the office, pencils and notebook in hand.
Anice was unable to concentrate that morning, and was reprimanded sternly by Mrs. Currie for two glaring errors. But shortly before noon, Kenyon called for a paper out of a certain file, and before anyone else could reach it, Anice caught it up and hurried to his office with it.
Kenyon was absorbed in papers on his desk, and he only glanced up casually, accepted the paper she held out and said absently, “Thanks.”
But Anice lingered a moment, and when Kenyon looked up again, she said eagerly, “I just wanted to t-t-thank you, Mr. Rutledge, for—for everything.”
For a moment, she realized Kenyon had forgotten all about her, and the thought made her seethe with rage. But then he looked up again, and said, “Oh, yes—the Mayhew girl. I hope Mrs. Clarke made you quite comfortable?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Only I didn’t want to make a nuisance of myself. I was afraid you might need that room for—for some other girl, so I left Saturday morning.”
Kenyon looked puzzled.
“Need that room for another girl? You sound as though you thought I made a practice of—well, of taking girls home to my apartment,” he protested, and obviously didn’t like the thought.
“But Mrs. Clarke said that that maid’s room was the one you always used—” she stammered.
Kenyon frowned.
“Mrs. Clarke put you in a maid’s room?” he asked.
“Well, yes. But I didn’t mind a bit. It was a lovely room, and I’m ever so grateful to you,” she told him warmly. Kenyon was annoyed.
“There was no reason for you to be put in a maid’s room. There are several guest rooms. I should have been more explicit, I suppose.”
“Oh, but it didn’t matter a bit, Mr. Rutledge—really!” she told him eagerly. “It was ever so much better than riding all night in the subway, or staying in an all-night movie! I know—from experience.”
She was very brave about it, and determined to look on it as a joke, but Kenyon was troubled.
“You mean you spent the night riding in the subway?”
“Oh no, I tried that before—before I did that terrible thing about coming here,” she told him, flushed, her eyes darkening with the memory. “Saturday night I went to an all-night movie. It wasn’t so bad, really. My grandmother said that no matter how unpleasant a thing is, if you’ll always look upon it as another experience in life, something to learn by and to grow by, it won’t seem so bad.”
She smiled a little, earnest, eager and very appealing.
“Your grandmother sounds like a very wise lady,” he said gently.
“I miss her so,” said Anice, and tears misted her eyes and caused her voice to quaver a little. “I lost her six months ago.”
“I’m sorry, believe me I am,” said Kenyon, and meant it.
The door opened behind them, and Phyllis stood there, startled to see Anice and Kenyon in such interested conversation.
Kenyon spoke curtly. “What is it, Miss Gordon?”
The color stung Phyllis’ cheek at his tone, but she merely said quietly, “Mr. Richards and Mr. Courtney are here. Their appointment was for eleven, and it’s now eleven-ten.”
They were two very important men who would bitterly resent being kept waiting, and so Kenyon said to Anice, “That will be all for now, Miss Mayhew, thank you.” And to Phyllis, “Bring Mr. Courtney and Mr. Richards in, please.”
Phyllis nodded and Anice slipped through the door as the two men passed in, giving her a distinctly appreciative glance as they did so.
Phyllis said curtly to Anice, “Come in a moment, Anice—I want to talk to you.”
Anice grinned and tossed her head, but followed Phyllis into the small private office.
“What the devil are you up to now?” Phyllis demanded sharply.
Anice perched on the edge of Phyllis’ desk and swung a slim, nyloned leg nonchalantly.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Cousin Phyllis,” she said sweetly.
“You know perfectly well. What were you doing in Mr. Rutledge’s office?”
Anice said mildly, “Taking him the folder on the Patterson account. I do hope you don’t mind. He asked for it, and after all, I do work here, you know.”
“Yes, I know you do,” said Phyllis, “and I’m beginning to wish I’d never brought you here.”
“I bet you do,” cooed Anice, and laughed.
Phyllis studied her grimly.
“I’d give a whole lot to know what you’re planning, Anice,” she admitted.
“Of course you would, darling, but I’m much too smart to let you even guess,” said Anice tranquilly, and slid from the desk. “Sorry I have to run along, precious. I’d just simply adore to sit here gossiping with you all day, but the Currie creature has some odd idea that I should do a spot of work now and then. I’ll be seeing you!”
She went out and the door closed and Phyllis ground her teeth with helpless rage. She had no idea what was in Anice’s mind, but from her experience with the girl, she felt sure that it was something that boded ill for some innocent bystander. The way she was looking at Kenyon when Phyllis opened the door—dewy-eyed, innocent as a spring dawn, alluring as sin itself—Phyllis tried to brush the thought away. After all, Kenyon was engaged to Letty Lawrence, and as long as he only saw Anice there in the office, there was little the girl could do about vamping him—Or was there? Phyllis could not but wonder!
She would have wondered a great deal more if she could have glimpsed the thoughts that were going on in Kenyon’s mind. In spite of himself, he could not quite get the picture of Anice out of his mind. He had forgotten her during the weekend; at least he thought he had. It had been a gay and amusing weekend and Letty had been lovely and they had planned their honeymoon. Letty had been very sweet. But she had poked a bit of good-natured fun at him; she had insisted that he was a bit stuffy and that it was good for him to be teased and deflated now and then. He had pretended to be a good sport about it and had joined the laughter at his own expense, but he hadn’t really like it at all.
Like many people who boast of their sense of humor, Kenyon was almost entirely lacking in that virtue. He had a blind spot where a joke against himself was concerned; he only enjoyed seeing others made ridiculous. And to be stung with barbed, good-natured comments and to find himself the object of small, unmalicious jokes seemed to him very belittling to a man of his importance.
And so the memory of Anice’s simple, unquestioning adoration, her frank conviction that he was perfect and wonderful and all that any girl could ask in a man, was very soothing. The memory of her, in the intriguing revelation of pink chiffon and fragile lace, tickled his senses and started his blood beating faster. Seeing her that morning, prim in her neat blue office dress that suavely but delicately accentuated the curves of hips and breasts and thighs, only brought back all the more tantalizingly the memory of pink chiffon and lace.
He wanted to see her again.
He sighed a little and admitted it frankly. He might as well. He had seldom had to deny himself anything he really wanted, and surely there was no reason he could not take an enchanting girl to dinner, if he wanted to. And he definitely wanted to!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ANICE HAD INSISTED THAT SHE meet him at a downtown hotel and had pleaded frankly that she could not bear to have him see the shabby, down-at-heels building in which she had felt herself lucky to find “just a tiny room, and it’s drab and ugly, but at least it’s got a roof and a bed—and that’s a lot nowadays!”
She had b
een waiting for him when he came into the big, well-filled hotel lobby. A very pretty girl with cornsilk yellow hair beneath a tiny flower hat, her exquisitely white, creamy skin revealed at throat and arms by a filmy black lace and chiffon dress that was perfect, as any woman would have told him, for a summer dinner in town.
He had tucked her almost lovingly into his expensive, low-slung coupe and had turned the car toward Fifty-ninth Street.
“Have you any preference as to a dining spot?” he asked, smiling warmly down at her, happier than he had been in a long time.
“Goodness,” she told him, smiling deprecatingly, “how would the likes of me know anything about a suitable dining spot for anyone like you?”
“I thought we might drive down to the shore,” he suggested eagerly. “I telephoned my house and asked them to have dinner for us on the terrace. I thought you might like a swim, perhaps. And anyway, it will be much cooler than any place in town, and I can guarantee the food; my cook is a gem of purest ray serene!”
For just a moment there was the tiniest possible gleam in her eyes, but her white lids were lowered and he did not catch it. Then a moment later she was saying, “Oh, that will be marvelous!”
Pleased, he said, “Good, I’m glad you don’t mind.”
“Mind? I’m just ever so flattered that you think me worthy,” she told him simply.
“See here, my dear, you mustn’t be so humble!” he said quickly, unbearably touched by her guilelessness, her utter honesty. “No girl so beautiful, so alluring as you, need ever feel humble under any circumstances whatsoever.”
“But I’m such a nobody, Mr. Rutledge, and you’re—well, you’re such a very important somebody!” she told him.
“But even if that were true, your beauty and charm would more than balance the scales,” he answered her.
She smiled bewitchingly and her eyes thanked him.
She exclaimed with child-like happiness at the beautiful homes, and the pretty little towns through which they passed. At last the car rolled through tall stone pillars and along a smooth driveway bordered by trim flower beds and there was a glimpse of the house—solid, substantial, very handsome, with a view of the blue sound beyond—and she cried out in frank delight.