Seeking Love

by Barbara Cartland

  “I am not certain, but perhaps we should wait a while nonetheless.”

  “Shall I take a look outside to see if there is a café nearby?”

  Ellen’s stomach gave a loud grumble as if to emphasise her hunger.

  “That is a good idea. I shall remain here just in case the Solanges arrive.”

  Ellen returned with news of a café nearby and so they retired there for coffee and croissants. An hour later, just after nine o’clock, they returned. But, as Ellen retrieved their luggage, Marina was forced to admit that the Solanges were not coming.

  “It is no use waiting, Ellen. We should go straight to the house.”

  “And if they’re not there, miss?”

  “Then we shall find a hotel.”

  As the luggage was loaded onto a carriage, Marina had a distinct sinking feeling. She did not confess to Ellen her fears that perhaps the Solanges were not in Paris for she had suddenly remembered her conversation with Monique when she had mentioned their house in Biarritz.

  Upon arriving at the Solange’s house, Marina gazed anxiously up at the windows. Even though it was a dull day, they looked as if they were shuttered.

  “Shall I go and knock, miss?” asked Ellen, sensing her Mistress’s hesitancy. “Please do, Ellen.”

  She watched as Ellen climbed out, walked up to the front door, and knocked – and knocked – and knocked.

  ‘I fear they are not at home,’ she murmured, feeling sick to her stomach.

  Ellen did not give up. After a tremendous volley of knocks, the door of the house next door flew open and a tiny woman with a round face and jet-black hair scraped back into a bun came rushing out.

  She flew into a torrent of French at the bewildered Ellen, who stood her ground and replied to her in English.

  “I have no idea of what you’re saying to me, but kindly do not shout!”

  “Oh, so you are English?” asked the woman, in a heavily accented voice.

  “Thank Heaven! You speak English,” exclaimed Ellen. “Yes, I lived in London for a few years. My husband and I ran a restaurant in Soho. You are looking for Monsieur and Madame Solange?”

  “Yes, yes,” answered Ellen, excitedly.

  “Well, I am sorry to tell you that they are not here. They are in Biarritz. They left only two days ago. I have the key if there is something you wish to get from the house.”

  ‘Oh, no,’ thought Marina, getting out of the carriage and hurrying towards where Ellen and the woman were standing.

  “Did I hear correctly, madame? The Solanges are away?” she asked.

  “Why yes, mademoiselle. And I could not say when they will return.”

  Marina stood by the carriage with hot tears pricking at her eyes. With her worst fears confirmed, her brain whirled, trying to come up with a solution.

  “Do you have their address in Biarritz, perhaps?” she asked finally.

  “Non, mademoiselle. I do not.”

  Marina thanked the woman and returned to the carriage.

  ‘What on earth shall we do now?’ she thought. ‘I suppose the only choice is to find a hotel. Oh, this is terrible. Terrible!’

  Once Ellen had climbed back on board, they asked the driver to take them to a good hotel. Marina had a job making him understand their request, as he did not speak any English and she struggled with her poor French.

  At last he seemed to understand and cracked his whip over the horses.

  “I wonder where he is taking us, miss,” said Ellen, nervously, “surely he would look at us, and seeing that we are well-dressed and that you are a lady, he would not take us somewhere awful?”

  So it was with some relief that they found themselves outside the Hotel du Nord some ten minutes later. It was a large hotel with a whole coterie of liveried bellboys and porters outside.

  “All this to-ing and fro-ing is making me quite dizzy,” commented Ellen, as the whirlwind of hotel staff milled around her.

  “At least they will have a good command of English in such an establishment,” suggested Marina, walking through the ornate doors.

  Inside everywhere was rich and plush. It reminded Marina of glimpses she had seen of the inside of gentlemen’s clubs in London.

  The clerk behind the desk spoke perfect English and did not so much as raise an eyebrow when Marina requested a modest suite for an indefinite period.

  “I will have your luggage sent up at once,” he said, handing over the room key to a waiting porter.

  “Suivez-moi, mademoiselle,” declared the porter, waving his arms at the two bellboys who struggled with the luggage.

  Marina soon found herself in a luxurious lift full of brass buttons and shiny surfaces. She squeezed in next to Ellen and watched as the floors ticked by.

  At the third floor, the porter ushered them out into the corridor.

  Presently, they came to a door at the end of a corridor. The porter unlocked it and Marina entered. The suite was, indeed, not a large one and nowhere near as spacious as the one they had occupied in Dover, but it was tastefully furnished.

  Ellen had a tiny room separated by a connecting door while Marina had the use of a sitting room and bedroom.

  She tipped the porter generously and sat down whilst Ellen began to unpack.

  “They seem very friendly here, miss,” said Ellen. “Perhaps you could write to your Papa to find out the address of the Solange’s house in Biarritz?”

  Marina shook her head.

  “No, I cannot, Ellen. I do not wish Papa to know of this latest crisis. However, you are right in thinking that we will need help to resolve this awful situation.”

  Ellen stopped what she was doing and thought.

  “Is there no one in London you could ask for help?”

  she said after a while.

  The face of Sir Peter Bailey suddenly flashed up in Marina’s mind. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he might know someone in Paris, who would either know the Solange’s Biarritz address or be able to find out.

  Somewhere deep in her heart she was aware that this was the excuse she needed to get in touch with him.

  “Ellen, I need to send another telegram,” she said, seating herself down at the small desk.

  She wrote quickly,

  “Dear Peter, in Paris and need your urgent help to find the Solanges in Biarritz. Please contact me c/o the Hotel du Nord, Rue des Pins, Paris. Regards, Marina Fullerton.”

  “Can you remember Sir Peter’s address, Ellen?”

  “Oh, yes, miss. 25 Hay Hill, Mayfair. I memorised it when you sent me there.”

  “Excellent,” replied Marina delightedly.

  She wondered how quickly Sir Peter would get in touch. She really had no notion of what she expected from him, but she hoped that he might be able to at least make some enquiries in London on her behalf.

  Marina’s mind threw up many scenarios in the time that it took Ellen to send the telegram. On her return she asked her if she knew when it would be delivered.

  “The clerk said that it would go this afternoon and be with Sir Peter by this evening, miss.”

  “Thank Heavens for such a speedy service.”

  “What do you think he might do, miss?”

  “I noticed that there is a telephone on the main desk, so I am hoping that he will attempt to telephone me here at the hotel. Ellen, I think I should stay put tonight and tomorrow, just in case he tries to get in touch. Would you order dinner in the suite for us?”

  “I am happy to stay in, miss. I confess I do not care for French cooking at the best of times.”

  *

  Dinner that evening was a quiet affair and Marina allowed Ellen to eat with her as she did not feel it would be right to let her dine alone in her bedroom.

  In spite of her reservations about the cooking of the French, Ellen declared that her meal was ‘extremely tasty,’ and finished every last morsel.

  “That was just steak and chips, wasn’t it?” she said, dabbing at her mouth.

  “I am
glad that we have found something you like.”

  “Shall I go downstairs and tell the concierge that you are expecting a telephone message from London?” suggested Ellen.

  “That would be most kind.”

  She did not believe that Sir Peter would be so quick to respond, but it would be as well for the concierge to be alerted that she was expecting a telephone call.

  She waited anxiously for Ellen’s return and was mildly disappointed when she appeared and said that there had been no message for her.

  “Perhaps I shall write another letter this evening. I have remembered that there is another person who may well be able to help us.”

  “Who is that, miss?”

  “A certain Duchess I met on the train when first we came to Paris. I am afraid I have lost her address, but she did mention that she knew Sir Peter and Papa.”

  “Then you must write at once. Would she be in London or here in Paris?”

  “That is something I have no way of knowing, Ellen,” answered Marina, moving over to the writing desk. “But I shall write to Sir Peter this very evening.”

  Ellen stifled a huge yawn. She had been up since before Marina had awoken and was very tired.

  “I will not be offended if you wish to retire, Ellen,” said Marina kindly. “I can easily take this downstairs in the morning or have someone fetch it.”

  Ellen thanked Marina profusely and retired to her bedroom.

  Marina stayed up until quite late composing and recomposing the letter. She felt frustrated at her sudden inability to write to Sir Peter as naturally as she would anyone else. She examined each word, each phrase, a thousand times over and ended up discarding many sheets of hotel notepaper.

  At last, she gave up and retired to bed. As she settled down, she could not help but wonder what he might be doing in London and who he was with.

  *

  Breakfast arrived promptly at half-past eight the next morning and Marina had to laugh at Ellen’s face when she saw that it was croissants and brioches.

  “Ugh! Not those sweet rolls.”

  “You should be grateful that the hotel does not serve French bread and conserves,” teased Marina, as Ellen picked at the flaky pastry.

  Marina had felt a little disappointed that there had been no telegram that morning from Sir Peter or telephone call, but she tried to put it out of her mind.

  ‘I am quite certain that he will be in touch. Perhaps he is away and we shall just have to wait.’

  But as time went on, Marina grew more and more anxious. She went for a walk in the morning and eagerly enquired again at the desk to see if there had been any messages or telegrams, but the clerk simply shook his head.

  Luncheon came and passed and still no word.

  “Why don’t we go shopping, miss? That will cheer you up.”

  “I feel so dowdy in these mourning clothes,” declared Marina sadly. “I confess that I do not like to visit fashionable establishments wearing them. It was different when I went out with Monique – she is so charming that the assistants were too busy with her to pay much attention to me. And they are all so snooty.”

  “Then perhaps an art gallery or museum,” suggested Ellen, desperate to raise the spirits of her Mistress.

  “No, I am not in the mood.”

  “Would you mind if I went out for a walk, miss?”

  “No, please do. I am sorry if I do not fancy accompanying you, but I think I have a headache coming on.”

  Marina attempted to lie down, but found that she was too restless. She massaged her throbbing forehead, but it did not seem to work. Neither did dabbing lavender water on her temples.

  After an hour, Marina decided to go downstairs and ask for an aspirin. Her head was splitting as she walked into the lift. It was not the usual concierge at the desk and the man who was on duty did not speak very good English.

  ‘Oh, this is terrible. I cannot think of the right words,’

  thought Marina, as she struggled to make herself understood. “J’ai un headache,” she said. “J’ai besoin de medicine.”

  The man looked at her blankly.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle, je ne comprends pas.”

  “Oh, goodness. What is the word for headache?” she cried aloud. “I wish someone around here spoke English.”

  As she stood there, trying to remember the word, her head pounding – there suddenly came an unexpected voice behind her that made her spin round.

  “I think you will find that the word you need is ‘mal a la tête’.”

  Marina found herself staring straight into the handsome face of Sir Peter Bailey!

  “You! Here,” she cried and then threw herself into his open arms – sobbing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Oh, I am so pleased to see you! I cannot believe you are here,” cried Marina, as she withdrew from Sir Peter’s arms.

  “It sounds as if I have arrived just in time,” he replied, “now, allow me. I shall make sure that you get something for your headache at once.”

  Within moments, he had rattled off a string of fluent French to the concierge, who then produced two aspirins for Marina.

  Gratefully she took them and a glass of water that appeared as if by magic.

  “Would you like to return to your room or do you feel you are able to tell me what has happened?” Sir Peter asked kindly.

  “If I sit somewhere quiet for a while, I feel certain that my headache will go now I have taken some aspirin.”

  Sir Peter led her to the back of the hotel where there was a small lounge.

  “Sit down, I shall call for some tea,” he said.

  “No, that is quite all right – I do not want any, thank you.”

  Marina sat in silence for a few moments, scarcely able to look at Sir Peter who sat patiently opposite her. She now felt rather foolish for having dragged him all that way and thought that he might be annoyed when she told him the reason.

  After a while, he spoke,

  “Would you like to tell me what has happened? I confess that I am somewhat confused –”

  “I have not told you the whole story,” began Marina. “The reason that Ellen and I are in Paris is not for some idle shopping or to visit friends. The fact of the matter is that Papa is getting married again and his new wife does not want me under her feet. The reason Papa sent me away was because he could not bear me in the same house and his marriage has given him the perfect excuse to discard me forever.”

  “But a man cannot discard his own daughter as if she was a broken cup,” exclaimed Sir Peter, a look of utter shock on his face. “This is terrible, terrible!”

  It was the first time in ages that Marina had been in the presence of a sympathetic ear and she could not help but start to cry once more.

  Sir Peter did not hesitate – he took out his handkerchief and handed it to her.

  “Oh, I am so very sorry,” choked Marina, through her tears, “this whole business is just too much to endure. It is bad enough to lose Mama, but now I feel as if I am in mourning for Papa as well. I have lost him, Sir Peter, and he wishes me dead!”

  “Come, come, I will not believe that your father could be so cruel,” he soothed, patting her arm. “And you must call me Peter. It sounds to me as if he is still so devastated by your Mama’s passing that he is not himself. Who is this woman he is marrying?”

  “Lady Alice Winwood. I had thought her a family friend, as she was so kind to both Papa and me after Mama’s death. She was forever at our house, helping out and she sat with Papa for hours and hours at a time, keeping him company, or so I thought. Now, I know that she was scheming to ensnare him.”

  “There are women like that, I am sad to say,” commented Sir Peter, with a sigh. “I myself was deceived by one –”

  He suddenly looked away into the middle distance and Marina recalled that he had a broken engagement behind him that was obviously still painful.

  But then he pulled himself together and continued, “And so, you returned to Paris, to
find the Solanges were no longer there?”

  “Yes, that is correct. Monique had mentioned to me that her family visited Biarritz each summer and that they would most likely be leaving in the near future, but I did not anticipate that they would be off so soon.”

  Sir Peter thought for a moment.

  “Perhaps something precipitated their departure?”

  “If someone had fallen ill, then Monique would have written to me.”

  “Then it is very strange.”

  “I have had a terrible journey. First, the ferry was delayed overnight by the most dreadful storms and then our suite was robbed and I lost all my jewels. The only things I have remaining are those I am wearing now.”

  She indicated the slim string of jet around her neck and a jet brooch pinned to her gown.

  “Even so, you have been forced to endure many losses of late and it cannot have been easy.”

  ‘How kind he is,’ thought Marina, as she continued to unburden herself. ‘So thoughtful and understanding. I cannot imagine why or how he is friends with Albert.’

  “So, you wish to track down the Solanges in Biarritz?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Then, naturally, I will accompany you.”

  Marina fell silent. It was a tempting offer but she felt uncertain if she should take it.

  As if he had read her mind, Sir Peter jumped in.

  “Of course with Ellen to act as your chaperone, it would not be considered unseemly for you to be travelling with a gentleman.”

  “Yes,” she answered, slowly and deliberately, “that would be true.”

  “Then you will allow me to help you? I know Biarritz a little and have connections within the wine industry, who may be able to help us track them down. Monsieur Solange likes wine, I assume?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Then he will have a wine merchant.”

  It all seemed so simple and Marina realised that she had no one else to help her, but still natural caution made her hold back.

  “You must allow me to think some more about your very kind offer,” she murmured.

  “You must take as long as you wish.”

  Marina felt so at ease in his company that she soon quite forgot her misery and her headache. They laughed and chatted for quite some time and it was not until a worried Ellen came looking for her, that she realised that she had been gone for over two hours.