The Loving Slave

by Margaret Pargeter

'Well, don't blame me this time,' he laughed. 'It was your husband.'

  'Quentin?'

  He was surprised at her surprise. 'He arranged it, didn't he tell you? He insisted a change would do me good.'

  'How kind of him!'

  'Yes, wasn't it?' Charles didn't detect her sarcasm, obviously because he wasn't looking for it. 'I must say I feel much better, so does your aunt.'

  'Where is Aunt Liza?' asked Gina.

  Charles grunted. 'Gone to see her friend, Mrs what's-her-name, at the other side of Dorking. The one who's an invalid and doesn't get out much. Liza's gone to tell her all about it. Thought it would cheer her up.'

  'I see.' Gina was disappointed.

  Charles defended his sister. 'We didn't expect you would be back from your honeymoon. If she'd known, I'm sure she wouldn't have gone out. When I rang Briarly I expected to speak to Lydia.'

  Gina endeavoured to remain composed. 'We only stayed in Vienna a week. Which reminds me,' she tried to laugh, 'I have some presents for you and forgot to bring them with me.'

  Her grandfather didn't reply. Outside it was raining, and to escape getting wet Gina had rushed into the house when she had arrived. Looking at her, Charles was seeing her properly for the first time. He seemed suddenly startled by her pallor. 'You look like a ghost, child. Aren't you happy?'

  Hastily she deviated, not wishing him to guess, 'Quen­tin's groom left and I'm doing his job, and Mrs Hurst's maid left and I'm helping her, but I'm quite all right.'

  'But why?' Charles was clearly bewildered. 'You're far too thin without doing all that! I'd like to know what Quentin's thinking about!'

  Suddenly Gina had an urgent inclination to defend Quentin, which must be strange, when she hated him so. But she hated it more that Charles should believe Quen­tin had simply accepted his money without any intention of economising or paying it back. Maybe she could give him a hint that they were trying.

  Swallowing painfully, she forced herself to smile. 'It's— well, it's a sort of economy measure. We're trying to re­trench.'

  'Retrench?' He frowned, mulling the word over. 'When people retrench it means they're cutting back, trying to save money?'

  'Yes.'

  There was an odd silence. Glancing quickly at her grandfather's grave face, she hoped he was beginning to understand, without her having to be more explicit. Maybe Quentin didn't deserve to be defended like this, but she felt driven to do it.

  'Do you mean to say,' Charles asked slowly, 'that Quentin needs to save that kind of money?'

  At once, Gina saw her mistake. Now Charles would imagine he hadn't given Quentin enough, that they were still short and she was begging indirectly for more. Some­how she had to stop him offering them more, which was what he clearly intended. She must do something to remove the almost anguished expression from his face. And there was only one way.

  'Grandfather,' she whispered, her eyes full of despair, 'I know!'

  'You know?' he exclaimed harshly. 'You know what?'

  'About the money.'

  'Quentin said he wouldn't tell you!'

  'I guessed.'

  Before her very eyes, Charles' face crumpled. He seemed suddenly to grow old. Collapsing on to the chair behind him, he buried his face in his hands. 'Quentin shouldn't have made me take the money,' he muttered heavily. 'He should have left me to face the music. I'll always be grateful, but it was wrong of me to let him settle my debts, especially when it's meant he's had to go short himself, and you're having to suffer.'

  'Grandfather!' No less disturbed, Gina stared at him, a terrible constriction in her throat. 'I thought it was Quentin who had borrowed from you?'

  'No,' he shook his head sadly, without understanding her dilemma. 'I was a fool. I gambled unwisely and lost. You see, I've always refused to believe I was getting older. I liked to travel—keep up with much younger people. Thank goodness it's never been women,' he said, with grim wryness, 'but I've tried about everything else. When the chance of turning my million, shall we say, into millions, came up, I took it, and I've only myself to blame that I failed.'

  'And then what:'

  'Quentin had heard, or guessed, and of course I couldn't deny it.'

  Gina saw Charles's hands were trembling and put her own hands gently over his. After a few seconds he gave her a grateful glance and continued. 'He offered to help me out, for your sake, and I'm ashamed to admit I almost fell over myself to accept. I sold the London house and some land, but that was all the concession he would allow me to make. He said he would never miss the money, and I believed him.'

  'Oh, Grandfather,' Gina was almost weeping, 'you can believe him! It's me… If you've been a fool, I've been one as well. Someone told me, you see, that it was Quen­tin who'd borrowed money from you.'

  'No, never!' Charles was shocked. 'Who was it?'

  'Blanche Edgar.'

  'She must have heard something in the City—these things get about.' Again he frowned. 'Has it made much difference to you? You said you were having to retrench.'

  'No, of course not,' she lied. 'I thought I was helping Quentin by trying to economise, but now I know the truth there'll be no need.'

  The casual way she tried to speak reassured him, and he sighed. 'In the ordinary way, I wouldn't have asked Quentin not to tell you, but I've had you for such a short time. I couldn't seem to bear the thought of you thinking badly of me, but Quentin promised you would never hear of it from him. One day, of course, you would have had to know, because I can't leave you what I've no longer got. Technically, you understand, everything I have be­longs to your husband.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  GINA had no clear recollection of how she reached home that afternoon. Her grandfather, strangely enough, seemed happier when she left than he had done when she arrived, but she was aware that this was because he no longer feared she would discover his guilty secret and de­spise him for it. That she did know and forgave him had obviously removed a great burden from his mind.

  Gina wished that she, too, could have felt happier. It was certainly a relief to know Quentin hadn't taken Charles's money, but this didn't alter the fact that she had believed he had done, and that it was unlikely he would ever forgive her for her lack of trust.

  A hundred times between Bourne Court and Briarly, she wondered how she could ever have thought Quentin capable of stealing, for this, she frankly admitted, was what she had practically accused him of. Of course other men as brilliant as Quentin had failed; she had heard him say, himself, that in business one could never be absol­utely certain of anything, but she ought to have had more faith in him.

  And, apart from faith, hadn't there been other things which should have made her doubt her own foolish con­victions? If Quentin's financial empire had collapsed there would have been plenty about it in the newspapers. He couldn't possibly have carried on as though nothing had happened. A man of his intelligence wouldn't have wanted to. She ought to have disregarded Blanche's state­ment that Quentin's downfall was common knowledge when no one else appeared to know of it. Felix Duke, for one, would have known as he had many connections in the City, but always he had only praise for Quentin's infallibility. If only, Gina thought desperately, she had been sensible enough not to listen to gossip.

  She would have to apologise, but she suspected it would make little difference. Quentin might only despise her more. However, whether he did or not, she would have to make her confession, and after dinner, if he would see her alone, would perhaps be the best time to speak to him about it.

  Despairingly, as she dressed for dinner later, she found herself taking extra care over her appearance. As if that would make any difference! But after washing and drying her hair she made sure that this and her face and hands were beyond reproach, never having quite been able to forget how Quentin used to be forever telling her she looked far from clean. Yet his former disparagement seemed nothing, this evening, compared with her own discreditable conduct! For the first time she believed he had more to forgive her for th
an she had him. Hers was the greater sin.

  Trying to shut out the memory of the curt remark he had once made about not expecting him to forgive her so easily, she trailed unhappily downstairs. Her palms were damp with apprehension and she felt slightly unsteady on her feet, but otherwise she was in control of herself. De­liberately she steered her chaotic thoughts away from her charade of a honeymoon, the wasted opportunities, which made her want to break down openly and weep.

  Quentin was late home, he still hadn't arrived as she entered the drawing-room. There wouldn't be time to speak to him now before dinner, and if she waited upstairs she might be tempted to try.

  When he did put in an appearance, she was pouring his mother a glass of sherry and filling one for herself Thinking of her coming ordeal, she turned to gaze at him, but wasn't able to raise even a small smile. She did manage to ask meekly if she could get him anything.

  'I'll get my own,' he said lightly, casting her a narrow-eyed glance. He had changed, his hair was still damp from the shower, but instead of the lounge suit which he usually wore when dining at home, he was wearing a superbly cut evening jacket.

  'Are you going out?' Mrs Hurst enquired.

  'Yes,' he answered his mother briefly, his eyes still on Gina. 'Gina and I are going to a reception later. I'm taking her back to Town with me.'

  'She never said anything.'

  'Because she didn't know.' Quentin, as though impati­ent of his mother's hurt surprise, was curt.

  Gina was startled and knew her face betrayed it. She hadn't appeared anywhere with Quentin, apart from their wedding reception, and their one trip to London which could scarcely have been called a social occasion. This evening she felt ill equipped to make her debut, if that was what he intended.

  'Do you really mean it?' she asked.

  'Yes.' He remained uncompromising, meeting Gina's wide eyes with cool belligerence. 'And before you begin attacking me for not giving you a ring, I did try, but you weren't in, and I didn't feel like leaving a message.'

  'I went to see my grandfather,' she faltered, growing cold as this reminded her how Quentin must have saved Charles from heartache and possible disgrace. Knowing this, how could she oppose him in anything, ever again? With the meekness which she saw continued to surprise him, she added hesitantly, 'He rang and asked me over. They've only just got home, but I'm sorry I wasn't here when you wanted me.'

  His brows rose, while his eyes lost none of their cynical intentness. 'You'll come this evening, then?'

  He was asking, she realised, if she intended coming quietly. Did she really have a choice? 'Yes, if you still want me.' She was astonished at the steadiness of her voice when she was a quiver of nerves inside. She noticed he didn't answer her oddly worded query. Perhaps he didn't want her any more? She could scarcely expect him to.

  'Wear one of your Paris dresses,' was all he said, as they went in to dinner.

  'Is it something special?' Mrs Hurst asked as they sat down.

  'In a way,' Quentin nodded his handsome head. 'A lot of people are getting very curious about my wife,' he addressed his mother as if Gina wasn't there. 'I'll have to produce her sooner or later and this evening seems as good a time as any. One or two important clients are on the guest list and I more or less promised I'd turn up.'

  If he had loved her, Gina would have been full of plea­sure and excitement at the prospect of such an occasion. 'But Quentin didn't love her and she was too aware of the weight of her own troubled conscience to be able to relax. For all this, she knew she had never looked lovelier than she did, when she came downstairs to find him waiting for her in the hall.

  'Quite entrancingly beautiful, but absurdly young,' he said tightly, almost as if her youthfulness annoyed him.

  'Nothing that time won't alter, sir,' Matthews, allow­ing himself the privilege of an old and trusted servant, smiled at Gina indulgently. Gallantly he added, 'You're looking very lovely, Mrs Quentin, but I doubt that time will alter that.'

  Gina smiled at him warmly, yet a little sadly as she said goodbye. If only she had been a little older and wiser she might have been so happy here. Matthews and the rest of the staff were so nice to her now, and she might soon have to leave it all behind.

  Her heart heavy, she followed Quentin outside. Should she speak to him on the way to London? He didn't us­ually talk much when he was driving, but she suddenly felt she couldn't wait.

  Having expected Quentin to be driving himself, she was surprised to find Hardy, his man from London, behind the wheel. 'Hardy's driving,' Quentin explained, briefly. 'It's not so tiring. We'll stay in Town tonight and he can take you home in the morning.'

  'What about my horses?'

  'Oh , my God!' he murmured sarcastically, his eyes har­dening at Gina's quick consternation. 'Your horses! Sometimes I wish I had four legs! The gardener will see to them, he's done it before. I had a word with him, and also my mother, while you were upstairs.'

  'I see…' Gina wasn't sure that she felt happy about the arrangement, but the gleam in Quentin's eyes advised her against arguing. She wasn't sure about staying in Town, either, but again she decided against saying any­thing. Quentin was in a strange mood and she didn't want to antagonise him further.

  She didn't get a chance to mention her grandfather's money, and how mistaken she had been about it as he soon squashed any hopes she had had of a cosy chat in the back of the car. Quentin sat in front with Hardy and only spoke to her occasionally over his shoulder.

  The party, given by an overseas consortium, was well under way by the time they arrived, and she felt grateful that she had attended several such functions with Charles and Liza during the year she had lived with them. Other­wise she might have felt rather overwhelmed. All she could see were crowds of people and her ears were im­mediately assaulted by an ever-increasing volume of con­versation and laughter. There was dancing, but the music for this merely seemed to add to the general noise.

  'Come on,' Quentin drew her forward grimly, 'you're young, don't forget. A little of this goes a long way but won't hurt you.'

  Because this sounded too much like criticism, her raw nerves wouldn't stand for it and she protested jerkily, 'I've scarcely got through the door!'

  'And already attracting attention.' He seemed no more pleased about this, but abruptly, as they were hailed by a nearby group, he said, 'Come and meet some of my friends.'

  As Charles Hearn's newly discovered granddaughter, Gina had captured quite a lot of interest at the parties she had gone to with him, but this was slightly different, she discovered, from the interest these people displayed in Quentin's wife. There was general surprise, she sensed, at her youth, but while the men regarded her with open admiration some of the women were frankly envious. The year she had travelled abroad had given her confidence and a little sophistication which was altogether attractive, but she realised these female friends of Quentin's might have welcomed her better if she had been older and plain.

  Mostly, throughout the evening, she didn't stray far from Quentin's side, but plenty of men clamoured to talk and dance with her and she found it difficult to refuse them. Quentin encouraged her, and appeared to enjoy an occasional change of partner himself, but his eyes seldom left Gina for long. One woman in particular followed him around, casting him languishing glances and contriving to ignore his wife. When one of the men who bore Gina off to dance murmured tipsily in her ear that Margot Jones was an old girl-friend of Quentin's, she wasn't sur­prised to hear it.

  After this, although she refused to believe she could be jealous, Gina found it difficult to even pretend to be en­joying herself, and it must have showed, because Quentin rebuked her again.

  'I know you aren't enchanted with me, darling,' he drawled sardonically, 'but you could make an effort. A few smiles wouldn't come amiss. They're what's expected of a bride.'

  'Is it important?' she asked, more bitterly than she rea­lised.

  'For my pride's sake, I think it is.' He held her cruelly close as they c
ircled the crowded floor, his eyes cynical.

  'I'm sorry,' she said, adding truthfully, 'I'm not in a party mood this evening.'

  'Are you ever?' he snapped, suddenly angry.

  In view of her own aching unhappiness, this was too much. Impulsively she retorted, 'I'm sure no one's giving us that much attention, except, perhaps, Miss Jones!'

  'Jealous?'

  'I—I might be,' she admitted, trembling, suddenly too mixed up to be anything else but completely honest.

  Quentin laughed tauntingly. 'How much have you had to drink? I noticed your last partner was keeping you well supplied.'

  'Only one or two,' she said stiffly.

  'Altogether?'

  She tried to remember. 'That's all, apart from the Martini you got me.'

  He frowned, but the music stopped before he could comment and Margot Jones just happened to be there. Quite without shame she curled her hands around Quen­tin's arm as he released Gina.

  'You were married in an awful hurry, weren't you, darling?' she purred, her eyes running maliciously down the length of Gina's slender figure.

  Gina boiled. 'I wasn't pregnant, if that's what you mean? Not that it would have mattered,' she faltered, her rush of resentment dwindling unhappily into embarrass­ment. How could she have come out with that, especially as she hadn't even slept with Quentin yet!

  His sideways glance mockingly asked the same ques­tion, and it seemed to her his revenge was complete— equally divided between Margot and herself, when he drawled smoothly, 'But you soon could be.'

  While Gina went white and Margot flushed with temper, he appeared quite unrepentant. Yet Gina noticed he was slightly puzzled by the momentary unhappiness she had betrayed. Miss Jones was angry. It was so obvi­ous there could be no doubt, and Gina was relieved when some other friends of Quentin's arrived, for she had no wish to be part of an ugly scene.

  Had Margot Jones been Quentin's mistress? If she had been, Gina felt sorry for her, for he seemed to regard her now with callous indifference. As he would herself, Gina had no illusions, after she made her confession, later.