by Susan Barrie
“Then I’ll take it upstairs to my room, if I’m annoying you.” “You won’t, because I’m in the mood to talk to you, and I shan’t be here tomorrow night! Dallas—”
Infuriated by his condescension and his admission that he was now in the mood to talk to her—to notice her, and fill her with false ideas—she leaned in front of him and made to snatch up the piece of embroidery work he had so contemptuously cast aside, but he leaned forward at the same time to prevent her, and their two heads came together with a crack. For an instant she saw stars, and then she heard him apologizing in a state of utter abjectness.
“Dallas! Oh, darling, did I hurt you? Darling, I didn’t really hurt you, did I?” She blinked up at him stupidly, and he stood up and drew her unresisting to her feet. His arms went round her, and he cradled her close. “My poor little one, I’ve a head like iron, and you must have got the worst of it! Sweetheart, forgive me. I ought to be shot for behaving like an oaf! ”
Between feeling slightly bemused and unable to believe in the stream of endearments that were leaving his lips Dallas was unable to assure him that her head was not in two halves, and that stars were no longer whirling in front of her eyes, and he cupped her face in the palm of his hand and looked deeply and anxiously into her eyes.
“Forgiven?” he asked, after a moment.
She nodded. “Of course. There’s nothing to forgive,” she said huskily.
“On the contrary, I think there’s a lot to forgive.”
He bent his head, and she knew that in another moment his mouth would close over her mouth, but she had neither the will nor the desire to prevent it. Softly, and almost with a sigh, his lips pressed down on her lips, and so utterly blissful was the sensation that her arm went up and partially closed about his neck. He rubbed his cheek against her cheek, murmured into her hair and against the pink lobe of her ear, and then returned to the attack on her mouth . . . only this time it was a much more concentrated attack, shaking her to her foundations, refusing to
be satisfied even when the hall clock chimed the hour of ten; and as each breathless, silvery stroke prolonged itself and hung in the atmosphere Dallas felt as if her own breath was being ruthlessly denied her, and at the same time the ecstasy was almost too great.
Then Martin let her go, and as he looked at her his eyes were deep and dark, their expression completely altered.
“That wasn’t a reward I deserved,” he remarked quietly.
Dallas’s face was alive with color, and her eyes were like green stars; but his words brought her back to earth with something of a jolt.
“It wasn’t a reward at all,” she said huskily. “It was—I think!—an accident.”
“Like the accident of our two heads coming together?”
“That was my fault for behaving impulsively. I’m afraid I was rather rude to you.”
“And I was impossible to you! ” If he had been excited by his potations at dinner the effect had completely worn off, and he was sober enough now. He took her face between his hands once more and examined it carefully. His eyes were grave and searching. “I don’t want anything to alter our relationship at this stage, Dallas.” She had no idea what he meant, but she understood he was apologizing to her for his conduct of a few minutes ago, but not for the fact that he had kissed her for the second time while she was in a more or less defenceless position under his own roof. “I have to return to London tomorrow, and I have many preoccupations. You have to concentrate on Stephanie and taking care of your own health, and when next I come to Loring I hope to find you both looking very fit. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t both look as tough as a couple of gypsies if you follow the program I’ve mapped out for you.”
She nodded. She found she was unable to speak save in a slight, husky whisper.
“We’ll do our best. At any rate, I’ll do my best!”
“I know you will. And if you want anything.... Well, let me
know.”
She nodded again. She managed to free her face without doing anything very obvious, apart from stepping backwards a little.
He sighed.
“Well, now I suppose you’d better go to bed.”
“And in the morning you’ll be gone, so I’ll—I’ll say goodbye to you now,” and she held out a slender, hesitant hand.
But he declined to take it.
“No, I’ll see you at breakfast, and I’ll say goodbye to you then,” he said, and turned away.
But in the morning he was gone, long before breakfast was
served in the oak-panelled dining room, and Stephanie was full of indignation because he hadn’t even taken the trouble to slip up to her room and wake her to say goodbye.
Mrs. Baxter was full of complaints because he had gone off without any breakfast, and she thought that was ridiculous.
“You’d think a doctor would have more sense, wouldn’t you?” she said to Dallas.
But the latter didn’t know what to think of Dr. Martin Loring.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JOANNA LORING wasted no time in taking over the studio at Loring Court. Dallas had a look at it before she arrived with her easel, her canvases, and all the paraphernalia of an artist, and she thought it an exceptionally pleasant room, quite apart from the fact that it was one of the largest and best-lit in the house.
It was on the first floor, and had once been the principal bedroom in the house, occupied for a long time by Martin’s grandmother. When his wife was alive she, too, had used it as a studio, for both girls were extremely talented, and in addition to painting Maureen had been interested in modelling. Some of her delicate little statuettes were scattered about the house, and a small head she had done of her husband, and had coated with bronze, occupied quite a prominent position in the drawing room.
Joanna Loring painted both landscapes and portraits, and they were extraordinarily good—particularly the portraits. They were not inclined to flatter, but they left no doubt as to who the sitter was, and apparently that sold well. Mrs. Baxter, who was unwilling to hear anything good said of Mrs. Roger Loring—the unfortunate Roger, it seemed, had lost his life while on a mountaineering expedition in Nepal—declared that she was the un- tidiest woman she had ever met in her life as she went round preparing the studio for occupation.
It meant opening it up and airing it, lighting fires in the big fireplace that was surrounded by a nursery fire-guard for some unknown reason. It also meant much polishing and refurbishing of chair covers and curtains, for the housekeeper was most unwilling that anyone should find anything in Loring Court in a condition that didn’t satisfy her own critical eye. But at the same time she was depressed by the thought that it was all so much wasted effort
when it was Joanna Loring who was going to look upon it as her room for the next few weeks.
“And mark my words, this is only the beginning,” the housekeeper declared. “The next thing will be she’ll want to move into the bedroom next door, or she’ll have a bed put in here. She did that once before, and you never saw such a state when the maids tried to clean. Stockings and underwear draped over every chair, ash-trays choked with ash. And she used to hang a notice outside the door saying she was not to be disturbed.”
“But she promised Dr. Loring she’d be very careful this time,” Dallas said defensively. . . although the impression she had received of Joanna Loring was that she needed no one to defend her. She was a law
unto herself, completely indifferent about other people’s feelings—save, perhaps, the feelings of Martin Loring!—and therefore not caring in the slightest whether they approved of her or not.
If she liked living in a state of muddle and uproar, she would continue living in a state of muddle and uproar, however many promises she made. And she was too beautiful to actively revolt, whatever she did. That was the strongest impression Dallas had received about her, and the kind of effect she had on most people ... particularly men.
The Mrs. Baxters of this world would always disapprove
of her, but that wouldn’t trouble Joanna. It was quite possible that Aunt Letty disapproved of her, but that wouldn’t trouble her, either. The one person she knew who obviously could never quite disapprove of her was Martin, and where he was concerned Dallas had the oddest and most unshakable conviction that she was desperately anxious to please.
She had to please or conciliate him somehow or other, before she could become a happy and contented woman. And she was moving into his house to regain a foothold in his life that she must, somehow or other, have lost . . . and, having regained the foothold, according to Mrs. Baxter, she would make every endeavor to consolidate it by establishing herself firmly in the house as a rightful occupant. Not just a hard-up and homeless sister-in-law— which she apparently was; but a sister-in-law with the right to come and go as she pleased. A sister-in- law with ambitions. . . .
To become the second Mrs. Martin Loring?
Dallas thought she probably had a good chance if she could overcome some slight antagonism to the idea which seemed to be upsetting Martin at the moment.
The day she moved in and actually took over the studio Dallas hoped to escape an encounter, but Stephanie was apparently very fond of her aunt and insisted on being somewhere at hand to greet her. She declined to go for the usual morning walk because Joanna was arriving by car, and they hung about in the drive until the car turned in at the gates. Then Stephanie raced up the drive to accord Joanna a rapturous welcome, and also to enquire whether there was anything amongst the pile of stuff being off-loaded from the car and carried into the house that could in any way concern her.
Joanna smiled at her, understanding immediately what was meant by that.
“Yes, poppet, there’s a box of chocolates on the back seat that I bought in Paris for you. They’re expensive, and they’re probably too rich for you, so be careful you don’t make yourself sick.”
But it was the sight of the gilt casket that delighted Stephanie— already very feminine and preferring feminine frills and furbelows to childish gifts. One highly unsuitable gift, in Dallas’s opinion, that she had received from her aunt on her last birthday stood proudly on her dressing table. It was an outsize bottle of perfume, with which she occasionally anointed Joe.
Stephanie let out a delighted shriek, and Joe— straining at the leash held in Dallas’s hand— escaped and added to the confusion inside the car by romping about amongst Joanna’s things. Joanna picked him up by the scruff of the neck and examined him critically.
“That’s Joe,” Stephanie informed her, with the pride of ownership. “I named him after you, really,” she confessed naively. “He’s a boy, so I couldn’t make it Joanna.”
“Thanks, poppet,” Mrs. Loring returned, not so much touched as amused by the tribute. She allowed Dallas to relieve her of the small, squirming bundle, and then looked her up and down with a faint flickering of surprise in her eyes.
“I’m always expecting to see you in uniform,” she admitted, “but somehow I never do. Has Martin laid it down that uniforms are „out’, or something of the sort? I know he hates to be reminded of the daily toil and grind when he’s away from it all; and nurses are, in any case, not his favorite cup of tea.”
“He thought it would be a good idea if I discarded my uniform while looking after Stephanie,” Dallas replied, with an instinctive feeling that with Mrs. Joanna Loring she must always be on her guard.
The other smiled—not in the way she had smiled when she paid her visit with Mrs. Temple-Stewart. This time there was more condescension, and not nearly so much open friendliness.
“Oh, yes, I understand. If you’re to be a companion you don’t want to look as if you’re straight out of an institution. That would hardly be a wise psychological approach to a child like Stephanie.” She tossed the latter a few oddments to carry into the house. “Take them up to the studio, Stevie, and then come back for more. I seem to move around with an awful lot of junk these days.”
But Dallas intervened.
“We were just going for our morning walk, Mrs. Loring,” she said firmly. “It’s a fine morning, and it wouldn’t do for Stephanie to miss her daily exercise.”
Joanna Loring’s slim eyebrows simply flew up.
“So even though you don’t wear a uniform you really are carrying out institutional methods,” she commented. “I think that’s a bit hard on Steve. She likes to run around after me, and it’ll be fine enough this afternoon for a walk.”
“I’m sorry, but at this time of year it’s impossible to predict in the morning how fine it will be in the afternoon,” Dallas stuck to her guns by stating politely.
“Stephanie, are you coming with me? Joe needs exercise as well as you, you know. And you can see your aunt when you get back.”
It was the mention of Joe that decided Stephanie not to be awkward, and she ran off happily down the drive after Dallas only pausing when the latter paused as Joanna called after them:
“You can prepare Mrs. Baxter for the fact that I propose to cadge some lunch off her today when you get back. I meant to bring sandwiches, but I forgot them at the last minute. And in any case, sandwiches are dry fare when you get down to eating them . . . and Baxter's meals are always superb! ” Dallas bit her lip as she walked on hurriedly down the drive. So, she thought, it was beginning. Mrs. Baxter had been absolutely right! Possibly tomorrow Joanna would announce that she was staying the night!
Stephanie glanced up curiously into Dallas’s face as she skipped along at her side.
“Don’t you like my Aunt Joanna?” she asked, with childlike curiosity. “I do. I think she’s terribly nice.”
“Of course I like Mrs. Loring,” Dallas returned hastily, and quite untruthfully, horrified lest the antagonism which was already beginning to rear its head between the lovely widow herself, and the paid employee, should have become obvious to the child. “But when we’ve arranged to do something you mustn’t try and alter the arrangement because your aunt presents you with a box of chocolates. By the way, she added, glancing sideways at the gilt casket hugged under Stephanie’s arm, “you’d better let me carry them for you until we get back.” Stephanie handed over her latest prized possession, and slowed her pace a little as she frowned at the road ahead.
“It isn’t because she gives me things that I like her,” she confessed suddenly. “I like her because she’s fun ... or she’s fun when she isn't cross. She can be very cross sometimes, and then she tells me to run away and lose myself, and not bother her. But when she isn’t cross she’ll show me all her lovely clothes, and things like that. I’m going to have lots of lovely clothes like my Aunt Joanna when I grow up,” Stephanie asserted solemnly, looking up sideways at Dallas as if she was not entirely certain that she would approve.
But Dallas agreed that it was very nice, when you were grown up, to have lots of lovely clothes. But unfortunately, she explained, they cost a great deal of money.
“And you haven’t got a lot of money?” the eight- year-old said
shrewdly, eyes on Dallas’s sensible green tweed coat as if it would pass muster, but could hardly pass into the category of “lovely clothes”.
Dallas couldn’t help looking a little rueful as she admitted her comparative poverty. Although it was quite possible, as she realized, that some of Joanna Loring’s expense outfits were not yet paid for.
“But you’re pretty,” Stephanie remarked, as if she wanted to cheer her up. “You’re terribly pretty.” She became thoughtful again. “My mother wore beautiful clothes,” she announced suddenly, in a tone of subdued pride. “We used to have a picture of her in the dining room, hanging above the fireplace, and she was wearing a simply gorgeous dress that Aunt Joanna said was a ball gown.”
“Oh, yes?” Dallas returned, suddenly acutely interested; and she wondered what had happened to the picture . . . obviously a portrait.
Stephanie confirmed this.
“Aunt Joanna painted it, you know,” she said. “She called it one of her ‘best efforts’. She an
d my mother were twins, and exactly alike.” The child’s eyes grew round. “Don’t you think it’s odd that two people should be exactly alike?”
“Yes,” Dallas answered, “I do. But it does often happen, you know.”
She thought, I wonder Martin Loring can bear it, if he was in love with his wife, having another woman so exactly like her coming to stay in his house! Perhaps that’s the reason why he doesn’t want her to stay!
But somehow she was certain that was not all the reason.
At lunch, oddly enough, Joanna Loring herself commented on the absence of the portrait she herself had painted of her sister. She seemed to realize its absence very suddenly, in the middle of the excellent Dover sole which was being served with a wonderful Hollandaise sauce by a somewhat dour Mrs. Baxter.
“Why, what’s happened to Maureen’s portrait?” she asked, of no one in particular. She sat staring in slight wonderment at the elderly Loring ancestor who had taken the place of Martin Loring’s enchantingly beautiful wife above the wide fireplace, and then her eyes narrowed and grew extremely thoughtful. “What’s happened to it, Baxter?” she asked, more sharply. It was there when I was here last, about six months ago.”
Mrs. Baxter looked at her blankly.
“How would I know, madam?” she returned. “All I know is that the doctor had it removed a short while before his accident.” She looked more meaningfully at the unwanted guest. “Perhaps if you ask Dr. Loring he’ll tell you what’s happened to it,” she suggested. “And why.”
Joanna agreed calmly that that was what she would do.
“Considering all things it’s a trifle odd,” she remarked. “Martin isn’t here often enough himself to justify its being banished, and he should have thought of Stephanie. . . .”
Stephanie’s eyes, very large, were on her, and she spoke more lightly.
“I expect he’s had it put away in lavender for you when you come of age, poppet,” she remarked. “And by that time I’ll have done another one of you, which will make an excellent companion for it.” She smiled more gently at the child. “Mother and daughter! Beautiful mother and exquisite daughter! For I think you’re going to outshine the pair of us when you’re of age to be of interest to everyone, darling!”