by Susan Barrie
Some little while later he returned. She had slipped into a white candlewick dressing gown, and as she was one of the few people whom white seems to etherealize and to render eternally youthful, Lucien stood looking at her from the doorway with undisguised admiration on his face. Then, as she glanced up and smiled at him, he moved to her and took her gently into his arms.
“Darling,” he said softly, his lips moving against her hair, “I’m afraid I’ve got to leave you alone on your first evening in your new home. Will you mind very much? It’s a very dull dinner—entirely masculine—that I’d forgotten all about, but which, if possible, I really ought to attend. Fraulein Neiger reminded me of it just now.”
“Then of course you must go,” she said, looking up at him with her quick smile. “I wouldn’t dream of preventing you.”
“And you won’t feel very dull left alone here? What will you do?”
She glanced around her at the clothes that remained to be unpacked and hung up neatly in the wardrobe, and she had her answer at once.
“I’ll finish my unpacking in a very leisurely way, and perhaps Frau Bauer will let me have some dinner up here on a tray, and then I can have an even more leisurely bath and go to bed early with a book.”
“And before that you can read this,” he said, and produced an envelope from his pocket. It contained a special-delivery letter written with the exuberance that was typical of Beverley:
Darling mummy: David and I both send our love and congratulations. Delighted for you but very very surprised. Can’t imagine what my new stepfather is like, but dying to meet him. We will break our journey in Oberlaken and stay with you for a few days if convenient. If not we will go to a hotel. Expect to be with you about the 25th. Much love.
Beverley
“Oh!” Caro exclaimed. And then her lower lip trembled. “They’re...coming! I’m so pleased!”
“Are you? Well, don’t cry!” His eyes smiled at her teasingly, but he carefully wiped away the first tear that started rolling down her cheek. “It shouldn’t be necessary to shed tears over your one ewe lamb, especially as you’ll be seeing her again quite soon.”
“Yes. It’s just that I ... I’m very pleased to have heard from her.” She looked up at him shyly. “Will they—will they be able to stay here, Lucien?”
“Of course,” he answered. “This is your own house now, and we’ve plenty of room.”
“And you won’t ... mind?”
“Mind? Why should I?” Her lifted her chin and gazed at her. “Of course I don’t mind, you silly little sweet, but I don’t like to see you cry. And remember that although you’re Beverley’s mother you’re my wife now, as well.” He kissed her hard on the mouth. “Understand?”
“Of course.”
“Then that’s all right.”
When he had left the house she felt that it settled down to an additional quietness, and as soon as she had had her bath she went to bed. Lucien had asked her not to keep awake for him, and although she felt strange and extraordinarily bereft without him she hoped she would fall asleep soon.
And then she thought of the photograph in the drawer in the next room—the photograph of Lucien’s first wife, Barbara. She said the name over to herself softly as she lay in bed. Barbara Andreas. And then she said the name she had so recently acquired. Caro Andreas. The beauty of the girl in the photograph had shaken her badly, and the fact that until he went away three days ago Lucien had kept the picture always in front of him on his dressing table had shaken her still more.
The musical clock in the hall chimed eleven, and then midnight. After that she must have dozed. It was four o’clock when Lucien came in very quietly, and she heard him approach her bed. He bent down and seemed to be listening for a few moments to her even breathing, and she felt him lightly brush her forehead with his lips; then he went away again as quietly.
He did not return, and she realized that he had made up his mind not to disturb her and would sleep in the dressing room on the divan bed. She wondered whether there would be many nights like this.
Caro made the discovery that her own daily life was to become part of a carefully organized routine. Except on rare occasions Fraulein Neiger’s planning of his day for him met with little opposition from Lucien. She was an exceptionally competent and reliable secretary, the possessor of large quantities of tact when dealing with patients. And she not only organized his professional life for him—the number of patients to be seen daily, visits to his clinic, the local hospital, lectures and so forth—but kept his social-engagement diary, as well, and was fully conversant with all that he did and was committed to do in the future.
Caro discovered the power of Fraulein Neiger during the first week of her marriage. One afternoon she discovered a shop where it was possible to obtain artists’ materials, and went in to inquire about the small ivory ovals she used for miniatures. She was delighted when the man inside the shop produced the very things she wanted, and she hurried home to fill in some of her time by beginning work upstairs in her own room.
Lucien’s big cream car was outside the house, but there was no sign of any other car, so she deduced that he was not at that moment dealing with a patient. She moved impulsively to his door and tapped on it.
No voice called to her to enter, so she opened the door. A kind of frozen and appalled silence met her. An exquisitely beautiful woman with large Italian eyes was lying back in one of the deep chairs with a cigarette in a long jade holder between her lips, and behind the desk sat Lucien. Caro realized that not only had she blundered where angels feared to tread, but her blunder had sent Lucien’s dark eyebrows up in an amazed arch, and his eyes were looking at her coldly. She withdrew quickly, and later she went downstairs with an unevenly beating heart and a somewhat dry feeling in her mouth, to enter the drawing room and discover that Lucien was waiting for her.
“Why in the world did you come to my consulting room when I was interviewing a patient?”
“I had no idea you were interviewing a patient,” Caro explained.
Lucien’s black brows drew together in a heavy, frowning line.
“You must understand, Caro, that you must never attempt to come to my room for any purpose whatsoever unless Fraulein Neiger has assured you beforehand that I am absolutely free. She is the one person in this house who always knows what I am doing at any hour of the day, so will you please consult her in future if you want to know anything about my movements.”
“Yes,” Caro answered.
“That was Lola dei Panandi,” he said curtly after a moment. “She is the wife of an Italian count.”
“I’m sorry I intruded,” Caro managed. “There was no car outside, and I thought—”
He turned and looked at her and suddenly he smiled—but it was rather a bleak smile.
“In any case, what did you want to see me about? Was it urgent?”
“No, it wasn’t in the least urgent.”
“Then what was it?”
“Nothing—nothing important.”
He put his head to one side for a moment and regarded her before he walked over and took her face between his hands. “Don’t be obstinate, Caro. What was it?”
“It was only that I found a shop where I could buy artists’ materials, and I was rather excited about it. I wanted to let you know.”
“I see,” he said, and lightly smoothed the slim outline of her brows. “But do you need artists’ materials these days? Is it necessary for you to occupy yourself in that way any longer?”
Caro was about to explain that it was necessary from the point of view of having something apart from complete and unaccustomed idleness to fill her days, when a light tap came at the door and Fraulein Neiger put in her head.
“I’m so sorry, doctor,” she said, “but you are wanted on the telephone. It is a long-distance call from Paris.”
Three nights later they gave their first dinner party, to which a few of Lucien’s more intimate friends were invited. There was Olga Spiro;
an Englishman called Brian Woodhill, who wrote rather provocative novels that had an enormous sale; Monsieur and Madame Vannier; a very solemn and renowned bacteriologist; and a lively little woman with snow-white hair who was draped with diamonds and pearls and claimed to be Lucien’s godmother. She was Frau Maler, who preferred to be known as Aunt Gertrud, and Lucien was obviously very fond of her. She said to Caro, after subjecting her to the most open scrutiny for several seconds, “You are not in the least as I imagined you would be! In fact, you are not at all the type we imagined Lucien would marry one day, but I’m sure you are quite delightful—you look it!”
“Thank you,” Caro answered, and felt a little embarrassed because Brian Woodhill was standing near when the introduction took place, and she thought that his unmistakably English blue eyes were laughing at her. He had crisp brown hair untouched by gray, although she judged him to be somewhere in his middle forties, and his figure was as lean as a very young man’s.
“You mustn’t let Frau Maler’s open statements embarrass you,” he said when he found himself alone with Caro for a few minutes before dinner was served. “She’s like that, but we are all fond of her. And I must admit I was extremely surprised when I found that you were—exactly as you are—and English! I had no idea.”
“Hadn’t you?” She looked up at him with her wide gray eyes a little searching. “I wonder what you did expect?”
“There hasn’t been much time to expect anything,” he answered. “All this has been rather sudden, hasn’t it?”
“Yes. Lucien and I have known one another only a little more than three weeks!”
“Well, I don’t suppose there’s much point in putting off the evil moment once two people make up their minds, is there?” he suggested, a twinkle in his eyes.
“The evil moment?” Caro echoed. “Are you married yourself, Mr. Woodhill?”
“Never on your life!” he replied, with so much fervor, and so promptly, that she found herself laughing.
“Yet from your books one wouldn’t gather that you’re a woman hater.”
“I’m not,” he assured her, “but I don’t think matrimony and I would go well together.”
He explained that he had a chalet in the mountains that he visited at different periods of the year, and where he did a good deal of writing.
“It’s quite up in the mountains,” he added. “I love them. Do you like the mountains, Frau Andreas?”
“I’ve spent only a weekend up in the mountains so far.”
“Then you and your husband must come and spend a weekend with me in my chalet. Do you know, I’m a terrific admirer of Lucien. He saved my life for me once when I picked up some sort of toxic fever, and we’ve been friends ever since.”
“Did you—” she was never afterward quite sure why she asked the question “—did you know his first wife?”
He looked down at her gravely.
“No,” he answered, and somehow the answer pleased her.
At dinner Olga Spiro sat on Lucien’s left hand, and his godmother was on his right. He appeared to be dividing his attention equally between them, the perfect host, relaxed and charming, with an occasional half-smiling glance directed at the end of the table and his wife.
Caro wore a dress of fuchsia net over a wide taffeta underskirt. Her mirror had told her before she left her bedroom that she was looking her best. Olga Spiro’s eyes had taken in every detail of her appearance, she knew, and she was glad that the cool, remote face showed some approval, too.
After dinner Olga made a point of joining her on the settee in the drawing room and telling her that she was ready to begin instructing her in German as soon as Caro wished.
“Lucien thinks I can help you perhaps better than anyone else,” she said, “and I’d certainly be delighted to do so if I can. In fact, anything at all I can do to help you I shall be charmed to do.”
“That’s extremely kind of you,” Caro responded, feeling, however, a little awkward at the same time.
Olga’s light green eyes rested on her.
“Not at all,” she said softly. “Lucien is my very dear friend, and naturally I wish his wife to be my friend, also.”
But nothing in the least suggestive of warmth crept into her eyes.
“I suggest that we begin our studies about eleven each morning,” Olga pursued, “and if it is quite convenient to you I will come here. I hope that you will visit me at my flat whenever you wish. Perhaps you will come to lunch with me one day?”
Caro accepted with what she hoped was the right amount of gratitude in her voice.
“You and I must get to know one another well,” Fraulein Spiro said, as if it were genuinely important. “I should dislike very much to think that you were sometimes lonely here, with Lucien so preoccupied. A man in his position has so many calls upon his time.”
Lucien joined them, and Olga’s eyes instantly became several shades brighter as she gazed up at him.
“Your wife and I have been making arrangements to begin her German lessons,” she said, “and I have told her that I hope we shall become very good friends.”
“I’m sure I hope so, too,” he replied.
Suddenly Caro found herself wondering why these two had never married. To her it was already quite clear that Olga would have been more than willing, and surely she would have made an absolutely perfect wife for Lucien? For a man, as she herself had put it “in his position,” who required someone understanding his background.
When everybody had gone, and the evening was over, Caro retired to bed while Lucien answered a late telephone call. She was already in bed when he came upstairs and he crossed the room somewhat thoughtfully and sat on the side of her bed and looked at her.
She was wearing a nightdress edged with a mist of lace, and with her small head nestled in the pillows she looked absurdly young, and a little forlorn.
He bent over her and kissed her.
“How did you enjoy the evening?” he asked.
“Very much,” she answered.
“I noticed you were getting on well with Brian Woodhill, who is a fellow countryman of yours. Do you like him?”
“Yes,” Caro admitted at once, “I like him very much indeed.”
“Because he’s so English?”
“Partly, perhaps.”
He lifted her slim arms and wound them about his neck.
“Caro, are you happy?” he asked.
“Lucien,” she asked, “do you love me?”
“Love you?” He drew back a little to gaze at her. “Of course I love you!”
“You’ve never said so.”
“Haven’t I? How remiss of me!” His eyes studied her seriously for a few moments. “I love you very much.”
“Do you—truly, Lucien?”
“Truly, my small, doubting Caro!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Beverley and David arrived at last, and to Caro it seemed that a far longer period than a few weeks had elapsed since their wedding day. Beverley clung to her mother for almost half a minute before she let her go, and then stepped back to regard her with interest.
“Mummy, you are different! I had a feeling you might be. You look—well, I don’t know quite how you look. Rather rare, somehow, and a bit too exquisite to be an ordinary common or garden mummy!”
“Don’t be silly, darling,” Caro replied; smiling at her. “I couldn’t possibly change all that much in a few weeks. It’s probably my dress, and I’ve discovered a wonderful hairdresser.”
“And you’ve stopped using the wrong kind of lipstick,” Beverley told her, still studying her critically. “Perhaps you were always extremely attractive, only I never noticed it.”
David Rivers as a son-in-law was a young man Caro felt she was quite justified in feeling proud of. . He was very fair, with level, alert gray eyes. Instead of the rather formal handshake she had been prepared for he swept her into his arms and gave her such a hearty hug that it rendered her temporarily breathless.
“Mmm
!” he exclaimed, his admiring eyes roving over her. “I’m not going to call you ‘mother’! I shall call you Caro from now on!”
“Good!” she exclaimed, “I don’t honestly feel like a mother to two such completely grown-up young people as yourselves.”
She led the way into the drawing-room, and she could see her daughter’s eyes wandering everywhere with the same unconcealed appreciation.
“Mummy, what a super house! This room is exquisite, and I simply adore those flower paintings. Do tell me, is my new step-papa a close relation to a millionaire, or something of the sort?”
Caro was faintly shocked by the bluntness of the query.
“He’s a very eminent local consultant,” she explained.
And even as she spoke, the door opened and Lucien stood there. He moved toward them, his interested eyes on Beverley.
“So you’ve arrived safely,” he said as he put out a hand.
“Why,” Beverley gasped, “you’re not a bit like I expected you to be!”
“Aren’t I?” His eyes were smiling and amused. “And you’re almost exactly as I expected you to be!”
While the two men talked Caro took Beverley upstairs and showed her the room that had been prepared for her and David. It was beautifully equipped, like all the other rooms in the house, and with a bathroom adjoining.
“Mummy, I’m honestly staggered by all this,” Beverley confessed. “I can’t take it in. And your Lucien is quite amazingly good-looking, isn’t he?” she continued. “I could fall for him myself if I weren’t already married to David.”
Caro smiled with a touch of affectionate humor in her eyes. And then her daughter looked up into her mother’s face and studied it carefully. “Mummy,” she inquired softly at the end of it, “you are happy, aren’t you?”
Caro made reassuring responses, able to do so convincingly because, in a way, she was terribly happy—far, far happier than she had ever been in her life before. And the wonder of being Lucien’s wife was something that uplifted her at moments to realms far beyond and above the description Beverley applied to her own present state of mind, and merited a term far more rare and precious. But there were also moments she had to live through as a result of being his wife that were marred by doubt and a frightening little cold feeling that she could have made a mistake.