Yours to Command

by Mary Burchell

  “Dear girl, I wouldn’t have missed seeing you wild for anything,” Lucas Manning assured her. “And I know you are talking the most profound good sense. But suppose, in answer to all that, I tell you simply that I loved Anne once as you love your Hugh?”

  She hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment.

  “Then I should reply that you’ve had years to get over the feeling. In addition, you’ve taken on the responsibility of the two boys,” Sydney replied firmly. “If you want to marry anyone, you owe it to them to choose someone who’ll make a good mother for them. From all you’ve insisted on telling me you think it’s bad for them even to know that Anne’s alive. Either she is completely unsuitable to be your wife and their mother, or you’re just a great big humbug. There’s no middle course.”

  Lucas Manning leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, though an amused and mocking smile lingered on his lips.

  “How simple, how gloriously simple life seems when you rate me like an eight-year-old,” he murmured. “Go on. I’m just loving it.”

  Sydney laughed vexedly then.

  “I’m not going to say another word about your particular problem,” she asserted. “But decide what you’re going to do, because you’ll need to know during the next few days. And, meanwhile, why did you say at the beginning of this talk that you wanted to have a word with me?”

  He opened his dark, mischievous eyes and smiled at her.

  “It seems a very minor matter, compared to the issues we’ve been discussing, but it does involve my making rather free of your time today, and I hope you’ll forgive me. My housekeeper, Mrs. Wyvern, has a married daughter who is sick, and she wants to visit her this evening. In the ordinary way that would be quite simple, of course. But with the boys here I can’t just let her go off whilst I’m away at the theatre. Would it spoil any plans of yours if I asked you to stay here until about nine-thirty? Mrs. Wyvern will certainly be back by then.”

  “Why, of course.” Sydney smiled at him. “If I can just check in at my hotel, which is quite near here, on our way to or from Whipsnade, it will be very simple.”

  “Good. Then our immediate problems are settled.” He got to his feet in one quick, graceful movement. “And the rest can be dealt with after we’ve fed the monkeys.”

  It was a perfectly enchanting day after that, Sydney thought. They had an early lunch, served by a benevolent Mrs. Wyvern who was almost embarrassingly graceful over Sydney’s offer to “stand in” for her. Then, in the beautiful clear March sunshine, they drove off to Whipsnade.

  It was all very amusing and undemanding and relaxing, and Sydney saw that Lucas Manning, as well as herself, found it a peculiarly enjoyable experience.

  “You were quite right in what you said about Alistair,” he murmured with a smile, as the two boys threw buns to a rather bored bear.

  “What was that?” Sydney asked with a smile.

  “That he has the most sense of us all.”

  “Oh—” she flashed an amused glance at him. “Perhaps we won’t insist on the exact application of that. I got rather hot on the subject, I know. But”, for a moment, she actually put her hand on his arm, “I’d hate to see you spoil your own life. You’re too nice to be sacrificed on the altar of a foolish impulse.”

  He didn’t answer that at once. Instead, he put his hand lightly over the fingers on his sleeve.

  “I’m glad you think I’m nice,” he said quite simply.

  And then Alistair said he was hungry and wasn’t it nearly tea time?

  So they had a rather substantial tea, and then drove homeward, all of them in a condition of singular contentment.

  As they entered the flat once more, Sydney had the most extraordinary feeling of really belonging here. It was not like a strange flat at all, and the thought that she was to spend the evening quietly here with the boys seemed perfectly natural.

  Lucas Manning seemed a little anxious about the hours she would spend on her own, and made her free of his books, his gramophone and his really wonderful collection of records. But to him, too, Sydney said, “I shall be perfectly all right and shall thoroughly enjoy myself in my own way.”

  “I’ll phone you in the morning,” he told her, just before he left. “But it won’t be early. I expect you’ll be glad of a long morning, and I myself shall have to have a late night. There’s a celebration supper after the show as it’s the two hundredth performance.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” smiled Sydney in a very faintly indulgent way. And then he went off to the theatre, Mrs. Wyvern went away to see her daughter, and presently the boys went to bed.

  To all intents and purposes, Sydney was alone in Lucas Manning’s luxurious flat. And very much at home she felt there.

  It was quiet and warm and elegant. The colouring and the proportions of the room in which she was sitting were indescribably pleasant, and everywhere there was that indefinable impression of money spent with taste and discrimination.

  “It must be wonderful to live in a place like this,” thought Sydney, with appreciation but without envy. And then it struck her that half the charm of the place was due to the fact that, in a dozen different ways, the personality of the owner was impressed upon it.

  She thought for quite a while about Lucas Manning and how strangely close she had come to his life and his problems. Then she reached for a book and began to read. And, because it was an absorbing book, she forgot the time and was only roused to the lateness of the hour by ten sharp, clear strokes from the French clock in the hall.

  Glancing at her watch in surprise, Sydney confirmed the time and told herself that Mrs. Wyvern would soon be in.

  But presently eleven strokes sounded, and then, after what seemed a much longer hour, twelve.

  Disturbed and a little embarrassed to find herself here so late, Sydney got up finally and went into the kitchen, where she stood by the table and rather absently ate one or two of the sandwiches Mrs. Wyvern had left for her and drank some milk.

  Either Mrs. Wyvern’s daughter had become worse, or else there had been a breakdown in transport, she told herself. In either case, she must surely soon be relieved of her watch. She could not possibly leave the place until someone appeared. But if Mrs. Wyvern did not come, she would be here until the small hours of the morning—whenever Lucas Manning returned from his party.

  In one way it did not matter, of course. But it was an odd and equivocal position, and certainly not one she would have chosen.

  Unable now to settle to her book again, she walked about the flat restlessly and glanced at the clock every few minutes. Already the hand was moving slowly towards one o’clock. And then at last, just after the clock had firmly announced one, there was a welcome ring at the bell.

  All Sydney’s nervous anxiety now seemed excessive, and in great relief she hurried to the door and opened it.

  Outside, to her boundless surprise and mortification, stood not Mrs. Wyvern, but Marcia Downing and her mother. Marcia looked astounded, shocked, but somehow not altogether sorry to discover Sydney in Lucas Manning’s flat at this odd hour of the morning.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “GOOD evening,” Marcia said, but she raised her eyebrows a fraction of an inch, in the particular way one does when meaning, “Well, well, well!”

  “Good evening,” replied Sydney coldly, wondering whether it would improve or detract from the situation still further if she insisted on giving a plausible explanation of her presence in Lucas Manning’s flat.

  Marcia, however, got in her explanations first.

  “We’re extremely sorry to disturb you at this hour,” she said. “But Mother and I have very stupidly come out without a key. I’ve tried the porter’s office without success. And then I remembered that our balcony and Mr. Manning’s are very close. Do you think he would be kind enough to let me climb over and get in that way?”

  Her tone was perfectly polite, her choice of words irreproachable. And yet, somehow, she managed to convey the most insulting impl
ication that she found it quite natural that Sydney should be here, and able to answer for Lucas Manning’s reaction to whatever happened.

  “Mr. Manning is not in—” Sydney began.

  “No?” Marcia smiled very, very faintly.

  “—But I’m sure,” Sydney went on steadily, “that he would be anxious to help you. Please come in.”

  Both ladies entered the flat, Mrs. Downing looking aloof. She seemed not to remember that she had once known Sydney, even when her daughter said, “You remember Sydney Dayne, Mother? She used to live in Barrafield when we were there.”

  “Oh, yes?” Mrs. Downing’s tone implied that her mind did not retain the impression of people like Sydney.

  “Where would this balcony be?” Sydney enquired of Marcia.

  “I don’t know the lay-out of the flat too well. I’ve never been here before today.”

  For the first moment she was rather pleased at being able to slip that in. But, as soon as she had said it, it seemed to her that the last sentence sounded self-conscious and slightly guilty.

  “If this flat is the same design as ours, there are french windows to the small room at the end of the passage,” Marcia explained, “and those lead on to the balcony.”

  “Oh! Alistair is sleeping there,” Sydney exclaimed. And then, “Both Mr. Manning’s wards are here from school,” she explained. “His housekeeper had to go out and I’ve been staying in with the boys while their uncle is at the theatre.”

  “Oh, yes—” Marcia glanced, perhaps involuntarily, at the clock.

  “The housekeeper should have come in earlier,” Sydney said, and then thought herself how feeble that sounded.

  Marcia did not even bother to reply, and Sydney silently led the way to Alistair’s room.

  “If you can manage without a light, with my just leaving the door open,” she whispered, “perhaps we shan’t disturb him.”

  “I’ll try,” replied Marcia.

  But the moment they tip-toed into the room, Alistair reared up in bed, still half asleep and said, “Where’s my uncle gone?”

  “It’s all right, dear.” Sydney went over to the bed. “He won’t be long now. He hasn’t come home from the theatre yet.”

  “But he was here a minute ago,” yawned Alistair, sleepily rubbing his knuckles into his eyes.

  “Oh, no!—No, he wasn’t.” Sydney spoke with a nervous insistence out of all proportion to an innocent occasion, for she was terribly aware that both the other two women were listening attentively to Alistair’s assertion.

  “You were dreaming,” she added, as tranquilly as she could.

  “No, I wasn’t,” declared Alistair, with the positiveness of the very young and very sleepy. “I saw him.” Then his attention was distracted by the sight of Mrs. Downing standing in the doorway, and, pointing a finger at her, he asked, “Who’s she?”

  “The lady from next door,” Sydney told him rather distractedly.

  “I don’t like her,” said Alistair, and lay down again, having atoned, Sydney thought, in some measure, for what had gone before.

  Marcia then went to the french windows and opened them.

  “Are you looking for my uncle?” enquired Alistair, watching with interest.

  “No,” said Marcia briefly, and glanced out at the balcony.

  “It’s quite a small gap. I can do it easily,” she declared.

  “Be careful,” Sydney warned her perfunctorily, though at this moment it seemed almost immaterial to her if Marcia broke her neck or not.

  “Oh, Marcia dear, be careful!” exclaimed her mother with considerably more anxiety. “It’s a shame that you have to do it,” she added indignantly, apparently meaning that if Lucas Manning were a man he would come out from wherever he was hiding and do the job himself.

  Her daughter said nothing to this, however, and went out on to the balcony. After a moment or two, her clear voice called, “It’s all right. I’ve done it, and our window is open. If you’ll come round to the front, Mother, I’ll open the door for you.”

  In silence Sydney accompanied Mrs. Downing from Alistair’s room.

  “Good night. I’m sorry we—disturbed you,” Mrs. Downing said as she was going.

  "You didn’t disturb me, Mrs. Downing,” Sydney said, flushing slightly at the choice of word. “I was only reading until the housekeeper or Mr. Manning should come in.” But she knew she was beating the air so far as anyone with Mrs. Downing’s outlook was concerned.

  As it was, the older woman gave a very small, very cold smile, which evidently meant that if Sydney had to tell lies, at least she should try to tell better ones.

  It was an effort to close the door quietly behind her. Sydney longed to relieve her feelings by slamming it. And then, still outwardly calm, she went back to Alistair to tuck him up in bed once more and to close his balcony door.

  “I remember now.” Alistair smiled at her like a plump, drowsy angel. “Uncle Lucas wasn’t here a minute ago. It was hours ago, before he went to the theatre. I’ve been asleep.”

  “Yes, you’ve been asleep,” Sydney agreed, wondering why this innocent vindication could not have come a few minutes earlier. “Now go to sleep again, and your uncle will be here before morning.”

  And then the telephone bell rang and Sydney went to answer its summons.

  “Oh, Miss Dayne, I’m so terribly sorry,” the agitated voice of Mrs. Wyvern informed her. “My daughter was worse and we had to send for the doctor again and I missed the only fast train back. I’ve been coming on a slow train for the last hour and a half and I’m only just at Waterloo now and I thought I’d better phone because you’d be wondering whatever had happened. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  There was no possibility of saying how disastrous Mrs. Wyvern’s absence had proved for her personally. So Sydney said, with kindly understatement, that it was quite all right, and she hoped Mrs. Wyvern’s daughter was now better.

  “Oh, yes, Miss, thank you. The doctor thinks she’ll do all right now. I’ll come along right away now, Miss Dayne. You must be longing for your bed.”

  Sydney said, “Yes,” before she hung up the receiver. But she realized that what she really longed for was that Lucas Manning should come in before Mrs. Wyvern. If she could only tell him about the mortifying events of the evening and hear him laugh over Alistair’s snub to Mrs. Downing, she thought she would not feel so badly about what had happened.

  But Mrs. Wyvern, a little breathless and still apologetic, arrived first. And she was so remorsefully anxious to hustle Sydney off to her night’s rest that there was no possibility of anything but a brief leavetaking and an immediate departure by taxi to her hotel.

  By now it was about two o’clock in the morning and no amount of chagrin could keep Sydney awake for long. She slept almost at once; but it was a troubled, unrefreshing sleep, and she awoke with an unusual sense of depression.

  She was still lingering over the pleasant indulgence of breakfast in bed, when Lucas Manning telephoned.

  “I do apologize for last night,” he began. “Mrs. Wyvern has just told me about your long vigil. And what is this story of Alistair’s about ladies on the balcony?”

  “It was nothing, really,” she was quite astonished to hear herself assure him. “Marcia and her mother had gone out without their key and they knocked to ask if Marcia might climb over from your balcony.”

  “When was this?” he enquired.

  “About one o’clock.”

  “About—? Good lord, what did they, and particularly Mrs. Downing, think about finding you in my flat at that hour?”

  “The worst, I feel certain,” replied Sydney, far more gaily than she would have believed possible the previous evening. “At least, Mrs. Downing did. I think she was longing to look in the linen cupboard and see if you were concealed there. Particularly after Alistair made the sleepy and untimely remark that you had been in his room a minute ago.”

  There was silence the other end of the wire. Then Lucas Manning sa
id, “It’s nice of you to make light of it, Sydney. But I don’t know that I find it so very funny. Mrs. Downing is not exactly a charitable woman. And her daughter is engaged to your boss, if one likes to put it that way.”

  Sydney felt she did not very much like to put it that way. But, still anxious to reassure Lucas Manning, she said, “Marcia, even if she dislikes me, is not particularly stupid. She knew that what I said was quite the most probable explanation of my presence there. She might have wished to find me in a compromising position. But I really can’t see her making a melodramatic story of this to Hugh.”

  “Can’t you?” He sounded half convinced and a good deal relieved. “Well, I hope you’re right. And if there’s the least trouble you must let me know.”

  “There won’t be,” Sydney asserted, curiously reassured by her own words. “If that were all we had to worry about this week-end it would be fine. When are you seeing Anne?”

  She had the impression that it was a distinct shock to him to have the subject reintroduced.

  “Are you suggesting that I should see her today?” he enquired a trifle sulkily.

  “At least I think you should telephone her and make arrangements to meet.”

  “But I thought you and I and the boys were all going out together today?”

  “We hadn’t made any definite arrangement,” Sydney reminded him. “If you need to see Anne today, I can easily take the boys out for you.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh—anywhere. There are dozens of places. Kew, Hampton Court, Greenwich, the Science Museum. I haven’t had young brothers for nothing, you know.” And Sydney smiled at the recollection of past family visits to London.