by Amanda Doyle
Cecily looked around the shabby room with distaste.
“If this is the best they can run to in living accommodation they’re probably not the kind one would want to ask in, anyway, darling. Types that hang out in these seamy surroundings wouldn’t exactly whoop with joy over a decent sherry, either. They probably live it up all night on cheap hard-tack and finish off with a good slug of straight gin for breakfast. Not for babes such as you to play with, my sweet.”
Anna had unfastened her damp skirt and blouse, and now pulled on her dressing-gown. She was glad of its enveloping grey flannel warmth. She felt oddly cold, although it was summer, and the day had been a stifling one. Probably it was due to her soaking, she supposed, as she automatically hung Cecily’s raincoat on the hanger behind the door, and mopped the pool of water from the eiderdown before sitting on the end of the bed to draw off her resistantly clinging stockings. Or had the coldness stolen over her during those last awful moments with Basil?
“I don’t think I’m fit for playing with anyone,” she found herself confessing mournfully to Cecily now, as her inept handling of that recent scene smote her anew.
“Oh?” Cecily’s interest appeared at last to be deflected from herself, momentarily, at any rate. She eyed Anna inquisitively, amusement barely concealed in the veiled green depths of her expressive eyes. “Now what on earth do you mean by that? Have you been crossed in love, or what?”
She emitted a throaty and slightly taunting laugh, at the improbability of her own question.
Anna wished that she had kept quiet. However, she had an overwhelming desire to confide in someone, and who was there but Cecily?
“Basil Hanway asked me to marry him,” Anna made the statement baldly, and then ruined the sophisticated effect for which she had striven by turning impetuously towards her experienced companion and muttering distressfully, “Oh, Cecily, whatever shall I do?”
Cecily de Manard’s brows winged upwards in genuine surprise.
She extracted a cigarette from her slender enamelled case, lit it, and slid further down into her armchair, preparing to listen.
“Good lord, you are a dark horse, aren’t you, Anna! I think you’d better tell Auntie all, don’t you?” she invited.
Anna did just that.
Put into words, her ingenuousness sounded indefensible to her own astonished ears. What a fool she had been not to have realised what was in Basil’s mind ages ago! Here she was, doling out advice and help wholesale to others, when under her very nose his feeling had been growing in intensity, and the situation had been rapidly reaching boiling-point—if Basil’s brand of ardour could ever be more than prudently tepid! How had she not been aware of the subtle change in him just lately? Had she been so deeply involved in the problems of others that she had been oblivious of the intent behind his increasing invitations, even if they did incorporate nothing more exciting than those monotonous cups of coffee and cellophane-wrapped salad rolls that the corner cafe provided? Conversation had been confined to chats about the various case-histories which mutually concerned them, discounting an afternoon recently, when Basil had digressed from the usual channel to give a lugubrious account of his sensible background. Even then she should have realised that these credentials were intended to pave the way for the final scene—the one they had enacted today.
As a scene, it had been a woeful flop, by any standards. The leading man had sallied forth confidently on to the stage he had thought so carefully set, only to find the leading lady in a state of utter surprise. She had missed her cues, muffed her lines, and rung down the curtain before he could even make his final passionate speech. The only comfort for both of them was that there had been no audience!
Cecily was shaking her head disgustedly.
“Really, Anna, you were a goose, weren’t you, not to be all clued-up and prepared? You shouldn’t be let out alone if you’re as innocent as all that. By the way, have I met this Basil at all? Is he by any chance that burly fellow I saw coming out of the building the day I picked you up for Mummy’s birthday? Sort of shaggy and solid with a herring-bone overcoat and orange shoes?”
Anna swallowed.
“That’s Basil,” she acknowledged. “They’re not orange, though, Cecily. I think that shade is a sort of light tan.”
Cecily shuddered.
“Well, if that’s light tan, then so are oranges. Take your pick. It’s a shade I can’t abide, anyway, except when I can peel it off with a knife and find some fruit inside.” She smoked thoughtfully for a few moments.
“Anna, are you absolutely certain you’ve done the right thing?” she asked finally. “Don’t you think it might have been wiser to take this chance when it offered.”
Anna flinched. Whether the other girl’s cruelty was unconscious or intentional made little difference. The inference was clear, and it was particularly hurtful in Anna’s present state of mind.
Only this afternoon she had admitted to herself the importance of love in marriage, and here was Cecily, trying to find a way to convey to her that the likelihood of anyone else ever asking her to marry him, for any reason whatsoever, was remote.
Well, remote it might be, but Anna had no intention of relinquishing her innocent ideas. Neither could she voice them to the worldly Cecily. She would be sure to have a good laugh at her expense, if she wasn’t doing so already.
Anna shook her head.
“I just couldn’t,” she asserted positively. “In fact, that’s not what’s worrying me. It’s just that I don’t know how I’m going to be able to bear the embarrassment of going on seeing him every day at work. I just dread it, honestly, Cecily. I think I’ll have to ask tomorrow if there’s any chance of a transfer. I’ll have to get away somehow, although I’m happy in the work itself.”
Cecily stood up in a single lithe movement, and smoothed her tight string-coloured skirt over slender hips. Her dress was fashionably short, and revealed a provocative length of shapely leg, clad in ridiculous calf-length white rainboots which had somehow remained unsullied by the mud puddles which had spattered themselves over Anna’s own shoes and stockings in her dash from the corner.
“Then, in that case, Daddy’s solution is absolutely perfect for you as well as himself,” she said offhandedly. “He wasn’t sure that you’d agree.”
“Agree? To what, Cecily?”
Cecily de Manard poured herself a second sherry, and surveyed it with studied boredom before attempting to enlighten Anna.
“I’m to take you back to the Manor with me now,” she eventually supplied. “The convertible’s parked behind the flats, so you’d better get ready, and I’ll run you back after you’ve seen Daddy. As a matter of fact, he did say I wasn’t to tell you anything until he’d seen you first, but as you’ve just laid your soul bare on the selfsame subject, you may as well hear the worst.”
She carried her glass over to the chair and sat down once more, indicating to Anna to continue with her dressing as she did so.
“Daddy doesn’t approve of my latest conquest, worst luck,” she informed Anna carelessly. “He’s rather a pet actually, but Daddy refuses to see it. I suppose he’s been a bit wild, and he’s nearly twice my age, but he’s got pots of lovely lolly and a fabulous yacht, and surely it says something for him that he hasn’t got a trail of wives behind him at the venerable age of forty-five. There again”—she sighed—“Daddy puts the worst interpretation on even that. He says it’s obvious that he doesn’t mean to marry me either. Michael and Cecily Britton-Harvey. Sounds good, don’t you think?”
Anna turned from fastening her zip.
“But what does Uncle Nigel want me for? Does he want me to—to talk you out of this association, or—or what?”
Cecily gave a harsh, disbelieving laugh.
“Darling, you’re overestimating your powers, surely? Since when have you been able, or asked, to talk me in or out of anything I don’t wish to do? No, no, it’s much more subtle than that. Daddy wants to get me away.” She whispered the
last three words in a sarcastic undertone that suggested the idea was nothing short of a treasonable conspiracy. “The bubble burst yesterday. One of those stuffy old regimental pals in Daddy’s Club told him a few ‘home truths’—his words, not mine—about Mike, and now he insists on packing me off on a tour of the Continent to get me out of the way while he and Mother go off on this business trip to the States. I didn’t tell the poor darling that I’m not quite as serious about Mike as he thinks, because I’ve always wanted to go back to Europe, ever since the time we were stationed in Germany. Actually, Anna, I much prefer Charles, even if I did nearly tip him into the Thames that time, but Mike is so much older, and tremendous fun to go about with.” Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “I just might accept Charles next time he proposes, but naturally I’d like to have this trip first, so I’m letting Daddy push me off. The only snag is, you’re expected to come too.”
Anna’s wide grey eyes asked a mute question. She sat on the end of the bed again, and faced Cecily.
“Mummy and I thought it would be splendid if Merryl Jones-Watson could come with me, but Daddy went from puce to purple at the mere idea. He absolutely insists that you are the only one he’d be happy to have accompany me—so being prim and earnest is going to pay you after all,” she told Anna bitingly. “Daddy will stump up for both of us, and I’m to pay our way together all the time. He’s got the curious notion that I might dart off back to Mike once we’re abroad, so he’s invented what he thinks is the cutest way of keeping us together. All the finance, both our currency allowances and so forth, are to be endorsed by me, and you’re to be dependent on me for day-to-day requirements. Naturally you’ve probably got a little spending money of your own, but if I suddenly hand you large sums of money to look after yourself with, you’re to view the situation with immediate suspicion, cling to me like a leech, and prevent me running out on you for more interesting company. Cunning old boy, isn’t he?”
Anna blinked in bewilderment.
“But if that’s what he suspects you might do, why doesn’t Uncle Nigel leave the finance in my hands, so that you would be dependent on me?” she asked, adding weakly, as Cecily fixed her with a coldly discouraging stare at the mere idea of this, “I mean—it’s just a supposition—that idea. I—I’m very grateful to Uncle Nigel for whatever arrangements he makes. I have scarcely any spending money, as you call it, and of course I could never have a trip of any sort on what I earn. I didn’t mean that I expected—that I—” She floundered to a halt, watched in some amusement by the gloating Cecily.
“Dear Anna, you are obtuse, aren’t you? I’d only have to flog a necklace or two, or my emerald and diamond ear-rings, to be independent once again. There are heaps of characters on the Continent more than willing to make deals of that sort. I know it, and Daddy knows I know it. But as for you—well, you haven’t anything to flog that’s worth flogging, have you, if I were to ditch you? Daddy thinks I’m bad enough, but not quite such a heel that I’d leave you penniless in a foreign country—after all, we did more or less grow up together, and it makes a certain bond—and as I’ve no intention of travelling without a few bracelets and baubles, what could I do but give in gracefully?”
She studied her pearly nails a moment to allow all this information to sink in.
Anna, meanwhile, found she was struggling with a mixture of feelings. Cecily’s revelations had. stripped away any tiny hope she may have entertained that she had been chosen for this mission because Colonel or Mrs. de Manard possessed even a limited amount of fondness for her. She had been picked because, in their eyes, she was dependable and reliable to a degree beyond her years. Her simple appearance and meagre wardrobe in no way threatened to rival their beloved Cecily’s, which, had they done, might have constituted a threat to that vain young woman’s enjoyment of the limelight. Furthermore, she was the only otherwise suitable companion they knew who had the required dearth of material possessions to render her completely dependent upon the soon-to-be-responsible Cecily. They merely considered her in the light of an effective brake on their daughter’s possibly rash behaviour.
It took all of Anna’s courage and honesty to face these unpalatable facts. There were, however, other considerations quite apart from her longing to break her association with Basil.
This way, she could re-enlist in a new area when she and Cecily returned from their travels, and at the same time she could repay in some measure the debt she owed to the de Manards for their unfailing, if unaffectionate, care when she had needed it so desperately.
Anna knew that Colonel de Manard would have been far less revealing and tactless than his daughter. She knew, too, that when he asked her to accompany Cecily on her holiday, her answer had to be yes.
Four weeks later, she was to ask herself what could possibly have induced her to say that one little word. For all its monosyllabic three letters, it seemed to have plunged her into a packet of trouble.
CHAPTER II
“Shall I take a turn at the wheel for you, Cecily?”
Anna made the suggestion tentatively, aware that the other girl’s full, carefully rouged lips had levelled from their customary perfect cupid’s bow into a thin line of bored impatience as she manoeuvred the low-slung sports car around yet another hair-pin bend.
“You needn’t bother, thanks,” she was informed somewhat unenthusiastically. “It’s bad enough haying you slung around my neck like this all the time without enduring your oh-so-cautious driving as well. I’ll hand over to you when we get to Valdepenas. You can find a garage for the night, if you like—if we ever get as far as that. Otherwise we’ll just have to stop at the first decent village we see when it begins to get dark, if there is such a thing in these ghastly uncivilised hills.”
Anna eased her back away from the hot leather which supported it, and settled her sunglasses more securely on her small, neat nose. Her fine hair blew wildly across her face once more the moment she removed her hand. Her arms were bare, browned now to a smooth honey-gold, and she clasped them against her in resignation, reflecting idly that her ability to tan in this hot southern sun was the only physical advantage she was ever likely to have over the petulantly beautiful girl at her side. Cecily’s lily-fairness of skin was protected by a wrist-length voile blouse, and an engagingly vast sunhat of emerald straw which exactly matched the brilliance of her eyes. It was held beneath her chin by broad, matching ribbons which streamed away behind her, and the effect against the pure whiteness of her complexion was devastating—devastating but uncomfortably warm, Anna guessed.
Perhaps in some measure it was to blame for her present shortness of temper, although Anna realised the whole situation had blown up back there in Montpellier. Things hadn’t gone too badly up till then.
The crossing to Calais had been uneventful, and Anna had found it even mildly exciting, and remained on deck most of the time, refusing to be discouraged by her cousin’s pronouncement as to its incredible dullness.
They had spent a fortnight browsing their way through the beautiful country of the Loire valley, and Anna thought dreamily that nowhere in the world could there be so many glorious views and awesomely ancient chateuax as she had seen in those two weeks, although, here again, Cecily much preferred the fairytale quality of the German schloss.
The past week had been spent with the Ferrands on their farm between Toulouse and Montpellier. Claudette Ferrand was married to Nigel de Manard’s younger brother, and although Cecily had only met Aunt Claudette twice in her whole life, she was in fact her godmother, and as such had insisted upon a luncheon engagement before Cecily left London, during which she pressed upon her numerous addresses and letters of introduction to her French relations. Uncle Nigel had been happy in the knowledge that the two girls would have contacts in France, and Anna had to admit that the Ferrands had turned out to be delightful people.
Even Cecily had enjoyed her week with them, accepting as though they were her right the many little attentions and courtesies they lavished upon he
r with the typical abundance of French hospitality. Anna, unaccustomed to being woken in the morning to a steaming bowl of bitter black coffee and golden croissants yet warm from the boulangene, was at first uneasy about this whole procedure of being waited upon, but savoured such luxuries while she might. She was glad, in the end, that she had appreciated them, because after the third morning, Cecily announced that Madame must in no way be inconvenienced by their visit, and that Anna would carry her breakfast to her for the remainder of their stay at the farm. Madame Ferrand, uncertain of the exact relationship between her two guests, looked a little anxiously at Anna when this imperious announcement was made, but Anna had only smiled a little wryly to herself, not minding a bit. To tell the truth, she felt that Cecily herself was the loser, for she missed the pink blush of sky behind the row of poplars at each morning’s sunrise, the bleating of the shaggy grey goats in the shed next the cremerie, and the gentle clucking of Madame’s plump white hens as they came running to peck up the handfuls of grain which Anna brought to them every day in a small wooden pail. Anna hummed to herself contentedly, pleased to be of use, loving these modest activities of everyday farm life, the freshness of the countryside, and the bright blue dome of French sky above the neat white buildings.
Life was so peaceful and uncomplicated that she was sorry when the day of departure arrived, but she sensed in Cecily a restlessness which changed to obvious anticipation as they neared Montpellier itself. There was a bright expectancy about her as she lightly ascended the post office steps.
Anna could scarcely believe it was the same person who drooped through the doorway of the bureau a few minutes later. Cecily had retraced her path slowly to the car, apparently lost in thought. Rather abstractedly she checked the convertible hood which was folded back because it was such a warm day. Then she came around and slid once more behind the wheel. Anna could see that her face, always pale, was now quite white with some sort of emotion. “Cecily, is—is something wrong?”