by Betty Neels
‘Nervous, Sarah?’
‘No,’ said Sarah snappishly, ‘I’m not. Won’t you get tired?’
He raised a derisive eyebrow. ‘No, I seldom get tired driving. I know the road; the car can more than hold her own. Besides, there are long stretches of motorway where there is no speed limit.’ He took some toast and buttered it lavishly. ‘Still,’ he continued, ‘we can easily take another day over the trip and spend another night on the way.’ His tone was gentle and mocking. Sarah choked on her coffee.
‘Look,’ she said, being sweetly reasonable with an effort, ‘I told your friend Jan that I liked driving fast with you. Not driving fast, full stop. With Father or—or anyone else I can think of, I might be scared, but not with you. And I really was worried about you getting tired.’ She added with a little burst of temper, ‘Did you think I was pretending when I told Jan I liked travelling fast with you?’ She frowned severely at him across the table. She looked delightful.
Hugo stared at her for a long moment and said suddenly, ‘Dishy—that’s the word I want.’
She stared at him open-mouthed. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded, ‘and have you heard a word I’ve been saying?’
‘You’re dishy,’ he said deliberately, ‘decidedly dishy, despite the fact that you’re as cross as two sticks … and I heard every word you said.’
Sarah put down her cup and strove for dignity. ‘I’ll get my coat,’ she began, and spoilt it by giggling. ‘This is the silliest conversation!’ she remarked, suddenly good-tempered again, then caught her breath as he stretched an arm across the table and caught her hand.
‘May I not call my wife dishy if I wish?’ he asked. There was something in his voice which made her look at him. He was smiling, but there was no mockery this time, and his eyes were bright. For a brief moment she thought she saw something in his face which she had never hoped to see, and then it was gone. Probably wishful thinking, she thought, allowing common sense to take over. All the same, when she went upstairs to collect her things, her heart sang …
They lunched, rather late, in Arras, then sped south for Paris. At Bapaume they joined the motorway, and then after half an hour Sarah remarked, ‘I used to wonder why you drove an Iso Grigo; now I know.’
He kept his eyes on the road ahead. ‘Did you wonder about me, Sarah? I always had the impression that although we were good friends you barely knew what I looked like.’
She gave a little gurgle of laughter. ‘Don’t be absurd, Hugo! And anyway, you must know that you’re one of the most discussed consultants at St Edwin’s.’
‘Not any more. You forget, I’m now a married man. Which reminds me, I must send a picture card to OPD. We’ll stop for a cup of tea in Fontainebleau and buy one.’
They had tea as he had promised, and, also as he had promised, they drew up before their hotel in Nevers as the September dusk was falling, apparently as fresh as when they had set out that morning. They set out again the following morning after a breakfast of coffee and croissants. It was a mere two hundred and twenty miles to go, as Hugo said, and Sarah, hypnotised by yesterday’s speed, found herself agreeing cheerfully that they would be in Avignon for tea. They were to stay there, so that she might see something of the old town and go over to Nîmes to visit Gemma. Hugo turned off the N7 at Lyon, on to a quieter road running more or less parallel with it, then beyond Valence turned off again to eat lunch at a restaurant in Privas. He had been there before, he explained, and the food was good. Sarah, eating what was set before her with a healthy appetite, thought how nice it was that Hugo always seemed to know where to go and how to get there, and did so without the least fuss. She supposed that if he were to find himself in Siberia or Brazil or some other far-flung spot, he would still contrive to get the best of what was to be had in that particular region.
The walled city of Avignon charmed her. Over tea in their hotel, she asked, rather doubtfully, if there would be time to see the Papal Palace.
‘Of course there will,’ Hugo replied promptly. ‘We’ll go and dance on the Pont d’Avignon, too.’ He smiled nicely at her. ‘Tomorrow morning—before we go over to Gemma’s. She won’t expect us before noon. Now let’s take a look round the town, shall we?’
She was almost happy. They walked arm-in-arm, looking in shop windows, and after a while sat at a table outside one of the cafés in a square, and drank Pernod. ‘The first drink we had together,’ Hugo remarked as he gave the order. On the way back to the hotel he asked for the second time in a few weeks, ‘Are you happy, Sarah?’
She stopped in the narrow street and looked up at him. ‘Yes, Hugo. Happy and spoiled too—I haven’t lifted a finger since we started out, and we’ve been to the loveliest places and you bought me that bracelet and the prints and …’
He stopped her laughingly. ‘You’re not in the least spoiled, and I’m enjoying myself just as much as you are.’
‘I’m glad; and it’s fun, being together.’ When she had said it she went pink because she hadn’t meant to sound so enthusiastic, but he didn’t seem to notice—so she went on quickly to cover her slight confusion, ‘I am a fool—you know, I can’t remember the name of our hotel.’ She started to walk on. ‘I must be in a dream.’
He gave her a keen look. ‘Yes, I think perhaps you are. It’s the Europe—easy enough to remember if you should get lost. But there’s not the remotest chance of that, because I shan’t let you out of my sight.’
They dined gaily and grandly from the menu gastro-nomique—scrambled eggs with truffles, fillet steak aux moelles with baby courgettes and pommes mousselines and to follow this richness, Carlsbad plums with thick cream, the whole washed down with Chambéry. It seemed wise, for the sake of their digestions, to go for another stroll in the still, warm darkness, talking, as they always did when they were together, about everything under the sun.
It was overcast the next morning, but still bright enough for Sarah to look across the Rhone to the distant Alpilles. She danced a few steps on the old bridge, as unselfconscious as a child, influenced by her surroundings and the memory of the old French song. She had put on yet another new dress—a Givenchy model in white Crimplene with short sleeves and a little collar. It was tied with inspired simplicity by a chocolate brown leather belt, exactly matching her buckled shoes. It was just right for the weather, which was warmer than it had been in Holland. They walked back to the hotel, turning their backs on the four remaining arches of the bridge, followed the path outside the walls of the little city, and presently entered it again by the massive gate, and so to the Papal Palace, which she found awe-inspiring, towering out of the rock, shading the town beneath it. She found it gloomy too, and was glad that they didn’t stay very long.
Hugo’s sister lived in one of the old houses lining the road which led through Nîmes to its famous gardens and the Tour Magne. They were admitted into a narrow hall and then into a small salon, overlooking the canal running down the centre of the road, but the view from the windows was restricted by reason of their narrowness. The room was very French, its treasures screened from the passerby by heavy brocade curtains. Not that Sarah fancied any of the furniture with which it was adorned; indeed, she doubted if any of the fragile-looking chairs would bear Hugo’s weight. She was unable to test this interesting theory, however, because the door was flung open and Gemma burst in, to fling herself at Hugo and hug him violently, and then to embrace Sarah with an equally sincere warmth. She was small and pretty, and younger than Sarah, and it was obvious that Hugo loved her very much. She spoke a jumble of English and Dutch and French, and said at once, ‘Come away from this awful little room—we never use it—only to receive visitors we do not like.’ She twinkled at Sarah with Hugo’s eyes, and slipped an arm through hers.
‘I’ve been longing to meet you, Sarah. Hugo told me that you were beautiful, but of course you are so much more pretty than he described. I am so glad to have you in the family.’
As she spoke, she led them upstairs to a large comfortable ro
om at the back of the house, with wide windows overlooking a small garden. There was a baby lying on its stomach in a playpen in the centre of the carpet, and a very small boy rolling on the floor with a spaniel.
Gemma waved at them airily. ‘Hugo, here is your new niece, Simone. Pierre, come and say hullo to your Uncle Hugo.’
They sat talking, the baby sitting plump and roundeyed on Sarah’s lap, while Pierre climbed on to Hugo’s knee to examine his watch and cuff links and waistcoat buttons while his uncle imperturbably drank sherry. When Gemma’s husband joined them, tall and slim and dark, and speaking excellent English, Sarah felt no surprise to hear that he, too, was a doctor.
The children were whisked away, and they lunched in an increasingly friendly atmosphere, afterwards going into the garden, leaving the men to talk over their coffee. Sarah sat beside her hostess, and talked about clothes and children and housekeeping, and presently Gemma said:
‘Hugo is a good husband.’
Sarah smiled at her widely. ‘Marvellous. There isn’t anyone like him.’
Gemma nodded in agreement. ‘He’s a dear. You know about Janet, of course. He would never have married you without telling.’
Sarah replied composedly, ‘Yes, I know about Janet,’ and Gemma went on, ‘Then we do not need to talk about the tiresome woman, eh? I was a little girl, you know, and then I was not able to understand how he felt, and of course he told me nothing … Come, we will go for a little walk in the gardens while the children sleep and the men talk.’ She got up. ‘Doctors!’ she uttered in disgust. ‘When two of them get together!’ She threw up her hands in mock horror. ‘They have no need of us.’
They looked at the Tour Magne and the Temple of Diana, then went into the town to inspect the Amphitheatre and the Maison Carrée and a few of the shops, and in one of them Sarah bought a leather pocket book for Hugo—he had one already, but she was filled with an urge to give him something.
They left after tea, with the promise that Gemma and Pierre would dine with them the following evening at their hotel in Avignon. Sarah spent the first ten minutes of the journey in silence, deciding what to wear. Gemma had been beautifully dressed; she would doubtless be rather eyecatching.
‘A penny for them,’ said Hugo idly.
‘Not worth it,’ she replied. ‘Just wondering what I shall wear …’
‘That’s easy. We’ll go out tomorrow and buy something.’
She shot him a horrified look. ‘But, Hugo, I’ve several dresses.’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing pink. I like you in pink—there are some good shops in Avignon.’
They found the pink dress—a finely pleated silk in pale rose. Its astronomical price had no visible effect upon Hugo, although Sarah was shattered by it. As they left the shop he looked at her face and said briskly, ‘My dear girl, if you disapprove so much, I shall give it to Gemma.’
She whirled round on him so suddenly that she almost overbalanced.
‘You wouldn’t! My lovely dress! I—I don’t disapprove.’
He took her arm in a firm grip and steered her to one of the little tables outside one of the cafés in the square they were crossing. When he had ordered their drinks, he leaned back dangerously in the flimsy chair and said mildly, ‘Well, my dear?’
She had recovered herself very nicely by then. ‘Hugo, please understand. You give me such lovely things—not just now and then, but all the time …’
‘And shall continue to do so,’ he interrupted her. ‘I should warn you Sarah, that I am a man who likes his own way.’
He smiled at her, and her heart jumped because she saw that same look on his face again—at least, she couldn’t be quite sure, for it had gone again. She said breathlessly, ‘I did warn you that I might say some silly things …’
His hand reached for hers; his eyes puckered in a smile.
‘Sarah, did I not once say ‘‘never silly’’? I’ll say it again—and remember this; you are being all, and more, than I asked of you.’ He crossed his long legs and the chair creaked under him. ‘And now, what shall we drink? A long one, I think, don’t you? Will a Dubonnet suit you?’
She nodded and smiled a little uncertainly, and said almost in a whisper, ‘It’s a gorgeous dress, Hugo. I didn’t mean to be ungrateful. Thank you very much—I’m looking forward to this evening.’
‘Good. I’m told that there will be dancing at the hotel. Do you want to do anything special today?’ And when she shook her head, ‘Shall I take you to the Pont du Gard? It’s not far, and the scenery is well worth the trip—we can have a meal at the hotel there.’
They went back to their own hotel and she hung up the new dress with care and then went down to join Hugo in the car, and after a pleasant drive was suitably awed by the magnificence of the Roman aqueduct.
They waited for Gemma and Pierre in the hotel bar, and when they arrived Sarah was instantly glad that she had on the pink dress, because it competed so successfully with Gemma’s pale green gown. They complimented each other happily upon their appearances, and well satisfied, enjoyed their drinks, conscious that they were attracting admiring glances from most of the men present. Gemma, settling down beside Sarah, blew her brother a kiss and said pertly, ‘Do we not look nice together? It is to be hoped that our husbands realise how very pretty we are. I shall enjoy myself.’
They all enjoyed themselves. The evening, after a leisurely dinner, passed all too quickly. They danced, and presently Pierre asked:
‘Dance with me, Sarah? I am but a poor substitute for Hugo, I know …’
Sarah disclaimed this remark charmingly, while secretly agreeing with him. Hugo was dancing with Gemma—she watched them across the dance floor; Gemma seemed to have a great deal to say, and Hugo was listening very intently. Pierre saw her look.
‘I think that my dear little Gemma is telling Hugo what a wonderful wife he has found for himself. I imagine he knows that already!’
They had a last drink together and after Gemma and Pierre had gone, Hugo suggested, ‘One more dance, shall we?’ and whirled Sarah away for a blissful five minutes, during which there was no past and no future—only a delightful present.
They left early next morning, going via Le Puy and stopping to lunch at a village inn a few miles short of Clermont-Ferrand. The inn was small, but the cooking was superb. They ate breast of chicken with a mushroom sauce, which Sarah followed by a chocolate soufflée, thoughtfully ordered for her by Hugo, before they had their coffee and Courvoisier. There was still more than two hundred miles to go, for he intended to spend the night at Tours; but she found it no distance at all. There was so much to talk about, that she found herself wishing that it had been twice that distance, and that Hugo would drive more slowly …
She wanted the day to go on for ever. All too soon they were in Tours; tomorrow they would be back in England, and back, too, to the brief glimpses of Hugo before he left for his consulting rooms or the hospital. There was still Rose Road, of course, and she thanked heaven for that—and the weekends although she suspected that with the oncoming winter they would entertain and be entertained more frequently, which would mean less time together and a consequent withdrawal of the intimacy they had discovered while they had been on holiday. Perhaps if she could be patient until they went to the cottage in the spring … she went to sleep on that resolve.
England welcomed them with a soft grey October sky and a fine rain as Hugo took the road out of Southampton, but the weather had no effect upon their good spirits. The journey from Tours had been, from necessity, fast, but the crossing had been smooth and they had walked the deck, talking endlessly. True, upon reflection Sarah realised that she had done most of the talking, with Hugo contributing a quiet word from time to time; but he appeared to have enjoyed her company as much as she had enjoyed his.
The house at Richmond looked very pleasant as they stopped before its door. Alice was waiting for them, with Edward and Albert and Timmy. There were flowers in the hall, and soft lamplight. Sarah s
tood in the doorway, glad to be home. She said so to Hugo as they went inside. He was bending over the dogs, making much of them, and didn’t look up when she spoke.
He said quietly, ‘I’m glad of that, Sarah.’
When she came downstairs again from taking off her things, he was still in the hall, and on one of the wall tables stood the porcelain bowl she had so much admired in Amsterdam.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS A FEW DAYS after their return, while they were sitting at breakfast, that Hugo asked:
‘Will you meet me in town this morning, Sarah? I’m free after eleven-thirty until the clinic … we might lunch together.’
Sarah looked up from the letter she was reading, to find him watching her intently. She put the letter down and said at once and happily:
‘Oh, yes, lovely! Shall I come to your rooms?’ But to her disappointment he said, as he always said, ‘Well, no, I think not. Let me see—could you manage New Bond Street—er—somewhere we can’t miss each other? How about Asprey’s? Take a taxi—I daresay you can fill in the afternoon, can’t you? If you don’t feel like coming to St Edwin’s, I’ll pick you up.’
‘Gracious, there’s not the least need of that.’ She looked quite shocked. ‘I’ll be there as usual and wait in the car. Dr Bright said on the phone that he expected a crowd this evening, and you won’t want to be held up.’ She poured more coffee for them both, and greatly daring, tried again. ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to come to Harley Street? I’ll have loads of time.’
It was no good; he countered her request with a smiling blandness which was nevertheless as definite as if he had said a bald ‘no’, and presently he got up to go, leaving her sitting at the table, a prey to a number of unhappy thoughts, not the least of which was the possibility that his receptionist was some lovely curvaceous blonde. She pondered about this for quite a few minutes, then, having made up her mind, went to find Alice, before she could change it again.