Marry a Stranger

by Susan Barrie

  MARRY A STRANGER

  by

  Susan Barrie

  Stacey knew that Dr. Martin Guelder had married her only to give her the protection of his name and the right to live in his house, and that all he expected of her in return was that she act as hostess and housekeeper for him. Emotion was, not supposed to enter into the arrangement.

  But—poor Stacey!—she had adored him from the first moment she set eyes on him.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The clock on the handsome marble mantelpiece chimed the silvery half-hour, and Stacey looked at it with a feeling of uneasiness at her heart. For the last time she had looked at it it had been six o’clock, and now it was half-past six, and the house was almost oppressively silent. Not that the house of a Harley Street consultant was ever likely to be disturbed by very much noise, but the silence which prevailed had in it an ingredient which was inclined to play upon her nerves, and made her wonder whether she had been forgotten, or whether the house was empty.

  The thick carpets, of course, helped to muffle all sound, and so did the severe velour hangings. She looked through the window at the houses opposite, and the sight of their gleaming knockers and brass plates reminded her that it was here, in this Mecca of fashionable medicine, that her father had once hoped to set up his brass plate and take his place amongst the eminent physicians and surgeons of his day.

  But unhappily her father had lived with his dream until he died, and it had never materialized. He had never left the unpretentious white house in the tiny Herefordshire village where he had been born, and where his father before him had cared for the local sick. Both were now buried beside the square-towered Norman church which cast its beneficent shadow across the village green and the houses clustered round it, and the white house was awaiting its new occupant and his wife, who were to take up the threads of their existence in one of the loveliest and most peaceful rural settings in all England.

  Stacey felt a deep and rather ragged sigh well up from the innermost recesses of her being as she thought of the home she would probably never see again in her lifetime, and she blinked away a sudden rush of moisture to her eyes as the picture of that quiet grave in the shade of ancient yews floated before them. She felt tired, too, and completely deflated, like a pricked balloon, after long hours in a train, no lunch to speak of, and a gnawing anxiety concerning her future which had travelled with her all the way from Herefordshire.

  It would take very little, she thought, to make her panic altogether, now that she had at last arrived in London.

  If only she dared remove her hat, which she had worn since morning, and which pressed upon the dark waves of her hair like a constricting bandage, she might feel a little happier. And a good hot cup of tea would certainly aid matters still further. And if only she could rid herself of her unaccustomed high-heeled shoes...

  She wriggled them off for a moment under the settee on which she was sitting, and then thought she heard a sound like a door opening and closing somewhere far off in the house, and hastily slid her feet into them again. But no one came near to disturb her, and she sat wondering how she would feel if she was a patient who had come here accompanied by all the doubts and anxieties occasioned by some ailment concerning which she sought reassurance from Dr. Martin Guelder, instead of Stacey Brent, remarkably fit and sun-tanned, with even a healthy freckle or two on her nose, who sought a different kind of assistance from him.

  But what if he didn’t even remember her father?

  The door behind her opened almost without a sound, and the receptionist who had interviewed her earlier stood smiling down upon her.

  “I’m so sorry you’ve been kept waiting,” she said, “but Dr. Guelder has only just returned. Will you come this way?”

  Stacey rose hastily on to her feet and her high-heeled shoes and followed the slim form of the rather elegant young woman who ordered Dr. Guelder’s professional life for him and ensured the clockwork precision of his day-to-day routine. In a matter of moments she was standing in front of Dr. Guelder himself, seated signing letters at a large walnut desk. He looked up as she entered in the wake of his secretary, and regarded her with a certain slightly noticeable curiosity; and then he stood up and offered her his hand.

  “How do you do, Miss Brent?” he said. “Sit down, won’t you?”

  He indicated a large armchair, and she sank into it, and felt the harmonious peace of the room sink into her soul. It was not a large room, but it was as quiet as a pool, and there was a cheerful arrangement of flowers in the window, and serene water-colors hanging upon the walls. The carpet was a restful green, like a carpet of moss, and the curtains flowing before the window were cool and green also.

  All very still and tranquil, and somehow reassuring.

  “A cigarette?” he enquired, and passed her a silver box.

  Stacey accepted the cigarette thankfully, although she was by no means an inveterate smoker; and then she sat down, trying not to stare at him in astonishment, for he was not in the very least like what she had expected.

  He was much younger, for one thing, and he looked very lean and fit, in a dark blue lounge suit. She supposed that most women would have considered him rather more than good looking, for he had dark hair which was very smooth and well brushed but looked as if it wanted to break into a wave over his left eyebrow, and would have done so but for strong disciplinary measures taken daily with hair lotion, and his eyes had a kind of Irish greyness behind almost feminine eyelashes. But there was nothing feminine about the hard line of his chin and jaw, and his mouth was a little uncompromising—except when he smiled. And when he smiled he did so in a faintly one-sided fashion which was curiously attractive, and the shrewd look in his eyes turned to one of slightly quizzical humor, although it was quite a kindly humor as well.

  He smiled now as he picked up the letter she had sent him from Herefordshire, and which he had removed from a drawer, and studied it for a moment before looking at her steadily.

  “So you are Colin Brent’s daughter?”

  She nodded, feeling suddenly rather shy, and a little appalled by the liberty she had taken in writing to him.

  “I remember your father well,” he assured her. “He was a grand chap.” He paused. “I owe a lot to him.”

  A sensation of tremendous relief welled over her.

  “Daddy always said he owed a lot to you,” she informed him, in her soft, shy voice, “and that humanity would owe a great deal more to you one day, when you’d proved yourself.” She cast a swift glance round the room, as if there was no doubt at all in her mind that that day had already arrived, and the little gleam of admiration in her eyes was a schoolgirl’s ready appreciation of the brilliance which had got to the top. “Poor old Daddy always knew his own limitations, but then he was handicapped by ill-health himself. He never had much of a chance.”

  “But he worked hard all his days, like his father before him, and left a great gap, which it will not be easy to fill, when he died! I know,” he said, and the understanding in his voice warmed her heart, and that ridiculous film of moisture crept up over her eyes again and actually brimmed over on to her lashes.

  She gulped a little.

  “It—it’s so very recent,” she said apologetically. “Only three weeks—”

  “And now you’re quite alone in the world?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not even an aunt or uncle to keep an eye on you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Daddy was an only child, and my mother’s two brothers were both killed in the war. But I’m not interested in relatives”—with a spurt of spirit. “What I want—and I want it very badly!—is a job!...”

  “Yes; so you state in your letter.” He smiled at her again, that strangely
attractive smile which sent one of his dark eyebrows shooting a little upwards, and softened miraculously the penetration in his grey eyes. “But what sort of a job? Have you trained for anything?”

  “No,” she admitted. “But,” she added, “I can keep accounts, and do a little typewriting, and reply to letters on my own initiative, and—and that sort of thing. And I’m used to answering the telephone, of course, and taking down messages correctly, and—and Daddy thought perhaps...” She was feeling so tired that she was afraid she could scarcely do justice to her list of all the various things she was quite capable of doing without supervision—unspectacular, but important things like applying a bandage when the doctor was busy, and it was a case of emergency in the waiting-room, and whipping up a feathery-light omelette when he came home late, and even dispensing pills and a bottle of medicine if necessary. She had taken Latin as an extra subject at school, because her father had believed it was still one of the most important languages, and she was completely reliable and conscientious, interested in all the various aspects of humanity—or those she had so far met with—and eager, like her father, to serve rather than permit others to go out of their way to serve her. And all she now asked of Martin Guelder was that he would perhaps recommend her—on her father’s own recommendation—for the sort of position for which she was surely fitted, and which it might even be within his scope to find for her. Her father had felt confident that Martin Guelder would help her. He had said: “Go to him when you haven’t got me, and I know he won’t fail you. He won’t mind your turning to him. He’ll give you all the advice you need. He’s an extraordinary chap—brilliant but delightful, a pleasure to know and an honor to work with. His father was the same—that sort of thing runs in families.”

  And, looking at the well-cut mouth, the unshakable chin, the understanding eyes, Stacey could believe it. But how could she phrase her request?—the reason why she had come all the way from Herefordshire?

  Her letter must have prepared him, but ... “When did you arrive in London?” he asked her suddenly. “And where are you staying?”

  “I only arrived this afternoon,” she confessed, “and I’m not staying anywhere yet.”

  His eyebrows lifted in surprise.

  “But you have arranged about some sort of accommodation?”

  Her pale face flushed—it was the sort of pallor that was a light golden tan in the sunlight, but looked creamily colorless in the shadow, and the delicacy of her features made her look rather fragile. She had blue-veined temples and a sensitive mouth, and her dark hair curled like silken feathers back from her brow. Her eyes appeared to be a sort of violetish-blue—and rather more violet than blue, unless it was the unmistakable fatigue which was making her shoulders droop a little, and her voice a little hoarse. She was slightly above medium height, and almost childishly slender in her country-made flannel suit.

  “No; I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  For an instant his expression revealed that he was a little amazed, to say the least; and then a humorous gleam shot into his eyes.

  “You don’t by any chance plan to sleep on the Embankment, do you?”

  She shook her head. She was suddenly confused. “I thought perhaps a hostel—or a cheap hotel. I haven’t a great deal of money ... You see,” she explained, realizing that it must strike him as strange that she had come all the way from a remote country district without even attempting to establish a lodging for herself in a city practically unknown to her, “I didn’t even know where to write to, and I thought perhaps you—you would advise me...” Her voice trailed off again, and then gathered defensive strength once more. “Mr. Fletcher—he was Daddy’s lawyer—wanted me to stay with his sister who lives in Bloomsbury, but I’d much rather be independent and stay in a hotel—at least for a few days. I can afford a few days. But after that I shall have to be careful. Daddy couldn’t leave me very much. The poor lamb was always giving so much away...” She was determined to defend her parent for the impecunious condition in which he had departed this life.

  Martin Guelder thought hard. He had a dinner engagement, and he was going to be late unless he hurried, but this child could not just be dumped anywhere at this wrong end of the day. She looked utterly tired out, and there was a look of strain in her face which he did not particularly like to see, and her small gloved hands kept clasping and unclasping themselves on her neat dark handbag as if she was too secretly agitated to permit them to be still. He suddenly made up his mind.

  “I’m perfectly willing to advise you,” he told her, a new, soothing note in his voice, “if you’re willing to listen to my advice, and that is that you either allow me to drive you to your Mr. Fletcher’s sister for this one night at least, or drive you to my own flat, where my housekeeper will look after you. You needn’t feel concern on my account, because I’ve a bedroom above this consulting room where I can spend the night, and as a matter of fact I often do. Which would you prefer? I don’t think a hotel is at all a good plan—at least, not at the moment.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t dream of letting you turn out of your flat for me,” she exclaimed, in horror at the very idea. “It wouldn’t be right!”

  “Wouldn’t it?” He smiled at her with his eyes. “What, precisely, would be wrong about it?”

  She colored rather delightfully.

  “Daddy would never approve! He’d think I ought to have made some arrangement—”

  “Well, to be strictly truthful, you should”—with a touch of bluntness—“but since you haven’t, and Bloomsbury doesn’t appeal to you, I think my flat is the best idea.” He touched a buzzer on his desk, and his secretary appeared. “I’m sorry you’ve been kept late, Miss Wayne,” he said. “You can go now, but before you go I want you to put through a call to Mrs. Elbe. Tell her I’m bringing a guest for the night, and to make up the bed in my room.”

  “Very well, Doctor.”

  His secretary withdrew with a smile which forgave him freely for trespassing upon her time, and he turned a key in a drawer of his desk and stood up, towering over Stacey.

  “Well, come along then, young woman,” he said. “The sooner we hand you over to Mrs. Elbe the better. Something tells me you haven’t eaten very much today, and you’ll feel better for a good night’s rest.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was a warm June night, and outside the taxis were already darting to and fro carrying beautifully turned out men and women to places of refreshment and entertainment. The light of the sinking sun was reflected in the windows of tall blocks of flats, and there was a smell of hot dust and perfume and Continental cooking floating in the air.

  Martin Guelder’s car waited for him outside his consulting rooms. It was a sleek, low-bodied affair, black and glistening in the pleasant evening light. Stacey climbed into it rather shyly, accepting the seat he offered her beside the wheel, and feeling the upholstery yield beneath her weight in a manner which convinced her of its exclusive design. She leaned back against the silver-grey fabric and looked out of the window at the first stars twinkling in a kind of haze so very many millions of miles above her head, and realized with a kind of little shock that she was in London. For the first time in her life she was spending a night in London, and she was proposing to spend many more.

  In Herefordshire, at this season of the year, the stars always seemed close and bright and friendly, just as the scents were fresh and vigorous. But here in this great capital city of Britain there was a sensation of unreality, of lack of kinship with one’s fellow human beings which frightened her a little. She supposed that one would get used to it in time, to the roar of the traffic and the crowds. But tonight she was tired and bewildered, and yet conscious of something exciting about it all which made her blood run faster despite her tiredness, and widened her eyes under the brim of her little straw hat.

  Her suitcase had been deposited in the back of the car, and was looking a little out of keeping with its surroundings, just as she felt she herself did. Only Martin Guelder
really fitted in with the superior vehicle he drove, his gloved hands maintaining such calm control of the wheel that she was filled with admiration. In a sea of every type of transport, with impatient drivers on all sides of them, wildly hooting klaxons and traffic hold-ups, they progressed with such effortless ease towards their destination that she was quite fascinated by the imperturbable manner in which it was achieved. For the car moved noiselessly, without any noticeable application of brakes or attention to gear levers, and Dr. Guelder lay back in his corner as if barely interested in the business of driving. Once or twice he glanced at her sideways, and once he smiled and asked: “You don’t know London? At least, not very well?”

  “I scarcely know it at all,” she admitted, in a husky whisper.

  His flat was in a quiet street not very far away from Jermyn Street. When they had ascended in the lift to the white-painted door which admitted them to it the noises of London seemed to have been left very far away. He did not need to produce his key, for the door was whisked open at almost the very moment that they stepped from the lift, and Mrs. Elbe, stout and comfortable in old-fashioned black, with a bunch of keys actually jingling at her waist, stood ready to receive them, framed against a background of dark red Turkey carpet and well-polished oak furniture bathed in discreetly shaded electric light.

  If she was surprised by the sight of a young girl who might, or might not, have reached the age of twenty-one, and was obviously drooping under a load of fatigue, accompanying her master, she did not show it. She merely reached out and took the young girl’s handbag from her limp fingers and dropped it upon a dower chest, and then lifted her hands to remove her hat and that horrible sensation of a constricting bandage which had been flattening the curls on Stacey’s dark head. Stacey gave vent to an exquisite sigh of relief, and sank down beside her handbag on the dower chest.