Anne Belinda

by Patricia Wentworth

  “John, I’m not—”

  “I know. You said that before. I do wish you wouldn’t keep repeating yourself; it makes it so frightfully difficult to get anything fixed up. You see, it isn’t as if I could just blow in and talk about rings whenever I wanted to. I mean we’ve simply got to get it fixed up now, or else I shall feel I’ve got to ring you up. And if I do that miserable Fossick-Yates woman will probably overhear your end of the conversation. She’s got an eavesdropping sort of nose, and if she were to hear you say ‘Make it rubies,’ or diamonds, or whatever you did want to make it, she’d boil up no end of a scandal on the spot. I shouldn’t like to let you in for anything like that. So you see it’s absolutely necessary to fix it all up now. You do see that, don’t you?”

  Anne said nothing.

  “I like blue stones best myself. I’d like you to have one of those lumpy sort of sapphires. And I think it would be a good plan if we went and chose it together, because then I could match your eyes.”

  John went on talking about rings until they reached the corner of Malmesbury Terrace.

  Anne went on saying nothing. She listened to stories about precious stones, and apocryphal anecdotes about engagements and engagement rings. Sometimes she wanted to laugh, and sometimes she wanted to cry; but she managed to refrain from uttering a single word.

  John left the car at the corner and walked up Ossington Road with her. It was a cloudy evening and dark. There were not a great many lamp-posts; midway between one lamp-post and the next there was practically no light at all. It was as they passed through one of these dark patches that Anne felt John’s arm come round her. His voice, softened and eager, spoke at her ear:

  “Are you still angry?”

  Anne was not angry at all, but she said “Yes.”

  “Because I kissed you at Wisley?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t see why. Anne, you let me—you know you did!”

  “Oh!” It was a shocked breath of protest.

  “Anne—you did! I wouldn’t ever kiss you if you didn’t want me to. You know that—don’t you?”

  “Oh!” said Anne again.

  John put his hand very gently under her chin, turned her face up, and kissed her as he had done before—two kisses for her eyes and one for her mouth.

  “Oh!” said Anne again. Then she pushed him with all her might and ran up the road.

  When he had seen her cross the lighted space outside the block of flats and disappear through the arched doorway, he turned and walked back to where he had left the car.

  As he came into Malmesbury Terrace he was singing just above his breath:

  “The world is full of crueltee,

  Mr. Mulligan’s gone from me;

  Mr. Mulligan’s gone to sea.

  Cruel Mr. Mulligan!”

  CHAPTER XXXII

  Miss Fairlie called John up next day before he had finished his breakfast.

  “Is that you, John Waveney? Oh, it is? You’re about the thirtieth person I’ve spoken to since I got the hotel. I want you to lunch with me. I want to talk to you. If you’re engaged, throw ’em over.”

  “I’m not engaged.”

  “One-thirty, then. I’ve left my hotel because Muriel Deane has gone to Scotland and lent me a flat. Take the address. You’d better write it down—110, Rigola Mansions.”

  At one-thirty he found Aurora most incongruously surrounded by gimcrack gilt furniture and delicate water-colours, her massive feet firmly planted on a rose-coloured Aubusson carpet. She wore heavy brogues and the same thick nondescript tweeds in which he had already seen her twice. He wondered vaguely whether she slept in them; they had that sort of look.

  She shook him very heartily by the hand, and spoke over his shoulder to the maid who had shown him in.

  “Lunch, Horrocks!” Then, as the door closed, “Stupid fashion calling a girl by her surname! Pretentious. Done to make believe you’ve got a butler when you haven’t. Muriel’s like that. Come along in—I had breakfast at half-past seven, so I want my lunch.”

  The dining-room was next door, a little white room with ebony furniture, black carpet, black curtains, and a black bowl in the middle of the table, in which floated an artificial white water-lily, rather dirty at the edges.

  “Funerary—isn’t it?” said Aurora briskly. “I told Muriel I should probably break her black-and-white china whilst she was away and give her something cheerful instead of it. She droops, you know—gold hair and transparent hands weighed down with immense diamonds; looks as if she’d never been out in the open air in her life, poor thing. The room gives me the pip, but the food’s all right. Droopy women always have good cooks. Look here, everything’s cold, and we’re waiting on ourselves because I want to talk to you, and Horrocks has got a way of sliding in and out of the room that drives me wild. There’s salmon, and beef, and a sort of salad that the cook fancies herself at. Help yourself.”

  When John had helped both of them, Miss Fairlie ate in silence for about five minutes, at the end of which time she got up, took another, and a larger, helping of salmon, and then began to talk:

  “So you found Anne after all. Where is she?”

  “She doesn’t want anyone to know.”

  “I never heard such tiresome rubbish in my life! Why doesn’t she want anyone to know?”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “Abominably stupid! Give me her address, and I’ll see if I can’t put some sense into her.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  Aurora ate salmon rapidly.

  “How did you find her?”

  “By accident.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Parlour-maid,” said John.

  “Nonsense!”

  “She is.”

  “My good man, why on earth?”

  “To earn her living.”

  Aurora’s small grey eyes darted a sharp question. She went on eating and looking at John, but she finished her salmon before she spoke. Then she said:

  “Cut the beef, please. And don’t give me the sort of skimpy helping you did before. I’m hungry. What’s Anne doing earning her living? Didn’t Anthony Waveney leave her provided for?”

  “He altered his will.”

  “Why?”

  John had his back to her. He added another slice to her plate and did not answer. When he had handed her salad and potato, and filled up her glass, he began to carve for himself.

  “Sir Anthony left everything to Jenny,” he said as he came over to the table.

  Aurora, knife and fork in hand, was frowning portentously at the rather passé water-lily.

  “We’ve begun at the wrong end,” she said.

  John agreed with her.

  “The bother is,” said Miss Fairlie, “that I don’t know where I ought to begin.” Her frown deepened and focussed itself upon John. “You see it’s a question of how much you know, and how much I know, and whether we both know the same things. What do you know about Anne, John Waveney?”

  John considered.

  “A good deal,” he conceded. “I know, for instance, that she wasn’t in Spain with you last year. Do you mind if I ask what Jenny said to you when you turned up at Waterdene that evening? Did you know that Anne was supposed to have been travelling with you in Spain?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  John nodded.

  “I thought Jenny seemed a bit nervous. What did she tell you?”

  Aurora ate beef. Presently she said:

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “All right—then I’ll tell you. One of us has got to put his cards on the table, or we shan’t get any forrader. Jenny told you that Anne had been in prison?”

  “Yes—she did. Who told you?”

  “Nicholas Marr told me three weeks ago. Anne told me herself yesterday.”

  Miss Fairlie’s deep complexion had become several shades deeper. She produced a plum-coloured bandanna handkerchief and wiped her brow with it.

  “Anne t
old you herself!”

  John nodded.

  “She got a year. The charge was stealing pearls.”

  “How many people know?” said Miss Fairlie roughly.

  “Nicholas and Jenny, Mr. Carruthers, you, and me—also Mrs. Jones, who was Anne and Jenny’s nurse. Anne gave her name as Annie Jones.”

  “No one else knew?”

  “Sir Anthony.”

  “What a mix-up!” said Aurora. “What an infernal mix-up! And Jenny—I say, you don’t mean to say Jenny takes the money!”

  “That’s too crude.” John’s tone was very dry. “Jenny isn’t in the least crude; she’s all affectionate generosity. Anne can actually have half—on conditions.”

  “What conditions?”

  “The conditions are dictated by Nicholas. She’s not to go there; and she’s not to see them; and she’s not to write to Jenny, or annoy her in any way.”

  Miss Fairlie laid down her knife and fork. She got up and helped herself to more salad. Then she sat down again.

  “I see. What’s your position in the matter?”

  “I’m going to marry Anne.”

  “Sportsman!” said Aurora. “When?”

  “As soon as she will. She’s still saying ‘No.’”

  “Yes—she would. Look here, John Waveney, what’s behind all this? I’ve known Anne since she was three. She’s straight—dead straight. Why, bless my soul, I do know when a woman’s straight and when she isn’t. I’d bank on Anne!”

  “So would I,” said John. “You’re a brick, Miss Aurora!”

  “Drop the Miss! Well? What’s behind it?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “I’d bank on Anne. But I’m not so sure that I’d risk anything I really cared about on Jenny. Is that it?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “H’m. I’ll have some gooseberry tart. And you can put the cream and sugar on the table. Handed sugar is one of the economies of the rich. Muriel hasn’t got a self-respecting sugar-bowl in the house; but such as it is, we’ll have it between us and finish it. Jenny had the impudence to tell me I oughtn’t to take cream on account of my figure—Yes, go on. Don’t be afraid of it; I like lots—and I just said to her ‘My good girl, when you’re already forty round the waist, you won’t let a matter of another five inches or so come between you and your cream and sugar.’ By the way, Anne’s too thin by half.”

  “She’s with a beastly woman who doesn’t give her enough to eat.”

  “She’d better come and stay with me at once.”

  “I say, you are a brick! I’m afraid she won’t, though. Look here, Aurora, how much talk is there?—about Anne, I mean. Are people really saying things?”

  “People always say things.”

  “What are they saying about Anne?”

  “They come and ask me what was the matter with her, and say what a pity she couldn’t be at Jenny’s wedding. Some of ’em have the impudence to ask me whether she was really in Spain with me. I’m not going to forgive Jenny that in a hurry. I don’t like telling lies. I wasn’t brought up to tell ’em, and I don’t like it. It’s demoralizing. Every time I do it, it comes a bit easier. I’m beginning to take a pride in it. Disgusting I call it! And all because Jenny pitched on me!”

  John laughed.

  “You did it awfully well yesterday.”

  “That’s what’s so demoralizing. Look here, the whole thing’s got to be put a stop to. Let Anne come here at once, mug up Spain—I’ve loads of photographs—go about with me, show herself. Then she can go and stay with Jenifer Courtney for a week or so. You can hang round until people begin to talk about you. Then the engagement is given out, Anne goes down to the Marrs, and you’re married at Waterdene. That’ll give ’em something else to think about. How’s that for a plan?”

  “There are only three objections.”

  “Objections? Nonsense! What are they?”

  “Anne won’t. Jenny won’t. And Nicholas certainly won’t. I don’t know about Mrs. Courtney, but I should think she’d do what Jenny wanted her to.”

  Aurora snorted.

  “Jenifer’s a downright fool about Jenny—a hen with one chick, and would like everyone to believe it was the one and only bird of paradise. Change the plates and give me some cheese. There’s gorgonzola and a marrowless cream thing suited to infants in arms. I’ll have gorgonzola—I like to taste what I’m eating. Why did you bite my head off when I asked you if you were in love with Anne?”

  John helped himself to cream cheese and grinned.

  “You were so sudden. I’d only met you about an hour before. Besides, I didn’t know myself—nor did Anne. You don’t generally go about telling other people before you know yourself.”

  “Pass me the butter. I do wish I could cure Horrocks of skimping the butter—I think Muriel must be afraid of getting fat. I like butter and biscuit, not biscuit and butter. Does Anne know you’re in love with her?”

  “She ought to,” said John with an odd fleeting smile.

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  John got a letter from Anne that evening. It made him very angry. It had no proper beginning, because after writing “Dear John” twice, and “John dear” once, Anne had wasted three good sheets of paper by tearing them into small pieces and putting them into the kitchen fire. For this she was rebuked by Mrs. Brownling.

  “Nothing chokes a fire like paper. Why, I’ve known a love-letter or two keep a family on loo-warm water for a week.”

  Anne might have retorted that there was nothing like never cleaning flues if you really wanted to keep your water cold; but she was too cast down to retort at all.

  This was the letter that John read:

  “I mustn’t go on meeting you. I oughtn’t ever to have met you at all. I blame myself very much. You mustn’t come again. I really mean this. It puts us both in quite a false position. I can’t be Annie Jones and Mrs. Fossick-Yates’ parlour-maid and Anne Waveney at the same time. I’m not Anne Waveney any more—I want you to understand this; I’m Annie Jones, and Annie Jones can’t come and meet you. I ought to have realized this before. I think I did really. When we met Aurora to-day, it showed me what a false position I was in. Please don’t meet me any more, and please don’t write or anything.”

  The letter ended just like that, without a signature.

  When he had read it through twice, John sat down to answer it with the light of battle in his eye:

  “DEAR ANNE,

  “I’m beginning this way, because I don’t feel in the least like saying ‘Darling Anne’ at the moment. However, you won’t get this letter until to-morrow morning, so if I’ve stopped feeling angry by then, I will send you a telegram. Your letter is an infuriating one. I can’t think why you wrote it. It’s a frightful waste of time for one thing; and it’s a frightfully bad letter for another. I don’t think you know how to write letters. You ought to begin in the left-hand corner with ‘Darling John’ or ‘My darling John.’ Or, if you were in a nasty standoff sort of temper, which I’m afraid was the case, you might at least have put ‘Dear John.’ I knew a man once whose name was Macgregor Dennison—we used to call him ‘Grigs.’ He couldn’t write letters either. But he knew he couldn’t, and always used a Polite Letter-Writer. It tells you how to write to everybody. He was engaged to three girls at once when I knew him, and he wrote to them all every week. And they all said they’d never had such letters in their lives. They simply lapped them up and asked for more. The letters were very affectionate, but quite proper. I think you’d better have a Polite Letter-Writer. I will see if I can get you one. I will come round on Sunday at the usual time. Please don’t be late, or I shall think you’re not coming; and then I shall have to come and fetch you, and perhaps that would be a shock for Mrs. Fossick-Yates. I am not very fond of her, but I should not like to give her a fatal shock.

  “Please be punctual. I shall be at the corner at half-past two, and I will wait there until three. After that I shall be obliged to risk giving Mrs. Fossick-Yates a
shock.

  “JOHN.”

  “P.S.—I am still frightfully angry.”

  Anne got this letter by the early post. She changed colour several times whilst reading it. Finally she laughed. It was undoubtedly pleasant to have made John Waveney angry. Her spirits rose to a dangerous degree.

  Presently the telephone bell rang. Anne flew to it. Suppose he had really sent a telegram. Suppose Mrs. Fossick-Yates—

  She clapped the receiver to her ear, and caught the words: “A telegram for Jones.”

  A muffled sound broke from her lips. It was really an imprecation directed against the absent John, but the operator took it to indicate an uncertainty as to the name of the person to whom the telegram was addressed.

  “J for Johnny; O for—”

  “No—no—no!” said Anne, her voice smothered but desperate.

  “J for Johnny; O—”

  “No,” said Anne. “I mean I’ve got that. Please give me the telegram.”

  “The telegram is for J-O-N-E-S—Jones.”

  “Yes, I know. Will you give it to me?”

  “For Jones, 183, Ossington Mansions, Ossington Road. Are you taking it?”

  “Yes. Do go on!”

  “I am going on.”

  “To Jones, 183, Ossington Mansions, Ossington Road—”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Handed in at Vere Street at eight a.m. Are you taking it?”

  Anne heard a door open behind her. She did not dare look round. Despair descended on her. She said, “Yes, I am,” and felt her knees shake.

  “This is the telegram: ‘Second reading admissible.—J. M. W.’”

  Anne hung up the receiver with a limp hand and turned to find Mr. Fossick-Yates regarding her with interest.

  “Was that for me?” he questioned.

  “No, sir.”

  “Thank goodness!”

  Anne moved away. Was he going to ask her any more questions? Apparently he was not. She drew a breath of thankfulness, and took refuge in the kitchen.

  At ten she received a parcel. It contained a small book bound in bright red. On the cover there appeared in gold:

  THE ART OF LETTER WRITING

  BY

  A PEERESS.

  Anne pushed the book well down inside her box and turned the key on it with a vicious click. Then she went into the kitchen to polish silver. Her colour was so bright that Mrs. Brownling commented on it.