Friends and Lovers

by Helen Macinnes

  Then she drew the sheet of paper in front of her, and began to write the letter to her grandfather.

  39

  BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY

  The wedding, in spite of Mrs. Lorrimer’s dismay over its suddenness, its simplicity, its lack of invitations and white satin, was an enormous success. The bridegroom felt less sick with apprehension and nervousness than the usual bridegroom is forced to feel; the bride was neither as exhausted nor as short-tempered as the usual bride is forced to be. Their only worry—each of them had it, concealed it from the other, and then admitted it a week later with laughter—was that one of them would be killed or injured in a traffic accident on their separate ways to the ceremony, and that they would never really get each other after all.

  Dr. MacIntyre, after giving away the bride, was host at the luncheon in the Savoy. It was a small party, but a gay one in spite of Mrs. Lorrimer’s determinedly brave face.

  At first she had said it was quite impossible to attend the wedding. And then, just as David was secretly congratulating himself, she had decided to come. She re-engaged a nurse for her husband, and spent a busy three days organising clothes for the occasion. She also found time to write a great number of explanatory letters before she set out for London with Moira and Betty. The one to Mattie Fane in Salzburg gave her a certain amount of pleasure. “...So very exciting... leaving at once for America...Fairbairn, the economist...most important mission...such a lucky girl, isn’t she?” (This was a most successful letter, and quite spoiled Mattie Fane’s holiday. In addition, her guest, George Fenton-Stevens, received a wire from David, and immediately said that he must leave for London, “to see old David through this.” Even the fact that it was such a hole-and-corner wedding gave Mattie Fane little comfort.) But to Moira, on the nervously gloomy journey to London, Mrs. Lorrimer voiced her forebodings. Imagine travelling to America, not having a settled home or anything; Penelope must be quite mad. However, at the proper moment in London she was sentimentally upset and called Penelope “My dear daughter,” and wept with grace and even affection.

  Margaret Bosworth made her dutiful appearance too. She said very little, but watched everyone acutely. The Lorrimers were a silly family, she told herself, noting the new hats, remembering their new circumstances. “David seems so ridiculously young to be married,” she said to a tall American called Burns, who had come back from Paris especially for the wedding. Ridiculous too, she thought, that people had travelled so far just to be here today: it made her own journey from Sussex, a frightful nuisance, seem so very small and not half the sacrifice it really was.

  Burns looked at David’s sister in frank surprise. “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, “I’m all for it. Why, some of my friends get married when they are still at college.”

  “That’s America, of course,” Margaret said coldly. She thought for a moment, and added, “Besides, how can they afford it? Or are they all millionaires?”

  Burns decided to ignore that crack. He smiled down at her and said evenly, “Oh, they get along. If they can’t, their families chip in. Say, don’t you like people getting married?” His tone was so easy and friendly that Margaret, feeling she must prove that she did like weddings, went on listening to him talking about America, although her first impulse had been to walk away. Later, after the third glass of champagne, she even became talkative herself. Burns listened politely, agreed heartily at the right moments, until he felt sure that the thaw had set in. He managed to draw Halsey and McIllwain adroitly into the conversation, and eased away leaving the three of them discussing Scriabin. Then he set out to do what he had wanted to do ever since he had first seen Lillian Marston.

  Lillian, slender (too thin, Moira decided), smartly dressed (too dramatic, Mrs. Lorrimer thought), had arrived that morning from Paris. “Simply had to be here,” she said to Penny. “Good Lord, haven’t I nursed you through all the other stages?” As for the holiday at Barbizon, she shrugged her shoulders. “Thank Heaven I didn’t marry Chris. I really don’t approve of divorce, you know. Find me another David, that’s a good girl.” She had been very quiet and thoughtful all through the marriage ceremony, but she recovered her old sparkle as the party left for the Savoy, and devoted herself not to the men from Oxford (“I adored them when I was sixteen”), but to Dr. MacIntyre and Edward Fairbairn. They found her charm not undelightful. “Perhaps,” she said to Penny, “I am just an old man’s darling.” There was a slight edge in her voice, so that Penny looked quickly at her friend. But Lillian was smiling. “Don’t worry, my sweet,” she said. “I’m going back to Barbizon tomorrow. Chris is leaving this week, and I’ll devote the rest of the summer to My Art.” She laughed then, and suddenly kissed Penny lightly on the cheek. “Have a wonderful life, darling,” she said. “I’ll bring all my funny friends to visit you and David, to show them I do know some really original people.”

  After that Penny had not much time to talk to Lillian again, but she did notice that Bunny Eastman, who had chased Fairbairn away, was in turn ousted by Bill Burns. She remembered that Bill was also returning to France tomorrow. What had he called David when he first met Penny? A fast worker? Bill Burns wasn’t a slow one, either. Then Mr. Fairbairn came over to talk to her, and she stopped thinking about Lillian.

  Edward Fairbairn had been delighted by the wedding. Like all bachelors, he was a great romantic at heart. As an economist he approved of early marriage and young men who were men. He glanced bitterly at that fellow Eastman, now talking so engagingly to Mrs. Lorrimer about Jacobean embroidery. That, Edward Fairbairn thought angrily, does not solve the problem of the falling British birth-rate. He looked at the bride’s charming face, nodded approvingly to what she was saying, decided to double that cheque which he would give them as a wedding present.

  George Fenton-Stevens was enjoying himself as one should at a wedding. (Besides, accepting that invitation to Salzburg had been a grave mistake.) He was taking all the credit for having arranged the meeting on Inchnamurren. And he had just managed to do some unobtrusive bribing, with results that were most pleasant to contemplate as he stood so innocently here. At this moment confetti and rice were being liberally disposed in all the pockets of David’s and Penny’s travelling coats. An obliging chauffeur was tying an assortment of cans, a boot, and a placard to the rear of the car which David had hired to drive them so quietly to the station. One of the chambermaids had sewn up all the pyjama legs with large, strong stitches and frequent giggles. Everyone was co-operating beautifully. Nothing like a wedding to bring out the gay conspirator. All in the day’s sport.

  George restrained a smile of triumph as he looked across the room at an unsuspecting David, who thought he had hidden everything damned well from practical jokers, and made easy conversation with Moira Lorrimer. Not such a peach as Penny, and not such fun, but pretty enough and a good listener. But as he talked to Moira Lorrimer he glanced over from time to time at Lillian Marston and Bill Burns. And, as if to prove something to Lillian, he made not one move towards her and was as charming as possible to Moira.

  Moira had never imagined she could possibly enjoy herself so much at her younger sister’s wedding. Still, she did have the very considerable consolation of the diamond solitaire on her own left hand. (That was Peter’s—the son of the shipping Barries, not the brewing Barries. He was nice: really very sweet.) She would be married in a year’s time, and she would not have to teach after all. She was really very happy. As she talked to George Fenton-Stevens she would glance down at the ring, for after all it was only four days old. It was a perfect stone, sparkling beautifully, set in platinum. How strange Penny was: she never had liked platinum, said it was cold and ugly, and people were silly to spend money on it just because it was fashionable. Just as she hated chinchilla, and said that if it were called rabbit no one would want to wear it. Yet Penny liked sables quite frankly, and said they would be worth wearing even if they were called rabbit and sold for five guineas. How strange she was! Moira looked round the
small party, thought it didn’t look like a real wedding at all, and began to enjoy herself thoroughly.

  Betty, sitting beside her grandfather and her mother, looked round at the smiling faces and listened to the talking voices. She was waiting impatiently for the end of the luncheon: that was when the strawberries and cream were to be served. Penny had promised her that. Penny was smiling across to her now. Golly, Penny did look pretty today in that blue dress. When I’m grown up, Betty thought, I’ll wear a little flowered hat and pearl earrings too. And lipstick. She looked at her mother. Yes, I will. She looked once more at Penny. She let her eyes slide to David. He has married my sister, she thought. Golly! For a minute she sat very still, hardly breathing.

  David looked up suddenly to find his new sister-in-law staring at him with wide eyes. He smiled. Betty felt her cheeks turn scarlet, and she turned her head quickly away, but not before she saw him glance down at his watch again and give a little nod to Penny. Then they both rose very quietly. Grandfather had a laughing look on his face at something David was saying to him. And everyone was pushing chairs aside and rising and going into the busy hotel lobby. Betty followed them. We’ll miss the ice-cream, she thought miserably. All this fuss—why, you didn’t say goodbye to people going away for a week on Inchnamurren!

  When they returned again to the room the waiters were already standing beside the serving table. I knew it, Betty told herself. The ice-cream was almost all melted.

  She looked round the table, but no one else seemed to notice. They were all talking twice as loudly as before, and laughing about things that didn’t seem funny at all. Her grandfather was being very amused as he told Mr. Fairbairn something that David had said to him. She listened. Silly, she decided. No joke at all. She concentrated on spooning up the liquid ice-cream.

  * * *

  David, alone with Penny in the locked compartment of the express to Scotland (ticket-collectors were quick to spot a newly married man and the tip he so unobtrusively offered), was remembering the incident too.

  “You know,” he said, “I had the feeling that your grandfather was highly amused at the end. I spoke to him as we were coming away; thanked him and all that. And I said, ‘Well, that’s all over, thank God. We’ve got married, and there’s nothing left to worry about.’ He looked at me very quickly—you know that quick side-glance he gives—and his eyes were twinkling, and I really had the feeling that he was trying very hard not to laugh at me.” David paused, tightening his grip on Penny’s waist, holding her left hand in his, looking down at the wedding ring.

  “He must have been thinking about something else,” Penny said, and kissed David’s cheek happily. She glanced up at the neat labels on the suitcases in the rack. Mrs. David Bosworth. Mr. and Mrs. David Bosworth. “There is nothing left to worry about now, is there?”

  “Nothing,” David agreed. The last ten days had been a nightmare of arrangements, of things to be remembered, of things to be done. Yes, everything was settled. Even Margaret. At that last moment in the Savoy, amid the exciting warmth of friendly good wishes, she had even said, “Have a marvellous time in America, David,” as if she had really meant it. She had laughed when he had kissed her and knocked her hat all sideways—it was one of those large black affairs, difficult to negotiate—and suddenly she had looked ten years younger.

  “Nothing left to worry about,” he said firmly, and bent to kiss Penny’s lips.

  She threw a nervous glance towards the carriage door.

  “Locked,” David said. “Half a crown and a kind heart did it. No escape, my proud beauty. I have you in my power.”

  “At last. You forgot to say ‘At last!’ I was waiting for it, frankly, the very moment the ticket-collector locked the door and pretended to be looking down the platform at something more important.”

  David laughed. “I did think of saying it,” he admitted. “And then, Penny, I couldn’t make a joke of it. I really felt that way too damned badly.”

  “Well, say it now. I think I’d like the way you’d say it. I expect every husband, even if clichés embarrass him, finds there is one time in his life when he can turn to his wife”—she paused, smiled, repeated firmly—“...wife, when he can turn to his wife, and all he can say is, ‘At last!’ Isn’t there?” David watched her vivid, laughing face. Under his serious eyes it became serious too, desirable in its promise.

  “At last,” he said very quietly, and they kissed each other.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Helen MacInnes, whom the Sunday Express called ‘the Queen of spy writers’, was the author of many distinguished suspense novels.

  Born in Scotland, she studied at the University of Glasgow and University College, London, then went to Oxford after her marriage to Gilbert Highet, the eminent critic and educator. In 1937 the Highets went to New York, and except during her husband’s war service, Helen MacInnes lived there ever since.

  Since her first novel Above Suspicion was published in 1941 to immediate success, all her novels have been bestsellers; The Salzburg Connection was also a major film.

  Helen MacInnes died in September 1985.

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

  HELEN MacINNES

  A series of slick espionage thrillers from The New York

  Times bestselling “Queen of Spy Writers.”

  Pray for a Brave Heart

  Above Suspicion

  Assignment in Brittany

  North From Rome

  Decision at Delphi

  The Venetian Affair

  The Salzburg Connection

  Message from Malaga

  While Still We Live

  The Double Image

  Neither Five Nor Three

  Horizon

  Snare of the Hunter

  Agent in Place

  Ride a Pale Horse

  Prelude to Terror

  The Hidden Target

  I and My True Love

  Cloak of Darkness

  Rest and Be Thankful

  Home is the Hunter (February 2014)

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

  PRAISE FOR HELEN MacINNES

  “The queen of spy writers.” Sunday Express

  “Definitely in the top class.” Daily Mail

  “The hallmarks of a MacInnes novel of suspense are as individual and as clearly stamped as a Hitchcock thriller.” The New York Times

  “A sophisticated thriller. The story builds up to an exciting climax.” Times Literary Supplement

  “Absorbing, vivid, often genuinely terrifying.” Observer

  “She can hang her cloak and dagger right up there with Eric Ambler and Graham Greene.” Newsweek

  “An atmosphere that is ready to explode with tension... a wonderfully readable book.” The New Yorker

  TITANBOOKS.COM

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

  THE MATT HELM SERIES

  BY DONALD HAMILTON

  The long-awaited return of the United States’ toughest special agent.

  Death of a Citizen

  The Wrecking Crew

  The Removers

  The Silencers

  Murderers’ Row

  The Ambushers

  The Shadowers

  The Ravagers (February 2014)

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

  PRAISE FOR DONALD HAMILTON

  “Donald Hamilton has brought to the spy novel the authentic hard realism of Dashiell Hammett; and his stories are as compelling, and probably as close to the sordid truth of espionage, as any now being told.” Anthony Boucher, The New York Times

  “This series by Donald Hamilton is the top-ranking American secret agent fare, with its intelligent protagonist and an author who consistently writes in high style. Good writing, slick plotting and stimulating characters, all tartly flavored with wit.” Book Week

  “Matt Helm is as credible a man of violence as has ever figured in the fiction of intrigue.” The New York Sunday Times

  “Fast, tightly written, br
utal, and very good...” Milwaukee Journal

  TITANBOOKS.COM