“Think over my suggestion, Rose, and if you change your mind let me know. Because I’m not at all happy about you at the moment.”
But Rose looked thoughtfully down at her hands and returned no answer. And when they entered the hotel she was thinking, rather wretchedly:
“How could any self-respecting young woman accept a proposal of that sort, even if all her instincts urged her to do so? To have him at any price! . . .” Her lips were still tingling from their contact with his lips, and she asked herself bewilderedly: “But what sort of a proposal was it . . .?”
Sir Laurence left her at the lift, and she went up in it alone, and when she reached Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett’s suite that good lady was drinking tea she had just ordered to restore her after a somewhat exhausting day, and looking full of momentous news.
“My dear,” she exclaimed as soon as she saw Rose, “what sort of acutely embarrassing thing do you think has happened now? The sort of thing that only my god-daughter would be capable of! I’m so annoyed for all sorts of reasons that I’m really quite upset!” “Why—what—what do you mean?” Rose asked, and waited with the curious conviction that something she was to find rather more than embarrassing—and perhaps even more than upset-ting—was about to be disclosed to her.
“Heather! Heather Willoughby”—Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett poured cream into her cup and added too much sugar to prove her agitation—“is in Rome! She’s staying in this hotel, with my cousin, Augusta Sims. They arrived today!”
“And Heather’s—husband?” Rose asked.
“She hasn’t got one, my dear!” stirring her tea vigorously. “I didn’t tell you that that affair came to nothing, because I thought it was best to forget it.”
CHAPTER XIII
Rose sat down in a chair rather limply and looked at the overdressed elderly figure in front of her.
“You mean that—that Heather didn’t marry Peter Hurst after all?”
“Perhaps luckily for her she changed her mind before ever they reached Folkestone, where they were planning to pick up a Cross-Channel steamer,” Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett admitted. “Of course, Peter Hurst is quite impecunious, and why she picked on him in preference to a man like Sir Laurence I can’t think, but obviously some whim seized hold of her. However, she regretted it in time, and went back to Farnhurst, arriving just before I took my own departure. I knew she’d find another man soon—the Heathers of this world always do!—but the amazing thing is that she appears to be quite free at the moment.”
“Does Sir Laurence know?” Rose managed, when her throat felt a little less dry. “I mean, does he know that she didn’t marry?”
“Oh, of course. She wrote to him, I believe—some idea of patching things up obviously actuating her!
But at that time he was no doubt feeling pretty sore, and he no doubt turned her down out of hand.”
“Do you think he had any idea that she—intended coming to Rome?”
“Well. . .” The sharp-eyed old lady was looking at Rose rather curiously, and it struck her that the girl was displaying all the symptoms of having received something in the nature of a shock. “If you can believe anything Heather says, yes! I met her downstairs in the main lounge when I came in about an hour ago, and she and Augusta wanted me to join them for sherry, but I don’t touch anything like that so early in the afternoon, as you know. But Heather was quite uninhibited about all that had happened to her, and her plans for the future. She mentioned Sir Laurence’s name quite casually, and knew that he had been staying in Rome for several weeks.”
“But did she—write to let him know she was coming?”
“My dear child!” Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett looked suddenly concerned. “Have you had a very exhausting day or something? You look quite washed out! Perhaps you’d better have a glass of sherry. Ring the bell, dear.”
But although Rose rang the bell obediently it was not because she wanted the sherry.
“Did he know she was coming?” she insisted.
“I should say it’s pretty certain he did. However, Rose, the concerns of my god-daughter and your Sir Laurence don't really touch us, and if he’s weak enough to be got over by a pretty face and plausible words, well, then, I for one won’t sympathize with him when he gets his second awakening. But he may have made up his mind that there isn’t going to be any second awakening.”
“That’s what I think,” Rose said, in such a low voice that the elder lady’s none too sharp ears missed it.
“Well,” Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett declared, “it will be interesting to see how everything works out, but for the moment the thing I want to do is change for dinner. Thank goodness we’re having a quiet evening in the hotel. I don’t think I could face up to too much excitement tonight.”
But it was Rose who felt not so much excited as tensed when they went down to dinner, and it was she who first caught sight of Heather and her elderly female chaperon when they entered the dining-room. The chaperon was obviously a
very faded spinster—and Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett had had a few words to say about her, and her willingness to allow all her expenses to be paid for her on an occasion such as this—but Heather looked as strikingly attractive as she had always looked. If regret had gnawed at her over the past few months, it didn’t show in her face, and there was a certain lighthearted sprightliness in the way she walked—a consciousness of admiring eyes—as she moved to the table to which the maitre d’hotel himself guided them. When she was seated she looked about her with wide, china-blue eyes, and all the lights in the huge room seemed to be concentrating their attention on her spun-gold hair.
Rose sat watching her, feeling amazed that any woman could have behaved as she had behaved and be as content and unconcerned as she appeared in those moments. Her dress was probably one of her trousseau dresses, for it was very lovely, and obviously expensive, and every detail of her grooming was perfect.
She must have sensed eyes on her, for suddenly she looked up and across the whole width of the room, and saw Rose. She smiled affably, casually, and Rose was further amazed.
After dinner the quartette met as if it had been arranged beforehand, and had their coffee together, and Heather was gracious and charming to Rose.
“So you’ve got yourself a nice little job,” she said. “A job drifting comfortably around the world with my god-mother! Well, if it suits you— although I think I’d personally find it a bit dull— and she pays you a good salary, that’s splendid. You look as if the salary is adequate anyway,” taking in the details of Rose’s simple white dress.
Rose didn’t know how to reply to this, and she felt a curious aversion to talking to Heather at all. Every time she thought of what she had done to Sir Laurence, and remembered that dreadful wait at the church, a bleak feeling of hostility which she had to fight against hard welled over her.
Heather probably gathered the lines along which she was thinking at last for she remarked with a rather brittle smile:
“I suppose you’re one of the people who think I behaved badly? You were terribly devoted to Lance weren’t you? And you were also nearer to him than anyone else. Was he—would you say—very upset when I went off like that?”
Rose, who had never expected to be asked such a question by the woman who had, in almost an unimaginative fashion, gone out of her way to wreck a man’s life, swallowed something in her throat before she answered:
“What do you think? How would you have felt if the roles had been reversed?”
“You mean if Lance had walked out on me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, to begin with”—smiling with a good deal of complacence—“Lance would never have done a thing like that, and to go on with, I didn’t do it to hurt him.
I had to do it—at least I thought I had. I imagined I was in love with Peter, which, of course, I wasn’t, and it’s possible I was suffering, too, from those last-minute nerves and indecision which I believe quite a lot of brides go through before they reach the altar. And the fact that I didn
’t reach the altar was my mistake.”
Rose was silent, and Heather looked at her curiously.
“Now that you’re earning your own living, do you still keep in touch with Lance? Does he approve of your working like this?”
“It isn’t exactly working, and—he was never my official guardian, as I think you know!”
“Yes, I did know.” Heather laughed coolly. “It was one of the things that annoyed me extremely.
I thought you were, a burden thrust on him! However,” smiling in her new, affable fashion, “quite a lot of water has passed underneath the bridges since those days, and maybe we would have got on quite well together.” She selected a fresh cigarette, and during the delicate operation of lighting it leaned a little towards Rose. “Tell me,” she requested, “do you think I’ve got a hope of winning him back?”
As Rose looked as if the question had finally been too much for her, she held up an amused hand and stopped her answering.
“It’s all right, my dear! I can see you’re still very Lance-conscious, but I shall be seeing him myself very soon now, and if I really want him back it’s up to me to get him, isn’t it? The thing I was afraid of was that somebody might have caught him on the rebound, but somehow I don’t think that has happened.”
Rose felt as if she was in danger of choking with revulsion, and as the result of emotion which she had to keep very carefully bottled up; and it was a great relief to her when she discovered that she was being paged, and learned that she was wanted on the telephone. When she returned to the lounge Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett looked at her with interest and asked for the name of her caller, and when Rose admitted it was Prince Paul de Lippi, the rich widow's dyed curls started to bob with pleasure, and the lines of her face creased with infinite satisfaction.
“And what did he want, my dear?” she asked Rose.
“He would like me to have lunch with him tomorrow,” the girl answered.
Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett’s beam expanded.
“At the villa?”
“I think so. He has just bought some new pictures, and he would like me to see them. Some pictures and—other things,” she added vaguely, because Heather was looking at her with very wide
eyes indeed.
“Then I hope you accepted, child?”
“I said I didn’t think you would mind.”
“Mind?” The old eyebrows arched. “At what time is he calling for you?”
“About noon.”
Later Rose pleaded a headache, and escaped to her room, and as soon as she had left them Heather turned to her god-mother and asked:
“Who is this Prince Paul de Lippi?”
“He is one of the most eligible widowers in Rome,” Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett answered her very deliberately, and quite obviously with a certain amount of relish. “Rose has had a very noticeable effect on him, and as a matter of fact she’s had almost a devastating effect on quite a few people since we left England. She’s remarkably attractive, as even you must recognize, and I’m afraid I shan’t have her as a companion for very long.”
“I see,” Heather observed, and her lips seemed to grow rather thin as they pursed themselves together.
The next morning, shortly before noon, Heather descended to the courtyard of the hotel where Rose, anxious to escape the others, had been spending very nearly a full hour, waiting for Prince Paul. She was seated on a white-painted seat near the coolness of the fountain, wearing faultlessly tailored ivory silk, with a shady hat partly concealing the splendours of the curling red hair.
When Prince Paul drove into the courtyard in his ivory and black car she stood up at once to greet him. Heather watching from the shadows of the hotel porch, saw the slight, elegant figure alight, a dark head that shone in the sunshine bent above Rose’s hand, and flashing white teeth
as the “eligible widower” looked down into an extraordinarily attractive face.
Heather realized that she was frowning, but the frown disappeared like magic when another car drove into the courtyard, and she recognized Sir Laurence
Melville behind the wheel. He was wearing a light grey suit which fitted him perfectly, his hair was a rich brown in the sunshine, and instead of looking as if he had suffered a great deal he was actually looking a little younger than when she saw him last— although this effect had only been acquired during recent weeks. Heather, however, was not to know this, and the thing she did notice about him particularly was that he frowned quickly when his eyes lighted upon Rose and her Prince.
Rose felt her heart miss a beat when she turned to greet him, but the Prince was looking very sleek and satisfied, in a high-bred Roman manner, and not at all as if the arrival of Sir Laurence on the scene affected him one way or the other.
“Miss Hereward is doing me the honour of lunching with me,” he said, as Sir Laurence looked at them both a little questioningly. “I have just unearthed a couple of delightful Tintorettos, and I am anxious to have her opinion on them.” He beamed at Rose as if her opinion on any subject really was of considerable importance to him, and then held open the door of his car. “I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting. I endeavoured to be as early as possible.”
“I was hoping to have a few words with you, Rose,” Sir Laurence said, as Rose made to step into the car.
She looked at him in a way that was new to him, for it was a look that was remote and withdrawn.
“I’m afraid I can’t spare the time now. I expect I shall be seeing you again quite soon.”
“This evening? Could I see you this evening—?”
And then Heather stepped forward gracefully from the shadows of the porch, and Sir Laurence seemed actually to stiffen for a few moments. His face, following an instant of astonishment, looked fixed and inscrutable.
“Lance!” she exclaimed, and held out a hand to him. Rose felt as if the breath was temporarily suspended in her throat as she saw that hand, and then she looked away as she heard Heather’s melting tones. “I hoped we would meet soon! . . . I’ve only just arrived in Rome!”
The Prince put Rose into his car, and then bowed very correctly to Heather. She spared him one of her most brilliant smiles, and said softly, when Sir Laurence had made a hasty introduction:
“I’m delighted to meet any friend of Rose's! I’m sure she’s going to have a very pleasant lunch! . . .”
And then the car was moving noiselessly away, and Rose, without turning her head, had a curiously vivid impression of Sir Laurence standing and looking after them, while Heather rested a hand— that same white, scarlet-tipped hand that had come out so eagerly to greet him—almost pleadingly on his sleeve.
Rose was never afterwards very clear how that lunch—her first alone with Prince Paul, for Camillo was in Florence—went off, but she did know that it went off very smoothly, and that the Prince was a perfect host. He seemed to attribute her slight air of reticence and preoccupation to natural shyness at being alone with him, and did his utmost to set her at ease, and be charming to her in almost a fatherly fashion. He showed her treasures at the villa that she had not seen before, including the pair of recently purchased Tintorettos, and conducted her through many of the rooms, so that she could admire them and be impressed by their magnificence. He had, she realized, impeccable taste, and his love of the beautiful and the antique was undoubtedly quite genuine. Under ordinary circumstances she could have shared it with him, and even enthused a little in her shy way; but all she could think of while lunch lasted, while they sipped liqueurs and drank coffee in a huge loggia with an outlook over paved paths and massed blooms to those fascinating dark shapes of cypress trees, rising against the intense blue of the sky, was Sir Laurence, as she had seen him last, with Heather’s hand resting pathetically on his sleeve.
No doubt, once the car was out of sight, Heather had made an abject apology. Implored him to forgive her. Her whole expression had registered appeal— gentleness, compunction. She was ready to go to any lengths to convince him that she bitterly regretted what
she had done, and since he had undoubtedly been very much in love with her once—whatever he had recently had to say about there being “degrees” of love—he would surely find it difficult to resist her in this new mood of penitence.
But that wasn’t the only thing Rose thought about. She was certain, as Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett plainly was, that Sir Laurence had known about Heather’s visit to Rome, and that while he was entertaining Rose to lunch the day before he had been very well aware of it. He had no doubt thought about it a great deal while they had lunch, and while they afterwards wandered in the grounds of the Villa d’Este. And because he couldn’t trust himself, and felt the need of some sort of protective armour, had asked Rose to marry him!
He had even admitted, jokingly, that she could provide him with protection . . . But the one thing Rose hadn’t altogether understood was that he was not merely joking! He had probably been quite in earnest!
When the Prince deposited her outside her hotel shortly before tea-time she thanked him, and he looked a little more meaningly into her eyes as he said his farewells. He also told her that he was giving a dinner-party to which Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett had already accepted invitations for them both a few nights hence, and that any time she wished for a car to be placed at her disposal she had but to telephone the villa. He made it clear that she could call upon him for anything that would make her stay in Rome more pleasant and thanked her for the great pleasure her company had given him.
Sir Laurence made no further attempt to get in touch with her that night, but at dinner Heather, she thought, looked even more complacent than the night before. When they foregathered in the lounge afterwards she provided no account of her day, but Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett told Rose that she had not been in to lunch, and Augusta Sims had had to
lunch alone.
The following morning Rose went shopping early, with some commissions to execute for Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett, and she had no idea whether Sir Laurence called at the hotel or not for no one appeared to have seen him. In the afternoon Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett insisted on hiring a car and driving her out to meet the friend who had rented a villa on the outskirts of Rome, and when they returned, Heather, beautifully dressed for the evening, was just about to whirl through the glass doors and outside to a waiting taxi. Miss Sims announced plaintively that the girl she was supposed to keep a very watchful eye on had met an old friend in Rome, and was dining with him. But Mrs. Wilson-Plunkett’s eyes, as they sought out Rose’s, declared openly that she, at least, was not deceived by this.
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