Four Roads to Windrush

by Susan Barrie

  Four Roads to Windrush

  By

  Susan Barrie

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Four Roads to Windrush"

  by Susan Barrie

  was originally published

  by Mills & Boon Ltd., London.

  © Susan Barrie 1957.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Far out on the moor the larks were singing and the brown of the bracken was already turning to green. It was a morning when spring was whispering with a beguiling voice, finding its way through the open windows of the Windrush Hotel and into the panelled office where Lindsay Carteret, struggling with a long column of figures, was doing her best to ignore it.

  But it was no good. She pushed the thick, fair hair back from her brow and getting up went across to the window, leaning her elbows on the sill and looking out across the smooth, green lawn.

  Then suddenly she heard a commotion outside her door and recognised the imperious tone of the Baroness von Blickerstein. The baroness had arrived at the hotel only the day before, accompanied by mountains of baggage, a maid and a chauffeur. She had already had the whole of the hotel staff running round her in circles, and because she was undoubtedly extremely rich and had driven up in an enormous silver-grey car, Philip Summers, the new owner of the hotel, had himself welcomed her on arrival, and the allocation of her suite had been the all-important problem of the preceding twenty-four hours.

  "But I'm not at all sure we can get it ready in time," Lindsay had objected, as the covers were about to be ripped from the sitting-room in the one suite hardly used. In the days when the house had belonged to her Aunt Grace it had been the small drawing-room opening out of the main drawing-room, which was now a luxurious bedroom, and as workmen had been working there recently there had been very little time to add all the finishing touches that were essential. "No. Five is quite ready, and once we get the flowers in there—"

  "Miss Carteret," Philip Summers had interrupted her in that deceptively quiet voice with which she was gradually becoming familiar, "when I say I want a certain suite got ready and you suggest that it can't be done in time, I suggest to you that you examine the various potentialities of the female staff you employ. They come beneath your jurisdiction—and if they can't rise to an emergency, then it's high time they were replaced. I'm not interested in Suite No. Five being got ready for the baroness."

  "But—but—" Lindsay found herself stammering. "If it's impossible?"

  "Nothing is impossible," he informed her dryly.

  She looked into his cold, hazel eyes with their thick, dark lashes, and felt as if she had come up against an unyielding stone wall.

  "The suite would have been ready ages ago," she explained, clasping her hands rather nervously together, "only the pelmet had to be fitted above the big window in the sitting-room, and then it was found that the same curtains wouldn't do. We had to have others made, and they've only just been delivered, and the chair-covers fitted badly. The woman who makes the chair-covers has been very busy—"

  "At this time of year and in a spot like this?" And one of his eyebrows lifted in faint disbelief.

  Lindsay felt trapped.

  "We have always looked upon this time of year as unlikely to involve us in any kind of a rush," she pointed out as levelly as she could—" It is the quiet season, but that doesn't mean that Mrs. Banks isn't always busy behind the scenes, and there are other hotels besides ours for which she works. Old Mr. Martingale was always very considerate and never rushed anybody—he always gave them plenty of warning."

  "Old Mr. Martingale is no longer here. I'm here."

  "Yes."

  Her eyelashes lifted and her blue eyes told him that it was unnecessary for him to remind her of that.

  "Old Mr. Martingale, as you call him, was no more fit to run an hotel than I'm fit to run an infants' school. That was why he crashed. But now the Windrush Hotel belongs to me and I intend to run it on very different lines from the ones adopted by Mr. Martingale. Is that quite clear to you, Miss Carteret?"

  "Yes," she managed.

  "Good!" he exclaimed. He ran an eye over her and thought that perhaps she was a little young for the job, and that in any case it was a bad thing to have a girl working in a place that had once been her own home—the home of the Carteret family.

  This girl, in her neat grey dress, had, for all the deceptive demureness of her expression, a gently-bred look Which she would never shake off, and when she was not trying to agree with him and suppress every instinct of her own, her eyes, with their larkspur blueness, were clear and cool and a little contemptuous in their regard. They were very like the eyes of her Aunt Grace, only they would never possess Miss Carteret's supreme indifference to almost everyone except herself. And with Miss Carteret brought suddenly and rather forcibly to his mind, he came to the abrupt decision that the little flat she occupied on the top floor, which had been converted for her and furnished by the late owner for an almost laughable rent, would shortly have to be vacated, and that she might as well hear the bad news without delay.

  "I'll do what I can to get Suite No. One ready in time," Lindsay said rather stiffly, and moved off along the corridor to summon her helpers.

  He nodded almost indifferently.

  "You've got plenty of time."

  It was a frantic rush however, even with everyone working at high pressure, but once the suite was ready it could hardly have looked more attractive…

  The commotion outside in the corridor continued and beneath the baroness's autocratic tones Lindsay heard the nervous voice of Miss Farley. Her heart sank.

  Miss Farley, a quiet, shy, little person had been a permanent guest at the hotel for some years now. She was a long way from being well-off, but Mr. Martingale had liked her and had allowed her reduced rates on the room she occupied. When Philip Summers took over the Windrush, however, he made it clear that this concession would have to end.

  "An hotel should be a paying concern,' he told Lindsay when she protested, 'not a charity home for elderly ladies. Miss Farley quite understands and has, you may be interested to know, agreed to pay full rates. She has apparently recently received a small legacy. In addition I have agreed to waive the "no dog" rule in her case so that she can keep that dog of hers. But if I get even one complaint about it, they'll both have to go."

  "Oh no, Mr. Summers," Lindsay had gasped.

  "Oh yes, Miss Carteret," he had replied. "And may I remind you that this affair is not really any concern of yours. Quite apart from which, Miss Farley has agreed to abide by my terms."

  His tone had been final and there, perforce, Lindsay had had to let the matter rest; but she had comforted herself a little with the thought that at least Miss Farley and her old black spaniel, Jess, were happy.

  Yet were they now? Suddenly apprehensive Lindsay hurried into the corridor.

  The baroness, a big, floridly handsome woman in a beautifully cut tweed dress was holding a miniature dachshund under her arm and fondling it with a beringed hand.

  Secure in her wealth, the "no dog" rule held no fears for the Baroness von Blickerstein, thought Lindsay cynically.

  Miss Farley in a hand-knitted twins-et and a grey flannel skirt had Jess on a short lead and was trying frantically to make the baroness understand that it had not been her dog who had attacked the little dachshund. On the contrary.

  "Nonsense!" the baroness exclaimed, outraged. "My Mitzie is exceedingly well trained, and quite apart from that is a very valuable . dog and I would not allow her to come into contact with any other animal I knew nothing about." And She glare
d at the spaniel who was standing looking up in an interested fashion at the small golden- eyed creature growling disapprovingly from under the safe refuge of her mistress's arm. "I keep my dog under control—"

  "And I can assure you that I do the same!"

  "Then your endeavours are not good enough!"

  "In that case I'm terribly sorry, but it really wasn't Jess's fault…" Miss Farley sounded quite pitiful.

  Lindsay coughed, and the baroness whirled on her.

  "Are you the manager's secretary?" she demanded haughtily. "That young woman at the reception desk said I had better see a Miss Carteret, the manager's secretary, when I told her I had a complaint to make. And, as a matter of fact, I have more than one complaint to make!"

  "Oh!" Lindsay exclaimed. And then she stood aside for their most important visitor to enter. "Will you come inside, please?" she invited softly.

  The baroness threw a contemptuous glance at Miss Farley as she swept into the office, and Lindsay, turning to follow her, saw the elderly lady look at her appealingly.

  "I'm so sorry… so terribly sorry!" Her faded lips framed the words.

  But Lindsay had the feeling that Miss Farley's sorrow would be even greater yet.

  The Windrush Hotel, as it was called, had been built about the middle of the latter half of the eighteenth century, and possessing that typically Georgian air of spacious elegance, had adapted easily into an hotel.

  The reception desk had been built to one side of the wide, curving staircase with its rose-red carpet and on the other stood a stone plinth bearing a beautifully arranged vase of flowers.

  That night—the night after the unfortunate morning during which the Baroness von Blickerstein had given voice to her various criticisms of the hotel amenities—Lindsay was on duty, and she was adding the final items to a bill, when a shadow caused her to look up, and she saw her employer standing looking at her.

  He was slim and very dark and not much above middle height, but a rather pantherish grace made him appear taller than he was. Lindsay did not consider him good-looking—his aquiline features were cast in too hard a mould, and there was something implacable about the set of his lips and the glance of his hazel eyes…

  Philip Summers was quite a young man—possibly somewhere in his mid-thirties—but there was nothing young about the expression he usually wore, and after associating with him almost daily for very nearly three months Lindsay had decided that he was like a piece of tightly stretched wire that would never snap, for within the wire there was a thread of steel that was unbreakable.

  When he had first come to inspect Windrush, driving up in a powerful and expensive car that made it easy for her to believe that he was already a highly successful business man who ran a chain of hotels on the Continent, she had hoped that the many disadvantages of the place as it was then being run would strike him forcibly and that he would go away again—never to return.

  But he had returned, and she had had to acknowledge him as her employer. Right from the outset she had had the feeling that he despised her, and that he despised her aunt even more. Now he asked her abruptly: "Have you had your dinner? "

  "No." She looked up at him, a little surprised. "Elise will relieve me when she has had hers."

  "Then as soon as you can do so, will you come to my office? I want to talk to you."

  Lindsay agreed at once, but as she watched him walk away, for the second time that day she had an acute feeling of uneasiness. She also felt quite certain that she knew what the talk was going to be about.

  The private office of the owner of the hotel, which was also his sitting-room, and the room where he had a good many of his meals served to him, was on the first floor and, as a contrast to the luxury which prevailed practically everywhere else, it was simple in its furnishings. There was a handsome carpet on the floor, and one or two rare etchings on the walls; but the desk and the chairs were utilitarian rather than ornamental, and there was only one armchair.

  When Lindsay entered the room, Philip Summers was seated at his desk. He indicated the chair in front of it and told her to sit down. She did so, holding herself very stiffly erect, however, as if she sensed the need to be on the defensive. He came to the point at once.

  "Miss Carteret, the baroness made several complaints to you this morning, I believe, but she has also complained to me personally. Such small things as the position of her bed and the draught from one of the windows, you have probably already dealt with. But there is also the question of Miss Farley."

  "Miss Farley?"

  "Yes." He looked at her in the way she always found it so hard to meet.

  "Has the baroness complained about her dog?" Lindsay asked, although she knew what his answer would be.

  "Didn't she also complain to you about it?" The counter-question was very direct. "And something about a wireless annoying her in the early morning. But I am not prepared to take sides over that, because I don't believe Miss Farley's portable radio could make enough noise to disturb the baroness seriously, and in any case she probably only listens to the news, or something of the sort. The Miss Farleys of this world do not generally made themselves a nuisance."

  "Then why wish to get rid of her?" Lindsay inquired stiffly.

  He shot her a glance of pure exasperation.

  "Because, for one thing, she doesn't fit in here; and for another, she never will!" He threw the fountain-pen he was holding down on to the desk. ".Miss Carteret, running hotels is my business and I know what I'm talking about. I have plans for this place, and I don't mean anyone to interfere with them or prevent them from maturing as I intend them to mature. You and your old Mr. . Martingale's' ideas of running a place like this on reduced terms are not mine! Quite apart from which, I don't like to feel that I am bleeding someone like Miss Farley dry of all she possesses! If therefore you could bring yourself to remind her of our 'agreement' and ask her if she would be kind enough to vacate her room by this time next week, the greater the kindness you will be doing her, and I shall feel less as if I am being deliberately obstructed by one of my own employees!"

  Lindsay's eyes widened, but although the muscles of her throat. worked noticeably, there were no words she could make use of to voice a protest. And, in any case, as an employee she had no right whatsoever to protest about anything connected with the running of the hotel.

  "Have I made myself clear at last?" Philip Summers demanded.

  "Yes, I—I'll have a talk with Miss Farley."

  "Good." He looked at her rather more closely. "And, by the way, did you have your dinner?"

  "No. I thought you probably wanted to see me urgently, and I decided it could wait. And if there's nothing left I can have something when I go upstairs to the flat."

  "And what time will that be?"

  "Somewhere about eleven."

  He lay back in his chair, looking if anything even more disapproving.

  "Miss Carteret, when I give an order I expect it to be carried out. I told you to have your dinner and then to come up here. The fact that you'll probably feel hungry all the evening is hardly likely to add to your efficiency." He leaned forward and snapped open the lid of a cigarette-box. "I can't remember whether you smoke or not?"

  "I don't."

  She watched his well-shaped hands as he lit his cigarette, and then, through the faint haze of smoke, he studied her again coolly.

  "On the subject of the flat, for which your aunt pays rent, I hope you both realise that there, again, your aunt has the best of the bargain! But so far as she is concerned, since it was a stipulation of Mr. Martingale's that she continues to occupy it there is very little I can do. I would, however, be grateful, as she lunches as well as dines in the hotel dining-room, if you would discourage her constant attempts to take advantage of an old friendship with the chef in order to obtain extra delicacies without having them charged on her weekly bill!"

  But this was more than Lindsay could take quietly seated on her chair. She sprang up and, the colour first dese
rting her face and then flaming back into it in a painful rush, faced him with her blue eyes suddenly dark with anger.

  "What a rotten thing to say," she exclaimed furiously. "Just because we once lived here—"

  "Just because you once lived here is, as I pointed out, no reason why Miss Carteret should continue her association with the chef for the furtherance of her own ends," Philip Summers told her in an absolutely unruffled manner, looking up at her in a way she knew she would remember always because of the slightly disdainful surprise in his eyes. "At least you must agree with me there."

  Lindsay swallowed, and bit her lip.

  "I agree it was a mistake to stay on here after—after Mr. Martingale had to sell out!" she flung at him. "Mr. Martingale understood that although we'd had to part with the property we were not altogether bereft of ordinary human feelings, and he respected my aunt's desire to continue to live in her old home. But if the rent you receive is not high enough, you can always deduct what you feel is your due from the salary you pay me for working here. Unless—unless, as I don't seem to be proving very satisfactory, you would prefer to replace me with Someone else?"

  He shrugged.

  "As to that, I wasn't even aware that we were discussing how satisfactory or otherwise you had proved."

  "But, all the same, you don't think I'm satisfactory."

  "My dear girl—"a faintly bored look descended over his face, and he frowned slightly-—"if the cap fits, you must wear it, but I've never actually expressed any disapproval of your work, have I?"

  "No, because there's nothing really wrong with my work, but you think I'm biased—"

  "I think you know nothing about the running of hotels, and that it's a great pity this house ever was your home."

  "Then in that case I'd better hand in my notice."

  He pushed back his chair and stood up, crushing his cigarette out in an ashtray, and allowing his black brows to meet in an even more noticeable frown above his suddenly darkened hazel eyes.