Four Roads to Windrush

by Susan Barrie

  "London." Lindsay was already struggling into the grey dress, and she left her bedroom door open.

  "London?" Aunt Grace repeated. "And the name is Temsen? He looks a little Nordic to me, and that could be a Nordic name…"

  But she did not complete the sentence, perhaps because she was communing with herself, and in any case she was aware that her niece was not really listening to her.

  By the time Lindsay at last stepped out of the lift in the hall below she knew, even before she looked at the clock, that she was exactly ten minutes late in going on duty, but thankfully there appeared to be no sign of her employer in the hall just then.

  The sensation of relief that shot through her was so keen that she knew Aunt Grace would have been amused about it if she had known.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next evening Lindsay wore a dress which had been hanging in her wardrobe since the Christmas festivities, and which became her very well indeed. When Dane Temsen saw her in it his eyebrows rose a little, his eyes expressing the utmost approval.

  "You look enchanting," he told her. "You ought always to wear that particular shade of blue, because it makes your eyes look like delphiniums." He could have added that it made her look like a Dresden figurine, but he didn't. He took her arm and led her out to his car. "Now, where shall we go?" he asked as he helped her in. "Somewhere to justify that dress, I hope?"

  They went to the George and Dragon in Barrowgate. A perfect example of Tudor architecture, it had been transformed into a charming and extremely popular restaurant.

  Dane Temsen insisted on ordering champagne with the meal, and when Lindsay looked a little disapproving he explained:

  "I'm celebrating a return to life, and you're celebrating an escape from drudgery. They seem to work you very long hours in that hotel. Is it altogether necessary?"

  "The hours aren't any longer than I would have to work in any other hotel of the same size."

  "But you don't look the type who ought to work long hours— you look—" his eyes dwelling openly upon her—" as if you ought not to work at all!"

  She laughed at that.

  "What! In a modern world? Everybody works today."

  His blue eyes seemed to narrow. He looked spectacularly handsome, and there was an aura of distinction about him which was already drawing the eyes of other people in the restaurant. She had the feeling that she ought to feel flattered because such a man had asked her out to dinner with him after knowing her only a few hours.

  And now, while the waiter poured champagne into their glasses, he was watching her in a way that caused her to feel quite certain in her own heart that he, too, was feeling that he was lucky in persuading her to dine with him. As soon as the waiter had left them alone again he said:

  "The trouble with the modern world is that it forces people out of their natural grooves. You were obviously intended to live in a house like Windrush when it was an elegant family residence instead of which you have to pander to the whims of people who make it their headquarters for just a few nights in a year."

  Then, of course, she found herself telling him about her own connections with Windrush…

  "I feel that yours is a very tough lot," Dane Temsen said, with genuine sympathy, when she had finished. He put his hand lightly over hers as it lay on the table.

  "Especially as you have to bow down to Philip Summers, whom for some reason I can't seem to take to at all. I've noticed that he never seems to relax on his own job, and has an eagle eye for everything that goes on in the hotel. Does he watch you all the time, or is it just an impression of mine? You were rather scared about being late back yesterday afternoon, weren't you?"

  "I don't like being late when I'm on duty," Lindsay replied, trying to dismiss the subject. And then, with rather flattering eagerness: "Tell me something about yourself, and the life you lead in London. Harley Street is a most impressive address. You must be what is known as a 'brilliant young consultant' to be there already—"

  He smiled faintly.

  "Not so young, perhaps. A good bit older than you, anyway."

  "I'm twenty-two."

  "Then I can give you a few years. But sometimes I feel older than time."

  "That's only since you've been ill, isn't it?" she said with a touch of shrewdness which surprised him. "I think you never expected to have anything like that happen to you, and apart from the fact that you were so ill it's been a bad shock." She smiled at him and touched his fingers gently before she removed her own. "But you'll get over it. The moors will help you to get over it—"

  "Will it?" But there was something grave and doubting in his face. "I think you're right," he admitted. "It's one thing to watch other people when their lives are despaired of, but it's quite another when it's your own that's got hardly a chance to survive. And I'm lucky to be here—there's no doubt about that! All the same," keeping his eyes fixed on her face, "but for my bad moments I wouldn't have met you, would I?"

  "Or decided that you'd got to have a holiday."

  "No. And now that I'm on holiday I want to see as much of you as possible."

  Lindsay looked down at her plate.

  "I'm so busy that I'm afraid I won't have very much time to see you," she tried to make him understand. "But you'll be here for Easter, and there'll be lots of people staying in the hotel, and it will be rather fun."

  "Very likely, but I'm not interested in fun, and I intend to see as much of you as I possibly can!"

  And his words made the colour rise in her cheeks.

  On the way home Lindsay knew that she had had a very enjoyable evening. They had done nothing apart from talking after dinner, sitting in the quiet, comfortable lounge of the George and Dragon, with coffee and liqueurs, but there had been a bright fire burning on a wide open hearth because the spring evening was chill, and it had felt shut-in and warm and cosy. A much cosier evening than she was accustomed to spend, and in the company of a highly personable man who seemed to find in her lightest remark something to interest him; she would have been unusual if it hadn't pleased her considerably. She knew that she found him attractive, and she was a little afraid to admit to herself that he also found her attractive.

  On the way home he suddenly stopped the car on the white ribbon of moorland road not far from Windrush, and with the darkness lying all about them and a night wind sighing softly in then-ears, he switched off his engine and turned to her. She stiffened for a moment on the seat until his hand touched hers, and then he said quietly:

  "I'm not asking for any reward for taking you out, but !"

  He drew her into his arms, and she did not resist. She felt his fingers under her chin, lifting it, and in the faint, faint light of the stars he looked down into her eyes.

  The touch of his lips upon hers had a profound effect on the whole of her being, and she wanted, for just a few moments, to cling to him. And considering that she had only known him for such a short while, she felt faintly horrified with herself, although when she thought about it afterwards she realised that all the evening she had been falling gradually beneath his spell. But it was not yet a spell strong enough to bind her.

  "I mustn't be late," she whispered back, and drew herself away from him.

  "No." There was something tenderly jesting in his voice. "I won't let you be late and face the wrath of a stern employer. Although presumably you are allowed to do what you like on your free evening?"

  "Yes, but we are expected to be in in reasonably good time."

  It was unfortunate for Lindsay that Dane Temsen decided to drive straight into the garage and then walk with her into the hotel.

  "Goodnight," she said to Dane at the door of the lift, for he was going on into one of the lounges, and she was just about to enter the lift when a voice called to her from behind the reception desk.

  "' Miss Carteret, could I trouble you for a moment?" Lindsay turned mechanically, but when she saw Philip Summers facing her behind the desk something inside her began to quail. She told herself no
t to be ridiculous. She was not a slave, and his expression was cool and ordinary enough. He held open the door in the mahogany counter for her and she passed through into the little office behind it. There Elise was frowning over a list of reservations and running a pencil in a slightly bewildered fashion through her red hair.

  "Perhaps you can help us, Miss Carteret," Philip Summers said. He indicated the list of reservations. "We've had a telephone call this evening seeking confirmation about some rooms that were reserved for Easter, but neither Miss Earle nor myself can find any written proof that the rooms have been actually reserved. Miss Earle doesn't remember dealing with the matter, so could it have been you?"

  He was looking at her in almost a detached manner but she knew a sudden fear that her hair was ruffled and the careful outline of her lipstick was blurred. She forced her mind to concentrate on what her employer was saying and, as she did so, she realised with a gasp of horror that she was the one who had slipped up— she who was so meticulous and careful—had neglected to record a booking, and that was one of the deadly sins an hotel receptionist simply must not commit.

  Her hand went to her slender throat.

  "Oh, I'm terribly sorry! I remember now—the request for the rooms came over the telephone, and something happened that made me forget to make a note of it. But I do remember the name— and—and all about it. It was a husband and wife and their two daughters."

  Philip Summers shrugged his shoulders.

  "Well, it's too late to make a note of it now. We haven't the room, and I've had to inform the inquirer that we can't take them… I don't think that particular gentleman will think of bringing his family to Windrush again. But the thing can't be helped."

  Lindsay looked stricken. He wasn't lashing out at her as he might have done, but the quiet, resigned tones of his voice disturbed her still more. And she bit her lower lip hard.

  Elise looked at her with sympathy. Philip Summers turned to leave the office.

  "Well, at least we've solved that mystery," he said. He held open the mahogany counter flap. "Goodnight, Miss Earle. Were you going straight upstairs in the lift, Miss Carteret?"

  "Yes," she answered, in such a subdued voice that it barely reached him.

  She realised that she was to have his company in the lift, but as it quietly whirred its way upwards he stared at the roof lamp and said nothing. Only when the lift reached the fourth floor and he opened the gates did she realise that he was getting out with her.

  "Miss Carteret." He stopped her as she turned in the direction of her aunt's flat. "Miss Carteret, there's no reason why you should upset yourself about that business tonight. We all make mistakes, and it doesn't greatly matter. But you know my rule about staff going out with guests in the evenings, and if you must accept invitations from Mr. Temsen please see to it that you part outside, and don't enter the hotel together."

  Lindsay stared at him for a moment. His voice was very cool, but under the surface coolness there was something that made her think of an iceberg. She felt suddenly indignant.

  "I'm not ashamed of being seen with Mr. Temsen."

  "No, and I'm quite sure he's not in the least ashamed of being seen with you. But that happens to be my rule, so do you mind observing it?"

  Lindsay turned away, in spite of the fact that he had spared her over the lost booking, too angry even to mutter goodnight to him. But he surprised her by adding almost cordially:

  "By the way, Miss Farley has told me that she has managed to get alternative accommodation."

  "Oh," said Lindsay.

  "And she also told me how very much she appreciated your help in finding it."

  "I—I had to do something…" Lindsay stammered. "I couldn't just tell her she had to go."

  He gave her a queer smile, not easily seen in the dim light in the corridor.

  "I don't think your heart is in this hotel job, Miss Carteret," he told her. "You certainly haven't got a hard enough heart for it."

  "And is that absolutely essential?"

  "Well—" and the quer smile became openly mocking—-"think what a hard heart I have! And I've made a success of running hotels. If I'm anything to go by, it is definitely an asset."

  Lindsay turned away again. She was quite sure now he was baiting her for some reason of his own.

  "Goodnight, Mr. Summers," she murmured, and fled away towards the door of the flat.

  The Easter holiday came in a burst of golden spring sunshine. The hotel was full and Lindsay was busy, but she managed to spend a little time with Dane Temsen, walking with him across the moors and helping him explore the old town of Barrowgate.

  Since that first night when they had had dinner together he had not attempted to kiss her. But their friendship was steadily ripening. Lindsay knew that she counted the minutes until she was free to go out with him, and he, wanting more of her company, resented the demands of her work.

  "I sometimes think that Philip Summers is more of a galley-master than a reasonable employer," he said as they strolled in the grounds late one evening. "He works you far too hard."

  "No harder than he works himself," she answered quietly.

  "But this is no life for you, Lindsay."

  Dane drew her hand through his arm and as they walked slowly back to the hotel she had the feeling that she was being protected by his very nearness, and that it was no longer true that she was unwanted by anyone in the world. She even felt, when his arm pressed her hand close to his side, that she was rather badly wanted by someone.

  Philip Summers watched the growing friendship between his secretary and Dane Temsen, and there were times when Lindsay was uncomfortably aware of his eyes upon her—their expression unreadable.

  Lindsay found time to go to church on Easter morning, her pleasure doubled by the fact that Dane accompanied her. On the way back to the hotel, however, they were passed by Philip Summers, driving his powerful, black car. He acknowledged them with a brief wave, but Lindsay thought that he glanced at them with a quiet, but noticeable curl to his lip.

  After lunch, a little to her surprise she found him waiting for her as she emerged from the dining-room.

  "I'm driving to Keymarston this afternoon," he said, "and I wondered whether you'd like to come along with me?" As her eyebrows lifted, he went on to explain: "It's a question of collecting some eggs. We're trying to add to our suppliers, as you know, and the Moor Farm people have promised to help us out over the holiday period. I also want to negotiate an arrangement for buying poultry and other produce, and I thought perhaps, as Moor Farm is run by a woman—a widow, I believe—you might be more successful at putting through the details than I alone would be."

  His explanation did not strike Lindsay as particularly convincing, since she knew from experience that he was a master hand at driving bargains; but he could have no other possible reason for wishing her to accompany him—unless he wanted to read her a lecture well away from the hotel! For a moment she hesitated, but then, giving a mental shrug, she told him that of course she would go with him.

  "I'm not encroaching on your free time?" he asked.

  "It doesn't matter," she assured him.

  "Well at least you'll be getting the air, and you won't have to do any actual work."

  She knew, from his glance at her face, that he still considered her unnecessarily pale, and as several people emerged from the dining-room just then she seized the opportunity to slip away to her room and change.

  Outside, on the broad gravel sweep before the house, Philip Summers was waiting for her, and as she settled herself comfortably beside him in the car, Lindsay found herself giving a sigh of unexpected pleasure at the thought of their drive.

  The afternoon was mild and the moorland road stretched invitingly ahead. The big car ate up the miles, with nothing more than a scarcely heard vibration like the soundless purr of a contented cat to let them know that they were travelling at considerable speed. Philip Summers's hands on the wheel were lean, strong and purposeful and he did n
othing to spoil Lindsay's feeling of tranquility by talking. Indeed he seemed to be sunk a little in abstraction himself.

  When they arrived at the farm, Lindsay found that he actually did most of the business, and Mrs. Rodney, to whom the farm belonged, looked at them both with a kind of smiling amiability as if to her there was nothing strange in the sight of a dark and well-dressed man being out for the afternoon with a girl who was as slender as a willow-wand in her neat blue suit, and had hair like palest gold.

  She even suggested that they might like to remain and have some tea. It was obvious that she was hoping to be patronised for teas by some of the holidaymakers who had arrived in the district, for one of her low-ceilinged rooms that was criss-crossed by heavy beams had several little tables already set for afternoon tea, with bright china and dishes of honey and jams; but when Philip looked at Lindsay questioningly, she hesitated.

  "Do you really feel that you can spare the time? I mean, oughtn't we ?"

  "I think we're entitled to a breathing space," he replied, and pulled forward a chair for her at one of file tables.

  Mrs. Rodney departed to fetch the tea and, not quite knowing what to do or say, Lindsay concentrated her attention on the horse brasses that hung thickly above the wide fireplace. Her employer followed the direction of her eyes and remarked, with his cool suspicion of a smile:

  "Old oak beams and all the rest—how the town-dwellers love this sort of thing!"

  "Wouldn't you," she inquired quietly, "if you were a town-dweller? "

  "I don't know." He seemed to regard her with faint amusement. "As a matter of fact, I have been a town-dweller for quite a large portion of my life. We lived in a big, old house in Kensington until I was nearly fifteen, then we moved to Paris, because my father had business interests there. Since then I've lived in Rome, Madrid, and even Istanbul."

  She looked at him in some surprise.

  "You've travelled a good deal, haven't you?" she said. And then she remembered that his big interest was hotel-running on the Continent.