Four Roads to Windrush

by Susan Barrie

  "I see," Mary answered, but although she smiled brightly enough, it was a smile almost wholly confined to her pretty, made-up mouth, and not her large, dark eyes.

  Lindsay smiled back—but inside herself she had suddenly gone strangely cold.

  "Won't you join us for a drink?" Dane suggested, but Mary Benedict shook her head explaining that she and her party of friends had only dropped in for a moment and were on their way to have dinner elsewhere.

  "And I'm sorry I burst in on you so suddenly," she added. "However, if you will deliberately mislead me, what can you expect?" with an odd, provoking look at Dane.

  He met her eyes, but said nothing, only appearing to be amused.

  "Goodnight, darling." She gave his shoulder a careless flick, and then smiled brilliantly across at Lindsay. "Goodnight, Miss Carteret."

  When she was gone, a sudden, rather noticeable quietness settled over the softly-lit lounge. Lindsay seemed to gather herself together and looked sideways at Dane.

  "Did you have to explain me away quite so thoroughly?" she asked, and her voice sounded odd even in her own ears.

  The waiter came across to them and informed them that their table was ready if they wished to go in.

  Lindsay did not look at Dane as she passed in front of him into the dining-room. It was softly lit like the lounge, and very pleasing with its flower-decorated tables. Lindsay looked about her admiringly.

  "This really is nice," she said, when the waiter departed to fetch a menu. "Sometimes I think that a hotel like Windrush is a little too formal. A stay in an inn of this sort would be so cosy—"

  "Lindsay." Dane's voice was hoarse. "What did you mean when you said I explained you away so thoroughly?"

  "Well, you did, didn't you?" Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, but there was no longer any light in them. "You said you brought me here for a drink, and you implied that you ran into me by accident today. You obviously had other plans for tonight which I interfered with—"

  "My dear girl," he interrupted her a little impatiently, "how was I to know you were coming to London so soon? And if I had plans, they were made ages ago."

  "Before you came to stay at the Windrush?"

  He looked down at the tablecloth.

  "I've known Mary Benedict for years, ever since she left school. She and I—"

  "You are very good friends, aren't you?" she said softly, and rather sadly. "You're a great admirer of her father, and naturally you admire his daughter also. She looks upon you as a very special friend, and I could see only too well that she was shocked and upset by the sight of me tonight."

  "That's nonsense!" he exclaimed. "She's rather spoiled."

  "But she has got feelings. And no doubt she's been encouraged to think that one day… Well, you said yourself that you had a long way to climb before you get anywhere near her father's level, and one of the quickest ways to do that might be to—to be very good friends with the daughter. She was the reason why you cut short your stay at Windrush, wasn't she, and rushed back to London?"

  "She threatened to arrive with a party of friends." He tore his roll apart fiercely. "I didn't want that."

  "No, I don't suppose you did," she said, her voice hollow. "Oh, Lindsay"—he looked at her, suddenly agonised—"don't you understand that I wasn't prepared for meeting you? I had no idea, when I left London, that within an unbelievably short space of time I was going to fall madly in love for the first time in my life. And I do love you, my darling—" he tried to take her hand—"I love you so much that I couldn't risk losing you by telling you— well, anything about Mary."

  "You mean that, although you're not officially engaged, there is a kind of understanding between you? Her parents, shall we say, expect you to marry?"

  "Something like that," he admitted.

  All at once she felt a little scornful as she looked at him, realising for the first time that for all his good looks and charm he lacked strength. A picture of Philip Summers rose in her mind and almost unconsciously she found herself comparing the two men…

  "But if you were not in love—why did you let her parents think anything of the sort?"

  Dane looked at her unhappily, but the waiter's arrival with the menu saved him from an immediate answer. Then further time was taken up with ordering the dinner, and once again Dane insisted upon champagne.

  Lindsay felt a sudden wave of misery and exasperation sweep over her, and when the waiter had departed she said in a cold, hard little voice: "You needn't have ordered champagne, you know. We have nothing to celebrate tonight, whatever we celebrated before. And, in any case, I don't really think I want to stay here."

  "Lindsay!" There was genuine hurt in his voice, and she looked down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap, in order to avoid meeting his eyes. "Lindsay, how can you say that, when I've been longing for you all day?"

  "I don't know. Only—there doesn't seem much point in longing to see me when you're practically engaged to another woman!" He protested fiercely at that.

  "I'm not engaged. It's merely a question of a—of a friendship. If you think I'd let you go in order to marry Mary, you must be mad. I adore you, and I'd give up anything rather than lose you."

  "Even your chances of one day occupying an eminence similar to that of Sir Adrian?" she inquired dryly. He flushed and looked away.

  The champagne was brought, and although Lindsay barely sipped at hers, Dane drank his as if he needed it. They neither of them really tasted the dinner, and the coffee stage arrive before they had been in the dining-room twenty minutes.

  "I want to get out of here as quickly as possible," Dane said between his teeth. "I want to take you somewhere where I can talk to you and make you see sense."

  But once they were in the car again she was overcome with a feeling that nothing could ever again be quite right with her world and he realised, every time he glanced at her, that his task was not going to be easy. Lindsay had a look in her eyes that made him think of a small wounded animal, and every time he thought of Mary Benedict he wanted to swear aloud. At last he stopped the car in a quiet spot near the river, and as soon as his engine was switched off he turned to draw her into his arms. But she resisted him.

  "I wouldn't encroach on Miss Benedict's preserves!" she said firmly, a catch in the words. "She's a nice girl. You've probably hurt her quite a lot tonight, too."

  "Once and for all," he told her. "I am not going to marry Mary."

  "But she's understood for a long time that she's going to marry you. Isn't that it?"

  He could not answer her, so he took her in his arms and held her determinedly, in spite of her efforts to free herself.

  "Darling, darling, darling," he breathed against her ear, "you're the only woman I want to marry, and you're the only woman I want to have anything to do with in my life! It doesn't matter what I have to give up—I can always go into private practice in the country somewhere…"

  Suddenly still, she looked up at him sadly.

  "Can you imagine yourself in private practice in the country, Dane?" she asked.

  He avoided her eyes but she put up a hand and drew his face round to hers, looking into it searchingly. Then she gave a tiny, quivering sigh and her hand dropped.

  "You can't, can you?"

  "Yes, I can. I can imagine anything if you're with me."

  "And one day, when you get used to having me with you, and begin to realise all you've lost through me—what then?" she demanded softly.

  "The answer is the same." His voice was stubborn. "I don't care what I lose so long as I have you."

  She regarded him for a long moment in silence.

  "Dane," she began, almost gently, at last, "have you any idea what marriage really means? It means that there comes a time when glamour fades, and when you're just a man and a woman trying to get accustomed to faults you never suspected—to inconveniences and all sorts of things that destroy glamour." She didn't know how she knew these things, but she did, and they had to be said. "You and I
are very much in love just now, and we might even remain in love for the rest of our lives—but we might not You've taken a long time to fall in love; or even to think seriously of marriage. I think that means that you're not really drawn to domesticity—not the kind of domesticity you'd have to put up with if you married me."

  "You're talking a lot of rubbish." he told her, and kissed her ruthlessly.

  She did not return his kisses and, strangely enough, they did not stir her very much at that moment. She felt oddly detached, and she had a strong desire to be alone for a while and think this whole thing out. Not that there was very much to think out. Mary Benedict's family understood that one day he was going to become their son-in-law, and that meant that Mary Benedict had centred all her own hopes upon Dane Temsen…

  Lindsay was conscious of a slightly sick feeling spreading slowly inside her at the clear realisation that there was only one course open to them. They would have to stop seeing each other altogether.

  "I'd like you to take me back," she said wearily, turning her face away from his lips.

  "Lindsay!"

  "I mean it, please. And I think it would be better if we didn't meet again."

  He stared down at her in silence, his face pale and thwarted in the moonlight. Then abruptly he let her go.

  "All right," he said. "I'll take you back, and no doubt that fellow Summers will be sitting up for you in order to deliver a lecture when you walk in. A lecture on spending the evening with undesirable characters. Or perhaps it isn't because he enjoys lecturing you. Perhaps it's because he likes to see as much of you as he possibly can."

  "Don't be ridiculous." she answered stiffly, but she felt also like crying because their relationship had degenerated so far in such a short time.

  "Philip Summers!" He uttered the name mockingly as he rammed his foot down on the accelerator and the cream car sprang forward. "Now he's the sort of man who keeps clear of entanglements, and he could offer you marriage with all the trimmings! A big bank-balance, hotels scattered all over the Continent where you could enjoy, as many holidays as you pleased, Windrush given back to you as a house to live in and not a money-making concern patronised by the wrong sort of people—my type, for instance! In fact, if you married him you would have little left to wish for…"

  "Dane!" She spoke loudly as if he had suddenly become deaf. "You're talking a lot of nonsense, and hurting yourself as well as me. Philip Summers is my employer—"

  "And Mary Benedict is the girl you want me to marry! Well, all right, I will!"

  They were travelling at such a speed now that Lindsay cowered down a little in her seat. The road was a by-pass, straight and clear, and an invitation to highly powered cars, but even so she had the feeling that any moment…

  "Dane!" she pleaded. "Must we travel so fast?"

  "Of course! The faster we travel, the sooner I'll be able to hand you over to Philip Summers!"

  "Dane, don't be so—Dane! Be careful! "

  But it was too late. There was a screaming of brakes, a blaze of headlights from an oncoming car, a roar that was like an explosion—then silence…

  But Lindsay knew nothing about the silence. By that time she was wrapped in a world of darkness and complete oblivion, and it didn't matter to her that people were striving to free her trapped body from the ruins of the wrecked car.

  "The man's alive!" a voice exclaimed hoarsely. "I don't think he's even very badly hurt. But the girl…! If only we could get at the girl…!"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Out of a world of shadows in which she had wandered for many days and nights, Lindsay came close enough to the surface of things to feel a hand holding hers and a voice she recognised saying gently:

  "I've been in touch with her aunt. But she's badly shocked and is remaining in Spain. I don't think it greatly matters, though, because I shall be here."

  I shall be here. Lindsay found the sound of those words oddly comforting and as she drifted off into sleep her fingers tightened fractionally around the hand in which they lay.

  A week later Lindsay lay quietly in bed, looking at the flowers that seemed to fill one side of her room. They were beautiful, she thought, especially with the afternoon sun pouring over them. There were roses, pink, yellow and white—she couldn't tell why, but she was glad there were no red ones among them—and carnations whose pale colours were like the softer hues in a perfect sunrise.

  She herself had just had her hair gently brushed and a fleecy bedjacket put round her shoulders, although she could not sit up. The nurse had joked when she tied the satin bow.

  "Might as well make you look nice," she said, "when you're expecting visitors."

  "Visitors?" Lindsay had echoed.

  "Yes." The day nurse had nodded her head. She was young and attractive and extremely cheerful. "Two, if you can stand them. Mr. Summers, of course, has been in every day, but the lady is someone new."

  "Who—who is she?" Lindsay asked.

  "A Mrs. Larne." A final pat settled the bow. "There. You look perfect."

  Lindsay smiled wanly and watched her disappear from the room.

  Philip came in first, and her eyes hung upon his face as he approached the bed. She did not know it, but they were like dark hollows in the paleness of her face.

  "Well, and how are you this morning?" Philip asked as he sat down beside her. She not only recognised him now, but she knew all about him. There were very few blanks in her memory, and the odd thing was that she somehow accepted it as completely natural that the man she had once looked upon as simply an employer should make such constant and faithful appearances at her side, and now when he asked her how she was she wanted to assure him that she was very much better.

  His eyes smiled at her, and she wondered why she had ever thought they were hard eyes.' She did her best to smile back.

  "You're looking better, and I believe you were actually watching for me when I came in."

  "The nurse told me you were here. She said I was to have two visitors."

  "That's right." He was holding her hand lightly between both his own. "Alison—Alison Larne—would like to have a few minutes with you if you feel up to it. She sent you this "—he touched the bedjacket— "and she thought there might be other things you need. Anything you want she will get for you. And, by the way, what are your favourite flowers?"

  Her glance wandered to the flowers in the room.

  "These are perfect," she said softly. "Are they—did you ?"

  His eyes twinkled.

  "I ordered them because I thought you'd like to have something pleasant to gaze at. But if you prefer orchids, or something more exotic, just let me know."

  She knew that he was joking gently, for her eyes so plainly gave away the fact that the roses and carnations were the happiest choice he could have arrived at. And then all at once her face clouded, and he felt her fingers tighten.

  "There's something—I want you to tell me," she got out jerkily.

  Instantly his face became grave, and his eyes watchful.

  "Yes!"

  She moistened her lips and her small face looked like alabaster.

  "What… what happened to Dane… after the crash?"

  "They kept him in here for a couple of nights, and then he was all right," Philip replied quietly. "They sent him home then, and so far as I know he's all right."

  She looked down at the bed coverlet, and she let out a long shuddering breath. Then a touch of colour crept back into her face, and she looked up at him gratefully.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "And there's nothing else you want to know? Nothing else worrying you?"

  "No." She made a movement with her head on the pillow and her eyes looked suddenly clear and almost happy. "Nothing."

  He bent nearer to her.

  "Would you like to see him, Lindsay? I think he'd like to see you."

  "No, no!" Her fingers clung to him. "Not—not yet! Please…"

  "All right, all right," he assured her softly. "You don'
t have to see anyone you don't want to, Lindsay—not until you really want to see them."

  "You're so kind," she whispered. "I don't know why I ever thought"—she looked temporarily confused, and he smiled a little— "you really are kind. I'm so grateful for—for the flowers, and everything. "

  "By the way," he told her, "we got in touch with your aunt, but she didn't want to cut short her trip if it could be avoided. And I didn't think it necessary to bring her back here, so I cabled her to that effect."

  "Yes," she surprised him by answering, "I know that. You told the nurse that she was badly shocked and that she was staying in Spain. You also said that… you would be here."

  He gazed at her, and she gazed at him, a faint, soft blush stealing over her face.

  "And when did you hear all that, young woman?"

  "I must have been gradually returning to consciousness."

  "And did you recognise my voice? Did you realise that it was I who would be here?"

  "I think so."

  He smiled and looked down at the fragile hand still lying in his. Suddenly he surprised her by carrying it to his lips. Then he tucked the hand inside the covers and rose determinedly.

  "I've already had rather more than my ten minutes, and Alison is waiting to see you. Don't forget that she'll get anything—anything you want for you."

  When Alison came into the room Lindsay was feeling just a shade exhausted, but she found Mrs. Lame a very pleasing person to gaze at. Her spring suit was leaf-green in colour and with it, perched on her black hair, she wore a tiny hat that seemed to be a mass of pink and white petals.

  She carried an armful of flowers and, if she was shocked by Lindsay's appearance, she was careful to keep the sensation well hidden, and her smile at the girl who lay looking up at her from a nest of white pillows was touched with an extraordinary gentleness.

  "My dear," she said softly, "you gave us a terrible shock, but I'm so thankful it was no worse. Poor Philip. He's been so concerned about you."