Let love abide

by Norrey Ford

  The rest of the day was sheer magic to Sally. The gracious rooms, the painted ceilings; the

  delicious lunch a deux with Paul, served by an old parlourmaid in black dress and starched apron. Most fascinating of all was the visit to their hostess, a tiny Dresden-china figure in a vast old-fashioned bed. She sat very erect in a nest of pretty percale pillowcases, frilled and patterned with rosebuds, her silver hair neatly dressed. Her arms, soft, white and rounded as a young girl's, were slipped into a lacy dressing-jacket edged with swansdown. Her eyes were brilliantly dark, and studied Sally shrewdly.

  "Who is this you've brought to see me, Paul? You've shown good taste for once. She's pretty."

  "She is my secretary, darling. She's going to do all the typing for us and witness your signature."

  "Secretary? Nonsense. Much too fresh and sweet for that musty office. Why don't you marry her?"

  Sally felt her cheeks grow hot, but Paul was not at all abashed. "She wouldn't have me. She has a man of her own, and lots of pretty girls work in offices nowadays. Fairy princesses went out of favour after you'd grown up. Now, do be good about this famous Will of yours."

  "Half the people in it have died, Paul. So tiresome. My list of pet charities is out of date in this Welfare State of yours. I must scrap everything and start again."

  Paul drew a table up to the bed, but she waved

  them farther away. "Don't come too near, I'm

  infectious. When I was a girl no one seemed to have

  invented this disgusting 'flu. Influenza was a

  respectable complaint. Don't breathe my germs."

  She was a sound business woman in spite of her

  fragile, fairylike looks. More than once she cor-

  rected Paul sharply on matters of stocks and shares.

  But at last the Will was typed, signed and witnessed.

  "Now go away, both of you, and tell Ellen to

  give you tea. She's made your favourite almond

  fingers, Paul. Don't stay among my germs one

  minute longer than necessary. Take Miss March

  in the garden, Paul, and make some pretty speeches. She's worthy of them."

  Downstairs, Sally said, "I'll let you off the pretty speeches, but I'd like to see the garden."

  "A wise choice. The Blay bulbs are famous." He led the way through wide French windows. "I don't apologise for my godmother. She is outspoken, but at eighty, one is entitled to say what one thinks. Now, round the corner and . . ."

  He stood watching her and smiling, while Sally stared round-eyed. Presently she quoted softly:

  "When all at once I saw a _crowd,

  A host, of golden daffodils "

  He took her up, and continued:

  "Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze."

  You didn't disappoint me, Sally. Seeing the Blay daffodils for the first time is rather special."

  She drew a deep breath. "It certainly is." She almost added, "I'm glad I saw them with you," but bit off the words in case he thought them impertinent.

  His eyes on her face, he asked, "Don't you want to pick some?"

  "Certainly not!" She was indignant at the idea. "They look prettier growing, and someone else can enjoy them after us."

  They stood side by side watching the golden host nodding and bowing to the light breeze. After quite a long time he touched her elbow. "That's what I hoped you would say. Shall we find Ellen and have tea? I promised to get you home before dark."

  Over tea and Ellen's almond fingers, Sally found herself laughing at Paul's stories. All her awe of her "Mr. Paul" evaporated, and she thoroughly enjoyed herself. And by the time Ellen came to clear away the exquisite Georgian silver tea-service,

  she knew she was not the only one enjoying the afternoon. Paul was laughing heartily at the spirited description of Simon's Victorian flatlet. He looked younger, relaxed. She thought, with a slight shock of surprise, Why, he's awfully good-looking!

  "Do forgive me," he begged, as he tucked her into the car. "I've been talking shop. All lawyers do—we're incorrigible."

  "All men do," she corrected. "You should hear Simon on differential sprocket-gaskets, or whatever cars have inside them. As to Daddy on foreign currency—he's a bank manager! I suppose even dogs talk bones."

  "Your family sound fun, including the dog. I've only my father, who is rather austere, and my little sister—Caroline—who is terribly spoilt between the two of us. We call her Caro."

  The plum-coloured dusk was deepening as they arrived at the cottage. The last ten miles was ruined for Sally by a gnawing anxiety as to whether to invite Paul in or not. In fact, her mother did so at once, and Mr. March offered him sherry.

  "If you'd care to stay for supper?" Mrs. March asked diffidently. "Just pot-luck."

  Sally gulped nervously when Paul accepted cheerfully and without hesitation. Pot-luck was liable to be anything from cold beef to beans on toast, but she soon realised her family had risen to the occasion. Cold chicken and ham, a salad, a bottle of Daddy's pet white wine; and afterwards, one of Mummy's special trifles, biscuits and cheese. Why, the darlings, they must have worked like niggers all day on the offchance that Paul would say yes. She tried to signal her love and gratitude with her eyes. How fortunate that Mummy did not realise how very far removed the cottage was from glorious Blay Manor. Paul would notice, of course. For him this was practically slumming Now she could never tell the family about the glories of her day, or they would guess—and she wouldn't have that happen for the world.

  "Tired, Sally?" her mother asked suddenly, noticing her daughter was taking no part in the chatter and laughter. She had fallen silent in the realisation that the man sitting in her dining-room, joking with her family, listening to Daddy's old story about the lady and the cheque-book, was Paul Winn! The terrifying, awe-inspiring, typist-eating Mr. Paul.

  She jerked herself to attention. "Only with sun and fresh air. And daffodils, Mummy I must tell

  you

  "Daffodils!" Paul clapped hand to head. "I almost forgot." He went out to the car and brought in a sheaf of golden beauties. "In exchange for the loan of your daughter," he said gallantly, placing them in Mrs. March's arms.

  "Oh, Paul! We weren't going to pick them!" Sally cried reproachfully.

  He grinned. "I knew the gardener would put some in the car for me. Sally didn't pick any for herself, Mrs. March, thus winning the old boy's heart forever."

  When he'd gone, Mr. March said, "Now that's what I call a nice young man, Sally. Why did you tell us he was such an ogre?"

  Mrs. March said dreamily, "I thought it was rather sweet the way he gave me the flowers. So attentive and well-mannered."

  Simon said impudently, "I thought it was rather sweet the way they called each other Paul and Sally."

  "Beast! Anyway, that's strictly for Sundays. He'll be miles distant to-morrow. Miss. March with a vengeance."

  In which she proved a wise prophet indeed, for Paul rang her bell early and kept her hard at work without a single word about Sunday. As he was leaving the office, he said, "The Assizes start today. We've so many cases it isn't worth while my travelling to and fro, so I'll go direct into Avonchester each day. If I want you I'll send the car to bring

  you to Roman Drive, my home. But I don't suppose I shall need you."

  When he had taken his usual whirlwind departure, Miss Downes said, with open envy, "Roman Drive indeed! I've always wanted to go there—they say the Winn home is gorgeous. They're rolling in money, of course, so far as anybody can be these days.

  Sally said, "I didn't realise they lived on Roman Drive.' She was only half listening. She was thinking, Max was supposed to be engaged to a girl on Roman Drive. I wonder if the Winns know her? What if I should see his car parked at some house out there!

  Miss Moffat said acidly, "You would be going, dear, if everybody was fairly treated in this firm. But, of course, you and I don't choose to get on in life by exploiting golden hair and baby
-blue oh-soinnocent eyes!"

  "You couldn't!" said Mr. Enoch, goaded for once into saying what he thought. "You haven't got what it takes!'

  He spoke only just above his breath, so Miss Moffat pretended she had not heard. But the look she cast in Sally's direction was barbed with pure evil.

  When Sally went into Mr. Paul's room to tidy his desk, she felt strangely depressed. His cigarette ash still smouldered in the ash-tray. As she watched the blue spiral rising, she thought, I shall not see him again for a whole week!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SALLY could not throw off her depression, which was strange, because she usually did not stay in the dumps for long. Her natural high spirits and sunny nature brought her bobbing to the surface like a cork.

  Simon, too, was low-spirited. He invited Sally to his flatlet to hear a new long-playing record, but when he had put it on he lay full length on a studio couch, hands behind his head, staring gloomily into the raftered roof. Sally took the record off. "What's wrong, you streak of misery?"

  "Misery yourself. If I were in love with you I'd say you were a pale listless flower. Being only your brother, I'll say you look ghastly. Anything wrong?"

  "I feel ghastly. I want to burst into tears. But not for any reason. Just perverseness." She studied her brother's fine-drawn face, the shadows beneath his eyes, anxiously. "You look as if you had a reason."

  "It's the garage," he admitted, after some hesitation. "My books and accounts are all right; I suppose I have a bit of Father's banking mind, I do keep the records straight. Yet"—he scowled at the roof—"they never quite tally with the cars. I don't mean the local business—that's fine. It's the trade Max puts through from his end. He or one of the other managers. You see, if they sell a car in London or, say, Brighton, and the customer wants to take delivery in this area, they send the car to be picked up at this garage."

  "Fair enough. You could do the same, I suppose?"

  "Yes, but I never have a customer buying a car at Tidwell and collecting it in Brighton. So why should Brighton people collect here?"

  "Could happen."

  He swung his feet to the floor. Sitting up, he looked at her anxiously. "But not so many, Sis. Eight in four months. I've kept careful notes of registration and engine numbers, even written out a description of each customer."

  Sally laughed. "Oh, Simon, why?"

  "I dunno. Little boy playing detectives."

  Her face drained of colour. She controlled her voice carefully. "You don't suspect Max of anything dishonest?"

  He pushed his fingers through his hair. "No—I don't know." He had a young desperate look which made Sally's blood turn cold. "It's so dashed odd. Yet I can't say it's dishonest. There's nothing to put one's finger on."

  "Why not simply ask Max?"

  "He never comes near the place now." He studied her narrowly. "You don't see him, do you?"

  "Never. I thought . . ." She moistened her lips. "That is, you said he was going to marry money."

  "He told me a girl from Roman Drive. All those people simply smell of money. Lot of snobs."

  "Paul Winn lives there and he's not a snob."

  "Well, no," he conceded. "He was quite decent when he came here. The point is, I never see Max now. He was in the place every day at the beginning. You remember how friendly he was—how we liked him?"

  She bit her lip. Indeed she did remember, only too well. "Now the business is launched, he probably expects you to run it on your own. He's showing his trust in you."

  He crushed his cigarette, and moved across to the gramophone. "I daresay that's it." He put the record on again. "I'm a fool to worry."

  Sally did not receive the expected call to Roman Drive, and did not know whether to feel glad or sorry. The office without Paul was quieter, the other typists seemed mollified when Sally took over some of the tedious abstracts or ran downstairs on Mr.

  Ware's errands to the hated safe. But the day's work was deadly dull. Each day Sally found it harder to concentrate; her eyes would not focus properly and her head felt muzzy.

  By Thursday she could hardly drag her aching limbs to the office, and was counting the hours until Saturday and the blessed respite of a week-end in bed. The weather was bad, too, a mean east wind and a sharp thin drizzle. So she felt dismayed when Paul telephoned to say he had no cases that afternoon and was sending the car to fetch her to Roman Drive. Her head was throbbing.

  She collected the files and papers she needed, and was ready when a car arrived for her. It was the long grey car in which Paul had taken her to Blay Manor. The driver was a slightly built girl with creamy skin and dark curling hair. She wore a scarlet duffle coat, tartan lined, and tapering black slacks.

  "I'm Caroline Winn. You must be Sally March. Paul asked me to fetch you because he's been detained at those beastly Assizes after all. We thought perhaps you'd stay the night. Then he can work with you after dinner."

  Stay the night! At one of those fabulous houses on Roman Drive!

  Caroline swept on. "You won't have night things, I know. Paul told me to cope. I have heaps of everything you will need. Do come!" Her smile illuminated her small, sweet face. It was rather like Paul's smile—sudden, brilliant, irresistible. "If you don't, Paul will think I've bungled it."

  If only, Sally thought, I didn't feel so wretched. But she had once boasted to Paul that she was no clock-watcher, so she must make her words good, and not fail him.

  "Certainly I'll come, if you can wait a few

  minutes. I must telephone my father at the bank."

  During the drive Caroline chatted in a reassur-

  ingly friendly way, and before they reached the big

  house on Roman Drive Sally had lost all her shyness.

  "It will be lovely having you," the girl said. "I was at boarding school, which is fun at the time, but it means you don't have many local friends when you leave. And we can't entertain much because of Daddy, so sometimes I get a bit lonely."

  Sally knew from Paul that the girl had no mother, and felt a stab of sympathy for her loneliness. Apparently living in the isolated splendour of Roman Drive wasn't as much fun as ordinary mortals supposed. She thought with warm affection of her friendly little home; Mummy's affectionate smile ready to greet her every evening, Simon's teasing, her father's gruff kindness. Even Billy's lolloping face-licks, and the friendly way he'd plant a muddy paw in the middle of a newly brushed dark skirt. Her eyes filled momentarily with weak, homesick tears.

  The famous Roman Drive was a private road bordered on both sides with high banks of rhododendrons in full bloom—white, scarlet, pearly pink or deepest crimson. The houses were hidden behind spinneys of silver birch, and each was approached by a long winding drive. So I needn't have worried, Sally thought with a wry smile, about seeing Max's car parked outside one of them. He might be just next door and I'd never know.

  "This is Lawnside." The young girl spoke almost apologetically. "It's too big for three people, really, but when my mother was alive it was always full."

  She garaged the car competently, and helped Sally carry her equipment, wrinkling her nose. "It smells stuffy. I shall tell Paul not to keep you hours in the library to-night. Do you like working for him?"

  "I love it. The work is fascinating."

  Caroline gave her a mischievous sideways glance. "Don't you find Paul fascinating, too?"

  "Frankly, he scares me. He's a perfectionist and I can be very far from perfect."

  "Does he really bully you?"

  "Frequently. But not, I'm sure, on purpose. And he is kind when he remembers to be."

  Caroline laughed delightedly. "I recognise Paul. Leave all this junk on the library table and I'll take you to your room. Do you mind if I say Sally? Paul always does." She led the way upstairs.

  Sally followed, intrigued by the artless information that Paul "always" called her Sally. Did he speak of her often, then? She wished the stairs were not so long and steep. They were of golden oak, uncarpeted, and it seemed as if she'd
never get to the top.

  Her room had a fresh sunny colour scheme of yellow and white. The single bed was a slender four-poster, with a top valance of chintz patterned with yellow roses on a white background. There was a deep white Indian carpet and a silky yellow rug. In the window stood an inlaid rosewood writing desk, and there was a comfortable armchair. "I hope it will do," Caroline said anxiously. "I put out everything I thought you would need."

  "It's absolutely lovely," Sally said sincerely. "You are so kind, Miss Winn."

  "Oh, please say Caro. Everyone calls me that. As soon as you're ready we'll have tea. I asked for it in the library because you and Paul will need a fire there after dinner in any case. Heating is such a problem." She sighed lightly, and Sally thought with quick compunction that Caro was two years younger than herself, and already had the cares of this huge house on her shoulders.

  "You seem to manage awfully well," she said impulsively. "I'd be sunk, even in our cottage, without Mummy."

  Caro said eagerly, "Do you think I do? It gets rather worrying at times, but when Paul marries Brenda Worth, Daddy and I are going to retire to a darling cottage by the sea. We bought it last year and both adore it. Unfortunately, Paul and Brenda had a ghastly row over some silly girl, so the wedding

  was off. They'll get together again eventually. She loves him really."

  Sally had finished tidying her hair and was ready to go downstairs, so the soft flow of chatter was stemmed for a moment, to her relief. It wasn't surprising that Caro wanted to talk, but Sally resolved to divert the flood to safer subjects. She did not want to hear any more about Paul's private affairs.

  Nonsense, she told herself with a flash of her old humour, as two pairs of heels clicketty-clicked down the oak stairs—you know your ears are pinned back waiting for titbits of gossip.

  "Tell me about your cottage?" she asked as Caro poured tea. Caro was enlarging upon the place when the double doors were thrown open and a silvery-haired man, looking like an older edition of Paul, propelled himself in in a wheelchair. "I felt lonely, and changed my mind, Caro. I'll have my tea with you."

  Caro jumped up. "Sally March—my father. He's terrified of strange females so he was lurking in his study. I'm so glad you came, Daddy. Sally was asking about the cottage. You tell her."