Escape to Happiness

by Mary Whistler

  Rose stared at her own reflection in the dressing-table mirror.

  “And would you say she had a flair for making a man happy? Some special qualification that not all women possess?” she enquired quietly. “So special that if he lost her it might unhinge his mind a little?”

  Mrs. Bewes picked up a duster and started to flick it about the room.

  “That I wouldn’t know,” she answered curtly. “It’s not my concern to know such things.”

  “But you do know that Mr. Wakeford was to have been married two days ago? And that he didn’t turn up for the wedding?”

  Mrs. Bewes tightened her lips again.

  “Was it on account of you?” she demanded.

  “It was not,” Rose answered, and looked her straight in the eyes. “It had nothing whatsoever to do with me, and I’d prefer that you believe me, because we’re both in rather a curious position, and may have to help one another if we’re to help your Mr. Guy.” She paused. “Would you say that women chase Mr. Wakeford?”

  Mrs. Bewes nodded.

  “They’ve chased him ever since he was born,” she admitted. “Even in his cradle the little girls cried to be with him, and at parties they cried if they couldn’t sit next to him. I used to think they’d ruin him between them, women and girls ... girls and women! And of course, his money hasn’t helped. I say it attracts the wrong sort.”

  “It could do,” Rose agreed. “But,” and she spoke quickly, “he himself has done something now that has got to be put right! Unless it’s put right the whole world is going to get a wrong impression of him, and that’s why I want you to advise me.”

  “That’s the doctor!” Mrs. Bewes exclaimed, as a car drew up on the gravel below the window. “You’d better go down.”

  Rose went down, and a tall, unusually well turned-out man for a country practitioner looked up at her from the shadows of the hall.

  “I understand there’s a patient,” he said.

  “There is,” Rose answered. “In here,” and she led him into the Bewes’ slightly overcrowded but very comfortable sitting-room. “He was in a car that collided with a taxi a couple of days ago, and amongst other things he received a bad blow on the head. I hope you won’t worry him with a lot of questions.”

  “I never worry patients with questions,” the doctor returned composedly, surveying her with his cool grey eyes. “I can usually find out all I want about them without that.”

  Rose’s brown eyes reflected her concern. How much was he going to find out about Guy that it would be preferable he didn’t find out just then?

  CHAPTER VI

  The doctor’s examination concluded, he remained as suave as ever.

  “That was a bad gash over your eye,” he said, touching the place tenderly. “It would have been better if you’d had a stitch put into it at the time. As for your arm, I’m afraid I’ll have to do something about that now. It’s a dislocated bone that’s causing the trouble.”

  “Go ahead, doctor,” Guy returned with a pale smile. “Whatever you do to me won’t be worse than the misery I’ve endured from that wretched bone for the past twenty-four hours.”

  Rose moved almost protectively near to him.

  “Would you - would you like to hold my hand?” she asked, feeling sick at the thought of what was coming.

  This time the patient smiled at her.

  “Good idea,” he said. “Come close, Rose!” and she felt her hand caught and held tightly. Guy smiled almost indolently up at the doctor. “Now you can do your worst, doc!”

  The doctor surveyed them both with a thoughtful air before he took advantage of the invitation. The girl was plainly very young, but she had a strange maturity about her, and she was very attractive. The man had an aura of the leisured classes about him - money and idleness and ease - and he was considerably older than the girl. Experienced, where she was completely inexperienced; but he was glad to hang on to her in this small moment of crisis, and she looked as if it was her wrist that was about to receive a nasty wrench, and not that of the man to whom she was offering as much support as she could.

  When it was all over Rose’s knees were shaking, and she felt Guy go limp in his chair. She looked imploringly at the doctor, and he fetched a small tot of brandy from the sideboard, and Guy gulped it down. Then he put his hands up over his eyes and sat very still for a long moment.

  When he looked up at the other two his blue eyes were a trifle over-bright.

  “I’m beginning to dislike the taste of brandy,” he said. “In future I shall always associate it with medicinal purposes.”

  “I think it would be a good plan if you went to bed,” the doctor said. “I’ll look in and see you again tomorrow, but I’ve no doubt you’ll be feeling much better by then.”

  As she accompanied him to the front door Rose had the feeling that he would have liked to have asked her several questions, but he was refraining from doing so because she still looked pale herself. That click when the dislocated bone had slid back into place had made her feel that she could do with a small nip of brandy herself, and being a medical man he had no doubt deduced that she needed sleep herself. There were dark purple rings under her eyes.

  “I’ll look in again in the morning,” he repeated, before he offered her his hand. “By the way, the name is Carter ... Bruce Carter.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Carter.” She put her small fingers into his large, strong, bony hand, and was certain that he was looking at her oddly. As she watched him walk away to his car - almost as big and expensive as the one she had driven from London - she wondered what he was doing in this remote corner of the country, and what the circumstances were that had driven him to it.

  He was definitely not the sort of man one normally encountered in the role of country doctor. Not in the least like her own father, who was happier being a country doctor than he would have been fulfilling any other function in life.

  “Having a nice chat with the medico?” Guy enquired, when she returned to him. He was looking considerably brighter, and obviously free from pain. “I think he decided we were an odd pair of lovers!”

  “Lovers?” The colour stung her cheeks, and she looked almost angry. “I’m sure he didn’t think we were anything of the kind!”

  “Then what do you suppose he did think we are?” The blue eyes were most disconcerting as they gazed quizzically at her. “He’s almost certainly the type to read his morning paper, and I’ve an odd feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before. He quite definitely knows me.”

  “But you don’t know him?”

  “I told you I’m almost certain I’ve seen him somewhere or other. But at the moment that doesn’t worry me - it wouldn’t even worry me if I knew he was heading straight for the local police station, or getting into direct contact with my ex-fiancée. It’s so good to have the use of this arm again,” surveying it with pleasure, “and to know that I’m not likely to pass out at your feet as the result of a particularly bad twinge at any moment.” He looked at her with sudden real gratitude. “Thank you for letting me hold your hand, Rose!”

  Once more the colour came delicately to her cheeks.

  “It was nothing ... the sort of thing any woman who was handy would have done! And I once had a dislocated wrist myself, and I know what it feels like.”

  “There’s not very much of you, but you’re immensely comforting to have around,” he told her.

  The colour burned in two bright spots on her cheekbones.

  “Hadn’t you better go to bed?” she suggested. “Your room is all ready for you.”

  He regarded her rather broodingly.

  “I will go to bed in a minute - I feel I could sleep solidly for twenty-four hours! and you must get some sleep too. But I want you to know that I’m terribly grateful to you, Rose. Without you I would have been lost without trace, sunk in a sea of confusion and uncertainty, pain and conscience ... just a few twinges of conscience!”

  “Then let me do something about it,” she cried
quickly. “Let me get on to the telephone to London. We can explain it all away if you’ll only let me do so!”

  But he held up a long index finger.

  “I said just a few twinges of conscience ... and only very occasionally!” His eyes rebuked her. “I can’t imagine why you’re so eager to fling me back into the lions’ den, Rose. I could have sworn you were a kind girl at heart!”

  “I am. It’s not that. It’s...” A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed her. The unreality of the situation, now that she was so tired, and so completely without any idea about what she ought to do next, was more than she could cope with, and a few helpless tears started to rise up in her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. She couldn’t bear him to think that she wanted to do him harm ... any sort of harm! Remembering the bad time he had gone through since they left London - since the afternoon of the day before that! - she wanted to do nothing but comfort him, and there didn’t seem to be any real comfort that she could possibly bring him.

  Not if he thought of marriage to Carol-Ann Vaizey as the equivalent of being thrown to the lions!

  One tear splashed down on to the back of her hand, and he saw it and was instantly all concern.

  “Rose! You’re crying! Is it because it’s all been much too much for you?”

  “Perhaps.” She blinked away another tear, and yet another. “I’m not used to being kidnapped, and I can’t think what I’m going to tell them at the office. Mr. Mancroft may even sack me!”

  “In that case I’ll soon find you another job.”

  But he was leaning forward and offering her his handkerchief, and suddenly his expression changed.

  “Don’t look like that, Rose! I feel I’ve behaved like a scoundrel.”

  “You have.” She tried to smile at him through her tears. “The newspapers will simply love the story. Some people will say you ought to marry me in order to save my reputation, and that will be two people you ought to marry!”

  As soon as the words had left her lips she blushed crimson and would have called them back if she could, but he took her chin between his fingers and answered quite seriously.

  “The man who marries you, Rose, will be luckier than he deserves! You’re a first-class driver, you don’t squeal when you’re kidnapped, you’re always ready with moral support when it’s needed.” His eyes dropped to the soft mouth that - because she hadn’t bothered about such things as make-up on the way down - was innocent of lipstick, and pale and drooping after her experiences, and suddenly he spoke rather huskily. “I’d like to kiss you, Rose! I’m irresistibly tempted to kiss you! ... And that would be poor thanks for all you’ve done for me!”

  “It would,” she agreed, and although she didn’t draw back the look in her eyes was enough to cause him to change his mind. “I think it would be very poor thanks!”

  “You’re right.” He sighed. “You’d better get Mrs. Bewes to show you your room, Rose, and then you can try sleeping the clock round. Perhaps we’ll both feel better after a sleep ... more like ourselves.” He fingered his chin, and then fingered the fresh plaster above his eye, and a look of perplexity showed, in his face. “Do you think a crack on the head can alter a person’s personality, Rose? We’ll hope only temporarily! But do you think it’s possible?”

  She regarded him in silence for several seconds, and then shook her head.

  “No. No, I don’t. I think you haven’t been quite yourself for the last few hours, but I think you’re gradually coming back to yourself.”

  He smiled wryly.

  “I’ve behaved in a most unorthodox fashion, haven’t I? And shocked you! But I’m not really a cad, Rose.”

  He put out his shapely brown hand to her, and after the briefest hesitation she allowed it to close over her fingers, and give them a squeeze. He regarded the lightly varnished nails, and the slim, pale shape of the fingers themselves, as if they interested him ... Took careful note of the fact that they were quite ringless ... And then after clasping them a little more tightly for a moment let them go.

  “A small hand,” he remarked, “but capable. One would always feel very safe with you, Rose.”

  Then he put back his head against the cushions and shut his eyes. “Tell Bewsie I want her,” he said. “She’ll have to rout me out some pyjamas, and tomorrow she can go shopping for you if you need anything. Just tell her what you want.”

  CHAPTER VII

  As Rose had only stopped to bundle a nightdress and a toothbrush into an overnight bag before she left her flat, there were quite a number of things that she discovered that she needed when she awakened the following day.

  But she had slept so deeply, and so tranquilly, that there didn’t seem any urgency about obtaining them as she lay there in a room which, at one time, had quite obviously been a nursery, for the old-fashioned fireplace was protected by a fireguard, and there were childish pictures on the walls. She lay looking at them, blinking at them in the sunlight that streamed between her undrawn curtains, thinking how often a youthful imagination must have been fired by the knight in shining armour who was riding right up to the forbidding castle walls in the colourful reproduction above the mantelpiece, while outside the sea lapped murmurously, and a typical October day on the north Cornish coast got into its stride.

  No one had actually told her that she was in Cornwall, but she had known when they crossed the border from Devon, and all the signposts had borne names beginning with Pen and Tre. This house where she had spent the night was known as Tregony’s Choice; but why Tregony had chosen it was a story that had yet to be unfolded to her.

  She looked at her watch and saw that it was nine o’clock, and with a sensation of shock she leapt out of bed and started to wash and dress hurriedly. There was a bathroom in the same corridor as that in which her room was situated, but she had discovered the previous night that the hot water was so temperamental that she preferred to make use of the basin and ewer in the bedroom, and when she went downstairs at last she was looking reasonably fresh.

  Mrs. Bewes was in the kitchen, and the kitchen table was already scrubbed down for the day, and everything was almost painfully neat, but there was some coffee bubbling on the stove.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” Rose apologized breathlessly. “I’m not normally up and about as late as this.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the caretaker answered. She was setting a tray with a lace cloth and a silver toast-rack and percolator, and she appeared to be engrossed in what she was doing. “This is for the master. But you can help yourself to the coffee on the stove if you want some, and you can make yourself some toast too. There’s plenty of bread in the bin.”

  “Thank you.” Rose picked up a bread-knife and looked at her diffidently. “How is Mr. Wakeford?”

  “He rang his bell ten minutes ago, and as far as I can gather he’s had a good night. The doctor will probably be in to see him quite soon, but I’m going out, so you’ll have to let him in.” She looked sideways at Rose. “Mr. Guy says I’m to do some shopping for you, and that’s why I’m rushing to catch the bus. You’d better write down a list of the things you want.”

  “Oh, but I don’t want very much...” She paused. “And of course I’ll give you the money for the things I do need.”

  Mrs. Bewes’ expression became completely unreadable.

  “You don’t have to bother. Mr. Guy has already written me a cheque.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t let Mr. Guy pay for anything for me.”

  “It will save a lot of time if you’ll just write down your sizes,” Mrs. Bewes said, and picked up her tray and moved towards the door. “The buses are always on time here, and if I miss this one I won’t get another until afternoon.”

  “Then I can take the car...”

  But the kitchen door had closed, and Rose poured herself some of the excellent coffee that was filling the entire space between the heavy oak beams and the well-scrubbed floor boards with a delectable aroma, and sat herself down to make a brief list of the few t
hings she really couldn’t do without. Handkerchiefs, some reasonably priced underwear and tights - she hoped Mrs. Bewes wouldn’t think “reasonably priced” meant strictly utilitarian as well - a fresh blouse to go with her suit. And when the caretaker came hurrying in to collect it she felt she must say something about her return to London to the woman.

  “Of course, I won’t be staying here very long. I only intended to stay one night...”

  Mrs. Bewes ran her eye down the list.

  “You seem to have very tiny measurements,” she remarked, “but I suppose you know what fits you.” She lifted her eyes to the girl’s face. “It’s not my affair how long you stay, miss. That’s something you’ll have to discuss with Mr. Guy, isn’t it?” and she went out at the back door.

  Rose wandered out into the garden for her first breath of morning air, and despite the tangled wilderness that the grounds had been allowed to become she was enchanted by the spangles of gossamer that transformed every bush and shrub, and by the late-blooming flowers that would have redeemed any wilderness. There were quite a large number of roses now that she was looking for them, and the fuchsias on the terrace were a splendid blaze. She went and stood beside one of the great stone vases and looked down a clipped alley to the sea, and the shelving strip of yellow sand. It was wedding-ring gold in the sunshine, and the placid sea itself was like an advancing herbaceous border filled with nothing but delphiniums and darker mauve larkspur.

  The edge of each incoming wave was tipped with foam, like a riot of Queen Anne’s lace, and there were some oily patches further out that were indigo dark, and above them the white gulls hovered. Farther out still there was the faint, vague blur of passing ships, and Rose realized it was a long time since she had stood and watched oceangoing vessels moving steadily away from the shores of England.