Escape to Happiness

by Mary Whistler

  She was so excited by the sight that she forgot what was expected of her, and that Dr. Carter’s car might come stealing up the drive at any moment, and made her way down to the beach and the rocks that were like large lumps of amethyst and emerald scattered about the sand. She discovered the no longer used way through the kitchen garden, and took careful note of it so that she could find her way back by means of the short cut. But, even so, it was fully an hour later that she heard someone calling to her impatiently, and when she rose like a miniature Venus out of the sun-warmed depths below the garden of Tregony’s Choice she found Guy Wakeford standing on a crumbling path and frowning as if he was simply seething with frustration and annoyance.

  “Ah, so there you are!” he exclaimed, as she moved hurriedly towards him. “I began to wonder whether you’d ratted on me, and were on your way back to London to spread the glad news of where I could be found!”

  “I don’t like the word ‘ratted’,” she said gently, as her eyes widened with appreciation at what she saw. He was beautifully shaved and dressed in a superbly cut suit, and his linen was as immaculate as it had been when he started out for his wedding rehearsal. He was also looking a great deal better, and apart from the resentful cloud at the back of his eyes they were many degrees clearer, and almost painfully blue.

  “Don’t you? Well, why did you have to disappear like that?”

  He caught hold of her arm and held it with firm fingers, hurting her a little.

  “I went down to explore the beach. I couldn’t resist it when I caught a glimpse of it from the terrace. This,” she declared, with a faint sigh in the words, “is a heavenly spot!”

  He smiled suddenly, his face relaxing.

  “So you love the sea, do you? And you like to wander like a lonely sprite on a deserted strip of sand? Well, so long as you don’t make the acquaintance of a mermaid, and decide to join her at the bottom of the sea ... for the purpose of luring some unfortunate seaman to his doom! I can imagine you sitting on a sun-warmed rock, with your golden hair blowing round your shoulders, and your big brown eyes promising all sorts of things!”

  He looked hard into the big brown eyes as she gazed up at him, and she suddenly decided to look away.

  “What nonsense,” she said lightly. “There aren’t any mermaids nowadays - if there ever were!”

  “According to my grandmother’s stories there used to be several on this coast. They had quite a profitable time, piling up stout ships on the rocks. But I don’t think you’d do anything like that, would you? You’d be much more likely to start a fund for shipwrecked mariners, and provide them with a few home comforts.”

  “Attend to their hurts?” she suggested, once more looking up at him.

  He smiled just a trifle one-sidedly.

  “I don’t like to think of you attending to anyone’s hurts but my own, Rose,” he said, and led her along the path towards the house. “That doctor fellow has been here, and he says I’m markedly improved. He wanted to know where my charming companion was.”

  “He didn’t really say that?” she asked, looking round quickly. And then, as he looked at her quizzically: “I really am sorry I wasn’t with you at the time.”

  “To hold my hand again? But there was no need this time, and it might have looked a little odd if I’d reached out and grabbed you just because the doctor was paying me a visit! He might have thought it a little odd, that is,” the quizzical look disconcerting her, “particularly as almost the first thing I attempted to make clear to him was the relationship in which we stand to one another. I told him I’ve borrowed you from a friend of mine - a friend who employs you as his secretary - and that you’re going to help me write one of those intriguing books of memoirs. You know, all the things I’ve done and haven’t done ... And people who read it will want to do!”

  Rose gasped.

  “But that was a deliberate untruth! And if he’s already recognized you he’ll know it’s a lie.”

  Guy shrugged.

  “Lie or not, I had to say something that sounded feasible. And we could plan to do something along those lines ... sometime. What do you say, Rose?”

  “I say that the situation is getting completely out of hand,” Rose returned, her eyes growing positively enormous with apprehension, “and that we’ll have to do something about it! I will have to do something about it, if you won’t!”

  “Now, now, Rose,” he said soothingly, and led her in through the front door of the house to a room she had not yet entered, and which he said was the original library. It certainly smelt very strongly of ancient leather bindings, and there was a portrait over the mantelpiece which he told her was a portrait of his great-grandfather.

  “A grand old chap who smuggled,” he said. “He sat on the Bench and was immensely revered locally, but he turned his face to the wall when the ‘gentlemen rode by’. I’ve no doubt his cellars were full of some prime stuff from the Continent, and my great-grandmother was never seen in anything but the stiffest silk ... Duty free, of course! So you really can’t expect me to behave in a cut and dried manner like other men. I’ve inherited a spirit of rebellion!”

  Rose picked up a newspaper that had found its way into the room and was lying on the table, and her eyes grew rounder and more concerned than ever as she read the short paragraph on the front page.

  “Jilted bride packs up and leaves for the Continent” ran the headline, and below it was the information that Miss Carol-Ann Vaizey was accompanied by her mother when she left London Airport. Her mother and a large quantity of baggage, which seemed to indicate that she intended to remain away for some time.

  There is as yet no information concerning the whereabouts of Mr. Richard Guy Denzil Wakeford, the missing bridegroom, the paragraph concluded.

  Rose folded the newspaper as if it was in itself an offence to her, and put it back on the table. There was no disguising the revulsion in her face.

  “Bewes obviously thought I might be interested,” Guy remarked, lighting himself a cigarette. “It was he who brought the paper in here.”

  Rose turned away.

  “I don’t want to discuss it,” she said. “That is, I’ll only discuss it if you’re prepared to listen to advice even at this late stage.”

  Guy watched a cloud of smoke rise into the air between them.

  “I’ll listen to your advice - and possibly act upon it! - in due course, little one,” he promised. “But this morning I’m feeling so much more like a human being than I did this time yesterday that I don’t want to talk about anything unpleasant, and certainly not to be required to do anything unpleasant! So will you behave for a short while as if we really are planning to work here, you and I ... And the whole thing is completely above board and not likely to give offence to anyone? Will you do that, Rose?” moving nearer to her.

  She made a helpless gesture with her hands.

  “I don’t know why I give in to you, but ... I know you’ve been feeling rather dreadful, and perhaps that’s the reason.” But the uneasiness in her eyes remained as she lifted them to his face. “You are feeling much better, aren’t you?”

  “Much better, Rose,” he assured her, smiling. “Almost as good as new again, and perhaps just a bit perplexed myself - but I’m not letting it worry me! Instead, I’m going to offer you a drink. There’s quite a collection of bottles in this cupboard,” and he went to an oak corner cupboard and opened it. “I know you haven’t a favourite tipple - you’re not the type! - but I can offer you a choice of gin, sherry, whisky, brandy...”

  And then he quietly mixed her something quite innocuous and brought it to her.

  “Happy days, Rose!” he said, lightly touching her glass with his own. “And ... thank you!”

  Rose felt as if something inside her leapt with pleasure - the sort of pleasure the despoiler of an orchard might feel if his confederate on the other side of the wall let him know that they were getting away with the bulk of the prize crop. And she also felt a strange tingling along al
l her veins, that had nothing to do with guilt or justification, partial quietening of an uneasy conscience, or anything at all in connection with something she had done. It was entirely to do with the strange, arresting darkness in a man’s blue eyes, and the almost feminine length of the eyelashes that fringed them.

  That and the softness round his mouth...

  When Mrs. Bewes returned she had to rush and get lunch, but in the middle of serving it - and as the dining room was somewhat of a neglected barrack they had it on a corner of the vast library table - she told Rose that the various things she had purchased for her were all upstairs on her bed, and a few others would be delivered the following day.

  “I couldn’t wait because I had to catch the bus,” she explained. “But I hope you’ll be satisfied with what I’ve bought.”

  Rose’s eyebrows ascended.

  “But I only wanted a very few things,” she said. “There was nothing that could justify being sent.”

  And then she saw the odd glance exchanged by caretaker and master. Wakeford smiled at the girl.

  “I gave you no time to bring anything away with you, Rose,” he reminded her. “And as a small recompense for all the inconvenience I’ve caused you I hope you’ll approve of Mrs. Bewes’ shopping.”

  Rose didn’t wait to finish her coffee, but flew upstairs to her room. On her bed was a large dress-box, and stacked neatly beside it were several paper parcels. She ripped open the lid of the dress-box, and out of several layers of tissue paper she lifted a slim-fitting dark blue dress with white collar and cuffs. It was the sort of dress she might have worn to the office, but it was of far better material than she could have afforded herself - a heavy tie silk. Also in the box was a fine white twin-set, and a gay little blouse she could wear with her suit.

  In one of the paper parcels she discovered a dressing-gown, and another contained slippers and neat house shoes. When the brown paper was removed from another cardboard box a pile of nylon underwear frothed forth, and one of the prettiest nightdresses she had ever seen lay like a bluish-pink cloud on her bed.

  There was a generous supply of sheer tights - for a country town the results of Mrs. Bewes’ hectic morning were excellent! - handkerchiefs, face tissues, even head-squares; and there was a large parcel of toilet requisites that had been selected from some of the more highly priced on the market.

  Rose flew downstairs again, and the two who were waiting for her in the library could see from her face that she was consumed by a mixture of astonishment and vexation.

  “Mrs. Bewes!” she got out. “What on earth possessed you to buy all those things?”

  “Don’t you like them?” Mrs. Bewes asked, almost complacently. “The various young ladies in the shops assured me they were of good quality, and if there’s any trouble about the fit they’ll change them, of course.”

  “It’s not that.” Such obtuseness annoyed Rose still further. “I can’t afford a new wardrobe just now, and...” And then she saw the way Guy Wakeford was smiling quietly as he lighted himself yet another cigarette. No wonder, she thought disconnectedly, the tips of his fingers were nicotine-stained! “Mr. Wakeford, I said that I couldn’t allow you to pay for anything for me!”

  Mrs. Bewes stepped forward. In her hands was a damask tablecloth that she had just folded carefully.

  “Listen to me, Miss Arden,” she said quietly. “Mr. Guy needed someone to help him, and you were the one he picked on. Whether he deserved help or not is neither here nor there ... But you could have told him you didn’t want to be mixed up in his affairs. You could have sent him about his business. But you didn’t.”

  “Quite honestly, Bewsie, I didn’t give her a chance to do either of those things,” Guy put in, his eyes glinting with humour. “I even threatened her with a revolver!” Mrs. Bewes ignored him.

  “Mr. Guy needed your help, and you gave it,” she repeated. “Now, through no fault of your own, you need help from him, so please accept it with a good grace. Money doesn’t mean a thing to him, or any member of his family, so it’s foolish to offer to pay for a few clothes that you badly need.”

  “Then...” And Rose looked at her very earnestly. “You do believe that I ... that until a few days ago I’d never seen Mr. Wakeford?”

  “Of course I believe it,” the caretaker answered. “Whatever I may have thought about you at first, when I was taken a bit by surprise, I now realize that you’re not Mr. Guy’s type.”

  “Thank you, Bewsie,” the master of the house murmured, rather drily, behind her straight back. “Thank you on behalf of Miss Arden, and not myself! From the tone of your voice she wouldn’t want to be associated with my ‘type’.”

  Mrs. Bewes explained patiently.

  “Miss Arden is a young woman who earns her living. Who has to earn it!”

  “And I don’t rob the hen-houses! In other words, I confine my attentions to quarters where the lady can hit back - if she wants to! All right, Bewsie, have it your own way,” somewhat wearily. “But persuade Miss Arden not to make a fuss about a few clothes. After all, she can throw them in the sea before she leaves here.”

  “Which would be a very wicked thing to do,” Mrs. Bewes declared, as she moved towards the door. “I wasted a good deal of time over choosing them, and the young ladies in the shops assured me...”

  “Yes, yes,” Wakeford said, and waved her impatiently outside the room. Then he turned strained eyes on Rose, who was regarding him uncertainly. “Rose, I’ve made up my mind about something,” he announced jerkily. “A few minutes ago I was complacently looking forward to a few days of quite unusual peace, and - well, shall we just call it peace? But now I know I haven’t earned an interlude of that sort, and it’s no use pretending any longer that I’m mentally deranged. If only that taxi door had been a trifle harder!... Rose, would you prefer to use the telephone, or shall we concoct a message?”

  As Rose simply gazed at him he drew a telephone pad towards him and wrote the message down.

  “Mr. Richard Wakeford recovering from loss of memory. Involved in accident. Please notify Miss Vaizey at once. Mr. Wakeford being looked after at Tregony’s Choice, Tregony, Cornwall. Much improved.”

  “Tregony’s Choice,” Guy murmured, as he signed the telegram “Bewes”. “But Tregony wouldn’t have needed any choice!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Two days later they were still awaiting for an acknowledgement of the telegram.

  Immediately after the despatch of the wire Rose had been certain that a reply would be immediate, but when hour after hour went by, and they were still waiting for some sign that interest in Richard Guy Denzil Wakeford was alive and active, incredulity began to well over her. Even though it was known that Carol-Ann had left the country, and was probably endeavouring to escape publicity in some more obscure hotel than she would normally go to, the liaison between her home and her hideout would not have collapsed entirely, and the telegram would have been forwarded to her.

  It looked as if the shock of the whole affair had been too great for her, or she could not forgive the victim of an accident that had something fantastic about it.

  She would hardly be likely to look upon it as a “contrived” accident, for not many men get as far as wedding rehearsal, and then fail to turn up for the actual ceremony. Not men of the type of Richard Guy Denzil Wakeford, anyway!

  And unless she had some reason to believe that he would have got out of it if he could - Rose found herself studying Wakeford curiously while they spent the long hours of waiting together, having meals together, sitting in the library together, walking in the neglected garden in the autumn sunshine, finding their way down to the shore. She tried to get a clear picture in her mind of these two who had so nearly married, and their association with one another. She tried to picture Guy as a persuasive lover - even if he had never been an ardent lover! - taking an interest in the wedding preparations, selecting the engagement ring, getting as close to the married state as the purchase of a wedding ring usually me
ans.

  At some time or other he must have taken some sort of interest in the arrangements for his future - his and Carol-Ann’s. He must have displayed a certain quiescence, appeared mildly if not wildly gratified by the thought of a shared future with such a lovely young woman.

  For all her photographs revealed the fact that she was lovely!... Lovelier than that older, less predictable type whose photograph adorned the dressing-table in the bedroom now occupied by the defaulting bridegroom. She had golden hair rather like Rose’s own, save that it was more elaborately styled, and her eyes had a childlike look of innocence that was rather appealing. They could be big and blue, or trusting and grey. Whatever went on behind them, they were the windows of a slightly childlike mind, and she must have had the entire sympathy of all the people who turned out for the wedding.

  If it had been that dark-eyed, mysterious lesser beauty whose photograph was upstairs it was possible she would not have commanded so much sympathy. The men might have failed to understand why she was left standing at the altar; but the women - quite a few of them! - might have known a sneaking satisfaction.

  For she was that kind of woman. Not a woman’s woman, but a man’s woman!

  And there were moments when Rose, trying to solve this insoluble problem, and recollecting the photograph upstairs, wished it had been the woman upstairs whom Guy had failed badly. For the very provocation of her look - a sort of sloe-eyed Medusa look, that could prove fatal - had incensed her from the moment she caught sight of the face in the silver frame.