by Anne Hampson
A troubled sigh escaped her; she quivered, ‘Good night, Andrew,’ and walked dejectedly away towards the stairs. He hadn’t said a word about meeting her at the pool in the morning. She thought with sudden panic that perhaps he didn’t love her, after all; perhaps he didn’t want her any more—
‘Muriel!’ Her name seemed to escape against his will; she turned as he strode towards her, and he noticed the tears in her eyes as she lifted her face to his.
‘Andrew...’ she whispered convulsively, and then she was in his arms, her head against his breast, her hand clutching the lapel of his coat as though she would never let him go. ‘Were you—were you vexed with me?’ Sophisticated women preserved their decorum in any situation, she thought, aware that a tear had fallen on to the front of Andrew’s shirt, but she didn’t want to be sophisticated any more; she just wanted to be natural, to be loved until her immaculate hair became tumbled and her dress disarranged. She raised her head and saw through the mist blurring her vision that Andrew’s dark eyes held a quality of remorse.
‘Muriel, my little love...’ The moonlight cast into high relief the beauty and the delicacy of her face. Andrew bent to kiss her quivering lips, with infinite tenderness at first, but as the trembling of her body fanned his desire to a flame his mouth was as ruthless as the arms that held her. ‘I want you,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘You’re a witch, Muriel, an enchantress.’
Slowly sanity returned; his lips were gentle again as they caressed her hair.
‘Did I hurt you, sweetheart?’
‘Terribly.’ But her eyes were radiant and laughing as they look up into his. ‘I loved it, though.’
Andrew laughed softly, kissed her again and then, with mock severity, he told her it was high time she thought of sleep.
‘I could stay here all night,’ she said, but trotted meekly beside him as he took her hand and made for the stairs. Outside her cabin they paused and Muriel asked again if he were vexed about something.
‘No, my dearest, I wasn’t.’ He smiled, so tenderly, and after touching her forehead with his lips he said softly, ‘Good night, darling, and sleep well. I’ll see you at the pool in the morning.’
The final port of call was Lisbon. After a sightseeing tour in the afternoon, they returned to the ship for dinner and then left again for the casino at Estoril. Bill and Kathleen were attracted to the gaming tables, but Andrew, to Muriel’s profound relief, said he preferred to dance.
He was very quiet for most of the time, and Muriel was quite content with her own happy thoughts. The future was just one long and blissful walk through Paradise, with new delights on which she would not allow her mind to dwell. It struck her that Andrew had talked very little about his home, but then there had been so many other things to talk about. And, apart from those wonderful moments on deck after the dancing had finished at midnight, they had not had much time alone together.
Andrew had no father; he lived with his mother and sister in a Georgian mansion set high on a hill overlooking a large forest. His mother bred dogs and goats, very special goats which won prizes at all the shows.
That was all she knew about Andrew’s family, though he had once mentioned a married sister.
‘A penny for them.’ Muriel leant away from him and looked up. Not one word had he spoken to her all through the dance. ‘You look so serious.’
‘Yes?’ Andrew led her off the floor as the music stopped. ‘Do you want something to drink?’ he asked as they sat down. Muriel shook her head.
‘Don’t you want to sell them?’ she said teasingly.
‘I wasn’t thinking of anything important, Muriel.’ He was more than a little bored, and wondered why. He certainly wasn’t bored with Muriel; at the thought a rueful light entered his eyes. Where was he heading? What was this strange magnetism she possessed for him?—this all-compelling charm he had found lacking in every woman he had ever met? He was treading on dangerous ground; he thought of something Bill had jokingly said about being careful not to get ‘caught’.
Well, he would never be caught by a woman of this type. Thank goodness there were only two more days ... His thoughts drifted in circles, he always found himself back to the question, ‘Where was he heading?’
It was two o’clock in the morning before they returned to the ship; Andrew was still quiet and thoughtful and a dumb little ache began to tug at Muriel’s heart when, reaching her cabin, he took hold of her hand and raised it to his lips.
‘What is it, my dear?’ he said gently.
‘Nothing. Nothing’s the matter now.’ How easily he sensed her little fears and worries; how very close they were, how perfectly suited to each other mentally as well as physically. Her heart swelled with love for him and with an impetuous movement she put her arms round his neck and, standing on her toes, stretched up to kiss him on the lips; for an astonished moment he did not respond, then his arms went round her and his mouth pressed hard on hers.
‘I really must let you go,’ he said, ten minutes later. ‘What would your aunt say if she knew you were out here with me at this time of the morning?’
‘She’d be terribly shocked, I’m afraid. Good night, dearest Andrew—oh, yes, I know, but good night sounds so much more romantic.’
‘Then good night,’ he said softly, and turned away to his own cabin where he lay awake for the rest of the night.
Only two more days. Muriel, in spite of the knowledge that the future held far more happiness than she had ever known, sighed for the lovely days that had gone. She had been with Andrew the whole time, a time of dreamlike unreality in which her love, allowed to take its own ecstatic course, had so completely overshadowed her original design as to render it almost imaginary. Not that the thoughts of it didn’t produce a blush of shame whenever she recalled it, but it seemed so vague and unimportant that she very seldom did recall it.
There had been times when Andrew had hurt her by some cynical glance or sarcastic remark, but it was all forgotten when he made love to her at night. There had also been many times when, forgetful of all but her own love for him, glimpses of her real self had peeped out. Andrew had frowned, then, and she had immediately reverted to her worldly manner.
Muriel heaved a little sigh of regret as she got into bed. If only Andrew had been different from other men; if only he hadn’t wanted glamour. But it was very plain that he did want it. Poise and elegance, glamour and sophistication; he never frowned at those, they were what he required in his wife, therefore he should have them. She would do anything, she told herself with firm resolve, anything to keep his love and make him happy.
On the last evening there was a special dance, but Andrew, who had been oddly restless and irritable all day, suggested they go on deck. Everything was calm and they stood by the rail in silence, Andrew’s arm about her waist, his head bent to touch hers. This was sheer heaven, she thought rapturously as her lips met his in eager response. Andrew had brought her here to discuss their future, to arrange their next meeting. How lucky that they lived within reasonable distance of each other ... and she suddenly felt very sorry for Bill and Kathleen whom she had seen exchanging addresses.
‘Still happy, Muriel?’ he asked, his cool breath stirring her hair.
‘You know I am—because it’s all due to you.’ She laughed softly and leant away from him, looking at him with a sort of humble gratitude in her lovely eyes. ‘I haven’t told you yet that I love you—I’ve been thinking there must be lots and lots of eloquent ways of saying it, but I can’t think of one.’ She was not in the least embarrassed; her colour did not rise or her voice falter as she went on, simply, ‘I love you, Andrew. I shall love you for ever.’ He had never used the word love, but she attached no importance to that omission. Between them, words did not matter, she thought, snuggling contentedly against him. She just knew that he loved her.
Andrew gave a strange little laugh and kissed her upturned face. But there was an almost brutal roughness in that kiss, it lacked respect, and Muriel recoiled from
him, as stupefied as if he had insulted her. Her big eyes stared at him in bewilderment, and her lips trembled in sudden fear and doubt.
‘Andrew, I didn’t like that,’ she whispered, half in apology, half in reproach.
Andrew’s lip curled slightly; he had to hand it to her, she was clever—but not quite clever enough to realize that neither her wits nor her play-acting were a match for his.
‘I’m sorry; I thought you liked my kisses.’
She looked up at him like an unhappy child, imploring him to say something that would sweep away her terrible fear and bewilderment. He remained silent, his eyes expressionless, but an unmistakable touch of mockery about his lips.
‘You—you’ve kissed me like that once before,’ she said tremulously, ‘and I didn’t like it then.’
Another silence followed before Andrew took her gently to him and kissed her again.
‘Is that better?’ His eyes were alight with amusement and she could find no words with which to answer him. For the first time since they had met the silence between them became oppressive. Andrew stirred impatiently and suggested a stroll. Mutely she walked beside him.
‘Perhaps we’d better go and dance, after all,’ he said irritably at last.
‘Very well.’
At midnight they came on deck again; Andrew seemed a million miles away—yet he held her hand. He led her to the rail and as she cast him a hesitant sideways glance she noticed the little white lines at the corners of his mouth, the strange tension of his lips, compressed as though in stern self-mastery.
‘This is goodbye, Muriel,’ he said lightly. ‘Shall we make it as brief as possible?’
‘Goodbye...’ She had known it all the evening—that kiss had told her plainly that he felt neither love nor respect for her—and yet she stared at him unbelievingly. ‘You don’t mean that,’ she cried in anguish and desperation. ‘You don’t, Andrew—please say you’re—you’re only joking! You can’t mean that you never want to see me again.’ Her tone had dropped to a pleading whisper, bringing a quick frown to his brow and the return of all his doubts and uneasiness. But after a moment he shrugged his shoulders lightly.
‘These shipboard flirtations are most enjoyable while they last, my dear, but they’re not to be taken seriously; you must have known that?’
‘Flirtation?’ All her worldly poise had left her and a terrible sob choked the words. ‘Is that all it meant to you?’ This wasn’t really happening, she thought wildly, Andrew couldn’t want this to be the end. They were meant for each other, surely he could see that. She opened her mouth to tell him, but the words died on her lips. What to her had been a sweet and lovely thing had been to him ... a mere flirtation. Yes, this was the end; Andrew never wanted to see her again.
‘Don’t let’s spoil everything by stupid pretence.’ His words broke pitilessly into her thoughts. ‘We’ve both enjoyed ourselves; let’s call it a day and part friends.’ Muriel bent her head as though she had been struck; her hands dropped to her sides as every emotion left her. Through the obscure mist of her brain only one fact emerged: Andrew was nothing more than a heartless flirt, a man who amused himself by making love to unsuspecting women and then trampling on their love with callous indifference. He really wasn’t worth a second thought—
Unconsciously she clasped her hands and held them tightly against her breast, against the dull throbbing pain that was in her heart, and as she looked up she saw that Andrew’s eyes were fixed upon them with a strange and brooding expression. But then his smile appeared, flippant and mocking, sending a spasm of pain through her whole body. Her lovely eyes drooped again, but after a little while she regained command of herself and was able to say, with a calmness that amazed her,
‘Yes, you’re right; we have both enjoyed ourselves,’ and she managed to laugh, too, a flippant laugh which matched his own mood to perfection. ‘You said we’d make our parting brief, so I’ll just say—goodbye.’ And without giving him time to utter another word she was gone.
Andrew stood quite still, watching her until she had passed out of sight, then, turning, he leant against the rail, conscious of a state of restlessness upon which he did not want to dwell, and a sense of guilt he could not understand.
One glance had told him what she was; he’d only given her a well-deserved lesson. Why, then, this feeling of guilt? What had happened to the triumph, the amusement he was to have derived from this final parting? His triumph appeared to have become inexpressibly bitter, his amusement replaced by the dreary conviction that Muriel’s stricken face would haunt him for the rest of his days.
She had stood beside him so quietly, her great eyes brimming with suppressed tears, her hands clasped tightly together as though in unconscious prayer. Her poise and her worldliness had been stripped from her, she had seemed like a child, defenceless and unspeakably hurt.
What nonsense! Andrew shook himself impatiently. She was a woman, a woman who had been playing for high stakes—and lost. That was the only reason for that stricken look, for the fact that she was almost in tears.
At last he turned away; he was glad the cruise was over. It would be a long while before he was persuaded to take another. Bill could find someone else next year, unless... A faint smile touched his lips; Bill seemed to be the one in danger of being caught. But she was a nice girl, Kathleen, he liked her very much.
The ship docked at nine o’clock the next morning. As Bill had taken the earlier breakfast with Kathleen, Andrew had his alone. Muriel, he noticed, was absent, and when he had finished he went over to say goodbye to her aunt and the Worsleys.
‘Goodbye, Mr. Burke.’ Aunt Edith’s face was devoid of expression. ‘Perhaps we shall meet again some time.’
‘Perhaps.’ Andrew smiled courteously. ‘Is Muriel unwell?’
‘She has a headache.’
‘I’m—sorry.’ He met her level gaze for a moment, then his brows lifted in a gesture of arrogance. ‘I hope she’ll soon be better,’ he said, and turned to Mr. Worsley.
‘I wonder...’ said Aunt Edith to herself some time later as she caught sight of Andrew and Bill as they disembarked. ‘I wonder if he knew what the little minx was up to? He struck me from the first as a man with exceptional powers of observation.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The heart attack was as severe as it was sudden; it occurred one morning as Mr. Paterson was shaving in the bathroom, and only then did his family learn that he had been visiting the doctor for over twelve months.
Mrs. Paterson was superb in her role of grief-stricken widow; Dil’s only emotion was one of resentment that her father had left so little. To Muriel, it seemed that only Derek shared her deep sorrow—and even he, at times, was able to laugh as though nothing had happened.
One day, late in October, Muriel, after trudging for miles in the mist and drizzle, arrived home tired and dispirited to find her mother out and her sister reading by the fire. There was no sign of a meal and an unfamiliar sharpness edged Muriel’s voice as she said, ‘Dil, I think you could at least have the tea ready.’
‘Oh, do you?’ snapped her sister. ‘You seem to forget I’m ill. You wouldn’t care a rap if I strained myself!’
‘There’s not much fear of that,’ Muriel retorted. ‘And as for being ill, having a baby’s the most natural thing in the world.’
‘Is it? You wait till you’re having one yourself, then you’ll not talk like that!’
Muriel winced and turned away.
‘I think you coddle yourself too much,’ she said, searching in the drawer for a tablecloth. ‘It doesn’t do you any good to be idle all day—’
‘Shut up! When you begin working yourself you can pass an opinion. But please don’t do so while my husband is helping to keep you!’
Muriel spun round, the angry colour fusing her face. ‘He is not! Mother is spending the money we had for the shop. How dare you say such a thing!’
‘Proud, eh?’ Dil said hatefully. ‘You’re right about Mother, she is spending th
e shop money, and more rapidly than you think. But not on housekeeping—on clothes, on rubbish. Whether you like it or not our contribution to this house is helping to keep you, and the sooner you face the fact the better. You’re not looking for work.’
‘Are you suggesting I’m walking the streets of Barston for amusement?’ Muriel demanded hotly.
‘If you really wanted work you’d take the job Fred’s pal offered you!’
Muriel hesitated, then went into the kitchen to prepare the tea. Dil was right, she ought to accept the job; the money was good, and sorely needed. ‘But I’d rather starve than go and work there,’ she told herself fiercely. ‘He’d be sure to think I was running after him.’
Her family knew nothing of what happened on the cruise; they just thought her plan had failed. Disgusted, they had told her she hadn’t gone the right way about it, then the matter had been dropped. Only to Christine had Muriel told the truth, naturally keeping Andrew’s name a secret. Christine, also disgusted at her failure, had said that falling in love herself was the very thing she should have guarded against. Muriel had not seen her cousin since, nor had she seen Aunt Edith, and the cruise and its lost chances were forgotten by everyone except Muriel. Never, for one conscious moment, was Andrew completely out of her thoughts. Even when, a month after her return, her father died, the memory of Andrew was with her all the time, adding to her unhappiness.
When the shop was sold Muriel had looked for work without success; then Fred had come home with the news that a pal of his could find her a job in the factory where he worked. His offer had seemed heaven-sent, until Fred mentioned the name of the firm. Muriel had instantly rejected it and her mother and sister, angry and astonished, had told her outright that she could not expect them to keep her; she must earn her own living, and without further delay. Muriel had held out, but her sister had never allowed the matter to drop and she mentioned it again at tea time.
