The Other Linding Girl

by Mary Burchell

  “She’ll get over it after awhile,” dedared Sir Everard irritably.

  “At the moment she is very much upset about it,” returned Rachel firmly, “She was crying when I went to say good-night to her, and I found that it was because she couldn’t understand her uncle’s non-appearance. I don’t think she is a child who cries easily, and I felt you should know about it” “Well—of course,” agreed Sir Everard “Crying, was she?” He frowned, for he loved his Paula when he remembered her existence. “But are you sure it was about Nigel? Wasn’t it because she misses her mother?”

  “No” Rachel resolutely disposed of this explanation which would so obviously have been much more acceptable to her uncle. “I thought that too, at first, But she isn’t at all worried about Hester—”

  “Then she should be,” interrupted Sir Everard indignantly. “What’s the matter with the child? Has she any natural feelings?”

  “That’s nothing to do with it," Rachel pointed out. “We all went to the greatest trouble to see that she should not be worried. It seems we succeeded, What you—what we have not guarded against is the very natural distress and anxiety over her uncle’s prolonged absence.”

  “Really, Rachel, you’re an extraordinarily obstinate girl!” declared her unde, with something less than his usually urbane air. “You’re just like your father. Robert never could let a point go until he’d worried it thin What do you expect me to do about Nigel? Invite him back into my house when I know he halfkilled my wife?”

  Only by biting her lip and silently counting ten and thrusting the image of the guilty Keith Elman right out of her mind, did Rachel control herself. She took a deep breath and then said, in her most pacific tone,

  “Uncle, I do understand your anger and distress. But do think—Nigel also loves Hester. She’s his sister. And, however much you may think he is to blame, the whole thing was an accident.”

  She quite expected a fresh outburst at this. But, to her surprise, her uncle was silent for several seconds. Then he sighed and said heavily,

  “It’s queer you should say this just now. I’ve just come from my poor Hester, and that’s what she kept on saying. ‘It was an accident’ And, ‘I won’t have Nigel blamed. ’”

  “She said—that?” Rachel felt a momentary quiver of alarm, as she wondered what else Hester might have said, on hearing that her brother was being blamed. But then she recalled that Oliver Mayforth had been seeing her daily. He would undoubtedly have seen to it that, as soon as she was in a state to hear it, a full explanation had been given to her.

  “She is so generous—so forgiving,” said poor Sir Everard, obviously believing from the bottom of his heart that Hester was. And Rachel saw no reason to query this estimate of her young aunt’s character. Instead, she seized adroitly on the tribute and said earnestly,

  “Then, Uncle, is it really for us—for you—to be less generous? Anyway, what is to be the practical outcome of all this? You couldn’t forbid Nigel your house indefinitely unless Hester agreed. You wouldn’t want to hurt her like that. And wouldn’t it be better for you to give way gracefully now, instead of being urged to it later by Hester?”

  She realised immediately that he disliked the expression “give way”. On the other hand, “gracefully” had a pleasing implication about it. There was quite a long silence once more. Then he repeated irritably, ‘You’re just like your father!” But he added, “Well, what do you want me to do? I can’t telephone cordially or apologetically to him. And I’m certainly not going to-write to him—”

  “Perhaps I could phone to him,” suggested Rachel, amazed at the feeling of elation which suddenly came over her. “It might come more—more easily from me. I could explain that Paula was missing him, and that you felt—”

  “Don’t let him think he’s welcome,” interrupted her uncle categorically. “Just tolerated.”

  “ I’ll do my best to—to give the right impression,” Rachel promised, “Shall I—would it be a good idea if I telephoned now?”

  “As good a time as any for an unwelcome event” replied her uncle in a tone as near to ungracious as Rachel had ever heard from him.

  She laughed. Then, remembering that he had not a great sense of humour, she dropped a kiss on his cheek as she passed his chair and said,

  “Dear Uncle—I’m sure Hester will be very pleased.”

  “I hope so,” replied Sir Everard drily. But he looked after his niece with a faint smile as she went out of the room.

  Rachel kept on telling herself that it was for Paula that she was so glad—and for Hester—and for the ends of pure justice. But when she heard Nigel

  Seton’s voice answer her on the tdephone, she knew that she was glad for herself, and anyone and anything else came a long way afterwards.

  “Why, Rachel.” He sounded both pleased and surprised. “I’ve got some news for you.”

  “You have? Well, I’ve got some news for you too.” She laughed. “Who begins?”

  “You do. You made the call.”

  So she explained then, very carefully and fairly, about Paula’s distress at not seeing him, and Hester’s insistence that he should not be blamed, and finally her uncle’s decision that he should be made free of the house again.

  A long silence followed. Then he asked, in an odd sort of tone,

  “Who was the active agent in all this?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Who got busy, and saw that Sir Everard was made to take full note of Paula’s anxiety and Hester’s attitude, and generally persuaded him to this somewhat unexpected reaction?”

  “Well, I suppose I did. I was worried about Paula, and the whole situation seemed silly—and sad, and— anyway” she told him lightly, “perhaps I missed you too.”

  “ like to think so, Rachel.” He sounded perfectly serious, but one could not tell, of course, without seeing those laughing eyes. “Thank you. You’re a dear girl.”

  “That’s all right.” She tried not to sound genuinely moved. ‘Now tell me your news.”

  “My news? Oh, it’s not as sensational as yours. Though I suppose it might become so. I’m being permitted to entertain Miss McGrath tomorrow evening, and put my case to her. Wish me luck, Rachel.”

  “Oh, I do—from the bottom, of my heart!” Rachel told him. “I hope the old lady proves to be putty in your hands—”

  “Rachel” said Sir Everard’s voice behind her, “I did say there was no need to overdo the welcome. Surely you’ve had time to make the situation clear by now?”

  “Oh; yes—Yes, indeed, Uncle.” Rachel spoke with some confusion And then, as her uncle went on standing there, she added hastily into the telephone, “Well, that’s quite clear, then. I must go now, Nigel. Good-night.” She though he returned her good-night in an amused tone, and she supposed he must have found the interruption funny. Anyway, none of that mattered now. He would be coming to the house again as a regular visitor.

  She could tell Paula as much tomorrow. And the thought made her so happy that even her uncle’s somewhat admonishing air, as he said good-night, could not quench her spirits.

  The next morning, she gave Oliver Mayforth an expurgated account of what had happened, and he seemed unusually amused.

  “You’re really very clever,” he declared with a laugh, “and you have a very nice talent for mimicry.”

  “For mimicry?” Rachel was rather shocked.

  “Certainly. Didn’t you realise that you reproduced your uncle’s voice and characteristic wording almost exactly?”

  “Well, I don’t know that I meant to do that, quite. I just told you because I—I thought you’d better let Hester know. So that she won’t go on worrying about her brother.”

  “I’ll tell her, of course,” the assistant surgeon promised. “But I don’t think she was doing much worrying on Seton’s account. She was quite confident of being able to have things to suit herself, as soon as she returned home. Still, this was a much better way. I do congratulate you.”

&
nbsp; ‘Thanks,” Rachel smiled. “I felt almost like a celebration, myself.”

  “Then let us have one!” Oliver Mayforth said unexpectedly. “Come out with me tonight, Rachel Let’s dine and do a theatre.”

  “With the idea of meeting your ex-fiance and discomfiting her once more?” enquired Rachel, with a touch of irony, for the thought of that newspaper photograph still rankled.

  “Meeting—? No, certainly not!” The assistant surgeon actually coloured slightly. “For the sheer pleasure of your company and— Oh, I can’t make speeches like Sir Everard! Do come, Rachel.”

  There was no gainsaying that. And anyway, the idea of a dinner and theatre was extraordinarily pleasant, after the quiet evenings which had been inevitable in her uncle’s house of late. So Rachel agreed, with real pleasure —and had the added satisfaction of earning her uncle’s approbation in the process.

  “I’m delighted,” he declared, when she told him she was going out with his assistant. “Simply delighted. He is a man in a thousand. Nay—” for Sir Everard actually did use that remarkable monosyllable occasionally—“in a million. He has taken a bad knock recently, poor fellow, and nothing would please me better than that—”

  “Well, Uncle dear,” interrupted Rachel firmly, before he could develop his theme to embarrassing proportions, “I’m glad you’re pleased. I must run up

  and get dressed now.”

  They dined at a quiet and extremely attractive place, where the food and wine were excellent and the service impeccable. To her surprise, she found it not at all difficult to make conversation with him. For, away from his work, he was a much more relaxed and lively person. And unquestionably the loss of his Thea was beginning to weigh less heavily upon him.

  He asked Rachel quite a lot about her home, and she was only too happy to tell him about the family and to relive, with enjoyable nostalgia, the days which were already beginning to seem a very different life. She had an amusing way of describing things and people, and she made him laugh a good deal over Hazel’s pranks and Elizabeth’s conquests.

  “It isn’t that Elizabeth is a flirt or at all heartless,” she explained. “She just can’t help being beautiful. And when she opens her great blue eyes and looks soulful, strong men go weak at the knees. They’re not to know that she’s really wondering what we should have for lunch on Sunday or if Christine remembered to check the laundry before putting it away.”

  “She sounds irresistible,” Oliver Mayforth laughed.

  “Oh she is. They both are-and I miss them a lot,” Rachel sighed involuntarily. “But it was better I should go.”

  With remarkable tact, he refrained from asking why it was better that she should have gone, and presently they went on to the theatre.

  Since Oliver Mayforth was efficient in this, as in most things, it turned out that he had tickets for the most popular show in town. And, as they settled into their excellent stalls, Rachel could not help reflecting that an evening with her uncle’s assistant surgeon was something of an event.

  The audience was an elegant one, and Rachel looked round with interest, identifying with some pleasure a minor film star and a well-known author. She was just about to point them out to her companion when, looking up, she saw that two people were coming into the stage box. The woman was unusually good-looking, and wearing furs to make one gasp.

  But it was not the sight of her furs which made Rachel catch her breath. It was the sight of her companion. For the man who followed her into the box was Nigel. ‘Why, there’s Nigel!” she exclaimed, before she could stop herself, “In the stage box.”

  Her companion glanced upwards.

  “Hm—yes. He’s certainly having a night out.” Oliver Mayforth sounded amused.

  “But I don’t understand—” In her surprise, and her odd dismay, Rachel could not keep her thoughts to herself, “He was going to take out someone quite different tonight. An old lady he was hoping to interest in his research work. Dull, but rich and very charitable. A Miss McGrath.”

  “Dull but charitable? Fiona McGrath?” Oliver Mayforth laughed. “Never let it be said! That is Fiona McGrath, and though she may be charitable—in fact, I believe I’ve heard she and her elder brother are—no one has ever called her dull. She’s a beauty, as you see, immensely wealthy, and probably the best catch in London. Where did you get the idea that she was dull?”

  “I don’t know,” said Rachel. And she sat there staring at the rich and beautiful Miss McGrath, while dismay seemed to settle upon her—chill, complete and inexplicable.

  CHAPTER IV

  Afterwards, Rachel had some difficulty in remembering the first act of that play she saw with Oliver Mayforth. Others seemed to be finding it very amusing, but she was too busy thinking about Nigel—and the rich, attractive Fiona McGrath. And, however compelling the scene on the stage might be, what was happening in the stage box was, to her, of much greater interest.

  Nigel himself was slightly in shadow, so that it was difficult to see his expression. But his companion was clearly visible in the light from the stage. Her furs were carelessly pushed back now, to display a really beautiful line of neck and shoulder. And—though it is true that no feminine charms have ever looked the worse for being framed in mink—she was, on her own merits, a lovely and striking figure.

  Not in her first youth perhaps, Rachel thought, but all the more poised and elegant for that. The kind of woman who, in any gathering, would inevitably excite comment and interest.

  In the first interval Oliver Mayforth suggested they should go out. And, as they rose to do so, Nigel suddenly noticed them, said something to his companion, and made a sign for them to come up.

  “I think we're being bidden to the presence,” observed the assistant surgeon drily. “Would you care to go? Miss McGrath is quite a personality to meet.”

  “Oh, do you think—?” Divided between reluctance and eagerness, Rachel hesitated. Then, afraid she must be appearing silly and awkward, she changed her tone and said, with more resolution, “Well, yes, it would be interesting.”

  So they went upstairs to the box. And, as Rachel stepped into the confined space, she was immediately aware that Fiona McGrath’s claim to attention rested as much on personality as looks. It emanated from her, with a sense of power quite impossible to define.

  She gave Rachel her hand when they were introduced, but with a touch of graciousness which assigned the younger girl quite unmistakably to a minor role. There was nothing either spiteful or snobbish about it, The simple fact was that she was accustomed to the centre of the picture, and she assumed it and held it, by right, against all comers.

  “You are Sir Everard Linding’s niece, I hear,” was what she said But the tone, though agreeable, immediately and subtly cut Rachel down to the size of someone’s little niece from the country.

  “Yes,” agreed Rachel, far more shyly than she had intended. “I’m working for him while his secretary is ill.”

  “How clever of you,” said Miss McGrath, and turned to the two men.

  It would always be that way, Rachel knew instinctively. For Fiona McGrath was what is known as a man’s woman. And, although she was much too well-mannered to ignore anyone deliberately, there was somehow very little opportunity for Rachel to take part in the ensuing conversation.

  She had hoped so much for at least a word with Nigel on her own, but there was no question of this. Whether by accident or design Rachel was not sure. And presently the bell rang and she and Oliver Mayforth took their leave, Rachel feeling most curiously frustrated and out of humour with herself.

  However, determined not to appear either critical or dejected (though she felt both), she managed to say quite brightly, on the way down,

  “She’s very good-looking and—impressive, isn’t she?”

  “M-yes. But one can’t sit on a drawing-room chair and eat caviare all one’s life,” was the unexpectedly humorous retort

  At which Rachel laughed and—not very generously, she feared—felt her h
eart warm to Oliver Mayforth.

  There was no further opportunity of speaking to Nigel that evening. But the next afternoon—presumably with Paula in mind—he arrived at the Harley Street house.

  As it happened, Paula was staying late at school and, as Sir Everard was out, Rachel was working industriously alone in the study, when he walked in on her unannounced.

  “Hello,” he said. “Are you the only one here to welcome back the black sheep?”

  “Oh, Nigel!” She stopped work and smiled at him, with more obvious pleasure than she knew. “I didn’t hear you come in. Sit down. Paula stayed late at school, but she shouldn’t be long.”

  He sat down—in what was really Sir Everard’s chair, stretched out his long legs in front of him, and enquired how she had enjoyed the play the previous evening. “Very much,” Rachel assured him. “And you?”

  “Well enough—and Fiona found it delightful, which was more important.”

  “Oh, you mean that—” Rachel sought a tactful way of putting it—“you mean that the evening was a successful one, from your point of view?”

  “It was a good start. One can’t hurry these things.” And then, unexpectedly, he asked, “What did you think of her?”

  “Of Miss McGrath?” She was slightly put out at being called on for a personal opinion. “Well, having got over the surprise of finding she was not an old lady—”

  “Yes, where did you get that idea?” He began to laugh.

  “I don’t know. Except that you spoke of the brother as though he were elderly. And I suppose one doesn’t think of charitable patrons as being youthful. Anyway, when I spoke of her that way on the telephone, you didn’t correct me.”

  ‘You didn’t give me time. You rang off.”

  “That’s true. I remember now—Uncle interrupted me and I had to finish the conversation quickly.”

  ‘‘Well, now you have seen her, tell me what you think of her.”