Even then, Rachel felt reluctant to commit herself. But to prevaricate further would have been silly, so she said, with great fairness but no enthusiasm, “She’s very lovely, of course. And—charming.”
“But-?”
“Does there have to be a ‘but’?”
“If you use that tone of voice—yes.”
Rachel fingered the sheaf of papers on her desk rather absently, and at last she said,
“I met her only, for a few minutes, so it isn’t very fair to make a judgment. But I think, she’s a woman to appeal to men rather than her own sex.”
“You mean—” he shrugged impatiently—“that most other women would be jealous of her.”
“Oh, no, I don’t! Women aren’t so easily jealous of each other as that,” retorted Rachel with spirit. “But I think her combination of gifts has always given her the centre of the picture, which means that any other girl must feel a good deal diminished in her presence. And that’s not very easy to take, Nigel, however beautiful one’s disposition may be,” she added with a smile. He laughed at that and, leaning forward with his arms on the other side of the desk, asked with genuine curiosity,
“Did you feel diminished in her presence?”
“I hardly felt that I shone,” Rachel confessed, with a touch of humour. “But then I wasn't the one who was called on to do so. It was you who had to make the good impression. Did you?”
“More than I dared to hope,” he admitted unexpectedly.
“Well, then—” her hand was suddenly still on the papers—“you should feel very satisfied.”
“Of course,” he agreed, but with a touch of restlessness not lost on her.
“And yet you don’t.” She looked up at him, “Why not?”
He was silent And she saw that a shut-in, almost sullen expression had replaced his usually gay and carefree look. She too was silent then, studying him with an attention she had never bestowed upon anyone else before. And suddenly it came to her that every line of that good- looking, faintly enigmatical face mattered to her—profoundly. It was not an entirely sudden discovery, but it was a deeply moving and strange one. And strangest of all was the feeling that, in that moment, she looked into him, instead of at him, and understood him as we usually understand only those we have known and loved all our lives. He had no need to tell her what was disturbing him so profoundly. She knew. And her tone was almost matter-of-fact as she said,
“It’s not an easy thing for you to say yourself, of course, but I suppose I can say it for you. She was interested in you rather than the work, wasn’t she?”
“She was,” he agreed, rather shortly.
“Well—” determinedly Rachel ignored the chill at her heart—“the one could lead on to the other very naturally. She might well finance your work just because she—likes you.”
“Did she strike you as a woman of half-measures?” he enquired almost roughly.
“No,” said Rachel slowly, “she didn’t. She struck me as a woman who knows exactly what she wants—and goes for it, no holds barred.”
“Very well,” he said deliberately. ‘You can work it out from there.”
She was quite still again. Then she passed the tip of her tongue over dry lips and asked,
“Could you really find out so much about her in one evening?”
“Yes,” was all he said. And then the sound of Paula’s eager voice downstairs warned Rachel that the conversation was almost at an end. But there was one more question she simply had to ask, and she voiced it without subtlety or forethought.
“Is the success of your work more important to you than anything else, Nigel?”
“More than anything else in the world.”
“You’re sure?” She had to press him on that point, even if, as it seemed to her, her voice was almost pleading.
“Quite sure ”he said harshly.
And then Paula came bounding into the room, to fling herself upon her uncle with cries of delight.
“Why, why have you been missing so long?” she wanted to know.
And immediately the ruthlessly determined man who had been talking such raw truths to Rachel was gone, and in his place was the gay, affectionate, teasing uncle. He laughingly parried her enquiries, kissed her, and finally allowed himself to be dragged off, to see something which she declared required his special attention.
Rachel was left alone, staring at her work, while she retraced the conversation which had just taken place, and its inevitableimplication.
“It isn’t as though he wants the money for himself,” she whispered, half defensively. “He needs it for his research—desperately. And she has it—all the money he could possibly require. He hasn’t even got to woo her— much. She likes him already, so completely and impulsively that she didn’t bother to hide the fact, even on that first evening. And she’s good-looking—and clever. And yet—and yet—” Abruptly, Rachel drew her typewriter towards her and began to work again, pausing only once, to. wipe away a couple of tears which, to her surprise, suddenly trickled down her cheeks.
The nest day, while she was working at the Nursing Home, word was brought to her that her aunt would like to see her. Hester was, she knew, making a good recovery by now, but it was the first time she had made any enquiry about her niece, and Rachel went immediately to Hester’s room— to find her sitting up in bed, contriving very cleverly to look both frail and glamorous.
She seemed quite pleased to see Rachel and, when greetings had been exchanged, remarked in a friendly tone,
“This is a stupid business, isn’t it? How are you all getting on at home without me?”
Rachel gave a reasonably reassuring account of things, while taking care to make Hester feel she was missed.
“I gather Everard has withdrawn his absurd ban on Nigel?” Hester studied herself in a small mirror, applied a dusting of powder to her attractive nose and then, before Rachel could reply to her half-question, put down the mirror and looked straight at the other girl. “How much do you know about what really happened, Rachel?”
“Most of it, I think.” Rachel, although faintly disconcerted, saw no sense in prevaricating. “I was with Oliver Mayforth when Keith Elman came to tell him about the accident. And later—so far as it concerned me—I was primed with the explanation which had been decided upon.”
‘Goodness, you needn’t be so discreet and mysterious!” exclaimed Hester impatiendy. “No one is listening. You mean that you know I was with Keith when it happened, and that Nigel pretended I was with him, in case Everard started getting silly and suspicions.”
‘That about describes it,” Rachel agreed, a trifle drily.
“Well, as I said, it’s a stupid business.” Her aunt frowned. “It isn’t even as though I cared about the boy. He’s just young and adoring and rather amusing. But of course Everard has old-fashioned ideas about things, and I suppose there might have been difficulties, especially with emotions running high. All the same, I think Nigel was absurdly quixotic to take the thing on himself. But he always thinks he knows best—and anyway, I don’t suppose he cares much what Everard thinks of him”
“I can’t imagine he liked being considered criminally careless and irresponsible,” said Rachel indignantly. “But once he’d taken the initiative, there was nothing for any ofus to do but back him up.”
“Including the puritanical Oliver Mayforth.” Hester smiled a trifle maliciously. "He didn’t do it for my blue eyes, I’m sure. He doesn’t like me
any more than I like him. ”
Rachel did not attempt to argue that. She merely said, “He wanted to save Uncle Everard any further anxiety, I imagine.”
“In fact, everyone behaved from the very, very best of motives,” Hester laughed. ‘Well, that’s fine. And now what’s this I hear about Nigel and Fiona McGrath?” Rachel’s mouth went dry, at this sudden change of subject. But she managed to say that she didn’t know what her aunt had heard about Nigel and Fiona McGrath.
“He’s made a
great hit with her, I understand.”
Rachel longed to ask from whom she raaderstood this. But, before she could frame the enquiry, her aunt went on.
“Well, it would be a wonderful thing for him, of course, if they made a match of it. Nigel never has a penny—putting everything into that laboratory of his as he does. I suppose if he married the McGrath woman he would never have to worry again, and could finance all the experiments he fancied.”
Rachel supposed so too. But she found herself saying, “Would you think, though, that Nigel is a man who would care to marry for money?”
“My dear, they all would! ” declared Hester, and laughed. “Just as most women would too. Unless one is an impossible idealist, or a born artist, or a moron”— she sounded as though there were little to choose between the three—“most of the things one wants depend upon money. It’s unrealistic to pretend anything else, even to oneself. Perhaps particularly to oneself,” she added reflectively.
Rachel was silent, and her aunt gave her an amused glance.
“You don’t really suppose Nigel would bypass the chance of marrying a fortune, do you?” she asked scornfully. “The kind of fortune that would put him and his work beyond any further anxiety, that is.”
“I don’t—know,” Rachd said slowly. “Suppose he didn’t really lo—like her?”
“It’s almost impossible not to like a good-looking woman with three-quarters of a million pounds attached to her,” retorted Hester simply.
“Is it—is it really as much as that?”
“I have no idea. It could well be more, I suppose. I just suggested that as a nice round sum She has a fortune, anyway. And she’s not unattractive.” “She’s really very beautiful,” Rachel stated justly. And then, because she had to know—“Was it Nigel himselfwho told you that she—she liked him?’’
‘Not really—no. I heard most about it from a friend of the McGraths— Dulcie Cullenthorpe. She says Fiona has fallen for him quite badly. If Nigel plays his cards well, I don't see how he can fail.”
Rachel winced. Not so much for the pain that assurance gave her— though that was sharp enough. But because she was not used to such brutal candour. At home, they were frank enough to each other and as in all families, very sharp words sometimes passed. But this calculation was something quite outside her experience, and she found herself wondering if, in the final event, Hester’s brother also thought along these lines.
It was not a welcome idea, and she was almost relieved when again there was an abrupt change of subject and Hester enquired—somewhat surprisingly—how Rachel was getting on with her work.
“Very well, thank you.” She forced a smile. “Both Uncle and Mr. Mayforth are easy to work for. And now I’ve got things in order, I’m not in the least overworked In fact, I sometimes think I should tell Uncle that I haven’t anything like enough to do.”
“I shouldn't do that,” said Hester, who certainly would not, for it was not her habit to insist on giving value for money. “If you get bored, there are always smaller, interesting jobs you can take on. People are continually looking for efficient secretaries with a little time on their hands.” And then she appeared to lose interest in the subject.
But she must have kept in mind what her niece had said. For a day or two later, just as Rachel was finishing her afternoon’s work, she was called to the telephone and a well-pitched vaguely familiar voice enquired if that were Miss Linding.
Rachel said it was. And, while she was still trying to decide where she had heard those firm overtones before, the voice went on,
“My dear, I wonder if you could help me. This is Fiona McGrath speaking. A friend of mine—Mrs. Cullenthorpe—was visiting your aunt today, and I understand from her that I just might be lucky enough to get you to do some secretarial work for me, in connection with a big charity affair we are getting up. It would be such a help if you would.”
“But I—I’m working for my uncle, you know,” Rachel explained quickly, her first instinct being to reject anything that would bring her into
Fiona McGrath’s orbit.
“I know. But, according to Lady Linding, you have some free time and might like to do some extra work, if it interested you. My own secretary is terribly busy, and I really can’t put any more on to her. Would you consider it?”
The tone was so pleasant, and Fiona McGrath was making such a favour of it all, that it was going to be extraordinarily difficult to refuse without seeming ungracious. Besides—Rachel suddenly made a surprising discovery—she was not at all sure that she wanted to refuse. If she went to work in the McGrath household, she would be able to see for herself just what was happening. And, though that might prove painful, at least it would keep one from cherishing any illusions.
“Could I know a little more about what would be required?” she asked, in order to give herself more time.
“Of course. It’s the usual sort of thing, you know. Lists, invitations, letters to people one hopes to interest. A lot of social correspondence. But the event itself is going to be very attractive. Florian is bringing his whole Collection over from Paris, with five of his mannequins, and there will be a big supper party and dance at the Gloria.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Rachel said sincerely.
‘‘Well, it should be rather fun. And naturally, I should want you to be there,” added Miss McGrath, by way of dangling an extra bait. “Why don’t you come over and have a chat with me about it, and stay on to dinner? I’m having one or two people, quite informally. Including Florian himself,” she interjected carelessly. “He’s over here from Paris, to discuss details.”
Rachel wondered, passingly, what one wore when one went to dine with the greatest dress designer in the world. But the whole thing sounded much too intriguing to be queried any further, and she said she would willingly come.
“Be here by six, then, and we can talk first,” Fiona McGrath instructed her. “And I’m immensely grateful to you, my dear.”
Both tone and words implied that Rachel had already accepted unconditionally. Which, Rachel decided, was probably the case.
Her uncle was pleased when she told him about the suggested arrangement, particularly when he heard that the idea had more or less originated with Hester.
“Of course, my dear! It’s time you had some relaxation,” declared Sir
Everard, apparently under the impression that any secretarial work other than his own ranked under this heading. “Fiona McGrath is a charming woman and tremendously efficient Anything she undertakes is bound to be a success. Go along and enjoy yourself”
So Rachel—in the simplest and smartest cocktail dress she possessed— “went along” to the big house near Knightsbridge, where Fiona McGrath and her brother still lived in a style reminiscent of quite another age.
Comfortable, and even luxurious, though life might be in her uncle’s house, this was something on quite a different scale, Rachel realised, as she followed a dignified manservant up thickly carpeted stairs to a beautiful room on the first floor. It was something between a boudoir and a small sitting-room, and was the perfect setting for its elegant mistress.
Here Fiona greeted Rachel quite informally, bade her make herself comfortable in a chair of somewhat intimidating elegance, and promptly launched into a description of the charity affair she was promoting. Within a few minutes Rachel had discovered that behind all this elegance and luxury, her hostess was—as she had surmised—a remarkably good organiser and business woman. And, when the initial programme had been sketched out for her benefit, she said, with all sincerity, “You’re awfully good at this sort of thing, aren’t you?”
“I should be.” The other woman laughed slightly. “I’ve done enough of it. And, in any case, I can’t bear to do anything less than well.”
“ can imagine that”
“I dislike inefficiency almost more than anything else,” Fiona said frankly. “That’s why I’m not a very sympathetic person. Half the people who make a bid for one’
s sympathy have only themselves to thank for their troubles.”
“And yet,” Rachel pointed out, “you have the reputation of doing a lot of charitable work.”
“Oh, that’s different.” The older woman shrugged, “For one thing, my brother and I have to administer a large charitable trust left by my father. And, for another, I like the sense of power it gives me when I make a success of any undertaking. It would be the same if it were a business deal. The fact that most of my enterprises have to be charitable ones is almost incidental.”
“I see,” said Rachel—perhaps more gravely than she had intended, for Fiona McGrath laughed and asked, “Do I shock you?”
“Oh no. But it’s unusual to be so realistic about oneself. Most people would prefer to think of themselves as touchingly charitable, and hide from themselves that they liked the sense of power.”
“I never hide anything from myself,” stated Fiona McGrath coolly and a trifle arrogantly. “I know what I want; and I know how to get it. But I never pretend to myself that things are what they’re not. Are you going to help me over this business?”
“Why, of course,” exclaimed Rachel, not a little charmed by this sudden appeal, following so closely on the slight display of arrogance. And it was only afterwards that she thought that perhaps this too was part of Miss McGrath’s clever way of getting what she wanted.
There and then they came to the arrangement that, subject to Sir Everard’s agreement, Rachel should come to the McGrath house three afternoons a week and, if the work demanded it, on some evenings, too. The remuneration, which Miss McGrath offered was—as Rachel would have expected—generous without being ostentatious.
“Now, if you want to freshen up, there’s a bathroom along here—” Miss McGrath conducted Rachel to the end of a wide corridor. “And, when you’re ready, go down to the drawing-room. No one will be here for half an hour yet. Just help yourself to a drink, or relax or whatever you like. I’ll be down in twenty minutes.” Rachel did as she was bid, revelling in the luxury of the most beautiful rose and silver bathroom she had ever seen, and studying her reflection in the long mirror with moderate satisfaction. She would never, of course, match up to the poise and elegance of Fiona McGrath. But, even to her own critical glance, she looked unusually attractive, in her midnight blue dress with the slim gold belt.
The Other Linding Girl Page 8
