When she was ready she went downstairs and, after trying two wrong doors, found her way into the drawingroom at the back of the house. It was a long room, with beautifully designed alcoves, where concealed lighting shone on masses of flowers so superbly arranged that each group was a work of art in itself.
Fascinated, Rachel paused to examine each one, before crossing the thick moss-green carpet to the wood fire which burned on the open hearth. Here she stood looking down at the dancing flames and the glowing logs, until the door opened and someone else came into the room A little shy at the thought of having to tackle one of the guests on her own, she turned-—and saw that the newcomer was. Nigel. “Rachel! ” He exclaimed even before she could and, as he came forward, she could not help thinking that his surprise was tinged with disquiet, “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been asked to dinner—and to help Miss McGrath with the arrangements for her big charity evening next month.”
‘You can’t be serious!” His disapproval and dismay were out of all proportion to the event.
“But I am. Why not?”
“You’re working for Everard and Mayforth hard enough as it is—” he passed his hand over his hair, in a perplexed gesture she had not seen him use before. ”I should have thought—”
“On the contrary, I’ve nothing like enough to do,” Rachel interrupted firmly. “And Uncle is perfectly willing for me to help Miss McGrath.”
“Was it your own idea?”
“No. It was Miss McGrath’s. She rang up and asked me to do it for her as a special favour.”
He muttered something which she did not catch, and then said, with no trace of his usual, easy good-humour, ‘You’ll find yourself run off your feet. I know what these charity affairs can be. You won’t have a moment to call your own, I think you should reconsider the whole thing. ”
“I have no intention of reconsidering it.” If she had not been slightly nettled, she would have been amused by this opposition. “I’m looking forward to it all.”
“Will you be—taking the work home?”
“Oh, no. I shall be working here three afternoons a week, and probably some evenings too—depending on how busy we become. It’s going to be a wonderful affair. Florian is to bring his Collection from Paris—and he’s the greatest dress designer in the world, you know.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle,” observed a somewhat amused voice behind her and, turning, Rachel saw that someone else had come into the room. A slightly built man, neither young nor specially handsome, but with an indefinable air of authority which would have stamped him anywhere as a personality.
“Monsieur Florian—?” asked Rachel doubtfully.
He bowed.
“And may I know the name of this charming authority on the fashion world?” he said gravely.
“My name is Rachel Linding. But I don’t really know anything about
the fashion world,” Rachel explained hastily.
“Oh, mademoiselle, you can’t expect me to believe that.” He smiled at her, and she thought that touch of worldly charm was perhaps more attractive than any straightforward good looks. “On that one dictum alone, I am prepared to support your judgment absolutely.”
Rachel laughed and decided that she liked Monsieur Florian, though Nigel was still looking a trifle glum.
Then Fiona came down, and almost immediately other guests began to arrive, and Rachel discovered that the “informal gathering of one or two people” had developed into a sizeable dinner-party of considerable style and elegance.
There was no further chance of talking to Nigel. He sat beside their hostess at dinner, and seemed to afford her a great deal of amusement and pleasure. Rachel was too far away to hear anything that was said, but they appeared to enjoy each other’s society.
She, somewhat to her surprise, found herself sitting beside Florian—a circumstance that would have afforded her a good deal of trepidation if she had not already exchanged those friendly words with him beforehand. As it was, he asked her so kindly about her life in London that she immediately discounted the many stories which were rife that he was not only the most gifted, but also the most temperamental of dress designers.
But, fearing that he might put her through her paces with regard to English dress designers (a thing he would not have dreamed of doing, as he was monumentally indifferent to all competitors) she thought she had better make her position clear, and she said gravely,
“You know, Monsieur Florian, I’ve never seen a dress show.”
“Never seen a dress show?” the great man repeated, “But, mon enfant, where have you been?”
“In a small English country town,” Rachel explained humbly. “But, now that I’m in London, I’m looking forward immensely to your show, at the Gloria. Tell me—is it really a very exciting, glamorous, sort of life?”
“No. A great deal of the time it is horrible and exhausting and frustrating and entirely crazy,” Florian assured her.
“Oh, but then—” Rachel glanced at him to make sure that he was serious—“in that case, why do you—why did you—”
“Spend my life in that world?” he suggested. "Because my particular genius happens to lie in that direction.” He said that without false modesty but also, Rachel felt, without conceit. He was merely stating a fact.
“It’s much the same as with an actor or singer. One works like a dog, suffers agonies of frustration and stage-fright—but the fascination and the challenge are things one can never escape.”
“It sounds a little—uncomfortable ,” Rachel said doubtfully, at which the great designer laughed. “All creation is uncomfortable, petite, ” he said, with a sort of dry kindliness, “In fact, almost everything worthwhile is uncomfortable at one stage or another. It’s like falling in love. That can be damnably uncomfortable— but which of us would say it isn’t worthwhile?” “That’s true,” agreed Rachel soberly, and she failed to notice that the Frenchman gave her a glance of amused and not unkindly penetration.
She had hoped that Nigel would make it his business to have a word with her after dinner. But, almost immediately, Fiona came over to her and said, “It’s a shame to drag you away from the company, but I wonder if you would mind doing something for me right away. Mrs. Cullenthorpe has brought me a list of names and addresses which I should like to have copied. She can’t leave it with me, as she borrowed it herself and must return it tomorrow. Do you think you could run me off a copy now?”
“Why, of course.” Eager to show that she expected to work as well as play, Rachel willingly followed her hostess to a small, pleasant study, which was obviously used by someone as an office.
“Here’s the typewriter—and plenty of paper. Perhaps you’d take a couple of carbons while you’re about it. It’s never wise to have only one copy of a useful list,” remarked Miss McGrath knowledgeably. “Have you everything you want?”
“Everything—I’m sure. I shan’t be long,” Rachel promised her. And, as soon, as she was left alone, she began to type with a speed and concentration that would undoubtedly have commended her to the efficient Miss McGrath In point of fact, the list was a good deal longer than Rachel had at first thought, and she had been working for some while when the door opened, without warning, and Nigel came in.
She stopped immediately, but her hands still rested on the keys, while she looked at him without saying anything.
He came over until he stood quite close beside her, and the astonishing thing he said was,
“Rachel, will you do me the personal favour of throwing up this job and finding something else to occupy your spare time?”
“No,” she replied flatly, “Just like that—without qualification?”
“Just like that—without qualification,” Rachel assured him. “I don’t know what’s come over you. I like the idea of working here, and you haven’t given me one good reason why I should give it up.”
“But don’t you understand—” that low, rapid way of speaking was quite un
like his usual utterance—“how difficult you’re making it for me? Why does it have to be just here?”
“Difficult for you?” Her hands slid from the typewriter and she stared up at him. “Why should it matter to you if I’m here or not?”
He flushed and then, to her surprise, he actually paled, so that his eyes looked dark and stormy.
“What are you trying to make me say?” he exclaimed almost violently.
“Don’t you know—”
Then he stopped suddenly and, before she could guess what he was going to do, he caught hold of her and drew her to her feet—and into his arms.
“Nigel—please—”
But he stopped the rest of her protest with a long kiss full on the mouth.
The kind of kiss, she knew now, she had been longing for almost since she had known him.
For a matter of moments, she savoured it to the full. And then, because some sixth sense seemed to warn her that danger was near, she thrust him from her. As she did so, she looked beyond him, to see Fiona McGrath standing in the doorway.
CHAPTER V
How she retained sufficient presence of mind to address Fiona McGrath calmly Rachel could not afterwards imagine. But she heard herself say, quite composedly,
“I haven’t quite finished your list, Miss McGrath. I’m sorry—I shan’t be many minutes more. I’m afraid—” she actually achieved a slight, deprecating laugh—“Nigel interrupted me with a certain amount of—of cousinly enthusiasm.”
If he had looked silly or started stammering excuses she would never have forgiven him. But he did neither of these. He looked coolly across at the pale, angry woman in the doorway, and observed, with his lazy, charming smile,
“Rachel refuses to accept me as an uncle—which, as her aunt’s brother, is
something like what I am, I suppose. We’ve compromised on a sort of cousinship. Did you come for this list—or were you looking for me?”
However great the shock she had received, Fiona McGrath was not one to show less self-possession than anyone else. She also smiled—though coldly—and said, “The list will do when it’s ready. My brother wanted to talk to you, Nigel—about your work, I believe. He’s been trying to persuade me that we should back you. But well, you’d better discuss it with him He’s the one who makes the decisions here.”
This was palpably a lie to anyone who had seen her and the colourless Martin McGrath together. But neither Rachel nor Nigel showed any disposition to question the statement.
Nigel said, “I’ll be glad to talk to him, of course. And to you too.” “Oh, you’d better leave me out of it, for the moment” Fiona McGrath laughed slightly and not very kindly.
And then she and Nigel went away together, and Rachel was left, feeling so weak at the knees that she was glad to sink into her chair again and pretend—to herself at least—that she was working.
It was not easy, and her usually nimble fingers seemed slow and clumsy. She tried hard to concentrate on what she was doing, for errors at this point would tell their own tale to the quickwitted Fiona. But, as she doggedly tapped out one distinguished name after another, she was really thinking,
“He kissed me! But how he kissed me! And what was he going to say, if she hadn't come in just then?—How white and angry she looked. Dangerous, somehow. All the more so that she was so cool and—and civilised about it But she remembered, even in that moment, to show her power. To say something about the support which she and her brother could give—if they chose. She knows her hold on him. And yet—he kissed me.”
She knew now why he hated the idea of her being there, under the McGrath roof, She, of all people, was not to see him make his unworthy choice—if unworthy was the word one should use. Some people might consider that he was making a fine sacrifice, she supposed—putting the claims of his vital work before his personal happiness. Others—Hester, for instance—would just say that he knew a good proposition when it offered. For Rachel it was impossible—quite impossible—to decide what she herself thought. Only—he had kissed her.
The list was finished at last and, having replaced the typewriter
cover and taken longer than was necessary to put everything else in order, Rachel forced herself to go out of the room in search of Fiona.
She found her talking animatedly with Florian and, in front of her guests at any rate, Fiona’s air to Rachel was impeccable. The exact mixture of the considerate employer and the gracious hostess. But she said—having seen that the list was as she wanted it—
“I really mustn’t keep you any later, I know. You have a busy time with your uncle. But if you find you can come tomorrow afternoon— ” evidently no private annoyance was to stand in the way of her retaining an excellent secretary—“telephone me in the morning and let me know.”
“Yes, I will,” promised Rachel, accepting her dismissal with the best grace she could.
“I too must go.” Florian stood-up. “I am catching the early plane in the morning. I think we have settled most things, Miss McGrath, and I shall telephone you during the week about the two points you raised. Mademoiselle—” he turned to Rachel—“may I give you a lift?”
“Why, how kind of you. But perhaps you’re not going my way.”
“I feel confident that I am” replied the Frenchman with such charming firmness that even Fiona made no attempt either to dissuade him or detain him.
Even as she said good-night, Fiona’s manner was so courteous that Rachel felt she must have hidden every hint of her inner annoyance. But someone, it seemed, was a very close observer indeed. For no sooner were Rachel and the famous dress designer in their taxi, than he enquired, with unabashed curiosity,
“In what way did you contrive to offend the all-powerful Miss McGrath, cherie?”
“Monsieur Florian!” Rachel gave him a startled glance in the halflight of the taxi '“How—how did you know she was offended?”
“It is my business to note all graduations of moods in my profession,” he replied simply, “Sometimes the difference between success and failure depends, on just that. It is partly instinct and partly long training. Do you not want to tell me?"
Until that moment, she had supposed that she would not want to breathe a word of her discomfiture to a soul. But, so extraordinarily persuasive was the sympathetic manner which Florian had perfected on a thousand customers in a hundred crises, that she found herself saying,
“I think she was cross with me because—because Nigel kissed me.”
"Ah—I see,” The Frenchman sounded comprehending and only faintly amused, ‘The good-looking Monsieur Nigel is expected to worship at her shrine, if I mistake not?”
“I think she is—interested in him,” Rachel conceded.
“And you also?—are you interested in Monsieur Nigel?”
“I—I haven’t known him very long” she objected softly.
“It is not always necessary,” he said kindly. “I myself fell in love with my wife the second time I saw her. Possibly,” he added reflectively, “even the first time—except that I had very much else to think of at that moment.”
“Oh, Monsieur Florian, that sounds very nice and romantic!” She was not sorry to switch the conversation from her affairs to his. “How long have you been married to her?”
“Ten years. And I have only one regret, that in marrying her I lost my best mannequin. But that is old history. Your affairs are more interesting tonight. Tell me—what happened when the charming Miss McGrath, who must never be crossed, found the man of her choice kissing someone else?”
“N-nothing very much happened—”
“How English!” exclaimed Florian, with mingled disdain and admiration. “Everyone kept the stiff upper lip?”
“Not exactly,” Rachel laughed—a little surprised to find that she could laugh about that dreadful scene. “I managed to stress the relationship between me and Nigel—”
“And what,” interrupted Florian with genuine interest, “is the relationship between you and M
onsieur Nigel?”
“Oh, I mean literally, you know. We are related in a sort of way. He is the brother of my uncle’s young wife.” Florian obviously worked that out rapidly to himself, and then said, ‘That is satisfactorily remote.”
“I suppose it is.” Rachel laughed again. “But we both laid some emphasis on it and—got past the most difficult moment.”
“Did he look foolish?”
“No. He contrived to look remarkably cool, for which I admired him” Rachel stated. “I should have been mad if he had looked silly and stammered.”
“Quite right. One’s beloved should never look silly, however foolish he may feel,” agreed the Frenchman approvingly. “And Miss McGrath—was she in the least deceived by this admirable talk of uncles and cousins?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so” Rachel said,
‘Then she knows you for a rival?”
“I’m afraid I don’t rank as that ” Rachel replied, rather sadly. “You see----- ”
She stopped, And there was silence until he prompted her gently, “Yes, mon enfant? What is it that I should see?”
“I can’t imagine why I’m telling you all this!” Rachel exclaimed, suddenly recollecting that he was virtually a stranger—and a distinguished stranger at that.
“People tend to tell me things,” the great designer said, with a faint smile. “You have no idea how difficult I find it sometimes to prevent my more boring customers from telling me their whole life stories.”
“Well, I won’t do that.” Rachel too smiled slightly. “And there’s remarkably little to tell Monsieur Florian. Nigel is a passionately dedicated research worker—perpetually frustrated by lack of funds. Miss McGrath, as I don’t need to tell you, is very rich. And—she likes him.”
“Does he like her?”
“I don’t know,” said Rachel slowly. “I think perhaps he likes her— enough.”
The Other Linding Girl Page 9
