After the bustle of activity in the ballroom and the upper-room, it was unexpectedly quiet here and, dropping into a deep armchair, Rachel leaned back and shut her eyes, trying, in these last private minutes allowed to her, to marshal all her courage and forces to meet whatever this difficult evening might bring.
If only she could have known just when the engagement announcement was to be made! There would presumably be speeches at some point. Thanks would have to be expressed to Fiona by the representatives of the charities which were to benefit by the evening. Acknowledgements would be made to Florian. Congratulations would be offered all round. Would it be after that that she must steel herself to look no more than smilingly interested, as her deepest, inmost feelings received their public death-blow?
Perhaps she would have felt less wretched if she could have seen him just once more beforehand—to judge for herself, even, without words, how he really felt about this step he was taking. If only—
And, at that moment, the slightest sound—not more than the catching of someone’s breath—impinged on her consciousness. Her eyes flew open and she sat up—to find Nigel standing in front of her.
It was the most extraordinary thing. As though the very intensity of her desire had made him materialise before her. And for a second she could not find words. It was he who spoke first—in a tone that was quiet, but charged with emotion—and what he said was,
“Child, how unfairly beautiful you are!”
“It—it’s the dress,” she stammered, groping desperately for something that would sound natural and harmless. “The Florians gave it to me. Wasn’t it kind of them?”
He did not answer that. She doubted if he had taken in what she said. And, almost scared by his silence, she got to her feet, still trying to find words that would keep the conversation on a matter-of-fact level.
“Wasn’t it kind of them?” she repeated.
“Of whom?”
“The Florians. They—they gave me this dress. Because I had done quite a lot of work for this show. They brought it with them from Paris—the day before yesterday—as a surprise.” She had to keep on talking. “It—it’s lovely, isn’t it?”
She turned slowly, as though to show off the dress. But the second her glance was off him it was as though a spell were broken. He took one step forward and, the next moment, he had snatched her into his arms.
“Yes—it’s lovely,” he said, as he turned her to face him. “You ’re lovely. The loveliest thing I ever saw, God help me.” And he kissed her once or twice—quick, passionate kisses which had a quality of despair about them.
“Don’t do that," she whispered, though she had already kissed him back just once. “Don’t kiss me like that, Nigel. Not now!”
And because the shadow of Fiona was chill upon her, and the only defence against this dangerous rapture was anger, she suddenly blazed out at him,
“How dare you do that to me! Do you suppose I’m content to be kissed or rejected, as you think fit?”
“Of course not. Don’t be a little fool.” Suddenly and inexplicably, he was as angry as she. “I love you—don’t you understand?—I love you. You’re the only thing—”
“You have no right to say that to me.” She was cold and quite calm all at once, and incredibly authoritative. “It’s an insult that you should say it, in the circumstances. You’re not a free agent—you’re not independent—and there’s nothing between us. Nothing, nothing, nothing! No stolen, meaningless kisses. No—”
“You don’t love me, do you?” he cut in, and his voice was as cold as hers. “You couldn’t possibly speak like that if you loved me.” “Very well—” for she saw she must erect the final barrier now or be lost—“I don’t love you. I think you’re clever and charming and, in your strange way, even idealistic. But you want the best of both worlds, Nigel, and you don’t mind who pays the price. But I’m not playing that game, and I ask you now to stop making a nuisance of yourself. ”
“A nuisance?” He seemed more stung by that word than anything she had said before. “Well, that does say the whole thing, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, Rachel. I’ll never be a nuisance to you again.” And he turned on his heel and went out of the room.
She would have recalled the word willingly, if he would have given her time. Qualified it, changed it— anything, so that he should not have gone from her in such white-faced anger. But it was too late now and, dropping into the chair again, she covered her face with her hands.
Rachel wanted nothing so much as to run away. From the room, from the hotel, from London itself. Back to the dear, dull, safe confines of Loriville, where life with her father and her sisters seemed, in nostalgic retrospect, to be the ultimate in security and lovely, uneventful peace.
“I was mad to think I wanted adventure and change,” she muttered. “I don’t want that at all. I want to be safe and happy again. I want to put back the clock—”
But none of us can ever put back the clock. And, after a few minutes, Rachel stilled her nervous trembling and faced the fact that she had to go on. Right through this glamorous but dreadful evening, taking whatever blows were meted out, and maintaining an air of smiling interest, until the blessed moment when she could close her bedroom door and be alone again.
With a long sigh, she got to her feet once more. And, as she did so, Oliver Mayforth came into the room.
“They told me I’d find you here—” he began. Then he stopped and whistled softly. “My word, Rachel! Paula was right. You look like a princess. But—” his glance became more searching—“a pale and troubled princess. What’s the matter, my dear?”
She tried to say, “Nothing.” But the word stuck in her throat. Instead, she shook her head and came to him and put her hand on his arm.
“Oliver—” she cleared her throat and managed to steady her voice—“I once helped you out, when it was necessary for you to put on a good face before people. Will you do the same for me tonight?” “But of course!” He put his hand over hers as it rested on his arm.
“Have—events caught up with you rather?” “Yes.” She was grateful to him for not mentioning Nigel’s name. But even his carefully controlled sympathy was hard to bear. “I’ve got to
look happy—and as though I’m in demand. If you’ll pay me some attention—”
“Great heavens! You don’t have to ask me to do that,” he laughed, and she managed to smile faintly in return. “I’m your devoted admirer for the evening—or any other time, come to that.”
“Thank you.” She spoke with genuine gratitude. “I expect I shall be busy for the early part of the evening. But later, at the supper party and—and when the speeches are made, you’ll be there at our table, won’t you, Oliver?”
“If I had to gatecrash I’d be there ” he assured her. “But in any case, your uncle has invited me to join you.”
“I’m glad. And now—” instinctively she squared her shoulders and tipped up her chin—‘I’ll have to go.”
She thought he would have liked to detain her further —perhaps to comfort her or make much of her. But she knew she could not bear that just now, and so she slipped away, hoping to find something which required her attention and would take her thoughts from her unhappiness.
It was Florian—a curt, pale, rather unfamiliar Florian—who pounced upon her and pressed her into service behind the scenes. Someone, it seemed—though who Rachel never found out—had failed to arrive. And so she found herself involved in the most hectic, fast-moving hour of her life, as one exquisite lovely after another stepped out on to the small stage, posed elegandy, walked languidly the length of the room and back, to the sound of delighted applause, then slipped into the dressing-room once more and immediately became a temperamental dynamo as she stripped, redressed and made ready to repeat her leisurely promenade.
Rachel was called on for a hundred varied jobs, and never saw the show in its entirety. But at least she saw most of the beautiful individual numbers, and savoured for a brief hour someth
ing of the fevered urgent drive behind the scenes which eventually resulted in the kind of dress show that had made Florian world-famous.
“There’s hardly time to breathe, is there?” she said once to Madame Moisant.
“To breathe?” Madame Moisant spoke as though breathing were an indulgence for the weak only. “This, I assure you, mademoiselle, is, as you say, the picnic compared to opening day in Paris. Then one does not draw one breath—but not one—from the opening announcement to the last round of applause.”
“Is that so?” Rachel looked respectfully on this phenomenon who claimed such unusual breathing powers. Then she turned to watch Florian, as he personally inspected the final number of the show—the inevitable wedding dress, which had been created specially for this occasion.
Madame Moisant also watched. And, as Florian glanced at his infinitely experienced Directrice, as though asking her opinion, she nodded and said,
“It is good. What was that someone said about an engagement being announced tonight? Will this perhaps be the dress for the bride?”
"Pas du tout! ” exclaimed Florian almost violently. “For her—” He paused and shrugged and then finally said disagreeably, “For her I think I would not design a wedding dress.”
“Tch, tch, tch,” replied Madame Moisant, in the manner of one reproving a spoilt child. At which an unexpectedly boyish smile appeared on Florian’s pale face, and he said to the girl in the wedding dress,
“Go, Colette, and show them how a bride should really look.”
It seemed that Colette must have carried out this instruction to the letter, for, even behind the scenes, they could hear the absolute storm of applause which greeted the grand finale to the show.
After that, all was congratulation and good-humour, graciousness and complimentary talk. Fiona came round and personally thanked everyone. Florian bowed over her hand without actually kissing it. And Madame Moisant, after one incredibly knowledgeable glance over Fiona, nodded very, very slightly to herself—perhaps in comprehension of her employer’s earlier outburst of unusual petulance.
Then everyone adjourned to the supper-room, to group themselves round the many tables, to the agreeable sound of popping champagne corks and the subdued clatter of well-laden dishes.
“Wasn’t it marvellous, Rachel?” cried Paula, as Rachel rejoined her family and Oliver at their table. “Didn’t everyone look lovely? But I didn’t think any of the dresses were better than yours,” she added with pleasing partiality. “I think you should have been in the show. No one was as pretty as you.”
“Hear, hear, Paula,” agreed Oliver Mayforth. And Rachel smiled and thanked them, and even managed to make herself quite amusing and entertaining, as she described what had taken place behind the scenes.
Her uncle was in an excellent mood, and even Hester was relaxed and gay. As for Oliver, he exerted himself to be so charming and attentive that Hester raised her eyebrows once and looked quizzically at her young niece.
To Rachel it was like playing a part in a play. Nothing which was happening had any real significance. She just had to keep up
appearances until—until—
The moment came at last. After a certain amount of rapping on the table with an ornamental hammer, someone rose to make a speech of thanks to Miss McGrath. This was followed by others—none of them inspired, most of them a trifle too long, but all of them full of good feeling.
Then Fiona got up, and Rachel found herself trembling almost uncontrollably. But she only wished, it seemed, to pay a graceful tribute to Florian for the magnificent show he had put on. Prolonged applause at this point, and much craning of necks as people tried to catch a glimpse of the famous designer, sitting between Fiona and his lovely wife.
Florian replied—with charm, wit and commendable brevity. And then, just as Sir Everard—who was getting slightly bored by the sound of so many voices other than his own—murmured, “That should be enough, surely!” silence was requested for an announcement which Mr. McGrath wished to make.
Now, thought Rachel, now she must summon all her courage and resolution! But she felt that she had gone pale, and knew that her smile had become quite unnatural.
Martin McGrath, looking singularly undistinguished, got to his feet and, in a toneless sort of voice, announced that the sum of five thousand pounds, from the McGrath Trust, was to be added to the receipts of the evening. More hearty—and this time subtly respectful—applause. Then he added that he hoped everyone had enjoyed the evening so far, and for those who cared to stay on and dance, the ballroom would be ready as soon as the dress-show platform had been dismantled.
Then he sat down.
For almost half a minute Rachel sat there, her head bent, her gaze fixed on her tightly clasped hands. She could not believe it. Even now, she simply could not believe it. The evening was virtually over, and no announcement had been made. She thought perhaps she was going to faint.
CHAPTER VIII
“What’s the matter, Rachel? Are you ill?”
From quite a long distance, as it seemed to her, Rachel heard Hester’s voice speaking to her and, with a tremendous effort, she pulled herself together and managed to look up and smile almost normally.
“Thank you—I’m all right.” Her voice sounded faintly husky, even to herself, but she forced out the words. “For a moment I—I felt a little odd. I think perhaps I’ve been rushing about a bit too much.”
“I’m sure you have!” That was Oliver Mayforth, full of anxious concern. “I told you this lot would work you to death. The very idea of their making you help behind the scenes like that as well as—”
“I liked working behind the scenes,” Rachel interrupted resolutely. “And truly I’m all right now.”
“Drink that,” ordered her uncle, setting a glass of wine before her, “and just sit still and relax for five minutes.” She smiled at him gratefully, for the odd thing about Uncle Everard was that, when support was really needed, all his little foibles dropped from him and he was completely unfussy and authoritative.
Rachel obediently drank her wine, recalling confusedly that all the evening she had been waiting for the moment when she would have to drink a toast to Nigel’s and Fiona’s engagement. Now, it seemed, that was a nightmare passed—or at least postponed. In a way, she was drinking to the glorious, inexplicable release from the nightmare. Only, if she started to think too much about that, she would do something silly. Begin to cry—or feel faint again. Instead, she must just sit quietly, as her uncle had said, and try to relax and look normal.
For a few minutes the others left her to herself, and this helped. Then Oliver asked her solicitously if she would like to go home, at which Paula wailed,
“We don’t want to go home yet! It’s my big night.”
“I meant only Rachel—” the assistant surgeon began. But Rachel smiled quite brilliantly and said,
“Oh, no! I’m not going home yet either. I’m quite all right now and shall expect you to dance with me later, Oliver. But, for the moment—” she glanced round on the company, which was thinning now as people drifted-towards the ballroom—“there may be one or
two things I should attend to—”
“You’ve done enough,” Oliver protested.
But she was still seeking eagerly in the throng—first to find Nigel, of whom there seemed to be no sign, and then for Florian, who was, for the moment, engaged in conversation with Fiona.
“I have to speak to Monsieur Florian,” she murmured. “After that—”
Someone else demanded Fiona’s attention and, seizing her opportunity, Rachel hastily excused herself to her family party and crossed the room.
“Monsieur Florian—” she spoke softly beside him—“I simply must talk to you. Can we go somewhere—?”
“Of course.” He understood immediately and, with a word to his wife, took Rachel with him to the room which had been used as a dressing-room throughout the show.
It was empty now and half dismantled. Most
of the dresses had already been packed away, under the expert care of Madame Moisant and Mademoiselle Charlotte, and the place looked curiously dead and featureless.
She turned to face him, her hands spread out in a gesture of complete bewilderment.
“What happened, Monsieur Florian? There was no announcement—nothing! What does it mean?”
“I think, my child, it can only mean that Mademoiselle McGrath was a trifle too optimistic in her expectation of that engagement.” Florian was frowning slightly, and it was evident that he was as puzzled as Rachel. “When she told me the announcement would be made, she was very sure indeed. But—” he shrugged—“it is possible she forgot that it takes two to make an engagement, even when one is as powerful and determined as she is.”
“You mean—” Rachel hardly dared to voice the possibility—“that you think Nigel refused the grant for his work and, with it, the—the necessity of marrying her?”
“I can think of no other explanation.”
“She didn’t say anything to you about it during the evening?”
“But of course not! One does not discuss one’s failures in these matters. Only one’s successes,” replied the Frenchman a trifle sardonically.
“I suppose—you’re right.” Rachel bit her lip. Then she said hesitantly, “Monsieur Florian, it wasn’t anything you said to Nigel, was it? You didn’t—talk to him about the situation the other evening, did you?”
“I? Certainly not!” He rejected the idea with emphasis.
“Only you did murmur something about speaking to him,” Rachel recalled apologetically.
“But not before he had made his decision. These major decisions we have to make for ourselves, mon enfant,” Florian said quietly. “It is not for someone else to prompt —as I think you yourself felt. But, now that he has taken the right decision—”
“You think it was the right one?” Rachel stared at the great designer. “But his work, Monsieur Florian! Think what he has sacrificed. Possibly—” she clasped her hands tightly together— “possibly even the people he has sacrificed.”
“My dear—” Florian leaned back against one of the long benches which had served as a dressing-table for his mannequins—“in my view, a man must start by being reasonably true to himself, regardless of theoretical possibilities. He must, if you like, be willing to sacrifice much for others, but not his personal integrity. If this is the way your Nigel argued, I, for one, have sympathy with him.”
The Other Linding Girl Page 14
