The Other Linding Girl

by Mary Burchell

  “A very proper view,” approved her uncle.

  “Yes—but where does one find a similar backer?” replied Rachel, with a sigh. “Nigel himself once told me that research requires a daily act of faith, and that acts of faith aren’t popular with committees and government departments. And he said—very truly—that few men put money into something they’re not sure of.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied Sir Everard, who was fond of saying that he believed in the basic good in human nature.

  “But I do know!” retorted his niece despairingly, as the helplessness of her position was suddenly brought home to her. “It was wonderful of Monsieur Florian to make the gesture, of course. But it’s useless unless someone else will match it. Someone who likes him—believes in him enough to give him the great chance of his life. That has to be a very, very good friend indeed, Uncle Everard. And where am I—” she was unaware that she had assumed responsibility herself now—“to find such a friend?” She looked across at her uncle and he slowly got to his feet, rather like a good actor rising to the great moment of his scene.

  “I suggest,” he said, with an air of enjoying himself, “that you look first in his own family.”

  “His own family? But they’re quite poor, aren’t they? Hester once said so.”

  “I was not,” said Sir Everard, clearing his throat, “thinking of a

  blood relation.”

  “Uncle! ” Suddenly Rachel flushed, and then went quite white. And for half a minute there was complete silence in the room. Then she said, almost in a whisper, “It—it’s an immense sum.”

  “But not an impossible one for a reasonably wealthy man— which is what I am,” replied Sir Everard.

  “Do you mean—?” But she could not quite bring herself to make the whole suggestion. “Uncle, what do you mean?”

  “Well—” he rubbed his hand reflectively over his handsome jaw—“it seems I owe Nigel rather a heavy debt. If Sir Miles Clitheroe thinks his work worthy of support, I don’t know why I should allow a French dressmaker—” thus did he refer to the famous designer—“to be more generous to my relations than I am myself. ”

  "Uncle! You angel!” Rachel flung herself upon him, in an access of relief and joy, and he was just returning her ecstatic kiss of gratitude when the door opened and Hester came in.

  “What’s going on here?” She stood and surveyed the scene with a good deal of amusement. “Someone stealing my husband?”

  “Not at all.” Sir Everard gently disentangled himself from his slightly equivocal position. “Rachel and I were just—discussing Nigel’s future.”

  “What an odd way to do it.” Hester sat down and continued to look amused and curious. “How did this unusual type of discussion start?”

  “With a visit from a young man called Keith Elman,” replied Sir Everard unexpectedly. And suddenly Hester was quite still. “Keith Elman,” she repeated softly. “What had he—to say?”

  “A great deal of rubbish, which Rachel was able to interpret for me quite satisfactorily,” said her husband gently. “We can now all forget the incident, and certainly you need never worry about it again, my dear.”

  “I don’t—quite understand.” Rachel could sense how scared she was, and how carefully she was feeling her way. And perhaps Sir Everard sensed it too. At any rate, he went on quite coolly,

  “It was all rather complicated, I agree. But, in the course of the explanations, I learned of Nigel’s noble—if rather mistaken— gesture at the time of your accident. I feel I owe him some handsome gesture in return, and so I am considering giving some financial support to his work. Rachel was—expressing her approval of the idea.”

  “Everard—” Hester stared at him and, to Rachel’s unbounded astonishment, she saw that there were sudden tears in her aunt’s eyes—“do you mean that—that you know the truth about that beastly accident—and you’re not angry?”

  “I know the truth about the accident and I’m not angry,” he agreed categorically.

  “And you want to—to help Nigel?”

  “If I receive the kind of report I am expecting to receive on his work.”

  “My dear—” she held out her hands to him, in an uncertain little gesture quite unlike her usual decisive movements, and he went to her immediately.

  Rachel had never seen Hester make any real demonstration of affection before. But, in that moment, she flung her arms round her husband with such genuine fervour that Rachel slipped out of the room and left them together.

  She felt a little light-headed herself, after all that had happened during the last hour, and even the anguish of that scene on the stairs with Nigel seemed less in the light of her uncle’s generosity. No longer, of course, did either his action or Florian’s affect her own future. But at least Nigel was assured of solid support without any reliance on the McGraths.

  In addition, he could not fail to be both moved and delighted by the fact that half of the support was a tribute from the brother-in-law who had so often underestimated him. Rachel could imagine him receiving the news in a smiling, softened mood. And this helped to blot out the recollection of his contempt and anger towards herself.

  No doubt, during the next few days, her uncle would make whatever enquiries he thought necessary, and when he was satisfied—as satisfied he surely must be—he and Florian could work out the details of their plan together. The less she herself appeared in things now, the better.

  Sir Everard was not entirely in favour of this, she found. His liking for a good scene made him anxious that Rachel—the prime mover in all this—should herself give Nigel the good news. But he found her so violently opposed to such an idea that he had to yield. And all Rachel had to do with this phase of events was to arrange the interview with Sir Miles Clitheroe, and write a stately letter to Florian, at her uncle’s dictation.

  Life would have been very arid to her at this time if it had not been for the visit of her father and Elizabeth. But their visit now shone before her, like a good deed in a naughty world. And when Oliver Mayforth kindly drove her to the station to meet them, she looked flushed and happy.

  “You are fond of them, aren’t you?” The assistant surgeon smiled at her indulgently, as she paced anxiously up and down the platform, waiting for their train.

  “Of course! You wait until you see them,” retorted Rachel, with almost naive partiality. And then the train drew in, and she saw the tall figure of her father descending from a nearby carriage.

  Rachel flung herself into his arms with such abandon that she hardly saw even Elizabeth in those first few moments. And, by the time she turned, her beautiful sister and Oliver Mayforth had already made their own introductions.

  The sisters kissed affectionately. But it was to her father’s hand that Rachel clung. And, by some perfectly natural arrangement, Elizabeth sat beside the assistant surgeon as he drove them home, while Rachel sat behind with her father.

  She was too busy asking about everyone and everything in Loriville to notice much of what was happening in front. But once, as they stopped at some traffic lights, she saw Oliver Mayforth give Elizabeth a sidelong glance, and she was not entirely surprised to notice that he wore the slightly stunned expression with which she had seen so many men greet their first impact with Elizabeth.

  It relieved and slightly amused her to see that possibly Oliver would not be a problem to herself much longer. But, because she was genuinely fond of the susceptible assistant surgeon, she hoped he would not fall too badly for her sister. In Rachel’s experience, Elizabeth’s extreme attraction was only matched by her extreme indifference to the effect it had on people.

  Although Dr. Linding had proposed that they should stay at a nearby hotel, neither his brother nor, to tell the truth, Hester would hear of such a thing. So Rachel had the happiness of being under the same roof with her family once more. And there was no denying that the Loriville Lindings brought with them an uninhibited warmth and a relaxed, easy gaiety which did something
quite extraordinary to the formal atmosphere of the Harley Street house.

  Sir Everard became the most genial of hosts, Hester—perhaps because of her new and softened mood—exerted all her considerable charm to please her husband's family, while Paula, who was as sociable as most children of her age, delighted openly in the visitors.

  Inevitably, it was a general family party for most of the evening, with Oliver Mayforth—who ranked almost as “family”, anyway, as the only guest. And Rachel was feeling at her most relaxed and contented when Peggy opened the drawing-room door and ushered in Nigel.

  For more than one person in the room it was a moment of high drama. Nigel himself stood on the threshold for a second, as though startled at finding so many people present. Sir Everard, who, to Rachel’s knowledge, was not yet ready to disclose his plans for Nigel, looked like a child who knew all about Father Christmas but was pledged not to tell. While Rachel herself felt that one word or one look from Nigel would be enough to crumble her precarious self-control.

  It was Hester who came to the rescue, greeting him casually and making the introductions easily. And Nigel recovered himself so well that he was able to be pleasant to everyone, even managing a casual, “Hello, have you recovered from the rigours of the dress show?” to Rachel.

  She thought she murmured something suitable in reply, and

  Elizabeth unknowingly made things easier by asking for details of that exciting evening.

  Everyone proceeded to supply an account, Paula shrilly dominating the conversation with the final statement, “And Rachel had a Florian dress too, and looked simply marvellous. Didn’t she, Uncle Nigel?” she appealed to her uncle for confirmation.

  “Simply marvellous” agreed Nigel, looking straight at Rachel, who dropped her eyes and hoped she had not gone as pale as she felt.

  “She looked prettier than any of the models,” Paula declared. “Didn't you think so?”

  “I didn’t stay for the show.”

  “Didn’t you? Why ever not? We all had such a lovely time.”

  “I’m sure you did, poppet. But I didn’t feel in the party mood.” “You missed a lot. It was a terribly exciting evening,” Paula told him.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said drily. And suddenly, moved by an impulse she could not explain or control, Rachel said clearly, “Some of us expected it to be even more exciting. I understood we were to have an engagement announcement.”

  There was an odd moment of silence. Then Nigel, speaking directly to her, asked, “What made you think that?”

  “There was a strong rumour going around that. Miss McGrath was going to announce her engagement. I—I could hardly believe it when nothing happened.”

  “But surely—” Nigel began. Then suddenly he stopped, and he too went pale.

  At the same moment, Paula exclaimed, “Oh, that reminds me— !” Then she clapped her hand over her mouth and looked both guilty and bursting with information.

  “Reminds you of what?” enquired her mother. “Good gracious, look at the time! That reminds me, Paula, that you ought to be in bed. Off you go. You’ve had more than your share of staying up late this week.”

  “But there's something I want to say.”

  “Well, say it, then.” Her mother looked faintly irritated.

  “But it’s private.” Paula still had her hand over her mouth and spoke through her fingers, as though in this way she might preserve the secrecy of her utterance. “Can I whisper?”

  “Certainly not,” said her father. “And don’t mumble either. Run off to bed now, there’s a good child.”

  For a moment Paula stood in the middle of the room, looking the picture of indecision. Then her uncle Nigel said, quietly and distinctly,

  “Why don’t you ask Rachel to come up and say goodnight to you in bed? You could tell her then, couldn’t you?”

  “Why, yes!” Paula’s face cleared. “How clever of you! How did you know what I’d forgotten?”

  “I have my moments of inspiration, stupid though I may be at times,” replied her uncle. And Paula, having extracted from Rachel a promise that she would come up in ten minutes, went off quite satisfied.

  Conversation became general again, but Rachel took little part in it. She tried once to catch Nigel’s glance, but she thought he avoided her. Perhaps, of course, he resented her reference to the engagement which had not materialised. And yet, as she looked at him, she thought there was something oddly different about him. He looked more the easy-going, humorous Nigel she had known in the beginning, and much less the preoccupied, almost bitter man he had seemed in the last few weeks.

  “I don’t understand it,” she thought wearily. “He changes too often for me to keep pace with things.”

  And then she remembered that Paula—bursting with her important secret—would be waiting for her, so she slipped away upstairs.

  The little girl was already in bed, but she bounced up like a jack-in-the-box as soon as Rachel appeared.

  “Rachel, I’m terribly sorry! I forgot to tell you something, that morning at breakfast when you told me Monsieur Florian had given you a dress. You remember?—I was so thrilled, I forgot everything else.”

  “I remember you were thrilled,” Rachel agreed, sitting down on the side of the bed and smiling at her. “It was all I could do to get you off to school.”

  “Was it?” Paula dismissed that unimportant detail without comment. “Well, you remember I told you that Uncle Nigel had been in the night before, and he enquired for you and said he had something to say to you?”

  “I remember,” said Rachel again, and suddenly she was quite still, and watching her little cousin with painful attention. “You said you didn’t know what it was, though.”

  “Ye-es,” agreed Paula doubtfully. “That was what I thought at the time. But now, looking back, I think perhaps it was something he said to me just as he was going. I forgot about it—honestly I did—until this very evening. And then your saying that about there being no engagement reminded me.”

  “Reminded you—of what?” asked Rachel, catching her breath. “Well, that’s what I’m explaining,” said Paula, with the patient air of one who was making everything crystal clear. “It reminded me of what Uncle Nigel said, just as he was going off that evening. He said I was to tell you there would be no engagement. And he said you would understand.”

  “Oh, Paula—” a great lump caught in Rachel’s throat—“I wish—you’d told me.”

  “Did it matter so much?” Paula gazed contritely at her cousin’s dismayed expression. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  Then her gaze shifted, and she looked past Rachel, to exclaim in delight and relief, “Oh, Uncle Nigel, how nice of you to come and say good-night to me too! ”

  CHAPTER X

  Rachel sat very still on the side of the bed, unable to turn, unable even to look up, though she was aware that Nigel crossed the room and stood beside her. It was to Paula, however, that he spoke.

  “Time you were tucked up and asleep,” he told the little girl, but his voice was indulgent.

  Then Rachel felt the lightest touch of his hand on her and,

  yielding to what seemed the most natural instinct of her life, she leant her head against him.

  Immediately his arm went round her, but still it was to Paula that he spoke. Between him and Rachel no words passed. Only by the feel of each other, which is the simplest and most primitive form of communication, did they know that all was well between them.

  She knew, by the touch of his hand upon her and the feel of his arm around her, that he was sorry for the pain he had caused her. And, as she yielded to his touch and leant against him, she was telling him it was all right—that he was forgiven.

  For Paula, however, this was all too obscure. She snuggled down, in obedience to her uncle’s order, and surveyed them with some astonishment over the top of the sheet. Then, out of the depths of sudden discovery, she exclaimed,

  “Aren’t you going to kiss her?”

>   They both laughed then, Rachel a little breathlessly, Nigel on a note of amused tenderness.

  “Of course,” he agreed. And, as though he had no recollection whatever of the way she had received his last kiss, he gently turned Rachel’s face up to his and kissed her full on her mouth. “That’s better,” said Paula approvingly.

  “Much better,” agreed her uncle.

  And, “Much better,” whispered Rachel

  “What are you going to do now?” enquired Paula, who was a great one for tying up all the ends.

  “Say good-night to you,” her uncle replied firmly—“not forgetting to thank you for your excellent advice—then I’m going to take Rachel with me for a quiet talk somewhere. We’re going to explain a lot of things to each other, and then I’m going to ask her to marry me. But whether she will slap my face or fall into my arms, I’m still not quite sure.”

  “Oh, she wouldn’t slap your face!” exclaimed Paula, rather shocked.

  “I don’t know—” he began.

  But Rachel said softly, “I shall take the other alternative.”

  At which he laughed, but with a sparkling glance of both gaiety and relief. Then he tucked up his little niece, kissed her goodnight and said, “Come, darling,” to Rachel.

  Rachel also kissed Paula—with special tenderness for her part in this incredible scene—and the two of them went out of the room together.

  Outside on the landing, she said, “Where shall we go?”

  But he replied, “I’ll think of that in a minute,” and, taking her in his arms, he kissed her softly, over and over again, so that all bitterness was forgotten and only the radiance of their love was with them.

  “I must talk to you,” she murmured.

  “So you shall, my darling—for as long as you like.”

  “It’s not going to be a monologue,” she laughed softly. “You’re going to have to explain too. Come down to my office. No one will disturb us there.”

  So they went downstairs, creeping past the drawingroom door, for this moment was theirs and no interruption would have been bearable. Then she led him into the silent, deserted office, where there were no really comfortable chairs for lovemaking, as Nigel said. But they sat on the side of the desk together, with their arms round each other, and he told her,