"Well you must be blind, that's all." Tom was almost shouting and Petra was suddenly afraid.
"Tom," she said as calmly as she could, "I'm sorry if I hurt you. I really am. I'm very fond of you, you know that…"
"Fond!" growled Tom. "How very generous of you." He grabbed hold of her and forced her to face him. "Fond's no good to me, Petra. I came here to ask you to marry me."
"Well, you're making a pretty poor job of it," said Petra with spirit. "Please let go of me, Tom."
His hands slid from her arms, and he said miserably, "I am, aren't I? Can I start again?"
Petra replied as gently as she could, disturbed by his dejected expression, "No, Tom. It'd be better if you didn't. I'm truly sorry if you feel this way and I hate you to be hurt because of me, but I can't give you more. I love you dearly as a friend, but that's all."
"A friend," said Tom bitterly. "When I want to love you! I could make you love me, Petra. If you'd only let me make love to you properly, you'd see."
Petra, who had relaxed her guard a little as Tom had calmed down, suddenly found herself snatched into his arms once more. Holding her with a strength she found it impossible to break from, he forced his mouth on hers, kissing her brutally, pushing her back against the wall so that her body was crushed against his. She fought him, struggling to free herself and all of a sudden he let go.
"Don't worry," he sneered. "I'm not going to force you. I wouldn't, anyway, in the same place he did last Saturday. Oh, I know you didn't go back to your room in college, so you needn't pretend."
As suddenly as before his manner changed. "Oh, Petra, wouldn't you rather be with a real man who can show you what love really is, someone who's free to love you and marry you and give you children, than—" his expression darkened again—"a man who's married and would have to keep you tucked away and then leave you alone while he scuttles back home to his darling wife?"
Petra stared at Tom in blank disbelief. The colour drained from her face leaving her pale and cold. "But—but Nicholas isn't married," she whispered.
"Isn't he? Have you asked him?"
"No, of course not. The subject…"
"Didn't arise." Tom finished the sentence for her. "I'm sure it didn't! He'd take care of that, at least until he was sure of you."
Petra's legs felt weak and she sank on to a chair. "I don't believe you," she said. "You're making it up just to get your own back. I know you are!"
Tom laughed unpleasantly. "I might have, if I'd thought of it. But in this case I didn't have to. Nicholas Romilly is married, so there's no room for you in his life except as his mistress."
"How do you know he's married?" asked Petra, a little of her spirit returning to her. "Who told you?"
"No one told me, but it's not difficult to find out. You gave me a book of his to read before he came to the conference. Well, I didn't read it then, but I have now, at least—" he corrected himself smoothly—"I've read the jacket and that's the most interesting part of all. I'll show you."
To Petra's horror he picked up his discarded overcoat and took a book from its pocket. She recognised it at once as a copy of one of Nicholas' accounts of some work he'd done on the Greek mainland several years before.
Tom presented it to her open at the back where the author's notes were on the jacket. There was a list of Nicholas' scholastic achievements including his chair at a new university and then at the end the words she had been dreading leapt to meet her: "Professor Romilly lives with his wife in London."
Petra stared unseeing at the words. Tears filled her eyes and poured down her cheeks. Silently she wept, in sudden and awful desolation. The hand that held the book shook violently and Tom took it from her.
For a moment he watched her, all triumph draining away as he saw her grief, then he said softly, "Do you want me to stay?"
Unable to speak, Petra shook her head, she wanted to be alone. Gently he kissed her forehead and turned away.
Petra didn't recoil at his kiss, she was unaware of it, as she was unaware of his departure. It wasn't until the click of the latch on the front door penetrated her mind that she knew he had gone and rending sobs escaped her.
Petra arrived at college the next morning very pale and washed-out but with a great many things sorted out in her mind. She hadn't slept that night. For the first few hours she lay on the bed where she had been with Nicholas and wept for her lost happiness. Her life seemed to stretch away into the distance, a flat grey expanse without relief or colour. She viewed it bleakly for a long time before her natural optimism exerted itself in any measure.
Pale-faced, Petra had returned to the living-room and picked up the book. There once again she read the fateful words. Turning to the front she looked for the date of publication and discovered it was 1978. Seven years ago. A flame of hope flickered inside her. All that Tom had proved from the book was that Nicholas had been married in 1977, but it was now 1985 and anything might have happened. People got divorced, didn't they? Or died? Petra shuddered. She didn't wish anybody dead, not even Nicholas' wife, but marriages did break up.
Why hadn't Nicholas said at the outset that he was married? Why hadn't he brought his wife to the conference? Why hadn't the subject come up in conversation? Was that what he'd been going to tell her before their feelings had blotted out all thoughts of speech?
All these questions churned in her mind, and yet she was no nearer a solution. How could she confirm the situation one way or another? One answer was obvious and that was to tax Nicholas with it on Saturday, but even as her mind accepted this as the simple solution she was loath to do so without further proof. It wasn't so long ago that she had accused Nicholas of inhuman and uncivilised behaviour without making enough effort to check the facts and circumstances. She had been made to look a fool then, and she was in no hurry to make the same mistake again.
Perhaps Nicholas had just assumed she knew the truth. If he thought she already knew, then there was no need to say anything to her. He hadn't necessarily set out to deceive her.
Then she recalled again how he had put her away from him on two earlier occasions. How he had kissed her passionately and then broken free as if something had come into his mind—memories of his wife? She could call to mind now the strange torment on his face in the car; as if he were fighting a battle, she had thought at the time. Perhaps he had been, against his guilt.
And when he left her curled up in bed, saying he had commitments in Yorkshire, had he really had to be there that day or did he have to return home to spend Sunday with his wife first?
But if there was a wife waiting patiently at home, where did she think he had been on Saturday? The answer to that particular question was simple of course: he'd been in Grayston-on-Sea moving his mother into an old people's home.
None of the questions which bombarded Petra's bemused brain brought her any nearer to resolving the situation, but as the grey dawn crept into the sky, she managed to make one firm decision. She would find later books in the college library or better still look in Who's Who. A man like Professor Nicholas Romilly would almost certainly be in that.
Even this minor decision helped her feel a little better, and she made herself a cup of coffee and, still feeling unable to sleep, set to work on assessing the students' essays she had brought home the previous evening.
She fought to concentrate her mind on the work in front of her, but even so she found her thoughts drifting away from studies of the Paston letters and the fifteenth-century, and returning to the dull ache in her heart which told her her hopes were indeed forlorn ones and that Nicholas was indeed married.
Well, she would make what enquiries she could and then tackle Nicholas when he came on Saturday. If he came.
There was no time before her first lecture to visit the library, but when it was over she hurried to the reference section and searched for Who's Who.
She carried the hefty tome across to a quiet table in an alcove and with trembling fingers turned up Romilly—Peregrine Nicholas
b. 25th June 1948—then his schools were listed and universities and then in black and white m. Anne Chappie 1973. More information followed, but Petra didn't read it. Who's Who thought he was married as well, and now the wife had a name. Anne. Quickly she checked the date of that edition. 1980, still not completely up to date.
Her flame of hope refused to be quenched. Surely someone like Nicholas would not two-time his wife, he was a man of integrity, wasn't he? In public life yes, in private who knew? Several of the girl students had been in raptures about him, and certainly not with regard to his lecture and his work alone. He was an extremely attractive man. Surely he'd have no difficulty finding willing women if he wanted them. 'Witness the way I fell swooning into his arms,' thought Petra bitterly, but even so she couldn't believe it of him. Not yet. All that was left to her was to ask him outright—but then if it weren't true, she would have admitted that she had doubted him; believed him capable of such duplicity. And if it did turn out to be true, he would surely laugh at her naiveté. Not that that would matter very much, she thought dully, for I shouldn't see him again if it were true. So she told herself and so she had decided, but that decision had yet to be put to the test.
Then, while she was in the middle of a tutorial, an idea came to her and the simplicity of it made her feel quite faint. As soon as the session was over, she reached for her briefcase and emptied it on to her desk. Quickly she searched through the papers and files until she found what she was looking for, the letter from Nicholas accepting the invitation to speak at the conference. There at the top was printed his London address and phone number. There was one easy way to confirm or deny the truth of Nicholas being married and that was to phone and see if his wife answered.
She shoved the letter into her handbag and spent the rest of the day going through the motions of being a lecturer and tutor. She didn't see Tom. She had no wish to meet him with things still unresolved and so she made coffee in her tutorial room and kept well clear of the staff-room and dining-hall. Nor did Tom make any effort to seek her out, for which she was grateful.
At last the day ended. Another of her decisions, that of moving back into the flat immediately, had to be implemented and ringing for a taxi she packed her belongings and vacated the college guest-room. She left a note of thanks for the Principal, remembering to commend, in it, the students who had so generously come to her aid, and waited for the taxi in the hall.
When at last Petra was safely in the refuge of her home, she made herself a pot of tea and then, finding herself unable to do anything until she had made her phone call, she drew the letter with his number on it from her handbag, and prepared to dial.
The number rang out and as she listened, praying that no Mrs. Romilly would answer it, Petra suddenly wondered what she would say if there was a reply—she had thought of no excuse for the call.
Quickly she slammed her hand on the telephone buttons and cut off the call. She must have a reason to phone. She thought for a moment, to find something that, should it be needed, would not arouse Nicholas' suspicions if he heard of the call later. Journalist? No, she would have to name a paper. Business? Market Research? Then a perfect idea came to her, she would say she was a freelance photographer and ask to make an appointment to take some pictures. Nicholas wasn't there, of course, so she could ring off promising to call again for an appointment.
Once again she dialled the number, promising herself she would wait for twenty rings before she rang off. There was no reply. Instead of adding fuel to her hopes this inconclusive result made her even more depressed. She rang again every twenty minutes, each time letting the number ring twenty times before giving up.
At her fifth attempt, on the eleventh ring, the receiver was picked up and a woman with a pleasant voice said the number. Shaking violently, Petra took a deep breath and began her prepared call.
"Is that Professor Nicholas Romilly's home?"
"Yes, it is, who's calling, please?"
"May I speak to Professor Romilly, please?"
"I'm sorry, he's in Yorkshire this week." The voice sounded regretful.
"Am I speaking to Mrs. Romilly?" asked Petra huskily.
"Yes."
"Mrs. Anne Romilly?"
"That's right. Who is that, please?"
"I'm so sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Romilly, my name is—" Petra paused, she hadn't thought of a name, "Margaret Mitchell—"she had caught sight of her copy of Gone with the Wind, on the bookshelf. "I'm a freelance photographer. I just wanted to make an appointment with Professor Romilly. Perhaps I can phone again."
"Yes, do, Miss Mitchell. I expect him home tomorrow evening."
"Thank you very much," and feeling sick and miserable, Petra hung up.
Anne Romilly had existed in 1978 when the book was published, in 1980 when the Who's Who in the library was published and in 1985 when Petra Hinton spoke to her on the telephone.
Chapter Seven
Now that she had established beyond doubt that Nicholas, the man she had fallen so deeply in love with, was married, Petra, stunned and shocked, had to consider what she should do about the situation.
She could of course tell him she knew about his wife and say she would never see him again. That was indeed what she knew she ought to do, but had she the strength? Supposing he admitted he was married when she taxed him with it, but suggested they carried on their own liaison? Was she prepared to do so? Was half a loaf better than no bread? Or, she could pretend she knew nothing and wait for him to tell her, but even then the ultimate question to be decided would be the same.
The evening stretched before her, but there was work she had to do, and trying hard to relegate all thoughts of Nicholas and her dilemma to the back of her mind, she set herself to it. She was in some measure successful. Even though as she closed each folder she had to force herself to open the next, while she was actually reading the contents and commenting upon them, she found her attention held.
At last she closed the final one and went to bed. She pulled her quilt about her and dozed off quite quickly despite her mind's subconscious agonising about her problems.
When she awoke in the morning she felt tired and unrested, but she found her decision had been partially taken. She would tell Nicholas she knew about his wife. She knew there was no way she could maintain a pretence of not knowing. All she had to do was wait for a suitable moment on Saturday night and break the news.
All she could do now, was live through the next thirty-six hours, and as always hard work seemed the answer. After a morning of third year lectures and tutorials, she got ready to pay an unexpected visit on her teaching practice students. It would keep her mind well occupied and mean she would have little chance of meeting Tom.
On her way past the secretary's office, she popped in to hand in her expenses sheet. Miss Merton, the secretary, was a chatty soul, and Petra was subjected to the latest college gossip, all except that relating to herself, of course.
Miss Merton was interrupted in full flow when the telephone rang, and Petra edged thankfully away as the secretary's attention was turned from her, but she was stopped at the door.
"This call's for you, Petra. Don't be too long, your friends should use the common-room phone, you know."
Petra's heart missed a beat. It must be Nicholas. No one else would ring her here. She was right and her heart skipped again as she heard his deep voice say, "Petra? Is that you? I thought I'd have to leave a message."
Aware that Miss Merton was at her elbow, gathering in every word for future distribution, Petra kept her reply formal.
"Yes, Professor, how nice to hear from you."
Nicholas laughed. "You're being overheard," he said.
"As a matter of fact I am."
"Never mind. We'll cut the protestations of undying love to a minimum. Had a good week?"
"Not bad. Have you?" Petra found her voice came huskily and cleared her throat.
"Fine. Very good, in fact. The problem is, as a result, something has come up and I
shan't be able to make it this weekend."
"Oh."
"I'm sorry, angel, but I'll try and get away one day next week."
"If you like." Petra suddenly felt very tired.
"Sure you don't mind?" Nicholas sounded relieved.
"No. I understand."
"I knew you would. I'll explain it all when I see you."
"Yes. I must go now." Petra knew it sounded rather abrupt, but she had to end the conversation before she broke down and cried.
Nicholas' voice softened. "Take care. I'll come as soon as I can get away. 'Bye now."
" 'Bye." Petra's farewell was little more than a whisper and she replaced the receiver.
With a deep breath she turned round to face the inquisitive secretary. "Thank you, Miss Merton," she said and left the office.
So, Nicholas wasn't coming on Saturday and Petra would have to wait even longer before she could have an answer to the question that tormented her. His words, "couldn't get away," came back to her, echoing in her despondent mind. "Get away," as if there was a restriction.
Quickly she made a decision and before setting out to visit her students as she had planned, she slipped into the telephone booth in the front hall and phoned her parents.
"Darling, what a lovely surprise," cried her mother. "Of course you can come home for the weekend. When shall we expect you?"
"I'll collect my things after college this afternoon," Petra replied, "and depending on trains, should be with you later tonight."
"That's marvellous," said her mother. "Dad will be pleased when I tell him. I'll have something in the oven that'll keep, so just get here when you can."
Her mother's voice sounded so relaxed and normal that Petra almost broke down, but she knew she had made the right decision. A weekend alone in the flat was unthinkable.
She made her school visit brief and managed to catch a train earlier than she had anticipated. Once she was on her way, Petra found herself longing to be there, close within the safe familiarity of home, with her parents, always so loving and understanding at her side. They would know at once, when they saw her, that something was wrong, but Petra was certain they wouldn't pry or question her; they would wait for her to confide in them. If she chose not to, they would give her comfort and strength simply by being there.
A Chance of Happiness Page 8
