Harlequin Omnibus: Take Me with You, Choose What You Will, Meant for Each Other

by Mary Burchell

  he would continue to pretend to her that the letter contained damaging statements which, in fact, it did not.

  Now, she was to read it in its entirety—that was, if the copy was a true one—and, inwardly, she shrank from the final, irrevocable acceptance of the weight of evidence against her.

  Brent, dear, (Dilys had written, though the typed copy gave a curious impersonality to what must certamly have been an agitated letter), I know this will come as a shock to you, and indeed to everyone concerned. But I've decided that I can't go on without Roddy, and we're being married this morning by special license, and going straight to London, together. Our plans after that aren t very settled, but we're probably going to follow up an opening which a friend of his—a fellow pilot—thinks he can get for him in South Africa. Anyway, I shall let you know, of course, what we finally decide.

  Don't be too angry and upset. You know yourself that for weeks I 've been miserable and undecided. In the end, it was Harriet who made me see it all quite clearly. We had a long talk that afternoon I drove her into Barndale. She brought up the subject herself—which I thought rather odd, until I realized that she had a very personal stake in the whole affair. She is in love with Lin herself, as you declared. But, not only that, she told me categorically that she believed she could make him love her if I were not there. There was really only one decent thing for me to do, after that.

  You do understand, don't you, Brent? I suppose I had somehow resigned myself to sacrificing my own happiness and Roddy's to your best interests, if, in so doing, I could make at least a reasonable success of my marriage with Lin. But when someone else loved Lin—and could probably make him happy—it was extending the ring of sacrifice beyond decency and common sense. Besides, to this day I don't know whether my failure to marry a rich man would really involve you in disaster, or merely mean that life wasn 't so pleasant for you as we could both wish. If your need was so great, you should have been frank with me. Brent. As it is, I've just suddenly decided to cut the Gordian knot right through, and go off with Roddy.

  I know this is a cowardly way of doing things. But I am a coward. At any rate, I haven't the courage to face fresh arguments with you, or the awfulness of going to Lin and telling him the truth. This way, it's brutal, but it's final. Roddy and I have a right to some happiness together. He ^ needs me and I need him. As for Lin—I'm terribly sorry, but I hope Harriet will console him eventually.

  This is a long letter, B;-ent—probably the longest I've ever written to you—but I wanted you to know just how I felt, and why I've acted this way. The only thing left to do is to send you my love—and, in spite of everything, I do that with all my heart.

  Dilys.

  For quite a while after Harriet had really finished reading the letter, she sat there with her head bent over the typescript, trying to see her way clear.

  What was she to do? What was she to say?

  This disastrous effusion—written by an anxious, loving sister, whose one idea was to justify herself in her brother's eyes—was sheer dynamite, in Brent's hands. If he chose to turn spiteful and show it to Lin—Harriet broke out in cold sweat at the thought.

  That he had shown it to her at all meant that he intended to use it as some form of threat or punishment. No doubt, he felt burning resentment against her for having used any influence she might have with Dilys to make her take a decison so disastrous to himself And Brent was probably disposed to show his resentment in a pretty malicious manner.

  "Not much doubt about the meaning of all that, is there?" Brent addressed her in a friendly, chatty tone. *'Lin wouldn't need any dotting of i's and crossing of t's in order to guess who had managed his affairs for him."

  Harriet passed the tip of her tongue over her lips.

  "Do you propose to show it to him?" she asked. And she was thankful that, though pitched a tone higher than usual, her voice sounded calm. "It doesn't show you up in exactly a noble light, does it?"

  "No. I suppose it doesn't," he agreed, without embarrassment. "But then—it isn't necessary to show Lin the whole letter. In fact, since Dilys considerately spread it over

  i

  several paees, I need only show Lin—if I do show him anything, I mean—the one page which will interest him most.'*

  "And which—'* asked Harriet, with a feeling of sick dread "-which is that?"

  "Page two." Brent sounded elib and amused. "Beginning, if I remember rightly, 'In the end, it was Harriet who made me see it all,' and ending, *There was really only one decent thing for me to do after that.' "

  "But—"Feverishly Harriet searched once more through the sentences she had just read, trying to find those he mentioned.

  She found them finally, read them again, and then cried out in anger and dismay: "You can't! You simply can't! It's utterly unfair. It makes me sound as though I were responsible for the whole thing. It doesn't give a single extenuating circumstance—doesn't even mention that her mind was three-quarters made up already."

  He stared ahead at the road, smiling, and didn't make any reply.

  "Brent, you can't show him that!"

  "I haven't said that I will yet."

  "Then why are you tormenting me like this? What are you hinting and—and threatening?"

  "Perhaps I'm just punishing you for your interference, by giving you a bad frient," he told her lightly.

  She wished—oh, how she wished—that she could believe that was all. But she knew Brent too well by now.

  "No—there's something else in your mind," she exclaimed. "What is it? Why are you holding it over me? What do you—do you want me to do?"

  He continued to smile.

  "You're making much too heavy weather of this, Harriet," he told her, carelessly. "I thought you should know just what Dilys had written to me, since it concerns you so vitally. It would be unfair not to let you see that you are in this rather—what shall I say—this rather vulnerable position. I don't know that there's any more to it than that, at the moment."

  She stared at him, her mouth set in a hard line that was quite unlike its usual expression.

  "You mean you want me to understand that you have

  something with which you can blackmail me, at any time you think fit, '* she said grimly.

  *'Harriet-dear!" He laughed. "Who's talking of blackmail? That's really a very ugly word, as all the best villains always say. Its horrid implication is the demanding of money by menaces and threats. I haven't even mentioned money—I hope it never will be mentioned between you and me—and I don't think I've either threatened or menaced you. Your guilty conscience is making you imagine things."

  Harriet was silent. She was not in the least reassured. She knew she was not even intended to be. But it was difficult to see how she could press him further.

  It was probably very much as he had said—that he wished her to know how vulnerable was her position. Being the man he was, he would probably use that to his advantage at some future date. But, in the meantime, he would content himself with a little malicious amusement at her expense, in return for the ill turn she had unwittingly done him, and would probably enjoy himself, forcing her to be much more friendly to him than she wished.

  "Why are you trying to—to reassure me now?" she asked, a bitter little note of suspicion and sarcasm sounding through her usually calm tones.

  "Why not? You don't suppose I want to have you anxious and unhappy when we're out on a party of pleasure, do you?" Brent demanded, almost reproachfully. As a matter of fact, I'm rather fond of you, Harriet. If you hadn't dealt me such a dirty blow over this business with Dilys, I'd say you were much the most interesting and stimulating girl I'd met for a long time. No, don't turn pettish about it—' as she made an angry Uttle movement of disdain and rejection "—even scamps like myself have their softer moments, you know." He grinned at her. "And certainly scamps like myself regard feminine company as an absolute essential to their pleasure and well-being. You have done me out of the company of my extremely charming and doc
ile sister. The least you can do, in compensation, is to take her place, as far as possible."

  '^'To take her place!"

  "Oh, I don't ask you to be a sister to me. I feel, somehow, that I would never come to look upon you with a brotherly eye. But you are a charming companion, my sweet Harriet. I

  think Vm going to see quite a lot of you in future.*' And he laughed. "Here we are—'* as he swung the car toward the entry of the only big hotel Barndale boasted "—just at the right moment. We have had time to talk over everything important, and to see quite clearly how we stand. Now we can enjoy our evening, without any need for further explanation or discussion. *

  To see quite clearly how they stood!

  Yes, Harriet thought, as she paused before one of the triple mirrors in the surprisingly luxurious powder room, which the management of the Excelsior provided for its female guests, there was little doubt now where she and Brent stood. Within reason—and probably a good way outside reason—he could force her into doing just what he liked, because she could not, could not, have that page of Dilys*s letter shown to Lin, in any circumstances whatever.

  She wondered why she showed so little evidence of the terrifying experience through which she had gone. She was a trifle pale perhaps, and her eyes looked unusually dark, but the reflection that faced her in the mirror might have been that of any pretty, serious-minded girl who was anticipating a pleasant evening's dancing with a friend.

  She didn't look at all like anyone who was trapped and desperate—who had every reason to believe that her fondest hopes had been crushed and that her worst fears might yet materialize.

  Only now did Harriet realize how much she had built on the new degree of warmth and intimacy that had crept into her relationship with Lin during the last few days. It would have been absurd and almost indecent to have attached any great importance to it, considering that his engagement to someone else had so recently been broken. But, in spite of all the dreadful complications of the situation, she knew now that she had drawn the most happy and hopeful conclusions from the fact that he had turned so naturally and willingly to her for sympathy and any support that a man of his type could need.

  That it might never have eone any further than that, Harriet wouja have been the first to admit. But she would have been less than human if she had not rejoiced in anything that seemed to point, even remotely, to happier possibilities.

  Now, that was over almost before it had begun. Brent evidently meant to identify himself as her natural escort and companion, and she was going to have to look as though she liked it. What he had said about requiring female companionship was perfectly true. She even thought it was quite possibly true that she had a certain attraction for him. If that were so, he would take the greatest pleasure in keeping Lindsay Mayhew at a distance from her. And, there again, she was going to have to seem to concur.

  By the time Harriet went out to join her obviously well-satisfied escort, she felt so desperate and so angry that she could only hope Brent's position had been made so precarious by Dilys^ defection that he would presently nave to leave the district.

  At present, his good spirits and air of confidence lent little weight to that hope. And the only discovery that gave Harriet any pleasure that evening—and that a very negative pleasure—was the discovery that Brent was the most superb dancer who had ever partnered her.

  Since something in the shape of conversation had to pass between them unless she wished them to look conspicuous, she unbent to the extent of remarking on his accomplishment.

  "I was a professional dancing partner, in one of my less successful periods of existence, he told her, without prevarication.

  "Yes, I know. Dilys mentioned it, now I come to think of it."

  "By Jove, you girls did have an orgy of confidences on the fatal day, didn't you?" he remarked amusedly. "What else did Dilys tell you about me? "

  "That you had always been a wonderfully good brother to her," Harriet said slowly. At which, to her astonishment. Brent's bold glance wavered for a moment.

  She had meant to add something cutting to the effect that Dilys had also expressed the belief that he might end up in prison. But, for some reason, she desisted. She was not quite sure why, except that her impulse had something to do with the fact that the affection between Brent and Dilys was the only decent thing in this whole sorry, sordid business, and perhaps the one comment on it should be allowed to stand alone, without any sarcastic qualification.

  He changed the subject rather abruptly after that. And, neither during the rest of the evening nor during the drive home, was any further reference made to Dilys or to the events that had led up to their being together that evening.

  Only, when he deposited her once more at Fourways he smilea and said—as any ordinary escort might, "We must do this again, Harriet.*'

  She could not give him the curt refusal she longed to give. So she said, without any answering smile, "We might—a little later on.'*

  "No later than next Saturday," he assured her.

  "Butlcan'tllmean-';

  "Come! Even the most devoted companion expects one evening to herself during the week.*'

  "But perhaps I don't wish to spend it with you," she retored coldly, feeling that complete submission to him, even though he held all the cards, was unwise.

  "I thought you and I were going to be friends," he said.

  It infuriated her that she didn't even know whether that was intended to be threatening or not. If someone were really blackmailing you and it was a matter of life and death, you knew where you were and that a threat was a threat. But this! This was so maddeningly trivial. It might mean anything or nothing.

  "I'll think it over," Harriet said curtly.

  And before he could say anymore she ran up the steps and let herself into the house.

  Only, when she had closed the door again she leaned against it, trembling with a fear out of all proportion to the occasion. And unable to keep back a few of the tears, which had been threatening her all evening, she gave one or two soundless little sobs and fumbled for her handkerchief.

  As she did so, Lin came out of the study and flashed on the hall light.

  "Hello. I thought I heard-Harriet! What on earth is the matter?"

  He was beside her in a moment, his arm around her and his free hand reassuringly clasping hers.

  "What is it, my dear? Have you been frightened or something?"

  "No," she whispered, feeling indescribably silly and

  indescribably comforted. '*It's all right. I ... I thought everyone was in bed."

  "Everyone else is. And I was just going.*' He led her into his study while he was talking to her and, seating her in a chair by the dying fire, he stood looking down.at her with afifectionate concern. "Can't you tell me what's wrong?"

  Oh, if she could! If only she could!

  Instead, she had* to grope about in her tired and harassed mind for some explanation that would not only be plausible, but would be in line with the attitude Brent was forcing her to take up. She couldn't just plead that Brent had been offensive or alarming or objectionably unmanageable, because, in the very near future, she was going to have to behave as though she liked his company.

  "It ... it really wasn't anything much." She forced herself to a rueful and shamed little laugh. "I wouldn't have allowed myself the silly luxury of a few tears if I'd dreamed that anyone was about. It ... it was rather a disappointing evening, and—"

  "I think you'd better tell me just what Brent did," he interrupted dryly. "Once and for all. I do not intend to have him insult or upset you."

  "Oh, he didn't! It wasn't anything like that."

  "No?" Lin was evidently a good deal surprised by her emphatic denial.

  "No. He—we—oh, it was a specially pleasant and delightful evening, right up to the end. And then we—we had some words on the way home. Rather—rather a stupid quarrel. I don't know why I let it upset me so much, but—" her voice trailed away. And then she added a little fee
bly, ^'Well-well, there it is."

  "But do you mean to say—" he looked astounded and not especially pleased "—I know it's not my business, but do you mean to say you cried over a minor quarrel with Brent Penrose?"

  "Oh, I know it ... it sounds silly."

  His face darkened, and some of the friendly concern went out of it, to be succeeded by all the signs of his having received a most unpleasant surprise.

  "I hadn't realized that... that Brent's behavior meant all that much to you," he said, rather stiffly. And then, "I'm

  afraid I should apologize for trying to make you enlarge on a private matter.! rather put my foot in it, didn't I?"

  **No. No, not at all, she assured him miserably. But, because she could not possibly explain the real situation to him, she had to let him go on thinking whatever seemed to him to be a reasonable—though unwelcome—explanation of the scene.

  There was an awkward little silence. Then she got up and said, **ril go up to bed now. Thank you for being kind. I'm ... rmsoriylwassosilly."

  "Don't mention it," he said formally. But whether he meant his kindness or her silliness, she was not quite sure.

  She went to bed, feeling that fate could hardly deal her any more blows.

  Next day, of course, life went on as usual. Or almost as usual. To all appearances, nothing momentous had taken place. After all, that small scene with Lin could hardly be considered momentous.

  And yet—Harriet knew that some subtle change had come about.

  As everyone, except Mrs. Mayhew—who rose late—breakfasted together on Sundays, Harriet was able to take an early opportunity of considering whether her scene with Lin was to have any repercussions. And before the end of the meal she feared that he had put all too serious a construction on her so-called concern over a difference with Brent.

  Although he was perfectly friendly to her, she could not help noticing that he devoted so much of his conversation to his sister and the children that he really had very little occasion to speak to her at all. At any other time, of course, she would hardly have noticed this, but today every detail had its anxious significance.