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

by Mary Burchell

  "Oh, it wasn't so serious, really," Thea explained airily, because she felt somehow that everything was all right now that he was here.

  "Perhaps not. But until we got you to hospital I didn't know that I hadn't killed you,' he said, and something of the grimness of his previous fears showed in his face for a moment.

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  ''You didn't do it. It was the truck driver's fault," Thea said indignantly.

  He shook his head impatiently.

  ''I wish I felt as sure about that. But never mmd now. You're not supposed to talk much, and if I encourage you to do so they '11 send me away.''

  "Oh." She was silent for perhaps two minutes. Then she said, "Can I ask one question?"

  "Well?" He smiled down at her and looked much more like himself

  "Does Geraldine know about the accident?"

  "Oh, yes, of course. I telephoned her last night before I left here."

  "Was she-" Thea looked faintly embarrassed "—was she very cross? "

  "Cross, Thea? With you? Why should she be? No, I expect she was sorry and upset yhen she heard. I didn't speak to her myself She was out. But I explained fully to Ijenham, and I don't doubt Geraldine will come down here some time today."

  "Oh." Thea tried to sound as though the prospect gave her at any rate a decent amount of pleasure. "Are we far from town here?"

  " No, dear, not very. It's quite an easy drive.''

  Then Geraldine probably would come, Thea thought. Oh, well, it might be best to get any unpleasantness over with, and perhaps she wouldn't be cross, anyway, or only so little that her sympathy over the accident would outweigh it.

  "Are you feelmg all right?" she asked him presently. "The nurse said you were rather badly bruised—oh, am I leaning on your hurt arm?"

  "No." He smiled down at her. "It's nothing very much, anyway. I'm quite all right."

  "The nurse said they thought your arm was broken at first." She very gently ran her hand down his free arm.

  He watched her finders and said, "They strapped it up for me. It will be all right m a day or two."

  "You put it up to-to shield my face, didn't you?"

  "Never mind about that now." He stroked her hair, or as much of it as showed above the bandage, because he must have noticed the tremor in her voice.

  "Do you know what's happened to my hand?"

  ''No. Does it hurt you?'*

  "A bit. Not much. It's all in plaster and feels funny and heavy."

  *'It's bound to do that while the plaster is on, you know."

  "Yes, of course. I hope it's not much hurt." She frowned. It's going to be a bother with typing if it takes a long time to heal. Oh, dear! I did so want to be quick with my traming."

  ''Don't worry about that. The great thing is to keep cheerful and get well soon," he told her, with the faintly helpless air of a very fit man confronted with illness for the first time.

  "Yes, of course." She smiled at him. "And don't you worry, either. And don't go thinking it was your fault, because I'm sure it wasn't. And anyway—it was a lovely day,'' she finished, with defiant cheefulness.

  He laughed slightly and said, "You dear child." And after that she didn't bother to talk anymore, because it was nicer just to lie there against his arm and not worry about anything.

  She was not quite sure when he went because she must have fallen asleep. And in the end, the rest of the day passed without Geraldine putting in an appearance. So either she didn't bother to come, and contented herself with telephoning, or else "they" decided that Thea had had enough visiting for the day.

  Some days—Thea hardly knew how many—drifted past in very much the same way. Lindsay came in most days to see her, and was unfailingly kind to her.

  Except for him, she had no visitors, and the only other events to mark her placid routine were mealtimes and the visits of the doctor. And even these seemed to follow each other with rather astonishing rapidity, because she so often fell asleep in between and then was not quite sure where the time haa gone.

  "Did you ever have anyone else sleep like this?" she asked her nurse interestedly. "It's just as though I mean to sleep away the time until I'm better."

  '*The best thing possible," her nurse told her amusedly. "It will probably put ten years onto your life, being able to sleep like that."

  Tnea was feeling quite cheerful enough to welcome the , idea of an extra ten years by now and said as much.

  "But I wish someone would tell me a bit more about my hand, "she added.

  *'Well, there isn't much to say until the plaster comes off," the nurse explained. "Several of the fingers were broken and—"

  "Several?" Thea was a good deal shocked.

  "Oh, yes. But there's no reason why they shouldn't mend . very well."

  "I see. Was there anything else the matter with it?"

  "You had a nasty gash across it."

  "But nothing that won't mend quite quickly?" Thea tried not to make that sound anxious, because she was afraid she would be given only hollow reassurances if she sounded especially agitated.

  "Well, it will be weak for a while, of course. You can't go doing things like that to your hand and expect it to like it. Do you play the piano or—" the nurse hesitated and looked faintly anxious "—the violin? "

  "No. At least, I can strum on the piano, but it's not vital. Only-"

  "That's all right then." The nurse seemed relieved, Thea couldn 't help thinking. Or perhaps that was just her own anxious imagination.

  "But I have to type in my work," she said firmly. "At least, I'm learning to type, for the kind of work I'm going to do."

  "Oh, I see."

  "Might it affect that very much?" .

  "We-ell, it's difficult to say until the plaster comes off. Anyway, I wouldn 't worry."

  Yes, you would, thought Thea. And so would anyone. But it's no good making oneself miserable. I'll just have to wait and be patient.

  And that afternoon Geraldine came.

  Lindsay had already told Thea that he would not be able to get down to see her that day, so that when she heard her nurse talking in what she secretly called her "distinguished visitors" voice, she guessed, with a nasty little leap of heart, that it was Geraldine.

  However, nothing could have been sweeter than the smile that Geraldine was wearing as she entered the room. She was the absolute picture of the famous actress visiting a sick

  relative and bringing sunshine with her, Thea couldn't help thinking a little cynically. But it was a welcome change to have Geraldine actually kiss her and say, "Why you poor little thing, what have you been doing to yourself?*' And then, as Thea murmured something rather embarrassed and unintelligible, "Or, rather, what has Lin been doing to you?"

  "Oh, Geraldine, it wasn't his fault," Thea cried eagerly, as the nurse went out, closing the door behind her. "Don't suggest anything like that to him, even in jest. He's very much upset about it as it is."

  "I should think so." Geraldine—radiant in a cherry-red suit that accentuated her brilliant fairness, and a pearl-gray fox fur, which was already being described down to the last hair by Thea's nurse to her colleagues—smiled in a slightly overcharming way at Thea. "I expect Lin to take better care of any relation of mine when he takes her out. Particularly if he takes her out without even mentioning the fact to me."

  "Oh, Geraldine, that—that was my fault."

  "What was, dear?"

  Geraldine had never called her "dear" before, and it frightened her quite a lot.

  "I just—just didn't happen to mention it to you that I was going with Lin—with Mr. Varlon. No doubt he—thought I had. But he asked me quite—quite casually, the last evening I was out with Stephen and Mrs. Dorley, and then, somehow, I just didn't think to mention it."

  Until that moment, Thea had never known what a bad liar she was, and under Geraldine's half-amused stare she felt herself go a deep pink.

  "I see," Geraldine said. And Thea was perfectly sure that she did. However, she
only added, "Now tell me how you are. Do they look after you properly here? By the way, I brought some fruit for you. I gave it to your nurse."

  "Oh, did you, Geraldine?" Thea was touched and gratified and relieved. "How very kind of you. I'm really getting on splendidly. Yes, they're most awfully kind and look after me splendidly."

  ' Just then the nurse came back, bringing tea, and Geraldine said in a tone of charming appreciative protest, "Oh, nurse, you shouldn't have bothered. How kind of you. My

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  little cousin tells me you*re very good to her, and that there's not a thins she wants/'

  The nurse blushed with pleasure and evidently registered for future broadcasting the pleasing fact that Geraldine Marven was at least as charming off the stage as on.

  She said warmly that Thea was a very good patient, and that once the plaster was off her hand, she would very likely be able to think about going home.

  Geraldine didn't pick up .the question of going home, Thea noticed. Instead, she said, "Poor child, is the hand very badly hurt?"

  "Oh, it's not too bad," Thea said hastily. "It hurts a bit sometimes, but I don't mind about that, as long as it gets strong again quickly, and I can go back to my classes."

  "Yes, of course." Geraldine sounded pleasantly vague, and she poured out tea for them both, and stayed long enough to drink a cup of it.

  But all the time, Geraldine talked pleasantly about nothing and never touched on the one or two subjects that were worrying Thea so profoundly: her having to stay much longer in the apartment now, and her having to be there during her convalescent stage because there would be simply nowhere else to go.

  And certainly there was no further mention whatever of her having gone out for the day with Lindsay Varlon without saying anything about it.

  .And then, just as Geraldine was going—as she had even risen to take her leave, in fact—she said quite casually, "I have Kay Pelham staying with me just now. You remember, she plays the ingenue with me at the Crescent. But Denham packed up all your things very carefully. You'll find them quite easy to move when the time comes. *'

  "When the-when the time comes," stammered Thea, knowing now that she was face to face with the Geraldine she had been fearing ever since she woke up in hospital. "But, Geraldine, I m-am I not coming back to the apartment?"

  "Oh, my dear child, there's no knowing when you will be leaving here. I can't exactly keep all my arrangements waiting on yours, you know.'

  "No-of course not. But I was to be there for some time longer anyway, wasn't I? I mean if this hadn't happened-"

  "But it has,** Geraldine interrupted crisply. "Tm sorry, Thea, but with one hand useless, there's no knowing how long you may be before you're able to do anything for yourself. It's really too much of a proposition for me to take on.**

  "But what am I to do?'* Thea said rather faintly.

  "I don't really know. But no doubt Lin will have some ideas,'* Geraldine replied, and there was so much cool malice in her tone that if Thea had had no suspicions before of the reason for this move, the whole matter would have beenperfectly clear to her then.

  "Geraldine—** she began rather desperately. But Geraldine, it seemed, had really no more time to waste on her young cousin.

  "Tm sorry, my dear—" she glanced at her tiny diamond wristwatch "—I simply have to fly. It*s already half an hour later than I realized, and I shall have my work cut out to get to the theater in time. Take care of yourself and get well soon. Au 'voir." And she was gone before Thea could make any further protest.

  But even if she had stayed, what more was there to say? How did one insist on being allowed to stay in a household where one was very distinctly not wanted? Geraldine had only one spare room in her beautiful apartment. If she wanted a friend to stay there with her, why should she give up the room to a tiresome young cousin—especially now that the time for which she would want it was quite unspecified.

  "If only I knew what to do," Thea muttered wretchedly. "Oh, I wish I knew quite positively about my hand. If I could say categorically to Geraldine that it would only take this-and-this time, she might listen. She wouldn't be willing, and it's awful to have to be so pressing, but at least I could make some reasonable offer.''

  There was no one to whom she could turn for advice or consolation. Lindsay would not be coming until tomorrow— possibly not then, because he was very busy with his new production—and in any case, she could not perpetually unload her troubles on him. "It isn't even decent," Thea told herself angrily.

  Something of her worry must have been obvious in her lowered spirits, because the nurse tried to cheer her up by

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  talking about her famous and beautiful cousin, and what fun it must be to have a real actress in the family.

  Thea responded as best she could and successfully hid the fact that the famous and beautiful cousin was herself responsible for the present lowering of spirits.

  For the first time she slept rather badly that night, but in the morning she was a good deal cheered by the news that her hand was to come out of plaster that day.

  "It may have to go back again, of course," the nurse warned her, before she could express any real jubilation, *' but Sir Norman is going to have a look at it."

  "Who is Sir Norman? Thea inquired interestedly.

  "Oh, Sir Norman Pranbook, the orthopedic surgeon, you know. Mr. Varlon arranged for him to come down and have a look at you."

  "Oh, did he?" Thea smiled and felt further cheered by this evidence of Lindsay's special care.

  But the whole process of having her hand taken out of plaster and reexamined was much more unpleasant than poor Thea had expected. It hurt a great deal and made her frightened and miserable, and when Sir Norman appeared, although he was perfectly kind in an academic way, ne said "Teh, tch"much too often for Thea's peace of mind.

  "Will it be all right fairly soon?" she plucked up courage to ask him at last.

  But he simply said, "These things are always a matter of time," which left Thea, as no doubt he intended, no wiser than before she had asked the Question.

  When it was all over ana her nurse sympathetically brought her what she described as "a nice cup of tea"—and certamly it seemed nicer than almost any other cup of tea she had ever had—Thea asked anxiously if the nurse had gleaned anything from Sir Norman's manner.

  "Oh, well, you don't expect anyone like Sir Norman to commit himself to a bedside verdict," the nurse assured Thea.

  "But could you guess anything from his manner?" Thea asked rather pathetically. "It's really very important to me, nurse, and I wouldn't worry so much if someone would just tell me the truth."

  "Well, dear," her nurse said kindly, "I'd say it*s going to be quite a long job, but there was nothing in Sir Norman's

  manner to suggest that it wouldn *t be completely all right in time. And there's no need to fret about it, because fairly soon now, when you're quite all right again in yourself, you won't have to stay on in hospital, you know. You can have outpatient treatment for your hand, perhaps only once or twice a week, and that won't be much of a tie, will it?"

  "No," Thea said slowly. "No, it won't. Thank you very much, nurse, for telling me."

  And she tried to look grateful and relieved, for of course one couldn 't possibly tell nurse the real trouble—the problem of having nowhere at all to live while one was attending a hospital for outpatient treatment, and the impossibility of pursuing the training to earn one's own living, much less of doing anything practical about bringing in some money.

  Thea was very quiet indeed for the rest of the day. Her nurse put it down to strain and depression after her rather trying examination, and had no idea that her silent little patient was revolving scheme after scheme—each one wilder and more improbable than the last—in her hot and aching head.

  Evidently Lindsay Varlon was not able to get away from town, or perhaps he felt that it was no longer essential for him to go so often t
o see his young friend who was making such a good recovery. Anyway, he made no appearance that day, and it semed to Thea the longest and saddest and most worrying day she had ever spent.

  Even that dreadful day just before she came to London, when she had waited—so foolishly, she realized now—for a letter from Geraldine, even that day had not been so interminable and so heart chilling as this one.

  Night came at last, but once more it was not the long, dreamless and restful night she was used to. She dreamed short agitating dreams, m which she was always worried and always waiting for something terrifying and unmanageable to happen.

  In the mornmg her nurse gave her a sharp look and said, "What's worrying you, dear?"

  But Thea could only assure her politely that nothing was worrying her; she just had not had a very good night.

  "Well, that won't do. I thought you aimed to be the champion sleeper around here," her nurse said reprovingly.

  Thea smilecl in answer to this sally, but immediately ner

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  pale little face assumed its grave, anxious expression again. And when Lindsay Varlon came that afternoon, the nurse took it upon herself to say to him, "She's worried about something, and it's putting her back a bit. Perhaps you can find out what it is."

  *'I'll try. Has she had any visitors?"

  "Oh, yes. It can't be that she's lonely. Her cousin-Miss Marven, you know-came to see her the day before yesterday, and stayed to tea with her and was sweet."

  "I see," Lindsay Varlon said a httle grimly. And he went into Thea's room.

  Thea had been reading in a half-interested way, but she eagerly pushed aside her book as he came in.

  "Oh, hello-I'm so glad to see you."She smiled.

  "Are you, sweetheart?" He took her hand and regarded her with smiling attention. "Have you been lonely, then?"

  "Well-perhaps that was it."

  "Perhaps that was what?" he inquired as he sat down, Still keeping hold of her hand.

  "I suppose I meant—perhaps that was why I felt a bit blue. Ana then I had my hand out of plaster yesterday, and Sir Norman Pranbook saw it and wasn't exactly encouraging."