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

by Mary Burchell

  The same porter collected her ticket but showed no astonishment over her second arrival in one day. No more astonishment, that is, than he did over any passenger who presumed to interrupt his leisurely existence. With a rather curt "good night,'* she left the station and started on her; walk across the fields for the third time that day.

  It was very nearly dark by the time Thea reached the end of her journey, and as she stood in the porch, waiting for Emma to answer her knock, she felt that she would cry with weariness and depression if she had to enter into long explanations.

  But Emma's exclamation when she opened the door held so much unfeigned pleasure as well as surprise that Thea felt cheered in spite of herself

  "Oh, Emma, it must seem ridiculous to have me turning up again today, but—"

  "Nothing ridiculous about it, Miss Thea. It's just plain good luck. You come in, and I'll get you a nice warm, supper." Emma was one who believed implicitly in the comforting qualities of good food and drink. "Have you walked all across those fields alone tonight? What's that

  husband of yours thinking about, to let you do such things?"

  Fortunately the last question was purely rhetorical, and Thea could comfortably ignore it. Emma never minded much about explanations or the lack of them. Conversation for her consisted of good-natured exclamations, offers to do someone a service, and occasional anecdotes about the people of whom she was fond.

  Sne fussed kindly around Thea, bringing her supper, going out into the darkened garden to pick her some raspberries, asking her if she were sure she wouldn't like just a small fire now that the evening had turned cool—with half a dozen other indications of her pleasure in Thea's arrival.

  Not until her supper was finished did Thea have a chance of saying timidly, I've come to stay with you for a while if I may, Emma."

  '*That you may, my dear. I'll be glad of the company," Emma assured her.

  And Thea saw that it was quite unnecessary for her to go into further explanations. Later, at some appropriate time, she would have to mention the minor matter of not going back to her husband. But for the moment here she was, and here she might stay, without question or comment.

  "You shall have Mr. Stephen's room. You'll be comfortable there," Emma decidei "And he'd be pleased that you were making use of his things."

  Dear Stephen! That was probably no less than the truth. It would be just like him to want to have some part in comforting her and restoring her to quietness of mind.

  Thea thought she would very much like to sleep in the room that haS been Stephen's smce he was a good-natured, happy schoolboy. There was something nice and sane and real about that, in contrast to the happenings of this disastrous day.

  The room itself proved to be a comfortable, unpretentious place, with a first-class divan bed, two or three roomy, well-sprung chairs, shelves of books that indicated an extremely catholic taste, and a deep bay window that, Thea felt sure, gave a wonderful view over the Surrey hills by day.

  "Oh, it's nice, Emma!" she exclaimed, with pleasure and a sort of relief in her tone.

  *'Mr. Stephen always said it was the best room in the house, so long as I wasn't allowed to keep it too tidy,*' Emma said with a chuckle. "But there you are, my dear. Make yourself comfortable, and you'll have your breakfast in bed in the morning. There are plenty of books for you to read, and if you want to look at pictures—" she spoke as though Thea were about five "—there are several albums^of Mr. Stephen's snapshots on the table there. Some taken by him ana some taken of him."

  "Thank you, Emma. I'm going to be very happy here." And as Thea said that, she almost believed it. Sne went to bed immediately. But though it was lovely to lie there relaxed and comfortable, Thea found that sleep was very far away. If she shut her eyes the events of the afternoon and evening began to slide past her inner vision like a film.

  Geraldine sitting opposite her and asking acid questions; herself walking across the park with her faith in Lin returning; Lin himself talking to her in his study—from the moment of his first inquiry to his final, odious admission; the scene in the hall when he protested about her going alone; and finally, the moment when he kissed her before she stepped into the taxi.

  The last thing Thea wanted was to go over and over this melancholy and unprofitable sequence of scenes. She sat up and switched on the light once more. But of all the variety of books presented for her choice, she saw none that she felt would catch and hold her attention.

  Emma was right. Her tired mind had reached the stage of "looking at pictures," and reaching over, she took one of the albums from the table beside her bed.

  In a moment her amused attention was captured.

  Here were mostly snapshots of people, with one or two views of the house and garden taken when Stephen had been new to the job, Thea thought. At any rate they represented sections of the house and odd perspectives that one felt could hardly have been intended.

  But there were several excellent photographs of Stephen himself, beginning with one when he was about fifteen, and Thea found herself laughing softly and affectionately as they brought back one recollection after another of the Stephen she knew.

  It was such an open, reliable face. Even when he was

  laughing—and in most of them he was at least smiling—one felt, "There's a nice, decent boy. You could rely on him.'*

  There was one of Mrs. Dorley holding what was obviously Darry as a kitten, with less dignity and more mischief in his face than he showed nowadays. And there was a full-dress one of Darry in his prime, sitting on a table and looking majestic but benevolent, and well aware that he was the center of interest.

  Others of Stephen followed—in shorts, in a tennis outfit, even an impromptu one of him in his dressing gown. Evidently someone—probably Mrs. Dorley—was an indefatigable amateur photographer.

  On the last page but one there was an enlarged snapshot of him exactly as Thea knew him. Smiling, confident, imperturbably good-tempered. She felt when she looked at it tnat she had K)rgotten just exactly what he was like. Time and distance always blurred the absolute sharpness and faithfulness of memory, even where the dearest and most familiar face was concerned. You thought you remembered someone exactly as they were, but when you saw them there was something added, which your own memory had been unable to present to you.

  Here it was in this photograph of Stephen. He might almost be on the verge of speaking.

  Thea leaned back against the pillows, still looking at the photograph and experiencing a warm sensation of comfort and hope. Stephen would be coming back—fairly soon now. They would take up their happy association where it had left off. She was not tied to Lin now by any obligation for kindnesses received. Only by the most slender link of outward ceremony.

  She could be frank to Stephen. He would understand. And she would not even allow herself to fear that, in so short a time, he might have substituted someone else for her in his affections.

  It was a hateful bit of her life that she was passing through just now. But one had these bad experiences. Perhaps they helped to build one's character and to give one a sharper appreciation of the good times.

  Anyway, the worst was over now. She smiled back almost sleepily at Stephen. She would have to set to work to forget about Lin. He was not the only person in the world. Even

  now, she felt sufficiently soothed to think about putting out the light and going to sleep. She would think about Stephen and forget about Lin.

  She turned the last page, and Lin smiled at her—vivid, teasing, unfairly good-looking—as though he challenged her to forget him.

  With a slight exclamation Thea closed the book, put out the Hght and lay down.

  Deliberately she tried to recall, line by line, Stephen's face in that excellent photograph. She had seen it so recently that it should be easy.

  But the face that kept coming onto her mental screen was the face of Lin. Not only as he had been in that final photograph, but as she had seen him that afternoon and evening.
<
br />   It was a long time after this that Thea slept. And when she did, it was of Lin that she dreamed. But it was the Lin she had loved and believed in, and she was quite happy in her dreams.

  Thea woke to the lovely day she had prophesied to herself as she walked through the fields, and Emma came in with a breakfast tray that gave forth those matchless twin odors of coffee and crisply fried bacon.

  As she bathed and dressed, Thea told herself that here was at least a temporary solution to most of her troubles.

  She had Mrs. Dorley's full permission to stay in this delightful, "homey" house, ana she could probably make herself useful to Emma in a good many ways. Nothing, she felt, would be more soothing and healing at the moment than a quiet, busy life in these circumstances.

  The long, sunny days were filled with miijor, but nonetheless pleasant, activities and no one presented her with emotional problems or made her feel that life was quite unmanageable.

  She had been there a week before she recalled that in her last interview with Geraldine, she had undertaken to remove her luggage—and, incidentally, the last signs of her unwanted occupation—from her cousin's apartment. She had no wish to impose on Geraldine, and it seemed that the time had certainly come for her to make good her promise.

  Thea felt a great reluctance to go to London at all. Certainly it was big enough for her to be able to avoid the

  two people she least wanted to see. But in leaving her

  f)resent nappy home, Thea felt exactly as though she were eaving safety for a series of unknown risks.

  However, it was no good allowing oneself to play the role of the happy hermit at twenty, so Thea deciaed to go to London and call at Geraldine's.

  The journey to town was uneventful. And when she arrived at her cousin's apartment, the tone in which Den-ham expressed surprise and pleasure at her appearance was sufficient indication that Geraldine was indeed out.

  "Miss Marven is not in, Denham?*' Thea said, with well-feigned surprise.

  **No, Miss Thea—Mrs. Varlon, that is—it's her dress rehearsal today."

  "Why, yes, I remember. Well, it doesn't matter. It was you I really wanted to see, Denham. And I came to arrange about collecting my luggage.

  But Denham, who had packed trunks and dispatched them to almost every part ofEneland in Geraldine's earlier, touring days, made very light ofthat.

  "You just tell me the address where they're to go, Miss Thea, and I'll have them sent off," she said. "I suppose it's the Westminster flat."

  "Well ... no, Denham." Thea had forgotten the possible embarrassment that explanations might involve. "As a matter of fact, I'm spending a few days in the country, down at Mrs. Doriey's house. I'd like the luggage sent there, if you don't mind."

  "Just as you like. Miss Thea," said Denham, who prided herself on being "as quick as the next one." "I daresay you want to sort things out a bit while you've got some time on your hands."

  "Yes, that's right," Thea agreed eagerly, and sat down at Geraldine's writing desk to write out tne address.

  As she did so a very clear picture presented itself to her mind: her rather shabby old trunk and suitcase standing in the hall, ready for collection, and Geraldine interestedly reading the labels, which showed quite plainly that the luggage was not going to Lin's flat, wherever else it was going.

  "Oh, Denham-"

  "Yes, Miss Thea?"

  "If you could—arrange it that way, Td rather Miss Marven didn 't know where this luggage is going."

  "I could arrange it that way, Miss Thea,*' Denham said in her blankest tone. Unlike Emma, she didn't ignore anything that was crystal clear. She interpreted it by virtue of her native shrewdness and her unrivaled experience.

  "You won*t be going to the first night tomorrow, Miss Thea?*' Denham asked, as she accepted the slip of paper with the address on it.

  "Well, no, I won't now." Thea had forgotten until this moment about telling Geraldine that she and Lin would be there. "We were—that is, I daresay Mr. Varlon will be there. He had tickets, I know.''

  "Well, Denham, I'd better be going. I mustn't keep you, because you 're always busy. But it was nice to see you, and thank you very much for seeing after the luggage.''

  "That's all right. Miss Thea. You're very welcome."

  There didn't seem anything to do but shake hands now. But even as Thea held out her hand, Denham, rejecting a hfetime's discretion, suddenly said, "You'll tell me if I'm speaking out of my place. Miss Thea, but is Miss Marven making trouble between you and Mr. Varlon?"

  Thea caught her breath. She knew that real concern, and not curiosity, prompted the question and she was determined not to resent it.

  "No, Denham. Miss Marven hasn't got anything to do with it. I only said—said what I did about the address because my cousin's a bit ready to read too much into small details. I didn 't want any—misunderstandings.''

  "Exactly, Miss Thea. ' Denham didn't look entirely satisfied. "And I only asked what I did because it's sometimes come to me that I said more than I should, that evening ages ago, when I mentioned checks I'd seen from Mr. Varlon to Miss Marven. You was upset, I remember." Grammatical slips were rare with Denham, and this one showed the extent to which she was moved. "And you pressed me to say whether they'd been sent before you came here or after. I don't know why. ..."

  "Oh, Denham, I can explain that now." Thea sat down again and went on speakmg rather earnestly. "You see, when I first came here I hadn t any money. My parents were both dead and there was nothing for me. Miss Marven

  Meant for Each Other ^ 553

  wasn*t very willing to—to take on the expense of maintaining me and paying for my training, ancl of course she was quite entitled to feel that way. She s lots of expenses of her own and—"

  "Yes, Miss Thea, I know.*' Denham smiled dryly, in a way that showed she had no sentimental illusions about her employer.

  Well, anyway, Mr. Varlon very kindly took on the responsibility. Only he did it through Geraldine so that people wouldn 't talk, you know. So I thought that if those checks had only been after I came, there was a perfectly innocent explanation for them."

  "Yes, Miss Thea. And, depend upon it, there weren't any before you came. That would be the explanation," said Denham firmly.

  In decency to the man who was called her husband, Thea felt bound to say, "Yes, of course. I Ve always thought so."

  But in her heart she thought sadly, / expect they arrived at any old time. I wouldn V be surprised to learn he had a longstanding affair with Geraldine right up to the time I appeared on the scene. That would account for his being able to make her do what he wanted, and also for her hating me so much.

  But Denham was evidently quite determined to reestablish a mood of confidence, because she said, with great emphasis, "Well, now there's no call for you to worry about anything in that direction, Miss Thea. Miss Marven ran after him, it's true, but if you ask me, she didn't get much change."

  "Thank you, Denham."

  Thea stood up again, shook hands with Denham, and put an end to the mterview with a very cordial goodbye. She knew that Denham had said all this out of the kindness of her heart, but she felt that personal discussion of absent people had gone to the limits that might be allowed.

  For the rest of the day Thea remamed in town, discharging one or two small commissions that could conveniently be dealt with, and also going to some trouble to find a nice present for Emma, to whose goodness she owed so much.

  It was absurd to suppose that out of the whole population of London the one person she should meet woula be Lin. But so great was her nervous dread of such a thing happening that Thea found herself looking around with almost

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  fuilty anxiety before she went into a shop or committed erself to any special direction. And when a tall man, superficially remmiscent of Lin, came into the restaurant where she was having lunch, Thea experienced such a momentary thrill of terror that she had no appetite for the rest of her meal.

  It's ridiculous,
Thea told herself angrily. / can*t go through the rest of my life like this. Anyway, what is there to be nervous aboutr Lin would never make an unpleasant scene, and it isn 't as though we would have any reason for recriminations or unpleasantness, if we did meet.

  Their decisions had been made—and communicated to each other, come to that. The next thing she would hear would presumably be something to do with the opening stages of a divorce. There was certainly nothing else to be discussed between them.

  No. Her fear of meeting Lin had nothing to do with anything of this sort, and Thea knew it

  What frightened and disquieted her was the knowledge that even his photograph had had the power to disturb her profoundly, and she knew that his actual presence would do very much more.

  If things had been different, Thea told herself with satisfactory vagueness, / would have been in love with Lin—at any rate, for a while. I suppose lots of silly women have felt liki that.

  And having derived no more satisfaction from her day iii town than she had anticipated, Thea very thankfully took the train home.

  As she knocked on the door, she wondered if Emma were in the garden and if it would be better to go around the house to the back. But the immediate sound of footsteps answered her knock. Emma certainly sounded in more eager haste than usual, and the door was flung open with a force that was quite unlike her.

  But then that was quite understandable, for it was not Emma who stood there, but Mrs. Dorley. And a second later Thea was being most heartily kissed and hugged.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "My DEAR child!"

  Mrs. Dorley*s greeting could not have been warmer or more affectionate if Thea had indeed become her daughter-in-law. And as for Thea, her delight was only equaled by her astonishment at the unexpectedness of Mrs. Dorley's arrival.

  But that, it appeared, was easily explained.

  *'It seems Emma never received my cable," Mrs. Dorley said as, her arm affectionately linJced in Thea*s, they went into the lounge together. "My decision to come home was quite a sudden one. Stephen had a lot of extra work out in the West—*' (So Stephen was not here, Thea thought, with an emotion that she was not able to identify as either relief or disappointment.) "It meant a great deal of tiring traveling, and in remote and not very convenient places. So I thought the time had come for me to finish off my holiday and come home."