by Anne Weale
They had not bothered to put on the lights, and as he stood with his back to the hearth his face was in shadow, but she felt him watching her. It was a disconcerting sensation, and after a moment or two she jumped up and put on the light.
“There’s something we ought to have talked about before. Come here a minute,” Justin said as she wandered aimlessly about the room.
Wondering what was coming she went back to the sofa and he sat down beside her.
“Look, my dear, our motives for getting married are entirely our business,” he said, keeping his voice down so that it would not be overheard in the kitchen. “At the same time, I don’t see reason to advertise any ... peculiarities in our relationship, so when we’re with other people I will behave in the accepted way, and I’d like you to try to do the same.” He paused, and there was a glint of laughter in his eyes. “Don’t worry. My mother was Spanish, but I’m enough of an Englishman not to be particularly demonstrative in public. Now, do you think you can manage to look a little more at ease with me? I don’t bite, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “I’ll try to do better.”
Madeline’s dinner party was less of an ordeal than Andrea had anticipated. In spite of his habit of clearing his throat every few seconds, she found herself liking Robert Laverick. He was a quiet man, completely overshadowed by his volatile wife. He was at least twenty years Madeline’s senior and they seemed an oddly matched pair.
She was introduced to various cousins and aunts and uncles who were pleasant to her in a rather remote way, but the only outstanding member of the family was Justin’s Great-Aunt Laura, an old lady in her eighties who inspected Andrea through a lorgnette and said gruffly, “You’ve got more sense than I would have credited, Justin. This girl’s got some wits in her head. Off you go. I want to talk to her.”
To Andrea’s dismay, Justin obeyed this command and she was left on her own with this formidable old lady, who promptly began to volley questions at her. Apparently her answers were satisfactory, for when the catechism was over, Aunt Laura patted her arm with a thin, clawlike hand and said, “The boy is getting more than he deserves. Always thought he’d make a fool of himself, but it seems I was wrong. About time he had someone to keep him in order. How’s Madeline treating you?”
“She’s been very kind,” Andrea said, thinking it an odd question.
“Umph, I suppose she wants to keep on the right side of Justin,” Aunt Laura said tartly. “Never known her to like another woman yet, especially one who’s better looking than she is. Takes after her father, a very stupid fellow. Never could understand why Luisa married him. You know their mother was Spanish, I suppose?”
Andrea nodded.
“Lovely girl. Had more spirit in her little finger than Clive had in his whole body. Justin is very like her. Needs someone who knows how to manage him.”
“I would have thought he would do the managing,” Andrea said, thinking that his aunt could not know her nephew very well if she considered him a tractable character.
“Oh, he’s a stubborn, self-willed boy,” the old lady said with a chuckle. “Obstinate as a mule, always was. Not like that poor fool Robert who lets Madeline ride roughshod over him. Should hope not. Never could stand a man who wasn’t master in his own house. A woman doesn’t want a man who lets her bully him. That’s Madeline’s trouble. If Robert had the sense to give her a good beating now and then, she’d be a different woman. Now Justin would never let his wife tell him what to do. He’d soon show who was master, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be handled. That’s the whole secret of marriage, my dear. Always let a man think you depend on him and he’ll eat out of your hand.”
Having given this odd piece of advice she summoned her great-niece, who was standing some distance away—fortunately out of earshot—and demanded to know how much longer they were expected to sit about waiting for dinner.
“How did you get on with Laura?” Justin asked later in the evening when the older people had settled down to bridge, while the younger ones danced. Not content with presenting Andrea to her future relatives, Madeline had invited a crowd of her own friends to meet her.
“She was telling me about your mother,” Andrea said.
His face softened.
“Yes, they were very fond of each other. I’m glad Laura likes you. She’s the only one of the family whose judgment. I respect.”
“How do you know she likes me?”
He grinned. “She would have said so if she didn’t. Laura never minces matters. When she met Robert she told him that Madeline would drive him to drink. It hasn’t got as far as that, but he has a pretty rough life, poor fellow. The trouble is he lets her bully him when what she wants is a damn good hiding every so often.”
“Your aunt said you were very obstinate and self-willed,” Andrea remarked, interested to see his reaction to this unflattering estimate of his character.
Justin laughed. “She must like you very much to catalog my shortcomings. Has she succeeded in giving you second thoughts?”
“No, I knew that already.”
“Oh. How?” he inquired dryly.
Before she could explain they were interrupted by his sister who wanted to introduce some new arrivals, and they did not get another opportunity to talk until much later when Justin seemed to have forgotten the subject.
Andrea was not very taken with Madeline’s friends, and she suspected that the antipathy was mutual. In fact she began to wonder if her first summing up of Justin’s sister had been correct. Perhaps Aunt Laura was right and Madeline was putting herself out to be charming because it suited her and not from any genuine desire to welcome Andrea into the family.
On the morning of the wedding Jill insisted that Andrea should have breakfast in bed.
“You’ve got a long day ahead of you,” she said firmly when Andrea protested that being a bride was not an invalid state. “How do you feel?”
“Perfectly normal. What did you expect?” Andrea said, sitting up and combing out her hair which she had washed and set in bobby pins under a chiffon bandeau the night before.
Presently Jill brought in a tray laden with fruit juice, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee.
“You’re to eat every scrap, because I don’t expect you’ll get more than a nibble at the reception and your next proper meal will be dinner in Paris,” she said, pushing her own pillow behind Andrea’s shoulders and spreading a colored napkin over the sheet.
“The condemned woman ate a hearty breakfast,” she added with a grin, not noticing the sharp glance her friend gave her.
Andrea had half expected to spend a restless night, torn by eleventh-hour doubts, but in fact she had slept soundly.
Perhaps one has bridal jitters only if one is in love, she thought wryly, wondering if her present calm would last the morning.
She was just climbing out of a leisurely bath when Jill banged on the door and shouted. “Buck up! Some parcels have come.by special delivery. One for each of us.”
Wrapping the big yellow bath towel around her, toga fashion, Andrea went into the kitchen where Jill was snipping the string on two flat packages heavily sealed with red wax.
“You open yours first,” she said impatiently.
Guessing that the parcels were from Justin, Andrea stripped off the wrappings. Inside was a leather case stamped with the initials A.E.T. in gold.
“Why, that’s you. Andrea Elizabeth Templar,” Jill said excitedly, leaning over her shoulder. Then, as Andrea lifted the lid, she gave a long, low whistle.
The box was lined with violet silk and in the center lay a magnificent diamond brooch shaped like a full-blown rose. On either side of it was an earring of the same design in miniature.
“They must have cost the earth,” Jill said reverently. “I’d never dare to wear such riches. Did you ever see anything so beautiful?”
Very carefully Andrea lifted the diamond rose out of the box and held it in the palm of her hand. Once, as a little gi
rl, she had broken a crust of ice from a window ledge and had held it up to the pale January sunlight. It had sparkled and glinted as brilliantly as these diamonds and she had wanted to keep it in her treasure box, but after a few seconds the warmth of her fingers had made it melt. Diamonds did not melt, but she wondered suddenly if the brooch in her hand represented something as evanescent as the shimmering crust of ice.
She was distracted from her fancy by Jill’s exclamations of delight over the string of pearls, that Justin had chosen for her bridesmaid’s present.
“They’re heavenly, Andrea. How generous he is! I’ve always wanted a pearl necklace. Oh, look, the clasp is made like a lovers’ knot.”
She flew off to the bedroom to try them on, and Andrea smiled at her pleasure, wishing Justin could see how successful his choice had been.
Soon afterward Mrs. Everard arrived to help them dress. Andrea had written to Mr. Everard asking him if he would give her away and he had said he would be delighted. They had arrived in London the previous day and had spent the night at a nearby hotel, but were going to stay on at the apartment for a few days while Mrs. Everard helped Jill to buy some furniture for the larger apartment that Nick had just found.
By half-past eleven the apartment was in a turmoil, but the bride and bridesmaid were both dressed and ready for the cars to arrive in fifteen minutes. A rap at the door heralded the messenger boy from the florist, and while the other two were unwrapping the bouquets in the sitting room, Andrea lingered at the dressing table.
The white lace dress made a soft frou-frou sound as she moved, and through the misty cloud of tulle veiling her head and shoulders, the diamond brooch and earrings glimmered. Her headdress was a very simple wreath of orange blossom crowning her dark hair. She looked as a bride should look—serene and graceful. Yet in her heart she was not a bride. Justin had said that one could have all the trappings of Christmas but lack the atmosphere. That was true of today. She had all the trappings of a bride, but it was only a masquerade, an empty sham. Then, for the first time in her life, she felt a passionate regret because in spite of everything that was to be hers, everything she had always been determined to have, there was one experience she would never know. She would never know what it was like to love and be loved.
Afterward she could remember very little of the wedding service except Justin’s deep voice repeating the solemn vows and the touch of his hand as he slipped the platinum ring on her finger.
Outside the church the crowd was even larger than when she had arrived. She had a fleeting impression of flashbulbs, of confetti, of people surging forward and shouting good wishes, and then they were in the car.
“Phew, I didn’t know we were going to be mobbed.”
Justin began brushing scraps of confetti off her coat while Andrea arranged her voluminous skirts.
“Andrea.” He reached for her hand.
“Yes?”
“We’ll both feel better for some champagne,” he said gently.
She managed to smile.
“I haven’t thanked you for your present,” she said, putting up a hand to touch the brooch. “You’re very good to me.”
“I will try to be.”
After that they were silent until they reached Syon Place, and she wondered if he shared her awkwardness.
The reception seemed interminable. First they had to shake hands with a long line of guests and then there was the ceremony of cutting the cake and the toasts, to which Justin replied with a short witty speech of thanks. At last, when she was beginning to wonder if it would ever end, Jill touched her arm and whispered that it was time to change. Even when she was dressed in her traveling clothes, a dark green suit with a Persian lamb collar and a matching hat, there were still a score of goodbyes to be said before they got into the car again, bound for London airport.
“Well, that’s over. Now we can relax for a fortnight,” Justin said cheerfully.
They had tea high above the English Channel, but Andrea was not hungry. By seven o’clock they were drawing up to their hotel in Paris.
At Justin’s suggestion they dined out in a restaurant overlooking the Seine, and if Andrea did not do justice to the delicious food, he made no comment. Afterward they walked back to the hotel and he talked about some of the places they must visit while they were in Paris.
Their suite had two bedrooms separated by a large and luxuriously furnished sitting room with a balcony that overlooked the Champs-Elysees. It was a warm night and Justin opened the glass doors and stood looking down at the famous thoroughfare with its brightly lighted shops and crowded sidewalk cafes and streams of traffic. At this hour Piccadilly would be dark and half-deserted, but in Paris the night was still young and there was a feeling of spring in the air.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, disappearing into his room and closing the door.
After a few minutes Andrea went into her room and began to undress. When she had hung up her clothes and removed her makeup, she began to brush her hair, counting the strokes up to one hundred. Somehow the familiar bedtime routine gave her courage. Then, peeling off her underclothes, she put on her nightdress. It was made of white nylon falling in a hundred tiny pleats from a deep lace yoke, and the matching negligee was lined with palest pink silk.
She was surveying herself in the wardrobe glass when there was a tap at the door.
“Come in.” Instinctively she drew the negligee closer about her.
Justin came in and shut the door quietly behind him. He was wearing a dark silk dressing gown over gray pajamas and his hair was wet from the shower. He was carrying a glass mug in a silver-plated holder.
“Cocoa,” he said, putting it on the dressing table.
“Cocoa?” Her astonishment must have shown in her face.
“Jill mentioned that you generally had cocoa at night.”
“But where did you get it?” she asked.
He smiled.
“This place is used to the peculiar whims of English visitors. I believe they even keep a stock of Oxford marmalade for an elderly peer who comes over for the racing.”
He walked over to the window and stood with his back to her. When he turned his face was as unreadable as ever and she had no idea what he was thinking as he watched her sip the hot nightcap. It occurred to her that it was the first time he had seen her without makeup.
“Do I look very different?” she asked a little shyly.
“Different?”
She touched her cheek.
“No powder or lipstick.”
“Oh, that.” His glance swept over her consideringly. “You look younger and rather less self-possessed than usual.”
She put the cup down and noticed that she was still wearing her engagement ring. She took it off and. put it in a drawer with her other jewels.
“You’re very graceful,” he said softly. “I’ve never seen you make an ungainly movement.”
She looked across at him. He had never used that tone to her in private before. It was the voice he had always reserved for the times when they were with other people.
“Come here.”
She walked slowly toward him, forcing herself to meet his dark eyes.
He held out his hands and she put hers into them.
“You’re trembling,” he said gently. “Are you afraid of me? Andrea, there is something I want to say to you.”
CHAPTER THREE
Drawing her down onto the cushioned chaise longue, and keeping hold of her hands, he said, “Don’t look so alarmed. There’s no skeleton in my family closet, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Then he paused for a moment, and for the first time since she had known him he seemed slightly ill at ease. Perhaps it was only her fancy as, after a brief hesitation, he went on, “I think I should have made this clearer before. It’s no use our pretending that this is an ordinary marriage, Andrea. Our engagement was too short for us to get to know each other really well, and until we do I won’t expect you to counterfeit
any emotions that you cannot be expected to feel in such circumstances. Do you understand that?”
A faint flush tinged her cheeks but she met his eyes steadily.
“Yes, I understand.”
After gazing at her intently for a few seconds, he gave a slight nod as if satisfied that the point was settled and, releasing her hand, stood up and began to stroll around the room.
“You know, we are not so very unusual,” he said more lightly. “Marriages of convenience—I think ‘mutual benefit’ is a better term—are quite customary in France and they generally turn out extremely well. There’s a lot to be said for choosing a partner for practical rather than emotional reasons, and even if France were not a predominantly Roman Catholic country, I think the incidence of divorce would still be considerably lower than it is in England.” He stopped for a moment to examine a pink-capped bottle of hand lotion on the dressing table.
“The French take a good deal more trouble to establish and keep up a workable relationship, instead of expecting an infatuation to stand up to the routine of everyday living,” he said.
Andrea watched him replace the bottle and pick up a matching pot of skin cream.
“I suppose so,” she said flatly.
He turned to look at her.
“It’s been a long day. You must be tired. Have you got everything you want?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Then I’ll say good-night. I’ve asked for breakfast at nine, but sleep as long as you like. We’re in no hurry.”
He came to her side and lifted her hand to his lips.
“Good night, my dear.”
“Good night, Justin.”
When he had gone she remained on the couch for a while, thinking over all that he had said until her eyelids began to prick with fatigue. Slipping off her negligee, she turned out the lights and drew the curtains. As she opened the tall casement windows a soft breeze stirred the thin folds of her nightgown and caressed her bare shoulders. She shivered, not with chill but with relief because, if only for a little while, she had been reprieved.
