Never to Love

by Anne Weale

  “Oh, please stop! You don’t know what you’re saying.” Andrea wrenched her hands out of his, white and trembling with the shock of his impassioned outburst.

  “Oh, yes, I do,” he said hoarsely. “I know that I love you. That I could make you happier than Templar ever will. Do you think I haven’t guessed how things stand between you? My dearest darling, you can’t go on living this empty life, with a man who only wants you for your looks. What can he give you that really matters?”

  “You have no right to say such things,” she cried wretchedly.

  “But they’re true, aren’t they? You can’t deny that there’s no real feeling, no love between you. Why not face it? He wants you only as an ornament, not as a real wife. Come away with me, Andrea. We can make a new life together. I’ll look after you. I can’t give you the luxuries that Templar has, but I’ll make you happy, I swear it.”

  And then, so swiftly that she had no chance to evade him, he seized her in his arms and began raining passionate kisses on her face and neck. For an instant Andrea was too paralyzed to resist, and then, as his lips crushed down on her, she struggled to free herself, using her full strength to escape from his crushing embrace.

  As suddenly as he had caught her, he let her go and stepped back so abruptly that she almost fell. They stared at each other. Simon was flushed and breathing hard but Andrea’s face was ashen, her eyes bright with tears.

  “Good evening.”

  Both turned and Andrea gave a strangled gasp of dismay, for there, watching them from the doorway, stood Justin.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  There was a terrible silence until, without taking his eyes off Simon, Justin said quietly, “Will you leave us, please, Andrea.”

  His face and voice were perfectly controlled, but the steely glitter in his eyes sent a quiver of fear down her spine. She looked at Simon and saw his fists clench.

  “Now, look here, Templar ...” he began angrily.

  But whatever he had intended to say was quelled by the contemptuous lift of Justin’s eyebrows.

  Still without looking at her, Justin stepped back and opened the door. Andrea hesitated a moment longer and then, knowing there was nothing she could say to avert the inevitable climax, she left the room.

  Slowly, with bowed shoulders, she climbed the wide staircase. The youngest housemaid, who had just finished turning down the beds, hastily backed into the shadows of the hallway as she passed because the junior servants were not supposed to use the main stairs. Later she confided to the kitchen maid that she had seen the mistress looking ever so queer and with a great rent in her lovely black dress. Surely the master couldn’t have been knocking her about?

  Andrea did not discover that her dress was torn until some time later when, after sitting at the dressing table with her head in her hands, she glanced in the mirror and saw that her left shoulder was bare. The fragile fabric must have ripped when she was struggling to free herself from Simon’s passionate embrace.

  With a shiver of revulsion, she took the dress off and bundled it into the back of the wardrobe. Then, putting on a thin silk robe, she went into the bathroom and washed off her makeup.

  As she returned to the bedroom, the front door slammed with a violence that reverberated through the house, and hurrying to the window, she was just in time to see Simon’s car shoot away from the curb. There was a screech of tires as it hurtled around the corner and then the engine note died away into the night. A few moments later the door behind her opened and Justin came in. He did not speak immediately, but shut the door and leaned against it, his arms folded, watching her. Andrea’s blood chilled at the look on his face, and drawing the robe closer around her she instinctively retreated a step or two behind the couch.

  At last Justin spoke.

  “Having dealt with Brennan, I shall be interested to hear your version of the rather remarkable incident downstairs,” he said icily.

  “My version? I don’t understand.”

  “No? I would have thought that when a man walks into his house to find his wife repelling the advances of another man, he is entitled to some account of the situation. Or am I being too exacting?”

  She drew a sharp breath. “I thought you saw what happened.”

  “Unfortunately I missed all but the finale. Why was Brennan here?”

  “He ... he came to tell me about a new assignment in Canada.”

  “And being alone you welcomed his company, I gather?”

  “Why not? I’ve always liked him—until tonight,” she said miserably.

  “What happened must have been quite a shock to you.” His tone was silky now.

  “Naturally it was. I had no idea that he ... felt like that about me.”

  Justin’s lip curled. “Do you really expect me to believe that?” he asked bitingly.

  “What do you mean? How could I have known?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought Brennan was the type to lose his head without some encouragement.”

  She had expected him to be in a white-hot rage at Simon’s behavior, but until this moment it had not occurred to her that he would hold her to blame. Now, at this point-blank indictment, she sprang up trembling with indignation.

  “How dare you say that!” she flared. “I’ve never thought of him as anything but a friend. You have no right to make such a horrible accusation.”

  “But not an unnatural one in the circumstances, do you think?”

  She was too angry to measure her words.

  “All right. Supposing I did flirt with him,” she said recklessly. “Why shouldn’t I amuse myself? Or am I supposed to sit meekly at home while you relax with Rosa Abbott?”

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded fiercely, “What the devil has Rosa to do with this?”

  “I suppose you thought I wouldn’t find out,” she said bitterly. “Not that it makes any difference—but it would have been fairer to mention the matter when we made our bargain.”

  “What the blazes are you getting at?” he snapped.

  “Simply this: while you have a mistress I don’t think you are entitled to question my activities.”

  The anger in his face was replaced by an expression of what seemed to be genuine astonishment.

  “While I have a mistress...” he repeated slowly. “Where did you get that fantastic idea?”

  “Does it matter? I was bound to find out eventually.”

  “Certainly it matters. I want to know exactly what you’ve heard and where.”

  “I don’t want to discuss it,” she said coolly.

  “But I do.” There was a dangerous glint in his eyes. Andrea shrugged her shoulders with an assumption of nonchalance, but her pulses were unsteady.

  “Very well. If you must know, I overheard two of the guests at Lady Bartley’s dinner party discussing your ... association with Miss Abbott. I gather that it was common knowledge.”

  “So that was why you locked yourself in your room,” he said slowly. “I thought you had more sense than to listen to gossip. I suppose it didn’t occur to you to ask me if it were true?”

  “Why should it? You would only have denied it.”

  “Lying is not one of my vices.”

  “Oh, what does it matter now?” she said wearily. “If you hadn’t accused me of encouraging Simon, I wouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s none of my business what you do.”

  “Your faith in me is flattering,” he said bitterly. “I don’t expect you to believe this, but Rosa Abbott is not and never has been my mistress.”

  “Then why do you visit her, and why have you been so careful never to mention her?”

  “Rosa’s husband is one of my oldest friends,” he said after a short pause. Very few people know that she is married. As you may know, she never gives interviews and avoids all personal publicity. When she married John he was also on the stage. He was very good-looking and would probably have become one of our leading actors, but during the war he was almost shot to pieces. Besides being cripple
d he’s badly disfigured—so badly that he will allow only two or three people to see him, including myself. When I visit their apartment it is to see him, not Rosa. The press have never got hold of the story because a clause in Rosa’s contract made it necessary to keep the marriage a secret for several months, and during the war there were more serious matters to make headlines. The only way the papers may drop onto it is when John dies, which unhappily won’t be very long now. Until then Rosa doesn’t intend to let her private tragedy become a cheap sensation in the gutter press.”

  Andrea struggled with a number of reactions, the strongest being a rush of shame.

  She had always despised women who spread malicious rumors, yet in believing that Rosa was Justin’s mistress she had been as guilty of cruel and damaging scandalmongering as the two women whose careless chatter she had overheard. In fact her guilt was heavier, for without any proof, without even a moment’s doubt, she had sat in judgment on the man who had every claim to her trust and loyalty. That the truth was so pitiful was doubly shaming.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice, knowing how wretchedly inadequate any apology must be.

  Justin turned away toward the window.

  “Is that why you let Brennan fall in love with you—because you believed I had a secret liaison?” he asked.

  “But I didn’t, Justin,” she said, miserably aware that she had no right to expect his trust when her own had failed. “Until this evening I hadn’t the faintest inkling that he was ... that he felt like that. If I had, I would have stopped seeing him.”

  “I thought women were supposed to sense these things.”

  “I wish I had. Then all this would never have happened.”

  “Perhaps it was as well that it did,” he said, turning back to face her. “How does it feel to arouse such violent emotion?”

  “Must we talk about it?” she said distastefully. “It isn’t a very pleasant subject.”

  “I imagine Brennan feels the same way. He’s probably drinking himself into a merciful haze.”

  “How can you be so hard!” she burst out. “I’m not excusing Simon for what he did, but surely you don’t have to be so brutal about it. It isn’t a crime to lose one’s head.”

  Justin eyed her sardonically for some seconds.

  “I wonder if you would be so forgiving if I had lost mine and given him the thrashing he deserved?”

  “I don’t think there was much danger of that. You never lose control, do you, and you have no tolerance for people who do.”

  She moved toward the bathroom, intending to make it clear that the conversation was finished. But with two swift strides he had barred her way.

  “You little fool, Andrea,” he said softly. “Don’t you know there’s a limit to everything, even my endurance?”

  The next instant she was locked in his arms.

  When she awoke it was still dark. She appeared to be lyingon the edge of the bed and her, pillow had disappeared. After a moment or two she dangled an arm over the side and found it wedged between the bed and the cabinet. As she hauled it back into place she noticed the luminous hands of the clock pointed to five minutes past ten. Puzzled, she rolled over and looked at the windows. A glimmer of light showed through the heavy curtains. Strange. She never went to bed with them drawn.

  Then she remembered. With a stifled moan she buried her face in the pillow.

  At last, dreading the hours ahead but knowing that there was no escape from them, she got up and pulled the curtains back, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight. There was a tap at the door and she swung around, tense with apprehension. But it was only Miller.

  “Good morning, madam. Shall I bring your tray?”

  “Oh ... yes, please. Is ... has Mr. Templar had breakfast?”

  “Yes, madam. He was down at his usual time, but he said not to disturb you before ten.”

  “I’m not hungry. Just bring coffee, will you?” Andrea said. It was then she noticed that the maid was staring with a peculiar expression.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked sharply.

  “Why ... nothing, madam. I’ll get your tray.”

  When she had gone, Andrea remained oddly disquieted by that queer, almost gloating look on the maid’s usually impassive face. Was it possible that Miller had heard last night’s row? No, she couldn’t have. Wednesday was her afternoon off and she always visited her married sister at Finsbury Park and stayed to watch the evening television program.

  Shrugging the incident aside, Andrea crossed to the dressing table and picked up her hairbrush. A brief glance in the glass showed her the reason for Miller’s look. Just below the frilled sleeves of her chiffon nightgown, startlingly noticeable on the whiteness of her skin, were two dark marks—the bruises made in the angry moment when Justin had pulled her into his arms.

  So that was why Miller’s pale eyes had glistened with scandalized excitement. And by now, no doubt, the entire staff knew. Andrea shrank from the humiliation of facing them, knowing that behind her back they were whispering and sniggering. Then a wave of angry disdain swept her. Let them talk. It wouldn’t be the first time she had been discussed below the stairs.

  When Miller brought her breakfast tray—after a significant delay—Andrea was dressed.

  “Will you bring the paper up, please?” she said calmly.

  “Yes, madam. Mr. Templar left a message that he wouldn’t be in to lunch.”

  Was it fancy or was there a flicker of sly amusement in those eyes?

  “I know. I will be out, too,” Andrea said.

  An hour later she left the house. Somehow, before she saw Justin again, she must resolve all the conflicting emotions that the past twenty-four hours had so abruptly and harshly provoked.

  In Oxford Street she climbed on a bus, not caring where it was going as long as it took her away from the West End where she might meet someone she knew. The upper deck was almost empty and she sat down in the front seat and asked the conductor for a ticket to the terminal. It was a long time since she had ridden on a bus.

  There was something oddly comforting about the familiar lurching motion, the clanging of the bell and the cheerful Cockney voice of the conductor calling out the stops. A wry smile tilted her mouth. For years she had loathed the buses and subways with their dusty floors and smoky atmosphere. She had envied the women who drove around in luxurious cars and never had to struggle through rush-hour crowds.

  Now she knew that almost all her life she had been chasing a mirage, a sham. The hardship of her childhood had convinced her that physical comfort was the secret of contentment, that money could supply every need.

  She knew, too, why she had been so restless and moody in the past weeks. It was because she had been fighting against a subconscious longing for love, a longing that had grown stronger and stronger no matter how fiercely she had tried to fight it. This was the root of her angry disillusionment when she thought Justin had a mistress. This was why she had welcomed Simon’s friendship—because against all her convictions, her inner self had been hungry for companionship and tenderness.

  What a fool I’ve been, she thought miserably. Why couldn’t I see that love was so terribly important? Now, in this moment of revelation, she was cold with shame at her own hardness, her willful refusal to face the truth.

  And what of the future? Was it possible to remold her life, to shelve all the false values and start afresh? Or had she left it too late?

  Someone tapped her shoulder and she found the conductor grinning down at her.

  “End of the run ’ere, miss.”

  “Oh ... I’m sorry, I was miles away.” She scrambled up and followed him along the aisle.

  “You’re tellin’ me. Thought you was in a trance. Good thing I noticed you ’adn’t come down or you’d ’ave found yourself back where you started.”

  He clattered down the stairs, removing a cigarette butt from behind his ear.

  “Thank you for waking me up.”

  “That’s
okay. All part of our service.”

  He lighted up and watched her walk away, admiring her slender ankles and the graceful swing of her hips.

  “Ay, ay. Good job Doris can’t see you,” the driver said, strolling around the back of the bus, his mouth full of ham sandwich.

  “No ’arm in looking,” the conductor retorted cheerfully.

  After walking some distance, Andrea noticed a small cafe on the other side of the road. She went in and asked for a cup of coffee.

  “ ’Spresso or or’nary?” The waitress, a solid blonde in a tight black sweater and pearl choker, flicked a dishcloth over the glass-topped table and cast an appraising eye over Andrea’s clothes.

  “Ordinary, please.”

  The coffee was bitter and not very hot, but Andrea did not notice. She was thinking of last night, of the icy scorn on Justin’s face when he came into the library and, later, the savagery with which he had kissed her. At first she had struggled wildly, straining with her whole strength to break free, and then suddenly she had stopped fighting. All her anger had ebbed away and in its place came an inexpressible delight. It had not lasted long. Even as that new and wonderful sensation had swept her; Justin had flung her away from him. Before she realized what was happening, the communicating door had slammed behind him.

  Now, hours later, she understood what it was she had felt for those few seconds in his arms.

  I love him, she thought dazedly. I love him.

  It was midafternoon when she returned to the house. Hubbard was speaking on the telephone as she entered the hall. Seeing her, he said, “Will you hold the line, please, sir. It’s Mr. Brennan, madam. He’s called several times. I gather it’s a matter of some urgency.”

  Andrea hesitated. Then she said, “Ask him to wait a moment, please. I’ll take it in the library.”