For Ever and Ever

by Mary Burchell

  “With him there was.”

  “No, darling, you’re exaggerating,” Claire assured her. “You’re shaken and frightened by what happened, and I don’t wonder. I’d have been in a fearful panic in your place. But you can’t suppose that Kingsley—that anyone—would deliberately involve someone in such a ghastly predicament, just because of passing irritation. There would have to be a lot more than that to it.”

  Leonie sat down and passed a still unsteady hand over her hair.

  “All right,” she said; “there is more than that to it, of course.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” For a moment Claire’s eyes narrowed very slightly, as though she were suddenly wary—or, even, a little frightened.

  “He knows instinctively that I neither like nor trust him,” Leonie said slowly. “And he is very anxious to ingratiate himself with you. It isn’t exactly my business whom you choose for your companions on this ship, Claire, and of course I’m not going to try to force any view of mine upon you. But, frankly, if you ever asked me for my opinion, I should advise you to have nothing much to do with him.”

  “Leonie!” Claire looked angry, but she looked startled too.

  “He knows that quite well,” Leonie added. “That’s why he would be very glad to have me off this ship.”

  “You’re perfectly absurd,” Claire declared. “And how would he know all that, anyway?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Leonie assured her drily, “how quick the Kingsley Stours of this world are in assessing who will advance and who will oppose their plans.”

  “I never heard of such nonsense!” A sort of disturbed eagerness lent emphasis to that. “If you hadn’t been so badly shaken and frightened, it would be inexcusable to say and think such things of a very good friend of mine,” Claire declared.

  “You mean,” Leonie said gently, “that you like and trust him yourself?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “On so very little acquaintance, Claire? We haven’t been at sea much above a week.”

  “Well, I mean”—Claire caught herself up—”that I certainly haven’t had any reason not to like and trust him. And, until I do, I shall continue to be friendly with him.”

  “Which you’re quite entitled to do,” said Leonie, with such a friendly smile that there was no likelihood of the other girl’s being alienated. “Only before we reach Sydney—who knows?—you may have reason to change your mind.”

  “In that case,” declared Claire lightly, “I’ll admit my mistake—and your better powers of judgment.” And, smiling, she went off to her own cabin to change for dinner. Leonie would have given a good deal to know whether any doubt or misgiving about Kingsley Stour found place in Claire’s heart at that moment. Defend him she might—and had—with the greatest eagerness. But surely she could not think that the whole incident had been quite satisfactorily explained.

  Later that evening Leonie saw Claire talking earnestly to the Assistant Surgeon. So earnestly that the conversation looked more like an argument than a casual chat. It was the first time she had seen her companion pay anything but devoted attention to whatever Kingsley Stour said, and she could not help wondering if she herself were the topic under discussion.

  It was not, however, possible to see the conclusion of the argument without obviously watching. And, in addition, Nicholas Edmonds claimed her attention just then and asked her about her day’s adventure ashore.

  No longer suffering from nervous fright and reaction, Leonie was able to give a perfectly objective account of the incident, without attaching, or even implying, blame to anyone, and she was interested to see how the facts would strike so keen an observer as Nicholas Edmonds.

  He heard her out, and then simply said,

  “Who told Stour that you had already gone on ahead in someone else’s car?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t it be worth while finding out?”

  “I don’t know,” said Leonie again, and looked straight at her companion.

  “Hm-hm—I see. You don’t specially want to put it to the test and perhaps discover that Stour played you a dirty trick?”

  “I think it might be wiser not to press the point.” “Because you like him?”

  “Dear me, no,” said Leonie with fervor, as she recalled the misery he had caused her. “Because I think it might be better for him not to know that I see straight through him.”

  Nicholas Edmonds’ sardonic face showed a flash of amusement and interest.

  “That suggests quite a situation,” he observed thoughtfully. “Was that why you asked my opinion of him the other day?”

  “I suppose it was. Anyway, you confirmed my own opinion.”

  “That he has designs on your rich and pretty friend?”

  Leonie bit her lip and wondered if she were being extremely indiscreet. But it was such a relief to share her doubts and anxieties with someone, particularly someone as knowledgeable, and yet as impersonal, as Nicholas Edmonds.

  “I think so. And I can’t help being rather worried.”

  “Perhaps,” her companion suggested consolingly, “she is able to look after herself. Those lovely, fragile-looking girls often are.”

  But Leonie shook her head.

  “She knew him before she came on board,” she explained a little breathlessly, because she felt guilty at the breach of confidence. “Her father was anxious about her, and sent her on this voyage with the idea of separating them. He—Kingsley Stour, I mean—got a job on the ship. And, instead of their being separated, here they are, in about as close proximity as they can be.”

  “I see.” Her companion appeared to consider the situation with rather more than the academic interest he usually accorded other people’s affairs. “Does the father know?”

  “Oh, no. Nor does Claire know that I’m aware of the real situation between her and Mr. Stour.”

  “You didn’t see fit to inform the father of this awkward development?”

  “No. At first it seemed it would be mean and interfering. And then I was told that Claire’s father had had a heart attack and was not to be worried with any disturbing news.”

  “So that if anyone undertakes the task of protecting Miss Claire against her own folly,” he said reflectively, “it has to be you?”

  “I suppose so,” Leonie agreed, not thinking it necessary to say that this was more or less the reason for her being on board at all.

  “Does our attractive young surgeon know of your suspicions?” Nicholas Edmonds inquired.

  “Not all of them. He realizes that I know the true position between him and Claire, and that I’m doubtful of his own motives.”

  “How does he know that?”

  “I—more or less told him.”

  “Dear me, that was a mistake! You should think twice before putting your cards on the table when you’re playing poker.”

  “I didn’t think of myself as playing poker,” Leonie said, disturbed and slightly nettled.

  “Well, if you want to do anything about this at all, you’ll have to do a certain amount of bluffing, dear child.” Nicholas Edmonds looked at her with dry amusement. “At the moment everything is in his favor. He has the young lady’s affections and confidence, and he is available to plead his cause at any and every hour of the day.”

  “He does have professional duties,” Leonie protested.

  But her companion brushed that aside.

  “He has more than enough free time to do whatever he wants.”

  “If you put it like that, I don’t see that there is much hope in my trying anything,” she said in a dispirited tone.

  “Do you want to do anything about it?”

  “Of course. Only it’s so difficult to know—”

  “Then you must divert the young man s attention, Nicholas Edmonds said impatiently. “You should have made a friend of him, not an enemy, to begin with—”

  “I won’t want him for a friend.”

  “That really is quite beside the p
oint,” was the dry retort. “You should always take pains to be on good terms with your adversary, if your own weapons are blunt.”

  Leonie looked respectfully at him.

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course.” Again he seemed quite impatient at her naivety. “It goes without saying.”

  Leonie considered this.

  “We were playing poker a minute ago, she remarked. “Now we’re sharpening our weapons. What do you suggest I do next?”

  Nicholas Edmonds laughed a good deal at that, and for a moment his worn, disillusioned face looked almost handsome.

  “It’s merely the same thing in different terms,” he assured her. “Why don’t you now go all out to attract the young man’s attention to yourself? Nothing will make your friend see him in an unfavorable light more quickly.”

  “But he wouldn’t look at me! Not with Claire around,” declared Leonie with the utmost sincerity.

  “Don’t be so sure. You are quite as attractive in your way as she is,” her companion told her judicially.

  “But she’s very rich and—”

  “Well, so are you, aren’t you?” was the blunt retort.

  Leonie opened her lips to say she was nothing of the sort. But then she suddenly remembered Claire’s insistence on passing her off as a friend, rather than a girl in her father’s office. She had obviously told some highly-colored story to Kingsley Stour. Perhaps she had told it to Nicholas Edmonds too.

  “I wonder,” Leonie said curiously, “just how rich do you think I am.”

  “I hadn’t given the matter a great deal of thought,” Nicholas Edmonds replied amusedly. “It was merely a rough-and-ready classification, based on something I was told.”

  “Did Claire tell you?”

  He reflected for a moment, obviously searching his memory.

  “No. As a matter of fact, I remember now. It was Kingsley Stour himself.”

  “It was?” She felt somehow that this made things rather different. “He told you I was a wealthy girl?”

  “I think what he said was that you both were wealthy girls. He classed you together for this purpose.

  I saw no reason to query his information.”

  “No, no—of course not.” Leonie bit her lip and thought hard. “So he thinks I am a rich and eligible girl too?”

  “With the added advantage of no angry father in opposition,” Nicholas Edmonds observed as though to himself.

  Leonie swallowed rather hard,

  “It—it seems an awfully mean thing to do,” she said irrelevantly.

  “What does?” inquired her companion coolly. “If you’re misjudging the young man and he truly loves your friend, there won’t be any question of your distracting his attention from her. If, on the other hand, he is a bit of an adventurer—out for the best and easiest match he can make—you will be doing Miss Claire a good turn by showing him up in his true colors.”

  “It—it sounds all right in theory,” Leonie conceded doubtfully.

  “It might even work in practice,” countered Nicholas Edmonds with a smile. “Think it over. You’ll have a lot of ground to make up with our young surgeon, of course, if you’ve really let him know you distrusted him.”

  “In fact,” Leonie said, almost hopefully, “perhaps it’s hardly worth while making the attempt.”

  But her companion seemed to think that too defeatist.

  “Mankind’s capacity for being gulled is almost limitless,” he replied cynically, which, as a matter of fact, shocked, rather than reassured, Leonie.

  She very much disliked the idea of “gulling” anyone, even Kingsley Stour. But if Claire were to be rescued from him, one could not, perhaps, be too nice in one’s choice of weapon. And, after that day’s experience, Leonie really thought in terms of rescuing Claire. For nothing would convince her that the Assistant Surgeon had not deliberately tried to leave her ashore, and anyone who could do such a thing could hardly be trusted to bring happiness to a girl like Claire.

  Leonie intended to think the whole suggestion over very carefully before she made any decision. But events moved too quickly for that. As she left Nicholas Edmonds and strolled along the deck in the warm, Mediterranean night air, the Assistant Surgeon came up to her, with an air of friendly concern which did him, or his acting powers, great credit.

  “Leonie, I want to speak to you—”

  “Y-es?” She stopped, not at all sure what attitude she wanted to take up, in view of the recent conversation about playing poker.

  “I can’t tell you how distressed I am.” He actually took her hand and, against all her natural instinct, Leonie let him. “It’s not only that you should have had such an awful experience, owing to my carelessness. But Claire tells me you have some idea that I arranged it on purpose. That I meant you to be left behind. How could you think such a thing?”

  She longed to tell him just how she could think such a thing. But if she were going to take any of Nicholas Edmonds’s advice, even in the smallest degree, now was the time to do a little dissembling on her own part.

  “I’m—sorry—” She looked down, finding it not at all difficult to seem confused and put out. “Perhaps I—I judged too hastily. But it was all like a nightmare, and I was so scared—and it seemed all too much to be only chance. I suppose I was still in a panic when I talked to Claire, and hardly knew what I was saying.”

  “I can quite understand that.” The hand which was holding hers lightly closed warmly on her fingers now. “Don’t think I blame you. You must have been scared enough to suspect anything and anyone. But please clear me, in your own mind, of anything but stupidity in not making sure you were accounted for.”

  It was difficult to accept the statement that he did not blame her. But Leonie made herself smile uncertainly at him and say, “Oh, it’s all right now. I’ve got over the fright. I didn’t want to think anything like that of you—” Almost without intention she let her voice trail away into wistful silence.

  “Of course not.” He spoke earnestly, and his hand still held hers. “You don’t really think so badly of me, do you, Leonie?”

  It was at this point that she suddenly decided to try out Nicholas Edmonds’ suggestion.

  “I don’t know what I think,” she said, with a deep sigh. Then she looked out to sea, with an air of thinking unutterable thoughts, and said softly, “I wish I did.”

  “Leonie!” He seemed moved by this. Considering the ambiguity of the words, almost too moved. “Do you mean that you do like me a bit, in spite of everything?”

  She turned smiling eyes on him then and said, “I’ve never found it difficult to like people, Kingsley. But when you’re a girl, on your own—it’s almost more important to decide whom you trust.”

  “But you must trust me! Truly you must!” He drew her slightly towards him by the hand he was holding. “I can’t bear it if you don’t, Leonie.”

  “Oh, it can’t be so important as that.” She laughed softly and a little reprovingly.

  “But indeed it is,” he said. And then he kissed her, and Leonie decided that things had gone far enough for one evening.

  Disentangling herself—gently and not too speedily—she said, “I think you’d better go and tell Claire that I’ve decided to write off what happened today as an accident. I’m not suspecting anyone or blaming anyone, tell her. She’ll be glad to hear that from you, I’m sure.”

  Perhaps he thought so, too. Or perhaps the mention of Claire reminded him that he was behaving with less than his usual tact and good sense. At any rate, he left her abruptly then, and Leonie, strolling on in the opposite direction, almost immediately came upon Mr. Pembridge.

  He was leaning against the rail of the ship, smoking a cigarette, and he gave her a somewhat quizzical glance as she came up with him.

  “Hello,” Leonie said, rather defiantly.

  “Hello. Been bringing a difficult day to a satisfactory conclusion, I see.”

  Until that moment she had hoped he had not w
itnessed the scene with Kingsley Stour. Now she knew he must have done, and the discovery vexed her beyond belief.

  “Tactful people don’t comment on every shipboard kiss they happen to see exchanged,” she told him curtly.

  “No?” He seemed to find that amusing. “Not even when they are interested to know what it implies?”

  “Not even then.”

  “Which means that I can mind my own business?” he suggested, still smiling at her, as though he really had the right to know what she did—and why.

  She was silent, angry at his curiously possessive air towards her, and wishing she could think of something which would disconcert him, for a change.

  “So you’re not going to tell me why you were kissing Kingsley Stour?” His slightly mocking voice came to her out of the warm darkness. But inspiration came to her too.

  “Not,” she said coolly, “unless you also feel like telling me why you were kissing Renee Armand on the first night out.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  For a few moments sifter she had thrown her challenging remark at Mr. Pembridge, Leonie felt elated. Then a chill of misgiving invaded her, and she would have given a good deal to recall it. After all, his relationship with Renee Armand—or anyone else, come to that—was no concern of hers, even if he did choose to tease her.

  Apparently he thought so too. For, after what seemed a long half-minute, he said coolly, “You’re letting your romantic imagination rim away with you.”