Roberta Leigh - Cinderella in Mink

by Roberta Leigh

  Memory of the hostel lay heavy within her like undigested food. It had epitomised the happiest and also the saddest time in her life, and the thought of it seemed destined to remain with her for ever. It was depressing knowledge and she wondered bleakly how she was going to cope with the years ahead of her. Would every house she lived in remind her of the large and shabby one near the Embankment? Would a green-painted wall awaken memory of a sitting room that had witnessed her first real kiss of love, and would she always sit in a settee and wait for a spring to stab her flesh, the way thoughts of Barnaby kept stabbing her heart ?

  Perhaps if there were more hostels she would stop thinking about one particular one. The idea blossomed so quickly that she knew it must have lain in her subconscious almost from the time she had returned to Belgravia, and when she mentioned it to Marty over dinner that evening it had already burgeoned into full, flowering life.

  "I intend forming a charitable trust to open a dozen hostels," she said.

  "Indeed," George Martin replied with commendable lack of surprise.

  "Yes. I'm going to call it Rosten Homes. It will set up hostels in all the major cities in Great Britain."

  "A worthy thing to do." George Martin still spoke without expression.

  "You know why I'm doing it," she retorted.

  "Ah! I wondered if you were prepared to admit it."

  "Of course I'll admit it. I intend putting Barnaby in charge of running them."

  "I see. If you can't have your doctor one way you're determined to have him another." In the glow of the candlelight from the silver candelabra George Martin's face looked infinitely sad. "If you're doing this in the hope that Grayson will break his engagement…"

  "That idea was not in my mind." Nicola's voice was ice- cold though her body burned as though with fever. "And I wouldn't have him if he came crawling to me on his knees! He made a fool of me, Marty, and -" she clenched her hands - "we Rostens don't like being made fools of."

  "You made a fool of him too. You pretended to be destitute and-"

  "I didn't pretend about being in love with him - the way he did with me! He knew I meant what I said - that I wanted him - that I'd have given him anything he asked for." She pushed back her chair and went to stand by the fireplace. "He had no right to lead me on," she cried. "He should have told me the truth about Joanna."

  "I understood from what Miss Morgan said to you that having you dependent on him was part of his treatment. It was his way of breaking your dependence on the old man you were supposed to be running away from."

  "Joanna only said that to try and whitewash him. He never regarded me as a patient. He told me so himself."

  "Nonetheless you were staying at the hostel."

  "Only as a place to live," she said dully. "He knew I remained there because of him, and he encouraged me. That's why I can't forgive him."

  "Perhaps he was attracted to you," George Martin murmured. "You can't blame him for that."

  "He's a doctor - he should know that -"

  "You just said he wasn't treating you in his capacity as a doctor. Be fair, Nicola."

  "He wasn't fair to me," she flared, "and he's going to pay for it."

  "By having to be grateful to you for the new hostels? He'll never accept the job from you on that basis. Never."

  "He won't know I'm behind the scheme until he's agreed to run it. Don't forget he still thinks I'm Nicky Rose. By the time he learns who I really am he'll be too deeply involved to back out."

  "I wouldn't bank on that," her godfather replied. "From what you've told me of him I'd say he's a pretty obstinate man."

  "He wants to open more hostels, Marty. It's the biggest ambition of his life. He'll never turn down the chance, no matter what it costs him in personal pride. Even having to report to me each month won't stop him from —"

  "I thought you had a particular catch in it for him," George Martin intervened, leaning back in his chair and looking her full in the face.

  "Do you blame me?" She met his gaze defiantly. "He'll have to dine with Nicola Rosten once a month to keep her up to date with everything that's going on." Her mouth curved in a hard smile. "He's going to feel pretty small every month, isn't he?"

  "Yes," her godfather agreed. "But so, my dear, will you."

  Nicola remembered these words many times during the next few weeks, but she refused to recognise the truth of them, nor would she allow them to dissuade her from her plans.

  Long tedious hours with an army of lawyers finally established the Rosten Homes Trust, whose money was to come from the main charitable foundation set up by her father many years before. Never had Nicola been so glad of being an heiress as she was at this moment. Money had not been able to give her the man she loved, but it would at least keep him within the orbit of her life, and if happiness came from making that man eat humble pie then she would be happy indeed.

  Again and again she visualised their next meeting, when he would come into the room expecting to see Nicola Rosten and find himself face to face with Nicky Rose. What a far cry it was from the way she had originally planned to tell him the truth on the night of his birthday. But she must not think of that; to do so would weaken her resolve and make her concede that Marty was right. But Marty wasn't right. It wouldn't hurt her to watch Barnaby squirm at her dinner table once a month, nor would it hint her to know she was forcing him to treat her with a respect he had never shown towards poor Nicky Rose. And what about Joanna? How would she react at knowing her husband was dining tete-a-tete with the girl she had once so cruelly dismissed as being no better than a tramp? Oh no, Nicola thought to herself, she wasn't going to regret what she was doing. She was going to enjoy every minute of it.

  Determined to keep her identity a secret until the very moment when Barnaby entered her home, Nicola left her godfather to make all the arrangements with him - from making the telephone call that set up the first meeting to tell him about Rosten Homes, to the final one where the documents were presented for him to sign, thereby making him chief executive of the scheme. Only then did Nicola's tension ease and triumph override all other emotion.

  Aware of this, George Martin could not hide his disquiet. "Forget your monthly meetings with Grayson," he advised. "He's a strong character, Nicola, and you'll hurt yourself far more than him."

  "It'll hurt him too," she retorted. "He won't like eating humble pie."

  "Are you sure he knew you loved him?" her godfather persisted. "I must say he doesn't strike me as the sort of man who'd encourage a girl, particularly someone he was trying to help."

  "He encouraged me all right," she said bitterly.

  "Wasn't it the other way around? You're a lovely girl, Nicola, you'd go to most men's heads."

  Angrily she stood up and increased the volume of sound coming through the stereo, deliberately making further conversation impossible.

  Accepting defeat, her godfather fell silent, and the subject was not referred to again. In the days that followed Nicola had to force herself to be patient. She longed to confront Barnaby with the truth of the situation but knew she must refrain from doing so until he had become too deeply involved in the scheme to give it up.

  Because it was becoming increasingly harder to stay in London without being tempted to drive to Chelsea and catch a glimpse of him, she accepted an invitation to stay with friends in America, and determinedly whiled away several weeks in Palm Springs, a month on a ranch in Arizona and several more weeks in Kentucky, where the lush green grass had nothing in common with the grey concrete of the Embankment, and her antique fourposter bed was nothing like the narrow divan on which she had once spent the night.

  It was the end of May before she returned to England, met at the airport by her always devoted godfather and whisked along the busy motorway - how small it was compared with the American version - to the comfort of her own home.

  "It's so good to be back," she cried when, having greeted the servants, she stood in the drawing-room and looked around her.
/>   "I was beginning to wonder if you intended to return," George Martin remarked. "I hear Stephen Campbell was keen to make you stay in New York."

  "He asked me to marry him."

  "And?"

  "And I said no, thank you." She spun round on her heel, lovely and graceful as ever and no longer as bone-shakingly thin. "What's happening with Barnaby?"

  "I was hoping you'd forgotten."

  "You know me better than that."

  Her godfather sighed. "Dr. Grayson is working full time on the scheme. Seven of the twelve houses are already open and the others are nearing completion."

  "Why the delay? He's got the money to get all the staff he wants."

  "Some of the houses needed altering. That's where the delay has been. There's no problem about staffing them. Grayson has an excellent reputation and psychologists are more than anxious to work with him."

  "Where is he now?" she asked.

  "In Liverpool. Two new homes have opened there. He's then going on to Glasgow."

  "Let me know when he's in London. We must begin our monthly dinners."

  "Are you still determined to go through with that childish idea?"

  "That childish idea," Nicola retorted, "was the whole purpose of the scheme. I don't want you to refer to it any more. It's a small price for Barnaby to pay to get all his ambitions realised in one go."

  "It's not what he'll have to pay that worries me," George Martin replied. "It's what it's going to cost you."

  Angrily she swung away from him. Her hip knocked against a side table and the telephone standing on it tingled in protest. Shaken that the thought of Barnaby could still bring her to the point of tears, she lifted the receiver and without giving herself time to think, dialled Jeffrey Simonds' number.

  "Jeffrey," she said gaily, as his voice came on the line. "It's Nicola. I've just returned from the States. I'm free tonight if you… Fine. Pick me up at eight." She put the telephone down on his stammering delight and pushed away the distaste she felt at being able to command him so easily. Not a word from her since the night of Deborah's party, yet he had fallen over himself to play lapdog to her again; or was she doing him an injustice? Perhaps he still felt so conscience-stricken at having been caught making love to another girl that he was willing to do anything to make amends?

  When he called for her later that evening he seemed more than eager to begin where they had left off, and gave her a well- rehearsed apology for the tawdry scene she had witnessed, as well as a reiteration of his love and devotion for the future.

  "Don't let's talk about the future." She flashed him a brilliant smile. "Let's play things by ear and see what happens."

  "But I love you, Nicola. I always have. You're the most wonderful girl in the world."

  "And one of the richest!"

  He reddened. "Your humour hasn't changed."

  "I'm sorry," she said without contrition, "but you can't expect to begin where we left off."

  "I'm delighted you're letting me begin at all." With a graceful gesture he drew her hand to his lips, and then led her out to his car.

  For the next few weeks he was her constant escort, but being with him again showed her more clearly than ever that it was impossible for her to turn back the clock. She recognised Jeffrey's charm and good looks, she appreciated his wit and quick - though facile - mind, but she knew she would never be able to accept him as a husband. But then at the moment the thought of any man other than Barnaby was anathema. One day she might be able to consider marriage — not because she would ever love a man as much as she loved Barnaby but because she knew she did not possess the strength of mind to face years of loneliness.

  It was incredible that Barnaby had come to mean so much to her in so short a time. Was it because he had been the first man to see her as a woman and not as a bank balance? That was the obvious reason; though the less obvious one was that she had been drawn to his strength and compassionate understanding of others; that she had recognised in him a human being ready to offer help without thought of return; who gave himself without need of recompense. Only with her had he betrayed himself, for her childlike appeal had weakened his strength and passion had overcome compassion. But was this reason enough to humiliate him? Obstinacy prevented her from answering the question, and whenever it returned to mock her she resolutely pushed it away. She had made a decision and she would stick by it.

  A fortnight after her return to England her godfather told her that Barnaby had returned to London.

  "He's extremely anxious to meet Nicola Rosten," he said drily. "He wants to thank her for all she's done."

  "He wrote to me," she shrugged. "But I never replied."

  "When do you want to have the dinner?"

  "As soon as possible."

  "Do you wish to invite Miss Morgan? He might be married by now."

  "Haven't you asked him?"

  "I'm not supposed to know about her." He hesitated. "Would you like me to find out?"

  "No," Nicola said sharply. "I don't want her here even if she is his wife."

  "I wish you'd abandon the idea."

  "Well, I won't. So go ahead and fix it up."

  The next morning her godfather telephoned to say the dinner party was arranged for that night. "I thought we'd get it over as quickly as possible. You'll be like a bear with a sore head until we do."

  At seven o'clock that evening Nicola looked at the mound of dresses lying on her bed and decided she didn't have a thing to wear.

  "But all your clothes are new," Maria exclaimed, throwing her hands up to heaven. "Mademoiselle looks beautiful in all of them." She picked up a red taffeta. "In this you look like a devil, and in this one -" she pointed to a green chiffon - "like a sea-nymph."

  "I think it's more appropriate that I look like a good fairy," Nicola said abruptly, and crossing to the wardrobe drew out a dress she had not worn for a long time.

  "Why a good fairy?" Maria asked.

  "Because Cinderella found one."

  Aware of Maria looking at her curiously, Nicola stopped talking and began to dress, refusing to let her nerves get the better of her and keeping her mind a blank as to what the next few hours would hold.

  Finally dressed to go downstairs, she stood in the centre of the room and wished she could be transported to Mars - to anywhere that would take her out of Barnaby's orbit. But it was too late now. She picked up her silver handbag and went sedately down the stairs.

  Only in the hall did she pause to look at herself in the gilt mirror on a wall above a French console table. How different she was from Nicky Rose! No one would mistake her for a waif tonight. The finest of French lace, thin as a cobweb and the same silver grey, clung to every line of her figure. It was patterned with iridescent bugles so that she seemed to be wearing a shimmer of light from which the pearly pink of her shoulders rose to support the graceful column of her neck. Lavish but carefully-applied make-up accentuated the fullness of her mouth and her large eyes, whose thick curling lashes could not quite disguise the haunted look in the grey-green depths. Her long dark hair was caught away from her face by a glitter of diamond combs, and fell into thick ringlets on the nape of her neck, moving provocatively every time she turned her head.

  From the street came the sound of a car. There was something familiar about its engine and her heart hammered against her ribs. Hurriedly she entered the drawing-room where her godfather was waiting.

  "Dressed for the kill," he said lightly, and handed her a glass of champagne. "No point waiting for our guest. You look as if you can do with this right now."

  "I think he's here already," she said, and at that moment heard the front door close. Liquid spilled on to her hand and she set down the goblet on the table beside her. Behind her she heard the drawing-room door open and the butler announce Barnaby by name.

  All emotion in Nicola seemed suspended, and as though she were a puppet manipulated by an unseen hand, she turned to face the man who had just come in. Taller and broader than she had remem
bered and looking unfamiliar in a well-cut dinner jacket, he was as different from the sweater-clad man she had first met as she was from Cinderella.

  For a long moment hazel eyes stared into grey ones, but finally it was the man who spoke. There was none of the well- remembered humour in his voice; instead it was polite and toneless, as devoid of expression as the craggy face.

  "Good evening, Miss Rosten. So we meet at last."

  "Come now, Barnaby," she said lightly, "don't pretend you don't know me." Mentally applauding her control, she moved over to him and held out her hands. "Aren't you even a little bit surprised to find out who I am?"

  "Do you need me to tell you that?" he half smiled. "Yes, I suppose you do. All women like to savour their triumph. And tonight must be very triumphant."

  "What makes you say that?" she asked thickly.

  "The fact that you kept your identity such a secret." He glanced away from her to George Martin. "I take it you know the story, sir?"

  The older man nodded. "I played a leading part in it myself."

  This time Barnaby showed his puzzlement. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

  "I'm Nicola's godfather and she's always called me Marty."

  For several seconds Barnaby remained motionless. Then he turned to face Nicola, an odd look in his eyes as he accepted a glass of champagne from her.

  "I hope you've also provided a large packet of indigestion tablets," he said.

  "What for?"

  "If you're planning to make me eat all my words…"

  Nicola turned away, but not before she saw the sly grin on her godfather's face.

  "I've no intention of making you do anything like that," she said coldly. "But just so that we can clear the air I'd like you to know that I never planned any pretence when Mrs. Thomas brought me to the hostel. It happened by accident; by your own attitude. You called me Cinderella, remember?"