Love Is My Reason

by Mary Burchell

  Then Anya said quietly, “It was the same as yours, Sir Basil. My father was Francis Edcombe.”

  “Francis Edcombe? But—” Sir Basil’s handsome face actually turned pale—“that was my younger brother’s name. He was killed in an accident—years ago, in Odessa.”

  “Yes, I know. At least, I found that out very recently. It seems he was—my father,” Anya explained, in a much smaller voice than she had intended.

  “Your father? You are the child of Francis—of my brother?” Sir Basil took hold of her and turned her towards the light, and no scene he had ever played on the stage could have been more instinct with drama. “Then you are my niece!” He passed a hand over her hair and down the side of her cheek. “This clever, charming, lovely child belongs, then, in a sense, to me?” He turned bewilderedly to Bertram, still holding Anya by one arm.

  “Yes, Sir Basil. So it seems.” Bertram smiled. “It’s a long and complicated story, of course, but there seems no doubt about the reality of it. We just didn’t quite know how to break the news to you—or how you would take it.”

  “But how would any man take it? This pretty, talented creature—“ He took Anya in his arms suddenly and kissed her with real emotion. “Wouldn’t anyone want her for a niece?”

  “That is what I thought. Anya rather doubted it. She felt it might be disagreeable, rather than otherwise, for a famous man like you to have a strange girl—any strange girl—turn up suddenly and claim relationship.”

  “Any strange girl—yes.” Emotion had not quite dimmed Sir Basil’s fastidious powers of selection. “But not a child who can act like this. She has the family talent, Ranmere! She even has, perhaps, a touch of genius.” And he kissed Anya again. “But you must tell me the whole story. I can’t believe it, even now. And yet—it rings true. In some inescapable way, it rings true.”

  He sat down on the sofa and drew Anya down beside him, still keeping her in the circle of his arm. And carefully, and in some detail, Bertram told the story, from his cousin’s first discovery of her in the camp, to the moment when Martin Deane had recalled the missing facts which made everything fall into place.

  Anya contributed almost nothing to the recital. She remained silent, leaning a little against her uncle, since he seemed to like her that way, and thinking,

  “In a strange way, this is what is meant by ‘coming home’. This is my uncle—my father’s brother. I have returned to my family, and my family has not rejected me. And yet—could I ever belong to this kind, handsome man in the way I belong to David?”

  At the end of the long story, Sir Basil asked one or two questions, mostly about Anya’s position at the moment. He was obviously and genuinely moved by the idea that his brother’s child should have been brought to him but he was not sorry, Anya thought, to find that he was not solely responsible for her.

  “She is the guest of Mrs. Preston just now, of course,” Bertram explained. “And we all have a very personal interest in her welfare.”

  “Of course, of course. I do understand.” Free from an exclusive responsibility, Sir Basil was able to give full rein to his pleasure in the novelty of a presentable niece, and even Anya could see that he was enormously intrigued by the idea of himself in the role of indulgent uncle.

  “You must both stay and have lunch with me, of course,” he began, and seemed greatly disappointed when Bertram maintained that he had brought Anya to town primarily to start her on her studies.

  “Do you mean to say that introducing her to me was a secondary consideration?” Sir Basil sounded amused and incredulous.

  “It was not even our intention at all when we first set out,” Bertram admitted. “Anya was very much against the idea, in case you should find her an embarrassment or a nuisance.”

  “Silly child,” said Anya’s famous uncle. But he kissed her approvingly, and obviously liked her better this way than if she had pressed her claims insistently.

  Indeed, far from repudiating her or finding her unwelcome, he seemed anxious to claim her and enjoy the romantic interest which her story could not fail to arouse.

  “My dear fellow, you can’t just show her to me and then snatch her away again, in this tantalizing manner,” he declared to Bertram. “Bring her back here this afternoon. No, that won’t do. I have a board meeting this afternoon. Bring her back sometime after five, and I’ll take her with me—you must both come with me—to the cocktail party at Cunningham’s. Everyone will be there—” by this, Sir Basil meant everyone of importance in his own sphere—“and we will introduce Anya to my friends.”

  Bertram glanced at Anya.

  “Do you feel equal to that?” he enquired kindly.

  “Equal to it? Of course she is equal to it! No niece of mine is going to flinch before such a perfect entry,” declared Sir Basil, with so much energy that Anya saw she would slightly displease him if she refused.

  He was like a child with a new toy, and he was not going to be forbidden to play with it. So Anya smiled, and agreed to be the new toy on show, declaring that she would be very happy to go to the cocktail party.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to count me out,” Bertram said, to her great alarm. “I have an early evening appointment I can’t avoid. But I’ll collect you from Cunningham’s just before seven, if that will do.”

  Before Anya could express any opinion, Sir Basil said that would do very well, since he would himself be going on to the theatre about then. And since neither of them—not even Bertram—seemed to think a party could be a terrifying affair if one had no one to support one but a newly-discovered uncle, Anya could not make any protest.

  After that, Anya was given a glass of very good sherry, while the men discussed theatrical matters over their whisky and soda. And then she and Bertram took their leave, Bertram having promised to return her to her uncle about five o’clock.

  “Well—” Bertram turned his head and smiled at her as they drove away from the house—“was it a good idea, or wasn’t it?”

  “It was a wonderful idea?” Anya laughed aloud in surprise and delight, as she realized how greatly her life had changed since she had entered the house with the smooth white door. “He’s a darling, isn’t he?”

  “With slight reservations—yes. At any rate, he is all set to play the role of indulgent uncle with charm and thoroughness,” Bertram said. “I think you’re in luck, my child.”

  “I think so too,” Anya agreed soberly. “And I’m terribly grateful to you, Bertram, for making me go there. Though I’m scared to death at the thought of this party,” she added.

  “You have no need to be. Remember that your uncle, who is connoisseur in these matters, described you as a clever, charming, lovely child, whom anyone would like to have for a niece. That should give you confidence.” Bertram declared.

  And although Anya laughed doubtfully, it was true that the expressed approval of her distinguished uncle had done something to restore the natural good spirits which had been sobered by long years of squalid camp life.

  The interview with the elderly Frenchman who was to coach her came as something of an anticlimax after the drama of the morning. He did not ask to have a sample of her acting. Nor did he go into raptures over her speaking voice or the way she walked or the manner in which she carried out his first instructions.

  He grunted once or twice in a non-commital way, and observed once that she had a good deal to learn. But Anya, who had an innate feeling for what—for want of a better word—we call quality, knew instinctively that this man was a first-class teacher. And when Bertram came to the studio to collect her after her afternoon session, she was happy and enthusiastic.

  “You liked your lesson? That’s good.” Bertram smiled at her approvingly. “You will soon settle down to a routine.”

  “I’ll have to learn how to find my way about,” said Anya, who was secretly more alarmed by that thought than by anything to do with her lessons. “I can’t have you driving me everywhere.”

  “You’ll learn gradually,
” Bertram assured her. “For the moment, I’ll look after you. Or possibly David will sometimes drive you up,” he added carelessly.

  “Yes—yes, that would be won—very nice,” Anya agreed. And suddenly the thought of driving up to town with David seemed far more thrilling than anything which had happened to her during that incredible day.

  Sir Basil was ready and waiting for her—with the very slightest hint of impatience—when they arrived. And there was very little time to talk to Bertram before she was whisked off in her uncle’s Rolls-Royce, which was driven by an irreproachably uniformed chauffeur.

  “I haven’t told anyone—” Sir Basil was once more the child with the new toy—“though I hinted to one or two friends at the board meeting that I had a surprise in store for them this evening.”

  Anya secretly hoped that she would be a sufficiently acceptable surprise. But she smiled shyly at her uncle and said quite truly that it was a strange and thrilling experience for her.

  “Why ‘strange’ my dear?” her uncle wanted to know.

  “Because I’ve never been to a big party before,” Anya explained. “Except an occasional Christmas party at the camp, when one of the refugee organizations distributed presents. But that isn’t the same sort of thing at all.”

  “Not at all,” agreed Sir Basil with emphasis. And Anya thought he suppressed a slight shudder of distaste.

  They arrived then at what she at first took to be an enormous house, but which turned out afterwards to be an extremely exclusive private hotel which specialized in private parties.

  She would have liked to cling to her uncle’s arm when they finally entered a large crowded room, where everyone seemed to know everyone else. But, agreeable and even genial though he might be, Sir Basil was not the type to whom one clung.

  On the contrary, he quite obviously expected Anya to hold up her head and give the impression that, since she came with him, she was someone to be reckoned with. And, in less than five minutes, Anya was aware that curious and interested glances followed her as, dispensing greetings on all sides, Sir Basil slowly shepherded her towards what she took to be their host and hostess.

  Not until the next day, when she read about the party in the newspapers, did Anya know that “Cunningham” was a famous visiting film director, or that the elegant woman with him was not his mother but his extremely rich wife.

  They both greeted Sir Basil warmly, and when he presented Anya as his niece, Mrs. Cunningham took her hand kindly while her husband said,

  “Your niece? I didn’t know you had a niece, Edcombe.”

  “Nor did I until this morning,” replied Anya’s uncle, with a nice sense of dramatic timing, and in high good humour at being offered so splendid an opportunity of making her disclosure right away.

  Not only the Cunningham’s, but several other people in the vicinity, uttered exclamations of interest and surprise at this, and several of them gathered round, demanding explanations.

  Anya could not help sensing how much her uncle was enjoying himself as he began his story. He told it well. So well that Anya hardly recognized herself in the interesting, talented, faintly mysterious creature who emerged as the central character.

  By the time he had finished, everyone within earshot was listening in fascination, while those on the further fringes of the group were already demanding details from those who had heard it all.

  There was a perfect outburst of question and comment and interested exclamations. Anya found herself the centre of so much interest that she could hardly decide what to answer first. Everyone seemed to want to speak to her and make her welcome. And no one displayed even a hint of the distaste which Celia had been so eager to predict.

  But then she was no longer unexplained and unidentified. She was the niece of Sir Basil Edcombe. The girl who had had incredible and interesting adventures (it all sounded dramatic rather than sordid in her uncle’s account of her life). And now—here she was. Sponsored by her famous relative—well-groomed, well-dressed, altogether presentable. No wonder everyone wanted to know her and speak to her.

  She felt almost giddy at the sudden change in her status. But, because of an inner gentleness and modesty, she managed to accept all the attention quietly and with a sort of girlish dignity which obviously pleased her uncle.

  Wherever they moved in the crowded room someone wanted to ask a question about the story which was circulating. And Anya could not help wondering if anyone before had ever had to talk to so many strangers in so short a time.

  She wished Bertram could have come with her. Everyone was so kind, but so unfamiliar, and she longed for the sight of a face she knew.

  And then, almost as the wish formed in her mind, the crowd parted for a moment, and there, only a few yards away, she saw not only a familiar face, but the dearest face in the world to her. David was standing by one of the long windows, talking to someone she had never seen before.

  “David!” She left her uncle’s side on the instant, and almost ran to him. “David—hello! I had no idea you were coming to this party!”

  “Why—Anya!” He was obviously astonished. “Where did you spring from?”

  “I came with my uncle.” Suddenly she saw that Celia was there too, standing not far away, talking to someone, and it gave her exquisite pleasure to add, “With my uncle. Sir Basil Edcombe.”

  “But—I don’t understand—“ David wrinkled his forehead in perplexity. “I thought you didn’t want him told.”

  “Yes, yes. But I changed my mind!” So much had happened since she had set out from home that morning with Bertram that she could not imagine how she was to convey it all to David. She only knew that it was wonderful to have him see her like this. Feted, popular, the centre of a romantic scene, as Bertram had said.

  “What made you change your mind, Anya?” David asked, looking down at her with a smile—but a grave smile which seemed to suggest that he did not quite know her in this mood.

  “Well, you see—” She cast her mind back to her conversation with Bertram, and realized immediately that she could not possibly give David the real reason which had decided her to claim her place as Sir Basil’s niece. “I thought—I talked it over with Bertram—and I thought—” suddenly inspiration came to her—“I thought it would help me so much in my stage career if Sir Basil liked the idea of having me for a niece.”

  “I see. Well, that certainly was an idea—” David glanced across to the animated group around Sir Basil—all of whom were looking in Anya’s direction with varying degrees of interest and approval. “And it worked, I take it?”

  “Oh yes! He seems really delighted to have found me. He has been introducing me to all his friends. And he says I am very talented and that I interest him and—and—“ She hardly knew how to sum up her satisfactory position, so that David should no longer see her as a distressingly dependent waif. “Anyway, everything is going to be wonderful now,” she assumed him eagerly. “I—I’m part of a family at last. I’ve got some roots, and a place in the world and—everything.”

  “Everything?” David looked down at her rather sombrely. “Well, it looks as though you won’t be ours much longer, Anya But if the change is bringing you so much of your heart’s desire, we shall all be happy for you.”

  “Th—thank you.” She began to think she had not created quite the impression she had intended. “I—I don’t mean that it’s only now that everything has become wonderful. Nothing could have been more—”

  “I know, my dear.” He interrupted her kindly before she could even begin to make herself clear. “You are a good, grateful child, and you mustn’t suppose we think you anything else. But of course no stranger, however well-meaning, can be the same as one’s own family.” She tried to say that that was not so. To find some way of explaining, without offence, that he meant more to her than ten uncles. But, while she was still groping for the words, Celia came up, and David said,

  “Anya has just been claimed with enthusiasm by her uncle. It seems Sir Bas
il is very happy to have found an unknown niece.”

  “Is that so?” Celia glanced coolly from Anya to David and back again. Then she narrowed her eyes very slightly and said, with a faint smile which struck terror to Anya’s heart, “Well, how very satisfactory—for all of us.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  There was no opportunity to ask Celia precisely what she had meant by her cryptic remark—even if she would have explained, which was doubtful. For Anya was claimed by her uncle once more, and swept off to be admired by his friends and to play the part of the happy, lucky niece, who had just been discovered by the most charming and indulgent of uncles.

  It was obvious that Sir Basil was enjoying his role to the full, and Anya sensed that she must in no way interfere with that enjoyment. In the ordinary way, she would not have wished to do so, and would, indeed, have delighted in her own part. But the encounter with David had left her strangely heavy-hearted, instead of elated, and it was disquieting to realize that Celia was very well satisfied by the new turn of events.

  No interest but her own would have induced that mood in Celia, and it was evident that, in her view at any rate, Anya had taken a step away from David rather than towards him.

  It was hard to smile and be gay when she was consumed by anxiety. But Anya had had a good deal of practice in concealing her feelings, and she thought she must have managed pretty well, for, just as they were going, Sir Basil said to her,

  “You must come and stay with me quite soon, my dear. I shall enjoy taking you about.”

  Anya smiled and thanked him. And then Bertram made his appearance and it was time to go.

  Good-byes were brief and rather hasty, since Sir Basil’s mind was already on the evening’s performance, and several other guests at the party were taking leave and hurrying off to commitments in the theatre world.