by Amanda Doyle
THE SHADOW AND THE SUN
Amanda Doyle
Anna Trent felt she owed her uncle and guardian a debt of gratitude, so when he asked her to chaperone his wilful daughter, Cecily, on a trip to the Continent, Anna had to agree.
Only a little word, that ‘yes’—but what a lot of trouble it brought poor Anna!
CHAPTER I
Anna Trent gazed unblinkingly into the square, earnest face of the man whose head was bent so near to her own, and marvelled that she felt so little emotion.
After all, it wasn’t every day one received a proposal of marriage, even if it happened to be couched in such high-minded terms as Basil Hanways’ had been a few moments ago. Certainly Anna had never had one before, nor was she likely to again, she reflected soberly. She knew very few men, and her absorbing post as an assistant almoner on district work in one of London’s poorest areas was time-consuming, often necessitating extra hours of visiting and research into case histories, that precluded romantic appointments in the evenings with ardent young swains, had she been acquainted with any.
She wasn’t. Nor was there any probability of an improvement in the situation. Her salary was adequate, but not the sort upon which one could manage to dress with the distinction and chic achieved by, say, her cousin Cecily. Anna’s clothes were sensible and well-cut, but while Cecily pursued high fashion with a flamboyant devotion as fickle as fashion itself, Anna was forced, through circumstances as well as natural caution, to follow the path of common sense and mediocrity, choosing for durability, adaptability, washability, and above all, economy.
No, there was little about her exceedingly ordinary appearance to capture and hold masculine attentions, she decided humbly—not like Cecily de Manard.
Now and then, Anna’s sensitively mobile mouth couldn’t help quirking in genuine amusement at the mental image of that elegant, spoiled young darling of society in the sort of tenement background which she frequented daily in the course of her duties. How, she wondered, would Cecily cope with some of those strictly unofficial but humane offices Anna often found herself performing, such as the bathing and feeding of undernourished and fretful children in the kind of squalor where the only safe place to leave one’s coat was wrapped within sheets of clean newspaper that one had actually brought for the purpose? How would she deal with querulous, devitalised mothers whose burden in life, for one reason and another, had become so heavy that even the will to help themselves had been sapped away during years of unequal struggle? How would she set about coaxing those who were too proud to admit the need of assistance, although they were practically destitute? From whence would she summon the necessary patience and firmness to despatch the parasitic few who were willing and ready to lean upon charity as a convenience and a prop when in actual fact their only lack was a desire to do an honest day’s work for their bread-and-butter? And what about the husbands and fathers, whose vices ranged from simple neglect and wastefulness, through all the variations of drinking, gambling and petty crime, to actual beating of their wives and terrorising of their children—not to mention the hurling of insults and abuses at the heads of interfering social workers!
There was no doubt, a great amount of tact, intelligence, integrity and compassion were prerequisites for this particular vocation, and Anna often felt that she fell far short on all counts, although her superior credited her delicacy of touch with achieving greater success at times than his own more bull-dozing tactics.
No, Cecily would be quite disgusted by the whole set-up, and her slim, beautiful body would shudder with revulsion, her fastidious nose would wrinkle with distaste at the very thought of demeaning herself to associate with less fortunate mortals than herself, and she would toss her gleaming auburn mane and go her own way, with that selfishness of purpose and singleness of mind which were peculiarly Cecily’s, and which were, oddly enough, part of her charm.
The hands which enveloped Anna’s gave a gentle, reminding pressure of her friend’s proximity, and she recalled herself to the present situation with a feeling of helplessness.
This was Cecily’s element. Cecily had had strings of proposals which had either bored, annoyed or amused her, but never would she be inept and tongue-tied as Anna now found herself. Cecily would know exactly what to do, what to say. In fact, Cecily would no doubt have seen the writing on the wall, read the signs of an impending proposal into Basil’s thoughtful attentions and lingering glances, and been ready to deal with it sensibly when it was voiced.
Anna had been taken by surprise. Regrettably, that was all she did feel—surprise. Perhaps she lacked something in womanliness, she chided herself forlornly, although anyone who had studied her small, oval face, with its wide-set, candid grey eyes, creamy rose complexion and delicately slender throat would have disagreed. Her straight brown hair, laced with spun-gold threads, was of such an incredibly glossy fly-away fineness that many a man might have been tempted to run his hands experimentally through its silky curtain, had it not been forever thrust out of sight beneath a business-like mob-cap during her impulsive tenement “clean-ups”, or hidden beneath a concealing weather-proof butcher-boy bonnet on her way to and from work.
Anna was disappointed that her blood didn’t race through her veins, nor her heart-beat accelerate even the tiniest bit at Basil Hanway’s proximity. She was beginning to feel the heat of the small office closing in upon her, and a creeping embarrassment assailed her. Clamminess attacked her palms, and she withdrew her hands gently but firmly from his grasp.
“I’m sorry,” she told him inadequately. “I—I couldn’t, Basil, truly I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” he urged persuasively. “Why not, Anna?”
Why not, indeed? she asked herself reproachfully. He was offering her kindness, reliability, protection, security. He had an advantage of five years’ wisdom and experience over her own twenty-two; he was well liked by his associates, had a steady income, loads of patience, a modicum of humour in his make-up, an acceptable house and garden in a pleasant residential suburb, a dependable car, and a genuine regard for her.
Why, then, did she hesitate? Weren’t all of these things enough?
Suddenly Anna knew, quite certainly, that they weren’t.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “It just wouldn’t work.”
Basil continued to eye her steadily. He appeared to be reining in his usually inexhaustible patience with an effort.
“Why wouldn’t it work, Anna?” he insisted. “We’re in the same calling, which means that our interests are mutual. We’d always find plenty to talk about, and if children came, as I hope they would, you’d find me an affectionate father, as well as an attentive husband. You live alone, and you’ll admit you find the rent heavy going on the salary you get. I live alone too, and two can live as cheaply as one, as the saying goes, so why don’t we just team up?”
Anna twisted her hands together miserably. She felt contrite and uncomfortable, and dubious of her own common sense in passing up a proposition such as this. It was perfectly true, she did find it hard to make ends meet since her determined bid to be independent. It had been decent of the de Manards to take her into their household and complete her education after her own parents’ untimely death. Mrs. de Manard was, after all, no more than a second cousin of Anna’s own mother, but she had told everyone who commended her for her generous action in offering a home to an orphaned fourteen-year-old that of course she hadn’t hesitated, it was no more than her duty, and one she refused to shirk, and in any case, the child would provide companionship for her Cecily, who was a mere two years older, and an only child.
Mrs. de Manard had not shirked her duty, not one bit. But she had made it painfully clear that it was a duty, and not a labour
of love.
As for Cecily, her appreciation of another girl’s company had been doubtful from the beginning. Even at that age, she had preferred to go out with her own prosperous teenage friends. At eighteen, she “did the season,” and after her coming-out, she’ was so preoccupied with social engagements, and the skilful manoeuvring of her many appointments so that no two young men were aware of each other’s existence, that she hardly saw Anna at all, except to taunt her lazily now and then about her awful clothes, deplorable lack of hairstyle, and unaccountable enthusiasm for her ghastly job.
“How you could possibly choose that sordid welfare work is beyond me, Anna,” she would say, stretching luxuriously on her pillows when Anna brought her morning tray before catching her own bus. “People in the mass are dreary, don’t you think? And evidence of poverty I’ve always found sickening.”
Watching her cousin languidly shrugging herself into a delicately pleated white bedjacket trimmed with swansdown, before accepting the proffered breakfast, Anna could well believe this. Cecily had been so cushioned and protected against the unpleasantnesses of life that the misfortunes of the lower strata might well prove a nasty shock. Certainly, Anna suspected the other’s contact with them to have been singularly meagre.
“I don’t try to help people in the mass, dear,” she reproved gently. “They are all individuals, with individual problems, and it’s my job to help to sort out each one’s difficulties as a human being in his own right. The personal approach is terribly important.”
“Don’t be silly, Anna, of course they’re in the mass. You must admit there are swarms of them, trying to batten on your good nature. Swarms of them, all look-alike, dress-alike, think-alike, live-alike—all as dreary and negative as peas in a pod.”
She waved a shapely, manicured hand to emphasise her point.
Anna was genuinely distressed at such unjustice. “That’s just not true, Cecily. Each one has an identity, a dignity.”
“Dignity? Ugh!”
“Yes, dignity, Cecily. Don’t you remember what Wordsworth said? ‘Not in utter nakedness, nor in entire forgetfulness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come—’ ”
Cecily raised herself against the quilted headboard of emerald silk which showed off her burnished hair to perfection, and surveyed her cousin with narrowed eyes of the same emerald hue.
“Darling, are you trying to hurl that expensive education my father gave you in my teeth?” she asked coldly. “I’m not remotely interested in your innocent philosophies, so don’t start quoting the poets, for any sake—not at this ungodly hour of the morning.” She yawned pointedly. “Charles proposed again last night, but I managed to fob him off, poor sweet. He was even more romantic than the first time—hired a canoe, and broached the subject while we drifted in midstream. I’m still not sure if he really loves me, so I stalled him for a while just to see.”
“How did you stall him?” Anna had been curious enough to ask.
Cecily had smiled at her pityingly.
“It was simple, pet. I simply rocked the boat, and he had to let go of me and grab the oars instead. Then I filled the plastic baling thing with water and threw it over him. It only holds about a pint, but it succeeded in quenching the fire, temporarily, at least.”
Anna surveyed her own suitor afresh, and admitted that Cecily’s technique was of no help whatever in the present circumstances. To begin with, there was no boat to rock. The nearest water was in the Head Almoner’s cloakroom, two doors along the passage. And lastly, Anna had a strong suspicion that there was no fire in Basil to need quenching. In fact, his proposal had a prosaic ring that hinted at the careful addition of two and two, which, upon satisfactorily totalling the irrefutable four, had induced him to proceed. Not once, she realised, had the word “love” been mentioned, and love was something that Anna had not shown her for a long time now, although Colonel de Manard had been kind in his remote way.
She had an abundance of love wrapped up in her small, neat person, and daily in her work, a little spilled over and around the people she sought to help, without her expecting it to be returned in any quantity. In a husband, though, its lack would be unbearable for Anna. She wistfully reflected now that what she really dreamed of—in the occasional moments when she had time to think about it all—was of being loved and cherished for herself, and herself alone. She knew she must be ordinary and unexciting—Cecily had reminded her of that often enough—but that was what she wanted. What girl does not, in the honest depths of her heart?
Pride forbade her mentioning all this to Basil, of course.
She simply said, with returning resolution,
“I really am sorry, Basil dear. It’s a very great honour to be asked, and I shall always be grateful to you for doing that. But I—I just don’t feel the right way about it—about you, I mean. I do value your friendship immensely, but that’s the only way I could ever regard you—as a friend.”
“Well, I must say I didn’t expect to be turned down flat like this,” he complained pompously. “I’ve given it great thought, and the arrangement was intended to be to your advantage as well as mine. And you can’t deny, Anna, that you’ve given me every encouragement to believe that you would one day be willing to share my life. You’ve allowed me to drop you off at Praed Street any time I have taken the car to work, and you’ve never turned down my invitations for coffee or a meal when I’ve asked you. What is a man supposed to think, when a girl is so obviously not averse to his company?”
Anna coloured. She had accepted these offers in the same spirit in which she imagined they had been extended. Tired after a particularly busy day, she had often been grateful to be driven as far as the corner of the street nearest her bed-sitter, especially as it entailed no detour for Basil on his way home. Coffee, and the meals of which he spoke, had been hurriedly snatched affairs, usually at a branch of the well-known chain of snack-bars which was near the office in which they now faced each other. Had she thought her motives in accepting could possibly be misconstrued, she would never have agreed to what she had imagined were the platonic suggestions of a friend and fellow worker.
Now Basil’s huffily accusing eye told her that she had been wrong. She suspected that, while his emotions were intact at her rebuff, his masculine pride had suffered a hurtful blow. Poor Basil!
With a renewed, apologetic protest at her own stupidity, Anna finally extricated herself with as much dignity as she could muster, although Basil didn’t give her the satisfaction of appearing even slightly mollified by her self-abasement.
When she reached the bus stop, her knees were shaking, and she was glad when the bus came along, and she could sit in the leather seat and press them together to stop them trembling. Even then, she found herself fumbling abstractedly for change for her fare. What a contretemps! How could she possibly go on working side by side with Basil Hanway after this? It would be too embarrassing for both of them, she decided. She would just have to ask for a transfer to another district.
It had begun to rain when she alighted—the soft, thick, penetrating rain that sometimes falls almost noiselessly at the close of an oppressively humid summer’s day in London.
By the time she reached her third-floor room, she was wishing she had had the forethought to take her umbrella with her in the morning. Now her clothes were as limp and damp as her spirits, and her morale was hardly boosted by the sight of Cecily, elegant in impeccable beige linen, lounging gracefully in her only comfortable chair. A smart French belted raincoat and matching hat had been thrown carelessly over the foot of the divan, and were still shedding translucent drops into rapidly accumulating pools on both the eiderdown and carpet.
“Cecily! I didn’t expect to find you here! Is something wrong?”
Anna removed her sodden cap and looked at it critically. It had certainly lost its air of butcher-boy perkiness—temporarily, at least—but it had survived worse wettings than this one, and its brave red colour was as cheeky and gay as ever. She placed it carefully
over a corner of the dressing-table mirror, and wished she felt as gay as her little hat.
“Anna, my pet, you’re absolutely soaked! I can see I’ll have to give you a course of three easy lessons on how to look good in the rain.”
Cecily drew on her cigarette, eyeing her bedraggled cousin with amusedly raised brows.
She had poured herself a sherry from the decanter on top of the ugly Victorian dressing-chest which also served as a sideboard. Now she sipped it appreciatively, watching while Anna raked back snaking tendrils of damp-tipped hair and attempted to dry her neck, throat and face with a towel. Dark-fringed grey eyes met mocking green ones reflected in the mirror in front of Anna’s face, and she wished she didn’t seem fated always to be caught at a disadvantage by her beautiful and intolerant relative.
“Is something wrong, Cecily?” she asked again, a little more anxiously. “Are Aunt Amy and Uncle Nigel quite well? I do hope so.”
There was nothing insincere in Anna’s wish. She’d always be grateful for the way they had taken her in when she was homeless, bereaved and frightened by the sudden void of loneliness into which her parents’ death had unexpectedly precipitated her.
Cecily de Manard made a comic grimace.
“Oh, they’re well all right, Anna. Too well, in fact” She looked around vaguely for an ash-tray, and, failing to find one, ground out her cigarette stub in the lid of Anna’s powder-bowl instead. It was a curiously defiant gesture, and her palely-lipsticked mouth drooped petulantly as she watched the last faint wisp of smoke curl away from the pink-stained butt before asking inconsequently,
“Is this still the same bottle of Tio Pepe that Daddy gave you when you departed from Mawdon Manor? Anna nodded.
“I don’t entertain much. I’m often so late home that I haven’t really ever got to know any of the other people in the building—not well enough to ask them in for a drink.”
