For a couple of hours, Loraine and Philip sat opposite each other, talking, laughing, recalling past occasions together. Outwardly, they were a charming couple, enjoying each other’s company exceedingly. But, in her heart, Loraine knew that something had gone wrong. The minutes ticked by, and never once did Philip mention the very special “something” he had wanted to tell her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LORAINE tried to tell herself that on the way home it would be different. They would be entirely alone, in the seclusion of the car, and probably that was when he planned to tell her what was in his heart.
But when it came to the return journey, he drove rather fast, and they talked of quite trivial things, so that it was impossible for her even to refer lightly to the fact that he had said he had something special to tell her—and what was it?
As they neared home, the only thing of importance which she could bring herself to ask was:
“When do you go to England, Philip?”
“I’m not quite sure, sweetheart.” He still used charming terms of endearment, so that from time to time she wondered if she had simply imagined the glass barrier between them, and if what she took for withdrawal was no more than the tactful timing of a man who had recently broken off a previous engagement.
“I expect it will be at the end of this week or the beginning of next,” Philip said, after a moment’s reflection.
“But you’ll be back in plenty of time for the Fete?”
“That’s a promise!” He gave her a quick, reassuring smile which did a good deal towards comforting her for an evening which had certainly not fulfilled her bright hopes.
When they parted he kissed her—a longer, more significant kiss than any he had given her so far—and he said in his most endearing and beguiling way:
“I’m sorry I was ill-tempered earlier in the evening.”
“Oh, Philip, you weren’t! Or, if you were, it doesn’t matter now.”
“My kind, forgiving little Loraine! But the fact is that I get jealous every time you grow starry-eyed about that wretched guardian of yours.”
She ought, of course, to have assured him he had no need to be jealous of anyone, or at least to repudiate laughingly any charge of being starry-eyed about Paul. But, instead of following either of these wise courses, she simply said stubbornly:
“He’s not a wretched guardian. He’s a dear and I’m very fond of him. I understand your not being able to do him justice, but please, Philip, don’t run him down to me. I can’t take it—and I won’t.”
“Loyal Loraine,” he said, but mockingly rather than approvingly. “But don’t rely on him too much in the future, my sweet. When he gets back his Elinor—or she gets him back—you won’t be the most welcome of guests in your guardian’s household any more.”
For some reason or other, she was so angry at that that she looked him coolly in the eye and remarked casually: “I might be married myself by then.”
“True,” he said. “You might.” And putting two fingers under her chin, he tilted up her face and kissed her again. “You’re sweet when you’re angry.”
Then he bade her goodnight and drove away, almost before she had had time to enter the building.
She felt depressed again. But .also she still felt angry. It was an odd experience, to feel really angry with Philip, for this carried with it something she had never exercised towards him before—a distinct suggestion of criticism.
He had no right to run down her guardian to her. And it had been horrid and slightly malicious of him to remind her of the unwelcome part, which Elinor would probably play in any future life with her guardian. Most of all, when he had specifically said he had something special to tell her, he should have found some chance for doing so.
“Perhaps I’m an optimistic fool,” she thought, as she went up in the lift. “Perhaps I jumped to too hasty conclusions. He might not have meant what I thought he meant. But then, he must have meant something. And absolutely nothing of special interest was discussed—except perhaps his journey to England.”
The lift stopped at that moment, but she went on standing there, for the chill idea had come to her that perhaps that was all he had meant. She racked her brains to remember the exact sequence in his telephone conversation, and she was nearly sure that he had mentioned the important “something” at an early stage. He had advanced it as a pressing reason for her seeing him.
“And then, when I held out against his arguments and suggested a later meeting,” Loraine recalled reluctantly, “he said he would have to go home to England.”
Slowly she got out of the lift and fumbled for her key.
If that were the real explanation of what had once seemed a radiant statement, fraught with lovely significance, then indeed she had been deluding herself. But—there was no denying—it was a possible explanation.
“I’ve been a fool—just as I thought,” Loraine told herself.
But, even as she reproached herself, she remembered that it was Philip’s very special air towards her which had first given her the idea that he might well be going to ask her to marry him.
The words to which she had pinned so much hope might not, it was true, have that exact significance at that exact time. But his whole attitude had justified her belief that one day he intended to say the words she longed to hear.
All the same, she entered the flat in a very sober mood. But then she saw, by the light in the drawing-room, that her guardian must have already returned, and a sense of indescribable relief and pleasure swept over her. It was like finding that a bright fire was burning when one came into what one had expected to be an empty house on a cold night.
“Oh, Paul, hallo!” She went in to greet him. “Did you get home early, after all?”
“Only about twenty minutes ago.” He smiled across at her indulgently, perhaps because her own pleasure was so patent. “Have you had a good time?”
“Lovely, thank you,” she said, a trifle too quickly.
“Where did you go?”
“Oddly enough, to the same place that you chose last night.”
“Oh, no!” A look of annoyance and protest came into his face and, feeling that she simply could not bear to have a fresh argument, she cried:
“Don’t you be cross with me about it! A girl can’t help it if two men happen to like the same restaurant.”
“I’m not cross with you, Loraine,” he said, and held out his hand to her.
With a little rush, she came into the circle of his arm, and leaned against him with a fresh sense of relief and reassurance.
“Who was cross with you, dear?” he asked gently.
“Well, Philip was—rather.” She didn’t really want to tell him about Philip’s fall from grace, but it was so wonderful to have a sympathetic confidant. “You see, I didn’t know the name of the place—I don’t think you mentioned it last night—and I didn’t realize where we were going until we had almost arrived.”
She stopped. But the silence was so subtly encouraging that she went on.
“It was too late to say anything or make any rearrangement—”
“Did you want to, Loraine?” he asked mildly.
“Very much so!”
“Why, dear?”
“Well, I felt it was rather our place, you know. It had been such a lovely evening—just you and me together—and we’d talked about such, very personal things. I didn’t really want to associate the place with anyone else.”
“Very sweet of you,” he said, and touched her cheek, smilingly, with gentle fingers. “However, as you say, it was too late to make any change when you discovered where you were going.”
“Yes. And, as I thought Philip would be disappointed to find I had already been there, I said nothing. But then—we had the same waiter, and he recognized me and said it was nice to see me again so soon.”
“Extremely awkward,” agreed Paul, biting his lip slightly but not entirely concealing his amusement.
“Of course Philip
asked me when I had last been there, and I had to tell him—and he wasn’t at all pleased.”
“Too bad,” said Paul cheerfully.
“It was too bad,” she assured him, a little reproachfully. “In some way I can’t explain, it spoiled the evening.”
“Do you mean he sulked?”
“Oh, no!” She could not allow that Philip had done anything so petty as that. “No, he didn’t sulk. But,” she sighed involuntarily, “somehow the magic was gone.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said kindly, and he lightly ruffled her hair. “But magic’s a curious and elusive quality, Loraine. One can never arrange it—or account for it. The only thing I can tell you is that, at your age, it does tend to recur.”
“Dear Paul! You’re so comforting.” She hugged him. “Now tell me about your own evening. Did you go out with one of your colleagues?”
“No. I went out with Elinor.”
“O-oh.” For some reason, she felt an inexpressible chill. Possibly at the sheer mention of Elinor, who had caused her so much heartache and might do so again. “And it was—satisfactory?”
“Very satisfactory indeed.”
“I’m so glad—for you,” Loraine said earnestly. But she thought of what Philip had said about her not being welcome in Paul’s house, once Elinor returned to the picture. And the prospect caused her such acute dismay that, in order to hide it, she had to pretend to give a slight yawn and said she must go to bed now.
He did not offer to detain her. So she slipped from the arm of his chair, where she had been sitting, dropped a light but dutiful kiss on the top of his head and turned to go.
But then, when she reached the door, she was overwhelmed by such an irresistible impulse to know more of the circumstance which would affect her so deeply that she turned back and looked at him across the room.
“Are you—are you going to be married quite soon, Paul?” she asked, unable, in her anxiety, to think of a way to soften the crudeness of that.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I have no idea, Loraine.”
“You—you didn’t get as far as discussing that with Elinor?”
“No. But why are you so anxious to know about my future plans?”
“Well, they—do affect me too, don’t they? I mean once you’re married to Elinor, I couldn’t expect to be very welcome in your home and I should have to find—”
“There will never be a time when you’re not welcome in my home, my dear,” he interrupted firmly. “This is your home, until you yourself choose to go elsewhere.”
“Oh, Paul—” suddenly she felt the tears rush into her eyes, just as they had when he paid that tribute to her in the wedding dress. No one—not even her father—had ever said categorically that she had a home which was hers beyond question or discussion, and the fact that her guardian chose to make her position so blessedly clear moved her beyond description.
It was true that Elinor might still make the situation impossible if she so chose. But, with the feeling that nothing could ever, ever take away the warmth and tenderness of that simple declaration, Loraine ran back and dropped on her knees beside her guardian’s chair.
“Oh, Paul, how dear of you to put it into words like that!”
“Darling child, there are certain basic things which need putting into words sometimes,” he told her with a smile. “It’s neither admirable nor kind to leave such things in any doubt.” And, leaning forward, he kissed her, lightly but reassuringly. As he did so, the most comforting conviction came to her that, in a sense, no one—not even Elinor—would ever really spoil the very special relationship which now existed between them.
“That was the really important moment of the evening,” she told herself, as she got up and went slowly away to bed.
And, if she decided later that this was a slight exaggeration, due to the understandable emotion of a touching occasion, at least the memory of it lingered pleasantly in the background of her mind.
During the next few days, preparations for the Fete du Roi Soleil assumed a very important place in Loraine’s life. It was evident that the combining of the period of the Fete with the demands of an up-to-the-minute design presented a challenge to artistry and ingenuity which Florian immensely enjoyed.
As usual, he worked largely in silence. But from time to time—particularly when things went well and he felt genial—he would talk to Loraine, and then he showed the liveliest curiosity about her personal arrangements.
“So Monsieur Philippe is happy to join us at the Fete?” he said.
“Indeed, yes! He has to go to England on business in between,” Loraine explained, “but he will return to Paris in good time.”
“And if he does not?”
“If he doesn’t what, monsieur?”
“Return in time.”
“Oh, but he will!” Loraine was scandalized at the idea that Philip could possibly be thought capable of failing on such an occasion.
“The unexpected does happen sometimes,” retorted Florian—somewhat captiously, she thought. “It is as well to make alternative arrangements. Perhaps your guardian would be willing to hold himself in readiness, in case of difficulty.”
“I couldn’t possibly ask him to do that, Monsieur Florian!” She could imagine Paul’s reactions at being asked to keep himself free as a possible stand-in for Philip. “And, in any case, I assure you it won’t be necessary.”
“Famous last words,” muttered Florian disagreeably, and Loraine found herself thinking that charming Madame Florian must sometimes have a difficult time of it. Though, one was bound to admit, she looked remarkably serene and happy most of the while, on the Florian treatment.
But, faintly annoyed though she was by Florian’s expressed doubts, Loraine decided she would impress on Philip the absolute necessity of being back in good time. She would make a point of it when she saw him before his departure.
She was all the more put out, therefore, when he had to go at unexpectedly short notice and was only able to telephone to say goodbye.
“I’m desperately disappointed not to see you, Loraine dear,” he said, in that tone which made her momentarily forget everything else. “But if I make a point of being in London early tomorrow morning, there’s a chance of my being included in one of the most important art shows of the season. You do understand, don’t you?”
“But of course, Philip.” She gallantly swallowed her disappointment. “As long as you’re back in good time for the Fete, it’s perfectly all right, We’ll make up for any present disappointment then.”
“Indeed we will,” he promised. “Goodbye for the time being, my sweet. Here’s Mother to say a word to you too.”
Mrs. Otway then came on the telephone and made her goodbyes in the most affectionate manner, but with a touch of finality which enabled Loraine to ask quite innocently if she were not returning to Paris later.
“Oh, I don’t think so, darling. After all, England is our home,” she reminded Loraine with a slight and charming laugh. “We have to spend some time there.”
“Of course,” Loraine agreed, successfully concealing her relief and satisfaction at the thought that Mrs. Otway would not be on the scene at all when she next saw Philip. Then she repeated her goodbyes, with polite cordiality, and rang off with the faintly guilty and not altogether welcome reflection:
“Elinor must sometimes have felt exactly like this!”
She supposed, in consequence, that she might even try to feel a little more indulgent and well-wishing towards Elinor. But it was not possible. Oddly enough, more because of her present connection with Paul than for past injuries, now half-forgotten and forgiven.
“Men are so silly. Even the dearest of them,” thought Loraine, in new-found wisdom. “Of course, it’s entirely his own business, but I wish my darling, otherwise sensible guardian could see that Elinor isn’t really the woman to make him, or any man, happy.”
She had, however, already interfered more than enough in the course of Elinor’s l
ove life, and she felt exaggeratedly anxious not to say or do anything even remotely unfair to her now. So she held her peace. But it depressed her so much even to think of Paul being deeply involved with Elinor once more that she tended to push the whole subject into the background of her mind and concentrate instead on the details of the coming Fete.
This was not difficult for, by now, at the salon there was little talk of anything else. Whatever the jealousies and rivalries—and they were always legion—no one could ever resist taking some sort of part in anything which affected the prestige and success of Florians.
Down to the smallest, most junior assistant in the workrooms, picking up pins, they were gratified and interested because several Florian models would, in Madame Moisant’s phrase, “be attending the Fete”, in addition to the fact that Loraine—and, as it turned out, Gabrielle Florian too—were to be included in the exhibition minuet which would be danced during the evening.
“Though why they should be chosen one cannot imagine,” Lisette remarked, with a contemptuous little shrug. “Loraine is hardly more than a silly schoolgirl, while Madame Florian is almost a middle-aged married woman now. Thirty at least.”
No one fell into the trap of trying to explain the choice to Lisette. And so she was reduced to sulky silence and some baleful reflection on the fact that the ideal age for those chosen would have been twenty-two, which was her own age exactly.
Inevitably, Loraine saw a good deal of Gabrielle as well as her husband during this time, and she was touched and interested all over again to see the charming relationship between them.
“Yours must have been a real romance,” she said once, when, after a long evening fitting, she and Gabrielle were changing on their own in the mannequins’ dressing-room.
“Oh, it was!” Gabrielle laughed reminiscently. “Being in this dressing-room brings it all back so much. Though the odd thing was that, half the time I was here, I thought I was in love with someone else.”
The Wedding Dress Page 17
