To Love and to Honour

by Emilie Loring

  To Love and To Honor

  Emilie Loring

  © Emilie Loring 1950

  Emilie Loring has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1950 by Bantam Books.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE WAS WAITING at the Gift Shop for the films she had left to be developed when she became aware of the man standing beside her looking at bracelets. Sharp-eyed, rapier-tongued Ella Crane, the saleswoman, was expatiating on the charm and desirability of an ugly super-expensive silver band. As she went to the window to get another tray sympathy for the woman who was about to receive the atrocity overcame Cindy Clinton’s caution.

  “Not that one,” she whispered. “It’s been here for ages.”

  He turned. The clearest gray eyes she had ever seen keenly interrogated hers. Suspicion softened to a smile, the smile spread to a mouth which revealed a flash of white teeth in a bronzed face. His black hair was faintly dusted with white at the temples. Fine hands. Strong, with an intaglio seal ring on the left little finger. Thirtyish, she thought, and seen lots of service.

  “Thanks,” he whispered, then as the saleswoman returned with more bracelets:

  “You know Sally, give me a break,” he appealed to the girl beside him. “Which one shall I select for her? I’m sold on this silver band with the turquoise. Think she’d like it?”

  Indignation that she was being ignored straightened the mouth of the saleswoman to a thin line. The imp of mischief in the girl’s make-up, poised on tiptoe for a takeoff, prompted her reply.

  “Which Sally?” she inquired thoughtfully. “You know so many. Is this for a young, middle-aged or elderly Sally? Dark or fair?”

  “Blondish, but not so much gold as in your hair. Her eyes are blue, yours a velvety brown. After that comparison, you should be able to advise. Does age count in selecting a bracelet? I thought women loved ’em all.” Obviously he was enjoying the game she had started impulsively and now was ready to drop.

  “Better settle on the silver with turquoise. You like it. When I make a present I give something I want myself, terribly. We’ll take a chance your Sally will approve.” She collected package and change. “By, Ella. Have fun,” she called over her shoulder as she started for the door. Before she reached the bicycle outside the man was beside her.

  “Hold on. Give me a chance to say ‘Thank you’ for helping.”

  “Hmp! That’s the neatest pickup I ever saw.” The acrid comment of Ella Crane in the shop doorway, who thought she had been eased out of a sale, was intended for the girl’s ears and reached them. Her face reddened. She tilted her chin and looked up.

  “Our acquaintance, if you can call it that, ends right here.”

  “Have a heart. I’m a stranger in a strange land. A trifle early in the afternoon for the cup that cheers, but, have tea with me, will you? I’ve been abroad for several years and have acquired the tea habit.” He glanced at the bow of broad green ribbon, the exact shade that striped her blazer, which tied her hair at the nape of her neck, at the enormous tawny zinnia at the belt of her white pedal-pushers and grinned.

  “Perhaps you would prefer a chocolate-malted, icecream soda, or one of those loathsome drippy things called Popsicles?”

  “Again, no.”

  He watched the bicycle till it was out of sight, then returned to the shop.

  “I’ll take the bracelet with the turquoise,” he said. “Have you a box for it?” His smile and purchase placated the irate saleswoman.

  “Sure. I didn’t know but what you’d gone along with her. That Sally business didn’t fool me. It isn’t like her to make free with a strange man. She never forgets she’s a married woman.”

  “That kid married?” His voice and eyes registered amazement. “I’ve decided to select a couple more bracelets.”

  “There’s plenty here. She’s not a kid, though she was dressed like one. The top of her head came most as high as your ear, and you are tall. She’s twenty-four. Can’t say she’s much married. She came here summers for years, lives in the family homestead, The Castle. All of seven years ago her folks moved to the West. Her father went into business there and we heard he made and lost a fortune. Like any of those?”

  “I’ll take this plain one. Give me time and I’ll select another. Might as well do my Christmas shopping early. I have a lot of girl cousins who like bracelets.”

  “There isn’t another customer in sight. Take all the time you want.”

  “Thanks. It’s a toss-up between this twisted one and the band with the pendant. What’s this on it?”

  “The old church — you’ll see it in the village. It’s one of the sights of the town. We have post cards of it, too.”

  “Sounds interesting. What did you mean when you said that the girl who was here isn’t ‘much married’?”

  “It’s the town romance. Folks just ate it up. Her father and his lawyer tried to keep it quiet but the news leaked out. It was a marriage by proxy.”

  “Proxy?”

  “That turned your face red. Not going to have a stroke, are you?”

  “No. Surprise has been doing that to me since my service with the airlift. I’m here for a vacation to get straightened out and to write a book on the job I’ve been doing.”

  “Are you a novelist?”

  “Nothing so thrilling. My work is technical. I couldn’t believe my ears when you said marriage by proxy. I thought those happened only in movies and novels.”

  “You’re not a newspaper reporter, are you?”

  “No. As I told you I’m a flier just out of the service. Safe to tell me anything. I’ll have this one, too. You’re so entertaining chances are I’ll stand here buying bracelets as long as you’ll talk. It sure is a treat to meet an intelligent woman. Marriage by proxy. I’ll be darned. How come?”

  “This was the story that drifted here. Cindy Clinton’s father and another man were in the oil business together. They held a lot of patents about machinery that’s used in drilling, they’d leased a piece of land and planned to dig and experiment. Looked as if there’d be some mix-ups in the future, I know nothing about law, they got the idea that if the son of one married the daughter of the other, it would hold the property together. Only trouble was, the son was still in the service and couldn’t or wouldn’t get leave to come home.”

  “Do you know where he was serving?”

  “No, that was all of three years ago. Folks heard he was in the Navy. Her father got sick and was going to die, and he and his partner called in a lawyer to see what could be done. I heard they even consulted a bigwig in Washington. The result was a marriage by written
contract, though the folks here call it proxy. That’s the story.”

  “For the love of Mike, do you mean that the son never had seen the girl? That he consented to marry her sight unseen? I can’t believe it.”

  “Looks that way. Folks heard he said he didn’t care. He'd probably never get out of the service alive — they were so secret about where he was, we suspected he had something to do with those terrible bombs — if the girl was willing they could suit themselves. There was a lot of money at stake. Most men would sell their souls for money.” Her sniff was drenched with contempt.

  “Come now, Miss Ella, I heard the girl call you that, I’ve seen a lot of men during these last years and I can’t think of one who would sell his soul for filthy lucre.”

  “Perhaps I did put it a little strong. Anyway, if he was after money, folks say there’s an even chance there won’t be much. Now the other partner has gone too. There has been litigation over some of the patents and leases. I guess it’s an awful mix-up. It’s three years since the marriage, he’s never appeared and she’s been advised she can divorce him for desertion. She has a lawyer working on it.”

  “Why come back here? There is always a Reno.”

  “She has kept her residence here because of the homestead, ever since she went West. She’s had a Maine lawyer advising her. Counselor Armstrong — they tell me that’s what lawyers are called in New York — is awful smart.”

  “Has he an office here?”

  “In the summer. There’s a little white house right beside his family home, the yellow colonial house, White Pillars, that sets back from Main Street. His greatgrandfather was a judge, and it was his office. Seth uses it for business.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “Heard he arrived yesterday, that he has come to put through the divorce. He’s a widower. I hear that the Western lawyer who acted as proxy is on the way here. She’s a very attractive girl.”

  “I could see that. I’ll take these. That will make four. My cousins will think I have acquired a bracelet complex on the other side.” He drew money from a billfold, and watched her put the silver bracelets into boxes and wrap them before he asked:

  “Where is this Castle, where Cindy Clinton lives?”

  “How’d you know her name?”

  “You called her Cindy Clinton, didn’t you?”

  “Perhaps I did. Her real name is Cinderella — named for her great-grandmother Clinton, but she’s still Cindy Clinton in this town. We never think of her married name.”

  “What is it?”

  Her small eyes sharpened to glittering points.

  “I’ve forgot.”

  “You mean, you have talked enough?”

  “That’s right. Folks say my tongue’s hung in the middle and goes at both ends, when I start. Here are the boxes. I’ve tied them with ribbon. Hope your cousins will be pleased. You asked where The Castle is.” She came from behind the counter and followed him to the door.

  “See that point of land that juts out into the sea?” He nodded. “It’s divided by a little cove, called Pirate’s Cove, can’t see it from here. The Castle is on one point. It’s one of our show places. The big drawing room is full of what summer people call collectors’ items. The Clintons have owned it for generations. Years and years ago, an Englishman, Sir Aubrey Reade, built it. The story is that he was the younger son of an earl, ran away because he mixed in a revolution; that early in 1800 it was a smugglers’ hide-out; that on stormy nights you can hear doors opening and shutting and the sound of heavy footsteps tramping up the secret stairway to the turret room. A visiting newspaperman wrote up the story, and last summer a movie company came and used The Castle and grounds for a picture. It hasn’t been released yet I was talking with Cindy about it just before you came in.”

  “It’s a thrilling yam. I noticed a quiver in your voice. Do you believe that heavy footsteps tramp up the secret stairway to the turret room?”

  “There’s never smoke without some fire.”

  “Which means you do. How does the present owner react to the ghostly sounds?”

  “She laughs. She isn’t so much pleased, though, when some folks insist there’s smugglers’ treasure buried on her land, chances are that some day someone may commence digging. The house has been added to a lot since the first owner’s day, but in the main house the big staircase, cornices and carved trim about the fireplace, and the old kitchen are just what Sir Aubrey brought over.”

  “Sounds like a museum piece. I’d like to see it.”

  “It’s opened when other houses not so old are on view for charity. Going to stay long?”

  “That’s on the knees of the gods and the progress I make with my work. What’s the low-spreading house on the point beyond The Castle which looks as if it had come FOB California?”

  “That’s Rockledge. Rented for the summer by a rich woman, they say she’s silent partner of a big cosmetic outfit.”

  “She’d need to be rich to keep up that place these days. Thanks for everything, Miss Ella. You’ll be seeing me again.”

  After he left the shop he looked down at the bulky package in his hands.

  “What in time will I do with this collection of bracelets after I send one to the sergeant’s wife? Cousins! The only ones I have are several times removed. They would be surprised.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  CINDY’S FACE burned as she pedaled swiftly toward home. She was aware that the man had watched her take-off. Smarty. He had noticed the big bow on her hair and her bobby-soxer ensemble and pretended he thought her a schoolgirl. He hadn’t been fresh or wolfish, just having fun. Perhaps the broad ribbon was too youthful for a gal twenty-four, but what else could one do when one detested a mane and was undecided whether to cut or not to cut? Wobbling was out — it would be cut tomorrow. Of course she shouldn’t have spoken to him. Why care if he bought that hideous bracelet?

  As to that why dwell on a mistake this heavenly day? Early August at its hottest and most colorful. Sumac against stone walls was beginning to show scarlet tips. The sky was a cloudless turquoise, the sky shaded from faint emerald on the sandy beach through rich jade green to ultramarine, to indigo and then to purple where it met and fused with the sky. A stiff breeze was capping in-rolling breakers with fleecy foam and shaking spicy fragrance from the tips of balsams and pines. A few raucously mewing gulls swept low over the beach tormenting a foolish brown setter that raced back and forth, back and forth in a frenzied, futile pursuit.

  He was outstandingly good-looking, dam him, her thoughts deserted the beauties of nature and returned to homo sapiens. No hat, which fact made it safe to assume he was not a transient passing through the town, his reddish sports coat and beige slacks suggested vacation.

  His handkerchief scarf had been a mixture of the two colors. Snappy dresser. A newcomer at the Inn? She laughed as she visualized the seasoned dungarees and shorts of the masculine old-timers.

  Who is Sally? Trying to place a Sally in the community absorbed her thoughts till she reached the door of the rambling stone house with towers and turrets, the main body of which had been on the point of land jutting out into the sea longer than the oldest resident could remember.

  She parked her bicycle against the iron railing at the side of the five stone steps, stopped to look across the lawn to the harbor, its shore fringed with lobster, fish and boat headquarters, its still water dotted with craft of many sizes and designs. Sir Aubrey had turned his back on the lonely expanse of ocean and had faced his house toward the color and incessant activity of the harbor. Between the shore with its boathouse and pier and The Castle was a lawn smooth as green velvet. The real-estate broker had been right, this was one location in a thousand. She had been offered a small fortune for it. Ought she to sell? She wondered as she entered the house through the tall classical doorway with its richly carved hood.

  The long hall, with spiral staircase and Persian rugs on the waxed floor, was cool and shadowy in contrast to the blaze of sun outside. She
backed up against the door and drew her hand across her eyes. Had they played tricks or had she seen the figure of a man, hat drawn low, dark against the sunlight sifting through white slats, slip out of the door which opened directly on the patio?

  Of course it was her imagination stepped up by the talk she had had with Ella Crane about the movie company which had photographed the place last summer, and the write-up about the smugglers who, at times, could be heard tramping through the rooms — if ghosts tramp.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in an overmantel mirror as she passed the arched opening of the ornate drawing room. Her costume was on the bobby-soxer side. “Chocolate-malted? Ice-cream soda? Popsicles?” Humorous guy, wasn’t he?

  She followed the sound of a male radioed voice.

  “The wind-up. The pitch! Foul ball!” The shouts of a crowd yelling itself hoarse. Sarah Ann Parker, a rabid baseball fan, was listening to a game.

  She passed through the old kitchen with dark hand-hewn beams, Dutch oven with a long-handled warming pan and glints of shining copper, open cupboard, butterfly-pegged floor of wide boards, pumpkin yellow walls and matching cheesecloth hangings at the two twenty-four paned windows, and entered the spotless, modem white one with its electric equipment. A man’s voice, cracked with excitement, yelled:

  “Two and two. Two men on base — two out and —”

  The radio clicked off.

  A tall, bony woman in checkered gingham, red as the spots on her high cheekbones, her graying sandy hair drawn back by a pearl comb with painful tightness which lifted her eyebrows, pulled off her bone-rimmed glasses. They hung by a spec-band as she declared:

  “Thought you was never coming home, Cinderella. Where you been all this time?”

  “To the village. Um-m, luscious smell. What’s baking?” Cindy inquired and perched on a high white stool.

  “Brownies. You said you loved ’em. Want to know somethin’? A message came for you, that’s why I was so anxious for you to get home. Counselor Armstrong phoned he’d be along about four-thirty to talk with you. I figured we’d better give him tea, he bein’ the one who’s takin’ care of your case.”