Hoa

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Money couldn't buy happinessor love An ordinary hardworking girl, Rose enjoyed her job as a florist and found little to respect in the glamorously rich socialites who peopled the south of France. She couldn't understand the idle pleasure-seeking life-style of the wealthy and more specifically, that of Lance Hammond, who seemed its prime example. Rose could honestly say that he was not her typeor at least she could until the day she met him
CHAPTER ONE
ROSE TIVERTON placed the speckled pink orchids in a box, carefully fixed on the cellophane lid and tied a satin bow around it. Although she had been working as a florist for two years, she still indulged in daydreams about the recipients of the various bouquets she made up, and she could tell a great deal from the people who ordered them. The young man with a stammer who had bought a bunch of violets this morning had obviously intended to give them to his girl; the motherly looking woman who had hovered between daffodils and tulips had no doubt been buying them for her invalid husband, while the suave looking man in front of her now was no doubt a business executive intent on wooing his secretary! "Thank you," the man said as he tucked the box under his arm. "I never expected to find a florist open so late. It's a good thing too. If I'd forgotten my wife's birthday she'd never have forgiven me." "I'm sure she'll adore them," Rose replied and watched the customer leave the shop. "A secretary indeed!" she thought wryly as she bolted the door and pulled down the blind. "The trouble with you, my girl, is that you let your imagination run away with you." She began to clear the window of flowers, examining the bunches carefully before putting them into deep pails of water at the back of the shop. Then she sat down behind the counter and pulled a notebook towards her. Deciding what
file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (1 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:25 PM]
flowers to purchase each day was no easy task, for not only did she have to consider the special orders that had to be made, but also whether any of the left over stock would still be saleable in the morning. Occasionally she went to Covent Garden herself to do the buying, and though it meant rising at dawn in order to be in time for the first pick, it was an effort she enjoyed, for she loved to wander among the masses of flowers and plants, their scent triumphantly winning over the less pleasant odors that wafted in from neighboring premises. However, Mr. Marks the proprietor usually went, for he preferred to leave Rose to run the shop. "Another year or two," he had said, "and I'll let you buy the place from me." Rose glanced around her. Another year or two. Why, if she had the money she would open her own florist's immediately! There was so much she could do to this place if it were hers: specialize in small, inexpensive bouquets; concentrate on certain types of plants and encourage people not to be embarrassed at just buying one or two blooms if they could not afford to buy more. She sighed, and walking over to the wash basin, began to powder her nose in front of the mirror. "I'm likely to be an old lady before I ever have a shop of my own," she thought. "And then I'll be looking for a young person to whom I can sell it!" The idea brought a smile to her lips and she smudged the lipstick she was trying to apply. With an exclamation of annoyance she rubbed it off and began again, peering closely into the mirror. Large grey eyes looked back at her from a small oval face which even after a long day still had the shiny quality of youth about it. It was a youthfulness at variance with the way she wore her hair, for it was long enough to reach her waist and was looped in a thick chestnut plait around her head. Many times Rose had toyed with the idea of cutting her hair short, but always at the last moment she hesitated, reluctant to abandon the especial pleasure she received each night when the pins were taken out and her hair rippled over her shoulders like a curtain of mahogany. She replaced the powder compact in her handbag, put on her coat and, taking a final look around, switched off the lights. In the far corner a cluster of rose petals gleamed pink and she picked them up and held them in her hand as she locked the door and walked down the road. A cold wind beat against her as she crossed Grosvenor Square and she
shivered and thrust her hands deep into her pockets, wincing slightly as her skin, chapped and sore, rubbed against the material. "One of the hazards of being a florist," she thought, for not even the most expensive cream could keep smooth hands that were continually dipping into ice-cold water and fondling rough stems. Not that she would change her job for any other; since she was a child she had been determined to work among flowers. She turned into Duke Street and, shielded from the wind, slowed her pace, suddenly enjoying the crisp air. It had a tang of the sea about it and she was caught on a wave of homesickness for her father and the Devon village where she had been born. She reached Oxford Street and stood on the pavement waiting for a gap in the stream of traffic. The line of buses and cars stopped to allow a taxi to turn round, and Rose had one foot off the curb when she saw a black poodle picking its way in a leisure!y fashion across the road. She became aware of a woman or. the opposite pavement calling the dog, but the animal took no notice and had almost reached the curb when the taxi completed its turn and the traffic surged forward again. A blue car bore down on the poodle and, hardly aware of what she was doing, Rose jumped into the road and gripped the dog by the neck. There was a grinding of brakes and a tremendous jolt in the small of her back, followed by a searing pain which made the whole scene lose its focus. Slowly, as if there was a long way between herself and the pavement, she felt herself falling and then knew no more. When Rose returned to consciousness white walls met her gaze and a light shone so brightly on her eyes that she closed them again. "She's coming round," a voice murmured and Rose opened her eyes once more and saw the white of a nurse's uniform. "Where am I?" she asked weakly. "In hospital. But you're going to be all right. Just lie quiet now." "My head," Rose groaned. "I've a terrible pain in my head." "I'm not surprised," the nurse said. "You went smack on the pavement before anyone had a chance to catch you. I'll give you something to make you sleep again and you'll feel much better when you wake up." As she spoke she prepared an injection but when she came over to the bed
with it, memory returned to Rose so forcibly that she struggled to sit up. "The dog," she cried. "What happened to the dog?" "Nothing happened to it, thanks to you," the nurse said. "And if you ask me, people have no right to let their animals run about loose like that. You could easily have been killed, you know, dashing into the traffic the way you did." Rose relaxed on the pillows and was no longer listening as she felt the prick of the hypodermic in her arm. The dog was safe and she was able to put it out of her mind. When she awoke again it was morning and a doctor was standing by the nurse's side looking down at her. 'You're feeling better today, Miss Tiverton," he said, more as a statement than a question. "Yes, thank you." Rose tried to sit up, but the walls seemed to close in on her and she fell back on the pillows again. "At least, I do as long as I keep still." "You'll feel dizzy for a while yet," the doctor said. "You were badly concussed, you know. We were expecting you to take even longer than you did to become rational again." Rose stared at him in surprise. "How long have I been here then?" "Three days." "Three days! I can't believe it. And how long will I have to remain here?" "Another week, I'd say, and then a fortnight convalescence somewhere" "But that's impossible! I must get back to my job." She tried to sit up but the movement caused such a sharp pain that she could not talk. The nurse leaned forward and caught her wrist. "You must lie quiet, dear. You won't do yourself any good by getting excited. You had your insurance card in your handbag and Matron has already spoken to your employer."
"Everything's under control," the doctor interposed. 'You've nothing to worry about. Just take things easy and you'll be fine." For the next few days Rose had no option but to do as she was told for she was not allowed any visitors. It was an edict that did not worry her for all she longed to do was sleep. Even her natural curiosity seemed to have disappeared, and it was not until the end of the week, when she was able to move her head without a continual stabbing pain, that she gave any thought to the fact that she was in an obviously expensive private room. "I must have been seriously ill," she said to the nurse in charge of her. "Otherwise I'd have been in a public ward." "Not with Mrs. Rogers paying the bill!" the nurse grinned. Rose was puzzled. "I don't know a Mrs. Rogers. What's she got to do with it?" "She's the owner of the dog you saved. And what a state she was in! Couldn't do enough for you. She arranged for this room and said you were to have whatever you wanted. She's been in every day asking to see you and even brought the dog in the first time. You should have seen Sister's face!" Rose smiled and closed her eyes. "Now don't go to sleep again," the nurse said firmly. "Not when the doctor's allowing you your first visitor." Instantly Rose was wide awake again. "Why didn't you say so before? Who is it Mr. Marks?" "No. The dog's mother Mrs. Rogers," the nurse said dryly and rustled out of the room. The afternoon sun was pouring through the window, lighting up the red tints in Rose's hair and accentuating the paleness of her face when the nurse showed in a greyhaired woman wrapped from head to toe in mink. Her wrinkled hands as she pulled off her gloves glittered with diamonds, and when she leaned over the bed a treble rope of exquisite pearls could be seen around the crepy neck.
"You must be Mrs. Rogers," Rose smiled and held out her hand. "My dear, thank heavens you're better." The woman caught Rose's hand in hers and pressed it gently. "I can't ever thank you enough for saving my Benjy. No words on earth can do that. But when I think of what could have happened to you" She shivered. "The very thought of it makes me ill." "Well, nothing happened to me," Rose interrupted. "And in a few days I'll be perfectly well again." Mrs. Rogers looked at her intently. "You're so pale and thin, my dear." "I'm naturally thin, "and most people are pale when they've been in bed for a week." "Maybe so," said the woman. "But what you really need is a nice holiday in the sun. And that's what you're going to get." Rose looked mystified. "I don't understand." "It's quite simple. I'll arrange for you to go on a Mediterranean cruise. I've already spoken to your employer and he says your job will be open for you whenever you're well enough." She patted Rose's arm with her beringed hand. "Now, I don't want any disagreement about it, my dear. It's the least I can do for you after what you did for me'' Rose's eyes filled with tears at the woman's kindness. "It's terribly good of you, but I can't possibly accept." "Of course you can!" "But I can't. I really mean it. I couldn't possibly take a reward for what I did." "It isn't a reward, my dear," Mrs. Rogers added quickly. "That's what it seems like to me," Rose answered. "Anyway, my father lives in Devon right by the sea and I can go and stay with him." Mrs. Rogers gathered her things together and stood up. "I won't argue with you any more. You're young and like all the young are obstinate. But old people can be obstinate too as you'll find out for yourself when you get to
my age. I'll be back tomorrow and we'll talk about my plan then." For the rest of the day and the following morning Rose pondered Mrs. Rogers' offer, but no matter from which angle she considered it she still found it an impossible one to accept. A Mediterranean cruise sounded ideal but to take it would put her under an obligation to someone who was practically a stranger. "If the poodle had belonged to a charlady I'd have been lucky to get a couple of oranges," she thought. "I certainly can't accept a cruise." However when Mrs. Rogers arrived the following afternoon she made no attempt to persuade Rose to fall in with her plan. "If your pride is involved there's no point in arguing with you," she said. "So I've got another suggestion which I think you'll find much more acceptable." The woman drew her chair closer to the bed and Rose listened with growing wonder to an offer she had never believed possible. It appeared that Mrs. Rogers spent at least four months every year in the South of France and stayed at the Hotel Plage in Cannes. It was one of the most luxurious hotels on the Cote d'Azur and apart from having its own perfumery, hairdresser's and gift shop it also had its own florist's. It was here that Mrs. Rogers proposed Rose should work! "I know the manager very well indeed and I have already spoken to him on the telephone. He will be delighted for you to start work any time you wish. The job is by no means arduous," the old woman informed her, "and you would get the benefit of sunshine and sea air without putting yourself under an obligation to me." "But why is the job vacant?" Rose asked. "The woman who's been running it unexpectedly left to get married a week ago, and Monsieur Ferrier has not yet succeeded in replacing her. I've already spoken to your present employer and he thinks it would be too good an opportunity for you to miss." Rose's breath came out in a long sigh. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?" "Of course," Mrs. Rogers replied triumphantly. "My late husband always used to call me the most managing of women!"
"I can see why," Rose smiled. "Tell me, how long would I have to stay in Cannes? I mean, would I be able to leave if I didn't like the job?" "You arc perfectly free, my dear. All I have done is to procure you the offer. Once you're there you're completely on your own and if Monsieur Ferrier wants to give you the sack I won't be able to stop him." Mrs. Rogers stood up. "Now then, it's all settled. You'll be able to convalesce at your father's home and as soon as you are fit enough to travel I'll make all the arrangements." After her visitor had gone Rose gave herself up to thoughts of sunshine, long stretches of golden sand and the excitement of a new job in a glamorous setting. Whoever would have believed that saving the life of a poodle could lead to such a marvellous future?
CHAPTER TWO
IT was not until a fortnight after her accident that Rose boarded the Cornish Express at Paddington and within a few hours had exchanged the smoke-filled air of London for the bracing air of Devon. As always, when she first saw the grey stone house where she had been born she felt a thrill of homecoming. People used to neat little whitewashed cottages with roses round the door might not like this one, yet it had something of more lasting value than the stereotyped prettiness of most country cottages. Mystery and romance seemed to imbue its very stones stones which had stood for almost four hundred years and looked sturdy enough to stand for another four hundred. Even the garden, neglected and overgrown though it was, had a wild beauty that always tugged at Rose's heart, although she could not stop herself from heaving a sigh as she looked at the weed covered lawns and tangled borders. But it was the tall man with the lined face and thick iron grey hair who came to the door to welcome her who held Rose's attention. "It's so wonderful to see you, Dad," she cried and flung herself into his arms. "You should have told me you'd had an accident," he said as he patted her shoulder. "It wasn't right of you to wait until you were out of the hospital."
"There was no point in worrying you." "Even so " He held her away from him and looked at her intently, his grey eyes extraordinarily like her own. "You look as if you could do with a few weeks down here. I hope this isn't going to be one of your usual rushed visits?" "Certainly not. But let me come in and get settled, and I'll tell you all about it." "Of course. How stupid of me." Keeping his arm over her shoulders he led her into the living room, and as soon as they had settled down on either side of the fireplace Rose told him of the job she had been offered in the South of France. "It's a wonderful opportunity for you," her father said seriously. "I've always felt it a shame that you were cooped up in a little florist's in the back of beyond." "You can hardly call a mews turning off Grosvenor Square the back of beyond! And anyway, I'll still be working as a florist even if it is in France." "Maybe so, but at least you'll have the opportunity of meeting some young men. Your mother was married and had had you by the time she was your age." "I've never been in love," Rose said. "And I'm romantic enough to consider that love is the most important thing in marriage. After all, I saw the wonderful life you and Mother had and I wouldn't accept anything less." "I don't want you to accept anything less," her father said gruffly. "But there aren't many marriages like your mother's and mine. She was a woman in a million." The atmosphere became charged with sadness and Rose stifled a sigh. What a tragedy it was that her mother had died so unexpectedly. Her parents had been an ideal couple, for Marion Tiverton had combined a strong sense of fun with an equally strong maternal instinct, while Desmond Tiverton, a brilliant historian, had just enough of the little boy in his make-up to give scope to his wife's all-embracing protectiveness. And it had certainly been all-embracing, Rose mused, remembering the innumerable stray animals that had found refuge in their home. It was from her mother she had inherited her love of animals and flowers and from her father her strong sense of independence. It
was strange to think that it had been her mother's trait that had resulted in her being here now and recuperating from an accident and the independence which she had inherited from her father that had resulted in her taking a job in Cannes rather than accepting a cruise. She yawned and stood up. "I'm not as strong as I thought I was," she apologized. "The journey's knocked me for six and I think I'll go to bed." "A good idea, poppet. I'll bring you up some supper later on." Rose climbed 'the narrow stairs to her room and, too weary to do more than cursorily wash her face and hands, climbed into bed. She was almost asleep when her father came in with a tray and she ate the cold meat and salad and drank the large cup of steaming hot chocolate. As soon as she had finished she flopped back on the pillows and the next instant was sound asleep. She did not awaken till morning and the air coming in through the window was so warm that she pushed the bedclothes off and padded over the floor to look at the view. It was as beautiful as ever, the rolling green fields, the steep drop of the cliffs and the restless, tumbling sea. From downstairs came the sound of crockery and she knew her father was making breakfast. Although he was cared for by a daily woman, Desmond Tiverton was extremely domesticated and had little need of anyone to take care of him. He was too self-sufficient in fact, and had he not been so might have married again instead of living alone. At forty-eight her father was still young enough to look forward to more happiness, Rose thought, yet after his wife's death he had given up his job of history master at a public school in order to retire to his beloved Devon and devote himself to writing historical books. True, they had brought him a great deal of prestige, but they had brought him very little else. "Not that I've any need for money," he had told her on one occasion. "I've an insurance policy that will go to you and I've enough for my own needs." Hearing the object of her thoughts clattering heavily up the stars, Rose hurriedly slid back into bed and made herself ready to receive the breakfast tray. The pattern of that day, lazy, enervating, set the pattern for the two weeks
that followed. As though reproaching her for going elsewhere to seek warmth and sunshine, the sky was cloudless and the spring sun instead of being watery pale had an unusual summer intensity that tanned her fair skin. "If you don't come back from Cannes with a millionaire in tow," her father said as he drove her to the station to catch the train, "I'll feel that fate is looking on you most unkindly." "She'd probably be looking on me unkindly if she gave me a millionaire," Rose laughed. "From the few rich young men I've seen coming into our florist's I'd just as soon be a working man's darling!" It was on a note of laughter that she waved her father goodbye and after she had watched his tall figure recede on the platform she settled back in her seat and gave herself up to thoughts of the future. As soon as Rose reached her small flat in London she telephoned Mrs. Rogers, who immediately invited her over to dinner. "In fact," the woman said, "if you get all your things packed my chauffeur will call for you and then you can spend the night here and go straight to the airport in the morning." Realizing it would be churlish to refuse Rose accepted the invitation, and as the street lamps came winking on in the dusk of evening, she drove across London in a purring Rolls Royce to the Mayfair flat where Mrs. Rogers lived. The first welcome she received as she entered the hall was of a small black body launching itself into her arms and a hot tongue licking eagerly at her chin. "There you are," Mrs. Rogers cried as she came out of the drawing room. "Benjy knows it was you who saved his life. Look how pleased he is to see you!" Rose hugged the poodle and then turned to her hostess. "It was kind of you to ask me to come." "Nonsense! I'm enjoying your excitement. It's almost as if I were going instead of you." "But surely there's nothing to stop you going away?" Rose asked in surprise, and could not help glancing at the elegantly furnished drawing room in which she found herself.
"That's the trouble," Mrs. Rogers answered. "It's knowing that you can do everything you want that takes away all the excitement. If I'd had to work for what I wanted I might get a thrill out of it," Mrs. Rogers sighed. "It seems wrong not to be grateful for what I have, doesn't it?" Beginning to understand something of the boredom that could come from having too much time on one's hands as well as too much money, Rose did what she could during the evening to entertain her hostess with an account of her own working life, and told in great detail of her occasional visits to Covent Garden and the way Mr. Marks used to hunt for flower bargains. "Your job sounds as if it's been a lot of fun," Mrs. Rogers said as she led Rose to her bedroom. "But you'll soon meet a nice young man and give up all thoughts of a career." "That's what my father said," Rose answered. "But I wouldn't want to give up my career for any man. I love working with flowers and I'd hate to be cooped up in a kitchen." "Maybe you'll be another Constance Spry," Mrs. Rogers laughed. "I'm not talented enough for that," Rose said seriously, and as she undressed and climbed into bed she couldn't help wishing she were more clever. There was something monotonous in being an average sort of person, particularly if one was sufficiently unaverage to resent being so! 'If I were really brilliant no one would think it strange that I preferred a career rather than a marriage. Yet even Dad, who's emancipated enough goodness knows, still clucks over me like a mother hen when he envisages me remaining a spinster for ever.' She closed her eyes and rubbed her toes over the hot water bottle. Excitement would not let her relax and she began to analyse herself, probing deep in a way she had rarely done before. What exactly was she looking for in a marriage? Real love, deep love, love in the tradition of the great romantics? There was that dread word romantic again. What was it she had been called at school Romantic Rosie! Even now she blushed at the thought, for in this era of rock 'n' roll, of beatniks and weirdies, romance as she envisaged it was outdated. "But I'd never marry a man unless I came first in his life,' she vowed. 'And if I find them in the future to be as cynical and philandering as
I've found them in the past, then I'll remain a Miss for ever!' It was on this threat that she finally fell asleep. Rose left London Airport the next morning. It was her first flight and she could not help a tremor of nervousness as she climbed the aluminum steps and boarded the Nice- bound Viscount aircraft. There was such an unhurried calm about the stewardess who welcomed her aboard that her fears diminished and she watched fascinated as the signal for takeoff was given. Safety belts were fastened and they taxied across the tarmac to the runway. The noise of the engines was deafening and as they raced over the ground it seemed as if her eardrums would burst. There was a gentle swaying movement and suddenly they were airborne, rising so swiftly that almost before she realized it the trees and the houses looked like toys and the cars became black dots crawling across ribbon roads. Even though she had not been conscious of being afraid, Rose found that her hands were damp and she rubbed them surreptitiously on her skirt before undoing her safety belt. She glanced round at the other passengers. Some were talking, some were writing and others were already asleep, completely oblivious of the wonderful panorama through which they were flying. Never before had Rose realized that clouds could take on so many different shapes and colors, for it seemed as though she were passing through a veritable fairyland. Here was a castle of palest pink, there a clump of dark grey trees, here again a grotesque figure tinged with yellow, ahead an illumined mountain of shimmering white. But after half an hour Rose too grew tired of watching the never-ending, everchanging cloud shapes and she was glad when the stewardess brought round hot drinks and sandwiches and handed her some magazines. Quicker than she had thought it possible they were droning over France, going ever farther south until far below she caught her first glimpse of the Mediterranean, a wondrous vista of lapis-lazuli. Once again she fastened her seat belt and once more was caught up on a wave of fear as the plane jokingly descended. There was the whine of wheel flaps going down, the change in the tempo of the engines, a high pitched scream of brakes and then they were rolling across the tarmac at Nice Airport. The moment she stepped out of the plane Rose felt the sun beating on her with brazen fingers and she immediately took off her coat and unbuttoned as much of her sweater as decency allowed. Then she followed the rest of the passengers to the Customs Hall where the babble of voices became one
unintelligible blare. Any knowledge she had possessed of French completely disappeared and when the Customs official spoke to her she stared at him blankly. He smiled and addressed her in English, and the moment he did so her fear evaporated. Indeed, as she took stock of her surroundings she realized there were more English people around her than French, and it was not until she was in an oldfashioned taxi bowling along the road towards Cannes that she got the feeling she was actually outside her native shores. It was not so much the landscape, which bore a striking similarity to Devon and Cornwall, but a certain atmosphere in the quality of the air and above all in the scents that wafted to her nostrils: perfume of strange looking flowers mixed with suntan oil, garlic and coffee. Any feeling that she might still be in England was finally abandoned when they were clear of Nice itself and tearing at a furious pace along the winding cliff road. "No driver could get away with this in England," she thought indignantly, and clutching the edge of the seat vowed she would never go in a French taxi again. "Lentement!" she said loudly to the driver. "Lentement,'s'il vous plait!" "Oui, oui," said the man and turned to grin at her, showing a row of tobaccostained teeth. Then to show that he understood her clearly, he pressed his foot even harder on the accelerator. Only when they reached Cannes and the Promenade des Anglais did they slow down, this due in the main to the preponderance of other cars. Rose glanced eagerly around her. Although it was still early in the season the narrow strip of sand was crowded with gaily colored umbrellas and deck- chairs, while scores of people strolled leisurely by or sipped a drink at one of the many cafes lining the right-hand side of the road. On the right-hand side too lay the hotels, each one more resplendent than the last. There was the gleaming bulk of the Martinez, the turrets of the Carlton and then, set back in a carpet of mossy green grass, the most glittering hotel of them all the Plage. They drove gently into the drive and Rose could not help a pang of fear at the sight of the vast terrace running the entire front length of the building and dotted with tables at which sat groups of holiday-makers sipping drinks served to them by scarlet jacketed waiters.
The car drew to a stop and two page-boys stepped smartly forward. One deposited her cases on a trolley while the other took hold of the travelling case she was carrying. "I'm not a guest here," she told him in French. "I've come to work in the florist's shop. Perhaps you could take me to Monsieur Ferrier?" "O.K.," he said in broken English with a strong American accent. "I show you to Monsieur Ferrier tout de suite." Nervously she followed him through the swing doors to the lobby. The hotel was even more vast than it appeared from outside, the ceiling high and vaulted, the walls of gleaming marble with here and there elegant pedestals on which reposed displays of flowers. 'If I'm supposed to do the flower arrangements here as well,' Rose thought, 'I won't get much chance to serve in the shop!' She had no more than time to glance curiously around her before the page-boy led her past the reception desk, past the three gilt cages that served as lifts and down a narrow red-carpeted corridor to a room at the far end. He knocked at the door and with a flourish opened it. A middle-aged man seated at a desk stood up and came round it instantly, both arms held out in greeting. "Miss Tiverton? I'm very happy to see you. You had a good journey, I trust?" Without waiting for her reply he turned to the pageboy. "See that Miss Tiverton's luggage is sent to her room. I'll take her up there myself in a moment." He waited until the door had closed and he and Rose were alone. Then he beckoned her to sit down and resumed his own seat. He was not the sort of manager Rose had expected to find at the Hotel Plage, for he looked more like an Agatha Christie detective, being short and portly with florid cheeks and a pointed, waxed moustache. "Mrs. Rogers has spoken to me at great length about you," he said. "I'm sure you will fit very well into our regime here." "I hope so," Rose said. "But I really haven't much idea of what I'm supposed to do. Mrs. Rogers was very vague."
The tips of Monsieur Ferrier's moustache lifted in what Rose was to realize was his only intimation of a smile. "Mrs. Rogers is only vague when it suits her. If she wants to she can be most terribly precise. And she was very precise about you!" "I had a proper training," Rose said quickly, "and then I worked at " "I know all your background," Monsieur Ferrier said hastily. "Besides, Mrs. Rogers' recommendation is enough. Indeed, we only take people to whom we are recommended. In a hotel like this it can be dangerous to employ the wrong sort" Seeing Rose's mystified expression he elaborated. "The people who stay here are among the richest and most exclusive in the world, and people of that type are not always careful of their possessions or how they spend their money. Many girls would like to work here for they see it as the Open Sesame to a glittering future. For my part, I only see a job here as a job. We are not a marriage bureau but a hotel!" Rose burst out laughing. "I know exactly what you mean. But you needn't worry about me." "Please, Mademoiselle. I was not suggesting anything of the sort. I was merely explaining that if it had not been for Mrs. Rogers we would not have taken you. But since you are her protegee it is more than good enough for me." "Do you know her very well?" "But of course. Her husband was a founder member of this hotel and she is still a large shareholder." Rose digested this news in silence. It explained how the job had become available so fortuitously! Monsieur Ferrier stood up. "First I will show you the florist's and then I will show you your room. You can have a couple of days rest and if you would be ready to start work by Friday the weekend is always our busiest time it will be in accordance with me." "I'd rather start tomorrow," Rose said firmly. "Mrs. Rogers might have been
good enough to get me the job, but I wouldn't want you to keep me here for any reason other than that I was good enough." A gleam of admiration lightened his eyes, but without any comment he led her back to the foyer. On the other side of the lifts was a wide arcade that Rose had not noticed before. Here were the shops of the Hotel de la Plage; the hairdresser's, the chemist's, the gift shop, the perfumery and in the middle a double window with a magnificent display of blooms. "This is the florist's," said Monsieur Ferrier unneccessarily, and pushed open the door. A thin girl of about her own age came forward as they entered and Rose was introduced to her assistant, Mademoiselle Jacqueline Roussel. "But please call me Jacky," the girl said. Rose liked her immediately, but they had no time to exchange more than a few words, for the manager was already leading her down the arcade again to the lifts. They went up to the top floor and along the innumerable corridors until they reached a corner room at the back. "It has no view of the sea." "but it has an excellent view of the mountains." "It's beautiful," she said sincerely. "I never expected anything as magnificent as this." "Most of our staff rooms are much smaller," came the dry reply. "But Mrs. Rogers especially asked me to give you this one." Rose knew better than to comment on this and she thanked him and watched him go. Alone in the bedroom she relaxed for the first time that day. What a strain it was to come to a new job in a strange land! And even more of a strain to know that it was influence that had got her the job in the first place. 'Not that it's going to be an easy one,' Rose thought as she remembered die lavish window display and the vast bouquets that she had seen dotted around the hotel itself. 'It looks as if I'll have to work harder here than I did with dear old Mr. Marks!'
She walked over to the window and pushed back the shutters, staring in delight at the vista ahead. The sun was already beginning to set and long shadows cast their purple fingers over the mountains. Never had she seen so many different shades of green, from muted leaf to dark cypress. Although the sunlight was mellow the rays were still hot, and she drew the shutters again and stepped back into the bedroom. The furniture was sycamore, the pale wood lending an illusion of space and light, while the bathroom was larger than any Rose had ever seen. Quickly she unpacked, changed into another dress and went downstairs. She had forgotten to ask Monsieur Ferrier where the staff dining room was, but one of the clerks at the reception desk was going off duty and he led her down to the basement floor and a large, plainly furnished room with scrubbed wooden tables and hard chairs. "Not good to look at," he said with a smile, "but the food is excellent and you will get here the left-overs of what the dining room had yesterday. If you like to join me I would be delighted." She accepted his offer and found him a pleasant if slightly boring companion. He had been working at the hotel for four years and was leaving at the end of the season to accept a job as chief receptionist at a hotel in Switzerland. But he served to introduce her to some of the other staff as they came in, although Rose still remained the only woman among them. "The linen keepers and the various housekeepers from each floor go off duty at eight in the evening and will have their supper at home, but you will meet them all here at lunch time tomorrow. The other people who work in the shops go to their own homes too and the only staff to use the dining room at night are us receptionists and the head waiters. If you wish you could probably arrange to have your meals served in your room. It would just mean giving a few francs to one of the boys." Rose decided she would do this in future, for though not shy she did not relish the prospect of dining each evening among a crowd of strange young men. The food itself was faultless but she declined coffee and going back to her room for a coat, decided to walk along the promenade. Although it was warm the air had a tingle that one only found by the seaside, and it fanned her cheeks and ruffled the tendrils of hair on the nape of her neck. A few times she was conscious of the eyes of some of the male passers-by. One or two smiled
at her but with true English reserve she stared straight ahead, annoyed with herself for blushing. At night the promenade was almost as crowded as it had been earlier in the day. The terraces of the hotels were just beginning to fill with diners and Rose glanced at her watch. It was after nine, yet obviously on the Riviera people dined late. And no wonder! The majority of them were gambling till dawn, unlike Rose, whose day would begin when theirs was just ending. She was tired by the time she had walked the length of the promenade but she resisted the urge to take a taxi back to the hotel. Luxury spending, it seemed, could be quite catching and she slowly strolled back the way she had come. The same page-boy who had showed her to her room on arrival was now working the lift. "What time do you go off?" she asked him. "Twelve o'clock." "Isn't that rather late for you?" He shrugged. "This is Dino's job, but it's his wedding anniversary tonight the first one and he's paying me to take over for him." "You should be in bed and asleep at your age," Rose admonished. The only reply she got was another shrug. They drew up at her floor and he opened the lift gate. "I wait for you to come down?" "I'm not coming down," Rose replied, surprised. "I'm going to bed." His round eyes widened in astonishment. "But the evening's just starting. Look, Mees." He extended a small wrist on which was strapped a large watch. "Ees only ten o'clock!" "Even if it were seven o'clock I should still go to bed," she laughed. "I'm tired." "You're too young to be tired!" came the cheeky reply and clanging the gate
shut behind him, he disappeared as the lift descended to the ground floor again. Rose was still smiling at this retort as she let herself into her room. 'I can see I'll have to change my habits or I'll be looked on as a freak,' she thought as she undressed. 'But freak or not, I've come here to work and I mustn't let myself forget that.'
CHAPTER THREE
WITH a sigh of relief Rose closed the glass fronted door of the shop and made her way out of the side entrance of the hotel down to the beach. It was lunch time and there were few people about so that she was able to commandeer a vacant deck-chair. Jean, the attendant in charge of the beach, recognized her and watched with interest as she slipped out of her cotton dress to reveal the brief white bikini that had been her first purchase out of her salary. "You having sandwiches again?" he said as he padded over to her and squatted down on haunches burned nut brown by the sun. "Ees not good to eat sandwiches all ze time. You should 'ave a proper lunch." Rose grinned. "If I had a proper lunch as well as a proper dinner I'd end up as fat as a pig." "You're not ze type," Jean said, "and sandwiches are not 'ealthy. Me, I leev on fruit and Coca-Cola!" "I wouldn't call that particularly healthy either." Rose laughed outright this time. "Anyway, I have a proper meal in the evening. And the weather's always too wonderful for me to go and stick myself in a dining room for two hours." Jean shrugged and murmuring that she would get used to the sun in time, padded away to collect the used towels left behind by some holiday makers. Rose contentedly munched a couple of crisp rolls filled with delicious cheese and then finished off the meal with a golden peach almost the size of a grapefruit. The sea sounded softly in her ears and the sun seeping through her already tanned skin gave her such a sense of well-being that she would have been content to remain where she was for ever. She folded her empty lunch packet and lay back on the deck-chair. There was a lot to be said for the two
hours which French took for their lunch-time break; although it meant having to start work earlier and finishing later than one did in England it at least gave her the chance to get the best of the sunshine at a time when the beach was at its quietest. Since she had arrived, nearly five weeks ago, her lunch- time activities had followed the same pattern. She was always promising herself something different: to explore the town, take a fiacre along the coast or go window shopping. But it was always too hot and so each day at noon found her on the same spot on the beach. She rolled over on her stomach and propping her chin on her hands gazed down at the glistening grains of sand. The little florist's tucked away in the mews off Grosvenor Square seemed part of another life, as she herself seemed to be another person. She would never have believed that her job here could be so different from the one in London. Although she had an assistant she was expected to do everything herself and that included keeping all the main rooms of the hotel supplied with flowers. But as she was allowed a perfectly free hand with the buying of the blooms, this was easier than it sounded for if money was no object it was half the battle in keeping vases and baskets well filled and beautiful. To begin with she had gone each morning to the flower market and had found it fascinating to watch the barrows and vans lumbering in from the mountains. Within a short space of time she had established friendly relations with everyone and had realized that the flower sellers regarded the hotels as their main source of income. For this reason they did not try to cheat her, for they realized that if she once stopped buying from them they would find it extremely difficult to produce another client who would give them the same vast order each day. By the end of the third week Rose was so well known that she had no need to go to the market each day and was able to rely on a couple of the largest sellers to send her the pick of their crop. This enabled her to start work in the shop much earlier than usual and by eleven o'clock each morning all the baskets of flowers in the main rooms of the hotel were denuded of their dead blooms and topped up with fresh ones. In most of the rooms flowers were an unremarked part of the decor, but in the main hall and on the buffet tables in the dining room she took great pains to see that the display did her justice and she was delighted when Monsieur Ferrier complimented her on them. "I took you because of Mrs. Rogers," he said one morning in a burst of bonhomie, "but I'm willing to keep you here on your own merits. No doubt at all!"
From the manager of such a hotel this was praise indeed and Rose was considerably warmed by it. She lifted her position again on the sand and looked out over the sea, her gaze turning to the right and the harbor full of yachts. Streamlined and beautiful, the vessels looked as redolent of wealth as their owners, most of whom, living aboard, were in the habit of taking their evening aperitifs on the terrace of the Hotel Plage. Casually clothed, all sporting expensive tans, they exuded an aura of wellbeing and self-satisfaction that came from knowing nothing could ever go wrong with their particular world. Sometimes when she closed the shop at seven-thirty or eight o'clock in the evening she always had to keep open late for last-minute bouquets she would slip out on the terrace for a quick look at the people and was fascinated to find that though they hailed from different countries, their money seemed to clothe them with the same air, so that until one heard them speak it was difficult to tell the nationality of one well groomed person from another. She knew that many times they would spend on an evening meal what she herself earned in a week, while if they went to the Casino they could easily lose in one hour what she had to work a year to attain. Small wonder that she could not help an occasional pang of envy and a desire to be a part of their world if only for a short space of time. "Why the sigh?" asked a voice above her head and looking up Rose saw a redheaded young man grinning at her. "Alan! What are you doing here?" "The same as you." He flopped down beside her, stretching his long thin legs out in front of him. "No matter how hard I try I still can't get brown. All I do is turn a dreadful lobster pink!" She laughed. "Don't worry about it. We can't all be sun-gods like your illustrious boss." For a moment the smile left his face. "You don't like Lance Hammond, do you?" Rose shrugged. "I've never met him, but I certainly don't like what I've heard about him or what he stands for." "And I suppose you despise me for working for him?"
"Of course I don't," she said quickly. "What a silly thing to say. If you hadn't been working for him I'd never have met you." Alan grinned. "That's the nicest thing you've said for a long while! Meeting you was one of the benefits I got out of working for Lance." "I should imagine you get quite a few disadvantages too," Rose said dryly. "Going around with him all the time people are inclined to think that birds of a feather flock together." "I work for the man," Alan retorted. "I'm not his bosom pal." He made himself more comfortable on the sand. "Not that I'd take another job even if I had the chance. I've been Lance's aide-de-camp for the last five years and I like him. Famous and rich people always get talked about, Rose. You should take what you hear about them with a pinch of salt." She shrugged. "You're very loyal, Alan, and I admire you for it." "Oh come now, you don't even know Lance. What is there you don't like about him?" "Just say I'm always suspicious of exceptionally handsome men. And I don't really go for blonds. Apart from which, even you can't defend his reputation with women. Why, it's impossible to open a newspaper without seeing his name in all the gossip columns. It wouldn't be so bad if he just had a couple of girl friends, but he seems to have a couple of dozen all at the same time. And he changes them as often as he does his ties!" "Miaow, miaow!" Alan laughed. "I never knew you were such a pussy cat." "I'm not," she protested. "After all, you come into the shop almost every day to order flowers for all the beautiful girls along the Riviera." "I still don't see anything wrong in that. I'd probably do the same if I had my boss's money." He looked across at the harbor. "Although the first thing I'd buy would be a boat like his. I guess that's one of my main reasons for staying with him." Rose followed Alan's gaze to the gleaming white yacht moored just outside Cannes Harbor. It was rocking gently in the breeze, its chromium glistening in the sunshine.
"I suppose the crux of it," she said simply, "is that I just don't like playboys. And even you can't deny that's what Lance Hammond is?" She straightened and looked at Alan who, eyes closed, was basking in the sun. Seen in swimming trunks he was even thinner than he appeared when dressed in causual slacks ad open-necked shirt, and his face, relaxed in repose, showed a bony sensitivity and artisticness. Although she had never asked his age she judged him to be in his early thirties, probably the same age as the man for whom he worked, although there the similarity ended. For while Lance Hammond had been born with a silver indeed a golden spoon in his mouth, Alan Dawson from the little he had told her about himself had had to fight to achieve everything he had. She knew he came from a working class background and that he had won a scholarship to Oxford where he had first met Lance Hammond. "We lost touch during the war," he had told her one evening when he had asked her to dine at one of the small cafes along the Croissette, "but after I was demobbed I got a job at the head office of one of the grocery stores. And it was while I was attending a supermarket conference that I met Lance again. I won't ask if you've heard of the Hammond Supermarkets you'd have to be deaf and blind not to have done!" Rose nodded, reluctant to break the train of Alan's thoughts, and he had then continued his reminiscences, telling her how Lance had offered him a job in his own organization and then asked him to live with him as his private secretary. "Of course, it means I do a lot of fetching and carrying for him," Alan continued, "and sometimes I feel more like a nursemaid than a secretary, but the job has its compensations and one day, when Lance really gets down to work, I hope to take up a decent executive position. The trade of the future lies in the supermarkets, Rose, but there's still a great deal of work to be done in educating the housewife to think this way." After that the conversation had become general rather than particular, although from time to time Alan had regaled her with little anecdotes of his employer who appeared, the more Rose heard of him, to be interested solely in spending money rather than earning it. Not that Lance Hammond had to worry about earning any money, she thought, as she stood up and slipped her dress over her shoulders. His father had left
him considerably more than a million pounds when he had died as well as a chain of grocery stores that ran the length of the country. Not all the extravagances of Lance or his mother Diana Hammond could dissipate such a fortune, for as fast as they spent it, the money rolled into the tills. Rose tightened the gold kid belt around her small waist and slipped her feet into leather thong sandals. A flurry of sand descended on Alan's face and he wrinkled his eyelids and sat up. "Hey, what's the rush?" "I'm a working girl," she grinned. "It's time to open the shop. I suppose I'll be seeing you this afternoon as usual?" He grinned back at her. "To date, I've got to order two bouquets and a corsage. I'll be in to see you later." Rose waved him goodbye and made her way over the beach and up the narrow steps to the promenade. The Croissette was still almost deserted, but the terraces of the hotels were crowded with loungers and the small cafes were doing a roaring trade selling omelettes, bacon and eggs and French fried. She crossed the road and ignoring the main entrance, walked down the side turning and through the arcade to the shop. She unlocked the door and switched on the lights and had just slipped on her pale blue overall when Jacqueline came in. "Zat Philippe!" the girl grumbled. "If 'e ees so jealous now we are engaged, 'eaven knows what 'e will be like when we are married. Do you know 'is latest order? I am not to go into the staff dining room for lunch unless 'e is zere!" "What's so wrong with that?" Rose smiled. "Everyzing." Jacky lifted her hands in despair. " 'Alf ze time 'e does not bother wiz any lunch and when 'e does slip down it ees only for 'alf an hour." "He's ambitious," Rose agreed. "But don't forget he's working hard because of you. He'll be the chief cashier here within another couple of years." -"Much good it will do me," the girl grumbled as she put on her overall. "Work, work, work. All ze time it is work. When the evening comes 'e is too tired to dance, too tired to talk, even too tired to make love ma foi! Zat is ze end!"
Rose closed her ears to the torrent of French that followed. Regularly each week Jacqueline would burst into a tirade against the fiance she adored and regularly each week there would be tears and recriminations ending with Philippe dashing into the shop and pulling Jacqueline into his arms regardless of Rose's presence. Indeed, on one occasion he had even disregarded a paunchy American who had come in to buy some roses, although the American had taken it in exceptionally good part, merely remarking that the heat of such ardour might wilt the flowers! "You're not listening to me," Jacky accused. "I don't need to," Rose answered good-naturedly. "I've heard it so many times before. Now be a good girl and start on the bouquets for Suite II." "What one is that?" Rose hurried over to the desk at the back of the shop and consulted a list. "It's the Marchesa de Santos. She wants two baskets in her drawing room, one in the lobby of her suite and another in her bedroom. The color scheme must be pink and blue and she doesn't like too much greenery. Then when you've finished that there's the bouquet to do for Mrs. Patton. Her husband will be in to collect it himself in about an hour and a half. "That man spends a fortune on flowers," Jacky grumbled as she set to work. "I have been here since I was fifteen, and I've already seen him with three different wives! One year I'm expecting all of them to come here without Mr. Patton and hold a conference! That should be an interesting one to attend." Rose made no comment, although as she began to crush the stems of some roses she could not help musing on the glimpses she had had of the lives of the guests in the hotel. It was certainly not a mere cliche to say that money did not bring happiness, for she had seen more unhappiness in her five weeks here than she had seen in the time she had spent in Grosvenor Square. At least in London she had had a passer-by trade and although many of the clients had been the wealthy inhabitants of Mayfair there had also been a good sprinkling of office workers from the nearby buildings and shops. But in the hotel the trade was mainly from the residents, and what spoiled people most of them were! Bored by having too much money, satiated with too much pleasure, the only excitement they could engender in their lives was a false one based on artificial standards; illicit love affairs under the very noses of husbands and wives, the gaming tables and continual gossip, gossip, gossip.
For the rest of the afternoon the two girls worked continuously and as the baskets of flowers were finished they were taken up to the suites by the pageboys. "Your young man hasn't been in yet," Jacky said as she carefully placed two dozen gladioli into a long white box. "If you mean Mr. Dawson, he isn't my young man," Rose said. Jacky smiled slyly. "He comes here every day and Philippe and I saw you having dinner together ze other night." "He's English and so am I," Rose said. "That's why he asked me out. And as for him coming here every day, well that's part of his job." "Piffle! Zere are lost of other florists he can go to, though I must say his boss seems to regard zis hotel as his particular hunting ground. Ah, how wonderful to be hunted by a man like Lance Hammond!" Jacqueline's eyes rolled with ecstasy. "What wouldn't I give to be one of his girl friends even if only for a week." She began to mince up and down the shop. "What presents I would receive! Jewels from Cartier, dresses from Dior and flowers for every single hour of ze day!" She swung round and looked at Rose mischievously. "It is a wonderful dream, is it not?" "Yes," Rose said shortly. "And a pretty rude awakening you'd get too. He's never been known to stick to one girl longer than a month!" "That is where you are wrong. Have you forgotten Enid Walters?" Rose frowned. She remembered hearing the name al- thought she could not remember in what context. "Isn't she a socialite or something?" The French girl nodded and placing a cellophane lid over the box of gladioli tied a silver bow across it to hold it in position. "She's the only girl ever to dangle ze great Lance Hammond on a string. And how she dangle him! Cannes, St. Moritz, Deauville, London, New York wherever zere's ze social set zere is Enid Walters. And for the past year
wherever Enid Walters go, Lance follow." "Well, he hasn't done much following for the past five weeks," Rose retorted. "Zat is where you are wrong." The elfin French face was triumphant. "You do not read the gossip columns, Rose. Lance is crazy for Enid and she's arriving in Cannes today and staying in our hotel. I bet they will be engaged before the end of the week." "Well, we can look forward to having masses of flowers to deliver to her then," Rose said and picking up the box of gladioli carried it down the arcade, telling Jacqueline over her shoulder that she would deliver it herself. Across the vestibule she went and disregarding the lift, mounted the stairs to the first floor suite occupied by Mr. Patton and his newest wife. He opened the door at her knock and took the flowers with a beaming smile. Fat and in his sixties, he was so much like the caricature of a worked-his-way-up-from-thebottom American millionaire that Rose had to hide a smile every time she saw him. "Thanks, my dear," he said with a broad accent as he took the flowers from her. "I was going to send a bellboy down to collect them. You shouldn't have bothered bringing them up yourself." "That's perfectly all right," Rose said. "The bell-boys are rather busy this afternoon and I knew you wanted the flowers delivered before your wife got back from the hairdresser." She backed away hastily before he could proffer her a dollar bill and was half way down stairs when she saw a commotion in the entrance. A crowd of people were gathered there and a bevy of page-boys marched across the lobby carrying a stack of pale pigskin cases. Following them was one of the most beautiful girls Rose had ever seen. She was tall and elegantly thin with smooth hair dyed a fashionable silver blonde and worn in the current smooth fashion, the ends wisping up in delicate fronds as it touched her shoulders. Although she had obviously just arrived there was no sign of the weary traveller about her, no speck of dirt on the simple yet beautifully cut white suit or white shoes that graced the narrow pointed feet. The procession reached the lifts and the girl stopped. "If I'm on the first floor I might as well walk up," she said in a husky voice and, escorted by the under-manager, she moved towards the stairs. Quickly Rose
hurried down them and as she passed the girl found herself staring into a pair of green, almond-shaped eyes fringed with dark lashes. So this was the beautiful Enid Walters. Not a word of praise of her beauty had been exaggerated. No wonder Lance Hammond was in love with her. She was exactly the sort of girl Rose would have expected him to fall in love with elegant, assured and moneyed. Wondering at the irrational resentment within her, Rose returned to the shop. Every time the door opened she expected to see Alan, but when five o'clock arrived and he had still not come, she realized that his boss obviously did not intend to send flowers to any other girl now that Miss Walters had put in her appearance. Yet Alan had left her with the impression that he would be seeing her later that afternoon, and she was disappointed not to be meeting him again. Not that there was any truth in Jacqueline's suggestion that she and Alan Dawson were more than friends. As she had told the French girl, their friendship had only arisen from the fact that they were both English in a foreign country and more important, that they were both working for a living while their other compatriots were on holiday. Not that Alan was not attractive. He was, in fact, one of the few men she had met with whom she felt completely at ease, and in the last few weeks they had developed a camaraderie that had strengthened with the passing days. Whenever he had a free afternoon he would pick her up at the hotel and take her out for a snack or a drink, and a couple of times he had managed to leave Lance Hammond early enough to invite her out to dinner. But their conversation had so far ranged over unimportant topics and she had the impression he was an unhappy man and wary of going too deeply into any relationship. She was putting the finishing touches to a corsage of orchids when the shop bell tinkled behind her. Believing it to be Jacqueline returning from her coffee break she did not bother to look up until she heard a cough. With a quick murmur of apology she turned and found herself staring into a pair of mocking blue eyes. They were the most vivid blue she had ever seen and set in a face as handsome as that of a Viking. Lance Hammond! Tall and narrow hipped, his broad shoulders and great height seemed to dwarf the florist's shop, while his tanned skin and gleaming blond hair made the very flowers insipid. Rose had seen many pictures of the heir to the Hammond Supermarkets but none of them had prepared her for her actual sight of the man, and she would not have been human had she been unmoved by his male arrogance and good looks. Seen close, there was more than a hint of stubborness in the square chin, and the mouth, which in his pictures was always smiling, was now set in a
determined line. Realizing she was gazing at him like a love-sick schoolgirl, she blushed and hurriedly bent her face to the blooms she was holding. "I'm's-sorry," she stammered. "I didn't hear you come in. Can I help you?" A blond eyebrow raised. "Oh, so you speak English. I was beginning to wonder whether I'd have to bang a couple of drums before I got some service here!" Rose turned red. "I'm sorry. But when you came in I thought it was my assistant. What can I do for you?" He looked around the shop and moved over to stare more closely at a large bowl of gardenias. He kept both his hands in the pockets of his tight fitting navy slacks and beneath a short sleeved tan shirt she saw the ripple of the muscles along his shoulders. "I want some flowers for Miss Walters," he said quickly. "The best you have. What do you suggest?" Rose glanced around the shop. The gossip-mongers must be right this time. No man would come and personally order flowers for a girl unless she meant something special to him. "I'm afraid you've left it rather late for me to make up a really nice bouquet," she explained. "Our best blooms have already gone." "A bit early, isn't it?" he said impatiently. "If you've got no flowers you should shut up shop." "I didn't say we haven't any flowers," Rose said coldly. "Merely that I don't think we've the sort of flowers you want." His eyebrows went up again. "Am I so extraordinary in wanting something decent?" Realizing that to answer him might precipitate an argument, Rose said in her most gentle voice: "Why don't you try Marcelle's? They're a hundred yards down the road on the left." "I know quite well where Marcelle's are," he said, "but I particularly wanted you to make the bouquet for me. Alan says you do the best arrangements
along the Riviera." He rubbed his hand across his chin. "Suppose I cut some flowers from my mother's garden she has a villa a few miles along the coast. Would you make them up for me?" "Of course," Rose replied. "But you appreciate I can't guarantee how it will look. I mean I don't know the sort of flowers you'll bring back." "Then come and choose them for me." Before Rose could reply Jacqueline came in, stopping with an exclamation as she recognized their customer. Lance Hammond smiled at her with his much vaunted charm. "You've returned at just the right time. I'm going to borrow your fellow worker for an hour, so you'll have to stand in for her." '"I'm going to Mrs. Hammond's villa to pick some flowers," Rose said quickly. "I'll be back as soon as I can." Leaving her assistant staring wide-eyed after her, Rose followed the man out of the hotel to the white convertible Cadillac that stood at the entrance. He took his place at the wheel and the porter rushed forward to open die door for Rose. Hardly had she settled herself in the white leather seat when Lance Hammond started the engine and they raced down the Croissette as if they were the only car on the road. Rose drew a deep breath. To think she was driving beside the great Lance Hammond himself! Wonders would never cease.
CHAPTER FOUR
THERE was in indefinable magic, Rose thought, about driving in an open car with the breeze blowing in one's face. As they left Cannes and bowled dizzily along the steep, winding roads of the Corniche their speed increased until they seemed to be taking corners on two wheels. She clung to her seat and from the corner of her eyes saw Lance Hammond glance at her. "Nervous?" The hint of mockery in his voice compelled her to lie. "Not at all." "Good. Then I can go a bit faster!"
He was true to his word and as they tore round the bends, Rose thought each second was going to be her last. The wind was now tearing at her hair in fierce gusts and hairpins fell on to her lap. Hurriedly she slipped them into her pocket and then kept her hands hidden there, lest he should notice their trembling. She would lie rather than let him know she was afraid! At last, when she felt she could bear it no longer they began to lose speed and the long-nosed car swung between wrought-iron gates and along a wide driveway flanked with cypresses. To one side lay a blue-tiled swimming pool and beyond it stood a palatial pink-walled villa, its wide verandah dotted with gaily colored chairs and tables. The car stopped with a squeal of brakes and Lance turned to Rose, looking at her flushed face for a moment without speaking. "You're the first girl I've met who doesn't seem to mind getting her hair blown about in the wind," he said at last, and reaching out, touched the coil of chestnut hair which was lying halfway down the back of her head. "I've never seen such long hair before. Is it all yours?" "Certainly," she said sharply, and jumping out of the car took the pins out of her pocket and fixed the plait into position again, conscious that he was watching her intently. The familiar act of pinning her hair into position restored her composure and when next she spoke her voice was matter of fact. "In the rush I'm afraid I forgot to bring my secateurs or a basket to carry the flowers." "Never mind. I'll fix you up here." He preceded her on to the verandah but as he reached the top he stopped so suddenly that Rose, directly behind him knocked against his side. She followed his gaze and saw why he had halted to abruptly. At the far end of the verandah stood a chaise-longue and on it lay a figurine of a woman in a sheath dress. Even from a distance the vivid blue of her eyes told Rose that this was Lance's mother, although in every other respect they could not have been more dissimilar. Where the son was tall and blond and arrogant, the mother was diminutive with the personality of a humming bird. Her hair was cut short and dyed a brilliant red-gold. It curled over her forehead and clung closely to the delicate shell-like ears on the lobes of which winked outsize diamonds. But it was not at his mother that Lance Hammond was staring, but at the man bending over her. Medium-sized, he had the black hair and olive skin of a Latin and it was with Latin effusiveness that he was holding out a fullblown rose to
the woman who was gazing adoringly up at him. "Wear it in your hair, mia cara," he was saying. "And your beauty will make it fade by comparison with yourself. I shall " He stopped as Lance walked forward, the expression of chagrin that flitted across his face instantly giving way to a smile. Lance ignored him and moving over to his mother lifted her small, scarlet-tipped hand and pressed it to his lips. "Hello, Didi." "Hello, darling." She turned to the dark man at her side. "I believe Lance could even give you points on gallantry, Tino." "He's had a great deal of experience," Tino said smoothly. "Not more experience than you have," Lance said equally smoothly, "although I can't see you wasting any of it on your mother." Tino frowned but before he could answer Diana Hammond swung her feet to the ground and stood up. "Really, Lance, here am I complimenting you on your gallantry and you haven't even introduced me to your new girl friend." "She isn't a girl friend. I came to pick some flowers from your garden and Miss er er is a florist." Lance disappeared into the villa and Diana Hammond looked at Rose and giggled like a schoolgirl. "Well, I'm sure, Miss Er you'd like to get on with your job. But first perhaps you'd care to tell me your name." "Rose Tiverton." "Rose Tiverton. How English! I thought you didn't look French. Come and sit down and have a drink." "I'd rather not if you don't mind," Rose replied. "I'm in a hurry to get back." "Oh very well." Feeling she had done her duty as a hostess, Diana Hammond
lost interest and waving her hand vaguely in the direction of the lawns resumed her seat on the chaise-longue and gave all her attention to the man at her side. Feeling embarrassed, Rose wandered along the verandah and had almost reached the end when Lance came out through the french windows carrying a flat-bottomed basket and an outsize pair of secateurs. He handed them over and led her along the side of the house to the back. Here the garden faced the mountains and had been allowed to grow wild. Masses of scarlet bougainvillea climbed the pale pink walls while the flowerbeds were a mass of wild color. "It's wonderful," she breathed. "You've seen nothing yet," he answered and led her down some stone steps to a green archway. She stepped through and stopped, enchanted by the beauty that met her gaze. Roses of all colors nodded their heads to the deep blue sky. Roses such as she had thought grew nowhere but in England, each color more exquisite than the one before, each bloom larger and more lovely. "I never knew roses could be like this," she whispered. "They cost my mother a fortune," Lance said coolly. "Didi has a special English gardener to take care of them." He touched a bud. "But I don't only want to pick roses. I think there are other flowers equally nice." "I don't," Rose said. "Although I shouldn't really say so, being a florist. Maybe it's because I'm named after them." "Really," he said. "Are you called 'Peace' or 'Flaming Beauty'?" She went scarlet. "My name is Rose," she replied and turning her back on him began to pick some flowers. He watched for a moment in silence and then tiring, walked back up the steps. "I'll be on the terrace when you've finished and I'll take you home." She nodded and made her way deeper into the garden. The next half hour was one of sheer delight. She had seen flowers as beautiful as these, but never before had she had the pleasure of picking them, and she strolled from bush to flowerbed and from flowerbed back to bush in an ecstasy of enjoyment. She was laden with blooms when at last she returned to the verandah to see it
was deserted. The chairs were empty and even the whisky glasses which she had earlier noticed on one of the tables had been cleared away. She glanced at her watch and saw it was almost six-thirty. The sky was already deepening into dusk and the air was soft and damp. She heard footsteps behind her and turning, was delighted to see Alan. "My luck's in," he grinned. "Lance has to change for a party and he's asked me to take you back. He also hopes you'll be able to deliver the bouquet to Enid before she leaves her suite tonight." "That was the whole object of my coming here," Rose said stiffly and felt a pang of annoyance that Lance Hammond had not spared the time to take her back to the hotel himself. Realizing she was being irrational she pushed the thought away and smiled with unusual warmth at the man by her side. "I didn't know Mr. Hammond lived here," she said. "I thought he stayed on his yacht." "He lives anywhere the fancy takes him." Alan caught hold of the heavy basket of flowers and led her back to the car. "Do you follow him around?" she asked as they drove out of the drive and along the winding road back to Cannes. "Yes," he said. "It's part of my job. For nine months of the year we chase the sun and the rest of the time we chase the snow!" "Doesn't he ever work?" "Sometimes. And when he does, he's darned good. He's got a fine brain if he could be persuaded to use it more often. If he marries I hope he'll settle down and give up jaunting around. The trouble is that unless you really have to work for a living it's hard to knuckle down to it." Rose's thoughts wandered to Enid Walters. Some how she could not see the tall blonde socialite allowing her husband to knuckle down to anything other than a round of pleasure. In that she was probably well suited to Lance Hammond. 'What a waste of a man,' Rose mused. 'Idling away his time like a loafer. He's handsome, though, but not my type. Definitely not my type!'
"Hey!" Alan said. "That's the second time I've spoken to you. What are you thinking?" She started guiltily and then, as she felt his gaze on her, touched the flowers in her lap. "I was just thinking how to make the bouquet," she said, and spent the rest of the journey wondering what had prompted her to lie. In the days that followed, Rose found it difficult to put Lance Hammond out of her mind and she scanned the gossip columns of the local papers with as much avidity as Jacqueline. She could have satisfied her curiosity by talking about him to Alan, but she was loath to do so; indeed loath to put into words an interest of which she felt ashamed. "I guess I need a boy friend of my own," she decided one evening as she lay in bed listening to the sound of revelry that floated up from the street below. Yet she could not work up any enthusiasm over Alan. He was a pleasant companion, interesting, sympathetic and intelligent. But the vital spark was missing between them and nothing could put it there. However, this did to stop her from accepting his invitation to dinner the next night, and she took especial pains with her appearance, rewarded by the admiration in his eyes as she came towards him on the terrace of the hotel. "You've no objection to having a drink here first?" he asked as he held a chair out for her. "Not at all. It gives me a thrill to think of myself as a guest here instead of an employee even if it's only for a few hours." "In that case we'll dine here too," he said. "I feel in a very generous mood. From now on my motto is going to be live while you're young." He drained his drink and signalled the waiter for another. Rose looked at him curiously, wondering at the sudden change in his behaviour. "You haven't won a fortune, have you?" she asked. "No. But every so often I decide I'm going to Live with a capital L. It doesn't last for long, though. By tomorrow I'll be my old stodgy self again."
"You're not a bit stoggy," she protested. "It's nice of you to say so. Living with a man like Lance makes any man feel stodgy by comparison." Much as she disliked all that Lance Hammond stood for, Rose could not in all honesty disagree with Alan, so she kept silent and sipped her drink, gazing around her at the chattering throng. Gone was the casual, carefree air of the beach, and smooth tanned shoulders arose arrogantly out of exquisite dresses while graceful necks were smothered with expensive jewels. The bohemianism of the South of France might exist in St. Tropez, Rose thought ruefully, but there was very little difference between the terrace of one luxury hotel and another, whether it be Claridges or the Hotel Plage or the Waldorf Astoria. "If Lance Hammond got married," she said abruptly, "what would happen to your job?" "Nothing for six months or so. I'd give Lance that long to settle down. I told you a little while ago he's got a good brain and I'm hoping he'll soon start to use it. That's when my job should really become interesting." "But you're wasting an awful lot of time waiting for him to get started. Why don't you leave and start up on your own? Or ask him to get you another job in his organization. Surely he could if he wanted to?" "Of course he could, but I don't want to leave him. I'm fond of Lance, believe it or not, and he needs someone around him whom he can trust." "You're making him sound like a poor little rich boy," Rose said dryly. "What's this, a plea for sympathy?" Alan set his glass down and stared soberly into the distance. "Lance doesn't and wouldn't want anyone's sympathy. But that doesn't mean he isn't in need of it. You're still young enough to believe that rich people don't need sympathy, but believe me, they need more of it than the average person. Having wealth puts an awful burden on you. And it also robs you of any privacy. That's one of the hardest things a rich person has to learn to do without. Privacy. Their money can buy them anything else they want, yet being left alone is something that's very often out of their reach."
"I shouldn't have thought that would worry Lance Hammond. He strikes me as the sort of person who'd revel in publicity." "Maybe he does now, but it was the bane of his life when he was a kid. And he didn't have a very happy childhood, either. He was devoted to his father who died when he was just thirteen. His mother never bothered much with him. She didn't have any understanding of children and she thought that if Lance was fed and clothed and sent to a good school that was enough. But of course it wasn't. Once his father was dead Lance never had the feeling of being wanted or of being important to anyone. Why, he hardly saw his mother from one year's end to the other." "What about the holidays?" Rose asked. Alan half smiled. "Can you imagine how welcome a schoolboy would be to a woman like Diana Hammond? You've met her and seen the sort of person she is." "She seemed very friendly and charming," Rose said. "I grant you all of that. She's always charming and friendly so much so that you can never get below the surface and know what she's really thinking or if she's capable of thinking at all! I keep telling myself not to judge her too harshly, but I can't help It. I know she was very much in love with Edward Hammond and his death was a dreadful shock to her. Maybe that's why she won't allow herself to care deeply for anyone again. Maybe that's why she's drifted from one affair to the other and always with men young enough to be her sons. You can imagine how happy that's made Lance." "Can't he stop her?" Alan shook his head. "He wouldn't even if he could. Lance is a great believer in freedom. Do you know Mrs. Hammond has never allowed him to call her mother because she's afraid of getting old?" "I remember him calling her Didi," Rose said softly. "I thought it was a sort of pet name." "It is," Alan said. "But I'm pretty sure Lance would rather call her Mum! No, the woman who's really close to him is Helen Rogers." Rose stared at him in amazement. "That wouldn't be the Mrs. Rogers who lives
in Charles Street?" "Why, do you know her?" "I should think I do!" Rose cried. "It's because of her I'm here. She's the woman I told you about. It was her dog I saved." "What a strange coincidence. I must remember to tell Lance." "He's probably forgotten me by now," Rose said coolly. Alan did not contradict her and she was conscious of a feeling of pique. Yet after all, why should Lance remember an unimportant little florist? Her thoughts were abruptly halted by the appearance of the very person of whom she was thinking and she watched as he and Enid Walters were escorted to a table on the far corner of the terrace. What a striking couple they made; both tall and blond and both with the moneyed look that Rose was beginning to know so well. "Do you really think he's serious about her?" The question came out before she could stop it and Alan, who had seen Lance come in, nodded. "Enid's the one person Lance knows isn't after him for his money. She's got stacks of her own. So if she does agree to marry him it isn't for what she can get, but for love." "I can't imagine her loving anyone except herself," Rose said and glanced at Alan. Seeing how intently he was looking at her she flushed. "You must think me very catty. I'm sorry." "Don't apologize. My opinion of Enid is the same as yours and I haven't got feminine intuition to go on either!" He picked up his drink. "But let's not talk about my boss any more. Let's talk about you." With an effort Rose tried to forget the couple sitting not more than a dozen tables away. But even though she laughed and joked with Alan, she was conscious of the arrogant blond head gleaming under the lights, and knew an infinite sense of relief when Lance Hammond stood up and led Enid off the terrace and into a waiting car. Later that night as she prepared for bed, Rose could not help remembering all the things Alan had told her about Lance and his mother, and though she did
not want to feel pity for him she could not help thinking of the sort of life he must have led as a child. Although there was still something about the man that she found vaguely antipathetic, she at least found his behavior more comprehensible. When he had never had love himself it was no wonder he was so casual in his treatment of others. In the days that followed she saw him many times in the hotel, for he was continually squiring Enid and there was a standing order to send her flowers each evening. It was a matter of some pride to Rose she had so far managed to make the floral arrangement a different one on each occasion, but some two weeks later she found her ingenuity taxed to its extreme, and trying to compose a colorful display of carnations and sweet-scented stock, she reached such a state of irritation that she undid the whole basket and began to rearrange them again. "Very nice too," said a deep voice behind her and Rose swung round to see Lance Hammond watching her. "You have a habit of coming in without my hearing you," she said breathlessly. "Is there anything you want?" "Yes. Have you sent up Miss Walters' flowers yet?" "I'm just in the middle of arranging them. If you can spare a few minutes you'll be able to see the finished effect." "I don't particularly want to," he said casually. "I'm sure I can rely on you." "What he really means,' Rose thought furiously, 'is that he doesn't care how much effort anyone puts in as long as his orders are obeyed.' But aloud all she said was: "If there's nothing I can do for you perhaps you wouldn't mind if I got on with my job?" "By all means. But first of all tell me where you can hide this." He put something into her hand and looking down on her palm she saw a magnificent diamond ring. It sparkled as if it were on fire, each facet a point of brilliant light. "I don't understand what you mean," she said, not raising her eyes from it. "Why do you want me to hide it?"
"As a surprise," he said impatiently. "I want you to put it among the flowers. But don't hide it so that she'll never find it!" Rose moved her palm so that the diamond slid across it. "I've never seen anything so lovely." "I'm sure you haven't given up hope of having one like it one day," he said drily. "All you need is to meet a millionaire, and surely that's why you're working in this place?" "On the contrary," Rose replied sharply. "I work here in order to earn a living. Marrying a millionaire isn't my ambition not unless I happened to fall in love with him. And from the ones I've seen around here, I should think that most unlikely!" "Don't tell me you want love and money." Lance's blue eyes held the mocking expression she had always associated with him. "You really are old-fashioned, aren't you?" Rose moved away from him, conscious of his height and the breadth of his shoulders. "I'd never marry a man unless I loved him," she said quietly. "And a ring like this, beautiful though it is, would be worthless if it were given without love." The cynical expression left Lance's face. "You needn't worry about this ring," he said softly. "I happen to be very much in love with Miss Walters." "I'm glad," she replied. "I hope you'll be very happy." "Thank you," he said. "I believe you mean it." Without another word he left the shop and Rose stared after him. What a strange man he was. For a moment she could almost see him through Alan's eyes and, seeing him that way, could almost like him. She looked down at the ring and resisting the impulse to put it on her finger, moved over to the basket of flowers and slipped the diamond carefully over the leaf of a long-stemmed yellow rose so that, catching on a thorn, it could not slip farther down and escape notice. Realizing that the basket was now too valuable to entrust to the honest but careless hands of any of the pages, she decided to deliver it herself, and calling Jacqueline, busy in the small room at the back of the shop, to take her place in
the front, she slipped into the arcade and up the stairs to the first floor. There was no reply to her knock on the mahogany door of the suite at the far end, and she gave a sigh of exasperation. She did not like the idea of taking the flowers downstairs again and having such an expensive piece of jewellery in the shop. But there seemed no other choice and she was halfway along the corridor when a maid came past. Rose stopped, struck by a sudden thought. "Have you got a pass key to Miss Walters' suite?" she asked. "I want to put these in her drawing room." "Oui, mademoiselle." The maid hurried forward and inserting the key, pushed open the door. Smiling her thanks, Rose stepped into the hall. Opposite her the drawing room door was half open and she had stepped over the threshold before she became aware of the two figures clasped in one another's arms in the far corner of the room. With a shock she recognized Enid Walters and Tino Barri, the Italian she had met at Diana Hammond's villa! At her entrance they drew apart and she was aware that the man rubbed a handkerchief over his lips, aware too that Enid's face was flushed and her hair dishevelled. But when she spoke the girl's voice was quiet and controlled. "Is it usual for servants to come in without knocking?" Rose trembled with indignation and set the basket of flowers down on the nearest table. "I did knock, but I didn't get any reply." "Then you shouldn't have come in." "I'm sorry, but I didn't want to leave the basket in the shop. It's too valuable." The almond-shaped eyes, a curious mixture of amber flecked with green, grew darker. "I'd say your job is more valuable than the flowers you're delivering and if you make a habit of entering suites in this precipitous way you might find yourself unemployed!"
"I knocked twice," Rose said firmly, "but you were obviously too busy to hear me." Enid Walters caught her breath. "How dare you talk to me like that? I shall report you." "Do what you please," Rose answered, and walking out of the room, banged the door behind heir. By the time she reached the shop her anger had abated but her feelings were still in a turmoil. How could any woman put herself in the position of being offered an engagement ring by one man and yet allow another man to make passionate love to her ? What would Lance Hammond say if he knew? And what would Diana Hammond say if she found out that her latest escort had been found embracing her son's future fiancee? The questions were so unpleasant that Rose tried to push them out of her mind. What happened to the Hammonds was no concern of hers. Enid Walters had adopted a threatening attitude because she had felt guilty at being discovered in another man's arms, but there was no doubt that her threats would remain idle ones. The only trouble, Rose felt, was that she herself had been put in the position of aiding albeit unwillingly another woman's deception. 'But why should I care?' she told herself. "Lance Hammond is old enough to take care of his own life.' But though she said the words with all the conviction of which she was capable she did not echo them in her heart, and was conscious of a first stirring of compassion for a man whose way of life was an anathema to her.
CHAPTER FIVE
THROUGHOUT the next day Rose was on tenderhooks to see Alan and tell him what had happened, but the hours passed without his coming to see her or even telephoning, and when she opened her newspaper the following morning she understood why. Lance Hammond's engagement was announced in banner headlines. "HAMMOND STORE HEIR TO MARRY SOCIALITE" "MARRIAGE IN A MATTER OF MONTHS". Rose sipped her coffee unaware that it was scalding her throat. So
Enid had won what she had set out to achieve. No wonder she looked not only beautiful in her pictures but also triumphant. All Rose could do in the circumstances was to hold her peace. To tell Alan at this stage would put him in an embarrassing position, for she could not imagine Lance listening to any gossip about the woman he had just agreed to marry. After breakfast Rose had to fight her way across the lobby of the hotel to the arcade. Reporters and press photographers milled around the door, clamoring for an interview with Enid Walters. Although the florist's was tucked in the arcade she could see the crowds through the window, and Jacqueline was almost beside herself with excitement. Constantly she pointed through the glass with cries of "Regardez, Rose! Encore un autre!", as yet another young man with notebook in his hand or camera slung over his shoulder tried to get past a barricade of bell-boys and make a dash for the first floor. "I do wish you'd calm down." Rose was half amused and half exasperated. "One would think nobody had ever got engaged before." "But you don't understand!" the French girl said reproachfully. "You are Eenglish and so your heart ees not stirred. But to ze French, love is always beautiful and exciting." Rose paused in the act of twisting a spill, of silver paper around the stem of an orchid and into her mind flashed a picture of two blond heads close together. Telling herself for the hundredth time that what Lance Hammond did was no concern of hers, she resolutely concentrated on the work in hand. And what work there was! All the hostesses along the Riviera who had proffered as well as received hospitality either on Lance Hammond's yacht or in Didi Hammond's villa seemed to have decided to send flowers to Enid Walters, and as many of them also decided to use the hotel florist, Rose and Jacqueline had soon exhausted their supplies. "If we get any more orders," Rose said, "we'll have to close down for the day." "Impossible!" Jacqueline's French heart was dismayed at the thought of turning away business. "I'll go to the market myself and see what I can get. If there is nothing I'll go to one of the smaller flower shops in the back streets and buy up their stock. They will not know I work here and I will tell them I am buying flowers for a wedding or a funeral! It will not matter if I have to pay a little more because we can always charge double here! An occasion like this is good
for business." There was a certain amount of truth in this remark, but as Jacqueline whirled out of the shop, Rose remembered what else the girl had said. "I'll tell them it's for a wedding or a funeral" Recollecting the shallow look in Enid's green eyes Rose thought how apt the word funeral was. Once the girl had a wedding ring on her hand she would lead her husband a fine dance, and if all that Alan had said about Lance was true, and he really was a romantic at heart, then his illusions would soon be dashed. Jacqueline returned to the shop in a taxi full of flowers and for the next hour she and Rose were busy sorting out the blooms and replenishing the empty vases in the window. The girl had got a bargain by buying the entire stock of a small florist outside Cannes, and as the orders for more bouquets for the suite on the first floor kept coming in, Rose was delighted at her assistant's foresight and allowed her to go home half an hour before closing time. "I'll make up the last order," she said. "You go off and see Philippe." "Maybe I'll be able to catch a glimpse of Lance Hammond," Jacqueline said happily, and skipped down the arcade. But it was Rose who had that privilege, for she had already turned off half the lights in the shop when the door opened and he came in. "Hello," he said in his usual casual fashion. "I was passing so I thought I'd give you this personally." Mystified, she took the envelope he held out and extracted a gilt-edged card. It was an invitation from Diana Hammond to attend the engagement party she was giving for her son. "But II don't understand," Rose stammered. "I hardly know your mother. Why should she invite me?" "I asked her to." "But you don't know me either!" He grinned. "I take it you're not using the word 'know' in the Biblical sense." Rose flushed to the roots of her chestnut hair.
"That's not a very funny remark! Although I shouldn't think you'd personally consider you knew a girl unless she was willing to let you know her in the Biblical sense." He burst out laughing. "I can see my escapades are known even in the suburbs of London." "There's nothing wrong with the suburbs," Rose said tartly and handed the invitation back to him. He stared at it and had the grace to look ashamed. "I'm sorry. I asked for that. But I really didn't intend to be rude. I was just trying to be funny." Powerless to retain her anger towards him, she smiled reluctantly. "That's better," he said. "You've no idea how pretty you look when you relax." She stiffened again at the compliment and as if aware of it he said briskly: "One of the reasons I'm inviting you is that you're a friend of Alan's. And he's much too conscious of his position ever to ask me to invite you. That's why I decided to deliver the invitation personally. Anyway, by coming to my mother's villa the other night I feel you helped my romance along." "I don't think my bouquet made Miss Walters accept your proposal," Rose said coolly. Maybe not. But it serves as an excuse for me to invite you to the party." The door closed behind him and Rose looked at the invitation on her desk. It was only the third time she had met Lance Hammond, but because of all Alan had told her about him she felt she knew him very well. That was why his behaviour in the last few moments had taken her by surprise, for to bring the invitation himself because he knew it would please Alan was a gesture of spontaneous thought- fulness which she would never have expected from someone of his arrogance. She glanced at the card again. June the tenth. It was only two days away. Mentally she went through her wardrobe and, discarding everything in it,
decided to buy something new. Luckily the long lunch-time session would give her plenty of time and when she left the arcade at one o'clock, instead of making her usual way to the beach, she set off purposefully towards the town. ' She was fortunate in discovering what she wanted within the first half hour of her search. It was a dream of a dress and lay by itself in the window of one of the small boutiques in a side turning off the Promenade des Anglais. Yards of palest yellow organza formed a cloud-like skirt that was nipped in to a tiny waist and then allowed to float out again into a soft froth around the shoulders. As soon as Rose tried it on she knew she would have to buy it no matter what the cost. For it enhanced the golden tan she had acquired during her hours of sunbathing and brought out the auburn lights in her hair. "Mademoiselle looks ravissante," the vendeuse said softly over her shoulder, "and for what it is, it is not expensive." The price the woman named was far cheaper than Rose had anticipated and, in a sudden burst of extravagance, she decided to see what other things she could buy. After all, she was only young once, and there was no point in waiting to spend her money until she was too old to enjoy it Enjoy it now she certainly did and the end of her lunch break found her considerably poorer in pocket although richer in wardrobe. "I'll see you have all the dresses delivered to you by tomorrow," the vendeuse said as she led Rose to the door. "But if you will permit me to say so, it is a pity to buy such lovely clothes and not do something about the rest." "The rest?" Rose asked. "What do you mean?" "Merely that our dresses are so French and you are so English! You need a little more elan, mademoiselle." "Surely that's a matter of character," Rose said with a half smile. "I'm hoping the clothes I bought here will increase the lan for me!" "Clothes can only help you part of the way. You must help yourself for the rest. A little more make-up, a different hairstyleet violayou would be ravissante! At the moment you are English old maid!" "Well!" Rose exclaimed. "I must say you're amazingly frank."
"But why not? You are young and you could be beautiful. I have a daughter of your age, mademoiselle, and I would talk to her in the same way if it were necessary. But helas, she is a cripple and it doesn't matter what she looks like. If le bon Dieu had given her health then she would have been as lovely as you." Rose's anger disappeared and she accepted a card from the vendeuse on which was written in spidery handwriting the name of a beauty salon along the Croissette. "Tell them you come from 'Henriette'," the vendeuse said, "and that you are my special customer because you are so like my daughter." Rose thanked her and left the shop, unaware that the vendeuse watched her retreating figure with a smile on her face and a little prayer in her heart that her so beautiful daughter Janine, who at this very moment was an up and coming film starlet, would forgive her old mother for pretending she was ill and crippled! "But it is all for the good," she said out loud. "All for the good." Rose would not have been human had she not pondered on all that the woman in the boutique had told her, and she veered between annoyance at the presumptuousness and curiosity to find out whether the vendeuse was right. Rose being a female, curiosity won and the morning of the party she took a few hours off and went to the salon to which she had been recommended. Because she had worn her hair long, she had never had need of hairdressers and her occasional visits had merely been to suburban ones. Because of this, the atmosphere in the French salon was doubly strange, for there was the gilt and mirrors which she had associated with Mayfair plus the extra effusiveness and volubility of the French. Rose gave the vendeuse's card to the pert young receptionist who resembled Brigette Bardot, and was immediately escorted to the back of the salon and placed in the hands of an effeminate young man called Sylvestre, who confided to her during the next couple of hours that his name was really Georges but that he felt the name he had chosen more sympathetic to his character. Full of misgivings, Rose watched him take out the scissors, but when he saw the apprehension on her face he shook his head. "Do not have any fears that I will chop it off! For you the so short style is not
suitable. You are dreamy, n'est-ce pas? And you must look like a dream. If Mademoiselle permits, I suggest she allow me to cut a little. I wish to let it reach only to your shoulders." Tentatively Rose touched the coil of hair that lay along her back. "I've rather prided myself on the fact that I can sit on it," she said. "Sit on it? Ma foi! Hair is for looking atnot sitting on! Please, I beg of youit is a crime to leave it like this." Rose made one more effort. "If you cut it I'll have to have a perm." "No, no. When it is not so long and heavy you will get a surprise. Wait, mademoiselle, wait." He looked at her questioningly with the scissors raised and with an abandon she did not feel she nodded him to go ahead. Deftly he set to work. The scissors snipped and lock after lock slithered on to the ground. Rose closed her eyes and for the next hour resolutely refused to look in the mirror as she was shampooed, set and placed under a dryer in an open courtyard at the back of the shop itself. Encased in a warm cocoon of air, she read a magazine while the Riviera sun blazed down from an intensely blue sky. To think that she, Rose Tiverton, was working on the Cote d'Azur in a luxury hotel! 'And not much working, either,' she thought wryly. 'I don't know how I'll be able to knuckle down to Mr. Marks after this.' She pondered over her future. Without being conceited she knew that Monsieur Ferrier was well pleased with her and that her job at the hotel was sure for as long as she wanted it. Yet did she want to stay here indefinitely? Exciting though it was to see so much glamour and gaiety around her, there was also an air of illusion in the atmosphere that was disquieting. Certainly this was the only reason that could account for the vague depression and dissatisfaction with life that she had felt in the last couple of weeks. 'I wonder if I'm jealous of all the girls I see around me having such a wonderful time? Like Jeannie Vanderveld with her millionaire father, and Mimi Delage with her third husband and his silver-blue Mercedes.' Many more names came into Rose's mind, all of them belonging to young girls not very much older than herself. Yet how different they were in their social standing and financial position! Her thoughts were interrupted by Sylvestre coming to take her from under the dryer. He unpinned her hair and brushed it with such hard strokes that tears
came into her eyes. "It's as I thought," he smirked. "Now that the weight of hair is gone, it curls naturally. Not too much, thoughjust sufficient to give it body. Look, mademoiselle, I have finished." Rose raised her eyes to the mirror and caught her breath. Gone was the pretty, prim English girl whose reflection she had grown accustomed to seeing, and in her place was a glamorous beauty who looked as if she did not know the meaning of work. Freed from its confining pins, her hair swung to her shoulders, the ends curling softly under. Sylvestre had back-combed it so that it appeared much thicker than it was and every time she turned her head it caught the light and glinted with the richness of a burnished chestnut. In some strange way the new style had altered the shape of her face, softening the high line of her forehead and accentuating the curve of her cheeks and pointed chin. "You look a little like Elizabeth Taylor," Sylvestre whispered delightedly. "But more elegant, of course." "Of course," Rose said dryly. "But what's it going to look like tomorrow?" "Just the same. You will be able to set it yourself. You merely have to come here once a month to have it shaped. Now if you will permit me, mademoiselle, the patronne would like to talk to you." A buxom woman with shrewd black eyes appeared at Rose's side with a large tray holding a varied assortment of tubes and jars. "No," she said in a throaty voice as she stared into Rose's face. "I think for you the make-up should be the minimum." "I think so too," said Rose. "I never wear any except lipstick." "Too much is too much," came the reply. "But not enough is even worse. In my opinion you should use a warm apricot shade on your mouth, no powder and rouge because your skin is wonderful, but a lot of mascara and eyeshadow." Pudgy hands busied themselves on the tray. "Close your eyes and lean back, mademoiselle, and I'll show you what I mean."
"In for a penny, in for a pound." Rose thought, and did as she was told. A little later as she looked at herself she had to admit that the experiment had been well worth while. Her skin tingled with excitement as she realized that she possessed a power of which she had never before been aware the power of a beautiful woman! Had her mouth always curved gently upwards at the corners, the lower lip full and yet invitingly soft? While as for her eyes Rose blinked them. The incredibly long lashes were quite real and so was the line of the naturally fine eyebrows. Beneath mascara, the eyes themselves seemed larger and more limpidly grey, while eyeshadow with the merest gold fleck in it added to their depth and lustre. "Miss Tiverton, your own father wouldn't know you," she said to her reflection. "Is good, eh?" said the woman. Rose nodded. "Is wonderful!" When she returned to her room later that evening to dress for the party, there was a note from Alan to say he would call for her at nine and a spray of golden roses. "Jacqueline told me the color you are wearing," he had penned, "and with a name like yours, what other flower could I have chosen?" It was an unexpectedly romantic offering from a man whom she had never before considered romantic, and as, dressed and made up, she went down to the foyer to meet him, she could not help a pleasurable thrill of anticipation. Alan was waiting beside the lift, and as the gilt door opened and she stepped out, she was amused at the amazement on his face. "Good lord! If it weren't for the fact that you're wearing my roses I'd never have known it was you!" "Thanks for the compliment," she laughed. "I suppose it is a compliment?" "What do you think! You look stunning. Your hair shines like a copper kettle." She could not help giggling. "You're getting positively lyrical." "It's the best I could do at such short notice. Don't forget I'm a dull Englishman."
He drew her arm through his own and led her out to the car. She glanced at him as he took his place behind the wheel, his hands firm, his eyes concentrating on the road ahead. Dear Alan! No amount of oil could keep his hair smooth and a cowlick fell over his temple, giving him a boyishness belied by his generally serious behavior. Not for the first time she wondered whether he had ever been deeply in love. Did she mean anything to him? She could not begin to guess the answers. All she knew was that her own feelings for him were those of friendship and nothing more. She sighed and looked through the window. What exactly was it that she wanted in a man? Kindness? Passion? Intelligence? And if she found someone possessing all these qualities, was there any guarantee that she would fall in love with him? Love was so illogical that there was no telling to whom one would give one's heart. Unaccountably she experienced a feeling of panic and as the car turned into the floodlit driveway of Diana Hammond's villa she had an overwhelming desire to return to the safety of her hotel room. 'What am I doing with people like these? Their world is different from mine, how can I ever hope to be at home with them?' "Come on, Rose," Alan said. "I can't wait to go inside and show you off!" With a start she realized he was holding open the door for her, and seeing his friendly, sympathetic face, her panic disappeared and, lifting her skirts, she stepped out. Music trembled on the still air and from the back of the house came the sound of laughter and voices and the popping of champagne corks. Alan led her across the terrace and round the side of the house a way she had followed on her first and only visit here. Tonight the garden was ablaze with lanterns and an artificial floor had been set up on the lawn in front of the rose arbor. By the side of the blue-tiled swimming pool an orchestra played softly while on the opposite side a buffet had been arranged for food and drinks. People were sitting at small tables or dancing leisurely to the music, the men uniform in white dinner jackets, the women lovely in exotic gowns with bejewelled throats and ears. "I suppose you want to go over and congratulate the happy couple," Alan said in her ear and placing his hand under her elbow, guided her over to the far side of the lawn where Lance was standing with his mother and fiancee. Enid was dressed entirely in black, the only contrast being the creamy white of her shoulders and arms. "What a strange color to wear for an engagement
party," Rose thought, and suddenly realized how clever the girl had been. Not only did the black chiffon suit her to perfection, accentuating her silver blonde hair, and moulding her figure to ethereal slenderness, but it also made her stand out among the other women whose pretty dresses somehow appeared tawdry by comparison. She and Mrs. Hammond were talking to another couple, but Lance turned as his secretary approached. "Hello," he said and then looked fully at Rose. There was no recognition in his face and she felt the color rise in her cheeks. "I don't think I know your friend," he said to Alan. "Perhaps you'll" All at once he stopped speaking, his expression so amazed that Rose felt an unaccountable thrill of triumph. "Why, it's the flower girl! I'd never have known you." His voice had risen with surprise and hearing it, Enid turned to see to whom he was talking. Her eyes widened and then narrowed and her expression became wary. "Aren't you going to introduce me?" she asked softly. Rose stared at her, instinctively aware that the non- recognition was deliberate. "Of course, darling," Lance said. "This is Miss Tiverton. She is by way of acting Cupid to us. She's responsible for all the bouquets I lavish on you." "How fascinating," Enid drawled. "I've never met anyone who worked in a shop." It was impossible to overlook the studied insult in the high, clear voice and Rose trembled with anger. "It's the same as working anywhere else, Miss Walters," she said icily. "But I shouldn't think you and work have ever been acquainted." It was Enid's turn to look angry and from the corner of her eye Rose was aware of Alan hiding a grin behind his hand. She was aware too of an expression of annoyance on Lance's face and was afraid she had gone too far. But to her surprise he moved away from Enid and came towards her.
"How about a dance?" he said and before she could reply, swept her into his arms. Circling among the other couples they were silent, their feet moving in rhythm together. It was the first time she had been so close to him and she was conscious of his hand against her back and of the hardness of his chest crushing her breasts. A faint odor of shaving lotion emanated from him and the richer, more pungent, smell of a cigar. 'Not just any old cigarette smoke,' she thought humorously, 'but the very best Havana.' She stole a glance at his face but he was staring over her shoulder and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He really was the most preposterously good-looking man she had ever seen. Even in such close proximity it was impossible to fault his appearance. Any feminity that might have occurred through such regularity of feature was dispelled by the positive line of his jaw and the set of his mouth which, when he was oblivious of being watched, was controlled and firm. She stumbled and he became aware of her and looked down, his eyes losing their remoteness. "Anything wrong?" "I was just thinking how well you dance." "So do you," he replied. "We're probably the best couple on the floor." She laughed. "Nobody could call you modest." "Why should I be modest about something I know I do well? That would be stupid and insincere." "And are you never insincere, Mr. Hammond?" "Never, Miss Tiverton. Whatever I say I mean at the time." He grinned. "But life's far too short for us to be so formal. I know your name is Rose and I think it suits you very well."
"Do you?" She lifted her eyes quickly and lowered them again. "Thorny, perhaps?" "The most beautiful roses have thorns," he replied. "They need something to protect their loveliness from greedy hands. I should think you're full of thorns!" Afraid that the conversation was getting out of her depth, she stared resolutely at the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. "Scared to look at me?" he asked, divining her thoughts. "I'm not scared of any man, Mr. Hammond." "Then call me Lance." "Certainly," she said coolly. "As long as you don't think your fiancee will object." At once the aloofness returned to his face. "Why should Enid mind? This is the twentieth century, not the eighteenth." Aware that she had been put in her place, she was glad when the music reached a crescendo and stopped and Lance guided her off the floor. Enid gave her a bland smile, but there was no disguising the dislike in her eyes. Rose suppressed a shiver and turned to Alan and casually he edged her over to the side of the pool where hammocks and easy chairs had been set out. "It's bound to be a little warmer here," he said dryly. "The atmosphere around our blonde bombshell was positively frigid!" "She didn't like Lance dancing with me, did she?" "She certainly didn't. But she was asking for a snub and she got it. If there's one thing Lance can't stand it's bad manners. And she seemed to have got her knife into you." He looked at her curiously. "You haven't met her before, have you?" Rose moistened her lips. "What makes you ask that?" "Merely that it's unlike her to let her real feelings show. She's always charming in front of Lance, yet with you I really saw the claws."
Rose shrugged. "Maybe she's just a natural cat!" "Then you must blame it on your transformation. You look wonderful." Rose was still too unused to compliments not to enjoy this one, but for an instant she could not help wishing it had been said by someone who was more to her than just a friend. Because she felt the thought was disloyal she smiled at Alan with unusual warmth. "I'd feel wonderful too, if you could get me a drink. I'm absolutely parched." "Yours to command," Alan said and disappeared towards the bar. Rose settled back in her chair and spread her skirts, tapping her feet in time to the music. "Come and sit by me," a lilting voice said and with a start Rose looked round to see who was talking. It was Diana Hammond. She was reclining on a hammock in the shade of a magnolia tree, the lantern in the leaves above her head throwing a soft pink light on her red-gold hair. Rose walked over and with a smile sat down next to her. Seen close, the woman still looked lovely, although the dress she wore was far too young for her age. Like the one she had been wearing when Rose first saw her, it appeared to be moulded to her body, showing every curve of what was still a remarkably beautiful figure. Yet, beautiful though it was, it did not have the pliancy and the fluidness of youth, but looked as if it had been maintained by a regime of continual dieting. It was probably dieting that gave delicate shadows to the eyes and accentuated the veins on the tiny hands. Unexpectedly Rose felt a pang of pity for this woman who, though she had everything dear to a woman's heart, still yearned for the one thing money and position could never give her youth. Inescapably Rose thought of her own mother, whose wrinkles had been disguised by laughter lines and who had been so busy worrying over other people that she had had no time to worry about her own passing years and had consequently remained eternally young. Rose started as she realized she was being spoken to. "Have I got a smut on my nose?" Diana Hammond asked. "You've been staring at me for the last five minutes." "I'm sorry," Rose apologized. "I didn't mean to be rude."
"My dear, you weren't rude. I like being stared at and I'd be insulted if I weren't." She smiled disarmingly and Rose could not help liking her in spite of her artificial appearance, could not help wondering too how she would get on with her future daughter-in-law. Looking over to the dance floor she saw Enid and Lance together, the girl's hand caressing the back of his neck with intimate gestures. Diana Hammond followed Rose's gaze, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. "My little boy's going to have his hands full with that one," she murmured. "Thank goodness he can take care of himself. He certainly wouldn't be his mother's son if he couldn't!" Somehow Rose doubted the truth of this remark as applied to Lance's mother, for in spite of her self-assured manner there was a certain lost quality about her that became apparent the moment she stopped talking. Rose bit her lip. She was becoming far too fanciful and attributing to both the Hammonds emotions and affections they had probably never felt. There was a light step beside her and looking at the ground she saw two patent leather shoes beneath immaculately creased trousers. There was something in the excessively pointed toes that made her heart beat faster, and even before she looked up she knew the owner of them was Tino Barri. He was staring rapturously at Diana Hammond. "I have been looking all over for you," he said reproachfully. "I did not know you were hiding from me." "Of course I wasn't hiding, you silly boy," Mrs. Hammond said, waving her hand. "But I was standing for hours greeting everyone and I'm tired. I'm not as young as you are, you know." "Do not say that," Tino reproached. "You are young and beautiful." "Oh Tino, don't be silly." The woman's voice was affectionate and eager. "How can I be young when my son's just announced his engagement?" "I don't know how, but you are. There is no woman here to compare with you." He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "Come, let us dance."
Without a backward glance Diana allowed herself to be pulled up from the hammock and led on to the floor. Rose was sickened by Tino's fawning admiration. The man had avoided looking directly at her and no wonder! She gave the hammock a sharp push with her foot and let it swing backwards and forwards. "Gently old girl, or you'll make yourself seasick." It was Alan, coming towards her with a tall glass. "Try this. It's a Tom Collins." Rose sipped it and together they sat and watched the dancers. A cool breeze trembled the leaves and the scent of flowers was heady. Responding to the mood, Alan sat closer, his arm around her waist. 'What could be more romantic?' she thought. A beautiful garden, a band playing soft music and a man's arms around her. She glanced at Alan's good-humored, open-looking face. What a pity it wasn't the right man! She stood up. "Come on. I feel in the mood for dancing." For the rest of the evening she barely had a chance to sit down. As Lance's secretary, Alan knew everyone present and the men made this an excuse for meeting the tawny- haired girl who was his partner. Rose was swung from one pair of arms to another and received compliments in almost every language under the sun. At one a.m., remembering the early start to her day, she decided to" leave and went' into the house to fetch her wrap. It had been placed in one of the bedrooms and looked incongruous among the minks and sables which women managed to wear with aplomb even in the warmth of a Riviera night. Flushed with dancing, she tidied her hair and powdered her nose, then paused for a moment to look out of the window. How beautiful the garden looked in the moonlight, the leaves dappled with fairy lights, in the background the sea shimmering like a carpet of jet. "Admiring the view?" a cool voice asked behind her and Rose swung round to see Enid in the doorway. "Yes," she answered. "It's lovely." She moved to go out but Enid blocked her way. "Don't go yet. I want to talk to you."
"What about?" For an instant the girl seemed to hesitate, then she closed the door and leaned against it. "Actually," she said slowly, "I was rather expecting you would want to talk to me." Rose stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then the tensions in the face opposite, the anxiety in the eyes, communicated itself and she knew what had prompted Enid's spitefulness earlier in the evening. The girl was afraid of her. Afraid that she might tell Lance Hammond of the scene she had interrupted between his fiancee and Tino Barri. "I don't know why you should think I have anything to say to you, Miss Walters," Rose said quietly. "Until tonight we hadn't met except casually in the hotel." The green eyes widened and Rose watched, hoping that Enid would leave well alone. But it was not to be. Additional reassurance was wanted, and each word uttered would put Rose more and more in the position of accomplice. "Does that mean you're not going to say anything to Lance?" "I'd rather we didn't talk about it," Rose answered. "But I must! I can't go on like this, I've got to know if you're going to tell him." No longer was Enid making any pretence to hide her fear. Her voice was shaking, her face pallid with it. Could Lance mean so much to her then ? Rose wondered. And if so, why had she been kissing Tino Barri? With so much money of her own Enid had no need to marry for it and could well afford to keep a husband like Tino who was obviously out to marry wealth. But if so, why become engaged to Lance and be so obviously petrified lest he broke it off? There were no logical answers to any of these questions, unless of course Enid really did love her fiance and had merely been flirting with the Italian. Somehow Rose could not believe it, yet to pretend she did seemed the most diplomatic way of extricating herself from an embarrassing situation and, as she had said to herself earlier in the evening, why should she care about the Hammonds?
"Lots of women like to flirt," she said carefully. "I see a great deal of it in the course of my work. So much, in fact, that I never remember names or faces." "I see," Enid gave a short laugh. "You're being careful in what you say, Miss Tiverton. I never expected you'd be so so diplomatic" "What you do is your business," Rose said. "But in future, if you don't want to antagonize anyone, don't go around being rude." "I'm sorry," Enid replied, and sank down on the bed. "I was scared out of my wits." "So I gathered," Rose said dryly and thankfully made her escape. But although she walked steadily from the room, by the time she reached the hall she was trembling so much that she had to lean against the banisters. "There you are, Rose," Alan said as he came out of the drawing room. "I was just going to" He stopped struck by her expression. "What's the matter? Are you feeling ill?" "No," she said. "At least, I've got a bit of a headache." "I'll get the car at once while you say goodnight." Alan went out but Rose remained where she was, unable to face the prospect of seeing anyone at this moment. A hooter sounded and looking up she saw Alan's car at the front door and she hurried out to it. She climbed in and leaning her head against the seat, closed her eyes and her mind to the scene she had just enacted with the woman Lance Hammond was going to make his wife.
CHAPTER SIX
THE wedding date for the Hammond marriage was set for September, although according to Alan, Enid had wanted to make it much earlier. "I must say I was surprised Lance didn't agree," he remarked. "But he's adamant in wanting Mrs. Rogers at the wedding and she's gone on a cruise to Japan until the end of August."
"How strange to delay a wedding because of another woman," Rose said. "That's Lance all over. Some of the happiest times he had as a schoolboy were at Helen Rogers' home and he's more concerned that she's at his wedding than his own mother. Enid didn't take too kindly to the wait, of course. She's eager to become Mrs. Hammond Jr." Rose looked at the tablecloth. Alan had called to order his usual flowers for Lance and had persuaded her to slip out for a cup of coffee. Atlhough the wedding was still a long way off there were many things to prepare and Alan was slowly becoming inundated under a mass of detail. "The affair is supposed to be a quiet one and yet the wedding list is already as long as my arm." "Where will they live when they're married?" Rose asked. "Lance has a house in London. I was hoping that once he settled down he'd stay in town and take over the business again. His uncle is running it at the moment." "You're a bit idealistic if you expect marriage to change your boss," Rose said dryly. "He's a playboy and he'll always remain one." Alan did not reply, and Rose stared out across the promenade. Couples were strolling by and beyond them on the beach the deck-chairs were full. How narrow the stretch of sand was, she thought. What was there about the Cote d'Azur that made people rush to it and hardly bear to tear themselves away again ? She made a mark on the cloth with her spoon and noticed how brown her arms were against the whiteness of the linen. She was almost as dark-skinned as a native indeed, when she went for an evening stroll by herself she was often accosted by gay young Englishmen or Americans on holiday, who would make improper suggestions to her in excruciatingly bad French. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she recalled the look on the face of one particularly persistent young man when she had told him exactly where he could go in faultless English! "What's the joke?" Alan asked suddenly.
She shook her head and stood up. "I must be getting back. The sunshine makes me forget I've a job to do." "Well, you don't have to work on Sunday. So how about joining a party aboard the yacht? The invitation's endorsed by my boss so that should make you happy." Rose was taken by surprise and Alan read her silence as acceptance. "I'll pick you up at ten. It's an all-day affair, so don't make any other dates!" As she prepared a basket of freesias for a money-no- object customer, Rose wondered whether it would be wiser to ring Alan and say she could not go on Sunday and her hand was already on the receiver when she dropped it back into position again. Why should she allow Enid's presence to spoil her own pleasure? After all, she would love to spend the day on the gleaming yacht that was anchored outside Cannes Harbor. "I will go," she said aloud. "And blow the consequences !" "What did you say?" Jacqueline asked. Rose hesitated. "Alan's invited me to spend Sunday on Lance Hammond's yacht." "How lucky you are! If only my Philippe worked for a man like zat instead of in zees ridiculous hotel." Rose smiled. "It wouldn't make you any richer." "Maybe no, maybe yes. Peut-etre I would fall in love wiz a millionaire. Birds of a fezzer flock together, and ze rich always go where ze rich are. Ma foi, you have ze opportunity to find ze golden calf. Keel him quick!" "I haven't met any golden calves," Rose said dryly. Jacqueline looked unconvinced, and knowing there was only one way to end the conversation, Rose turned her back and concentrated on the bouquet she was making. The holiday season was in full swing and there was a great deal to do. The
demand for flowers was high and each morning she visited the flower market. It was the time of day she liked best and when Saturday dawned she was up even earlier than usual and drove in the hotel van along the winding streets to the back of the town. Cannes was deserted except for the occasional car, its occupants clad in evening dress, who were returning back to their hotel or villa after a night spent gambling in the Casino or dancing in the small yet elegant cafes along the shore. Even before she reached the flower market the scent of blooms made the air heady and she breathed in deeply all the strange aromas. How typically French was the scene! How difficult to confuse it with Covent Garden and the shouts of porters and the trundle of lorries and squeaky carts. Here the tempo was slower, and in the warm air the voices did not sound so shrill. By now the flower farmers knew Rose enough to realize that she did not like bargaining. If she considered a price too high she would move to the next stall and nothing could persuade her to return to the previous one. Because of this the first price they gave her was the one that they would be willing to accept, and in this way she was able to do her buying much more quickly. Occasionally if she had time to spare she would wander through the food market, looking at the succulent cheeses, sometimes nibbling at a tasty sausage or biting at a piece of crisp bread. No, this could never be mistaken for Covent Garden! When Rose reached the market this warm Saturday morning the sun had not yet risen over the hills and the harbor was shrouded in shadow, although far out on the water the Hammond yacht was caught in the first, early morning rays. Rose wandered from stall to stall, pausing occasionally to touch a delicate bloom. All too soon she had finished her buying and while her driver supervised the loading of the van she leaned against an upturned basket and watched the colorful scene. Suddenly she noticed a small cart rumbling towards her. She did not know the owner, who was an ancient crone with a face as lined as old leather. All she saw were the exquisite roses bunched tightly together: hundreds and hundreds of pink and scarlet heads. The cart stopped and the old woman climbed down and smoothed her skirts. Rose walked over to her. "I have not seen you here before, madame," she said in French. "I must compliment you on your roses." The woman beamed. "I have never come here before. Until now my son has sold all our flowers to the local chateau. But this week I decided we were not
getting enough for them, so I came here instead. It took me three hours to drive, but I hope le bon Dieu will look after me." Rose glanced at her watch. It was barely seven o'clock, so the woman must have left home long before dawn. She looked at the roses again. They were as beautiful at close range as they had appeared from the distance. The woman had been right in coming to Cannes; she would certainly get a better price here. Idly Rose wondered what the chateau had paid for them. Very little, probably merely enough to cover the cost of the growing. They had never thought that so old a woman would have the determination to take her goods elsewhere. Rose wished she had not bought all the flowers she required for that day. If it had been Monday she would have taken the roses too, but because it was Sunday tomorrow and the shop was closed, she ran the risk of the flowers remaining unsold. "You would like to buy them?" the woman asked eagerly. "You are rather late," Rose said gently. "Next time" "I understand. Now, if you will excuse me, mademoiselle, I must try and sell these." Rose watched the cart creak away and then turned towards the hotel van. It was empty and she knew that the driver had slipped off for a glass of wine. With a sigh of exasperation, for she knew it meant a delay of another ten minutes, she wandered round the market again. The cartload of roses still remained unsold and the old woman was beginning to look frightened. "It is as you say, mademoiselle. I arrive too late." "I'm so sorry," Rose said, and as she saw the moisture in the faded eyes her own eyes filled with tears. She turned away and would have stumbled had not an arm reached out to support her. "Buying the roses?" said a deep voice. Before she looked into his face Rose knew it was Lance Hammond. In white dinner jacket he seemed taller and blonder than ever compared with the swarthy porters and vendors around him.
"I have already done my buying," she said firmly. "Are you looking for something?" "My bed. Enid and I were at the Casino with some friends, and they decided they needed some onion soup to revive them. I couldn't face the thought and said I'd meet them out here." He sniffed. "Although I must say the smell of the flowers is just as sick-making." Rose felt the familiar surge of irritation towards him. "I prefer the perfume of flowers to the artificial perfume most women wear." "Tut tut," he said and putting his hands in his pocket teetered backwards and forwards in front of her. "What do you use, my little Rose essence of thorns?" She was too annoyed to reply. Behind her the old woman watched and, sensing the electric atmosphere, misinterpreted the reason and ambled forward. "You have been looking for Mademoiselle, hein? A lovers' tiff? Maybe you would like to buy some of my roses?" Lance narrowed his eyes and although he looked at the old woman he was speaking to Rose. "She must think I'm a pretty soft touch." "Her story could touch your heart if you had one," Rose retorted. "She's driven for three hours on a wooden cart that would shake out your bones, let alone hers, just in the hope of selling her roses for a few centimes more per bunch than she could get in her village." "Is that so? Then why don't you buy them?" "Unfortunately I've already completed my orders. The shop isn't mine, Mr. Hammond, and I have to account for what I spend." "The mademoiselle is most kind," the old woman interrupted. "She was crying when the monsieur came along crying for my flowers." Lance looked quizzically at Rose, and she bit her lip and turned away. With relief she saw her driver climb into the van and she hurried towards him. As usual, Saturday morning was a busy one. Not only was Jacqueline fully occupied but so was the extra assistant whom Rose engaged to give a hand for
a few hours during the weekend. It was not until lunch time that she was able to slip away and she decided to lie down for half an hour before going for her usual swim. Humming under her breath she went in the lift to the top floor and unlocking the door to her bedroom, walked in. Amazed, she stared around her. On the table, on the window ledge, on the dressing table and in the four corners of the room were vases filled with roses. Lance had bought all the old woman's stock and sent them to her! She knew immediately that he had done so out of pique, annoyed that she had the power to irritate him with her sarcasm. "But I don't care why he sent them," she said fiercely as she buried her face in a cluster of blooms. "The main thing is that the old woman sold them!" Promptly at ten o'clock the next morning Alan called for her at the hotel in a cream colored Cadillac and as she climbed in she remembered the first time she had ridden in it, when Lance Hammond had taken her to the villa to pick roses. They drove along the Croissette until they reached the harbor. A slight breeze had blown up overnight and the water was whipped into little waves. She looked out at the yacht and wondered whether she had been wise to accept the invitation. "Afraid of feeling seasick?" Alan asked. "A bit." He grinned. "It's nothing to worry about. You won't feel a thing once your're on board." Although she doubted this, she made no reply and followed him down the harbor steps and into a motor launch. It belonged to Lance, and she did not need Alan to tell her that his employer was a devotee of speed. Indeed anything suggesting speed appeared to enjoy the man's affection: fast cars, fast boats, fast women. Her thoughts stopped abruptly. Why was she always thinking of Lance? What was the matter with her? She stared straight ahead and as the yacht drew nearer, realized that even though it had looked large when viewed from the shore it was even larger when one went alongside. They stopped directly underneath a ladder and Rose climbed up it and found herself on the deck. Farther along a group of people were lounging in deck- chairs and as she glanced their way one of them stood up and came towards her.
Even without her seeing the face, the arrogant set of the shoulders told her it was her host. It was the first time she had seen him dressed so informally, the blue shorts and shirt enhancing the blondness of his hair and the brownness of his skin. No wonder all the women from here to the Italian Riviera had fallen under his spell. Irrationally shy at meeting him, she looked out over the water, unaware of the enchanting picture she herself made. Her skin was tanned almost as deeply as his, and her usually pale cheeks were heightened by a healthy glow which served to increase the translucent quality of her eyes. She was wearing one of the dresses she had bought in the little shop owned by Madame Henriette, a jade-green dress of silk shantung, its simple lines emphasising the rounded slenderness of her body. "Not sorry you've come already?" a voice enquired at her shoulder. She swung round, chin held high. "Certainly not. I was just looking at Cannes. I've never seen it from this angle." He followed her gaze and looked at the town nestling around the bay and stretching long concrete fingers along a narrow strip of beach, while in the distance loomed the mountains and the olive groves, and the tall dark trees that one came across so unexpectedly everywhere along the coast. A seagull swooped overhead uttering its strange shrill cry, and as Rose followed its flight against the burning blue of the sky she felt a sudden thrill of happiness. It was difficult to analyze and inexplicably, she was afraid even to try. Today was a day torn out of time, a day during which she too was going to pretend to be one of the idle rich. "Don't let's stand here," Lance said. "Come over and I'll introduce you to the others." From a distance she had thought there were a great number of people on the yacht, but as she followed Lance across the deck she realized there were only four others apart from herself two men and two women who seemed to know each other very well, if the badinage that passed between them was anything to go by. They were very friendly and tried to include Rose in their conversation, but as their talk ranged from the day that Georgie fell into the water at Cap Ferrat to the afternoon when Gigi had had frightful migraine at the Chateau Madrid, Rose felt out of her depth. To her surprise Enid was not present, but Alan, when he joined her after a few
moments, seemed to guess her thoughts and told her that Enid did not like the sea. Although she would spend the day on the yacht she refused to sleep aboard and stayed at Mrs. Hammond's villa. "Does Tino Barri stay there as well?" Rose asked. Alan looked at her curiously. "Yes, he's been a house guest of Mrs. Hammond's for the last month. Why do you ask?" "No reason," Rose said quickly. "I I just wondered." Feeling that Alan was not satisfied with her reply she deliberately changed the conversation. Yet she was aware that he was looking at her speculatively, and because of it she moved away from him and talked with unusual animation to the young man on her opposite side. The morning passed in idle chatter and sunbathing, and she was surprised when at noon Enid had still not put in an appearance. Indeed, it was not until one of the guests asked what had happened that she learned that the girl did not intend to join the yacht at all that day. "Enid's not fond of the sea," Lance said, "and only comes aboard as a great favor to me." One of the men grinned. "She won't even do that once she's hooked you." There was general laughter at this and Lance grinned. "You wouldn't like to have a little bet on that, would you?" he asked. "What sort of bet?" "A hundred pounds to a penny that after three months of marriage Enid will be as crazy about the sea as I am." The man burst out laughing. "I'll take you on. That's one bet you're going to lose." "No, it isn't," Lance said. "You wait and see." A steward came round with cocktails and Rose took hers and carried it over to the rail, sipping it as she looked at the blue water. White horses rode astride
the sea, and yet there was only a gentle rocking motion beneath her feet. 'I'm loving it,' she thought to herself. 'I'm loving every moment of it and I wish I need never go back to land again.' "What are you thinking?" Lance said softly at her side. "I was looking at your face just now and you seemed transformed." "I was thinking how much I was enjoying myself. I love the sea." "Are you a good sailor?" "I don't know. I've never been on a boat till now. Unless you count a shilling ride on the Jolly Jack Tar at Margate!" He made no comment and she sipped her drink again, ridiculing herself for being so nervous with him. "I'd like to thank you for the flowers you sent me," she said quickly. "It was wrong of me not to have written and thanked you, but I I " She stopped and then made reckless by the potency of her drink, decided to be truthful. "But I wasn't sure whether or not you were trying to be rude." "Rude?" He stared at her in surprise. "I bought those flowers on an impulse and I sent them to you for the same reason. Why on earth should you think I was trying to be rude?" She said nothing and he took out a packet of cigarettes and extracted one thoughtfully. "Mind you, you're not the first woman to have accused me of that. I know another young girl like you who said exactly the same thing to me." "I'm glad I don't stand alone," Rose said. He half smiled. "You certainly don't! Now I come to think of it, you're a bit like Susan too. She's younger than you but you're just as unsophisticated as she is." Curiosity got the better of Rose's caution. "Was she someone you were in love
with?" "Good lord, no! Someone I grew up with. Though she's much younger than I am so perhaps I should say someone who grew up with me." He touched her arm. "But this conversation has got a long way from what I actually came over to ask you. I wondered if you'd like to come out in my speedboat after lunch?" "I'd love to, provided you don't mind if I suddenly ask you to take me back to terra firma!" "I won't mind at all and I'm pretty sure you won't ask me. You've a sea glint in your eyes that bespeaks a real sailor!" During lunch Rose told Alan of Lance's invitation and he looked so pleased that she could not help being piqued. "Anyone would think you want to get rid of me." "Don't be silly," he retorted. "We're friends, Rose, you needn't pretend you'll miss me if you're away for an hour." "Maybe not,", she replied, "but you should pretend. You're very ungallant." He burst out laughing, and realizing how illogical she was, Rose did the same. "Do you mind?" she said softly under cover of the general conversation. "As a matter of fact I've a mass of wedding arrangements to catch up with," he went on. The words brought Rose back quickly to reality. For the last few hours she had completely forgotten that Lance's fiancee was probably lunching on the terrace of the pink- walled villa only a couple of miles away. She glanced across the deck to where Lance was talking to one of his crew and wondered why, if he knew Enid didn't like the sea, he had arranged to spend a day on board his yacht. She shrugged. There was no questioning Lance Hammond: he was a man who did what he wanted. "Come on, Rose," he called impatiently! "Let's go." Alan walked over to the rail with her. "Will you come back here, Lance, or will
you moor the boat at the villa?" "At the villa," came the reply. "Enid and I had a bit of a tiff last night and I guess I'd better go and make my apologies." "You needn't bother taking me for a spin," Rose said quickly. "I'm sure you'd like to go straight to the villa." "I promised I'd take you out and I will," Lance replied. "Stop arguing, woman, and come on." Sitting in the boat beside him, tasting on her lips the salt of the wet spray that hurled itself in her face, Rose could have laughed aloud with the sheer joy of it. The wind pulled roughly against her hair and she clung on tightly to the seat. "Not scared, are you?" Lance shouted. Her answer was whipped away by the wind but she shook her head and he increased the speed and zoomed over the water so fast that they barely seemed to touch it. They were far out to sea before he turned the nose of the boat towards the shore and Rose, looking at the deserted expanse of water around her, imagined that she and Lance were shipwrecked, sole survivors on a desert island waiting to be picked up by a passing boat. She wondered what he would be like as a desert island companion, and glancing at his strong wrists gripping the wheel of the speedboat, could easily envisage them making a shelter, providing food and doing all the things which her childhood reading of Robinson Crusoe told her would be necessary. How wild he looked with the wind blowing his hair around his face and the spray glistening on his skin. Unexpectedly he glanced at her and her cheeks burned as she wondered what he would have said had he been able to read her thoughts. As they neared the shore he slackened speed and through the pine trees that fringed the water's edge she was able to glimpse the pink walls of Diana Hammond's villa. Slowly they approached the landing stage and stopped. Lance climbed out and tethered the boat before giving her his hand and not until they were both on firm ground did they look at one another and realise they were completely soaked. "I'd better go back to the hotel," she said quickly. "There's no need," he replied. "You can borrow one of Enid's dresses."
"We're not the same size. I'd prefer to go back to the hotel." He shrugged and led the way across the jetty and up the roughly hewn steps to the garden. Over the lawns they wended their way and through the rose arbor, skirting the side of the swimming pool to reach the terrace. The two women and the dark haired man sitting between them stopped talking as Lance and Rose approached. Diana Hammond jumped up at once and came towards her. "My dear! You'll get your death of cold." Rose was suddenly aware that her dress was clinging to her figure as if it had been moulded to it, aware too that at his mother's words Lance turned to look at her so intently that her cheeks reddened. "She wants to go back to the hotel and change," he said. "She can't go like that," his mother answered decisively. "She'll turn blue before she gets there! Come along with me and I'll loan you a pair of shorts or something. Then the chauffeur can drive you back to the hotel. You can be here again in an hour." "I didn't think of coming back," Rose said quickly. "Of course you must come back, We're having a party tonight." "You can't disappoint Alan," Lance called after her as she walked into the house. "I'll tell him you'll be back as soon as you've prettied yourself up again." Rose sighed. There was no thrill in the prospect of prettying herself up for Alan or indeed for any man when all she longed for was to be alone. She lifted her eyes and looked at Lance. His eyes, vivid blue and mocking, seemed to be piercing through her, seeing beyond the social pretences arid barriers to the bare and telling truth. Truth about what? There was danger in question, let alone the answer and hurriedly she followed Mrs. Hammond into the house, not caring what she did so long as she escaped from the presence of a man whom she found to be irritating, annoying and unexpectedly disturbing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT was just after five o'clock when Rose, returning to the villa found Alan waiting for her on the drive. She had changed into a full skirted grey silk dress, the same color as her eyes, yet as she had looked at herself in the mirror she had been critical of it. It was a dress she had bought shortly before leaving London, but now that her eye had grown used to the beautifully designed clothes of the women she had seen in the hotel, she realized that this one did nothing to enhance her personality. Rather wryly, into a country mouse. Alan however did not appear to think so for he beamed with pleasure as she stepped out of the car and led her into the house. Tea was being served in the drawing room and Didi Hammond was ensconced behind a silver tea tray, with Tino Barri sitting next to her. She was wearing a creamy beige dress which suited her to perfection, and as she sat on the lemon brocade sofa, the light from the window at her back dimmed by sunblinds, she did not look a day over thirty-five. The Italian was sitting so close to her that her skirt fanned out over his knees and was murmuring in her ear, oblivious of Lance and Enid on the other side of the room. Only as Rose's sandalled feet made a clicking sound on the parquet did he glance up. "Come along, you two," Mrs. Hammond called gaily, as she filled two more cups from the silver teapot. Alan passed one over to Rose and she sat down in an armchair and balanced her cup on her knee. Lance and Enid had obviously made up their quarrel, for he was sitting close to her, one arm resting lightly along the back of the sofa, so that occasionally his fingers touched the girl's shoulder and the nape of her neck. From time to time Enid glanced at him, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes langorous, and Rose, had she not know better, would have thought her to be completely in love. Unexpectedly she was engulfed in such a wave of jealousy that the cup shook in her hand. The reason for it could no longer be held back and she was aghast at herself. It was impossible. Impossible. Yet it was true: she herself was in love with Lance Hammond. "I must be mad!" she thought desperately. "It's because Alan has talked about him so often and I've read all the gossip and publicity." But even as she tried to find reasons she knew it was hopeless. Magnetism, physical attraction, affinity, no matter what name one gave it, it was merely another way of saying the word love. And she loved Lance. The thought was so
new, so devastating, that she had to force herself to join in the conversation around her, saying anything that came into her head. As the tea things were cleared a waiter brought round trays of drinks and more guests began to arrive. Conversation grew louder and voices and laughter echoed in her head, causing it to throb. Lance turned on the radio and as music throbbed through the room he pulled Enid into his arms and started to dance. Rose looked at the two blond heads close together and jumped up quickly. "Come on, Alan, it's ages since I've danced with you." "Lance's engagement party," he replied and looked into her flushed face. "What's the matter? I've never seen you like this before." "Like what?" "So flippant and exuberant." "We're in exuberant company," she retorted, "and when I'm in Rome I always do as the Romans do." He did not answer but she felt his gaze on her and knew he was puzzled. By seven o'clock the driveway was filled with cars; dark limousines, vivid roadsters and gleaming coupes, their chromium glinting in the floodlights that had been switched on to light up the terrace. Rose forced herself to join in the talk and the dancing, to eat the exquisite canapes and drink the vintage champagne. Unaccustomed to alcohol, she felt her head begin to throb and in an effort to find a cool place she stepped down from the terrace and walked across the lawn. She did not know quite where she was going, but a longing to be alone, to ponder over this amazing discovery that threatened to alter her complete life-nay, even to ruin iturged her footsteps over the grass. Soon she reached the lowest lawn and knew that a few rough-hewn steps would lead her down to the beach. Cautiously for there were no lights here and night had descended with unexpected suddenness, she made her way down to the sands, and leaving her shoes at the bottom of the steps, strolled along the beach. Finally she stopped and gazed out to the horizon, giving herself up to the thoughts that all the afternoon she had fought so hard to keep from rising to the surface of her mind. Her main feeling was one of chargrin that she
should have fallen in love with someone like Lance Hammond. If he were not completely out of her reach, he was still completely unsuitable; a philanderer. a Casanova, a dilettante content to wander idly through the days without any desire to work. She turned away from the sea and began to retrace her steps. Was Lance really content with his life of idleness, or was it perhaps that he did not have an incentive to work? Many men in his position would find it difficult to work when they had no need to do so. It was something that must be encouraged, and she could not imagine Mrs. Hammond, with her butterfly mind, urging her son to give thought to anything more serious than his own enjoyment. Yet if she herself were behind Lance she would be able to imbue him with an interest in work. She did not know anything about the Hammond supermarket, yet listening to Alan describing the few years he had spent in the Head Office had told her that it was a business capable of fantastic expansion, capable of absorbing new ideas, new methods. Suddenly Rose was overwhelmed by the stupidity of what she was thinking and she sank down on the sand, her body racked with sobs. Luckily there was no one to see her, no one except the pale cold moon and the stars that twinkled millions of miles away. At last she stood up and climbed the steps again, making her way over the grass until she reached the arbour. Voices came from inside it and, conscious of her dishevelled hair and flushed face, she drew back behind the hedge, unwilling for anyone to see her. On silent feet she ran beside the bushes, searching for another way to reach the villa. But every path she wandered down led her to the rose arbour and eventually, feeling she had walked for hours, she came upon a marble seat and sat down, deciding to wait until the couple giggling and caressing some few feet away had returned indoors. Suddenly she heard the woman's voice and with a feeling of horror she realized it was Enid. What unkind fate had led her to the unhappy coincidence of being an eavesdropper for the second time? Desperately she wondered whether to barge through the rose arbour and thus give warning of her presence, but even as the thought entered her mind Enid spoke again, the words so raw with emotion that Rose remained transfixed. "Of course I don't want to marry Lance! But what else can I do? I love you, Tino, but I'm not so besotted that I don't know we'd never make a go of it if
we had to scrape around for every penny." Her voice grew savage. "If only that idiot of an uncle of mine hadn't decided to marry again!" Tino Barri spoke for the first time, his voice low and intense. "The marriage I can forgivebut to produce a sonthat is the disaster!" Enid gave a hard laugh. "It certainly is. And the old fool's so crazy over the brat, he's as good as told me I won't get a penny." "Surely you'll get something?" Tino asked. "A few hundreds when I was expecting thousands! Oh Tino, what are we going to do?" "I don't know, mia cara. All I know is that I love you." "Do you really?" There was a pleading in the girl's voice that Rose had never heard before. "If you had a lot of money would you marry me, Tino, even if I didn't have any money of my own?" "What nonsense are you talking?" he replied. "If I had money nothing in the world would keep us apart! Do you think I wanted to fall in love with you? I know you are hard and selfish" "Then why did you?" "Because love is inexplicable. If it were not so, you would hardly have fallen in love with me. But don't worry, my darling, if my plan goes well, we shall still be able to squeeze some happiness out of life. If Didi accepts me we will be able to see each other without anyone being suspicious. After all, you will be my step-daughter-in-law!" "Tino, don't! I feel sick at the thought of you marrying another woman." "How do you think I feel about you and Lance?" Enid gave a muffled sob and there was a movement as Tino pulled her close. Rose's heart was beating so fast that the blood seemed to pound in her ears. Her one idea was to escape, to pretend she had never overheard this horrifying scene. Hardly daring to breathe, she stood up and tiptoed along the path, but she had not taken more than two steps when a figure loomed up in front of her.
It was Lance, but a Lance she had never seen before. In the moonlight his face was as white as the magnolia blossom behind him and from the expression in his eyes she knew he had heard every word of the conversation between Tino and the women he loved. "Lance," she said softly. "Lance. Don't feel so badly." He looked at her uncomprehendingly, then without a word turned and crashed through the rose bushes, crushing the blooms as he went. "Lance!" she called. "Where are you going?" The only answer she received was the mocking cry of a bird and the sharp crackle of broken twigs. Afraid that if he were left alone he would do something desperate, she ran after him but when she reached the end of the lawn he was nowhere in sight. She stopped, wondering in which direction he had gone. Suddenly, below her, she heard the crunch of sand and knew he was on the beach. Quickly, careless that she might fall, she raced down the steps. A hundred yards ahead of her she made out his figure and hurried after him. The sand seeped into her shoes and because she was afraid she would be unable to reach him she kicked them off, and was able to run more swiftly. She did not know what he was going to do; she only knew she had to be with him. "Lance!" she called. "Wait for me." He appeared to hesitate and then redoubled his pace, making for the jetty where his speedboat was moored. 'Oh, no,' Rose thought. 'I can't let him go out in the boat alone!' She tried to run faster but there was a pain in her side and her breath was laboured. Lance had now reached the jetty and was bending to untie the rope that held the boat moored. He appeared to have some difficulty with this and by the time he had freed the boat and jumped into it, she was running along the jetty. The engine sparked into life and realizing she would not be able to reach it in time if she ran down the steps, Rose closed her eyes and jumped. "You fool," he cried as the boat shuddered from side to side. Shakily she lifted herself from the bottom where she had fallen and sat on the seat. "You weren't going to wait for me," she gasped.
"You're darned right I wasn't!" They were already speeding over the water and as he spoke he pressed his foot harder on the accelerator. Beneath them the boat shuddered and every now and then the bow raised itself in the sea to come down the next instant with an impact that jarred Rose to the bones. Farther and farther they went out, and still he showed no sign of turning back. "Don't go so fast!" she cried. He took no notice and Rose began to feel afraid. Clouds of spray had drenched her to the skin and she was shivering with cold and fear. She had no idea how much petrol they carried, but she was certain that if they did not turn back soon they would be stranded. "Turn back!" she cried. "For heaven's sake, Lance, stop behaving like a child." She tried to pull his hand from the wheel but he flung her back against the seat. Anger rose in her, anger so strong that it defeated her fear, defeated even the compassion she felt for him. She jumped up again and hurled herself across his body, trying to seize the wheel in both hands. "What's the matter with you?" she cried. "Are you trying to kill yourself?" "Mind your own business," he grated. "I didn't ask you to come, did I?" "No, you didn't, but I wanted to help you. Lance, please, if you don't value your own life at least think of mine, turn back!" "I've nothing to go back for." "Maybe you haven't," she cried. "But I have. Turn back!" "No! You should have thought of this before you came with me. Now for heaven's sake leave me alone." He seemed like a man who had lost his senses, and looking into his eyes she knew he was not hearing her, but still hearing Enid's voice destroying his happiness and future.
Knowing there was nothing more she could do, she gripped the sides of the boat and edged back to her seat. The roar of the engine was loud in her ears and they were zooming over the water so fast that they hardly seemed to touch it. On and on they sped, and the beating of the engine, the constant sting of the spray on her face, induced in her a sensation of nightmare that took away the reality of the situation so that she felt she was on a journey that had had no beginning and would have no end. Suddenly she saw Lance's yacht looming up in the distance and with a sigh of relief realized he must be making for it. Her hand trembled as she wiped away the sea spray and the sweat that was trickling in rivulets down her forehead, but the next moment she was rigid with fear as Lance's voice rose in a shout." "The wheelit's jammed! Rose, for God's sake jump!" Before she had a chance to move the sea seemed to rise in front of her and she had the quick, terrifying impression that the boat was disintegrating beneath her. The next moment she was flung through the air. Automatically she braced herself against the shock of hitting the water, but it was not the water that received her falling body, it was the edge of the boat itself. There was a stab of agonizing pain. Then the black of the sea and the black of the sky seemed to merge in her mind and she knew no more.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN Rose opened her eyes the first thing she saw was a cluster of yellow roses. They stood in a vase in front of an open window, their leaves stirring slightly in the breeze. Her eyes travelled round the room, bare except for a couple of chairs and so immaculately cleaned and polished that she knew immediately she was in hospital. With this thought memory returned and she tried to sit up. She could not move! Panic rose in her and perspiration broke out on her forehead. "Nurse," she cried. "Nurse!" Instantly the door opened and a young nurse came in. "So you are awake," a soft voice said in perfect English. "How do you feel?" "I don't know. I can't move."
"It is to be expected, but do not worry." "Have I injured my spine? Am I paralysed?" "What a thing to say. Of course you're not paralysed. You're badly bruised and you must lie perfectly still." "Where am I?" "In a clinic in Nice and you're under the best medical care that money can buy." Rose looked round the room. The best care that money could buy. Hammond money, she was sure. "Lance!" she said fearfully. "What's happened to Lance?" "Mr. Hammond is perfectly well. He was flung clear of the boat. You were the only one to be hurt. Now lie still and I'll get you a drink. I'm sure you'd like one. The doctor will be in to see you today and he'll answer all your questions." For the rest of the day Rose dozed intermittently. Every time she awoke she tried to move, but although her mind willed it, she remained as immobile as a log. Gradually panic rose again and she became convinced there was something wrong with her spine. Indeed, the fact that she did not have any pain only served to increase her fear, and everything she had ever read about paralysis and spinal injuries came back to haunt her. Suppose she never recovered the use of her legs? Suppose she had to lie for ever in this bed? Unable to bear her fear alone she rang the bell for the nurse and kept her finger on it until the door opened. "Well now, whatever's the matter with you?" the nurse asked as she hurried in. "I can't move," Rose gasped. "You're not telling me the truth. What happened to me? How badly have I been injured ?" "You haven't been injured at all," the nurse said soothingly. "At least, nothing that we can see. You're going down to be X-rayed in about half an hour, and after the plates have been developed the doctor will be able to tell you much more. Now lie still like a good girl and don't excite yourself." Realising it was hopeless to argue with a hospital's dictum, Rose did as she was
told. The nurse had spoken the truth, for within twenty minutes she was lifted out of bed and wheeled along the corridor to the X-ray department. The radiologist spoke little English and did not even seem inclined to speak much in French, so that she had to be satisfied with monosyllabic answers to her questions. Eventually she realised she would learn nothing from him either, and that she would have to wait until she could speak to the doctor himself. Nearly two hours elapsed before she was wheeled back to her room and no sooner was she settled in bed and left alone than the nurse rushed in again, looking far less composed than usual. The reason for it followed immediately on her heels in the shape of Lance Hammond. "Mr. Hammond can only stay a moment," the nurse enjoined. "You've had an exhausting time and must go to sleep." She went out and Lance moved over to the foot of the bed and looked at Rose. He was paler than she had ever seen him, though whether or not this was due to the dark suit he was wearing she did not know. He seemed overnight to have lost weight. "What can I say?" he said abruptly. "Any sort of apology sounds soso" "You've no need to apologise," she interrupted. "It was an accident." "An accident caused by my carelessness. You needn't try and make me feel better. I'm my own judge and a pretty harsh one." "Please don't be. You didn't know what you were doing and" "And yet you came with me. You shouldn't have done it, Rose. I wanted to be alone." He sat down in a chair by the window, his face turned away from her. She longed to ask him if he had seen Enid but could not bring herself to do so. Instead she looked at his profile, the straight nose, the curve of the high forehead and the shining blond hair, not quite so immaculately groomed as usual. "Don't feel so badly about me, Lance. I'll be all right in a few days."
"Of course you will." He leaned forward and caught her hand as it lay on the coverlet. The touch of his fingers set her pulses racing, and she was so afraid lest he notice it that she pulled her hand away. He misinterpreted the gesture and for the first time she saw him turn red. "I'm not surprised you can't bear me to touch you," he said abruptly. "Not after the way I've smashed you up. Oh Roseforgive me! Forgive me!" The intensity of his words made her feel uneasy and she stared at him. "Smashed me up? Why do you put it like that?" He did not answer and her fear grew. "Lance!" she said. "Lance, tell me how badly I'm hurt." He got to his feet and walked back to the foot of the bed. "We won't know till tomorrow. You can't move because your spine's badly bruised, but we've got to wait for the X-rays to find out exactly what's wrong." He hesitated. "It might mean that you'll have to stay in bed for a while. Three weeks, maybeor a bit longer." "I see." She was so overwhelmed to hear it would not be worse that words failed her and tears of weakness coursed down her cheeks. He saw them and gave an exclamation. "Rose, don't cry. My dear girl, don't cry." "I'm sorry." She made an effort to be calm. "I know men hate tears, but I'm so tired I can't seem to control them." "You need to get some sleep. I'd better go before the nurse chucks me out." He walked to the door. "I'll see you again soon, Rose. But meanwhile don't worry. I'll look after you." Left alone, Rose fell into an uneasy sleep, and the three weeks that Lance said she might have to stay in bed became magnified in her dreams until they stretched into months and years. She awoke in a cold sweat and turned on the light. Midnight. The hours before the doctor came to see her stretched endlessly ahead and she shifted her head restlessly on the pillow and thought about Lance's future and her own. Would Enid be able to persuade him to give her another chance? She had deceived him it was true, but love could be blind,
and Lance was more blind than most. If he were not he would have realised by now that she herself was in love with him. Thank heaven he had not! Her pride was the only thing she could take home with her: her heart she would certainly be leaving behind. At nine o'clock the next morning the nurse ushered in the doctor, and Rose looked at him with trepidation. He was younger than she had expected with a lined face and dark hair. In his hand he carried a buff colored folder in which she caught a glimpse of some X-ray pictures. As if sensing her tension he dispensed with greetings and said immediately the words she wanted to hear. "You've nothing to worry about as far as paralysis is concerned, Miss Tiverton. Within a weektwo weeks at the most you'll be able to walk properly." Rose was so relieved that she wanted to shout for joy. "I can't tell you how thankful I am to hear you say that. It's wonderful to know I'll be perfectly well again." A strange expression crossed the doctor's face, and as she saw it her voice faltered. "I will be perfectly well again, won't I?" "Not quite." The man's voice was steady, but his eyes were full of compassion. "You see, there has been some damage to the spine, and though rest and treatment will go a long way towards effecting a cure, I'm afraid it will never be a complete one." "Do you mean I'll always be in pain?" "Not pain, though you might suffer a little discomfort from time to time." He hesitated and looked at the floor. "What I really mean is that because of the damage to the nerve centre damage incidentally which we cannot completely see in an X-ray but can only guess atyou'll always walk with a limp." "A limp!" Rose looked at him, unable to believe she had heard correctly.
"Don't look so tragic, my dear," the doctor said sternly. "Twenty minutes ago you were convinced you'd have to lie like a log for the rest of your life. At least now you know you'll be able to move around freely and you should thank God your injuries weren't worse." Rose drew a deep breath. "You're right," she said with an effort. "I was expecting to hear something much worse and when I didn't I thought II thought I" she swallowed and continued, "I'm sorry for being so childish about it." "You're not being childish at all. If I appeared to speak sharply it was because I didn't want you to be full of self- pity. Think how much worse it would have been if you had lost a leg for example! As it is, although you won't be able to indulge in any sports you'll still be able to lead an active life." "What about standing? Will I be able to stand for long periods?" "Not for the first six months, I should say. But it depends how strong your recuperative powers are. The spinal colmun is such a complex mechanism that doctors have often been proved wrong." Rose closed her eyes. If she could not stand for long periods it would put paid to her work as a florist. With an effort she choked back the sobs that thickened her throat and forced herself to smile at the grave-faced man watching her. "Is there no way at all that I could be cured?" "None I could reasonably advise." "What do you mean by that?" "Well, a Swiss professor has been known to effect a cure in similar cases to yours, but the operation he performs is a delicate one with a high percentage of failure." "Surely it's worth a try?" The doctor shook his head. "It has a high mortality rate. Too high for me to recommend it to any patient of mine." He patted her hand. "The best thing you can do it to accept the fact that you'll walk with a limp. It won't disfigure your appearance and your legs will look as lovely as ever. Now I'll send Mr. Hammond in to see you. He's been waiting outside for the last half hour."
When Lance stepped into the room Rose knew from the look on his face that he had already spoken to the doctor. "I don't know what to say," he muttered. "I've never involved anyone in an accident before and I" He began to pace the room, his broad shoulders blocking out the light each time he strode past the window. For so tall a man his footsteps were extraordinarily light, and she felt such a rush of physical awareness for him that tears brimmed over her eyes. Lance stopped abruptly and looked at her, his face drawn with compassion. "Don't cry, my dear," he said. "You've nothing to worry about. I'll arrange things so that you need never worry about working again." "There's no need for you to do anything of the sort. I might not be able to work as a florist but there are lots of other jobs I can do." "I don't want you to work at all." "That's silly," she said quickly. "I can't live in idleness." "You can go and enjoy yourself. Take a cruise or a trip to Americaanything you like. Damn it all, it was because you were trying to help me that you've ended up a cripple!" The moment he uttered the last word he stopped, aghast at what he had said. Then he leaned forward and caught her hands tightly in his. "Rose! You must let me help you. It's the only way I can appease my conscience." She pulled her hands away from his. Many had been the times that she dreamed he was holding her dose and looking at her with the gentleness he was now displaying. Yet this gentleness was due to pity and she wanted no part of it. "Many people are cripples," she said firmly. "But the doctor's assured me I'll be able to lead an almost normal life. I'll probably have to take things easy for six months or so, and I should imagine your insurance will cover me for that time, but"
"For heaven's sake don't talk that way! Do you think I'd leave you to my insurance company? You were injured trying to help me, and I'm going to look after you whether you like it or not." He walked over to the door and had his hand on the knob before he turned round. "I'll be back to see you tomorrow and we'll talk about your future then." Left alone, Rose indulged in the relief of tears, and as she cried she began to feel better and more able to cope with the situation. Lance's use of the word cripple had appalled her, but she knew it was far better to face up to all that the word implied rather than keep running away from it. 'I'll have to make a habit of standing still,' she thought and shook her head. No matter how rational she tried to be, she realised she had not fully assimilated the fact that when she stood up and moved she would no longer be the same girl she had been before the accident. Gingerly she shifted in the bed. It was now possible to move her limbs slightly, although the effort caused intense pain. She lay back on the pillows and thought of her future, and how best she could live. Nothing seemed to matter any more, and she did not care whether her lameness made her less attractive to men and, because of it, less marriageable. This apathy was not due to indifference but merely to the knowledge that if she could not have Lance she did not want anyone. It was during the afternoon that Rose received her first visitor apart from Lance. It was Alan and he came innay staggered inwith an enormous basket of fruit. He placed it on the bedside table and bent to kiss her cheek. "I've, heard the news and if there's anything I can do, you just have to ask me." Smiling, she shook her head and he made a face and sat down. "I hate independent women. You should learn to be submissive !" "Now don't start lecturing me, Alan. I've had enough of that already." He did not question her remark but, as if aware that she did not wish to talk about her accident, proceeded to regale her with all the gossip that had occurred since her stay in the nursing home. Rose had always known Alan to be an interesting conversationalist, but not until today had she known that he also had a keen and perceptive eye, as well as a dry wit with which to recount
all he saw. Listening to him tell her the Riviera tittle-tattle she felt a return to normality, and the tension left her body as she laughed at his jokes and gossip. But eventually there was no more gossip to be recounted and she asked the two questions that had lain in the back of her mind since she had first recovered consciousness. "How were Lance and I rescued from the sea and what happened to Enid?" "What do you want to know first?" She half-smiled. "The rescue, please." "Fine. I take it you remember what happened before, so I'll just tell you what occurred after the speedboat crashed into the side of the yacht. Lance managed to grab you clear of the debris and keep you afloat until you were both picked up by his crew. You were brought here immediately and Lance came on to the villa. I was sleeping there and he burst into my bedroom looking demented. I managed to calm him down a bit and as soon as it was daylight he sent word that he wanted to see Enid." Alan rubbed the side of his face. "I wasn't with him at the time but I can tell you they had a pretty terrible row and that she packed her bags within the hour and drove away." "And what about Tino?" "Ah, that was a sight worth watching! He was staying at the villa too, as you know, and when he came down to breakfast on the terrace, he found Lance waiting for him. He was up the stairs in double quick time and was out of the house again before I'd had my second cup of coffee!" Rose grinned. "I wish I'd been there to see it. I think that of the two, Tino acted far worse than Enid." "You're merely defending your own sex." "Not at all," she protested. "But at least I can understand a woman falling in love with a man although she's engaged to someone else. What I couldn't bear about Tino was the way he fawned over Mrs. Hammond. Why, she was years older than he was." "It's never worried her," Alan said dryly. "And if it hadn't been Tino it would have been somebody else."
"Has she always been like that?" "Since Lance's father died. You see, when she woke up to the fact that she was all alone, she realised she wasn't young any more. Lance's father had been much older than her, and because of it she'd been pampered and petted and made to feel like a seventeen-year-old. But when the old man died she realized she was verging on middle-age." "But still lovely," Rose said. "Some of the most glamorous film star are Mrs. Hammond's age!" "Maybe so, but she doesn't happen to agree with you. That's why she searches for youth, and comes up with men like Tino." Alan stopped abruptly. "Lord, I'm sorry about this. I make it a habit not to gossip about the people I work for but I feel as if you're part of the menage." "I almost feel as if I am." Rose smoothed the sheet beneath her hand. "I found out about Enid and Tino the night before her engagement to Lance." Alan let out his breath in a whistle. "Why didn't you tell me?" "What good would it have done? You wouldn't have told Lance, would you?" "I suppose not. But I must say I'd have found myself in a pretty unenviable position." "That's why I didn't say anything. Anyway, I'm relieved he hasn't let himself be talked round again. I was afraid he'd make it up with her." "Make it up ?" Alan lifted his eyebrows. "That's not only schoolgirl phraseology but schoolgirl psychology. Lance might behave like a playboy, but he's a man for all that. As far as he's concerned, he and Enid are finished." Rose made no reply. Alan had a lot to learn if he really believed one could turn love on and off like a tap. Of all the emotions, love was the most illogical and could flourish under the most unlikely conditions. Poets had referred to it in many different ways and often it had been likened to a tender plant that needed nourishing and affection. Well, so far as she was concerned, love was no tender plant but a hearty cactus that would grow and flourish without any care and attention paid to it whatsoever. She sighed. "You don't really think Lance is going to forget Enid so easily, do
you?" "I wasn't suggesting he would. All I said was that he will never marry her now. The affair is over for Lance and nothing can resurrect it." "Don't be sure. Love isn't a cut and dried emotion." "I know what love is. If you let it get a hold on you it can ruin your life." His voice and expression was harder than she had ever heard it. Gone was the gentle, easy-going person she had grown accustomed to seeing and in his place was a man who suddenly looked his years. "You sound as if you're talking from experience," she said in surprise. "I am." He stood up and, walking over to the basket of fruit, lifted out a peach, "Let me peel this for you. It's just ripe enough to eat." Seeing he wanted to change the subject she took the fruit he offered and though not hungry, forced herself to eat it. Not until he had left, some half hour later, did she ponder over what he had said and knew an intense curiosity to meet the woman who could make a man as phlegmatic as Alan look so unnerved and unhappy. In the morning Rose was considerably better though she did not know whether this was due to natural resilience or the fact that she was no longer afraid of being paralysed. All she did know was that she could move her legs and sit up in bed without any undue pain. There and then she decided that as soon as she was well enough for the journey she would convalesce in Devon. As she thought of the wild loveliness of the English garden, so different from the exotic beauty of the gardens here, and felt in retrospect the stimulating sea winds, so different from the warm mistral, she was so overcome by homesickness that she wouldif it had been possiblehave flown home that very instant. If only her father were here now so that she could talk to him. But even as the thought entered her mind she knew she would never be able to confide in him. There were some things a daughter had to keep to herselfand being in love with a man like Lance Hammond was one of them! At mid-morning a bouquet of flowers arrived from Mrs. Hammond with a note
written in her own hand wishing Rose a speedy recovery. "Of course I'd be delighted for you to come and stay in my villa," Diana Hammond wrote, "but Lance will tell you much more when he comes to see you." Rose glanced at the leather-cased clock ticking on her bed-side table. It did not look as if he would put in an appearance this morning, for it was already cocktail time and the terraces of the gleaming hotels would be filled with informally dressed people sipping their aperitifs. Which girl was lucky enough to be with him now? There was no doubt whatever in her mind that Lance was with a girl, for he was not the sort of man to allow anyone to feel sorry for him. She could well imagine the gossip now that his broken engagement had been made public, and in an effort to show the world he did not care she was certain he would become even more flamboyant in his affairs. The thought sickened her and she had no appetite for the lunch that was brought in to her and merely picked at the food. The nurse coming back to collect the tray looked at it disapprovingly. "We can't have this, you know. You must start to eat more and put on some weight." "I'll get a better appetite when I'm out of here," Rose said with a smile of apology. "Well, that's to be understood." The nurse rested the tray on her hip. "Thin or not, I must say you're looking prettier than I've ever seen you." The nurse was telling no lie, for in spite of her accident Rose looked exceptionally lovely. It was true she was considerably thinner, but it gave her an ethereal fragility heightened by the fact that her tan had ebbed and her skin had a translucent quality which made her eyes appear a darker, deeper grey. Her hair had lost none of its sheen and was caught back from her face with a pale blue ribbon which matched the chiffon nightdress she was wearing. "Yes," said the nurse again. "You look very nice indeed. But I don't suppose you want to hear those words from me. I'll go and fetch Mr. Hammond." Rose sat up sharply. "Is he here?" "Been here the last twenty minutes, but didn't want to disturb you while you were in the middle of eating."
Rose mentally revised her earlier opinion that Lance had been enjoying a cocktail with his friends, and wondered why he had come so early to the hospital. She knew the moment he walked in that he had something on his mind, for his greeting was unusually abrupt and he began to pace around the room in what she had come to realise was his usual behaviour when he had something troubling him. "Do stop it!" she said at last. "You're making me nervous." He stopped pacing and swung round to look at her. "I'm sorry. But I happen to be feeling nervous myself." "Is anything wrong?" "That depends on you." "That sounds very mysterious," she said lightly. "I wouldn't think anything I could say would be so important." "This happens to be," he said abruptly. "RoseRose, will you marry me?" The silence in the room was so deep as to be almost tangible. 'I must be dreaming', she thought and stared at him. Lance certainly did not look the picture of an impatient lover, but rather like a man impatient to receive an answer and get it over with. She caught her breath. Why should she expect him to look like a lover when he had never felt anything other than liking for her? Liking and now pity. She hid her hands under the bedclothes so he would not see them trembling. Pity. It was this that had prompted his offer. Pity and guilt because he held himself responsible for her accident. "Well," he asked. "What have you got so say?" She shook her head. "No, Lance. Thank you for asking me, but I can't marry you." "Why not?"
"Because, strange though this may sound to you, I happen to be a romantic and one day I hope a man will ask me to marry him out ofout of love. Not pity." "I see." He sat on the edge of the bed and looked earnestly into her face. "I'm not in love with you, any more than you're in love with me, so I won't pretend to an emotion we both know is false. But I'm not asking you out of pity. Believe me, it isn't that." "Then why are you asking me? I've told you before I don't need your help." "But I need yours," he said huskily. Disbelief showed on her face and seeing it, he sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead. She looked at him closely and noticed the fine stubble of hair on his chin and a muscle that twitched erratically under his eye. No need to ask if he had had any sleepless nights. It was apparent in every movement he made. "Go on," she said softly. "Tell me what you mean." He straightened. "First of all, whether you concede it or not, I do happen to feel guilty over what happened to you. But that's only one reason I'm asking you to be my wife. The other reason is that I need you to protect me." "Protect you? From what?" "Your own sex! I'm tired of being chased. I'm tired of the never-ending round of false gaiety and phoney companionship. I thought that with" he hesitated as if he could not bring himself to mention the name "that with Enid I'd found what I'd been looking for. But I turned out to be a bigger fool than I realised. Well, I've learned my lesson and I don't intend to fall in love again. But I still want to settle down and get out of the rat race, and you're the only woman I'd dare to marry!" "But you hardly know me." "I know you're honest and hard-working and kind. You've proved all that. I'm fond of you andwell, you must obviously like me or you wouldn't have tried to help me." He gripped her shoulders. "I'm not asking you because it's the only way I can take care of you financially there are other ways I could do
that without even telling youI'm asking you to marry me because I need you. I'm tired, Rose. I'm tired of being alone." Rose did not know what to say. She would never have believed Lance capable of talking this way. She had fallen in love with a gay, philandering playboy with great physical charm. Yes, she was honest enough to admit it was his physical charm and devil-may-care attitude towards women that had first aroused her interest. But not until this moment had she realised Alan was right in saying there was more to Lance than appeared on the surface, and as she realised this her love for him became deeper and more maternal. To think he needed her! She had an overwhelming impulse to throw her arm around his neck, to pull his fair head down to her breast and tell him she loved him. But she did none of these things, for she knew he was still too emotionally numb to consider another woman in such a way. If she married him all she could hope for was that propinquity would one day cause him to turn to her. She held out her hand to him. "I'm glad you explained why you want me to marry you. And I can understand your reasons. I'm notI'm not in love with anyone so II'll change my mind and say yes." For the first time since he had come in he smiled. "It's a woman's prerogative. And I can promise you'll never regret it." He picked up her hand. "I'll be back to see you tomorrow. We'll have a lot to discuss and the wedding itself to arrange." "Will you want it to be soon?" "We've no reason to wait, have we?" "No. But I'd like my father to be there." "That can easily be arranged. Write and find out when he can come and as soon as you tell me, I'll arrange the wedding. Meanwhile I'll put up the banns." He pressed her fingers to his lips. 'Thank you for saying yes, and don't hesitate to tell me if there's anything you want." She nodded but did not speak and through a blur of tears watched him go. How ironical that he should ask if there was anything she wanted when the only thing she wanted was to be a wife a real wife to him. Was she doing the right thing in agreeing to marry him? Would her life be happier with him, even though she knew he did not love her, than it would be if she said goodbye
and tried to put him out of her mind? It was a question to which she did not have the answer. Time alone would tell.
CHAPTER NINE
IT was a difficult letter Rose had to write to her father, but as she read it through she felt the bad news of her accident and lameness was compensated for by the announcement of of her engagement to Lance Hammond. Not that great wealth would make any difference to her father's appreciation of a man, for he would never consider a fat bank balance of prime importance to happiness. But there was no doubt he would be pleased in the belief that she had at last fallen in love, and the reply she received from him was characteristic; a brief telegram saying: "COMMISERATION ACCIDENT STOP. CONGRATULATIONS ENGAGEMENT. STOP. ARRIVING IMMEDIATELY LOVE DAD." Desmond Tiverton was as good as his word for two days later the nurse ushered him into her room. "It was wrong of you not to let me know immediately the accident happened instead of waiting all this time," he said as he bent and kissed her. "I didn't want to worry you." She patted the side of her bed. "Come and sit next to me. It seems ages since I saw you." "It is ages," he said, doing as she asked. "And a great deal seems to have happened to you in the sunshine. What's he like?" "Lance, you mean?" "Who else?" She hesitated. She had been aware that her father would want to know as much about Lance as possible, but he had arrived more quickly than she had anticipated and she was mentally unprepared. "Why the hesitation?" Desmond Tiverton asked. "I've never known you short of words before."
"I've never been in love before." She forced herself to give a light laugh. "It's an awfully difficult question to answer, Dad. I'd rather you waited and saw Lance for yourself." "I must say I'm very curious. I've read a great deal about him. Wasn't he engaged to some other girl not so long ago?" It was a question Rose had dreaded but there was no way of avoiding it. "It was a very short engagement," she said quickly. "When he met me he" "Hey, hey! I'm not criticizing your young man, I merely made a casual remark." "I'm sorry. I guess I'm too sensitive where Lance is concerned. But I love him so much that I can't understand other people not feeling the same!" Desmond Tiverton suddenly looked extremely relieved. "I'm glad you're so vehement, poppet. I wouldn't like to think you were marrying him because he's a millionaire." Rose looked at him in astonishment. "But how could you think a thing like that? Money's never been important to me." "I know. But atmosphere does strange things to people, and living in a luxury hotel the way you were" "Until my accident the people I mixed with were the people I worked with," she said dryly. Too late she realized the implication of what she had said. "I I knew the man who works for him as his secretary. Alan Dawson." "I see." Her father shrugged. "It all seems to have happened rather quickly but I suppose love is different these days. Maybe the atomic age has speeded things up! Still the main tiling is that you're in love. And if you are, you'll be able to overcome everything." It was not until later, when she was alone that she pondered over her father's last remark: 'As long as you're in love, you'll be able to overcome everything.' Heaven knew she certainly had a lot to overcome! She and Lance hailed from different worlds; they had a different standard of behavior and a different understanding of what gave purpose to life. Yet none of these differences
would be insurmountable barriers were they in love. But without love what would happen? Tied together in marriage would the difference between them begin to jar, to tear at the fabric of a relationship which was already fragile? Or would marriage and the propinquity it brought with it, cement their friendship and turn Lance's liking into love? Without wishing to be conceited she knew he found her an amusing and stimulating companion. From that sort of a basis love had often sprung, and she would not be optimistic in hoping it might occur again. It was in Rose's bedroom In the nursing home that Desmond Tiverton met his future son-in-law for the first time, and watching them together, she knew with a sense of relief that they liked one another. She could not help being surprised, for although she had felt that her father and Alan would have a great deal in common, she had not been so sure about Lance. But listening to the two men talking about the world political situation and from there on to discuss art and music, she knew she would have nothing to worry about as far as their relationship was concerned. It was only when both men got up to go that she realized Lance intended her father to stay as a guest at his mother's villa. "I wouldn't dream of bothering you," Desmond Tiverton said, "I've booked in at a small pension and" "I wouldn't hear of it, sir," Lance said firmly. "It's quite out of the question for you to stay anywhere else but at Didi's villa." "Didi?" Desmond said questioningly. Lane smiled. "My mother. But she doesn't like me calling her that she thinks it's old-fashioned!" Desmond Tiverton said nothing but watching his face, Rose was hard put not to smile. What on earth would her father make of the flighty, volatile Mrs. Hammond?" "Well, that's settled then," Lance said. "I'll drive you back to your pension and you can collect your bags." The two men went to walk out, and only at the door did Lance seem to realize he wasn't behaving in a loverlike fashion. Turning, he came back to the bed and bent to kiss her on the cheek.
"Sleep well, Rose," he said lightly. "Only one more night here." "What do you mean?" He grinned. "I didn't really mean to tell you because I knew you'd get excited, but the doctor says you can come home tomorrow. So you'll be staying at the villa with your father." "What a wonderful surprise! I'd never have forgiven you if you hadn't told me tonight. Do come over early, Lance." "First thing in the morning" he said gruffly. "Scout's honor!" True to his word, Lance collected her soon after ten and driving beside him in the car she found it strange to realize that when she met other people they would now look on her as the future Mrs. Hammond. She looked at him and aware of her scrutiny, he slowed down the car and smiled at her. "You've nothing to worry about, Rose. You'll be perfectly all right." "Will I?" she asked, thinking of his friends and position and the gay, glamorous life that was a closed book on her. "Of course you will. The doctor said that in a few more weeks your limp will be hardly noticeable." "Oh my limp." She realized he had misunderstood her question, and decided it was for the best. Strange to think she had barely given her limp a thought, so intent had she been on her feelings for Lance. Tentatively she moved her legs. Sitting down, no one would guess there was anything physically wrong with her. It was only when she waited that her limp became noticeable, as if she were wearing one heel shorter than the other. "But my leg hasn't been injured," she had said to the doctor in surprise after she had taken her first few steps across the floor. "Not as far as you can see," he explained. "The injury comes from the hip. It is complicated to explain but I can tell you if you're interested." "I'd rather not know," Rose said quickly. "It isn't going to help me walk without
a limp, is it?" He shook his head. "I'm afraid not, mademoiselle. But, believe me, it is not too unsightly." Rose remembered his words now, and wondered if he had been speaking the truth. From a medical point of view her limp might not be unsightly but how would she appear to a normal person? Once more she looked at Lance but he was driving fast and giving all his attention to the road. She sighed. What did the future hold for them? Would his guilt towards her always remain so high or would he one day wish he had never married her ? Yet he had said he wasn't asking her to marry him out of guilt, but as a protection from other women! Other women! In Lance's life there would always be other women, and she would only be a protection from his becoming too deeply involved. Yet what would happen if he fell sincerely in love? 'If the woman doesn't turn out to be me,' she said to herself, 'then I'll have to give him his freedom!' Rose settled down easily to living in the Hammonds' luxurious villa. Luxury was easy to become accustomed to, and she would lie in bed late in the morning, breakfast leisurely on the terrace of her room overlooking the gardens and the sea, and then, wearing brief shorts or a sun-dress, stroll down to sit on a chaise-longue by the swimming pool until lunch. This was an informal al fresco meal, either on the terrace that ran the length of the villa or else by the side of the pool itself. Lance was staying aboard his yacht and rarely put in an appearance until late afternoon. "If I stay here you'll feel duty bound to entertain me," he said by way of explanation. "Like this you'll be able to convalesce in your own time." Rose was not sure whether this was the real reason for Lance's absence, or whether he stayed away because he found it embarrassing to go swimming or surf-riding and leave her to sit in a chair and watch him. But she decided it would be wiser not to probe too deeply, and spent her time either in reading or talking to her father. Luckily he had settled down very well, and she often remembered with amusement the look on his face when he had first seen her future mother-inlaw. Although he had spent a night at the villa before Rose had arrived, it was not until mid-morning the next day, when she and Lance were already ensconced on the terrace, that Mrs. Hammond had put in an appearance.
She was wearing one of her usual skin-tight dresses, her arms and shoulders protected from the sun by a chiffon stole, on her red-gold hair one of the currently fashionable straw hats with an enormous brim. "So you are Rose's father," Mrs. Hammond had smiled at him girlishly, blinking her thick, mascaraed eyelashes. "You're much younger than I thought." "I can return the compliment," Desmond Tiverton had said smoothly. "I would never have known you could be the mother of such a son." "It is ridiculous, isn't it? People are always mistaking me for his sister!" "I'm sure they are," Desmond said and studiously avoided meeting his daughter's eyes. Convinced she had another easy conquest on her hands, Didi set out to be her most charming, and for the rest of the day gushed over him inexorably. Immediately lunch was over she invited him to stroll with her in the gardens, and they did not return until tea-time, when Desmond sank into a chair and mopped his brow. "Don't tell me I'm making you tired," she cooed. "We hardly walked any distance." "It wasn't the walking," he said dryly. "It was the talking!" Didi burst into laughter, but Lance looked at Rose and frowned. "I don't want Mother making a nuisance of herself," he said quietly. "I'd like your father to be perfectly happy here." "Of course he'll be happy." She touched his arm. "And he likes your mother. I can tell." "I hope you're right," Lance said soberly. "She's a bit of a handful if you're not used to her and I shouldn't think your father's come up against a woman like Didi before!" "It'll do him good," Rose Said firmly. "He's got into a rut since mother died." Lance stood up and pulled her to her feet. "Come for a stroll before dinner. The
doctor told me it isn't good for you to sit about too much." Realizing there was something on his mind she followed him obediently and he pulled her arm through his as they walked over the lawn. She was painfully aware of her uneven gait and felt herself grow hot with embarrassment, but Lance seemed unperturbed by it and slowed his pace to suit hers, so that gradually she began to feel more at ease. "Tell me about your mother," he said abruptly. "You've never talked about her." "There isn't much to talk about not unless you knew her." "Are you like her to look at?" "I'm a mixture, I think. Dad says I've got my mother's good points and his bad ones!" "I don't think you've got any bad ones." "You don't know me very well then. I've a temper when I'm aroused and I can be pretty obstinate." "So can I be obstinate, I mean. As a child I was frequently cutting off my nose and spiting my face!" He stopped, for they had reached the rose arbor, and drew her on to a bench. "It's strange that I'm confiding in you so easily, Rose. When we first met I was pretty sure you disliked me heartily." "It wasn't that at all," she protested, and then fell silent. How could she tell him it was because she had liked him too much? To say so would make him instantly aware of her love for him, and so destroy the bonds of friendship and companionship that were beginning to grow between them. "What are you thinking about?" he asked suddenly. She smiled. "Private thoughts. You mustn't know everything about me or you'll find me dull." "That's the last word I'd apply to you. Until I met you I never realized one
file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%...eart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (100 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:27 PM]
could talk to a woman as if she were a man!" Rose burst out laughing. "What a thing to say!" "I mean it as a compliment." "I'm sure you do." But later, as she was changing for dinner, Rose was not so sure. For Lance to regard her as a man might augur well for companionship, but it did not augur well for love. Love. With unexpected temper she flung her belt on to the floor. Why couldn't she stop thinking of love and Lance and accept her marriage to him for what it was? The dinner gong sounded from the hall and she made her way down the marble stairs and out to the terrace. Her father was already there and she sat beside him, drawing comfort from his presence and remembering the many times when, as a child, she had gone to him for advice. "You're not too old, you know," he said suddenly. She looked at him, startled. "Too old for what?" 'To confide in me. You used to do so when you were at school." She made no reply and he patted her arm. "You should credit me with a bit of intelligence, my dear. I don't want to pry between you and Lance, but no one could see you together without realizing that whatever your engagement is based on, it isn't based on love!" Still she said nothing and he stood up and paced backwards and forwards in front of her. "Answer me one thing, Rose. Is Lance marrying you because he blames himself for your accident?" "Yes," she said huskily and as she uttered the one word her reluctance to talk about herself disappeared. "You're quite right, Dad. Lance isn't in love with me. But he's not marrying me just out of guilt. There are other reasons too."
Haltingly and with difficulty she tried to explain his motives, and when she had finished, her father, far from looking relieved, appeared even more disquieted. "I think you're both behaving childishly. Lance might believe he's turned his back on love for good, but that's only a normal reaction. In a matter of months he'll think quite differently and then where will you be? Lance is a hot-blooded man, Rose, he'll want a woman in the fullest possible sense!" "I'll be his wife." she said steadily. "And I love him." "Enough to give yourself to him knowing he doesn't love you? I doubt it when it comes to it. You've too much pride. And that's when the trouble will start. Other women will throw themselves at him and you'll have to stand by and watch. And of course there's always the chance that he'll fall in love again and not with you. Have you thought of that?" "Yes." Her voice was so faint she could hardly hear it herself. "Yes," she repeated more loudly. "I've thought of it from all angles and I'm still going ahead." Footsteps sounded behind her and looking round she saw Didi framed in the french windows. "I hope I'm not interrupting you both?" she asked gaily. "You look so serious." She came over and sat next to Rose. 'You're getting to look better every day, my dear," she said happily. "Another week of convalescence and then you'll be able to come to Paris with me and buy some clothes." "There's an awfully good place in Cannes," Rose said. "You can't buy your clothes there! Once you're Lance's wife you'll be photographed wherever you go and you've got to do him credit." "Rose will do any man credit," her father interrupted. "You set too much store by outward appearances, Mrs. Hammond." It was the first time Desmond Tiverton had spoken so frankly to his hostess, and she seemed taken aback by it. A look of surprise passed over her heavily painted face, but in an instant it was gone and the blue eyes beneath their thickly mascaraed lashes twinkled up at him.
"If I do, it's because that's what most men seem to go by." "Then you know the wrong sort of men." "In my particular life one only meets men of a certain type. Money creates its own barrier, you know." "It's only lack of money that creates a barrier," Desmond said abruptly. "If you've enough of it you can go everywhere and anywhere." "How little you know! Why, just take you and me as an example. You think just because I'm a rich woman I'm different from other women and you treat me like a like a" She hesitated, at a loss for the right word and Rose, aware of an undercurrent between the two people, decided it would be diplomatic to leave. Quietly she moved away, aware that neither her father nor Mrs. Hammond realized she had gone. In this she had done her father an injustice, for he was instantly aware of being alone on the terrace with a woman who had filled him with fear from the moment he had set eyes on her. "I have never been aware of treating you differently, Mrs. Hammond," he said quietly. "If I've been rude in any way I apologize." "You haven't been rude at all," Didi pouted. 'You've been indifferent, and sometimes that can be even more of an insult." "An insult!" his voice rose. "Really, madam, I don't know what you mean." "That just goes to show how obtuse you are. Look at at the way you're behaving now calling me Mrs. Hammond and then Madam when you know very well my name is Didi." "I'm sorry." He reddened. "I I somehow didn't think I should call you by your christian name." "Don't be so old-fashioned. You're talking like a man of ninety." He did not reply and taking out his pipe, examined it minutely.
"For heaven's sake put your pipe away," came the irate order. "You've no idea how it gets on my nerves watching you fiddle with it all the time." "I'm sorry," Desmond said stiffly. "But if I annoy you so much perhaps it might be best if I left the villa." "You can't do that!" Didi's voice rose. "Lance would be furious with me." "I'd rather have Lance furious with you than have you furious with me~" There was a little silence and suddenly Didi giggled. "I'm sorry. I really have no right to talk to you this way. It's just that I never could resist a challenge and you're the first man I've met in a long while who hasn't regarded me as a woman." "On the contrary," he answered. "It would be impossible to overlook the fact!" She took his remark as a compliment and leaned back happily in her chair, smoothing her skirts around her and swinging one slim leg backwards and forwards. "I'm glad you've noticed," she said softly. "I try very hard to keep young." "Too hard," he said abruptly. "What?" Carefully he stowed his pipe in his pocket and turned away from her. But she was not to be put off and jumping up, came over to him. "What do you mean by that?" Still he did not answer and she put her hand on his arm. "A woman has a right to make herself look as young and pretty as she can, and if I've tried harder than most you surely can't blame me." "I don't blame you at all," he said, still not looking her way. "But you're lovely enough without having to try." "That's the first compliment you've ever paid me," she said and snuggled
against him. "I want you to like me, Desmond. You're different from any man I've met. You're so mature and serious that" "What on earth are you trying to do?" He swung round so abruptly he almost knocked her over. "You don't need to flirt with me, Mrs. Hammond. I'm very well aware that you're a woman, albeit a ridiculous one!" Color flamed into her face and tears sparkled in her eyes. "How dare you talk to me like that?" "I could say the same thing to you, although your rudeness has taken a different form. Ever since I've been here you've thrown yourself at me!" "Why, you" She raised her hand to strike him and he caught her wrist and pulled it down. "No, you don't," he said thickly. 'You're going to hear a couple more home truths yet. It isn't right to flirt with a man, Mrs. Hammond, particularly a man who isn't used to playing your little games. I'm not one of your fancy boys, but I'm just as capable of wanting a woman as they are." "I'd never have known it," she panted. "You give the impression that you finished with love years ago." "I did," he said quietly. "I finished with it when my wife died. But men are capable of other emotions towards women." As the meaning of his words penetrated, the blood drained from her face, leaving her make-up blotchy and vivid. Aware that he was still gripping her wrist, he let it go. His finger marks where white on her skin and she rubbed it against her breast "I didn't deliberately set out to flirt with you," she said in a voice from which all the animation had gone. "It's something I do without realizing it. I'm sorry if I've made your stay here an embarrassing one. I'll try and treat you in a more grandmotherly way in future!" "I'm not asking you to be grandmotherly, Mrs. Hammond." There was a strange look in his eyes as he stared at her. "All I wish is that you'd give the real you a chance to come through."
"The real me?" "Yes. When you think no one'? watching you your face has a very different expression from what it has now. It's not easy to see under all the make-up you plaster over it, but" "Now really," Didi said tartly. "Don't let's start a row again." "Damn it, woman," he said with unexpected asperity. "I'm trying to apologize." "By telling me I'm plastered with make-up?" "Yes. You should be pleased I care enough to tell you. Why don't you stop pretending to be what you can never be again ? Why not capitalize on all the things you've got ?" "Such as?" Didi asked. "Such as warmth and maturity and a brain. I'm pretty sure you've got one." "Thanks for the compliment but forgive me if I don't take any notice of it. It's all very well for you to talk about warmth and maturity, but show me the man. who'd choose a middle-aged woman when he could have a brainless young beauty." "I could show you lots of men," he answered. "But they wouldn't be gigolos." "I don't believe you," she said pettishly. "No matter what age he is a man wants his woman to be young." "Haven't you heard of 'young in heart'?" Desmond asked gruffly. She stared at him, vivid blue eyes gazing into grey ones. "Oh, Didi," he said, speaking her name for the first time. "Oh, Didi." He pulled her into his arms and pressed his mouth on hers. Her arms twined themselves around his neck and she clung to him as if he were a harbor she had just discovered a resting place she had never believed existed.
Desmond was the first to recover and as suddenly as he had pulled her close, he let her go. "I'm sorry," he said huskily. "I don't know what's come over me. Talking to you the way I have being so damnably rude I can only think I must have got a touch of the sun." She did not answer, did not make a move towards him as he turned and walked rapidly into the house.
CHAPTER TEN
THE next morning Desmond told Rose he intended to go home. "But you can't leave until after the wedding,'" she protested. "That's the reason you came out." "I came to see you," he corrected. "And now I have, it's time for me to go home again. Living a life of idleness doesn't suit me." "But it's only for another fortnight. I'm sure you can find plenty to do until then. Why not start a book?" "I've just finished one. And anyway, I" He pushed back his chair from the breakfast table and stood up. "I'm not going to write another book just yet. I thought of taking a job again." "That's wonderful news. Where?" "At one of the Universities. I was offered one a few weeks ago." As always when he was embarrassed he took out his pipe and rubbed the bowl against the palm of his hand. "To be quite honest with you, I really only came to a final decision last night. Didi and I had an argument and I'm afraid I told her a few unpleasant truths." "Oh, Dad, you didn't quarrel, did you?" He shrugged. "We made it up, so you've nothing to worry about. But while I was in the middle of telling Didi where she was going wrong with her life I realized I wasn't doing so well with my own. I ran away from life after your mother died and it's time I took up the threads again."
"I'm glad," Rose said softly. "But I'm sure you can wait a few more weeks until I'm married." He sighed. "Very well. But the day after your wedding I'm leaving." The tapping of heels heralded Didi Hammond's arrival and with heightened color Desmond watched her come close. "I always seem to be interrupting the two of you in some secret conference," she said to Rose. "I've just been persuading Dad not to go home until after the wedding." Didi was suddenly still, the smile freezing on her face. 'Till after the wedding?" "Yes, He's decided he's been a lotus eater far too long." "What Rose means," Desmond said, "is that I've made up my mind to take another job. I've been offered a chair at one of the Universities." "How very erudite that sounds," Didi said with a light laugh. "When I talk to you, Desmond, I'm inclined to forget you're a learned professor." "Not as learned as I thought," he said in an embarrassed voice. Rose, listening to them, wondered what had taken place between them after she had left the terrace the night before and became convinced that whatever it was, it had precipitated her father's desire to return home. Could he have fallen in love with Didi ? Her surmise was proved correct, for one afternoon a few days later when Lance and Desmond had gone out in the speedboat, Didi Hammond talked to Rose in a way she had never done before. They were sitting together in the arbor shaded from the sun by a large parasol. Rose was embroidering a tablecloth and Mrs. Hammond idly picked up a few of the colored skeins and twisted them between her fingers. "I've never been good at sewing," she remarked, "and yet it's such a pretty hobby for a woman to have." "I'm not doing it because it's pretty," Rose grinned. "I find it relaxing."
"You shouldn't want to relax at your age. You should be on the go, enjoying yourself." She caught her lips between her teeth with a little moue of apology. "I'm sorry, my dear. I keep forgetting you're still convalescent." "I wish a few more people would forget. I'm quite well now. But Lance" Rose stopped, not wishing to say anything disloyal, yet the older woman finished for her. "Yet Lance keeps treating you like a Dresden doll. I wondered when you were going to find that a bit nauseating. If you're not careful you'll end up being a long- suffering woman, and there's nothing a man finds more boring. Stand up for, yourself, Rose. I know my son's a wonderful catch, but you're not so bad yourself." Rose looked at her future mother-in-law with surprise. The vivid blue eyes, so like Lance's, were no longer glinting with their usual look of mischief, but were tinged with a sadness that darkened them and gave a look of sharp pathos to the face. "I'm surprised you should say that to me," she said slowly. "After all, what have I got to offer Lance? I can no longer participate in the things he likes and " "That's the least important thing! You can offer Lance something he's been looking for all his life: a maternal woman. Oh yes, don't look so astonished that I know. I'm not quite the fool I seem. I was never a very good mother to Lance. When he was a little boy and my husband was alive I didn't have eyes for anyone except Edward. And when Edward died, Lance reminded me so much of him that just to be with him was heartache. So I ran away and looked for happiness everywhere else." "Did you find it?" "No. You can't find happiness in others if you don't have it in yourself. And if you're afraid to come to terms with yourself how can you be happy?" Rose did not answer for she knew Didi was talking more to herself. She was amazed the woman could portray such a depth of feeling and wondered why, after so many years of running away from any real emotion, she should now turn around to face it. But she had no need to wonder long for Didi suddenly said: "Your father's to blame for all my soul searching. He's an uncomfortable man
to have around but a very stimulating one in certain respects." "Certain respects?" "Yes. In his attitude to women he's completely stereotyped. He wants them all to be home bodies." "The maternal woman, you mean," Rose said dryly. Mrs. Hammond suddenly sat up straight, as if the question had touched a chord. "Of course, that's it exactly! I should imagine you're like your mother, Rose, and that's what Desmond is looking for again. No wonder he resents being attracted to me." The moment she had spoken she put her hand to her mouth and looked so much like a guilty child that Rose could not help smiling. "You're not telling me anything I didn't know," she said. "And I'm not the sort of daughter who can't bear to think of her father falling in love. Dad's young and so are you." "That isn't what your father thinks. Not long ago he intimated I was a stupid old woman. Well, maybe I was. But I don't think it's too late to change, do you?" "I don't know," Rose said honestly. "It depends how much you wish it." There was no answer and Rose resumed her embroidery, conscious of a feeling of disquiet. It was enough that she herself stood a chance of being hurt by one of the Hammonds. It would be ironical indeed if her father was likely to suffer from the other remaining member of the family. At dinner that night there were an unexpected number of guests, at least unexpected to Rose, for she realized they had been deliberately invited by Lance and his mother. "Didi thinks it's time you began to meet all our friends. She says your convalescence is over and you should be introduced as the Hammond bride."
They were standing together in the hall outside her bedroom, for Rose had closed her door to find him waiting impatiently for her in the corridor. "I thought I'd better warn you about the mob downstairs in case you wanted to put on something more festive:" "Do you think I should?" She stood before him, tall and slender in a cream silk dress with a gold cord at the waist and thick gold beading at the hem. She had not had her hair cut since her accident and it had grown so long again that she had twisted it into a plait and piled it on the top of her head, making her neck appear more slender than usual. "You look lovely," he said. "In fact, I rather take your looks for granted. There's nothing flamboyant about them and yet when one analyzes them you're" he paused. "You're a beautiful, charming woman." She turned scarlet at the unexpected compliment. Facile bouquets came easily to Lance, as she well knew, but this remark stilted though it was came from the heart and she trembled with joy. Together they went down the stairs and not even a drawing room full of people the Hammonds' idea of a few friends being some thirty or forty could still the happiness that bubbled inside her. Moving from group to group with Lance by her side she was conscious of a deep sense of happiness and felt that in agreeing to marry him she had done the right thing after all. Only when dinner over dancing began to the strains of a sextet did she experience a momentary pang and become overwhelmingly conscious of her limp. Lance placed his hand on her arm, his touch sending a thrill through her body. "Don't look like that," he said quietly. "Dancing's a very unimportant part of one's life." "It isn't just the dancing. There are so many other things I can't do." She saw his face change color and regretted her words. "Don't look like that. I didn't mean anything. It's just that" "I know what you mean, Rose. You've no need to apologize to me of all people." He had no chance to say more for he had to do his duty as a host and, while he was dancing, she wandered into the garden.
"Hey, wait for me!" a voice called and she looked round to see Alan. Since leaving the nursing home she had not been alone with him, and on the occasions they had met their conversation had perforce been casual. "Should you be walking this far?" he said as he reached her side. "Don't you start that." He grimaced at the reproof in her voice and guided her by the elbow over to a seat. "Well, you mightn't be tired, but I am. I've really had to work the last few weeks." "Why?" "Sending back the presents that arrived for Lance's first engagement and then making all the preparations for your own wedding." "Poor Alan," she said lightly. "At least this time you know it'll be permanent." He did not appear to hear her and, standing up, he paced the grass. She watched him, realizing there was something on his mind, and hardly had she thought this when he came over and gripped her shoulders. "Don't marry without love Rose! And don't marry in the hope that you can make love grow because you can't!" "That's a matter of opinion." "I speak from experience." She looked at him and he shook his head. "No I haven't been married but I have been in love. The girl had no idea how I felt and regarded me as if I were her brother." "Why didn't you tell her how you felt?" "What would have been the point? It wouldn't have caused her to fall in love with me." "Maybe not" Rose said "but at least you'd have had the satisfaction of knowing
you'd tried." "I'd rather have the satisfaction of knowing she doesn't pity me. Please Rose, don't go ahead with it. You'll ruin your life." "Why do you say that? You've always thought so highly of Lance." "I still do. But he's not the man for you. He'll break your heart." She stood up in silence and started to walk back to the villa and he fell into step beside her. "If I'd told you not to run away from the girl you love," she said, "but to stay and face up to it, would you have taken any notice?" "No." "Well then," she smiled, "you can't expect me to take any notice of you! You ran away and you're still unhappy. I've decided to remain. Let's wait and see which turns out to be more successful: your action or mine." The days until Rose's wedding flew past. Her father made no further mention of returning home but she knew that once she became Lance's wife, he would pack his bags and depart. She could not help a pang of sorrow, for she knew he would not willingly return to the villa again. There appeared to be an armed truce between him and Didi, and for most of the time the woman was occupied with a constant stream of men dancing attendance on her. None of them was as suave as Tino Barri but they were still of that genre, and Rose wondered whether Didi were trying to infuriate her father into action. If she were, she was going about it in the wrong way, for Rose knew her father was not a man who responded well to rivalry. If Lance was aware of the undercurrent between the two older people he gave no sign of it. Indeed Rose hardly saw him, for he flew to London to attend a board meeting and did not return until the eve of their wedding. He had been adamant in his refusal to turn their marriage into what he termed a three-ring circus, but even so a quiet affair by Hammond standards was anything but quiet in Rose's eyes. Though they did their best to keep the date and time a secret there was a horde of photographers and reporters outside the register office in the French village which Lance had chosen for the wedding, and only when they finally
escaped from the crowds and were travelling back in the car to the villa did she glance at the man by her side and realize he was her husband. Her husband! She said the words over to herself, unable to believe them, and suddenly she was engulfed by a wave of panic. She must have been crazy to marry a man who did not love her. She had thought her own love would be strong enough for them both but now now she would have given anything she possessed to turn back the clock. She felt a touch on her arm, and turning her head saw Lance looking at her with concern. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel ill?" It was the first time he had called her 'darling' and her heart turned over. The panic died and she was so sure that everything would turn out all right that the color flooded back into her cheeks. "It's just the excitement of leaving my spinsterhood behind," she said. "What about me? I'm not a gay bachelor any more. All I can be now is a misunderstood husband." He grinned. "Don't forget that from now on you're my protection from other women!" She froze into silence, his words bringing her back to the reality of the situation. No matter for what reason she had married Lance, his reasons remained unswervingly the same: protection. "Don't look so forlorn," he said unexpectedly. "I was only trying to be funny." He picked up her hand and kissed it. "You're very sweet, Rose, far too sweet for me." The chauffeur turned a bend without slackening speed and she was flung against Lance's side. His arms came round to steady her and she waited, praying with all her heart that he would draw her close. But he put her gently back in her seat and then reached into his pocket for a cigarette. Tears of disappointment welled in her eyes but she blinked them away and buried her head in the bouquet on her lap. There was only a small luncheon party at the villa. Mrs. Rogers had flown over from London and was highly delighted in the belief that Lance's marriage was the direct outcome of her own actions. "If it hadn't been for my darling little poodle you wouldn't have found such a
lovely bride," she said as she toasted them. Lance affectionately agreed, and watching him talk to Mrs. Rogers Rose remembered all that Alan had told her about Lance's childhood. There was no doubt he was extremely fond of the woman and regarded her with as muchif not moreaffection than his own mother. She was not the only one to be aware of this, for turning unexpectedly she saw such a look of sadness on Didi's face that she walked over to the settee and sat down beside her. During the wedding breakfast everyone was in high spirits and Rose, bubbling with champagne, gave what she considered to be a passable impersonation of a happy bride. The wine had numbed her fears and the future, although hazy, did not appear to be too gloomy. It was nearly three o'clock before she and Lance were able to leave and everyone came out on the drive to wave them goodbye. Didi waved harder than them all, standing on the top of the steps until the Cadillac turned through the wrought- iron gates and disappeared. Only then did she move into the house and push her way past the others, intent on going to her room before anyone noticed her tears. She had one foot on the stairs when someone took a firm hold of her arm and she knew, even without turning, that it was Desmond. She tried to pull free but he wouldn't let her go and she found herself being led into the breakfast room. "At least let me go and repair my make-up," she expostulated. "I look a sight." "I've seen you look better," he admitted and taking out his handkerchief dipped it into a vase filled with flowers that stood on the table. The handkerchief came out sodden and he wrung it out and advanced towards her. "Don't touch me!" she said. "Don't be silly. Your mascara's run and you look like a coffee-colored coon!" She muttered angrily but stood quiescent as he rubbed her face. Not until a few moments had gone by did she realize that not only had he removed her mascara but the rest of her make-up as well and she pushed him away and made for the door. "Really, Desmond! I haven't got a shred of make-up on and I look a sight."
"You look a sight better than you've ever looked," he answered. "For heaven's sake stop disguising yourself and let the sun get to your skin." "It makes wrinkles," she retorted. "A woman of your age should have wrinkles. Unless She wants to look like a statue. And no man could love a statue. No real man, that is." She looked at him quickly. "Apart from being personal about me, you aren't by any chance being personal about yourself?" "If you mean whether or not I could love a statue, then the answer is no." He sat on the edge of a chair and stared at her. There was no happiness in his face and the lines that ran down either side of his mouth seemed deeper now than when he had arrived at the villa a month ago. "You needn't try and flirt with me any more," he said gently. "You've already done what you set out to do. You might as well know if it's any satisfaction to you that I love you." "Oh Desmond!" She moved over to him but he stood up abruptly and put the chair between them. "Don't come near me, Didi. I don't know why I said what I did except that I couldn't help myself. But I'd like you to forget it." "Forget it? But I don't want to forget it. Darling, you know how I feel about you. Oh Desmond, don't look at me like that. I'll even promise not to wear mascara if you wish." "Didi, my dear, don't talk that way." He ran a hand through his hair. "It would never work out. I've nothing to offer you." "If you're thinking of money" "That's only a part of it. But we're so different in other respects. I could never lead your kind of life and you couldn't be happy in mine."
"I don't see why not. A writer can work and live anywhere, can't he?" A slight smile moved his mouth. "I can just visualize the life you have in mind for me. Idling away my time either here or in the Bahamas and using the fact that I'm a writer as an excuse for doing nothing at all." He shook his head. "That's not for me, I'm afraid. I've made up my mind to go back to teaching and with all the will in the world I can't see you being happy in a university town." "At least give me the chance." "No. It would be misery for us both. How would you amuse yourself with no parties, no constant round of entertainment and gaiety? Damn it, Didi, have you ever seen professors' wives? They don't spend on themselves in one year what you spend on one dress. When I think of" "You needn't go on," she said jerkily. "You've made it perfectly plain that you think your friends would look on me as a freak. Well, maybe compared to them I am a. freak." "For God's sake don't talk like that." He pushed the chair away and strode over to her, pulling her close until she was resting against him, so tiny that he towered above her. "I love you, Didi. Stupid, silly and vain though you are I love you! But I could never make you happy. Our interests are too divergent we're too different" "But if we loved each other," she said huskily, "wouldn't that be enough?" "I don't know. At the moment I'm a novelty for you because I'm not like your usual run of men friends. But I'm afraid to build a marriage on a novelty." She pulled away from his grasp and walked over to the french windows. From the safety of distance she looked at him, seeming in her earnestness young and childlike. "You might not doubt your love for me, Desmond, but you doubt my love for you if you 'think it's based on novelty. I'm not going to say I'm proud of the way I've behaved since Edward died, but at least I'm honest enough to admit I made an idiot of myself. I'm not going to search for my youth any longer. That's one thing you can pride yourself on having taught me. And neither am I going to beg you to believe I love you. Go home, Desmond. Go back to the
safety of your cottage and the sanctity of your college. One day you'll realize you did me an injustice in doubting me." "Didi!" He took a step forward, but even as he moved she was gone. For a long moment he remained where he was. Then he strode into the house and up to his room. Within an hour he had packed his cases and was speeding in a taxi towards Nice Airport. But even as he took his seat in the aeroplane and was lifted thousands of feet above the Mediterranean he knew he would never be able to forget the woman who in a few short weeks had captured his heart. Yet he was behaving in the only possible way. Didi was a romantic if she thought they had a future together, and it was up to him to be the sensible one. "But oh lord," he thought as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, "oh lord, how painful it is to be sensible."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROSE and Lance returned to the villa in Cannes three months after they had left it. It had been a period of constant travel, with one round of gaiety being substituted for another as they slowly meandered their way from the Caribbean Islands down to Rio de Janeiro, Mexico and thence to New York. Rose had found it a strain to live in hotels all the time but Lance did not mind it and, used to a life of constant social activity, had been surprised when she had protested at her enforced idleness. "Don't tell me you're pining to go back to work!" he said on one occasion as they sipped an aperitif by the pool of their hotel in Montego Bay. "I'm so bored I could almost take a job here," she retorted. "I don't see how anyone can idle away their time for more than a few weeks." "Meaning me." "If the cap fits, wear it," she said and regretted the words instantly for he turned pale with anger. "I'm sorry Lance, I'd no right to say that." "You might as well say it if you think it. We've always been truthful with each other."
Miserably she stared at her drink. She was no closer to Lance after three months of marriage than she had been on the day she became his wife. He was always polite and attentive but there was a barrier between them that had never existed until their wedding day. Yet in fairness to him she had to admit that the barrier was in her mind alone, for he himself had not altered at all. Indeed, it was the fact that caused her the heartache, for she had been unprepared for their relationship to remain the same. He had never pretended to love her, it was true, but she had hoped that propinquity and a honeymoon spent amid tropical splendor would work their magic and result in their marriage becoming if not a love idyll, at least different from the friendly basis on which it now found itself. To see Lance every day knowing he could never be hers, to feel his casual touch knowing she would never feel his touch in passion, made her realize the torture to which she had condemned herself and sometimes at night she would long for his presence and wonder what had happened to her pride that it could allow her to cry for a man who did not even know she existed. It required a great effort for her to keep her thoughts hidden from Lance and though they occasionally burst out in a display of irritationas they had that night at the hotelfor the most part she was successful in pretending to be completely happy. Didi Hammond was not at the villa when they arrived although they were told she would be back later and Lance and Rose were shown to the main suite, two rooms with a bathroom intervening. Rose left her maid to unpack and was wandering happily through the rose garden, her favorite spot, when Lance came across the lawn towards her. "You disappeared in a hurry," he said. "But I knew I'd find you here." "Do you want me?" "Certainly." He caught her hand and swung it backwards and forwards as he spoke. "I've got used to having you around. Do you know that for the past three months we've hardly been an hour apart except for sleeping!" She forced herself to laugh. "I thought you'd welcome being away from me for a bit." "On the contrary. You're a stimulating companion."
"Me stimulating? No one's ever said that before." "But you are," he persisted. "And you're restful too. I think that's your main attraction. Your tranquility." She was suddenly reminded of Didi saying Lance needed a maternal woman but wisely she held her peace and began to walk past the flowerbeds, pausing now and again to touch a particularly beautiful bloom. "Marriage suits you," Lance said unexpectedly. 'You're much more sophisticated now." She touched the rough linen of the dress she was wearing, one she had bought in New York. "It doesn't even go skin deep," she said lightly. "I'm the same inside." "Well, I'm not. I can look back on the past without any feeling of bitterness. When I think of Enid it's as if it happened in another world. I've got you to thank for that." "It's the reason you married me," she said quietly. "I've only done my duty." He caught her hand again. "I don't like that word between us. I'd hate to think that whatever I did for you or you did for me was because of duty. I'd rather it was because of affection." Unexpectedly he put his arm over her shoulders and she shivered. He took his hand away at once, his expression so remote that she couldn't tell whether he had misinterpreted her action. To ask him would lend point to something that was better left unpointed and she continued to stroll through the rose arbour. The quietness was interrupted by the sound of a car, and realizing Didi had returned they strolled across the lawn to greet her. But was the small, greyhaired woman who came towards them the same one they had left behind such a short while ago? Rose and Lance stared at her in amazement. Gone was the curly red-gold hair and in its place was a smooth cap of snow-white. Certainly it owed a great deal to artifice but how much prettier it was! Gone too was the heavy make-up and only the faintest spatter of powder softened the tanned skin while the vivid blue eyes were framed with thick, short unmascaraed lashes. Even the style of dress was different; a casual shirt-waister instead of a sheath, three rows of matchless pearls instead of glittering gold. The same
woman and yet entirely different. "Didi!" Lance said disbelievingly. "I'd never have known you. You look so much better." "I feel better too." She disentangled herself from his embrace and put her arms around Rose. "And you look wonderful as well. No need to ask if you're happy you obviously are." Chattering gaily she twined an arm through each of theirs and led them into the drawing room. It was not until later that evening, with dinner over, that Didi asked them what plans they had made. "I'm not going to stay in the villa during the winter so you're welcome to live here if you like." Lance rubbed the side of his jaw. "I haven't given our future much thought. It depends on Rose." He looked at her. "Have you anything in mind, darling?" She decided to take the plunge. "Surely you have work to do in London?" Recognizing the challenge in her voice he raised an eyebrow. "There's always work to be done," he said dryly, "but it usually gets done without me. Still, it might be a novelty to try it for a bit." He looked at his mother. "What are your plans, or daren't I ask?" "I'm going to stay with some friends in the country," came the answer, "but I don't know for how long. But don't worry, darlings, I'll keep you posted of my whereabouts in case I've any news." She looked from one to the other. "I don't suppose you've anything to tell me yet?" Lance was puzzled at the question but Rose blushed, and seeing her change color, he realized the implication of his mother's remark and burst out laughing. "Good lord, Didi, I've never known you to be so tactful in your phraseology! But you needn't worry. We're not going to make you a grandmother yet." During the long hours of the night Rose cogitated over Lance's use of the word 'yet' and wondered whether he intended at any time to consummate their
marriage. She knew that to be taken by Lance, even if it were not in love, would be better than not to be taken at all, yet she could never make the first move to him. He had at least admitted he no longer loved Enid and that was certainly a step in the right direction. Once the bitterness had gone he would be ready to fall in love again. "Please let it be with me," she prayed, and with her hands still clasped together in pleading she fell asleep. At the end of the week they all left the villa, Didi to visit her friends near London and Lance and Rose to stay at the Hammond house in Mayfair. It was a Regency house in a quiet square and though a stream of traffic wended its way a few yards from the front door, once it was closed one could almost have been in the country. It was the most opulent house Rose had ever been in, and she found the atmosphere oppressive with luxury and the taste too baroque for her liking. "Change anything you like," Lance said, seeing her expression of distaste as she entered the house for the first time. "Is it going to be our permanent home?" she asked, "or is it your mother's?" "It's the Hammond house," he replied, "so I suppose you could call it mine." "But is it going to be permanent?" "We'll be here a few months," was his answer. "For the lord's sake don't make a thing about it. Make any alterations you like." Tentatively in the following weeks she set about trying to make the place more homelike, changing many of the ormulu fittings for crystal ones and replacing one or two Persian carpets with pastel-colored Savonneries. She would not have been human had she not enjoyed having unlimited money to spend and though she had no wish to load herself with jewellery or clothes it was exciting to know she was able to buy whatever she wished. She had not seen her father since her return to England although she had spoken to him on the telephone. He had taken a post at Cambridge University and there was a buoyancy in his voice she had not heard since her mother had
died. Rose knew she should go and see him, but somehow she could not face his searching look and kept putting it off from day to day, appeasing her conscience by telephoning him frequently. As the weeks passed she and Lance settled into a routine and began to entertain as well as be entertained. But it was not until they had been in London for a month that he asked her to give a dinner party. It was a nerveracking experience for her to choose an elaborate menu, but luckily the staff they employed were old retainers who preferred to do things their own way, and as it was a way that obviously suited Lance, Rose decided not to interfere. The one thing she did insist on supervising were the flowers and when their guests arrived there were exclamations of delight at the sight of them. Pink and white chrysanthemums were intertwined with dark green leaves and curled profusely round the column of the staircase. For the dining table itself she had used orchids, their mauve and pink petals reflected on mirrored trays. Rose's dress followed the same color scheme with mauve and pink flowers embroidered delicately over pink satin. She looked lovelier than she had ever looked before and was aware of the interest in Lance's eyes as he came into the drawing room and saw her. But he had no chance to say more than a few words for their first guests were announced and soon the room was full of people. Lance moved from one cluster to another, but Rose found it tiring and sat on a settee and talked to Alan. "How does it feel to be the hostess at such a glittering occasion?" he asked. "Nerve-racking!" she confessed. "But it was something I had to do sooner or later." "You'll feel much better at your next party. If I were" his voice trailed away and she saw he was staring at the door through which Mrs. Rogers had come with a fair- haired girl. Rose moved over to greet them and made a point of not overlooking mentioning Benjy the poodle. "What a dear girl you are to remember," Helen Rogers laughed. "But I haven't had much time for Benjy lately, I'm afraid. I've been too busy with Susan. She's just got back from America."
Rose smiled at the girl. She was about twenty, with a retrousse nose, small mouth and thick blonde hair left dramatically straight. "I'm so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hammond," Susan said. "Lance and I grew up together and I rather look on him as a brother." "I hope he was a nice one?" Susan laughed. "Couldn't be better. A bit of a bully when I used to hare after him on my eight-year-old legs and rather supercilious once he got to Oxford and I was still in plaits. If you really want to have the low-down about him I'll be delighted to give it to you!" "I'll remember that," Rose said, liking the frank face and the warm, slightly throaty voice. "I don't suppose I need introduce you to Alan. You've probably known him longer than I have." Susan smiled at the man standing on Rose's left. "Hello there," she said casually. "Why didn't you get in touch with me when I got back from the States?" "I've been busy," he said abruptly. Susan shrugged and with a smile at Rose, followed her aunt across the room to greet some other people. "She seems a nice girl," Rose said as they moved out of earshot. "Susan's one of the best," Alan replied. "You'd never know from talking to her that she's worth a fortune. She's the daughter of Mrs. Rogers' brother-in-law. He died about ten years ago and left her a packet. Mrs. Rogers has really been like a mother to her." At that moment Rose saw the butler hovering in the doorway and as she nodded her head he moved across the hall and opened the doors of the dining room. Once dinner was over the party broke up into small groups again. The majority of the people Lance had invited were considerably older than themselves and Rose was relieved that there was no dancing. Although she knew she was silly to care, she could not help feeling envious when she saw other couples take
the floor and she was glad that for this one evening she would be able to forget her lameness. But in this hope she was wrong, for seeing Susan Rogers walk towards her, so straight and supple, she felt a rush of envy that filled her with horror. Whatever happened to her she must beware of becoming bitter over another woman's grace! Susan sank into the empty chair beside her. "It's good to be back in this room again," she said. "Lance spent his school holidays at Aunt Helen's place but we always managed to come over here once or twice." "What for?" The girl laughed. "Lance liked to sit in the library and touch his father's books and I used to spend my time sliding down the banisters." "Well, you're welcome to come over and slide down the banisters any time you like." "Be careful of thatI might take you up on it! Aunt Helen's always complaining that I'm still a tomboy. But it's in my nature and I can't change." Rose smiled. "Were you in America long?" "Six months. Aunt Helen rather hoped I'd get engaged while I was out there, but I didn't." There was a defiant tone in her voice and Rose wondered at it. "You've got plenty of time yet," she said. "You should have lots more fun before settling down." "I'm not sure I want to settle down. Sometimes I think I'm cut out to be a spinster." "Not likely!" said a male voice and the girls looked up to see Alan in front of them. Susan tossed her head. "How long have you been eavesdropping?"
"I wasn't eavesdropping. I was just passing by. You've a carrying voice, young Sue." "For goodness' sake stop calling me that!" "Sorry. But Lance always referred to you that way and" "Well, he'd better stop it too." She looked at Rose apologetically. "Here am I trying to be grown up and this big oaf still treats me as though I'm a schoolgirl." "I could never mistake you for a schoolgirl," Alan said. "Not with a. low-necked dress like that!" Susan stood up quickly and he grinned. "Sorry about that, young Suepardon me, Susanbut I promise not to tease you any more." "I don't expect miracles," Susan replied, and with a smile to Rose sauntered away. By midnight all the guests had left and Lance, closing the front door on the last one, breathed a sigh of relief. "I must say it went off very well," he said coming back into the drawing room. "Not feeling too tired, are you?" She shook her head and he smiled and pulled her down on the settee beside him. "Good. We can have a little talk. Aunt Helen thought you were looking rather pale. I can't say I've noticed it, but then being with you every day" his voice trailed away and he stared at her closely. "Are you happy with me, Rose?" "Of course. Why do you ask?" "No reason. Just curiosity." He placed one hand under her chin and tilted it up. "If ever you do have any regrets about marrying me, will you say so?" "Yes. And I can say the same thing to you."
He nodded. "At the moment I haven't any regrets at all. Marrying you was the best thing I did." He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth, a touch so fleeting that it was over before it had begun. Then he pulled her to her feet, keeping his arm companion- ably over her shoulder as they went up the stairs. At the door of her room he left her and as she undressed and climbed into bed she pondered the remark he had made in the drawing-room. "At the moment I have no regrets." She should be happy at those words, yet instead of bringing happiness they had brought fearfear based on the first three words 'at the moment'. But what of tomorrow or the day after? The question weighed heavily in her mind, disturbing her dreams as she fell into an uneasy sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SLOWLY the weeks turned into months and the house in Mayfair became more of a home both to Rose and Lance. She had always felt convinced that once he started to work his interest in the business would grow, but even she was surprised at the diligence and enthusiasm he displayed. He left the house every morning before nine and rarely returned before six. Even at weekends he was busy studying papers and documents in the library until finally she was forced to protest that he was working too hard! It was a Sunday morning and she had come in from posting a letter to her father to find Lance pouring over a sales sheet. "If I worked twenty-four hours out of twenty-four," he answered, "it'd still take me years to catch up on all I've neglected." "You can never make up for lost time, Lance. Anyway, it's not good to work without a break. You'll get stale." "Rubbish. I love every minute of it." He flexed his muscles. "I think I'll start playing tennis again though. I'll ring Susan and see if she'll give me a game." "Susan?" 'Yes. She's a crack player Wimbledon class."
He picked up the telephone and Rose went into the hall and hung up her coat. When she returned Lance was standing by the fire. "I've just had a word with Susan," he said. "She'll give me a game this afternoon and we'll come back here for tea, if that's all right with you?" "Perfectly," Rose said and wished desperately that she could have played with Lance instead. The longing was so intense that it gave an edge to her voice and he glanced at her sharply. But she was not looking at him and he turned back to the fire. That afternoon was the first of many Lance and Susan spent together and eventually it became a regular week-end habit. Not only Sunday but Saturday too they would spend playing either tennis or squash, returning to the house in the late afternoon exhausted but in high spirits. Watching Lance laugh and joke with Susan, Rose realized how much they had in common, an affinity formed not only by similar enjoyment but by an equal vitality. Occasionally Alan came over for tea, but when he saw Susan was a regular week-end visitor he dropped out and Rose saw little of him. As the winter days grew shorter and the weather colder she spent more time indoors and the hours dragged heavily past. The cold weather also gave her unusual pain in her hip, making her limp more noticeable. Embarrassed by it, she hardly went out at all and wondered what she could do to pass the time. Life as one of the idle rich did not suit her, she realized one particularly long and dreary winter's afternoon. Yet without any creative ability there was litde she could do except take a job or join in the social round of the women in Lance's circle. Yet what was Lance's circle today? He was working so hard that he had no time for night clubs or parties and the people who dined with them were mostly business acquaintances with one or two friends from his university days. It was all so much as Rose had wished that she wondered at herself for daring to be discontented and knew that had her marriage been a real one there would have been no discontent at all. A child would have been the answer to her boredom. She trembled at the thought and resolutely pushed it to the back of her mind. But it was not something that could so easily be dismissed and restlessly she got up and walked around the room. Her leg dragged painfully and she stopped by the fireplace and stared at herself in the mirror. Her tweed dress was in the best of taste as were the pearls at her throat and the earrings in her ears. Her hair was cut in the latest fashion and her make-up accentuated her eyes and mouth, yet there was no laughter in the eyes, yet it was a face
from which the animation had gone and with it had gone youth. Unutterably depressed, she sank on the settee and buried her head in her hands. She was so deep in misery that she did not hear the door open and it was only when she felt a hand on her shoulder that she realized Alan had come in. "What's the matter, Rose? Are you ill?" It was useless lying to him, for the tears were still wet on her cheeks and she brushed them away. "I'm just a bit tired and depressed." "I'm not surprised. You should go out a bit more. Haven't you any friends ? I'd have thought as you'd worked in London for so long" "I can't have the same friends now, Alan. It wouldn't work out. When I came back I got in touch with some of them but they were as embarrassed as I was. Anyway I've never had any close girl friends." "Where's your father?" "At Cambridge." She blew her nose and put her handkerchief away. "No, as soon as I feel better I'll try and get a part-time job. But at the moment I can't stand for more than a few minutes at a time." "Even if you could stand you couldn't get a job again. What would people say?" She laughed. "You sound like Lance." "I'm sorry, Rose, but it's true. It would be unthinkable for you to take a job. You could open your own florist's, though, there'd be nothing wrong with that." His suggestion started her imagination working and she remembered that at one time she had thought it would be a good idea to open a flower section in some of the larger supermarkets. Diffidently she told Alan and he nodded approvingly. "You needn't take up much space to begin with, until we see how it goes, but certainly the supermarkets in the expensive districts would be ideal locations. Talk it over with Lance." He walked over to the door. "Which reminds me, I
came back to collect some papers for him and he'll wonder what's happened to me. It's a file he was working on last night." He walked out and she waited for him to return. A few moments went by and she crossed the hall to the library. Alan was standing at the desk, a bundle of photographs in his hand. They were some that she had taken a few weeks earlier when she had gone with Lance and Susan to the country. It had been one of the nicest days she had spent. Lance had bought her a miniature camera and she had used it to take pictures of them without their knowing. They were candid and amusing, with some particularly lovely ones of Susan. It was at these that Alan was staring with an anguish she had never before seen on his face and suddenly his inexplicable behaviour over the past few months became understandable. She knew now why he refused to come to the house when Susan was there and why, on the occasions when he did meet her, he persistently talked to her as if she were a schoolgirl. He had once said he was in love with someone and did not stand a chance of marrying her and Rose was convinced that the girl was Susan. She came in and closed the door behind her and at the sound Alan started guiltily and dropped the pictures on to the desk. "I didn't mean to pry," he said abruptly. "But but I saw them. They're very good." "They are, aren't they? Particularly of Susan. I like the one of her that I took by the car, don't you?" "Yes," he said without looking at it. Rose held up the picture to which she was referring. "It's really caught her gamine expression," she said softly, "and the tilt of her nose. Look at it, Alan." "I don't need to," he burst out. "I can see it with my eyes closed!" Rose put the pictures down. "Susan is the girl you once told me about, isn't she? The girl you said you didn't stand a chance of marrying." He busied himself with the folder in front of him, stacking and re-stacking the papers. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes, she's the one."
"Does she know how you feel about her?" "No." "Then how do you know you don't stand a chance?" "I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind." "Why?" Rose asked sharply. "You were always more than willing to give me advice even when I didn't want it. Even a few moments ago when you came into the drawing room and found me crying it never entered your head to go out and pretend you hadn't seen me." He had the grace to look ashamed and sensing her advantage she said: "I'm sure Susan likes you. Why don't you at least ask her out?" "What for? Do you think I, could ever afford to keep her? She's out of my class." "I didn't have any money," Rose said gently. "You can't compare a woman with a man. If a poor girl marries a rich man everybody says jolly good luck to her, but if the boots on the other foot and the girl has the money, what do you think they'd say about the man? They'd call him a fortune hunter." "Why are you so concerned about the mythical 'they'? Isn't it Susan's opinion you should be concerned with?" "Susan's a young twenty. She doesn't know what it is to work for a living and all the people she mixes with are cut from the same pattern. You don't seriously think she'd be interested in Lance Hammond's secretary?" "I don't know what Susan thinks. All I do know is that you should give yourself a chance. So far you're deciding what Susan does or doesn't want, but you haven't the courage to find out whether she happens to want it as well!" "I don't intend to either. For heaven's sake, Rose, do you think this is something I've decided on the spur of the moment ij Susan's never been in love with anyone and if I were to succeed in winning her I'd feel I were taking advantage of my position. After all, she regards me as almost one of the family."
Rose looked at him incredulously. 'You don't mean to tell me you're waiting until she falls in love with someone else before you tell her how you feel?" His expression told her she had guessed correctly and her incredulity changed to exasperation. "Really, Alan, you might give other people good advice, but when it comes to your own affairs you're the biggest fool in the world!" "Thanks," he said and picked up the folder. "Don't be angry." "I'm not. At least not angry with you, just with myself. I shouldn't go on staying with Lance. As long as I do I'll never get Susan out of my mind." He flung the folder down and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Seeing him so dejected she knew a great urge to comfort him and overwhelmed by tenderness, she put her arms around him. "I'm sure you're wrong about Susan. Let me have a word with her and find out what she thinks about you." "No! You're not to say a word to her. Not a word! If you do I'll never forgive you." "All right," she said quickly. "I won't." For a long moment he remained staring at her, then the tenseness left him and he leaned forward and kissed her gently on the mouth, a kiss of thanks and friendship. "I hope I'm not breaking anything up," a cold voice said and with a start of guilt Alan's hand dropped from Rose's shoulder as he stared at the man framed in the doorway. "Lance, II didn't know you were coming back." "Obviously. If I'd realized I'd be interrupting a scene like this I'd have warned you of my return."
"Alan saw the pictures I took last week," Rose said quickly, "and he" "You needn't go into any explanations," Lance interrupted. "You're at perfect liberty to kiss whosoever you like. But I'd advise you to be more circumspect in this house. Servants are inclined to gossip." "Lance! You're deliberately misunderstanding what happened. Alan wasn't making love to me. He was kissing me out of friendship." "I told you you needn't go into explanations," came the answer. Anger at his rudeness decided Rose against replying to him. If he wanted to believe the worst of her so much the better. At least it meant he did not suspect she was in love with him. She looked at Alan. "You'd better go." He left the room and only when Lance was alone with her did he speak again. "I told you a little while ago, Rose, that if you wanted your freedom you should come and tell me." "And I told you that if ever the question arose, I would." She looked at him directly. "I don't mind you misjudging me, but I don't think it's fair you should misjudge Alan. He was not making love to me. He was merely telling me something about his past. It upset him and I" her voice trailed away and she stared at the fire, hating herself for the tears that threatened to overcome her. But Lance finished the sentence. "What you're trying to say is that it was your maternal solicitude that prompted you to kiss him." Still not trusting herself to speak she nodded. "I believe you, Rose," he said suddenly. "I'm sorry if I was rude." She swung round, so full of relief that the tears she had held back overflowed down her cheeks. Lance moved close and looked at her intently. "I've been leaving you alone too much lately. You're not used to being idle and you need something to do."
"I know. I was going to talk to you about it. I'd like to open a florist section in a couple of the supermarketsor even just one of them to begin with." "It sounds a good idea," he said quickly, so quickly that she felt he had hardly given it thought. "But you're not well enough to think of working yet, and I'm not going to have you brooding round the house until then." He gripped her shoulders. "How would you like us to go to Cannes for a month?" "But I thought you were busy?" "Not so busy that I can't get away. The business managed without me for years. It can manage without me again for another month. In fact, the more I think of it the more enjoyable a holiday seems. I'm not going to take no for an answer, Rose. We'll leave for France tomorrow." "But I don't want to go." "Well, I do. Now, no arguing." Realizing that once he had made up his mind it was hopeless to disagree with him she went upstairs to supervise her packing. Disappointment at the ease with which he could drop his work robbed her of the elation she would normally have felt at going away on a holiday, and with distaste she looked at the growing mound of clothes that her maid was laying on the bed. Lance's life had been a holiday for so long that it was stupid of her to expect him to work for more than a few months at a time. But her disappointment with Lance would have changed to surprise had she been able to overhear the conversation taking place between him and one of his directors. "I know it means I'll be leaving you to handle the negotiations," he was saying, "but my wife needs to get away. If anything crops up urgently I can always fly back, but right now I owe it to her to take her off to the sunshine." He replaced the telephone and walked back to the fire. How much more he owed Rose than just sunshine! He owed her her health and her happiness. Yet it seemed he could give her neither. The months of their marriage had not drawn them more closely together and her need to love someone was so great that she had turned towards Alan. Not that he blamed Alan. Idly he wondered what the two of them had been discussing to cause his secretary to look so distraught. Whatever it was it had aroused Rose's
sympathy and, tenderness. She had once displayed the same tenderness to him and it had resulted in her being maimed. He clenched his fists until the knuckles showed white. Whatever happened, his duty towards her remained the same: to make her as happy as he knew how. He glanced at his watch. Half past five. An hour ago he had no intention of leaving the country, yet now he was impatient to be away. Would it be a good idea to ask his mother to come along? Rose liked her and it would be added companionship for her. He picked up the telephone and got through to the house in Cambridge where Didi was staying. Her voice at the other end of the line was as he had always remembered it gay, light and far younger than her years. "Lance, how lovely to hear from you. Yes, I'm having a wonderful time here. How are you and Rose ?" "Fine. We're going to the villa tomorrow. I thought maybe you'd like to come with us." "I'd love to. But it isn't convenient." "Why? What are you doing? You haven't been up to Town once." "I know, darling. But I've been improving my mind. I've read nearly all the books in John's library and I've taken up gardening too!" "Well, come and garden at the villa." "Darling, if things don't turn out the way I've planned you'll probably see me before the end of the week." "What sort of things?" Lance asked sharply. "Mother, you're not up to anything silly, are you?" "Of course not. Now I can't talk any more, darling. We've got people to dinner and I must change. But I promise you'll be hearing from me before the week's out." "Mother! I want to" Didi quietly replaced the telephone, a smile lifting her mouth. Tonight would see the beginning or the end of all her plans. Plans that she had persevered
with dignity over the past few months. She went up to her room and looked through her wardrobe carefully before taking out a midnight blue dress with a pleated skirt and draped neckline. The transformation Rose and Lance had noticed on returning from their honeymoon was now complete and she bore no resemblance whatever to the Didi Hammond of a year ago. If her friends Mary and John had been surprised at the way she had adapted herself to country life they had been too tactful to show it. Her statement that she wished to buy a house had aroused no comment and they had set to work to help her find one. Weeks of search had finally brought her Amberside, a small Elizabethan manor in two acres of garden. With the help of a housekeeper and a gardener, she had set to work to make it into a home. Determined not to take any of the furniture from the London house to do -so would have necessitated meeting Lance and Rose and answering their questions she had combed out-of-the-way antique shops until she had found exactly what she was looking for. Now, after months of work, Amberside was finished, the garden put in order, the house ready for its mistress to take possession. Each night she had returned to stay with John and Mary but from tomorrow Amberside would be her home and she would take her place in the village from which it derived its name. Indeed she was already on the Committees of the W.V.S. and the Church Bazaar, and was on visiting terms with all the main people in the village. To them she was not Didi Hammond, a gay butterfly of cafe society, but little Mrs. Diana Hammond, who had come to settle down in their village and spend her time doing good works and gardening. Didi looked at herself in the mirror and tightened the belt around her tiny waist. No matter that she looked fifty in the mirror; she felt a trembling sixteen inside as she wondered whether her subterfuge would bear fruit. In another hour she would know. In another hour two professors and their wives and one professor who was a widower would be arriving to dine with John and Mary. And it was the widowed professor who would tell Didi whether her gamble had come off. Never as long as she lived would she forget the look of puzzlement and then incredulity with which Desmond Tiverton regarded her as his hostess introduced them. But before he had a chance to say more than a few words he Was firmly propelled to the far side of the room to join another history scholar from a neighboring town. Primed by Didi, Mary Turner seated Desmond at the opposite end of the table, making conversation yet again impossible although it did not stop him looking at her in amazement as she talked skilfully with the other men and their wives on subjects ranging from early Flemish paintings, the Shakespearian acrostics and English family life during the Wars of the
Roses. Dinner over, they returned to the drawing room again, but Didi skilfully avoided contact with him and settled herself down for what was obviously a cosy chat with the wives of the professors. From the laughter that came from their corner she was obviously doing well, and as the evening drew to a close and the visitors got ready to leave, Desmond heard her receive invitations from each of them in turn. Only Desmond did not elect to go and as the others left the room he walked over to her. "Where can we talk?" "But my dear Desmond, you've seen me all evening." "Not to talk to," he said. "I want to see you alone." "We're alone now." She crossed her legs delicately and smiled up at him. "What do you want to talk to me about?" "Everything!" he burst out. "What have you done to yourself? You don't look the same woman." "Is that good or bad?" she asked sweetly. "And please don't shout at me or Mary will come in to know what' the matter." "I'm sorry," he muttered, "but it was such a surprise seeing you here tonight. You were the last person. I expected." "I'm sorry. I didn't think to warn you. In fact, I wasn't sure you hadn't forgotten me." "Didi, stop it! You know darn well I haven't forgotten you. For months I haven't been able to think of anything else. You've come between me and my sleep, my food and even my work!" "Poor Desmond. What were you going to do about it?" "I don't know. At least at least" He was walking agitatedly around the room and she hid a smile. He came close and stared down at her. "I might as
well be honest with "you, Didi. I'd made up my mind that at the Easter recess I was going to Cannes to see you." Her heart missed a beat. "Were you really?" "Yes. I was going to tell you that I didn't care if you wanted to dress like a flapper, make up like Theda Bara and act like a teenager. I was going to tell you that I didn't care what you did as long as you did it with me." He took out his pipe and clamped his teeth firmly on it, looking so fierce and unhappy that she wanted to fling herself into his arms. But not for nothing had she suffered these last few months. Womanlike, she wanted her triumph and was determined to get it. "Poor Desmond. You really have had a miserable time! Still, you've got your work, so that something. Of course it hasn't been so easy for me. After our row when you made me see myself as I was I had to take stock again and start from scratch. Still, I haven't done so badly," she said chattily. "I've bought a small Elizabethan house at Amberside and I've decided the rural life is the one for me." "You'll get tired of it." "I don't think so. I'm not getting any younger and when Edward was alive we mostly lived in the country. No, I think I'll settle down to country life very well. You saw yourself how I got on with the other wives tonight. And that's only the beginning. A year from now I'll be so like them you won't be able to tell me apart. When I" "Didi, don't!" He pulled her up into his arms. "I can't bear it. I never believed you'd take to heart what I told you. Seeing you tonight made me realize how I must have hurt you. When I think of all the things I said at the villa" "I deserved them. I was making myself look ridiculous." "And now you're making me look ridiculous." "You, Desmond?" "Yes, me." He looked at her tenderly. "There was an awful lot I didn't like
about the old Didi, but there was an awful lot that I did. I don't want you to be so much like the other professors' wives that I won't be able to tell you apart. I want you to be different, Didi. I want you to be silly and mad and gay!" "Oh Desmond!" Words were no longer needed between them and Mary Turner, coming to turn out the lights in the drawing room, tiptoed softly away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROSE stepped on to the balcony of her bedroom and looked at the view. Below lay the garden and beyond it the beach that followed the natural curve of the bay toward Cannes. Although it was barely eight o'clock the sky was a vivid blue and the sun shone down with sufficient warmth for her to be comfortable outdoors in a short-sleeved jersey dress. Difficult to believe it was a week before Christmas and the weather in London was cold enough for part of the Thames to freeze! She leaned against the edge of the railing and wondered how much longer Lance would remain here. The ease with which he had settled down to the life of a lotus eater filled her with disappointment and her enquiry as to when he would be returning to work had met with such a look of surprise that she had held her peace. But one week had slipped into another and when the continual round of entertainment had shown no sign of abating she had decided that though she could not force his return to London, she could at least refuse to accompany him to parties that caused her no amusement whatsoever. To her surprise he had refused to accept her decision, saying albeit in a joking tone that it was for this very reason that he had married her! "But you surely don't need me for protection all the time," she had protested. "You must be joking." "Maybe I am," he conceded. "Let us say that I want your company for two reasons. One because I need you and two because I don't think it's good for you to be on your own. You'll get broody." "You make me sound like a hen!" He laughed and said no more, but she had pondered on his words and was pondering on them now, wondering what had prompted him to say them. She
had assumed that he had used her loneliness in London as an excuse to come to Cannes himself, but now she was not sure and wondered whether it was really on her account that he was here. If so it was a misguided action for not only was she lonely here, but worried too, worried that Lance would revert to being a playboy again. Yet in all honesty she had to admit that if she herself had changed in the past few months so had he. Indeed, the word 'playboy' no longer applied to him for he had lost the devil-may-care attitude that had so antagonized her towards him when they had first met. His gaiety now seemed more forced and she suspected he was beginning to be almost as bored by the society people who were his friends as she herself was. The window clicked behind her and she swung round to see Lance. It was the first time he had come into her bedroom and her heart beat fast. "I knocked on the door," he explained, "but you didn't hear." "When I'm outside I can't hear anything. You weren't waiting breakfast for me, were you?" "No. I was taking a stroll in the garden and I saw you out here. So I thought we might as well have breakfast together." With his hand under her elbow he guided her out of the room and down the stairs. As always when they walked together he shortened his step to suit hers, but as always she was conscious of her uneven gait. Did Lance notice this with repugnance? If he did he gave no sign and she wished that he would at least say something to show that he was aware of the clumsiness of her movements, for to pretend that he wasn't was ridiculous. Suddenly she could bear it no longer and as they reached the dining room she stopped. "Does it worry you the way I walk?" she asked abruptly. "Why should it worry me?" "Because it's ugly." "It might be ugly," he answered, "but it's also unimportant." "How can you say it's unimportant that I can't walk properly? Do you think I like being unable to dance or play tennis or"
"For God's sake, I wasn't meaning that at all!" He gripped her shoulders and swung her round to face him, shaking her into silence. "How can you misunderstand me like that? All I meant was that I considered your limp unimportant in our relationship. How could you think otherwise?" She looked at him dumbly and he shook her again. "Tell me, Rose, how could you think otherwise?" "Maybe because I didn't think we had a relationship." "But haven't you been happy since we've been married?" She hesitated. To answer truthfully would mean throwing her pride to the winds and telling him she could never be happy unless he returned her love. But to do this was unthinkable and she forced herself to smile and nod her head. "Of course our marriage has meant something to me, Lance. But it's been a strain, too. I've had to adapt myself to your way of life and it hasn't been easy." "But you've had everything you wanted!" She could not help smiling at the irony of this remark. "Maybe I've had too much. Hasn't that thought ever struck you?" "No," he said slowly "Most girls would give their eye- teeth to be in your position. Hell, that sounds conceited, but I don't mean it like that." "I know what you mean. And I don't think you're conceited at all. Though I must say you aren't much of a judge of the average working girl. All the women you know are content to idle away their time buying clothes and gossiping over the coffee cups. That sort of life would never suit me. I'm used to working it's the thing I miss most." "Poor darling." He put his arm over her shoulder and feeling her tremble he pulled her closer. "It isn't much of a marriage for you, is it? I feel I took advantage of you, Rose. I almost bludgeoned you into marrying me. It was so soon after your accident that" "You didn't bludgeon me at all and I'd do the same thing again if I had the choice."
"Would you?" He looked into her eyes. "Are you sure you've no regrets?" "Why should I have regrets now when I didn't have them four months ago?" "I just thought you might have fallen in love. Do you remember what I said to you some time ago? That if you wanted your freedom you must tell me? Well, that still goes." "Thank you. And and it still goes for you too. At the moment I" she moistened her lips, "at the moment I don't want my freedom. Do you?" "No," he said vehemently, and with an unexpectedness that took her breath away, kissed her full on the mouth. It was so brief a contact that it was over before she had a chance to respond and in a way she was glad, for even the thought of his kiss set her pulses on fire. "Now let's have some breakfast," he said cheerfully. "All this conversation has made me hungry!" Looking back on their discussion, Rose saw it as the turning point, for from that moment on there was a greater ease between them. The longer she knew Lance the more likeable she found him. The charm, the devil-may-care attitude and the flirtatiousness were all part of the facade; inside he was surprisingly shy. That he was romantic too, she knew from having watched his love affair with Enid. But she had never until now suspected the depths of tenderness within him and as she discovered it, she was convinced that he had left London because he had felt she was in need of a warm climate. "I feel so much better now," she told him one afternoon when they were sitting in the drawing room, the french windows open to the sun. "I'd like to go back and start work." "Doing what?" Diffidently she told him of the scheme she had outlined to Alan and, as he listened, Lance's interest grew. "I think it' an excellent idea. You can open an experimental branch in one of our London supermarkets and if it goes well we can consider doing it in the large ones."
"Oh Lance, how wonderful! Do you really mean I can go ahead? How much will I be allowed to spend? Can I engage an assistant? Will I be able to" "Hey, hey, not so fast. What do you mean, can you engage an assistant? You don't think I'm going to let you work in one of the supermarkets do you? I said you could supervise it, Rose, but that's all. As my wife you can't take a more active part than that." The delight died away inside her. "That won't give me much to do. Once it's organized and set up it'll run by itself." "Don't you believe it. It might run by itself if you have a couple of departments, but if it catches on it'll need a terrific amount of organization and supervision." Realizing he was right she settled back more contentedly in her chair and began to plan how she would start the first branch. Which supermarket should she use for the experiment? The one off Oxford Street, newest and largest, or the one in the Edgware Road with its more regular clientele? "I can't wait to get back," she said aloud. "When can we go?" "Soon." He strolled over to the mantelpiece and straightened the Buffet that hung on the wall above it. "I'd like Sutherland to do a portrait of you, Rose. Would you like that?" She was taken by surprise. "I'm not sure. Wouldn't it be rather expensive?" He shook his head. "You're the most inexpensive wife a man in my position could ever have! When was the last time you bought yourself some clothes?" "I'm not sure," she confessed. "But I don't need any." "Nonsense. Women always need clothes. I put an allowance into your account each month. You should use it." "I don't like to. I I feel it isn't mine." "What nonsense. You're my wife, aren't you?"
"Not really." He made no pretence to misunderstand her and coming close he looked deep into her eyes. "You're a lovely woman, Rose, I'd be lying if I said I haven't been tempted many times to" He paused, "to take advantage of my position. But I respect you too much to do so." Color flooded her face. As clearly as he could without stating it in so many words he was telling her he did not love her and that any desire she might arouse in him was based solely on passion. She remembered a conversation she had had with her father before her marriage when he had said that one day she might be faced with the choice of giving herself to Lance knowing he did not love her. She remembered too her reply: that if Lance wanted her she would willingly say yes to him. But now that the moment had come, when it merely needed a nod of her head, a movement of her body for him to take her into his arms, she realized she could not go through with it, could not give herself to a man who did not love her. "Lance," she whispered, "I wish I" "Don't look so upset, my dear. I'm not asking for anything and I've got no regrets." He straightened and walked over to a chair. "I've asked Susan to come down for a week. I thought she might be company for you and then we can go back to London together." Rose was startled into losing her discretion. "But Alan's coming down this week." "What of it? As a matter of fact it's one of the reasons I asked Sue. I'll be occupied with Alan he's bringing a stack of stuff that I'll have to go over and I don't want you to be alone." "I see. That was very thoughtful of you." "You don't mind Alan being here, do you?" "Why should I mind?" "No reason. Merely that I made an ass of myself in London when I saw you kissing him."
"I explained the reason I did that. You aren't still harboring any doubts about it, are you?" Before he could answer the telephone rang and he went into the hall to answer it. When he returned his face was pale, his expression strange. "That was George Moffat. I said we'd go there tonight for a drink and he wanted to warn me that Enid had invited herself along. He thought we might like to cancel and go tomorrow instead." "Do you?" "Not unless you want to." She shook her head and he looked relieved. "It'll be an experience for me to see Enid again. It's rather as if you've had the nerve taken out of a tooth and when the dentist drills it and says it won't hurt, you're never sure whether to believe him! That's how I feel about seeing Enid. She doesn't mean anything to me but but I'm not sure my pulses know it!" Rose clenched her hands. Jealousy fought with sensibility and jealousy won. "Well, you'll know soon enough, won't you? And if your pulses do win the day I'm sure Enid will take you back. She was never very fussy about needing a wedding ring!" She walked out of the room, banging the door behind her, and Lance stared after her in amazement. That night Rose took extra care with her appearance and was rewarded by the look of admiration on Lance's face as she came downstairs, the full skirts of her gold taffeta dress rustling around her. On her throat she wore a necklace of topaz, a present from Didi and the only jewellery of any value she possessed. Lance stepped forward and helped her down the last couple of steps. "You should always wear yellow. You look beautiful in it." He picked up her hand and looked at it. "Which reminds me, I've never bought you an engagement ring. How about a yellow diamond?" "Isn't it late for an engagement ring?"
He laughed. "I've never known a woman refuse jewellery no matter how belated the offer! But then I've never known a woman like you." He stepped back to admire her again. "Although you look lovely, I'm not sure I don't prefer the old you. I remember the first time we met you were wearing something very pretty in blue. . It was her turn to laugh. "The something very pretty in blue was a nylon overall belonging to the Hotel Plage!" "That just goes to show how important clothes are!" He walked over to the front door and held it open for her. The Moffats' villa was only a short drive farther along the coast, and almost before she had a chance to settle herself in the car, they were upon it. It was larger than their own villa but did not have a swimming pool and the grounds were considerably smaller. Cars were packed closely together along the narrow road leading to it and Lance scowled as he saw them. "I'd better drive you up to the front," he said. "Otherwise you'll have quite a walk." "I don't mind a walk it'll do me good." He parked the car at the end of the lawn and together they made their way towards the house. Every step brought her more closely to Enid and as her nervousness increased, so did her limp. She would have given anything in the world to have been able to sweep into the house with the grace of a queen instead of bobbing in like a one-legged doll. "Oh God!" she said and did not realize she had spoken aloud until Lance looked at her. "Would you rather go home?" "No. I just tripped on my skirt." She did not know whether he believed her but he said nothing and they continued to walk. The villa was overflowing with people. A radiogram blared music from one
corner, a bar was doing brisk business in another and George Moffatt and his wife Adelaide were the centre of a group of people standing by the fireplace. Fireplaces were a feature of the Moffatt villa and each one was made from a different semi-precious stone. The cost, according to Lance, amounted to more than the villa itself, and Rose could well believe it for the drawing room one alone was a magnificent structure of lapis lazuli. The Moffatts, unlike their house, were singularly unpretentious, both small and plump with pepper and salt coloring which always seemed to be carried out in the clothes they wore. But it was not her host and hostess who drew Rose's attention, but the blonde woman standing with them. Enid. She was lovelier than Rose had remembered, expressively gowned and jewelled, a delicate smile on her lips and a softness in her eyes as they rested on Lance. "So we meet again," she said huskily. "Poor George and Addie weren't sure whether they should try and stop me from coming, but I told them it was ridiculous. After all, with so many friends in common we're bound to meet sooner or later, and it's far less embarrassing if it's sooner, don't you think?" "I would never have found it embarrassing at any time," Lance replied coolly and drew Rose forward. "I believe you've already met my wife." "Of course." Enid smiled at Rose. "I was terribly sorry to hear about your accident. I hope you're better now?" "Yes, thank you." "Good. I'll be staying on this part of the coast through the summer so I hope to see something of you both." She smiled directly at Rose. "Maybe we could meet for lunch. I'll telephone you if I may." "I'd rather you didn't," Rose said, softening her words by the lightness of her voice. "We really haven't much in common." "Only a man," Enid said softly. Rose mentally awarded her the first round. "All the more reason why we shouldn't meet," she said and stopped as Lance put his hand under her elbow. "Come and sit down, darling. You've been standing long enough."
With a smile to Enid he guided Rose over to an empty chair. "You were a bit sharp, weren't you?" he murmured when they were out of earshot of the others. "I know," she said wryly. "But you don't really want me to start socializing with her, do you?" "Heaven forbid." He settled her in the chair and turned to look back at Enid, who was still talking to the Moffatts. "Meeting her again was like looking at a book that I'd read a long time ago." "People sometimes like reading the same book again." "Not if it was a dull one. And after you, Enid is particularly dull." She warmed at the compliment and was suddenly glad they had come. Even later in the evening when she saw Lance dancing with Enid she did not revise her opinion, for she knew him well enough to realize that the look of indifference on his face was not feigned. Yes, there was no doubt he had recovered completely from the Enid affair and was now heartwhole again. The knowledge brought with it disquiet, for she realized he was now emotionally ready to fall in love with someone else. She looked down and saw she had clenched her hands together. Her wedding ring gleamed against the folds of her dress and she touched it with one finger, twisting it round and round as if by so doing she could keep Lance for ever within the circle of her life.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TWO days later Susan Rogers arrived at the villa and Rose was struck anew at the girl's freshness and vitality. In next to no time she had settled down with them as if she were a member of the family and seeing the ease between her and Lance, Rose recollected that they had spent their childhood years together. There was no denying the bond this could be and she wondered whether Susan had ever been in love with Lance. She found herself watching them more closely than she had done in London and saw not only familiarity between them but also the evident pleasure they drew from each other's company.
The morning, after Susan's arrival she had been awakened by the sharp crack of a ball coming from the tennis court below and she had looked from her bedroom window and seen Susan and Lance playing together. By the time she went downstairs they had finished their game and were sipping coffee in the dining room. "I hope we didn't wake you," Lance said anxiously. "I'd forgotten until we started to play that your bedroom overlooks the court." "I was awake ages before," Rose said swiftly. "And anyway, it's a lovely sound." From then on she was awakened by the same sound every day and would lie in bed listening not only to the crack of the ball but the laughter and badinage that floated up on the still air. The weather could not have been lovelier for this time of the year. The skies were blue and the sun warmed the air sufficiently for them to sit on the lawns from mid- morning until early afternoon. In the evenings when the air grew chill, the fire was lit in the drawing room and they would sit grouped around it and play records or talk. At the end of the week Alan arrived, his brief case bulging with papers, and from then on Rose and Susan were thrown into one another's company. There was no doubt that Susan was excellent company for she bubbled over with joie de vivre and was completely unconscious of her attraction. Rose learned a lot about Lance from her during this time and listened to long stories of his escapades at school and university, escapades from which Helen Rogers had always managed to extricate him. "She looked on Lance as a son," Susan said one evening as they were sitting alone together. "I suppose it's because she's never had any children of her own." "She was lucky to have you." "A woman prefers a son," Susan said, nodding her head wisely. "And she doted on Lance just like other women did. Or perhaps I should say do!" Rose smiled. "I'd have thought you and Lance would have would have" "Fallen in love?" Susan finished for her. "I was crazy about him when I was
sixteen, but he never had eyes for me and I grew out of it." "Can you grow out of love?" Rose asked. "I wish I believed that!" Susan looked at her intensely but she did not press for an explanation and seemed content to let the conversation end. She put on the radiogram and when Lance and Alan came into the room she was dancing round the floor, the short skirts of her white chiffon dress floating around her. She made a beautiful picture, her short blonde hair flying, her expression dreamy as she danced with an imaginary partner. As she swung past Lance he pulled her close and without losing step they began to waltz around the room. Alan watched them for a moment and then sat next to Rose. The glow of the firelight tinged his face with color, but it was a false color, she knew, for he had gone pale and a muscle twitched at the side of his eye. The music continued and so did the dancing couple, switching from waltz to tango and from tango to cha cha. More than ever Rose was aware of her disability and of all that Lance had lost by marrying her. Abruptly she stood up, knocking over the ashtray on the arm of the settee. It clattered to the floor and Lance and Susan stopped dancing. "Don't mind me," Rose said in a high voice. "I I'm feeling tired. I'll go to bed." "It's pretty late," Lance said. "We'll all go to bed." "No, don't. I'll feel guilty if I break up the party." She left the room and crossed to the stairs. Behind her she heard steps and without turning knew it was Alan. Together they went up to the first floor and he stopped outside the door of her bedroom. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but though he stared at her he did not speak and she was too full of her own sadness to encourage him. "Goodnight," she said swiftly and closed the door on him, wishing she could as easily close the door on her emotions. The days passed and Lance made no mention of returning to London. He flew back with Alan for a conference but returned after two days, giving the impression that as far as he was concerned he could now stay at the villa
indefinitely. The days settled down into a routine pattern. In the morning Lance and Susan would play tennis and in the afternoon they would swim in the small indoor pool or go for a long walk. Whenever they did this they always asked Rose to accompany them, but she refused, protesting that she preferred to read and relax in the sunshine. Twice a week Lance and Susan would disappear for the day to the golf course and Rose and Alan were left to their own devices. It was on these days that Alan started to take her exploring and they would motor up to the mountains where the air was crisper and colder and lunch at a small hotel in Vence or one of the other picturesque Provencal villages. It was on the occasion of their fourth outing that Alan told her he was considering leaving Lance's employment. "I want to go back into business proper," he said by way of explanation. "And if I'm with Lance I'd always have to dance attendance on him." "Have you told him?" "Not yet. But I know he'll understand." "I'm sure he will. Will you go into the Hammond business? That's what you wanted to do." "I know, but I'm not sure it's the best thing. It might be wiser to cut the Hammonds out of my life completely." Even though he did not mention Susan's name, Rose sensed the inference and the food she was eating tasted like ashes in hex mouth. Could Alan's decision to leave Lance mean that he sensed that some time in the future Lance and Susan would marry? She longed to ask him, but pride forbade her and she deliberately changed the subject. When they returned to the villa Lance and Susan were already there sipping a drink and arguing vehemently about their game of golf. "Had a good day?" Lance asked as Rose came in. "Lovely," she lied. "We drove to a particularly pretty village in the mountains." She launched into a vivid description of what she and Alan had done, the effort of pretence giving her an unusual animation. Alan too, now that he had put into words his resolve to leave Lance, seemed to have lost his diffidence, and
Lance and Susan, watching them both felt that something had happened between them. Rose picked up her handbag and the scarf which she had dropped on to the settee. "I feel so grimy I must go up and have a bath before dinner. Have you any plans for this evening Lance?" "I thought maybe we'd go to the Casino." She nodded and went out and Lance saw she had dropped her scarf. He picked it up and followed her, leaving Susan and Alan together. Alan silently took a cigarette out of a china box and lit it. "Can I have one?" Susan said behind him, her voice curiously breathless. Still in silence he passed her one. "Can I have a light too?" she said. "I'm sorry to bother you." "It's no bother." He flicked his lighter and she bent her head to the flame, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air before she drew back. "I don't like seeing you smoke," he said abruptly. "I'm not a child. I can do what I like." "I didn't mean it from that point of view. It's just that you're young enough not to get into bad habits." "I'm over twenty-one," she retorted. "Old enough to be married and have children." The cigarette jerked in Alan's hand, sending ash on to the floor. "Don't sound so belligerent, old girl. It doesn't suit you." "And it doesn't suit you to keep talking to me as if I were a child." "I don't think of you as a child. You're a lovely young woman and you'll make
someone a wonderful wife." "Oh?" Her pale grey eyes looked at him instantly. "You wouldn't have anyone in mind, would you?" "You don't need me to choose your suitors. Just watch out for the fortune hunters, that's all." 'I'm very well able to do that," she said brightly. "I just automatically scrub out any man whose income's below a certain level." The smile on Alan's face grew fixed. "That's a good way of doing it." he said expressionlessly. "I couldn't have thought of a better way myself." "After all," Susan prattled on, "a girl likes to know that the man she marries would love her whether she had money or not." "It's no different for a man. You just have to look at Lance to see that." Susan tossed back her hair. "He nearly fell in the soup with Enid didn't he?" she said crudely. "But he was lucky to meet a girl like Rose. I mean, she couldn't have given him more proof that she loved him, could she? Following him when he went out in the speedboat and getting injured and all that." "There's no need to be sarcastic. Rose happens to be a wonderful person." "I wasn't being sarcastic. I happen to like Rose very much indeed. I was just talking for talking's sake." "Well, don't," he said cruelly. "It's inclined to make you stupid." Tears sprang into her eyes and she turned her head away quickly to hide them. "What about you?" she said with her back still towards him. "Are you going to be a bachelor gay for ever?" "I'm not cut out for marriage." "Don't tell me you've never been in love."
She half turned back to him and the jewelled cross at her throat sparkled in the reflection of the lamp behind her. It was a jewel she always wore, left to her by her father and given to her by her aunt on her eighteenth birthday. Each stone was blue-white and although the cross was not more than an inch in diameter its value was in excess of what Alan could earn in five years. Seeing it hardened any weakness of resolve he had felt in Susan's proximity, and when he spoke his voice was colder than it had ever been. "The woman I happen to love is out of my reach and I'm not prepared to take second best." "Second best can sometimes be better than nothing." "I don't agree with you." He stubbed out his cigarette. "If you don't mind I've got some work to do." "Must you go? I mean can't you stay and talk to me?" "No." He smiled politely and walked out and the moment she was alone Susan flung herself on the settee. "Hey, what's the matter?" She looked up, her face tear-stained, to see Lance staring at her in concern. "I'm sorry," she gulped. "I'm just in a paddy." "I can see that. Had a row with Alan?" "It's impossible to row with that stuffed shirt! Honestly, he makes me sick. Wasting his life loving someone he can never have" Lance's expression tightened. "I wonder whom he meant." "Rose, I should think," Susan replied artlessly. "He's a fool if he can't see he's wasting his time." "Well, thanks," Lance said dryly, "considering she's my wife"
Susan grimaced. "What a tactless idiot I am. Still, I'm sure you knew." "I knew he was in love with someone, but I didn't know it was Rose." He walked moodily up and down the carpet. "He and Rose were friends long before I came on the scene. He had his chance then if she'd wanted him.". "Obviously she didn't." Susan sat up and smoothed her hair. "That's why I can't understand him not trying to make something of his life instead of saying he'll never get married. Honestly, I could kick him." Although her tone was vehement, she looked so woebegone that Lance came over and ruffled her hair. "Why should you take it so much to heart? Alan's quite old enough to manage his own affairs." She was so motionless that he bent to look at her, and as he did so his expression became one of comical surprise. "Good lord! You don't mean you're in love with him?" "Yes. Ridiculous, isn't it? Here am I, rich enough and pretty enough I'm not conceited but I know I'm pretty to have almost any man I want and yet the one I do want can't see me from a hole in the wall!" "That isn't true, Sue. Alan's very fond of you." "The way a man is about his dog." She swung her feet impatiently. "He just sees me as a child. I told him I was old enough to be married and have children, and you should have seen the way he looked at me." Lance rubbed the side of his jaw reflectively. "Seems to me it's up to you to make him see you're not a child." "What do you suggest I do a strip tease?" "Nothing as obvious as that! Perhaps if he saw you in a passionate clinch with another man Yes, that might do the trick." "It's a wonderful solution," she said dryly. "Now tell me who I'm supposed to have the passionate clinches with."
"Me." "You! You can't be serious. What would Rose think?" "She wouldn't mind," he replied, and sitting down, caught Susan's hands. "Our marriage isn't a marriage in the proper sense. I asked Rose to be my wife for a variety of reasons, but love didn't happen to be one of them. Call it rebound from Enid if you like. Call it guilt over Rose's accident. But anyway, I asked her to marry me." Susan looked puzzled. "I can understand your motives, but I'm blowed if I can understand Rose's. Why should she agree to marry you if she didn't love you? She wasn't after your money that I'm sure of." "Loneliness, maybe," Lance replied. "I caught her at a time when she was feeling pretty despondent." "What's going to happen to you both? You can't go on like this, can you?" "No. At least, I don't know about Rose, but I can't. I want" He stopped. "But here am I telling you what I want when I'm supposed to be helping you get what you want. What do you say to my suggestion? You've nothing to lose and a lot to gain." She hesitated and grinned. "You really are a most handsome creature, Lance. I can't think why my heart doesn't go bangety-bang when I'm with you." "Thank heavens it doesn't." He pulled her to her feet and hugged her. "From now on I'm going to follow you around with eyes of love, so don't be surprised if I suddenly clutch you in my arms." "I won't," she said. "But make sure Alan's around to see it." "Naturally, sweet Sue. That's the whole reason for the exercise!" But unfortunately it was not Alan who saw Lance kiss Susan for the first time, but Rose, and it happened a few days after Susan had agreed to his suggestion. Rose and Alan had driven down to the village leaving the other two playing a game of table-tennis in the recreation room, on the north side of the villa. Although Susan and Lance had no view of the front of the house and the driveway, they were able to hear the sound of any car, and it was when they
heard one approaching that Lance threw down his bat and grabbed Susan in his arms. "Now's our chance, old girl. Alan's car has just got back and they're bound to come round here to see if we're still playing. We'll give them sixty seconds to walk the distance after we hear the car doors slam and then we'll go into a clinch." Amused by Lance's cloak and dagger attitude. Susan's eyes sparkled and she lost any sense of embarrassment she might otherwise have felt. Lance looked at his watch, murmured "Time's up" and pulled her close as the door opened. Rose stood on the threshold and stared at them. After driving to the village Alan had decided to go for a walk and Rose had bought some postcards and then driven the car back herself. Parking it in the drive she had strolled through the house in search of Lance and Susan, never envisaging for one moment that she would find them in such a compromising attitude. She was not aware of having made a sound, but she must have uttered some exclamation for Susan pulled free of Lance's embrace and turned, color flooding her face as she saw who was watching her. "I I thought you'd gone down to the village," she stammered. Rose tried to speak, but no words came and it was left to Lance who, Rose thought numbly, must have had experience in dealing with similar situations to bridge the awkward moment. He stepped forward and took the package she was clutching. "I see you've bought a collection of cards," he said lightly, "I never knew you had so many friends to write to." "I I thought I might as well get a selection and keep them here." She was determined to control her emotions and once she started to talk, words flowed, although afterwards she could not remember what she had said. All she could remember was the sight of Lance holding Susan in his arms. How stupid she had been not to see the inevitability of this. What was more natural than that, thrown together the way they were, he should suddenly realize all she had to offer him: not only similarity of background and shared memories, but also health and vitality.
But if Rose was upset at the scene she had witnessed Susan herself would have given anything for it never to have happened and, as the door had closed behind Rose, she looked at Lance with dismay. "So much for your wonderful timing. Now what are we going to do?" "Nothing." "You can't do nothing! Go after her and tell her it was a mistake." "Don't be ridiculous. She's bound to tell Alan if I do and then we'll have concocted the whole plan for nothing." "I don't see why she should tell Alan. And anyway, maybe it wasn't such a good plan after all." "Now you're getting cold feet." He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, blowing out a quick cloud of smoke. "I'd tell Rose if I thought she was a good liar, but the less people that know our flirtation is phoney, the better. We won't carry it on for long, just a few days time enough to make Alan see you're not a child any more, but a delectable female." Although Lance spoke lightly and with amusement, he felt anything but amused inside and, like Susan, wished that Rose had not witnessed the embrace. He had only to close his eyes to see her face as she had come in and found them together. How white she had gone, or had her color always been so pale? And did she normally avoid looking directly at him when she spoke? He exhaled another cloud of smoke. "Don't worry, old girl, it'll all work out for the best. I'll just Have to make sure it's Alan who comes in next time." "I still wish you'd tell Rose." "In a few days," he said. "Then I will." With this Susan had to be content, although she was embarrassed at the thought of meeting Rose at the lunch table. But she was underestimating Lance's wife, for when they did meet Rose was as friendly as ever and Susan, studying her surreptitiously, wondered whether she was capable of feeling any emotion at all. Yet surely she must be. Those great big eyes, that full, passionate mouth bespoke a sensitivity that not even the coolest attitude of
indifference could successfully mask. Lance, watching the two women, was pleased he had not allowed himself to be panicked into giving Rose an explanation of his behavior. She was so honest she would have given the game away without realizing it, and he was determined that Susan should succeed in making Alan see her as something other than a schoolgirl. Some schoolgirl, he thought reminiscently, remembering the kiss she had given him. Platonic though it had been, he could see that the right man would have nothing to complain of! His eyes ranged to his wife. How lovely she looked sitting on the settee with the wintry sunshine lighting her hair into a nimbus of chestnut gold. The only person ignorant of the undercurrents that existed in the room that day was Alan for, having decided to relinquish his job with Lance, he was pondering on his future. If he wanted a job on the executive side of the Hammond business Lance would do all he could to help, but he was sure it would be better to cut away completely from the Hammond menage and Susan. Susan just the mention of her name filled him with tumult and he could not bear to look at her as she sat on the piano stool, picking out a dance tune with one small, capable-looking hand. Not for Susan vivid nail polish or bizarre jewellery. Again he saw the cross at her throat worth a king's ransom. How could he a pauper by comparison ask her to be his wife? In the evening they drove to the Casino at Monte Carlo, Rose sitting beside Lance with Alan and Susan in the back. No one spoke for the radio was on and the magic voice of Jean Sablon sang "J'Attendrai". "I Will Wait For You" Rose said the words to herself as she looked at Lance. She knew she could not wait any longer. It was immature not to face facts. She had lived in a makebelieve world ever to think Lance would fall in love with her out of propinquity. He might subconsciously need someone of her calibre, but that did not always affect one's conscious actions. It would help her pride if she could think bitterly of Susan, but even now she could not stop herself from liking the girl, or from realizing that she would make Lance an excellent wife. Her thoughts of the future had envisaged a time when he might fall in love with a woman of Enid's calibre; never had she foreseen that he would love someone of whom she herself approved. But he had, and she was faced with one of the most important decisions of her life: to stay and fight for him or to give him back his freedom. They drove along the winding coast road and far below them they could discern
the gleam of the sea. At last the lights of Monte Carlo twinkled ahead and within a short time they drew up in the square of one of the most fairytale capitals of Europe. The winter season was in full spate and the Casino was ablaze with lights. Lance parked the car and led the way to the entrance. It was the first time Rose had been in the Casino and she looked around with interest. So this was the place where so many fortunes were lost and won? If only one could decide one's life by the spin of a ball. If only one could leave the decisions to Fate and not have to make a choice oneself. "I've set a limit," Susan said by her side. "I'm a terribly unlucky gambler so I never bring more than ten pounds with me." "Unlucky at cards, lucky in love," Lance said, his voice tender as his eyes rested on Susan. "So far I've not been lucky at either," the girl retorted. "Well, you luck's changing now," he replied and catching hold of her hand led her over to one of the tables. Rose smiled at Alan. "What's your luck like?" "Lousy!" She nodded her head in agreement and as of one accord they made their way to another table. Perhaps it was because neither of them cared, whether they won or lost that Fate looked kindly on them and by the end of the evening they had won nearly fifty pounds apiece. But by midnight the novelty of winning had worn thin and Rose longed for the peace of her rooms. She pushed back her chair and looked at Alan. He nodded and as the ball came to rest, picked up his chips and followed her over to the table where Lance and Susan were still playing. Luck had smiled on them too, for there was an enormous pile of chips in front of the girl. "I've had the most fabulous luck," she grinned. "I've won nearly two hundred pounds and Lance has won double that." "I told you your luck would change with me," he said and planted a quick kiss on the top of her head.
"If you both want to go on playing Alan and I can get a taxi home," Rose said and was horrified that her voice was high and brittle. Lance looked at her quickly. "My dear, I'm awfully sorry. I didn't realize you were tired. It's barely midnight." "I know, but it's hot and noisy in here." "It's about time we all packed it in," he agreed. "There's a saying about leaving the table while you're still winning. Come on, Sue, let's go and cash our chips." It was a pleasure to walk out into the cool night air and Rose lifted her face to the starry sky and let the breeze play on her closed lids. She felt hands come behind her and pull her stole more closely over her shoulders and without opening her eyes she knew it was Lance. "You don't want to catch a cold," he said softly in her ear, and she nodded without speaking and pulled back from him. The drive home was more boisterous than the drive into Monte Carlo had been, for Susan and Lance seemed in high spirits and sang at the top of their voices. Only she and Alan sat quiet, like a couple of suet puddings, she thought, furious with herself at not being able to enter into the spirit of gaiety. Yet how could she sing when all she longed to do was to reach the solitude of her room and give way to the tears that even now were stinging her eyes? Lance and Susan were still singing as he drew up at the villa. "Home safe and sound," he carolled and seemed so delighted with himself that Rose could have slapped him. "If you'd like to get out I'll take the car into the garage." "I'll do it if you like," Alan said. "Not necessary, old chap." Alan and Susan scrambled out of the back seat and joined Rose, but even as Lance slowly let in the clutch Susan flung herself forward, opened the door of the front seat and jumped in again.
"I'll drive to the garage with you," she said, and waved to Alan and Rose. "That was a smart move," Lance whispered as they shot past the house. "You're learning, Sue, my sweet." She laughed. "I hope it does the trick but Alan still hasn't seen us in a clinch." "Never mind. He will." Lance's words came true sooner than he had expected, for as the car disappeared from sight Rose gave an exclamation of annoyance. "I've left my bag in the front seat." "I'll get it for you," Alan offered and before she could stop him, strode off to the garage. Lance had already parked the car and was waiting for Susan to climb out. As she did so something clattered to the floor and he bent and picked up a brocaded bag. "It's Rose's," he said, and even as he spoke he heard heavy steps along the path. He stopped speaking and listened intently. "That's Alan coming round for it." Without giving Susan a chance to draw back, he pulled her against him. She started to giggle and he put his hand on the back of her head and shook it. "Shhhh," he warned. "Now's your main chance." Alan, stepping into the garage, drew back as if he had stepped on an electric wire and indeed the shock of seeing Susan in Lance's arms with the same intensity. Blindly, without collecting what he had come for, he strode away, not seeing that he was walking away from the house, not seeing anything except tangled blonde hair hidden against a dark jacket. Only when they realized they were alone did Susan move away and look at Lance triumphantly. "If that hasn't done the trick, I don't know what will." "You've nothing to worry about now," Lance replied, catching hold of her arm and walking back to the house.
Rose was not downstairs and he switched off the lights and closed the front door. "Give me her bag" he said to Susan. I'll pop it into her room on the way up." Rose was sitting at the dressing table brushing her hair when she heard a knock on her door, and she was so startled that the brush slipped from her fingers with a clatter. The knock came again and putting on a dressing- gown she hurried over to the door, "Who is it?" "It's me, Lance." Her body trembled, but when she opened the door her face was composed. "You left this in the car," he said, holding out the bag. "Oh." She looked down at it. "Alan went back for it." "Did he? Well, he didn't come to the garage." Rose stared at him and saw a smudge of lipstick at the corner of his mouth. The bag shook in her hand and fell to the ground. They both bent to pick it up at the same time and would have collided had not Lance caught hold of her. When they straightened he did not release his grasp, but remained staring at her, feeling the soft flesh beneath his fingers. Never had Rose looked lovelier. Sadness lent depth to her eyes and in the rose-shaded light of her room her face looked transluscently pale. But it was not at her face that he stared, but at the beautiful curve of her body, clearly outlined by the light shining behind her. "You look lovely," he said huskily. "Lovelier than I've ever seen you." "I haven't changed," she said, and the effort she made to keep her voice steady made it seem hard and cold. "Yes you have," he said, "you're not the same at all. In fact, I'm not sure that the name Rose suits you any more." His eyes rested on the curve of her breast, the indentation of her waist and the slender length of her hip visible beneath the folds of her chiffon dressing-gown. "In fact you look more like an orchid." She shrugged. "I'm still a rose at heart." "Have you got one?"
"Have I got what?" "A heart." His hands pressed more heavily on her shoulders. "Heart of a rose I like to think it's there still waiting to open for the right man, to the right touch." The rest of his words died away and his face descended to hers as their lips met. For a moment she resisted and feeling her resistance his hold tightened. Deeply he drank of her kisses, seeming to draw her very life through her mouth, and she clung to him, her resistance gone, all fight drained away from her. For what seemed an eternity they remained together and he was the first one to draw back, his face unexpectedly white, an incredulous expression in his eyes. "Rose," he said incredulously. "My God! All this time and I never knew. Oh Rose" He went to take her into his arms again but before he could do so she reached out and hit him across the face. "How dare you?" she panted. "Until tonight I believed we were friends. I believed that no matter what happened and what else you did you always respected me. But now now you've made me feel cheap." "Because I kissed you? Because I held you in my arms?" "Yes," she said. "Go back to Susan." And before he could answer she pushed him outside and locked the door in his face. Lance stared at the closed door, suddenly realizing the reason she had rounded on him in this way. She believed he was in love with Susan. What a stupid fool he was not to have guessed! No wonder she hated herself for responding to his kisses. He walked along the corridor to his room. First thing tomorrow he would tell Rose the truth of his relationship with Susan, even if it meant Alan finding out. Damn it all, his own life and happiness were at stake. Tonight for the first time he realized why, since his marriage, he had started to work so determinedly in the business, why he had wanted to make something of his life instead of idling away his time. It had been for Rose, to win her approval and love. Her love. Overwhelmed by the discovery he found sleep difficult, and tossed and turned restlessly. At half past four, bleary- eyed and with a pounding headache, he went to the bathroom in search of sleeping tablets. He knew Didi kept a supply
handy and he routed out all the pill boxes until he found the capsules he wanted. The instructions said only one was to be taken, but determined to have a decent sleep there was so much he was going to say to Rose when he saw her and he wanted to feel on top of the world he took two pills and swallowed them with a glass of water. Then he staggered back to bed and within minutes lay in a slumber so deep that he was not aware of the passing of time, nor of the house stirring to life and the hours slowly passing until the morning had disappeared and noon-time came round. So deep in sleep that he did not know that Rose had left the villa on her way to Nice Airport.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE noise of the plane was a steady drone in her ears as Rose leaned back in her seat and looked through the window at the coastline of France thousands of feet below. One silver wing dipped as they turned northward and within a few moments the blue waters of the Mediterranean could be seen no more and ahead, obscured by cloud, lay the snow-capped mountains of the Alps. From the moment she had locked her bedroom door on Lance, she had known there was only one course of action open to her; to set him free. It was not fair to tie him any longer to a loveless marriage. Once she had decided this, it was as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders. But as the hours passed and she settled down in a chair by the window and watched the dawn slowly rise in the sky, she acknowledged that his behavior had been typical of most men in the same situation. Coming from Susan, his senses still aroused, his passion till unabated, he had taken another woman in his arms and kissed her. There was no insult in it and only hurt pride had made her lose her temper. Her cheeks burned as she remembered the bitter things she had said and the thought of seeing him again filled her with such embarrassment that she determined to leave the villa first thing in the morning. Whatever she had to say to him could be put in a letter; conversation between them would only lead to recriminations or worse still, his reiteration that his marriage was important to him and must continue. She pushed back her chair and began to pace the room again. There was no doubt that if Lance were free he would marry Susan and, because she desperately wanted his happiness, she realized the only way to give it to him was to get an annulment. Then they would both be free to go their separate ways. But would Lance be free? Would he not still be bound to her by guilt? Indeed, it would be even stronger in the realization that he had let her down.
Reluctantly she came to the conclusion that to give Lance his freedom would not be enough; she would have to give him his freedom of mind too. And the only way she could do that was to make herself well again. She thought of the time she had spent in the nursing home and all that the doctor had said to her, wondering in which direction lay the solution. Suddenly, the last conversation she had had with him came to her mind. He had mentioned a Professor Salberg in Switzerland who had perfected an operation which, if successful, would give a complete cure and which, if unsuccessful, could result in death. It was the hardest decision she had ever had to make in her life! To have the operation and run the risk of death, or not have the operation and commit both herself and Lance to a marriage that would become increasingly intolerable as the years passed. The more she thought about it the more she realized that an operation was the only logical action, and when at last dawn filled the sky she had decided to go to Zurich immediately. Only the maids were stirring when she left the villa in an ancient taxi that had come from the nearest village. She had decided against using the chauffeur for fear he would tell Lance her destination, but when she reached the airport and saw the crowds of people she regretted her action, for it was well nigh impossible to get a porter. Luckily the taxi driver took pity on her and carried her case to the desk where she could collect her ticket. She tipped him generously and was rewarded by verbose thanks and a blast of heavy garlic breath that left her gasping as she handed her boarding card to the stewardess and walked across the tarmac to the plane. It was only when Rose landed at Zurich and went into a telephone box to ring the Professor that she realized he might refuse to see her without a letter from her doctor. But it was too late to do anything about it now and she dialled the man's number with a trembling hand. Was he at home or was he abroad on one of his many journeys? A continual burring sounded in her ears and in despair she had decided there was no answer when the receiver was picked up at the other end. A few moments later she emerged from the booth and hailed a taxi, giving the Professor's address in a voice which was already shaky with fear. Rose's interview with him was shorter than she had anticipated for after examining her he told her he could make no decision until he had seen X-rays of her injury.
"If you could give me the name of the doctor who attended you it would save time." "I can't. I don't want to get in touch with him. Seeing Professor Salberg's enquiring look she felt duty bound to explain. "My husband doesn't know I want to have the operation," she said. "If he found out he'd try and stop me. That's why I've told no one. No one at all." "Do you think it wise? After all, your husband has a right to know." "He hasn't," she said firmly. "It's my life and my decision." The Professor stared at her and then seeing she did not intend to say more, picked up a pen and began to write on a paper in front of him. After a moment he lifted up his head and handed her the sheet. "If you'll take this and go to my nursing home, you will be X-rayed. I suggest you spend the night there, because if, after studying the pictures, I decide to operate I will wish to do so at once." "I see____ I" "There's still time for you to change your mind," he said gently. "No. I don't want to change my mind. It's just that somehow I never thought you'd agree to do it so quickly." "I haven't agreed yet, my dear, but if I do decide to go ahead I see no point in keeping you waiting. The longer the wait the greater the fear will become and that is something I do not wish my patients to have." He stood up and Rose followed him to the door. He shook her hand firmly and motioned his receptionist to show her out, promising to call and see her at the nursing home that evening when he would tell her of his final decision. For the whole of the afternoon Rose lay on a hard metal table in the X-ray room of the Professor's clinic on the outskirts of Zurich. She had thought the Xrays she had had after her accident had been thorough, but they were as nothing compared with the dozens of pictures that were taken of her that afternoon. She was photographed from every angle, prodded and poked and questioned until she felt there was nothing about her body that the radiologist
did not know. When all the pictures had been completed she was allowed to go to her bedroom, a green-walled room over- loooking a large, tree shaded garden, now covered with snow. She had forgotten how cold Switzerland could be in the winter and was glad she had had the foresight to bring a woollen bedjacket. But even lying in bed she was not allowed to rest for there were visits from two other doctors who took blood tests and asked her yet more questions. At eight o'clock Professor Salberg came into her room and stood at the foot of her bed. "If you really want this operation," he said gravely, "I am prepared to do it. But I must warn you it is a dangerous one." "I know. But I want you to go ahead." "Don't you think you should let your husband know? At least tell him of your decision and ask him to be here with you." "No. I want to be alone." She leaned forward. "I'd like you to do it as soon as possible." "I've already told you I will. I merely wanted you to know that I was willing to wait for you to contact your husband and get him here. However, your decision is the final one." He held out his hand. "I will operate tomorrow, so next time I see you, you will be in this room after the operation." "Won't I see you in the theatre?" "Not if the anaesthetist does his job properly! Goodnight and God be with you." The words of his benediction helped her to relax. Fear had gone and so had all emotion, leaving her numb. She could think of Lance dispassionately, think of his future with another woman and of her own future, or perhaps no future at all. But no matter what she thought, no emotion penetrated from her brain to her heart, and she closed her eyes and fell asleep. It was well after mid-day when Lance awoke. The pills had done their work well and he yawned and stretched, lying back on the pillows until his strength returned with full vigor. Hurriedly he sat up, pushed aside the bedclothes and
strode into the bathroom whistling under his breath as he shaved and bathed and made his way downstairs. "Rose!" he called as he reached the hall. "Rose, where are you?" There were only two things in his mind. To tell Rose that his flirtation with Susan was a pretence and, more important of all, that he had realized all she herself meant to him. "Rose," he called again. "Where are you?" Alan came out of the library and Susan out of the drawing room. Lance looked from one to the other. ''Where's Rose?" he asked. "I don't know," Susan said. "She isn't in her room and Alan and I thought perhaps you might know." "How on earth should I know? Where's Louise?" He strode into the drawing room and rang the bell, asking the maid who appeared to tell Louise, Rose's personal maid, to come to him at once. When the woman arrived she could shed no light on Rose's absence either. "When I went to her room this morning she was not there and the bed was not slept in. I thought maybe she had not come home last night." "Of course she came home last night," Lance said abruptly. "I went into her bedroom and" he stopped. "Well, never mind, we're not concerned with last night. I want to know where she is now!" He looked at Alan. "Have you spoken to the chauffeur? Maybe she's gone down to town?" Alan shook his head. "She hasn't done that. I checked." Lance looked at Louise again. "Go up to Mrs. Hammond's room and see if anything's missing." The woman went out and Lance lit a cigarette and chainsmoked the minutes away until Louise appeared again. "I've checked in Madame's wardrobe," she said, "and all her clothes are there."
"Well, she can't have gone away," Susan said with a sigh of relief. "But one or two odd things are missing," Louise went on, her guttural voice expressionless. "What sort of things?" Lance asked sharply. "Come on, woman, for heaven's sake out with it." But Louise was not to be hurried and at Lance's impatience her voice became even slower. "Her travelling coat has gone and so have her toilet articles. But she hasn't taken any evening clothes or any furs or jewels." "In that case she can't have intended to go away for long. I wonder if she went to London?" He rubbed the side of his face. "But if she did that, why didn't she ask the chauffeur to take her to the airport?" He picked up the telephone. "What's the number of the local taxi service?" Alan gave it to him and within a moment Lance was speaking to the proprietor. When he put the phone down again he looked puzzled and worried. "Rose apparently rang them early this morning and ordered a taxi to take her to the airport. I can't understand why she didn't use the car." "Maybe she wanted to keep her destination secret," Susan said. "If the taxi driver took her he'd just leave her at the airport, but the chauffeur would be much more likely to know where she was going." "So would the taxi driver," Lane retorted. "They're an inquisitive lot when it comes to celebrities." He dialled the taxi service again and when he put down the receiver this time he looked glum. "We'll have to wait until tonight. The chap who took Rose to the airport went straight on to another job in Le Lavandou. He'll be staying overnight and won't get back until tomorrow." Alan went over to the sideboard and poured a tot of whisky. He added soda and brought the glass over to Lance. "Drink this and don't look so worried. Maybe Rose has gone to see her father. I'll go into the library and phone him." But Alan also drew a blank. Desmond Tiverton had received no word from Rose, although he promised to phone the villa if he heard anything.
Lunch was a gloomy affair, all of them preoccupied with their own fears. There was no doubt in Susan's mind that Rose had left the villa because she loved Lance and she decided to tell Lance what she thought immediately she was alone with him. "I wish I could be as sure of that as you are," he said soberly. "She could also have left the villa because she hated me." "Rubbish!" Susan said scornfully. "Rose is head over heels in love with you. If I hadn't been so preoccupied with my own affairs I'd have seen it from the word go. After all, why should she have married you?" "Because I asked her soon after her accident when she was feeling depressed. And because she knew I needed her that I felt guilty" "That makes me even more certain." Susan was triumphant. "If Rose hadn't loved you she wouldn't have cared how guilty you felt. Honestly, Lance, you really are a fool!" Lance stared into the fire, seeing in the flames pictures of the past. Susan was right. What a fool he had been falling in love with brainless women and not seeing the worth of the one by his side. And yet was that strictly true? Rose had impinged on him from the moment he had met her even when he had been engaged to Enid he had been aware of the charm of the "little florist from the flower shop." In the end, when his romance with Enid had shattered, it was to Rose he had turned. At the time he had believed his offer to marry her had been prompted by guilt, yet now, analyzing his emotions he knew that it had not been guilt at all but a desire to be with her, a belief that only with her could he find some semblance of peace. His blindness had not been that he had lacked love merely that he had failed to recognize it. "Where the hell can she have got to?" he asked abruptly and stopped as the telephone rang. Before he could reach it Alan picked it up in the other room and Lance hurried to the door. He was halfway across the hall when Alan came out of the library, his face white. "That was the taxi proprietor," he said. "He managed to get on to his chap at Le Lavandou. Apparently Rose took the plane to Zurich."
"Zurich? Why on earth would she want to go there?" The two men stared at one another and slowly realization dawned on them. "Isn't there a professor in Zurich who ?" Alan nodded. "I remember her telling me he specialized in spinal operations." "Good lord, I've got to stop her! It's one of the most tricky operations there is." Lance strode into the library, calling to Alan over his shoulder. "Get me the doctor who looked after Rose, will you? I must speak to him immediately and find out the professor's address." Twenty minutes later Lance replaced the telephone with a shaking hand. There was a three-hour delay to Zurich, three hours which might mean the difference between life and death for Rose, the woman he loved. Backwards and forwards he walked across the room, regardless of Alan and Susan watching him with compassion. It was seven o'clock that evening before Lance was able to speak to the Professor's clinic, but even here he met with no success, for no one by name of Rose Hammond was booked in as a patient. Lance, wondering whether she had used another name, asked if he could speak to the Professor himself, for he knew that once he explained Rose's case the man would know immediately whether she were there. But here again he drew blank, for the Professor, having finished a difficult operation, had left the Clinic and could not be reached by telephone. "But I must be able to get him," Lance shouted down the receiver. "Give me his private number." "I'm afraid we cannot do that," said the voice at the other end. "The Herr Professor is very tired and is not to be disturbed on any account." "But what about the patient he's operated on?" Lance stormed. "Say something goes wrong there, won't you call him?" "The Professor will naturally be called if his patient needs him," the voice said with finality, "but he must not be called for anyone else. He has a big operation in the morning and needs to rest."
Cursing under his breath, Lance put down the telephone. "These officious people in hospitals There's only one thing for it. I'll have to fly to Zurich. I feel in my bones Rose is there. Damn it all, why else would she want to go?" He left the room and Alan heard him run up the stairs. "Do you think I should go with him?" Susan asked. "Don't you think you might be in the way? After all, it was because of you that Rose left here." Susan reddened. "I suppose you mean because of my flirtation with Lance?" "What else? You know damn well Rose was in love with him. If you and Lance decided you were meant for each other you should at least have had the guts to go and tell her and not humiliate her the way you did." "I we when we started we didn't realize it would upset her." She looked at him pleadingly. "Lance told me Rose wasn't in love with him." "And you believed him? Haven't you eyes? Surely you can tell when one person's in love with another?" Even as Alan posed the question he knew he was not being fair. Damn it, Susan had no idea how he felt towards her! She was staring at him now with such hurt on her face that he longed to take her in his arms. "I'm sorry," he said huskily. "I've no right to blame you or Lance either. Rose was good at keeping her emotions a secret." "It still doesn't excuse our behavior," Susan said quickly. "We were rather cheap in the way we acted. I didn't want to agree to the flirtation but at the time it didn't seem such a bad idea." Alan did not notice her strange use of the word 'agreed' and Susan, watching his face and desperately hoping he would ask her what she meant, was forced to the belief that he cared so little about her that he did not take any notice of what she said. "If anything's happened to Rose," he said unexpectedly, "I'll never forgive you
or Lance." Susan trembled. Never had she heard Alan so vehement nor seen him display such emotion. Could Rose be the woman he loved? She knew he had asked to leave Lance's employ and the reason for it now became clear. He could not bear to be in a job that would bring him in constant contact with Rose. Suddenly she was swept by defeat. How childish she had been to think that by making Alan see her as a woman she could also make him fall in love with her. If love did not come of its own accord it was not worth having. She sank on to the settee and brushed her hand across her eyes. "For heaven's sake don't start crying," Alan said jerkily. "That'll be the last straw!" "Leave me alone! Do you think I'm so heartless that I haven't any feeling?" "Being sorry won't bring her back." "Neither will your shouting at me!" He stopped short. "Forgive me. You're quite right. I've no business talking to you this way. It's just that" "You needn't explain," Susan said lifelessly. "When you love someone you lose your sense of proportion." "You certainly do." She gripped her hands together. "Did Rose know?" "Know what?" "That you loved her?" Alan blinked. "Loved her? Why should she? I was never in love with her." Susan sat motionless, not sure she had heard aright. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "The way you've been acting the last few hours I got the impression Rose was the woman you loved."
"Why are you so interested in my love life?" Susan looked away from him, despising herself for the tears that rushed into her eyes. Normally she was able to control her feelings but today, after all the suspense and worry, she was no longer mistress of herself. Pride seemed a small thing to worry about compared with the sacrifice Rose was prepared to make for the man she loved. "Well?" Alan said again. "Why are you so interested in my love life?" Susan took her courage in both hands. "Because I happen to be in love with you myself." Alan looked at her as if he were not sure he had heard correctly. "What did you say?" "I said that I happened to be in love with you myself and have been ever since I came out of finishing school." "You must be out of your mind. What have I got to offer you?" "You!" He gave a short laugh. "Lance Hammond's secretary. Do you see me as a suitable match for Susan Rogers?" "Why not? If you love me, that is." "If I love you? What do you mean IF I love you? Don't you know I've never loved anyone else from the moment I set eyes on you?" Suddenly words were no longer necessary between them and they were in each other's arms, whispering all the incoherent things that lovers whisper in the first moments of their delight. It was Susan who came back to reality first and she drew a little away from him and caressed his cheek. "If only you'd told me the way you felt we could have saved ourselves so much heartache." "It would have saved Rose a lot of heartache too," he said quietly and then, seeing the hurt look on her face, tenderly kissed the tip of her nose. "I've
allowed my. emotions to get the better of me," he said huskily. "It's probably the worry over Rose that did it." Her eyes widened with fear. "What do you mean?" "Don't look like that, my darling. I'm not trying to tell you I don't love you; merely that I love you too _much to marry you." "How can you love me too much to marry me?" "Because I haven't anything to offer you and I'm not the sort of man who'd be content to live on his wife's money. What do you think people would say if you married me, Susan? That I was marrying you because you're rich." "Do you think I care what people say? Oh Alan, credit me with more sense than that!" She twined her arms around his neck. "If I'd realized you were stupid enough to let a thing like money come between us I'd have proposed to you long ago! But you covered up your feelings so well I was positive you hated the sight of me." He groaned. "What a thing to say! I can't even think straight when I'm near you. Go away from me, Susan." "Not until you ask me to marry you. Then if you go back on your word I'll sue you for breach of promise!" "I can't marry you. It's out of the question." "It's nothing of the sort. You can keep your job with Lance or you can do anything else you want, but you've got to make me your wife." She pressed her body against his and rained little kisses over his face. He tried to pull away from her but she would not untwine her arms and, pulling his head down, touched his mouth with her own. It was this final touch that broke the last of his defences and he swept her close again, everything else forgotten. "You she-devil," he said. "I love you so much I can't face life without you." They remained together until Lance came in, and seeing them the sadness on his face lifted momentarily.
"Well, one good thing's happened out of all this," he said. "I'm glad you two have finally come to your senses." Alan, covered in lipstick, tried to look sombre. "Would you like me to go with you to Zurich ?" "Thanks all the same. But there's no point in it. You stay here in case Desmond rings through. If you've any news you can get me at the Baur au Lac." He glanced at his watch. "I've an hour until the plane leaves. Hell! I wish I had wings to get there on my own." It was midnight before Lance arrived at Zurich Airport. Storms delayed their touch-down and they had to circle over the aerodrome for nearly an hour. Fuming at the delay, Lance realized it was too late for him to contact the Professor. He would have to do it first thing in the morning. Tired and dispirited he checked in at the hotel and leaving a message to be called at seven-thirty a.m. went to bed. He was awake long before the telephone rang and was downstairs ready to leave the hotel by eight o'clock. He had telephoned the Professor's house and learning that the surgeon had already left for the clinic, decided it would save time if he drove straight there. Never had a taxi seemed to go more slowly, but eventually they left the busy streets of Zurich behind and slowly crunched their way up into the mountains to the villa that stood in its own grounds high above the city. A white-coated receptionist was seated at a desk in the entrance hall, and took his name with a smile. "I'm afraid your wife isn't staying here," she said, "but if you'd like to wait I will talk to the Professor as soon as he has left the operating theatre." Lance's heart throbbed violently. "Do you mean he's operating on someone already?" "Yes. It's a very difficult one this morning and he won't be free for another few hours. If you go into the waiting room I'll send you some coffee." Lance followed another receptionist into a glass-walled room overlooking the
garden. It was so quiet it was difficult to believe he was in the heart of a bustling hospital and he wondered which of the rooms was the operating theatre. He walked over to the window and looked out, but there was nothing to be seen except snow and trees whose leafless boughs pointed to the grey skies. Slowly the hours passed and it was well after noon before the door opened and Professor Salberg came in. "Mr. Hammond," he said gravely. "I'm sorry you've had so much trouble trying to see me. I knew nothing about it until now." "That's all right," Lance said, instantly liking the grave- faced man in front of him. "I realize someone in your position has to safeguard their spare time." "Even so, my nurse last night should have got in touch with me." Lance's heart sank for the Professor's words seemed to signify that he had been right in assuming Rose was here. "It's about my wife," he said nervously. "I know there's no one called Hammond staying here" "Your wife is here," Professor Salberg said. "But it wasn't until I learned just now that a Mr. Lance Hammond had been trying to contact me urgently that I realized why your wife's face had been so familiar to me. I had seen it many times in the papers but one doesn't connect these things." He paused. "The name she is using is Miss Flowers." Lance gave an exclamation. "Where is she? I've got to see her at once." "You'll have to wait until this evening, I'm afraid. She isn't allowed any visitors." The blood drained from Lance's face. "What have you done to her?" "I operated on your wife at seven o'clock this morning, Mr. Hammond." In silence Lance groped for a chair and sat down, and the Professor placed a hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry it has happened this way. I talked very seriously to your wife about
having the operation without letting you know, but she was adamant." "Why did you do it then ?" Lance lifted a face that was ravaged with fear. "Why did you do it? Couldn't you have tried to get in touch with me?" "I didn't know your name," the Professor said gently as if he were talking to a child. "Then you shouldn't have done the operation at all! Supposing she'd died under the anaesthetic? How could you have got in touch with her family?" "Your wife left a sealed envelope for us to open should she not recover. But you must remember one thing, Mr. Hammond. When she came to see me yesterday she was a woman who had made up her mind what she wanted to do. She is not a child and in the long run, whether you would agree to it or not, the final decision rested with her." Lance nodded. "I'm sorry. I'd no right to be annoyed with you." "I understand how you feel. In England a surgeon would not operate without the consent of the family, but I've always made my own rules." He shrugged. "Had I not done so there are many operations I would not have performed. Even now many of my colleagues do not agree with me." The Professor's words only served to increase the despair that Lance already felt and hardly daring to utter the words, he said: "When will you know the result of the operation?" "Not until Mrs. Hammond recovers consciousness. You see, it is such a delicate one to perform that the line between success and failure is too fine even for me to judge. As far as I can tell it was a success, but not until consciousness returns will we know for certain that Mrs. Hammond can move." "But she's come through the operation all right?" "Oh, perfectly, and that is one hurdle overcome. Now if you'll take my advice you'll go back to your hotel and rest. Your wife won't be properly awake until this evening, but by the time you return we should know whether or not she is paralyzed." "Paralyzed!" How matter-of-factly the man uttered the word and yet what horror it held. Like a man in a dream Lance returned to the hotel and put
through a call to the villa to let Alan and Susan know what had happened. Then he telephoned Rose's father, making a supreme effort not to break down. "I don't think there's any point in you flying out here. As soon as I've any news I'll let you know." "I think I'll fly out anyway," Desmond said at once. "But I'll put your mother on to you." Lance spoke to his mother, too distraught to wonder at her being with Rose's father, and only after he had been talking to her for a couple of moments did he think to question her. "We're going to get married," she said, her voice as young and girlish as he had always remembered it. "We weren't going to tell you until you and Rose came home, but in the circumstances" "I couldn't be more delighted," Lance said and as he put down the telephone he wished he could have heard the news under happier circumstances. Slowly the hours dragged by, each one seeming longer than the last, until finally he heard a church clock in the distance chime seven. The day was over; soon he would hear the worst or the best news in his life. Lance had never considered himself a nervous man but as he entered the clinic he was so full of fear he could hardly walk. The receptionist's face gave nothing away and he followed the stiff back down to the waiting room, where he paced the floor, anxiously wondering what had happened to the Professor. Only five minutes passed but it seemed like an eternity before the door opened and the man stood there, his face wreathed in smiles. "Good news, Mr. Hammond. The operation has been a success! It will now be a matter of time and exercises, but in a month she should be able to walk completely free of pain and without any limp whatever." Lance was too overcome with joy to speak and the Professor walked over to the window and stared at the view, giving him a chance to compose himself. "I wonder if I could see her now?" he said at last. "She's still tired from the anaesthetic, but I don't see why not."
He led the way along the corridor and up in a lift to the third floor. A nurse was coming out of a room at the far end and it was to this one that the Professor made his way. He paused with his hand on the door. "Don't excite her," he cautioned and then stepped back. Lance crossed the threshold and looked at the figure on the bed. Rose lay still and pale under the coverlet, a nurse beside her. "Only a couple of minutes," she said softly and stepped out of the room. Lance tiptoeing over the floor bent to kiss Rose's brow. She opened her eyes and stared at him wonderingly. "Lance! What are you doing here?" "I came to find you," he said huskily, "as I'll always come to find you, my darling, wherever you are." "I don't understand." "There are so many things you don't understand, and I haven't time to explain now. All I want you to know is that I don't love Susan and I don't love any woman other than you." Tears filled her eyes and with an exclamation he put his lips to them, tasting the salt. "Don't cry, Rose. I don't want you ever to cry again." "They're tears of joy," she whispered. "I I had the operation." "I know, and it's been a wonderful success. Now go to sleep, my darling, and remember I'll be by your side always." "By my side always." Rose repeated the words and with a contented sigh closed her eyes. Lance remained by the bedside, not leaving it even when the nurse returned. Looking at the sleeping form of his wife he vowed that no matter what happened in the future he would do his best never to cause her a moment's pain or doubt. From now on they would face life together, strong in their love; happy in the knowledge that the future was theirs.
THE END

Hoa

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Hoa

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (1 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:25 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (5 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:25 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (6 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:25 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (8 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:25 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (13 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:25 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (14 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:25 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (20 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (21 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (22 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (25 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (26 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (30 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (31 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (35 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (36 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (37 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (40 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

file:///D|/other/Words/1104/Harlequin%20Vintage%2...Heart%20of%20a%20Rose%20-%20Rachel%20Lindsay.html (42 of 182) [11/06/2012 3:56:26 PM]

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose