Anne Mather - A Trial Marriage

The girl gasped. ‘I do not go around picking up strange men! I felt—sorry for you, that’s all!’

Jake’s reaction to this was violent. That this girl, this child —for she was little more—should feel sorry for him ! Didn’t she know who he was? Had she no conception to whom she was speaking?

But of course she hadn’t. So far as she was concerned, he was plain Mr Allan, and to her he must present a very different figure from the image he had previously taken for granted. This realisation was strangely reassuring, and in spite of his lingering impatience, his anger was dispersing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last, with something approaching apology in his voice. ‘I—well, I’ve been out of touch with humanity for some time, and I seem to have lost the habit of civility.’

Immediately the girl’s face was transformed, and a wide smile gave it a beauty he had not previously observed. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, without rancour. ‘I guessed you’d been ill. You don’t look the usual kind of man who would choose to stay at the Tor Court at this time of the year.’

Jake wondered how to answer that. ‘No?’ he probed, with irony. Then: ‘I suppose not.’

The poodle provided a welcome diversion at that moment, making a noisy attack at a snapping Pekinese who was being dragged out of its way by its irate owner. The girl exclaimed: ‘Oh, glory!’ and darted forward to rescue the poodle’s collar, and her laughing apology to the red-faced woman in charge of the Pekinese brought an unwilling deprecation from her lips. Jake watched the exchange with reluctant admiration, and then realised he was wasting a perfectly good opportunity to make his departure. Curiously enough he was less eager to leave now, but the remembrance of what the girl had said still rankled, and ridiculous though it was he resented the feeling of being the object of anyone’s pity. That was something he could do without.

Even so, he couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder as he walked away between the cultivated borders, and felt a moment’s regret when he saw she had turned back towards the hotel. But only a moment’s. She was a nice kid, and probably he had judged her too harshly—after all, nowadays young people seemed to have few inhibitions about anything, and she had only been friendly, as she said—but it wasn’t in His interests to become too friendly with anyone at the hotel. No matter how nice people were, they always wanted to know everything about you, and that was something Jake wanted to avoid. Besides, he could imagine Mrs Faulkner-Stewart’s reactions if she thought her companion was becoming friendly with a man of his age. No matter how innocent an association might be, someone could always put the wrong interpretation upon it. He could almost see the headlines in the newspapers now: Middle-aged tycoon takes rest cure with schoolgirl! God, he shuddered to think of it. The poodle had provided him with a lucky escape, and in future he would ensure that his walks did not coincide with exercising the dog.

RACHEL did not see him again for several days.

Even though she took to lingering for a few minutes in the lobby before taking Minstrel out for his evening walk, there was never any sign of the tall, dark man whose haggard features had begun to haunt her dreams. He never appeared at mealtimes, and in spite of Della’s attempts to draw the manager into conversation, Mr Yates seemed curiously loath to discuss the occupant of the first floor suite.

Rachel didn’t altogether understand her own interest in him. After all, he had shown in no uncertain manner that he did not welcome companionship, and he obviously regarded her as something of a nuisance in spite of his reluctant apology. But for all that, she had not mentioned their encounter to Della, and squeezed a small measure of comfort from the knowledge that her employer had not even spoken to him.

Her employer! Rachel grimaced at the thought, as she steered Della Faulkner-Stewart’s Mini into the parking area outside the hotel. Six months ago she would never have considered such an occupation, but circumstances could change so many things. Six months ago she had been dreaming of going to Oxford, of getting her degree. Until her father had contracted polio and died all in the space of three weeks, and her mother, dazed after so little sleep, had crashed her car into level crossing gates just as a train was passing. At least, that was the coroner’s verdict, though Rachel herself suspected that she had not wanted to go on living. She had been an only child, and she had always known her presence had never really been necessary. Her parents were complete unto themselves, and she had been at times a rather annoying encumbrance.

Nevertheless, the dual tragedy had left her stunned, and the solicitors’ subsequent information that apart from a couple of insurance policies, which would provide sufficient funds to pay all outstanding debts, she was penniless, had left her curiously unmoved.

That was when Della Faulkner-Stewart had taken over. She had been a school friend of Rachel’s mother’s, and although they had not seen her for some years, she had arrived in Nottingham for Mr Lesley’s funeral. That she was still in town when Mrs Lesley also died was, she said, a blessing, and she had insisted that Rachel should not attempt her final examinations at such a time. There was no hurry, she said. She herself needed a companion—her previous companion had taken the unforgivable step of getting married—and why didn’t Rachel come and live with her for a while? They could help one another.

In her numbed state, Rachel was only too willing to let someone else take responsibility for her. It wasn’t until some weeks afterwards, when she found herself at Della’s constant beck and call, that she began to appreciate what she had forfeited. But still, she had a little money of her own, and until she could afford to take her finals, she was persuaded that she could be a lot worse off.

Della’s husband was dead, too, and sometimes Rachel wondered whether that was why she had come to Nottingham in the first place. Perhaps she had hoped to persuade Rachel’s mother to take over the position as her companion, but Mrs Lesley had been too grief-stricken at that time to consider it. The truth was, Della was not the most considerate of employers, and although her husband had left her comfortably placed, she resented being without a man to care for her. Consequently, she spent little time at her London home, preferring to live in hotels, always in the hope of finding some man to take her late husband’s place. Her only stipulation was that he should be English. She despised Europeans, and seldom went abroad, preferring wholesome British food to what she termed as ‘foreign muck’.

Yet, for all that, Rachel was not actively unhappy. On the contrary, she was naturally a pleasant-natured girl, and apart from an occasional yearning for dreaming spires, she lived quite contentedly, prepared to wait another year or two before striking out on her own.

Now, she pulled the Mini into its space, calmed the excitable poodle behind her, and opened her door. As she stepped out into the cool afternoon air, it was starting to rain, and she reached for Minstrel’s lead before allowing him to get out and possibly decorate her navy slacks with muddy paw marks. There was a strange car parked alongside the Mini, one which she had not seen before, and she studied its elegant lines before turning and walking towards the hotel. As she neared the entrance two men came out of the hotel, talking together, and her pulses quickened alarmingly when she recognised Mr Allan and another man.

That he had recognised her, too, there was no doubt, but she sensed his reluctance to acknowledge the fact. However, short of cutting her dead, there was nothing else he could do, and his lips curved in the semblance of a polite smile, while his eyes looked right through her. She wondered if he knew how that look affected her, and how her palms moistened when he said quietly: ‘Hello!’