Anne Mather - A Trial Marriage

‘I—are you going down to dinner?’ she stammered, needing the release of conversation, but he shook his head with wry impatience.

‘I’ve had dinner,’ he told her flatly, and her arms slid round her waist in an instinctively defensive gesture.

‘I’m late,’ she volunteered, and then the lift had reached the ground floor, and the doors were rolling back.

He stood back to allow her to precede him, and she went ahead jerkily, wishing she wasn’t always at a disadvantage with him. If only she had had Minstrel with her, she might have stood a chance of going with him, wherever he was going. But that was purely wishful thinking.

He followed her out of the lift, and then, as if aware of her thoughts, he said: ‘No dog today?’

‘No.’ Her smile was fleeting.

His mouth curled. ‘I like your dress.’

The colour in her cheeks deepened again. ‘Thank you.’

His lips twitched, and then, as if regretting the impulse to compliment her, he turned away. ‘Enjoy your dinner.’

Rachel watched him cross the lobby and disappear through the revolving doors with clenched frustration. Now why had he said that? Did he really like her dress, or was he feeling sorry for her now? Whatever! He had gone, and she had to go and face Della’s undoubted irritation because she was late.

But as she crossed the lobby towards the restaurant, Carl Yates’ voice hailed her. The young manager of the Tor Court would stir a few hearts himself, she thought inconsequently, although she herself didn’t go for husky Vikings with shoulder-length blond hair.

‘Oh, Miss Lesley,’ he said now, his roving eyes revealing a deepening interest. ‘Mrs Faulkner-Stewart asked me to get her tickets for the concert at the Conservatory.’ He waved a white envelope. ‘Will you give them to her?’

‘Thank you.’

Rachel took the envelope, wondering why he had chosen to give her the tickets. Normally he used bell-hops to run his messages for him, and he must know that Della was always to be found taking dinner at this time.

‘You’re looking particularly attractive this evening, Miss Lesley,’ he continued, with the assurance of a man not accustomed to being rebuffed. ‘I didn’t know you knew Jake—Allan.’

Rachel’s smile was forced. ‘I’ll give Mrs. Faulkner-Stewart the tickets,’ she said, and gained a certain malicious satisfaction from his chagrin as she sauntered into the restaurant.

Della had not waited for her. She was already half-way through her smoked salmon, and she took the envelope Rachel proffered with unconcealed annoyance.

‘I don’t pay you to loiter about in hotel lobbies, Rachel!’ she stated, in audible tones, and Rachel couldn’t help reflecting, as she reached for an olive, that pride always came before a fall.

Even so, as she lay in bed that night, she found herself reliving those moments in the lift. So—his name was Jake. At least she could thank Carl Yates for that small piece of information. Jake Allan? Yes, she liked it. It suited him.

During the following days, Rachel had little time to herself. Della took to her bed with a stomach disorder the morning following the encounter in the lift, and her fretful demands kept her companion on her toes. There was not even the evening bridge sessions to break the monotony, and apart from those occasions when she managed to slip out of the hotel on the pretext of exercising Minstrel, Rachel was kept busy. She told herself that it was just as well, that time would put things into a better perspective, but the truth was she grew more and more anxious to see him as each day passed. She even began to worry about him, wondering if he had been taken ill again, and whether anyone was looking after him. But there was no one she could ask, apart from Carl Yates, and she had no desire to alert him to her interest. So she ran Della’s errands, read to her when she felt like it, looked after Minstrel, and generally made herself useful, trying, not very successfully, to enjoy her life as she had always managed to do.

Towards the end of the week Della was sufficiently recovered to come down for dinner, and Rachel, who had become used to taking her meals in her room, dressed for dinner with some trepidation. What if he was in the restaurant? Would he have noticed her long absence? Hardly likely, as he seldom ate in the restaurant anyway. But if he was feeling better …

She wore the chemise dress deliberately. It was flattering, she decided, and with her hair loose about her bare shoulders, she could hold her own—at least, with other girls of her own age.

But Jake Allan was not dining in the restaurant. The table he occasionally occupied was vacant, and the absence of cutlery indicated that it was not about to be used. Rachel’s lips compressed disappointedly, and Della, unusually alert after her period of isolation, narrowed mascaraed lids.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, glancing round curiously. ‘Is the Colonel trying to attract your attention again? He really is the most impossible old roué! I shall have a word with Mr Yates——’

‘Oh, please!’ Rachel shook her head nervously. ‘The Colonel isn’t even looking this way! I—I was just thinking, that’s all.’

‘What about?’ Della looked suspicious.

‘Nothing much.’ Rachel managed to distract her attention by opening the menu. ‘Oh, look! They’ve got your favourite food here. Tournedos! They must have known you’d be feeling better this evening.’

When the meal was over, the elderly Colonel Della had been grumbling about earlier approached their table. He subjected Rachel’s cleavage to minute inspection, and then turning to Della exclaimed gallantly. ‘Good to see you back, my dear. Game hasn’t been the same without you! You will be joining us this evening, I hope.’

Della’s indignation melted beneath such outright flattery.

‘I’ve missed our little get-togethers, too, Colonel,’ she assured him coyly. ‘And I know it’s no fun playing with three and a dummy hand.’

The Colonel’s wicked old eyes flickered over Rachel again. Then he turned his attention to what Della was saying: ‘What? Oh, yes. Well, as a matter of fact, dear lady, we managed to persuade one of the other guests to join us yesterday evening. You’ve probably seen him around. A Mr Allan.’

Rachel managed to control the start the Colonel’s words had given her, and concentrated on her hands curled tightly together in her lap, as Della answered: ‘Mr Allan !’ Her interest was evident. ‘Oh, yes. I know who you mean, Colonel. But …’ She paused, obviously searching for words to disguise her real feelings. ‘He seems such a—quiet man. Always keeping himself to himself.’

‘Yes.’ The Colonel was losing interest in the conversation. ‘So you’ll be joining us later?’

‘Of course.’ Della moistened her upper lip. ‘Will—er—will Mr Allan be joining us this evening?’

The Colonel shook his head, and unable to catch Rachel’s attention, started to move away. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Only played because I bullied him into it. See you later, dear lady.’

After the Colonel had gone, Della made a little sound of excitement. ‘Imagine that! Him playing cards. It’s interesting to know he’s not as unapproachable as he appears. Isn’t it?’ Rachel didn’t answer. ‘Isn’t it?’ she repeated.

Rachel forced herself to look up, but all she could think was that last night, when she had passed through the lobby on her way out to take Minstrel for his walk, Jake Allan had been only a dozen yards away, in the lounge, playing bridge ! It was infuriating!

‘You—you seem very concerned,’ she said at last, biting back her own frustration.

Della sighed irritably. ‘Well, why not? He is the most interesting man in the hotel, after all!’