The Other Linding Girl (21 page)

“He hasn’t been in, Miss Linding. I’m not sure that he’s coming in today, as a matter of fact. He telephoned early and said we could expect him when we saw him. Try his home number. It’s—”

“I’ve tried his home number.” She spoke more forlornly than she knew. “He’s not in.”

“Oh—well, I don’t know quite where else to suggest. Unless—” there was a pause—“I suppose he might be at the McGraths’ place. He goes there quite a lot. You might try there.”

“Yes, I suppose I might,” agreed Rachel calmly, though she went quite still and cold at Jerry’s words. “Thank you so much.”

Then she rang off, and sat there staring at the telephone.

She should have thought of that before! Such a horrible possibility—but quite a logical one. He might well have gone to Fiona’s house to make it up with her. Not
necessarily,
she tried to assure herself almost violently. But—quite possibly.

Suppose, for instance, that the events of last night had been quite different from anything she and Florian had imagined? Suppose Nigel had merely quarrelled with Fiona before the party, in the way any two people can quarrel. That might even be one explanation of his advances to herself. But, having been violently rejected, he would probably regret his quarrel with Fiona.

Then what would be his first reaction this morning?—Why, to go round and make things up, of course. All the more speedily and ardently in view of the fact that he must know he had offended Fiona almost mortally, by leaving her flat on the very evening on which they meant to announce their engagement.

“That could be the full explanation,” Rachel told herself. And so appalled was she by the thought that she would have put her head on her arms and wept, if she had not been denied that luxury by the sudden and quite unexpected appearance of Hester.

It was so seldom that Hester came into the office—or indeed showed the slightest interest in the professional side of her husband’s life—that Rachel was surprised to see her. Still more was she surprised when her young aunt sat down, on the other side of the desk, with every appearance of remaining for a while.

“I thought you might be over at the Nursing Home,” she observed, absently pushing one or two things to and fro on Rachel’s desk.

“I’m going over there in about half an hour,” Rachel explained. “There were some things to finish here first. Did you want anything, Hester?”

“Only to ask you something.” Hester looked up suddenly. “Have you seen or spoken to Keith Elman lately?”

“To Keith Elman?” With an effort, Rachel wrenched her thoughts away from her own affairs, and realised that, for once, her aunt looked preoccupied and even a shade anxious. “Well—yes. He spoke to me at the Gloria, two—no, three—evenings ago, when I went to see the Florians about the final arrangements for the show.”

“What did he say?” Hester spoke as though she had every right to know.

“Rather a lot of nonsense, to tell the truth,” Rachel replied drily. “He seemed very sore at your having given him his marching orders, and insisted on describing his own feelings at some length.”

“Did he—” Hester seemed to have some difficulty in finding the right words—“did he make any sort of— threat?”

“Threat?”
Suddenly, something of Hester’s disquiet communicated itself to Rachel, and she remembered quite vividly Keith Elman’s disgruntled mutterings. “He said something about not always being the passive one— that he too could take decisions and alter situations, if he chose.”

“What did he mean by that, exactly?” Hester asked sharply.

“I—don’t know. I took it to mean that he soothed his hurt vanity with the thought that he could make trouble about—about his relationship with you. I didn’t encourage him to enlarge on the subject. I thought it best to treat the whole thing as nonsense.”

Hester was silent for a moment. Then she said slowly,

“He telephoned to me half an hour ago. He talked a lot of nonsense, as you said. And when I choked him off, he threatened to make trouble with Everard.”

“Oh—” Rachel bit her lip. “Do you think he really would?”

“I don’t know. I never took him very seriously—in any sense,” said Hester, with a devastating simplicity which showed, Rachel could not help thinking, how she must sometimes have got under the skin of the vain Keith Elman. “I can see, of course, that he doesn’t say anything damaging to Everard when I am there. But it occurred to me—” again she shifted one or two small articles on the desk—“that he might simply seek a professional appointment with Everard—and then take the opportunity to talk. That’s why I came to you. You keep Everard’s appointments book, don't you?”

‘Yes, of course.”

“Both here and at the Nursing Home?"

“Certainly. Though, as you know, Uncle sees very few people here. Almost all of his professional appointments are taken at the Nursing Home.”

“I know. But you keep tabs on them all, Rachel, don’t you?
All
of them?”

“If an actual appointment is made—yes.”

“That’s what I wanted to make sure of. If Keith’s name should appear at any time, please let me know. I shall know how to deal with the situation.”

“Very well,” said Rachel—though reluctantly, for her father’s ideas of professional etiquette were strong upon her and, even in these unusual circumstances, she was disquieted by such unorthodox behaviour.

“That’s all right, then.” Hester got to her feet with a satisfied air. “I think I’ve stopped every hole.” And she went away, leaving Rachel to finish her work.

This took her very little time. But even then there was not much chance to think about her own affairs, for she had to hurry over to the Nursing Home, where an extremely busy morning awaited her. Indeed, except for a brief pause for a sandwich and a cup of coffee, Rachel worked right through until four o’clock. Then, with everything finished at last, she returned home, eager yet dreading to try her luck once more with a telephone call to Nigel.

As she came into the house, everything seemed very quiet, which argued that Paula was probably not yet home, and so there would be no interruption. In addition, Rachel rather thought that Hester was out too. Her uncle, she knew, was still over at the Nursing Home, and it seemed that,, but for the servants, the house was hers.

Then, even as she stood there-by the hall table, a door upstairs opened and closed again and someone came running down the stairs. Rachel looked up quickly and, to her indescribable Joy, she saw that it was Nigel. “Nigel!” She started forward, everything else forgotten in the relief and happiness of seeing him at last. “I tried to get you on the phone this morning, but—”

“Did you?” He stopped a few steps above her, and looked down at her, unsmilingly, like a stranger. “Whatever for? You must have known I wouldn’t want to speak to you.”

“Oh—!” She put the back of her hand against her mouth, as though he had slapped her across the face. “Please don’t say that. I do understand about your being so angry with me. But I wanted to explain— Things are different—”

“Nothing is different, so far as I’m concerned,” he told her deliberately. “Aren’t you rather making a nuisance of yourself mow?”

“Nigel!” She fell back from him, and he took the opportunity to come down the few remaining stairs. “How can you speak to me so? You’ve always been so kind—so indulgent—”

“Rather a mug, you mean?” He gave a cold little smile which she did not know.

“I don't mean that! I mean—” she put out her hand on his arm. But, to her horror, he brushed off her fingers.

“Please don’t be so persistent,” he said. “Don’t you know when your winning little ways are palling?”

And, putting her aside out of his path, he crossed the hall, opened the front door and went out, slamming it after him.

“Nigel—” she whispered his name again, even though he had gone. “Nigel—”

Then, because she could no longer keep back the tears, she turned and rushed upstairs—up the two flights of stairs without a pause— until she reached the sanctuary of her own room. And here she flung herself full length on the bed and wept as she had never wept in her life before.

It was not possible that Nigel—that
anyone
—could look at her or speak to her like that. As though she were no more than an unwelcome blot on the landscape. It was infamous of him, however angry—however furiously hurt—he had been by anything she had said the previous evening.

What
had
she said, now that she came to think of it?

Rachel sat up and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, and

tried to recall every word of that unfortunate interview.

She had said she did not love him, of course. But, even if that had been true, it was not a crime or even an insult. She had told him he had no right to make love to her—that he was not a free agent and had no independence of his own. Well, that would have been true if, as she had supposed, he was engaged to Fiona. He should have given her time to explain that she had meant that in those special circumstances. He must have
known
that was the case.

Why should he want to pick this ghastly fresh quarrel with her now?—Unless, of course—she turned cold at the thought—he had indeed made things up with Fiona and knew he must erect an. impassable barrier against herself.

This theory seemed so likely that, for a long time, Rachel sat on the side of her bed, quite still, not even crying any more, just trying to adjust herself to a fresh acceptance of the fact that Fiona had won.

From time to time, she was aware of sounds from below— occasional comings and goings, and once the sound of Paula’s voice. But nothing made a complete impression upon her, and she simply could not bring herself to the point of washing her tear-stained face and going downstairs to tackle life again. In a minute perhaps —In five minutes—

Then, from far below, she heard the sound of the doorbell, and she was suddenly obsessed by the idea that Nigel had returned—penitent, eager for explanations.

She rushed to the wash-basin and splashed water on her face, ran a comb through her disordered hair, added a touch of lipstick to her pale lips, and hoped she looked less forlorn than her mirror suggested.

She had been as quick as she could, but even so, she felt that precious moments had been wasted, as she came out of her room and leaned over the banister to look into the staircase well below.

Two sets of footsteps were ascending the first flight of stairs—a man’s and the lighter step of Peggy, the parlourmaid, But from where she was standing, Rachel could not yet see who was there.

Then Peggy came Into view and paused at the drawingroom door to say, “This way, sir. ” She stood aside for someone to pass her, and, for the briefest of moments, Rachel saw the other person.

The visitor was not Nigel. It was Keith Elman.

CHAPTER IX

“Peggy! ” Rachel spoke in an urgent whisper, and she was down on the next floor almost before the drawingroom door had closed. “Peggy, who was that you showed in just now?”

“A visitor for Sir Everard, miss.”

“
Yes,
yes! But what was his name?” She had to make sure she had not been mistaken in that panic-stricken moment of observation.

“Mr. Elman, miss. ”

Rachel drew in her breath on a slight gasp and asked, “Is Lady Linding in?”

“No.” Peggy shook her head. “He asked first for my lady, and when he heard she was not at home, he asked to see Sir Everard.” “I see. Mr. Mayforth doesn’t happen to be in the house, does he?”

“No, miss.” By now Peggy was beginning to look faintly curious at this anxious inquisition.

“Very well,” said Rachel, trying to control her agitation, and she turned away and started to go upstairs again, as though returning to her own room.

But as soon as the sound of the maid’s footsteps died away downstairs, she leaned against the wall and shut her eyes, wondering what on earth she was to do. There was no one— literally no one—but herself to deal with the situation, and it was difficult to know if one would do more harm by interfering than by minding one’s own business.

And yet if Keith Elman had actually gone as far as to seek an interview with her uncle in his own house, he must be set on making as much mischief as he could. Which meant that someone—inevitably, Rachel—must do something to counteract the first impression, before Sir Everard could start brooding over whatever tale the wretched Keith chose to tell.

Rachel ran an agitated hand over her hair. Then, instinctively squaring her shoulders, she went downstairs, and into the drawing-room.

As she entered, it struck her that it was like walking on to the

stage in a domestic drama which was being not very well acted by amateurs; Her uncle was standing by the fireplace, his arm along the mantelpiece, looking slightly larger than life, somehow, and as handsome as any actor-manager of the nineties. His visitor, on the other hand, was sitting down, and his thin, nervy, feverish face was raised to Sir Everard’s, with an expression of half scared triumph.

“Hello, Uncle,” said Rachel, in her most matter-of-fact manner. And then—“Hello, Keith, what are you doing here?” And her tone conveyed that he was an intruder, and a not very highly rated one, at that.