Never to Love (19 page)

The next instant she was locked in his arms.

When she awoke
it was still dark. She appeared to be lying on the edge of the bed and her, pillow had disappeared.
After a moment or two she dangled an arm over the side
and found it wedged between the bed and the cabinet. As
she hauled it back into place she noticed the luminous
hands of the clock pointed to five minutes past ten. Puzzled,
she rolled over and looked at the windows. A glimmer of light showed through the heavy curtains. Strange. She never went to bed with them drawn.

Then she remembered. With a stifled moan she buried her face in the pillow.

At last, dreading the hours ahead but knowing that there was no escape from them, she got up and pulled the curtains back, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight. There was a tap at the door and she s
w
ung around, tense with apprehension. But it was only Miller.

“Good morning, madam. Shall I bring your tray?”

“Oh
...
yes, please. Is
...
has Mr. Templar had breakfast?”

“Yes, madam. He was down at his usual time, but he said not to disturb you before ten.”

“I’m not hungry. Just bring coffee, will you?” Andrea said. It was then she noticed that the maid was staring with a peculiar expression.

“What’s the matter?” she asked sharply.

“Why ... nothing, madam. I’ll get your tray.”

When she had gone, Andrea remained oddly disquieted by that queer, almost gloating look on the maid’s usually impassive face. Was it possible that Miller had heard last night’s row? No, she couldn’t have. Wednesday was her afternoon off and she always visited her married sister at Finsbury Park and stayed to watch the evening television program.

Shrugging the incident aside, Andrea crossed to the dressing table and picked up her hairbrush. A brief glance in the glass showed her the reason for Miller’s look. Just below the frilled sleeves of her chiffon nightgown, startlingly noticeable on the whiteness of her skin, were two dark marks—the bruises made in the angry moment when Justin had pulled her into his arms.

So that was why Miller’s pale eyes had glistened with scandalized excitement. And by now, no doubt, the entire staff knew. Andrea shrank from the humiliation of facing them, knowing that behind her back they were whispering and sniggering. Then a wave of angry disdain swept her. Let them talk. It wouldn’t be the first time she had been discussed below the stairs.

When Miller brought her breakfast tray—after a significant delay—Andrea was dressed.

“Will you bring the paper up, please?” she said calmly.

“Yes, madam. Mr. Templar left a message that he wouldn’t be in to lunch.”

Was it fancy or was there a flicker of sly amusement in those eyes?

“I know. I will be out, too,” Andrea said.

An hour later she left the house. Somehow, before she saw Justin again, she must resolve all the conflicting emotions that the past twenty-four hours had so abruptly and harshly provoked.

In Oxford Street she climbed on a bus, not caring where it was going as long as it took her away from the West End where she might meet someone she knew. The upper deck was almost empty and she sat down in the front seat and asked the conductor for a ticket to the terminal. It was a long time since she had ridden on a bus.

There was something oddly comforting about the familiar lurching motion, the clanging of the bell and the cheerful Cockney voice of the conductor calling out the stops. A wry smile tilted her mouth. For years she had loathed the buses and subways with their dusty floors and smoky atmosphere. She had envied the women who drove around in luxurious cars and never had to struggle through rush-hour crowds.

Now she knew that almost all her life she had been chasing a mirage, a sham. The hardship of her childhood had convinced her that physical comfort was the secret of contentment, that money could supply every need.

She knew, too, why she had been so restless and moody in the past weeks. It was because she had been fighting against a subconscious longing for love, a longing that had grown stronger and stronger no matter how fiercely she had tried to fight it. This was the root of her angry disillusionment when she thought Justin had a mistress. This was why she had welcomed Simon’s friendship—because against all her convictions, her inner self had been hungry for companionship and tenderness.

What a fool I’ve been,
she thought miserably.
Why couldn’t I see that love was so terribly important?
Now, in
this moment of revelation, she was cold with shame at her own hardness, her willful refusal to face the truth.

And what of the future? Was it possible to remold her life, to shelve all the false values and start afresh? Or had she left it too late?

Someone tapped her shoulder and she found the conductor grinning down at her.

“End of the run ’ere, miss.”

“Oh
...
I’m sorry, I was miles away.” She scrambled up and followed him along the aisle.

“You’re tellin’ me. Thought you was in a trance. Good thing I noticed you ’adn’t come down or you’d ’ave found yourself back where you started.”

He clattered down the stairs, removing a cigarette butt from behind his ear.

“Thank you for waking me up.”

“That’s okay. All part of our service.”

He lighted up and watched her walk away, admiring her slender ankles and the graceful swing of her hips.

“Ay, ay. Good job Doris can’t see you,” the driver said, strolling around the back of the bus, his mouth full of ham sandwich.

“No ’arm in looking,” the conductor retorted cheerfully.

After walking some distance, Andrea noticed a small cafe on the other side of the road. She went in and asked for a cup of coffee.

“ ’Spresso or or’nary?” The waitress, a solid blonde in a tight black sweater and pearl choker, flicked a dishcloth over the glass-topped table and cast an appraising eye over Andrea’s clothes.

“Ordinary, please.”

The coffee was bitter and not very hot, but Andrea did not notice. She was thinking of last night, of the icy scorn on Justin’s face when he came into the library and, later, the savagery with which he had kissed her. At first she had struggled wildly, straining with her whole strength to break free, and then suddenly she had stopped fighting. All her anger had ebbed away and in its place came an inexpressible delight. It had not lasted long. Even as that new and wonderful sensation had swept her; Justin had flung her
away from him. Before she realized what was happening, the communicating door had slammed behind him.

Now, hours later, she understood what it was she had felt for those few seconds in his arms.

I love him,
she thought dazedly.
I love him.

It
was midafternoon
when she returned to the house. Hubbard was speaking on the telephone as she entered the hall. Seeing her, he said, “Will you hold the line, please, sir. It’s Mr. Brennan, madam. He’s called several times. I gather it’s a matter of some urgency.”

Andrea hesitated. Then she said, “Ask him to wait a moment, please. I’ll take it in the library.”

Closing the door behind her, she drew a deep breath. Then with a hand that was not quite steady she picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?”

There was a momentary pause in which she heard a faint click as Hubbard replaced the receiver in the hall.

“Is that you, Andrea?”

It was the first time Simon had spoken to her on the telephone, and she wondered if he always sounded like this or if the circumstances made his voice almost unrecognizable.

“
Yes, speaking.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

“Of course I am.”

“They said you were out. They didn’t know where. I thought perhaps ... are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes. Why shouldn’t I be?”

There was a brief silence.

“I didn’t know what he might have done to you
.
”

“Who? Justin? What on earth d’you mean?”

“Well
.
..” He hesitated again and then burst out, “After what happened ... he looked capable of anything.”

“He was very angry,” Andrea said flatly.

“Angry,” Simon gave a mirthless laugh. “That
’s
understatement. Berserk was
more like it.”

She stiffened. “You could scarcely expect him to be pleased,” she said coldly.

“Perhaps not, but I didn’t expect to be thrown out on my ear. He went for me like a madman. I’ve been worried sick about what he might do to you. For heaven’s sake, Andrea, you can’t stay with him after this. I’ve always known you were unhappy, but my God, I didn’t guess why. Look, we can’t discuss it on the phone. I’ve got to see you. Oh, my darling, if you knew what I went through last night
...
wondering if he was taking it out on you—”

“Simon, stop! Listen to me,” Andrea said desperately, horrified by this fresh outburst. “I’m sorry about last night, but Justin had every right to be furious. You must see that. As for the rest—it was partly my fault for not realizing how you felt. If I had, the whole thing would never have happened.”

There was another tense silence.

“Are you trying to say you didn’t know I was in love with you?” Simon’s voice was harsh.

“I knew you were fond of me in a lighthearted way, but I never dreamed you were
...
serious. You’d told me so often that you couldn’t be tied down, that your job wouldn’t mix with marriage. Surely you can’t think that I
would have gone on seeing you if I had guessed you were anything more than a friend?”

“Why not? It’s been done before,” he said bitterly. “Women who don’t get
o
n with their husbands very often amuse themselves elsewhere. Of course, if the husbands happen to be rich they generally back out before it gets serious.”

“That’s a filthy thing to say. You know it isn’t true,” she exclaimed hotly.

“Then prove it. Leave Templar and come away with me. Oh, I may have said I couldn’t be tied down and a lot of other rot, but all that has changed. I’m crazy about you, Andrea. I didn’t kno
w
a man could want a woman as much as I want you.” His voice shook with suppressed passion.

“You must be mad!” Andrea was white with shock and indignation.

Any compassion that she had felt for him had been killed by his cruel allegation.

“Am I? Are you going to pretend that you
didn
’
t
marry Templar for his moneybags?” Simon answered sarcastically. “Oh, come off it, my dear. I know why you hooked him and I know you haven’t found it an easy bargain. Why not admit that you made a mistake? You’re young and lovely. You can’t waste your life on a man who wants only a showpiece.”

Suddenly she was not angry anymore: only sad that a friendship that she had valued should end in this way and that a man whom she had liked and respected should descend to cheap gibes.

“You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “I’m not wasting my life. I’ve only just begun to live it. Goodbye, Simon. Good luck.”

“Wait! Andrea, listen ... oh, to hell with it, then. Hold tight to your luxury life if it means so damned much to you. I wish you joy of it.”

The receiver was slammed down.

Andrea shut her eyes, the echo of his scathing denunciation ringing in her ears. She saw now, many weeks too late, that the bond between them had been a treacherous one, like a shining film of ice over dark undercurrents. Justin had once warned her that there was no such thing as friendship between a man and a woman. It seemed he had been right.

There was a tap at the door and Hubbard came in to ask if she would like tea early.

“Yes, thank you, I would. Mr. Justin hasn’t phoned, has he?”

“No, madam.”

She went to the window. A man was mowing the grass in the square gardens. As she watched he stopped the motor and wiped his neck and forehead with a khaki handkerchief. She thought of Tom Bassett working in the grounds at Lingard with the dogs lolling in the nearest patch of shade. Would she ever see Lingard again?

So far she had thought of nothing but the fact that she was in love with her husband. But now she began to see
that, far from solving everything, the discovery made the future a thousand times more complicated.

If their relationship had been difficult before, from now: on it would be sheer torture. Even if she could hide what had happened to her, how could she endure the agony of longing that his nearness must arouse? The thought of being held in his arms set her pulses racing. Did it matter if, when he held her close, he did not whisper endearments? Could she give all that he asked willingly and gladly without wanting anything in return but to belong to him?

Her choice was clear. Either she must live in the faint hope that one day Justin-might come to be fond of her, or she must leave him and try to bury her newly found love for him beneath the structure of another life. The realization of all that the second choice would mean sent a shudder through her. Never to see him again, never to hear his deep quiet voice, never to be warmed by the extraordinary charm of which he was capable. To forget their brief life together would be hard, perhaps impossible, but might it not be harder to stay and bear the knowledge that he would never feel more for her than a passing desire, an affection born of familiarity?

And then, in the room where he had asked her to marry him, she made up her mind and having done so began to make the
arrangements that would sever the pitifully few ties between them. First she called a small hotel in Bayswater and booked a single room for the night. Somehow, between now and tomorrow morning, she must decide where to go, where to begin a new life, but one without direction or promise.

Then, having dictated a telegram that would, she was told, be delivered within an hour, she went upstairs and packed a small suitcase. Finally she sat down at the desk to write an explanation to Justin. It took her a long time
and
she wasted a dozen sheets of paper before she was satisfied that the final effort gave no clue to the real reason for her departure.