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“Then would you like to come with us?”

Lucy hesitated.

“I’d like to go away,” she said slowly. “But—but please do try to understand, I’d like to go alone—and be among strangers. They wouldn’t know—”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Mrs. Darvill refused to allow herself to feel hurt. There was something in what the child said. “But you know, darling, we shall be rather anxious—”

“You needn’t worry,” Lucy said composedly. “I shan’t do anything silly—and I shan’t have time to mope because—I shall get a job. That’s what I want,” she added, almost under her breath. “To work hard—”

“But, darling, you can’t just go into the blue and hope to find a job—” Mrs. Darvill protested. “Wouldn’t it be better—?”

“You don’t understand, Mummy,” Lucy explained patiently. “I have a definite job in mind.” She glanced at the alarm clock, ticking away on the table. “It’s too early to do anything about it yet, but I should think by the time Daddy has finished telephoning—”

“Yes, but what is the job, dear—and where?” Mrs. Darvill asked anxiously.

“Mr. Keane has a sister who lives somewhere near Lyme Regis,” Lucy explained. “She is an invalid— rheumatoid arthritis—and she wants a secretary-companion. He told me about it a week or so ago and asked me if I knew anyone suitable. If she hasn’t found anyone—and if I can go today, I think it would be quite a good idea.”

Mrs. Darvill turned away so that Lucy should not see the tears that sprang to her eyes. Instead of a honeymoon, a job with an elderly invalid woman who, more than likely, was difficult to get on with.

“Quite a good idea,” she said briskly. “I’ll tell your father.”

* * *

No more than a few hours later Lucy left Waterloo for Lyme Regis.

Mr. Keane had been most helpful. He had accepted Lucy’s statement that she was not, after all, going to be married with no other comment than an offer of her old job. This Lucy had refused gently but firmly, and had enquired whether his sister was still without a secretary-companion. It appeared that she was and that the matter was becoming increasingly urgent as Mrs. Mayberry was anxious to start a new book—she wrote historical novels—and because of her infirmity could not write or type for sustained periods.

Yes, Mr. Keane thought Lucy would do admirably for the job, and no, he could see no reason why she should not leave for Lyme that very day. He would telephone to his sister at once and then ring through to Lucy to tell her the result.

When, half an hour later, he spoke to Lucy again it was to tell her that his sister was delighted at the news, and suggested that she should travel by a train leaving Waterloo at one o’clock, and had promised to see that she was met the other end.

And then Mr. Keane had earned Lucy’s undying gratitude. He wished her success in the venture, remarking in the most casual way that he had not told Mrs. Mayberry any of Lucy’s private business. Simply that she wanted a change of work.

So here Lucy was, on her way to start a new life among strangers, her broken romance and everything connected with it left behind. On the rack above her head was a suitcase—not one of the glamorous new set that had been one of the wedding presents—and in it there was not a single garment that had formed part of her trousseau.

She was still in that strange, detached frame of mind, conscious less of any personal grief than of pity for the girl who had been Lucy Darvill—a quite sincere feeling, but not one having any connection with herself.

The journey would take about four hours or so, and though there was a restaurant car, Mrs. Darvill had realised that in her present mood Lucy was unlikely to bother about food, and had wisely insisted on packing a few sandwiches. Even these Lucy forgot until nearly half past two, when she ate them more because she did not want to risk collapsing with hunger as soon as she met her new employer than because she felt any need for food. Later, because the journey seemed interminable, she went along to the restaurant car for tea to help pass the time. And then, at last, the train drew into Lyme Regis station.

She got out of the train with her suitcase, and looked vaguely about her. A considerable number of other passengers had also left the train, quite a few of whom were being met, so that the platform was quite crowded. It was impossible to pick out anyone who had come to meet her, so Lucy waited until everyone else had gone—everyone else, that is, except a tall man in grey flannels and an open-necked shirt to whom Lucy took an instantaneous and unreasonable dislike. For one thing, she could not help feeling that the casual crimson cravat he was wearing had been especially chosen because the colour suited his dark handsomeness—oh yes, he was handsome, Lucy admitted grudgingly—and no doubt knew it. But besides that, he was scowling most unpleasantly as he came towards her.

“Miss Darvill?” he asked coldly.

“Yes, I’m Lucy Darvill,” she acknowledged with an upward inflection of her voice.

“I’m Mrs. Mayberry’s nephew, Owen Vaughan,” he told her, and then, picking up her case, he turned his back on her and began striding towards the exit. Lucy followed, vaguely wondering why he was in such a bad temper, but not really very much interested.

In the station courtyard stood an open sports car. Owen Vaughan dropped the case on the back seat and without a word held open the door for Lucy to get in. With a murmured “Thank you,” she took her place and a moment later they were on their way.

The station lay to the back of the town and Owen Vaughan turned in the opposite direction from it. None the less they were on a busy main road, and more than once, with a deepening scowl, Owen had to drop to a crawl while the tangled traffic sorted itself out.

Neither of them spoke until Lucy, stirred from her apathy by his boorishness, remarked with a show of spirit that since it had obviously been a nuisance for him to have met her, wouldn’t it have been possible for a car to have been hired?

Owen Vaughan laughed shortly.

“At the very last moment—on a Saturday in late April? My good girl, all the cars for miles around are booked up with wedding engagements. Except for June, April is one of the most popular months for weddings that there are, you know.”

Involuntarily Lucy shrank a little in her seat, but she managed to say in quite a controlled voice:

“Yes, I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m sorry you were forced to come to my rescue, Mr. Vaughan.”

Owen gave her a quick, puzzled look. Something in the way she had spoken had caused his anger to evaporate to a perplexing degree—but he was not entirely appeased.

“Why was there such a deuce of a hurry for you to come today?” he demanded.

“It suited Mrs. Mayberry—and it suited me,” Lucy said coldly.

“I grant you it suit's Aunt Louise.” Owen admitted. “She’s been like a cat on hot bricks for the last month, wanting to get on with her book. All the same, the suggestion came from
you,
via Uncle Stanley.” He gave her another quick, searching look. “Well, I want to know why!”

Lucy did not reply, and after a moment Owen said very deliberately:

“I’ve always found secretiveness a most unpleasant trait in anyone’s character. To me it smacks of—underhandedness.”

“Evidently you feel about that just as I do about unjustifiable inquisitiveness.” Deliberately Lucy mimicked the way he had spoken. “To me it smacks of— bad manners.”

For a moment there was silence. Then, as if he were faintly amused, Owen remarked:

“I see—mutual mistrust and dislike! Well, at least we know where we are, which is something, no doubt!”

For the rest of the trip there was no conversation.

* * *

Spindles, Mrs. Mayberry’s home, lay well off the Uplyme Road. One reached it by twisting, turning lanes that led up and down sharp little hills to a five- barred gate which Owen jumped out and opened. This, presumably, was the drive to the house, although until they passed a small coppice there was no sign of any building.

Then, abruptly, one saw Spindles, mellow, elegant and strangely tranquil. Involuntarily Lucy gasped, not only because of its beauty, but because of its size. Spindles fell a lot short of being a stately mansion, but it was certainly a very large house—larger than any that had previously come into Lucy’s life.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Owen remarked, evidently forgetting their recent clash in his own appreciation of the house. “I’ve always thought myself very lucky that it happened to be on the market just as I was able to buy it.”

“You—bought it?” Lucy exclaimed. “But I thought—"

“That it belonged to Aunt Louise?” he finished with, again, that slightly amused smile. “Oh no, it’s mine all right. But when Uncle Ben—her husband— died, I suggested that she should come and live here. There’s plenty of room—she has a complete suite to herself—and the arrangement suits us both. She doesn’t have to worry about household arrangements and I know, if I’m abroad as I often am, that the house isn’t getting musty by being shut up.”

“I see,” Lucy said briefly. This was something for which she had not bargained, but perhaps he would be going abroad soon—

“I’m afraid not,” he announced ironically, just as if she had spoken aloud. “As a matter of fact, I’ve only just got back from America. I shall be here for at least six months.”

“How interesting,” Lucy commented in a voice completely devoid of interest or any other feeling.

And was almost certain that Owen chuckled very quietly to himself.

* * *

If Lucy had taken an instant dislike to Owen, the reverse was the case when she met Mrs. Mayberry. She was waiting for them in her wheelchair on the sunny terrace, and although she made no attempt to get up to greet Lucy, her whole bearing expressed a welcome.

In her youth Louise Mayberry had been a beautiful woman, and even now in her middle fifties and marked by the indelible lines of constant pain, she caught and held attention.

Her hair was snowy white, cut short but thick and curly. Without the skilful make-up she so gallantly used her clear skin would have been entirely devoid of colour, but as it was, the hollows under her cheekbones hardly showed. Her mouth was both sensitive and strong, but it was her eyes that Lucy noticed most. They were big and dark and vital. The spirit that lived in the twisted body shone through them, refusing pity for itself though not lacking in sympathy with the troubles of others.

And now, as this tall, fair girl walked towards her, Louise Mayberry could not help wondering, though she was careful to suppress any signs of curiosity. That there was something wrong was obvious, even if there had not been that insistence to come here at once which had so clearly indicated a desire for escape. But there were more indications than that. Her new secretary companion’s smile had a fixed quality about it, and it went no farther than the soft pink lips. The dark blue eyes were no more than dim, deep pools, entirely lacking in expression of any sort. Clearly the poor child had had a bad shock and it was as yet too recent for feeling to have returned. When it did— Louise smiled and held out her hand.

“I can’t tell you how welcome you are, my dear,” she said warmly. “I’m just
itching
to get on with my book and I’d almost given up hope of ever finding someone suitable to help me.”

Very gently Lucy took the proffered hand in hers. It was badly twisted and through its fragility she could feel the bones, slender as a bird’s.

“I hope that I shall be able to do what you want,” Lucy said sincerely. “It will be different from the work I did for Mr. Keane.”

Instead of protesting that, of course she would—a remark which could only have been an insincerity since, so far, Lucy was a stranger to her, Louise simply nodded and turned to Owen, a silent listener to the conversation.

“Owen dear, will you take Miss Darvill indoors and ask Bertha to take her to her room? I am sure she would like a wash after what must have been a hot and tiring journey. Bertha is our guardian angel,” she went on lightly to Lucy. “She looks after both of us— and sometimes she bullies us. That, of course, is natural where Owen is concerned—” she flashed him a mischievous look, “because she was once his nanny, and to a nanny, her charges never grow up.”

“It still astounds me that she’s ever given up asking it I’ve washed behind my ears and cleaned my nails,” Owen put in with a gaiety which surprised Lucy. Evidently there was another side to his nature than the surly one she had so far encountered!

The house was cool and shady after the bright sunshine, and, in fact, Lucy stumbled because her eyes had not become adjusted to the difference in light. Instantly a strong hand shot out and steadied her.

“Careful!” Owen said warningly. “No need to hurry.”

Quickly Lucy released herself, murmuring a word of apology, and then, to her relief, a woman in a severely plain blue dress, so obviously a one-time nanny that she must be Bertha, came into the hall from the back of the house.

“This is Miss Darvill, Bertha,” Owen explained. Bertha inclined her head graciously.

“I'm very glad to see you, miss,” she announced. “Madam has been needing a young lady to help her, it has really worried her, not being able to get on with her work. This way, please, miss. Is that all your luggage? If you’ll put it down, Mr. Owen, I’ll get John to take it up.”

“I’ll tell him,” Owen offered, and with a slight pursing of her lips, Bertha agreed to this.

Feeling that she was suddenly a child again, and that in some way it was her fault that she had not come here sooner, Lucy followed the sturdy figure up the thickly carpeted stairs and along a corridor.

“Here we are,” Bertha announced, throwing open a door and standing back for Lucy to pass her.

It was a beautiful room, although Lucy was not in a frame of mind to appreciate it in detail. What she did realise was that, short though the notice had been, every care had been taken to give those personal touches that mean so much. The windows were wide open so that the room was pleasantly fresh, there were flowers on the mantelpiece and dressing table, and a selection of books and magazines lay on the bedside table. Realising that Bertha was waiting expectantly, Lucy turned to her with a smile.