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“From your point of view, I suppose not,” Lucy admitted grudgingly. “But I think someone wiser and kinder than you might have found another way—have
you
ever been really up against it, Mr. Vaughan?”

“No,” he answered unhesitatingly, “I haven’t. But that state of affairs can’t be expected to continue indefinitely, of course. I shall meet my Waterloo sooner or later. And when I do—”

“You’ll meet it like a hero!” Lucy finished mockingly. “I’m sure you will, Mr. Vaughan. Insensitive people get off fairly lightly, you know.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. He had thought her a colourless, spineless personality, but really, there was more to her than he had imagined could possibly be the case.

“All right, we’ll leave me out,” he announced. “After all, what I might do in similar circumstances can only be guesswork. All the same, I do know something about suffering. Take my aunt, for instance. Not so very long ago she had a husband whom she adored and who adored her. What’s more, they were really good friends—which is something different again. He died tragically and unexpectedly. Then, two or three years ago, this damned arthritis got a grip of her. It’s hopeless and she knows it. She’s never out of pain— sometimes desperate pain. But as you will find out when you know her better, she has courage and endurance—I'd give all I've got to be able to do something for her—” he finished with sudden fury.

Lucy was startled. It was the first indication he had shown of having any feeling for others' suffering, and she felt at a disadvantage.

“Not quite such a brute as you thought?” he suggested ironically. “Disappointing, isn’t it? But to continue—there’s dear old Bertha. Years ago she was engaged to a boy she’d known all her life. They’d had to wait because he’d got an invalid mother to provide for and he hadn’t got enough money to get married as well. Well, the war came, the old lady died and they were to be married on his next leave. But he never had it. He was killed. But does she moan? Never!”

“But there’s a difference—” Lucy began stormily— and stopped short.

“Yes, there is, isn’t there?” Owen said deliberately.
“They
can think of their men with pride and love. You—”

Lucy sprang to her feet.

“But that’s just it—” and stopped short because Owen’s expression had completely altered. It was as though, because at last he had made her admit the truth, he was satisfied. Satisfied, but something else as well. Some other emotion was there, but what it was she could not even guess.

Perhaps he would have told her, but he had no opportunity, for at that moment the door opened and Mrs. Mayberry, in her wheelchair, was pushed into the room by Bertha.

“I’m sorry I've kept you waiting,” Mrs. Mayberry apologised. “But I had a sudden idea, and I just had to get it on to paper! Yes, just a small sherry, Owen, and then we’ll go in to dinner.”

To Lucy’s relief, Mrs. Mayberry did not seem to notice anything at all strained in the atmosphere. Had she seen the enquiring lift of her employer’s eyebrows as she took her glass of sherry from her nephew she might not have felt so sure. On the other hand, the bland, completely noncommittal smile which was the only reply Owen gave might have reassured her.

* * *

To her surprise, Lucy ate quite a good dinner. That might have been because the food was very attractive and she had eaten little that day, or it might have been the consciousness that Owen was keeping a constant and critical watch on her. Whatever the reason, Lucy had to admit that she felt better for the meal.

After dinner Owen announced that he was going out for an hour or so, and Mrs. Mayberry took the opportunity to discuss business matters with Lucy.

First of all there was the question of salary, which had so far not been mentioned. The sum Mrs. Mayberry suggested was less than Lucy had been earning in Mr. Keane’s office, but on the other hand, she would not have the expense of travelling up to town each day and she would be living in. Taking this into consideration, she accepted the offer unhesitatingly.

“And now, tell me about yourself,” Mrs. Mayberry went on. “Or rather, your abilities. I think my brother said that your shorthand and typing speeds were quite good?”

“Mr. Keane seemed to find them satisfactory,” Lucy admitted. “Although he didn’t dictate very quickly— and, of course, I became familiar with the legal terms he used.”

“Yes, of course. I’m glad you brought that point up,” Mrs. Mayberry told her. “You see, with historical novels, one must use phrasing suitable to the period, at least in dialogue, although I must say one does come across writers who appear to rely entirely upon illustrations to convey atmosphere. On the other hand, one cannot be too pedantic because that can be quite irritating to a reader. There is no doubt about it, you see, our ancestors did have what seems to us a most peculiar way of expressing themselves—almost unintelligible at times, in fact. You have only to read sixteenth-century letters—and it is the Tudor period with which I shall be dealing—to appreciate that. So, out of necessity, I have had to work out some sort of compromise, using a turn of phrase rather than unfamiliar words. None the less, one cannot entirely eliminate them, so while I have been without a secretary, I have worked out a glossary which will help you both to see what I'm driving at and to familiarise you with unfamiliar spelling. I'll give it to you tomorrow morning."

“Thank you,” Lucy said gratefully. The last thing she wanted was for Mrs. Mayberry to be dissatisfied with her efforts, and it was reassuring to find that she would be working for a businesslike person.

“My story is of the extremely interesting and dangerous period just preceding Queen Mary’s death and the succession of the Princess Elizabeth,” Mrs. Mayberry went on in an eager way that showed clearly how much her work meant to her. “You see, no one quite knew what was going to happen. The Queen had quite seriously considered executing her half-sister. Up to the very last, she might have done so. If she had, there was a very real possibility that her husband, Philip of Spain, would have succeeded her. Indeed, that could happen in any case. If it had, then obviously those of the Catholic faith could have hoped to keep their posts. On the other hand, if Elizabeth succeeded, there was little doubt but that she would show favour to the Protestant faction. As you can see, it made for uncertainty—particularly among those who had no very strong convictions but wanted to be on the winning side.”

“Yes, I see,” Lucy said encouragingly, realising that Mrs. Mayberry was, as it were, setting the scene for the work they would do together.

“My heroine, though of a Catholic family, has actually Protestant leanings plus a very real sympathy for the Princess, a younger and much more attractive personality than the Queen. She—my heroine—is deeply in love with a handsome, brilliant man who is a time-server of the most cold-blooded sort. And that,” Mrs. Mayberry finished with considerable relish, “gives me a situation which ought to produce plenty of conflict and heart-searching!”

Conflict and heart-searching! Involuntarily Lucy flinched and Mrs. Mayberry, looking at her downcast face, patted her hand reassuringly.

“It will come right in the end,” she assured her cheerfully. “But how am I to spin out my seventy or eighty thousand words if I don’t make life difficult for the principal characters?”

“Yes, of course,” Lucy managed to smile, but to herself she added: “And, of course, it will be truer to life than if nothing went wrong!”

There was a little silence and then Mrs. Mayberry spoke again.

“There is just one more thing I want to say to you and then we will never speak of it again. As I believe my brother told you, I am bothered with rheumatoid arthritis. Fortunately for me—and those about me— there are times when I can forget about it. But not always. When that happens, I’m not fit company for anybody and so I keep to my own room. Bertha looks after me, but apart from her, all I ask is to be left alone. Do you understand?”

“Yes, and I’ll remember,” Lucy promised, and changed the subject as, she felt, Mrs. Mayberry would wish. “Would you mind, Mrs. Mayberry, if I ring my parents up to let them know I arrived safely? I would write, but they’re flying to Jersey tomorrow.”

“By all means, my dear. Put your call through in my study. You cross the hall to the door exactly opposite this one. You can’t mistake it.”

Lucy found her way without difficulty. The study turned out to be essentially a working room. Books lined two of the walls, there was a big double desk on which were two telephones and a covered typewriter. Except for the curtains and the carpet it was just like an office, with the only relief from austerity a big and beautifully arranged vase of flowers. Even this was placed well out of the way of anyone working at the desk although within range of their vision. Lucy sat down, and seeing that one was unmistakably a house phone, lifted the receiver of the other and asked for the number. Her mother answered.

“It’s me—Lucy,” Lucy said briskly. “I thought you’d like to know I got here safely and—and that everything is all right.”

“Oh, darling, I’m so glad.” Mrs. Darvill took her tone from Lucy and spoke with deliberate cheerfulness. “I was hoping you’d ring. Are you—are you alone?”

“Yes, in Mrs. Mayberry’s study,” Lucy explained.

“Well, darling, there’s something—” Mrs. Darvill began, but Lucy interrupted her.

“If—if you mean the evening paper, I’ve seen it,” she said quickly. “And—that’s that, isn’t it? There’s nothing more to be said.”

“Nothing at all, darling,” Mrs. Darvill agreed with evident relief.

“And you got—everything tidied up?” Lucy asked hurriedly.

“Oh, yes, Aunt Millie came round and lent a hand. I was surprised how quickly we got through,” Mrs. Darvill said, just as if cancelling a wedding and putting off nearly a hundred guests was an everyday occurrence.

“Oh, good, Tm glad,” Lucy replied. “And tomorrow you're both off for a perfectly lovely holiday! Have a good time!”

“Yes, darling,” Mrs. Darvill promised, but Lucy could hear the break in her voice. “Lucy, you’re really quite sure—?”

“Quite sure, Mummy—and I really must ring off now,” Lucy told her hurriedly. “Love to both of you!”

She rang off and her hands dropped limply into her lap. She had made as gallant an effort as possible to reassure her mother, but the utter finality of her own words echoed relentlessly in her brain.

There was nothing more to be said. Dick had gone out of her life—she would never see him again. Must try never even to think of him. But what did that leave? Just empty, aching
nothingness.

Lucy buried her face in her hands. How could she go on? What was the point in trying to?

And then, from the hall, she heard the sound of Owen’s voice. Instantly her head came up. Her heart was broken, but that was her business. At least she would not wear it on her sleeve to be jeered at.

* * *

In the weeks that followed Lucy realised over and over again how right she had been to leave home and come among strangers. At home everyone would have been sympathetic and would have made allowances for her so that she was constantly reminded of her loss. Here, there was nothing like that. Mrs. Mayberry had no idea that there was any reason for sympathy and Owen had no intention whatever of making allowances. In addition, she was so busy that sometimes, for hours at a time, she gave no thought to her own affairs. And when she did, it was only to dismiss them again as unimportant.

“Fm getting hard,” she told herself in self-congratulation. “And a good thing too! I was a silly, romantic little idiot—and nobody’s ever going to have a chance of hurting me again like that!” And she set her pretty little round chin determinedly.

Sometimes, of course, it wasn’t so easy. When, for instance, she went into Lyme Regis and saw happy young honeymoon couples strolling along hand in hand. Or when she saw anyone whose fair hair, or perhaps his walk, reminded her of Dick. But on the whole, she told herself that she was not doing too badly, and since Owen said nothing, he evidently thought so as well.

She enjoyed her work. Mrs. Mayberry had the gift of making her characters live, and Lucy became entranced with the way in which she spun the thread of her story through the exciting and moving personal incidents in it. Katherine, the heroine, was a darling. For Robert, the hero, she did not feel so much sympathy. He was handsome and romantic and daring, but she could not help feeling that there was something wrong. One day she realised what it was, and without stopping to think she said aloud:

“But he isn’t strong at all. He’s weak! He’s at the mercy of his own ambitions.”

Far from resenting the criticism, Mrs. Mayberry looked pleased.

“If you realise that, then I'm doing my job,” she remarked. “Does Katherine realise it?”

“No,” Lucy said slowly. “No. At least—if she does, she won’t let herself.”

“Better and better!” Mrs. Mayberry announced. “She’s blindly in love, poor child, and that never did a woman any good yet.”

Blindly in love—was that what she had been? Lucy wondered. Ought she to have realised that there was an inherent weakness in Dick's character? Owen had said she ought to have done, but surely, if one loved, one trusted as well?

“Read that last sentence, will you, my dear?” Mrs. Mayberry requested. “So that I can pick up the thread—”

* * *

Lucy found it very easy to slip into the simple ways of the household and little by little, she learned more about the people who composed it.

Mrs. Mayberry’s husband had been a Professor of History at Cambridge University, and it was from him that she had acquired her interest in the subject.

“He really loved his work, and he had a gift for teaching,” she told Lucy one day. “You see, to him, it wasn’t a matter of dates and political events but
people
with much the same ideas and ambitions that we have, and whose influence on the course of events was largely the result of what they themselves were. And somehow, he could get into their skins so that you had the feeling he had met them just the day before—” She mused for a moment and then went on, “It was he who encouraged me to write my first book. It was after I had helped him with some rather tricky research about the period I am dealing with now. I was very dubious about my capabilities, but to my amazement, people liked my book. So I kept on—and I’ve been very thankful that I have. There’s nothing like a really absorbing job for making life seem worth living.”