The Other Linding Girl Read online

  He paused, and she had the distinct impression that he very much disliked what he was going to say.

  “Yes, Monsieur Florian?” she prompted, a trifle apprehensively. “Did you know, mon enfant, that Miss McGrath intends to announce her engagement at the party after the dress show on Friday?”

  CHAPTER VII

  Rachel sat very still, while it seemed to her that Florian’s words echoed over and over again in the silent room. Then she roused herself at last and said,

  “Are you—quite sure about this?”

  “Miss McGrath herself told me. She asked me to keep it a secret.” He made a slight grimace. “In telling you I have done what I very seldom do—acted without discretion and broken a confidence. But I shall not lie awake at night about that. What troubles me, mon enfant, is the effect upon you.”

  “You’re very kind to be so concerned. It’s—it’s not entirely a surprise. At least—” Rachel stopped. Because, in spite of everything—her hopes, her fears, her reasoning and her instinct—it was more than a surprise, it was an unspeakable shock, to learn that Nigel, after all, was to marry Fiona McGrath.

  “Why was it not entirely a surprise?” The Frenchman sat down opposite, her, his tired, rather cynical eyes regarding her with genuine kindness. “Had you already beard hints?”

  “Oh, no. But I knew that an—an offer had been made to Nigel. And I thought perhaps he would feel bound to accept it,” she added simply,

  “An offer? What offer?”

  “Miss McGrath’s brother offered him twenty thousand pounds towards his programme of research. It’s a lot of money, Monsieur Florian, and if one accepts such a sum, one cannot be an absolutely free agent again.”

  “One need not, however, enter into an unwanted marriage. For this I think the price must be higher,” retorted Florian sardonically.

  Rachel smiled faintly and shook her head.

  “It depends on the circumstances, I suppose. He knew that the offer—made for decency’s sake through the brother—was Fiona’s way of saying she—she liked him and wanted him to marry her. If he did not mean to play her game, there was only one thing he could do—refuse .”

  “And he accepted?”

  “I don’t know. Yes, I suppose he must have done so, since—since there is to be an engagement. I only know that he delayed the decision because—”

  "Because what, cherie?”

  “Because he loves me. I know he does, monsieur! Please don’t ask me how—I just know it.”

  “Then he should have been man enough to refuse the offer of the money.”

  “Oh, no, no! It’s not so simple as that. If you could see where and how he works! He and his assistants—with so little but their knowledge and faith and determination. Of course they could go on without the money, but so slowly and so amateurishly. A sum like that could transform the whole scene—might well mean the difference between early success and the sort of failure that condemns people to die. I suppose,” she said slowly, “he chose to help the people who might otherwise die. And who can say he was wrong?”

  Florian frowned.

  “What does he do, this Nigel of yours? What is his line of research?”

  “I don’t really know,” said Rachel humbly. “It’s all very technical. You’d have to talk to him about that—”

  “Perhaps,” murmured Florian, half to himself, “that is what I should do.”

  "‘Monsieur!” She raised her head and looked at him, half startled, half hopeful.

  “No, no, my dear, don't start imagining or hoping things” He made a quick gesture of dismissal with his expressive hands. “It all sounds very touching and worthwhile as you describe it. But you see his work with the eyes of love, while I am a hard business man. And so—”

  “Oh, Monsieur Florian,” interrupted Rachel warmly, “you may be a business man, but you’re not hard.”

  “On the contrary, I am considered the toughest and most odious of all the dress designers,” Florian replied, not without a touch of satisfaction. "And even one of my own mannequins has been known to describe me as a monster.”

  “Oh, dear—perhaps she was cross at the time,” suggested Rachel, which made him laugh immoderately. And at that Gabrielle came back into the room, to say that her unpacking was complete, and to ask what the joke was.

  “Only our young friend’s idea of what happens in the fashion world,” Florian explained good-humouredly. “When I told her that one of my mannequins described me as a monster, she suggested very gently and politely that perhaps she was cross.”

  “Cross? Oh, “cross” wouldn’t be quite the word,” Gabrielle assured Rachel with a smile. “She was probably in raging hysterics. Or threatening to throw herself from a top story window. ”

  “A common form of threat,” Florian amplified, almost indulgently. “Never so far carried into execution.”

  Rachel thought the path of a dress designer must be strewn with more unusual difficulties than she had at first supposed. But both Florian and his wife looked quite calm about it. Indeed, Gabrielle smiled at that point and asked her husband, with engaging eagerness, “Have you told her yet about the surprise?”

  “The surprise?” Florian seemed to have forgotten what that was for the moment. Then he evidently recalled it, but without full satisfaction, Rachel saw. “Oh, you had better tell her. I’m afraid it won’t quite fulfil its purpose now, but—”

  He broke off and shrugged. And Gabrielle, turning to Rachel, said, “We brought you a present, because of all the work you have done in connection with the show. My husband thought you would like a dress for the great occasion, and so—”

  “A dress?” gasped Rachel. “Do you mean a Florian dress?”

  “It is not my practice to promote my rivals’ designs ” said Florian with grim humour.

  “But—but how wonderful of you! I don’t know what to say—” “Perhaps you had better try the dress on her,” Florian said to his wife. “Then if any small alteration is needed. Mademoiselle Charlotte can see to it tomorrow.”

  So Gabrielle took Rachel into the next room and, having made her slip off the dress she was wearing, she expertly arrayed her in the Florian model.

  It was black. But the most exquisite, delicate, filmy black lace, of a kind that must be worn only by the very young. It imparted to Rachel’s skin a subtle pearly sheen which made her catch her breath. The beautifully moulded little bodice dung to her like a caress, and the skirt swirled away from what seemed an incredibly small waist in magnificent opulence and drama.

  “I never saw such a dress! I never looked like that in all my life—I can’t imagine—It’s too wonderful!”

  She stood before the mirror in Gabrielle’s room, fascinated, unable to tear herself away from the unfamiliar sight. Until Gabrielle laughed and said, “You’re really beautiful, in a touching, quite unusual way. Let’s call Florian in and see what he thinks. ”

  So the great dress designer was summoned, and walked round her, considering her from every angle. He altered the fall of the skirt slightly, securing it with a couple of pins. Then he said,

  “But for that slight alteration it will do.”

  “Do!” echoed Rachel. “It’s the most heavenly, wonderful dress any girl ever had. I never wore anything like it in my life.”

  “No, of course not ” he agreed simply. “You never had a Florian dress before, I presume. ”

  “Monsieur Florian—” she turned suddenly from the mirror to face him—"why did you do this wonderful thing for me? It couldn’t just be because of a few letters?”

  “Dresses are my business,” he pointed out rather disagreeably.

  “It wasn’t only that,” Gabrielle smiled, and explained, “He told me it was important that you should look your best at the show and the party afterwards. That someone would be there who ought to see you in a Florian dress”

  “Oh—I see.” Rachel was suddenly sobered, for she knew now why Florian was not particularly elated over the success of hi
s dress. The reason for it no longer existed.

  “My husband is both romantic and interfering,” Gabrielle went on, with an amused glance at him. “He once changed a girl’s whole life by seeing that the right man saw her at the right time in the right dress. He has never got over it. Isn’t that so, mon cheri?”

  “More or less,” Florian admitted, kissing the side of her cheek unselfconsciously. “It is probably my instinct for stage-management. I apologise, mademoiselle.”

  “There’s no need to apologise,” exclaimed Rachel, who could not bear that, after all his kindness, he should suppose she were less than enraptured. “I can well believe that such a dress can work miracles. Perhaps—this one will.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed with a smile.

  Then he left her to change back to her own much more mundane dress. And presently they went downstairs to the big lounge and sat and drank coffee and talked shop. Or rather, the Florians talked shop, while Rachel listened entranced.

  When she finally said she must go—and once more tried to give some expression to the gratitude she felt—Gabrielle told her kindly that she must come over to Paris one day and see the salon. And on that pleasing thought they parted.

  Florian walked with her to the door, and it was when they were halfway across the great foyer that she saw Nigel, talking to a man she had never seen before.

  “Monsieur Florian,” she exclaimed on impulse, “there is Nigel. If—if you really want to talk to him—”

  But he merely smiled and made no comment on that. And, since he insisted on waiting until she was safely installed in a taxi, she had no means of knowing if, when he went back into the hotel, he made any attempt to speak to Nigel.

  It was dreadfully tantalising—just as the brief glimpse of Nigel had been tantalising—but she tried to tell herself that she must not attach any real importance to what had been little more than a half murmured thought. He had said perhaps he should talk, to Nigel. But on what terms, and about what?—Rachel—his work—Fiona? None of those could be in any way regarded as the great designer’s business, of course. But Rachel hardly thought that would deter Florian, if the impulse moved him.

  In spite of the terrible shock with which the evening had begun, too much had happened which was pleasant to leave her with her spirits entirely depressed. Illogical though it might seem, an absurd little flicker of hope—unfounded but persistent—still illuminated the hour before sleep finally came to her.

  But when she woke the next morning, it was to utter depression and a resistless knowledge all the harder to bear because she had delayed its acceptance until now.

  She was made no happier at breakfast by having Paula say brightly to her,

  “Nigel came in last night, after you’d gone. He was enquiring after you.”

  “Last night? But you must have been in bed, if he came after I had gone out.”

  “Yes. But he came up to say good-night to me, and sat on my bed for quite a long time. That was when he asked about you, and I told him you were out with Mr. Mayforth.”

  “But I wasn’t!” exclaimed Rachel with a disproportionate feeling of dismay. “I was at the Gloria, with Monsieur Florian and his wife.”

  “Were you? I just thought it was with Mr. Mayforth because it’s usually with him that you go, isn’t it?”

  Rachel made no answer to that. She was hoping Paula had not given Nigel the impression that she was always out with Oliver. Though, really, how it could matter now what Nigel thought about any of her personal relationships it was difficult to see.

  “He was disappointed to miss you ” Paula went on.

  “Was he, Paula? What made you think that?”

  “Oh, he was sort of—restless. And he said he had something he wanted to tell you.”

  “To—tell me?” Rachel strove to hide her nervous concern. “A—

  surprise, do you mean?”

  "I don’t know.” Paula shook her head. “He didn’t say. But anyway, you’ll be seeing him at the charity show tomorrow evening, won’t you?”

  “Yes” Rachel felt faintly sick as she thought of the announcement that was to be made then. “I shall be seeing him then—in a way.”

  “So shall I,” remarked Paula contentedly. “Did you know? Mummy and Daddy are going to take me too, as a great treat. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Rachel forced a smile and said that it was indeed.

  “I’m going to wear my blue embroidered nylon party dress,” Paula announced blissfully. “What are you going to wear?”

  So Rachel told her about the wonderful dress which the Florians had brought for her from Paris, and Paula became so passionately interested that it was only with difficulty that she was forced out of the house and on her way to school at the last possible moment.

  Rachel had quite a heavy morning’s work for her uncle and Oliver Mayforth, which perhaps was just as well. At least it kept her thoughts from her own problems. But in the afternoon it was much more difficult, for she had to present a calm and even friendly front to Fiona, who was not in the best of tempers and seemed to be under something of a nervous strain herself.

  Later, at the Gloria, so many people were involved in the rehearsal for the great dress show that it was easy to keep out of Fiona’s way and, unhappy though she was, Rachel could not but be fascinated by the magnificent display and by the miracle of organisation which went into the whole performance.

  “But they’ve all done it hundreds of times,” Gabrielle explained with a smile, when Rachel remarked on the smoothness of the working. “And it’s always the rehearsal which goes well. It’s on the night itself that crises happen.”

  “I suppose so,” agreed Rachel soberly, with her thoughts on her own particular crisis which was looming up. But she managed to hide her anxiety behind a smiling exterior, and to express nothing but pleasure and gratitude when her dress—magnificently packed in an exclusive Florian box—was handed over to her. If she had to face tragedy the following evening, at least she was to face it in style.

  On the great evening itself, even Sir Everard was not proof against the general excitement, And when Rachel—who had to leave for the Gloria before the others— made her appearance in her Florian model, he was as loud as anyone in his praise.

  “My dear child, you look quite wonderful!” he exclaimed.

  “Like a princess!” added Paula,

  While Hester simply said, “Where on earth did you get that?”

  “Monsieur Florian gave it to her,” explained Paula, who was bursting with this interesting piece of information.

  “Gave it to you?” Hester walked round Rachel and inspected her critically, “But it’s a princely gift. What on earth induced him to do such a thing? Florian’s as mean as they come.”

  “Oh, he’s not!” cried Rachel defensively. “He’s a darling. And so is she. ”

  “He didn’t make his fortune by being a darling and giving away his dresses,” retorted Hester drily. “She’s a nice enough creature, though very much the doting wife, But then, of course, she was a mannequin, so I suppose she never quite got over the thrill of marrying the boss. But—Florian! I don’t understand it.”

  Rachel didn’t really understand it either. But she was inclined to agree with her uncle, when he said indulgently,

  “Well, well, some of the nicest things in life are never quite understandable. I don’t think you can fail to enjoy yourself in that frock, my dear.”

  “Mr. Mayforth will goggle when he sees it” prophesied Paula, “and I bet Uncle Nigel will whisde too.” Rachel took that as well as she could and, having bade them a temporary farewell, went off to the Gloria.

  Already everything was in train. One of the largest of the ballrooms was given over to the dress show, and a narrow raised platform had been built down the centre, with a small stage at one end. Behind this, in an improvised dressing-room, half a dozen striking-looking girls of very varied personalities were chattering, making-up, arguing and dressing, under the eagle eye of M
adame Moisant, Florian’s waspish but incredibly efficient Directrice.

  She was gracious when Rachel came to enquire if she had all she required. But, as her gimlet glance passed over Rachel, it was obvious that she was paying tribute to the dress rather than the

  wearer,

  “Mademoiselle is well suited to the model,” she observed, with a nice distinction between the relative importance of Mademoiselle and the model. “Monsieur Florian was clever to arrange it so, without even one fitting.”

  “It seems like magic to me,” Rachel agreed. “But then I think Monsieur Florian is something of a magician.”

  “So his rivals say,” affirmed the Directrice, with the faintest hint of smugness. “But for them, of course, it is the black magic that they mean. And those who praise him most are the ones who find him blackest. But this is as it should be.”

  Rachel was secretly intrigued to know why this was the way it should be, but she had not quite the courage to ask the formidable Madame Moisant what she meant. Instead, she went away to make a quick inspection of the supper room. For, in the last few weeks, she had learned a great deal under Fiona’s chill but efficient direction and was perfectly capable of acting as a most satisfactory deputy.

  The dining-room manager took her round, showed her the magnificent buffet, and generally paid her more respectful attention than she had ever received in her life before. It was largely because of the Florian dress, she knew. One comprehensive glance from the infinitely experienced manager had priced the model with great accuracy, and placed the wearer in the range of customers one treated with the ultimate degree of respect.

  It was a novel experience, to which Rachel could not be entirely indifferent. But there was a bitter little touch of irony about the fact that, on the evening when she was to receive the most agonising rebuff, she was looking more lovely than she had ever looked in her life before.

  There was nothing more for her to do now, and still half an hour remained before even the first of the guests could be expected to arrive. So she went into one of the smaller rooms, which would no doubt be used later by sitting-out couples.