Wife To Christopher Read online

  She looked round her, marvelling that so many, lights had so little effect on the dark tones of the place. For a moment she visualised Sir Joseph’s long-dead foreign wife coming down that wide, shallow staircase. Poor, pretty, frivolous thing. No wonder she found Sir Joseph and his home a little overpowering.

  Just at that moment a door across the hall opened and a man came out. He turned in the doorway and called out a remark to someone in the room. A woman’s voice replied, saying something that made him laugh. And suddenly, without any special reason, Vicki felt perfectly sure that this was Sir Joseph’s son.

  She never forgot her first sight of Christopher Kentone. Long afterwards she used to remember him like that, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes alight with amusement, as he stood in the light from the room behind him, framed by the dark panelling of the hall.

  He seemed immensely tall to her in that first moment, and there was a careless magnificence about him that would have been almost picturesque if it had not been for the stern, purposeful air that usually contradicted it.

  He came out, closing the door behind him, and was halfway to the stairs before he saw her and turned immediately to speak.

  Just for a second he seemed to tower above her in a rather frightening way, now that he was completely serious once more.

  "Were you waiting for someone?" His voice was deep and abrupt but extremely pleasing, and Vicki noticed that his enunciation was singularly clear.

  She explained quickly that she was Sir Joseph’s secretary, and before she could enlarge on the subject the servant was back. Even if she had not already guessed that this was Christopher Kentone, the servant's respectful air would have told her. He gave a little nod, said politely but unsmilingly," You will be all right now," and turned and went up the stairs.

  Sir Joseph’s reception of her was characteristic. He looked up from a large, abnormally tidy desk, where a reading-lamp made a bright pool of light in his gloomy study.

  "Oh, Miss Unwin, there are one or two letters by the night post that need immediate answers. Will you take some dictation right away, and then Mrs. Parry, the house-keeper, will show you to your room. You had dinner on the train? No? Well then, you can have something in your room later."

  Vicki rather wanted to smile. She knew Sir Joseph considered that politeness demanded he should inquire whether she had had dinner. After that, she could wait until she starved so long as there was work to be done.

  However, she immediately sat down, accepted the notebook and pencil which he pushed towards her, and began to take down his crisp, dry dictation with a lack of flurry which secretly commended itself rather highly to her employer. Not many girls could be relied on to come straight off the train after a four-hour journey and begin taking dictation at once.

  Presently he stopped as abruptly as he had begun and rang a bell. He never wasted unnecessary words like, "That's all now," or "Oh, here you are." Vicki never could decide whether he considered it an insult to anyone's intelligence to make such self-evident statements, or whether he thought that unless one had something vital to say it was better to keep silent. Certainly, his business letters were masterpieces of economical terseness.

  When Mrs. Parry arrived she proved to be exactly like a stage housekeeper. She wore slightly rustling black, addressed Sir Joseph with grim respect, and on being introduced to Vicki extended towards her the suspicious severity with which she treated the lower housemaids.

  To do Sir Joseph justice, his impersonal politeness gave no indication whether he regarded Vicki as a guest or a member of his staff. There was no such doubt in Mrs. Parry's attitude. As she led Vicki up the wide staircase, her uncompromising back said very plainly, "Staff, lower member of."

  Her manner remained unshaken as she showed Vicki into a rather large square room which had, however, been pleasantly prepared, with a good fire burning in the grate. This was apparently to be Vicki’s own study and a door beyond led into a small but comfortable bedroom.

  Something in Mrs. Parry's air warned Vicki to say nothing about having had no dinner. After all, there was some chocolate in her case. She would make do with that.

  When Mrs. Parry had gone, she explored her quarters more thoroughly. They were like the rest of the house, comfortable, even elegant, but indefinably gloomy. Her suit case had already been put in her bedroom, and her portable typewriter had been set on a table in her study.

  Well, she supposed Sir Joseph would expect her to type his letters here and now, so she might as well get them done.

  When they were ready she hesitated. Was she supposed to ring for a servant to take them to Sir Joseph, or should she find her way down to the study again and hope he was still there? Finally, as he had said he wanted the letters that night, she decided it was her own business to see that he got them.

  She was a little doubtful of the way, but found it in the end, and then paused a moment outside the slightly open door. Sir Joseph was speaking to someone.

  "Since you say they were hospitable to you in Vienna, I suppose you could do nothing but invite them here, but she is not the kind of woman I like as a guest in the usual way. Forrester himself, of course, is quite unexceptionable."

  "Mrs. Forrester is charming." That was Christopher, and his deep voice sounded faintly irritated.

  "Very well," Sir Joseph's courteous tone was even more remote than usual. "But I have never liked foreigners."

  How can he! thought Vicki. And at the same moment Christopher’s low, angry voice said, "How can you!" and then, abruptly and almost rudely, “Well, of course, I always remember I am half one myself."

  Vicki knocked hastily before she should hear anything embarrassing, and both men turned as she came in.

  Christopher stepped back politely, leaving his father’s full attention for Vicki, and in one glance she saw that his eyes looked dark and angry, and the set of his rather full lips was faintly sullen.

  "He can be darned difficult, too," she decided in that second. "But his mouth was meant to be sweet really, not sullen."

  Sir Joseph then rather formally introduced her to his son, and Christopher as formally accepted the introduction, bowing gravely to Vicki as though the meeting in the hall had never taken place.

  "You need not wait. Miss Unwin," Sir Joseph said, already absorbed in the letters. “I will see these are sent off."

  Vicki turned to go. Christopher held the door open for her, and then followed her out into the hall.

  "You started work early—or rather, late, Miss Unwin."

  She turned at the sound of his abrupt voice behind her.

  "Yes. Sir Joseph wanted some work urgently."

  He didn’t comment on that but merely said, "Did you have dinner on the train?"

  "No." There was something almost amusing in this impassive-looking man concerning himself about her meals. But perhaps he had the same idea as Sir Joseph—that politeness demanded it.

  "You have had something in your room?"

  "Well—no," Vicki admitted reluctantly, smiling a little,

  "Don’t you want something?" he asked without returning the smile.

  " It’s a little late. I think—Mrs. Parry might—find it inconvenient."

  "I will see something is sent up," he said, almost curtly, and turned away.

  She had gone several steps up the stair when he came to the side of them.

  " Miss Unwin-"

  “Yes ?" She leaned over the banister and looked down at him. Suddenly his wonderful smile flashed out.

  "There is no need whatever to be afraid of Mrs. Parry."

  “I’m not afraid of her," Vicki laughed, but she coloured a little.

  "Not? Good." And he turned away again without another word, as though she were already forgotten.

  Ten minutes later a delightful little meal was served to Vicki in her own room by a friendly housemaid.

  In the next few days Vicki was busy, but not so busy that she could not find time to be interested in the people round her. Ind
eed she was rather thankful for the distraction which they gave her from her own melancholy thoughts. Whenever she had time to think, her imagination hurried her back to the cheap little flat where Margery and her father waited, day after day, hoping for some miracle that might give him another chance of life.

  During the day Vicki was usually too busy to see much of Sir Joseph’s house party, but she found that she was at liberty—even expected—to join them at dinner. And, during the evening, even if she took little active part in any of the discussions that went on around her, at least she found a good deal of pleasure and amusement in listening.

  Most of the party were friends, or rather business connections, of Sir Joseph, and there was a remote cousin of his with her two grown-up sons and a daughter. But the really interesting members were the two to whom Vicki had heard Sir Joseph refer on her first evening—Marie Forrester and her husband Ian.

  Marie Forrester—and her husband. It was inevitable that people should think of them like that, for while Ian Forrester's sole claim to notice rested on the little-known fact that he was an authority on Chinese art, Marie Forrester was in public life Marie Renard, the famous soprano.

  From the first moment Vicki saw her, she realised that Marie Renard would have been famous whatever she did.

  She that special vital spark that draws all eyes, and before ever she opened her mouth to sing you were intensely interested. And yet, for once, Vicki felt peculiarly in agreement with Sir Joseph’s opinion. She would not have wanted Marie for a guest herself. And she wondered again and again whether the pleasant, quiet Englishman who was her husband ever regretted their oddly assorted marriage.

  Not that Marie was often anything but gay and vivacious, but there sometimes appeared a streak of such disquieting hardness that Vicki was almost frightened.

  She felt curious enough to look up the singer’s career in a book of contemporary musical biography which she found in the library. There she discovered that, though by name and vivacious temperament Marie was French, she came from Alsace and was half-German too. That accounted for her extreme fairness, thought Vicki, and the fact that she was equally famous in German and French roles.

  It was not until the third evening that someone persuaded her to sing. And then Vicki was as spellbound as the others. Marie was not exactly beautiful, but she was indescribably finished. Rather lightly built, she her proud little head high; and well she might, thought Vicki, for it was set on the most beautiful neck and shoulders she had ever seen. Like Vicki herself she had fair hair and blue eyes, but there the likeness ended. The singer's straight, gold hair clung to her head like a silk cap and was cut in a straight fringe across her rather narrow forehead, while her faintly slanting eyes were of a curious opaque blue that suggested shallow water, shallow thoughts, shallow soul, thought Vicki.

  But she was undeniably attractive as she stood there in the curve of the grand piano, leaning carelessly against it and singing the irresistible phrases with which Manon lured her lover back to ruin. And irresistible they sounded in that full, slightly voluptuous voice that filled the room like a warm flood, blotting out all outside thought, drugging one into absorption in the fascination of the singer.

  It was with difficulty that Vicki transferred her attention to glance at Ian Forrester. But what she saw interested her. He was watching his wife with a complicated expression. A good deal of mild wonder was there, a little incredulous admiration for the perfection of her art, and behind that—just for a second—the most complete disillusion. It gave Vicki something of a shock to see, even for an instant, so deeply into someone else’s mind.

  "He married her because he was infatuated with her voice," thought Vicki, “and he’s been wondering ever since what he saw in her."

  She turned away her head rather sadly, and her eyes rested for a moment on Christopher Kentone. His chin was propped on his hand, his dark eyes fixed on Marie, and he was obviously completely oblivious of anything but the singer. With a slight and disagreeable sense of shock Vicki found herself wondering if Christopher were more than a little attracted by Marie Renard. But just then Marie stopped singing and immediately Christopher and she plunged into such a spirited discussion on the music and the way certain effects were obtained, that Vicki told herself his interest was purely academic and not in the least romantic.

  At that moment a servant came to summon her to Sir Joseph, who wanted her in his study. This was not unusual, as the night post quite often brought something which needed prompt attention.

  She was a little surprised, however, to find him sitting at his desk rather idly turning over the papers in front of him. But he looked up as she came in and spoke of the work.

  When he had explained what he wanted done, he said, without much expression, "Was that Mrs. Forrester singing?" He never used Marie’s professional name.

  "Yes." Vicki was a little surprised at his asking. It's the first time I have heard her sing. She’s wonderful, isn't she?"

  "I suppose so." Sir Joseph’s voice was very dry again. "At least her voice is. What was she singing?"

  "Something from Manon, I think."

  “Manon?" He gave a queer, short laugh. “Very appropriate."

  "Why?" The question was out before she could stop it, but she wished very much she hadn’t asked it.

  "Why?" repeated Sir Joseph, and his voice was oddly harsh," Don’t you know Manon’s story?"

  Vicki nodded dumbly, with her eyes on the old man’s suddenly grim, almost savage face. He wasn't looking at her at all as he said slowly, "She was a baggage. And she brought ruin to every man who came near her."

  She sat there still speechless, fascinated by the cold, almost menacing light in his eyes. And then it died away. His expression was as calm and impersonal as ever as he said, "I should like that letter tonight, Miss Unwin. I am sorry you have to do so much late work, but you realise it is unavoidable."

  Vicki got up without a word, but she noticed his hands were trembling slightly as he rather aimlessly fingered the papers on his desk.

  He was a strange man, she thought, as she crossed the hall. What an awful person to have as a father! No wonder Christopher so seldom smiled. And yet, he had looked rather wonderful when he had smiled at her.

  A servant stopped her at the bottom of the stairs, with a personal letter for her. From Margery! News from home at last. Vicki ran quickly up to her room, her hopes bounding up illogically.

  Perhaps Dr. Rumbolt was more optimistic. Perhaps there was some chance- Her mouth felt very dry and her hands trembled as she tore open the envelope. The first sentence drove the hope from her heart.

  "I am sorry to have no better news-" (Margery began).

  Vicki felt faintly sick as she read on. She had been standing when she opened the letter, but she sank down now in the chair by her desk.

  "It’s hateful of me to trouble you when I expect you are rather enjoying yourself, but I'm so worried that I must tell someone. Daddy had another very bad attack late last night. I had to get Dr. Rumbolt to come, and we didn’t really think he would weather it.

  "Vicki, the doctor said it all over again. We must get Daddy somewhere warmer soon or nothing at all can be done. He was very kind about it and as tactful as he could be, of course, but, as he said, there is no point in concealing the truth.

  "It isn’t like an operation. You go into hospital for a few weeks, and then just convalesce. But Daddy must go abroad, and how can we afford that? I don't think it would be so awful if he weren’t so brave about it. He knows himself now. I was never quite sure of it before, but he said something last night that made me realise it.

  I am afraid I had been crying a bit, and he gave that funny little smile of his—you know the way he does—and said, 'For heaven’s sake don't weep over me, Margery. It's the last indignity. I know I'm dying, and it’s no one's fault but my own. I spent the money that would have saved me years ago on having a good time. A pity, of course, but, God—I enjoyed myself! There’s nothing in my life t
hat I regret.’ "

  For a moment Vicki closed her eyes to keep back the tears. It was so exactly the sort of thing he would say. perhaps the memory did help him a little, but it didn’t those who had to stand by helplessly and watch him die.

  She sat very still, her head leaning on her hand and her breath coming rather quickly. Then she realised there was more to Margery’s letter, and read on:

  You always laugh at me when I say that perhaps you will marry money, but, Vicki, don’t you see that in all deadly earnest there is a faint chance there? If you can't attract a rich man—and heaven knows, you should be able to— can’t you compromise one? I know it sounds theatrical, but it has been done. You’re not a fool, Vicki, and you have rich people all round you. Surely you can do what girls with half your brains and half your looks are doing every day.

  I know you think I haven’t many morals—particularly after what happened over Max. Well, it’s true. I haven't.

  People in our position can’t afford morals. They’re an expensive luxury. I’m not being clever, Vicki. I mean every word of this. Daddy is dying, and you say you love him and would do anything for him. Well do it!

  "There really isn’t anything else to say. Sorry to be brutal, but frankly you are our last hope. Love.

  "M."

  Vicki pushed aside her typewriter and, putting her elbows on the desk, leant her face in her hands.

  What was the use of Margery writing like this ? Quite apart from any question of right and wrong, there was no practical possibility in what she was suggesting. ... Or was there?

  Vicki raised her head and stared across at the window, where the rain was beating a monotonous tattoo. Suppose it were just possible. It was a straw to snatch at, but then didn’t drowning people snatch at straws? And she felt as though she were drowning in the sea of her own helpless grief.

  She didn’t hear the knock on her door—not even when it was repeated; and she was still staring in front of her when Christopher came into the room. She had no idea how bleak and despairing her young face looked at that moment. As though all the world had gone cold for her and nothing would ever warm her again.