Master of Guise E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Historical Romance
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 317

Beschreibung

INTRIGUE. TENSION. LOVE AFFAIRS: In The Historical Romance series, a set of stand-alone novels, Vivian Stuart builds her compelling narratives around the dramatic lives of sea captains, nurses, surgeons, and members of the aristocracy. Stuart takes us back to the societies of the 20th century, drawing on her own experience of places across Australia, India, East Asia, and the Middle East.    After two years in the Arctic, Ninian Moray came back – only to find that everyone believed him dead. His brother had inherited his Highland estate and married Catherine, his fiancée. An engagement to another girl seemed the only refuge from his emotional difficulties, but was that fair to Jill? And how would it all end?

Leseprobe

Master of Guise

Master of Guise

© Vivian Stuart, 1992

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

ISBN: 978-9979-64-480-4

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

____

For Denise Robins, to whom I offer this book as an expression of my admiration for her achievements as a novelist and of my gratitude for the privilege of her friendship.

1

WHEN, in Coronation Year, the United States Navy reported the loss of one of its Polar survey vessels in the Arctic Ocean, news of the tragedy struck a solemn, discordant note in the pages of British newspapers given over to rejoicing and plans for the national celebrations.

There had been, it was stated, an officer of the Royal Navy on board the survey ship, but his name was withheld from the first reports, so that the next of kin might be informed.

Later the Admiralty announced, with regret, that Lieutenant-Commander Ninian James Moray, R.N., serving as an observer with the United States Navy in Arctic waters, was missing and had, it was feared, lost his life.

Obituary notices appeared in the Scotsman and in the Lorne Courier, and the Coronation festivities, planned for that week at Castle Guise and in Lorne itself, were postponed, for the young Master of Guise — which had been Ninian Moray’s proud title in the Scottish Highlands — had been a popular figure in the district and heir to the ancient barony of Guise. His family and friends mourned him, and his grandfather, the thirteenth Baron Guise, then aged eighty, took to his bed and did not leave it again.

And then, out of the blue, two years afterwards came a radio announcement to the effect that a Russian helicopter, based on Franz Josef Land, seeing signs of life on pack-ice where none had been expected, had landed to investigate and had found three survivors of the ill-fated U.S.S. Manfred, among them Ninian Moray.

A cable from Ninian himself, dispatched ten days later from Archangel, confirmed the incredible news.

After a brief spell in a Soviet hospital, the Russians flew him back to London, by which time his fantastic story had preceded him and he found himself hailed as a hero, feted, besieged by newspaper reporters, filmed and photographed, his survival headlined as an epic of courage and endurance.

Useless for Ninian to protest, to explain that survival had been possible because he and his two American companions had been an advance party, landed with adequate stores and a good deal of equipment, prior to the loss of the parent ship. Of still less use to add that the worst hardships had been neither cold nor lack of food but boredom and the frustrating lack of batteries for their radio transmitter.

He returned to learn that he had been given up for dead by both his family and their Lordships of the Admiralty and to hear, for the first time, the facts concerning the loss of the U.S.S. Manfred, to which, hitherto, only her failure to deliver the radio batteries had pointed.

This, added to the strain of his own unwelcome notoriety, proved too much for his bewildered mind to take in and a sympathetic Medical Board gave him six weeks’ sick leave and advised him to go home.

“Off you go and enjoy yourself,” the Surgeon-Captain had suggested cheerfully. “In your own surroundings, with your own people about you, you’ll soon get back to normal. Far better for you, in the circumstances, than carting you off to hospital. Much simpler to pick up the threads again if you go to it right away. Eh? Don’t you agree?”

Ninian had replied with a dutiful: “Yes, sir,” but he knew that, with his return to Guise, the complications would really begin. It is impossible for a man to come home, after over two years of being officially dead, to find everything the same as when he left it.

Ninian had been warned about some of the complications. His brother Andrew had met him on his arrival in London and spent a week with him, doing his best to apologize: the family solicitor had come down post-haste from Glasgow to add his quota to the explanations and apologies and he had received six long letters in as many days from his grandmother.

His grandmother was the only one who did not apologize — but Andrew had always been her favourite, Ninian recalled, without bitterness. And his return from the dead put Andrew, to say the least of it, in an awkward spot — Andrew, who was his twin and the younger by a matter of some thirty minutes, had, of course, been his heir.

For nearly two years Andrew had been Baron Guise, fourteenth of his line, after the death of their grandfather, which had taken place soon after the Coronation. Andrew had administered the estate, had sold off much of it in order to pay death duties and — if old Mr. Donaldson of Donaldson, Brown and Donaldson were to be believed — in order to live in the manner to which, it seemed, he had now become accustomed.

And Andrew had also, Ninian learned, become engaged to Catherine Laidlaw who, when he had sailed for the Arctic, had been his own affianced wife. They had been married now for a little over a year, and Catherine was châtelaine of Castle Guise — the home to which Ninian’s well-meaning Medical Board had so enthusiastically bidden him to return.

Ninian was still in uniform when he went to board the Night Highlander at Euston, for his session with the Board had been a long one and, following it, he had had to make various official calls on senior officers.

He had a change of clothes in his one small suitcase and he wished, as he strode along the platform, past the shuttered sleeping car, that he had been able to book a sleeping berth on this train.

Uniform made him conspicuous and his photograph in it had appeared in too many newspapers recently for him to hope to escape recognition.

Besides, he was still far from fit and his weary body cried out for sleep.

Yet, transcending both his weariness and his apprehension concerning his return, he was aware of a fierce, exultant longing for the sight, which tomorrow would bring, of his own bleak, familiar Highland hills. And of Guise, that quiet, beloved place where, as a boy, he had been happy . . . where he would be happy again, he felt sure, once the complications had been brought into the open, discussed and dealt with.

He could not bear, tired though he was, to put off his return, wait for a later train. There was always the chance that he would be able to obtain a cancelled berth.

But the sleeping-car attendant shook his head in reply to Ninian’s enquiry.

“Sorry, sir, all booked up tonight. But I’ll let you know if there are any cancellations. Your name, sir?”

“Moray.” He spelt it, remembering, with a wry twisting of the lips, that he would soon have to accustom himself to his new title. The man scribbled in his little book. He looked up from it to stare at Ninian with suddenly kindled interest. With recognition came sympathy and he promised, closing his notebook:

“I’ll do my best for you, Commander. There’s usually one or two that don’t turn up to claim their sleepers.”

“Thanks.” Ninian went down the long train. He found himself a corner seat, placed his suitcase — which was all the luggage he possessed — on the rack and settled down with the evening paper. But he couldn’t concentrate on it, the print blurred in front of his eyes and he found himself thinking, against his will, of Catherine. She had always been part of Guise, to him, and he had dreamed of Catherine often during his exile. But now she was his brother’s wife and it would be safer if he did not think of her.

A few seconds later, a porter, loaded with luggage, thrust his way awkwardly into the compartment and Ninian welcomed the interruption. He indicated that all the other seats were free. The porter thanked him and asked, over his shoulder:

“This one, miss? Comer seat, back to the engine?”

A feminine voice answered him from the corridor: “Oh, yes — this’ll be fine.”

It was an attractive voice, in spite of the faintly nasal, unmistakably Australian accent, and Ninian glanced up from his paper, his curiosity aroused both by the voice and by the luxurious quality of the luggage which the porter was now distributing, as best he could, about the available space in the racks. It overflowed even the small corner where Ninian had placed his suitcase.

He got up and removed it, catching a brief glimpse of a tall, slim girl of about twenty-three or four who was standing outside in the corridor. She came in as he returned to his seat, and flashed him a warm, friendly smile.

“Well, hullo!” she greeted, holding out her hand. Ninian stared at her. She was an extremely attractive girl, but, to the best of his recollection, he had never set eyes on her before in his life. He took the extended hand. “Er — I’m afraid — ”

“I thought I recognized you,” the girl went on, “only — ” her eyes were puzzled as they met his — “you look different in uniform somehow.”

The electric lights had not yet been switched on and Ninian studied her in the dimness, convinced that, if they had met before, no matter in what circumstances, he would not have forgotten her. She was not a girl any man would have forgotten. Her eyes were grey, her hair that rare shade that he believed was known as ash blonde, and her smile, without being coquettish, was merry and altogether charming. She was beautifully dressed in a well-cut tweed suit, whose sophistication suggested Paris rather than the Highlands, and her accessories — from the diamond clip in her lapel to the neat brown brogues on her feet — matched suit and luggage in both the quality and perfection of their design.

Clearly, Ninian decided, a very wealthy and much travelled young woman, but, rack his brains as he might, he could not recall having met her before. And yet it would be ungallant in the extreme to confess it. He reddened. He hadn’t spoken to a girl like this since his return, and he felt suddenly gauche and ill at ease, unable to find any words with which to bridge the silence that had fallen between them.

But she was tipping her porter and seemed not to notice Ninian’s confusion. He took courage and, casting about him for some means of identifying her, noticed a label attached to one of the pigskin suitcases in the rack. It was upside down but he managed to decipher the name on it as Arden and her destination, to his amazement, as Lorne, which was his own. Arden — Arden? The name meant nothing, though perhaps — he turned to look at her again and, at that moment, the lights in the carriage went on and he saw that she, too, was looking at him, still with a faintly puzzled expression in her grey eyes.

“I — ” She hesitated. “You are Commander Moray, aren’t you? Ninian Moray of Guise?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “I am. But — ”

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Her tone was accusing, but her smile didn’t reproach him. “It’s not surprising, after what you went through. I hadn’t realized, of course, who you were and what an ordeal it must have been, until I read about it in the papers next day. But I did hope you’d remember me. I mean — ” colour crept into her cheeks — “we did dance together rather a lot and you — well, you — ” She broke off, embarrassed.

Of what, Ninian wondered desperately, was she accusing him? Where on earth could they possibly have met — and — danced? He hadn’t danced since his return — of course, they might have met at a party before he’d gone to the Arctic, he’d been to a number of farewell parties. But that was a long time ago and this girl was talking as if — dash it, as if they’d met during the past few days! Which was quite impossible. He’d been nowhere where he could have danced with her.

He hadn’t but . . . Andrew had. Of course, that was it! Andrew had gone to a party in Chelsea, given by some artist who was a friend of a friend of his — someone who’d known Jocelyn Farquhar. He had tried to persuade Ninian to go with him, only he hadn’t felt like it, Ninian recalled, so his brother had gone alone.

Obviously, it was Andrew whom Miss Arden had met, not himself. They were identical twins, he and Andrew: as boys, they had often played tricks, pretending to be each other. It had been one of their chief forms of amusement. Nowadays, though, the resemblance between them wasn’t so striking — he was taller and thinner than Andrew, more robust, and his hair was greying at the temples, which Andrew’s wasn’t. He looked older than Andrew now, and no one seeing them together could possibly mistake one for the other — save, perhaps, a casual acquaintance, as this girl was. Although — she’d got his name right, Ninian thought, and that was odd. Very odd indeed. Unless, of course, her acquaintance with Andrew had been so casual that he hadn’t told her his name: and then, seeing the papers next day, with his own not very recognizable photographs in them, she’d jumped to the conclusion that he was Andrew. Or rather, that Andrew was he.

That must have been what had happened. Because there was no earthly reason why Andrew should have given this girl any name but his own. Except that Andrew was married . . .

He was married to Catherine. But —

Miss Arden touched his arm. “I don’t know why we’re standing up,” she said.

“No,” said Ninian, “I don’t either. Er — facing or back to the engine? Which do you prefer?”

“I don’t mind a bit,” she assured him. They sat down facing each other.

“You know,” Ninian said, trying to sound casual, “this is all rather odd, isn’t it? Our meeting, I mean.” He had to get to the bottom of this business somehow, for the sake of his own peace of mind. “I suppose you were at that studio party the other night? The — the — ” He couldn’t remember the host’s name and hesitated uncertainly. He was sure that Andrew had mentioned it and that the name had been a foreign one. French. Yes, Duclos. Or Dupont. Paul Dupont. Paul Somebody, anyway. “Paul’s party,” he added, watching his companion’s face. It was a very attractive face.

“Pauline Delage,” Miss Arden supplied. She was frowning. “I was staying with her — I’d just arrived from Paris. I told you that. But you — you didn’t seem tight, at the party. I mean, if you were, you didn’t show it. I must say, I don’t feel very flattered that you should have forgotten all about me. But perhaps you wanted to. Or were you tight?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Lord, this was awkward! What the devil had Andrew been up to?

“I spotted you on the platform just now.” She flushed, avoiding his gaze. “If I — if I made a mistake by coming into this compartment — if you’d rather be alone — you’ve only to say so, you know.”

“Oh, but I’d hate you to go.” Ninian spoke decisively. “Please don’t go, Miss Arden.”

Her brows went up and her flush deepened. “You do remember my name then?”

“I — yes. I saw it on — ” his eyes went guiltily to the labelled luggage on the racks — “that is, yes, I do,” he corrected hastily.

“Is this some sort of joke? Because if it is, I don’t find it awfully funny, Ninian. I mean, if you were tight, if you’ve forgotten because of that or — or as a result of the ghastly time you’ve had, I’d try to understand. But if you did remember my name — ”

“I — look, I didn’t. I saw it on your luggage.” He pointed to the luggage labels, dangling above their heads. “My brain’s a blank. I do forget things. Please bear with me, if it’s not asking too much — ” He was leaning towards her and the train started, with a jerk that almost precipitated him into her arms. She put out a hand to steady him.

“Careful! Or you’ll repeat what happened in the taxi the other night.” Her voice shook a little and Ninian saw the glint of tears in her eyes. He drew back, startled.

She bit her lip and her eyes searched his face. “You — kissed me. Don’t you — don’t you honestly remember?”

Anger rose in Ninian’s throat, threatening to choke him. Andrew had always been a bit of a ladies’ man, but now Catherine was his wife — and — oh, damn Andrew! Obviously he’d had a few drinks and then he’d flirted with this charming girl, kissed her, amused himself, with no thought in his head of seeing her again. Only — somehow or other — he’d discovered that she was coming to Lorne, so he’d used the old alias, given Ninian’s name, instead of his own, so that Catherine shouldn’t find out.

Probably he’d intended to warn Ninian but it had slipped his mind. Or he’d put off telling him, in the hope that he wouldn’t have to. It had been the blindest chance that Ninian had met the girl on this train: until an hour ago, he hadn’t thought he would be able to catch it. It would never have occurred to Andrew that his sins would find him out so swiftly. Though how he hoped to continue to get away with it, once the Arden girl saw them both together, Ninian didn’t know and was too angry to consider.

He asked abruptly: “Miss Arden, were we introduced? At the party?”

She stared at him, still flushed. “No. It wasn’t that sort of party. But — ”

“Then how did you know my name?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I asked you. In the taxi. We — we talked and I said I was going to Lorne, to stay with Jocelyn Farquhar. She’s my cousin and I’m spending the summer there, before going home to Australia. Then you told me who you were.”

“I see.” His guess had been right, Ninian thought bitterly. It was one of those unlikely coincidences which no one could have foreseen — least of all Andrew. He would have to explain, of course — eventually. Or . . . would he? It would add horribly to the complications and there was Catherine to think of . . . Catherine, whom he had loved and for whom his feelings were — still protective, at any rate. Catherine mustn’t be hurt.

He found himself wondering for perhaps the hundredth time whether Catherine was in love with his brother and, again for the hundredth time, thrust the question from his mind. Catherine had married Andrew and that, as far as he was concerned, must be his answer.

“Ninian — ” It was his companion speaking again and, with an effort, Ninian forced himself to listen to her.

“Yes?” he said.

“You aren’t joking, are you? You really don’t remember anything about the other night?”

“No,” he confessed truthfully, “I don’t. I’m most terribly sorry. Could we — I mean, if you could find it in your heart to forgive me — could we start again, as if we’d met now for the first time? I know I don’t deserve it of you but — ”

“You might forget again,” she suggested bitterly.

“No. No, I won’t forget again. I swear I won’t.”

His sincerity evidently convinced her. She flashed him her lovely, friendly smile. “All right, then. I’ll give you one more chance. But only one!”

“One will be enough.” He held out his hand. “Miss Arden, my name’s Ninian, Ninian Moray. And yours is — ?”

“Mine’s Juliet — Jill for short.” She took the hand. “I’m glad to know you, Ninian.”

They sat looking at each other. Then Jill Arden sighed.

“Well,” she said, “and now what?”

“We — ” Ninian began but he was interrupted by the sleeping-car attendant, who thrust his head into the compartment and announced: “I’ve a spare berth, Commander Moray.”

“Oh.” Ninian looked questioningly at his companion. “Have you a sleeper?”

She shook her head. “No, I forgot to book one. But it doesn’t matter. I’m certainly not going to take yours.”

“Of course you are. I wouldn’t dream of letting you sit up. You haven’t got two going spare, I suppose?” He appealed to the attendant.

“I’m sorry, sir — only one cancellation tonight, in the First Class. But there are one or two Seconds, if you — ”

“Right,” said Ninian decisively. He tipped the man. “Take the young lady’s luggage along to the First, please. And if you can fix me up with a Second, that’ll be fine. We’ll both come along when we’ve had dinner.”

“Very good, sir. They’ll be serving dinner in a few minutes. Hold on, sir, here’s the waiter now. I’ll get your reservations. For two, sir?”

“Please.” Ninian turned to Jill. “That’s in order, isn’t it? You’ll let me give you dinner, as some sort of atonement for my forgetfulness?”

She accepted gravely and rose, to permit the attendant to lift down her luggage. “Shall we go?” she suggested. “I feel rather in the way here — I’m not travelling as light as you are. When I move, I have to take everything with me, being of what they call ‘no fixed abode.’” She made a rueful gesture towards the rack. Ninian smiled and held the door for her.

She was a charming girl, he thought, as he followed her down the swaying corridor to the dining car — charming and forgiving, too. Most girls would have behaved very differently, in the circumstances.

An attendant led them to a table for two at the far end of the car, which was gradually filling up, and the wine waiter, glimpsing Ninian’s uniform, came hopefully to stand at his elbow.

“Anything to drink, sir?” He held out his list.

Ninian consulted it. “What for you, Juliet — Jill? Sherry? Gin and something? Or would you prefer wine?”

An imp of mischief danced suddenly in the clear grey eyes.

“Look,” she said, “I’m an Australian — ”

“Oh — ” Ninian hesitated. Then he grinned. “You mean you’ll drink beer?”

She nodded. “Yes, please. Does that shock you?”

“Of course it doesn’t.” He gave the order. “Beer’s becoming quite a fashionable feminine drink these days, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. My fondness for beer rather shocked the French family I’ve been staying with, I’m afraid. But — ” the waiter brought their order, setting down a glass of water for Ninian — “aren’t you going to keep me company?”

“I don’t drink,” Ninian answered thoughtlessly, “that is, I’m not allowed to, at the moment, on medical advice.”

She was staring at him in some surprise. “You were drinking the other night. Whisky. But I suppose you forgot. About the medical advice, I mean.”

Lord, what a fool he was! Colour flamed, under the tan of Ninian’s cheeks. He mumbled something unconvincing and attacked his first course. Jill sipped her beer and smiled at him. She chatted, easily and naturally, as they ate and gradually Ninian’s tension relaxed, under the spell of her warm friendliness.

She had been, he gathered, studying art and had spent just over a year in Paris. From the mildly derisive way in which she spoke of her work, he received the impression that she did not take it very seriously, yet her knowledge of her subject puzzled him, for it seemed something of a contradiction. A gifted amateur perhaps, with — again his eyes went to the diamond clasp in her lapel, to the small, jewelled watch she wore — indulgent parents, who allowed her sufficient money to gratify a dilettante’s interest in painting and sculpture.

She mentioned her parents, casually but with very evident affection. Her father, it appeared, was the owner of a New South Wales sheep station, who had served in Malaya during the war, her mother a semi-invalid. As their meal progressed, Ninian became increasingly aware of her feminine attraction, and his spirits rose. It was pleasant to be sitting opposite this delightful girl, to watch the swiftly changing expressions on her mobile face, to listen to her gay, spontaneous laughter.

She talked intelligently, too, with more freedom in her choice of subject than the average British girl of her age would have taken, and her views were refreshingly original. No wonder Andrew had found her attractive: she was just his type, pretty, vivacious and quick-witted, a challenge to any man. Unless, of course, that man were married to Catherine . . .

The waiter brought coffee and they started to talk about the Farquhars. Ninian had always liked the Farquhars, especially Jocelyn, who was a very successful professional artist and who ran her large, untidy house and her big, cheerful family with spasmodic competence and was enormously popular with everyone at Lorne, despite the fact that she was English and therefore, technically, a ‘foreigner.’ Ninian hadn’t seen her for years but Jill assured him, smiling, that she was ‘just the same.’

“She came and stayed with me in Paris for a few weeks,” the girl added, “rather at Daddy’s behest, I think, to make sure that I was behaving myself. We’re second cousins, actually, and that was the first time we’d met. But we got on tremendously well and when Joss asked me to spend the summer at Lorne, of course I jumped at it. Apart from any other reason, she’s at the top of her particular tree and I can learn an awful lot from her.” She set down her coffee cup and accepted the cigarette Ninian offered her. As he extended his lighter to its tip, she asked innocently: “You have a brother, haven’t you? A twin brother?”

Ninian tensed. He said briefly: “Yes. His name’s Andrew.”

“Are you very much alike?”

“We’re supposed to be. But — ”

“And he’s married?”

“Yes,” he agreed flatly, “Andrew got married last year.”

An English girl wouldn’t have said any more, would have been warned, by his tone and his expression, not to probe any deeper. But Jill was Australian: she was by nature and upbringing open and frank and it did not occur to her, Ninian realized, to attribute his reticence to anything more than the inherent shyness that was characteristic, to her mind, of the British male. He read this in her clear grey eyes, as they met his and she asked: “Jocelyn told me that he married the girl you were engaged to — that’s true, I suppose?”

“I was posted as ‘missing, believed dead,’” Ninian said, his tone defensive, “so I can hardly have any grouse about it, can I? My ‘death’ was officially confirmed, it was all rather a mix-up. Catherine waited for a year, after all.”

“Yes.” Her eyes were still on his face, searching eyes, which seemed to see beneath the facade of indifference he had tried to build up in order to hide the truth. Ninian reddened under her scrutiny. To his relief, the dining-car attendant came with the bill. He paid it and glanced back to his companion.

“Shall we go and see about those sleepers? I expect you could do with some sleep. We’ll have rather an early awakening tomorrow — this train gets into Lorne soon after six.”

“Yes, I know.” But she didn’t get up at once, pausing to collect her handbag. Her fingers, he saw, were trembling a little. She looked up and met his gaze again with disconcerting directness.

“Ninian,” she said, quite gently but in the tone of one who states a fact, “Ninian, it was Andrew I met at that party the other night, wasn’t it? Not you.”

2

THEY stared at each other and Jill Arden said again:

“Ninian, it wasn’t you, was it?”

“No,” he admitted at last, “it was Andrew. I — look, let’s have some more coffee or something, shall we?” He signed to the waiter. “Can we have some more coffee, waiter? Or do you want this table?”

“No, sir, that’ll be all right. We haven’t many booked for second dinner — you stay as long as you like, sir. I’ll bring the coffee right away.”

Silence fell between them, after the man had gone. It was an embarrassed silence and it was Jill who broke it.

She said, a catch in her voice: “I can’t talk about the weather, the way British people do. I’m sorry. You see, out in Australia the sun shines most of the time, so our weather doesn’t provide us with convenient small talk.”

“Convenient?” Ninian echoed stupidly. “Convenient for what?”

“For covering up awkward pauses.” She was smiling now, her smile robbing her words of any hint of bitterness. “Did you honestly think you’d deceived me?”

“I — well, I hoped I might have.” He took out his cigarette case, passed it to her. “Smoke?”

She shook her head. “No, thanks, not just now.” Her brows puckered in a thoughtful frown. “You puzzled me awfully, at first. You are like Andrew to look at, and, of course, the uniform helped — most people look different in uniform, don’t they?”

“I suppose they do.” Coffee came and Ninian poured it.

He asked, trying to speak lightly: “How did I give myself away, then?”

“Oh — ” she shrugged — “in dozens of ways. Your amnesia wasn’t a bit convincing and you’re — different. You’re very different from your brother.”

That was true, Ninian reflected glumly. Andrew had all the social graces he himself lacked — women always fell for Andrew like so many ninepins, and he accepted their homage as one accustomed to it; he always had, changing his girl friends as frequently as he changed his tie. And with as little thought. Even in his teens, Andrew had been something of a heart-breaker, less insincere than indifferent, less selfish than self-sufficient. But marriage — marriage to Catherine — ought to have changed him. They’d only been married for a year . . .

Jill was speaking, asking him a question, and Ninian made an effort to collect his thoughts. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what you said, I’m afraid.”

“I asked why you thought it necessary to try and cover up for Andrew?”

“Well — ” It was a damned awkward question and he didn’t much care about answering it. “I suppose old Andrew had a few drinks,” he evaded, “got the party spirit and kicked over the traces, as — let’s say, as anyone might. I thought it’d be better for all concerned if you — that is, if I let you think it was me.”

She was silent, her brows again drawn together in a pensive frown. “Andrew,” she told him at last, “wasn’t tight. He behaved as if he were — serious. I thought he was. We’d arranged to meet again, to lunch together next day — do a show in the evening. And then I mentioned that I was going to Lorne, to stay with the Farquhars, and that upset him. I could see it did but he didn’t say anything, except that he’d see me up there. He didn’t break our date then; I got a telegram the following morning, apologizing, saying he’d had to go back to Scotland unexpectedly. That was why I was so surprised when I saw you on the platform, and why I told my porter to put me into your compartment. You see, I’m afraid I took him seriously.”

“Oh,” said Ninian flatly. She had confirmed his worst fears. “I suppose I wouldn’t do, as a substitute?”

She smiled then, a trifle shakily. “ ‘I did but see him passing by . . . ’ Oh, it’s all right, you needn’t worry. I shan’t make life difficult for Andrew, I’m not that sort of girl. In any case, I don’t much like the way he’s behaved, and I’m sure you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. Since we’re being frank! I’m extremely sorry about the whole thing, for your sake, Jill. And for Catherine’s.”

“You needn’t worry about Catherine either, as far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t dream of saying a word to her, of course. But — ” She hesitated and then pushed her coffee cup aside. “Do you mind if I have that cigarette now, after all? I — I think I need it, after all this! It’s rather a tricky situation, isn’t it?”

Which, Ninian thought, was putting it extremely mildly. As if the complications weren’t bad enough, without this!

He passed her his cigarette case and changed the subject, to Jill’s evident relief. They talked of Guise now and, in his eagerness to tell her about his home, Ninian forgot his earlier constraint, began to feel, for the first time, really at ease with her. She was a good listener and she was interested in all he had to tell her, prompting him with questions when he paused.

The dining car began gradually to empty and at last she rose. “We’d better go, hadn’t we? Or we’ll be very unpopular with the crew.”

“I suppose we shall,” Ninian agreed reluctantly. Together they made their way to the sleeping car and Ninian bade her goodnight at the entrance to the First Class coach. She turned to smile at him. “Whatever happens,” she said, “we’re friends, Ninian. Aren’t we?”

“I’d like to be,” he told her, with sincerity. He took her small, square hand in his. “I’d like to be very much, Jill.”

“You’re nice,” she said softly, “awfully nice. I’m glad I met you like this — and I’m glad you’re going back to Guise, and that it’s yours, after all. Because you love Guise, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he confessed, “I love Guise. I think that’s why I survived, because I wanted so much to see it again.” It was the first time he had ever admitted that to anyone, he realized.

“My father said the same, about Colarenabrei, when he was a prisoner,” Jill said. She freed her hand. “He was on the Thailand Railway for two and a half years and he isn’t young. Lots of other men died but he didn’t. He came back and he’s happy now, bless him. I hope you will be. But — ” She hesitated, and then added, very softly: “Don’t let anyone spoil anything for you, Ninian. Least of all Andrew. He doesn’t love Guise, as you do. And I don’t think he loves Catherine.”

She turned on her heel then and left him staring after her, shocked out of his calm.

He was very thoughtful as, a few minutes later, he followed the sleeping-car attendant into the Second Class coach. But he was also very tired and, contrary to all his expectations, he slept fitfully until the attendant woke him at five-thirty next morning.

The train drew into Lorne Station a few minutes after six. Ninian jumped down on to the platform and saw that it was a grey morning, the hills shrouded in mist.

But the air was crisp and cool, heady with the scent of pine and spruce and Scots fir, which grew beside the track, and for a long moment he stood there, drinking it in, gazing about him at the scene which, so often, he had pictured in memory. The station buildings, with their green-painted doors, the ticket office with old Willie Lomax peering short-sightedly from behind his grille, the bridge over the track, the huddle of grey stone houses that was Lorne . . . and, behind, the back-cloth of dimly seen hills — Creag Dhu, Cruach, Luinneag Mhor, whose peaks he saw, despite the fact that all were obscured by cloud.

It was good to be home . . . Lord, how good it was!

Ninian drew a deep, satisfied breath and then looked round for Andrew, who must be warned, before Jill Arden alighted from the train, that she was there.

But there was no sign of Andrew. The Farquhars’ old Rover was the only car, apart from the mail van, in the station yard, and, as he turned, puzzled, he recognized Jocelyn Farquhar hurrying down the platform towards him. She waved and pointed and he saw the sleeping-car attendant starting to unload Jill’s expensive pigskin suitcases from the other end of the coach.

Jill herself, looking alert and clear-eyed, appeared an instant later. Greetings were exchanged and Jocelyn Farquhar, tears unashamedly in her eyes, drew Ninian into her ample embrace.

She was a tall, fair-haired woman in her early forties, and, to Ninian, she did not seem a day older than when he had last seen her.

“Oh, Nin! Nin dear, how lovely to have you back! I was so glad when I heard, so terribly, terribly glad. And you’re none the worse, I hope?” She studied his face anxiously, head on one side, and then released him, in order to kiss her young cousin with enthusiasm. “Jill, darling, bless you!” She smiled from Jill to Ninian and back to Jill again. “I suppose you two have met? Or do you want me to introduce you?”

“Oh, we made each other’s acquaintance in London,” Jill said gravely, careful to avoid Ninian’s eye, “and improved it on the journey. Didn’t we, Ninian?”