Peacock Pagoda E-Book

Vivian Stuart

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

Seitenzahl: 359

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.    Two of John Anson's wishes were granted on the same day. He was offered an important post in the State of Gaupal and Sandra Beauchamp promised to marry him. On that day he also met Rose Lian, the beautiful girl, who, he was told, was of mixed French and Gaupali blood. Their destinies and that of Charles Garrison, a figure from Sandra's past, were to be strangely linked in this romance set against a far eastern background.

Leseprobe

Peacock Pagoda

Peacock Pagoda

© Vivian Stuart, 1959

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

ISBN: 978-9979-64-479-8

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 my sister and brother-in-law, Betty and Thomas Bustard, in the hope that it may evoke pleasant memories for them both.

1

“MAJOR ANSON—His Excellency will see you now. Come with me, if you please.”

John Anson rose slowly to his feet, towering head and shoulders above the messenger who had summoned him. The Ambassador’s secretary was a small man, his round, earnest, brown face half hidden by the heavy horn-rimmed spectacles he wore. Dressed in an impeccably cut morning coat and beautifully pressed grey trousers, he spoke perfect English and his manner was correctly dignified.

Yet, despite all this, he gave the impression of a little boy, carefully acting an adult role. A hint of a smile hovered impishly at the corners of his pursed mouth and lurked, only half-suppressed, in the dark, slanting eyes behind their absurdly large glasses. Watching him, John Anson expected him to make some childish, wholly incongruous joke and then laugh aloud when he had made it.

But he did not. Moving silently, he crossed the luxuriously furnished room, with its shining parquet and priceless, hand-woven rugs. Reaching the door, he paused for a moment in front of it as if suddenly undecided, his neat, golden-brown hands clasped in front of him in an odd little gesture that was almost a plea, if not for patience, then, at least, for indulgence.

“Major Anson—” he began, and broke off, glancing up uncertainly into the Englishman’s face. The hint of laughter had vanished from his eyes, and although he still resembled a small boy, he now looked an acutely anxious one.

“Mr. Anson, if you don’t mind,” John amended gently. “I have retired from the Army.”

“Yes. Oh, yes, of course, I know.” The little secretary nodded vigorously. He added, obviously proud of his understanding of the circumstances, “You have been axed from the British Army, like many other distinguished officers, and you have come here to seek employment of a congenial nature in my country.”

He had stated as much in his application for an interview, John reflected, but he winced to hear it put so bluntly into words by this odd little brown man. Still, it was the bitter truth. The War Minister’s axe had fallen on him, as it had fallen on hundreds of others of his age and rank. The British Army was being cut down and reformed: it was to be in future an army of highly trained specialist technicians, and there was no place for him in its ranks. After sixteen years’ service—three of these wartime years, fighting in Burma, for he had joined up on leaving school—he was a civilian again, thrown on his own resources with a not ungenerous gratuity, but with no training for anything save war.

An advertisement in The Times had brought him to the Embassy of the ancient kingdom of Gaupal. Its wording had attracted him; the advertised post had sounded, from his point of view, almost too good to be true, since he possessed all the qualifications it demanded. But no doubt many other ex-officers besides himself would have applied for it. He had come optimistically, but had forced himself not to entertain too serious a hope that his own application would be successful. Thinking this, he turned again to the secretary. It might be as well to know the sort of competition he was up against.

“I suppose,” he said, his tone deliberately casual, “His Excellency has received a great many replies to his advertisement for this post?”

“Many hundreds,” the secretary confirmed. “But—” He smiled, a confiding, little boy’s smile and his hands unclasped themselves. He extended them towards John appealingly. “You are the first to be summoned for an interview, Maj—I beg your pardon, please—Mr. Anson.”

“Am I?” John was visibly disconcerted. “Good heavens, why should I be?”

“You are the son of Sir Michael Anson, the very distinguished surgeon. His name is not unknown to us in Gaupal.” The secretary’s smile widened.

“Is that so?” John’s bewilderment increased. His father’s name was respected in his own sphere, but it seemed incredible that it should carry sufficient weight with the Gaupali Ambassador to ensure his own preferential treatment.

The little secretary inclined his smooth, dark head.

“Indeed yes, Mr. Anson. If you . . . how do you say it in English? If you play your cards correctly, the appointment you seek will be yours—no one else will be asked to come for interview. It was this which I wanted to tell you before conducting you to His Excellency’s presence. Speak to him of your father and of St. Ninian’s Hospital, where he is working, and there will be no need for you to look further than Gaupal for employment.”

“Thank you,” John said, masking his astonishment as best he could. “Thank you very much for telling me.”

“Please,” the secretary begged. He flung open the door of the ante-room with a flourish. “If you will be so good as to follow me, Mr. Anson.” He led the way down a wide corridor and tapped discreetly on a door at its far end. In response to a muffled command from within, he opened the door, announced “Major Anson, Your Excellency” in ringing tones and then stood aside, bowing politely. John stepped past him into a large, oak-panelled room, comfortably furnished as a study, with a massive mahogany desk in the centre and half a dozen leather covered armchairs grouped about the fireplace. Books lined three walls and the fourth was occupied by a vast leather sofa which stood in front of a high window, overlooking the Park.

On this, reclining at full length with a tea-tray set with silver beside him, was a handsome, grey-haired man in Gaupali dress who smilingly waved him to a chair.

“Forgive me, Major Anson, if I do not rise to greet you, but I am, as you may observe, temporarily incapacitated.” A gesture indicated the heavily bandaged foot, propped carefully on pillows. “Gout,” explained the Ambassador briefly, “for which, it seems, there is no treatment save rest.”

“I’m extremely sorry to hear that, Your Excellency.”

“Ah, well!” The Ambassador sighed with resignation. “These ills beset us all at times, do they not? I am at least fortunate in having the best of medical advice for the asking. My daughter, Major Anson, is a doctor, recently qualified and at present studying here in London. At St. Ninian’s Hospital where, I believe, she has the honour to listen quite frequently to the lectures given by your father, the famous Sir Michael Anson. She considers herself privileged to have such an opportunity.”

Light dawned then. The reason for the little secretary’s friendly advice was now abundantly clear, and John’s spirits rose appreciably. Perhaps, thanks to an unforeseen and happy coincidence, he might, after all, land this wonderful job in Gaupal. His father was in a position to bestow favours on the Ambassador’s daughter, which was an incredible slice of luck . . .

He listened as the Ambassador talked of his daughter, warming to the note of pride in the older man’s voice as he spoke her name. Rose Lian. Rose . . . it was an attractive name. Dr. Rose Lian. Probably she was an attractive girl. He was surprised that his father hadn’t mentioned the fact that he had a Gaupali girl amongst his students, but then he was very busy and preoccupied these days, desperately overworked with a large consultant practice, in addition to all he did at the hospital. And in any case, John reflected guiltily, he had been at some pains to avoid the Harley Street house and his father’s company of late. He had been too busy job-hunting himself to have much spare time, and his efforts had hitherto been too unproductive for him to wish to endure more of his father’s well-meant advice and probing questions than he could help. It was humiliating, at thirty-four, to come to the end of what had seemed a promising career and, after months of searching, to be unable to find anyone willing to employ him . . .

“My daughter,” the Ambassador said, “will soon return to Gaupal in order to practise medicine there. She is to work at the new hospital in Tauling, the capital. Please”—he waved an inviting hand in the direction of the laden tea-tray—“will you not take tea with me, Major Anson? Perhaps you will pour out for both of us.”

John complied. As he sipped the fragrant China tea from an eggshell-thin cup, he found himself trying to picture Dr. Rose Lian. She would bear a superficial resemblance to her father, he supposed. Her features would be of Oriental cast, her skin golden brown, like his, her hair smooth and jet black. The Gaupalis were hill people and they were small, the women tiny.

The Kingdom of Gaupal lay, John knew, in the mountains between Burma and Indo-China. It had been allied to Burma before the coming of the British, its King paying token allegiance to the Burmese Crown, whilst maintaining political independence and firmly closing his frontiers to foreign traders. With the fall of King Thebaw of Burma, the brief alliance had ended. But the two peoples were closely akin. Gaupalis wore much the same dress as the Burmese, worshipped at the same Buddhist shrines, and their language was the language of the Shans. Like the Gurkhas of Nepal, Gaupali warriors had offered themselves as soldiers under the British flag and had served with valour in both world wars. John himself had never served with them, but he knew that their reputation had been second to none in the XIVth Army.

“I imagine,” the Ambassador suggested, setting down his cup and reaching for a cedar-lined box of black Burma cheroots which he placed hospitably at John’s elbow, “that you know very little about my country, Major Anson?”

“Thank you, sir.” Accepting a cheroot, John sniffed at it appreciatively before lighting it. “I don’t know a great deal about Gaupal, I must admit, although of course, since replying to your advertisement, I’ve found out what I could.” He listed, very briefly, all that he had been able to learn and the Ambassador smiled when he came to the end of his recital.

“That is not a great deal, is it? But it is enough, it would seem, to induce you to offer us your services?”

“Yes, indeed, Your Excellency. The idea of going to Gaupal appeals to me very strongly. I served in Burma during the war—I liked the people and what I saw of the country. I believe that I have the experience you require and that I should be able to carry out the duties you would expect of me as tutor to His Majesty’s eldest son.”

“H’m.” The Ambassador glanced down at an opened folder which lay across his knees, and John recognised his own handwriting on the letter clipped to the front of the file. He had set out fully his experience and qualifications and, as the advertisement in The Times had requested, had given his reasons for applying for the post. There was nothing, really, to add to what he had already said, so he waited in silence for the Ambassador to continue. After one or two questions concerning his education, the Ambassador said, “I see that you state here that you speak Burmese and Urdu to interpreter standard. Have you any knowledge of the Shan dialect?”

In honesty, John was forced to shake his head.

“I’m afraid not, Your Excellency. But I don’t find it hard to pick up languages.”

“You were in the Indian Army during the war?”

“Temporarily, yes, sir. But I transferred to Force 136, which was a commando unit, and—”

“And you were awarded the Military Cross, I believe, for gallantry in action?”

John’s smile was wry. “I was the only survivor of the action, Your Excellency, that was the reason I was decorated.”

“That is not quite what is stated in your citation,” the Ambassador demurred. “I took the liberty, Major Anson, of obtaining a copy of it from War Office records. But we will let that pass, since you obviously wish it . . . at the end of the war you were re-drafted into the British Army, were you not? You served with the Airborne Forces and were in action in Malaya and at Suez?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And obtained a bar to your MC. It seems strange to me, Major Anson, that the British Army can find no further use for an officer of your calibre. An officer of proven courage, twice decorated and with, I see, a pilot’s qualification. Surely that is unusual in an Army officer?”

“Not really, Your Excellency. A few of us took the opportunity, when we were serving in Malaya, to do a flying training course with the RAF.” And we qualified in Auster scout planes, John reminded himself bitterly. We were very useful in operations against the bandits in the heart of the Malayan jungle. But how much more sensible and far-sighted it would have been if we’d been offered courses in radar or rocket launching or if we’d qualified as physicists or nuclear weapons experts! The wings he had worn on his tunic had been worth very little, when the Powers That Be had come to weigh up his usefulness to the new scientific army . . . “I wasn’t a technician, Your Excellency,” he ended a trifle stiffly. Conscious of his own heightened colour, he was at pains to avoid his host’s gaze. “The tendency is all for specialization now, you see.”

“I see,” the Ambassador confirmed. His tone was sympathetic. “But I am sure that we shall be able to make use of many of your non-specialist qualifications in Gaupal. Not least, Major Anson, of your courage. Our country is undergoing something of an upheaval—we are ringed about with enemies, we are not finding it easy to preserve our jealously guarded independence. There are elements amongst our people whose loyalty to the King is a matter for doubt, and the man into whose hands the education of our young heir apparent will be placed must be one who will protect him at the risk, if necessary, of his life. Are you such a man, Major Anson? Would you be prepared to guard your young charge’s life with your own if this should be required of you?”

John answered, without hesitation, “Yes, Your Excellency, if it should be required of me.”

The Ambassador’s round, ageless face relaxed in a satisfied smile. “I had imagined, from your record, that you would give me exactly the answer that you have given. I believe you to be the man we are looking for, Major Anson, but before I can formally offer you the appointment, there are one or two other questions which I must ask you. These are of a personal nature, but I trust that you will understand why I have to ask them and that you will reply to them quite frankly.”

“Certainly, sir.” John waited, inhaling smoke from his cheroot. He could guess, from the Ambassador’s slight but obvious embarrassment, the trend of the questions he was about to be asked. The first two or three, which concerned his family, he answered briefly. Then the Ambassador asked, “Have you, for example, any close personal ties, Major? I am aware that you are unmarried, of course, you have stated this in your appplication, but are you, perhaps, engaged to be married? Do you contemplate matrimony in the immediate future?”

“I—” Sandra’s lovely, serene face floated for an instant before John’s eyes. His hesitation was perceptible, but finally he shook his head. “I’m not actually engaged, sir, but I have hopes of becoming engaged in the near future—hopes which, to be honest, had to be deferred until I had found myself a job.”

He forced himself to speak quite lightly, yet, in spite of this, something of the intensity of his feelings reached the man reclining on the couch. The Ambassador’s dark brows rose in swift question. “You mean that you might wish to marry before leaving for Gaupal? You might wish to bring your wife with you?”

Did he? John wondered. Had he really any serious hope of that? He hadn’t, of course—his relationship with Sandra Beauchamp had been, perforce, a casual one, with no promises either on his side or hers. She had realized that he was in love with her, he imagined, although he had never put his feelings into the form of a proposal. Circumstances had made it impossible for him to do so and she had known that. He had met her for the first time a little over six months ago and, within a week of making her acquaintance, had received official notification from the War Office that his services were not to be retained.

It hadn’t been the most propitious moment at which to begin a courtship, yet all the same, he had begun it. For Sandra’s sake, he had spent the last six months of his Army service replying to advertisements, seeking interviews, looking for the sort of job that would enable him to ask her to become his wife. Up till now he hadn’t found one, but that hadn’t stopped him taking her out, seeing her as often as she would let him, making love to her. They had gone about regularly together, to parties, theatres, dances: Sandra had many friends and she led a busy social life, but John knew that he had occupied more of her time than anyone else. He knew that she was fond of him and that he attracted her, knew, too, that he had no serious rival, but . . . it was a big but . . . Sandra was a very successful career woman. A dress designer by profession, she had worked extremely hard to win the recognition she wanted. She now had her own small, exclusive salon in the West End and it was coining money.

Would she abandon this, would she sacrifice all that she had worked for in order to marry him? Perhaps. But would she be willing to go with him to a remote, Far Eastern native State, which few Europeans had ever heard of and fewer still had ever visited? It seemed doubtful in the extreme and yet . . . he had to hope she would, in time. He had to believe, if he left her now, that she would wait for him: he had to convince himself that if he extracted a promise from her to join him there, she would love him enough to keep it. And he did believe that. If Sandra gave him a promise, she wouldn’t break her word . . .

He drew a long, sighing breath.

“Well, Major Anson?” prompted the Ambassador softly. John braced himself. “I think, Your Excellency, that in all fairness I should tell you that I should like to marry before I leave England and that I should like to bring my wife with me to Gaupal. But I don’t think for a moment that it will be possible. The most I can hope is that my—that is, the young lady in question may agree to join me there in, say, six months’ or a year’s time. Would there be any objection to such an arrangement?”

The blandly smiling brown face opposite betrayed neither approval nor disapproval. “No objection at all, Major Anson,” the Ambassador stated simply. “I think it would be a most sensible arrangement. A year would give you ample time to settle down in Gaupal and to get to know the country and its people, as well as the royal family and, of course, your pupil. The appointment is open to a married man and a house and servants will in any case be provided for you, whether or not you are married.”

“But you would prefer it if I were not?” John suggested.

“Initially, yes, Major Anson.” The Ambassador stubbed out his cheroot. “I have been empowered to choose a mentor for the Prince,” he went on, “and the choice is left entirely to my discretion. You were my first choice. I confess, however, that the fact that you were unmarried influenced me to a certain extent in selecting you for interview before any of the other candidates. Mine is a backward country by Western standards, you will understand, and life in Tauling might be very lonely for a young Englishwoman accustomed to living in London. I am sure you will have the good sense to realize this—you have served in Burma and Malaya and will know what I mean. You would not take as a wife a woman who could not adapt herself to our conditions and share them happily with you. After a year’s experience of them—even after six months—you would be in a position to judge what they are and to make them comprehensible to the young lady whom you propose to marry, would you not, Major Anson?”

“Yes, sir, I think I should.”

‘“Good.” The Ambassador sat up, smiling. “I am glad that you agree. In a year’s time—who knows? The British community in Tauling may be quite numerous. At present, apart from your Ambassador, we have only three Englishmen living there—officials of an oil company. And—this is confidential, of course—it is likely that His Majesty the King may grant them concessions in Gaupal which they have long wanted. If he does, then we may expect many radical changes to take place. This is one of the main reasons for His Majesty’s decision to seek a British tutor for his son, Major Anson. He feels that—even if he himself cannot do so—his son should learn to keep pace with Western thought and knowledge, since Gaupal can no longer afford to remain isolated. And with much of Burma in a state of unrest and uncertainty, it is conceivable, is it not, that our oil may yet become an important commodity in Western markets and a source of profit and employment for our people?”

John inclined his head thoughtfully, concealing his surprise. During his quest for information about Gaupal, he had heard whispers concerning the discovery of oil and the possibility of its development by a British company, but this was the first time that he had heard it stated as a definite fact. He knew that it was tremendously important, and knew, too, that the official representative of Gaupal would not have mentioned it had the matter not progressed a long way beyond the realms of conjecture.

The exchange of diplomatic representatives between Great Britain and Gaupal was a recent innovation and had taken place only within the last three or four years. And, as one of his informants had pointed out, John recalled, it was significant that these representatives were of ambassadorial, rather than of ministerial status. Until this moment, he hadn’t fully appreciated the significance of this subtle difference in rank, but now he was beginning to do so.

And—he drew in his breath sharply, remembering the Gaupali Ambassador’s earlier question as to his willingness to risk his own life in defence of that of his young charge. The significance of this was becoming apparent too. Where oil was involved, other interests were also involved, and his military training had taught him that the preservation of oil supplies could, at times, even lead to war. Her oil supplies were vital to Britain—had not Suez been the proof of how vital? There would be other interests, hostile, perhaps, to his own country as well as to the small kingdom of Gaupal, which might oppose the King’s plans by intrigue, if not by force. The Ambassador had spoken guardedly of elements amongst his people whose loyalty to the King was a matter for doubt . . . it all fitted together, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle . . .

“Well, Major Anson?” The Ambassador was sitting up, regarding him expectantly, a hand poised above the bellpush at his side. “Are you willing to accept the appointment as tutor to His Highness Prince Maung Saw? If you are, then I shall summon my secretary and he will bring you the contract to sign. You would be expected to leave for Gaupal within the next two to three weeks, which I take it you are willing to do. Your air passage will, of course, be provided, and if there are any points in the contract which do not meet with your approval, I feel certain that we shall be able to adjust them to our mutual satisfaction. The appointment would be for one year, with an option to extend it for a further year, and the salary, as stated in The Times’ advertisement, the equivalent of two thousand pounds sterling a year, to be paid in whatever proportion of sterling to taus you may elect in due course. With, as I have already mentioned, a house and servants . . . and the rank of Colonel in the Gaupali Army.”

John felt his pulses quicken. This was a job after his own heart, a job for which he was fitted and which he knew he could do. As a soldier, it appealed to him strongly. He would be serving his country in far-off Gaupal as, all his adult life, he had been trained to do. And in England, it seemed, he was unemployable. Sandra would understand that, she would realize why he was taking this opportunity when it offered. And if she loved him, she would come with him when he asked her to, she would share this adventure with him, as she would share his life.

He had a swift, mental vision of Sandra’s face as he rose to his feet, a hand extended.

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” he said formally. “I shall be pleased to accept the appointment.”

The Ambassador took his hand. Then he depressed the bellpush and the little secretary came in, beaming, with a typewritten document which he offered for John’s inspection. It took a few minutes to read, but there was nothing in it to which he could possibly object. The terms of his new employment were fair and generous. He took the secretary’s pen and signed his name firmly at the foot of the document.

He left the Embassy with a spring in his step and a new lightness possessing his spirit. He had a date for dinner with Sandra that evening, but it was still only a little after five. He decided to walk through the Park and fill in the time of waiting at his club, over a whisky and soda. He would need to give some thought to the form his proposal should take, and he might do a lot worse, he told himself, than rehearse what he intended to say to Sandra before they met, for it wasn’t going to be easy to break the news of his impending departure to her. Or, if it came to that, to ask her to wait a year for him . . .

Striding briskly along the crowded pavement, John was brought to a halt by a set of traffic lights, on an island halfway across the road. He waited there without impatience for the lights to change, the long, seemingly unending stream of cars and buses crawling past him at snail’s pace on either side. A small two-tone sports car, its hood down, drew up a yard from him and he glanced at it idly, attracted first by its gay, flamboyant colours and then by the glimpse he caught of the girl at the wheel.

It was only a fleeting glimpse, for the car moved on almost at once, but he thought, as he watched it go, that never in his life had he seen a more beautiful girl. Normally unimpressionable, he found himself staring after her. She was quite young, about twenty-three or four, as nearly as he could judge, slim and poised and charming, with a lovely oval face whose skin was close to perfection and a pair of frank, smiling brown eyes, their laughter echoed by a scarlet mouth, innocent of make-up. Her hair, dark and iridescent as a raven’s wing, flew out behind her in the tiny breeze of the car’s passing, caught but insecurely held by the jaunty little flowered hat which was perched on top of her head. John did not notice the dress she was wearing, for she had gone before he could do so, but he received the impression that it was dark—a woollen dress, probably, or a suit, with vivid touches of colour at neck and wrists.

Conscious of no disloyalty to Sandra but only of his own swiftly awakened curiosity, he followed the progress of the small car through the traffic, admiring the skill of its driver.

To his surprise, he saw it come to a standstill opposite the steps of the building he had just left, the Gaupali Embassy. The girl slipped gracefully from her seat, mounted the steps to ring the doorbell and, a moment later, vanished inside the house.

And then the lights changed and John was caught up in a surge of hurrying pedestrians, intent on crossing as quickly as they could. He wondered, as he followed perforce in their wake, what business the beautiful, dark-haired English girl in the sports car could have with the Embassy of Gaupal, but, entering the Park at last, he put her out of his mind. Her business was no concern of his and he would probably never set eyes on her again. Perhaps she was a friend of the Ambassador’s daughter, calling to take tea with her, or a society girl, employing her time usefully as a confidential and highly paid stenographer. It didn’t matter who she was: they had met without recognition or acknowledgment and passed each other by. Only her destination had been a coincidence, her beauty a brief delight, but—he had other things to think about and decide before he called to pick up Sandra. Suddenly impatient, John hailed a taxi. He would drive to his club and ring up Sandra from there. Perhaps, if he asked her, she would manage to get off early this evening . . .

“Pall Mall,” he directed the driver, “this end. I’ll tell you where to stop.”

He got in and the taxi swung back into the line of cars heading slowly for Hyde Park Corner, the driver whistling tunelessly under his breath.

2

SANDRA BEAUCHAMP was busy with a customer when her assistant came in diffidently to call her to the telephone.

“I can’t possibly come now, Elizabeth,” she objected. “Say I’ll ring back, or take a message, will you?” Her voice trembled on the edge of irritation, for it had been a long day and she was tired. In spring the thickly carpeted little showroom always seemed too small and stuffy, almost as if it were a prison for her restless, dissatisfied spirit. On days like this, Sandra longed to escape from it, to go out, locking the door behind her, never to open it again, and yet . . . she bit back a sigh. When the chance to escape offered, she never took it, she carried on, driven by an ambition whose demands took heavy toll of her but which, it seemed, she was powerless to resist.

She was now twenty-nine, and there had been so many lost chances, so many might-have-beens. She sat back on her heels, surveying her handiwork with half-closed eyes.

“I think,” she said, “a little more fullness in the skirt, Mrs. Lane.” But her mind wasn’t on what she was doing as, automatically, she reached for the pins and despatched Elizabeth to summon a fitter from the workroom upstairs.

So many lost chances . . . this time, the sigh refused to be suppressed. There had been Peter, who had been her first love, but she had dismissed him as an adolescent dream and hadn’t regretted it. Peter and Ted and George, all of whom had belonged to her youth. They had been fun, but that was all. Vince Leyman, the American surgeon, had been more serious. She had almost married Vince, but—he had been killed in an air crash and, while his memory still hurt a little, it was beginning to fade. After Vince, there had been Charles. Charles, who could have given her so much, who would have bought her all the things for which she had forced herself to work . . . Charles, who had gone away because she had refused to accept either his love or the gifts he had wanted to shower on her . . . she bit her lip.

Now there was John. Sandra’s face, hidden from the customer as she bent to adjust a hem, suffused with warm colour. John was a darling—gentle, chivalrous, sweet, utterly without guile. He wasn’t her type at all, really, but he attracted her more than she cared to admit. He was so tall and good-looking, with his tanned skin and his clean-cut profile, his blue eyes, that should have belonged to a seaman rather than a soldier, and the fair hair that was beginning to grey a little at the temples. Oh, she was fond of John: she enjoyed his company and his devotion, his good manners and the way he protected her, his air of breeding and the fact that, in a world whose standards were topsy-turvey, he was so undeniably a gentleman. But . . . would she marry him, if he asked her? Or would she let this chance slip through her fingers when it came, as she had let all the others slip, when they came?

She didn’t know. That the chance would come, she could not doubt: it was only a question of time until John found a job, and then, of course, he would ask her to marry him. A man like John, who was upright and decent, always did ask the girl he loved to marry him: he would want her in no other way. She wondered if he had succeeded in getting the job he had gone after today and then, pinning busily, wondered what sort of job it was. He hadn’t told her, but he had seemed quite hopeful for once. Perhaps the telephone call had been from him, to tell her about it. She must remember to ask Elizabeth when she came back . . .

“I like it,” Mrs. Lane told her, turning this way and that in front of the triple mirrors. “Yes, I like it very much, Sandra. You’re a clever girl.”

“Thank you,” Sandra replied, without elation. Mrs. Lane was an old customer and a faithful one, but she was easy to dress and easier still to please. It was really no achievement to sell her a dress.

The fitter came in and, rising to her feet, Sandra issued crisp instructions. The fitter nodded. Her work had been done for her and all she had to do was to help Mrs. Lane out of the dress. As she did so, Elizabeth whispered, “Miss Beauchamp, that was Major Anson. He told me to ask if he could call for you at six-thirty instead of seven. If it’s not convenient, will you ring him at his club. I wrote down the number.”

So it had been John . . . Sandra glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to six now and she had the day’s accounts to check, as well as the order for Melanie et Cie to attend to, before she could possibly leave. And Mrs. Lane would have to be seen off the premises with due courtesy—the purchase of a sixty-guinea cocktail dress entitled her to this. She might even expect a glass of sherry in the office before she left.

“I can’t,” she told Elizabeth, “I can’t hope to get away a minute before seven. Get through to Major Anson’s club, would you, and explain that I’m tied up?”

“Yes, all right,” Elizabeth promised dutifully. She was a pretty girl with a lovely figure and she wasn’t at all bad at her job. But she had no imagination, Sandra thought, as she watched her assistant cross the showroom and pick up the telephone in the outer office, to dial the number with a languid, beautifully manicured hand. Her face was remote and expressionless, her thoughts—if she had any—obviously miles away. She would simply deliver her message in a toneless voice and then hang up. On impulse, Sandra followed her, taking the receiver from her unresisting hand.

“I’ll do it myself,” she said brusquely. “Go and look after Mrs. Lane. Tell her there’s sherry in the office and that I won’t be a moment.” To the respectful male voice which came to her across the telephone wires, she said, forcing herself not to sound impatient, “I’d like to speak to Major Anson, please. Tell him it’s Miss Beauchamp.”

“Very good, madam. I will ascertain if Major Anson is still here.” There was a long wait. Sandra drummed restless fingers against the ivory-coloured base of the telephone, regretting the impulse which had prompted her to speak to John herself, instead of letting Elizabeth do it. This was such a hideous waste of precious time . . . when, at last, she heard John’s voice on the line, she was unable to conceal her annoyance.

“John, really . . . where do you hide yourself in that club of yours? I’ve been waiting simply ages and I’m up to the eyes . . .” She cut ruthlessly into his apology. “Oh, it doesn’t matter, and I simply haven’t time to listen to involved explanations now. I just rang up to tell you that I can’t be ready before seven. In fact, with all this delay, I’ll be lucky if I’m ready then.”

“That’s all right, my dear,” John answered equably. However rude or impatient she was, he never seemed ruffled, never lost his temper with her, Sandra reflected ruefully. There were moments when she almost wished he would. “I’ll be along at seven. I can wait if you haven’t finished, there’s no hurry. I’ve booked a table for a quarter to eight, at the Savoy. I thought we could have a drink first—I’ve got quite a lot to tell you.”

There was a note of eagerness in his voice, Sandra realized, and he sounded pleased and excited, as if someone had unexpectedly left him a fortune or as if . . . she caught her breath.

“John—you didn’t get that job, did you? The one this afternoon?”

She heard his deep, pleasant laugh. “I did indeed, my sweet.”

“Is it a good one? Oh, darling, I’m so pleased.” And she was, genuinely pleased, for his sake. It had worried him and struck at the roots of his male pride when his earlier attempts to find work had proved so unsuccessful, Sandra knew. She asked again, “Is it a good job, John?”

“Two thousand a year, Sandra. And a house. But—”

Again she cut him short, her tone sharp, “A house?”

“That’s right. But it’s a long story, which will have to keep till I see you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind. But—two thousand a year! John, that’s wonderful.”

“And a step up in rank,” John said. “I’m a full colonel. So long, darling. See you at seven.”

Infuriatingly, he didn’t wait for her to question him further but rang off. Sandra stood with the receiver in her hand, staring down at it blankly. Had he persuaded the Army to take him back? How extraordinary! But a house and two thousand a year and promotion—that could scarcely mean anything else.

It also meant—Sandra replaced her receiver on its rest with a little click—it also meant, of course, that John would ask her to marry him this evening. That was why he’d booked a table at the Savoy, why he’d been in such a hurry to call for her and why he’d sounded so happy and excited on the telephone. She was about to be offered another chance of escape . . .

Sandra looked round the small salon with uncertain eyes, studying it as if she were seeing it for the first time. Subdued voices reached her from the fitting room—Mrs. Lane’s, Elizabeth’s and the fitter’s. They were talking clothes and were absorbed in their discussion, oblivious of her, indifferent to her, interested in nothing else. A fading shaft of light from the window fell on a sheaf of patterns she had beed sorting when Mrs. Lane came in. They lay where she had thrown them down, soft greens and yellows, a swatch of lilac coloured silk and, beside it, the sketch she had started to do before the interruption. She glanced at it, made a gesture of annoyance and crumpled it up. For some reason she couldn’t have explained, even to herself, tears came to prick painfully at her eyes. She was tired, she told herself, bending to gather up the silks. Tired and a little disillusioned, perhaps. The spring always had this effect on her, made her wonder if she hadn’t lost the substance for the shadow, made her doubt whether the considerable success she had won had been worth the effort it had taken, the worry, the fear.

And the loneliness. A woman’s life was lonely, it was incomplete if she lived it by herself . . . for herself. Women were odd creatures. To be fulfilled, they needed love and marriage, children—a home. A career wasn’t enough by itself . . . not really. It never could be, for a woman with a heart.

Sandra stood up, squaring her shoulders. Her reflection stared back at her from half a dozen angles on the mirror-hung walls. She saw a tall, elegant woman in a fashionable spring suit, with a perfectly groomed head and an expertly made-up face which, in spite of the make-up, looked tired and rather sad. A suspicion of a bitter droop to the carefully outlined scarlet lips was already there, giving them a hardness that made her want to cry out loud in protest: and the traces of tears in her grey eyes gave them a washed-out look, like the sea after rain. She dabbed at them hastily and went blindly into her office, closing the door behind her. There was a framed snapshot of John on the desk. She picked it up. He was very nice, she thought. It shouldn’t be hard to love him . . .

When Mrs. Lane was escorted into the office by Elizabeth, Sandra was her usual assured and charming self. She drank sherry, chatted with her customer and saw her to the street door, a quarter of an hour later, as if nothing untoward had happened.