A Trial Marriage

He rose from his chair again and went back to the window, a tall, rather gaunt figure in the close-fitting dark pants that moulded his lean hips, and a tawny-brown sweater. Strands of silky-smooth dark hair overlapped his collar at the back, liberally streaked with grey. These past few months had laid their mark upon him, and he knew that no one would mistake his age at present as they had done in the past. There were lines etched beside his mouth and nose which had not been there before, and his eyes seemed sunken into his skull. Yet for all that, he was a man who would always attract women, and the hooded depths of dark eyes still proved an irresistible lure.

Along the parade, several shoppers struggled towards the bus ranks, and the light from shop windows spread out across the harbour. There were cars streaming towards the outskirts of the town and Paignton beyond, the curve of the headland a mass of winking lights. His own car languished in the hotel garage, only to be used on very rare occasions. Driving, like everything else he enjoyed, had become a strain.

The grounds fronting the hotel were not extensive. A low stone wall divided them from the promenade beyond, and within the circle the wall provided a few stout palms spread their leaves among less exotic specimens of greenery. Floodlights had been installed among the shrubs so that in summer the Tor Court could hold its own with the other hotels that flaunted themselves after dark in a welter of coloured lights. But during the winter they went unused—except at Christmas.

Looking down, Jake had a first-rate view of the entrance, and as he desultorily scanned the road, he observed two of the other guests returning to the hotel. They were two women—one about his own age, or possibly a little older, the other much younger.

He knew their names. Carl had told him who was staying in the hotel when he first arrived. They were a Mrs Faulkner-Stewart and her companion, Miss Lesley. Jake had seen them a couple of times already, in the hall of the hotel, and once in the restaurant, although mostly Jake took his meals in his own suite. However, now and then, he felt the need for companionship, and on those occasions he made his way to the restaurant, and suffered the agonies of feeling himself observed by a dozen pairs of curious eyes. That those occasions had so far been rare bore out Maxwell’s theory that any kind of mental stress would automatically retard his ultimate recovery.

Watching the two women now, although one of them could scarcely be termed as such, entering the gates brought a latent stirring of curiosity. The girl, she couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen, he guessed, seemed young to be the companion of a woman of Mrs Faulkner-Stewart’s age, and he wondered at her apparent acceptance of the life she was leading. There were no young people of her age staying in the hotel, and the little he had seen of Mrs Faulkner-Stewart had not given him the impression that she was the most patient of women. But the girl seemed happy enough, and had even smiled at him in a friendly fashion in the lobby of the hotel when she passed him on her way out to exercise her employer’s poodle. Tall, and not too slim, with long chestnut-coloured hair which was inclined to curl at the tips, she could have no shortage of boy-friends, he mused, yet she seemed perfectly content to pander to the whims of a woman more than old enough to be her mother.

He realised his tea was getting cold and turned back to the trolley with wry impatience at his thoughts. What on earth did it matter to him if some young female found running around after a middle-aged harridan better than doing a worthwhile job of work? It was nothing to do with him. Besides, judging by the amount of jewellery Mrs Faulkner-Stewart wore, and the expensiveness of her furs, she could obviously afford the best of everything, and probably the girl took her for every penny she could make. The only inconsistent factor was why she had chosen to winter at the Tor Court instead of in Cannes or Madeira, or any one of a dozen other fashionable locations.

By the time he had finished his tea it was dark outside, and on impulse, he decided to go for a walk. At least that was one pastime which had not been denied to him, but he obediently put on his thick, fur-lined duffel coat before leaving the room. The cold was something else he had to guard against, although he refused to put on the marathon-length woollen muffler his mother had crocheted for him.

The lift took him down to the lobby where Carl was standing, talking to his receptionist. The manager lifted his hand in greeting, but Jake had no desire to get involved in conversation with him and with a brief acknowledgement, strode towards the revolving doors. His hand had reached out to propel them forward when he became aware of the girl who had been occupying his thoughts earlier approaching over the soft grey carpet, pulled along by the enthusiastic efforts of her employer’s black poodle.

He paused, and the second’s hesitation was enough to create a situation where it would have been rude of him to barge ahead without acknowledging her presence. He guessed she would use the baggage door to let the dog out, and with a feeling of compulsion, propelled it open and waited for her to pass through.

Anticipating his intention, she had quickened her step, and her shoulder brushed the toggles of his coat as she said a breathy: ‘Thanks!’ passing him to emerge into the cool, slightly frosty air. In a waist-length leather jerkin and dusty pink flared pants she seemed hopelessly under-dressed for the weather, but Jake inwardly chided himself for his concern. She was young—and healthy; an enviable condition!

He had expected she would go ahead, and was half disconcerted to find her waiting for him outside, firmly reproving the animal for misbehaving. She looked up and smiled when he came slowly down the steps to join her, and an illogical feeling of unease swept over him.

‘It’s a cold evening, isn’t it?’ she commented, shortening the dog’s lead, and falling into step beside him, and Jake was obliged to answer her.

‘Very cold,’ he agreed, a little stiffly, and she glanced sideways at him, obviously speculating about him, as he had about her earlier.

‘How long are you staying at the hotel?’ she asked, and he felt a momentary impatience with her curiosity.

‘Not much longer,’ he replied shortly, and halted, going behind her to cross the road. ‘I’m going this way,’ he added. ‘Good evening.’

The girl stopped beside him, however, and looked obligingly up and down the road. ‘I’m crossing, too,’ she told him, and he wondered if she knew how much he wanted to get away from her. He was angry with himself for getting into such a position, but angrier still with her for trying to pick him up like this. Had no one ever troubled to explain the facts of life to her? Didn’t she realise the potential dangers inherent in attaching oneself to men about whom she knew absolutely nothing? She was young, but she was not a child, he thought, irritably aware of the firm breasts outlined against the thin jerkin. Unless she was more knowledgeable than he knew. His lips tightened. This was one alternative, but somehow he didn’t care to draw those conclusions. Besides, girls these days had different sets of values.

The wide pavement edging the foreshore gave him plenty of scope to put a comfortable distance between them, but after releasing the dog she seemed quite content to stride along beside him, matching her steps to his, albeit with some effort.

‘You’re Mr Allan, aren’t you?’ she asked after a moment, and the alien designation fell strangely on his ears. Allan was his middle name—James Allan Courtenay—and it had seemed a good idea to use that and avoid possible recognition. But it still gave him a moment’s pause. He wondered how she knew his name, and decided he would have a few harsh words to say to Carl Yates the next time he saw him.

Now he merely nodded, pressing his hands more deeply down into the pockets of his duffel coat, and she supplied the answer to his unspoken question without even being aware of doing so.

‘Della—Mrs Faulkner-Stewart, that is—asked the receptionist who you were,’ she exclaimed casually. ‘Della always likes to know the names of the other guests. I hope you don’t mind.’

Jake glanced at her then, and the humorous mobility of her wide mouth inspired the distinct impression that she knew very well that he did mind. But he refused to justify her amusement by admitting the fact.

‘It’s no secret,’ he said abruptly, and she shrugged, tucking her cold hands into the slip pockets of her jerkin. The wind was tugging at her hair, however, and every now and then she had to lift a hand and push it back from her eyes and mouth. Strands blew against the sleeve of his coat, and their brightness irritated him.

For a few minutes they walked in silence, and then she spoke again: ‘My name’s Rachel—Rachel Lesley. I work for Mrs Faulkner-Stewart.’

Jake drew a deep breath, but made no comment, and all at once he was aware of a stiffening in her. Perhaps she was getting the message at last, he thought ruthlessly, and was totally unprepared for her attack when it came.

‘You’re not very polite, are you?’ she inquired, with cool audacity. ‘Why don’t you just tell me to get lost, if that’s the way you feel?’

Her words stopped Jake in his tracks, and he turned to stare at her angrily. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard what I said,’ she insisted, and he saw that the eyes turned belligerently up to his were flecked with amber, like her hair. ‘If you want to be alone, why not say so?’

Jake’s hands balled themselves into fists in his pockets. ‘I see no reason to state what must be patently obvious!’ he declared cuttingly, and her lips pursed indignantly.

‘I was only trying to be friendly!’ she retorted, and his lips curled contemptuously.

‘I suggest that—Mrs Faulkner-Stewart, if that is your employer’s name, ought to pay attention to her employee’s education, instead of probing into other people’s affairs! Then perhaps you’d know better than to go around picking up strange men!’

The girl gasped. ‘I do not go around picking up strange men! I felt—sorry for you, that’s all!’

Jake’s reaction to this was violent. That this girl, this child—for she was little more—should feel sorry for him! Didn’t she know who he was? Had she no conception to whom she was speaking?

But of course she hadn’t. So far as she was concerned, he was plain Mr Allan, and to her he must present a very different figure from the image he had previously taken for granted. This realisation was strangely reassuring, and in spite of his lingering impatience, his anger was dispersing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last, with something approaching apology in his voice. ‘I—well, I’ve been out of touch with humanity for some time, and I seem to have lost the habit of civility.’

Immediately the girl’s face was transformed, and a wide smile gave it a beauty he had not previously observed. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, without rancour. ‘I guessed you’d been ill. You don’t look the usual kind of man who would choose to stay at the Tor Court at this time of the year.’

Jake wondered how to answer that. ‘No?’ he probed, with irony. Then: ‘I suppose not.’

The poodle provided a welcome diversion at that moment, making a noisy attack at a snapping Pekinese who was being dragged out of its way by its irate owner. The girl exclaimed: ‘Oh, glory!’ and darted forward to rescue the poodle’s collar, and her laughing apology to the red-faced woman in charge of the Pekinese brought an unwilling deprecation from her lips. Jake watched the exchange with reluctant admiration, and then realised he was wasting a perfectly good opportunity to make his departure. Curiously enough he was less eager to leave now, but the remembrance of what the girl had said still rankled, and ridiculous though it was he resented the feeling of being the object of anyone’s pity. That was something he could do without.

Even so, he couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder as he walked away between the cultivated borders, and felt a moment’s regret when he saw she had turned back towards the hotel. But only a moment’s. She was a nice kid, and probably he had judged her too harshly—after all, nowadays young people seemed to have few inhibitions about anything, and she had only been friendly, as she said—but it wasn’t in His interests to become too friendly with anyone at the hotel. No matter how nice people were, they always wanted to know everything about you, and that was something Jake wanted to avoid. Besides, he could imagine Mrs Faulkner-Stewart’s reactions if she thought her companion was becoming friendly with a man of his age. No matter how innocent an association might be, someone could always put the wrong interpretation upon it. He could almost see the headlines in the newspapers now: Middle-aged tycoon takes rest cure with schoolgirl! God, he shuddered to think of it. The poodle had provided him with a lucky escape, and in future he would ensure that his walks did not coincide with exercising the dog.

CHAPTER TWO (#u2c6b0d84-4bee-512e-9b6c-4bf1e108b22c)

RACHEL did not see him again for several days.

Even though she took to lingering for a few minutes in the lobby before taking Minstrel out for his evening walk, there was never any sign of the tall, dark man whose haggard features had begun to haunt her dreams. He never appeared at mealtimes, and in spite of Della’s attempts to draw the manager into conversation, Mr Yates seemed curiously loath to discuss the occupant of the first floor suite.

Rachel didn’t altogether understand her own interest in him. After all, he had shown in no uncertain manner that he did not welcome companionship, and he obviously regarded her as something of a nuisance in spite of his reluctant apology. But for all that, she had not mentioned their encounter to Della, and squeezed a small measure of comfort from the knowledge that her employer had not even spoken to him.

Her employer! Rachel grimaced at the thought, as she steered Della Faulkner-Stewart’s Mini into the parking area outside the hotel. Six months ago she would never have considered such an occupation, but circumstances could change so many things. Six months ago she had been dreaming of going to Oxford, of getting her degree. Until her father had contracted polio and died all in the space of three weeks, and her mother, dazed after so little sleep, had crashed her car into level crossing gates just as a train was passing. At least, that was the coroner’s verdict, though Rachel herself suspected that she had not wanted to go on living. She had been an only child, and she had always known her presence had never really been necessary. Her parents were complete unto themselves, and she had been at times a rather annoying encumbrance.

Nevertheless, the dual tragedy had left her stunned, and the solicitors’ subsequent information that apart from a couple of insurance policies, which would provide sufficient funds to pay all outstanding debts, she was penniless, had left her curiously unmoved.

That was when Della Faulkner-Stewart had taken over. She had been a school friend of Rachel’s mother’s, and although they had not seen her for some years, she had arrived in Nottingham for Mr Lesley’s funeral. That she was still in town when Mrs Lesley also died was, she said, a blessing, and she had insisted that Rachel should not attempt her final examinations at such a time. There was no hurry, she said. She herself needed a companion—her previous companion had taken the unforgivable step of getting married—and why didn’t Rachel come and live with her for a while? They could help one another.

In her numbed state, Rachel was only too willing to let someone else take responsibility for her. It wasn’t until some weeks afterwards, when she found herself at Della’s constant beck and call, that she began to appreciate what she had forfeited. But still, she had a little money of her own, and until she could afford to take her finals, she was persuaded that she could be a lot worse off.

Della’s husband was dead, too, and sometimes Rachel wondered whether that was why she had come to Nottingham in the first place. Perhaps she had hoped to persuade Rachel’s mother to take over the position as her companion, but Mrs Lesley had been too grief-stricken at that time to consider it. The truth was, Della was not the most considerate of employers, and although her husband had left her comfortably placed, she resented being without a man to care for her. Consequently, she spent little time at her London home, preferring to live in hotels, always in the hope of finding some man to take her late husband’s place. Her only stipulation was that he should be English. She despised Europeans, and seldom went abroad, preferring wholesome British food to what she termed as ‘foreign muck’.

Yet, for all that, Rachel was not actively unhappy. On the contrary, she was naturally a pleasant-natured girl, and apart from an occasional yearning for dreaming spires, she lived quite contentedly, prepared to wait another year or two before striking out on her own.

Now, she pulled the Mini into its space, calmed the excitable poodle behind her, and opened her door. As she stepped out into the cool afternoon air, it was starting to rain, and she reached for Minstrel’s lead before allowing him to get out and possibly decorate her navy slacks with muddy paw marks. There was a strange car parked alongside the Mini, one which she had not seen before, and she studied its elegant lines before turning and walking towards the hotel. As she neared the entrance two men came out of the hotel, talking together, and her pulses quickened alarmingly when she recognised Mr Allan and another man.