The Other Linding Girl (20 page)

“But not before he had made his decision. These major decisions we have to make for ourselves,
mon enfant
,” Florian said quietly. “It is not for someone else to prompt —as I think you yourself felt. But, now that he has taken the right decision—”

“You think it
was
the right one?” Rachel stared at the great designer. “But his work, Monsieur Florian! Think what he has sacrificed. Possibly—” she clasped her hands tightly together— “possibly even the people he has sacrificed.”

“My dear—” Florian leaned back against one of the long benches which had served as a dressing-table for his mannequins—“in my view, a man must start by being reasonably true to himself, regardless of theoretical possibilities. He must, if you like, be willing to sacrifice much for others, but not his personal integrity. If this is the way your Nigel argued, I, for one, have sympathy with him.”

“But if he was willing,” murmured Rachel, “and—and I was willing too—for the greater good—”

‘It was not, I think, just a question of sacrificing his happiness—or even yours,” Florian said drily. “It was a question of putting himself under the domination of a small-souled person. And money is no way out of that impasse, my dear. The
means
for his work would have been there in abundance, but the
inspiration
—which is the best part of oneself—would be gone.”

“And do you think that is the way Nigel argued it out?”

“I can only tell you that is the way in which I would have argued it out. ” Florian shrugged, then he added, almost moodily, “In a world which thinks increasingly of material things, one must try sometimes to remember the things of the spirit.”

“Why—” Rachel looked half amused, half surprised—“that’s the sort of thing my father would say!”

“Then I am in good company” observed Florian, drily but not unkindly.

“And yet—and yet—” Rachel raised her hands and then let them

drop to her sides again in a gesture of perplexity—“I can’t help thinking of that sordid, poky little laboratory, and what it would have meant to them all if a large sum of money had been forthcoming. ” Florian smiled. That faintly enigmatic smile which hid both the ice-cold businessman and the incurable romantic.

“I also have thought of that,” he conceded. “And I have done a little more than think about it. I have found time to make some enquiries.”

“Enquiries? But you said you didn’t speak to Nigel!”

“Tch, tch, one does not make enquiries of the person most involved,” retorted Florian impatiently. “My enquiries were made of someone in authority in the hospital where he works. The replies, I am bound to say, were very much in his favour.”

“Monsieur Florian!” Suddenly she was trembling with eagerness and a sort of undefined hope.

“It has occurred to me—” he studied his very beautiful hands with some attention—“that the McGraths are not the only ones willing to back a worthwhile cause. There is nothing magical about the exact sum of twenty thousand pounds. It seems to me that half this sum would already do much to help your Nigel on his way—”

“But of course!” gasped Rachel.

“Of this amount,” he said unemotionally, “I am willing to find half. But—” he raised a hand, to stop her eager exclamations—“like the McGraths, I also attach my conditions. I am not prepared to be the only one. Monsieur Nigel must be able to produce someone else with equal faith in him. In other words, I will contribute five thousand pounds towards his work, if he or you can find another backer— or backers—who will contribute a like sum.”

“On those conditions only?”

“On those conditions only,” stated Florian unequivocally.

“Monsieur Florian, it’s—it’s a princely offer—”

“Not at all,” he said, though he obviously relished the phrase. “I happen to be a very wealthy man.. But I am also a businessman,
cherie,
and I do not take the sole risk in any venture which concerns someone other than myself. If your Nigel is the dedicated genius I am asked to believe—” he smiled, but not unkindly—“he must be able to produce one or more to believe in him sufficiently to take an equal

risk with me.”

“Well, that’s quite fair, of course,” Rachel agreed, though she could not imagine for one moment where they were going to find anyone of the sort.

Still, one must not expect everything on a silver plate, she told herself. She must think this over—talk it. over with Nigel. At least—

Suddenly, and for the first time, she recalled with absolute clarity the bitterness with which she and Nigel had parted. Even now, she could hardly believe that she had really spoken to him with such harsh contempt, such complete rejection. And, as she seemed to see again his set, white face, as he went from her in fury and humiliation, her own face became suddenly pale and dismayed.

“What is it,
cherie
? You look troubled.”

“It’s just that—I remember—I quarrelled bitterly with Nigel, only this evening,” she stammered.

“You
quarrelled
with him?
Tiens,
what bad timing!” exclaimed Florian, and he sounded quite angry with her. "Why, of all evenings, must you choose this one for your quarrel?”

“He started making love to me,” said Rachel, as though this explained everything.

Florian stared at her. Then he muttered, “I shall never understand the English.” But aloud he said impatiently, “Then go and find him, as soon as you can, and make it up with him. That is not, I take it, against the rules?”

“Oh, no, of course not.” Rachel actually found herself able to laugh. “I will! And—oh, thank you, dear Monsieur Florian, for all your kindness. I simply don’t know what to say to you—what words to find—”

“The words you need to find are not for an elderly, married Frenchman, my child, but for the Englishman with whom you have so unwisely quarrelled,” Florian told her. Then he patted her cheek rather hard. “Now go and find your Nigel.”

So Rachel went away and searched through the supper-room and the ballroom and the sitting-out rooms for Nigel. But there was no sign of him anywhere.

Her disappointment and dismay increased every instant, for it semed to her that she had only to find him and all would surely be well. But, after she had gone through all the, rooms twice, she had to accept the chilling truth. For whatever reason—good or bad—Nigel had chosen to go home.

Once in her search Rachel had come face to face with Fiona. She was putting up a splendid facade—smiling and gracious to all. But Rachel, who had come to know her well, sensed the strain behind that tightened line of the jaw and that faintly mechanical smile.

“Perhaps,” thought Rachel, with a touch of grim amusement, “she sees the same in me.” And then Oliver Mayforth found her and insisted on her making good her promise to dance with him.

True to their previous arrangement—which Rachel would now willingly have dissolved—he showed her every attention and singled her out for almost affectionate regard. It was what she had asked him to do, of course. But now it was so unwelcome, as an accompaniment to her anxious thoughts of Nigel, that she was not sorry when her uncle finally sought them out and said it was time they all went home.

Oliver started to protest. But Sir Everard, having decided that his niece needed his personal supervision, was not to be put off.

“You can take her out another evening, Mayforth,” he said. “Tonight she has had enough. Besides, we don’t want her to look as, though we’ve been overworking her when her father sees her.”

“When my
father
sees me! Uncle, what’s all this? What do you mean?” Rachel clung to his arm and looked up at him, quite radiant.

“Why, there, I meant it to be a surprise!” But Sir Everard smiled down at her indulgently. “Robert telephoned just after you left the house. He tells me he is coming to London at the weekend and is bringing one of your sisters—Elizabeth, I think—with him. It seems he thought it was time you saw some of your family again.”

“Uncle, how wonderful!” Gone were fatigue and dejection. “This makes up for—” She was going to say “for everything”. But, realising that this could not fail to draw questions from her uncle and Oliver, she hastily changed the wording to, “This makes up for all the recent hard work.”

“Well then, you won’t mind my cutting short your evening now,” her uncle said,

“I must just say good-night to the Florians. And Miss McGrath too, I suppose.” She was not so eager about that. “I’ll rejoin you all in five minutes.”

She sought out Fiona first and, although the words in which Fiona chose to thank her for her work were gracious enough, the manner was withdrawn and unfriendly. Whether temporarily or finally, the plans of this cold, preoccupied woman had gone astray.

With the Florians it was a very different matter. They were flying back to Paris the next day, but they both warmly pressed Rachel to visit them there in the near future. And when Gabrielle’s attention was demanded by someone else, Florian took the opportunity to enquire if Rachel had managed to make her peace with Nigel.

“Monsieur Florian, I couldn’t find him anywhere! He must have gone home early.”

“Because of your snub?—or to avoid any possibility of an announcement?”

“I have no idea,” said Rachel humbly, because she felt that Florian thought poorly of her technique in these matters.

“Well, we must wait, it seems.” Waiting obviously did not really commend itself to the great designer. “But I shall expect to hear from you about our proposed business arrangement very soon.”

“Your proposed business arrangement?” Gabrielle, who rejoined them at that moment, looked both amused and curious. “Are you going in for
haute couture,
Rachel?”

“Oh,
no
!” Rachel shook her head and laughed. “Monsieur Florian will explain.”

“If the deal goes through, I shall explain. If not, I shall wipe it from my mind,” replied Florian, with a touch of brutal finality which made Rachel understand for the first time why his enemies called him ruthless. “Play your cards well,
mon enfant.
Everything now depends on you.”

And on that Rachel had to leave them.

The family party were already waiting for her—Paula looking heavy-eyed by now, though still murmuring lyrically about, the wonderful evening she had had. On the short journey home, she fell asleep against Rachel, and when they arrived at the house, her father had to carry her upstairs, Rachel following close behind, to help the little girl to undress.

As she dropped into bed, Paula finally demanded, “Don’t you think it was just the most marvellous evening ever?”

“Perhaps,” said Rachel, thinking of that bitter quarrel and the wonderful reprieve from the engagement and Florian’s fantastic but tantalising offer. “Perhaps—it may have been.”

"But don’t you
know
?” Paula roused herself for an instant.

“No. I wish I did,” replied Rachel. But Paula had fallen asleep again, and there was no one to query that odd reply.

The next day there was a letter from Elizabeth, giving some details of the proposed trip to London.

“Father has to come for a conference,” she wrote, “and, instead of just staying overnight, he thought it would be a good idea to make it a stay of a few days and take the opportunity of seeing you.
I
thought it would be a good idea too. (I miss you a lot, Rachel—though I suppose, with all your parties and theatres and mannequin shows and what-have-you, you hardly have time to miss us.) So I’m coming too. Make a little time for us in your round of festivities. We want to have you to ourselves a bit.”

Rachel laughed happily and even blinked away a tear or two. It was going to be so wonderful to see someone from home! And, even before she started on her morning’s work, she dashed off a few lines to her sister, to say how tremendously she was looking forward to a weekend which should be all theirs.

The other private matter which had to be attended to with all despatch was, of course, the making of some contact with Nigel. Not only so that she could tell him of Florian’s fantastic offer, but also so that she could somehow erase the dreadful impression of their last meeting.

She was not quite sure how she was to explain away her behaviour, for even now one could not be crudely frank about the Fiona situation. But, since the most important thing was to establish
some
sort of bridge across the chasm which now divided them, she reached for the telephone and dialled his number, trusting that the impulse of the moment would give her the right words.

Her heart was thumping badly and her mind seemed oddly blank, as she sat there, listening to his telephone bell ringing. At first she was afraid of the moment when he would reply. Then she was afraid of the endless moments when he did not reply. She replaced the receiver, then tried again—sitting there once more for some unmeasured time, listening to the ringing of the bell, and filled with the most absurd, dismayed conviction that he knew she wanted to speak to him and refused to give her the opportunity.

Finally, she gave up the attempt and, rather hesitatingly this time, tried the hospital number. After some delay, she was put through to the laboratory, where Jerry Hallby’s cheerful voice replied. But when she enquired, a little breathlessly, for Nigel, he said,