THE next morning Desmond told Rose he intended to go home.
"But you can't leave until after the wedding,'" she protested. "That's the reason you came out."
"I came to see you," he corrected. "And now I have, it's time for me to go home again. Living a life of idleness doesn't suit me."
"But it's only for another fortnight. I'm sure you can find plenty to do until then. Why not start a book?"
"I've just finished one. And anyway, I—" He pushed back his chair from the breakfast table and stood up. "I'm not going to write another book just yet. I thought of taking a job again."
"That's wonderful news. Where?"
"At one of the Universities. I was offered one a few weeks ago." As always when he was embarrassed he took out his pipe and rubbed the bowl against the palm of his hand. "To be quite honest with you, I really only came to a final decision last night. Didi and I had an argument and I'm afraid I told her a few unpleasant truths."
"Oh, Dad, you didn't quarrel, did you?"
He shrugged. "We made it up, so you've nothing to worry about. But while I was in the middle of telling Didi where she was going wrong with her life I realized I wasn't doing so well with my own. I ran away from life after your mother died and it's time I took up the threads again."
"I'm glad," Rose said softly. "But I'm sure you can wait a few more weeks until I'm married."
He sighed. "Very well. But the day after your wedding I'm leaving."
The tapping of heels heralded Didi Hammond's arrival and with heightened color Desmond watched her come close.
"I always seem to be interrupting the two of you in some secret conference,"
she said to Rose.
"I've just been persuading Dad not to go home until after the wedding."
Didi was suddenly still, the smile freezing on her face. 'Till after the wedding?"
"Yes, He's decided he's been a lotus eater far too long."
"What Rose means," Desmond said, "is that I've made up my mind to take another job. I've been offered a chair at one of the Universities."
"How very erudite that sounds," Didi said with a light laugh. "When I talk to you, Desmond, I'm inclined to forget you're a learned professor."
"Not as learned as I thought," he said in an embarrassed voice.
Rose, listening to them, wondered what had taken place between them after she had left the terrace the night before and became convinced that whatever it was, it had precipitated her father's desire to return home. Could he have fallen in love with Didi ?
Her surmise was proved correct, for one afternoon a few days later when Lance and Desmond had gone out in the speedboat, Didi Hammond talked to Rose in a way she had never done before. They were sitting together in the arbor
shaded from the sun by a large parasol. Rose was embroidering a tablecloth and Mrs. Hammond idly picked up a few of the colored skeins and twisted them between her fingers.
"I've never been good at sewing," she remarked, "and yet it's such a pretty hobby for a woman to have."
"I'm not doing it because it's pretty," Rose grinned. "I find it relaxing."
"You shouldn't want to relax at your age. You should be on the go, enjoying yourself." She caught her lips between her teeth with a little moue of apology.
"I'm sorry, my dear. I keep forgetting you're still convalescent."
"I wish a few more people would forget. I'm quite well now. But Lance…" Rose stopped, not wishing to say anything disloyal, yet the older woman finished for her. "Yet Lance keeps treating you like a Dresden doll. I wondered when you were going to find that a bit nauseating. If you're not careful you'll end up being a long- suffering woman, and there's nothing a man finds more boring.
Stand up for, yourself, Rose. I know my son's a wonderful catch, but you're not so bad yourself."
Rose looked at her future mother-in-law with surprise. The vivid blue eyes, so like Lance's, were no longer glinting with their usual look of mischief, but were tinged with a sadness that darkened them and gave a look of sharp pathos to the face.
"I'm surprised you should say that to me," she said slowly. "After all, what have I got to offer Lance? I can no longer participate in the things he likes and
—"
"That's the least important thing! You can offer Lance something he's been looking for all his life: a maternal woman. Oh yes, don't look so astonished that I know. I'm not quite the fool I seem. I was never a very good mother to
Lance. When he was a little boy and my husband was alive I didn't have eyes for anyone except Edward. And when Edward died, Lance reminded me so much of him that just to be with him was heartache. So I ran away and looked for happiness everywhere else."
"Did you find it?"
"No. You can't find happiness in others if you don't have it in yourself. And if you're afraid to come to terms with yourself how can you be happy?"
Rose did not answer for she knew Didi was talking more to herself. She was amazed the woman could portray such a depth of feeling and wondered why, after so many years of running away from any real emotion, she should now turn around to face it. But she had no need to wonder long for Didi suddenly said:
"Your father's to blame for all my soul searching. He's an uncomfortable man
to have around but a very stimulating one in certain respects."
"Certain respects?"
"Yes. In his attitude to women he's completely stereotyped. He wants them all to be home bodies."
"The maternal woman, you mean," Rose said dryly.
Mrs. Hammond suddenly sat up straight, as if the question had touched a chord.
"Of course, that's it exactly! I should imagine you're like your mother, Rose, and that's what Desmond is looking for again. No wonder he resents being attracted to me."
The moment she had spoken she put her hand to her mouth and looked so much like a guilty child that Rose could not help smiling.
"You're not telling me anything I didn't know," she said. "And I'm not the sort of daughter who can't bear to think of her father falling in love. Dad's young and so are you."
"That isn't what your father thinks. Not long ago he intimated I was a stupid old woman. Well, maybe I was. But I don't think it's too late to change, do you?"
"I don't know," Rose said honestly. "It depends how much you wish it."
There was no answer and Rose resumed her embroidery, conscious of a feeling of disquiet. It was enough that she herself stood a chance of being hurt by one of the Hammonds. It would be ironical indeed if her father was likely to suffer from the other remaining member of the family.
At dinner that night there were an unexpected number of guests, at least unexpected to Rose, for she realized they had been deliberately invited by Lance and his mother.
"Didi thinks it's time you began to meet all our friends. She says your
convalescence is over and you should be introduced as the Hammond bride."
They were standing together in the hall outside her bedroom, for Rose had closed her door to find him waiting impatiently for her in the corridor.
"I thought I'd better warn you about the mob downstairs in case you wanted to put on something more festive:"
"Do you think I should?"
She stood before him, tall and slender in a cream silk dress with a gold cord at the waist and thick gold beading at the hem. She had not had her hair cut
since her accident and it had grown so long again that she had twisted it into a plait and piled it on the top of her head, making her neck appear more slender than usual.
"You look lovely," he said. "In fact, I rather take your looks for granted.
There's nothing flamboyant about them and yet when one analyzes them you're…" he paused. "You're a beautiful, charming woman."
She turned scarlet at the unexpected compliment. Facile bouquets came easily to Lance, as she well knew, but this remark — stilted though it was — came from the heart and she trembled with joy.
Together they went down the stairs and not even a drawing room full of people
— the Hammonds' idea of a few friends being some thirty or forty — could still the happiness that bubbled inside her. Moving from group to group with Lance by her side she was conscious of a deep sense of happiness and felt that in agreeing to marry him she had done the right thing after all. Only when — dinner over — dancing began to the strains of a sextet did she experience a momentary pang and become overwhelmingly conscious of her limp. Lance placed his hand on her arm, his touch sending a thrill through her body.
"Don't look like that," he said quietly. "Dancing's a very unimportant part of one's life."
"It isn't just the dancing. There are so many other things I can't do." She saw his face change color and regretted her words. "Don't look like that. I didn't mean anything. It's just that—"
"I know what you mean, Rose. You've no need to apologize to me of all people."
He had no chance to say more for he had to do his duty as a host and, while he was dancing, she wandered into the garden.
"Hey, wait for me!" a voice called and she looked round to see Alan. Since leaving the nursing home she had not been alone with him, and on the occasions they had met their conversation had perforce been casual.
"Should you be walking this far?" he said as he reached her side.
"Don't you start that."
He grimaced at the reproof in her voice and guided her by the elbow over to a seat.
"Well, you mightn't be tired, but I am. I've really had to work the last few weeks."
"Why?"
"Sending back the presents that arrived for Lance's first engagement and then making all the preparations for your own wedding."
"Poor Alan," she said lightly. "At least this time you know it'll be permanent."
He did not appear to hear her and, standing up, he paced the grass. She watched him, realizing there was something on his mind, and hardly had she thought this when he came over and gripped her shoulders.
"Don't marry without love Rose! And don't marry in the hope that you can make love grow — because you can't!"
"That's a matter of opinion."
"I speak from experience." She looked at him and he shook his head. "No I haven't been married but I have been in love. The girl had no idea how I felt and regarded me as if I were her brother."
"Why didn't you tell her how you felt?"
"What would have been the point? It wouldn't have caused her to fall in love with me."
"Maybe not" Rose said "but at least you'd have had the satisfaction of knowing
you'd tried."
"I'd rather have the satisfaction of knowing she doesn't pity me. Please Rose, don't go ahead with it. You'll ruin your life."
"Why do you say that? You've always thought so highly of Lance."
"I still do. But he's not the man for you. He'll break your heart."
She stood up in silence and started to walk back to the villa and he fell into step beside her.
"If I'd told you not to run away from the girl you love," she said, "but to stay and face up to it, would you have taken any notice?"
"No."
"Well then," she smiled, "you can't expect me to take any notice of you! You ran away and you're still unhappy. I've decided to remain. Let's wait and see which turns out to be more successful: your action or mine."
The days until Rose's wedding flew past. Her father made no further mention of returning home but she knew that once she became Lance's wife, he would pack his bags and depart. She could not help a pang of sorrow, for she knew he would not willingly return to the villa again. There appeared to be an armed truce between him and Didi, and for most of the time the woman was occupied with a constant stream of men dancing attendance on her. None of them was as suave as Tino Barri but they were still of that genre, and Rose wondered whether Didi were trying to infuriate her father into action. If she were, she was going about it in the wrong way, for Rose knew her father was not a man who responded well to rivalry.
If Lance was aware of the undercurrent between the two older people he gave no sign of it. Indeed Rose hardly saw him, for he flew to London to attend a board meeting and did not return until the eve of their wedding. He had been adamant in his refusal to turn their marriage into what he termed a three-ring circus, but even so a quiet affair by Hammond standards was anything but quiet in Rose's eyes.
Though they did their best to keep the date and time a secret there was a horde of photographers and reporters outside the register office in the French village which Lance had chosen for the wedding, and only when they finally
escaped from the crowds and were travelling back in the car to the villa did she glance at the man by her side and realize he was her husband. Her husband!
She said the words over to herself, unable to believe them, and suddenly she was engulfed by a wave of panic. She must have been crazy to marry a man who did not love her. She had thought her own love would be strong enough for them both but now — now she would have given anything she possessed to turn back the clock. She felt a touch on her arm, and turning her head saw Lance looking at her with concern.
"What's the matter, darling? Do you feel ill?"
It was the first time he had called her 'darling' and her heart turned over. The panic died and she was so sure that everything would turn out all right that the color flooded back into her cheeks.
"It's just the excitement of leaving my spinsterhood behind," she said.
"What about me? I'm not a gay bachelor any more. All I can be now is a misunderstood husband." He grinned. "Don't forget that from now on you're my protection from other women!"
She froze into silence, his words bringing her back to the reality of the situation. No matter for what reason she had married Lance, his reasons remained unswervingly the same: protection.
"Don't look so forlorn," he said unexpectedly. "I was only trying to be funny."
He picked up her hand and kissed it. "You're very sweet, Rose, far too sweet for me."
The chauffeur turned a bend without slackening speed and she was flung against Lance's side. His arms came round to steady her and she waited, praying with all her heart that he would draw her close. But he put her gently back in her seat and then reached into his pocket for a cigarette.
Tears of disappointment welled in her eyes but she blinked them away and buried her head in the bouquet on her lap.
There was only a small luncheon party at the villa. Mrs. Rogers had flown over from London and was highly delighted in the belief that Lance's marriage was the direct outcome of her own actions.
"If it hadn't been for my darling little poodle you wouldn't have found such a
lovely bride," she said as she toasted them.
Lance affectionately agreed, and watching him talk to Mrs. Rogers Rose
remembered all that Alan had told her about Lance's childhood. There was no doubt he was extremely fond of the woman and regarded her with as much—if not more—affection than his own mother. She was not the only one to be
aware of this, for turning unexpectedly she saw such a look of sadness on Didi's face that she walked over to the settee and sat down beside her.
During the wedding breakfast everyone was in high spirits and Rose, bubbling with champagne, gave what she considered to be a passable impersonation of a happy bride. The wine had numbed her fears and the future, although hazy, did not appear to be too gloomy. It was nearly three o'clock before she and Lance were able to leave and everyone came out on the drive to wave them goodbye.
Didi waved harder than them all, standing on the top of the steps until the Cadillac turned through the wrought- iron gates and disappeared. Only then did she move into the house and push her way past the others, intent on going to her room before anyone noticed her tears. She had one foot on the stairs when someone took a firm hold of her arm and she knew, even without
turning, that it was Desmond. She tried to pull free but he wouldn't let her go and she found herself being led into the breakfast room.
"At least let me go and repair my make-up," she expostulated. "I look a sight."
"I've seen you look better," he admitted and taking out his handkerchief dipped it into a vase filled with flowers that stood on the table. The handkerchief came out sodden and he wrung it out and advanced towards her.
"Don't touch me!" she said.
"Don't be silly. Your mascara's run and you look like a coffee-colored coon!"
She muttered angrily but stood quiescent as he rubbed her face.
Not until a few moments had gone by did she realize that not only had he
removed her mascara but the rest of her make-up as well and she pushed him away and made for the door.
"Really, Desmond! I haven't got a shred of make-up on and I look a sight."
"You look a sight better than you've ever looked," he answered. "For heaven's sake stop disguising yourself and let the sun get to your skin."
"It makes wrinkles," she retorted.
"A woman of your age should have wrinkles. Unless She wants to look like a
"A woman of your age should have wrinkles. Unless She wants to look like a