All This For Love

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Though cousins Sally Browning and Philippa Frome are identical - in looks but not in character. When the married spoilt Philippa persuades her twin to pretend to be Mrs Frome so Philippa can run off on holiday with her secret lover Sally can only reluctantly agree. And so she embarks upon a new life of wealth and luxury fooling all and sundry - even Philippa's invalid husband Martin. Soon accustomed to her new role Sally finds she has more devotion and love to give to the ailing Martin than she had imagined possible.

Release date: October 24, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 176

Sample

IT WAS WITH a slight feeling of nervousness that Sally Browning rang the bell at the big house in Harley Street which bore a brass plate with the inscription: ‘Mr. Martin Frome, M.D., F.R.C.S.’

She was not at all sure that she would be a welcome visitor. She had not seen her cousin, Philippa, who was married to Martin Frome, for the last few years, and it was quite possible that Philippa had no interest in her these days, added to which the Frome household was under a cloud of misfortune at the moment, because a month ago, Martin, one of the most brilliant young surgeons of the day, had been the victim of a terrible motor smash.

This morning’s paper had informed Sally that Martin Frome had just returned to his house from the nursing home, and it was feared that he would be doomed to his bed for the rest of his life. The accident had caused an injury to the spine, and paralysis.

Sally had felt that she must come along and offer her sympathies even if she was not allowed to see her cousin.

The butler opened the door, gave her a somewhat surprised look and said:

‘Oh, madam, I’m so sorry, but I thought you were in, and when the master asked for you …’

Then he stopped and stared. Sally found her cheeks growing pink. Good heavens! He was mistaking her for Philippa. Was she still so like her? Of course she knew there had always been a marked resemblance between them. As children they had frequently been mistaken for twins. But surely, thought Sally, in her rather shabby suit and the little stone marten tie which had seen better days, she could not be so like the wealthy and beautifully gowned Mrs. Frome as to deceive one of her own servants! However, apparently it was so. But now the butler had discovered his mistake. Sally smiled and murmured:

‘I am Mrs. Frome’s cousin, Miss Browning.’

‘Your pardon, miss,’ said the butler as he stepped back. ‘But it’s the most astonishing resemblance.’

‘Do you think Mrs. Frome would see me?’

‘If you’ll just wait one moment, miss, I’ll let the mistress know that you’re here,’ said the butler, took another astonished look at the slim young figure in blue, and showed her into a large dining-room.

Sally sat down. She felt suddenly depressed. The room was full of massive, handsome furniture. There was a cut-glass bowl of bronze chrysanthemums in the centre of the polished table, and neatly arranged piles of society journals. A typical doctor’s waiting-room. But there would be no more patients waiting to see Martin Frome. The papers had said this morning that he would never recover. What a tragedy!

And then the door opened. The butler came back, and said:

‘Will you come upstairs to madam’s boudoir, please, miss.’

A moment later Sally found herself in that boudoir, quite the loveliest room she had ever seen, with its soft golden carpet and gold net curtains through which September sunlight filtered. Sally was almost dazed for a few moments by a riot of colour and luxury such as she had only seen on the films. Everywhere, that golden glow, over the painted furniture, the chaise-longue with its satin cushions, the roses and carnations, the books, and glittering array of expensive ornaments. Then she saw her cousin Philippa lying against rose and gold brocade, in a black chiffon rest suit … and Sally looked no further. It gave her a shock to see a face so like her own.

Philippa in her turn was staring … at first a little scornfully at the badly cut suit and a hat which screamed ‘cheap sales’ … then with amazement at Sally herself.

‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Philippa, sitting upright. ‘I’d forgotten how alike we were. My dear Sally … come here and take off your hat.’

Sally laughed with some embarrassment and advanced towards the chaise-longue, removing her hat as she did so.

‘It’s ages since we met, isn’t it, Philippa? How are you? You know your butler thought I was you!’

‘And no wonder …’ said Philippa under her breath.

She continued to fix an intent and amazed gaze upon her cousin’s face. Yes, they had been like twins as children. Queer, first cousins resembling each other so closely. Of course, Sally’s hair wasn’t done like her own in that fashionable way, caught in a bunch of curls at the back of her head, but it was of the same fairness, almost silver-gilt, and the eyes were the same, more grey than blue, widely set. They both had slightly tip-tilted noses and skins of delicate, transparent quality. Both were tanned, Sally naturally so, Philippa very much made up. Philippa’s mouth in repose was hard. Sally’s lips were sweetly curved and the whole expression of her face was kinder, but except for details the two girls were the counterpart of each other.

‘I can’t get over it,’ said Philippa, and flung herself back on the cushions.

‘It is odd,’ agreed Sally, ‘awfully odd to see somebody so like oneself.’

‘Disconcerting, too, my dear. I’m not sure that I like it. I rather prided myself upon being uniquely beautiful.’

The brazen conceit of that made Sally smile.

‘Where have you sprung from?’ Philippa questioned her.

‘From South Africa,’ said Sally.

‘What on earth have you been doing there?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ said Sally. ‘But first of all … my father is dead.’

‘Poor old Uncle Bob. And are you quite alone now?’

‘Yes. But I’m engaged to be married.’

‘Who to?’

Philippa was only faintly interested, but she was wondering whether, if Sally were properly dressed, the men she knew would fall for her. Of course it wasn’t only face and figure that counted with a man. She, Philippa, attracted men because she was amusing as well as lovely. Sally didn’t seem to be amusing. She had always been a quiet, staid little thing.

Sally explained her position. Until her twenty-first birthday she had lived with her father, a retired doctor, in a suburb of London, where she had spent a rather uneventful girlhood, marked by only one important and unhappy episode, the death of her mother. From that time onward she had kept house for Dr. Browning and found plenty to do, because there wasn’t much money, and those who would lead an economic existence cannot lead a lazy one.

After Mrs. Browning’s death had come a happier time following upon Sally’s introduction to Rex Trenchman, a young South African whom she had met at the local tennis club. Rex was in England on holiday. He was in a firm of accountants in Johannesburg. Before he returned to South Africa he had succumbed to the charms of fair-haired, grey-eyed Sally, and she had promised to marry him.

Philippa listened, passing a polishing pad over her red-lacquered nails. It was all news to her because it was so long since she had been in touch with this side of her family. Philippa’s mother had been the late Dr. Browning’s only sister and the girls had seen a lot of each other as children. But Philippa’s father had had money and so later on she had moved and lived in different circles from Sally. Sally had been asked to Philippa’s wedding, which had been a grand affair in the West End, but she had had ’flu at the time and been unable to attend. Since then she had not received any invitations to Philippa’s home in Harley Street. On one or two occasions she remembered showing a new portrait of Philippa to her father, remarking with a laugh, ‘Little Sally might look like that in a Molyneux dress.’

The old doctor had replied:

‘Yes, you and Philippa are physically as alike as two peas, but thank God you are not so in character. I hear that girl’s her mother all over again, and she was a hard, selfish girl, poor Jenny. And you’re like your mother, an angel, God bless her.’

Sally often smiled over those words. She wasn’t really so keen on being an angel. She would like to have had some of Philippa’s chances in life. But those chances only came when one was dressed by the world’s leading designers and met people like Martin Frome. Not if one had to make one’s own clothes and stay at home.

Last July, Sally told Philippa, Dr. Browning insisted upon Sally taking a trip to South Africa, which was to be her future home. It was time, he said, that she met her prospective ‘in-laws,’ especially as Rex intended to come back to London next spring and marry her.

Sally scarcely reached Johannesburg before a cable recalled her. The old man had suddenly been taken ill with angina, and he died while Sally was on the way back to him.

‘How miserable for you!’ said Philippa, and told herself that that last manicure had been rotten, and she would go somewhere else tomorrow.

‘It hasn’t been very happy,’ agreed Sally. ‘I had to get rid of our little house … you remember we lived in Purley … and, of course, it’s been very lonely and a bit difficult, because Daddy’s left only about two pounds a week for me to live on.’

‘Why not get married?’ said Philippa.

Sally flushed and did not answer for a moment.

There was nothing she would have liked better than to have gone straight back to South Africa to Rex. She was very much in love with him. But there was a letter in her bag at this moment which she had received from him which crushed those hopes.

‘I don’t know that it’s wise for you to come back to South Africa just yet, darling,’ one of the paragraphs had told her. ‘It’s frightfully difficult for a girl to get a job here at the moment, and you might fix a better one in London. I hope this time next year that we shall be able to get married.’

Sally had brooded over those words. It was so depressing to think that her marriage was still such a long way off. Lengthy engagements were not good things. It seemed to her best that lovers should marry in the ‘first fine careless rapture’ of their love.

And she would like Rex to have wanted her so madly that he could not bear to live apart from her. She, herself, was impulsive, passionate, perhaps a little too intense, she told herself with a wry smile. Rex was so sensible and level-headed. He saw the practical side of things.

‘It is disappointing, isn’t it, Philippa?’ she asked her cousin.

‘Very,’ said Philippa, and yawned.

‘I shall try and get a job in London to augment my two pounds a week,’ smiled Sally.

Philippa was vaguely sympathetic. Two pounds wouldn’t have paid a week’s taxi fares for her. Then they talked of Martin.

‘I’ve been having a ghastly time!’ said Philippa.

‘I’m sure you have. And how awful for him, after leading that busy, wonderful life, and loving his work … to be tied to his couch … oh, how dreadful! Isn’t a cure at all likely, Philippa?’

‘They don’t think so,’ said Philippa gloomily. ‘He may walk again in time, but the injury to his spine has caused paralysis, and at the moment it seems to be hopeless.’

‘It must be marvellous for him to have you,’ said Sally. ‘And a wonderful thing for you to know that you can help him bear it.’

Philippa relapsed into silence. She felt suddenly savagely angry. God! Did her fool of a cousin really imagine that she found it ‘wonderful’ to have to sit for hours beside a sick-bed and be chained to that job for the rest of her life?

She, too, had been brooding over a certain paragraph in a letter which had come this morning. A letter of very different significance to the one which Sally had received from her fiancé. It had said:

‘And I love you. … I love you. I love you. You know it. You knew it last night when I held you in my arms. Darling, you drive me crazy. I suppose I’m a cad when poor old Frome is done for. But, you beautiful thing, you can’t be allowed to spend the rest of your life being a nurse! The damnable thing is that I haven’t a cent, so I can’t take you away. What the hell are we going to do. …’

Whenever Philippa recalled that paragraph she ran long slender fingers through her fair curls and gave little moaning sighs.

‘Ivor! Ivor!’

Ivor Lexon was a handsome, attractive, and altogether useless member of society who spent most of his time going from one cocktail party to another, sponging on people with fuller pockets than his own, wriggling out of debts as easily as he slid into them.

He was supposed to be on the Stock Exchange, but he never did any work. What income he possessed came from an old aunt to whom he showed his gratitude by saying an almost daily prayer that she would speedily depart this life and leave him everything.

Women were fascinated by Ivor. Nobody could be so amusing at a party. He played the piano, he danced, he made love with a grace that induced the opposite sex to forgive him his many failings. Philippa Frome would not even admit the failings. It had been in her company that he had lately spent most of his leisure. Everybody knew that they were having an affair. That is, everybody but Philippa’s husband.

Philippa knew quite well that Martin had no use for men of Ivor’s type, but he had always been too generous to begrudge his young wife any amusement she wanted. He knew that he had to neglect her occasionally because of his work, and if she wanted Ivor Lexon to take her out, why not? Martin trusted Philippa.

They had only been married three years. At first Philippa had been thrilled by his charming personality and his brains. She, who had been spoilt all her life, thought it would be amusing to be the wife of an eminent surgeon in such a big position. But soon after their honeymoon she had grown bored. Martin was always out, operating. At hospitals, nursing homes, consultations. That was his life, his work. And she was resentful because he was too tired to frivol or dance until the dawn, which she adored to do.

Now, of course, things were a thousand times worse. She could not bear sickness in any form. She had tried her best, she argued to herself, while she lay there this afternoon with her lover’s passionate letter crushed against her breast. She had tried … but she couldn’t bear that grim, supine figure which had once been the alert and vigorous form of the man she had married. It just made her shudder when she touched him. She was mean, weak, despicable, all the things people liked to say, but she could not anticipate the rest of life tied to Martin as he was now, a helpless wreck. His eyes, so alive, so intense in his thin face, followed her wherever she went, were hungry for her, demanding like his voice. Ever since his smash he had kept on saying:

‘Phil … come and sit by me, Phil …’ Or:

‘Phil, the pain doesn’t seem so bad when you’re with me … I want you, Phil …’

And she didn’t want him. She was in love, in love with Ivor.

That was the trouble. Ivor couldn’t afford to take her away, even if she chose to behave badly enough to desert Martin now when he was most in need of her. Her creature comforts meant too much. She couldn’t give up the life she led as Mrs. Martin Frome, her allowance, her sports car, her lovely clothes. She didn’t love Ivor as much as all that. She would never love anybody more than herself.

But she loved him in her way. And oh, she was bored, bored with this ministering angel business.

‘So marvellous for you to be able to help Martin …’ Sally was saying.

Philippa looked resentfully at her through languorous, silken lashes.

Perhaps Sally had that sort of nature. A pity she couldn’t take on the job if she thought that it would be so marvellous.

With that thought came others. Suddenly Philippa found herself in a whirling sea of thought, of fantastic ideas, flights of imagination in which she disappeared from this house of gloom and was wafted somewhere into space with Ivor who meant glowing, passionate life, while Sally sat by that couch downstairs in the library, the ministering angel in her place.

Wild thoughts, of course. But they interested Philippa intensely. When Sally asked if she was boring her, Philippa answered feverishly:

‘No, you mustn’t go, Sally. I want to talk to you.’

Somebody knocked on the door.

‘What is it?’ Philippa called irritably.

A maid answered:

‘Please, madam, Watson says the master would like you to go down to him if you are rested.’

‘Tell him I can’t come for a few minutes,’ said Philippa sharply.

And Sally thought:

‘I can’t imagine myself not flying down to him … if he were Rex lying there, calling for me.’

And there followed upon this thought another rather terrifying one:

‘Does marriage change all that … doesn’t one stay in love … does it all become a nuisance? …’

But no, she wasn’t going to let it be like that when she married Rex … she would go on feeling as she did now, that it was like death to be parted from him. Once again the memory of his letter hit Sally rather like a blow across the face. He could bear to be separated from her for a whole year. And yet he loved her. Well, people were different. Perhaps Philippa loved her husband, but was cool and practical about it, like Rex. Perhaps it wouldn’t do for everybody to be as full of warm impulses, as intense as she was herself.

Philippa was talking to her earnestly now.

She wanted to know everything about Sally. There was so little to know that it was soon told. Philippa learned all the details about Sally’s engagement, the present depressing position and the inadvisability of her returning at once to Johannesburg on the off chance of getting work.

Philippa looked at her with eyes grown hard … very different eyes from Sally’s when they had that flint-like expression.

‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘Lucky to be free for a year, my dear.’

‘I don’t think so. I want to get back to Rex.’

‘We’re none of us satisfied,’ said Philippa with a short laugh.

‘But aren’t you …’ began Sally, then flushed, and added: ‘I suppose now, of course, you can’t be. It’s tragic for you having Martin so ill. …’

‘Tragic isn’t the word. My life simply isn’t worth living.’

‘But why?’ came from Sally, shocked and wide-eyed.

Philippa stood up, moved restlessly to the window, found a cigarette, lit it, and began to walk up and down the big golden room on bare feet with restless steps. Rather like a panther, Sally thought.

Philippa, brows knit, said:

‘Of course you wouldn’t understand, but you see, I … I’m not in love with my husband any more. There, that’s the truth and you might as well know it.’

‘I see,’ said Sally. ‘But how … dreadful.’

‘My dear child, you weren’t born yesterday. You know that these things happen.’

‘Yes, I know. But I always thought you and Martin were so happy.’

‘We were, but we were never really suited.’

‘And does he feel the same?’

‘No … that’s . . .