And All Because

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

They are not at all alike. She is young very wealthy and accustomed to having everything her own way. He is serious determined - a man who works for every penny he made and who has no time for play.

They are completely wrong for each other. And yet they love one another desperately. And something holds them together. Something that makes them want to lie and hide their love affair from friends and family for there seems no other way.

Release date: January 1, 1972

Publisher: Pyramid

Print pages: 208

Sample

THERE is something definitely depressing about a ballroom in the early hours of the morning after the guests have gone, the music ceased, and silence has descended upon the house.

Geraldine Wayde—she was Gerry to her relations and friends—stood by the doorway leading from the lounge into the room which so recently had been filled with a laughing, dancing crowd, and surveyed the scene of desolation with a disapproving eye.

She disliked desolation. She disliked being depressed. A few minutes ago she had been the gayest of the gay—bubbling over with spirits. Now a strange gloom fell upon her.

She could hear the faint hoot-hoot of a car break the stillness of the June night. The last car was leaving Ponders; turning out of the famous chestnut drive into the main London Road.

She looked around her, frowning a little. The electric candles in old gilt brackets—two between each amber satin panel—still burned brightly. It was a long, beautiful room with six tall windows facing south, and a priceless floor of old oak which had the polish of ages on it. Many dances and parties had been held here over a period of centuries. This room was in the old wing of Ponders, a Queen Anne house which had been restored by the Waydes when they bought it, before Gerry was born. But she hated the satin-panelling and gilt candles and the gilded Louis XVth chairs. They were of Mrs. Wayde’s choosing, and Mrs. Wayde’s choice lay in bright, flamboyant things, whereas Gerry preferred the simplicity, the severity of things old. The floor was the only part of the reception-room which she liked.

It had been a good show, she thought. Her twenty-first birthday party; and father had done her well. He always did. He never stinted cash where she was concerned and her mother was lavish—more eager, perhaps, that her daughter should be perfectly dressed and a great social success than that she should enjoy herself.

Gerry lifted a small clenched fist to her lips and yawned. Her head began to ache, and her feet too. She had danced every dance. She was tired. Somewhere in the big house a grandfather clock struck the hour of three. It was certainly time for bed.

A high-pitched voice called from upstairs.

“Gerry! Darling Where are you, chérie?”

Gerry yawned again, and walked from the ballroom into the darker lounge and up the staircase, which had wonderful carved oaken rails, black with age, and walls with linenfold panelling which was supposed to be worth thousands of pounds.

On the upper landing, Gerry’s mother appeared—a voluminous figure with swelling bosom and hips curving under a pale yellow nylon and lace negligée. Her hair—auburn in tint—was confined under a yellow hair-net which made her face, with its double chin and sagging cheeks, look absurd. She held a pot of face-cream in one hand and with the other tenderly stroked the lines under her eyes.

“I’m worn out, my sweet,” she said. “But I must do my massage. Such a nuisance when Taylor’s in bed.”

Gerry laughed.

“Well, I shan’t do my massage. I’m for my bed—here and now.”

“So am I, darling. It was a lovely party. And you looked exquisite, my pet—ravisante. Your father’s friend, Sir George Bracken—you know, the Member for Hartlebury—admired you immensely. That is a lovely dress, my sweet. So soignée—so chic. One of Roche’s loveliest. A succès fou!”

Mrs. Wayde, who bore the Christian name of ‘Désirée,’ had been born in France and lived there until she was fifteen. She was of English parentage and entirely English, but it was one of her pet poses to intersperse little French phrases and words with her English, and to shrug her shoulders and gesticulate freely with her hands. She was never so happy as when strangers, meeting her for the first time, said: “Surely you are French!”

She was a stupid but amiable woman. Gerry had no particular use for her, but she was very fond of her. She thought of her as ‘poor old dear,’ and treated her with gross disrespect. When she particularly wanted something out of her, Gerry addressed her as ‘Désirée, duck.’ She had managed her mother when she was a self-willed little thing of four, and had controlled her ever since.

Mrs. Wayde wanted her daughter to be a success in society. No trouble or expense was spared to achieve that end. Gerry had had a very expensive education—a succession of governesses, English, Swiss, and French, none of them able to cope with Gerry, who had a stubborn will and great personal charm, as well as beauty; combined with the dangerous knowledge that she could twist most people round her little finger.

“Good night, darling,” said Gerry, stifling her third yawn.

“Good night, chérie,” said Mrs. Wayde. “I won’t kiss you—covered in cream. Dormez bien, my darling.”

She withdrew into her room, waving the pot of cream. Her fat, good-natured face was greasy and shining framed by the yellow hairnet.

Gerry walked slowly along the passage, unclasping a diamond choker from her throat. It was a beautiful choker. Her father’s birthday present to her. It had thrilled her for five minutes and it had cost five hundred pounds.

Suddenly she paused. She had been about to pass a room, the door of which was ajar. She glanced in and saw a young man in evening clothes seated at a small table, writing furiously on a sheet of foolscap. A look of interest and curiosity chased the ennui from Gerry’s face. She pushed the door more widely open. So engrossed was the young man in his occupation that he did not even turn his head. Gerry regarded him in thoughtful silence for a moment.

It was a slightly stooping back that she contemplated, and belonged to a slimly built tallish man. The head was dark—so dark that it might have been called black—short, crisp hair ruffled as though the owner had been running his fingers through it.

The young man was Nicholas Hulme—private secretary to Gerry’s father—and the person responsible for all the hard work in the M.P.’s household.

Gerry—in the excitement of the evening, surrounded by friends and admirers—had scarcely noticed the fact that Mr. Hulme had only appeared in the ballroom for the first ten minutes after dinner, then had vanished. But now she recalled that fact. And she also remembered that he had not even asked her for a dance. That piqued her. She was a spoiled darling of the gods and used to men pleading for favours. She was annoyed that Nicholas Hulme had not begged her to dance with him.

He was always annoying her. He was such an irritating young man with his serious manner; his aloofness. He had taken the post as her father’s secretary early in the spring and lived as one of the family. But neither Gerry nor her mother saw much of him save at meal-time. He was generally closeted with Mr. Wayde in his study and, after dinner at night, retired to his own room. He was hard-working and conscientious. Too conscientious to please Gerry. Too grave and reticent. He was so very good-looking. He ought to be more amusing. Gerry liked being amused. He ought to admire her. She liked being admired. But he never did more than look at her occasionally with his serious eyes and say: “Good morning, Miss Wayde”—or “Good night.”

She had heard that he had no money. After a public-school and Varsity education he had found himself without means, through the financial failure and death of his father. He had been secretary to another Conservative member last year, and had come to Mr. Wayde with excellent credentials. Mr. Wayde told the family that he found Nicholas Hulme a very able and intelligent young man.

Gerry wondered what he did in his spare time. He spent so much time shut up in his bedroom. Now she fancied that she knew. He was writing a book or something. There were sheets of foolscap, closely written upon, all over the table and on the floor.

She was quite intrigued. She wondered what he wrote. She forgot that she was tired out and that it was three in the morning. She walked into the room.

“What are you doing, Mr. Hulme?” she said.

The young man dropped his pen and swung round in his chair. Such a thin, pale face he had, she thought. And wonderful eyes—grey, brilliant, with thick brows and dark lashes. His mouth was well shaped but had a peculiarly bitter downward curve. It gave his face a cynical, even a sombre, touch. Gerry felt that he might be difficult if one knew him better. Certainly, he had most handsome and intelligent eyes. A pity he spoiled himself by being so bearish.

He was looking at her now as though he saw a ghost, she thought amusedly. He sprang to his feet. His face grew scarlet.

“Miss Wayde!” he stammered.

“Don’t look so scared,” she said. “It isn’t the dead of night. It’s nearly dawn. I thought you had come up to bed and gone to sleep hours ago.”

The colour left his cheeks; made him look whiter than before and very tired. There were shadows under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks which robbed his face of youth. His tail-coat had been made by a good tailor, but it was old and worn. His shirt-front was crumpled and his white tie awry. He did not look very spruce. Gerry noticed all these things and felt curiously inclined to stay and talk to him. Out of curiosity more than anything else.

“I wondered what you were writing,” she added.

Nicholas Hulme, who seemed to be dazed by her unexpected entry into his bedroom, turned and picked up a sheet of foolscap. He fingered it almost jealously.

“Oh—I was—just—doing some writing.”

“I know that,” she laughed. “But what?”

“A—a play,” he stammered.

“A play!” she echoed. “How intriguing. Do tell me about it.”

“I don’t know that I can.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t—I haven’t told anybody,” he stammered.

“I see,” she shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a secret.”

“Yes.”

She was disappointed. Surely he might tell her about his play.

“Does my father know?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“You just work in secret—at nights—on Sundays—that sort of thing.”

“Yes.”

He spoke stiffly. She felt that he resented her prying into his affairs. She had always been what her father called ‘a cussed little devil.’ She went on questioning Nicholas Hulme out of sheer ‘cussedness.’

“Have you always written plays?”

“Yes. At least—I’ve often tried to write.”

“Without any success?”

“I’ve never written one that I considered good enough to send to a producer.”

“I see. But what fun! To find dear father’s secretary is a potential dramatist.”

“Please, Miss Wayde,” he said angrily. “Don’t spread it about. I—I amuse myself by writing. It’s my form of recreation. But I’d prefer it not to be discussed.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, and laughed. She thought: ‘Prig!’

She looked curiously round the room. She knew it, of course. It was called the ‘oak room,’ because it was full of old beams and some panelling, and had a four-poster bed which Mrs. Wayde had bought at the sale of Herstmonceux Castle. It was a big room and one of the most attractive, historically, in Ponders. But it had a north aspect and was darker and colder than most, so it was not a popular guestroom. Hence it had been allotted to Mr. Wayde’s young secretary when he came. Gerry remembered her mother saying that he had been quite overwhelmed because he thought it so delightful. Gerry supposed he found it inspiring. Personally she thought it looked gloomy and depressing.

It was eerie, full of shadows at this early morning hour, with only one electric lamp burning on the table at which he worked. Her quick eyes observed the lack of photographs or personal ornaments. There was nothing of a private nature to be seen except a pair of ebony-backed hair-brushes, a bottle of hair oil and a clothes-brush on his dressing-chest. And books—a dozen or more leather-bound volumes which she did not recognise as belonging to the house—in the book-case beside his bed. A studious young man, obviously. And gloomy—austere—like the atmosphere of his room.

She wondered what lay behind him; what family history; what experiences. Was there a woman in his life? Had he ever been in love? She couldn’t imagine Nicholas Hulme in love.

It would take a siren to charm him from his reticence, his austerity.

She looked up at him. He was very tall and slim, but so fine-drawn he did not look ungraceful. Her head would about reach his chin, if she were close to him.

She said, suddenly, in a piqued voice:

“You didn’t come and ask me to dance.”

He flushed again and gave a frigid little bow.

“I must apologise, Miss Wayde. I don’t dance.”

“Nonsense. You could if you tried.”

“I haven’t time to attend dancing classes.”

His sarcastic voice irritated her.

“You really are a bore!” she exclaimed.

“I must apologise,” he said again. He looked round the room as though seeking some means of escape. She could see that he was thoroughly ill at ease. She was annoyed but at the same time interested. The men, young and old, whom she knew, found it so easy to get on with her; to chat and laugh and frivol. Why should this young man treat her as though she were the most difficult creature? At one moment he was being sarcastic—she almost thought he was sneering at her. At the next he looked scared to death of her.

“Don’t be silly,” she said with a little laugh. “I didn’t ask for an apology. I don’t suppose you can help being a bore. But you might have come and danced with the rest of us and cheered up. Don’t you like being cheery?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I’m very busy. I’m here to work—not to dance.”

“I’m sure my father doesn’t want you to work so furiously and exclude all pleasure.”

“But you don’t understand, Miss Wayde. My pleasure lies in my work—not in dancing.”

“Oh, good life!” she exclaimed. “That sounds altogether too good for me.”

He looked at her as though she exasperated him. Of course, this girl wouldn’t understand that one’s work can mean much more than idle waste of time. She had been brought up to waste her time. She wouldn’t realise—how could she?—that to a man like himself, without means, and with ambition—work was everything—came first and foremost in his life.

ONCE upon a time Nicholas Hulme had idled; on the playing fields at school; on the river; in the precincts of his college up at Oxford. But that was before his father, a stockbroker, had come a crash, died soon after it, and left Nicholas without means—left him to support himself, and to help financially a sister who was a young widow with two children, also without means.

He had learned not to idle. Once he had danced. Now dancing bored him. He liked his job with Austin Wayde; Wayde was a man with brains—a good fellow when he got away from that difficult affected wife of his. And Nicholas was interested in politics. But most of all he liked the work he did in his spare time. He had an incurable love of the drama, the theatre. It was the passion, the ambition of his life, to write a successful play.

He wanted to make his name and to have the money that comes with fame. For his sister’s sake, for the two small nephews whom he wished to educate decently, as well as for himself.

But what did Geraldine Wayde know of these things? What could she guess of the miseries and difficulties that a woman like his sister, Macil, faced with those two kids? To Geraldine life was a song—a bubble—a dance. She probably never bothered to sit down and contemplate the other side of it—the grim and bitter struggle that life could be.

He looked at her with grudging admiration. He did not want to admire her. But he was only human and he loved beauty, and here it was in Gerry Wayde, unspoiled even by the lavish use of make-up and generous use of scarlet lipstick which he hated. But all the women—even the youngest of them that he met in this household—used make-up. It was considered smart, and Mrs. Wayde, of course, perpetually remembering to be the Frenchwoman she was not, imported ideas of haute couture from Paris. Ridiculous in a house like this, in the heart of the country, glorious, wooded country, lying five miles south of Winchester.

There were stables here, with good hunters. Kennels full of dogs. Two hard tennis courts. A covered-in, real tennis court. Ample opportunity for sport. Gerry Wayde was, herself, quite sporting. She rode well to hounds. She played a good game of tennis. But the lipstick, the almond-shaped nails, brilliantly varnished, just that touch of artifice which Nicholas Hulme considered desecration of nature, was never missing whatever she did, inside Ponders or out of it.

Yet how pretty she was, and how very unnecessary all that powder and paint. He looked down at her, and thought that she was like an old picture in the dim lamp-light, framed in the doorway there.

She wore a white dress of crisp silk taffeta that bunched out from the slim waist; concealed the fine narrow line of her hips; fell in a wide hem of stiff tulle to the heels of her shoes. Very small white brocaded shoes with paste diamond buckles. The waist of the dress tight, showing a seductive curve of small breasts, and sewn with diamanté. She was white and shining in the lamp-light, and her arms and throat, with their faint, delicious tan from the summer sun, looked golden like her hair.

Gerry had pale, thick hair. She wore it short, parted on the side and brushed back from her forehead in crisp waves. There was a crisp quality in her hair and a natural wave which set perfectly. Her face was oval in shape, with a pointed, stubborn little chin. She had a short, broad nose, inclined to be retroussé, which lent her a look of delicious impudence. Her eyes were strikingly dark, in contrast to the fairness of her hair, and gave her an unusual beauty. She had rather a wide mouth with a short, enchanting upper lip and an even row of teeth.

Beautiful—and spoiled.

During the six months that he had lived at Ponders as Austin Wayde’s secretary, Nicholas Hulme had watched Gerry. From the background, in the shadows, he had watched and seen many things. Enough to satisfy him that as a family the Waydes excelled in selfishness and extravagance. They were lucky enough to have money to waste. Austin Wayde had inherited a small fortune from an uncle who had made machinery up in the north. Now he was Conservative member down here. Nicholas liked working with and for him. But Austin Wayde was engrossed in politics, to the exclusion of all else. He was content to write cheques for his wife and daughter so long as they left him alone. He tolerated the brainless woman he had married in his youth. He was fond of Gerry—proud of her beauty and her charm. But he was much too concerned with politics to worry about her character. He left her moral upbringing to her mother.

Nicholas Hulme—the onlooker—had seen how totally incapable Désirée Wayde was of bringing up any child. She was a stupid, vain creature with a passion for clothes and Bridge. She adored entertaining. Ponders was nearly always full of guests, who were mainly her husband’s political associates, the Bridge-playing scandal-mongers in her own social circle, and Gerry’s young friends. Her great ambition was to push Gerry into a brilliant marriage. The subject of this marriage was a passion, an obsession with Mrs. Wayde. She saw to it that Gerry went to a finishing school in Paris, and was perfectly turned out. It was more important in the eyes of Désirée Wayde that Gerry should have graceful deportment and pretty clothes than that she should be truthful or have a sense of honour. Such things were left to develop themselves, and Mrs. Wayde hoped for the best.

What chance, therefore, Nicholas had asked himself several times during the last few months, had Geraldine Wayde to become a fine character? She had been given everything—too much—of the things that did not matter, and her moral training had been hopelessly neglected.

He had watched her—interested because he was a born writer enthralled by the study of psychology, of human nature. He had found so much in her to like. Kindness; generosity; a sense of humour. He had said little to her, but often listened. She had none of her mother’s stupidity. She had her father’s keen go-ahead brain; his powers of reasoning, which were useful. But she neglected her own mind. It was rarely that Nicholas saw this girl with a decent book or making her friends among the thinkers, the creators whom she came across. She danced and lazed. She had been encouraged to. She. . .