Give Me Back My Heart

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

When wealthy, self-willed Fiona meets handsome Bill Lindsey one fateful Scottish spring day, she little suspects that the encounter will change her life. Before long, the forceful young man?s quiet dynamism begins to exercise a powerful attraction for her. But Fiona is already engaged to the colourless Philippe; her stern father?s commands and the onset of World War seem to end any thoughts of being with Bill. Then, in exotic wartime Casablanca, Bill enters her life once more, wounded in action at sea, and Fiona is faced with a choice every woman fear: between her passions ? and her duty?

Release date: December 12, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 224

Sample

The dance given by Lady Inverlaw for her two nieces who had just arrived from Casablanca was in full swing. Everybody who was “anybody” in Edinburgh had been asked to the beautiful Georgian house in Moray Place, and it was a glittering affair, talked of for many a day after that night of frost and stars in the Spring that preceded the war.

Jean Inverlaw, herself childless, had not seen much of her brother, Harry Rutherfield, who for the last twenty years had lived in French Morocco where he was head of an important private shipping line. Neither did she approve of the fact that he had allowed his two daughters to be brought up in France rather than England.

But Harry was a wealthy man, and Jean a widow not as well off as she used to be, and he had offered her a handsome sum to entertain his two daughters for a spell. His extravagance (his Casablanca home, the Villa des Fleurs, was famous for its magnificence) was apparent to all Edinburgh tonight. Never had so many wonderful flowers been seen. A special dance band had come from London. The supper was lavish, and the two Miss Rutherfields themselves were obviously scoring a big triumph. Lady Inverlaw sat watching through lorgnettes an eightsome reel. An elderly man, wearing a kilt, bent down and whispered:

“Which is the young lady who is engaged to be married?”

Lady Inverlaw indicated one of her nieces, a girl who was dancing with a mad grace which had never before been seen in this sedate drawing-room; she had tawny-coloured hair worn in a sleek pageboy bob which touched her creamy shoulders; wide eyes more green than blue, and a wilful red mouth. She was wearing a cream velvet dress which suited her slenderness. There were sapphires about her neck and in both tiny ears. On one shoulder a spray of orchids was pinned with a sapphire and diamond brooch.

A little too French, perhaps, for an Edinburgh drawing room. But that was Jean Inverlaw’s complaint. Harry had been so crazy about his wife, a Parisian who had died five years ago, that he had allowed her to have the upbringing of the girls. Louise was like her mother’s family. Fiona had her father’s colouring and his Highland mother’s name.

“She is the one engaged to a Frenchman,” Lady Inverlaw said, indicating Fiona. “That younger one, fair, in blue, is her sister, Louise.”

The elderly Scot watched the reel for a moment, listening to the stirring music, the beat of the drums and the gay sharp cries of the young Scots who were executing their native dance. He made no comment upon either Miss Fiona or Miss Louise Rutherfield. He was a man of few words, but he thought he had never seen anything so brilliant and lovely as the elder girl. The young one was pretty in a fragile way, with big blue eyes and fair curls. And there were other pretty girls in the room. But Fiona outclassed them all. She threw herself into the dance with a fascinating abandon. Many stories had been circulated around Edinburgh about the elder Miss Rutherfield. It was said that she would inherit half a million from her father one day, and she had been affianced from her childhood to the son of her father’s French partner. It had apparently been one of these old French traditional mariages de convenance. There weren’t many of them these days and the elderly Scot was intrigued and a little bewildered. He wasn’t sure that he approved of it. A girl ought to be allowed to marry a man of her own choosing.

That was also Lady Inverlaw’s private opinion. She always thought that engagement of Fiona’s a monstrous arrangement. But knowing Harry and his cold hard business head, she was quite sure he had arranged it in order to ensure the financial bond between himself and his partner in the firm, Gaston d’Auvergne.

The reel ended. Laughing and clapping their hands, the young couples wandered off the floor, and toward the supper-room.

Fiona linked arms with her sister.

“Not too tired, darling?”

“No, I am enjoying myself, so don’t start saying I ought to go to bed,” said Louise peevishly.

Fiona laughed.

“There, baby, you shan’t be sent to bed!” she said. “But don’t overdo things.”

“I’m having a wonderful time,” said Louise, her fair cheeks flushed, her blue eyes watching a tall handsome young Scot who wore a MacLean kilt. “This is so different from Casablanca, Fiona. We are so shut in there. We are like women in purdah … we go out with our father or Tante Marie, or friends chosen for us. Here we are free and I like these English and Scots boys. They are such fun. They are so much nicer than all the French or Spanish we meet. With the exception of Philippe, of course.”

Fiona did not answer for a moment. Her brilliant eyes clouded a little. She moved into the refreshment-room thinking over her young sister’s words. It was true that they were tasting a freedom and a new fresh thrill here in Edinburgh which they had never experienced in Casablanca or Paris, where they lived most of the year round. Equally true that her father’s countrymen seemed, on the whole, much nicer, cleaner, more attractive in every way than men of the Latin races. In Casablanca she rarely thought about it. But she knew that she resembled in many ways her British father, and ever since they were babies she and Louise had had a Scots governess. Their upbringing had not been entirely Continental. But there was always Philippe in the background . . for her, Fiona.

Fiona was a little startled to find how far the thought of Philippe had receded since her arrival in Scotland. Yet he was her fiancé … the man she was going to marry the next time he came over from America.

She had seen a fair amount of him, on and off, ever since their formal betrothal on her sixteenth birthday. That had been an exciting event and it seemed to have pleased her father enormously. It had pleased her, too, at the time. As a romantic schoolgirl, she had found young Philippe d’Auvergne very much a Prince Charming. She had a miniature of him which went everywhere with her, and she knew every feature of that pale aristocratic face. He had sloe-dark narrow eyes, a smooth black head and exquisite manners. Whenever he was with her, he said the most beautiful things; away from her, he wrote poetic letters, and sent her magnificent presents. For the last three years he had been running a branch line of his father’s shipping business in New York.

Vaguely Fiona remembered Philippe’s more recent visits to Casablanca. Their parties there or in Paris—she herself always heavily chaperoned by their mother’s sister, Madame Duronde, whom they called Tante Marie. Only occasionally had Fiona been left alone with Philippe. Then he would make love to her in a desultory fashion, a kiss on the hand or a chaste salute on her forehead, a passionless embrace. Nothing that either roused or startled her. Philippe was waiting for her to grow up, he said.

She would be twenty-one in June. Now she felt grown up indeed. How could a girl stay altogether in ignorance in an exotic country like French Morocco? But she was still unawakened. She still felt for Philippe d’Auvergne what she would have felt for a dear brother. The marriage had been arranged. Papers had been signed. She knew that it was almost as binding as marriage. And later another marriage would perhaps be arranged for little Louise who was just eighteen. But Louise was delicate and had to be much petted and looked after, and for the moment nothing was being done about her future.

Looking with bright restless eyes around her Scottish aunt’s reception-rooms, Fiona was conscious, not for the first time, of a trapped feeling … the feeling of a bird in a gilded cage. Lately she had begun to read books that the Scots governess, Miss Macdonald, and Maman and Tante Marie had so far kept out of her reach. Novels, books of philosophy, of psychology. Books from the English Library in Casablanca, or which she found when spending the day in Gibraltar or Tangier.

She had begun to realise how unusual it was for a girl like herself to be bound down from the age of sixteen and to have no freedom or choice in love and marriage.

She was fond of Philippe. She imagined it would be exciting to become Madame d’Auvergne, to live with Philippe in New York or Paris. But tonight she wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t that any of these nice young men had awakened her interest. But just an odd touch of the hand … a warm word … an instant’s thrill of proximity, and something told Fiona deep down in her heart that there was far more to this business of an engagement than she knew about. There was love, real deep breathless love, when one wanted to live and die for a man, not merely to be showered with jewels and enjoy a life of luxury and pleasure.

Suddenly Fiona pressed Louise’s hand and whispered:

“Oh, how lucky you are!”

Louise stared at her sister. Lucky! She! How absurd. Louise had always been envious of her brilliant elder sister, and particularly of Fiona’s betrothal to Philippe. From her childhood, Louise had had a penchant for the charming Philippe. What did Fiona mean?

Fiona told her what she meant.

“You are lucky to be still free, Louise darling,” she said.

Louise, who was a little prim and had none of Fiona’s restlessness of mind and body, looked shocked.

She was still more shocked that next morning when she awoke to find a note beside her pillow from Fiona.

I’ve taken the M.G. and gone out for a run. I feel I can’t go shopping with Aunt Jean this morning. I’ll see you at lunch.

“Fiona must have gone mad,” thought Louise.

Fiona herself wondered if such was the case as she drove the small sports car which had been bought for the use of herself and her sister while they were in Scotland. Drove away from the city and out toward the Pentland Hills.

She had slept badly last night. Somehow the party, all these reels and dances, laughing and joking with boys like Gordon MacLean and Alex Munro, had disturbed her.

“Don’t you know that you are the most fascinating creature I have ever known in my life,” Alex had said to her.

“Why are you engaged? Why must I meet my fate only to find she is not free?” Gordon had bemoaned.

And other men had said the same sort of things. All very distracting, especially when she remembered her bond with Philippe. She had laughed so much last night! She never laughed with Philippe. He had no sense of humour. Fiona was quite sure now that she had very little of poor Maman in her. She was her father’s daughter, and these Scots saw the funny side of things.

Disconsolately Fiona looked at the soft blurred line of the hills, at the budding trees, at the shaggy Scots sheep grazing in the fields. There was an east wind which whipped the rich blood into her cheeks. It was perishing cold after the heat of Casablanca, but she liked it. Somehow she thought without pleasure of the colour, the sensuousness, of her romantic home, the beautiful Villa des Fleurs, with its jade green shutters and enamelled doorways, and the fluted Moorish columns. It was beautiful in the sun and a poem in the strong white moonlight. What a contrast to the Scottish countryside, the blue shadows of those pepper trees, the feathery eucalyptus, the brilliant hues of magenta bougainvillaea against white walls, the sweet-smelling jasmine and the rose geraniums. Fiona could in imagination hear the harsh distant cries and discordant music from the bazaars; see the Arab women, heavily veiled, padding through the narrow alleys that were roofed with the wooden lattices to keep them cool.

It would all be marvellous if one had the right person beside one to enjoy the beauty; to experience the sensations of delight that could surely be extracted from all that colour and glamour.

But when Philippe came to the Villa des Fleurs things seemed no more beautiful to Fiona. She was only mildly interested. For that reason alone she had always guessed that things must be wrong. Today she knew it for a certainty.

“You must be mad!” her sister Louise had said.

Well, really, perhaps she was! For she had a very strong antipathy this morning for the tie that bound her to dear Philippe.

She was glad that her father’s chauffeur had taught her to drive. At home, of course, she was never allowed to go out in the car without Tante Marie or two servants. It was wonderful, this driving alone through the wind in the pale Scottish Spring.

Fiona accelerated. A moment later she turned off the main road into a lane. She wanted to get away from other vehicles … right into the very depths of the country. She turned perhaps a little too sharply and quickly and she did not see a young man on a cycle coming towards her. There was a horrifying moment when she did see him, too late. Her left wing caught his rear wheel. The next moment he was off the bicycle and Fiona had pulled up the M.G. with a jerk and sprung out, wondering whether or not she had killed a man.

An hour before that incident, Bill Lindsey, first officer of a merchant ship known as The Falcon, left the docks at Leith, hired a bicycle for the day and set off to explore the countryside.

It was not Bill’s first visit to Scotland by any means. A seafaring man, he knew most of the big ports and several times a year The Falcon steamed down the Firth of Forth. But today was a special day in Bill’s life. The captain had hinted this morning that he was due for retirement and that possibly, when The Falcon left Leith again for the Mediterranean, Bill Lindsey might find himself in command of the ship.

It was the dearest wish of his heart … to be Captain Lindsey and to know that The Falcon was his … His at the age of thirty. A very young captain, perhaps, but for the last two years he had had his master’s ticket. As an employee of the shipping line of the Anglia Shipping Co. Ltd., he held a high reputation. All his life he had been at sea and loved it.

The only thing he didn’t get enough of at sea was exercise and the green country which he missed. He had decided to go on this bicycling tour for the first week of his leave, and later, perhaps, visit London. He had no parents, only an old uncle and aunt in London. He would like to see them but city life soon irked him. Fresh air and open spaces were essential to Bill Lindsey.

He was thinking about the possible command of The Falcon and whistling cheerfully as he cycled along the narrow lane that fringed the Pentland Hills. And then, a sports car coming at dangerous speed … and that collision. Bill was flung off his bicycle. His head came in contact with the road and after that there were a few moments of oblivion for Bill.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the side of the road with his head on the lap of a girl. He heard a voice, a charming feminine voice, saying:

“Oh, speak to me, please! Do please say you are all right!”

A small hand was pressing a handkerchief against his forehead. He put his own hand up to it gingerly. He could still “see stars” and the green world was revolving around him.

“Great grief!” he exclaimed. “What the devil happened?”

The girl exclaimed:

“Oh, you are all right! Thank heaven!”

Then Bill sat up. Things were becoming clearer. Blinking, he looked at the girl in whose lap his head had been cradled. A little dazedly he looked into a pair of eyes so startlingly lovely that they took his breath away. Lord! they were green eyes, with fantastically long lashes. And the girl had an unusual face with high cheekbones and pure line of chin and long white throat. Her hair hung in a tawny satin mane almost to her shoulders. Where had he seen anything like this before? Only on the films. Who did she remind him of? Rita Hayworth, perhaps … that was the type. She used the most intriguing scent. As for those long slim legs in the gossamer stockings, he had never seen anything so perfect. He knew little about girls but he was sure the tweeds she wore were expensive, to say nothing of the rich fur jacket.

“Oh, please forgive me,” she was speaking again. “I’m afraid I was driving much too fast.”

Then Bill recovered his equilibrium. He swung from admiration of this glamorous young woman to a righteous fury.

“Little fool!” he said through his teeth. “What the devil do you want to drive like that for in a lane this narrow? You ought to have your license suspended. You are not fit to drive a car.”

Fiona gasped. Never before in her life had she been so rudely spoken to. She blushed bright crimson. The boor to speak so harshly, even though she had knocked him off his bicycle. Didn’t he know his manners? Her eyes flashed with indignation at him. His flashed back into hers and she had to admit that he had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. The deep clear blue of the sea. And how brown he was … a deep bronze. In contrast, his light brown hair, thick and curly, was touched with gold. She noted, too, in that moment that his eyelashes were curly, tipped with gold, and that his chin was square and had a dent in it.

Who was he? He was tall and sparsely built, and he wore shabby grey flannels, a dark blue jersey and an old tweed coat.

“You ought to be locked up,” were his next words.

Then Fiona broke out:

“How dare you speak to me like that …”

Bill rose to his feet. He swayed a moment, a hand up to his head. Damn it all, he felt sick and dizzy. He had always said that women were a nuisance … if there was ever any trouble with the crew it was over a woman, and pretty ones were always a menace. This “glamour-girl,” now also on her feet, her tawny head reaching his shoulder … ought to be whipped … or kissed … he hardly knew which, but she oughtn’t to be allowed to drive a car dangerously and ruin a man’s holiday.

He opened his mouth to say something but no words came. He swayed a little more drunkenly. His head felt on fire. And the next moment he would have fallen if Fiona had not hastened to support him.

“I’m afraid it’s your head,” she was saying, in a mollified tone. “I think you’d really better let me drive you somewhere …”

“Drive me anywhere you like,” said Bill Lindsey. “You’re lovely, but you’re a menace to mankind.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Fiona, crimsoning again.

But those were the last words she was to hear from Bill for some time. He nearly toppled over and she hastened to get him into the car. From that moment onward he seemed to pass into unconsciousness again. She felt horribly guilty. That wound on his head was bleeding afresh. She could not bear to see the red stain against the bright curls. He was very handsome, and very rude, and she had never met anybody in her life quite like him. “A menace to mankind” he had called her! That was not at all the sort of thing Philippe said to her. She did not know whether to be furious or amused. But she knew that she must do something for her victim.

The bicycle, now a wreck, lay in the ditch. Fiona unstrapped the suitcase which was on the back of it and put it in her car. Then without further ado, she turned the M.G. round and drove back into Edinburgh.

She drove straight to her aunt’s house in Moray Place. It was half past eleven. The butler said that her ladyship and Miss Louise were in Princes Street, shopping. Fiona accustomed to giving peremptory orders to native servants in Casablanca, thereupon told the astonished butler to get another man and help the gentleman out of the car and into the house.

“Put him in one of the spare rooms, Thomas. I’m responsible for the accident so I must look after him. I’ll telephone for the doctor.”

With an injured air, Thomas did as he was told and wondered what her ladyship would say.

Her ladyship returned with Louise to find that a stranger had been put to bed in one of the many rooms at the top of the house and that the family physician had already come and gone. He had dressed the injury to the injured man’s head and announced that he must not be moved for at least three days. He had slight concussion.

Lady Inverlaw stared at Fiona.

“You must be mad!” she exclaimed.

Fiona smiled.

“That’s the second time I’ve had that said to me today. But really, Aunt Jean, I am responsible, and if I’d taken him to a hospital, perhaps he would have charged me with dangerous driving and there would have been an awful scandal in Edinburgh about your niece.”

Lady Inverlaw climbed down. There was something in what Fiona said. Better to let the injured man stay here a day or two and then let him go about his business. Who was he, anyway? She hoped he was a gentleman.

Louise Rutherfield looked at her sister with large inquisitive eyes.

“Fiona, you are impossible. Whoever is he?”

“He’s very handsome,” said Fiona calmly. “But he called me a menace to mankind. Can you imagine such a thing?”

Louise giggled, and then with a sly look at Fiona, said:

“What would Philippe say?”

“I really don’t know,” said Fiona with a yawn and a graceful shrug.

“But who is this man?” repeated Lady Inverlaw anxiously.

Fiona then delivered the information. Thomas, who undressed him, had found some identity papers. His name was William Lindsey and he was first officer of a merchant ship and Thomas imagined the ship was now in dock in the Forth and that the young officer was on leave.

Lady Inverlaw sniffed. An officer on a merchant ship didn’t sound too good to her. She would have preferred it to be a Lieutenant-Commander in the Royal Navy. But Lady Inverlaw was a snob. Louise was asking a great many more questions and Fiona’s answers slightly disturbed her ladyship. The young officer was very handsome and had a charming voice: a little rough, perhaps, in manner. But that, Fiona said, with a mischievous smile, might be accounted for by the fact that Mr. Lindsey had been flung off his bike and was naturally not over-pleased about it.

“Well, you leave him to Wilkie,” said Lady Inverlaw, at once forming the opinion that it was best to put the oldest and ugliest maid in the house in charge of the handsome stranger.

She then suggested that Fiona should write to the captain of The Falcon (Thomas seemed to have discovered the name of the ship) and inform him of the accident.

Left alone with her sister, Louise fixed her large blue eyes a trifle accusingly upon Fiona.

“You are so wild sometimes … you do such strange things. Why did you bring him back here? What would Philippe say?”

“Don’t ask me that again,” flashed Fiona, “and. . .