How Great the Price

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Kitty Farleton is a bride of a few months, alone in New York while her husband Jack is on business in Chicago. But a dreadful fire sweeps through her hotel, leaving twenty-one dead - Kitty seemingly among them. Grief-stricken, Jack returns to London, finding solace in Kitty's best friend Ann. United by their loss, comfort turns to love, and in time they marry. Then Kitty reappears, having been through hell - injury, unconsciousness, mistaken identity and separation, unable to track down her husband and without means to return to England. Will Jack choose the wife he now loves or the wife he thought was dead? What price must they all pay to find happiness?

Release date: December 18, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

“FIRE! Fire!”

The cry rang from mouth to mouth through the corridors and rooms of the big hotel in X72nd Street, New York. It was screamed from basement to attic by the staff, by the occupants of luxurious suites.

“Fire! Fire!”

Lurid tongues of flame shot up into the inky darkness of a moonless sky at two o’clock in the morning. A cold, windy morning in December. There was a nip in the air … frost on the ground. Sudden volumes of black smoke belched into the air; ghost-like figures in night-attire appeared on the roof, on the fire-escapes, on balconies. The street which had, a moment before, been quiet became thronged with hurrying figures. Then clang, clang, clang … the sonorous bell of a fire-engine.

In a bedroom on the eleventh story of the skyscraper a slim, fair-haired girl stood at her window, temporarily paralysed with fright. Smoke issued from underneath her door. Her window was a blazing reflection of fire. She stared out and about her with great blue eyes full of horror and astonishment. She had awakened suddenly from the serenest slumber to this hideous clamour. The hotel was on fire and she was alone. Kitty Farleton was a bride of a few months, alone in a strange country, a strange hotel. Only three days ago she had landed here from England. Her husband, forced to go on to Chicago on urgent business, was not able to afford to take her, had left her here to await him.

His name broke from her lips:

“Jack! Jack! Jack!”

Her door burst open. Another girl stumbled in, another slender, fair-haired girl with terrified eyes and a narrow gold wedding-ring on her finger.

“Oh, what shall we do? We shall be burned alive … the corridor is blazing … I can’t get to the lift!” she wailed.

Kitty Farleton ran to her. She did not know her—she was a total stranger—but the two girls took hands, clung to each other in their mutual terror.

“We’d better try to jump out of the window …”

“We daren’t,” moaned the other. “We’d be killed.”

“Listen. I hear fire-engines … they’ll put up ladders … the firemen will save us,” said Kitty Farleton. “Wait … let us get some clothes on … it’s freezing …”

“It won’t be for long,” said the other girl with grim humour, and burst into hysterical laughter.

Kitty rushed to her wardrobe, slipped on a fur coat, flung a second, a tweed coat with a fur collar, at her unknown friend.

“Take this—put it on—and here are some shoes. Your feet are bare. We must be careful … we’ll get pneumonia if we aren’t burnt to death.”

“Thanks awfully … tell me your name.”

The girls were clinging together again, staring at the window. It was a lurid oblong of scarlet light now, and the room was fast filling with smoke from the corridor.

“My name is Betty Johnson … I’m Canadian … my husband is in Vancouver … I’m supposed to be on my way to him.”

“Mine is Kitty Farleton … my husband is in Chicago … ah!”

The last word was a scream of terror. Flames were shooting through the door, which was nothing more now than blackened, crackling boards.

The two girls rushed to the window. A fireman was coming up the long ladder. Kitty shouted:

“Help! Oh, help!”

“Coming … hang on!” he shouted back.

But he was not there yet. Fire, belching from lower windows, constantly beat him back. The hose was playing on the flames … hissing furiously. The big hotel seemed an inferno of heat and noise.

Kitty Farleton’s bedroom was blazing now; Betty Johnson had fainted. Kitty, her heart bursting with terror, screamed again and again.

“Jack! Oh, my God, Jack!”

A flame curled about her feet; another singed her, caught her coat. She tried to beat them out, frantically … screaming. A piece of the ceiling caved in … a mass of burning, splintered wood tumbled down; a fragment caught the fair bobbed head of the frenzied girl and after that she was very quiet.

A fireman appeared at the window, sweating, panting. He jumped in, saw the two figures of the girls; one enveloped in flames which he managed to beat out with his hands. He slung her over his shoulder and started to climb down. A roar, a cheer from a thousand throats below greeted him.

The blackened, piteous young figure was received tenderly, put into a waiting ambulance, taken with a dozen others to a hospital. The fireman went back, gallantly, for the other girl.

TWO days later a harassed, desperate young man arrived from Chicago, terror written in his eyes and terror in his heart.

In Chicago he had read of the fire which had demolished the Central Hotel in X72nd Street. And in that hotel he had left Kitty, his wife who had come with him from England to commence a new and glorious life in America.

Jack Farleton was so panic-stricken by the thought that he might find his young wife dead that he hardly dared make inquiries when he reached New York.

He was told that thirty-four people had been seriously injured in that terrible fire. Kitty’s name was not on that list. Twenty-one were dead. Jack Farleton perused the list of dead with sickness in his very soul. But Kitty’s name was not there. Then they told him that two bodies awaited identification in the mortuary. One, that of a youngish girl, wearing a wedding-ring and with remnants of clothing and shoes. The other, a man.

Jack Farleton forced himself to go to the mortuary and see the body of that girl. His face was livid; his forehead dripping wet; his whole figure shaking when he examined the body. The authorities watched him with pity. The young Englishman looked ghastly. They were sorry for him.

Jack Farleton saw a small, maimed, blackened hand with the narrow gold band still on the marriage finger. It looked to him like Kitty’s finger, Kitty’s ring which he had bought so happily in London a few weeks ago. He knew the coat … the grey tweed with the fur collar. He had bought it for her at Barker’s the day before they sailed. Even a piece of lining was left … the shot-silk lining which she had admired. And a handkerchief in the pocket. That left no doubt—the little linen embroidered handkerchief was marked with her new initials: K. F.

Jack fell on his knees and sobbed aloud.

“Kitty … my darling Kit …”

He was not allowed to look at the face; it was covered. He put his lips to the fair, bobbed head … portions of which were visible.

He knew that Kitty had died in that dreadful fire. He went back to his hotel a broken man. He had come to America full of hope, gloriously in love with Kitty … the first real passion of his life. Until he had met Kitty he had only known lighter, more unworthy loves. He had meant to settle out here and start a business with his savings. Kitty, heart and soul in love with him, wanted nothing but to be at his side. She had one brother in South Africa, Ronald Mills, otherwise no relations, no ties.

He thought of her sweetness, her gentle, charming personality. She had been earning her living as a typist in a London office when he had first met her. Everyone adored Kitty. And he had adored her. He visualised the awful horror of her death—a lonely, ghastly end without a soul she knew to help or comfort her. He was tortured with visions of her last torture. For nights he could not sleep properly, could not pull himself together.

The wife he had meant to make so happy he buried in a cheerless cemetery in New York. A little stone bearing the inscription, “Kathleen Farleton, beloved wife of John Farleton,” was all that was left to remind the world that Kitty had ever lived.

Ten days later Jack sailed from New York for England. Without his wife he had no desire to start a new life in America. He wished to go home, to forget the cruel country that had taken her from him.

IN an A.B.C. in Holborn, a grey-eyed girl with a pale, tired little face sat alone at a marble-topped table sipping a glass of hot milk.

Ann Williamson was very tired and depressed. It was late autumn. Pouring with rain, and cold. She had worked hard all day and she felt the need of a hot drink.

She pulled out a shabby bag, found a mirror and powder-puff and tried to remove the stains of the day’s work, which included a violet smudge of typewriting ink on one pale cheek. Ann was too thin, too colourless for beauty. Nevertheless, there was something extraordinarily attractive about her. People instinctively trusted Ann, relied on her, liked her sympathetic voice and smile. She had lovely hair, a rich shade of chestnut brown, the one touch of colour about her. Her eyes were grey with long, brown lashes and delicate brows. She would have been pretty if she had looked better nourished and been better dressed.

Suddenly she sat up and stared at a tall man who had just entered the A.B.C. Just for an instant she hesitated, wondering if it could be the person she thought him. Then she was sure—yes, that tall, athlete’s figure, the rather long face with brilliant hazel eyes and the smooth black head belonged to nobody in the world but Jack Farleton. Jack, who had married Ann’s very best and oldest friend, Kitty Mills. For many months now Ann had been writing to Kitty and getting the letters back from the Dead Letter Office. She had been both astonished and worried about it.

Ann got up and rushed to Jack’s table.

“Jack!” she cried. “Jack!”

He turned his head swiftly and looked up at her. Then an expression of pleasure crossed his face. He stood up and gripped her hand.

“Good Lord, it’s little Ann!”

“Why, Jack, this is marvellous,” said Ann. “Fancy running into you like this. Where on earth have you sprung from? Where have you and Kit been all these months? Why hasn’t she written to me? I’ve been wretched about it … you know how fond I am of Kit. She isn’t one to let you down.”

Womanlike, Ann rushed a crowd of questions at Jack. Then she paused for breath and saw that the smile of welcome he had given her had vanished. He was staring past her, his eyes full of tragedy. Her heart gave a swift throb of anxiety. What was wrong? Why didn’t he answer her? Was anything the matter with Kit? And then Ann’s gaze fell upon a black band around Jack’s coat-sleeve. The colour rushed to her cheeks and receded.

“Jack!” she exclaimed. “You don’t mean … you can’t mean——!”

“Sit down, Ann,” he broke in, and pushed her gently into the chair opposite his. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”

She dropped into the chair, keeping her eyes upon him. He took the chair opposite and shaded his eyes with one hand for an instant with a gesture of pain and weariness.

“I’d better tell you at once, Ann,” he said. “Poor little Kitty is … dead.”

“Dead,” repeated Ann, horrified. “It isn’t possible, Jack. Kitty, who was fit, so full of life and health and fun … my God!”

“Yes, it’s awful, terrible. She was, as you say, so full of life and fun. And the loveliest thing. I loved her so, Ann.”

“I know you did, Jack. But in heaven’s name, how did she die?”

“In a ghastly fire in New York. Wait a moment … I’ll tell you everything.”

He called a waitress and ordered coffee for Ann and himself. Then he lit a cigarette, leaned back and told her the whole tragic story. Ann listened with her gaze riveted on him. She could not drink her coffee. She was no longer hungry or conscious of cold—only filled with grief for her friend. Kitty, little Kit, who had been the best and greatest friend of Ann’s life. There had been a deeper tie of affection and devotion between them than most friends. Three years ago, before Kitty met and married Jack, she and Ann had worked together in an office in London. At that time Kitty was not entirely dependent on her job. She had a father with a small income and he made her an allowance. But Ann had always relied on her work. And she had an invalid mother to keep into the bargain. That mother was now dead, but three years ago, when things had been terribly tight for Mrs. Williamson, Kitty had come forward and helped.

Kitty, a generous little person, had insisted on lending Ann money for her mother, helping to pay doctor’s bills, sending the old lady fruit, flowers, all the luxuries which Ann could not afford.

Ann never forgot the debt she owed her friend. She could never forget it. She paid back some of the money after her mother died. She paid the rest when Kitty got married. She was out of debt in that way. But the debt went on in her heart. She felt that one day she must do something big for Kitty … Kitty, who had been so fine and generous a pal to her mother.

Then Jack had come along and Kitty married him.

Ann had liked him. He was a handsome, personable young fellow working in a big firm of engineers in Liverpool. Kitty was madly in love and Jack appeared to adore her. They sailed for America ten months ago. Jack was ambitious. Kitty, too. They had a little money. They meant to settle in California and grow oranges. Kitty had parted from Ann with reluctance, but full of ambition and hope for the future.

“When we’re millionaires, you shall come out to Chicago and visit us, darling Ann,” she had said.

Never a word had Ann heard from that day to this. But now she knew why.

“I couldn’t bear to stay in America after Kitty’s dreadful death, so I came home,” Jack Farleton ended. “I put my savings into a concern called the ‘Quick Supply Co.’ Fortunately, it’s paying hands down. I’m quite well off. But life means nothing without Kitty.”

His voice shook. And Ann stared at him, her grey eyes full of horror. She was appalled by the thought of her friend’s terrible death. To be burnt alive in a New York hotel; lovely, laughing Kitty! How horrible! She was profoundly sorry for Jack, too. He looked so lonely and sad.

“I suppose Kit’s brother knows,” she said.

“No, I’ve lost touch with Ronnie,” said Jack. “I don’t know where he is or how to get at him. He was moving from Johannesburg and he promised to let Kitty know where he landed, but she never heard. Do you know anything about him?”

“No,” said Ann.

“I thought you might. I fancy poor Kitty told me once that you and Ronnie …” He paused, coughing discreetly. He saw the red blood flame into Ann’s cheeks.

The name of Ronald Mills always made Ann’s heart beat a trifle faster. Once … yes, she admitted it … once she had fancied herself in love with Ronald. Big, blue-eyed, good-looking Ronnie, who was as sweet-tempered and attractive as Kitty herself. She had hoped he cared for her. Yet somehow the word had never been spoken. He had sailed for South Africa eighteen months ago without telling her that he cared for her. So the romance had flickered out. Not that Ann ever forgot.

To-day she could only think of Kitty’s tragic death, and pity Jack. Impulsively she put out her hand to him.

“I was devoted to Kitty. She was a wonderful little pal to me, Jack. I know you must have loved her. Everyone loved her. I can’t tell you how deeply I sympathise.”

He took the small, firm hand and held it tightly.

“Thank you, Ann. Your sympathy means a lot. You know I’ve no relations—nobody I care about. I’ve been sort of lonely in my sorrow. It’s wonderful to have run across you and be able to talk to you … my little wife’s best friend.”

Their eyes met. Hers full of tears … his full of emotion. He had always been a very emotional man, Ann remembered. Sometimes, in the past, she had thought him inclined to be too soft, too sentimental for a man. But Kitty had adored him and Ann could see his attractions. He was very handsome in a dark, melancholy fashion. He had an attractive voice and manner. If he was a rather weak character, she was not going to judge him.

There was a lot of the mother in Ann. All her young life—she was only twenty-four now—she had mothered somebody; nursed a sick father, then a sick mother, lately a cousin who had had an accident. It was her métier in life to take care of those weaker than herself. She found herself longing to take care of Jack, make him eat well—he looked so much too thin—darn his socks for him … she felt certain nobody darned his socks now that he was a widower.

And Jack Farleton, looking into Ann’s sympathetic eyes, felt something more than mutual sympathy. Intense feeling stirred in him—a feeling born of loneliness, of sorrow, and of Ann’s own personal charm. He had always admired her character. Of course she wasn’t as pretty as Kitty—nor as gay or amusing. But she was gentle and feminine. Just what a man needed when he was unhappy. He squeezed her hand hard and looked deeply into her eyes.

“Ann,” he said, “now we’ve found each other, we mustn’t lose touch again. I’ve got a bit of money, but life is dreadfully lonely, and I’d like to see you … talk to you about Kitty … take you out sometimes.”

“I’d like it too, Jack,” she said, gently withdrawing her fingers. “It would be nice.”

“Has life been kind to you?”

“Not too kind. I work in the offic. . .