Men are Only Human

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

It seemed that Beechy had everything she could ever want - a loving family, an adoring fiancé, Gil, and a beautiful old Tudor house that would soon be her home. But Gil had a secret: a tempestuous infatuation he had once had in Paris with the attractive and sophisticated Manon. That was in the past, though, and need never concern his future with the woman he truly loves. As the wedding draws nearer, Beechy and Gil look forward to a life together, and their family and close friends gather for the great occasion. Then his previous love-affair casts a shadow of doubt over the blissfuly happy couple... A captivating love story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1933, and available now for the first time in eBook.

Release date: July 24, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

BEECHY CARLAND woke up on the morning of April 21st, and found that she had not even heard Eva come in with the tea. The cup was on the table beside her, and the tea had that horrid film over it which showed that it was stone cold. She must have been very tired and sleeping very soundly not to have heard Eva come in, because Eva was the noisiest Austrian maid the Carlands had ever had.

Beechy sat up, rubbed her eyes, yawned, and stretched two very beautiful white arms above a head that was a tangle of bronze-coloured curls—curls that had the tint of beech-leaves in the autumn. When she was a little girl living at Eastbourne, her mother started to call her “Little Beechy Head,” and the name had stuck to her ever since. Nobody ever dreamed of calling her Beatrice, which was much too grand a name for a slim, petite girl who looked eighteen instead of twenty-one; was all soft, delicious curves, and had an entrancing dimple in her chin, and a quite disarming smile. That smile screwed up a pair of grey-blue eyes which looked kindly upon a world that had so far been very kind to Beechy.

There was every reason why she should be tired, because she had danced last night until three in the morning. Her travelling clock showed her that it was now nine o’clock.

Beechy considered the luxury of having her breakfast in bed. Mummy wouldn’t mind. Daddy, who was known in the household as “Poor Papa”, would be already setting out to catch his train for Victoria, and he minded less than Mummy what anyone did. It was a very pleasant, free-and-easy household.

Then Beechy decided against such indolence. She hated breakfast in bed, and she liked talking to the family. The Carlands’ strong point was amiability at the breakfast-table. They were a very united family, and breakfast-time was the hour when they liked to express an opinion about yesterday and decide what they were going to do today.

Beechy slipped a house-coat over a pair of “shortie” pyjamas which she had bought at a sale, combed back her hair until it looked once more a sleek bob instead of a riot, brushed her teeth, and then walked to the little writing-desk in the corner of her bedroom. The portrait of an extremely handsome young man stood beside a bowl of primroses. The Carlands, who lived in Surbiton, very often drove into the country on Saturday afternoons, weather permitting, and picked masses of spring flowers for the house. Beechy picked up the portrait, kissed it, and said:

“Good morning, darling.”

She did this with a happy knowledge that it was the right and proper thing to do, because the said young man, Gilfred Linden, was her fiancé and they were going to be married in a week’s time. The outward emblem of this thrilling fact was the aquamarine, set in platinum, on Beechy’s slim white finger. She adored aquamarines, and this one sparkled like a piece of frozen water in the moonlight. She added a kiss to the ring, and, whistling the strains of “Around the World”, to which they had danced a good many times last night, picked up her diary and studied it.

Heavens, what a day before her!

11.30.—Elise (that meant hats).

12.45.—Ogdens (that meant shoes).

  1.0.  —Meet Gil for lunch, Piccadilly.

  3.0.  —Eve (that meant try on her wedding-dress).

  4.30.—See about trunks.

A programme which might have struck horror in the heart of any girl unless she were a prospective bride. But it all led up to the one big crisis—a wedding. And Beechy was thoroughly enjoying this purchase of her trousseau. It wasn’t to be a very expensive one. Poor Papa, who was an important dentist with quite an important practice in the West End, was suffering, like everybody else, from the present financial depression. But he was being frightfully generous to her. He and Mummy were lambs, and she adored them. Sometimes she really did not know how she was going to bear leaving the family, even to live with Gilfred. That was the one thing Gil didn’t quite understand. Of course he had no family. He was alone in the world and that made a difference. She had often tried to explain what she felt about Mummy and Poor Papa, and Tim, her sixteen-year-old brother, who was still a schoolboy, and Chris, her sister, who was nearly nineteen and in the midst of a secretarial training. And last but not least, there was Rina.

Rina was Mrs. Carland’s goddaughter. She had lived with them since she was a little girl of eight years old. Her mother had been at school with Mrs. Carland. When she and her husband had died, tragically, together, of black-water fever out in West Africa, Mrs. Carland had adopted the little orphan for the sake of the old friendship.

The young Carlands had accepted Rina as one of themselves, and were as devoted to her as she was to all of them. Certainly they had not seen so much of her lately. She was a brilliant dress designer, and for the last two years she had been living in Paris, where she had a wonderful job.

Beechy had always had a particular affection and admiration for Rina, who was three years her senior and so very clever and beautiful. She was longing to see her again, and awfully pleased because Rina was coming back for the wedding, in spite of the expense, and the fact that her job kept her very occupied.

Only last night, when Beechy had commented rather more often than usual on the fact that she dreaded leaving the family, Gilfred had shown a little jealousy.

“You are going to belong to me in future, and I don’t want you to feel that you need anyone but me, my sweet,” he had grumbled. He had held her very close to him and looked at her in that passionate, possessive way which never failed to thrill Beechy to the core of her being.

She was so thrilled with him that she could not even be cross because he seemed to resent her close affection for the family.

“You know that I adore you, Gil darling, and of course I shan’t want anybody else,” she had answered him.

All the same, she meant to go on seeing a lot of the family. She didn’t know what she would have done if Gilfred had been in the Army, for instance, and she had had to follow him to the Far East, or some outlandish spot. She was most thankful that they were going to live within an hour’s train journey from London and the old home. Gilfred ran an antique furniture shop in the village of Downshott, Sussex. A rather famous antique shop, mainly patronised by Americans. Gilfred knew a lot about old furniture—it was his hobby as well as his work, and he loved it. He always said it broke his heart to stand by and watch some lovely piece of Chippendale or Hepplewhite being shipped to America. But sentiment cannot walk hand in hand with business, and Gilfred had his living to earn. He earned it very cleverly too, so far as Beechy could see, and he had a small private income into the bargain. They were going to be moderately comfortable, and to live in a really glorious old Tudor house which was attached to the shop in the very centre of the village.

Beechy walked into the dining-room and a pleasant glow of spring sunlight, and found breakfast still in progress. Mrs. Carland was the only one who had finished. It was both her pleasure and her duty to breakfast earlier than the others, with her husband.

She was still an attractive woman in the early fifties with amazingly few grey threads in the thick hair, red-brown as autumn leaves, which Beechy had inherited. She had lost her figure years ago, and was much too content with her lot and lazy-minded to attempt to recover it. But none of her children would have had her thin. They liked her ample, flowing figure, and that full, comfortable bosom whereon so often their tears had been dried and their sorrows comforted.

Tim, a good-looking boy with freckles and that same ruddy tint to his hair, was finishing an enormous plateful of bacon and eggs. He had just recovered from an attack of appendicitis, otherwise he should have been back at school. With a mouth full, he looked up and greeted Beechy.

“Here comes the bride.”

“Shut up, darling,” said Beechy sweetly.

“You’re late, my lamb,” said Mrs. Carland, and returned to the Daily Sketch, which she had been studying.

“I’m exhausted,” said Beechy cheerfully, and sat down in her usual place at the long mahogany table. “Pour out my coffee for me, Chris, there’s an angel,” she added.

Christine, taller, thinner, and much fairer than the rest, moved to the sideboard and lifted the cover off an entrée dish. She was not so pretty as Beechy, but had a certain wistful charm and serious blue eyes. She was inclined to be a little graver, more introspective than the rest of them.

“The eggs are cold, Beechy.”

“That won’t matter to her so long as Gilfred isn’t,” said Tim.

“Shut up,” said Beechy for the second time, and tossed her head a little.

Tim giggled and began to sing:

“If no one ever marries me,

     I shan’t mind very much.

I shall buy a little rabbit

     In a little rabbit hutch.”

“I wish you were more musical, darling,” said Mrs. Carland, with a beautiful indifference to what was really going on around her. “You’re quite flat.”

“What’s happening today?” said Christine.

“Trousseau,” said Beechy, attacking her breakfast.

“I bet you’re meeting your young man,” said Tim.

“Certainly I am,” said Beechy haughtily. “And why not?”

“‘What is this—thing—called—luv!’” sang Tim, completely out of tune.

Beechy, who secretly adored her one and only brother, flung a table-napkin at him.

“Little brute!”

“Children!” said Mrs. Carland, still in the depths of the Daily Sketch.

Christine moved to the door.

“I must get on to my class. I suppose you can’t lunch with me, Beechy?”

“Terribly sorry, darling, I’m lunching with Gil.”

“You’ll make a man sick of you,” said Tim. “You’re never out of each other’s sight for ten minutes. It gives me indigestion.”

Mrs. Carland murmured a gentle reproof. The girls ignored him. Beechy knew that this form of humour was also a sign of Tim’s affection.

Christine said in her soft, rather melancholy voice:

“Oh dear—well, I suppose we can’t expect to see much more of you now, Beech. It’s awful to think you’ll be gone next Thursday.”

Beechy’s face—a very charming face with its tip-tilted nose and exquisite skin—suddenly puckered. There was always this dread of separation from the family which spoilt things, just a little bit. Only a little bit, of course, because she was terribly in love with Gil, and the idea of marriage with a man you loved was frightfully thrilling and satisfying. What a pity one couldn’t take one’s family with one when one got married!

“I’m so sorry, Chris,” said Beechy contritely. “But I did promise to lunch with Gil, because we want to fix up about our hotel and lots of details which we can’t leave till the last minute. And you see, he’ll be in Town today because he’s going to a sale at Christie’s. There’s a Queen Anne bureau that he wants. I’m getting most fascinated with this antique furniture cult and I shall soon know heaps about it.”

“Well, everything in this house is pretty antique,” said Tim. “I’m the only young thing in it.”

“You’re a little horror,” said Beechy, and returned to her sister. “You’re not going to lose me, Chris—in fact, I shall see lots of all of you. We’ve got two spare rooms down in the country, and I have told Gil I shall ask you all to stay, and I know he won’t mind. And Rina’s going to come over from Paris and stay, too. It’ll be rather lovely to entertain you all in my own home.”

Mrs. Carland looked up. She had heard this last speech. She looked at Beechy; at the beautiful colour which was spreading down to that milk-white throat which was one of Beechy’s chief beauties; and a maternal pang suddenly assailed her mother. She knew what Beechy was feeling. How thrilled she was with life and her lover. She was not at all blasé or spoilt, and had a most sweet and affectionate nature, and was not likely to make a hash of her marriage like a good many modern young people. Mrs. Carland had been married twice, and was perfectly content in this, her second attempt at matrimony. But her first husband, although an attractive man, had been incapable of fidelity. Only too well did she recall the hour when she had gone to him as ecstatically, as trustfully as Beechy was going to Gilfred. But the trust had been betrayed and the ecstasy had ended in bitterness. His death had been a relief rather than a regret.

With all her heart Ella Carland prayed that Beechy would never be disillusioned in Gilfred. She wanted her always to be as happy as she was today. There were bound to be little frictions and difficulties. There could be no normal marriage without them. But she did not want her pretty, affectionate Beechy ever to know the bitterness that her first husband had caused her.

There was no reason why it should be so. Gilfred Linden was a thoroughly reliable person—they were all certain that he was as straight and decent as he was charming. Such a relief to the family. Such a piece of luck that they had met him, six months ago, when they were all up in Scotland on holiday.

When Mrs. Carland had had one of her “little talks” with Beechy a few nights ago she had warned her not to expect too much.

“Men are only human, you know, my dear,” she had said, and she had said it just because she did not want Beechy to start out on the course of matrimony—surely the most difficult of all careers for a woman—with too many ideals and in too much ignorance.

Mrs. Carland, having been extremely happy with Arnold Carland—a kindly, gentle husband—for the last twenty-six years, had come to the conclusion that life was a mixture, and that you must take the bad with the good and be reasonable about it.

Beechy had assured her that she did not intend to make impossible demands upon Gilfred.

“So long as he loves me and I love him—I shan’t mind what happens,” she said.

Christine went off to her secretarial classes. Tim betook himself to the garage. He was making himself a new wireless set, and was allowed to tinker about out there as much as he liked.

At twenty minutes to eleven, Mrs. Carland and Beechy prepared to start out on their arduous round of shopping. Beechy looked absurdly young for a prospective bride in a blue tweed cardigan suit, a cream silk shirt, and a blue beret pulled at a rakish angle over her red-brown head.

“Gil likes me in this suit,” she said as she joined her mother in the hall, “and it’s so nice and warm, I don’t think I shall want a coat, do you?”

Mrs. Carland did not answer for a moment. She had just opened a letter which had come by the second post. Then she looked up at Beechy with eyes that were bright and pleased behind the horn-rimmed glasses.

“Darling! Such news! Rina’s coming home.”

“For my wedding!”

“For good, my dear! She says that Maison Pacquille want her to work in their Bond Street place. They’ve offered her a big salary and she can live at Surbiton with us. Won’t it be lovely?”

“Heavenly news,” said Beechy.

She tucked an arm through her mother’s, and they walked out to the car which was waiting in the front drive. On expeditions of this kind Beechy drove to the station and they left the car there in the garage and took a train to Victoria. It was useless having the car in the West End, because there was nowhere to park it.

“Now you’ll have Rina at home to take my place when I’ve gone,” said Beechy.

“Nothing will take your place, darling; although it will be lovely to have Rina.”

“I’m just dying for Gil to meet her. He’s sure to like Rina, isn’t he? She’s so frightfully smart and pretty.”

“Of course he’ll like her,” said Mrs. Carland. “Besides, she’s just like one of the family.”

“Yes, and I must tell him today, poor darling,” said Beechy merrily, “that in marrying me he’s practically marrying the whole family!”

“DARLING,” said Beechy as she walked into the Berkeley Grill beside Gilfred Linden. “I’ve got all sorts of exciting things to tell you.”

“Well, first of all,” said Gilfred Linden, “let me tell you that you look a perfect picture. Your eyes are like stars, and your cheeks are as pink as the japonica which grows outside my cottage door, and I’m very much in love with you.”

“Hooray,” said Beechy. “You may now sing a song song—you can sing in tune, which is more than poor Tim can do—and your song shall be: ‘The japonica round the door, makes me love Beechy more.’”

“It’s a bit hard on a man that we’re in the middle of a public restaurant and I can’t kiss you,” said Gilfred.

They followed a sleek waiter who, with right hand uplifted, led them towards a table at the other end of the room. A quiet corner table, for no doubt he saw the way the pretty, sparkling girl and the tall, distinguished young man in his well-cut grey suit were looking at each other. He was a sentimentalist, and had a soft spot in his hea. . .