More Than Love

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Rosalinda Browne's life was a simple one - a secretarial job with a respected London firm, a plain furnished room, and an occasional evening alone at the opera or the symphony. Then a chance meeting brought her face to face with Richard Corrington-Ashe - rich and dashing, the owner of a prestigious shipping firm. And suddenly Rosalinda's life would never be the same! But he was a married man - though his wife had long ago ceased to love him - and, as Rosalinda's passion soared ever higher, an ominous question grew; would her heart stand the test of sharing her beloved?

Release date: July 24, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

THE memorial service for Richard Corrington-Ashe was over.

As the congregation drifted in little crowds of two, three and four out into the street the usual collection of morbid and inquisitive sensation-hunters craned their necks to watch a slight, tall woman in black emerge into the pale winter sunshine on the arm of a grey-haired man who carried a silk hat in his other hand and was watching her rather anxiously as they walked to the Daimler saloon waiting for them.

A newspaper man clicked a camera. One of the onlookers nudged her companion.

‘That’s her … that’s the widow … I’ve seen her photo heaps of times in the old Sketches and Tatlers my Mum brings home from where she works. That’s the famous Marion Corrington-Ashe.’

The older woman to whom this information had been given stared, then pressed forward and tried to get a better view of the widow who was now being helped into the car. She caught a glimpse of blonde cendré hair under a black halo hat with black tulle which was wound around a long throat; of a beautiful, clear-cut profile; of a rich mink coat over a black tailored suit. And was also just in time to see a gloved hand lift a wisp of lace and cambric to her eyes.

‘Pore thing,’ said the woman, and took the arm of the girl who had just spoken to her. ‘Isn’t it sad? Quite young, isn’t she? How’d he die?’

‘Coming home by air from a business conference in America. It was all in the papers. Mum and I read it. Must have been horrible,’ came the ghoulish whisper. ‘Ever so handsome he was, and something in the City, Mum said. Only forty, too. Meself I don’t like all this air travel. Always someone crashin’. Oh, lor, look at her …”

The last remark was directed at a plump golden-haired woman also wearing heavy mourning, who was hurrying from the church towards the Daimler. The occupants were obviously waiting for her. She demanded special attention because of her obviously dyed hair, over-painted face and the fact that she wore a silver-fox cape which almost reached her knees. She tottered rather than walked. She wore small high-heeled shoes and her feet seemed reluctant to carry her weight.

‘Who’s that?’ whispered the inquisitive sight-seer. Her informant whispered back:

‘Dunno. Looks sort of theatrical, don’t she?’

The young man with the camera supplied them both with the answer.

‘That’s Mrs. Corrington-Ashe’s mother, Lady Valling. She was a chorus girl—musical comedy favourite—one of those George Edwards girls. Always trying to get in the news, but she’s past history. I’m not wasting a shot on her. I wish I’d got a better one of Mrs. Corrington-Ashe, though.’

The two women turned and regarded the newspaper man with due respect. The younger said:

‘Do tell us some more, chum. We think it ever so romantic. And so sad, him dying in that aeroplane. Have they any kids?’

‘One daughter, still at school,’ came the prompt reply.

‘Where do they live?’

The newspaper man grinned and took a note-book from his pocket and flipped over a few pages.

‘Here you are … all written up ready for print.’

‘A memorial service was held at St. Paul’s, Knights-bridge, this morning for the late Richard Corrington-Ashe who was one of the fourteen victims of a recent tragedy when an American airliner crashed in a snowstorm in the North of Scotland. Mr. Ashe, had he lived, would have celebrated his fortieth birthday the day after the fatal accident. He was a partner of the well-known shipping company, Bergmann, Corrington-Ashe Co., and the owner of “Rakesley Hall”, Sussex, a beautiful Queen Anne House, famous for its oak panelling, on the estate of Lord Valling—Mrs. Corrington-Ashe’s stepfather——’

‘Hold on—hold on,’ interrupted one of the women, smiling. ‘It’s getting too involved for me. Whose stepfather?’

The newspaper man cast a withering glance at her.

‘It’s quite plain. Mrs. Corrington-Ashe’s stepfather. That dame I just pointed out with the dyed mop used to be Violetta Someone, who married someone or other in the English aristocracy who was Marion’s father. Then he died and Mrs. What-Not married again—did very well for herself; old Lord Valling who has bags of gold and two grown-up families already, but made Violetta his third wife. It’s on his estate Richard Corrington-Ashe lived in Sussex. Now, shall I go on reading, sisters, or have you heard enough about this illustrious family?’

‘No—do go on,’ they chorused. ‘We think it ever so thrilling.’

The newspaper man referred to his note-book:

‘The Ashes also have a flat in a modern luxury block in Park Lane. Mr. Ashe leaves a daughter, Roberta, aged sixteen, who is being educated at Roedean. …’

One of the girls giggled.

‘It sounds ever so funny saying “The Ashes”, especially now he’s dead.’

Her companion echoed the giggle and nudged her.

‘Oh, you are awful. Outside the church and all. No reverence.’

Suddenly another voice—a cool, modulated, cultured voice—quite different from the others—cut in on this conversation.

‘If you’ll pardon me for interrupting—Miss Roberta Ashe is not at Roedean College.’

They all three turned and stared. They saw a small slight woman—(she was standing just behind them) still, a girl, in her early thirties—dressed in bright red, with a red beret on her head. Her dark hair was worn long, curling to her neck. She appeared to have come with the rest of the mourners, from the church, but looked incongruously gay in her all-scarlet attire which was relieved only by a short black sealskin coat. Her hands were concealed in a tiny black muff of the same smooth glistening fur. She was very pale—she looked ill. Her cheek-bones stood out; her shadowed eyes were large and hollow. There was no colour in her face except on the beautiful lips which were painted the same vivid red as her clothes. For an instant the camera-man looked puzzled. The girls to whom he had been reading his notes whispered to each other:

‘Cheek!’ said one.

‘Who’s she?’ murmured the other.

Then the newspaper man felt annoyance. How dared the young woman challenge the authenticity of his story.

‘I beg to differ, madam,’ he said. ‘I have it on the best authority that Miss Roberta Ashe is at Roedean.’

‘Who do you call the best authority?’ asked the woman in red with a slightly bitter smile. ‘If you are a newspaper correspondent—and I take it from your camera that you are—you must know as well as I do how wrong—how frequently wrong—the Press can be. One is always reading their apologies for misinformation concerning notable persons.’

‘Look here!’ said the young man testily. ‘I don’t know who you are, but you can’t come along and tell me I’m wrong without you prove yourself in a position to know better. I got all my information about the Corrington-Ashe family from——’

‘One of Mrs. Corrington-Ashe’s maids, perhaps,’ broke in the girl in red, her bitter smile remaining. ‘The new one, maybe, who wasn’t quite sure of her facts but wanted the pound note you gave her?’

‘Look here——’ the outraged reporter began again. But she interrupted, raising her small muff to silence him.

‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter. But as I happen to have known Mr. Richard Corrington-Ashe very well—much better than Mrs. Corrington-Ashe’s maid knew him—I would like to be able to read your report—when it is published—and see that it is correct. I happened to hear what you said, and I must correct you. Roberta Ashe is being educated at Bronson Castle—one of the leading schools—in Yorkshire, not far from Hartshead. She went there because Miss Holt, the headmistress, happens to be a cousin of Mr. Corrington-Ashe’s and he approved of her methods. So do scratch out Roedean and put Bronson Castle—will you?’

The reporter spluttered at her. He stammered:

‘But … how do I know …you are right?’

She smiled.

‘I just am.’

The church doors were closing. Richard Corrington-Ashe’s memorial service was over. The fleeting winter sun had gone in behind a grey cloud. It was cold and threatening and London had a gloomy air. The London that Richard had loved and would never see again.

The car bearing his widow, her mother, and the noble Earl, her husband, moved quietly down Knightsbridge, across Hyde Park Corner and along Park Lane to the big white building in which the Corrington-Ashes had, for the last four years, occupied a large and most expensive flat.

MARION could hardly believe that she had just come back from attending a memorial service to Richard. She had not seen him for three weeks. He had been in New York attending an important conference with their American branch. He had cabled her that he would be back—last Saturday. He was making a special effort to return then to see Roberta before she went back to school.

Richard had loved his daughter. Berta, he called her.

She had been christened Roberta—at Marion’s wish—after old Robert Valling. Marion had no particular love for the silly old man who was nothing more than a bore—a typical product of the weak-chinned rather stupid Vallings. But she had always had an eye to the main chance and never forgot that her stepfather was counted among the richest men in the country.

At the age of fifty-six he had fallen stupidly in love with Marion’s mother, and when at a later date Marion married and produced Roberta, he conceived a senile affection for his pretty little grand-daughter by marriage. Neither of his own sons had done him that honour, so he added a codicil to his will and left Roberta a lot of money.

Marion was satisfied. Richard was well-off and she liked being the mother of an heiress. Like her own mother she was devoted to the things that money could buy, and counted a great deal upon social position.

As she stood staring around her, her mother came bustling up to her and looked thoughtfully at her daughter.

‘My darling, you must be worn out—so tiring—all this sort of thing. Now poor Richard is gone—and all that could be done in his memory—has been done—you must try to forget—and start life again, my darling.’

Marion had a sort of affection for her mother, but she realized more than ever on this day of the memorial service for Richard—that she had never really been deeply fond of anybody but herself. Roberta was her father’s daughter; had inherited all his most irritating qualities. The girl was stubborn and completely without ambition. She infuriated Marion because she took so little interest in clothes or the social round. Just like Richard—she would far sooner go to the Albert Hall and listen to a concert than meet and talk with notable people.

Richard and Roberta had understood each other and that, alone, had antagonized Marion towards them both.

But now Roberta would no longer be under her father’s influence. She, Marion, must do something with the child.

She had received a quite frightening letter from her. She hadn’t shown it to anyone. She frowned as she thought of it now. It was so mature, so unnatural in Marion’s opinion, for a child not yet sixteen.

I am going to try not to grieve too much, even though I’m heartbroken, Mummy, because I know Daddy isn’t really dead. He always said there is no death. It is just an end to the present life we lead and the ringing down of the curtain. He had played his part and has passed on to play his next part. I shall join him wherever he is, one day, and we shall be happy together again. I feel very close to him out here. When I was in Milan I listened to Toscanini conducting the Eroica. I knew Daddy was near me, telling me not to be unhappy because he is so happy. Sometimes I don’t think he wanted much to live. He was never really happy, unless he was listening to music, or reading, was he, Mummy?

That was a part of Roberta’s letter. It had given Marion a most uncomfortable feeling at the time she read it. Really! It was almost insulting—suggesting that Richard had been so unhappy that he had not wanted to live! He had everything a man could want. A wife he was admittedly proud of; a charming daughter; two luxurious homes; plenty of friends and a first-rate business.

Director of Bergmann, Corrington-Ashe & Co., one of the biggest shipping companies in the country, started eighty years ago by Richard’s grandfather, old Corrington-Ashe. The senior partners were dead. What was going to happen to the firm now, Marion had no idea. There was only one more Corrington-Ashe living—Richard’s brother, Peter, and he was a ‘sleeping partner’—never had had anything to do with the business. He was a delicate man, five years older than Richard, and—in Marion’s estimation—a hopeless bore. A dull bookworm who spent most of his time in the South of France or Switzerland recuperating from some illness or other. She had seen little of Peter since her marriage and was glad enough of it. They had disliked each other from the start.

Lady Valling now toddled away and addressed herself to a tall thin man with a delicate face and dark hair silvering at the temples.

‘Poor Peter—it’s been a dreadful day for you,’ she said. (She was famous for her sympathetic charm and liked to maintain her reputation.)

Richard’s brother looked coldly down at the fat, painted woman. He said:

‘It is a very tragic day, Lady Valling. Richard was an exceptional person. He will be sadly missed.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Violetta Valling, and put on a woeful expression. ‘And it gives me quite a turn to see you here. You are really very like poor Richard, aren’t you?’

‘I never see likenesses but people say that we resemble each other, Lady Valling,’ said Peter Corrington-Ashe in the same cold voice.

Marion heard the words. She looked across the room at her brother-in-law. Yes, the two men bore a strong resemblance to each other. The same height—slim, well proportioned. The same fine-cut features. Only Peter had a long nose and Richard’s had been short. The same grave, hazel eyes and rather sweet mouth. But Peter was quite grey and Richard had had only a few grey threads in that thick dark hair of his. Otherwise boyish-looking for his forty years.

Marion shivered, turned from the sight of her brother-in-law, and spread her long fingers out to the fire. Now that Richard was dead, she was going to make a good many changes. Down at Rakesley Hall, for instance, that room of Richard’s full of his old books and his collection of records, and the Steinway Grand—she had always detested it.

She was not going to encourage Roberta to indulge in all that dreary classical stuff when she was on holiday from school. It was time she took an interest in her appearance. In fact, now that Richard was dead, Marion made up her mind that she would not go so often to Rakesley. She would close the place or let it, and live more or less entirely up here in their London flat. Roberta must get used to living in London. She hated it but that was nonsense. She must be made to like it, thought Marion.

She had a good mind to go straight to Monte Carlo with her best friend, Irene Akroyd, who had just taken a villa down there. The only trouble was that Roberta would be coming home next week. She must see the child off to school first. Then she would go away. But she prided herself on being a devoted mother. Even Richard had had to admit that.

She could almost hear him saying:

‘You’re a wonderful mother, Marion—you always were. But why not leave her to shape herself and her own destiny?’

She had snapped at him:

‘Naturally a mother is possessive. She goes through enough when her child is born—she has a right to expect something back.’

How selfish and uncomprehending men were! Richard had never realized how ill she—Marion—had been all the time Roberta was coming, and what she had suffered during her birth. It had been a long, difficult labour. The doctors had said she could easily have a Caesarian next time. But she was not going to have any such thing whether Richard wanted a son or not, and she never did. When she returned from the nursing home to the house they had at the time in Chester Square, London, she had a ‘showdown’ with Richard. She was a little surprised to find herself recalling it, vividly, in this moment after that church service, when she had wept and where she had been asked to pray for the repose of Richard’s soul.

SIXTEEN years ago—next month—it had been a cold February morning—Richard had fetched her from the Home in their car and helped her tenderly into the house. He had always been very gentle and considerate of her.

‘It’s wonderful to get you home, darling,’ he had said.

She had been away from him for a month, but when he took her in his arms and tried to make love to her, she gently but firmly repelled the advance and told him all that lay in her mind.

She remembered first the amazed and then the hurt look in his eyes as he stared at her … stared as though trying to fathom her mind. He had said:

‘I just don’t understand, I thought you … I thought we … were in love with each other.’

‘So we are,’ she said pettishly, ‘but surely love doesn’t have to mean going to bed together. That’s all you men seem to think of. I thought you were above that, Richard.’

He had gone on staring. Quite white and with his face set in rigid lines. He was twenty-four at that time. She was twenty-two.

Then he had said:

‘Do you really mean that you don’t want to—share a bed with me ever again, Marion?’

‘I’d rather not,’ she had said, sullenly. ‘But of course if you’re going to claim marital rights and that sort of thing——’

Then he had cut in, speaking to her fiercely, brutally, for the first and only time in his life.

‘Shut up,’ he had said. ‘Shut up. Don’t say things like that to me. I loved you, Marion. I … loved you. But I’ll never claim any rights. That, I promise you.’

Relieved, if a trifle worried, she had added:

‘Of course, I don’t want our marriage to end or anything like that either, and if at any time you feel you must …’

But he had looked at her with a sadness in his eyes which haunted her to this day.

‘I loved you, Marion,’ he had said. ‘I shall hope that you’ll change your mind. Until then you can be quite sure I’ll stay away from you.’

They had left it at that. But she had never changed her mind, and he had never again shared a room with her.

But at least she had never given to any other man what she had denied her husband. She must, therefore, now that he was gone, console herself that she had been a good wife to him. And—as far as she knew—there had been no other woman in Richard’s life. But it was rather pleasant to be free.

Why had she married Richard in the first place?

They met at a garden party to which Richard had been dragged by his god-mother, Lady Fanley, now dead. The Fanleys knew the Vallings and Marion was living at Wilding Hall with her mother at that time. Richard fell in love with her at first sight. His ‘golden girl,’ he used to call her. So slight, so exquisitely fair and with cool blue eyes, cool slender hands and a deceptively charming manner. Her slight air of disdain had intrigued him, and—he told her afterwards—challenged him. Every day for six months he wrote her a poem. She used to read his verses without understanding their merit or sincerity but aware that they were eminently flattering. And as all her friends and even her match-making mother had to admit, he was as handsome as a poet.

Besides he was head of Bergmann, Corrington-Ashe & Co., which was no small position. So she married him.

During their honeymoon in Italy, he took her to concerts, to the ballet and to art galleries, and bored her to death. As soon as they got back to London she let him see what she wanted both from him and from life and started in her clever, practical way to gather a smart Society crowd around her—the crowd in which she felt so at home, but which terrified and deflated him.

That was when they began to drift apart—and so on until the showdown following Roberta’s birth. And after that Marion left no room for doubt in his mind that she had married him only to use him as a background and that the ‘golden girl’ of his poetic fancy had been purely mythical—never to materialize on this earth again.

‘ARE you coming down to lunch with us in the restaurant, my poor sweet, or will you have a tray up here?’ Lady Valling asked her daughter, in her most dove-like voice.

Marion said:

‘I don’t want much. I’ve so many things on my mind. And I think I may lie down. I’ve got a touch of neuritis in my back. I feel cold. It’s that sharp wind. It caught me as we came out of the church.’

She heard her brother-in-law’s voice; a nice modulated voice—a little deeper than Richard’s—but with a resemblance. (She wished Peter would go. She did not want to look at him and remember any more about Richard, and the long difficult years of their marriage.)

‘Yes, I saw her. As a matter of fact, I was rather struck by her face. A very haunting one, I thought.’

‘Well, I wondered who she was because of that bright red costume she was wearing,’ came from Lady Valling. ‘Most unsuitable for a memorial service. Most unsuitable.’

‘Who is this you are discussing?’

‘The young woman in red. Didn’t you see her?’

‘No,’ said Marion.

‘Everbody else seems to have done. It was that red getup—so unsuitable.’

Marion shrugged her shoulders.

‘I saw no woman in red. Did you recognize her, Mother?’

‘Never seen her in my life before, darling.’

Marion turned to her brother-in-law.

‘I think you said she had a “haunting face”. I’ve never heard you being lyrical about a woman before, Peter,’ she said with the cold sarcasm she reserved for him. She had never liked Richard’s brother for the simple reason that he had so obviously disliked her from the time she married Richard.

His worn, delicate face coloured very slightly.

‘One can scarcely call my remark “lyrical”, my dear Marion.’

The party filed out of the drawing-room. Marion walked into her bedroom.

The Austrian maid came up with her tray. As she set it down on a table by the chaise longue she cast a glance at her employer.

‘Madame, I think you ought to know——’

‘Something bad—what?’

Mitza spread out her hands with a very foreign gesture.

‘A newspaper reporter come for information about poor Monsieur. Doris, new cook, answer. Doris tell man Roberta at Roedean.’

‘How absolutely stupid. Roberta is at Bronson Castle.’

‘Yes, Madame. She make meestake.’

Marion nodded and dismissed her curtly.

If there was one thing she disliked it was inaccurate newspaper reports about herself or her family. Like her mother she welcomed any form of publicity, but it must be correct.

She telephoned the editor of the Review.

He apologized profusely to the wealthy and well-known Mrs. Corrington-Ashe for the mistake that had been made, but assured her that all was well as the reporter had been corrected at the church door by some young lady.

‘Thank you,’ said Marion, then added quickly: ‘Who made the correction? How did that come about?’

The editor explained. The young lady in question had overheard the reporter telling a couple of people who asked for information that Miss Ashe was at Roedean. She came forward and told him that Miss Ashe was at Bronson Castle. No doubt Mrs. Corrington-Ashe knew her—she must be a friend—the reporter had been rather struck by her appearance as she wore a bright red dress.

Marion put down the receiver. She thought.

‘So the woman in red crops up again. Who the devil was she? Why didn’t I see her, if everybody else did? How peculiar!’

In an instant an idea flashed through her mind.

‘It must be someone Richard knew. Perhaps a girl-friend of his … perhaps I’ve hit on something he was keeping from me.’

It had never entered her mind to imagine that Richard had a secret ‘girl-friend’. She had never been jealous of him. Despite the lack of the physical tie between them, he had seemed satisfied with his life in their home, and with their child. But of course men were men … only human … he might possibly have had some female in the background.

Would she mind if she discovered that Richard had had a woman in his life? Why should she?

She laughed at herself.

‘I’m imagining things. There were probably dozens of people at the service who knew Richard vaguely. The woman in red might be one of his typists.’

But the thought remained. And that sudden doubt as to whether or not Richard had been faithful to her.

With it came the clear memory of a certain afternoon down at Rakesley Hall.

It was five years ago—soon after they took over the lovely old house.

She was lying down … she remembered clearly … wearing only a white silk dressing-gown. It was a warm afternoon in May.

She was going to a tea-party at Wilding Hall.

Richard came in. He knocked—as was his habit those days. She had looked at him with surprise, a little annoyed at the disturbance. She had been dozing.

He had seated himself on the edge of her bed. She noticed that he looked white and tired—and a little untidy. His thick dark hair wanted cutting.

She spoke to him pettishly.

‘What is it? Why are you staring at me?’

His answer—direct and unexpected—had surprised her at the time.

“I wondered if you were perfectly happy in this life we lead together—as complete strangers—or if you’ve ever felt the smallest wish for any intimacy between us.’

She had scowled up at him under her heavy lids.

‘There—I knew it was something like that. I——’

‘Quite all right,’ he had interrupted with that enigmatic smile. ‘I only want to know if you are satisfied.’

‘Quite,’ she snapped. ‘Thanks.’

He had nodded and said:

‘Very well. Sorry I interrupted your rest.’

‘I don’t see why you came home early to ask me all this nonsense when you knew the reply.’

‘Yes, I knew in my heart but wanted to hear you say it.’

‘But why—in the name of fortune, Richard? Do you want a divorce or something … aren’t you satisfied?’

He had remained silent for a moment, then said:

‘Do you want one?’

‘You know perfectly well I do not. We have Roberta to think of and I should object strongly to any scandal in our family,’ she said.

He had smiled his strange, sardonic smile and said:

‘Quite so. And it is for Berta’s sake and not because I object to scandal that I don’t make a break.’

Thoroughly nettled and astonished then, she had said:

‘So you want to make a break?’

‘Do you think I ought to be satisfied with what I have got?’ he had parried.

Her reply to that had been:

‘Certainly. You have a child you are devoted to—this lovely—home—plenty of money—and …’

‘And you?’ he had finished for her.

Her eyelids had dropped.

‘And me. In every way except one.’

‘In no way except one,’ he had said, ‘which is only in the eyes of others.’

‘What are you getting at, Richard?’ she had demanded.

He answered:

‘Never mind. It wouldn’t interest you. My reactions to life have always bored you, Marion. We’ll carry on with our so-called marriage. For Berta’s sake.’

‘You must have had an ulterior motive in saying all this. You wish to excuse yourself for starting an affair with some woman.’

‘You are a clever woman, Marion,’ said he. ‘A shrewd one. There are no flies on you. You may even be right. But if it is true—you would have no right to complain, would you? You can hardly demand physical constancy from me. But you wouldn’t even mind, would you? The whole business of love nauseates you. Forget it. I shall not cause a scandal—nor shall I leave home—nor ask you to divorce me. Berta means much too much in my life. Now do settle down and get that beauty sleep.’

Today she had nothing left but this sense of unhappy frustration. As though in death he were able to disturb her more than he had ever done in life.

Had Richard been unfaithful to her? If so … with whom?

What was wrong with her? She was unlike herself; had been so all day. Richard had been killed in that ’plane smash a week ago yesterday. No doubt she was just beginning to feel the reaction.

Mitza came in.

‘What is it?’

‘A young lady who say she must see Mr. Corrington-Ashe.’

‘Mr. Corrington-Ashe?’ repeated Marion, startled. ‘Don’t be a fool, Mitza. …’ then. ‘Oh, you mean Mr. Peter …’ She gave a curt laugh and bit her lip For a moment she imagined the girl had meant Richard. Really, her nerves were getting the better of her. ‘What does she want Mr. Peter for? Who is she?’

‘I do not know, Madame. She give no name. She say it is urgent but will not come in. I ask if she wish to see Madame, she say no.’

Marion sighed, exasperated.

‘What does she want?’

‘I don’t know, Madame,’ repeated Mitza patiently, then added with a bright smile: ‘Mademoiselle is very chic. She wear bright red. . .