My True Love

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Lovely, orphaned Lyn Taylor feared the fabulous whirl of the sophisticated London social season would pass her by. As secretary to her wealthy, snobbish Aunt Diana, she was the carefully hidden Cinderella as the list of eligible bachelors ? men of money, title, position, lined up before her cousin Anthea. Then devastating lawyer Noel Folliott stepped out of his gleaming Bentley and into her enraptured heart.

But ruthless Aunt Diana placed Noel high on her list for Anthea, little knowing that Anthea was deep in a passionate clandestine romance with a car mechanic!

Could Lyn betray Anthea?s secret ? or would social distinction remain an insurmountable barrier to the sweet exaltation of true love?

Release date: August 1, 1981

Publisher: Avon Books

Print pages: 192

Sample

Lyn walked out of the agency, got on her bike and rode despondently down Crystal Palace Parade.

The austere Miss Amble who ran the Secretarial Agency had not been encouraging. Full of hope and youthful ambition, Lyn had sat on the other side of the big, bare desk and answered questions. … Name—Evelyn Taylor. Age—nineteen. Address—21 Harley Avenue, Upper Norwood. Experience—nearly two years in an auctioneer’s office. Her shorthand speed was 120 and typing 65.

When Miss Amble asked why she wanted to leave the auctioneer, she said, with an engaging frankness, ‘Because I want to earn more money.’

Miss Amble pursed up her thin lips and looked disapproving. ‘You’re only beginning, you know, Miss Taylor,’ she said coldly. ‘You can’t run before you can walk. … Well, I’ll see what I can do. I have your address. I’ll let you know.’

As Lyn cycled home she thought ruefully that saying she wanted more money hadn’t gone down very well with Miss Amble. Didn’t she like people to be ambitious? Or did she think this Lyn Taylor was just another silly, selfish girl who wanted an easy job and more money to frivol away on clothes and make-up and having a good time? Well, she did like pretty clothes, Lyn admitted, and she liked having good times, too, but that wasn’t why she wanted a better job. She wanted it more—much, much more, so she could help Mummy.

Everything was terribly difficult and expensive these days and she knew Mummy sometimes worried about bills and things; and because she couldn’t afford to give Bobbie and Lyn the things she wanted to give them.

Not that she ever said so. She liked to pretend that with the little money Daddy had left and her Army pension she managed very well. She even boasted about the little legacy she had, ‘Our nest egg,’ she called it, ‘laid away and not to be touched till Bobbie has finished school. Then, when we all want something terrifically badly we’re going to spend the lot and buy whatever it is we want. You’ll see!’

Some of Lyn’s depression lifted and her heart warmed at the thought of her stepmother. How lucky she and Bobbie were to have her. She was such a darling.

Lyn barely remembered her own mother, who had died when she was six and Bobbie just a year old. But she remembered vividly the day—it had been on her eleventh birthday—when Daddy brought his new wife home to Harley Avenue.

Rosalind, wearing a soft and lovely fur coat and smelling of the most delicious perfume, had put her arms round both the shy little girls and hugged them and said in her husky voice, ‘How lucky I am to have two such wonderful ready-made daughters.’

Lyn didn’t know then—but she knew now—what an exciting fairy-tale kind of romance had led to that moment when Rosalind, her eyes all shiny with tears and happiness, had taken them in her arms, and Daddy suggested they should call her ‘Mummy.’

It really was an up-to-date fairy tale; Mummy and her sister, Diana, once lived in a lovely house in Leicestershire—a big estate in beautiful grounds. Lovely formal gardens, and the best stables in the district. They used, Mummy had told the girls, to have a wonderfully happy time, going to parties in the neighbouring ‘stately homes,’ giving parties, hunting in winter, and in ‘the Season’ going up to London for the round of balls and theatres and all the gaiety of the season.

Lyn and Bobbie loved to get Mummy to tell them about those times. They were so different from anything they knew or would ever know.

Rosalind had been presented at Court, had actually gone to Buckingham Palace and made her curtsey to King George and Queen Mary. There was a photograph of her in her white satin Court dress, with the traditional three white feathers in her hair—the young, slender, eager-eyed Rosalind Franlingham.

Aunt Diana also had been ‘presented’ but seven years earlier, because she was older than Mummy. There was a photograph of her, too—not so eager-eyed, somehow not so touchingly young-looking—but quite beautiful. Like a statue—a goddess—Lynn used to think, faultless of feature, exquisite of face and colouring, but—cold—too perfect to be quite real.

And Diana was still the same. When she came to see them at Harley Avenue (she did so about twice a year when she was ‘in Town’), she was still lovely in a more mature way. But you never seemed to be able to get close to her. You couldn’t imagine having fun and sharing silly little family jokes with Aunt Diana the way you did with Mummy. But then, of course, Aunt Diana’s life was so very different from Mummy’s in every way.

She was married very young, in her first season—and she had married ‘well.’ Diana Franlingham would never have dreamed of doing anything else! It had been the wedding of the year, to Sir George Crend—a baronet and a wealthy one, with a country house even more magnificent than Franlingham. Peppyr Court in Sussex.

Rosalind Franlingham had never been beautiful like her sister. Just attractive, in a warm, friendly sort of way. Gay and natural and unaffected.

‘I’ll bet everyone liked her much better than Auntie Di, though,’ Lyn had always said to her sister, Rosalind had certainly been popular, and, according to Aunt Diana, had plenty of admirers—‘suitable admirers,’ she had once said, with an emphasis on the ‘suitable.’ Mummy had smiled in the lovely, funny way she always smiled when her sister went ‘all County’ on them.

But Rosalind had not married quickly. And when she did—she married Charlie Taylor, and everybody had been surprised. Her family, including Lady Crend, were horrified.

‘But who is he,’ she asked, her lovely chin tilted, her exquisitely set blue eyes slanting disdainfully. For to Diana Crend, no one without ‘name’—family—background—was anybody!

‘He’s in the Royal Engineers, at the moment—a temporary soldier,’ Rosalind told her with amused and patient exactness. ‘I met him first at the Forces Canteen—a big, shy, nice man, looking rather lost and lonely. Normally, in peace-time he is in an engineering works in London. He lives in a little house in a London suburb. He has been a widower for several years and he has two little daughters, Lyn who is ten, and Roberta, always called Bobbie, who is six.’

Diana shrugged slender shoulders. She gave it up. She quite genuinely failed to understand how anyone brought up as Rosalind, living the life Rosalind led—even in wartime when everything was topsy-turvy, and one did meet the strangest people!—could notice anyone like Charles Taylor; far less fall in love with him, or think of marrying him.

‘Also,’ Rosalind had added, ‘I love him.’ There was nothing Diana could find to say in face of the simple sincerity and absolute certainty of that statement.

So—they had married. Rosalind Franlingham of Franlingham Manor and Charlie Taylor of 21 Harley Avenue, Upper Norwood. And Mrs. Charles Taylor had lived in blissful happiness with her husband; near his camp while he remained in England, afterwards in his home where she cared for and loved—and was loved by—his daughters once he went overseas.

And when, in the last days of the war, the dreadful fateful telegram had come—and she knew that her dear and deeply loved Charles would not come back to Harley Avenue, she had stayed on there—brave for his children’s sake—thankful for the short time of happiness she had been given—and determined to make up to Charlie’s daughters, to the uttermost in her power, for all they had lost, all they would miss in the years to come.

And she had, Lyn thought. Oh, she had! She had given them everything—everything that mattered. Laughter and understanding, kindliness and love. She had made a game of hardship. A joyous adventure of living.

Lyn was smiling again as she turned the corner of Harley Avenue. Then she saw the large, shining limousine standing outside No. 21.

‘Oh, golly,’ she muttered ruefully, ‘Aunt Diana.’ And instinctively smoothed down her short skirt, straightened the green beret on her dark, wind-blown curls and shot past the chauffeur who sat reading a paper in the big car. She wheeled her bicycle in at the gate, fanning her warm young face.

The Franlingham sisters sat opposite each other in the cosy, somewhat cluttered-up sitting-room.

Lady Crend, slim and elegant as ever, still wore a delicate grey suède glove on one hand. In the other she held a cigarette. It gave out what Lyn mentally called an ‘expensive smell.’

Everything about Diana Crend was expensive. Her tailored grosgrain suit, the exquisite organdie blouse, the diamond clip, the sable stole slung carelessly over one shoulder, the little hat on the smooth hair that was still blonde—but held these days the faintest, cleverest violet tint.

‘Thank goodness Mummy is just plain going-grey,’ Lyn registered with quick and thankful loyalty as she greeted her aunt.

She asked politely after Anthea, Lady Crend’s daughter who was a few months younger than Lyn and whom she had met only once, years ago when they had all gone to a pantomime together. And she asked about Edward whom she had never seen but who was, she knew, an undergraduate at Oxford.

Aunt Diana said that both her offspring were very well and frightfully busy; always booked up with visits and parties, of course. She scarcely seemed to see anything of them. Young people had such a gay time nowadays, didn’t they? And then, in her lady-of-the-manor voice, she asked Lyn what she was doing. ‘You work in an office, don’t you?’

‘Yes, an auctioneer’s,’ Lyn said. Rosalind put in warmly, ‘And doing very well, too. Lyn is extremely efficient. I’m very proud of her.’

‘How nice,’ Lady Crend said vaguely, whether with reference to Lyn’s work or her sister’s pride in her stepdaughter was not very clear—and hid a ladylike yawn behind the grey suède glove.

‘Tea,’ her sister said briskly. ‘Lyn, dear, go and put the kettle on and I’ll come in a minute to give you a hand.’

‘Just a cup of tea,’ Diana said. ‘I never eat anything.’

Rosalind laughed. ‘How dull for you. We eat enormous teas, don’t we, Lyn? Just wait till you see us, Di.’

She was still laughing when she joined Lyn in the kitchen a few minutes later. ‘Poor Auntie Di,’ she said, ‘I’ve been horrifying her by telling her we often eat shrimps for tea—and tinned salmon for a special treat. Isn’t it lucky I don’t mind in the least what I weigh? The sitting-room was so untidy when she turned up! She looked round with her “how-the-other-half-live” expression—you know—as if we were a slum. You’d left your mending on the sofa and she nearly sat on it. Bobbie’s school bloomers were airing in front of the fire. I told her they were what I wore on cold days. … Oh, darling, not the Rockingham!’ she said suddenly as Lyn, laughing at this recital, began to arrange their precious best tea set on a pretty tray. She added:

‘Let’s not disappoint Aunt Diana. We know we have that lovely china Great-Aunt Isabel left me—but Diana doesn’t; she thinks we’ve nothing but thick white utility. Well, we do use that every day, so we’ll use it now. She’ll feel so nice and superior. Come on—the old trolley with the squeaky wheel—and those bright pink paper table-napkins we got for Bobbie’s birthday party.’

‘But Mummy—’ Lyn protested, though she couldn’t help laughing.

‘No, I mean it,’ Mrs. Taylor said. ‘A little of Diana and her lordly ways can be quite amusing. But I’ve had a solid hour of it, and I’m just exasperated enough to want to get some of my own back. …’

She chatted on to her stepdaughter in her gay, friendly fashion.

‘Anthea’s coming out,’ she said as Lyn began to cut bread and butter, and she sliced the cake into tiny pieces because there wasn’t very much of it left, and Mrs. Taylor hadn’t had time to bake the buns as she had meant to do for tea. ‘Auntie Di’s been in Town looking for a house to take for the Season—she’s just got one in Eaton Terrace. It sounds lovely … but I needn’t tell you now. You’ll hear all about it over tea, I haven’t the slightest doubt.’

They did. After Lady Crend’s patrician face had quivered a little as she drank strong tea from a thick white cup and turned away from the sight of Rosalind and Lyn peeling shrimps and heaping them on substantial slices of bread, they heard all about Anthea’s Court dress, the big dance Lady Crend was to give for her ‘coming-out’—the important sounding people they were to entertain and who would entertain Dear Anthea. And about the eligible young men Anthea would meet and the country house parties that would follow, once the London festivities were over.

Lyn listened to the cool, high voice; fascinated, interested, but without envy. To her it was all too far removed from herself to seem real. It was like something she might see in a film … not anything that could ever happen.

But as Rosalind Taylor listened, the laughter disappeared from her eyes. She was remembering it all—the excitement, the thrill and the happiness of her own first Season. And she found herself wishing suddenly that Lyn could have the same experience. For the first time, because they had all been so happy before, she was struck by the difference between Lyn’s youth and her own. She felt that Lyn, who worked so hard and so willingly, and had so few pleasures, met so few people, was being cheated of something rather wonderful, even precious.

When Lyn had pushed out the tea-trolley with the squeaky wheel and vanished to wash up, Rosalind Taylor said to her sister:

‘Di … I’ve been thinking all this time … about Lyn, I’d love her to have a glimpse of the world we knew—the world your Anthea will know even in these times. My Lyn will probably have to work hard all her life—but to have, just once, all the thrill, the expectancy, the delicious happiness of being young and carefree—would give her something to look back on in her life. Di, help me to give her that glimpse. Let her “come out” with Anthea.’

Diana stared in astonishment at her sister.

‘My dear Rosalind—’ she began, very slowly, searching for words that would scotch this preposterous suggestion once and for all.

‘I’ve got a little bit of money tucked away,’ Rosalind went on eagerly. ‘Enough to buy her some pretty clothes, and give her pocket money. If only you’d take her under your wing—give her the chance of going to some of the parties with Anthea … she could go on living here if it would be inconvenient for you to have her at Eaton Terrace—although that would be the loveliest idea of all, of course. Oh, Di, would you?’

Diana Crend had had time to pull herself together. Her reasons for it being ‘quite impossible’ for her to do anything for her sister’s stepdaughter were vague and unconvincing—but her refusal was quite, quite definite.

Rosalind sighed and gave it up. It would have been so lovely for Lyn. But she knew that once Diana had made up her mind there was no way of making her change it.

Almost at once, as if to escape any possible further argument, Lady Crend wound the sable stole round her throat, began pulling on the other grey suède glove and rose to her feet.

Mrs. Taylor and Lyn said goodbye to her outside. They stood solemnly by, while the chauffeur opened the car door for her ladyship. Diana stepped into the car and was driven away.

Lyn noticed that her stepmother had become strangely quiet and thoughtful. She linked an arm affectionately through hers as they went back into the house and into the sitting-room.

‘What is it, Mummy?’ she asked. ‘Just too much Aunt Diana, or did she say something to upset you?’

‘Of course not,’ Rosalind said briskly. ‘I was just wishing. …’

‘That you had a gorgeous car like Aunt Diana’s—or a glamorous daughter like Anthea to present at Court?’

‘Not any daughter but my own, thank you,’ Mrs. Taylor said, and gave Lyn’s arm an affectionate little squeeze. ‘But it would be nice to have my girl presented.’

‘Darling, what a notion!’ Lyn laughed heartily at the idea. ‘I’d probably trip over my train! Come on, feet up and have a rest—you’ve earned it.’

As she sat down on the sofa that Lady Crend had so haughtily adorned all afternoon, Rosalind looked with eyes that had grown suddenly misty at Lyn’s vivid young face. She was so like her dear Charles. The same strong noble structure of brow—and wide-set grey-blue eyes. ‘You deserve something more than I can give you, Lyn,’ she said quite sadly. ‘I suppose I am just a little jealous because Anthea has so much.’

Lyn started to protest, when the door burst open and Bobbie rushed in. Bobbie, shorter than Lyn, plump, with a reddish tinge to her brown curly hair; mischievous hazel eyes and a sprinkling of freckles on her snub nose. She wore a brown kilted skirt and a brown and yellow blazer which she flung off. She fanned a crimson face.

‘Hullo, Mummy. Hullo, Lyn. Golly, it’s hot. I’ve been running. Any tea left?’

‘Oh, my poor dumpling,’ Mrs. Taylor laughed. ‘You look roasted. Why are you so late? You’ve missed a visitor.’

‘Who?’

‘Your Aunt Diana has been to tea.’

‘Oh, golly—glad I wasn’t here. My friend Peggy asked me to go into her house. She’s got an autographed photo of Robert Taylor and some other film stars. Isn’t she lucky? Can I have tea now?’

Bobbie was obviously more interested in film stars’ photographs—and her tea—than in her Aunt Diana.

Rosalind Taylor smiled contentedly as she went out to the kitchen to cut large and substantial sandwiches for her younger stepdaughter.

Lady Crend walked into the sitting-room of her suite at the Berkeley—slowly, languidly, as if the efforts of driving to Upper Norwood and drinking tea with her sister had been an exhausting experience.

Anthea was there. Replacing the telephone receiver she turned to smile to her mother.

‘I thought you’d got lost. Where have you been all afternoon?’

‘Was that someone for me?’ Lady Crend ignored Anthea’s questio. . .