Since We Love

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Joan Parwood could have been happy working at the Great Friars Hotel. But Sally, the owner of the hotel, is engaged to marry Simon Roxley, the only man Joan has ever loved. Joan thinks that Simon secretly returns her love...and is proved right when Simon decides he cannot go ahead with the planned marriage. But then comes the car crash that leaves Sally blind and both Simon and Joan decide that Sally must learn the truth... A captivating love story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1938, and available now for the first time in eBook.

Release date: August 14, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 256

Sample

Joan Parwood walked through the deserted lounge of the Great Friars Hotel, nodded good-morning to the yawning boy who was washing the stone steps outside the massive oaken door, and received the post which was delivered at seven o’clock every morning by a postman with a motor cycle and sidecar.

The sight of that red sidecar bearing the Royal Coat of Arms never failed to excite Joan. Not that she expected to hear from anybody in particular. But to her there was always something exciting about a postman with his mail bag. After all, one never knew what that bag contained, and it was fun imagining that there might be a love-letter, or an unexpected legacy; a thrill of some kind awaiting one in a small white envelope.

At this hour, Joan forgot to be the dignified manageress of an important riverside hotel. The ‘Miss Parwood’ on whose slim shoulders rested the responsibility of a big staff, and whose job it was to see that things ran on oiled wheels. The ‘Miss Parwood’ of whom the servants must go in awe, to whom the guests could complain and who must bear all the strain and stress of the management. And at the end, be able to satisfy her employer that she was running the place at a profit! A big job for a girl of twenty-four.

Joan carried the post into her office and began to sort it. She hummed a little under her breath. She had nothing much to hum about, but it was her nature to be philosophical and thankful for small mercies. It was really a feather in her cap to hold down a job like this, with a salary of £200 a year and all expenses paid. Besides, Great Friars was one of the most beautiful and historic houses which had ever been turned into a hotel.

It was packed for the week-end, nearly always full during the summer months. And this was a perfect June morning. The sun streamed through the window on to Joan’s desk. Outside, in the tangle of jasmine and honeysuckle creeping over the grey stone walls, the birds sang madly. It was the hour that Joan liked best. When the hotel guests were still sleeping, and except for the bustle of the staff, there was comparative peace.

The letters slipped through Joan’s hands. She sorted them ready for pigeon-holing. Ah! A familiar one for herself. How well she knew that blue notepaper with the big, round, untidy writing, the crest on the flap of the envelope, and the West End postmark. From Sally Vaughan, owner of the hotel and Joan’s ‘boss.’

The note was brief and characteristic of Sally.

‘Dear Joan,

Expect me for lunch on Saturday. Simon’s driving me down and will also be staying the week-end. Good news at last!

S.’        

Joan folded the note, put it in the pocket of the tussore smock which she wore over her dress in the mornings when on duty, lit a cigarette and began to walk up and down the room restlessly.

So that’s what the post had brought her this morning! The intimation of her employer’s arrival—with Simon Roxley—and the promise of ‘good news.’

Well, it was good news from only one person’s point of view. Sally’s. Joan knew what it meant. Simon had given way to Sally at last and consented to an early wedding.

There was no longer a song on Joan Parwood’s lips, nor a song in her heart. And the morning no longer seemed golden or peaceful to her. She was thinking:

‘How frightful! What on earth am I going to do? How am I going to get out of it all? Why must I go through all this pain?’

Somebody knocked on the frosted glass door.

At once the youthful, human Joan, full of warm impulses, sensitive, emotional, retreated behind the cool mask of the manageress. She took the cigarette from her lips and threw it out of the open window.

‘Come in,’ she said.

But it was not one of her staff as she had anticipated. A tall, fair man wearing grey flannels and a tweed coat thrust in a head and said:

‘Hallo! Don’t get the porter to throw me out. I’ll go quietly.’

Joan relaxed.

‘Oh, it’s you! Good morning, Ham. Have you come for an early morning cup of tea?’

‘If I can drink it with you and get it free of charge.’

Joan laughed and put a finger on the bell.

‘I daresay the hotel will stand you that.’

‘I want to be entertained by you, not the hotel,’ he grumbled.

She sat down at her desk and returned to the task of sorting letters.

William Hamley, more often known to his friends as ‘Ham,’ balanced himself on the edge of the desk and looked tenderly down at the dark, graceful head of the girl. He never could regard Joan Parwood as the hard, business-like young woman who ran this hotel so efficiently. To him, she was just a kid and a very lovely one—much too lovely to be wasted in a job which kept her inside an office, in a still-room checking provisions, or a linen-room, dealing out laundry. It was a fine job and a grand spot for her to live in, but in Ham’s opinion, Joan Parwood ought to be leading a more glamorous existence. There was so much glamour in her personality and appearance—for him, anyhow, and for a lot of other men, so far as he could judge.

He counted himself amongst her greatest admirers. He had proposed to her twice and been rejected, but that did not deter him. He was the owner and proprietor of ‘Hamleys,’ the biggest garage in the town, and did all the repairs for Great Friars, so he saw a great deal of the young manageress. Nothing suited him better. She had told him firmly that she could only be a friend to him, and like that things remained—not that Ham intended they should do so permanently. He was much too much in love. He was thirty and Joan was the only girl he had ever wanted to marry.

She finished sorting the mail, leant back in her chair and looked at him.

‘What are you doing here at this ungodly hour?’

‘Mr. Mathews wanted the Bentley. He said he was leaving here before breakfast on his way to Wales, so I thought I’d bring it round myself.’

‘Well, as soon as our tea comes, I must leave you, Ham. We’ve got a crashing week-end in front of us. Full to overflowing.’

‘Miss Vaughan coming down?’

‘Yes.’

‘Roxley with her?’

‘Yes.’

Joan’s head went down again. She busied herself by filling her fountain-pen. She was not anxious that Ham should see the colour which rose in her cheeks at the mention of Roxley’s name. But the eyes of a lover are quick, and Ham saw that wildrose pink creep up under the girl’s golden tan. He frowned and kicked a leg against the desk.

He was pretty certain that Joan was in love with Roxley. And what the hell’s use was that when he was going to marry her boss? Of course, Joan had never said anything. But he was ready to stake his life that she was keen on the fellow. She always gave herself away by colouring at the mention of him. Ham didn’t like it. He knew and admired Simon Roxley. He had had dealings with him several times over a car and had always found him a most charming, entertaining fellow. But there were rumours that he wasn’t as much in love with Sally Vaughan as she was with him. Rumours, too, that it was half on account of the money behind Sally that he was marrying her. It might or might not be true, but everybody knew that the Roxleys were broke. And Simon’s father, old Sir George, wanted him to save the family fortunes by marrying someone with cash.

Ham said abruptly:

‘When are those two getting married?’

Joan’s face remained hidden.

‘Shortly, I should think.’

‘Good job when they are.’

Then up came Joan’s head quickly.

‘Why?’

Ham’s clear blue eyes—the redeeming feature in his blunt, boyish but unhandsome face—looked straight into the bright hazel of hers.

‘They’ve been engaged long enough, haven’t they?’

‘Only six months.’

‘That’s long enough. I think the thrill is apt to go out of a marriage when a couple hang round months and years before they’re tied up.’

‘Maybe.’ Joan’s reply was non-committal.

Ham continued almost aggressively:

‘And I shouldn’t be surprised if the thrill hasn’t gone out of theirs. On his part, if not on hers.’

Again the hot surge of colour to Joan’s face and throat, try as she would to destrain it. But the subject of that engagement was one that touched her so very deeply. So much more deeply than it ought to. She was thankful that one of the waiters interrupted them at this point by bringing in a tea tray.

But as soon as Ham received his cup of tea he harped back on the engagement, as though it was on his mind, too.

‘Everyone who knows them seems to think she’s much more in love with him than he is with her. I have a pal who knows the Roxleys very well and …’

It isn’t really our business, Ham,’ broke in Joan rather sharply.

He slid off the desk.

‘I’m getting the bird this morning.’

‘Not really.’ She was quick to mollify him for she was fond of Ham. A woman couldn’t help it. There was something so nice and friendly about him always. And Joan knew in her heart that he must suffer over her at times. He was far from ready to accept her on platonic terms.

Sally Vaughan had told her last week-end that she was a little fool not to marry Ham. He had a big business. He was putting up other garages along the river. He came from a good family and had a Public School education. She would have a good time as his wife. There would be none of the slavery that she had to face here. And slavery it was in the busy season, for she was conscientious about her job. But she could not marry Ham, because she did not love him. And more than that. It was because she loved somebody else. And that somebody else was Simon Roxley.

The whole thing was a muddle and she had never felt more confused or miserable. She thanked heaven for the philosophic streak which was in her, and for hard work. When she was immersed in her job, it helped her to forget. But there wasn’t much chance of forgetting when Simon Roxley came down and stayed in the hotel.

Ham was making things no better for her by voicing what she knew in her heart to be true. Simon was not so much in love with Sally as she was with him. Joan almost wished that it were not so. Had she known that he was utterly devoted to Sally, she could more easily have conquered her own feelings for him. But to conquer them, knowing that Simon was not altogether happy about his engagement, remembering a certain moment, two weeks ago when she had danced with him at a party here, and that look in his eyes which no woman could mistake, was much more difficult. Of course it was madness to think about him at all or to remember anything. He was going to marry Sally. He couldn’t possibly be interested in her, Joan. He mustn’t be. That dance, that look … it had all been fleeting madness. A man’s momentary reaction to feminine allure. Not that she flattered herself that she was so alluring. Neither had she meant to awaken his interest—that way. But she did attract men. There had been others besides Ham who had wanted her. And Simon Roxley found her sympathetic and had told her so. He liked to talk to her. That was always dangerous—to be the sort of woman a man likes talking to!

Sally wasn’t that kind. She was much too voluble herself. She liked to do the talking. She was always gay and on the top of her form. A little overpowering at times, perhaps. Beautiful, spoiled, exacting, and out to get what she wanted in life. A man wouldn’t find it easy to get away from Sally.

Did Simon want to get away from her? Had he regretted his proposal after that cruise down the Dalmatian coast with Sally and her father?

Joan did not know for certain, and did not want to know. It was much better that she shouldn’t. It was too awful to be in love with somebody else’s future husband. Especially when one had never been in love before. Joan had never found it easy to give her heart to anybody. But it had been wrung out of her by Simon Roxley; by something intrinsically appealing in his eyes, his smile, the tilt of his head, the lilt of his voice, the elusive, fascinating personality that was Simon’s.

He had had a mesmeric influence on her from the very first day she had met him. A day to remember, when Sally had come back from her cruise, proudly bearing her fiancé with her. Proud, because she had got what she had schemed for, Simon, his future title, his fine old family name, his pride, in return for her money. She was in love with him, like most women who knew him. He had that effect upon them. But Joan Parwood was horrified because she, too, had allowed herself to be affected.

It had not disturbed her seriously until a month ago. For the last four or five months, Sally had come down at regular intervals with Simon to stay at Great Friars. The hotel was her hobby. One of the ‘toys’ that her father had bought her. And she had put Joan in to manage it because Joan was an old school friend. One of the few members of her own sex whom Sally really liked and admired. But the Parwoods were not well off and Joan had been left an orphan and had taken up hotel work while Sally was still doing a ‘deb’ season in town. It had been a lucky ‘break’ for Joan when her old friend had bought this place and got in touch with her and offered her the management.

Today, Great Friars meant less of a toy to Sally than in previous years. Her father gambled recklessly in a big way. The Vaughan fortune had received a few shocks this last year. A good deal of Sally’s money was tied up in the hotel. Therefore, the profits were now of importance to her. She was delighted with the way Joan managed the place and looked after her interests. And until old Sir George died and Roxley Hall became Simon’s and hers, Sally intended to live at Great Friars after her marriage.

It was a glorious old house, the glorious grounds with green lawns sloping down to the river. In Tudor times it had been a famous monastery. But today, in the great hall where once the monks had eaten, simply and sparingly, looking out of the mullioned windows at the river, fashionable crowds from Mayfair lunched and dined and danced.

Joan had grown attached to the place. The last thing she wanted to do was to hand in her resignation. But if she did not feel better about Simon once he was married to Sally than she did now, she would have no alternative.

She heard Ham’s voice:

‘You’re doing a lot of thinking this morning.’

She wrenched her mind away from Simon.

‘Well, my main thought now is to see the chef about menus for the day,’ she said briskly.

‘What a wise head on those little shoulders,’ said Ham, and although he smiled, his heart ached a bit. He wished he were not so much in love with her. There was so much candour and sweetness in the hazel depths of Joan’s large eyes, set exquisitely in the pure oval of her face. She wore her smooth, dark hair parted in the centre and knotted in the nape of her slender neck. She was not the ordinary ‘pretty girl’, but so much more, in Ham’s estimation. She had a fine, tranquil beauty. And Ham knew there was fire and passion behind that serenity. It was there, in the warm red curve of her mouth. (If only it had been his lot to rouse that fire, he thought.) Except for a touch of lipstick, Joan used no make-up. She needed none, with those sweeping black lashes and pencilled brows.

He would like to have stayed talking, but she was not to be coerced away from her duty. So, a few moments later, he drove away back to his garage, and Joan, with pad and pencil in hand, went forth to her first job of the day, her interview in the big kitchens with the head chef.

But while she listened to suggestions for soup, fish and entrée, it was not the thought of Ham that kept creeping between her and her job, but the thought of Simon Roxley. Simon, who was coming here today with her employer. Simon whom, she felt sure, she must congratulate on an imminent marriage. She was certain that the wedding date had been fixed.

Her heart kept repeating that cry of an hour ago:

‘What am I going to do? Why must I go through all this pain?’

At one o’clock, a black and silver Mercedes-Benz rolled through the wrought-iron gateways leading into the grounds of Great Friars, and pulled up at the hotel entrance. The driver was a tall, thin girl dressed somewhat theatrically in white, with white fox furs and a flowered hat set jauntily on the side of a head which gleamed with platinum-fair curls.

She stepped out of the car, drawing off white leather gloves. Her companion, an uncommonly tall, graceful young man in grey flannels, his black head uncovered, waited to light a cigarette before he got out.

‘We have certainly arrived on a heavenly day, Simon,’ said the girl. ‘But am I longing for a drink? I’ll say I am.’

Simon Roxley yawned. He disliked Sally when she used American slang and dressed herself like a Hollywood film star. Indeed, he was in one of his bad moods today. He was not one whit fired by Sally’s looks, although she was lovely enough with her enormous blue eyes and dazzling fairness. She was nice, too. Gay, kind and generous. Oh! There was no limit to Sally’s generosity. She had plenty, and all that she had, she wanted to give him. No girl on earth could be more anxious to help save the Roxley estates, put Simon on his feet, make it easy for him to live the extravagant sort of life he had always lived until taxation, falling investments, death duties, and one thing and another had brought his family to penury. And at moments, certainly, he was physically stirred by her. Or had been. Quite in love when he had asked her to marry him. He need not label himself as a swine who was merely after her cash. That cruise down the Dalmatian coast had been a glamorous affair. And he had found glamour in getting engaged to Sally Vaughan. Besides, it was a case of ‘fifty-fifty’. She was in love with him and he had a title coming and a position which she coveted.

But that was all six months ago, and since then he had met Joan. …

Simon Roxley’s dark, narrow, brilliant eyes roved in utter discontent from his fiancée to the blaze of scarlet and yellow wallflowers fringing the drive, and on to the lovely grey Elizabethan house. A house which he had always felt was much too individu. . .