Strange Rapture

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Springtime in Venice, romantic, enchanted city of dreams where anything can happen. Sara is too young, too full of love and life to want the magic to pass her by. She would give anything to be out there by the glittering water, floating in a gondola through golden Venetian afternoons and moonlit evenings with the man of her dreams. But the man she loves has never noticed Sara. Nicholas Pelham is too bust flirting with her employer, the exquisitely beautiful Olive. Until the night that all that changes and Sara's dreams come true. But dreams of love can crumble and turn to dust... A captivating love story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1932, and available now for the first time in eBook.

Release date: October 16, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 192

Sample

IT seemed to Sara as she leaned over the balcony on this soft, enchanting afternoon in Spring, that Venice was a city of dreams—that it held all the romance in the world.

She looked down at the water which was deep green and cool, shimmering in the sunlight, listened to the gondoliers singing and felt her pulses thrill to the clear beauty of the young Italian voices.

Venice in the Spring! Venice with a hot sun turning the canals into ribbons of glittering silver, and the spires of the Doge’s Palace into living gold. Venice, when flowers blossom riotously and trees are a young, tender green, and the slim, brown-faced Italians on their poppas are part of the picture. Nobody in the world could look upon it unmoved, Sara told herself. Certainly the electrical atmosphere was disturbing her sadly. She could not bear the thought that inside the house a dozen mundane domestic duties were waiting for her. Clothes to be mended for Olive Amberley; stockings to be darned; a new pair of beach pyjamas to be cut out. Not for herself, but for Mrs. Amberley. Somehow when she was sewing, the task seemed more tedious by reason of the fact that the pretty, silky things were to be worn by another woman.

Of course she must remember that she would never have seen Venice if it had not been for Mrs. Amberley. She had come out with her to Venice as a ‘useful help’. That was the ghastly title they had bestowed upon her in the domestic agency which had secured this job for her.

She had come out with every intention of being ‘useful’ and Mrs. Amberley was tyrannical and saw to it that her employee had plenty to do.

When one is barely twenty and full of the joy of life it isn’t so easy to sit down patiently and work. In England it isn’t easy. In Venice it is torture. Sara wanted to be out there on that glittering water in a gondola. Sara wanted to fill the golden afternoon with dreams. And there was one particular man in Venice with whom Sara would like to have shared those dreams. But that was her secret and not a soul in the world knew about it. Not even the man, himself.

Nicholas Pelham was Olive Amberley’s friend. On the many occasions when he, had lunched or taken tea or dined with the Amberleys, he had had very little to say to Sara. Perhaps because Mrs. Amberley kept her ‘useful help’ well in the background. But the fact remained that Sara had never had a word alone with Nicholas Pelham in her life.

That could not prevent the young and fervent heart of Sara from beating very much faster than usual every time Nicholas Pelham came near her. Neither could it prevent her pulses quickening when he gave her a careless smile or nod or a conventional word of greeting. The fever of Spring and Venice and hero-worship for Nicholas Pelham who had grey eyes and a smooth black head and a thin, graceful body, were things that she could not resist.

A gondola curved round the corner and came in sight, and as it moved nearer, Sara shaded her eyes from the sun with a raised hand and saw the white-clad figure of a man lying on the cushions. At once the red blood burned her cheeks. Here he was—this man who haunted her thoughts. The gondola stopped below her balcony and Nicholas Pelham looked up and waved.

“Hello there—Mrs. Amberley ready?”

“I’ll go and see,” said Sara and without another word turned and walked through the tall windows into the large ornate drawing-room which was full of heavy Italian furniture and Venetian ornaments.

That was all that Nicholas Pelham had to say—just to ask if Mrs. Amberley was ready! Absurd, how it annoyed Sara! And more than that—how it shocked her. Sara, at nineteen, was an idealist. She believed in the sacredness of marriage. She did not see why Olive, who was a married woman, should spend most of her leisure time with an attractive bachelor.

Half-way across the room she met her employer. A strikingly handsome girl of twenty-seven with red curly hair and that exquisitely white skin which goes with it. The brilliant blue eyes were fringed with lashes which had been carefully darkened. The small, petulant mouth was a little too scarlet. But Olive Amberley was soignée; perfectly dressed. Sara had been with her in Paris when she bought that creamy silk suit and the big picture hat which matched it. It had been no mean price. Charles Amberley had plenty of money and he liked to waste it on his young wife. He was thirty years older than she was and they had not been married very long. There was nothing he would not do for her.

Yet here she was, exquisitely made up and dressed—for Nicholas Pelham. Exclusively for him—Sara knew that quite well.

Olive Amberley, pausing to take a cigarette from a little gold and enamel box, gave her ‘useful help’ a significant smile.

“You know what to say, Sara, if Mr. Amberley rings up—don’t you?”

“That you are out shopping,” said Sara coldly.

“Yes, and I shall be back soon after six.”

“Yes, Mrs. Amberley,” said Sara.

She always said ‘yes.’ It was expected of her. And as long as she did exactly what Olive Amberley wanted, Olive was charming to her. On the one occasion when Sara had argued a point, Olive had turned on her in a fury, like a young tigress, and Sara had tasted a little of the venom that lay behind the charm. She did not like Mrs. Amberley—did not trust her. But she did not want to lose her job. It was a good one in many respects. She was little more than a lady’s maid but she ‘lived with the family’ and she travelled, which she had always yearned to do. Already she had seen a little of France; now Venice in the Springtime; and with any luck they would be going on to Spain.

There was another very big reason why Sara did not want to lose her job. There was a sister at home who relied on the money she sent her. A sister with heart-trouble who was unable to work, herself. Three-quarters of Sara’s salary went to poor Mary.

“Oh, and by the way, Sara,” Olive Amberley added with another smile: “I am shopping alone—you understand?”

“Yes, Mrs. Amberley,” said Sara. But her face was flaming again and she swallowed rather hard as Olive’s tall, attractive figure moved out on to the sunlit balcony. She heard the cool, clear voice:

“Hello, Nick!”

Then the man’s, responding:

“Hello, Olive!”

Sara stood still, her lashes downcast. She chewed a little at her lower lip. It was all wrong. She knew that it was wrong. Those two had no right to be ‘Olive’ and ‘Nick’ to each other. Three weeks ago, so far as Sara knew, Olive had not been aware that Mr. Pelham existed. She had only met him through mutual friends in Venice when they arrived here a fortnight ago. Since then, Nicholas Pelham had seen a lot of the Amberleys. And now, when Charles Amberley was away on business, Nicholas was a frequent visitor at the house.

Shopping, indeed! Sara knew quite well that Mrs. Amberley was going to a thé dansant in the gayest hotel at the Lido—with Nicholas. She had heard her make the appointment on the telephone this morning. And she, Sara, must stay here, shut up in the house all this golden afternoon to safeguard Olive in case her husband rang up. Charles Amberley was jealous of the attractive, red-haired wife who was so much younger than himself.

It was only too obvious to Sara, who saw and heard so much more than anybody else, that Olive had married Charles Amberley solely for his money. He bored her. Sara remembered a night in Paris when Olive had rung for her and told her to go and tell Mr. Amberley that she had a bad headache and wanted to be left quite alone to sleep. Olive, reading a naughty French novel and munching chocolates, had given this order, grimacing, and said:

“Mind you make up a pathetic little story about my bad head. I really can’t have the old man in here to-night—he makes me want to yell. You’ve no idea how sickening old men can be when they’re amorous!”

That had shocked Sara’s young and idealistic soul. From that time onwards she had known exactly what Olive’s marriage meant to her. And from that time onwards she had despised her; especially when she saw her with Mr. Amberley when she wanted something out of him. How she fawned, and caressed and deceived the wretched man into thinking that she was an adoring wife!

Something decent and honourable in Sara made her contemptuous of Nicholas Pelham for allowing himself to be drawn into an intrigue with a married woman like Olive. She could not understand why he did it. He seemed so much too nice for that. But he was young, gay, fond of adventure. Perhaps Olive Amberley was just a whim of the moment. At any rate Sara was sure there was nothing serious in the affair. It was ridiculous of her to let the matter worry her at all. But Nicholas interested and charmed her. She could not stand by happily and watch him conduct this intrigue with Olive Amberley.

She moved back just in time to see her employer step into the gondola. Nicholas Pelham had taken her arm and was helping her. They settled themselves on the red cushions; the handsome, grey-eyed young man with the black smooth head and the red-haired girl in her big white hat. They made a picturesque couple. But jealousy tore at Sara’s young heart. Why should Olive Amberley grab everything that she wanted, with those greedy hands of hers—things that she had no right to take? Why should she spend this alluring afternoon of Spring with Nicholas Pelham when she, Sara, would have given anything in the world to be in her place!

A sudden desire seized her to catch Nicholas Pelham’s gaze; hold his attention just for an instant. She leaned over the balcony and called:

“Good-bye!”

The man and the woman looked up. Olive made no reply. She thought that it was rather impertinent of Sara. But Nicholas Pelham smiled and waved.

“So long!”

His smile went straight to Sara’s heart. Her heart beat suffocatingly fast and she watched the gondola till it was out of sight. She was ridiculously pleased because he had noticed her. Then she looked at the blue linen dress which she was wearing. Last summer’s dress, cheap, badly cut, crumpled. She had been on hands and knees turning out drawers for Olive since luncheon. The tears suddenly came to her eyes and she marched into the house and closed the green shutters to keep the drawing-room cool. What a sight she looked! She wondered that Nicholas Pelham bothered to wave or smile. He was just sorry for her—the paid employee. But he was Olive’s friend—Olive’s admirer. How hateful it was.

In the gondola Nicholas Pelham stretched out his long legs, bared his head to the sunshine, and gave a sigh.

“Lord! How lovely it is! I say, oughtn’t we to have taken that little girl along with us? Dashed hard on her being left alone.”

“How perfectly absurd!” said Olive Amberley in a chilling voice. “I wouldn’t dream of taking Sara Grant out with us.”

“Why not? She isn’t a servant.”

“Very nearly.”

“Don’t be a cat, Olive.”

“I’m not. Sara Grant is a sort of companion-help. I don’t need a companion—” Olive gave a significant laugh and glanced at the young man through her darkened lashes: “It was Charlie’s idea. Business is always taking him away and he thought that I wanted somebody with me—his Victorian idea of a chaperone, I suppose.”

“Miss Grant is rather a pretty little girl and not much of a chaperone,” said Pelham thoughtfully.

Olive trailed two slender white fingers in the water and frowned.

“The subject of Sara Grant rather bores me.”

Nicholas Pelham felt suddenly perverse.

“It interests me. Who is she? Where did you find her?”

Olive’s red lips closed mutinously. She was on the verge of being bad-tempered but discretion got the better of her.

“Oh, from a Registry Office in London. I think she’s quite decent family but her parents lost their money. They haven’t a cent. And there’s a delicate sister who can’t work and Sara helps to keep her.”

“Tough luck—at her age—and with those looks.”

Olive made a mental note of the fact that the less Nicholas saw of Sara in the future, the better. She had had no idea he had even noticed the girl.

She slipped an arm through his and her face softened.

“It’s so heavenly out here with you, Nick. Oh, Nick—I wish to God I’d never married Charlie. I’m so terribly unhappy—you don’t know what I’m going through.”

Pelham made no movement. He was stiff and unresponsive and continued to smoke in silence at her side. Through half-shut eyes he looked at the sunlit water and the dome of the Doge’s Palace ahead of them. And he thought what a mess life was—what a hopeless tangle! For days now he had felt the urge to get away from Venice—and Olive. When he had come here a few weeks ago for a holiday, it had never entered his head that he would meet her. She was the last person on earth that he wanted to see. Yet she had been the object of his thoughts, had filled his whole life, for two long years.

Charles Amberley imagined when he and Olive had been introduced to Nicholas that he was a stranger to his wife as well as to himself. They had decided to let him think so. It was better so. But at one time, Olive had been engaged to Nicholas. He had adored her. That was when they were in London; he as a struggling artist and she as a student in an art school which he attended. She had posed for him. That flaming red hair of hers and her wonderful figure had become the lode star of his existence. He had worked with but one ambition—to make enough money in order to marry her.

He went away for a month with his mother who lived in Ireland. When he came back Olive had gone. She had met Charles Amberley, an art dealer of considerable means. He had fallen crazily in love with her. Olive had that effect upon men; and she, mercenary rather than romantic, married him.

This betrayal of their love which had seemed to Nicholas a beautiful and romantic thing, had killed something in him—killed it stone dead. He had put her out of his life. But he had not found it so easy to put her out of his heart and mind. His was a faithful nature. The young artist ceased to be a romantic boy and became a cynic about women. And then just when he was beginning to face life with equanimity again Fate had dealt him an ironic stroke of luck.

The death of an uncle left him a rich man—richer than Charles Amberley. If Olive had waited … but no, he refused to allow himself to think about her. He was going to put women right out of his life and just travel and see all the marvellous things he had wanted to see and paint when he was poor.

That was a year ago.

Nobody had been more embarrassed than Nicholas Pelham when he met the Amberleys in Venice this Spring. The wound was past hurting; there was nothing left for him when he met Olive again but the bitterness of memories. Her charm for. . .