This Spring of Love

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Christine, an orphan with high romantic ideals, agrees to aid Fiona in her elopement, but soon she finds her position as an imposter a nefarious one. Here she is, living the life of a spoilt heiress in the beautiful Lakeland district - a dream come true. But with fear of discovery and an assumed social position to maintain, separating her from an active life and the man she esteemed, the loss of her own identity assumes nightmarish proportions.

Release date: March 27, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 192

Sample

THE sirens had sounded the ‘All-clear.’

Christine Shaw, who had been standing by her ambulance during the two hours’ alert, came out of the depot and made her way to the nearest bus stop, feeling a little thankful that tonight she would not be on duty. She was very tired and this was a Saturday afternoon, which meant a long rest, and she needed it. It had been a heavy week, what with the office where she worked as a typist being bombed and that awful business of trying to salvage what was left of files and letters and office equipment, and moving to temporary quarters in another part of London.

Besides that, there had been one big raid this week when she was on night duty, and although Christine had courage and determination, some of those long dark hours in a raging inferno had been trying, to say the least of it. All through that night she had been driving her ambulance, waiting for the A.F.S. and the demolition men to dig the dying and wounded out of the debris, and then driving back to the hospitals. All night she had witnessed grim sights, best forgotten—hard to forget. By night, the slender, delicately-built girl must be as tough and resolute as a soldier on the battlefield. But by day she was just Miss Shaw again, quiet little typist in the service of Messrs. Tring and Locket, solicitors of Grays Inn Field.

It was glorious this September afternoon, she thought, and the sun warmed her face and her exhausted limbs, as she stood at the corner of the street waiting for a bus to take her to Warwick Avenue, where she shared a flat with a friend.

There were many others like herself to be seen in London in this year of our Lord, 1940. Just a tired girl in a uniform with a Service gas-mask, a steel helmet and the faintest look of strain in the eyes although the lips belied it with a laugh. But Christine at this precise moment was feeling neither valiant-hearted nor proud to be of service to her country. She was thoroughly tired and disgruntled. She knew that it was because she was so tired that this black mood was upon her. No doubt a hot bath, a good meal, and a long sleep would help her to return to her customary state of indifference to the ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,’ many of which had pierced the armour of her joyous youth already, although she had only just come of age.

As she sat in the bus, homeward bound at last, and looked through the windows at the traffic, the crowds pouring out of shelters and into the streets again, at the blue sky in which Some high-flying fighters left a trail of exhaust, at the gaps here and there where a bomb from the Luftwaffe had sliced through a row of houses … at the sprinkling of uniforms, khaki, light blue and dark … she asked herself what it was all about. Why must there be terrible wars like this? Why should she, Christine Shaw, have been born into such an age?

Why hadn’t she lived with the peaceful Victorians or the gay Georgians? Why had fate decreed that her beloved parents should have both died in India in an accident just before her eighteenth birthday (Colonel Shaw had retired from the Indian Army and was about to come home for good when that accident had happened and Christine, at finishing school in Switzerland, had been looking forward passionately to seeing him and the beloved mother who had been away from her so much all through her childhood).

Why should Uncle Alfred with whom she had gone to live on her return to England also have been taken from her, the victim of an influenza epidemic? Why should his only married daughter, Christine’s cousin Alison, be such a horrid unattractive character, wanting everything for herself and her family and unwilling to let Christine remain in the home that Uncle Alfred had provided for her. Incidentally, why had poor Uncle Alfred died before altering his Will so that Alison had got everything and Christine nothing that he had meant her to have?

There seemed no answer to any of these questions which were running through Christine’s weary young mind as the bus thundered down High Street, Kensington. At most times she did not let past problems or spectres trouble her. With all the ardour and resilience of youth, she had been able to fling off the cloak of trouble and face life anew. She had been badly disappointed and unutterably lonely for a long time after her parents’ tragic death. There had seemed nothing to look forward to—that had been the worst of it, and that was the worst of it, today. She could do none of the things she had wanted to do if her father and mother had lived—or even if Uncle Alfred had survived, for he had been fond of her and was her last living relation except cousin Alison. She had had to stamp remorselessly on the dreams she had dreamed in her beautiful school in Chexbres. She had not been destined to settle down with mother and father in a country house (she had always adored the country) and have a marvellous time like many girls of her age and standing. Once Uncle Alfred departed this life, she had to become one of the world’s workers. Out of sheer pride she had refused to take the meagre allowance grudgingly offered by cousin Alison.

She still had the small amount left to her by her father (it wasn’t much because Colonel Shaw had always lived up to, if not beyond his means) but Christine had managed to pay for her own secretarial training at St. James College, and soon afterwards she had found a job with Messrs. Tring and Locket. And she had had one stroke of luck … getting Barbara Jenkins, who had trained with her at St. James, and was also an orphan, to share the tiny flat in Warwick Avenue with her.

And then the war had come. Life had grown more difficult, more tense, less monotonous perhaps. Christine had wanted to leave the office and go into the A.T.S., but the senior partner of the firm had told her that he could not carry on if the whole of the staff left him. He had made her feel that it was her duty to stay, even once the raids began, so she had found a part-time job at the ambulance depot. And Barbara Jenkins—private secretary to a woman novelist—was an air-raid warden in their district.

So far, Christine had been through every one of the heavy raids on London. So far she had stood up to them without flinching, and she had met many courageous and delightful people in her depot; among them a man, once a stockbroker and now an ambulance driver like herself, who doggedly proposed to her almost every time they met.

Christine liked Kenneth Howell. He was ten years older than herself, a little bald and unprepossessing but essentially nice and with money behind him. It would have been a good marriage. It would have meant comfort and security and a husband who adored her and would never have to leave her alone. He was not fit for active service. But she did not love him, so she could not marry him. And now he was leaving the ambulance depot, because, as he had told her again today, he could not stand being near her and seeing her daily when he knew that there was no hope. The idea of losing Kenneth’s friendship was one of the things which depressed her this afternoon. She liked him and she had stood shoulder to shoulder with him in many emergencies at the depot and they had shared some very pleasant evenings when they were not on duty. Christine wished she could have loved Kenneth. Then life would have seemed easy and her future settled. Alternatively, she wished that he had not loved her so that their friendship might have endured.

She seemed fated to lose the people and the things she loved, she thought dismally. Not only was Kenneth going, but Barbara had lately become engaged to a naval officer. They intended to get married on his next leave and that would mean an end for Christine to home life in Warwick Avenue, and to Barbara’s companionship.

It didn’t sound much. Just trifles in a world which was plunged into such frightfulness. She knew she ought to be glad she was alive and not one of those poor, shattered, maimed individuals whom she had helped to drive to the hospital. But it wasn’t human to regard life with quite so much reason and logic. One’s own little troubles mattered a terrific lot, and after all it would make a very great difference to her, saying good-bye to Barbara and to the home they had shared for the last two years.

Barbara was away this weekend. She had gone down to Reigate to stay with an aunt. When Christine got home it was to a deserted flat and to a muddle. She had slept late this morning and had to rush off without washing up the breakfast dishes. She grimaced as she saw the remains of her hastily-prepared and half-eaten breakfast waiting for her in the tiny kitchenette. The flat, which consisted of three rooms, was on the fifth floor of a big block, half-empty at the moment, since so many tenants had taken fright at the raids and left London.

It was stifling this afternoon and Christine hastened to open all the windows. The sun had been beating against the panes all morning. She adored the sun, but not in London when the summer was still aflame. But it would be lovely on the river … or in the country, in a rose-filled garden … or by the sea. She sighed at the very thought. She hadn’t had a holiday in the country for eighteen months.

Yes, she was definitely at a very low ebb of depression today, she reflected. She felt like crying, here all by herself, and that was a weakness she scorned. She almost felt like ringing up Kenneth Howell and telling him she would marry him. But that idea horrified her. It wouldn’t be fair to Kenneth, and hadn’t she always sworn that she would never marry until she fell in love? Kenneth wasn’t at all her type. She wanted somebody much more vital. … She hadn’t much use for the debonair man-about-town. Even Barbara’s fiancé was more in her line … a sun-tanned, breezy naval officer. But she never really met the sort of man that she could love completely. He belonged, she told herself rather bitterly, to the many dreams which seemed out of her reach.

Somebody knocked at the door, and before Christine could say Come in,’ a girl had put her head round the door.

Christine jumped to her feet, almost upsetting her work-basket which she had just taken out.

“Why, Fiona—you!” she exclaimed.

Into the room came a slimly-built girl of her own build and age.

Fiona Challis was exquisitely dressed in a charming suit. Brown fox-fur, diamond clip in the organdie frills at her throat, chic turban swathing fair curls … a drift of perfume … a jangle of bracelets … an extravagant spray of orchids on her coat. All a marked contrast between Fiona Challis and Christine Shaw. The girls had been abroad at school in Chexbres together.

Fiona said:

“Christine, darling. I’ve got to see you most urgently. Are you alone? Can we talk?”

“I’m quite alone. Barbara, my friend who lives here with me, is away.”

Then Fiona gave a little sigh, followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

“Oh, Christine, Christine!” she said.

Christine led her friend to the window seat, put a cushion at her back, and sat there beside her. With a sense of shock, she realised that something was very wrong with her old friend, Fiona. She had changed unbelievably since the last time they had met, which was some months ago, when they had tea in Fiona’s house in Eaton Square.

Fiona had then been enjoying herself as well might the daughter and heiress of one of the richest men in England. So long as Christine could remember, Fiona had always been gay, pursuing a somewhat selfish existence perhaps, but so charming and kind that nobody begrudged her happiness.

Christine had loved Fiona ever since the days at school when the ‘richest girl’ had formed a friendship with the poorest … an attachment which had lasted through their education and long after they had left school, when Fiona became a popular debutante and Christine had gone to live with her uncle.

Christine had no idea what Fiona had been doing this summer. She had seen her photograph now and again in Society papers. Miss Challis helping to get up dances or fetes in aid of the Red Cross. Miss Challis helping at an officers’ club. Miss Challis dancing with this young guardsman or that.

What could have happened to bring her here in such a state? Christine could see that under the delicate make-up Fiona’s face was pale, her eyes reddened as though she had been crying, and her whole body trembling nervously.

“Why, my darling!” exclaimed Christine. “What on earth is wrong?”

“The most terrible and the most wonderful thing,” said Fiona Challis; “I’m in love, Christine … desperately, hopelessly in love. So much so that I can’t eat or sleep properly … I can’t think of anyone but him. It’s killing me!”

Christine stared.

“But why? Why shouldn’t love make you happy?”

“Because father has put his foot down and absolutely refuses to let me marry my Peter,” said Fiona. She flung herself into the other girl’s arms and burst into tears. “Oh, Christine, I’ve been half-mad for days. You’re the only person in the world who can help me, so I’ve come to you.”

It took some time for Christine to get a coherent story out of Fiona, who was obviously distracted. But gradually it was unfolded to her. Three months ago at an officers’ club dance, Fiona met Peter Hollis, a subaltern in the ‘Gunners.’ She had realised at once that Peter was the one and only person in the world for her. He felt the same way about her. He was twenty-five, charming, amusing, but dependable … even her father had to admit that Peter Hollis was ‘a good lad.’ But, although Mr. Challis had nothing concrete against Peter, he disapproved on principle of war marriages. Nothing would induce him to agree to the immediate wedding which Fiona demanded.

“He thinks I’ll change my mind,” finished Fiona, looking at Christine with wet, tragic eyes. “He won’t see that it means so much more to me than an ordinary love affair. Why, it’s life itself!”

For a moment Christine hesitated to give her opinion. She had known Fiona to pass so quickly from one light-hearted ‘affair’ to another, and crowds of men were after the girl who was remarkably beautiful, with her primrose hair, her grey-blue, dark-lashed eyes, coupled with a sunny disposition, and a fortune behind her. But a few minutes’ more conversation with Fiona made Christine decide that this affair was different from the rest.

“I would die for Peter,” Fiona declared passionately. “I’d give up everything and be poor with him, if necessary. Oh, Christine, I know I’ve been a butterfly up till now but Peter has found the real me. Daddy won’t see it, but Peter can make me the woman he’s always wanted me to be.”

She rambled on about Peter. He was stationed near London at the moment, but there was a rumour that his battery might shortly be going abroad. Then she might never see him again. She said:

“Christine, I must marry him at once. I must belong to him. If Peter was killed before our marriage, I should never get over it. You do believe me, don’t you?”

Christine looked at Fiona’s tear-stained woeful face, and she did believe. Yes, Fiona was desperately sincere. Christine could not doubt that, and as she sat there, listening, it gave her a queer psychic sensation, as though this thing were happening not only to Fiona, but herself. For she knew that if and when she loved, she would feel as Fiona did. The same blinding need to go her lover against the world itself.

It seemed shortsighted and stupid of Mr. Challis, who had always indulged his daughter’s every whim, to refuse now the thing that mattered most to her. Naturally he was afraid that she might rush into a mistake, in war-time. But if he sent this man away from Fiona, mused Christine, it might destroy all that was best in her. It might hurt her irreparably.

Fiona went on with her story. Her father was going to America at once on Government business of some urgency. She knew that he was terrified she might do something mad while he was away so he had got in touch with an old friend, Robert Standing, who owned a big property on the borders of Westmorland and Lancashire. His home, Wyckam Manor, was in a wild, lonely, lovely spot. He ran three big farms up there. Despite all Fiona’s protests, her father had arranged for her to go to Wyckam Manor as a paying guest until his return from America.

“He thinks I’ll be out of mischief up there,” Fiona told Christine, “and you can imagine what it would mean to me never to see Peter, and for him to leave England and perhaps never see me again!”

Christine stood up and moved restlessly round her small sitting-room. Fiona’s story was beginning to depress her. She had meant to be comforting and practical, but what could she say or do to help this girl whose whole soul was bound up in urgent need of her lover?

Fiona, dashing the tears from her eyes, caught at Christine’s hand.

“Help me, Christine, help me!” she implored.

“I’d do anything on earth for you if I knew a way,” said Christine huskily.

“Well, I know a way,” said Fiona, her eyes wild and bright and her young face pale. “You can go to Wyckam Manor in my place.”

Christine stared.

“Darling, are you mad?”

Fiona broke into a fresh argument, unfolded fresh plans which had obviously been formulated before she came.

Robert Standing had not seen her since she was a baby … would never know the difference if Christine went up North to stay with him. She, Christine, loved the country. She would be happy wandering around the farms. Meanwhile, Mr. Challis would be in America, and Fiona could marry her Peter the day after Mr. Challis left. By the time Mr. Challis returned, it would be too late for him to make a fuss.

“I shall be Peter’s wife and nothing can separate us,” Fiona finished breathlessly.

Christine’s eyes, hazel-gold, looked into the grey-blue ones of her friend. She laughed nervously.

“Darling, it’s a crazy scheme … I couldn’t. …”

“You can, you must,” interrupted Fiona. “It will only be for a few weeks. Please, please go in my place. It’s all so easy. You’ve no ties. You’ve only got to give notice in the office and tell the girl you live with that you’re going off for a hiking tour. You leave no address. Nobody will know you up in the North. I’ll write letters and send them to you to post to Daddy from the village. Peter and I will have our honeymoon, and then, when he goes abroad, I’ll go up North and tell Uncle Bob Standing the truth. But it won’t be any use then his cabling Daddy.”

“But, darling. …”

“No, no, you mustn’t refuse me. I’ll help you find a better job when you come back. And you’re tired, Christine. You look thin and worn. It will do you a world of good to have a few weeks on the farm. Oh, Christine, Christine, do it—for it means the whole of my life to me.”

Christine shook her head blankly. Her head was in a whirl. She was stirred and impressed by all that Fiona said, but hesitant to impersonate another girl. On and on pleaded Fiona, pointing out that if she, Fiona, defied her father openly now, he might refuse to go away and leave her. It would be fatal for him to refuse the Government’s offer to send him to America to pull off a big deal at a time of crisis. It was for his sake that Christine must do this thing as well as Fiona’s.

“And it will only be for a few weeks,” Fiona kept assuring her.

Somebody knocked on the door.

At once Fiona dashed to the mirror to powder her face and arrange her hair. Her eyes grew starry-bright.

“That’s my Peter. I asked him to call for me. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

Christine stood speechlessly thinking over all that Fiona had said. The idea was beginning to appeal to her vastly. Not only the idea of helping her friend to gain her heart’s desire but of spending a lovely autumn month in the country. It was tempting.

Fiona opened the door, Christine caught a glimpse of a tall young man in officer’s uniform, of a hand going up in a salute, then of two arms enfolding Fiona’s slender figure. Her fur dropped to the ground. The fair head was tilted back. The lips of the lovers met in a long, passionate kiss.

Christine Shaw felt her heart rocketing and her cheeks grew warm. She was curiously stirred by the sight of that close embrace. It decided her. She knew that she could no longer refuse to do what Fiona asked. She must help these two to find their heaven.

Fiona came back into the room. Peter Hollis came with her, his fingers twined with hers.

“I suppose you think we’re both crazy,” he said to Christine with an apologetic smile.

“Quite,” she said, and smiled back at him.

“Oh, but darling,” exclaimed Fiona, “I’ve explained how terribly urgent it all is and what it means to us, and you do agree with me, don’t you, Christine, that we’re justified in getting married like this without Daddy’s permission?”

“I wouldn’t exactly use the word ‘justified,’” said Christine, “because I don’t really know whether one is ever justified in telling lies or going behind someone’s back. But in this case I sort of feel that your father is making a mistake and that you ought to be allowed to get married.”

“There!” said Fiona triumphantly, “I told you she’d see our point of view, didn’t I, Peter? When we were at the Institut Préalpin Christine was always terribly romantic. She believes in romance. She believes in ours, don’t you, Christine?”

“Yes, I think I do, but I don’t know why. I never had much in my life,” said Christine with a short laugh.

Peter Hollis, one arm still enfolding his Fiona, glanced speculatively at the other girl. He thought she looked rather sweet, although she had none of Fiona’s spectacular beauty. She was too pale and thin and—perhaps only for the moment—l. . .