Stars Through the Mist. Betty Neels
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‘I hope I pass muster?’
She blinked and smiled rather shyly. ‘I beg your pardon—I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that—well, you never see a person properly in theatre, do you?’
He studied her in his turn. ‘No—and I made a mistake just now. I called you handsome, and you’re not, you’re beautiful.’
She flushed delicately under his gaze and he went on blandly: ‘But let us make no mistake, I’m not getting sentimental or falling in love with you, Deborah.’ His voice had a faint edge which she was quick to hear.
She forced her own voice to normality. ‘You explained about that, but supposing you should meet someone with whom you do fall in love? And you might, you’re not old, are you?’
‘I’m thirty-seven,’ he informed her, still bland, ‘and I have had a number of years in which to fall in and out of love since Sasja’s death.’ He saw her look and smiled slightly. ‘And by that I mean exactly what I said; I must confess I’ve been attracted to a number of women, but I didn’t like them—there is a difference. I like you, Deborah.’
She sipped the drink he had ordered and studied the menu card and tried not to mind too much that he was talking to her as though she were an old friend who had just applied for a job he had going. In a way she was. She put the idea out of her head and chose Suprême de Turbot Mogador and settled for caviare for starters, then applied herself to a lighthearted conversation which gave him no opportunity of turning the talk back to themselves. But that didn’t last long; with the coming of the Vacherin Glacéhe cut easily into her flow of small talk with:
‘As to our marriage—have you any objection if it takes place soon? I want to return to Holland as quickly as possible and I have arranged to leave Clare’s in ten days’ time. I thought we might get married then.’
Deborah sat with her fork poised midway between plate and mouth. ‘Ten days’ time?’ she uttered. ‘But that’s not possible! I have to give a month’s notice.’
‘Oh, don’t concern yourself with that. I can arrange something. Is that your only objection?’
‘You don’t know my family.’
‘You live in Somerset, don’t you? We might go down there and see them before we go to Holland—unless you wish to be married from your home?’
It was like being swept along a fast-moving river with not even a twig in sight. ‘I—I hadn’t thought about it.’
‘Then how would it be if we marry quietly here in London and then go to see your parents?’
‘You mean surprise them?’
‘I’ll be guided by you,’ he murmured.
She thought this rather unlikely; all the same it was a good idea.
‘Father’s an historian,’ she explained, ‘and rather wrapped up in his work, and Mother—Mother is never surprised about anything. They wouldn’t mind. I’d like a quiet wedding, but in church.’
He looked surprised. ‘Naturally. I am a Calvinist myself and you are presumably Church of England. If you care to choose your church I’ll see about the licence and make the arrangements. Do you want any guests?’
She shook her head; it didn’t seem quite right to invite people to a marriage which was, after all, a friendly arrangement between two people who were marrying for all the wrong reasons—although there was nothing wrong with her reason; surely loving someone was sufficiently strong grounds for marrying them? And as for Gerard, his reasons, though very different, held a strong element of practical common sense. Besides, he believed her to be in complete agreement with him over the suitability of a marriage between two persons who, presumably, had no intention of allowing their hearts to run away with their feelings. She wondered idly just what kind of a girl might steal his heart. Certainly not herself—had he not said that he liked her, and that, as far as she could see, was as far as it went.
She drank her coffee and agreed with every show of pleasure to his suggestion that they should go somewhere and dance.
He took her to the Savoy, where they danced for an hour or more between pleasant little interludes at the table he had secured well away from the dance floor. She was an excellent dancer and Gerard, she discovered, danced well too, if a trifle conservatively. Just for a space she forgot her problems and gave herself to the enjoyment of the evening, and presently, drinking champagne, her face prettily flushed, she found herself agreeing that a light supper would be delightful before he took her back to Clare’s. It was almost three o’clock when he stopped the car outside the Home. He got out of the car with her and opened the heavy door with the latch key she gave him and then stood idly swinging it in his hand.
‘Thank you for a delightful evening,’ said Deborah, and tried to remember that she was going to marry this large, quiet man standing beside her, and in ten days, too. She felt sudden panic swamp the tenuous happiness inspired by the champagne and the dancing, and raised her eyes to his face, her mouth already open to give utterance to a variety of thoughts which, largely because of that same champagne, no longer made sense.
The eyes which met hers were very kind. ‘Don’t worry, Deborah,’ he urged her in his deep, placid voice. ‘It’s only reaction; in the morning everything will be quite all right again. You must believe me.’
He bent and kissed her cheek, much as though he were comforting a child, and told her to go to bed. ‘And I’ll see you tomorrow before I go to Holland.’
And because she was bewildered and a little afraid and her head had begun to ache, she did as he bade her. With a whispered good night she went slowly up the stairs without looking back to see if he was watching her, undressed and got into bed, and fell at once into a dreamless sleep which was only ended by her alarm clock warning her to get up and dress, astonished to find that what Gerard had said was quite true; everything did seem all right. She went down to breakfast and in response to the urgent enquiries of her companions, gave a detailed account of her evening and then, fortified by several cups of strong tea, made her way to the theatre unit.
There wasn’t much doing. Mr Squires had a couple of Smith-Petersen pins to insert, a bone graft to do, and there was a Carpal Tunnel—an easy enough list, for he kept strictly to straightforward bone work, leaving the bone tumours to Gerard van Doorninck. They were finished by one o’clock and Deborah had time to go down to dinner before sending Staff off duty. The theatre would have to be washed down that afternoon and she wanted to go through the sharps; some of the chisels needed attention, as did the grooved awl and one or two of the rugines. She would go down to the surgical stores and see what could be done. She had them neatly wrapped and was on the point of making her way through the labyrinth of semi-underground passages to the stores, when Gerard walked in. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Going somewhere?’
She explained about the sharps, and even as she was speaking he had taken them from her and put them on the desk. ‘Later. I have to go again in a few minutes. I just wanted to make sure…’ he paused and studied her with cool leisure. Apparently her calm demeanour pleased him, for he said: ‘I told you that everything would be all right, didn’t I?’ and when she nodded, longing to tell him that indeed nothing was right at all, he went on: ‘I’ve seen about the licence—there’s a small church round the corner, St Joram’s. Would you like to go and see it and tell me if you will marry me there?’
Her heart jumped because she still wasn’t used to the idea of marrying him, although her face remained tranquil enough. ‘I know St Joram’s very well, I go there sometimes. I should like to be married there.’
He gave a small satisfied sound, like a man who had had a finicky job to do and had succeeded with it sooner than he had expected.
‘I’ll be back on Monday—there’s a list at ten o’clock, isn’t there? I’ll see you before we start.’
He took her hand briefly, said goodbye even more briefly, and retraced his steps. Deborah stood in the