Desperate Defiance Read online

  “It is a very apt simile,” he said shortly.

  As they neared the door, he steered her skilfully towards it and they made their way downstairs.

  ‘Will the time never pass?’ Vivian wondered to herself.

  It seemed to her that a century must tick by before she could get home and wait for Jimmy to come to her.

  The cabaret with its huge chorus of semi-naked women wearing half a million francs’ worth of ostrich feathers failed to amuse her. The glittering finale of naked legs and top hats made of looking-glass passed unnoticed by her as she tried to catch a glimpse of Jimmy, who had moved to the end of the terrace with his noisy and raffish party.

  ‘How awful for him to have to stay with such people,’ Vivian thought

  Tales of how Mrs. Stubbs had taken a whole floor at the Beach Hotel for herself and for her guests, of her three Hispano-Suiza cars decorated in chocolate brown and driven by black chauffeurs, were the talk of everyone in Monte Carlo.

  “But who are the Stubbs then?” a newcomer would ask – to be answered by a chorus of, ‘You can’t tub without Stubbs.’

  Everybody had seen the advertisements in England of the new washing powder which was, as Jimmy had said, guaranteed to do everything in the world except drive a motor car. Out of his patent mixture, with the help of tremendous advertising, Mr. Stubbs had accumulated a fortune in a short number of years.

  ‘If Jimmy gets his insurance job, perhaps we shall be able to get married,’ Vivian thought.

  At last, as the clock struck one, Lady Dalton rose. Only Vivian and her aunt descended to the Villa very high on the Corniche road overlooking the sea.

  “I have enjoyed myself. Thank you so much, Aunt Geraldine,” Vivian said.

  “I am afraid that we were rather an old party for you,” her aunt replied. “But though I live here I seldom go to the galas at the Casino and all my friends are rather ancient and staid.”

  “Nonsense,” Vivian replied to her laughing. “The Admiral was as chirpy as a two-year-old and I think he enjoyed dancing.”

  “I am sure he did with you,” her aunt replied. “But whether you enjoyed yourself is another matter.”

  “Well, I promise you I did,” Vivian answered, kissing her again and going into her bedroom.

  She waited for a moment until her aunt’s door was very firmly closed and then, turning out the lights, she tip-toed softly down the carpeted stairs.

  She cautiously opened the French window into the garden and walked out.

  The garden was not very wide and marched beside that of the Villa next door, but it wended its way downhill by a series of little paths until it came to a lower road, beyond which was the sea.

  Here there was a small summerhouse with roses climbing over it and the sweet perfume of night-scented stock. All was very quiet and still. Out to sea a lighthouse flashed intermittently. There were the little lights of Cap Ferrat and the twinkle of the stars overhead.

  Vivian felt that she was part of the mystery and beauty of it all.

  The noise of an approaching car made her start and she looked anxiously over the wall into the road, but it had stopped at a gate further down and her heart started beating again.

  It was not Jimmy.

  There was a sound of voices and laughter and she realised that the people of the next door Villa had come home.

  Curiosity made her move away from the summerhouse and peep through the dividing hedge into the garden of the Villa Sebastian.

  She could now see several people descending from a very large Rolls-Royce.

  Watching them, Vivian saw a vivacious American – who was talking at the top of her voice – gesticulating so that her diamond bracelets glittered and flashed in the light of the car’s headlamps.

  With her were several men, all more or less the worse for drink, and two others – Mrs. Mackie and Dhilangi.

  ‘So they are staying next door,’ Vivian thought. ‘How amusing. Perhaps he will propose to her in the Villa garden and I shall know the answer to the problem that is worrying Europe so much.’

  She heard Mrs. Mackie saying to the chauffeur,

  “Wait here for Mr. Dhilangi.”

  Then, talking and laughing loudly, the whole party moved up the garden towards the Villa. Slowly, Vivian retraced her steps to the summerhouse. She was waiting more impatiently for Jimmy now. Somehow the calm beauty of the night had been broken by the noise and chatter of the party next door.

  She could no longer feel the beauty of sea and sky enveloping her. She could only wait, every nerve alert for the sound of another motor car.

  At last she heard one coming. She held her breath and prayed it might be Jimmy and that the headlights would not sweep by.

  Then, just when she thought she was to be disappointed again there was the sound of brakes and only a few seconds later she heard Jimmy’s footsteps coming towards her.

  She sat still, savouring the moment, almost afraid to break the silence that seemed to hold her, bound and palpitating, in the shadow of the little summerhouse.

  The next moment he was beside her.

  “Jimmy,” she cried and put out her arms.

  He held her stiffly and did not kiss her.

  “Darling,” she said. “I thought you were never coming.”

  Then his attitude and his silence struck her as strange.

  “What is it?” she asked apprehensively. “What is the matter?”

  He then moved a few paces away from her and stood looking out towards the sea, his figure silhouetted against the sky.

  She could now see the outline of his head, the strong square-cut shoulders and his height, which always made her feel small and yet so comfortingly protected in his arms.

  “Jimmy,” she said again sharply. “What is it?”

  He turned towards her and took both her hands in his. She could not see his features although she tried hard, she only knew that he was looking anxious and worried.

  “Listen to me, Vivian,” he started. “I have come here to tell you something and now I don’t know how to do it.”

  His voice was stiff and unlike him. Vivian felt a sudden chill of fear sweep over her.

  “Tell me,” she said. “You must tell me, Jimmy, what is it that you are afraid to tell me?”

  There was a long silence and then, as if he made a tremendous effort, Jimmy spoke,

  “I am going to marry Marjorie Stubbs.”

  Vivian stood absolutely still as they faced each other in the dim shadows.

  ‘It isn’t true,’ Vivian thought in a flash. ‘I am not hearing this. I ought to be screaming, crying, fainting with pain or dying at his feet, but I am not I am standing still and hearing it.’

  Nearly a minute must have passed and then, surprisingly clear and firm, her voice quizzed him,

  “Why?”

  Only then did Jimmy release her hands.

  Again he turned his back on her and stared out to sea.

  “Why do you think?” he answered harshly and, as Vivian did not reply, he went on, “Because she has money, because I have got to have it. Don’t you understand – don’t you see, Vivian? I cannot live without it.

  “I loathe the office, I loathe the humdrum existence I have been living in London, pinching and saving, beastly lodgings, second-rate food. And the eternal struggle to keep myself alive and decent – I cannot stand it I tell you, and this is the only way out.”

  Vivian felt as if she was acting in some play. It was not she who stood there – it was not she, with dry eyes, who was listening to the man to whom she had given not only her heart but her soul.

  ‘He does not want me,’ she thought ‘This is the end.’

  It seemed so incredible and unreal, that she almost laughed out loud and yet she knew that he was gone.

  Already the Jimmy she had known had left her. Again there was a long silence and then Jimmy spoke.

  “I am sorry, Vivian. Speak to me,” he said a moment later. “Say something. Reproach me, curse me, but don’t keep silent. If only you knew how much I do hate myself for doing this to you. How I loathe and despise myself for the way I am behaving and yet I cannot help it, Vivian.”

  As if her very silence had exasperated him beyond endurance, he put his arms round her, drew her close to him and he kissed her cheek and then her mouth.

  He might have been kissing a dead woman. She made neither response nor repulsion and she felt nothing. It was unlike any kiss she had ever had from Jimmy because nothing within her responded. She was still acting, still outside this amazing scene, watching it – a stranger watching a stranger’s emotions.

  Roughly Jimmy took his arms away from her. He was becoming embarrassed by her silence. It was not what he had expected and he did not understand it. He stood for a moment staring at her in the darkness as if striving to read her expression. Then, unable to bear it any longer, the whole thing too much for him, he turned and left her, finding his way down the cliff gravel path and down the stone steps.

  There was the sharp bang of a car door, the noise of the engine starting up and Vivian was alone.

  She stared with wide eyes straight in front of her. Her lips tried to form Jimmy’s name and then bitter tears started to course down her cheeks.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a car coming up the road, and the noise of it galvanised her into sudden concentration.

  Vivian jumped up and stood quivering and listening. Nearer and nearer came the hum of the engine until with a flicker of lights it had passed.

  Only when the last sound of it had died away into the distance did Vivian fling out her arms in a despairing gesture and then call out Jimmy’s name.

  “It isn’t true, it isn’t true! Jimmy, my own Jimmy!” she repeated again and again.

  Her voice choked and the only sound was her sobbing breath.

  The garden was very quiet. There was no wind and the trees and flowers, dimly lit under the stars, seemed to stand sentinel before the death of a love that could never blossom again.

  Suddenly the silence was broken by a sharp report, the noise of a motor backfiring or of a gunshot.

  Vaguely Vivian heard it and the mere effort of listening checked the wildness of her tears.

  In an effort for breath, she then threw back her head and, as she did so, she stiffened.

  A man had come swiftly towards the summerhouse and he was standing outside. He was not very tall and she could see that he was wearing evening clothes, his white shirt and cuffs visible in the dusk.

  She tried to say,

  “What do you want?”

  But her voice was too choked and the only result of her effort was an inarticulate sound that was almost a groan.

  Swiftly he stepped in toward her and she felt a thrill of fear, then his voice, low, cultured and speaking in English, somehow reassured her.

  “Who is there?” he asked.

  For several moments she was incapable of answering him. Then he drew something from his pocket, struck a match and a tiny yellow flame flickered in his cupped hands.

  “Don’t look at me,” Vivian said sharply and instinctively.

  She dropped her swollen eyes before the flickering illumination and then they were in the darkness again.

  “Listen, Miss Carrow,” the stranger said, speaking very quietly. “I want you to help me.”

  “You know my name,” Vivian said in surprise. “Who are you?”

  “Never mind,” came the answer. “Listen to me. It is a question of moments. I know who you are and I know that you are used to standing by your father in difficult situations. Do what I tell you now and you will be doing a great service to your country.”

  “But ‒ what?” Vivian tried to say.

  The stranger however, took no notice of her interruptions.

  “In a few seconds,” he went on, speaking so low that she could hardly hear his voice, “a man or perhaps men will come here. Let them think that we have been together for some time. You need not speak and I will do the talking. That is all I want you to do. Do you understand?”

  “But why?” Vivian asked in a whisper.

  “There is no time for questions,” he replied stiffly.

  A moment later she heard footsteps and instantly with the sound the stranger put his hand on hers, holding it tightly with firm strong fingers. She had no time to think and no time to consider her action, before two men stood by the summerhouse and a torch was flashed on her face.

  She gave an involuntary exclamation, the light was so confusing and she put her free hand to her eyes to shield them.

  “What is it?” her unknown companion asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “Pardon, monsieur,” came the answer, “have you seen anyone pass through this garden?”

  “Pass through the garden?” repeated Vivian’s companion.

  He stood up and the light was directed on his face, but he had stepped forward a pace or so and, as she had not moved, she could see nothing but his back. He had relinquished her hand as he moved but not before the torch, like a sharp eye, had noted the movement.

  “No one has gone through here so far as I know. What right have you to ask?”

  “We are the Police, monsieur,” came the reply.

  “I am sorry,” the Englishman said, “I am afraid I cannot help you. Is anything the matter?”

  “It is nothing,” the Gendarme answered. “A little trouble at the Villa next door,”

  “You yourself, monsieur,” said the other man. “You have been here some time?”

  “Only twenty minutes. That is all, mademoiselle and I were –”

  He hesitated for a second and then added, “ – just talking.”

  Again the torch flashed towards Vivian – played for a moment on her ravaged tear-stained face, on her trembling hands holding a soaked white handkerchief. Then two hands went up to salute.

  “Mille pardons, monsieur. Bonsoir. Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”

  “Good night,” said the Englishman and faintly Vivian answered, speaking for the first time.

  “Goodnight.”

  Silently the two policemen then disappeared in the direction from which they had come, through the fuchsia hedge and into the garden next door.

  Vivian and her companion listened in silence and then he turned towards her and said,

  “Thank you, Miss Carrow. That was magnificent.”

  “What does it ‒ all mean?” she asked.

  Instead of answering her he put out his hand and drew her to her feet

  “I am going to take you back to the house,” he said. “It is time you went to bed.”

  “Please tell me,” she expostulated, “who you are. Why did you do this and why are you here?”

  “Will you trust me?” he asked. “And believe that it was for a very good reason and will you do one more thing for me – even if it is, maybe, the most difficult of all?”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Will you forget all about this tomorrow morning and not repeat to anyone what has happened?”

  She did not answer and he added,

  “Promise me on your word of honour.”

  His voice was stern, almost commanding, and yet another time Vivian might have resented the authoritative note.

  But she suddenly felt just too exhausted and weary to argue. What did it matter – what did anything matter now?

  “I promise,” she answered.

  Slowly and in silence they walked up the garden. At the foot of the steps that led up to the Villa itself he paused.

  “Goodnight, Miss Carrow,” he said, holding out his right hand. “Thank you again for what you have done and for your promise to say nothing.”

  Vivian put her hand in his.

  “Goodnight,” she said dully.

  She felt warmth and vitality glowing through his fingers.

  “Don’t be unhappy,” he advised. “Life is always an adventure, remember that.”

  And before she could answer him, he had turned around and was striding away down the garden.

  He walked on the grass rather than the path so that his departure was as silent as had been his arrival.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Vivian was going home by the Blue Train.

  Only a week ago she had journeyed in it Southwards, travelling joyfully towards her destination, knowing that every mile and every minute brought her nearer to the man she loved.

  Was she the same person, she now asked herself, who had found it impossible to sleep because tomorrow had held such happiness that she could not bear to relinquish her thoughts of it?

  Was she really the same person to welcome the first sight of the blue sea and warm sun, not because they were just so beautiful but because they meant that in another hour she would be in Jimmy’s arms?

  She had not told her aunt why she now wished to leave in such a hurry, but having seen her niece off at Nice Station, Lady Dalton had driven back to the Villa.

  On the Upper Corniche road she saw a long grey open tourer coming towards her. In it, as they swept by, she recognised Jimmy and Marjorie Stubbs. Jimmy was bareheaded and his blue silk tennis shirt was open at the neck.

  He was laughing and he looked extraordinarily handsome as he skilfully rounded the bend and passed Lady Dalton.

  Her face was serious as she drove on. She was remembering Vivian’s expression when she came down the stairs that morning to announce her departure.

  What had happened between these two eminently suited young people?

  Puzzling over the problem, she entered the Villa to find a huge box of pink roses lying on the hall table addressed to Vivian. Perhaps these were a peace offering, she thought hastily.

  Perhaps the child had been much too impetuous, rushing back to London without even trying to effect a reconciliation.

  The thought of Jimmy’s face as she had seen him on the road made her hesitate doubtfully and then slowly she slit open the little envelope that was tied to the flowers.

  Inside there was a plain visiting card such as is always supplied by florists and on it were two words in a strange neat handwriting.

  “Thank you.”

  The problem was beyond Lady Dalton.

  She turned towards her sitting room, taking the little card with her, which she intended to enclose in a letter to her niece.