Doctor Raoul's Romance Page 9

  Nicholas was obviously puzzled by what had happened. The day after Raoul had announced their engagement, he stopped her in the hall.

  “Adrien—this is a surprise,” he began.

  “It’s a surprise for me too, Nicholas.” She smiled up at him.

  “Is it, Adrien?” His eyes narrowed anxiously.

  “I mean—” she corrected herself hastily, confused—“I mean ... it all happened so suddenly.”

  She forced herself to look him in the eyes. She ought to say, “We love each other,” but she dared not. She was sure Nicholas would sense the insincerity of the words. But she could truthfully say, “We understand each other, Nicholas.”

  “Then in that case—I wish you all happiness, Adrien.” He pressed her arm gently and turned away.

  “He isn’t pleased,” thought Adrien, “he isn’t really pleased.” For her, those few moments had been bittersweet.

  Blanche was openly envious.

  “You are lucky, Adrien—I do envy you! I never thought of trying for Raoul Dubois. I thought he was all tied up with Denise de Neuf!”

  Adrien smiled.

  “I thought you didn’t want to get married, Blanche. You told me you wanted to give your life to the theater.”

  And just now, one didn’t need to be a skilled psychiatrist to see that, in spite of her determined lightness of manner, the girl was deeply upset. Her face was pale and her eyes had an unhealthy brightness. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, as though she was in the grip of an acute nervous tension. Certainly something was boiling up inside Blanche.

  She determined to try to tackle Blanche herself. But she did not make much progress.

  “Blanche, are you ill?” she asked her.

  Blanche tossed her red hair. “Course not,” she said airily.

  “Then what is the matter?”

  “Oh, leave me alone, Adrien! I’m all churned up. Sick of life!”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” worried Adrien. “Everyone in this house is getting so highly strung, one doesn’t know where one is.” The only exception was little Geoffrey. Once so tearful and full of tantrums in her presence, he accepted her now, and came to her freely to be read to and played with, when she had the time. But his sister, Frances, had started to sulk.

  “We don’t see much of you now, Adrien. Why don’t you look after us, instead of Aunt Blanche? You’re much nicer.”

  Adrien laughed.

  “You wouldn’t think so if you saw more of me. I can be very strict with naughty little girls. But you know I have to look after Mummy.”

  “Mummy’s getting better now, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she’s much better now. Soon she’ll be able to look after you and Geoffrey herself. Then you won’t need me or Blanche.”

  “I suppose not,” said Frances slowly. “But Adrien, that won’t be much fun, will it, if Mummy’s as cross as she is now?”

  Nicholas arrived in time to hear the last question. He said shortly, “Frances, never let me hear you speak like that about your mother.”

  Startled, Frances colored and seemed about to say something, then changed her mind and went off murmuring that she must do her homework.

  Nicholas threw himself into a garden chair. He said distractedly, “Even the children notice it now. What is happening, Adrien? What’s happening to my wife?”

  “Nicholas,” Adrien looked at him with pleading in her eyes. “You mustn’t worry, really. It’s just convalescence. Convalescents are always bad-tempered. It won’t last. I promise you that.”

  “I suppose so, but she’s not my Gillian. Oh, I know I must have patience, but it’s so hard to understand. After all we’ve been through together.” He buried his face in his hands.

  With determined briskness, Adrien said “You mustn’t take it seriously, Nicholas. You really mustn’t. It will pass, I promise you. Now I'm going to make you a good strong cup of tea, and then you must try to get some rest.”

  “Thank you. You are a comfort, Adrien. What should we do without you?” He smiled at her gratefully and surrendered to the comfort of her presence. Just for the moment he would not think of Gillian, his wife, suddenly so spoiled and wilful, so difficult to please, who seemed to look at him with the eyes of a stranger.

  This was something Adrien felt she could safely discuss with Dr. Dubois.

  “I don’t understand it. Why is she like this? She was always so good, so patient. And now she’s beastly to Nicholas. Simply unbearable.”

  He said sternly, “It seems to me that you are unfair, Adrien, that you have much more sympathy with Mr. Renton than with his wife, your patient.”

  Adrien felt herself coloring.

  “I’ve told you before, Nicholas is like a brother to me. I hate to see him like this.”

  “Yes,” said Raoul, his tone noncommittal. “I know that. Well—I think the answer is that they both need a holiday. They need to get away together. To be calm and peaceful together. Do you not agree?”

  “Alone, you mean?”

  “Unfortunately not. I’m afraid Mrs. Renton is not yet well enough to travel without a nurse.”

  She said slowly, “If you think it’s important, I’ll stay, of course.”

  “I do think it’s important. Mrs. Renton needs your care. But I suggest you leave them alone as much as possible. I have been discussing the plans for this holiday with Mr. Renton. A friend of his has, I understand, a house in Brittany he is willing to let. That will be just the place, I think, for Mrs. Renton. And the sea air will be good for them both. There is something very calming about the sea.”

  “And you?”

  “But of course I shall motor down as often as possible. To see my fiancée as well as patient.”

  She said impulsively, “Raoul, how much longer has this got to go on?”

  “What, ma chérie?”

  “You know very well what I mean. Our—mock engagement.”

  He said, apparently puzzled, “Surely you don’t think this is the time to break it off? Now, when Mrs. Renton feels herself so insecure and nervous?”

  “No—only...” She played with a button on her yellow summer dress.

  “Leave it a while yet, Adrien.” His voice was curiously gentle. He put his finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his.

  “Try not to worry. Live a day at a time. Everything will work out all right. Believe me. You will see. You will see...”

  A week later Adrien, Nicholas, and Gillian set out for Brittany. Blanche was left with the children and Jeanne. Pierre had been found a room in the village, but he was to come up daily to help in the garden.

  The journey was beautiful. They passed through noble forests, where the trees met overhead, through quaint country lanes, through the beautiful old town of Dreux, with its steep, cobbled streets. Gillian moved restlessly by his side.

  “I’m so hot and uncomfortable,” she said fretfully. “Nicky, why did we have to come? I’d rather have stayed at home.”

  “But, darling, you love Brittany.” Nicholas spoke in the patient tone he would have used to a difficult child. Both Gillian and Adrien saw the way his jaw twitched in his efforts at self-control.

  Gillian had been complaining ever since they left Val d’Argent.

  At last they arrived at the picturesque white Brittany house. Gillian went straight to bed.

  But that night, tired as she was, she could not sleep.

  The long drive had exhausted her, but the conflict in her mind exhausted her still more. She felt hot and stifled. Even the fresh seabreeze creeping in through her uncurtained bedroom window could not cool her.

  She had heard Nicky moving about restlessly in the room next door. She had longed to get up and go to him, but she did not dare. Not dare to go to Nicky? Then she had heard the door of his room open and shut, and his footsteps upon the creaking stair.

  Where was he going? Jealousy and apprehension filled Gillian. She crept out of bed, struggled to the door of her own room, opened it, and crept out on to t
he landing. Leaning over the banister, she peered over down through the well of the spiral staircase to the dark hall below.

  The heavy front door opened and shut. He had gone out, down to the beach.

  “Adrien has everything,” Gillian thought. “Adrien is strong and healthy. She has the love of Raoul, I know that. And yet she wants Nicky as well. Does she think she can fool me?”

  She tossed from side to side, her long fair hair flowing wildly over the pillow.

  “It’s true that for a while she almost succeeded in deceiving me, making me think she loved the doctor. But not for long. You can’t trick anyone who loves as I do. She loves Nicky. And Nicky, how can he resist her, so young and strong and beautiful? While I...”

  Hot tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away impatiently. “Oh, I can’t bear this uncertainty. I would prefer almost that Nicky and Adrien come to me and tell me the truth.

  “Oh, Nicky, I want you to be happy. Ought I to let you go? No, never, never! I’d rather die. Much rather. I love you so, Nicky, my darling... Come back to me!”

  Nicholas scrambled down the steep cliff path to the moonlit beach. His head ached violently. He thought he would go for a swim and had put on swimming trunks, and flung a towel over his shoulder. The currents were dangerous here, he knew, and there was some quicksand. But he knew where it was and would be in no danger. Perhaps the calm waves would wash away a little of the agony of Gillian’s bitter words.

  Then suddenly he was aware that he was not alone.

  A figure was there before him. A figure that stood and gazed out to sea.

  “Adrien!”

  Hoarsely, the name came to his lips.

  She heard. She turned and saw him, and waved.

  And suddenly he realized where she was standing. He caught his breath in horror and started to run.

  He shouted a warning.

  “Adrien, be careful! There’s quicksand there!”

  Startled, she took a step backward. And the quicksand seize, her. Her leg was caught and held as though in a trap. Terrified, she felt herself sinking.

  “Nicholas—save me!” she screamed.

  Suddenly his arms were around her, holding her close, struggling for her against the greedy sands, dragging her to safety.

  “Adrien...” he gasped.

  Her thoughts flashed back suddenly to another occasion—a clifftop in the moonlight, pebbles slipping beneath her feet, and his arms holding her safe. But then there had been no love in his eyes, only concern. He had been on the point of telling her about Gillian and his engagement to her.

  But surely there was love now in his arms straining for her safety, in the mad rush of his heartbeats, in his lips, panting, clinging desperately to hers. And in the words sucked somehow from his dry mouth.

  “Adrien, my darling. I thought ... I thought I’d lost you. Now I’m never going to let you go again...”

  Just for a minute or two, exhausted, she leaned against his shoulder, gave herself up to the wonder of his words, his kisses. He loved her. Just to have that knowledge was well worth the risk of death. She was covered with sand, but she didn’t care. She let him half carry her up the beach. But when she saw the cliffs rising before her, half-white, half-dark in the moonlight, she summoned all her strength and flung herself away from him.

  “No, Nicholas, no, no!”

  “Adrien.” His voice was husky.

  She turned and ran from him, scrambling up the cliff toward the house. He stood looking at her, wondering at the speed of her movements.

  “Adrien—” He tried to follow her, but somehow he could not move.

  She was gone. Had he really held her in his arms, felt her kisses on his lips—lips that belong to Gillian? Had he told Adrien he loved her?

  It seemed unreal, like a dream.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Do you really mean it, Raoul?” said Denise de Neuf, her white arm in her loose-sleeved gown gracefully pouring steaming coffee into delicate cups. “You really mean to give up everything in Paris, and go on your travels?”

  Getting up to fetch his cup, he nodded, and stood over her as, tantalizing and elusive as ever, she thought.

  He relaxed back into his chair, leaning against the cushions, balancing his cup expertly.

  “Raoul, why? Why do you do this?”

  “Why?” His dark eyebrows, such a contrast to his fair hair, made their half-indignant gesture of surprise. “I have told you often, Denise. I have always intended to travel. I am a specialist. I have much need of research.”

  She sighed slightly.

  “Yes, I know. And yet—Raoul, my dear, are you quite sure you are not running away?”

  Although his cup clattered in his saucer he answered evenly, “Oh, no, chérie. What cause have I to run away?”

  “You are not perhaps running away from me?”

  “Denise!”

  “There is no need, mon ami. I am not a tigress, nor am I a huntress determined to snare you with a matrimonial net.”

  “How can I run from you, Denise?” he asked, tranquilly and gallantly, as he took her hand to drop a kiss in the palm. “Since I always carry your image in my heart!”

  “Thank you, my knight!” Suddenly she flopped into her favorite position on the footstool at his feet. “And now let us drop the pretty speeches, shall we? And tell me truthfully. It’s that little ink-eyed ‘mock-fiancée’ of yours, isn’t it? She holds you prisoner and you are struggling to break the chains.”

  “Denise, your imagination!” He tried to laugh, but it was in vain. She knew him too well.

  “I’m not fleeing from her,” he said, quietly intense. “Quite the reverse.”

  “Ah, I understand now. You remember that ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ You are not yet sure of her love.”

  “It’s so difficult to explain, Denise, what I know in my heart. She does love me. I know it, I feel it. But she will not allow herself to realize it. She covers it with layers of so-called love for Renton. She feels protective toward him.”

  “Perhaps she really loves him. Are you quite sure you are not making a mistake?”

  “Quite sure. She does not love him. She loves me. Perhaps, even now, I might win her. But I do not want part of her heart, part of her love. I must have it all.”

  She got up and came to him, giving him her hands.

  “I wish you all joy,” she said softly, “I understand so well. For that is how I wanted you, chéri. But it was not to be.”

  He bent his head and kissed her, a kiss with no passion. She sighed. Then she said briskly, “Come and have some café and petits fours. You will not get gateaux like these in darkest Africa. Why not make the most of them, while you can?”

  Blanche sat idly in the children’s swing, her hands clasped in her lap. A few minutes ago, pushed by Pierre, she had been up among the leaves, knowing a wild, childlike ecstasy. Just for a few moments, her grown-up cares had been forgotten, and she had been an eight-year-old again.

  “Where are the children now?” asked Pierre.

  “With Denise de Neuf. That woman’s a blessing, Pierre. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Fortunately, the children are always happy with Georges and Michel.”

  “But you like children really, you understand them well.”

  “No, I don’t. I hate the little brats.”

  “That’s nonsense and you know it. You ought to have children of your own.”

  “I’ve plenty of time for that. And anyhow, I don’t want children of my own.”

  “You would if you were married to me. Oh, Blanche, I want you so badly. I love you so. I want to—to give you everything. To cover you with roses!”

  He caught her in his arms. The swing rocked violently. She held her head away from him, teasing “I will cover you with roses, All the sweetest of spring posies,” she trilled in a falsetto.

  “Oh, Pierre, you are ridiculous! You’ll never write a good song if you can’t be more original than that. That’s quite
Victorian, or whatever the equivalent is in France!”

  “You think I’m not serious about the theater, like you,” he protested. “That I won’t succeed there. But I’ll surprise you one day.”

  “Let me see you, then,” she taunted.

  “You shall. One day you’ll see the world at my feet—and then I will lay it at yours. And if you like, you can kick it away. That’s how much I love you, Blanche. And always will.”

  “Pierre,” she said, suddenly pressing herself against him, “do you really mean it? Would you do anything for me? Anything?”

  “You know I would.”

  Her eyes sparkled.

  “Come to England, Pierre. We can get married there, and then get jobs in the theater. It’ll be such fun. Oh, do say yes, Pierre darling, please, please do!”

  He pushed her away from him.

  “Blanche darling, you don’t mean it. I know you don’t. What about the children? Gillian and Nicholas trusted us to look after them.”

  “I haven’t forgotten the children. Denise will take them. She’ll sympathize.”

  “But, Blanche—” he began.

  “Don’t you see, Pierre, this is our chance. While Gillian and Nicholas are away. While there’s no one to stop us.”

  “Blanche, you must be mad.”

  Her face crumpled up. She was like a lighted torch suddenly extinguished before his eyes.

  “Then you won’t go with me?” Blanche demanded.

  “Darling, I can’t.”

  “Very well then, I’ll go alone!” She drew herself up and marched away from him toward the house, her hair blazing in the sunlight. He sat forlornly on the swing and watched her go.

  Had he been feeble when he should have been strong? For her own sake, he had not dared to take her at her word. And he did not believe for one moment she would really carry out her threat to go alone. No, he had done the right thing, the only thing.

  And yet he felt that he had lost something valuable, tarnished, perhaps, on the surface, but underneath infinitely precious.