“The truth is,” she told herself, “that everyone is different. That’s the fun of the world; and yet likes are drawn to likes. Derek loves Francie’s naturalness; that’s why they came together. With a man like Derek you
can
be yourself. With him familiarity never breeds contempt. He has seen Francie looking untidy in the mornings and he still loves her as much as ever. He isn’t always very tidy himself if it comes to that! They are just not very soign
é
e people but they are heavenly and I love them both and I mean no disloyalty to them in analysing them like this. I just want to try and understand the secret of a happy marriage. The point is that all men are not like Derek. Mr. Frenton is probably much more like his wife, that’s why they were attracted to each other and have been so happy for fifteen years
...
Well, I shall see to-morrow
...
When I marry, will it be someone like Derek?”
She thought of Tony back in her old home who wanted to marry her. He was rather like Derek. She was fond of him but not in that way. She didn’t feel ready yet for marriage. She wanted to see something of the world first. She had never met any man yet whom she could imagine being married to—but perhaps that was because she had never been in love. No, she didn’t feel that she would ever be able to marry Tony. She had certainly given him no hope or encouragement except as a friend, but she had turned him down so gently that she had not hurt him too badly. If only one could go through life without ever hurting anybody.
She went to sleep with her heart full of deep affection for these dear friends of hers—Francie and Derek and Tony—and now Mrs. Frenton who had been so very sweet to her. Would she ever be able to call her Clare? Would it ever feel natural to do so?
CHAPTER
TWO
ALL day Rose had been excited at the thought of the party that evening and of meeting Clare Frenton again. She was too interested in other people and thought too little about herself to suffer much from shyness. That morning there had been the first hint of spring in the air, which had intoxicated her, and she had bought Francie a bunch of mimosa off a barrow. She had also bought for herself a new skirt to wear that evening. Fortunately she was almost exactly stock size so had always been able to buy her clothes off the peg. The skirt as usual would need taking in at the waist—that was the only alteration that was ever needed—but as to length it fitted her perfectly. It was a figured cotton skirt—the background colour a glorious kingfisher blue with a raised pattern on it in gold. With it she intended to wear her plain black jersey top with the three-quarter sleeves. As she wanted to wear the skirt that evening there was no time for the shop to do the alteration but it would be quite easy to do it herself. She had some commissions to execute for Francie, but she got back to the flat at four o’clock and decided to wash her hair and alter the new skirt while she was drying it.
She always washed her hair at home and had never been to a hairdresser in her life. Long before it was fashionable to do so, she had worn her hair in a chignon. When loose it came half-way down her back. It was lovely hair—very fair and silky, and she had been brought up to good habits of brushing it regularly and rinsing it, when she washed it in lemon juice.
When Francie and Derek came home to change for the party they found Rose already dressed in her plain black jersey and the new skirt, but she had not done up her hair yet and it was falling in a golden canopy round her shoulders.
“Goodness, what a picture she makes!” Derek exclaimed involuntarily.
Francie kissed her. “I’m very proud of my little cousin,” she said.
Rose blushed. “Do you like my new skirt?”
“You look ravishing.”
And indeed she did. The full, rather stiff skirt emphasized her tiny waist, and the plain, black jersey with only a thin gold chain round the neck set off the fairness of her hair; while her eyes seemed to have taken on the kingfisher blue of the skirt.
She gathered up her hair at the back preparatory to twisting it into a bun.
“Oh, do leave your hair down like that,” Derek said.
“I can’t.”
“Why don’t you just tie it behind with a ribbon?” Francie suggested.
“It will make me look like a child,” Rose said indignantly, and she screwed it up quickly into its usual knot.
II
The Frentons had a flat in Eaton Square which had been converted horizontally from two houses. Their flat consisted of the two drawing-room floors, so that the rooms were particularly spacious and high-ceilinged. A manservant in a white jacket let the visitors in, and Francie and Rose were shown to Mrs. Frenton’s bedroom to leave their coats. There were only a couple of other coats lying on the bed. It was just the kind of room that Clare Frenton would have, Rose thought. The large windows, framed in copper
-
coloured satin, looked on to the Square gardens. There was a thick white pile carpet and a white satin bedspread fringed with copper, while the buttoned bedhead and the chaise-longue were covered in the same material as the curtains. The built-in furniture was all of white sycamore wood.
“You must just look at the bathroom while you’re here,” Francie said, opening a communicating door. Rose peeped in. The bathroom might almost have been another sitting
-
room. There was the same thick white carpet; another chaise-longue and super-luxurious mirrored fittings. Both bedroom and bathroom were impeccably tidy and showed little sign of human occupancy. It might have been an empty guest suite.
“Clive—that’s her husband—has his own bedroom and bathroom,” Francie informed her.
“I don’t think I’d like that,” Rose said. “I’d feel so separated.”
“I agree, I’d hate it,” Francie replied. “One of the nicest things about married life is dressing together.”
Derek was waiting for them in the hall—a perfect little hall with a beautiful gilt “gesso” table and gilt mirror above it—and the white-coated butler opened a door on the right and showed them into the drawing-room. It was a huge room, but Rose didn’t have a chance to get more than an impression of cool tones of green as Clare Frenton came towards them with outstretched hand. She was wearing black, which showed up the contrast of her glorious white hair even more than the grey dress of the previous day.
There was a little knot of people congregated round the fire (people always converge round the fire in England from force of habit even in the height of summer) and Clare introduced them—first to her husband, a tall suave man who appeared to be a good deal older than herself; then to a couple and then to another single woman. Clive Frenton was dispensing drinks, and as he handed Rose a glass she had a chance to look around her. She had noticed at once a lovely scent in the room, and now she realized that it came from a huge bowl of lilies standing on a table behind the sofa. The sofa itself was covered in olive green satin, and the curtains to the tall windows were of the same soft green material with beautiful swagged pelmets.
Rose couldn’t resist going up to the lilies and smelling them, and when she turned back to the main group she saw that they had been joined by another man who must have come in while her back was turned. He was a young man, probably in his early thirties—dark, slight of build, and extraordinarily good-looking.
“Rose,” Clare Frenton said, “I want you to meet Stephen Hume—this is Rose Woodhouse who is staying with the Earles.”
Rose held out her hand and as the young man took it he looked at her with a long appraising glance from dark eyes that were obviously keenly intelligent. He smiled slightly with his finely chiselled mouth, but his eyes remained steady and unsmiling. Rose noticed that like Clive Frenton he was dressed in a City suit—striped trousers and a black jacket.
“Help us, Stephen,” Clare said. “We want to find a name for a new coffee bar.” She drew him and Francie and Derek and Rose into a little group of their own and told him all about the new coffee shop that she was decorating for the Earles. “The motif is Italian,” she said, “but we can’t think what to call it.”
“What part of Italy?” Stephen Hume inquired, but he was not looking at Clare as he asked the question. He was still looking at Rose so intently that she began to feel rather uncomfortable.
“Does that matter?”
“Of course it matters. One part of Italy is as completely different from another as—as—as one woman’s face from another’s.”
“Well, what part do you suggest?”
“Make it Florentine,” he said promptly.
“And call it the Medici,” Clare exclaimed with a sudden inspiration.
“There is a Medici already,” Francie put in regretfully.
“Call it the Botticelli,” Stephen said, still looking at Rose.
“That’s an idea. How does that strike you?” and Clare looked from Derek to Francie.
“Botticelli.” They looked at each other and tried the name over. “Botticelli,” Francie murmured. “Yes, I think that’s all right. Botticelli. What do you think, Rose?
...
Darling, you’ve got pollen all over your nose.”
“Have I? It’s from smelling those heavenly lilies.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Has it gone?”
“Not quite.” It was Stephen speaking. “Here,” he said, and he took a clean handkerchief out of his breast pocket. “Shall I do it for you?”
“Will you? Thank you,” and she put up her face to him. He rubbed the end of her nose gently. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Rose asked. “That’s what you’ve been looking at, isn’t it?”
“Not altogether. It’s quite gone now,” and he folded the handkerchief carefully and put it back in his pocket.
“Lilies are my favourite flowers,” Clare said. “I always try to have some in the house.”
“Are they your favourite flowers too, Miss Woodhouse?” Stephen asked.
“No, but I do love them. I love all flowers that have a scent—a beautiful scent, that is. I don’t like the smell of chrysanthemums.”
“Nor do I,” he replied. “I detest it
...
A rose ought to be your favourite flower, as it’s your name.”
“It is as a matter of fact. There’s nothing quite like a rose.”
“What kind of rose do you like best?” he asked.
“A
blue
rose,” she said with a laugh.
He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Don’t you know the Maurice Baring story?” she asked.
“No, tell it to me.”
She was about to tell him when Clive Frenton came up to refill their glasses, and then some more people came into the room; there were more introductions and their little group was split up.
Clare was a good hostess and kept her guests circulating. This was a nuisance for any two people who happened to want to talk only to each other, but a godsend for those who found themselves stuck or without anyone to talk to at all. Sometimes she brought a stranger up to Rose to be introduced and sometimes she led Rose away to another part of the room to introduce her. The “few friends in for a drink” soon swelled to a large cocktail party. Rose had never before spoken to so many strangers in such a short time, but she found most of Clare’s guests very easy to get on with and she was never left with anyone long enough to exhaust conversation. She was given no opportunity of talking to Stephen Hume again but once she could feel his eyes across the room.
At last Francie and Derek came up to her. “It’s after eight,” Francie said. “We’re going to drag you home.”
Rose said good-bye to the couple she had been talking to and they went in search of their hostess.
“Let’s meet at the shop to-morrow,” Clare said. “Eleven o’clock? Will that be all right? And shall we settle on Botticelli? Will I see you too, Rose? Good. Good-night, my dears.
A demain.”
As they went out they found Stephen by the door. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?” He had addressed the question to Rose.
“Oh, thank you, but I’m going with my cousin.”
“Can’t I give you all a lift?”
“It’s sweet of you,” Francie said, “but we’ve got our own little horror of a car outside.”
There was nothing more to be said, but as Rose climbed into the back of Derek’s tiny second-hand car she felt a curious sense of depression which she could not understand
—
a strange feeling of disappointment.
“Did you enjoy that?” Francie asked her as they started
off.
“Enormously. Isn’t it a heavenly flat? But I didn’t get a chance to see the drawing-room properly with all those people in it.”
“You made a great hit,” Francie said.
“Nonsense.”
“Yes, you did, especially with Stephen Hume. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“He was only looking at the pollen on my nose,” Rose replied ruefully. “Do you know who he is?”
“Of course I do. He’s probably the most run-after young man in London. He’s the head of a private banking house, and enormously rich. Clare did up his house last year; I’ve not seen it but I hear it’s lovely. She was telling us about it the other day. A little Queen Anne house, I believe, somewhere in Westminster.”
“Is he married?”
“No. He wouldn’t be so run after if he were! He’s extremely eligible but he doesn’t like parties, apparently. It’s a great feather in one’s cap to get him—especially to a dance. Clare is always talking about him. He’s quite a
protégé
of hers. She rather likes managing him, I imagine.” Rose wondered what she and Stephen Hume would have talked about if he had given her a lift. If only she could have gone with him! She realized suddenly that this was the cause of her disappointment: she had wanted to go with him.
As if she had guessed her thought, Francie said: “Did you want to go with him? I didn’t quite know what to do. I didn’t want to fling you at his head. It would have been absurd to pretend that we hadn’t got room for you in our car. You know, that kind of man gets awfully spoilt. Thinks every girl must be crazy about him.”
“Is he like that?” Rose asked.
“I don’t know, I’ve only met him once before, but if he isn’t he’s unique! Most of them are like that—the sought
-
after ones I mean. Anyway, it’s always a good thing not to be too easy. If he wants to see you again it’s up to him.”
Rose made no answer to this but she was thinking, “He doesn’t even know where I live,” and her heart was heavy. “If he had dropped me he would have known my address for another time.” She wanted to go on talking about him, but Derek and Francie had reverted to the coffee bar which they could never keep away from for long.