A Trial Marriage. Anne Mather

      RACHEL did not see him again for several days.

      Even though she took to lingering for a few minutes in the lobby before taking Minstrel out for his evening walk, there was never any sign of the tall, dark man whose haggard features had begun to haunt her dreams. He never appeared at mealtimes, and in spite of Della’s attempts to draw the manager into conversation, Mr Yates seemed curiously loath to discuss the occupant of the first floor suite.

      Rachel didn’t altogether understand her own interest in him. After all, he had shown in no uncertain manner that he did not welcome companionship, and he obviously regarded her as something of a nuisance in spite of his reluctant apology. But for all that, she had not mentioned their encounter to Della, and squeezed a small measure of comfort from the knowledge that her employer had not even spoken to him.

      Her employer! Rachel grimaced at the thought, as she steered Della Faulkner-Stewart’s Mini into the parking area outside the hotel. Six months ago she would never have considered such an occupation, but circumstances could change so many things. Six months ago she had been dreaming of going to Oxford, of getting her degree. Until her father had contracted polio and died all in the space of three weeks, and her mother, dazed after so little sleep, had crashed her car into level crossing gates just as a train was passing. At least, that was the coroner’s verdict, though Rachel herself suspected that she had not wanted to go on living. She had been an only child, and she had always known her presence had never really been necessary. Her parents were complete unto themselves, and she had been at times a rather annoying encumbrance.

      Nevertheless, the dual tragedy had left her stunned, and the solicitors’ subsequent information that apart from a couple of insurance policies, which would provide sufficient funds to pay all outstanding debts, she was penniless, had left her curiously unmoved.

      That was when Della Faulkner-Stewart had taken over. She had been a school friend of Rachel’s mother’s, and although they had not seen her for some years, she had arrived in Nottingham for Mr Lesley’s funeral. That she was still in town when Mrs Lesley also died was, she said, a blessing, and she had insisted that Rachel should not attempt her final examinations at such a time. There was no hurry, she said. She herself needed a companion—her previous companion had taken the unforgivable step of getting married—and why didn’t Rachel come and live with her for a while? They could help one another.

      In her numbed state, Rachel was only too willing to let someone else take responsibility for her. It wasn’t until some weeks afterwards, when she found herself at Della’s constant beck and call, that she began to appreciate what she had forfeited. But still, she had a little money of her own, and until she could afford to take her finals, she was persuaded that she could be a lot worse off.

      Della’s husband was dead, too, and sometimes Rachel wondered whether that was why she had come to Nottingham in the first place. Perhaps she had hoped to persuade Rachel’s mother to take over the position as her companion, but Mrs Lesley had been too grief-stricken at that time to consider it. The truth was, Della was not the most considerate of employers, and although her husband had left her comfortably placed, she resented being without a man to care for her. Consequently, she spent little time at her London home, preferring to live in hotels, always in the hope of finding some man to take her late husband’s place. Her only stipulation was that he should be English. She despised Europeans, and seldom went abroad, preferring wholesome British food to what she termed as ‘foreign muck’.

      Yet, for all that, Rachel was not actively unhappy. On the contrary, she was naturally a pleasant-natured girl, and apart from an occasional yearning for dreaming spires, she lived quite contentedly, prepared to wait another year or two before striking out on her own.

      Now, she pulled the Mini into its space, calmed the excitable poodle behind her, and opened her door. As she stepped out into the cool afternoon air, it was starting to rain, and she reached for Minstrel’s lead before allowing him to get out and possibly decorate her navy slacks with muddy paw marks. There was a strange car parked alongside the Mini, one which she had not seen before, and she studied its elegant lines before turning and walking towards the hotel. As she neared the entrance two men came out of the hotel, talking together, and her pulses quickened alarmingly when she recognised Mr Allan and another man.

      That he had recognised her, too, there was no doubt, but she sensed his reluctance to acknowledge the fact. However, short of cutting her dead, there was nothing else he could do, and his lips curved in the semblance of a polite smile, while his eyes looked right through her. She wondered if he knew how that look affected her, and how her palms moistened when he said quietly: ‘Hello!’

      Rachel restrained an eagerness to respond, and replied lightly: ‘Hello, Mr Allan. How are you?’

      ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

      He cast a challenging look at the older man beside him, as if daring him to contradict the statement, and Rachel’s gaze flicked over his companion. There was a resemblance between them, and she wondered if this was his father.

      But clearly she was not to be introduced, and before she could think of anything else to say, the two men had passed her. She looked after them, biting her lips, and then entered the hotel ill-humouredly, mentally chastising herself for her foolishness.

      What did she expect from him anyway? He was easily as old as her father had been when he died, and he regarded her as little more than a schoolgirl, obviously. Just because he evoked her sympathies …

      But no. That wasn’t strictly truthful. He had the most incredibly sexy eyes, and in spite of his haggard appearance, he aroused the most wanton thoughts inside her. His attraction for her owed little to whatever illness had brought him here, and she knew that Della would have a fit if she guessed the fantasies Rachel was nurturing. But they were only fantasies, she told herself severely, dragging Minstrel into the lift after her, and showing an unusual lack of sympathy when she accidently stepped on his paw.

      Della’s suite of rooms was on the second floor. She had reserved a lounge and a double room with bath for herself, as well as a single room for Rachel. Rachel was obliged to use the bathroom on that floor which served two other rooms as well as her own, but she didn’t mind. She invariably took her bath in the evening, while everyone else was in the bar enjoying pre-dinner drinks, and unlike Della she had felt little desire to mix with her fellow guests—until now.

      When she and Minstrel entered the suite, Della called peevishly from the bedroom: ‘Rachel, is that you?’ And when the girl showed her face at the bedroom door: ‘You’ve been a long time.’

      Della had had one of her headaches when Rachel went out. They were a persistent torment to her, she declared, although they came in very useful on occasion, when she wanted rid of Rachel for the afternoon.

      Now, however, she levered herself up on the quilted counterpane, looking suitably wan in her lacy pink negligée. She was forty-three, and spent half her life trying to look younger, with the inevitable result of achieving the opposite. Her fine hair had been tinted so often that it looked like dried straw until it had been combed into its usual style, and her skin was paper-thin and veined from too much food and too little exercise. She treated Rachel with a mixture of envy and irritation, and disliked feeling at a disadvantage with anybody.

      Now Rachel held on desperately to Minstrel’s lead, as he viewed the tempting expanse of soft cream carpet spread out before him, and explained: ‘I couldn’t find that particular brand of cream anywhere. I think Mr Holland must make it up for you.’

      The frown which had momentarily creased Della’s brow cleared. ‘Oh, yes, dear, perhaps you’re right,’ she agreed complacently, relaxing back against the pillows. ‘He does tend to make a fuss of me, doesn’t he?’

      Rachel reserved judgment, and struggling with the poodle asked: ‘Have you had tea?’

      ‘No.’ Della shook her head. ‘I’ve just been resting here since you went out.’

      Belatedly, Rachel asked if she was feeling better, averting her eyes from the lurid jacket of the paperback novel that unexpectedly appeared beneath Della’s flowing skirts.