Choose the One You'll Marry (2 page)

Ruth’s long lashes swept up then, and she found herself looking into the most attractive laughing brown eyes, set under straight, uncompromising dark eyebrows. Aunt Henrietta, she supposed confusedly, must be elderly—even old—if she had nearly been mother’s godmother. But at that moment it was impossible to think of her as any age. She was so lively and eager-looking, so completely a personality in her own right.

“Yes,” Ruth said shyly, “I’m Ruth
Tadcaster
. And mother was delighted to get your letter this morning. She hopes that you and—and—” skillfully she contrived to read the register upside down “—Mr. Harling will come to supper with us tonight.”

“Do you hear that, Michael?” Aunt Henrietta gave a pleased little laugh.

It was impossible for Michael not to have heard, since he was standing by throughout this conversation. But Ruth did not feel that the information afforded him any special pleasure. He merely said, “Yes, I heard. Very kind of—Mrs.
Tadcaster
,” in a tone that implied that kindness from the Tadcasters was the last thing he sought at the moment. “And now perhaps we might see our rooms.”

“Yes, of course!” Ruth summoned Archie who, although a grandfather, still like to be referred to as a page.

“We must have a talk later,” declared Aunt Henrietta with that bright, almost conspiratorial smile. And then she and Michael Harling followed Archie to the elevator, and Ruth drew a long breath and pushed back her hair from a slightly damp forehead. Her day had begun.

The Excelsior, as will no doubt already have been gathered, was not one of those glittering, chromium-plated hotels where uniformed bellboys dash hither and thither and delectable merchandise is displayed at prohibitive prices—or no prices at all—in glass cases in the foyer. But then Castlemore was not the sort of town that requires that sort of hotel.

Until the time of the Industrial Revolution, Castlemore had consisted of a moated grange, a few scattered houses and some extremely unsanitary cottages. But the age of coal and steel had done a lot for Castlemore—either good or ill, according to one’s views—and by now it was a thriving Midland town, very prosperous and by no means without its sober attraction.

But everything about it ran to solid worth rather than show
.
And the Excelsior was in keeping with this character. Beds were exceptionally comfortable, food was excellent and—except for this morning’s unfortunate lapse—service was willing and prompt. If, however, you required what were referred to in Castlemore, a trifle scornfully, as “the frills,” then you went on to the seaside town of Altonbay, where the Royal would cater to your more superficial tastes quite creditably.

Ruth was fond of her work and secretly rather proud of the good opinions that she usually called forth. Less than half an hour served to bring her work under control, once Mr. Harling’s scornful gaze was withdrawn, and by ten o’clock she was, outwardly at least, the cool, efficient, pleasant reception clerk who constituted one of the attractions of the Excelsior.

People tended to remember Ruth after they had stayed at the hotel. Not because she was outstandingly beautiful or in any other way especially eye-catching, but because she was kind and courteous and had the inestimable quality of making people feel that they were interesting and welcome.

Of medium build, Ruth had that piquant and appealing coloring that is most usually seen in girls from the Highlands of Scotland. Fine, slightly curling dark hair, wide-set dark blue eyes with black lashes, and a soft, pink and white complexion tha
t
no cosmetics can provide.

Her nose and mouth were not remarkable—at least from a sculptor’s point of view—but they were nicely proportioned, and her lips had the slightly upward tilt at the corners of someone who smiled more readily than she frowned. Altogether it was not particularly surprising that Angus Everton had noticed her from the beginning and had willingly sought her as a temporary substitute for Maxine when things went wrong.

At eleven o’clock, Rose, one of the waitresses, brought Ruth a cup of coffee and the news of the day. On this particular day it appeared that one item outweighed all others, because she simply said, with great significance, “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?” Ruth stirred her coffee gratefully. “Who’s staying here.”

“How do you mean?” Ruth glanced at the register, which was always near at hand.

“One of the real big noises from headquarters. Came without any word of warning. Mean, I call it.”

“You don’t say!” Ruth drew the register toward her and frowned slightly. For although the Excelsior—once privately owned—had belonged to a hotel combine now for more than a year, no one had so far come from the principal office in London to make any form of inspection or inquiry.

“I wonder which one he is.” She ran a finger down the list of those who had registered the previous evening and early that morning.

“Harvey or Hardy or something like that,” Rose offered helpfully. “Came with his mother or aunt, I’ve heard—just like an ordinary member of the public.”

“Oh, no!” Ruth looked nearly as shocked as she felt. “It couldn’t be Mr. Harling.”

“Yes, that’s him.” Rose immediately became quite positive.

“But he comes from Australia or New Zealand, I think.” Ruth tried to recall the exact terms of Aunt Henrietta’s letter that morning.

“No.
She
does. Look
...
” Rose pointed triumphantly to the register. “But he doesn’t. He comes from London. I expect his aunt’s come over to visit the family, and just decided to make a visit here when he did.”

“I suppose—you’re right,” Ruth agreed slowly. “
I
hadn’t thought of that. How very awkward.”

“Not now that we’re warned,” Rose said shamelessly. “He’s in the manager’s office now, with Mr. Naylor, and when Cissy took in their coffee she overheard.”

And with a pleased chuckle she took herself off, without waiting to learn that, for Ruth at least, the warning had come somewhat late.

Well, it was no good attaching too much importance to the morning’s blunder, Ruth supposed vexedly. But it did seem hard that her one lapse from efficiency and attention to duty should have concerned what Rose had so aptly called “one of the real big noises from headquarters.”

Not until lunchtime did Ruth hear any more of either Aunt Henrietta or her somewhat recalcitrant nephew. Then, while she was having her own lunch, in a quiet corner of the dining room, Aunt Henrietta came in, glanced around and immediately made for Ruth’s table.

“May I join you, my dear?” She sat down without waiting for Ruth’s rejoinder. “Michael has gone off somewhere with the manager, and my very nice chambermaid told me I would probably find you having lunch at this hour. We have such a
lot
to talk about, haven’t we?”

Ruth smiled—irresistibly, because Aunt Henrietta’s own smile was compelling—and said, “Have we? I know I would like to say a few words about our—our unfortunate meeting this morning. I was terribly sorry you were kept waiting, and such a thing really never happens in the ordinary way. But I forgot that Miss Donaldson had to go off duty especially promptly, because of a hospital visit. And
I
was genuinely attending to the needs of some other visitors. I know it all sounded rather gay and frivolous. But they are people on a television program and—well, they just
are
that way,” explained Ruth earnestly, as she remembered how the “darlings” and the Christian names had filled the air that morning while Michael Harling had waited to be attended to.

“It’s quite all right. I didn’t mind at all,” Aunt Henrietta said with simple egotism.

“No, I know
you
didn’t. But I—I’m afraid Mr. Harling did.”

“He’ll get over it,” stated Aunt Henrietta with good
-
humored assurance. “He’s a nice boy at heart.”

Michael Harling had not struck Ruth as at all a nice boy at heart. Neither a boy nor especially nice, when one came to think of it. But she had made her apology—at least at second hand—and she was not going to enlarge on it further at the moment. Instead, she saw to it that her visitor was provided with an excellent lunch, and an attentive listener to whatever she wanted to say.

Aunt Henrietta, it seemed, wanted to say quite a lot, as she had stated. All about how happy she was to be home. She called it “home” although she must have spent very many years away from England. All about her journey. Something of the small place in the outback of Australia where she had lived, and something of her plans for the future, which she apparently intended to spend at “home,” now that she had at last returned here.

She said nothing much about her family, and finally Ruth, moved by genuine curiosity about this lively, indefinably attractive woman, asked, “Have you any family here, besides Mi—besides Mr. Harling? I’m afraid I haven’t heard very much about you until this morning.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?” Aunt Henrietta seemed amused rather than chagrined. “I haven’t any close family at all. My husband died many years ago and I never had any children.”

Ruth felt sorry for such a lonely state, and asked sympathetically after possible brothers and sisters. But here, too, Aunt Henrietta seemed very badly supplied, though her cheerful acceptance of the fact seemed somehow to suggest that she actually preferred things that way.

“I had only one sister,” she explained. “And she was Michael’s mother, of course. She died a couple of years ago, and so Michael is really my only relative. But he is so kind and charming that I feel he is enough in himself.”

Ruth murmured something indistinguishable and continued to reserve judgment about Mr. Harling. Then she repeated, very cordially, that her mother was looking forward to seeing Aunt Henrietta that evening, but she was secretly a good deal relieved when it turned out that the nephew had an unavoidable engagement elsewhere.

“He’ll come and fetch me about ten o’clock, however, if that is all right,” added Aunt Henrietta.

Ruth assured her that this arrangement would be perfectly all right. And then, hoping that she had not sounded too well satisfied on the score of Michael Harling’s absence, she rose to return to her duties.

The afternoon was at first uneventful. But about four o’clock the telephone rang, and when Ruth picked up the receiver a beautifully pitched but rather agitated voice said, “Ruth, is that you?”

“Why, yes.” She tried to remember which of her intimate friends had such a speaking voice, but failed. “Who is it, please?”

“Angus, of course. Angus Everton. Look, my dear, I’m in the most frightful jam and you just have to help me. We’re in the middle of our rehearsal for the six-thirty program, and it’s essential that we have an attractive member of the general public—a nonprofessional—for one item. We had her all ready for it, and now she’s gone dead on
us—”

“Dead?” exclaimed Ruth, visualizing a corpse in the studio.”

“No, no—not literally.” Angus Everton sounded just a shade impatient. “She’s had some sort of fainting fit. As fast as we revive her she goes out again. And I just have to have someone. You must come along and help me.”

“But surely a doctor is what you need?”

“Oh, we’ve got a doctor—for her.” Impatiently he dismissed the fainting member of the general public from the scheme of things. “She’ll be all right. But not in time for the program. What I want is a substitute. I want you.”

“
Me?
On the program, you mean? But I don’t know a thing about it. I’ve never—”

“You don’t need to. I’ll tell you exactly what to do. You’re
meant
to be a nonprofessional. All we need is someone attractive and intelligent and with the quality that makes people say, ‘Isn’t she nice?’ And that’s you.”

“Oh, but really—” Ruth was unutterably touched and flattered at being so described “—I’m in the office. I’m not due to leave until five-thirty. If that will be time enough—”

“No, of course it won’t. I want you
now
—for rehearsal,” came the voice from the other end of the line. “This is an emergency, Ruth. You simply must help me.” Appealed to thus, she knew it was, of course, impossible to refuse.

“Wait a minute, I’ll have to ask
—
Or if you let me put you through to Mr. Naylor
—
No, we don’t need to do that. Here he is. Hold on a moment and I’ll see what I can do.”

For even as she was speaking into the telephone Ruth
had seen that the manager—still, unfortunately, accompanied by Michael Harling—had entered the hall.

“Mr. Naylor—” Her anxious summons brought the manager over to the desk, his companion following more slowly, but not, Ruth felt sure, missing anything.
“It’s Mr. Everton on the phone—” The last thing she wanted was to have to explain this most extraordinary and unusual demand on her official time, with Michael Harling as interested audience. But with Angus Everton’s anxious tones still ringing in her ears, she felt she had no choice.

She made the best story she could of it. But she could not have done very well, because Michael Harling’s dark eyebrows went up slightly, and even Mr. Naylor said a trifle irritably, “You mean he wants you
now!
But the program isn’t until the evening, is it?”

“It’s for the—the rehearsal, sir,” explained Ruth, feeling quite extraordinarily silly. “Perhaps if you would speak to him yourself—”

Mr. Naylor took the receiver across the counter and entered into conversation with Angus Everton, in his turn. This left Ruth aimlessly standing facing Michael Harling.

“You do have an exciting time here, don’t you?” he said dryly.

“Not always. But we like to help our clients if we can,” she retorted coldly. “It’s a matter of some pride with us that no one should feel we haven’t done our best.”

She felt he deserved that, but she was a little alarmed at her own temerity in speaking quite so curtly.

There was a
s
light silence, during which she felt her heart beating uncomfortably fast. Then he said, unexpectedly, “I suppose you’re right. I accept the reproof.”

“Oh—oh, sir,
I
wasn’t reproving you!” She was quite horrified at the word, in connection with “the big noise from headquarters.”

“You were, you know,” he said. But a smile just touched the corners of his very firm mouth.