Fortune's Lead (4 page)

I drew a deep breath, walked quickly away, and found myself walking briskly towards the fairground gates. I was scolding myself inwardly for wasting my money; but my grandmother’s ring seemed to burn my finger as I thrust my left hand deep in my pocket and hurried towards Julia’s flat. Gypsy Rose
had
been able to tell that it wasn’t my own engagement ring on my finger.

What had she said? An older man coming into my life? A journey? A dark man I wasn’t to trust ... Change, and wealth, and future happiness, and all this happening soon? Supposing she was right? Or supposing she wasn’t? I told myself scathingly. And what was all that about working with animals? Had I better start looking for a job as a vet’s assistant, or something improbable? She hadn’t really told me anything at all, except a lot of nonsense she thought I wanted to hear. I told myself that it served me right, and that I didn’t believe a word of it.

It haunted me, nevertheless. When Julia came in I took care not to tell her where I had been, but I was distinctly distrait: my mind kept drifting in peculiar directions, and I even found myself considering my father’s elderly bachelor verger with a new mental eye—though he was at least seventy... When I caught myself thinking in that vein, I pulled myself up sharply, horrified by my own credulity. And then, on Monday morning—just two days after I had seen the Gypsy—it happened.

I wasn’t expecting any letters while I was staying with Julia, and when one arrived, in handwriting I didn’t recognize, it was something of a surprise. I ripped open the envelope and took out a thick white sheet of note-paper. Glancing at the signature first, I saw ‘Henry Thurlanger ‘written with a flourish of black ink, and, glancing up the page, ‘My dear Shah, I gather you are staying in London at present, and as I shall be staying in London myself briefly on my way home, I wonder if we might meet...’

‘The letter H!’ I yelped, and let my coffee-cup land in my saucer with a bang which almost broke something.

‘Good heavens, Charlotte—whatever is the matter?’

‘N—nothing! Everything!’ I barely glanced into Julia’s startled face across the breakfast table. Henry—H for Henry—an older man who would have great influence on my life ... I had forgotten all about him until this moment! One casual but friendly meeting on a train suddenly assumed enormous proportions.
What
had Gypsy Rose said? An older man ... wealth—and Henry had given the impression he was rich, certainly ... oh, heavens, animals too,
horses
! I looked up at Julia again, and said weakly, ‘
Nothing’s
the matter. No, I’m
not
ill, and it isn’t bad news—qu-quite the reverse!’

‘Oh. Are you sure?’ she asked, peering at me. ‘You look most peculiar!’

‘Yes, I am. I mean, I’m not.
It
is. I c-can’t ... Sorry, Julia, but do let me read my letter!’

‘All right. I was only asking,’ she said with slight huffiness, and got up. ‘I must get on duty, anyway. I hope you’re going to be all right!’ and she took herself off with a rustle of offended dignity. I felt weak at the knees, and there was a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I studied the letter again, starting again from the beginning.

It was quite short. I read, ‘My dear Shah, I gather you are staying in London at present, and as I shall be staying in London myself briefly on my way home, I wonder if we might meet. I did so enjoy our conversation on the train and it was a pity there wasn’t longer for us to get to know one another. If you will allow me to take you out to dinner, I promise not to frighten you away, or to offer you salt in your coffee, or to make you play noughts and crosses! I shall be staying at the Dorchester Hotel on Tuesday night, the 24th. I shall arrive about midday, so if you will allow me to entertain you on Tuesday evening would you ring me up at the hotel and tell me so? Yours very sincerely, Henry Thurlanger.’

I sat and stared dazedly at the piece of paper in my hand. I found myself gazing at the address at the head of the letter: he had written ‘As From’ above it, and it seemed to be his home address—Thurlanger House, Beemondham, Suffolk. Pieces of our conversation came back to me, and I remembered his mention of the house, and the grounds, and the stables for his daughter’s ponies. The other half of my mind kept interrupting with memories of another voice—Gypsy Rose’s. She
couldn’t
have meant that some time in the future I was going to marry Henry Thurlanger!

And how on earth had he known my address?

This was crazy, and I must calm down. It was nothing but coincidence. My conscience told me firmly that he was a stranger and I couldn’t possibly accept his invitation to dinner—and then weighed in with the thought that it would be rude to refuse. But I certainly couldn’t go out to dinner with him in the state of mind I was in now, believing in gypsy predictions and crammed full of superstition. Perhaps it
would
be better not to go at all...

I had brought one of my new cocktail dresses with me when I came to stay with Julia, not because I expected an opportunity to wear it, but simply for the depressing reason that it was clothing and clothing should be worn rather than wasted. So I had something to wear. I could also have my hair done. Still, it would be rude to go out for the evening and leave Julia, my hostess. Then I discovered that Julia had another meeting to attend on Tuesday night. I made up my mind firmly to refuse Henry’s invitation: then, somehow, I did have my hair done, and saw to my nails, and found myself picking up the telephone on Tuesday afternoon. Hearing Henry’s light, soft, amused voice saying how delighted he was I could come somehow helped to bring the whole thing on to a plane of normality. I kept my mind levelly on the fact that life was full of mild and meaningless coincidences. I was going to forget all about fortunetellers. Definitely.

I managed to feel quite suitably brainwashed by the time I arrived at the Dorchester to meet Henry. Dressing in my new clothes, wearing my hair loose and painting my finger-nails made me feel like New Charlotte again, too—though my hair wasn’t orange this time. I had a small flutter of panic as I walked into the hotel foyer in case I didn’t recognize him—or he me—but he was waiting for me and came straight over towards me. I had forgotten he was so small, but although having to look down at him made me feel like a giraffe, it didn’t seem to discompose him in the least: he greeted me with a solemn courtesy belied by the twinkle in his eyes.

‘Good evening, Shah. How very nice you look.’ He held out his hand to shake mine, his touch light but firm and, if I hadn’t told myself sternly that I was imagining it, slightly lingering. He said, ‘It’s a great pleasure to see you again. I’m so glad you agreed to come.’

‘It’s very nice of you to ask me out to dinner.’

‘My dear, it’s entirely my pleasure. It’s very nice of
you
to accept.’ For a fleeting second he gave me his curly leprechaun grin, and I had the odd but comforting feeling that I had been inspected and approved. But he was talking again, saying that he hoped I didn’t mind eating at the hotel (I didn’t) whose dining-room he felt was tolerable (a word I didn’t feel the Dorchester would have felt was strong enough). We were ushered into the dining-room, and as we sat down, he gave me an alert, considering expression which ought to have made me feel self-conscious but somehow didn’t, and asked,

‘And what have you been doing with yourself, Shah, since I saw you last?’

‘Having a holiday between jobs.’ I looked at him, and grinned suddenly. ‘And being very serious-minded!’

‘You should be more careful. It’s shockingly catching.’ He gave his curly grin again, making me feel gay. It was remarkable how infectious his twinkle was. ‘I’ve been far too dull myself recently. My sister—I told you about my sister, didn’t I?—has been lecturing me. As usual. Now I’m on my way home, where I’ve no doubt I’ll find Esther behaving more like a stable-boy than ever. I’m sure I told you about Esther.’

‘Yes, you did.’ His seventeen-year-old daughter, I remembered. ‘I—er—hope she’s well,’ I said politely.

‘In rude health, no doubt,’ he said, and pulled a face which made me laugh. ‘But we were talking about you. Or are you still stubbornly refusing to talk about you?’

‘There isn’t really anything to say,’ I said airily, hoping that that truthful statement would sound more interesting than it really was. ‘What have
you
been doing? Did you win at your race meeting?’

‘I came out of it very well, as a matter of fact,’ he said, and named a figure which made me try not to gasp. ‘I backed an outsider called Eastern Potentate, and it came in at twenty-five to one. Entirely thanks to you—so you see, I really do owe you a dinner!’

‘To me?’

‘Of course. A Shah’s an Eastern Potentate, wouldn’t you say? Too much of a tip to miss!’

‘Oh, I see.’ I caught his grin, smiled back, and said demurely, ‘I’m glad I brought you luck.’

‘Of course you did. I’m sure you will again. You know,’ he added cheerfully, ‘if I’d gone on psychoanalysing you with my little drawings, I’m sure I would have guessed your job without your telling me. It’s remarkable how many clues there are. But I promised not to frighten you away again, didn’t I? But if you
will
be such a mystery...!’

‘I didn’t deliberately—’ I floundered a little, caught his eye, and laughed. ‘One doesn’t have to look like a nurse all the
time,
does one?’ I asked—reflecting at the same moment that Old Charlotte would never have thought of saying that.

‘Of course not,’ Henry said, approvingly. ‘Though I’m sure you look almost as charming in uniform as you do out of it. I can’t imagine you as a starched and uniformed dragon.’

‘I hope I’m not.’ I added, with curiosity getting the better of me, ‘How did you come to know my address?’

‘Ah, I wondered if you’d wonder. You left me this.’ He fished in a pocket and brought out a crumpled envelope—the one we’d played noughts and crosses on. ‘Readdressed from a vicarage in Hertfordshire to a hospital in a place called Grimsbridge. What a horrible name! I hope it was better than it sounded.’

‘It wasn’t,’ I said grimly, remembering it—not to mention what had taken me there.

‘Then I’m glad to hear you’ve left it,’ Henry said equably. ‘I make a very good detective, don’t I? Perhaps I should have taken it up.’

‘But you’ve still only got as far as my
home
address—’

‘Elementary, my dear Watson. I rang you up, and your mother—I suppose it would be your mother?—She had a most attractive voice, much like yours. She was kind enough to tell me where you would be staying, and for how long.’

‘Oh,’ I said weakly, wondering what my mother had made of it—though nothing, probably, since she was always in the middle of some committee work or other. Henry seemed to throw compliments lightly at me as easily as he breathed, and I wondered if I
had
got an attractive voice—like my mother’s. No one else had ever told me so. It also seemed that Henry had gone to some trouble to find me. I crushed down thoughts of the letter H., and answered while he asked polite questions about my family, which, he said wickedly, sounded a great deal nicer than his. Talking to Henry was remarkably easy: he had a knack of looking as if everything one said was interesting.

He went on being easy to talk to, and to listen to, as we sat over a delicious meal chosen with a flattering care for my tastes. I began to feel as if I had known him for a long time, and, after a while, I found myself telling him about Robert, and about my present inability to decide what to do next. It was easy to explain things to such a sympathetic audience, and it wasn’t until we had been sitting for some time over coffee and brandy that I realized how much I had been saying, and that I was probably boring him. Abruptly, the conversation died.

‘I’m sorry. You—don’t want to hear about all this. I shouldn’t start talking about my problems anyway—’

‘Nonsense, of course you should. Some more brandy?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘So you haven’t decided what you want to do next?’

‘It seems difficult somehow. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been talking about it—’

‘Stop saying you’re sorry, Shah!’ He grinned at me, his eyes friendly. ‘I can see it was very lucky I found you, or you might have gone back into being thoroughly serious! As it is, you’ve only just escaped in time! I must say, I think you’re very well rid of this Robert.’

‘So do I. It isn’t that. It’s just ... well, I expect I’ll be able to make up my mind what to do sooner or later.’ I pulled myself together, and smiled at him. ‘Let’s talk about something else. I’m sorry—’ I caught his reproachful look, and corrected myself. ‘All right, I’m
not
sorry.’ I added, rather shyly, ‘It’s nice of you to be so easy to talk to.’

‘Not at all. I’m very interested. Besides, I’ve been deliberately leading you on.’ He smiled at me. ‘I can quite see that you don’t want to go back into your rut now you’ve climbed out of it. It would be a pity. Wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes ... I suppose so. It’s not that I’m not interested in nursing as a job—I am—’

‘But you need a break.’ Henry regarded me with his head on one side, apparently appreciating what he saw. ‘I must admit, I did have a certain idea in my mind when I came to see you.’

‘You—did?’ A warning bell rang in my mind, and at the same time Gypsy Rose’s predictions flooded back at me, however hard I tried to stop them.