Orphan Bride (25 page)

“How do you imagine I feel knowing she’s probably wandering round London with no money, no luggage, not an atom of experience?” he said.

“She’s got under your skin at last, hasn’t she?” Luke said softly. “I think, if she’s been as improvident as that, she’ll be back very soon. You didn’t exactly fit her for an independent life.”

“I hope to God you’re right.”

“I think so. I’m rather fond of her myself, you know, despite
my bad behaviour.”

“But you wouldn’t marry her?” asked Julian quietly.

“Good God, no! Jennet’s a perfect pet, but marriage—no, I’m just the cad type, old boy, as you ought to know by now.” He put his head on one side and asked curiously: “But supposing I had wanted to marry her—would you have let her go?”

Julian was silent for a moment, tracing patterns on the carpet with his stick.

“Yes,” he said then, “if that was what she wanted.”

Luke sat down again and pulled his typewriter towards him.

“You’re an awful fool, Julian,” he said tolerantly. “In all our little dalliances, it was always Cousin Julian who came between. You could have had her in love with you long ago if you’d been clever. Well, I must get on. You ... might return my typescript, by the way. Let me know when the lost sheep returns to the fold.”

He inserted a fresh piece of paper into his machine and began to type, and Julian turned on his heel and left the room.

Piggy shared Luke’s view that Jennet would return. “After
all, what can she do?” she said reasonably. “She
h
as no friends that we don’t know of ourselves, and she must eat and sleep. She’ll come back when she’s hungry, and when she’s sufficiently ashamed of running away.
”

But she had not come by dark,
and Julian, who had telephoned the hospitals late at night, sat up until the small hours resolving to go to the police the next morning. And at breakfast time, Piggy got Jennet’s letter. She rang Julian at once and he went straight round to her flat, but the letter did no more than reassure and puzzle them both.

“She hasn’t any friends,” said Julian. “I’ve tried everyone I know, and nobody’s seen her. Did she go out with anyone I did
n
’t know when she was here, Piggy?
”

Piggy shook her head.

“There was no one except the very few you chose yourself.”

There was nothing to do but wait.

And so they waited. But two days went by and they heard nothing, and on the third, Luke called in at Julian’s flat for news.

He looked at Julian with a certain sympathy
.
The strain was beginning to tell on him. His skin had a greyish tinge as though he had not slept much, and his leg was clearly giving him a good deal of pain.

“Nothing, beyond that one brief note,” he replied to Luke’s query. “Aunt Emily’s heard nothing either
.”

“Have you got the letter?”

“Yes—it’s there on the desk.
”

Luke read it carefully.

“Friends? What friends
?
”
he asked with a frown.

J
ulian moved wearily.

“That’s what puzzles us.
S
he hasn
’
t any outside our own circle.”

“Well, she must have diddled you somewhere. What
’
s the post-mark?” He turned the envelope over. “Oxford Street. That doesn’t mean a thing, of course. Wait
a
minute, though
...
Oxford Street, that seems to ring a bell somewhere. Oxford Street
...
Selfridge’s
...
Sparks and Spicer—that’s it! Now you see the advantage of the novelist’s retentive memory for details, my boy. That girl outside the club—Jennet’s old-school-orphan—didn’t she say she worked at Sparks and Spicer?”

All at once Julian remembered. He had never given Milly another thought, but he remembered now. He had forbidden Jennet to go and see her, and she had accused him of being a snob.

“
Milly White,” he said slowly, and Luke slapped the letter back in its envelope.

“I bet that’s where she is. The old school-tie orphans sticking together
.
I’ll lay you ten to one Miss Milly White knows where she is.”

CHAPTER
F I F T E E N

To Jennet the days passed in a whirl of unfamiliar events. Never had she stood for so long and come home so tired at night. During the day she kept out of sight in the packing
room of Sparks & Spicer, running messages and dodging authority. In the evenings she sat in the attic bedroom mending Milly’s clothes, while Bert took Milly to the cinema. She did not like taking Milly’s earnings,
bu
t
she resolved that when she was properly established she would write to Julian and ask him to do something for Milly.

She was sitting in the packing-room one afternoon when Milly put her head round the door, grimacing violently. Jennet joined her outside, and Milly said quickly:

“You’d better scram. I’ve just seen snooty J. Dane,
Esquire, limping through the Ladies’ Lingerie looking like the wrath of God. Beat it, if you don’t want to see him.”

Jennet’s eyes were frightened.

“But where shall I go? Back to the boarding house?” she asked.

Milly frowned.

“Better not. He may be on to me. Better keep away
F
or a few days. Here—I can spare you ten bob—it’s payday to-morrow. You can sleep and feed in
a
Y.W.C.A. if
you’re stuck—it’s cheap. But my advice is go back to the Danes. This can’t go on for ever and you aren’t cut out for the struggling life.”

“No,” said Jennet, looking trapped. “No, I
won’t go back.”

“Okay! Here’s the ten bob, then. Meet me at Lyons’ Corner House in the Strand Sunday at four. It’ll all have blown over by then. So long and good l
uck
!”

But
it was Milly who was summoned to the manager’s office for an interview with Julian
.
The manager sat behind
his desk looking harassed and severe, and Julian himself leant on his stick, and looked at her appraisingly.

The manager cleared his throat.

“Miss White, we have reason to believe that you can throw some light on the disappearance of a young lady—a relative of this gentleman, here. It is believed that you are helping this young lady to evade her—her lawful guardians
,
and as she is under age that is a very serious offence. What can you tell us, please?”

Milly threw him a withering look. Pompous old fool
!
“Nothing,” she said, and shut her lips firmly.

“Nothing? But this gentleman is positive you can tell him something.”

“I don’t know this gentleman’s relatives, and if I did, they wouldn’t be likely to be calling on me socially,” said Milly with fine scorn.

“But you knew Jennet Brown,” interposed Julian gently. “You both
s
pent sixteen years at the same orphanage.”

“Jenny Brown was no relation of yours that I’ve heard of,” said Milly sullenly. The manager was one thing to put in his place but Julian was quite another.

Julian turned to the manager.

“Miss Brown was adopted by my aunt a year ago,” he said smoothly. “She deputed me to select a girl from a group of which Miss White was one. We have every reason to believe that Miss Brown has communicated with Miss White during the last few days and that Miss White does, in fact, know of her whereabouts.” He turned back to Milly and his manner altered. “You may not realize, Miss White,” he said, “that it may be a criminal offence to withhold information about a missing person, especially when that person is under age. For your own sake, I advise you to tell me anything you know, for I shall have no hesitation in having you questioned by the police if you don’t.”

Milly hesitated and shuffled her feet. Police made everything different. She would lose her job—but that had probably gone anyhow after the way she had cheeked the manager. She took a side-long glance at Julian. If she was Jenny Brown she wouldn’t be running away from this tight-lipped stranger with the dark demanding eyes.

“I can’t tell you where she is now,” she said at last, and that at least was the truth. For all she knew Jennet was sitting in a bus or an Underground by this time.

“But you did know?” said Julian quickly.

“Yes, I did know,” she admitted with a toss of her head. “But I can’t tell you where she is now. She beat it.”

“Beat it?”

“Yes. I tipped her the wink when I saw you stalking through Ladies’ Underwear, and she hopped it.”

“So she was here,” said Julian softly, and the manager fluttered:

“Here—here? How could the young lady have been here without my knowledge
.
”

“
Oh, skip it,” said Milly wearily. “She could have been
a customer, couldn’t she?”

“But she wasn’t,” said Julian.
“
Where do you
live,
Milly?”

“No business of yours,” she flashed.

“The manager will give me your address,” said Julian mildly.

“Well, you won’t find her there,” Milly told him. “She’ll keep away from me if she has any sense.”

“I see,” said Julian, and looked thoughtful.
“M
ight I
speak to this young lady alone?” he asked the manager
.

The manager left his office reluctantly, casting venomous glances at
Julian and Milly.

“Milly,” said Julian when the door had shut,
“did
Jennet tell you why she ran away?”

“
She said you wanted to marry her.”

“Was that the reason she gave for running away
?
”

“No-o
, I
never was very sure of the real reason, only she did say living with you would be like living with a piece of granite, so I don’t think she can have cottoned to the idea very much.”

“I see.” Julian’s face was expressionless, and Milly looked at him curiously.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to her, Mr
.
Dane, but she seems to love you like poison ivy,” she said.
“
Jenny was always a queer kid—used to talk a lot about affection and belonging some place. Well, we all wanted to belong somewhere, I suppose, but Jenny was different.”

“Yes, she was different, that’s why I chose her,
if it w
on’t hurt your feelings,” said Julian with a smile.

“And the only one of us who didn’t want to go—isn’t that life!”

“Will you tell her if you see
her that we want her back
v
ery much?” asked Julian. “That I—miss her very much, and—worry quite a bit.”

Milly looked at him curiously, and privately thought Jennet was a fool.

“I’ll tell her—if I see her,” she said. “But when I told you I didn’t know where she was now, it was the truth—honest I don’t.”

“I believe you,” said Julian. “Where had you hidden her until I appeared?”

“In the packing-room, only don’t let on to old Stink-pot out there. You’ve probably lost me my job anyhow, but I kind of like you—I always did.”

“Thank you,” said
Julian gravely. “Tell me, was she well
?
How does she manage for money?”

“
She’s had what I could spare, which isn’t much,” said Milly, “You wouldn’t like to leave me some—in case I see her? Ten bob won’t take her far.”

“No, I don’t think I’ll do that,” he said calmly. “I’m hoping, you see, that lack of funds will bring her home.” He turned to go and patted her shoulder. “You’re a good sort, Milly. I’ll see you don’t lose your job, and when I get Jennet back, we’ll make up all the expenses you’ve been put to. Here’s my card. If you should want to get hold of me that number will always find me.”

Milly opened the office door for him.

“You really care, don’t you?” she said with slow surprise, but he only smiled and with a courteous good-bye limped off through the shop.

He felt he could not bear to go back to the flat. He drove instead to Jeremy’s studio.

“Well?” Jeremy said as he saw Julian.

“No good. I was just too late. But she had been there.
That girl saw me and tipped her the wink.”

“Stubborn little devil, isn’t she?” remarked Jeremy reflectively. “I didn’t think she had it in her.”

Julian flung himself wearily into a chair and Jeremy looked at him with compassion.

“I was all wrong, wasn’t I, Jeremy?” he said.

“Yes, my boy, you were,” said Jeremy gravely. “And it took Luke with his easy shallow affections to point it out.”

“Luke?” Julian looked genuinely surprised. “Oh, he’s not important any more. He did no
h
arm really. No, it was Jennet herself and her funny little song ... I’d rather rest on a true love’s breast
...
than any other where
...
”

He got up and crossed the studio slowly and painfully. Jennet’s portrait still stood on the easel, but Jeremy had had it framed. Julian lifted the drape, and stood for a long time looking at it.

“Yes, it’s all there in the portrait—the things I didn’t see,” he said.

Jeremy nodded.

“Why wouldn’t you sell to me?”

Jeremy scratched his head.

“I really don’t know,” he said, and sounded embarrassed. “Perhaps you had seemed a little to think that you had first right to anything to do with the child. So you had, really, I suppose. I’d meant to give it to you both as a wedding present. Now—well, you’d better take it away with you anyhow—we can settle on a price later on.”

He blew his nose on a large bandana handkerchief and told Julian to go away.

Jennet stood at the gates of Blacker’s and looked through the bars at the gaunt grey building of the orphanage. Lights were appearing in the tall, barred windows an
d
the monotonous drone of children’s voices flowed faintly from a downstair room.

Jennet straightened her aching back, and felt for the big iron knob that operated the gates. Wearily, she slipped inside, and the gates clanged shut behind her with a harsh rasp of finality. As she walked slowly up the steps to the front door a sense of familiarity, almost of homecoming, seized her. It was so long ago that she had come down these very steps with Julian.

She rang the bell and heard it echo with warning melancholy down the corridors.

“Yes?”

Parker, the surly porter, had opened the door and was peering out at her, unrecognizing.

“Good evening, Parker,” said Jennet politely.
“
Don’t you remember me?”

He looked at her good clothes and expensive shoes, and shook his head.

“Can’t say as I do, miss,” he replied. “Who did you want to see?”

“I want to see Matron,” she said, then as she saw the cynical comprehension dawn in his eyes, she added hastily: “I’m Jennet Brown. I was one of the inmates here.”

“Jennet Brown
...
Jennet Brown
...
” He scratched his head. “Do you mean you was one of the orphans?
Oh!
You’re little Jenny Brown, the one what got
adopted by some rich dame. You’ve gone up in the world—shouldn’t ’ave known you out of that uniform. What ’ave you come for? Got' into trouble already?”

“No, I’m not in trouble,” Jennet said, flushing. “I’d like to see Matron, please.”

He opened the door wider and she slipped inside and met his suspicious eyes with her old, disconcerting stare. “Will you tell her, please?”

He shrugged, left her standing in the hall and went off slowly in the direction of the children’s voices, louder now, swelling together in a toneless chant. Matron would be taking prayers, but they were nearly over.

The voices had ceased and footsteps were coming down the corridor, the brisk remembered footsteps and starched rustlings of Matron.

“Jenny Brown? I didn’t expect to see
you
back at Blacker’s,” she said, and her experienced eye ran over Jennet with a quick, curious glance. “The porter said you wanted to see me. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes—yes, there is,” said Jennet a little breathlessly. “I—I’d like to come back, please.”

Matron’s eyebrows rose incredulously.

“You want to come back?” she repeated. “But that’s a very strange request.” She gave a little artificial laugh. “We’ve had many orphans trying to get
out,
but never, as far as I know, one who wanted to come back.” Her eyes snapped suddenly. “Are you in trouble?”

“No.” Jennet felt so tired that she could scarcely remain standing. “I just want to come back and—I can earn my keep here. I expect you’re short-handed like everyone else. You see—I’ve run away.”

It was no use hiding it. There had to be some explanation.

M
atron looked at her with a quick frown. The adoption authorities were always so careful—could there have been any slip-up here?

“You’d better come to my office,” she said briefly. Sitting at last in the bare little office, answering Matron’s sharp questions, the confusion of the last few days seemed more tangled than ever. When she had stood on the pavement outside Sparks & Spicer, wondering desperately where to go, it had seemed to Jennet the simple and obvious thing to return to Blacker’s. But, listening now to Matron, she knew that she could never explain what had driven her back.

“But I cannot understand, Jenny,” Matron was saying. “You say the Danes were good to you.”

“Very good to me.”

“You weren’t ill-used, or put upon in any way?”

“No—oh, no.”

“Then all I can think is, you must be a very ungrateful girl,” snapped Matron acidly.

“I am grateful,” Jennet said faintly.
“
But gratitude is not enough. One must live one’s own life, think one’s own thoughts
...
” Her words petered out under Matron’s skeptical eye.

“It seems to me you are talking arrant nonsense. From
a
ll I can gather, Miss Dane has treated you like a daughter of the house, Mr. Dane has made provision in a fashion that sounds quixotically generous, and all the thanks you return them is to run away. Well, we can’t keep you here. You have legal guardians now—it is out of the directors’ hands altogether unless you can prove cruelty or undesirable conditions, and I hardly think you can do that.”

“No,” said Jennet drearily, “I couldn’t do that.”

Matron gave her a sharp look, observing for the first time her exhausted condition.

“You can stop here for a few days while we straighten it all out,” she said more kindly. “Where’s your luggage
?”

“I haven’t any,” Jennet said.

“I don’t like it,” said Matron, getting up. “I must wire Miss Dane first thing in the morning to let
h
er know you’re here. She must be worried to death.”

“Oh, please—” Jennet made a last effort—“please don’t
tell her—not for a little while
.
Julian—Mr. Dane thinks I’m stopping with friends. They won’t be worrying
.
If— when I decide to go back, they need never know.”

“I don’t promise anything,” Matron replied. “Blacker’s could not possibly be a party to harboring and deceit.”

Jennet said: “For sixteen years it was my home. A
little longer wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Matron rustled to the door.