Love So Rare
Copyright
Love So Rare
Copyright © 1983 by Anne Hampson
Cover art, special contents, and electronic edition © 2014 by RosettaBooks LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover jacket design by Alexia Garaventa
ISBN ePub edition: 9780795339035
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter One
The snow had come late, when everyone was expecting some fine sunny weather to welcome the spring flowers into the world. Mid-March, and no sign of blue skies. Dawn looked from the window of her sister-in-law’s café and decided that the dismal prospect before her eyes suited her mood. Life was so dull! Why, she wondered for the twentieth time, had she ever agreed to come to the café? But at the time Greta was distraught at the sudden death of her husband in an accident at his work. Dawn, herself stricken by the loss of her only near relative, had quite naturally desired to ease the lot of her brother’s widow. But lately—two years after the death of Owen—Greta was becoming more and more difficult to live with.
A deep sigh escaped Dawn. She ought not to have given up her home, she thought, turning from the gloom of the street and beginning to strip the soiled cloths from the tables. To have agreed to help her sister-in-law with the café was one thing, but she should never have let Greta persuade her to sell up and move into a room above the café. Dawn’s only excuse was that at the time she herself was unable to think rationally, so great was the shock she had received at the tragic loss of the brother with whom she had always been close.
‘I never even looked for the snags,’ she whispered to herself. ‘And yet I ought to have done, knowing how difficult Greta could be at times.’
Dawn had no privacy except when she was in her bedroom, which was only late at night because there was so much to do—Sunday, and Wednesday afternoons being the only times the café was closed.
‘Are you coming into the kitchen for your lunch?’ Greta’s dull and lifeless voice drifted to Dawn from the inner door and she frowned.
‘I’ll take these cloths off first and lay up again.’ The café closed for an hour after the lunchtime rush, and opened again at about half past three, or a little earlier, for afternoon teas. Then at six began the cooked meals, which were available until half past eight. After that there was all the tidying up to do, and the kitchen and café to be thoroughly cleaned in readiness for the following morning.
‘You’ve no need to do it now,’ called Greta. ‘There’s a bit of steak pie left over, and some mashed potatoes.’
Steak pie and mash! Always it was steak pie that was left, simply because, being cheap to make, it was on the menu every day. It had been in the oven since twelve o’clock, keeping warm; the crust would be like rock, the meat hard and the gravy dried up. The mash just didn’t bear thinking about! Dawn could not help recalling those appetising lunches—subsidised by the firm where she had worked as a typist—which she had eaten prior to coming to work for Greta. She had lost everything—home, furniture, a good, comfortable job with a month’s holiday every year, and—she was beginning to realise—her looks. Yes, these days the honey-brown hair that had once been so much admired was invariably dull, as were her eyes, soft violet eyes, limpid and widely spaced beneath delicately curving brows and framed by long dark lashes. Her skin, once clear and cool as fine porcelain, was now more often than not red from the heat of the stove, and damp with perspiration, the result of rushing about, for she was the only waitress serving over forty customers every lunchtime.
‘Are you coming?’ The colourless monotone again!
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ sighed Dawn.
‘You don’t seem too happy,’ from Greta when at last they were seated at the kitchen table. Dawn cast her a sidelong glance.
‘I might as well be honest, Greta. I’m far from happy.’
‘You regret coming here to help me when I was so desperate, and so brokenhearted?’
Dawn shook her head, toying for a moment with an iron-hard wedge of pastry.
‘I don’t regret coming to you then, but I do regret having stayed all this time. What is there in my life, Greta?’
‘For that matter,’ returned Greta plaintively, ‘what is there in mine?’
‘I know it’s bad for you,’ conceded Dawn, ‘but don’t you think you ought to be doing something about making your life easier?’
‘Such as?’ Greta pushed a tangle of hair from her forehead with a greasy hand, a hand on which there were two livid patches—oven burns healing up.
‘You could sell the café and get a job.’
‘Sell it! I got it as a hobby, and—’
‘That’s just it. You got it as a hobby, to provide you with some pin money and to add a bit to Owen’s wages. Your hours were short; you closed after lunch every day. But now you’re working till late at night, bent on making a fortune.’
‘Oh, how can you say so!’
‘You could afford another waitress, Greta. And someone to help you with the cooking. You and I are doing the work of at least four people. At Grange Café they have a woman for the washing up and the preparation of vegetables. She does nothing else.’
‘I can’t afford to pay anyone other than you, Dawn.’ Greta picked up a piece of pie in her fingers. Dawn looked at it, disgusted. It was actually burnt. Yet there were chops in the fridge, and roast pork. ‘I’m not making any money at all, no matter what you think to the contrary.’
Dawn let the matter drop. She did the accounts and knew the extent of her sister-in-law’s profits. She was doing very well indeed, while Dawn’s wages were even less than she had received when working in the office.
There was at least one bright spot in Dawn’s life, though: Paul Austin, a young man who had begun coming into the café two months ago. He had instantly taken a liking to Dawn and she to him. They had been keeping company for seven weeks, but Dawn had not mentioned this to Greta. She wished she could persuade Greta to sell the café so that she, Dawn, could get a better-paid job and begin saving money, just in case Paul should ask her to marry him. She was meeting him that evening, but not until nine o’clock, as Greta could not manage on her own before then.
‘You look absolutely jiggered,’ was Paul’s not very tactful remark when Dawn met him in the Bullring. ‘Had a particularly hard day?’
‘Every day is hard.’ She had not meant to say anything like that, but it slipped out, uttered on a note of bitterness.
They got into Paul’s car and drove to The Beeches for a quiet drink and a bar snack. These little trips in the car were a joy to Dawn, the only brightness in her life.
‘I have to go away,’ Paul informed her right out of the blue. He had lunched in the café that day, but he and Dawn had not been able to have a private word together.
‘Away?’ Dawn’s heart caught, then dragged. ‘Oh, no, Paul!’
‘Afraid so, Dawn. It’s for six months initially. London. Too good to pass up—promotion that I didn’t expect for awhile.’ He picked up his glass and drank his beer thirstily. ‘After London it could be somewhere abroad.’ Dawn saw that he was no longer with her, that his mind was occupied by the promotion that had come his way. She swallowed something hard and painful in her throat, admitting that, on Paul’s part, their relationship had meant no more than a pleasant interlude, and one that could be easily forgotten. Well, perhaps it was for the best, since she could not marry him yet. It saved her having to explain, and asking him to wait until she was free.
She picked up her glass, then absently took up a slice of tomato on her fork.
‘I’m glad for you,’ she said.
‘Thanks. I like London—so much going on all the time. I once had a girl friend who went to work there. I might be able to look her up.’
Dawn nodded as she placed her glass on the table.
‘That’ll be nice for you. You’ll not be lonely.’
Paul leant back and lit a cigarette.
‘If you get a weekend off, why don’t you come down? We’d do a show and see the sights.’
‘I can’t leave Greta,’ she returned flatly.
‘I’d get out if I were you.’ Paul eyed her narrowly through the film of smoke he was creating. ‘You’re beautiful, Dawn, but this sort of work’ll rob you of your looks in no time at all.’
Dawn popped the piece of tomato into her mouth and laid the fork down on her plate.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I expect it will.’
‘Yet you won’t leave? Loyalty, eh? I don’t believe you owe Greta any. She isn’t a relative now that your brother’s dead.’
‘I can’t desert her, Paul.’
‘Then you’re crazy. Are you going to go on like this forever?’
Dawn made no answer. But she could have said quite truthfully that it would not go on for more than another eighteen months, simply because of her expectations. She had told Paul everything about herself, except that she was married. Even Greta did not know about it. Not that it was a real marriage; it had been all over and done with in about fifteen minutes, at the Registrar’s Office in Dunfield, the next town, five miles from there. No attendants, no meal afterwards, no honeymoon. Just the surlyfaced registrar and the two witnesses he had produced from somewhere. But by the marriage two people had come into a handsome property in South Africa. The only thing was that Dawn had not benefited yet, while her husband was in fact ‘sitting pretty,’ as Dawn’s solicitor had grimly remarked.
For almost eighteen months she had been married, and she could not bring the face of Ralf Deverell to mind. He was a South African, with the blue blood of his Voortrekker ancestors running through his veins. Dawn recalled that he was a big man, tall and lean and very bronzed. He had a sinewed hardness about him that had repelled her, and an inherent arrogance that made her feel inferior. This arrogance was stamped into his clear-cut features, she remembered, and wondered at her inability to bring those features into her mental focus. They had certainly impressed her at the time. So too had everything else about him—his broad square shoulders and narrow hips, his noble carriage, those lignite-brown eyes that seemed to turn steely-grey in certain lights. The lawyer, she remembered, had been staring short-sightedly at the will and had snapped on a light. It was then that Ralf Deverell’s eyes seemed to take on that steely glint. They were disconcerting, too, as they rested half-frowningly on the girl who, at that time, had no idea she would become his wife within a matter of days.
It had all begun when Dawn received a letter from a solicitor. Greta was out, a circumstance for which Dawn was glad, since she had no wish that she should know of her activities at this stage. Greta was curious about anything Dawn did, curious in fact to the point of interference. Greatly puzzled by the letter, Dawn went off the following Wednesday afternoon to see the solicitor. And within a quarter of an hour of entering the office of Lovat, Bright and Fletcher she and Ralf were staring at one another disbelievingly.
‘A farm in South Africa!’ Dawn shook her head, feeling sure there was some mistake. But the lawyer soon explained, convincing her that she really had inherited a half share in a vast estate in the Transvaal. She had visions of selling her share and rescuing herself from the drudgery of the café. She would be able to help Greta, too, she thought.
‘Mr. Deverell and I…’ She had looked at him, surprised to see a frown on his face. ‘We own it between us…?’
‘Mr. Deverell knew Mr. Cleveland,’ said the lawyer. ‘You saved his life, I believe?’
The big South African nodded, but impatiently.
‘I never expected this sort of a reward.’ His voice was clipped, almost angry.
‘He was bathing in the sea, and you saved him from a shark—’
‘Never mind that,’ interrupted Ralf Deverell with some asperity. ‘Can we go on? I flew in last night and I’d like to try for a plane later today.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Well, now…’ His voice droned on as if all was mechanical, as if he were heartily sick of this kind of thing—dealing with wills. Listening intently, Dawn heard that Michael Cleveland, only three months before his death at the age of eighty-three, had somehow discovered the existence of a distant relative living in England. He had immediately engaged a firm of lawyers to make inquiries. Those inquiries revealed that the relative in question—Dawn’s mother—was dead and that her daughter was now Mr. Cleveland’s only surviving relative.
‘We found out all about you,’ continued Mr. Fletcher, looking at Dawn in his short-sighted way. ‘Your circumstances were far from comfortable, and on hearing this, Mr. Cleveland decided to make provision for you. However, it was going to upset all his plans, since he had already left everything to the man who, years before, had saved his life at the risk of his own.’ He glanced at Ralf, whose frown was darker than before. Plainly he hated to be reminded of his bravery. ‘Had you no idea at all, Mr. Deverell, that you were his beneficiary?’
‘I had an idea, obviously, when I was requested to come over here regarding his will. But half his estate—’ He spread his hands in an angry gesture. ‘It’s incredible!’
‘It’s happened, all the same,’ said the lawyer matter-of-factly. ‘As I was saying, the discovery that his only blood relation was an orphan, and a female, caused Mr. Cleveland to alter his plans for the disposal of his property when he had gone. He felt he must provide for Miss Sutton, but at the same time he wanted you, Mr. Deverell, to run his estate. He knew it would be done efficiently as you had a similar estate of your own. He had a problem, as you can see. Also, he was over eighty years of age and had some odd ideas.’ He looked first at Dawn and then at Ralf. Noticing the man’s expression, Dawn wondered if Ralf had reached the same conclusion as she, that something very unusual was forthcoming. When it did come it left them both bereft of speech. Dawn was the one to break the silence.
‘Marry him!’ The unthinking exclamation was out before she had time to realise just how disparaging was the tone she used, and she had the grace to blush under the arrogant stare to which the South African subjected her.
‘Yes, Miss Sutton. He decided that as you were an orphan it would be a good thing for you to marry Mr. Deverell. It would mean that Mr. Deverell would manage the estate, which was what Mr. Cleveland wanted.’
Dawn, conscious still of the arrogant eyes of Ralf upon her, put up a hand to tidy her hair. She felt awful—what with her coming out with that unwarranted exclamation, and the state of her appearance—her hair being dull and lifeless, her tired eyes, her drawn features—she wanted only to leave this office, to efface herself as quickly as she could.
‘You can give my share to charity,’ decided Ralf and rose at once, as if the interview were at an end as far as he was concerned.
‘If you do that, Mr. Deverell,’ said the lawyer severely, ‘you’ll be robbing Miss Sutton.’
‘Robbing her?’ frowned Ralf, glancing down at her from his great height. ‘How can that be?’
‘If you don’t marry, there is no provision for Miss Sutton. Unfortunately the will is badly done, made out by the man himself. I’m afraid that marriage is the only solution—’ He stopped on seeing that Dawn desired to interrupt him.
‘Forget it, Mr. Fletcher. If there’s nothing else, then perhaps you will excuse me?’ She rose from her chair, feeling small and inadequate beside the man already standing there, his presence seeming to fill the entire office. But her head was held high, unnaturally so, because she resented the examining eyes of the South African, eyes that were plainly expressing disdain.
Mr. Fletcher drew an impatient breath, flicked a hand exasperatedly and said, ‘Sit down, both of you! Do you know how much is at stake? You don’t go throwing it away, just like that!’ He glowered at them in turn before adding, ‘You, Miss Sutton, look as if the legacy would be more than welcome!’ She blushed, more than ever conscious of her drab appearance. She could certainly do with a new coat, that was for sure! ‘Sit down,’ ordered Mr. Fletcher again testily, ‘and listen to what I have to say!’
Dawn did as she was told, surprised to see the Afrikaner do the same, though there was a decidedly dangerous gleam in his eyes. Dawn felt sure he had never been given an order before in his life—certainly not in his adult life.
The lawyer continued. He had discovered one slight loophole and felt it could be used to the advantage of them both. His voice droned on and on in boring monotony; Dawn found concentration leaving her so that she became detached. Perhaps it was the physical fatigue that was also affecting her mind; she knew she ought to be attending but the effort was too great. However, she did notice that Ralf Deverell was listening most intently, and wondered if, when all this was over, she dare venture to ask him to explain it to her in words of one syllable.
Vaguely she caught something about ‘three years,’ and this made her pay attention again. Apparently the old man had been realistic enough to understand that the couple might not be happy together, and he had added a clumsy sort of codicil to cater to such an eventuality. If the two could not get on, then they could separate after three years.
‘Why three years?’ Dawn heard Ralf inquire curiously.
‘I took it that he felt there would be an heir in that time. This child would inherit and so there would be a continuance of ownership in the same family.’ The lawyer shook his head impatiently. ‘Why he didn’t have the will drawn up by someone capable of doing it, I really do not know! It only makes things difficult for others when people do this kind of thing. However, this three-year business seems to indicate that you could marry now and in three years’ time have a divorce.’
‘There’s nothing to say that an heir must be produced?’ Ralf was plainly becoming interested in the inheritance. ‘We must stay married for only three years in order to inherit this property?’
‘This seems to be the case. My partners and I have been into it and we’ve reached the conclusion that there are no further snags to the will.’ He looked at Dawn. ‘You’re a lucky young lady,’ he began, then stopped on noticing her expression change. She did not think that any woman married to Ralf Deverell would be lucky!
Some further discussion took place between Ralf and Mr. Fletcher, but once again Dawn’s thoughts drifted. She had no intention of marrying the man, so it was a waste of time for her to be here at all.
‘I advise you to marry, and after three years you could have a divorce, sell the property and share the proceeds.’
Dawn frowned at this, but now her interest had been caught.
Three years was not much, after all…
‘Dawn… you’re miles away.’ Paul’s soft voice recalled her from her prolonged reflections and she looked at him apologetically.
‘I was lost in thoughts,’ she admitted. ‘Sorry, Paul, to be such dull company.’
‘What were you thinking about?’ he asked, watching her curiously and thinking how tragic it was for her beauty to be fading in the way it was doing.
‘Something that happened a year and a half ago.’ Another year and a half and divorce proceedings could be set in motion, but there might be a longer wait for the final settlement, which would see Dawn’s financial circumstances change for the better.
‘What happened a year and a half ago?’ Paul beckoned for the waiter and ordered more drinks.
Dawn smiled to herself, wondering what Paul’s reaction would be if she were to tell him the truth. Instead she merely said, ‘I met someone from South Africa who was to play an important part in my life, but that’s all I can say, Paul. It’s a very private matter between him and me.’
He shrugged resignedly, but curiosity did make him ask, ‘What part did he come from?’
‘The Transvaal. He has a farm there.’
‘Lovely place—mostly. I’d like to visit South Africa one day. It must be a fascinating country.’
For some reason his words impressed Dawn strongly. She had inherited property and had never even seen it. She never would see it. At present Ralf Deverell was managing it—in fact he was living in the house, as it was more convenient for him to live at Dombeya Lodge than in his own home. He had written to the solicitors explaining this. His own farm was much smaller and, therefore, he was able to have it run efficiently by a foreman. The Dombeya estate was far more extensive and difficult to manage, and he had decided it would be better for him to take up residence there. Dawn had been consulted, and had raised no objections. The property was so remote, and in any case, as Mr. Fletcher pointed out, the house would very rapidly deteriorate in that climate if it remained unoccupied for any length of time. Recently, however, Dawn had sought the advice of another solicitor, and this man did not like the idea of Ralf being in full possession. As he remarked, her husband was sitting pretty while she was suffering hardships.
Dawn’s musings were again brought to a halt by the arrival of the waiter with the drinks.
‘Thank you,’ she said automatically, watching Paul seeking for the money to pay.
‘If you have a friend in South Africa,’ Paul said after a space, ‘then you ought to take a holiday there. Get away from that damned café for a while.’
She gave a small sigh. It would be nice to take a holiday to see her property before it passed out of her hands forever.
‘It just isn’t possible,’ she said. ‘Greta couldn’t possibly manage on her own.’
‘Then let her get someone else,’ said Paul heartlessly.
An hour later he was driving her home, back to the grim bedroom which she had almost come to regard as a prison.
‘Is Greta out?’ Having parked the car close to the café window, Paul looked up, into the windows of the flat above. ‘Everywhere’s dark.’
‘Yes, I can see.’ A frown appeared on her forehead. ‘It’s not usual for her to go out, but sometimes she goes to the cinema. She always mentions it beforehand, though.’
Dawn inserted her key and unlocked the door. They had to pass through the café to reach the stairs leading off from the kitchen. The smell of food cooked hours previously hung nauseatingly to everything, and she heard Paul exclaim, ‘Good lord, what a stench!’
‘It’s not as bad as that,’ protested Dawn, snapping on a light. ‘We’re exceptionally clean in here, but cooking smells always hang.’ She was troubled without knowing why. All was so quiet and still. Greta must be out…. And yet…
‘Shall I come up with you?’ Paul stood at the foot of the stairs beside Dawn. ‘Yes, I will,’ he decided before she could answer. ‘It isn’t right that you should go up there on your own if Greta is out.’
‘She might be in bed.’ It was unlikely. Greta always waited up for Dawn, which was the reason why Dawn made a point of never staying out late.
‘God, what a dismal place it is! How do you live here, Dawn?’
She made no answer, but began to mount the stairs. He followed closely, their footsteps sounding incredibly loud on the thin, threadbare carpet; the low-wattage lamp over the stairs added to the sense of gloom and dinginess.
The living room was tidy, as usual, but Dawn’s eyes were drawn instantly to the couch. The cushions were flattened, as if someone had been lying on them. Greta had a habit of always punching every cushion before going to bed.
‘I feel strange…’ Dawn trailed off, looking up at Paul. ‘If I call and she’s asleep, it’ll waken her—’
‘Which is her room?’ he interrupted curtly. There was a strange atmosphere about the place, no doubt about that.
‘Just along the landing here.’ Dawn called out, softly at first, then more loudly and urgently. She opened Greta’s door without knocking and snapped on the light. Her heart gave a great lurch as she saw her sister-in-law lying by the bed. ‘Oh… what has happened?’
Greta looked as if she had fallen while trying to get into bed. She was fully clothed, with part of the counterpane draped over her inert body. She had obviously clutched it as she fell.
‘She’s not… dead?’
‘No.’ Paul was cool, efficient. Dawn had never been so thankful for someone’s help. He had knelt down and was feeling Greta’s heart. ‘Have you a phone here?’
‘No, Greta wouldn’t have one. I’ll run over to the box on High Street.’ She helped Paul get Greta onto the bed, then turned immediately to the door. ‘Her doctor isn’t very keen on being brought out at night—’
‘Tell him it’s urgent!’
To Dawn’s surprise the doctor agreed to come immediately.
‘Mrs. Sutton rang me earlier,’ he informed Dawn, going on to say that she had complained of a pain in her chest. ‘I thought it might be indigestion, but obviously it’s something much more serious. I’ll be there in about a quarter of an hour.’
‘It’s not difficult to form a picture of what’s happened,’ Paul said when Dawn got back. ‘Greta felt ill and laid down on the couch. But on realising she was becoming worse, she got up, went out and phoned the doctor.’
‘It must have been awful, if she was in pain—and all on her own, too. Oh, why did I go out and leave her?’
‘You can’t blame yourself,’ returned Paul shortly. ‘Good God, girl, you’ve done nothing but make sacrifices since the day she was left a widow! As I was saying, she managed to get to the phone. From what you’ve told me, I expect the doctor advised her to take indigestion tablets and come to the surgery tomorrow morning. She probably took the tablets, then decided to go to bed.’