Free With All My Worldly Goods by Mary Burchell Page A

you want?”
    He nodded without a word, and then was absolutely still against her. And in that moment Leonora knew the full measure of her love for him.
    A week later she received a telephone call from Martin. He was back in London, it seemed, and would very much like to see her. Could she come and have tea with him that afternoon?
    With a slight feeling of nervousness, Leonora agreed Martin was too good a sportsman to make any real difficulty, she knew, but the guilty consciousness that she had hurt him refused to leave her entirely.
    He greeted her, however, with all his usual good spirits, and once they were seated at a secluded table in a favourite tea-place of theirs, she felt much more at her ease.
    In a way, it was almost like old times to have Martin sitting opposite her, in a place she knew so well, waiting to hear her news of what had happened since last they had met.
    But the memory of what had happened was quite enough in itself to destroy any illusion of “old times.”
    He ordered everything that she liked best—for, unlike Bruce, he did consult other wishes besides his own—and then he leaned back and smiled at her.
    “Well, Lora, what does it feel like to be a heroine of a whirlwind courtship?” he asked a little teasingly.
    She colored faintly and laughed.
    “Does it all seem very absurd to you?” she asked.
    “Well—very puzzling, shall we say?” Martin answered.
    “I know. It must. I’m rather puzzled by it myself sometimes, when I think of it.”
    “Lora”—Martin’s smile had gone suddenly—“we are old enough friends for me to speak quite frankly without causing any resentment, aren’t we?”
    “Of course.”
    “And, you see, it isn’t as though there’s anyone else to—well to speak to you quite seriously about this. So if I seem to be doing the presumptuous heavy uncle, don’t think I have anything but your good at heart.”
    He was silent for a minute while their usual waitress brought their tea and set it out on the table.
    When they were alone again, Leonora began to pour out the tea with slightly too elaborate unconcern.
    “Lora—what sort of man is your guardian?” Martin said slowly. “I know you’ve really told me quite a lot about him, only I don’t seem to have got hold of him, somehow.”
    “He’s very good-looking, to begin with.” Leonora spoke a little hesitatingly. “And your first impression is that he is terribly overwhelming—almost arrogant, I suppose. Then, after a while, you begin to realize that he isn’t so entirely self-sufficient as he makes out. In fact that he is rather—rather vulnerable and”—she dropped her voice suddenly—“in need of sympathy and love.”
    There was absolute silence from Martin, and when Leonora finally looked up she was astonished to see that his mouth was set in a grim line she had never seen before. “Martin—what is it?”
    He looked at her, his eyes dark and troubled. Then he leaned across the table and put his hand lightly over one of hers.
    “You aren’t going to like what I’m going to say a bit, Lora,” he said, “but someone’s got to say it to you. I don’t like the sound of your Bruce. From your description and from what has happened, I should put him down as an extremely clever scoundrel.”
    “Martin!” she drew back sharply. “Why on earth should you say that?”
    “Well, look at the facts, my dear girl. He turns up from nowhere—first in the field with the news that you are an heiress. He proceeds to play the extremely good card of ‘masterful male.’ It always answers, however little you women like to admit it. Then as soon as he’s got you so bewildered and doubtful that you don’t know whether you like him or hate him, he weighs in with the old, old gag that he needs you. It’s an irresistible combination particularly if the man is good-looking, and you say he is.”
    “Please—I can’t possibly have you talk of Bruce like this. You don’t understand in the least.”