Hidden Rapture Read online

  HIDDEN RAPTURE

  Roumelia Lane

  It had seemed like the best solution!

  Robert Colby was gravely ill when his brother, Trent, sent for the girl Robert loved. So it was too late to tell them they had the wrong girl —

  that Lucy Miles had written to Robert using Vivienne’s name and sending her photograph.

  And that was how Vivienne found herself in Tangier, trying to deceive Robert, to make his last months happy ones.

  But her deception became doubly difficult when she realized that she was in love with the wrong brother!

  CHAPTER ONE

  ONE could easily have heard a hairpin drop among the rows and rows of desks at the Betchfield Mail Order Company. A few minutes later pandemonium broke out as the bell signalled the end of the working day and the female clerks streamed down the corridors to the outdoors. Io the hardware section thoughts were turning eagerly towards the leisure hours and conversation blossomed inevitably on the favourite topic. Men!

  ‘Oh, I can’t wait to get home tonight!’ Sandra Gates, a tall flat-footed girl, nosed her way towards the exit with an agitated giggle. ‘I’m going to put on my white cuddly fur stole. Brian’s had that look in his eye. I feel sure he’s going to produce a ring.’

  ‘Gosh, do you really think he’ll propose?’ Brenda Wallis, a dreamy-eyed eighteen-year-old, gazed on enviously and admiringly while trying to keep up with the flurry of high-stepping heels.

  ‘Don’t you girls go fooling yourselves that there’s anything cushy about married life,’ Betty Sherman, a tired-faced mother of two, put in a little acidly. ‘It’s twice as hard running a home. You wouldn’t catch me rushing into it if I had my time again.’

  That’s because you weren’t clever about it, Betty,’ Hazel Hughes, a bright bachelor girl, spoke up laughingly, ‘The trick is not to jump at the first offer but to wait for the right man.’

  ‘And by that she means the one with oodles of noodles,’ said Monica Randall, a sharp-faced girl noted for her sly wit.

  ‘That’s exactly what I do mean,’ Hazel replied sweetly and unashamedly. ‘I think the smart thing these days is to measure your man by the luxuries he can provide in marriage, and I bet there isn’t an unmarried girl here who doesn’t agree with me.’

  ‘Except Vivienne.’

  All eyes turned in one direction and someone scoffed good-naturedly, ‘Viv’s a dark horse. She never discusses her love life.’

  ‘That’s right. I can’t say I’ve ever heard her mention a boy-friend.’

  Sandra, who talked of nothing else but her male attachments, gazed on, mildly incredulous, and the rest chanted, ‘Oh, come on, Viv! Why do you never tell us anything about your romantic life?’

  ‘The answer’s really very simple.’ Vivienne, holding her own in the jostle of female forms, remarked evenly. ‘I haven’t got one.’

  There were squeals and titters of disbelief which were quickly scotched by Betty Sherman’s somewhat pedantic tones. ‘I happen to know that she’s telling the truth. I’ve known Vivienne a long time and I’ve never once seen her with a member of the opposite sex.’

  The teasing turned to smiling puzzlement and pity, and Pat Garmes, a spinster on the wrong side of thirty, groaned, ‘Cor! Who was that bloke that said youth was wasted on the young? Look at that figure!

  Makes you go green with envy. And natural waves and all!’ She crimped her own spiky thatch and sighed good-humouredly, ‘There’s no justice in this world.’

  Vivienne kept a calm smile as she always did on these occasions. She didn’t consider herself youthful. She was an old and wise twenty-three, and anyone caring to delve deep into her heart would have found the remnants of bitterness and hurt there.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Pat,’ someone suggested matily as they came to the dark, damp outdoors. ‘We’ll go to the local palais some night. They get a nice crowd on Saturdays and you never know your luck.’

  ‘I’ll try anything once,’ Pat quipped drily, joining in the laughter against herself. There were cheerful goodnights before they were swallowed up in the general surge towards the main gates, some pushing out autocycles, others fortunate enough to run cars, leaving behind the ones on foot who lived locally.

  Vivienne was one of those who made her way over the connecting iron bridge which led to the company hostel. Below her a fast-flowing river whipped up white foam against rocks in the darkness. It was fortunate that Betchfields was on the outskirts of town. All around was rolling countryside where one could lose oneself on the lighter evenings and summer weekends. From the metal clang of the bridge she came to the dull tiles of indoors. She didn’t mind the hollow ring of her footsteps on the stone stairway, the muffled thrum of the steel banister going all the way up to the fourth floor of the hostel, as she climbed. Long ago she had deliberately chosen these surroundings. Cold and impersonal, they suited her.

  On the second floor she was mildly surprised to see a door open along the corridor and in the light there was a slight figure in a dress that seemed too big for her, peeping out. ‘Lucy!’ She hurried forward.

  ‘I saw you weren’t at your desk this afternoon.’ And eyeing with concern the blotched little face, ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No, I’m all right.’ Miserably the girl bit on the corner of her sodden handkerchief. She lifted her gaze, then the pale eyes with their stubbly sandy lashes were brimming with tears again. ‘Oh, Viv, something awful’s happened!’

  ‘It can’t be that bad!’ With an effort at cheerfulness Vivienne gripped her arm. ‘Come inside and tell me about it’

  Lucy Miles occupied the room next to hers and they were both about the same age. Lucy came from farming stock. She was inclined to be fumbling and awkward in company and worked at her job as a desk clerk with laborious concentration. Her hands and feet seemed too big for her thin frame and everything she wore looked oddly out of shape. But Vivienne had recognised a shy sincerity and warmth behind the girl’s colourless looks and they had become firm friends.

  She was closer to Lucy than anyone.

  Inside the room she led the way to the foot of the bed. The furniture was sparse and had a clinical plainness. A trunk and suitcases filled the space along one bare wall. Now what’s wrong?’ She hugged the other girl. ‘Not trouble at home, is it?’

  Vivienne had no close relatives and on occasion she had gone with Lucy to the tumbledown farm dwelling some miles out on the far side of town. She knew the story surrounding the girl’s family. Her father had lost his hand in a tractor accident and her mother and two young brothers worked hard to hold the farm together. Lucy, who loved the open air, plodded on with her job at Betchfields to bolster the family income.

  ‘No, everything’s fine. I had a letter this morning.’ She blinked her gratitude for the thought through tear-filled eyes, slumped and gulped, ‘It’s the other letter. And all those I’ve written. And I never told you nothing … and now …’ the look on her face was like that of a trapped animal and there was a wild light in her tears, something like grief,’… I just don’t know what to do ..

  ‘You’re not making much sense, Lucy,’ Vivienne said kindly. ‘What letters are you talking about? And why should you have told me?’

  For a moment it seemed as though no coherent reply would be forthcoming, then with an effort the other girl straightened, dabbed at her eyes and with wan purposeful-ness began to explain. ‘Do you remember that time when we went to the club social and one of the church women there got on to us about spreading a little happiness among those less fortunate than ourselves?’

  ‘Mrs Dermott with her pen pals abroad thing, you mean?’ Vivienne reflected smilingly. ‘Yes, I remember. It was just before Christmas, wasn’t it? About three months back.’

&nbs
p; Lucy nodded and in between smoothing the hem of her handkerchief with blunt fingers she said sheepishly, ‘I didn’t say anything to you, but before we left I got her to give me one of the addresses.’

  ‘I see,’ Vivienne said with a knowing gleam, but her friend gave her a look of such agonising sorrow that all attempts at flippancy failed.

  She picked at her handkerchief.

  ‘His name’s Robert Colby. He has a muscular disease and he can only get around in a wheelchair. Mrs Dermott heard about him from some people back from holiday last year and she thought he’d like someone to cheer him up. He’s twenty-four. He used to be a rugby player, and he’s still got a fine physique …’

  ‘Lucy,’ Vivienne interrupted gently, ‘are you telling me that you’ve been corresponding with … with Robert ever since that night before Christmas?’

  ‘Every week,’ Lucy nodded. ‘Sometimes twice a week when the mail allowed it.’

  Trying her best to gather what she could, Vivienne remarked, ‘Then I take it you’ve grown rather close?’

  ‘We love each other.’ It was not so much a confession as a stark and hollow statement devoid of everything but a desolate and crushing dejection.

  Vivienne was at a loss. She gave a puzzled laugh. ‘Well, if you feel that way why the …?’

  ‘Oh, Viv!’ Lucy’s tears were brimming again. ‘You don’t understand.

  Robert’s going to die. Here!’ She fumbled in the pocket of her dress and tossed out a letter. ‘Read it. It came this morning.’

  Vivienne smoothed out the folded piece of paper. Dear Miss Blyth …

  The fact that this was her own name didn’t penetrate her consciousness, for she was too absorbed in the terrible message that followed …I have the unhappy task of informing you that Robert’s condition has deteriorated. There seems no hope. His doctors are not optimistic of him surviving more than a few more weeks. He is asking for you. I would appreciate it if you could travel out here as soon as possible—at my expense, of course.

  Despite the tragedy behind the message the wording of the letter was terse and formal. It was signed Trent Colby.

  Vivienne looked up. ‘Well, at least there’s something you can do.’ She tried to sound bright. ‘You can go and see him.’ .

  ‘Don’t you see? I can’t, I can’t!’ Lucy thumped the bed and stared at her friend in silent anguish. Then with a sigh she got up and brought something from a drawer. ‘This is a picture of Robert. It came with his first letter.’

  Vivienne saw the smiling face, of a blond young man with a bull-necked kind of ruggedness. ‘He’s very good-looking,’ she commented, laying the photo on the bed between them.

  Lucy nodded and stared down at it and then as though casting her mind back to their first introduction by post she said wistfully, ‘I’ve never had a boy-friend.’ And with a deprecating smile at herself, ‘Well, look at me!’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘I did so want everything to go well. Robert wrote such a nice letter and I wanted him to like me and -‘ There was the ripping sound of her handkerchief. ‘Oh, Viv! I don’t know what possessed me, but I sent him a picture of you!’

  ‘Of me!’

  ‘Yes,’ Lucy gulped miserably. ‘You remember the one you gave me for Christmas? … in the leather frame?’

  That one. Yes, Vivienne recalled the likeness. The camera had caught the laughter on her lips but not the shadow behind her smile. She remembered she had written some light-hearted comment in one corner and signed it Vivienne. Though a little confused now she smiled at Lucy, ‘Well, that’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘But it is! It’s the end of Robert’s if he finds out. Don’t you understand? It’s the girl in the photo he’s in love with, not me.’

  Lucy dabbed furiously at her eyes again and Vivienne was beginning to comprehend. ‘You mean you’ve been writing to Robert all this time under my name?’ she said slowly.

  ‘Yes,’ Lucy snuffled. ‘You never get much mail, only forms and circulars, and I always bring it up for you anyway. I just took Robert’s letters addressed to you to my room.’

  Vivienne mused. Now when she came to think of it, she had noticed the subtle change in Lucy over these past months—the flushed, elated look on her face sometimes, the quick laughter and happy nervous fidgeting. ‘But why?’ she implored her friend gently. ‘Surely you must have known that that kind of thing wouldn’t work.’

  ‘I did.’ Lucy looked wretched. ‘But I had to write as Vivienne Blyth.

  Your signature was there. And it was such a lovely photo—Robert said it was in his very next letter. I kept meaning to tell him what I’d done. But we were getting on so well, I didn’t want to spoil, things. I truly did mean to write the truth to him some time, and now …’ she began to wail into her balled-up handkerchief,’… I never can!’

  ‘Oh, Lucy!’ Vivienne put an arm round her. ‘You’re the kindest, sweetest person I know. I’m sure Robert won’t mind when he learns that you’re the girl who’s been writing to him all this time.’

  ‘We can’t tell him now!’ Lucy’s tones were horror-stricken. ‘How could we be so cruel as to destroy all he’s built up for himself in his mind when he has only a short time to live? No, Vivienne,’ she seemed to have suddenly come to a decision, ‘Robert believes that you’re the girl who wrote the letters, so there’s only one way. You’ll have to go to him.’

  ‘I?’ Vivienne was thunderstruck. She gave an incredulous laugh.

  ‘That’s a perfectly mad idea, Lucy. I .could never carry it off.’

  ‘Yes, you could,’ her friend said firmly. ‘It’s only for a little while, remember,’ she gulped back a fresh uprush of tears. ‘And you’d be doing a kindness for Robert. And for me.’

  Vivienne took her friend’s hand and held it while she spoke. ‘Lucy, I do realise that this is an awful muddle and that it would be unthinkable to confront Robert with the truth now. But don’t you see, I haven’t a clue as to the relationship between you two. What would I talk about?’

  ‘I’ve got all our letters.’ The blotched little face looked hopeful. ‘You know how Miss Otis is always dogging us to keep a copy of everything. Well, I always did that when I wrote to Robert. Besides, it was nice to look back on what I’d said when I received his reply.’

  Shyness gave way to pleading. ‘You could read everything we’ve written to each other, then you’d know how to behave. I have a month’s holiday due to me. You can have it and I’ll work in your place. After that I’ll get you some kind of extension.’ Lucy sat up straight, wearing a crumpled yet decisive air. ‘Robert’s going to die, Viv. We can’t spoil his happiness now. You must go first thing tomorrow to Tangier.’

  ‘Tangier!’ The floor seemed to open up in front of Vivienne and she felt as though she was balanced on the edge of a yawning black hole.

  ‘Yes, Robert lives there with his brother. He’s very rich. He runs a casino. He has a beautiful villa …’

  Hardly hearing, Vivienne rose and went to stare out of the window, seeing not the dark gleam of the factory forecourt in the lamplight below but a scene of teeming alleyways and golden beaches, women with veiled faces and natives in djellabas. Tangier! The city she had spent four years trying to forget. Trying to shut out the burning memories of Gary Thornton and the idyllic months they had spent there together before he had calmly said goodbye and cruelly walked out of her life. Young, full of life, crazily in love, his going had sent steel doors crashing down over her heart, never to be opened again to any man.

  ‘I’m afraid the idea’s out of the question, Lucy.’ She turned from the window pale-lipped. ‘I can’t possibly go to Tangier.’

  ‘Oh, Viv!’ A wailing started up from the bed. ‘I was so sure you’d agree to help. I know I did a silly, foolish thing sending your photograph, but how could I have guessed it would end like this?’

  Compassion mingling with an abhorrence in her to agree to the plan, Vivienne stared at the bowed head. She was struck by the irony of the situation even in the mids
t of her unhappiness for her friend.

  While she had striven to build a life for herself far away from the glamour of foreign places, shutting out all thoughts of romance or contact with the opposite sex, Lucy had been yearning for these things like a flower struggling for the sun. Writing abroad to Robert had filled a pathetic need in her, but the tender relationship which shad developed between them was founded on deception and was destined to end in heartbreak from the start.

  She met the tear-smudged eyes across the bed and in a painful mental struggle she said with almost the same look of pleading, ‘You don’t know what you’re asking, Lucy.’

  ‘I do.’ The chin went up. ‘If there was any other way I wouldn’t beg you to do this for me.’

  The silence in the room was crushing. Vivienne thought of the unfortunate young man in Tangier who was waiting hopefully to meet the girl of his dreams. And because Lucy was her friend and she was afraid she would back out if she didn’t speak, she said tonelessly, ‘Where are the letters?’

  Vivienne sat up most of the night reading. She felt like an intruder blundering in on sacred ground as she witnessed the gradual unburdening of two young hearts; an acquaintanceship which had begun with the shy formalities of getting to know one another and deepened into something that was both haunting and touching in its tenderness.

  The knowledge that through mere correspondence Robert and Lucy had fallen quietly in love only served to increase Vivienne’s misgivings in the matter. Could she make a convincing substitute for the kind and gentle Lucy? Especially when her own heart lay like lead inside her.

  She spent the rest of the night tossing in her bed, obsessed with the fear that Robert would see through her the moment he set eyes on her.

  In the morning a cable was dispatched to Robert’s home in Tangier and by midday Vivienne was on her way to the airport. Lucy had helped her to pack, shouldered the problems concerning her departure and bade her a tearful goodbye, begging to be kept informed of Robert’s condition.