Pimpernel and Rosemary by Baroness Orczy (ebook reader 7 inch TXT) 📕

“So,” he said curtly, “I suppose that you and Aunt Elza and Anna have been discussing frocks for the past hour and a half.”

“No, dear,” she replied coolly, “only the arrangements for tomorrow’s ball.”

Whereupon Peter said “Damn!” and swung round on his heel, as if he meant to leave her there without another word. But for this move of his Rosemary was unprepared. She did not want Peter to go. Not just yet. She was perfectly loyal to him in her thoughts, and she was irrevocably determined not to break her promise to Jasper, but she was not going to let Peter go off today without some sort of explanation. She might not see him again after this⁠—for weeks, for months, for years! So she called him back.

“Peter!” she cried.

He swung back and returned to her side. His deep, changeful eyes, which at times were the colour of the ocean on the Cornish coast, and at others recalled the dark tints of his Hungarian ancestors, looked strangely resentful still. But as his glance rested on Rosemary, wandered from her delicate face in the pearly shadow of her garden hat, along the contour of her graceful shoes, the resentful look fled. And Rosemary, glancing up, caught a momentary flash of that soul-holding gaze which had taken her captive that lovely night in June by the river, when she had lain crushed and bruised in his arms, the gaze which that other night in the Albert Hall box had filled her soul with abiding regret.

“What do you want me to tell you, Peter?” she asked in that stupid way that comes to the lips when the soul is stirred and the mind commands self-control.

“Nothing,” he replied roughly, “that you don’t want to.”

“Peter,” she retorted, “why are you so strange with me? One would think I had done something to offend you. You scarcely will speak to me; when you do you are so rough and so abrupt, as if⁠—as if⁠—Oh, I don’t know,” she went on rapidly, and her voice shook a little as she tried to avoid that memory conjuring glance of his. “It seems as if something had come between us, almost as if we were enemies.”

Peter laughed at this, but his laugh sounded rather forced and harsh.

“Enemies!” he exclaimed. “Good God, no!”

“But something has happened, Peter,” she insisted. “I cannot tell you how I find you changed.”

“Well,” he said curtly, “something did happen, you know, when you married Jasper.”

“I don’t mean that, Peter. I saw you in London after I was engaged, and you had not changed then. It is here⁠—in this place⁠—that you seem so different.”

“You must admit the place gets on one’s nerves,” he said with a shrug.

“You must make allowances, Peter,” she rejoined gently. “They are in such trouble.”

“Are they?” he retorted.

“Why, you know they are!” And her voice rang with a note of indignant reproach. “How can you ask?”

“I ask because I don’t know. You say that they⁠—I suppose you mean Aunt Elza and Maurus and the kids⁠—are in trouble. How should I know what you mean? Since I’ve been here they have done nothing but shout, dance and make plans for more dancing and shouting, and when I ask you anything you only tell me lies.”

“Peter!”

“I beg your pardon, dear,” he said with sudden gentleness. “I didn’t mean to be caddish. But you know,” he went on, harshly once more, “you did tell me that Jasper had gone to Budapest on business.”

“Well?” she queried.

“Well! Knowing you to be truthful by nature, I am wondering why you should have told me such an unnecessary lie.” Then, as Rosemary was silent, he insisted: “Won’t you tell me, Rosemary?”

“You are talking nonsense, Peter,” she replied obstinately. “There is nothing to tell.”

“Which means that Jasper has told you⁠—or insinuated⁠—that I am not to be trusted.”

She protested: “Certainly not!”

“Then,” he concluded, “the mistrust comes out of your own heart.”

“That again is nonsense, Peter. There is no question of trust or mistrust, and I have no idea what you mean. It is you who try to deceive me by feigning ignorance of what is going on in this house. If Aunt Elza has not spoken openly with you, it certainly is not for me to enlighten you. There,” she added, as she caught a look of eager questioning in his eyes, “I have already said more than I have any right to say. Elza and Anna are coming across the lawn. If you want to know anything more, you had better ask them.”

And abruptly she rose and left him and went into the house. She felt hurt and angry and not a little ashamed. She felt hurt with Peter, angry with Jasper, and ashamed of herself. Peter was quite right. She had told him lies⁠—unnecessary lies. And Jasper had forced her to tell them and to be disloyal to Peter. The present situation was a false one. Utterly false. It was Peter who should take over the direction of Elza’s plan. With his help the chances of Philip’s and Anna’s escape would be increased tenfold. It seemed an awful thing⁠—it was an awful thing⁠—that he should be shut out of Elza’s councils, that he should go away on a futile and trivial errand while those his own kith and kin were in such terrible danger, and running into dangers that were worse still.

For the last time the temptation returned, and with double violence, to break her promise to Jasper and go straight back to Peter and tell him everything. She paused in the centre of the drawing-room and looked back through the wide-open glass doors. Peter was still on the veranda. He had picked up a stick and a tennis ball and was hitting the one with the other and humming a tune. He caught Rosemary’s eye as she glanced back to look at him.

“Hallo!” he called gaily.

Rosemary went deliberately back to the glass door. She paused under the lintel; then she said earnestly:

“Don’t go