The Tender Night Read online

  THE TENDER NIGHT

  Lilian Peake

  Hurt and embittered when her fiancé broke their engagement on the eve of the wedding, Shelly Jenner had vowed never to get emotionally involved with a man again. Certainly not with someone like Craig Allard, who represented everything she most disliked in a man. He was critical, carping, and made it clear that her feminine charms did nothing for him.

  “I may have had my heart broken,” Shelly said slowly, “but it hasn’t left me heartless. I could never, ever marry without love!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Around the lily pond, the shrubs, the grasses and rock plants tried vainly in the ruffled waters to find their own reflection. Shelley, elbow on desk, stared out, forgetting for the moment the pile of letters waiting to be answered.

  She had not seen the gardens in the summer. It had been October when she had first gone to work at the school. Mrs. Allard, proprietor and headmistress of the small but select educational establishment known as Mapleleaf House School, was a kindly woman. Vague, elusive—she was often away from home—she ran the school, as she put it, without help or hindrance of governors, committees or, she loved to say, any other interfering busybodies.

  She was full of sympathy, too, as Shelley, to her immense relief, had discovered on the day of her interview for the job.

  Shelley had been running away when she had applied for the post of personal secretary to the headmistress. She had been trying to escape from the ravages of a broken engagement and a shattered heart, a heart so torn in pieces it would have been like trying to fit snowflakes together to form an unbroken sheet of ice. Now she had reached shelter, a haven in which she could hide away and never, ever, be made so unhappy again.

  ‘The man of whom you’re thinking,’ said a mocking voice from the doorway across the large, high-ceilinged room, ‘must surely be out of this world to merit such depth of thought, such a prolonged expenditure of time—and in working hours, too.’

  The statement was both a taunt and a reproof and Shelley’s head spun round to gaze with unconcealed hostility at the man who had delivered it. The dislike in her eyes seemed to arouse in him a similar response—he, apparently, appreciated being hated on sight no more than any other human being.

  He was tall, he was slim and lithe, his hair was black and thick and had a touch of unruliness about it. There were deeply etched lines running from long straight nose to mouth. Expressive eyebrows topped eyes which examined, dissected and anatomised the girl at the desk who, by now, was feeling like an unfortunate specimen being cut up on a bench in a laboratory.

  The path of his thoughts was plain. Shelley could read it in his eyes. This sample of the female of the species, he was thinking, with her tugged-back hair, wearing spectacles totally unsuited to the shape of her face, with a sulkiness about her drawn-in mouth and deep disapproval in those two resentful eyes, was scarcely worth another moment’s thought.

  As they regarded each other, Shelley could feel the animosity she was offering him being accepted and returned in full measure. There was a war between them, a war which she had instigated and which she was determined to fight to the finish. Who was he, this man who had spoken only a few words to her but who had managed with one sentence to make her hate him on sight?

  It did not take her long to make a guess, an accurate guess, as to his identity. If he had not asked a question which gave the secret away, she would have known by the similarity of his features.

  ‘Is my mother around?’

  So this was the son of whom Mrs. Allard was so proud. ‘I’m sorry, no,’ Shelley replied. ‘She’s gone down to the village.’

  ‘Oh.’ He came into the room and stood beside the desk. ‘You’re her secretary?’

  Shelley lifted herself reluctantly from her chair. If this man was the owner’s son, she had better show him some deference, even if it irked her so much she felt she would like to pick up the typewriter and throw it at him.

  He looked her over swiftly from head to foot and Shelley was conscious of her drab black skirt and white button-up blouse. It was all part of the disguise which she adopted these days to keep any hint of admiration out of men’s eyes. She had finished with passion and desire. She had finished with flattering glances and complimentary words. She had finished with men. So she dressed and behaved in such a way as to repel them. No one would believe that under the loose-fitting clothes was a shape which had in the past brought whistles to masculine lips.

  ‘May I know your name?’

  ‘Miss Jenner.’

  ‘Just—“Miss” Jenner?’

  Shelley stayed silent.

  ‘Well, Miss Jenner, how long will my mother be?’

  Shelley looked at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. She was invited out to afternoon tea.’

  He frowned. ‘In my social circles afternoon tea can be considered to have ended at around four-thirty.’ He leaned sideways against the desk and smiled provokingly. ‘Tell me what happens in your social circles. It’s obvious mine and yours are a world apart.’

  ‘In my social circles,’ she returned sourly, ‘afternoon tea doesn’t exist.’

  He folded his arms. ‘There seems to be a lot more than afternoon tea missing from your world, Miss Jenner.’ His smile merely curved his lips. It did not warm them. ‘Pleasantness of manner, politeness in welcoming a stranger—’

  ‘Please forgive me,’ she broke in, ‘for any lack of courtesy I may have shown, Mr. Allard. I wasn’t aware of being discourteous, but if you say I am it must be true.’

  There was a fractional narrowing of his eyes and hers shifted uncomfortably from the anger he took no pains to hide. This man, she reasoned silently, was her employer’s son. Her newly acquired dislike for men—and oddly, this one in particular—must not be allowed to take possession of her and override her usual good manners. So she apologised again, sincerely this time.

  After he had gone, she felt strangely ruffled as if a gale had sprung from nowhere and disturbed her peace of mind—if that was how the state of her mind could be described after Michael had finished with it.

  When Michael had walked out on her—they had even bought a house to live in—she had left the firm of engineers for whom she had been working and where he had been employed as a salesman for their products, and had applied for the first job the employment agency had offered. In accepting the post at Mrs. Allard’s school, Shelley felt she had taken the most sensible step in her life.

  When Muriel Allard had been told by the quiet, rather subdued girl in front of her that she had a younger sister to care for, that they lived in a cramped bed-sitter in one of the less pleasant areas of Newcastle, and that her marriage had been cancelled at the last minute, she had said immediately,

  ‘I can provide you with a house as well as a job. Rent free, my dear. You’ve enough on your plate without having to pay for a roof over your head. The lodge at the entrance to the grounds has been empty for months. It needs redecorating and a few more bits of furniture, but it’s yours and your sister’s for as long as you work for me.’

  Janine, pretty, appealing, young for her age, which was nineteen, had complained at first. She had objected to the idea of being cut off from the mainstream of life and tucked away on the outskirts of a village in the heart of the North Yorkshire moors. But when Mrs. Allard, having been told by Shelley that her sister was an apprentice hairdresser, wrote and told them that the hairdresser in the village would welcome Janine’s assistance with open arms, Janine began to co-operate.

  Shelley sighed and walked across the room to look in the mirror behind Mrs. Allard’s desk. What had he seen, that arrogant, irritating man who called himself Mrs. Allard’s son? Dark hair—as dark as his own—pulled away from a face whose oval sh
ape did not suffer from the consequent exposure, but whose heavy, hopeless expression was revealed all the more clearly to the detriment of the rest of her appearance.

  Since Michael had gone out of her life she had forsworn make-up. It only served to attract men, and she wanted no more of that. The clothes she wore had become almost a uniform. She returned to her desk. Why should she care what Mr. Allard—Mr. Craig Allard, wasn’t it?—thought of his mother’s secretary? He was a man and that made him her enemy from the start.

  Mrs. Allard bustled in, a well-proportioned woman with tinted hair and carefully groomed appearance. She was expensively clothed and delicately perfumed and had a busy, breathless manner.

  ‘Your son called in,’ Shelley told her at once. ‘He was looking for you.’ She did not want to be accused by that particular individual of falling down on her job as secretary as well as that of a woman.

  ‘Was he?’ Mrs. Allard flipped through the pile of letters on her desk. ‘I’m so glad you two have been introduced. I’ve told him so much about you. He’s been abroad for six months. Did I tell you?’ Shelley nodded.

  ‘Will he,’ Shelley ventured, almost afraid to ask, ‘will he be here long?’

  ‘Six months at least,’ his mother answered, and Shelley’s heart sank without trace. Six months of that man’s presence in the house? How could she stand it?

  ‘Did I also tell you,’ Mrs. Allard went on, ‘he’s researching into some aspect or other of education? He’s got a year’s leave from his senior lectureship at the university and he’s writing a book on the result of his researches both at home and abroad. It will keep him quiet. I always think writing a book keeps people quiet—and out of one’s way!’ She laughed and held out the receiver of the internal telephone. ‘Get him for me, dear. Just in case it was important. Extension six.’

  I have never, Shelley thought, her fingers busy dialling, hated a number before, but I know I’ll grow to hate that one as long as I live! The call was answered.

  ‘Mr. Allard?’ she asked crisply. ‘Miss Jenner here. Your mother’s secretary.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ was the drawled reply, ‘Miss Blank Jenner, the lady who wishes to remain half anonymous, whose manners leave a lot to be desired and whose welcome is as warm as an empty grate. But who is, according to my mother, an angel in disguise. Do I trust her judgment or my own?’

  ‘I suggest, Mr. Allard,’ Shelley responded icily, ‘you reserve your judgment until you know me better.’

  ‘I don’t think,’ the words came slowly, as if the speaker were considering them carefully, ‘I want to get to know you better, Miss Jenner. I can see nothing advantageous in it for either of us, can you? Put me on to my mother, please.’

  Shelley thrust the receiver towards Mrs. Allard as if it had grown red hot in her hand. Mrs. Allard took it absently, her mind on other things.

  ‘Yes, dear? Shelley—a she-dragon? My dear boy, she’s the sweetest, most charming...’ The laughter from the other end was so loud Mrs. Allard was forced to hold the receiver some distance from her ear. Then, ‘But, Craig, you’ve got her all wrong. Yes,’ with a frown, ‘that’s her name. Shelley, Shelley Jenner. She wouldn’t tell you? Oh, I expect she was too shy.’ More laughter from the vibrating piece of equipment in Mrs. Allard’s hand.

  ‘Why did you want me?’ Muriel Allard asked her son. ‘You’ve got a spare ticket for a dance in the village? Where, at the Wallasey-Brownes’? I suppose it’s a charity affair arranged, no doubt, by Sylva. You’re offering the ticket to my she-dragon? Well, she’s not usually a party kind of girl. Her social life is non-existent. What did you say? With a personality like hers you’re not surprised? Oh, you’re wrong, Craig! You think I’m prejudiced, you’d rather believe the evidence of your own eyes? Now you’ve annoyed her, dear, I can see how angry she is with you.’ Another burst of laughter, full of mockery, came from the headmistress’s son. ‘After that,’ his mother said, ‘I doubt if she’ll accept that ticket. Wait a minute, I’ll ask her.’

  Shelley had been awaiting with anticipation for the moment when she would have the pleasure of flinging Mr. Craig Allard’s gracious offer back in his face. But she remembered Janine. The poor girl, she reflected, had virtually no social life, either. Why condemn her to the withdrawal from society which she had imposed upon herself? Yes, she would accept the ticket for Janine’s sake. Shelley nodded, but a few moments later regretted the action wholeheartedly.

  Mrs. Allard said, ‘She’ll take it, Craig. My word, you don’t know how honoured you are to lure Shelley from her hermit-like existence. She seems to have built her own impregnable castle around her and no man, no man whatsoever, she says, is going to be allowed to storm it! Will you bring it down, dear? Oh, you want Shelley to come for it? But, Craig, it’s a long way up those stairs.’ She listened. ‘If not, she doesn’t get it?’ Mrs. Allard frowned. ‘That’s a little unkind of you, isn’t it?’

  Shelley turned away, hiding her crimson cheeks. She wished she had said ‘No, thank you’ a thousand times over.

  ‘He has three rooms on the top floor, dear,’ Mrs. Allard said, replacing the receiver. ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t persuade him to bring it down. He has his awkward side, just as his father had, dear man, when he was alive. I kept telling William, my late husband, “Don’t leave me Mapleleaf House in your will, darling, because the upkeep of it will be so great, and anyway you know I never like being tied down to one place.” But he did leave it to me, the darling, so I gave it to Craig on the spot, provided he didn’t object if I opened a school—a lifetime’s ambition of mine—and paid for the upkeep that way. He said if that would make me happy, go ahead. So I went ahead. He’s a good son, even if he does have as many prickles on him as a hedgehog. And this is an example of his prickles, his insistence that you go all the way up four flights of stairs to collect a ticket for a dance. Do you mind going, dear? I’d send one of the children, but Craig objects to them wandering about in the private section of the house.’

  Shelley lied, clenching her fists, ‘No, I don’t mind at all, Mrs. Allard.’

  Four flights, each flight with two sections to it ... if it weren’t for Janine, she told herself, she would tell Mr. Craig Allard what he could do with his ticket for the dance.

  Three doors, each of them panelled and varnished, each of them as daunting as the other. There came the sound of tapping from the room at the end of the corridor, the sluggish, painstaking tapping of keys pressed by someone unfamiliar with the art of typing.

  The answer to her knock came loudly if tersely and Shelley entered. The room was spacious and airy, more like an artist’s studio than a bedroom which, two centuries before, must have been its function.

  Now it was a living-room with an expensive-looking leather-upholstered suite arranged around the fireplace, and a circular table near a small window. The other end of the room had been furnished with office equipment. A filing cabinet stood in a corner with its drawers half opened, intrays and out-trays rested side by side on a desk. Reference books were piled high to one side of it and papers were scattered untidily about the desk top.

  The lack of order offended Shelley’s trained secretarial mind and if she had not disliked so intensely the man to whom the desk belonged, she wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from getting down to the job of tidying it there and then.

  He saw her hurt expression—it produced something very like a physical ache in her hands and fingers having to restrain them from reaching out to restore order—and he laughed.

  ‘So the bespectacled she-dragon is upset by the chaos? Let me tell Miss Shelley Jenner at the very beginning of our acquaintance that I’m not going to allow her within breathing distance of it. If there’s one thing I cannot stand it’s efficient secretaries. They stifle a man, hedge him in, pester him to death like an overdeveloped conscience. This chaos,’ his hand moved, ‘is the garden from which my choicest thoughts grow. Originality can’t thrive in a strictly controlled, over-disciplined atmosphere.’

>   ‘I assure you, Mr. Allard,’ Shelley muttered, ‘that all I want to do is to get out of this room as fast as my feet will take me.’

  His eyes flickered. ‘I’m making you a gift, Miss Jenner,’ he said, his voice abrasive. ‘The ticket has been paid for, by me. I’m not asking you for the money.’

  She coloured uncomfortably. ‘If I had my purse here I’d—’

  ‘And I would say no, thank you.’ Slowly, as if deliberately keeping her waiting, he took out his wallet, went through its contents and extracted the ticket. This he threw across the desk. It landed in the out-tray. Shelley moved to pick it up, but checked herself and looked at him. He looked back at her questioningly. The careless way he had given it to her called for retaliation in kind.

  ‘The ticket, Miss Jenner.’

  Her hands went behind her back. ‘I’m not going to be allowed within breathing distance of your chaos, Mr. Allard. You said so yourself, so you surely wouldn’t expect me—’

  His chair made ridges in the pile of the carpet as he pushed it back and got to his feet. He picked up the ticket, eyed the neck of her blouse and said, ‘I’ve a damned good mind—’

  Her hand came out quickly and he smiled. His threat, which he looked quite capable of carrying out if provoked far enough, had nullified her revenge as if it had never existed. For a few moments he kept her in suspense, as if enjoying the humiliation she was feeling in standing before him with her hand outstretched in mute pleading, then he seemed to relent and the ticket was passed over the desk.

  ‘You would do well, Miss Jenner,’ he advised, ‘to keep your fangs well hidden when I’m around. You may wind my mother round your little finger, but no woman, not even a frustrated, acrimonious she-dragon, has ever been allowed to push me in whatever direction she fancies.’

  Their eyes met and there was anger—even hatred—in the look that passed between them. If she had dared, Shelley would have torn the ticket into pieces and thrown them at him.