Pimpernel and Rosemary - Baroness Orczy (e reader TXT) 📗

New York. He is over here about some arrangement he wants to make for a cricket match or something silly of that sort⁠—you know what Peter is: quite mad about that silly cricket. I had a letter from him this morning, but when it came I had no thought for anything except Philip. I must let you read it presently. I don’t really know what he says, but if he is at Cluj we are sure to see him very soon.”

She prattled on as merry as a bird. She seemed twenty years younger all of a sudden⁠—her step was light and springy, her eyes were bright, her voice was fresh and clear. Rosemary kept on repeating to herself:

“She need not know for at least three weeks. She need not know, and I must pretend⁠—pretend⁠—at any cost. She will know soon enough, poor darling.”

And Rosemary did manage to pretend; for the next three hours she was just an automaton, wound up to play a certain part. To everyone she had to pretend⁠—to Elza, to Maurus, to that odious Naniescu, and even to Jasper. The worst of all was pretending to Jasper, for from this she got no reprieve. Jasper’s kind, anxious eyes were on her all the time, but she would not let him see that she was anxious about Peter. Somehow the episode about Peter had made everything so much worse. Not that she harboured the thought for a moment that Peter was intriguing with Naniescu. That, of course, was out of the question. He had come to arrange something about a cricket match, and, of course, he had to see Naniescu about it, get his permission, and so on. There were ten chances to one that Peter had written to her and told her all about it, and that his letter had gone astray. No, no, no! There could be no thought of an intrigue between Peter and these Romanians; but Rosemary felt that Jasper thought there was, and was vaguely pitying her because of some unknown treachery on Peter’s part. It was odious!

And with it all Elza’s obvious happiness was almost intolerable to witness, and even Maurus departed from his habitual ill-temper to exchange facetious remarks with Naniescu. Time seemed leaden-footed. The interminable luncheon dragged on wearily, as did the hour of coffee and liqueurs, of endless small talk and constant pretence. But even the worst moments in life must become things of the past sooner or later, and when Rosemary began to feel that she could not stand the whole thing any longer, she found that Naniescu and his officers were actually taking their leave.

After luncheon Jasper was quite charming. He had thought the whole matter over, he said, and decided that it was in his power to make a personal appeal to the King in favour of Philip and Anna. He had certainly rendered more than one signal service to Romania during and after the war, and he thought that in these countries personal influence counted a great deal. At any rate, there would be no harm in trying, and he would start for Bucharest immediately. He had spoken about the proposed journey to Elza and Maurus, alleging official business, and Elza had already arranged that he should be driven into Cluj in time for the afternoon express. Rosemary’s heart was at once filled with gratitude; she felt angry with herself for having mistrusted him. She threw herself wholeheartedly into the preparations for his journey, lulling her troubled soul with the belief that it would prove to be the happy issue out of this terrible situation. When it was time for him to go she wished him Godspeed with more fervour and affection than she had shown him for days.

“Bar accidents,” he assured her, “I shall be back in a fortnight. If I have definite good news to report I will wire. But even if you don’t hear from me, I shall be back, as I say, in fifteen days.”

“I shall count the hours until your return,” she said.

“And in the meanwhile,” he urged with deep earnestness, “you will do nothing without consulting me.”

She smiled at this want of logic, so unlike her methodical husband.

“I could not consult you, dear,” she said. “You won’t be here.”

“No, no, I know,” he insisted; “but I want you to promise that you will leave things as they are until my return. I don’t want you to give anything away to Elza, or to Philip or Anna. Promise me.”

“Of course I’ll promise,” she replied readily. “God knows I don’t want to be the one to break the awful news to them.”

“Or to Peter,” he added gravely.

“Peter?”

“I want you to promise me⁠—to promise, Rosemary, that you will not speak of this miserable affair to Peter Blakeney.”

Then, as she seemed to hesitate, vaguely puzzled at his desperate earnestness, he again insisted:

“Promise me, Rosemary, whatever you may hear, whatever you may see, whatever may be planned by Elza or anybody else, promise me that you will not speak of it to Peter.”

“But Jasper,” she exclaimed, “why? Of course I will promise, if you wish it, but frankly I don’t understand why you insist, so solemnly too,” she added, trying to assume a lightness of heart which she was far from feeling. Then she went on more gravely: “I could trust Peter as I would myself.”

“You can put it down to nerves,” Jasper said, with the ghost of a smile, “to intuition or foreboding, or merely to jealousy and my wretched character, to anything you please, my dear one. But promise me! Promise me that everything in connection with this miserable affair will remain just between you and me. Let the others talk, guess, plan. Promise me that you will never speak of it with Peter. Promise me, or I will throw up the sponge, remain here to look after you, and let Naniescu do his worst with the lot of them.”

Thus, alternately demanding, entreating, threatening, he extracted the promise from her, even though