Let love abide Read online

  LET LOVE ABIDE by NORREY FORD

  Sally, secretary to the lawyer Paul Winn, knew that he had wonhis reputation as a fighter because he fought with heart as well as mind. He cared passionately for the poor, the old, the troubled and the ill-done-to. She admired him greatly for it, but how she wished he would care passionately for just one other certain person as well!

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Originally published by Mills & Boon Limited,50 Grafton Way, Fitzroy Square, London, England.

  Harlequin edition published January,1968

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside theimagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever toanyone bearing the same name or names. They are not evendistantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to theAuthor, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Harlequin trade mark, consisting of the word HARLEQUIN® and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in the Canada Trade Marks Office.

  Copyright, ©,1968 , by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SALLY was late, on account of stopping to buy a bunch of violets. She wore her new golden-tan suit, because of going out with Max. The violets were perfect for the suit, but they cost her precious time.

  The office-going crowds had thinned ominously. Sally's feet, in her best spiky heels, were winged, though more with excitement than with anxiety to reach the dull legal office of Hille, Winn, Son and Dorian, where she was the youngest recruit. Dorian was dust; Winn Senior, crippled in the war, stayed at home in a wheelchair. Mr. Hille was a shaggy sea-lion type, with holes in his socks owing to his being a widower. Mr. Paul Winn was Son—twenty-sixish, and an Ogre. He kept his typist Miss Manson in a perpetual twitter of nerves. Sally had never even spoken to him.

  It is not easy to race up two flights of narrow, twisting stairs wearing spiky heels and carrying carefully a paper bag, containing a best blouse with crisp frills which must not be crushed, and in the other hand a bunch of wet violets and a handbag. Sally managed splendidly until the dark half-landing with the tricky turn, where she came into violent collision with a man racing down. Having no free hand to save herself, she staggered against him and they sat down together suddenly and painfully, on the lowest step of the second flight.

  "Idiot!" said Sally crossly. "Why don't you come downstairs properly?" She opened the blouse bag and peered in.

  The man dusted himself and hauled her to her feet. "Sorry. I hope you're not hurt. Any damage?"

  She took her attractively freckled nose out of the blouse bag. "No. But—oh dear, more delay. Ware will create."

  "Then you'd better tell Mr. Ware I detained you." The man had a deep, resonant voice. He sounded amused. Anxiety about the precious blouse allayed, Sally looked up into his face.

  It was Mr. Paul. The Ogre! She gaped nervously and stammered. "I'm t-terribly s-sorry, Mr. Paul. It was my fault."

  He agreed readily. "It was. But you may tell Ware it was mine. Why are you late, anyway?"

  A dozen sensible excuses sprang to her tongue, but she was too shaken by the encounter to use them. "I stopped to buy violets. Look, aren't they lovely?" She held the bunch up.

  "But! Most reprehensible! Don't do it again." "N-no, Mr. Paul." She crept meekly past him and continued upstairs more sedately.

  The quickest way to the staff cloakroom was through a sort of loose-box where Mr. Paul's clients waited. As he had a large criminal practice and a reputation as a fighter, these clients were apt to be tough types; they twiddled dirty caps between red hands, or gazed before them at the dark green walls, lips moving as if they were composing a story to tell the magistrates, or calculating how long they'd be "inside" this time. They had a childish trust in Paul's ability, and invariably referred to him as "the mouthpiece," meaning no disrespect by it.

  On the principle that in English law everyone is innocent until proved guilty, Sally beamed at this morning's crop and bade them good-morning happily. Her smile was infectious, her corn-gold hair shone under her new hat like sunshine in the gloom. Some of the clients stopped muttering and twiddling to say G'mornin', Miss, in return.

  She put her precious parcel safely in her locker and the day started, with nothing to show that it was special for Sally. Miss Moffat and Miss Downes sniffed slightly when they saw the tan suit. Mr. Ware grumbled and bumbled in his office, a glass cage from which he could overlook the general room; dust danced in a shaft of sunlight which crept in about noon and touched Sally's golden head enviously; then the sunlight slid away and the dust

  settled comfortably on the files, knowing it would not be disturbed. Twice Mr. Paul strode through, wearing white bands at his throat and carrying his black gown over his arm. He passed Sally as if she did not exist, for which she was truly thankful. He was tall, dark, arrogant; good-looking in a hungry kind of way, though not, of course as attractive as Max. The white starched linen bands he wore to-day, because it was County Court day, were very becoming to a man.

  She wondered how Max would look in a gown and bands, and was so absorbed by this entrancing speculation that she almost typed hereinbefore instead of hereinafter; it was wonderful that Max had telephoned her to meet him this evening. His coolness had been just her imagination, after all—she needn't have worried so much.

  "Telephone!" Miss Downes snapped. "Miss March—telephone!"

  Sally came to with a start. She had been lost in a dream about Max. It was her job to attend to the old-fashioned switchboard, which was as ancient as practically everything else in the office. The call was personal, for Miss Manson. Sally put it through, and presently Miss Manson came out of her cubby-hole looking harassed.

  "My father's been taken ill! I have to go at once."

  Mr. Ware pulled a thick lower lip. "I'm sorry, Katey. You pop off. We'll manage. Where is Mr. Paul?"

  "County Court. He'll be there the rest of the day, and I've finished the typing he wanted. If you could send someone across with it—"

  After this brief glimpse into the personal life f one of its members the staff settled down again, Sally the wiser by the knowledge that not only did Miss Manson possess a first name but that Mr. Ware knew it and was human enough to use it.

  At four precisely Mr. Ware went into conference with Mr. Hille, and tea was brought to the staff by

  an ageing boy who had been running errands for the firm over twenty years.

  "How are all my beauties of the harem to-day, eh? Nice cuppa tea while the gentlemen are in conference? Biscuit, Miss Downes. I ordered them for you partikerly. Fly sandwiches."

  Miss Moffat refused the office biscuits and took out a private packet of Bourbons, which she did not hand round. Miss Downes sniffed. "Conference! Boasting session, you mean. What I said to the Judge and how I put a fast one across old so-and-so."

  Sally nibbled her biscuit and did not speak until spoken to. She was waiting for a chance to pop into the cloakroom and change into the goldy blouse.

  Mr. Enoch the conveyancing clerk dunked a biscuit in his tea. "Reckon Miss Manson will be off a few days. Her mother has arthritis, and can't do much." He looked at Sally through thick spectacles. "You're smart to-day, Miss March. Out with the best boy to-night?"

  Sally smiled and said yes, thinking how absurd it sounded to hear Max described as a boy.

  "Has he a car?" Miss Moffat spoke off-handedly, as if all her suitors had fleets of cars. In fact, her ageing betrothed rode a power-assisted pedal cycle.

  "A Jaguar." Sally tried to sound modest.

  Mr. Enoch whistled. "Jag, eh? Nice bus. Expensive though. Watch he doesn't end up across the road, one fine Tuesday." He jerked a long chin in the direction of the County Court, and even Sally's inexperience knew t
hat bankruptcies were heard there on Tuesday mornings.

  She laughed, a sound as shocking in the dim room as if someone had shaken a peal of silver bells there. "Max isn't like that. He's—he's"—she rummaged through her vocabulary for a word to describe Max, and had to fall back on—"He's different."

  "After thirty years in law, Miss March, I've discovered no man is different, and no woman either. Wills, now. Take Wills alone. Where there's a Will there's relations, they say, and ,,

  "Tsst!" warned Miss Moffat. Mr. Ware trod back to his glass cage. The others went back to work, and Sally collected the cups.

  In the cloakroom she rinsed the cups, dried her hands carefully and drew the blouse from its wrappings. It was as pretty as she remembered it. Hurrying, she changed and studied the result in a spotty looking-glass placed too high to be much use. She decided all over again that Max would like it. To make sure, she took a pair of tiny flower ear-clips from her handbag and tried them on.

  Miss Moffat looked in and asked sourly for an urgently-wanted document last seen on Sally's desk.

  When Sally had found it, she remembered she was still wearing the ear-clips. Perhaps Mr. Ware wouldn't notice, though his eyes—hooded as they were by papery, wrinkled lids—noticed more than you'd think, and he had old-fashioned views about jewellery in the office.

  Quarter to five. In two hours she'd be meeting Max. Perhaps to-night was the night he'd say, in so many words, "Sally, I love you."

  The telephone rang. There was always the half-hope, half-fear, it might be Max. Her sedate voice, answering, concealed the fluttery nervousness she felt.

  It was Paul Winn. He said he was delayed at the County Court, and demanded Miss Manson.

  "Miss Manson had to go home, sir. Her father is ill." Keeping her fingers firmly crossed, she added, "Can I help you?"

  "Give me Mr. Ware, please."

  "Yes, sir."

  She put the call through and returned to her typewriter. Amused, she thought, I've actually spoken to the great, the wonderful Mr. Paul. I must tell Mummy.

  Mr. Ware poked his head round his door. "Anybody finished?"

  "Don't ask me!" Miss Moffat and Miss Downes groaned in unison.

  "Miss March, then."

  Sally gave a despairing glance at the clock. Mr. Ware dictated with long, maddening pauses. I-' e didn't believe in rush. Still, he wasn't likely to ask for the typing to-night.

  But the Managing Clerk did not want to dictate. "Pop your bonnet on, Miss March. Mr. Paul wants these figures at once, in the County Court. I'll have them ready in two minutes."

  Mr. Ware pulled his lip dourly when Sally presented herself to collect the papers. She was dressed for an evening with Max, not for the County Court. She wore her highest heels, her sheerest Christmas-present stockings, a hat with violets tucked under a tiny brim. He gave her precise instructions.

  "And wait till the end of the case, because Mr. Paul wants to dictate some stuff if he gets a chance."

  "Yes, Mr. Ware. Er " She could not help a quick glance at the clock. "How long, do you think?"

  "Judge Wimpole won't sit later than six on any account. So"—his face split into a humourless smile, so wide that Sally felt she could post a letter in it—"you'll be able to meet your beau after all."

  She smiled back at him happily. "You are observant, Mr. Ware."

  "I've a wife and daughters. Think I don't know a best bib and tucker when I see them?"

  Obeying instructions, Sally entered the Court building, past massive doors labelled Witnesses and Counsel Only, up echoing stone stairs, until she came to more double doors, labelled Court. She read a notice which said, This Court will be closed from Good Friday to Easter Tuesday next, but as it was dated three years previously she decided it did not help much, and cautiously opened the door. She was embarrassed to find she had pushed an official in the back with the handle, but he seemed used to this treatment, and tiptoed out to ask in a whisper if he could help her.

  "Mr. Winn? His case is on now. Slip in and you'll hear it. Conversion of a cow."

  It sounded like witchcraft. "Oh—conversion into what?"

  The bailiff winked. "Money, Miss. Polite way of saying he pinched it, absentminded. Sit in the front row where Mr. Winn will spot you as soon as he sits down."

  Sally had expected something like a railway station, with voices echoing hollowly in a vaulted roof. She was surprised to see quite a small room, panelled in dark wood and badly lit by three long windows which needed cleaning, and two staring white globes of electric light.

  The Judge, a tiny figure wearing indigo and violet robes and a small grey wig above his ears, watched her over his spectacles as she tiptoed to the first row of shiny benches. Mr. Paul, seeing the Judge's attention distracted, stopped speaking until she was seated. She felt her colour rising.

  The Judge, under his high crimson canopy, turned politely to Paul. "Now, Mr. Winn?"

  "Your Honour, I have sent for the figures from my office. The messenger will be here any minute. If Your Honour would "

  Horrors! He had not recognised her. Scarlet-faced, Sally leaned forward and proffered the papers. Paul stared a moment, scowling, then he smiled and said quite audibly, "Good lord! You're the one with the yellow hair !'

  Everyone tittered, and the Judge said ponderously, "We can all see that, Mr. Winn. The point is, has she also the information we require?"

  "She has, Your Honour. If I have Your Honour's permission to proceed--"

  Sally was thankful she had been told to wait. She could not have summoned the courage to walk out now, after the commotion her entrance had caused. Her knees felt weak. She settled down on the wooden bench and watched with growing interest.

  Paul had a low-pitched, compelling voice. Tall, slim, his gown pushed carelessly back over his shoulders, he was unrattled, unhurried. Like a conjuror, he turned his opponent's case inside out and showed it to be empty. When he sat down, Sally wanted to cheer. Well done, our side!

  Paul Winn seated himself confidently. He hadn't a strong case but he'd made the best of it and expected a decision in his favour. Already his mind leapt forward to to-morrow's Court and the stuff he must dictate this evening. He half turned in his seat to look for the typist Ware had sent.

  Sally was leaning forward, her face vivid; her cheeks were softly flushed, the curved red lips parted with excitement. It struck him with a strange pang of amused tenderness that she was only a kid, that it was her first time in Court, and that anyone so young and unspoilt, so shining with vitality, shouldn't be there at all. She was like a bright bird, a goldfinch, alighted on an ash-dump by mistake. Her gloved hands were curled into small fists on the broad rail in front of her. Her hair, under the tiny brim of a charming hat, shone like gold silk. His lips twitched in a smile. Where on earth had old Ware picked this one. She was a beauty.

  Just as well Brenda couldn't see her. Even Brenda, in spite of her devastating, if flattering, jealousy, had never found cause for jealousy in poor plain Manson.

  Paul's attention flashed back to the work in hand. Good, he'd won his case. What would the old boy do now—adjourn, or carry on and finish the list? Only two small cases. Good, he'd decided to finish.

  He was not in the next case, so he slipped outside, beckoning Sally. On the cold stone landing, he looked at her doubtfully.

  "Can you take dictation?"

  "But of course."

  He was amused by her little air of dignity. "Sorry I made that idiotic crack about your hair. I've

  noticed it as I passed through the office. It is rather noticeable."

  She smiled up at him, sharing his amusement. "So Mr. Ware thinks. I believe he'd like to put a black cover over me, like a typewriter."

  He said quickly, "Oh no, he mustn't do that." Then he added at once, "I'm sorry, you'll have to sit on the stairs and put your book on your knee. My case may come on at any minute and the bailiff will call me."

  "I'll manage." She was enjoying the change from routine.

&n
bsp; He dictated quickly, but paused occasionally to let her catch up. At the end she smiled at him confidently. That hadn't been so bad. She could read back every word to-morrow. There would be hours of typing, but it would be better than schedules.

  "Got all that, Miss—? What is your name?"

  "March. Yes, I have it all down."

  "Good. I want it for nine-thirty in the morning, please. I have to be in Court for ten."

  She gasped. "But—that's impossible!"

  He scowled. "Why?"

  Desperately she said, "It means hours of typing, and I—I'm going out with someone this evening." Her lips were dry and she ran a moistened tongue-tip over them. "At q-quarter to seven."

  He looked at her a long minute without speaking a word. His eyes, she noticed were cold slate-blue. Then he put a strong hand on her wrist and drew her to the Court door, which he pushed open a few inches.

  "Do you see that little man on the back bench?" he demanded.

  She nodded. The man wore a shabby raincoat and had sad eyes like a monkey's; his face was set in lines of hopelessness, but he looked up with dull curiosity as the door opened, and, seeing Paul, smiled like a child.

  Paul closed the door. "He's a Pole, a stranger to our country. He doesn't understand the language

  very well. If I lose his case to-morrow, he and his wife and six children will be turned out of their rooms into the street. He can't get other accommodation and has no money to buy a house. His wife is in hospital. To-morrow evening he will go to see her. He'll tell her they have a home or the street. Which it is to be depends on me. And I depend on you."

  Her heart thudded. It wasn't fair to thrust her into such a dilemma. If he loses, she thought, that sad, wizened man will haunt me all my life—he and his wife and six children.

  She gulped. "I'll do it."

  He nodded, as if he'd never doubted her for a moment. "When the Court rises I've got to go and see Counsel in the Bartoldi case, but I'll be in the office later—about eight. Leave what you've done on my desk. Hello, I see Harborne coming out. My case is next."