Roberta Leigh - In Name Only Read online

  Roberta Leigh - In Name Only

  Jane Roberts had married Nicholas Hamilton because she loved him, yet knowing that his only reason for marrying her was that under the terms of his father's will he would be disinherited if he didn't.

  From such a bad beginning, and with the beautiful Carole Sheridan playing the part of "the other woman" to the hilt, how could Jane ever hope to make her marriage succeed?

  CHAPTER I

  It was the morning of Jane Roberts' twentieth birthday when she was given the opportunity of taking what the majority of secretaries would have considered the most exciting job in the business world - private secretary to Sir Angus Hamilton, chairman and founder of the Hamilton Press, one of the largest newspaper groups in the country.

  But to Jane the offer was anything but a pleasure, for if her six months' sojourn in the typists' pool had taught her one thing, it was that being secretary to Sir Angus would not only give her more money but also the likelihood of a nervous breakdown.

  "Well," asked George Simmons, personnel manager of the group, "how do you feel about it? It's a great honour you know, being singled out like this. But I've been watching your work since you did that rush job for me, and when I was told Miss Evans was definitely too ill to return to Sir Angus again, I immediately thought of you."

  "Not immediately," Jane corrected, honesty getting the better of discretion. "I believe Sir Angus has already tried several of the girls from the typing pool."

  "Only because he insisted on having someone in their thirties," came the bland answer. "I gave him your name at the beginning, but he thought you were too young."

  "And now he doesn't?"

  "Sir Angus hasn't been consulted," George Simmons said testily. "If it had been left to me I would have chosen you in the first place. But you know what Sir Angus is like… Come now, Miss Roberts, you've nothing to lose by giving it a try."

  "Except my head!"

  He laughed. "You're not being asked to many the chairman - though as a matter of fact you will be the sixth girl he's tried."

  "And Henry the Eighth didn't have a chance to behead his sixth wife, did he?" murmured Jane, and then grinned. "Very well, Mr. Simmons, the worst that can happen is that I'll have to return to the typists pool."

  Jane's original feeling when offered the job was nothing compared to her misgivings as, the following morning, she stood in Sir Angus's panel-lined room - office was far too meagre a word for such sumptuousness - and came face to face with her new employer. Although she had worked at the Hamilton Press since leaving secretarial school, this was the first time she had actually seen its chairman, and her close view only served to heighten her doubts, for he was even more grim-looking than he appeared in his photographs : his hair less grey, his smile less benign and his eyes far sharper.

  "So now they're sending me schoolgirls," he said abruptly.

  "I was twenty yesterday," Jane replied. "My shorthand and typing speeds are -"

  "I know all the details," he interrupted, "but I want more than a dictating machine. I've enough of those already. I need a secretary, not a typist - someone who's got sufficient sense to know the people I want to speak to and the people I don't, who can tone down my letters when I've lost my temper while doing them, and who can-" he stopped irritably. "You're too young to do any of that. Far too young."

  "An old-fashioned view, if I may say so, Sir Angus," Jane said. "I'm old enough to vote, and if I'm not too young to decide on the people who govern me I should be able to-"

  "Voting for some nincompoop or other has got nothing to do with what I want!"

  "But why judge me without trying me? Isn't that against the policy of your newspapers? 'The truth as it is and not as we would like it to be.' I understand that is your motto, Sir Angus. Yet you're judging me on personal bias - because you've never had the opportunity of employing a secretary of my age before."

  "Nor one who talked so much!"

  She reddened. "I'm sorry, you're quite right. Please forgive me." She turned and was at the door when he called her back.

  Wait a minute, Miss… er——-Come here and sit down."

  Notebook and pencil in hand, she did as he told her, sitting on the chair in front of his desk. A ray of early morning sunlight touched her hair, making it glow like a raven's wing. Its dark sheen was heightened by the severe way it was drawn back from her wide forehead and combed into a style reminiscent of a medieval pageboy. It was an old-fashioned look that suited her, for her face had none of the sharp pertness associated with contemporary fashion — heart-shaped, with high-set cheekbones and grey-green eyes - whose brilliant colour emphasised the unusual translucent quality of her skin - and she gave promise of the greater beauty that would come with maturity.

  For a long moment he regarded her with a face so expressionless that she was not-sure whether he was looking at her or was deep in his own thoughts. Then with startling abruptness he began to dictate a memorandum.

  It was an instant before Jane realised she was meant to be taking it down in shorthand, and she began to write furiously, so intent on keeping up with the words that what he said made no sense to her. He worked for an hour without stopping, and only during a momentary pause while he garnered his thoughts did she wonder whether there was a mechanical process by which he had been able to divert all telephone calls to his office, for none of the three telephones on his desk rang to disturb them.

  At last he finished dictating and leaned back in his chair, sly amusement on his face. "Type that back for me, Miss… er… if you've managed to get it down!" , "Yes, Sir Angus. And my name is Jane Roberts."

  "Thank you for reminding me."

  The red telephone in front of him gave a delicate chime and he lifted it up and began to speak into it. Jane went out, quietly closing his door behind her. But once outside her calmness disappeared and she leaned against the lintel, her body trembling too much for her to walk any further. What a tyrant the man was! She had told him she was capable of working for him provided he gave her a fair chance; and the dictation she now had in her notebook was his idea of fair! Angrily she crossed over to Miss Evans' desk. If Sir Angus had set out deliberately to use words that had never appeared in any shorthand instruction book he could not have succeeded better. But she would show him. If it was the last thing she did she would make him eat his words; make him take back his criticism of her.

  She whipped the cover from the typewriter, giving muttered thanks that it was the same type as her own electric machine. Then she went through each filled-in page in her notebook, and not until she had carefully put in every one of the words which speed had forced her to omit did she commence to type. Several times she was interrupted by telephone calls, but it was exactly noon when she re-entered Sir Angus's office with the typed draft of his memorandum.

  He went through it critically and she stood in front of him, outwardly calm but inwardly quaking.

  "Excellent," he said slowly, and handed it back to her. "Do a final copy of it ready for tomorrow morning. Now let's get down to some letters."

  For the rest of the week Jane west to Sir Angus's office, not knowing whether each day there would be her last. She longed to ask him if he was satisfied with her, but pride kept her silent, and she hoped he would make some comment about it the following week when she gave him his Friday afternoon post to sign. But in this action she was forestalled, for even as she was sorting through the last of his letters to type, he came through from his office, his coat over his arm and his briefcase in his hand. Without realising it she must have glanced at her watch, for he saw the look and smiled.

  "Yes, Miss Roberts, I'm actually leaving early today! And so can you. It'll make up for the extra hours y
ou've done."

  "But the rest of your letters…"

  "Leave 'em till Monday. We've already done the most urgent ones. All I'd like you to do is to wait until my call from the Minister comes through. It comes in on my private line and I'd like you to answer it personally. Explain that I had to leave early, but I will call the Minister this evening at Downing Street."

  "Very well, Sir Angus."

  "If the Minister himself is on the line, say I left early because I'm taking my son to the airport." As he saw the look of surprise on Jane's face his voice rose a tone higher. "Why the amazement, Miss Roberts?"

  "Amazement?" she hedged.

  "Yes. It's written on your face in bright red letters! Come now, it's not like you to show tact! Why should you find it surprising that I'm taking my son to the airport?"

  "Because it's the sort of thing ordinary people usually do -1 mean, seeing their son off on a journey…"

  Sir Angus shifted his briefcase to his other hand. "In matters concerning my son," he said quietly, "I'm very ordinary.

  It's the nicest thing to be."

  She flushed, sensing the rebuke. "Yes, Sir Angus." With an effort she looked him in the face. "Will you want me to work for you next week ? "

  "It I didn't, I'd say so. Good afternoon." The door closed behind him and she sat down and gave a deep sigh, part satisfaction, part trepidation at the future she was letting herself in for.

  It was after six o'clock - so much for her being able to leave early - when the call from the Minister arrived, and recognising the voice as belonging to the great man himself, she gave the reason for her employer's early departure.

  "And where was it you said young Hamilton's going?" came me bland question. "The Middle East or the Far East?"

  Knowing she had said nothing about destination, Jane kept her tone equally bland. "I'm afraid I don't know, sir."

  "Won't say, you mean! Sir Angus's secretaries are always too well trained to answer any questions! Very well, tell him to call me later."

  As she replaced the receiver, the Minister's last words ringing in her ears, Jane felt her first thrill of pride in her job, realising the confidence placed in her discretion, the reliance placed on her integrity. She would do everything possible to see she did not let Sir Angus down.

  Her second week as private secretary was less arduous than the first, though she was not sure if it was due to decreasing pressure of work or because she was more able to cope with it. Apart from the grudging praise Sir Angus had given the first memorandum she had typed for him, he gave her no other compliments, but the fact that he let her remain indicated he at least found her less irritating than the other girls he had tried.

  It was not until three months after she .had accepted George Simmons's offer that she received a telephone call from him asking her to go and see him, and wondering if it was Sir Angus's way of dismissing her, she went to the personnel manager's office during her lunch break.

  "Don't look so alarmed," Mr. Simmons said as he saw her anxious face. "I only wanted to see you so that I could personally let you know that Sir Angus has confirmed that he wishes you to remain with him. Your salary will be increased by five hundred a year and will be backdated to start from the first week you took over."

  Jane was too delighted to speak, and beaming with the pride of a mother hen, the personnel manager continued: "You've done even better than I expected, Miss Roberts. Sir Angus isn't only pleased with you - he likes you!"

  It was this last remark that spurred Jane into speaking directly with Sir Angus upon his return from lunch.

  "Finished the letters already?" he asked as she entered his office.

  "No, sir. I just…I've had my job confirmed," she blurted out, "and I wanted to thank you."

  "There's no need for that," he said irritably. "If you weren't any good I wouldn't keep you. Now go away and stop fussing!"

  "I'm sorry for interrupting you."

  "You're not sorry at all! You're annoyed with me for not letting you ramble on about my largesse and the extra money you're getting!" He grinned at her impishly and she was astonished at the way humour softened his hard features. "I know exactly what you wanted to say to me, Miss Roberts. You're as transparent as a country stream before pollution!"

  "This morning's leader in one of your better class papers," she retorted.

  He laughed. "True - but tactless to say so! You should always let your employer believe his remarks are entirely his own."

  "But what you've just said is yours. You wrote the leader yourself."

  "I didn't dictate it to you," he retorted.

  "I know. But I recognize your style."

  He frowned. "I'll have to make sure it's not so easily recognisable in future. I don't normally write leaders for my own papers - I like my editors to get on with their own job - but I feel so strongly about pollution that -" The ringing of the green telephone on his desk interrupted him. It was the direct link between himself and his most senior director, and he picked it up immediately.

  Jane, about to turn and leave, stopped as she saw the colour leave his face, and listened unshamedly to the conversation.

  "When did it happen?" Sir Angus was asking. "How bad is it?… Don't fumble around, Jack, tell me the truth!

  I see___" His voice lowered and then rose again. ''Charter a plane for me. I'll leave at once." He banged down the telephone and looked at her. "My son," he said. "It's my son. He was due back tonight, but his plane made an emergency landing at Athens." He stood up and came round the side of the desk, his hip banging into it as if he did not know it was there. "I'm flying out to him. You'll have to cancel my appointments… make my apologies…"

  "Please don't worry about it. I'll do everything that's necessary." She hesitated and then could not refrain from asking the question foremost in her mind. "Is Mr. Hamilton badly hurt?"

  "He may not even live." Without another word he walked out, and Jane returned to her office.

  Fate could not have struck Sir Angus a more cruel blow than by aiming it at the one thing he cared for above all: his son. Like the majority of the people who worked for the Hamilton Press, she had only seen its future owner on rare occasions, for he spent most of his life flying from one trouble spot in the world to the other, gathering information which subsequently appeared as leaders or articles in all their newspapers and magazines.

  Watching the television news later that evening she saw pictures of the plane wreckage at Athens Airport. It was far worse than she had realised and, unable to wait until the morning, she telephoned the City Desk of one of their papers to learn the latest reports on the accident.

  "Sir Angus has just touched down at London Airport," she was told. "Nothing official's been released about young Hamilton, but there's no reason why you can't know."

  "You mean he's dead?"

  "Probably worse than that. At least I think Nick would think so - if he were conscious enough to think!"

  "What do you mean?"

  "That he's been so badly injured he'll never waft again."

  The morning headlines confirmed the statement, and Jane was at her office well before normal time, anticipating the flood of calls that would be coming in for her employer. But it was here that the Company's organisation took over, for a group of telephonists had already been seconded for the purpose, leaving Jane free in case Sir Angus needed her. Not that anyone expected him to concern himself with work for the next few days, but with a man of Sir Angus's temperament it was as well never to assume anything. And indeed it was just as well that no assumption was made, for within moments of her official time of arrival at the office she was summoned to go to his London home.

  This was the first occasion she had visited his house in Orme Square, though she had occasionally walked past it during her Sunday morning stroll to see the paintings along the Bayswater Road. She had often wondered if the interior of the house was as elegant as its facade, and she was disappointed to find the furnishings and colours heavy and ornat
e, and the atmosphere to be one of a home not so much lived in as occupied. Yet perhaps this was not surprising, for Sir Angus's wife had died after only a few years of marriage, leaving her husband to bring up his son alone, albeit with the help of one of the foremost public schools and universities in the country, as every newspaper had informed her that morning.

  Indeed it was this aspect - the publicity and dredging up of private affairs — which she knew Sir Angus would be disliking intensely, and which would no doubt add to the anguish through which he was already going. Nervously she sat in the library and waited for him to appear, wondering how she could offer her sympathy without seeming maudlin.

  But the question did not arise, for when he came in he looked and behaved in his normal manner, holding out his hand to receive the more urgent letters that needed his personal attention, and dictating replies to them. He worked at such speed that it was all she could do to keep up with him, and she was relieved when the ringing of the bell and the sound of voices in the hall sent him hurrying to the door, letters scattering from his lap as he did so.

  But before he could reach it the library door was opened by the butler, closely followed by a small, chubby man in a dark suit. Jane recognised him as Mr. Manders-Jones, senior orthopaedic surgeon at the hospital to which Nicholas Hamilton had been taken. Guessing he had come to tell Sir Angus the latest news, she stood up to leave.

  "Stay where you are, Jane," Sir Angus said. It was the first time he had called her by her first name and with an agreeable sensation of pleasure she sat down again and listened while the specialist explained as lucidly as he could the injuries which Nicholas had sustained.

  "But the future," Sir Angus said finally, "what are his chances?"

  "He will live. I can promise you that."

  "But how will he live - as a cripple tied to a wheelchair? As a log without feeling or intelligence?"

  “His brain is unharmed," came the reply. "He recovered consciousness for a few moments this morning and was perfectly coherent."

  "But he'll never walk again? Is that it?"

  The surgeon hesitated. "I wouldn't like to be as categorical as that. Experts can be proved wrong, you know, and sometimes in cases like these one gets miraculous recoveries."