A Cruise for Cinderella Page 2

  Janie hugged her. “Bless you, mom! All the same, I wish you were coming with me. Honestly.”

  “You won’t, love,” her mother assured her. “Not when you meet your Prince Charming, you won’t.” She began, with unnecessary vigor, to plump up cushions. She was so happy that the tears were coursing down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DURING THE TWO WEEKS that followed. Janie found herself entering a new world.

  Under the expert guidance of Sonia Fielden. she visited fashion houses that, before, had been only names to her; she spent her lunch hour in beauty parlors and hairdressers’ salons; she was photographed, feted and transformed.

  The transformation, because it was gradual, was less of a shock than it might have been.

  Janie had never thought much about her looks, save to recognize, a trifle sadly, that they were unremarkable. She had pretty dark hair, with a natural wave, and her eyes—big and dark and widely spaced—were, she knew, her best feature.

  But she hadn’t realized, until skilled hands set to work to cut and shape and mold and trim, how much beauty could be achieved by the high hairstyle. Her neat, dull bob became an exciting mass of shining curls, which framed her small, piquant face and gave it new interest and charm. Her complexion was good and clever makeup made it better; Jean, the assistant who attended her, was at pains to teach her how to use the contents of the wonderful cosmetic case that was part of her new outfit, repeating a dozen times the use to which each jar and bottle should be put.

  “Your face is oval, see, and you want to emphasize that. Just as I’ve done. But you’re not the type to suit heavy makeup, so you want a light foundation and just a suspicion of rouge, here and here and here. No more than that. Now I’ll wipe off all I’ve used and I want you to try it for yourself. I won’t be with you on the ship. remember, so you must learn to do it on your own. Ready? The foundation first, very lightly . . . you mustn’t overdo it; you’ve got lovely skin. Now the rouge. . . .”

  Useless for Janie to protest; Jean was kind but firm. They were all, Janie reflected happily, so kind to her. At Simon’s, where most of her wardrobe was being made, they were just as kind, from the great Jules Simon himself, with his gay, mocking blue eyes and his sardonic smile, right down to the sixteen-year-old apprentices in the fitting room, who watched, with bated breath and pins in their hands, as Janie paraded nervously before them in one after another of the lovely, exciting garments that M. Simon had designed for her.

  The models—more human and much less aloof than Janie had expected them to be—taught her how to hold herself, how to walk and what to do with her hands. The workroom, fired with enthusiasm by her Cinderella story, stitched busily and made no complaints about working overtime in order that everything might be ready before the date of Janie’s departure.

  And at home, her mother set herself out with gentle determination to make sure that neither work nor domestic commitments stood in her way. “What, ruin your new hairdo in all this steam?” she would scoff. Or, “Janie, your hands, love—you must keep them nice. Whoever heard of a Cinderella going to the ball with her hands red-raw?”

  Argue as she might, Janie got nowhere; Mrs. Moss, a willing, hardworking soul, was eager enough to take her place in the kitchen and laundry, and when Janie cried indignantly that her Cinderella role would last only for the four weeks of the cruise and that she didn’t want to be cosseted, the entire family united against her and insisted that she was going to be, whether she liked it or not.

  It was Sonia Fielden, practical as always, who suggested that her charge seek release from the office two days before she was due to sail, so that she might have the benefit of a full-dress rehearsal at Simon’s before packing her new clothes, swathed in tissue paper, in the handsome cabin trunk provided to hold them.

  “You’ll want a chance to get used to the feel of them,” she said, “and I think if you want to return to your job when all this is over, it would be wiser—all things considered—not to wear any of your new clothes to the office. Because you never know—it might possibly cause resentment, mightn’t it? Among those who christened you ‘Plain Jane’?”

  It already had, Janie reflected, sensitive, as never before, to the undercurrents that were stirring the quiet backwater that was the office of Harmer, Coates and Harmer.

  Her good fortune hadn’t pleased the girls who had derided her. Nor had the fact that she had asked for— and been granted—an unpaid extension to her normal two weeks’ holiday. Always before, Janie Brown had been willing to forgo the odd day here and there since she never went away as the others did at holiday time; always before, if anyone had to stay back to finish an urgent letter or retype a lengthy deed, it had been Janie who stayed; she who gave up her lunch hour if old Mr. Harmer wanted tea made and sandwiches brought in to him, or old Mr. Coates decided, at one o’clock, that his dictation couldn’t wait until the staff had eaten.

  It was a shock to the office to find that Janie, after five years of unselfishness, had suddenly and surprisingly ceased to be available at lunchtime or in the evenings and that old Mr. Harmer and old Mr. Coates, far from objecting to this, seemed actively to encourage it.

  She had decided, after talking the matter over with her father, not to confide the full extent of her changed circumstances to anyone save her employers. But it was not in Janie to deceive, she had no practice in subterfuge, and besides, there were the press reports and the photographs. In no time at all her fellow typists had learned all there was to know, and their congratulations were tinged, if not in every case with malice, at least with a certain bitterness.

  As Millicent Greaves, Mr. Coates’s secretary, put it, “Seems such a waste, somehow, doesn’t it, giving all this to a silly kid like our Janie? ’Tisn’t as if she’ll make use of it. Oh, my, if I had her chances! I’d come back from that cruise with a millionaire in tow—or an earl or a movie star. But Janie—” She had shrugged, Janie remembered, and made a face as she added, “Ten to one Janie’ll come back without a boyfriend at all. Or with some little nobody she could have met at home, if she’d had the gumption!”

  These words, overheard in the staff cloakroom, hurt the more because Janie knew that they were true. She had been too wrapped up in her family—in her mother and their home and in the struggling little business they were trying to build up together—to give much time or thought to the acquisition of a boyfriend. Or, for that matter, to dances and clothes, which seemed to fill the minds of her contemporaries.

  Yet, in spite of herself, she found that she was interested in the clothes that M. Simon was creating for her. As the day of her departure loomed nearer, Janie became more resolute. She would show them, she vowed. All of them, even Millicent Greaves. Deep down in her innermost heart she was very much afraid, but, warmed by the friendly encouragement of the girls at Simon’s, by Sonia Fielden’s anxious concern for her, and perhaps most of all, by her mother’s infectious enthusiasm, she hid her fears.

  The day before sailing the dress rehearsal was held, for Mrs. Brown’s benefit as much as her own, in Simon’s vast, luxuriously carpeted salon. It was a complete success.

  Janie knew, looking in the mirror and seeing herself in the lovely, well-chosen dresses, stamped with the hallmark of the great designer, that she had changed. The right clothes gave one assurance. And these were the right clothes; they were not, at first sight, striking— Simon had chosen soft pastel colors for her, had concentrated on lines that would emphasize the boyish slimness of her figure, on simplicity—but they were her, they were the new Janie, and she would not have had them otherwise.

  When it was over and the beautiful clothes packed into their trunk, ready to be taken away, M. Simon himself came to escort Janie and her mother to the waiting taxi. His eyes were grave and no longer mocking as he offered Janie his hand.

  “You go with my blessing, petite,” he told her, “and with my prayers. Enjoy yourself! But remain, I beg of you, as true to the real you as I have been in creating these clothes for you to wear. I have not changed your daughter, Mrs. Brown, though you may think I have. I have only—as the restorer tries to do with an old picture—removed the outer daubs that hid the true colors beneath. Do not imagine that I have done more. And come back to see me on your return. I will be eager to know how you have fared.”

  He stood, a tall, impressive figure among the little crowd of women dressed in black on the steps of the salon, watching them drive away. His smile, Janie thought, was a trifle sad. But she was too excited to do more than register the fact. In less than twenty-four hours from now her great adventure would be beginning, and beside her in the darkness of the taxi, her mother breathed a happy sigh.

  “Oh, Janie, love, I hardly knew you—would you believe it? I’m your mother—and I could scarcely recognize you! Those beautiful dresses, why, you looked a picture. You looked like one of the young ladies in the society magazines, honestly you did. I was so proud. And M. Simon coming with us to the door, shaking hands with us, just as if we were important people—the way he spoke to you! Oh, Janie . . . Janie, it is a dream come true and no mistake.”

  “Is it, mom? Is it really, for you as well as me?”

  “You know it is, love.” Her mother’s hand closed around hers and Janie felt the work-roughened fingers twined with her own, felt how thin they were, and her heart contracted.

  “Mom, I wish you were coming. I don’t want all— all this, if you can’t have it, too.” Her voice broke and she was in her mother’s arms, clinging to her, as if she were again a child.

  “There, Janie,” Mrs. Brown chided her. “Don’t you understand how happy it makes me, to think you’ve got all I’ve longed to give you and c
ouldn’t? Sometimes.” she added, “sometimes, you know, it’s harder to receive than to give. But just you remember what M. Simon said—this hasn’t changed you, not the real you. Janie. Nothing could ever do that. Could it. Miss Fielden?” Over Janie’s bent head, her eyes met Sonia Fielden’s.

  “No, Mrs. Brown,” Sonia agreed. “Of course not.” But she stifled a sigh. Her task was all but done. It only remained for her now to see her charge put on the boat train; then, although it was no part of her job. she had promised herself a last visit to the Browns. They, too, would be on the eve of departure—for Southend. She wanted, though she could not have explained quite why, to reassure Mrs. Brown. The part of fairy godmother was not, she reflected, an easy one to play; it had its responsibilities and its moments of anxiety. She wondered, as she met the question in Mrs. Brown’s eyes, whether, after all, the idea of the competition had been a good one. It had seemed so when she had originally suggested it to her publicity manager. It had attracted 8,710 entries, given the Graphic Theaters a great deal of useful publicity, and it had enabled her, personally, to wave a magic wand over Janie Brown and her nice, ordinary family. But . . . a good thing? Sonia sighed again, in uncertainty. That remained to be seen. Janie was a sensible child, a sweet unspoiled one. But she was a very young twenty-one, with no experience of the world, no experience of love. Her head—that small, poised, well-groomed head now resting on her mother’s shoulder—was full of dreams. And tomorrow . . . .

  Janie sat up and faced her as the taxi sped swiftly through the traffic. “Miss Fielden. I—I do want to thank you for—for all you’ve done. For your kindness and— oh, everything. Only I—I can’t seem to put it into words. I just don’t know how to tell you what I feel.”

  “Then don’t try, Janie,” Sonia answered. She bent and her lips brushed the girl’s soft cheek. Again she found her gaze meeting Mrs. Brown’s, but now she smiled. “Just enjoy yourself at the ball—Cinderella!”

  The taxi drew up at last outside the little, unpretentious house that was Janie’s home. Lights burned in the downstairs window, and an instant later the door opened and Janie’s family came out to welcome them. The boys first—ten-year-old Tim, and Dennis, who was eight; Margaret, the thirteen-year-old schoolgirl; John Brown, Janie’s father, still in his overalls, for he had been working in the garden, his lined face wreathed in smiles as he helped his wife to alight. And finally Mrs. Moss, waving from the doorway.

  They all looked happy, Sonia thought, relieved.

  She followed Janie into the hall. Mrs. Moss waved a hand proudly to indicate the laden table in the living room, with its spotless, hand-embroidered cloth. “It’s all ready, like you said,” she informed Mrs. Brown, “except for the cake. I thought you’d like to bring that in yourself, seeing you made it.”

  Mrs. Brown turned to Sonia. “I thought we’d have a little party tonight, a farewell party for Janie. I hope you’ll stay for it, Miss Fielden. We can start as soon as dad’s cleaned up. If you aren’t in a hurry . . . .”

  “No,” Sonia assured her, “I’m not in a hurry. And I’d like to stay, Mrs. Brown. Thank you.”

  They gathered around the table, a happy, united, excited family, and Sonia’s vague doubts began to fade. Cinderella, she thought, looked radiant. But she had her feet firmly planted on the ground. There was no need to worry.

  She had almost ceased to worry when, at nine o’clock, the party broke up in order to go and inspect Janie’s new wardrobe. Mr. Brown saw her to the door. “You’ll be around,” he asked, “in the morning, to take Janie to the station?”

  Sonia nodded. “Yes. At ten, Mr. Brown. That should give us plenty of time. But—aren’t you coming to see her off?”

  He smiled, shaking his head. “Mom thought it’d be better if we didn’t. I mean, we can’t live up to Janie’s new clothes, not really, can we? I didn’t say anything to Janie, of course, but in the excitement she won’t notice, perhaps. We’ll say our goodbyes here and leave you to see her onto the train. Just in case there are any reporters—”

  “There won’t be.” Sonia promised. “I’ll see to that. And I think.” she added softly. “that Janie would want you to come, both of you. I hope you’ll change your mind, Mr. Brown.”

  His smile spread until it lighted up his tired blue eyes.

  “All right.” he told her. “We’ll be there. Good night. Miss Fielden. And thanks for all you’ve done. You’ve been a real fairy godmother to us. We won’t forget it. any of us.”

  He offered her his good hand and Sonia took it.

  “Good night.” she echoed, the last of her doubts vanishing. “Good night. Mr. Brown.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  TRUE TO HER PROMISE. Sonia Fielden saw to it that no reporters or photographers witnessed Janie’s departure next day. She and the Browns escorted the girl to the station and watched the boat train out of sight, waving until they could wave no more. And after that, Janie was alone, struggling against the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, face pressed to the train window.

  She was conscious of very little of the journey but she conquered the tears. . . .

  Her first sight of the S.S. Goldinia came when she emerged from the dim obscurity of the customs shed, her passport and embarkation card in her hand, and saw the ship towering above her—a great, white ship, with gangways leading up to it and the blue peter flying bravely at the masthead. Stewards in white jackets, seamen in uniform and one or two officers were visible around the decks, but on the wharf below all was, for a time, confusion, and Janie could do nothing but follow the crowd as it surged toward the gangways, caught and held by it like a butterfly in a net.

  She was some time getting on board, but when she reached the cool, electrically lighted apartment outside the purser’s office on C deck, it was to find comparative peace. As each passenger stepped off the gangway, a steward was waiting, brisk and efficient, to show the way to cabin or stateroom.

  “Miss Brown? A 17—if you’ll follow me, madam, it’s this way.”

  Janie’s guide was a cheerful young man with red hair. He was very polite, warning her of obstacles as she followed him up a flight of broad, shallow stairs and along an alleyway between row after row of white-painted cabin doors. Most of the cabins seemed by this time to be occupied. They emerged onto the promenade deck and her guide halted.

  “Be easier this way, I think, madam.” He indicated a barrier and, opening it, stood aside to allow Janie to pass. “This is the first-class deck. Lounge, veranda café, bar and smoking room on this side—writing room, shore excursion office and library on the starboard side. If you’ll follow me.” He again led her on. Janie was feeling hopelessly lost when, having climbed yet another flight of steps, which he referred to as the A deck companionway, the steward dived into a maze of passageways and finally threw open the door of a port-side suite to announce respectfully, “Your stateroom, madam. Luggage will be brought up immediately and I’ll send the stewardess along to see if there’s anything you require.”

  He smiled and was gone before Janie could draw breath to thank him.

  Left alone, she looked around her in awed amazement. It scarcely seemed possible that this lovely bedroom could be the cabin of a ship. There was a bed, much larger than her own bed at home, with a soft satin coverlet upon it, a wardrobe in polished wood, which opened to disclose a full-length mirror set in the door on the inside, a bedside table with lamp and telephone and a shelf for books. Beneath the curtained window stood a glass-topped dressing table, whose triple mirrors reflected the great mass of wonderful flowers that lay, still in their wrappers, waiting for her to undo them. A little dazed, Janie read the labels attached to them. “Bon voyage to Cinderella from Graphic Theaters Ltd.” read the first card, which was propped against an enormous bunch of red and white roses. “To Janie from Sonia Fielden” . . . roses again, all white this time; a gay little posy of brightly colored anemones bore best wishes from mom and dad, and surprisingly, a basket of hothouse grapes stood beside the flowers, with a scrawled message of goodwill in the familiar, almost indecipherable hand of old Mr. Harmer, her employer.