Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  She hurried off breathlessly to 'round up' more guests, and presently they found themselves in the big drawing-room where chairs had been arranged in semicircles at one end and lights grouped at the other end to provide as much illumination as possible. A young man sat at the Steinway grand, and in a little while he began to play and Diane made her appearance.

  In a sugar-pink tutu she danced a gay variation from Coppelia, and while her technique sur les pointes occasionally betrayed traces of immaturity in artistry she showed the prom­ise of the talented dancer she would become when her training was completed. After an item from the pianist she returned, this time in a clinging blue dress slit to the thigh, to interpret a sophisticated American blues number in a much more modern dance idiom.

  There was nothing of polite indulgence in the applause which followed, and Wally Ambrose said with speculative ap­preciation: 'Give that child another five years… wow!'

  'Lecher,' Jason rebuked, then grinned. 'All the same, I'm going to claim a dance with her—my wife permitting.'

  'You may dance with Diane all evening,' Miranda returned sweetly, and in her heart wished it might be so. There was no danger from a dark-eyed, elfin child who was indeed near enough the threshold of womanhood to enchant quite a few male hearts that evening. During the dancing that followed Diane never lacked a partner and while the older women watched her sparkling triumph with indulgence Miranda heard one petulant young woman remark acidly that really it was ridiculous allowing children to stay on so late.

  'Does she worry you, darling?' said an anonymous voice, and Sir Charles, who had claimed Miranda for that particular dance, also overheard. He chuckled gruffly as he swept her on to the floor. 'Afraid that niece of mine is going to cause havoc in a few years' time—she's a minx already. You know that she's just annexed your husband to get her a drink?'

  She smiled. 'He was quite happy to be annexed, I think.'

  Sir Charles nodded, then looked down quizzically into her face. 'But now, my dear, now that I have a chance to talk to you, how are you and Jason settling down together?—if it's not an impertinent question.'

  She shook her head—Sir Charles was too courtly ever to be impertinent—and said quietly, 'Very well, thank you.'

  'Good!' He lowered his voice confidingly. 'I'm glad that he finally decided to take the plunge. I'm a great believer in mar­riage. It stabilizes a man, especially a man in Jason's position. He needed someone like you, and my wife and I were beginning to despair of ever seeing him settle down.' Sir Charles paused, concentrating on guiding her through a reverse turn in his rather stiff, old-fashioned way before he added: 'Quite apart from hoping that when he did he would choose the right girl.'

  She stayed silent, acknowledging the compliment with a smile. She was well aware of the fact that many firms vetted their employees' wives before considering them for promotion, and she suspected that this was done discreetly in some cases by Carona-Steele. But in Jason's case there was no one to say him nay, except Sir Charles, and she felt sure that even Sir Charles would hesitate to wield the seniority of age to interfere in Jason's personal life.

  There was no sign of Jason and the youthful belle of the evening when the music ended and Sir Charles escorted Mir­anda back to the rim of the big room.

  'It seems I can't return you to your partner,' he said an air of mock drama. 'Shall we join them, my dear?'

  'Thank you—no.' She shook her head. 'I think I'll go and cool off for a few minutes.'

  She threaded her way slowly through the clusters of guests until she reached the wide windows at the end of the room. For a moment she stood, her eyes remote, then she unlatched the window and walked out on the terrace, drawing deep breaths of the refreshing night air.

  Sir Charles's words had made a deep impression on her, and more than anything else she wanted to believe they were true: that she was the right girl.

  If only she could believe that Jason did need her!

  Through the open window the strains of music sounded again. She half turned to go indoors again, then changed her mind and drifted along the terrace. Several other guests had found the heat indoors a little overwhelming and were leaning on the terrace rail, sipping drinks, or strolling in the garden.

  If only Jason had mentioned Lissa! Why did he avoid any reference to the girl he had wanted to marry? Why had he betrayed anger that day weeks ago when she had told him of Lissa's visit? And Lissa had made no further contact with her… because Jason had warned her not to make social contact with his wife? suggested the cruel voice of intuition. No! In­wardly she recoiled from the implication of that answer.

  Almost angry, this time with herself. Miranda halted on the shadowy path along which her steps had led her automatically. She must stop worrying and have more trust in the enigmatic man to whom she had entrusted her happiness and her future. And she had better get back in case he was wondering where she had got to. He might need rescuing from Diane! Stifling a giggle which held just a slight trace of hysteria, she began quickly to retrace her steps.

  She reached the end of the tall hedge, and heard Lissa's voice. Another second of time and Miranda would have walked into her, but in that second she saw that Lissa was not alone.

  Miranda froze, and her heart turned to ice. She did not need to see the face, just the tall dark male outline that belonged only to one man in the world.

  Suddenly the sounds of revelry in the background stilled in Miranda's ears and everything receded. There was only the dark outline of Jason's head and the soft voice saying:

  'But why won't you tell me, Jason?'

  'Because I don't choose to, my sweet.'

  'But I've got to know,' the soft voice persisted. 'I know she's in love with you—one has only to look at her to know it—but are you madly in love with your little wife, darling?'

  There was the briefest of hesitations, then: 'I don't think that need concern us…'

  There was a definite emphasis on the word 'us' that turned the ice into daggers of pain. Miranda clutched at her throat. She wanted to tear herself away before she saw the kiss that would spell the ruin of her happiness, and at the same time she wanted to attack this elusive enemy who had shadowed her marriage ever since its eve. But fear, and hunger for the truth, no matter how destructive, kept her a silent prisoner under the dark, whispering trees.

  She gave a soft, shuddering sigh, and that sigh was echoed by the girl only a metre or so away.

  'No, Jason. As ever, you're almost too wise. Actually, I don't think I want to know. Because whatever happens, she's your wife. But at least it's put an end to James' suspicions.'

  'Was he suspicious?' There was a sharper note in Jason's voice. Was it fear?

  'I think so. But as soon as he heard the news he was de­lighted. In fact, I'd say it was a stroke of genius. I mean,' Lissa's hands fluttered like pale moths in the darkness, 'we couldn't have thought of a better smokescreen. Did I tell you it was his idea to have you both down for a week-end? Even I wouldn't have gone as far as that. So you'll have to—Oh, Jason, quickly!'—the pale moths fluttered to draw down his head—'I think someone's coming and I'm aching for—'

  Miranda's limbs came back to trembling life.

  White-faced, sick to her heart, she turned away and fled towards the glow of light from the terrace. The other light foot­steps danced nearer and she came face to face with Diana.

  'Oh, there you are!' the child laughed. 'I've been looking for you—Aunt Eleanor sent me to round up the people outside to tell them the cabaret is starting—that is if you want to see it. But you won't want to miss Rudi Ricardo. He's absolutely super-de-fabulous! But where's—?'

  'He isn't here. He—he's with your uncle.' Still reeling, Mir­anda hardly knew what she was saying as she seized Diane's arm.

  'But he wasn't, not a minute ago. Uncle Ch—'

  'It—it doesn't matter.' Almost fiercely she was hustling Diane back towards the house. There was only one thought in her mind now. Whatever happened, Diane must not
see. No one must see…

  But she reckoned without Diane's youthful perception, and the unguarded question as Diane glimpsed her distraught ex­pression in the brilliant light streaming from the window.

  'What's the matter?' Diane stopped short. 'Are you feeling ill?'

  'No, I'm all right.' Beyond someone's shoulder she saw Lissa approaching the steps leading up to the terrace. For an instant Miranda closed her eyes. Then she turned her head and forced her stiff lips to stretch into a travesty of a smile. 'No, Diane, I'm perfectly all right…

  Her head held high, she walked alone into the assembly of guests. This then, was heartbreak…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Afterwards, she did not know how she got through the rest of that evening.

  The shock of betrayal surged in her like a tempest, threat­ening to burst out of control every instant. Only an innate strength of character, and because the very special nature of the occasion almost demanded it, made her feel bound to try to pretend that nothing had happened.

  But try as she might, she could not bear to face the other girl, let alone assume the bright social face of politeness, and when Jason came to her side she stiffened.

  'Like a drink?'

  Was it imagination, or was his voice forced, his manner wary?

  Her own voice stuck in her throat and she dared not look at him. She shook her head and kept it averted. Fortunately the Latin-American singer had taken up his hand mike and was standing by the piano, making a special greeting to Sir Charles and Lady Hubard and announcing the song he would sing first to mark the occasion.

  For a while she did not have to speak to or look at Jason. She saw Diane at the other side of the room, as near to the piano as she could edge, her small upturned face enrapt as she stared at her current idol. Then Diane's face blurred, and the husky velvet voice of Rudi proved the open sesame that no human control could have resisted at that particular moment.

  The tears spilled hot from her anguished eyes and her mouth worked convulsively. She turned blindly and slipped from the room. She went through the deserted hall, into the cloakroom. There, the locked door behind her, safe from curious eyes, she took great sobbing breaths while she fought for control. Very slowly control won and she opened tightly clenched hands, pressing them on the cold marble rim of the washbasin.

  The wild thoughts of running away, of staying to confront Lissa, of pouring out hot accusations to Jason, gave way to the numbed calm of despair. In a strange way she was experiencing release, release from the suspicion and the doubts that had tor­mented her for so long. She wanted so desperately to believe in Jason that she had fought them, but instinct had been right all along. The old affair between Jason and Lissa had never ended, despite the fact that each had chosen to marry another.

  A smokescreen, Lissa had said.

  Miranda stared at her white, frightened face in the mirror. Perhaps Jason had had that in mind from the start. This was why Rena had tried to warn her, and she'd been too blind, too naïve, too possessed by Jason's spell to take heed.

  But what was she going to do?

  With trembling hands she got out her compact and tried to repair the ravages of emotion. Her efforts were not entirely successful, but suddenly she ceased to care about her personal appearance. Only one thing was of importance now.

  When she returned to the hall Jason was standing at the foot of the stairs. He stubbed out his cigarette with jerky move­ments and spun to face her, and his expression seemed to betray everything she needed to confirm her fears: anxiety—and guilt.

  'Where did you vanish to?'

  'Really, Jason, what a question!' she exclaimed.

  A dark flush suffused his cheeks, and his own mouth tight­ened. 'Make-up repairs, I suppose.'

  'You suppose right.'

  'But why do they take hours?—come on, it's nearly over. This is the last dance.'

  She allowed him to walk her back into the big room, and draw her, taut and silent, into his arms for the last dance. An air of unreality descended on her, and she almost exclaimed her disillusion aloud when the musicians struck up their ironic choice of music, the Wedding Waltz.

  Jason said something, and at her monosyllabic response he stopped abruptly.

  'What's the matter?' he said quietly.

  'Nothing.'

  She did not look at him, and he began moving again. 'Got a headache, or something?'

  She wanted to scream, Or something just about wraps it all up! Instead she stared unseeingly past his shoulder. 'I'm per­fectly all right,' she gritted.

  'You don't look it.'

  'Thanks,' she said tersely.

  'You know perfectly well I didn't mean it that way.'

  'Then which way did you mean it?'

  She felt the soft groan he gave under his breath and wished with all her heart that the music would end and they could end the charade their relationship had become. It seemed that he harboured the same sentiment, for he whispered almost in-audibly: 'Oh, God, this is interminable!'

  When at last the final flourish of the drums ended he mut­tered, 'Come on, let's say our good nights and get out of here.'

  When they had done so and reached the car Miranda was shivering with dread.

  She huddled back in her seat while Jason extricated the car from the mix-up of all the other cars trying to leave at the same time. Somewhere two bumpers met with the sickening metallic crunch which accompanies such encounters, and Jason ex­claimed impatiently: 'Wally, for a pound. He shouldn't drive in the state he's in, the fool.'

  She made no response but a shiver, almost wishing she were as intoxicated as Wally Ambrose had appeared to be by the end of the evening. Jason noticed the shiver, and with a brusque movement reached over into the back and snatched the rug. He tossed it across her lap, leaving her to sort out the folds herself and shrink into its warmth while he manoeuvred the car past the interlocked pair and the arguing drivers. Suddenly the road was clear before the big car and Jason accelerated into the night. The silence began to press like a tangible thing, as though it were urging her to break it, but now she was alone with Jason the cold sickness was numbing the pit of her sto­mach and she did not know what to say. How did one begin to say the things that must end the mockery of a marriage char­ade?

  He must have noticed the movement of her head. 'Not now—save it,' he said rather sharply.

  'Is there anything to save?' she said bitterly.

  'I could ask you that.'

  The curt response stung her to anger. 'I saw you with Lissa,' she said baldly.

  'I suspected that. It was the only thing I could think of that might have upset you back there.'

  'Upset me? Might have upset me!' she cried incredulously. 'Is that all you can say?'

  'No. I could say a great deal more,' he said coolly, 'but I'd prefer not to be driving a car when you lose control of your emotions.'

  She clenched her hands so tightly the nails bit into the palms but she felt no pain. Every particle of sensation was con­centrated in a surge of near hatred for a man who could express so callous a disregard for her feelings. 'You mean you have no intention of explaining—you never had,' she choked.

  'There's very little to explain,' he said in the same, tight, emotionless tones. As though to underline this, almost as though to dismiss a tiresome subject, he came down hard on the throttle and the car leaped into speed, the needle hovering dangerously past the seventy mark.

  'Am I not en tided even to that?'

  There was no reply. The car hurtled on, through the tearing streaks of scarlet and white lights, towards the carpet of London's glow in the distance. She had never known Jason drive so viciously, and when at last he drew to a halt in the dark safe confines of Byrne Square she was trembling. Still in silence, he garaged the car and let them into the house. The weakness of reaction overcame her suddenly and she stood in the hall, her light wrap sliding from her shoulders.

  Jason walked past her, into the lounge, and went to the cock­tail
cabinet. He poured two measures of whisky and held one out to her.

  'No, thanks.' Listlessly she bent to pick up the wrap and dropped it over the hall chair. 'It would choke me.'

  He shrugged, and drained his own glass. 'So you spied on me tonight.'

  She jerked upright. 'How dare you! I don't spy!'

  'No?' His brows went up. 'If you'd stayed and spied a little longer you might have realized that Lissa was making the run­ning, not I.'

  'Does it matter who was making the running?' Her voice went dull and her eyes shadowed with lifelessness. He had taken the offensive, the last reaction she had expected from him. He wasn't even going to deny it.

  'On the contrary, it does.' He surveyed her with eyes in which more than a hint of anger lurked. 'You, listened, didn't you? And then Diane came barging along and you ran way. It's a pity you didn't listen a while longer. You would have heard me telling Lissa that the affair was over, for good.'

  'So it was Lissa all along.' She turned away, the echoes of her own words throbbing like a death knell in her heart.

  'Was,' he emphasized, his mouth compressing. 'I thought everyone in town knew.'

  'Except me.'

  'Listen, Miranda. I didn't ask for a blow-by-blow account of your past love affairs when I married, so why should I recount mine?' he demanded.

  'I never had any, except…' Her mouth quivered and she could not go on.

  'I'm aware of that.' He paced back to the cabinet. 'It might have been different if I hadn't,' he added dryly. 'Experience and innocence never made a good equation.'

  She shook her head, too spent to parry his cynical obser­vations, and sank into a chair.

  He stood with his back to her, pouring himself a second stiff measure, and said over his shoulder: 'However, as I know you won't be satisfied till you've the whole story in your possession, I'll tell you…' The drink in his hand, he lounged negligently against the cabinet, a steely glint in his eyes.