by Daphne Clair
He said, 'You haven't cried, have you?'
Elise didn't answer him. There was no need, because he knew the answer; the way he asked the question told her that.
He said, with an edge of roughness in his deep voice, 'When you opened the door, you looked the picture of a grieving widow. But you haven't cried for him. What kind of marriage was it, Elise?'
She looked up then, her eyes meeting his steadily. 'It was a good marriage. I made him happy.' She saw the flicker of something in his face and added, 'We were very happy—both of us.'
'Were you.' The flat sounds indicated nothing, not disbelief, certainly not a question. Then why don't you grieve?'
'I am grieving!' She said it with little emphasis and only a hint of defiance.
'Deep inside?' he said, his voice derisive. 'With a stiff upper lip, of course. I thought marriage might have changed you. But you're still afraid of emotion, aren't you?'
'I'm not afraid, and I never was. I just don't think it's necessary to give in to it. Peter wouldn't have wanted me to indulge in floods of tears at his funeral.'
'Are you saving them for a suitable time?'
'You're being deliberately offensive!' she snapped, standing up. 'I think you'd better go.'
He stood, but stayed facing her. 'So that you can go and shed a few genteel tears in the privacy of your bedroom?'
'Go away!'
She saw in his eyes that this was what he had wanted —to make her angry. She didn't understand why, but she felt dimly that he meant to hurt her. 'Why did you come?' she asked him, trying to control her anger. To gloat? Did you want to see me cry? Is that it?'
He said, 'I want to see you cry.'
After all these years he had the power to hurt her as no one else ever had, except perhaps her father, long ago. Arid he had never known of his power. But Shard knew. Shard had always known.
Elise turned away from the knowledge in his eyes, her hand blindly closing over a hardness on the table nearby —a brass vase from Benares. Her fingers grasped the metal, feeling it cold against her flesh, and behind her Shard said, 'Go on, Elise, throw it at me.'
She fought down the urge to do it, the terrible, primitive urge to hurl it at his dark head and watch blood wipe the smile from his face, the mockery from his eyes.
She took her fingers from the vase and laid them flat against the table. 'I hate you, Shard,' she muttered.
'Of course. You'd have to—to go on living with Peter.'
Suddenly the fury flooded up, and she turned on him, her hands rigid at her sides to stop herself hitting out at him in a blind, undignified rage. 'How dare you!' she cried. 'You're not even fit to say his name—how dare you sneer at him!'
'I dare,' he said. 'And you know why.' He stepped closer to her, so that she backed up against the table behind her. 'What was it like, Elise? Tell me how it was, being married to Peter --'
She screamed at him, 'Shut up!' Her hands formed into fists and beat against his shoulders, and when he caught her wrists she tried to twist away. He twisted her wrist in his hand until he could see her face and the tears escaping from her closed eyelids, her lips clamped tightly against the anguish that shook her. Then he pulled her roughly into his arms and held her until she stopped struggling and lay helplessly sobbing against his chest.
She cried for a long time, and Shard held her there, not sitting down but supporting her weight with his feet spread apart, and his arm against her waist, his other hand stroking her shoulders, her back and her hair. He pulled the pins from the knot at her nape and let them fall on the floor, smoothing her hair back from her hot forehead as the sobs lessened and she stayed quiet against him, her hands pressed to his shirt where his jacket had fallen open.
His hand closed on her shoulder and stayed there until she moved, pushing away, and then he handed her his handkerchief and watched as she turned her back on him to use it. She pushed her hair back and squared her shoulders and then gave back his handkerchief, neatly folded but damp. She didn't thank him.
He put the handkerchief back in his pocket, still watching her.
She demanded, 'Satisfied?'
'No.'
She closed her eyes. 'You wanted to see me cry, now you've seen it. What more do you want?'
'You.'
Her eyes flew open. Her tears had blurred the green of them. They looked dark and confused. Her voice husky, she said, 'You have a colossal nerve. I don't think there's another man on this earth who would have the incredible bad taste to say that to a woman cm the day of her husband's funeral.'
'I wasn't propositioning you, and you know it. I lay no claim to good taste, Elise, but I know you're not ready for that yet.'
She said, 'I still hate you, Shard.'
'I know—more than ever since you cried on my shoulder. You'll get over it, just as you'll get over your grief for Peter. I can't be the first one to tell you that.'
'No. For once you're less than original.'
'You're young,' they had said, and she had heard the unspoken implication that they were too tactful to voice.
But Shard wasn't tactful. 'You're young,' he said, consciously echoing the well-meaning cliché. 'You're beautiful and you'll marry again. Isn't that what they said?'
'Not to my face.'
'Well, I'm saying it to your face. And I'll say this too. Next time it's going to be me. You won't run from me again.'
Elise wished she could laugh in his arrogant face. She looked at the hardness about his mouth and the cold glitter of his eyes and saw no desire and no tenderness, only a taut air of purpose.
'You're mad!' she exclaimed. 'I'll never marry you. Not if you were the last man on earth --'
'I'm the only man on earth—for you,' he said.
'It's true you haven't changed. You're as conceited as ever.'
He shrugged. 'If that's what you want to call it. I have to go back to Wellington tomorrow, but I'll be here again in two weeks or so. Will you still be here?'
'I have no idea,' she said coldly.
'I'll find you,' said Shard. He took a card from his pocket and laid it on the table beside the lamp. 'If you want to contact me, this has phone numbers in Auckland and Wellington on it,' he said. 'Goodnight, Elise.'
He walked out, evidently not expecting her to escort him to the door, and she didn't.
She stood looking at the small oblong of cardboard long after his footsteps had receded down the driveway. Then she picked it up and found an ashtray and a box of matches, and carefully burned it to a few blackened wisps of ash.
CHAPTER TWO
Elise slept well, the first time since Peter's death. In the morning she woke feeling as though a fog had lifted. There was pain, for the nightmare had become stark and uncompromising reality, but the helplessness of the nightmare was gone, too. She made herself eat breakfast and rang her mother to ask her to help sort Peter's clothes for giving away to one of her mother's charities. Then she phoned a real estate agency.
By five o'clock that night the house was listed at the agency for sale, all Peter's personal belongings had been despatched to his mother or a charity, except a few things Elise kept for herself, and she had arranged to lease a beach cottage in a quiet part of the Bay of Plenty for a month, starting at the end of the week.
'Alone?' her mother queried with an air of disapproval.
'Yes, mother, alone.'
'Now, Elise, you're not going to brood, are you? Don't you think a week might be enough?'
'If it is, I'll come back in a week. I'm not obliged to stay the entire month.'
But she knew she would stay if it killed her. She wasn't coming back to Auckland until Shard Cortland had given up looking for her and accepted that she meant it when she said she would never marry him.
'But what will you do?' her mother asked sharply.
'Brush up on my drawing,' Elise answered. 'I may be looking for a job when I get back.'
'Well, I'm sure Peter will have left you very comfortably off,' said Katherine. 'But I
suppose you'll need an interest...'
Elise was surprised at the lack of opposition to the suggestion of a job. Her mother had backed up Peter's opposition to her working when they were married. She had taken an art course after leaving school, and illustrated a children's book for a friend, but both Peter and her mother had expressed unease at her making a career of it.
'I think it's very clever of you, darling,' Peter said kindly. 'But just keep it occasional, will you? I don't want you getting in a flap over meeting deadlines and that sort of thing. But if the odd illustrating job makes you happy and doesn't put too great a strain on you, well, that just fine.'
Peter never forbade her anything or actively disapproved. He just made it clear that everything was secondary to his business and the happiness of their marriage. Which was as it should be, she told herself. He was always careful to keep her informed about his work, and include her in the social side of it.
Her mother was more forthright. 'Peter is a young man still making his way, and he needs a wife who can support him, not one trying to make her own career. I know it's fashionable now for both husband and wife to work, but it's the men with a wife behind them who are successful, you'll see. Marriage needs to be worked at, and Peter needs a good hostess who isn't too concerned with her own affairs to take an active interest in his business.'
Elise knew that marriage needed to be worked at. She could see that Peter was taking pains to fit her into his busy life, and she felt that it was up to her to fill the niche that he made for her. She worked at her marriage.
and it was a success. So was Peter's business. Her mother approved, and frequently pointed out marriages that were going on the rocks because the careers of the husband and wife conflicted,, or they had ceased to have time for each other. Elise didn't point out those she knew of which broke up even though the wife had no career of her own.
'Will you be home tonight?' her mother enquired, and not waiting for an answer, because where would Elise be going? she went on, 'Gary and Delia would like to come round and spend the evening with you. They fly back to Wellington tomorrow.'
Her brother and his wife had stayed with her parents for a few days while they attended the funeral, and Elise knew that her mother had probably coerced them into spending some time with her tonight. Delia was pregnant and had not come to the cemetery after the church service. Gary had taken her back to his parents' house instead. The thought of death frightened Delia, who was a timid person inclined to 'nerves', and Elise was sure that it was a toss-up with her if the more agonising evening would be to spend time with a newly bereaved sister-in-law, or a glacially polite mother-in-law, who made it plain she was neglecting a glaringly plain duty of courtesy.
Elise made a determined effort to be cheerful that evening for Delia's sake, helping to avoid any mention of Peter's name, and seeing them off with a peculiar feeling that they had been pretending for several hours that her husband had never existed.
It wasn't until she had undressed and got into bed that she identified the source of the vague feeling of relief she admitted when they had gone. It was not simply because the evening had gone off without any notable awkward pauses, or because Delia had not been forced to acknowledge Peter's death. It was because they had not mentioned the name of Shard Cortland.
Gary had brought Shard into her life, when she was eighteen and engaged to Peter Westwood.
Peter was everything a girl could possibly want in a husband. He had looks and charm and was already established as a partner in a well-known accountancy firm, with good connections in the business world. His family had wealth and a good name, and both their families aided and abetted the romance with the greatest goodwill. He was quite a lot older than Elise, over thirty, but still a. young man, and Elise's friends thought that more than twelve years' difference in age only added to his undeniable glamour.
When he showed an interest in Elise, she was flattered, and for the first time she set out to make a man fall in love with her. It had been surprisingly easy, and she didn't think Peter ever knew that it was she who chose the time and the place the first time he kissed her. It was a satisfying kiss and she enjoyed it. He was more experienced than the boys she had kissed before, and he wasn't clumsy or over-eager, and it rather amused her that he seemed to be careful not to frighten her.
He said ruefully as he let her go, 'I shouldn't have done that.'
'Why ever not?' she asked, astonished.
'I'm a lot older than you are.'
Elise laughed, 'I've been kissed before,' and was gratified by the quick flash of jealousy in his eyes.
It wasn't hard to persuade herself that she was in love with Peter, and when he asked her to marry him she had no hesitation about accepting him.
'I told your father I'm willing to wait until you're twenty,' he said. 'But I want my ring on your finger.'
She looked up into his face and laughed. 'You mean you asked my father's permission? How old-fashioned of you, darling!'
He smiled, his blue eyes gentle as he moved a strand of fair hair from his sleeve where she leaned her head against the curve of his arm. 'My darling, you're so young, I felt I should. I wanted to make the wedding sooner—you're nearly nineteen, aren't you? But your father is right. We'll wait.'
'More than a year?' she asked slowly.
'As soon as you're legally of age,' he said, his voice husky. 'Please.'
Elise touched his cheek with her hand, and slid her fingers into his beautifully cut brown hair. Peter was always immaculately groomed, and she enjoyed seeing him slightly tousled and a little less controlled than usual after kissing her. She felt meltingly fond of him, and was suddenly aware of a sense of responsibility for this man who was putting his life into her careless young hands.
'Yes, Peter,' she said. 'We can be married on my birthday, if you like.'
'Would you like it?' His voice was urgent, his eyes alight With controlled passion.
'Yes,' she said, her lips inviting his. 'Yes, please, Peter.'
She met his kiss with her arms wound about his neck, and he held her more closely than ever before, so that in the end she protested that he was hurting her.
'I'm sorry, my darling,' he said as he let her go. 7 love you so much!' he added, his hand almost crushing hers. 'I wish you were older—no, I don't. I love you just as you are.'
'You mean you wish I was more experienced, don't you? So that you wouldn't feel obliged to wait for the wedding.'
'No!' But his face flushed darkly, and she knew something like that had been in his mind.
She looked at him sideways, her mouth curving into a provocative smile. 'Supposing I said you don't have to?'
Peter looked at her with no answering smile. 'You don't mean that, Elise,' he said curtly, the tone a reprimand.
No, she had not meant it. She had wanted to see his reaction, and he had scolded her like a child. Well, she supposed she deserved it.
'I was teasing,' she explained, her cheeks flushing.
'Yes. I won't be teased, Elise. You musn't do it.'
But she did, only more subtly. She teased him because she didn't like that fast switch from an adoring lover to a stern mentor. She punished him by being a little aloof, elusive. And friendly with other men. She didn't flirt, just listened and smiled and seemed so interested and absorbed in what they were telling her that she failed to notice Peter's vain attempts to detach her.
She succeeded in making him angry, then fell into his arms, crying contritely, 'But darling, I didn't mean it like that! You told me not to tease, and I thought—I thought you meant not to—to tempt you!'
It worked beautifully. He pulled her close and apologised in a shaken voice, his lips against her skin, telling her she was the sweetest thing on earth and he was a brute, that he adored her.
Genuinely contrite and feeling guilty, Elise was touched enough to forget to feel triumph at her victory. Peter was really far too good for her, she knew. She would try her best to live up to his picture of h
er. Because she loved him and he deserved the best.
She only tested him once after that. Her father had given her a car for her eighteenth birthday, over her mother's protest. It was a sporty little low-slung convertible, a rich girl's car and one of two things she had ever asked him for. The first had been a pony, when she was twelve, and she had insisted on a mount that everyone considered too fast and too frisky for a learner. The pony threw her, not once but several times, but she got up and remounted until she learned to ride and to make the pony mind her. It was the speed that had attracted her, the sense of freedom in galloping miles over-rolling farmland with her hair streaming behind her and the wind in the pony's mane whipping it back against her face as she bent over his straining neck. She never went to pony club like the other girls of her age, and although her mother had insisted on her having a hard hat, she would pull it off after the first few minutes, hang it on a fence-post to be fetched later, and then let the pony have his head.
When she got the car she was issued with a speeding ticket within the first week. Her mother was horrified and her father stern.
'If it happens again, I'll sell the car, Elise,' he warned.
'It's in my name. Dad,' she said calmly. 'You can't.'
'You'll find out what I can do, young lady,' he said grimly. 'You're still a minor. I'm trying to treat you like an adult, Elise, so please try to act like one, and don't upset your mother like this again.'
She didn't think threatening to sell the car was treating her like an adult, but she didn't say so, because her father was visibly thawing, and she could see that contrition was a more useful attitude at the moment than defiance. Except for odd flashes of stubborn independence which alarmed her mother and puzzled her father, she had never been a rebellious teenager.
Her father paid the fine, and she never got another ticket. She found some winding back roads in the hills among the farms and patches of bush south of Auckland and would sometimes take the car out there and push down the accelerator until she seemed about to fly off the edges of the curves into the space below between the blue, cloud-hung sky and the neatly dissected fields in the valley that she glimpsed between the pungas, king-ferns and kahikatea, puriri and totara that lined the road.
