I and My True Love

by Helen Macinnes

  “Payton wouldn’t believe that.”

  “What I’m trying to say is this—and God knows I’m doing it badly, because it all may be unnecessary, but you know how sticky things are at the moment: it’s better to be sure than sorry, frankly.” He paused. “Now, where had I got to?”

  “Not very far. Payton’s friends, I think.”

  “Just one of them,” Clark said quickly. “The man’s behaving stupidly. I thought Payton might be the one person who’d have some influence over him. He’s a great admirer of your husband.”

  “Who?”

  “Minlow.”

  “Oh...” She couldn’t quite hide her dismay.

  “He’s been seeing Jan Brovic.”

  “Has he?” She relaxed, then.

  “You don’t seem worried about that,” Clark said, watching her still face. “Don’t you see, Sylvia—Minlow is a man who worked at one time with Payton. So he does know something about Payton’s job.” He paused. “Minlow comes round here quite a lot, doesn’t he?”

  Sylvia looked sharply at Clark. She was hearing Jan’s voice, worried, troubled, talking about Minlow. But then, Jan was living with tenseness and suspicion. Minlow was only the man who took a delight in swimming against the tide. “Curiosity... obstinacy,” she had told Jan. Yes, that was Minlow. But he wasn’t a Communist: a dissenter, certainly, but not a Communist—he always attacked anyone bitterly who confused the two. And he was loyal to Payton. Remembering all that, she lost the momentary fear that had gripped her so suddenly.

  “He sees Payton constantly, doesn’t he?” Clark was repeating.

  “Yes. But why not? Payton never dropped him from his circle of friends,” Sylvia said. “I suppose that makes him all the more devoted to Payton. Martin, aren’t you just a little bit over-worried?” Over-officious, she thought. The new broom raising clouds of dust. “Payton isn’t the man to talk indiscreetly to anyone.”

  “I’m not thinking in terms of indiscreet talk. I’m thinking of a small sentence, a brief or even an evaded answer to a friendly question. That is sometimes enough.”

  Odd, she thought: I hardly ever pay any attention to Minlow even when he keeps dropping in to see Payton. And now, in one evening, I’ve heard him twice discussed and twice I’ve been drawn into defending him. Or am I really, subconsciously, defending myself?

  Clark was saying, “Could you, somehow, drop a small hint to Payton? Get him to advise Minlow to keep away from the Czechs, would you, Sylvia?”

  Sylvia stared at him, her face now frozen with amazement. Yes, she thought, what would Martin think of my meetings with Jan? Yet they’ve nothing to do with politics: so Martin would be wrong. “I don’t think Payton would even listen,” she said. “He wouldn’t dream of questioning a friend’s actions. If he likes a man, then the man is bound to be all right. Otherwise, Payton’s estimate is proved false.” And that would never do, she added bitterly to herself.

  “But I’m not questioning Minlow’s intention. It’s just that he has—” Martin Clark hesitated.

  “So little judgment?” Sylvia suggested, and smiled as she heard herself echoing Jan.

  “Exactly.”

  What would Martin say if he heard that Jan Brovic agreed with him completely? “I’m afraid Payton won’t listen to you,” she said. “I’m sorry, Martin.”

  “But surely his loyalty to his country is far above loyalty to individuals? His attitude is all very noble, but it can’t pretend to ignore the facts.”

  “I don’t see why a man’s private life can’t be his own business,” she said, almost sharply. “We’ve no right to—” She broke off, listening now to the sound of the front door, opening, closing.

  “That’s Payton, now,” she said with relief. “You can tell him, yourself. And I promise to forget everything about it. I’m well trained, you see.”

  The library door opened and Payton Pleydell entered. “Hallo, there,” he said to both of them. He nodded pleasantly enough to Clark. His manners were always equal to any surprise. Then he looked again at his wife. “Sylvia... you’re looking a little tired. Are you all right?” He dropped his briefcase quickly on a chair and came forward to put his arm affectionately around her shoulder. “Really, I wish you’d take things more easily. You’ll have a breakdown if we aren’t careful.” He smiled sadly, shaking his head over her disobedience. “Don’t you think Sylvia needs a vacation?” he asked a startled Clark. “I wish you and Amy would persuade her to take my advice.”

  Sylvia looked up at the thin, handsome face, intelligent, and calm, with its shy gentle smile. But the grip on her shoulder was heavy, tight, forcing her to respond to the smile even as she braced her spine. It was the angry grasp of a determined schoolteacher forcing the recalcitrant child to behave before the visitor. It was the despairing hold of a man who clutched at what was lost to him.

  “I’m all right,” she said too quickly. Martin Clark’s eyes were missing nothing. “Martin was just about to give me a message for you. Now, I’ll leave—” She broke off her words as she pulled herself suddenly away from Payton’s arm. She was trembling and she tried to control it. She looked at Martin Clark; his face was troubled as if he had noticed it. She turned quickly and walked to the door, closing it abruptly behind her.

  And now, standing in the hall, she began to cry—quiet tears that wouldn’t be willed away but fell slowly, scaldingly, over her cheeks. Why doesn’t Payton hate me? she wondered: it would be easier for me if he did.

  She moved over to the hall table to search in her handbag, lying there, for a handkerchief and some powder. Slowly, she regained control of herself, and removed the last trace of tears. Then she could enter the drawing-room.

  Her absence hadn’t been noticed, seemingly. Kate and Bob were standing together as if he were about to leave. He was saying, as he held her hand in a long handshake, “Think nothing of it. Any time you need some crude tactics, just call on me. I can solve problems—if they aren’t my own.” Then he looked round at Sylvia. “You are just about to get rid of me,” he told her, watching her face: God, he thought, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ll ever see.

  “It’s still early,” Sylvia said. “You don’t have to go.”

  He glanced over her shoulder towards the library door. “I might as well. You’ll be pretty sick of looking at this uniform by the time I leave Washington.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Where will you be sent?” Kate asked.

  “That’s the question we’re all asking,” he said with a smile. “Good night, now, anyway.” He shook hands once more.

  “Good night, Bob,” Kate said. Her smile was real, Sylvia noticed.

  “I’ve Miriam’s invitation to give you,” Sylvia said, and she went with Bob into the hall. “When can you—” Her voice faded.

  In the drawing-room, Kate finished arranging the record albums and the books. Bob and Sylvia were still arguing mildly in the hall about Miriam Hugenberg’s party: Bob wasn’t sure if he ought to be there. Too much heavy brass, he gave as his excuse. But Sylvia was persuading him to come in uniform all the same or else Miriam Hugenberg would feel she had been cheated of a gesture.

  Then, at that point, the library door opened and Martin Clark came out alone. He closed the door behind him quite definitely. He didn’t say very much, not even when Sylvia admired his homburg. Quite soon, the front door shut and the hall became totally silent.

  Sylvia came slowly back into the drawing-room.

  “Bob says these records need more playing,” Kate said. Then she noticed Sylvia’s grave face. “Martin Clark didn’t stay very long with Payton, after all,” she remarked. “I suppose he was worried about Amy.”

  “I told him,” Sylvia said wearily, “I told him Payton wouldn’t listen.” She looked back at the library door, and she shivered slightly. “Let’s go upstairs, Kate.” Let’s talk, she wanted to say; but that suggestion must, somehow, come from Kate.

  Kate w
as looking at the library door, too. “Yes.” She moved to gather up her cigarettes and photographs. “Sylvia,” she said in a low voice, “you think I’ve been judging you. Not really... I don’t know enough to judge. I don’t know,” she repeated miserably. “I was worried about a lot of things, not just about you and—” She broke off. She glanced quickly again at the library door, but it was still closed. “I’m just trying to say I’m sorry,” she added with difficulty.

  “For what?” Sylvia took her arm. Together they went into the hall, walking closely, quietly, as if they were giving each other courage. Both looked at the closed door and then, moving almost stealthily, ascended the thickly carpeted stairs. In the upper hall, Kate drew her arm away, gently but surely. They stood facing each other under the parchment-shaded lights of the silver-green landing.

  “Good night, Sylvia.”

  “You are still judging me,” Sylvia said gently. “You think I’m a liar and a cheat, don’t you?” The blue eyes, watching Kate so intently, were shadowed with pain. “That’s how I must look, I know. But the choice, Kate, isn’t so clear-cut as you see it. Soon, it will be. But not at the moment.”

  “What choice?”

  “Either I stay here and give up Jan. Or I leave at once and tell Payton I’m marrying Jan.”

  “No,” Kate said, almost angrily. “There isn’t even that choice. Sylvia—how can you marry Jan?”

  “But I can. And will.”

  “Do you plan to live in Czechoslovakia, now, as it is today? You can’t ignore that kind of politics, Sylvia.” Her voice became despairing. “And it’s my fault: I persuaded you to see him again. But I thought, honestly I did, that he needed help. From the way he talked to me, I thought he was trying to escape, to get away from them. But he’s still with them, isn’t he? He hasn’t made one gesture to renounce them. And what’s going to happen to you?”

  But Sylvia paid no attention to that. She said quickly, “Have you ever told anyone else about your meeting with Jan? About what he said?”

  “Of course not,” Kate said impatiently. “I thought he was speaking the truth. I wouldn’t have given him away.”

  “He didn’t tell you any lies. I’m sure of that.”

  Kate avoided Sylvia’s eyes. How easily men lied when they wanted their own way, she thought angrily. Even Payton, the honest and noble Payton, had spun a little web of falsehood. Why? He never did anything without a purpose, without calculation. She was sure of that, at least. “Does Payton know you are leaving him?” she asked suddenly, waiting impatiently for the answer that could explain so much. Payton would never give up what he owned. She was sure of that, too.

  But Sylvia shook her head. “I can’t tell him, meanwhile.” She watched Kate’s face. “I hate all this deception as much as you do. So does Jan. Kate, please believe—” She stopped speaking, laying her hand in warning on Kate’s arm. The library door had opened. And once more, they drew together. Suddenly, Sylvia kissed her cousin’s cheek. “Don’t worry about me,” she whispered. “I’ll be happy yet.” She hurried silently towards her room as if she would find safety there behind its locked door.

  Kate stood quite still, listening to the solitary footsteps downstairs. They had crossed the hall to the drawing-room, and had halted there. Then, firmly, they approached the staircase. Payton ascended three steps, and paused. But he didn’t come upstairs. The footsteps retreated, back into the hall, back to the library; and its door closed.

  He knows, Kate thought suddenly, he knows he has lost Sylvia. And the anger in her died away, and in its place came pity and fear.

  16

  It had begun to rain just after five o’clock; now, although the storm had passed, the night air held a raw dampness, the lawn was sodden, the crocuses and daffodils were splattered with mud, and the paths winding under the scattered lights on the glistening trees were pooled with water.

  But Miriam Hugenberg fought this attack like a well-schooled general. Even as the first black clouds had given their warning, the long buffet table had been moved away from the covered patio adjoining the main terrace, now bleak with its wet flagstones and dripping bushes, into the warmer comfort of the long reception room. Furniture had been altered in its arrangement, or ruthlessly carted off to the basement to make space for the guests who would now stay indoors. The string quartet had been installed in a corner of the gallery surrounded by hydrangeas, where they wouldn’t interfere with the flow of either guests or conversation. And Miriam, herself, in full regalia—sapphires and tiers of tulle to match her blue hair— put on a brave smile that ignored all changes, and stood at the entrance of the grey and gold room to note all those who came and those who had been so careless as to forget.

  The more ingenuous of the guests, who still believed that the engraved invitation meant what it said, arrived promptly at nine o’clock. By half-past nine, they had been joined by those who came to do their duty and get the damned thing over with as soon as possible. By ten o’clock, the crowd was beginning to thicken like clots in Devonshire cream, and the first arrivals no longer made desperate conversation to cover their solitary eminence but could head straight for the supper table before the caviar all disappeared. Champagne frothed briskly into shallow, wide-mouthed glasses held by deep, narrow-mouthed people. There were those who hadn’t come to eat or drink, but merely to talk, in humorous groups or serious corners, with quiet head-together murmurs or the rich full periods of aspiring orators. Certainly everyone was talking, and in twenty different languages.

  “It’s going well,” Miriam Hugenberg welcomed Sylvia Pleydell. “I always know a party is going well when I can’t hear the music. Only one incident, so far: Jugoslavia resented something Rumania said, but Sweden intervened. What a divine dress, darling, you always wear that dull shade of blue so well. Do see me later, when I’ve got rid of this awful receiving line... Dear Payton, how are you? I needn’t ask: you look so handsome. Quite the most distinguished man I’ve shaken hands with tonight.”

  Payton Pleydell bowed, but for once he looked embarrassed.

  Then it was Kate’s turn. “My dear Carrie—how sweet you look!” Miriam’s quick eye approved of the flame-coloured chiffon, with a black velvet stole carried for safety. “And don’t hide your pretty shoulders, even if most of us have to come disguised.” She smiled, conscious of her own exposable arms. “Now do go over and try to make the Arabs look happy, will you?... And here is Lieutenant Turnbull! But where’s your uniform?”

  “Turner, ma’am,” Bob said firmly, and squared his shoulders in the dinner jacket he had hired for the evening.

  “The Army is a complete disappointment, tonight,” his hostess told him. “Only one colonel has turned up and he really isn’t Army—at least he never wears a uniform. Ah, well... If you can fight your way through the Central European bloc, you may find some caviar still left. Thank heaven I ordered enough champagne to float the Queen Mary.” The small white-gloved hand pulled him delicately over to her right, deposited him there beside Kate; then, with no break in its sweep, it returned to welcome the next guest.

  “The conveyor-belt system,” Bob said. “Come on, Kate and Carrie. What’s it to be? Sheiks, caviar or champagne?”

  But Kate was looking around her anxiously. “Where’s Sylvia?”

  “Encircled over there by a crowd of friends. Payton’s found a couple of diplomats for a high-level talk. We’re on our own, I think.”

  Kate looked round the crowded room again. “Let’s explore,” she suggested. “How many rooms are there full of people?” And where was Jan Brovic?

  “We can find out. I’ll go first and clear a path.”

  * * *

  “Well, have you explored enough?” he asked her fifteen minutes later, after they had struggled through five crowded rooms. “What about staking out a claim over there? It looks like a quiet corner. We may even be able to hear ourselves think.” He lifted two glasses from a passing tray. “Come on, Kate. Quick.” He reached the small love-seat, pushed ba
ck against the wall behind an opened French window, and had Kate sitting there, just before two men earnestly arguing in French could occupy it. “Sorry,” he said to them firmly, raised his glass to Kate and gave a small bow which imitated Payton Pleydell so neatly that she choked.

  “Damn!” she said. “Now everyone will think I’ve never had champagne before in my life.”

  “Have you?”

  “We grow it,” she said, indignantly.

  “California, my apologies.”

  “And don’t laugh... If you chill California champagne just twice as long as the French stuff, it tastes the same. Practically.”

  “Who knows after the third bottle, anyway?” He raised his glass and bowed again.

  “Don’t!” she pleaded.

  “Everyone else is bowing around here. And no one is going to outbow Texas.” He performed again.

  “Stop it,” she said, “please, Bob. Or I’ll get a fit of giggles. And this isn’t a laughing kind of place, is it?”

  “All right,” he said, and looked around the room. “But why you should worry about a lot of ruptured diplomats and their spavined wives—my God, the more brains some people have, the worse they look. Do you see what I’m seeing?”

  “The frightening thought is that ugliness may not even be an excuse for brains. If Lincoln was right, then it wasn’t.”

  “I’ve lost the trail, there.”

  “Well, Mr. Lincoln wouldn’t appoint a man to an important job because he didn’t like the man’s face. Someone said, ‘But, Mr. Lincoln, a man isn’t responsible for his face.’ And Mr. Lincoln said, ‘After forty, we’re all responsible for our faces.’... Don’t concentrate on that group over there, Bob: no wonder you’re depressed. Look—there’s a more cheering batch near the door, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Bob agreed, but unwillingly. “They look human, at least. I’m a simple man. I don’t ask everyone to be raging beauties. I just ask them to be human.”

  “Minlow is handsome, isn’t he?”

  “Minlow—is he here? He would be,” Bob said gloomily.