by Anne Hampson
Her blue eyes looked into his, sparklingly.
‘Boredom is conducive to the putting on of weight.’ With a dainty movement Liz touched the back of one ear with the nozzle of the spray.
‘You couldn’t resist saying that.’ Nigel’s green eyes flickered with amusement. ‘Bored already, are you?’
‘Unutterably! I’m thinking of paying a visit to England.’
His brows went up again.
‘Already?’
‘There was nothing in our contract to say how often I should go to England. I shall visit my home just whenever I like.’
His rather heavy lids came down, veiling his expression.
‘I hope you’re not forgetting you’re married. You did once, remember.’
She studied him with a blank expression.
‘I don’t know what you mean?’
‘There’ll be no separation.’
Silence. Making a half turn Liz placed the perfume spray on the dressing-table.
‘Are you afraid I’ll leave you?’
He moved across the room, and stood beside her. Liz looked at him, neither lowering her eyes nor even blinking as she met his searching gaze.
Nigel smiled faintly to himself.
‘No, I’m not afraid of that.’ And at his words, spoken in so suave and confident a tone, Liz found her memory taking her back to the occasion of their visit to the Sanctuary - and to her subsequent feeling of pleasure when Nigel had declared his intention of remaining at home that evening.
It had been a pleasant, intimate sort of situation in which she had found herself. First, there had been that interlude, when in the shimmering phantom of twilight they had relaxed on the patio, awaiting the summons to dinner. The meal itself had been cosy and intimate, with Nigel ever in smiling attendance upon her. Afterwards they had strolled in the garden, in the clear crystalline air of a Grecian night. From above, an effulgence of moonlight sprinkled the towering crags of Parnassus with silver, while in the cool dark depths of the ravine impregnable shadows lurked, fearsome and grotesque. Pervading the entire landscape was the mysterious, compelling influence of Apollo’s Sanctuary, with its vast temple and treasuries, lying as it did in a most dramatic setting against the sheer rock wall at the southern foot of the mighty Mount Parnassus. Liz had not only been affected by the magic unreality of the situation, she recalled, but also by some emotion she had never before experienced.
Nigel stirred at her side and she came out of her dream to glance up at him. What would he say were she to tell him of her thoughts? But why speculate on that when she had no intention of telling him of her thoughts? In fact, she was not quite sure she wanted to be civil, even, because she more than a little resented his presence in her room.
‘It isn’t exactly enlivening here,’ she said after he had again made a small impatient move in order to draw her attention to the fact that he expected an answer to his question.
‘Thanks’, he returned laconically, and, when she did not speak, ‘You’re a thoroughly spoiled child, Liz, and I’ve a mind to find you some work to do — as a cure for your boredom.’
Liz stood up, an exquisitely-beautiful figure in a short dress of silver lame, its mandarin collar stiff and high and studded with tiny seed pearls.
‘I never worked before I came here and I’ve no intention of beginning now.’
Her husband’s eyes narrowed and for a brief space it did seem that he would voice some scathing rejoinder. However, he thought better of it and, changing the subject, warned her again that he expected to have no complaints to make when the evening came to an end.
‘You remember what I said?’ he ended almost threateningly, and Liz’s eyes became pools of blue ice.
‘I said I might oblige,’ she responded with a sort of acid sweetness.
‘And I said you would oblige,’ he reminded her in dangerous tones.
She frowned impatiently, but to her amazement she was still a long way from the flare-point of wrath.
‘If only you wouldn’t adopt this dictatorial manner with me! I wish I could find some explanation for it.’
‘So I have you guessing at last?’ he murmured, his voice reverting to its familiar lazy drawl. ‘Keep on guessing, my dear, you might hit upon the answer in time.’ And, leaving her to ponder on that obscure remark, he glanced at his watch, said he’d see her downstairs, and left the room.
You might hit upon the answer...? Absently Liz gazed into the mirror, saw the lines creasing her brow and immediately stopped frowning. The answer ... To what? Her vacant expression remained for a moment or two before, shrugging impatiently, Liz refused to tease herself with the matter any longer.
The dinner party went off without a hitch, and to her surprise Liz thoroughly enjoyed herself. Annette and Claire, both about Liz’s age, were delighted to meet her, and surprised of course because, as Claire outspokenly declared, no one ever thought Nigel would marry an English girl.
‘No one thought he would every marry at all,’ put in Annette. ‘Nigel always used to say he was too fond of his freedom ever to get himself tied up permanently—’ She stopped and blushed at her lack of tact. Liz merely smiled, but somehow the idea that these two girls were now thinking of Greta was like a rasp on her pride. Was it only her pride that was affected, though? Liz glanced over to where her husband was standing by the cocktail bar, deep in conversation with the three Greeks - Panos, Petrakis and Dendras. Nicoleta, Dendras’s wife, was also taking part in the conversation and Liz had just learned from Claire that Nicoleta owned a fleet of cargo ships and was even more wealthy than her husband. As if sensing her interest Nigel turned his head and met his wife’s gaze. The quick directness of his glance was disconcerting and she would have sought to escape by turning her attention to her companions again, but Nigel’s eyes held her, making an unfathomable impact on her which, although lasting a mere few seconds, left an impression which was to remain with Liz throughout the entire evening. Presently Nigel said,
‘Come on, you girls, and have a drink. Leave the feminine talk until later,’ at which Annette and Claire immediately jumped up and went with Liz to join the four at the bar.
‘I must congratulate you again on your marriage to so beautiful a girl,’ Panos was saying as Nigel handed Liz a drink. ‘How did you find her, Nigel?’
Nigel shrugged and smiled and caught Liz’s half veiled eyes.
‘She was around.’ He spoke in a careless tone, but Liz sensed the presence of a hidden note of satire behind his words. She could almost hear him saying, ‘Yes, she’s beautiful outside - but what a shrew lies underneath!’ And because of this a touch of colour rose to tint her cheeks.
Some time later Nigel was saying in an undertone,
‘Your blushes are enchanting.’ But he just had to add, amusement playing at the corners of his eyes, ‘Even when they’re produced by nothing more than a guilty conscience.’
‘Was there any need for that!’ she flashed with a sudden stab of anger.
A smothered sound of exasperation rose in Nigel’s throat.
‘You’re a bad-tempered wretch. I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ve caught you young enough,’ he added, and she gave an audible gasp.
‘Caught me?’ He made no comment and she added, ‘You might live to be sorry you caught me at all!’
‘What sort of a threat is that?’ he demanded, regarding her now through narrowed eyes. ‘You’re the most imprudent woman I’ve ever met.’
‘The most imprudent?’ she repeated tartly. ‘Are you sure you don’t mean the least submissive?’
Nigel quirked an eyebrow, an action that made her blood boil.
‘Why the comparative? I’ve yet to discover even the smallest degree of submission in you.’
Liz drew a deep breath; her mouth was tight and her eyes became militant, but whatever retort she had been about to make died on her lips, for at that moment others came within earshot.
‘To be continued,’ announced Nigel with a laugh, and delibera
tely turned away so as not to afford her the satisfaction of sending him the venomous glance which he knew she had ready.
But when the last good nights had been said and the three cars were moving slowly along the drive one behind the other, Nigel turned to Liz and in perplexing contrast to his former attitude of taunting satire he seemed almost tender as he said,
‘I was proud of you, Liz - very proud indeed.’
Taken completely by surprise, Liz could only say,
‘I wish I understood you, Nigel.’ And, as he made no comment, ‘Why did you marry me?’ She watched him closely while awaiting an answer. His lids drooped, ostensibly with boredom. But Liz was fully aware that it was an evasive action, just as his voice was evasive when at length he spoke.
‘Why the repeated inquiries? I’ve already said, marriage was the simplest way out of our difficulty.’
‘The simplest, perhaps, but certainly not the most preferable. I believe you’ll agree with me on that?’
‘No such thing. Had not marriage been preferable to me then I should never have entered into it.’ He stopped, and laughed at her expression. ‘Still guessing? Well, as I remarked earlier, you might hit upon the answer in time.’
She fell silent, pondering this. Nigel had had some reason for the marriage, that went without saying. That it wasn’t money was obvious because he could have obtained his inheritance by contesting the will. That it wasn’t desire was equally obvious, simply because Nigel had not troubled her up till now and it was most unlikely that he ever would do so. And if neither money nor desire prompted the suggestion of marriage, then what had? How galling to be kept in the dark like this!
‘I wonder what you’d have done had I refused to marry you?’ she murmured presently, an odd inflection in her voice.
The three cars had disappeared, but the tail-lights of the last one were still visible through the trees. Nigel and Liz were on the patio and at her softly-spoken words her husband turned his head to look at her.
‘I wonder why you didn’t refuse?’ he countered, sidestepping her question - at least in some small degree.
‘You appear to have forgotten that I, unlike you, believed those wills to be valid.’
‘So you did,’ agreed Nigel with a yawn. All at once he seemed to be thoroughly bored by the conversation. ‘It’s time we turned in. I’m tired and I’m sure you are too.’
She nodded absently, surprising herself by accepting his deliberate digression without any attempt to redirect him on to the subject of their marriage.
‘Yes ... I am tired ...’ But although he stood aside she made no move to precede him indoors, for she was suddenly affected in some indefinable way by the soft, moon-flushed night with its thistle-down breeze wafting exotic perfumes through the air and bending the spidery palm fronds to grotesque shapes against the nebulous backcloth of mountain cliff and crag which were themselves superimposed upon the violet and pearl of an Eastern sky.
Liz had always believed herself to be hard, appreciative of beauty while impervious to any emotional effect of it. But who could remain immune to the subtle call of the Delphic scene? Several lines of a poem by Byron came naturally upon her thought stream and she whispered them to herself. ‘Shall I unmoved behold the hallow’d scene, which others rave of though they know it not?’
The ‘hallow’d scene’ was intense, all-powerful in its influence, because even though by the will of the emperor Theodosius its oracular powers were long since doomed, it held on tenaciously to its glory, enfolding its god in slumber but not in death. His spirit lingered in glorious triumph, still conquering with gentle power as modern suppliants pilgrimed from the far reaches of the earth to worship in awe and wonderment at the pagan shrine. Carried away as she was by a sort of mystic enchantment, Liz even forgot her husband’s presence as another swing of memory brought further lines of the poem to mind. In this ‘... wild pomp of mountain majesty ... some gentle spirit still pervades ... sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, and glides with glassy foot o’er yon melodious wave’.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Soft words, and Liz turned involuntarily, a smile touching her lips.
‘I was totally lost in the wonder of this place. You must be proud to have been born here.’
‘One doesn’t think about it very much, but - yes, I suppose I am proud to be able to say I’m a native of Delphi.’
For a moment Liz examined his face, noting the noble lines and finely-etched contours, the taut and thrusting jaw, the hard austerity of the eyes and low aristocratic forehead from which a mass of dark hair was brushed back, shining and with the merest hint of a wave.
A sudden stirring of her senses which had nothing to do with the mystery of the night or the clear heady air brought a flush to Liz’s cheeks and a new and tender light to her eyes. Nigel caught his breath and before Liz had time to grasp his intention he had drawn her into his arms and his lips were seeking hers. She struggled free, but was caught again, and this time she felt his mouth on hers, warm and strong ... and yet gentle in a way that seemed quite out of line with the disproportionate degree of mastery to which he had previously subjected her.
‘Let me go!’ she flared when once he had relaxed his hold. ‘I told you not to try any tricks!’
‘Come, Liz,’ he admonished gently. ‘That wasn’t so very distasteful, was it?’
She glared at him, and would have twisted away, but the pressure of his hands on her arms was increased and she desisted, having no wish to acquire marks that would infuriate her for days.
‘Any man’s kisses would be distasteful to me. I’ve told you, my one fervent wish was to remain a spinster!’
‘Not natural,’ he drawled, releasing her and putting a small distance between them.
‘Have it your own way. I’m not in the least interested in whether you consider me natural or not.’ She edged past him, but turned as she reached the great glass doors leading into the salon. ‘Remember what I said about not trying any tricks,’ she warned softly, her eyes narrowed, yet sparkling. ‘I said you’d receive a shock - and I meant it!’
To her chagrin that only produced a laugh from Nigel, and the reminder of his answer on that occasion. He had asserted that her words were suggestive of a challenge - which he was just the man to accept.
‘Also, my dear,’ he added, ‘I have warned you, numerous times, not to try me too far. I was not wasting words when I threatened to let you have a bruise or two.’
Fury blazed from Liz’s eyes, and her small fists clenched so tightly that the bones of her knuckles shone through the skin. And yet she held a curb on her tongue, astounded by the discovery that her anger stemmed more from the fact of his creating disunity than from his actual words - or even his kiss. Determined to quell her anger, she said quietly,
‘Your threats are already becoming ineffective—’ She managed to smile sweetly at him. ‘Owing to their repetition.’
Nigel laughed and Liz’s eyelids flickered. Somehow, she was impelled to hide her expression from him.
‘Were my threats ever effective?’ he wanted to know, cocking an eyebrow in a manner that should by rights have infuriated her.
‘No, they weren’t. Nor could they ever be. What I should have said,’ she added with a sort of affable spite, ‘is that they are beginning to bore me.’
A moment’s silence followed. From the olive trees came the nocturnal whirr of the cicadas and an occasional note of music on the green-clothed foothills of Parnassus - sheep bells tinkling through the still clear air.
‘Bore you, do they?’ Nigel smiled faintly to himself. ‘How typical of the British landed gentry! Everything bores them.’
‘I never said everything bores me,’ she retorted with indignation but not with anger.
‘Earlier this evening you said you were bored with this place.’
Liz was shaking her head.
‘I realize now that I couldn’t ever be bored with this place.’
Nigel’s eyes flickered oddly
at the tone of her voice. It was soft - like a caress almost, and quite alien to the irascible voice she kept especially for her husband.
‘So you’ve changed your mind about going to England?’ was all he said, but the words, which were more a statement than a question, were suggestive of a surrender on her part and this she could not accept.
‘Not at all; I want to visit my home - and remain in it for a while.’
Nigel was staring ahead, to where the smiling moon hung, clear and brilliant over the dark expanse of sea.
‘When are you thinking of going?’ he inquired, resting his back against one of the columns supporting the verandah.
‘Soon - next week, probably.’ Her voice was a challenge; Nigel ran his eye over her but said equably,
‘How long will you be away?’
His easy manner suggested disinterest, which was what she wanted, Liz told herself ... but why, then, this feeling of pique?
‘That’s impossible to say. It depends on how many invitations I receive,’ she added with a deliberate flash of defiance.
‘You must have some idea how long you’ll be away?’
‘I’ve just said I haven’t.’ A cloud obscured the moon, and the garden was veiled in shadow, but the verandah itself was bathed in a diffusion of soft amber light provided by the lanterns hanging at intervals among the spreading canopy of vines.
Nigel contemplated Liz in silence; she noted the swift gleam of danger in his eyes; all at once his manner changed to one of arrogant implacability.
