Too Young to Marry

by Rosalind Brett

  He lifted his shoulders in a deep shrug. "It is big, and decays in parts. We use the income from this rubber to keep it going, but it will always be a little gloomy until there is a young woman to cherish the rooms and the gardens.”

  “Frenchwomen are wonderful housewives, so I’ve heard.”

  “Any woman will give a house new life, so long as she brings love to it. Tell me, what was unconventional about your marriage with Paul?”

  “It was rather sudden, that’s all,” she said guardedly.

  “The suddenness was the result of an explosion of passion?” He looked into her startled eyes, and laughed charmingly. “Forgive me. I should have known better. You are a sleeping princess.”

  “Neither that nor a rosebud,” she said flatly. “I’m tired of people thinking me too young to be married.”

  “But you are not too young!” he exclaimed, still smiling. “I make these remarks because I envy Paul so tremendously. You will awaken so beautifully that my heart aches for what I shall miss if I do not marry someone with a freckle or two on clear baby skin, with large eyes that are sometimes green and sometimes brown, with delicious lips and a most inviting neck! But you are old-fashioned, I think. You feel that only Paul should tell you these things.”

  If Paul had said just one of them...

  Lorna shook her head quickly. “I think you’re very French, monsieur. What is your opinion of the rubber trees?”

  “Their condition is remarkable,” he said, not looking at them. “I wish to hear about your first love affair—the boy with the sad eyes and many pimples.”

  She laughed. “He didn’t happen. I grew up in a girls’ school.”

  “Horrible! You are fair-complexioned. Did you not dream about a dark man with burning eyes, about a ride across the desert in the arms of a Bedouin who was really a Frenchman seeking his long-lost brother?”

  “I’m afraid there was never a Frenchman in my dreams. I never got beyond an orchard in bloom and someone rather hazy swinging my hand as we walked.”

  “And then you marry Paul of the lean jaw and clipped words. There is a wide gap there! A fascinating gap! But perhaps you have a weakness for coppery hair?”

  “Naturally!”

  “Ah, that explains it. And how much do you love this husband of yours?”

  “How would a Frenchwoman answer that question, monsieur?”

  He laughed delightedly. “But you are clever, petite! You turn the tables on an old hand like me. Tell me—if you did not belong to this big possessive plantation manager would you accept an invitation to our little chateau in the Marquesas? There is a strict mother there, I assure you! Would you come?”

  “Not on such a brief acquaintance, monsieur. And I’d certainly polish my French very thoroughly first.”

  “We would polish it together,” he assured her, and sighed. "How good it would be to romance with you! I would teach you—but I feel you would teach me too.”

  A small ache made itself felt in Lorna’s throat. This man was a Frenchman who knew all the answers, yet he felt she might have something to give. If only Paul could have that feeling. If only ... but it was no good. Paul was himself and no one else. He could no more be like this man than this man could manage rubber plantations and a big staff.

  The car turned up on to the main track, and she asked, “Do you know our bungalow?”

  “No, I have met Paul only on Main Island. It is very quiet here. How long will you endure it?”

  “For ever, if necessary. We have a splendid beach, and there’s Panai Town on the other side of the island.”

  “It is still not enough. If I were Paul I would take you away every year—to Paris, Vienna, London. It is by renewing love that it can be made to last. You agree that one must be a realist about love?”

  “No, I don’t. Realism is sometimes ugly, and it destroys romance.”

  “But you are wrong,” he told her earnestly. “You English are so idealistic about marriage that everything happens in your brain. But love exists to be used and shared, not to be thought over. An embrace is far more romantic than the mere thought of it!”

  She gave a small merry laugh. “It’s true, but the embrace doesn’t last long and the thought can last indefinitely—till it happens! So by thinking about it you can get double value.” She waved a hand, told the driver to stop. “We have arrived, monsieur.”

  “You turn me away at the gate, I see. I must congratulate Paul on acquiring not only a wise and beautiful wife, but one who is also discreet. Reluctantly, I accept dismissal, mademoiselle.”

  She looked at him quickly, but before she could speak he added urbanely, “A thousand pardons ... madame!” And she could not be sure whether the slip were intentional. He helped her from the car and took a few paces along the drive. A Land Rover stood in front of the bungalow, but Armand Chauvet could not know that that was unusual. He took her hand and bowed over it, looked regretfully and warmly into her eyes and said that he could not wait to see her again. Lorna went up the side steps and along to her bedroom, while the Frenchman turned about and went back to the car.

  In her room, Lorna stood still and listened, but there was hardly a sound to indicate the identity of the visitor. Whoever it might be, she did not want to meet him looking like someone on a luxury cruise, so she slipped off her shoes and unfastened the white suit, but she did it slowly, with a feeling of pleasant relaxation. Yes, that was how she felt, relaxed. Which was strange, seeing that she had been poised on mental toes for the last hour or two. But the exercise had been good for her; she was aware of it, deep down. The Governor had been kind and as normal as anyone would wish for; he had decided to forget his disappointment that Paul had not married his step-daughter, and to accept unreservedly the girl he had married. For that, she could be very relieved and grateful.

  But it was to Monsieur Chauvet that she owed the sense of release. Of all the men she had met in the South Seas only he had treated her as a woman. Others were kind and indulgent, puzzled and admiring or plainly incredulous. But to Armand Chauvet she was mature enough for slightly dangerous conversation; the knowledge was vitalizing.

  Lorna took her time, smiling at her reflection as she changed. She had forgotten there was a visitor on the premises.

  The visitor was Bill Ramsay. The government launch which had brought Sir Ronan Garfield to the island had also brought a bag of mail, some of which had been delivered to Bill while he was having lunch. On looking it through he had found a letter addressed to Lorna, and being familiar with the writing he had decided to take it down to the bungalow and leave it for her. It had occurred to him that the two women would probably be resting in their rooms, and all he need do was either hand the letter to Jake or place it conspicuously on a table in the living-room. He had reached the bungalow and walked round to the back, but everything in the kitchen was tidy and Jake missing. So he had taken the liberty of tiptoeing through the corridor to the living-room, and been slightly jolted to find Elsie stretched out on a lounger, her bare feet crossed and her dark hair fluffed against a batik cushion. She had looked straight at him across the top of her book, and he had found himself speaking hurriedly.

  “There’s a letter for Lorna. I was going to give it to the servant, but he isn’t about. Thought the front door might be locked, so I brought it through. I’ll put it here on the table.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a touch of insolence. “The front door isn’t locked.”

  If her tone stung, he did not show it. He moved towards the door. “Fine. I’ll get along.”

  Just a minute, Bill.” She laid the book face downward on the floor, reached to the low table for cigarettes. “Got a light?”

  For a moment it looked as if he were going to toss her a book of matches; then he apparently changed his mind, broke off a match and struck it, and leaned down to set the flame to her cigarette. Her make-up needed renewing, he noticed; if he’d been any other man she would have made him wait while she saw to it and brushed her hair
. For Bill, she wouldn’t bother.

  Against his will, he said, “You look well. The change of climate is good, isn’t it?”

  “It always is. That must have been your jeep I heard a few moments ago. I thought Lorna might be back.”

  “Where has she gone?”

  A shrug. “To lunch with someone.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Yes, but you’re not Lorna’s keeper. You’re not even mine any longer.”

  “I never was yours,” he said, a stubborn note in his voice. “Broadly speaking, we were never married.”

  “Don’t let’s be too broad,” she suggested. “After all, we did go through all the agonies.”

  “You mean I went through them. You caused them, if I remember.”

  “Don’t be sordid, Bill. We’ve already discussed this so much that the facts are in tatters and quite unrecognizable.” She drew negligently on the cigarette. “Have you reconsidered that stuffy decision of yours? We’d both be much happier free.”

  With an involuntary movement he bent and took one of her cigarettes from the packet and lit it. There was a slight tenseness about his mouth as he blew smoke. “I had a brief talk with Lorna yesterday.”

  “You did? She didn’t tell me.”

  “She’s wiser than you’d think.” He looked at the grey end of the cigarette. “Afterwards I made a decision. I won’t divorce you, and if you try it on yourself I’ll fight you. I’m certain you don’t want that.”

  “Are you?” she said softly, a hard sparkle in her dark eyes. “Why?”

  “Because you want it quiet, or Paul Westbrook won’t even look at you.”

  A stillness came into her expression. “So you’re playing the hero, safeguarding Lorna’s marriage? You always were a boy scout.”

  “You can be as insulting as you like; it will make no difference. You’ve messed up my life and if I can help it you won’t do it to anyone else’s.” His expression remained dogged but his tone had lined down. “You worked on Paul for this invitation, didn’t you?”

  “In a way. It’s far cheaper for me to accept invitations.”

  “You don’t have to harp on your poverty with me. I happen to know that you’re hanging on to your allowance in case you have to pay a lawyer.”

  “You know too much, darling,” she said acidly, sinking further back into the cushion. “And you don’t know quite enough, either. Think that one out.”

  Bill lifted his thick shoulders, squashed out the scarcely-smoked cigarette. “I’ll never know what happened to us, after the first three years. We were happy enough...”

  “Not quite enough.”

  “You didn’t say you were unhappy—not once.”

  “Because I wasn’t—or hardly. I refuse to be unhappy. Life’s too short.”

  “You mean you balanced things by finding happiness elsewhere. That’s not the way to treat a marriage.”

  “It’s the way to treat indifference.”

  Dark color came up under his tan. “I was never indifferent, and you know it. I was too healthy to go down with fever, but the job was exacting and marriage had to take second place. It was unfortunate, but I was just pegging away till we were due for long leave. But you couldn’t wait—you found comfort in the arms of an army officer.”

  “You’ve said that before—many times—and I’ve never contradicted it. Seems to me it’s about time I did. I went out with Gerald—to the polo, dancing, up the river, and even to his bungalow. But we kissed only once—and you saw us. And, Bill,” she said with quiet contempt, “I contrived that kiss for your benefit. I could have thrown myself from a horse and broken a limb, or contracted a chill through falling in the river, but they were uncomfortable things, and you’d only have been shocked into awareness for the length of time it would have taken me to recover. A kiss was painless, and much more effective. It was you who had to recover, and you couldn’t make it.”

  He stared down at her. “I don’t believe you. The chap begged me to divorce you so that he could marry you.”

  “Would I have come away if he meant anything to me?”

  He took a breath that hesitated in his throat. “You came here because of Paul Westbrook. A woman always has a tenderness for her first love that she never feels for anyone else.”

  Elsie sighed and allowed her arm to slide down so that her hand was on her book as it lay on the floor; she looked as if she were about to pick it up and continue reading, but she said,

  “You’re absolutely right. I do feel something for Paul that I’ve never felt for anyone else. And you may believe it or not, but I have a feeling for Lorna, too. She shouldn’t have married him.”

  His hand closed hard over the back of a chair. “It’s not your business! If you try to part these two I’ll make such a noise that the Main Islands won’t hold you. I mean it, Elise.”

  “I’m quite sure of that,” she said calmly. “Shall we say good-bye now?”

  He turned his lip between his teeth, then let it go. “Why didn’t you tell me before that there was nothing between you and that man in Malaya? Have you only just remembered?”

  “Sarcasm isn’t your line, Bill. I didn’t tell you because the very fact that you could leap to such conclusions was enough evidence that we were through. If it hadn’t been Gerald it would have been someone else. We just don’t match. That’s why it’s silly for you to hang on to a small corner of the marriage. Who knows, you might meet some young woman who’d make you a most placid and single-minded wife.”

  He winced, faintly but visibly. “You certainly changed from the girl I married.”

  “I wasn’t such a girl. Twenty-five is a fair age in a woman, you know. I could have married before, but I waited, and when you came along you seemed to be the right sort for me—solid, sincere and all the other dull virtues. I thought I could provide all the necessary color myself, but it’s pointless to provide color if there’s no reflection.”

  “The fact was, you were so keen on excitement that you failed to realize that marriage has meaning. Marriage was treated so that people could rear families!”

  A thin whiteness showed near her nostrils. “You’d better go, Bill, before I say something really terrible. So far, we’ve avoided this kind of scene and stuck to snapping and snarling. On the whole I prefer your yelp to the new angle.”

  Poor Bill could find nothing more to say, except, “You were always cleverer with words than I. I’m afraid I’m stuck in the old groove. While you remain in the South Seas there’ll be no divorce. And if you...”

  He stopped suddenly as Lorna appeared in the doorway from the corridor, blinked a little wearily, managed a “Hallo, Lorna,” and walked straight out of the front door.

  The Land Rover had started up and its noise was diminishing before Elise shifted her position and said slowly,

  “I suppose you got that last remark of Bill’s. I apologize for using your living-room as a battle-ground, but it won’t happen again. He really is a most mulish man.”

  “And a hurt one,” observed Lorna quietly.

  Elsie cast her a masked but rather less languid glance. “Why do you say that?”

  “His tone, and his look. You’ll always be the only woman in Bill’s life.”

  “Fiddlesticks. He’s like a wounded bear, that’s all. I don’t believe he’s capable of passionately loving anyone.”

  “You must have thought it when you married him.”

  “Perhaps. I was tired of affairs and he offered stability.”

  “And then you grew tired of stability.”

  Elise sat up and rubbed her knee, ruminatively. “Security alone is pretty humdrum, particularly in a hot climate where there are six men to every woman. When we’d been married a year I asked Bill to take me back to England. He wouldn’t break his contract—that wouldn’t have been cricket!—so we carried on, and instead of a home of our own and a family, we lived in quarters and played bridge, drank Martinis, gossiped and talked shop. We’d wait for long l
eave, he said, and while in England he’d look up contacts and try for a partnership in some business or other. Well.” she shrugged, “I’ve never been patient. I harped on it a few times and then gave up and set out to enjoy myself. I had no intention of being miserable.”

  “But you were also responsible for Bill’s happiness.” Elise lifted an astonished eyebrow. “My, my. If that’s how you regard marriage you’ll be Paul’s doormat in next to no time. By the way, Bill brought you a letter. It’s over there, on the side table.”

  Lorna went pink, her eyes shone. She took up the letter and ripped it open, looked shyly at Elise and said, “Excuse me?”·

  “Of course, nitwit I’ll leave you to it I’m going to have a bath.”

  But Lorna did not stay in the living-room. She went out to the veranda and sat down, smoothed the two sheets of paper and read the firm, regular writing. This was his second letter, Paul said; the first had vanished in a squall and he had not had time to replace it before the boat had left. His experimental trees had done well and while awaiting the arrival of a soil expert he was having some of the wild coconut cleared from other parts of the island. He was relieved to know that everything was normal at Panai and that she was getting along well with Elise Ramsay. He would write again as soon as he knew the day on which he would be leaving for home.

  “Some news for you,” he tacked on. “Lady Alys and her daughter are here, living on the government yacht in the bay. Kyrle is going to spend a few months in Switzerland and she came to say good-bye. She has some days to spare and is interested in the new proposition for this island.”

  That was all, except, “Yours, Paul.”

  Lorna read that last paragraph again; it contained both good news and bad. Kyrle was with him, touring the acres of experimental rubber trees and showing him the sort of wife he might have had if he had not acted hastily, from compassion; and Lady Alys was there, pressing home the small points. But Kyrle was going away. She could have written her good-bye to Paul, but instead she had chosen to cruise along to the island and spend some time with him. She was ice-cool, Colin had said, and there was no knowing how such a woman might privately react to deadly disappointment. It was possible she had decided on a final test; she was leaving the islands, and wondering whether Paul could bear to let her go.