Wife Without Kisses

by Violet Winspear

  “Oh, don’t you wish Iris on me,” he protested.

  “Your—your grandfather likes her. They laugh together when she comes to the house. She plays the piano to him. They—they understand one another. And I think, Burke,” fiercely Rea rubbed at his jacket with her finger, making the rain-wet wool curl, “I think he’d have lost some of his bitterness towards you if you had married her.”

  “I’ve learned to accept, if not always tolerate, my grandfather’s bitterness, Rea,” Burke replied. “It’s far more congenial to me than an over-fond, over-possessive wife would be.”

  “Don’t you—don’t you want to be loved?” Rea asked, in a rather strangled voice. “I mean—Iris—”

  He was silent, and Rea pulled her face away from his jacket and looked up at him. Immediately he grinned, for she looked decidedly comical with one of her cheeks smudged red where she had pressed it to his jacket, and her fringe dripping raindrops into her eyes and making her blink. “Burke, what would you do if I became over-fond and over-possessive?” she demanded.

  “You?” He laughed and gave her wet fringe an indulgent tweak. “I’d give you back to the ‘little people. ’” It was rather a coincidence they should have been

  talking about Iris Mallory, for she was at the house when Burke’s roan trotted into the stable-yard.

  She was in the armoury-room with Burke’s grandfather, for he had taken her there to show her the curious Roman-type dagger one of his farm labourers had recently ploughed up. The armoury-room overlooked the stable-yard, and Iris stared hard out of the window as the roan’s breath plumed into the cold air and Burke’s rain-wet head gleamed black above the fair head of the girl in his arms. And they were laughing—laughing in the rain—the rain adding an intimacy to the scene that drove every particle of colour from Iris’s face, leaving only the brilliant, staring green of her eyes.

  “God, how I hate that girl—how I hate her!” she exclaimed.

  Burke’s grandfather glanced up from an absorbed examination of the dagger, which he considered every bit as fine as those in the Taunton Museum. He stared at Iris. Then he came to the window and gazed out with her upon the stable-yard, where Burke had just dismounted and was now lifting Rea from the back of the roan.

  As he swung her to the kidney stones he said something that again made her chuckle, and old, hard, proud Mr. Ryeland, watching that small face crinkle and assume its pixie look, said somewhat dryly to Iris: “He’s pixie-led, my dear. But better her, dammit, than that Larchmont girl!” He waved an expressive hand. “I couldn’t have borne that. There’s a wildness in that blood. Look at the boy; spends half his time in the Barley Mow, down at Shepton.”

  “She—died,” Iris said, staring out at the wet stable-yard, suddenly emptied and quiet as Burke and Rea disappeared into the stable with the roan. He would rub the roan down himself, he always did, and Rea would watch, seated on an upturned box or a pile of saddles. The roan would steam horsily and the dull stable light would throw those delicate shadows under Rea’s cheekbones. . . .

  “Dani Larchmont died,” Iris said again.

  “Aye!” Old Mr. Ryeland nodded, curtly. “While he was in Peru she came here. Yes, she came here. Wanted me to give her his mailing address. I didn’t have it, as a matter of fact, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I told her, instead, that he had left orders that I wasn’t to divulge his mailing address to anyone. Humph,” the hawk face wore a fleeting, rather grim smile, “she looked mighty queer when I said that—mighty queer. Ran from the house crying. It was obvious they’d had a row before he left for Peru.”

  Iris’s long fingernails were digging into her palms as she listened, for here was one more cause for pain and hate—Dani Larchmont, that little farm-girl—

  “Did you—did you see her again?” Iris demanded. He shook his head. “No, and didn’t want to! Then, as you know, those rumours about the loss of every member of that expedition Burke was with got into the papers. I met Jim Larchmont down in the village one morning and he stopped me to ask whether the rumours were true. As far as I knew, at that time, they were and I said so. The news couldn’t have made very pleasant hearing for him. He’d have been mighty bucked, dammit, to have that witchfaced daughter of his married to a Ryeland and elevated to the county. But as far as we all knew, Burke was dead. And if it meant that he was thereby saved from the clutches of that gypsy creature, I wasn’t sorry. I told Larchmont so.” “You—you actually said—that?” Iris’s eyes flashed with angry shock. “Y-you wouldn’t have cared if Burke had been dead—Burke?”

  “My Philip was alive then,” he returned flatly. “Burke never cared a dash about this place, All he wanted was to be off, over foreign hills, playing around. He was never a true Ryeland.” The old face twisted with remembered hate; a bitterness that still persisted. “Writing books— mixing with creatures like that Larchmont girl! He ran around with her for years, and I certainly wished him dead before I wished him married to her. I used to say to Philip, if that boy marries that offspring of those wild, queer Larchmonts, I’ll forbid him this house while I live. I’ll curse him up hill and down dale. I’ll burn this house before he’ll ever bring a son of hers into it ...”

  Then the old man swallowed hard, waved his hand about as though he were momentarily lost for breath. “Ah, well, as things turned out, he wasn’t to have her. He’s got a son, but not from her, thank God!”

  “But you know nothing of this—of this Rea he’s brought here!” Iris flung out.

  “I know what my eyes tell me.” The thin shoulders, that wouldn’t give in to age and stoop, lifted on a shrug. “She’s a whey-faced fairy thing, I’ll grant you that, but she’s quietly enough bred. She’s produced a fine lad in young Peter.”

  At this, Iris’s jade-green eyes dilated to their fullest extent, flashing with pain and temper. “Don’t throw that in my face!” she cried. “You tear me apart when you throw that in my face!”

  “My dear—”

  But she went on blindly: “For years, and you know it, I’ve lived with the hope that I might give Burke his sons. I—I’d lay down my life to do it! I love him— always—” She flung round with these words and leaned against the panelled wall beside the window, where rain beat quick, hard fingers against the leaded panes. Iris held her face in her hands, beyond pride, tortured by that picture of Rea in Burke’s arms . . . tortured by the thought of that blue-eyed child upstairs. Always it seemed she had been wanting Burke Ryeland, and always it seemed he had been walking away from her, into other arms. . . .

  Old Mr. Ryeland, with the jerky awkwardness of someone who is not naturally demonstrative, reached out and patted her shoulder. “It was my hope, too, my dear, all these months since Burke came back from Peru, that you and he should make a happy married life together. But it wasn’t to be. He already had this girl. He was married—” “He only married to give you what you wanted!” Iris retorted, her face showing for a moment through her hands, passionate, pale, but still very handsome. “He only married to secure the heirdom of King’s

  Beeches. He doesn’t really care a penny-ha’penny about this girl. We both know it—and this—this plain little Jane—she sits in corners and pretends she isn’t there. She make no demands upon him. She’s quite content with the few crumbs of affection he throws her now and again, and it’s evident he doesn’t throw those very often. They’ve got separate rooms, haven’t they? A whole corridor separates her from Burke. But I suppose, now he’s got the baby—”

  But old Mr. Ryeland, one of the old school, after all, wasn’t prepared to discuss this intimate aspect of Burke’s marriage; Burke’s duty marriage.

  “That’s enough, Iris,” he said curtly. “You’re forgetting yourself.”

  “You mean I’m forgetting I’m a lady!” she flashed back. “I wish to God I wasn’t! I should have been a little farm-girl, or a typist. Burke has quite a penchant for them, hasn’t he?” Iris drew a sudden deep, shaking breath. “I could kill him, much as I ... I could ki
ll him and that stupid little typist, with her kid’s fringe!” “Iris,” old Mr. Ryeland said, his fondness for her making him as gentle as he could be, “Be a good girl, now. Grow up!”

  “I’m grown up, thanks!” For a moment she confronted him with her hands on her shapely hips, then she swung disdainfully on her booted heel and left him.

  Rea and Burke left for London early on Saturday morning.

  Rea was excited. It showed in her eyes; an excitement that was half caused by the fact that she would be away from King’s Beeches for a couple of days; away from the strain of acting and knowing she acted. Now she could be herself.

  They arrived at Paddington Station around one o’clock and took a taxi to a hotel near Green Park.

  As Burke signed the register, he and the clerk exchanged commonplaces in the manner of people who had met before, and it occurred to Rea that Burke had probably stopped here in the days when he had made all the continents his world of discovery and paid only duty visits to King’s Beeches. The thought was vaguely worrying and she found, as they entered the lift, that she was studying his face for any sign that this quiet, very elegant hotel recalled to him those carefree, adventurous days. But his face was quite impassive. The blue eyes gave nothing away.

  Rea had had a wash and was combing her hair in front of the dressing-table mirror in her room, when Burke lightly tapped upon the door that separated their rooms. “We won’t have luncheon here at the hotel,” he said, as he came across the room to her. “I know a delightful Spanish place in Piccadilly, quite near Madame Baum’s, where, incidentally, I’m going to leave you for the afternoon, Rea.”

  “Madame Baum’s?” Rea swung round on the dressing stool, her eyes opening wide in a quiet panic. “Is it— is it a dress shop?”

  He nodded, taking hold of her hands and pulling her to her feet. “It’s where Iris goes. And Iris, you will allow, is a very elegant dresser.”

  “But I’m not Iris’s type!” Rea scuffed the coffee-and-cream carpet with the toe of her shoe. “She’s terribly sophisticated. Why, I’d look awful—perfectly preposterous in the sort of clothes she can wear.”

  He laughed and marched her to the door. “Madame Baum won’t put you into sequined sheaths and backless slipper satin, I promise you. She’ll take one look at your funny pixie face and put you in Lincoln green and holly-berry red, not forgetting to attach a nodding cap with a bell on it to your head.”

  Madame Baum, in fact, put Rea into the kind of dresses Iris Mallory would have looked preposterous in. Rea had to admit herself that if she didn’t assume dignity, she did assume a sort of ethereal Midsummer-Night quality.

  The colours alone intrigued her.

  One dress was all tangled pearl colours over an underskirt of rosy lilac. Another was a floating mist of cream merging into buttercup-yellow. Another was white with bunches of rich red cherries spread over it.

  But Rea’s favourite was in a light crimson, the shining silk of it suffused with gold. Little Madame Baum, with her quick, nasal voice and her plump, ring-laden hands, called it “Chrysanthemum.”

  Rea, gazing at herself in the tall fitting-room mirror and touching the rustling material with hands that shook slightly with nervous excitement, called it a magic dress. It did such amazing things to her appearance, adding a white luminosity to her skin, touching her hair to gold, and taking the childish solemnity out of her eyes and adding a womanly mystery she couldn’t help noticing herself.

  Her heart raced in her side.

  This was the dress she would wear to Iris Mallory’s birthday dance, and perhaps, for that one evening, people would not cast those curious, half speculative, half incredulous side-glances at Burke, as though they’d give anything to know whether actual choice or a reckless tottle of wine had prompted his marriage to such a naive creature as herself.

  There were other clothes as well, clothes which Rea hadn’t even known she was to have, but it appeared that Burke had written to Madame Baum, informing her of their intended trip to London and giving her orders to supply his wife with a complete wardrobe, one that extended right down to bedroom slippers.

  Rea was embarrassed. She tried not to show it, but the quick, worldly eyes of Madame Baum, who was so delighted by this extensive and unexpected order that she was ready to be delighted with Rea to the point of actual affection, saw her discomfiture and waved it away with her flashing fingers.

  “Honey, I think you have a very fond husband,” she said. “Be grateful—and let him spend his money.” She broke into a laugh. “Think of his pleasure when he sees you in this.” She held out an apricot silk nightdress for Rea’s inspection and her dark eyes snapped with a delighted appreciation when Rea’s cheeks bloomed red as summer peonies.

  The bulk of Rea’s new wardrobe was to be sent home to King’s Beeches, but she knew Burke intended taking her out that evening, so she elected to take back to the hotel with her a little amber wool dress and a matching amber wool coat. Madame Baum fancied a little pillbox hat in black to go with the outfit, along with black suede shoes and black suede gloves. Rea complied with these smart fancies of Madame’s, her eyes alight with young eagerness, her heart warm inside her with gratitude towards Burke. She had never possessed such clothes—had never thought to possess them!

  Madame Baum came down in the lift with Rea, and as they crossed to the glistening maple doors, through which, during the course of the day, came actresses and elegant widows, debutantes and prospective brides, elderly wives and young wives, Madame reflected that rarely indeed did the quiet, self-effacing modesty of this girl come through her smart and famous doors. Her worldly heart was touched. The child’s husband was rich and well-born (oh, yes, Madame had heard of King’s Beeches!) yet there wasn’t a spark of arrogance or complacency about her. The girl was genuinely nice; Madame had met too many of the other sort not to be able to see the difference. Such blushes as came to these young cheeks weren’t forced there by determination and a too-tight girdle!

  “Mrs. Ryeland,” she paused, smiling, by the maple doors, “when you wear your so sweet little outfit tonight,” she touched a ruby fingernail to the two ivory and salmon boxes Rea carried (Madame had wanted to send them to the hotel by a messenger, but Rea had said that she would be taking a taxi to the hotel and therefore saw no reason why she shouldn’t take the boxes herself), “will you promise to wear the lipstick I have put in the little black bag? Just a little, just to make your lips glow. You will look so attractive.” Madame’s pert face, far from innocent of cosmetics, creased in a smile of lively encouragement. “Do it for your so generous husband. Promise, huh?”

  Rea laughed, a trifle confusedly. “Madame Baum, you’re encouraging me to be fast,” she accused.

  The ruby fingernail again tapped a tattoo upon the handsome dress boxes. “That you will never be, my child, and that makes your very generous husband a very lucky man.”

  Rea kept thinking of that remark as she rode back to the hotel.

  It was perfectly natural, she supposed, for anyone as worldly as Madame Baum to accept beautiful dresses and shimmering lingerie as tokens of a rich man’s affection.

  But as Rea regarded the ivory and salmon boxes upon her lap, a sudden little cloud of depression rode across the lightness of heart she had known all afternoon, trying on the beautiful dresses and handling lingerie that ran through her fingers like liquid silk. She loved the dresses—loved them—but it hurt a little that Burke would only want her to say an impersonal ‘thank you’ for his lovely gifts—for these gifts were not tokens of a husbandly affection, as Madame Baum supposed.

  They were, these things, an extra guard against the suspicion that sometimes gleamed below the haughty scorn of Iris Mallory’s green eyes.

  And very possibly they also fed Burke’s pride. He was a rich man, but for some weeks now Rea had reigned as his wife in a couple of cheap skirts, one belonging to her rust suit; some hand-knitted jumpers and her navy-blue dress. Now, however, Burke had provided her with a wardrobe
that met royally all the demands of being his wife. Smooth tweed for when she took walks about the estate, tailored wool for when she took tea with those nerve-racking afternoon callers, real silk for sitting down to dinner in the dining-room that always seemed solemn with the weight of its exquisite candelabra, its Chelsea tureens, and its Venetian glass.

  Rea stared at those ivory and salmon boxes from the House of Baum.

  Real silk for Rea Glyn, who was now the wife of Burke Ryeland—in name only!

  C H A P T E R T E N

  REA gazed in the mirror, half frightened by what she saw. She didn’t hear Burke tap upon the door, didn’t know he was in her room until he looked up in the mirror behind her. She stood very still, her slender figure, in the smoothly woven amber wool, tensing as Burke’s hands came to her shoulders and he slowly turned her towards him.

  Then, with a nervous little rush, Rea said: “It’s a nice dress, isn’t it? They’re all so nice, my new dresses!” With shy gratitude she rubbed her cheek against one of his hands. “I’m so grateful, Burke, I could cry.”

  “Don’t you dare!” He gave her a tiny shake. “Tears and sophisticated amber wool don’t go together.”

  “It isn’t sophisticated, is it?” She glanced down at herself. “I don’t look silly or anything, do I?”

  “Take another look in that mirror,” he commanded. “Now tell me what you see.”

  She looked in the mirror, but not at herself. She smiled at Burke, tall and distinguished in an impeccable dark suit. “How awesome you look,” she murmured.

  “I’m not awesome.” He trailed light fingers across her cheek quizzing the soft red glow of her lightly lip-sticked mouth with amused eyes. “For once, my dear, I’m as nice and mild as Cheddar cheese.” He swung round, saw her new coat lying across the foot of the bed and picked it up. He helped her into it, carefully straightening its full, dashing folds.

  “I’ve a hat, as well.” She darted across to the tallboy and collected the little black pillbox. “It hasn’t got a bell on it, though. Are you sorry?”