Wife Without Kisses

by Violet Winspear

  Her lashes trembled, then defeated by confusion they swept down over her eyes. A tremulous little laugh broke from her. “They’re nice, but confusing,” she said.

  “Most women take to them like sleek young cats to cream,” he drawled. He reached for her cloak and carefully fastened it about her. “We’re attending the soiree on our own, by the way,” he said. “Grandfather has decided to stop at home. He has those rheumatic pains in his legs again.”

  “Oh, what a shame!” Rea’s eyes widened in quick sympathy.

  They went out to the car, Burke carrying his coat over his arm. The night was cold, with a sky so clear that the tiny stars sparkled sharply, like frost motes. Rea drew her cloak about her, casting a rather worried glance at Burke. “Aren’t you going to put your coat on?” she asked.

  He shook his head, tossing the coat into the back of the car. He grinned as he turned to her, taking hold of her hand. “I don’t feel the cold all that much. In you get.”

  The bonfire was already lit when they arrived at the party, enormous and incandescent, throwing light for miles around, it seemed to Rea. Burke parked the car and escorted her through the throng of guests already in the forecourt of the house, calling greetings with careless good humour, his arm thrown about Rea’s waist. Rea envied him his ease and his self-possession. She was taut with nerves, now that they had arrived, very conscious of the inquisitive glances that were following their progress across the forecourt to where Iris stood in the streaming light of the wide-thrown glass doors of the ballroom, receiving her guests. Her father stood beside her, moustached and jovial, an almost fulsome pride in the girl at his side written upon his red, rather horsey face.

  Rea had never seen Iris looking lovelier — or more pagan. Her gown, of a deep and glistening sea-green silk, was almost medieval in its simplicity of line; a line so uncluttered that every line and curve of Iris’s perfect body was unashamedly revealed. The only jewellery she wore was a long, barbaric necklace of square-cut pieces of jade, exactly the colour of her eyes. She looked, Rea thought, like a princess out of some ancient tale of jousting, turbulent knights, who rode hard and loved hard and died at the whim of the gorgeous and arrogant Iris.

  “Go along into the house, dear,” she drawled at Rea. “You’ll be shown where to put your wrap. I’m going to hang on to this husband of yours, if you don’t mind.” Rea’s eyes flew open in quick alarm. The thought of being suddenly alone among all these people, so incredibly assured as they strolled about the forecourt, laughing and talking and throwing gay compliments to Iris, made her want to throw her arms childishly about Burke’s neck and cling like a limpet, defying anybody to wrench her free. He saw her alarm and bent to her with a smile. “It’s all right, Rea, go along in and comb your fringe. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Rea was in the midst of combing her wind-tossed hair when she became aware of someone watching her through the cloakroom mirror. The woman was large and greyhaired and tanned, and Rea gave an involuntary smile at the energetic and extremely unfeminine manner in which she was applying powder to her craggy face. It was flying about in all directions. “Must take off some of the shine,” she grunted at Rea. “Feel a bit of a fool, to tell you the truth. I’m better in the saddle than getting ready to gallop round a ballroom. I’m Rita Coe, by the way. Tell me, why hasn’t Burke brought you to see me yet? Is he afraid you’ll think my nags better than his?”

  Rita Coe? Of course, that harum-scarum woman who ran a riding-school! Burke had often mentioned her. Rea’s answering smile was a rather touching compound (Rita, who was a good-hearted woman, saw it) of shy gratitude for a friendly overture when she was feeling painfully awkward among a lot of strangers, and genuine interest in a friend of Burke’s.

  “Burke says you have a roan who is almost as fleet as

  Rebel, Mrs. Coe.” she said shyly.

  “Almost!” Rita’s handsome grey eyes, the only handsome thing about her, flashed with indignation. “My Talleyrand can outpace that brutal devil of Burke’s any day of the week. Got style, has my Tally. All that swine Rebel has got is a king-size temper.” Then she suddenly grinned, thrusting her powder-puff into an old-fashioned beaded purse. “I will say Burke manages him beautifully. Fine horseman! Do you ride, child?”

  Rea shook her head.

  Mrs. Coe looked dumbfounded. “But you must ride, my child. We all ride. I’ll have to talk to Burke about you, get him to send you to me.” She stood back to appraise Rea. “You’re thin, not a lot of strength in you, but you’ll look well on a nice little black mare. Urn, you’re a pretty child. Burke said you were.”

  “Burke did?” Rea looked like a little girl caught at a keyhole as she stared at Rita Coe.

  Rita gave her a quizzical look. “Hasn’t he told you he thinks so?” Then, taking pity on Rea’s young confusion, she added: “Come along, let’s go and join the fray.” They left the cloakroom and strolled along the corridor that led back to the ballroom. “What do you think of Iris?” Mrs. asked. “Handsome little cat, isn’t she? We’ve given her a length of real Irish tweed for her birthday, Bill and I—Bill’s my husband, you’ll have to meet him. It’s a splendid piece of stuff—God knows what she’ll do with it! What did you give her?”

  “A saddle. Burke brought it over yesterday.”

  Rita Coe frowned slightly as she glanced sideways at Rea. “You don’t let him come over here too often on his own, do you? Don’t do it, child! Don’t do it! Iris likes Burke; perhaps you've heard?”

  “I’ve seen.” Rea’s smile was impish.

  Rita Coe gave a gruff laugh. “You’re cool about Iris,

  I must say. Got that big boy under your thumb, have you?” Rea laughed. “Hardly! But he’s very attached to our —our baby. I’m not afraid.”

  “Good girl!” Rita’s eyes gleamed appreciatively. “You’ve got gumption. You’ll make a nice little horsewoman.”

  They reached the ballroom and crossed to the glass doors that led to the forecourt. The huge bonfire was throwing showers of red sparks into the sky, its dancing light softening and warming the severe grey frontage of Mallory Court, a myriad tiny bonfires reflecting in the many oblong windows of the house. People were everywhere, laughing, talking, impatiently awaiting the first sounds of music from the ballroom. Footmen were moving among the laughing groups with loaded trays of sandwiches and drinks, for supper wouldn’t be eaten until after the firework display.

  “Now I wonder where the devil Bill is?” Rita Coe said, moving into the throng and casting impatient glances left and right. “I bet he’s off in some corner with some of the boys, playing cards or sampling a gin concoction of the Colonel’s.” She shot an enquiring glance at Rea over the rather manly proportions of her shoulder, swathed in wine-red velvet. “Can you see Burke?”

  Rea shook her head, peering anxiously about.

  “Well, you stay here,” Rita said. “I’m going to find that husband of mine. I’m not having him galloping round that ballroom full of the Colonel’s gin. You stay right here, I’ll be back—with Bill in tow.” She marched off, carrying the train of her velvet dress over her arm and showing such an inelegant amount of well-muscled calf that Rea burst out laughing.

  “I quite agree,” someone drawled behind her, “furiously funny, isn’t she?”

  Rea spun round and found herself gazing straight into the dark, taunting eyes of Jack Larchmont. He was lighting a cigarette and the flame of the lighter cast weird shadows over his face, turning it into a devil mask for Rea. Then he snapped the lighter shut and dropped it into his pocket. He was wearing dark evening dress and his blue-black hair was no longer unruly, it lay flat and neat, gleaming in the dancing light of the bonfire. He took a couple of puffs at the cigarette, his eyes wandering with slow, insolent pleasure over Rea’s small face, now wiped utterly free of laughter. Now there was sharp fear in it, and open surprise that he should be here. He laughed softly. “Why, yes,” he drawled, “I mix with the elite, just as I mix with their maids. That’s the pre
rogative of a scapegrace.”

  Then, with great deliberation, he reached out and took hold of her right hand, pulling her towards him. “Let’s get away from the crowd,” he said, and his arm slid round her waist as he led her through the gay throng, uncaring of who might see, making for the shadow of tall cedars at the side of the house. Rea moved with like an automaton, sick and cold with apprehension, knowing his intention and shrinking from it with every fibre of her young body. She wanted to scream out to him not to touch her — but she didn’t dare— she didn’t dare!

  And there, in the deep shadow of the tall cedars, he tossed his half-smoked cigarette from him and swept her young, shaking body into his arms. He laid his face against her throat and whispered: “I adore you! I never stop thinking about you! Don’t you care? Don’t you care, little Rea? I lie awake at night, torn with wanting you. That’s never happened to me before. I’ve never loved like this before. Oh, Rea, Rea, you drive me mad. I’ve got to have you—I’m going to have you!” His lips travelled her face, hot and wild, forcing a broken little sob from her as they closed upon her lips.

  For wild seconds she drowned in the slaking demand of his kiss, shot through with an hysterical fear at the bruising closeness of his body—and then fear flowered into panic and she began to fight him, pushing her hands against his face, feeling that she would die or go mad if he didn’t release her.

  And then, shattering the moment—one of deep exultation for Jack Larchmont, one of deep horror for Rea — came footsteps on the fallen leaves of the cedars, a crisp voice, lashing Rea’s heart. “You can let go of my wife, Larchmont,” it said, “unless you want a broken neck.”

  Rea felt Jack go tense, then slowly he dropped his arms away from her trembling body. He turned to Burke, stood slender and poised before him, running a hand over his black hair. Rea saw his white teeth flash in an insolent smile. “Don’t break my neck, Ryeland,” he drawled. “Your wife wouldn’t like it. My neck is very precious to her.”

  “You insolent swine!” Burke took a sudden quick step towards Jack, but he didn’t retreat. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his dinner jacket and stood offering himself, with laughter, to a strength that was

  capable of breaking him in two if it wished. Rea, seeing

  this and full of fear that Burke might use his great strength, went running between the two men. She thrust restraining hands against Burke’s chest. “No, don’t!” she cried. “Don’t do it, Burke! ”

  He stared down at her for a long moment, then he said, a scornful cutting edge to his voice: “Put away your tears and relax, my dear. I’ll not rob you of his precious neck.” Then he swung on his heel and strode away, leaving Rea with a face that had gone waxen white. When Jack Larchmont would have put a hand upon her arm, she shrank from in disgust and loathing. “I should have let him kill you!” she gasped. “That would have settled everything, stilled your tongue forever!”

  “Why didn’t you, then, honey?” The slanting eyes mocked her. “Afraid for his neck?” He put back his gleaming black head and laughed loudly. “Well, your goose is cooked, well and truly cooked, in that direction, so I’d advise you to lose any affection you might have for his neck. You’re going to give all your affection to me—I insist on it.”

  “I’ve only hate to give you!” she cried, and then she was running from him, running from the shadow of the cedars, back towards the fiery glow of the big bonfire.

  Rea stood by the wide-thrown glass doors of the ballroom, her tormented eyes searching the dancers for Burke. She saw him—and caught her breath. He held Iris in his arms and he was laughing down into her vivid face, all sign of the anger and scorn that had blazed upon his face, under the grim cedars, quite gone, wiped away as though it had never been. Now his face wore only enjoyment, a frank admiration of the girl in his arms.

  Rea drew a quick little sigh and turned away—bumping straight into Tab Gresham. He laughed and caught hold of her. “Whoa there! Where are you going in such a hurry? I want to dance, lady. Aren’t you going to oblige?”

  She raised her white face to him, her soft mouth working, trying to frame a coherent reply. She didn’t want him to know there was anything wrong. If he asked questions, showed sympathy, she would burst into tears— and tears were perilous things, they loosened the tongue. She might, with tears pouring from her aching heart, tell this man things that mustn’t be told.

  “I—I was going to the bonfire,” she lied wildly.

  “To throw yourself on it?” He was still laughing, though he had now noticed her distress and was puzzled by it. His glance went past her shoulder and rapidly scanned the ballroom. He saw Burke, with Iris in his arms, and his eyes narrowed. So that was the trouble! The poor kid was hurt because Burke was dancing with Iris! Tab’s warm heart responded to the hurt in Rea, for a similar hurt was in himself.

  Iris was looking very lovely tonight, a medieval princess, caring only for the admiration of one man—the man who danced with her, laughed with her. His own admiration she scorned, just as she had seemed to scorn his birthday present. Yet now she was wearing his present, he saw. Wearing it because the jade pieces exactly reflected the colour of her eyes!

  He took hold of Rea’s hand. “I’m claiming my waltz, Rea. Come along,” he said.

  C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N

  WHEE! The first big rocket shot high into the air and exploded loudly in a shower of multi-coloured stars. And as though this were the signal for a general chaos to begin, Colonel Mallory and half a dozen riotous friends came running from around the side of the house, dragging a barrow on which sat a great straw-stuffed Guy Fawkes, its mangel-wurzel head leering from under a big bowler hat and its straw body clothed in an old hunting outfit of the Colonel’s.

  “Where’s Iris?” one of the men called out. “She’s got to see old man Fawkes launched on the bonfire.”

  “Yes, where’s Iris?” another voice chimed in.

  “We want Iris! We want Iris!” chanted the group as they drew the barrow to the blazing edge of the bonfire.

  Tab Gresham, watching the scene with Rea and the Coes, frowned heavily as the boisterous cry for Iris grew louder and louder. He hadn’t seen anything of Iris for at least half an hour—nor had he seen anything of Burke. The thought of them together, perhaps somewhere in the garden, perhaps somewhere in the great barrack of a house, deliberately seeking seclusion from everybody, sent the blood in a hot, angry wave to Tab’s head. How dared she do it-how dared he do it! What of Rea?

  Standing like a little white statue in her pretty dress, knowing, just as he knew, that the loud chant for Iris wouldn’t be answered in any great hurry—if she were with Burke.

  Tab bit at his lip, aware of a clammy forehead, an irritating trickle of moisture against his right temple. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, and Rita Coe laughed as she glanced at him, the fierce light of the bonfire dancing red on her rugged features. “What’s the matter, Doc, feeling the heat?” she asked. Then her grey eyes switched from his face and enthusiastically followed the green purple progress of a stream of cometlike fireworks, cutting a gay arc through the sky. “Oh, that was a nice sight! Did you see them, Rea?”

  “W-what?” Rea glanced hurriedly at Rita, pulling her wandering thoughts back to the party.

  “Here’s Iris!” Bill Coe suddenly exclaimed. “Look, they’re going to burn the guy! They’re lifting him off the barrow! Whoops, the Colonel nearly went in the fire himself! I say, I believe the old boy’s tipsy, his nose is as red as a beet!”

  Came high-spirited yells from across the forecourt, a loud cry of: “The Queen is here, boys, forward with the execution. Up with him, ready, steady,—and on he goes!” The straw arms and legs of the guy flailed wildly as the boisterous group of “executioners” tossed him into the flames, raising a loud cheer as he sank and immediately took fire.

  Rea stood tense at Tab Gresham’s side, her eyes fixed upon Iris, her shaking fingers locked upon the cameo at her throat. Where ha
d Iris been—and what made her eyes shine so jewel-bright, catching and holding the soaring pyramid of the bonfire as she watched, surrounded by laughing men, the quick and crackling demise of Guy Fawkes?

  And—and where was Burke?

  Rea pressed her throat, as though to stifle the frightened little sobs that were clamouring there, struggling to escape. He hadn’t come anywhere near her, hadn’t even looked at her since that scene under the cedars, but he had danced several times with Iris—and during the course of those dances Rea had been constantly, patently aware of Iris’s triumphant glance upon her, the way she clung close to Burke, brilliant with her knowledge that he was deliberately devoting the evening to her. A situation which could have aroused comment among Iris’s other guests, had Rea been left to play the wallflower while Burke danced. But she wasn’t. Her waltz with Tab exhibited her in her slim flame of a dress and directly the waltz ended, several young men, like dark moths in their dark evening wear, clustered to Rea’s flame silk and demandingly took her dance programme into their hands. “I—I’d rather not—I’m not much of a dancer!” she gasped, trying to escape them, but finding herself, in her shyness, inevitably captured by each young man in turn and whirled on to the long, crowded dance floor.

  Now she stood in the forecourt, unwarmed by the dancing closeness of the big bonfire, alone as she had never felt alone in all her life before—though she stood with Tab, and her two new friends, Rita and Bill Coe. Her fingers found the chain of Burke’s cameo and sudden tears swam thick into her eyes, blurring the image of Iris, so tall and queenly in her glistening green gown and plainly strung to a pitch of intense excitement. Rea shivered, for it seemed to her that Iris’s eyes had caught fire from a heart fired with triumph.

  She was unaware that Iris Mallory had begun to cross the forecourt towards her.

  And as Iris came, her silk gown whispered about her legs and her jade necklace flashed like so many angry eyes—and words pounded in her mind. Words—spoken to Burke. Words that lashed her pride as she recalled them.