The Japanese Screen

by Anne Mather

  ‘A car?’ Susannah frowned. ‘You have a car?’

  ‘You did not suppose I would take you to some lonely cottage without some means of transport, did you, Susannah?’ he chided softly, urging her outside, ‘Come along. We are wasting time. I want you—all to myself.’ Fernando had hired a sleek grey Mercedes and Susannah settled into the front seat rather uncertainly. ‘Do you not like it?’ he asked perceptively, ‘I thought you might. I—have a car like this—back home.’

  ‘It’s very—sophisticated,’ she conceded, glancing round at the enormous back seat, ‘But I liked the Granada.’

  ‘Yes, so did I,’ he agreed, and then with a shrug, half turned in his seat to reverse out of the parking area.

  Driving through the Buckinghamshire countryside, Susannah felt a little of her nervousness leaving her. It was a very comfortable car with limitless reserves of speed, and she could not deny a certain pleasure at the knowledge that he had hired it because of her. All the same, the knowledge that he owned such a car in Spain made her aware that his world was vastly different from hers.

  Wendcombe was an attractive village set around a small square with a stretch of green turf and a pond on which ducks splashed with apparent disregard for bystanders. There was a grey stone church, a village store and post office, and a schoolhouse. Apart from that, the buildings were a mixture of tall stone houses and small, whitewashed cottages. The late afternoon sunshine deepened the yellow of nodding daffodils in clutches on the green, and there was a tranquil, unhurried air that was a pleasing contrast to the noisy bustle of the city they had left behind.

  ‘Oh, it’s delightful!’ exclaimed Susannah, unable to hide her enthusiasm. She turned to Fernando, negotiating the narrow streets with caution. ‘Have you been here before?’

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘Only once before. When Robert and his wife invited me for a week-end. They only use the cottage at week-ends—and not every week-end,’ he added meaningfully.

  Susannah flushed and sat back in her seat. For a moment, the reason why they were here had been forgotten, but now as full recollection hit her she felt a disturbing sense of apprehension filling her stomach.

  Fernando was very perceptive where she was concerned, for he said softly: ‘Relax, Susannah. You are here to enjoy yourself. No on one is going to force you to do anything you do not want to do, you know that.’

  Wistaria Cottage stood at the end of the village in a little walled garden. The mild weather had caused the climbing shrub which gave the cottage its name to burgeon with blossom and little clusters of purple and blue flowers hung by the white-painted door. There was a lane at the side of the cottage where Fernando could leave the car, and a narrow crazy-paved path led between flower beds to the door. Fernando parked the Mercedes, took their cases out of the boot, and pocketed the keys before leading the way up the path. He inserted a key in the lock and then stood aside so that she could precede him into the cottage.

  They entered what was obviously the living-room, but a wood-panelled staircase focused attention, and beyond it Susannah could see a smaller dining area. The floors were original, now highly polished and scattered with coloured rugs; there were low beams, and cream-painted walls, and leather furniture which went well with its old-world atmosphere. Horse brasses hung above a wide fireplace where logs had been laid for lighting should it prove cold enough, but even in those first few minutes Susannah appreciated the warmth of a central heating system which had been installed in the most unobtrusive way possible.

  She stepped tentatively into the room, looking about her with interest, while Fernando closed the door behind them and stood their cases at the foot of the panelled staircase.

  ‘Bien?’ he said, at last, just behind her. ‘Do you like it?’

  She took a few-more steps before turning and spreading her arms. ‘It’s—beautiful. I’ve heard of people having these kind of week-end places, but I never dreamed that so much could be done so attractively. They haven’t altered the place at all really.’

  Fernando folded his arms. ‘No, you are right. It is most tasteful.’

  Susannah took a deep breath. ‘Where’s the kitchen? Are you hungry? Would you like some tea—coffee?’

  Fernando’s arms fell to his sides. ‘The kitchen is through here. I will show you. And yes, I would like some coffee. But the Cunninghams’ housekeeper, a Señora Minto, she will be coming to prepare dinner for us.’

  Susannah’s face fell. ‘Oh! Oh, will she?’

  She tried to keep the dismay out of her voice, but she couldn’t have succeeded because he said: ‘Why? Would you have rather prepared our meal yourself?’

  Susannah swallowed with difficulty. ‘Well, I mean—won’t she think it rather—odd? Us staying here? Alone?’

  Fernando looked amused. ‘Perhaps,’ he conceded, ‘but like all good housekeepers, she will keep her thoughts to herself.’

  The kitchen, unlike the other downstairs rooms of the cottage, had been extensively modernized and a double-drainer sink unit with lots of fitted shelves under which reposed a washer, tumbler drier, refrigerator and dishwasher put it very definitely into the twentieth century. There was also a waste-disposal system which Susannah had never seen before.

  Fernando flicked through fitted cupboards, pointed out coffee, sugar, china, indicated the milk and other fresh foods in the fridge, and then left her to get on with it. She heard him going upstairs and an unexpected feeling of contentment enveloped her. What did it matter what anyone else thought? They were two adult human beings, perfectly free to live their lives as they chose.

  When the coffee was ready she carried it into the front room on a tray, putting the tray down on a low table before the fireplace. Fernando was still upstairs, and on impulse Susannah climbed the stairs herself, curious to see the upper floor of the cottage. The stairs gave on to a narrow landing from which four doors opened. One of the doors was ajar and she saw it led into the main bedroom at the front of the house.

  She hesitated in the doorway and then saw their two cases reposing side by side on an ottoman at the foot of a large fourposter bed. There was no sign of Fernando in here either, but a door to one side was open and she guessed it led to an adjoining bathroom. The bedroom was carpeted in white tumble-twist, and there was a white patterned spread on the huge bed. The walls were pastel-washed and there were long yellow curtains at the bow windows.

  As she hovered in the doorway, Fernando emerged from the bathroom, his jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. He had obviously been washing and he had taken off his tie and loosened the top two buttons of his purple silk shirt. She could see the beginnings of the dark brown hair that grew round his throat, and her stomach plunged. Even like this it was an absurdly intimate situation.

  When he saw her, he flung his jacket over a wooden-armed chair in a corner and came towards her. He halted only about a foot away from her and Susannah panicked.

  ‘Er—your—your coffee’s ready,’ she stammered, half afraid of what he was about to do. ‘I just wondered where you were…’

  Her voice trailed away and Fernando considered her troubled expression for several agonizing moments before gesturing at the room behind him. ‘Do you want to see the rest of the place?’

  Susannah hesitated. ‘I—I suppose this is the master bedroom.’

  ‘If, by that, you mean the main bedroom, then yes, that is correct.’ His voice was cool, not at all loverlike, and she quivered. ‘There is an adjoining bathroom, as you can see, with a shower as well as the usual fittings.’

  Susannah nodded. ‘It—it’s very attractive.’ She stepped aside as he came out of the bedroom and opened the next door along the landing.

  ‘This is the second bedroom,’ he remarked, and she took a hasty look. There was a lemon carpet in here and blue curtains, and the bed was an ordinary double one.

  ‘Very nice,’ she said inadequately.

  ‘The other doors need not concern you. One opens into the bathroom which can be reached f
rom the—main bedroom. The other is a sort of storeroom. Boxroom, I believe Marion called it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Susannah forced her stiff lips into a smile. ‘Well—shall we go down and have our coffee now?’

  Fernando looked at her impatiently. ‘Susannah, what have I said? What have I done? You are behaving as if you were afraid I was about to pounce on you! I assure you, I would not dream of forcing my attentions on anyone!’

  Susannah moved awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He said something under his breath which she realized was not very complimentary, and then strode to the stairs, going down them two at a time. Susannah followed more slowly, aware that in the circumstances her behaviour must seem quite incomprehensible to him.

  Fernando was seated on the leather couch when she reached the living-room, pouring out two cups of coffee with deliberate concentration. He had, she thought purposely, seated himself in the centre of the couch so that to sit beside him she would have had to have asked him to move along. His legs were splayed wide and he lifted his coffee cup broodingly, swallowing its contents without enjoyment. Susannah perched on the edge of an armchair, leaning forward to help herself to cream and sugar. As she stirred the aromatic liquid she looked unhappily at him, but he chose to ignore her, finishing his coffee and replacing his cup on its saucer. Then he rested back against the soft upholstery, his arms stretched along its back on either side of him. The attitude put a strain on the buttons of his shirt and the fine material separated between fastenings giving Susannah a disturbing glimpse of brown skin.

  She drank her own coffee and when it was finished rose to take the tray into the kitchen again.

  ‘Leave it!’ he ordered abruptly.

  ‘But I thought—if I washed these up—didn’t you say someone was coming to cook our dinner?’

  His eyes were cold between the thick lashes. ‘I said leave it.’

  Susannah stared at him uncomfortably, but a sense of resentment at his manner overcame her nervousness. ‘I’m not a servant, you know,’ she declared, in a rather uneven tone, and bending lifted the tray.

  Fernando got to his feet also and for a few moments there was a silent battle of wills. And then, Susannah dragged her gaze away from his and walked determinedly towards the kitchen. He let her go, although she had been half afraid that he wouldn’t, but once out of sight of his denigrating stare her courage deserted her. She put down the tray and her shoulders sagged. This wasn’t what she wanted—to quarrel with him. She loved him.

  She spent as long as she dared washing the dishes and then returned to the living room. Fernando was stretched out on the couch now reading a newspaper and didn’t look up when she came in. She sighed. What was she supposed to do? She looked down at the green trousers of the slack suit she had travelled in. She supposed she could take a shower and change. She didn’t want to stay in trousers all evening. She had brought a rather attractive hostess gown to wear.

  On impulse, she turned and went up the panelled staircase. In the bedroom, she opened her suitcase and took out a towel and her toilet bag. Then she went into the bathroom, relieved to see that she could lock both doors.

  The water was beautifully hot, and after securing her hair beneath a shower cap obviously left there for the purpose, she stepped under its soothing stream. It wasn’t until she had dried herself that she remembered that she hadn’t brought her dress in with her, so wrapping the towel sarong-wise round her body she emerged, carrying her trousers and sweater. Then she stopped short. Fernando was sitting on the side of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his head buried in his hands. His whole attitude was one of complete despair, and her heart went out to him. He had obviously not heard her open the bathroom door, but he seemed to sense that he was no longer alone, for he dropped his hands between his knees, looking round at her. Then he sprang to his feet and moved across to the windows, keeping as far away from her as possible. At least, that was what Susannah thought.

  She folded her trousers over the back of a chair, laid her sweater on top of them and then turned to her suitcase. But her eyes were irresistibly drawn to Fernando, standing with his back to her, his hands thrust deep into his trousers’ pockets. He was staring down into the garden below the windows and she wished she knew what he was thinking.

  With a helpless shrug, she took out her dress and went into the bathroom, closing the door but not locking it. The dress was a long one, black with an edging of white, which accentuated the pale silkiness of her hair and the creamy texture of her skin. It had long sleeves, but the neckline was low and round, hinting at the swell at her breasts without revealing anything. The zip proved awkward, but she managed without having to ask his assistance.

  In the bedroom again, she brushed her hair briskly and set out her eyeshadow and foundation cream on the dressing table. But after putting down the brush she turned to look at him again and said, on impulse: ‘Do you like my dress?’

  Fernando turned, and she saw the lines of strain around his mouth. ‘It’s very beautiful,’ he essayed briefly. ‘You are very beautiful. But of course, you know that.’

  Susannah allowed a little of her own despair to show. ‘I’m sorry, Fernando,’ she said helplessly. ‘I—I’m a fool—’

  ‘No!’ He interrupted her harshly. ‘It is I who am a fool. I should not have brought you here.’

  ‘Why?’ Her lips trembled. ‘Don’t you—want me?’

  ‘Want you? He moved then, striding the space between them with grim determination, taking her in his arms and pressing her so close that she was left in no doubt that he wanted her. ‘Por dios, Susannah,’ he groaned against her neck, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you! I’ve never loved any woman before—except my mother, and then it was not like this, not urgent and destructive, not tearing me apart because I have no right to hurt you—’

  Susannah’s arm slid round his neck, her hands caressed him, her fingers slid into his hair, her lips sought every inch of his ears and throat. ‘Oh, you’re not hurting me, Fernando,’ she insisted, meaning every word. Only—only when you treat me as you did downstairs. I—I wanted to die!’

  Fernando’s breathing was swift and shallow, evidence of his emotional upheaval, his mouth more disturbingly sensuous than ever before. His hands slid possessively over her back, seeking the low neckline of her dress, his fingers exploring the small bones of her shoulders. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you,’ he protested thickly. ‘But you hurt me, and I hit back. You looked so—so terrified, earlier on. I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Susannah. I need you so much. I just want to love you…’

  Susannah returned his kisses with an abandon that unconsciously revealed that fear was not among the emotions she was feeling towards him now. She clung to him eagerly, and for several minutes they assuaged a little of the hunger they felt towards one another.

  Suddenly there was a sound from the room below. It was definitely a door closing, and with resigned reluctance Fernando forced her away from him.

  ‘Señora Minto, one supposes,’ he commented huskily, and then turned away from her. ‘Cristo, Susannah, do not look at me like that. I am only a man with weaknesses like other men!’

  Susannah’s lips curved tenderly. ‘I know.’

  He glanced back at her, clenching his fists. ‘Go downstairs and introduce yourself to the good Señora Minto,’ he advised. ‘I think now it is my turn to take a shower!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MRS. MINTO was not the martinet Susannah had expected her to be, but nevertheless, she soon made it obvious that she at least did not approve of the Cunninghams lending their cottage to an unmarried couple. Susannah had considered wearing a ring on her third finger, but after meeting Mrs. Minto she was glad she hadn’t. Somehow she knew she would have been incapable of deceiving her.

  When Susannah first went downstairs she found the housekeeper in the kitchen taking off her overcoat and putting on an apron. She smiled politely when Susannah appeared, and said: ‘How do you do, miss. I’m Alice M
into. I believe you’re expecting me.’

  Susannah relaxed a little. ‘Yes, that’s right. Hello. I’m Susannah—King.’ She glanced round awkwardly. ‘It’s very kind of you to come and prepare our dinner like this. And on a Saturday, too.’

  Mrs. Minto tied the strings of her apron. ‘It’s my job, miss. When Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham are here, I’m expected to come in Sundays, as well.’

  ‘Oh!’ Susannah caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Do you—I mean—have you everything you need?’

  ‘Yes, miss. I’ve got the oven on now and there’s a nice piece of topside in the fridge. I thought I’d do you a roast and maybe Yorkshire pudding. Do you like roast potatoes?’

  Susannah nodded. ‘I love them. That sounds—wonderful.’

  Mrs. Minto began taking vegetables out of a basket she had brought with her. They were obviously freshly picked, and Susannah, eager to say the right thing, asked whether Mr. Minto had grown them.

  Mrs. Minto looked up from her task and fixed the girl with a reproving stare. ‘No, miss. My husband didn’t grow these. Mr. Minto’s been dead these three years. I’d not be coming here if my Jack was alive. He wouldn’t have let me. He didn’t hold with—well, with such goings-on!’

  Susannah’s face suffused with colour and she stared in embarrassment down at her feet. She had heard that country folk were outspoken, but surely Mrs. Minto was going too far.

  ‘Not that it’s anything to do with me, you understand.’ The housekeeper was putting potatoes into the sink and running water over them. ‘I’ve no doubt I’m old-fashioned. You’re not the first couple to think a wedding ring’s an unnecessary encumbrance.’

  Susannah drew a deep breath. ‘Yes—well, some things aren’t that simple.’

  ‘Nowadays they’re not. Couples setting up house together with nary a scrap of conscience about the babies they bring into the world.’

  Susannah turned away. ‘If you’ve got everything you need, Mrs. Minto…’

  ‘Now don’t you go getting upset over what I say.’ Mrs. Minto seemed to be finding a conscience of her own. ‘Mind, I wouldn’t have thought it of that man—Don Fernando. I liked him. Real gentleman he was when he was here last year. Used to open doors for me, and always said thank you for everything.’ She shook her head reminiscently. ‘That’s why I remembered him. Only came once. Been lots of visitors here since. But I remembered that—his courtesy.’