Accompanied by His Wife

by Mary Burchell

  For a moment he hardly seemed aware of her touch. Then he looked up and said abruptly:

  ‘You’re more than kind. I’m afraid it must seem to you that I’m not showing much appreciation of your situation in all this. I have hardly taken in anything much yet beyond the fact that she may get better, after all. But of course—’ He stopped and frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes,’ Patricia said, in answer to the frown, ‘of course the difficulties haven’t exactly lessened.’

  There was a short silence. Then she asked:

  ‘Does she—does she want to see me?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Susan has persuaded her to rest a little first, in case the two meetings should be too much for her. But she wants to see you before she goes to sleep to-night.’

  ‘Then you’ll take me, of course?’

  He didn’t answer that at once. Instead, he got up, and began to walk up and down the room, his hands thrust into his pockets.

  ‘Look here, Patricia,’ he burst out at last. ‘It’s no good pretending things haven’t changed. The whole idea has become much more difficult and dangerous, now there is a possibility that she will recover. I want to know quite frankly—do you feel you would prefer to withdraw?’

  ‘What! Give up the idea, do you mean?’

  He nodded curtly.

  ‘But we can’t, Michael.’ She brought out his name quite easily now, even though there was no audience to need impressing. ‘We can’t. We’ve gone too far.’

  ‘No, that isn’t quite true. Only Susan has seen you so far. You see’—he frowned again—‘if my mother is not—if she doesn’t—die, there will come a time when she can stand being told the truth.’

  ‘Well, we shall tell her then.’

  ‘Yes. But do you realise how long that may be, in the present circumstances?’

  Patricia bit her lip.

  ‘We must put up with that.’

  ‘You mean—you will put up with it?’ He stopped in front of her, regarding her with those disturbingly penetrating dark eyes of his.

  ‘Well—yes. I can’t imagine myself undertaking a thing like this and then backing out again almost before it’s begun. Besides, what would you do? She expects to see me in an hour or so.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He sighed impatiently. ‘But I suppose, as things are, I could tell her something like—that you were not well after the journey and had to go to bed. Then to-morrow you could be called away to a relation of your own who was ill and—’

  ‘I thought,’ Patricia said dryly, ‘you implied that your mother was a shrewd and intelligent woman.’

  He gave a vexed little laugh then.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. God knows I don’t want to be involved in even more elaborate explanations. But there is your side to it too. And now that everything has become more complicated—’ He glanced round the room, as he spoke, and Patricia’s glance followed his.

  There was another short pause, during which they were both quite obviously thinking of the same thing. Then Patricia spoke with decision.

  ‘We’ve taken on a pretty mad situation, I know, but we have taken it on. As far as I can see, our only way is to tackle the difficulties as they come along and not anticipate them. I don’t think I could retreat now without the whole story coming out. As a matter of fact, Susan is not the only person to have seen me. Cousin Isobel has already welcomed me in state, and assured me—more or less—that she is glad you married me. I can’t just disappear into thin air now, leaving behind me nothing but an unconvincing tale. I’m prepared to go on—and I think it’s the only thing we can do.’

  He looked at her thoughtfully, as though he were studying her as well as the situation.

  ‘And I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that if it were not such an ungraceful word, I should call you a sport.’

  ‘Well, don’t. I don’t like the word either,’ Patricia assured him. ‘Just take it that we have both accepted the situation—either for the sake of your mother or for the sake of our own ulterior motives—we needn’t go too far into the reasons. The main thing is that we intend to carry it through.’

  ‘I agree. The only other difficulty is this damned business of sharing a room. I’m extremely sorry—I never thought of such a situation arising. I don’t know what the hell we’re to do about it.’ He looked round the room again, as though that might provide some solution.

  ‘Do about it? What can we do about it—except share it?’ Patricia said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  He laughed slightly.

  ‘You’re being most awfully good—’

  ‘And you’re being rather dreadfully gentlemanly and chivalrous. It would be ridiculous of us to have heroics about that part of the business, you know. It’s true I never expected to have to share a room with a man—at least, not in the course of what one might call official duties. But, as things are, what does it amount to, anyway? So long as you don’t snore and don’t insist on having the bed near the window, which I much prefer, I’m prepared to put up with the arrangement philosophically.’

  He stood there watching her again in that thoughtful way, as she lightly explained away the difficulties. Then he said, quite seriously: ‘Patricia, you are a very nice girl.’

  She laughed and flushed, touched by this first sign of personal liking.

  ‘Because I don’t mind having a man in my bedroom? Most people would think the reverse.’

  ‘No. Because you refuse to add to my worries by letting me imagine I’ve put you in an insufferable position. I don’t know another girl who would take it like that.’

  ‘There are lots,’ Patricia assured him.

  He shook his head.

  ‘I was trying,’ he said, half to himself, ‘to imagine what Pat would have done.’

  ‘Oh—’ Patricia bit her lip. ‘Well, that’s different, of course.’

  ‘Why?’ The question came with’ immediate resentment.

  ‘Because—’ she hesitated. Then the desire to speak her mind became too much for her. ‘Perhaps we’d better get one thing straight before we start. I don’t like the sound of your Pat. In fact, I think she sounds perfectly frightful. But that’s your business, not mine. Only don’t bring her under my notice as a sensitive plant, or someone more sinned against than sinning. If we come to that arrangement now, I imagine we shall get on a whole lot better than if we preserve the polite fiction that we more or less agree about her.’

  She held her breath when she had said that, and, at the look of cold, astounded anger which came into his eyes, she knew at once that she had made a serious mistake in speaking so frankly.

  ‘Please understand,’ he said icily; ‘that I am grateful for what you are doing and, as I said in the beginning, I shall pay you well for your services. But there is no reason whatever for us either to differ or agree on the subject of my wife. She simply is not your business.’

  Patricia, whose temper was quick when it was roused, was greatly tempted to point that his wife didn’t seem to be his business either at the moment. As she bit her lip to keep back the angry words, a tap sounded on the door. Susan came into the room, to say that Mrs. Harnby was waiting to see them whenever they were ready.

  It was no moment now to allow any antagonism between herself and Michael to appear. And Patricia determinedly slipped her arm into his, with an air of wifely devotion which did her credit—the more so since she felt the arm stiffen in an embarrassingly unfriendly manner.

  However, he too must have realised that the time had come for them to act up for all they were worth. He even brought himself to cover her hand affectionately with his, as it rested on his arm, and he smiled down at her reassuringly.

  Then, with a sensation strangely reminiscent of schooldays, when one went in for a particularly unpleasant oral examination, Patricia went with him across the pretty square landing to his mother’s room.

  Her first impression on entering the room was that she had never seen anything less like the bedroom of a midd
le-aged woman.

  The black and cream colour scheme, with the one splash of scarlet, where a great Chinese lacquer vase stood in the corner, might have been chosen by the smartest American or Parisian girl for her first home.

  But, as Patricia’s eyes lighted on the occupant of the room, she realised at once that here was no ordinary middle-aged woman. One could not think of her as Mrs. Harnby, wife of a banker and mother of Michael. One saw her at once, even now, as Leni Whatever-her-name-had-been, Viennese dancer and, undoubtedly, a charmer of men.

  She was lying propped up in bed, and her pallor and the faintly drawn look round her mouth proclaimed the fact that she was very ill. Otherwise there was nothing about her to suggest a sick woman. Her smooth black hair, without a trace of grey in it, was drawn back from a centre parting, and twisted in a knot on her neck, and the brightness of the eyes which regarded Patricia were those of a woman who had no intention of dying until every ounce of fighting power was gone.

  She smiled, after the first moment’s scrutiny of Patricia, and held out her hand.

  ‘Come here, my dear. I’m very glad to see you at last.’

  Only the faint rolling of the r’s suggested that she was not entirely English, or else had lived abroad a good deal. And, Patricia thought as she came forward, that only added to her charm.

  With a sincerity which no real daughter-in-law could have bettered, Patricia bent down and kissed her warmly. And as she did so she thought:

  ‘I wish I really belonged to this family. I could love her a great deal more easily than most girls love their mothers-in-law.’

  ‘Oh, Michael—’ his mother turned her smile on him—‘she’s delightful.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t she?’ Michael gave a smile of happy pride which was a tribute to his acting powers. ‘But I always told you she was.’

  ‘To be sure. But I never quite believed you,’ was the unexpected retort.

  ‘Didn’t you expect to like me?’ Patricia smiled down at her.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Mother!’ Michael was genuinely taken aback. Then he recovered himself and said, ‘I think you’ll embarrass Patricia if you insist on the truth of that.’

  ‘Nonsense. It takes a great deal to embarrass Patricia,’ his mother replied shrewdly. ‘And, anyway, she has the same sense of humour as myself. I can see it in the way she smiles. Do you know,’ she added slowly, as though something about Patricia puzzled her, ‘I did you the injustice of expecting you to be without a sense of humour at all.’

  ‘Did you?’ Patricia longed to tell her that her judgment was probably entirely correct about her real daughter-in-law. ‘But then I think lots of people sound very unlike themselves in their letters.’

  ‘Their letters?’ Those penetrating grey eyes rested on Patricia for a disconcerting moment. ‘But you never gave me a chance to judge from your letters. You didn’t write to me, did you?’

  (‘Didn’t I?’ thought Patricia. ‘Oh, how damnably awkward! How horrible too to have so many unlikeable things foisted on one’s character!)

  Aloud she said contritely:

  ‘I know I’m a frightful correspondent.’

  ‘No, my dear. Merely not a correspondent at all.’

  ‘Oh, but surely you got the letter I wrote just after we were married?’ (‘I’m hanged,’ thought Patricia angrily, ‘if I’m going to accept responsibility for having completely ignored this charming creature!’)

  She felt so strongly about it that, when Michael’s mother shook her head and frowned in a puzzled way, she was able to protest with most convincing distress:

  ‘Oh, but I did write then. Didn’t I, Michael?’

  He smiled and nodded reassuringly.

  ‘A world-shaking event, Mother. We couldn’t be mistaken about that:’

  ‘Then the letter must have gone astray.’ (Was she or was she not prepared to accept that at its face value?)

  ‘But it doesn’t matter, now that the writer is here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, though.’ Patricia was almost convinced, by now that she had written the letter. ‘I hate to think you never heard from me at all.’

  ‘Never mind, my dear. Your presence now is a great deal better than any letter.’ Then, turning her head, she said to her son, ‘Leave her here with me for a little while, Michael. I want her to myself for a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough talking and listening for to-night, Mother?’ Acute anxiety lent weight to Michael’s air of affectionate solicitude. ‘We are your first visitors, remember, and you certainly weren’t supposed to have us long.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ his mother retorted with energy. ‘I’ve always known what I wanted for the last fifty-five years. You don’t suppose I have lost the accomplishment now, do you? When I’m tired I’ll send Patricia away. But you go along now and do what I tell you.’

  There was no gainsaying that. And, with an air of amused protest which Patricia felt must have cost much effort, he kissed his mother good-night and went-out of the room.

  ‘There is no need to be scared. And you can spare him for a few minutes.’ The faintest note of amusement sounded in Mrs. Harnby’s voice. ‘I’m not going to ask you searching questions, or tell you I am the only person who has ever really understood Michael. I like you, Patricia, but there is one thing about you that puzzles me extremely.’

  ‘And what is that?’ Patricia kept her voice steady with difficulty.

  ‘My dear, I can’t imagine how Michael came to marry you!’

  For a moment Patricia hardly knew whether to laugh with genuine amusement, or quake with fresh anxiety.

  ‘But if, as you say, you like me,’ she said at last, ‘why shouldn’t Michael have married me?’

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing to go by! It was the Leni Maelson part of her which prompted the amused tolerance of that. ‘I am a good judge of women—naturally. But Michael, poor darling, is nothing of the sort. So few nice men are, of course,’ she added in regretful parenthesis.

  Patricia laughed.

  ‘I suppose there is something in that,’ she admitted.

  ‘When I heard Michael had married you in such romantic haste, I felt morally certain he had made a bad blunder.’

  ‘But you sounded quite pleased in your letters.’ Patricia thought she might venture on that.

  ‘Oh, we—ell.’ That charming smile flashed out, and the long lashes came down over those bright, secretive eyes. ‘You don’t suppose I was going to make an enemy of my own daughter-in-law, do you? That would have been too elementary a mistake.’

  Patricia looked amused again.

  ‘I think I ought to be on my guard,’ she said, ‘in case you are being nice to me from policy rather than conviction.’

  But Mrs. Harnby slightly shook her smooth, dark head.

  ‘You needn’t worry. I know I like you, now I’ve seen you. It’s an enormous relief.’ She gave an almost childlike sigh. ‘And I know that, by some extraordinary stroke of luck, Michael chose the right girl.’

  Patricia said ‘I’m glad you like me,’ simply, ‘because I like you immensely. But now I’m going to trade on that liking and insist that you do what I want; I’ll come and talk to you again to-morrow, but I’m going away to bed now. It’s time you went to sleep, and I’m tired too.’

  Mrs. Harnby made a little face.

  ‘Do you treat Michael with that firmness?’ she inquired with genuine curiosity.

  ‘Sometimes.’ Patricia smiled. ‘But, in any case, I think I shall sometimes come to you for hints on how to manage him. It would be a pity to have such a shrewd mother-in-law and not seek her guidance sometimes.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear. You probably know a great deal more about Michael now than I do.’

  ‘Isn’t that carrying maternal modesty too far?’ Patricia said with a laugh.

  ‘Oh, that’s not modesty. That’s common sense. One never knows a man really well until he has made love to one. Good-night, Patricia. I’m so glad y
ou have stopped Michael calling you “Pat”. He always wrote of you as “Pat”, and I hated it. Why, if you have a musical-sounding name like Patricia, change it into something which sounds like a stable-boy?’

  ‘I think so too,’ Patricia agreed, as she bent down to kiss her supposed mother-in-law.

  ‘I’m glad,’ Mrs. Harnby said softly, ‘that you came in time.’

  ‘I’m glad too.’

  ‘Last week, when I thought I was dying, I was worried and miserable about Michael. Now that I have seen you, it would be—all right.’

  Too genuinely moved to say anything, Patricia kissed her earnestly. Then she went out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  CHAPTER III

  One—two—three!

  As Patricia lay awake, staring into the darkness, the mellow chime of a grandfather clock sounded from the hall below.

  She was not a good sleeper in the ordinary way—even without the unusual excitement of the evening which had just gone—and among the few things she dreaded were the long silent hours when she lay awake, feeling unspeakably alone because all the rest of the lucky world were asleep.

  Now the sound of Michael’s deep, even breathing provided something so like companionship that she felt less lonely than she ever had before in the dark night hours.

  After she had left Mrs. Harnby that evening, she had gone downstairs and had supper with Michael in a small, cheerful dining-room, with a ridiculously round bay window and warm, apricot-tinted carpet and curtains. The meal, set out under the soft glow of candles, had been an excellent one, and Patricia had reflected that if life lay in somewhat dangerous paths just now, they were remarkably pleasant paths too.