by Anne Weale
Yet in her heart she knew that these harsh facts had not been so much forgotten as overlaid by the new and more harmonious feeling that had sprung up between them in the past eight days. That, she supposed miserably, was the real reason for her angry outburst last night when she had accused Justin of hypocrisy. She had obviously misconstrued his efforts to be particularly agreeable, giving them a false significance so that what she had overheard had been a savage blow to her pride.
An hour later, having decided on her future course, she returned to the house. What she must do would not be easy, but there was no alternative.
She went indoors by way of the kitchen where Ellen was feeding the stable cat, a ferocious-looking ginger tom that lived in perpetual feud with the dogs.
“Good morning, madam.”
“Good morning, Ellen. Is ... is Mr. Justin up yet?”
“He’s just this minute started his breakfast, madam. I told him you were out and he said he wouldn’t wait.”
Andrea bent to stroke the cat, mustering all her courage for the moment when she would walk into the dining room and face her husband.
“It’s certainly a fine morning for a walk. You’d never guess we had such a tempest yesterday,” Ellen said comfortably. “I expect you’ll be hungry, getting up so early. Will you have some bacon and eggs, madam?”
“No, thanks. Just my usual coffee and fruit.” Andrea managed a smile. “I don’t want to put on too much weight.”
“If you don’t mind me saying it, madam, you look a lot better since you’ve been here, and so does Mr. Justin. I said to Bassett the night you came, ‘One thing is plain enough,’ I said, ‘that French chef up at the London house may be very clever with fancy sauces and the like, but he doesn’t seem to know much about good nourishing food with the master and madam looking as they do.’ ”
“If we stay here much longer, I will be as fat as this cat,” Andrea said.
Ellen’s beam of pleasure at the compliment changed to a thoughtful expression.
“We were hoping you might persuade Mr. Justin to spend more time here, madam,” she said. “Unless, of course, you’re not too partial to country life. But it seems a shame for a house like this to be shut up so long with dust sheets over everything and the big gates locked and no one about but me and Bassett.”
“Yes, it does. Lady Bartley was saying the same thing last night.”
There were footsteps in the yard and Bassett appeared with the daily newspapers and the mail, which he collected from a box at the main gateway each morning. Andrea knew that he usually stopped for a cup of tea at this time, but that Ellen would not give it to him while she was present, so she took the papers and letters and left them. In the hall she paused for a moment, bracing herself. Then, taking a deep breath, she pushed open the dining-room door and went in.
Justin was sitting in his usual place with the dogs lying on the floor nearby. He had finished breakfast and was leaning back in his chair, smoking and staring out of the open windows with an inscrutable expression. As she closed the door he turned his head, looked at her intently for a moment and then rose slowly to his feet. The blankness of his expression was so unnerving that for an instant her resolve faltered and she had an almost overwhelming desire to turn tail. But she knew that she must face him now, for the longer she hesitated, the more grueling the ordeal would be.
“Good morning.” Her voice was husky with nervousness.
“Good morning.”
Willing herself to appear calm, she walked to the table and laid the papers and letters by his plate. The dogs thumped their tails, hoping for tidbits, but she did not notice them. Fixing her eyes on the coffee-pot, she said, “I want to apologize for ... for last night.”
She waited a moment, expecting some scathing retort. But he never moved or spoke.
“I behaved very stupidly. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” she finished flatly.
A wasp flew through the open window, made a brisk reconnaissance of the table and hovered above the marmalade dish. Neither of them attempted to wave it away. Its striped body suspended above the marmalade made the only movement in the room.
“Is that all you have to say?” Justin’s tone was as blank as his face.
“There’s nothing else I can say.”
She noticed an infinitesimal crack on the lid of the coffeepot, finer than a hair. Odd how, in moments of extreme stress, the mind registered trivial details that were normally unnoticeable.
“Except to explain what it was all about,” he said.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him crush out the smoldering cigarette. Was it only fancy, or was there leashed violence in the commonplace action?
“I can’t,” she said wretchedly. “I’m sorry but I can’t.”
His mouth hardened, but he shrugged and said, “As you wish.”
Back in London, their life resumed its former pattern, and it was as if their brief sojourn at Lingard with its promise of a closer understanding had never happened.
About ten days later Andrea was shopping at Fortnum & Mason’s in Piccadilly when she saw Rosa Abbott.
They were both buying gloves, but it was not until she heard a low-pitched, beautifully modulated voice asking for a paler shade of gray that Andrea looked along the counter and saw the actress sitting within a few feet of her.
Her first reaction was surprise, because, although there was no mistaking her identity, the famous star looked much older than she appeared on the stage. Andrea had imagined her to be in her early thirties, but at close quarters and with ordinary makeup on her face she looked closer to forty. She was dressed with quiet elegance in a cream linen suit—which Andrea recognized as a Hardy Amies model—with a handsome topaz-and-gold brooch pinned on the collar.
Had Justin given her that? Had he paid for the exquisitely cut suit, the expensive cream suede bag, the fashionably tapered Ferragamo shoes?
Andrea’s soft mouth hardened as she noted each impeccable detail of the other woman’s appearance.
Unaware that she was being watched, Rosa Abbott chatted pleasantly to the assistant serving her. Once she laughed, a delightful bubble of sound, and for an instant the years fell from her face like a discarded veil and she looked young and glowing.
Suddenly conscious that her own assistant was waiting for her attention, Andrea turned back to the box of gloves on the counter and chose two pairs. While they were being wrapped she stole another glance at the actress. At the same moment Rosa Abbott turned her head and their eyes met.
For a fraction of a second the older woman’s gaze was as casual as that of any ordinary stranger, and then her eyebrows contracted slightly in the manner of someone encountering a person who seems familiar but whom they cannot quite place. Finally she gave a polite smile and looked away. Shortly afterward, her purchase concluded, she thanked the salesgirl and left the counter.
Andrea watched her walk away, pausing to glance at a display of filmy hand-embroidered Swiss underclothes before she stepped into the elevator and out of sight. So that was the woman with whom she shared Justin, the woman to whom he went for companionship and amusement and passion. Why, then, had he not married her? Because she was a few years older than himself? Because it did not suit him to have a wife whose career demanded the major part of her time and energy? Neither seemed an adequate reason.
And why should Rosa Abbott, whose appearance and manner suggested a keenly fastidious taste, lend herself to a situation that not only invited scandal but must undermine her self-respect?
Andrea spent many hours puzzling over a score of such questions and finding no satisfactory answers. What was equally puzzling was her own reaction to the discovery of another woman in Justin’s life. Why had it upset her so much? She had no reason to be jealous. She did not really mind gossip. The circumstances did not affect her life in the way they must humiliate and hurt a wife who had formerly enjoyed a normal relationship and who was now relegated to second place in her husband’s affections and
interests. Why, then, had she felt that upsurge of furious resentment at finding out the truth?
Some days later, when Simon called to return a rare book that Justin had lent him, she had an opportunity to learn more about the woman whose existence had disturbed her plans for the future.
As they talked, Simon told her about his early days in Fleet Street when one of his jobs had been to write paragraphs about parliamentary, society and theatrical personalities for a gossip column. His anecdotes about certain stage and screen stars he had interviewed gave Andrea a perfect chance to ask the question she had been wanting to ask someone for days.
“Did you ever meet Rosa Abbott?” she said, with studied carelessness.
He shook his head. “She has a phobia about journalists. Never gives interviews and keeps her private life a deep dark secret.”
Nothing in his tone or expression betrayed whether he knew the question had a special significance.
“Isn’t that difficult to do if one is famous?” Andrea asked.
“Not necessarily. Usually the ‘I hate publicity’ line is just a pose, but there are a few who mean it.”
“I saw her in Fortnum’s the other day,” Andrea said, not looking at him. “She looked much older than she does on the stage.”
“They generally do,” he replied dryly. “You ought to know how deceptive photographs can be, and on the stage greasepaint hides the wrinkles.”
“I wonder if she’s married?”
“I’ve never heard of a husband, although it doesn’t seem likely that she’s a spinster. I daresay she made one of these hasty stage marriages when she was a youngster and it ended in the traditional divorce. I didn’t know you were a fan of hers.”
Andrea suppressed a mirthless laugh.
“I think she’s a very clever actress,” she said casually, leading the conversation on to another topic.
The following morning Aunt Laura telephoned from Paddington Station and commanded Andrea to meet her for coffee, after which they would choose a dress together.
“I may as well have the benefit of your expert advice,” she said with a chuckle when they met. “These flibbertigibbet young shop gels take no interest in old women of my age. Don’t think that because I’m eighty-two next birthday you can fob me off with some shapeless black garment, child. I’ve never been dowdy and I don’t mean to start now.”
As it turned out. Aunt Laura had little need of Andrea’s help, as she had an excellent eye for cut and finish and knew very well what suited her slim, still erect figure. Having bought a graceful wool dress in a flattering shade of deep lilac, she went on to choose a suede jacket for sitting in her garden and several plain but expensive silk blouses, the cuffs of which were to be altered to fit her fine-boned wrists.
It was after one o’clock by the time she had concluded her purchases, and she suggested that they should have a quick lunch and then see an Italian film that had been praised by the critics.
“You’re looking tired, child,” she said over the lunch. “When I heard you had gone down to Lingard, I hoped Justin might decide to spend the summer there. What brought you back so soon?”
“Justin had some business to attend to. He did suggest that I should stay on, but I thought it would be dull by myself.”
“You’re not expecting a child, are you?” Aunt Laura asked.
Andrea shook her head.
“Pity. There’s nothing like a child for cementing a marriage. However, that’s your business, and most young people seem to prefer to wait a year or two nowadays.”
“Do you think our marriage needs cementing?” Andrea said cautiously. She had never been sure how much Aunt Laura guessed.
“Every marriage does,” the old lady said wisely, and then, with a twinkle in her shrewd blue eyes, she went on, “The fact is, I’m a selfish old woman. I’m looking forward to having some more great-nephews and nieces to amuse me. Madeline’s children were always kept well out of the way when they were little and I was never allowed to take them out or watch them playing as one likes to do when one is my age. I’m hoping that when you and Justin have a family I may enjoy the privilege of a great-aunt and spoil them a trifle.”
Andrea did not reply for a moment. Then she said slowly. “The first time we met you seemed to approve of me as a wife for Justin. I’ve never understood why. I thought his family would want him to marry someone quite different from myself.”
“A gel from his own walk of life, you mean?”
“Yes, the daughter of people you knew, or one of Madeline’s set. Not a complete outsider.”
“Strange how the younger generation are so much more old-fashioned than those of us who remember what used to be,” Aunt Laura said reflectively. “You talk of being an outsider, but what are you outside of? When I was your age, society was divided into three rigid classes, and there was a great to-do if anyone rose or fell from what used to called his ‘station’ in life. But all that has passed away. Nowadays, we judge people on their merits and not by their family circumstances. No, my dear, the reason I approved of Justin’s choice of a bride had nothing to do with those outdated standards. I saw at once that you had the essential qualification to make him a good wife—character. If Justin had married a girl of weak character it would have been a catastrophe.”
“I am not sure that I know what you mean by character.”
“It’s not easy to define, although one can sense it, or the lack of it, immediately. By character I mean a blend of determination, courage and. resource, a positive approach to life instead of this aimlessness that seems so prevalent,” Aunt Laura said. “Justin is an extremely strong character. Even as a child he would never let anything defeat him, and in his early twenties, when so many young men are quite feckless, he was extraordinarily steady and reliable. Life wasn’t easy for him at that time. As you know, he and Madeline have little in common, and without any natural ties he might quite well have gone to the devil, as they used to say in my day. Life is full of temptations for a good-looking boy with a great deal of money. I was always so afraid that he would marry some scatterbrained creature with no thoughts beyond clothes and parties. Of course, it is only natural that young women should like pretty things and a gay life, but Justin needs a personality to balance his own.”
The waiter approached with the cheese platter and Aunt Laura paused to consider her choice. Having selected some Roquefort and waited until he was out of earshot, she went on. “I have never subscribed to the maxim that opposites agree. A dynamic man and a droopy woman are bound to get on each other’s nerves in no time, whereas a couple of similar temperament stimulate each other. They may have clashes and quarrels, but that is better than being bored as Madeline is bored by poor Robert.”
“You spoke of children cementing a marriage,” Andrea said. “Madeline and Robert have children.”
“Yes, and if Madeline had any maternal instincts it might have made all the difference to their life together. Unfortunately she hasn’t, and Robert’s devotion to them seems to irritate her,” the old lady replied disapprovingly. “Of course, half the trouble is that she hasn’t enough to do. If Robert were a poor man she would be too occupied with making ends meet to be discontented.”
“Wouldn’t that be likely to make her even more resentful of Robert?” Andrea suggested. “I don’t think being hard up draws people closer together.”
“Neither does wealth, my dear. It offers too many distractions from the real business of living,” Aunt Laura said wisely. “Now we must hurry or we will miss the beginning of the movie.”
Some evenings later, when Justin was at a dinner to mark the retirement of an employee of one of the companies he controlled, Simon called to tell Andrea that he was off on a new assignment in Canada.
His job, he explained, was to find out how British emigrants were settling down in their new life and assess the future of Canada as a world power. It would take several weeks of intensive traveling and interviewing and after that there was a plan
on the cards to send him to Japan.
As he talked enthusiastically about the scope of the assignment and the places he hoped to visit, Andrea realized how much she would miss his visits.
“When are you leaving?” she asked.
“The day after tomorrow.”
“I expect you’ll be glad to get back to work?”
“Yes, in a way.”
“Have you been to Canada before?”
“No, as a matter of fact it’s one of the few countries I’ve never touched. I know Japan pretty well, though of course by the time I get through the Canadian thing the powers may decide to send me somewhere else.”
As they talked she sensed that something was troubling him. He seemed curiously ill at ease, and once or twice she made a remark and he had to apologize and ask her to repeat it.
Then, after a pause in which she could find nothing to say and Simon was obviously deep in his own thoughts, he said suddenly, “Tell me something. Are you happy, Andrea?”
She shot him a quick startled glance and looked away again.
“What a peculiar question,” she said with forced lightness, getting up from her chair to refill their sherry glasses.
“And one that you don’t want to answer, I gather?”
She stiffened. “Why shouldn’t I be happy?”
“That’s what I’ve wondered,” he said in a low tone. “On the face of it you have everything a woman can want. But you aren’t happy, are you?”
“My dear Simon, I really don’t see...” She broke off, floundering for a suitable reply.
“I wish I were.”
“Were what?”
“Your dear Simon.”
Before she could realize what he was about, he had sprung up and seized her hands.
“Andrea, you must know how I feel about you. Heaven knows I didn’t want this to happen, but it’s too strong for me. Every time I look at you my heart turns over. No ... let me finish. I love you. I have done for weeks. It’s been hell to see you looking so lost and forlorn and not being able to do anything about it. If only we’d met sooner when you were free...”
