“Of course. I told Forrest that you were accustomed to having some means of transport, and he said you must keep the gelding and that whenever the jeep was around you could take it out. If you want it specifically at any time, you and I could make the arrangement. Big-hearted of him, wasn’t it?”
“It’s certainly generous,” she conceded. ‘Till this Mrs. Maynton arrives I look like being a spare component. He hasn’t exactly given me permission to go ahead with the repairs to your house, but I think I will. You’d like to get out from under his eye as soon as possible, wouldn’t you?”
He grimaced. “And how! Living here with him makes life all work. It’ll be different for you,” he hastened to assure her, “because he’ll probably be out all day and you’ll have this cousin of his for company.”
“All the same,” she said firmly, “I’m going to make sure that both bedrooms in your cottage are habitable. That way I shan’t feel completely at the mercy of Mr. David Forrest. I wish I knew exactly when this Mrs. Maynton is arriving.”
This wish was to be granted the very next day, when David intimated that he would be going down to Salisbury on Saturday and would bring Deline back with him on Sunday—probably towards evening.
It was heaven, Susan decided in the middle of Saturday morning, to be alone with Paul once more at Willowfield. In the distance she saw the cloud of dust raised by David’s silver grey car, with a sense of freedom she saw the dust diffusing and settling. She realized, sharply, that David Forrest’s coming had made her feel raw and ill-used, that there might be unhappiness in the adjustments which were still ahead of her. She had to enjoy this weekend.
That afternoon she spent with Paul at the cottage. A couple of boys had already worked for a day or two on the interior, washing down the walls and scouring the floors, and she herself had bought a few white tiles in Kumati and cemented them into the spaces left by the broken ones in the bathroom and kitchen. The ceilings of both rooms were to be pale peach, and Susan had decided to have the red polish cleaned from the cement floors and black varnish and polish applied. Peach and white plastic curtaining, a coat of white enamel on the woodwork and new chromium handles on the kitchen cupboards and drawers, and the two rooms would be a harmony in peach, white and black. A good color scheme was no more expensive than the clinical all-white which she was sure would have been Mr. Forrest’s choice.
The living-room was a little more difficult because she felt bound to choose inexpensive upholstered chairs to replace those which had been put outside for native workers to take away. After all, if she and Paul were staying only until they could afford a place of their own it wouldn’t be fair to run up big bills, even though David Forrest had insisted that she take thought of what she wanted, and not of the cost.
Paul expressed himself willing to move in at any time, once his bedroom was ready. “The boys can carry on with the rest of the painting while I’m away during the day,” he said. “I shan’t mind the smell.”
“We’ll definitely have the living-room and your bedroom ready by Tuesday or Wednesday,” she told him. “I’ve already got a houseboy lined up for you.”
“Not another brother of Sam’s!”
“No, this is a boy from the Kumati location. The general store recommended him. He’ll cook and wash for you—run the house. I’ll give him his orders about the food and probably do your shopping as well. You’re going to be in clover, my lad!”
“It’ll take a lot of clover to cushion those thorns of Forrest’s!”
Susan laughed with him. Lightheartedly, they prepared a list of the staple supplies he would need and the few things they might afford for his present comfort and their future home. Paul, Susan thought affectionately as she scribbled, was very easy to please. He disliked complications in his thoughts. He couldn’t bear tangled relationships, either.
In that, Susan reflected that evening, when they were supping and dancing at the Knights’, he was exactly like Wyn Knight. Wyn was slim and vivacious, her hair was cut close to her head in short black ripples. She led a life of wholesale enjoyment, never flirting, never jealous, perhaps because she was supremely conscious that the woman who owns good looks and a moderately sized bank account need never wonder whether she will be passed over in the marriage market.
An evening with the three Knight boys, Wyn and their parents was invariably a tonic, and that evening there were many other guests and a little extra excitement because it happened to be the birthday of a young government official friend of theirs. It was after two when Paul and Susan started home, and this time they could sing to their heart’s content as they prepared for bed.
Next morning Susan drove to Maringa, and as Paul had accepted an invitation to a bachelor luncheon at the club, she stayed to eat with Colonel and Mrs. Wardon. Maringa was a small farm, eminently suitable for the Colonel’s retirement, and the garden was a bright, perfumed tribute to his wife, a small, old-world sort of person who could nevertheless hold her own upon present-day topics. At the moment she was intensely excited by the news, received yesterday by mail, that she now had a grandson.
“I shan’t rest till I’ve seen him,” she told Susan, “and you must look after my garden for me while I’m away. Everything’s parched—such a dreadful time of year to leave a garden—but we simply have to spend a few days with our son in Bulawayo. I definitely want to see the baby before it’s a month old!”
Susan left the Wardons at about three o’clock and drove the long way back to Willowfield. The afternoon was gently warm, a light breeze blew over the green undulating countryside and blobs of white cloud floated high up, like cotton bolls sent drifting. Cars were parked here and there near the river, rugs spread and camp-stools set in the shade of a mopani or umbrella tree. With Kumati people the Sunday picnic was almost an institution.
Susan was looking forward to an hour or two alone in her bedroom. She hadn’t yet acquainted her mother with the change in Paul’s and her own circumstances, and it was definitely her turn to write this week. Paul had sent off a couple of snapshots and a few lines about a week ago. Her mother managed an airy epistle about once every four or five weeks, but she noticed at once if they were behind with the weekly note. In any case, Susan liked writing to her mother, even though she was well aware that the fact of receiving the letter was far more important to Mrs. Westham than its contents.
She drove the jeep into the garage, saw that the other garage was padlocked and decided she had better get the key and open it up. The thought was vaguely depressing; the week-end of freedom was nearly over.
She went up the steps and into the hall, saw a powder blue linen jacket draped over the carved arm of the blackwood chair, a cream suede envelope purse lying in the riempie seat. Her nerves drew suddenly taut and she caught herself staring at the shining copperware in the corner shelves, and listening. The living-room door opened.
David said, “I heard you come in.” Then, quickly, “What’s happened?”
She shook her head, gave him a bright formal smile. “Not a thing. I didn’t think you’d be back so early.” The door was wide open now, and she saw a slim ankle, a high-heeled sandal in cream suede, the hem of a powder blue skirt. She added quickly, “I’m a little grimy. Will you excuse me?”
“All right, if you want to wash, but come straight back. I’d like you to meet Deline.”
He was smiling almost expansively; smiling, Susan thought, at something which had been said a few minutes ago, behind the closed door. She gave him a swift nod and passed through the corridor. For some reason her mouth was dry, her hands quivering a little as she soaped them.
So the woman had arrived and her own task was beginning. What, she wondered, would Deline Maynton expect of Susan Darcey? More to the point, what did David expect—a self-effacing chaperon, a good-tempered gooseberry? As she tidied her hair Susan had the feeling that a battle was about to begin.
CHAPTER THREE
DELINE MAYNTON was one of those women who can contrive an overall
appearance of fragility. Susan first saw her lying back in one of the deep loungers, her face pale with the faintest bloom of pink over high cheekbones, her eyes china blue and heavily fringed, her mouth painted in narrow red curves. Her hair was lighter than titian, a shining reddish tan, and it fluffed out in winsome waves as if it grew that way.
“Susan Darcey ... My cousin, Deline Maynton,” said David easily. “You two already know about each other.”
“How do you do,” said Susan politely, and received a faint murmur in reply.
She sat down in the chair David had indicated, took a cigarette from the case he offered and leaned to his lighter. Then she sat back, waiting for whatever might come.
Deline spoke in a husky drawl. “You’re from England, aren’t you, Miss Darcey?”
“Yes, from Somerset. My mother lives in London.”
“My family are actually Midlanders. Aren’t they David?” Why she should need his corroboration was not apparent, but having gained it, she went on, “Before my marriage I was an Ivarleigh—the Warwickshire branch of the family. David’s more intimately connected with the Hampshire Ivarleighs, but it’s nice to know we’re related, even distantly.” The pale brow wrinkled very slightly. “I don’t remember the Somerset Darceys.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” said Susan evenly. “My father worked in a bank in Taunton and we rented a villa just outside the town, until he died. After that my brother and I worked on a dairy farm.”
“A land girl?” exclaimed Deline fastidiously. “I thought they were all big creatures.”
“Susan did the accounts for the farm,” put in David smoothly. “I think she must have been pretty good at them, too; I find she made a first-rate job of mine.” He went forward in his chair to push a pedestal ashtray closer to Deline. He was smiling mockingly. “I know it’s a chancy business—thrusting two such different women into close association—but you’ll have to work things out in your own way. It was the best I could think of, for both of you.”
“You don’t have to worry, darling,” said Deline with a gentle smile. “I’m awfully easy to get along with, so if there should be any upset it won’t be through me. I’m so terribly grateful that you let me come here, David.” She hesitated appealingly. “It’s just what I’ve been ... needing so badly. In these surroundings”—she waved a useless, beautiful hand—“I shall forget all the ugliness of the past few years. You mustn’t alter your ways, for me. Just go on as if I weren’t here.”
Susan let out a mental “Phew!” and took a strong pull at her cigarette. Imagine any man being able to carry on as if Deline weren’t there! The long dainty limbs, the expensively simple clothes, the calculated sweetness of her smile, the pale skin that made her hair look like flames, above all the practised attractiveness of the voice and what it said ... or implied.
Susan looked quickly at David, saw him as calm and imperturbable as ever. Not that she had expected him to give himself away in any respect. If he had brought Deline here for private reasons, no one would know what those reasons were till he chose to tell them. That the sight of her lying there in one of his chairs gave him pleasure, Susan did not doubt.
“We don’t have to make any conscious efforts,” he said casually. “You’re here for some time, and you must settle in as if you belong. To begin with you may find the climate exacting, but the main thing is not to become overtired. Would you like to see your room now, or wait till we’ve had tea?”
“It would be rather nice to see the room.”
“Good. I’ll take you to it myself, and perhaps Susan will order the tea.”
A little viciously, Susan stubbed out her cigarette. So she was “Susan” now, like a maid. According to his code, it was now safe for them to assume an air of distant friendliness. For her part, thought Susan, tilting her small chin, he would be Mr. Forrest, today and always!
It was after dinner that she spoke alone to Deline Maynton. The boss-boy who attended to the milking of the small herd came to the house to report lassitude in one of the cows, and David decided to make an immediate inspection. He went out into the darkness, leaving the two women together in the living-room.
Both were ostensibly reading, but Deline’s magazine had lain open at the same page on the chesterfield beside her for some time. She was relaxed in one corner, and in the white ribbed silk she had put on for dinner she looked like a model posing for a glossy advertisement. Susan was actually reading, but not engrossed in, a well-thumbed volume from the club library in Kumati.
Quite ten minutes passed before Deline said, “Do you think David will be gone long?”
“If he decides the cow has to be dosed he’ll be at least an hour.”
The pale nostrils dilated with distaste. “What a gruesome business farming is. Growing things isn’t so bad, but animals! I can’t bear the thought of sick animals.”
Susan turned her book face downward on the table at her side. “With a small herd you get to know each one,” she said. “My brother and I had nicknames for most of them, and when you get that close to them you do as much for them when they’re sick as you would for a human being. Even from the purely financial aspect, one’s bound to look after their health.”
“I suppose so, but you’d think David would have someone else do it for him.” Pointedly, she asked, “Why isn’t your brother on the job?”
Susan tensed, defensively. “He’s free on Sundays, but even if he’d been here, Mr. Forrest would have gone to the sheds himself.”
“I think it’s foolish to do work that one pays someone else to do,” said Deline, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from her skirt. The very blue eyes looked straight across at Susan. “Which brings me to something that should be said before you and I get to know each other too well. I feel we should be clear about the terms on which you’re staying in this house. What salary is David paying you?”
Politely, Susan answered, “There was no suggestion of a salary. I have a splendid bedroom and excellent meals, and in return I give part of my time to Mr. Forrest’s cousin. That’s all.”
Deline’s shoulders lifted negligently. “I’m afraid that doesn’t suit me. I shall pay you a small salary. Are you good at needlework?”
One did not get angry about this kind of thing, Susan told herself firmly. One played along. “Fairly,” she said.
“I’m glad. I bought some Indian lingerie silks in Salisbury—they’re so much more human than nylon. Have you done any nursing?”
“Apart from my brother’s colds and an old dog’s rheumatism, none at all. But I have the usual amount of common sense.” Susan couldn’t resist adding, with innocent malice, “I can massage a headache.”
Deline’s eyes narrowed, but her tones were cool and level. “David and I have talked this over, but where women are concerned he has the masculine outlook. He agreed to leave things to me.” She uncrossed her ankles, sat straighten “I don’t care for this Rhodesian custom of allowing boys to bring morning tea, of having them make one’s bed and wash and iron one’s clothes. I want you to do these things for me, Susan. Most mornings I shall want breakfast in bed at eight-thirty and a bath at about nine-thirty. During the day I shall need very little of your companionship, so you’ll have plenty of time for the washing and ironing and needlework. The only thing is that since my ... illness, my nerves won’t let me drive, so I may need you to take me into town when David isn’t available.”
Still determined to be amused rather than angry, Susan said, “You do know, of course, that I only have use of the jeep?”
“Oh.” A pause. “Well, we shall see. Kumati looks pretty deadly, so it isn’t likely I shall have much of an urge to go there during the day. What I want to impress upon you is...”
“You don’t have to,” Susan put in quickly. “You want a lady’s maid, but I’m not in the market. Mr. Forrest asked me to stay here because you couldn’t very well come if there wasn’t another woman in the house. I suggest you set about engaging someone, so that I can move to th
e cottage with my brother and leave you to it.”
The thin brown wings of Deline’s eyebrows rose slightly, the blue eyes widened in a way that doubtless proved effective with men. “Oh, come, now. I didn’t mean to offend you. A few months ago I had a most ghastly experience, and my nerves were so shot to pieces that ... well, I simply have to have someone do various things for me. You see,” her lip quivered, “I lost my husband in tragic circumstances.”
“Yes, I know.” Struggling with annoyance and a kind of shame, Susan added, “I’m afraid I forgot all you’ve been through. I’ll do all I can for you.”
“I was sure you would.” The voice had lost its husky drawl, was small and pathetic as she sank back once more against the cushions. “And I simply must pay you a teeny-weeny salary, else I shouldn’t feel entitled to make use of you. We’ll get along perfectly. You’ll see.”
The brief exchange with Deline upset Susan more than she cared to acknowledge at the moment. But it was later, after she was in bed, that the situation became clear enough to fill her with foreboding. She saw that Deline had tried shock tactics, that her retreat because of failure was only temporary, and that in the end she had gained more or less what she was after.
Try as she would, Susan couldn’t believe in Deline’s “nerves”. Under the fragile exterior the woman was iron; Susan was sure of it. She was also sure that Deline had unshakable ideas about her own importance at Willowfield, and who but David could have given her such ideas? He, too, seemed to have taken Susan Darcey for granted and oddly, that thought hurt more than any of the others.
Both Paul and David went off early to their work next morning, and to Susan it seemed very late when, at eight o’clock, she took tea in Deline’s bedroom. Deline stretched and yawned, loosened the mosquito net which she had meticulously drawn the night before and gave Susan a smile that was meant to be both drowsy and sweet.
Portrait of Susan Page 4
