“I suppose Mrs. Maynton’s letter did ask you to come to Rhodesia?”
Clive gave her a tired smile. “I’m not the type who’d ever choose to come to Africa, and Deline knows it. When I leave London I go to Madrid or Monte Carlo. Deline also knows that although my sale-room is fashionably prosperous I plough practically the whole profit back into stock, and take only a modest allowance for myself. Her letter, of course, was in the nature of a challenge.”
“Yet you came, without having received it.”
“That’s human nature for you, Susan. Weird in some respects and often incomprehensible.” He looked at his watch. “We must move. Even at top speed the journey will take nearly three hours.”
By the time they came up the road from Kumati to Willowfield the night was full of stars and the big whistling birds were winging about on their nocturnal business. Susan’s head, compressed and throbbing, felt far too heavy for her shoulders and her only desire was to slide between cool sheets.
There were lights in the hall and porch but no faintest smell of cooking. On the black-wood table lay a note written by David. “We’re all invited over to Maringa for the evening. Please get there before eight-thirty.”
“Terse,” commented Clive. “Maybe our little expedition didn’t find favor.”
“I won’t go with you,” she said. “I have the legitimate excuse of tiredness and a headache.”
“Poor Sue. Too much sun and antiquity. Can I get you something?”
“I shall be all right. Thanks for a lovely day, Clive.”
“We ought to do more things together,” he said, crinkling his eyes at her. “As I’ve told you before, you lop off my years!”
Susan went to her room, half undressed and sat down to wait for the sounds of his departure for the Wardons. She rested her head against the back of the chair and looked at the cream-shaded light beside the bed. A moth undulated over the fluted velvet trimming, and on the wall in the half-glow sat a large mosquito.
Susan’s glance lowered to the letter which lay at the foot of the lamp, on the table. She bent forward, saw it was from her mother, slit the envelope and lay back to read. At the first reading she couldn’t quite take it in; her mother’s letters usually told so little in an excess of words that she had grown out of the habit of giving them close attention.
It seemed that her stepfather, Henry Westham, had been taken ill, and was now ordered a long complete rest.
Such a shock, darling (wrote her mother), that I’m finding it difficult to believe. However, I’m doing my very best for Henry, poor dear, and have already arranged for a London agent to find us a cottage in the south of France. I believe one can get a good servant there, and fortunately we have few financial worries. I daresay we’ll find English friends for card parties and so on in such a place, and Henry’s sister has promised to come along for part of the time. He doesn’t need nursing, only a very quiet life in healthy surroundings. The point is, darling, that as we shall be away from England for six months or more, I feel you should come and live with us there. From your letters I realize you are no longer necessary to Paul, and I don’t feel you would be giving up very much. It does seem strange that in a country where there’s a surplus of men you haven’t yet found a fiancé, and I feel that as your mother I should do something about it—Henry agrees. He always says you’re nearly as pretty as I am!
By the time you receive this I shall have arranged everything and may even be on the move. So get your passport visaed, if it’s necessary, and decide about your packing. Henry insists on paying all your expenses, so...
Susan let the couple of sheets fall into her lap. She found that her knees were shaking, felt a burning spot in each cheek. Was this the solution? Would it be possible to be devastatingly honest with everyone at Willowfield and then leave Paid either to wallow in or live down the unhappiness that was his? Could she shake off the influence of this mellow and lovely house, this mysterious, pulsating country? Would it ever be possible for her to settle with her mother and that friendly but never intimate person, Henry Westham? Because, of course, there would be no question of husband-hunting, no casting around for a second best; if she left Willowfield her heart would automatically seal itself, for ever.
The letter didn’t alter the present situation, but it did offer a rather humdrum brand of hope.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE interview with Deline next morning was brief. Susan took in the breakfast tray, stood back from the bed and said quite firmly,
“I didn’t tell that lie for you yesterday because it wasn’t necessary. Clive didn’t need any convincing. He’s known what you were anxious for me to tell him for some time.”
Deline, lying like an invalid among her pillows, was equally calm. “I gathered when he arrived at Maringa last night that nothing had changed. I’m also quite sure that he’ll do his best to prevent my marrying David. He’s a menace I can’t afford to have around, and as you seem to have wriggled your way into his fickle affections you can get rid of him for me.”
“May I be as frank with him as you are with me?”
“I know you’re something of a martyr, Susan, and that the threat of personal hurt wouldn’t daunt you. I’ve said that if you let me down I’ll hurt you through your brother, and so I will. It’s up to you, isn’t it?”
Susan went out of the room and carefully closed the door. She made her bed and tidied her room, drank a glass of orange juice and took her mother’s letter over to Paul’s cottage, so that it would be there for him to read when he came into lunch. She would have liked to send a warm reply to that letter, to assure Henry Westham of her sincere good wishes for his recovery; but it was possible they had already closed the flat, in which case she could only wait for their new address.
It was sad to think of the good-natured Henry, who had made so many quotable remarks on the bench, laid low. His wife’s shortcomings had never bothered him, as they might have bothered a different man; if anything, they had appealed to his sense of humor. Mother, unfortunately, always rallied valiantly in a crisis, and because her feelings were never deep her approach to illness was invariably sensible. She rather enjoyed herself in the role of wife and mother put to the test—so long as it didn’t last too long. If she could join a bridge or canasta group now and then, and occasionally see a good film, she would be happy enough in the south of France.
Susan looked about the rooms of the cottage, vaguely feeling there should be some indication of the state of her brother’s mind. But Paul had never left his imprint anywhere; in that he was rather like Mother. It was odd, thought Susan, how the two of them managed to inspire love without offering any in return.
She was brought up sharply by the memory of his wretchedness over Deline. Was that love? Could anything so one-sided and vitiating be a pure emotion? If so, it would last. And if Deline carried out her threat it might destroy him!
Susan came quickly out into the sunshine. She walked down the side path, saw Deline and Clive on the veranda and decided she couldn’t bear to speak to either of them. So she continued down the path on to the drive, and out to the road. She crossed and made her way down the steep rocky path between the bushes towards the river.
Some way to the right a stone bounced down the rocks. She twisted, saw David lope lithely down the steep bank, ignoring the path. She felt the familiar pang and the inevitable drawing of her sinews, did not look at his face till he was close enough for a greeting. Then she saw that his mouth had a half-smile.
He came beside her. “Clive said he thought you came this way. Do you often come down to the river?”
“No. This is the first time since...”
“Since?” he prompted her quietly.
“Since the day you came back to Willowfield.”
“And before that?”
“It must have been several months—when I was exploring the district.”
“I gather,” he said, “that once you’d explored you came back here only when you were
perturbed. Let’s go higher, out of the wet, and sit down, shall we?”
“Isn’t this an unusual time for you to be free? It isn’t ten o’clock yet.”
“Occasionally,” he said, “things crop up which are more important than one’s work. The farm is always there, but human relationships tend to get out of hand if they’re not examined from time to time. Careful! The rain has washed some deep clefts between these boulders.”
She suffered his grip of her arm, willed herself to yield it no more importance than if it were Paul’s. They climbed, came to a long flat stone sunk among springy grass, and sat down with about a foot of space between them. David drew up one knee, broke off a spray of pink-flowering succulent and looked down-river towards the bend, where it widened.
“Have a good day yesterday?” he asked casually.
“On the whole, yes. Zimbabwe is quite unbelievable.”
“Deline said you were determined to go. Any particular reason for the urgency?”
Deline again. All Susan’s independence revolted against the woman and her methods, yet there was also within her a fatalistic acceptance of them. “It wasn’t urgent for me—only for Clive. He’s now able to cross Zimbabwe off his list.”
He flicked away the spray of flowers. “I daresay he philanders as charmingly as he does everything else,” he said, “and I expect you find him an exciting change from the youngsters. I might have known you’d ignore my warnings.”
“But Clive has been nice to me,” she said, almost pleadingly. “Really nice.”
“Yes, I know. He has you trusting him up to the hilt.” He gave a sideways glance, then let out an exasperated sigh. “We can’t get through to each other, you and I. At least, I can’t get through to you. It’s like ploughing through a minefield; you never know where the next spot of danger may he. Look here, Susan”—he turned a little—“I came back this morning especially to see you. When I heard you’d come down here I was glad, because out here by the river we start even.”
Her head lowered. “You mean you’re not the boss of Willowfield and I’m not one of your dependents.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t! I’ve always treated you as a house guest. You’re too fond of telling yourself stories in which I’m the villain. I’m getting tired of it!”
“Then why not just leave me alone?”
“Because,” he said swiftly, “the knowledge that you’re unhappy seems to get right under my skin. Incredible, but true. I know that the year you spent with Paul at Willowfield was the happiest you’ve ever had, and that since I came you’ve felt like hell a few times. To be honest, I’ve felt like hell myself rather more often than I was accustomed to in England, so it’s quite possibly due to some chemical reaction we have upon each other!”
Susan’s eyes were hot and dry. Still not looking at him, she said, “It sounds feasible. You should have got someone else to take my place when I first asked you. As a matter of fact”—her voice shook a fraction—“you’ll have to make other arrangements soon because I have to leave Rhodesia.”
A silence stretched between them. She heard his foot dislodge a shower of pebbles, smelled a sudden damp scent released by the grinding of his heel into a plant.
“You’re leaving Paul?” he asked at last.
“I’m afraid I shall have to.”
“It’s a queer time to run out on him.”
“Yes, I know. I was wondering if ... if you’d tell him to look for another job. It would be a kindness.”
Just slightly his voice hardened. “Why should I encourage him to take the cowardly way out?” He paused. “What exactly happened the night the storm broke? Yesterday, Amos brought me a frock of yours that was ripped and muddy. He’d found it stuffed into the top of the incinerator and was puzzled.” His hand moved, but didn’t quite touch her. “You went to bed that night before any of us, but you must have gone out again later. Why, Susan?”
Involuntarily, her fingers felt over her left shoulder; it still ached a little. She said simply, “I was worried about Paul. I was going towards the cottage when ... when you followed and spoke to him. I ... heard all you said.”
“But, good heavens, child! Why in the world didn’t you speak?”
“I thought Paul had been humiliated enough. I hated you for speaking to him like that.”
“But don’t be an idiot. It was the only way to handle it. No one else knew I spoke to him that night—and you wouldn’t have known, either, if you’d stayed where you belonged.” The grey eyes narrowed. “Let’s come to the ruined frock, shall we?”
“Paul was upset and he went for a ride. I thought he might be desperate so I followed him on one of the farm ponies.”
He let out an exclamation. “And you got caught in wash-aways. You could have lost your life!”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t dramatic—just beastly wet and unsuccessful. Paul had had the sense to turn back.”
“I’ve never heard of anything so irresponsible!”
“Perhaps,” she answered with a trace of bitterness, “you haven’t had much contact with people who act from the heart. I’d give anything to see Paul as carefree as he was a few weeks ago.’’
“Then you mustn’t leave him. What put it into your head?”
“I had a letter from my mother yesterday.”
“I know. I took it into your room.”
She related the main contents of the letter, and ended, “I think it would be wise to go to them as soon as I know where they are. My mother may need help with Henry.”
He didn’t comment upon this, except to say, “I want you to tell me immediately you receive the next letter, and we’ll talk it over.” After a moment, he went on, with apparent irrelevance, “When I went into your room yesterday I wondered what made you choose it when you first came to Willowfield. It’s rather smaller than the rest, and to my mind not so pleasantly furnished. Why did you prefer it?”
She looked at him, curiously. “I came to it really by a process of elimination. The grand bedroom was obviously the owner’s, and the second one on that side faced the late sun. That left the rooms on the other side of the corridor. I gave my brother the front room because the color scheme was more masculine.”
“But what about the bedroom in between—the one Deline has now?”
Susan’s voice sounded hollow, even to herself. “Wasn’t it your ... mother’s? It’s so pretty that I always felt it would be a ... a sort of desecration to use it.” Hurriedly, she tacked on, “It suits Mrs. Maynton, but I’m not sure it’s quite my background.”
“No, it isn’t quite Susan Darcey,” he agreed. “You’re feminine and agreeable to look at, but you’re not frills. The room wasn’t my mother’s, by the way.”
A little weight lifted from Susan’s heart. “Wasn’t it? It’s a very lovely room.”
He nodded. “It was prepared a good many years ago for a very lovely person—my mother’s younger sister. She was a concert pianist, had a breakdown and came here to convalesce. She was here for about two years, and then an old admirer turned up and she married him. They live in London.”
“And the room was never altered?”
“My mother died, and the place has never been changed in any way. It does need changes now; an extra bathroom, a more convenient kitchen, perhaps an extension to the living room.”
“Oh, no,” she said at once. “You’d never be able to match up the old yellow wood ceiling and the dark beams. The french windows give all the additional space you need.”
He smiled. “I should have thought you’d find the honey-colored ceiling and colonial furniture too heavy and cumbersome.”
“They’re perfect,” she said. “They belong where they are. I always think of Willowfield as a mellow, sun-soaked, leisurely place.
Both were silent for a while. Susan was realizing that this was almost the first time they had talked completely without rancor. Tenseness was in the atmosphere because somehow he always brought it with him, but for a while her dou
bts had ceased to be troublesome. She was not happy, was even a trifle sad, but she would not have forgone this quiet half-hour.
David ended the silence in a way that put her on guard. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“Better than ... what?”
“You didn’t deny that you come down to the river only when you’re disturbed. Last time it was my inconsiderate arrival from England. What was it this time?”
She was tempted to tell him the truth, but only for a second. She must not be misled by his companionableness this morning; he was still the man Deline expected to marry.
“It was a mixture of things,” she said evasively, and went on doggedly, “I’m afraid your way of dealing with Paul is mistaken. If things don’t change for him he’ll never be happy. Even if he doesn’t see your cousin, she’ll be near enough to shatter his peace of mind. Paul isn’t built to stand that kind of disaster.”
He leaned forward. “What makes you think unrequited love is so disastrous—personal experience?”
She rested her chin sideways on her tented knee, looking away from him. “I know what I’m talking about,” she said thinly.
“Clive?”
“Why should it be Clive?”
“Because you were certainly heartwhole before he came.” His voice had gone cold but had little expression. “I’ll tell you something. When I came to Willowfield and found you so young and open-hearted I was deliberately offhand with you because I was determined to avoid what would obviously have happened had I been charming and friendly. Had I encouraged you, Susan, you’d probably have chosen me for your first affair!”
In one movement she had straightened and swung round, showing him spots of angry scarlet in her cheeks. “How dare you say that! You’ve no grounds for it.”
“Oh, yes, I have—though only a suspicion of them existed when we first met. You were already in love with the house and if, as its owner, I’d set myself to get you, I could have done so without much trouble. You didn’t know it, but you were just ready to be swept off your feet.”
Portrait of Susan Page 13
