Portrait of Susan

by Rosalind Brett

  “I was no such thing!”

  “And so,” he persisted inexorably, “you disliked my attitude from the beginning. And that was why you were wide open to Clive’s advances. The only sense you’ve shown,” he finished forcefully, “is in realizing what a one-way business any affair with Clive is likely to be!”

  “How insufferable can you be?” she asked in a whisper.

  “What’s wrong with honesty?” he said gently. “You’re of an age for a headlong love affair, and frankly, I didn’t want to be a partner in it. You don’t blame me for that, surely?”

  “Did you actually believe that I was preparing to lose my head over you?”

  “You were already enchanted with Willowfield, remember—I’m merely the owner. The whole trouble is that you’re too darned young!”

  “I’d sooner be painfully young than as blasé as you are. It must be an awful bore to have young things falling over themselves for you.”

  His smile scoffed at her. “I did doubt the wisdom of being frank with you, and now I know I’ve put your back up without instilling much reason into that yellow head of yours. When I decided not to be the first man in your life it was more for your sake than mine. I knew I was rather too seasoned to be damaged. You, on the other hand, sit up and beg for hard knocks. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

  “You don’t have to want it,” she said bitterly. “It comes naturally.”

  “Oh, come now. Those are hard words, from tender lips.”

  “Shut up!”

  She got to her feet. By a second or so David anticipated her, but before he could give her a hand she had jerked upright without aid. The hand she had striven to avoid closed over her elbow and she could move no further. Bright green eyes met a grey gaze that sparkled unpleasantly.

  “I thought you were big enough to take the truth,” he said, “but you feel I’ve been merely unflattering. You’d rather be made love to—and suffer!”

  She gave a brief, brittle laugh. “Not by you. Never by you!” she said.

  “At least Clive is as human as I am.” Quite what happened then Susan could never afterwards have explained. She felt hard arms close about her, the breath going from her body. Her head was forced back by a mouth on her own. Her heart was a bird struggling for freedom. She saw those furious, glittering eyes, felt the bruising of her lips.

  Somehow, as he released her, she brought up a fist to the unyielding jaw, and then she was running, stumbling among grass and stones and drawing huge breaths that sobbed in her throat. Susan was on the drive at Willowfield before she knew for certain that he had not followed her.

  The next couple of days were so quiet that it was difficult to believe in the existence of undercurrents. Clive stayed around the farm and intermittently worked on sales lists sent over by his manager. He also superintended the manufacture of two crates for the packing of his curios.

  Deline, too, seemed to be at peace. She got Susan to shampoo her hair and set it, she experimented with her nail varnishes, and had her tennis frock taken up an inch or two. New periodicals arrived and she immersed herself in the fashion pages and worked out a new diet that guaranteed long youth. Unless David were present, she spoke only on superficial matters. Not once did she allude to any previous conversation with Susan.

  Paul did not come to the farmhouse. Susan saw him at the cottage, noticed there was no ruddy color under his tan but hoped he was recovering. He seemed to be carrying on normally with his work, but he stayed away from the club. Those long evenings of his, alone at the cottage, taxed Susan’s nerves. She supposed he listened to the radio, but even so, he had never before cared to do without company for so long.

  His reception of the news about Henry Westham was uncaring. “Poor old chap,” he said. “Might do mother a bit of good, though.” No question at all of his going to the south of France to be with them; he couldn’t see it was necessary for Sue to go, either.

  Susan showed him a note she had received from Wyn Knight. He read of Wyn’s exploits on a variety of horses, of her swimming and mountain-climbing feats, and gave what Susan could only translate as a supercilious smile. To him, Wyn was becoming more youthful every day.

  But David was the true enigma. Following the little episode down by the river Susan had not seen him till he came into the living-room for a drink before dinner that evening. He had greeted Deline and Clive in his usual manner, had not looked directly at Susan but, with a faintly satirical smile, had drawn a hand reminiscently over his jaw, a gesture which put the morning’s incident in its place. For a second, Susan was tempted to cast her drink straight at that mocking face.

  The moment passed; the four settled to the meal as though they were the best of good friends, but before the evening was over Susan became aware that though there was a subtle and not altogether unwelcome change in her own relationship with David, essentially the problems and disillusionment remained. It was not till she was in bed that Susan remembered Deline’s statement yesterday morning—that David expected guests this evening; there seemed to be no limit to the chances Deline would take for her own ends.

  Saturday came, and David entertained more lavishly than at any time since his return. A crowd came for morning tennis and stayed for lunch. Susan knew some of them; there were the middle-aged doctor and his good-looking wife, a youngish director of the tanning company, the lawyer whose office was on the main street, a couple of scientific planters and their wives, the daughter of the bank manager and her fiancé. All of them were more grand than the young farming group Susan was accustomed to.

  But Willowfield with guests upon the lawn, and laughter and the ping of balls coming from the tennis court, was a gracious place. At lunch, the dining-room overflowed on to the veranda, and for coffee, numerous people sat on the veranda walls, on the steps and the grass.

  Whether Paul had been invited Susan was unable to discover. He spent the whole day away from Willowfield, probably with the Manleys.

  Between two and three o’clock the guests trickled away. Deline was solicitously sent to her bed, Clive lay in a lounger and shamelessly slept, David attended to some correspondence and Susan sat reading under a tree.

  At tea, David announced that there would be a few guests for dinner. When Deline prettily asked if Amos would need her services, David told her of course that everything was laid on.

  To Susan’s relief, one of the eight dinner guests was Mrs. Wardon. Gradually, the flower garden at Maringa was resuming its erstwhile importance in the life of the Colonel’s wife, and she was also beginning to take a lively interest in the actions of her neighbors.

  “I hear,” she said to Susan when they sat together in the living-room after dinner, “that David has made an offer for Bartlett’s farm, down the river. The place hasn’t been put up for sale, but the old couple would accept a good offer; they’re getting past it Do you know why David should want another farm?”

  Susan tapped ash from her cigarette. “For cattle, I think. Is Bartlett’s a dairy farm?”

  “It could be. It’s mixed at the moment. When is David’s new stock supposed to arrive?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  The birdlike eyes widened in surprise. “Don’t you ever talk to him about farm matters?”

  “Why should he discuss them with me?”

  Mrs. Wardon’s gesture was emphatic. “I really don’t understand this household. There’s that cousin, Mrs. Maynton, assuming frailty when she’s as strong as a horse; this nice Clive person who’s quite out of place; David both charming and distant; and your brother entirely missing. And you don’t look too chirpy yourself, my dear. Has something gone wrong at Willowfield?”

  Susan shook her head, took her time about pressing out her cigarette. “I suppose we’re all more or less incompatible, but we manage to get along. David didn’t mention Bartlett’s, but it’s no secret that he’s hoping to start a dairy farm and keep it separate from Willowfield.”

  “Will Paul have the dairy farm?”


  “He may manage it.”

  “What I can’t understand,” said the vigorous little woman, “is why David is in such a hurry; he’s hardly been back any time. Surely it would be safer to start stock-building here on his own farm before taking on a new place? I know David isn’t cautious in such matters, but it does seem he could leave it for a year or so.”

  Mrs. Wardon went on in this strain for some time, and then half-way through a sentence she paused, and Susan knew that both of them were watching the same couple through the french door. Deline’s white frock stood out stiffly from waist to calf, her hand on David’s arm was slender and pale, the fingertips rose pink. The two were strolling below the veranda, towards the darkness.

  Mrs. Wardon said softly, eagerly. “I’ve been so blindly immersed in my garden and my flowers that this important romance almost passed me by. Pity she’s been married before, but as I’ve said, she’s as strong as a horse, and David can be counted on to plane down her vanity. Someone told me she played a good game of tennis this morning.”

  “Yes, she did,” said Susan, without enthusiasm.”

  “Does she seem to like the climate?”

  “Fairly, I think, but she finds Kumati dull.”

  “Well, so would any woman straight from London,” stated Mrs. Wardon logically. “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be a successful match; they aren’t closely related and they do seem to hit it off. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that David is bound to have a successful marriage, whoever he chooses, because on the whole he doesn’t believe in love.”

  “That sounds awfully strange—from you.”

  Mrs. Wardon reached out and patted her hand. “We’re all different, Susan. At your age I had dreams, too. I fell in love and I’ve never fallen out of it. But David and that woman are made of harder metal. They’ll probably be all right for each other, but both are capable of hurting anyone else without feeling it much. Such matches aren’t always ideal, but they’re often right.”

  There was nothing Susan could add to this. On the whole, Mrs. Wardon had come near to the truth of the matter, and the sooner Susan accepted it the earlier she was likely to feel a little more normal herself.

  Later, she went with the Wardons to their car and stood with others, saying goodnight. It was cool and lovely in the garden, and instead of returning to the house she went to the garage to see if the jeep was back. Both garages were locked, so she presumed Paul had returned. For a few minutes she remained there near the loquat trees, but a nagging insistence drew her along the path and round towards the cottage; these days she became edgy when she had not seen Paul for several hours, reached a condition in which she continually expected catastrophe.

  There was a light in the cottage living-room but none in the porch. Susan hesitated. Paul would soon be going to bed. He wouldn’t want to see her; lately he seldom did. Wouldn’t it be best to stroll over casually tomorrow morning? To call now might appear pointed, and it was unlikely in any case that they could have much to say to each other.

  She breathed in the scent of the frangipani without noticing it, looked down at the neat borders the boy had cut at each side of the cleared path. It was really too hot for planting, but the next time rain threatened...

  The thoughts ceased sharply, she became very still. The cottage door had opened and two figures stood there, Paul’s ... and Deline’s. Even at this distance Susan felt his curbed excitement and pleasure. She saw him throw about Deline’s shoulders the dark coat she had used as a disguise in the darkness, saw him looking into her face as she spoke. Deline laughed softly, her mouth provocatively raised.

  The next movement was the natural consequence of that inviting laugh. Paul took her shoulders, hesitated with his mouth about six inches from Deline’s, and kissed her. In that moment Susan knew the lull in her relationship with Deline was over; the war had begun.

  Heart throbbing, her throat peculiarly salt and dry, she hurried through the archway and away from those two figures. Deline had seen the jeep arrive, had gone to the cottage deliberately, knowing she could raise Paul into heaven, and send him crashing when her purpose had been accomplished. One kiss, and Paul was her slave.

  Near an arbutus bush she turned the bend in the path, and stopped precipitately.

  “Why the hurry?” asked David.

  “Oh ... nothing.” Unconsciously she pressed a hand to her heart. He was dangerously near the hedge. How much had he seen? “It’s ... been quite a noisy day.”

  “It was time we did some entertaining,” he said.

  If he had seen, Susan thought wildly, had he compared the gentle fervent kiss with that embrace down by the river? Of course not. That other hadn’t been a kiss but a punishment; it had had no relation at all to love.

  He said, “You look tired, Susan. Would you like some hot milk in bed?”

  “No, thanks. Goodnight, David.”

  As usual, her bedside lamp had been switched on and a jug of iced water stood on the table. Susan poured a little and sipped it, took the glass to the window and stared out.

  She felt twisted and tightened up. She thought of Paul, ecstatic over there in his cottage, wilfully ignoring the implications of being made love to by Deline. She thought of the frightful jolt he was heading for, and shivered.

  And then, invariably, she thought of David, and she would have given anything to know whether he had seen the picture silhouetted in the lighted doorway, whether his coolness had been a mask for anger and jealousy. For David would be savage against any man who so much as looked at the woman he counted his. He might deride love, but he was possessive; she was sure of it.

  Next morning she knew for certain that David had witnessed the intimate scene in the doorway of the cottage.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FROM the Africans’ quarters on a Sunday morning there always came singing. A few times in the past Susan had walked up there soon after dawn, and from the shelter of the gum trees she had watched the joyful stirring to life.

  This morning, though, Susan had no thought of taking the walk up to the native quarters. Amos brought some tea and she got up and dressed in a pink and white striped cotton. The air was sparkling clear and cool, and she went out through the french window and stood on the veranda, savoring the scents released by the light dew, and the bird songs.

  When she went round to the front veranda David and Clive were already there, both looking suave and sporting in slacks and white shirts, though Clive wore a tie. Amos was setting out fruit juice, and David rose from his canvas chair to see Susan seated at the table. She faced the garden, with David to the left and Clive at the right.

  “Well, Sweet Sue?” drawled Clive.

  “Another Sunday,” she remarked tritely. And added, “There can’t be many more of them, for you.”

  “No, but Sunday mornings in England are pretty good when the sun shines. After this I shall be ready for a long spell of London.” His brows rose, quizzically. “You look a little hollow round the eyes.”

  “Blame the bright light. It’s hardly fair to a woman first thing in the morning.”

  “Oh, come now. You’ll be able to stand the harsh truth of daylight for many more years.”

  She sipped the passion fruit juice and found it too sweet. Because at every stage she had to try her luck, she said, “If there’s more rain you may find touring difficult.”

  “We were talking about that just before you came out. David suggested the same thing.”

  Susan felt David there, but did not look at him. “You did say you were keen to see as much as possible,” she commented.

  Amos came out then with a big dish of eggs and bacon, which he set in front of David, and Sam followed up with toast and warmed plates.

  “Just toast for me, please,” said Susan.

  David looked at her. “Got a head?” he asked.

  “No, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Won’t you have just one egg with the toast?”

  “No, really. Shall I pour the coffee
?”

  “Why aren’t you hungry?” he persisted.

  “Don’t make a thing of it, please.” The hand holding the coffee-pot shook slightly. “I shall be ravenous at lunchtime, and make up for it.”

  “I doubt that.” His tones were clipped but he left the matter there. “Two eggs, Clive?”

  There was not much said while they ate. Susan drank her coffee and looked at the flowers, and it occurred to her that this most intimate of meals with David was never intimate at all. She invariably got the feeling of being a distant acquaintance of his at a guest farm.

  This morning, too, she was frightened. David had lost the mocking smile of yesterday, and he ate as if from habit and without enjoyment. When he offered cigarettes and snapped on his lighter there seemed to be an impatience in his movements.

  Clive said, “I thought I’d take a few snapshops of nature in the raw today. You might help me, Susan.”

  David pushed away his plate and cup and leaned an elbow on the table. “Nature is rather less raw here than in some other parts,” he said. “I’ve been thinking that I wouldn’t mind a jaunt myself, and now is as good a time as any for that trip into Mozambique.”

  “Do you think Deline could make it?” asked Clive, with just a hint of sarcasm.

  “I think so,” David replied evenly. “She stays in bed for breakfast because I insist upon it, but her days are becoming fairly energetic, and the trip wouldn’t demand too much of any of us. We’ll borrow the Colonel’s trailer, and the women will sleep quite comfortably in it. A few nights under canvas won’t hurt you, Clive.”

  “Only at the time,” Clive conceded laconically. “In retrospect they’ll be adventurous.”

  There was a pause. Susan’s hands were clasped clammily in her lap, her heart seemed to be equipped with the wings of both hope and despair.