Brittle Bondage

by Rosalind Brett

  “The working half of their existence goes on much as before—I suppose that’s the reason. We’re not so lucky.”

  Venetia took off her hat and shook out her hair. She had no wish to debate the ramifications of marriage.

  Ellisburg was a large, clean town of white buildings and red roofs, the main streets wide and lined with Canary palms and ornamental trees which bloomed profusely. The shopping centre, with cement porticos to provide shade for the window-gazer, had an air of peaceful prosperity, and the people who sauntered the pavements were dressed with taste and good sense. Here and there a man wiped his brow, but the women contrived a surprising impeccability.

  Margery did her shopping, then led the way into Ellisburg’s large Edwardian hotel.

  They ate soup, fish, beef olives and pumpkin fritters, and smoked a luxurious cigarette with coffee. For the first time in many weeks Venetia enjoyed a meal. The cigarette tasted good, too, much better than the expensive Egyptians she smoked at night with Blake.

  They were five or six miles on the road home when the sky darkened and lightning played through the branches.

  “I wonder if we shall make it?” queried Margery blithely. “This contraption leaks like fits and the tyres are badly worn. Oh, well, I can only jam her on at full blast and trust to fair fortune!”

  The car bounced and creaked over the gravel road, but at the first sweep of rain Margery had to slow down. The strongest headlights could not have penetrated far into that grey wall of water, and the tourer was no pioneer. With the engine silent, the thunder roared about them and the rain tumbled into the canvas roof as if to tear it apart.

  “Filthy luck,” Margery sighed. “After such a grand morning, too. We’re only half a mile from the turn to Lawnside, but Cedric can’t come for us because he hasn’t any means of transport. Blake—”

  “He won’t have reached the house yet,” Venetia said quickly. “When he takes lunch he arrives back at about four. The rain will have held him up.”

  “It’s just after three. This may go on for another half an hour, and at the end of it we’ll be too waterlogged to love. I’m awfully sorry to have you got into this mess, but you can’t come to much harm.”

  Venetia was not concerned with the physical discomfort of the constant drip upon her ankles and shoulders. She had remembered, with a sinking sort of qualm, that she had not told Fumana where she was going. She simply had to get home before Blake.

  “Couldn’t you jog along slowly?” she asked desperately. “Even five miles an hour would help.”

  “We’re stuck in a swamp with smooth tyres, my dear, and if the thing would budge, there’s no visibility to speak of. We just have to sit tight and wait.”

  Venetia swallowed, resolutely. “Margery ... I’m going to walk.”

  “So am I ... when the rain stops.”

  “I mean now.”

  The other woman turned and looked at her, her fair brows tented rather comically. “Haven’t you had an experience of this kind before? It’s always happening during the summer rains. No one bothers.”

  Impossible for Venetia to explain her anxiety. Margery would think her stubborn and foolish, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “I’m going, though. A soaking won’t kill me. Keep my hat, will you?”

  “Venetia, this isn’t a bit necessary. If you were South African—”

  “But I’m not.” She gave a small, strained laugh. “Don’t reproach yourself for bringing me, Margery. I’ve loved being with you and I’m going to get a kick out of this tramp in the rain. Goodbye. See you again soon.”

  The car door swung back, admitted the tang and rush of the torrent, and slammed shut. For a few seconds Margery saw Venetia held taught against the flailing rain and wind. Fitfully, her receding figure was silhouetted by the lightning, and then the road twisted and she was gone.

  She sank back behind the wheel and shook her head. How crazy is youth! And all to save Blake half an hour’s fret. By now Venetia had discovered that one doesn’t “tramp in the rain” in sub-tropical Africa. She had entered upon a grim and fearful tussle with the elements, a slithering, blinding nightmare, with thick, pinkish water boiling up round her calves and the stinging of a thousand whips about her body. All this apart from the terrifying stabs of lightning and tremendous thunder. Margery would not care to tackle it herself; she had outgrown the courage of the young and foolhardy. Also, she admitted regretfully, she had outgrown the rending pangs of love which made one commit such follies.

  An hour later, when Venetia staggered into the porch and wrung out her hair and dress, the rain had lessened in ferocity, and the more noisy part of the storm had passed on. Her limbs ached as if weighted with lead, her skin smarted, and her jaws had gone tight and painful. But she had got here first.

  She collected a dressing-gown from her bedroom, fled into the bathroom and peeled off her clothes. Rubbing down and drying her hair speeded her circulation, and the numbness faded, leaving her glowing and warm. Now that it was behind her, she felt pleased with her victory over the storm.

  She dressed in cream linen, dabbed perfume over the springing chestnut waves and disposed of her wet things. As she came along to the lounge a sudden shaft of gold light cut across from the half-open door. The fireworks were over, thank the stars.

  Blake came in smiling. “Some squall, wasn’t it? I’d have been earlier, but the horse took fright and I had to humour the poor beast.”

  “Did you get wet?”

  “A little. I left my mac outside.”

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “Too late.” He sank down beside her on the chesterfield. “Reading again? What is it?”

  “The novel you bought me the other day.” She flicked it shut and pushed it into the crevice between two cushions. Her fingers stayed tight over the binding, as if gripping on to a supply of courage. “Blake, Margery Clarke drove me into Ellisburg this morning.”

  “Did she? Good thing it wasn’t this afternoon.” He was looking her way, the smile still playing at his lips. “You’ve washed your hair. It sticks out and smells sweet. You’re getting a fine golden tan, Venetia. With your colouring you ought to freckle, but you haven’t a single one. In fact, you’re growing really beautiful.”

  This rare softness in him was not lightly to be wrecked. “How gratifying,” she said. “For that you shall have a drink. Whisky-and-soda? No, let me get it. Pouring whisky always makes me feel dashing.”

  As she poured his customary proportions she felt his eyes upon her in the old companionable grin. She placed the glass on the table he had hooked near, and bowed, anticipating his thanks. Instead he leaned forward.

  “Where did you get those scratches on your legs? Have you been walking among thorns?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You must be more careful, Venetia. Some thorns are poisonous. In any case, you don’t want to spoil your legs.”

  “You fuss over me too much.”

  “Most women like being fussed. It tones up the vanity. You could do with a little more confidence and conceit, my child.”

  “Self-confidence grows when others have confidence in you. I was never unsure of myself with my father.”

  His glance had sharpened, but his tone was non-committal. “There’s a whole universe of difference between a father and a husband. Fathers make no demands, but a husband is making them all the time. Have you ever thought about a husband’s rights, Venetia?”

  Carefully, because the question was seemingly only an abstract one, she answered, “They’re more or less unlimited, aren’t they?”

  “Unlimited, but used with discretion.”

  He took a pull at his drink, then paused, listening. As he got to his feet, Fumana knocked and came in. A cold hand gripped Venetia’s heart, for in one hand the boy held her wide-brimmed straw hat, and in the other a note which he extended to Blake.

  She jumped up, said, “Thank you, Fumana,” in a dismissive voice, and twirled the hat.


  Blake unfolded the sheet of notepaper, read a line or two, stared at her, and went on reading. By the time he crumpled the note his whole bearing had gone steely. “Why didn’t you tell me you were out in the storm?”

  “I did start to tell you, Blake...”

  “I didn’t notice it. How far did you struggle from that car?”

  “We were nearly at the Lawnside turn when the storm broke. That was all.”

  “More than two miles! Why the blazes hadn’t you the sense to stay with Margery? You expect me to have confidence in you, and you behave like a child of seven, and lie to me into the bargain. And, great heaven, that’s something I won’t stand for! You didn’t wash your hair at all—it got soaked and you used perfume to take off the smell of rain.” He was talking rapidly, snapping out the words in an uprush of rage. “You knew damn well where you scratched your legs, but you let me draw my own conclusions. You set out deliberately to deceive me. Haven’t you any conscience at all where I’m concerned?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” she pleaded above her frantically pounding pulses. “I tried to tell you the moment you came in ...” How could she explain that she had hated to destroy his mood; or the fear which had prompted her to wade through the avalanche? She made a bleak attempt. “You see, when we left this morning I forgot to tell the boy where I was going. Margery said we’d be home by three, and we would have been but for the storm. The car became bogged—”

  “You needn’t go on. It’s all in the note, tied up with Margery’s apology. In future you’ll stay near the house while I’m away.” He went to the door. “Fumana!” The servant came running. “Keep the boy from Lawnside. I’ll give him a letter to take back.”

  He strode out and down the corridor to the study. To Venetia the crack of the door held the finality of a pistol-shot. She would have given anything, just then, to be ten years older and ten thousand miles from Bondolo.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AFTER dinner Blake sent her straight to bed with whisky and aspirin. There was nothing thoughtful or kind in his manner; he was merely sensibly warding off a chill. Next morning he breakfasted early and rode off alone, and Venetia was left to wander unhappily through the house and grounds. That day and others passed like a procession of cold, lonely dreams. Blake, polite and withdrawn, worked all the daylight hours and spent the evenings in the study. Dully she wondered whether he ever re-read the last letter from her father, and what were his emotions if he did.

  He still watched her health and bought a supply of books and magazines for her whenever he went to town, but he never asked for her company, and she was too fearful of rebuff to offer it. At Umsanga no one could have convinced her that Blake, the teasing, beloved comrade, would become transformed into a stony, incomprehensible guardian of her interest. Yet that was precisely what had happened. How could she bear to go on like this?

  It was a Saturday morning when Thea’s letter came. Venetia had just returned from a hot and dusty ride, needing, above all else, a long drink and a change into a thin dress. If one sweated, breeches were apt to chafe round the waist. Blake was in the hall, sorting over the mail on the yellow-wood table.

  “There’s one from Thea,” he said offhandedly. “It’s addressed to both of us. I’ve some others to look at, so you can read it first.”

  She took it and slit the envelope with the paper-knife he pushed close. Perhaps this epistle would provide an excuse to correspond with Thea and establish contact with the woman who was now her relative. Venetia began eagerly to read.

  Dear Both,—I think this will just about reach you before I do. Here’s some news, which I hope you will find good. Several weeks ago I applied for a post as Sister at the Ellisburg Hospital, but though I got the job we were so busy here that I couldn’t be spared. The thing seemed to have fallen through till yesterday, when I was informed that Ellisburg’s need of qualified nurses is tremendous and I had permission to cease duties and report to Ellisburg next Monday.

  I do hope this thrills you as it does me. I shall be travelling up on Saturday in the car, and will stay two nights with you—till Monday morning. Do you realize that you’ve been married six weeks, and I’ve never yet met my own sister-in-law? It’s scandalous, and I blame you for it, Blake. You were always far too possessive. Once I’m established at Ellisburg, I intend to visit you often.

  Till Saturday, Venetia. Love to you both.

  Thea.

  Venetia made a small sound of sudden gladness.

  Blake looked up. “What is it?”

  “Thea’s coming—today.”

  ‘Today!” His features gone angular, he grasped the letter and scanned it, crushed it up in his hand. His mouth contracted into a hard line. “How dare she do that, after I’ve warned her not to come till she’s invited!”

  “But she has to. Surely you wouldn’t have her stay at the hotel in Ellisburg?”

  “I wouldn’t care where she stayed,” he bit out. “If she weren’t already on the way, I’d wire her to spend the weekend elsewhere and to blazes with what she’d think of me. We’ll give her a meal, and then I’ll take her to a friend in town for the couple of days.”

  “Blake, you can’t!”

  “You’d be surprised how far I can go when my wishes are ignored. I won’t have her living here!”

  “But why? She’s your sister.”

  Swift anger burned in his face. “If you don’t know why,” he said, with merciless candour, “there’s nothing more to discuss. I shall give Thea to understand that we don’t want her.”

  Anxiety over the hurt he might inflict upon his unsuspecting sister gave her courage. Besides, she couldn’t bear to make another enemy.

  “You’re fond of Thea. You made this home for the two of you, and when she went to Durban you kept her room as she likes it, so that she would always have it to come to.” Her voice quivered. “You can’t treat her so unfairly. She belongs here, Blake.”

  He spoke curtly. “You’re well supplied with pride and sensibilities. You should be the last to dissuade me.”

  As if to leave the matter there, he shuffled the letters into a pile. Venetia bit on her lip, and twisted towards the porch.

  “So you really do intend to turn her away?”

  “I do.”

  “Because of me?”

  “I suppose that’s what it amounts to,” he admitted, and passed through into the lounge.

  Venetia paused in the doorway, her thirst and tiredness swamped in a wave of desolation and despair. To escape the oppression of the house, she went down into the garden and made her way along the path which passed the tennis-court and ended at the cement border to the swimming-pool. At her side padded the black spaniel, Binty. The dog always dragged himself to wherever she happened to be going.

  Wearily she collapsed upon the sloping grass bank, rested her cheeks between her palms and gazed at the semicircle of trees which cradled the pool. They were olives and cypresses, young, vigorous trees which Blake must have planted when the pool was made. A few leaves floated on the water.

  He loved this home and all the rich growth he had originated; how much more must he care for Thea, with whom he had planned to share them? But at the moment he wouldn’t allow himself to care for her.

  She—Venetia—had unwittingly stepped between Blake and his sister. Blake had done what he deemed his duty, and married her; perhaps, a long time hence, she could come near to understanding him and making him happy. A long time hence. But the problem of Thea could not be shouldered off into the limbo like that. In a few hours she would pull up in the drive expecting to be welcomed. She was entitled to a warm welcome. That she should be greeted coolly and told not to unpack was unthinkable, yet Venetia was miserably certain that Blake would have no compunction in showing Thea the door. He would carry it off courteously and with a smile, but no amount of chivalry would disguise the ruthlessness behind his actions. Thea would know at once that she wasn’t wanted, and, being an intelligent woman, she would not have to seek far
for the reason.

  For a time Venetia stayed there, too drugged by heat and hopelessness to stir. The spaniel stretched and lumbered to the pool. Ungracefully he plopped into the water, but as his body cooled, he swam strongly, yelping at her to throw him a stick. Venetia ignored him.

  Reluctantly she roused and turned towards the house, and the dog demonstrated his disgust at her lack of sportsmanship by spraying her legs and dashing ahead to find the prostrate and panting bull terriers. Not even the juiciest hunk of meat thrown into the pool would have persuaded them to get wet.

  In the hall, Venetia was seized with a spasm of vertigo. It passed, but left a raging ache behind her brow and needle-points in her eyes. All the way down the corridor she clung to the wall, and somehow she opened her bedroom door. Room and furniture wavered. She groped to the bed and slumped across it, eyes closed, her head a furnace of agony.

  Sickness rose in her throat, and again a climax of jabbing pains in her eyes and the burning somewhere inside her head. She thought she was going to die, and was glad.

  “Venetia!”

  She tried to answer, but the mere muscle movement in her neck sent fresh knives to her skull. All she desired was to pass out of the world quietly, and alone.

  “Venetia!” A tap on the door. “Are you in there?”

  Her riding-boot made a sound on the floor, and the door burst wide. In a couple of strides Blake was bending over her, pushing away the tumbled hair and feeling round her dry, fiery forehead with the back of his hand. He slipped undone the top button of her shirt.

  “Mosi saw you staggering as you came in, and called me. Try and tell me what you feel.”

  “Horribly ... sick,” she managed, “and my head...”

  Blake barked at the hovering boy. “Mosi, take the car and go to Dr. Rivers. Tell him the missus is sick, and to come at once. Tyetya!”

  The boy vanished. Blake drew off her boots, loosened her belt and lifted her to lie flat on the bed. He pressed one hand over her heart and with the other felt her wrist. Fumana brought iced water and a cloth which Blake squeezed out and spread across her eyes and brow. Below it her face was drawn into unfamiliar lines, and a pathetic little pulse beat visibly in the delicate hollow of her throat. She looked like a child suddenly stricken by one of the more serious fevers.