Brittle Bondage

by Rosalind Brett

There was a pause. Then, low-voiced, Venetia stated, “You stayed and had lunch with Natalie.”

  “She was upset, and I knew you weren’t expecting me till afternoon. I took it that Thea was still with you.” His mouth pulled in, clipping his words. “Thanks for the smiling welcome.”

  But Venetia could stand no more. Swallowing on a painful obstruction, she murmured something about resting, and walked quickly from the room.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE following Saturday morning Paul came to Bondolo alone. A boy who had been picked up injured the night before and taken to the native section of the hospital had given the sugar plantation as his place of employment, and Paul had decided to confirm his assertion and to discover whether he was the victim of a native assault.

  He and Blake discussed the matter over drinks on the veranda, and ran on to other questions. Venetia drank squash, and half-listened to them. No hope of seeing Thea for a while yet. Paul had mentioned the prevalence of some sort of fever and a ban on nurses leaving the hospital grounds. Half-heartedly Venetia had said:

  “There may be things she wants. Couldn’t I see her at the bungalow?”

  “They’re keeping a strict watch at the gate—no visitors are admitted, and you wouldn’t be, either. Thea can telephone the shops if she’s in dire need of anything. You’d be surprised how cunningly the nurses get round the regulations.”

  And Blake had coolly clinched it: “You’re not going into town while there’s fever about. Paul will take her a message, if you like.”

  But on reflection Venetia could think of nothing she wished to say to Thea beyond sending her love. So she sat forward from the men and pretended an interest in the garden boy, who squatted at the end of the lawn hooking weeds from the grass. With so little to hold her attention it was inevitably attracted to the horseman who became visible between the branches as he trotted across the adjoining pasture.

  He rode out of sight and dismounted, appeared again, threading the screen of trees towards the house.

  Behind her, Paul said: “Young Mansfield, isn’t it? He’s probably at a loose end. Several people have closed their offices for a few days to help break the epidemic. I believe Mervyn is one of them.”

  Neil approached, flourishing his hat. His hair was fair and springing in the sunshine, his skin ruddy.

  “Good morning, everyone. Am I going to be in the way?”

  Of course not,” Venetia cried instantly, and with warmth. “Come and sit down.”

  “Thanks.” He sprang up the steps, hovered near the fourth chair and turned a smile both youthful and apologetic upon Blake. “I expect you’ve forgotten me. We met last week at my cousin’s office.”

  “I remember you,” said Blake, as if it wouldn’t have mattered much if he hadn’t. “What will you drink?”

  “May I have squash, with a dash of gin?” He sank down, and lowered half his drink directly as it was placed before him. “That was good. It’s a long ride from Mervyn’s place. I tried to jolly him into coming, but it was no go, though he’s rather keen to see you on a business matter. He wondered if you’d come this evening, and bring Venetia?”

  “I think not,” Blake answered, with aloofness. “Perhaps I’ll drive over tomorrow.”

  “Right. I’ll tell him.”

  A slight tension had fallen on the group. Paul, tired from overwork and conscious that he must soon return to battle, did nothing to lessen it. Neil finished his drink and cast an appreciative glance over the vista.

  “Marvellous view from this veranda,” he said conversationally. “We can’t see much of the mountains from Mervyn’s place.

  Venetia seized the opening. “Come and see the garden, Neil. You didn’t bring a racquet, by any chance?”

  “No,” he replied quickly, “but I will next time.” Charmingly, his eyes sought Blake’s approval.

  Blake said, “Go ahead,” siphoned more soda into his whisky and went on talking to Paul as though the young man had never shown up.

  As they wandered down between the borders a lightness was evident in Venetia’s step.

  Neil was all admiration. “Bondolo’s a wonderful estate. You have everything Venetia. Honestly, I don’t blame you for marrying Blake Garrard.”

  She turned slowly. “What are you saying?”

  He laughed uncomfortably. “Nothing that you need notice—I talk too much. There’s no gossip about you in town. The impression was merely my own—that you and Blake don’t quite hit it off.”

  “You leap too fast to conclusions. This morning was the first time you’ve been to our home.”

  “I know—I’m sorry. A comparison came to my mind. Last week-end I went to the villa of a fellow who works at the bank below our office. He’s been married a year—they’re perfect idiots about each other, and don’t care who knows it. Almost everything they do seems to be a kind of lovemaking. But people differ.” He was still endeavouring to cloak an awkwardness. “Why, even you are not the same person I had sport with in Ellisburg.”

  “If it’s sport you’re after”—she evaded a waving branch—“bring your racquet and a girl-friend.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “Well ... tomorrow.”

  “Must I bring a girl? I never have the least inclination to talk to anyone else when you’re about”

  “That’s sweet of you,” she told him with a smile. “Shall we go back to the house?”

  “Not yet.” He twitched at her short sleeve to detain her. “Blake and the doctor are deep in business, and I’m shunning the desk for a whole week.” He grinned at her. “Is that good news?”

  “Can a fever outbreak ever be good news? How bad is the epidemic?”

  “It’s only local. The doctors have it under control, but the precautions will last for a time. I offered to help in inoculating the natives, but they turned me down—they were inundated with volunteers who’d had previous experience of the procedure.”

  He was idly tossing an orange she had given him into the leaves overhead, giving a flick of the wrist so that he could not be sure where it would fall. Each time his hand shot out to catch it but once Venetia’s hand got there first and into the next throw he put more dexterity. So much so that his orange disappeared vertically into the tree-top and they both stood staring expectantly upwards.

  “It’s stuck up there,” Neil hazarded, to be confounded the next second when the bright globe descended with a thud against his forehead. The suddenness of it actually made him stagger.

  A laugh broke from Venetia, a wholehearted gurgle of joy in his disgruntled astonishment. She straightened and saw that Blake was near. Her laughter faded, and she kicked the orange from the path into a tangle of flowering honeysuckle.

  “Has Paul gone?” she asked, to prevent Neil expatiating on the silly incident.

  “He has. It’s nearly twelve.” To Neil he added: “Thank you for calling. Tell Mervyn I’ll get in touch with him within the next day or two. This side path leads to the top end of the pasture.”

  Neil accepted his dismissal gracefully. Neither he nor Venetia alluded to the hat which he had deposited on a chair in the veranda, though they both remembered it. When he had gone, Blake looked down at her.

  “You seem to find the young Mansfield amusing company.”

  “He’s pleasant,” she admitted.

  “And you don’t have to put on an act with him, which must be rather a relief.” His mouth was sternly set and his eyes were shrewd and grave.

  “There’s something in that,” she concurred, with a touch of his own brevity.

  “He won’t have confessed to you that his cousin is annoyed at his lack of progress, and is already regretting having taken him into partnership.”

  She began to pace towards the house. “Neil doesn’t have to explain himself to me. I suppose he can go back to his parents and start afresh. They’re comfortably off.” They had reached the back entrance, and she stopped. “I’ve some jobs to do in the kitchen.”

  “I g
uessed you would have,” he said, with an edge to his voice, and left her there.

  During that week Neil rode or drove over in Mervyn’s car every day, either soon after breakfast or in the late afternoon. In the mornings he took care to leave just before Blake was due for lunch, but if he and Venetia happened to be playing tennis when Blake finished for the day they would all have sundowners together, and Neil would immediately thereafter wave them an airy farewell.

  Information came through that the fever cases, almost wholly among natives, had numerically passed the peak. So when, on Friday evening, Venetia saw Paul’s car pull up in the drive she was disappointed that he had come without Thea. In spite of his movements being quick and energetic, he still had the look of weariness.

  “Hullo, Venetia,” with a fleeting smile. “Where’s Blake?”

  “Writing letters. Shall I call him for you?”

  “Please. It’s rather urgent.”

  “I won’t be a second.” She hurried to the study, and tapped. “Blake, Paul wants to see you.”

  He came into the hall, switched on the light and motioned Paul to a chair. “More trouble?”

  Paul remained standing. “Of a different kind. You remember I mentioned that one of the boys at Vrede Rust had been taken to town with fever?”

  Blake nodded. “A stable boy.”

  "That’s right. Miss Benham was immediately served with a notice that her farm must be isolated for eight days. Last Monday, while mixing some cattle medicine, she scalded her arm severely. She got the houseboy to dress it, but natives are not too particular, and it’s taken infection. She called me this afternoon. The arm’s nasty.”

  “God, poor Natalie!” exclaimed Blake. “Why in the world didn’t she send me a message days ago?”

  “Because of the quarantine notice. She took every precaution against spreading the fever—even had warnings affixed to her gates. She only sent for me when it became evident that the wound was poisoned and likely to extend into a devil of a mess.”

  “Hasn’t she a woman neighbour with her?”

  No, she’s quite alone. I gave her an injection and left some tablets which will eliminate the poison, but she ought to rest for a couple of days, and I’m afraid that isn’t possible at Vrede Rust.”

  “Leave it to me, Paul,” said Blake. “I’ll bring her here for the week-end.”

  “Miss Benham had an idea you’d suggest that, and I must say I hoped you would. Does Venetia agree?”

  From her perch on the side of a chair, she inclined her head and spoke thinly. “I haven’t much choice. Blake has made the decision.”

  Paul’s glance sped from one to the other. He turned to the porch. “We’re still tearingly busy in town. Do what you think best, Blake.”

  A silence followed his departure. Then Blake remarked: “That wasn’t a very pleasant thing to say. What have you got against Natalie?”

  Her head was still down, hiding the wistful unhappiness in her eyes. “I know I oughtn’t to have come out with that in front of Paul. But ... isn’t there any other way of helping her? Couldn’t we pay the foreman’s wife to go over and look after her for a few days?”

  “We could,” he replied curtly, “if we weren’t her friends and neighbours.”

  In her wretchedness she dared more than she had intended. “Your objection to having a third person living with us has suddenly evaporated.”

  “It hasn’t. Natalie’s sick.”

  “She has other friends.”

  “But it happens to be me she’s looking to, and I’m not going to let her down. For her sake and your own, you must be sweet to her.”

  “Very well. I’ll have the spare room got ready.”

  He was against the door, barring her way. Her upturned face had a pale, appealing loveliness against the loose waves of her burning hair. The pulse was beating in the delicate base of her throat and her mouth was set a line too controlled for so young a creature.

  “Don’t keep hurting yourself. I’m not demanding the impossible of you, Venetia,” he said, almost below his breath.

  The unexpected softness in him alarmed and frightened her. What did he mean? Was he pleading that she accept his love for Natalie and allow him at least the bitter pleasure of having her near for a while? Her whole being contracted in an aching horror. She did not linger to watch his face darken and his teeth come viciously together, but went out of the house and round the veranda to the kitchen.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BLAKE brought Natalie to Bondolo that night in time for a late dinner. There was not the least complacency or antagonism in her manner. Except for the bandaged arm and a becoming pallor, the other woman appeared her normal self, and if her tones had huskiness they were certainly no less attractive for it.

  “It’s exceedingly kind of you to have me, Venetia,” she murmured with apparent sincerity. “Please don’t treat me as an invalid.”

  “Paul prescribed rest,” Blake put in, “so while you’re here you go to bed at nine-thirty and get up late. And don’t worry about the farm. I’ll keep it running for you.” It was all very friendly. At nine-fifteen Blake prepared Natalie’s nightcap of whisky and warm milk and reminded her to swallow her tablets. Venetia escorted her down the corridor to her room, drew the curtains and helped her off with her dress.

  “I can manage now, thank you,” said Natalie politely, and Venetia said good night, crossed to her own bedroom and shut herself in.

  She went to the window and stood staring unseeing at the uncanny blue of the African night. Emotions she had never suspected twisted and tortured her. She wanted to march down to the lounge and confront Blake, unleash at him the violence and pain. And then she recalled his strange quietness, “I’m not demanding the impossible of you, Venetia.” But he was. She couldn’t stand the suffocating agony of having the woman under this roof, occupying the room next to Blake’s.

  Blake spent most of Saturday away at Vrede Rust. Natalie sat in the long chair on the veranda, and Venetia sewed and read nearby.

  It was about noon when she looked up from her book to find the sparkling, speculative gaze concentrated upon her. A tremor ran through her, and the book between her hands closed with a snap.

  “Would you like a drink, Natalie?”

  The sleek head shook lazily. “You forget that I’m a local. The English in this country always absorb outlandish quantities of squash.”

  Venetia shrugged. “Not entirely because we’re always thirsty. We enjoy your fresh fruit drinks with the ever-available cubes of ice. Are you comfortable?”

  “Quite. More so than you are, I daresay. I couldn’t exist in your continual state of tension. Are you still finding things hard going?”

  “Hard going?” Venetia echoed the words carefully. “Learning the ways of a new country may have its difficulties, but it’s great fun. I haven’t made any more stupid errors like the one I made on the bay mare.”

  Natalie’s small mouth dented at the corners, giving her face an expression of humour which was a fraction less than supercilious. “With practice, anyone can handle a horse. A husband, however, is a more complicated proposition, particularly when he happens to be Blake Garrard. Quite a handful, isn’t he? Doesn’t it sting a bit to realize that you are failing to make him happy?”

  The question was put so moderately that seconds passed before Venetia received its full impact. From the clammy coldness of her brow she knew that she had whitened. Swiftly she reminded herself that Natalie was a guest at Bondolo and not completely fit. She attempted lightness. “Who told you that?”

  “I didn’t have to be told. I’m neither blind nor a moron, especially where Blake’s concerned. When he brought you back from Umsanga it was a shock to many of us who knew him well. To me it was a tragedy.”

  Venetia went cold, and even whiter. “You’re being extraordinarily frank, Natalie!”

  “I can afford to be,” she said equably. “The tragedy was not the blow to my own ambitions, but the fact that Blake was n
ot in love with you. Chivalry and protective instinct are a poor substitute for love, but I’m afraid they’re all he’ll ever be able to give you.”

  Steeled to keep her end up at any price, Venetia shaped her lips to a smile. “You’ve worked things out reasonably, haven’t you? Why don’t you discuss me with Blake? All this would intrigue him enormously.”

  “I like Blake too much to hurt him. Since we’re being candid, let me remind you that he married you because you were more or less destitute and in a strange land. You took unfair advantage of him, and now you’re spoiling his life.” Natalie made an impatient gesture. “Don’t look so stricken—it had to be said. It’s up to you to be honest with yourself, and decide what to do to put matters right for him.”

  “Natalie,” Venetia said steadily, “you and Blake have been friends for several years. Why didn’t you marry long before I came into the picture?”

  The reply was firm and unhesitating. “I was never sure enough of myself in those days. We parted to think it over. That was when Blake went to Umsanga for six weeks—the holiday during which he met you. He returned here, and we were closer than ever before; we were on the point of becoming engaged. Then he heard that a friend at the coast had died—your father, I suppose—and he set off in a hurry for Umsanga. The next time I saw him was when I came to the dinner-party at Bondolo ten days after you were married.” With calculated passion she ended: “You are counting on his generosity; you know he will never send you away, never even admit to you that he doesn’t love you. It rests between you and your conscience whether you can cling to a man who has wished a thousand times that he had never set eyes on you.”

  Venetia could not think; she could not even feel very much. Both would come later. She collected her things.

  “Mosi will bring your lunch out here,” she said, and went into the house.

  Venetia’s first coherent thought was not to wonder how much of Natalie’s brutal candour was based on certain knowledge and how much of it was bluff. Too much truth had been spoken to bother with the trifle of how it was come by. In any case, Blake’s dissatisfaction with his wife might be evident to a woman who loved him.