Brittle Bondage

by Rosalind Brett

  No. Oddly enough, her first concern was that the weekend should pass smoothly and Natalie be returned to her farm. After that would come the showdown with Blake. It seemed now that she had known in her bones for a long time that she and Blake must part.

  And for the same length of time she had known that she loved him, deeply and irrevocably. Standing there at the foot of her bed, she recalled with anguished clarity, the almost monotonous regularity of the sleepless nights, when she had longed to hear his steps at the door, his fingers upon the handle. With a stab of self-knowledge she was aware of needing Blake with every sinew and fibre of her body.

  Suddenly she began to shiver, and the long-suppressed tears had their way. Her slight figure was racked by sobs, the hopeless weeping of a disillusioned woman.

  She did not leave her room till the middle of the afternoon, when Neil’s voice became audible. He needed no urging to stay till Blake arrived, though he confessed to Venetia that he wouldn’t come again till Natalie had gone. She was the only woman by whom he had ever been intimidated.

  After dinner, Blake suggested a game of gin rummy. Painstakingly he taught Venetia the rules, and it being essentially a game for two people, she took alternate beatings from him and Natalie, and sat out every third game to witness the good-natured struggle between them.

  Tonight Natalie’s demeanour was quiet and confident. Beyond a few pertinent questions she made no allusion to Vrede Rust, and it seemed to Venetia that the other woman felt too warmly and comfortably at home to care about anything outside the confines of Bondolo.

  Venetia stood by while Blake dressed the scalded arm. He was gentle and thorough, and when he had done he responded to Natalie’s heartfelt “Thank heaven!” by smiling sympathetically and patting her fingers.

  Natalie rode the bay next morning, managing admirably with one hand as she trotted on the right side of Blake along the lanes of the plantation. She used the technical terms for the varieties of sugar-cane, and asked if she might have a few of the Uba type for planting out. From their conversation Venetia gathered that molasses was not the only by-product from refining. She had had to wait for Natalie’s visit before learning as much.

  They emerged into the veld, and Blake nodded left, towards the river.

  Natalie said: “We’re only two miles from your boundary. Can’t we ride that far?”

  “The circular tour is enough for Venetia,” he answered. “She seldom does more.”

  “I’m game,” said Venetia quickly.

  “It’s too hot for you.”

  “It isn’t. I can manage that distance.”

  “I’m not going to let you.”

  “Go with Natalie, then.” Something goaded her into adding, “She might get a kick out of riding a mile farther and taking a peep into Mervyn Mansfield’s game reserve.”

  Natalie’s strong, brown fingers tightened over the reins. “So I might. Shall we, Blake?”

  “You start off in that direction,” he said. “I’ll see Venetia to the river and follow you.”

  Venetia dug the grey into a canter, and the stallion ranged alongside. At the river she flung Blake a cool little smile.

  “So long. You two can take your time.”

  “Thanks.” And he wheeled back towards the distant figure of Natalie.

  They lunched on the veranda, and Natalie rested there in the long chair, while Venetia sat reading a book in her room and Blake caught up on his correspondence and the filing of reports. The Clarkes came over for tea and were coaxed to remain for the usual cold Sunday supper.

  Margery, with her ordinary looks, her familiar throaty voice, her household problems, her inefficient dairy and reluctant hens, robbed the atmosphere of part of its burden of unreality and drama.

  It was only Natalie thought Venetia with gratitude, who knew of the grim undercurrents in the Bondolo homestead; and even she could not know everything. Margery, bless her homely heart, was blindly fond of the Garrards; Cedric’s aversion from the complex in human nature made him a staunch believer in surface values. And Natalie would be leaving tomorrow.

  The evening passed quickly. The Clarkes went home. Natalie had her wrist attended to, said a crisp “Good night” to Venetia, used a softer inflection for Blake, and made ready for bed.

  Blake guided the trolley into the kitchen and switched off most of the lights. He came back down the corridor and stopped in the hall.

  “Venetia,” he called quietly. “Where are you?”

  She was in the blackness of the lounge, terrified, all at once, of the frightful harshness which rose in her against him. She couldn’t go to him. Savage and irrational came the thought that she would stay here all night rather than look at him again.

  He repeated her name and pushed wide the door, unconscious that she pressed close to the wall behind it. Then his footsteps receded, and her released breathing became painfully loud.

  She stole into the hall, paused in the comparative brilliance and was transfixed by the sight of Blake locking the main door. He made a startled sound, took an involuntary pace which brought them within a foot of each other.

  “My dear,” he whispered, and grasped her shoulder. “My dear, are you ill?”

  Oh yes, he’d remember to whisper, she told herself wildly. Wouldn’t do to bring Natalie from her room. With the remnants of her strength she dragged away from him. “Leave me alone!” she choked. “Leave me alone!” Then she turned and fled down the corridor.

  They were all together for breakfast. Natalie in turquoise linen with a necklace of carved brown wooden beads, a business-like adhesive dressing covering the wound, and her wrist-watch fastened below it; Blake tight-jawed, speaking only when necessary; and Venetia, dark-eyed, pale and wordless, and totally without appetite.

  As soon as the meal ended Blake had to give instructions to the foreman and get out the car. Mosi brought Natalie’s bag from the bedroom to the veranda where the two women waited, and began to dust and polish the hall. Leaning against a pillar, Venetia watched him, while Natalie lounged on the wall and smoked with ease.

  The car slid out of the garage and round to the front of the house. Natalie flipped away her cigarette and smiled down at Blake.

  She got up and addressed Venetia in a drawl: “It’s been a lovely week-end—put me on my feet again. Blake has promised to give today to my troublesome farm. I hope you’ve no objection?”

  “Not one,” she replied with low-voiced calm.

  “Well, thanks a lot. Au revoir.”

  Blake put Natalie into the seat next his own, threw a crisp “So long” towards the veranda, and drove off.

  Venetia stepped down into the garden. The sun smote her like a blow, and automatically she made for the shade of a tree.

  Desperately she regretted her behaviour of last night. The coming ordeal with Blake would have been hard enough without having plunged him into a mood of icy dislike beforehand. How was she ever going to summon the courage to confront him?

  As it happened, her anxieties as to how to begin the interview were unnecessary. Blake himself took care of the preliminaries.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PAUL RIVERS came out of Ward Three and continued along the private corridor to the Sister’s small office. He entered and paused by the desk, regarding with some distaste the cup of pale, cold tea beside the blotter.

  Of the young nurse at the filing cabinet he asked, “How long has this been here?”

  “About twenty minutes, Doctor. I did tell Sister it was waiting.”

  “Can you get her some fresh?”

  “Yes, but sister never lets us.”

  “Do you mean she drinks it like that?”

  “Sometimes—or else she has a glass of water.”

  “Give her a treat this morning,” he suggested. “A whole pot of fresh tea, all to herself.”

  The nurse grinned and went out. Paul sat at the desk and wrote a couple of prescriptions. His presence here might appear irregular, but there was no other means of se
eing Thea alone, and he thought it time she gave some attention to her civilian life. In fact, he’d be damned if he’d shift before she gave some indication of how she intended to spend the rest of her days.

  The nurse brought the tea-tray, looked nonplussed at finding him still there, and picked up the cup of cold tea.

  For convention’s sake, Paul said, “You might tell Sister Garrard that I wish to see her about the Cartwright child.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Five minutes later Thea came in and swung the door shut behind her. Wryly he had to admit that her personality fitted the crisp white veil and apron. He pointed to the chair he had just left.

  “Sit down and have your tea.”

  She stared at the tray, then, unsmilingly, at him. “Paul, did you order this?”

  “I did. Have I strained another of your regulations?”

  “It looks bad.”

  “Who cares?” A little wearily he rested in the only other chair in the room, a repellent, cane-seated affair under the window. “Surely a hard-working Sister is entitled to decent refreshment when she comes off the round.”

  “About the Cartwright girl,” she reminded him.

  “She’s doing nicely,” he said. “We agreed on that in the ward. I used her as a blind. Is the tea all right?”

  “Delicious. Will you have some? I can send for another cup.”

  “And let the whole female staff in on a toothsome morsel of gossip? ‘Sister’s entertaining a doctor to morning tea?’ ” He let a second or two tick away. “But perhaps they wouldn’t be so amazed. I’ll bet Dennis never says no.”

  Thea shrugged. “You sound hard and cantankerous. Is it Monday morning blues?”

  “Call it overwork. Lately, it’s difficult to recognize one day from another, though things should improve now the fever is on the wane. I’m not the only one—we’ve all been putting in long hours. You don’t look jaded, though.”

  “I don’t feel it.” Thoughtfully, Thea poured a second cup. “You won’t have had time to run out to Bondolo, I suppose? Venetia’s written to me twice, but her letters were uninformative.”

  “I was there on Friday evening,” he answered, and gave her details about Natalie’s accident and Blake’s decision that she should spend the week-end at Bondolo. “I’ve heard nothing, so the poison will have abated. Natalie will probably go home to Vrede Rust this morning.”

  “How is Venetia?”

  Paul noted her swift and very deep concern; she could suffer for those she loved.

  “Not too jubilant,” he said. “She lives in a perpetual state of nervous apprehension—I don’t get the hang of it at all. I wonder if you’re right about Blake not caring enough? Yet he does everything for her good.”

  “Blake would, but loading her with luxuries and watching her health isn’t enough. She wants a lot more than that from him.” Thea sounded almost vicious. “It’s downright wicked to marry a person you don’t love.”

  She was roused, albeit over someone else’s heartache. No doubt she wouldn’t believe that Paul Rivers could contract such a malady. He leaned forward, an elbow on the desk.

  “Possibly you don’t know your brother so well after all. Can’t you talk to Venetia?”

  “I keep assuring myself that next time we meet she’ll have become adjusted.” She thrust away the tray and locked her fingers in front of her. “He’s there, alone with her. You know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” he said, rather heavily. “I know what you mean.”

  Not looking his way, she said: “Blake’s insufferable. If he would only let himself, he could adore Venetia.”

  “Unless,” said Paul, his tone flat, “his affections happen to be drawn elsewhere.”

  “Oh no, Paul! I’d never believe that.”

  “Nor would I,” he said quickly, instinctively staving off pain for her. “Don’t worry about it—these upsets smooth themselves out. Venetia’s been here less than four months. She’s had to acclimatize herself to more than the temperature and a strange land. Maybe she was frightened of the intimate side of marriage.”

  “Any man but Blake would have foreseen that and been gentle.”

  “You’re being too hard on him, and you may be entirely wrong. Something will slip into focus—I’m sure of it—and you’ll be able to have a private laugh at your own fears.”

  “I do hope so.”

  Thea sighed, extracted a sheaf of reports from a drawer and spread them over the desk.

  “Are you broadly hinting that the session is at an end?” he enquired.

  “Of course not.” She hesitated, and kept her glance on the papers. “There’s ... something else. Dr. Dennis just passed on to me a disturbing rumour—about a position as surgeon-specialist in Maritzburg. He said that you’d been asked to take it ... and hadn’t refused.”

  He straightened in the uncomfortable chair, and then stood up and looked out of the high window, his hands in his pockets, his back erect.

  “I’m primarily a surgeon, you know.”

  “You’ve said several times that you prefer general practice and taking your rota at the native clinic. Besides, Ellisburg needs a good surgeon on the spot. You get plenty of your own type of work here, among the native and white populations.”

  “The Maritzburg proposition has its attractions. I’ve often considered specialising.”

  “But you did intend to settle here, Paul. You even bought a house!” With more restraint she went on: “It does seem a pity. Everyone likes you and the people have so much confidence in your skill.”

  “I might earn a similar reputation in Maritzburg.” He half-turned, and his eyes rested upon the brief, dark wave which showed between veil and forehead. “Dennis was right. I haven’t refused the offer—but neither have I accepted it.”

  “So you’re ... still undecided?”

  He twisted right round and leaned back on the window-ledge. More bluntly than his wont he queried: “What about helping me to decide? Don’t go stiff and stare like that. I’m not proposing an illicit week-end in Durban. I’m not even asking that you commit yourself in any way. Just say you don’t want me to go, and I won’t.”

  “I ... can’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to allow your whole future to depend on my verdict.”

  “Are you afraid of the consequences?”

  “Afraid? Good lord, no!” Her head took a regal tilt. “You’re the first person who’s ever accused me of cowardice.”

  “Yet you are a coward, Thea—a coward in the emotions. And if you’re honest, you won’t deny it. That’s why you’d rather have Dennis’s friendship than mine. He doesn’t probe under the shellac exterior.”

  “Paul!” She sprang up, her cheeks firing. “You’re being horrible. I don’t care a damn about Dr. Dennis.”

  “I’ve never heard you take exception to the tattle which couples you with him.”

  The narrowed darkness of her eyes was disconcertingly reminiscent of her brother.

  “Since you’re bent on carrying this inquisition to its conclusion, let me enlighten you,” she said firmly, and with anger. “When I was transferred to Ward Three you had no patients in this section, but you and I seemed to collide pretty often and the nurses started talking.”

  “Good heavens, was it like that?” he said swiftly. “I didn’t realise it.”

  “Well, I did, from contact with the others. Dr. Dennis became attentive and I openly jested with him in their hearing as I never had with you, so that the gossip would be diverted.”

  Paul’s expression, though a trifle bewildered, had acquired a sudden gleam. “That’s very interesting. Tell me why, Thea.”

  She gave the characteristic shrug. “Dennis is the type of man who will always be the subject of mild scandal. You aren’t.”

  “You must have known,” he returned with quiet emphasis, “that anything which publicly connected your name with mine would give me the profoundest pleasure. I wouldn’t have regarded it as scandal.”

  She mo
ved away, putting the wide desk between them. Paul, keyed up for her answer, felt a spurt of annoyance as the telephone rang. Her relief was so obvious that he could have strangled her.

  “Yes, this is Sister Garrard,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Dr. Rivers is here, but he’s just leaving. Yes, I will.” The telephone dropped into place. “Dr. Schafer is in Ward Five. He wants your opinion on a case.”

  “I must go, then.” A couple of paces brought him to him to her side. “The ban on nurses leaving will be lifted from six o’clock this evening. How soon can you manage a day’s leave?”

  “I’m hoping for a few hours on Wednesday.”

  “For a trip to Bondolo?”

  “Naturally.”

  “If I possibly can, I’ll take you. Let me know tomorrow what time you’ll be free and maybe we can fit in a meal together first.” His mouth and eyes were softened and amused as he added: “You’ve made my decision, Thea. Someone else can have the job at Maritzburg. Thanks a lot.”

  She cast him a fleeting, upward glance, and the distant remark her brain had framed remained unspoken. She felt an instant’s pressure of his hand over her forearm, the gentle and humorous tug which slightly disarranged her veil.

  “Don’t!” she exclaimed, shocked. “Supposing a nurse were to burst in!”

  He laughed. “Too bad. You’d never live it down.” Peremptorily the telephone repeated its summons. Paul swore below his breath, murmured that he would try to look in this afternoon, and hastened away.

  Thea looked at her watch. Unbelievable that only a quarter of an hour ago she had been making the tour of the ward with Dr. Dennis, and inwardly wincing from his complacent supposition that Paul would soon be leaving Ellisburg for Maritzburg.

  Paul had called her a coward in the emotions, but wasn’t it more self-preservation than cowardice to make one’s heart free and keep it so? Except that the heart, for all one’s efforts, could never be free; it was always in bondage to some being or some cause, straining for perfection in all kinds of relationships.