Brittle Bondage

by Rosalind Brett

The afternoon sky acquired the rich tinges of sunset. Venetia remembered that Mervyn Mansfield was coming to dinner. She worked in the kitchen, straining the pot-roasted fowl and stuffing it with cooked forcemeat and chopped bacon ready for the final half-hour in the oven.

  She heard Blake stride down the corridor; her spine stiffened and her skin went cold and clammy.

  Mosi’s white-clad hulk towered beside her. “The Baas has visitor. He wants missus in the lounge.”

  She washed her hands, dabbed at her nose with a powderpuff, examined the laid table in the dining-room and went on to enter the lounge.

  There was no need to look at Blake. She greeted Mervyn, accepted a Martini and sat silent except when their guest addressed her. Her quiet replies drew an awkward smile from Mervyn. He wasn’t so dour and hardbitten as his outward appearance suggested. He even issued a hesitant invitation that she come one day and stroll round his game sanctuary; he didn’t care to kill animals either.

  Later, during dinner, Mervyn mentioned Neil. “To succeed as an engineer you can’t get along without a mathematical brain and a driving urge,” he said. “Neil is devoid of both. His mother was keen to keep him out of his father’s antique shop, but it’s my considered belief that he’d be in his element charming the ladies into paying large sums for old Dutch and English period pieces. Certainly he ought to be a success at it.”

  “He’ll never settle in Ellisburg,” said Blake bluntly. “When is he going?”

  “He can please himself. I’ll get down to facts with him tomorrow.” He shrugged. “I had great hopes of his turning out to be the right sort of partner. It was uphill work to forge connections with so many local authorities and big builders, but it’s done, and at the moment Mansfield’s is a progressive business with a very bright future. I rather fancied his marrying in a year or two and eventually having a son to carry it on.”

  The pause was barely perceptible before Blake suggested coolly: “The alternative is simple. Get married yourself, and start a family.”

  Mervyn studiously forked at a peach tart. Venetia, made sensitive by her own anguish, noticed the deepening of the lines etched between nose and mouth, and the straight frown of his brow. She stole a glance at Blake, saw his lean contour as arrogant and expressionless as a stone casting.

  Mosi brought coffee to the table. Venetia drank hers and stood up. She wished Mervyn good night in a manner intended to convey to Blake that as far as she was concerned the evening had ended.

  That night she slept for a while, and on Wednesday morning the procedure followed the pattern of Tuesday. Blake breakfasted early and took a picnic lunch, and Venetia was confronted with another long and solitary day. The waiting was nerve-wrenching. She counted her ready cash and found it frighteningly low. The small amount her father had left would pay her passage and see her through for two or three months; after that she must rely on her earnings.

  Money was the least of it. How could she endure living with her thoughts? In less than a year Blake could be free of her and married to Natalie, who would make an eminently suitable wife and “plantation missus.” Would she, Venetia, ever be able to school herself into a state of satisfaction that she had done what was right and good? Would the turbulent craving to be beloved and possessed by Blake begin to fade when he was no longer near? Supposing this pain went on and on, tearing her to pieces, so that three quarters of the time she didn’t know what she was doing?

  Almost unwittingly she was gathering together the mementoes of the years with her father: his small and select stamp collection, a beloved, worn copy of the Rubaiyat, the old-fashioned golf cuff-links and wrist-watch. She came to his photograph, dropped the things in a heap before it and sank on to her bed. The bright hair slid from its fastening as her hot eyes and cheekbones dug into the pillow. But she couldn’t cry.

  It was just after five when Thea called from the hall, “Anybody at home?”

  Venetia emerged from the kitchen. She hadn’t dared to think about Thea beyond a vague desire to write her a brief explanation of her departure from Bondolo.

  “What a welcome!” said Thea gaily. “Not a soul about and the dogs spread sulkily over the porch, as if a storm were brewing. What’s biting everyone?”

  “I suppose we’re all bored with being imprisoned,” Venetia replied. “Are they letting you out now?”

  “They are, and how glad I am! I feel like a released homing pigeon.”

  “How long can you stay?”

  Abstractedly Venetia had moved forward into the strong light. Thea’s smile ebbed.

  “Till nine,” she said. “I’ve asked Paul for dinner. No objections?”

  “I’m very pleased.”

  Not only pleased, but profoundly relieved, guessed Thea. What could the girl be dreading? And how thin her face was in repose. Had she been sobbing, or had a nervous twitch developed in her throat?

  “Do you sleep badly?” she enquired abruptly.

  “Sometimes.” Venetia’s shoulders lifted dismissively, and she settled herself in the opposite corner of the chesterfield from Thea. “You don’t look too exhausted ... nor particularly miserable, considering everything.”

  “I shed my cares with my uniform at three o’clock today. Paul and I had tea together, and then he had to shoot off, but Dennis is taking over from seven, so he’ll be free. Have a cigarette?”

  Thea watched the scraping of the match, the kindling of the two cigarettes. By the stain on her forefinger, Venetia must have put in some practice this last fortnight. “Blake’s late, isn’t he?”

  “He’s working at the other end.”

  “What doing?”

  “I don’t know. How is Paul now?”

  “Recovering. He’s been promised a locum to allow him a break at the coast He’s put in a hard year at Ellisburg with scarcely a full day’s holiday.”

  “I like Paul.”

  Thea didn’t care for Venetia’s manner. It had an element of retrospection, as if she were contemplating a friendship which had been agreeable while it lasted. There were other signs about the girl which pleased her even less. Venetia looked really ill.

  “I expect you’ve been lonely out here?”

  “Not particularly. Neil haunted the place last week while his office was closed, and Natalie Benham was here from Friday till Monday. Mervyn Mansfield came to dinner last night.”

  “Really? You should have had Natalie and Mervyn together,” smiled Thea, “and taken a chance at blowing upon smouldering embers.”

  “From my observations,” said Venetia in a small dead voice “Natalie’s portion of the embers is colder than last week’s mutton ” Aware of Thea’s anxious eyes trying to reach through to her, pleading with her, she added, with an attempt at airiness, “Pay no attention to me—I’m beginning to feel my age. It’s about time, too. Tell me the latest news of the nurses and give me a good laugh.”

  The diversion served till Blake could be heard addressing the boy. Venetia got up, squashed out her second cigarette, inserted her hands into her belt and took an interest in the dusky garden.

  From the doorway Blake said: “Your half-size bus gave me the warning, Thea. How goes it?”

  “Pretty well.”

  Venetia turned, her-smile brittle. There’ll be four for dinner. I must tell Mosi to cook double vegetables and prepare a larger salad. Excuse me.”

  For the first time in her life Thea could summon not a single sentence to say to her brother. She lay against the rose-coloured damask, regarding him through half-closed lids, and seeking to reconcile the present situation with what she knew of him. She had seldom experienced anything but kindness from Blake. To be sure, he had not disguised his impatience and annoyance over the wretched affair of a couple of years ago, but she did not hold that against him. He had been a shrewd onlooker; he had foreseen disaster and been brutally outspoken, but that was Blake, striving to spare her the worst.

  Before the coming of Venetia, Blake had been approachable even if he did resent interfe
rence. Now, one would hesitate to confide in him for fear of some cynicism from the inflexible mouth, or a shaft of unsmiling mockery from his eyes. How could Venetia have accentuated the hardness in him? Fantastic that Blake could dwell with Venetia, share dozens of trifling intimacies and make passionate love to her, and still keep to his own side of the steel wall. It just didn’t make sense.

  A query darted with snake-like venom through Thea’s brain. Did Blake make passionate love to Venetia? She went cold with the unfamiliar sensation of terror, and got quickly to her feet.

  “I need some hankies from my room. I’ll get them now, in case I forget when Paul’s here.” Thea trod swiftly along the corridor, but once enclosed within the expensively severe bedroom her energy waned. She leaned against the wall, quite spent. She must listen for Paul’s car and run down to meet him, have an urgent word with him before he greeted Venetia and Blake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  VENETIA changed into blue silk and secured her hair behind each ear with a tiny marcasite bar. From habit her soiled linen was pushed into the basket, her shoes put away. She went back to the bathroom disposed of the wet towels and hung out fresh ones, tidied the tiled shelf.

  Thea was in the lighted porch, her gaze apparently on one particular star in the sky, but she twisted to smile at Venetia and momentarily drifted her hand upon the gleaming tresses which reached the blue-clad shoulders.

  Fumana brought wine and glasses. A few moments later Blake asked from behind them:

  “A drink now, Thea, or will you wait for Paul?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Venetia?”

  “I’ll wait, too.”

  The siphon spurted and ice tinkled. Blake came to Thea’s other side, and propped himself against a veranda pillar.

  “When are you going to give up hospital work?”

  Thea shot him a startled glance. “I’m not sure. I have a year’s contract, but one clause provides for termination within a month under set circumstances.”

  Venetia began, “But, Thea—”

  “Here’s Paul!”

  Thea moved precipitately forward, caught her heel and slipped over the edge of the polished step. Blake lunged forward and flung an arm round her.

  “You idiot! You didn’t even look to see where you were treading. Have you hurt yourself?”

  “No,” she said, sharp with vexation, and sat heavily on the top step.

  Venetia slid down beside her and clasped her hand, then raised her eyes to Paul’s smiling face. Before he could speak she said:

  “Thea tripped. It’s shaken her.”

  Instantly he was on his haunches, looking at Thea as if he and she were alone. His long padded finger and thumb felt gently round her anklebone.

  “Is it painful, darling?”

  Venetia couldn’t tell if it were Thea trembling or herself. She let go of the cool hand and closed her eyes to shut out Paul’s tender anxiety, the intensity of feeling in the endearment.

  “It’s nothing,” Thea answered offhandedly. “Blake saved me from cracking my knee.”

  Venetia had managed to pull herself upright and back away. She watched Blake pour a nip of whisky and hand it to Paul, saw Paul’s arm holding Thea while she sipped, and the grin he slanted across at Blake.

  “What d’you know! This is a fine thing to happen the day we become engaged!”

  The tension was sudden, and as suddenly snapped—by Blake.

  “Well! That explains the blind haste to meet you. I’m delighted, Paul.”

  “Hadn’t Thea told you?”

  “I ... saved it till you arrived.”

  Thea made to draw away from the men, but Blake touched her arm.

  “It’s grand news, Thea—just what I wanted for you. You two are going to be very happy.”

  “I think so too,” said Venetia, quietly entering the circle. “I’m so very glad, Thea ... and Paul.”

  Thea seemed slightly at a loss, and not conspicuously joyful. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, Venetia.”

  Blake mixed drinks and proposed a toast. Paul’s response was a contented glance across the grass table at Thea.

  “How soon are you planning to get married?” Blake wanted to know.

  Paul revolved his glass. “I’m anticipating a month’s vacation in five to six weeks—if I can get hold of a good locum. We’ll use it as a honeymoon.”

  “Nothing’s settled,” Thea inserted hurriedly.

  “Settle everything now,” suggested Blake evenly. “This is your home, so we’ll give the reception here, of course. There’s plenty of space outdoors and we can hire awnings for shade. The hotel will take care of the catering, and I’ll arrange transport—”

  “Not so fast, Blake!”

  “I believe in getting things done, though I suppose the engagement party should rightly come first,” he conceded. “Can you both make it Friday evening?”

  “Blake, I will not have an engagement party!” Thea lessened the heat of her refusal, and qualified it: “It isn’t necessary. Paul and I will come on Friday or Saturday, if you like, but no fuss. Please!”

  “My dear girl,” said Blake unmoved, “you’ve never been engaged in your life before. I insist on a party. We’ll invite our neighbours and your closest friends in town and at the hospital. Don’t you agree, Paul?”

  Paul replied somewhat doubtfully, “I do believe it pleases a woman to have such things to look back on.”

  “Oh no,” said Thea flatly. “Large parties are the dickens to arrange at short notice, and as we may be marrying soon we can’t leave it beyond this week-end. Imagine dining about twenty guests, and only two days for preparations. I couldn’t give any assistance, and it wouldn’t be fair to burden Venetia with such a responsibility.”

  There was a brief silence. Venetia became aware of being the focus of the discussion. What could they possibly be expecting of her? She was going away tomorrow—going away from Bondolo for ever. On Friday she might even have booked her passage. This had nothing to do with her, nothing at all.

  Then Blake spoke. “In spite of her youth, Venetia’s an extremely capable hostess. With an expert chef and other kitchen help she’ll give you a memorable celebration and love doing it for you.”

  This time Thea turned to Venetia. “What’s your opinion, my dear? Wouldn’t it be better to celebrate privately, just we four of the family?”

  We four of the family. Venetia’s lips were parted for several seconds before her answer came. It was terribly difficult to say anything in the least hurtful to Thea.

  “Paul may be right ... that a woman looks back with pleasure upon such occasions. Of course you must have a party, Thea.”

  Overwhelming opposition forced Thea to give in. She could be off duty at six-thirty, but it was necessary to procure Matron’s permission for a night out. She would have to get away from Bondolo very early on Saturday morning in order to take over the ward at eight.

  Venetia sat still and quiet, sadness and defeat weighting her mind and heart. With the wisdom of despair she told herself that we are called upon to bear only what we can; Thea’s party would defer her escape till Saturday, that was all.

  Presently they went in to dinner. She worked up a spurious, subdued gaiety which Thea perceived with relief. The atmosphere lightened, and when, towards nine, Thea and Paul had a nightcap and said good night in the porch, it was to the accompaniment of smiles and badinage.

  “Come early on Friday,” said Blake. “You ought to be on hand to welcome the guests.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Thea assured him. “If my month’s notice is accepted I may cart along a few things to store in my room.”

  “Can I collect them? I shall be in town tomorrow. By the way, will they let you out for an hour mid-morning?”

  “Heavens, no! Whatever for?”

  “To choose a kist,” he said.

  Thea turned to join Paul, who stood at the foot of the steps. “Sweet of you, but next week will do for that,” she said
quickly. “And I’ve nothing very big to bring, thanks. My own vehicle will hold them. Good night again, Venetia. Good night, Blake.”

  Paul’s car wound first from the drive, and Thea’s two-seater purred after it. Distress tightened her hands over the wheel and kept her gaze fixed on Paul’s tail-light. Speeding between the black billows of trees, she worried a little over spoiling this day for Paul. Not that he would regard it in that light; he was so comprehending, so ready to take his part in her troubles. And he felt that this particular trouble was his, too.

  At the byway which led up to his own house he signalled her to stop. She pulled on to the grass behind him and opened her door.

  “Switch off and lock up,” he said. “I’ll take you the rest of the way, and my boy will drive this over to the hospital in the morning.”

  Thea was more than willing to obey him, to feel his hand under her elbow as they walked forward and he helped her into the seat. When he got in and leaned across to kiss her, some warmth came back into her veins. Her serenity disintegrated, and she held his shoulders, and kissed him again, almost fiercely.

  He said: “You’re unhappy, aren’t you? What is it, Thea? What happened before I arrived at Bondolo this evening?”

  Slowly she settled back in the corner. “When you first got there you must have thought me mad, or behaving horribly.”

  “I thought neither. You were so brilliant-eyed when we parted this afternoon that I instantly connected the upset with Venetia and Blake.”

  “There was no upset ... nothing tangible. I arrived there around five, and within a minute I sensed a sort of frightful suspense in Venetia. My visit caught her slightly off-guard. It was impossible to draw her confidence, Paul.”

  “I can believe that. What about Blake?”

  “He wasn’t there—didn’t come till it was nearly dark. That’s ominous, too. He takes his lunch and stays away all day, which has never been necessary before at this season. Heaven only knows what’s wrong.”

  “It does sound strange, but it isn’t wise to surmise too much. Is that all?”

  “No, this is the worst part. The moment she heard his voice Venetia got as far from the door as she could. Blake gave her a keen look, but they didn’t exchange a word. It was dreadful.”