by Lilian Peake
By the time he returned, Rosalind was curled up under the bedclothes, feigning sleep. The covers on Slade’s side were pulled back and the mattress sagged under his weight. He still had not switched off the bedhead lamp. The bed was wide and it was not until an arm reached across her, fastening on her shoulder, did she recognise his intention. She stiffened, refusing to move. His hold tightened and he tugged her round.
‘I’m having you, Rosalind. Resist as much as you like, but you won’t divert me from my goal. All you’ll succeed in doing is inciting me, not deflecting me.’
Stiffly, she held away. ‘You promised you’d ask nothing of me.’
‘It was a statement, not a promise. It applied to our married life in general. I said nothing about our wedding night. There’ll be no nonsense in the future about any annulment. This marriage between us is going to be consummated. I intend—have always intended—to make you my wife physically as well as legally.’
He pushed back the covers and it was then that she realised he wore nothing. Colour swept her cheeks and he smiled, but although she searched, she could find no love in his eyes, only a kind of amusement. ‘Innocent as they come, aren’t you?’ he murmured. ‘Many times I’ve wondered. Now I know. I shall handle you with care, my sweet. Don’t be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ she choked, recognising at last that she had no weapons at all against this man’s determination. ‘I’m just—just mad at you for taking advantage of—’
He dragged her against him, holding her close, allowing her to experience the touch of him as their bodies came together, slowly, unhurriedly. When he felt her body burn against his, he eased her away. ‘I think we can discard this beautiful garment. There’s even greater beauty beneath.’
She forced her muscles to go slack, to offer no resistance. She would give nothing of herself, she thought furiously, except her body. Her emotions would remain undisturbed, her mind would go blank, her own private world would fasten its gates and he would not take a step inside her soul…
When he moved against her and his lips encountered hers, his hand caressing and stroking the enticing softness of her, her barriers started crumbling. When his lips forced hers to part, a strange and insistent craving took hold of her —to kiss him back, to arch her body, to revel instead of rebel, to love and be loved in return.
His lips moved to her ears, producing a throbbing response, to her throat, her shoulders and at last to her breasts. When she thought that life could offer no more ecstasy than this, he made her his with gentleness and infinite consideration. The cry she gave told him of her complete surrender and in her abandonment to joy, she did not care. There could now—could never be again—any more barriers between them.
When Rosalind woke next morning she opened her eyes to see Slade, fully dressed, gazing out of the window at the busy street below.
‘Slade?’ she said softly.
He turned, arms folded, watching as she sat up, tousled-haired. He looked amused and she glanced down at herself, realising that her nightgown lay where it had been thrown by Slade the night before—in a pile of gossamer-like whiteness on the floor. Grabbing the bedclothes, she pulled them to her chin.
He wandered across to her, pulling them down and gazing his fill. ‘It’s a little late now for modesty, isn’t it?’
Her pulses began to throb like the beat of jungle drums, remembering the night they had shared. A. light came into her eyes, her lips invited and her arms, audacious with the new intimacy, lifted to draw him down. He bent over her then, yielding to the pull of her hands at the back of his head, he half-sat, scooping her up to press against him. She felt the roughness of his jacket against her skin and murmured, ‘Why did you dress so early?’
Slade did not answer but buried his face in the hollow of her neck, moving and savouring the feminine softness of her, possessing her mouth finally and unequivocally. His hands, which had not been idle, caressed and fondled, touching off her desires, arousing her to the sea’s edge of passion. Then he put her from him, returning to the window. It was as though he was telling her that the last remaining clause in the contract had been fulfilled and there was nothing more to do or say. She was, legally and physically, his wife.
She clenched her hands, rolled over until her face was buried in the pillow and lay, breathing heavily, until her composure returned. The desire to pound the mattress, cry out for him to make love to her, anything rather than turn his back on her, had passed. When she looked again, she found that he had not moved from the window. A robe lay within reach and she pulled it on, wrapping it about her.
She gathered her clothes and went into the bathroom, locking the door.
Now they were home. They had spoken little during breakfast at the hotel. Slade had seemed preoccupied—with work, Rosalind had miserably supposed.
As they entered the house Patrick and Emma greeted them. Patrick’s smile was questioning but hopeful, Emma’s unrestrained. Slade and Patrick went into the living-room, leaving Rosalind in the hall with Emma.
‘Let me look at you.’ Emma turned her to the light. ‘Are you the radiant bride?’
Rosalind smiled, feeling her cheeks grow warm.
‘Oh, Rosa,’ Emma clasped her hand, ‘I’m so glad! You’re happy? I knew brother Slade wouldn’t let you down. He’s loved you at a distance for such a long time. Now you’re married to him—years ago he told us that that was his aim in life—I’m sure he’ll be a wonderful husband.’
Rosalind started to shake her head but stopped in time. She could not hurt Emma’s feelings, nor could she tell the truth about the circumstances of the marriage.
‘You’ve had breakfast, of course?’ Rosalind nodded. ‘Well, Patrick and I ate going to the Royal Hotel where my parents—your parents-in-law—’ she laughed, as if she too found the new relationship difficult to believe, ‘have stayed the night, have our midday meal with them and wave them on their way. Then Patrick and I will spend the rest of the day elsewhere and leave you two newly-weds alone.’
‘Oh, please, Emma—’ Rosalind was panic-stricken at the thought of a day alone with the near-stranger she had married, ‘don’t—don’t please worry about us. We don’t mind, Slade and I, if you and Patrick are here. Ask Slade. He’ll agree, I know he will.’
‘It’s all settled, Rosa.’ Patrick spoke from the doorway.
Slade was beside him. ‘You can—’ he cleared his throat, ‘you two can—hell, you know what I mean. And I know what I mean …’
Emma, eyes bright with laughter, was so happy for them that Rosalind was silenced. Her eyes met Slade’s in a question. It was as if he were enjoying her discomfiture. ‘I suggest we join Emma and Patrick until after lunch, then you and I can come back here while those two,’ he nodded as if to emphasise his point and also to convey a message to his wife, ‘can go wherever they like. What do you say, darling?’ he added, with a lazy gleam.
Rosalind, confused by the endearment and by the suggestion of a growing friendship between her brother and her sister-in-law, could only nod.
‘We’d all like to see your—’ she looked at Emma, ‘your—’ she looked at Slade, ‘mother and father again.’
‘Your new mother and father, too, darling,’ said Slade with a sly smile.
‘Of course,’ said Emma. ‘You’ll have to call them Mum and Dad like we do.’ There was general laughter and as Emma mounted the stairs to change, she called, ‘It’ll save the bother of cooking and dish-washing, won’t it?’
Mr and Mrs Anderson had been delighted to see ‘their four children’, as they called them, arriving to eat with them and wish them bon voyage.
There had been laughter and reminiscences and a demand for the patter of little feet before too much time had passed. Slade had become the devoted husband again, and it had not been difficult for Rosalind to reciprocate with smiles and hand-touching and responding to the occasional kiss which Slade had leant across to claim.
Slade had insisted on paying for the meal. He was,
he said, the wealthiest person present. With the exception, he added, flicking a stray curl in his wife’s hair, of the woman he had married roughly twenty-four hours earlier.
‘She now shares my fortune, don’t you, my love?’ he murmured. ‘All I have is yours. Have I told you that?’ His eyes took on a dazzled, adoring look and Rosalind responded by saying,
‘Oh, darling, yes. Many times, in the night—’ Then she had put her hands to her mouth as though she had given away a great secret.
There followed a bellow of laughter from Mr Anderson, who was joined by a delighted wife and daughter, and a slightly puzzled, if pleased, Patrick. As they had walked to their car, the Andersons had invited Slade and Rosalind to stay with them any time they chose.
Mrs Anderson hugged her ‘new daughter’ as she called her. ‘Let me know if my son ill-treats you,’ she joked.
‘Not on your life,’ said Mr Anderson. ‘That’s what a woman likes, love. Isn’t it, Rosa?’
Rosalind blushed. ‘I—I wouldn’t know, Mr An—’ His hand had come up, stopping her, as he mouthed the word ‘Father’.
They had stood together, Rosalind and Slade, Emma and Patrick, waving them into the distance. Slade’s arm had been around his wife’s waist, Patrick’s hand had been holding Emma’s. As the car disappeared, the four uncoupled and Patrick said to his sister and new brother-in-law, ‘We’ll see you some time. Emma? Coming?’
There was warmth and pleasure in the acquiescing glance Emma gave him. ‘Enjoy yourselves, you two,’ she called as she got into Patrick’s car. ‘Don’t wait up for us,’ she added, with a spark of mischief in her eyes.
It was warm that afternoon. Slade pulled off his tie. Rosalind found a sundress to wear, putting on sandals. She wandered round the house wondering where Slade had gone. He was in the breakfast room between the kitchen and the living-room. There was a desk in there, box files on shelves, and a portable typewriter in its case.
Piles of paper littered the room and magazines and newspapers devoted to computers and computing spilled on to the floor. Occupying one part of the room were the numerous gifts which had been on display at the wedding reception. Patrick used the room as a study and it seemed that Slade had decided to work there in Patrick’s absence.
Rosalind said from the doorway, ‘Taken over Patrick’s office at home as well as at work?’ It was provocative and Rosalind knew it, but she didn’t care. Anything, she thought, to be noticed. Silence greeted the remark. All Slade’s attention, it seemed, was on the work he was doing. There was none to spare for his wife.
‘Slade?’ He moved to indicate that he was listening. ‘I’m going into the garden. To sunbathe.’
‘Do what you like.’ His tone was flat, indifferent. He seemed to be inspecting the contents of two of the box files. Rosalind remembered with a shock that it was Slade’s company now, as well as Patrick’s, which meant that he had every right to delve into company matters without Patrick’s permission.
‘So I can go and look for another man?’ she persisted, nudging him verbally like a child pummelling its mother’s thigh to gain attention.
There was a pause, then, ‘I said, do what the hell you like.’
Tears rose swiftly, only to be quelled at once. She thought, I’ll go out and not come back for hours. But even as the thought came, she dismissed it. He would not notice her absence, nor would he care. She had married him, and that, it seemed, was all that concerned him. Instead she went into the garden, spread out a towel, lay on it and soaked up the sun’s warmth.
Her supine body hid the turmoil of her thoughts. For how long would she be able to endure this mockery of a marriage? How long before she packed up and walked away and let Patrick take his chance of being pushed out of his job? How long before she wanted her husband’s love so much she discarded all her principles and pride and went to him begging to be taken into his arms? And that, she thought, turning sharply on to her front, would never happen!
She must have slept because when she stirred she became aware that Slade was stretched beside her, his shirt gone, his hands cushioning his head. His eyes were closed and hers scanned his width and his solidity, longing to rest her head on his chest. The longing gave birth to the action and a second or two later she had eased her body next to his. Her cheek lowered slowly, slowly, so as not to wake him, for she was certain that he was asleep.
Her cheek felt the exciting roughness of his chest hair and her nostrils caught the aroma of his maleness. When the swell of her breasts pressed against his side and her hand lay palm down on his shoulder, he moved slightly, but did not change his position. For a while she was content to lie there, listening to the regularity of his heartbeats, letting her head rise and fall with the rhythm of his breathing.
Then a stirring of dissatisfaction crept into her mind. Was this, she wondered, all the response she was going to get? Did he experience nothing at the touch of her? Even at this early stage of their marriage had he run out of desire for the woman he had been so determined to marry? Did it matter? she asked herself. Yes, it mattered very much!
But she would not, she had vowed, go to him begging to be taken into his arms, and what was this but a mute pleading for his love? Anger shot like a speeded-up injection through her veins, and in her fury her fingers on his shoulder tensed and curved. Her nails dug and a split second before his reactions came into play, she was off him and up and running into the house.
‘You little bitch!’ came wafting through the summer air. She sped up to her room, leaning on the closed door, but he did not come after her. She went to the window which overlooked the garden. He did not look up and after a few brief rubs at his shoulder, he lay down again. Despondently Rosalind turned from the window and sat on her bed.
She wondered what Patrick and Emma were doing, where they had gone, when they would be back. She wondered what Emma would have to say when she discovered the sleeping arrangements of the new bride and her groom. She considered the idea of Patrick’s ever marrying again, and if he did, would his choice resemble red-haired Jeanie, or would it be Emma? Emma was so different from Patrick’s late wife that Rosalind dismissed the idea. She was just not his type.
There were movements downstairs and a glance from the window told her that Slade had come in. When his deep, decisive voice told her that he had made a cup of tea, and would she please come and drink it, a small voice from the past told her to refuse. Maturity conquered and she called back, ‘Thanks.’
They drank their tea in the living-room, Slade. stretched out in an armchair, his shirt loose and unbuttoned. Rosalind sat upright as if she were at an official tea party. Her slight shiver at the comparative chill of the house made her wish she had pulled a top over the sundress.
‘Are we,’ she challenged, looking at the long, strong body of her husband, ‘going to keep on sitting here as if we were complete strangers?’
‘Why,’ his half smile rolled with his head towards her, ‘do you want to talk? What shall we talk about? About you, perhaps, and how you came to work for Compro as their chief personnel officer.’
Rosalind shrugged. ‘I guess I just drifted into it.’
‘You had no formal training?’
‘No. When Patrick and John Welson formed the company, they needed staff to launch it. They asked me to join them. I was fed up with the secretarial post I held at the time—to a lawyer—so I agreed. They recruited the technical staff, like programmers, and I interviewed typists, secretaries and so on. When Patrick and John got too busy to take on programmers, I recruited them, too. Patrick told me all the right questions to ask, and I asked them.’
‘Such as?’ Slade was looking at her through half-closed eyes and this disconcerted her. His long legs were crossed at the ankles, his hands behind his head. His shirt hung open and his lean body was eminently masculine.
Was it, she thought, only last night that she had been so close to him that they were as one, breathing, living, loving so intimately that it seemed as though they were
welded together for ever, never to part again? Her eyes lifted from the magnetism of him to encounter his eyes and a knowing smile, as if he had guessed her thoughts.
Flustered, she answered, ‘Such as—well, why did you leave your previous job? Were you unhappy and if so, why? What can we do for you that your present employers can’t? Are you ambitious? Er—’ she rubbed the back of her head, ‘what course do you envisage your career will take over the next, say, five years? What salary have you in—’
‘Okay, okay. You’ve obviously learnt your party piece word for word.’
She said indignantly, ‘What is this? A “How well do you know your job” interview from boss to employee? Or are you simply making conversation?’
Slade pulled himself into a sitting position. ‘It’s passed the time, you must admit. I’m hungry. Let’s raid the fridge and see what we can find.’
They talked as they ate their meal, about family matters, about the world cruise her parents were on, about Slade’s life in America.
Later that evening Slade told Rosalind, ‘Don’t come in tomorrow. Take the day off.’
She frowned. ‘Why? On what grounds?’
He was leaning forward in the armchair, the colour magazine supplement of the Sunday newspaper open on his lap. ‘Maybe we could call it wedding-lag, inability to adjust to alteration in status, to the speed of the changes in your life.’
‘Thanks for the kind thought,’ she replied with some asperity, ‘but I think I can judge for myself how I feel. And I feel fine.’
An eyebrow lifted quizzically. ‘Marriage suiting you? Speeding up your metabolism?’ She coloured at his reminiscent gleam.
‘There’ll be a pile of paper on my desk as a result of my absence on Friday.’
His glance cooled. ‘I told you Duncan Varley had temporarily taken over.’
‘All the same, I’ll go to work as usual.’
‘In that case, I’d like to have a word with you first thing, before my appointments start piling up.’
