by Vaso
Later, having seen the brother and sister off in their separate cars, Queenie accompanying Emma, Valentine said to Kemp as he locked the front door: 'I enjoyed this evening. I'm afraid Emma didn't, though, poor sweet.'
He turned to look at her. 'Thanks to you."
She shook her head. 'You're going to hurt that girl, Kemp.'
'As you hurt Philip?' he taunted. 'No, Valli, Emma is like her brother. She has a natural regard for herself.'
'Oh, she won't be destroyed, I'll grant you.' Valentine's mouth was pulled into a tragic line as his'mention of Philip brought pain close to the surface. 'But she'll still suffer.'
'It's one of life's nastier little surprises, isn't it?' he drawled. 'Finding oneself responsible for someone else's happiness and unable to become what they want you to be.'
'Isn't it just?' she agreed bitterly.
'There speaks the voice of terrible experience,' he mocked lightly.
'Don't you want to know what passed between Emma and me in the kitchen?' she changed the subject pointedly.
'I can guess,' he retorted impatiently. 'You gained confirmation of certain suspicions you'd been harbouring . . . So what the hell, Valentine? I had to learn the truth somehow or other, since you weren't prepared to divulge it and that way was probably as good as any.'
'I beg to differ,' she said icily. 'I found it a particularly unpleasant manner of bringing the truth to light.'
'Then you should have told me yourself, right at the beginning, right?' Kemp ground out harshly. 'Why the hell didn't you?'
Valentine squared her shoulders and produced a bright artifical smile. 'Because I was frightened, you see,' she stated in her clear beautiful voice. 'Yes, even I ... Or perhaps I wanted to make you like me first, I wanted to win something from you. Giving you the Valentine card was enough. I was going to tell you at lunchtime. It's all right, Kemp, I don't expect you to believe that, but I swear it's true.'
'I'm relieved by the return of your unique directness,' he mocked, his lips twisting. 'But such candour could turn back on you, sweetheart. You're really setting yourself up, aren't you?'
'To be shot down? What does it matter?' Bitterness was
a corrosive thing, causing her to lash out, but it was herself she was whipping. 'You already have plenty of weapons to use against me. One more can't make any difference.'
'Can't it?'
'Oh, I've no doubt you'll endeavour to make sure it does make a difference. I could hate you, Kemp,' she went on with hopelessness deadening her beautiful eyes. 'I'll never believe I was more than just a little to blame for a young man's emotional imbalance, but don't you think I've suffered enough, without your contribution towards punishing me?'
'You're the one who's doing the punishing, Valentine,' he told her tautly. 'I wonder when you'll realise it? Go to bed now. It's late and I don't feel like arguing with you. You needn't lock your door.'
'I know that. You wouldn't let yourself be provoked the same way twice, would you, Kemp?' she taunted, resenting the steely strength of will which gave him such power.
'Well, not in precisely the same way,' he agreed, and a certain grimly humorous inflection had entered his voice. 'Nevertheless, you are a provocative woman . . . Valli! Quite extravagantly so.'
He was looking at her in such a way that her red lips parted involuntarily and a still, expectant tension held her body immobile. She stood with the light behind her, slim and fragile, with her dark* head thrown back, and Kemp's eyes moved over the smooth outlines of her figure, travelling upward from her slender thighs to where the rosy peaks of her breasts were just visible, jutting against the soft material of her dress.
'Kemp . . ,' It was a whisper, born of both fear and yearning.
'Relax!' His voice had all the sharp suddenness of a pistol shot. 'I'm not interested when you've already had Adam Ducaine's hands all over you tonight.'
Recovering her composure, she said, 'That's a trifle exaggerated, darling.'
'Do you really enjoy being mauled about by young men who mean nothing to you and who can do nothing for you?' he Went on distastefully.
'I never permit . . . mauling, as you so crudely put it,' she assured him haughtily. A malicious little smile touched her lips. 'You told me this morning that you don't usually mark your women, Kemp. Well, you're the only man who's ever left bruises on me.'
He seemed to sigh. 'However civilised we like to think ourselves, there remains a basic primitive core in all of us, and who can predict what's going to draw it out? You succeeded where no one else, has, Valentine, and you suffered for it. I was brutal, I know, and however much you deserve to suffer, you didn't merit physical violence. It won't happen again.'
'Thank you. Goodnight, Kemp.'
For a timeless moment she filled her vision with the sight of him. Her heart felt wrung, her mind almost at breaking point. He was such a beautiful man, damn him, with his height and leanness, that tanned skin and the intensely blue eyes, his almost fair hair and those hands, civilised hands which had thus shocked her with the cruelty of their caresses last night . . . Ah, God, and that ironical mouth and the network of fine lines about his eyes that she would like to touch with her lips and fingers . . .
But what enslaved her was the wholeness of him, not just his beautiful strong body and the face that looked as if it had seen all of life, but the total personality, the intelligence and humour of him. So often he unknowingly confirmed for her that initial feeling of recognition she had experienced.
'Goodnight, Valentine.'
A brief acknowledging inclination of her head, and she turned from him, departing with matchless grace, and Kemp watched her go.
Harvesting got under way and the tempo of life on the
estate quickened. The good weather held as if to deliberately thwart Freddie Jansen's pessimistic predictions that they wouldn't finish in time.
Valentine saw less of Kemp now, for despite his lack of inclination to be the owner of a wine estate, he made himself as active as the other men and she realised, from things she heard, that the Fleurmont employees all respected him.
Nevertheless, the social life of the district didn't come to an end just because the gathering of the grapes had begun. Singly or together, Valentine and Kemp were often invited out to dinner or to parties.
At one such dinner party on the Ducaine estate, it became clear to Valentine that Mrs Ducaine shared her daughter's fears as the older woman stiffly advised her of what she considered to be the impropriety of the situation at Fleurmont.
'You and Kemp are alone together in that house, with the servants' quarters apart from the main living area,' she pointed out to a politely attentive Valentine. 'People will talk and make suggestions, probably only in jest to begin with, but then the rumours will start and finally you'll find that a firm conviction has grown up regarding what's going on.'
'And what is going on?' Valentine enquired mischievously, her eyes straying to the opposite end of the room where a gratified Emma had all JCemp's attention.
'Oh, nothing, I'm sure, my dear,' Mrs Ducaine said hastily, but she didn't sound very convinced. 'But you know how it is ... The situation isn't a conventional one.'
'I hadn't thought of it like that,' Valentine admitted,
'I suppose not. You're a rather unconventional person, aren't you?' Mrs Ducaine definitely did not mean it as a compliment.
'I would have thought I was par for the course ... in this day and age,' Valentine brought out-the much-used phrase with a certain hauteur, resenting being given advice by someone who so clearly disliked her.
'Couldn't you have a room in the Hattinghs' house?' Mrs Ducaine pressed on.
'I wouldn't wish to intrude on their family life—and Sylvie might be afraid I'd seduce James,' Valentine added wickedly, and saw the older woman's mouth purse. Til have to ask Kemp what he thinks, Mrs Ducaine. You see, I think he has other plans for me.'
And with a melting smile, she rose swiftly and drifted away to talk to someone else. A
sliver of ice worked its way further into her heart. She had spoken so truly: Kemp undeniably had plans for her. He intended that she should suffer, not just a single revenge, but several forms of it, and he had a plentiful supply of weapons to use against her. Just now, when he was so busy, he confined himself to barbed comments and the. occasional references to Philip, so that she was never in any doubt of his contempt, but Valentine knew that later on he intended that she should truly pay, in several ways, for the tragedy that had befallen his cousin. All she could do in the meantime was gather her strength and pray that it would be sufficient to disguise from him the damage he would do. She would never let him see if he was successful, she vowed intensely.
'Do you think our situation is unconventional?' she asked him curiously on the way home. 'Mrs Ducaine thinks I should move in with the Hattinghs before people start thinking you and I are having an affair.'
'Good God!' He sounded amused. 'I hadn't thought of it in that light. How do you feel about it, Valentine? Do you mind what people say about you?'
'I've been talked about before and in a worse way,' she reminded him bitterly. 'I survived that.'
'The great survivor,' he mocked silkily. 'You are, aren't you? But you'll crack one day, my lovely.'
'If you have anything to do with it, right?' she challenged.
'I've warned you about the dangers of bitterness before,' he reminded her impatiently. After a short silence he
added thoughtfully, 'All the same, this unconventional situation could give rise to many things in time.'
'A very clear threat, Kemp,' she retorted acidly.
'No. Merely a warning . . . Valli!' He brought the terrible name out harshly.
'I'm not afraid of you,' she assured him, her voice a silvery sound, full of mystery, because she wasn't emphatic at all.
'Ah, yes. What was it you swore?' he derided. 'That I'd never bend you, or make you weep? But I'll do both. I wish you'd resign yourself to that fact and stop fighting me.'
Til die first!'
'And you'll never die, will you? It's going to be a long campaign,' he reflected, and Valentine felt herself grow cold.
It was also during this time that two of his former colleagues from his production crew came to stay at Fleurmont for a couple of days. Valentine liked them. They were nice men, in their thirties, with a slightly ribald sense of humour, and she never minded the goodnatured passes they made at her because they accepted their rejection so cheerfully, and she came to the conclusion that they were really more interested in their work and drinking than in women. One was an inveterate chain-smoker, while the other rejected their wine disdainfully and drank only beer, lots of it.»
Valentine noticed how fully Kemp entered into their conversations about work, and she realised anew that he had given himself more completely to that old life than he ever would to this business of wine-production.
Their visitors departed and the busy sunny days continued. The grapes continued to be brought in. The total crop would have to go through the de-stalking crusher before undergoing, ultimately, the entire ritual of de-juicers and pre-press; then the final press; the distilling tanks for the whites and open fermeritation tanks for the reds; the vital centrifuges where the white wines were cleared and the dead yeast cells removed; the white wine fermentation tanks and the vats for the reds, the casks made of European oak, where a wine like the Cabernet would have to mature for up to nine months before being bottled.
Valentine knew the procedure off by heart because it was something she explained daily to their visitors. She was the guide on their tours right through the production cellar. Then there were the stabilising and storage tanks, the filling room with its expensive and modern equipment of rinsers, steriliser, bottler and corker, storage space where whites rested for a few months, reds for much longer, and the labelling area . . . Only the all-important tasting-room was private, hidden away from any disturbance. There the cellarmaster and vintner's palates would determine the quality of their produce.
Even Sundays were busy now. Only Valentine was off duty, and late on a Sunday morning in March she dressed herself in soft blue-grey shorts that hugged her slender waist, and a fine white shirt, and went towards the foothills, preferring to walk since taking Idun would hinder the fulfilment of her intention which was simply to relax.
The dogs accompanied her for part of the way before racing off on a pursuit of their own, and Valentine went on alone until she came to the flower-starred sweeps of grass, one of her favourite parts of Fleurmont. It was a bright, still day. The world of mountain and sky had a sunlit serenity and not a sound came to her ears as she lay down in the soft warm grass. Everyone was far, far away. She was alone and she unfastened another button of her shirt, taking sensuous pleasure in the heat of the sun. She lay motionless, staring up at the sky, while a pale yellow flower tickled the side of her neck.
So it was that Kemp found her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TVE escaped for a while,' Kemp told her with a crooked smile.
Valentine raised herself on her elbows, drawing up one long smooth leg, and looked at him concernedly. 'Why don't you escape permanently?' she asked, for his frustration at being here was often on her mind.
'How can I?' He had sat down beside her and now he glanced back in the direction of the vineyards.
'You must do what's best for you personally,' she ventured carefully. 'Or rather, what you feel you must do. Once when we were talking about this, you said something about responsibility, but isn't there another, greater responsibility? That of being . . . being true to yourself? Your documentaries showed you had the ability to make people become aware, without manipulating them emotionally, and surely that's more important than the production of wine? I think it's what you believe.'
'You can see so much of me^' can't you?' he queried idly. 'But Fleurmont meant so much to Edward and Reinette . . . And it would be a gpod place for a child to grow up.'
That last was disturbing, but she smiled calmly. 'Are you thinking of getting married?'
An ironic glint appeared in his eyes. 'Not in the immediate future, anyway.'
Relieved, she reverted to the main topic. 'You could continue to own Fleurmont and go on with your job, you know. You could come back between assignments, when you wanted a rest.'
'And you'd be here to entertain me, I suppose?' he laughed.
'Who knows where I'll be?' she countered lightly.
'I never did receive formal notice from you,' he remembered.
'No.' For a moment she was thoughtful, wondering what instinct towards self-destruction had prevented her leaving. But it would have been running away, and she prided herself on having a certain amount of courage. She gave Kemp a brilliant mocking smile. 'You haven't pushed me far enough yet.'
He smiled too. 'I'll begin to think you're a masochist.'
'No. I'm just a fool,' she sighed.
There was silence for a while, then Kemp said, 'There's something I've been meaning to tell you about Philip.'
Valentine sat up straight, the bitter light of resentment back in her eyes. 'I might have known. Now you really are pushing me too far, Kemp. You're only my employer, after all, and I'm off duty. I came here to relax in peace and look at the mountains. I didn't resent it when you arrived, but if you're going to start taunting me with Philip again———'
'Shut up and listen to me, Valli,' Kemp interrupted impatiently.
'Don't call me Valli!' she snapped, trying to stand up, but a steely grip on her arm prevented her.
'Why not? It's your name,' he taunted cruelly. 'You may be off duty, but you're on my property, so you can damn well stay and listen!'
'I suppose I've no choice,' she said resignedly.
'None at all.' Kemp released her arm and looked at her assessingly for a few seconds. Then he sighed exasper^ atedly. 'Although why I should bother with someone so self-absorbed and defensive, I do not know , . . But for what it's worth, Philip was a difficult personality througho
ut his childhood. He led Edward and Reinette a hell of a life. God knows what made him the way he was. He had security, a happy family life . . . Edward and Reinette were the normal sort of parents, but for some reason he was always convinced they didn't love him
enough, a belief which resulted in his applying a form of emotional blackmail. He got worse in his teens, but Reinette refused to seek outside help. I think she had some sort of idea that to do so would be tantamount to admitting failure. She would never even admit that anything was wrong, and yet she was the one who suffered most. She was lined and grey long before she should have been. As Philip got older, his hang-up manifested itself in different ways. There were tantrums when he felt he'd been slighted, public quarrels with his first girlfriends . . . We were all relieved when he married Rose. She was about eight years older than him, a strong personality who adored him, but still Philip wasn't happy. She didn't love him enough, he believed. He resented her parents, her friends, anyone for whom she felt affection . . .'
'Yes?'
Kemp had paused and Valentine thought his face looked as if it were carved out of granite.
'There was one thing he did that ... I just don't know!' Kemp exclaimed angrily. 'I've been around the world and seen some terrible things, Valentine, cruelties I wouldn't want you to know about, but for some reason this one action of Philip's appalled me, though I've witnessed so much worse in my time. Rose had a cat, a beautiful, highly pedigreed sealpoint. Philip hated it because Rose loved it—more than she loved him, he believed. He was quite honestly jealous of a cat! Well, perhaps that wasn't so unusual, but what he did was . . . One day he took this delicate and nervous little creature, who had rarely even been allowed into the garden unless someone was with her; he put her in his car and took her out to a stretch of veld in the middle of nowhere, and left her there."
'Oh, God!' Valentine's lips curved downwards.
'Then he went home and told Rose what he'd done. She forced him to show her where he'd dumped the animal, and the fact that she went back there day after day, calling and looking for her pet, merely increased Philip's belief that she'd loved the cat more than she did him.'
