by Vaso
Rose de Villiers was a woman of about thirty-five, tall and angular, yet a beauty. Valentine recognised the assistance of henna in the red hair, and the face was an experienced one. At first her attitude towards Valentine was polite but wary, but gradually she relaxed, perhaps seeing die fear and irrational shame that lay beyond the bittersweet smiles of the vivid lips and the hardness of the sapphire eyes.
'It's so long since I've been to Fleurmont,' Rose said reflectively after a few minutes during which conversation had been polite and banal. 'Do you* enjoy working here, Miss McLaren?'
'I have enjoyed it, yes,' Valentine replied in a tone rich with meaning and Kemp gave her a sharp glance. Looking unconcerned, she took a sip from the glass of semi-sweet rose he had given her. 'Are you up from Cape Town for the day?'
'I'm actually staying in Stellenbosch for a few days. I've a friend on the university staff.' She paused, looking at her watch. 'In fact, I imagine he'll start wondering where I am if I don't get back soon. You did say you'd drive me back to town, didn't you, Emma?'
'Of course,' Emma agreed reluctantly. 'But it's early yet.'
'Won't you join us for lunch?' Valentine invited charmingly, addressing herself to Rose, and Kemp smiled a little grimly while Emma looked disconsolate.
'Thanks all the same, but no.' Rose's smile was kind. 'I really feel I must get back, but first ... It was Maude who brought the drinks out. Is Salome still with you? I must just say hullo to her. Come and help me find her, Miss McLaren?'
'She ought to be in the kitchen,' said Valentine, standing up and flinging an insouciant smile at Kemp and Emma. The effort made her feel sick.
Out of sight of the others, Rose came to a halt. 'Salome can wait for a few minutes, Valli . . . I'm sorry, I noticed Kemp calls you Valentine, but you see, I've always thought of you as Valli. I couldn't say this in front of them since we were all being so sociable, pretending nothing was wrong ... I want you to know that I think this was a vile, cruel thing to do to you.'5,
'I would agree with that,' Valentine said drily.
'You were totally unprepared, weren't you?' Rose said sympathetically. 'I'm more sorry than I can say, since I can imagine your feelings only too well. I didn't know until I got here that I would be meeting you, or I'd never have come. It was a casual invitation and I felt like seeing Fleurmont again. I didn't want to hurt or embarrass you.'
'No. Others wanted to do that,' Valentine murmured bitterly.
They looked at each other sadly, and each saw that like herself the other had suffered. There was recognition, an exchange of understanding.
'You've suffered terribly over what Philip did, haven't you?' Rose guessed, sighing. 'Since I've unwittingly inflicted my presence on you and probably revived the whole tragic business in your mind, we might as well extract some benefit from the situation. I've often thought of you, wondering what had become of you . . . My hus-
band did a terrible thing to you. I would like you to know that I've never blamed you for what happened. I knew Philip too well, you see. His infatuation must have been monumental, but you weren't to know what your rejection would do, and even if you could have known .. . No, you had to be true to yourself, and Philip needed a woman who would be mother as well as lover to him. I don't think you could have filled that role. Oh, my dear, I can see I'm distressing you.'
'No . . . no!' Valentine assured her, but her hands were clenched, her nails digging into her palms. 'It has ... It does help me to hear this. The worst times have always been when I've thought of you, and the shock and hurt you must have felt. I could see most of the situation fairly rationally, but I felt a sense of ... of shame, guilt or something, where you were concerned, even though he hadn't told me about you.'
'Poor Philip,' Rose commented, and Valentine had the impression it was something she had said many times before. 'But you must put away such feelings now, Valli. I've met a man, one who, though he occasionally leans on me, also allows me to lean, instead of expecting me to do all the encouraging and supporting. That's the way it should be. I've been . . . healed, so you must be.too.'
'I thought I had been,' Valentine said, more to herself than to the other woman. How stupid she had been!
'You're young . . . But I can see you're still upset,' Rose digressed. 'Come, I'll just say hullo to Salome, and then Emma can take me back to town and you can forget this unfortunate encounter.'
If only it was so simple!
Not many minutes passed before Rose was saying goodbye to Kemp. Emma was already in her car with the engine running, a distinctly sulky expression on her face, while Kemp was at his most inscrutable, but Valentine couldn't bring herself to wonder what had passed between them while she and Rose had been absent.
'Keep in touch, Rose,' Kemp was saying.
'I will.' Rose gave Valentine a smiling glance. 'Perhaps after a time we'll all be able to get together one evening.'
Valentine smiled automatically, wondering if she really believed that. If she did, Rose was crediting her with less pride and more resilience than she possessed.
The red car pulled away and Valentine looked at Kemp sadly. For the moment his attention was on Rufus. The dog had been rolling somewhere and his beautiful red coat had little sticks and leaves in it which Kemp was removing.
Wordlessly, Valentine turned and went towards the house.
'Valentine.'
She was at the front door when she heard him, but she neither paused nor looked back.
He found her in the main bedrpom, sweeping the pots and tubes of make-up she had used that morning into the large box which normally contained them.
'Are you all right?' He stopped, realising what she was doing, and his eyes narrowed. 'What are you doing?'
Valentine straightened and looked at him with eyes that burned.
'Preparing to leave,' she said succinctly.
'May I ask why?' he enquired levelly.
'Do you have to?' she retorted with a graceful lift of one ^shoulder. Her control snapped. 'My God! You realised that morning you told me Rose was seeing someone from Stellenbosch . . . You realised then what it would do to me to be brought face to Tace with her, so you deliberately went ahead and arranged it. I've been so ... so stupid! I really thought your desire for revenge had been satisfied by the fact that you had robbed me of all pride by making me your lover without loving me . . . listening to me tell you a thousand times how much I loved you, knowing I practically worshipped you . . . And all the time you were planning this, the . . . the ultimate revenge, forcing me to meet the woman . . .Oh, God!' Kemp's face was a tight mask of anger, the skin stret-
..—...—.~ „ „„.'/3
ched tautly across the bones. His eyes blazed and his lips were twisied sardonically.
'This, then, is what you believe of me,' he said distastefully. 'Such faith, sweetheart. Such trust!'
'I did have faith,' she told him in a cold, clear little voice. 'I did trust that having . . . had me, you were done with punishing me. I gave you everything of myself, unreservedly, and I thought you would be content with that; dial the fact that you'd humiliated me utterly by taking lay . . . my love, would be sufficient, especially as it was a method of revenge from which you too derived personal pleasure. But you had to break me utterly, didn't you? I suppose I was too happy ... I had reconciled myself to my bondage too easily and wasn't suffering enough to satisfy you.'I
'Bondage? To what bondage are you referring?' he enquired silkily.
Valentine closed the make-up box with a loud click and gave him a smile that was tragic in its bitterness.
'Isn't it bondage when a woman is so enslaved by a man that she'll gratefully become his mistress, knowing that his absence of love or respect precludes marriage, and count her pride well lost for the half loaf she's granted? Isn't that bondage, Kemp?' she accused tartly. 'Except that in our case there wasn't merely an absence of love and respect on your part, but active contempt as well.'
'You insult both yourself and me
with such talk,' Kemp said furiously. 'If that's what . . . Go then, Valentine. I want nothing more of you.'
'I'm going,' she confirmed icily. 'Today. Sylvie will have to do my job until you employ a replacement. Tell her I'm sorry.'
'Is that all you're sorry about?' he taunted. 'My God! You've professed a great deal of love over the last few days, but it's a small and tawdry love, not to mention immature, that can react this way.'
'You believe it should be so great a love that I'd stay with you no matter what you.did to me?' Valentine enquired sweetly. 'But you see, Kemp, some pride was left to me after all. I do love you—I should hate you now, but I don't. I love you and I'm not ashamed of it. Nor should you be—my love is something worth having, but not even you may treat me as you have today. I won't tolerate it.'
'Yes, I too thought your love was something worth having,' he flung at her. 'It proves worthless, though, when it ... Just go, Valentine.'
She snatched up what belongings she had already put together, adding the make-up box to the top of the pile, and walked out of the room with her head held high, going to her old bedroom to pack since much of her property had remained there.
Anger and resentment sustained her as she filled her suitcases. She had no thoughts, only feelings, and those feelings were extreme. Pride was a violent thing, obliterating everything else, and that pride was incensed by what Kemp had done in his final attempt to humiliate her. She did not have to endure such contempt, not from anyone. She was worthy of more consideration, especially from. one to whom she had given her love.
She took the time to renew her make-up before taking the cases out to her car. Only when they were safely stowed, in the boot and she herself was sitting in the driver's seat, fastening her safety belt, did Kemp reappear.
'Where will you be going?' he asked coldly through the open window.
Valentine lifted a shoulder. 'Home, I suppose. Gordon's Bay. I have nowhere else to go at the moment.'
He seemed to think for a moment. 'You need not fear that I shall come after you——'
'Your desire for revenge is finally sated then?' she enquired sardonically, arching an eyebrow.'
'God damn you, Valentine,' he said very quietly.
'I'm beginning to believe I was damned at birth,' she retorted bitterly.
He drew a deep breath. 'If our relationship, our very brief relationship,' he amended ironically, 'should have consequences for you, will you let me know?'
'If I should be pregnant? I'm almost sure I'm not.' Her laughter was a mockery, too close to tears. 'It's funny, isn't it? After I'd done my shopping in Stellenbosch this morning, I went to a doctor and got a prescription for something to prevent pregrtancy . . . They won't be needed now, will they?'
He shook his head. 'You bitch! Go!' Valentine turned the key and he stepped.away from the car. She looked at him, saw the harsh grooves bracketing his twisted mouth and the way the lines seemed to be cut into the tanned skin about his eyes. Anguish tore at her, a physical pain, and she spoke to him once more.
.'Why do I have to love you so much?' she asked despairingly. 'Why did you do it, Kemp? How could you? I hope you suffer as much as I will. You can search the world and you won't find a woman who can give you as much as I can, because you'll never find a woman who loves you as much as I do!'
Then, biting hard on her lower lip, she put the car into gear with a jerk, released the brake and drove away. She had her last sight of him in her rear-view mirror, standing there in his casual clothes with the autumn sun brightening his hair.'
'Oh, God . . . Kemp!' she whispered agonisedly. Away from Fleurmont she had to pull over to the side of the main road. She crossed her arms over the steering-wheel and rested her head on them, but the tears she had anticipated didn't come. Strangely, all at once, she felt nothing. She was cold and empty, dead inside, and she didn't think she would ever feel again.
After a while, her white face set in a hard, composed mask, she started the car again and began the long drive to Gordon's Bay.
'Val, love, you cannot continue like this,' Nigel said emphatically.
'What do you suggest I do, then?' she challenged bitterly.
'I don't know,' Nigel sighed. 'Something, anything, just to end this terrible suffering. Go back to this man, or write to him . . . Let me go and see him aod find out if perhaps your mind hasn't exaggerated what he did to you. You were clearly expecting persecution, taking his wish for revenge for granted, and perhaps you overreacted.'
'No, Nigel.' Valentine's . nn, linked with his, trembled. 'One of the things he said to me that last day was . . . that he wanted nothing more of me.' 'I wish I could help.'
It was two weeks and a day since Valentine had left Fleurmont. At first, the deadness of feeling had remained with her, and the absence of all emotion had enabled her to pretend she was not too badly wounded by what had occurred, but then feeling had returned and, with it, unceasing, agonising pain. She yearned for Kemp with a terrible aching hunger which allowed her no rest, and her nights were a hell of tormented longing. She thought that if this anguish continued much longer, she might lose her mind.
Her parents didn't invite her confidence and she didn't give it to them. There had been a gulf between them in her adult years and, while they had accepted her assurances that she had not deliberately hurt Philip de Villiers, they had not truly understood and had been resentful of the publicity engendered by the tragedy. They were two ordinarily good-looking, ordinarily gifted and intelligent people who had produced two exceptional children and now found themselves perplexed more than anything else by their brilliant son and beautiful daughter.
It was Easter Sunday. Nigel had come home for the long weekend and it was to him that Valentine told her story although she gained little relief from doing so. Now.
in the late evening, with the light fading from behind the lowering pewter clouds and a fine, cold mist drifting over the bay, brother and sister strolled up and down the beach, arm-in-arm, as they had done all their lives. The last dog walkers had gone, driven home by the chill air, and they were the only figures peopling the bleak scene. Valentine tried to smile. 'Do you remember when we were children, Nigel, and we used to come and promenade up and down the beach whenever there was a crowd because we were pretty children and we liked the sensation of being stared at? It would be nice to be like that again. Enjoyment was all we knew.'
'No, Val,' Nigel said calmly. 'It wouldn't be nice at all, to remain untouched all our lives. Experience shapes and enriches us. I don't even believe you wholly regret your affair with this Kemp Irvine.'
'You're right,' Valentine conceded flatly. 'I don't regret it. For that short time he made me whole and complete because he's the other half of me . . . But now I'm hollow and empty and, oh God, how am I going to do without him for the rest of my life, Nigel?'
Nigel looked at her compassionately, seeing a study in black and white. Her jeans tucked into boots, her suede jacket over a cashmere sweater; all were black and her face was white and strained. The damp air had curled her hair into dark tendrils about her face, and her eyes were huge and so dark with pain' that they too looked black.
'We're very alike, you and I, but I pray God I don't have your truly terrible capacity for suffering,' he said soberly. 'Life has used you badly, hasn't it?'
'But it goes on and on,' said Valentine, thinking of Philip's way out and shuddering.
Perhaps Nigel had the same thought because he said urgently, 'You do know that you'll survive even this, love? 'This too shall pass'. Remember that.'
'Oh, I can go on enduring for ever, Nigel,' she assured him with an intensity of bitterness causing her voice to shake. 'But it won't pass. Kemp is in me for ever and ever . . . He's part of me!'
He put his arms round her and let her sob, but tears brought her no relief and they both knew it.
'Come on, Valentine,' he said when she was quiet again. 'It's cold and the light is getting worse. Let's go back to the house.'
'No, y
ou go. I want to walk . . . I've got to walk!' Valentine said desperately. 'This . . . this thing won't let me rest. I can't seem to keep still. Trying to relax only makes me feel worse. I want to be alone now.'
'All right, Garbo, but if you're not home in, say, half an hour, I'll come and fetch you,' Nigel conceded reluctantly. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked at her intently. 'Promise me you'll ... be all right.'
'I promise.' She smiled faintly. .'You know me, Nigel.'
'Of course. I'm sorry.' He grinned engagingly and turned away, striding over the sand, tall and long-legged, next to Kemp the most beautiful man Valentine knew. He waved to her from the empty car park and was swallowed up by the greyness of the evening.
He was lucky, she thought wistfully. His great beauty · had never brought the tragedy that hers had done, perhaps because he was cleverer and therefore warier than she had been.
Still Valentine paced the deserted beach, her fretful thoughts wasted because they had all been thought before and brought no solution. The wind which prevented the light mist from gathering and becoming thick made her face icy cold and her fingers felt numb even when she pushed them into the pockets of her jacket. She was a fool to stay out here, but her restlessness became torture in the house perched high above one of the town's winding roads. She would have to think about a job soon, she supposed wearily, turning again and walking in the other direction.
The little waves were torn to rough lace by the wind and she listened to their lapping sound without pleasure
and wondered what Kemp was doing now. When it got dark she would go home, she decided, otherwise poor Nigel would have to come out-in the cold again. Perhaps tonight she would sleep. It was the nights she had learned to dread most, when her longing for Kemp's vibrant possession became unbearable and she would weep bereftly into the pillow, remembering the strength of his arms about her and the reassuring warmth of his body against hers. He had promised to keep her safe . . .
