by Anne Weale
Rachel said that she did and thanked her. When the door was closed, she hesitated for some moments and then took off her blouse and picked up the blue shirt.
When she reached the study, she found Daniel standing by the window watching the rain. He had discarded his shirt and tie and was wearing an old grey sweater. For some reason, she was reminded of their first meeting in the orchard.
“Come and sit down. Tea won’t be long,” he said, “What—no outraged protests?”
“As you said, short of getting drenched, there’s not much I can do, is there?” she said coldly.
He smiled at her. “Don’t look so glacial about it. Everyone has to bow to the inevitable occasionally.”
“Except you, I gather.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked with an amused glance.
She hesitated and then said, “Surely, in your place, most people would have thought it inevitable that they were going to rough it all their lives?”
He looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh, your father told you all that, did he?” he said. “I suppose you disapprove of me even more strongly now?”
“Why should I?”
“Oh, come,” he said negligently. “You’re the girl who lectured me about my duty to carry on the great tradition—remember? Now that you’ve discovered my sordid antecedents, you can hardly consider me a suitable occupant for the feudal throne. Personally, I find it rather amusing, but I doubt if many of my neighbors would share the joke.”
“I expect they’d admire you all the more.”
He grinned. “All except you.”
“Does my opinion matter?”
He gave her a keen glance. “We’re back to the other night again. You were about to tell me what I’d done to earn your disfavor.”
“I—I suppose we’re just naturally antipathetic,” she said uneasily.
His mouth twitched. “Could be. Do you think it’s permanent, or could we overcome it? They say that hatred is akin to love, you know. Perhaps we’ll warm to each other as time goes on. Or”—with one of the narrowed looks which she could never read—“don’t you believe in platonic friendships?”
She managed to hold his glance. “Do you?” she asked casually.
He shrugged. “Why not? Especially in our case. After all your affections are already safely engaged, aren’t they? Is Harvey the jealous type?”
“He has no reason to be,” she returned pleasantly. “Isn’t jealousy rather an immature emotion?”
“That depends on the girl, I should say. If she’s not notably attractive, there won’t be much competition. If she is, a man’s a fool not to keep an eye on her.”
“I feel sorry for your fiancée if you never trust her out of sight,” Rachel said levelly.
“I’d trust her. It’s the prowling wolves I’d watch,” he answered dryly.
At this point Mrs. Hodge brought in the tea and announced that Rachel’s blouse was drying out nicely and would be as good as new when she had run an iron over it.
While Rachel was pouring the tea, Daniel excused himself for a moment. When he came back, he said, “I just rang up your aunt to allay any qualms she might have had. She was most relieved to hear you were safely under shelter and said they could manage quite well without you until the storm has blown out.” He glanced at the streaming windows. “At present it looks as if it’s set in for the night.”
Rachel did not reply to this and for some minutes they sat in silence.
“By the way, I met your hound quite a distance up the river the other morning,” Daniel said suddenly. “I’d half a mind to bring him home with me, but he seemed to know where he was going so I let him carry on. You allow him to run free, I gather.”
“We don’t actually allow him. He just does,” she said. “Daddy often tells me off about it. Loose dogs are such a menace on the roads, he says. The trouble is that Bolster sneaks out whenever I’m not looking.”
“I daresay he knows the country pretty well,” Daniel said easily. “He just stopped to have a look at me the other day, and then he dived into some brush and disappeared.”
“All the same, I wish we could keep him in. I found a gin trap in your woods once. Some beastly poacher, I suppose. I stuck a piece of wood in it and heaved it into the river. But if Bolster had caught his paw in it ...” She broke off, biting her lip at the thought.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure there aren’t any around now. I’ve been over the whole place pretty thoroughly,” he said reassuringly. “I want to get a couple of pups myself. Do you know anyone who breeds Labradors?”
Rachel told him of a farmer whose wife had bred several champions. ‘Refilling his cup, she wondered why, a little while ago, she had been so angry at his bringing her here. Now, as they talked about dogs, he seemed quite different. She could almost like him again.
“I bought some new records yesterday,” he said presently. “Like to hear them?”
“Yes, I would,” she said. “I wish we had a radiogram. Suzy has an old portable, but it’s such an effort winding it.”
He selected some discs from a pile and slipped them on the turntable. Then, switching on the mechanism, he lit a cigarette and walked across to the window. Watching him as he leaned against the desk, Rachel wondered if he would marry or if his life was complete, with no place for a permanent partner in it. She tried to imagine the stern set of his mouth softening into tenderness, but could only see it as it was now, or tilting in a mocking smile. Even if he did love someone, she thought, he would never be diffident or humble. In any relationship, even love, he would always be completely sure of himself. Was it life that had made him so? Or had he been born with that arrogant certainty?
The music, a wild tarantella, claimed her attention and she leaned back in her chair, listening to the strange primitive beat which conjured visions of starry Italian nights and supple bodies whirling and twisting. In odd contrast, the second record was a plaintive clarinet blues, full of sadness and desolation. Absurdly, the long sighing notes made her want to cry and she closed her eyes, feeling tears pricking her lids. When she opened them, Daniel was watching her, but almost immediately he looked away, and there was nothing in his face to tell whether he had noticed anything.
The third record was a lovely lilting waltz from an old musical, and after a moment or two, he came across the room and smiled and held out his hands for her to dance with him.
There was not much space in the study, and after a few steps, he opened the door and steered her into the hall where Mrs. Hodge, carrying some linen up the stairs, looked startled and then amused. Rachel was equally surprised at herself. Less than half an hour ago, she had been furious with him, and now they were dancing together. The tempo grew faster and a swathe of hair fell across her forehead. She shook it back, wondering why she could never sustain her mistrust of him. The music stopped and they came to a standstill, but he did not immediately release her.
“Oh, I’m out of breath. I haven’t danced for ages,” she said dizzily.
And then, at something in his face, her smile faded and she was suddenly conscious that they were alone and his arm was still round her waist. Her heart began to beat with great heavy thumps against her ribs, and in what seemed an eternity but was probably a few seconds, she had the frightening sensation of being unable to move, of being on the brink of something dreadful and irrevocable.
Somewhere above them a door closed and footsteps sounded on the landing. With an indrawn breath, Rachel jerked herself free and almost ran back to the study. Behind her, she heard Daniel speaking to the housekeeper and waited, stiff with tension, for him to follow her. But it was Mrs. Hodge who appeared in the doorway a few moments later.
“Your blouse is ready now, Miss Burney. The master’s gone out to the car,” she said. Then, looking towards the window, “It’s cleared up sooner than I expected. May be quite a nice evening now that’s over.”
“Yes ... yes, perhaps it will,” Rachel said unsteadily. “W—what delicious
scones you make, Mrs. Hodge. I wish I could get mine so light.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed them, miss. I’ll just fetch your blouse.”
As Rachel changed, she braced herself to go out to the car, her thoughts and senses in the wildest confusion. The air, cleared by the storm, was cool and fresh, but her cheeks were burning as she slipped into the passenger seat, not daring to look at Daniel.
The engine was already running and, without speaking, he let in the clutch and they crunched off over the wet gravel. The drive home took less than five minutes, but the silence between them made it seem interminable. As soon as the car stopped, Daniel got out and went round to the boot to unfasten her bicycle. As he lifted it down, Rachel forced herself to look at him.
“Thank you. It was very kind of you,” she said, in a small controlled voice.
He handed it over to her, and all the old hateful mockery was back in his eyes as he said, “Don’t look so shattered, my dear. Even if I had kissed you, it wouldn’t have been the end of the world, you know.”
Then, with a casual, almost insolent salute, he slammed the boot, swung behind the wheel again and drove away. For some minutes after he had gone, Rachel remained on the roadway. Then she wheeled the cycle round the corner and along the lane to the shed. Propping it against the wall, she found a rag and began to wipe down the framework. Suddenly she flung the rag away, dropped on to a crate, and covered her face with her hands.
“Even if I had kissed you ... even if I had kissed you ...”
His parting gibe seemed to echo round the walls, like a record repeating the same phrase over and over again. It was then, crouching in a corner of the shed, that Rachel faced the truth. With Edward’s ring on her finger, with Edward relying on her for his happiness, she had fallen shamefully and hopelessly in love with Daniel Elliot.
“... So I thought, sir, that if you could spare Rachel for the weekend, it would be a nice gesture to go up and visit her. Naturally, she’s very anxious to meet Rachel, but it’s too far for her to come to stay with us.”
Doctor Burney grinned. “Spare her? We’ll be delighted to get rid of her for a few days,” he said with a chuckle. “When are you thinking of going?”
“I thought this coming weekend—if that’s all right with you, Rachel?” Edward suggested. “Rachel—are you listening?”
“What?” Rachel jumped and turned a blank face towards them. “Sorry, I was miles away,” she said apologetically.
“You seem to be miles away most of the time lately,” Edward said, with some impatience. “Your father agrees that it would be a good idea to spend a weekend with Grandmother, and I was suggesting that we should go up on Friday.”
“Oh ... yes. Whatever you like,” she said vaguely, picking up her mending again.
“Well, you would like to meet her, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“Of course I would,” she said hastily. “I—I was just wondering what to have for lunch tomorrow. I didn’t mean to go off in a dream.”
The lie—one of the many small but troubling untruths which she had found herself telling lately—brought a deeper color to her cheeks and she bent over the torn pillowcase, ashamed of this fresh deceit.
It was a week since the day of the storm; a, week of such confusion and stress and mental conflict that, several times, she had caught herself on the brink of hysteria. The smallest annoyances had suddenly become unbearable, and minor domestic mishaps such as a broken cup or a burnt piece of toast were enough to make her clench her fist and tremble with vexation. Only that morning she had accidently dropped a bottle of milk on the kitchen floor and promptly dissolved into tears.
“You do seem a little distraite these days,” her father said, when Edward had gone. “Not still worrying about Carola, are you?”
Rachel shook her head.
“You didn’t sound too keen on this weekend with Edward’s, grandmother,” her father remarked. “I shouldn’t get in a flap about it. The old lady probably won’t think any girl is good enough for him, but as long as Edward’s satisfied, it’s not her business.”
Rachel tugged at a snarl in her thread. “It will be a change anyway,” she said tightly.
“Look here, my dear, there’s no sense in beating round the bush,” her father said, after a pause. “You are quite happy about this engagement, aren’t you? Because there are moments, you know, when you look as if you’re not too sure.”
“Of course I’m sure. Why shouldn’t I be?” she answered sharply.
“I don’t know, puss. I’m only the innocent bystander,” he said dryly. “It just seems to me that you don’t look as happy as one might expect.” He knocked out his pipe. “Personally, I think these long engagements are a mistake. If you want to marry someone—marry ’em! Hanging about for months, being neither one thing nor the other, is too much of a strain.”
Rachel finished the darn and closed her sewing box. “Don’t fuss so, Dad. We’re all right,” she said more equably.
But, up in her room, she knew that this, too, was a lie. They were not all right. Not unless she had the strength of will to stamp out her mad infatuation for Daniel. For that, she told herself grimly, was all it was. A crazy infatuation which had nothing to do with real and lasting love; a stupid schoolgirlish crush on a man to whom she meant nothing, who probably flirted with every passable girl he met and then forgot them five minutes later. Even if what she felt for him was love, there was nothing to be done about it. How, having promised to be Edward’s wife, could she suddenly tell him that she had changed her mind? He loved her and believed in her. She couldn’t hurt and humiliate him like that. She could only hope that this terrible longing for Daniel’s presence, for the sound of his voice, would end as suddenly as it had begun; that, given a little time, she could stamp it out as completely and finally as if it had never existed.
Edward arranged to leave his office early on Friday afternoon and, shortly after three o’clock, they caught a train from Branford Station and began the journey north.
“Tell me about your grandmother. I hope she’ll approve of me,” Rachel said, as the outskirts of the town slid away behind them.
“Of course she will, dear. You’ll get on like a house on fire,” he said confidently.
Listening to his description of his grandmother’s house and the holidays he had spent there as a small boy, Rachel wished suddenly that he would seize her in his arms and kiss her, not gently, as if she were made of fragile porcelain, but fiercely and possessively. But Edward, she thought, with a sigh, would never dream of making love in a railway carriage. Even when they were alone in the house, he always kept his emotions within the limits which he evidently considered proper to their engaged state. Indeed, she had sometimes wondered if the restraint he imposed on himself was wholly a matter of propriety, or if he was naturally undemonstrative. He had never suggested that they should speed up their plans, or given the impression that he was impatient for them to be married.
It was past nine o’clock when they reached their destination and took a taxi to the rambling Edwardian house where his mother’s mother lived with a companion. Mrs. Weston proved to be an enormously stout old lady with a croaky voice and puffy mottled skin. She reminded Rachel of a toad, and as they ate the cold supper which had been kept for them, she half expected a long toad-like tongue to flick out and whisk something off the table. Miss Upshott, the old lady’s companion, was a muscular tweedy person who walked on the balls of her feet with a brisk bouncing motion as if she had just come in from a rousing game of hockey. Clapping Edward on the shoulder when they arrived, she had almost knocked him over, and Rachel’s hand was still smarting from her nutcracker grip.
The following afternoon Mrs. Weston gave a tea party for sundry cronies, and although Edward seemed to be enjoying himself, handing round the cakes and making gallant remarks, Rachel was uncomfortably conscious of all the beady old eyes looking her over. In the evening Edward was sent out to take
his grandmother’s two Pekineses for a walk, and she was left to fend for herself.
For some time after his departure, there was a silence broken only by the rustle of sweet papers as the old lady rummaged through a box of peppermint creams, and the click of her companion’s knitting needles.
“You’re a lucky girl,” the old lady croaked suddenly. “Edward’s a fine boy. He should do very well with the right wife to back him up. Do you remember how good he was when he stayed with us as a boy, Olive? Never a moment’s trouble, the dear little fellow. Quite happy to sit on that stool, looking at my old albums, bless his heart.”
“Yes, rather. Good as gold,” Miss Upshott agreed heartily. “Not like some little rascals I could mention.” She turned to Rachel. “You should have brought some handwork with you, Miss Burney. I expect you’re busy getting your bottom drawer together. I’m no hand with a needle, but I do a lot of knitting.” She held up an oddly shaped piece of scarlet cable stitch, and Rachel managed to murmur something appreciative.
Later, when Edward kissed her goodnight at her bedroom door, she clung to him, willing him to rouse some genuine passion in her. But although he allowed himself a greater degree of ardor than usual, Rachel felt nothing but a terrible aching hopelessness.
On the Sunday that Rachel was away with Edward, Carola found her father in the bathroom and said, “Can you have a look at my back, Dad? I’ve had a frightful itch on my shoulder blade, and now the place has started to bleed.”
“I’m not surprised, if you’ve been scratching it with those talons of yours,” Doctor Burney said dryly. He did not dislike colored varnish, but he did raise his eyebrows at nails of fashion model length.
