Tame a Proud Heart

by Jeneth Murrey

  'Don't be silly,' Eve said soothingly. 'She'll have forgotten it all by tomorrow. She'll have much more fun in school, telling everybody that her Auntie Roz is getting married today.'

  Roz's face crumpled into distress. 'Suppose he doesn't come, Eve?'

  'Ninny!' Her sister went across to the mirror and peered at her face before making a deplorable grimace at her reflection. 'Of course he'll come. Stop being stupid. You know he will, and I'm very happy for you—and for heaven's sake, take that look of woe off your face! You're going to your wedding, not your funeral.'

  'There's a different feeling?' Roz jeered, and then she sobered. 'Why couldn't Freda have come—why must she go to school?'

  'Better for her.' Eve waved a white arm. 'Too much excitement, she'd only end up being sick. Honestly, this is the best way, dear. Freda goes to school, the daily is going to stay on to look after Gilly and Jasper—thank the lord, she's dependable—and we go off and get you married.'

  'I don't think I want to be.' Roz was still shrouded in gloom. 'It's all happened in such a rush, I was pushed into it…'

  'And I know that as well.' Eve moved the pots about on the dressing table. 'Don't be silly, Roz. When have I ever lacked common sense? That face-saving operation of Charles's didn't fool me one little bit. It was kind of him, but it was quite unnecessary. If I looked worried when we caught Stephen trying to kiss you, it wasn't for myself. It was for you. Years ago, I knew you were smitten with Stephen, but I also knew it wasn't anything lasting. I wouldn't have married him if I'd thought you were suffering from anything worse than an overdose of hero-worship, and I know my husband inside out. I love him, but I'm not blind. Sometimes,' she smiled wryly at her reflection, 'he's quite impossible, but, as I said, I love him, so it doesn't matter. Food for thought, Roz?'

  'I didn't know…' Roz sounded uncertain.

  '…That I knew?' Eve stood up and came to put her arm about her sister's waist. 'Oh yes, I know all about it, the students, his post-grad girl, the lecture tours, all those adoring women—it's meat and drink to him. He wants fame; he needs admiration, but for love, he comes to me. That's the way it is and that's the way I like it. But it wouldn't do for you.'

  Roz let her sister's words sink in and felt a little rage rising. 'You mean it was all unnecessary? The engagement, everything?'

  'Charles was seizing an opportunity,' Eve chuckled. 'It's my guess he'd been after you for a long time and there's something between you, a spark—I can't explain it, but it's there.'

  'A very basic spark.'

  'Don't let's go into that,' Eve smiled widely. 'You'd be surprised at how basic I can be when I'm in the mood! Come and see your wedding present from us instead. I'm fed up with sounding like a maiden aunt, all full of platitudes and advice to "Worried Grey Eyes".'

  Roz dutifully enthused about a Minton tea and dinner service in the Haddon Hall pattern. It was what she had always wanted but had never bought because one didn't attempt to house something like that in a flatlet—but having a house to put it in was no reason for getting married! The vicar and his wife had sent a brass carriage clock and somebody, the name was unreadable, had sent some cut crystal wine glasses.

  'See?' Eve was on her knees burrowing among wood shavings in the boxes. 'They don't have all the goodies in London. Brighton can come up with excellence as well, when it's pushed.'

  'Don't unpack too much,' Roz protested. 'It may all have to go back.'

  'Nonsense!' Eve said bracingly. 'Stop being such a silly little fool. This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, but from the look of you you're going to dissolve in a puddle of your own misery. I've told you, everything's going to be all right. Do you want some breakfast?'

  Roz shuddered at the thought and went upstairs to shut herself in the bathroom. 'And don't be too long,' Eve shouted after her. 'There's somebody besides you wants to get ready. That bathroom is going to be the busiest room in the house today!'

  While she was dressing, Charles came, but she didn't see him. He merely left some flowers and picked up her suitcase in which she'd packed enough to last her a week. Eve had been brought a charming spray of fern and red rosebuds while she had a posy, quite a small one of pink roses packed so tightly that they looked like a velvety cushion. There was a card attached to the posy and she opened it eagerly, wanting some sort of assurance, but all it contained was a plain card with 'Don't be late. C in Charles' black, precise writing.

  After that, she had something else to be nervous about. Suppose she was late, suppose a wheel fell off the car…there was a thousand things which could delay her arrival, and from being extremely reluctant to go she became hysterically certain that something would happen to stop her arriving. But now she didn't let it show. Her face was nicely made up, her dress looked lovely and all she had to do was to pretend there was a camera in front of her all the time. She could be calm and composed for a camera as long as she didn't visualise Charles behind it.

  But he was waiting and she breathed a sigh of relief as she stumbled into the Register Office for the short and very simple ceremony, and afterwards, at the hotel, she drank a glass of sherry and two glasses of champagne in quick succession, which enabled her to smile back at happy faces without throwing her posy on the floor and asking what everybody was so damn happy about. Didn't they realise she had made a mess of her life?

  There was plenty of finger food to mop up the champagne and in pride of place was a wedding cake, and Roz found herself wondering who Eve had bullied over the phone to get it ready in such a hurry. It was little thoughts like these which kept her sane, although the feel of Charles's hand over her own was warm and comforting, and when he wasn't holding her hand his arm was about her waist. Gradually she started to relax, to notice what was going on and who was there.

  'All done.' Charles had seated her in the car and was driving out of Brighton, on the London road. 'Do you like it?' He nodded at the wedding ring on her finger.

  Roz looked down at it wonderingly. She hadn't even looked at it. 'It's heavy.' She examined the wide, thick bank of gold and some of her waspishness returned. 'It feels like a fetter. I wonder you bothered. Why didn't you invest in a pair of gold-plated handcuffs?'

  'They wouldn't have suited you.' There was a glimmer of a smile about his face and she relapsed into a silence which lasted for the next ten miles.

  'And what about a honeymoon?' she demanded when the atmosphere in the car became almost more than she could bear.

  'Not possible at the moment.' He didn't look at her. 'I've a bit of work to clear up before I'm free.'

  'You mean you aren't sitting there with two tickets to the Bahamas in your pocket?' she snapped bitingly. 'No honeymoon suite booked at the Bahamas Hilton or whatever it's called?'

  'No, Roz,' he answered tranquilly, 'there's no sugar on this pill. Maybe later, in a week or so's time, we can get away for a few days, but until then we'll stay at my place and get to know each other a bit better.'

  'Our place,' she corrected firmly, and then, to change the subject, 'Did you see our wedding presents and the cake? I don't know how Eve arranged it so quickly.' She was chattering in a tone of false gaiety, but it was all she could think of doing. Talking about trivialities, treading warily and trying not to think about the future; she was even beginning to wish that this drive could go on for ever. But of course it wouldn't. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but she couldn't do that either, something inside her was keeping her rigid in the seat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap. She was almost surprised when he pulled off the road into the car park of a restaurant.

  'Tea.' He was firm as he hauled her out of the car. 'You look as though you could do with it.'

  When they arrived at the mews cottage, Charles brought in her suitcase, dumped it on a stand by the bedroom window and then vanished into the bathroom. He didn't occupy it for very long, but he made his presence felt. As soon as he appeared, Roz fled into the steamy interior and ran a bath as hot as she thought she could stan
d it, liberally splashing in bath essence. But even this couldn't overpower the sharp sweetness of his masculine cologne, the room was full of it, and she lowered herself into the bath with a moan of discontent. She was as nervous as a cat and she had been relying on the bath to help her to relax, but somehow she didn't think it would work.

  But gradually, as she lay in the scented water, the chill went out of her body and her sick trembling passed, so that by the time she had scrambled out of the water, given herself a quick rub down to remove most of the moisture and wrapped herself in a large towelling robe which she found hung up on the bathroom door, she was feeling warm and a bit more able to cope. She pattered back to the bedroom. She wasn't confident, but she had re-found the courage which would help to disguise her nervousness.

  Charles turned from the mirror where he was fiddling with his tie. 'No,' he said as she sprang the locks of the suitcase, 'don't change. Wear the dress you were married in for this evening. It suits you,' and he nodded to where she had left it lying across the end of the bed.

  'The arbiter of fashion!' she scolded. 'That dress is a bit prim and old-fashioned and most of the girls I know wouldn't be seen dead in it. I bought it for the wedding and nothing else. It doesn't match up to my image.'

  'Change your image,' he shrugged. 'Or let me change it for you. I like that dress, and I'm not often wrong.'

  'So you like it!' She shrugged and pushed him aside to sit at the dressing table. 'Now may I have your room instead of your company? I've my face to do, and for that I need peace and quiet, not to mention a steady hand. In other words, privacy.'

  When he was gone, she stripped off the robe, inserted herself into fresh underwear and sat in her slip before the mirror, her hair held back with a wide, soft band. She didn't need privacy for her face at all. Charles had always had this thing about heavy make-up, he was continually prattling about skin texture, so she contented herself with a smear of light foundation, a slightly darker lipstick and then whisked a powder puff over it all before she slipped the dress over her head and wriggled it down over her hips.

  They were going out to dinner and she hoped Charles had chosen somewhere very bright, very noisy so that she couldn't hear herself think. She didn't want to think, she wanted to be mindless and without a thought in her head. Charles's choice of a restaurant didn't come in that category, it was quiet and select, the maitre d'hotel and his team of waiters were all of the old school, hushed, reverential and efficiently understanding, but the food was superb and she was so hungry that conversation took a second place. In any case, she and Charles had nothing to talk about, she reasoned it out while she was dealing with wafer-thin slices of delicious duck and pork pate, worked her way steadily through a Chateaubriand steak garnished with artichoke hearts and finished up with an apricot soufflé.

  She and Charles had very little in common. They got on very well on opposite sides of a camera and they would probably be very good together in bed. She banished this thought almost as soon as it occurred to her and took a deep draught of dry red wine to wash away the last traces of it.

  Back at the house, she turned to him. 'Now, I suppose you want your everlasting tea. I don't want any, I'm too tired and I'm going straight to bed.' But when he entered the bedroom some twenty minutes later, she was still at the window, looking out over the small back garden. It was a warm night, but she had started to shiver again, but not with cold. It was sheer nerves! She had undressed, taken a perfunctory shower, scrambled her still damp body into a nightie and had been, for the last ten minutes, concentrating all her attention on the moonlit little garden.

  It wasn't much to look at or even much of a garden, only a small square of grass surrounded by a narrow, neat border of flowers and with a tree of some sort, it was too dark to tell what, in the corner. But there was room on that small plot of grass for a garden swing hammock in the summer, something bright with a flower-printed canopy in cream and red. She was thinking about anything, anything which came into her head just to keep her mind on mundane subjects, and all because she was shy! She snorted in self-derision as Charles came into the room, dropping cufflinks on to the dressing-table and making a neat pile of the loose change from his pockets.

  'What's wrong, Roz?' he enquired, and there was amusement in his voice. 'You're behaving like a frightened virgin.'

  She swallowed to clear her throat of the huge lump which was occupying it, but, even so, her muttered answer was hardly audible to start with, although her voice strengthened as she went on.

  'Because that's what I am, and what's wrong with being a frightened virgin? It's not criminal, is it?'

  He came towards her, she felt his arms about her trembling body, turning her within their circle to face him. He tipped up her face and in the moonlight she thought she saw an almost tender smile about his mouth. The tears she had been wanting to shed ever since early that morning welled up in her eyes, spilled over and ran down her cheeks. 'Oh, Charles,' she sniffed inelegantly and tried to steady her voice. 'I don't know what to say, I don't know what to do, don't you understand? I don't know. I don't even know if we've done the right thing.'

  She burrowed her wet face against his shirt, seeking wildly for something, she didn't know what, and the arms around her tightened.

  'Get your face out of my shirt, Roz.' His voice was husky. 'I want to kiss you,' and suddenly she was frightened no longer. The cold shivering had passed and she was filled with warmth and a wanton sweetness which made her weak. She raised her face and felt his mouth drift across her eyelids and over her cheeks, almost as though he was wiping away the traces of tears, and then he found her willing mouth.

  And then it no longer mattered that she didn't know; she felt his hands at her shoulders, undoing the ties which held her nightgown in place, and when it fell in a huddle about her feet she stepped out of it to let him catch her up in his arms and bear her away to the bed.

  She whimpered softly, but his mouth stifled her cry as together they scaled heights that were almost unbearable in their beauty and then fell off the top together, in each other's arms, into a deep warmth of the sweetest satisfaction she had ever known.

  A grey dawn woke her, that and the movement of something heavy against her breast.

  'You're not still frightened, Roz?' Charles murmured against her breast, his warm breath tickling, caressing her soft skin.

  'No.' She made vague, ineffectual motions which should have pulled the sheet closer about her to cover her nakedness but which didn't succeed. 'It's just that I'm not accustomed to this sort of—of intimacy. It might take me some time to get used to it,' but even as she was speaking she was aware of her traitorous body inviting him. There was a slackness about her limbs and she could feel her breasts grow taut under the assault of his mouth. His unshaven chin rasped against her flesh and she didn't care. Nothing mattered except making him happy, making them both happy. The breaths she drew were ragged as passion and wildness swept over her again, making her soft and malleable in his hands. And this time there was no hesitancy and her inarticulate murmurs held no thread of fear.

  When she next wakened, the clock was showing half-past eight, and she hoisted herself on her elbow to examine his sleeping face. He looked much younger asleep even with the shadow of a beard on his chin. She put out a hand to stroke it and felt the faint rasp on her fingertips. Charles's dark hair flopped over his forehead, his mocking eyes were closed—she was astounded at the length and silkiness of his eyelashes—and his mouth was less firm, more curved and contented. She bent her head to lay her cheek against his, feeling the arm about her tighten. This was hers, and nobody could ever take it away from her. If she died right here, right this minute, she'd have known what it was to be completely, wildly, ecstatically happy.

  Her thoughts drifted to the days, weeks, months, perhaps years ahead, and she frowned. Would it always be like this? Was she going to be like Eve after all? Would she be content with her share so that she could excuse the odd peccadillo, dismiss it with an
understanding smile as Eve dismissed Stephen's falls from grace? Could she be content with being a loved but occasionally betrayed wife? Awarding herself so many points for her husband, her house and her children, if she had any, and making a sum of those points and being satisfied if the total came only close to top marks?

  The little bedside clock pinged out its alarm and she relaxed, closing her eyes and making her breathing even and steady as she felt him stir.

  'Do you want a cup of tea, darling?' Charles murmured in her ear and then gently bit the lobe to wake her up.

  'Mmm.' She turned over on her stomach, burying her hot face in the pillows. 'Lovely,' she muttered.

  'And after that, you get up.' He was ruefully apologetic. 'There's a girl coming at half-past ten this morning, another entry in the Baby Care stakes. I told you I had work to do.'

  'Make a mess of it,' she advised, the words coming out slightly muffled because she hadn't raised her face from the pillows.

  'And ruin my reputation? No, Roz—and I need you about. She's new to me and I prefer to have another female in evidence.'

  'Where's your secretary?' she grumbled through a stifled yawn. 'Can't she go and do the chaperon bit?'

  He sat down on the side of the bed beside her to push his feet into a pair of casual slip-ons. 'I can't afford a secretary and a wife,' he said blandly as he stood up.

  'Oh lord!' Still she didn't raise her face from the pillows. 'I've married a pauper—I knew there was a snag in it somewhere. That damn car is no more than the outward show of an empty bank balance—and I suppose this house is mortgaged to the hilt?'

  There was no reply to this and when she looked up he had gone. She heard the chink of cups and saucers from the kitchen, the metallic rattle of teaspoons, and grimaced. Love and romance were over for the time being. Charles had gone back to work, he hadn't even waited to hear what she said. Dedication! That was his watchword, and he was now, presumably, in his working hours. She wished she could compartmentalise her emotions in the same way!