Crescendo

by Charlotte Lamb

  'I should have been,'she said in cold bitterness.

  She felt the stricken flinch he gave. 'Don't say that.' His arms caught her and held her tightly. 'I couldn't bear it. That night I was in hell. And after­wards it didn't get any better. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. I worked—that was all I could do. I worked like a madman. Music had always been the most important thing in my life, but I'd never needed it the way I did then. It was the only way out for me. I played to forget you and I couldn't forget you, so it all went into my music.'

  Marina had felt it, heard it, surging in the music; a wild passion which had misery in it. She had recog­nised the power of the emotions without ever identi­fying it as anything to do with herself that night.

  'I travelled around as usual, but I can't remember anything that happened while I was away from you. I wouldn't let myself face what had happened to me.' His mouth writhed in a bitter mimicry of humour. 'I was scared stiff. I was afraid that if you found out how I felt you'd somehow have power over me, that you'd own me the way my mother had done, smother me.'

  She had known that. His admission held no sur­prise for her. She stood quietly listening, her face sombre.

  'But I was sick for you, obsessed with a need to see you. When I got back to London I sent you some tickets for a concert because I had to see you, even if it was only across a hall, and I was afraid that if I rang you up to ask you out you'd refuse.'

  She would have refused, of course. Trapped in her own painful fight to forget him, she would have refused and suffered in doing so.

  'Then you came with him,' said Gideon in that harsh voice. 'I knew you'd come, I felt you there, I played to you, I said all the things I couldn't say and I knew you heard me. But when I looked at you, you looked the same. I'd thought there would be a change in you, something visible which would tell me what he meant to you, what had happened be­tween you. I had to know.' He broke off and then said thickly, 'If you loved him I had to know.'

  'What if I had?' she asked, moving her head to look at him, her eyes trying to read his face.

  His eyes burned. 'I didn't think past the fact that I had to know. And when I asked you if you loved him and you didn't answer, I looked round at you and something in your face told me I could have you.'

  That stung, it pierced her like a burning knife. She tried to pull away and he wouldn't let her go; his body shook as he held her. 'Don't be angry. I didn't plan it. I didn't take you there meaning that to happen, I swear I didn't, darling. The moment I had you in my arms I just went crazy. My whole body went wild. I had to have you. I stopped think­ing and just.. .'

  'Just took what you wanted,' she said with biting contempt. 'As you always have done. That's all that matters, isn't it, Gideon? What you want is the only thing that matters. You've never asked yourself what all this did to me, what I went through during those months?'

  He looked stunned, his face blank, and she saw that she had been right. Gideon had never asked himself how she felt, what she had suffered even before she lost the baby and was so ill.

  'What do you think was happening to me all this time?' she asked icily. 'Or did you imagine that I was so stupid I had no ideas in my head at all, no feelings to be hurt?'

  He stared down at her, the black eyes intent. Slowly he said, 'You were so young, so utterly innocent. I didn't think it would ever have entered your head to feel anything but friendship for me.' His hand lifted to stroke her cheek slowly. 'What did you feel, Marina?' he asked in a low, husky voice.

  She caught the eager gleam of the dark eyes and saw the trap in time. Gideon wanted her to admit she had loved him. His eyes had taken on that watch­ful, excited brightness and his mouth was being held in check by an effort of will.

  'All you cared about, all you've ever cared about, was your own feelings, your own desires. I should have avoided you like the plague from the day we met.'

  She hadn't, though. She had yielded, helplessly, tempted by her own craving for him and weak in the face of his burning desire for her.

  'You had no right to touch me,' she broke out bit­terly.

  'I knew that,' he muttered grimly, self-contemptuously. 'But at the time all I thought about was satis­fying my own need for you.'

  Her eyes reinforced her biting contempt and he registered it with a compression of the mouth. 'I did love you,' he insisted. 'I just wouldn't admit it, even to myself. I told myself that it was a crazy infatuation which would end one day. I thought it was just frus­trated desire and that when I'd had you I wouldn't want you any more.'

  That was what she had thought, too, and it had hurt her badly. During those weeks she had been miserable and in despair, and Gideon hadn't even been aware of her feelings. He had never in his life been aware of anything but his own emotions. He had never considered for a moment what he might be doing to her.

  'Why did you marry me?' she asked bitingly. 'You could just have paid me off, agreed to support the baby.'

  His eyes closed and his skin paled. 'Don't! You know why I married you—I wanted to marry you. My God, Marina, I jumped at the chance!'

  'Do you expect me to believe that?'

  His eyes opened and he looked at her with haunted self-contempt. 'Don't you understand? When you vanished like that and I couldn't find out where- you were I began to suspect you'd gone away with somebody else. I went crazy. I was so jealous and miserable I wanted to die. Then Gran­die told me the truth and I saw at once that I could marry you without ever admitting how badly I needed you.'

  She could only stare at him dumbly. That had been a terrible time for her, pregnant and afraid of the future, aching for his love and knowing she did not have it, and all that Gideon had thought about was himself, as usual.

  'You really are a swine, aren't you?' she said with a slow bitter distaste.

  He ran a hand over his face as if trying to pull himself together. She saw the long fingers trembling as they moved.

  'Don't hate me, darling,' he groaned. 'I know I deserve it, but don't, because I've paid for it all.' His hand came down and he caught at her, pulled her into his arms, kissing her hair, her eyes, her cheeks. 'I realise now how you've suffered and I wish I could have been the only one to go through hell, but I did suffer, Marina. When I saw you lying in that road and I thought you were dead I went out of my mind. And this last year without you has been the worst year of my life.' His lips moved down the curve of her cheek to reach her mouth and she pushed him away violently.

  'Don't touch me!'

  'Marina,' he muttered hoarsely, trying to take her back into his arms.

  'I mean it!' Her white face was acid, 'You don't love me—you never have. You wouldn't know how to love. Frustrated desire was all you ever felt for me, and it's all you feel now.' She looked him up and down, her eyes contemptuous. 'And I don't love you. If anything I despise you. You're a selfish, contemp­tible swine! '

  Gideon's face hardened and whitened until the black eyes were a slash of lightless intensity.

  Marina turned and walked out of the room. The room was so" still and quiet that she could hear the muted violence of his breathing, the smothered drag of his lungs as they functioned in a painful physical necessity. It had given her a tortured pleasure to say that to him, to be aware that she had finally hurt him as deeply as he had ever hurt her.

  She sat in her room and listened to the slow whis­per of the sea. No human being has the right to put his own desires in front of the happiness of anyone else. Gideon's brilliance did not give him that right.

  She stared at her own hands, seeing the surface tension of her skin, the outline of the bones beneath that, the shaping supporting flesh which one could not see. One took so much for granted. The daily miracle of life aroused little amazement and wonder in most people until they had to face the threat of losing it. When she walked out of the flat that day she had not even seen that car because the whole of her being was concentrated on the agony of what she had just seen, the realisation that Gideon did not love her, had never lo
ved her, because if he had he would not have been making love to Diana Grenoby.

  She had not cared if she lost her life. Perhaps she had even subconsciously but deliberately walked under that car, knowing what she was doing. Acci­dents are not always so very accidental. People take crazy risks because they do not care what happens to them.

  Gideon had driven her to the very edge of despair. Now he imagined that by telling her he loved her he was wiping the slate clean. He was wrong. Even if he was telling the truth and had not had a secret affair with Diana during their marriage, his silence on the subject of his feelings indicated all too clearly that Gideon still put his own needs in front of those of anybody else. That wasn't love.

  It had not been merely that her own life had al­most been thrown away. She had lost her baby and she knew she carried the scar of guilt for that—guilt and resentment because it had been Gideon's fault that she walked under that car. He had killed the baby and he had killed something vital inside her­self; a trust, a warmth she would never feel again.

  Gideon had never been prepared to risk admit­ting his feelings because he had half expected that one day he would stop feeling the way he did. He had admitted it. He had believed that once he had satisfied his desire for her he would lose interest. And maybe he had been right. One day he might well have stopped wanting her, and then she would have found herself being thrust out of his life with­out compunction. Gideon had known that, expected it, and yet he had married her, without stopping to think what damage it would do to her when he grew tired of her.

  A deep flush grew on her cheekbones as she re­membered the argument he had had with Diana. She had watched and known that some violent emotion was churning inside the other woman. She had watched as Gideon coldly, angrily, pushed the other woman aside, irritated boredom in his hard face. She had seen all that and had not known that she was seeing just how ruthless Gideon could be in such personal relationships. That had been herself she had been watching without knowing it. He would have walked away from her with just that look of icy indifference and she would have been left like a broken doll with no hope and no comfort.

  'Aren't you coming to lunch?' he asked from the door, and she turned her pale head to look at him with undisguised hatred and contempt. Her eyes were alive with the imagined agony of what Gideon could do to her, might have done, had in a sense done.

  He saw that look and his whiteness deepened, the lines around eye and mouth bitten into his taut flesh.

  'Don't look at me like that,' he cried harshly.

  'If you don't like the way I look at you, you have an option. Go and don't come back.'

  'I can't,' he groaned, his hands hanging loosely by his side and that pain in his dark eyes. 'I love you.'

  He had refused to commit himself to her once and now she read the total capitulation in his face. She had doubted if he loved her once, but she did not doubt it now. Gideon turned the force of his feeling on her and it shrivelled her like fire, the pain and heat of it making her shrink. She turned her head away because now she did not want to know. She was empty. Pain had made her so sensitive that a finger laid on her skin could make her wince. She did not want to face or accept Gideon's love or his pain. He had no right to either.

  'I don't care,' Marina said flatly. 'Just go. You're boring me.'

  CHAPTER NINE

  GIDEON turned and walked away without answering, but she did not need to see his face to know that she had got another dart home. She had heard the bitter intake of his breath, felt the protest he had not spoken but which had hovered on his pale lips.

  So short a time ago she had been a trustful, con­fiding child who had felt no fear of the dark stranger crashing into her life. Now she sat on the edge of the bed, listening as Gideon walked heavily down the stairs, and felt a savage pleasure in having hurt him again.

  When one is innocent of pain, of the havoc it can wreak, one is. never cruel. Cruelty is born of pain, of a need to hurt in turn. Marina looked at her own reflection in the mirror and did not much like what she saw. She had liked the self she had thought she saw a few days ago. Now she looked at the taut-faced woman staring at her and shivered in rejection.

  The lines of maturity she could now see had been etched in her face by experiences she only wanted to forget. She was still young, a girl more than a woman. That was why she had never seen any dis­turbing signs to warn her that she was not the eighteen-year-old she believed herself to be. At just twenty-two there was little difference in her looks. It was the eyes, the expression, which was now changed. With memory pain had come back and with pain had come those carved lines which Gideon had given her.

  She went downstairs and Grandie was in the kit­chen alone. He looked round searchingly. 'All right?'

  She smiled and touched her forehead to his shoul­der, nodding. He patted her back clumsily.

  'Hungry?' he asked.

  Marina looked at the salad. 'Yes,' she said, and was surprised to find that it was true. They sat down and made a good meal, having cold ham with the salad and fresh fruit to follow the meal. Gideon did not appear and she decided not to ask Grandie if he had gone. She would discover that in time and she was in no hurry to find out.

  They cleared the table together and washed up, then Grandie asked her with a faint hesitation to play for him. She gave him a rueful smile, guessing that he was still hoping to arouse her ambition and her love of music.

  She played a Chopin nocturne for him and the music fitted her mood, quiet and sad, an elegiac piece of music with a thread of wry resignation in it. She gazed out of the window while she played. Grandie sat so quietly that she could only just hear him breathing. His pride in her made her sadder than ever. She wished that for him she could have somehow learnt to desire fame, learnt to enjoy the battleground of the concert hall.

  When she stopped playing Grandie got up and

  kissed her, as he often did, wordless, slightly ele­vated, needing now to be alone. He would have given the world to see her take his place in the con­cert hall.

  There were other ways in which she could use her ability, she thought. The garish lightning that played around the head of the solo performer might terrify her, but she could happily fit into other forms of music. She liked playing as an accompanist. Let­ting her fingers drift over the keyboard she con­sidered the various possibilities. She would talk to Grandie before she made up her mind. Although she was primarily a pianist she could play the violin to a certain standard. If the worst came to the worst she might get work teaching music in a school. She would have to go back to college for a final year, but that would be a pleasant experience.

  There was no sign of Gideon when she joined Grandie in the kitchen later. She still did not ask Grandie if Gideon had gone. Instead she asked him what he thought of her idea of going back to college for a year before looking for a job in music. Gran- die's face lit up and she saw that he had not relin­quished his hopes for her future.

  'I think it would be an excellent idea.'

  'Do you think they would take me back?'

  He laughed quietly. 'Oh, I think we'd persuade them.' Grandie still had pull and Marina's own ability had been demonstrated clearly enough dur­ing her time at the college.

  'I could accompany,' she said, looking at him care­fully.

  His face was as careful. 'Yes, of course you could, he agreed in an easy, casual voice, and she was not deceived. Grandie wasn't giving up yet. He wanted to get her back into that milieu—he believed that once she had the taste of that life in her mouth she wouldn't be able to relinquish it.

  She went to bed early, leaving Grandie sitting in the kitchen playing a slow game of Patience. The wind had risen and the floorboards creaked and moaned, the windows rattling, the sound of the sea loud, as though it were just below her room. She fell asleep almost at once, though, lulled by the sounds of the night.

  She woke realising that it was still dark, the wind louder than ever, lashing around the house in a fit of frenzy, the sea thu
ndering close at hand and the sound of rain dashing against the windows. A storm had blown up while she slept. She lay listening to the unleased violence and then sat up, ears pricked, hearing another sound. Was that Grandie still downstairs?

  She looked at the clock. Two o'clock. A frown crossed her forehead. Was Grandie ill? The sounds were muffled by the wind and rain, but there was definitely someone moving about downstairs.

  Slipping out of bed, she put on her wrap and tip­toed down the stairs. When she pushed open the kitchen door the figure standing there turned to look at her and she stared back at him.

  He was drenched, his black hair flat on his head, his face gleaming with rain. He had stripped off his sweater and shirt and her startled eyes ran over the lean, muscled body briefly before she looked back at his face.

  'Where have you been?' She came forward slowly, seeing the wet legs of the trousers, the sodden state of his shoes. 'Gideon! You're saturated! What have you been doing?'

  'Walking.' He turned away and picked up the towel lying over the back of a chair.

  The supple movement of his body as he bent made her mouth go dry. She stared at the wet brown skin, the ripple of muscle visible under the firm flesh, the dark hair curling down his chest. He roughly towelled his arms and chest while she watched and tried not to feel the savage stabs of at­traction. He flung the towel down. Marina said huskily: 'Your hair's drenched.'

  'It doesn't matter.' He turned away towards the door and she picked up the towel.

  'Sit down.'

  He glanced at her, his eyes suddenly narrowed, his whole face stilled. Slowly he sat down and she said irritably: 'You must be mad! You'll catch pneu­monia.' The cross remark covered her desire to touch him and she hoped it would distract him from the faint trembling in her hands as she began to dry his hair, rubbing vigorously at it.