by Sara Seale
Lucy looked at her gravely.
“A great deal of mischief and harm has been done,” she said. “There are things I must get straight with Paul, and—and I think you should know that I am going to try to persuade my husband to dismiss him. His—usefulness at Polvane was really over some time ago.”
The older woman gave her a long, steady look, then sighed a little.
“Of course,” she said. “That is understood. One hears many different rumors, you know, and I wouldn’t care to think that any serious harm had come about on Paul’s account. You are so much younger than your husband that, forgive me, you may have gone the wrong way about things at the beginning.”
“Perhaps I did,” said Lucy softly. “Yes—perhaps I did.”
“I’ll tell you a little story,” Aunt Minnie said. “My sister and I fell in love with the same man. Carrie was pretty in those days and very frail and feminine, and I was always the strong one. The strong nearly always suffer for the weak, you know. I don’t quite know what moral that has for you, my dear, but it explains why I failed with Paul.”
“Thank you for telling me,” said Lucy shyly. “I’m—I’m so sorry. Perhaps I’m a little in the same position myself.”
“You? What nonsense! You are young and attractive and at least have no competition.”
“Oh, yes, I have. I compete with a ghost that won’t be laid.”
“That old story? I shouldn’t wonder if there was as little in that as in poor Paul’s attempts to keep himself a place in the sun. Grow up, Lucy Travers, and don’t be defeated by ghosts. They, unlike mortals, can do you no harm.”
Lucy rode home in the bus, her mind full of the strange interview. The final reckoning with Paul was yet to come, but she had drawn strength from Aunt Minnie. The strong ones were all behind her, she thought with a lifted heart, Paul’s aunt, Gaston, even Smithers; only her husband, the strongest of them all, was yet to be won.
The rain had stopped when she reached Polvane and a warm, humid mist was rising from the ground. She saw that Paul’s little car stood, as usual, in the drive; Paul himself was in the library, playing tiddlywinks with Pierre, who looked bored and inattentive. At sight of Lucy, Paul sprang to his feet with his customary charm and attentiveness and cocked an enquiring eyebrow at her.
“I hear you went in to Merrynporth to look for me,” he said. “Sorry I was adrift at the time. I was here for lunch. Where did you have yours—with Aunt Minnie?”
His audacity was remarkable, she thought, and she said with admirable calm:
“You will realize, of course, now that I’ve actually met your poor, foolish aunt, that it would be rather stupid to keep up the fiction of her helplessness.”
“Oh, that cock won’t fight any more,” he replied in cheerful agreement. “You can understand, now, why I took such pains to keep you two apart.”
“Are you quite shameless?” she asked with sudden intense dislike for the handsome, smiling face that masked such a mean, twisted mind.
“Oh, quite, I should think. Are you getting your own back, Lucy Locket, and going out to make trouble for me?”
“You’ve made enough trouble for all of us, Paul,” she told him gravely. “You shouldn’t start squealing when the tables are turned.”
His face lost its look of boyish impudence and his mouth pulled down into lines of sulky discontent.
“Just because you didn’t make out with Bart is no reason for you to turn nasty,” he said, and Lucy saw Pierre’s big black eyes going from one to the other of them with puzzled uneasiness.
“Pierre darling, run upstairs and play by yourself for a bit. I want to talk to Paul,” she said.
“You are going to quarrel,” the boy said accusingly.
“Well, if we are, it’s no concern of yours,” replied Lucy. “Run along now.”
“Run along! It’s always grown-up people say run along when one wishes to stay. I shall go and wait at the gates for Papa,” Pierre said, and paid no attention to Lucy’s absent observation that his father would not be back until evening. She heard the front door slam and the sound of his feet running down the drive, but her attention was only for Paul.
“If I didn’t make out with Bart, as you put it, you know very well why, Paul. Why do you do these things? Does it amuse you to have people like insects on pins, wriggling to get free?”
He looked pleased at the simile.
“You’re quite an attractive insect, my sweet. I don’t really want to hurt you, but I confess it amuses me to watch Cousin Bartlemy wriggle.”
“So you tell him lies to assist in the process?”
“Half-truths, half-truths, my dear. There’s a difference.”
“And was it a half-truth to suggest that I was setting my cap at you?”
He smiled a little uneasily. It was clear, even to him, that this time he had gone too far.
“You exaggerate, Lucy,” he said, placatingly. “I may have embroidered the truth a bit, but I thought a little competition might ginger old Bart up.”
“Truth!” cried Lucy, her emotions suddenly exploding in a wave of temper and passionate indignation. “You don’t know the meaning of the word! The little subterfuges and petty meannesses to bolster up your own conceit one might forgive, but to make mischief out of pure spite to get even with a man who’s done you nothing but good, simply, because he’s got more than you have, is despicable! What’s Bart ever done to you to deserve such shabby treatment? First his son and then his wife—do you want to leave him with nothing?”
“Yes,” said Paul. “It gives me a sense of power—the only kind I’ll ever know. I would have taken Pierre from him if it hadn’t been for you, damn you, and perhaps I owed you something for that, Lucy, so I reverse the process and take your husband from you—not that you ever captured him, did you, with his chilly affections buried in Marcelle’s grave?”
“Go on, Paul,” Bart’s voice said from the doorway, and, with a little cry, Lucy spun round to see him standing there, Pierre, round-eyed and open-mouthed, at his side.
He spoke quietly enough, but his face had a curious greyness, and for the first time that afternoon Paul looked scared.
“Now, look here, old man,” he started to bluster, “don’t take this wrong. Lucy and I were just sparring. I—I didn’t mean it all.”
No? I’ve been here for some time, Paul. You’ve explained a great deal—too much to retract this time,” Bart said, and Pierre began jumping up and down.
“I told you I would wait for Papa at the gates, Baba. I knew he was coming home early because he has to go away tonight. I fetched him to listen because I do not think Paul is nice any more,” he said triumphantly, and Bart ruffled his black head.
“Go upstairs for a little while, Pierre,” he said. “We don’t want you here just now.”
“You see? It’s as I say—always when something is happening the grown-ups say run along,” the boy complained, but he gave his, father’s hand a sudden affectionate tug and obeyed without further protest.
III
The three left in the library stood frozen into immobility for a moment, then Bart went to Lucy and put an arm about her shoulders.
“In all humility, my dear, I ask your pardon,” he said gravely, and the tears sprang to her eyes as she looked up into his face and saw the pain there.
She smiled a little tremulously. The relief at having him at her side, of knowing that at last all the truth must come out, was almost too much for her.
“You weren’t to know,” she said softly. “We’ve all been taken for a ride, one way and another. Even poor Aunt Minnie was someone else—I shouldn’t think she’s worn a shawl or used a hot water-bottle in her l-life.”
She began to laugh with a trace of hysteria, and Bart caught her a swift hard slap across the cheek.
“Pull yourself together,” he said sharply. “Shawls and hot water-bottles may be funny, but not here and now.”
“They are, of course, when applied to the real Aunt Min
nie, who’s a bit of a hard-faced bitch,” Paul observed, trying to recapture his customary impudence, and his cousin turned on him with such swift and terrible anger that he instinctively raised an arm to ward off a blow.
“You ungrateful, insufferable young puppy! Have you any conception of the harm you might have done? Is there any shred of reason why I shouldn’t thrash the living daylight out of you? Oh, you can stop cringing—I’m not going to hit you. Physical violence might have done good when you were younger, but it’s too late now, and, as far as I’m concerned, you can go to the devil your own way. You leave my employ as from now, but first I’ll have a full explanation of what’s been going on at Polvane since you came here.”
Paul went suddenly to pieces. Watching him, Lucy experienced acute distress at having to witness so humiliating a break-up of another human being and a deep sense of shame that in some indirect fashion she was responsible.
“You can’t turn me off ... you promised a bonus ... I’ve never had a chance and you’ve had everything...” he was whining. “Lucy, tell him to give me another chance ... tell him I still mean something to you...”
“Shut up!” Bart thundered, and turned to his young wife who was looking so white and strained
“Lucy, this is needlessly distressing for you,” he said gently. “Leave us alone, please. I’ll deal with this matter in my own way.”
“Lucy, don’t go!” Paul cried “Wouldn’t you care if he hurts me?”
“No,” said Lucy with finality, and walked out of the room.
It seemed a long time later that Bart came to find her, and she was still sitting on her bed in her wet mackintosh, staring out of the window. The events of the past twenty-four hours had crowded upon her too quickly and reaction had set in. She looked at Bart a little blankly.
“Has he gone?” she asked.
“Yes, he’s gone. He wasn’t worth the tongue-lashing I gave him, but at least I got the truth out of him. That business over Pierre—why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried to, but you never took Paul seriously. He won’t—he won’t do anything silly, will he, Bart? I mean driving off like this in that ramshackle little car.”
“That kind are too careful of their own skins,” said Bart contemptuously. “You haven’t regrets for him, have you, Lucy?”
“No regrets—only a sort of sadness. He—he was gay and even kind—often,” she said with unutterable weariness, and he looked at her sharply, his eyes narrowing in professional attention.
“You’re all in, my child, and small wonder,” he said. “Get out of those wet things and into a dressing-gown or something. I’ll light the fire.”
“It seems silly to have fires in June,” she said absently, and, after another quick look at her, he put a match to the logs in the grate, then began to peel off her mackintosh and undress her. She stood passively while he stripped off her clothes, cursing mildly when he encountered a stubborn zip or button; it seemed too much effort to help him.
“Did I do that last night?” he asked, touching a small discoloration on her shoulder, and she felt his lips brush her bare skin for a moment.
He wrapped her in a dressing-gown, thrust absurd little mules on to her feet and lifted her bodily into an easy chair by the fire.
“Stay there while I fetch you some brandy,” he said. “Later on I’ll give you a sedative and put you to bed.”
The brandy warmed her and made her a little drowsy. It was pleasant to watch the evening light fade and listen to the sound of the breakers which had once worried her so much. She had no wish to ask her husband what had passed between Paul and himself; he would tell her when he was ready, and, when he was ready, he would make amends for the violence of last night.
“It must be past tea-time,” she said, aware that the day had become disorganized. “Pierre should be having his bath.”
“Smithers is seeing to Pierre. I’ve said we’re not to be disturbed for the next hour. Lucy — do you remember I promised you once I would tell you the story of Marcelle?” His voice was suddenly a little strained and she shook her head in protest. She did not want Marcelle’s gay ghost intruding on this moment. She wanted to pretend for a little while that Bart was hers; tomorrow, the next day, she would face reality again.
His eyes were suddenly tender as he watched her face. She was so small, so valiant in her attempts to come to terms with the bargain they had made.
“My story is not going to hurt you,” he told her, gently. “I only want to go away with one aspect of our misunderstandings—cleared up between us. The rest must wait till later.”
“Must you go?” she asked, knowing it to be a foolish question.
“I’m afraid so, only for a couple of nights to Bristol. While I’m gone, I want you to remember what I’m going to tell you. It may—I hope it may—make a difference.”
She tucked her feet under her and settled down to listen like a good child who has been promised a story. The firelight flickered on her face, but his was in shadow.
“I had been asked by the World Health Organization to give a paper at a conference in Paris, when I met her. I was the British representative for orthopaedic surgery, which was considered quite a feather in my cap at the time—I was under thirty in those days—and it may have impressed her a little,” he began. “You’ve probably been told she sang in cafes and cabarets—a precarious existence when your talent is mediocre, which hers was. I became infatuated with her like many other men, and, perhaps, because I wanted to marry her, she took me a little more seriously than the others. I wasn’t the kind, you see, to indulge in a casual affaire, more’s the pity. The more she laughed at my serious intentions, the more determined I became to make her my wife. I never really knew her background and I don’t suppose I would have cared anyhow. She was beautiful and amusing and the first woman ever to stir me.”
His voice had become harsher and more abrupt as he spoke, and he paused now to fill and light a pipe as if he found the telling of his story both painful and difficult.
“Well, in the end she took me. Work was becoming uncertain for her, I had money and an assured position, and for some reason she wanted British nationality. She made it quite plain that I was, for her, an escape, refuge, what you will; she was very French in her attitude to an Englishman’s notion of love. Anyway, we married, and I brought her and Gaston to England. I was very conscious that Polvane might bore her, though for me it was the home I had loved ever since I could remember, and at first when I spent recklessly to gratify her smallest whim, l think she was happy. Then she found she was going to have a child.”
There was a little silence while he sat considering the past, and Lucy held her breath, waiting for what might come. It hurt her immeasurably that he had known from the beginning that he was being used as a convenience and had been willing to accept such second-best.
“From that moment,” he went on, and now he spoke with a calm matter-of-factness as if he were recounting one of his case histories, “our life became unbearable. Marcelle had never wanted children and she blamed me every hour of the day and night for her condition. My own passion had, I suppose, considerably cooled by then, but I think it was when I discovered she was trying to get rid of the child that my emotions became completely sterile.
“I saw her then for exactly what she was, and I knew that once the child was born she would leave me. We lived out the months of waiting and no one, I think, outside the household, guessed at the true state of affairs. It was hardest for her, I suppose, for I had my work and she had only the canker of resentment at the gradual distortion of her beauty. Gaston could manage her, for he was fond of her and probably understood her temperament, and poor Smithers, who is loyalty itself to anyone he serves, must have got a certain amount of kick out of the scenes and dramas, I imagine. They have neither of them spoken of it to me since. The night Pierre was born I had been called away—” The harshness was back in his voice and Lucy could see the knuckles of his hands gleam suddenly white
beneath the skin. “She fell—I’ve never known whether by accident or some crazy notion of causing a still-born child. She was dying when I was recalled and she cursed me to the end. That’s all.”
The tears were running down Lucy’s cheeks, but she did not know that she wept. All those months of bitter hatred, all those ineradicable scars to fall on a man’s spirit.
“What a terrible story,” she said, and slipped to the floor beside his chair, wishing that she could find the right words with which to comfort.
“Then all those years it wasn’t grief for her that you shut yourself in here with?” she said, reaching for his hand.
“No, Lucy,” he replied gently, “only a determination to shut out all emotion, to bring up my son in an atmosphere no woman could contaminate, to lose myself in my work and the well-being of my boy, for he should not, I was resolved, suffer through a woman as I had.”
“And yet you married me.”
“Yes, I married you, and you know the terms of that bargain. The whole affair had thrown me off balance, but I begin to think you were a little off balance yourself, Lucy Baa-lamb, to contemplate such a barren union. Did you never stop to think what would happen if you fell in love with someone else?”
He knocked out his pipe and dropped it beside his chair, and his hands were suddenly warm on hers.
“Did you?” she asked, evading the question.
“If I did, then I selfishly smothered it,” he answered. “Pierre’s fear and dislike for me seemed like an echo of his mother. I would have taken almost any step at that time to win his trust and affection, to obliterate all trace of Marcelle. I was still not quite normal, you see.”
Lucy sat back on her heels, flexing and unflexing his fingers and tracing the fine bones of his strong surgeon’s hands which had brought hope and life to so many and nothing to himself.
