Brittle Bondage (3 page)

Morning’s blaze and Mosi with the coffee-tray dispelled any lingering traces of yesterday’s hollowness. Venetia washed and dressed, flung wide her french window and breathed exultantly of the caressing, moisture-laden atmosphere. She was sitting on the veranda wall, framed in cascades of flame-coloured blossom, when Blake, tall and lean in khaki shorts and shirt, came along the path.

His glance roved the brightness of her eyes and skin, the whiteness of her teeth.

“
Good morning,” he said. “There’s no need to ask if you slept well. I’ll bet it was a dreamless sleep, too. Are you hungry?”

“A bit. But I’d like a turn in the garden before we eat.”

“Swing your legs out and I’ll lift you down.”

His breath came across her cheek, smoky and warm. He carried her clear to the flower-bed and steadied her on the path. The brush of his mouth against her eyebrow
might
have been accidental, but it started a cautious little bird singing in Venetia’s heart. Perhaps last night he had been afraid of alarming her. Things would go differently today, because they were both fresh and both eager for happiness.

They breakfasted, and he took her to the stables and selected a mount for her. She rode with him through the trees to the river, and he promised that one day soon he would drive her the whole way round the estate. She saw the sugar being cut, trimmed and loaded, but he wouldn’t let her taste the raw cane.

“It doesn’t agree with everyone,” he said. “You wait a while. No sense in risking enteritis.”

Returning, they skirted an orchard of papaw, avocado, peach, banana and pineapple, but the only item he let her taste was a ripe banana, explaining that it was much safer to acclimatize oneself gradually to tropical fruits.

As they left the stables, Mosi came to meet them with a telegram. Blake slit it open and spread the white square so that Venetia could read it with him.

Amazed and delighted with your news. Longing to meet your wife. May I slip home for a couple of days next week. Love Thea.

Venetia glanced up at him. “Your sister. How sweet of her to telegraph so quickly. I’m longing to meet her, too.”

The pull of Blake’s mouth was enigmatic. “Hard lines for both of you,” he commented, “but you’ll have to go on longing. Thea’s not coming.”

“But this is her home! If you refuse her she’ll conclude that I’m keeping her away.”

“If she does, it can’t be helped,” he returned, with a shrug. “Time enough to have Thea up when we’re more settled.”

“But, Blake
...”
—distress made her unwise; “she really has more right here than I have.”

A faint compression narrowed his jaw. “You won’t get anywhere with that line of argument. I prefer her to remain away until she hasn’t. I’ll go ahead and write a reply to this, and send the boy off to Ellisburg with it.”

“Please give her my love,” she called after him.

“Don’t jitter,” he threw back. “You can rely on me to keep your end up.”

By the time she had reached the house, Blake was ready to leave again.

“
There
’
s a message from Cedric Clarke—his farm is the next along the river. Cedric looks after things when I go away, and I haven’t had his report or thanked him yet. You needn’t come, but Margery is sure to ask us both over. Think you could face it by next Saturday?”

“Whenever you say.”

He smiled, and held her wrist for a moment, his thumb moving backward and forward over it. Then, with deliberation, he bent and dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose.

“Go in and find a book and sit on the cool side of the veranda. So long, my pet.”

Venetia turned to obey him. Her wrist and the end of her short nose tingled agreeably; in fact she was completely enveloped in a curious glow which had nothing to do with the weather.

Pleasantly restless, she wandered in to the lounge and through again to the corridor. Maybe Blake’s suggestion would most profitably and quickly pass the interval till he turned up for lunch; perhaps he would stay with her all the afternoon. She had forgotten to ask whether he objected to her using the study, but it hardly seemed likely that he would; there were no books elsewhere. In any case, she didn’t intend to read in there.

This morning the small room presented a busier appearance. Some letters and notes lay on the blotter of the desk, weighted by a piece of pure coral, and a couple of books had been left in the seat of the chair. They hadn
’
t been there when she came in yesterday, and Venetia wondered when, since their arrival, Blake had found time to read. Perhaps last night, before bed. He might have felt as uneasy as she had.

She studied the titles: a history of Natal and an anthology of
modern
verse. Odd fellows, but one could imagine Blake according each his undivided concentration. She put down the history and leafed through the poems, recognizing old favourites of her own among them. A sheet of notepaper whispered from the pages and fluttered to the floor.

Venetia retrieved it, saw the familiar slant of her father’s handwriting, and unconsciously pressed a hand to the sad-sweet pain in her heart. She had always seen Richard s letters to Blake and sometimes added a postscript. More often than not she had sealed them up and taken them to the post. Which one of those letters was it that had been deemed so worth keeping? Or had this one merely been shoved into the book and forgotten?

She smoothed the sheet, and read. After the first few words her glance sped back to the date at the top. This had been written only two days before her father died ... and he must have got someone else to post it. Her breathing quick and unsteady, she went on reading.

I am having to lie up with a cold, and I
’
m afraid I
’
m sleeping badly because of my anxiety over Venetia. I
t’
s an old nightmare with me, Blake. Back in England, during my bouts of bronchitis, I used to pray frantically that nothing would happen to me till she was safely married. But we did have a few old friends there who might have seen her through. Here, she has no one, and I dread to contemplate what might befall if she were suddenly left alone in a strange country. Eighteen is very young, and in some respects Venetia is pathetically innocent. She has a thoroughly adult mind, as you know, but she’s missed all those bits of knowledge a mother imparts.

She likes you, and I’m sure she would do whatever you thought best for her. If the necessity should arise, will you watch over her and help her through the loneliness?

I feel much easier now this is written, but please don’t introduce the subject in your letters to me. Venetia reads them
...

Carefully, as if she were handling something old and priceless, she reinserted the letter between the leaves of the volume and placed the book upon the seat of the chair as she had found it, with the history of Natal obscuring it.

For a long moment she could not move, then, mechanically, she came out, closed the door and crossed to her bedroom. Her breathing still played tricks, as though her lungs could not get enough air past the sharp obstruction in her throat, and her limbs felt weak and uncertain.

Blake had gone over that letter many times; again last night he had conned it and doubtless questioned, now that he had her under his own roof, whether he had done the right thing. He had married her out of respect and loyalty to her father, and for the same reasons he would make the best of the marriage; but one couldn’t fall in love at command. He knew that as well as she did
...
probably better.

How childish and absurd she had been to believe that a man of Blake’s years and experience would, of his own will, marry the nice youngster who happened to be Richard’s daughter! She visualized him scanning her own few bald lines acquainting him with her father’s death; his long speculation about it, the disagreeable realization of his position as a sort of guardian to Venetia Lindley, whom he had known for such a short time, and the philosophical resignation with which he had decided to “give her his name and the right to live at Bondolo.”

Having made his decision, Blake would go ahead with it, firm in the belief that it was for her good—and that every man had to marry some time.

What she could do about it, Venetia was, as yet, too shattered to analyse. She only knew that the last ten minutes had bitterly and remorselessly destroyed the last vestiges of her girlhood.

CHAPTER THREE

FOR the dinner-party which Blake had arranged, Venetia wore a new leaf-green dress with a low, square neckline and the waist drawn in at one side with a large, beaten-silver clasp. Her hair was slicked back from forehead and temples to fall naturally in her nape, and she used a dab of rouge beneath the light dusting of powder.

Tonight was important. Blake’s unusual interest in the menu and wines were an indication of that; he had wanted to know all about her dress, too. Before she had gone off to the bathroom he had congratulated her on the table decorations.

“No touch with flowers like a woman’s,” he had said teasingly. “The folk will sense your presence the minute they enter the hall and find those massive proteas on the table where the rubber plant used to be.”

“You didn’t mind my transferring it to the veranda?” she asked anxiously. “People here are accustomed to proteas, but they still fill me with amazement and awe, particularly under electric light.”

“Of course I didn’t mind. You’ve done a magnificent job,” he assured her.

In fact, she had done very little. The boys had polished till floor and furniture surfaces shone like lakes. In order not to place too heavy a load on the electric lighting plant, they had cleaned and filled several paraffin lamps to give plenty of illumination. They had made a sparkling job of the silver and glassware, had killed a turkey and some chickens, dressed and cooked them; concocted a good soup and prepared vegetables and an entree.

This morning Mosi had come to the dining-room and consulted Venetia for the first time.

“Please, missus, what sweet for dinner?”

Surprised and inwardly flurried, she had answered: “Surely that’s planned already? A hot pudding, a cold alternative, and a dish of fresh fruit salad.”

The boy had grinned, not at Venetia but over the confirmation of some private piece of conjecture. It was not till later, when she was squeezing whorls of cream over the surface of the trifle, that Venetia realized the significance of the boy’s enquiries. Blake must have ruled that her advice be sought, that if she wished to help in small ways Mosi had better not be obstructive or it would be the worse for him. She had placed the bowl in the fridge, and gone through to the back garden, impelled by a strange mixture of pleasure and sadness.

Now she completed her toilet by stepping out of mules and into high-heeled sandals. She hoped that Margery and Cedric Clarke would be the first comers. Margery was placid and kind; she took everything at face value. During the evening they had spent together at Lawnside, Venetia had come to recognize and be grateful for the other woman’s friendliness.

She crossed to the spare bedroom which was to be used by the women guests, and unnecessarily rearranged the lamps and patted the bedcover. She didn’t know she was trembling till she came out again and saw Blake emerging from his room. He had on a white informal dinner-jacket such as he used to wear in the evenings at the hotel in Umsanga, and his hair was brushed back, sleek and shiny. The smile he bent upon her had the faintly cynical quality with which she was becoming familiar, but his voice was warm and quiet.

“You look sweet, my infant, but scared pink. Come and be pepped up with a drink.”

They went into the lounge. While he poured sherry, she adjusted the shade of the standard lamp, rearranged a flower and flicked pollen from the table.

“Give it up, Venetia,” he said patiently, and placed a glass in her hand. “Down this and relax for ten minutes. You’re too young to have nerves.”

She sipped, but remained standing, her glance on the well-lit veranda outside the french window, her ears straining for the slightest sound.

“Blake, won’t Thea be upset if she hears that we’ve entertained your friends—and hers?”

“So that’s the reason for the pleated brow. You bother quite a lot with other people’s feelings, don’t you? I hope you regard mine as rather important, too.”

“Well, naturally.”

“How important?”

Almost imperceptibly she moistened her lips. “More important than my own.”

Speculatively he looked into his glass. “You needn’t concern yourself about Thea—she knows me.” A pause. “Are you happy at Bondolo?”

“Of course. Anyone would be happy here. There’s beauty everywhere and you’re so generous. I’ve everything I could possibly want.”

“Have you?” His tone was baffling, but he changed it, to add: “Some time soon you must take over the housekeeping. You’ve done it in England, so it shouldn’t come hard.”

“I’d like to. With servants to do everything, one feels somewhat superfluous.”

“No woman is superfluous in her own home,” he said decisively. “She’s mostly the hub of it.”

He finished his drink and drew a small flat case from his pocket. At the pressure of his thumb the lid snapped back, and Venetia was staring at a pair of exquisite earrings, each a glistening pearl in a circle of tiny diamonds, which winked provocatively.

“Like them?” he asked.

“They’re dazzling,” she whispered, smiling yet fearful. “Are they for me?”

He laughed briefly, not wholly with amusement. “For no one else. Put them on.”

Gently she lifted one from its white satin bed and fitted it over the lobe of her ear, but her fingers quivered too much to tighten the minute platinum screws.

“Let me,” he said.

She stood very still, conscious of his knuckles first against one side of her neck and then the other. They weren’t clumsy, but their movements were hard and sure. He held back his head, regarding the effect.

“They age you about six months, but I hoped for more. Come into the hall and see yourself.”

In the oval mirror set in a wrought-iron frame she examined her reflection. Blake’s face showed above hers, lean and tanned, the eyes grey and inscrutable, his mouth slightly mocking. After the first moment he did not look at the earrings, but met the reflection of her eyes. She turned away and found him close.

“They’re very lovely, Blake. Thank you.”

“Not worth a kiss?”

After an instant she raised her lips. He shrugged and touched his mouth to her cheek, bent lower, and kissed the side of her neck.

“I believe I hear a car,” he said. “Let’s go outside.”

Venetia quelled a shaky sigh. Ten days alone with Blake had taught her never to question his reactions in perilous moments, because although he caused those moments, he also managed, somehow, to get her over them. It was silly, but she seemed to think that a miracle would happen if he’d only take her into his arms. Why couldn’t they behave like an engaged couple—gently make love and exchange promises?

Out on the veranda he slipped a hand through her elbow. The trees stirred with a soft wind. Last night it had rained and today new buds had opened, adding to the heavy scent of the nicotiana below the wall; from the orchard drifted the unmistakable perfume of late orange blossom. Away in the stables a horse whinnied, and Blake said:

“That’s Ginger. A horse is never happy when he’s too fat. You don’t exercise him enough.”

“I would, if you’d let me go out with you before breakfast.”

“You’re not up to that yet. Wait till you’ve been here longer. Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Why did you shiver?”

“It wasn’t with cold. Are they never coming!”

His grip of her arm was reassuring. “Stop worrying, you little idiot. They’ll all adore you and bear you down with good advice. Here’s a car. I’m not mistaken this time.”

It wasn’t Margery and Cedric, but it hardly mattered. Within the next quarter of an hour the sixteen guests arrived, some of them from Ellisburg, eighteen miles away, and others from an equal distance in the opposite direction. The Allistons and the Clarkes, Natalie Benham, Brigadier and Mrs. Scott, Dr. Rivers, and others. Venetia concentrated on remembering names and smiling.

The lounge filled. She was parted from Blake but adjacent to the comforting presence of Margery. On her other side stood Dr. Paul Rivers.

Paul was thirty-two, above average height and rather heavily-built. Venetia noticed the spatulate fingers
upon his glass and recollected Blake saying that Rivers was too good a surgeon to be a general practitioner; he ought to specialize. Although he had come to the district less than a year ago, his was said to be the busiest practice in Ellisburg. He gave one an impression of unshakable solidity.

At dinner Paul sat on Venetia’s left. They discovered a common interest in gardening, and she invited him to come over in daylight to inspect the flamboyants and other flowering shrubs in the lower drive, and the grapevines which smothered the arbour. He had dined at Bondolo only once before, soon after his installation at Ellisburg.

She was grateful for his calmness and acceptance of her, and tremulously elated each time Blake smilingly caught her eye down the length of the table. This was how it should be. Blake entertaining his friends and drawing her into their circle. She wanted so desperately to be one of them.

Everyone was agreeable and flatteringly interested that she was so newly arrived from England.

“Blake held out on us,” said vivacious Mrs. Alliston, the attorney’s wife. “The very last time he visited us, just before he went to Umsanga, I called him the typical confirmed bachelor and he didn’t turn a hair. What do you think of that for deception! I’m afraid you’ve got a deep, dark horse for a husband, Venetia.”

“I believe I have, but I’m transparent enough for both of us,” she commented.

“You’re not frightened at the thought of settling in a strange country?”

“Not a bit. Were you frightened when you first came from England?”

“My circumstances were different. I was newly married, too, but to a man I had known for years—in fact, we’d grown up together.

“Tactfully put,” inserted Blake equably. “Venetia, my dear, it would appear that in simultaneously tackling both Natal and me you’ve earned the admiration of the whole neighbourhood. Isn’t that what you mean, Mrs. Allison?”

“Heavens, no, Blake! I’d trust you to take good care of anything that’s yours, and Venetia has absolute faith in you or she wouldn’t have married you. I should say that you’re going to be very happy. Believe it or not, my curiosity was conventional. I merely wondered whether she found South Africa, in its complete contrast to any other country in the world, just a little terrifying.”

“Perhaps it’s fortunate that, apart from England, I’ve never set foot in any other country,” Venetia returned. “Since living in Natal, I feel sure there’s no other place half so fascinating.”

This drew applause from the men. Blake gave her the suspicion of a wink and called for more wine. For his sake Venetia glowed. Blake’s party was going to be a success, and she was contributing her mite towards that end.

The women rose, and the men moved outside. From her bedroom, where she bathed her face in cold water and used fresh make-up, Venetia could hear the boom of masculine talk and laughter.

Someone out there, unaware of her proximity, observed amiably:

“She’s a pretty girl, and intelligent, but hardly Blake’s cup of tea, do you think? I always thought he’d marry a woman of farming stock, like Natalie Benham.”

Venetia took a clean handkerchief and dusted a few grains of powder from her dress. She recalled Natalie
Benham as the dark person with a smooth, tanned skin and a moulded dress of stiff ivory silk; by far the best-looking woman here tonight.

Feminine tones joined the others. Hurriedly, Venetia switched off the lamp and opened her door to the veranda. In the dimness she nearly collided with Blake.

“I saw your light,” he said. “It was on a long time, so I came to investigate. Were you brooding about something?”

“No, just freshening up. The dining-room got hot, so I cooled off thoroughly.”

He pulled the door shut. “Good girl. Are you over the stage fright?”

“Practically. They’re so friendly.”

“I told you you’d make a hit.” He drew her along towards the front of the house. “Presently, they’ll suggest dancing, but don’t let them overtire you. Who’s this?”—as a man strolled to the
corner
pillar and tossed a cigarette out into the garden. “Oh, it’s you, Paul. Be a good doctor and give Venetia a few restful minutes, will you?”

“With pleasure.”

Blake patted her arm and moved away to the large group in the porch. Paul breathed deeply and appreciatively, and bent over to snap off a sprig of jasmine.

“The more I smell of your garden, the less satisfied I become with my own. Where will you sit?”

“I prefer the wall.”

“You may get beetles in you
r
hair.”

“It’s worth it, to sit above the flowers. Do you live in Ellisburg, Dr. Rivers?”

“Not quite—just this side of it, but my consulting-rooms are in the centre of the town. I’m hoping to persuade Blake to bring you to look over my ancient house and wooded acre one day.”

“Has he seen them?”

“No. It’s an odd but incontrovertible fact tha
t
bachelors seldom get together in their homes. It takes a woman to bring out the human in them.” Paul slid the jasmine stem into his lapel—he had come straight from the hospital
and wore a lounge suit. “I rather thought your sister-in-law would be here tonight.”

“Thea? I wish she were, then we’d be complete.” Venetia looked up at him. “You know her?”

“We met in Durban some time ago and worked together for a while. She’s an excellent nurse.”

“Blake says she’s charming. I wish she’d come, if only for a week-end.”

“Have you invited her?”

“Not
...
yet.”

Paul eased over the pause. “There’s plenty of time, and you can depend upon her accepting you as a sister with the greatest cordiality.”

“Is she like Blake?”

“In many ways, yes.” He went on reminiscently: “Thea’s fiercely independent and unyielding—or she was. Blake’s the same, only more so. I’m looking forward to meeting her again.”

“Durban is only a few hours away. Eventually she may be coming home often.”

There was no conviction in Venetia’s statement. Upon this matter she was certain, Blake would never capitulate. Thea must wait.

Music came from the radio in the lounge. A languorous, cloying tune stole over the African air.

“Shall we dance?” said Paul.

He danced well, and so did the other men; they had plenty of practice, for parties in these parts invariably included that type of exercise. Later there was more talking and drinking.

No one left till midnight, and it was nearly one before the last guests departed. Venetia went to bed exhausted, but profoundly thankful that the evening had gone through without catastrophe.