The Blue Rose (18 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

CLARE’S job in New York did materialize. She too had to go the following week and she too would be flying, so it seemed only natural that she and Stephen should travel together, though Rose couldn’t get it out of her head that Clare had engineered it that way. She did not reveal her suspicions to anyone, however. She was not jealous of Clare going with him, but she was envious. There is all the difference in the world between jealousy and envy. Envy can make one dissatisfied but not utterly miserable.

They would both be staying in New York but not at the same place. Clare was to stay with the woman who was employing her, while Stephen was to go to the St. Regis Hotel. Now that it was all arranged Clare made out that she really didn’t want to go at all. “It will be like a furnace in New York,” she complained. “Quite unbearable I should think. It’s a crazy time to have to go.”

“Then why don’t you go later?” Rose suggested mildly. “My dear, it’s now or never. She wants to be in the new apartment by the first of October.”

It was suggested that they should all go to the airport together in the Frenton’s car; then Clive could drive Rose back to London. Rose would rather have had this last drive alone with Stephen but as it was such an eminently sensible suggestion there was nothing she could find to say against it.

For that last week before he went away Stephen was in a strangely abstracted mood. Rose felt that there was something on his mind and she longed to be able to share it with him but when she asked him once whether there was anything worrying him he almost snapped at her: “No, why should there be?”

“I don’t know,” she had replied. “But you seem awfully far away.”

“Do I? I’m sorry
...
What will you do while I’m away?”

“Go and help at the Botticelli, I expect.”

He frowned. “Don’t go and tire yourself,” he said, “and get ill again.”

“I’m perfectly strong again now.”

“Are you?” and he looked at her in a way she didn’t understand. “Are you quite yourself again?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Well, take care all the same,” he said shortly. “The doctor said you would have to be careful for at least six months. You’ve got to get really strong for the winter.”

“I shall
...
Will you let me know what day you are getting back?”

“Of course. I’ll send you a cable.”

“Will you write?”

“There won’t be time to write. It’s a confounded nuisance having to go.”

“It makes a difference Clare going, doesn’t it?” she couldn’t resist asking, and was hurt by his reply: “Yes, thank goodness she’s travelling with me.”

“And you’ll see something of her in New York too, won’t you?”

“I don’t know. We shall both be very busy, and they are apt to organize one’s evening arrangements over there as well as one’s day ones.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself anyway,” she said brightly, determined not to let him see how much she minded his going, especially going with Clare.

“It’s not a pleasure trip, I assure you,” he answered rather sharply.

Rose h
ad taken his going as an opportu
nity to show herself as the patient, understanding wife who does not interfere in any way in her husband’s business life. That she did in truth mind his going quite dreadfully made her all the more anxious to hide her real feelings. She felt it was petty and stupid on her part to mind so terribly being parted from him for one week. It was childish—quite out of keeping with the role she was now trying to play. And also, in her heart, she was terrified of him flying, and did not want to acknowledge this even to herself. She tried to comfort herself by thinking that flying must be safe because it carried such a low insurance premium (she had read this reassuring bit of information somewhere), but all the same she had terrible nightmares of air accidents—one so vivid that she remembered afterwards that it was in colour—and saw the colour of the ambulances and fire engines rushing to the rescue of a flaming wreck at the far corner of an airfield.

“Will you send me a cable to say you have arrived safely?” she asked, but his reply did not reassure her: “My dear child, you’ll know soon enough from the papers if I don’t arrive safely! What’s far more likely to happen is that we get stuck at Goose Bay or Gander for a week with engine trouble.”

Stuck at Goose Bay or Gander for a week with Clare? This unpleasant thought prompted her next question: “Will Clare be travelling back with you?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea but I doubt it very much. For one thing I don’t know when I’m coming back, and for another thing I don’t imagine that Clare will have finished her job in a week or ten days
...
You’ll miss Clare, won’t you?”

Would she miss Clare? “Yes, I suppose I will,” she said. “You’ve been so much with her these last couple of months. I hope you don’t miss her too much.”

“She’s been wonderfully kind to me,” Rose replied evasively.

“I don’t
thin
k she’s been kind to you. She’s very fond of you. It’s easy enough to be nice to the people we like.”

It was on the tip of Rose’s tongue to retort: “She may like me but that hasn’t spared me her criticism and personal remarks,” but what would be the good? Stephen was very fond of Clare and she didn’t want to say anything unpleasant about his friends, and, besides, her own feelings about Clare were too mixed to be discussed. At moments, like that evening when she had been so rude to Tony, she had really hated her, but at other moments she still came under the spell of her personality.

Stephen’s love-making during that last week was passionate but wordless, and Rose sometimes felt that she would rather hear him say: “I love you,” than receive all the kisses in the world. Speech was so important, particularly to a woman perhaps. The mere physical expression of his love—if it was love
—
didn’t seem to bring him any closer to her. The barrier was still there—amorphous, incomprehensible, mysterious—a cloud between her and happiness. How difficult men were to understand—or was it only Stephen? If only she could find the clue to his character, the key that would open the door into his innermost heart. Was it something to do with his business fife which she could not share? She found that as a rule he came closer to her at weekends when they were together all day, sharing the same little experiences. At least then they were in accordant moods; but when they met at the end of a working day their moods seemed to conflict jarringly.

But surely that must always be the case when a couple are parted during working hours? Their experience during the day is so completely different. A man comes home from a surfeit of people, longing only for peace and silence, whereas a woman, as a rule, has been too much alone and longs for companionship and conversation. How much easier it must be to keep in accord if you were working at the same job, like Francie and Derek—with the same daily problems and concerns. A woman longs to know more about a man’s business life, but a man (or certainly Stephen) wants to forget it when he comes home and talk about anything rather than shop—though his real contentment lies in not having to talk at all. He takes refuge behind the evening paper, which he has probably read already in the Tube coming home, in order to defend himself against his wife’s chatter.

The aeroplane—a Constellation—was due to take off from London Airport at 7 p.m.—or what is called 19.00 hours in airport parlance which Rose could never get used to or calculate without working it out on her fingers. They took their own car as far as Eaton Square (Rose would drive it home that evening) and there changed into the Frentons’ car which Clive was driving. Stephen and Rose sat in the back, but Clare, who was sitting in front beside Clive, turned round to talk to them all the time—or rather to talk to Stephen. Rose was feeling more and more miserable and finding it more and more difficult to talk. Clare on the other hand seemed to be on top of the world, and if she was really miserable at leaving Clive she was disguising the fact very much better than Rose was able to do. Her travelling get-up was as elegant as anything Rose had ever seen—a pale green linen dust coat over a green and white tie-silk print dress, with a small brown straw hat to match her brown crocodile bag and shoes. Her face was looking its best too—her skin clear and her eyes sparkling. She would have made a perfect advertisement for a travel agency. Everything about her seemed to cry out that she was off on the great adventure. Rose did not see how anybody but herself could have failed to respond to her gaiety and high spirits.

Clive and Rose were allowed to go with the travellers while they showed their tickets at the desk and had their luggage weighed (Clare’s luggage was as elegant as everything else about her that day), but no further. When the moment came to say good-bye, Stephen did not kiss Rose but took her hand and looked down deep into her unhappy eyes, which were mirroring her true feelings perhaps for the first time since the beginning of her illness. “You look almost yourself,” he said, and there was a note of surprise in his voice. “But I don’t suppose you will have time to grow your hair again in a week?” She was startled by this last remark. Didn’t he like her new way of doing her hair? Everybody else seemed to like it so much. “Take care of yourself and don’t be too happy without me,” he added.

“Happy without you?” she asked incredulously, but he had turned away already and had picked up Clare’s overnight case, and now Clare was kissing her good-bye and saying: “Don’t worry, I’ll look after him for you.”

As they disappeared together down the passage leading to the Customs, Rose felt a sick little pain at her heart which was almost physical.

“Do you want to wait?” Clive asked. He was standing beside her. She had forgotten all about him.

“Oh, yes, we must wait and see the take-off.”

“Just as you like,” he said indifferently.

They went through the restaurant on to a terrace from where they could watch the airfield, and soon they saw Stephen and Clare emerge and walk towards the waiting bus which was to take them to the plane. Neither of them looked towards the restaurant—Stephen’s head was bent towards Clare, who was saying something to him—and Rose was just on the point of calling out to him when she stopped herself. He might look displeased, and what was the good of a wave of the hand anyway? She would rather remember that last look of his—deep, intent. It was all she would have to treasure until he got back, and she did not want it erased by some other look that might be less personal, less for herself alone.

Clive did not call out either and when she turned to him she saw that he was not even looking in their direction.

“That must be their plane over there,” and he pointed out to her what looked from this distance like a toy aeroplane almost on the horizon. She kept her eyes on it, and about a quarter of an hour later they saw it move, and soon it took to the air. She continued to watch it until it was a silver speck in the sky. Never had she felt so lonely.

As they went back to the car Clive said: “Will you do me the charity of having dinner with me this evening?”

“Oh
...”
she began. She didn’t at all want to dine with him. She wanted to go to the Botticelli to be with Francie and Derek on this first evening of her grass widowhood, though she had made no definite date with them.

“It would be very kind of you if you would,” he said seriously. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Then of course I will.” She realized with a sudden shock that it was a deeply unhappy man who was walking beside her—even unhappier than she was herself. Clive had never before realty impinged much on her consciousness. He was just Clare’s husband—almost a cypher—the sleeping partner of their wonderfully happy marriage.

“Where would you like to dine?” he asked as they got into the car. “The Mirabelle? We can dine out of doors there.”

“Oh, no, not there.” That was the restaurant where she and Stephen had first dined together. She could not go there with anyone else.

“Do you like fish?” he asked. “Then let’s go to Prunier’s.”

They drove in silence most of the way back to London, for which she was grateful, and when they did speak it was only to exchange the barest commonplaces about the traffic or the makes of motor-cars.

When they got to the restaurant he asked for two glasses of iced wine to be brought immediately before they ordered anything to eat. “Does that suit you or would you rather have a cocktail?”

“No, that sounds lovely.”

When the wine came he held his glass towards her and said: “Here’s to a happy married life,” but she did not at all like the tone in which he said it. It was mocking and cynical.

“And now tell me, Rose,” he asked abruptly. “Why has Stephen gone to New York?”

The suddenness of the question as well as the nature of it startled her. “He’s gone on business,” she said.

“What—in August? What kind of business?”

“He didn’t say exactly. He never does. He knows that I probably wouldn’t understand if he did tell me.”

“I don’t believe you are all that stupid, my dear.”

“I don’t know what you are trying to insinuate,” she said.

“Don’t you? Well let me tell you one thing that may or may not surprise you. There
is
no woman in New York who has asked Clare to do up her flat for her. It’s a pure invention.”

“Stephen certainly doesn’t know that.”

“Doesn’t he? And didn’t you suspect it?”

“Certainly not.”

“Hasn’t it ever struck you that they are in love with each other?”

“No, of course it hasn’t. I know they are friends
...”

“Friends!” and he gave an unpleasant little laugh. “Such friends. Such dear friends,” he said cynically.

“Yes, friends,” Rose said firmly, thrusting her chin forward in defiance. “I can’t answer for Clare because you must know her better than I do, but you have no right to insinuate such things against Stephen.”

“It’s not an insinuation, my dear—it’s an accusation.”

“Then why didn’t you have the courage to accuse him to his face before they left?”

“Because I haven’t yet made up my mind what line to take, and it’s no good taking any line unless you are prepared to stick to it. It merely weakens one’s position if one has to climb down in any way. I thought a talk to you might clear my mind—both our minds. It’s no good pretending to me that you’re not unhappy too.”

“Of course I’m unhappy, parted from my husband, but it’s got absolutely nothing to do with Clare or any mistrust of him.”

“Has your marriage been a success?”

“Yes, it has.”

“Aren’t you protesting a little too much?” and he gave his unpleasant cynical laugh again. “From my point of view the question is how much longer am I going to allow myself to be played for a sucker? This time I t
hink
she’s gone too far.”

“But I thought you were so happily married,” Rose could not help saying, her curiosity triumphing momentarily over her indignation.

“Happily married!” and he laughed once more. “If only you knew! If only you knew the hell of it—the degradation. You let a woman get under your skin and what does she do to you? Plays with you like a fish on a hook
—
a small fish on a very large hook.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Rose said. “I had no idea, but it’s a thing between you and Clare entirely. We don’t come into it. You must leave Stephen out of your calculations. He’s not in the least in love with Clare, I promise you.”

“Do you really know as little as that
...
?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t have dinner with you after this,” and she got up. “You’re making a terrible, wicked mistake.” He made no effort to detain her and she walked proudly out of the restaurant. At the door she glanced back at him. He had not moved. He was gazing down at his glass.

II

She couldn’t go to the Botticelli now. She couldn’t face Francie with this on her mind and not tell her, and she didn’t want to tell her. She didn’t want to tell anyone. The whole thing was too beastly and degrading for words. He must be mad. Surely that was the explanation? He had suddenly gone mad—stark, staring, raving mad. Perhaps it was the heat. It was all too horrible. She felt polluted as if she had fallen into a heap of dirt. She would go straight home and have a bath and get to bed. In her own, clean, beautiful home she would feel better.

Fortunately she remembered the car. She took a taxi to Eaton Square, terrified suddenly that Clive might get there before her and that she might find him waiting for her with his hideous laugh and slimy, lying tongue; but fortunately the street was empty and she drove away quickly.

As she was putting the car away the question sprang unbidden into her mind: “Why
has
Stephen gone to America?” but she fought it down as if it had been a viper or a tiger that had suddenly sprung out at her. “Don’t, don’t, don’t,” she shouted silently to herself. “Don’t let Clive contaminate you. Because that’s all it is
—
a vile contamination from a diseased mind
...
If once I lose faith everything is gone. I might as well be dead. He’s my whole life, and without faith in him I couldn’t go on living.”

When she got back to the house the walls of the hall seemed to close round her with a loving protectiveness. It was Stephen’s house—warm and secure—so full of his atmosphere that she might almost have been in his arms.

On the hall table a long white florist’s box was waiting for her. It must have come since they went out. Something told her who it was from and she opened it with a tremulous eagerness. Inside there was a single white rose. No card, no message—there was no need for one.

She took the flower into the study, and curling herself up in Stephen’s big leather chair and pressing the rose to her cheek, she wept.