Gently, though his muscles were taut, he edged his arms under her and lifted her. She was light, and he had no trouble in manoeuvring her through the great hole in the wall which Aaron had made. He told the boy to stay at the cottage, put Ann into the back seat of the car and drove to his own house. His houseboy hovering, he carried her into a bedroom and went straight to the telephone.
It was several hours later that Ann awoke. A heavily-shaded reading lamp gave dim light to a room she didn’t recognize, and oddly, she didn’t care where she was. She felt hazy and unreal, there was a slight singing noise in her ears and nothing focused properly. Then, after a few minutes, she saw that she lay in a magnificent carved wooden bed, that there were two massive wardrobes, a large dressing chest, a couple of easy chairs covered in gold silk, and french doors of which only the vent windows were open.
She moved slightly, and her teeth clenched against the sudden pain spearing through the numbness of her shoulder. Then she realized that her other arm was bandaged from forearm to armpit ... and she remembered. A shudder ran through her body.
“Aaron,” she said weakly, not knowing what else to say. “Aaron!”
But it was Storr who came in, quickly and with surprising soundlessness. He bent over her, his face all angles in the subdued light.
“So you’re awake,” he said softly. “How do you feel?”
“Peculiar. I can’t think.”
“That’s the sedative. It probably won’t wear off completely till you’ve had a night’s rest. Any pain?”
“Only when I move.” Her awareness of him increased and she found herself growing a little cold. “Where am I?”
In my house. You’ll have to stay here tonight—perhaps for a day or two. I’m getting Mrs. Newman over to sleep here. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
“Where’s ... Elva?”
“She’s cleared off somewhere. How are the bandages—not too tight?”
“No.” She drew in her lip. “Did you call a doctor?”
“Yes, but once he’d made sure there were no bones broken, I did the dressings. He gave you the sedative and said he’ll call in again tomorrow. So you’re in good hands.”
“Can’t I go home?”
Just faintly, his mouth thinned. “Where’s home? You’ve no people in Cape Town, and there’s no one at the cottage. I’m afraid you haven’t much choice, Pretty Ann.”
“I’m sorry to be a nuisance,” she said.
“Think nothing of it,” he replied offhandedly. “Would you like something to eat?”
“No, thank you—just a drink of water.”
He gave it to her, and held her while she drank. She felt his arm supporting her back, and wished she could sink against him and close her eyes. She must have looked as beaten as she felt, for he laid her back very carefully and adjusted the bedclothes before saying, coolly and casually, “Don’t flog it, little one. Mrs. Newman has already been over here, and that’s why you’re wearing pyjamas. Your own, you’ll notice. It was thoughtful of you to pack the case in readiness. It’s over there in the wardrobe. As I said before, you don’t have a thing to worry about. Just go to sleep again; it’ll do you more good than anything else.”
“Storr.”
“Yes?”
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault. You know that, don’t you?”
“Leave it, child. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I think I’ll be able to go to Cape Town tomorrow.”
“You’re not leaving till you’re a hundred per cent,” he said abruptly.
“But you don’t have to feel responsible simply because it was your horse that kicked me.”
“That’s right, I don’t. Get some more sleep.” And he stalked out of the room.
Ann lay there in a strange, half-awake condition. She couldn’t think very clearly, and didn’t want to. Tomorrow, she would wish she wasn’t in Storr’s house, but tonight it wasn’t important. Sheila Newman would be here soon, and perhaps...
She dozed, and came awake again. She didn’t wonder that Storr seemed angry. He had returned from Johannesburg feeling fairly pleased with himself, and this had to happen. Perhaps he would telephone his Chloe this evening, make sure that she heard from himself about this young woman who had to sleep under his roof. Possibly he had already spoken to her and assured her that there would be an adequate chaperon in the house. As if a chaperon were necessary, thought Ann bleakly, as she closed her eyes once more.
During the hours that followed she was dimly aware two or three times of Sheila Newman and once of Storr. She felt him standing above the bed and looking down at her, felt him take her wrist and count the pulse and push a strand of hair up from her forehead. Weakness—it must have been weakness—made her want to weep and weep, and when he left her she did allow a tear to slip from the corner of her eye and down to the pillow. She felt so worn and hopeless and helpless.
But when she awoke next morning the helplessness, at least, had disintegrated. After all, she was strong, and her only wounds were in an arm and a shoulder. Once she was up and moving about she would begin to feel differently about her situation. It was not easy, though, to persuade Mrs. Newman she was fit.
That smiling young woman with the silver-sheen hair was in her element. It transpired that she had been a nurse for a couple of years before her marriage, and she was happy to be in the thick of whatever was happening at Groenkop. For certainly something was happening.
“I always say,” she remarked cheerfully as she carried in the breakfast tray after Ann had washed and had her hair tidied, “that nothing comes singly. Nothing exciting, that is. Not that it was exciting for you to be kicked by that great horse, but there is excitement here at Groenkop; one can feel it. I hope you like boiled eggs?”
“I can eat one, and a piece of toast.”
“Make it two, if you can. You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday’s breakfast, so you’ll need to rest a lot today.”
“I’m going to get up.”
“Oh, no. Storr won’t hear of it.”
“I can’t help it. I won’t be shut away.”
“We’ll leave it to the doctor. You know,” with a hint of mischief, “I’d love to be in your position—imprisoned here with Storr—even if he is someone else’s fiancé.”
“You ... know that?”
“The young pilot—Braithwaite—mentioned it yesterday morning. He came over to our place looking for you; he said he had an appointment with you for ten o’clock, but he had to say goodbye. He went back to Johannesburg by train.”
Neville. Ann had forgotten Neville. “I went for a ride,” she said quietly. “I quite thought the date was off. Why did he go by train?”
“Storr wants the plane here—so that he can hop back and forth to see his girl, I suppose.” She readjusted the legs of the tray on the bed. “Do have another piece of toast. No? Then I’ll pour some more coffee.” While doing so, she smiled at Ann.
“You must be very pleased about Theo.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Elva seems to have taken the whole business as if it’s a great lark. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s gone up to Johannesburg to see her brother.”
Ann lay back in her pillows. “Do you mean she hasn’t returned at all?”
“Appears not. Storr says she was very happy when he left her yesterday morning at about ten-thirty.”
Ann sipped her coffee thoughtfully, found herself looking impersonally at the fine breakfast china, and the glass coffee server and not caring very much that they were Storr’s. Caring was the one thing one mustn’t do about Storr.
Elva, she was sure, had not opened the letter Storr had brought from Theo till late in the morning; she had been vexed that he had decided to stay away from Groenkop and perhaps as a foolish kind of revenge she had neglected the letter till she felt calmer. And then she had read news which, to her, was far worse than anything concerning Theo himself. And that finely balanced mind of hers had slipped slightly to one side.
Ann clasped her hands tightly under the sheet; she had to get back to the cottage, be there when Elva came in, so that no one need suspect Elva’s hand in her own injuries.
She asked carefully, “I suppose you’ll be going home for the day, Mrs. Newman?”
“I’m afraid I have to, dear. But I’ll come back here to sleep, tonight. You stay right there in bed till the doctor calls.”
“Is Storr out?”
“Yes, but he’ll be back mid-morning. I did say I’d wait that long...”
“But it isn’t necessary, Mrs. Newman. Do you have a car here?”
“Of course—my own. That’s one thing we farming wives insist on—our own means of transport Well, if you’re sure, Ann?”
“I shall be quite all right, really.”
“I’ll take the tray. There are two or three books Storr put on the table for you, and the bell is right next to them. Goodbye, then.”
The door closed, and Ann lay tingling and a little frightened. She waited till the sound of Mrs. Newman’s car dwindled into a hum and then, very cautiously, turned back the bedclothes and sat up. Her head reeled, but that was a legacy from the sedative, she told herself firmly. Fresh air would take care of that. First, she must lock the door and then find clothes that would be easy to get into; perhaps a button-through house-frock would be best.
Out of bed, on her feet, she didn’t feel at all bad; the bruised arm throbbed a little, but the dressing on her shoulder had been so carefully arranged that she couldn’t swing the arm and cause pain. She locked the door and went to the wardrobe, found that her clothes had been hung up and her shoes arranged on a rack. She selected a frock and laid it on a long, silk-covered stool, pulled open a drawer which held her underwear.
And then there came a light tap on the door and the rasp of the turning handle. Ann froze, and for some reason stood very still, as if any sound she might make would give her away.
“Ann!” said Storr peremptorily, and when she did not answer: “Why is the door locked?”
She swallowed. “I’m ... dressing.”
“The hell you are! Open this door.”
“Just give me five minutes ... please.”
“If you don’t open the door I’ll come round to the veranda and smash the french window.”
He would too; she knew that. “Just a moment I can’t find my dressing-gown.”
“Open up!”
She did, and turned immediately away from the door. Storr came in in one long stride, and stopped to look at her. She was small and pale; barefoot, in the crumpled striped silk pyjamas, she appeared young and lost. It could have been the sight of her that roughened his voice.
“What do you think you’re doing? I promised the doctor you wouldn’t get out of bed till he’d seen you again. Go on, slide back!”
She stood as firmly as she could. “There’s nothing wrong with me, and I have things to do. I’ll rest over the way in the cottage. I promise.”
“You’re not going back there. Come on, into bed.”
Ann wasn’t yet up to arguing with him, but she did pause before obeying him to ask, “If I do as you say will you do something for me? Will you make sure that I’m the first to speak to Elva when she gets back?”
He shook his head. “Lie down, child. She’s not your problem.”
Had Ann been strong enough to resist him it was doubtful whether she would have done so. There was something about him that hurt and puzzled her and made her wish again that he would leave her alone; just go a long way away and leave her alone. She lowered herself to the bed and he adjusted the sheet and blanket. Then he straightened, took a letter from his pocket and dropped it on to the bedside table.
“This was in the mail this morning—from your mother, I think.”
She lifted her head, saw that it was indeed her mother’s writing and relaxed again. “Thank you.”
“Want to read it now?”
“No, it can wait a while. The fact that Mother has written herself means she’s all right. I’ll read it later.”
“Tired?”
“A bit.”
He walked to the window and looked out at the lawn and scarlet flower beds, spoke evenly, “Do you feel up to telling me exactly what happened in the stable yesterday?”
“I ... I thought you knew.”
“Any moron would have deduced that you got shut in with the beast and he took fright and kicked. What went before that?”
She spoke almost without expression. “Supposing you tell me how much you’ve guessed?”
“All right, I will.” He was still looking out of the window. “My stable-boy knew that Elva had taken my new mount and galloped away. By the condition of the horse today I’d say she brought him back in the deuce of a lather. Perhaps that was why she put him in her own stable rather than one of mine. She may not have wanted me to see him till he had recovered. Did you go out to her while she was rubbing the horse down?”
“Something like that.”
He turned quickly. “I want the truth!”
“What difference can it make now?”
“Materially, not much, but I’ve a right to know. Tell me,” his voice changed, went flat and strange, “why did you want to be the first to see Elva? Was it to assure her, perhaps, that you hadn’t told anyone that she locked you in the stable?”
Ann was quivering under the sheet “Don’t be silly. The door blew shut.”
“Don’t lie to me! I’ve tested that door and it takes considerable force to slam it hard enough to lock it; there’s also a knack to it—you have to hold up the hook when you push, or it won’t lock. The breeze yesterday was neither that strong nor that clever.”
She said tremulously, “If you know everything why are you questioning me? It’s only fair to Elva to wait till she gets back and can speak for herself. I wasn’t injured very badly...”
“That was luck, and nothing else,” he said savagely. “Thank God you had the sense to duck under the manger and face the wall. One kick in a vital spot would have killed you!”
“You’re blaming Elva and it’s wrong to blame her. She may not even have known what she was doing. ’ Her voice cracked and she turned her head, away from the light “I still want to be the first to speak to her when she comes back.”
There was a long silence. Ann heard him shift slightly and draw an audible breath.
He said, “You won’t see Elva again. The grey limped back last night, caked with mud and exhausted. About an hour ago I spoke to the police in Belati West. They’d just had a message from another dorp to the effect that an African had found Elva caught among rocks and weeds about fifteen miles down the river.”
Shock washed over Ann in a great icy wave. Slowly, she turned to him a face that was paper-white and staring. He bent swiftly and gripped her hand.
“You had to know,” he said quietly.
“Poor Theo,” she whispered, and closed her eyes.
Storr stood there for a minute, his jaw tight, the grey eyes narrowed and hard. Then he went out for sweet strong tea laced with brandy, made her drink a cupful and lie back among her pillows. He pulled the curtains, took a withdrawn and dispassionate look round the room and went out.
All Ann remembered afterwards about that day was its dimness and utter quiet The doctor came and gave her a small bitter draught to drink, but when he left he was smiling and said she was fine and he needn’t call again. After that the day seeped by, punctuated only by a couple of visits from the servant who brought trays that she hardly looked at.
Whatever the doctor had given her soothed her nerves and gave her a light, unconcerned feeling. She didn’t sleep, but neither was she entirely in the world of Groenkop. She seemed to drift along at some distance from Storr and Mrs. Newman and the attentive servant.
But when she awoke next morning she was back among her fellow creatures, though Sheila Newman, possibly because she had been warned by Storr, hardly spoke at all. The other woman helped Ann into a frock and brushed her hair and t
hen called the boy and told him to serve breakfast just outside the bedroom on the veranda.
It was warm and brilliant out there. Dew was drying from the grass, but here and there a bird swallowed a droplet as if it were months since he had last tasted moisture. The big autumn bees flittered among the bushes and hoopoes flew about with open crest and landed importantly, to bury their long lethal beaks in the soil.
When she had eaten a little and said goodbye to Mrs. Newman, Ann lay back in her lounger and looked at the distant purple and lavender mountains ranged against a blue crystal sky. The boy came to clear the table, and just as he was leaving Ann remembered something.
“There’s a letter on my bedside table. Would you mind getting it for me, Joseph?”
He brought her mother’s epistle, and she thanked him and slipped a finger under its flap. She drew out the couple of sheets covered with her mother’s clear dainty writing, and smiled faintly. How horrified her parents would be if they knew the sort of holiday she was having. Fortunately, they need never know. In a day or two her month would be up and she would return to Cape Town. It might be a week or more before her shoulder would permit resumption of the children’s riding lessons, but the office work wouldn’t be taxing; she’d manage it all right. Work was what she needed.
With the letter still in her lap she thought, inevitably, of the days ahead. They loomed bleak and colorless, yet full of the promise of tranquillity, if nothing else. In time to come, possibly, she would hardly believe so much could have happened during her stay in Belati; all this, the farm and the mountains, the pure invigorating atmosphere, would fade from her mind just as other places at which she had spent holidays had faded. Or would it? Ann shivered and shrugged off the query, opened her letter.
The Reluctant Guest Page 16