“Of course,” Amy said, rather bitterly, “that would save him from being shot-over, wouldn’t it?”
Now that’s unfair, Kate thought.
“I’ve shocked Kate,” Amy remarked with a smile. “Here, darling, take this dish of mints away, will you? As far away as possible. Thank you.”
“Sometimes I wish I could be brave enough to drop Stewart Hallis from my list,” Miriam said frankly. “Except, of course, I’d rather have him as my friend than as my enemy. But now I’m being naughty. Sylvia likes him, don’t you, Sylvia?”
“Payton thinks quite a lot of him,” Sylvia said.
“Does he, my dear?”
4
By the time the dinner party had assembled again, in the drawing-room, it was almost half-past ten and Payton Pleydell had arrived. With him, he brought two young men who entered the room casually, apologised briefly for their intrusion, and were obviously quite at home in Pleydell’s house.
It was difficult to distinguish them at first. They were about the same age: thirty or thereabouts. They both were thin, smooth-faced, with crew-cut hair. They wore dark flannel suits, narrow-shouldered, tight-legged. Their expensive brown shoes were well polished. Their ankles were neat in tightly gartered black socks. They had the same way of talking: quiet voices, half-drawled, flatly even. Their one touch of bravado was in their finely checked waistcoats. Of course they wore narrow bow ties. The only real difference seemed to be in their colouring. Whiteshaw was appropriately fair. Minlow was dark.
They were such decorous and yet such wildly improbable young men that Kate was fascinated by them for almost three minutes. Why had Payton brought them along here tonight? Were they friends of his? Or was this Payton’s idea of providing some entertainment for his visiting cousin? If Payton had imagined he was producing some eligible young men—Kate checked her thoughts and felt suddenly embarrassed.
Her embarrassment changed to amusement, however, once Payton Pleydell had talked to her. He spoke briefly, with charming good manners, but with an interest—if it did exist at all—kept under admirable control. It became obvious that he must have met Whiteshaw and Minlow at the club, where he had been having a late supper after a lengthy meeting, and then he had brought them along here as a matter of course. It became equally obvious that they were all very good friends. But why should I still feel puzzled? Kate wondered.
Certainly, Payton was definitely master of ceremonies in his own calm but extremely effective way. He relaxed in a wing-chair dominating the hearth, and now it was very much his own particular corner. Kate was alarmed to think that only half an hour ago she had taken the liberty of sitting in that chair with her feet curled under her. His eyes watched each of his guests in proper turn, and his quiet additions to the conversation on the subject of recent Mayan discoveries in Yucatan were both well-informed and amusing. He neither monopolised the conversation nor let it flag. Kate’s impression of him changed: her initial disappointment turned to admiration. Of course Payton had only greeted her so briefly because he had so many other guests to entertain.
She looked over at Sylvia to smile her congratulations on having a husband who could make Stewart Hallis a friend, win Miriam Hugenberg’s obvious respect, arouse the attention of Mr. Whiteshaw and Mr. Minlow, and even inspire Bob Turner to speak. But Sylvia was watching her husband as if she were studying him, as if she were the stranger from California. And I’m feeling as proud of Payton’s unobtrusive performance, Kate thought, as if I were the wife. She let a flush come to her cheeks for the stupidity of her words. And why did I call it “performance”? she wondered. I suppose I’m so tired with the journey and all the excitement and the food and the wine and the talk, that my mind just isn’t functioning.
She let her spine relax in the pale grey velvet armchair which held her so comfortably, looked at the Latrobe mantelpiece against the white-panelled wall, listened to the voices drifting across the warmth of the room. Bob Turner was talking. (He hadn’t let himself be silenced by Stewart Hallis once, since the men had returned to the drawing-room.) “It’s possible,” he was saying, “that a sizeable exploring party did cross the Pacific and reach Central America. Judging by the skills and facial structures they left the Mayan—” And at that moment, Kate yawned. It was only a small yawn, suppressed by a quick, horrified hand. But it was definitely a yawn.
Bob Turner stopped short. He would, of course: Stewart Hallis was amused. And Hallis said, “The ladies, God bless them, are always our severest critics.”
Kate tried to smile an apology, and another yawn seized that chance to make its appearance. “It’s just that I’ve spent the last three nights on a train,” she explained.
“Three nights?” Miriam Hugenberg asked.
“Darling, I quite forgot,” Sylvia said.
“This room’s rather warm,” Payton remarked. “We’d better open more windows, don’t you think?”
“Three nights!” Miriam Hugenberg repeated.
“Well, it’s all of three thousand miles,” Bob Turner said. He added, so that she could really grasp the length of the journey, “As if you travelled from Paris to Constantinople and then back again.”
Miriam looked on him blankly.
“Why on earth didn’t you fly?” Stewart Hallis asked.
“Oh,” said Kate and looked uncertainly around. Let anyone smile who wants to, she thought. “It was my first trip east. So I got instructions from Father to take a train and look at the differences in trees and mountains and towns and people.”
“My dear, you must be exhausted,” Miriam said.
“We really have to go.” Amy Clark rose to her feet. She had been searching for an excuse ever since Payton Pleydell had arrived on the scene. It was odd how over-polite you felt you had to be, when you had a guilty conscience. Now, as she shook hands with Payton, she wondered how he would look if he knew she had once advised his wife to run away with another man. “Do come and see us,” she told Kate. “I’ll get in touch with you.”
“Yes, do,” Clark echoed his wife. He gave Kate a surprisingly warm handshake.
Bob Turner glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to leave,” he said, and proceeded to waste no time on any protracted good nights. Except when he came to Kate, he said, “Do you like the Marx brothers? Good. There’s a revival of A Night at the Opera in town, this week. Would you care to see it? I’ll call you.”
Miriam Hugenberg also had to leave. She had had three nights of dinner parties in a row, with two more to follow. And at her age, she admitted in a weak moment, it all added up.
To what? Sylvia buried that thought and made the correct goodbyes.
“I didn’t mean to break up the party,” Kate said worriedly, looking at the emptying room.
Sylvia murmured, “It was time to break it up.”
But neither Mr. Whiteshaw nor Mr. Minlow evidently thought so. Nor did Hallis. The three of them and their host looked as if the evening was just beginning. But Hallis stepped out of the all-men-together role for just one moment as Kate said good night. “When you’re recovered tomorrow,” he said, holding her hand, “perhaps you’ll let me show you around. I’ve a car, and we can see all the sights very comfortably. I suppose you have to go sight-seeing?”
“Stewart—” Sylvia began in amazement.
“No, Sylvia. I insist. Besides, after twelve years in Washington I really ought to see Mount Vernon. Kate’s going to complete my neglected education. Aren’t you, Kate?”
Kate could only feel that annoying colour mount to her cheeks again as she said she’d be delighted only perhaps Sylvia had plans—
“Oh no,” Hallis said, “tomorrow’s the day that Sylvia attends her Civil Defence class. I can’t imagine her in a tin helmet or blowing a whistle, but she insists. She has a most surprising sense of duty.”
“Or is it my form of hysteria, Stewart? But you’d better treat it with more respect, or I’ll find a neat little notice saying shelter and point the arrow straight at your house.”
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“Yes,” Payton said, answering Hallis, “Sylvia has a sense of duty, thank God.” There was a note of pride in his voice, a touch of affection in the hand laid on his wife’s shoulder. And then, as if regretting such a display of emotion, he wanted to know if anyone needed more ice in his drink.
Kate imagined that her half-sleeping eyes were playing tricks. For Sylvia seemed to flinch at her husband’s praise, and the look in her eyes, as she watched him for a brief moment, was almost strained. Then the moment was over, and she took Kate’s arm. As they left the room, Whiteshaw was adding another log to the fire, Minlow was attending to the drinks; Hallis was pulling a chair to form a half-circle with the others around the hearth; Payton was already seated, his long legs stretched comfortably towards the kindling flames.
They climbed the narrow staircase slowly. “Who are the young men?” Kate asked suddenly.
“Just friends of Payton’s. Whiteshaw is a career man in the State Department, like Martin Clark. He has a charming wife.”
“Doesn’t she get lonely?” Kate asked. “All these evenings out at clubs and things?”
“She has two children to keep her busy. They look like cherubs, with blond curls, and they behave like little devils.”
“What about Minlow?”
Sylvia smiled. “Did they make such an impression?” she asked in surprise.
“No.” Or perhaps they had made an impression by impressing her so little. “No and yes,” she added, smiling too.
“Minlow used to work with Payton. But he resigned last year as a protest. Oh, not against Payton! He just didn’t approve of investigations about government servants and their loyalty. I think he took it all as an insult.”
“And Payton?” Payton, tonight, had made a biting reference to inquisitors and their high-handed methods.
“He thought Minlow was hasty. But he does respect Minlow’s beliefs, and he didn’t like the way some people criticised him. So, Payton goes on seeing him as if nothing had happened.”
“It must have been hard on Minlow.” Who would have guessed that a blank look could disguise so much determination? How surprising people could be...
“Oh, he gets a good deal of praise, too.”
“That’s all very well, but Minlow has to eat.” They had reached the landing now. Kate leaned against the wall beside her bedroom door. The cool air on the staircase had revived her: she didn’t feel like going to bed after all.
“He doesn’t starve. He has a little money of his own, and no wife. And he’s been doing some free-lancing, too: he always wanted to write.”
“I’d think he’d be a sensation in any press room. I never saw a reporter dressed like that. Or are they his off-duty clothes?”
Sylvia opened the door of Kate’s room. Darling, she thought, I’m very fond of you, but tonight has been grim. Will it never end? “I’ve forgotten something I meant to tell you...” She frowned, but she couldn’t remember. She hadn’t remembered very much, tonight, she thought, except the talk about Jan. She would have to learn to guard herself better. Thank God that Payton hadn’t been at the dinner table.
Kate was saying, “It’s funny, but I’m not the least tired, now. Why don’t you come into my room and we can talk? There is so much you have to tell me.”
Sylvia’s face became very still. Then she forced a little smile. “You’re so tired that you can’t even make up your mind to move to bed,” she said, and she pushed Kate gently into her room. “I’ll see you tomorrow, darling.”
“And we can talk then.”
“Yes,” Sylvia said slowly. “Good night, Kate. Sleep well.”
Kate gave her an impulsive hug. “Thank you for the dinner party,” she remembered to say. Then she closed the door and stood for a moment, recalling this evening. A strange evening, too... Or was it only she who was the stranger? At least, she was beginning to see some things more clearly. She was beginning to see why Sylvia had ever fallen in love with Payton. That was something that she couldn’t understand when she had met the Pleydells in 1947, at the time they visited San Francisco. But of course, she told herself patronisingly, you were only a schoolgirl then, rebellious and bored by being dragged into the city to meet relatives who couldn’t come out to the ranch to visit you.
Then she moved slowly away from the door. She looked at the bed, turned down, inviting. Perhaps she was tired after all; perhaps she was even tired enough to forget all about incipient claustrophobia under that smothering canopy.
* * *
When Payton Pleydell came upstairs, leaving behind him a house dark in sleep, he was startled to find that his wife’s bedroom door was opened a little and the thin wedge of light from her reading lamp cut briefly into the passage outside. She waited up for me, he thought with increasing surprise. And then, as he stood at the opened door and saw the still figure propped against pillows, with a book dropped face-down by her side, “She’s fallen asleep,” he said to himself.
Sylvia raised her head. “Payton?”
He came into the room. “My dear, it’s almost two o’clock.” He picked up the book, smoothed the twisted pages, and closed it.
“How did the meeting go?” she asked.
“Slowly. But we covered a lot of ground. And the dinner party? I hear it went well. Kate made quite a hit, apparently. She’s very young, isn’t she?”
“She’s simple and direct and completely honest.” Why must he always call that being “young”?
“Stewart Hallis said she was refreshing.”
“And Stewart feels he is jaded enough to need a little refreshing?”
“Now, now...” Payton laid the book on a side-table. “It’s late, Sylvia. I think you need some sleep. You looked a little tired tonight.”
“It’s the spring coming. It always makes me feel tired and old.”
Payton looked at her affectionately. “You’ll never be that,” he said. “Now, what about some sleep? We’ve a heavy day tomorrow.”
“But I wanted to talk to you.”
“Couldn’t it wait?” He glanced at the clock. And then, as she didn’t answer, he sat down on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong, Sylvia?” His face, tired and pale as it was, looked sympathetic. The deep worry lines on the broad brow were etched more deeply by the shadowed light of the bed lamp. But the clever observant eyes had softened and he watched her with an encouraging small smile deepening round the firmly cut mouth.
She became nervous. Her words didn’t come as she had planned them. She heard herself saying quickly, “Payton, why don’t you get some leave? Why don’t we go away for a month? Drop everything here. Just go away and rest and get some health and stop being overworked and we’d both feel better.”
He still smiled, but now his eyes showed surprise. “Take some leave, now? That’s out of the question, Sylvia.”
“But you are due a lot of sick leave,” she insisted. “You haven’t been ill for years and years, and you’ve got all that sick-leave allowance mounting up.”
“And I’m to pretend I’m sick now, so that I can claim it?”
“Why, no.” She looked at him in surprise. “You don’t have to pretend anything. I just thought you’ve been too much on the job. Surely, they don’t want to work you to the point of a breakdown?”
“Like the one I had in 1945?” he asked, no expression at all now on his face as he guessed her thoughts.
“You’re overworked,” she insisted. “And I need a vacation, too. We’ve had a very hard winter, Payton.”
“But I’m feeling all right,” he said. “You can stop worrying about me: I take good care of myself.” He smiled again, and now there was no encouragement. “Besides, even if you were ill, I couldn’t leave my work at the moment. Not possibly.”
It was as much as he ever told her about his job. From the firmness of his voice, she could only guess that his work was at some important, perhaps even critical stage.
Her fingers creased the white silk blanket cover. “Payton,” she said, “I
need a vacation. I want to go away.”
“Go away?” His voice was sharp.
“Yes,” she said, her nervousness increasing, “just for a few weeks.”
“Go away alone? Where?”
She couldn’t think of any place. Then, suddenly, “To Santa Rosita.”
“To California? Isn’t that rather far away? What is its sudden appeal?”
“It just seems—different. I need a change.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to visit Whitecraigs for a week and see your family?”
“I’d get no rest there,” she said. And Whitecraigs was too near Washington. She avoided his searching eyes.
“You know what I think? I think you’re just depressed with this cold late spring. Why don’t you see Formby next week and have a check-up? And then you can follow his advice and feel better. I don’t want to seem heartless, Sylvia, but you don’t look ill—tired with a succession of busy days perhaps—but not ill. And to be quite frank, we’ve a number of important engagements ahead of us. I sometimes think you imagine they are only social. Far from it. They’re very important in their own way.” He watched her, hesitating. Of course, if she were really ill—“You used to like entertaining my friends.”
She said nothing.
“If Amy Clark were less tactless and more inclined to entertain correctly, her husband would be a more successful man.”
Sylvia said sharply, “They haven’t the money, Payton.” And why blame Amy? Payton always ignored Martin Clark, anyway, as if he were of no importance. “Besides, entertaining doesn’t matter so much nowadays.”
“Perhaps not so much; but, still, enough. My dear girl, don’t you think I appreciate all you do?” He took her hand, holding it gently. “This house would go to pieces if you weren’t here.”
“Walter ran it for years before I came on the scene.”
I and My True Love Page 5