Wife for a Penny

by Anne Hampson

  ‘Afraid, are you?’ He kissed her neck, then turned her round to face him. Her last faint remnant of hope died as she saw the expression in his eyes, and yet she tried to twist away. His reaction was to hold her even more firmly, while his lips crushed hers possessively, and with an ardour that made her wonder what sort of blood he had in his veins. Wild pagan blood from the ancient Hellenes - flaunters of all convention, untamed transgressors on the chastity of women.

  Instinctively she put soothing fingers to her mouth when at last he relaxed his hold and held her from him, his features the carved mask of the conqueror.

  ‘We’ve wasted enough time, my lovely wife.’ He released her. ‘Would you attempt to run away, I wonder?’ Smiling, he produced a key from his pocket. ‘Savours of the melodrama, I fear, but although I trust you under ordinary circumstances ...’ He smiled quizzically at her. ‘These are not ordinary circumstances, are they?’ She stood there, tight-lipped, and he continued, still amused by the situation, ‘They could be ordinary circumstances if both of us were willing, but as I’m about to force my attentions upon you—’

  ‘Get out!’ she couldn’t help interrupting, even though she knew it would avail her nothing. He meant to leave while she undressed, apparently, but there was not a shadow of doubt that he would return.

  ‘Have a care, Liz,’ he cautioned. ‘Were my temper to be aroused again you could have a most unpleasant time before you.’

  She did not doubt it as, pale now and resigned, she looked into his face. She had only herself to blame. She should never have married him, disliking him so intensely as she did.

  ‘If you mean to go, then do so, but please be quiet when you lock the door. Unless I’m very much mistaken that busybody of a Greek servant of yours will have his ears alert, for I’m sure he’s extremely interested in what might transpire.’

  Her quiet acceptance of the situation brought a sudden curious gleam to her husband’s eyes, an expression half wondering, half puzzled. Absently he tossed up the key, caught it, then regarded it thoughtfully as it lay in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Perhaps there’s no call for the melodrama, after all ... Is there, Liz ...?’

  She threw him a savage glance; her mouth was still tight, her eyes glittering with frustration and rage.

  ‘I’ll not come to you willingly, if that’s what your pompous, arrogant mind has decided! You’ll fight for what you take ... and I hope the result will be wormwood in your mouth!’

  With mocking satire his gaze rested on her clenched fists.

  ‘Wormwood, do you say?’ His eyes moved to her face. He shook his head. ‘No, my lovely Liz, not wormwood ... but ambrosia!’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Great-Gran sat knitting as usual; Aunt Rose was by the fire, reading contentedly, while Uncle Oliver, seated at the other side of the fireplace, was playing a game of chess all by himself.

  ‘Your move,’ he would mutter now and then, and Liz would look up from her magazine and frown with irritation.

  ‘You can’t play that game alone,’ she said at last. ‘Why don’t you play patience?’

  ‘Because I like chess. Now ... if I move my bishop there ... he’ll have to protect his king, so he’ll place his rook there—’

  ‘Why should he? What’s wrong with his taking your bishop with this knight?’ Leaning over, Liz tapped it with her finger.

  ‘Liz,’ said her uncle testily, ‘do leave the game to me. I know exactly what I’m doing.’

  ‘He always wants to win,’ submitted Aunt Rose, diverted from her book. ‘He cheats all the time, making the other player do all sorts of silly things.’

  Liz sighed. Old age. Her glance travelled to Great-Gran. Through the old lady’s sparse white hair her scalp shone, pink and clean. Her cheeks were sunken right in because Great-Gran could not abide her false teeth. Her bony hands were active now but the doctor had only yesterday predicted they would be stiffened very soon by the swiftly-encroaching rheumatism. The doctor had been brought in by Liz because Great-Gran had had a fall - only from her chair on to the thick carpet, but her breathing had been so badly affected that Liz had become afraid.

  ‘Heart,’ the doctor had declared briefly, and then added, ‘Only to be expected. Worn out; it’s done very well for her up till now.’

  At his words a depression had fallen on Liz, and remained with her ever since. She wondered if it were good to be with old people like this, and felt relieved that her sister was married and living away from the Hall. A faint smile touched Liz’s lips at the recollection of the scene when she had endeavoured to make Vivien marry Arthur. She, Liz, had been all-powerful until that unbelievable defeat which, strangely, no longer rankled. ‘I’m different,’ she thought, admitting - though with some reluctance - that the reason for the change was her marriage to Nigel.

  She picked up her book again, but could not read, and she glanced at the clock. She was dining with Grace and her parents, but it was much too early to begin getting ready. Nevertheless, Liz could not sit still any longer and she left the room and wandered off into the grounds. Stately grounds, they were, like the house, designed at the time of the Renaissance by one of England’s leading landscape gardeners of the time. No formality, just shady walks and arbours, a lake sheltered by willows, a fountain here and there and a shrubbery containing almost every type of tree that would flourish in England.

  It was the end of September and the leaves were turning; this was the time of the year which Liz had loved, but now she found herself comparing her surroundings with that of her new home in Greece. She smiled faintly. One did not endeavour to compare the incomparable, the superlative. Delphi was a place apart, surpassing any other sacred shrine in the whole of Greece. Its wild mountain scenery and spuming springs, its gaping ravine and sheer rock walls; its dizzy heights where eagles planed ... these were the backcloth for the Sanctuary of Apollo - and also for her husband’s home. Wandering over to a rustic garden seat, Liz sat down. It was just a week since ... A flush tipped the lovely contours of her cheeks and she actually glanced around, as if fearing someone might be near - and read her thoughts. Nigel’s lovemaking had been a revelation in tenderness and gentle persuasion. He had not meant her to awake the following morning hating him. Yet the triumph had been hers - achieved through obstinacy, though. Certainly not because of revulsion. The admission lent further colour to her cheeks. Had Nigel guessed just how close she had come to surrender? She hoped he had not. If the loathing she had managed to assume the following day had anything to do with it he most certainly had not guessed. The scourge of her tongue, if as effective as she hoped, must have stripped him of any confidence he had in himself as a lover. Despite this, and the subsequent prolonged and frigid silence to which she had subjected him, she had feared he might raise an objection to her going home. But he offered none, and in fact he actually arranged her flight for her - just as if he were glad to see the back of her for a while. Paradoxically, she was piqued by this, her thoughts becoming occupied with the nagging conviction that for the next fortnight he would be enjoying himself ... with Greta. Strange it was that only a short while ago her attitude to the Greek girl was one of gratitude. She would keep Nigel from turning his attention to his wife.

  Impatient with the confusion of her mind, Liz rose again and went back to the house.

  ‘Tea’s coming in a moment.’ Aunt Rose produced a

  smile as Liz entered the room. ‘Weren’t you cold out there?’

  ‘It’s not cold.’

  ‘After Greece, it must be.’

  Liz took possession of an armchair. What was the matter with her? She didn’t know what she wanted. Her one desire had been to come home; now she was home she could not rest. If it weren’t for the possibility of Nigel’s jumping to conclusions she felt she could willingly have curtailed her visit. But with his pomposity, plus his insatiable urge to rile her, he could very well indulge in a spate of mocking comments about her not finding life with her people as interesting as it was with
him. An audible, exasperated utterance broke from her lips. Even when she did return what was there to look forward to? Arguments with Nigel, or boredom in his absence.

  ‘I wish I’d never set eyes on the man!’

  ‘What did you say, dear?’ The mild inquiry from Aunt Rose merely served to increase her impatience.

  ‘I was talking to myself.’

  ‘What?’ Great-Gran dropped her knitting on to her knees. ‘You’re cold? Well, dear, that’s only to be expected, seeing that you’ve been living in a warm country. Put a jacket on - here, do you want my shawl?’

  ‘No, thanks, Gran,’ shouted Liz, sighing.

  ‘She didn’t complain of the cold,’ obliged Aunt Rose, leaning towards the old lady. ‘She was talking to herself.’ The purple lobe came forward.

  ‘What shelf?’

  Liz closed her eyes. ‘I can’t stand it,’ she thought, while wondering how she had stood it before.

  ‘Talking to herself,’ repeated Aunt Rose, her eyes brightening as the door opened and a prim maid entered with the tea tray. ‘Crumpets, Maisie?’

  ‘Yes, madam, crumpets.’

  This enlivening interchange had been repeated five times since Liz’s arrival last Friday. Liz waited for her uncle to speak.

  ‘I hope you’ve toasted mine, Maisie?’

  Yes, sir, I’ve toasted yours.’ With a glance at Liz Maisie proceeded to set out the tea things on a table in front of the fire. ‘I’ve made you some sandwiches,’ she smiled, and Liz thanked her.

  When tea was over Liz made a speedy escape. But by the time she was dressed and in her chauffeur-driven car her dejection had cleared appreciably and she was almost her old cheerful self when, at half-past seven, she was enthusiastically greeted by her friend.

  ‘We have half an hour before dinner,’ said Grace, asking Liz to come up to her bedroom. ‘I’m not quite ready, so we can talk while I dab a bit of rouge on my face and finish my manicure.’ The two girls had corresponded regularly since Liz’s marriage, but apart from comprehensive and flowing descriptions of Delphi and its surroundings Liz had told her friend little else, and Grace was very much in the dark concerning her private life.

  ‘Tell me about that - about your husband. Is the arrangement working out all right?’ Grace closed the bedroom door after entering in Liz’s wake. ‘Was it worth it - marrying for that reason, I mean?’

  ‘To save my house and fortune?’ Liz grimaced and sat down on the bed. ‘To be quite honest, Grace, I don’t know whether I’ve done right or not—’ She shook her head. ‘I had to think of the others, though, especially Great-Gran.’

  ‘Never imagined you in the sacrificial role,’ Grace laughed, although her gaze was serious. ‘Isn’t it going to work?’

  ‘The marriage, as such, wasn’t intended to work,’ Liz reminded her. ‘It was purely a marriage of convenience.’

  Grace sat down at her dressing-table, looking at Liz through the mirror. She said curiously,

  ‘What’s he like? I know I was at the wedding, yet whenever I form a mental picture of him it’s as he was at the fair - looking superior and arrogant and speaking with that affected lazy drawl.’

  ‘The drawl’s natural; it’s not an affectation.’ The words shot out, propelled by some unfathomable pressure which left Liz herself amazed. She hated that lazy drawl - hated it! - so why make excuses for it?

  Grace’s mouth rounded as she blew a soft incredulous whistle.

  ‘You haven’t fallen in love with him!’ she exclaimed, staring.

  ‘In ... love? Don’t talk ridiculous, Grace!’ But what was this sudden quickening of an emotion? - this faint stirring of her senses resulting from the utterance of her friend’s question? It was by no means her first experience of this sensation, Liz recalled.

  ‘No—’ Grace was shaking her head. ‘Not you; not the way you’ve always despised men, swearing you’d never marry because you’d seen through them from the moment you’d reached the age of discernment.’ Grace shook her head again. ‘In any case, you couldn’t possibly fall in love with a man like Nigel. He’s too cold and unemotional - the dispassionate type.’

  Unemotional! If only Grace knew what a decidedly errant statement that was! - and it was not of her husband’s unpredictable temper that Liz was thinking. Fluttering lashes hid her expression from her friend as Liz was carried back to that night, with its all-revealing interlude of Nigel’s emotional make-up. Not an instant’s lack of finesse, not one moment of lost control ... these seemed totally at variance with the ardency of his lovemaking. It must be experience - and of course the Greek’s innate gift for the art. That Nigel was the perfect lover Liz would not deny, even though she lacked the means of comparison.

  ‘Why the blushes?’ Her friend’s voice, though quiet and smooth, had the effect of making Liz jump, so completely lost was she in her thoughts.

  ‘I’m n-not - I mean, I didn’t know I was blushing.’

  ‘Well, you are,’ returned Grace, adding bluntly, ‘There must be some reason for it.’ No comment from Liz. Grace said strangely, ‘Can I be mistaken? Can it be that the hardened confirmed spinster has fallen for the magnificent Greek - or half-Greek?’ she corrected.

  ‘I’ve just said no,’ frowned Liz crossly.

  ‘You haven’t said any such thing. You merely told me not to be ridiculous - which could have been an attempt at evasion.’

  ‘What would I want to fall in love with a man like that for?’ snapped Liz, angry with herself for not being more cautious. Grace was no fool. In fact, she was highly intelligent, and perceptive.

  ‘If you were in love with him it would be a far more bearable situation. The prospect of spending the rest of your life with someone you don’t love can’t be very pleasant.’

  ‘I knew that when I married him.’

  Grace twisted round to pick up a nail file.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ she urged. ‘Is he quite satisfied with his bargain?’

  ‘I expect so.’ Evasion again, and this was perfectly apparent to her friend.

  ‘What do you both do with your time?’ A slight pause and then, ‘Doesn’t he mind living the life of a celibate?’

  Liz lowered her eyes, her mind straying again to that night, and she wondered if Greta had yet learned from her maid that the beds had been changed around. No doubt of it; the sniggering Nikos would by now have passed on the news to his sister who would surely have mentioned the matter to her mistress.

  ‘He has a pillow friend,’ Liz informed Grace, who gave a little start at the expression.

  ‘But how delicate! Is that what they call them over there?’

  Absently Liz nodded, still keeping her head averted.

  ‘Her name’s Greta; they’ve been carrying on for ages.’

  ‘And still are?’

  Liz pondered on this. Nigel had not been with Greta in Athens, he said, and, strangely, she believed him.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She went on to tell Grace about the little scene she’d had with her husband’s girl-friend. ‘She was furious about our marriage,’ Liz added unnecessarily.

  ‘I’ll bet she was. Lord, what a hilarious situation! It doesn’t sound real.’

  ‘It was real enough,’ returned Liz grimly. ‘She said she and Nigel were practically engaged before he came to England.’

  Grace filed one long nail thoughtfully.

  ‘You believe that?’

  Liz shook her head.

  ‘Nigel had told me he never wanted to marry.’ A moment’s silence and then, slowly, ‘Nigel didn’t marry me for the money, Grace. He had known all along that the wills were invalid. He came to England for the sole purpose of consulting me - or one of my family - with a view to contesting them.’ Grace was looking puzzled, naturally, and Liz went on to explain the whole.

  ‘Then why did he marry you?’ Grace looked keenly at her, the nail file idle in her hand.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out ever since Spiros told me—’ Liz stopped sud
denly as, intruding into her mind, came Nigel’s implication that his cousin did not know what he was talking about. At the time she had passed it off, but now she frowned in concentration, wondering why her husband’s words should return at this particular time. She sighed audibly. ‘Have you any ideas?’ she inquired in tones of exasperated confusion.

  Grace remained reflectively silent and Liz looked up. The nail file came into use again, but Grace remained deep in thought.

  ‘I have,’ she murmured at length, avoiding Liz’s gaze, ‘but I doubt if it’s the correct one.’

  Liz glanced up.

  ‘Well, spill it. Any idea’s better than none.’

  ‘That day ... you never mentioned much about it. I heard from someone else that Nigel insisted on kissing you in private.’

  ‘Well, what of it?’ Liz flushed at the memory and a shaft of anger swept through her.

  ‘What happened?’ queried Grace, watching her keenly.

  A small hesitant shrug and then,

  ‘He took his pennyworth,’ Liz almost snapped.

  ‘You didn’t enjoy the experience, apparently.’

  ‘I didn’t enjoy any of the kisses!’

  ‘But Nigel’s - was it - different from the others?’ Grace’s expression was a mingling of interest and amusement.

  Different? No question about that!

  ‘The man was insufferable!’ The retort came swift and sharp and Grace’s eyes took on an even more observant expression. ‘What is this all about, anyway?’ added Liz testily. ‘I thought you had an idea as to the reason for Nigel’s marrying me?’