by Susan Barrie
“I think you’ve had rather a raw deal,” she said, “having to put up with Meg for one thing, and being so young and rather out of the picture, because Timothy has always struck me as being a little old for you. He’s a dear, of course, and I personally am very fond of him, but then I’ ve already been married once, and we’re more of an age. But you—you want fun, and good times, and a husband to keep pace with your interests—someone much more like my cousin Brian, who incidentally has been desperately anxious about you ever since you had that awful accident. He’s in Paris, you know, and he keeps on writing to me asking how you are, and the last time he enclosed this little note which he asked me to give to you when I saw you.”
She passed over a sealed envelope which Carol accepted with an odd sensation of distaste, and a feeling that if Brian had wanted to get in touch with her he could have written direct to her at Dulverton House. Unless, of course, he was afraid that Timothy might see it, and possibly object, hence his more furtive method of inquiring after her health.
As she did not attempt to open it Viola said:
“Poor Brian! He’s so attractive, but he’s not very keen on girls as a rule. You, however, made a tremendous impression.”
Carol did not answer. She was feeling suddenly exhausted by Mrs. Featherstone’ s chatter.
“And he’s very worried about you, too. He doesn’t feel—he can’t feel that you’re happy, oddly situated as you are.”
“I don’t quite know what you mean, Mrs. Featherstone,” Carol said slowly. “Why should Brian imagine that I am not happy? Why should anyone imagine that I am not happy?”
Viola gave her an odd look. She cast away the end of her cigarette and selected a fresh one from her neat but expensive gold case.
“Well, my dear, are you?” she asked.
Carol could not answer. She was happy—of course she was happy, quietly, rather blissfully so, now that she had Timothy coming here to visit her away from Brown Furrows, spending so much of his time with her, being so gentle and good to her, so kind and so understanding. At times she felt like a contented kitten drowsing in the sunshine which all kittens love, and the fact that they were going away together, that they would soon be seeing new places and new faces together, and that he would be with her all the time—or, at any rate, most of the time—and that he was utterly dependable, and she could lean on him, and feel that in some way he was imparting his own strength to her—that was wonderful.
But just now she was not well, she was someone to be fussed over and pampered. When she was better, even if she still received the pampering, which she probably would—was that all she asked of life? Was that all she asked of Timothy?
How much more did she need to be completely—as Viola Featherstone understood it—happy?
“There you are, you see! ” Viola murmured very gently in her ear, and then stood up as she heard the nurse coming. “I must go. Goodbye, my dear, and I do hope I haven’t tired you? Have a good time in Venice, and come back absolutely fit. I think I shall go abroad somewhere myself for the spring. I feel rather in need of a change...”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SPRING comes gently to the shores of the Adriatic. The fierce heat of summer is still far away, and there is nothing brazen about the deep blue of the sky or the deeper blue of the sea. The air is sparkling fresh, and there is sufficient warmth to lap a stranger sensuously about and leave no regrets in the mind for bleaker shores left behind.
Venice, with its Lido, its handsome decaying palaces, its lively waterways and gondolas (now being replaced by motorboats, which are not nearly so romantic, but infinitely less costly and more efficient) its brilliant sunsets and its flaming dawns, is indeed a jewel set in the crown of Italy. Carol caught her first glimpse of it in the fairly early morning, having flown there from Milan with her husband and the Marchesa (who had been finally persuaded to accompany them) and a slight haze overhung the city, promising beauty and warmth as the day advanced.
Carol had loved Milan, where they had stayed for two days and nights, not only in order to give her a chance to make its proper acquaintance, but to enable her to rest a little after the flight from England. The hotel had been so huge and palatial, and Milan itself contained enough of interest to retain a visitor in its net for a very long time. Carol had wanted to see so much, but she had been forbidden to do more than visit a couple of the more famous churches and a museum, and on their second night Timothy had taken them out to dinner to a typical Milanese restaurant where the air had been full of the soft throb of guitars and the food had been wonderful, and Carol had worn an evening gown for the first time for weeks, and the Marchesa had looked altogether magnificent in diamonds and black velvet.
The only slight contretemps which might have spoiled their brief stay in Milan was an incident which arose out of the allocation of bedrooms. One double and one single bedroom had been reserved for them as a party, and as the hotel was more or less full it exercised the management a good deal to find them an additional single bedroom. Timothy explained that his wife had recently been very ill, and that she must have a bedroom to herself, but Carol felt herself flushing brilliantly whilst the difficulty was still under discussion, and it would not have made matters any easier if the Marchesa had suggested that she should sleep with her. The eyes of the reception clerk were shrewd enough as it was, and Timothy's lips twitched a little when he saw his wife’s embarrassment. Afterwards, when he got her alone in the colossal bedroom where she was to enjoy the comfort of an enormous and highly ornate bed to herself, with a private bathroom adjoining, he could not resist the temptation to refer to the splendid sensation of isolation which would be hers in that room.
“At least you won't be likely to fall out of bed,” he remarked, “even if you are very good at falling off a horse! ”
Carol colored more rosily than before and went over to the dressing-table.
“I know,” she said. “As a matter of fact I feel rather a pig at having such a huge room to myself, while you—you—”
She broke off.
“Oh, I shouldn't worry about that,” he returned easily. “I shall be perfectly all right. And as there seems to be no alternative—unless, of course, you can suggest one?” There was sudden, deathly silence in the room. Carol felt her heart begin to pound so heavily that it made her feel slightly breathless, and she opened her powder compact very quickly and began to slap powder all over her face with so much energy that it entirely defeated its purpose, and her face quickly resembled a mask. In the glass she caught sight of Timothy standing staring at her with the oddest expression on his face— almost, it struck her, a kind of waiting expression—although there was still a faint twinkle in her eyes, and she said hurriedly:
“Of course. I—I suppose I—we—Aunt Harry and I—we could share...? But wouldn’t it—wouldn’t it look a little strange...?”
“Personally I should say it would look very strange indeed,” Timothy replied, “in view of what I have already said to the management about your desiring complete seclusion. And an aunt in the place of a husband might strike some people as peculiar—especially Italians!” He grinned suddenly. “Oh, well, make the most of your magnificent surroundings, and if you want any help with a trunk or one of those heavy suitcases don't hesitate to bang on the wall. Whatever you do don't struggle with it yourself.”
When he had gone Carol removed the powder from her face and re-made it up with more care, and then she turned and looked back at the bed, certainly one of the most luxurious and the most sensuously comfortable looking beds she had ever come upon in her brief lifetime. What, she wondered, would Timothy have said to her—and how, exactly, would he have looked?—if she had found a sudden surge of courage to say to him quite coolly, as if there was nothing abnormal about it, and it was the most natural thing in the world, seeing that after all they were married:
‘‘Well, why don't you share the room with me? You are my husband, you know! And I am your wife!...”
&nb
sp; But she knew she would never find the courage to say anything of that sort at all. If their relations were ever to be altered it would be Timothy who would have to do the altering. But perhaps he didn't wish for any change in their relationship! Perhaps he was quite content to go on as they were going!...
She sighed, and turned back to the dressing-table to comb her hair. The situation irked her extraordinarily sometimes, and at others it depressed her. It depressed her now....
When they arrived in Venice Aunt Harry was the one who betrayed the most excitement, for to her this meant coming home. Her own private motor-launch conveyed them along Venice's main highway, the celebrated Grand Canal, which made Carol think of Titian and the Renaissance, and the fading beauties of some of the palaces, with their marble steps running right down into the water, intrigued her immensely. As also did the curious gaily-painted barber's-pole-like erections emerging
from the water.
Aunt Harry’s casa, when they arrived there, took her breath away at first, for it seemed to her to be slightly more sumptuous than the rest, although it also revealed much evidence of an out-of-date splendor and a grandeur which certainly was no more. The great hall, with its magnificent carved and gilded staircase, was only fitted for the reception of superior Italian nobles in glowing Venetian robes, and the dim and distant and beautifully painted ceiling was a work of art in itself. But the gold-leaf on the cornices and the ornamentation of the pillars rising gracefully upwards to support the roof was in places badly chipped and scarred, and the handsome marble pavement looked tired from the tread of many feet over scores of changing years.
But when Aunt Harry—who was received with enthusiasm by the mere handful of servants she had retained to keep her house in order for her—conducted them personally to a suite of rooms on the first floor which she had instructed to be prepared for them, and flung open the outer door herself with a slight but triumphant flourish, Carol actually did gasp.
“Oh,” she cried, “but this—these rooms are lovely!”
And they certainly were. They were vast, of course, like everything else in this great house, but they had been furnished with care within very recent times. The outer, or main, salon had been decorated in dull gold, and the cushions and the covers on the couches were a glowing petunia and rich cerise. The carpet was gold, and vine-wreathed pillars soaring upwards to the painted ceiling were gilded also. Outside the tall windows there was a balcony with a cool marble floor and cushion-filled chaises-lounges and little tables, overlooking the canal, and baskets of brilliant flowers growing apparently in moist-scented moss hung down from the roof.
There were two bedrooms, separated by a bathroom, and at the doorway to the first of these Carol hesitated, as if overcome by some sudden and absurd self-consciousness resulting from her occupation of that enormous and lonely hotel bedroom in Milan. But Aunt Harry went forward without any hesitation at all and told Carol at once that this was her room, and Timothy could have the one adjoining. Men, she said, didn’t care whether they had a charming room to sleep in or not, but to a woman it was all-important, and she was certain Carol would like this room.
Carol did more than like it. She gazed round at exquisite silver-grey walls, at an all-black carpet and a ceiling sewn with golden stars. The low French bed was covered with a quilt of the same shade exactly as an apricot, in dull but beautiful moire silk, and there were curtains of the same material hanging between it and the bathroom. Above the fireplace was a perfect example of a flawless Venetian mirror, with cupids and garlands entwined in beaten silver.
The bathroom was black marble and completely up-to-date, and Timothy’ s bedroom beyond looked severe but elegant.
“Well?” demanded the Marchesa, obviously expectant. “Do you like it?”
“Like it?”
Carol could say no more. Timothy glanced at her. She was a little pale now, after the excitement of their arrival—and possibly the ascent of that magnificent staircase—and although she was already putting on weight she looked very slender and frail in her white linen suit, with the large shady hat she had removed from her gold curls dangling rather limply from her down-drooping hand.
“A rest for you, my child! ” he said. “And no argument about it, either! Aunt Harry, these rooms are more luxurious than the Ritz, but I always said you were the perfect sybarite. Now use your influence and order Carol to lie down—and tell her she’s not to think of getting up for lunch. She can have it in bed, and if she’s a good girl we may allow her up for tea, or at any rate for dinner.”
The Marchesa went over to Carol and lifted her chin and looked at her, noting the little smudgy lines under her eyes.
“Yes; you can certainly do with a rest, my dear,” she said. “And now I want you both to feel that these rooms are entirely yours, and if you choose to stay in them and not come downstairs and join me even for a meal for days at a time I shall perfectly understand. But if on the other hand you do choose to join me sometimes, I shall be delighted. Have I made myself quite clear?”
“Perfectly clear, Aunt,” Timothy assured her, with a serious expression belied by a suggestion of amusement at the back of his eyes.
Carol, however, looked a trifle apprehensive.
“Oh, but you’re not going to—we shall still see a lot of you, won’ t we, Aunt Harry?” she asked, catching the older woman by the hand and holding on to it rather tightly. “You’ re not going to—you’ re not going to wash your hands of us, are you, now that you’ve given us this wonderful flat to ourselves? I know it’s kind of you, but I do want to see you...”
Timothy came over and stood beside them both.
“What Aunt Harry is trying to convey to you, my dear Carol,” he said very quietly, “is that she thinks it’s high time— and probably more than high time! —that you got used to living alone with your own husband, and I must say I’m inclined to agree with her! That is the idea at the back of your mind, isn’ t it, Aunt Harry?” he asked, looking very levelly at his godmother.
“Well, perhaps....” She smiled very gently at Carol, and there was something understanding and reassuring at the same time in that smile. “I don’ t think Carol has had very much opportunity for getting the best out of her married life so far. And now I’ m going to send Francesca, the sister of my maid who has been with me for years in England, up to you to help you into bed, my dear, and it will be her job to look after you while you’re here. And now have a good rest, and—don’t attempt to get up until Timothy allows you! ”
She smiled at them both, as if they were the two people in her life for whom she had the greatest and the most genuine fondness, and then disappeared and left them alone together, and they heard her footsteps echoing over the tiled floor without.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT was a night of stars hanging low above the earth and the ripple of moonlight in the water. There was an almost sensuous stillness and a delectable soft warmth which was like the warmth of an English June, and the scent of the flowers in their hanging baskets rose gently into the air. Immediately underneath the balcony a gondola was passing, and the gondolier was singing a love song in a throbbing, passionate Italian voice for the delectation of his two passengers, a couple of American tourists, a girl and a man, who looked upwards at the balcony beneath which they were drifting, and caught sight of the girl and the man above them.
Carol, in a frock which was actually the faint pink of a hedge rose, but which looked white in the moonlight, lay back in her comfortable chaise-longue and listened with intense pleasure to the singing. Timothy, at her elbow, and quietly smoking a cigarette, also listened, but his eyes were on the graceful form of the girl who was not more than a few inches away from him, and not following the pair who were sampling the delights of Venice on such a night as this.
Carol looked almost unnaturally fair, fragile and removed from him in that silvery radiance, and there was a graver, older, more thoughtful expression on her face since her illness. Her eyes at the mome
nt were filled with unmistakable dreams as she listened to the song of the boatman, but the corners of her mouth drooped a little. It was, Timothy decided, a wistful mouth.
“I had a letter from Meg this morning,” he said rather abruptly, shattering the silence when the song had died away. “She sent her love to you and hopes you are very much better. Kate has produced a litter of pups and Meg thinks you might like to have one for yourself. She’s already made a selection on your behalf.”
“That—that was kind of her,” Carol murmured, and she sounded a little abstracted.
“I remember you once told me, when we were driving away from Selbourne, that it was an ambition of yours to possess a dog of your own,” Timothy recalled, tossing the end of his cigarette over the balcony rail and selecting another from his case. He did not offer the case to Carol for the simple reason that she had not even yet taken kindly to smoking, and she was still highly abstemious when it came to indulging in liquid refreshment. In his heart he thought of her as a little puritan, and it made him smile sometimes, but he did not desire her to change—not in that respect, at least. “So now, at last, you have one.”
“I shall look forward to seeing it,” she said, with a sudden tinge of enthusiasm in her voice, and sitting up in her chair. “Kate is such an adorable dog, and I expect her puppies are really perfect. Meg will have to think up a name for it for me.”
“Couldn’t you do that yourself?” he suggested.
“Why, yes, of course.” But her face clouded—Meg, Kate, Brown Furrows, a new puppy.... But she did not want to go back to Brown Furrows—not for a very long time!
“Meg is looking out for a cottage for herself,” Timothy continued, not looking at his wife. “Nat Marples is helping her. Apparently he, too, is thinking of packing up his old home, and looking for somewhere smaller. Presumably Meg is also helping him.”
Carol looked as if she could not quite believe the evidence of