Wife Without Kisses

by Violet Winspear

  “And offend your very patent modesty, little girl?” His grin was slow, full of devilry, while his eyes roved her face. “You haven’t the know-all of a week-old kitten, have you? Wife and mother! It’s laughable!” Then his eyes grew suddenly narrow with curiosity. “Did the gallant Burke actually marry you?”

  Rea flushed hotly. “Of course he married me!”

  “Of course he married you!” Jack mimicked. “Lend a little truth to the great lie, eh? Wow, there’d be hell to pay if the real truth came out, wouldn’t there? The old man would sling all three of you out of the old ancestral home. What’s Burke doing it for, the house and the

  money?”

  “Burke—do that?” Rea was icy with contempt. “Do you think every man thinks with your kind of mind?

  Burke loves Peter, and his grandfather; he’s doing it for them.”

  “How noble!” Jack sneered. “It wouldn’ t be because he played my sister a damn dirty trick once and thought this a good way to ease his conscience, bringing her kid here and calling it his?”

  This came so dangerously close to the truth that Rea felt her heart turn over. “You mustn’t say anything! You won’t say anything, you?” Her eyes were large with fear as they pleaded with him. “Burke means well, he really does. He loves Peter—and so does Mr. Ryeland. It would break Mr. Ryeland’s heart if he found out the real truth.

  And nothing you can say can bring your sister back again—why, it can only dirty her name

  and—and probably kill your mother. Think of her, if you don’t want to think of anyone else. You love her; I know you love her.”

  “But love is an empty emotion when it’s one-sided, Rea. It embitters, empties the heart of the desire to do right, only fills it with a devilish urge to do wrong.” His warm, hard fingers pressed Rea’s small hand over his heart. “It beats, Rea, my heart, and it feels—but it feels things it shouldn’t. It feels that it wants another man’s wife—and it knows that it’s going to have her. Now look shocked, feel shocked, and act shocked. Display all the conventional reactions, but don’t forget that I hold the reputations of the Ryeland clan in the palm of my hand. It rests with you whether or not I disclose what I know. I care not about breaking my own mother’s heart, for you can’t break that which is already broken.”

  Abruptly he released Rea’s hand and put her from him. “Think over what I’ve said, little girl. We’ll meet again.” Then he swung on his heel, his sauntering footsteps slowly dying away—dying away, the rural stillness closing down about Rea.

  She shivered violently, like a sleeper waking from a bad dream, and slowly turned her footsteps back towards King’s Beeches. That Jack Larchmont should know—that he should know! Wild as a gipsy, dark as a devil,

  tormented and tormenting! What was she to do? What was she to do?

  A leaf fell from a tree behind her, ran with a soft patter at her heels, and suddenly she was running— running from her frightened thoughts and the drawling menace of Jack’s voice.

  She had tea in the nursery, with Moira and Peter, and their company successfully obliterated Jack Larchmont from her mind for a while. But at dinner that evening, sitting across the table from Burke and listening in a desultory fashion to the rather technical conversation he was holding with his grandfather on the merits and demerits of mechanical ploughing and sowing, it all came rushing back. And foremost upon the tide came that unlovely remark of Jack’s: “I call it unusual for a man not to share his wife’s bed.”

  Rea quickly lowered her eyes to her plate, cutting at her gooseberry tart almost desperately. How dared he say such a thing! How dared Betty gossip and give him room to say it! She lifted a small piece of tart to her mouth and chewed it without tasting it. Whatever would Burke’s grandfather if this piece of kitchen gossip reached his ears ... ?

  Then she jumped, realizing that Burke had addressed a remark to her. “I—I beg your pardon?” She gazed across the table at him, completely unaware that her eyes still held a frightened reflectiveness.

  “What’s the matter, Rea? Why are you looking like that?” Burke slowly lowered his wine-glass from his lips, his eyes moving questioningly over her face.

  “L-like what?” Her fork clattered nervously against her plate and she was uncomfortably aware of the irritated little tut-tut Mr. Ryeland made.

  “Well, sweetie,” one of Burke’s black eyebrows drew down and a slightly sardonic smile went across his face, “you looked just as though I’d just caught you rifling the family silver—or planning to. Now drink up your wine, we don’t want to be at the table all night.”

  She reached for her wine-glass, and then gave a sharp little cry of dismay. The stem, thin and delicate as gossamer, had slipped out of her hand and now the wineglass lay in pieces on the floor—the priceless Venetian glass, shredded with faint lines of gold, was gone to nothing in a pool of golden, spreading wine.

  Rea scrambled from her chair, her great frightened eyes fixed upon the taut anger of old Mr. Ryeland’s face. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry!” she gasped. Then childishly, quick tears of both fright and embarrassment trembling on her lashes, she crouched down by the breakage and began to pick the shards of glass out of the wine.

  “Pack that up, Rea!” Burke was round the table in a couple of strides, brusquely lifting her to her feet. He saw blood running down one of her fingers and gave a curt exclamation. “You little fool, what did you want to go messing about with the glass for?” He dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and began to mop at the finger, while his grandfather said cuttingly: “Do you realize, miss, that you’ve just smashed an irreplaceable piece of family glass?”

  Rea gulped, two great tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry!” she said again.

  “Dash it all, miss, being sorry won’t replace that wineglass,” Mr. Ryeland snapped.

  “We’re fully aware of that, sir,” Burke broke in, winding his handkerchief about Rea’s finger. “Rea didn’t break the darn thing on purpose.”

  “She should learn to be more careful,” his grandfather retorted. “She isn’t living in some twopenny-halfpenny suburb now, drinking out of shilling tumblers from Woolworth’s.”

  Burke glanced up sharply. “That was a damned unnecessary remark,” he said.

  “But none the less an accurate one, I take it?” A sneer crossed the elderly, autocratic face. “I fear it’s that French blood in you gives you your somewhat plebeian tastes, my boy.”

  “Then thank God I have it, otherwise I might be like you!” Burke retorted crisply. Then he passed his arm about Rea’s waist and marched her from the dining room.

  Burke snapped on the lights of his study and with a little sigh Rea went over to the fireplace and knelt on the Bokhara rug.

  “Such a beautiful wine-glass,” she murmured. “I should have been more careful—and he’s right about shilling tumblers! Dad and I couldn’t afford Venetian glass and specially imported wines.” She turned her unhappy gaze away from the bright leap of the apple logs. Their piquant scent couldn’t charm her tonight. “You shouldn’t have brought me here, Burke,” she said. “I’m all wrong—all wrong for this place! I knew I should be!

  I said so, didn’t I?”

  Burke watched her a moment, then abruptly he crossed the room to her, lifted her from the rug and sat down in an armchair with her. She was very slight in his arms, her arms suddenly locked about his neck in the shaken need of a hurt child to be comforted. This was not Burke, this comforting figure. This was her father, holding her when she fell and scraped her knees; holding her when he had to tell her that he was ill and not going to get well. She clung closely, absorbing the comfort that flowed out from the masculine shoulders, the strong arms, the mingled scents of cigarettes and aftershave lotion. After a while she whispered shakily: “I’m an awful baby, aren’t I? I’m worse than little Peter cutting his teeth.”

  “You’re a sensitive little cuss, that’s all.” Burke took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to
him. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you here, Rea. Living a lie doesn’t rest easy with you, does it?”

  Her lashes quivered, dropped down over her eyes, shielding them from Burke’s searching gaze. “What would happen—if your grandfather ever found out?” she whispered.

  “The shock might very well kill him,” Burke returned uncompromisingly. “That’s a chance I’ve had to take, all along. The happiness of a little boy on the one hand, the possibility of Grandfather discovering my duplicity on the other. I weighed the two, very carefully, right from the beginning, and I decided to put Peter’s happiness first. The autocratic pride of the Ryelands brought about his birth, so why shouldn’t they be the ultimate sufferers?”

  Rea flinched at the sudden hard edge to Burke’s voice, her tired, perplexed head pressing into his shoulder. She had no autocratic pride, only a young and frightened heart, a body that shrank from inflicting pain. She couldn’t face with Burke’s equanimity the thought of his grandfather’s shattered life, should he ever learn that his beloved Philip had not been worthy of his great pride in him; that Peter was the living proof that Philip could stoop to debase a name he was supposed to worship, the ancient name of Ryeland. Old Mr. Ryeland had not shown her a real moment’s kindness since she had been in this house, he openly despised her, but neither his unkindness nor his hate could alter what she decided there against the hard warmth of Burke’s shoulder. Jack Larchmont would not blast either of the lives he had threatened, not if it lay in her power to turn him from that embittered purpose. Then, remembering his gipsy face, his glittering eyes, his fingers like burning wires about her wrist, she shivered violently.

  Burke felt her shiver and rather anxiously touched her forehead. It was hot under his hand, and little flushes lay over the delicate curving of her cheekbones. “I believe you’re starting a cold,” he murmured.

  “I—I’m all right.” A slight smile flitted across her face. “It’s breaking that wine-glass. It’s given me a headache.” “Poor baby!” He brushed at her fringe, his eyes on the drooping curves of her mouth. He drew her a little closer, watching the defenceless way her head lay back against his arm, the young throat very white, the dark lashes, just tipped with gold, trembling on her slightly flushed cheeks. “Rea,” he spoke gently, “would you like to go away from King’s Beeches?”

  “Away?” Her eyes flew wide open, while her arms involuntarily tightened about his neck. “Away from you — and Peter? Oh, no!”

  “Are you sure, Rea?” He touched her cheek, following the curve of her cheekbone with his finger. “You don’t seem all that happy here, and I don’t feel I have the right to keep you, if you’re not happy.”

  “I—I’m happy enough,” she stammered. “I love Peter. I couldn’t bear to be parted from him.” Her hands pressed against the warmth of Burke’s neck, almost pleadingly. “You don’t want me to go away, do you, Burke?” she asked.

  “Of course not, baby!” He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. “I’d miss you terribly if you went away.” “Would you?” Her hazel eyes roved his face, a rather startled pleasure in them. “I didn’t think you noticed me all that much.” Then she thought of certain assorted ivory and salmon boxes that had arrived from London just a few short days ago. Oblong boxes; round boxes; all very exciting. She sat up in Burke’s arms. She gave an excited little laugh, her depression momentarily forgotten. “You’ll notice me next Saturday, though, when we go to Iris’s birthday dance.”

  “When you’re all dolled up in your grand new dress,

  eh?” He grinned at her. “I thought you didn’t want to outshine Iris?”

  “Oh, I don’t expect to outshine Iris,” she said at once. “But I think you’ll like my dress. It rustles.”

  “Rustles, eh?” His blue eyes held a lazy amusement as they rested on her soft cap of fair hair. He touched it, brushing it back from her pixie ears. “You’re a nice child, aren’t you, Rea?” he murmured.

  “I—I’m not a child.” She sat primly in his lap, her hands folded, and it seemed to her she was always telling him she wasn’t a child.

  “Nor a pink elephant, eh, to be played with?” He laughed down into her eyes. “Sweetie, I’m so much older than you that I’m bound to treat you as a child.” “You’re thirty-six,” she said, “and that isn’t old. I wish I was thirty-six.” “I—I’d have more dignity—m-more knowledge of the world.” She lowered her eyes from his, thinking of Jack Larchmont—and the things he had said.

  “Age doesn’t always bring wisdom, my dear,” Burke said. “Though it often brings the disheartening knowledge of how unwise one has been.” Then he rose to his feet. and released her from his arms. “Get your book and have a little read, there’s a good girl. I’ve got some paper work to get through tonight.”

  “Yes, Burke.” She found her book and curled herself into one of the big wing-chairs, but she wasn’t really reading. More often than not she was watching Burke at his big desk, his dark head bent over a businesslike array of beige-coloured forms, his absorption complete as he rapidly moved his pen.

  So kind always—but so distant! Petting her sometimes, in a fond, abstract way. Unaware that the unhappiness he had glimpsed in her eyes tonight had for its basis a frightened recoil from the passion of another man. Rea shrank closer into the soft, wine-coloured upholstery of her chair as she remembered Jack’s eyes— Jack’s bold, slanting, wanting eyes. Her own breath seemed to catch in her throat as she seemed to feel Jack’s quick, warm breath fanning her face again. She

  wanted to cry out to Burke: “Help me—help me!” but she didn’t dare—she didn’t dare.

  Jack wouldn’t hesitate to divulge all he knew about Peter’s birth, recklessly spreading the story, if she sought to protect herself and thereby left Burke wide open to attack. Not only Burke but his grandfather and Mrs. Larchmont and the dead and lonely Dani Larchmont.

  All attacked by scorn . . . sneered at ...

  Rea shuddered.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  GONE was the usual bovine watchfulness from Betty’s eyes, now they gleamed with a startled admiration. —’Tis a rare sight you look, ma’am,” she murmured with awe, studying Rea with her head on one side. “Like a fairy you are, an’ that’s a fact.”

  Rea gave an excited little laugh, stroking the silk rustling of her crimson and gold dress.

  She studied herself in the mirror with an innocent, excited pleasure. The bare skin of her shoulders and her arms seemed to shine luminous against the flickering flame of the dress, and her hair, which had been washed earlier in the day, shone like a cap of gold from the vigorous brushing Betty had given it. Her lips were just faintly touched with lipstick, and once again the dress was lending a mysterious depth and promise to her eyes.

  “Get my cloak, Betty,” she said, and for a moment put a rather shaky hand to her midriff, where a couple of dozen butterflies seemed to be darting in all directions. Betty brought a black velvet cloak to Rea and helped her to adjust and fasten it. “Aren’t you wearin’ any jewellery, ma’am?” she asked.

  Rea shook her head, smiling slightly. “I’ve only my watch, Betty,” she said, “and I can’t wear that with this dress.” She made for the door, delighting in the silken rustle of her skirts.

  “Have you a good time, ma’am,” the girl said, looking rather shy again.

  “Why, thank you!" Rea turned to give her maid a quick smile and for a moment they gazed at one another —and suddenly Betty, with her funny low-worn cap and bovine eyes, brought another presence into that room. Suddenly

  Jack Larchmont was in that room, leering dark and frightening over Betty’s shoulder. Rea’s happy smile faltered and like a small creature darting from the sudden sight of a trap she sped in her lovely dress and her sleek cloak from the big bedroom.

  She hurried along to the nursery, for she had promised to let Moira see her in her finery before she departed for the dance. Moira couldn’t admire the dress enough, circling around Rea, exclaiming and throwing up her hands
. “’Tis the belle of the ball you’ll be, ma’am! ’Tis indeed! My, but I’ve never seen a prettier dress, not even on Miss Mallory.”

  The remark made Rea’s eyes dance as she bent over Peter’s cot to give a kiss and a cuddle before she went. “Night-night, Peter boy. Say night-night.”

  He burbled a lot of delightful nonsense in reply and thrust up a one-eyed monkey for her to kiss. She gave it a peck, to Peter’s plump delight, gave him a final hug and turned to rustle her way from the nursery. “’Tis mighty proud of you young master will be this night,” Moira remarked.

  “Fine feathers, Moira!” Rea scoffed, and before the maid could answer her, she was skimming along the landing. She was way down the stairs before she realized that someone was standing below, watching her descent.

  She watched Burke under her lashes, very splendid in his black evening clothes, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement as he stood waiting for her, one foot upon the bottom stair.

  Then she was close to him and he was reaching for her, swinging her down the remaining three or four stairs. With cool, deliberate hands he removed her cloak and threw it over the newel-post of the stairs, then he held her at arm’s length and studied her. “D’you think that ravishing dress deserves a present?” he queried.

  “Oh, no!” She shook a quick, confused head. “No, Burke!”

  “Oh, yes!” He laughed and turned her about in his arms. “Yes, Rea!” Then she felt his cool hands at her throat and when she glanced down she saw that he had fastened a slender gold chain about her throat, to which was attached a dainty little cameo.

  Her fingers caressed it as she eagerly turned to face him. “Oh, Burke, this is lovely! How kind you are! Where did you get it?”

  “I saw it in an antique shop in Taunton one day last week. I couldn’t resist it, it reminded me so much of you— delicate, innocent, sweet.” Then he laughed and reached out a hand to touch the sudden bloom of deep pink upon her cheek. “Why are you blushing?” he asked. “Don’t you like receiving compliments?”