The Devil's Bride

by Margaret Pargeter

  Katrina was in the hall. 'Kyrios Stein,' Sandra gasped, breathlessly. 'And the Professor?'

  'But madame, they've gone!' Katrina's face was a study of dismay as Sandra's went white. 'Didn't you know, madame? The kyrios told me you were tired and not to wake you. I supposed he had already said goodbye?'

  'Yes, yes, of course,' Sandra stammered, turning from Katrina's anxious regard. 'It was just that I had —hoped to catch him.' How could she explain to Katrina that she had hoped to change Stein's mind about taking her? How, as he had held her in his arms, during those rapturous, starlit hours, she had become confident of her ability to sway him. If only she hadn't overslept!

  'What time did they go?' she asked slowly, regaining a little composure.

  'About an hour ago, madame. They left early to catch the connection in Athens.'

  'Yes —I know about that!' She didn't mean to sound impatient, but her heart was sore.

  'Oh, I almost forgot,' Katrina's crestfallen face was suddenly all smiles, 'there is a note for you. The kyrios Stein said you were to have it as soon as you rose.'

  Sandra thanked her gratefully, trying to make up for her former abruptness, before going into the drawing room to read what Stein had left. He must have thought of her after all, and her spirits lightened a little. The envelope lay on a small table immediately within the door. There was nothing about it to indicate the shock she was about to receive.

  'Sandra,' the note ran, 'don't try to follow me. The interlude of our marriage has been pleasanter than I expected, but most

  things have to come to an end. What I have said previously still stands, although there is no need to say anything to Grandmother as yet. In a week or two I will contact you. In the meantime, thanks for everything.'

  Shock made Sandra sway unsteadily as she read the brief missive again. She could scarcely take it in, but after a few minutes when she did, anger spread flags of bright colour across her pale cheeks. So he thought he could pick her up and then discard her, just like that! Blindly she stared at the white sheet of paper in her hand, the strong, masculine handwriting which sprawled a little because Stein couldn't see, and her flicker of anger died as quickly as it had risen. Of course he could, she realised bitterly; he could do what he liked and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. Every small hope he had raised through the night died a painful death. He had simply acted as many men might have done in his position, considering her own responsiveness. She really meant nothing to him, this note proved it. She had been a fool to think otherwise.

  Yet none of this stopped her from asking Madame Kartalis, when she came down, how long she would advise her to wait before ringing the hospital. Compared with her anxiety, pride became meaningless and she knew she must know how Stein was, even if her enquiries made him angry. She need not give her name if it was to upset him, she could pretend to be acting on behalf of his grandmother.

  Madame Kartalis frowned. 'I should leave it until tomorrow, or perhaps longer. You know how Stein hates a fuss.'

  'But I am his wife,' Sandra protested, with a dignity which sat oddly on her young shoulders.

  The old lady looked at her sharply. 'I don't know why you weren't as insistent about going with him.'

  Sandra glanced at her warily, feeling curiously exhausted. 'You must know he wouldn't let me. It's not that I didn't want to g°.'

  Madame sat down abruptly. 'Young people today bewilder me,' she announced heavily. 'Nothing would have kept me from Stein's grandfather.'

  In a peculiar fashion these words were to haunt Sandra all day. Stein had promised to let her know how he was, but she guessed he wouldn't do this before his operation and it made sense that it would be impossible for him to do so afterwards, at least for some time. She had intended asking the Professor this morning how long it would be before they knew if Stein's operation had been a success. Oh, why had she overslept? By allowing herself to become so intoxicated with love she had, inadvertently, missed any opportunity of finding out all the important things she should have known!

  On the morning of the second day Sandra knew she could stay at the villa no longer. She must go to London so that, if nothing else, she could be near him. Last night, when she rang the famous London clinic where he had gone, they had told her he had not yet had an operation, but when she had asked to speak to him, they said he was not taking any calls. She wondered if their attitude might have been different if she had said she was his wife, but somehow she hadn't found the courage.

  This didn't stop her from thinking seriously of making a lengthy journey just to be with him. She still had his cruel note, but that didn't seem to make any difference. Once he was well it wouldn't matter if he still wanted to discard her. All things considered, it would probably be wiser not to live together when he didn't love her, but in the meantime, she must be with him.

  When she told Madame Kartalis of her intentions, the old lady did nothing to discourage her. This could mean, Sandra realised dryly, that her grandmother-in-law would be pleased to see the last of her. On the other hand, since Stein had left, she had not been entirely unkind.

  To acquaint the old lady of her plans, Sandra invaded her bedroom. 'I'm sorry to have disturbed you at this hour,' she apologised awkwardly, 'but if Thimios could take me to the airport I might, with luck, find a seat on a plane from Athens today.'

  It was agreed that Thimios should take her, but there was little

  time to spare. 'We must hurry,' he urged, as Sandra made her brief farewells to the household. 'In this part of the island the mountain roads are not made for speed.'

  Afterwards Sandra was to recall his words. Thimios was an excellent driver but, like most continentals, he drove fast. Once away from the villa he appeared to forget his warning about the mountain roads and accelerated hard. In the short time Sandra had been here she had grown used to such excessive bursts of speed, though she still felt slightly nervous. Today, however, she urged Thimios to go even faster, as she sat anxiously in the front seat beside him.

  'Please, Thimios, I must catch an early plane, otherwise I might be stranded in Athens until tomorrow. I must get to Stein!'

  'You leave it to me.' Thimios accelerated again, as if the mention of Stein's name had smitten him with the same sense of urgency. 'I'll see you catch the very first, Madame Sandra.'

  How the accident happened exactly, Sandra never knew. It had a lot to do, Thimios told her afterwards, with a lunatic coming towards them equally fast, but nothing was ever proved or made clear. The last she remembered was flying forward or sideways, she wasn't sure which, and of Thimios giving a loud, angry shout Then everything went black and she knew no more.

  Her first impression, on coming around in hospital, was of wonder, of being in a cool, peaceful place, but of it being wholly unfamiliar. It took her only minutes to realise she was in hospital and, immediately thinking of Stein, she tried to struggle up.

  'Where am I?' she cried.

  'Hush, madame.' At once by her side was a pleasant, white-coated nurse with excellent English. As Sandra turned towards her she laid cool, professional fingers on her brow. 'You must not excite yourself, madame. You have been in an accident and have suffered concussion, but otherwise you are very well.'

  An accident—concussion! Unable to believe it, Sandra moved her head incredulously but winced at the pain that shot through it. Whatever else had suffered injury, there was nothing wrong with her memory. Everything came rushing back. 'The car — Thimios?' she gasped, trying to sit up again, only to be held firmly against her pillows. 'The driver is all right, madame. Please not to upset yourself. He only suffered scratches, as did the car. We Greeks are a tough lot, madame.'

  'But what happened?'

  'Unfortunately you were thrown out, Madame Freeman.' A doctor came up on her other side, taking over from the nurse with an authoritative smile. 'You must not alarm yourself about this. You are being well taken care of.'

  'My husband?' Sandra could no longer hold back from asking.
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br />   The doctor smiled slightly, as if recognising her anxiety. 'I believe, madame, his grandmother, Madame Kartalis, has been in touch with him. She told me that when you recovered consciousness I was to tell you he has had his operation and is as well as can be expected.'

  'His sight?' She had never thought a single question could be so painful to ask. Perspiration broke out on her brow and her pulse was racing, she could tell by the way in which the doctor frowned as he took a light hold of her wrist.

  'I must ask you again not to excite yourself, Mrs. Freeman. Madame Kartalis said it was too early to tell.'

  'I see.' Defeated, Sandra closed her eyes, her head throbbing. It seemed ironical that, after all her efforts, she hadn't managed to get to Stein. She hadn't been there when he most needed her. Dully she lifted heavy lashes, gazing at the doctor, who still remained anxiously by her bed. 'How long do I need to stay here, doctor? I must get to London as quickly as possible. You do see?'

  His frown deepened at her obvious agitation, though his eyes were compassionate. 'I do understand, madame, but I am afraid it will be some days before you are well enough to travel. Very soon, of course, you may leave hospital and return to the care of Madame Kartalis.'

  Exactly eight days after leaving it, Sandra went back to the villa. Ignominiously, she thought, her spirits at a lower ebb than she could ever remember. It was only to be expected, Madame Kartalis said, that Sandra should feel shaken, but she agreed with the doctor it was nothing a few days' good care shouldn't cure. Katrina and Thimios welcomed her, the latter most apologetically, but it was their concern that warmed her more than anything else.

  In hospital it had been the lack of some definite news of Stein which had worried Sandra far more than her own health. She was young and would soon recover from a small accident. When Madame Kartalis had eventually told her, over the telephone, that his operation had been a success, she had had her suspicions the old lady had known for some time. In spite of this Sandra had felt a warm glow in her heart that Stein should once more have his sight. She had felt utterly and completely grateful. When she had asked Madame Kartalis if she had told Stein about her accident, the old lady had been extremely evasive.

  'No,' she said now, when Sandra repeated her query. 'How could I?' She glanced away, but Sandra noticed how her eyes glinted with cunning. 'Would you liked to have been responsible for his possible reactions, girl? A shock in the middle of such a

  delicate operation could have had serious repercussions.'

  Silently Sandra digested this, knowing she should have thought of it herself. She seemed to have got everything in such a dreadful muddle. 'I understand,' she replied, dismally, 'but what must he have thought when I didn't so much as ring to ask how he was?'

  'You worry unnecessarily.' Madame smiled quietly. 'Sophy is in London. She promised to call and see him. In fact, I did not have to press her, she could not get there fast enough. To stand in for you, of course.'

  Sandra bore such understated criticism stoically. While she would like to have cried sharply that she loved Stein desperately — possibly a lot more than Sophy did —she realised Stein didn't love her. He had married her, made use of her, but that was all. Like many men he had given in to the temptation of proximity but, no matter how he had chosen to treat her, she had never been able to hate him for long. But he need not worry that she would hold him to his wedding day promises, nor would he have to worry any longer that she might be going to have his child. Her accident had put an end to that, if there had ever been any possibility in the first place.

  Restlessly she moved across the room, unaware of Madame Kartalis's eyes on her white face, unconscious of anything but her own distraught feelings. Sophy in London, oozing with sympathy, and Stein already very much in love with her. Clearly she could imagine Stein back at the flat, Sophy with him, perhaps making herself available in every way. What chance then for a wife whom he hated?

  Madame was speaking again. 'Dear Sophy is eventually going back to America. She simply left a week or two earlier in order to help Stein.'

  'How very kind of her!' Sandra flared, unable to restrain an impetuous sarcasm.

  Madame ignored this. 'Do you intend journeying to London child, after you are fully recovered?'

  Sandra wished she would stop referring to her as a child. It made her feel about ten years old and just as responsible!'I must,' she answered shortly.

  'You love him, don't you, Sandra?'

  'Love him?' The query, coming from such an unexpected source, startled her. Quickly Sandra tried to prevent betraying emotions from clouding her hot face. 'Of course,' she confessed stiffly, feeling no need to tell Madame Kartalis how much. 'Otherwise I shouldn't have married him. Isn't it natural that a wife should love her husband?' she asked defensively.

  A slight smile of satisfaction went unnoticed on Madame's lips. 'One would imagine this should be so,' she agreed, with a suaveness strangely reminiscent of Stein's. 'Perhaps it is the quality of love which is changing.'

  'I'm not sure that Stein loves me.' There, it was out at last!

  An honest confession, not one she had intended making, but the time for pretence seemed past. Bleakly she glanced at her tormentor. If nothing else it should please the old lady.

  'There's only one way to find out, is there not?' Far from looking pleased, Madame Kartalis stared at her briskly, her finger on the bell for Katrina. 'Go to him. Go as soon as possible. Didn't you give him your Pandora's box when you

  married him?'

  'My Pandora's box, madame?'

  'Yes. There are many versions in Greek mythology, child, so I will choose the one I like best. When Epimetheus married the beautiful Pandora and he opened the box she gave him, all the evils flew out, but there remained hope. I am not sure, my dear, what else Stein had when he left here. Certainly his mood was unpredictable, but I do believe he had this, and that it was, in some strange way, not altogether to do with his eyesight.'

  It was raining when Sandra arrived back in London. The skies were grey, more like winter than early summer, and she thought ruefully of the warm sunshine she had just left behind. Since this was England, she was aware, it wouldn't be long before the clouds broke and the day became fine again, but, like her own affairs, that could take time.

  She took a taxi from the airport, giving the driver the address of Stein's flat. Stein might be there as he had left the clinic. Sandra knew this as she had rung from Athens the night before. The person to whom she had spoken had told her he was well and was leaving hospital next day. When Sandra had asked to speak to him personally, the nurse had returned to tell her he was occupied with a visitor and sent his apologies. Naturally the nurse had sounded extremely embarrassed that a patient declined to spare even a moment for his obviously anxious wife, but she was too well trained to pass any comment. If she hadn't turned so cool Sandra might have asked what Stein's visitor was like. As it was, she thought she could guess.

  Her spirits low, she stared blindly at the swishing windscreen wipers, as they dealt bravely with each fresh onslaught. Could Stein really see now? A great surge of grateful delight ran through her as she contemplated such a miracle. The nurse had insisted that he was well but, apart from his eyes, he had always been in a wonderful physical condition ever since Sandra had known him. He was tough, virile, with a great strength to his lean, athletic body, but might not the mental strain of the operation he had been through be severe? Should she not, as his wife, have gone to the clinic and had a talk with the surgeon who had performed the operation? What must they have thought of her continuing absence, of her never so much as contacting them by telephone during the first crucial days? Those days when, unknown to them, she had lain in her own hospital bed, unconscious.

  Nervously she drew a quick breath and sat back, instead of giving the driver fresh orders to go to the clinic. She must remember she was not a normal wife. Hadn't Stein's refusal to so much as speak to her last night emphasised that? He wouldn't understand if she consulted t
he hospital, started asking a lot of questions. He would merely consider it none of her business. He might even go so far as to complain to the hospital about it, and she dared not risk that.

  It was an almost tangible fear of Stein's reactions which kept her to her first decision to go to his flat. She knew he hadn't another place in England because he had told her he had sold his house here before going to America to make his last film. In the interval, between then and his accident, he had not been able to decide whether to settle more or less permanently on Kalnos or buy something else here, perhaps in the country. This must have been when he had expected to marry Alexandra.

  Bleakly Sandra wondered how he would arrange his life now. She supposed one of the first things he would see about was getting a divorce. With his sight returned and his freedom there might be no limits to his future achievements. There was his writing and the films which would no doubt continue to be made from his increasingly popular books and, way above everything else, there would be Sophy. Another marriage, this time with no unhappiness attached, would give him contentment and maybe inspire him to even greater heights. There would be no place for a girl like Sandra Weir, not even in his memories.

  Trying to ignore the increasing ache in her heart, Sandra crouched in the comer of the cab, not bothering to so much as hope any more that her own future could hold anything else but a desperate loneliness.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Standing outside the door, the taxi paid off, her finger apprehensively on the doorbell, reminded Sandra so much of her first visits to Stein's flat that her courage almost failed her. How much easier to turn and flee, to leave all future contact with him to a solicitor. Wouldn't it be better not to see him again? A swift, decisive break might not be half as painful.