'Well, it wasn't important to me,' she cried sharply. 'Not in the least. It was just a holiday, that's all. Like any other. I was fifteen years old. The time we spent there—I've never given it a second thought, not until now…'
'Is that true?' His eyes burned darkly into hers, but even the coldness in his face, the scorn in his mouth, could not stop the flow of words. All she could think of, suddenly, unreasoningly, was that she wanted to hurt him, as much as he hurt her…
'Of course it's true!' Her eyes blazed at him. 'Surely you, Julius, of all people, never imagined anything different?'
'Then what happened?' He spoke levelly enough, but she saw his breath came a little more quickly.
'Nothing happened.' She cut him off, and then stopped. She was lying, she thought suddenly, with an odd lightheaded detachment. Yet her voice carried the ring of conviction. Instantly she felt ashamed, and turned away. 'I don't know,' she said haltingly. 'Maybe I flirted with you a little.' She laughed, an ugly little controlled laugh. 'Maybe I'm my mother's daughter after all.'
He would stop her now, she thought, he must. He would tell her she was lying, make her admit the truth, tell her it wasn't true, what she said, tell her that once…
He didn't move, and he said nothing. In the end it was Luisa who turned back, but now she could not meet his eyes.
'And you?' she said finally, her voice catching in her throat.
'Me?'
'Yes, you.' She met his eyes. 'This seems a very one-sided inquisition. If we're going to talk about the past, Julius, you tell me. What did you feel then? In Scotland?'
Her voice nearly broke on the last word, and his face hardened.
'Oh, don't you know, Luisa?' He spoke very deliberately. 'I thought I'd made it clear. Just like you, I felt nothing at all.' He smiled icily. 'Perhaps a passing attraction, as you suggest. I wasn't very discriminating at that age.'
There was a silence that seemed to Luisa to go on for ever; she would never forget this moment, she thought. No matter how often she had told herself that that was how it had been, that he had never cared for her, the confirmation now caused her terrible pain. It was as if some last tiny hope, one which had never quite gone away, had suddenly been trampled and destroyed. There was nothing left; it was like stepping into a void. I lied, she wanted to cry out. It's not true. That she should assert the truth of what she had felt suddenly seemed imperative, but she could not speak. Fear held her back, and—worse than fear—a horrible sick suspicion. Perhaps he was right; perhaps, all these years, she had clung to belief in a lie. She turned away.
'Then I don't understand you,' she said shakily. 'We have no long-standing agreement, you and I.'
'Obviously not.' His voice was sullen. 'I was imprecise. Perhaps I should be more exact. It seems to me, in view of what happened between my father and your mother, that this would be a neat conclusion…'
'A loveless marriage?' She turned on him fiercely.
'Shall we call it a marriage of convenience?'
'Call it what you damn well like! Dress it up in any phrases you choose! It's a kind of revenge however you put it…' She broke off, and set her mouth, determined, now, that he should not see her cry. 'And I'll have nothing to do with it.'
'All right.' He stepped a little closer. 'Then we'll revert to my original suggestion.'
'What?' She stared at him in horror. 'After what you said to me earlier? I thought you said you preferred— experienced women?'
He shrugged. 'So I do. Generally.'
He gave her a lazy mocking smile, reached up and flicked her hair back from her shoulders, and caressingly laid his hand upon her neck.
'I'll just have to make do, shan't I, Luisa?' he said softly.
'No, you won't!' Angrily she knocked his hand aside. 'I… I've had enough of this. Of these games… these threats.' She drew in her breath. 'I… I shall do what I should have done in the first place. I… I shall go to the police. To the Law Commissioners. I shall tell them exactly what has happened…'
'Oh, do, Luisa.' He interrupted the tumbled flow of words. 'After all, your family has never been averse to scandal, has it? There's every possibility Claudia will get a suspended sentence. Harry's very loyal—no doubt he'll stand by her…'
He let the threat tail away, and there was a silence.
'You wouldn't do it!' She stared at him defiantly. 'You couldn't. Julius, please! You're not that kind of man. I always believed…'
She broke off and she saw his eyes grow intent.
'Believed what?'
'That you were… honourable.' As she said the word, with its curiously old-fashioned ring, she suddenly knew it was true. She had always believed that. The worst part of all this, she thought, suddenly calm, was not the threats but the destruction. It was as if Julius were destroying himself in front of her eyes. 'Please.' She turned to him and reached for his hand. 'I know you hated my mother. I know what you think of my family, but please, Julius. This is not you… it can't be…'
'Perhaps I've changed.' He drew back so she could not touch him. 'You're changeable enough, Luisa, God knows…'
She stared at him, frightened by the cold hatred in his face, not understanding what he meant. Then, quickly, she turned on her heel.
'I've had enough of this! I'm going…'
'No, you're not.' He reached out and grabbed her arm, and his voice was low, fierce with repressed anger. 'I've had enough of your goddamned prevarications and lies to last me a lifetime. You don't leave this room, Luisa, until you make up your mind. One way…' he paused, and then very slowly, drew her towards him, 'or the other.'
His arms tightened around her and he pulled her against him, so his lips were against her hair. 'Luisa,' he said softly, venomously, 'is it so hard? Why not just close your eyes? Why not pretend I'm my brother?'
The sickness and revulsion that instantly rose up in her gave her the strength to push him away.
'No!' She stared at him. 'I'll marry you.' Her voice broke, and she knew she could not keep back the tears much longer. 'Do you think I could bear to let you touch me, knowing how much you hate me, knowing you despise me, that… that I'm not to your taste? I'd rather die…'
'Don't be melodramatic'
'All right, if that's what you call it, I won't.' She forced her voice not to tremble. 'I'll treat this your way, Julius. Coldly. As if I were a machine. That's what you like, isn't it? So—I'll marry you. On your terms. Just never touch me, that's all. And I hope that makes you as miserable as it makes me.'
To her fury, he only laughed.
'Is that your final decision?'
'Yes, it is!'
'Good.' He looked at his watch. 'Well, that's settled, then. We'll get married in a week's time, by special licence. I've already checked and it's quite easy to obtain. And we'll go to Venice, I think, for our honeymoon. I have some business affairs that will take me there anyway, and we should keep up some appearances, don't you think? Now…' he turned away, 'as we've reached an agreement at last, perhaps you'd like me to call you a cab?'
Luisa stared at him in disbelief as, with total composure, he picked up the telephone and ordered a taxi. He turned back.
'Fine. It will be here in a few minutes. Let me get your coat.'
'Julius, you can't do this!'
'Oh, but I can,' he said drily.
He fetched her coat and handed it to her, his hands ostentatiously avoiding all contact. Luisa stared at him, rooted to the spot, dry-eyed, beyond tears. Her voice choked in her throat.
'I believe you planned all this, from the first! This was your revenge, wasn't it, Julius? All along.'
'Possibly.'
M hate you!' she cried. 'This marriage is a farce, a hideous lie. It will be hell on earth for both of us, and you know it!'
'Don't worry, Luisa,' he said softly, moving to the door. 'It will be hell in separate rooms. Now, let me show you to your cab.'
The wedding veil was old; it had belonged to her mother. It was made of Valenciennes lac
e, creamy with age, and it fell over her thick heavy hair in soft folds. It was held in place by a coronet, exquisitely worked in silk flowers and pearls. Luisa put it on, and looked at herself in the glass. The flowers were less white than her skin, she thought wryly; the pearls hung like tears, Her own eyes looked back at her from the glass, anxious, fearful, questioning, and she looked away quickly. It was nearly time.
Across the room, Claudia was sitting on the bed, sobbing softly into a handkerchief. Luisa felt suddenly a wild desire to laugh. This wasn't like a wedding at all, she thought savagely. It was more like a funeral.
'Claudia, please.' She stood up. 'You're not supposed to cry until later. Do stop.'
'I can't.' Claudia sniffed pathetically. 'It's all so awful. I still don't understand why you're doing it.'
Luisa sighed. 'Why do most people get married?'
Claudia's head jerked up. 'Don't pretend, Lou! You can't hide it from me! You don't want to marry him. You don't love him. You've always hated him…'
'That's not true,' Luisa said quietly.
'But why so suddenly? And like this? No one's going, no proper party… it's horrible, Lou!'
'Julius…' Luisa hesitated. She had to force herself to speak his name: 'Julius wanted it to be as quickly as possible. It had to be like this.'
'Lou, you're lying to me. It's something to do with the money, isn't it?' Claudia stared at her accusingly.
'Only indirectly.' Luisa looked away. That was true, she thought sadly. It wasn't the money, or Claudia's actions, that had brought her to this point. It was the past. And a man who could nurse revenge for ten years.
'It's all my fault!' Claudia gave a wail. 'If I hadn't involved you in all this, you'd never have met Julius again. This never would have happened. Oh, Lou, I'm sure you're making a terrible mistake!'
Luisa smiled at her gently. She had given Claudia only a very carefully edited account of what had happened; just that she had, as a last resort, gone to Julius, that he had helped them, that that meeting, and subsequent ones had led—quite suddenly, romantically, she had said, to this marriage. This o'er-hasty marriage, she thought bitterly. Claudia looked at her closely, and she quickly erased the bitterness from her face.
'Lou,' Claudia reached for her hand, 'just tell me one thing. I have to know. This isn't… well, it isn't some kind of recompense for what I did, is it? Please tell me it isn't, I couldn't bear it if it were!'
'Clou,' Luisa knelt down beside her sister, and met her gaze levelly, 'I promise you, it isn't. It… it goes back much further than that. To when Julius and I knew each other before. Now, are you satisfied?' she smiled at her coaxingly. 'You'd better be, you know. We have to go now.'
'All right.' Claudia stood up, and quickly kissed her. They looked at each other, and then Claudia laughed unhappily.
'And I thought I would be the first at the altar!' she said lightly: 'Now you're going to beat me to it by weeks.' She took Luisa's hand. 'You will be back in time, won't you, Lou? You promise?'
'Of course—I told you. Just promise me you'll rest, and look after yourself. All right?'
'All right.' Claudia looked nervously at her watch, and met her sister's eyes again with a look of despair. 'We have to go.'
'Don't look so tragic, you'll upset Luke. Now, come on.'
Julius had arranged the cars, and outside the house a long sleek brown Rolls-Royce was already drawn up. Luke was waiting for them, resplendent in a somewhat raffish morning suit. He kissed Luisa warmly, and helped them both into the car.
'Do you know, my dear…' he smiled at Luisa as the car accelerated smoothly away, 'I've never given anyone away before. Haven't been to a marriage, come to that, for—oh, a good ten years.' He touched her hand lightly. 'It ought to have been your father, you know, my dear. You could have wired him.'
Luisa squeezed his hand gratefully.
'I'm glad it's you,' she said.
The church Julius had selected, a small private chapel, was half an hour's drive. To Luisa it seemed like an eternity. After the first few minutes both Luke and Claudia lapsed into silence, leaving her to her thoughts. She stared out of the windows of the great silent car, watching the streets of London speed by. Snow had fallen in the night, and the pavements and houses were pale, white, ghostly in the thick grey light. The snow already fallen, and the threat in the sky of snow to come, gave an air of unreality to the streets. Luisa felt as if she passed through them in a dream, just as the last week had passed. She felt unreal, distanced, and yet also trapped. Events since that night at Julius's house had succeeded each other with a dreamlike mad inevitability; they had met again only once. He had been polite, considerate, businesslike. She had agreed to all his arrangements without argument, and left him feeling like a dead thing. She looked down at the bouquet she held in limp hands. Julius had sent it. It was beautiful, delicate, composed of pale spring flowers, narcissus and hyacinth, with a clear sharp scent. The flowers had tiny wires through their necks, she saw, looking down. Tiny, almost imperceptible wires, but they were speared by them, nonetheless; they would die, she thought, very shortly.
'Oh, Lou!' Claudia gave a muffled sob. The car was stopping.
Luke took Luisa's hand gently, and placed a light kiss on her forehead. His eyes, so sensitive, so all-seeing, met hers.
'Be quiet, Claudia,' he said. 'Luisa knows what she's doing.'
Claudia left them, going in ahead of them, and Luisa leaned weakly on Luke's arm. She hesitated, and then lifted the veil forward, so it covered her face. Then, leaning on Luke, she entered the chapel. An organ was playing softly; it was shadowy, lit by candles with a wavering smoky light, and it was almost empty.
But Luisa saw none of the empty pews; the few figures on either side of the aisle were invisible to her. From the moment she came in the door she saw only one person— the tall dark man who stood with his back to her at the altar. She moved down the aisle to him like a ghost, dreamingly, unaware of taking any steps. As she approached he suddenly turned, and those cold grey eyes met hers.
'Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here…' The priest was Welsh; he intoned rather- than spoke the words, and they seemed to Luisa to come from a great distance. Try as she would she could not take her eyes from Julius's face. His eyes seemed to burn into her, never leaving hers for an instant. His face was serious, expressionless, intent.
'… therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly…' The priest's voice sang in her ears. '… First, It was ordained for the procreation of children… Secondly, It was ordained for a remedy against sin… Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate…' The words swelled and softened, seemed to move in the air around her. Luisa drew in her breath sharply. She could not go through with this. She knew it suddenly, fearfully. It was a kind of damnation, a lie she would never escape. She tore her gaze away from those eyes, half turned, and Julius's hand, quite suddenly, as if he knew what she thought, read her mind, reached out and caught hers. He held her gently, without compulsion, and if the priest noticed this departure from the prescribed ritual, he chose to ignore it. Her eyes met those of Julius again.
Apart from the taking of her hand he had made no movement. His face was still as it had been, impenetrable, guarded, harsh even in this uncertain shifting light. But suddenly the edge of anxiety in her was gone. Some force seemed to pulse through their linked hands, from his body to hers, and she felt at once a great quietude, an extraordinary peace. It flowed through her veins like blood, and she was still.
The priest turned, his vestments rustled softly; there was a fleeting glimpse of gold, as his collar caught the light.
'Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only un
to her, so long as ye both shall live?'
Still Julius's eyes did not leave her face; there was a long cold silence; all the blood seemed to drain from Luisa's heart. He was going to lie, she thought suddenly, desperately, and she must stop him, before he perjured himself. Words rose to her lips, involuntarily she pressed his hand. The silence wheeled…
'I will.' His voice was private; just audible.
The words died on her lips. She stared at him, pale with horror. The priest was turning back to her.
'Wilt thou have this man…'
Still she clung to Julius's hand, kept her eyes fixed on his. He could not see her face clearly, she realised, through the thick lace of the veil, though perhaps he could see her eyes, dark with anxiety. He seemed to sense something, for—just for a second—she thought his face changed. A shadow came to it; doubt flickered and then was at once suppressed, wiped out. How proud he was, she thought, and in that instant some shutter in her mind lifted, and the old knowledge flooded back. Suppressed, shut off, denied so long, it suddenly reasserted itself with a power she would have thought impossible, informing and filling her heart. How much she had loved him, once. Silently she stared at him, and the world slowed. The priest's words came to her, each separate, with a great clarity, marking time with her memory, swelling into a great cadenza in her mind, its rhythms taking possession of her, seeming to dictate the pulsing of her breath, her heart. It was all so simple, she thought suddenly; not complicated at all. Once long ago, when she was almost a woman, not quite a child, she had wanted this, in that other country of the past. And now. She felt as if she were poised, high on a cliff, and the air was intoxicating, clear and free.
'… forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?'
Julius let go of her hand.
She turned and looked directly at the priest.
'I will.'
It was done. A sigh like a cool breeze passed through the tiny congregation, and the candles wavered. For a moment she closed her eyes. It was her voice; she had spoken; she had made the oath. But she had not willed her lips to move, could not, a second later, recall the impulse of articulation. The words had come, out of that silent music in her heart perhaps, or from the past; a woman stood there, but a girl had spoken. It was done.
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