“You didn’t mind my transferring it to the veranda?” she asked anxiously. “People here are accustomed to proteas, but they still fill me with amazement and awe, particularly under electric light.”
“Of course I didn’t mind. You’ve done a magnificent job,” he assured her.
In fact, she had done very little. The boys had polished till floor and furniture surfaces shone like lakes. In order not to place too heavy a load on the electric lighting plant, they had cleaned and filled several paraffin lamps to give plenty of illumination. They had made a sparkling job of the silver and glassware, had killed a turkey and some chickens, dressed and cooked them; concocted a good soup and prepared vegetables and an entree.
This morning Mosi had come to the dining-room and consulted Venetia for the first time.
“Please, missus, what sweet for dinner?”
Surprised and inwardly flurried, she had answered: “Surely that’s planned already? A hot pudding, a cold alternative, and a dish of fresh fruit salad.”
The boy had grinned, not at Venetia but over the confirmation of some private piece of conjecture. It was not till later, when she was squeezing whorls of cream over the surface of the trifle, that Venetia realized the significance of the boy’s enquiries. Blake must have ruled that her advice be sought, that if she wished to help in small ways Mosi had better not be obstructive or it would be the worse for him. She had placed the bowl in the fridge, and gone through to the back garden, impelled by a strange mixture of pleasure and sadness.
Now she completed her toilet by stepping out of mules and into high-heeled sandals. She hoped that Margery and Cedric Clarke would be the first comers. Margery was placid and kind; she took everything at face value. During the evening they had spent together at Lawnside, Venetia had come to recognize and be grateful for the other woman’s friendliness.
She crossed to the spare bedroom which was to be used by the women guests, and unnecessarily rearranged the lamps and patted the bedcover. She didn’t know she was trembling till she came out again and saw Blake emerging from his room. He had on a white informal dinner-jacket such as he used to wear in the evenings at the hotel in Umsanga, and his hair was brushed back, sleek and shiny. The smile he bent upon her had the faintly cynical quality with which she was becoming familiar, but his voice was warm and quiet.
“You look sweet, my infant, but scared pink. Come and be pepped up with a drink.”
They went into the lounge. While he poured sherry, she adjusted the shade of the standard lamp, rearranged a flower and flicked pollen from the table.
“Give it up, Venetia,” he said patiently, and placed a glass in her hand. “Down this and relax for ten minutes. You’re too young to have nerves.”
She sipped, but remained standing, her glance on the well-lit veranda outside the french window, her ears straining for the slightest sound.
“Blake, won’t Thea be upset if she hears that we’ve entertained your friends—and hers?”
“So that’s the reason for the pleated brow. You bother quite a lot with other people’s feelings, don’t you? I hope you regard mine as rather important, too.”
“Well, naturally.”
“How important?”
Almost imperceptibly she moistened her lips. “More important than my own.”
Speculatively he looked into his glass. “You needn’t concern yourself about Thea—she knows me.” A pause. “Are you happy at Bondolo?”
“Of course. Anyone would be happy here. There’s beauty everywhere and you’re so generous. I’ve everything I could possibly want.”
“Have you?” His tone was baffling, but he changed it, to add: “Some time soon you must take over the housekeeping. You’ve done it in England, so it shouldn’t come hard.”
“I’d like to. With servants to do everything, one feels somewhat superfluous.”
“No woman is superfluous in her own home,” he said decisively. “She’s mostly the hub of it.”
He finished his drink and drew a small flat case from his pocket. At the pressure of his thumb the lid snapped back, and Venetia was staring at a pair of exquisite earrings, each a glistening pearl in a circle of tiny diamonds, which winked provocatively.
“Like them?” he asked.
“They’re dazzling,” she whispered, smiling yet fearful. “Are they for me?”
He laughed briefly, not wholly with amusement. “For no one else. Put them on.”
Gently she lifted one from its white satin bed and fitted it over the lobe of her ear, but her fingers quivered too much to tighten the minute platinum screws.
“Let me,” he said.
She stood very still, conscious of his knuckles first against one side of her neck and then the other. They weren’t clumsy, but their movements were hard and sure. He held back his head, regarding the effect.
“They age you about six months, but I hoped for more. Come into the hall and see yourself.”
In the oval mirror set in a wrought-iron frame she examined her reflection. Blake’s face showed above hers, lean and tanned, the eyes grey and inscrutable, his mouth slightly mocking. After the first moment he did not look at the earrings, but met the reflection of her eyes. She turned away and found him close.
“They’re very lovely, Blake. Thank you.”
“Not worth a kiss?”
After an instant she raised her lips. He shrugged and touched his mouth to her cheek, bent lower, and kissed the side of her neck.
“I believe I hear a car,” he said. “Let’s go outside.”
Venetia quelled a shaky sigh. Ten days alone with Blake had taught her never to question his reactions in perilous moments, because although he caused those moments, he also managed, somehow, to get her over them. It was silly, but she seemed to think that a miracle would happen if he’d only take her into his arms. Why couldn’t they behave like an engaged couple—gently make love and exchange promises?
Out on the veranda he slipped a hand through her elbow. The trees stirred with a soft wind. Last night it had rained and today new buds had opened, adding to the heavy scent of the nicotiana below the wall; from the orchard drifted the unmistakable perfume of late orange blossom. Away in the stables a horse whinnied, and Blake said:
“That’s Ginger. A horse is never happy when he’s too fat. You don’t exercise him enough.”
“I would, if you’d let me go out with you before breakfast.”
“You’re not up to that yet. Wait till you’ve been here longer. Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Why did you shiver?”
“It wasn’t with cold. Are they never coming!”
His grip of her arm was reassuring. “Stop worrying, you little idiot. They’ll all adore you and bear you down with good advice. Here’s a car. I’m not mistaken this time.”
It wasn’t Margery and Cedric, but it hardly mattered. Within the next quarter of an hour the sixteen guests arrived, some of them from Ellisburg, eighteen miles away, and others from an equal distance in the opposite direction. The Allistons and the Clarkes, Natalie Benham, Brigadier and Mrs. Scott, Dr. Rivers, and others. Venetia concentrated on remembering names and smiling.
The lounge filled. She was parted from Blake but adjacent to the comforting presence of Margery. On her other side stood Dr. Paul Rivers.
Paul was thirty-two, above average height and rather heavily-built. Venetia noticed the spatulate fingers upon his glass and recollected Blake saying that Rivers was too good a surgeon to be a general practitioner; he ought to specialize. Although he had come to the district less than a year ago, his was said to be the busiest practice in Ellisburg. He gave one an impression of unshakable solidity.
At dinner Paul sat on Venetia’s left. They discovered a common interest in gardening, and she invited him to come over in daylight to inspect the flamboyants and other flowering shrubs in the lower drive, and the grapevines which smothered the arbour. He had dined at Bondolo only once before, soon after his installation
at Ellisburg.
She was grateful for his calmness and acceptance of her, and tremulously elated each time Blake smilingly caught her eye down the length of the table. This was how it should be. Blake entertaining his friends and drawing her into their circle. She wanted so desperately to be one of them.
Everyone was agreeable and flatteringly interested that she was so newly arrived from England.
“Blake held out on us,” said vivacious Mrs. Alliston, the attorney’s wife. “The very last time he visited us, just before he went to Umsanga, I called him the typical confirmed bachelor and he didn’t turn a hair. What do you think of that for deception! I’m afraid you’ve got a deep, dark horse for a husband, Venetia.”
“I believe I have, but I’m transparent enough for both of us,” she commented.
“You’re not frightened at the thought of settling in a strange country?”
“Not a bit. Were you frightened when you first came from England?”
“My circumstances were different. I was newly married, too, but to a man I had known for years—in fact, we’d grown up together.
“Tactfully put,” inserted Blake equably. “Venetia, my dear, it would appear that in simultaneously tackling both Natal and me you’ve earned the admiration of the whole neighbourhood. Isn’t that what you mean, Mrs. Allison?”
“Heavens, no, Blake! I’d trust you to take good care of anything that’s yours, and Venetia has absolute faith in you or she wouldn’t have married you. I should say that you’re going to be very happy. Believe it or not, my curiosity was conventional. I merely wondered whether she found South Africa, in its complete contrast to any other country in the world, just a little terrifying.”
“Perhaps it’s fortunate that, apart from England, I’ve never set foot in any other country,” Venetia returned. “Since living in Natal, I feel sure there’s no other place half so fascinating.”
This drew applause from the men. Blake gave her the suspicion of a wink and called for more wine. For his sake Venetia glowed. Blake’s party was going to be a success, and she was contributing her mite towards that end.
The women rose, and the men moved outside. From her bedroom, where she bathed her face in cold water and used fresh make-up, Venetia could hear the boom of masculine talk and laughter.
Someone out there, unaware of her proximity, observed amiably:
“She’s a pretty girl, and intelligent, but hardly Blake’s cup of tea, do you think? I always thought he’d marry a woman of farming stock, like Natalie Benham.”
Venetia took a clean handkerchief and dusted a few grains of powder from her dress. She recalled Natalie Benham as the dark person with a smooth, tanned skin and a moulded dress of stiff ivory silk; by far the best-looking woman here tonight.
Feminine tones joined the others. Hurriedly, Venetia switched off the lamp and opened her door to the veranda. In the dimness she nearly collided with Blake.
“I saw your light,” he said. “It was on a long time, so I came to investigate. Were you brooding about something?”
“No, just freshening up. The dining-room got hot, so I cooled off thoroughly.”
He pulled the door shut. “Good girl. Are you over the stage fright?”
“Practically. They’re so friendly.”
“I told you you’d make a hit.” He drew her along towards the front of the house. “Presently, they’ll suggest dancing, but don’t let them overtire you. Who’s this?”—as a man strolled to the corner pillar and tossed a cigarette out into the garden. “Oh, it’s you, Paul. Be a good doctor and give Venetia a few restful minutes, will you?”
“With pleasure.”
Blake patted her arm and moved away to the large group in the porch. Paul breathed deeply and appreciatively, and bent over to snap off a sprig of jasmine.
“The more I smell of your garden, the less satisfied I become with my own. Where will you sit?”
“I prefer the wall.”
“You may get beetles in your hair.”
“It’s worth it, to sit above the flowers. Do you live in Ellisburg, Dr. Rivers?”
“Not quite—just this side of it, but my consulting-rooms are in the centre of the town. I’m hoping to persuade Blake to bring you to look over my ancient house and wooded acre one day.”
“Has he seen them?”
“No. It’s an odd but incontrovertible fact that bachelors seldom get together in their homes. It takes a woman to bring out the human in them.” Paul slid the jasmine stem into his lapel—he had come straight from the hospital and wore a lounge suit. “I rather thought your sister-in-law would be here tonight.”
“Thea? I wish she were, then we’d be complete.” Venetia looked up at him. “You know her?”
“We met in Durban some time ago and worked together for a while. She’s an excellent nurse.”
“Blake says she’s charming. I wish she’d come, if only for a week-end.”
“Have you invited her?”
“Not ... yet.”
Paul eased over the pause. “There’s plenty of time, and you can depend upon her accepting you as a sister with the greatest cordiality.”
“Is she like Blake?”
“In many ways, yes.” He went on reminiscently: “Thea’s fiercely independent and unyielding—or she was. Blake’s the same, only more so. I’m looking forward to meeting her again.”
“Durban is only a few hours away. Eventually she may be coming home often.”
There was no conviction in Venetia’s statement. Upon this matter she was certain, Blake would never capitulate. Thea must wait.
Music came from the radio in the lounge. A languorous, cloying tune stole over the African air.
“Shall we dance?” said Paul.
He danced well, and so did the other men; they had plenty of practice, for parties in these parts invariably included that type of exercise. Later there was more talking and drinking.
No one left till midnight, and it was nearly one before the last guests departed. Venetia went to bed exhausted, but profoundly thankful that the evening had gone through without catastrophe.
CHAPTER FOUR
DURING the next few days storms brewed and flooded, left the sky washed clean, and then gathered again. The sultry dryness of the atmosphere had given way to heavy, hot humidity which was tropical in its effect on the pores of the body. One could not move without oozing perspiration.
After household requirements were met and the labourers had received their ration, the orchard fruit was wrapped, boxed and sent to the coast. Later the harvested maize would be despatched to the co-operative depot, and after that other crops would be coming along. Growth, development and maturity never ceased in this heady, moist climate.
Though sugar was the backbone of Bondolo, Venetia learned that timber, fruit and cattle were richly rewarding sidelines. The estate ran to three thousand acres of prodigally abundant crops flanked on the north by a further thousand acres of lush pasture land.
Twice she drove with Blake over the earth tracks round the plantation, and one morning he allowed her in the shed where the weekly yield from all quarters was handled. The boys chanted as they wrapped and packed, their demeanour lazy, their hands nimble and rhythmic. On a Friday afternoon she sat astride Ginger under an umbrella tree and watched the exuberant pay queue which wound away from the white cement office where the foreman presided. Activity at Bondolo was continuous and full of interest. Only the heat deterred Venetia from staying outdoors as long as Blake did.
She drifted into a routine. After breakfast, housekeeping: the day’s meals to be ordered, the grocery list, flowers and the dusting of the more precious objects. Then she would ride to the river and along the verges of the sugarcane. A dip in the pool which lay behind the tennis-court, followed by a solitary cold lunch on the veranda or a more epicurean repast with Blake in the dining-room.
At his insistence she rested in her bedroom from two o’clock till Mosi brought tea. If they played tennis it was always
in the cooler hour before dusk, and when the light failed Blake bathed. Only on Sundays did they swim together, a quick couple of lengths before breakfast. He didn’t offer advice about swimming and diving, as he had at Umsanga.
On a morning when Blake had ridden down-river to the timber and taken a picnic lunch along, Margery Clarke drove up in Cedric’s old tourer. Her cropped fair hair was windblown and she wore a sun-dress which had suffered many launderings and had unashamed patches at the armholes. Difficult to realize that Margery was thirty-three and twelve years married. She had a set way with her, but her figure was young and wiry.
Venetia saw her from the dining-room window and came down to the garden.
“All alone?” called Margery in her funny, unmusical voice. “I’m going into Ellisburg. Care to come?'”
Venetia hesitated. The invitation appealed, but as usual nowadays her mind worked round it, she seemed to spend most of her mental energy upon means to avoid trouble. “How long will it take?”
“About four hours. We could lunch at the hotel and be back by three.”
“Sure I won’t be in the way?”
“Good lord, would I have racketed over two miles of mud road to ask you, if that were likely? Come on, jump in and let’s away.”
“I’ll get a hat and tell the boy to cut out lunch.”
It was not till they were out on the road, leaving Bondolo behind, that Venetia acknowledged the cautious thrill in her veins which preceded a heartwhole sense of release. The air through the window was bland as milk, the trees soughed a symphony, the sky was a flawless roof of African blue, and birds winged across it like haphazard notes of music. Naked piccanins scuffling in a shallow stream brought a bubble of laughter to her throat.
“That was nice,” remarked Margery. “You should do it more often.”
“Do what?”
“Laugh like that—as if life were not so bad after all. But marriage is dreadfully earnest at the beginning, isn’t it? Perhaps we women are too tense about it. Men carry off the upheaval in their lives much better than we do.”
Brittle Bondage Page 3