He lingered about the house all morning. Instead of bathing, they sat in the long rattan seat on the veranda. His arm lay along the back, his forefinger idly wound and unwound a tress of her hair. For a long time they were silent watching the distant peaks of the mountains.
Suddenly, with perfect calm, he said: “We’ve been married nearly three months Venetia. Seems an awful lot longer doesn’t it?”
She nodded seriously. “A lifetime has passed since I first came to Bondolo—but I’ve made small use of it. Nothing ever turns out as you imagine it will. Three months ago I meant to be so different from what I am.”
“Different? How?”
“Well...” She ran an opalescent nail along a pleat in her skirt. “For one thing, I rather cherished a picture of us completely understanding one another and being ... wonderfully close and friendly—like an engaged couple.” His finger stopped moving in her hair and she had to contrive a smile. “Dreadfully youthful of me, wasn’t it?”
“Infantile. What else?”
She paused, then ventured: “An extension of the same notion I suppose. It appeared, in those green days that we stood a chance of becoming ... indispensable to each other.”
“Just like that” he returned, sarcastically snapping his fingers. “I’m afraid it takes more than sharing a roof, my child.”
“I know.” The smile had been chased away by shadows. “We’re not a ... a great success are we?”
This fell into a shallow pool of quietude.
“It’s my fault,” said Blake at length, exasperation in his voice. “It always is. But some things are nearly impossible to discuss and in any case, we wouldn’t get anywhere if we did discuss them. When the moment comes there’ll be no need for words. We both want the same things—in time we’ll get them. The devil of it is that while we sit pretty and hope for miracles the arrows fly. And perhaps I ought to warn you,” with an access of crispness, “that the points will get sharper and a few may be dabbed with poison.”
“I know,” she repeated in a lower tone. “That’s where understanding and the absolute truth you were so insistent about in the beginning would help. It’s not too good to be an outsider in one’s own home.”
This last met a silence more perilous than the first, Blake did not withdraw his arm, but he moved and it slid down between them. After that he was so still that when he took a long breath it seemed to drag at her nerves.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“If it’s the way you feel, you’ve a right to out with it,” he answered. He shot her a swift, narrowed glance. “You see a long way, Venetia, but not quite far enough. What you’ve learned about men could be written, in large letters, on the back of an envelope, and your intuition works at a tangent. You must forgive me if I sound angry but it isn’t pleasant to hear you call yourself an outsider after three months as undisputed mistress of Bondolo.”
“You’re taking it the wrong way. I meant...”
She had meant, of course, his habit of cutting her off from his thoughts, his frequent mood of polite and merciless withdrawal, the kisses her lips ached for and never received.
“The bucking mare churned my brain and it hasn’t settled yet,” she said. “You’re right about discussion getting us nowhere—it only makes you use phrases you can’t take back. May I have a cigarette?”
His only comment, as he held the lighter first for her and then for himself, was said with a hard, provoking grin: “There are moments, Venetia, when I’m convinced I ought to handle you with gloves off. One day I may be goaded to it. You may thank your stars that the mare did misbehave this morning. Come in and have a drink before lunch.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT might have been the slight shock from the morning’s incident which caused Venetia to sink into a sound sleep after lunch. She had lain down with more reluctance than usual, and for half an hour had stared at the white ceiling and revolved the ever-present problem in her mind. She remembered thinking she would get up soon, take a shower and stroll over to make friends with the new gelding which Blake had chosen for her; he would like her to do that And within seconds she had slept.
Remotely she caught the tinkle of china, and concluded that Mosi—or it might be Fumana’s turn today—was preparing a tea-tray. She reached for her watch and gazed at it in startled bewilderment. Four-thirty? Impossible. What could the boy be thinking of, leaving her to lie so late? Or had Blake given the instruction?
She swung from the bed, raked through her hair and sped to the bathroom for a cool splash under the sprinkler. Hastily she pulled on a clean dress and used brush and comb, yanked back the curtains and thrust wide the windows. She would have a quick cup of tea and walk down to meet Blake. The new gelding must wait till tomorrow.
As she entered the hall, voices came to her from the veranda, Blake’s and the unmistakable cadences of Natalie Benham. Venetia straightway slowed down, held by a formless dread. Sternly she scolded himself. Natalie had come to Bondolo scores of times, and this was just another visit to beg Blake’s advice upon farm matters. She had nothing whatever to fear from the woman.
Yet as she emerged on to the veranda her teeth went tight and her joints weakened. For Natalie, dark, elegant and immaculately turned out in white linen with touches of green and scarlet, was placed behind the fluted silver teapot, and at this instant she was charmingly accepting a cream scone from the dish of fancies which Blake offered, and looking at him with those long lashes attractively dropped against the fine skin of her cheek. Venetia had never seen any other woman who could do that.
He put down the dish and stood up. “You’ve been quick. I looked in fifteen minutes ago, when Natalie arrived, and you were still flat out, so I ordered tea. There’s a cup here for you, though. Where will you sit?”
“This chair will do,” said Venetia. “Glad to see you, Natalie. How are you?”
“Am I usurping?” Natalie enquired, thin brows raised. “Blake made me pour.”
“Not at all. Fill my cup for me, will you, please? Nothing to eat, thank you, Blake.”
“Feel fit now?” he asked.
“Perfectly,” she replied automatically.
“Blake has just told me about the bay mare’s sudden tantrum this morning,” Natalie said. “In fact, as you appeared he was explaining how you came to lose control and let the horse get the better of you.”
“But I didn’t—” Venetia’s exclamation broke off. She looked at Blake, willing herself to show no hurt. “Did I lose control?”
“I don’t think so.” His smile had facility and charm, but no depth. “How could you guess that the bay would play up?”
“But there was something I should have done earlier, to avoid it?”
He shrugged. “You weren’t to know that strange horses are apt to react oddly on one another, particularly when one of them happens to be a highly strung stallion.”
“I see.” Venetia stirred her tea and replaced the spoon in the saucer. “Apparently I should never have entered the enclosed pasture at all with the bay.”
“It would have been safe enough if you’d kept the rein taut and made a detour. Don’t bother about it. Natalie was curious because she’d had experience of the bay’s complacency. She hadn’t realized that you’d never sat a horse before you came to this country.”
“Of course I hadn’t.” Natalie leaned over, sparkling with apology. “One rather takes it for granted that Blake’s wife should have farming and horse-lore at her fingertips, and I’d forgotten that you haven’t I do recall, though, that when we met in Ellisburg at the tennis, I thought how well town life suited you. You had such a good colour, so much more verve than you have here at Bondolo.”
“How interesting.” Blake lay back in his chair. “Would you attribute it to the lower temperature?”
Natalie laughed. “It takes more than a few degrees one way or the other to pep up a woman’s self-esteem. By the way, Venetia,” she tacked on with
seeming irrelevance, “I saw Neil at a house-party yesterday, and he begged me to tell you that he’ll be spending next week-end with his cousin. So no doubt he’ll present himself here complete with racquet swimming-briefs and a handsome smile.”
Venetia felt stifled. She picked up her cup, saw the liquid rock dangerously, and set it down again without sipping.
“Who is Neil?” asked Blake, coolly conversational.
Natalie proceeded to enlighten him. “Neil Mansfield, a young cousin of Mervyn’s. The business has grown and Mervyn has taken Neil as a junior partner. You never saw two men more unlike. Neil rather fell for your wife, Blake. He’s one of those gay and flattering companions, isn’t he, Venetia?”
“He certainly helped me to pass a few daylight hours,” she admitted.
“Oh. But surely you danced with him? Didn’t he attend the Hospital Ball?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t with our group. I did dance with him once.” Venetia rested her hands on the arms of her chair. “I’ll take a stroll while you two talk business.”
“We’d finished,” said Blake almost curtly.
“Blake is going to lend me a couple of volumes on veterinary medicine.” Natalie turned to him. “You’ll come and look at those two calves?”
“Right now, if it suits you. Excuse me. I’ll go in and get the books.”
Natalie pushed away her cup, placed clasped hands before her on the table, and waited till he had gone before speaking. The small red mouth curved in a knowledgeable smile, and she shook her head.
“Wasn’t it a wee bit unwise to leave Blake in the dark regarding Neil? He was bound to find out about him sooner or later.”
“There’s nothing to find out,” Venetia replied stiffly.
“I believe that, but your silence about the young man makes the affair appear sticky.”
“Affair?” Venetia’s chin rose. “Do a few public meetings with a man constitute an affair? My sister-in-law didn’t think so.”
“Your sister-in-law,” Natalie reminded her smoothly, “has not made a conspicuous success of her own love life, and she was anxious for you to have fun. And anyway, it is you who have to answer to Blake, not Thea.” The dark eyes slanted. “You’re not sure about him yet, are you?”
“About whom?”
“Your husband, my dear.” The satire, if any, was softly veiled. “Blake has no use for ingenuousness and large-eyed innocence. Your performance in the pasture this morning struck him as humorous and pathetic. A ten-year-old who had grown up in these surroundings would have done better. Naturally, he was sweet to you about it—that’s the best of Blake—but if you don’t want to forfeit his respect you won’t permit anything so childish to happen again. Blake can’t stand incompetence.” Her tone was delicate, removed, and very steady. “I’m not interfering, Venetia, but I’d hate to see your marriage hit the rocks simply because you lack the knowledge and experience which Blake needs in a wife.”
“It’s very ... kind of you to concern yourself,” Venetia managed, and fortunately had no time for more.
Blake was back, one book under his arm and the other open in front of him. To Natalie he said: “You did say the calves are excitable and nervous? It sounds like heart-water.”
“I was afraid of that. Would you recognize it if you saw them?”
He nodded. “Have you traced bont-tick in the grazing land?”
“Not for years.”
“The new stock could have brought it with them. All you can do today is separate the calves and have the rest of the herd examined.”
“Thanks, Blake. You’ve been very helpful.” She stood and extended both hands for the books. “There’s no necessity for you to come, then.”
“I will, though, in case you need assistance.”
“What a pal you are. Shall we go in your car or mine?”
“You start off in yours, and I’ll follow.”
He dropped the books with a thud on to a chair while he lit a cigarette. Venetia went to the veranda wall and secured a spray of bignonia.
“Like to come?” he said.
“No.” To mask the abruptness of her refusal, she added,
“There’s dinner to prepare and I have some sewing to do.”
“Very well. So long.” And he was gone too.
Darkness was spreading when Blake returned, but he sprinted down for his bathe, came back to his bedroom and got into slacks and a white shirt. He brought his drink into the dining-room, where Venetia was pouring the nips of fruit cocktail.
“No Martini?” he queried.
“Not tonight, thanks. How did you get on at Vrede Rust?”
“It was heart-water all right. I advised her to call the vet tomorrow.”
“Dinner’s ready, if you are.”
“I’m not—for a minute.” He drained his glass and left it on the sideboard. “Venetia, harking back to this afternoon—when did you first run into young Mansfield?”
She rearranged the table centrepiece of flowers. “I was out riding one morning and he was doing the same. Inadvertently he had got on to your land.”
“Wasn’t it strange to keep it to yourself?”
“Perhaps, but I forgot. It was the day the lorry overturned, and the piccanin died.”
“Was your meeting with him in town also accidental?”
“Yes—the first time.”
He made no further comment, and after a second he pulled out her chair and called Fumana to bring the soup. Later, when coffee had been served, he said carelessly: “You’ve never been to Vrede Rust, have you? Natalie has invited us over on Thursday.”
“But Blake—” She interrupted herself sharply.
“Well?”
“I only wondered why she hasn’t asked us before.”
“She has,” he said. “Previously, I’ve made our excuses. There were reasons. They still exist, but one can’t go on indefinitely refusing one’s friends.”
“Natalie has never put it to me.”
“You don’t know each other so very well, do you?” he said.
He walked out into the night and Venetia heard him whistling tunelessly, as though deeply preoccupied. Was he meditating on the days before Venetia had settled at Bondolo? Was he perhaps recalling that Natalie had been an excellent friend with whom he might, had he had the sense, have contracted a satisfying marriage?
Venetia grew cold with sheer despair. The fact that Blake had known Natalie for years without broaching marriage brought no comfort now. She was fatally positive that at last he perceived the utter folly of marriage without love.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ON alternate days it was Blake’s habit to send the lorry-driver for the Bondolo mail to the post office in town. Occasionally, however, when he drove in on business, he would collect the letters himself. That was what happened on Wednesday morning, when Venetia accompanied him to Ellisburg. She came out of the hairdresser’s to find the empty car at the kerb with a note attached to the wheel: “Have gone over to see Mervyn Mansfield. Won’t be long.”
Venetia had become fairly well acquainted with the town. Mansfield’s office was down there on the right, above the bank. She sat in the car, combed the varnished stiffness from the golden-brown hair, and slit the wrapping from the roll of glossy magazines. For ten minutes she scanned the glossy pages, and then looked up to see Blake on the opposite pavement conversing with a thick-set man of average height, whom she recognized as the elder Mansfield.
The men parted, and Blake came and got into the car. She noticed him sniff, quickly trace the scent to her hair, and thereafter give his attention to manoeuvring the car between an ox-team dragging a log-laden cart and a straggle of native school-children.
“Did you come across your letter?” he asked, as the shops began to thin out and give way to houses. “It’s with the others—one from Thea.”
“No. May I find it?” Eagerly she thumbed through the envelopes which lay on the seat between them. “Here it is, but it feels scanty.”
> She tore the flap, flattened the sheet and let her eyes rove over the few lines. Quietly she slipped the letter into her pocket.
“What does she say?” he queried.
“It seems that she has finally nailed her long week-end—from Friday till next Tuesday. She suggests spending the whole time at Bondolo.”
He stared ahead, expressionless. “That will fit in nicely I shall be away for those days, and you and Thea can have Bondolo to yourselves.”
“Away?” she echoed. “Where are you going?”
“Among my mail was a note from Mansfield, asking me to call in at his office. I got through my other business, came round to pick you up and discovered I was early. So I decided to see Mansfield right away. He tells me that he has the job of surveying and mapping a new road in the north of the province, and three miles of it will have to run through the Garrard wattle estate.”
“The estate that was your father’s?”
He nodded.
“How far is it?”
“About eighty miles. Mansfield is arranging to go on Saturday and come back Sunday evening, but I’ve been promising myself a day or two on the estate, and Friday till Tuesday will give me ample time for a thorough inspection.”
“Supposing Thea hadn’t written,” she said carefully, “were you going to take me with you?”
“I’ve only just talked with Mansfield. I hadn’t got round to thinking about it.”
Which meant that he had intended going alone, or with Mervyn Mansfield. Wonderful to feel so wanted, she thought bitterly.
“I’ll let Thea know she’ll be welcome,” she said.
He did not expand about the forthcoming trip, but he did say, “As Mervyn Mansfield will be absent this weekend, that cousin of his won’t be coming this way after all.”
When they reached home he had a conference with the foreman, and most of the next day he spent driving round the plantation and at the sheds. He had his bathe at five instead of six, and put on a light tropical suit for dinner at Vrede Rust. Despite his absorption of the moment, their engagement with Natalie had not slipped his mind.
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