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The Youngest Bridesmaid

Page 10

by Sara Seale


  He spoke too lightly for her to be sure whether he meant to be taken seriously, and she was as yet too inexperienced to retaliate provocatively and keep him guessing.

  “You must know I wasn’t,” she answered with simple honesty. “I would never have married you, even for Cousin Blanche’s sake, if I hadn’t—if I hadn’t—”

  “If you hadn’t what?”

  But she could not, in the face of such an unpropitious start to a honeymoon, embarrass him with further offers of compliance. She could not tell him that the attraction he held for her might, with such little effort on his part, turn so easily to love. She did not even know if, in spite of his earlier warnings, he meant to demand anything of her at all.

  “If I hadn’t liked you, of course,” she answered primly, and thought he put down his empty cup and got to his feet with a certain air of relief.

  “Of course,” he echoed with a tinge of mockery. “Well, get up and get dressed now, lazybones. The day’s too good to waste indoors. Tibby can put us up a picnic and we’ll do a tour of inspection.”

  It was the first of many such days. The unseasonable weather continued to hold, deceiving Lou into imagining that this remote little island was not only cut off from the outside world’s demands, but from the vagaries of the elements as well. As she came to know the island, she came also to know a little of Piers, and realized she had been right when she had told her cousin that Rune was, for him, an escape. He seemed relaxed and at ease in this wild solitude and his tongue lost its sharp arrogance as he patiently explained island customs and answered questions. Lou was grateful to him for sharing his small kingdom with her and careful never to trespass with proposals of her own. Sometimes she thought he was merely accepting her as he would a well-trained dog which knew its place and required only casual attention, then he would surprise her quite suddenly by an intensely personal question or answer and touch her with the tender, lingering hands of a lover.

  Once he said to her: “You look at me sometimes, Lou, as if you didn’t understand. You don’t, do you?”

  She shook her head dumbly. She had such little self-conceit that she accepted his apparent reluctance to consummate their marriage as a sign of regret for his hasty action, just as she accepted Tibby’s prevarications about moving the second bed. She knew, and Tibby knew, that the excuse of the car accident had served its purpose; the stitches had been taken out, the scar was nearly healed, and there was nothing left to suppose but that the accident had been a timely let-out for Piers.

  “No, you don’t understand,” he said, breaking into her thoughts with a certain roughness. “Why do you imagine I brought you to the island?”

  They were on the shore and he had pinioned her gently but firmly against the rock face with one of those sudden changes of mood she found so disconcerting.

  “Because it was easiest, I suppose,” she answered, groping vainly for the right words. “I mean the—the honeymoon you had planned would have , been—would have been—”

  “Wasted, were you going to say?” he mocked as she broke off uncertainly. “Oh, no, my dear, that honeymoon was devised for obvious reasons—the sort of tour-de-luxe expected in the circumstances. On the island one has a chance to get to know one another.”

  She blinked up at him, the wind stinging her eyes to an impression of tears which she brushed away impatiently.

  “But surely you would have wanted to get to know Melissa?” she said gently, and his slow grin was both confusing and a little alarming.

  “I already knew all that was necessary about Melissa, and I don’t think she was proposing to dig much below the surface where I was concerned,” he said, and she experienced a small, irrational spurt of anger.

  “If you were so indifferent to each other, then I’m not surprised she ran off with someone else,” she retorted, and his smile became suddenly tender.

  “You’d never seize an advantage where you could, would you?” he said with amusement, “Most girls would be rubbing it in how badly I’d been treated.”

  “Perhaps I don’t think you have been badly treated,” she replied, standing her ground. “If Melissa knew you were simply making what you thought to be a suitable marriage, you can hardly complain if she preferred someone else at the last moment.”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining. Still, I wouldn’t like you to think I’m entirely devoid of natural feelings. I wasn’t indifferent to Melissa in the sense you imply. She’s a very attractive young woman,” he said deliberately, and knowing that he had hurt her, took a perverse pleasure in watching her instant recoil.

  “Of course,” she said. “I spoke without thinking, I suppose. All the same, it was hardly fair to marry me out of spite, was it?”

  Anger, to which he knew he had no right, suddenly possessed him. She looked so slight and fragile imprisoned by his outstretched hands against the rock face that he experienced a savage desire to shake her, beat her even, for exposing an imagined weakness in him.

  “You pay too much attention to Tibby’s unflattering views,” he replied, speaking with the old cold arrogance because he refused to allow temper to reduce him to a childish display of violence, but he still had not learnt that for all her unsureness there was the courage of a small trapped animal in Lou.

  “Tibby only says what all the world must think,” she retorted. “That’s why you brought me here to Rune, isn’t it—to hide me away until people have stopped laughing?”

  His arms fell to his sides, releasing her had she wished to turn and run, but when she did not move, his hands moved out again to touch her tentatively, to draw her against him with gentleness, to wait with humility while her young body, denying the bitterness of her words, yielded unprotestingly to his.

  “Try to bear with me, Lou,” he said, and did not know how easily his voice could work its old charm with her. “I’ll admit that there could be a certain amount of truth in the reasons my friends will doubtless put about, but that was yesterday. People can change their reasons in a day, in an hour, and I brought you to Rune, not to hide you away from the gossip and laughter, but to hide us both until we had become acquainted. I thought I had made that clear when I answered your original question.”

  “Nothing’s very clear,. Piers,” she said, and found she was weeping.

  “Now look what I’ve done,” he said, wiping away the tears with a careful finger. “You mustn’t take me too seriously, Cinderella, when I give way to moods. I don’t understand myself half the time.”

  “That’s my difficulty—to know.”

  “To know?”

  “When to take you seriously, and when not. I—I have such very little experience of men.”

  “What, no admirers? No would-be suitors?”

  He was, she guessed, lightly teasing to tide them both over embarrassment, but she answered with her usual naive truthfulness:

  “One or two admirers, perhaps—office Lotharios bored with their wives. Suitors weren’t so easily come by; young men starting to earn a living these days haven’t much money.”

  “How charming you are, how refreshingly unfeminine,” he said, surprised that he should feel such annoyance at the thought of the office Lotharios, but realized at once that he had phrased things badly.

  “Unfeminine?” she repeated, drawing away from him, but he pulled her back again and kissed the tip of her nose.

  “Not in the sense you’ve taken it, silly goose,” he laughed. “Perhaps I should have said unbitchy. Now let’s go home and see what Tibby has for tea.”

  All the way back along the wet sands, he charmed her with anecdotes and an occasional implied compliment, lifting her over the deeper pools with uncharacteristic consideration for her comfort, behaving thought the inexperienced Lou, with the rather surprising concern of a lover.

  Piers watched with a certain wryness as, the harbor and house in sight, she sped away from him with the careless abandon of a child released from adult supervision. She was too young, too unpractised, he supposed, to unders
tand that he had begun his wooing. He might have married her out of hand for any or all of the reasons attributed to him, but he would not claim any rights until he could offer a little of the courtship of which he had cheated her.

  II

  A week or more went by with still no break in the phenomenal weather. It was, thought Lou, ready as always to marvel at and accept the extraordinary, as if the very seasons conspired to perpetuate her fairy tale. The sun and the breeze had the gentle freshness of the spring of the year and it was warm enough to wander without coats and picnic in the shelter of the rocks.

  Out of doors Lou remained unquestionably happy, learning to adapt herself to Piers’ moods, his teasing and casual probing, his long silences, even the sharpness of the tongue he could not always control. She possessed little self-consciousness, never having had much experience of a man’s interest in her, and would, he knew with amusement, have stripped to bathe, had the time been summer, with the same lack of consequence with which she had undressed on the night of their wedding.

  For him, too, the days brought bounty and the new fascination of exploring another’s personality and, so skilful was he, Lou seldom realized how much of herself she revealed to him. But she did know that when they returned to the house, they seemed to slip back into becoming strangers again and the evenings would seem long and filled with uneasy .silences or, worse, the angry squabbles which flared up between Piers and Tibby. She knew that their bickering was habitual rather than deliberate, but every so often the old woman would presume too much, or Piers’ casual rudeness would strike a bitter note and the quarrel would become unendurable to one unable to listen to harshness without pain. So often, too, Piers’ irritation would swing to Lou because her shrinking apprehension of such scenes riled him much more than Tibby’s accustomed gibes and because, too, he imagined that shrinking sprang from other causes. She was, perhaps, dreading the moment when the evening ended and she might find on going upstairs that he had had the second bed moved into her room. Well, that day would come, whether she liked it or not, he would think to himself a little grimly, but not yet; not until the time was ripe and the foolish child had ceased to stare at him across the dinner table with such blank, accusing eyes.

  Lou, except for the rather galling fact that he clearly seemed to have no use for her as a woman, was less concerned about the position of the bed than he, had he but known it. Her common sense told her that Tibby was jealous, and the hints and innuendoes she dropped when Piers was not around sprang mainly from a desire to show displeasure at her nursling’s unsuitable choice of a bride. She would, doubtless, have been jealous of Melissa, but at least Melissa would have been acceptable in that she was Blanche Chailey’s daughter.

  Lou, as the days went by, wished she could learn the way to Tibby’s tolerance as easily as Sam Smale, that handsome young fisherman who spoke little and hardly at all to Lou, but who was plainly the apple of Tibby’s eye.

  “You’re fond of Sam, aren’t you?” she once said, hoping to find some common ground on which they might meet, and for a moment the old servant’s expression softened to something approaching affection.

  “He’s a good lad. A mite proud of his looks, maybe, but a good lad,” she said. “When Mr. Piers is away on his pleasures there’s no one much to worry about.”

  “Do you worry about Piers still?” Lou asked shyly, thinking that perhaps she had found the key, only to be driven back behind her own frail defences at the withering look she received.

  “Worry about him!” Tibby scoffed, but there was a trace of contemptuous pity in her hard eyes. “What should the likes of him need of a woman’s comfort when money can buy anything, even love?”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “Isn’t it? You married him, didn’t you, for all he was pledged to another? Would you have taken him so quickly without the Merrick wealth?”

  “Yes—yes, I think I would.”

  “More fool you, then. Don’t think, young missis, that because that other one threw him over he’s forgotten her. Men do daft things for injured pride and live to regret it. Is she like her mother?”

  “Yes, very,” Lou replied shortly. It was not pleasant to glimpse the possible truth through the rosy mists of make-believe.

  “Then you made a bad mistake taking him from her,” Tibby snapped. “Didn’t I warn you when you found the cave?”

  “You dropped vague hints about voices and sacrifices, but Piers says that’s a lot of superstition,” Lou answered more sharply than she intended, for she was becoming impatient with this perpetual belittling, but the old woman merely looked smug and a little sly.

  “Because he’ll not want to remember the legend so soon. Happen he’s sorry already he’s put you in another’s place. He’d never have brought her here, that’s for sure,” she said, and suddenly leaned towards Lou with confidential avidity.

  “What was she like, Miss Blanche’s girl?” she asked, but Lou could not tell her.

  What was Melissa like? she wondered, going away to speculate in private. She had, she supposed, never known the real Melissa behind that smart, sparkling facade, had thought, indeed, that there might not be much to know should the glamour and the fashionable little tricks and provocations be stripped away, but even so, Melissa had thrown away a brilliant match for love, so after all she was vulnerable, and Lou, already halfway in love herself, thought humbly of the cousin who had made her own good fortune possible. She hoped most sincerely that she was happy, wondering with the first stirrings of curiosity, what sort of man had supplanted Piers so easily.

  “Who is he—this man Melissa ran off with?” she asked him later that day, then wished she had not as she saw the hardness settle in his face.

  “Some minor scion of the stage, so I understand. I never met him,” he answered curtly.

  “I shouldn’t have asked you, perhaps?”

  “Why not? You have a right to your natural curiosity.”

  “It wasn’t curiosity in the vulgar sense.”

  “And what do you suppose you mean by that? All curiosity is vulgar. One’s private failures—and their opposite—should be allowed decent burial.”

  He spoke with a definite edge to his voice, and she flushed and lowered her eyes. He was warning her, she supposed, not to trespass, reminding her, possibly, that she was still the Cinderella of the story and, as such, must be grateful for ‘Prince Charming’s benefice without probing his innermost thoughts too deeply.

  She sighed without realizing the soft, sad little sound could reach him, and he cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Don’t cry for the moon, Cinderella—it’s only made of green cheese,” he observed cryptically, and she thought again he was warning her not to expect too much of him.

  “I expect nothing,” she said aloud, forgetting that he had no means of reading her thoughts, and Tibby’s acid voice spoke from the doorway.

  “Very sensible, missis. Those that expect nothing won’t be disappointed,” she said, and placed a lighted oil lamp on the table.

  It was a trick of Tibby’s, Lou had learnt, coming soft-footed into the room and remaining to add her own contribution to the conversation. Lou thought that the old woman often listened outside the door before entering, since her remarks were usually apt and uncomfortable.

  “That’s a very defeatist point of view, Tibby,” Piers observed, apparently restored to good humor. “And no consolation to a bride, would you say?”

  “When you don’t see fit to take your bride to your bed there’s little enough for the poor maid to expect,” Tibby retorted, and Lou jumped as Piers’ fist came crashing down on the arm of his chair.

  “That’s enough!” he snapped. “If you can’t keep your bawdy thoughts to yourself you’d best stay silent. Get out, and don’t interrupt us again till dinner time.”

  Lou would have liked to escape in Tibby’s wake. Instead she slid to the floor by the fire to hide her burning cheeks from him. The room, she thought, with relight warm
on the book-lined walls, and the intimate clutter of everyday life forming a pattern of comfortable domesticity, should have felt safe and familiar and been a pleasant refuge to return to after a day in the open, but she had come to dread the four walls which enclosed them in uneasy companionship, the sense of trespass which Tibby and, sometimes, Piers himself, imposed upon her.

  “I apologise for Tibby. I’ve allowed her too much freedom of speech in the past,” Piers said, then, as she did not speak, he leaned forward and twisted her round to face him.

  “You don’t know what to think, do you, Lou?” he asked with unembarrassed amusement, then as he saw the mute enquiry in her wide-set eyes, his face changed again.

  “Poor Cinderella,” he said, his voice rough and a little mocking. “Do you think I don’t know? Night after night you wonder, don’t you? And night after night you breathe a sigh of relief as you climb into your solitary bed.”

  The bright color had faded, but she met his eyes without evasion.

  “You know nothing about my inner thoughts,” she replied with composure. “And if you’ve been watching me night after night with mistaken notions, you’ve only yourself to blame.”

  “Dear me!” he said, momentarily nonplussed as he sometimes was by her unexpected directness of attack. “For all that, my dear, you were distinctly relieved when my crack on the head coincided with our wedding night, weren’t you? Very natural, I hasten to add, since I was a comparative stranger to you.”

  “Yes, you were a stranger,” she said, and might have added more had he not spoken so lightly with the half-impatient indulgence one would throw to a child. With her thoughts so recently full of Melissa it was not difficult to understand that he abstained from the privileges of marriage because, when it came to the point, substitution was no satisfactory exchange for the real thing.

  “Piers—” she said at last, “—why do you suppose I married you?”

  From his expression he had clearly expected the question to be put the other way.

 

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