Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  ‘Tomorrow. I have appointments. But I must leave for London tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  She had not intended her voice to give away her sudden sense of dismay. Gentry nodded.

  ‘I have a business engagement there late tomorrow morning. I’ll start home by the afternoon boat train.’

  ‘Home,’ she echoed softly, her tone wistful. ‘So if I hadn’t come back from Weston today we wouldn’t have met …’

  ‘I’m afraid not – not this time. I’d hoped to be down here earlier – but the business in Brighton took longer than I anticipated.’

  They were silent for some moments. When they spoke again it was if they had determined to speak on matters that did not concern them both. He told her that his father had not been well for some time now, and had more or less given up all active participation in the family business, Gentry having almost completely taken over the running of it. Blanche in turn told him of her work in the Marsh household, and then of Ernest, of not having heard from him in a very long time.

  ‘And you’re worried about him, obviously,’ Gentry said.

  ‘Of course. I just wish I knew where he was, what he’s doing. If I knew where he was I would go to him.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. You’ll hear from him again when he’s ready.’

  ‘But it’s been so long, and – he’s all I have left.’

  They left the hotel after a little while longer to go back out into the sunshine of the late afternoon. As they emerged onto the street a young man limped into their path, unshaven, dirty and ragged, his open cap in his hand. Blanche recoiled from him, her disgust plain in her face, and she was surprised when Gentry took coins from his pocket and gave them to the man.

  As they walked on, the man’s thanks ringing after them, Blanche said:

  ‘They come to the house all the time, these wandering navvies, or whatever they are. They come begging food or money, or asking for work. They frighten me. Lily and I, the maid, we send them packing – no nonsense about it.’

  Gentry looked at her in surprise. ‘There but for the grace of God …’ he said. He sighed, shook his head. ‘There’s more than one way of being a casualty of war.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  He gestured with a nod of his head. ‘That young man there – he was probably fighting on some Transvaal plain a couple of years ago. These poor bastards – they’re encouraged to rush off for the Queen’s shilling, but when the fight’s over and they get back and have to cope with the consequences no one wants to know anymore. It makes me sick; there’s so much talk about Glory and Patriotism, but when it’s over the ones who do all the talking find the survivors an embarrassment. Particularly the injured survivors. It’s always the way. I was one of the lucky ones. I survived intact. But when I think of all those poor bastards who were injured, or who died for no other reason than the incompetence of the army doctors …’ He shook his head. ‘Doctors.’ His voice was heavy with contempt. ‘It wasn’t surviving the Boers that was the problem for most men, it was surviving the medical assistance and the army hospitals.’ There was a look of bitterness in his eyes. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘– it’s over now. And please God we shan’t have to suffer like it again in order to satisfy the whims and the bruised pride of some jingoistic British bureaucrats and politicians. God save me from them.’

  Blanche did not want to dwell on such a melancholy subject. A little petulantly, and feeling reprimanded by his words, she said, ‘Oh, let’s not talk about such things, Gentry, please.’

  He smiled down at her. ‘No, of course not.’

  They walked on. ‘What time are you expected back?’ he said after a minute or two. ‘Will they wonder where you are? Don’t you have things to do?’

  ‘No. Not with Clara away …’ Blanche shrugged. She felt awkward. The atmosphere between them was constrained. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘I’m expecting a visit from a friend of yours.’

  ‘Oh? Who’s that?’

  ‘Signor Pastore. Alfredo Pastore.’

  ‘Pastore?’ And then he nodded, remembering. ‘Oh, yes, Pastore.’

  She wondered why she had brought up Alfredo’s name. If she had hoped to stir in Gentry any sign of jealousy she saw nothing of it. He just shook his head. ‘He’s not a friend,’ he said. ‘I don’t really know him. His father had business dealings with my father at one time – concerned with soap export, I believe.’

  They walked on, to what purpose and towards what destination she did not know. As if aimlessly they wandered into one of the city’s parks, and as they walked slowly along the narrow paths she thought of that other time and that other park when they had walked together. Gentry, looking at his watch, remarked that it was almost seven-thirty.

  ‘I’ve booked a sleeper which will get me into London early in the morning,’ he added. ‘It leaves just after eleven.’ He paused. ‘Are you able to have dinner with me before I go?’

  She nodded, trying to appear casual. ‘If you like. I’ve got nothing to hurry back for.’

  ‘Good. Perhaps if we could find somewhere fairly close to the station …’

  ‘Of course.’

  Not far from the station they found a quiet restaurant where they were shown to a corner table.

  They ordered their food and as they ate they chatted of this and that, keeping to mundane subjects. At last, though, they ran out of conversation and fell silent. And then the moment had come. Gentry put down his coffee cup and took out his watch. He gave a little shake of his head. ‘I must pay the bill and get going.’

  Out on the street they walked in silence for a while, but as they drew near the station entrance they found refuge in the usual conversational banalities used by parting friends. And all at once they were inside the station. When they had retrieved their cases from the left-luggage department Blanche said, ‘I’ll come with you to your train.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’ He looked away along the platform, as if searching for his train; in truth he was avoiding her gaze. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t,’ he said.

  ‘As you like.’

  Their eyes met, held. Looking up at the station clock, Blanche saw that it was ten-fifty. ‘Is your train in?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ He gestured to a waiting train.

  ‘Well …’ She wanted to step forward, to feel his arms enfold her, draw her close to him. ‘I’ll go on back now.’

  ‘Right.’

  Still they stood there. Ten fifty-five. ‘You’ll miss your train,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I must go.’ Then, giving her a little smile, awkward, only just there, he turned and strode away. She watched him for a few moments then herself turned and made her way towards the station exit. She came to a halt as she reached it, and stood waiting as the remaining couple of minutes passed. Hearing the sound of a train starting up she asked the uniformed officer at the gate: ‘Is that the train for London?’ He told her that it was. She thanked him and made her way from the station.

  Outside on the street she had walked less than twenty paces when she heard a voice calling her name. Quickly turning she saw Gentry moving towards her from the station entrance. He was at her side almost at once. Putting down his case he took her in his arms and held her to him. Then, lifting a hand to her chin he raised her face and kissed her on the mouth.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  She and Gentry spent that Saturday night at a hotel on the outskirts of Bath. Their naked bodies pressed together, limbs entwined, she told him over and over that she loved him. ‘I can’t help myself,’ she said. ‘I shall never stop loving you.’

  And she had waited for him to say the same things. Begged him. ‘Tell me you love me too, Gentry. Just tell me. It will be breath to me for the rest of my life.’

  But he had been reluctant to say such words, and she had tried to understand, but then, in the early morning light, when they had awakened again and made love once more he had said it: ‘I love you, Blanche. I do; you must
know I do.’

  And hearing his words she had said to herself that somehow, somehow, everything would work out. Somehow they would find a way to be together. After all, they loved one another. He loved her; he had told her so. It was a commitment from him; he was bound to her now.

  When they were both dressed and had eaten a little of the breakfast that had been sent up to their room she went to him where he stood tightening the straps of his suitcase. Reaching out to him she lightly touched his smooth, newly-shaven cheek, and he, taking her hand, kissed it, pressing it to his mouth. She stepped closer, laying her head upon his shoulder.

  ‘When will you come back?’ she said. ‘Tell me.’ He would have no difficulty in finding reasons for frequent journeys back to England so that they could be together.

  ‘Come back?’ he said.

  She lifted her head, smiled up at him. ‘I don’t know how I shall get through the time till you do. Oh, Gentry, tell me how I can live till then.’

  ‘Blanche …’ His hands lifted, taking her gently by the shoulders, holding her a little away from him so that he could look directly into her eyes. ‘I can’t come back.’

  She shook her head, not understanding. ‘What do you mean? You must come back.’

  ‘I’m sorry. This mustn’t happen again. I won’t be able to live with myself afterwards – the feeling of betrayal.’

  ‘You – oh, but – but you don’t have to feel that way. No one would ever know.’

  ‘I would know.’

  ‘Oh, Gentry, but – but I love you. You love me. You told me so.’

  ‘I know. And I shouldn’t have done. I’m sorry I did.’

  ‘No, no, don’t say that! I want you to love me. I wanted you to tell me so.’

  ‘But what good has it done?’ He sighed. ‘This should never have happened.’

  ‘No!’ she raised a hand, placing it over his mouth. ‘Don’t say such things.’ Then, letting her hand fall she said: ‘Perhaps, though, you didn’t mean it. When you said you loved me – perhaps it was a lie.’

  ‘No, it’s true, Blanche. I meant it. But in the long run it doesn’t matter either way, does it? I’m not free to do anything about it. You know as well as I do. It’s not only you and me to consider. There’s Marianne.’

  ‘Oh, Marianne, Marianne!’ she said. ‘It’s always Marianne. She’s had everything in life. She’s never had to make an effort for anything.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, Blanche.’

  ‘It’s true. Everything’s been handed to her on a plate. Even you.’

  He gazed at her for a moment then, letting his hands fall from her shoulders, turned away to the window. Blanche said, bitterness in her voice:

  ‘Why did you come after me last night? Why did you leave your train and come for me?’

  ‘Forgive me. I wish now I hadn’t.’

  Sudden tears sprang into her eyes. ‘Oh, God, Gentry, don’t keep saying you regret it. It makes a mockery of everything that’s happened.’

  ‘I can’t help it.’ He turned back to face her. His hands came up, cupping her face. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. The tears now were streaming down her cheeks. She nodded. After a moment he went on:

  ‘It’s true that I love you, Blanche. But you must know as well as I that nothing can come of it. Not now. It’s too late. For both of us. You knew that when I got married. And although you talk now about carrying on some – some clandestine affair – as if it would be an easy thing to do – you know as well as I that we couldn’t do it. I love Marianne. Not as I love you, but I love her. And I can’t do anything to hurt her.’

  ‘But what about me?’

  ‘Yes, I know. And I’m so sorry that you have to be hurt. But I didn’t plan it this way, anymore than you did.’ He paused, his dark eyes intense in their gaze into her own. ‘You’re stronger than Marianne. Much stronger. And you’ll survive, Blanche. You’ll get over it, over this.’

  ‘No, no, I shan’t.’

  ‘Believe me, you will. Though you may not think so now. I shall go to the station for my train soon, and I shall go out of your life. And that’s the best way for both of us.’

  ‘Gentry –’

  ‘It’s a good thing we won’t be seeing each other. I have no real reason to come back to England very often now, and it’s better that way. We shan’t have the opportunity to meet.’ He gave a little shake of his head. ‘Oh, make no mistake – I wanted to see you this trip. And when Marianne asked me to, and to try to persuade you to come and visit us I realized how glad I was of the chance to see you. And calling at the house and being told that you had gone off to the coast, well – you can’t imagine my disappointment. I couldn’t believe that I was not going to see you. I realized that I so wanted to. And it was wrong of me. It was selfish. But it’s done now, and we have to get on with our lives.’

  ‘Apart. Our lives apart.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Through her tears his features were distorted. She said sadly:

  ‘So last night – it was not a new beginning of anything.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And it’s over.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  A few minutes later Gentry held her to him one last time and when she had dried her tears they left the room. He paid the bill and they emerged onto the street. After they had walked some little distance towards the station he came to a halt.

  ‘Don’t come with me any further,’ he said. ‘Just in case you’re seen by someone who might know you.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said defiantly, but he shook his head, ‘Blanche …’ in a gentle reprimand. They stood facing one another and he reached out and took her hand.

  ‘Goodbye, Blanche.’

  She said nothing. She knew that if she spoke it would release more tears and she had already wept too much.

  So, silently she stood and watched as he crossed the street. She did not move again until he had gone out of sight, turning a corner with just one last backward glance. Continuing to gaze after him even though he was gone she said softly,

  ‘It’s not over, Gentry. It’s not.’

  Only then did she move. Taking a grip on her valise, she turned and walked away. Later, after she had wandered around for a while, she returned to Almond Street.

  The next day she heard from Alfredo Pastore saying that he would be arriving in England on Friday, August 3rd. He would write to her again from London following his arrival, he said, and would travel down to see her a few days later – if she would allow him to – as soon as his business commitments would permit. His letter barely touched her. Gentry’s departure had left in her heart a void that nothing, she felt, would ever fill.

  The days passed slowly by. Without Clara’s presence the house seemed strange, and in addition Blanche found that she had not enough to do. In attempts to be occupied and useful she took to helping as much as she could in the tasks of the house – giving a helping hand to Mrs Warrimer, the cook-housekeeper. Even so, there was not enough to take up much of her time or engage much of her concentration, and she was left with time on her hands, time in which to brood.

  A week following Gentry’s departure she received a letter from a doctor in answer to an advertisement she had placed in a local paper. He was seeking a resident governess for his two daughters, he said, and would like to interview her. He suggested that, if convenient, he would call on her on Thursday morning at eleven.

  Blanche at once sat down to answer the letter. She would be in at the proposed time, she said, and would be very happy to see him then.

  When Marsh returned from the shop that evening Blanche told him of the coming interview with the doctor. But with the problem of Jacko, she said, she didn’t hold out a great deal of hope. She had been interviewed on a few occasions already in her search for employment, but in each case when she had stated that Jacko would have to accompany her she had met with no success. Now Marsh said that if it still proved to be a problem she could leave the dog where he was. A
fter all, he said, Clara had become very fond of Jacko, as he was of her. ‘And you can come and visit him whenever you want to,’ he went on. ‘And he’ll be well looked after, you can be sure of that.’ He paused, smiling. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘it’ll give you a reason for returning to see us.’

  The next day, Tuesday, she heard again from Alfredo Pastore. Writing from his London hotel, he said he would travel to Bath on Friday and would call at the house in the hope of seeing her then.

  By the time Dr Walsh arrived on Thursday morning Blanche had decided to accept George Marsh’s offer and let Jacko remain where he was. Apart from the convenience of the arrangement where she was concerned it would also be better for the dog; it was likely that he would not live for many more years, and it was best that he remain where he was comfortable. So, when, after some discussion, Dr Walsh offered her the position, she made no mention of Jacko. She would be free to begin work at the beginning of September, she said, once her present pupil, Clara, had gone off to boarding school.

  And so it was arranged. When the doctor left the house a little later Blanche knew a great feeling of relief. At least she had made some advance. Not only had she secured employment but the problem of Jacko had also been solved.

  But for how long was she to know the temporary sense of security that came to her now? she asked herself. The position in Dr Walsh’s household would not last for very long, and she would once again be without anywhere to live. And was she to go on like this forever? Without roots, without prospects? Perhaps she should have accepted George’s proposal. In no way could he be described as wealthy, but they would live comfortably together, and there was no doubt that, with some imagination and the right application, his shop could have considerable prospects. But George Marsh was not Gentry.

  Alfredo Pastore arrived the following afternoon, and Blanche went down to the library where he stood waiting for her. Tanned and looking dashing in his flannel suit, patterned waistcoat and khaki necktie, he came towards her holding out both hands, taking her hands in his, bringing them to his chest.