by Ann Bridge
‘Hugh, I can’t make up my mind now,’ she said gently. ‘If I did, it would have to be No—and I don’t want that to be the answer, any more than you do. But you must leave it yet-a-while.’
Of course he argued, protested.
‘No!’ she said at last, sharply—‘I won’t be rushed. If you try that on, it’s No for keeps! I expect I’ve been vague and daffyish, and I apologise, if so—but don’t try to bounce me. I won’t stand for it.’
‘If you don’t want it to be No ultimately, I don’t see why you can’t make it Yes now,’ he urged. ‘What is it, Julia?—what’s in your mind?’
‘I don’t know—Portugal, perhaps. But please leave it for now, Hugh.’
‘I believe you’re in love with the Duque!’ he said angrily.
‘No, I’m not—though I can’t think why not; he’s such a charmer. Of course the person he ought to marry is Mrs. Hathaway,’ she said. ‘That would be so marvellous for Luzia.’ She turned to him. ‘Hugh, when do you leave?’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘Where for?’
‘London, in the first place.’
‘And where’s Colin?’
‘Back at Gibraltar—I heard this morning. He did that business at Cannes very well.’
‘May I tell Edina? Discreetly?’
‘Yes, I think so. Wait till it breaks in the Press, though.’
The mention of the Press reminded Julia of her despatch; she looked at her watch.
‘Hugh, you’ll have to go now; at least I shall. I must get this thing off to my paper.’ She moved to the table as she spoke, and began pushing the sheets of typescript together; then she left them, and turned to him.
‘Don’t be angry with me, whatever you do. Drop me if you think I’m too much trouble to be worth while; otherwise just forgive me for wanting to be certain.’ She pulled the velvet strap of the bell. ‘Goodbye.’
‘No, damn you, au revoir,’ he said; and picked up his hat and went out.
The run out to Portela was a relief to Julia after this scene, which left her dissatisfied with herself, sorry for Hugh, but implacably determined not to marry him till her heart and mind should give the word together. The evening air came in at the windows and cooled her flushed cheeks; the horizon over the Tagus was a soft green and rose, and out in the open land the olive-trees detached themselves, dark and shapely, from the green and rosy fields. At the airport she handed over her package of script to one of the air crew, and then drove leisurely back into Lisbon. At this hour, just before nightfall, there was a wonderful quality in the light—the pale tones of the buildings glowed, street lamps burned like great stars through trees whose green had a depth and richness unknown by day; in the blocks of flats the windows were oblongs of soft light. Back at the house, after parking her car in the courtyard she rang up the Castelo-Imperial; but Hetta of course was out, dining with Richard at the Guincho. Oh well, never mind—tomorrow she would recover her car from Colonel Marques and flip out to see the child before driving herself to Gralheira.
She went up to the schoolroom. Her typewriter still stood, open, on the table; mechanically she clipped on the cover and set it in its place on the bookshelf, emptied an ash-tray, patted the faded cushions on the old sofa—there! But still the room, now tidy, was somehow full of poor Hugh and his distress. With an impatient shrug the girl went over to the window and leaned her elbows on the sill. And at once Hugh and his troubles fell away; Portugal and its beauty enfolded her once more. The light was almost gone—the white shapes of the two swans who circled, cold and detached, in the pool on the lawn gleamed in the gathering dusk: she could barely distinguish the humble grey oblong of Nanny’s hen-coop. To think of Nanny was to think of Luzia, and her mind lingered on that lovely child—Julia had guessed what Nanny had guessed, and she remained for some time wondering just how hard her pupil would be taking the news of Atherley’s engagement. About that engagement itself she had no doubts—Hetta was as tough as Hell, she would learn what she needed to learn, and be the making of Richard, once that old poppet of an Ambassador had pushed him off to Rome. But what a funny, rapid business it had all been! The last thing she expected when she came out to cover the wedding for the Northern Post was to find herself involved in the escape of a little Hungarian priest and in Hetta Páloczy and her affairs; all the same these episodes, Julia Probyn decided, as she leaned from an upper window in Lisbon, were intrinsically much more important and exciting than the royal marriage which tomorrow would fill the headlines of the world’s press.
Tomorrow!—tomorrow would see her back at beloved Gralheira, sunk in the country life of Portugal, with its ageless calm and beauty. As she turned away from the window there came a knock on the door, and Francisco the footman entered.
‘Minha Menina, the Senhora Condessa desires to know if the Menina is coming down to say the Rosary?’
‘Sim, Francisco—I come.’ And twining her black lace mantilla round her golden head, Julia Probyn went down to the Chapel to join her hostess.
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
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Copyright © Ann Bridge
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ISBN: 9781448205721
eISBN: 9781448205417
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