Jayne Bauling

by Vaso

  -Valentine was too exhausted, both emotionally and physically, to do more than drape it over her nakedness,

  and it slipped at once, revealing the stiff rosy peak of one white breast.

  'I so damned nearly took you by force,' Kemp reflected bitingly as he dressed swiftly.

  'Yes.' And although he had not done so, she still felt as if her bruised body had been violated.

  He sat on the edge of the bed to deal with his shoes and then turned to look at her, deliberately laying a hand flat against the inside of her knee. Valentine stirred uneasily, the desire that had so recently shaken her still too close.

  'And even with the colour of humiliation in your cheeks and even though you were reduced to pleading, still you didn't weep,' he said reflectively, removing his hand.

  'Nor will I ever,' she assured him tonelessly.

  'What are you made of, Valentine?' he went on musingly, lips still twisting ironically. 'There's all that fatal beauty, the bewitching personality, the intense pride . . . But what lies behind the great act?'

  It cost her dearly to smile, but she managed it, and malice lurked in her eyes as she resumed that act.

  'Someone you'll never see now, Kemp. So you'd better watch yourself, hadn't you?' She arched a delicate eyebrow. 'I might do to you what I did to Philip—only deliberately this time.'

  'I thought you said you knew me,' he countered, getting up and walking round to the foot of the bed where he stood staring broodingly down at the alluring spectacle of her half-covered body. 'If you did, you'd know you can't break me. But what does it take to break you, my lovely bitch? Or do you only bend?'

  'Right,' she confirmed tartly. 'And that only very occasionally.'

  'Tonight being one such occasion?' he prompted cruelly.

  'Ah, yes!' she flung the words at him with bright emphasis. 'Tonight you . . . you diminished me, Kemp, you reduced me. But that's as much revenge as I'll ever allow vou to take. Before God, I swear this is the last time you'll see me this way. From now on you can do and say what you like to me, but never again will I be ... bent by you, Kemp Irvine.'

  'I shall be interested to see how you avoid it,' he said pleasantly, and turned and left her.

  Valentine got up and went to lock the door as soon as it had closed behind him. From its other side came his laughter.

  'That's unnecessary, my dear,' his voice assured her. 'Next time I make love to you it will be because you want me to.'

  'You'll wait a long time for that day,' she promised him.

  He laughed again and she heard him depart, but he didn't go in the direction of his own bedroom, and -she wondered where he was going. ·

  A deep fatigue was dragging her down, causing her shoulders to droop, as she stood in front of the dressing-table mirror and stared at the reflected image of her pale body, youthfully slender and shockingly beautiful. Almost, she could hate Kemp for the callous treatment he had meted out to its curves and hollows. He had abused its untouched loveliness. But then a certain sense of fairness reminded her that, to an extent, his driving arfger had been justified.

  She should have told him about her connection with Philip long ago, she realised regretfully. It had been both stupid and selfish not to do so, and she had her punishment now in being left to wile away the long sleepless night in w.ondering what other methods of revenge he was contemplating.

  In the morning it was an effort to drag her aching body up against the pillows and drink the coffee Maude brought her. When she got up and discovered the bruises that had developed overnight she felt mingled shock and shame: what sort of woman was she, to be able to provoke such violence in a man?

  She had to select an outfit that would cover the dis-

  coloration of her shoulders, and chose a white wraparound skirt and a short-sleeved pink cheesecloth blouse. Kemp acknowledged the departure from her usual revealing style with a lift of his eyebrows when she joined him in the breakfast room.

  'Have you decided that, after all, it's dangerous to play the temptress?'

  'No. I'm dressed like this out of consideration for you,' she informed him sweetly as she sat down. 'I didn't think you'd want to see the bruises and be reminded of your behaviour last night.'

  He smiled twistedly. 'Then definitely it's dangerous for you to tempt me, Valentine. I don't usually mark my

  women.'

  'I'm not your woman.' Her eyes challenged him.

  'Not yet,' he conceded blandly.

  'As I told you last night, you'll wait a long time,' she warned him sharply. 'Like for ever.'

  'Perhaps if Philip had been prepared to wait, you'd have been his woman eventually,' Kemp suggested pointedly.

  Valentine finished pouring her coffee before saying acidly, 'I suppose that from now on, Philip's name is going to be dragged into our every conversation.'

  'And it hurts?' he enquired sardonically.

  'I'm not a monster, Kemp,' she advised him.

  'Philip's death gave you that'image, though. Tell me exactly what happened, Valentine,' he invited her silkily.

  'Must I?' she asked tartly. 'Are you merely curious

  or

  I want to know how it was,' he interrupted tautly. 'He was my cousin; I was out of the country at the time. I have a right to know and surely you'd rather I heard it from your lips?'

  'I suppose you do have the right,' she admitted fairly, but her mouth turned down distastefully at the corners when she paused to assemble her thoughts. 'What do you want to know, though, damn you? I've told you how we were seeing each other and that I never for one moment guessed that he was falling in love with me. Even when he kissed me . . . But I suppose I was controlling the situation then.'

  'As I imagine you've done with most of the men in your life,' Kemp inserted derogatively.

  'Strong woman or weak men?' she retaliated swiftly.

  'An element of both, I should think,' he responded suavely.

  'Thank you.' Her eyes flashed.

  'Go on,' he prompted her. ''About Philip . . .?'

  'Oh, hell! What more is there to explain?' Valentine demanded resentfully. 'All right! It was a Sunday and it Was very windy, I remember, so we'd stayed in my flat all afternoon, reading and listening to records . . . We liked the same music. Towards evening we started talking about the change in the weather, as people do, wondering what it meant and whether it would last. I hadn't had the flat long and I said I wondered if it wouldn't perhaps be miserable in winter, being on the cold side of the mountain. That was when Philip said, right out of the blue, that actually he'd been thinking about things and had decided we ought to look for somewhere else to live, rather than his moving in there with me.'

  'Yes?' Kemp urged expressionlessly when she was rendered silent by the welter of pain that always accompanied the memory.

  Valentine swallowed painfully and lifted her head. 'Well, I was shocked ... I couldn't believe that he'd read so much into our companionship and a few kisses. God, but I was stupid!'

  'Or simply young.'

  'Both. I'll never underestimate what I can do to people again,' she swore bitterly before gaining control of herself once more. 'As I say, I was shocked, too shocked to think before I spoke———'

  'Unusual for you,' Kemp commented grimly.

  'I've changed a lot since then, believe me,' she retorted with a tight little smile.

  'What did you say to Philip?'

  'As I remember now, I said something like, "But, Philip, I'm not in love with you," and——' Valentine came to another halt and her lips framed a silent expletive.

  Kemp's eyes, never leaving her face, only added to the strain of the ordeal. He watched her impassively, but Valentine knew he was judging her—condemning her for ever as a heartless bitch, devoid of sensitivity.

  'It was thoughtlessness, nothing more,' she said suddenly, desperately needing his belief. 'Thoughtlessness and the determination not to settle for less than I wanted. I didn't want Philip, I didn't love him.'

  Kemp's
expression didn't alter. Not even his eyes flickered at the raw urgency in her voice.

  'You haven't finished yet,' he reminded her inscrutably. 'What was Philip's immediate reaction to that cruelly explicit rejection? What did he say?'

  Valentine drew a resigned breath and told him sardonically, 'He said a million things, believe me. Often he said the same thing over and over again. I couldn't get him out of the flat until nearly midnight. He went on and on—I had to love him, I must love him, because he loved me. He even cried. He tried everything except your tactics of last night. I know it sounds a terrible thing to say, but he nagged me. I was exhausted* He was like a child who becomes hysterical when he can't get his own way . . . I'll hold my breath until you give it to me. I couldn't believe it was Philip behaving that way. I'd never seen that side of him before.'

  Kemp nodded and now there was a certain grimness about his expression. 'And when did you find out about Rose's existence?'

  'Some time during that evening,' she confessed flatly. 'Suddenly, in the midst of all his other arguments, he said how could I do this to him when he'd already told his wife there was someone else and moved out of the house they had in Gardens? I was appalled . . . Perhaps I was also hysterical by that stage, because I remember thinking it was terribly, ironically, funny that her name should be Rose because that's also my second name. She must have had a romantic mother too.'

  'I think you're slightly hysterical now as well,' Kemp said sharply. 'Go on, Valentine, you haven't told me the end yet.'

  'Shylock!' she accused. Her eyes darkened and the knuckles of the hand holding her coffee cup were white as she took a sip. 'For a week Philip didn't leave me alone. He'd be waiting for me after work and for the rest of the evening he'd argue, attempting to persuade me ... I didn't know what to do and probably a lot of the things I said only aggravated the state he was in. I tried anger and sympathy, I tried reasoning, I tried to persuade him-to go back to his wife ... By the end of the week his mood had become one of juvenile spitefulness: the I'11-make-you-sorry syndrome. On the Sunday I drove down to Gordon's Bay just to get a few hours of peace. My brother was at home and he said clearly Philip needed professional help, and I went back determined to persuade him to see someone. He was waiting outside the flat. At first I thought he was only drunk because I could smell alcohol, and I was afraid that at last he was going to resort to violence . . . He didn't make a lot of sense and it was some time before I understood that he'd taken something else as well. He threatened me then. He said since I wouldn't love him, he'd make my name dirt in Cape Town. He'd written explanations to Rose. and to his ' .parents, telling them just why he was doing what he did . . . Those letters were used at the inquest. I telephoned for help, but of course it was too late. The combination of alcohol and drugs ... 1 don't know! Perhaps he didn't really want to die and was trying to blackmail me, but then I don't think he'd have written those letters. I just don't know.'

  'Neither do I, Valentine,' Kemp said shortly. 'I wish I

  did. Philip was . . . Philip! And you were left to face an inquest?'

  She cast him a smoulderingly resentful look. 'Yes! So there's no need for you to be planning revenge, you see, because I suffered enough then . . . suffered humiliation and guilt and the naked feeling that comes with notoriety. Fortunately the various official people conducting the investigation had seen enough of life's sordidness to treat me sympathetically and without blame, but how could Philip's parents be expected to understand my side of the matter? Or Rose? She didn't attend the inquest, but I imagine she hates me as much as Philip's parents did. And then there was the press—not the responsible press for which I have the greatest admiration, but the sensational press, hacks who can write the truth and still give a more scandalous impression. With the help of my so-called friends, they turned me into a Jezebel ... or do I mean a Delilah? It made their day when Philip's mother attacked me after the inquest, screaming that I'd killed him. She made me feel guilty ... I could have understood him better, I could have done more sooner instead of waiting until my brother told me what to do. But I didn't understand, you see.'

  'Bitterness is pointless, Valentine,' Kemp advised her abruptly. 'Edward wrote to me a couple of times telling me how it was all but destroying Reinette. Perhaps it was merciful that she didn't have to go on living too long, haunted by the knowledge of what had become of her only son.'

  'I don't require underlinings, Kemp,' Valentine flared sharply. 'God! Imagine if she knew I was at Fleurmont.'

  'I said bitterness achieves nothing,' Kemp repeated furiously.

  But he had wanted to hurt her, she knew. That was why he had so relentlessly extracted the whole sordid story from her. She was afraid that she had revealed too much while telling it, thereby giving him another weapon to use against her in his quest for revenge. He would know now that whenever he wanted to cause her pain, he had only to mention his cousin.

  Whatever thoughts her story had given rise to, they seemed to be occupying Kemp fully, and they finished breakfast in silence.

  When they stood up to go outside, Valentine asked, 'May I telephone Adam Ducaine and ask him to join us at dinner tonight?'

  He smiled, eyeing her contemplatively. 'You're a strange, resilient creature, Valentine.'

  'I've had to be.'

  'You weren't always this way?' he probed.

  'Before Philip, do you mean?' she lashed out. 'No, until ' that happened I was a normal, ordinary person.'

  'Normal, possibly, but never, ever ordinary,' he contradicted her. 'You never wept for Philip, did you?'

  'I told you yesterday: I hate him for what he did to me,' she said levelly. 'It was immature and quite deliberate . . . His coming to my flat, the letters mentioning my name . . . They all prove it, don't they? It was his revenge because I couldn't love him.'

  'Where is pity, Valentine?' he asked softly.

  'I have none.'

  'Then you're less than a whole woman,' he told her contemptuously.

  But she did pity Philip; only to admit it would make Kemp see just how truly vulnerable she was.

  'You haven't answered my question,' she reminded him as they stepped outside and the morning sunlight struck them. 'May I invite Adam?'

  'Why do you want him?' he enquired with deceptive mildness. 'Can it be that you're afraid of being alone with me in the evenings?'

  Her exquisite chin lifted. 'You're the one who should be afraid, Kemp—of me, and the curse I hold for men!'

  'You fool!'

  'I like Adam's company, that's all. And don't worry:

  he's too fond of himself ever to suffer over me the way Philip did.'

  'Tell him Emma is included in the invitation,' Kemp adjured lightly, his eyes glinting.

  'She'll be delighted,' Valentine said brightly.

  He laughed. 'You don't sound the same way, sweetheart, I know you dislike her, but I have strong objections to being a solitary third while you . . . entertain her brother.'

  'A desire to entertain is one of the lesser reasons for my wanting him to come to dinner,' she told him in a honeyed voice.

  'Then I hate to think what the major reasons are.' He paused and looked about him, his restless gaze encompassing everything: the shining blue sky above the serene mountains, the flower-smothered foothills, the vineyards and the historic buildings about them. 'Time to harvest the grapes. All this is something for which I suppose I have you to thank. God! I'd give a lot to be a thousand miles away from both vou and Fleurmont, Valentine.'

  She spread her hands, looking at him curiously. 'I'm sorry. I know how tied you feel.' She hesitated. 'If it's not the right life for you, you could sell or become an absentee owner. You don't have to be here.'

  But Kemp was shaking his head, his eyes going now to the old slave bell. 'Slavery stilj exists today in various forms. Most of us become slaves to responsibility.'

  He walked away from her then and Valentine looked after him, recognising the frustration he felt. It was wrong, all wrong, sh
e diought, but she was helpless to remedy the situation. She didn't even have the right to advise him, and if she attempted to do so, he would treat her suggestions with contempt. But a man like Kemp shouldn't be tied in this way.

  During die course of the day she telephoned die Ducaine estate. Adam accepted her invitation with delighted alacrity and thought Emma would do so too.

  'She has a mad crush on Kemp,' he laughed.

  'I had noticed,' Valentine said drily.

  Emma occupied her mind at odd moments of the day. Was it mere adoration that she felt for Kemp, or was she a woman intent on winning what she had set her heart on, by any means? To what lengths would she go? Valentine kept hearing Adam's voice as it had sounded last Saturday———' . . . she suddenly took it into her head to go down to Cape Town this morning . . .'

  Valentine knew Emma regarded her as a rival. That envelope containing the newspaper cuttings had been posted in Cape Town, but would it have taken so long to get here if the obscured date was Saturday's? But she could have asked someone else to post it for her later—

  Valentine just couldn't be sure. And from whose sordid scrapbook had those cuttings come? How had Emma, if she was responsible, got hold of them? Somehow she couldn't imagine the squeaky clean girl as the owner of such a collection. Only the sad and the lonely, those whose excitement in life must be vicarious, found entertainment in such stories.

  Later she spoke to Salome Jansen. 'Adam and Emma Ducaine are coming to dinner, Salome. I hope you don't mind?'

  'Of course not. But I thought you'd have given that Adam up by now?' Salome's shiny brown eyes regarded her speculatively. 'He's no good to a girl like you. But you and Mr Irvine have quarrelled, haven't you?'

  'Not exactly quarrelled,' Valentine said carefully. She thought for a moment, then straightened her shoulders. 'But he's found out the truth about me, you see. I suppose the rest of you have the right to know: I'm the girl who was involved with Philip de Villiers at the time of his death.'

  She waited for the revulsion to chase the smile from Salome's face, but the Coloured woman merely shrugged. 'So? I knew that, skatjie, but since you didn't mention it, neither did I.'