Portrait of Susan Page 6
She let out a brief sigh. “I do see that I behaved queerly in not inviting you over, but honestly, Mr. Forrest, I thought you’d rather I didn’t, because it would have been difficult for you to refuse.”
“Why the deuce should I refuse?”
“Well, how could I know you wouldn’t?” she demanded, exasperated. “I never know what you’re going to say about anything. And there was Mrs. Maynton. She isn’t too keen on the local young people, and I didn’t want the occasion to be a bore for anyone.”
“But Mrs. Maynton doesn’t come into it.”
“You must see that I’d have had to ask you both.”
“There was no need at all for an elaborate invitation. It would merely have been gracious—and adult—to invite me over for an hour. Deline could have pleased herself.”
Susan said vexedly, “You must have known we were having the house-warming, but you didn’t show any interest”
“No, I didn’t—because I was sure you were going to behave the way you did.” His mouth thinned slightly. “There’s a sort of backhanded satisfaction in proving oneself right about another’s shortcomings.”
“Mine?” She looked up at him fleetingly. “You mean you’d rather believe the worst of me?”
“I mean I’d rather know the truth about you.”
“I shouldn’t have thought,” she said offhandedly, “that my personality would present problems to anyone like you.”
“It doesn’t,” he said. “It’s a little disappointing, that’s all. Perhaps I expect too much.” He waved towards the corridor. “It’s twelve-thirty.”
“I realize it’s not much use saying I’m sorry,” she murmured.
She moved rather too quickly, did not judge her distance from the edge of the door. Her arm caught the sharp edge of the latch and she swung aside, to look down at the rip in her flesh.
He exclaimed something under his breath, grasped her elbow and held it high, gripping to stop the flow of blood.
She was taken to the sink, within seconds a tea-cloth bound her arm so tightly that her forearm and fingers went numb. He left her there while he gathered first-aid necessities from the bathroom.
She sat in a kitchen chair, scarcely aware of what he was doing. To swab the wound he had to kneel, and it was with a dull sense of shock that she watched his face. In the Rhodesian sun he had bronzed swiftly, but even so he was darker than she had ever thought to see him. His brows were drawn in, his mouth set, and she felt that anything he might have said just then would have been scorching. But his fingertips were cool, his hands deft, and the gentleness with which he pressed on the adhesive dressing brought a strange dryness to her throat.
Still holding the arm, with his thumbs lightly upon the edges of the plaster, he raised his head. The grey eyes were near but unrevealing.
“Much pain?” he asked.
“Almost none,” she said huskily.
“You may feel it more in bed. It’s a nasty gash.”
“I’ve never walked into a door before.”
“Maybe it was an after-effect of the party.” He stood up, casually.
“Thanks for your ministrations,” she said woodenly.
She got up and passed him, went into the corridor. He opened the door of her bedroom and tinned on the light, and as she entered she clasped her hands tightly to still their quivering, and gave him a whispered goodnight. He made no answer and the door closed.
Susan drew in her lips and moistened them. Her left hand rose and covered the circle of pink plaster on her left arm, and a tremor ran through her whole body. Her mouth shaped his name, and she heard it as if someone else had whispered it; her face burned.
There came a rap at the door and it opened. He came in carrying a glass of warm milk, set it down on the bedside table.
“Had much to drink this evening?” he asked.
“Only a cocktail at about seven and a spot of champagne a little later.”
“I put a finger of whisky in the milk—not enough to cause a hangover.”
“You’re very kind. Goodnight, Mr. Forrest.”
“Goodnight, Miss Darcey,” he replied with a trace of mockery. “Sleep well.”
Somehow, Susan undressed and got into bed. She tried to recapture those last moments in the kitchen, found them too elusive for analysis. Yet something had happened to her, something delicate and disturbing and vital. She knew, unmistakably, that the very foundations of her life were threatened as they had never been threatened before, but it did not occur to her that she was in love.
CHAPTER FOUR
DURING the following few days it seemed to Susan as if she were balanced on the rim of a chasm; yet there was nothing tangible to give her that impression, unless one counted Deline’s rather revealing comments on the morning after the house-warming party.
Mrs. Maynton had come into the living-room after her bath, had drawn about her the turquoise housegown which accentuated her curves and the vivid blue of her eyes, and stared challengingly at Susan.
“Well.” she had said in hard tones, “did you enjoy your whisky and milk last night?”
After a moment of adjustment, Susan had replied, “Not very much, I’m afraid. It did send me off to sleep, though.”
“Are you being deliberately evasive?”
“I answered your question,” Susan had said coolly.
“And you pretend not to care how I knew about the whisky and milk!”
“Mr. Forrest must have told you.”
“Oh, no. David wouldn’t consider you that important.” The thin red mouth had tightened a little. “As a matter of fact I saw most of what happened in the kitchen. My door was open an inch or two all the time and I’m not far down the corridor. I’ve no wish to' talk about this—it means too little—but I do want to warn you that David views you exactly as I do. Don’t run away with the idea that you’re irreplaceable. Even if you walked straight out I could get the wife of one of David’s friends to come over for a while.”
“Well, maybe I shall walk straight out.”
“Not you. You’d be afraid your brother might have to suffer the repercussions. And quite rightly.” The tone had changed. “I’m not being horrid to you, Susan—I merely feel you shouldn’t misconstrue David’s actions last night. It’s always as well to be very clear about these things.” That, apparently, was that. Deline had glided away and Susan had gone on attaching hooks to the plastic curtain for Paul’s shower cubicle. She was a little angry, of course, but not surprised. Deline had never troubled to be subtle with Susan Darcey.
So nearly a week passed almost uneventfully. Paul was happier in a home of his own, and Susan ruefully realized that he probably felt better without his sister on the spot, because he could invite whom he wished, and even make up a poker table in his own living-room if he liked.
She had very little to do with David. If he came in to lunch it was quite likely that Paul also had arranged to do so, and she formed the habit of eating the meal over at the cottage. No comment was passed, but David did say, “Unless there’s some special reason, I’d rather you had dinner here in the house.” To which she had replied, “Very well, Mr. Forrest,” and earned one of those sharp, tantalizing glances.
It seemed that they were settling into a routine which pleased Deline and satisfied David. Susan compromised with her pride to the extent of doing about half the tasks Deline heaped upon her, and on the whole the time passed smoothly.
There came a morning when the jeep was free, and Susan decided to go into town to do some shopping for Paul. Deline, when asked, said she needed nothing, and Susan set off, wondering what it was a woman lacked when she found it easy to beg notepaper and envelopes, stamps, hair shampoo, nail varnish remover and a dozen other items, without making the least effort to replenish her own stocks. Deline couldn’t possibly be that poor. Or could she?
Susan got back to Willowfield just as David, in breeches and white shirt, came from the pasture where he had left his horse. They entered the li
ving-room together, Susan placed her purchases on the table and gave him the string-tied parcel of mail.
Deline, comfortable in one of the loungers, lifted the special smile she kept for him. “Any letters for me? I’ve been here just long enough to receive a reply to those I sent off on my first day.”
He riffled through the packet, drew out one envelope and tossed it into her lap. “Someone’s been very prompt,” he said, returning her smile. To Susan, he added, “Here are three for you and Paul. And ... yes, someone’s sent you a piece of wedding cake. I don’t remember a wedding.”
“It was before you came,” said Susan. “A relative of the Knights married Dr. Fielding’s nurse.”
His smile scoffed. “Isn’t there some superstition about sleeping with a piece of wedding cake under one’s pillow?”
Deline put in, “It’s a strictly feminine superstition, David. The cake is supposed to conjure a dream of one’s future husband.”
‘Try it out, Susan,” he said teasingly. “I’m sure it would be a help to know what he’s going to look like.”
Again it was Deline who replied. “It all depends on one’s own degree of romanticism, doesn’t it? I’d back my own mind against the power of rich fruit cake. Even one’s own mind occasionally lets one down.”
Which was an oblique reference to her marriage, Susan supposed. Deline was rather clever at hinting at the darkness and discouragement of those years; or perhaps the hints served to remind David of appalling facts she had disclosed to him. Did a tragic background enhance a woman’s appeal?
David had selected one of his own letters and ripped it open. Susan saw him draw the airmail envelope into a ball in his palm, saw him glance swiftly at Deline, and read again. Then he folded the letter and said casually, “What do you know—Clive Carlsten wants me to put him up for a few weeks. Imagine Clive in Rhodesia!”
Very gradually, Deline sat up straight and stretched her long slim legs in front of her. She was wearing a scarlet blouse and slacks, and maybe they were the reason she appeared pale and taut.
“How dare he,” she said softly. “You must telegraph him to stay away, David.”
His expression was wholly non-committal. “I don’t see how I can. After all, I went to his place a good many times in England, and I can’t let him think I don’t want him here. It seems he’s already booked his air passage. You mustn’t worry about it, Deline. It may be a little unfortunate, but Clive’s behavior is always impeccable and he’s bound to want to get about, so he won’t be in your way much of the time. He’ll be anxious to visit the Falls and all the other tourist spots. He’s an inveterate collector of mementoes.”
“And of experience,” Deline said, through compressed lips. “I wish...” She broke off, and with some force tore open the letter she had been holding.
Susan gathered her own belongings and moved towards the door, but before she reached it David swung round.
“Susan, you might tell Amos to prepare the room your brother had, for a guest. There’s a desk in the other spare bedroom which had better be transferred. Clive Carlsten occasionally does some writing.”
She nodded and went out. Half way to the cottage she remembered the connection in which she had first heard of Clive Carlsten. He had been the author of an article she had read about works of art, and also was said to own a famous sale-room where antiques changed hands at fabulous prices.
It seemed he was a friend of David’s and an enemy of Deline’s. Yet Deline had written to him, though to be sure the letter had not reached a post-box. But obviously the woman did not want him here. And David—well, it was always difficult to tell what he thought, and no one, not even Deline, questioned his actions. Still, Susan wouldn’t have minded betting that at this moment Deline was trying to shake David’s decision to welcome his friend. For some reason Mrs. Maynton feared intrusion—particularly when Clive Carlsten happened to be the intruder.
Over lunch, Susan forgot the subject. Paul was morose because David had taken it into his head to examine the machinery and found it creaking through accumulations of grit, and by the time coffee was brought he was dismally counting his assets and wondering whether he ought to put his name on the list of men waiting for small farms and loans.
“David won’t turn you out yet,” Susan assured him. “A friend of his is coming to stay and he won’t want to bother with a new manager.”
“It’ll come some time, though,” Paul said moodily. “David hasn’t liked me overmuch from the beginning, but he seems to have it in for me since Mrs. Maynton came.”
“Why on earth should he?”
Paul inspected his coffee, dropped more sugar into it. “I got in early the other afternoon, while you were at . Maringa. When I came into this room Mrs. Maynton was here, just looking round. It was perfectly charming of her to take so much interest, of course, and I gave her a drink before escorting her back to the farmhouse. We’d nearly reached the house when David rode up. He was offhand, probably because I’d gone home early. When Deline mentioned she’d had a look at the cottage he turned quite nasty. Didn’t say much, but he pointedly gave me some instructions for next morning—meaning that the friendly interlude was over.”
Susan’s nerves tightened in the new way they had. “The trouble is,” she said, “that no one knows what Deline says about us when we’re not there.”
“That’s going too far,” he protested. “She’s a marvellous person—quite the most unusual woman I’ve ever known, and miles in advance of the bareback riders they rear in this country.”
Carefully, because it was always wise to be careful with Paul, she said, “Possibly that’s why it’s not too easy for people like us to understand her. I wouldn’t be put out by David’s attitude, if I were you. I’m quite sure he considers both of us entirely negligible.”
It was the painful truth, she told herself. David’s chief concern was the farm, and his next was the comfort and happiness of Deline Maynton. This last conclusion was confirmed that very afternoon.
As usual, Susan drove over to Maringa. She called a piccanin from the servants’ quarters and had him fit the hose to the garden tap and set the pump working at the borehole. The tuberoses and Iceland poppies, the shasta and Barberton daisies, the big African scabious and the young budding dahlias were all, in turn, given a drenching, while the piccanin told the “white missus” that he was fine kitchen boy and not so hungry as most servants because he was smaller.
Susan smiled at his glibness and told him she had no job for him. “You should go to school,” she said, “and learn how to be something better than a kitchen boy.”
His dark eyes took the faraway look most Africans adopt when thrust into an awkward situation. “School,” he said. “I did go to school, mem.”
“How long ago?” she asked.
“Two-three years,” he answered nonchalantly, as if he had learned all they could teach him. “I am different. I am educated kitchen boy.”
She laughed silently. “You speak good English. You should learn a trade at the mission.”
“At the mission,” he told her distantly, “one must behave too good. I would rather be a kitchen boy.”
“Then you must ask the Bwana Colonel to find you a job.”
“The Bwana Colonel will not do it.” He paused, and added with some pride, “He says I drink so much at the weekend and am not fit for a job.”
“You’re very young to drink.”
“I am not a bush boy,” he said. “I am advanced.”
They were amusing, but the dickens of a problem, thought Susan. As far as they could see the only difference between white people and black was the fact of education. In their simple minds the three R’s constituted education, and once they could read and pen their names they felt that only color prejudice was keeping them from their rightful possession of a farm, or a big house and a motor-car. It was a pity that bright children like this one couldn’t be persuaded to learn more and study the problems of their own people.
Susan looked up, felt her hand jerk of its own volition into a careless salute. The car stopped and David got out and crossed the narrow green lawn to where she stood. He looked over the bed of tall blood-red cannas, turned and glanced at the flower-borders.
“I’ve just been poking about the Colonel’s crops,” he said. “The boys aren’t working as they should, but everything seems to be in order.” He nodded at the cannas. “The old lady’s garden is always wonderful, isn’t it? My mother used to come here and admire it. She was good with flowers, too.”
Susan’s breathing was suddenly difficult. “Was she? I always thought there should be less grass and more flowers at Willowfield. But it’s invariably the woman who makes a flower garden.”
“You didn’t try it yourself,” he mentioned.
“It wasn’t my garden, was it?” she answered evenly. “I did remake the rockery with plants I found by the river and in the kloof, but apart from that I could only keep the established borders filled. If Paul and I...” She stopped rather abruptly, bent to snip a seed-pod from one of the canan stalks.
“Yes?” he said. “If Paul and you...”
“I was going to be fanciful and probably unwise.”
“There’s no harm in being fanciful, and young people are always unwise. Were you thinking of the time when you’ll be living with your brother at the cottage?”
She kept her head bent and shook it, dislodging a curl. “No, I was thinking of something else.”
“But it had to do with sharing a home with Paul,” he persisted, with the inevitable mercilessness. “Perhaps you were thinking beyond Willowfield?”