I and My True Love (12 page)

“How did you come to be interested in art in the first place, living on a ranch, miles from anywhere if I remember correctly?”

Kate didn’t answer. She was studying him, instead. He was only making conversation, probably not even paying much attention to what she said. He was talking about one thing, thinking about another. She was a nuisance: she knew that, but she wished she didn’t feel it so clearly. Why hadn’t he just gone into the library after saying good evening to her? He’d be much happier if he were sitting at his desk, opening his briefcase.

“But I’d really like to know,” he insisted, and he chose the chair facing hers. “How did you come to be interested in art?”

This is an interview in itself, she decided; or is this his way of making conversation: can he be nervous—nervous with
me
? “I think you’ll find quite a number of people living on farms and ranches who like pictures or music or books.”

“Are there?” he asked, a little in wonder. “I used to think that country people spent all winter whittling and waiting for the thaw to set in.”

Joke, Kate told herself firmly. “Did you ever spend any winters in the country?”

“No. We spent the winters in Boston and the summers in Maine. That’s years ago, of course, when I was a boy. A very long time ago, indeed.”

“Don’t you ever miss New England? Don’t you want to go back there?”

“Not particularly. I’ve no ties there—my parents died when I was in college. Boston has a certain rigidity about it, I find. Charming people, of course, many of them, but extremely conventional.”

Kate glanced involuntarily around the rigid pattern of the room where Robert Adam had been imitated without any break in the convention.

“I much prefer Georgetown,” he went on, “although it, too, is becoming a little spoiled. It’s rather sad, isn’t it? You discover something, but you aren’t allowed to keep it the way you discovered it.”

“But you wouldn’t have wanted it to stay a slum.”

“A slum?” He looked almost startled.

“I’m sorry—I was only quoting Stewart Hallis.”

“It was hardly a slum. The fine old houses were all there, waiting to be restored.”

“What happened to the people who lived in them?”

“They went to live elsewhere. Obviously.”

She flushed. “I mean—didn’t they hate to leave?”

“This house hardly looked the way it does now. No,” he smiled. “I don’t believe its inhabitants regretted leaving it.”

“Oh!” she said, and hoped she sounded understanding. It hadn’t been a slum and yet the inhabitants had been glad to leave. “Well,” she added, on surer ground now, “it seems to have become fashionable to live in Georgetown.”

“‘Fashionable, isn’t a word I care for,” he said gently.

I’m glad, thought Kate, that I didn’t use the word “expensive.” It really would have ended this conversation completely. And I’ve got to keep talking, or else he will guess I’m anxious about Sylvia. She glanced at him and saw him look at the clock. He’s worried, too, she suddenly realised: he’s been worrying about Sylvia ever since he came in.

There was a pause.

She looked at him, again, and now he was watching her. She was blaming herself for having judged him too hastily: who wouldn’t appear rude if he were worried secretly? She had always been too rash in her judgments of people, too quick to like or dislike. Now, as their eyes met, she gave him an apologetic smile.

“You’re wondering why I came home early, tonight?” he asked suddenly.

“I thought the speeches might have been dull.”

“I didn’t even wait to hear them. I came away as soon as I could.” He paused and frowned. “I was troubled about Sylvia.”

Her face seemed to freeze. She wanted to swallow, and couldn’t.

He said, “I’m afraid she will have to go away for a vacation.” Carefully, he watched the new anxiety on the girl’s face. “You are fond of Sylvia, aren’t you? I can see she likes you even in the short time you’ve been together. You Jerolds are all very impulsive, aren’t you?”

“Why must Sylvia go away?”

“Dr. Formby’s report isn’t good. He insists on an immediate change, complete rest.”

“But Sylvia said he found nothing wrong.”

“Formby didn’t want to worry her.”

Kate stared at him.

He said, quietly, sadly, “She’s never been very strong. She’s been doing too much, I’m afraid. She could have a very bad crack-up. She’s living on her nerves.” He put a hand over his eyes; there was a droop of despair on the usually tight, controlled mouth. His body seemed to sag. “I’ve noticed this for some weeks now. That’s why I insisted she had to go to Formby, today.”

Kate said quickly, “Can you tell me what’s actually wrong? Is it serious?”

“Yes. It’s most serious.” But he didn’t explain, and Kate could only watch him with increasing anxiety. He dropped his hand from his eyes. “Would you help me, Kate? Sylvia is stubborn. I don’t want to alarm her, but I must persuade her to go away for a month or two. I know she won’t listen to me.” He smiled sadly. “But if you could persuade her, as tactfully as you can—well, perhaps you might save her.”

“Save
her?”

“Save her,” he repeated. “Do you know what a bad breakdown can result in? It can be a permanent disaster for anyone who is so unbalanced emotionally as Sylvia.”

“Sylvia?” she asked in dismay, although there was no doubting the sincerity with which he spoke.

He nodded. “Yes. Sylvia.” He rose, his serious face white and anxious, and stood in front of the fire. “You know,” he said sadly, “I’ve never told anyone else about this, Kate.”

All the impressions she had gathered were suddenly twisted around.

“But what do you want me to do?” Her voice was troubled, her eyes bewildered.

“You could persuade her to go away for a month or two.”

“Where would she go?”

“Would Santa Rosita be possible? Sylvia was always your father’s favourite niece, wasn’t she? At Santa Rosita, she would be among friends who could look after her.”

“But would Sylvia go there? She hates mountains, and there’s an awful lot of mountains behind the ranch.”

“Hates mountains? Whoever told you that?”

“You did—at least you didn’t say ‘hate.’ You were much more polite. In your letter. Don’t you remember?”

His face was quite blank.

“In 1947—” she explained and then saw she still had to explain further. “When you were visiting San Francisco for the conference... You didn’t come to see us because Sylvia—”

“Oh,” he said quickly. “I must have been stupid indeed to give you that impression. Sylvia wasn’t feeling too well at the time. And she never did like country life. So I thought the long journey into the mountains would be too tiring. I’m terribly sorry if my letter gave your father and mother the wrong idea. How very rude they must have thought me!”

“Oh no—they understood. Lots of people don’t get on with mountains. But if Sylvia doesn’t really like country life, then Santa Rosita would be no use at all.”

“She must have a complete change. Santa Rosita is very quiet, isn’t it? Good air, good sleep. That’s what she needs.”

“But if she doesn’t
want
to go so far away?”

“Why not try some persuasion, first? Just talk to her, Kate. In your own way—”

“But—”

“She needs someone like you, someone who is normal and well adjusted. Talk to her. Be with her as much as you can. She may listen to you when she wouldn’t listen to me. And there’s one more thing I’d like to ask you: don’t leave here, until we see her safe in California. You haven’t made any other arrangements, have you?”

“Not yet.”

“Then stay here. Will you, Kate? Thank you... And now,” he straightened his shoulders for a moment, “I’m afraid I’ll have to catch up on some work.”

She was startled for a moment, and then she reminded herself that this abruptness was only his manner. “I’m going to bed early, anyway,” she said, trying to help him.

“I’d imagine you are still recovering from the journey,” he agreed and rose to his feet. “If Sylvia’s behaviour seems strange—if you feel that she’s really more ill than we think— you’ll let me know at once, won’t you? Good night, Kate.”

“Good night.” She could never call him Payton to his face, somehow. “Good night,” she said again as if to hide that.

Nine-thirty, the clock said. Kate heard the library door close firmly. She couldn’t read any more. She could do nothing except worry about Sylvia. All I wanted, she thought, was to find a room of my own and get on with my job and do it well. That didn’t seem too much to ask, and yet—

Payton’s careful words, his vagueness, increased her worry. She began to recall Sylvia’s moods, Sylvia’s tenseness. She felt so near tears that she rose and went upstairs to her bedroom.

She stood at the window. Outside, it was a cool night with a touch of gentle breeze. The tree-tops moved their naked branches restlessly as if they felt the breath of spring. The sharply cut shadows of houses drew an uneven line against the sky, blue-black, pierced with a thousand stars. There was still a little life left in the narrow street: classical music, perhaps Mozart, from one house; bright lights and
An American in Paris
from another; a car easing its way along; a patient man with his dog; a child’s voice crying suddenly, then hushed.

The car stopped in front of the Pleydell house, and three men got out. One said, as he rang the bell (and it could have been Whiteshaw, or was it Minlow?), “I think he’s working. The library is lit.” She heard Payton’s voice welcoming them into the hall, and their friendly words promising not to keep him off his work—only half an hour or so.

Then the front door closed, shutting in their good humour and laughter, shutting out Sylvia.

9

At eight o’clock exactly, Sylvia reached the mail-box at the corner of the street. Two women and a man passed by, but they were strangers. So was the man who stopped to light a cigarette on the other side of the road. Then, a car to which she had paid little attention slowed up beside her. (She had been watching the man, wondering if he knew her by the way he looked across at her.) The car stopped and its door opened. Jan’s quiet voice said, “Sylvia,” and his hand grasped hers tightly as he drew her into the car. “Sylvia,” he said again, holding her arm. They sat looking at each other. Then he released his grip, and the car moved forward.

“We can’t park near here,” he said. “We’ll drive into the country and find some place where you won’t be seen.” She was amazed at the controlled voice, the matter-of-fact words. Then she noticed, by the passing street light, his grim face and the taut lips.

“Then it will take a little time,” she said, forcing herself to speak calmly as he did. “Washington has spread out a good deal since you were here.”

“In six years?”

“Yes.”

“Six years can be a long time for some things.” He put out a hand and grasped hers.

“Yes,” she said again and let her hand lie within his.

“We’ll go up towards the Cathedral,” he said. There were winding roads near there, if he remembered correctly, that spread out with quiet houses and gardens and trees, bringing the country into the city itself. This meeting would have to be brief, for Sylvia’s sake. Whatever happens, he thought grimly, I must keep Sylvia safe. She was sitting quite still, her eyes fixed on the busy road ahead. Even as he let go of her hand so that he could deal more efficiently with a sudden storm of traffic, she made no movement. She had thrown a silk scarf loosely around her head, perhaps to hide the light gold of her hair, and its soft folds emphasised the delicate line of her brow and cheek.

Then suddenly she said, her eyes still watching Wisconsin Avenue, staring intently, seeing nothing, “Jan, this is dangerous for you. You should never have met me.”

“It would be more dangerous if I didn’t see you.” His voice was harsh with worry, although his mouth half smiled over her concern.

“That man, lighting a cigarette...he was watching us, wasn’t he? Has he followed us?”

“No,” Jan answered to that last question. He leaned over and switched on the radio and waited until the music began.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “I wish I knew more about dictaphones. Do you suppose a car can be wired for sound?”

She stared at him. “Are you in earnest?”

He glanced at her to reassure her, but he didn’t answer. He slowed the car and drew it to the side of the quiet road they had entered, adding it as one more to a chain parked along a low garden wall. Above the road, a house sat on the top of a steep hill. Down across the terraced lawn, from the brightly lit windows, came the distant rise and fall of voices and laughter.

“We ought to be left in peace, here,” he said, and switched off the headlights. A passing policeman wouldn’t investigate a car parked outside a party-giving house: a prowler would be discouraged by the nearness of lights and voices. He twisted the dial of the radio to change it from a burst of advertising to the beat of a Viennese waltz. He smiled as he listened.
“Fledermaus,”
he said. “A starlit sky, trees, quiet gardens—” He broke off as his voice became suddenly bitter and violent. He gripped her hand again. But still he didn’t kiss her. Then, almost as if he were answering her, he said, “First, I’ve got to tell you the danger, quickly and briefly.”

Yesterday, she thought, yesterday at the station he never even thought of danger. What had happened since yesterday? “Does that matter?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm and her face emotionless. But the disappointment of this meeting twisted her heart. She sat watching the stranger beside her, waiting and apart.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “You’ve got to be sure in your mind about me, about what I am and why I’m here.”

“But I am sure, Jan. Or I shouldn’t have met you tonight.”

He looked at her, then, and he smiled. And even half-hidden by the shadows inside the car as he was, he was no longer the stranger. “You’ve never left me,” he said. “You’ve always been with me, Sylvia. I tried to forget you, but I couldn’t. I’ll always be in love with you. Remember that, Sylvia—” He suddenly took her in his arms and held her with a violence that crushed and hurt. “Remember that—whatever happens.”