I and My True Love (2 page)

He said, “Let me worry about any danger. For both of us.” He paused and added quietly, “Did I let any scandal touch you six years ago?”

She shook her head.

“You got my letters after I left Washington?”

“Yes.” And burned them as bitter penance.

“You never answered them,” he said.

“It’s all over,” she repeated. “It has to be.”

“All over? Is love ever over?”

She took a step back from him, looking away quickly towards the strangers around them. The crowd had come to life, it had begun to stir, to flow in cross-currents towards the stream of traffic moving steadily from one of the platforms. There was a sudden sense of expectancy, a sudden feeling of excitement. The train had arrived. The waiting was over.

At one side of the gateway a girl stood patiently, a darkhaired girl in a green suit, who was trying to keep from being drawn into the crowd. She was watching Sylvia uncertainly, waiting for her to come forward and, even as Sylvia looked in her direction, she smiled.

Jan Brovic’s eyes followed Sylvia’s glance. He took her hand and held it. “When shall we meet? Tomorrow?” he asked quickly.

She shook her head.

“When?” he insisted. “Sylvia, look at me!”

But she couldn’t. She drew her hand away, and she walked towards Kate Jerold.

Brovic watched her go. Then he turned and moved slowly towards the station’s side entrance. Yes, he was thinking, I had to see her like that: suddenly, unexpectedly, cruelly. Now I know she hasn’t forgotten me any more than I had forgotten her. His lips tightened, his eyes became guarded, as he caught sight of the grey man who was leading the way to the car parked outside. He followed. By the time he had reached the car he was under control.

The man at the steering wheel said, “It would be a stupid blunder to fall in love with her again.”

Brovic was lighting a cigarette.

“A stupid blunder,” the man repeated. Then his attention was given over to the Army car beside them. A corporal held its door open and gave him too little room to edge out of the parking space. He swore under his breath, and eyed the two officers who were escorting a tired-looking civilian towards the waiting car.

Brovic was watching them too. The young officer, a brisk lieutenant with a couple of ribbons on his tunic, glanced quickly at Brovic, returning his look blankly yet critically. Jan Brovic, staring back at the lieutenant for a brief minute, almost smiled. You should have seen me six years ago, he was thinking, just when I was about your age and wore an air force uniform with ribbons across my chest. Then all I had to worry about, when I let myself get round to it, was whether a Nazi would shoot me down before I got him in my sights. How simple were the days of war.

“Do you know him?” the man beside him asked sharply.

Brovic shook his head. “All clear on this side,” he said, watching the roadway. Then suddenly, “No—hold it!”

* * *

“Kate!”

“Sylvia—how wonderful you look! And you recognised me after all these years. Haven’t I changed?”

“Yes.” It was the right answer, for Kate’s face lightened. “But you wore green as you promised. And that suntan and smile could only come from California. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“Oh, that didn’t matter. Isn’t it good to see you! You haven’t changed at all.”

Sylvia’s smile became real. Kate’s enthusiasm was heartwarming.

“And isn’t it good to be here!” Kate went on. “Now where’s that redcap? Oh, there he is. Which way, Sylvia? Straight ahead?”

“To the left. I’ve parked the car out there.”

They walked quickly, followed by the porter and Kate’s suitcases. Her feet were moving lightly as if they wanted to dance over the station floor, she looked around her with her eyes sparkling, there was laughter in her voice. “Washington! Imagine, I’m in Washington at last!”

She’s so young, Sylvia thought. She’s twenty-two, but she seems so young. “And what about California? How are Uncle George and Aunt Meg?”

“Oh, fine, just fine. They sent their love, and I’ve got all kinds of messages to give you.” Kate made a little face. “Mostly instructions about me. But you know what families are like.”

“Yes,” Sylvia said, thinking of her own branch of the Jerold family who wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow if she had travelled to the moon.

“Spring’s nearly here, isn’t that perfect?” Kate said as they left the station for the bleak cold daylight of the March afternoon. Everything was perfect for Kate today. The damp streets or the sharp wind or the sombre sky couldn’t chill Kate’s determined enthusiasm. Sylvia glanced at the girl’s tanned face, with its wide smile and white even teeth: a pretty girl, healthy and vital, her dark hair shining and sleek, her chin rounded, her nose tip-tilted, her brown eyes laughing with the world.

“Here we are,” Sylvia said as they reached a grey Chrysler. She looked at the roadway in front of them, now a tangle of cars that were backing, turning, waiting, edging their way out of their parking spaces to form a slow-moving line. “We can take our time, anyway. No point in—” She broke off, her eyes on one of the cars.

“Gay, isn’t it?” Kate remarked. “Quite like home. Except”— and now she looked at the buildings, at the wide plaza stretching beyond a busy avenue towards distant domes and pillars—“everything’s so big and solid and there’s so much space.” Then she noticed Sylvia’s silence. She glanced quickly from Sylvia’s tense face back to the blocked roadway again. She could see nothing but the line of nudging, slow-moving cars, easing their way, one by one, into the stream of traffic on Massachusetts Avenue.

Sylvia Pleydell watched the car now turning into Massachusetts Avenue with Jan Brovic sitting beside the driver. Then she bent her head to search for the key to her car. “This ridiculous bag, it holds nothing.” She fumbled badly. “I’ve lost the key... I think.”

“Let me look,” Kate said, and found it. “Now I’ll see the luggage piled into the back, and we can get started.”

Sylvia nodded and slipped into the front seat. She gripped the steering wheel to try and control the sudden trembling of her hands.

Kate joined her, giving her a worried glance, and then sat silently beside her.

“I thought we’d go down to Pennsylvania Avenue and then swing round the White House and get to Georgetown that way,” Sylvia said. That second glimpse of Jan... It’s all over, she had told him and believed it. It
is
all over, she told herself now.

“I could drive if you like.”

Sylvia shook her head. Traffic problems would keep her from thinking about herself. “I’ll manage. And you do the talking, Kate.”

The girl said lightly, “That won’t be hard.” But she watched Sylvia carefully as the car was started and turned around. And then, as if reassured, she began to describe her long journey from the Pacific, halting every now and again to look at a building and ask a question. By the time they reached M Street, with its cheerful bustle and busy shops, she had begun to talk about the job that had brought her to Washington.

“I envy you,” Sylvia said suddenly, grateful too that the drive to Georgetown had passed so easily after all.

“What? Me?” Kate looked at her cousin in astonishment. Ever since she had met Sylvia, she had been feeling gauche and awkward.

“You’re so full of confidence,” Sylvia said. “Don’t lose that, Kate.”

Kate’s astonishment grew. “I—I didn’t know I had any,” she admitted, and began worrying in case confidence prevented her from ever looking like Sylvia. Not that she’d ever be beautiful as Sylvia was—but she could be thirty, and elegant, and poised, and wear smart little black hats and suits and a fur stole thrown round her shoulders with such proper carelessness. “What’s that perfume you’re wearing, Sylvia?” she asked with startling suddenness. “You smell so good.”

Sylvia laughed, unexpectedly. But Kate could forgive her, for there was warmth and life in her face and voice at last. That’s the way she should always look, Kate thought.

“You can borrow some of that good smell, tonight,” Sylvia was saying as they now climbed a narrow street, trees spaced along its brick sidewalks, variously coloured houses mounting on either side, “We’re having a small dinner party to welcome you to Washington.” Then she swung the car into a street, still narrower, still shorter than those they had travelled through in the last few minutes. “Here we are,” Sylvia said. “Joppa Lane.” She brought the car to rest before a three-storeyed house of brick painted blackish-grey with white shutters and a white door. Kate looked at it, then at the row of houses stretching along the little street, elbowing each other for space.

Sylvia was beginning to smile again. “You don’t think much of it, do you?”

“Well,” Kate said slowly, searching for politeness, “it is all very—interesting. Old, isn’t it?”

“Eighteenth century mostly. That’s Payton’s reason for liking Georgetown.” It was the first time she had mentioned her husband. “Stewart Hallis says Joppa Lane is the most expensive firetrap in America, but he’s just bought that narrow little house over there with the yellow door. You’ll meet him at dinner tonight.”

“Painters must thrive in this part of town,” Kate said, looking at the variety of colour schemes along the street. But she was wondering, as she followed her cousin over the worn brick steps, through the Georgian doorway, into a soft carpeted narrow hall, why Sylvia slipped into a way of talking which sounded amusing only because it was spoken in an amused voice. It didn’t fit Sylvia, somehow. And Sylvia’s smile at the moment was just as unreal, too. I prefer the way she was at the station, Kate decided, even the way she seemed upset, troubled, although I couldn’t understand any of it.

Waiting in the hall, listening to Sylvia’s quiet voice giving directions about the luggage, watching the white-haired servant with his precise bow, looking through a glass-panelled doorway which led to a small walled garden at the back of the house, Kate suddenly had her first attack of homesickness. She thought of a rambling house built on a hillside, its wide windows giving light and air and a view of a valley in blossom. And behind the miles of orchards, there were the foothills of the Sierras stretching limitless and free. The vivid memory silenced her as Sylvia led her up the steep narrow staircase.

“Payton is particularly proud of the balustrade,” Sylvia was saying. “And one of his triumphs is this wallpaper. Early nineteenth century. Mr. Jefferson had it sent over from France.” She turned quickly to look down at Kate, and a glimmer of a smile came back to her lips. “You’ll delight Payton if you ask him how he ever got it on these walls.”

“I’ll remember,” Kate said.

“You must be tired. Why don’t you rest before you unpack? Walter will give you a hand with that. He’s awfully good about things like unpacking.”

“Oh, no,” Kate said in alarm. “I’m not as tired as all that. She hesitated. “Did Payton choose Walter too?”

“Walter was here before I came.”

Kate calculated quickly. “It’s ten years since you married Payton, isn’t it?”

“Almost ten.” There was a pause. “Here’s your room.”

It was square shaped, dimly lit by two small windows. “Surely Martha Washington slept here?” Kate pointed to the ball-fringed lined canopy over the rosewood four-poster bed. “It’s all charming,” she added quickly, but she wondered where she was going to put her suitcases. “Payton does collect beautiful things.” She looked around at them.

Sylvia nodded. “What would you like—tea or a drink?”

“I’d like some coffee if that wouldn’t seem too rustic.”

Sylvia said, “You’re going to be very good for me. Or very bad.” She became serious again. “I think I’ll rest, too. I had a grim luncheon to attend before I came to meet you: creamed chicken and canned peas and speeches.” She hesitated at the door. “I’m afraid—at the station—I really wasn’t feeling very well. Sorry if I worried you.”

“I was only worried about all the trouble I’m giving you, I mean waiting for that train, and—”

“Trouble?” The blue eyes looked at Kate unhappily, then the lips smiled. “No trouble at all. We’re delighted to have you.”

“I am going to look for a small place of my own. If you could put up with me for a few days...”

“Much longer than that, I hope.” She gave a last glance at the dressing-table with its bowl of roses and violets. “Do make yourself comfortable, darling.” And she was gone.

Kate looked round the perfect room. She memorised it quickly. She should pay it that compliment at least, for she could hear the perfect Walter coming up the perfect staircase with her perfectly ordinary suitcases: in five minutes, this period piece would be a crammed jammed little place with the delicately virgin mantelpiece helping out as extra storage space. She began to laugh and then checked herself guiltily as Walter knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she called nervously giving the best imitation of Sylvia she could manage.

2

Payton Maxwell Pleydell called his wife at four o’clock; or rather he had Miss Black put in the call while he went on examining the latest report.

“Mrs. Pleydell’s on the wire, now,” Miss Black said in her precise way. She was a thin, hawknosed, sharp-eyed woman with grey hair severely shingled. She handed over the telephone to Pleydell, smoothed away a wrinkle from her conservative skirt, and tactfully studied the sheaf of papers on her lap. Sitting so still, she became a part of the room’s furnishings, as business-like and serviceable and unobtrusive as the simple desk, the plain walls with faded maps, the shelves of heavy uniform books, the square uncurtained window with its halfdrawn shade.

“Sylvia,” Pleydell said, “an emergency meeting’s been called for this afternoon.”

There was a slight pause. But Sylvia understood about such meetings. Emergency meant importance.

“How late shall I hold dinner?” she asked at last.

“Better not hold it. You never can tell when I’ll get away. I’ll have something to eat at the club.”

“We were giving the dinner for Kate.”

He said with annoyance, “I know. But this can’t be helped. I’ll be home in time to mix the highballs.”

“Oh...”