I and My True Love (26 page)

“I think he does,” Kate said.

Bob looked at her in amazement. “Then why—” he began. He stopped as the Pleydells reached the car. Why, he asked himself, doesn’t Payton Pleydell do something about it? All he does is to go around looking devoted. Is that a way to fight? Or perhaps Pleydell knew in his heart that he had earned his defeat. A man never won, knowing that.

“Sorry,” Pleydell was saying. “It seems that at Miriam’s parties, we spend half the evening being introduced to people and the other half saying goodbye. Are you all right, Sylvia?” He tucked the rug over her knees. “Warmer, now?”

“I’m all right,” she said. She leaned well back into the corner of the car, her eyes closed, her face white and set. Payton closed the car’s door, and the light switched off.

“I think,” Pleydell’s quiet voice went on, as the car left the driveway, “you’ll really have to take my advice. You’ll have to go away for a rest, Sylvia. People are beginning to notice.”

The car swerved. “Sorry,” Bob said. “Dog-avoiding. Always a mistake.” He glanced at Kate, but she was sitting very still, watching the narrow road into which they had come.

“Kate agrees with me, don’t you, Kate?” Pleydell asked.

“I’m perfectly well,” Sylvia said quickly, but her voice was strained and sharp.

“Now, that’s all right, dear,” Pleydell said soothingly, and he laid his hand comfortingly on her knee. “That’s all right.” He began to talk about the party they had just left, his quiet sentences trickling through the silent car like a slow thin line of flame towards a mass of dynamite.

* * *

At the Pleydells’ door, Bob broke his silence. “It’s early yet,” he said to Kate.

“Early?” Pleydell asked in amusement, unfolding the rug from Sylvia’s knees, helping her step on to the sidewalk.

“Too early for a pretty dress,” Bob Turner said. “What about some dancing, Kate? There’s still plenty of time.”

Kate looked at him in astonishment.

“What about it?” Bob urged, now out of the car, waiting.

“Yes,” she said suddenly, as eager to escape as he was.

“Borrow the car,” Sylvia suggested.

“No, thanks, a taxi won’t be hard to find.”

“The car would be better,” Pleydell called over his shoulder.

“Too much trouble parking.” It wasn’t a good excuse, but it was the best he could muster. “Good night, Sylvia. Good night, sir.”

“Good night,” Payton Pleydell said, key in hand at the doorway. “Sylvia, come in. Don’t worry about Kate. Turner will get her home safely.”

“I wasn’t worry—” Sylvia stopped. She shrugged her shoulders. “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she said quietly to Kate. “No museum? Then come and have breakfast in my room. I’ve some news for you.” Suddenly, she hugged Kate, pressed her cheek for a moment against the girl’s. “Have a lot of fun, darling.”

To Bob Turner, she said, quite simply, “Goodbye.” She gave him her hand. Then she looked at him. “Goodbye, Bob,” she said, and now she could smile.

“Sylvia!” Pleydell called, and the smile faded. She turned away from Kate and Bob to the waiting house.

Bob took Kate’s arm and they started along Joppa Lane. “Warm enough?”

“Yes,” she said happily. “It’s milder, now.” The sidewalk had dried, the wind had fallen, the sky had cleared enough to let a star or two shine benignly on a mild spring night.

“Sorry to make you walk.”

“I don’t mind. I don’t even mind running.”

He laughed and slackened his quick pace.

* * *

“They didn’t take the car,” Payton said in surprise, as they came into the hall. “I hadn’t realised he could be such an independent young man.”

“You don’t have to be ironical about Bob.”

“My dear Sylvia, far from it—it’s a pleasant shock to find any young person nowadays who doesn’t think he has the right to borrow.”

“Really, Payton—”

“Now, Sylvia, there’s no need to get excited over such a small remark.”

“I’m
not
excited,” she said, angrily, raising her voice for the first time.

“Ah, good evening, Walter,” Payton Pleydell said, looking towards the pantry door. “Any messages?”

There was one, and Payton read it thoughtfully. “It looks as if I’ll have to go in to the office tomorrow,” he said, frowning. Then, to Walter, “I’ll have a Scotch and soda. And bring Mrs. Pleydell a hot drink, milk or Ovaltine. Now come, Sylvia, and rest for a little in here.” He took her arm and led her into the drawing-room.

“Payton,” she said, “will you stop treating me as if I were an invalid?” And don’t let yourself get angry, she told herself. Keep calm. Collect your thoughts. You have to tell him, tonight. About leaving. Not about Jan, though. Too dangerous. Payton would take action then—perhaps have Jan proved an undesirable alien, a spy, something at least to get him to leave the country. Or am I doing Payton an injustice? Now that I see him so clearly, am I inventing additional faults to notice?

She sat down wearily on a couch, and watched Payton add a log to the low fire. “We really don’t need that,” she said. The room was warm enough.

“What were you doing tonight?” he asked, turning round suddenly. “You were almost frozen when I came to get you to take you home.”

“I had been out on the terrace.”

“I shouldn’t have thought the terrace would have been an attractive place tonight.”

“I wanted some fresh air.”

“Ah, yes,” he said and he came to sit opposite her. “Who else was out on the terrace?”

“Kate.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then his eyes dropped and he studied his hands.

“Payton, why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Sad, unhappy. You don’t love me, you know. Why do you try to hold on to me?”

“I don’t love you?” He looked up again at her. “What proof do I have to give you?” His low voice became hard, bitter in its intensity. “What do you want—crude love-making, savage kisses, rape? Is that your idea of a proof of love?”

He twists everything to suit himself, she thought helplessly.

“Why don’t you answer?” he asked. He was under control again. He was even smiling, almost tenderly, as if he were dealing with a rebellious child whom he must not frighten. His next words would be kind, gentle, understanding. He would rise and come towards her and take her hand. He would plead without pleading, silence her with silence.

“I
will
tell you,” she burst out, rising to her feet. “I’m leaving you.”

He sat quite still. “Why?”

“Because there’s no other solution.”

“We had a solution which worked very well for a number of years,” he reminded her.

“I’m going away,” she said, brushing aside his words that would only lead them into the long, endless arguments where all purpose was lost. His face had tightened, but he gave no other sign that he had heard her. Suddenly, she felt ridiculous by contrast, standing there, her voice raised with emotion, her face flushed, angry tears ready to flow over her cheeks. “Payton, do you hear me? Payton!”

“Sit down, Sylvia, and we can discuss this matter sanely.” Then he raised a warning hand. “Come in, Walter. Yes, put the tray here. Thank you, that will be all, tonight. Leave the front door unchained. Miss Jerold will be late.”

“Very good, sir.” Walter gave a short glance, barely perceptible, in Sylvia’s direction.

“Why did he look like that at me?” Sylvia asked when the man had left the room.

“Now you’re imagining things.”

“He seemed almost afraid of me.” Walter had never been afraid of her. It had always been the other way round. “He’s a quiet man and dislikes loud noises.”

The hidden reprimand goaded her into a sudden burst of contempt. “Do you want me to hate you? Isn’t it enough that I’ve lost all other feeling for you?”

“Sit down and let us talk without dramatics.”

“I’ve finished all I needed to say.”

“But I’ve some things to say to you.”

She hesitated. And then she sat down. She refused the cup of Ovaltine which he handed to her.

“Unwise,” he told her, but he didn’t press her to drink it. He took his highball, added some more ice with a precision that irritated her, and then stood in front of the fireplace. For a moment or two, he swirled the pieces of ice in his glass, watching them as if that were his only interest. “You’re going away,” he said at last. “Where?”

“I’ve decided on California. I’ll stay with Margaret and George Jerold. They wrote a few days ago, inviting me.”

“And when are you coming back?”

“Never,” she said calmly. “I said I was leaving you.”

“For Jan Brovic?” His voice tightened.

“Even if there were no Jan Brovic, I’d still be leaving you.”

He looked at her then. “Why?” he asked at last. “Have I ever treated you badly? Betrayed you?”

“In some ways you have.”

“Nonsense. I’ve always left you free, independent. I’ve trusted you completely, Sylvia. If anyone betrayed trust, it was you.”

“If your trust is what I betrayed,” she said bitterly, “then I betrayed nothing.”

“You’re wrong about that. You’re wrong about many things.”

“Last time,” she persisted, “you faked an illness, you destroyed letters. You lied. And it’s all the worse because you pretend so much scorn for those who fake and lie.”

He said, still calm, still reasonable, “I have fought for you in my own way.”

“You intercepted the letters. You took me with you, suddenly, to San Francisco when you learned that Jan Brovic was coming back here for a short visit. And the stupid thing was, you didn’t have to lower yourself to that level. I had made up my own mind, as you wanted it made up. You had won completely. You had more control over me than you realised.”

He was tense, now. Unmoving. Watching. Disbelieving? Or only still disbelieving that his control over her was now ended?

With a flash of anger she said, “Now, this time, how will you fight to keep me here? Fake another illness?” She laughed contemptuously. And then, watching the taut white face that stared down at her, she knew she had hurt him. Her words had driven below the cold guarded surface. Her laughter was silenced. “Oh!” she exclaimed, in sudden distaste for this moment of triumph, “why do we argue and hurt each other more than necessary?” She shook her head. She said slowly, “I’ve told you at last what I’ve been trying to tell you for some time.” She half rose from her chair.

“Since Brovic appeared on the scene?”

She sank back in her chair. “Leave his name out of this—”

“Can we?”

“Yes.” She faced him, then. “I’ve told you. I’m leaving you. Tomorrow.”

This time, he believed her.

“You must have felt this was coming,” she said quickly. She paused, and then she added, “You can divorce me for desertion. That will save any scandal. People won’t blame you at all. Your career won’t be harmed. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

His face flushed but that was the only sign of his anger. His cold grey eyes studied her for a moment. “I don’t intend my career to be harmed,” he said slowly. “Nor do I intend our lives to be ruined.” His hand had trembled, and he set down his glass on the mantelpiece. He noticed that his knuckles as he gripped the edge of the shelf of wood were white. He forced himself to speak quietly.

“Sylvia, you’ve been restless and unhappy for months. I’m sorry, if that has been my fault. And in these last few weeks, you’ve reached near breaking point. I’ve noticed it. I tried to help you—but I’m afraid I wasn’t of much use.” He paused, still controlling himself. “Go away for a month or two,” he said. “Yes, I agree to that. But not to California. It’s too late for California, Sylvia. That’s too far, too big a journey, too much of a strain. It would be easier for you to be among strangers: you don’t have to face their questions, their conversation.”

She looked at him, not quite understanding.

He went on, “I’ve the address of a quiet place where you can go—in Pennsylvania. It’s a pleasant house, doctors and nurses all well qualified. The rooms are charming, and private. You can rest there for some weeks. Let all this trouble blow over, Sylvia. And then, once you are feeling better, we can talk again.”

She stared at him, understanding now, yet disbelieving. “No,” she said. “Oh, no!”

“What else is there to do? There will be no divorce from me, Sylvia. And if you were to try to get one—well, before then, Brovic will be back in Czechoslovakia. Do you intend to follow him there?” He smiled and shook his head, answering for her.

“No!” She sprang to her feet. “I’m not going there—or to any quiet place in Pennsylvania. What kind of quiet place, Payton?”

“Sylvia—please!... Don’t get excited. For your own sake.”

She was remembering now all the puzzling irritations that had plagued her recently. “So this time you faked another illness—my illness.” She stared at him. Her voice quickened. “Did you try to enlist Kate on your side—was that why she’s been so unhappy? You had no scruples, had you, about taking a young girl’s mind and loading it with worries? And what did you tell Miriam, knowing she’s the village gossip? Yes, she spoke to me tonight and I thought she had gone crazy. And last night, there was Martin Clark—” She looked at him with horror, remembering the way he had planted the idea of sickness in Martin’s mind. “In front of me!” she said, incredulous. Then the contempt in her voice lashed out at him. “Who else has heard the news? Bob Turner? Even Walter, looking at me as if he thought I was headed for a strait jacket?”

“Sylvia,” Payton said, coming towards her. “You
are
ill... Listen to yourself.” He held out his arms. “But it isn’t serious, darling. We’ll cure all this.”

She backed away, white-faced, her blue eyes widening in horror, her bare shoulders above the folds of chiffon out of his reach. For ever, he thought. For ever.

“No, Sylvia,” he cried.

But she had slipped away from him, the soft wide skirt floating like a dancer’s as her body twisted and escaped. She ran from the room, towards the staircase, as far away as she could get from him.

“Sylvia!” he cried again, his anger breaking loose, and he moved swiftly into the hall.

She was already half-way up the staircase. She stumbled on the long floating skirt as he sprang after her. He heard a sharp tearing as she wrenched her dress free and raced on. And there was a sob as he reached her, a cry of fear as he put out his hand and caught her shoulder.