Saddle the Wind (54 page)

‘Good. Perhaps if we could find somewhere fairly close to the station …’

‘Of course.’

Not far from the station they found a quiet restaurant where they were shown to a corner table.

They ordered their food and as they ate they chatted of this and that, keeping to mundane subjects. At last, though, they ran out of conversation and fell silent. And then the moment had come. Gentry put down his coffee cup and took out his watch. He gave a little shake of his head. ‘I must pay the bill and get going.’

Out on the street they walked in silence for a while, but as they drew near the station entrance they found refuge in the usual conversational banalities used by parting friends. And all at once they were inside the station. When they had retrieved their cases from the left-luggage department Blanche said, ‘I’ll come with you to your train.’

‘You don’t need to.’ He looked away along the platform, as if searching for his train; in truth he was avoiding her gaze. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t,’ he said.

‘As you like.’

Their eyes met, held. Looking up at the station clock, Blanche saw that it was ten-fifty. ‘Is your train in?’ she said.

‘Yes.’ He gestured to a waiting train.

‘Well …’ She wanted to step forward, to feel his arms enfold her, draw her close to him. ‘I’ll go on back now.’

‘Right.’

Still they stood there. Ten fifty-five. ‘You’ll miss your train,’ she said.

‘Yes, I must go.’ Then, giving her a little smile, awkward, only just there, he turned and strode away. She watched him for a few moments then herself turned and made her way towards the station exit. She came to a halt as she reached it, and stood waiting as the remaining couple of minutes passed. Hearing the sound of a train starting up she asked the uniformed officer at the gate: ‘Is that the train for London?’ He told her that it was. She thanked him and made her way from the station.

Outside on the street she had walked less than twenty paces when she heard a voice calling her name. Quickly turning she saw Gentry moving towards her from the station entrance. He was at her side almost at once. Putting down his case he took her in his arms and held her to him. Then, lifting a hand to her chin he raised her face and kissed her on the mouth.

She and Gentry spent that Saturday night at a hotel on the outskirts of Bath. Their naked bodies pressed together, limbs entwined, she told him over and over that she loved him. ‘I can’t help myself,’ she said. ‘I shall never stop loving you.’

And she had waited for him to say the same things. Begged him. ‘Tell me you love me too, Gentry. Just tell me. It will be breath to me for the rest of my life.’

But he had been reluctant to say such words, and she had tried to understand, but then, in the early morning light, when they had awakened again and made love once more he had said it: ‘I love you, Blanche. I do; you must know I do.’

And hearing his words she had said to herself that somehow,
somehow
, everything would work out. Somehow they would find a way to be together. After all, they loved one another. He loved her; he had told her so. It was a commitment from him; he was bound to her now.

When they were both dressed and had eaten a little of the breakfast that had been sent up to their room she went to him where he stood tightening the straps of his suitcase. Reaching out to him she lightly touched his smooth, newly-shaven cheek, and he, taking her hand, kissed it, pressing it to his mouth. She stepped closer, laying her head upon his shoulder.

‘When will you come back?’ she said. ‘Tell me.’ He
would have no difficulty in finding reasons for frequent journeys back to England so that they could be together.

‘Come back?’ he said.

She lifted her head, smiled up at him. ‘I don’t know how I shall get through the time till you do. Oh, Gentry, tell me how I can live till then.’

‘Blanche …’ His hands lifted, taking her gently by the shoulders, holding her a little away from him so that he could look directly into her eyes. ‘I can’t come back.’

She shook her head, not understanding. ‘What do you mean? You
must
come back.’

‘I’m sorry. This mustn’t happen again. I won’t be able to live with myself afterwards – the feeling of betrayal.’

‘You – oh, but – but you don’t have to feel that way. No one would ever know.’

‘
I
would know.’

‘Oh, Gentry, but – but I love you. You love
me
. You told me so.’

‘I know. And I shouldn’t have done. I’m sorry I did.’

‘No, no, don’t say that! I want you to love me. I wanted you to tell me so.’

‘But what good has it done?’ He sighed. ‘This should never have happened.’

‘No!’ she raised a hand, placing it over his mouth. ‘Don’t say such things.’ Then, letting her hand fall she said: ‘Perhaps, though, you didn’t mean it. When you said you loved me – perhaps it was a lie.’

‘No, it’s true, Blanche. I meant it. But in the long run it doesn’t matter either way, does it? I’m not free to do anything about it. You know as well as I do. It’s not only you and me to consider. There’s Marianne.’

‘Oh, Marianne, Marianne!’ she said. ‘It’s always Marianne. She’s had everything in life. She’s never had to make an effort for anything.’

‘Don’t talk like that, Blanche.’

‘It’s true. Everything’s been handed to her on a plate. Even
you
.’

He gazed at her for a moment then, letting his hands fall from her shoulders, turned away to the window. Blanche said, bitterness in her voice:

‘Why did you come after me last night? Why did you leave your train and come for me?’

‘Forgive me. I wish now I hadn’t.’

Sudden tears sprang into her eyes. ‘Oh, God, Gentry, don’t keep saying you regret it. It makes a mockery of everything that’s happened.’

‘I can’t help it.’ He turned back to face her. His hands came up, cupping her face. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. The tears now were streaming down her cheeks. She nodded. After a moment he went on:

‘It’s true that I love you, Blanche. But you must know as well as I that nothing can come of it. Not now. It’s too late. For both of us. You knew that when I got married. And although you talk now about carrying on some – some clandestine affair – as if it would be an easy thing to do – you know as well as I that we couldn’t do it. I love Marianne. Not as I love you, but I love her. And I can’t do anything to hurt her.’

‘But what about
me
?’

‘Yes, I know. And I’m so sorry that you have to be hurt. But I didn’t plan it this way, anymore than you did.’ He paused, his dark eyes intense in their gaze into her own. ‘You’re stronger than Marianne. Much stronger. And you’ll survive, Blanche. You’ll get over it, over this.’

‘No, no, I shan’t.’

‘Believe me, you will. Though you may not think so now. I shall go to the station for my train soon, and I
shall go out of your life. And that’s the best way for both of us.’

‘Gentry –’

‘It’s a good thing we won’t be seeing each other. I have no real reason to come back to England very often now, and it’s better that way. We shan’t have the opportunity to meet.’ He gave a little shake of his head. ‘Oh, make no mistake – I wanted to see you this trip. And when Marianne asked me to, and to try to persuade you to come and visit us I realized how glad I was of the chance to see you. And calling at the house and being told that you had gone off to the coast, well – you can’t imagine my disappointment. I couldn’t believe that I was not going to see you. I realized that I so wanted to. And it was wrong of me. It was selfish. But it’s done now, and we have to get on with our lives.’

‘Apart. Our lives apart.’

‘Yes.’

Through her tears his features were distorted. She said sadly:

‘So last night – it was not a new beginning of anything.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘And it’s over.’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

A few minutes later Gentry held her to him one last time and when she had dried her tears they left the room. He paid the bill and they emerged onto the street. After they had walked some little distance towards the station he came to a halt.

‘Don’t come with me any further,’ he said. ‘Just in case you’re seen by someone who might know you.’

‘I don’t care,’ she said defiantly, but he shook his head, ‘Blanche …’ in a gentle reprimand. They stood facing one another and he reached out and took her hand.

‘Goodbye, Blanche.’

She said nothing. She knew that if she spoke it would release more tears and she had already wept too much.

So, silently she stood and watched as he crossed the street. She did not move again until he had gone out of sight, turning a corner with just one last backward glance. Continuing to gaze after him even though he was gone she said softly,

‘It’s not over, Gentry. It’s not.’

Only then did she move. Taking a grip on her valise, she turned and walked away. Later, after she had wandered around for a while, she returned to Almond Street.

The next day she heard from Alfredo Pastore saying that he would be arriving in England on Friday, August 3rd. He would write to her again from London following his arrival, he said, and would travel down to see her a few days later – if she would allow him to – as soon as his business commitments would permit. His letter barely touched her. Gentry’s departure had left in her heart a void that nothing, she felt, would ever fill.

The days passed slowly by. Without Clara’s presence the house seemed strange, and in addition Blanche found that she had not enough to do. In attempts to be occupied and useful she took to helping as much as she could in the tasks of the house – giving a helping hand to Mrs Warrimer, the cook-housekeeper. Even so, there was not enough to take up much of her time or engage much of her concentration, and she was left with time on her hands, time in which to brood.

A week following Gentry’s departure she received a letter from a doctor in answer to an advertisement she had placed in a local paper. He was seeking a resident
governess for his two daughters, he said, and would like to interview her. He suggested that, if convenient, he would call on her on Thursday morning at eleven.

Blanche at once sat down to answer the letter. She would be in at the proposed time, she said, and would be very happy to see him then.

When Marsh returned from the shop that evening Blanche told him of the coming interview with the doctor. But with the problem of Jacko, she said, she didn’t hold out a great deal of hope. She had been interviewed on a few occasions already in her search for employment, but in each case when she had stated that Jacko would have to accompany her she had met with no success. Now Marsh said that if it still proved to be a problem she could leave the dog where he was. After all, he said, Clara had become very fond of Jacko, as he was of her. ‘And you can come and visit him whenever you want to,’ he went on. ‘And he’ll be well looked after, you can be sure of that.’ He paused, smiling. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘it’ll give you a reason for returning to see us.’

The next day, Tuesday, she heard again from Alfredo Pastore. Writing from his London hotel, he said he would travel to Bath on Friday and would call at the house in the hope of seeing her then.

By the time Dr Walsh arrived on Thursday morning Blanche had decided to accept George Marsh’s offer and let Jacko remain where he was. Apart from the convenience of the arrangement where she was concerned it would also be better for the dog; it was likely that he would not live for many more years, and it was best that he remain where he was comfortable. So, when, after some discussion, Dr Walsh offered her the position, she made no mention of Jacko. She would be free to begin work at the beginning of September, she said,
once her present pupil, Clara, had gone off to boarding school.

And so it was arranged. When the doctor left the house a little later Blanche knew a great feeling of relief. At least she had made some advance. Not only had she secured employment but the problem of Jacko had also been solved.

But for how long was she to know the temporary sense of security that came to her now? she asked herself. The position in Dr Walsh’s household would not last for very long, and she would once again be without anywhere to live. And was she to go on like this forever? Without roots, without prospects? Perhaps she should have accepted George’s proposal. In no way could he be described as wealthy, but they would live comfortably together, and there was no doubt that, with some imagination and the right application, his shop could have considerable prospects. But George Marsh was not Gentry.

Alfredo Pastore arrived the following afternoon, and Blanche went down to the library where he stood waiting for her. Tanned and looking dashing in his flannel suit, patterned waistcoat and khaki necktie, he came towards her holding out both hands, taking her hands in his, bringing them to his chest.

‘Oh, Blanche,’ he said, ‘it’s been worth the wait, seeing you again.’

When she had made tea they sat together talking of this and that, and throughout the conversation it was clear that there had been no lessening of his interest in her.

Why, he asked, had she not answered his letters when he had written from Sicily? She replied evasively that she had been concerned with other matters and that she
had not expected to see him again. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, smiling, ‘you didn’t
want
to see me again.’ But no, she assured him, that had not been the case at all.

He asked later if he might call again that evening and take her out to dinner. She agreed with very little hesitation, finding herself glad of the opportunity for some diversion, for the chance to be released for a while from the dullness of her routine.

There was another reason for her acceptance of his offer, a reason which, though increasingly present in her consciousness, was brought nearer to the surface of her mind that same evening. Having got ready early for Alfredo’s visit, she had gone to the drawing room to sit and talk to Marsh for a few minutes. She had told him earlier that she would be out for dinner, adding that Pastore was in town and was coming to take her out. He had made no comment but had simply nodded and said that he hoped she would have a pleasant evening. Now, sitting there in a little silence that had fallen she had become aware that he was speaking to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, turning to him. ‘What were you saying?’