This Merry Bond (15 page)

“It’s not a very bad cut,” she said suspiciously. “Couldn’t it have waited till the morning?”

He grinned at her and kissed the tip of her nose. “Since when has Nicky Bredon become conventional?” he teased.

“I’m Nicky Shand now,” she retorted. “And I’m not conventional either. “I’ll tie up your silly scratch.”

She tied up the cut with none too gentle fingers, and afterward he wandered around the room in his dressing gown, examining everything, and making absurd comments. He picked up one of the silver shoes she had been wearing that evening, and stood turning it over in his hands.

“I suppose, now you’re married to a shoe factory you have rows and rows of these for nothing,” he said.

Nicky, brushing her hair in front of the glass, moved impatiently.

“I wish you wouldn’t sneer at Simon,” she said shortly. He tossed the shoe down beside its fellow on the floor.

“I wasn’t sneering,” he said, and came and stood behind her with his hands on her thin shoulders. She saw his expression in the mirror as he bent over her, and she was suddenly very still.

“Nick, when are you going to stop kidding yourself?” he asked softly, and when she didn’t reply, he continued: “Why do you cling to an empty marriage, my sweet? What fun are you getting out of it? What fun is Simon getting, for that matter?
”

“You’re always harping on how little Simon gets,” she said slowly.

“Well, it’s true isn’t it? You admitted it yourself. Why not cut loose? Come back to the life you were meant for.”

The life she was meant for
...
How, thought Nicky a little despairingly, could she determine what that might be? Michael was speaking again above her head, meeting and holding her gaze in the mirror.

“Nick, I’m going away soon,” he said, still in that soft voice. “Are you going to let me go alone?”

“Away?” She couldn’t quite keep the dismay out of her voice and he smiled. “Out of England, you mean? Oh, no, Michael, not again—not for all that time.” It seemed to her then if Michael went she would be left with nothing.

He swung her around into his arms.

“Come with me,” he said and his eyes so like her own were bright with excitement. “I want you, Nick. I understand you. You can’t live for the rest of your life with a man who can give you nothing. Leave him for some little unadventurous thing who won’t expect too much. I can teach you more about love in one night than Simon Shand could in ten years, you strange, wild creature.”

“You’d make me love you and then break my heart,” cried Nicky violently.
“
Like Charles and my mother. I don’t want that sort of love, Michael. I want kindness, certainty—something that lasts.”

“And you think Simon will give you all that?” asked Michael with a curious expression.

“I don’t know,” she replied wearily. “I don’t think he can ever have loved me.”

He let her go, and crossed the room to the door.

“One day you’ll come to me,” he said very softly and was gone. She was alone on the terrace when Simon returned the next day. Michael was fishing the South Water, shamelessly poaching on old Shand’s bit of river.

“Hullo, Simon!” she said. “Michael’s here.”

“Yes, I know.”

He spoke shortly, and, glancing at his face, she realized he was annoyed.

Indeed, Simon coming straight from the Towers, where he had gone first upon arrival, was angry with the bitter sting of humiliation. It was his father who had told him of Michael’s presence at Nye and the old man hadn’t minced his words.

“It’s time you took a stand, Simon,” he had said harshly. “It was bad enough having the whole village gossiping because you allowed this young waster to stop here all this time, sponging on you, and making love to your wife. But when it comes to as soon as your back’s turned the two of them get together and make a scandal in the place, then it’s time for you to put your foot down. What, I should like to know, goes on up at the house there, and what sort of tales do you suppose the servants are carrying to the village?”

“I’m quite sure,” Simon said in a voice as cold as his father’s was angry, “that whatever the village may say, I can trust Nicky.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” shouted old John. “You can’t trust any woman, or if you do you’re a fool. You clear that young man out of there or I’ll come and do it myself. I never approved of this marriage and I’m not going to have you made a laughing-stock in the place.”

Looking at Nicky now, sunning herself happily in the first spell of the approaching heatwave, he felt furiously angry with her. How dared she make a fool of him when she had already hurt him so bitterly?

“I want to speak to you, Nicky,” he said, schooling his voice to a courteous coldness. “I’ve just seen my father, who is very upset at certain rumors he hears in the village. He seems to think it’s a mistake for Michael to be here so much—particularly in my absence.”

“Your father’s a nasty-minded old man!” she exclaimed hotly. “Why, Michael and I were practically brought up together!”

“Yes, I know all that,” Simon said impatiently. “But the fact remains people are talking, and I don’t choose to have it. Did you tell Michael I was going to be away and ask him to come down?”

“Of course not. He just walked in like he always does.”

“I see. Well, it’s got to stop. Either you or I must tell him to go, and I think it would come better from you.”

She stared at him, and a faint color stained her cheekbones. “That’s not very nice, is it?” she said in a voice which shook a little.

“There are several things about all our relationships that aren’t very nice,” he said steadily. “Nicky, you once called me a hard-headed tradesman. Well you were probably right. I’m prepared to pay a price for what I want but I expect something for my money. I think you will admit that up to the present I’ve had very little. But at least I expect that you refrain from making a fool of me.”

There was a pregnant little silence. Nicky went rather white, then she said quietly:

“I understand perfectly. I’ll tell him to go.”

She got to her feet and turned and went into the house.

Simon looked after her, a little puzzled frown between his eyes. In the old days she would have stood and stormed at him. He had expected opposition and she had raised none. In the distance he saw Michael returning from the river, and, not feeling equal to meeting him at that moment, he followed Nicky into the house.

But Michael, with his uncanny instinct in such matters, announced, as before, his own intention of leaving them. That night, when Simon bade Nicky “Good night,” he said with a new gentleness:

“I’m sorry if I was too harsh this afternoon. I want you to be happy, Nicky. Would it help if you went away for a bit?
”

Tears pricked her eyelids. Yes, she would go away—to Charles in Brittany.

“I’d like that,” she said with gratitude. “I’ll go and join Charles in his fishing village.”

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

N
icky left England at the height of the heat wave. As she leaned on the rails of the cross-Channel boat and watched the cliffs of Dover receding into the distance, she remembered the last time she had seen them, coming home with Charles barely a year ago. So much had happened since that day that she could scarcely believe it was only last autumn they had returned.

S
oon the dazzling expanse of water hurt her eyes, and she lay back in a deck chair, her eyes closed, and the first warnings of that alarming pain seizing her. The train was unbearably hot, and by the time she reached Paris, she knew with certainty that she was in for another attack. She spent the three hours wait she had there, sitting outside a cafe, sipping iced
bock
in the shade of the plane trees, and watching the passers-by with eyes that scarcely saw them. She was aware that people were beginning to glance at her oddly, and once a waiter placed a
cognac
in front of her and bade her drink it. The long train journey across France into Brittany seemed endless. The pain mounted in waves, and twice she was sick. She wondered with a feeling of panic if she was going to be really ill and thought of Charles’s dismay if he found himself suddenly with a sick daughter on his hands.

He was there, standing on the sunbaked platform to meet her, slim and elegant as ever. She had forgotten how fastidious Charles was.

“You look ghastly, Nick,” he said disapprovingly when she had kissed him and looked vaguely around for her luggage. “Was it a terribly hot journey?”

“Pretty bad,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling my best, darling. I’ll revive when we get to the sea.”

But when after a twelve-mile drive in an ancient and crazily sprung Renault, they came to the charming little village, Nicky thought the glare intolerable. The brilliant sea, the dazzling white of the villas hit her between the eyes like something red-hot. A heavy haze hung over the coast, and even with the sea freshness, the air was stifling.

“I think if I lie down for a bit I’ll be all right,” she said and Charles hurried her into the small inn where he was staying.

He had booked a room for her, but the place was full. Madame could only provide a hot little attic under the roof.

“It won’t be for long, my sweet,” he said carelessly as she lay down on the bed. “It gets quite cool in the evening.”

It never occurred to him to offer her his own airy room on the first floor instead. They had roughed it before in so many places that the thought never crossed his mind. He left her then, but came back a couple of hours later when the sun had begun to sink behind the little hills across the bay. Nicky, after a fitful sleep felt more capable of making an effort. The pain had subsided for the time being, but she felt weak and utterly exhausted. Perhaps, after all, she would be all right tomorrow. Charles hated illness. She sat up, resting her weight on one elbow, and for the first time she realized that Charles was looking a little self-conscious. She knew that look of old.

“What is it, Charles?” she asked.

“What is what?” he parried evasively, then added: “You didn’t get my wire,
I
suppose.”

“Your wire?”

“I sent a wire telling you to postpone your trip till you heard from me as I’m off wandering again almost at once.”

“When?”

“Well, tomorrow to be exact. I should really have left today.”

“Where are you going?” In spite of her exhaustion her voice was eager at the old promise of adventure.

“Just wandering. I’m going down to Toulon to pick up a coasting steamer to different ports—Algiers, Tunis—and after that, who knows? Perhaps Cyprus and the Aegeans.”

She lay back on the pillows.

“It sounds lovely,” she said with a long sigh. “I should like that.”

He looked a little embarrassed.

“Well, as a matter of fact, my pretty, I don’t think it would do,” he said. “I’m joining up with another fella and our plans are very vague.”

Her eyes closed on sudden tears of weakness. Charles didn’t want her! This was the first time in her life she remembered such a thing.

“I see,” she said. “And what’s to become of me?”

He glanced at her quickly and hoped she wasn’t going to make a scene.

“Well, darling, I’m afraid you’ll have to go back again, unless you’d like to stop on here for a bit: It’s a pleasant little spot, but dull for you.”

Go back! All that long unspeakable journey again. The heat, the dust, the pain and sickness. It was too much. The tears trickled under her lashes and down her cheeks on to the pillow.

Charles moved a little impatiently.

“Nick, I’m terribly sorry,” he said.

“It’s all right. I understand,” she said. “It’s only—I felt so awfully ill on the journey, Charles.”

“Poor lamb,” he said lightly. “I expect it was the heat. Put your face straight now, darling, and we’ll go down and have something to eat. You can decide tomorrow if you’ll go back or stay on.”

But later, sitting outside the little inn in the comparative cool of the evening, Nicky knew she would go back. She felt a longing for the familiar benison of Nye, for Simon’s dependability, and for the comfort and security of his presence. She had fled to Charles for comfort, advice, she knew not what, but he had none to offer. Indeed he seemed deliberately to avoid more intimate topics, and Nicky, knowing him so well, read a passing fear in his eyes every time Simon was mentioned.

Once he said: “I’m glad you’re settled, Nick. You always wanted roots, didn’t you?” Hilary Bredon’s very words! “Simon’s a decent sort. Lord knows where we should have been if he hadn’t taken things in hand.” Charles subtly imploring her not to do anything rash. “You’ve found your place, Nick, and I’ve found mine. Life has levelled up for us, hasn’t it?” Charles talking platitudes in a manner quite foreign to him, frightened of what she might have to tell him.

How to say to him now: “You’ve always been free. Take me with you. Help me to escape. Tell me what to do.” Escape was only for Charles. He had no help to give her.

She felt the beginnings of pain again. She must get in and to bed and rest as much as possible before the dreaded journey back.

He saw the sick pinched look come into her face and said quickly, “You’re not really ill, are you?”

She tried to smile.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’ve had it before, but never quite so bad.”

“Good gracious, Nick! You’re not going to have a baby, are you?”

She observed his comical dismay with something approaching hysteria. No, not even to Charles could she tell that shameful secret of her marriage.

“No, Charles,” she said a little weakly, “I’m not going to have a baby. I’ll be all right in the morning.”

The familiar phrase brought momentary comfort. How often after some childish ailment, a bout of crying, a disappointment, had Mouse said to her: “You’ll be all right in the morning.” In those days you believed it, for the charm nearly always worked.

She stood up and smiled at Charles.

“Good night, darling. I’m sorry I mucked things up for you.”

He grinned with evident relief.

“You’re a grand girl, Nick,” he said.

She blew him a kiss and went wearily into the dark stuffiness of the little inn.

She arrived at Nye at tea-time after a gruelling journey. The shaking of the French trains had stirred the pain into unceasing activity. In Paris she had got some drug from a chemist and slept uneasily on the long run to Calais. But the effects had worn off now, and as she dragged herself out on to the lawn where Simon was sitting finishing his tea, the pain began to mount once more.

He saw her suddenly standing in the blinding sunshine, and jumped to his feet with a startled exclamation. Nicky, as she stood looking at him, too tired even to move into the shade, thought without surprise that she was seeing him for the first time. He wore no coat, and his bare arms and strong throat and chest were very brown. He was looking at her with that old disconcerting directness, but there was something else in his expression that quickened her heart beats. This was home ... not Nye, the beloved inheritance, the rich green acres, but Simon, strong, dependable,
and something more. How long ago was it she had thought: I could be safe with Simon Shand
...
Safe.

“Simon—” she said weakly, and, moving into the shade at last, slipped to the ground in a little crumpled heap at his feet.

He carried her into the long drawing room, that room which was always cool and dim, and laid her on a sofa. She opened her eyes almost at once, and lay looking up at his anxious face, too exhausted to speak. Simon was horrified at her appearance. Her face, always pale, seemed almost transparent, and when he had picked her up he was dismayed to find how light she was. There seemed to be nothing of her. He asked no questions then, but rang the bell for brandy.

The pain seemed quiescent now, and the brandy brought some strength back into her tired limbs. She was only conscious of peace and relaxation lying against Simon’s shoulder as he knelt beside her. It was very quiet, and a translucent twilight lay over the room with its drawn sun blinds.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” she said. “I’ve never fainted before in my life.”

“What made you come back?” he asked her gently.

“Charles was going wandering again. He didn’t want me. He said he sent a wire.”

“He did, but he only said not to hurry and that he was writing. Couldn’t he have postponed his plans long enough to let you rest?” He was angry with Charles. It was so typical of the man to think of no one but himself.

“I think,” said Nicky carefully, “he thought that if I stayed I’d never go back. I think he thought I was running away from you.”

“And weren’t you?” asked Simon steadily.

“No. I went to ask Charles something. It was something I had to find out.”

“I see. And did you learn what you wanted?”

“I never asked him,” she said very wearily. “It wouldn’t have suited Charles to give me an honest answer.”

Simon pushed back the hair from her damp forehead. There was much here that puzzled him. He had never heard her criticize her father with that bitter little note before. In some unexplained fashion Charles had failed her.

Simon thought he understood. She had fled to Charles for advice about Michael, and he had been afraid of what she had to tell him. He had been afraid that with the possibility of the breaking up of the marriage, his own security would come to an end, and had packed the poor child home again before he could become involved in any rash decisions.

“Nicky,” Simon said a little awkwardly, “this isn’t the moment to discuss vital matters. You’re all in, and must get to bed. But I would like to say this—just to relieve your mind. I’m not the inhuman monster you seem to think me. We’ll settle our affairs between the two of us.”

She was too tired to take in very fully what he was trying to say to her.

“I don’t think you’re inhuman—not any more,” she said, and felt for his hand, flexing the fingers backwards and forwards in her own in that way she had when she was nervous. “Simon—when I married you you said I was nothing but a cheat. You were right, but I’ve stopped cheating now. You said I always would—right to the end, you said. But I don’t think I’m very good at it. Simon—it’s awfully difficult to say—but I’m willing to start again if you are.” For a moment his hand closed on hers with a pressure that hurt her, then he said in a carefully expressionless voice:

“We’ll talk about it later, shall we? I want you to get to bed now.”

She was too tired to argue, and presently she was lying between cool sheets, waiting for Dick Lucy’s arrival. Later
...
yes, it could
all wait until later. Now she just wanted to sleep
—

Lucy, when he had made his examination, talked about an X-ray as soon as Nicky was fit to travel to London.

“There’s evidently some trouble left over from that fall she had,” he told Simon. “Probably some small displacement that treatment will put right. I’m not too worried about that, but she’s.in a bad nervous condition. What do you do to her, Shand? Beat her?”

He went away laughing, but Simon looked stricken for a moment. What had he done to Nicky? What was he still doing to her when she loved another man?

He stood for a moment beside her bed before he went to dress for dinner. Lucy had given her a sleeping draught, and already she was drowsy.

“Is everything going to be all right?” she asked.

He smiled down at her.

“Quite all right,” he said, and took one of her hands in his. “And Nicky—you’re not to worry about other matters. I realize, only too well my dear, that I made a mistake in marrying you. We’ll put our affairs straight somehow. Now go to sleep, and don’t worry any more.”

He stooped, and, kissing her gently on the forehead, went into his dressing room. Nicky lay very still, feeling numb and
stupefied
. What had he said to her? She tried to think, but her eyelids would fall over her eyes, and presently, unable to fight the drug any longer, she fell into a deep sleep.

After dinner, Simon drove down to the Lucys’ house to have a smoke and a talk with the doctor. He felt worried about Nicky’s condition and wanted to discuss the advisability of calling in a specialist. Lucy didn’t think it would be necessary at this stage. The X-ray, he said, would tell them all they required to know for the time being, and the question of another opinion could be discussed then. Simon thought a little impatiently that the doctor was like a good many of his kind with busy country practices, a little too apt to make light of sickness unless it had a definite name.

Stella brought in drinks for the two men and sat on the arm of her father’s chair, watching Simon as he sat smoking.

“Come out and see my new bird bath before you go,” she said suddenly. “Father, don’t forget that prescription before you go to bed. Old Ferguson’s calling for it on his way to work in the morning.”

Simon went with her into the charming walled garden at the back of the house. The warm thick scent of night-scented stock hung on the still air. It was nearly dark.

“I
’m afraid we shall have to cancel our date for the cinema tomorrow night,” Simon said, breaking the silence. “Nicky won’t be fit enough to come with us.”

“Can’t we go alone?” asked Stella in a rather tense little voice. “We always were going by ourselves.”

“Well, I don’t think it would be very kind to leave her when she’s just got back. Do you?” he said, amused.

She stood fingering the carved stone of the new bird bath, a pale, still little figure, ghostly in the half light.

“Is Nicky really ill?” she asked, not looking at him.

“I hope not. Your father seems to think it’s nothing very serious.”

“Is that why she came back so suddenly?”

He was aware of some difference in her tonight, and answered with mild reproof:

“She had her own reasons for coming back.”

“Has she really been with Sir Charles?”

He was puzzled. “Why are you asking all these questions, Stella? Of course she was with her father.”

Stella lifted her face at last, and he was shocked to see the bitterness in it.

“I didn’t believe it,” she said clearly. “I thought she had gone with Michael.”

For a moment he didn’t take her seriously. She seemed like some obstinate child making absurd statements for the sake of making them.

“Why should you think that?” he asked gently, and she replied at once: “If it hadn’t been for you, Nicky would have married Michael.”

There was a brief silence. A bat flew darkly from the trees, dipping over the bird bath, and Stella instinctively shrank away.

“I don’t think, my dear, you’ve any real grounds for that remark,” Simon said in a. changed voice. “Nor should you have made it.”

She stared at him out of the dusk, her eyes enormous in her white face and began to speak in hard, jerky little sentences.

“Simon, you’re so blind! Don’t you see they’re just like each other? Everyone’s been talking
...
What did you want to marry her for? You weren’t really in love with her. She’s not your type. You’ll never be happy—you’re not happy now. Nicky’s never cared for you and you know it. All the Bredons take and take and give nothing in return. I was once in love with Michael myself—he and Nicky are just a pair. Why don’t you let her go?”

“I don’t think you realize what you’re saying,” Simon said, but he knew there was no stopping her, and he realized then that in renewing his old friendship with the girl he had done a dangerous thing.

Suddenly she was beside him, her small hands tugging at the lapels of his coat.

“Oh, Simon, why couldn’t you have waited?” she cried. “I’ve loved you so long. You could have been happy with me.”

He felt desperately sorry for her, and as he placed his hands over hers he wondered wearily why he had been such a blind fool.