I and My True Love (28 page)

“Soldiers don’t have that kind of money,” Kate said, but she hoped Minna was somehow right. She ripped the envelope and pulled out an engraved card. She stood for a moment in amazement. It was Stewart Hallis’s card. He had written:
Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner. Will you?

How useful French can be, she thought angrily, to give an appearance of wit even to an apology. And then she wondered what could have happened to make Mr. Hallis suddenly so humble. Was it a sense of guilt or a wish to please that had bought so many flowers? He was perfectly justified in a sense of guilt after last night’s performance on the terrace. But as for a wish to please—

She tore up the card and said, “Minna, take the flowers home.”

“But—”

“I don’t want them.” She touched Minna’s shoulder. “I’m going out to lunch. Goodbye, Minna.” It was a cowardly escape, but she couldn’t face explanations, lamentations and renewed tears.

“Goodbye, Miss Kate,” Minna said, lost in the delicate petals of the flowers.

In the hall there was Walter, as correct as ever, to open the door. He noticed the overnight case.

“If anyone ’phones—” she said, trying to keep her voice casual, “If Lieutenant Turner telephones during the week-end, tell him that Mrs. Clark will know where I am. I’ll send for my suitcases as soon as I find an apartment.” An apartment? A room was more like it.

“Very good, miss.”

“Have you called Mr. Pleydell yet?”

“I thought that if Mrs. Pleydell didn’t return for luncheon, I ought to call Mr. Pleydell’s office then.”

Walter, you can skip as many breakfast trays as you like, she thought as she looked at him. But she restrained herself from embarrassing him by shaking his hand. She smiled and hurried down the steps, leaving him, as he had always dreamed of being, in mastery of the house.

20

The Clarks lived on the top floor of a quiet building, one of the many mansions now converted into small apartments or residential hotels which stood along this pleasant stretch of street, tree-shaded, withdrawn, a tidal basin of its own between the streams of traffic on Connecticut Avenue and Scott Circle.

The house itself was hideously imaginative in a Victorian way, built in the era of well-corseted ladies and stiffly moustached gentlemen. With sideboards groaning under polished silver, rooms darkened by velvet curtains, windows blocked by tables and lace mats and rubber plants in Dresden flowerpots, it must have been a formidable monster to have as a pet, gobbling up money and attention as easily as it wore out servants and quelled children. But now, a contractor had ruthlessly gutted it out, leaving the strong shell and the high ceilings, and he had shaped apartments and kept them simple enough for maidless households.

The staircase had been given linoleum to replace its Turkish carpet, and it hugged the safe cream-coloured wall as it passed two brown doors on each landing. It was a steep climb, but that lowered the rent. Kate, as she reached the last flight of stairs, was thinking that the interior of the house was neat and certainly far from gaudy—its bare hospital air was almost as depressing as the florid gingerbread decoration it had displaced. And then she came to the Clarks’ door. It had been painted a violent red. Kate stood looking at it.

“Like it?” Amy asked cheerfully, suddenly opening the door. “Most people usually stand and stare.” She laughed at the expression on Kate’s face. “All my own work,” she added proudly, “so don’t criticise the brushstrokes. Come in, Kate. Careful, now!” She stepped back cautiously as she offered Kate her hand. “I do block up the doorway, don’t I? But in a week or so people can stop calculating how much space to give me.”

She walked slowly into the sitting-room, yet her movements gave the appearance of being more deliberate than tired. She seemed inexhaustible in the way she talked, and she certainly looked better than Kate had ever seen her. All the anxiety that Kate remembered had gone from her face. There was colour in her cheeks and her grey eyes were clear and sparkling. “Sit down, Kate,” she said. “Drop your case anywhere you like. Are you leaving Payton’s house, too?”

“Sylvia—is she here?” Kate asked, beginning to wonder if she had misinterpreted Amy’s telephone call.

“Sleeping. I thought she’d be awake by this time. However—
do
sit down, Kate. Relax. Sylvia isn’t the first woman to leave her husband, you know. Do I sound heartless? I’m not, really. I’m only sorry now that she didn’t take my advice years ago and leave Payton then.” She picked up a ball of wool. “By the way, can you knit? Here, take this: just purl and plain for ten rows.” She handed over a shapeless piece of knitting to Kate, and found an equally shapeless piece for herself.

Kate looked round the room, not very large, simply furnished in clear light colours, modern shapes and sparse arrangements.

“Easy to keep,” Amy said with a smile.
“And
done on a budget. We’ll have to move, of course, eventually.”

Kate said, “I like it,” and she bent her head over the knitting. An hour ago, as she stood at the opened window of her bedroom, she would never have guessed that her visit to Amy would begin with purl and plain for ten rows.

Amy did the talking.

At one o’clock, Amy said, “I’d better waken Sylvia. Not that lunch will ruin with keeping—it’s all simple. But I’m ravenous.” She folded away her knitting, glanced at the table which was waiting, and laid a hand on Kate’s shoulder as she passed by. “Feeling better now, darling? Pour yourself a glass of sherry. Martin had to go to the office today. He’ll be back here when he can. Did you hear about his promotion? Isn’t it wonderful? I used to worry so much—well, because it
is
terrible watching your husband not getting any recognition, being passed over for men who aren’t half as clever. Sorry, Kate—” She smiled. “Between friends, a little praise of one’s husband can be forgiven.”

“It’s good to hear.” Kate looked round the room again. This was all good, she thought. “People who are happy,” she said slowly, “ought to be subsidised.”

“Why?” Amy’s eyes sparkled with the compliment.

“To encourage the others,” Kate said.

“Now, who said that—apart from you, darling?” Amy frowned, trying to remember. “Wasn’t it the reason given for shooting an admiral when he lost a battle?”

As she went slowly towards the bedroom, the telephone rang.

“I’ll take it,” Kate volunteered, picking up the receiver. She smiled happily to Amy. “It’s Bob Turner,” she said. “For me.”

* * *

“Voltaire,” Amy said triumphantly as she returned from the bedroom. “Voltaire said it. Didn’t he?”

But Kate didn’t answer. The call was over, but she still stood by the telephone, her hand on the replaced receiver.

Amy thought, and what’s happened now—now, just after I had thought I had done such a good job? She said, “Sylvia is getting dressed. She’s much better. She’s quite calm. Please, Kate—don’t worry.” She felt suddenly defeated, and tired. She said, “You’ll find the salad bowl in the kitchen, and the cold chicken is in the refrigerator. And—”

Kate came to life, and noticed Amy. “Sit down, Amy. I’ll get everything.” It’s your turn to take charge, she told herself. She would wait until lunch was finished before she broke Bob’s news. Or should she tell it, at all? Better think that over, she decided.

“Hallo, Sylvia,” she said, as her cousin came into the room. Her smile was as normal as her voice, and there was no emotionalism to emphasise the strained look on Sylvia’s face. “Come and help me with lunch,” she said.

Amy, watching them both, took a deep breath of relief. Thank God, when Martin got back from that meeting at his office, he’d find three sane women planning Sylvia’s journey to California instead of three wailing females fluttering around with tear-stained faces and embarrassing confidences. Dramatics were all very well, but life had a practical way of refusing to stop to admire them. And confidences were truths told in a moment but regretted for years.

* * *

When Martin Clark returned he found Sylvia and Kate still sitting over their last cup of coffee at the table, Amy resting comfortably on the couch, and all of them talking. At least, Kate and his wife were making the conversation, but Sylvia was sharing it as she listened.

He hung up his hat in the small hall, surprised and relieved. For a moment, as he straightened his tie in the mirror, he remembered this morning at half-past six when he had stood in this hall, drawing a dressing-gown over his pyjamas, his hair still ruffled from the warm pillow, grumbling to himself, “My God, can’t a man get an hour’s more sleep?” And then he had opened the door angrily and found Sylvia, cold, shivering, almost hysterical, shrinking from his touch.

He hesitated for another moment, looking at the neatly folded newspaper which he had brought in with him. He laid it on the hall table. Better postpone breaking its news. Perhaps he’d better conceal it entirely. And yet, Sylvia would have to know. She’d learn the gossip soon enough, and it might be better told when her emotions were numb, as they were now. Better, too, to learn it among friends. Still undecided, he picked the newspaper up, and carried it into the living-room. As a compromise, he threw it down casually on the coffee table.

Sylvia rose. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Martin?”

Amy, noticing the expression on his face as he threw down the paper, said, “Was it a bad day, darling?”

He bent over the couch to kiss her. “Just about what you’d expect,” he said. “Yes, I’d love a cup of coffee. Hallo, Kate.”

“Is that the afternoon edition of the
Echo?”
Kate asked.

“Yes.” He looked at her, wondering if she knew. But she lifted a cigarette and looked round for a match.

“I wouldn’t take its advice on apartments,” Amy said. “It’s only reliable on gossip.” She laughed and explained, “We’ve been discussing Kate’s prospects in room-hunting, Martin. I’ve told her to stay here for tonight, anyway, and she can walk around tomorrow and see the field.”

Martin nodded.

“What’s the situation about air travel?” Amy asked. “Sylvia wants to leave Washington today.”

“Yes,” Sylvia said. “I may as well.”

“No space on any planes today,” Martin said. “There’s a good train, though, leaving in a couple of hours.”

“My efficient husband,” Amy said proudly.

“Your husband’s efficient secretary,” Martin said with a smile. “And I got some money, too.” Enough for the journey, his eyes told his wife.

“So did I—at the drugstore, bless Mr. Leibowitz,” Amy said. “Sylvia, if you’d rather travel by air, you can sleep here tonight and catch the plane tomorrow. You and Kate will have to share the couch, though.”

Sylvia looked uncertain for a moment. “Thank you,” she said in a low voice. “All of you.” Then she added something about fresh coffee, and went into the kitchen.

Martin looked after her.

“She’s all right,” his wife reassured him. “It’s quite natural for a woman to feel like crying when she’s shown a little kindness.”

“How strong is she?” Martin asked, dropping his voice.

“She’s all right,” Amy repeated, almost sharply.

“Yes,” Kate said quietly. “I think she ought to be told, Martin.” She looked over towards the folded newspaper.

“Who told you?” he asked quickly.

“Bob Turner warned me. Baker—that’s one of the men working with him—began talking about it over the lunch table.”

“What is it? What
is
it?” Amy asked, and reached for the newspaper. “Gossip column, I suppose? Which one, which one, Martin?”

Martin looked at her unhappily. “Keep quiet, Amy. Don’t get into an uproar. It’s only gossip, anyway.” But he knew that the small paragraph couldn’t be as easily dismissed as that. Too many people, like the talkative Baker, read the
Echo
early afternoon edition. Too many people, who pretended to dislike sensational chit-chat, found they secretly enjoyed a little inside information.

“I’ve found it,” Amy said. “It’s in Bill Weisler’s column.”

“I’d like to see it, too,” Kate said. Perhaps it wasn’t as obvious as she had feared. Perhaps she had magnified it, simply because Bob had tried to pretend it was nothing. But if he thought it nothing, why had he telephoned her?

“I don’t believe it,” Amy said. And yet she looked anxiously at Martin. Bill Weisler usually wrote a fairly accurate column: he had the reputation of not printing rumours unless they came from reliable sources.

Kate was studying the paragraph, too, her face worried and tense. “It’s worse than I feared,” she admitted.

“Well?” Martin asked her. He nodded towards the kitchen.

“I still think Sylvia ought to know. It’s better—to know everything. Then you see just what you have to face.”

Everything? Martin wondered. No, he couldn’t tell Sylvia everything, nor Kate nor Amy either. He hoped to God that the newspapers didn’t get hold of everything. “All right,” he said, “I’ll show her this.” He picked up the newspaper, folding it back gloomily, looking once more at the pitiless words.

Sylvia wasn’t mentioned by name, although her description as “one of the three famous Virginian beauties who used to startle Washington in the early forties,” and as “wife of a high-placed Government official whose confidential work deals with the humdrum secrets of international trade, perhaps as a balance to the charm and elegance of his famous Georgetown house,” would certainly mark her down for those who knew the Pleydells. But Jan Brovic was mentioned by name; and the question was raised why he and Sylvia should have been meeting each other so secretly. It wasn’t answered, the inference being left for the readers to draw.

Sylvia came back into the room carrying the coffee-pot. “Yes,” she said evenly, “show me whatever it is.” She put the coffee-pot on the table, carefully, unhurriedly. And then she held out her hand for the newspaper. She read the Weisler column. “Did you find this for yourself?” she asked Martin.

“No. I heard about it.”

“At the office?”

“Yes.”

“I’m—I’m sorry. Then Payton will know too, and he will really believe that I set out to destroy him. Yes, that’s what he told me last night. I had chosen Jan Brovic to fall in love with so as to destroy Payton completely.” She shook her head. “It really wasn’t true. Believe me, you can’t calculate love.”