Brittle Bondage

CHAPTER
ONE

A
WARM, sea-smelling breeze belled the curtains and brought close the sound of waves splitting over the Umsanga rocks. Nearer, almost within touch from the hotel window, a date palm gestured, its lowest spears brushing the crimson trumpets of hibiscus and the scarlet stars which clothed the poinsettia shrubs. A family of yellow weaver birds kept up an incessant chattering in the pines nearby.

Only a short while ago Venetia had been enchanted with the reds and greens of the grounds, the blue sea and bluer sky, the rich brown rocks and white sand. Now the vividness not only hurt her eyes, but it touched a nerve in the centre of her being. She laid down her pen, rested her small chin in the palm of her hand, stared out over the exotic vista, and sighed. She hadn’t known that framing an advertisement called for so much ingenuity and absolute cunning.

Her last attempt read, “Young lady returning to England is
w
illin
g
to act as nursemaid to one or two children on the voyage
...”
It sounded bare and begging.

Venetia’s notions about payment for such services were of the haziest, but presumably she would travel at her employer’s expense, thus hoarding her few pounds till she could find a post in England; that was her intention. She wasn’t trained for anything, but she had her A levels, and that still counted for something.

She let out another sorrowful sigh. How grateful she would have been for the four months in South Africa if they had not ended so tragically. It seemed so much longer than four months since she had landed at Durban with her father, happy and confident in his recovery. And it was in another world, under cold, grey skies with snowflakes hitting against the window-pane and logs blazing in the grate, that they had made the tremendous decision which had brought them half-way across the world.

Perhaps because she had never known her mother, Venetia had always fussed over Richard Lindley. Even as a ten-year-old she had reminded him to wear his thick shoes when it rained, and to gargle at night. During his colds she had watched over him with all the agonies and fears of the very young, and as March receded before spring blossoming and warmth came into the sun, the constriction within her, which had become synonymous with winter, gave way, and she began to talk of where they would go this year for his fortnight’s holiday.

His illness just before her eighteenth birthday had been frightening. She had not been present at the doctor’s consultations with the managing director of the company with whom her father had for many years been chief accountant, but the suggestion that Mr. Lindley be allowed a year
’
s leave of absence in which to seek health in a better climate had illumined the little flat in Hampstead like a beam of purest light. How they had planned and thrilled together! How they had counted their money and apportioned it!
...
and how swiftly events had moved since then! Swiftly and inevitably, as if Destiny had had them just where she wanted them.

Abstractedly, Venetia watched a long, silver car glide round the drive to halt at the front entrance of the hotel. She noticed the number-plate, and her interest warmed even before the loose-jointed legs swung out and the well
-
built top half of Blake Garrard followed them. Surely he hadn’t driven all the way from his sugar plantation merely to wish her good-bye? But Blake was capable of just that. He was the only close friend she and her father had made in this country.

She turned quickly to the mirror, passed a comb through the silky chestnut waves and picked up her handkerchief. The telephone rang and she crossed to where it stood on the table beside her bed.

“Hullo, Venetia,” came the quiet, compelling tones. “This is Blake.”

Sudden tears caught in her throat. “I’m ... so glad.”

“Are you all right?”

“Not
...
too bad.”

“Your letter was delayed or I’d have come before. I won’t say any more over the phone, my dear. I’m in the
hotel lounge. Come for a drive with me.

The receiver dropped back with a ping, but Venetia did
not move at once.

Blake’s voice had brought him so clearly before her. Square-featured, tanned, his dark hair thick and crisp, showing the grey streak or two at his
temples
only when he had slicked it down to conform with a dinner-jacket. She had never minded those few grey hairs
...
had like
d
them, in fact.

She and her father had been a week at Umsanga when Blake came to the hotel for a six-weeks’ vacation. The two men had become friendly at once, and Blake had treated Venetia as if she were a
ni
ce, clever child who quickly put into practice his advice as to how to throw a line and keep her seat on a pony. He teased her, threatened her with undignified penalties if she swam too near the rocks and pretended to disapprove when she wore
lipstick.

A
fter Blake had gone back, he had written several times to her father. Once, folding a letter and smilingly replacing it in its envelope, Richard had said: “I
hope you’ll be lucky enough to marry someone like Blake, Venetia, though I don’t suppose it’s possible to find his qualities in a younger man. In any case, it’ll be years before you’ll be ready to marry.”

She had laughed. Blake was old, about thirty-four, and in some ways he behaved even older than that. But it was so pleasant to hear from him, and maybe before they returned to England they might be able to accept his invitation to Bondolo. She would like to see what sugar looked like when it was growing and to have fun with Blake in his own surroundings. Her father’s death had vetoed that.

Blake was waiting in the wide ma
in
lounge, near to the open doors. As she approached he smiled with sympathy and a hint of the usual avuncular patronage, but when she stopped in front of him the shrewd grey glance took in her thinness and pallor, and the shadows under her blue eyes. She looked very young and weighed-down. His smile sharpened, and he grasped her elbow and led her outside.

“We’ll go along the coast and look at the sea,” he said, as she slipped into the car. “Comfy?”

“I mostly am when you’re about.” She waited till they had curved from the drive to the coast road before adding, “I was trying very hard to get used to the idea that I might never see you again.”

I promised to spend some time with you before
y
ou left.”

“I know, but
...
” She drew in her lip and stared at the horizon.

He let a few minutes elapse. Then: “Tying things up inside you is no good at all. Hadn’t you better talk about it, Venetia?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said tonelessly. “He just
... bathed at the wrong hour of the day and caught a chill.”

“Y
our letter told me that. What about you?”

“I?” Her head came round. “What do you mean?”

“
You haven’t anyone in England, and a girl of your age can’t float around the world without an anchor. Besides, I seem to remember that you thought this country marvellous and never wanted to leave it.”

“That’s how it was, but circumstances have changed.”

“
You don
’
t want to go?” It was more than a query. Venetia found herself gazing intently at his profile and wondering what lay behind his quizzical yet shrewd expression.

“No, Blake, I don’t. I meant every word I said about South Africa, but I know very little about the country, and I do know England. I can earn a living in London—”

“
What sort of living ... a small room near the stars and cocoa and biscuits? It’d be a long time before you could earn enough to keep yourself properly. I know England, too, though perhaps not so well as you do. Whatever the country, you’ve got to belong to someone or the whole business of living is pointless.”

She understood, only too poignantly, the truth of this. Her eyes were very frank as she answered, “You don’t belong to anybody.”

“I belong to Bondolo,” he answered abruptly. “I also have a charming sister who’s a nurse in Durban, and in some degree I suppose I belong to her.” He paused. “You’re not equipped to take care of yourself, Venetia. It isn’t merely a question of money—you need stability,
security.”

A pale glint of humour lightened her face and gave it an almost urchin quality. “That sounds grand. Where does one buy them?”

He lifted a hand from the wheel and used it to pat the fingers which lay in her lap.

“That’s better. You’ve an attractive little grin, and I mean to see a lot more of it.”

He swerved off the road, bumped across the grass till they could overlook an expanse of crags and gold-dusted rollers, and switched off.

“Since we’re agreed that you’d prefer to stay in South Africa and that it’s more satisfactory to belong to someone,” said Blake casually, “how would you like to belong
to me?”

“Better than anything in the world, but miracles like that don’t happen,” she said ruefully.

“A marriage license isn’t a miracle.”

She sat very still. Could it really be her heart thudding so noisily into the upholstery at her back? She must have heard him wrongly, or he was joking. He was trying to jerk her out of the well of depression. But no. He had an arm across the wheel and was half-facing her, his mouth and eyes grave.

“I mean it, Venetia. I’d never have a second
’
s peace if I let you return to England and job-hunting from some dinghy room, where you’d be half fed and hellishly lonely. The bare idea is nightmarish. The house at Bondolo is big; there are horses to ride, a tennis-court and swimming-pool. You’ll come to love the place, as I do.”

Her tones had gone queerly husky. “But
...
but
marriage
, Blake.”

“You’re too young for it—I’m well aware of that. Some girls wouldn’t be, at eighteen, but you are. You regard me as a dependable elder brother.” He shifted and peered through the windscreen at a descending gull, and took his time about adding, “So be it, then, till you feel differently. Marriage will give you my name and the right to live at Bondolo and make a home of the place. We’ll have lots of grand times together, and you’ll have nothing at all to worry about.”

With curious reluctance, she said, “I could never repay a gesture like that.”

Blake was amused. “Taking on a woman for life is hardly a gesture, little one. There’s a good deal more to it than that. And simply by needing my protection you’ll do me a heap of good. I’m on the way to going sour.” She did not speak, and he went on quietly: “I’m very fond of you, Venetia, and I’m sure I could make you happy. Bondolo needs youth and high spirits, and you’ll have plenty of both when you’ve put on some weight and feel more secure. You don’t have to decide at once. Live with the suggestion for a day or two.”

Night began to sketch in across the Indian Ocean, a swift piling up of purple, flame-tipped scarves. A small boat bounced by, far too close to the perilous coastline, and the two native oarsmen yelled imprecations at the waves. Blake talked, and, through a blur of strange sensations, Venetia tried to listen and sort out her emotions.

Marriage was a matter she had not yet seriously considered. She might have dreamed of being swept up by an impetuous lover whose outline was necessarily vague, but marriage, that beautiful and passionate extension of friendship, was something to read about in the classics and to hope for in the distant future. Brought near, with Blake as the solid and virile partner, the subject assumed larger dimensions. Except that Blake was different, somehow, from the masterful comrade who had hoisted her into the saddle and snapped at her for taking risks which she, sweet tenderfoot, hadn’t realized existed. And the difference in him wasn’t only through respect for her grief. There was more to it than that, she was not yet sufficiently a student of human nature to work it out.

It would be wonderful to have a home and be cared for, to have his strong presence at the back of her for the rest of her days. Already she loved him for his generosity; and, for all his arrogant assumption of authority, he was the best companion in the world. Had she needed further assurance, the recollection of her father’s faith in Blake was enough.

Next day she drove with him to Durban and to some of the gay beaches on the way back to Umsanga. They had tea at a bungalow and climbed to a pinnacle to view a tiny gem of a town set in viridian, tree-encrusted hills. On the narrow ledge his arm supported her, and his shoulder was close to her face. She felt his male warmth and his enveloping strength. She smiled up into his lean, brown face, tremulous with new happiness and eager to share it with him.

“All set?” he asked, meaning more than the panorama or the physical security of her position.

She nodded wordlessly. Her hair filled with the breeze and her collar blew open, revealing the tender curve from throat to chin.

“Good,” he said. “Leave everything to me. From now on you’re my responsibility.”

They were married at ten o’clock on a white-hot morning in the little church at Umsanga. When they returned to the hotel an Indian waiter and one of the native boys were standing by their luggage, waiting to load it into
th
e car. Blake sent his sister a telegram, paid the bills, distributed tips and got into the driving-seat beside Venetia.

“Ten past eleven,” he said. “If I step on it we’ll be home in time for a late lunch.”

Venetia’s hands were clasped upon her white suede bag; slim fingers rather nervously sensitive to the unyielding platinum band.