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Authors: Rosalind Brett
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fish and a baked custard for her lunch and a cream- c heese salad for her supper. To please him, Venetia would have got through steak and onions.
The glass door was open all day. Except for two hours in the afternoon, when she was bidden to sleep, Thea and Blake were constantly about, either lounging in chairs half in and half out of the room, or playing table tennis wi thin Venetia’s view on the veranda.
Early next morning Thea left Bondolo. She brought Venetia’s breakfast and poured her first cup of coffee. “You will come again soon?” Venetia begged.
“With luck, I may snaffle next Sunday afternoon. I’ll do my best to let you know.”
“If you can’t, come just the same. It’s going to be wonderful, having you so near.”
Thea gave a tug to the brim of her hat and a pat to the lapel of her suit. “I’m going to enjoy it, too.” A pause. “Do take care, Venetia. Blake must love you very much and you owe it to him not to do anything risky.”
She reverted to her usual briskness. “Well, wish me luck in my new job.”
“I do, with all my heart. I shall think of you often during the day.”
Thea laughed. “You can let up while Blake’s about, and don’t remind him too often that I work for my living. He has the masculine type of self-respect that demands complete dependence upon him of his womenfolk. The fights we’ve had about it!”
It struck neither of them as odd that Thea should be elucidating Blake to Blake’s wife. But Thea’s expression, as she drove away from the estate, was grave. Sunday, with Venetia recovering and Blake natural and companionable, had allayed her suspicions of the day before. She had been able to assure herself that her brother’s curt welcome was the outcome of anxiety, and Venetia’s relief at the arrival of another woman understandable in a young wife who had been too much alone.
No one who knew Blake would expect him to be lavish with endearments in front of others, but wasn’t his behaviour abnormally cold? Perhaps her impression that Blake treated his wife too much as a child was mistaken. Surely it was obvious to a man of his years that Venetia craved his love and tenderness, that however young, where he was concerned she was a woman?
Venetia was unfledged, of course; she wasn’t yet nineteen. Nevertheless, Thea was certain that both spirit and intensity dwelt within her young sister-in-law. Her flowering was up to Blake.
This morning, saying goodbye to him, Thea had ventured an opinion.
“Venetia’s stronger than she looks, Blake. She shouldn’t be wrapped in cotton wool.”
“She gets around—rides and plays tennis,” he’d answered, without expression.
“Not as much as she should. Time enough to curb her activities when she’s going to have a baby.”
Blake hadn’t replied for a minute. Then he’d said, with vicious coolness: “Mind your own damned business, Thea. Being a nurse doesn’t entitle you to use clinical arguments in the house.”
A clammy thought now brought her foot down hard upon the accelerator. Supposing Blake hadn’t married for love? Supposing he’d been prompted by a lesser emotion, such as pity allied with mere fondness, and Venetia were doomed to endure his tolerance and unintentional cruelties?
Thea could picture nothing more tragic than being married to, but not loved by, a man like Blake.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DURING the following days Venetia had cause to be almost thankful that she tarried too long in the sun last Saturday. It was good to have Blake come into the room where she sat and lean over to leave a kiss, however light, upon the top of her head or the curve of her neck. And it was star-studded heaven to have him spending the evenings with her on the veranda or in the lounge. It was strange how her helplessness had shaken the barriers.
The next Saturday he asked over the Clarkes and a man they had staying with them. To even up the number, Natalie Benham was roped in.
Natalie was popular in the
The glass door was open all day. Except for two hours in the afternoon, when she was bidden to sleep, Thea and Blake were constantly about, either lounging in chairs half in and half out of the room, or playing table tennis wi thin Venetia’s view on the veranda.
Early next morning Thea left Bondolo. She brought Venetia’s breakfast and poured her first cup of coffee. “You will come again soon?” Venetia begged.
“With luck, I may snaffle next Sunday afternoon. I’ll do my best to let you know.”
“If you can’t, come just the same. It’s going to be wonderful, having you so near.”
Thea gave a tug to the brim of her hat and a pat to the lapel of her suit. “I’m going to enjoy it, too.” A pause. “Do take care, Venetia. Blake must love you very much and you owe it to him not to do anything risky.”
She reverted to her usual briskness. “Well, wish me luck in my new job.”
“I do, with all my heart. I shall think of you often during the day.”
Thea laughed. “You can let up while Blake’s about, and don’t remind him too often that I work for my living. He has the masculine type of self-respect that demands complete dependence upon him of his womenfolk. The fights we’ve had about it!”
It struck neither of them as odd that Thea should be elucidating Blake to Blake’s wife. But Thea’s expression, as she drove away from the estate, was grave. Sunday, with Venetia recovering and Blake natural and companionable, had allayed her suspicions of the day before. She had been able to assure herself that her brother’s curt welcome was the outcome of anxiety, and Venetia’s relief at the arrival of another woman understandable in a young wife who had been too much alone.
No one who knew Blake would expect him to be lavish with endearments in front of others, but wasn’t his behaviour abnormally cold? Perhaps her impression that Blake treated his wife too much as a child was mistaken. Surely it was obvious to a man of his years that Venetia craved his love and tenderness, that however young, where he was concerned she was a woman?
Venetia was unfledged, of course; she wasn’t yet nineteen. Nevertheless, Thea was certain that both spirit and intensity dwelt within her young sister-in-law. Her flowering was up to Blake.
This morning, saying goodbye to him, Thea had ventured an opinion.
“Venetia’s stronger than she looks, Blake. She shouldn’t be wrapped in cotton wool.”
“She gets around—rides and plays tennis,” he’d answered, without expression.
“Not as much as she should. Time enough to curb her activities when she’s going to have a baby.”
Blake hadn’t replied for a minute. Then he’d said, with vicious coolness: “Mind your own damned business, Thea. Being a nurse doesn’t entitle you to use clinical arguments in the house.”
A clammy thought now brought her foot down hard upon the accelerator. Supposing Blake hadn’t married for love? Supposing he’d been prompted by a lesser emotion, such as pity allied with mere fondness, and Venetia were doomed to endure his tolerance and unintentional cruelties?
Thea could picture nothing more tragic than being married to, but not loved by, a man like Blake.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DURING the following days Venetia had cause to be almost thankful that she tarried too long in the sun last Saturday. It was good to have Blake come into the room where she sat and lean over to leave a kiss, however light, upon the top of her head or the curve of her neck. And it was star-studded heaven to have him spending the evenings with her on the veranda or in the lounge. It was strange how her helplessness had shaken the barriers.
The next Saturday he asked over the Clarkes and a man they had staying with them. To even up the number, Natalie Benham was roped in.
Natalie was popular in the
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