Read Online Brittle Bondage by Rosalind Brett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosalind Brett
Ads: Link
district, daring on a horse and an earnest farmer as well as an exceptionally good-looking woman with dress sense. One took it that she was unmarried from choice. Margery said that owning a farm had spiced her self-esteem, and she did have an air of well-being and arrogance which Venetia rather admired, though she preferred Thea’s type of self-possession. Difficult to imagine a person of Natalie’s hard brightness handing out medicines and consolation for twelve hours a day. Whenever Venetia heard her talking with Blake it sounded as if she had more sympathy for horses and cattle than for human beings.
The evening passed pleasantly, and when their guests had gone Blake complimented her on the dinner and the unusual savouries she had concocted to accompany the nightcaps.
“They weren’t really necessary,” she said, “but the whole lot disappeared. You people eat so much.”
“Blame the outdoor life, and your excellent food. Who taught you how to make those creamy castles with the cherry on top that we had at dinner?”
“I got the recipe from a book. Mosi wanted to serve chocolate puddings again, but I wouldn’t have them. The boy has no imagination.”
He grinned. “Poor Mosi. He came and entreated me to remove you from the kitchen. He said: ‘Baas, that missus won’t have no chicken this night. She won’t have no choc o late pudding, and no rice in the soup. Baas, you go hungry this night.’ I kicked him out.”
She smiled up at him. “That was nice of you, but weren’t you uneasy?”
“Not in the least. I was pretty certain that as you’d undertaken to dine six people, dine six people you would. Did you think I hadn’t noticed the recent changes from Mosi’s stock list of dishes?”
“You haven’t said.”
“I’m saying it now.” With precision he extinguished the two electric lights and picked up the unwieldy paraffin lamp from a corner table. Carelessly, he enquired, “What is the largest number we can entertain to dinner at one time—as many as thirty?”
“Oh no!” She searched his face with startled eyes. “I should be scared into fits, unless we could hire a first - class cook. Do we have to give a party of that size?”
“It would be for your birthday.”
She coloured slightly and moved, as though to precede him from the lounge. Hesitantly she said: “I’d rather we didn’t make too much of it. Don’t you think it would be much more pleasant if we kept it to ourselves—just the two of us?”
In a curious tone he said: “Maybe it would,” and held back the door for her. “No need to decide yet . Quite a lot can happen in a month.”
As Venetia got into bed that night she pondered his sudden withdrawal from the subject of her birthday. Instinctively she knew he would be glad when she was nineteen, and intuition also told her that his personal desires were all against a huge function to celebrate the occasion. He would like to give her a birthday party, just as he enjoyed giving her everything she had gone without all her life, but he disliked publicizing her age. There was an immense difference between entertaining close friends for a few hours and filling the house with inquisitive and hilarious acquaintances; though Venetia had a deep and throbbing awareness that if her marriage with Blake were normal the difference between their ages would not matter, and everything and everyone else would recede into their proper perspective.
Sitting up in bed, arms hugging tented knees, she wondered tremulously if he was beginning to love her. Sometimes, when he spoke gently or teasingly, she had come perilously near to casting control to the winds, and laying her arms about his neck and pleading for his lips. Shy reserve had checked spontaneity, and then came the chill of remembrance: her father’s plea that Venetia be taken care of, and Blake’s interpretation of it. Bitterness would clog her throat, and involuntarily she shrank back into the armour of the cool, fixed
The evening passed pleasantly, and when their guests had gone Blake complimented her on the dinner and the unusual savouries she had concocted to accompany the nightcaps.
“They weren’t really necessary,” she said, “but the whole lot disappeared. You people eat so much.”
“Blame the outdoor life, and your excellent food. Who taught you how to make those creamy castles with the cherry on top that we had at dinner?”
“I got the recipe from a book. Mosi wanted to serve chocolate puddings again, but I wouldn’t have them. The boy has no imagination.”
He grinned. “Poor Mosi. He came and entreated me to remove you from the kitchen. He said: ‘Baas, that missus won’t have no chicken this night. She won’t have no choc o late pudding, and no rice in the soup. Baas, you go hungry this night.’ I kicked him out.”
She smiled up at him. “That was nice of you, but weren’t you uneasy?”
“Not in the least. I was pretty certain that as you’d undertaken to dine six people, dine six people you would. Did you think I hadn’t noticed the recent changes from Mosi’s stock list of dishes?”
“You haven’t said.”
“I’m saying it now.” With precision he extinguished the two electric lights and picked up the unwieldy paraffin lamp from a corner table. Carelessly, he enquired, “What is the largest number we can entertain to dinner at one time—as many as thirty?”
“Oh no!” She searched his face with startled eyes. “I should be scared into fits, unless we could hire a first - class cook. Do we have to give a party of that size?”
“It would be for your birthday.”
She coloured slightly and moved, as though to precede him from the lounge. Hesitantly she said: “I’d rather we didn’t make too much of it. Don’t you think it would be much more pleasant if we kept it to ourselves—just the two of us?”
In a curious tone he said: “Maybe it would,” and held back the door for her. “No need to decide yet . Quite a lot can happen in a month.”
As Venetia got into bed that night she pondered his sudden withdrawal from the subject of her birthday. Instinctively she knew he would be glad when she was nineteen, and intuition also told her that his personal desires were all against a huge function to celebrate the occasion. He would like to give her a birthday party, just as he enjoyed giving her everything she had gone without all her life, but he disliked publicizing her age. There was an immense difference between entertaining close friends for a few hours and filling the house with inquisitive and hilarious acquaintances; though Venetia had a deep and throbbing awareness that if her marriage with Blake were normal the difference between their ages would not matter, and everything and everyone else would recede into their proper perspective.
Sitting up in bed, arms hugging tented knees, she wondered tremulously if he was beginning to love her. Sometimes, when he spoke gently or teasingly, she had come perilously near to casting control to the winds, and laying her arms about his neck and pleading for his lips. Shy reserve had checked spontaneity, and then came the chill of remembrance: her father’s plea that Venetia be taken care of, and Blake’s interpretation of it. Bitterness would clog her throat, and involuntarily she shrank back into the armour of the cool, fixed
Similar Books
