“That’s it, lay on the butter thick.” He went to the cupboard, took out a bottle and drew the cork. “He’s the softest touch I ever handled.”
“Watch out though, with her around.”
“I know what I’m doing. Besides, we have to make the most of him while he’s got it. Before she finishes, that culo will take everything off him.”
“Chella fetente va a ferni c’ ’o mette ’nterra,” said Elena, with meaning.
At this prediction of complete emasculation for their employer they looked at each other and burst into fits of laughter.
Chapter Nineteen
Three days later, at the hour of twilight on Wednesday afternoon, the Humber utility car, mud-bespattered as from a journey, slid unobtrusively through the village of Schwansee, swung discreetly into the familiar acacia drive and drew up at Moray’s villa.
“Well, here we are, Frida.” Pulling off his driving gloves he stated the obvious with a congratulatory smile, adding, with a glance at the dashboard clock, “and dead on time.”
The successful secrecy with which they had invested their wedding gave him a distinct glow of achievement; it had all gone exactly according to plan. He squeezed out of the driving seat and, hurrying round the car, helped her with uxorious solicitude to alight. At the same moment the door of the villa swung open and Arturo appeared, advanced with a determined smile of welcome.
“Everything all right?” Moray asked aside, as the man removed the suitcases from the boot.
“Quite all right, sir. We have the salon in order again with the china all arranged. But the library and the other rooms will take more time.”
“You’ll have time. We shall be off tomorrow for quite a long spell.” He seemed to hesitate. “There were no messages of any kind?”
“None, sir.”
Impossible to repress that involuntary breath of relief. He had feared the possibility of a last-minute telephone call, a distressing message awaiting his return. But no, they had gone off, without a word, exactly as Frida had predicted, off to the Mission, to their work—not his, it had never been his—yes, their life’s work, which, by its very complexities, its difficulties and dangers, would absorb them, make Kathy speedily forget. How misguided he had been ever to imagine that he could beneficially link his future to that dear dedicated girl, yet how wise, in her interests and his own, to realise his mistake before it was too late. And now there would be no more idealistic nonsense, no more reaching after spiritual moonbeams: safely married to a mature and distinguished woman he experienced a warm feeling of security, a sense of having at last reached journey’s end.
“Bring tea quickly, Arturo,” he said, following Frida into the drawing-room. Seating himself beside her on the Chesterfield settee, he glanced round appreciatively. Yes, everything was in order, exactly as before—the word had now a definite historic import, like A.D. or B.C., denoting the demarcation between his pre- and post-redemption periods. His pictures bloomed more attractively than ever—God, to think he could ever have existed without them—his silver shone, his porcelain, freshly washed and arranged, gleamed in the light of a heart-warming fire of crackling cedar logs.
“Isn’t this gemütlich?” He gave her an intimate smile. “To be back, together, and to have managed it all so cleverly.”
“But of course, David. You will find I manage things always well.” She gave him a short pleasant nod. “You will see later, when we are established at the Seeburg.”
He was about to answer—a compliment was on his tongue—when Arturo came in, wheeling the tea trolley, so instead, rubbing his hands, he said: “Ah, tea. Will you pour, darling?”
Meanwhile Arturo, having adjusted the trolley, was offering him the salver from the hall.
“Your mail, sir.”
“What a lot of letters,” she exclaimed, lifting the silver teapot—George I, 1702. “It appears that you are an important man.”
“Mostly business.” He shrugged, running them through. But one, apparently, was not. With a shrinking of his nerves he recognised Kathy’s round, even writing. But, glancing covertly at the date stamps on the envelope, he was immediately reassured. The latter had been posted on the 17th, four days before her departure, and received at Schwansee on Monday the 20th, the day he left for Basle with Frida. As such, thank heaven, it could contain neither reproaches nor regrets. With a cautious side glance at Frida, who was still pouring tea, he slid it unobserved into his side pocket—he would read it later, when he was alone.
“Since we speak of business,” she added sugar and lemon and handed him his cup, “you must one day soon tell me of your affairs—perhaps when we are at Montecatini, yes? I have a very good head for these things. The actions of the German chemicals, for example, these are strong at this moment.”
“They are,” he agreed, tolerantly, as he leaned forward to cut the cake. “And we’re comfortably supplied with them.”
“That is nice. And German bonds. These also are affording a high rate of interest.”
“I see you’re going to be a great help, dear. Now try this. It’s Elena’s special recipe and she’s baked it in your honour.” He watched while she sampled the slice of cherry cake he handed her. “Good, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is good—quite good. But it can be better, much better. For one thing there is too much vanilla and too little fruit. Afterwards I will show her properly.”
“You’ll have to be tactful, dear. Elena is terribly touchy.”
“Oh, my poor David, you make me smile. As if I was without great experience! Why, at Kelienstein we had a staff, in and out, of fifteen persons, all requiring to be overseen. Here, I am sure, you have been ill served and also well cheated. No doubt your good Elena has many private arrangements, besides taking out fresh butter and eggs, while your wonderful Arturo—don’t I know these Neapolitans—is all smiling in front and all stealing behind.”
A momentary misgiving troubled him, gone when she patted his hand with a protective smile.
“Another cup of your nice Twinings. That, at least, I shall not change.”
How gracefully she managed the tea things—to the manner born, neither nervous like Kathy nor clumsy like Doris, who in those distant almost forgotten days had always upset things during her attacks. Yes, after all his troubled years he had been right in this, his ultimate decision. He had always aspired to a well-bred woman, not only for the social advantages she would bring him, but also for that extra refinement with which, from her breeding, she would enrich their conjugal intimacies. Ah, yes, Frida would remake his life. And how restful was the immediate prospect: Montecatini, the Polaris cruise—she had already made their cabin reservations at the American Express in Basle—and then all the interest of restoring the Seeburg. Comfortable though his villa was, it would never be more than a bourgeois little house, really unfitted to hold his treasures which would now adorn and transform the big schloss above the lake. Yet, through his complacency, as he sipped his tea in the warm comfortable room, he could not restrain his thoughts from reverting, not exactly self-accusingly, but with a kind of pricking discomfort, to that plane, which even now, after its overnight stop at Lisbon, must be winging towards Luanda. Surely by now she must have got over the worst of it. She was young, she would recover, sorrow did not last forever, time was the great healer . . . He consoled himself with these and other profundities.
“I believe you are asleep.” A half-chiding, half-amused voice recalled him.
“No—no—not really. But on that subject, Frida, must you really spend the night at Seeburg? Why not stay here? After all, we are married.”