“Yes, we are nice married people, and for that reason must be sensible.”
“But why, dear Frida? It’s been quite, well, difficult for me, away with you two nights . . . and separate rooms.”
She laughed, well pleased.
“I am glad you have the same feeling as I. But for newly-weddeds it is better to make the honeymoon away. For me there is more novelty. And for you, especially, it is better to be free of recent associations that might trouble you.”
“Yes,” he agreed, unwillingly. “I suppose there’s something in that. Still . . .”.
Assuagingly, she pressed against him imprinting the edge of her corsets upon his short ribs, then, before he could encircle her, withdrew.
“So . . . our need will grow if held back. I promise I will be nice for you at Montecatini. The Freiherr, my late husband, was a strong man in the bed, yet never did I fail to answer him with equal vigour. Since we are married, I can openly speak of these things. And now I will go upstairs. After that long drive I have much need to wash.”
When she left the room he sat half-dozing before the hot fire, as though drugged by the scent of the burning cedar. At times his mind became an absolute blank; then, recovering, he enjoyed a moment of calm relaxation. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. What was she doing upstairs? Taking a bath? He had not liked that reference to the late lamented baron, but at least it showed she wasn’t frigid. He thought drowsily of her ample dugs, those extensile mountaineering thighs. Then absently, through his euphoria, he remembered the belated letter. Whatever his reluctance, he owed it to Kathy to read and cherish it as a last sweet message. Feeling in his pocket he withdrew it and after considering the envelope again, and confirming the date stamps, he manfully opened it.
As he did so he became conscious of the ringing of a bell. The front door? Yes. He sat up suddenly, hoping to high heaven that it was not a caller. If one of their friends, Stench particularly, burst in upon them at this precise moment, it would be a fatal embarrassment, would in fact ruin all their plans for a discreet departure. He should have warned Arturo to say he was not at home. Too late now, the fellow was answering the door.
He got up, parted the curtains of the side window and peered out at the dark driveway. No car—it couldn’t be a caller, must be a tradesman or a travelling pedlar; he had no need to worry. Yet the conversation at the door appeared to be prolonged. Straining his ears he heard Arturo say, almost entreatingly: “Please, if you will wait here, I will see.”
“But there’s no need,” a thin voice answered, with a strained note of urgency. “I’m expected. I’ll go straight in.”
Moray’s heart contracted. My God, he thought, it can’t be. I’m dreaming, or out of my mind. Instinctively he took a few steps backwards. Futile retreat. There came the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall and the next instant Kathy was before him.
“David!” she cried, in sheer relief. “I thought from Arturo you weren’t here.” All her body seemed to incline towards him: then, running forward, she put her arms round him and laid her head against his breast.
He had turned deathly white, his face blank with horror and amazement. It was a nightmare, unreal, couldn’t be true. He stood frozen into paralysed stillness.
“Oh, David, dear David,” she kept murmuring. “Just to be with you again.”
He could not speak, the skin around his mouth had suddenly become tight. But at last he gasped: “Kathy . . . what . . . why are you here?”
“Because I need you now . . . so much more . . .”. Still close to him, she looked up as though uncomprehending. “You know that Uncle Willie sent me?”
“Willie?” he echoed, like a parrot.
“Didn’t you get my letter?”
“No—yes—at least . . . I’ve been away.”
“Then you don’t know. Oh, David, it’s too terrible. The entire Mission is destroyed, burned to the ground. There’s been a fearful outbreak by armed terrorists. They’re fighting all around, and almost all of our people are dead. All Uncle Willie’s work, the labour of twenty years, destroyed.” Tears were beginning to flow down her cheeks. “Uncle Willie has gone out to see the worst, if they’ll allow him to get there, but he knows it’s finished. He wouldn’t let me go with him. He’s broken-hearted. I think he’ll have to give up. And for me, there’s nothing out there now . . . I have . . . only you, dear David. Oh, I thank God for that. But for you, I think I would have lost my mind.”
Silence. A cold sweat of panic beaded his forehead; his heart kept banging irregularly in his side. He broke away slightly, hand pressed against his brow, still struggling for speech.
“This . . . dreadful, Kathy. A great shock. If I had only known . . .”
She looked at him with faithful, uncomprehending eyes.
“But, David, when you didn’t come to the airport I felt sure you had my letter telling you everything.”
“Yes, precisely . . . it’s just . . . so difficult . . . having been away.” What he was saying he scarcely knew, and she had begun to look at him strangely, nervously too, with a sudden anxiety in her tired, thin little face.
“David, is anything wrong?”
“Nothing, except . . . it’s all so unfortunate . . . so unforeseen.”
Now all the joy that was in her died. She showed real alarm, seemed to shrink into herself.
“David, please, for pity’s sake.”
Oh God, he thought, this can’t go on, I must, I’ll have to tell her. He tried to pull himself together.
“Kathy . . .”. He braced himself. “Dear Kathy . . .”.
He could not go on, could not to save his life have spoken the words. There followed a moment of complete and frightful silence. His mouth filled with bitter water, and through it all he kept thinking, I could have had her here, on my own terms, if only I had waited. It was agony. And as he stood rigid with clenched hands, unable/to meet her frightened eyes, the door opened and Frida came into the room. Arrested by the scene, with one comprehensive glance she took it in; then, without change of expression, came quietly forward.
“Kathy, you are here,” she said, and kissed her on the cheek. At the same time she made towards Moray a brusque gesture of dismissal which said decisively, go, this you must leave to me.
Still rooted, he seemed unable to set himself in motion, but somehow, stumbling forward, he got himself out of the room. Kathy was very pale, but had stopped crying. Bewilderment and alarm had dried her tears.
“What is wrong with David? Is he ill?”
“I think he is unwell slightly, at this moment. The shock, you see. But come, dear child, we must sit down and be composed and have a little talk together.” Persuasively, an arm round Kathy’s shoulder, she led her to the settee. “Now first, my dear, how did you arrive here?”
“By plane to Zurich, train to Melsburg, then the little steamboat to Schwansee.”
“What a tiring journey. Wouldn’t you like to rest or have some refreshment?”
“No, thank you, no.” Kathy was shivering slightly, her teeth pressed together to prevent them chattering.
“At least a cup of tea. It can be brought so quickly.”
“Oh, nothing, please. I only want to know about David.”
“Yes, of course, we must speak of David, for he is, like that nice book says, the heart of the matter. But we must speak plainly of him, for even if it gives pain we must establish the truth.” She paused and took Kathy’s hand in hers. “You see, dear child, this David whom you love is a very nice man, so full always with good intentions, yet, alas, not always with the strength to perform them, which is often sad for him and for others. Have you not an English proverb, the pavement of hell is made of good intentions? Did you never ask yourself, dear little Kathy, for what real reason he came back to discover your family in Scotland? You thought, to repay a youthful kindness. That was not so. It pains me to tell you, and it will pain you to hear. It was because as a young man this David was the lover of your mother, really her lover if you understand me, had promised marriage, then cruelly left her, for a rich man’s only daughter.”