Venus.
Of course marriage had been out of the question. He didn't have a job. He could expect nothing from his family, and nor could she. They would need at least four or five hundred a year to set up home together, and jobs like that for someone without experience didn't grow on trees. Which was why he had listened to Cousin Gordon's suggestion. Cousin Gordon had a pal on the South Madras Times , a pal who was on the lookout for bright young men. There was an opening in the advertising department. In a year or two, Rory had thought, he would be established enough to send for Fenella, who promised she would come when the time was right.
He hesitated at the gate of number fifty-one. The garden looked untended and desolate. Pushing open the gate, he skirted the patch of oil that marked where Mr. Kensley's car had once stood and struck off toward the side of the house--the former front door was reserved for the occupants of the upper maisonette on the second and third floors.
He rang the bell. When Fenella let him into the house, she led the way into the sitting room, where there was a very small fire.
"How are things?" he asked.
"Pretty grim. I never thought I'd say this but I wish Miss Marr was still here. Or rather, I wish her rent was."
Miss Marr had replaced Rory as the Kensleys' lodger until an encounter in October with a dead mouse under her bed had resulted in a bitter parting of the ways, accompanied by dark threats of a private action against Fenella under the Public Health Act.
"Let's not talk about her. You look tired. Do you want some tea?"
He shook his head. "Listen, I went to Bleeding Heart Square yesterday."
Fenella sat down abruptly and stared up at him. "Why?"
"I know you don't like the idea. But there's no harm in it, surely?"
"It makes me feel like a vulture."
"But darling, that's absurd. Miss Penhow is your nearest relative. Of course you want to find out where she is. She may not even know your father's died."
"I don't think she wants to get in touch with us. I think my father was so rude the last time she saw us that she's decided she's better off without us. I can't say I blame her."
"But your father was her half-brother. That must count for something." Rory sat down opposite her. "Anyway, things have changed since you saw her last. Your mother's died. Quite apart from anything else, you've lost the income from the annuity. And now Miss Marr's gone, too."
"I'll find another lodger. It has to be the right sort of person, that's all."
"And what's going to happen when the lease comes up for renewal next year? You haven't a hope in hell of finding the money. Not as things are."
She turned her head toward the fire. "I'll manage. Perhaps I can sell something."
"What have you got left to sell?" he asked. "You've already sold the car, and that was the only big asset you could dispose of. I thought I'd have a word with that chap Serridge. He must have some idea where she is."
"I don't want you talking to him."
"But if your aunt--"
"And I don't want to think about Aunt Philippa. All right?"
Her voice had risen, and so had her color.
"Two can live cheaper than one," he said, changing his line of attack. "We could get married now rather than wait."
"No. It wouldn't be fair to you."
"Let me be the judge of that." He offered her a cigarette.
She leaned toward him, cupping her hands around the flame of the match. "Rory--it's not just that it wouldn't be fair to you. It's also that--well, you know, we need time to get to know each other again. You've been away for so long. All we've had are letters."
He felt numb. "You want to break the engagement?"
"No. Yes. Look, I don't know what I want--that's the point, can't you see? And then there's Mother. I--I have to grow used to the fact that she isn't here. It was easier with Dad, somehow. But Mother...I don't know, her dying came as rather a shock."
"I can wait," Rory said desperately. "Have as long as you need."
"You'd go mad. So should I. Look
Of course marriage had been out of the question. He didn't have a job. He could expect nothing from his family, and nor could she. They would need at least four or five hundred a year to set up home together, and jobs like that for someone without experience didn't grow on trees. Which was why he had listened to Cousin Gordon's suggestion. Cousin Gordon had a pal on the South Madras Times , a pal who was on the lookout for bright young men. There was an opening in the advertising department. In a year or two, Rory had thought, he would be established enough to send for Fenella, who promised she would come when the time was right.
He hesitated at the gate of number fifty-one. The garden looked untended and desolate. Pushing open the gate, he skirted the patch of oil that marked where Mr. Kensley's car had once stood and struck off toward the side of the house--the former front door was reserved for the occupants of the upper maisonette on the second and third floors.
He rang the bell. When Fenella let him into the house, she led the way into the sitting room, where there was a very small fire.
"How are things?" he asked.
"Pretty grim. I never thought I'd say this but I wish Miss Marr was still here. Or rather, I wish her rent was."
Miss Marr had replaced Rory as the Kensleys' lodger until an encounter in October with a dead mouse under her bed had resulted in a bitter parting of the ways, accompanied by dark threats of a private action against Fenella under the Public Health Act.
"Let's not talk about her. You look tired. Do you want some tea?"
He shook his head. "Listen, I went to Bleeding Heart Square yesterday."
Fenella sat down abruptly and stared up at him. "Why?"
"I know you don't like the idea. But there's no harm in it, surely?"
"It makes me feel like a vulture."
"But darling, that's absurd. Miss Penhow is your nearest relative. Of course you want to find out where she is. She may not even know your father's died."
"I don't think she wants to get in touch with us. I think my father was so rude the last time she saw us that she's decided she's better off without us. I can't say I blame her."
"But your father was her half-brother. That must count for something." Rory sat down opposite her. "Anyway, things have changed since you saw her last. Your mother's died. Quite apart from anything else, you've lost the income from the annuity. And now Miss Marr's gone, too."
"I'll find another lodger. It has to be the right sort of person, that's all."
"And what's going to happen when the lease comes up for renewal next year? You haven't a hope in hell of finding the money. Not as things are."
She turned her head toward the fire. "I'll manage. Perhaps I can sell something."
"What have you got left to sell?" he asked. "You've already sold the car, and that was the only big asset you could dispose of. I thought I'd have a word with that chap Serridge. He must have some idea where she is."
"I don't want you talking to him."
"But if your aunt--"
"And I don't want to think about Aunt Philippa. All right?"
Her voice had risen, and so had her color.
"Two can live cheaper than one," he said, changing his line of attack. "We could get married now rather than wait."
"No. It wouldn't be fair to you."
"Let me be the judge of that." He offered her a cigarette.
She leaned toward him, cupping her hands around the flame of the match. "Rory--it's not just that it wouldn't be fair to you. It's also that--well, you know, we need time to get to know each other again. You've been away for so long. All we've had are letters."
He felt numb. "You want to break the engagement?"
"No. Yes. Look, I don't know what I want--that's the point, can't you see? And then there's Mother. I--I have to grow used to the fact that she isn't here. It was easier with Dad, somehow. But Mother...I don't know, her dying came as rather a shock."
"I can wait," Rory said desperately. "Have as long as you need."
"You'd go mad. So should I. Look
Similar Books
