Broken Barriers, page 14
“My darling,” he said gently, “you are not frightened, are you?”
He put out his hand to take hers and realised that she was cold and shivering although it was a warm airless night.
“Carlotta,” he said, “you know I love you.”
“Don’t,” she replied.
She clenched her fists and tried to move away from him. He put out his hands and held her by the shoulders so that she could not escape.
“What is the matter? he asked.
“Nothing,” she replied and again she tried to escape him.
Relentlessly he searched her face, refusing to let her go.
“Tell me,” he commanded and there was a note of authority in his voice that she had not heard before.
“There is nothing to tell,” she said angrily. “Why cannot you leave me alone? I will not be bullied.”
“I am not bullying you,” Norman said slowly. “Something is wrong and you are trying to avoid me. You don’t pretend very well, Carlotta.”
“I am not pretending. I am tired.”
“And unhappy?” Norman asked.
“All right then, unhappy,” she added with a little flash of anger.
He dropped his hands from her shoulders. She moved quickly away from him, letting the sable cape drop down to the floor at his feet. She went to the window and then pulled it wider open.
Outside the sky was alight with stars.
“I cannot help it,” she said at length.
There was a note in her voice as though she was strained beyond breaking point.
“Cannot help what?” Norman asked her in even tones. “Not loving me? Is that what you mean?”
“I have tried to – I have tried to,” Carlotta spoke wildly.
“And now it is too late to do anything about it, you regret the contract?” Norman asked.
“Must you always think of everything in such business terms?” she flashed. “Cannot you separate your mind from business?”
“I think I understand,” he said. “You don’t love me, you have never loved me.”
“And I have married you for your money!” Carlotta cried hysterically. “Why don’t you add that, you are thinking it. I know you are thinking it. Why cannot you – say so?”
“And you have married me for my money,” Norman echoed.
He stood quite still for a moment and then he said,
“For the first time in my life I thought of something except business. I see I was wrong to do so. I have been handed a rotten deal through my own blindness.”
He spoke bitterly and his words seemed to sting their way into Carlotta’s brain.
She felt a sudden surge of pity, of fear and apprehension, but as she was so overwrought, because she hardly knew what she was saying, she tried to hurt him and to humble him to his knees.
“I am sorry you think that you have a rotten deal in me,” she said, “but at least it is too late now. I am your wife even though I do love someone else.”
“As you say, you are my wife,” Norman murmured gravely.
He walked across the room and opened the door that led to his dressing room.
“Goodnight, Carlotta,” he whispered.
He went out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Carlotta awoke with a piercing headache and a sense of depression.
It took her some time to remember where she was and, when finally she opened her eyes to see the pale-grey walls and the pink hangings of her bedroom, she realised with a feeling of misery that she was alone.
She pressed a hand over her aching eyes, then sat up in her bed and tried to collect her thoughts.
“What shall I do? What shall I do?” she asked herself.
She felt now that she must have been mad the night before.
In her hysterical mood she had said unforgivable things, things that she felt could not be explained away by a light apology or a few smiles.
What was Norman thinking? What had that climax to his Wedding Day meant to him?
She looked at her clock and was surprised to see that it was half-past ten. Last night she had lain awake for ages, crying and feeling that sleep would never visit her. When at last it had come, she had sunk into the dreamless slumber of exhaustion.
She wished that she had the courage to go straight into Norman’s, room, to tell him how sorry she was. But somehow she knew that such a course was impossible.
For the first time she thought of him, not as a man in love with her, but as her husband, someone in authority, someone not only to be coquetted with but to be considered.
‘I must think,’ she told herself. ‘I must approach him in the right way.’
Proudly she told herself that she could erase the past from his mind. After all the moods and fancies of a bride on her Wedding Night were understandable.
Norman was not a boy to be devastated by one scene, he was sensible enough to realise that she had been overwrought, that what she had said did not in any way resemble the truth.
She wished, more than anything else, that the question of money had not come into their quarrel. She had always sensed that Norman was touchy where money was concerned.
He had not told her in so many words, but she had known nevertheless that Evelyn had married him because he was rich. Now she had put herself in the same position.
‘Why was I such a fool?’ she moaned.
She controlled the tears that from weakness would have sprung to her eyes and rang the bell beside the bed.
When her maid came in, she ordered breakfast.
Having had the pillows arranged behind her and, having powdered her nose and combed her hair, she decided that she was ready.
“Knock on Sir Norman’s door,” she said to the maid, “and ask if he will come and see me.”
She felt colour rush to her cheeks as she gave the order. She was afraid and embarrassed, but this moment had to be gone through.
The maid was away for a few minutes. When she returned, she had a note in her hand.
“Sir Norman has gone out, my Lady,” she said, “at least he is not in his room and I found this letter for you on the table in the sitting room.”
Carlotta took it with fingers that shook.
Wild thoughts surged through her. Had Norman left her? Had he gone back to England?
Was their marriage already at an end? She could hardly control herself enough to open the envelope and read what was written.
There were only a few lines.
“Dear Carlotta,
I have a man to see on business. I shall be downstairs in the bar at one o’clock ready to give you luncheon.
Yours Norman.”
It was nothing desperate, nothing that she need be afraid of.
Carlotta could have laughed aloud with relief.
But, when she had finished breakfast, she opened the note and re-read it. It was cold, she thought, but that, of course, was understandable.
She recalled Norman’s other notes and letters that she had received in the past few weeks. They had all started with terms of endearment and always he had signed himself as ‘your adoring Norman’.
‘I will make it all right,’ she told herself confidently.
She lay back on her pillows, planning what she would say and what she would do when they met.
She had an impulse to ring up Magda to ask her advice and to confide in her as to what had occurred last night.
Then, she told herself that a telephone conversation was really pointless. It would get her no further and leave her more uneasy than ever in her own mind.
When the maid told her that her bath was ready, Carlotta got up quickly. She felt that she could not lie in bed any longer. She wanted to move about, she wanted to do something.
It was only midday when she was dressed, wearing one of her new trousseau frocks and a large-brimmed hat.
‘I will go downstairs,’ she said to herself.
As she went into the lounge, she saw a young married couple that she knew coming in from the street.
They greeted her with enthusiasm for they had always liked Carlotta and found her even more attractive now as the wife of a millionaire. By the name of Drayson, the husband was one of the Secretaries of State at the British Embassy.
His wife, before her marriage, had been one of those artistic tiresome girls, who take an intense interest in the stage and expound their knowledge of what they call stage technique.
Carlotta had often found ‘Baba’ Drayson rather a nuisance when she had come into her dressing room during a busy rehearsal or at a crowded charity matinee.
Now she was pleased to see her, feeling that, in her company some of her depression might be lightened.
“Have you seen the newspapers, Carlotta, darling?” Baba asked.
Carlotta shook her head.
“There are the most marvellous photographs of you and your husband, really good ones. You are lucky to be so photogenic. Vivian and I looked like gangsters at our Wedding.”
“I must buy the papers,” Carlotta said.
“We will help you,” Baba said excitedly.
They went along into the long passage of the Ritz that connects the Place Vendôme with the Rue Cambon. In its centre there is the paper stall that has the journals and newspapers of every country in the world.
Baba told the truth. Carlotta did look lovely in her photographs and Norman, smiling as they left the Church, looked young and almost handsome.
“I have never seen a happier couple,” Vivian commented.
Carlotta felt a stab of conscience.
‘What would they think,’ she asked herself, ‘if they knew how we had spent last night.’
“Come with us and have a drink?” Vivian asked her, when they had looked at all the photographs and paid for the papers.
“I am meeting my husband at one o’clock,” Carlotta answered.
“There is plenty of time,” Baba said, “you have nearly three-quarters of an hour yet, so you can be our guest in the meantime.”
They went through to the bar and sat down at one of the small chromium tables. Vivian ordered champagne cocktails for them all and when they came, Carlotta drank hers gratefully, feeling that it might give her courage.
People came in and out the whole time. Some of them she knew, most of them seemed to be friends of Baba and Vivian.
Carlotta was laughing at the sally of a chance acquaintance when she looked up to then see Norman standing in the doorway.
Her heart beat quicker and her hands grew cold.
‘What shall I do?’ she thought rapidly. ‘He is before his time!’
Norman looked round the bar casually and then he saw Carlotta. He came across to their table, gravely but with perfect self-composure.
It took all her control to say lightly,
“Hello, darling. I was ready early, but luckily I met some old friends of mine.”
She introduced Baba and Vivian, who told Norman that they must drink his health.
“We were miserable we could not come to your Wedding, Sir Norman,” Baba said, “but we must wish you every happiness now. We have been looking at the papers,” she went on. “I have never seen two people look happier, so our best wishes are not really needed.”
“But we are pleased to have them,” Norman said gallantly.
Carlotta watched him. She had been afraid, just for a moment, that he might be annoyed to find her with the Draysons.
As it was, he went on talking cheerfully to Baba and even allowed himself to be drawn into a business discussion with Vivian.
It was nearly two o’clock before Baba rose to her feet.
“We must go,” she said. “We are keeping you two poor things from your luncheon and I expect also that you want to be alone,”
“Stay and have luncheon with us,” Norman suggested,
“Oh, but we must not,” Baba answered. “It would be quite wrong when you are on your honeymoon, wouldn’t it, Vivian?”
Vivian hesitated, he was enjoying himself.
“If you are quite sure that you want us,” he said.
“But, of course, we do,” Norman said, “don’t we, Carlota?”
It was the first time he had asked a question of her directly. She flushed as she answered as cordially as she could.
“Of course we do, you must stay.”
They went into the dining room together and after a really excellent luncheon, Norman suggested that they should drive to the Racecourse.
“It would be Heaven,” Baba chipped in enthusiastically.
She had made it quite clear during the meal that she thought Carlotta was an extremely lucky person to have captured such a charming husband and Carlotta noted with amusement that she was doing her best to flirt with him.
“Do say you would like to, Carlotta,” she pleaded. “I adore racing and Vivian knows lots of the trainers, so we are certain to make some money.”
“I think it would be ‒ very nice,” Carlotta answered.
She could not help her voice being a little chilly.
She did not know why, but Baba’s gush towards Norman was beginning to irritate her. She had dreaded this meeting with her husband and yet, having keyed herself up to it, it was annoying to find herself only an audience, while he and Baba talked and laughed together.
She tried to concentrate on Vivian, but found that he too was more interested in Norman than in herself. She felt that she ought to have been glad that things were passing off so easily and lightly.
But she was not.
During the whole afternoon she never had a word with Norman alone.
Baba was at his side, asking for his advice, introducing him to authorities in the racing world, and keeping up a running flow of conversation the entire time.
Carlotta, who was always used to the limelight being focused on herself, tried to find the situation humorous, but by the end of the racing she longed to get away from the Draysons and return to the peace and quiet of her own rooms at the hotel.
They drove back into Paris together and, as they neared the Ritz, Baba said,
“I suppose there is not a chance of you two coming to the Café de Paris tonight? Some friends of ours have a supper party and I know that they would love to see you. I do wish you would try and come in.”
“I think we would love to,” Norman said enthusiastically. “That is, on one condition.”
“What’s that?” Baba asked.
“That you and Vivian will dine with us first,” he said.
“But that is too ridiculous!” Baba expostulated, with a pretty expression of shyness and diffidence. “We know what bores we are, butting in like this. If I was on my honeymoon with you, Sir Norman, I would be furious.”
Carlotta and I have our own ideas on the subject,” Norman said, “haven’t we, Carlotta?”
Not waiting for her reply, he went on,
“That is settled then. You and Vivian go home and change, come straight up to our suite when you are ready and we will have cocktails. We will dine at Larue and have a really good meal before we brace the crowds of the Café de Paris.”
“How too, too lovely,” Baba said, clapping her hands together affectedly. “You really are a marvellous person, Sir Norman. Carlotta, I think you are the luckiest girl in the world!”
Carlotta smiled with an effort. She was angry, but afraid to show it. For perhaps the first time she had known him, she wanted to be with Norman alone.
‘I will talk to him before dinner,’ she told herself and felt again that tremor of fear and excitement.
But this time she welcomed it, for once she knew Norman’s attitude towards her, that miserable sense of anticipation which had been haunting her ever since she awoke would be annihilated.
When they reached their suite, her plans were circumvented. Norman, having opened the door into the sitting room said,
“I have some important telephone calls to do, Carlotta. I know you will excuse me until dinnertime. Let’s meet here at a quarter-to-nine.”
Carlotta was too surprised to speak. As he reached his room, she stopped him.
“Norman,” she began, “I want to talk to you.”
He paused, the door open, his hand on the handle.
“I am sorry,” he answered firmly, “but this is business. I feel sure you will understand.”
He left her and she stood alone in the flower-filled room shaking with anger.
She rushed into her own room and slammed the door, but it did not relieve her feelings,
She lay down on her bed and asked her maid to bring her an aspirin and a handkerchief soaked in eau de Cologne as she had a headache. But she could not rest.
When the maid had gone, she got up and walked about the room.
Suddenly an idea came to her.
She had taken off her dress to lie down and was wrapped in a rest gown of soft chiffon and lace. Tinted to deep coral, it made her look vividly lovely and very appealing.
She powdered her nose again, sprayed scent over her hair and neck. Trembling a little at what she was about to do, she walked towards the door of Norman’s room and knocked.
There was no answer. She waited a few moments and then knocked again.
Still there was no reply.
She hesitated, then, flinging back her head with a gesture of defiance, turned the handle of the door.
It was locked.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The golden sunshine was glittering on the deep azure blue of the Mediterranean and far out to sea the faint haze over the horizon made it shimmer where the sky met the sea.
On the hills behind Cannes, the trees were verdant and the gardens were ablaze with the summer flowers.
Carlotta lay on her balcony alone and a large green-and-white umbrella protected her head from the sun, but her neck and arms were bare and her dress was cut low at the back.
In the past few days she had begun to brown slowly, her skin taking on a faintly golden hue as though it had become impregnated with the radiant sunshine that suffused everything.
Carlotta did not look happy. Her eyes were looking tired and dark-rimmed and her mouth drooped at the corners.
It was Norman who had suggested that she should rest after luncheon each day and she had agreed.
