CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEY did not get to Florence after all. Rose was in bed in Milan for nearly a fortnight and then the doctor allowed her to go straight home on condition that she went to bed again directly she got to London. Stephen made arrangements for them to fly from Milan; he would send a chauffeur from London to drive the car back.
Rose’s disappointment can be imagined but Stephen seemed quite cheerful about it. “We will have lots more opportunities of going to Florence,” he told her. “And it will be nice to get home. I don’t know about you but I’m sick to death of this hotel.”
If he was sick of it how much more so was she who had not been out of that bare little box of a room for nearly a fortnight, and yet it hurt her in a way that he should say that he was sick to death of it. It was a confession of the complete failure of their honeymoon. Of course it had been a failure—she knew it as well as he did—but it was hateful to have it put so bluntly into words.
Stephen had been as kind and attentive to her as it was possible to be, and yet necessarily she had spent many dreary hours alone, and miserable wakeful hours in the night when he was asleep in the adjoining bed. Indeed she was so afraid of his getting bored that she had often driven him away from her when she most longed for him to stay. “I like to be alone when I am ill,” she had told him on several occasions, which was anything but the truth. It was her own suggestion that he should take the pretty Italian girl who had acted as their interpreter to the opera, but when he himself suggested taking her a second time Rose felt an uncomfortable soreness in her heart.
She had plenty of time in which to think—much too much time—and her thoughts gave her an increasing uneasiness. She had relied on her honeymoon to get to know Stephen really well, but this time while she was in bed she had a feeling that far from getting to know him better he was slipping away from her. For one thing they were not honest with each other. If he was bored and depressed and disappointed, which she felt he must be, he hid it from her and only showed her a cheerful front, and she in turn hid from him how much she longed for him to be with her and how terribly low she felt in spirits as well as feeble in body.
She began to think of the future, and a kind of panic seized her that she would not be able to make him happy. She felt so inadequate, so ignorant, so unfitted to be his wife. Clare’s warnings cut deeper and deeper into her mind. It would need far more than just her simple self to hold him. When she was quite well again she would have to make a tremendous effort to change herself. He must have had a foretaste while she was in bed of how essentially dull she was. He must have noticed the contrast between her and the sparkling vivacious Italian girl who had gone with him twice to the Scala. When once the first enchantment wore off, what had she in herself to keep him? Already she had the uncomfortable feeling that he had woken up from his enchantment. Wasn’t he almost
too
kind to her, too solicitous, too patient? That night in Basle already seemed like a dream. And that morning when they had breakfasted together and he had commanded, “Come here”, and when she had got up and gone to him he had said, “I only wanted to kiss you”—how far away that seemed. How she had loved him like that—forceful, loverlike
...
Now he was so gentle and seemed somehow almost embarrassed. There were no more breakfasts together. He got up and went down to the hotel restaurant alone while she had a lonely tray. There was no longer any passion in his manner. His kisses were brotherly and brief
...
But, of course—she was ill; it would all come right again as soon as she was better. But would it? As she lay there all her self-confidence seemed to drain out of her.
II
Stephen looked after her on the journey home like a precious piece of luggage. He made sure that she was wrapped up warmly and he made her lean on him as they walked across the tarmac to the waiting aeroplane. Her legs did feel very wobbly as a matter of fact and she had lost so much weight that she had had to take in her skirt on either side with large safety pins. The flight was smooth and they arrived according to schedule and found a hired car awaiting them at Heathrow. Stephen had been on to his secretary by telephone from Milan to make all the arrangements for their homecoming, so Vittoria and Antonio were expecting them at the house and had the fires lit (it was much colder in England) and a bottle in the bed.
Stephen hurried her straight upstairs. The big double bed they had ordered for themselves, to be delivered while they were away, had not yet arrived, and Rose saw to her disappointment that there was only one single bed in the main bedroom. Antonio said that he had not known what to do about the beds as he had had no instructions, but there was another bed in the dressing-room next door. “Leave them as they are,” Stephen told him, and to Rose he said, after Antonio had left the room: “I expect until you are quite better again you’d rather be on your own.”
“Did I disturb you dreadfully in the night in Milan?”
she asked.
“No, of course not, but it must be nicer for you not to have to worry about me and feel you can turn on the light whenever you want to.”
She was bitterly hurt because she felt he did not want to be with her, but she wasn’t going to let him see it so she answered proudly: “Yes, I expect it would be better.”
“Now get into bed quickly,” he said, “because the doctor will be here at any moment.” He had even laid on the doctor’s visit through his secretary.
After she was in bed Stephen sat with her waiting for the doctor (it was his own family doctor who had been called in because Rose had no doctor of her own in London), and when they heard a knock at the door they thought it was he, but it was only Antonio bringing in a huge bouquet of mixed flowers professionally arranged in a golden basket. Rose at once jumped to the conclusion that Stephen had laid this on too, as he had laid on so much else, as a home-coming present for her, and she exclaimed in delight: “Oh, darling, how beautiful; you shouldn’t; you do spoil me so.” All the uncertainty of the last days was wiped out in this loving gesture.
“I’m afraid they’re not from me,” Stephen said as he got up to take the basket from Antonio. “Here’s a card.” He set the basket down on the top of the chest of drawers where she could see it and brought the card over to her. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. I should have thought of sending you flowers, but as a matter of fact that’s not the kind of bouquet I would ever have sent you. You ought to know me better than that.”
She could have bitten her tongue out for her tactlessness;
and
it was true, he would never have sent her a rather gaudy basket like this. His choice of flowers was very much his own, simple and original. She thought of the single white rose he had sent her on the morning after their first dinner together—their
blue
rose—with a little pain in her heart. What could she say to make things right? She could think of nothing, so it was in silence that she opened the little envelope containing the card. On the card was written:
“Just to welcome you home. So sorry to hear you have been ill. Get well soon. Much love. Clare.”
“They’re from Clare,” she said.
“How charming of her,” Stephen replied.
“I suppose she heard I was ill from Francie—but how did she know we were coming back to-day? Even Francie doesn’t know that.”
“I daresay Miss Davies told her.” Miss Davies was Stephen’s secretary.
It seemed a little odd to Rose that Miss Davies should have told Clare. Were they in constant communication?
Just then they were interrupted by the arrival of Dr. King. He was a charming elderly man who gave out a feeling of immense kindness and warmth. Apparently he had known Stephen since he was a baby, and Rose found herself immediately drawn to him. She had met him at the wedding but only just to shake hands. He examined her, said she was definitely on the mend and he saw no reason why she should not start getting up next day. “But take things easy at first; do a little bit more each day. She’s much too thin, Stephen. We’ll have to feed her up. All she needs now is fattening up and spoiling. This illness has taken a great deal out of you, my dear. We’ll give you a good tonic
..
.
Can you drink milk?”
Rose said that she loved milk.
“Splendid. That’s half the battle. I don’t suppose you’ve got much appetite yet. The best thing at this stage is to have a great many very small tempting meals
...”
“You’d better have a talk to Vittoria on the way out,” Stephen said.
“Well, good-bye, my dear. We’ll soon have you on your feet again. I’ll look in in a day or two.”
Stephen went downstairs with him, and the moment they had left her alone Rose rang up Francie at the Botticelli. There was a telephone by the bed. Francie was wonderfully sympathetic but glad to hear she was back. “It
was
hard luck, but never mind, there will be lots more opportunities of going to Florence.” It was what Stephen had said, and it was probably true, but what no one seemed to realize was that there could never be another honeymoon. Instead of returning home to take up the threads of daily life closely united, they had returned almost as strangers to begin this hard task of living side by side their ordinary every-day lives together. It was a task for which at the best of times she would have needed all her strength, whereas now she was weaker than she had ever been in her life. Even the thought of taking over the housekeeping seemed an intolerable burden to her at that moment.
“How’s the bar going?” she asked.
“Oh, we’re having terrible troubles. But I won’t worry you with them now. I’ll try and call in and see you tomorrow morning.”
III
Rose was surprised and disappointed when Stephen announced the next morning that he was going to the bank. “But you’re still on holiday,” she protested.
“I can’t stay away now I am back in London and everyone knows I am back. Besides, I want to go. I get restless in London with nothing to do
...
Do you think you’ll be able to get up this evening? Just for dinner?
...
Good, but I’ll send you back to bed directly afterwards. And you promise not to get up till I come back?”
“Will you be away all day?” she asked with a sinking heart.
“I’ll try and get back early this afternoon
...
You’ll be all right? You will remember to take your tonic? I’ll send Vittoria up to you so that you can order what you want.”
Rose realized that this was to be the first dinner she was to order for them in their own house—it was an important occasion—but she felt completely bereft of all ideas. She wished that she could have cooked this first meal for him herself. She tried to think what she would have given him if she had been in sole charge of the kitchen. What was his favourite dish? She knew so little about him—so much too little. She would have to leave it to Vittoria.
Vittoria, when she came up to see her, was in no doubt. There was more than half a chicken left over from yesterday; Miss Davies had told her to get it in. She would make them a risotto. The Signor was very fond of risotto. The Signor did not like sweets, so afterwards they must have a savoury—sardines perhaps or a cheese
soufflé
. “I think the
soufflé
would be very nice,” Rose put in.
“We shall see,” Vittoria said. “And for your lunch I will give you a Spanish omelet.”
“I think perhaps I would rather have some soup,” Rose said mildly, “or a little boiled fish. I haven’t got much appetite yet.”
“No, I will give you an omelet. Doctor says I must feed you up. There is much protein in eggs. You leave it to me. I will see you get fat quick.”
Rose foresaw that she was not going to have much difficulty with her housekeeping—so long as she left everything to Vittoria, that was; but what would happen if they ever clashed she could not imagine.
After Vittoria had left her she was just beginning a note to Clare to thank her for her flowers when Clare herself rang up. “I was on the point of writing to you to thank you for those wonderful flowers,” Rose said.
“Oh, that was only a little something to welcome you home
...
I hear that wicked Stephen has gone off and left you already.” (How had she heard, Rose wondered?) “You’ll have to get used to sharing him with his work so I suppose the sooner you begin the better
...
I wondered, if you were all alone, whether you would like a little visit?”
“Oh, yes, please. Francie’s coming in this morning, but I don’t know what time
...
And I’m going to get up for dinner this evening—the first time for a fortnight. Isn’t it exciting?”
“I’ll come and see you this afternoon then. About four?”
“Oh, Stephen says he will be home early
...”
“I don’t suppose for a moment he will, but I’ll come at half past three.”
Rose had barely had her bath and got back to bed again when Francie arrived. Rose was so glad to see her that she almost burst into tears. She was still so ridiculously weak.
“But my darling, how ill you look!” Francie exclaimed. “What have they been doing to you?”