“Children and . . .”
“And honor? Don’t say it. Even you couldn’t be that naive. Think about my offer for the next twenty-four hours. Let me know tomorrow.”
He was gone before she could answer.
She fell briskly to work tidying up her desk, hoping drudgery would take her mind off other things. It didn’t.
She knew now that Job, least sensitive member of the Tennis Cabinet, was the only one who suspected the truth at all. She was afraid of his giving her away to the others. He would if he had anything to gain by it. Better go the first thing in the morning without seeing him or anyone else again. She could leave a note for him on his desk refusing his offer.
Her own desk was now piled high with a mass of data on the western counties, which research had just sent over for her to use in Jeremy’s western speeches. All she could do about that was to spend her last day reducing the incoherent mass to a working brief for her successor.
By the time she finished that, a gleam of watery sunshine was leaking through the clouds. The rain had ceased. The only sound now was the steady dripping of a drainpipe.
She looked up at the sky and saw the traditional patch of blue big enough to make a Dutchman’s breeches. When she raised the window, a moist, earthy, almost tropical smell came in from the garden. The rain had not brought coolness.
She was closing her typewriter when Hilary arrived. “Don’t say it,” said Tash. “You’re furious because I am resigning, and you want me to reconsider, but I won’t.”
“That isn’t what I came to say.” Hilary sat down and stretched out her legs as if her muscles were cramped. “However, since you’ve brought it up yourself, why are you resigning?”
“Bill Brewer wants me back.”
“That badly?”
Tash nodded.
“And you feel your obligation to him is more important than your obligation to Jeremy?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
Hilary took a moment to light a cigarette, then looked up without smiling and said: “I think you’re a fool.”
“What did you come to say to me?”
“Vivian is leaving early tomorrow morning for the nursing home. She would like to say good-bye to you before she goes.”
“Now?”
“As soon as you’re ready.”
“Does she know I’m leaving?”
“No, and there’s no need to tell her. It might upset her.”
“I don’t see why my going should upset her.”
“Everybody thinks your going is peculiar because no one believes the reason you give for doing so.”
“Does she know the canary is dead?”
“No one has told her. We’ve been told to shield her from anything that might disturb her. Jeremy hasn’t even questioned her about that letter she asked you to mail.”
They climbed the stairs together, Tash thinking: I shall never go upstairs in this house again.
“We ought to have elevators,” said Hilary.
“Oh, no, the stairway is so beautiful!”
“That’s what Jeremy says, but if he had to go up and down as often as the rest of us—”
“Don’t tell me you’re criticizing Jeremy!”
That brought a spark to Hilary’s eyes. “I do frequently. Didn’t you know?”
At the door Hilary tapped gently and a voice said: “Come in!”
Juana opened the door and stood aside to let them enter.
The curtains were drawn back now, and Tash saw the room clearly for the first time. Thin, after-rain sunlight flooded the boiserie, painted lavender-gray, and the tall, taffeta curtains of a harmonious mauve. Rugs and furniture were old and faded and French. The only dark note in the pale room was a Chinese screen that protected the bed from draughts, black lacquer inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Vivian’s eyes followed Tash’s glance around the room. “That paneling hasn’t been repainted since the eighteenth century. You only get housekeeping like that in official residences.”
This room doesn’t express her, thought Tash. She has let her role as governor’s wife smother her real self.
For all its grace, the room was obviously a sickroom now. The astringence of lavender smelling salts hovered in the air. A glass of fruit juice stood on the bedside table; beside it, a small bottle with a typewritten label: Mrs. J. Playfair Two at bedtime as directed. Dr. Clemens. # 104623.
Yet Vivian did not look sick. There was no longer a dressing on her temple. The bruise had faded and the cut had healed. Her pallor was no more than the pallor of anyone who has been kept indoors.
“Smoke?” She held out a cigarette case. “Oh, I forgot! You don’t.” She lit a cigarette for herself, dropping the burnt match into a Sevres ashtray almost hidden in a fold of frilly counterpane.
“You’re still doing it,” said Tash.
“What? Oh, the ashtray on the bed.”
“Please don’t. It is dangerous.”
“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” Vivian smiled. “All right. Since it worries you that much, I promise to keep the ashtray on the table.”
“Starting now.” Tash put the ashtray on the bedside table.
Juana stared at this performance in astonishment.
Tash tried to explain to her in lame, phrasebook Spanish: “El cenicero siempre en la mesa, por favor; no en la cama. Es peligroso. Fuego.”
Juana smiled shyly and nodded her head as if she understood. That smile on that mutilated face was the most pathetic thing Tash had ever seen. Never again would she think of Juana as grotesque.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Vivian. “I have my faults, but I keep my promises. Now do sit down.”
Tash pulled up a small chair to the bedside. “I’m sorry you’re going away. Everyone here is going to miss you.”
“Thanks, but I don’t expect to be missed.”
Hilary started to protest.
Vivian stilled her with a look. “For one thing, I won’t be gone that long. It’s just a check-up. I may even be back in time to go on this campaign trip with Jerry. I’d like that. The west is the most fascinating part of this state. Impenetrable dialect, archaic schools, fundamentalist churches, but fascinating folklore, the best hunting and
