even in the privacy of the home. To challenge publicly was a betrayal of all unspoken agreements everyone assumed, even in a marriage where there was no love, let alone in one where there was love both long-standing and still intense.
“It was a matter of conscience with her,” Charlotte added. “She was not willingly disloyal. I even remember seeing her try to argue with him once. He simply did not hear her, because the idea that she thought differently was inconceivable to him. Heaven knows how many times she tried.”
Nobby looked almost as if it had been she who was bereaved. She seemed stunned, her eyes focusing far away, her attention inward. She even swayed a little when she stood up.
“Yes … yes, of course. I know she did nothing out of malice, or lightly. Thank you. You have been most generous to me. Now, if you will excuse me … I think I have a further call to make….”
Charlotte hesitated on the brink of asking her if she was all right, but she knew the wound was an emotional one and must be endured. No one else could help. She murmured some sort of farewell and watched Nobby go, very upright and fumbling a little, out of the parlor and to the front door.
Nobby rode home barely aware of where she was going. Half of her wanted to go now to see Kreisler, to speak to him in the shadow-thin hope there was some other answer. A far larger part knew it was not only pointless but also absurd. She would only embarrass them both. One did not call upon a man in his rooms to inform him that you were … What? Disillusioned? Heartbroken? That you loved him, which subject had never been discussed between you, never given such words, but that you could not condone what he had done.
He had not asked her to.
She went home engulfed in misery, and it was late in the afternoon, after the time when social calls of a formal nature were paid, when the maid told her that Mr. Kreisler was there to see her.
She considered receiving him in the withdrawing room. The thought of the garden was too painful, too full of memories of a different mood, a closeness and an hour of intimacy and hope.
And yet the withdrawing room-any room in the house-was too small. They would have to stand too close to each other; turning away would be obvious.
“I shall be in the garden,” she replied, and walked quickly out of the door as if, even before he entered, it could be some kind of escape.
She was standing by the border, the roses now in bloom, when he reached her. He did not bother with preamble. They had never spoken to each other in trivialities.
“I imagine you have heard about Linus Chancellor?” he said quietly. “All London has. I wish I could be sure it would mean some space, some interim of relief for Africa, but the treaty will go ahead, and by now I daresay Rhodes is already in Mashonaland.”
She kept her back towards the lawn and did not turn sideways to face him.
“Is that why you did it?”
“Did what?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. There was no evasion in his voice, no pretense.
She had expected to sound querulous, even tearful, but her question, when it came, was level and surprisingly strong.
“Drove Susannah until she broke.”
He was startled. There was a moment’s silence. She was acutely aware of his physical presence beside her.
“I didn’t!” he said with amazement. “I just … just argued my case!”
“Yes, you did,” she replied. “You pressed her relentlessly, tearing away Chancellor’s reasoning, painting word pictures of greed and ruin in Africa, the ultimate immorality of the destruction of a whole race of people….”
“You know that’s true!” he challenged her. “That is what will happen. You, of all people, know as well as I do what will happen to the Mashona and the Matabele when Rhodes settles there. Nothing can make them obey Lobengula’s laws! It’s laughable … at least it would be if it were not so bloody tragic.”
“Yes I do know that, but that is not the point!”
“Isn’t it? I think it’s precisely the point!”
She turned to face him. “It is not your beliefs I challenged. I wouldn’t even if I didn’t share them. You are entitled to believe as you will….”
His eyebrows rose and his eyes widened, but she ignored him. Sarcasm was beneath the passions and the seriousness of her argument.
“It is the methods you used. You attacked Chancellor where he was vulnerable.”
“Of course,” he retorted with surprise. “What would you have me do, attack him where he is best defended? Give him a sporting chance? This is not a game, with chips to be won or lost at the end. This is life, with misery and destruction the price of losing.”
She was quite sure of what she meant. She faced him without a flicker.
“And the destruction of Susannah, pressing her heart and her loyalties until they broke, and broke her with them, was it a fair price?”
“For God’s sake, Nobby! I didn’t know he was going to kill her!” he protested, his face aghast. “You surely cannot imagine I did. You know me better than that!”
“I don’t imagine you knew it,” she continued, the ache of misery inside her temporarily subsiding under the force of her certainty. “I think you didn’t particularly care.”
“Of course I care!” His face was white to the lips. “I wouldn’t have had it this way. I didn’t have options.”
“You did not have to press her till she had no way out but to choose between her loyalty to the husband she loved or to her own integrity.”
“That’s a luxury. The stakes are too high.”
“Central Africa, against the turmoil and death of one woman?”
“Yes … if you like. Ten million people against one.”
“I don’t like. What about five million against twenty?”
“Yes … of course.” There was no wavering in his eyes.
“One million against a hundred? Half a million against a thousand?”
“Don’t be absurd!”
“When does it even out, Peter? When does it stop being worth it? When the numbers are the same? Who decides? Who counts?”
“Stop it, Nobby! You are being ridiculous!” He was angry now. There was no apology in him, no sense that he had to defend himself. “We are talking about one person and a whole race. There is no counting to be done. Look, you want the same things for Africa that I do. Why are we quarreling?” He put his hands up as if to touch her.
She stepped back.
“You don’t know, do you?” she said with slow understanding, and a sadness that tore at her emotions and left her reason like a shining, solitary light. “It is not what you want I cannot tolerate, it is what you are prepared to do to attain it, and what that doing makes of you. You spoke of the end and the means as if they were separate. They are not.”
“I love you, Nobby….”
“I love you also, Peter….”
Again he made a move towards her, and again she stepped back, only a few inches, but the gesture was unmistakable.
“But there is a gulf between what you believe is acceptable and what I believe, and it is one I cannot cross.”
“But if we love each other,” he argued, his face pinched with urgency and incomprehension, “that is enough.”
“No it isn’t.” There was finality in her voice, even a bitter irony. “You counted on Susannah’s love of honor, her integrity, to be greater than her love for Chancellor … and you were right. Why is it you do not expect mine to be also?”
“I do. It’s just that …”
She laughed, a funny, jerky sound, harshly aware of the irony. “It’s just that, like Linus Chancellor, you never thought I could disagree with you. Well I do. You may never know how much I wish I did not.”
