Free Anne Belinda by Patricia Wentworth

she was until I saw Amory’s portrait of you both.”
    Jenny’s colour flickered. She said, “That hateful picture!” in a voice just above her breath.
    John went on:
    â€œI want to know where she is—I want to see her.”
    â€œYou can’t.” It was a whisper.
    John smiled. The smile frightened Jenny; it frightened her very much. She said:
    â€œJohn, you can’t—really.”
    â€œWhy can’t I? Don’t you think you had better tell me?”
    She shook her head. There ought to be something that she could tell him. If she didn’t tell him something, he would go on trying to find out. She tried very hard indeed to keep steady and to find words.
    â€œJohn, you can’t, because—”
    â€œWell?”
    Why on earth had she asked him down here? If only the gramophone didn’t make such a noise, she might be able to think. Pamela and Derek Austin were singing too—ridiculous words that buzzed in the general din like flies buzzing in a train. She sat up straight and pushed her wedding ring down hard until it cut into her hand.
    â€œShe’s been ill—she’s abroad.”
    â€œYes, Mrs. Courtney told me that. She’s with a Miss Fairlie, isn’t she?”
    Jenny nodded. She kept her eyes on John’s face. If he made her go on, it would be his fault, not hers. She hoped with all her heart that he would be satisfied and not ask anything more. The hope failed as it rose.
    â€œThen will you give me her address? I’m at a loose end, and I should rather like an excuse for a prowl abroad.”
    It was no use. Anything she said would be his fault. She didn’t want to say it. She had tried her very best not to tell him anything. Her eyes were hot with the rush of tears. She turned her shoulder on the bright, noisy room and pushed open the casement window behind them. A breath of lilac-scented air came in. She spoke in a little sad voice, very low:
    â€œJohn, you can’t see her. She can’t see people—she can’t even see me.”
    â€œWhy can’t she, Jenny?”
    Jenny’s voice trembled lower still.
    â€œCan’t you guess?”
    â€œI’m afraid not. I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me.”
    Jenny jumped up.
    â€œNot here,” she said in a stifled voice. “They’re all looking at us—I saw Pamela look.”
    She slipped out of the window on to the flagged walk outside. The drop was not more than a couple of feet. John followed her, and saw her move away in the dusk like a white moth. The sound of the gramophone died to a blurr.
    The house stood half-way up a gently sloping hill. From where they stood the ground dropped by successive terraces to the open water-meadows through which there flowed a broad and shallow stream. A fitful moonlight brightened the water-flow and the white lilac blooms on the lower terrace.
    Jenny stopped where a grey stone vase lifted a sheaf of scented tulips to the darkness. The colour was lost, but they smelt like violets.
    â€œWell, Jenny?” he said.
    Jenny faced him. The dusk gave her confidence. Why had she not come out before? Now that he could not see her, she could tell him.
    â€œJohn, you must think me very foolish,” she began. “I ought to be more used to it. But I can’t get used to it. We always did everything together; and now I haven’t seen her for a year, and she hasn’t even seen baby.” Tears came into her voice.
    â€œYes. But why?”
    Jenny stamped her foot.
    â€œI suppose you like hurting me like this! I suppose you like hurting people!”
    â€œI only want to know where Anne is.”
    â€œShe’s where you can’t go to her. Why don’t you believe me? She got ill just before I was married, and they shut her up. They—they won’t let anyone see her.”
    John had known that it was coming; it was as if he had watched it coming from a long way off. Yet, now