Free Brittle Bondage by Rosalind Brett Page A

She stared, smiling, at the slim young man with rough, fairish curls and pleasing features. He looked like the juvenile lead from a film. “I’m delighted to have prevented you from capturing the buck.”
    “I wouldn’t have hurt the thing,” he protested. “Red bush duiker are rare in these parts and this one looked lonely. He’d have been happier in my cousin’s game sanctuary.” He seemed to become conscious of several things at once. “Perhaps you know my cousin—Mervyn Mansfield? I’m Neil Mansfield. I’ve just come from the university to take a junior partnership in his office.”
    “You mean the firm of Mansfields—the civil engineers and surveyors in Ellisburg?”
    “That’s right,” he rejoined eagerly. “This is the fag-end of a few days’ rest at his place. I have to move to town this afternoon and dig in with another fellow in a flat.” His glance stole over the bright young face and kindled. “I hadn’t the least notion that Mervyn had a neighbour like you. He wouldn’t tell me, of course.”
    “My name is Venetia Garrard.”
    “Oh.” Blankness gave way to a frown, and he sprang down from his horse. “I’ve heard of Blake Garrard—everyone in this district has. You’re not ... you can’t be Mrs. Garrard?”
    She nodded, and let him help her to the ground.
    Neil said: ‘A man who came to see my cousin last night mentioned you. He said that Blake had a young and very pretty wife.”
    “How nice of him!” She tugged slightly at the rein, so that the chestnut kept up the walking pace of herself and Neil. “I don’t suppose you realize you’re trespassing on Garrard property?”
    “No! Am I? Is there a penalty?”
    His agreeably boyish manner was disarming. Somehow, his lightheartedness was a part of her present mood. She smiled at him.
    “Only a warning for a first offence, but it’s strictly forbidden to hunt buck at Bondolo.”
    “I’ ll remember that, though I repeat that I meant the little chap no harm.” He crinkled the corner s of his eyes. “Somehow, I can’t think of you as married. You don’t look a bit like the usual planter’s wife. They’re good women, but often homespun, and they neglect their appearance.”
    “Give me time,” she said. “I haven’t lived here long.”
    His eyes were ardent with interest as he took her up: “You come from England, don’t you? My mother was English. She used to talk to me about London and the Cotswolds. She actually came from Oxfordshire. There was a lovely river called the Windrush . .. ”
    “I’ve seen it!” she exclaimed. “My father and I spent a holiday at a Cotswold village and hiked for miles. One day we sat on a narrow stone bridge over the Windrush and could actually touch the water with our feet. It gurgled along so happily and smelled so fresh. The trees dipped over it and the grass on each side was a brilliant green— no t this colour”—her hand went out to indicate the dark, prodigal growth around them—“but emerald, with clumps of small, wild flowers. The sky was a marvellous pale blue with white scarves across it, and the birds sang ...”
    Venetia stopped abruptly, in queer, inward fright. What on earth had made her burst out like that to a stranger? How could she be so disloyal to Blake and the country which had befriended her?
    “You miss England?” said Neil, as if he understood. But he was far from understanding, her heart swiftly replied. He was simply an amiable young man who had accidentally released a poignant memory.
    “Not at all,” she said with decision. “I wouldn’t live anywhere in the world but here, at Bondolo. I must go now.”
    “So soon?” he demanded, dismayed. “Can’t I ride with you as far as your house?”
    “Not today.” She put her foot in the stirrup and took a spring which landed her in the saddle. “Good-bye. ”
    Chagrined, he rested a hand on the horse’s neck. “Collisions like ours are fated, Venetia. Didn’t you know that? We’re bound to