"I should hope so!" said Fee with a snort of laughter. Her hands remained quiet. "Getting back to the original subject-if you can do this now for Justine, Meggie, I'd say you've gained more from your troubles than I did from mine. I wasn't willing to do as Ralph asked and look out for you. I wanted my memories . . . nothing but my memories. Whereas you've no choice. Memories are all you've got."
"Well, they're a comfort, once the pain dies down. Don't you think so? I had twenty-six whole years of Dane, and I've learned to tell myself that what happened must be for the best, that he must have been spared some awful ordeal he might not have been strong enough to endure. Like Frank, perhaps, only not the same. There are worse things than dying, we both know that." "Aren't you bitter at all?" asked Fee.
"Oh, at first I was, but for their sakes I've taught myself not to be." Fee resumed her knitting. "So when we go, there will be no one," she said softly. "Drogheda will be no more. Oh, they'll give it a line in the history books, and some earnest young man will come to Gilly to interview anyone he can find who remembers, for the book he's going to write about Drogheda. Last of the mighty New South Wales stations. But none of his readers will ever know what it was really like, because they couldn't. They'd have to have been a part of it."
"Yes," said Meggie, who hadn't stopped knitting. "They'd have to have been a part of it."
Saying goodbye to Rain in a letter, devastated by grief and shock, had been easy; in fact enjoyable in a cruel way, for she had lashed back then-I'm in agony, so ought you to be. But this time Rain hadn't put himself in a position where a Dear John letter was possible. It had to be dinner at their favorite restaurant. He hadn't suggested his Park Lane house, which disappointed but didn't surprise her. No doubt he intended saying even his final goodbyes under the benign gaze of Fritz. Certainly he wasn't taking any chances.
For once in her life she took care that her appearance should please him; the imp which usually prodded her into orange frills seemed to have retired cursing. Since Rain liked unadorned styles, she put on a floor length silk jersey dress of dull burgundy red, high to the neck, long tight sleeves. She added a big fiat collar of tortuous gold studded with garnets and pearls, and matching bracelets on each wrist. What horrible, horrible hair. It was never disciplined enough to suit him. More makeup than normal, to conceal the evidence of her depression. There. She would do if he didn't look too closely.
He didn't seem to; at least he didn't comment upon weariness or possible illness, even made no reference to the exigencies of packing. Which wasn't a bit like him. And after a while she began to experience a sensation that the world must be ending, so different was he from his usual self. He wouldn't help her make the dinner a success, the sort of affair they could refer to in letters with reminiscent pleasure and amusement. If she could only have persuaded herself that he was simply upset at her going, it might have been all right. But she couldn't. His mood just wasn't that sort. Rather, he was so distant she felt as if she were sitting with a paper effigy, one-dimensional and anxious to be off floating in the breeze, far from her ken. As if he had said goodbye to her already, and this meeting was a superfluity.
"Have you had a letter from your mother yet?" he asked politely. "No, but I don't honestly expect one. She's probably bereft of words." "Would you like Fritz to take you to the airport tomorrow?" "Thanks, I can catch a cab," she answered ungraciously. "I wouldn't want you to be deprived of his services."
"I have meetings all day, so I assure you it won't inconvenience me in the slightest."
"I said I'd take a cab!"
He raised his eyebrows. "There's no need to shout, Justine. Whatever you want is all right with me."
He wasn't calling her Herzchen any more; of late she had noticed its frequency declining, and tonight he had not used the old endearment once. Oh, what a dismal, depressing dinner this was! Let it be over soon! She found she was looking at his hands and trying to remember what they felt like, but she couldn't. Why wasn't life neat and well organized, why did things like Dane have to happen? Perhaps because she thought of Dane, her mood suddenly plummeted to a point where she couldn't bear to sit still a moment longer, and put her hands on the arms of her chair.
"Do you mind if we go?" she asked. "I'm developing a splitting headache." At the junction of the High Road and Justine's little mews Rain helped her from the car, told Fritz to drive around the block, and put his hand beneath her elbow courteously to guide her, his touch quite impersonal. In the freezing damp of a London drizzle they walked slowly across the cobbles, dripping echoes of their footsteps all around them. Mournful, lonely footsteps.
"So, Justine, we say goodbye," he said.
"Well, for the time being, at any rate," she answered brightly, "but it's not forever, you know. I'll be across from time to time, and I hope you'll find the time to come down to Drogheda."
He shook his head. "No. This is goodbye, Justine. I don't think we have any further use for each other."
"You mean you haven't any further use for me," she said, and managed a fairly creditable laugh. "It's all right, Rain! Don't spare me, I can take it!"
He took her hand, bent to kiss it, straightened, smiled into her eyes and walked away.
