Greek Wedding (25 page)

‘If it's the only way. Aunt Cassandra says she thinks if we offer Alex enough money, he will get Peter out without—'She boggled at it.

‘Without you marrying him? Maybe he would—for enough money. But have you thought what this story tells you about Alex? Pay him, if you like, but how do you know someone else won't pay him more?'

‘The Turks? It's not possible.'

‘Anything is possible. If he'll stoop to blackmail … To have persuaded you, in the first place, to keep the “engagement” secret was bad enough, though, mind you, I thank God for it. But, now, I think we must believe him capable of anything. You must realise, Phyllida, that this is the end for the Greeks. No wonder if Alex wants to ensure himself a snug life in America.'

‘You think that?'

‘Well, what do you think? You've not, surely, persuaded yourself that Alex wants you for your intellect?'

‘Brett!' She was crying helplessly now. ‘Don't.' And then, pleading. ‘He said I'd be a help to him, in creating the new
Greek state…'

‘At Constantinople, I suppose! I remember your speaking of that. I should have guessed. And you believed him! I tell you, Phyllida, Jenny would have had more sense.'

‘And you were so wise about Helena?'

‘We will leave Helena out of this.'

‘Brett, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—'

‘No? But we've no time for apologies. They are a peacetime luxury. I must be back at the Piraeus by morning. I've an appointment to see Admiral de Rigny. I hope he'll arrange a flag of truce for me to visit Reshid Pasha. Ostensibly for my book; in fact, to speak to him about Peter. To try and get it across to the Turks that your brother is powerfully connected—that it would do them infinite harm with the Great Powers if anything should happen to him. I really think you will find this a more practical way of helping Peter than any wild scheme of Alex's.'

‘Oh, thank you, Brett.' She was too grateful even to mind his tone.

‘So you had best sit down and write a note to Mavromikhalis,' he went on, almost as if she had not spoken. ‘I'll take it to the
Philip
on my way back to the
Helena
. It will spare you having to see him. Frankly, I'd very much prefer that Jenny should be spared the kind of scene he's quite capable of making.'

Jenny! But she had deserved it all. ‘Thank you, Brett,' she said again, meekly.

The letter to Alex was indescribably difficult to write, and knowing that Brett was waiting for it in the next room was no help. But it was done at last, full of almost incoherent apologies, scratched and blotted here and there, a letter she would normally have been ashamed to send. But what was normal about today?

‘Brett?' She gave it to him with a hand that would shake. ‘You won't let him quarrel with you?' This fear had been uppermost in her mind as she poured out those pitiful apologies.

‘Quarrel?' His tone was scornful. ‘With—' He stopped.
‘I'm not a quarrelling man. Besides, I've your brother to think of.'

‘Not a quarrelling man!' Jenny interrupted him. ‘I like that! Please, B, you will be careful, won't you? He's rather frightening, that Alex, when he loses his temper.'

‘Nonsense, Jen.' He pulled one of her curls. ‘I shall be the complete English gentleman, cool as a cucumber. You know how impossible it is to quarrel with one of them!' His tone of affectionate teasing was in such marked contrast with the one he had used to Phyllida that she found herself angrily swallowing tears.

It made it impossibly difficult to thank him properly: ‘I wish you'd take Price on the
Helena
with you,' she concluded, pleadingly.

‘As a protection? I believe I can take care of myself, thank you.'

‘No!' Now she had made him angrier than ever. ‘But to look after you, to dress your wound…'

‘And leave you three with only Marcos? I think not. I hope, of course, that Alex will take this'—he still had the letter in his hand—‘like a gentleman, but God knows it seems unlikely enough. I think you should prepare yourselves for a visit from him. I'd rather know you had Price for that. I only wish I could stay, but there it is. I rely on
you
, Aunt Cass.'

‘Thank you, Brett.' Cassandra was horribly sorry for Phyllida, but could not help feeling that she was learning a well-deserved lesson. ‘And you'll let us know what Reshid Pasha says?' She asked the question Phyllida had longed to.

‘As soon as I can. But don't worry if it's not for a little while. God knows how long it will take to arrange. So—goodbye, and take care of yourself.' A quick hug for Jenny, a warm shake of the hand for Cassandra, a bow for Phyllida, and he was gone.

‘He's furious with me.' Phyllida could not help it.

‘Well, love,' said Jenny cheerfully. ‘You can hardly blame him, can you? So now, here we sit, we three, and wait to see if your Alex is going to come and blow our house down.'

‘Not my Alex!'

‘No, thank God.' She laughed. ‘You and Brett are a proper pair, I must say! Talk about moon-mad! His Helena and your Alex—' And then, quickly. ‘I'm sorry, love, it's too bad for teasing, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' said Cassandra. ‘We'll say no more about it.'

The evening dragged out interminably. Phyllida had secretly been almost certain that Alex would come storming ashore, priest and all, to claim her hand, but nine o'clock came, and ten, and still there was no sign of him.

Cassandra sighed comfortably and put down her sewing. ‘I really think,' she said, ‘that we might go to bed.'

‘Do let's.' Jenny yawned unashamedly. ‘I'm worn out with all this excitement. And it really does look, doesn't it, as if the gallant isn't coming, late or otherwise. Thank goodness.'

‘Yes.' Phyllida had been experiencing a curious sense of letdown. Naturally she had hoped that Alex would not come and make a scene, but surely he should have written, sent a message, done something?

The feeling was more pronounced than ever next morning when Marcos returned from market with the news that the
Philip
had sailed the night before.

‘So we can breathe again,' said Jenny.

‘Yes.' Phyllida had never disliked herself so much. She looked so wretched that her aunt was sorrier for her than ever, and glad that they could all pretend it was only anxiety for Peter that was upsetting her so. A long week dragged by with no news of any kind except the further details of the disaster at Phalerum which she and Jenny did their best to spare Phyllida.

But their house was too natural a centre for Dr. Howe and his friends for there to be much hope of succeeding in this. Inevitably, they talked of nothing else. Most of them had lost friends in the battle; each had his own explanation of the disaster, none of them either flattering to Church and Cochrane or hopeful for the future.

‘It will need a miracle,' said Howe, one hot morning when they were all drinking the curious coffee Price still managed to provide.

‘Perhaps Capodistrias is busy arranging one,' said Townshend Washington.

‘More likely he's arranging to hand Greece over to Russia. After all, he's as much a Russian as a Greek by now. Do you know what Hamilton told old Kolokotronis when he heard of Capodistrias' election?'

‘No?'

‘He said, “Take Capodistrias or any other devil you like, for
you are quite lost.” Or that's what Kolokotronis says. Hamilton may not have put it quite like that.'

‘And do you know what your friend Kolokotronis is doing now? He's harrying those poor Moreot Greeks who've been so foolish as to submit to Ibrahim Pasha. “Fire and the sword to those who have submitted,” is his cry.'

‘While the defenders of the Acropolis count the days they have to live.' And then they remembered Phyllida and all began busily to talk about something else.

*          *          *

Phyllida was having nightmares again, different ones this time. Now they really were set in Constantinople, that night she and Cassandra had escaped. Over and over again she heard the screams, the sounds of pursuit, felt the blood slippery under her feet … But the figure she saw chased, caught and beheaded by the Turks was sometimes Peter, sometimes Brett.

‘Suppose Reshid Pasha knows that Brett helped us escape from the Sultan. Just think what he might do to him!' She had said it to her aunt countless times, but kept coming back to it, hoping for impossible reassurance.

‘But why should he, child?' Cassandra still managed to speak patiently. ‘You mustn't frighten yourself unnecessarily.'

‘I shouldn't have let him go to Reshid. It's too dangerous … If anything happens to him, I'll never forgive myself.'

‘Yes, love.' Jenny had come in from the courtyard in time to hear the end of the familiar conversation. ‘But, think a little. You know Brett, or you ought to by now. How could you have stopped him?'

‘Besides.' Cassandra thought of a new source of comfort. ‘You must remember that Brett is not exactly nobody. If he goes to Reshid Pasha with an introduction from de Rigny, the Pasha will be bound to know that he is cousin to an English Duke. Even if, by any fantastic chance, Reshid should have heard about our adventures in Constantinople, I'm sure he'd think twice about harming a member of the English aristocracy.'

‘Goodness!' Phyllida did not know whether to be relieved or irritated. ‘You make it sound as if Brett were practically first cousin to God.'

‘Phyllida!'

‘I'm sorry. But really I find this business of “English mi-lords” immensely tedious. Sightseeing round the world as if it belonged to them; taking it for granted they'll be given the best of everything wherever they are. And getting it.'

‘And paying for it!' Jenny bristled up at the implied slight to her brother. ‘And wasn't it lucky for you that Brett was “sightseeing round the world”, as you put it?'

‘Of course it was! Oh, Jenny, I'm sorry! I can't bear myself these days. Forgive me?'

Jenny laughed. ‘I ought to be saying the same thing to you. After all, love, let's face it, if it weren't for you, Brett and I would very likely be starving by now. I'm a fine one to talk about paying for things.'

‘Nonsense,' said Cassandra. ‘You know perfectly well, child, that Mr. Murray sent your brother a simply immense advance payment for his book.'

‘Yes,' said Jenny. ‘Wasn't it splendid? I don't believe I've ever seen Brett so pleased. So stop worrying, Phyl, and remember what a triumph an interview with Reshid Pasha will be for the book. Really, when you think about it, so long as he just manages to keep his head (literally, as well as metaphorically) B. can't lose.' She laughed wickedly. ‘Just think if the book's really a success! Won't poor Helena be cross! I do wish we'd ever heard who she married in the end. That's the worst of being in disgrace; nobody writes to me. I don't suppose Aunt Matilda has even told my friends where I am. I find I rather wish I knew what kind of lies she was spreading about me.'

‘Never mind,' Cassandra had noticed that Jenny seemed increasingly eager for mail from home. ‘Perhaps in a week or so, Peter will be safe and we can think of setting sail for England.'

‘Getting steam up, you mean!' But Jenny sighed. ‘Wouldn't it be wonderful! It's ungrateful of me, I know, but I'm tired to death of Nauplia.'

‘So am I,' said Phyllida. ‘And Marcos gets gloomier and gloomier about the state of affairs between the two forts. He seems to think they may come to blows any moment.'

‘And here we sit between the two!'

‘Yes. I do wish we'd hear from Brett.'

Jenny laughed. ‘When I write my
Don Juan
about this adventure, I shall use that for the chorus. Let's think: how would it go? All kinds of permutations and combinations:
“And every time they found the weather wet, They only said, ‘I wish we'd hear from Brett.'” and so forth.'

‘You talk a great deal of nonsense, child,' said Cassandra indulgently. She had grown very fond of Jenny, whom she found a good deal easier to understand than her niece. She had done her best to make light of Phyllida's secret engagement, because there seemed nothing else to be done, but it had shocked her deeply. Judging Brett's reaction by her own, she had quite given up that secret hope of hers that he and Phyllida might end by making a match of it. He would see them through their troubles, like the gentleman he was, and then wash his hands of them, and the worst of it was that she entirely sympathised with him. And when Phyllida compounded her offence by acid comments on the English aristocracy she sometimes found it quite hard not to lose her temper.

Jenny saw this. ‘You mustn't be cross with Phyllida, Aunt Cass.' They had been working together at Jenny's indifferent French in the little room set aside as a study, and Jenny said this, haltingly, in French. ‘She's so unhappy, sometimes I don't think she quite knows what she's saying.'

‘I know. But, Jenny, how could she do such a thing?' It was a relief to have said it.

‘I expect they'd think nothing of it in America,' said Jenny cheerfully. ‘But it's a pity about Brett.'

‘Hopeless, I'm afraid.' They understood each other perfectly.

Inevitably, Phyllida was aware of this understanding between them, and it put the final touch to her general misery. Everything had gone wrong, and most of it was her fault. She who had been used to being so self-reliant found herself wretchedly anxious for any kind of approval and reassurance. She threw herself into helping Dr. Howe with his relief projects, but could not help longing, like Jenny, to be away from Nauplia with its constant reminders of Greek misery. And yet, if by any miracle Brett did manage to secure Peter's escape, and they were able to leave, it would mean a parting of their ways. As realistic as her aunt, she knew that the end of their adventures would mean the break-up of their strange
ménage
. And she found it extraordinarily hard to bear the thought of parting from Brett in anger. But suppose the question did not arise? May dragged into June and there was still no word from him.