Uncertain Joy

by Hilary Wilde

  `I am not!' She sat up, folding her legs and resting her chin on her knees as she looked at him. 'I just wondered . .

  `Wondered what?'

  `Well, what does he have to do on the island? I mean, he has a lovely home in South America—couldn't he have a manager here? After all, strictly speaking, it should be Alfonso's...'

  `It isn't anyone's.' Mike sat up and lit a cigarette, offering her one which she refused.

  `I told you it was a lease that has gone back for generations and I think has been overlooked. Just because Alfonso's grand-father had the lease, it doesn't automatically mean that Alfonso has a right to it. The lease should go to the best man, and Juan is that. He has used a great deal of his own money, for this place when we came was a real mess. Alfonso had been supposedly helping Pedro Dominguez, and from what I can see of the books, he helped himself—Alfonso, I mean.'

  `But what has Juan to do? I mean, how do you manage an island?'

  Mike ran his hand through his fair hair. 'I had no idea until I came here. He does just about everything—sees that all the peasants have jobs, arranges export sales, and he's starting a pension scheme as some of the old folks are very badly off. He's arranged a small clinic as there was nothing here, anyone ill had to go to the mainland. Then he has to . .

  Penny listened as Mike went on, fascinated. It was indeed a big job for Juan —but would he have devoted the rest of his life to looking after Vallora simply because his cousin asked him to? Somehow it didn't seem fair—Juan had a right to his own way of living.

  When she said that to Mike, he agreed. `Juan del Riego,' Mike said slowly, 'is an unusual man. He can be mad as hell one moment and darned sympathetic the next. But there is one thing I admire about him—he

  keeps his word. He wants to sell the lease—it needn't affect the family, as they simply pay rent to the new owner of the lease.'

  Penny glanced at her watch. 'I must go.' She jumped to her feet and Mike followed suit. She was startled when he put his hands on her shoulders and looked at her.

  `You really mean it when you say you're not in love with him?'

  She smiled. 'Of course I mean it. After all, he's much older than I am, and besides, he's going to marry Anita.'

  Mike laughed. 'Or so she says.' He moved fast, taking Penny in his arms and kissing her. She was startled; for a moment she was about to push him away, but then she didn't, for there was a warmth in his kiss that frightened her. Not that she was afraid of him, but for him—he was such a darling, but . . .

  His arms tightened round her, his hands moved on the bare flesh of her back.

  Poor Mike, she was thinking. His kiss meant nothing to her. It could have been her father— his mouth on hers, his arms round her.

  Mike must have sensed this, for he let her go. `So you do . . .' he began, but was interrupted by an angry shout:

  `You should know better than this!' It was Juan del Riego himself, almost running down the narrow weaving pathway from the plateau above them. As he came closer, they could see how furious he was. 'There are probably a

  dozen eyes behind binoculars watching you both at this very moment!'

  Mike stiffened and stepped back from Penny. 'What's so wrong with a kiss?' he asked defiantly.

  Juan stopped by their sides, his eyes aflame with fury.

  `You know damned well that kissing a girl in a swim-suit on a lonely beach is just asking for local gossip. The very thing I want to protect Penny from!

  Pausing for a moment, Juan turned to look at Penny, his eyes going over her critically. `You should know better, too. I thought I made it plain I wanted no lovemaking while you were employed by me.'

  It was so unjust that Penny's temper grew with each word he used.

  `We were not making love!' she almost shouted.

  `Then what were you doing? You were in Mike's arms, weren't you?' Juan demanded.

  Penny felt the colour rising in her cheeks, but Mike spoke first.

  `We were not making love. I merely kissed her.'

  `Merely!' Juan's voice was thick with scorn. `Well, there are all kinds of kisses, but I've never heard one like that called "merely" before.' He turned away. 'You're late as usual, Penny Trecannon. I suppose the chance of being alone with Mike on the beach must be

  too tempting. The children will be waiting for you.'

  `I'm just going,' she said, picking up her towel.

  `About time, too!' he snapped angrily, and left them. He hurried up the winding path, half hidden by the bushes.

  Mike shrugged. 'I'm sorry, Penny.'

  She smiled ruefully. 'So am I.'

  But not for the same reasons as me,' he said. 'I love you, Penny.

  `I know.' Again her cheeks burned. 'I'm fond of you, too, Mike, but . . .'

  `I know—now. I was hoping . . .'

  Impulsively she turned to him and put her hand on his arm. 'I wish . . . I like you so much, but . . .'

  He smiled ruefully. 'So long as Señor Alfonso isn't the man you love.'

  She laughed, glad of the excuse to do so without hurting Mike. 'He'd be the last person on my list. Actually, Mike, there isn't anyone— anyone at all.'

  `You loved your father too much.'

  She shrugged. 'Maybe I did. I'm trying to overcome that.'

  `Come along. We don't want to risk the master's temper again,' Mike said, leading the way up the path. 'You'll be able to overcome that protective love you have for your father when you fall in love.'

  `I wonder if I ever will,' Penny said

  thoughtfully as she hurried up towards the house and the waiting children.

  That evening, as the family had dinner with a number of visitors, Penny wondered if any of them had seen the little scene on the beach—if the local grape-vine was scattering the news around, if Juan would be told that his governess, as the family persisted in calling her, was most unsuitable to look after the children. However, no one said anything, nor was there any more than the usual animosity. She had the uncomfortable feeling that the staff were eyeing her with their usual hatred— the hatred that still upset her, though she had tried to get used to it and ignore it. Yet how could you ignore those cold dark eyes, bursting with hatred—hatred of her because of something her ancestors might have done!

  Penny managed to slip away early that evening, for she didn't feel like talking politely to the family; Juan was besieged by Anita and Julieta who were sitting on either side of him and Magdalena was talking to a very aged, tired-looking man. Alfonso was smiling across the room at Penny and starting to move towards her. Penny was in no mood for his type of compliments and his unpleasant remarks about Juan del Riego. Even if they were true, she hated to hear them.

  Up in her bedroom, she wrote to her father and to Fiona. It was odd, but she found she could write more easily to Fiona, telling her of Alfonso and his irritating attempt to chat her up—and Mike who was a darling but definitely not for her. Penny tried to keep out anything that might alarm her father or Fiona, so she wrote praising the climate, the beautiful scenery, but making light of the children's slowness, but she did mention Catalina's obvious fear in case her mother should hear that Catalina's English was improving. It wasn't, Penny wrote, fair to the child. She also mentioned the feuds on the island, and how Alfonso's father had been disinherited and Alfonso could not forgive Juan for having been chosen as Pedro's successor.

  `It is all so absurd,' Penny wrote. 'It isn't even their island—they have a lease that goes back for centuries. Incidentally, Magdalena, the children's mother, is in love with Alfonso and I think he is with her, though he never shows it.'

  She also wrote that the children were beginning to accept her, but: 'Juan del Riego expects the impossible. You can't teach these young children in a couple of months, particularly when you have to meet so much opposition. He's good to the children, kind and thoughtful, but he has a furious temper and can be most callous and unjust.' She stopped writing and re-read it. Had she made

  herself sound unhappy? Th
at would worry them, and it was the last thing she wanted to do, so she added: 'I am really enjoying myself here—it's so beautiful and so different from the life I've known before.'

  It was four days later that she had a real surprise. She was in the garden with the children and Abilio was sliding down the chute, shouting gleefully. Penny thought she heard someone call her name, so she turned quickly. Wondering who it was, she moved towards the small white gate of the fence that surrounded the children's playground.

  `Penny —be careful!' a shrill frightened little voice cried.

  Penny stopped dead, startled. She looked down and saw that if she hadn't stopped at once, in a moment she would have tripped over a small but dangerously pointed rock half hidden by the long grass. 'Thanks . . .' she began, and stopped as she realised whose voice it was that had warned her. She turned quickly and looked at Catalina. 'You?'

  The girl's eyes were wide with fear as she looked round, but there was no one in sight.

  `Catalina,' Penny said very quietly, going to sit by the girl who was balanced on the wide wooden wall of the sandpit. 'No one can hear us,' Penny said very quietly. 'You spoke English—not just one word.'

  Looking nervously round again, Catalina moved closer to Penny.

  `Daddy taught me, but no one must know.' Penny nodded, 'I won't tell anyone —but why mustn't they?'

  `Because Mother will die.' Tears welled up in the little girl's eyes and she clutched Penny's hand, digging her fingers deep in the flesh. ` She must never know, Daddy said, and it is worse now. She will have a scene and . . . and die,' Catalina spoke slowly as if thinking of each word before she spoke it, but obviously she was quite at ease with the English language.

  `Why would it upset her?' Penny almost whispered, keeping her eyes on the other two children who, for once, seemed to be playing together without quarrelling.

  `She hates the English and Daddy loved them. His mother was English, you see. But we love Mother and if she goes like Daddy, we'll have no one.' Catalina sounded desolate. 'So she must never know.'

  `You'd have your Uncle Juan.'

  `He's all right, but not the same. Besides, Mother says he will marry Aunt Anita, and she does not like us.'

  It sounded so sad that Penny put an arm round the child.

  `It isn't you she doesn't like—she just doesn't like children.'

  `We are children,' Catalina said simply. Penny hugged her. 'We won't tell anyone,' she promised, and Catalina smiled, to Penny's

  joy. Catalina, at least, trusted her.

  As Penny played with the three children, she found herself thinking of what Catalina had said. So Anita and Juan were going to marry after all.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next day Penny went for her favourite walk to the rocks—the walk she usually avoided in case Alfonso would be there. That day, however, she knew she was safe from his unpleasant 'wooing', as he called it, with that frightening smile on his dark face. Only that morning had Alfonso arrived with his mother, Dotia Justina Melado, before driving her to visit some relative who was ill, so Penny felt quite safe.

  She loved the walk, particularly the part where the track became like a weaving pencilled line, walled in by tall bushes of white, fragrant camellias whose long flowered branches stretched across the path and had to be lifted so that she could get by and the ground was soft, covered with leaves and dead flowers. The birds were singing, the cicadas giving a background of sound, and the blue sky she could only catch glimpses of through the intertwining branches above her head was cloudless.

  Suddenly she heard Juan's voice and she stopped, turning, and saw him hurrying towards her.

  As he reached her, he smiled. 'You wanted to tell me something?'

  `I did?' She was startled.

  He laughed. 'Changed your mind, have you? Lost your courage? What is wrong? You sent for me, so you must have something to say. Let's make our way to the rocks and sit down and then you can tell me what is wrong.'

  All right,' she said.

  She hadn't sent for him, she knew that. Indeed she had nothing to tell him . . . But she had, she suddenly realised, and she would tell him about Catalina and how she loved her mother and was afraid that if she learned to speak English, her mother would die. It wasn't fair to the children to have to live in such a state —to be always afraid they would lose their mother whom, it was obvious from the way Catalina had spoken, they loved very much.

  All right,' Penny said again, and began to walk, but Juan caught hold of her arm.

  `Let me lead the way,' he said, and did so, holding back the branches to let her through.

  He was looking over his shoulder at her, asking her if she had spoken to Doha Justina that morning, when suddenly he gave a shout and fell forward . . . not on the ground, for there was none. He had collapsed into a narrow hole.

  It all happened so swiftly that Penny hardly knew what had happened—only that Juan was out of sight. She dropped on her knees by the hole and peered in it.

  `Juan . . . Juan!' she cried. Are you

  all right?'

  Vaguely she could see his body, curled up, his legs up on his chest. He didn't answer and a strange fear swept through her. Suppose he was dead?

  `Juan . . . Juan . . . Juan!' she shouted, leaning over as far as she could, putting down her hand, feeling at last his hands. They were still, they made no movement as she touched them.

  She sat back on her heels. What should she do? Was she strong enough to lift him out .. . should she leave him and run back to the house for help?

  `Juan!' she called again.

  `What is it?' he asked, his voice blurred but still sounding annoyed.

  Are you all right?' she asked.

  `As all right as it's possible to be in a hole this size,' he said irritably. 'Do something to help me.'

  `I will, but . . . but what can I do?'

  `How the hell do I know?'

  Vaguely she could see him heaving his body about.

  `The damned thing is so narrow. Look, go back to the house and tell Jose to send out Manuel and Soldigo—' He gave a little laugh. `You can't talk to them, I forgot that. Look, go to Magdalena—and make it quick. It's not very comfortable here.' He heaved again and stifled what sounded to Penny like a groan. It

  must be a bad pain, she thought, to make Juan groan.

  `I'll be as fast as I can,' she promised.

  She stood up and ran most of the way, despite the heat. She knew Magdalena would be resting, it was siesta, and Jose, too . . .

  Back at the house, she made her way to the kitchen. The staff were gathered round the table and a strangely frightening silence filled the big room as she entered it.

  Jose stood up, his face blank. Penny thought hard—she had learned a little Spanish from Catalina, but it wouldn't be easy.

  `Señor del Riego,' she said slowly, and just couldn't think of the word fell, if she had ever known it, so she mimed it—pretending to fall to the ground but straightening in time. `Manuel and Soldigo, come!' Luckily she knew that last word and opened the door, beckoning to the staff.

  Two men got up, both looking puzzled, but they followed her. She hurried them to the deep narrow hole and saw the shocked look on their faces, so she left them and ran back to the house as fast as she could. She knew there were several doctors on the island and the name of one who often had to come out to see Magdalena or the children.

  Quickly she told him what had happened and he said he would be out at once. As Penny replaced the receiver, Magdalena came down the stairway.

  `Is one of the children ill?' she asked anxiously.

  Penny turned. 'No, it's Juan.' She used his name without thinking because generally when speaking to the family, she was careful to say Señor del Riego. 'He fell down a hole.'

  `A hole?' Magdalena's cheeks seemed to pale. 'Where? I didn't know we had any large holes.'

  Nor did I,' said Penny, suddenly realizing something. 'I often take that walk and there's never been a hole there befo
re.'

  Magdalena shrugged her shoulders. 'Juan has many enemies.' She turned away. 'He's all right?'

  Penny stared at her. How callous that was! The coldness of her voice, the lack of interest, the casual way she had asked if he was all right. 'I took Manuel and Soldigo to help him, but he's hurt . . .'

  At that moment, the front door that was ajar was pushed open and Juan stood there, one foot off the ground, the arms of the two men supporting him as he hopped his way along.

  `He doesn't look very bad to me,' Magdalena said scornfully. 'Certainly not bad enough to send for the doctor.'

  Juan and his supporters paused. 'Who sent for a doctor?' he asked.

  Penny turned and looked at him anxiously. His face was distorted a little so she knew he

  was in pain. 'I did,' she said.

  `I wish you'd mind your own business,' he said angrily. 'If there's one person I hate, it's a doctor.'

  `You've hurt your foot. I didn't know how bad you were,' Penny faltered as she looked at him.

  For a moment he closed his eyes. Was he fighting the pain?

  It was in that moment she learned the truth. She learned something she could not believe— and yet it was true. She loved Juan!

  He opened his eyes and stared at her. 'Well, as you've sent for him, I might as well see him. Now your job is to look after the children—not me, you know.'

  `Yes,' she said, and a wave of depression seemed to wrap round her. Why, oh, why had she to do something so utterly stupid as to fall in love with a man like Juan? 'I'm going to get them.'

  She went upstairs and when the children were playing in the garden she sat very still, watching them as she thought.

  Had that hole been dug on purpose? There had never been a hole there before. Was it there for her? She was usually the only one who used that walk. But then she remembered something Juan had said:

  `You wanted to tell me something?' and later: 'You sent for me.'