‘Kind?’ Persepha gave a husky laugh. ‘When the moon turns blue then will I believe in miracles!’
A little later, looking cool and fresh and just a little pink around the eyelids, Persepha walked through the patios and court gardens of the hacienda until she came to the tawny-walled little chapel that stood in a glade of lovely old trees with huge purple leaves like velvet, with close to its walls bushes of fuchsia and clumps of columbine and amaryllis. Also, almost up to one of the stained-glass windows, was a rambling branch of passion-flower, whose fruits were called the maracuja; the hammer and nails of the passion of Christ.
Persepha entered the chapel and found it cool and shady, with a polished aisle to the altar and the blue-robed figure of the Madonna on her dais. She walked slowly to the dais, and saw the flickering flames of candles burning just below the bare feet of Our Lady. The smoke mingled with the scent of flowers, and a sort of peace seemed to wind itself around Persepha’s heart as she knelt and closed her eyes, which still felt a little heavy from those tears which wouldn’t be held back after Carmenteira had left her.
Tears for herself, and for Marcus, and perhaps for the young man who had been named Alvarado. Sadness and confusion all mixed together, which being here in the chapel helped to assuage if not to cure. Persepha remained in that peaceful atmosphere for about fifteen minutes, and then she made her way to the burial ground, carrying the white camellias which Carmenteira had brought to her bedroom. She walked among the quiet headstones, some with angels carved upon them, and some with doves, and at last she found the plain headstone marked with the name that struck at her heart.
Charles Lennox Paget, departed from earth to heaven at the age of forty-four.
She knelt on the grass verge and laid the camellias on the grave, and up there in the ilex trees and birds sang as if they didn’t know about heartache and the sorrows of love and hate.
Here far from the England where he had been bom rested the remains of the man she had hardly ever thought about, for he had seemed dead to her long ago, and it was to Marcus that she had given her love and devotion. How strange that after all these years she should be here beside the father she had never known ... he and Marcus between them had shaped her destiny. One had aroused the Don’s curiosity about her, and Marcus had placed her in the Don’s keeping in circumstances she had been unable to fight.
The treacherous tears sprang again to her eyes, and with a little touch of self-anger she swiftly brushed them away, and taking a single camellia from the bunch she went looking for one other grave in this private garden of memory, that of the young brother-in-law she was never to know, who had been named after an Aztec war-god, even as her husband had been named after the Devil.
When she left the quietness of the graveyard, where only the birds had movement and sound, she wandered on an exploration of the grounds that could not be interrupted by the abrupt appearance of Don Diablo. In the fig and mulberry orchards there was a lowand sultry thunder of many bees busily at work among the blossoms of the fruit trees. She breathed the pungent air and felt an idolatry of the senses, a feeling of passionate warmth in the air that made her wince for those who were dead and cold and couldn’t see the sun shining on petals and tiles and the shell-shaped basins of a lovely old fountain whose cascades of water were hued like the flashes of colour in lovely jewels.
She wandered from courtyard to patio, along paved walks where the flowers and shrubs were assisted in their growth by ramblas of water that sparkled in the sunlight. Butterflies hovered on wings that seemed made of crystal, and there were hanging cypress trees that made a veil of green, shading a tiled bench warmed by the sun, where Persepha at last relaxed with her thoughts.
It was no use denying that the hacienda was a sublime place, worked at by brown hands skilful and loving, until it was that perfect achievement where not a tree or a plant or a piece of stonework jarred on the eye or the senses. It created a deep response in anyone conscious of true beauty, similar to that induced by a haunting melody or a perfect piece of prose.
Persepha looked about her and wondered that she was the mistress of such a place. For the first time since coming here the realization struck her that she was the patróna, and she was stunned, and could understand at last why Marcus had been willing for her to become the wife of Don Diablo Ezreldo Ruy. Being the man he was, one who had taught her that love brought heartache, he would have gambled that she’d give her love to the hacienda itself and endure the husband who owned the estate.
Those had been the black and white terms by which
Marcus had lived his life ... a throw of the cards ... a
toss of the dice, and if a lucky number came up you took advantage of it. Added to which he had known that he was likely to die of a heart attack and that his property was entailed ... he hadn’t known that he had been tossing not with the dice but with her heart.
Persepha sighed and reached for a tendril of green, unconsciously drawing it across her lips as the Don had drawn a strand of her golden hair.
In the next few days Persepha took the trouble to become acquainted with her beautiful home. It wasn’t until the middle of the week that she asked Juan Feliz to drive her into town. She had decided, after all, not to risk the Don’s displeasure by taking the car and causing damage with her uncertain driving. These few days on her own had taught her that it was a responsibility not to be ignored, being the mistress of so vast an estate, with so many people employed upon it, their livelihood, their welfare and in part their happiness, in the hands of the Don and whoever was closest to him.
That she was this person struck home forcibly to Persepha on the morning she heard shrill screams coming from the direction of the kitchen. She hastened from the salita and when she entered the big kitchen, with its tiled walls and immense cooking range, she was appalled to see two of the Mexican girls biting and clawing each other, their long black hair tangled around their passionate faces, the air alive with Spanish imprecations.
Another of the servants informed Persepha that the girls were fighting over a young man, a Lothario who had become entangled with both of them. She watched the scene for about a minute and when it became obvious that the girls were in no mood to listen to reason, she marched to the sink where she filled a jug with cold water and deliberately flung the contents over the furious pair.
At once their cries of anger became gasps of shock, and they stood there gaping at their mistress, fury quenched and water running down their faces.
‘I will not have such behaviour in this house.’ Persepha spoke in Spanish with slow deliberation, determined to make herself understood. ‘You wouldn’t behave so if the Don were at home, and you think that you can do as you please because I am here alone. I warn both of you, if you turn this kitchen into a cat-yard one more time, then I shall dismiss the pair of you.’
One of the girls then began to cry, but the other one tossed her wet hair and muttered that next time Loreta made eyes at her amigo, then she would use a knife on her and that would certainly be quieter.
‘Don’t be so foolish, Pilar. If the young man is so fickle, then you’d be wiser to find yourself another amigo. It’s disgraceful, fighting like this over a man.’
‘Wouldn’t you fight, señora,’ Pilar shot back at Persepha, ‘if your man was enticed away from you by another woman?’
‘I’d hope to have a bit more pride—’
‘Pride?’ Pilar scoffed. ‘What has that to do with loving someone?’
‘A woman has to have pride,’ Persepha rejoined, ‘or she has nothing.’
‘I’d sooner have the love - the passion, señora.’ The Mexican girl broke into a smile, flashing her vivid white teeth. ‘You are not one of us, so you don’t really understand. We take what we want, we fight for it, and then make sure that we keep it. Let Loreta glance once more at my amigo and I shall have her eyes for the breakfast of my mother’s rooster!’
At this the girl Loreta gave a louder sob and dashed past Persepha fr
om the kitchen. The girl called Pilar pushed the wet black hair from her brow, and her stance was a triumphant one, there on her bare brown feet. She had fought for what she wanted and Persepha couldn’t help feeling a tingle of admiration for the pagan young creature.
‘No more fighting,’ she reproved. ‘I won’t allow that.’
She turned to leave the kitchen and saw the other servants looking at her with curious respect. She had dealt out a form of justice they could understand, and she knew they liked her for it.
Having, however, faced up to this small crisis, she just had to shrug off the weight of being patróna for a few hours, hopefully in the lighthearted company of Gil Howard. After telling Juan Feliz to get the car out, she went to her room and dressed with care, putting on a turquoise angora dress that reached to her knees, companioned by a pink angora cloche hat. Around her neck she hung the pearls which had belonged to her mother, and to the small lobes of her ears she attached the studs that matched the pearls. To her lips she applied a tone of pink lipstick just a shade darker than her hat.
When her toilette was completed she looked very slim and chic — perhaps a little too eye-catching for a shopping expedition. If old Carmenteira happened to be pottering about in the hall she would be bound to wonder why her mistress was all dressed up, and Persepha knew very well that the old lady’s allegiance to the Don made her a dangerous person to try and fool.
Persepha drew on her pink gloves and set her chin at a defiant angle. She wanted to go to town and wasn’t going to be put off by the possible suspicions of Carmenteira. The old woman could only make surmises, and the household was well acquainted with her mysterious remarks and predictions of doom.
Assuming a casual air Persepha made her way down the curving staircase, but nerves tightened in her midriff when she caught sight of the bent figure, flicking with a feather duster at plant-pots and ornaments, making pretence to occupy herself so that she could take a good look at the mistress on her way to town.
‘I see that the trousers have been discarded, señora.’ The knowing eyes gleamed amid their wrinkles. ‘You look so elegant that you might be on your way to a party - with a friend.’
‘I have the señor’s position to think of,’ Persepha strove to retain her composure. ‘It wouldn’t be right for me to be seen in town looking anything but the perfect wife of a powerful landowner, would it?’
‘Elegance and perfection are two different things,’ said Carmenteira, her eyes narrowing as they ran over Persepha. ‘The body can usually be dressed to look immaculate, but the intentions of the mind are too concealed for any woman but a nun to feel less than guilty about her thoughts and inclinations.’
‘Guilty?’ Persepha took her up, though it would have been wiser to continue on her way with her nose in the air. ‘Why on earth should I feel anything of the sort?’ ‘You know that better than I, señora. I studied your tea-leaves this morning and I saw there an accusing finger and a display of fireworks. It could be significant, eh?’
‘More likely a lot of nonsense.’ Persepha knew that the old woman was only making guesses about where she was going, and playing on her nerves, and she smiled as she smoothed her pink gloves and made for the arched doorway that led out to where the car was parked, with Juan Feliz in his fawn-coloured uniform and peaked cap, looking very smart as he opened the car door for her.
‘When we get to town,’ she said to him, ‘you can park in the square while I do my shopping. We have a nice afternoon for a drive, Juan.’
‘Si, señora,’ The chauffeur smiled politely, but in his eyes also there seemed to be a speculative glint, and as Persepha settled back in her seat she reflected that these people would watch her like hawks even without orders from the Don. His honour was their honour, and it might have been more diplomatic if she had worn a casual trouser-suit, for it was obvious that they didn’t associate a woman in trousers with a flirtation.
Even as the word entered her mind it jarred on her... but she had no intention of flirting with Gil Howard. She just wanted to talk lightly and easily about irrelevant matters, and to maybe hint that she might want to get out of Mexico and perhaps he could help in the matter of transport.
It was this latter thought that made the drive quite enjoyable for her; she felt that she was no longer quite on her own in an alien country among people who wouldn’t understand or condone a wife’s need to get away from her husband. Love? They’d snap their fingers at the idea. It was her duty to stand by the vows she had made in church; they were holy and unbreakable.
But she wouldn’t think about it right now. She would put it out of her mind and let her thoughts dwell on the pleasant prospect of seeing the grey-eyed American again, with his warm drawl and his open face that wasn’t a dark mask concealing all sorts of secrets.
An hour later the car swept through the Mexican village on the outskirts of the town, and Persepha took her compact from her bag and made sure her face was cool and quiet, and that it didn’t show in her eyes that she was a woman pursued by deeply unhappy thoughts. They drove into the town square with its equestrian statue, which she knew was that of an Ezreldo Ruy, for only they had such chiselled faces and such an air of command.
‘How long will the señora be?’ asked Juan Feliz as he assisted her from the car. ‘Would the señora like me to come and carry her parcels?’
‘I shall be about an hour,’ she said, giving him what she hoped was a carefree smile. ‘There’s no need for you to tag along, Juan. I shan’t be buying so very much, and just wanted an outing, really. You might as well find a cafe and have a refreshing drink - let’s see, the time is now three o’clock, so I shall be back at the car around four o’clock. Don’t worry about me. I’m not going to run away and get you into trouble.’
‘Run away?’ he said, instantly on the alert. ‘The señora must not do that at any cost—’
‘It’s all right, Juan,’ she assured him. ‘I wouldn’t want to get you into hot water with the señor, for I know what a temper he has. I’m just going to stroll around the shops, and I give you my oath I shall be back at the car by four. Adios.’
She walked quickly away from the chauffeur, but knew he was staring after her. She prayed that he wouldn’t follow her, and when she dared at last to glance over her shoulder she saw with relief that he had decided to trust her and was not tailing her. Thank goodness! She couldn’t possibly have walked in on Gil Howard with the Don’s driver at her heels.
When she arrived at the jewellery store she had a sudden attack of shyness and decided that she had better look in the window and select some article in which to have an apparent interest, just in case she was approached by one of the other assistants and couldn’t bring herself to ask boldly for Mr. Howard to serve her.
She was standing there, gazing without any deep interest at a small jade clock that would look rather pretty on the desk of her boudoir, when she felt a tingling of her nerves that told her she was being scrutinized by someone. A little angrily she swung round, thinking the observer was Juan Feliz; that he had decided after all to keep a watchful eye on her.
‘Look, I don’t need a watchdog—’ And there the words petered out, for it wasn’t the uniformed figure of the chauffeur who stood there, a charming and quizzical smile on his face. It was Gil Howard, looking fit and suntanned and very grey-eyed, clad in a cream denim jacket, brown slacks, and a light brown button-down shirt open at his tanned throat.
‘I thought a vision had come into town,’ he drawled. ‘I saw you pass by the sports shop along there, where I was looking at some tennis-rackets, and I just had to follow and make sure it was Persephone. This is my afternoon off, by the way, and we’d have missed each other if I hadn’t spotted you in that most fetching outfit.’
‘I - I came to town to buy a clock,’ she said, pleased to see him and yet ruffled that he should so quickly presume that she had come on purpose to see him. ‘This jade one — I’m going in now to have a closer look at it.’
‘I re
ally shouldn’t waste your cash,’ he said, looking amused. ‘It’s imported Hong Kong jade, and not really first-class stuff. I’m sure your husband has far more precious clocks at that hacienda of his - and where is he, Persephone? Where’s the dark lord of Hades?’
‘You shouldn’t talk about him in that way,’ she protested mildly.
‘Will he have my skin for his saddle-bag?’ Gil asked dryly. ‘Is he conducting another business deal while you wander alone in the market place, looking more lovely than any woman has the right to look?’
When Gil Howard called her lovely she saw his eyes darken and she knew instantly that it rested with her whether she allowed this meeting to progress, or whether she terminated it before there was any real danger of it becoming a real flirtation. He was very attractive, and he was kind, and Persepha was in the vulnerable position of a wife very much possessed but not loved ... and she couldn’t help but feel a stirring in her soul for someone to love her a little.
She sensed the danger ... it brushed against her, almost like the palpable wing of a moth. And then, as Gil smiled coaxingly, she brushed off the trembling wing, and let her own lips curve into a smile.
‘My husband is conducting a business deal,’ she admitted. ‘In South America.’
‘Wow, that’s a nice long way for him to be! And so you decided to take advantage of his absence and came into town - to buy a clock?’
Her smile deepened, revealing a tiny dimple in her left cheek. ‘If you feel I’d be wasting my money, Mr. Howard, then I’ll forget about the clock.’
‘I should, honey, and do call me Gil, for the mister sounds so formal between two people who are both free for the afternoon, who speak the same language, and who obviously like each other.’
‘You take a lot for granted,’ she reproved him, the dimple slipping out of sight again. ‘I don’t deny that I’m pleased to see you, but I’d better make it clear that I’m not a lonely wife on the prowl for a little solace. I did hope we could talk together again, in a friendly way—’
Devil's Darling Page 11