A Savage Beauty

by Anne Mather

  Victor looked bored by this turn of the conversation and regarding his empty glass, said: ‘Can I get another?'

  Emma nodded quickly. ‘Of course. Just help yourself.'

  ‘Thank you.'

  Victor did so, and when he came back to his position by the fire he changed the conversation round to his present conflict with the board of Messiter Textiles. Emma listened while he gave a detailed explanation of their shortcomings and then went on to describe his plans for their future. Emma had heard it all before, but she tried to evince an interest she did not feel. Recollections of the day she had spent kept coming to cloud her awareness, and with them came visions of the years ahead and evenings like this when Victor would expect her to listen while he recounted the details of his day. There had to be more to marriage than this, she found herself thinking desperately. Perhaps if two people loved one another, if they shared a mutual understanding of one another, they became naturally involved with one another's lives. But she and Victor had a different kind of relationship. Emotion played a very small part, and while she admitted that a marriage based solely on sexual compatibility might not succeed, surely the physical side of their association should be a source of enjoyment to them.

  But she couldn't imagine Victor enjoying anything where the subjugation of self was one of the prime factors. To picture Victor without his immaculate city clothes, without his armour of respectability, was like committing some sacrilegious act. She simply could not see him in that way.

  Mrs. Cook brought in some sandwiches and coffee soon after ten o'clock, and Victor came to sit beside Emma on the couch so that he could reach the tray.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, munching on a ham roll, ‘we're invited out to dinner on Friday evening.'

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Emma looked up. ‘Who by?'

  ‘The Hansons. You know—Miles and Delia. It's a kind of celebration really—their wedding anniversary. They've been married twenty-three years.’ He shook his head. ‘Imagine that! Soon be their silver wedding, won't it?'

  Emma nodded, sipping her coffee without really tasting it. These people were Victor's friends, his contemporaries, and they were soon to be celebrating their silver wedding! Were they never to have any young friends, any friends of her age?

  But no. She couldn't see Victor making conversation with any young man who had yet to make his way in the world. Such people bored him. His associates were all successful business men like himself, men who knew how to handle money, and people; though not always very considerately.

  Victor smiled in a satisfied way as he drank his coffee. ‘This is very nice, you know,’ he said. ‘I enjoy these evenings, just staying at home like this. Entertaining's all right, up to a point, but it's nice to relax, isn't it?'

  Emma forced a faint smile to her lips. She hoped he would not stay late. The headache she had pretended earlier in the day was fast becoming a reality, and she longed for the oblivion of unconsciousness.

  And then the doorbell rang, and her inertia fled, taking with it her peace of mind. She could think of no one who would call at this hour of the evening. No one, except…

  Victor raised his eyebrows. ‘Who's this?’ he demanded gruffly.

  Emma shook her head. ‘I—I don't know,’ she murmured, gettiing to her feet. ‘I'll go and see.'

  ‘Leave it to Mrs. Cook,’ advised Victor, standing up too. ‘Probably someone's got the wrong house.'

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Emma faintly, straining her ears to hear the housekeeper's steps along the hall, and presently the sound of the outer door being opened.

  There was a moment's pregnant silence when she thought that Victor had been right, that someone had indeed got the wrong house, and then after a brief altercation in the hall the lounge door was summarily opened and Miguel stood in the aperture, Mrs. Cook hovering with nervous impotence behind him. Tall, lean, dark, dressed in a maroon velvet jacket over his evening shirt and trousers, he surveyed them both with mocking insolence.

  ‘Buenos noches, señor, señorita!’ he greeted them, bowing slightly. ‘I trust I am not interrupting anything.'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EMMA refused to look at Miguel after that first devastating recognition. She looked instead at Victor whose face was purpling in his confused efforts to find some reasonable explanation for this unexpected and unwanted intrusion. And in those few seconds she realized that her initial suspicions of Miguel's ruthlessness, of his complete lack of compunction about hurting people when it came to getting what he wanted, had been only too accurate. Watching Victor struggling to find words to break the ominous silence which had fallen was like watching the desperate antics of a fly who suddenly finds himself caught in a spider's web.

  Then, as though realizing that she had said nothing, Victor turned to her and said: ‘What's all this about, Emma? Do you know this man? Are you going to allow him to walk in here like this, uninvited and unannounced?'

  Emma knew the onus was on her now. Picking her words carefully, she replied: ‘I'm afraid there's been a mistake, Victor. Señor Salvaje called earlier and invited me to have supper with him. I refused, of course, but it seems he didn't understand.'

  ‘Señor Salvaje!’ Victor turned incredulously to Miguel. ‘Dammit, do you mean to tell me you're that pianist—the one we saw last evening?'

  Miguel inclined his head with sardonic politeness, and Victor shook his head a trifle bewilderedly. Then he looked at Emma again. ‘And this man—Señor Salvaje—asked you out for supper this evening?’ He was clearly flabbergasted.

  Emma cast an appealing glance in Miguel's direction, silently begging for his support, but gained nothing from those enigmatic dark eyes. ‘Y-yes,’ she nodded now. ‘That's right.'

  Victor made a frustrated gesture. ‘But why? Why you? Does he know you?'

  Emma thought desperately. ‘I—he—his manager supplied the agency with some work!’ She hated involving Fenella like this, but surely if she explained the whole situation to her she would understand.

  Victor frowned. ‘I see. And I suppose Fenella gave him your address?'

  Emma moved her shoulders helplessly. ‘It's in the phone book.'

  ‘Of course.’ Victor snatched at this apparently sane piece of information like a drowning man reaching for straws. He turned to Miguel. ‘I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to leave, señor. As you've heard from Miss Seaton herself, she does not wish to have supper with you, and if you understood otherwise, then it's most unfortunate.'

  Miguel moved then, straightening from his lounging position and stepping into the room, closing the door gently but firmly in Mrs. Cook's face.

  ‘I agree,’ he said pleasantly, so that for a moment Emma thought everything was going to be all right. But it wasn't! ‘It is unfortunate. But not for me, señor, for you!'

  Victor straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. ‘I beg your pardon.'

  ‘You heard what I said, señor.’ Miguel was calm, but menacing.

  ‘Miguel, please—’ Emma's cry was damning in its implied intimacy and Victor gave her a startled look.

  ‘You called him Miguel!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Of course she did,’ remarked Miguel coolly. ‘Hasn't she told you we spent the day together?'

  ‘Miguel!’ Emma pressed both hands to her lips.

  ‘Well? Didn't we?’ His eyes challenged her.

  Victor stared at her disbelievingly. ‘Is this true, Emma?'

  Emma's nostrils flared. ‘And if it is?'

  Victor's breathing was obviously forced. ‘Are you telling me it is true?'

  ‘Of course she is.’ Miguel stood, arms folded, regarding them both with contemptuous eyes. ‘Does it surprise you, Harrison, that your fiancée should find another man attractive? Surely you know enough about women to know how fickle they can be! You were married, weren't you? Didn't it teach you anything?'

  ‘You're insolent, sir!’ Victor's angry reproof was almost Victorian, and Emma shook her head helplessly.

  ‘Ple
ase!’ she exclaimed. ‘Stop this!’ She looked at Miguel in angry reproach. ‘Why have you come here? What are you hoping to achieve by insulting us both like this?'

  Miguel's hands dropped to his sides. ‘I came to see you,’ he replied simply. ‘Didn't you want to see me?'

  When he looked at her it was as though the two of them were alone in the room, and Emma's senses stirred unwillingly. But she dragged her gaze from his, moving her head vigorously from side to side. ‘No!’ she denied fiercely. ‘No, I didn't ask you to come here.'

  Miguel swore softly under his breath and stilled his immediate reaction to step towards her. Emma waited, motionless, for him to go, but instead he turned back to Victor. ‘Well, señor?’ he challenged. ‘What are you going to do about it?'

  ‘What am I going to do about it?’ Victor was furious. ‘Señor, I don't like you, and I don't like your insinuations. If Emma—agreed to go out with you today then no doubt she had some good reason for doing so! I do not propose, however, to conduct any kind of question-and-answer session with my fiancée in front of you!'

  Miguel's face darkened, and Emma mentally applauded Victor's common sense. But it was short-lived. ‘Your fiancée's reasons for coming out with me, señor, were excellent,’ Miguel observed pleasantly. ‘Shall I tell you what they were?’ He raised his eyebrows mockingly. ‘She is attracted to me, señor. She wanted me to make love to her!'

  Emma's horrified gasp of: ‘That's not true!’ was stifled by Victor's enraged growl as he strode across the room to grasp the Mexican by his collar. But Miguel evaded his bull-like rush and sank his fist into Victor's solar plexus so that the older man uttered a groan and stood panting breathlessly.

  ‘Oh, you—you swine!’ cried Emma, rushing to Victor's side and endeavouring to help him into an armchair. ‘How—how dare you?’ She was trembling all over herself. If only she had not allowed herself to get involved with a man like him, she thought recriminatively. If she had only clung to her first assessment of him as a cruel and ruthless man; if only she had taken Mrs. Cook's advice and never allowed the situation to develop. She should have realized that she could not expect someone with a racial background of violence and savagery to conform to her standards.

  Miguel regarded her with dislike. ‘You are a hypocrite, Emma,’ he stated coldly. ‘You pretend an affection for this man when you know you do not love him. Can you honestly tell me I am wrong?'

  Emma looked up from massaging Victor's shoulders. ‘I don't have to tell you anything,’ she replied steadily. ‘Will you please get out of here?'

  Miguel held her gaze for a few moments longer and then without a word he turned and strode out of the room, slamming all the doors of the house behind him.

  After he had gone, Emma breathed a tremulous sigh of relief. She came round Victor's chair to confront him, watching him anxiously as he rubbed his tender muscles. ‘Are—are you all right, Victor?'

  Victor stretched the muscles tentatively. ‘I suppose so,’ he replied tersely. Then he swore softly. ‘Emma, what was that all about?'

  Emma pressed her palms together. ‘I—I thought I explained.'

  ‘No.’ Victor was very definite about that. ‘No, Emma, you did not explain. Your story was that you met him through the agency and he invited you to have supper with him this evening. But, naturally, you refused.'

  ‘Y-yes.'

  ‘His story is somewhat different. As I recall it, there was the question of his taking you out today.'

  ‘And you believe that?'

  ‘Isn't it true?’ Victor sniffed. ‘Emma, when I came round here today, Mrs. Cook told me you were in bed with a headache. Were you?'

  Emma sighed. ‘All right—no, I wasn't in bed. I went to Brighton with Miguel Salvaje.'

  Victor looked taken aback. ‘You did?'

  ‘Yes.’ Emma turned away. ‘What are you going to do about it?'

  ‘I wish people would stop asking me what I'm going to do about situations they have created,’ snapped Victor shortly. ‘What do you expect me to do about it?'

  Emma shrugged. ‘I don't know. Break our engagement, maybe.'

  Victor rose from his chair, wincing painfully. ‘Is that what you expect me to do?'

  ‘It wouldn't surprise me if you did,’ she admitted, turning to look at him again. ‘Oh, Victor, I'm sorry. I'm sorry—for everything.'

  Victor shook his head. ‘So am I. However…’ He walked slowly over to the cabinet and poured himself a stiff whisky. ‘However, I don't particularly want to lose you, Emma. We—well, we're compatible. We like the same things. And we'll have a good, reliable marriage, I'm sure of it. You're not one of these fly-by-night young women, constantly searching for some new diversion, but you're young, and attractive, and I shall enjoy taking you about with me.'

  Emma listened silently, and he went on: ‘Your father and I discussed the question of our marriage in detail before he left for Canada, and I am sure he would agree with me that in the circumstances it might be a good idea if we put the date forward.'

  ‘Put the date forward,’ echoed Emma faintly.

  ‘Yes. There's no reason why we shouldn't, is there? I think a couple of weeks before Christmas—that's, let me see, four weeks from now—might be a suitable compromise.'

  ‘Four weeks!’ Emma was aghast. It was one thing considering the prospect of marriage with Victor in the New Year which was still nebulously distant, and quite another to fix the date only four weeks ahead. ‘I—I don't know that I can be ready in that time,’ she faltered.

  Victor frowned. ‘Why not? What is there for you to do? Any couturier in London can supply you with a dress and accessories before then, and if you want bridesmaids, their dresses as well. Just charge it all to me. You might as well. I shall have the responsibility for all your expenditure in future.'

  Emma put a hand to her head. ‘You're going too fast for me, she said helplessly. ‘I—give me a chance to sleep on it, Victor. Good heavens, Daddy might not be back by then.'

  ‘But you said yourself he probably would be. And if we write and tell him about the wedding, he'll have to be, won't he? Perhaps your brother and his wife will come, too.'

  Emma shook her head. ‘I doubt if they could afford to.'

  ‘Then write and tell them I'll pay their expenses.’ Victor was being very generous. ‘Emma, my dear, I know I'm not very demonstrative, but I do think a lot of you, I always have, and I want us to be happy.'

  ‘I know you do, Victor.’ Emma took a deep breath. ‘But it's late—and I do have a headache now, really.'

  Victor sobered. ‘Oh, yes—Salvaje! I'd almost forgotten about him. I don't know what to do about that.'

  ‘There's nothing to do, is there?’ asked Emma tightly.

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Victor broodingly, rubbing his muscles ruefully. ‘Mind you, I'd like to be able to do something. Coming here—into a person's home—threatening them! Punching me!’ He snorted. ‘Who the devil does he think he is? And where does he think he is? This is England, you know, not some primitive South American republic where civilization is a dirty word!’ He put down his glass and buttoned the jacket of his suit. ‘He ought to be taught that you can't behave like that here and get away with it. I've a good mind to have a word with his Embassy—'

  ‘Oh, really, Victor, let it drop,’ exclaimed Emma wearily. ‘It's over now. Don't stir up any more trouble, because somehow I don't think Mig—Señor Salvaje—cares a great deal for rules and regulations.'

  ‘Then perhaps he should,’ retorted Victor pompously. ‘Are you defending the man?'

  ‘No, Victor. I'm tired, and I want to go to bed, that's all.'

  Victor considered her pale face appraisingly. ‘Yes, I must say you do look tired. All right, my dear, I'll go. And don't you go worrying about this Mexican any more. I'll see he doesn't trouble you again.'

  Emma wanted to make some comment about that veiled threat, but she was too tired, and in any case, by tomorrow Victor would be so involved with the Messiter deal t
hat he would forget all about what he had said.

  * * *

  The following day, Emma resumed her work at the agency. After a preliminary inquiry about her health, Fenella said nothing more, and Emma decided to let it go at that. After all, Victor would be hardly likely to betray her confidence in the circumstances.

  Emma herself felt curiously empty inside, as though all emotion had been drained out of her. She did her work efficiently, but automatically, refusing to allow her mind to dwell on those thoughts it constantly conjured up. Thoughts of the previous day with Miguel, of their companionship, and of those moments on the dunes when he had shown her so effectively how little defence she had against him.

  The looming prospect of her marriage to Victor was almost frightening, particularly as she knew that Miguel had been right in one respect at least: she did not love Victor, but whether or not that was because she loved someone else she could not be certain. And nor would she allow herself to speculate in that direction.

  On Friday evening they attended the celebratory dinner at the Hansons. It was quite an enjoyable occasion; Emma, naturally, was the youngest person there, but at least it avoided for one evening Victor's increasing demands that she set a date for their wedding and write to her father.

  She drank rather a lot of champagne during the course of the evening, and was quite tipsy when Victor drove her home in the early hours of Saturday morning. She was aware of his disapproval, which had dispersed the rather smug air he had been wearing all evening, but she was beyond caring, and although she might regret it at some later date, right now she was enjoying the feeling of release it had given her.

  Victor walked up the drive with her to her door, but refused her invitation to come in for coffee. ‘It's late,’ he said, obviously trying to control his impatience with her. ‘I think you'll find you'll feel better if you go straight to bed.'

  ‘I feel fine!’ exclaimed Emma brightly.

  ‘Nevertheless, I'm going.’ Victor opened the door for her and then handed her back the key. ‘I'll give you a ring later when you're feeling more yourself.'