by Marion Leigh
What would she do if Julia had gone to her room in the private quarters of the manor house? Would she follow her upstairs? Petra hesitated. She was hardly on intimate terms with the bride-to-be, even if she had been sitting next to her the night before.
Petra cut through the area Tony Broselli had described as the octagonal garden and began to cross the lawn to the manor house. In the centre of the lawn stood one of the oldest trees on the estate, a giant oak planted before 1800. An owl hooted a warning as she approached. She stopped, not wanting to disturb the bird, but it was too late. She caught a glimpse of its yellow eyes before it flew off in the direction of a sister tree planted by one of Sandrine’s ancestors a hundred and twenty years later.
Petra watched the bird land and detected faint movement under the tree as someone sitting on the bench below reacted to the noise. It was Julia, with her head between her knees.
‘Julia? Are you all right?’
Julia didn’t lift her head. ‘I’m fine,’ she muttered.
Petra sat down beside her. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No, but leave me alone.’
‘If you tell me what’s bothering you, I may be able to help.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Try me. Is it pre-wedding jitters? That’s normal you know.’
‘Why does everyone think I’m a nervous wreck?’ Julia said irritably.
‘Are you having second thoughts about Max? You didn’t look happy last night.’
‘Max is OK.’
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’
‘Look,’ Julia said, finally raising her head. ‘Max is fine, I’m fine, we’ll get married and get out of here. End of story.’
Petra sat quietly for a few moments. ‘OK, if that’s the way you want it, that’s fine by me. We’re all fine. But I don’t believe you. There’s something more. Come on, Julia, I can help you.’
Julia exhaled heavily and opened her mouth to speak. The next moment her demeanour changed. She stood up and straightened her dress and moved away from Petra. ‘I was feeling faint and I needed some air. I’m perfectly all right now. Thank you for your concern. Let’s get back to the party.’ She began to walk quickly across the lawn.
A shadow moved and Florian stepped out from behind the tree. He caught hold of Petra’s left arm before she had time to escape.
‘The bride and the chief bridesmaid, eh? A pretty pair. But don’t forget you’re paired with me. I showed you earlier how nice it will be. Like this.’ Florian grabbed Petra’s other arm and pulled her hard towards him.
She did her best to break free, but he forced his lips onto hers and his tongue began to probe deeper and deeper into her mouth. He seemed to know exactly how far to go to inflame her. He eased off, thrust again and explored until she began to gag. Finally, he withdrew and stepped back, laughing.
Petra sucked air into her lungs. Her pulse was racing and she knew her cheeks would be scarlet. Damn it, what was he doing to her? Playing her like a fiddle, working her to arouse the response he wanted then dropping her like some mischievous sprite.
Abruptly Florian’s mood changed. ‘Don’t believe anything my stepsister tells you. She loves to denigrate me and my mother.’ He stared into Petra’s eyes as if to cow her into submission then took off across the lawn after Julia.
Chapter
15
Halfway through the night Petra woke up drenched in sweat. Surely it had been a dream, a product of the mind: his attack, her capitulation, the spasms that had rocked her, and the release her body had demanded? She calmed her breathing and lay quiet, not wanting to disturb Carlo. He had an uncanny knack of sensing what was going on.
With a supreme effort of will, Petra cast Florian out of her mind. She didn’t want to think about him, she wanted to think about Julia who had seemed unhappy from the moment Petra had met her on Tuesday evening. Wednesday she had been late for the “meet the in-laws” dinner. Last night she had hardly eaten anything and said little to her fiancé, Max. She didn’t seem excited about the wedding and had indicated at least once that it was purely a means of escape. The question was from what?
In families where there were second marriages and stepchildren, tensions often ran high. Petra pinned a mental picture of Julia to the centre of the fact board she was creating in her head. She ran through the facts and added questions where necessary, as if she were investigating a serious crime: Julia Broselli, mousy brown hair, mid-twenties, only daughter of Tony Broselli, not interested in the family businesses, getting married – against her will? – and leaving the country. Relationship with her father? Outwardly good.
Petra moved on to Tony, placing him in the top left and joining him to Julia by a diagonal line: a man in his fifties, hospitable and mild-mannered, protective and affectionate towards his daughter, obedient to his wife’s wishes but not subservient, self-styled lord of the manor and historian of his wife’s family estate, owner – wealthy? – of a fishing fleet, processing factory and a hunting and safari lodge. What makes him tick?
She drew a horizontal line from Tony to his second wife, Sandrine Delapore, and pictured Sandrine in skin-tight clothing and high heels. Confident, cold, controlling, callous, cunning … What else? Petra added another diagonal from Sandrine to Julia to complete the triangle, an upside-down prism. Relationship between them: strained – to breaking point?
Which brings us back to Florian. Sandrine’s blue-eyed boy, the only other major player: charismatic, charming when he wanted to be, imperious when he didn’t. Petra linked him to Sandrine with a vertical then to Julia with a horizontal line. His relationship with his mother was close, intense, and troubled. The relationship between him and his stepsister was harder to define. There was disdain, distrust, malice, hatred, fear …
Petra was certain Julia had been going to tell her something, however reluctantly. As soon as she had seen Florian, her whole attitude had changed. Petra guessed she was afraid of her stepbrother, and in some ways Petra didn’t blame her. The way he lived by his looks and used them to manipulate people was scary. And why had he suggested Julia was dishonest and out to discredit him and his mother? Petra had no idea as yet, but the fact board should help.
‘What are you so pensive about?’ Carlo suddenly asked.
‘I didn’t know you were awake.’
‘How could I sleep with the noises you were making?’
‘Noises? What noises?’
‘Shrieks … mewlings … growls … animal noises.’
‘Mercutio, I wasn’t, and if I was, I was dreaming.’
‘So you say, and who am I to doubt a lady’s word?’ Carlo propped himself up on one elbow and looked at Petra. ‘But I bet you’re blushing.’
‘Aaargh!’ Petra pulled one of the pillows from under her head and lobbed it at Carlo. ‘Now can we have a serious discussion?’
‘In the middle of the night? Well, I suppose we could if it’ll take your mind off sex.’
Petra ignored the comment. ‘This is my first visit to South Africa, but you’ve been here before. What do you think of the way things are going in this country?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Florian was ranting on about values and ideals during our visit to that township. He said we needed to eradicate the shanties and move people into areas with basic amenities.’
‘Ah, I knew Florian was involved.’
‘Cut it out, Mercutio.’
‘OK, OK. Here’s my take. Nelson Mandela did a good job of smoothing the changeover to democracy for all South Africans in the post-apartheid era. His successor, Mbeki, continued more or less successfully on the same path …’
‘But?’
‘Mandela’s open borders policy has caused and continues to cause immense problems. The black population has grown exponentially through immigration as well as reproduction, while the white popula
tion – the primary wealth-generating segment of the population – continues to shrink.’
‘Was that what Florian was referring to when he said that if people continue to flood the country, they will swamp the traditional culture and values?’
‘Yes, but my guess is that he wasn’t talking about traditional African culture. Some whites can’t stomach the government’s black empowerment policies that award huge projects to companies who haven’t the faintest idea how to carry them out.’
‘I’m sure that happened in reverse during the apartheid era.’
‘Yes, but not on anything like the same scale. The level of corruption is unbelievable, the judiciary is being overridden, and then there’s talk of land redistribution.’
‘So people like the Broselli/Delapores might be very worried.’
‘Yes, cara, very worried indeed. Now, I need my beauty sleep and, as the senior bridesmaid, you do too. I’ll continue Introduction to South African Politics 007 some other time. And please, no more noise!’
Chapter
16
Breakfast was the most casual meal of the day and the one Petra looked forward to the most. There was no dress code and guests could serve themselves from the continental buffet and order hot dishes from Wellington and his staff. Wellington acknowledged Petra’s greeting with a genuinely friendly smile.
‘I hope you found what you were looking for last night, Miss,’ he said.
‘I did, thank you. And today looks like being a good day.’
Petra had hardly finished her second cup of coffee when Sandrine summoned her to try on her bridesmaid’s dress. Petra considered making her wait a while then decided she might as well get it over with. Why she had been chosen to lead the group of five bridesmaids was a mystery.
Besides herself, there were the bridegroom’s sister Betta De Witt, a friend of Julia’s from her schooldays named Roz, and two diminutive flower girls. Usually, all the bridesmaids were relatives or friends of the happy couple. Petra couldn’t help wondering how long ago the decision to make her a bridesmaid had been taken. Certainly no one had mentioned it until after she arrived. Had Julia made the request? Or was it Florian so that he could sit next to her at the wedding?
The dressmaker was waiting for her in the great room of the manor house, next to a rack full of dresses. Petra’s was pink brocade with a lace midriff. She held it up in front of her and looked in the mirror: hip-hugging, knee-length, no sleeves, and a high rounded neck with a long slit in it like Father John’s kaftan. It could be worse.
She took off her shorts and T-shirt and put them on the nearest chair. When she put the dress on, she found that the fit was surprisingly good. Whoever it had been intended for originally – Gina probably – was fractionally taller and broader than she was.
While the dressmaker, holding a mouthful of pins, fussed with a couple of small adjustments to the darts, Father John entered the room. He made the sign of the cross and walked straight over to Petra.
‘Our chief bridesmaid! What a pleasure. Petra, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Petra Minx.’
‘Delighted to meet you. I won’t shake hands because Sandrine has already warned me not to disturb the dressmaker.’
Then why did you come in?
Father John hovered round her as the dressmaker completed her task and told Petra she could get changed again. Petra looked pointedly at the bogus priest. He had been sensitive to the dressmaker’s needs but didn’t seem at all concerned that Petra might have to take off her clothes in front of him.
She coughed politely then shook her head in disgust. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
‘Thank you,’ she said with a touch of sarcasm.
With help from the dressmaker, she unzipped the bridesmaid’s dress and stepped out of it. Father John had turned away, but she didn’t trust him not to watch what was going on. Not that it mattered; she was no shrinking violet and couldn’t actually care less what he saw. She had been in far more embarrassing situations in the line of duty and had only said something because she was trying to figure him out. He was a strange bird with his beady eyes and wild hair.
As quickly as she could, she pulled on her own clothes. The deep V of her T-shirt was far more revealing than the bridesmaid’s dress, and the crucifix that hung between her breasts was now in full view. If Father John spotted it, he might want to examine the 18th century heirloom that had belonged to her mother’s Italian family. She was lifting the chain over her head to put it away in her pocket when he beat her to it.
‘That’s a wonderful piece,’ he said. ‘May I see?’
Chagrined, Petra let the chain fall back round her neck and held the silver cross out for him to have a look. She kept her hand near the top, covering the first two inlaid black stones. She waited impatiently while Father John studied it.
‘It’s as lovely as its owner.’ He inclined his head as he made the sign of the cross over her then added, ‘May it keep you safe. Are you Catholic?’
‘Long ago, on my mother’s side. What about you?’
‘I could say the same thing,’ he said, attempting a smile. ‘I left the established church some years ago to found a Christian outreach group.’
‘Does that mean you’re a missionary?’
‘That’s part of what we do. We also pride ourselves on our ability to reach out to various segments of the community through charity work. I run a number of major projects in South Africa and Namibia.’
‘But you’re still able to perform marriages?’
‘Of course. There are many ways of solemnizing marriage in the eyes of God.’
And many ways of pulling the wool over the eyes of God and Sandrine’s friends, Petra thought.
‘I understand you’re hearing confession today,’ she continued. ‘Isn’t that a Catholic rite?’
‘Yes, but not exclusively. In my opinion, it is best to confess your sins and receive absolution before entering into sacred vows or taking part in a ceremony where such vows are exchanged.’
Petra studied Father John’s face as he spoke in a rich deep timbre. His tone and his words were designed to be convincing, but the savage gleam in his eyes gave her goose bumps. He returned her gaze with supreme confidence.
‘Sandrine has allowed me to set up my tabernacle in the first of the old slave lodges,’ he said.
Petra put on a surprised look. ‘Tabernacle? What’s that?’ She knew the word had several meanings in English, and in Montreal, Quebec, where she had grown up, tabarnak was used as a swear word in French.
At the same time, her mind was racing. Vicky Dunlin had joined the Tabernacle Youth Collective for a week’s working holiday. Could there be a connection between that group and Father John?
‘For me it signifies two things,’ he said. ‘A place of meeting and worship, and the casket I carry with me always, containing the tools of my trade. The way we do confession is a little different. If you come along this afternoon at three o’clock, you’ll see. I’m sure you’ll find it very useful.’
Father John didn’t wait for Petra to reply. He turned on his heel and left her staring after him, her head full of questions.
Some years ago, her partner in the RCMP’s Marine Unit had been a young man from Montreal – a good cop with a great sense of humour, as well as a fiery temper. She had memorized some of his more colourful strings of curses and was tempted to use them now.
Instead she walked deliberately away from the house in the opposite direction from Father John. She passed the row of ancient camphor trees whose thick foliage prevented grass from growing underneath and carried on. Half an hour later, after following various paths through the vineyards, she found she was near the outbuildings Tony Broselli had shown them during their tour of the estate.
He had told her that the cellars beneath
the buildings were used for occasional storage. For what, she wondered. The first building was full of gardening equipment and the only trapdoor she could see was partially covered by a pallet containing bags of fertilizer. If she recalled correctly, the next building was also a repository for garden stuff.
Then there had been two storerooms with very little in them. A quick look confirmed that there was nothing of interest in the first one, and the trapdoor appeared not to have been used for a long time. She was about to move on to the adjacent building when she heard voices.
Florian backed out of the building that had been her next target, carrying one end of what appeared to be a heavy machine. Tony held the other end. They turned in Petra’s direction. She pulled back inside and moved away from the door. She hoped they weren’t planning to deposit the machine in the storeroom where she was. If they did, she would say she was exploring the estate, which was true.
She let out her breath as the two men passed the door to her building. Then she heard them grunt and put down the machine. Conveniently they had stopped in front of the glassless window set high in the wall. It was covered with a wire mesh screen.
‘How far do we have to carry this brute? I’ve got better things to do.’
‘Than help your mother?’
‘She’s got a worm in her brain.’
‘And you don’t, Florian?’
‘This is the wrong time to take Julia out of the business.’
‘Julia won’t be out of the business, she’ll just be at the other end. The De Witts are what we need. Jacob has the skills and can easily spend six months a year here.’
‘Until the rules change, as they will. Visas are already harder to get.’
‘All the more reason to do this now. A thirty percent uptick on rough, and no questions asked as to provenance,’ Tony said mildly.