* * *
Once more, during the next couple of days, Sally marvelled a little wearily at the man who was Marcus Durant. He hardly left Las Vinas at all, but there were guests for lunch and dinner, convivial evenings, a quietly entertaining tea party in the small rest-room which had been prepared downstairs for Dona Inez, and a gay pequena-fiesta for the children of the lilac farmers and laborers in the grounds of Las Vinas. Every day he was the smiling host, the charming and considerate master of the estate. And every day he saw to it, unobtrusively, that Sally was never alone. She became quite certain that she couldn’t possibly have left Las Vinas without being followed. It was archaic and fantastic. Marcus didn’t want her, but he considered himself stuck with her. He imagined her sloping off for an hour with Josef, tainting the marvellous name of Durant merely by implication. Marcus could go off for days to Barcelona with his lady-love, but Sally must remain a prisoner on the island, and even a prisoner in the house so long as Josef Carvallo remained on San Palos. It was quite incredible, yet it was happening.
And as a background to it all there was the fiesta spirit, the dropping in of friends, talk of the increased price this year for the lilac concentrate, and conjectures about the grape harvest. Only Viola showed any despondency, and that just once in private. Sally had taken a fresh box of tissues to her mother’s room, and Viola, emerging from the bathroom, had thanked her, and then sighed.
“It’s a pretty idea—celebrating a good haul of lilac—but it does seem ridiculous that it should displace everything else. I hope you’re not terribly disappointed.”
“About what?”
“Darling, really! Our party, of course. I think you should have stood out against Marcus in this instance. I’ve a right to give a party for you, and if I happen to choose the fiesta weekend it’s no one’s business but my own. My friends are nearly all English, and I don’t see that the beastly carnival should be allowed to interfere with my plans. Tomorrow I have to tell everyone that it’s off.”
“You mean there’ll be no party here on Saturday?” Viola looked puzzled. “Didn’t you know Marcus had vetoed it?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“He told me this afternoon, and I naturally thought you’d decided it between you. He said there’ll be enough going on here this weekend, and asked me to postpone my little effort for a while. As this happens to be his house I’ve no option but to give in. He said something about wanting to give the servants the evening off so that they could enjoy the dancing, but I felt there was more to it than that.” Viola sat down in front of the dressing-table mirror, gave herself a troubled look and added, “I know I’m not much of a mother, darling, but I do feel I should warn you that life isn’t going to be easy with Marcus; it was all too good to be true. Under that urbane charm of his there lurks a devil, and if I were you...”
Sally didn’t wait to hear the advice. She patted her mother’s shoulder and said, “We’ll have a long talk after the fiesta—perhaps on Sunday morning while you’re relaxing in bed. Cheer up now and make yourself ravishing—you’ll have both the swains here for dinner tonight!”
In her own room, as she changed, Sally hardly thought about the cancelled party. It was only another indication of Marcus’s attitude since the telegram had arrived from Nadine Carmody. Such a party, given by Viola, would set another external seal upon the engagement, and that was something Marcus was in no frame of mind to tolerate. He was marking time, as Sally was. But she felt he didn’t intend to act so soon as she did. He was waiting for something—perhaps some word from Nadine.
Saturday came, the morning threaded with excitement, the afternoon quiet at Las Vinas but lively with anticipation at the fiesta ground. No guests today, and Viola had a little huffily accepted an invitation to spend the whole day with the Navy crowd, so that the quiet was all-pervading and slightly ominous.
In the late afternoon a huge box of lilac blooms was delivered, and unexpectedly, it was Katarina who offered her services to Sally as a dresser. The Spanish woman took tremendous care and lamented several times that the pins would ruin the material. But when Katarina had finished, even Sally had to admit the effect was dazzling.
The white gown, with its fitted strapless bodice and floor-length flowing skirt, was a magnificent ground for the long rich sprays of pastel-tinted lilac. A single spray crossed the bodice, and several had been secured to the skirt slantwise, so that in artificial light, at a distance, it would look as though the material were magnificently embossed. With the flowers had come a tiara made of florets from the tips of many sprays. Clipped close to the crown of her head, with the pale hair softly waving, it was the prettiest headdress Sally had ever seen.
Katarina stood back, her hands clasped. “It is nearly time that you go. Please ... stay just there, like that. I will call Don Marcus.”
Sally moved quickly. “No, don’t! You’ve made a marvellous job of it, Katarina. Are you going to the fiesta?”
The woman’s usual rather blank expression came back to her face, and her lids lowered. “I have nothing to celebrate, senorita. No lilacs ... no engagement. For you, I wish much happiness—you must believe that.”
“Of course I believe it. Please don’t look so sad.”
“I feel sad,” said the woman simply.
But she had turned with her usual sangfroid towards the door when there came a light tap on the panel. Katarina turned the handle, and stood back as Marcus entered the room. Sally stiffened and took care to avert her glance.
Katarina said quietly, “The senorita is bellissima, no, senor? Like a bride.”
Marcus nodded, his smile set. “Bellissima is the only word, Katarina.” And to Sally: “You don’t need the necklace, but the crowd likes to see some jewels. Give it to me and I’ll fasten it for you.”
She felt Marcus’s hands touch her bare shoulders lightly, a faint warm breath across her cheek as his lips brushed her hair. He was playing to Katarina, so that she would have a good bedtime story for Dona Inez.
Feeling too choked even to fabricate a smile, Sally accepted the mink stole which had accompanied the second batch of frocks from Barcelona and preceded Marcus from the room.
CHAPTER TEN
ON San Palos the Lilac Fiesta was recognized as the start of the summer season. It had an air of unrestrained gaiety but there was an almost gentle atmosphere about it compared with the rumbustious clamor of the Carnival of the Grapes which marked summer’s end. Not that any of the usual signs of fiesta were absent. There were the huge papier-mâché figures nodding on poles, grotesquely dressed clowns doing acrobatics, lovely senoritas in gay dress, masked men in velvet slacks and white silk shirts, and all the sideshows and food stalls, toy vendors and music-makers that could possibly be packed into five acres of pastureland. But in place of an abundance of wine and grapes, there was the plenitude of lilacs; and instead of the grilling heat of a late summer night there was the refreshing zephyr of ageing spring.
Marcus and Sally arrived at the field exactly five minutes to eight. They were met by Dona Isabel, who recovered from her ecstasies over the gown in time to escort Sally to the immense arbor of lilacs which had been prepared for her appearance at eight o’clock. Marcus remained near the car. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the bonnet, watching Sally disappear into the mountain of lilacs. This was the back of the bower. She would go up half a dozen wooden steps and emerge on to the platform where her coracle-shaped throne was ready to receive her.
The custom of installing a queen for the Lilac Fiesta had never before struck him as childish. In fact, it had always been his privilege to escort whoever it was down from the bower and beg the first dance, and he’d rather enjoyed it. The islanders loved it, bless their romantic hearts. The trouble was, he felt out of tune with the whole business this year.
Crowds were clustered about the tower of lilacs. He could see their upturned faces, tanned and shining, the girls red-lipped and smiling their expectancy. Then the concerted, long-drawn “A
... ah!” as Sally appeared and took her place. Thunderous clapping and shouts of “Ole” and the time-worn “Bellissima!” They caught the little gifts Isabel had asked Sally to throw, cried their thanks and tossed flowers up to her; rosebuds, chiefly. A compliment because she was English.
Marcus ground out his cigarette, knew he should go forward and see how she looked up there in her billowing frame of lilac. Instead he turned away and strolled in the semi-darkness halfway round the field. Two men who had started their fiesta rather early were bickering amiably over a jar of wine. He’d promised Pedro he’d make sure the police were on duty. They weren’t really necessary, but Pedro felt their presence an insurance against failure.
Marcus found the official tent, guarded by a solitary policeman, who saluted him smartly.
“You have seen Don Pedro?” he asked him in Spanish.
“No, Don Marcus.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell him you’re on duty. How many of you, by the way?”
The man lowered his voice. “Only three, senor. We are all that could be spared. The others are on special duty.”
Marcus smiled. “Special? Is there a dance on in Naval Town?”
The man looked sheepish. “I do not know much about it, senor, but our police are co-operating with the authorities in Naval Town. They believe that those people will take advantage of the fiesta. The senor knows what I mean?”
“Yes, I know. It’s very wise to keep the police down there. I shall be somewhere around, if you need any help. Blow your whistle.”
“Thank you, senor.”
Marcus walked on. The noise was unbelievable, the blare of accordion music excruciating. On the dance floor, which was almost in the centre of the field, figures were whirling and strutting while onlookers clicked castanets and sang, ate pastas and sweetmeats and exhorted the musicians to greater efforts. The striped marquees bulged, and a perpetual crowd moved very slowly past the Lilac Queen, looking up, smiling and waving. At a distance of about a hundred feet she appeared small and a bit forlorn as she sat there, lifting her hand and nodding ten or fifteen feet above the people’s heads.
Marcus drew an angry breath and turned away again, looked at his watch and found it was only eight-fifteen. Automatically, because it was expected of him, he tried a couple of sideshows. And automatically he found himself back near his car and lighting another cigarette.
The tent next to the structure of lilacs was in darkness and he guessed it was the one in which he and Sally would be expected to eat a supper of some sort with the fiesta officials. In there tables would already be loaded with cold chicken and salads, savories, fruit and nuts and dozens of bottles of wine. From the summit of the long tent a flag flew, looking happy and uncaring in the breeze. There was always a breeze for the Lilac Fiesta.
When a small flame licked up through the roof of the marquee Marcus couldn’t believe his eyes. For a moment he thought they’d started sending up the rockets earlier than usual. And then the flame snaked out against the dark sky and was whipped down over the roof towards the lilac-covered erection. In a split second it flashed through his mind: a wooden framework filled in with bamboos and woven grass, covered with a thin material to which the flowers were fastened with adhesive and pegs. God! It would go up like paper. He raced across the grass towards the flames.
Though Sally had remained sitting up on high, raising her hand and inclining her head in the expected fashion, during the last eight or ten minutes she had felt distinctly uneasy. For out on the edge of the crowd which moved past a figure had stood quite still, staring up at her. The man was thickly built and dressed in the traditional way, and like about half the men here he was masked. She had made a point of not looking at him, but he had stood his ground, and finally she had to allow her glance to slide over him as she turned her head. And in that moment when their glances met he had touched his shoulder to make himself known to her, and made a warning sign with his hand; an urgent, dismissive sign. When she had looked again he was gone.
The man at Josef’s cottage, she’d thought a little faintly. He hadn’t left the island, had even had the temerity to come here and mingle with the merry-makers. What had he been trying to convey—his thanks in devil-may-care style? No, he hadn’t been smiling, had looked grim in fact. Then what...?
It was at that point that Sally heard shrieks and saw a lurid light reflected in the horror-struck faces of the crowd. Then suddenly one side of her bower was a glaring mass of heat and Marcus was just below, yelling with all the power of his lungs.
“Don’t jump, Sally! I’m coming up!”
The policeman was frantically blowing his whistle, someone had already spurted away in a car to fetch firefighting gear ... and Sally was crouched in one corner of the flaming structure while Marcus leapt from strut to strut till he reached her. With a roar, the fire engulfed the rest of the thing. Arms tight about her, he jumped, and took the fall with his side. Men jumped across them to kill the flames; the hushed crowd pressed forward.
Marcus was up on his knees, with one arm under Sally while the other hand thrust her hair back from her brow. Almost savagely he tossed away the coronet of lilacs.
“Get Dr. Suarez,” he said thickly. “Quick!”
* * *
It was so peaceful at Las Vinas that the next three days passed almost without Sally’s being aware of the difference between night and day. The calf of her left leg had been blistered over a wide area and there were weals on her arms, but her face and hair had emerged unscathed—thanks to Marcus’s swift thinking and wide protective chest.
The first day she had said to Carlos, “Is Marcus all right? Not hurt at all?”
“A cracked rib. He’s fine otherwise.”
After that she hadn’t bothered about life very much. Marcus didn’t come to her room to see her, but Katarina came in, looking oddly as though she might have been weeping. Viola, donning her brightest bedside manner, stated that the fiesta had been spoilt, of course, but there would be some other kind of high jinks to make up for it as soon as Sally was fit.
“And they’re not sure that fire was an accident,” she said chattily. “Peculiar things happened elsewhere that night, but we shan’t know anything about it. That’s the worst of these places. The most exciting things happen under cover. Are you comfy, darling?”
Sally was relieved when her mother drifted away.
On Wednesday, Carlos said he thought she had rested away all risk of shock and could get up for lunch.
“But eat up here in your balcony,” he urged. “I predict that you will be very pleased to creep into bed occasionally for a rest.”
“I think you’re right. Has Dona Inez been told about all this?”
“Oh, yes. The second day, while you were sleeping, she came in here to see you.” He smiled. “She did it all alone, too, because she suspected that Katarina had told her you were suffering from a burn or two as a sort of preliminary to worse news. She was terribly afraid that you were badly injured. So she came to see for herself.”
Sally moistened pale lips. “I’ll return the compliment as soon as I can look normal.” She paused. “Is Marcus better?”
“Of course. There must have been pain in the rib for a while, but he said nothing. Each day I have reported to him about you.”
“Is he ... in bed?”
“But no! Yesterday he even drove his car.” Carlos sighed, and raised his shoulders. “I will not try to deceive you. He is not happy—Marcus. You also are not happy—I know that. I would like your permission to tell Marcus that you have asked for him and wish very much to see him.”
“Thank you, Carlos,” she said quickly, “but I’ll deal with it myself.”
He left it there. But the brief exchange with him had roused Sally from her lethargy. There was still the task she had set herself for last Sunday. She might steal a few more days, but in the long run they could do no more for her than had already been accomplished by the fire at the fiesta ground. Somehow that incid
ent had estranged her completely from Marcus, and surely she had to be wise enough to take advantage of it. On the whole there was very little she had to say to him. Yes, the sooner it was said, the better.
She got up for several hours that day, but did not leave her room. On Friday, though, she half-dressed after breakfast and slipped on a flowered housecoat. At about ten-thirty, she decided, she would put on a dress and go downstairs. And she would stay down there till she had seen Marcus.
For something to do, because she could not relax, she varnished her nails and walked into the balcony to dry them thoroughly. Someone had set the fountain playing in the centre of the pool; she could hear its cool rain and see a faint dampness where the wind had blown it. Idly she leaned out, and as she did so Marcus came up the steps from the drive and saw her. He stopped, just below. He looked a bit pale, but otherwise normal.
“How are you this morning?” he asked.
“Quite recovered, thank you,” she said, and felt a new surge of fright. It was going to be terribly difficult.
“And the leg?”
“It’s pretty good.” She swallowed to dispel the huskiness from her tones, leaned forward. “Marcus, I want to speak to you.”
“I’m glad,” he said, and walked straight into the house.
Involuntarily, a fist came up and pressed hard against the base of her throat. What had he meant? That she should go down now and...
But he was there behind her in the bedroom, had come to the balcony doorway and was pushing one of the deep armchairs in front of him.
“Sit down,” he said. “Carlos told me you were well, but you don’t look it.”
“You don’t look quite ... yourself, either.”
“I’m all right.” He saw her seated and himself sat on one of the balcony chairs. “I’ve just been down to the town. Several people sent their regards and best wishes.”
“Thank you.” Never in her life had she found it so difficult to articulate. “Carlos told me about your injury. Is it ... mending nicely?”
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