by Hilary Wilde
There was barely a ripple on that great expanse of blue water—water that stretched miles and miles away — the Indian Ocean.
The balcony was small, but there was a chair to sit on. Kate sat down and drew a long deep breath gathering fresh courage, telling herself that this would be her haven when things became almost unbearable. For they would she knew that now.
After a short rest, drinking m the absolute beauty and peace of the scene before her, Kate went back into the little room and looked at it with new eyes. Maybe it would not be so bad when she had put out her photographs. A few flowers – and perhaps some cheap gay material for a bedspread, and even curtains, if that would not offend the Dominguez. Oh dear, she would indeed have to tread carefully. But she felt suddenly that it could be done, and as she thought of Rose’s white, peaked, frightened face, she was determined to do it.
She unpacked, fighting the lethargy that the intense heat filled her with, hanging the grey Terylene skirt in the wardrobe, realizing that most of her clothes would be far too warm. Luckily she had a flowered nylon dress and two cotton ones, and then, as she put away her good blue cocktail suit of watered satin, she was wondering if she would have any use for that.
Mr. Lister had told her not to buy new clothes. “You will need a special wardrobe for Mozambique,” he had said. “They would be useless for England when you return, so I shall expect to pay for your clothes out there and you must look on them as a uniform. The temperature reaches over a hundred and ten degrees, so you will understand that you need very light tropical materials.”
Kate’s mother had said the offer was generous, but Kate could understand now. Already she had seen that she would need to change her dresses and undies several times a day because of the humidity.
Now she changed into the lightest dress she owned — a finely checked chiffon dress of palest yellow. Ten minutes later, she might never have washed or changed, for she felt just as hot as ever as she sat waiting with the door ajar, in the hope of encouraging a draught.
But sitting still had never pleased Kate, and already her desire to see Rose again brought her to her feet, making her brush her hair with long swinging strokes as she forced herself to be patient. As she did so, she had her first chance. She heard a footstep. Hardly daring to breathe, she put down the hairbrush and picked up a Portuguese dictionary, sitting on the edge of the bed and deliberately keeping her eyes away from the doorway.
She had thought of her first approach. Let a child help you — that was the advice she had been given once.
“Lavor as maos ... Bom dias ...” she said laboriously, and her tongue stumbled as she tried to say, “Obri — obrigado . ..” Her heart seemed to stop for a second as she heard soft laughter, and a young voice correct her. “But no — no! It is Lavor as maos — bom dias.” The words sounded enchanting in that young voice. Still keeping her eyes on the dictionary, Kate tried again. Once more she tried and stumbled
over the words and waited. But this time there was silence.
She took a long deep breath and decided that she must risk something.
“Oh dear,” she said sadly. “I never will learn to speak Portuguese and I simply must!”
The door closed softly. She heard tiptoeing footsteps on the polished floor. Still fighting the temptation to turn her head, Kate discovered she could see Rose in the mirror. The child was standing by her side, her face timid, her whole body poised, as if for flight. And the child spoke again.
“Why must you learn to speak Portuguese?”
Kate gently crossed her fingers. She kept her voice very soft and low.
“Because I want to talk to Rosa.”
As she waited breathlessly, she wondered if she had done right. While unpacking, she had thought a lot about the right approach towards the little girl, and had decided that no matter what her father said, the child must not be rushed. Logically, therefore, Rose must still be called Rosa, as that was the name the child had always been called. Whatever they did, they must not separate her forcibly from her familiar life.
Rather, she must be weaned. But would Mr. Lister understand that? Kate wondered anxiously.
Now Kate could feel the child’s soft breath on her cheek — that meant she must be near. Yet Kate felt the moment to look at Rosa had not yet come, for one false move could undo everything.
“But I speak English,” Rosa said slowly.
Now Kate dared to turn and look at her, and saw the earnestness on the small pale face and met the dark unflinching eyes.
“Yet,” Kate said, “when I spoke to you in English, you were afraid.” Rosa shook her head. “I wasn’t afraid because of that.” Kate’s mouth was dry with nervousness. Trickles of water slid down her spine. Please God, she found herself praying, please God, guide me.
“Then why were you afraid?” Kate asked gently.
She watched the tip of Rosa’s tongue run nervously over her lips —
saw the indecision in the dark eyes, the effort the child was making as she began, “Because ...”
And then there was an interruption. Kate could have cried with dismay.
“Rosa — Rosa ...” called an angry, impatient voice.
The child changed instantly. Her face grew old and the eyes dark with fear, and without a word or another glance she turned silently and opened the door very quietly, vanishing as she pulled it to behind her.
The very stealth of her movements shocked Kate more than she could have said. At that age, to be so afraid — so used to creeping out of rooms!
Yet she had gained something — the child had shown confidence in her. Still, it was hard not to feel black misery because she had been so near and then ... Don’t be silly, she told herself crossly, you can’t win confidences with a few words. At least Rosa came to you ... And had been going to say what she was afraid of.
Feeling slightly happier, Kate welcomed the sound of a gong. Lunch!
She hurried down the corridor. The Senhora Amelita Dominguez was waiting for her, her large flabby hands folded patiently as if Kate had been keeping her sitting there for hours on end, her black bright eyes hidden by those heavy hooded lids. When she saw Kate she rose and solemnly led the way to the dining room. There was an oval walnut table laid with shining silver and glass, and curtains over the window which only allowed a brown twilight to fill the room.
Kate saw that only two places were laid as she sat down in the chair indicated. Her heart sank. So Rosa would not eat with them. The Senhora rang a silver bell and a very plump African girl in a bright red dress and stiffly starched white apron brought in a heavily laden tray which she laid on the sideboard. The Senhora rose majestically and went to it.
“Un momento,” she said, and Kate waited silently, watching the Senhora serve meat and vegetables on two separate plates which the girl carried away on the tray.
Then Kate was served and she ate hungrily, enjoying the perfectly cooked food, despite its spiciness and highly seasoned taste. She wondered why she was being honored by the Senhora’s company, for she had quite expected to eat alone with Rosa. She did hope it was not going to be a permanent habit, though, for the oppressive silence made eating difficult.
She glanced at the Senhora, who was eating rapidly as if she was starved, her face absorbed.
“The child does not eat with us, Senhora Dominguez?” Kate said politely.
The older woman did not stop eating, but spoke through her mouth full of food. “The bebe always eats with Anna, for it is better so.” Who was Anna? Kate hesitated, looking at the Senhora’s forbidding face, realizing that to the older woman the meal was a solemn function and not to be spoiled by idle chatter. After that Kate ate silently, enjoying the rich, creamy sweet and welcoming the small cup of strong black coffee.
It was odd, then, the effect that the meal seemed to have had on the Senhora, for quite suddenly she relaxed, her fat hands cupping the tiny cup as she rested her elbows on the table, gazing vacantly above Kate’s head and talking in English. She s
ounded as if she was thinking aloud, yet Kate realized that if that was so, she would surely have spoken in Portuguese.
“This is a thing I do not understand ...” The harsh voice was almost dreamy, the stern face relaxed for a moment. “Something I will never understand. When one is so beautiful ... So desirable, so ... Ah ...!” She nodded her head solemnly and the heavy jet beads jangled noisily. She clutched them with one hand and went on talking. “Life — how droll it is.
That one so lovely ...”
None of it made sense to Kate. Yet she had the uncomfortable feeling of being talked at.
“She loves him with her whole heart. How can one be so cruel?” The voice droned on.
Kate stirred uncomfortably. How hot it was — not a window open.
Was the Senhora talking about Mr. Lister’s first wife, perhaps? Yet she used the present tense.
“It is not wise to break a person’s heart ... Not wise nor safe,” the Senhora continued, but now she lifted her head and her eyelids, and stared at Kate. Black, bright, beady eyes, filled with hate. Abruptly the Senhora’s voice changed, came alive, vicious. “I do not think the Englese mees will find Mozambique a healthy country.”
Kate almost jumped out of her chair with the shock of the changed voice, the animosity on that face. Now they stared at one another silently.
Kate wondered what to say. Was it threat? A warning? The Senhora was talking about Mariana — the beautiful, passionate, possessive, selfish Mariana.
It was a relief that the door opened at that moment and the African maid walked in and began, with a great rattle of plates, to clear away. The Senhora heaved herself to her feet, once again just a heavily built, lethargic, elderly woman, not even bothering to glance at Kate as she said:
“The hour of the siesta. Rosa will be already asleep and must not be disturbed. We will meet at tea — for the Englese must have their tea, must they not?” she finished.
Kate stood up and waited while the older woman left the room, then she stood still, looking at the dark sullen face of the maid who was deliberately avoiding her eyes, and wondered what to do.
Could she go out and explore the town? But Mr. Lister had said he would be round to see her that afternoon.
There seemed no solution but to go to her room, and as she walked down the corridor the quietness oppressed her. There was a musty smell in the air – she shivered despite the heat. If she had known where Rosa slept
... after those words of the Senhora it was almost impossible to try to see the child. And besides, Kate could not open every door in the hope of finding the right bedroom. No she must just be patient.
But it would not be easy.
C H A P T E R T H R E E
IT was very pleasant, sitting on the small balcony with that wonderful view before her, and Kate seized the chance to write a letter to her mother.
It was always easy to write to her because Kate knew how much her letters meant, and so Kate’s pen ran easily — but when she read the letter through again, she was horrified.
Put down in black and white, it made a terrible story. Of a frightened small child, her possessive and resentful relatives — an arrival so very different from what they had expected. The words even painted Randel Lister as the type of man who was too busy to care about making Kate’s arrival easy ...
Kate read the letter through again and then tore it up. Feeling she was being very melodramatic, she found matches and burned the pieces. Then she wrote another letter. This one was much more cheerful, mentioning Mrs. McCormack’s wonderful son, James, who had proved even nicer than his mother had said; the lovely view from the balcony, the excited feeling in the air of this unusual town — the charm of small Rosa ...
Kate jumped to her feet as she heard the click-clacking of high heels in the corridor through the half-open door. Then she heard a door open and a deep voice. She was by the door already and only just stopped in time as she heard Randel Lister say:
“Why, Mariana — how very charming you look!”
Kate froze, holding her breath. And a deep, seductively husky voice replied, “Randel — she is here, that one.” The voice was tragic, hurt.
“Randel — this is something that I do not comprehend. How can you do this to me? I love Rosa like my own bebe—you take her from me!” Her voice rose slightly and then fell. “Ah, Randel ...” There was a pause, and Kate could imagine Mariana’s appealing face gazing up at the tall man.
Then Mariana seemed to lose patience, as if he was not responding as he should. “You will give her this so ordinary English mees,” she finished scornfully.
Not sure what to do, Kate stood still. She was tempted to walk out, but they might think she had been listening. Also it might embarrass Mr.
Lister.’ Yet she dare not move lest they hear her.
When Mr. Lister spoke, it was in a patient voice. “My dear Mariana, we have already been over this a dozen times. I thought you had accepted the situation—” Kate caught her breath as she listened. Had Mr. Lister expected her to handle this all alone? Surely he could see that Mariana had not accepted the situation and had no intention of doing so?
Mariana changed her voice again. Now she was dramatic. “You do not trust me? Me ... How can you be so cruel, Randel? All these years, we loved Rosa as our own. Indeed she is our own. She is so healthy ...”
“Much too pale and thin,” he said in an irritable voice.
“Randel!” Mariana sounded heartbroken. “How can you say such a wicked thing? What child in a tropical land is anything but pale?
How can she sit in the heat of the sun without shelter? She would soon be ill with the sun-madness. You tell us she is too quiet and too good. Is that not the biggest foolishness of all? Is it bad for a child to behave well? Indeed—you English, as they say, are all mad.”
“Well, my dear Mariana, they do say, ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen’...” Mr. Lister sounded amused. Kate wondered if he was used to Mariana’s scenes and took no account of them.
“My little Rosa—” Mariana tried again. “Ela e feliz.” This was one of the phrases Kate new. She felt like rushing out and calling Mariana a liar. Kate knew very well that the child was not happy. How could she be when she was so afraid?
Now Mariana’s voice changed again; it trembled, her English deteriorated. Maybe she thought it more attractive. Kate was shocked at her own cattiness, but she was beginning to dislike Mariana intensely, even though she had not yet met her.
“It ees all too deefficult ... It weel nevaire work ...”
“Mariana—nothing is too difficult. In a few days, you will wonder how you managed without Kate. You will be free—able to go out more happily.
...” He sounded amused, as if he was being sarcastic. “By the way, will you tell Kate I want to see her?”
Mr. Lister spoke as if the whole matter had been settled and there was no need for further discussion. Kate wondered if it could be as simple as that. And then her anger grew again as she heard Mariana say scornfully:
“She is asleep, that one. Her first day at work and she must sleep. I am not to have, the disturbance, she said ...”
It was all Kate could do not to rush out. What a wicked lie! But even as she weighed up the disadvantages of being caught out eavesdropping and the opportunity to tell Mr. Lister the truth, Mariana spoke again.
“You have no heart, Randel. Can you not see that everyone, they will laugh at me? If you had said you wished Rosa to be an English child, I would have made her one. I am telling you that, my Randel ...” She paused, and Kate heard Randel’s amused laugh. Mariana went on, obviously angry. “You have no heart at all. You come here—but not to see me. Once on a time, it was me you longed to see, to love. You wish to see that one now—good, then you will see how very stupid you have been. But let her have her sleep—and let us talk for a while... .”
“Look, Mariana, I’m very busy and I want to see Kate Williams.”
“Please ... please, Randel. It ees not too much to as
k,” Mariana pleaded.
Kate heard a door open and close and there was silence. She went slowly back to gaze at the sea— this time angrily. What sort of man was Randel Lister if such a girl as Mariana could twist him so easily round her finger? Maybe it was what sort of a girl was Mariana that she should ask, Kate thought. James had said how beautiful she was ...
Sitting there, listening intently, Kate faced the future unhappily. If Mariana could so easily influence Mr. Lister, everything would be doubly hard. Obviously, as Mrs. Kelly had prophesied, the Dominguez resented Kate and saw her as an obstacle to be removed. Having Mr. Lister’s confidence, they would probably be successful.
Kate sighed. It wasn’t the job now that mattered. She had enjoyed the voyage and her fare home would be paid. But now the job, as a job, no longer really existed—it was Rosa who mattered. Somehow or other Kate knew that she must find a way to outwit the Dominguez—to turn Rosa into a happy little girl, a normal child.
She stood up and went indoors, brushing her honey-blonde hair until it gleamed, carefully making up her full, generous mouth, running a finger along her eyebrows. She peered at herself. No beauty—but a fresh young face. The sort of face you would like a girl to have if she was looking after your child. After all, that was how Mr. Lister saw her, wasn’t it? She need not even have the tiniest hope that he saw her as an attractive woman.
When she heard a door open, she was down the corridor in a moment.
“I wasn’t asleep, Mr. Lister,” she began. “I was waiting for you.” Randel Lister was facing her, looking just as she remembered him. Tall, very well dressed in a dark suit, with a gardenia in the buttonhole. He held his head with the same air of arrogance, his eyes were cool and shrewd as he looked at her, then he half turned, and Kate saw Mariana.
It was then Kate came down to brass tacks and faced facts.
How could she win?
How could any man doubt Mariana, once he had gazed into the heart-shaped, olive face with those intense dark eyes, incredible lashes and that full, passionate, provocative mouth? Tall and slim, she looked too wonderful for words to describe in a sheath frock of deep coral.