The Guilty Secret

by Margaret Pemberton

  Chapter Five

  That evening when I entered the dining-room, Manuel hurried over to me, a knowledgeable smile on his friendly face. Gently he directed me not to my own table, but to Jonathan’s. As Manuel left with our orders I said:-

  ‘You realize you’ve wrecked my reputation!’

  ‘In the eyes of the waiters your reputation was wrecked the minute you stepped into my car. And don’t think they don’t know. I could practically see the receptionist dashing off with the news as we left! Sitting at separate tables would fool nobody!’

  ‘Then I’m glad my reputation has gone to the winds. Eating together is far nicer than eating alone.’

  ‘It certainly is.’ His hand closed firmly over mine, sending my flesh tingling.

  After we had returned to the hotel from our trip to Valenca I had spent a thoughtful hour in the bath. Although there had been many men who had said they were in love with me, and with whom I had even felt slightly in love in return, I had never before experienced the bodily reactions I had that afternoon when Jonathan had kissed me so passionately. He hadn’t repeated it. As we parted to go to our own rooms to change for dinner his kiss had been warm and stirring, but the blaze of passion he had shown earlier had either died or been held in check. By the look in his eyes I knew that it hadn’t died. What had happened had been as much of a surprise to him as it had to me. Love had been the last thing Jonathan had expected to find on his travels through Spain and Portugal. He was like a tiger on a lead. Again I felt the stirring of excitement deep within me. How long would it be before the tiger broke the self imposed lead and passion flared so nakedly again? And what would I do when it did? So far I had remained a virgin. Something Rozalinda found highly amusing. But previously the temptation had never been strong enough for me to put behind me the strict moral teaching with which Aunt Harriet had brought me up. It was now. Slowly I towelled myself dry. One thing at least was clear. I would never marry Phil.

  ‘It’s market day tomorrow at Barcelos. Do you fancy going?’ Jonathan was asking.

  ‘Oh yes, I’d love to.’ If he’d asked if I wanted to go to the moon I would have agreed.

  ‘And just where have your thoughts been for the last ten minutes? I’ve already asked if you’d like to go to Oporto, Braga, or Ponte de Barca and all without an answer.’

  ‘Someday,’ I said blushing, ‘I might just tell you!’

  After dinner we strolled hand in hand onto the terrace, making our way leisurely down the moss covered steps that led into the mimosa scented trees. One huge oak soared above the rest, and beneath it was a wooden bench. We sat down, leaning against the trunk of the tree. Below us the leaves and branches soughed in the gentle night breeze and from far below us came the distant roar of the Atlantic swell, the crest of the waves ghostly white in the darkness.

  Tenderly he pulled me closer, raising my face to his, his lips seeking mine. Again there was warmth and desire in his kiss. But there was also restraint. I wondered why. There seemed to be only one explanation. I asked, scarcely breathing:-

  ‘Jonathan. Are you married?’

  I felt his body stiffen against mine, and then he said:-

  ‘No. Not now.’

  The inflection in his voice was enough to prevent me from probing further. Whoever his wife had been she had certainly left deep scars. Scars that were not yet fully healed. But then, I thought to myself, nestling into his shoulder, I was a nurse. A good nurse could achieve amazing results in a week. Especially if her heart was in it.

  At the Barcelos market the next day Jonathan bought me a garish, over-sized pottery cockerel that was the local emblem. We both agreed that painted black with scarlet plumage and vividly painted hearts and flowers all over it, it was the epitome of bad taste but unbelievably splendid. I knew that it was going to grace my dressing-table for years to come, mystifying my friends and relations. Let them wonder. I didn’t care. Whenever I saw it I would remember Jonathan, for that reason alone it was priceless.

  In the next few days, fortified by innumerable bags of sugared almonds, lots of cream filled pastries and the delicious local wine, we visited Braga, peeping into the dark and forbidding cathedral and quickly out again, the National Park, an area of mountains and lakes, vying with rushing rivers and vast forests of pine. The guidebook said that the area abounded in deer, wolves, martens, badgers and wild boar. I could well believe it. The upper flanks of the mountains were so vast and desolate that it wouldn’t have surprised me to find even bears. We did see some wolves. But they were safely behind a high barrier of wire netting in a large tree filled compound. They looked just as mean and nasty as I expected them to. In a far flung pousada, we ate tiny pieces of unnamed fish deliciously fried in batter and served with rice and fresh lettuce, squeezing great wedges of lemon over the whole. The bread was butterless but still warm from the oven, the wine unnamed and cheaper than mineral water. It also had a pretty devastating effect and we spent the rest of the afternoon laying on a river bank, bare feet dangling into icy water, alternately talking and laughing and kissing. Another day we set out for Chaves. A small town scores of miles from even the nearest village, by the time we reached it, passing through country that changed dramatically from mountainous to endless stretches of peat and heather reminiscent of Scotland, it was already tea-time. Exhausted, and dreading the thought of the night drive back on a road fit only for four legged animals, we hastily found a cafe and revived ourselves with coffee. Not the coffee of the hotel but strong, dark liquid that came in thimble size cups. Then came the moment that made the whole long journey worthwhile. As we began to see what Chaves had to offer, and on first sight it seemed to have very little, we looked into the first of a street of shops. The whole window was taken up with only one article. A huge dinner service priced at a thousand escudos and depicting scenes of Stratford-On-Avon, Ann Hathaway’s Cottage and the Globe Theatre, the names all written in English! It was too much.

  ‘You mean I’ve fought my way all those miles into this barren hinterland, ruining my car, and all for the sake of the chance to buy a Willie Shakespeare dinner set I would get any day in Woolwich market!’ Jonathan said indignantly.

  Oblivious of the curious stares of the local inhabitants, we laughed our way up the dusty street, looking in vain for any sight that might justify our journey. There wasn’t one, so we returned to the Lamborgini, Jonathan gritting his teeth manfully as his precious car bounced once more onto the pot-holed road. I slept most of the way back. A deep, dreamless sleep, that left me feeling I had regained the mental peace which I had been seeking so long.

  The days slipped by. Friday, the day Jonathan was leaving to visit his friend in Vigo rapidly approached and still nothing was said between us of the future. The Thursday night as I brushed my hair and sprayed on my perfume, my heart felt tight within my chest. Although the moment at Valenca had never been repeated, it had happened. I had seen the expression in his eyes. I knew it was more than a holiday romance. What could Jonathan’s wife possibly have done that had left such an obviously strong and self sufficient man too frightened to love again. I paused as I put in a pearl earring. Perhaps the answer was that he still loved her. It was a chilling thought.

  For me, dinner was strained, though Jonathan talked happily about our afternoon visit to Caminho and the woman we had seen, dressed entirely in white and with a cockerel on her head. Jonathan had thought she was some sort of fortune-teller, but on enquiring from the locals, was told that she was simply mad. I was barely listening. I was wondering how to bring up the subject of the morning when he would drive away leaving me behind. Dreading to hear any cliched words of what fun it had been, how glad he had been to meet me …

  ‘Let’s go for a walk on the beach,’ he said as Manuel cleared the last of our plates away. Holding his hand tightly, I followed him out of the room and through reception to the car park. Neither of us spoke as the Lamborgini roared its powerful way down the swooping bends and into the town. Minutes later the busy stre
ets were behind us and we were on a small road that backed the dunes, the air warm, heavy with the tang of sea-spray and the sweetness of pines.

  I still wore my evening dress and sandals and I slipped my sandals off, enjoying the feeling of the sand as it slipped between my toes. It was a pale sickle of silver, the sea a glittering mass, broken by the giant white horses that reared their heads, crashing down onto the beach in swirling eddies of foam.

  Hand in hand we walked along the untrodden sand.

  I said at last:- ‘ It’s Friday tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, and you go to your friends at Ofir.’

  ‘And you go to your friends in Vigo.’

  We stopped, gazing into each other’s eyes and I knew that in mine the agony of the parting was blatantly apparent.

  He led me across the dunes, sitting down in their shelter, resting against them. I curled up beside him, waiting as I had never waited before. I thought he was going to speak, but instead he groaned, a sound that came from deep within him, savagely slamming his fist into the sand and then I was in his arms, and this time there was no holding back in his kisses, the passion I knew was there was finally unleashed as his hands knotted themselves in my hair, making me cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, and his mouth came down on mine, hard and demanding. Everything that was in me responded. I wanted my body closer to his. Closer and closer. His tongue searched my mouth, his hands moving from my hair to my body, pushing aside the chiffon folds of my bodice, cradling my breasts. Then his hand was on my naked leg, its heat searing through me as it travelled upwards and he said chokingly; ‘Jenny, Jenny, Jenny …’

  Hungrily I pulled the weight of him down on top of me and then, so suddenly that I felt I’d been stabbed, he jumped to his feet, standing over me, struggling for breath … and control. It can only have been a brief second but it seemed like an eternity. Then, his passion in check, he sat down again, drawing me close.

  Of all the crazy unexpected things I expected him to say, what he did say took my breath away.

  ‘Let’s get married, Jenny Wren.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I could barely speak for relief and surprise and wonder. ‘Oh God, yes please.’

  Slowly he let out his breath and I said:- ‘But if you want to marry me, why … this. Why did you stop?’

  ‘Because, Jenny Wren,’ he said, his voice full of love and undisguised amusement. ‘Because I’m a man of twenty-nine who has not only been previously married for several years but has sown more than his share of wild oats, and I can tell a virgin at fifteen paces.’

  ‘For goodness sake …’ I began to laugh and cry at the same time, ‘has that been your reason for behaving so differently after Valenca?’

  ‘That and a few other things. I didn’t think I would ever feel that mixture of passion and tenderness for another woman as long as I lived. It took me some time to get used to the idea.’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’

  He grinned. ‘What do you say about meeting me in a weeks time at Ofir?’

  ‘Oh that would be super! You could meet my Aunt and friends …’

  He said gently, ‘What’s the matter, Jenny?’

  I stared unspeaking at the white breakers as they crashed relentlessly on the beach. If I didn’t tell him, Rozalinda would. If not Rozalinda, then someone else. Besides I wanted no secrets from Jonathan. Now was the time to tell him.

  ‘You don’t know everything about me, Jonathan. There’s things in my past that might make you change your mind about marrying me.’

  ‘Jenny Wren, there is nothing, nothing that could make me change my mind about that.’

  ‘Then I’d like to tell you now.’

  ‘No. Not now. I can see that it’s going to distress you. I don’t intend having the memories of tonight spoilt. There’ll be enough time at Ofir for us to tell each other whatever we need to about our past lives.’ He took me in his arms, silencing my weak protests with kisses that drove every other thought away.

  Chapter Six

  He left after breakfast the following morning. An hour or two later I finished my packing, paid my bill, and eased the Volkswagen onto the now familiar road into Viana. I drove south with a light heart, waving cheerily to the children as they helped in the fields or led enormous looking cows to graze, rocking through the dusty villages, painfully aware that the Volkswagen’s springs did not match up to those of the Lamborgini.

  It was just after midday when I reached the road sign for Ofir. I turned right, narrowly avoiding a peasant woman sat on a stool in the middle of the road, hopefully holding up a repellant looking eel. On one side of me a river ran broadly towards the sea, on the other were the beginnings of the lush pinewoods Aunt Harriet so enjoyed. Very soon the woods were on either side, enticing pathways leading into their depths. I emerged to overlook sand dunes … and the large four star hotel that Harold had tried so unsuccessfully to buy. A sandy track barely wide enough to take the car, led away from the hotel, bumping unevenly into the woods. After a few hundred yards I caught a glimpse of white stucco and a roof of gleaming beechwood. It was sufficiently unlike anything else I had seen in Portugal to convince me that I had at last reached Rozalinda’s ‘Enclave’. Slowly I bumped nearer and then stopped. There was no-one about. The woods were silent except for the sound of the birds that flashed between the branches in a dazzle of colour.

  The villa was set high overlooking the sea, the gardens at the rear, that ran down to the track and the woods, a feast of flowers and miniature fountains, with a small stream falling from pool to pool, its banks thick with yellow and pink lilies. Large picture windows gave a glimpse of white painted walls, and what looked at a distance to be a gigantic Picasso. Stone steps curved down, leading through the garden into the villa close by. This was much smaller but far prettier. Here the walls were covered in the Portuguese way, with richly coloured tiles, wooden shutters were thrown back to reveal window ledges crammed with begonias and trailing lobelia. The upper storey was surrounded by a narrow wooden balcony, and beside a wicker chair and table I could see a sun-hat that belonged to Aunt Harriet and her knitting bag, balls of wool cascading over the wooden slats. I stepped out of the car and instead of going straight to what was presumably Rozalinda’s villa, walked around and passed the smaller one. A cluster of trees shielded it from the rest of the enclave, but the stone steps swirled round in a picturesque arc from Aunt Harriet’s front door fading into a path between the trees and then leading up in a fresh meandering series of steps to two pink washed villas with wrought iron balconies and scarlet tiled roofs. I climbed the steps and turned seawards, catching my breath as I did so.

  An endless stretch of silver sand curved away in either direction. Huge breakers reared to an awe-inspiring height far out in the distance crashing down in a white foaming mass, to rear rhythmically once more, till at last they reached the shore in a frothing swirl of spray. Controlling the temptation to run barefoot down to the sea, I turned, the long grass of the dunes brushing against my legs as I contemplated the two villas. One of them must be Mary and Tom’s, and one Phil’s. Perhaps I was to share with Aunt Harriet. I opened the tiny gate that led into the surrounding gardens and peeped through the windows. A large through fireplace separated a dining-room and a salon, and on the plain walls hung a large beautifully carved cherub. I couldn’t imagine Phil living with it, and mentally categorised the villa as Mary’s. In no hurry I followed the moss covered path to the adjoining villa. Here the walls were covered in gleaming pine, a large marble topped table dwarfing one room surrounded by pink velvet covered chairs, the living area scattered with brilliantly coloured rugs and luxurious looking settees. A few magazines scattered on a side table and an empty cup and saucer were the only signs of habitation. There was no sign of a piano. I strolled round to the rear, dropping down onto the pathway and the pines, looking around me. As I did so I caught the first notes of Liszt’s piano concerto Number One drifting through the trees. I smiled and began to walk deeper into the pines towards th
e source of the music.

  The other three villas were out of sight of the rest of the enclave. They were grouped fairylike in a dell in the woods, and from the nearest one came the familiar beautiful notes and I could see the back of Phil’s head, bent in total preoccupation as he played. I didn’t interrupt him but sat down leaning my back against one of the trees, caught up in the magic of Phil’s playing. It was the perfect accompaniment to the new found joy that was in my heart. Too soon, he finished, and as he mopped his brow and lifted his hands to begin another piece, I stood up calling out:- ‘Phil!’

  He turned immediately, his usually serious expression breaking into a wide smile.

  ‘Jennifer! I thought you were never coming.’

  We met simultaneously in the doorway and he caught me in a hug.

  ‘Another two days and I was coming to Viana for you. I would have done earlier but Aunt Harriet said to give you a full week on your own.’

  Silently I blessed Aunt Harriet. Phil’s arrival a few days earlier would only have complicated matters.

  ‘I’ve been sight-seeing … and making friends.’

  He held me away from him, looking closely at my face.

  ‘Thank God for that. I thought you’d gone into a deep depression.’

  ‘No. That’s all behind me, Phil. Truly it is.’

  He led the way into a large room filled with two grand pianos and several giant cushions scattered on the floor.

  ‘It will take too long to make coffee. Fancy a Coke?’ he asked, walking into a small kitchen. ‘ I want to know who this friend of yours is that kept you away so long. You could easily have sight-seen from here you know. We’re not far from the National Park.’ He came back with two ice-cold glasses clinking with ice. ‘ I’ll take you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ve already been,’ I said, taking the glass from his hand, then, seeing the flash of disappointment in his eyes, said hurriedly. ‘But you could spend a month there and still not see half of it. If you haven’t been yet I shall be able to act as guide.’