Second-Best Bride

by Margaret Rome

  'Bless you, little Anghlika,' he mouthed, struggl­ing to express gratitude through a throat tight with emotion, I prayed to God for help for the kirios, and I have only just realized that you are his re­sponse—his gentle messenger.'

  'Nonsense, Nikos!' Though deeply touched, she had to sound prosaic or else burst into tears, I fear the solemnity of the occasion has made you melancholy.' A smile softened the severity of her words, yet did not detract the urgency from her whisper. 'Hurry up and get us out of here, before the kirios's patience erupts.'

  Not a moment too soon, Nikos set the cart bumping out of the mosaiced square and on to the road leading towards the villa.

  'What were you two whispering about?' Her husband's profile looked knifed-etched when he snapped the question.

  ‘I... I was merely asking Nikos to hurry,' she stammered, feeling caught out in some misdeed, it was obvious—to me, that is,' she stumbled the amendment, 'that the limit of your endurance had almost been reached.'

  'Don't lie to me, Angelina.' Her nerves responded with a leap when her name fell tightly from his lips, ‘I am not deaf, nor insensitive, merely blind, and to the blind the only true mirror is the honesty of someone who can see.'

  ‘I didn't lie—would never lie to you!' Her gasped protest was a confusion of sincerity, compassion, and pride. Then to her relief, as her troubled eyes roamed his face she saw its hard contours relax, his brow unfurrow as if smoothed by a soothing hand.

  ‘I'm almost tempted to believe that, unlike the rest of your sex, you might be capable of honesty. Would-you be prepared to turn that last statement into a promise?' he queried lightly, yet alert.

  'You may write it into a contract, if you wish,' she returned, illogically hurt. 'As you seem to dis­trust me so much, appending my signature to some form of legal document might go some way to­wards inspiring your trust!'

  Once again his head turned so that dark, soul­less lenses seemed to bore into her soul. He looked tired, with a tightness showing around his mouth indicative of strain which could have accounted for the weariness of his tone when dryly he re­minded her:

  ‘I have no choice but to take you on trust. You are my wife, yet you are destined to remain a stranger because my blindness makes communica­tion difficult and deeper relationships almost im­possible. To me, you have no visual form, I cannot read your expression nor can I interpret your ges­tures, therefore our only method of contact is speech. You seem sincere, yet I suspect that you feel inhibited by the enormity of my affliction, with the result that you are over-anxious about your choice of words, you react with meekness to circumstances that would more than justify an explosion of temper. Priscilla would not have toler­ated my moods,' the hint of regret hurt intoler­ably, 'she would have turned upon me and bitten, been amusingly feline, and supplied that which I miss most now that I can no longer read—the cut and thrust of argument, the opportunity to ex­ercise my mind.'

  Words would have been superfluous, so she made no attempt to reply. In a few concise sent­ences he had confirmed what she had always sus­pected, that in spite of his harsh condemnation he was still in love with Priscilla and at the same time, with a lack of diplomacy that was typical, he had made plain his contempt of her own inadequacies. In the past, he had taken his pick from a range of female companions, courting beauty when in a mood to be amused; wit and intelligence when his mind cried out for stimulus, then finally discover­ing in Priscilla a combination of the two. Under­standably, he was now feeling frustrated by the knowledge that in future he would have ho option but to settle for second best.

  The climax to the whole disastrous affair was reached when they drew up outside the villa to be met by a crowd of children who began showering them with sweetmeats as they walked towards their entrance. '

  'Crisulla is waiting on the threshold holding a tray of glasses,' Angie warned, barely able to trust her voice to remain steady.

  'Honey and water,' Terzan explained tersely, 'the traditional welcome to the bride. Once the glasses have been drained they are cast over the left shoulder, usually aimed strategically at some hard surface, because it is considered unlucky if one should remain unbroken.'

  Suddenly his thread of tolerance seemed to snap. Without a word of explanation he left her, to stride past the crestfallen Crisulla and become swallowed into the interior of the villa where in familiar surroundings he was able to make his way unhindered to his study.

  Feeling emotionally thrashed, Angie neverthe­less felt bound to pander to the servants' supersti­tions by joining them in a glassful of syrupy liquid, but she could not help herself from flinching from the sound of Nikos' glass crashing upon stone, feeling each sliver of crystal was embedded into her heart when he bent to retrieve the pomegran­ate his wife had placed on the threshold of the villa and handed it to her, looking tragic as only a Greek can look who has watched a bridegroom kick aside the fruit placed symbolically at his feet so that he might demonstrate his intention to crush every last dreg of sweetness from his true love.

  Disconsolate, conscious of a need to think, yet shying from examining in depth the strange new emotion she had just recognised as love, Angie wandered into the garden and sat where she could drink in the beauty of a profusion of flowers, her eyes lingering longest upon those that reminded her of home, of the overgrown garden, the shabby, lived-in rectory, and her beloved father and Priscilla, whom Terzan had not wanted to attend their wedding.

  She had been hurt by his insistence upon a swift, almost secret wedding, but now, of course, she was better able to understand his point of view. To take part in a marriage of convenience was bad enough without courting the additional burden of being watched throughout the ceremony by the woman he loved.

  She glanced up at the sound of approaching footsteps and sighed at the sight of Nikos about to encroach upon her solitude. His craggy face looked anxious, as if he felt himself solely re­sponsible for the neglected young bride. So she forced a smile and tried to look grateful when he placed the tray upon a rustic table and began with great ceremony to light a spirit stove, over which he placed a briki, a long-handled copper pot con­taining sugar, freshly-ground coffee, and a cupful of cold water which was quickly brought to the boil, removed from the flames, stirred, returned to the flames and boiled once more. With a flourish he then poured some of the bitter-sweet liquid into a tiny cup and placed it in front of her, together with the inevitable glass of cold water.

  'You Greeks consider coffee to be the panacea of all ills,' Angie smiled faintly, accepting the proffered cup. 'You must find it irritating to have your national beverage labelled "Turkish".'

  He shrugged, it is not the name but the taste that counts. It has been claimed that there are thirty-five different ways of making our coffee but only three ways of making perfect coffee. For you, I make the glikos, meaning sweet, but the kirios prefers sehetos, made without any sugar at all. How is it?' he queried anxiously when she tried an experimental sip.

  'Blissful!' she sighed, casting an approving glance over the rim of her cup.

  His relief seemed quite disproportionate to her reply, ‘I was certain it would be,' he told her simply. 'We islanders have a belief that a woman who prefers glikos and a man who drinks only schetos make a perfect combination, blending as splendidly as our favourite preserve that consists of unripe, bitter oranges made sweet and mellow by a coating of honey.'

  It was easy to guess the thoughts running through his mind; he was thinking of Terzan sit­ting alone in his study and mentally urging her to stir a spoonful of sweet company into his cup of bitter solitude.

  He straightened, well pleased with the expres­sion on her face that was assuring him that his message had been received and would be acted upon. But first of all there was a problem she had to have resolved.

  'Nikos, have you any idea why the kirios's aunt did not attend the wedding?'

  'That grasping old crone?' His expression of astonishment was clearly genuine. 'The kirios would go miles out of his way to
avoid her, so why should he invite her to the wedding? He has been good to her,' he hastened to appease her look of shocked disapproval, 'far better than she deserves, considering the beatings she inflicted upon the boy when he was left in her charge.'

  'Surely the fact that she accepted the re­sponsibility of bringing him up is proof that she is not entirely devoid of kindness?' she defended weakly, feeling cold all over in spite of blazing sunshine.

  'She was a drunkard even then,' he told her simply. 'To her, the boy was merely an extra source of revenue. Every drachma of the pittance he earned working in the olive groves was spent in the taverna. There were many times when, had it not been for kindly neighbours, he would surely have starved.'

  After he had gone Angie remained staring blankly, oblivious to the droning of bees, to the flight of multi-coloured butterflies, to the scent rising from flowers massed around her feet, strug­gling to digest the unpalatable fact that Terzan Helios had used her gullibility to further his own ends, had stage-managed a scene in which he had starred as a hurt, lonely figure anxious to be re­united with his one remaining relative, acting out the lie with a conviction that had twisted her heartstrings and wrung from her so much sym­pathy and compassion she had been willing to do anything to ease his misery, even marry him!

  She was propelled to her feet by the heat of sim­mering anger—he was in need of conflict, he had said; he missed the cut and thrust of Priscilla's temper! In this instance, she intended to derive great satisfaction from supplying the only need the devious Greek had implied was lacking!

  Indignation lent wings to her feet as she sped towards his study, but immediately she stepped inside she sensed an atmosphere that was different. She faltered, searching the shadows of the book-lined room, heavily shuttered against the sunshine Terzan seemed to find unbearable, then stared transfixed at the figure slumped behind the desk with his head bowed, hands covering his eyes, in an attitude of utter dejection. Indignation gave way to pity as she stepped forward, her footsteps muffled by a fleece rug.

  'What's wrong, are you in pain . . .?'

  The gentle enquiry startled his head erect and she stood pinned by the stare of startling eyes glowing amber as a cat's in the dark, so vitally piercing it was hard to believe that they were totally devoid of vision.

  As if her intrusion had caught him napping, he groped for the glasses he used as a barrier against curious eyes and breathed a curse when they did not immediately fall to hand. Angie could see them lying just out of his reach, but ignored their exist­ence as slowly she advanced towards him, scan­ning with compassion traces of recently-healed scars around his eyes, the pain-creased brow, the astonishingly intact line of thick, dark lashes. Pris­cilla was right! The thought flashed through her mind. He was as handsome as sin—and as tor­mented ...

  It had never occurred to her that he might still be suffering pain, nor that his cloak of arrogance, his fierce bid for independence, was hiding a depth of depression which for one startling second she had been allowed to glimpse.

  'Can I get you something?' She schooled her voice to sound calm and competent as she moved towards him. 'Tell me what I can do to help.'

  'Where's Nikos?' Her heart jolted when a dis­tracted hand rifled through dark hair, lending him the look of an unruly schoolboy. 'Why is that damned servant never about when he is needed? And where are my glasses—find my glasses...!'

  'Why do you need Nikos?' she demanded firmly, ignoring his request, ‘I'm here, I can do anything he can do.'

  She almost cried out, sharing his agony, as once more he clasped his hands to his eyes and mut­tered hoarsely, 'There are capsules around some­where, and a bottle of eye-drops.'

  Once she knew what to look for she found them without difficulty. She shook two of the capsules into his palm and told him crisply, 'Swallow these, there's a glass of water beside your left hand, then lean back your head as far as you can so that I can put these drops into your eyes.'

  Displaying surprising obedience, he followed her instructions to keep his head motionless, blessedly unaware that as she bent to administer the drops every nerve end, every sensitive part of her, seemed to melt beneath a scorch of amber.

  'There!' She stepped back, her knees buckling. 'Now stay still, keeping your eyes closed, until the drops have had time to disperse.'

  'Thank you, nurse,' he mocked, his taut mouth relaxing as gradually his pain lessened. 'How for­tunate it is that we are strangers. I could not bear the presence of a loved one at such times as these.'

  Angie dared her voice to betray hurt, to sound anything other than matter-of-fact, when she asked him, 'Do you suffer these attacks often or just occasionally?'

  'Less often than I did immediately after my acci­dent,' he admitted, sounding wary of sharing con­fidences, ‘in time, so the doctors tell me, they will disappear altogether, then all I'll have to contend with will be a painless void.'

  'What is it like to be blind?' she whispered, ‘I mean, is it totally black, or grey, or simply colour­less?' she finished lamely.

  To her relief, he did not take offence, although he hesitated before permitting her the privilege of a reply to the question no one else had dared to ask. 'Most days my world seems to consist of black cotton wool, but some mornings when I wake up and open my eyes I see colours and moving shapes that remain indistinguishable.' When he caught the sound of her hopeful gasp his lips twisted into a wry grimace. 'Please don't try to encourage me with false optimism. Coming to terms with blindness has been a long and painful process, and I have no intention of abandoning realism simply because an occasional scattering of images intrude upon my darkness. I have set myself a goal, and the sooner I master my dis­ability the sooner I will be able to resume my normal place in society.'

  'And when that day comes what will become of me?' Angie asked him quietly.

  He looked surprised, as if it had never occurred to him that her wishes should be consulted.

  'You will be amply compensated, of course,' he assured her cruelly. 'There is no room for angels amongst the living, your usefulness will end once I leave Kariös—resurrected,' he promised himself, 'able to live again!'

  Sympathy, pity, compassion, all perished be­neath his sharp thrust of words.

  'You're inhuman,' she gasped, taking an ap­palled step backwards, 'a ruthless machine pro­grammed to achieve a predetermined goal what­ever the cost in human misery!'

  'Of course I'm ruthless,' he agreed, accepting the indictment as a compliment, 'one does not rise from labourer to master of the olive groves with­out being so. Unlike yourself, I am also honest, honest enough to admit to my ambitions and to my determination to achieve them. I do not con­demn you for using marriage as a means of ensur­ing a secure future; I, too, have used poverty as a spur to gaining the wealth and power I have envied in others. Do not allow a guilt-ridden conscience to sour the fruits of your success, Angelina—relax, and enjoy all the benefits accruing to the wife of a wealthy man.'

  ‘I am not your wife,' she denied wildly, I don't feel married, I feel tricked, outmanoeuvred, an asset schemed over and won in a bizarre game of Monopoly! I refuse to stay on Kariös a moment longer than necessary,' she choked, spinning on her heel to grope, blinded by humiliated tears, towards the door. 'Tomorrow I'm going home, I can't wait to leave this island for ever!'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For the remainder of the day Angie cowered in her room, shivering like a rabbit in a bolthole. Her anxiety had not been improved by the sight of Cri­sulla and Lira busily transferring all her belong­ings into the bridal suite, but by dint of fierce and finally almost hysterical opposition, she had managed to eject them from her bedroom—minus her few possessions.

  Food would have choked her. She shuddered from the thought of sharing dinner lovingly pre­pared by Crisulla in honour of the bridal couple with a man scarred in body and mind, a man whose bitter childhood lessons had taught him that all women were mercenary, that their affec­tion was never given freely but could only
be bought, that cynical mistrust and ruthless de­termination paved the only road to success.

  Behind her, the room slowly filled with darkness as she stared out of the window watching what looked like numerous fireflies flitting over the sur­face of a dark velvet sea, but which were in reality the lights from acetylene lamps burning on the prows of scarlet gri-gri boats that stole out of the harbour each evening, their lamps sparkling and bobbing in the blackness, illuminating the octopus and squid sitting on the sand and rocks of the seabed, and the shoals of fish attracted by flame that swam into the nets.

  A sound startled her, the rap of knuckles on a door panel that clapped loud as thunder through the silent room.

  'Go away . . .!' The involuntary plea was jerked from cold lips, ‘I don't want to speak to anyone.'

  She had not considered it necessary to lock her door against the intrusion of servants who always awaited permission to enter. But this intruder had obviously no intention of being ignored. The handle was depressed, the door pushed open, and a tall shadow entered her room. Even before he spoke, the throbbing of dulled senses told her that it was Terzan.

  'You'll have to guide me forward as I am un­familiar with the geography of the room,' he told her apologetically and with a total absence of command. He looked so vulnerable, so completely dependent upon her co-operation, she had to smother an impulse to refuse.

  ‘I'm sitting by the window,' she strove to sound calm, 'there's nothing except a few yards of space between us.'

  With a confidence that betrayed implicit trust in her goodwill, he strode forward, guided by the direction from which her voice had come and by an uncanny perception which was explained when he surprised her.

  ‘I am like a bee attracted by the scent of flowers—no perfume smells sweeter than that of a rose in an English garden. Wear it always,' he urged, pausing mere inches from where she stood, 'never change it, for to me it has become your hall­mark, the scent I associate only with you.'