'I want to know about my mother. You must tell me everything.'
'First, I must make a fire outside for the big black pot of water,' said Madelisa patiently, 'and you must fill all the saucepans and put them on the stove.' She lowered her huge body on her knees before a cupboard of empty bottles, and reaching way back into the depths, drew out a dusty quart-sized bottle of almond oil and held it up triumphantly.
While the water was heating up, she massaged warm oil into Gillian's scalp and wrapped a heated towel around the girl's head. She hauled an easy chair with wooden arm rests from the barn into the kitchen, and made Gillian relax in it with hands and feet in basins of oil, while she went into the derelict kitchen garden and hunted for herbs to brew. Watching Madelisa's many-chinned profile, Gillian thought, if witches were not proverbially skinny, she would have suspected her serving-woman of being one.
After soaking in a steaming bubble bath till the water cooled, Gillian submitted her body to the expert black massaging hands, with their strong, confident movements.
Madelisa washed Gillian's hair in sparkling soft rain water to which she had added herb extracts. She rinsed it in lemon water and brushed it in the sun till it turned into molten gold. All the while she spoke of the beautiful mother with the fickle heart, of the men who adored her and the gentle husband with the broken heart. She withheld nothing from Gillian, till the girl trembled at the thought that she might have inherited her maternal parent's inconstant characteristics. She revealed her fear to Madelisa.
'No, no, my angel child,' the old woman assured her. 'Your beauty is of the mother. You are of the father.'
After lunch, Madelisa applied her magic to Gillian's face and neck, and made her sleep all afternoon with cotton wool dipped in herb extract on each eyelid.
Gillian awoke fresh and sparkling. Never before had she experienced such a state of well-being.
She went for a long walk with Ntombi, wearing an old wide-brimmed hat from a forgotten cupboard, which Madelisa insisted that she wear to shield her skin from the strong sun.
When she returned from her walk, the boss-boy, Zwane, was waiting for her at the kitchen door. As she approached him, he went down on his haunches as a sign of deference.
'What is it, Zwane?'
'Nkosazana, the ngwenyama has roared.'
'Ngwenyama? That means "lion", doesn't it?'
'Yes, the King. The big Incwala begins tomorrow. The King will renew the spiritual strength of his people and taste the first fruits of the new season's planting.'
'You must be there?'
'Yes, Nkosazana, my people are starving, but dare not touch of the food until the King has given the sign.'
'Is it only you, who are of the royal blood, who must attend?'
'No, all his subjects.'
'Very well, if that's your tradition, you must keep it. Tell the other men, if you leave everything neat and finished off by sundown, we'll pay you the week's wages tonight. There'll be beer and meat for you before you go home.'
That evening, after packing, Gillian went early to bed and a peaceful, dreamless sleep descended upon her.
Gillian enjoyed the drive in to Mbabane in Graham's company. There had been an unexpected thunderstorm during the night, so there was no need to close the windows of the Mercedes against the dust. Thin, drifting clouds overhead afforded a welcome protection against the scorching low veldt sun. There was little traffic and the journey was peaceful and pleasant. Only once was the calm ruffled. They were humming old-time melodies happily when she sensed sudden tension in Graham's grip on the steering wheel. He leaned forward suddenly and stepped on the accelerator. They both stopped humming. A red Aston- Martin shot alongside. Her heart turned a somersault as die recognized Dirk's sleek dark head. For several dangerous moments the two cars raced side by side, then gradually the Aston-Martin pulled away, and with red scarf flying and a debonair wave of his hand, Dirk von Breda disappeared round a bend ahead.
Graham slackened, and Gillian, glancing sideways, saw that his thin lips were tightly set. It was some time before she could cajole him into the high spirits they had both enjoyed earlier.
They stopped at a stall along the road to buy fruit, for, as Graham said, the return journey would take place at dead of night, when the stalls would be closed. Again Gillian was amazed at the size and quality of the luscious tropical fruit.
They arrived at Mbabane just on ten o'clock. Graham pointed out Eve's boutique, and dropped Gillian at the hairdressing salon in time for her appointment.
She announced herself at the desk. A handsome Frenchman installed her in a private cubicle, where a shoulder spray of red rosebuds lay before the mirror. She remarked on its beauty and fragrance.
'It is for you, mademoiselle,' he informed her with a graceful sweep of flexible hands.
'For me?' She looked at him, wide-eyed with surprise. He dislodged the attached card and placed it in her hand. She held it enclosed in her palm, while he deftly whisked a protective plastic apron round her neck. 'Mademoiselle knows who the giver is?'
'No.'
'Mademoiselle is not curious?'
'No.'
She bent her head backwards as he flicked her long hair into the basin. 'The hair is already washed?'
'Yes.'
'I will dampen only.'
'Thank you.'
'Style?'
'Sophisticated.'
'I understand.'
Under the hair-drier she peered at the card for the first time and caught the Frenchman's intrigued smile over the head of another customer in the public salon. Ignoring him, she read: 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,' and in smaller writing at the bottom of the card: 'Some day I shall send you orchids. You're not yet ready for them - Your beloved monster.' She could feel the colour rushing into her cheeks and buried her face in a glossy magazine. She read the same paragraph over and over, without grasping its meaning, then flung down the magazine, leaned back with closed eyes and gave free rein to her thoughts.
Why had he sent her the floral spray? What was his game? If this was not wooing, what was? Then why repulse her so cruelly? The old bitter resentment burned inside her. Tonight she would teach him! Her face was grim.
'Mademoiselle is angry. It is not good for the beauty,' whispered the Frenchman in her ear as he took her from under the drier. She acknowledged the wisdom of his words with a charming smile.
'That is better,' he said. 'Always remember - ugly thoughts make ugly faces.'
She liked this Frenchman. He was young and understanding, and his long black curly hair and dark gypsy eyes were extremely attractive. He told her that he was a recent immigrant from the South of France. As he coiled the gleaming golden strands upon Gillian's head, she conveyed to him that the spray was unwelcome, and pressed him to take the rosebuds home to his wife.
He threw up his hands in passionate denial. 'Mon dieu, mademoiselle, I am not married.'
'Your girl-friend, then?'
'Non, non, I have not. But my mother - I will take them to her.'
Gillian made her few purchases - shoes, tights, gloves, an evening bag wrought of pearls, exquisite pearl earrings, and a dress for Madelisa. She arranged for the parcels to be delivered to Eve's boutique in the afternoon. After a quick cup of tea and a sandwich at a Greek tea-room, she bought a collector's piece of old Delft at the little antique shop in the main road, and carried it to Eve's boutique.
A musical bell sounded as she stepped over the threshold and Eve's elegant dark head peered round the crimson velvet curtain of a fitting room, where she was attending to a customer. 'Do make yourself at home,' she called out. 'I shan't be a minute.'
Gillian crossed the thick crimson carpet and deposited her bag and the parcel on an elegant Grandma chair.
'Have a look round if you like. I've just unpacked some fabulous imports,' came Eve's mellow voice from the cubicle.
'Thanks.'
Gillian made a thorough search through various cupboards with sliding glass doors and selected a nu
mber of garments for both casual and smart wear.
At last Eve emerged with the customer's purchase over her arm, deftly packed it arid wrote out the receipt. Next, the customer, a nondescript middle-aged woman, appeared from behind the curtain, paid and departed.
Eve approached Gillian with the friendly smile she usually reserved for her clients.
'Would you like to try these on?' she asked, relieving Gillian of the garments over her arm.
'Yes, please,' Gillian replied, 'but first I want to wish you a very, very happy birthday.'
'Why, thank you.' There was a twinge of amusement in the fine dark eyes.
'I've brought you something.'
'Just let me get rid of these.' Eve disappeared behind the curtain, leaving Gillian standing with the parcel in her hands, feeling extremely foolish.
When Eve reappeared, and uncovered the Delft vase, her pleasure was obvious. 'It's beautiful! How sweet of you.'
Other customers arrived and Gillian retired to a fitting room. She spent a delightful hour fitting and choosing and preening before the mirrors.
'I must say your taste is excellent,' Eve commended her as she packed the selected garments in tissue paper.
Eve was kept busy all the afternoon and Gillian settled in the Grandma chair for a quiet perusal of an haute couture magazine. 'I hope you don't mind,' she said to Eve, 'but I've had some parcels sent here. I'll receive the deliveries.'
'Why, certainly.'
Just as Eve was locking up, Dirk and Graham put in an appearance. Graham presented Eve with a small tapestry - a fine piece of African handicraft, a delicate white buck on a burnt-amber background, woven in mohair. She thanked him with a light kiss on the cheek.
Dirk took her hand, turned it palm upwards and pressed a small packet into it, closing her fingers over it. She flashed him a seductive look and, when a pair of enchanting earrings were disclosed, she twined her sensuous arms round Dirk's neck and her lips clung to his. 'Thank you, my darling,' she said in a husky voice.
Eve was loud in her protestations against the proposed cocktails at the hotel. 'Out of the question! You're coming to my flat. No arguments.'
Graham helped Gillian to transfer her purchases to his car while Dirk tried Eve's earrings on her beautiful ears. Gillian had avoided his glance.
Eve's flat was an expensive, luxurious penthouse. Potted palm trees and flowers transfigured the patio into an attractive arbour, where they sat on camp chairs in the cool of the late afternoon, toasting Eve's health in pink, champagne and partaking of the delicious snacks of shrimps and caviare which Eve had prepared beforehand.
Gillian listened quietly to the sparkling conversation. She was aware that Dirk was watching her, willing her to meet his glance, but she kept her eyes steadily fixed on the glistening bubbles rising and exploding in the fine Venetian glass between her pink-tipped fingers. Even when, after the last sip, he towered over her, the tilting champagne bottle clinking against her glass, her thick lashes remained resolutely lowered against her faintly blushing velvet cheeks. Her blood boiled whenever her thoughts strayed to the occasions when he had deliberately, against her will, roused passionate feelings in her and then intimated that she was the one to have made the advances. Oh ... oh! She could wring his neck. She could...
'Hey, Gillian! Come back!' Graham's voice brought her to earth. 'Where have you been?'
Dirk mocked: ' "O wad some power the giftie gie us, tae see ourselves as others see us".'
'You were looking quite grim,' Eve laughed. 'Any minute I expected the stem of my precious glass to snap. I pity the poor victim of those attractive little feline claws!'
Gillian was filled with contrition. She must not allow her obsession with Dirk to cloud Eve's birthday party. 'Sorry, folks,' she said, smiling warmly. 'I have the most gruesome imagination.'
'Was it the ritual murderer?' Graham asked.
'A murderer of sorts,' Gillian said enigmatically. Then willy-nilly her eyes were drawn to Dirk's smouldering ones and slowly, deliberately, he quirked a significant eyebrow. Gillian veiled her look of animosity.
Eve, who no doubt felt that enough attention had been centred upon the young girl, began to describe the wonderful birthday gifts she had received from rich clients. She told of a piece of Swazi handicraft similar to Graham's gift of a tapestry; whereas Graham's depicted a graceful buck bending down on exquisitely delicate bent legs to drink water, the other showed a slender Swazi maiden with a clay pot in her shapely hands bending down at a pool to draw water. 'The composition of each of these wall hangings is out of this world,' Eve declared. She gave Dirk a seductive look, but addressed herself to Graham. 'Graham, my sweet, you simply must come and help me decide where to hang them.'
She uncurled herself sinuously, rose, and proffering her long taloned fingers to Graham, drew him out of his chair, moving her body seductively all the while. Unseen by Eve, Graham gave Dirk a deliberate wink, causing his lips to twitch with knowing amusement.
Gillian, watching, was intrigued to know its meaning. It was clear that the charm and attention Eve levelled at Graham aimed at arousing jealousy in Dirk, but the wink and answering amusement? Did Graham mean to convey to his friend that his girl was safe in his hands? In this case Dirk's expression could be sayings 'She's all mine - this is just her little game, my good friend.'
Suddenly, she and Dirk were alone together, alone in the romantic environment of potted palms and sweet-smelling flowering shrubs. Rose-coloured feathery bands of cirrus cloud drifted across the sky and in a tree nearby, nesting birds proclaimed proprietorship to this territory.
Dirk leaned back elegantly in his chair, his legs stretched out before him. Puffing lazily at his pipe, he watched Gillian through half-closed eyes. A soft blush was creeping slowly from her neck, suffusing her cheeks, and stealing over her forehead..
'Gillian.' Dirk's voice was slow and lazy with an exciting touch of warmth. She fixed her eyes on the changing clouds of sunset. 'Do me a favour.'
'Yes?'
'Unveil the crowning glory.'
'I don't understand.' She spoke coldly.
'Your hair, lovely. I want to see your glorious hair. Remove that piece of gossamer tied round it.'
'No.'
'You look sweet - rosy like the clouds at sunset. But the kerchief spoils the effect.'
'Pity.'
'Remove it!' He put down his pipe.
'No.'
'Gillian!' His voice contained a threat.
'No!'
Slowly, gracefully, he raised his lean body from the chair and moved towards her. 'Woman, you will obey man, your master.'
'I will not!' Her eyes flashed.
Swiftly he bent down, grasped her waist and lifted her up into the air as though she were light as a sack of hay. She did not struggle nor kick as she had done on the Jan Smuts Airfield when he had hoisted her into his Beechcraft. She hung there, undignified, defenceless, in the strong grip of his brown hands.
He looked up at her. 'Will you obey me?'
'No!'
'Then I shall demand a forfeit.' He lowered her against his body and crushed his lips upon hers. She strained away from him. 'Please God, don't let me respond. Oh, please God, help me,' Gillian prayed earnestly.
Meeting no answering passion, he withdrew his lips and looked long and searchingly into the disturbed depths of the golden-green eyes under their impossibly long, black lashes. 'I'm sorry, my dear,' he said softly. 'I thought you loved me.'
Gillian yearned to fling her arms around his neck and crush herself against him and cry out: 'I do, I do! Kiss me, oh, kiss me!' But summoning all the self-control she was capable of, she held her body rigid and her face cold. But her tell-tale heart was pulsing stormily.
With gentle hands he eased her back into her chair and went in search of Eve and Graham.
Gillian's iron control over body and emotional reactions suddenly snapped. She sat there shaking like an aspen leaf, the hopeless victim to a shattering attack of nerves. Leani
ng back with closed eyes, she offered no resistance to the emotional storm passing through her. It left her with a spirit of calm, a fueling of peace - a new serenity of spirit.
Eve returned with the two men, who promptly took their departure to the Central Hotel to change.
'I've turned on your bath, dear.'
Gillian was struck by the friendly tone of voice of the arrogant, dark beauty. She was reminded of her father's creed, that there was a good side to every human, if only you knew how to arouse it. 'Thanks,' she responded, her own voice warm and sincere.
'Please make yourself at home.'
'You're most kind.'
'Graham put your suitcase in the guest-room here.' Eve pushed open a door. 'Take all the time you need. I'm re-doing my nails. That'll occupy half an hour, so don't rush your bath.'
The lemon-and-black bathroom was spacious and luxurious. Gillian lay relaxed in the soothing, bubbly water to which she had added Madelisa's herb extract. She felt drowsy and wished she could go to sleep in the cosseting warmth. She must not risk keeping Eve waiting. She rose from the foam, then wrapped the richly- piled lemon bath towel around her. Gently she towelled over the skin across the abdomen, gratified to see that the scars had all but disappeared.
She slipped into a rose-coloured lace negligee, tidied the bathroom and went in search of Eve.
She tapped lightly on her bedroom door.
'Please come in.' Eve lay reclined on a magnificent antique chaise-longue. Her crimson pure silk dressing gown, with its lotus flower motif richly embroidered in gold thread, offset her dark, exotic beauty to perfection. Moistened cotton wool pads covered her eyes, and she held her slender fingers apart for the nail lacquer to dry. Her nails seemed to Gillian's imaginative brain like vicious eagle's claws dipped in a victim's red blood. Her own little nails looked clean and harmless like pink seashells, washed up on a golden shore.
'What a beastly little prig I am!' Gillian chided herself inwardly.
Eve removed the pads from her eyes and swung long, shapely legs to the thick cream carpet. Her black eyes sparkled and every trace of the day's fatigue had vanished.
'Shall I turn on the bath for you?' Gillian offered, removing the gossamer kerchief from her shining coiffure.
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