DEAREST ENEMY by KATHRYN BLAIR
When Fenella Harcourt travelled to Mozambique with her father, she made many surprising discoveries. But the most amazing of them all was the irresistibly charming, infuriatingly autocratic, Carlos Pereira who lived like an overlord in a palatial dwelling. The love story of Fenella and Carlos unfolds against the colourful backcloth of Portuguese East Africa, where the sub-tropic climate and the Latin temperament combine to keep emotions running high.
Printed in Canada
Originally published by Mills & Boon Limited, 50 Grafton Way, Fitzroy Square, London. England.
Harlequin edition published February, 1967
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
The Harlequin trade mark, consisting of the word HARLEQUIN and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in the Canada Trade Marks Office.
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CHAPTER ONE
MOZAMBIQUE! A country impregnated with all the fragrance and romance of great explorers, all the power and tragedy of conquest. Fenella had only to close her eyes to see galleons breasting the white-flecked ocean, the decks as warm with tawny Portuguese seamen in homespun breeches and bright headcloths, huge gold rings in their ears and a knife at the hip.
She leaned upon the rail of the coastal steamer and breathed in the blend of copra, rubber and spice; she looked over the town of Alimane, all dazzling white and green against the dark, luxuriant mass of the hinterland; and, as the engine stopped, she heard the tail-end of convent chimes, sharp and sweet across the stretch of blue water. Her senses were drugged with the surfeit of magic and beauty.
"Oh, there you are! The steward is asking about your luggage. You're the only one going ashore here, so you'll be able to have your things in the launch with you."
Fenella smiled at the smart little woman who had appeared beside her, and was grateful for the warmth of the firm hand which closed in such comradely fashion over hers.
"I wish you were coming ashore, too, Miss Brean. You do promise to visit us on your way home from Lourenco Marques?"
"Of course I do. I wouldn't miss it for the world. Machada is quite famous, you know, one of the show towns of Portuguese East Africa, even if it is small. You're very fortunate to have the chance of making your home there for a while."
Fenella thought so, too. In fact, she was so blissfully happy about it that she went on dreaming against the rail, reviving the incidents of the past two months.
Since her mother's death when she was small, Fenella had lived in a village on the edge of a west of England town with her father's sister, Anna Harcourt. Aunt Anna designed pottery for a well known firm, so Fenella had gone in for designing as well — but she had chosen textiles,
not pottery. It hadn't been easy to get started, but with Aunt Anna's encouragement and technical assistance, and extra money occasionally from her father, she had managed to complete her training, and after that she had secured a modest post with a west-country manufacturer of silks and linens. It had been exciting work and sufficiently out of the ordinary to keep her interested and happy.
Until she was twenty she had seen her father every other weekend, either in Gloucester, where he practised, or at Aunt Anna's cottage. Then came the bewildering Sunday when he had announced his intention to sell his practice and join a medical mission in Africa, and soon afterwards dawned the bleak morning when he had sailed away from England into the unknown. He had written regularly for the first eighteen months from Angola, on the west coast of Africa, and then from Mozambique.
Fenella's heart still behaved oddly when she recalled the letter which had reached her two months ago, the day before her twenty-second birthday.
"This is the most beautiful place on earth, Fenella; rich in history and prodigally endowed by nature. The mission is on the estate of Senhor Carlos Jog de Castilho Pereira, who is the last of a great ducal family and lives in a sort of castle known as the Quinta Agostinhos The whole Pereira property, which includes the delightful town of Machada and all the surrounding plantations, is a magnificent example of both grandeur and industry. I feel you ought to come here, if only for the experience of seeing how other people live. The climate is sub-tropical but pleasant, except in the rains, and I have a modern little house which you'd love. What about taking a few months' holiday from painting butterflies and beech leaves? I guarantee that you'd enjoy this country, and Machada alone will furnish you with ideas for a lifetime—if you do intend to spend a lifetime turning out textile patterns. . . ."
From the moment she had first absorbed the gist of the letter, Fenella was caught up in an excitement of anticipation which knew no limits. Tolerantly, Aunt Anna helped to make the arrangements and to select appropriate clothing. Quite lightheartedly Fenella gave up her job; she was
promised that she would be considered for a post when she returned. And, on a bright afternoon in March, when cold little cotton-wool clouds raced madly over Southampton Water, she waved to the diminishing figure of Aunt Anna.
Gibraltar, Port Said, the grilling heat of the Red Sea. At Mombasa she had transferred from the luxury liner to a coastal boat which carried freight and only eight passengers. And among the passengers was Miss Brean, who was forty-three, like Aunt Anna, but as different from that paint-stained smocked and comfortable woman as a lime from a mango.
Miss Brean wore tailored tropical costumes and severe white square-topped hats fitted with a special cork lining against the sun. Her small, alert features and bright eyes had attracted Fenella from the beginning. She had a large income and a passion for travel; her cabin bulged with guide-books and mementoes which she confessed to unloading at Christmas upon her friends, who were no doubt inordinately grateful that she had remembered them during her wanderings. This was her first trip down to Mozambique, and after a stay in the capital she intended, if transport were available, to move around the Province indulging a predilection for the unusual.
"Here comes the launch," she said now. "Neat turn-out, isn't she? I suppose the man with the yards of gold braid is the customs official."
Fenella's trunk and grip had been brought on deck. The swarthy steward let them down into the launch by ropes, murmured "Obrigado, senhora," for the tip, and Fenella took leave of Miss Brean and her other companions of the voyage. The launch skimmed efficiently through warm, lazy waters.
Till now she had not dared to think too much about the reunion with her father. She had never known him as well as most girls know their parents, and had been apt to regard him more as a kindly guardian than as a close relative. Since her childhood they had lived under separate roofs with several miles between them. She had no knowledge of his work, nor much experience of his tastes, but she guessed him to be a man of large heart where suffering humanity was concerned. The fact of his relinquishing a
solid private practice in order to join a medical mission at a moderate salary proved that.
The braided Officer bent towards her. "The senhora's passport? Thank you. Dr. Harcourt is waiting at the quay for the senhora."
"He is? I didn't dare to hope that. I thought he'd send a car."
The officer flashed his white teeth, but said no more, though the Latin mobility of his expression spoke plainly. Such eyes, it exclaimed; the purplish blue of an African night and shining in a way to set light to a man's heart. And soft, amber-tinted hair about a small, fine-textured face. So slim and prettily curved, so simply clothed. Alimane had seen few women like her.
Here was the quay, with its background of s
tucco buildings and a large white edifice at the end which looked more like a splendid villa than a railway station. And here was Robert Harcourt in a beige suit, smiling his restrained English smile and kissing her cheek, thanking the customs official in correct Portuguese, and accepting it as nothing less than his due when Fenella's baggage was passed, unopened.
A chauffeur in pearl-grey uniform took charge of the trunk and grip, and Fenella's gaze followed him to the amazing pearl-grey limousine which stood at the kerb. When her father led her in the same direction, she stood back from the car, incredulous.
"This can't be yours!"
"You're right, my dear. It's worth my salary for a couple of years. Besides, I don't go in for ducal shields. This one," pointing to the emblazoned door of the car, "is the crest of the de Castilho Pereiras. Senhor Pereira will explain it to you if you ask him Get in, Fenella."
"Don't you own a car?" she asked, as they rolled away, smooth as silk, over the earth roads of Alimane
"Only a two-seater, but it suits me very well and I've become attached to it. I was going to meet, you in that, but Carlos wouldn't hear of it. He insisted on lending me one of his, and a chauffeur."
Eagerly, she sat forward to watch the passing shops, fascinated by the succession of names on the cement porticos above them: Bazar Manica, Dos Santos, Joao Manuel
Sarmento, Sociedade Agricola, Luis da Silva. Delicious-looking names, which must sound wonderful when spoken with the correct accent.
She took a deep breath. "I'm so glad you let me come. Glad to see you, too," she added shyly. "I hope there'll be some work for me to do at the mission "
"Perhaps, a little. All our work is among natives, so you may not take to it."
"Who keeps house for you?"
"A half-caste named Antonio. Carlos sent him to me." "Does he do the shopping, and cook?"
Her father nodded. "He's exceptionally intelligent. He was trained in the Pereira kitchens."
She laughed. "You seem to mention that man in every sentence. Doesn't he ever do things in ones? Several cars . . . several kitchens. Has he several wives?"
Robert's fairish brows rose with humour. "He isn't married. When you've been here a week you'll understand the set-up. The Pereiras are an ancient family, originally from Lisbon. About three hundred years ago they bought all the land from Alimane to Ibana, which is inland, and in the middle of it they eventually built their palace and created the town of Machada."
"And since then they've lived here like kings!"
"To some extent. They go to Lisbon to be educated, and Carlos, of course, has travelled widely. His mother was a Scot."
"A Scot! How did she trickle into a Portuguese family?"
"His father fought with the British in the First World War, and it was while he was on long leave in England that he met and married Jean Cameron. The story goes that she was nearly as dark as he, and very beautiful. She died while still a young woman. Carlos took over the estate when his father died and has run it since than.
They had turned from the main road into an avenue of palms. Between the trees showed glimpses of rich colonial dwellings embedded in billows of purple and brick-red bougainvillea. Then began the Pereira plantations of coconut palms, mile upon mile of tall trunks with tufted tops, and here and there a mountain of ripe coconuts with a group of native women nearby. They were stripping away
the fibrous covering and stuffing it into sacks, creating a new hillock of shorn coconuts which would be carted away, shelled and dried for copra.
"When we reach the top of this hill you'll see Machada," said Robert. "There!"
Below them spread the little town, half-asleep in the withering afternoon sun. Rocky streets descended between picturesque houses, each of which was set back in its garden and heavily thatched against heat and torrential rains. To the right, the houses were well-spaced and charmingly designed in varying Portuguese styles, and from their midst rose the steeple of a medieval-looking church.
"The mission is the other side of Machada," he explained. "And right over there beyond the town you can see the Quinta Agostinhos, where Carlos Pereira lives. Enormous, isn't it, even at this distance?"
Fenella was incapable of comment. She hadn't imagined that any part of Africa could be like this — so incredibly continental yet tropical in its setting, with even a touch of the oriental. As they descended into civilisation she saw native boys sleeping on the black and white tiled floors of verandas, and here and there a Portuguese woman, small and dark and rather sombrely dressed, sat diligently sewing behind mosquito wire. There seemed to be no men about, but probably these were the dwellings of the plantation foremen and the artisans, who would be away at their duties.
They passed the church and the houses of merchants and professional men, those gracious dwellings she had seen from the hill. Her father pointed out marble pillars and steps which had been brought by the old sailing-boats from Portugal; there were some wonderful renaissance marbles inside the church which she must see some time, he told her.
The car swung out into a country road, twisted left and climbed a short hill to the Machada mission.
Within the last half an hour Fenella had absorbed so much of what was new and scintillating that the mission appeared at first glance as no more than a long white building with a pair of tough Gothic doors under an arched veranda. As the car sped past towards a line of square,
palm-thatched adobe houses, she noticed an adult class was in progress on the veranda; a woman was teaching elementary arithmetic to a dozen Africans.
"That's Mrs. Westwood, the missionary's wife," Robert said. "A very able woman but a fearful gossip. Chatter over teacups is the poor soul's only relaxation."
Dr. Harcourt's house was new and constructed expressly for a physician's needs. There was a large entrance lounge, a dining-room, two bedrooms, a bathroom with quaintly figured tiles and a well-planned, very white kitchen. Built on to the side, and accessible from the lounge, was a surgery with a second, outer door, and beyond it lay on the dispensary, in a small building all its own. The surgery was used only by natives who could afford to pay a fee; the rest had to attend the mission clinic at specified times.
"I expect you'll want a rest," her father said. "Antonio comes back on duty at four-thirty, and he'll get you anything you need. You must be ready at a quarter to six. We're going to the Quinta."
"Oh, dear. Do I have to go visiting already?"
"Merely a courtesy call, to introduce you to Senhor Pereira. One has to follow a precise code in these parts. Carlos is the true cavalheiro—he makes a point of knowing personally everyone on his estate, and he's aware that you're arriving today, so he'll expect us."
"I don't believe I want to meet him very much."
Her father turned from examining the notepad on his desk. "Why do you say that?"
"Well, he sounds autocratic and feudal, and he's bound to be patronising."
"A little of all three, I daresay. After all, his position here is unique. The old senhoras court him for their daughters, and the few English girls in Alimane never refuse an invitation to the Quinta. He occasionally gives dinner parties and picnics. They needn't worry you, though," Robert added, smiling. "You're merely a medico's daughter. You won't be invited."
"Thank goodness," she said sincerely.
In the delight of strolling through the house and admiring her pink and grey bedroom, Fenella forgot Senhor Pereira. Everything about the place was plain and perfectly attuned to the climate. The ceilings were high, the
doors tall and wide, and every window and opening was mosquito-proofed.
Outside there were no fences, but half-way between each house ran a dark-leaved, scarlet-splashed hibiscus hedge. She learned that their immediate neighbours were Portuguese—a mission schoolmaster and a retired planter who taught civilised methods of husbandry to the natives —and that the only other English in the mission dwellings were the missionary himself and his wife.
Her father disclosed that
there were several English families in Alimane, eleven miles away, and it was with them that he usually spent his leisure. One benefit of attending natives was that they hadn't the courage to call for his services outside the prescribed hours, and though they kept him busy, he could mostly count on free Sundays. He belonged to the Alimane Golf Club and sometimes did some rock-fishing along the coast.
Antonio, who was small and the colour of pale coffee, with a negroid cast and surprisingly well-kept hands, brought tall glasses of tea which tasted refreshingly of mint flavouring, and a beaten metal dish of crisp cinnamon biscuits. The boy was quick and certain in his actions, and his English was nearly faultless. His uniform — white shorts with a three-quarter length, belted overshirt in white with bands of magenta and gold at neck and sleeves —presented a miracle of laundering. The combination of pride and subservience in his manner reminded Fenella that he had graduated from the Quinta Agostinhos.
As she dressed, Fenella began to realise that before coming to Mozambique she had known nothing at all about the Portuguese except that in the fifteenth century they had been great explorers; Vasco da Gama and Bartolomeu Diaz, among other brilliant figures, had fired her imagination. This man Carlos Pereira was going to find her woefully ignorant of his people and their customs. He was half-Scottish and had travelled a great deal, but he chose, nevertheless, to live in regal splendour above Machada, ruling the city, the mission and the enveloping plantations.
Oh, well. Fenella gave a cheerful shrug. The man meant nothing at all to her.
She dressed in blue, a deep marine blue with a white ruffled collar which cascaded in the front to her waist.
Her short curly hair was brushed back and then patted into a shining halo, to reveal small delicate ears and a faint blue transparency at her temples. Her red lips had the fresh sweetness of a flower.
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