Dearest enemy

by Kathryn Blair

  "What about the over-fours?"

  "They have the school meal and a half-yearly overhaul. It's the best we can manage for them."

  She smiled at him with affection. "I can understand why you chose mission work. If it weren't for Aunt Anna I'd stay with you always and do my bit."

  Her father shook his head. "I'd rather you married and lived a normal woman's life. Some people are definitely patterned for the mission, but you aren't."

  "How can you tell?"

  "One indication is the way young Frankland looks at you. It's strange, but I hadn't contemplated anything of that sort till last weekend, when he was about the house. You're the happy kind, Fenella, and there's nothing attracts a man so swiftly as a spontaneous smile allied with intelligence."

  "Thank you," she said demurely, "but I hardly expect to find a husband in Machada."

  "That's why you mustn't stay too long."

  He sat down to write his daily diary and complete the list of dispensary requirements. As always, his attitude was that of the preoccupied doctor, but Fenella sensed in him a gladness that he had made clear his thoughts on a delicate but important matter. She was coming to know him very well.

  * * *

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  ON her fourth morning at the clinic the nurse was called away from the small partitioned room in which the children were tested. Left in charge, Fenella stood the naked two-year-old on the scales and marked up the weight, measured the height and pencilled that in, too. Then she dropped the single small garment over the dark, glistening shoulders and lifted the child up to sit on the edge of the table.

  "You're very solemn," she said. "Where's that nice big smile ?"

  The only response was a mournful widening of huge dark eyes. Fenella decided it might be as well to hand the piccaninny over to his mother till the nurse was free again. She put him on the floor and held his hand, opened the door to the veranda and looked up into the cold, taut face of Carlos Pereira.

  "Miss Harcourt!"

  "Good morning, senhor," she said hastily, and was thankful to see the baby's mother dart forward to take charge of him. As unobtrusively as she was able, Fenella pulled shut the door behind her, and then contrived a small smile. "Are you looking for Mr. Westwood, or my father?"

  "I am looking for neither. I called at your house and learned from your servant that it is your habit to spend each morning at the clinic. To spend each morning at the clinic," he repeated, as if every word were a needle jab, "after I have sternly forbidden it. Come this way, please." He stood aside for her to descend the steps. "We will go to the house."

  "Very well, senhor."

  Fenella obediently walked at his side and mounted to her own veranda ahead of him. Apparently he had no intention of entering the lounge; perhaps to invite him in while her father was absent would outrage his sense of convention. One couldn't tell, and by the steely flames in his eyes he was already sufficiently put out.

  "You will please explain, senhora!"

  In face of his towering displeasure Fenella felt a little helpless. "There's nothing to explain. This week, for the first time, my father has permitted me to help Nurse Silva in some of her lighter duties. The children we deal with are thoroughly clean and healthy."

  "That is hardly the point. I am not accustomed to having my orders disregarded."

  "But, Senhor Pereira . . ."

  "Must I repeat that caring for natives is not for a girl of your kind! The doctor has given in to your pleading, but I certainly will not. You will keep out of the clinic, Miss Harcourt!"

  Exasperated, she burst out, "Do you honestly think my father would let me go into the building if there were any danger?"

  "Your father is first a doctor—he will no doubt have every regard for your physical welfare. It is obvious now that I should have made my wishes known to him, so that he could have enforced them. Mulher a inconstanter

  "What does that mean?"

  The grey gaze lost a fraction of the remote glitter. "It means that I should not have been mislead by your very blue eyes and frank expression."

  "But I didn't give you my word, senhor!"

  Critically, the arrogant nostrils still dilated with distaste for the self-imposed task of reprimanding her, he surveyed her flushed cheeks and parted red mouth, the eyes which sparkled with vexation and the lock of amber hair which had become displaced and curled confidingly round her temple. Almost imperceptibly his manner changed.

  "Please sit down," he said abruptly. "I am sorry to have been so angry, but it had not occurred to me that my desire in this matter would be ignored. You will give me your word now."

  Fenella had sunk into a folding chair. With his customary fastidiousness, Carlos hitched impeccably white slacks and took a seat on the other side of the painted metal table. His hand, long-fingered and flexible, rested on the table top; a fine, strong hand, she thought, which looked capable equally of violence and tenderness. Good heavens, why should that come into her mind?

  "If I am not to go into the clinic, how do you suggest I spend my time, senhor?"

  "There is the house, needlework, reading. And I understand that you paint."

  "I've designed materials, but I'm by no means an artist. As for the house—what is there for me to do, unless you will agree to my sending the houseboy back to the Quinta?"

  "That is impossible," he said sharply. "I would have no objection to your helping in the dispensary or with the records. Or Mrs. Westwood might find you some light job now and then. On the whole, though, I would prefer that you stay away altogether from the mission. They are sufficiently provided with paid workers."

  "I'm afraid I can't promise to do that."

  He leaned slightly towards her across the table and spoke crisply. "I will see to it that you do not have close contact with natives. That is final!

  Masking her annoyance, Fenella gave a resigned sigh. "This is your country, senhor," she said politely. "I have no other course than to obey. May I offer you a drink?"

  "No, thank you." Carlos tattooed with his nails for a second upon the table. "I had a purpose in coming here this morning. I intended to ask for your assistance."

  "Really?" Fenella smiled brightly. "In what capacity?"

  "There is a young cousin of mine who is coming to Machada from Lisbon. She is about your age—or perhaps a year older—and she has never before left her country. She will travel with an aunt. You are English, therefore it will be incomprehensible to you that a girl who has already come of age should still lead a sheltered existence. Like most Portuguese of good education, Antoine can speak English, and as soon as she arrives I would like you to meet her and be friendly with her."

  "I look forward to it, senhor."

  "I think you will be good for Antonie, your fresh outlook will broaden her view of the world. At the moment her life is painfully confined. I have not seen her for two years, but I remember that her interests were limited to the home and playing the piano."

  "But surely such pursuits are what you most admire in a woman!"

  A smile moved his lips. He leaned an elbow on the table and regarded her thoughtfully. "Antoine also has a fascinating flair for coquetry."

  "Then maybe both she and I will benefit from her visit."

  He lay back again, his eyes half-closed, the smile tantalising. "You will never be a loireira. One so forthright could not coquet successfully. I wish my cousin to learn from you, not you from my cousin."

  "When will she arrive?"

  "Not for some weeks. Her father's letter reached me this morning, and they are awaiting my cable before arranging her passage. I am going into Alimane on business after lunch, and will send it then." He paused, and the hint of satire of which she had been aware at their previous meeting crept into his voice. "Did you enjoy the regatta last Sunday?"

  "Yes." Unnecessarily, she added, "Were you there?"

  "I saw you from the lagoon. I had two yachts entered." In sudden, inward irritation she thoug
ht it would have

  to be two yachts, of course, and no doubt they were magnificent affairs with the Pereira coat-of-arms on each side. "We didn't watch for long," she stated.

  "Next Sunday you and the doctor must lunch at the Quinta," he said suavely. "Unless you already have an appointment with Frankland?"

  Fenella suppressed a surge of reluctance. Idiotic that she should feel so antagonistic to this man, so averse from anything which savoured of patronage from him. Yet she had an extraordinary longing to see the Quinta at close quarters again, to stand on the terrace and let her glance wander over those acres of fascinating gardens, and to pass through one of the tall, arched doorways into a large, gracious dining-room. She could recall the exact pattern of the mosaic in the courtyard and the terrace, the rich depth of its colouring and the sensation of luxurious unreality in walking over it. The Quinta was a place that would lodge in anyone's heart.

  "You're very kind,". she said offhandedly. "I'll tell my father."

  Carlos stood up. "I will ask him myself. I will also make plain to him my decision that only trained nurses, preferably Portuguese born in Mozambique, should work in the

  clinic. Having grown up among Africans they are the most suitable. Born dia, Miss Harcourt."

  Fenella watched his firm, lithe stride, the air of hauteur with which he slipped into the preposterously long sapphire blue saloon and glided away. She went indoors for a glass of lime. Antonio, quiet and obsequious, served it with straws and iced wafers and Fenella tried to relax in the cool, dim lounge with the main door open to the veranda and the fan going high up on its corner bracket. But the senhor's visit had unsettled her to an abnormal degree. Recollections of his spurt of cold anger at finding her in the clinic and the subsequent unbending, his foreign inflections and commanding manner were alternately maddening and bewildering.

  What a complex personality he was; at one moment asking the favour of her friendship with his cousin and at the next flinging at her the reiterated command to stay away from natives.

  When her father came in lunch was ready: steamed fish and a salad of continental proportions and variety, followed by a blend of tropical fruits. Fenella waited till he had been served before mentioning Senhor Pereira's visit.

  "Oh, yes," said Dr. Harcourt. "He came over to the native reserve and we had a talk about it—or rather, he did most of the talking. I don't quite agree with his point of view, but I daresay we can fix you up in the dispensary, as he suggested. I suppose it would be safer."

  "It was such fun helping Nurse Silva with the little ones. Need we capitulate?"

  "We must, Fenella. Carlos won't budge, and so much of his money finances the mission that it wouldn't be fair to put his back up over such a trifle. You can still enter up the charts for me."

  "I can't for the life of me see why he had to interfere," she said warmly. "You'd think he'd welcome voluntary aid at the mission."

  Her father patted her hand. "You don't understand Carlos. He's an aristocrat of Latin extraction. It offends something deep inside him that a white woman should perform any labour which might be termed menial. He visualises all the horrors to which you might be subjected.

  The fact that you are young and untrained emphasises his contention. It's one of the things about him which you have to accept."

  "He's the most stubborn, aggravating man I ever met! He's cold and fiery and sarcastic."

  "And withal exquisitely polite and charming," the doctor completed, unmoved. "Remember his stormy ducal ancestry and be thankful his mother was a Scot."

  Fenella helped herself to salad and broke a paozinho, one of the tiny golden bread rolls which the servant turned out by the dozen every day. They were crisp and deliciously flavoured. She took a curl of butter from the dish which reposed in a bed of ice cubes, and nodded acquiescence to Antonio, who stood nearby with a jug of iced fruit juice.

  When the boy had filled her glass and departed, she said, "Are we going to the Quinta next Sunday ?"

  Her father nodded. "Carlos has invited us. Before you came he used to attend the late morning mission service about once a month, and invariably I went back with him afterwards, and reported on the health of his men and general conditions at the reserve. But apparently next Sunday's luncheon is arranged entirely for your benefit. He wants you to meet some of the young people of the town."

  She laid down her fork. "Why in the world should he bother to do that?"

  "He didn't explain," her father said patiently, "but he probably feels that to introduce you to families who will almost certainly add your name to their invitation lists might make up for his uncompromising refusal to allow you in the clinic. The action is typical of Carlos. Now get on and finish your lunch, my dear."

  Fenella thought this explanation a likely one. Also, there was the matter of his cousin, Antonie, whose interests were to be expanded.

  Antonie. The way Carlos pronounced the name it sounded soft and seductive. Idly, she wondered what he would make of "Fenella," and concluded that he would probably draw out the second syllable, and tack an "h" on to the end as he did with "senhorita." But it could never have the wooing smoothness of "Antonie." A fact which Fenella, rather obscurely, found vaguely unsatisfactory.

  She felt the same reluctance to meet the cousin from Lisbon as she had experienced before making the acquaintance of Carlos himself. Why did he have to haul her in to befriend the girl? What could the other young folk of Machada do that might hurt his precious relative? By the time Antoine did arrive Carlos might have forgotten his request. Fenella was beginning to hope so.

  On Saturday the air mail arrived, bringing a letter from Aunt Anna which Fenella read with absolute enjoyment. The peonies and roses were out in the Gloucestershire garden and a cuckoo had spent a whole distracting day in the lime tree. The hens were not laying too well, possibly because their meal-times had become erratic now that Fenella was not there to supervise their feeding. Old Mrs. Benton still paused in her polishing to spill the village news, which was much the same as ever, except that a local steeplechase had brought some notabilities to the district and given Aunt Anna one or two grand ideas for tankard decoration. Mr. Gilson, the middle-aged schoolmaster, had not broken his habit of calling in on Thursday afternoons for a cup of tea. "In fact he came twice last week," wrote Aunt Anna. "The second time on Saturday morning when I was in the studio engrossed in a peach of a design for a sandwich set. I could have slain him, but instead I had to make him a cup of coffee!"

  Recalling her aunt's casual treatment of her persistent suitor, Fenella smiled with sympathy for the man. Mr. Gilson had never proposed marriage; he was too certain of being refused, and it would be frightful to imperil his friendship with the clever, artistic Miss Harcourt. Mr. Gilson didn't seem to realise the extent of his own attainments. He was headmaster of the Grammar School and had lectured with success on social economy. He had acquired several degrees, a snug villa and a reputation for rose culture. But he had never acquired a wife. Aunt Anna laughed about him, but never unkindly; she had even admitted that she worked with more precision on Thursdays, when his scholarly presence was expected.

  Fenella slipped the letter into her own drawer in her father's desk, and walked over to the mission for the local mail. Oddly enough, among the few letters for Dr. Harcourt was one to Fenella, from the person who reminded her

  of Aunt Anna because she was the same age yet so different —Miss Brean. The smart little woman of independent means was still having a whale of a time in Lourenco Marques as the guest of a consular official and his wife, but she had every intention, she assured Fenella, of coming to Machada when the joys of the city were exhausted.

  Though both letters had pleased Fenella, each left her with a sense of detachment from the outside world. Here in Machada life was vivid and real, whether one dreamed beneath a jacaranda or strolled sight-seeing among the lovely cupolaed buildings near the church, or went for motor rides along the roads between coconut palms and sugar cane, the oil-bearing
plantations of castor bush and jikungu, the rice fields and acres of healthy sisal. The sun, filtered by the heavy branches of a casuarina or a mafurra tree, sank into one's blood and bones, and wind whispered in the palms; the sky arched above, eternally ultra-marine till the purple wings of dusk closed in from the east. The nights were sweet with scents and song. Machada was beautiful, incredibly so at this season when storms were past and the main harvests gathered. Any other place in the world must be pallid by comparison.

  Austin arrived at the doctor's house late that afternoon. He came upon Fenella lying in the striped canvas hammock on the side veranda, with an unread book dangling from her hand, and he stood over her, grinning.

  "Ravishing," he pronounced. "It's a dreadful waste, your being here alone. Don't move. I can't stay long."

  "Have you coaxed someone else to give you dinner this week?" she asked.

  "A party," he explained. "Somebody or other's birthday. You can come if you like."

  "No, thanks."

  "May I drop in tomorrow?"

  "Yes, any time after four," she answered, swinging gently. "We're lunching at the Quinta."

  He whistled softly and teetered back on his heels. "Keep a tight hold on your heart, Fenella, and concentrate your girlish enthusiasms on the inanimate Fall for him and you'll bruise yourself."

  "Don't worry," she said serenely. "I'm not likely to compete with the crowd. Can you wait for a cup of tea?"

  "I'd like to, but I'm booked to look in on some people for a sundowner, and after that I have to hasten to my garret and change for this blamed party. I came to tell you that there's a festa next Wednesday evening. You promised to attend one with me."

  "So I will!" She stopped swinging and sparkled at him. "What do I wear?"

  "A thin frock—semi-evening, don't they call it? A flower in your hair, a mantilha."