Dearest enemy

by Kathryn Blair

  She murmured a sort is disclaimer. To herself she admitted that her hostility towards Carlos fluctuated. His urbanity and self-assurance were not really annoying; they were part of the man and his position, as was his untiring politeness. His domineering was not of the bullying type; he merely spoke half a dozen clipped syllables in those slightly foreign tones and one disobeyed at one's peril. But that sly probing into one's emotions was not to be tolerated. Let him save it for the doe-eyed senhoritas.

  Fenella recalled the discreet yet revealing behaviour of those three young Portuguese women. "Yes, Carlos . . ."

  "No, Carlos . . ." as if they wanted nothing in ,the world so much as to please him. And they weren't the only ones by a long way.

  No, there was no pinning down or labelling her antipathy for the man. There were moments, in his presence, when it prickled over her skin and made her teeth tight, and others, such as that outside the chapel, when her dislike seemed transformed into a personal inadequacy, and all she wanted was to be away from him, to forget him. His was a most upsetting presence.

  Next day Fenella looked through her clothes for something suitable for the festa. Recollecting all she had heard about such occasions, she felt certain that only one of her dresses would do, a black taffeta with a small tight bodice and a voluminous skirt. It was ankle-length, but she decided to shorten it to mid-calf and restore the length later, if it became necessary, with the air of a frill of black tulle. She got down to the necessary alternation right away.

  Except that she could see a group of piccaninnies sitting on the grass at the mission and drinking from mugs, it was like old times to be sitting on the veranda working with her needle. Occasionally she looked up at the dark, glossy foliage of the magnolias, with waxen blooms pasted on them. It had been an inspiration on the part of someone—probably Carlos, she wryly conceded—to have the mission and the houses built within that arm of magnolias. The trees must have been there long before the mission was thought of.

  The boy brought iced tea and sweet buns flavoured with his favourite cinnamon, and Mrs. Westwood laboured up to share them. She admired the black dress and confessed unreservedly to an aversion from Portuguese revels.

  "As a people they're gay and lovable," she allowed. "But they're never tired. The dancing and singing and drinking of wine may be all right in Portugal, where it's less hot, but here it is too much."

  "Not for the Portuguese," said Fenella lightly. "Portugal is warm, too, you know. I love the way they carry their customs into their colonies."

  Mrs. Westwood nodded, thoughtfully. "Even Senhor Pereira encourages the old way of living, and one must acknowledge that it makes for larger families and keeps

  down the divorce rate. You've heard that his cousin is coming to Machada?" Patently, Mrs. Westwood was sure that Fenella hadn't heard, for she went on volubly, "I got it from the Quinta bailiff. He came down about some gardening tools I'd requisitioned for the boys, and stayed for dinner. The cousin is a woman, the young and pretty daughter of the de Bordone family. Her name is Antonie de Bordone, so the bailiff said. All the servants at the Quinta make no secret of being overjoyed. They are very anxious that the senhor should marry and start a family. It seems that the usual age at which the Pereira men marry is around thirty, and the senhor is nearly thirty-four."

  Fenella raised her eyes from her needlework. "Is this cousin the senhor's fiancée?"

  "I think she's almost bound to be. Why else would he invite her here?"

  "Her family might wish her to travel."

  Mrs. Westwood trilled. "Don't you believe it, my dear. These old Portuguese families keep their daughters very much under lock and key until there's a match in the offing. In any case, the girl must be coming at the senhor's invitation, which can have only one interpretation."

  "It's two years since Senhor Pereira was last in Portugal."

  "That doesn't mean a thing. There could have been a betrothal then. In fact, it must be so. Nothing extra.. ordinary about such a procedure, of course. Arranged marriages often take place here in Mozambique, and they appear to turn out happily enough." The older woman chuckled. "A good many will weep when the senhor marries. I'd give a lot to listen in at some of the afternoon sewing parties during the next week or so."

  Fenella's brain was repeating the surname. De Bordone. Carlos had mentioned his grandfather's marriage to the Marqueza de Bordone, so the girl, Antonie, might not be a first cousin—which made the marriage all the more probable. Perhaps it was not mere conversational coincidence which had led Carlos to talk of that old romance; he could have been looking ahead, to his own imminent romance and marriage.

  Mrs. Westwood, who could never relinquish the spicier gossip till all its ramifications were exhausted, continued for some minutes in the same strain, and when she rose to

  go, Fenella folded the black taffeta and went indoors for a hat. She walked down to the clinic, paused to smile at two young Tonga mothers who wore tall head-dresses and an abundance of bright beadwork and copper rings. It was impossible to converse with the native women; besides their own dialect they knew only a few words of pidgin Portuguese.

  For a couple of hours she worked with the dispenser, but by lunch-time the air had become so burdened with heat and tiresome insects that a long break was agreed upon. No relief came till an evening breeze rustled in the palms and detached a few petals from the shrubs in the garden.

  The two following days were similarly hot and cloudless, and nearly as breathless. A new moon had set in, clear-cut and of amazing brilliance, a huge, sickle-shaped diamond in a maze of smaller jewels against a pall of purple velvet. It showed itself for a surprisingly short time before sliding to rest.

  Though the moon rose early it was not yet up on Wednesday evening when Fenella prepared herself for the festa. The fact that she had owned the black taffeta for nearly three years did not diminish her pleasure in its perfect fit and stark contrast with her skin. The snug waist-line and full, shortened skirt were just right for an open-air party, and she decided not to use much make-up, after all. One is either a dark and beautiful Portuguese, or one isn't. Fenella wasn't.

  Austin turned up on time, and he spread the scarlet lace mantilha over a table for her inspection. The close pattern of small flowers and leaves was marred here and there by the depredations of moths, of which there were myriads in the district, but it draped softly over the pale hair and contrasted vividly with the white flower which Fenella secured behind her ear.

  "There's mystery in a mantilha," Austin commented, standing back admiringly. "Due, I think, to the fact that it reveals tantalising glimpses of silky hair and sweet little ears. Without conceit, I unhesitatingly declare that we English are a credit to continental clothes."

  He was undoubtedly handsome in homespun trousers which belled at the ankles and were tight at the hips, a full white silk shirt and a square of blue silk knotted into

  a tight little cap over his head. His darkly tanned features and the gold rings clipped over the lobes of his ears completed the swashbuckling picture.

  By the time they had said good-bye to Dr. Harcourt and the sports car was descending at its customary reckless speed towards the lights of the town, Fenella had reached a state of happy turbulence. She was bent on a thrilling new adventure, the air was warm and languorous, the frangipani in the hedges gushed an intoxicating perfume, and overhead shone the startlingly brilliant moon. An exotic setting for an exotic occasion.

  Everyone seemed to be going to the festa. The tiled pavements of the Avenida were thronged with young men dressed in the style Austin had affected, and russet cheeked women in peasant skirts and cotton blouses, black curls bunching below gay bandanas. They were the artisans, the farmers and plantation foremen, with their families.

  The stream of cars carried the white-clad cavalheiros from the old part of the town, their wives and daughters who looked animated and lovely in bright clothes and mantilhas secured by gem-set combs.

  As she stepped from Austin'
s sports car, Fenella thought the whole scene enchanting and incredible. The pillared entrance glittered in concealed flood-lighting, and the gardens were festooned from tree to tree with thousands of many-hued lamps. Each side of the broad central path salchicheiros, those vendors of a dozen kinds of delicious sausage, and other stall-holders who offered pate and paozinhos, slices of sucking pig and chicken, dressed crayfish, sweet moulds, crystallised fruits and other toothsome but unidentifiable delicacies, maintained a merry bawling.

  Down by the lake the band was playing in a semi-circle of worshipping piccanins, who did not jerk to the lively rhythm of the rondo as they did to their own music. They were happily curious and somewhat apathetic through a surfeit of free sausages and hunks of broa. The brown cheeks bulged with candy but their jaws scarcely moved.

  The dancers twirled and cheered, clapped and whirled again into a Portuguese dance. Hastily, Fenella disposed of the small tasty heap on her fluted paper plate. Austin got rid of the plates, tossed the tiny tissue napkins into the air, and compelled her in among the dancers.

  After a minute he said, "This is great. Where did you learn it?"

  "It's the nearest thing to a polka," she laughed breathlessly. "And you know it so well that I can't go wrong. Even a donkey could dance well with you."

  "Thanks, but I won't try it out. Get ready for the finale."

  It came on a blare of music, a sweep of skirts, as the men took the girls by the waist and swung them clear of the ground in mad circles, and high-pitched, panting laughter as the guitars broke off.

  No sooner had Fenella recovered her balance than she was impelled both by Austin's arm and the pressure of the crowd, to the lake side. A flower-decked boat had floated into view, and a white figure bearing a basket of blossoms appeared at each end of it. The whole thing looked like a hand carving from a gigantic slab of marble.

  "The Battle of Flowers a la Machada," Austin whispered to her. "They set great store by this. Each flower has some sort of significance to the young and unmarried—which includes you and me, Fenella, and most of those who are milling around us. Last year I caught a flame flower which is said to mean love that burns itself out, so cannot last."

  "Did it happen?" she asked mischievously.

  His smile was lazy. "It's always happening, my sweet. I'll wish orange-blossom for you, Fenella—a luscious sprig with every bud intact. You're that type."

  Now, she could only see above the heads the white garlands strung out like bunting from the masts, but a long joyful shout and the beginning of a mad scramble indicated that the "battle" was on. Her reaching hand caught and grasped the cool trumpet of an orchid. Austin had kept his hands pocketed, and he raised disapproving brows at the flower in her palm.

  "That's a far cry from orange-blossom. A pale yellow orchid with a scarlet centre quite definitely ringed with the greenest of green spots. Tut, tut, Fenella. Such a bloom is no symbol for a gentle English maid."

  "Do you know its meaning?"

  "Scarlet is always love of the passionate kind, and green hate—also of the passionate variety. And in a yellow ground!" He clucked again and blew the orchid from her hand to the grass. "Work it out for yourself, my

  infant, and determine not to be entangled in anything so shattering."

  Fenella laughed and took the arm he offered. The flower-throwing custom was charming, and foolish. Her heart was free and singing, thank heaven.

  After they had danced again Austin found them a wine table under a deodar tree. Fenella sat down and leaned back, and almost at once she stiffened.

  Several tables away she saw the erect back of Carlos Pereira. He appeared to be entertaining a party—probably from Alimane, for at least two of the group were English girls from the port. While she watched a man and a woman came up. Carlos bowed, lightly touched his lips to a white hand, and made introductions. Then they were all seated and the wine flowed.

  Fenella felt glad that Austin had his back that way. She hadn't thought for a moment that Carlos would be here; nor, she was convinced, had Austin. The senhor's presence, and that of the English women who had not yet learned of the existence of Antonie de Bordone, was a shadow upon the joy of the evening.

  She remembered the orchid lying crushed on the grass; an emblem of love, hate and jealousy. The battle of flowers was not even amusing. It was merely stupid.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A PORTLY, perspiring Portuguese brought a seven-litre, wicker-covered flagon of wine and two very large glasses, which he filled with the thick, ruby liquid. He made a guttural sound of ecstasy.

  "It is a good festa, eh, senhora?" he said in Portuguese. "We have too few of these merry celebrations, but tonight everybody is here, the great and the small. We will dance and sing till tomorrow morning."

  "Not if you distribute wine in such quantities," Austin answered. "At this rate we'll all be flat across your wine tables before twelve."

  The man shook with disproportionate delight in the joke and passed on.

  "The great and the small," Austin echoed in English. "All the few hundreds of Machada's inhabitants, minus the babies, who have been left in the care of their African nannies. On the whole they're a grand people. Their lightheartedness is much to be envied. In fact, if I were the marrying kind I might settle here."

  "Are you under contract?" she asked.

  "I was for the first year, but when it expired Carlos never insisted on a renewal, and I'd just as soon be free. You've no idea how devitalising are the smell of coconut oil and the sight of rice fields. To you, the palm nuts and maize and mangoes are the fascinating products of a romantic country, but they're my living, and I've never yet met with romance in a field of paddy rice!"

  Fenella was not listening to him very closely. She had unfastened the scarlet mantilha and draped it about her shoulders as a protection against mosquitoes, and the breeze off the lake whipped her hair into tufts of corn-coloured silk. Abstractedly, her fingers played about her glass.

  Without intention, she watched Helene, regal on the arm of an escort, greet Carlos as she passed his table. The dark eyes looked back more than once. So did those of several other young ladies.

  What a sickening business it was, this perpetual silent pleading on the part of many for the attentions of one

  man. Not that Carlos himself seemed conscious of it. Fenella grudgingly owned that there was nothing in his bearing to suggest anything but respect and friendliness for the women with whom he came into contact. Perhaps he didn't consider himself as a man to be desired above other men, or perhaps he did not realise how irresistible is the apparently unconquerable male, particularly when he happens to be overlord of a castle, a town and two hundred square miles of prodigally rich lands. Yet one felt that nothing whatever escaped him.

  There, at the wine table under the deodar, with Austin chattering idly a yard away and a tremendous noise of gaiety encompassing her, Fenella wondered what Carlos really thought about women and marriage, whether he regarded marriage as an expedient and women necessary in so far as marriage could not be accomplished without them. His lean, clever face and shrewd grey eyes, those strong, fleshless hands, all denoted a man of exceptional abilities and intelligence. His years and wide experience added authority and wisdom to an already austere and dominating character.

  Re was fanatically proud of being Portuguese and a Pereira. Austin had once declared that Carlos would not marry except for love, but Fenella believed that his love of race went too deep to be subjugated by his personal desires. Difficult to dip far below his surface .

  "But this is a glorious surprise, Austin, in the middle of the week!"

  Rather guiltily, Fenella looked up at the glowing young woman whose gaze was bent upon Austin Frankland. He jumped to his feet and, for one usually so debonair, his smile was awkward and not in the least welcoming.

  "Good evening. May I present Miss Harcourt . . . the Senhorita de Gardena."

  Fenella said, "I've heard about you, senhori
ta. Won't you join us?"

  "The senhorita is with her parents," Austin put in hurriedly. "They'll wonder where she's got to. I'll take you back to them, Maria."

  As they moved away the girl was speaking rapidly and vivaciously in Portuguese. In the shadows she slipped a

  hand into his arm. In no time at all, Austin had returned, ruefully shaking his head.

  "Maria frightens me, she's so reckless, and Portuguese parents won't stand for that kind of thing. Her mother's a dragon, and her father has already given me to understand that his future son-in-law must have money."

  "Poor Austin. I like her. Is she the present flame flower?"

  "She's awfully sweet," he admitted, "but one doesn't fool with a girl of her class, and I can't afford to be serious about her."

  "But you do wish you could?"

  "I suppose so, though I'm not the sort to dwell upon impossibilities." His rugged features were veiled by cigarette smoke as he added, "To be candid, I often wish I'd never met her. You can't help feeling that way about something you want and can't have."

  Fenella's expression was gentle. "Rotten luck, Austin. It may not be entirely hopeless if she cares for you."

  "You don't know the Portuguese!"

  He had exclaimed emphatically yet without raising his voice. But neither he nor Fenella had been aware of Senhor Pereira's close proximity to their table at that moment—not till he said in cool, detached accents:

  "It is my opinion that you have even less knowledge of the Portuguese than Miss Harcourt, my friend. Otherwise you would not take the risk of leaving the camp without a European in charge."

  In the strange light Fenella could not be sure whether Austin coloured. Certainly his manner changed, and he stood up and thrust back his chair with unusual haste.

  "I didn't see you, senhor. Miguel was at the camp when I came away at five-thirty."

  "Miguel is here," said Carlos. "You knew that he had permission to attend this festa as a celebration of his wedding anniversary."