Dearest enemy

by Kathryn Blair

  He used the rough stone ashtray which stood between them on the veranda wall. "You have known Miss Harcourt a long time, Miss Brean?"

  "No. We sailed down from Mombasa together four months ago. I'd been with relatives in Kenya and grown tired of them. Fenella was so refreshingly different from the other passengers, who were inveterate tourists, that when we parted I promised to come here on my way home." She, also, got rid of ash from her cigarette. "Is it true, senhor, that a galleon lies submerged near the shore of Alimane?"

  Miss Brean, who seldom acted or spoke impulsively, could not afterwards have explained her own swift abandonment of the subject of Fenella. Her chief emotions at the time had been of loyalty to the girl and reluctance to discuss her, in however distant a manner, with Carlos Pereira.

  She listened to his clipped, foreign accents as he gave details of the ships which had been lost during voyages in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; a Pereira had sunk with one of them off the coast of India. She watched his face and those long-fingered, masterful hands . . . and she felt infinitely sorry for Fenella.

  About half an hour after they had entered the mission the two girls emerged. Antonie was smiling and Fenella, too, had a smile, though it was less spontaneous and more fixed than the other's. Carlos rose at once.

  "You have now seen our mission, Antonie, and I trust you have been observant. It is a tribute to modern pioneering, e nao?" The grey glance roved Fenella's features. "You find the midday heat somewhat trying, senhorita?"

  "No, senhor."

  "It seems to me you have lost colour."

  Fenella was silent. She sat in the vacant chair between Miss Brean and Antonie, while Carlos remained standing in a negligent posture against a pillar.

  "I have been telling Fenella that we are to have a ball next week," said Antonie. "She says she will not come." "I said cannot," Fenella inserted quickly.

  "So?" The monosyllable from Carlos was longdrawn and thoughtful. "That is unfortunate. Perhaps this standing engagement for Sunday lunch has changed itself to Friday night. It is so, Fenella?"

  "It is not senhor," came the stubborn response.

  "In that case," he said coolly, "we may change your

  mind. I hope Miss Brean will accept our invitation?" "With great pleasure, senhor."

  "That is good. But I should be glad if you would come before then, so that I may show you my Goncalves, and a number of very fine plaques which were executed by one of my family many years ago; they are unique. I will send a car for you both on Monday morning." He looked with mocking enquiry at Fenella. "That will suit you?"'

  "I think so," she said.

  "Very well. We will all meet again on Monday " He straightened. "Come, Antonie. Have you forgotten that we are yachting this weekend?"

  The parting was friendly. Miss Brean's absorbed gaze followed the two figures. She saw Carlos put Antonie into the front seat of the blue car and go round to the driver's seat. She hoped, some time, to get a close-up of the ducal shield. As the saloon sped down the track she turned to Fenella, but whatever she had been about to observe died unspoken. Instead she said softly, and a little pensively:

  "If I were you I'd go to the ball. You may never have the chance of such an experience again."

  "I've only ordinary evening frocks. Antonie's gowns are dazzling." Fenella hesitated and added wryly, "Carlos knew I wouldn't go. He delights in taunting me."

  Miss Brean raised well-shaped eyebrows. Taunting indicated a certain intimacy, yet one did not associate a facile intimacy with Carlos Pereira. He was too aloof and inscrutable, too conscious of his position.

  The cousin appeared to possess everything a man of his kind could desire in a wife: breeding, fine looks and charm. But there was something about her which con-

  siderably antagonised Miss Brean. She would have to see more of the girl before deciding what it was.

  "I believe the senhor wants you to attend the ball," she said. "He may be using the ruthless approach as a method of persuading you."

  "He knows me better than that," said Fenella.

  A statement which Miss Brean found enlightening. She sat musing for a while, and Fenella was equally quiet. Activity inside the mission petered out, as it always did about noon on Saturday, and presently the two got up and sauntered back to the house.

  They were not alone again till Fenella got' into her pyjamas that night. They had spent the afternoon driving about the plantations with the doctor in Miss Brean's car—the doctor had taken the wheel and congratulated Miss Brean on her common sense and good taste in the choice of a hardy automobile—and later had attended a private film show in the home of the Seixas family, which was followed by nightcaps and an exchange of impressions in the lounge.

  Fenella, getting into the dressing-gown and tieing the girdle, was somewhat startled by Miss Brean's entry and a sudden, irrelevant query:

  "The Senhor Frankland that girl mentioned—is it Austin Frankland?"

  "Why, yes. Do you know him?"

  "Only be reputation—a rather muddy one. He may not even be the same man, though I don't suppose there are many Austin Franklands distributed over the face of Africa. Did he once farm in Kenya?"

  "Yes, he had a short spell at it. The farm failed and he came south."

  "So the farm failed?" Miss Brean surveyed the slight young figure before her and leaned back in a wicker chair "The senhor's cousin implied some sort of a link between you and Frankland."

  "He's English and so are we. He comes here at the weekend for a meal "

  "Is he the standing engagement for Sunday lunch?" asked Miss Brean shrewdly.

  Fenella nodded. "He'll be here tomorrow."

  "What is it about Frankland that irritates the senhor?"

  Apparently Miss Brean had determined not to be put off by reticence. Fenella lowered herself to the foot of the bed and briefly explained Austin's position on the plantation and in the town.

  "It's a point of honour with Carlos that he won't dismiss Austin, or he would have done so long ago." A little bitterly she added, "It would have saved a tremendous amount of heartache if he had."

  "Saved whom?" came the instant demand.

  Fenella said offhandedly. "There's a Portuguese girl who's hopelessly in love with Austin—you may meet her tomorrow, too. I can't tell you anymore because I've given my word, but you'd have guessed that much." She stood up and moved towards the door. "Muddles usually straighten out, though honestly I don't see how this one can."

  They said good night and Fenella went out, but Miss Brean did not at once set about preparing for bed. Now that she had given herself time, she recalled perfectly the circumstances in which she had first heard of Austin Frankland. There was nothing diabolical about the man; he was merely well-favoured in looks and less provided for in the way of character.

  Fenella, poor child, was in the thick of a nasty mess, quite how nasty Miss Brean was not yet in a position to calculate. But when at last she bent to unstrap her very neat brown cut-away shoes and dip her toes into mules, her small bright face had an almost benign expression. If Austin Frankland was a subsidiary cause of Fenella's unhappiness . . . well, such men were not impossible to handle—not to a woman of Miss Brean's experience.

  Austin came first that Sunday, and Fenella detected at once that for him Miss Brean was a welcome addition to the luncheon gathering. Maria, who was late, showed less pleasure in what appeared a crowded dining-room. Her eyes questioned Austin and were reassured with a smile, and soon she was radiant again and eating her usual prodigious helping of dressed salad with several slices of cold meats.

  The meal ended and Dr. Harcourt excused himself The other four relaxed in the lounge; Maria was quiet and watchful, Fenella conventional, and Austin behaved with his customary ease. Miss Brean nudged into her chair with an air of pure enjoyment. She put on a cigarette and contemplated Maria through a thin veil of smoke.

  "I love your country, senhorita—its heavenly warmth and brightness and intoxicating p
erfumes. From the bottom of my heart I envy you who have roots in its rich soil."

  "There are other agreeable countries, senhora," said Maria stiffly.

  "Quite true, but they are not all Portuguese. Mozambique is impregnated with your nationality and your delightful mode of existence."

  Maria's face darkened. "Mozambique is a savage, hot country. The towns are tiny, the roads are bad, and the land is peopled with Africans."

  "Much of that can be said about the rest of Africa," Miss Brean commented reasonably. "Nyasaland, for instance, Uganda and Kenya."

  "The farms in Kenya," recited Maria, "are on the mountain side. One has a log fire at night; one does not perspire within mosquito screens."

  Miss Brean quelled a smile. "Who has been talking to you about Kenya?"

  Fenella glanced hastily from one to the other. Then she looked over at Austin, who was interestedly inspecting the tip of his cigarette. He was taking rather well this invasion of his private dealings with Maria.

  "Austin has described to me his farm on the slopes above Nairobi where he had cattle and grew some coffee," the girl was saying. "The climate was drier than this and there was much with which to occupy oneself in the city—hotels, big shops and cinemas. A woman there is not constantly at the mercy of her parents."

  "More's the pity in some cases," Miss Brean submitted, though without emphasis. Her attention now switched to Austin. "I have several friends in Nairobi, among them the Wrights . . . and the Bainbridges."

  Slowly, Austin uncrossed his legs. He moistened his lips and made a complication of lighting a fresh cigarette.

  His first match snapped in two and he struck a second. "I've heard of them," he said.

  "I thought you might have. Everyone knows everyone else in such places. Laura Bainbridge was an impressionable little thing," she went on, as if reminiscing. "Her only real trouble was in marrying too young. She made an ass of herself with some good-looking bounder and for a time she was separated from her husband. However, he's a sound man, and now they're together again, with Laura a wiser and more sober woman." She shook her head as if exasperated. "Infatuation in either sex always irritates me profoundly; I wouldn't have the least scruple in exposing an affair of that sort, if it were likely to do any good."

  Maria was the only one who had little notion of what Miss Brean was getting at. She sat looking perplexed and rather bored, obviously waiting for Fenella and Miss Brean to leave her with Austin.

  Austin himself squashed out the new cigarette and assumed an uneasy smile. He did not avoid Miss Brean's eyes; in fact he met them with a peculiar slant in his own. Perhaps he was tacitly saying, "You win."

  That was how it struck Fenella. The moment Miss Brean had slipped in a reference to Kenya, Fenella's nerves had begun to tingle. Though she had no idea what was in the woman's mind, she had divined instinctively that a delicate attack was being launched at Austin. The coup de grace had happened smoothly and with breathless speed.

  A cautious relief lightened her heart. Could this mean the lifting of the anxiety which had haunted her for the past fortnight? Would Austin realise that if he stayed on the Machada estate it would have to be as Maria's husband? For he could be in no doubt that Miss Brean would be as strict as her word. Indecision on his part would bring about the exposure of an incident in his past which undoubtedly he would prefer to forget.

  Conversationally, Miss Brean said, "Four can squeeze into the coupe. Shall we go for a short drive?"

  Maria's response was polite but firm. "Thank you, but no, senhora. I have to remain here till our car arrives to take me home."

  "I'll stay with Maria," Austin said, without enthusiasm.

  "Just us, then, Fenella." Miss Brean stood up smartly and brushed ash from her beige linen skirt. "You two won't feel neglected, will you?"

  Fenella allowed herself to be borne along on the tide of the little woman's zeal. She smiled lightly at Austin and Maria and followed Miss Brean to where the coupe was parked in the shade of a wide flamboyant.

  The subtle silence lasted till they had emerged from the mission track and reached the tarred road. Miss Brean ended it with a laugh.

  "Poor Austin Frankland. His sort always avoid devastating decisions—but he's forced to make one now. If his job on the plantation is so good, I suppose he'll marry the girl rather than give it up. There's a chance that those stern parents of hers may induce him to settle down and become a passably successful husband. The girl is gullible; he never had the least intention of taking her to Kenya."

  Miss Brean's intervention had helped to clear the air, but there was an important complication of which she was ignorant: Maria's fiance.

  "Supposing," Fenella said carefully, "that Austin will not marry Maria. He may simply break off their relationship, and if he does—what about her?"

  "My guess is that she'll go into a decline—for about a week. After that she'll blithely marry any man her father selects and develop into a normal housewife and mother. She's not the long-suffering sort."

  Which was a comforting thought, particularly as Miss Brean had come near the truth in setting out her conclusion.

  The car sped on between the coconut plantations towards Alimane. Fenella did not question distance or direction. For today, Miss Brean was ably in command.

  They walked along the white promenade and watched the sails on the lagoon and the few bathers spread out along the creamy lip of the sea. The sky deepened and the white sea birds were homing to the rocks, their cries faint on the breeze. Presently, they found a wine table beneath a palm. Daylight bronzed, and they witnessed the fleeting miracle which could never be so breath-taking anywhere else, of fast-encroaching night spangled with gold dust.

  "When I told Maria that I envied her having roots in this country I wasn't romancing," said Miss Brean with a luxurious sigh and a lazy gesture. "There's a lot in favour of living in a more temperate climate, but this land certainly has something the others haven't got."

  Carlos, for instance, murmured Fenella's treacherous heart.

  It was nearly seven when they returned to the mission. After expressing a mild amazement that they should have gone off to Alimane without first determining whether he would care to accompany them, Dr. Harcourt answered Fenella's enquiry. Only Austin had been in the lounge when he had come from his rest. The fellow had indicated a note he had left for Fenella on the writing-desk and cleared off before he could be offered tea or a sundowner. Peculiar behaviour, but maybe the man had been huffed at their going off without him.

  Fenella and Miss Brean exchanged glances. Fenella pocketed the note and went away to wash.

  Austin had written only three lines:

  "I shall not be along next week, nor will Maria. Don't believe all Miss Brean tells you. I was never as bad as that."

  No explanation of how things had been left between himself and Maria, but Fenella had hardly expected one. That he had undertaken not to use the house for further meetings took a weight from her spirit, and she felt a surge of thankfulness for Miss Brean.

  Together, that night, they agreed to do nothing unless Maria begged for further assistance. Fenella was certain, though, that the girl would hesitate to visit the mission while Miss Brean was about.

  She slipped into her bed on the veranda and drew up the blanket. With arms pillowed under her head she lay staring at the veranda ceiling of thin, white-painted boarding, but her thoughts did not drift over the events of the day. Those had. receded into insignificance before the acid-sweet expectancy of tomorrow, when she would see Carlos.

  The car swept up to the mission soon after nine next morning. Both women were ready, Miss Brean trim in pale-blue linen and Fenella in flowered silk. Fenella was making tremendous use of all the self-control at her command. Desperately though she longed for the nearness of Carlos, she remembered to remind herself frequently that today she was invited merely as a companion to Miss Brean.

  The air, as the car followed the road which skirted the town, was wine-w
arm and fragrant. Miss Brean sat smiling appreciatively. She commented on the trees and the fact that the car had dipped and was climbing again. She sank into the rich upholstery like a nice, voluptuous cat. When they reached the great wrought-iron gates of the Quinta, she peered up at the cupolas and nodded pleasantly to the magenta-clad porter. Upon the elaborate face of the Quinta itself her gaze rested with satisfaction and eagerness. Her lack of surprise at the palatial entrance with its surround of Moorish tiles and flanking azulejos drew a remark from Fenella.

  "Having met the Senhor Pereira, I expected something like this," Miss Brean said. "It's splendidly feudal, of course, but so is he. This place is his only possible background. Look! Here he comes."

  The car curved over the mosaic courtyard and by the time it stopped Carlos was there to help them out.

  "Ah, Miss Brean. I was afraid I had sent the car too soon. Even Antonie has not yet shown herself this morning, though our sweet Tia is already at her sewing." His smile passed on. "I hope you are rested, Fenella?"

  Unsure what lay behind the question, Fenella replied with a guarded, "Yes, thank you, senhor."

  "Good."

  He mounted the steps between them and urbanely guided them round the terrace to where Tia Supervia sat working at an embroidery frame. The woman acknowledged the introduction with her gentle smile, and invitingly patted the arm of the chair beside her.

  "Please to make yourself at ease, Miss Brean. You will find I speak English not so very good, but I compre-

  hend all that is said. And how are you, Fenella? It is many days since you come to paint and swim with Antonie."

  Tia Supervia raised her thin cheek and, as on one or two previous occasions, Fenella bent and kissed it. 'This morning the act of courtesy seemed somehow farcical.

  Carlos said, "I have a small business to conduct with Fenella. You will pardon us?"