by Wilbur Smith
‘Nanny is a little tell-tale – and a fibber.’
‘What’s going on, young lady?’
‘I’m over twenty-one years of age, Pater darling, and it was part of our agreement that I don’t have to account to you for my private life.’
‘It was also part of our agreement that you show your face at my receptions once in a while.’
‘Cheer up, Papa.’ She kissed him. ‘We’ll be going back to Cape Town in a few months’ time. Then you won’t have to fret about me any longer.’
However, that evening she asked Ramón if he wouldn’t come to a cocktail-party that Shasa was holding at the embassy in Trafalgar Square to welcome the celebrated South African author Alan Paton to London.
Ramón thought about it carefully for a full minute before he shook his head. ‘It is not the right time to meet your father yet.’
‘Why not, darling?’ Up to that moment, it had not been important to her, but now his refusal piqued her.
‘There are reasons.’ He was often so damnably mysterious. She wanted to draw him out, but she knew she was wasting her time. He was the only man she had ever met who could resist her. There was a lining of steel beneath that beautiful façade.
‘Therein lies much of his appeal,’ she laughed at herself ruefully. It was not that she wanted to share him with any other person, not even her father. She was more than content to be entirely alone with him; their love was so totally engrossing that they avoided other people.
True, they occasionally dined at Les A or the White Elephant with Harriet or some of the myriad other acquaintances that Isabella had made over the past three years. Once or twice they went on with the party to dance at Annabel’s, but mostly they sneaked away from the others to be alone. Ramón did not seem to have friends of his own or, if he did, he never invited her to meet them. It troubled her not at all.
On the weekends when she could wriggle out of the official ambassadorial arrangements, she and Ramón threw their overnight bags and tennis-rackets into the back of the Mini-Cooper and escaped into the country. They were usually very late back to town on Sunday night.
At the beginning of August, they departed from their solitary habits and caught the train up to Scotland. On the opening day of the grouse season, they were Harriet Beauchamp’s guests on the moors of the family estate. The earl was a stickler for correct form, and the ladies were not invited to shoot on the opening day. They were, however, allowed to pick up or join the line of beaters. The earl wasn’t very keen on foreigners, either, especially those who shot ‘under and over’ rather than ‘side by side’ and who favoured Italian guns over English.
On the first drive, he placed Ramón out on the end of the line. Unexpectedly three coveys came through on the right, sliding low over the tops of the heather, going like furies on a thirty-mile-an-hour tail-wind. Isabella was loading for Ramón. He killed four birds from each covey. He took a double out in front. Then as the covey swept overhead Isabella passed him the second gun. With it he took another double behind the line of butts. Twelve birds with twelve shots fired. Even the head keeper shook his grizzled old head. ‘In thirty-three seasons, I’ve no’ seen the likes,’ he told the earl lugubriously. ‘He kills his bird like de Grey or Walsingham – dead in the air with nary a flutter.’ High praise to be compared to the best shots in English history.
The earl promptly abrogated custom, and on the second drive, Ramón found himself in one of the favoured butts in the centre of the line. At the long dinner-table that evening, he was elevated to within conversational range of the earl who addressed most of his remarks to him over the heads of the bishop and the baronet between them. The weekend was off to a great start. Harriet had arranged for Ramón and Isabella to occupy adjoining rooms at the furthest end of the huge rambling old country house.
‘Papa suffers from insomnia,’ she explained. ‘And you and Ramón in action sound like the Berlin Philharmonic performing Ravel’s “Bolero”.’
‘You vulgar little slut,’ Isabella protested.
‘Talking of sluts, lovey. Have you sprung your little surprise on Ramón yet?’ Harriet asked sweetly.
‘I’m waiting for the right moment.’ Isabella was immediately defensive.
‘In my vast experience, there ain’t no right moment for that sort of news.’
Harriet was right for once. No opportunity presented itself that weekend. They were halfway back to London when Isabella abandoned any further attempt at subtlety. Fortunately, they had the first-class compartment to themselves.
‘Darling, I went to see a doctor last Wednesday – not the embassy doctor, but a new one that Harriet recommended. He did a test, and we got the result on Friday . . .’ She paused and watched his expression. There was no change; he regarded her with that remote green gaze, and she felt a sudden illogical dread. Surely nothing could tarnish their feelings for each other, nothing could spoil the perfection of their love, and yet she sensed a wariness in him, a spiritual drawing away from her. She found herself blurting it out in a rush.
‘I’m almost two months pregnant. It must have been in Spain, probably that day in Granada, after the bullfight . . .’ She felt breathless and shaky, and she hurried on. ‘I just can’t explain it. I mean, I’ve been taking the Pill religiously, I swear it, you’ve seen me . . .’ She realized that she was beginning to gabble out her explanations in an undignified and uncontrolled rush. ‘I know I’ve been an awful chump, darling, but you don’t have to worry. It’s all in hand. Harriet also made a little slip last year. She went to see a doctor in Amsterdam; he took care of it with absolutely no muss and no fuss. She caught the evening flight on a Friday and was back in London on Sunday – as good as new. She’s given me the address, and she’s even offered to come with me to hold my hand—’
‘Isabella!’ he cut in sharply. ‘Stop it. Stop talking. Listen to me!’ And she broke off and stared at him fearfully.
‘You don’t know what you are saying.’ His voice cut her cruelly. ‘What you suggest is monstrous!’
‘I’m sorry, Ramón.’ She was confused. ‘I shouldn’t have bothered you with it. Harriet and I could have . . .’
‘Harriet is a shallow asinine little tramp. When you place the life of my child in her hands, then you make yourself every bit as culpable as she is.’
Isabella stared at him. This was not what she had expected from him at all.
‘This is a miracle, Isabella, the greatest miracle and mystery of the universe. You talk of destroying it. This is our child, Isabella. This is life, new beautiful life, that you and I have created in love. Don’t you understand that?’
He leant across and took her hands, and she saw the coldness of his eyes fade. ‘This is something that we have made together, our own wondrous creation. It belongs to both of us, to our love.’
‘You aren’t angry?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I thought you would be angry.’
‘I am proud and humble,’ he whispered. ‘I love you. You are infinitely precious to me.’ He turned her hands, holding them by the wrists, and laid them on her own stomach. ‘I love what you have here; it also is infinitely precious to me.’ He had said it at last. ‘I love you,’ he had said.
‘Oh, Ramón,’ her vision blurred, ‘you are so wonderful, so tender, so kind. The true miracle is that I was ever able to meet somebody like you.’
‘You will give birth to our child, my darling Bella.’
‘Oh, yes! Oh, a thousand times yes, my darling. You have made me so proud, so happy.’ All her uncertainty was gone, replaced by an excitement and anticipation that seemed to drive all else into insignificance.
This euphoria buoyed her up over the days that followed. It laid a new rich texture on her love for Ramón; something that up until that time had been engrossing but random now had direction and purpose. A dozen times she had been on the point of telling Nanny, and had only succeeded in preventing herself when she realized that the old woman’s excitement would be so uncontained that the entire em
bassy, including her father, would know of the coming event within twenty-four hours. This brought her at last to sober consideration of the prosaic details that had to be arranged. She was already over two months, and Nanny had an eagle eye and an earthy instinct. At home on the family estate of Weltevreden she called the shots on the maids and house-servants and field-girls with an uncanny accuracy. Nanny bathed her when she was at home, and the only surprise was that she hadn’t already latched on to Isabella’s change of condition.
That evening Ramón had tickets for the Festival of Flamenco at Drury Lane, but she rang him at his private number at the bank.
‘Ramón darling, I don’t feel like going out tonight. I just want to be alone with you. I’ll cook dinner. I’ll have it ready by the time you get back to the flat, and we can listen to the new von Karajan disc.’
She could hear the reluctance in his voice. He had been looking forward to the flamenco dancing all week. He was so aggressively Spanish at times. He had even insisted that she begin learning the language, and had given her a set of Linguaphone records. However, she wheedled him shamelessly, and finally he succumbed.
On the way from the embassy to the flat, Isabella double-parked the Mini and picked up a bottle of Pol Roger and another of Montrachet from her father’s private bin at Berry Brothers, the wine merchants in St James’s Street. Then in the food-hall at Harrods she selected two dozen Whitstable oysters and a pair of perfect veal cutlets.
She was watching from the front window as Ramón turned the corner and came striding down the pavement towards the front door. He looked so English in his three-piece suit. While in London, he even carried a rolled black brolly and sported a bowler, the epitome of the young merchant banker. It was a peculiar gift he had of fitting perfectly into any environment, no matter how diverse, as though he were born to it.
She opened the champagne and as soon as she heard his key in the front door she poured their glasses and placed them beside the silver tray of crushed ice on which she had arranged the open oysters. She restrained herself from rushing wildly through into the tiny hall and instead met him as he came into the living-room. Then her restraint faded and her kiss was long and melting.
‘Special occasion?’ he asked, with his arm still around her waist, as he saw the tray of oysters and the two long-stemmed tulip glasses softly seething with the yellow wine. She went to fetch a glass and placed it in his hand, and then she looked at him over the rim of her own glass.
‘Welcome home, Ramón. I wanted to give you just a little taste of what it’s going to be like when you are married to me.’
She saw his eyes flinch; it was more poignant in that she had never seen it happen before. His gaze was always level and steady.
He did not taste the wine and set his glass aside, and she felt an awful premonition of disaster.
‘Ramón, what is it?’ she asked.
Before she could drink, he took the champagne-glass from her hand and placed it upon the walnut table.
‘Bella.’ He turned back to face her, and took her hands in his. ‘Bella,’ he said again, softly, with deep regret, and he turned her hands and kissed the open palms.
‘What is it, Ramón?’ She could barely draw breath, so tight was her chest with dread.
‘I can’t marry you, my darling.’ She stared at him, and felt her legs tremble and go weak with the shock. ‘I can’t marry you, at least not yet, my darling.’
She drew her hands out of his grasp and turned away from him. She went slowly to the armchair and sank into it.
‘Why?’ she asked softly, without looking at him as he came and knelt in front of her. ‘You want me to bear your child, then why can’t you marry me?’
‘Bella, there is nothing I want more in this life than to have you as my wife, and to be father of our child, but . . .’
‘Then, why?’ she repeated almost listlessly.
‘Please listen to me, my darling. Don’t say anything more until you have heard me out.’
Now she lifted her eyes and looked at his face, but she was very pale.
‘Nine years ago, I married a Cuban girl in Miami.’
Isabella shuddered, and closed her eyes.
‘The marriage was a disaster from the very beginning. We spent only a few months together before we parted, but we are both Catholics . . .’ He broke off, and touched her pale cheek. She pulled back from his caress, and he sighed softly.
‘I’m still married to her,’ he said simply.
‘What is her name?’ Isabella asked without opening her eyes.
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Tell me.’ Her voice firmed.
‘Natalie.’ He shrugged.
‘Children?’ she asked. ‘How many children do you have?’
‘None,’ he replied. ‘You will be the mother of my firstborn.’ And he watched the petals of rose return to her cheeks. After a moment she opened her eyes again, but they were shadowed with such despair that the blue had turned to black.
‘Oh, Ramón! What are we going to do?’
‘I have already begun to do all I can,’ he told her. ‘When we returned from Spain, I knew then, even before you told me about the baby, I knew that above all else in my life I must have you as my wife.’
‘Oh, Ramón.’ She blinked hard, and tightened her grip on his hands.
‘Natalie is still living in Miami, with her family. I was able to contact her. We spoke on the telephone, more than once. She is very devout. There is nothing, she said, that would persuade her to divorce me.’
Isabella was staring at him hard, and now she shook her head miserably.
‘I called her again, on three consecutive evenings. At last, we found something that was more important to her than her God and her confessor.’
‘What was that?’
‘Money,’ he said, with a shade of contempt in his voice. ‘I still have most of the winnings from the pigeon shoot. For fifty thousand dollars, she finally agreed to move to Reno and file for divorce.’
‘Darling!’ Isabella whispered, joy blooming in her eyes again. ‘Oh, thank God! When? When will she go?’
‘That is the catch. It takes time. I can’t push her too hard. I know Natalie. If she found out about you, and guessed why I wanted the divorce, she would exploit her advantage to the utmost. She promised to leave for Reno at the beginning of next month. She says that she has her job and her family to consider. Her mother is not well.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Isabella cut in impatiently. ‘But how long will it take?’
‘There is provision in the Nevada state laws for the period of residency in Reno. Three months before they will grant the divorce.’
‘I’ll be six months gone by then.’ Isabella bit her knuckles, then her expression changed. ‘And Daddy and I are booked to leave for Cape Town. Oh, Ramón, what a mess!’
‘You can’t go back to Cape Town,’ Ramón told her flatly. ‘I couldn’t live without you and, besides, your pregnancy will be obvious to all your family and friends.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Stay with me until my divorce is final. I love you too much to let you go. I don’t want to miss a day of my son’s life.’
She smiled at last. ‘So it’s definitely a son, is it?’
‘Of course.’ He nodded with mock gravity. ‘We must have an heir to the title, must we not? You will stay with me, won’t you, Bella?’
‘What will I tell my father, and my grandmother? Papa is a pushover, but my grandmother . . .!’ Isabella rolled her eyes. ‘Centaine Courtney-Malcomess is the family dragon. She actually breathes fire and crunches up the bones of her victims.’
‘I will tame your dragon,’ he promised.
‘I truly believe that you might.’ Isabella felt gay and light-headed with relief. ‘If anyone can charm Nana, it would be you, my darling.’
The fact that Centaine Courtney-Malcomess was six thousand miles away did make the task a little easier. Isabella prepared the gro
und with great care. She worked on her father first. Overnight she became once more the dutiful daughter and consummate hostess. She plunged headlong and with all her previous panache into organizing the final few weeks of social engagements that marked the end of Shasa Courtney’s ambassadorial term.
‘Welcome back from wherever it was you disappeared to,’ Shasa told her drily at the end of one of her more successful dinner parties. ‘I missed you, you know.’
They were standing arm-in-arm on the front steps of Highveld, watching the limousine pull away, bearing the last departing guest.
‘One o’clock in the morning.’ Shasa glanced at his wrist-watch, but Isabella forestalled him.
‘Too early for bed.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Let me fix a nightcap and a final cigar for you. We haven’t had a chance to talk all evening.’
That afternoon Davidoffs had delivered a dozen of his cigars from the stock they kept for him in their specially humidified storage in St James’s. She held one to her ear as she rolled it between her fingers.
‘Perfect,’ she murmured.
Shasa lolled in the buttoned-leather armchair across the room. Earlier the company had done full justice to the claret and the port, but his single eye was still clear and bright. The black silk patch over the other eye was as pristine as the perfectly constructed bow at the throat of his snowy shirt-front.
He watched her with undiluted pleasure, as though she were a blood filly from his stables or the gem of his art collection. She was the most beautiful of all the Courtneys, he arrived at that considered verdict.
In her youth his own mother had been a celebrated beauty. The years had dimmed Shasa’s memory of the zenith of her beauty, but there was a portrait of her in her prime by Annigoni in the drawing-room of Weltevreden. Even allowing for the artist’s kindly eye, she must have been an extraordinary woman. The force of her character shone out of the portrait’s dark eyes. She was still, at sixty-nine years of age, a magnificent woman, handsome and vigorous, but at no time in her life could she have equalled her granddaughter who now stood in the bright noonday of her youth.