Perchance to Marry (8 page)

“It takes time to know a man like Marcus,” she said, “but I’m sure he’s not the sort to like any outward show of affection.”

“Don’t be silly. He was human enough to stake a claim on you within two or three weeks of meeting you, and if he’s holding back it’s for your sake, not his. A man of his age is bound to have had affairs, and perhaps you feel awfully young and untried. But you’re a nurse, darling, and nurses know everything. If I were you...”

“But you’re not, are you? I don’t even have a little of your temperament—so I have to go about this in my own way.”

“Well, it’s not a very sensible way, darling. Marcus is very masculine, and if you’re too embarrassed to show your feelings he’ll start getting unmanageable—and I can imagine nothing more devastating than a man like Marcus who has got out of hand! As a matter of fact,” she ended with soft insistence, “he’s already a little impatient with you, and I can guess why. That darting into the back seat of the car and running ahead up the steps, and clutching the letter from the pianist boy ... all those actions are typical of the way you’re behaving with your own fiancé. It’s quite unnatural and not like you at all.”

Sally’s tones hardened a little. “Getting engaged is not like me, either. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake.”

“Don’t say that!” Viola had stopped dabbing at her forehead with the stopper of the eau de cologne bottle. Her smile had gone and her blue eyes looked frightened. “Don’t ever say that again, Sally. We’re depending on Marcus now—he’s all we have.”

Sally turned to the door. Her throat felt raw, but she answered casually, “He told you that you can count on him; that’s all the assurance you need. Have a nice sleep.”

Sally went into her own room and stood for a moment near the foot of the bed, looking out across the balcony at the archway full of blue sky trimmed at the edges with the green tips of the trees. Then, slowly, she opened the letter from Peter Mailing. But there was nothing in it to dispel the depression. He had written it on his first day in Spain, when she had been on her way from Malaga to Barcelona, and so much had happened since then that Peter himself had become cloudy and unreal.

She walked out into the balcony and sat down, leant her head back against the wall and tried to recapture some of the sweetness of her talks with Peter, the dreamy rapture of listening to the music he made. Strangely, she could only see them objectively, herself and Peter. Herself bemused by the speeding waves, luxurious idleness and the first light touch of love; and Peter, absorbed with his own emotions and opportunities and trying for all he was worth to appear sophisticated and bohemian; both of them rather pathetic viewed from the stark reality of the present.

Deliberately, she shredded the letter. Unless he heard from her he wouldn’t write again; he was too selfish as well as too sensitive to risk a rebuff. In any case, he had written quickly, while still under the spell of the Mediterranean; by now it would have worn off and someone else would be listening with flattering intensity to his words and music.

A small cloud passed over the sun and she realized it was cooler. She got up and tossed the fragments of paper into the decorative white waste-box, got into flat shoes and went into the corridor. After a second’s hesitation she walked quietly down the stairs and into the rather cosy little morning room. From the window, she made sure that the courtyard was empty; she could go out the front way. It was as she turned from the window that she caught sight of a piece of paper which a breeze must have wafted to the far corner, under the rather large writing desk. Automatically she crossed the room and bent to retrieve it, and almost, as she straightened, she crushed it into a ball. Then she realized that it wasn’t merely a scrap accidentally torn from a newspaper; it was a cutting which had been attached to something else, for the corner was ragged where it had become detached.

She read, unthinkingly; read again and felt chilled. It was about a play which had been booked to run for six weeks in New York, and a paragraph which had been marked with a tiny red cross said: “Nadine Carmody gives a good rounded performance as the judge’s naughty daughter. A pity that this play has to go on tour before she made the impact she deserves.”

That was all, really. Sally turned the clipping and saw that a date and the name of the newspaper had been penned on the back of it. And instinctively she knew that it had been pinned to a letter which Marcus had read in this room only a short while ago; the letter she had seen him push into his pocket.

She slipped the cutting just under the edge of the blotter so that part of it was visible, and went through the hall to the courtyard. After staring across at the hills for a few minutes she went down into the garden and strolled. Her head was aching a little and misery seemed to have settled like a ball of lead just below the base of her throat. Though heaven knew why a few printed words should make her feel benighted. She had known of Nadine Carmody’s existence and might have guessed that a few words of praise in an American newspaper would certainly find their way to Las Vinas. What she hadn’t bargained for was her own sudden disquiet. Or was disquiet too mild a word? Could she possibly be ... jealous?

No, that was absurd. Her feeling was a natural revulsion from her own situation. Nadine Carmody should have been here at Las Vinas, wearing the sapphire, getting to know Dona Inez, talking of wedding plans, and being made love to by Marcus. But Nadine had been too dazzled by her own minor success in the theatre to contemplate settling on San Palos in comparative obscurity. And events had conspired to place Sally Sheppard in Nadine’s place; so there was no talk of wedding plans, no lovemaking—only an insidious growing hostility within her towards Marcus; which Sally couldn’t understand.

Looked at sanely, her position was quite clear and simple. In return for being delivered from the horror of finding herself and her mother adrift in Barcelona, and the relief of finding sanctuary at Las Vinas with the promise of posts on the island, Sally was providing the old
senora
with a new and sparkling reason for living. What she had to cling to was the fact that she was doing nothing for Marcus himself. As he. had pointed out, when the time came for ending the engagement it would be she who would emerge triumphant, not he. The whole thing was uncomfortable, and it spoiled any chance they might have had of becoming normal and tranquil friends, but there was no doubt of its beneficial effect upon Dona Inez. So what had Sally Sheppard to grouse about?

Was she falling a little for Marcus? Perhaps, but it was only because she had nothing to do. And anyway, she felt more at peace with boys like Peter or men like Carlos Suarez. Marcus made her too aware of herself and her youth, and there was nothing to bind them. The most astonishing thing was other people’s acceptance of the engagement.

Sally lay down under her favorite tree and dozed, and presently the headache receded and her usual composure returned. She sauntered back to the house, walked carelessly into the morning room and noticed that the newspaper dipping had gone. Perhaps he would sleep with it under his pillow tonight. She hoped it would give him nightmares.

* * *

It was not till next morning that Sally met the new house-guest, Josef Carvallo. He had arrived during the previous evening and gone straight to his room, and though mention had been made of him at dinner, there seemed to be no question of asking him to join the guests. When Sally saw him after breakfast next morning, she knew why. Josef, with a heavy white bandage about his head and a thick dressing gown belted about his slim frame, looked quite ill. He sat outdoors with a glass of orange juice on the table beside him, and talked to Marcus, who appeared to have been up for hours. Sally had been going to wave vaguely to them and go down the steps, but Marcus called her and came to meet her, took her arm and led her towards Josef Carvallo. Before an introduction could be made Josef said breezily,

“
Buenos dias senorita
! You are well this morning?” He gave Marcus a broad wink. “But you are lucky, Marcus. She is fresh as a rose. And I am eternally in her debt for what she has done for me. Even one more day in that nursing home would have sent me mad. Many thanks,
senorita
.”

“I did nothing for you, nothing at all,” she stated quickly.

Marcus slanted a keen glance from one to the other. “Have you two met?”

She nodded. “Yes, when I toured with Carlos. Senor Carvallo asked me to tell you about his plight, but I didn’t have to. You’d already heard.”

“Why didn’t you say you’d met Josef?”

Josef laughed. “He is not so sure of himself as he used to be—this Marcus. It seems that also he is not sure of you,
senorita
. Yet look at me. In this condition am I attractive to any woman, let alone to one as pretty as you?”

With a sardonic smile Marcus said, “You’re well aware of your chief attraction at the moment—that bandage is worth more than gold. Keep it, if you want to, but don’t go in to see Dona Inez till you’re decently dressed and the bandage is discarded.”

“And you promise that we shall have no serious discussions till I am quite recovered?”

“Yes, but I’ll take Carlos’ word for your condition, not yours.”

Josef shrugged dejectedly. “You are a hard man, Marcus. One would have thought that being in love would have softened you—that you would have declared yourself willing to forget the past and begin again with me.
Senorita,
will you not plead with him for me?”

“Don’t you already have what you wanted?” she asked lightly. “You’re here at Las Vinas, and Marcus has said he’ll postpone discussions—whatever that may mean—till you’re quite fit. What more is there?”

“With Josef,” said Marcus, “there’s always more. He probably has a new scheme for getting rich quick.”

“It is an old scheme, and it would not make me rich—only satisfied.”

“Really?” In spite of Marcus’s cynical presence, Sally was interested. “What is it?”

“Ceramics,” was the reply. “I wish to start my own small factory on San Palos.”

“Oh.” She looked uncertainly at Marcus, saw that he was unimpressed. “Would it make much money?”

“No, but it would take a good deal of staying power,” Marcus commented.

“What sort of ceramics?” she asked Josef.

“Tiles, vases, ornaments, even brooches and earrings.”

“But isn’t the market overloaded with that kind of thing?”

“Not with
my
designs,” Josef said, spreading his hands. “Even Marcus will admit I am an original artist in ceramics.”

“Oh, sure,” said Marcus dismissively. “But you’re no business man. You’d better go in and lie down till Carlos comes. Sally and I are going to take a drive.”

“Are we?” she said. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. So long, Josef—keep the headgear clean.”

The younger man gave another pathetic little shrug that belied the twinkle in his eye. “You two have obviously not exchanged rings in the del Moscado tradition, so one may assume you are not officially engaged. If I were not under your roof, Marcus, I would try to charm your Sally away from you!”

“Why let my hospitality stop you?” said Marcus dryly. “See you later.”

Sally waved a hand to Josef and descended the curving stone staircase with Marcus. It was a brilliant morning and hardly any of her uncertainties had yet seeped back into her consciousness. She felt free and tenuously happy. Here she was, with a tall, fine-looking man at her side and an atmosphere that promised mild excitement all about her. What more could she want?

They drove out on to the road, but instead of turning right, towards Naval Town, he took the left and they climbed a long hill from which, looking back, Sally could see the sloping acres of Las Vinas, with the old house roughly central among the trees.

“Did you live here as a boy?” she asked him.

“I didn’t leave the island at all till I was nine. I had a tutor, and he took me to school in England. For the next ten years or so I flew home only for holidays, and then my father died and I had to take over here.”

“And since then there’s been only you and Dona Inez at Las Vinas?”

He nodded. “She was active until a couple of years ago, and we entertained on a big scale. There were always house-guests from Majorca or Spain, and when celebrities came cruising through the Mediterranean they invariably put in at San Palos and my grandmother made them an excuse for a function of some sort. We had a whole film company here once.”

“What did she make of them?”

He gave her a smile and turned his attention back to the winding road. “She loved them. She always used to say that though she never left the island she was cosmopolitan—she brought the world here. At one time she used to make the headlines, even in England; at some time, or other she’s been hostess to every notability who’s come this way.”

“She looks it,” said Sally. “She’s a vital person, even now. What does Carlos really thing about her health?”

His smile faded. “He thinks she’ll live for as long as she’s determined to do so. He put it very bluntly—want to hear it?”

Sally wasn’t sure, but she had to say, “Of course. I have quite a personal feeling about Dona Inez.”

“Well, Carlos said it’s up to me. Dona Inez is determined to see me married; after that, the coming of great-grandchildren and other milestones would keep her going till the old heart finally gave out. She’s fond of Carlos and other nephews, she even has a soft corner for Josef Carvallo, but all her hopes for Las Vinas and the future are centred in me. It’s natural, but a bit restricting. She’s been my whole family for a long time and I’d do anything to make her happy.”

“Except ... marry?”

“I was even prepared to do that.” His smile came back and he looked at her mockingly. “Pity you’re not six or seven years older; we might make a go of it.”

She averted her head slightly. “Do you believe that marriage can be a lukewarm arrangement between two people?”

“Not at all. Marriage has to be a partnership, and a pretty warm-blooded one at that. What I
don’t
believe in is the love match.”

She sent him a quick glance and saw that his expression was tolerant except for a faint line of bitterness at his mouth. “If that’s how you feel,” she said evenly, “you’d better start casting round for that Spanish woman. They’re warm-blooded, I believe, and very willing to make a marriage of convenience.”

“Certainly seems the sensible thing to do,” he agreed laconically. “It would solve my problems.” There was a pause, and then he asked, “Is it getting you down—the situation?”

“I can bear it,” she said coolly.

“Supposing things were to get stickier?”

“How could they?”

A shrug. “You proved yesterday when you went out with Carlos that I can’t keep you imprisoned at the house for weeks on end. But the more you circulate the more tricky the situation is likely to become.”

She said hesitantly, “Marcus, couldn’t you let me work as a nurse at the hospital? That would cut out much of the social life, and I’d promise never to say one word about ... about you and me.”

His dark eyes appraised her briefly. “I’d trust you a long way, Sally, but for the present I can’t let you work. To the islanders you’ve become part of the del Moscado family, someone they rather look up to. The people are simple, and it would outrage something deep inside them if you took your place with the nurses in the new section of the nursing home. Even the British people here would think it strange.”

In low tones she said, “They’ll regard it as even more peculiar if I start nursing here after I’ve broken with you. Or maybe you think it will prove to others that I’m not quite up to the standard of Las Vinas?”

“That’s not a bit smart,” he said sharply. “At this stage one can’t see into the future, anyway. One of the reasons for this drive is that I want us to understand each other a little better, so that you can enjoy everything.”

“I think you do understand me.”

“Not quite.” He had slowed the car so that they were cruising along beside a small flowering orchard. “I hadn’t really much option other than to let the situation develop, but I’d certainly have opposed it in some way if I hadn’t thought you were the kind of girl who’d get some sort of kick out of it. Back on the ship, among those young people, you were gay and spirited, game for anything. I noticed you went quiet when I was about, but I took it to be uncertainty, because you didn’t know me. You do know me now, though.”

“By no means thoroughly.”

“Enough to have confidence in me, anyway,” he said abruptly.

“I do have confidence in you, and I’ve no false feelings about staying at Las Vinas while we’re supposed to be ... engaged. Luckily I don’t
feel
engaged, so when people congratulate me or link us in some way it’s like listening to part of a play.”

“That’s interesting. What am I in this play—the villain who forced you into a liaison? Are you hoping a hero will come to the rescue?”

She laughed. “It’s not as unreal as all that. I suppose I could rescue myself if it became necessary. Where are we going?”

“You want a change of topic? Very well—we’re going up towards the perfume distillery. When we get past these olives and figs you’ll see the lilac.”

“Is it in bloom?”

“It’s just coming out. It’ll be at its best in about a week.”

“And then the trees are cleared?”

“Yes, but the complete picking seems to force a second flowering in some of the trees; it’s not so profuse and the blossoms aren’t as good as the first, but it’s quite a sight.” He swung the car round a wide bend and gestured. “Look. Ever see anything like that in England?”

The fruit orchards of Kent and Worcester might be comparable, Sally thought, but they hadn’t the miraculous coloring of the San Palos lilac. It wasn’t true lilac color but much paler, and when the sprays were full-blown the effect would be a glorious expanse of pastel mauve. There seemed to be miles of those crowded trees with their new green leaves and masses of bloom, with here and there a farm cottage in its patch of vegetables and fruit trees.

“Is this run in farms like the vines?” she asked.

“Yes, but the farms are bigger. We buy up and distil, and the essence goes to a perfume factory in France. This is the only acreage of this particular variety of lilac in the world. You’ll see garden specimens throughout the Mediterranean, but we’re the only commercial growers. And guess who started the industry here!”

“The Englishman who married your grandmother?”

“He did it to please her, and was always rather ashamed of the lilacs. As I remember him, he invariably smelled belligerently of tweed and horses; we had no cars on the island in those days.”

“I’m sure he was a darling.”

“He was all right,” Marcus conceded tolerantly. “He certainly showed some good sense when he married Inez del Moscado.”

She said musingly, “It’s nearly seventy years ago, isn’t it? Isn’t it a pity one can’t look back and see things exactly as they were? Was he handsome?”

“As a young man? Fairly, I think. He’d been a soldier and was recuperating in his yacht after a wound. He was hurt again when the yacht hit the rocks, and he was carried up to Las Vinas—a matter of a mile and a half—on a grass stretcher-bed. It was inevitable that the big brown-haired soldier laid low by wounds should fall in love with the dark young beauty who helped to nurse him.”

She said, with a sigh. “The truly romantic things seem always to have happened in the past, don’t they? If a yacht foundered today the crew would be whipped into the hospital, mended in no time and sent on their way.”

“The Casa de Curacion existed then, of course, but there was just one very old physician on the island, so the place only took in people who couldn’t be nursed at home—generally the very old or incurably sick. They had only a dozen beds, anyway. Now they have more than sixty.” He paused. “Talking of romance—it’s all a matter of outlook. There’s still pathos in a white bandage and colorless cheeks; you’ll admit that?”

She smiled. “You’re very hard on your cousin Josef. He doesn’t look at all well.”

“Did he tell you he was my cousin?” he asked at once.

“You yourself said he was a connection of some sort.”