The Sun and Catriona (13 page)

CHAPTER TEN

It
had stopped raining and the clouds were moving on, drifting across the island. Catriona stood where Peter had left her, one hand resting on the iron balustrade. She wondered why it was that she didn’t seem to be able to move. Perhaps, she thought, it was because she had taken a step into the unknown, and the ground seemed to have crumbled away beneath her feet.

Very slowly she took a firm grip on herself. She heard the telephone stop ringing, but the walls of the old house were very thick, and she couldn’t hear Peter’s voice. Eventually she wandered inside, and had just reached the head of the stairs when he appeared below her. He didn’t look up, and when he spoke his voice sounded odd.

‘That was Antoinette. She wanted to remind me that we all have an engagement this evening.’

‘An engagement?’ Catriona repeated.

‘A theatrical presentation in the gardens of Castel Verdala, our Governor’s country residence.’ There was a pause, then he went on, ‘It’s a performance of
Twelfth Night.
Jacqueline has the part of Olivia.’

Catriona’s fingers curled tightly around the balustrade.

‘In any case,’ Peter went on, ‘it is time we were going. The storm is moving on and there will be no more rain for several hours, but it may return later. We should get back to Malta as quickly as possible.’

For several seconds Catriona stood still. She didn’t
u
nderstand. Had she dreamt those moments on the balcony? Was it only in her imagination that a few minutes earlier
...

Feeling like a sleepwalker, she moved down the stairs. They left the house by the front door and Peter locked it behind them, turning the heavy brass key. Outside, it was still very warm, but the air was much fresher and there was no longer an all-pervading smell of dust. The leaves were a brighter green. The old, battered Triumph actually looked cleaner. But Catriona hardly noticed. She just got into the car and sat staring in front of her.

Peter drove very fast, almost recklessly, and as they made their way down the drive, through the jungle of newly washed growth, she tried to guess at the thoughts that might be passing through his head. But his face remained set, impassive, and he didn’t speak until they reached the gates. Then he glanced round.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly.

Catriona moistened her dry lips. ‘What—what for?’

‘I think you understand what I mean.’ His voice grated a little. ‘I don’t usually behave in that sort of way. Please forget it.’

Forget it!

She stared hard through the newly washed windscreen, willing the tears to stay away. Could he really be so insensitive? Hadn’t he recognised her response at all
?
Didn’t he realise she was in love
w
ith him
?

The words echoed through her head almost as if she had spoken them aloud. She, who in all her adult life had never felt more than mildly attracted to any man, was now in love herself—so much in love that
the pain was almost more than she could bear.

She couldn’t trust her voice, so she didn’t say anything, and after a minute or two he spoke again.

‘When we first met, Catriona,’ he said very quietly, ‘you made your feelings clear. You once called me a parasite, and you may have been right. There was a time, I believe, when I was a little different, but that ended twelve years ago.’

She looked at him. ‘What happened—twelve years ago?’

He shrugged. ‘You must have wondered why Ghajn Lucia was abandoned.’

‘Yes, I suppose I did.’

‘Well, as I told you, it was our family home. Most Maltese families don’t spend too much time over here on Gozo, but my parents were particularly fond of the place, and anyway, my father had his boatyard here. When I was a boy I spent more time at Ghajn Lucia than anywhere else in the Islands. I loved it. I didn’t want to live anywhere else.’ He paused, and she noticed that his knuckles were white, as his hands gripped the steering-wheel. ‘My father had a brother, Tomas. They were partners in the family business, so, naturally, Uncle Tomas also spent much of his time on Gozo, and when he came to see us he brought his daughter, Marina.’ The strong voice hesitated and then went on. ‘I taught Marina to sail, and together we explored every nook and corner of the Gozo coast. When I was twenty-two years old and she was eighteen we became engaged to be married, but my uncle would not allow her to go through with the wedding until she reached her nineteenth birthday. He said no girl should be married so young, that she needed more time.’

‘What—what happened
?
’ Catriona asked.

He stared hard at the twisting road in front of them. ‘She was a strong swimmer, and she loved sailing. One spring afternoon she took a small racing yacht out into the bay. While she was out the Sirocco sprang up
...
the warm wind from Africa. Because she was alone she could not cope. The yacht was smashed against a small island off the coast of Malta—they call it Filfla, it’s a sanctuary for birds. When they found her, a day or so later, her father could not identify her, but I knew her by the ring she was wearing. I had given it to her.’

Catriona closed her eyes, trying to shut out the horror of it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and knew that no words had ever sounded more inadequate. She wanted to throw her arms around him—somehow, to find a way of putting an end to his suffering. But she couldn’t, because he didn’t want her.

All at once everything fell into place. His embittered outlook on life, his feeling that at times it was hardly worth living—everything made sense now. And she thought, miserably, that she even knew why he had kissed her back there on the balcony. In that moment he had just needed somebody. That was all.

They were passing through Mixija now, and within a few minutes they would be at the boatyard.

‘I did not intend to tell you about Marina,’ he said suddenly, ‘and I did not mention her because I wanted your sympathy, but because I wished you to understand that I shall never fall in love again. I shall marry, but that is another matter. My wife will be an intelligent woman with her own interests, sensible in her approach to marriage. She will appreciate the position I can give her, but she will never expect me
to pretend that I am in love with her. I would not marry on any other terms.’

Staring blindly ahead, Catriona wondered if he considered that Jacqueline Calleja would meet his requirements in this respect. Probably he did. After all, he was hurrying back to Malta because he didn’t want to miss her interpretation of Olivia. On the other hand, why, until Toni telephoned, had he apparently forgotten all about the performance? Why had he chosen that day, of all days, for a visit to Gozo
?

They jolted down on to the quayside, and Catriona forced herself to speak.

‘Don’t you think there’s a—a possibility? Don’t you think you might one day meet someone who could change your mind
?
’

The car came to a halt, and he switched the engine off. ‘It’s too late.’

The
Sultana
was waiting for them, bobbing gently on the water, and without speaking again he handed Catriona aboard. All the clouds had moved over now, and the sky was once again a tranquil blue. In the clear, strong light of early afternoon they swung away from the jetty and headed back towards Malta.

During the short return trip they hardly talked at all, and that at least was a relief to Catriona, for she could not possibly have maintained a normal conversation. Being so close to Peter was wonderful or, at least, it could have been. But she knew that in every important sense he was as far away from her as it was possible to be, and because of that her whole body ached. She thought of Marina, the girl who had died, and wondered what she had been like. They had both been so young. Could they really have been
so deeply, so completely in love that there could never be anything else for the one who was left behind
?

Then she pulled herself up short and forced herself to face the fact that, probably, in the end, there would be someone else for Peter. He just had to meet the right girl. Although he might not realise it yet, it was possible that he had already met her in the person of Jacqueline. Catriona herself was not the right one, and perhaps, in the kindest way possible, he had been trying to tell her that. Obviously, he had moments of intense, agonising depression—even despair—and in those moments he needed someone, anyone. Once or twice, lately, she happened to have been the one who was on hand, but she would be crazy if she imagined that he felt anything for her, personally. She remembered the night when he had kissed her on the cliff-top, and she thought she understood, now, what it had all been about. Those cliffs had looked out towards Filfla, and on that summer night, staring out through the darkness, Peter had felt the horror of his loss all over again. She had been there, and instinctively he had turned to her, but only, undoubtedly, as he might have turned to any woman.

They reached Valletta just after one o’clock, and as Catriona extricated herself from the car she felt limp, exhausted and sticky with perspiration. More than once during the drive from Marsa Peter had asked her if she would like to stop for a drink, but by mutual consent they had carried on. Neither, she realised, had wanted that kind of t
ê
te
-à
-t
ê
te.

Back in the security of her own ro
o
m, she took a quick, refreshing shower and tried not to think about the events of the morning. Toni was nowhere to be
seen, and to her relief Carmen brought a light lunch up to her, sparing her the necessity of making an appearance in the dining-room. Because she didn’t want her appetite questioned, even by Carmen, she made a real effort to eat, but the chicken salad stuck in her throat, and the fluffy lemon
soufflé
was even worse. Putting the tray outside her door, she soon closed the shutters and lay down, trying desperately to lose herself in sleep. But sleep refused to come, and for two hours she lay tossing and turning in the warm dimness, struggling with thoughts that refused to be kept at bay.

At half past four Toni tapped softly on her door, and when she came into the room Catriona tensed uneasily, terrified lest the other girl’s sharp eyes should detect too much. It was difficult to answer a battery of searching questions without betraying, details that she would prefer not to betray and almost impossible, without straying on to dangerous territory, to explain exactly how she had spent the morning. Somehow, though, she managed to come up with satisfactory answers, and mercifully it wasn’t too long before the subject was exhausted. It was the boat crossing which appeared to interest Toni more than anything else—mainly, it seemed, because she had never been out in the new launch
Sultana.

Catriona had expected her to be disappointed, because she had not been included in the Gozo expedition, but surprisingly the Maltese girl didn’t seem to mind much. She had apparently spent a quiet morning sunbathing in the courtyard, and it was clear that she had been giving a good deal of thought to the evening ahead. No Maltese social event, it seemed, was more glamorous, or romantic
than an evening spent at Castel Verdala, and as Toni planned to dress accordingly she was
anxious to know what Catriona would be wearing. Conscious of the fact that the English girl’s wardrobe was more limited than her own, she was eager to help by lending one of her own dresses. After all, as she pointed out, they were almost the same size. But Catriona had borne enough humiliation for one day, and she was not going to appear before Peter Vilhena in plumage borrowed from his stepsister. She would not say so to Toni, at least not in so many words, but her refusal was very firm, and in the end Toni agreed reluctantly that the embroidered skirt would do perfectly well.

It took Toni some time to dress, but when she eventually emerged from her room she was looking lovelier than Catriona had ever seen her. Her hair, freshly washed, was a dusky cloud about her shoulders, and her diaphanous silk voile evening dress was the clear dark green of young hibiscus leaves. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, her skin glowed and her make-up was perfect. She had made a very special effort, and the result was so effective that when her brother saw her he actually nodded approvingly. He barely looked at Catriona. In fact, when they were all assembled in the courtyard he hardly seemed to notice her existence, but to her intense relief Toni made no comment.

Castel Verdala was a massive fortress of weathered stone which had been built at the end of the sixteenth century as a summer palace for the Grand Masters of the Order of St John, and it was surrounded by the most romantic gardens on the island. By the time they arrived, night was falling rapidly, and the castle, ablaze with light, was a fairy-tale palace. It had been
erected at the summit of a little hill, and on one side its gardens sloped gently downwards to a wooded valley, the Boschetto, which for hundreds of years had been one of Malta’s most celebrated beauty spots. In the Boschetto, early Grand Masters had hunted deer and gazelle
.
Tonight, golden lights glimmered among the trees, and feminine laughter echoed along the hidden paths.

The gardens were already crowded with people, men in white dinner-jackets and women in glamorous dresses. Everywhere, couples were wandering beneath the stars and new arrivals were greeting their friends and acquaintances. Catriona was introduced to several people, and as if from a great distance she listened to their attempts at polite conversation. She had never felt less like being social and after a time she found herself longing for an opportunity to melt into obscurity, to vanish-into the shadow between the trees.