Witch's Harvest (8 page)

somewhere near at hand came the piercing, alien cry of some unknown bird.

Abby started nervously, aware of a faint filming of perspiration
on
her forehead and upper lip. She reached into her shoulder
bag for a tissue and dabbed at her skin, the sense of isolation already closing in. The sound of an approaching vehicle was a

welcome interruption.

As she watched, a battered jeep came lurching on to the edge of the strip, and halted. The driver leapt out and came running

across to them, his smile as wide as the sky, as he seized Vasco's hand and began to pump it vigorously in welcome. He was a

stocky man, dressed in frayed jeans and an elderly T-shirt, and his bright eyes were alive with interest as he turned towards

Abby.

Vasco brought him over to her. 'Abby, this is Agnello, my overseer on the
fazenda
. I regret that he speaks little English.'

Abby managed '
Bom dia'
as the little man shook hands ceremoniously with her, and his eyes widened in joyous surprise.

'Bom dia, senhora. Como está?'

'He is asking how you are,' Vasco translated for her. 'It's a question you will be asked many times, so I had better teach you how
to reply. Say "
Muito bem, obrigada
".'

Abby complied, and had her hand shaken by a delighted Agnello all over again.

Chatting volubly in his own language, he began to heft their luggage into the jeep. Vasco listened, nodding occasionally, his

brows drawn together. He lifted a hand and loosened his tie, undoing the top buttons of his shirt, as if suddenly impatient with

the elegances of civilisation.

Abby thought, He's come home…

They were so deep in conversation that she began to think she had been forgotten. The plane started up with a subdued roar,

and began to taxi to the other end of the strip preparing for take-off, Pedro Lazaro sending her a smiling salute in the process.

Abby waved back, feeling forlorn as what seemed her last link with the world she knew was severed.

Vasco said with a trace of impatience, 'It is time we were going. It is some way to
the fazenda
, even now.'

It didn't matter, she thought, as she let him help her into the jeep, his hands impersonal on her slim waist. It could take months to
get there, and she wouldn't care. The longer the delay, the better.

So far the whole of their brief married life had been spent in travelling, usually surrounded by other people. They had rarely been
alone together. But when they reached the
casa grande
, that would change, and the knowledge was disturbing.

Until now Vasco had kept his word scrupulously about their relationship. The only physical contact between them had been the

brief kisses on her hand and cheek when he took his leave of her, and he had only bothered with those when other people had

been present.

Nevertheless, the fact remained that in this wild corner of the world, they would be thrown more into each other's company than

hitherto.

Not that they would be completely alone. There would be the servants, of course. He had included photographs of them in the

batch he'd given her, and she had tried to memorise the names written on the back, trying not to think, as she did so, that all this
trouble had been taken for Della in an attempt to reconcile her to life at Riocho Negro. Her time at the
fazenda
might be limited,
but while she was there, she would do her best to act as mistress of the house, she thought determinedly.

And there would be a limited social life with the neighbouring families, Vasco had told her. Her arrival would probably be used

as an excuse for a party, and they would have to entertain in turn. He had glanced at her almost enquiringly as he told her, as if
silently asking if she was able to cope with this kind of demand, and she had returned his gaze tranquilly enough.

She had been used to helping her aunt organise parties and dinners when she lived with the West-mores, Della having always

refused point blank to exert herself. Now it seemed as if that experience, at least, would stand her in good stead.

Hard work, activity was what she needed to fill her days, she told herself robustly. She deliberately closed her mind to the

problem of how she would spend her nights.

It was a hot uncomfortable journey. The road through the clustering forest was poor and full of potholes.

'It is government policy,' Vasco told her ironically, 'to improve communications in the interior. Nearly all passenger and freight
traffic still goes by water.'

'I wish we could have travelled on the river,' Abby said. 'I read about it, and it sounds—' She hesitated, because she'd been

going to say 'romantic' and hastily substituted 'fascinating' instead.

'Fascinating for tourists, no doubt,' Vasco said drily, reminding her with a swift glance that as the wife of a Brazilian, she could
not consider herself in that category.

It silenced her. He had whisked her here, she thought wistfully, giving her little time to adjust to her new surroundings. She

suppressed a little sigh. Well, when her six months was over, and she was free again, she would take the time to be a tourist,

and have a long look at Brazil before she left it for ever.

The jeep rocketed along, Agnello obviously being trained not to linger over unfriendly-terrain, and Abby rocketed with it, her

small weight no counterbalance for the vehicle's lively motion. She was beginning to wonder if there would be an inch of her left

unbruised, when her husband's arm went round her suddenly, clamping her to his side, and robbing her of breath for more than

one reason.

Agnello sent them a twinkling sideways glance, and a comment which she was glad she could not translate. She sat rigidly

within Vasco's encircling arm, blindingly aware of the warmth of his body, and the strength of the long thigh touching hers.

She tried instead to concentrate on the flying scenery. If she had expected dense jungle, she was wrong. The trees were taller

than she had imagined and more widely spaced than she had visualised, allowing the sun to dapple through their sheltering

leaves on to the thick undergrowth.

The jeep swerved again, and the trees closed round them and over them like some high green tunnel, at the far end of which a

bright blaze of sunlight waited. Vasco's arm tightened on her almost imperceptibly, and he murmured something under his

breath, his tone undeniably jubilant, alerting Abby to the realisation that they were nearing journey's end at last.

Nervous as she was, battered as she felt, she was conscious of a small stir of excitement deep inside her. She might be an

intruder—the wife which circumstance had forced on him—but she was
there
, beside him, about to take possession of her new
domain.

As they hurtled into the sunshine, Abby caught her breath. The photographs had not done the house and its setting any kind of

justice. It was set on the crown of a small rise, rearing, it seemed, out of a sea of flowers. There were other buildings at a

distance, but she barely glanced at them, and even farther away she glimpsed the shimmer of dark water.

The jeep slowed, and she noticed another vehicle, a car, parked at the foot of the rise. Agnello turned to Vasco and addressed a

remark to him. Vasco nodded, his face expressionless.

He looked down at Abby. 'We have our first visitor,' he told her coolly.

'Oh,' Abby said rather faintly. She had enough new and startling impressions to cope with already. Strangers, especially when

she felt hot, dusty and cramped, were surplus to her requirements.

She allowed Vasco to help her down from the jeep, and stood for a moment flexing her shoulder muscles cautiously, as she

surveyed the long shallow flight of steps which wound its way up to a shady veranda.

'Would you like me to carry you?' asked Vasco, and she started, swift colour burning her face.

'No, I can manage,' she stammered.

He shrugged. 'Perhaps, but isn't it traditional in your country for the bridegroom to carry his bride over the threshold of her new
home?'

'Yes.' She kept her voice light with an effort. 'But this is Brazil, and I'm sure there's a different tradition here.'

'You are probably right.' The dark face was sardonic. 'But as I have not been married before, I regret I am no expert on the

matter.' A note of amusement entered his voice. 'I see a reception committee is forming!'

Following his gaze towards the house, Abby saw that three women had emerged and were standing on the veranda, smiling

and nodding. And men were appearing too from the buildings she had noticed, and from the encircling trees, all very casual-

seeming, yet converging purposefully on the jeep and its passengers.

'They've come to look at you,' Vasco informed her quietly. 'Smile at them,
minha esposa
. Wave your hand.'

Abby obeyed, feeling absurdly shy under the scrutiny of so many interested dark eyes. Vasco spoke briefly to them, but the

only words she recognised were 'Dona Abigail'. When he finished there was applause, and Abby's flush deepened, especially

when Vasco's hand captured hers and he began to walk with her up the steps to the house.

'We shall have to give some kind of celebration for the workers and their families,' he said casually. 'The marriage of their
patrão

is an occasion in their lives, and as we robbed them of the actual ceremony, we shall have to make it up to them in some other

way.'

'I suppose so,' she agreed in a subdued voice.

As they reached the veranda, Abby cast her mind desperately back to the photographs Vasco had shown her, trying to match

names and faces. The plump older woman was Rosa, the cook, she knew, but the younger girls, their dark hair piled up into

identical glossy coronets, their round faces shining with goodwill, seemed practically indistinguishable.

She decided to take the plunge, greeting the first one with a smiling, '
Bom dia
, Ana.'

Her educated guess had been spot on, she realised, and the girl giggled with surprised delight, her hands twisting in her white

apron. Abby saw Vasco's brows lift, and hoped he was impressed. As she moved on to greet Maria das Gracas, she felt she had

successfully negotiated an important hurdle.

As Vasco took her arm to guide her into the house, there was a raucous cry of protest, and Abby jumped, thinking guiltily that

she had overlooked someone. Then she realised Vasco was laughing.

'I did not think I should be allowed to get away with it,' he said ruefully. 'Meet the real
fazendeiro
here, Abigail.'

On an elaborate perch in the corner was the biggest most brilliantly coloured parrot Abby had ever seen. As they approached it

squawked rowdily again, putting its head on one side and giving them an openly malevolent look.

'This is Don Afonso.' Vasco gently scratched the great bird's head with his forefinger. 'He has lived here for a long time, and

does not care to be ignored. Make his acquaintance slowly, and he will be your friend. Rush him, and you will probably be

bitten.'

Abby kept her hands at her sides, and inclined her head gravely.

'
Bom dia
, Don Afonso,' she said solemnly. She made a discovery. 'He isn't tethered!'

'I told you—this is his home.' Vasco smiled faintly. 'He was caught as a chick and tamed by some Indians. Later they made a gift

of him to my cousin, who discovered after a few weeks that each time someone called him by name, the macaw responded. He

had no choice but to christen the bird officially as his
alter ego
.' He paused. 'Now we had better go and greet our visitor.'

Abby allowed herself to be shepherded into the house. She found herself in a broad central hall with doors opening off both

sides. A large fan hummed in the ceiling, and she glanced at it in surprise.

Vasco nodded, as if she had spoken her query aloud. 'We make our own electricity.' He walked over to an imposing pair of

double doors and opened them. He said in English, 'Luisa—how kind of you to welcome us like this.'

The visitor laughed musically, getting out of her chair. 'But how could it be otherwise, my dear Vasco?' she responded in the

same heavily accented language. 'I could not control my impatience to meet your wife.'

If anything could have underlined for Abby that Riocho Negro was not the wilderness she had anticipated, it was the

appearance of the woman confronting her. She was of medium height, her slimness accentuated by the chic black dress she

wore, her glossy dark hair coiled expertly into an intricate chignon at the nape of her neck. The large shady hat discarded

beside her probably accounted for the exquisite creaminess of her skin, and the shape and brilliance of her almond eyes were

heavily accentuated by cosmetics. Curved scarlet lips were parted in a smile as she took Abby's hand.