The Guardian of Secrets and Her Deathly Pact

by Jana Petken

  The night had been ruined, first by Doña Rosario’s insulting innuendoes and then by Don Miguel’s drunken speech. Ernesto’s participation in the distasteful conversation about her marital status had unnerved her more than she cared to admit. She yearned to be alone in her room. She didn’t like the way she was feeling, but worse still, she didn’t really understand why she felt the way she did.

  Eventually, the ladies left the men to finish their brandy and cigars. Celia feigned a headache, thus escaping Doña Rosario’s incessant chatter, which would no doubt go on until the early hours of the morning. She hated herself for lying to Marta and Rosa, but she could not endure another second in the woman’s company.

  Tears stung her eyes. She mounted the giant tree trunk, the central staircase, praying that no one would follow her, talk to her, or ask her any more ludicrous questions. The evening had been important to Don Miguel, but it had also been important to her. It was the first time she’d had the opportunity to sit with the Martinéz family whilst they entertained, and she had wanted Ernesto, all of them, to be proud of her. Instead, she had let them down. She had ruined the evening, not only for herself but also for Don Miguel, and she would never forgive herself. Where was her sense of humour, she asked herself. Why did she take things so much to heart? She could forgive Don Miguel; that was the easy part. He had consumed too much wine, and she was sure that he’d said what he did with the best of intentions. However, Ernesto had no right to tell her that she should marry again; he had no right at all.

  Chapter 29

  The house was quiet. All but Ernesto and his father had long since retired after a night filled with disappointments. Ernesto sat stony-faced and silent. He had gone along with his father’s ludicrous idea to join the caciques, if only to stop him from sulking about the house waiting for death. However, he had never been entirely comfortable in Don Andrés’s company. He was a charming man, Ernesto admitted, and at times highly intelligent, but his pompous ideology differed so much from his own, with political leanings that left him troubled. Nor had he enjoyed the company of Don Andrés’ wife, who had clearly tested Celia’s good nature to the limit.

  “Father, I think you’ve had enough to drink for one night,” he said in the soft candlelit salon. “Andrés has left, and your political ambitions have left with him. Come, let me help you upstairs.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Don Miguel growled at him. “I’m the master of this house, not you! Do you think that just because I’ve lost the use of my legs, I’ve also lost my mind, eh? I might not be able to walk as well, or think as fast as I used to, but I’m still your father, and I demand respect. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Father.” Ernesto said patiently. “I hear you, and so will everyone else in the house. Come, it’s been a long night. Let’s go to bed.”

  “Bed? Bed! What’s the point? Tomorrow’s going to be the same as today, and the day after that will be the same as tomorrow. That idiot, Andrés, telling me I need to change my views before I’ll be accepted into his stupid caciques … What do they know about anything, anyway? They’re just a bunch of idiots playing God! That’s what they are.”

  Ernesto spread his arms and asked him, “Then why do you want to be involved with them?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. You haven’t been around long enough to understand these people. You don’t know, Ernesto. You don’t realise that we’ve either got to be with them or against them, and the problem is that duty and honour do not always travel hand in hand down the same path. I realised tonight that honour is much more important than joining a bunch of foolhardy hypocrites who want nothing more than to rule the world. Always remember, son: stand by your principles, even if you’re left standing on the wrong side of the fence.”

  “Father, I understand enough to know that we’re not on the wrong side of the fence. We’re on the side that we should be on.”

  “Yes, well, maybe you’re right,” Don Miguel said, smiling for the first time. “But you do know that I won’t get invited anywhere now. Rosario will see to that. I’ll be shut out of every bird shoot and every dinner party until I apologise for calling Andrés a backward-looking old fool. I’ve wanted to tell him that for years. Now, you may help me to my room … I’m drunk.”

  Ernesto sat in his conservatory and watched the White Mountains glow in the moonlight. His father had been drunk tonight, but in the end, he’d spoken with clarity and wisdom. Don Andrés and his wife were friends, but their friendship was not a true one. He was under no illusion that should they be crossed, they would become dangerous enemies. As the evening progressed, he’d begun to sense animosity between the two men, although it was not so much what had been said that worried him but the way in which Don Andrés spoke about the desire to wipe out all opposition to the caciques. The growing labour movement and Socialist Party seemed to be his main concern. “They are like a cancerous growth and a stain on decent Spaniards,” Don Andrés had said.

  On three separate occasions, Don Andrés had asked his father if he would be willing to use force to crush any such opposition, and his father’s answer had been a resounding no each time: “I would listen to what the peasants and workers had to say first,” his father told Don Andrés. “They might have a good argument in some cases. After all, if we are to modernise our nation, we will at some stage have to modernise our industries and the workers in them.”

  Ernesto shook his head. It was the right answer but not the answer Don Andrés had wanted to hear. The caciques were steadfast and unshakable in their beliefs, and his father had not understood that in his desire to join their exclusive club. From that moment, the evening had been filled with thinly disguised innuendoes that had left him in no doubt that politics was a dangerous game. All social discourse ended abruptly, and the idea of Don Miguel joining the caciques abandoned, when, after drinking steadily from the brandy bottle, Don Andrés had told them, “While some people are no more than spectators from the comfort of their armchairs, others are walking the front lines, defending their birthrights and their very ways of life. I can assure you that these spectators are no friends of mine, for they are every bit as bad as those who would destroy Spain and leave it in ruins.”

  His father’s answer – “I’d rather sit in an armchair than crush the rights of fellow Spaniards” – had been naive and, in his view, commendable, but it had finished the last vestiges of congeniality between the two older men.

  Ernesto sipped the last of his brandy. The night had not been the success his father had hoped for. Nor had it been for Celia, who’d taken the brunt of his father’s concealed anger. Celia … did she realise yet that he loved her?

  A deep-rooted anger surfaced in the darkness, leaving Celia tossing and turning in bed. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she rose and went to the window and watched the moon sink lower and lower into the distant mountains, until they were bathed in a silvery white cloak.

  Joseph Dobbs had once again escaped the bowels of her mind and was invading her thoughts. She had tried so hard to forget him. She had willed him to the abyss, but tonight Don Miguel had unwittingly reminded her that he was still very much alive. She could never marry again and never fall in love. She was not free to love. She would never be free.

  Tears squeezed from her closed eyelids, and an image of Ernesto danced fleetingly before her, causing a faint smile to settle on her lips. But he wanted rid of her, wanted her to marry. He had tired of her; he was just like Joseph! She tried to concentrate on Ernesto’s face, but his image faded just as sleep overcame her. Joseph came to her in her dreams, and as always, she relived the terror he brought.

  Chapter 30

  Christmas came and went in a flurry of parties, visits from Ernesto’s sisters, and endless meals, which left Celia tired and homesick for her own kind. She missed her aunt Marie and Mr Ayres, Mrs Baxter, and all that was familiar. Her desire to be in England with her aunt had grown since the Christmas Eve dinner, and not even Joseph could dispel her longing to
go home. She had written several times to her aunt but had only received one letter back. She longed for news about Joseph and Merrill Farm. Had Joseph completely destroyed it? Had they found any more evidence against him? She wished she could hear something from her aunt – good, bad, or anything at all!

  The conversation had been stilted and forced when she and Ernesto set off on a ride early in the new year. Celia, with unreadable thoughts, sat astride her horse, unable to look at her companion. She would speak to Ernesto today. She would not remain silent without any form of retaliation, as she had in the past with Joseph. She would say her piece, clear the air once and for all, and let Ernesto know just how badly she’d been treated by his family’s so-called friends.

  Ever since Christmas, they had avoided each other. Unspoken and bitter retorts had gathered in Celia’s mind, but she would leave them there. She did not like this side of her nature, for she was not one to hold a grudge or to take a conversation so much to heart. Only with one other person had she felt this way, guarding resentment, wanting revenge. She was consumed with indignation, and today she would tell Ernesto that her only desire now was to go back to England.

  The horses slowed to a walk. Celia watched Ernesto’s unfathomable expression and wondered if she should get the conversation over with before it drove her mad.

  “Ernesto,” she said a little more harshly than she’d intended, “why did you and your father take it upon yourselves to suggest that I should marry? I hope you know that I have no intention of marrying anyone, ever!”

  “Not ever, Celia?” Ernesto asked, frowning. “Forever is a long time. How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I am!”

  “Celia, I cannot believe that you are still thinking about something that happened over a week ago. After all, it was only a few well-meant unimportant comments. I think you’ve clearly blown them out of all proportion.”

  “Maybe it’s not important to you, Ernesto, but you were not the one on the receiving end of Doña Rosario’s scathing tongue or your father’s patronising conclusions as to what I should do with my life!” She knew she’d shouted a little too loudly.

  “Whatever thoughts you’re harbouring must be put out of your mind. You must know my father meant no disrespect. I’m sure he said what he said because he cares about you. You are much too young and much too beautiful to live this life without the love of a good man. You should not remain a widow, Celia; I stand by that statement.”

  Ernesto reined his horse and took hold of the other horse’s bridle. Both horses and riders stopped. Ernesto faced Celia with eyes filled with disappointment, waiting for her to speak again. Celia contemplated her next words. She still hadn’t made herself clear, and she had more to say, whether he liked it or not.

  “Do you think I’m here to look for a new husband? Is that what you all believe? Do I give you that impression? Do you think me shallow and desperate …? That I cannot possibly survive without a man by my side? You have no right to think that. You don’t know me, but when you do, you’ll realise that I mean what I say. I will never marry again. Once was enough for ten lifetimes. Now, please let go of my horse’s bridle!”

  “Celia! I don’t know why you’re so upset,” Ernesto said with a hint of anger in his own voice now. “It was not our intention to embarrass or insult you. Please believe that. In fact, I am sorry I even mentioned your name at dinner. I’m sorry that Doña Rosario is a mean-spirited, jealous woman; she was jealous of you, you know. Her youth has gone, and you have more beauty than all her daughters combined. I’m sorry for my father’s outburst too, but there really is no need to take it so much to heart! Now, can we drop this subject?”

  When he dismounted his horse in silence, she found herself far from satisfied with his answers. She wanted to apologise. She was still living in his home, after all, but her demons had returned, and they wanted to justify her protestations to the full. She mocked him after dismounting her own horse.

  “I apologise for being oversensitive, Ernesto. But I am still grieving for Joseph. You must understand that at least. I have a baby who has lost his father, and all I want to do now is to think about him, not another man. I might be oversensitive, but you and your father are insensitive, and that’s worse!”

  “I understand, Celia, and I admit that it was very insensitive of my father and me to tease you in such a way. I should have known better.”

  He was angry, angrier than she’d ever seen him. She studied his face, unsure if his anger was directed at her or at himself. She touched his arm, and he shrugged it off. She had said enough. It was time for a truce, time for her to forget the stupid incident.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Now I’ve made you angry.”

  “But not at you. I could never be angry with you. Celia, my marriage was not built on love as yours was. It came from an arrangement made before I could even walk. I can’t even say that Carmen and I liked each other. If I am insensitive, it is because I have never felt love the way you have.” He kicked a stone with the toe of his boot and turned to face her with eyes she couldn’t fathom.

  “We are both grieving, maybe not in the same way and maybe not for the same reason, but I have tried to look to the future for the sake of my son. Your yesterday has gone, Celia. Don’t allow it to destroy your tomorrow. This is what my father meant to say to you.”

  Celia suddenly felt like a fool. She had recently convinced herself that the past was well and truly behind her, but it was still staring her in the face. Ernesto thought she was grieving, but she knew better. She was consumed with bitterness and the pain of a wounded animal. She walked towards him and touched his hand.

  “Ernesto, I don’t know anything about your wife … I didn’t know.”

  He stared into her eyes, and she swallowed awkwardly.

  “Forgive me?”

  “Of course, but you must forgive me for saying that you will make some man very happy one day, but this is what I truly think, and I will not take it back.”

  He put his arms around her and drew her to him. She was not prepared for that. Her mind was a jumble of emotions, the past mingled with the present. Joseph’s face loomed over her. She tried to blink it away, but it was still there. He kissed the top of her head. Joseph flooded her mind. She heard his laughter ringing in her ears and felt a fist hitting her face and the pain of being dragged up the stairs. Fear and revulsion surfaced, leaving her gasping for breath. Instead of Ernesto’s gentle touch, it was the vice-like grip of Joseph’s hands around her throat. It was his drunken mouth drawing closer, swimming in and out of her unfocused eyes. She couldn’t breathe now, and as Joseph’s face danced before her, she screamed in blind terror, lifting her arms to protect herself.

  “Don’t touch me! Stay away from me!” she screamed.

  Ernesto dropped his hands and took a step backwards. There was hurt and confusion in his eyes, but she didn’t see that. With tears blinding her, she stumbled towards her horse. She didn’t look back. Her only thought was to escape the torment, the images, and the memories that had come back to life, for she was living them all over again …

  Later that afternoon, Celia began a letter to her aunt Marie. She picked up the paper and pen and tried to concentrate, but her mind wandered back to the morning’s events. How could she behave in that manner? she kept asking herself. Ernesto was not Joseph. It had not been his touch or his lips that had made her recoil with revulsion; it was the memory of Joseph’s evil manifesting itself, robbing her of her sanity and judgement. Oh God, what must Ernesto think of her? He had shown her nothing but kindness and concern, and how had she repaid him?

  She stood by the window and pressed her flushed cheeks against the cold glass. She had ruined any chance of remaining here. She had knocked down the foundations of what could have been a beautiful, lasting relationship, hurting Ernesto in the process. Why did Carmen not see what she saw? she wondered. How could she have failed to love him? He was kind and thoughtful, loved his family, and was a de
voted father. He worked hard, and he had welcomed her and Pedro into his home, asking for nothing in return.

  “His wife must have been a stupid woman,” she told Pedro, who was happily oblivious to her pain. “Ernesto is so easy to love.”

  She covered her open mouth with her hand and gasped through it. Why did she say that? What was she thinking? She wasn’t in love with him … was she? In the last few months, she had never once admitted that her feelings towards him were anything other than sisterly affection. She had failed to see what her own heart knew to be true, and with that truth came the answers to questions that had been plaguing her for weeks. She thought about them now. Why did she always hate the moment they said goodbye after their rides together? Why did she always feel so nervous whenever they were to meet? Why did her heart pound uncontrollably when they danced with one another, and why was she so angry at his suggestion that she should marry again? She knew the answer to that one too, and it wasn’t because she still loved Joseph, as she had stated. No, she was angry because she didn’t want Ernesto to believe that she could ever leave La Glorieta – that she wanted him and only him.

  Now she understood everything. If she left La Glorieta, it would mean that she would also leave Ernesto, and she didn’t want him to think that she could do that. In truth, she wanted him to know that she would never want to be anywhere else or be with anyone else but him. It was all so clear now. Sadness washed over her. She would not cry; she had cried too many tears:

  “God help me, Pedro,” she said, picking up her six month old son, who smiled and gurgled with pleasure at her closeness. “What am I to do? To love a man a second time, to give my heart and not have that love returned, would be unbearable. I think we might have to go home, but I don’t want to …”