by Jana Petken
Chapter 31
Simon tackled the mountain of letters on his desk and kept only those he thought were genuine and probable. One thousand pounds as a reward was a small price to pay for Joseph’s capture, Marie had insisted. The reward had been posted in all newspapers in the country, and thousands of leaflets were now fixed to lamp posts and trees with Joseph’s likeness, making him the most infamous man in Britain. The search so far had yielded nothing but false sightings and unscrupulous attempts from the public to make more money than they’d ever imagined possible. Joseph had been seen everywhere, in pubs, trams, ferries, in the centre of London, and even in Goudhurst.
Each new lead had been scrutinised by Simon and John , and some had been acted upon, but with disappointing results in all cases so far. Both men were also in constant communication with the ports and the local police forces, and they had turned up nothing either, leaving them with the sinking feeling that Joseph Dobbs had once again escaped justice on a grand scale.
Mr Rawlings would not be on board the ship as promised for Marie’s voyage to Spain, as he was dealing with a new venture which, Marie had been told, had taken him to Argentina, in the continent of South America. Nevertheless, he had assured Simon that Marie would be well looked after on the voyage. Simon had also sent Ernesto Martinéz a telegram informing him of Marie’s arrival, and he’d asked him not to mention this news to Celia. He’d received a reply from Ernesto three days later:
All arrangements made … I am looking forward to meeting her.
Your friend,
Ernesto Martinéz de Amo
Marie also received a letter from Celia. It had arrived just as she was putting on her coat to leave. She opened it as soon as the ship left harbour and headed out to open sea.
Dearest Auntie,
I hope that you are well and that you’re not too lonely without me. I know I miss you dreadfully and can’t wait for you to come and see me, as promised. When do you think that might be? I have not heard from you in such a long time, and I do long for news.
Christmas is over, and I must say, it seemed to go on forever. It was strangely different because here they share Christmas presents on Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, 6 January, is the day of the three kings, and apparently it is celebrated with all the pomp and ceremony of Christmas Day itself, with more presents! I think I am as fat as a turkey!
I wish you could see my little Pedro. By the way, I’m actually getting used to the name now. He makes Marta and Don Miguel very happy. They are like a couple of proud grandparents, and I worry that he’ll miss them when we leave here or worse, that when he is older, he will never remember the love that was showered upon him. Pedro has grown and at seven months, is beginning to take a great deal of interest in the world around him. The family are taking bets on which language he’ll speak when he says his first words. As for little Miguel, well, he’s as mischievous as any little boy can be. He is speaking English now, short sentences but progressing all the time. Everyone is very pleased about that, especially me, as I feel I’ve earned my keep in some way.
As I mentioned before, the Martinéz family is huge. and the entire family celebrated Christmas Day here at La Glorieta. Three of Ernesto’s sisters are married and have an average of two children each, so you can imagine how many people were at the dining table. Dinner must have gone on for at least five hours, and afterwards there was music and dancing. Anyway, Auntie, things here are going very well for us.
Don Miguel hasn’t been very well since Christmas Day. I think the cold weather really bothers his arthritis, and lately he spends most of his time in front of the extremely large log fire in his salon. He drinks a bit too much wine, in my opinion, but he says that it helps to keep his heart healthy, and of course it helps to keep his spirits up too. I sit with him quite often, and we discuss books. I tell him stories about Kent, and he engrosses me in tales of El Cid, the knight who took Valencia from the Moors. They’re the Arabs who lived in Spain centuries ago.
Marta and Rosa are fine, although they seem to spend a lot of their time eating. I’ve put on so much weight that I’m afraid I’ll have to buy an entirely new wardrobe soon! Marta told me that in the winter, they eat a lot more because of the cold weather, and she also said that they need another layer of fat to keep out the cold. I laughed, but I think she’s right, you know.
They are all so kind, Auntie, and I really feel at home, although I am a little homesick at the moment. I don’t know why, but I suppose I am missing you and Mr Ayres.
Ernesto works hard, and I hardly see him. The orange trees are so heavily laden with their fruit that it’s surprising that the branches don’t snap off with the weight. He’s such a kind man, Auntie, and he makes me laugh and is very interesting to talk to. We used to go riding a lot but not so much now, which is such a shame, as I so enjoyed those days. He treats Pedro as he does his own son, and I think he really loves him. I know Pedro adores him because his eyes light up whenever he walks into the room, but as I said, I haven’t seen him so much recently. I do wish I could talk to you properly!
Just before Christmas, I went back to Valencia and had two wonderful days of sightseeing (I must take you there when you finally decide to come here). Anyway, I saw many beautiful buildings and Ernesto told me their history, which made them even more splendid. We ate in a fine restaurant, where I had a dish called ‘paella’. You can try that for yourself when you come. After dinner, Ernesto asked me to dance, and although I was scared of making a fool of myself to begin with, once I got the hang of it, I really enjoyed myself, and Ernesto said I was very good for a beginner.
So, Auntie, I hope this letter doesn’t take too long to reach you. I can’t wait to see you again. It seems like an age since we were together that last day in London. Remember having tea in your bed, with Pedro nestled in between us? We talked and talked, and that is what I miss the most.
I would be lying if I said I don’t think about Joseph, because I still think about him every day and wonder what’s happening to him and to the farm, of course. I know I promised not to, but I still hate him, Auntie. I yearn for the day that I can put him firmly in the past, I really do. The thought of him destroying my father’s hard work incenses me, and I can only pray to God that one day we will be able to restore Merrill Farm to the wonderful farm it was. Please let me know if there have been any developments regarding Joseph, for I will feel safe only when I know he is behind bars or at the end of a rope.
Finally, Auntie, if you happen to see or hear from Mrs Baxter, give her a hug and tell her that I miss her. Give my kind regards and best wishes to Mr Ayres and Mr Rawlings, if you ever see him, and please could you thank him for the wonderful books that he sent. Don Miguel was so very grateful to receive them, as was I.
For now, I send you all my love and a big kiss from Pedro.
Celia
Marie folded the letter and sat for a while digesting Celia’s news. She hadn’t received the letter about Joseph’s arrest! She was sure she posted it; she must have … This meant that she knew nothing. She must think she’d been abandoned.
She opened the letter again and read the part about Ernesto Martinéz. Her niece always talked about him in her letters, but in this one, she had kept her account of him very short. Only two weeks ago, she’d discussed this Ernesto with Mr Ayres, and they had both concluded that there was possibly more to the friendship than Celia was willing to admit. She wrote endlessly about the picnics they had, the horse rides in the mountains, and the time they spent together with the children. She half expected to see her niece in the early bloom of love, which would give her the greatest of pleasure. She didn’t know much about the man her niece was undoubtedly smitten with, but she’d been assured that he was an upstanding gentleman and in no way resembled Joseph Dobbs in any way, shape, or form. “They are as different as chalk and cheese,” Mr Ayres had told her.
Marie folded the letter again and put it inside her purse. Tea arrived, and she drank thirstily. Soon she would tell C
elia the biggest lie of all. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. She’d had sleepless nights wondering if she was doing the right thing, but she believed it to be the only way to ensure a decent future for Celia. She couldn’t allow her to live in fear anymore. And how would she take the news of Joseph’s supposed death? She’d been thinking about that too. Would Celia be able to hide this news from the Martinéz family? Or would she think it better to tell them the truth? Would she mourn Joseph at all? She didn’t think so. But Joseph was Peter’s father … No, Pedro. She must remember to call him that when she arrived at La Glorieta. No matter what Joseph was, no matter what he’d done, nothing would ever change the fact that he was the father of Celia’s child, so would she want to lie about his death to protect her son’s interests? Would she want to return home to Merrill Farm and begin a new chapter … or would the memories be too painful for her ever to go back?
She stared out the small round porthole, losing herself in the white-fringed waves trailing the ship’s hull. This was going to be even more difficult than she had imagined, and she was losing her nerve. First she would have to tell Celia about Joseph, then John, and that she was now married to Simon. She looked at the ring on her finger and smiled with memories still clear in her mind. She was happy, so happy, but still a little shaken by the quickness of it all. So much had happened all at once; her head was still spinning. Simon had proposed marriage to her right after Joseph’s escape. She’d accepted him without any hesitation or doubt in her mind. Simon was her husband now, she repeated to herself, and rightly so, for they had been together for so long. All that had been missing was the legal document to cement what was always meant to be. She had great affection for him, and the arrangement was as comfortable as an old pair of shoes. Maybe passion was missing, but she’d had all the passion she’d ever need with John’s father. Goodness, how she wished for Simon’s cool head to guide her through this, she thought. He’d know exactly the right way to tell Celia.
Chapter 32
Celia rode towards the other side of the valley. Ernesto had given her a horse for Christmas, and she’d called him Cid, after the great Christian knight. She rode alone now and had not seen Ernesto for some days.
She stopped at the weeping willow tree where they had picnicked together so many times and looked down into the lowest part of the valley, knowing instinctively that he was there. She missed him desperately. She missed their conversations and the simple pleasure that being in his company brought her. She knew that she’d hurt him. She’d seen that hurt in his eyes. She longed for him, felt the turbulence that love brought: torture yet bliss at the same time. She had felt this with Joseph too in the beginning, but she was not the naive young girl she once was, looking for romance and dreams of a one true love. She’d been captivated by an idea, a vision of how love could conquer all, and she’d stupidly believed that she’d conquered Joseph Dobbs’s heart. Joseph, however, was not the romantic character she’d portrayed him to be. He had been an enigma, which in truth she’d never thought to study or comprehend. From the day she first saw him, he became entwined in her own fantasy world, and in her loneliness, she had built his character, one that was without flaws and full of love.
She laughed scornfully at her own stupidity and then turned her thoughts to Ernesto. She loved him, yet she would say nothing, do nothing. She would not hunt him down and walk off with him hand in hand into the sunset. She and her Jane Austen fantasies had parted ways. Reality was very different; Joseph had taught her well.
Ernesto waited at the entrance to the hacienda. By his calculations, Celia’s aunt would arrive at any time. He checked his pocket watch and heard the sound of the horses’ hooves on the rocky bend just before La Glorieta’s main gates. He opened them and stopped the driver as soon as he came into view.
“Miss Osborne?” he asked Marie through the window of the carriage.
“Yes, and you are?” Marie asked, knowing fine well.
“Ernesto Martinéz. I am at your service, Señora. How was your journey?”
“It was very interesting, dear, but I’m afraid that the sea and I do not get along. I must admit that I’m very pleased to be on dry land.”
“You’re almost at the house. Would you like to talk now or after you’ve settled in?”
“I would appreciate it if we could talk before I see my niece. It’s a matter of great urgency. Here will be fine.”
Ernesto wound his horse’s reins around the branch of a tree, stepped inside the carriage, and sat opposite Marie.
“I hope you are comfortable?” he asked her.
Marie smiled one of her smiles that said, I think I like you.
“I’ve come this far. I think I’ll be all right for a few minutes longer.” She smiled again.
For once unsure of herself, she took off her gloves and then nervously shifted them from one hand to the other. On the voyage, she’d been questioning her decision to tell Ernesto Martinéz about Celia’s life in Kent. She had never laid eyes on the man before, didn’t know his character or what his reaction might be. She was taking a risk and hoped to God that he was the fine upstanding gentleman that Mr Ayres had portrayed him to be, that he would look sympathetically on her niece’s plight, forgive the lies, and understand why she’d thought it necessary to deceive his entire family. She began hesitantly.
“Señor Martinéz …”
“Ernesto, please.”
“Yes, thank you, Ernesto. I know you don’t know me at all, and here I am about to tell you the most intimate details of Celia’s life. I can only ask you not to say anything until I have explained everything to you. It will then be up to you as to what action you feel you have to take, if any, concerning Celia’s future here.”
Ernesto let out his breath, nodded, and waited patiently for her to begin again.
“You see, Celia, as you already know, was married. Joseph Dobbs was a man whom I can only describe as the worst kind of human being. He was cruel, sadistic, a gambler, a thief, and a murderer. He killed Celia’s father out of greed and his own father out of revenge.”
“Dios Mío … My God!”
“Yes, exactly,” Marie said. “He beat Celia on a regular basis and almost killed her the day before she gave birth to her son. There is no way now we could begin to comprehend the terror she must have felt every day whilst she was with him. She is proud, Ernesto, and she suffered at his hands for months before telling me what I already suspected, and to my shame, I did nothing. I said nothing until most of the damage had already been done, and I will never forgive myself for not intervening sooner. However, my inaction is the reason I’m telling you the truth about her husband and why I’m going to leave nothing out now; you must know everything.”
She coughed and asked for water. The first lie was out. There was no going back now, she thought gratefully.
Ernesto called to the driver and told him to bring water. She watched him, a good-looking man, she decided, and a gentle soul. She put the water to her lips and composed herself.
“First of all, my niece is not a deceitful woman by nature. You must believe that. When we finally learned the truth about Joseph Dobbs, we decided that the only way we could keep her safe was to send her away. She agreed, but at the same time, she insisted that her baby be born at the farm, her family home. She was adamant about this and no measure of persuasion would change her mind. Or maybe I didn’t try hard enough.
“In any case, Mr Ayres and I concocted a plan to rid her of her husband for good. I was determined to make Joseph Dobbs pay dearly for his crimes. I was not content to have him arrested for murder. I wanted to humiliate him in every way possible first. I wanted to destroy him as he’d destroyed my family. I allowed the farm to fall into disarray, to incur debt, and to be vandalised beyond recognition. I wanted Joseph to have the rope to hang himself, and in some devious part of my mind, I wanted Celia to find the situation intolerable. I wanted to force her to leave, you see, but at the same time make her believe that it was her decis
ion.
“Now, there are details that I shall omit at present, but I will tell you that we did get rid of him, and before he was charged and found guilty of Peter Merrill’s murder, we made sure he was stripped of his pride, money, possessions, and dignity – although the latter was something he’d always had in short supply.
“Ernesto, Joseph Dobbs was hanged eight weeks ago. Celia knows nothing about any of this, and she played no part in his demise. She doesn’t even know about the trial, never mind what we did to Joseph before his arrest.”
“So she thinks he is still alive? Living at the farm?” Ernesto asked with a calmness that surprised Marie.
“Yes, and my greatest worry now is that when she finds out he is dead, she will not be able to live with the secret. She has suffered so much already, too much, Ernesto. So I’m asking you to share her burden, the load she may never be able to shed.”
Ernesto shook his head and brushed his fingers through his hair. A thousand and one questions must be circling his mind, Marie thought. He looked as though he were about ready to burst. His anger was evident, but she observed that there was something more than anger in his eyes. It was pain! She leaned over and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Is there anything you want to ask?” she asked. “Please don’t be afraid. You have every right to know all the details.”
“I had no idea. So she was not a widow when she arrived here?” he asked.
“No, she wasn’t. We decided that the stigma of being a woman separated from her husband would be unsatisfactory and would involve too many questions that she couldn’t answer. She was never going to return to Joseph, so the guise of widow just seemed less complicated. Ernesto, I’m not asking you to understand why we did what we did. I’m asking you to forgive her; none of this is her fault.”
