There was an acquisitive gleam in his eyes when he said that and a certain teasing look too. I knew what he meant, of course.
We swam together. We explored the whole island and we usually chose the less well-known places to avoid the crowds. He hired two Neapolitan boatmen to take us on sea trips and there were wonderful days when we lay back in the boat letting our hands trail in the turquoise and emerald water while Giuseppe and Umberto, watching us with the indulgent looks Latins bestow on lovers, sang arias from Italian opera for our entertainment.
In spite of his dark looks there must have been something essentially English about Roc because Giuseppe and Umberto were immediately aware of his nationality. This ability to decide a person’s nationality often surprised me but it never seemed to fail. As for myself there was little difficulty in placing me. My hair was dark blond and there was a platinum-colored streak in it which had been there when I was born; it had the effect of making me look even more fair than I was. My eyes were the shade of water, and borrowed their color from what I was wearing. Sometimes they were green, at others quite blue. I had a short pert nose, a wide mouth and good teeth. I was by no means a beauty, but I had always looked more like a visitor to the island than a native.
During those weeks I was never quite sure of Roc. There were times when I was perfectly happy to enjoy each moment as it came along and not concern myself with the future; but when I was alone—at night, for instance—I wondered what I should do when he went home.
In those early days I knew the beginning of that frustration which later was to bring such fear and terror into my life. His gaiety often seemed to be a cloak for deeper feelings; even during his most tender moments I would imagine I saw speculation in his eyes. He intrigued me in a hundred ways. I knew that given any encouragement I could love him completely, but I was never sure of him, and perhaps that was one of the reasons why every moment I was with him held the maximum excitement.
One day, soon after we met, we climbed to the villa of Tiberius and never had that wonderful view seemed so superb as it did on that day. It was all there for our delight as I had seen it many times before—Capri and Monte Solaro, the Gulf of Salerno from Amalfi to Paestum, the Gulf of Naples from Sorrento to Cape Miseno. I knew it well, and yet because I was sharing it with Roc it had a new magic.
“Have you ever seen anything so enchanting?” I asked.
He seemed to consider. Then he said, “I live in a place which seems to me as beautiful.”
“Where?”
“Cornwall. Our bay is as beautiful—more so I think because it changes more often. Don’t you get weary of sapphire seas? Now, I’ve seen ours as blue—or almost; I’ve seen it green under the beating rain and brown after a storm and pink in the dawn; I’ve seen it mad with fury, pounding the rocks and sending the spray high, and I’ve seen it as silky as this sea. This is very beautiful, I grant you, and I don’t think Roman Emperors ever honored us in Cornwall with their villas and legends of their dancing boys and girls, but we have a history of our own which is just as enthralling.”
“I’ve never been to Cornwall.”
He suddenly turned to me and I was caught in an embrace which made me gasp. He said, with his face pressed against mine, “But you will … soon.”
I was conscious of the rose red ruins, the greenish statue of the Madonna, the deep blue of the sea, and life seemed suddenly too wonderful to be true.
He had lifted me off my feet and held me above him, laughing at me.
I said primly, “Someone will see us.”
“Do you care?”
“Well, I object to being literally swept off my feet.”
He released me and to my disappointment he did not say any more about Cornwall. That incident was typical of our relationship.
I realized that my father was taking a great interest in our friendship. He was always delighted to see Roc, and he would sometimes come to the door of the studio to meet us, after we’d been out on one of our excursions, looking like a conspirator, I thought. He was not a subtle man and it did not take me long to discover that some plan was forming in his mind and that it concerned Roc and me.
Did he think that Roc would propose to me? Was Roc’s feeling for me more definite than I dared hope, and had my father noticed this? And suppose I married Roc, what of the studio? How would my father get along without me, because if I married Roc I should have to go away with him.
I felt unsettled. I knew I wanted to marry Roc—but I was not sure about his feelings for me. How could I leave my father? But I had when I was at school, I reminded myself. Yes, and look at the result. Right from the beginning, being in love with Roc was an experience that kept me poised between ecstasy and anxiety.
But Roc had not talked of marriage.
Father often asked him to a meal, invitations Roc always accepted on condition that he should provide the wine. I cooked omelettes, fish, pasta, and even roast beef with Yorkshire pudding; the meals were well cooked because one of the things my mother had taught me was how to cook, and there had always been a certain amount of English dishes served in the studio.
Roc seemed to enjoy those meals thoroughly and would sit long over them talking and drinking. He began to talk a great deal about himself and his home in Cornwall; but he had a way of making Father talk, and he quickly learned about how we lived, the difficulties of making enough money during the tourist season to keep us during the lean months. I noticed that Father never discussed the time before his marriage, and Roc only made one or two attempts to persuade him. Then he gave it up, which was strange, because he was usually persistent—but it was characteristic of Roc simply because it was unexpected.
I remember one day coming in and finding them playing cards together. Father had that look on his face which always frightened me—that intent expression which made his eyes glow like blue fire; there was a faint pink color in his cheeks and as I came in he scarcely looked up.
Roc got up from his chair but I could see that he shared my father’s feeling for the game. I felt very uneasy as I thought: So he’s a gambler too.
“Favel won’t want to interrupt the game,” said my father.
I looked into Roc’s eyes and said coldly: “I hope you aren’t playing for high stakes.”
“Don’t worry your head about that, my dear,” said Father.
“He’s determined to lure the lire from my pockets,” added Roc, his eyes sparkling.
“I’ll go and get something to eat,” I told them, and went into the kitchen.
I shall have to make him understand Father can’t afford to gamble, I told myself.
When we sat over the meal my father was jubilant, so I guessed he had won.
I spoke to Roc about it the next day at the beach.
“Please don’t encourage my father to gamble. He simply can’t afford it.”
“But he gets so much pleasure from it,” he replied.
“Lots of people get pleasure from things that aren’t good for them.”
He laughed. “You know you’re a bit of a martinet.”
“Please listen to me. We’re not rich enough to risk losing money that has been so hard to come by. We live here very cheaply, but it’s not easy. Is that impossible for you to understand?”
“Please don’t worry, Favel,” he said, putting his hand over mine.
“Then you won’t play for money with him any more?”
“Suppose he asks me? Shall I say, I decline the invitation because your strong-minded daughter forbids us?”
“You could do better than that.”
He looked pious. “But it wouldn’t be true.”
I shrugged my shoulders impatiently. “Surely you can find other people to gamble with. Why do you have to choose him?”
He looked thoughtful and said: “I suppose it’s because I like the atmosphere of his studio.” We were lying on the beach and he reached out and turned me towards him. Looking into my face he went on: “I like the treasures he has there
.”
It was in moments like this when I believed his feelings matched my own. I was elated and at the same time afraid I should betray too much. So I stood up quickly and walked into the sea; he was close behind me.
“Don’t you know, Favel,” he said, putting his arm round my bare shoulder, “that I want very much to please you?”
I had to turn and smile at him then. Surely, I thought, the look he gave me was one of love.
We were happy and carefree when we swam, and later, as we lay in the sun on the beach, I felt once more that supreme happiness which is being in love.
Yet two days later I came in from the market and found them sitting at the card table. The game was finished, but I could see by my father’s face that he had lost and by Roc’s that he had won.
I felt my cheeks flame and my eyes were hard as I looked into Roc’s face. I said nothing but went straight into the kitchen with my basket. I set it down angrily and to my dismay found my eyes full of tears. Tears of fury, I told myself, because he had made a fool of me. He was not to be trusted. This was a clear indication of it; he promised one thing and did another.
I wanted to rush out of the studio, to find some quiet spot away from everyone where I could stay until I was calm enough to face him again.
I heard a voice behind me: “What can I do to help?”
I turned and faced him. I was grateful that the tears had not fallen. They were merely making my eyes look more brilliant, and he should not guess how wretched I was.
I said shortly: “Nothing. I can manage, thank you.”
I turned back to the table and then I felt him standing close to me; he had gripped my shoulders and was laughing.
He put his face close to my ear and whispered: “I kept my promise, you know. We didn’t play for money.”
I shook him off and went to a drawer of the table, which I opened and rummaged in without knowing for what.
“Nonsense,” I retorted. “The game wouldn’t have meant a thing to either of you if there’d been no stakes. It isn’t that you enjoy playing cards. It’s win or lose. And of course you both think that you’re going to win every time. It seems absurdly childish to me. One of you has to lose.”
“But you must understand that I kept my promise.”
“Please don’t bother to explain. I can trust my eyes, you know.”
“We were gambling … certainly. You’re right when you said it wouldn’t interest us if we were not. Who do you think won this time?”
“I have a meal to prepare.”
“I won this.” He put his hand in his pocket and drew out the statuette.
Then he laughed. “I determined to get it by fair means or foul. Fortunately it turned out to be fair. So you see I kept my promise to you, I had my gamble, and I own this delightful creature.”
“Take the knives and forks for me, will you please?” I said.
He slipped the statue into his pocket and grinned at me. “With the greatest pleasure.”
The next day he asked me to marry him. At his suggestion we had climbed the steep path to the Grotto of Matromania. I had always thought it the least exciting of the grottoes and the Blue, Green, Yellow, and Red, or the Grotto of the Saints, were all more worth a visit, but Roc said he had not seen it and wanted me to take him there.
“A very appropriate spot,” he commented when we reached it.
I turned to look at him and he caught my arm and held it tightly.
“Why?” I asked.
“You know,” he replied.
But I was never sure of him—not even at this moment when he regarded me with so much tenderness.
“Matromania,” he murmured.
“I’d heard that this was dedicated to Mithromania known as Mithras,” I said quickly because I was afraid of betraying my feelings.
“Nonsense,” he replied. “This is where Tiberius held his revels for young men and maidens. I read it in the guide book. It means matrimony because they married here.”
“There seem to be two opinions then.”
“Then we’d better give it another reason for its importance. It’s the spot where Petroc Pendorric asked Favel Farington to marry him and where she said …”
He turned to me and in that moment I was certain he loved me as passionately as I loved him.
There was no need for me to answer.
We went back to the studio; he was elated and I was happier than I had ever been before.
Father was so delighted when we told him the news that it was almost as though he wished to get rid of me. He refused to discuss what he would do when I had gone, and I was terribly worried until Roc told me that he would insist on his accepting an allowance. Why shouldn’t he from his own son-in-law? He’d commission some pictures if that would make it easier. Perhaps that would be a good idea. “We’ve lots of bare wall space at Pendorric,” he added.
And for the first time I began to think seriously about the place which would be my home; but although Roc was always ready to talk of it in general, he said he wanted me to see it and judge for myself. If he talked to me too much I might imagine something entirely different and perhaps be disappointed—though I couldn’t believe I could be disappointed in a home I shared with him.
We were very much in love. Roc seemed no longer a stranger. I felt I understood him. There was a streak of mischief in him and he loved to tease me. “Because,” he told me once, “you’re too serious, too old-fashioned in many ways to be true.”
I pondered on that and supposed I was different from girls he had known, because of my upbringing—the intimate family circle, the school which was run on the same lines as it had been twenty or thirty years before. Also, I had felt my responsibilities deeply when my mother had died. I must learn to be more lighthearted, gay, up-to-date, I told myself.
Our wedding was going to be very quiet; there would be a few guests from the English colony, and Roc and I were going to stay at the studio for a week afterwards; then we were to go to England.
I asked him what his family would think of his returning with a bride they had never met.
“I’ve written and told them we’ll soon be home. They’re not so surprised as you imagine. One thing they have learned to expect from me is the unexpected,” he replied cheerfully. “They’re wild with delight. You see they think it’s the duty of all Pendorrics to marry, and they believe I’ve waited long enough.”
I wanted to hear more about them. I wanted to be prepared, but he always put me off.
“I’m not very good at describing things,” he answered. “You’ll be there soon enough.”
“But this Pendorric … I gather it is something of a mansion.”
“It’s the family home. I suppose you could call it that.”
“And … who is the family?”
“My sister, her husband, their twin daughters. You don’t have to worry, you know. They won’t be in our wing. It’s a family custom that all who can, remain at home, and bring their families to live there.”
“And it’s near the sea.”
“Right on the coast. You’re going to love it. All Pendorrics do and you’ll be one of them very soon.”
I think it was about a week before my wedding day that I noticed the change in my father.
I came in quietly one day and found him sitting at the table staring ahead of him, and because he had not seen me for a few moments I caught him in repose; he looked suddenly old; and more than that … frightened.
“Father,” I cried, “what’s the matter?”
He started up and he smiled but his heart wasn’t in it.
“The matter? Why, nothing’s the matter.”
“But you were sitting there …”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’ve been working on that bust of Tiberius. It tired me.”
I accepted his excuse temporarily and forgot about it.
But not for long. My father had never been able to keep things to himself and I began to believe that he was hiding something f
rom me, something which caused him the utmost anxiety.
One early morning, about two days before the wedding, I awoke to find someone moving about in the studio. The illuminated dial of my bedside clock said three o’clock.
I hastily put on a dressing gown, quietly opened the door of my room, and, peeping out, saw a dark shadow seated at the table.
“Father!” I cried.
He started up. “My dear child, I’ve disturbed you. It’s all right. Do go back to bed.”
I went to him and made him sit down. I drew up a chair. “Look here,” I insisted, “you’d better tell me what’s wrong.”
He hesitated and then said: “But it’s nothing. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought it would do me good to come and sit out here for a while.”
“But why couldn’t you sleep? There’s something on your mind, isn’t there?”
“I’m perfectly all right.”
“It’s no use saying that when it obviously isn’t true. Are you worried about me … about my marrying?”
Again that slight pause. Of course that’s it, I thought.
He said: “My dear child, you’re very much in love with Roc, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Favel … you’re sure, aren’t you?”
“Are you worried because we’ve known each other such a short while?”
He did not answer that, but murmured: “You’ll go right away from here … to his place in Cornwall … to Pendorric.”
“But we’ll come to see you! And you’ll come to stay with us.”
“I think,” he went on, and it was as though he were talking to himself, “that if something prevented your marriage it would break your heart.”
He stood up suddenly. “I’m cold. Let’s get back to bed. I’m sorry I disturbed you, Favel.”
“Father, we really ought to have a talk. I wish you would tell me everything that’s on your mind.”
“You go along to bed, Favel. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
He kissed me and we went to our rooms. How often later I was to reproach myself for allowing him to evade me like that. I ought to have insisted on knowing.
Bride of Pendorric Page 2
