Dr Oliveira finished examining her and nodded, puzzled. ‘Certainly there is a baby. Perhaps, under the circumstances, you would prefer it if there was an early miscarriage?’
Nancy stared at him. ‘I don’t understand you. Are you saying I will miscarry?’ Fear was naked in her eyes.
He said gently, ‘A woman in your condition cannot carry a baby full term, Mrs Cameron. Whatever life is left for you will be shortened considerably by the attempt.’
‘But I must have the baby. I must!’ Her eyes were fanatical.
He sighed and said carefully, ‘The choice, of course, is yours. I can only give you my advice. So far the symptoms of your disease have been slight. There have been fainting attacks and nosebleeds. However, with the added strain of pregnancy, your illness is going to be more apparent.’
She twisted her hands tightly in her lap. ‘In what way, Dr Oliveira?’
‘Your tiredness is going to increase; as is the feeling of cold you experience and keep so silent about.’
Subconsciously Nancy touched the hem of the light cashmere shawl she had begun to take everywhere with her. The little Portuguese doctor’s eyes were sharp.
‘Your hair will lose its lustre; your nails become brittle.’
‘Is that all?’ There was relief in her voice. ‘It seems a small price to pay to carry a child.’
Dr Oliveira’s eyes were kind. ‘I am not an expert on blood diseases, Mrs Cameron. I shall, of course, write to your New York specialist. He will be able to give me much more information. That is, if you insist on attempting to carry the baby.’
His eyes held hers steadily. ‘My personal advice is for an abortion. Especially under the rather unusual circumstances.’
She turned away from him and stared out over the sea. He was not talking about her illness. He was alluding to the parentage of her child. He knew the father was Ramon; as would everybody else. She would have to leave the island.
‘I intend to have the baby in Portugal,’ she said with calm determination. ‘I would appreciate it if you could attend me there through my pregnancy and birth.’
Dr Oliveira spread his hands wide in resignation. ‘If you insist on carrying the child I will give you every assistance possible. However …’ His sharp, black eyes were bleak. ‘… you must understand clearly, Mrs Cameron, that although there is the possibility that you will carry the child and that it will be healthy, there can be no possibility of a recovery for you from the birth.’
A small pulse beat in her throat. Her twisting fingers were stilled.
‘You will haemorrhage, Mrs Cameron. It is inevitable.’
‘And die?’
He nodded.
Her smile was haunting in its sadness and sweetness. ‘I think, Dr Oliveira, that I would prefer to die giving life than die slowly, day by day.’
Dr Oliveira nodded. She was steadfast in her decision and he accepted it. He doubted if she would carry the baby to full term but miracles had happened before. Mrs Cameron carried with her her own brand of magic and magic and miracles went hand in hand. It was possible. He would do his utmost to see that it became a reality.
‘Whereabouts in Portugal do you intend to stay? It would be advisable to be within easy reach of Lisbon or Oporto.’
Already his mind was on blood transfusions: on the possibility that he might have been wrong in his prognosis. That if she was fed with the right haemotinics, if she had a transfusion immediately she started to haemorrhage, that her death would not be inevitable.
‘Lisbon,’ she said, her twisting fingers once more relaxed in her lap. She had thought about where to go all the previous night. She had dismissed Ireland as being too damp and Switzerland as being too popular with members of her own set. She wanted peace and seclusion. The answer had been obvious. She would have the baby in Lisbon. Ramon’s Portuguese blood had always dominated over his American blood. He would have wanted, his child to be born in Portugal. The Sanford family home was in Oporto. If Ramon journeyed to the mainland, Oporto was the city he would return to, not Lisbon.
Dr Oliveira rose to his feet. ‘Then I will attend you in Lisbon, Mrs Cameron.’
She smiled at him, shook his hand and, pulling her shawl lightly over her shoulders, walked out into the garden.
She no longer dressed lavishly for Sanfords’cocktail parties and dinners, for she no longer attended them. Occasionally she would dine with friends: Felix and Venetia and perhaps Costas and the now seemingly tamed Madeleine. The sultan and Marisa often spent an hour sitting on her terrace over daiquiris before joining the pleasure-loving throng in the public rooms. Marisa had managed to accomplish what Nancy thought impossible – to present bull-fighting in a new and acceptable light.
‘I hate it,’ Nancy said one evening as they sat in the dusk, fireflies flirting around the lamps, iced mint juleps making a refreshing change from the endless flow of champagne. ‘It’s like fox hunting. A cruel sport.’
The sultan had laughed. ‘I thought you were half English. How can you disapprove of their national sport?’
‘It’s only the national sport of a certain section of English society. My section. My American upbringing has disastrous results as far as my mother’s relatives are concerned. I never have and never will partake in a fox hunt.’
Marisa had made a rude noise. ‘Fox hunting is a sport that requires no skill or courage; except for sitting a horse and a child of ten can sit a horse. In bullfighting a matador risks his life.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘When I have thrust the banderillas in the bull’s neck and I dismount for the kill, I stand in the sand of the ring and it is only the bull and myself. And then. .’ Her tiny body was tense, erect, as if she were once again in the bull ring. ‘… and then I plunge my sword into the back of his skull and the bull is dead and I am alive!’
Nancy shuddered.
Marisa said impatiently, ‘Every bull that is ever born is eventually killed by man. Bulls bred for the ring live in glory and die with honour, not like the emasculated lives of bulls bred for beef. There is no glory or bravery in their deaths. The fighting bull lives freely and wildly: for four, five or six years – not a brief two-year span of bulls that are bred for food. Then, when he dies, it is fighting. Showered with flowers. Applauded by hundreds. If I were a bull I would much, much rather be a bull reared for the ring than a pathetic, domestic animal, reared only to be slaughtered for meat!’
A knock at the door startled her. She had promised Sonny she would have a drink with him and was dressed in a gold embroidered kaftan that had been a gift from the sultan. She remembered Villiers. She had no need of his list. She had only to ask him to book her a passage to Lisbon.
Maria opened the door and Ramon strode into the room, his entrance almost a physical impact.
Maria did not need to be told to leave. She scurried through the still-open door. Had Mrs Sanford told her son of Mrs Cameron’s condition? Holy Mary, what had she done? She hurried to find Luis and seek comfort in arms that she knew now never held another woman.
She sat down on her dressing table stool, the strength flooding from her legs. He remained standing; legs apart, a deep frown furrowing his brow. There was a slight tic at the corner of his jawline. He was dressed for dinner; in a white tuxedo and a shirt so lavishly embellished with point de venise lace that it would have looked effeminate on a lesser man. On Ramon it looked magnificent. The intricate ruffles that fronted it and circled his wrists emphasized his raw masculinity. His cufflinks were large diamonds. The ruby glowed like fire on the little finger of his left hand. His usual easy, almost insolent negligence had been replaced by a tenseness that unnerved her. He looked like an animal about to spring.
Her heart was beating so fast and irregularly that she thought she was going to faint. She sat perfectly motionless, her hands folded in her lap. She must give an appearance of calm; she must remain controlled. There would be plenty of ships en route to Lisbon. This time tomorrow she would be aboard one. This was the last time she would have to suf
fer such an encounter. The last time she would see the father of her child.
‘Marry me,’ he said and there was no pleading, no asking, in his voice. It was a harsh command: an order.
She could not bring her breathing under control. Motionless, she was beginning to pant.
‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’ She sounded as if she were refusing a dinner invitation.
His eyes were terrible. ‘Agree to marry me or I leave this room and ask Tessa Rossman!’
‘No!’ The agonized cry flew from her lips before she could prevent it, her hand clutching wildly at her palpitating heart, her eyes desperate.
He was across the room, kneeling before her, his hands imprisoning her wrists, his eyes glazing.
‘Why not? For the love of God, Nancy, why not? I don’t believe what you said to me about our affaire. That it was simply fun and that you were now bored. I refuse to believe it. I will not believe it! I’ll go to my grave and I will not believe those things you said to me! There have been no other men. I know, because I’ve had you watched every minute of every day. You love me, Nancy. I know it!’
‘No …’ The cry came from the very depths of her soul. ‘No. I did mean it. Truly.’
He was on his feet, towering above her, demented with rage and incomprehension and longing.
‘I don’t believe it, Nancy. I … do … not … BELIEVE … it!’
She said nothing. Speech was beyond her.
‘Damn you to hell!’ he shouted savagely. ‘Tessa Rossman is worth a hundred of you! You’ve done me a great favour, Nancy. Thank you!’
He was leaving her.
‘Ramon …’ she gasped, but the door had slammed. Her whole will was bent on the effort of remaining seated, of not rushing after him. Seconds passed and merged into minutes. Her inner battle was over. She was still in her room. She had not run, crying his name, through Sanfords’marbled halls. It was a Pyrrhic victory.
She cancelled her arrangements for drinks with Sonny and ordered Maria to start packing. Villiers came and was shocked at her appearance. She was shivering, her skin bloodless. There was a liner leaving for Lisbon in the morning. The state rooms were all occupied but a single cabin could be obtained. She went to great lengths to ask about connections from Lisbon to New York. Ramon must not suspect that Lisbon was her final destination. Villiers meticulously informed her of sailing dates and times and offered to make the arrangements. She declined. She would do so herself in Lisbon. She thanked him and dismissed him. He had the distinct impression that she was barely aware of his presence.
The next morning she rose early, said a brief goodbye to an astonished Georgina, Bobo and Venetia and left a note for Prince Vasileyev. Then, at ten o’clock, accompanied only by Maria, she discreetly left Sanfords by a side entrance. Her gold-monogrammed luggage was piled neatly in the rear of the Rolls. Dark glasses hid her face.
At ten-thirty, Villiers sought a private audience with Mrs Sanford. He was refused, as everyone else had been for the last week. He insisted. He even, to the stunned amazement of the staff, grew agitated. At ten forty-five he was admitted. At eleven o’clock Ramon was summoned to his mother’s bedside.
Nancy was the last to board the Helena. Maria had hurried below to supervise the unpacking of the case containing Mrs Cameron’s requirements for the short, four day voyage to Lisbon. Nancy remained on deck. Anchor chains were hauled. Engines throbbed. The sleek liner began to move slowly away from Funchal’s dockside and towards the open Atlantic.
Sanfords’ rose-red roofs gleamed enticingly. Words learnt in childhood were recalled to memory. It seemed to her that Sanfords was ‘the sheening bright city built on a hill, barred by high gates’ in Dialogues of Mortality.
She remembered Eroton’s question: ‘Barred from all, Phraetes?’
‘From all, Eroton, who do not desire to enter it more strongly than they desire all other cities.’
‘Then it is barred indeed and most men must let it go.’
She had let it go. She had not desired to enter it and remain more than she had desired to spare her father from destruction.
The figures around the harbour were smaller. The bullocks and carts and white straw-hatted Madeirans like toy animals and people. Madeira rose from the depths of the sea, its perfume still lingering, carried on the breeze. Mimosa and bougainvillaea, hibiscus and strelitzia, birds-of-paradise and her favourite pastel-petalled franciscea. The jacaranda blossom drowned Funchal in a lilac haze. Flame trees were now in flower, their fiery blossom brilliant against the lush green foliage and the purity of white lilies. Madeirans said that their island was the original Garden of Eden. It had been hers, briefly.
Her hand gripped hold of the deckrail. A Daimler was racing crazily down to the dockside, flower sellers scattering hurriedly, bullocks breaking into a run to avoid being mown down. He leapt from the motor and raced towards the Kezia, deserted apart from its crew, ever since the abortive arrival of his lawyer.
More people began strolling to the deckrails to watch with curiosity as the Kezia began to ease away from its berth. It would have been prudent to wait until the Helena gained open waters. There was a mass of smaller shipping in the harbour and it was customary to give a liner the size of the Helena a clear passage. The Kezia, for all its magnificence, was smaller and sleeker than the Helena. From the far side of the harbour it headed not to open sea, but with increasing speed diagonally in the path of the liner. Now the rails were crowded with apprehensive passengers.
The captain blew warning blasts, all to no avail. The Kezia never wavered. She was heading at right angles, straight into the Helena’s path. The liner’s engines were silenced. Until the Kezia continued on her erratic way, she had no way of outmanoeuvering her.
‘Remove yourself at once,’ the Helena’s captain called angrily through a hailer.
‘You are about to be boarded,’ the Kezia’s captain returned. Already a dinghy was being lowered into the water. The crowd’s apprehension had turned to excitement. There was to be no collision. Their lives were not in danger.
‘It’s Sanford!’
‘Who?’
‘Sanford!’
Nancy hung on the deckrail. Had he lost his senses altogether? Was he going to kill her? Carry her off? He leapt agilely from the rocking dinghy to the hastily lowered rope ladder, shouldering his way through the restraining hands of the Helena’s crew as if they were no more than annoying flies.
‘Nancy!’
The crowd around her parted, goggle-eyed. ‘Nancy!’
He was holding her so tightly that she could not breathe. His voice held something that, if she had not known Ramon better, she would have interpreted as a sob and then his mouth was on hers and there was no denying him.
Her lips parted willingly beneath his. She could not live without him. Whatever the cost, however high the price, she had to have him.
‘Come on!’ He was dragging her in his wake, male passengers applauding loudly – female ones sighing enviously.
‘But Ramon …’
‘Come on!’
The ladder seemed to stretch into infinity.
‘I can’t!’
‘You can, or I’ll put you over my shoulder.’
There were cheers as she made her perilous descent. A handful of the Kezia’s crew helped her aboard the dinghy. Ramon leapt in beside her.
‘You bloody fool!’ he said angrily.
Of all the things she had expected, this was the least.
‘Why didn’t you tell me? How dare you go off to have my child as if it were nothing to do with me?’ The Kezia’s crew hung on to every word.
‘You don’t understand …’
‘I do bloody understand! I understand that you and my mother and your damn fool father have nearly ruined our lives! He never killed my father or even caused him to be killed! My father died of a cerebral haemorrhage. I should know! I was there!’ He was gripping her wrists so tightly that she thought he must be stopping the flow of blood. ‘Your father
’s inept accomplice merely loosened the screw on his Lagonda. His Lagonda did crash. Because my father, like myself, enjoyed driving himself. Ever since, your father has believed he was responsible. He wasn’t. Every wheel on the Lagonda was still in place. I might add that I’m bloody glad he did believe he killed my father. He could have!’
‘But he didn’t?’ She was crying with relief.
‘Of course he didn’t! Now, for God’s sake, stop crying and kiss me!’
It took five minutes for the dinghy to reach the Kezia; another three for her to climb the swaying ladder to the blessed safety of the deck. Eight minutes and she had come to the most important decision of her life. She would marry Ramon and she would keep her secret. Their child would be born in wedlock. Nothing was going to spoil their newfound happiness. If she told him the truth now, he would be devastated. The months of her pregnancy would be spent futilely chasing from consultant to consultant and all to no avail. She had grown and matured in the months since she had stood in Dr Lorrimer’s claustrophobically hot surgery. She had discovered a strength of character she had never before suspected she possessed. She had learnt to live with her knowledge – treasuring each new day that dawned; grateful for pain as well as joy. Grateful for anything that denoted she was still alive and in love. The burden was hers and she would not share it. Her baby would be born and would have a father. In time, perhaps Ramon would marry again. There was Tessa Rossman, with her fair hair and sweet smile. Tessa would make a gentle and loving stepmother. The future was indeterminable. All that mattered now was that she was once again with Ramon, loving and loved.
Zia was a reborn woman. ‘Darling, isn’t it wonderful news?’ she exclaimed, walking across the grass of her garden to meet them with a spring in her step that had been absent for weeks. The champagne and orange juice and petits-fours were once again in evidence.
‘I do think it would be hypocritical for you to remain in the Garden Suite and Ramon in his, under the circumstances. And I do want you to stay here until the baby is born. At least at Sanfords you can be sure of some privacy.’
The Flower Garden Page 44
