The Sanchez Tradition

by Anne Mather

  ‘I think this is far enough, don’t you?’

  Rachel shrugged, and he took her silence as agreement, and drew out some papers which he tapped on his hand. ‘Everything you need is here,’ he said coolly. ‘Passport, documents, everything.’

  ‘I have my passport,’ returned Rachel sharply.

  ‘Yes, I know. This is Maria’s. You leave the day after tomorrow, a flight from Nassau in the afternoon. Marcus or Olivia will meet you at Galeao. They’ll take it from there. Clothes—that kind of thing—can be bought in Nassau tomorrow. Ramon will look after you.’

  Rachel felt almost stunned by his cool assumption of her acceptance. ‘You’ve worked everything out, haven’t you?’ she exclaimed bitterly. ‘Just how long am I expected to stay in Brazil?’

  André frowned, his face vaguely visible in the lights that emanated from the house into the garden. ‘I suggested perhaps three months,’ he remarked casually. ‘Olivia will be glad of your company. Marcus is a busy man these days and doesn’t have a lot of free time. Besides, it will enable you to recover completely from your bereavement in surroundings that are strange and therefore impersonal.’

  Rachel shook her head incredulously. ‘Your overbearing arrogance never fails to astound me!’ she cried passionately. ‘And what about your divorce?’ Her tone was bitter. ‘Won’t this hold up the proceedings?’

  André shook his head, putting the papers back in his pocket. ‘I don’t foresee any difficulties there,’ he replied coldly. ‘Your agreement isn’t necessary in the circumstances. You left me, remember, and desertion requires less than five years to be made absolute!’

  ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ she exclaimed hotly. ‘And such a convenient arrangement to get rid of me!’

  André’s eyes darkened. ‘That was not my intention, and you know it!’ he snapped, caught on the raw. ‘You were quite prepared to return to London. My plans for you were made in an attempt to ease your grief!’

  Rachel kicked a stone impatiently. ‘Why is it you’re always right, and I’m always wrong?’ she asked angrily. ‘I always misunderstand your most generous motives, don’t I?’ Her tone was scornful.

  André took a step towards her. ‘You deliberately provoke violence!’ he snapped harshly.

  Rachel gave a scornful laugh. ‘From you?’ she asked mockingly. ‘How could I do that? You’re safe and secure behind your mistress’s skirts!’

  But now she realised she had gone too far and the look in his eyes terrified her. She really thought he could have killed her in that moment. With stumbling steps, she turned and ran away from him, down the slope through the lawns and rose gardens, through the small ranch fencing on to the beach. She wasn’t aware that he was following her, she only knew she must escape from the primitive fury in his eyes. After all, he had Spanish blood in his veins, and the Spaniards could be very cruel. It wasn’t until she turned to take a breath that she realised her own panting passage had silenced the sound of his pursuit, and he was right behind her.

  A choking sob broke from her lips and she sped along the beach, holding up the hampering skirts of her gown in an effort to escape retribution. But he was swifter, and stronger, and infinitely more powerful, and he caught a handful of her hair, halting her in an agonised scream, and causing her to sink to her knees before him. Tears sprang to her eyes as much from the pain of her head as from fear of him and anger still had the upper hand.

  ‘You pig!’ she cried, putting a hand to her head, her face pale and tear-wet in the moonlight.

  André stood above her, legs apart, the epitome of male dominance, and she tried unsteadily to get to her feet. But André’s eyes blazed with unleashed passion, and when she tried to move he came down beside her, pressing her back on to the sand, her hands pinned behind her head.

  ‘Brute, bully; let go of me!’ she cried, twisting her head from side to side as he stared down at her, his face only inches above hers. But then something in his eyes made her stop struggling and her breath became a thunder in her ears as all resistance went out of her.

  ‘God, oh God!’ she heard him groan agonisingly, and then the hard pressure of his mouth sought the parted sweetness of hers, and the whole weight of his hard body obliterated coherent thought. Rachel’s arms slid round his neck, her fingers in his hair pressing his head closer as her body arched against his. ‘Rachel, Rachel,’ he muttered feverishly, searching her eyes and ears and throat with burning lips. ‘You’re driving me out of my mind!’ His mouth sought hers again. Her whole being was on fire for him; no one could make love like André and nothing mattered but that he should go on and on…

  The sound of voices along the beach brought André to his senses, and with a savage ejaculation he got abruptly to his feet, brushing sand from the immaculate material of his suit, and smoothing his hair into some semblance of order. He stood looking down at her with inflamed eyes, and then said: ‘Get up, for heaven’s sake!’ and bending, wrenched her to her feet.

  Rachel looked at him uncomprehendingly, and he said harshly: ‘Don’t imagine this changes anything, Rachel!’ in a low tone.

  Rachel felt as though a douche of cold water had been scattered over her. Stiffening her shoulders, she said: ‘You’re flattering yourself, Mr. Sanchez!’ in a scornful voice. She brushed her gown into place, aware that nothing would restore order to the wild disarray of her hair, and she could only hope that no one would notice, or if they did that they would put it down to the wind. She couldn’t imagine who would have followed them anyway, but she managed to stroll casually at André’s side back to the lights of the house that spread a glow over one stretch of the sands, ignoring the speculative glances he cast in her direction.

  Leonie, Irena, and Vittorio were standing just inside the gardens and all turned to look at Rachel and André as they came to join them. Rachel had to admire André’s nonchalance, as he said calmly: ‘What’s going on? Is this a search-party? I assure you we have only been a few yards along the beach. Rachel’—he hesitated infinitesimally—‘wanted to get some air.’

  Leonie came to his side at once. ‘Darling, it’s getting late. We really must go.’

  André bent his head in assent. ‘Okay, Leonie, right now! I’ll just go and see my mother before we leave.’

  ‘All right, darling.’ Leonie let him go and André walked swiftly into the house. Then Rachel became the cynosure of all eyes, and she was glad of the anonymity of the moonlight. No heated cheeks could be noticed, and hers were heated, she was sure. In fact, there was an awful sense of anti-climax about the whole evening, and a disturbing ache in the lower region of her stomach. Some wild emotion inside her cried out for fulfilment, and she wondered what André would say if she begged him to stay, in front of his so-elegant girl-friend. His touch, his lovemaking, even his anger, had awakened all the latent longings inside her, desires which she had thought stilled with the passage of time but which now she knew were not stilled at all. She wanted André back, there was no sense in denying the futility of the knowledge, and that he was to leave in a few minutes was something she could not accept.

  Uncaring of what construction the others might place on her actions, she turned and ran up the paths into the house and encountered André in the hall on the point of leaving. He would have passed her, but she caught his arm impulsively, preventing him. ‘André,’ she murmured huskily, allowing her fingers to caress the smooth texture of his sleeve.

  André’s breathing was uneven, but he said roughly: ‘What do you want of me now, Rachel?’

  Rachel ran her tongue over her lower lip. ‘André,’ she said softly, ‘we’ve got to talk.’

  André’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t try anything, Rachel,’ he snapped violently. ‘Not now.’

  Rachel touched his cheek with her fingertips. ‘André,’ she repeated pleadingly, ‘don’t go like this! Not in anger! Just now—out there—you wanted me—–’

  André stared at her with glazed eyes. ‘Yes,’ he snarled harshly, ‘I w
ant you, but by God! I’ll never take you!’ He thrust her away from him.

  Rachel’s eyes mirrored her hurt. ‘Why?’ she asked unsteadily.

  André raked a hand through his hair. ‘I loved you, Rachel,’ he ground out fiercely. ‘To distraction! I never thought I’d ever get you out of my mind, but I have, and now I’ve found somebody who loves me in the way I used to love you, and I find it’s a far more acceptable arrangement! Oh, I admit you’re a beautiful woman, a beautiful desirable woman as you ever were, but while I might desire your body, I want no part of your soul, and that’s what love is all about, so the poets say.’

  Rachel shook her head in bitterness. ‘You’re a cruel swine, André,’ she gasped. ‘You never used to be so cruel.’

  ‘I’m the way you made me,’ he bit out the words. ‘Once my life wasn’t good enough for you, you were bored and restless, so bored and restless that you deliberately destroyed the child—my child—you were carrying!’

  ‘That’s not true!’ she cried weakly. ‘It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t want to lose the baby—I wanted it!’

  André looked scornful and disbelieving. ‘You must have said that to yourself so many times you almost believe it yourself!’ he sneered.

  ‘It’s the truth!’

  ‘Then why did you run away afterwards? You could have had other children.’

  Rachel stared at him incredulously. ‘You ask me that!’ she exclaimed. ‘After all you said—after the way you acted!’

  ‘So it was my fault?’ André turned away. ‘Goodnight, Rachel. Happy trip!’ and with that he left her.

  Rachel stumbled into the lounge, pausing nauseated on the threshold, and looked straight into Madam Sanchez’s compassionate eyes.

  ‘You heard?’ she whispered wearily.

  Madam Sanchez nodded. ‘Yes, I heard, Rachel. Come and sit down. I think it’s time we had a talk, don’t you?’

  Rachel lifted her shoulders helplessly, but although she couldn’t see what good talking would do, she did not relish the prospect of returning to her room and allowing her tortuous thoughts to destroy her. So she advanced slowly into the lounge and accepted the drink André’s mother thrust into her hand. She knew she must look pretty dreadful; she had felt the blood drain out of her face as André spoke to her, and now she felt completely enervated.

  Madam Sanchez indicated that she should sit on the divan and then seated herself opposite her. Rachel sipped the brandy she had been given, and tried to think coherently. But the memory of André’s cruel lashing words remained, and she shivered in spite of the heat of her body. Eventually Irena returned, and she came to the lounge door, viewing her mother and her sister-in-law mockingly.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked sneeringly. ‘Confession?’

  Madam Sanchez gave her daughter a quelling glance. ‘If you have nothing constructive to say, Irena, kindly keep your comments to yourself,’ she snapped.

  Irena shrugged, viewing Rachel curiously. ‘What’s wrong? Has André given Rachel the thrashing she deserves?’

  Rachel looked up at Irena, anger temporarily banishing her pain. ‘You’re always so interested in other people’s problems, aren’t you, Irena?’ she flared. ‘Why, I wonder? Is it because that’s what life has become for you? An ever-changing panorama of which you are just the spectator? Because that’s all you are—a spectator!’ Her voice broke ignominiously, and she bent her head, fighting for control.

  Irena gave a self-satisfied smile. ‘Well, well, something’s happened, that’s for sure! I’ve never seen you cry before, Rachel. It’s quite a novelty. I understood witches couldn’t cry.’

  ‘Irena!’ Madam Sanchez was incensed. ‘Leave the room! Your behaviour appals me! Have you no feelings whatsoever?’

  Irena turned to her mother. ‘Why are you defending her? André is your son as well as my brother and she attempted to ruin his life! Thank heavens, he’s had the sense to find someone suitable at last!’

  ‘Irena! Must I repeat myself?’ Madam Sanchez rose to her feet. ‘I warn you—–’

  ‘All right, all right!’ Irena turned back to the door. ‘I’ll go, and leave you to your confidences. But don’t let her fool you, Mother. She’s completely ruthless when it comes to getting what she wants!’

  Madam Sanchez raised her hand impatiently, but Irena was gone, climbing the stairs, whistling tunelessly to herself. Madam Sanchez seated herself again and looked at Rachel who was trying to drink her brandy while her hand shook uncontrollably. There was compassion in her gaze, and Rachel felt self-pity welling up inside her again. But she fought it back, and shaking her head, said, as casually as she could: ‘Silly, isn’t it, but women were always illogical creatures!’

  Madam Sanchez compressed her lips, and then reaching out a hand she put it over Rachel’s which lay in her lap. ‘Rachel, Rachel,’ she said slowly. ‘You don’t have to act with me. I thought we understood one another.’

  Rachel ran her tongue over her upper lip. ‘Oh, how can we understand one another?’ she cried hopelessly. ‘We’re on separate sides. We always were. That was why—–’ She halted abruptly.

  ‘Why—you couldn’t come to see me before leaving André?’ asked Madam Sanchez shrewdly.

  ‘That’s right.’ Rachel bent her head. ‘I wanted to. I needed someone to confide in, but somehow it was impossible to turn to you—André’s mother.’

  ‘I can see that,’ nodded Madam Sanchez. ‘And I suppose Irena was only too willing to assist you to leave.’

  Rachel sighed. ‘Of course she was. At the time I was grateful, but now…’ Her voice trailed away. Then she looked up. ‘Did—did André explain what my father did?’

  Madam Sanchez nodded. ‘Yes, he told me. I think your father was a rather courageous man, don’t you?’

  Rachel spread her hands. ‘Oh, I suppose so, I shall miss him terribly. I loved him very much. But I can’t understand why he should have thought it necessary to send me here—to André—when he knew he was seeking a divorce.’

  ‘Can’t you? Well, perhaps he thought he had not a moment to lose, and in the event he was right.’

  ‘Yes, but I would have managed. I’m not one of those helpless females. Maybe if I had been, André and I would have made a success of our marriage.’

  Madam Sanchez frowned. ‘And you think your marriage was not a success?’

  ‘How can you ask such a question?’ exclaimed Rachel.

  Madam Sanchez studied her pale face. ‘Your marriage broke down, so you say it failed,’ she commented quietly. ‘But there was a time when you believed it a success.’

  Rachel bit her lip. ‘Of course—in the beginning…’

  ‘Yes, in the beginning, when André brought you to the Bahamas after your honeymoon. You were happy then, weren’t you?’ Rachel nodded slowly, and Madam Sanchez continued: ‘And because this was so, my son became afraid for his happiness!’

  She sighed, spreading her hands expressively. ‘Rachel you found it hard to understand the strains placed on a man in André’s position. He has enemies, he knows this, but you, from your quiet, uneventful background, could not see the dangers.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘He was so possessive!’

  Madam Sanchez raised her dark eyebrows. ‘And it got worse?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rachel nodded.

  ‘Let me try and explain. André loved you when he married you, but it is not until you have lived with someone that you really begin to feel you could not live without them. This was André’s trouble. His love for you developed as the months went by, and with it his possessiveness, his almost frantic anxiety that nothing should ever harm you.’

  Rachel ran a hand over her forehead. ‘Why did he never try to explain? Why was he always so definite that he was right and I was wrong? He never attempted to understand how I felt.’

  ‘Did you attempt to understand how he felt?’ asked his mother softly.

  Rachel sighed. Could she say she had, in all honesty? With jerky movements she re
ached for a cigarette, and after it was lit, she said: ‘Even so, loving someone does not give you the right to dominate that person so that their lives are just a pale shadow of your own.’

  ‘I agree. André is a dominant personality, and with you he lost perspective. Nevertheless, it was love that drove you away, Rachel, not hate.’

  Rachel drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘Did André talk to you about—about the baby?’

  Madam Sanchez folded her hands. ‘You talk to me,’ she urged gently. ‘Let us talk about that time.’

  Rachel heaved a sigh. It was still difficult, even after all this time, to talk about it. But she realised Madam Sanchez only wanted to help her, and it would do her good to discuss it with a woman. There had never been anyone she could confide in. She sought about for words to begin, and finally said carefully: ‘André thought my restlessness was founded on boredom. It wasn’t. Life with André could never be boring. But I did object to the confinement, even though in retrospect I realise my behaviour was childish and irresponsible.’

  ‘André told you about Lilaine?’ queried Madam Sanchez quietly.

  ‘No. Vittorio told me. I don’t know what to say to demonstrate the horror I felt when he told me. It must have been terrible for you.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’ Madame Sanchez sighed. ‘It was terrible for André, too. After all, it was confirmation of his anxieties in a way.’

  ‘I know. But you must realise it is not a commonplace occurrence.’

  ‘Agreed. But, Rachel, when you love somebody as André loved you, you don’t take any chances.’

  Rachel lifted her shoulders. ‘I had to wait and worry when André was away,’ she pointed out.

  ‘André is a man. I suppose he thought his chances were better, but after some of the terrible things you hear nowadays, one wonders whether one has any reason for believing such a thing.’ She half smiled. ‘But come, we are digressing. Go on about your reasons for leaving.’