by Jana Petken
“This child … too hot … Just his nappy, please, Celia … Too hot!”
Celia stared at her son’s face with its contented expression and wide-open eyes and nodded her head in agreement. “Yes, if you think so.”
“My husband told me that Peter is Pedro in our language. I call him Pedro, yes?” Marta said, not waiting for an answer.
Celia looked at her son, then at the two women, and finally at all the other pairs of eyes in the kitchen, which seemed to be watching her every gesture. At that moment, all she could think about was escaping to her room with Peter in her arms. She realised that she was in a strange country with strange people, and that now, instead of escaping to her bedroom, she would rather run back to the ship. Marta wanted to change her child’s name without a by your leave, she thought. Celia was an English name too; did that mean they wanted to change hers as well? She could feel the eyes of the two women boring into hers. They were waiting for her answer. She didn’t want her to call Peter by the name of Pedro. Peter was her father’s name.
She hated herself sometimes. She wished she were stronger, but she wasn’t. She was weak, still weak, and pathetic, and always would be. She had only been here two minutes, and her son had been grabbed from her arms, disrobed, and given a new identity, and all as though she didn’t exist. She realised that she might regret her decision to come to Spain.
“Yes, why not?” she answered now without enthusiasm. “I think Pedro will suit him just fine, although it might take me a while to get used to it.”
“Pedro, Pedro,” she repeated over and over again. “Pedro Dobbs …” It didn’t sound right, didn’t have a nice ring to it at all. Pedro Merrill, yes that sounded a little better.
Celia noted that breakfast was just as grand as dinner. Cold meats and several different types of cheese lay on platters beside two baskets filled with pastries and bread. Hot chocolate was poured into a tall glass and a large pot of what looked like soup stood ready on top of the huge wood ovens. While she ate, Rosa spoke to her about life at La Glorieta. Ernesto worked hard, she was told. He came to the house for lunch but then seldom left the groves till eight or nine at night in the summer. Even in the winter months, he worked until darkness fell. He had complete control of the estate and managed it with ease.
Marta said, “He was born to be the master. He is a great leader.”
Rosa responded, “Yes, but he should have more fun, Mama. He is much too serious. My father doesn’t get involved at all, Celia. Oh, I’m sure that he discusses things with Ernesto. They are always shut up together in the green salon with their morning coffee, and God help Mama and me if we intrude on them. Since his retirement, my father spends much of his time reading and writing political speeches, which no one is ever going to read or listen to. He has never fully recovered from his stroke, and that happened years ago. He was always such a fit man, if you know what I mean. He was unstoppable, like a bull given a pardon in the bullring. He gets around with the help of his cane now, of course, but he never uses it when we have guests; he is much too proud.”
“And he drinks far too much wine,” Marta added disapprovingly. “Wine for breakfast and wine for bed.”
For the first time, Celia felt herself relax. They asked her nothing about her life, and she was more than happy to listen to them all day long if it meant she could keep her own thoughts to herself.
“How many people live in La Glorieta?” she asked Rosa.
“There are over five hundred souls in our care,” Rosa told her. “Most of them live in the village. My grandfather built La Glorieta pueblo after realising that his peasants were taking up good land. At that time, their makeshift homes consisted of tin huts and tents that eroded the rich soil in the lowest part of the valley. We now cultivate this area with our vineyards.”
“And how big is the village?” Celia asked.
“Oh, it is small, but we have a school, a bakery shop, and a blacksmith, who also makes sandals. There is even a small bar that serves wine and brandy, but only on very special occasions, of course. Ernesto looks after our peasants better than anyone else does. He is kind, some say too kind. He is a good judge and always makes the right decisions in disputes.”
“A good judge?” Celia asked, curious about the term.
“Yes, he is judge and jury. I remember a man coming to the house with his daughter. She wanted to marry a boy from the next village, but her father refused to give his permission until Ernesto gave his first. You see, the young man had no work and no home, so Ernesto offered to take him on, and on top of that, he gave the girl’s father permission to supply the young couple with an empty house in the village, which he did, of course. This is why our peasants love him.”
When Celia asked how long La Glorieta had been in the family, she was told that as far as they knew, it had always been theirs. Rosa then told her that the first Marqués de Dos Fuentes, her ancestor, was given the title by Queen Isabella in the sixteenth century as a reward for his loyalty in battle. She also gave various lands to him, in Madrid and Castellón, as well as estates in Andalucía, which were now run by other members of the family. The title of marqués still remained and was held by Don Miguel’s oldest brother, Luis.
Later, Marta and Rosa told Celia about the customs and way of life at the hacienda and in this particular part of Spain, but they were giving her only a rough outline of their lives, and she looked forward to the many things that she herself would learn as time went on. She also thought it strange that neither of the two women had mentioned Ernesto’s late wife, but she concluded that if they didn’t speak about her, then she had no right to ask about her. She also surmised that it was only a matter of time before the two women asked her about her own life, and she dreaded the moment Joseph’s name would rear its unwelcome head. She suddenly felt uncomfortably hot and would have liked nothing better than to escape the kitchen and their inevitable questions. However, what she feared most happened quickly and unexpectedly, leaving her with no time to prepare.
“How did your husband die, Celia? You do not wear black?” Marta’s eyes shone with sympathy, but they were also disapproving.
Celia looked down at her hands, folded on her lap. She knew that whatever she said now would be the story that would live with her, possibly for the rest of her life. Her lie would therefore have to be convincing, not only to her audience but also to her own ears.
“Well,” she began nervously, “one day, about six months ago, my husband, Joseph, went to a market in a neighbouring town. He went every Friday. He crossed the street, and there was a cart being pulled by two horses. They were spooked for some reason and ran out of control. He died under the wheels of the cart. The driver didn’t see him, you see, and Joseph didn’t see the cart.”
“Terrible! Terrible!” Marta howled, stopping all work in the kitchen. “What a great tragedy for one to die so young in such a horrible way! I’m so sorry, Celia. How can you endure such sorrow?”
Celia stared into her cup. She hadn’t really thought about what Marta and Rosa would make of her story; therefore, she didn’t know how she should respond now.
The Spanish women cried and then held her in turn with thick arms that threatened to suffocate her. The whispers in the kitchen grew to a crescendo, and soon it was hard to hear herself think. Their reaction affected her in a way she could not have foreseen, and tears running down her own face were joined by racking sobs that threatened to choke her. She wasn’t weeping for Joseph, she kept telling herself, and she wasn’t crying because she was sad. No, she was weeping for her father, for her lost home, and for her baby never knowing a father’s love. She was ashamed of the terrible lie she’d just told the two women, but her tears had inadvertently helped to achieve her goal, which was to convince her audience that a story she knew to be totally fabricated was in fact true. Her tears had served their purpose; she wouldn’t be asked about Joseph’s death again.
Later, in the privacy of her own room, Celia washed her face with cold wate
r and stared long and hard at her reflection in the mirror. She despised what she saw. She had become a liar and a fraud. She was almost as bad as Joseph, very much alive and living out her father’s stolen life. Her head ached, and as she paced back and forth the length of the room, she realised that the lie she’d just told would have to be hidden in the same place that housed Joseph. She’d constructed a prison for him in the back of her mind, and the key would have to be thrown away, for she would lose her sanity if she thought any more about him. No, she determined, he and the lie could never escape to tell the truth. Joseph was dead, and he would stay dead!
In the middle of the night, a wide-eyed Celia stared out the window at the expanse of stars in a clear black sky. They were so bright that she thought she could touch them, so beautiful she was afraid to take her eyes off them, just in case she never saw such a sight again. Her mind raced with the evening’s events. It had been a strange day, marking the end of her first week at La Glorieta. She hadn’t seen much of Mr Ayres, Mr Rawlings, or Ernesto Martinéz. Meetings had kept them out of the house for most of the week, and in the evenings, they had dined without the ladies.
Tonight had been different. She had dressed with care, looking forward to the grand dinner being held for Mr Ayres and Mr Rawlings, who would be leaving the next morning, long before dawn. She recalled the evening in detail now and took out her journal whilst its memories were still fresh in her mind.
4 August 1913
What a strange, eventful, emotional, and decisive evening I have had. During dinner, Ernesto’s eyes drifted towards me. They were questioning, kind, and concerned, but my imagination ran away with me, and I was sure he could read my thoughts and the guilty secret that is flooding my mind. I, in my wisdom, believed that by some chance, the women had got to him earlier and had told him everything. I wish I’d told them all the truth now. It has to be better than a lie that I’m sure will eventually eat into my very soul.
At dinner, all I could think about was having a conversation with Mr Ayres. I kept thinking that when he left me, I would be here, alone, in a land foreign to me, with customs I don’t understand and people I still don’t know. I will, after all, be sharing their house and giving my child into the arms of the old Spanish peasant woman who has been despatched to my room every morning so far. She has completely taken over my morning routine. She now bathes Peter (now called Pedro), changes him, and then sits with him, while I am ordered to meet with Marta and Rosa, who talk for hours about their menfolk and gossip from the village. I am forgotten sometimes and have been forced to sit and listen to the unrestrained Spanish tongue, leaving me with a headache and wondering how I can possibly fit in.
At dinner this evening, I experienced a moment of panic and almost opened my mouth to ask Mr Ayres and Mr Rawlings if it was too late to change my mind about remaining in Spain. Later, I scolded myself for even thinking about such a thing, for as much as I’d like to go back to my aunt, protected, loved, and with my own kind, I know that I am still too afraid of Joseph Dobbs to set foot in England.
Oh, how I miss the quiet lands and rolling hills of Kent. I miss my aunt and the bond of love that has pulled me through the darkest hours. Old Mrs Baxter with her booming voice and motherly discipline has never seemed so dear to me, but Joseph stops me from going home at every turn … If only he were dead!
Ernesto Martinéz comes to my mind at this moment, and I wonder if he is the kind and thoughtful man he portrays himself to be. Or is he like Joseph, with an evil and twisted hidden agenda that will show itself later? I must admit that I am a little afraid of him and wouldn’t like to be alone with him, for his eyes and fixed glances in my direction penetrate my very soul, and I feel I can hide nothing from him. I must stop thinking about him!
I spoke to Mr Ayres. He is the dearest of men and has put some of my fears to rest, just as he always does. He convinced me that all would be well, even though he could see that I was afraid and unsure about everything. He also said that Ernesto and the rest of his family liked me. He added that they had in fact spoken very highly of me.
We spoke about all manner of things, but I will never forget what he said about Joseph. His words will stay with me and comfort me in the months to come, for they will give me strength and help me to believe in myself. “For you to live, Joseph must die.” That’s what he said. Then I told him that I dreamt about Joseph all the time, even when I’m awake. I began to cry like a baby and was so embarrassed, but it is true. Joseph’s face haunts me, mocks me. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe I’ll go to hell for lying and wishing him dead!
How can I live with these people who have shown me nothing but kindness and friendship? I’ve deceived them and it’s unpardonable, but when I told Mr Ayres how I felt, he once again put me at ease with his kind words. He said that if God, who is all-powerful, could forgive a man like Joseph Dobbs, then he would find no trouble in forgiving me. He told me to take my life back and said that I mustn’t let Joseph destroy my future.
She closed the journal, put it back in its place, and then fluffed up her pillows and got into bed. She lay back in the darkness and looked out of the window once more.
Mr Ayres’s words came back to her again as the sea of stars began to drift in and out of focus. She was sleepy now, but still so many thoughts were going through her mind. She could live again. No, more than that. She could become the Celia Merrill of old; she had already taken her father’s name back. She could strip Joseph Dobbs of his power once and for all. She smiled, closed her eyes, and dreamed, not of Joseph’s cruel distorted face, but of the kind, smiling face of Ernesto Martinéz.
Chapter 26
Joseph Dobbs’s trial had been going on for over a week and had received numerous notices in newspapers and journals all over the country. The name and reputation of Peter Merrill was well known in Kent, but his vast farmlands and new farming techniques had earned him a reputation of some standing throughout the farming world, and his murder, a particularly gruesome one, had drawn attention from all over England.
Joseph had spent an exceptionally long period in prison for specific reasons. His fall and subsequent injury had left him with raging fevers. The leg had been set, but it was done only after Joseph’s removal to a London hospital. No splints had been put in place on the journey to hold the naked flesh and bone together, and by the time the operation had taken place, the bone had shifted even more, ripping part of the muscle and nicking a small artery, causing a haemorrhage. Joseph had drifted in and out of consciousness for weeks, close to death, but Marie Osborne refused to allow him the luxury of a death surrounded by attentive doctors and nurses in a place where decent human beings lay. He would die on the scaffold, no matter what, she told the surgeon. He would be well enough to know exactly what was happening to him. He would feel the pain and humiliation, and she would not be robbed of her justice.
Joseph was now the centre of attention with journalists and artists drawing his every changed expression. He sat with his bad leg stretched out just to the left of the dock. It was immobile and bound tightly with bandages underneath wide blue trousers that looked like a sailor’s bell-bottoms. He was enjoying his newfound infamy, smiling at the audience and jury, as every day more and more people filed into the Old Bailey to see the case that the newspapers called ‘the trial of the year’.
George Bats, Mr Ayres’s old friend and colleague, was the man Marie pinned all her hopes on. He showed no mercy to those he questioned in court. He was vigorous in his investigations and enjoyed springing the unexpected. More often than not, it was the unexpected that won him his cases. He wasn’t popular amongst his peers, and judges did not particularly enjoy seeing him in their court. He was difficult to control, and he relentlessly searched for the truth, sinking his teeth into his victim until the truth was told. But he had one of the best legal minds around, and Marie knew that they would need such a mind if they were to secure Joseph’s conviction.
Marie sat in the crowded courtroom and watched Joseph, mak
ing his seventh appearance, being led into the dock. She had never hated him as much as she did now, and as she stared at him, she recalled his testimony of the previous afternoon.
The courtroom had been silent when he had sat in the witness box and put his hand on the Bible. He was calm and convincing, slowly sucking the jury into believing that he was the innocent party being framed for the murder of his father-in-law by an evil, jealous wife. The jury had listened, at first sceptical but later sympathising with him as he recounted the way in which he had lost his wonderful parents in a fire and how, grief-stricken, he had travelled south, an orphan in search of a new life and a new home. He sniffed continuously, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, and told the court about the way in which his wife, whom he loved with all his heart, had treated him. She had walked out of his life without allowing him to see his infant son. She had shattered his dreams of happiness and had left him a broken man.
Tears shone brightly in his eyes as he portrayed Celia as a spoilt young girl who had mentally abused him. He had no option, he told the jury, but to gamble his money to try to make more in order to feed her insatiable materialistic greed. They had slept in separate bedrooms almost from the day they wed. Celia had told him that she couldn’t bear to be touched by him, and he, being a gentleman, had complied with her wishes, even though it broke his heart day after day, night after night.
She constantly nagged him and could never accept the fact that her father had made it clear that he, not she, would be entrusted with the farm after his death. She had even threatened to kill the old man on more than one occasion, he told the shocked court. She told him that if she didn’t get the farm, she would see her father dead.
