“Nor you! It was you who saved all those people. If you had not been there, they would just have gone on wailing and doing nothing.”
“Primitive people are the same all over the world. They need leadership. When they have it, they behave magnificently.”
“And that is what you give them,” Nevada said quietly.
“I dug the people out, but the children might have died if you had not tended to them.”
“They were so pathetic and some of the tiny ones were very brave,” Nevada said.
Tears came into her eyes as she spoke and she supposed it was because she was so tired. One child had died in her arms and she thought that she would never forget it.
She blinked away her tears and felt embarrassed because she knew that Tyrone Strome had seen them.
He was watching her and, because she knew his eyes were on her face, she looked down at her hands, finding in surprise that her nails were broken and the skin on her fingers was rough in a way it had never been before.
“You must go to sleep,” Tyrone Strome said, “we will talk about everything tomorrow.”
“Everything?” she asked enquiringly.
“About you,” he answered.
She looked at him in astonishment. Then something in the expression in his eyes made her heart beat violently like the drums of the musicians who played for the dancers.
Then she remembered the movements of the dancer in la Guedra and felt as if an icy hand checked the thumping of her heart.
Tyrone Strome might wish to talk to her, but whatever he had to say was not what she wanted to hear.
She knew only too well how much he despised her and where his own interests lay.
She could see, almost as if it was happening in front of her, the serpent-like movements of the dancer’s arms quivering, the shaking of her whole body, her half-closed eyes, her parted lips and her long black hair falling over her naked breasts.
Because the vision of the dance moved before her like a mirage, she forced herself to rise to her feet.
“You are right,” she said in what she hoped was a normal voice, “I am very – tired. Goodnight.”
He too had risen and, when she would have moved away, he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.
“Sleep well, Nevada,” he said, “and thank you with all my heart.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nevada awoke and realised that it was hot in her room and therefore it must be later in the day than she expected.
There was also the brilliant golden sunshine coming between the curtains of her window and no wind to billow them out as was usual early in the morning.
She turned over realising she had slept deep and dreamlessly for a very long time. Then she looked at the clock by her bed and gave an exclamation of surprise.
It was after twelve o’clock!
Sitting up in bed she rang a little silver bell and instantly her maid appeared.
“Late, very late!” Nevada said pointing to the clock.
“Master say you sleep,” she replied in her own language.
Nevada understood what she was trying to convey, at the same time she felt annoyed that she had not been awakened.
This meant that Tyrone Strome would have gone to Sakjena without her and she wanted so much to be with him and see if there was anything more she could do to help the stricken villagers.
Her maid had left the room and returned with her breakfast on a tray.
Nevada sat up in bed to eat it, at the same time resenting the fact that she had not breakfasted with Tyrone Strome as they had done every morning since she came to the Kasbah.
At first she had been too busy telling herself she hated him to realise what an interesting meal breakfast could be when one was alone with a man.
Then gradually the beauty of the courtyard, the cool breeze that came in the morning from the high mountains, the scent of the flowers and the chirp of the little Moroccan birds all combined to make their breakfast a meal that she felt had an attraction all its own.
Yet this morning, after all that had happened yesterday, when she had a thousand questions to ask and there was so much she wanted to know, he had eaten without her and ridden to Sakjena alone.
If she was honest enough to admit it, she still felt tired.
Yesterday had been a long day and it had also disturbed her emotionally.
She could still feel that moment of horror when she realised that the child she was bandaging was dying and there was nothing she could do to keep it alive.
As its eyes closed and it gasped its last breath, she had carried it to Andrew Frazer.
He had taken it from her, examined the deep wound on its forehead which must have been caused by a falling rock, then said quietly,
“There’s nothing you can do, lassie, the wee bairn’s gone to God.”
As he spoke, he had turned away and carried the little body outside to lay it beside the others awaiting burial, while Nevada had gone back to the living children with tears running down her cheeks.
It seemed foolish to mind the loss of one life when so many people had died in the earthquake, but she had felt in some way as if she was responsible, as if there was something more she could have done and yet not known what it was.
Now with her breakfast finished, Nevada lay back and made a sign to the maid to pull the curtains back over the window.
The sun came flooding in, bringing with it the rising heat, but Nevada was only concerned with the beauty of the pink granite cliffs beneath the clear blue sky.
‘A little Eden’, Tyrone Strome had called the valley and that was what it was, Nevada was sure, to him and to everybody else who lived there. But she really had no place in it.
Last night he had said, “We will talk about you.”
She had wondered at the time what he meant – now she was certain that what he was going to tell her was that she could go home.
She did not know why she was so sure of this – she just felt that, like the end of a chapter, or perhaps the end of his book, their association or whatever it was had reached a full-stop.
Perhaps he was tired of punishing her, perhaps she no longer interested him, perhaps he wanted to be alone as he usually was when he came to his pink Kasbah.
Whatever the reason, Nevada knew that, while she longed to see him, she was dreading his return.
Because her thoughts worried her and because she was more tired than she realised, she must have fallen asleep again and, when she awoke, she found to her astonishment that the heat of the day had passed and it was late in the afternoon.
She rang the bell by her bedside fiercely and, when the maid came, she got up hastily, washing and dressing herself in record time because she was afraid that Tyrone Strome would return and find her indolent.
But, when she went from her bedroom into the sitting room, there was no sign of him and she walked to his desk to look down at the pages of his book he had not worked on for two days.
‘Perhaps it is finished,’ she thought and knew that, if it was, she could no longer be of use to him.
Because she wanted to touch what belonged to him, her fingers wandered over the pen he used when he was writing, the blotter that was made of red leather like the boots he wore, the pen tray, paperweight and various other small objects that cluttered his desk.
She felt that each one of them had a personal significance for him and, because they belonged to him, she felt that they loved him and he loved them.
Then, feeling restless, she wandered into the courtyard. She walked to the fountain, felt that it was speaking to her with the tinkling fall of its water into the stone basin.
She remembered how she had scoffed at the whole place for being romantic and yet now she knew that to her it was the most enchanted place in the whole world.
‘A place for lovers,’ she told herself and felt the colour rise in her cheeks at the thought.
How often had she laughed and sneered at people who were in love!
How often had she jeered at men, as she had at David, when they told her they loved her and asked her to marry them!
‘How could I know that they felt like this?’ she asked herself.
She had thought of love as being soft and sentimental, but what she felt was a pain and an agony that seemed to increase hour by hour, day by day, until it was almost unbearable.
‘How can I endure it?’ she asked herself and knew that when she could not see Tyrone Strome, when he was no longer in her life, it would be even worse than it was at the moment.
Because her whole body was tense, her ears listening for his return and her whole being crying out for him, she walked back to the sitting room to stand at the window looking out onto the valley.
Now the pink cliffs were flecked with gold and the shadows from the sinking sun were as purple as the amethysts that lay hidden in the mountains.
‘It is the most beautiful place in the world,’ Nevada told herself, ‘and, if I leave it, I may never be able to come back again.’
It was obvious that no one but Tyrone Strome could bring her through the dangerous stony wasteland.
He had special privileges while other Europeans, with the apparent exception of the Reverend Andrew Frazer, were excluded from this part of Morocco.
The sun sank a little lower, gilding the tops of the Kasbahs and enveloping the whole valley in a golden rosy radiance that was indescribable.
Then Nevada saw him, saw Tyrone Strome coming towards her, as she had seen him the day she realised that she loved him.
Now there was no doubt in her mind of the light around him, a light that came not only from the sun but the aura he carried within himself.
He was riding quickly as if he was in a hurry to be home and, because she was shy, she turned from the window and crossed the room to sit down on the couch to await his arrival.
She heard his voice outside speaking to the servants, then he came in and for a moment, because her heart turned a double somersault, it was impossible to speak.
She could only look at him, her green eyes seeming to fill her whole face.
“You are rested?”
He smiled at her and walked across the room to put something he carried in his hand down onto the desk.
“I would have liked to – go with you.”
Even as she spoke, Nevada felt it was a mistake to sound reproachful and yet the hurt that he had gone alone was almost like a wound.
“You were very tired,” he said, “and there was nothing more you could do.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Quite sure. Andrew Frazer had buried the dead at dawn, supplies of food and bandages have arrived from Tiznet and the worst of the wounded have been taken back to the town.”
“And – the children?”
Nevada asked the question anxiously.
“Most of the children seem to have made a miraculous recovery and the majority are now with their parents. There were five orphans for whom I had to find a home. The Caid in Tiznet agreed to look after them.”
Tyrone Strome walked towards Nevada as he spoke and sat down on the couch beside her.
A servant appeared with a cup of mint tea and he sipped it before he said,
“I promised that a certain sum of money would be set aside to provide for them. I don’t know whether you would like to join me in this.”
“But, of course!” Nevada said quickly. “You know I would want to do that.”
“I felt you would,” he answered, “and actually not a very large sum is required. American dollars and English pounds have a high value when translated into Moroccan currency.”
“You must be aware that I am not concerned with what it costs in terms of money.” “No, I knew that,” he answered.
A servant came in to take away his empty cup and ask him if he required anything else.
He shook his head and once again he and Nevada were alone.
He rose to his feet and walked to the window to look out onto the valley.
“I brought Mr. Frazer back with me,” he said.
“Is he staying here?” Nevada enquired.
“No. The Caid in the town is his friend. He saved his son’s life. He intends to persuade him to lend the people of Sakjena architects to re-design their village. The Tafraoutis have a skill in building that is unsurpassed anywhere in Southern Morocco.”
“I could help towards that,” Nevada suggested.
“I thought you would want to. If you remember I told him so yesterday.”
“Yes, of course you did.”
There was silence. Then she said tentatively,
“It will be interesting to see what sort of village the Tafraoutans will design outside their own valley. I realise the soil is different and of course the colour.”
“I agree with you, it should be very interesting,” Tyrone Strome said. “Perhaps one day, when it is finished, you will be able to come back and see it.”
Nevada was very still.
Then with his back to her Tyrone Strome went on,
“I said last night that we should talk about you. Perhaps this is as good a time as any.”
“What do you want to – say?”
“What I am sure you want to hear – that you can go home.”
Nevada drew in her breath. Then with an effort and her voice sounding strange she asked,
“Why have you – decided to let me do – that?”
He turned round to walk across the room and sit down on the couch beside her.
“Shall I say the lesson or rather the punishment if you prefer, is over. You have passed your final examination with flying colours!”
“You – mean that?”
“After yesterday, I should be ungrateful and very unjust if I did not grant you your freedom.”
Nevada said nothing and Tyrone Strome went on,
“You asked me why I played God where you are concerned. It was a good question and one that deserves an answer.”
He looked at her enquiringly as he spoke, as if he expected her to speak. When she remained silent, he said,
“Are you no longer interested?”
“Yes – yes, of course.”
“I think the answer is that, despite the fact that you made me angry, I knew instinctively that you were worth saving from yourself.”
“You think that is – what you have done?”
There was just a touch of defiance in Nevada’s voice.
“When I saw the tears on your face yesterday,” he said gently, “when I saw you asleep with those children in your arms, I knew, however much you may deny it, that you are a woman!”
“It seems wrong somehow,” Nevada murmured, “that it should take an earthquake to prove your point.”
“If it had not been an earthquake, it would have been something else. The gold was there, but I had to dig rather deep for it.”
Nevada rose to her feet to walk as he had done across the room to the open window.
“And now you are – sending me back,” she said, “to what sort of life and what sort of existence?”
“The life you knew before,” he answered, “but I think you will look at it with new eyes and the impact people will make on you will be different.”
“And you think that is what I – want?”
She did not turn round, but she felt that he shrugged his shoulders and, after a moment, he said,
“You will still be a great social success, but I think, Nevada, you will be a little kinder to the young men who love you and who are helplessly captivated by your green eyes and red hair.”
“And if I am not – captivated by – them?”
The words were hard to say, but she managed to utter them.
“What do you want of life, Nevada? What are you seeking?”
His voice seemed almost to ring out in the quietness of the room.
It was a question, Nevada thought, that she had asked herself and knew the answer only too well, but that was something she could ne
ver tell him.
“What do you want?” Tyrone Strome asked again.
“I-I want to – stay here,” she answered, “here in Morocco. Perhaps I could – work with Mr. Frazer – I could build an orphanage for children like the ones who have to be found a home.”
She heard her voice speaking hesitantly, then the surprised note in Tyrone Strome’s as he asked,
“Do you understand what you are saying?”
“Yes, of course I do! I know now that that is what I want. I cannot – go back – I have no – wish to do so – there is nothing for me if I do.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She turned round.
He was looking at her and she thought his face was stern and that he had every intention of refusing her request.
She knew he could make it difficult, if not impossible, for her to remain in Morocco and, because she felt she must convince him of her sincerity, she said in a voice that trembled,
“H-how can I make you – understand? I k-know only too well what you think of me – but I have changed. I swear to you that I have changed – this is not a whim – this is not, as I feel you are thinking, a rich woman’s desire for a new plaything. It’s something that matters more to me than anything else has ever done.”
“Can you really have changed so much overnight?” “Perhaps it is not entirely a change,” Nevada replied, “but just that in the past there seemed to be no possibility of doing anything except what I was brought up to do, to entertain and be entertained, to spend my money on myself.”
She felt he was still unconvinced and she added,
“I will – tell you something and perhaps it will make you understand why I am as I am.”
She looked towards him pleadingly and after a moment he said quietly,
“I am listening.”
“I am not making – excuses for myself. I am only telling you. Nobody else would understand – and perhaps you will not either.”
“I will try.”
“My mother died when I was eight years old,” Nevada began, “and, because I had been with her so much, I think it made a bigger impact on me than if I had spent most of my time with nannies and children of my own age. I could not believe I had lost her.”
The Punishment of a Vixen Page 13
