Perchance to Marry

by Celine Conway

  Only private intrigue, thought Sally despondently. She looked up at the Mauresque artistry of the balcony arches, saw Josef gazing enigmatically down at them, and shifted her glance to the trailing plants about the lily-pool at the other side of the courtyard. The sun was shining over there, causing blinding little flashes of lights where it slanted over the faint ripples.

  This wasn’t the first time she had felt out of tune with her mother, but she had never before felt so blankly and desperately alone. “Are you staying in this evening?” she asked.

  “No, I’m going to some sort of social affair in the town. We were all invited, as a matter of fact—you and Marcus as well, but as Marcus is tied up...” She broke off and resumed happily, “Why not come, anyway? There’s quite a number of spare men.”

  Why not, indeed? What could she do here, but palpitate all alone in her room? “Yes, I’d like to come,” she said quickly. “You wear blue and I’ll wear the pink and brown. We may shake them a little!”

  But somehow the evening didn’t come alive for Sally. She saw fresh-faced naval men, some wives and a few island girls with their duennas, was danced with and chattered to, given drinks, cigarettes and several compliments. Coming home there was a bright waning moon over the trees and the sound of a breeze through the valleys, the scent of lilac, the caressing feel of the Mediterranean spring. But a shutter had come down between Sally and the outside world. When she reached her bedroom she was isolated, wide awake, with her thoughts.

  Her brain was working now with frightening clarity. Marcus had asked her to marry him. He wasn’t in love with her—didn’t even pretend to be—and he had no notion that she was in love with him, but he was willing, coolly and efficiently, to make her his wife and the mistress of Las Vinas.

  Examined dispassionately, it wasn’t so amazing as it had at first appeared. True, she was only nineteen, knew very little Spanish and nothing about running such a household. But circumstances had thrust her, metaphorically as well as literally, into his arms. So that an old, frail woman should not be shocked into an attack which might kill her, Sally had consented to a few weeks’ engagement. She hadn’t liked the idea, but there had been no harm intended by the deception, only good. At the end of a month or so she would have regretfully decided that she could not make Marcus happy, have withdrawn from the household and made private plans for the future.

  But in view of the doctor’s verdict, that couldn’t happen now. Dona Inez’s health was more finely balanced upon her emotions than even Marcus had thought. It would be quite easy to argue that Dona Inez was no concern of Sally’s, that she couldn’t have her future dictated by solicitude for an elderly Spanish woman she had known for only a couple of weeks. Yes, quite easy—but nothing could alter the fact that Sally had come to like the old senora and feel more than liking for Marcus. They were complications she could not ignore; they colored everything.

  For Marcus, she thought bitterly, everything had become clear-cut. After his talk with Carlos he had considered the whole situation with clinical thoroughness; he would have made an excellent surgeon. Back in England, two or three months ago, he had cut adrift from the woman he had meant to marry. In his way he had loved her—no doubt about that. A man like Marcus wouldn’t travel to England for one particular woman unless she meant more to him than any other woman in the world. It had probably irked him that she was an actress; he had even told Sally, offhandedly, that Nadine was not a good actress; yet the press cutting Sally had found had praised Nadine, though briefly. Marcus had disliked Nadine’s profession and perhaps naturally had thought she would give it up for him. Her refusal to do so would have jarred something deep within him, his overpowering masculinity and the touch of Spanish blood that made it imperative for his wife to be all woman and his possession.

  So he had put Nadine behind him. It couldn’t have been easy and the effort had left him cool and uncaring. Some time, he had decided, he would marry a Spanish girl; that was that.

  Then, quite suddenly, the incident of the tipsy Jim McCartney and the news that Dona Inez had been stricken. And there he was, at Las Vinas with a pseudo-fiancée and her mother, being kind and considerate, grave about Dona Inez and gently mocking at the dining table when guests congratulated him and told him that Sally was a lovely surprise. Had Sally been in the mood for it, she could have had heaps of private enjoyment with Marcus over the situation.

  But the worst had happened. Marcus had not remained the aloof man who had made her uneasy; he had become closer and more comprehensible. His proprietorial pose had awakened her, his lightest touch held magnetism, and the mere suggestion of intimacy brought her heart into, her throat. Shatteringly, she had fallen in love with a man who had no use for a loving woman.

  And now, because he had to marry some time and Sally had the senora’s welfare in her hands, he had decided that marriage with her might suit him very well. A six months’ engagement, he had said. Just long enough for her to become well known on the island and decisively introduced to his various sets of relations, near and distant. Just long enough for the atmosphere of Las Vinas to seep into her, for the idea of becoming a del Moscado Durant to grow into the most desirable goal on earth. He’d be a devoted husband; no doubt about that.

  Pacing her bedroom, Sally tried to see herself as Marcus’s wife. It was impossible. As a genuine fiancée, then. That was less difficult, but she could visualize it only as a rather bleak relationship because in an engagement two hearts explore each other with love and tenderness and understanding; one heart struggling alone would be a forlorn thing. And yet...

  Perhaps because she wanted it so much, Sally compelled her thoughts into more hopeful channels. Love begets love, so they say. If she showed him, gradually, that her heart was brimming and her life full, because of him, surely Marcus would come to respond? With care and as much understanding as she could muster she might be able to make herself indispensable to him, and while she waited for his love there would be the warmth of friendship, the belonging, the slender bond between them which must surely strengthen with time?

  Sally undressed and put out the light, went into her balcony and looked over a world of black trees, of indigo sky lit by a moon she could not see. She leant on the wall and looked down at the eerie darkness of the garden and the wedge of courtyard that was visible from this angle. And almost without volition, her gaze shifted towards other balconies. There was no light in Marcus’s room, no light anywhere. It was two o’clock, and she ought to have been in bed like the others. Was Marcus awake? Was he lying in one of those great ornate beds with his hands under his head and a gaze fixed upon the ceiling? Or, having made his own decision, was he calmly awaiting hers, and sleeping peacefully at this moment?

  In a wave of ungoverned imagination she saw him slicking back his dark hair in front of a bedroom mirror, saw him turning and leaning over her with that tolerant, knowledgeable smile on his lips. He’d make love as he did everything else, expertly. She shivered, and oddly she remembered a lecturer at St. Alun’s telling the student nurses: “Don’t give your heart to nursing—give your body and your brain. It’s not difficult to become expert at something that doesn’t touch the heart. In the nursing profession we want experts.” That was the lecturer’s opinion, of course, and Sally hadn’t entirely agreed with it.

  A little blindly, she shook her head. She was getting mixed up now, sliding away from the subject because she was tired. And yet she was sure she wouldn’t sleep, because there was still the other side of things to mull over. Supposing she stood out for the keeping of their first bargain. A week from now she would be free of Las Vinas, free to work at the nursing home, though it was far more likely that she would go home and complete her training. And ahead there wouldn’t only be the loneliness and wretchedness Marcus had mentioned; there’d be the haunting knowledge that she needn’t have been lonely and full of grief.

  She could have had a gracious home near her mother, and a small part of Marcus. Anything here at Las Vinas
was better than nothing at all in England.

  From the corner of her eye she caught a movement below, and turned her head. Someone had appeared there, a man wearing a dark jacket over a white shirt and slacks. She peered down and saw it was Josef, and in almost the same moment he raised his head and saw her. For a second he hesitated, and then he came to the flagstones just under her balcony and spoke up to her, softly.

  “You, too, are unable to sleep, senorita? You are feeling as despondent as I?” She shook her head and gestured him to silence, but had no time to move back before he added, “‘I have not yet forgiven myself for speaking as I did this morning. Much as I desire to remain here and get to work, I will leave San Palos if it embarrasses you. I mean it, with all my heart.”

  She shook her head again, whispered, “Goodnight,” and went into her room, pulling the french window closed behind her.

  The small encounter jolted her memory. She heard Josef’s hot pronouncement in his own room: “Marcus wants only a mistress for his house, a mother for his children. His whole life is the estate of Las Vinas and that actress in London!”

  That actress in London. Marcus had business interests in England, was bound to go over there occasionally. Nadine Carmody knew all about those interests, and if she cared for Marcus she would see him again. She might even be the sort of woman who’d prefer him to be married. A career for herself, a lover...

  Sally crawled exhaustedly into bed. You can’t have it all ways, my girl, she told herself hollowly. If you want the man you have to take his background as well. But you don’t have to take another woman, not if you’re canny and feminine and determined.

  Sally had never felt less determined in her life. When sleep eventually stole over her she only knew that she loved Marcus wholly and desperately. Her problem was no nearer solution than that; or so she thought.

  * * *

  During the next few days the whole atmosphere at Las Vinas became subtly lightened. Josef borrowed a car and went out a good deal, Viola was expansively ecstatic about the opening of her flower counter next Monday, Dona Inez merged her birdlike watchfulness with benign content, and even Katarina was seen to smile dourly and help the other servants when she was free. But it was Marcus’s attitude that helped Sally most.

  After that painful interview she had not seen him till next day at lunch. It was windy, and they had all lunched together in the dining room: Marcus and Sally, Carlos, Josef, Viola, Captain Northwick and a shipping agent named Essler who obviously thought Viola Sheppard the wittiest and most attractive woman on earth.

  Sally was wearing a print frock, splashes of orange and black on white, and maybe the brilliance of color contrast had detracted from the small amount of pink in her cheeks. Through lack of sleep there were dark smudges under her eyes, but knowing that cowardice wouldn’t help she met Marcus’s glance squarely. He smiled reassuringly, spoke to her in warm tones that all could hear.

  “Did you get my message? As it was so windy I thought we’d drop the idea of going to the beach this morning and have a picnic tea this afternoon instead. There are several spots where you can get right away from the breeze. Any of you others care to come?”

  All were in favor except Carlos. “I have been here at Las Vinas so much lately that my records are suffering. I must certainly attack them strongly this afternoon.”

  So they had eaten and chatted, rested, tidied up and spread themselves out in two cars. And during the whole of that afternoon, while they drove through vineyards and cruised along coastal roads that gave magnificent vistas, while they drank tea and ate sandwiches and sweet cakes, and strolled among the rock plants and carob and wild figs, Marcus was charming and mocking and very much the thoughtful host and overlord. There was no marring incident. Even when Josef Carvallo mentioned at one spot that they were close to the clay-field, and that he knew of a small place which he could rent, Marcus commented upon it without sarcasm.

  “We could probably make a go of a small pottery industry,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be any use producing till you were sure of a market throughout the Mediterranean. Why not give Essler some copies of your designs? He could sound the market for you.”

  Josef looked slightly stunned. “Do I have to thank Sally for this? Has she been interceding for me?”

  Marcus smiled. “She’s on your side, of course; you look appealing since you cracked your head. But she hasn’t been begging for you.”

  “Then perhaps the good Dona Inez!” He sighed. “She hardly spoke when I saw her this morning.”

  “She hasn’t weighed you up yet. I’ve never been against your going in for ceramics—only against your starting something you might get tired of.”

  “I shall not tire of it,” said Josef quickly. “The small house I wish to rent is one of yours, Marcus. The old people are moving out to live with a daughter and the place will be empty. I could use the lower rooms as the factory and live above them.”

  “No harm in that. You can even put in some equipment and start preparing your clay, if you like. Use it as a hobby to keep you going till we hear Essler’s findings. If you made a few articles, experimentally, Northwick could probably take them for his store. They’ll sell to tourists.”

  “And when I need money for a mill and tools and wages?” Josef asked cautiously.

  “It’ll be available—to you or to anyone else who’s willing to develop an industry that will benefit the island.”

  Josef did not press his luck beyond that point. Looking over her shoulder at him, Sally saw that his smooth Latin face hadn’t yet lost the expression of blank incredulity—or was it puzzlement? She glanced at Marcus, saw a smile on his lips and caught a half wink when he briefly turned his head her way. The weighty feeling round her heart eased a little.

  There were other guests that evening, among them Pedro and Isabel Suarez. The woman’s guttural, crooning speech was a tenuous link between Marcus and Sally. We’re actually sharing small jokes, Sally thought tremulously; can it last?

  There were several guests next day, and the day after. It seemed accidental that she and Marcus were never alone together, but she knew he was arranging things that way. He jollied her into playing cards, into bathing from the pale, rock-strewn beach. With others, they watched the lilac-picking.

  “See how cleverly it’s done?” he said, as he stood beside her at the edge of the forest of pale mauve blossom. “A snip, and the spray drops straight into the basket that hangs from the shoulder. Most of them use small pruning scissors for the job, but some of the older hands refuse them. They swear there’s nothing like their horny old thumbnails for speed and accuracy.”

  Except for two or three boys, the pickers were women of all ages. They were dressed in their oldest cottons and the flat, home-made sandals of the island. The sun was warm, but not sufficiently strong to force the wearing of headgear. Glossy black curls and iron-grey knots moved among the laden branches, but a burst of song was often the only indication that a picker was near.

  “The scent is almost stupefying, isn’t it?” she said. “And the sprays are so lush. I wish English people could see it. Have you ever sent any over by air?”

  She meant commercially, but the moment she had spoken she realized he could infer something else. There seemed to be an imperceptible pause before he answered pleasantly,

  “Yes, I’ve sent a box or two to friends. I send grapes too. If they go out by ferry on the day they’re picked and catch the plane at Majorca they reach the addressee within twenty-four hours—still warm from the San Palos sun!”

  Well, there was bound to be a bit of thin ice about. Trust Marcus to skim round it with the minimum of delay. She turned to her mother.

  “Would you like to post some lilac to one or two people in England?”

  “I don’t think so, darling. It’s awfully naughty of me, but I’ve decided I won’t bother to keep in touch. Have you written many letters?”

  “Only a few, to friends at St. Alun’s.”

  “D
o you want to send them some lilac?” asked Marcus.

  “Not all of them. There’s one who has a birthday about now, and I’m sure she’d like it. The others would wonder if she had lost her mind—sending flowers to nurses who have more than enough to do with them on duty—but Betty’s different. She and I used to...”

  “Yes?” prompted Marcus, as she halted.

  Viola waved airily. “They were wild flower enthusiasts—the first celandine, the first violet, the first primrose. I remember Sally crouching over a snowdrop that had pushed its way through slush in our tiny garden. She needed some new woollies at the time, but the sight of that rash little snowdrop meant more than if she’d been given a cheque for twenty pounds!”

  “Good for Sally,” said Marcus quietly, looking at her pink cheeks and lowered eyelids. “Write a note and give it to me. I’ll have some lilac picked first thing on Monday morning and kept on ice till it’s delivered to the ferry at eleven.”

  “You spoil her,” said Viola. “But you spoil me too, so I’ve no grouse. Except that I’ve really had enough of staring at this sea of lilac, and the donkeys they use for transport do come uncomfortably close. May we go now?”

  They were given cups of chocolate and almond fancies by Senora Suarez and eventually got back into the cars. The others were going straight back to town, so only Viola and Sally accompanied Marcus, and Viola, as usual, was in the front seat.

  “Have you seen my little bower at the store, Marcus?” she asked as they wound down the lovely scented road. When he had nodded she went on, “From Monday, I shall be going down every morning for three hours. I shall only work in the afternoons when I have an order to decorate a house or a hall for some event. I’ve been wondering what I shall do for transport. Captain Northwick would arrange it for me, but I don’t want to depend on him outside the business.”