She nodded again; her voice was husky. “I suppose what hurts is that feeling that I’ve missed something.” She looked up, her eyes bright with pent-up tears. “Do you know what I wish? I wish I’d had time to fall headlong in love with Peter Mailing. It wouldn’t have mattered that he wasn’t in love with me. I just wish there’d been a few more days, because I was falling pretty hard, and if I’d gone the whole way and then this had cropped up, I might not even have seen you as a man at all; I’d just have laughed my head off at anyone who’d mistaken me for your chosen girl from London, and then...”
“Stop it!”
But Sally was unwinding at last; she couldn’t stop. “Anything I’d felt for Peter would have lasted just long enough, don’t you see?” she choked. “I wouldn’t have come to San Palos, because in Barcelona there would have been the chance of seeing him. I’d have got a job, any job, and I’d have watched the newspapers for details of his concerts. You couldn’t have brought me here—I wouldn’t have come! Don’t you see that?” Furiously she brushed away the tears that had overflowed. “But because our poor little affair had to die off I was left at your mercy. You’d had a jolt to your self-esteem in England and were still smarting from it. When that horrible McCartney man...”
“Will you be quiet!” he blazed.
“No, I won’t! You’ve had a lot of private revenge at my expense on that actress who let you down, and I’ve at least a right to say what I think. You don’t have to promise me that you’ll make yourself fall in love with me, and you don’t have to school yourself into being quiet and controlled and understanding. And for the love of heaven don’t ever give me that I’ll-persuade-you-to-love-me line again. Nadine Carmody was probably right for you; she could always act love even if she didn’t feel it. But I can’t!” Hardly aware of what she had just said, she flung at him, finally, “Do you know how I feel? Trapped! And you don’t care, because nothing except Las Vinas and Nadine Carmody ever touched you closely in your life.”
She’d gone too far; she knew it as he took her shoulders and the dark eyes raged hotly close to her own. Some violent, primeval chemistry was working in them both, perhaps, for in spite of her pain and fury she felt herself swaying towards him, her face taut with hate.
The kiss, when it came, was ferocious and braising. And it wasn’t the only one. He kissed her throat and neck with the savage intensity of a man administering punishment, and when he let her go it was as if he had suddenly become conscious of the cruel dig of his fingers into the bare curve of her shoulder.
He was breathing heavily. His glance went all over her in a swift summing up. “God,” he said under his breath. “Let’s hope that’s taught you something.”
He turned and strode from the room. Sally slumped to the side of her bed and dropped her face into her hands. She had learned something all right: the magnitude of the hurt inflicted on him by Nadine Carmody.
* * *
It was those elderly Spanish relations who set the tone for the next few days, and after they had gone there seemed to be no reason to alter it. Sally had told herself that if Marcus resumed the slightly mocking, affectionate manner which had slipped so disastrously for a few minutes in her bedroom she would scream loud enough to be heard down in Naval Town. But there was no need to implement the threat. Marcus was cool and polite, ever thoughtful, but in no mood for mockery or any spurious display of affection. During Don Antonio’s three days at Las Vinas the old man and Marcus drove round the estate and visited outlying farms. In the evenings there was a good deal of family talk, but Sally’s lack of Spanish kept her free of it. On one of their evenings, indeed, she went down to the town with her mother for a few hours of sophisticated games and dancing. She won three pounds at mock-roulette, smoked half a dozen cigarettes and danced with several men who, to her own disgust with herself, all seemed uninterestingly alike. She returned to Las Vinas feeling old and despondent.
How would it all end? Was there anything at all that she herself could do to help matters? Sally couldn’t think of a thing. It was impossible to confide in anyone. Her mother had always fought shy of complications and, in any case, would have been quite unsympathetic. To her the engagement was one of those magical pieces of good fortune for which Sally should be for ever grateful; Viola would never see it in any other way.
There was Carlos, of course. At the beginning, when it had seemed the deception need last only two or three weeks, Marcus had said they might take Carlos into their confidence. He was the old senora’s doctor and able to judge just how much she could stand. But later Marcus had decided against the step, preferring to sound out his cousin; that was when he had learned that Dona Inez might never be in a condition to stand the shock of a broken engagement.
Still, Carlos was Sally’s only hope. He was first a doctor, and as such would respect her confidence. She could put the whole thing to him, almost as a patient. Perhaps he even guessed a little already. She had caught him looking at her oddly once or twice; puzzled, questioning, solicitous because even though she was using more make-up there were tell-tale hollows under her eyes and a brittle brightness in her manner. Yes, if there was no other way out Sally would go to Carlos.
Ceremoniously, Don Antonio and the other three who had accompanied him were driven down to the harbor and seen aboard the steamer. Sally drove back with Marcus and Senor and Senora Suarez, and Dona Isabel informed her that the lilac was almost gathered, the presses full.
“Already ve talk of the fiesta,” she said. “Zis year is more egsitement because you vill be Lilac Queen. Two Saturdays from now. Is not, Marcus?”
A week and a half. Sally hoped her frock wouldn’t arrive in time, but it did. In fact, four frocks and a suit were delivered to the house the very next day. Lovely frocks. The white gown, a crisp checked thing with a wide white collar, a slim-fitting flowery creation and a cocktail frock in vivid blue silk. The suit was of thin jersey, the straight jacket figured in lilac and white and the skirt plain lilac. It was beautiful, but what in the world had made her choose lilac? She was beginning to detest the stuff.
The weekend was quiet. Only Carlos came to dinner on Saturday, and Captain Northwick on Sunday. Viola was using her flair for sketching to plan the decor for a small amateur show the Navy were preparing, and she spent most of the weekend in her own balcony with sketching book and colored pencils.
As she told Sally, when she looked in on Sunday morning, “It’s really most strange that there should be everything on this small island that I can possibly need. A nice pin-money job, lots of social life, a dramatic society that is snort of someone artistic to plan the sets, and good continental cooking into the bargain.”
“Not forgetting Captain Northwick of the impeccable manners and Mr. Essler of the middle-aged dreamy eyes,” Sally reminded her. “And you’re feeling very well, aren’t you?”
“Better than I’ve felt for years. So you see, I wasn’t such a fool to apply for that non-existent job in Barcelona!”
“You certainly weren’t.” Sally looked over her mother’s balcony wall at the courtyard below, and asked casually, “Supposing things had developed differently. If Marcus hadn’t become a potential son-in-law I’d now be working at the nursing home, and probably wishing I could complete my training. Would you have minded very much if d left you here and gone back to St. Alun’s?”
“Of course I’d have minded, darling,” said Viola, as she deftly shaded the background of her sketch. “But I don’t think I’d have stopped you. I’ve so much here that I didn’t seem to have in England, and though I might have missed you a bit, I wouldn’t have put my feelings before your future. I don’t think anyone could call me a possessive mother.”
Sally didn’t remind her of the last year or so in England. “I’m glad you’ve found a place where you feel you can be happy for a long time,” she said, and left the matter there. Even within herself, Sally did not mull over the future; it was too painfully uncertain.
She went back to her own r
oom and sat down at the writing table to answer a letter she’d had from her closest friend at St. Alun’s, Betty Macey. She opened the wide central drawer, and at once noticed that Betty’s letter, which should have been on top, had somehow pushed its way down to the bottom of the correspondence she kept there. Someone else must have rifled through the contents of the drawer and either displaced it or deliberately slipped it out of sight, after reading it.
Jarred, she sat back. Who in this house would want to read about Matron and Staffie and shenanigans in the nurses’ hostel of St. Alun’s? If they’d read one letter they’d probably read the lot, and much good might it do them! But why? What could anyone hope to learn from the feminine gossipy letters? And who could it be—the same person who had searched the room a couple of weeks ago?
She ought to do something about it, of course, but what? Nothing had emerged from the search, and this reading of her letters were almost too childish to bother about. It was just that it made her feel uneasy, as though she were being watched by someone hostile who suspected her position here at Las Vinas. Involuntarily, she remembered seeing one of the gardeners taking a long time over the tidying of the pool in the courtyard, and noticing that later he had paused while weeding the rockery below to speak with one of the maids. Surely there could be nothing suspicious about such countrified, ordinary islanders, particularly as they were employees here? But someone was unmistakably interested in Sally Sheppard, and whoever it was could easily bribe a gardener, a maid...
Oh, what nonsense. As if they’d jeopardize their livelihood in that way! She had only to complain to Marcus and the whole thing would be investigated. Perhaps, an insidious voice whispered, whoever it was knew just how precarious her relationship with Marcus had been, and still was. Perhaps they were smugly aware that she had no wish to approach him on a personal matter.
Sally had to leave her letter-writing for another day. She changed her shoes and went for a long walk.
Next morning she came abruptly awake at dawn. At first she hardly knew whether it was a sound or a nightmare that had jerked her back into consciousness, but after a few alarmed seconds it came again—the rattle of a pebble into had jerked her back into consciousness, but after a few alarmed seconds it came again—the rattle of pebble into the balcony. She dragged on her dressing gown and went out into the cool misty grey light, looked over the wall.
Josef Carvallo stood below, staring upwards with an agonized expression on his white face. He wore an old corduroy suit and a white shirt which looked as though he had slept in them.
“Senorita!” he exclaimed in a loud whisper. “I need your help. Please dress and come down at once.”
“What is it?”
“I cannot shout it here, but you are a nurse, and it is as a nurse that I need you. That is all. Please come!”
“Are you hurt?”
“Not I. It is someone else.”
“Have you been to Carlos?”
“No, I cannot do that. I beg of you to come. This man has lost much blood ... I will explain all as we go.”
Sally was about to turn away; she waited a moment and asked, “Where is he?”
“At my cottage. There is no risk, senorita. I waited till it was light before waking you. You will come?”
“I’ll come down, anyway.”
Hardly aware of what she was doing, Sally slipped on a frock and a pair of walking shoes. Hurriedly she combed back her hair and dabbed a spot of eau de cologne on her face. Almost automatically, she went into the bathroom and collected scissors, dressings, cotton wool and iodine, after which she hastened noiselessly downstairs, unlocked the door and stepped out into the brightening dawn.
Josef was standing close to a tree, but as she appeared he came to greet her. His black curly hair was rough and bright with morning mist and his dark eyes were anxious and pleading.
“I am so glad you would come. I have no car, but it would not be wise for you to borrow one here; the servants must be stirring and they would hear.”
She was walking as quickly as he, towards the gate. “Why is this a secret?” she asked. “Who is hurt?”
“I do not know him. He roused me last night—or rather it was early this morning. He banged at my door, and I found him fainting, with a torn shoulder. At first I did not want to let him in, but the man was so weak he could do no harm. I gave him my bed, bound up the shoulder in an old shirt and would have gone for Carlos. But this man would not let me do that. No doctor, he said. I must attend to the wound myself.”
“But how extraordinary. Is he an islander?”
“I think not. His Spanish is unfamiliar.”
“Then shouldn’t you let the police deal with him? Even on San Palos there are a few policemen.”
Josef shrugged, ran a hand over the short hair which now covered his own wound. “All I wish is to get rid of him, without trouble. In my life,” with a hint of his roguish smile showing through his worry, “I have had enough problems of my own; other men’s anxieties do not attract me at all. Please, senorita, I ask you to dress this man’s shoulder so that I can send him away.”
“I still think,” she told him firmly, “that whether the man wanted it or not you should have called Carlos. If he’s lost lots of blood he may be desperately ill, and the longer you keep him out of hospital the less chance there is of his recovery.”
“I think,” replied Josef with a grimace, “that this one is a strong man. He will certainly survive, and all I wish is to have him go from my house and leave no trace. I have told him I will give him food and get the wound dressed.”
“Well, that’s sensible, anyway. Is this really the way to your house?”
“It is the quick way, avoiding the road.”
“Because you don’t want to be seen?”
“Because I am in a hurry,” he said. “I want this man away before the woman comes to clean my place.”
They were walking quickly between pergolas of vines, Josef just ahead, pushing tendrils out of the way and looking back every few seconds to see that she was able to keep up. There seemed to be miles of cool green leaves and cascades of minute green grapes, but eventually they came out on to a rocky hillside, clambered over masses of orange and blue and white daisies and began the descent towards the coast road.
The sea, in the increasing light, looked calm and pewter-grey, lipped with white; the beach was a crescent of gold bordering the green countryside. Josef’s house was lodged on the hillside, just above the rough road. It was of white stucco and curly pink tiles, and at one side it had an extensive patio which, she believed, Josef intended using as a workyard.
He opened an old black door and stood aside for her to enter. The tiled floors were bare, the furniture sparse in the room into which he led her. There was a table, a couple of chairs, a scarred old dresser and a single bed. And on the bed lay a man of something under forty, a heavily-built man in a tweed suit which looked incongruous with the roughly bandaged shoulder. Josef hadn’t even taken off the coat.
Sally put down the things she had been carrying, bent over the man. He was pale and clammy, good-looking, in a square-faced fashion, but horribly blank about the eyes as he stared up at her.
He said something she didn’t understand, and Josef answered him. In reply to Sally’s query, Josef stated, “He said you must be quick.”
“He said more than that.”
“It ... it wasn’t complimentary.”
“Who does he think he is? Get water, Josef.”
Together they peeled off the bundle of temporary dressing and the tweed jacket. Sally cut away the man’s own shirt and revealed a deep wide gash in the upper arm just below the shoulder. When she swabbed the wound the man grunted with pain, but again he apparently adjured Josef to hurry. Josef looked frightened, but Sally did not quicken her movements. She used iodine on a ball of cotton wool, heard the gasp of pain and saw a glazed look come into those dark eyes.
“I’m taking no responsibility, Josef,” she said, a littl
e unsteadily, as she prepared a thick gauze dressing. “He needs a doctor, and the best thing you can do it to get someone to take him up to the nursing home. Then he’ll be off your hands.”
“He will have no doctor,” said Josef. “That is not such a bad wound. My own spilled more blood.”
“You didn’t get it the way he got his,” murmured Sally. “He’s been shot, and in England it’s necessary to inform the police in such a case.”
The word “police” must have got through to the man on the bed. He struggled upright, looked at them both and said something to Josef. Josef came forward and dropped the tweed jacket over the man’s shoulders, covering most of the dressing, though a whiteness was visible through the ragged hole. The shoulder of the jacket was dark with blood and there were a few smears on the unshaven chin.
He stood up, a well-built man with grey-streaked hair and hard square features. Swaying slightly, he passed them both, went into the hall and out of the house. Sally stared at Josef, swung about as though to follow, but Josef caught her arm.
“Please, no,” he said quickly. “Let him go. You are just one, and a woman. We have no weapons and he may be dangerous.”
“But it’s monstrous! He woke you up and you gave him your bed. He sent you out to get me and treated me as if I were a machine he’d switched on to do some small job. When he sent you for me you should have gone to the police!”
“He threatened me,” said Josef with a helpless shrug. “Already I am fighting for this chance to start a business on the island, and trouble of that kind would ruin everything. Marcus has told me that if I am again in a brawl or seek that kind of companion, he will take the house for someone else.”
“Well, there’s one thing,” said Sally. “San Palos is an island, and with a shoulder like that he’ll have an awful job to get away from it.”
But as she finished speaking there came a distant roar of a motor. She ran to the window, saw a launch arrowing away from the beach at full speed.
Perchance to Marry Page 15
