‘Pepita! ‒ go!’ She grunted, and moved her big body over to the chair where I had been sitting. Then she slumped down, her gaze still fixed on Carlos.
Luis knelt over him. Carlos had let the knife fall. There was no sound from him, not a groan. Shakily I brought the candle to his side.
It was then Antonio and Conceptión arrived. They stood rooted by the door for a moment, then Conceptión went swiftly to Carlos. ‘Mother of God!’ She raised her face for a moment, looking from me to Luis, and then, finally, at Pepita. She bent over Carlos again. ‘He dies!’
His throat and face were a fearful sight. His shirt was no more than a bloody rag. And still the blood pumped. First Conceptión used the shawl she wore over her nightdress to try to staunch the blood, but it was a useless gesture. Antonio had run and brought towels, and they did nothing but soak up the blood. I could feel the tears of shock and anger burning on my face. I could feel the warmth of my own blood as it ran down my sleeve. Then I began to feel cold, and deathly tired. Luis held a towel to his face. The seconds went to minutes, and still Carlos bled.
Conceptión looked up at me. ‘If he does not have a doctor to sew him up, he will die. I cannot stop the blood.’
‘I will go,’ Antonio said.
I thought, wearily, of the time it would take to saddle up, the time the journey would take into Jerez, even using Carlos’s good horse, the time for the doctor to get back here. It was again a useless gesture, but one that must be performed.
‘I’ll help him saddle up,’ Luis said. I think he knew as well as I did the hopelessness of the whole thing, but he knew that it must be done.
‘Tell him also to bring Don Paulo.’
Then I went and sat weakly on the chair close to Pepita. She panted loudly, and she had, in the natural way of animals, already begun to lick at the many wounds she bore. I could hear the sounds from the courtyard as Antonio saddled up. Luis returned with a lantern, and once more knelt by Carlos. Now I could see his face better, and it was a strange, ashen, unnatural white, where it was not smeared with blood. Pepita had obeyed the instincts of all her kind too well, and had sought, and found the jugular vein. I sat and waited there while Conceptión and Luis did what they could. Pepita was as terrible a sight as Carlos, with one eye gouged, and her broad chest scored and slashed a dozen times. Carlos had fought hard for his life, and made her pay. The seconds of the lives of both of them ticked off.
* *
Luis came to me at last. ‘I think he is dead.’
I went and knelt again by him, trying to feel for a flutter of a pulse. The bleeding had stopped, and Conceptión had closed his eyes.
I got to my feet with difficulty, Luis helping me. I don’t think it was the bleeding from my wound that weakened me, but the thought of death, the ending of life, not in peace, not in a moment of happiness, as it had been with my grandfather, but the ending of life in violence.
I touched Conceptión’s arm. ‘Try to make him clean before his father sees him.’ She nodded, understanding.
I spoke softly to Pepita, and she made an heroic effort and managed to get to her feet. She followed me to the bedroom, and I placed her on the rug before the fireplace. I lighted the fire that was always laid, but in this weather seldom used. She must have been feeling the cold of shock and loss of blood; she held her muzzle gratefully towards the warmth. Then I went and got our best brandy, the finest distilling of the finest sherry Jerez gave. I cut up clean sheets and got warm water, so I could bathe and soothe her wounds; I covered her with a blanket against the chill which shook her. I opened her mouth, and forced a good measure of brandy down her throat, and she took it, trustingly.
Then I went and got the tiny pistol in the velvet case that had caught Amelia’s attention in Vienna. It was small, but I thought it would serve. I cleaned and oiled it, and loaded the chambers. It was more than a lady’s toy; it was well-made, and designed for use. I could only hope that it now did its work, and did not explode in my hand.
I sat for a while on the rug beside Pepita, waiting for the brandy to take effect. I drank two measures of it myself. Her head was on my lap. I noticed that some blood still trickled from the wound on my shoulder; it mingled with hers on my skirt. The time was passing, and I did not dare to wait longer. I could give into the hands of no one else what must be done; the act should not be carried out in the spirit of vengeance.
The brandy was working. Her undamaged eye drooped. I bent and kissed the top of her silken head.
‘Pepita ‒ dear, good friend …’ With great effort she raised her head and turned it to look up at me, and that deep trusting look almost unnerved me. For me she had given the most she could give. I met that sad, afflicted gaze, and then I killed her.
* *
The face of Don Paulo was terrible to see as he looked at the face of his dead son. At first he stood away, as if he did not believe what he saw. Then he went closer. Finally he knelt, as we all had done, beside that still form. For a moment I thought I saw the shoulders heave, as he bent over Carlos. It was over quickly. He rose to his feet stiffly, disdaining the hand of Luis.
He turned and looked at me, a face with the look of death and vengeance in it.
‘The dog will be destroyed.’
‘It has been done.’
Even as I said the words the pain began. I had felt too much pain that night, the pain of fear and loss, the pain of violent death, the pain as I had killed a beloved friend, the physical pain inflicted on me by the knife wound. The hatred in Don Paulo’s eyes was the last pain. I stared at him for only seconds longer before he seemed to waver before my eyes, like the flickering candlelight. I must have lost consciousness standing on my feet. I did not feel the pain of hitting the floor.
Dr Ramírez stayed with me all night but he was not able to stop the haemorrhaging, not able to prevent me miscarrying the child, Carlos’s last child. That life also vanished that night, the child I had promised to learn to love, the one who would have been the child of the vineyards.
III
I was too weak to attend Carlos’s burial. The doctor would not even permit me to leave the vineyard house, so Maria Luisa spent her time between one place and the other. My mother was not able, alone, to receive the callers who came to offer their sympathy at the Plaza de Asturias, so Maria Luisa had to stretch her energies to both places.
I begged her not to come so often. ‘Conceptión looks after me well. The doctor comes each day. I am growing stronger.’
‘I worry, querida. There are things you do not know.’
‘Don’t worry.’ I don’t know why I said that. There was much to worry about. I guessed from the agitation in Maria Luisa’s manner that some strange tales had been told of what had happened here the night Carlos had died. It was true that he had died from the terrible wounds given him by a savage and powerful dog. The dog was dead. But it had been necessary to stitch a knife wound in my shoulder, and the long gash on Luis’s face. Dr Ramírez had had to make a report to the police because of the nature of Carlos’s death. I didn’t yet want to know what that report had said. But I heard, just the same.
I had been sleeping through the afternoon, made drowsy by the drugs Dr Ramírez had given me. The curtains and shutters had been closed against the strong light. At first I did not see her when I woke in the dimness of the room. Then a small movement of her hand brought the familiar glitter of the jewels. ‘You sleep peacefully, Doña Carlota.’
‘Marquesa …?’
‘I have come, of course, because Don Paulo, in his grief, might make some move to destroy you. He might try to hurt you and Luis. If not to punish you, then to blacken what is left of your reputation. He sees, at the moment, no further than the loss of his son, which has been a terrible blow to him. He is not yet able to consider the position of his grandchildren, my godchildren. Whatever happens, they must be protected.’
She rose from her chair and came to stand at the end of the bed, gazing down at me. I felt helpless, like a me
smerised animal.
‘You Blodmores … perhaps there really is the streak of madness in you. Only you could get yourself into such a tangle of lies and foolishness. The entrapment of Carlos into marriage in the first place … it began there, and it has gone on ever since.’ I tried to turn my head away from her, but her eyes compelled my gaze. ‘I cannot argue now. I am not well.’
‘No one suggested that you argue. I am here to tell you the facts.’
‘I know the facts. Carlos is dead because he attacked Luis and myself. Pepita is dead because she defended me.’
‘You sound as if you grieve more for your dog than for your husband.’
I made no attempt to reply.
‘Luis and I arranged the story we gave to the police. The dog went berserk, attacked Carlos, who tried to defend himself with his knife. You and Luis intervened to help Carlos, and in the struggle, both were wounded. As you said, Carlos is dead, and the dog is dead. There is no other story.’
‘That is not what happened.’
‘You think I don’t know it? You think Dr Ramírez doesn’t know it? But that is the official story. The police are prepared to accept it because Don Paulo does not dispute it. Who cares what people may say or think? No one can prove anything different. As you know, Luis is a kinsman of mine. He and Don Paulo are partners in the bodega. If they stand together, no one can shake that unity. And they will stand together, for all our sakes. It has been arranged.’
I lay quiet. Thoughts still came slowly, as they had done since that night. Despite the growing heat of the afternoon I was cold. I said at last, ‘Conceptión and Antonio know different. They know Carlos arrived here drunk, and that a quarrel broke out almost immediately. Anyone who ever knew Pepita would laugh at the thought that she went mad and attacked Carlos unprovoked.’
‘Let them laugh. Stranger things have happened. All that Conceptión and Antonio will say is that Carlos arrived here to spend the night. They went to bed, were awakened by the noise. They found Carlos dying, and later you yourself shot the dog.’
‘But that is not all they know. They know different from that.’
‘I have told you that is all they will say.’
‘How do you know that is all they will say?’
‘Because I have arranged it. Because that is what they have agreed. That is what they have already told the police. They listened very carefully to my suggestions. They are decent enough people, but little educated. They have dreams for their children. That is ordinary enough. Dreams that they will be educated, have their chance to make their way in life, give their parents some comfort in their old age. I have not been so stupid as to offer them money outright. They would not be able to conceal that. But if I choose to be generous in aiding the advancement of their children, then that is entirely my business. There are many workers on my estates for whom I do the same thing. Loyalty is more surely bought that way than with money.’
She spoke the truth. She had found the way. ‘Conceptión has said that Carlos arrived here to eat supper with you and Luis by arrangement. It looks better that way.’
Yes, it all looked better that way. A little manipulation of the facts, a little rearranging of the truth. Conceptión and Antonio would see no harm in it. The harm, the danger, the scandal would only come if they spoke the whole truth, and even speaking it would do no one any good. It could not restore Carlos’s life; it could only bring more grief to his father. Yes, I understood very well why they would fall in with this plan. After all, it would save the reputation of everyone concerned. The only reputation which would be lost was Pepita’s, and what did a dog matter? they would say.
‘One further matter. The honour of Don Paulo of course demands that your debts to Luis should be paid in full. This has been done.’
I struggled to sit up, and failed. ‘How do you dare!’ I whispered. ‘Those were my debts, freely entered into. This house and the vineyards are the security against them. I have faithfully paid the interest. In time the debt itself would have been paid.’
‘Not soon enough to satisfy Don Paulo. He cannot allow anyone to know how deeply his daughter-in-law was in debt to another man, even such a man as Luis. It means, of course, that this vineyard now belongs to Don Paulo.’
‘That is not possible. It belonged to my mother, willed to her by my grandfather. It cannot be taken over without her consent.’
‘That consent has been given. Your mother is a sick woman, but she listens to reason. She signed.’
The whole weight of my body sank into the bed. They had taken it from me. They had managed to wrest my beloved vineyard from me. It was mine no more. My poor, sick, tormented mother had been frightened into signing something she did not understand. I remembered the look of hatred on Don Paulo’s face as he had stood over the body of his dead son. We, my mother and I, who represented the Blodmores to him, had struck him a mortal blow. He must have known by his act that he had begun, at last, to have his revenge. My mother had saved Carlos’s life, and I had been the cause of taking it. He could forgive neither thing.
‘So I advise you to behave as you should,’ that calm voice went on. ‘You will observe a year’s strict mourning. You may receive discreet callers, but you may not appear at any entertainment. You will wear black. Don Paulo, as your nearest male relative, will exercise a grandfather’s control over anything that touches your children. You and Maria Luisa between you will attempt to control your mother’s unfortunate habits. Otherwise we must insist that she have stronger discipline.’
What did she mean? How had they come to have this power over us? I thought of my mother’s fear of Nuestra Señora de Mercedes, and I remembered my promise. I thought of how I had killed Pepita so that no one else should do it.
Weakness swamped me, and I could make no reply to her. Between them, she and Don Paulo had taken everything from me, my children, my vineyard, everything that gave me hope. I could look at her no longer. I turned my face into the pillow, accepting defeat.
From the doorway I heard her say, ‘It is a pity you lost the child. Another grandson would have done much to re-establish your standing with Don Paulo. Yes ‒ a pity you lost the child. You should have been more careful.’
My mouth pressed against the pillow so that she would not hear me cry out. By his last act, in his dying, Carlos had finally stripped from me the thing he most resented, my little shred of dignity and independence. I was the creature of these two now ‒ Don Paulo and the Marquesa; my mother, myself, my children, all helpless except to do their bidding. I was trapped by events which had begun long before I was born.
Chapter Six
I
The town was kind ‒ perhaps it was also wise. If in private there was speculation about exactly what had happened the night Carlos had died at Las Ventanas Verdes, no one seemed to attach any blame to us. Don Luis was so well established that nothing could touch his reputation. The town closed ranks to protect its own against outside gossip, and that protection extended to me. That Don Paulo had suffered a terrible loss they acknowledged, and if they were not entirely convinced that it was the same with me, at least they made a good show of it. When I was well enough to return to the Plaza de Asturias, all the acquaintances who had called to offer condolences immediately after Carlos’s death, came once again, wearing black, to offer them to me. The miscarriage, the recurring horror of that whole night permitted me little sleep, and I had lost weight. The ladies exclaimed sympathetically over my appearance. Maria Luisa nodded sagely. ‘You look well in black, querida. You have the complexion for it.’ I thought she was about to say, ‘You play the part well,’ but she never actually spoke the words.
The Marquesa made her appearance at the Plaza de Asturias the first day I was there. Her presence set the seal of family closeness upon our shared loss. She sent over from Don Paulo’s house a beautiful Georgian silver tea service, and a tea-set of Crown Derby arrived from Sanlucar, which she never took back. She also sent her chef and several servants from Sanluc
ar for those first weeks, and stocked the larder with all the ingredients we would need for those dainty tea-time sandwiches and little cakes so beloved by the ladies of Jerez. Silver cake stands were passed about the drawing-room, silver spoons tinkled against bone china cups, while the Marquesa presided over the tea pouring. It was made clear that I was as yet too weak to undertake such tasks, and of course, my mother could not be trusted with them. So the Marquesa sat there in her black, with only the famous jewelled rings for relief, and her presence slightly awed even the most talkative Jerezano lady. I realised that not only was she presenting a picture of family solidarity, but she was also shielding me from any unwanted questions. She kept me seated on the sofa beside her, and she encouraged me to remain silent.
So the weeks wore on ‒ dead, slow weeks in which the true heat of the summer gathered force and smote us. Everyone in the house was listless. The Marquesa, satisfied that it was now safe to leave us, departed for her estates in Galicia, in the cool, green north-west region of Spain. But she took her hostages with her. She took my three sons, saying that the Andalucian summer was too fierce for them, that they needed cool green gardens to play in, green fields to ride in, that they should not have to spend the summer in a house of mourning, trapped in the heat of the town. So they went, accompanied by a flustered, and awe-struck Nanny, and Edwin Fletcher went with them. We were alone, three women in black, in a dim, shuttered house.
To give myself some activity, I rode with my mother each morning while it was still relatively cool, to Luis’s hacienda to see Balthasar and Half Moon. A gentle canter in the dry brown pastures was our day’s only activity. We were back at the Plaza de Asturias by eleven, and the whole empty day stretched before us. The Marquesa had briefly played with the idea that Balthasar and Half Moon and their progeny should be moved to land belonging to Don Paulo, but then realised that the move might be unsettling to my mother, and also that it might signify disapproval of Don Luis, and give cause for gossip, so she left things as they were. ‘But you will be most circumspect in your meetings with Don Luis. Do not forget that the town must believe that he was the guest of yourself and Carlos that night at the vineyard. You must not be overly friendly with him. You must never see him alone.’
The Summer of the Spanish Woman Page 34
