Roses Collection: Boxed Set

by Freda, Paula

  "I’ll take Rosaria to the movies," Doreen assured him. "But we’ll need someone to drive us. I no longer have use of the Cordoba."

  Something about his grin, and the self-satisfaction with which he stretched his legs, caused her to suspect that he had been instrumental in Esteban reaching her at the airport before she could escape. His next words confirmed her hunch. "A pity that at times my brother can be most difficult."

  Disgusted, Doreen excused herself to go and change for dinner. Doña Maria’s bedroom faced the top of the curving staircase. Doreen had reached the last step when she heard the old woman calling to her.

  "Niña, entrase, I will speak with you, sit."

  In her black lace afternoon dress and mantilla, Esteban’s grandmother was no less imperious than the men of her clan. Her eyes were rheumy with age, her body thin and bent, but she retained the keen intelligence and the feisty spirit that had attracted Esteban’s grandfather.

  "I sense that all is not well between you and my grandson," she said.

  Doreen surmised that sensing had very little to do with the old woman’s concern. More likely, the sound of their voices as they argued earlier had penetrated the walls of Doña Maria’s bedroom.

  "What is happening between you two?" Doña Maria inquired worriedly. "I was against your union, but on your wedding day you and Esteban burned with such love that the guests at the wedding feast proclaimed they could almost see the torch flaming between you. Now the flame flickers and threatens to extinguish."

  Doreen dropped her gaze to the dainty black handkerchief in the old woman’s hands. The fingers that held the wisp of linen and lace were gnarled with arthritis, and wrinkles that appeared etched with a sculpture’s tool, criss-crossed and chased each other across the backs of her hands.

  Doña Maria had been a farmer’s daughter, working alongside her father tilling the soil and planting the seeds of the crop that would feed her immediate family. Doreen had heard the story from Esteban. How his grandfather, then a dashing Spanish aristocrat, caught a peasant girl stealing fruit from his orchard. The penalty he imposed was that she sleep in his bed for three nights, the alternative being that she and her family would be imprisoned and their small farm confiscated.

  The girl paid the penalty. But her spirit and self-sacrifice so impressed him that on the last night of her sentence, he sent for the Padre and married her, there, in his bedroom, and remained faithful to her for the rest of his life. The girl, of course, was Doña Maria herself.

  "Will you not tell me what is destroying your affection for each other?"

  "I can’t live like this any longer." Doreen replied, lifting her head. "In the name of love, Esteban has made me a prisoner of his heritage."

  "You tried to escape earlier. I saw Esteban’s face as he searched for you when he discovered you and your suitcase were gone." The worry lines on her brow deepened. "Esteban is not like his father. My son was of an even and benign temperament. If his wife had asked him to, he would have fallen on his knees before her in homage. She, herself, was of a gentle nature, and worshipped and respected my son above all things. In temperament Esteban resembles my husband, God rest his dear soul. He has a Spartan core. Had it been Esteban on that long ago morning in the orchard, I would not have fared any better." She craned her neck as if to see Doreen more clearly. "What has changed you, niña? You did not mind Esteban’s power when you first came here. I would venture to say you admired him for that power and his strength of character."

  "Perhaps I did. But that power now threatens to crush my strength of character. His attempts at dominating me are a constant irritation. His Old World attitude towards a wife’s role infuriates me. His refusal to end our relationship is sheer Latin stubbornness on his part. I will not remain here with nothing to do than look back on honorable memories!"

  "You are as hard as he is!" Doña Maria accused. Her backbone arched like a cat’s and her crinkled features grew stiff as the starched black lace of her dress. "I will speak to my grandson. Such as you do not belong in this house. You are not worthy to bear the Pereira name. Kindly leave my presence."

  The old woman’s rejection shook Doreen as though cold water had been thrown at her flushed face. Doña Maria had always kept her place and never interfered in the couple’s affairs. She left her chair and fell on her knees before the old woman. "Señora, don’t be unkind to me as well. I didn’t want to marry Esteban, but there was no denying him. I had no weapons against the allure of his charms or the strength of his will. And now I have no weapons to break his chains. Doña Maria, please," she implored. It seemed so important that someone understand her plight.

  The old woman’s features softened. She placed a consoling hand on Doreen’s shoulder. "My son and his wife were content with one another. When Esteban’s mother died, my son would look at no other woman. He grew old quickly, and gladly followed his esposa into the world of the angels. Can you and Esteban not close your eyes to the world about you and see only each other?"

  Yearning for the comfort of her own mother who had died years ago, Doreen laid her head on the old woman’s lap. "I cannot love a jailer," she said. She thought of her brother in the States and how easy to write to him and solicit his help. Somehow the idea of pitting brother against husband revolted her. She must fight her own battles. There was the chance that in time Esteban would relent and grant her freedom. But how much time? How long before he finally broke her spirit, before she grew used to the yoke and became docile? No more than a fixture and a prospective breeding mare. And after, how long before he grew bored with her and looked for more palatable charms, elsewhere?

  Doña Maria ran her hand gently over granddaughter-in-law's darkest brown hair. Doreen lifted her head slightly to acknowledge the gesture and her hair draped her temples gracefully. "You are a very beautiful young woman. I cannot blame my grandson for refusing to let you go."

  Tears threatened and Doreen stood up. "Doña Maria, forgive me, but I’m weary." The old woman nodded. "Go, niña. It has been a trying day for you. I will pray that all will be well between you and Esteban.

  She retired early, slipping into the large bed with its carved headboard inlaid with ivory, pulling the silk sheets about her, as if hiding from her unhappiness. Sleep was her ally. In its blessed oblivion, she could forget the tight nervousness in her chest and the depressing thoughts in her mind. She could dream of her emancipation from Esteban. Sleep overtook her suddenly, and as suddenly Esteban was beside her, and drawing her into the curve of his arm.

  Part of her brain slept. Part had come awake. She recoiled from his hold. He groaned and drew her back into his arms.

  Being locked inside a cage that was too small for her proportions would have been preferable to being held thus, immobile, restrained. "Esteban, please, you’re hurting me!" Doreen cried, trying to twist free.

  "What am I doing that is hurting you?" he asked. "I but hold you as you have held me hundreds of times before."

  "Mental anguish can rival physical pain," she replied, squirming to free herself. "Let me go!" she fairly screamed, communicating all the aversion and intolerance that threatened to send her into a fit of hysterics, if he did not let go. Esteban released her. She moved to the edge of the bed and turned her back on him.

  She heard his anguished intake of breath but he dared not touch her. "I do not deserve your rejection," he said. "I have never betrayed you, nor done you harm, that you should turn from me with such loathing."

  Doreen did not reply, but she did not fall asleep until nearly dawn. Several times during the night her glance strayed to her sleeping husband. He lay on his back with the silk sheets flung casually across his waist. The black beard on his chest was dense. In sleep his rigid jaw was relaxed, the full mouth parted slightly as if his nostrils were not wide enough to admit all the air necessary to sustain his long, lean form. She was thankful he slept, his eyelids shuttering for the moment the denunciation with which his eyes, deep-set under black brows, had earlier regarded he
r. A thin stubble of hair covered his prominent cheekbones and jaw, continuing to just above his neck, giving him a gaunt appearance.

  With the dawn the birds began to chant their morning hymns. Doreen rose and went into the bathroom, showered, toweled, and dusted herself with silky talcum. Wearing a cream-colored slip, she left the bathroom and opened the glass paned door that led to the Terrace, to breathe deeply the brand new morning’s dewy air. The sun’s first rays, pale liquid gold, skewed through the opening and caught Doreen’s silhouette in their descent.

  "Are you an apparition of Aphrodite or a visitor from some distant galaxy, your life support contained in your alien glow?" Esteban asked, propped up on his elbows. His words made her heartbeat race despite her determination to leave him. "I’m neither," she replied, at war with her ego.

  She refused to fall prey to his charms again. Each dulcet word he uttered forged another link on the chain with which he held her captive. She did not look at him, but gathered some clothes from the closet and returned to the bathroom to finish dressing. She locked the door behind her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Breakfast, like Dinner, was a family activity. Chafing dishes filled with scrambled eggs and peppers. Warm rolls made from ground corn and filled with melted cheese. These covered the massive dark wood table, along with bowls of fruits — papayas, pineapples and mangoes, heat-retaining pitchers of coffee, and decanters of orange juice. Esteban was the last to arrive and took his place at the head of the table. Doreen sat at the opposite end, wearing a mint-green, sleeveless shift, and uncomfortable as usual with the stiffness of the high-backed wood armchair carved with dainty rosettes. Except for the gilded marquetry framing the mirror that hung over the credenza, the room had a dour look. The burgundy rug and the large philodendron plant were Doreen’s contributions to lighten the surrounding austerity. The only quality in the room that Doreen considered redeeming was the overhead chandelier, a brass and crystal fixture of electric lights arranged around a large cluster of white porcelain rosebuds.

  As soon as Esteban had said Grace, Rosaria reminded Doreen about her promise to take her to the cinema today. Esteban heard and paused in his conversation with Ramon. He regarded his wife questioningly across the length of the table. No doubt he was wondering how she could take Rosaria to the movies when he had confiscated the Cordoba.

  "We’ll need someone to drive us into the City," Doreen said. Rosaria gazed despondently from one to the other, sensing the silent war waging between husband and wife. Esteban did not answer immediately, turning instead to say a few words to his grandmother. Rosaria looked at her older brother anxiously.

  "Esteban, Doreen has inquired if you can have someone drive us into the City." Rosaria asked.

  Ramon laughed under his breath. The contempt in his eyes for his sister-in-law was there for everyone to read.

  "Callate!" Esteban said to Ramon, who had the good sense to lower his gaze and resume eating. "I have some errands in the City for the caretaker’s son," Esteban said. "He can take you both in the utility van."

  Rosaria thanked him, her smile a minor beacon dispelling the tension in the room. Esteban doted on his younger sibling. In her he saw his mother. He returned her smile, but it faded when his gaze met Doreen’s.

  The caretaker’s son was named Manuel Rodriguez. His family had lived and worked on the Pereira’s land for generations. They mowed the lawns, planted the flowers, and made the grounds a pleasure to stroll through. And at the same time, they earned their living and conducted their own lives.

  Manuel had just turned twenty-one and for as long as Doreen had lived in the Pereira household, she had recognized the fact that he was deeply in love with Rosaria. He was a handsome boy, but aware of his position as a servant, and resigned to the knowledge that he could never hope to have Rosaria for his own. As children, the two had played side by side, until the day when Doña Maria informed Esteban that it was time his sister considered her reputation and act like the innocent girl she was. If Rosaria was aware of Manuel’s feelings towards her, she gave no indication of it. She treated him as she had always done — with a smile and a friendly tease, and a familiar way of pinching his cheek.

  Today was no different, and when she and Doreen were ready to leave for the City, they summoned the youth who brought the utility van to the front of the house. "We are ready, Manuel," Rosaria greeted, prancing with excitement. Manuel was of medium height, slim and strong thewed from the years spent working with the earth. He respectfully greeted them in turn, but his gaze lingered longer than it should on Rosaria’s upturned face. "Shall I be bringing you back?" he asked, addressing Doreen.

  Rosaria answered, "Of course, but not until just before dark," she said, eyes twinkling with mischief.

  Manuel looked worried. Doreen wondered if he read Rosaria’s thoughts and suspected the same as she did, that his young mistress’s enthusiasm for the cinema held an ulterior motive. She should voice her suspicions, but she wanted to meet this man who, from Rosaria’s accounts, practically swooned at the sight of her young sister-in-law. She would keep the secret of Rosaria and Jose, for the time being, be Rosaria’s chaperon and monitor carefully the progress of their romance, guiding her sister-in-law as best she could. If Jose proved worthy in her eyes, she would speak to Esteban. If Esteban reacted unreasonably, then she would feel no compunction about encouraging the two to elope, anything, so that Rosaria need not be denied the freedom of choosing her own man and living her own life.

  Outside the cinema after Manuel had left to complete his appointed errands, Doreen turned to Rosaria. "Young lady, I have a strong suspicion you’ve come here to meet Jose." Rosaria tensed. Doreen promised, "You can trust me not to tell Esteban, but I have to know what’s going on."

  "Mi cuñada, you are kind," she said, hugging Doreen. "You will be my confidante, the close friend I have yearned for since Esteban forbade me Manuel’s companionship." Her dark eyebrows drew together as her young mind schemed. "We must be shrewd. If Esteban should ever so much as suspect—"

  "He’d probably lock us in the cellar and throw away the key," Doreen said. The girl shuddered, but her chin rose resolutely.

  Doreen pushed the ‘ifs’ and their repercussions aside. "We’ll make sure he doesn’t suspect," she resolved. She was helping a fellow prisoner.

  They purchased their tickets and entered the cinema. It was early afternoon. The pelicula, a Spanish feature subtitled in English, was in progress. "There. See? In the sixth row," Rosaria said, pointing.

  Doreen squinted, forcing her eyes to adapt to the semidarkness inside the theater. Her eyes lit upon a dark head set upon a short neck and a pair of wide shoulders.

  "It is Jose!" Rosaria whispered, all agog.

  "Little sister-in-law let me give you a word of advice." Doreen spoke softly into Rosaria’s ear. How large and beagle-like the girl’s eyes appeared lighted only by the color spectrum streaming down from the small square window of the projection room. "Try playing a bit hard to get. A little less enthusiasm will keep him in tow. As they say in my country, ‘you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve.’ Too much, too soon."

  Rosaria thought a moment, and then she nodded. "You are right, cuñada. I am a lady. Therefore I will act the part." She threw back her shoulders and lifted her round chin. She lived in frilly peasant blouses and pleated flowery skirts that swirled about her knees as she pranced about.

  When they reached the sixth row, Rosaria sat beside Jose and Doreen sat next to her. Jose did not look at them until Rosaria reassured him, "It is safe to speak to me. This is my sister-in-law whom we can trust implicitly."

  "You are Esteban’s wife?" he asked, startled. Jose had a husky voice that matched his medium, burly frame fitted into a dark, expensive looking blazer. Around his neck he wore a shiny blue cravat.

  Doreen tried to smile as she nodded, but she was unable to mask the disturbance she felt. She did not like Jose. It was not the vanity she read in his face. She had come to accept the machismo
present in many of the Latin American males. But the distrust and the fear — yes, that was it, inordinate fear that she sensed in his question. He was afraid, too afraid. He was hiding something. She could not decode the aversion she was suddenly experiencing towards this perfect stranger. There was no real basis for it. But for the life of her, what did Rosaria see in this man?

  The film’s sound track was not loud enough to drown the murmur of their amorous exchanges. Doreen had no idea what was happening on the screen, her only concern at the moment to glean as much information as possible about Jose. She had accepted a serious responsibility. If Rosaria were in any way hurt, there would be much to answer for.

  A second film followed, a war movie with an all-male cast. War movies, especially with an all-male cast, had never been her cup of tea. They usually put her to sleep, as they were doing now. She was also tired from listening intently to the couple beside her, while feigning interest in the movie. Her head listed and her eyelids drooped. She dozed, waking to the roar of machine guns and missiles. She checked the two people next to her. They were immersed in themselves. She dozed again. Rosaria woke her. "Cuñada, the movies are over. Manuel must be waiting outside."

  Doreen shook off the drowsiness. Jose was gone.

  "Jose has gone," Rosaria said, guessing the question in Doreen’s eyes. "He will come to the garden tomorrow. You will watch for us?"

  The blast of bombshells exploding and men screaming riveted their attention to the screen where a trailer for next week’s feature was showing. Doreen made a face. She hated war films. She found no entertainment in seeing human beings killed. Rosaria’s last question was forgotten as the audience crowded into the aisles to leave the cinema.

  During the ride home, Rosaria stayed noticeably quiet. The past few hours had had a maturing effect on her. Her composure was restrained and she held her chin and nose a bit higher. Manuel glanced askance at Doreen. She shrugged, as if to say, who can tell with a girl like Rosaria.