'It is to be hoped that the children who are to be handed into your care will have no cause to complain about a teacher whose nature can be as crushing and implacable as her name, Miss Petra Morrison!' The stress he placed, though light, held an unmistakable ring of warning.
'I hope so too,' she agreed, striving to maintain an even tone and somehow succeeding, in spite of a heart that reacted with a quiver to every hurtful remark. Then, prompted by an uncharacteristic urge to retaliate, she continued with more than a hint of asperity:
'However, if a choice of name is to be deemed a fair indication of its owner's character, surely I'm the one most entitled to feel misgivings. It's less than two hours since you and I first met, yet I have allowed myself to be driven up into the mountains where I'm to reside for weeks in the lair of a man whose namesake, Heracles, became synonymous with lust and fertility when the fifty daughters of Thestius all conceived a child by him in one night!'
She felt her brazen retort had been justified when for long, satisfactory seconds he looked astounded. Then suddenly his dark features dissolved into lines of amusement as he tossed back his head and laughed loudly enough to dislodge a disgruntled hen-bird from her nest.
'Truly, you are an enigma, Miss Morrison!' he finally gasped, controlling his amusement long enough to assure her. 'You possess qualities as secret and impossible to define as the coupling stone whose character changes according to the play of light. Familiarity has long since condemned it as mundane, yet sometimes in the evening I have been surprised by its beauty, being made suddenly aware of it in a way that I would have considered practically impossible during less receptive daylight hours.'
As they left the village behind the road grew steeper, the landscape became harshened by a vista of craggy peaks and outcrops of rock that jutted from the roadside causing many blind corners on the road rising narrow and almost perpendicular towards the lonely, lofty territory of the gods. When the car breasted a steep rise, then suddenly dipped, a gasp of wonder escaped Petra's lips. Her startled eyes widened as she gazed down upon a desolate hollow where the evening sun did not penetrate through the narrow, fortified windows of an ancient castle of pitted yellow stone lying, soaking in shadows, by tier upon tier of towering cypress trees. The silence was uncanny, it was a place where no birds sang, a kingdom of shadows, she decided with a shudder, where the souls of those who had finished their earthly existence might look for refuge.
As the car approached the castle drive her optimism faded as quickly as the warmth of sunrays that had played around her thinly-clad shoulders. She shivered, feeling a chill of foreboding, faced by the full extent of the folly of having allowed herself to be spirited into the primitive past, to a place where time had obviously stood still, by a stranger whose words flowed like honey from a spoon!
'Buffavento Castle,' he indicated with evident satisfaction as they drove past huge bronze gates, each with a centrepiece of a shield stamped with the image of a lion rampant, guarding the entrance to his stronghold. 'Or perhaps you prefer the title said to have been coined by Richard the Lionheart, your crusading king who needed to rest between battles inside an impregnable fortress— Castle of the Lion!'
Lair might be a more apt description, Petra decided, nervously eyeing a flight of stone steps hollowed by the advancing feet of many centuries; pitted, battle scarred walls; slit-narrow window embrasures, and turrets sited high enough to enable a lookout to provide early warning of approaching enemies.
By the time she had been ushered inside a huge hall hung with brass lanterns and dusty banners, its floor dotted with uninhabited chairs and rugs spilling a few pools of bright colour on to a chilly stone-flagged floor, her chilled blood had developed a definite hint of ice. Conscious of his amused eyes reading her expression, she faltered to a standstill in the middle of the hall, wincing as if expecting to be trampled by Herculean footsteps when he strode past to tug a bell rope dangling against one wall.
Seconds later, as if her presence had been summoned in a deliberate attempt to disperse fear and childish apprehension, a woman bustled smartly into the hall, a plump, rather elderly woman wearing a spotless white apron over a dress black as her smoothly-brushed hair, fastened at the neck with small jet buttons reflecting the same bright, friendly sparkle as her eyes.
'Miss Morrison,' Stelios Heracles turned, 'I'd like to introduce Sophia, my housekeeper.
'Sophia,' he addressed the beaming woman, 'Miss Morrison will be staying with us for a few weeks. I shall rely upon you to ensure that everything necessary for her comfort will be provided. Though our guest is English,' he encouraged when he saw Sophia's look of apprehension, 'she is sufficiently familiar with our language to have accepted the post of temporary English teacher to the children of the village. So you see, there is no need for you to worry about communicating with our guest.'
'Ah! Kopiaste, thespinis.' Alternately bobbing and beaming, Sophia invited: 'Come, sit, and let us talk.'
'Efharisto, Sophia,' Petra thanked her shyly, guessing from past experience of Greek hospitality that she was about to be shown into the most comfortable room and plied with coffee and 'sweets of the spoon'—hospitality which custom demanded should be extended immediately any visitor entered a Greek home.
As she had anticipated, shortly after being shown into a magnificently proportioned sitting-room where modern items of furniture blended inconspicuously with heavily carved chests blackened with age, delicate porcelain, gilt-framed oil paintings, and a magnificent crystal chandelier, Sophia reappeared carrying a large silver tray set with glasses, tiny spoons, and numerous bowls of glyko—a variety of fruits, green walnuts, small egg plants, citrus peel and rose blossoms preserved in thick, sweet syrup. Eager to participate in a ritual described many times by her mother, Petra leant forward in her chair to accept a glass of water and a spoon which she used to scoop out of one of the bowls a large, glossy cherry. She then transported it to her lips, using the glass of water to catch syrup dripping from the spoon.
'Iyenete!' Sophia nodded approval of her dexterity.
'Efharisto,' Petra thanked her, 'that was delicious.' She ran the tip of an appreciative tongue around syrup-sweetened lips. 'Do you make your own confiture?'
'But of course!' Sophia looked astonished. 'Every good housewife makes her own glyko as well as her jams and marmalades. The art was taught to me by my mother, who had the method handed down to her by her mother, and her mother, and her mother before that! No recipe book can describe fruit that is exactly right—not too ripe and not too green—how to get the thickness of the syrup just so. This kind of knowledge can only be gained by watching an, expert at work.' She bent to put a light to a silver spirit stove. 'And now, thespinis, please tell me how you like your coffee. The kyrios prefers his bitter with no sugar at all…'
'Then that will suit me too,' Petra told her hastily, aware of the complicated ritual that was about to ensue, 'but with just a little water poured into it to disperse the froth.'
'Kalos orisate,' Sophia acknowledged her thoughtfulness, then began measuring heaped spoonsful of coffee into an imbriki containing heated water before putting the pot back on to the spirit heater to allow the liquid to bubble and rise to the brim.
'Remember not to drain your cup,' she warned, pouring the aromatic brew into tiny cups. 'You will find the thick sediment at the bottom comes in very useful when fortunes are being told.'
Petra rewarded the caution with a smile, feeling contented and happy as memories resurrected from childhood flooded her mind. But pleasure turned to shock when she looked up to encounter the narrow-eyed stare of the man whose still, watchful presence had barely impinged upon her consciousness.
'You appear to be as knowledgeable about our customs as you are about our language, Miss Morrison.' Stelios Heracles sounded almost accusing. 'I've lost count of the number of times I've been called upon to explain to foreign visitors, when confronted for the very first time with offerings of glyko, that one is not expected to eat a dishful
, but merely to sweeten a friendship with the contents of a spoon. Would I be correct in assuming that you are no stranger to my country?'
Carefully, Petra transferred her fragile coffee cup on to a nearby table, making her actions deliberately slow so as to give her flustered thoughts time to settle, to give her mind time to click into the smooth calm groove she sought whenever she was faced with a difficult situation. To admit that her mother had been one of his own countrywomen, an exile who had returned each year with her family to the mountain village where she had been born, would be to invite the inevitable enquiry about relatives. To Greeks, the preservation of family ties was of primary importance. Cousins, half-cousins, even distant relatives whose connections were so slight as to be barely worth mentioning were never allowed to lose touch, and however far distant they might live, were invited and expected to attend every event that called for a family gathering.
So it would be useless to protest that she had no relatives on the island to whom she could have turned for shelter. Neither could she continue to protect the grandfather whose fierce Greek pride would be outraged if ever he should discover the shame that his grandson had inadvertently inflicted upon his family.
She chanced a glance from under lowered lashes and saw that her inquisitor was becoming impatient. Forced to abandon caution, she mumbled:
'My mother was Greek.'
She tensed, anticipated a spate of questions about her mother's exact place of birth, then had to struggle to suppress a blush of shame when, taking her honesty and integrity for granted, he responded lightly:
'Ah, that explains a lot! Some of our local customs are peculiar to Cyprus, but many are traditionally Greek and practised on the mainland as well as throughout the islands.'
In one sleek, supple movement he rose to his feet, looking pleasantly satisfied.
'I must apologise for being unable to join you for dinner this evening, Miss Morrison. Officially, I've begun my vacation and will not be expected to appear in my office for some weeks yet. However,' she read a hint of weariness in his sigh and in the distracted way his fingers raked across his scalp, ruffling a black fleece of hair into disarray, 'as a great deal of work has been left undone, I shall be forced to spend part of each day in my study attempting to clear the backlog. I intend working late this evening so that tomorrow I will have time to spare to take you to meet your pupils.'
'Is it absolutely necessary for you to effect the introduction?' she protested, sympathetic to the sort of pressure she knew well. 'Couldn't someone else accompany me—your wife, perhaps?'
'I have no wife,' he responded smoothly. 'It has long been my belief that no pleasure can endure unless seasoned by variety.'
Her heart leapt, jolted by the shock of discovering a situation she had never once envisaged. She stared, her stunned eyes questioning his right to compromise her reputation in a way that one of his own countrywomen would have found unforgivable.
'Then how dared you bring me here!' she croaked. 'I would never have dreamt of accepting your invitation had I known—'
'Certainly you would, Miss Morrison! As you have already ably demonstrated by tricking your way into my office, one who lives as selfishly and possessively as yourself does not hesitate to kick down any barrier of scruples separating her from a loved one. In any case, English girls are notoriously lax in their efforts to maintain an aura of innocence. They come to our island in search of sun and the sort of excitement that is to be found in laying an enticing trail for a susceptible Greek male who reacts with the instincts of a hunter, then eventually discovers himself trapped, cornered by a sharp-clawed, predatory Bambi!'
Indolently, he began strolling towards the door, showing not the slightest sign of repentance, then paused to mock hatefully:
'I'm sorry to have to disappoint you, but amorous Miss Grundys hold no appeal for me.
Consequently, I can offer no hope at all of your ever being called upon to share the same glorious fate as King Thestius's fifty virgin daughters!'
CHAPTER FOUR
Much to her surprise, Petra slept well. She was awakened the following morning by a choir of birds trilling an appreciative anthem to a sun already risen high enough to penetrate the partially open slats of window shutters, creating an impression in her sleep-befuddled mind of being held captive, imprisoned within a cell with bars of sparkling gold.
She was only just becoming acclimatised to her strange new surroundings when a tap upon the bedroom door preceded Sophia's entry into the room.
'Kalimera, thespinis!' she beamed, bustling forward to set a laden breakfast tray upon a convenient table. 'I hope you found your bed comfortable?'
'I certainly did.' Petra levered herself into a sitting position, struggling to suppress a yawn. 'In fact, it's almost too comfortable, I'm still only half awake. Usually, I'm an early riser—I certainly had no intention of putting you to the trouble of serving breakfast in my room.'
'Trouble?' Petra was amused when Sophia communicated amazement in a manner that was typically Greek and probably older than language itself by raising her eyebrows, rolling her eyes upwards, throwing her head back and at the same time raising both hands in the air. 'I never find my duties troublesome—on the contrary, I look forward to the times when the kyrios brings guests to stay and especially enjoy looking after those who are as young and pretty as yourself, thespinis. I keep hoping,' she sighed with an enquiring pathos that made Petra feel even more inclined to smile, 'that some day soon the kyrios will introduce me to his future wife. Like all Greek men he cherishes his freedom, but,' her mouth pursed, yet an attempt to look severe was spoiled by a twinkle that betrayed the pride and fondness she felt for her employer, 'the kyrios has enjoyed a larger share of carefree bachelorhood than most men in his position. In spite of his aversion to matrimonial ties he must surely be about ready to accept the burden of duty that calls for a son to carry on his name, to inherit the castle and estate that has been in the possession of the Heracles family for centuries.'
Vigorously, as if feeling a need to vent her frustration on some inanimate object, she pummelled a pillow before offering it to Petra as a backrest.
'He is a handsome devil, don't you think?'
Petra avoided her hopeful look, conscious that she was being expected to praise and flatter, yet unable to think of one complimentary comment to make about the man whose insulting implication that she was incapable of arousing his interest had left her smarting.
'Such a husband he would make!' Sophia enthused, oblivious to any lack of enthusiasm. 'A man born under the sign of strength and light, with a mother who instilled into him a love of beauty, who taught him wisdom and virtue, and a father who bequeathed his superb athletic stature, his readiness to accept a challenge of strength and the restless disposition of an eternal conqueror who can find no repose but waits, always impatiently, for yet another joust, another victory!'
Steadying the tray that had been placed upon her lap, Petra concentrated all her attention on spreading a slice of oven-warm bread with a generous helping of honey. Then, made uneasy by Sophia's expectant stare, she licked the tips of sticky fingers before stating politely:
'You obviously know your employer well. Have you spent long in the service of his family?'
'I worked here long before his mother was brought to Buffavento Castle as a bride,' Sophia preened proudly, obviously eager to begin recounting the family's entire history. 'I assisted at the kyrios's birth; helped to nurse him through all his childhood ailments, and did what I could to console him when the news that both his parents had died in a boating accident was broken to him. Not that he looked to anyone for consolation,' she mused thoughtfully. 'He was only sixteen years old at the time, yet he took the blow as bravely as his father would have wished—with a stoical calmness that caused everyone present to marvel at a boy's courageous shouldering of duties and responsibilities that would have broken the spirit of many an older man!'
Hastily, yet hoping to avoid offending the kind,
would-be matchmaker whose only obvious fault was a misguided devotion to her employer, Petra abandoned her breakfast and cut short Sophia's confidences by handing her the tray.
'Thank you, Sophia, that was delicious. I wish I had time to eat more, but arrangements have been made for a meeting with the parents of my future pupils. I think the kyrios intends setting off early for the village, so I must start getting ready if the visit is to be concluded before noon.'
She slid out of a bed made luxurious by sheets woven and spun—Sophia had proudly informed her the previous evening—by villagers whose skill in the art of silk-making had been passed on through families from generation to generation since the Byzantine times. Yet in spite of an air of antiquity shrouding the exterior and the ground floor rooms of the castle, her bedroom was light, airy, attractively furnished and equipped with the luxury of a surprisingly modern bathroom.
She enjoyed a quick shower, then, using a towel as a bathrobe, padded barefoot into the bedroom to progress in the manner of a bee in search of pollen across rugs strewing a flower-patterned path across polished wooden floorboards. She depressed the curved brass handle of a wardrobe, then frowned, displeased by the lack of choice, colour and comfort being offered by a collection of clothes hanging sparse and dejected inside the capacious interior. She sighed, experiencing an often-felt longing for just one dress bright enough to lift her spirits, a flimsy creation designed to emphasise thrusting breasts, slim waist, and slender, shapely thighs, diaphanous enough to guide the eye along a creamy slope of shoulder, then plunge downward into a mysterious depth of cleavage kept discreetly veiled yet remaining sufficiently exposed to rout the hated Miss Grundy analogy for ever!
'If wishes were horses even beggars would ride,' she reminded herself in a wry murmur, reaching for the pale grey co-ordinating skirt and blouse which, when worn to the office, had achieved an aimed-for aura of smart efficiency. 'In any case, your objective in coming here was to secure Gavin's release, not to become skilled in the art of seduction!'
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