Island Of Pearls

by Margaret Rome

  ISLAND OF PEARLS

  Of all the hundreds of English girls who go to Majorca every year for their holiday, there can hardly be one without a secret dream of meeting romance there. Hazel Brown was different; she went there because it was the first chance she had ever had of getting away from a dull and constricted life, and she wasn't looking for love - which, fate being what it is, was why instead she made friends with a little Spanish girl, and as a result found herself a husband. Not just any husband either - for Francisco was none other than the Marquez de Drach. But Hazel was not after all as romantically lucky as she appeared to be - for Francisco was a husband with a difference . . .

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  •Recommended price only ISBN 0 263 71542 6

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author and all the incidents are pure invention.

  First published 1973 This edition 1973

  © Margaret Rome 1973

  For copyright reasons, this book may not be issued on loan or otherwise except in its original soft cover.

  ISBN 0 263 71542 6

  Made and Printed in Great Britain by C. Nicholls & Company Ltd The Philips Park Press, Manchester

  CHAPTER I

  Her wedding ring was a broad platinum band. Next to it an engagement ring, very old, very beautiful, a hoop of pearls glistening like frozen tears, pure, costly, and as unblemished as each of the brides who down the centuries had known the honour of being the chosen bride of the reigning Marques de Drach. "The Ring of Chastity," she had heard it whispered, "demands of its wearer a matching purity. If any male member of the family should bestow its bounty upon one less worthy then the vengeance of the dragon will be aroused!" Todo o nada! All or nothing! The motto of the family of Drach was as terse and uncompromising as its menfolk.

  "Con su permiso?" A deep masculine voice startled her into the present, asking if she minded his lighting one of the thin black cigars he favoured. For a second her startled eyes reflected aloofness, a reluctance to associate with strangers, then her cheeks flared brilliant pink as she stammered a reply to her husband of one hour: "Of course not... please do...!"

  The main salon of the Casa was seething with guests, all expensively dressed, the dark-eyed, raven-haired women whispering discreetly behind bejewelled hands, their only faintly less curious husbands trying without success to quell the interest of their gossiping wives.

  "I think the time has come for us to mingle." Francisco slipped a cool hand beneath her elbow and began

  guiding her towards the nearest group of guests. Hazel stiffened; for an hour she had suffered the agony of introductions, weathering a battery of piercing eyes as couple after couple had filed past to offer their congratulations and best wishes. But she had not been deceived. The prettily phrased words had held a hollow ring and the accompanying smiles a gathering of frost. She was an impostor, they were all very well aware. How could it be otherwise when Francisco Calvente y Formentor, Marques de Drach, had betrayed on so many occasions his dislike and distrust of women -particularly Englishwomen ?

  Guided by his determined hand she moved towards the ranks of what she felt were- her enemies. Beneath the delicate lace of her wedding gown her heart lurched with fear, but her face reflected a quality of serenity that enabled him to relax fractionally his grip upon her arm. She felt slight amusement at the thought that he, too, might be nervous - no, not nervous, such a word was alien to his character. Disturbed? Yes, that better described the present state of mind of the imperturbable Marques. From somewhere, she found enough composure to chat amiably as they circulated amongst the guests. The champagne helped, and mercifully there was always a servant at hand to replenish her glass whenever the golden supply of liquid courage threatened to run dry. Then after an interminable interval, it was time to retire to the dining salon where great lengths of table covered with cloths of finest silk damask, set with glittering crystal, elegant silver, and breathtaking flower arrangements awaited the serving of the wedding luncheon.

  This part she found easier. Perhaps it was because the champagne she was unused to had numbed her senses, or then again it might have been the fact that Francisco, now completely relaxed, had ceased silently demanding that she portray the dignity expected of her new station - demands her perceptive impulses had reacted to instinctively - and was now in such a softened mood his mouth was curved into lines of indulgence. She had pleased him! The worst was now over and shortly she would be allowed to return into the obscurity from whence she came ...

  Not all of the guests were distant. Don Garcia, Francisco's uncle, sat on her right, and the attentions of the elderly hidalgo whose shrewd eyes kindled with kindness whenever they met hers soothed the frightened thudding of her heart into a less disturbing beat. She was absently forking the giant shrimps on her plate through a piquant lobster sauce when his concerned voice questioned, "The langostinos are not to your taste, cara?" The fork clattered from nerveless fingers, causing raised eyebrows and supercilious smiles from those near enough to notice. Immediately, Francisco's attention swung towards her, his face bearing the beginnings of a frown, but his uncle repaired the damage he had unwittingly caused by smoothly changing the subject.

  "By the way, Francisco, why is the little Carmen not present on this most important occasion? One would imagine her eager to witness the marriage between her uncle and her dear English friend. The arrangement has made her ecstatically happy, I believe ?"

  A rippled murmur ran through the assembly. Arrangement was perhaps not the wisest choice of word,

  and the quick thinning of his lips betrayed Don Garcia's own inward annoyance.

  Francisco's clipped reply brought a flush of indignation to Hazel's cheeks. "Carmen's penchant for bad behaviour has resulted in my once more having to resort to punishment," he enlightened with distaste. "This morning I was left no choice but to banish her to her room for the rest of today so that she might perhaps begin to realise that explanations, however glibly given, will not be accepted as excuses for disobedience."

  Hazel almost cried out. It took great effort of will not to round upon the arbitrary Marques and accuse him of coldblooded cruelty to the sensitive, bewildered child so recently bereaved of both parents. Parents whose greatest mistake in seven years of parenthood had been their misguided choice of guardian for their only child. Only the warning signal flashed to her by Don Garcia restrained the impulse to commit the unforgivable sin of contradicting her husband in front of his guests.

  As if he sensed her rebellion, Francisco's glance flickered over her, then, with an indifferent shrug, he dismissed the subject of his niece and turned to his companion to continue their interrupted conversation. Indignation forced a lump to Hazel's throat, making even pretence of eating an impossibility. The child had been wildly delighted at the prospect of taking part in the ceremony. For days she had talked of little else but the duties she would be called upon to perform, little things Hazel had invented deliberately so that her presence in the church would seem of outstanding importance: the positioning of the heavy lace bridal

  train, the care of the pearl rosary which was to have been placed in the child's keeping while the actual vows were being taken, the handkerchief she was to have hidden in readiness in case - just in case - Hazel was tempted to sneeze. And the bridesmaid's dress, the delicate pale pink concoction, frilled and beribboned enough to delight any child, which was now hanging in the wardrobe of Carmen's room, a tormenting remin
der of what might have been...

  After lunch, their guests began taking their leave. "The honeymoon has been postponed because of pressure of work," Francisco smoothly informed them as, thanking them for their presence, he sped them on their way. "Doubtless, later in the year, we will agree upon a place and a date." By his side she stood dignified and calm, accepting the parting good wishes and ignoring the pitying looks that communicated plainly their owners' doubts of her ever having her wishes consulted upon any matter, however small.

  Don Garcia was last to make his goodbyes. His car and chauffeur were waiting at the front of the house, but he hesitated when just as he was leaving he heard Francisco inform his bride with formal politeness, "For the next few hours I shall be in my study catching up on some work. Please see that I am not disturbed." Her cool word of acknowledgement caused Don Garcia's eyebrows to rise and when his nephew's footsteps began retreating across the marble floor he dismissed his chauffeur and moved back inside the hall of the casa. Hazel was still standing where Francisco had left her, a slight, lonely figure, her bent head caught by sun rays spearing through the windows to form a nimbus around

  her hair, transforming it with the sheen of rich chestnut. In her pure white dress, simple as a habit, she reminded him of a novice preparing to be sacrificed upon the altar of duty.

  "Child!" He strode towards her, compassion stirring in his heart. With a stifled gasp she looked up, but did not flinch from the sagacity of his wise old eyes. "Shall we walk together in the garden?" he offered, extending his arm with the gallantry of an ancient conquistador. Mist slowly dispersing from her eyes to reveal the beginning of a sparkle made him think of sunlight imprisoned in amber.

  "I'd like that very much, Don Garcia," she trembled, on the brink of a smile.

  They sauntered through gardens to the rear of the casa, passing sunken rose gardens and sloping, finely-shaven lawns until they reached less cultivated ground, then they halted on the edge of sheer cliff, looking down upon ragged-edged boulders tracing a way down to a minute cove where golden sand was lapped by sea blue as a madonna's cloak. With unspoken agreement they sat down upon a seat carefully positioned many years before by someone with mind aesthetically attuned to surrounding beauty. She had discarded her headdress and veil, and her lace gown with its prim collar, tight-fitting sleeves and billowing skirt fitted perfectly into a landscape dominated by the rubble-work pile of natural stone that formed the Casa de Drach.

  Following her backward glance, Don Garcia waved a languid hand in its direction and twinkled, "Castle of the Dragon, I believe, is the correct English translation.

  Were you not just a little apprehensive, my dear, at the thought of being joined in matrimony to a man whose enemies have been known to refer to him as the 'reigning monster'?" He was prepared for a laughing response, but when her cheeks drained of colour and lashes swept down too late to hide a glint of fear, he cursed inwardly and tried to make light of his words.

  "My late sister, Francisco's mother, was often teased in this vein. I've often suspected that the men of the Drach family enjoy the reputation their name suggests, and naturally their dark good looks, together with an inherited tendency for brooding passion, hardly detracts from the image. All through the centuries, however, their womenfolk have remained faithful and loving. Not one broken or unhappy marriage has been recorded, hence the foundation for my assertion that these women were privileged to see a side of the men of Drach known to only a very few. Indeed, this was proved to me by my sister when once she defended her husband's seeming abruptness. In my indignation I had resorted to abuse and referred to him as 'the beast', only to be rebuked: 'The blame lies with you, Garcia, for prodding him into anger. The mighty cannot be tamed by force, only by guile, and only he who accepts that fact will know the pleasure of hearing a dragon's purr."

  Hazel had to smile; the picture he painted of a purring Francisco was a fantasy too remote to be taken seriously. "Your sister was obviously very much in love, Tio, so her idealism can be understood and therefore excused." An unhappy silence followed words which both recognized as a confession, the confession

  of a bride unloving and unloved. Don Garcia's sagging shoulders indicated deep concern, which was intensified when he glimpsed two large single tears caught and held in a tangle of tawny lashes.

  "I am too old to feel curiosity, cara, but if talking will help then I am willing to listen ?"

  Her sideways glance dislodged the tears which she allowed to trickle unchecked down her cheeks. For searching, uncertain minutes she held his look, delving deep into his heart, and when he did not flinch from the scrutiny she forced out the whispered admission, "I've made a terrible mistake, Tio Garcia, but for Carmen's sake I must see it through to the end!"

  "Begin at the beginning," he commanded gently.

  At first she faltered, searching for words, then with her eyes fixed on the gentle swell of ocean she began unfolding the series of events leading up to her present situation.

  "I suppose it all began in Newcastle," she surprised him by beginning. "I worked there, in a solicitor's office, right opposite a travel agency whose windows were always bright with posters showing golden beaches, blue skies, and happy, laughing people." He noted the wistful reference to happiness and was not surprised to hear her sigh before going on. "It was the posters that made me decide. I lived most of my life with my grandmother - my parents died when I was very small and she looked after me right up until she died six months ago."

  This explained more than she knew to the astute old man. Several times he had tried to put his finger on the difference he sensed lay between her and the young

  English girls who abounded on the beaches of the more populated parts of the island, but now it was understandable why she should appeal to him as having been laid up in lavender . . . "Typing contracts and wills day after day can be boring, so as a diversion I used to go across to the travel agency each lunchtime to browse through their literature and to observe and envy the clients who found it hard to decide which place to choose. That was a difficulty I never had to face. Fromthe very first, Majorca was my ideal, and although I

  never imagined myself being able to afford a visit, I spent hours choosing the resort and the hotel I pre-ferred. Then," her voice hushed as she relived the memory, "I learned of the money left to me by my grandmother - a small amount by your standards" -she added hastily, "but sufficient for me to afford to turn a dream into reality."

  "Our island has not disappointed you, I hope?" he prompted when she lapsed into silence.

  "No, not the island," Hazel hesitated, colouring slightly, "but some of the men at the hotel..."

  He nodded. "But of course," he countered with raised eyebrows, "what else did you expect? A young girl alone on an island made for romance - what man could resist such a challenge ?"

  "I hid from them," she confessed, full of awkward shyness. "I've had no experience of men - except for elderly solicitors - so each day after breakfast I took a bus far into the hills to seek a stretch of beach where I could spend the day alone."

  "Ah!" he snapped his fingers as light dawned, "that explains Carmen's fanciful references to finding treasure

  on the beach! You are the one who spent hours playing with the child, the one who brightened her days so much that she began racing through her breakfast in order to get down to the beach, whereas before she had had to be forced into accompanying one of the long-suffering servants!"

  "I had no idea the beach was private," she stammered. "At first it seemed deserted and... and..."

  "Safe ?" he suggested dryly.

  "Perhaps," she sighed.

  Don Garcia was perturbed. Hazel's natural timidity should have resulted in instinctive withdrawal from his nephew's bitter arrogance; how then had the two most unlikely candidates for matrimony bridged the gulf of opposing personalities?

  As if reading his mind, she supplied the answer. "One day, the Marques discovered our secret. He was on his way for a swim when he
heard us laughing. At first, I thought he seemed angry to find his niece playing with a total stranger, a trespasser, but after a few terse questions he allowed me to stay. Then a few days later he instructed Carmen to invite me up to the Casa for lunch ..." He sensed from her expression that she was reliving a traumatic experience, but even he, cushioned as he was against his nephew's often startling actions, was shattered when she admitted, "That same day he offered me a job. A beautiful home, luxury, and a lifetime of security, he said, in return for companionship for Carmen and," her throat worked as she choked on the words, "a business marriage to be contracted solely to allay the suspicions of gossiping neighbours..."

  Don Garcia's breath hissed furiously through

  clenched teeth. "Madre de Diosl" he exclaimed in a whisper, "I would not have believed even Francisco capable of such utter insensitivity!" When she flinched his concern deepened. She was such a child, the mere thought of her being bound for life by a promise which should never have been sought outraged and confounded him. "Why on earth did you accept such a proposal?" he probed with unthinking haste. "Why didn't you decline the coldblooded offer in words which would have left Francisco in no doubt of the distaste you must have felt ?"

  Her cheeks were afire when she stammered a confused explanation. "I was lonely... Carmen needed me, and I know only too well the yearning for love and understanding. And besides," her voice dropped to a whisper as if she felt ashamed to admit such lack of independence, "the silence can be pretty deafening for a woman alone ..."

  CHAPTER II

  When the still puzzled, only half convinced Don Garcia finally left, Hazel went up to her room. Although she knew Francisco was still in his study her heart jerked as she turned the knob and stepped into the bridal suite. "Our rooms must adjoin," he had decreed, sweeping aside her suggestion that she should remain near Carmen in case the child should awaken during the night. "It is a necessary part of the deception; I will not tolerate gossiping servants!" She tiptoed inside, feeling an interloper, loath even to touch the many costly heirlooms bequeathed by her predecessors to future brides. Every room in the Casa was overwhelmingly luxurious, but the vividly painted ceilings, jewel-toned tapestries and dark carved wooden panelling of the main rooms were usurped in the bridal suite by a colour scheme predominantly ivory, gilt and pearl. Ivory satin draped the windows and cascaded from a gilt coronet placed high above the bed, falling like a veil to screen its occupant in mystery. Fragile gilt chairs, silk-embroidered to match the bed covers, added colour so muted it blended into the background with less impact than a shadow. Mirrors of every shape hung around the walls, all with frames encrusted with tiny seed pearls. Pearl-ornamented combs and brushes scattered the dressing table, together with jewel boxes, powder bowls and perfume bottles - presents from husbands anxious to uphold family tradition by match-