Dearest Demon Page 11

  'Really,' said Cosima, and still she studied Destine as she applied almond honey to a crisp roll. 'Have you put rouge on your cheeks, or is that a natural flush to your skin? I suppose you've been dashing up and down that long flight of stairs! How I envy you, with your slim and energetic legs. You make me feel like a poor old lady.'

  'Nonsense,' said Destine, and she set busily about her routine for the day and directed the conversation into a dif­ferent channel. An hour later she had settled Cosima com­fortably in her long chair on her patio, with magazines on the table beside her, her small radio, some fruit and biscuits. Since she had weaned her patient off so many sleeping-pills, Cosima's appetite had improved and the contours of her face seemed to be filling out.

  With a little sigh, and her glistening dark head at rest against a silk cushion, Cosima regarded the blue and gold of the sky through the shielding branches of a tulip tree.

  'And what do you think of Xanas?' she asked suddenly. 'I know it didn't appeal to you when you first came, but what are your feelings now? Are you more, or less, enchant­ed?'

  Destine ran her glance over the tulip-like flowers that balanced upon the branches of the tree like so many pink candles, fit by the sun. She looked at the pastel water-lotus floating in the alabaster bowl of the fountain that filled the air with its cool water music. Clumps of flowers mingled their scents, and the white kitten with the black tail dashed back and forth across the tiles in pursuit of the green lizards.

  'I sometimes wonder, señora, if I am having a sort of dream when I look around me and find myself not in the austere surroundings of an English hospital, but in a gracious Spanish house. You've known it all your life, so you can't imagine how it strikes me. I sometimes have to touch a flower-hung wall, or an iron grille, to make sure they are real and not figments of a dream.'

  'Yes,' Cosima looked interested by Destine's remark, 'I was born here and I am so accustomed to the place that I don't truly notice how unusual and picturesque the casa must seem to a stranger—one who takes the trouble to notice the house as a classic example of Latin-Moresque architecture. Have you done any exploring? We have a fine old chapel, with a bell-tower that has a story of its own to tell. Long ago a reluctant bride was married in the chapel, and so aloof and unloving did she find her Obregon bride­groom that when the ceremony was complete she broke from his side and gathering up her long silk skirts she raced up the spiral stairs of the tower and there threatened to throw herself from the balcony if he should attempt to touch her.'

  Cosima paused and bit delicately into a cream biscuit, while Destine pictured the scene, and felt unsurprised that a girl should flee from a male of this family. She felt that each succeeding male must be in some way intimidating, and the girl had probably come from a convent to be married to a man she barely knew.

  'And what happened, señora? she asked. 'I hope the girl didn't carry out her threat.'

  'No.' Cosima smiled a little and shook her head. 'Her bridegroom left her there and returned to the casa with his guests. He knew that sooner or later a girl so young, from the convent schoolroom almost, would soon become hungry and then she would forget her dramatics and climb down of her own accord. The Obregon men are realists rather than romantics, as you have probably gathered for yourself. That wily ancestor of mine was fully aware that if the girl really wished to be free of him, she would have made her dash for freedom before the marriage service was concluded. He was a man of the world and he knew that he made her nervous—the story goes that he was waiting outside the chapel when she finally climbed down from the bell-tower, and he had with him a slice of the wedding cake and a glass of wine. His suave patience must have been rewarded, for they had three daughters, and a son to carry on the name.

  'However,' Cosima frowned and plucked with a polished fingernail at the Spanish lace shawl covering her knees, 'nothing goes truly well for any member of this family. That particular ancestor was killed a week after his son was born. One of the plantation workers went berserk and struck at him with a cane-cutter, so you can see, Destine, that a sort of dark cloud does hang over this family and it seems as if nothing will ever disperse it. Perhaps we are punished for old cruelties, eh? No one can deny that there is a dash of cruelty in our bones—I am cruel to Madre when I speak of not wanting to get better. And my brother Manolito had a side to him that I tried to ignore—he was so very good-looking, you see. So dashing and daring and fearless. But we all knew—'

  Cosima shrugged her elegant shoulders and looked directly at Destine, as if something of her tension had communicated itself. 'How you absorb my every word,' she said. 'Are you that interested in the history of the Obregons?'

  'Y–you are an unusual family,' Destine replied, and her fingers were clenched together behind her and she was fighting for some control over her own feelings with regard to Manolito de Obregon. His dark, rakingly handsome face was forever printed upon her mind; the face of a reckless pleasure-seeker, to whom danger would always have been an aperitif.

  'Yes,' Cosima murmured, 'we all knew that Manolito was capable of inflicting pain. When he and Artez were boys, each one was given a colt of shining black, perfectly matched in limb and speed. And then one day my cousin beat my brother in a race they had staged, and that same night Artez caught Manolito in the stables, deliberately laming his colt with a riding-stick. Artez snatched the stick and beat Mano­lito about the shoulders with it, then he broke it and flung away the pieces, for he was always physically strong. I don't think Manolito ever forgave him for the humiliation of that beating, for it was witnessed by the stable workers. My brother was the señorito, you see, and Artez only a cousin who was kept by my parents. He didn't really have any money of his own until he came into quite a fortune when a relative of his grandmother's died out in Australia and left him well provided for.

  'Ah, how I am talking this morning!' Cosima gave a slight laugh.

  'It's good to hear you, señora' Destine fought to speak naturally, for she felt deeply shaken by the things Cosima had talked about. 'It proves that you are getting better and regaining an interest in people.'

  'Indeed it does,' said a deep voice. 'You are breaking out of your apathy, cara.'

  Don Cicatrice had stepped through the delicate iron gate that gave access to the patio and for a moment he stood out­lined against the dark iron in which were twined the scarlet flowers of a climbing geranium. The sun fell upon him un­restrained, and yet it had the curious effect of veiling his scar a moment before he moved, so that Destine's hand flew to her throat, stifling a cry. So absorbed had she been in Cosima's revelations that the Don had seemed to appear as Manolito… a shudder ran all through her. How alike they would have been, until the facial likeness was burned away in a stable fire.

  Cosima must also have seen that momentary likeness, for she said, as the Don took her hand and bent over it: 'You quite startled me, cousin. We were talking of Manolito, and there are times when you—'

  'I know,' he said, and as he kissed her fingers, he slanted a glance at Destine. It seemed only a glance, and yet he probed into her eyes as if curious about her reaction to Cosima's conversation. He had warned her never to speak of her con­nection with Manolito, for he wouldn't have those he loved hurt again by the old wounds. That his cousin's name could always hurt her was immaterial to him. She was no part of him as Cosima was, and the Marquesa who had been like a mother to him. He did not spread the net of his affections wide and freely,—but those he gathered in would always be sure of his protection.

  It gave Destine a bleak feeling as she watched the Don lean over Cosima and brush with his lips the pale and elegant fingers. It came to her with sudden sharpness that she had had to face her own grief and pain in great loneliness; there had been no strong hand held out to pull her through. She had cried in the darkness all alone… and suddenly here in the sunlight the tears seemed to sting her eyes and she looked quickly away, in case those quick Spanish eyes should see the sudden wetness that she blinked rapidly from her eye
lids.

  All at once Cosima gave a low trill of laughter. 'I think, caro, that we embarrass my nurse. The English are not simpatico with our foreign demonstration of affection and prefer kisses to be exchanged in private. You see how she turns her head away from us—is it shyness or is it envy, do you think?'

  'I would say that it is neither,' drawled the Don, and a quiver seemed to go across Destine's face, and she swung round and spoke to Cosima in a tense voice:

  'I am sure I don't wish to be de trop. I'll go and tidy the bedroom, señora.'

  'But you aren't a housemaid,' Cosima rejoined, and her eyes glimmered darkly as she swept a glance over Destine's face, which try as she might couldn't help but express the emotional tension that she was feeling. 'No, I wish you to stay and be decorative, for it isn't often that the Señor Don has the opportunity to see a young woman who has legs that move and aren't pieces of dead wood like mine. He's very gallant, of course, but an invalid is really a bore to a man—'

  'You are never that, Cosima,' he objected. 'There is more to a woman than an active pair of legs.'

  'Is there, cara?' Cosima's smile was moody. 'Are you try­ing to convince me that you prefer my passive company to that of someone who can walk at your side, ride with you across the land, and feel you holding her from her heels to the nape of her neck? If so, cousin, then you had better become a monk.'

  He laughed shortly and leaning forward drew a finger down Cosima's pensive cheek. 'Come, snap out of this. A while ago you were talking with animation, and now you are being self-pitying. Look at the sky, cara, look at the flowers and hear the birds. Life is good for anyone who has eyes to see, and ears to hear. There are always compensations, mia cara. Life is always better than the lonely darkness of death.'

  'And believe me, cousin, the sky is always bluer and the flowers always sweeter if one sees them in the company of one's lover. You speak of compensations—what truly are mine, Artez? I can never be a wife again—unless you are offering yourself as a husband?'

  With incredible distinctness the words rang out in the patio, and Destine found that she was looking at the Don rather than at the woman who flung at him these provocative words. Not a feature of his strong, scarred face betrayed surprise or dismay.

  'If, Cosima, it will make you happy to be my wife, then I will certainly marry you.' His words were equally distinct, and there wasn't a shadow of doubt in Destine's mind that they were as binding to him, in that moment, as if spoken in the chapel.

  'When the divorce is final, eh?' Cosima drew a sigh. 'Miguel will divorce me, out there in California, and I don't blame him. I never have blamed him for leaving me—he isn't like you, caro. He isn't strong and self-sufficient—he has none of the old conquistador spirit in him that enables men to suffer all kinds of torment. Madre would be over­joyed if you and I made a marriage, and I really believe you would endure a wife who could never be a total companion to you. You would make that sacrifice for me—?'

  'Yes,' he agreed, taking both her hands and holding them so they were lost in his. 'I think, Cosima, that we belong together, you and I.'

  'Do we?' She gazed up into his intent face, and it struck Destine that she was intruding on a very private moment. She had almost reached the arched glass doors that led into Cosima's apartment when her patient called out to her:

  'Don't go, Destine, before you congratulate Don Cicatrice and myself. You have just heard him propose to me, so do be the first to wish us joy of each other.'

  Destine turned slowly from the glass doors and a shaft of sunlight gilded her hair as she stood there, but shielded the exact expression in her blue eyes.

  'Congratulations, señora—señor. I hope you will both be happy.'

  'But do you approve?' Cosima insisted. 'Do you think that a new marriage will make a new woman of me?'

  Several emotions struggled within Destine, for she had not spent days and nights with Cosima without learning that she still cared for Miguel Arandas. If Cosima married the Don, then she would do so out of defiance and the need to prove that she could still make a man want her. Destine had no way of gauging the Don's feelings, for though he was looking at her, his eyes were unreadable and his face was a marred copper mask.

  'The very best medicine you could have, señora' she said, 'is the serene contentment of knowing you are cared for.'

  'What a very charming way of putting it,' said Cosima. 'I must now float through life like oil on the surface of the turbulent waters, eh? Will it suit you, Artez, to be the serene novio?

  'I want only your happiness,' he said. 'Ah, and now I think of it! We are due to go to the finca of our friends to­morrow, and we will be taking Nurse Chard so that she might have another tête-à-tête with Señor Davidson. You will come with us, of course?' he flung at Destine.

  'Very well,' she spoke politely. 'If you insist, señor'

  'Don't make it seem like a chore,' he chided her. 'You will enjoy seeing a little more of Xanas.'

  'If you say so, señor—'

  'Not to mention the good-looking Welshman. Celts can be very striking, can't they, Nurse?'

  'Can they, señor?' Destine gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence. 'I really wouldn't know, devoted as I am to my nursing duties.' With this parting shot she slipped in through the glass doors and swiftly and neatly closed them behind her. Once out of range of the patio she felt she could breathe more easily—heavens, how these Spanish people could take one's breath away! Walking from the sitting-room into the bedroom she caught sight of herself in the mirror that front­ed the ceiling-high clothes closet, and she paused and stared at her face, which had the look of a shock which had not yet worn off.

  What had shocked her? The fact that she had heard Cosima and the Don pledge themselves to each other? But why should she be shocked? It was an open secret that he cared for Cosima, so it ought to be the most natural outcome that he should eventually marry her and heal the hurts that Miguel Arandas had inflicted.

  Destine stared into her own intense blue eyes… she felt strangely off balance, as if she wanted to go and sit quietly by herself until that shaky feeling subsided, and those odd nerves stopped twisting and turning inside her. But the entire incident had been so unexpected, and she just couldn't convince herself that those two could ever be truly happy together. The Don was so—so vital, so much a part of the land, as the rocks and trees and mountain eagles were part of it. But Cosima was delicate and cosseted, like an indoor orchid that must never feel the full force of the elements.

  Destine moved about the exquisite bedroom, and the tidying up she had talked about had merely been an excuse to get away from those two, out there making their plans for the future. Here in this room were the kind of things that lay close to Cosima's heart, the pleasure in the beautiful estrellon above her bed; the rose window that shafted jewel colours on to the pale walls and ivory-silk trappings of the fourposter. Alpaca rugs of a creamy whiteness lay across the floor, and captivating, expensive little frivolities stood about on small tables.

  It took almost all of Destine's imagination to try and visualise the Don in this bedroom, dark and towering, his fearsome scar reflected back and forth in the big, mother-of-pearl framed mirrors.

  Destine's hand shook slightly at the mental image and she almost dropped a small white china shoe that looked as if it might have come off a wedding-cake.

  She turned the little shoe about in her fingers and instinct told her that the shoe was off the big, shining white cake that Cosima had cut with Miguel Arandas by her side, glowing and lovely in her bridal dress, breathless with joy, and so unaware that her joy was to be so short-lived.

  Destine replaced the shoe very carefully on the little table beside the day-bed between the long windows. She stood there looking out upon flowering trees that arched in the sunshine, so laden were their branches with a satiny red flower. For some people happiness was like a flower, so splendid for a while, and then a cluster of dying memories. No, she thought, Cosima wouldn't reach out any more for
a glamor­ous love, much as she pined for it. She had looked at last at her powerful cousin and seen there a refuge for her stricken body. She had looked at his face and decided that no other woman would ever really love him, and it was part of the Latin soul to clutch at saudade if real romantic joy was not to be had.

  That afternoon, while Cosima took her siesta, Destine took advantage for the first time of the sleek riding horse which the Don had put at her disposal. In breeches and boots which Cosima had insisted that she borrow, she went down to the stables and went along to the stall in which Madrigal was standing, her handsome head poking out of the open section of the dutch door.

  Destine entered the stall with a slight feeling of nervous­ness, for she and Madrigal had to become friends as soon as possible, and though the horse jibbed when Destine started to saddle her up, she quietened down at the bribe of a sugar-cube and allowed herself to be led out on to the cobbles of the yard, towards the mounting block, where Destine climb­ed into the saddle with just a little trepidation. Back in England, at the riding-school near where she had worked, the mounts at the disposal of the pupils had not been as highly bred as this young Spanish horse, with its glossy coat, pricked ears and plume of a tail.

  With a fast beating heart Destine directed the horse out of the gateway of the stableyard, and along the well-tramped path that led towards a range of open country, gradually inclining above the valley land where the orchards and the plantations had their fertile home. The air was alive with the rich perfumes of the valley, and the sun overhead had a hot, golden glow, which made Destine glad that she had taken Cosima's advice and put on the brown slouch hat that went with the fawn breeches and the silky sweater. The brim shaded her eyes but allowed her to enjoy her surround­ings that had an indescribably wild and lonely appeal, just suited to her present mood.