Dearest Demon Read online

  On legs that felt tired and shaky Destine approached the cane armchair and sat down upon the cushioned seat; after a moment or two she allowed her head to sink back against the cushioned headrest. God, she had not felt this exhausted since those early days of her widowhood, and being a nurse she knew it to be an exhaustion of the emotions that drained all the vitality from the body. She also knew that she needed to sleep, but she obstinately refused to sleep in that great bed, which would be so shadowy, so isolated when the lamps were out and the netting was pulled. She would have night­mares if she slept there, and it would come as no change for her to doze in a chair. She had done that often enough when on night duty.

  The moths buzzed about the lamps, and she could smell the smoke of the oil mingling with that aroma of beeswax mixed with thyme, in which the bed linen was probably stored. Her heavy eyelids drifted downwards and all sen­sation became dulled as sleep took slow possession of her mind and her body. Her fingers relaxed their hold upon the arms of the chair and her arms fell lax at the sides. Her head fell sideways against the cushion and her silvery hair lay like a ruffled wing across her face. Her lips relaxed from the taut lines into which they had been drawn for the past hour, and in sleep all the youth returned to her rather lovely face… she was totally unaware of the moment when some­one tapped upon the door of the bedroom, with its white walls that took the shadows and made them seem alive. With its crucifix carved from silvery wood, and its big bed guarded and threatened by all the opposing elements in human nature.

  The journey and the shock of finding herself among the very people she would have gone a thousand miles to avoid had taken their toll and Destine was fast asleep when the bedroom door opened and dark eyes dwelt upon her in the cane chair.

  The man had walked silently even on the tiles of the court­yard, so he made no sound at all as he crossed the room with the oriental carpets underfoot. He stood looking down at her, but Destine slept on, and was to remain lost in the realms of sleep until the morning sunlight stabbed through the oval, stained-glass window above the silvery-wood cross and sent spirals of colour in a rainbow across the room.

  Destine's eyes blinked open as those winking colours played against her eyelids. She lay still for several moments, gazing at the window and the cross and wondering where on earth she was. She had slept so deeply that the return to awareness was a slow one… and then it all rushed back and she gave a gasp and sat up, finding herself not in the cane chair but on the bed, wrapped in the quilt, with her shoes removed.

  But… but how had it come about that she was here, on the bed, when she remembered distinctly that she had settled down for the night in that chair over by the windows where the curtains were still drawn? Had she been so tired that she hadn't realised that she had crawled on to the bed after all? Kicked off her shoes and rolled herself in the quilt against the cold that had crept into the room?

  It wasn't cold now. The ray of sunlight that touched her hand was warm, and that very warmth told her that she had slept longer than she had meant to. She had resolved last night to be gone from this house at the crack of dawn, and she glanced swiftly at her wristwatch to see the exact time, only to find that not having been wound the little watch had stopped in the night. Such strong sunlight meant that it was now about seven or eight o'clock, and Destine untangled herself from the white quilt and was about to put her feet to the floor when a sudden tap at the door froze her into still­ness.

  She was staring at the door, her eyes strangely appre­hensive in the tousled frame of her hair, when the handle turned and the door swung open. A woman stood there, staring fixedly at Destine. Then she came a little further into the room and the heavy silk of her robe rustled about her thin and elegant figure. Her hair was covered by a lace sleeping-cap, but there was nothing very sleepy about the eyes that raked over Destine, taking in the fact that she had slept in her clothes, and had lain on the bed rather than in it.

  'You arrived late,' the woman said, and she spoke English with an attractive, slightly broken accent, 'so we didn't meet last night. You are Nurse Chard, are you not?'

  'Yes.' The word came out huskily and Destine swallowed to relieve the dryness of her throat. She assessed the visitor to her room as a woman in her late fifties; still rather beauti­ful, with that beauty rooted in good bone structure rather than in frequent visits to the beauty parlours. Her eyes were magnificent… dark as jet and with a touch of the orient in the way they were shaped. Her skin was pale as ivory and almost unlined; what gave her away as a woman approaching sixty was the veining of the hands and the drawn cords of the neck.

  It came as no real surprise to Destine when the woman said: 'I am the Marquesa, and as we didn't meet last night I came to bid you welcome to the casa. You must have been extremely tired after your journey, Nurse, to have fallen asleep just as you were. I hope my nephew made you wel­come? I hope, also, that you weren't—ah, but you are a nurse and you have seen disfigured faces quite often. It wouldn't bother you, to be met so late by a man so scarred, eh?'

  'No—' Destine shook her head, and the realisation struck sharply that she was going to have to tell this gracious woman that she had no intention of remaining at the casa, and that woman was going to think her a fool who was frightened by her nephew's face. The real truth was far harsher… how could she blurt it out, that she was the widow of the man whom this woman's son had killed with his reckless driving? A mother loves her son, devil or saint. A mother reveres his memory, good or bad.

  'What is it, Nurse?' The Marquesa looked rather con­cerned as she came towards the bed. 'Are you sick?'

  'No, Señora Marquesa, I'm perfectly all right.' Destine slid from the bed and sought her shoes, and as she put them on grappled wildly with the problem of telling the Marquesa that she couldn't stay here; that she could not take on the task of caring for her invalid daughter. It was the fault of the nephew that she was in this predicament. He could have woken her an hour ago and driven her to the station before his aunt was aware of her presence here. He could have said that she had not arrived after all, for no one but he had seen her last night. None of the servants had been about at that late hour, and though he had asked her if she wanted coffee she had said no. There would have been no evidence of her arrival and her departure had he roused her before the other members of the household were awake. She would have straightened the bedcovers and left the room as pris­tine as it had been last night.

  Now it was too late for that… now she had to make some improbable excuse about not remaining here.

  'I can see that something is wrong.' The Marquesa came quite close to Destine and studied her face. 'Are you not happy to work here, Nurse Chard? Are you afraid that we are too isolated—?'

  'Yes, I am afraid of that.' Destine caught swiftly at this lifeline. 'I had no idea that the casa was so far from the vil­lage and places of entertainment. I don't think it would be any use my staying here—I had better leave right away—'

  'Without even a meeting with my daughter?' The Mar­quesa looked faintly quizzical. 'You don't seem to me to be a frivolous young woman who needs constant entertain­ment—I suspect that something else is troubling you. Was my nephew in any way—discouraging? He was not enthus­iastic when it was suggested that I employ an English nurse, and he is not a man to conceal a truth with a sweet lie. What has he done? Told you that you are the wrong type of person for the position of nurse to my Cosima?'

  Destine hesitated, and then inclined her head. 'Perhaps you nephew is right, Señora Marquesa. It seems hardly worthwhile my starting the job only to conclude it in a matter of days—'

  'Do you usually give in so easily?' The Marquesa wore a slight smile. 'I know that my nephew can be an intimidating man, but you don't strike me as a young woman easily cowed down by a man, no matter how forceful his personality, or how sinister his face may suppose him to be. Surely, having made such a long journey, you won't permit it to be a fruit­less one? I am inclined to like the look of you, Nurse Chard. You have g
ood bones and a look of courage. Please do stay! Give yourself a chance to like us—I shall understand if, in about a week, you decide that you have made a mistake in coming to Xanas.'

  Destine knew that she should have been decisive and ignored the appeal and the charm of this woman who had not become bitter under the blow of losing her son and see­ing her daughter crippled. But she hesitated, and in that instant the Marquesa used the pushbell on the table beside the bed.

  'You must have coffee—or tea if you would prefer. And breakfast. Our ama de llaves will take excellent care of you. She is named Victoria, and her slightly gruff manner con­ceals a good heart. I shall see you later, Nurse. Hasta luego.'

  The bedroom door closed behind the robed figure and Destine was left with the feeling that all decision had been firmly but graciously taken from her, and that she was going to have to stay at the casa a while longer, whether she liked it or not. Biting her lip, and feeling as if she had been dis­armed into cowardice, she walked to the windows and drew back the drapes to let in the full glory of the southern sun­light.

  It flooded in through the curves and loops and intricate weavings of the lace cage that completely enclosed the balcony of the connecting windows, making a fairly deep enclosure where cane chairs and a circular table were arranged. In earthenware pots were small orange trees hung with yellow fruit, the fiery dance of fuchsias, and a hibiscus with dark shining leaves. In and out of the ornamental iron itself there curled a vine that dripped with honey-coloured bells in which the bees were already humming.

  Destine was again caught by unexpected charm—it was a dalliance balcony, where a woman might dally with a book or a letter or a piece of embroidery, and not be disturbed by the outside world, though it would be there for her to see and hear, and breathe. What was that perfume? Destine took a deep breath arid realised that it was tobacco, sweet and strong on the warm air.

  Were there plantations of tobacco as well as sugar cane? Don Cicatrice had said of the region that it was almost tropical, where many exotic things grew.

  Destine stood upon the balcony and saw the glint of water courses running through the patios and gardens of the casa. Beside them, shading the many flowering shrubs, were palm trees with thick girths towering upwards into a vast crest of pendulous leaves. She caught the flash of multi-coloured wings and heard the singing of many birds; she also heard the cicadas… voice of the sun, insistent and in total unison, issuing in a mysterious fashion from every corner of the estate, from tiny creatures never visible.

  So absorbed was she in the low throbbing sound that Destine wasn't aware when the ama de llaves (mistress of the keys) entered the room. It was the rattling of the keys on a chain that recalled her from the garden sounds to the bed­room, and she turned swiftly to see a figure straight out of a drama about the Victorians, clad entirely in black, the chain of household keys looped about the waist of her dress. The woman's face was brown as a nut and equally wrinkled, and her dark gaze was penetrating.

  'I will take your orders for breakfast, señora' she said. 'And answer any questions you may have. You will under­stand that I am a busy person, so please to tell me how you prefer your breakfast in the mornings. Tea or coffee will be available, for this is a civilized house, despite the accusations of the previous nurses that we live at the back of beyond and have no television set on which to watch the story of the Borgians.'

  It was to Destine's credit that she kept a straight face, though she longed to smile at the housekeeper's remark. The woman was a character, and only here in the southern region of Spain, where a number of things still related to the past, was it possible to meet her sort.

  Destine came in from the balcony, and at once she was made conscious of her slept-in appearance as the sharp eyes probed her from head to foot.

  'I should like a pot of English tea, if you will be so kind. Did the previous nurse eat up here, or down in the kitchen? And do tell me where the bathroom is situated.'

  'You may have breakfast here in your room, señora, though it saves the legs of my staff if you eat downstairs. Not in the kitchen, for you are not a member of the staff, but in the morning sala or out on one of the patios. And now if you will come with me I will show you the bathroom which is fairly convenient to this room.'

  'Thank you.' Destine followed the rustle of bombazine and the rattle of keys along the gallery, which led in one direction to the staircase, and in the other to a range of doors heavily carved like the door of her own room.

  They walked past these doors until the ama de llaves paused at the very end of the gallery. 'This is the room of the bath, the shower, and the toilet, señora. You will find that the supply of water varies with the amount required by the dueño for the watering of the plantations. Water is precious to us in this region and is pumped down at some expense from the mountains. It is a strange colour at times, but quite wholesome to use.'

  'Is it warm?' Destine wanted to know.

  Victoria shrugged her black-clad shoulders. 'Sometimes yes, sometimes no. You will have to learn to take it as it comes, señora. It is well understood that your own country has all the modern amenities, but when we run out of gaso­lene to pump the generators my son Escamillo has to drive many miles in order to buy more. Nurses! They think they should be treated like visiting nobility!'

  This time Destine couldn't suppress a smile. 'I do assure you that I don't expect any special sort of treatment,' she said. 'The casa seems to me a most attractive and well-run establishment. You spoke of a dueño, but I understood that the Marquesa was a widow, and that her only son had died in the bullring.'

  It cost an effort for Destine to say this so calmly, but if she was going to remain here at the House of the Grilles, then she was going to have to associate herself with all those details which her godmother had withheld from her.

  'The husband of the Marquesa died a long time ago, and it is very true that her only son is lost to her. But you have met the dueño. It was he who fetched you to the casa, though it should have been Escamillo who came for you. My son had been away on an errand all that day, so Don Cicatrice drove down to the station, not using the car, for it was a spare part that my son had to go for and the nearest garage is some miles away. We are very isolated.'

  Victoria added this rather dourly, as if she knew in ad­vance that it would cause yet another nurse to make her departure before long. It would not be isolation, as Destine knew. Somehow it didn't worry her to be in the heart of the country… it only worried her to be in the heart of this family.

  'So he is the master,' she murmured. 'The man in com­mand?'

  'Don Cicatrice has run the estate for the Señora Marquesa for many years.' Victoria gave Destine a sharp look, as if she would brook no whisper against that man with the scarred face. 'Her son was uninterested in the plantations, though not in the money that they provide. He had the looks and the charm, that one, but it is the dueño who is the man. It doesn't concern him to conquer women or bulls. He is solterón, and no one will change him.'

  A crusted bachelor, in other words. Set in his ways, and probably aware that his face was unlikely to inspire rom­antic feelings in women.

  A mental image of his scarred face flickered in and out of Destine's mind. In the half-light of the hall last night he had borne a sinister resemblance to the dead Manolito, and Destine felt a stirring of curiosity about how he would strike her when she saw him by daylight.

  'So he is the dueño?' she murmured.

  'And why not?' demanded Victoria. 'Who has a better right? If that foolish Cosima had had any sense she would have married him.'

  'But they're cousins,' Destine exclaimed.

  'So? Don't cousins marry in your country, señora? Here in Xanas it frequently happens, and none the worse for that. If there are good traits in a family, then they are doubled by such a marriage.'

  'And what if there are bad traits?' Destine asked. 'They, too, would be doubled—perhaps that is why these two cous­ins hesitated. After all, Cosima's b
rother was no saint—more of a satyr.'

  Victoria stared with sharp eyes at Destine. 'Whatever the skeletons in the closets of this family, they are none of your concern, Nurse. It is merely your place to take care of Cos­ima, and if you have listened to gossip about her brother, then I should keep it to yourself. She was very fond of him. It came as a great shock when he was killed and did her no good at all. What with that—what with everything else!' The ama de llaves threw up her hands with a very Spanish impre­cation, and it was obvious from the way she spoke about the members of this family that she had been part of the house­hold for many years.

  'Life can be unfair to some,' she muttered. 'Often to those least deserving of it.'

  'I know,' said Destine, from her heart. Matt had been but twenty-six when that great car had slammed into him and hurled him through the windscreen of his own car. In her nightmares she still saw what she had loved turned from a living man into a dead and faceless shape. She shuddered, and then reached out to take hold of the handle of the bath­room door.

  'Will it be all right if I have my breakfast in my room, just for today?' she asked.

  Victoria shrugged her black-clad shoulders. 'Very well,' she said. 'So you wish for tea, bacon and eggs?'

  'Please.'

  'It will be ready in half an hour.' Abruptly the house­keeper touched Destine on the arm. 'I was told you are a widow?'

  'Yes.' Destine's fingers gripped the handle until her knuckles whitened. 'My husband died two years ago.'

  'You are young to be a widow,' said Victoria, and with a rustle of bombazine and a rattling of keys she went off along the corridor in the direction of the stairs. Destine entered the old-fashioned but commodious bathroom, and she realised that she had committed herself to at least a week in this house. She didn't want to stay, but something was holding her here; curiosity, perhaps, for it certainly wasn't sympathy. How could she feel anything but hatred for any member of Manolito's family? His blood was theirs. His sins might also be theirs. Instinctively she knew that she ought to go, but when she bent over the bath to turn on the hot-water tap she froze and was aware Of nothing but the enormous, long-legged spider that crouched at the bottom of the tub, black as sin against the white porcelain.