Witch's Harvest (12 page)

Abby freed herself politely. They probably thought she was lost. She said slowly and clearly, 'Senhor Don Vasco,' and

pantomined the fact that she was looking for him.

But that didn't alleviate their worries at all. Frowns deepened, and heads wagged, and courteously but firmly Abby found she

was being urged back towards the house.

My God, she thought, half seriously, is there some ancient taboo about women visiting the plantation? Is it a curse, as it used to
be on board ship? Well, I don't believe in such curses.

She squared her shoulders and lengthened her stride with unquestionable determination until she had shaken off her

unwanted well-wishers, and within two hundred yards found herself in the shelter of the trees.

Suddenly she was in a different world. She was surrounded by walls of greenery, shaded by an unbroken canopy of leaves. It

was very still.

Abby paused a moment to catch her breath. She had the unnerving impression that the forest was holding its breath too, and

that unseen eyes were waiting for her to make some kind of move.

And she was tempted to turn and run back to the haven of the
fazenda
.

Idiot! she told herself silently. Fool! She walked forward, realising as she did so that she was not enclosed by untamed

wilderness after all. She was in an avenue which had been cleared of undergrowth, and where neatly staked bushes were

protected by taller trees. As she walked, her feet sank into a thick carpet of decaying leaves and husks.

The plantation, she saw, was laid out on a rough grid pattern, the jungle being made to conform with the demands of the

industry it nurtured.

One avenue gave way to another. Abby trod carefully, listening for some sound of working humanity, but the silence persisted.

She turned right and plunged deeper into the plantation, glancing over her shoulder as she did so. She had already walked a

long way, and although she'd been counting the number of avenues she had traversed on one hand, and the number of right-

hand turns she had made on the other, she still wasn't altogether sure she could find her way back to the
fazenda
.

Perhaps she wouldn't, she thought. Perhaps she would wander in ever-increasing circles for all eternity, or until her bones

joined this appalling mulch she was treading in.

She would see cocoa bushes with their strange fan-shaped leaf formations in her dreams, she thought restlessly. The trees in

this part of the plantation were much taller and sturdier, but they didn't seem to be fruiting. Not that she would recognise a

cocoa bean in its natural state if one dropped on her head, Abby thought bitterly.

She was beginning to wish she'd listened to reason and stayed with the other women, waiting for their men to return. She

sighed. Except, of course, that Vasco wasn't her man, and never would be. In fact, if she never came out of this forest, there

would be no one to mourn her.

She stopped in her tracks, appalled at the maudlin direction of her thoughts.

'Oh, come on,' she castigated herself. 'What's the matter with you?'

Her energy seemed to be deserting her, and she was aware of the odd lassitude which had afflicted her for the past few days

settling on her again, which was not what she needed at all.

She began to walk more briskly, lifting her chin and pursing her lips in a defiant whistle. It was tuneless, but it was infinitely
preferable to the silence.

She was so intent on keeping her courage up that she didn't notice the man who had stepped out of the trees in front of her

until she had almost canoned into him.

He was tough and unshaven and carrying a machete, and Abby's whistle turned into a strangled scream. Then she realised he

was looking just as startled as she was herself, and she took a firm grip on herself.

She said clearly, '
O patrão
?'

He gaped at her, shaking his head, then broke into an excited gabble, of which Abby understood not a word. Then he stuck the

machete into his belt and took a purposeful stride towards her.

This time there was nothing strangled about Abby's scream. It emerged at full throttle as she recoiled, twisting her ankle in the

process.

It was as if she'd given a signal. There were men coming from all sides, encircling her as she subsided on to the rotting

vegetation, her hand clutching her ankle. And among them, to her infinite relief, she recognised the horrified face of Agnello.

'Senhora Dona Abigail!' His voice was almost a wail as he pushed his way to her side.

Abby tried to say she was all right really, but her voice wouldn't work properly. Her lips moved, but no sound came out, and then

the circle of men, still staring at her as if she was some kind of apparition, fell apart, and Vasco was there, his expression a

mixture of incredulity and fury as he looked down at her.

He demanded, his voice molten with temper, 'What are you doing here? In the name of God, Abigail, are you quite insane, or is

there some explanation?'

'I was looking for you.' It sounded as lame as she was, as he lifted her ungently to her feet. 'Ouch!' She hopped on her good leg,
testing the painful one gingerly.

Vasco said something quiet and pungent in Portuguese. The audience was beginning to melt away as silently as it arrived, until

only Agnello remained. And he was going too, under the impetus of some order Vasco flung at him, so that they were alone.

She was aware that her twisted ankle had put her at a disadvantage, but she lifted her chin.

'I don't see what all the fuss is about. This isn't forbidden territory, is it?"

'The fuss concerns the way you are dressed.' Contemptuously Vasco indicated her brief denim skirt and slender bare legs.

'Your clothing, or lack of it.'

Abby was totally taken aback. Anyone would think she was indecent! she thought angrily.

She said, 'What's wrong with my clothes?'

'Nothing—for a stroll in an English garden.' His tone was derisive. 'But the plantation does not, alas, fit into that secure category,
Abigail, as I thought you would have known. It is part of a jungle, and jungle creatures still inhabit it. Snakes,
querida
,' he added
grimly. 'And insects whose sting is poisonous. If you wish to walk here, you wear trousers always, tucked into tall boots.

Otherwise, remain in the house.'

Her voice shook. 'Well, as I haven't any boots, I suppose that's the only option open to me.'

He shot her an impatient look. 'You have several pairs, as you would know if you had ever examined the contents of the

wardrobe in your room. But you seem determined to live out of the suitcase you brought with you,' he added bitingly.

'Is that any real surprise?' Abby gave him a defiant look. 'Or did you really think I'd want to wear another woman's rejects?'

His brows snapped together in the frown she had come to dread.

'What are you saying?'

'I'm saying I won't wear Della's clothes, or her boots either. Apart from the—the morality of it, they wouldn't fit me.'

There was an ominous silence, then Vasco said, too gently, 'You think—you really think I would insult you like that?
Deus
,
Abigail, how dare you make such an accusation! If you had taken the trouble to glance at the clothes waiting for you, you would

have seen they are in your size, which I checked while we were in London. If you have some objection to the materials, or the

styles—that I could understand. But to assume without evidence that I expected you to accept a gift bought for Della—that is

beyond belief!'

Abby's lips parted in a soundless gasp. 'You— bought them for me? But how could you have done?'

'It is not really so difficult.' His voice was grim. 'The wife of a friend of mine has a boutique in Manaus. I telephoned her, gave her
a list of what I thought you would need, and described your colouring. When you never used anything Elisa had sent, I

presumed you did not care for her choice. It never occurred to me that there could be any other reason.'

'Then I'm sorry I misunderstood.' Abby bit her lip. 'But I'd still rather not wear the things. It's like—charity.'

'Charity?' Vasco echoed incredulously. 'You are my wife, Abigail, so how can it be charity?' He paused, the dark brows flicking

upwards. 'Or are you afraid, perhaps, that if you permit me to dress you, I shall also expect to—undress you?'

Colour flared in her face. That never occurred to me.'

He sent her a coolly mocking look. Then perhaps it should have done. Or do you think I shall be content to live this half-life of

ours indefinitely?'

'Six months is hardly an indefinite period,' said Abby, staring rigidly past him.

'You are so sure that such a limit will be set,' Vasco commented drily. There was a silence. 'Do you know yet if you are bearing

my child?'

Her flush deepened. 'Not yet—in a few days, perhaps…' Her voice tailed away. 'I'm not—I've never been—very regular, I'm

afraid…'

It seemed impossible that she could be standing in a clearing in the middle of Amazonia discussing her most intimate self with a

man who was still little more than a stranger to her.

In a way, they had been closer when he was engaged to Della, she thought unhappily. At least then she had been able to take

part in a conversation with him without undue awkwardness or embarrassment, secure in the knowledge that her love for him

was her secret alone.

Now, one brief, shattering experience had set them at a distance—created an unbridgeable gulf between them.

'So you did not seek me out to tell me you would soon be free of me for ever,' he observed. 'What then did you want?'

'Oh!' Abby's hand flew to her mouth. 'Senhora Gonzaga called to ask us to a party next week—on Wednesday evening. I

accepted provisionally. I hope that was right.'

'Wednesday,' Vasco said meditatively. 'I see. Well, why not,
carinha
? Social invitations are few enough in our part of the world,
and it is time you saw some new faces, perhaps.'

She thought, If you loved me, I wouldn't need parties, or any kind of social whirl. I'd be satisfied with that alone.