Witch's Harvest (7 page)

'Oh, but we are,' he said softly. 'Whether you are pregnant or not, Abigail, there is no way I would leave you here at your cousin's
mercy. She is ready to do you some kind of mischief.'

'I don't blame her,' Abby muttered wretchedly.

'It is not a point of view we share,' he said curtly. 'You owe her nothing.'

She swallowed. 'You don't understand. I—I grew up with her, went to school with her. Her parents have been—very kind to

me…'

'Indeed?' His mouth twisted cynically. 'How odd. When I first visited their home, and met you there, I found it hard to distinguish
whether you were a relative or some kind of servant.'

Abby flushed. 'Not that handmaiden business again!'

'You allowed her to use you,' Vasco said quietly. 'You will not do so again.' His hands descended on her shoulders, but she

wrenched herself free.

'Why not?' she asked bitterly. 'So that you can use me instead?'

'That is not necessary,' he said. 'I have been thinking about what you said—the reservations you undoubtedly feel. So—our

marriage will be on your own terms, Abigail. I have been cruel enough to you without, I think, forcing you to an intimacy you do

not wish. Does that make it easier for you to agree?'

She swallowed painfully. 'On one condition,' she said at last. 'I want you to promise that if—if I'm not pregnant after all, neither of
us need be held to this marriage. That we can separate, and—go on with our own lives.'

There was a tense silence. She waited, not daring to look at him.

Eventually he said tonelessly, 'Very well—if that is what you truly wish. Shall we say—six months?'

She nodded. 'That sounds—reasonable.'

'I am glad you think so,' he said courteously. 'Now, you must change, or we shall be late.'

He walked back into the living area, and after a moment she heard the muted chatter of the television.

She looked along the hanging rail which served her as a wardrobe with a sense of total unreality. She felt as if she was living

through some dream, and not a pleasant one at that.

Sooner or later, she thought detachedly, she would have to come to terms with what she'd done. She had agreed to marry

Vasco de Carvalho, for totally inadequate reasons, and in days rather than weeks she would be his wife, and half-way to a new

life on the other side of the world.

She bit her lip. A life, she thought, for which she was no better equipped than Della. Except that in her own case she would

follow Vasco over pack ice in her bare feet if he asked her.

But he would never ask, and she would never tell him. Such a confession would only be a searing embarrassment to him. He

didn't care for her. He cared for the sense of honour which Della had so disastrously misjudged, and for the baby she might or

might not be carrying. She looked at herself in the mirror, pressing an unbelieving hand against the flatness of her abdomen.

Could it be true? she wondered helplessly. She did some rapid calculations in her head. By the time she knew for sure, she

would already be on her way to Brazil, committed to this marriage, which was no marriage at all.

She took a dress from its hanger and looked at it. It was grey in colour, silky, and subdued. Very appropriate, she thought with

irony. It made her look like the shadow she was, the pale, nondescript reflection of Della's beauty and fire.

Vasco might have walked away from her, but he must feel regret for what he had lost, she thought unhappily. And if she herself

had been the sophisticated, experienced creature he had imagined and wanted, he would have walked away from her too,

without a backward glance, instead of being trapped by some sense of obligation.

She sighed, and began to put on her clothes, to add colour to her pale face. She had to make an effort, after all. She was going

out to celebrate her engagement to the only man she had ever loved or wanted.

She was going to Brazil with him. She would live with him there, under his roof, if not in his heart. And she would have to keep

her true feelings for him firmly under wraps.

But not for long, she tried to comfort herself. Six months was not a lifetime, and after that she would be free.

Once again she touched her body with tense hands, trying to divine through her fingertips whether any fundamental change

had taken place.

Because if it had, she might never be free again.

The plane banked sharply as it turned for the approach to the airstrip, and Abby winced, closing her eyes as the treescape

below seemed to tilt drunkenly.

She wasn't usually nervous about flying. She had enjoyed the luxury of the flight to Rio de Janeiro, gasping in uninhibited

delight as she saw the bay, and the beaches, and the great figure of Christ brooding over the city. It was this last stage of the

long journey, the air taxi which was taking them to Riocho Negro, which had aroused her apprehensions.

Not that she had any reservations about the skill of Pedro Lazaro, the cheerful young pilot. Conveying passengers and freight

to out-of-the-way places, and makeshift landing grounds were clearly all in the day's work for him. But at each stage of the

journey, the plane they travelled in had been smaller than the last, closing her in, reminding her, if she needed reminding, of the
new and enclosed intimacy which her marriage to Vasco had imposed.

And it was the prospect of her impending isolation with him which was making her so nervous.

She'd been utterly crazy to go through with it, and she knew it. She'd known it every single day leading up to the brief ceremony

which had made her his nominal wife. Her stumbling explanation to her astounded boss when she had handed in her notice

had been the first humiliation. It had made her realise he had regarded her as a born and boring spinster, happy to be his

secretary for the rest of his life.

And a visit from her aunt and uncle had brought a whole new set of problems. George Westmore had been uncomfortable,

clearly wishing himself elsewhere, but his wife had no such reservations, and Abby had found herself bombarded with

hysterical accusations and reproaches, ranging from blatant treachery to rank ingratitude. She had let it wash over her, too

wretched even to offer a word in her own defence.

It had taken Vasco's unexpected arrival to put an end to the unpleasant scene. Politely but inexorably he had stopped the

torrent of words, and seen the Westmores out.

When he returned, he said flatly, 'My poor Abigail. I bring you nothing but trouble, it seems.'

'But you're not happy either,' she said desperately. 'Please, Vasco—please—wouldn't it be easier to—to forget the whole thing?

For you to go back to Brazil as if nothing had ever happened?'

'But it did happen.' The dark eyes hardened as they studied her pale face. 'We cannot escape that, either of us. It imposes—

obligations.'

That word again, she thought painfully. Aloud she said, 'Being in love with someone else—isn't there any obligation in that?'

'I think in the circumstances, that has to be a secondary consideration,' he said icily. 'Perhaps it would be best not to refer to it
again.' He took a flat packet from his coat and tossed it into her lap. 'I came to bring you these,' he said. 'Some photographs of
your future home, to convince you that I am not condemning you to a hut in the jungle.'

Before she could say anything else, he had gone. Abby had looked at the pictures over and over again, until every detail of the

low, rambling white building was engraved on her mind, trying to relate it to herself, and failing utterly. These pictures had been
taken for Della. The house was Della's, and Abby knew that she herself would never be more than a usurper—an interloper.

She put the photographs back in their envelope and returned them to Vasco without comment, on his next visit.

He was punctilious about seeing her. He called at the flat most evenings, whisking her out to dinner, or off to the theatre, almost
as if their courtship was a real one, she thought, sighing. Or perhaps he preferred to fill their time together with activity.

Certainly, when they were alone together, the silences became progressively longer. She was aware of Vasco staring into

space, the dark eyes hooded and brooding.

Abby obediently completed the necessary formalities for the wedding, and had the recommended inoculations. She did some

necessary shopping for clothes too, choosing natural fibres in light shades and styles. But she made her choices practical and

down to earth, reminding herself that she was shopping for an extended holiday rather than a trousseau…

Meeting Vasco's family in Rio had been an ordeal she would gladly have forgone. But it had been unavoidable, although

mercifully brief. The Carvalho family had been kind and welcoming, but Abby sensed their bewilderment, their disappointment

that Vasco should have chosen a wife with neither looks nor money to recommend her.

They would, she thought, have adored Della on sight. And they would have supported her wholeheartedly in her efforts to get

Vasco back to Rio. It was plain that his mother in particular could not understand why he chose to exile himself at Riocho

Negro. When Senhora da Carvalho had begged Abby to use her influence to make Vasco see sense at last, her smile felt as if it

had been nailed on. After all, how could she tell Vasco's mother that she had no influence over him and give the poor woman

something else to worry about?

'Must you go back to that place so soon?' the Senhora had mourned. 'I thought at least you would spend the night with us.'

Vasco had kissed her cheek. 'I must get back,' he said. 'I have neglected the plantation for too long already. And I wish to show

Abigail her new home.'

He had almost, she thought with a pang, sounded as if he meant it.

'You can open your eyes now. We have landed.' Vasco's voice in her ear suddenly was soft, with an undernote of amusement.

'So we have,' she said weakly.

She allowed herself to be helped down from the plane, and stood watching while their luggage was unloaded. The sun was

beating down, and there was a harsh, damp smell of undergrowth in her nose and mouth as she drew a breath. And from