The Island Villa_The perfect feel good summer read Page 15

  Riba nodded. ‘Of course, yes. How is he doing?’ she asked. There was real concern in her friend’s eyes, and Esperanza felt a stab of guilt at lying to her, but she had no choice.

  ‘He’s starting to recover. It is slow though.’ They had told their friends and neighbours that Rafael had come to their home to be treated by Señor Garcia and her sister for an illness that had struck him down. Riba squeezed her shoulder. ‘I am glad to hear it, my friend.’

  Esperanza walked home with Riba’s words flying around in her head. Of course people would start asking questions about ‘Rafael’ and their intended marriage. They would need to come up with a reason that the wedding couldn’t go ahead as planned. Perhaps when Benito had recovered and returned to his own family they could tell the islanders that Rafael had died. Till then she was trapped, she realised, promised to a ghost. And worse, people’s attention was being drawn to it because of Don Santiago. She didn’t need him nosing about, asking questions about her. Her family would not be pleased that out of all the men on the island, she’d managed to capture his attention. A stranger who people were wary of – whose story about being a botanist was not quite believed, who, people suspected, might actually have been sent from the Holy Office to uncover their secret and report it.

  Over the past few weeks Benito had recovered well. He was helpful around the house, and easy to be around. He and Esperanza often got to talking when her mother was having a siesta or her sister was out with Señor Garcia.

  It was Rafael who taught her how to make crumbly goat’s cheese. He’d told her, ‘Camila used to make the cheese at home, and when I was a boy she used to let me help. My mother thought it was funny.’ Camila was a servant, so she discovered.

  She liked to hear about his life in Majorca, and before that in Bayonne, though she knew that she shouldn’t. Cesca had warned her that they should be careful, that if Esperanza repeated the wrong thing it could raise suspicions, so it was best to stick to the facts, especially now with Don Santiago in their midst, who might report what he heard to the authorities.

  That night after dinner they all sat in the garden, where the air smelt of oranges and lemons, and Benito played a lute that used to belong to their father. Cesca and her mother sang a song to the melody, an old island lullaby about the changing tides.

  Esperanza found herself staring at Benito as he played, Riba’s words swimming in her head. He was handsome, even more so than Don Santiago. Benito’s blue eyes and dark curls were wilder, and somehow more alive, than the gentleman’s clean blond lines. She bit her lip when Benito looked at her and smiled. The truth was she wouldn’t mind being married to him that much.

  The invitation to have dinner at Riba’s house was extended a week later. It seemed that Riba’s husband had befriended Don Santiago, in order to discover more of the reasons that he was on the island.

  ‘Apparently, he’s actually making a study about the salt pans. Francisco managed to ply him with some brandy and the truth came out,’ said Riba, who looked relieved. Francisco was Riba’s husband, and one of the key overseers of the salt trade.

  ‘He admitted that he’s here on orders from the Crown to see how they can best improve the production process,’ she went on. ‘He wanted to keep it quiet so that there wasn’t a rebellion.’ The islanders were tough and proud and such things had been known to occur.

  This news would be welcomed by the small secret Jewish population, but not by everyone. The islanders, who valued freedom over everything, would not be overjoyed at the thought of more interference in the salt trade; it had long been their only means of survival. With the recent War of Succession, one of their worst fears had already come to pass – the loss of the salt pans to the Crown.

  ‘What does that mean for us?’ asked Esperanza.

  ‘Well,’ explained Riba, ‘apparently, for now, it means that the only real threat Don Santiago presents is to business, not our community – though of course, we must remain vigilant and ensure that he leaves none the wiser about our secret. Which is why Francisco has befriended him. He’s discovered that the man was sent here against his will to make this report.’

  Esperanza knew that many of the islanders were hoping Don Santiago would leave soon, though they worried about what he would say. They’d been careful though. They always were. Don Santiago was not the only stranger who’d come asking questions.

  Dinner in Riba’s home was always a delight. Cesca had instructed her to send their excuses, that both Rafael and their mother were unwell and Cesca would be caring for them. For Esperanza this meant a rare treat – to be in her friend’s home, in the presence of a gentleman, without her sister’s dark scowls. She couldn’t help feeling a small spurt of excitement at the thought.

  Riba used all her best silver and her table was beautifully presented. She was one of the few islanders who occasionally had a servant come in to help her.

  Over dinner Riba turned to Esperanza and asked her how Rafael was doing. It was a moment before she remembered that to them Benito was Rafael. ‘He’s recovering, well, thank you,’ she said briefly, hoping to change the subject.

  ‘It’s incredible how he’s changed,’ said Riba. ‘I went past there not long after he’d first come to stay with you to give Cesca some of our home-made wine, and I saw how he’d grown. I met him when he was a boy, you know? But I don’t remember him having such beautiful eyes, so blue – they’re quite unusual. I also remember him being quite pale as a boy, with fair hair, yet now it’s so dark. It’s strange.’

  Esperanza shrugged. ‘I hadn’t noticed any change – I suppose I’d only met him once, when we were children.’

  Riba nodded. ‘You were so young, that’s true.’ Don Santiago turned to them, listening to their conversation.

  ‘That happens,’ he said, interrupting. ‘My sister had blonde hair when she was born but now her hair is much darker, it’s almost brown.’

  ‘That must explain it,’ said Esperanza in relief, giving him a big smile that, to her surprise, he returned at full volume. She would have done anything right then to steer the conversation away from the man in her kitchen and the fact that he didn’t look like he should.

  As the evening progressed, Esperanza enjoyed herself more than she’d thought she would, despite her initial reservations about Don Santiago. He was the perfect gentleman, and when he discovered her talent for drawing and painting, and Riba pointed out one of her watercolours that she had hung in the dining room, he exclaimed that he too had a passion for art. They soon got caught up in speaking of their favourite artists, such as Velázquez. Her brother Antoni had brought her books over the years from his travels, in which she had seen reproductions, but she longed to see them in real life. It turned out Don Santiago had seen many of them himself. ‘They are every bit as wondrous as you can imagine,’ he said.

  Esperanza clasped her hands together, imagining it. The last person she had spoken to about art was her father, and she hadn’t realised how much she missed talking about it. All Cesca and her mother spoke of was medicine, food and the neighbours.

  When Don Santiago discovered that she could read too he was incredibly impressed, offering to bring her some of his most favoured novels, which he said he always travelled with.

  Esperanza had only two cherished novels in her bedroom at home. The idea of travelling with a small library filled her with awe, and she said as much.

  When she was leaving that night, Riba looked amused. ‘I fear that you have surpassed his expectations. You may find him harder to get rid of now than ever.’

  Esperanza sighed. It was true; she should have just kept quiet – but it had been wonderful, for just one night, to feel special. To be praised for her artistic side instead of having her family lament at how impractical it was, and tell her that Antoni only had room to bring them a small number of things from his voyages and that they were best served by herbs and medicines, clothing and other important supplies, not books or paper and art materials. How she should be mor
e practical, like her sister.

  She sighed, feeling her cheeks warm in that first flush of remorse. She couldn’t help it; she’d enjoyed the attention, the spotlight that had been on her in a positive way for once. But Riba was right – she shouldn’t have encouraged him. She should not have expressed excitement at the idea of borrowing his books! She was meant to be portraying herself as a betrothed woman, not as someone who could be courted. If he came to her house, she would just have to remind him that she was promised to someone else. Perhaps then, if he saw nothing more for him here, he’d leave the island quicker and everyone could breathe easier at night.

  Chapter Thirty

  Formentera, present day

  I finally got up the courage to tell my mother about where I was really staying after I’d been living on the island for a month. Emmanuel had finished painting the interior of the house and had helped to repair some of the old furniture from the bedrooms, so now I had two spare bedrooms and a lounge with a sofa I’d got from Big Jim. My kitchen was also coming along nicely since Maria had taken me under her wing; I now had a full collection of beautiful artisanal cutlery and crockery, pots, pans and my own set of kitchen herbs in pots on the windowsill.

  It was high time I told my mother about what I’d done. So one afternoon, before my courage could evaporate, I phoned her. Explaining everything, but wanting answers too. Answers that only she could provide.

  I listened to her silence for a moment, picturing her in that Queen Anne chair in the hallway, the one with the forest green twill, as she tried to take in all that I was telling her.

  ‘You’re on Formentera?’ she repeated. ‘In Alba’s old house? Marisal?’

  Even she knew the name well.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know?’ I asked her. ‘About Maria de Palma?’ I was sitting in the only spot that got reception, at the bottom of the garden where the old tyre lay. My foot absently kicked a stray orange as I stared out to sea.

  ‘Alba’s sister?’

  So that was a yes. I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about her – why didn’t she?’

  I heard an intake of breath. ‘I don’t know, Twig, I’m sure it wasn’t deliberate… I think there was just so much heartbreak there for her, heartbreak that she didn’t want to revisit, that’s what your father said.’

  ‘But did you know about us though, about it?’

  There was an impatient sigh. ‘Know what? You aren’t making much sense.’

  ‘Did you know that we were… we’re Jewish?’

  ‘Jewish?’ Her voice crackled across the line and I could picture her twisting her slim gold watch like she always did when she was puzzled, her shoulder-length hair straight and sleek and dark as she stared out of the window at the Surrey countryside.

  ‘What do you mean, Jewish?’

  ‘I mean that Dad came from a family of Sephardi Jews.’

  ‘What Jews?’

  ‘Sephardi – it means Spanish. Gran was one too – in fact, apparently, there were a few families living on Ibiza and Formentera who escaped one of the uprisings in Majorca during the Inquisition and lived here – in secret.’

  There was an intake of breath. ‘I had no idea. So that’s what you’ve been doing – finding out about Gran and about that side of the family?’

  ‘Yes. Mostly. I’ve been getting the house liveable too. Sage is coming soon, you should come, too, Mum,’ I said, realising as I said it that it was something I did want – it wasn’t just some impulse. It’s funny – you can have a difficult relationship with your mother but still want to see her, still need to, in fact. Love was hardly if ever straightforward, and it was love, at the heart of it.

  There was a pause. ‘You want that?’

  It was so eager and vulnerable that it made my heart skip. ‘Of course, Mum. I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too.’

  Next thing there was the excited babble of her talking about what she’d need to get. Shopping trips. Swimming costumes. ‘I suppose they all wear bikinis over there, or go topless.’ I could sense her mentally shuddering at the very thought.

  ‘Not all of them – Mum, just wear what you like. Don’t overthink it.’

  ‘Okay. But…’ She hesitated.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I’m just proud of you, darling, for doing this, for going there and making a new start.’

  ‘Is that what I’m doing?’

  ‘Sounds like it, love.’

  I nodded, though of course she couldn’t see. ‘The thing is,’ I said, tears welling in my eyes, ‘I didn’t want to, not at first.’

  To my surprise, she said. ‘Of course you didn’t. God, when your father died all I wanted to do was go to bed for the rest of my life.’

  I blinked. How had I not considered that there was someone who knew exactly what I was going through, who would understand, someone who had also lost her husband too early – my own mother? I wiped away a tear. ‘Me too.’

  I could hear her suck in her breath. ‘Oh love, it does get easier though, I promise – and I think what you’re doing, well, it’s wonderful.’

  ‘Thanks Mum.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Formentera, 1718

  For a while Cesca tried to tell herself she’d got it wrong. Her mother wasn’t seriously ill, it was just her old complaint, something that flared up every now and again, particularly when she was feeling stressed.

  Until she saw the blood.

  Her mother clutched at her hand. ‘It’s worse, I know,’ she said, reading her daughter’s stricken face. She’d suspected herself; perhaps somewhere deep inside she’d known that this time things were worse.

  Cesca swallowed and fat tears fell from her green eyes, landing on the bed.

  How had this happened? She should have spent more time at home, less time running around caring for everyone else! Her mother was sick, and she hadn’t been here as much as she should.

  ‘Oh, Mare,’ she cried, falling into her mother’s lap, sobs racking her thin shoulders. Her mother stroked her hair. ‘Shush child, stop it. Everybody has to go some time. I’m luckier than most.’

  This only made her cry harder.

  ‘Come on now, it’s not over just yet, let’s wait to hear from the doctor first. We’ll still have some time, I’m sure.’

  Cesca choked on her sobs at the way her mother spoke. It was like she knew that there was no recovering from this.

  ‘But I will be sad to miss your wedding…’

  ‘Oh Mare,’ she sobbed. ‘You will still be here for it, we can move it. Don’t worry about that now, please… and maybe’ – she wiped her eyes – ‘maybe it’s not as bad as we fear.’

  They feared that she had the same disease that had taken Cesca’s grandmother from them, stomach cancer. In the beginning when they’d worried that it could be the same thing the doctor had seemed sure it wasn’t.

  But later that day, Señor Garcia confirmed Cesca’s worst fears. ‘It is cancer, I am afraid.’

  ‘But you were so sure it wasn’t before. Could it not be an ulcer of some kind?’

  He shook his head and touched her hand, his brown eyes gentle. ‘No, unfortunately not. I’m so sorry, Cesca. The signs are very clear. She’s in the last stages. I wish we had thought to examine her again.’

  Cesca looked up at the ceiling. She was to blame, assuming that it was the same digestive complaint her mother had suffered with for years. It had been this all along, hadn’t it? She’d been slowly losing her mother – she, a nurse – and she hadn’t even known it. The thought almost stopped her heart cold.

  Tears slipped unchecked down her cheeks.

  Señor Garcia looked wretched, his gaze full of pain for her.

  She couldn’t look at him now. ‘Thank you for telling me. I must get on with my chores,’ she said, then went to the well to fill a pail with water.

  Señor Garcia watched her go, helplessly. Then he made his way home with a he
avy heart, deciding to leave her alone with her grief.

  Benito had kept out of the house while the doctor had been there, but when Cesca motored past him, only to stand frozen by the well, her shoulders heaving as if she were about to be sick, he rushed towards her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said jumping as he came near, dashing away the tears and making to leave.

  ‘You’re not.’

  She looked at him and nodded. ‘No.’ And he saw the raw pain in her eyes. It made him start. He sucked in air and came forward to touch her arm.

  ‘It’s my mother, she’s sick… she’s dying,’ she breathed, her face crumpling. She made to hurry past him, but he held out an arm to stop her, then pulled her into a tight hug.

  As his arms closed around her, the last of her strength left her and she dissolved into sobs that racked through her body, making her gasp for breath.

  Benito held her close, his strong hands calming her as she wailed all her grief, all her shame at not noticing how ill her mother had become and not being able to nurse her better.

  When her sobs died down at last, he looked at her, wiping the tears from under her eyes, his fingers tracing her jaw.

  ‘Benito,’ she said, her gaze taking in the rest of the finca, noting that they were alone, knowing that she should stop the inevitable, but she didn’t pull away as he stepped closer and stared into her eyes before he kissed her. His lips were warm, and she sank into them like a person drowning, even though a part of her knew it was wrong, that he didn’t belong to her, that this could never be – right then, nothing had ever felt more right.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Formentera, present day