Witch's Harvest (17 page)

chilled her.

She was wrong, after all, she thought. Vasco wasn't ready to settle for second-best either. And she found no consolation in the

realisation whatsoever.

It was a long morning. With the absence of the
patrão
, the
fazenda
seemed to relapse into a kind of somnolence. Even Don
Afonso seemed withdrawn, receiving Abby's half-hearted blandishments with a tilted head and lofty expression.

She was finishing her lunch on the veranda when Maria appeared, holding a thin blue envelope. 'For you,
senhora
,' she
announced with a note of reproach.

'
Obrigada
.' Abby took the envelope from her, noting with bewilderment that the superscription was 'Miss Abigail Westmore' and
nothing else. Nor did she recognise the handwriting.

She unfolded the single sheet of airmail paper and saw that it was from Keith. As her eyes flicked over the neat handwriting, she

realised her failure to retrieve the letter from Vasco's desk had been a Freudian slip.

It was a prolonged grouse from beginning to end, crammed with phrases like 'clearly, my feelings were unimportant' and 'in

spite of the upset you have caused'. She had to read it twice before she could decipher the real meaning which was, apparently,

that Keith was prepared, albeit grudgingly, to have her back, 'when you've come to your senses', as he put it.

He'd wasted no time in writing the marriage off as a disaster, she thought bitterly. Yet when she had broken the news of it to him
in London, he had hardly said a word, just stared at her in ever-increasing outrage. He didn't even have the grace to address the

envelope in her married name. In fact, she realised, he hadn't addressed it at all. So how in the world had it got here?

She swallowed. The answer to that was simple. It had been enclosed in a letter from someone else. Someone who knew where

she was to be found, and all about Riocho Negro. Someone who also knew Keith.

Abby's mouth was dry suddenly. She drank some coffee, and grimaced at its bitterness.

There could be another explanation, she told herself desperately. Vasco's cousin at the Embassy, for instance. But she was

already up on her feet and moving inside the house, and down the hall to the study.

Maria was just starting on the cleaning, but she acceded amiably enough to her young mistress's halting request to come back

later.

When she was alone, Abby fell on her knees beside the waste basket, rooting through its contents with shaking hands. What

she was doing was foul, despicable, and she knew it, but it made no difference.

She was looking for another blue envelope. It was crumpled in a ball nearly at the bottom of the basket, as if it had been

deliberately buried there. She put it down on the strip of carpet beside the desk and smoothed it out. Della's writing, large,

flowing, heavily underlined, and quite unmistakable, stared up at her. The envelope was empty, and there was no sign anywhere

of its contents. Abby didn't know whether to be sorry or relieved.

She got stiffly to her feet, still clutching the envelope. So Della had written to Vasco. It didn't necessarily mean anything, she
tried to tell herself. Perhaps it was just more recriminations—all the things Della had wanted to say in London to his face.

But today the letter had come—and today Vasco had taken the plane to Manaus, without one word of prior warning.

She caught at the edge of the desk, a sudden dizziness assailing her, feeling at the same time nausea rising in her throat.

'
Com licença
?' Maria peered round the door and gave a startled cry. '
O, senhora
!'

With amazing presence of mind she snatched a clean polishing cloth from her pocket and pressed it to Abby's white lips, before

urging her down the passage to the bedroom.

Bending over the basin, Abby vomited until the world tilted and slid round her, vaguely aware of the servants anxiously

watching from the doorway.

She said distinctly and politely in English, 'I'm quite all right, really. I've just had a shock.' Then the floor lifted to meet her, and
she slid quietly in to an all-enveloping darkness.

'There was no need for you to call at the clinic, Dona Abigail,' Dr Arupa said kindly. 'Had you sent a message, I would have

attended you at the
fazenda
?

Abby flushed. 'Oh, I had to come into the settlement today,' she said with less than truth. 'And I didn't want to cause you

unnecessary bother. I'm sure that there's nothing really the matter with me— that it's all quite trivial—something I ate, perhaps,'

she added lamely.

Dr Arupa laughed. 'No, Dona Abigail. I suspect you know what the matter is as well as I do.' He gave her a cheerful wink. 'At

Dona Luisa's party the other evening, I looked at you and thought, "Soon that little one will be paying me a visit."'

Abby's flush deepened. 'Is it that obvious already?' she asked with an effort.

'Only to the trained eye,' he reassured her. 'What does Vasco say? No doubt he is delighted.'

Abby's throat felt tight. 'He doesn't—know yet.' Her hands gripped together in her lap. 'He's in Manaus. He's been there for

nearly a week.' She bit her lip. 'Well, four days, actually.'

He frowned slightly. 'It is a pity you did not come to me sooner, then you could have accompanied him. A friend of mine is an

obstetrician there. He could have examined you, carried out some routine tests for anaemia, and so on.' He grinned at her.

'Vasco is my friend, after all. I want to ensure him a happy wife, and a healthy child.'

'Yes, of course.' Abby's answering smile was pallid.

Dr Arupa gave her a searching glance, tapping on the desk with his pen. 'Something concerns you?' he asked quietly. 'You

have some inner worry about pregnancy, perhaps, or the birth itself? You have heard, no doubt, about Dona Beatriz, and you

are afraid the same thing could happen.' He shook his head. 'Relax,
senhora
, and bloom. Allow yourself to be cherished, and
obey the orders of those who have your well-being at heart. But don't become an invalid. Eat the kind of food that appeals to

you, and rest when you feel tired. Thus Nature will take its course.'

He made it sound so simple, Abby thought, as she edged her way through the crowded outer room of the clinic. Above the

chatter and the noise of crying babies, she could hear the steady thud of rain falling on the corrugated iron roof. An Amerindian

girl standing near the door shifted awkwardly to let Abby pass. She was heavily pregnant, her body swollen and unwieldy under

the shabby print dress, but as Abby smiled at her and murmured a word of thanks, her grin would have lit up the world.

Abby knew where she would live—in one of those ramshackle houses on stilts rising out of the Riocho Negro itself. Her

husband might be one of the lucky ones who earned enough to ensure his family got enough to eat, or he might not, but it

seemed obvious from the serene glow about the girl that the coming baby was loved and wanted already.

Abby paused outside the door, fastening her waterproof cape more securely and pulling the hood over her hair against the

continuous downpour which had already turned the muddy street of the settlement into a slow-moving orange river.

It had rained every day since Vasco left, adding to Abby's feeling of oppression and isolation, alone at the
fazenda
. And every
day he stayed away she became more frightened, more convinced that his absence had something to do with Della.

Abby knew her cousin too well to imagine Della would let a simple little thing like a marriage ceremony stand between her and

anyone she wanted. And although her tactics might have shocked Vasco, and embittered him too, it was clear he still cared

about her, Abby thought painfully. His attitude to herself after they had made love, his obvious regrets, had revealed that. She

had thought she would die of humiliation when she realised Della had spitefully told him about her love for him, but what she'd

suffered then was nothing compared with the wretchedness of knowing her love for him would never be enough to draw them

together.

She shivered as she stepped out on to the rough planking walkway, shoulders hunched against the rain. She had told Agnello

to wait for her near the general store. She didn't even want him to know she'd been anywhere near Dr Arupa's clinic. The

servants had been giving her hopeful, sideways glances ever since that stupid fainting fit, and she didn't want to fuel their

speculation any further.

The only reason Vasco had married her was to give his child a name, but there was no future for them together, particularly if

Della was back on the scene.

And if I tell him that there isn't going to be a baby, then he's bound to let me go, she thought achingly.

Besides, she wanted to be the one who walked away. She didn't want Vasco and Della deciding what was best for her, then

breaking the news. And if Vasco thought he could be happy with Della after all, then she wasn't going to stand in his way.

If I hadn't meddled, none of this would have happened, she thought drearily. So the least I can do is disappear discreetly.

The thought of what she was going back to face nearly made her quail. She had no job in England, no home, and would soon

have the unenviable status of a one-parent family. She had no illusions about the difficulties of the situation she was creating for
herself. But it would be even harder to stay at Riocho Negro as an eternal 'second-best', maintained out of Vasco's sense of

duty.

And I'll have his baby, she reminded herself, a part of him to cherish always.

'Hi, there!' A hand descended on her arm, and Link Dalton smiled down into her surprised face. 'You sure picked a great day for

it—whatever it is?' he added on a note of enquiry.

Abby shrugged evasively. 'Just some—shopping. I was getting tired of staring at the same four walls. I fancied a change of

scene.'

'Well, you got that all right,' Link conceded. He took her arm and began to pilot her along the walkway. 'Why didn't you get a

message over to Laracoca, and then we could have come in together, like I suggested that time?'

Abby bit her lip. 'Oh, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.'

'OK,' he said easily. 'Well, we're both here now, so why don't we live a little—take the town apart? Have a drink, see that film

show I mentioned?'

Abby hung back. 'Agnello's waiting to take me back…'

'Back to the same four walls,' he reminded her. 'Let him go. I'll bring you back myself later.' He grinned at her. 'Come on,

senhora
, relax—enjoy yourself. When I spotted you just now, you looked wetter than the rain!' His tone didn't alter. 'Vasco still in
the big city?'

'Yes,' she said, and forced a smile. 'Well— perhaps it could be fun.'

But Agnello's expression when Link revealed their plans told a very different story. His brows shot up in shocked disapproval

and he burst into a flood of excited Portuguese. Abby had no idea what he was saying, but the looks which he was spiking in

her direction needed no interpretation.

She touched Link's arm. 'Maybe this isn't such a good idea, after all.'

'Oh, don't take any notice of Agnello. Some of these Brazilians are more hidebound than the Pilgrim Fathers,' said Link with a

trace of impatience. 'I thought English girls were supposed to be liberated. Besides,' he added with odd deliberation, 'you can

bet whatever Vasco's been doing in Manaus, he won't have been attending any church services.'

'No.' Her throat felt tight suddenly. She turned to the little man. '
Calma
, Agnello,
esta bem
.'

The expression on his face indicated that it was far from all right, but he made no further attempt to dissuade her, merely lifting
both clenched fists towards the waterlogged sky before climbing into the jeep and heading off.

Abby and Link were left facing each other.

'I feel almost daring,' she said. 'Isn't that absurd?'

'If it makes you smile, it isn't absurd at all.' He paused. 'I think the first item on the schedule is a beer. There are two bars, a
respectable one, and a dive. Unfortunately to get to the respectable one we have to ford this river they call a street.'

'Then let's make it the dive.' Abby forced herself to sound cheerful.

He laughed.

'Right on, lady, but don't say I didn't warn you!'

They should have braved the mud, Abby realised immediately, but to start carping about her surroundings would only make her

sound foolish, so she sat down at the stained table Link indicated. The beer which emerged from a dilapidated refrigerator was

cool and refreshing, although she had serious doubts about the glass it was served in.

Link said ironically, 'Not quite the setting for the Senhora Dona Abigail, wife of the lordly
fazendeiro
.'