House in the Hills Read online

  He’d tried not to be affected by the way her hair fell forward like a black silk veil, nor to notice the way she parted her lips exposing clean, white teeth. It was even harder to hold his breath and not breathe in her scent. She smelled like young shoots bursting through rich soil; young buds about to burst into flower; sweet grapes ripening on the vine.

  He pushed the thoughts away; such troubling thoughts. Powerful urges that still plagued his loins and his dreams. His punishment for such lustful thoughts was crude and the only thing he could think of. Tonight he would retrieve the knotted rope from its hiding place and chastise himself until all trace of the urge to sin had faded from his body.

  ‘Be her friend,’ Lopa had said.

  He had agreed, even though Lopa could not possibly be aware what agony that would be. Or perhaps she did know, he thought. Anna Marie was clever and incredibly shrewd. He asked himself whether he’d fallen into a trap.

  In the short term, befriending Catherine would have to wait until he had regained his self-control. He would do as he’d promised, but not yet, he counselled. Not until after the first clod of earth had been thrown on the coffin.

  He crossed himself, rose from his knees and concentrated on putting his accoutrements away. He refrained from looking at her – never had he known his urges to be so strong. All he wanted to do was clasp her to his chest, to comfort her, to kiss her, and much, much more.

  Instead he settled for pulling the sheet back up over the face of the dead woman. Once that was done, he glanced over his shoulder to see if Catherine had finished reading the letter. She had.

  Her eyes were wide and seemed too big for her very pale face. The contents of the letter were explicit.

  ‘Is it bad news?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. My father wants me back.’

  ‘I see.’ He nodded. Something inside him screamed to tell her to stay, but he quelled the sound with inner prayers and promises of penance. ‘And you do not wish to go.’ His voice was steady, without a hint of trembling.

  She shook her head. ‘My life is here. Francisco and I wish to marry. Perhaps we can live in this house now that my aunt… If I were married, he could not force me to go.’

  ‘True.’

  She lifted her head and brought the full force of eyes swimming with tears to meet his. ‘That’s why Aunt Lopa set out so quickly to go to the Nicklaus.’ If I were married he couldn’t take me away, Catherine thought. It’s his fault that she’s dead. His fault too that my mother died. It’s he who deserves to die, not them. Him, for the evil man that he is.

  The dryness in Umberto’s throat spread throughout his body. He saw vengeance blazing in her eyes and it frightened him. Give solace, said a small voice deep inside. He approached her, his hands clasped in prayer.

  ‘Would you like to pray for your aunt’s soul, Catherine?’

  Still sitting in the same rocking chair, she turned her face away from him and looked towards the door. The setting sun gave her complexion a fiery glow. She didn’t answer him, but continued to sit, alone with her thoughts.

  He fell to his knees and silently gave up prayers on her behalf. When he’d finished she was still sitting and staring.

  The terrible urge to take her into his arms – just as he did in his dreams – threatened to overwhelm him.

  ‘I’d better go,’ he said.

  Her eyelids flickered in a barely perceptible nod.

  Umberto got to his feet. Once outside he took huge gulps of the cool air wafting his hot cheeks. Like a man in a dream he remounted his bicycle. The horror of Lopa Rodriguez’ death was enough to give him nightmares, but it was Catherine Rodriguez who would haunt his dreams.

  That evening he went about his duties as a man in a daze. No matter how much he prayed, how much he chastised himself and tried putting her and the past behind him, he found he could not.

  Alone that night and before lying down to sleep, he took the scourge from its locked cabinet and beat his back until the pain and bleeding were greater than the urgings of his loins.

  Fifteen

  The sky seemed full of rainbows in those days following Aunt Lopa’s death. Like a painted bridge they spanned the Douro Valley from one side to the other. The sunsets that followed each day were just as vivid; as though God is trying to compensate me for my loss. But nothing could.

  She saw Francisco at the funeral. At first her spirits rose at the sight of him, though not for long. His stiff-boned mother was with him. His father, shoulders rounded against the dull wind as well as in response to the warning looks from his dominant wife, mumbled his sympathy.

  Guessing he would attend, she’d made a great effort to look her best. Her glorious hair was caught up in a tortoiseshell comb topped with a black lace mantilla. Her dress had been hastily contrived overnight, cut from her great-aunt’s own mourning outfit kept for such occasions. She’d kept the cut simple; a scooped neckline, three-quarter sleeves and a slim sheath of a dress with only a hint of waistline. The only black shoes she owned were left over from her schooldays. They were flat and buckled around the ankle, but would have to do. She was aware of the veiled looks from those attending the funeral and had quivered at what they might be thinking.

  She’s shabby. A peasant.

  The moment he set eyes on her, Father Umberto looked taken aback, seeming to draw in his breath though his eyes appeared loath to leave her face. His professional face reasserted itself, masking his reaction.

  ‘Señora Rodriguez. My profound sympathy.’

  His eyes seemed to flash before he lowered them.

  She nodded her appreciation.

  Umberto smiled, though sadly. ‘Your aunt would have been proud of you,’ he said.

  Catherine didn’t understand what he meant at first, but the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice stayed with her.

  Umberto regretted his outburst, for outburst it certainly was. Punishing his body each time she came to mind had done nothing to subdue his desire. It is only right and proper that I offer my condolences and officiate in a proper manner, he’d told himself before the funeral. The moment he’d set eyes on her his fortitude had begun to crumble. The simplicity of her outfit was very suitable for the occasion and, what was more, enhanced her beauty. Plain black accentuated the creaminess of her skin and the darkness of her eyes, like pools, deep and moist, full of unshed tears.

  Confused by her own feelings, Catherine turned swiftly back to Francisco. He had stiffened the moment he saw her and had hesitated before falling away from the family party.

  Catherine waited patiently, pretending the tortoiseshell clasp of her clutch bag was far more interesting than this handsome young man.

  He finally escaped the family crowd. ‘Catherine.’ He sounded nervous.

  She smiled up at him; saw the redness of his hair caught in the sunlight. ‘Francisco, I’m glad you came.’

  He gave a small nod and offered his sympathy, eyes half hidden beneath lids and a lock of reddish dark hair. Although she ached to smooth the stray lock back on to his forehead, she held back. Would her action be appreciated? She sensed Father Umberto watching her, but resisted looking in his direction.

  She searched Francisco’s face for some sign that his feelings had not changed. No trace of that affable smile, or even a slightly sad one, stirred his features. Despite this being a solemn occasion, it puzzled her. It was as though there was something left unsaid between them, or perhaps he found the circumstances awkward. She preferred to believe the latter. Death was such an unwelcome intruder in life. In the midst of life we are in death; life a little island in eternity and death an unwelcome reminder of our own mortality.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said, her lips feeling strangely stiff, her throat dry and aching to cough. ‘Where have you been?’

  Not wanting him to pity her, she refused to cough, moderated her tone and managed a ghost of a smile.

  Francisco glanced nervously to where his mother watched with crow-black eyes.
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br />   Catherine saw this. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to, Francisco. I won’t bite you,’ she said. ‘And I won’t hold you to anything.’

  The last few words seemed to unlock his courage despite his mother’s glower. He made the effort to explain. ‘My father sent me up to the vineyards in the north. The weather was bad. I couldn’t get back. The roads were blocked. I’d come round tonight, but…’

  The full meaning of what he said flashed between them. He could come round, but in the circumstances a chaperone was needed.

  ‘My mother disapproves of our plans,’ he said, his breath turning to steam in the chill morning air.

  There was a rustling like dry leaves as women in stiff taffeta – so beloved for mourning in these parts – and men in dark serge drifted in their direction. Already their behaviour was being monitored. Their chaperones, in the form of Francisco’s large family, were like a flock of black crows with beaky faces and plumped-up plumage. Like crows they were out to protect their young and peck an unwelcome intruder to death. Some muttered their disapproval.

  ‘Making cow eyes at her great-aunt’s funeral. So disrespectful.’

  ‘She’ll end up the same as her mother.’

  She understood everything they were saying, but couldn’t believe that people could act so badly on such a sad occasion.

  This was a tight-knit community where things were still done ‘properly’ and with propriety. Her English father had spirited her beautiful mother away from their world of tight corsets and regular visits to the confessional. Some of their glances were almost contemptuous, flying at her like vicious sparks and swiftly igniting a raging flame of defiance.

  ‘I don’t care to have a chaperone!’ She smiled up at him. ‘Tell your family this. After all, we are going to get married, aren’t we? My mother would have approved. And Aunt Lopa certainly did. She was on her way to propose the matter to your mother. She never got there.’

  He hanged his head, his eyes hidden. ‘So I understand.’

  Her heart turned black at the thought of the letter her father had sent. Yet again he was responsible for the death of someone she cherished. She wished he were dead.

  She brought herself back to the present. Francisco was fidgeting, his eyes flitting nervously between her and his family.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, her head held high. ‘It’s up to us to carry on. We have to get on with our lives. We can’t turn back the clock.’

  It sounded harsh, almost uncaring. Inside her grief mixed with her fear for the future.

  ‘There’s just us,’ she whispered, her deep, dark eyes holding his. If a look could hold a man to her, then this was just that look. She did not want to leave this place, and to remain here she must marry Francisco.

  One side of his mouth turned upwards. The smile – and the love – came back to his eyes.

  ‘I’ll come.’ He said it sharply, like a sudden jump over a cliff.

  ‘Then kiss me,’ she demanded. ‘Kiss me now.’

  Looks as dark as mourning clothes flew like daggers in their direction. But they didn’t care – Catherine certainly did not. In her mind she could see Aunt Lopa egging them on, laughing at those who dared condemn.

  Black looks, black hearts.

  * * *

  Tonight he would come. Was she foolish to believe him? Strange that the prospect of a safe and respectable future was slightly unnerving. Was that really what she wanted?

  That evening after feeding the goats, Catherine sat in her favourite spot and watched as a more seasonal sun dipped into the horizon. Her eyes were fixed on the track between the trees. The sound of a distant gunshot cracked into the cooling air. Men were still out hunting the wolves blamed for Aunt Lopa’s death. Another shot followed. The wolves would all be dead by morning. None would be left in Portugal at least. Perhaps survivors would limp back into Spain, probably from where they’d come in the first place, straying down from the foothills of the Pyrenees, across the border in search of food.

  The contents of the letter to Aunt Lopa resonated in her mind. If Francisco were to marry her, then it would have to happen soon. If not she might just as well be dead.

  The hours, the minutes, the seconds ticked by and still there was no sign of Francisco and his horse-drawn trap. Her spirits began to sink with the sunset.

  She’d expected him to arrive before sunset. This had always been their favourite time of day when the earth gave up its heat to cooler air. A series of excuses came to mind as to why he hadn’t arrived. Perhaps his family had insisted on a chaperone and he was searching one out. Perhaps her intention to throw caution to the wind had shown on her face.

  Whatever, her frown deepened as sunset ebbed into twilight, blue clouds shifting like veils across a bed of crimson sky.

  She was dressed in her favourite blue dress. It was cotton and trimmed with silk around the arms, neckline and hem. It had no bows, no buttons, no over-decoration, but it fitted her well. It was one of Aunt Lopa’s cut-downs. Catherine remembered her grumbling as she’d done the alterations, complaining that Walter Shellard should have been more generous with his allowance.

  ‘A young woman needs good clothes if she is to make a splash in the world.’

  Catherine had laughed and said this made her sound like a fish. She smiled at the memory and for a moment the pain of loss was at least subdued, though not for long. Never for long.

  Dusk gathered like a cloud of soot blotting out the daylight and the details of smaller things. The moon was beginning to rise, and by its light she saw a lone figure coming her way.

  Her heart leapt in her chest. Francisco! It had to be him.

  Blood racing, she rose to her feet, her eyes narrowing as she attempted to establish the identity of her visitor. It looked as though the person was wearing some kind of fluctuating skirt. She almost laughed out loud at the thought of it. Then she saw it wasn’t a skirt, but a bicycle and a fluttering robe. Father Umberto was paying her another visit.

  Though she told herself that he was visiting in his capacity as a parish priest, a tingling nervousness spread like a cobweb over her body.

  She forestalled this by telling herself that he’d visited her great-aunt far more frequently than the old priest had ever done.

  Aunt Lopa’s chuckle echoed in her ear. ‘Now is that to do with wishing to see more of me or more of you?’

  Catherine had been surprised by the comment. Surely her great-aunt had not detected the fact that she and the priest had met before?

  Although taken aback, Catherine had hidden her feelings and remarked that he was very dedicated. It had never been in Catherine’s nature to blush like a silly girl. Umberto the altar boy had looked at her as though he wanted to strip her clothes from her body. Umberto the priest avoided looking at her.

  She’d tried to analyse what was really going on behind the strong face, the heavy black robe.

  ‘He’s still a man for all that,’ Aunt Lopa had observed, a half-smile hovering above the ever-clicking knitting needles.

  The priest dismounted just before the gate into the yard, pushing his bicycle the rest of the way and finally resting it against the stone shed in the corner.

  He lifted his head. His expression was thoughtful and he was frowning.

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Good evening,’ she responded, with a swift incline of her head.

  The temptress in her emerged from the sadness. She eyed him boldly and leisurely, wanting him to see her do so, perhaps to turn and run.

  He smiled, as though he knew. The breeze ruffled his hair. His long lashes brushed high, strong cheekbones and his eyes flashed like sapphires. As an altar boy he’d been handsome; as a priest he was strikingly beautiful. Heavenly.

  ‘Catherine?’

  She smiled. He spoke her name as though it were a question. She recalled the dim past when they’d exchanged sly, longing glances and silly, childish notes.

  Her eyes locked with his. ‘Can I offer you a drink, Father?’ Her
voice was soft, hesitant.

  He looked startled when their eyes met. ‘Just water.’

  ‘Come into the house.’

  She turned abruptly away. His footsteps followed her in.

  Their conversation started innocently enough. As he drank, they spoke of the funeral and how well it had gone, and wasn’t it wonderful that so many people had turned out to pay their last respects. Still, they did not mention having met before. Like water, the past was dammed up, waiting until the weight and height of desire got too high and overflowed, threatening to drown them both.

  ‘And so wonderful that your aunt made such a generous settlement on St Magda’s,’ Father Umberto added.

  Catherine gave a brief nod of her head. This was all news to her, distinctly surprising. It appeared Aunt Lopa was more religious in death than she had been in life – or the life of her latter years; a reversion perhaps to the years spent in a convent. As she mused over these things, Father Umberto unfurled a stiff piece of paper; Aunt Lopa’s will.

  ‘Your great-aunt instructed me to ensure the contents of her coffer – and the coffer itself, of course – passed to you on her demise. Do you wish to inspect the contents?’

  Her first inclination was to look inside, but the fact that Francisco had not appeared this evening had stung her deeply. Afterwards she’d question why she’d said it, but for now the statement came out without forethought. ‘I won’t open it until Francisco and I are married.’

  Father Umberto was stumped for words. He set the will out on the desk, flattening its edges with the palms of his hands.

  He nodded sagely. ‘I see. A suitable marriage dowry, I have no doubt. Lopa Rodriguez was a frugal person. She told me herself she kept her valuables there, and I can well believe they are quite a useful amount. Your great-aunt wasted nothing.’