Kerry Postle - A Forbidden Love

‘Cecilia, dear,’ Dona Sofίa said, a fixed smile nailed to her face. ‘We have something to say to you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Cecilia said, waiting for judgement. If only Luis was here. He had always been able to curb the worst of his parents’ excesses. ‘I promise that I will work hard to make amends.’ Cecilia wasn’t past begging to keep her son in employment.

‘Well, we do expect to be having some very important guests staying with us in the not too distant future,’ Dona Sofίa replied, frankly surprised at her housekeeper’s eagerness to accept responsibility and expressing regret at having let herself go. ‘And so your diligence and commitment will be much appreciated. Behind the scenes.’

Relief flooded Cecilia’s body from head to toe that Manuel’s name still hadn’t been mentioned but Dona Sofίa’s lipstick-coloured lips still moved up and down with unstoppable purpose.

‘I don’t want you serving … Best we keep you in the kitchen.’ She then nodded over to her husband. He coughed three times. ‘Yes. Play to your strengths,’ he said. ‘Cooking, cleaning, stuff like that.’ His wife pushed him on with her eyes and touched her upper arm, ‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘And we’d like you to wear sleeves from now on, old girl. More decent on a woman of your age, don’t you think?’ And with that he turned round and went to look for Guido. It was time to get to the bottom of that unpleasant reading nonsense.

Dona Sofίa gave the old girl , who was five years younger than herself, her most beneficent smile, full of pity. She lowered her eyelids in imitation of the Virgin Mary in her favourite painting by Filippo Lippi, Madonna and Child with Two Angels that she’d seen in Florence.

‘How’s Manuel?’

Dona Sofίa clutched a letter to her chest not really caring to know about her housekeeper’s son one way or the other but the question put the fear of God in poor Cecilia. She needn’t have worried. Her employer’s interest in Manuel was the same as it had ever been – a flimsy pretext for talking about her own sweet boy, Luis. And he was a sweet boy.

‘He’ll be back soon. He has a fine mind. Reads philosophy … and the finest novels – in English, of course.’

That her employer boasted, Cecilia found tedious, but she was grateful for the opportunity to remember the child she’d loved so well. When he’d been first sent away to school he’d been so young. Such a gentle child. His parents weren’t the only people to miss him when he’d gone.

Luis and Manuel were the same age, possessed the same generous natures. Manuel was the only one of Cecilia’s children that had ever been allowed on the estate. Dona Sofίa had even allowed a friendship to blossom between the boys. They’d been inseparable.

Until they’d been forcibly torn apart.

Don Felipe’s gift of a ball to Luis had seen to that. The boy had kicked it around the house, breaking a porcelain ornament. As it had fallen to the floor it had shattered into a thousand pieces, one of which had lodged in Manuel’s left cheek. Luis had called for his mother, called for Cecilia. Both women had come running to find him cradling his injured friend in his arms.

There was to be no friendship after that. ‘Luis knows better than to kick a ball around the house. He knows the value of things, whereas that half-wit of a boy Manuel has no more respect for civilised living than a wild animal,’ Dona Sofίa had cried.

‘But Mama. It was me. It was my fault. All my fault,’ her son had told her bravely. ‘Can I see Manu? See if he’s all right?’

But it was no use. No matter how many times he had reasoned with his mother there was to be no shifting Dona Sofίa from her position. It was all Manuel’s fault. She blamed him for everything. And when Luis had run to the village, determined to see how his dear friend was getting on, Dona Sofίa had blamed Manuel some more. Dona Sofίa had always managed to keep her son away from Fuentes de Andalucía and its inhabitants until then.

That Cecilia wasn’t dismissed there and then was a miracle. A miracle brought about by Luis. He’d pleaded with his mother on Cecilia’s behalf and she had given in. But she was determined not to do so again.

Four months after the ball incident Luis was sent away to school. Dona Sofίa wouldn’t have him going to the village again.

The child was ten.

Poor Dona Sofίa. What had she done? She’d waited for a child for such a long time, had feared she might never be able to find one. And then she’d sent him away.

Of course, his mother missed him terribly when he’d gone. And she would pour out her heart to Cecilia whenever she could to shout about the fact. And Cecilia wouldn’t – couldn’t – condemn her for that. But Luis was homesick. And Dona Sofίa’s eyes were forever red and sore, her nose constantly streaming. ‘What should I do?’ the wealthy landowner’s wife asked her penniless housekeeper. An observer would have thought Dona Sofίa regarded Cecilia as a friend. Cecilia made the fatal mistake of thinking so too. As one mother to another. Cecilia dared to give Dona Sofίa her most truthful counsel.

Oh, the insolence.

Cecilia had very nearly lost her job that day. ‘How dare you Cecilia! We’re providing that boy with a first-class education. But then, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’ The housekeeper had put her fingers to her hot cheek, her employer’s red hand print upon it. She had momentarily forgotten her place. She wouldn’t do so again. It was clear that to Dona Sofίa, Cecilia was no more sentient than a wooden sculpture that she’d had fashioned to her pleasing.

And so now, though happy to hear that Luis was coming home, Cecilia kept her excitement well and truly to herself.

Maria looked at the page in front of her; apart from the title, Cumbres Borrascosas , the only marks on it were the rings left by the numerous cups of water she’d had and the ink that had splashed as she’d thrown down her pen. Cumbres Borrascosas . Even that wasn’t original. She’d taken it from the English classic, Wuthering Heights . She looked through her window, exasperated. As she watched the heat vibrate over the expanse of countryside beyond the village, inspiration hit her with its golden arrow. She picked up her pen. Crossed out her first attempt. Replaced it with Campos Sofocantes. There. Sweltering Fields . Much better. Now she could start to write her epic story of love between wonderful strangers from different lands, where the heroine was from Spain and the hero from England. She put pen to paper once more and wrote ‘ based on a true story’ . She was on fire.

But something had changed, after the picnic. Maria, for all her knowledge of the secrets of the human heart, was the only one who didn’t realise it. Blinded by her own importance she still believed that Richard loved her, and that she loved him, despite her body repeatedly telling her to the contrary – though it had been thankfully quieter of late. Perhaps due to the fact that he wasn’t coming round as frequently as he once had. Not that she minded. In some ways she preferred it. His absence as ever gave her the space to preserve his image, perpetuate the myth that she loved him.

In truth, before the picnic his constant attention and desire to please her had been vaguely irritating. He’d once brushed her fingers with his which she’d found deeply disturbing. And not in a good way. She hadn’t been able to look at him without feeling nauseous for days. She’d convinced herself then that this was because she was lovesick.

But one Tuesday morning, as she anticipated Richard’s visit, she questioned the heavy feeling in her heart. Tuesday was the day when her father would check on the English boy’s health as arranged, and this Tuesday Maria had started to feel anxious about his impending visit the moment her bare feet touched the wooden floor as she got out of bed. She busied herself in the kitchen, peeling the vegetables and getting everything ready for the evening meal. She’d not seen Richard since the Wednesday before; Seňor Suarez had taken him to Seville. She told herself she was looking forward to seeing him, hearing all about his trip, what he’d seen, what he’d eaten, who he’d met. She played at being in love again. But as she set about getting everything ready in the kitchen and as the hour of his arrival approached she could not stop herself from shaking with fear.