The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (40 page)

“How dare you even suggest such a thing at my table!” Don Jaime had almost choked on his brandy. He’d spluttered, outraged at the mere thought of such a thing happening. “We are landowners and a damn sight more important than that puppet government who sits in Madrid issuing decrees of little or no consequence to Spain or to the Spanish people. Why, half of those fools in government don’t even know how to read or write. No, no! I for one will never succumb to the madness that’s gripped our country, a madness that will destroy us all if we don’t fight back. I say we should resist all their policies! Gentlemen, we must put the peasants back where they belong, and that’s in the fields, not in government buildings! And we must take Spain back to its glorious past, where the glory and wealth is spread between God-fearing people.”

There had been an uncomfortable silence afterwards, but Don Jaime had only just begun.

“Doesn’t anyone remember the strikes we suffered at the hands of the workers? Animals! It went on for weeks on end, and what did it achieve? Nothing! In fact, it was only after we shot most of them that the rest retreated to their holes to hide like field mice! That was action, and that is the right and only way to snuff out the peasants’ fire. Workers alliance, my arse! They were nothing but a bunch of fool-hearted communists paid by the Russians to stir up trouble.”

Ernesto had gone to dinner that night because it had been expected of him. Nobody turned down an invitation from Don Jaime. However, he wasn’t overly fond of the man, nor did he like his extremist views. As he thought some more about it, he admitted that at the time, he should have ignored his host’s evident love for the Nazi Party and kept his mouth shut until he’d left the insufferable man’s house. But he’d been too incensed at the time to let Don Jaime’s comments pass, and he now regretted his actions and his words.

“Do you condone murder, then, Don Jaime?” he’d asked his host. “Do you think that the three thousand deaths as a result of the strikes were justified? Do you think the summary executions that followed them were a positive indication to the rest of Europe that we are ready to take our place in the modern era?”

“Don’t you get on your high horse with me, Ernesto Martinéz!”

“I’m not finished,’ Ernesto remembered saying, cutting the man off. “I for one believe that it’s time for us to move towards Europe. We are no longer Moors and gypsies. We should be striving to become a modern and profitable nation, and we must enter Europe as such, looking forward, not back. Or do you really believe that you can hold on to a way of life that has died a death a thousand times?”

“Ernesto, I’m glad your father is not alive to hear your treachery! You’re a disgrace to your class, an upstart. You always have been; why, you even married a foreigner!”

While Don Jaime was speaking, a hush had settled down the long table. Small pockets of conversation flagged and faded away, and all eyes were turned to Ernesto, who stared passively at his host without a hint of emotion.

“Please leave my wife out of this conversation,” he said.

He was still angry now. Don Jaime’s ludicrous statement had been like a knife in his back. His dislike of the man had grown over the years, and he expected the jibes about political misunderstandings, but Celia’s heritage? No, that was unacceptable. He should have shut up then. He admitted that now, remembering his damaging outburst.

“My wife has nothing to do with this discussion, a discussion that’s beginning to leave a sour, bitter taste in my mouth. You accuse me of treason! I’m not the one hell-bent on breaking the backbone of our country. The workers of Spain are Spain, and without them Spain is nothing! You look as though you enjoyed your
chuletón
, your blood-red beef that will fatten your already overindulged belly. Would it surprise you to learn that that some of the workers who went on strike, who were shot without mercy, and some of the peasants on your own land have never eaten beef more than a couple of times in their pitiful lives. We were known as the former granary of the great Roman Empire; now look at us! We have the lowest agricultural productivity rate in Europe, all because you and men like you sit in your ivory towers watching your peasants crawl on their bellies, too weak from malnutrition to walk! My God, are we to be known as a nation of slaves? You, sir, are a parasite!”

Don Jaime’s other guests had cringed in their seats. Their host’s face had turned a shade of purple, with blood vessels ready to burst all over his bloodied meat.

“How dare you, you impudent bastard!” Don Jaime had screamed back. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t you dare patronise me! The peasants are starving because they’re stupid, for no other reason. We are the masters because we have the intelligence they lack. If you don’t understand this, you are as stupid as they are and don’t deserve the life that was handed down to you by your ancestors who died for the Spanish empire. Your son Miguel is more of a man than you are!”

At the time, Ernesto had wanted to bang the pompous ass’s head against the putrid lime-green brick wall, but he was a guest in Don Jaime’s house, and he’d been determined all evening not to lose his temper. He stood up and looked at the faces of the other guests. Most kept their heads down, afraid of becoming embroiled in the argument. The mild-mannered Don Alberto and his son shot him consolatory, apologetic glances that lasted but a fleeting second. None of them would upset their powerful host that night—no one but him. He’d been forced to leave the party in a state of public disgrace.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Don Jaime,” Ernesto had said as politely as possible. “But I think it’s time for me to leave. It’s quite clear that we do not share the same opinions, and for the sake of the friendship you had with my father, I’ll say no more.”

“Damn right you won’t,” Don Jaime had spat with such venom that even his other guests had been visibly shocked. “I am a loyal servant of Spain, whereas you have shown us all that your only loyalty is with Russia. I don’t care for traitors in my house. You won’t be invited again!”

When he’d reached the door, Ernesto had smiled and bowed to the other guests, who’d declined to stand, a lack of protocol that was designed to insult him. He’d promised to say no more, but he couldn’t help himself. Don Jaime had crossed the line of decency.

“Before I leave, gentlemen,” he’d said quietly but with a dangerous tone in his voice, “I feel I must warn you that unless you open your eyes and your hearts to the lower classes, your way of life will be taken from you by force. You will be left to eat the same grass that they have eaten for centuries. This might be news to you all, but the poor are no longer prepared to wait patiently and no longer willing to listen to the Church telling them to. The stupid peasants, as you called them, are going to become our worst nightmare, and God help us all when they take their revenge.”

Yes, God and his Church. Ernesto hissedbefore putting his glass to his lips. The Church was the reason for this meal tonight. His daughter, Marta, was leaving them to become a nun and was going to enter a convent forty kilometres away. The distance was not important of course; no, the great distance would be one that could not be reached by any manner of transport. Marta was going to a closed order, where no words were spoken, no laughter was heard, and few nuns ever left before death. The Catholic Church, with all its hypocrisy, was stealing his child, and it would never give her back!

For as long as he could remember, the Spanish Church had held a power over the country, and in a way, it was even more powerful than a king or government. It governed itself and answered to no man. Its great wealth was a constant reminder and insult to the country’s peasants, who were told in Mass every Sunday to accept their poverty. Even the middle class was repressed in some way or another. The Church’s biggest fear was that children would be educated to a standard deemed unnecessary by the Church, for in their eyes, educated children could discover a way of life that would alienate the Church.

Ernesto scoffed at the way nuns ruled the classrooms, refusing the average child the right to learn reading and writing and instead doing little more than reciting the catechisms. It was no wonder, he thought, that the literacy rate was so low. He’d never regretted his refusal to send any of his children to such schools. They’d all been privately tutored at home, just as he and his sisters had been, although it still hadn’t stopped Marta’s determination to join the Church’s ranks.

Ernesto knew that the Church would fight tooth and nail to retain its power over the people. They ruled by fear and by miracles when it suited them, ensuring that ignorant peasants would always rely and cling to its teaching, for they knew nothing else. However, times were changing and so were the Spanish people.

He’d never been a great follower of the Church himself, but the institution had undoubtedly brainwashed his youngest child, though he’d fought hard to keep her from its grasp. Marta, his sweet Marta, had won the day. She would leave them forever at first light tomorrow, and he’d curse the Church until the day he died.

Ernesto and Celia had discussed their daughter’s decision at length. Celia had given in more easily to Marta’s wishes, telling her husband that she would never go through with it, and that even if she did, they would undoubtedly win her back after a week or so. He hadn’t been so convinced, and Celia’s easy acceptance disturbed him.

He’d accepted long ago that his wife’s journals were sacred. In them, she bore her heart and soul, keeping most every secret thought from him. Ever since 1913, she’d been consistent in her written accounts of the passing of time. Her journals were a true and honest testimony to her life, and maybe her unwillingness to share her feelings was a result of her marriage to Joseph Dobbs, he’d often thought, but he had learned to accept that her most intimate thoughts were locked inside her journals and not with him.

Ernesto admitted now that he had not been honest with Celia either, but in his defence, it was because he didn’t want to tell her the full measure of his objections, for she would only worry herself to the point of distraction. He believed that he had grounds to worry, for if the republicans, communists, or even the Popular Front movement gathered any more support for their hatred of the Catholic bishops, they would take their revenge on all churches and clergy, including nuns in a closed order.

Ernesto looked at the most recent photograph of Marta. Marta, sweet-tempered, ideological, and full of love for God, would never sustain an argument. He would speak to her after dinner, not during, as he had promised not to. He would give her all the reasons why she shouldn’t join the ranks of the Almighty, and by the time he had finished with her, she would have her small measly bag unpacked, with her belongings back in the cupboard where they belonged!

Marta’s childhood days had mirrored those of María’s. They cycled together and rode their horses with the same spirit and courage. They were educated in languages, literature, and the arts; and he never once tried to hide the Church from them or speak ill of its policies. He had encouraged both of them to attend Mass on Sundays and to read the catechism, but as Marta grew, that was all she really wanted to do, and the only place she felt at home was inside the chapel. She had never once deviated from her plan to be a nun. On the contrary, he believed that her determination had been strengthened during her teenage years because of her Aunt Rosa’s urgings and fanaticism. Damn the woman, he thought now. He could only hope that a real miracle would happen tonight and that Marta would one day realise that being a wife to Jesus Christ was not worth giving up her young life for. After all, she could still be the same sweet, darling girl with her prayers and holy sacrifices without having to live in the house of God, couldn’t she?

He stood at the mirror in the hallway and fixed his tie in place. He could hear the voices of his family already seated at the table in the next room. Celia was there. Her laughter was like the sweet sound of tinkling bells. His heart swelled; it was impossible for him to imagine life without her. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he thanked God for her every day. She had grown even more beautiful with the passing of the years and had a wonderful, positive outlook in life, which at times had given him strength and hope, especially during the dark days after the Great War.

In 1919, she had returned to Merrill Farm and then come back home to him with a new sense of peace. Her ghosts had been exorcised, and her nightmares ceased. He had been afraid at the time that she would not want to return to Spain, that she would realise how much she missed England, but that wasn’t the case. If anything, it had reinforced her love for her adopted country.

He stretched out his hand slowly towards the door handle but then withdrew it sharply; he couldn’t face his family yet. He could hear Aunt Marie’s voice admonishing Celia for something or other. Pedro was teasing Marta, and he smiled at her nervous giggle. He heard Rosa’s voice too and wished she’d stayed in her room, as she was not welcome at his table tonight. This was all her doing, and he’d make damned sure she knew about his true feelings after Marta left them! Only María’s voice was missing. Where was his errant daughter?

Ernesto paced up and down the hall, waiting for the last member of the family to arrive. He would wait five more minutes, and then he’d go in, and as for María, well, he’d have a word or two with her later. He smiled and shook his head.

María was a paradox. She was a spirited and determined young woman who could be both enchanting and mischievous at the same time. She definitely took after him. She loved everything about the world of agriculture and like him was up at dawn during picking season, working as hard as the rest of them. She could wrap him around her little finger, and he’d found it almost impossible to chastise her, ever! From a very early age, she’d ridden with him through the groves, just as her mother had done when she first arrived in Spain. Her love of nature had grown over the years, and now her only ambition in life was to protect and care for the land that had raised her. She was devoted to that idea just as much as Marta was devoted to the Church. She had no plans to leave La Glorieta, so she kept telling him, and he had already decided that she would be the one to take over the running of the estate one day.