The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (29 page)

“Don’t worry about a thing, Marie, dear. I’ll see to everything,” Simon told her. “I’ll make sure that the finances are in order. Tom’s eldest son, John, has agreed to manage the farm until Celia decides what she wants to do with it. Tom is taking on Dick Simmons from the village to replace him, and I’ve agreed to pay his wages for the next six months or until we find out what Celia wants. And as for John, she’ll be absolutely delighted to find out that she has a cousin! So you see, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Except that Joseph might be stupid enough to turn up at some point. I’m sorry, Simon, but my mind is made up. I’ll write to Celia now and tell her that I’ll see her after Christmas, just as we planned. I’ll also tell her that everything is being taken care of and that Joseph is in prison awaiting trial. That’s all she needs to know right now. Simon, please don’t look at me like that! If you knew Celia as well as I do, you’d know that deep down she doesn’t really want to know all the ins and outs of the matter. Just knowing that Joseph is arrested will be enough to put her mind at rest, and a peaceful mind is all she needs right now.”

“But what peace can she have?” Simon asked her.

Marie sighed; he was not listening.

“The peace of not knowing means not having to decide anything. Heavens above, Simon, but sometimes I think you don’t know women at all!”

He smiled, and she smiled back. They sat for a while, watching the rain tap against the window, both of them engrossed in their own thoughts. Simon closed his eyes and rested his head against a cushion on the sofa.

“So Celia is not a widow after all,” he said sleepily. “I’d better begin divorce proceedings again.”

Marie stumbled to the window and pressed her forehead on the glass pane. She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to face Simon, who was beginning to doze off.

“Oh, God, what have I done?”

He opened his eyes just in time to see her slump into an armchair as though her legs wouldn’t hold her.

“The night before Joseph’s execution, I destroyed the divorce papers. All of them!”

Chapter 28

I
t was almost Christmas, and the mountain peaks behind La Glorieta were white with a recent flurry of snow. The days remained dry and sunny, but at night it was cold, with a dampness that seemed to penetrate the skin and reach right into the bones. Alone in her room, Celia sat facing the window that looked out over those snowy mountains and smiled with contentment. She opened her journal and turned to a blank page. She hadn’t written for five days. Long busy days and late nights had left her far too sleepy to take the time to recall her adventures.

21
December
1913

It
was
colder
than
usual
today
on
our
journey
back,
but
I
wrapped
up
warm
in
the
carriage
and
was
so
full
of
delightful
memories
of
Valencia
that
I
hardly
noticed
the
biting
chill
in
my
bones.
Ernesto
has
not
been
home
very
often
of
late,
so
when
he
suggested
an
excursion
to
Valencia,
I
found
my
tummy
fluttering
with
excitement.
Now
it
is
a
race
against
time
to
get
the
oranges
off
the
trees
before
the
winter
frost
kills
them,
and
Ernesto
has
been
up
at
the
crack
of
dawn,
overseeing
the
managers
who
are
responsible
for
the
transport
of
the
oranges
to
Valencia.
Rosa
told
me
the
other
day
that
most
of
the
other
landowners
don’t
even
bother
to
go
to
their
haciendas
during
the
picking
season.
She
said
that
they
prefer
to
stay
in
the
city
to
enjoy
the
continuous
round
of
parties
and
balls.
Apparently,
many
visit
their
land
only
once
a
year,
and
that’s
only
because
of
the
hunting
season,
not
because
they
want
to
work.
Ernesto
is
dedicated.
He
is
the
best
farmer
I
have
ever
known
—
apart
from
my
father.

I
have
been
reading
all
about
Spanish
current
affairs,
and
I’m
now
taking
an
interest
in
everything
that
is
going
on
in
this
part
of
Spain,
from
the
latest
agricultural
techniques
to
the
political
climate,
which
never
seems
to
be
completely
stable.
Mr
Rawlings
told
me
once
that
the
Spanish
race
was
both
passionate
and
prone
to
dramatise,
and
I
can
see
that
this
is
true
and
exhibited
in
the
way
the
newspapers
report
their
stories.
My
Spanish
lessons
are
going
well,
although
I
must
admit
that
it
is
my
close
friendship
with
Don
Miguel,
not
the
classroom,
that
has
taught
me
the
rudiments.

Today
after
dinner,
we
sat
in
front
of
his
fire
discussing
our
mutual
love
of
the
written
word.
He
devours
books,
and
I’m
sure
that
there
are
not
enough
of
them
in
the
world
to
satisfy
his
hunger.
I
must
write
to
Mr
Rawlings
and
beg
him
to
bring
a
pile
of
them
on
his
next
visit
to
Spain.
Now
I
must
talk
about
my
visit
to
Valencia;
I
have
saved
this
until
last.

Our
first
stop
was
the
fruit
and
vegetable
market,
just
recently
built.
Marta
and
Rosa
purchased
delicious
foods.
They
filled
baskets
with
nuts,
dates,
olives,
and
almond
nougats,
known
as
turrón.
I
thought
the
servant’s
arm
was
going
to
break
with
the
strain
of
it
all.
Afterwards,
we
went
our
separate
ways
in
order
to
buy
gifts
for
the
night
of
the
three
kings,
but
Ernesto
accompanied
me.
The
poor
man
had
been
nominated
to
show
me
the
best
of
Valencia’s
historical
buildings,
when
I’m
sure
he
had
better
things
to
do!

We
walked
through
the
old
cobbled
streets
and
into
the
ancient
market
squares
that
surround
the
cathedral.
Two
octagonal
towers,
the
spire
of
the
church
of
Santa
Catalina,
and
the
Miguelete
dominate
the
square,
and
Ernesto
told
me
that
the
buildings
dated
back
to
the
fourteenth
and
fifteenth
centuries.
Large
Gothic
mansions
that
house
the
clergy
were
on
the
outer
part
of
the
square.
They
were
impressive
buildings
in
a
style
that
I
had
never
seen
before,
and
the
great
detail
of
the
sculptures
on
the
outer
walls
was
truly
marvellous.
Inside
the
cathedral
itself,
there
were
small
crypts
and
private
chapels,
all
beautifully
decorated
with
gold
leaf
covings.
A
golden
chalice
sat
on
a
red
satin
cloth,
protected
behind
a
glass
case,
and
Ernesto
told
me
that
history
recorded
that
it
was
the
actual
chalice
that
Jesus
Christ
drank
from
at
the
Last
Supper.
A
pope
came
here
to
Valencia
two
hundred
years
ago
to
drink
from
it
and
to
bless
it.
I
don’t
know
if
I
believe
the
story
to
be
true
or
not,
but
Ernesto
does
with
all
his
heart.