Читать книгу A Forbidden Love: An atmospheric historical romance you don't want to miss! - Kerry Postle - Страница 16

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.

This wasn’t love.

She’d gone out to meet Paloma earlier in the day. They’d sat under their olive tree, played their game. But Paloma too had been preoccupied. The heavens were raining down upon her mother up on the estate, thanks to Don Felipe and Dona Sofίa, and something had happened to Lola which she didn’t want to talk about. The future, Maria could see, was not looking bright for Paloma. But her own had also lost its lustre. The thought that she might have to spend the rest of her life with Richard Johnson had turned her winged sandals to stone filled boots. The girls brooded, too ill at ease to let limbs interlace and hopes soar.

They said goodbye and went home, both deep in thought. Dark clouds of their own making were gathering on the horizon for both of them. Little did they realise that these would soon seem as refreshing as summer rain when the real storm broke out.