Duarte's Child

‘A…show-off?’ Emily’s own misconceptions about Izabel were sunk into final obscurity by that almost wry label.

‘Izabel craved attention and publicity. No matter what it took, she had to be noticed and admired. She was the ultimate party girl.’

‘Couldn’t you persuade her to accept professional help?’

‘Four times in three years she was rushed into hospital with overdoses. Neither the doctors, nor I, nor even her mother could talk her into entering a rehabilitation clinic or even considering a treatment plan. Mentally, she went downhill fast—but addicts have a distorted grip on reality—’

‘Surely other people must’ve realised she was taking drugs?’

‘When she did anything crazy, her friends would cover up for her because they had the same habits to protect and conceal. She had her own money, dealers in every port of call and any relationship we had fell apart within months. My sister Elena died because I was unable to control Izabel.’

Duarte’s restive hands moved in a small silent motion that just screamed guilt and more pain than Emily had ever witnessed in another human being.

‘I don’t believe that. I don’t believe it was your fault!’ Emily protested fiercely.

‘When I was abroad, Elena would try to watch over Izabel, for Victorine was quite unequal to the task. My twin made the fatal mistake of getting into Izabel’s car and letting her drive. The car went off the road at the most phenomenal speed…’ he completed thickly.

‘Please don’t think of this or talk about it any more,’ Emily begged, humbled by the agony he could not hide and appalled by what she had learnt. She was devastated that he had contrived to bury what could only have been a three-year-long nightmare behind that formidable reserve of his.

‘Not exactly a story calculated to put either of us in a party mood,’ Duarte remarked broodingly.

‘If you would like to put her pictures back up, you can,’ Emily mumbled, that being the biggest sacrifice and apology she could conceive at that particular moment.

Duarte dealt her a look of sheer bewilderment.

‘I feel sad for Izabel and you now. Poor Victorine too…all those pathetic tales she fed me about her perfect daughter and I can even understand why she did it now—’

‘An alarming inability to deal with reality?’ Duarte suggested.

‘No, she wanted to remember Izabel as she might have been without the drug abuse—remember the good things, not the bad. Maybe you would feel better if you copied her a little…’ Emily muttered awkwardly.

‘There were no good things,’ Duarte grated with sudden savage impatience. ‘Why do you think I married you?’

‘I’m not sure I want to know, in the mood you’re in,’ Emily said gently.

But Duarte was determined to tell her. ‘After Izabel, I swore that no woman would ever have that kind of power over me again,’ he breathed with stark bitterness.

Oh, well, that was really not news, Emily reflected, understanding that he was in an explosively emotional frame of mind after finally rising to the demeaning brink of admitting that his first marriage had been a disaster. Perhaps he might eventually reach the healthy point of wondering why his second marriage had run into rough waters as well.

For Emily could now see that she had paid the price for the amount of pain, humiliation and disillusionment that the self-destructive Izabel had inflicted on Duarte. Once bitten, forever shy. She also understood there was much that he’d not said, for she could read between the lines. He had really loved Izabel because he had not given up on her. How many times had he struggled to help Izabel and had his efforts thrown back in his face?

Somewhat put out by Emily’s stoic and seemingly unresponsive silence, Duarte drove a not quite steady hand through his black luxuriant hair. Baulked of a further outlet, he said bossily, ‘You should be getting ready for the party.’

And display body parts she much preferred to conceal beneath long skirts and sleeves and loose tops that hinted at more than she possessed. Like a lamb to the slaughter, she gathered up his gifts and went for a shower to freshen up.

When it crossed her mind that if she wore her hair down with that brief dress and low heels, she might look like she was mostly hair and vertically challenged, she decided to put her mane of red-gold hair up instead. Show off her neck. Why not? All else was going to be bared. Having donned the dress, an hour later, there was no temptation for her to examine her reflection in the mirror.

As she came downstairs she noticed that some gifted person had worked wonders with the floral disarrangement she’d abandoned earlier. Duarte strode out of one of the ground-floor reception rooms. Clad in a well-cut dinner jacket, he looked devastatingly male. Her heart skipped a beat but now there was a kernel of resentment.