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The Adriatic was not as richly blue, perhaps, as the Ionian, but then, it was not so tame. In summer, the Etesian breezes roused it. In autumn and winter, violent southerly gales drove themselves to furious frenzies, trying to tear the house apart. In vain. Though the crooked little structure seemed about to tumble to pieces at the next light breeze, it was as solid as the ledge upon which it stood, defying gales and blistering summer heat with equal aplomb.
The sea brought them fresh fish nearly all year round. A short distance from the ledge, Esme’s garden thrived in surprisingly fertile soil. It was the first she’d been able to tend for more than one season, and the most generous in supplying maize, alliums, and herbs. Even the chickens, in their own irritable way, were happy.
At the moment, Esme was not. She sat cross-legged upon the hard ledge, her eyes on her folded hands as she conversed with her very best friend, Donika, who was leaving the next day for Saranda, to be married.
“I shall never see you again,” Esme said gloomily. “Jason says we must go to England soon.”
“So Mama told me—but you’ll not leave before my wedding, surely?” Donika asked in alarm.
“I fear so.”
“Oh, no. You must ask him, please. Just another month.”
“I’ve asked already. It’s no use. He’s made a promise to my English aunt, who is dying.”
Donika sighed. “Then nothing can be done. A promise on a deathbed is sacred.”
“Is it? She held nothing sacred.” Esme hurled a stone into the water. “Twenty-four years ago she broke her betrothal vows to him. Why? Because one time he got drunk and made a foolish mistake—as any young man might. He played cards and lost a piece of land—that’s all. But she told him he was weak and base, and she wouldn’t marry him.”
“That was not kind. She should have forgiven him one mistake. I would.”
“She did not. But he’s forgiven her. Twice this year he’s gone to visit her. He tells me it was not her fault, but her parents’ doing.”
“A girl must obey her parents,” said Donika. “She can’t choose a husband for herself. Still, I don’t think they should have made her break a sacred vow.”
“It was worse than that,” Esme said angrily. “Not a year after she drove my father away, she wed his brother. She was of a noble family, and wealthy, and you’d think Jason’s family would have been appeased. They were quick enough to take her in, but rather they made her an outcast forever.”
“The English are very strange,” Donika said thoughtfully.
“They’re unnatural,” Esme returned. “Shall I tell you what my English grandfather wrote when he received the news of my birth? The words are burned in my heart. ‘It was not enough,’ he said in his hateful letter, ‘that you disgraced the Brentmor name with your reckless debauchery. It was not enough to gamble away your aunt’s property and break your mother’s heart. It was not enough to run away from your errors, instead of remaining, like a man, to make amends. No, you must compound our shame by joining the ranks of Turkish brigands, marrying one of these unspeakable barbarians, and infecting the world with yet another heathen savage.’”
Donika stared at her in horrified disbelief.
“In English, it sounds even worse,” Esme grimly assured her. “This is the family my father wishes to take me to.”
Donika pressed closer and placed a comforting arm about her friend’s thin shoulders. “It’s hard, I know,” she said, “but you belong to your father’s family—at least until you’re wed. Perhaps it won’t be for long. I’m sure your father will find you a husband in England. I’ve seen some Englishmen. Taller than the other Franks, and some quite handsome and strong.”
“Ah, yes, and I’m sure their kin are just dying to welcome an ugly little barbarian into the family.”
“You’re not ugly. Your hair is thick and healthy, filled with fire.” Donika smoothed the wavy dark red locks back from Esme’s forehead. “And your eyes are pretty. My mama said so, too. Beautiful, like evergreens, she said. Also, your skin is smooth,” she added, lightly touching Esme’s cheek.
“I have no breasts,” Esme said glumly. “And my legs and arms are like sticks for kindling.”
“Mama says it doesn’t matter if a girl’s skinny, so long as she’s strong. She was skinny, too, yet she bore seven healthy children.”
“I don’t want to bear children to a foreigner,” Esme snapped. “I don’t want to climb into bed with a man who can’t speak my language, and raise children who’ll never learn it.”
“In bed, you won’t need to converse with him,” Donika said with a giggle.
Esme threw her a reproving look. “I should never have told you what Jason said about how babies are made.”
“I’m glad you did. Now I’m not at all frightened. It doesn’t sound very difficult—though perhaps embarrassing at first.”
“It’s also rather painful at first, I think,” Esme said, momentarily distracted by the titillating subject. “But I’ve been shot twice already, and it can’t be worse than having a bullet dug out of your flesh.”
Donika threw her an admiring glance. “You’re not afraid of anything, little warrior. If you can face marauding bandits, you should have no trouble with even your English kin. Still, I’ll miss you so much. If only your father had found you a husband here.” She looked toward the sea and sighed.
“As well wish to find a mountain of diamonds. The fact is, I make a far better boy than a girl, and a better soldier than a wife. A man must be very old and very desperate to want me, when he could have a plump, pretty, docile wife for the same price.”
Donika tossed a stone into the water. “They say Ismal wants you,” she said after a moment. “He isn’t old or desperate, but young and very rich.”
“And a Moslem. I’d rather be boiled in oil than imprisoned in a harem,” Esme said firmly. “Even England, with relatives who hate me, would be better than that.” She considered briefly, then added, “I never told you before, but I was afraid once that it would happen.”
Donika turned to her.
“When I was fourteen, visiting my grandmother in Gjirokastra,” Esme continued, “Ismal and his family were there. He chased me through the garden. I thought it was a game, but—” She paused, flushing.
“But what? But what?”
Though there was no one else about to hear, Esme lowered her voice. “When he caught me, he kissed me on the mouth.”
“Truly?”
Esme shook her head from side to side in the Albanian affirmative.
“What was it like?” Donika asked eagerly. “He’s so handsome, like a prince. Beautiful golden hair, and eyes like blue jewels—”
“It was wet,” Esme interrupted. “I didn’t like it at all. I knocked him down and wiped my mouth and cursed him soundly.” She looked at her friend. “And he just lay there on the ground and laughed. I thought he was crazy, and I was so afraid his grandfather would make an offer for me and I would have to marry this crazy boy with his wet mouth and live in his harem…but nothing happened. Or if it did, Jason must have said no.”
Donika laughed. “I can’t believe this. You knocked down the cousin of Ali Pasha? You could have been executed.”
“What would you have done?” Esme demanded.
“Screamed for help, of course. But it would never occur to you to call for help. You don’t just think you’re a warrior. You think you’re a whole army.”
Esme turned her gaze to the sea. Any day now it would carry her far away from all she knew and loved…forever.
“My father is no unwanted suitor, no enemy,” she said quietly. “I can’t fight him. When at last he confessed he was homesick, I felt so ashamed for arguing with him. I’ve complained to you, only to unburden myself, but you mustn’t mind it. I know what I must do. He won’t leave without me, and I love him too much to try to make him stay. I’ll make the best of it, for his sake.”
“It won’t be so bad,” Donika comforted. “You’ll be homes
ick at first, but once you’re wed, with babies of your own, think how happy you’ll be. Think how rich and full your life will be.”
Her gaze upon the pitiless sea, Esme saw only emptiness ahead. But her friend was, miraculously, in love with the man her family had chosen for her. No more self-pity, Esme resolved. No more gloom. This was Donika’s happy time, and it was unkind to spoil it.
“So it will,” Esme said with a laugh. “And I shall teach my babies Albanian, in secret.”
Otranto
