by Hilary Wilde
`I trust we have not shortened your siesta, Magdalena,' Juan del Riego said sarcastically.
Magdalena Dominguez looked at him. Penny shivered, for she had never seen such hatred in anyone's eyes before. Magdalena spoke in Spanish and then Juan del Riego introduced them to one another.
`This is Miss Penelope Trecannon.'
Señora Magdalena Dominguez bowed slightly. 'How do you do.'
`You can speak English?' Penny said impulsively, so relieved was she that someone else on the island could speak English as well as Michael Trent.
`I was well educated,' Señora Dominguez said stiffly. ' I can speak the language, though I dislike it. You speak Spanish? A little,
perhaps?'
Juan del Riego spoke before Penny could. `She knows no Spanish at all. I had to find someone like her, as it is the only way. Now the children will have to learn, and they will do so more quickly if Miss Trecannon is unable to speak their language.'
`You think they will? You were always an optimist,' Señora Dominguez said sarcastically. `Now, I suggest you allow me to have a short talk with Miss Trecannon, but I have no doubt she would like to rest. I think it would be best for her to meet the children in the morning.'
`A good idea for once,' he said briskly, and drew up a chair for Penny. 'I will see you also in the morning and introduce you to the children.' Then he turned to Señora Dominguez and smiled: 'I may be an optimist, but I usually get what I desire.'
`Usually, but not always,' Magdalena Dominguez said.
His face clouded for a moment, but then he smiled. 'How many of us get everything we want? It is, maybe, not good always to get what one wants.'
Penny shivered—this sort of hatred was something she had never met before. It was almost a relief when Juan del Riego went out of the room, yet, at the same time, she felt she was being deserted, left to face a danger she had never known before. Perhaps she was being melodramatic, as her father would have
said, yet she felt uncomfortable, ill at ease, even a little worried as to what would happen next.
It proved completely different from what she had expected, Penny was thinking half an hour later as she followed a tall sullen maid up the back flight of stairs and along the corridor. Maria was a tall elderly woman in a long dark dress and a starched white apron and a small cap perched perilously on top of her black hair. She hardly looked at Penny as she led the way.
It was a strange house—long corridors with uneven floors so that here and there were steps, down which, if you were not careful, you could fall easily. Baize-covered doors had to be opened and always they closed with a click. It was quite a relief when she was shown into her bedroom, where her luggage was waiting for her, and the maid took her to see the bathroom and left her.
Everything was quiet. Uncannily quiet, Penny thought, as she unpacked and put her clothes away before having a bath. As she lay in the delightfully hot water, the sun blazing through the open window, she thought of the past half hour when she had talked with Señora Dominguez.
At first she had asked questions about Penny's education, training and experience. Also how she had met Juan del Riego—and how had she got the job? She did not seem
impressed by Penny's answers, in fact she admitted she could not understand why Penny, with no experience of teaching children, should get such a job.
But I am not supposed to teach anything, Señora,' Penny had said. 'Only to speak English to them.'
It was then Magdalena who talked— bitterly, angrily, even desperately. The strange things she had said, the accusations she had made. Was it possible that they were true? That Juan del Riego . . .
Penny got out of the bath and dried herself, putting on a white dress with a skirt that reached her knees. It was absurd—but then if the family were going to be so difficult, maybe Serior Juan was right and she should do as the Romans do. She sat in her bedroom, wondering what she was supposed to do next. She was sure she would get hopelessly lost in the winding corridors and end up somewhere she shouldn't! Where was she supposed to go to eat? Definitely not with the Señora Dominguez—she was far too posh to dine with a young governess—for that was what she insisted on calling Penny. Penny went to the window and some of her depression lifted as she gazed at the beauty before her. Sunset was coming and the sky changing colour—deep pinks, palest blue with a streak of green, and the red sun slowly dropping out of sight. The house was so high up on the plateau that she
could see the waterfalls and the small coves, half hidden by the palm trees.
Again she wondered what to do. Was she expected downstairs—yet Señora Dominguez had said: 'I will see you in the morning.' Surely that was answer enough?
A better answer came later when her dinner was brought in on a tray. Afterwards Penny went to bed reading a paperback she had brought with her, trying not to think of her father or wishing he could come into her room to say goodnight just as he had always done.
In the morning, breakfast came on a tray, so Penny ate it quickly, washed, and brushed her long red hair back, tying it loosely with a green ribbon. She put on a very little make-up, certainly nothing like she would have used in England.
Then she hesitated . . . should she go and try and find the Señora? Luckily the maid came and Penny followed her along the winding corridors and nearly stumbled several times as she failed to notice the steps and at last a door was opened and the maid stood back with a little bob but avoiding looking at Penny.
Penny gasped as she looked at the room. It was the kind you saw when conducted round an English stately home—huge paintings on the walls—an enormous bed with four poles and a decorated roof, with curtains hung down, half drawn round the four-poster. Señora Dominguez smiled.
`Come in. I trust you slept well.'
`Very well, thank you.'
How different the Señora looked! Her skin was sallow, her eyes had dark shadows under them, her hair was tied up in little ringlets by white ribbons.
`I am glad. A good night's rest is essential. Children are not easy to control—and definitely harder when you cannot speak their language. I am afraid you will find it very difficult.'
`I'll do my best,' said Penny, knowing that what had been said was true. It wasn't going to be easy at all.
The door opened and Penny turned quickly. Three children came in slowly, almost reluctantly. Their faces were pale and their eyes wide with what looked like fear.
Señora Dominguez held out her arms. `Come to me, my darling children,' she said, then laughed. 'How can they understand?' she said to Penny, and spoke to them in Spanish.
The children stood huddled together at the door, and as their mother spoke, they moved forward slowly. The eldest was a girl— surprisingly blonde, for the others were so dark—she seemed to stand out with her honey-coloured hair and blue eyes. She guided the toddler, who began to scream so that the girl had to lift him to carry him to the bedside. The other child, a girl, was dark-haired.
The door opened again and this time it was
Juan del Riego and he spoke angrily:
said I would introduce her to the children!' He looked at the children and spoke in Spanish, and the children turned to him eagerly. He took the hands of the toddler and small girl and, ignoring Magdalena, spoke to the older girl and led the way out of the room.
He took them to the nursery, a big room with what were obviously new toys. A rocking horse—dolls, a doll's house . . . all the toys a child needs but that had only recently been given them, Penny noted as she saw the newness of them all. Was that Juan del Riego's doing? The way the Señora had spoken of him . . . she shivered as she remembered.
The eldest child leaned against him as he sat down, the toddler on his knees. 'This is Catalina, seven years old. She is a clever little girl, but at times she seems to retreat into herself as if frightened. The small girl is Techa. She is five and can be very tiresome, gets frightened easily and just screams. This toddler . . .' Juan del Riego went on, patting the toddler's h
ead, 'is Abilio, not quite two and also easily scared.'
He spoke to the children next, in Spanish. Penny watched their faces. She saw the fear on Techa's face, the temper in little Abilio's as he struggled to get off his uncle's lap. Catalina's face was absolutely blank as she listened, her eyes fixed on the floor.
As Juan del Riego stopped, Catalina asked
a question in Spanish.
`She wants to know your name. "Miss Trecannon" isn't going to be easy to say.'
`I'd like them to call me Penny. After all, I'm going to be a friend, not a teacher.'
`Penny . . .' he said the word slowly, turning it round in his mouth as he repeated it: `Penny,' making it sound like something revolting. 'It is a name without dignity. How can a child respect you when he calls you that?'
She felt her cheeks going hot. 'No one has ever said that to me before. I like the word Penny, far better than Penelope. They wouldn't be able to say that, I'm sure.'
`Let us think. Señorita ... ? no, I wish them to go away from any Spanish. Miss . . . ? they could call you Miss.'
`I'd hate it,' Penny said quickly. 'Miss . . . ! I want to be their friend, Señor del Riego,' she said, thinking it sounded rather pompous, since she rarely called him by name.
`Penny,' he repeated, looking amused. 'Have you always been called that?'
`Yes, always. And why not? Mother's grandmother was called Penelope and she was thrilled when I was born, so my mother decided to call me Penelope, but when the doctor saw me after I was born—I was a funny little thing—he said what a name for the poor child, so they always called me Penny. I can't see anything wrong in it,' she finished, irritated
by his amused smile.
`There is nothing wrong. No, I agree. It is all right for a schoolgirl or a child, but a young lady . . .' The way he said the last two words was, to Penny, an insult, but she realised they could go on like this for ever, getting nowhere, and making the children stare at them as if puzzled and definitely frightened. So she turned to the eldest child and held out her hand. 'Catalina, I am Penny. Pen-nee . . .'
A little smile raced over the child's face. `Pen . . . nee,' she repeated, and giggled. 'Pen-nee . . . Pen-nee.'
Juan del Riego smiled. 'I am afraid her mother will not approve. She will say it is impertinence for one so young to speak to . . .'
`One so old in such a way,' Penny finished for him. 'Look, I want to be friends with them, to be someone to play with, not someone strict and cross, and . . . and . . . and I want to do away with the generation gap. They look so scared, poor little things, and I don't want them to be scared of me.' She paused, but he did not speak, merely looked at her with those strange questioning eyes of his, so she went on: `It isn't going to be easy for me, as you keep telling me. I can see just how hard it will be, as the children are scared to death. Somehow I've got to break that down. An easy word like "Penny" is a much better start.'
`You have a point there,' he said slowly. `You have come prepared, I take it? You have
some method?'
`Yes. A friend of mine is a teacher. She told me what to do. I've brought pictures and crayons . . .'
`That is good.' Señor del Riego stood up, putting the small boy on the ground. 'I can see you have everything planned.' He looked round the large nursery. 'Lunch will be served in here. If you have trouble with the children, tell Jose to fetch me. I am having a part of the garden wired off for the children, also a sandpit and small swimming pool. You can, of course, swim?'
`Of course,' Penny said with a smile. So she had won for once! And the children could call her Penny. 'They've got some lovely toys—all new.' There was a question in her voice and he nodded.
`Yes. I remember when I was very young and my mother bought me a rocking-horse. I was so happy. Maybe that was why I was so interested in horses. My cousin Pedro was too ill to understand the children's needs. Their mother did not care.'
`But you care,' Penny said, her voice soft.
He looked startled. 'Of course I care,' he said crossly, and made his way to the door. `Good luck, Penny. You'll need it,' he added with a strange smile as he closed the door and she was left alone with the children.
Smiling at them, not sure how to begin, she remembered the way Señora Magdalena
Dominguez had spoken the day before: 'My husband loved me so much. Juan, he was jealous. He had never liked me. My Pedro, it could never have been his wish that Juan should be a guardian of the children, for I am here, young, healthy, and their mother. Juan is a bachelor. What can he know of a child? Nor would Pedro, had he been in good health, leave the management of Vallora in Juan's hands. Pedro was like me. He loved the island as it is. Juan is not a Spaniard. He does not understand. He is cruel and callous. He has no warmth. He has never married, but he has broken many hearts. He could not care. All he thinks of is money. Though he has so much money, he wants more. I can only think that when my poor Pedro was so ill, Juan made him sign some papers and Pedro knew not what they were. I am afraid for the future. He will make the children confused. How can they go to an English school . . . and leave me?' Her voice had trailed away sadly as she touched her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. 'My own children—not his . . .'
The door opened suddenly, startling Penny. She looked up and it was Juan del Riego himself, staring at her.
`You are lost in a fantasy world,' he said. 'I waited to hear you speak to the children, but you have said not one word. Why is it? Are you dreaming of Michael?'
`Michael?' Penny shook her head so that her
long red hair swung.
`Michael Trent. You . .
`Oh, Michael Trent. The one I met on the plane?' Penny laughed: 'No, I wasn't thinking of him. Actually—' she looked at him defiantly, 'I was thinking of you.'
`Of me?' He sounded amused. He leaned against the door, folding his arms. 'I am flattered. And what exactly do you think of me?' She hesitated and he smiled. 'I want only the truth.'
`Well, I was wondering why . . .' She drew a long deep breath and faced him. He might be used to throwing his weight around, having people bow and do what he told them, but he wasn't going to bully her. 'I wondered why, if you have a lovely home in South America and . . . and lots of money, why did you come here, giving up everything just for . .
`Money?' He nodded. 'I can see the once beautiful Magdalena has been talking to you. Of course you believed her. She is an excellent actress. I came because Pedro begged me to do so. He loved his children and was afraid for their future. He wished to sell the lease of the island, to take them away from this narrow bitter world. Long ago he wished to do this, but Magdalena objected and he was too weak with illness to fight her. He told me in his will that if the finances of the island prove to be as bad as he feared—he believed there is what is known as hanky-panky going on—then I am to
sell the lease. That is why I hired Michael Trent. Magdalena is happy here and she has other plans. Plans that I will fight in order to help these children.' His face was dark with anger, his eyes sparkling, his thick brows drawn together.
Penny looked at the children. They were all staring at him, but some of their fear seemed to have gone. Was he in the habit of losing his temper and were they so used to it, they were not afraid?
He turned and opened the door. 'I would have thought you had more sense than to believe what she told you—surely you should wait and discover the truth for yourself,' he said as he left the room.
CHAPTER FOUR
As the door closed, Penny was suddenly conscious of a desire to run after the Señor and tell him she knew it was no good —that when children look so frightened of you, what hope have you of making friends?
Not sure how to start, she wandered round the big white-walled nursery, stroking the rocking-horse, peeping into the dolls' house that looked as if no one had ever played with it, cuddling one of the dolls.
The children had not moved. Catalina's arm was round her small brother, little Techa was pale and her eyes were fille
d with fear. Penny sat down and smiled at them. She pointed her finger to herself.
`Pen-nee . . .' she said slowly. 'Pen-nee.' Then she pointed her finger at the little boy. `You are Abilio.' She turned to Techa, pointing to her with a smile. 'Techa. Then . . .' she began, turning towards Catalina, but Techa was suddenly screaming at the top of her voice and so was Abilio. As their shrill frightened screams burst out, the door was flung open and two Spanish women hurried into the room, almost as if they had been waiting outside for this to happen. One was obviously a nanny, in a dark blue dress that nearly reached her ankles and a white starched apron
and cap—the other a governess in a demurely grey suit who took Techa in her arms while the nanny took Abilio.
Both women looked angrily at Penny and spoke loudly, crossly, but in Spanish. Then they turned and hurried out of the room, slamming the door.
Penny didn't know what to do. She couldn't just let the children go like that—in any case, Catalina was with her, so Penny turned to the young girl.
`I wish I could speak Spanish, Catalina,' she said, suddenly near tears. How was she going to teach them to speak English when they were so frightened? 'Catalina . . .' Penny said very quietly. 'This is table . . . to-bull . . .' she repeated slowly, touching the table in the middle of the room.
The small blonde-haired girl touched the table. 'Tay-bull . . .' she echoed.
Penny smiled and nodded. 'Good. Table . . . table . . . table,' she sang.
A smile flickered across the little girl's stony face and Catalina nodded, also singing, 'Tay-bull . . . taybull . . .'
The door opened and Señora Dominguez stood there. 'What is happening, Miss Trecannon?' she asked, her voice impatient. 'I thought you were to teach all the children, not only Catalina.'
