The Velvet Touch

by Margery Hilton

  'Of course not.' Laurel turned away, hoping her voice was not giving away the truth. Suddenly a shaft of wisdom made her attack. 'What would you say if I told you he wanted a full account of how you and Carlota have behaved yourselves?'

  The grin vanished from Yvonne's face. 'He didn't!' A ghost of the grin reappeared. 'He wouldn't waste long-distance call time on that when he could ask the questions in person tomorrow.'

  Laurel repressed a sigh. 'He probably will.'

  'So what?' Yvonne looked unabashed. 'We're not worried.'

  'So it seems. Tell me,' Laurel frowned, 'how was Carlota so sure that he wouldn't change his plans and land home in time to find you both missing? I mean, it doesn't matter so much about you, but I understood that Carlota's stay here is in the nature of a punishment visit,' she added dryly.

  Yvonne's eyes took on a knowing look. 'She knew he would wait for her Aunt Costenza, who lives here, though we haven't met her yet. And Carlota saw her aunt before she left Spain and her aunt said she was going to some special concert on the eighteenth—that's today—so they couldn't leave before tomorrow.'

  'I see.' Laurel frowned again, aware of a niggle of puzzlement. 'But I still don't see how she expects to keep any secrets from him. Somebody, one of the servants or someone in the village even, is bound to mention it, even if unintentionally. And I have a feeling he'll be furious.'

  Yvonne shrugged. 'Carlota isn't worried, even if he does. She's not afraid of him.'

  'Isn't she?'

  'Why should she be?' Yvonne exclaimed with a hint of scorn for what she obviously considered naiveté on the part of Laurel. 'Didn't you know? She's an heiress. She's got a fortune coming to her.'

  'Yes, I did know.' Laurel bit her lip, aware of some-thing faintly disturbing about this. 'But I don't see what that has to do with it.'

  'Don't you?' The knowing expression flitted across Yvonne's face again. She lowered her voice. 'Carlota says he wants to be sure that her fortune stays in the family and she reckons that he'll go along with the family wishes and marry her when she's a year or so older. Otherwise he'd have married already. Do you know how old he is?'

  'No.'

  'Thirty-four. And he hasn't exactly ignored the feminine sex, according to Carlota. So what else is he waiting for?'

  Laurel made no answer. She was discovering that an answer to that careless question was the last thing she wanted to find.

  'But Carlota's not sure whether she wants to or not.'

  'Isn't she?' Laurel said faintly.

  'Well, do you blame her? He'll never leave Destino —he's uncrowned king here—but can you imagine Carlota being cooped up here for the rest of her life?'

  'No, I suppose not.' Laurel knew she was being reduced virtually to monosyllables, but she was hearing echoes of the Condesa's words on the very same subject. 'Does—does she love him?' she asked unsteadily.

  Yvonne shrugged again. 'I don't think love comes into it. You know what the traditions of these old grandee families are like. They keep the estates together, the women stay home and raise the chiquillos, and the men go out and have fun. All the same,' Yvonne giggled, 'she likes making him jealous.'

  Does she? Laurel whispered soundlessly to herself as she began mechanically to cream her smooth skin clear of its light film of make-up. All the lovely surge of happiness brought by the Conde's phone call had ebbed away, leaving her chilled and dispirited.

  After Yvonne had said goodnight and departed for her own room Laurel climbed into bed and switched off the light. She lay wide awake for a long time, watching the soft billowing movements of the gauzy curtains as the night breeze wafted in at the open window and trying to tell herself how foolish she was to feel so miserable. Because Yvonne's careless confidences should not have come as any surprise, and, if they were true, wasn't it natural that a strong-willed, independent girl like Carlota would be determined not to submit to tradition as meekly as past generations of the women in her family probably had? Anyway, Laurel told herself sadly, it was a logical conclusion that the force of grandee tradition would eventually surmount even the forceful Carlota's own secret hopes and desires. If the Conde had made up his mind to take her as his bride it was unlikely that anything would stand in his way. He was that kind of man. And if he made up his mind to win her love as well as her fortune how would Carlota ever resist him? What woman could?

  CHAPTER NINE

  By the next morning Laurel's head was telling her firmly that it was time she kept her mind strictly on her job and the return home at the end of the week. That once back in dear old London, among her friends, occupied with the familiar office routine, Destino and its autocratic grandee would soon recede to the realm of a dream, a dream which would probably haunt her for quite a while, but with the kind of wistfulness she would recognise as belonging strictly in the realm of dreams. She bathed and made ready for the new day with all this in mind, trying to ignore the persistent message of excitement that her heartbeat kept drumming out; today he was coming back…

  The girls went riding as usual, and the Condesa announced her intention of resting most of the day in order to husband her frail strength for the excitement of her family returning and the celebration at the castillo the next evening.

  There was already a great deal of noise and bustle about the place as the servants started the preparations, and José was out in the grounds, supervising the fixing of strings of gaily coloured lanterns in the trees and the torches which would glow in the ancient iron brackets along the walls of the castillo. There seemed little place for Laurel, and she decided to make her own preliminary pilgrimage to the shrine that morning. Sofia packed a small picnic lunch for her and she set off up the long winding track into the hills.

  It was a beautiful fresh morning. The sea was a brilliant sparkling blue and the sky cloudless, with just enough breeze to temper the heat of the sun, and soon Laurel began to experience a sense of freedom that was unexpectedly pleasant, as though by being alone in the open she gained a respite from emotions fast becoming too disturbing for peace of mind.

  She did not hurry, pausing every so often to look back and appreciate the new vista which each turn of the track presented, and she came upon her destination sooner than she had expected. She saw the little chapel first, set back in a natural curve in the hillside and sheltered by a group of pines, and just beyond it was the cave.

  It was little more than a deep fissure in the rock, approached by a short flight of narrow, roughly hewn steps, by the side of which ran the channel carrying the thin silvery stream of crystal clear water.

  Laurel ascended the steps slowly, aware of a certain stillness in the air and the atmosphere of a hallowed place. It was very simple and very wonderful; white candles set in metal sconces on a ledge at the back of the cave which formed a natural altar, and a small painted statue of the Virgin above the cleft in the rock from where the water spilled. Only the soft musical trickle of the spring broke the silence, and Laurel stood for a little while, filled with that strange sense of peace humility can bring, before she came back out of the dimness to the brilliance of the day and a view that almost took away her breath.

  The island lay like a green map below, studded with the farms and the houses of the little port by the edge of the blue crystal ocean. To one side she could see the deep shadowy verdance of the citrus groves, and hear the calls of a boy down in the valley as he shepherded his flock to their pasture. Further away a horse plodded along a track, its cart laden with baskets of produce, heading for the market place, and Laurel was able to pick out the white villa where she had stayed when they first arrived on the island. How far away in time it seemed now. She sighed and turned her head, shading her eyes against the sun, and saw to her left the great shape of the Castillo dominating the headland, and indeed the island. How many youthful brides had it received within its walls, held their happiness or their fate down the centuries? What would it feel like to walk into its gracious gardens and its cool grandeur and call it home?
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  Laurel sighed again and picked up her basket. She retraced her steps a little way down the hill until she came to a suitable spot in which to partake of her lunch. Sofia had packed the basket generously. There were little chicken-filled rolls wrapped in cool lettuce, snack biscuits with cheese and olives and a couple of hard-boiled eggs, some fruit and half a bottle of light wine. Enough for two at least, Laurel thought as she threw crumbs from the roll she couldn't eat to the hopefully hovering birds. When she had finished she lay back, feeling the sun pleasurably warm on her face, and allowed her thoughts to wander… But the sight of her own folder of notes about the island brought an abruptly sobering effect.

  If tourism should come to the island how would it affect the peace and simplicity she was enjoying at this very moment? Her imagination threw up a picture of the little chapel and the shrine, made tawdry by stalls hung about with garish souvenirs and gimmicky tourist wares. Perhaps even the precious water would become a ware, for human nature, no matter how well-meaning, was very frail…

  Laurel sat up, her eyes troubled. If only visitors could come as she had, accepting the island as it was, and leaving it unchanged. But it wasn't as simple as that… She began to pack the picnic things back into the basket and folded the green-checked cloth. Then a movement caught her eye and she forgot her troublesome thoughts. The steamer was coming in.

  It was still quite a long way out, and she sat there motionless, her heartbeat quickening, watching the vessel cleave its way across the blue expanse, gradually becoming more distinguishable as it neared the harbour. Very soon it would dock, and Laurel was possessed of an urge to grab up her things and race down the track as fast as her feet would carry her, back into the spell of those walls below and the owner who made the real magic of Destino.

  Laurel fought down the traitorous urge; let the Conde come home and greet his family without strangers to intrude. She forced herself to remain there at her vantage point until the steamer lay anchored by the quay and time enough had passed for the Conde to disembark. Doubtless José would be meeting him, the Condesa would be waiting for her grandson and Tia Costenza, and a meal would be ready.

  Laurel took her time, and made her way back to the Castillo by a more roundabout way. She was quite tired and hot by the time she arrived, and all seemed quiet when she walked into the welcome coolness of the main hall. She put her folder and personal things on a settle and went through to the kitchen to return the picnic basket. A shower would be welcome now, and a change into something cool and fresh…

  She heard the raised voices the moment she re-entered the hall. They came in a torrent of Spanish from the doorway of the sala, and Laurel stiffened; this was not excitable Spanish, this was very angry Spanish. She drew back a step, hesitating to pass the open doorway, then she saw Yvonne just within the room, standing there with a half-frightened expression on her face. The next moment Carlota emerged, her features contorted with fury. She stopped short as she saw Laurel in the hall, then she ran forward.

  'It was you!' she accused. 'You told him! Now I know why you looked so pleased with yourself last night. How dare you interfere in affairs which do not concern you?' she stormed. 'Why do you make trouble for me? You have—'

  'Carlota! Be silent this instant!'

  The Conde stood in the doorway behind her, his face a mask of tightly controlled anger. 'You will apologise. Now!' he said icily.

  'No!' Carlota whirled to face him. 'Do you think I am a child? To be ordered about and chastised like any stupid niňa? I—'

  'Carlota!' he seized her arm and caught the other furious hand that came up like a flail towards his face.

  'If you behave like a child you will be treated like one. How dare you attack a guest in this way and make such unfounded accusations? You—'

  'Unfounded!' she spat. 'You brought her here to spy on me, didn't you? And you talk of—'

  'You are wrong!' The dark fury in his eyes surpassed even the stormy rage in Carlota's incensed face. 'Miss Daneway was not the source of my information regarding your foolish and disobedient escapade. Now apologise—instantly!'

  'But who…' A sullen astonishment stilled the Spanish girl's struggles to free herself from his merciless grip. 'No one else has been with us—since your return. No one else has talked with us. So how—?'

  'It seems my word does not convince you,' he said angrily. 'You appear to forget that the world is made small by transport and communications in this modern age. This morning I met, purely by accident, Senhor and Senhora Pereira. They were on their way to visit Senhora Pereira's sister in Madrid before flying to Lisbon for a holiday. It is perhaps unfortunate for you, Carlota, that they happened to see you during your jaunt to Funchal. And I begin to feel that their genuine regret in not being allowed to entertain you and your young friend is sadly misplaced. Now,' he added grimly, 'I am waiting.'

  Carlota's red mouth tightened and she shot a glance of sheer malevolence towards Laurel before she glared defiantly at the Conde's implacable face. 'You will have to wait, then, Rodrigo,' she cried. 'You have humiliated me! But that does not matter! Oh, no! I am humiliated, but I must make the apologies. Well, I will not. Never! I did not want to come here—but what do I find when I do? A spy! A spy to watch over all my actions. And you expect me to—'

  'Carlota! Rodrigo!'

  The firm, clear voice brought abrupt silence. The Condesa stood in the hall, displeasure chilling her fine-boned old face. Beside her hovered a plump, middle-aged woman with grey threading her dark hair. She looked fretful and distressed as well as disapproving. The Condesa moved forward stiffly, still as straight as a ramrod despite her need of the silver-topped ebony cane. She surveyed her grandchildren coldly.

  'Must you brawl like campesinos?'

  The Conde's face closed. He drew himself to his full height and inclined his head to his grandmother. 'Perdone usted, Abuela,' he said formally.

  The Condesa nodded. 'In future,' she said tartly, 'confine family arguments to the family circle, and spare our unfortunate guests such unwonted embarrassment. Carlota, I wish to speak to you. Go to my sitting room and await me there.'

  To Laurel's surprise, the Spanish girl turned meekly at that authoritative command and went silently across the hall towards the door to the Condesa's suite. The old lady gave her grandson a brief nod that conveyed something very like warning before she turned slowly, only then accepting the arm of Tia Costenza.

  Yvonne was still standing in the background, something suspiciously like a giggle struggling round her mouth. Laurel took a warning step towards her, and found her way barred.

  The Conde looked down at her, the remoteness of a stranger in his eyes. 'There is something I wish to say to you, seňorita. You will permit me to detain you for a few moments?'

  The words were spoken with impeccable courtesy but the chill command behind them was unmistakable. Suddenly Laurel felt as though something precious had withered and died. She swallowed painfully, determined that dignity should triumph over the instant desire to argue, and followed his indicative gesture towards the open door of his study. Was this what she had looked forward to, dreamed of, last night?

  When he had closed the door she said stiffly: 'Well, seňor?'

  'Why did you disobey my instructions?' he demanded without preamble.

  'Disobey?' Her lips stayed parted with astonishment.

  She had known since the first glimpse of his expression that she was included in his displeasure, and she was fully prepared for an inquisition regarding the two girls' behaviour. But she was not prepared for the arrant censure, accusation even, that was patent now in every line of his attitude.

  His dark eyes blazed with scarcely repressed anger. 'Come now, Miss Daneway. You are surely not so naive as to pretend you do not grasp my meaning. How dare you permit my cousin and your young charge to flout my wishes so blatantly?'

  'How dare I—? But I didn't—' Laurel bit her lip, unwilling to implicate the girls further even at the expense of her own defen
ce. 'I—'

  'You did not give your permission?' he said sharply.

  'I certainly did not give them permission to flout your wishes deliberately,' she said flatly.

  'Then why did you allow them to leave the island the moment I was absent?'

  Laurel felt her temper sliding. 'Do you think it's as simple as that?' she cried. 'Do you really believe that two sixteen-year-old girls will accept that kind of rigid dictatorship in this day and age? Just because you are technically head of the family and one day you expect to—'

  She bit back her unwary tongue, and he said quickly: 'One day I expect what, seňorita?'

  'You expect to rule Carlota's life, regardless of her own desires, because it has always been the tradition. How do you imagine she feels? Do you ever try to see her point of view?' Laurel asked fiercely. 'Why don't you try reasoning with her for a change instead of treatline ing her like a child?'

  'A wilful girl of that age is incapable of reasoning— as I believed you had already discovered. However,' his mouth set in a grim line, 'I am at risk of forgetting you are a guest under my roof and dealing with you as you deserve. We will say no more of the matter.'

  Laurel gasped. It was all of five years since a particularly sarcastic headmaster had made her feel as small and as furious as she felt at this moment. Deliberately she placed herself between the Conde and the door he was about to open for her own suitably chastened exit. 'But I haven't finished!' she exclaimed hotly. 'I think the greatest mistake was my ever allowing myself to become a guest under your roof. I should have trusted my first impression and stayed as far from Castillo Valderosa as possible!'

  'And what was that first impression?' he said in dangerously quiet tones.

  'That you were cold, hard and arrogant, and uncaring of anyone's feelings who failed to conform to your hidebound grandee tradition!' she flared. 'All I can say is that I'm sorry for Carlota.'

  His eyes burned with the glints of tempered steel. 'That is all you have to say, seňorita?'