The Velvet Touch

by Margery Hilton

  Laurel felt a tremor of sick fear. There was whiteness in the creases at the corners of his mouth and a dangerous tautness in the set of his jaw. Suddenly she perceived the dark violence he was holding under tightly leashed control. She stared back resolutely. 'Yes—I don't think there is anything left to say, seňor.'

  'Except for one thing,' he gritted. 'Perhaps I too was mistaken in a certain impression. I too made an error of judgment.'

  'In what way?'

  'I put a trust where it appears to have been sadly misplaced, seňorita.'

  Afterwards, Laurel never knew how she managed to walk out of that room and the Conde's chill, implacable presence with her head held high, nor how she managed to get through the rest of that day.

  There were several guests for dinner that evening, but despite the presence of Don Amadeo, the island's priest, Seňor Alvarez, the schoolmaster, and his wife, and the much loved 'Herr Doktor', the German surgeon who had retired to Destino and who gave unstintingly of his time and skill whenever it was needed, there was an air of constraint that even the superb food and wine and the animated discussion of the romeria could not dispel for Laurel.

  She was painfully aware of the tall, aristocratic man at the head of the table. The play of lamplight on the chiselled planes of his features increased his enigmatic air and made her heart ache merely to look at him. Occasionally his glance would come to rest on her, dark and unfathomable, then glinting with small flame points like rapier thrusts of cruelty when the betraying colour surged up into her cheeks and she wrenched her own glance away. In those moments she told herself fiercely that she hated him, even as she recognised the hopelessness of the attempt at self-delusion.

  She was thankful when the long evening drew at last to its close. The guests prepared to depart, the Condesa bade them all goodnight, and Laurel escaped to the solitude of her room. Her head had begun to ache with the effect of rich food and a little too much wine drunk from sheer unhappiness, and there was a tight, smarting sensation in her eyes that resisted all attempts to blink it away.

  She crept miserably into bed, to close her eyes and try to make her mind a blank, except for one more pitiful little delusion: that tomorrow, amidst all the excitement and the crowds, she would surely be able to avoid that disturbing presence and those censorious eyes…

  But she could only lie there and dream hopelessly of those eyes warm and challenging and compelling, and a mouth whose warm magic could make havoc of all resistance…

  The excitement began at dawn.

  After early Mass the children spilled out over the island to gather fragrant blossoms with which to decorate the church and the special litter on which the Virgin would be carried in the triumphal procession to the Shrine later in the day. At eleven the church bells began their summons, and up at the Castillo the Conde's party prepared to set off for the special service which would precede the pilgrimage.

  Laurel looked cool and beautiful in her white dress as she waited in the courtyard. Unhappiness had etched troubled little shadows under her eyes and lent her an air of remoteness that was strangely appealing. But she was unaware of her appearance; she was painfully conscious of the invisible wall that had risen between herself and the Conde. This morning she wished with all her heart she had the means of demolishing the barrier, but each time she stole a glance at his dark, impassive features she despaired of the impossibility of achieving that hopeless aim. The omens for the day were not good so far!

  Her advent at breakfast had silenced what sounded like a full-scale family argument. She had drawn back, instantly aware of the Conde's sharp glance towards her and the icy formality in the inclination of his head towards her as he bade her good morning. She had hesitated still, and the Condesa had called with a hint of impatience, 'Come, child—you should know by now that we sound much worse than we are!'

  'I'm sorry,' she stammered, 'I didn't mean to be late.'

  'No, seňorita, it is we who are early,' the Conde said.

  His smooth, urbane tone made the words a meaningless politeness and Laurel felt worse than ever as she took her place at the table. The silence now seemed unnatural, centred round herself, then Carlota smiled maliciously.

  'I'm sure Miss Daneway is still under the impression that we are about to come to blows when we are merely discussing the weather.'

  The spiteful little dig was unfair and unwarranted, and Tia Costenza's instant rebuke did little to dispel the sting of it, nor did the Conde's brusque, 'But we were not discussing the weather.'

  The Condesa looked at her grandson and her black eyes snapped with temper. 'I forbid another word on the matter! It is decided. I wish to attend church this morning and I have every intention of doing so. My—'

  'But, Madre, the crowds and the excitement!' Tia Costenza waved her hands. 'You know it will be too much for you! Last year you—'

  'This is this year!' The Condesa turned a quelling glance on her daughter. 'Must you make me feeble in the head as well as body? My accursed infirmity and the cosseting of my family have prevented me from joining the pilgrimage these past five years, but it is not going to imprison me today like the enfeebled old crone you would make me. Now, Rodrigo,' her chin jutted up, 'are you going to escort me in the car? Or must I instruct José to resurrect the old carriage?'

  The Conde bowed his head. 'That will not be necessary, Abuelita. I am at your command.'

  'Thank you.' The Condesa's smile was acid with triumph. Now that she had gained her own way the tension began to ease out of the atmosphere and a typical family discussion began as to whether the Conde should first take his grandmother and aunt to the church and then return for the girls or the other way round. Laurel instantly said she would walk, echoed by Yvonne and followed by vehement protests from the two older ladies, and the Conde held up his hand with a weary gesture for silence.

  'You will not walk, seňorita,' he ordained. 'You will drive, as befitting a guest with the Castillo party.'

  The expression on his face did not invite argument, and Laurel said quietly, 'As you think best, seňor.' But now, watching him help the indomitable old lady to settle herself comfortably in the car, Laurel felt a renewed stiffening of her own spirit. Was she going to let him see the power he held to spoil her happiness? Perhaps even betray feelings she would die rather than ever allow him to perceive? If he chose to be so utterly chill and disapproving then she would be equally remote. For his attitude was completely unfair, she told herself. After all, he had practically forced her to become his guest, and had thrust on her, virtually a stranger in his household, a responsibility almost impossible to carry. Then he had taken her to task when she failed through no fault of her own. No, she decided, she would not let him spoil her day, nor give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he had hurt her; she would put on the greatest pretence of her life…

  The nature of the day made it easier than she had expected. There was so much colour and movement and noise, and a wild fervency of joy and ardour that caught at the heart with a strange poignancy. No one was at work that day, and the town wore a clean-scrubbed, festive air. No washing strung across balconies now, only bright flowers in the window boxes and massed in pots on every available ledge, and the chirruping of pet birds fluffing their colourful plumage in the ornamental cages hung outside some of the houses. Everybody wore Sunday best; the men in sober dark suits, little girls excited and pretty in white dresses and small boys constrained and polished for once in more formal wear, and the women in flower-hued summery dresses with light scarves covering their heads. Only the older women stayed faithful to their normal black garb, with little lace mantillas hiding their hair as they joined the crowd converging on the square.

  The church was packed, hot and scented with incense and the starry clusters of many candles, strung like necklaces about the church and shining on the figure of the Virgin in her special festal robes of blue and silver and rose.

  There were not enough seats for everyone and there was much good-humoured
to-ing and fro-ing in search of additional chairs. Some of the children had to sit on cushions at the front, and nobody minded the considerable amount of scuffling and adjusting of cushions that went on during the service.

  When it was over the great moment came for which all had eagerly awaited, when the statue of the Virgin was carried reverently out of the church, serene upon her specially decorated litter. It was white and gold, with four tall slender poles supporting a white silk canopy encrusted with gold and silver beadwork, and the children scrambled and jostled to place their tender little offerings of posies around the hem of her robes while the town band formed at the head of the procession and the men who were to be the first four bearers took their places at the four corners of the litter.

  At last they moved off, amid an incredible babble of voices and dancing children, across the square and through the little town, and on to the winding track that led up to the shrine in the hills. Every so often the procession halted to enable fresh bearers to take up the litter, and then they would move on again. Carlota and Yvonne had been quickly lost in the crowd and on several occasions Laurel found herself completely separated from her companions. But always she was able to pick out the tall figure of the Conde, his dark head unmistakable and his glance sometimes sweeping around in search of his party. Beyond this, he made no attempt to keep the castillo party near him, and Laurel tried not to feel hurt that he remained so formal. She forced herself to smile brilliantly and laugh with the island folk around her each time she sensed his gaze turn in her direction.

  When the pilgrimage reached the shrine and the ermita, which was much too small to accommodate the crowd, the priest conducted a brief, more informal service of thanksgiving and blessing which somehow became much more moving in its simplicity beneath blue skies than had the principal service in the church.

  And then it was over. After the return to the town and the restoring of the Virgin to her niche in the church the procession broke up and dispersed, to prepare joyfully for the evening's revels.

  Back at the castillo there was a belated light meal and the last-minute preparations for the invasion, as Yvonne termed it. Everyone was pressed into service, helping to carry out the buffet tables and the endless trays of food and dishes and all the necessities for the largest picnic Laurel had ever known. When at last everything was in readiness there was just time for a quick refreshing shower and change into festive finery. Laurel vaguely noticed that someone had brought up her forgotten belongings, left down in the hall the previous afternoon just before the heartbreak encounter which had driven all thought of them out of her head. She bundled them into her wardrobe and took down the white lace evening top and long, dark red skirt she was going to wear. It was an outfit she had worn several times, and one in which she had always been happy; her heart dared to quicken its beat hopefully; perhaps it would work its magic again… Already the islanders were streaming up the track to the Castillo. Old and young, girls like bright butterflies in their finery, some of the men in skin-fitting velvet suits with vivid flaunting ruffles cascading down their shirt-fronts. A glorious smell of roasting lamb, suckling pig and spit-roasted chicken hung in the air. The buffet tables groaned under the weight of mouth-watering arrays of savouries, pastries, every kind of sweetmeat nibbles one could think of, and of course wines. Lamps glowed romantically among the trees, the night was warm and perfect, and the noise was incredible.

  Moonrise found Laurel alone and bemused by it all, standing near the end of one of the buffet tables. Yvonne had just left her, to go in search of someone to dance with, after announcing that she couldn't eat another thing and if she didn't dance it all down she'd burst. Laurel felt similar sentiments; she didn't think she would want to eat anything else for a month.

  'Try this, seňorita.'

  She gave a start of shock as the tall shadow fell across her path and the voice she had not expected at that moment issued its soft, beguiling invitation. Her mouth forgot to form its bright, uncaring smile as she looked up at the Conde's suave, enigmatic features. 'What are they?' she asked rather unsteadily over the dish of confectionery he proffered.

  'Mazapan from Toledo—it is a speciality of the almond. A confection the English are also partial to, I believe.'

  'Thank you.' She tried not to look at the glint of white teeth between those devastating chiselled lips as she bit into the rich sweetmeat. 'It is very good,' she acknowledged in a stiff little voice.

  'You are enjoying yourself?'

  Just as though nothing had happened! 'Very much.' She regained her self-possession and flashed him a polite smile. 'The gardens look very beautiful.'

  He inclined his head formally, but before he could respond José materialised at his elbow, looking anxious. The Conde was drawn away to attend to some unforeseen hitch, and Laurel took a deep breath to settle her disturbed heartbeats. She wandered on through the vociferous crowd, past the clusters of islanders who grouped round small tables dotted round the perimeter of the garden or sat picnic fashion under the trees enjoying their alfresco meal. Suddenly a voice exclaimed, 'Laurel, you look lost, niňa mia! Come and sit down and tell me about the pilgrimage.'

  The Condesa was holding court in an arbour which commanded an unbroken view of the section of the terrace set apart for the performance which would begin very soon. Already the musicians were gathering at one side, and banks of flowers had been massed on the shallow steps. Coloured lanterns glowed like the loops of a necklace overhead, and above it all the moon was rising to begin her silvery glide across the midnight blue heavens.

  It was a romantic scene, dominated by the great stone mass of the castillo making a fantastic backdrop to the scene, and Laurel sighed without realising it as she obeyed the Condesa's behest. Misreading the sigh, the Condesa made a 'Tchk-tchk' exclamation of concern. 'You sound weary, my child. Is no one looking after you? Ramon!' She snapped her fingers and a young manservant appeared solicitously. 'Bring some more wine and a glass for the seňorita.'

  Laurel discovered she was thankful to sink into the chair; she had not realised how exhausting the day had been. She accepted the wine gratefully and relaxed back, glad of the shadows within the arbour and a strange sense of immunity lent by the Condesa's presence. She answered the Condesa's questions, and presently the garden lamps dimmed and floodlights sprang to life above the impromptu stage on the terrace. A moment later six dancers ran into the floodlit circle. The guitars throbbed a rich plangency of melody, castanets beat out their intricate rhythm, the brilliant hues of the dancers' frilled skirts whirled a kaleidoscope of colour, and the performance began. They danced to a long medley of favourite old Spanish pieces, and Laurel marvelled at their seemingly inexhaustible energy. Singers followed, and then a strikingly handsome male dancer made his entrance, to dance a dramatic bolero to the famous music of Ravel. The applause was rapturous when he finished, sweat making his face glisten like polished teak as he stood whipcord-slim in black receiving his ovation.

  'I didn't know your island possessed such talent-he's wonderful!' Laurel exclaimed to the Condesa as she clapped enthusiastically.

  'Alas, the island does not.'

  The voice came from behind, and it was not the Condesa's. Laurel quivered as hands rested on the back of her chair, brushing her shoulders on the way. How long had he stood there?

  'These dancers come from Madrid—they arrived only this morning and will return tomorrow,' the Conde said above her head.

  'Oh, I didn't know.' Laurel's reply was stiff. She felt foolish and ignorant. How could she not have realised that such a superb performance could come only from a highly professional troupe?

  The singers had returned to the stage, and Laurel sat stiffly upright, illogical resentment making her determined to avoid any risk of the slightest bodily contact with the man standing behind her chair. She remained thus through the last two items, all pleasure gone, and as soon as the performance ended she murmured a polite excuse to the Condesa and escaped. Her pretext was valid enoug
h, she told herself when she reached her room; she felt overheated, sticky and untidy, and in need of a refreshing wash. That done, she applied a light make-up and slowly made her way back to the festivities.

  The more formal part of the evening had ended now and taped music was being played through invisible amplifiers concealed about the grounds. Dancing had begun for those who wished it and most of the crowd seemed to be taking part, watched by the older and less energetic folk now relaxing and exchanging their anecdotes of the day. Laurel found a secluded place in a corner at the far end of the terrace and leaned on the balustrade watching the swirl of movement below. There was no sign of Yvonne, but she caught a glimpse of Carlota, who was dancing with the young male virtuoso who had given such a memorable performance earlier on. He appeared as equally interested in Carlota as she seemed to be in him, and watching their enrapt faces in those few moments before they were lost to sight brought an unexpected pang to Laurel's heart. Suddenly she felt unutterably lonely.

  She sighed, wondering if she was the only one to feel so weary and lost on this festive night, the high spot of Destino's year. What a fool she was, to let her heart rule her head this way! Drooping here like a lovelorn adolescent. Why couldn't she…

  'So this is where you hide yourself, seňorita!'

  A gasp escaped her and she spun round. The Conde stood there, immaculate in his dark velvet jacket, moonlight casting metallic silver lights amid the deep planes and shadows of his features.

  'I—I'm not hiding, seňor,' she denied. 'Why—why should I?'

  'Why indeed! You will permit me the honour of dancing with you, seňorita?'

  'I—I—' Laurel bit her lip. Half of her mind said run while she could; the other half yearned to rush into his arms. But his hand had closed round her wrist, and like someone not quite in possession of all senses she felt herself drawn along the terrace and down the shallow steps to be taken in his arms and merged among the other dancers.