by Anne Mather
‘How dare you?’ Susannah was trembling with anger. ‘How—how dare you? Exactly what are you implying, señora?’
Now it was Lucie’s turn to look discomfited. For a moment she had allowed her own feelings of jealousy and frustration to get the better of her, but now she was regretting speaking so bluntly. In the eighteen months they had lived in England she had employed a total of five different governesses for Eduardo, and all except Susannah had left within three months of their employment. Only Susannah had borne the arduous duties pressed upon her without complaint, and Lucie knew that if Carlos came home to find that she, too, had given in her notice, he would be furious.
Taking a deep breath, she put out an apologetic hand and said: ‘I am sorry, señorita. Naturally, I am not implying anything.’ She forced a faint smile. ‘I—I have a headache, and I was looking forward to taking tea with Don Fernando. Unfortunately he has a business engagement, and I am afraid I allowed my disappointment to erupt into an unjustified anger against you.’
Susannah linked her fingers tightly together. ‘If you have any cause for complaint about my behaviour—’
Lucie shook her head impatiently. ‘No, no. Have I not just said I am sorry?’ She half turned. ‘I gather from Eduardo that you have had an enjoyable day.’
Susannah quelled the urge to tell Lucie Castana exactly what she thought of her as she caught sight of Eduardo’s concerned face. He was not ignorant of what had so nearly occurred, and there was appeal as well as anxiety in his eyes.
‘We had a—very enjoyable day, señora,’ she conceded at last, in expressionless tones.
Lucie studied her profile for a few moments and then walked towards the door. ‘So—we will forget this unpleasantness, si?’ she requested, unable to leave without gaining some sort of assurance from the girl.
Susannah made an indifferent movement of her shoulders. ‘Very well, señora,’ she agreed without enthusiasm, and Lucie had to be content with that.
Eduardo went to bed at seven o’clock and usually after this Susannah’s time was her own. Occasionally, when the Castanas were having a party, they asked her to remain in her rooms in case the boy needed her, but these occasions were not frequent.
Susannah herself did not go out a lot. She liked plays and sometimes a film, and if she was invited to a concert she enjoyed that very much, but she had no regular routine. Her friends were mostly girls from the training college she had attended, and although one or two of them were now married and introduced her to lots of suitable young men, she had no steady boy-friend. She was in no hurry to get married. Her background had not endeared the opposite sex to her, knowing as she did that her mother had been abandoned by her father when he found that she was pregnant. Or at least, that was her interpretation of her mother’s incapacity to care for her herself.
That evening, Susannah changed out of her formal skirt and blouse, donned an old pair of jeans and a chunky sweater, and settled down with the novel she had been reading for the past few evenings. It was a saga of family life in Cornwall at the turn of the century and up until now had inspired her interest. But this evening she found it hard to concentrate on imaginary characters when her mind kept wandering back over the real events of the day. She had no intention of accepting Fernando Cuevas’s invitation to dinner. She had been employed as a governess long enough to know that getting involved with either a member of the family or with a friend of a member of that family was simply asking for trouble. When she had worked for the American family, the Taylors, she had had plenty of opportunities, but she had learned her lesson well. Now she knew better than to cultivate relationships which in her position could only cause difficulties.
All the same, that did not stop her from thinking about him. He was the most attractive man she had ever met and although he did not possess the even good looks people referred to as handsome there was something disturbingly magnetic about deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes, a lean intelligent face, and smooth dark hair that appeared to need none of the oily hairdressing so loved by other Latin men she had met. She wondered how old he was—possibly between thirty-five and forty, but she couldn’t be sure. He didn’t look old, but the experience in his eyes betrayed an awareness not evident in the eyes of a younger man. She wondered why he had asked her to dine with him. What possible motive could he have? She didn’t believe his statement about enjoying talking to her, and she was not conceited enough to imagine that he might be attracted by her appearance. It would have been quite an experience, she acknowledged truthfully, but experiences sometimes required a payment she was not prepared to give.
The following day it crossed her mind that she really ought to ask Señora Castana for Señor Cuevas’ telephone number while he was here in London and ring and explain that she would not be meeting him that evening. But discretion got the better of valour. To bring up such a thing would only create more trouble, and she decided that if he did come to meet her and she did not turn up that would be that.
But as the day drew towards evening she had second thoughts. What if, when she did not go to meet him, he came to the house? What would she do then? What could she do? And how incensed Lucie Castana would be!
She put Eduardo to bed at seven o’clock as usual, said good night, and went to her own rooms. Señor Castana was due home tomorrow and Señora Castana had told her that she intended having an early night. There was no reason why she should not slip out of the house, meet Señor Cuevas and explain, and be back indoors again before anyone noticed her absence.
The decision made, she changed out of her uniform into a pair of rather shabby red velvet pants and a cream ribbed sweater, leaving her hair in the coronet of plaits she had worn all day. At five minutes to eight she left the house, not bothering with a coat but throwing a thigh-length cream cardigan about her shoulders.
It was a mild evening and the birds were still making a loud noise in the small park across the way. There were few people about. This small terrace of elegant town houses was occupied by a section of the community to whom walking was something one only did on the golf course, so she met no one she knew as she hurried towards the corner. There was no sign of Fernando Cuevas and unreasonably her heart sank. What did it matter? she asked herself impatiently. If he didn’t turn up, all the better. It would save her having to go into unnecessary explanations.
Reaching the end of the street, she looked up and down the wider thoroughfare beyond, but there was no one around who looked the slightest bit like the lean dark Spaniard she had come to meet. She sighed and consulted the broad masculine watch on her slim wrist. It was only just eight o’clock. He might conceivably be late. Traffic in London at this hour of the evening was notoriously unreliable, and it was quite easy to get trapped in a jam.
She drew her cardigan closer about her, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She might as well wait a few minutes. If only to satisfy herself that she had been wasting her time.
‘Good evening, Miss King!’
The quiet words spoken somewhere near her ear startled her almost out of her wits and she swung round on her heels staring in amazement at the man who was standing just behind her. He was quite close and she could smell a faint aroma of an after-shaving lotion. He was casually dressed in a tawny-coloured lounge suit and a roll-collared silk shirt that clung to the contours of his chest as he moved. His eyes dropped the length of her body in a swift appraising motion and then returned to her face again as he smiled approvingly.
‘I am glad you have dressed informally,’ he said. ‘I was afraid you might take my invitation to mean a dinner jacket affair.’
Susannah gathered herself. ‘No, no, you don’t understand, señor. I—I didn’t come to meet you, at least—not to go out with you.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What is that supposed to mean, señorita?’
Susannah folded the sleeves of her cardigan around her arms. I can’t dine with you, señor. I’m sorry. I tried to make it plain yesterday afternoon, but Señora Castan
a interrupted me, and—’
‘Basta!’ He cut her off with an impatient ejaculation. ‘Why can you not dine with me? You are here. You are ready. Where is the difficulty?’
Susannah gasped, ‘I’m not ready. Not like this!’
‘You look perfectly satisfactory to me.’ He shook his head. ‘Why did you come to meet me if you did not wish to dine with me?’
Susannah shrugged. ‘I—I was afraid you might come to the house. I didn’t want to cause any more—upset.’
‘With whom? Señora Castana?’
‘Does it matter?’ She moved a little away from him. ‘I’m very flattered, of course, but I don’t accept invitations from friends of my employers.’
Fernando Cuevas put out a hand and caught her upper arm preventing her further progress, his fingers hard and compelling. ‘Why not? Do your employers forbid it? Do they subject you to a very subtle form of moral blackmail?’
Susannah shook her head, looking down at his hand on her arm. ‘It doesn’t do to mix business with pleasure,’ she replied. Then she looked up. ‘I’d have thought you would have known that, señor.’
He smiled, the kind of smile that caused her heart to quicken its beat rather dramatically. ‘Please,’ he said appealingly. ‘Would you disappoint a lonely man? A stranger to your country? I promise not to compromise you in any way.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Come. I have a car this evening—I hired it specially for the occasion. I do not care for taxi drivers to listen to all my conversations with you.’
Susannah’s resolve was weakening by the second. Her head was swimming, and she wondered if he could feel the throbbing rate of her pulses through his fingers gripping her arm. She thought it was entirely possible. There was a certainty of purpose about him now which was not completely due to his own self-confidence. Slowly but surely he was drawing her with him, off the pavement and on to the road and across to where a gold-coloured Ford Granada was parked, the reason why she had not observed him earlier.
‘You see,’ he said, unlocking the door with his key. ‘Is this not a most attractive vehicle I have chosen for us?’
Susannah looked into his face, so disturbingly close to her own. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Get in and you will find out,’ he advised quietly.
She hesitated for a moment and then with a resigned shrug she allowed him to assist her into the car and close the door behind her. He walked round the bonnet and slid in beside her, giving her a slight smile as he did so, and she thought with a sense of self-betrayal that for once she was allowing a man to call the tune.
Fernando said nothing as he threaded his way expertly through the busy traffic and on to the Hammersmith flyover. She had expected him to be uncertain of his way about London, but it seemed obvious that he was used to driving through its maze of one-way streets and box junctions. Susannah sat in the comfortable leather seat, separated from him by the console fixture of the gear lever, and wondered exactly where they were going.
As the traffic thinned, he had more time to look about him, and settling himself more comfortably in his seat, he said: ‘How old are you, Miss King?’
Susannah was taken aback. ‘That’s a very pointed question, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm. I suppose it is. Are you going to tell me?’ He looked at her out of the corners of his eyes, and she found herself becoming warm under his gaze.
‘As a matter of fact I’m twenty-four,’ she declared shortly. ‘How old are you?’
He chuckled. ‘Much older than that, Miss King.’
‘That’s not an answer,’ she exclaimed indignantly.
‘How old do you think I am?’
She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. Thirty-five, thirty-six?’
‘You’re too kind.’ His expression was wry. ‘I am forty, Miss King. Almost old enough to be your father, si?’
She bent her head. ‘Why did you want to know how old I was?’ He shrugged, resting his arm on the ledge of his window. ‘I had the distinct suspicion that you were much younger than twenty-four. Were it not for that ridiculous hairstyle, I would say you were twenty at most.’
‘Ridiculous hairstyle!’ she echoed, putting a hand to her head. ‘What’s ridiculous about it?’
He cast her a sardonic glance. ‘You look like a small girl trying to look like an adult. I liked it better in the elastic bands, untidy though it was.’
Susannah caught her breath. ‘I don’t think you should make personal comments about my appearance, señor.’
‘No. I agree, I should not. But you did ask me, and I was merely being truthful.’ He slowed behind a lumbering wagon. ‘And as I am so much older than you are, perhaps it would not be too presumptuous of me to suggest that I might call you Susannah, si?’
She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. ‘Do I have any choice?’
‘You make me sound very rude. I’m sorry.’
She sighed. ‘I didn’t mean to do so. Of course you may call me Susannah if you wish.’
His lean brown fingers slid round the wheel. ‘So. As that is disposed of, I suggest we talk about something else. For example—do you like shellfish?’
‘Shellfish, señor?’ She sounded as perplexed as she felt.
‘Si. Is that not how you say it—lobster, crab, that kind of thing?’
‘Oh, I see. Shellfish.’ She nodded apologetically. ‘Yes, I like it.’
‘That is good. The place where we are to dine serves the most delicious lobster you have ever tasted. It is cooked in a sauce of cream and white wine, and melts in the mouth. You must try it.’
Susannah managed a smile, but in truth she was wondering whether she would be able to eat anything at all. His presence unnerved her. She felt the restraint between them like a tangible thing. And yet there was no reason for it.
To her surprise, their destination was a rather exclusive golf club, overlooking the Thames near Kingston. Although on this Wednesday evening there appeared to be no rule about formality, many of the diners were wearing dinner jackets, or lounge suits with bow ties, and as their female counterparts all looked elegant and soignée to Susannah’s uneasy eyes, she felt terribly self-conscious in her old velvet pants and cream sweater.
It was better once they were seated at table and Fernando was studying the wine list. What small interest their arrival had aroused had mostly been concentrated on him, but now that he was patently ignoring it the conversation around them resumed its normal level.
The meal was as delicious as he had said it would be, and under his surveillance she agreed to try the lobster. A certain amount of good wine loosened her reserve and while they ate she talked quite happily about her work, relating one or two amusing anecdotes she had collected over the years. He was a good listener. He lay back in his seat watching her closely, and it was not until they reached the coffee stage that she realized she still knew absolutely nothing about him, other than that he was a friend of the Castanas. He wore three rings, two very broad silver ones and a meshed gold one, but none of them occupied the third finger of his left hand. Even so, he could be married for all she knew. And she had no idea how to bring the conversation round to his personal affairs.
They left the restaurant at about ten o’clock and walked back to the gold Granada. It was parked beneath a willow tree that dipped its branches towards the river. It was cooler now than it had been when they left London a couple of hours ago, and Susannah shivered.
‘You are cold,’ he said at once, unlocking her door. ‘Do get in. I should not like you to catch a chill, Susannah.’
She climbed inside obediently and watched him through the rear-view mirror as he walked round the back of the car to reach his door. He levered himself in beside her, checked that she was comfortable, and then reversed smoothly out of the parking area.
It seemed no time at all before they were running through the suburbs, dark now with street lamps casting pools of light on the pavements. He drove through the mass of side streets to reach Lorrimer Te
rrace, and brought the big car to a halt only a few feet from the door of the Castana house.
Susannah glanced doubtfully up at the windows, wondering whether their return had been observed. It was unlikely. Lucie Castana slept at the back of the building and the sound of a car drawing up in the street outside was a common enough occurrence for it not to attract any especial interest.
She suddenly realized that she was making no attempt to get out of the car and turning to Fernando Cuevas, she said: ‘Thank you very much, señor. I have enjoyed myself.’
The dark Spaniard gave her a slight smile, his fingers tapping somewhat impatiently on the wheel. ‘That is good,’ he replied. ‘So have I. Good night, Susannah.’
‘Good night, señor.’
With a vague feeling of reluctance, she climbed out of the car and he leant across to close her door behind her, giving her a casual salute before driving away. She entered the house with a distinctly hollow emptiness inside that owed nothing to her physical condition. She didn’t know what she had expected. She should have felt relieved that he had made no attempt to ask to see her again. But she didn’t. Instead, she felt emotionally drained, deflated, and totally out of humour with herself for feeling so.
The following day life resumed its normal pattern. Eduardo had lessons in the morning and in the afternoon they walked to the common so that he could run off some of the energy he had in such abundance. Susannah usually enjoyed these outings. She liked running about after the ball and seeing Eduardo’s pale face flushed with healthy colour as he forgot his anxieties in the pure delight of physical exertion.
But today, Susannah found it hard to relax. She was constantly searching for a gold Granada among the cars that they passed and every dark man they encountered aroused a momentary flutter of excitement which was just as quickly doused. She didn’t know why she should imagine that Fernando Cuevas might want to see her again. His parting of the night before had been humiliatingly brief. And yet she couldn’t deny the surge of anticipation she was feeling.
