by Anne Mather
‘Yeah! Well, anyway, what did you think of him?’
‘Who?’
‘Fernando, of course.’
‘Oh!’ Susannah made a helpless movement of her shoulders. ‘I—I thought he was—very nice.’
Monica wrinkled her nose. ‘Nice? That’s hardly a word I’d have used to describe my husband, but never mind. You realize, I suppose, that part of Lucie’s maliciousness is due to the fact that she always had a hankering for him herself?’
Susannah forced a faint smile. ‘Did she?’
‘Yes.’ Monica looked down at the glowing tip of her cigarette. ‘He might have married her, too, if I hadn’t happened along.’
Susannah wished she would go. She had no desire to hear Monica reminiscing about her early association with Fernando. In fact, she didn’t want to talk about Fernando at all. She glanced surreptitiously at her watch, but Monica saw her and rose from where she had been lounging on the edge of the dressing table.
‘Okay,’ she said amiably, her ill temper banished with Fernando’s departure, ‘I’m going. I guess I can’t expect you to understand the complexities of our relationship. If you knew the whole story, you’d probably be shocked out of your tiny mind.’ She grinned. ‘Oh, don’t look so worried. Between us, we’ll have Marla behaving like any other kid before long, you’ll see.’
Susannah closed the door behind her and leaned back against it wearily. What an exhausting period it had been! She felt completely enervated, and she sank down weakly on to her bed with a depressing feeling of defeat.
No matter what Monica might say, Susannah was beginning to doubt that it was possible to achieve any lasting success in a couple of weeks with Marla. But of course, Monica was probably still unaware of the limited terms of Susannah’s employment. She thought she was staying indefinitely, it appeared, and had no doubt decided that the installation of the English governess had been achieved with the minimum amount of effort. And if that were so, why hadn’t Fernando disabused her? Monica had said she had seen him before seeking out the two girls. Was their relationship such that they were never civil to one another?
Susannah lay back, raising her arm to shade her eyes. And what did she think, now that Monica had returned? Their association was far worse than Fernando’s occasional bouts of bitterness had led her to believe, and she wondered what part Max Rosenberg had played in the deterioration of their relationship. How long had Monica known him? How long had she behaved with this complete lack of respect for either her husband or her family?
Susannah’s mind probed the endless possibilities while her sensibilities revolted against remaining in such a household. If their marriage was so abhorrent to both of them, why didn’t they end it? Surely that would be the kindest thing to do for Marla’s sake. But she could answer her own question. Fernando, at least, was a Roman Catholic. His church did not recognize divorce. So far as he was concerned, the vows he had made were totally binding.
A pain like a knife twisted in her stomach at this realization. For him there was no escape. She wondered whether things between herself and Fernando would have been different if he had not cared about his religion. Or was she deluding herself about his feelings for her? Certainly since she came here he had regarded her with less than contempt.
She shook her head. There was so much she didn’t understand, could only guess at. Never, in any circumstances, would she have imagined Monica to be the kind of woman to attract Fernando. She was so coarse, so hard, so completely different from him. She was attractive, it was true, but she was also at least ten years older than he was, and must have been in her thirties when they married.
Susannah dragged herself up off the bed and began putting the rest of her clothes away. There was no point in trying to find answers to questions that should not even concern her. Perhaps she ought to consider leaving immediately. Now that Monica was home there was bound to be more problems, and she no longer felt as though she had the strength to face them.
The following morning, Monica came to the studio while Susannah was giving Marla her morning lessons.
‘You didn’t join us for dinner yesterday evening,’ she remarked, addressing herself to Susannah in her usual pointed way.
Susannah looked up from an English grammar and frowned. ‘I beg your pardon, señora?’
Monica grimaced. ‘I said—you didn’t join us for dinner yesterday evening, Miss King.’
Susannah put down her pen. ‘No, señora.’
‘Why? Because I’m home? Or because you’ve had enough of eating dinner with my husband and his old dragon of an aunt?’
Susannah glanced meaningfully at Marla, but Monica seemed unperturbed, lighting one of the long American cigarettes she favoured.
‘I take all my meals in my room, señora,’ said Susannah at last.
‘In your room?’ Monica’s head jerked up. ‘You mean all these past days you’ve been eating in your room?’
‘Yes, señora.’
‘My God!’ Monica raised her eyes heavenward. ‘My husband’s dictate, I suppose.’
‘I don’t know, señora. The housekeeper said—’
‘Oh, Señora Gomez.’ Monica nodded. ‘She receives her instructions from Doña Amalia, of course.’
‘It really doesn’t matter, señora—’
‘I disagree.’ Monica tapped her foot impatiently. ‘It matters to me. A governess is very often treated as a member of the family. If the children are young—well, then the governess sometimes takes her meals with them in the nursery. But when the child is of Marla’s age and takes her meals with her parents then the governess should do the same.’
‘I really don’t think—’
Monica silenced her with an imperative stare. ‘In future, Miss King, you will take your meals with the family, do you understand?’
‘Is that an order, señora?’ asked Susannah, with a sigh.
‘It is my wish, Miss King.’
Susannah bent her head. ‘Very well.’
‘Good.’
After Monica had gone, it was extremely difficult for Susannah to resume her concentration, and Marla looked at her sympathetically.
‘Mama wishes to oppose Papa in all things, Miss King,’ she said, showing an amazing amount of perception. ‘So it is with the schooling. If Papa had wanted a governess for me, Mama would have found the convent infinitely more appealing.’
Susannah frowned. ‘And you accept this, Marla?’
The girl sighed, doodling absently on the pad in front of her. ‘Most of the time there is only Papa,’ she replied quietly. ‘Mama is away a lot.’
Susannah shook her head. ‘Do you talk to your father about your mother?’
Marla looked up. ‘Oh, no, Papa would never permit that. But I understand things are not easy for him.’
Susannah was astounded. For a girl of her age, Marla was startlingly adult. She had already had evidence of the intellect behind the dark eyes so disturbingly like her father’s. Had she been wrong about her all along? Had she unconsciously taken Monica’s biased opinion as her own? And what could Monica really know about her daughter anyway?
Susannah flicked over the pages of the English grammar. There were changes needed here, she must not lose sight of that. Marla was left too long in the company of her aunt—she was allowed little freedom. But Marla herself was not suffering as Susannah had once thought she must be suffering. On the contrary, Susannah found herself wondering ironically whether in fact Marla was not more contented in her way than the whole of the rest of them put together.
At noon they took chocolate with Amalia d’Alvarez as usual. As soon as the maid who had brought the tray of chocolate had departed and Marla was engrossed in pouring it out, the old woman turned to Susannah and said:
‘I suppose you will be leaving us soon now, señorita,’ in satisfied tones.
Susannah forced herself to meet the cold, glittering gaze of the other woman, ‘I expect I shall,’ she conceded quietly.
‘When? To
morrow? The day after?’
Susannah gasped. ‘Perhaps in a week, señora.’
‘A week!’ Doña Amalia snapped her finger. ‘But I understood you to say that my nephew had agreed to your staying until his wife returned. As Señora d’Alvarez has returned…’ She spread her hands.
Susannah took the cup of chocolate Marla handed to her and thanked her, playing for time. Trying to maintain a composure she was far from feeling, she said: ‘Don—Don Fernando has agreed to a trial period, señora—’
‘A trial period, señorita!’ Doña Amalia frowned. ‘I have heard nothing of this.’
Marla seated herself beside her aunt on the couch. ‘Miss King is to join us for meals, too, Tia Amalia,’ she said quietly.
Doña Amalia’s fingers shook as she replaced her cup in its saucer, ‘At whose instigation, Marla? Hers—or your mother’s?’
Susannah flushed brilliantly. ‘I have no wish to join your table, señora—’ she was protesting, when Marla went on:
‘Mama says that in England a governess is treated as a member of the family, Tia Amalia. Could we not do that also?’
Her aunt plucked impatiently at the several strings of pearls about her gnarled throat. ‘This is not England, Marla. We do not wish to adopt English ways.’
‘Mama is English, Tia Amalia.’
‘You mother is American, niña,’ retorted Doña Amalia dryly. ‘And you would be as well to forget it.’
The situation was not improved at lunch time when Monica d’Alvarez joined them in the small dining-room which opened off the main hall. It was a beautiful room, as were all the rooms in the casa, with walls hung with turquoise silk and an ivory white table and chairs. Long curtains of green silk hung at the windows, while the moulded ceiling was covered with an exquisite mural of the arms of the Alvarez family.
But Susannah was given little opportunity to admire the artistic abilities of its creator. She was much too aware of the antagonism that existed between Monica and the elder Señora d’Alvarez, which thickened the atmosphere around them with the tangibility of cigarette smoke. Fernando, of course, was not at home, and as Monica addressed almost all her remarks to Susannah, she was forced into a position more difficult than before. Never had the siesta period beckoned so appealingly, and when the meal was over she escaped to her room with heartfelt relief.
Later in the day, she and Marla went driving with Pedro. At Marla’s suggestion, they took the road into the hills and Susannah saw the cortijo where Fernando had taken his daughter the day before.
‘They are sort of farmsteads,’ explained Marla, as Susannah exclaimed at the isolation of it all. ‘Several families share a communal livelihood, relying on one another for almost everything.’
The particular cortijo that Marla had indicated was set on a terrace which seemed to have been hewn out of the rocky face of the mountain itself. There was little room for cultivation and a few goats straggled up the hillside and turned to stare as the sleek cream car drove by on the rugged road.
‘Does—does your father own this land?’ Susannah asked, unable to hide her curiosity.
Marla smiled. ‘He did. But no longer. My father says a man should own himself.’
Susannah felt a lump in her throat. ‘He’s right, of course.’
‘My father is usually right, Miss King,’ replied Marla with touching sincerity.
Susannah hesitated a long time over choosing what to wear for dinner that evening. Some of her clothes were still in England, in a trunk at Margaret French’s house, and most of the things she had brought with her were for day wear. At any other time, she would not have troubled, but this evening she particularly wanted to look her best.
She eventually chose a plain gown of black silk jersey. The neckline was high at the back and low at the front, dipping to the hollow between her breasts, and the sleeves were long and full, almost mediaeval in appearance. She brushed her hair until it shone and secured it with a black net threaded with gold on the nape of her neck.
She knew, when she was ready, that she had seldom if ever looked more attractive, and the knowledge inspired a certain amount of confidence inside her. Although, since coming to Alvaridad, she had lost some weight, and although there were shadows on her cheeks, the skin that was drawn a little tighter across her bone was lightly tanned to a honey colour, and there was something hauntingly wistful about her dark-fringed eyes.
She had not considered what she would do once she was ready and was unutterably relieved when Marla arrived at her door a few moments later. The girl surveyed her appearance admiringly and then said:
‘I’ve come to show you the way to the salón, Miss King. Come with me.’
Susannah smiled. ‘Thank goodness. I had no idea where to go.’
Marla smiled. ‘The casa is not so difficult to explore. But I agree, there are many rooms that are seldom used. It is a shame. But tonight we are to dine in the main dining salón. You will see. It is much more impressive than the smaller one we used this afternoon.’
As Susannah could scarcely imagine anything more impressive than that silk-lined room she made no reply to this, but instead complimented Marla on her choice of dress.
Marla looked down at the long-skirted sprigged cotton she had chosen and sighed. ‘My mother brought me this from England last year,’ she confided. ‘It is not Papa’s favourite gown, but I thought that you might think it suited me.’
Susannah nodded. ‘It does. You look very nice.’
‘So do you.’ Marla glanced sideways at her as they walked along the lower corridor. ‘You always do.’ She paused, and then: ‘I wish my mother was more like you, Miss King. Then perhaps Papa would fall in love with her and we could all live happily together.’
Susannah stared at her young charge in horror. ‘Why—why do you say such a thing?’ she demanded in a strangled tone, but Marla seemed totally unconcerned.
‘Because it is true,’ she replied in a low voice. ‘My father likes you, I know he does. And I like you, too.’
Susannah’s throat felt constricted. ‘I—I think you’re imagining things, Marla. Your—your father wants me to leave.’
Marla shrugged. ‘That is because he wants me to attend the convent. It has nothing to do with you personally.’
‘How can you say that?’
Marla shook her head. ‘It’s true. Yesterday afternoon—when he took me to see Juan and Carlos and Anna—you were supposed to come, too,’
‘I was?’
‘But of course. That was why he came looking for us. But then my mother was there, and I was wearing your clothes, and Papa was angry—very angry.’
‘He had no need to be.’
Marla spread her hands. ‘Papa buys my clothes. He is very generous. But Tia Amalia chooses them. It is not his fault if they are old-fashioned. I hurt him very much by saying that they were.’
Susannah absorbed this in silence. It sounded reasonable. But then everything Fernando said sounded reasonable. Even his suggestion that they should spend his last week-end together…
Marla took her to the salon where Fernando and his aunt were waiting. There was no sign as yet of Monica, but Fernando looked stern and unapproachable in a black dinner jacket and narrow-fitting trousers. A mass of lace frothed over the satin edges of his lapels, and his hair had been combed smoothly against his head. He looked devastatingly attractive and Susannah felt her senses stirring in spite of herself as his brooding gaze moved over her with deliberate slowness.
Amalia d’Alvarez was small and elegant in black lace, but she looked with distaste at Marla’s white flowered dress.
‘What is this, niña?’ she exclaimed in disgust. ‘Why are you not wearing the bronze linen Sophia had laid out for you?’
Before Marla could say anything however, Fernando answered his aunt. ‘Leave the child alone, Amalia,’ he commanded quietly. ‘The dress was bought by her mother. I think she looks most attractive.’
Even Marla could not hide her surprise at this
, and it was obvious that Amalia was not used to being spoken to in such a manner. Susannah sensed her anger that Fernando should have chosen to reprove her in front of someone she regarded as a mere servant, and for a moment she expected Amalia to leave. But instead, the old woman moved away to sit on a couch and Fernando turned his attention to Susannah herself.
‘May I offer you a drink, señorita?’ he asked, showing neither rage nor pleasure at her presence. ‘What would you prefer?’
Susannah avoided his gaze and looked past him to the cabinet which stood wide revealing a comprehensive array of bottles and glasses. ‘Perhaps—sherry?’ she ventured at last, and he inclined his head and went to pour the drink for her.
Dragging her gaze from his broad back, Susannah forced an interest in her surroundings. She had never been in this room before, and like the other apartments it was much larger than a room in any ordinary house. The walls again were silk-lined, this time in a rather delicate shade of coral, with a filigree of wrought iron providing an unusual embellishment at intervals. The furniture was a complementary blending of ancient and modern, while an exquisite Aubusson carpet spread across the central area.
Her eyes returned to Fernando and watching him pour her sherry brought back vivid memories of that other occasion at the cottage when he had looked so strangely at her because she had asked for the same drink. Was that one of the occasions when he had been convinced that she knew of his life here in Alvaridad? Had he imagined she had asked for sherry to taunt him with the wine produced by his own vineyards?
Fernando returned and handed her the glass he had filled. Susannah’s eyes lifted no higher than its delicate stem which was on a level with the black cummerbund he wore around his waist.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the glass with great care so that their fingers should not touch.
Fernando stood looking down at her bent head for several seconds and then with a swift indrawing of breath he turned away. It was difficult after that for Susannah to behave as though nothing had happened. Her pulses were pounding so loudly she thought they must be audible, and a weakness had invaded her knees so that she swayed slightly. She took a hasty sip of her wine in an effort to calm herself and encountered the cold, calculating gaze of Amalia d’Alvarez.
