Dear Conquistador

by Margery Hilton

  A sudden movement below tore into her reverie. She saw the shadow still, and the glimmer like a firefly spark through the velvet darkness. Too late she drew back.

  ‘ Senorita ...?’ The Conde had paused in his leisurely stroll. He was looking up, his dark head catching a bluish glow of radiance from some unknown source. It was lending new angles to the fine-boned contours of his features and a polished swarthiness with the rich tones and highlights of a superb portrait in oils. The vivid picture rose in Hilary’s mind, merging with one remembered from that first morning, and the power of glinting eyes forged its compulsion.

  Then he laughed softly and broke the tenuous cord of magnetism. ‘You were far away, senorita - until I disturbed your pleasure of the night. ’

  The aromatic drift from his cigar coiled softly in tiny spirals, a sensuous challenge to the innocence of the blossom scents, and strangely tantalizing to Hilary’s nostrils. She said, ‘Yes - it is a beautiful night.’

  ‘Almost as beautiful as the mornings, no es verdad, senorita?’

  The firefly spark winged again and she wondered if she imagined the hint of devilry underlying the light tones. Or was it the wickedness of a satyr that was making her recall that first morning when she had found joy of the mom in this very place? En dishabille.

  She said unsteadily: ‘I’m not sure, senor. I do not think they can be compared. ’

  ‘Yes, that is true,’ he mused. ‘No more than one could compare the radiance of a beautiful woman as she greets the first rose caress of dawn with the mystery of the same woman when night veils her beauty and her eyes reflect her lover.’

  The rich timbre of his voice made the observation into a strangely sensuous communication. It was not without considerable power to disturb and Hilary moved quickly, almost as though by doing so she could dispel the odd sensation his voice had evoked.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about how we look first thing in the morning and last thing at night,’ she remarked acidly, then rued the words the moment they were out. ‘But of course you speak of goddesses - not mere ordinary mortals,’ she amended hastily.

  He laughed, deep rich sounds, and his sweeping upward glance seemed to challenge. ‘Poetic observation, nina fresca mia. And certainly not of goddesses. Do you always take everything so literally?’

  ‘Sometimes it is safer to do so than read between the lines,’ she said carefully, a tinge of rose deepening in her cheeks. Fresh! Was she? Hastily she sought a more expedient topic and almost instantly her brain supplied two alternatives. ‘Senor ...’ she leaned forward a little, ‘there is something I wished to ask—’

  ‘Ah, yes?’ he interrupted, one hand rising. ‘But I am about to suffer a crick in the neck, as I believe you describe it. Would you care to descend to this more comfortable level of conversation?’

  She looked down at the shadowy lines of him and again there came that ghost of a deep chuckle. She hesitated, just a second too long.

  ‘You are not afraid of the dark, senorita?’ came the soft taunt.

  Hilary stiffened. ‘Not in the least!’ Pausing only to snatch a filmy scarf for her shoulders she went down the curving shallow stairs, deliberately checking her steps when she reached the foot and moving slowly across the dim, echoing hall.

  He was waiting for her on the terrace, lounging negligently against the ghostly white marble of a pilaster. He took the scarf from her arm and with unhurried movements placed it round her shoulders.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, obeying the light touch that compelled her to fall into step with his leisurely stroll forward. The slight pressure of his hand fell from her shoulder and as it did so his sleeve brushed her bare forearm. He was wearing a smoking jacket of maroon-coloured velvet. In the subdued glow of the terrace lamps the material took on the rich fathomless depth of a sea of crimson wine, and its touch on her skin was like a sleek caress. With an almost involuntary movement she drew away from the contact, and he turned his head to look down at her.

  ‘There was something you wished to ask me, senorita?’ he said in suave tones.

  For some reason she felt flustered. It made her stumble a little over the phrasing of her words as she said, ‘Yes - this week-end. I just wanted to check—’

  ‘Ah, yes. Your leisure time.’ The dark sculptured head flipped back, and the movement revealed his profile, silhouetted like bronze against the blue-misty radiance cast by the white wall of the villa. Abruptly he swung to her again and his brows winged high. ‘You sound a little concerned, senorita. Are you afraid I may suddenly curtail your freedom?’

  ‘No.’ She hadn’t expected anything of the kind and her response betrayed her surprise. ‘I only wanted to let you know I would be away all day tomorrow and Sunday, and remind you about Joaquin—’

  ‘You are staying somewhere tomorrow night - where?’ he demanded with that disconcerting abruptness.

  ‘Oh, no - I shall be coming back at night, though I may be late,’ she said quickly. ‘But I was wondering about Joaquin ... He was to have gone to visit his cousin Ruy at Miraflores -the children were going to the beach - but Senora Mendoza telephoned this afternoon to say that little Ruy has a sore throat and she thinks it wiser to cancel Joaquin’s visit. He is very disappointed, so...’

  She hesitated, and he said sharply: ‘So?’

  ‘He’s going to be a lonely little boy, so,’ again she hesitated, ‘I could take him out with me on Sunday if it would help - everyone at the villa has arrangements of some sort for this week-end. ’

  ‘I have not - would you care to sit down, senorita?’

  He touched her arm and she saw that their indolent paces had taken them along the path to the vinery. Its entrance was screened by an enramada which held a rustic seat, and it was this the Conde gravely indicated.

  The cool waxen ivory of sleeping magnolia blossoms stirred softly nearby and the scent of unseen garden sweetnesses caught subtly at the senses. A certain tension of sudden awareness made her glance at him and make no move towards composing herself in those scented shadows beneath the magnolia. It was impossible not to be instantly conscious of the Conde’s magnetism and her own femininity in an atmosphere such as this ... Impatient of the trembling instinct, she dismissed it as quickly as it came; how foolish could imagination make one?

  He did not sit down after she had sat stiffly on the extreme edge of the seat. Instead he raised one foot and rested it idly on the edge, leaning his arm across his knee. From this careless stance he looked down at her. ‘You are a most conscientious young woman, Miss Martin. I appreciate your concern, but I could not dream of allowing you to spoil your arrangements. ’

  ‘It wouldn’t spoil anything.’ Her surprise at his reversion to the English formality was tinged with something like disappointment; suddenly she wished he would use her first name - almost everyone at the villa did so now. ‘It wouldn’t spoil anything,’ she said with unconscious aloofness. ‘I was planning to take the train up into the mountains. I’ve been told that the funicular railway is an excitement that mustn’t be missed.’

  ‘True - for a tourist. You were not planning to sample this excitement with Mr. Gilford?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘No.’ She gave a small shake of her head to underline the negative. ‘Tomorrow - yes - but not Sunday. That’s why I thought—’

  ‘You are going sightseeing tomorrow?’ he broke in as she hesitated.

  ‘No,’ she glanced up. ‘He’s showing me over the ranch.’

  ‘Ah.’ The Conde flexed his well-shaped hand and looked down at it. The fingers relaxed, then curved under as he said lightly: ‘And then you will dine at his house, delightfully free of conventional restraint. You will reminisce on your home country and your backgrounds, discover a common interest which you both adore, and then he will flirt with you. ’

  ‘He won’t.’

  The Conde smiled slightly, his teeth glinting very white. ‘Pardon me my contradiction, senorita, but you delude yourself - if you believe that! ’

&n
bsp; Hilary smoothed a fold from her dress. ‘But I do believe it.’ She did not look up.

  ‘And I prefer to believe the evidence of my own eyes.’

  Her head lifted sharply. She frowned. ‘Evidence, senor??

  ‘The good Bruce Gilford wore the look of a man who does not quite believe in his good fortune last week-end,’ the

  Conde observed evenly. ‘I think he had forgotten what it was like to relax with one of his most charming countrywomen. ’ My Senor Conde sees too much! she thought with a flash of shock. His perception made her recall Bruce’s words as they danced; it also caused her to remember a moment later that same evening in the garden at the hacienda. Hilary’s mouth firmed and her clasped hands tightened a fraction. The Conde’s determination to keep tabs on her had induced annoyance, resentment, defiance and amusement in turn; now it brought a sudden need to change the subject. In any case; what business was it of his if she did flirt with Bruce?

  ‘I’m sure that was all it was,’ she said firmly, ‘and speaking of last week-end reminds me...’

  ‘Yes, senorita?’ He straightened and sat down at her side, crossing his knees to conclude the swift lithe movement. ‘What about last week-end?’

  She looked directly in front of her and kept her voice casual. ‘You mentioned a favour you wished to ask of me, senor.’

  ‘A favour? Ah!’ he snapped his fingers, ‘I remember. It was almost a bargain we made, wasn’t it? This side of it concerns my nephew.’

  Bargain! Joaquin? Beneath curiosity she felt a small sense of flatness as she inclined her head and waited.

  ‘It will be his birthday soon, next month,’ went on the deep, velvet smooth voice out of the shadows. ‘You probably know that it is our custom to celebrate our saint’s day - that is the saint after whom we are named - rather than the anniversary of the actual day on which we were born. However, Joaquin’s parents died only a week before the little celebration that was planned and in the circumstances we decided to postpone it until his birthday, for this year, anyway. The other will always be fraught with sadness, I’m afraid. ’

  He paused, and Hilary turned her head. ‘You are very wise, senor, and very understanding. How can I help?’

  ‘In view of your arrival in our midst, I thought an English style birthday party would prove an innovation. A friend of mine has recently imported an English technologist in connection with new plant he is installing, and I believe the Englishman has brought his family with him. We will invite the two children; it will be an opportunity for them to make new friends in a strange city and it will also help to bring the right birthday atmosphere.’

  Hilary nodded. ‘You would like me to be on hand, and

  translate and help with the children? Of course I will.’

  ‘I wish you to organize the entire affair, senorita, if you will be so kind. ’

  ‘The whole thing?’ she exclaimed, somewhat startled. ‘Yes. I would like you to arrange everything. The menu, the amusements, and whatever else is necessary. I will give you carte blanche and instruct the staff to follow whatever orders you give them. In brief, senorita, imagine you are arranging a birthday party for a seven-year-old boy in your own home and then put theory into practice.’

  She was silent so long that he moved, leaning forward to look into her face. ‘You do not wish to arrange this?’

  ‘Oh no - that is yes - I should love to,’ she said hastily. ‘But are you sure it’ll work? I mean, will the children like it?’ ‘You have doubts?’

  ‘Well,’ she took a deep breath and smiled wryly, ‘Joaquin may have his own ideas for his party.’

  ‘That is the English way, perhaps?’ The Conde’s tone sharpened. ‘The children are allowed to arrange their own celebrations?’

  ‘Yes, very often. A lot depends on the parents, of course,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘If they’re the understanding type they’ll supply masses of grub, lock up all the breakable stuff, and leave the kids to enjoy themselves their own way.’ There was a silence, and she was instantly sensitive to the definite aura of disapproval in the air. She added quickly: ‘But that’s older children, of course, not little ones.’

  ‘I should hope not!’ He leaned back, resuming his former relaxed position. ‘However, there is some time. Perhaps you will think it over and then we will discuss it more fully in a day or so. Si?’

  ‘Si, senor,’ she agreed absently, her mind already turning over the possibilities his idea had suggested. She could bake and ice a birthday cake herself for Joaquin, with seven blue candles ... how would sausage rolls, cheese dip, trifle, and treasure hunts go down with Joaquin and his little friends? Perhaps she could— She heard the Conde’s voice and looked up. ‘I’m sorry, senor. I was thinking. What did you say about concern?’

  ‘I was inquiring, senorita, if you were upset by el senor Pereira’s ill-breeding the other night?’

  ‘Oh ... ’ a little surprised, she switched her mind from party plans to the memories of the night of the flamenco. ‘Yes, a little, at the time,’ she said reflectively, ‘but I’ve forgotten it now - and written it off as experience.’

  ‘Experience.’ The Conde’s mouth compressed at the corners. ‘I would not be inclined to write it off so cheaply and forget it. ’

  Hilary stiffened. ‘Senor! Are you insinuating that my behaviour was cheap?’

  ‘No—’ his hand fanned the air—‘not cheap. Foolish, perhaps, indiscreet even, naive certainly. But not cheap in the sense that you use the word. ’

  The firm lines of her mouth did not quite regain their normal sweet curves, despite the suppressed vehemence she detected in his tone. She drew the filmy blue folds of her scarf more closely round her shoulders and made to rise; this was certainly a moment to exercise discretion!

  But discretion lost to a grasp of light, deceptively steeling fingers round her wrist.

  ‘No, senorita - you are not to run away in pique.’ Warmth lingered on her skin, held her wrist captive. ‘I fail to understand your reactions. You will submit to the most blatant passes from a stranger on the dance floor - for fear of making a scene, perhaps - yet you will read unpleasant insinuation in a perfectly innocent, if angry observation from myself. Why?’

  ‘I-I’m sorry.’ A little ashamed now, she looked at the dark supple hand outlined against the pale sapphire luminence of her dress. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. It - it’s just I’d prefer to forget it, that’s all.’

  ‘That you were taken in by a libertino!

  ‘Something like that.’ Rather tremulously she raised her head and met the shadowed power of his stare. A small rueful sigh escaped her. ‘I know how you think of these matters, and - I’ll be honest - I’d hate you to think I might have encouraged him, and—’

  ‘Your very presence would be an encouragement to that chaca!’ The clasp slackened abruptly and fell away from her wrist. ‘You see, as I’ve already tried to explain, such a situation would be unlikely to happen to one of my own countrywomen. A girl of good family would not be allowed to disport herself on the dance floor with any casual pick-up, and once married her husband would certainly ensure that such embarrassment did not befall her. That is why young foreign girls, especially those who enjoy a great deal of liberty, are particularly vulnerable to the attentions of men such as Pereira.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you are trying to explain,’ she said

  quickly. ‘And we do realize that no matter what the nationality it will include men of courtesy like yourself—’ ‘Thank you, senorita,’ he interposed gravely.

  ‘—and the other kind. But it isn’t always so easy to recognize them away from one’s country,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘It’s that aura of Latin glamour.’

  ‘Is that how you think of us?’ He sounded amused.

  She looked away. ‘But all the same, we’d prefer it that way. To be free to discover people’s - a man’s character - for ourselves. To be free to accept or reject. That way we learn to judge’

  There was a short silence. She
knew he was not convinced, yet his interest was still caught. She thought of Juanita’s cause and suddenly thought: why not? An opportunity for a little propaganda should not be missed. She turned and said earnestly:

  ‘You see, senor, what happened to me was a kind of lesson which taught me to be wary in future. Mr. Pereira was charming at first - disarming, in fact! - but it wore off soon. How do we know that he is not betrothed to some sweet little innocent like your own niece, who believes in that charm, in the limited sociality she is allowed with him? So she’ll marry him, and discover that he’s a regular Don Juan. He’ll be unfaithful, he won’t have any charm to spare for her then, and she’ll be unhappy for the rest of her life. But she won’t be able to take a lover and find a little happiness.’

  She paused, and so far there was nothing in the ensuing silence to deter her from continuing. Encouraged, she went on: ‘In our society we mix freely and reputation takes on a much clearer and fairer definition. Word gets round more freely and we’re forearmed.’

  ‘You judge on hearsay, then?’ he said coolly.