Dear Conquistador

by Margery Hilton

  little too much to heart.’

  Confusion bathed Hilary’s cheeks in scarlet, as much from surprise at Dona Elena’s perception as at her sudden broaching of the subject. It did not occur to her at that moment to attribute that warm flush of embarrassment to any other cause, and she began to stammer, but Dona Elena made a small negative gesture.

  ‘Do not worry any more - it is all being taken care of now.’

  The sound of a car came through the stillness. Dona Elena sat up straight, reaching for her cane and composing her thin, fine-boned old hands about the engraved silver top.

  The car stopped and the next moment the patio seemed filled with people.

  Joaquin scrambled out and rushed to hold out his hand to his grandmother as she stepped out of the car. Juanita stood still for a moment, looking round her before she came towards Dona Elena, and Ramon was opening the boot and starting to unload what seemed a mountain of pale blue and cream dress cases. Then the cries and the gesticulating and the exuberance of a Latin family reunion began.

  But Hilary was seeing only one person.

  For the moment no one was seeing her and she could stand aside, looking.

  He seemed taller, his smooth olive skin more burnished, his hair thicker and more darkly attractive than ever, his lithe movements lazier yet more suggestive of the effortless strength of an idly prowling tiger. He was wearing dark glasses and a slim, sleek shirt of the same enigmatic dark shade of the lenses with tight-hipped cream pants, and as he turned the movement rippled down the length of him in a way that made Hilary catch her breath.

  He was looking straight at her and she felt a strange, bewildering pulsation throb through her senses, and a crazy feeling of suddenly paralysed limbs holding her fast on the spot while a warring little instinct bade the rest of her to flee. Then the long shadow darkened over her and his voice flowed into her. Through the strange, dreamlike trance she heard another voice, cool, gracious, saw dimly a woman, and felt the hand she must have put out taken lightly and then released.

  ‘So this is the little English senorita,’ said the Condesa.

  The Condesa was tiny and slender, with an air of fragility that

  was completely misleading. Her exquisite blouse of snowy guipure lace and suit of deep rose silk cut in soft, feminine lines aided that impression of delicate femininity, and it was not until she spoke and Hilary encountered the full impact of domination behind the outward facade that the true Condesa could be assessed.

  She was decisive, authoritative, and formidable. The servants were terrified of her, Juanita and Joaquin in complete awe of her, and only Dona Elena maintained her normal serenity in face of her sister-in-law’s more dominant personality. The only person in the household who seemed unafraid of her was her son, and behind the impeccable deference it was natural he should accord to his mother it was soon easy to discern where he inherited his autocratic assurance - and his charm. For undoubtedly the Condesa could be charming, and she was not without a certain somewhat acid vein of humour.

  That evening she summoned Hilary when the long evening meal eventually ended and the family drifted out into the coolness of the patio. The Conde touched Hilary’s arm, a formal escorting gesture which nevertheless burned like a caress, and placed a chair for her beside the Condesa.

  For a long moment the cool, aristocratic gaze surveyed her, then unexpectedly the Condesa chuckled. ‘I suppose I must beware how I speak to you, Miss Martin. Not as I speak with my own family, or the servants, for you hold a rather different position, and you are English.’

  Hilary stayed silent, and the black eyes glinted with a light of wickedness which was uncannily like one Hilary already knew too well.

  ‘You will probably put that pale little nose up in the air and tell us what we can do with our job. No es verdad?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Hilary said quietly. ‘Despite all reports, some of us are still amenable to discipline - provided it is a fair discipline.’

  She could not help glancing up at the Conde as she concluded, to find his regard steady and unreadable. The Condesa missed nothing. She looked at her son, then back to the taut, youthful face.

  ‘I think perhaps that has already been questioned - the senorita has the cool, wary shell within which the English tend to hide their true feelings. Is that not so, Ruaz?’

  ‘I do not believe that is a trait entirely peculiar to the

  English, Madre,’ he observed coolly, his eyes ranging Hilary’s outwardly calm expression. The small compressions at the corners of her mouth betrayed, however, something of unsteadiness held under control and he added smoothly: ‘I suspect you are embarrassing Miss Martin. She is not yet used to such directness.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ snapped the Condesa. ‘She is merely sensitive to a man who would stand in over women’s chatter. Take away your cigar and your wine and leave us in peace to get to know one another. ’

  The Conde’s mouth twitched, but he made no response other than a grave inclination of his head to Hilary and the customary salute to his mother.

  Somehow Hilary succeeded in avoiding one single glance towards the tall figure moving across the patio. She answered the Condesa’s questions, took up her cue where the conversational gambit led, and tried to pretend that the Conde was a thousand miles away instead of some dozen yards distant, knowing all the while that one unguarded glance could betray the turmoil of emotion that had raged in her heart ever since the moment the Conde stepped out of the car that morning.

  The Condesa’s eyes were like needle-points and her perception as sharp. She wanted to probe Hilary’s reactions to the job and the family, and it was unavoidable that the Conde’s name should occur with predictable frequency during the course of the discussion. The Condesa plainly adored her only son and liked to talk about him, which was quite natural, but it was agony to Hilary, when every mention of his name was enough to send a small shock through her.

  She longed to be alone to try to come to terms with the shattering discovery that she’d apparently lost her heart where she least expected. This was the explanation of the inexplicable touchiness she’d suffered at the slightest sign of censure from him; this was the reason for that joyous elation with which she’d responded to him in lighter moments - and the sadness that had flattened her spirits during the past ten days. She knew now why it was a sheer physical difficulty not to look at him and keep on looking at him, and why every instinct urged her to seek his nearness, to seek for some answering sign of response...

  She was crazy! Hilary told herself in every waking moment over the next twenty-four hours. It was some kind of madness

  - perhaps her hormones were working overtime or something! He was an attractive man, a very attractive man, and once a woman became aware of that attraction, allowed herself to be drawn into that magnetic radius, it would be easy to imagine herself in love with him.

  But none of these desperate little arguments rang true and she was thankful that she had the responsibility of the birthday party on her hands; the last-minute preparations and then the influx of some twenty small boys and girls of diverse temperaments kept her fully occupied for most of the day.

  At first the adults tended to hover, with the inevitable dampening effect on the children, who were obviously well primed with admonishments regarding their behaviour, and Hilary began to despair of ever breaking the ice. Also, it seemed that the idea of having the two English children was not so good after all. They proved to be older than Joaquin’s contemporaries, their tastes were somewhat sophisticated, and the games Hilary had planned so carefully for six and seven-year-olds were obviously going to prove much too tame for them. The boy offered to help Joaquin fly his new kite and for a moment it looked as though the party was going to lose its host, until Ramon reminded him that he could fly the new kite any time but his party was a once-a-year event. So Hilary was both thankful and perturbed when the Conde entered the big sala and immediately assessed the situation.

  He crossed to her,
noting the chattering groups of adults and the inhibited little ones forming up decorously for musical chairs, while Juanita stood by the record player, and said gravely: ‘You are having difficulties. Is there any assistance I can give?’

  She shook her head, longing to say: Yes - come and join in, and instead said aloud: ‘Thank you, senor, but it is going to take a little while for them to lose their shyness.’

  He nodded and moved away, and then suddenly the adults seemed to melt away and the children were left in possession.

  The two English children then decided to take on the roles of helpers and at last the party got under way. Half an hour later Bruce arrived, instigated a hilarious version in Spanish of ‘ Simon Says’, which broke down the final barriers of reserve and ended in cries of ‘Otra vez!’ from the small guests. After that they adjourned to the buffet tea and Joaquin solemnly blew out the seven candles before the cake was cut. The party had been a great success after all, Hilary thought with relief when the children had been borne away by nursemaids and chauffeurs. True, there had been one crying match, two arguments that almost came to blows, and a sad case of too much excitement combined with too much to eat, but Bruce had been wonderful. Although she was exhausted she was feeling happier when she bathed and changed for dinner and the informal party to follow.

  When the dancing started on the patio she was bright-eyed and pink-cheeked as Bruce swept her into the circle. The Conde was not yet dancing. He was standing in the shadows talking to the Condesa and Sanchia, but he would dance later, she was sure, and surely he would choose her for his partner for one dance. Hilary’s heartbeat quickened and she spun in Bruce’s arms and dreamed the tender little dreams of new love. Hadn’t he once taken her in his arms and vowed he had a mind to teach her the meaning of emotion?

  She imagined his arms round her and a tremor so violent passed through her slender body that Bruce stared down at her.

  ‘Cold?’ he said incredulously.

  ‘No - I - I nearly slipped. ’ How love could make one learn

  to lie, she thought with a flash of compunction as Bruce got her a drink and stood at her side for a moment.

  ‘I’ll be back - don’t circulate too far,’ he adjured with a grin before drawing a somewhat wistful-looking Juanita on to the floor.

  She sat down, sipping her drink and feeling alone, yet quite content to await what the evening might bring. She had lost sight of the Conde, but Sanchia passed by, the faithful and hopeful Don Miguel perspiring in tow, and smiled her sad smile as she surrendered to her corpulent suitor’s embrace. Hilary felt a flash of sympathy, then heard the quiet voice of Dona Elena at her side.

  ‘How wonderful to have the staying power of the young!’ Dona Elena settled herself stiffly and smiled wryly at Hilary. ‘Are you not tired, my dear, after all those noisy little ones?’

  ‘Not really - it’s gone off. ’ Hilary was watching Sanchia, wondering how she could bear to submit to the hot, amorous embrace - for it was that rather than any dancing hold - of a man she so obviously did not love. Then she forgot Sanchia as she saw the striking head that towered above the crowd. He was exceptionally tall for a Latin, she thought dreamily. He would never run to grossness in age, or ... A tiny sigh

  escaped her and chased the tenderness from her mouth. Consuelo was moving confidently into his arms, as though she had every right to be there.

  ‘They make a handsome couple, do they not?’

  The soft voice of Dona Elena sent a chill through Hilary’s veins. Consuelo’s gown was of a bold white with slashed insets of black lurex. Only a flamboyant personality could have carried it, and she looked sleek and superb, like a sinuous cheetah, thought Hilary, unable to avoid watching how close Consuelo’s dark head was against the Conde’s shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps the Condesa’s visit has a special purpose this time,’ Dona Elena mused, almost as though to herself. ‘Ruaz must take himself a bride some day - though we have almost despaired of ever seeing that day.’

  A constriction closed round Hilary’s heart, making it difficult for her to breathe. She whispered: ‘The Condesa is staying for some time?’

  ‘Until after the fiesta. She is coming with us to Huaroya -where we go every year for the festival of thanksgiving for the crops. And I have a feeling in my romantic old heart that this year is to be the occasion we have all longed for. ’

  Hilary gave a choked little murmur. The music had stopped and the Conde and his beautiful partner were crossing the patio to where his mother held her court of reunion with her old friends and acquaintances. The Condesa was smiling. She took both of Consuelo’s hands within her own and drew the girl down so that she could whisper something to her. When Consuelo straightened she was laughing.

  Dona Elena sighed, a sigh of happiness that struck the chill of misery into the silent girl at her side. Dona Elena had never made any secret of her hopes for her nephew and the lovely daughter of her dearest friend. Now it looked as though those dreams were to come true at last...

  CHAPTER NINE

  A calm enfolded the villa after the departure of the guests the following morning, but Hilary knew it would be short-lived. Holiday time was approaching and the excitement of fiesta in the air, not a little of it engendered by Joaquin who remained in a particularly boisterous mood long after his own party was over.

  Hilary’s head ached, and she was thankful when the Condesa, on

  her way to visit friends across town, decided at the last moment to take Joaquin along with her. But when his exuberant young voice faded with the car the listlessness of depression closed round Hilary and she almost wished him back. The villa seemed deserted, and she returned to the coolness of her room where she swallowed a couple of aspirins and settled down to write a long-overdue letter home. But the sentences would not flow from her pen. She could see only the mental image that haunted her throughout the silent hours of the night. The features that could be grave, imperious, aloof, demanding, occasionally whimsical, often challenging, but were now infinitely endearing. Was he in love with Consuelo?

  It was difficult to tell. Ruaz was something of an enigma. Did Consuelo call him by that intimate family name? A flash of envy that was a physical pain stabbed at Hilary as her imagination leapt where she would rather restrain it. If he had to take one of the two sisters she would much prefer it to be Sanchia, whose sad smile told of unhappiness not told. Was that the reason? Had she lost one love, only to discover another that was not for her?

  Hilary was so engrossed in her thoughts she did not hear the tap on the door or it opening. When Juanita looked into the room, calling a soft inquiry, Hilary turned with a startled exclamation. Instantly Juanita drew back.

  ‘I am sorry. I did not know if— Are you ill?’ Concern flowed into her small piquant features. ‘Is there anything—?’

  ‘No, I’m fine - it was a bit of a headache.’ Hilary went to open the partly closed shades, letting the hot silver-gilt light pour into the room. ‘It’s gone now.’

  ‘Are you sure? You look very pale.’ Juanita backed as she spoke. ‘I will leave you in peace.’

  ‘No, please stay.’ Hilary spoke quickly, touched by Juanita’s concern. During the days since her return from Valparaiso Juanita had kept her own counsel, and she had also worn a certain secretive look that did not exactly convey either the anger or the despair she had shown prior to the visit. Looking at her now, Hilary decided she could relax her anxiety over that respect; the storm seemed to have blown over. She said, ‘Do you want to go out today?’

  ‘Everyone else has, so I think we stay here and please ourselves.’ Juanita struck a pose in front of the mirror and fluttered an imaginary fan. ‘What are you going to wear at the fiesta?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do we dress up?’ Hilary’s query was mechanical; she had scarcely given a thought to the fiesta, still less to what she would wear.

  ‘But of course! Did you not know? There are fireworks and the

  procession, and afterwards we have our ow
n celebration and dance, and everyone drinks too much wine, and you cannot see the ground for flower petals, and— Oh! you must have a special costume.’ ‘What have you chosen?’

  Juanita’s lashes dropped. ‘It is a secret, but I will tell you first when we get there. Joaquin is going as a soldier, a—’

  ‘You needn’t tell me. A conquistador.’

  Juanita giggled. ‘And Consuelo is going as Carmen, of the opera.’

  Hilary nodded. She could picture Consuelo making a striking Carmen.

  ‘She gave them the idea of choosing famous operatic characters this year,’ Juanita went on. ‘Sanchia is going as Violetta, and Don Miguel as Figaro, the Barber. But we must think of something exciting for you, my Hilary.’ Juanita assumed a thoughtful expression, studying Hilary’s soft silky fair hair and gentle oval features. Suddenly she exclaimed: ‘Why not? Come, I have the very thing.’

  In her own room, watched by a wondering Hilary, she dragged out a large box from the bottom of her wardrobe. She lifted the lid and from layers of tissue scooped out a billowing froth of creamy lace. She held it aloft and it melted softly into the form of tight bodice, long slender sleeves and a swirling fullness of skirt. ‘It is eighteenth-century - I had it for a play at school last year. I think it will fit you.’ She put it on the bed and delved back into the box. ‘There is a mantilla ... here it is.’

  She put it over her hair, and her shining black hair gleamed bluish through the sheer lace of the mantilla. A thousand tiny jewels made it like a veil of stars, so light and fine was the material, and Hilary touched it with a gentle finger.

  ‘If s beautiful - but I’d be afraid anything happened to it.’

  Juanita waved this aside with an expansive gesture. ‘No matter. I shall not be wearing it again,’ She paused, her head to one side, then sniffed. ‘I think you are afraid you have not the fire to be a Spanishprincesa for one night. ’