At the Villa Massina

by Celine Conway

  “Won’t you have any cattle?” she enquired politely.

  “But certainly. They will be moved elsewhere, that is all.” He turned the car between the pillars of the Castillo, but went on in the same instructive manner, “I am also hoping to erect oil-extraction machinery somewhere ne the town. Did you know there is not enough olive-oil in the world, Miss Darrell?”

  “No, but then I’m from Britain, where we don’t use so much cooking oil.”

  “Ah, one is from Britain, and that excuses everything,” he said coolly, as he braked. “You children would like to play in the pavilion, no?”

  “Yes, please,” said Rina.

  “Very well. Let us first place Miss Darrell in the salon, and I will find someone to go with you. Come.”

  As usual, there were uniformed servants ready to save the Senor Conde a yard’s walk, but he waved them away, saying that he himself would look after the guests. He put Juliet into one of the ornate hall chairs, told her he would not be more than two minutes, and took the children through one of the rooms and into a corridor. Juliet sat stiffly, with her hands clasped. She could feel nerves tingling all over her body and knew it would do her much more good to stand up and walk about. She did get up, but she did not move far, for through a doorway she saw the portrait which had puzzled and interested her that day when she had brought Lyle Whitman to the Castillo.

  The room was empty, and Juliet drew closer, till she was inside the doorway. It really was a most magnetic portrait. The proud head of dark red curls with that audacious blue plume, the pink and white skin, the glorious black and silver gown drawn into a tiny waist; she looked seductive, her expression proud and defiant.

  Juliet did not hear Ramiro till he was just behind her, and then it was too late to withdraw from the room. So she said,

  “The girl in the portrait looks very young, and very fiery. What is she—seventeenth century?”

  “Yes, very early in that century.” He looked from the portrait and back to Juliet, consideringly. “You admire her?”

  “Yes, I think I do. She must have had tremendous spirit. She wasn’t a Spaniard, was she?”

  “No, she was not a Spaniard. She was from Scotland—the daughter of a duke. There was a young son of the Conde de Vallos—my ancestor—who visited Scotland and fell in love with her. He brought her here for his father’s approval to their marriage, but she and the eldest son fell furiously in love, and after the manner of those times, the younger son was removed for the wedding-day and the heir took his place. With such a beginning, their married life was bound to be turbulent!”

  “So she eventually became the Condesa. How old was she when the portrait was painted?”

  “I have sometimes compared her with my own countrywomen and wondered. Now, seeing you here beside the portrait, I would say she was twenty-two, as you are. At Cadiz I have the history of the marriage; they were always fighting and making love, those two, and both were favorites with Philip, the King.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Very Scottish—Jean, though she appears in letters as Juana.” Again he gave her a long contemplative glance. “Why does she interest you so much?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly because she’s so unexpected in a place like this. I suppose she’s the one foreigner you’ve had in your family?”

  “How did you learn that we had had only one?”

  “Inez told me.”

  He turned from the portrait and shrugged. “No doubt Inez also told you that the only son of this woman was a young man with the wild blood of the old Scottish kings in his veins—that he was killed in a duel. His uncle succeeded to the estates.”

  Juliet heard herself saying lightly, “Well, she was a warning, wasn’t she? I daresay Spanish blood is quite warm enough when it’s unmixed.”

  “Yes, you are right,” he said non-committally. “One would think very deeply about marriage before departing from the tradition.” He paused. “I believe Inez keeps a copy of the family records here in this desk. But, no, she has locked the drawer, and she is out with a friend at the moment so we must save that pleasure for another day. You would like some coffee, senorita?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you, senor. As a ... matter of fact, I’ve something I ... I wish to ask you.”

  The dark glance became watchful. “You are hesitant. Is it something which embarrasses you?”

   “Yes. Yes, it does. I hope you’ll be patient with me ... and not get angry.”

  He stiffened slightly. “Let us go outside, Miss Darrell. We will have a small drink on the terrace and you will tell me this thing which may make me angry. I warn you, on one or two subjects I am not approachable at present.”

  Uneasily, Juliet smiled. She let him take her elbow and lead her down that magnificent terrace with the Moorish arches overhead and the great expanses of formal gardens to the right; tasted the sweetness of his nearness. Nearly at the end of the terrace a door stood open, and outside it a table and low cushioned chairs were set. Ramiro gave no orders, but a servant appeared, bearing a tray loaded with glasses and bottles, a crystal jug, a silver bucket of ice, a chased silver dish of tiny shellfish.

  Perhaps through nervousness, Juliet laughed. “You Spaniards are all the same at this hour of the day. Seafood snacks and wines. I didn’t think I’d come across it here at the Castillo.”

  As he poured he looked very foreign and unsmiling. “No? But we too are Spanish. Why should we at the Castillo be so different from the business men who take mid-morning refreshment at the Cafe? A light wine for you, Miss Darrell—and please drink as if you enjoy it.”

  Actually, it was an excellent wine, which even Juliet might have appreciated at some other time. She raised her glass near his, smiled perfunctorily at his “Salud!” and sipped. A nerve was jumping at the back of her jaw and she was afraid that if she spoke at once her voice would crack. So she set down the glass and looked through the curved and ornamented fretwork of the terrace wall at a rectangular pond where pink and yellow lilies opened their waxen beauty against the gleaming dark green of huge leaves. The lawns and paths edged by long carpet runners of blossom, the flowering shrubs, the deodars and cedars, the ornamental palms, the distant maze, topiarized into bird and animal shapes, the trees beyond and the heavenly sky.

  “One can understand your sister liking this estate so much,” she said, to test her own voice control. “One can see it’s been as lovely as this for centuries.”

  He nodded, apparently as willing to put off her problem as she. “I wouldn’t like Inez to be able always to use this place, but it is not good for her to stay here permanently. You are an observant young woman, Miss Darrell, so you have probably noticed that it would give me great pleasure if she were to marry Manuel Verrar.”

  Looking down at her fingers she said, “Both you and Dona Inez are anxious to get each other married. Perhaps if one of you decided, the other would be persuaded it was a good plan.”

  Coolly, he said, “You may be right, Miss Darrell. But I feel there is more to this change in Inez than I have yet discovered. Her life here does not alter, yet she herself is changing rapidly. In one way, this difference is good, because she is more alive, more conscious of everything than she has been since the sudden death of her husband. In another way, it is unfortunate; Manuel Verrar had set his heart on this marriage, with my complete approval.”

  “So you feel you’ve ... failed?”

  It was another of the words one should not use to the Conde. The skin seemed to tighten just slightly across his cheekbones, his eyes narrowed. “No, the setback has merely irritated me,” he said with a superb gesture of indifference. “I will deal with it. And now, senorita, for this business which embarrasses you. Am I right in assuming it is concerned with a gem which came into my possession?”

  This was too sudden. Juliet smiled weakly, found the smile wouldn’t hold, and didn’t bother any longer how she appeared. She took another sip of wine and sat back in the low chair.
<
br />   “You are quite right, senor,” she answered with creditable calmness. “I’ve been trying to find the courage to come here and ask you for it.”

  “Even though I had already refused to give it to you? Why do you think I should change my mind, Miss Darrell?”

  “I ... only hoped.” She paused, to swallow on the dryness in her throat. “I can’t explain everything, but it would mean a great deal to me if you would let me have it without any more ... probing.

  “The ... probing, as you call it, is very inconvenient I know that,” he said sharply. “You take great care not to be seen with this man, but obviously you communicate with him, and he is growing impatient. Good! I am glad to hear it. And now tell me why the return of this stone is so important to you. Why are you so desperately anxious to do this man the favor? He is handsome, and you are infatuated, no?”

  For an instant she thought of telling him the truth—that Inez might be involved. But the fear of what could happen to Norma’s marriage if she spilled so much as a syllable kept her sane.

  She said huskily, “I’m not asking you to do this for anyone but me. You’ve said many times that I’d only to ask you for help and it would be forthcoming; yet when I beg for this—yes, I’m begging, senor!—you turn me down every time.”

  “And I will continue to do so!” he said violently, across the table. “But this time I will tell you why. You and this enganador have been carefully attempting to hoodwink me, but I was not deceived, even for a moment. He is smooth, this Lyle Whitman, and he uses his dual nationality with cleverness and charm—particularly is he irresistible to his countrywomen, for they understand him and yet are teased by this slightly alien air. Do not deny anything to me, senorita. I know too much!”

  His mouth was thin and cruel, his speech rapid. “I learned it the day after I found the stone in the villa. Do you think it is usual for a young woman, newly arrived among us, to be visited by a stranger who carelessly displays his collection of jewels? It is not! That is why I took immediate steps to discover his identity. A writer, or so he pretends—with a private income, and the habit of carrying his collection about with him. He is also something more!”

  She thought faintly, he knows about Norma; what am I to do?

  Unsteadily, she said, “Once you had discovered all this it was unfair not to tell me. I could have come to you with Lyle and saved myself a heap of worry.”

  “But why should you be so disturbed?” he demanded. “What was there about Lyle Whitman which appealed to you so much that you promised to keep his name secret? He made love to you, so bemused you that you promised without reason!”

  It was appalling, but a relief. Ramiro didn’t know about Norma; he only knew Lyle’s identity and about the stones, and that was why he leapt at once to the obvious conclusion that Lyle had beguiled Juliet Darrell into keeping his secret; beguile her by making love to her.

  She said slowly, “You knew who he was. Why did you keep asking me?”

  His nostrils thinned with distaste. “You would not understand, Miss Darrell. I wanted honesty from you; it was more important to me than your friend’s dishonesty. But you were loyal to him, and so you could not be truthful with me. A woman is capable of such extreme loyalty to only one man—the one she loves. I am sorry for you, my child. For a long time your life will be very unhappy.”

  She had to get the chaos of her mind into some sort of order. Her hand went up to her brow, but she dropped it again instantly, and turned her head from him.

  “I’m sorry to have disappointed you, senor,” she said in low tones. “Nothing is as you think it is, but I can’t explain. I’ll tell Lyle that he must come to you.”

  “But it is of no use for him to come to me now!” No one else could have imbued the words with such crisp fury. “The cat’s eye is no longer in my possession. I certainly do not wish to see it again. You may tell Mr. Whitman that if he wishes to regain the stone he must go to the office of the Guardias Civiles in San Federigo.”

  “Police?” she whispered.

  He bent forward, and said with an icy deliberation which scarcely masked his rage, “You have questioned nothing about the man, have you, senorita? He is British, so whatever he says you will believe. He collects unset gems and you have admired them, he has a way with him which catches at the heart.” His eyes glittered. “Let me tell you some things about this man you loved at first sight! He is a gambler of sorts. A smuggler. He receives uncut diamonds and arranges their transport across France to Amsterdam and London. His payment is in lesser stones—those you have seen.” He was on his feet now, gazing at her with burning jet eyes. “It is not yet known how he disposes of his payment, but it is thought that he has contact with a jeweller who sets them before they are placed on the market. All very shrewd—except that he is a man of conceit, who cannot resist showing his possessions to a pretty girl. He is even so foolish as to let one of his prizes slip to the floor!”

  Juliet’s lungs seemed to have had the air squeezed out of them and her heart thudded so loudly that it might have been audible inside the Castillo; today it was being forced to work incredibly hard.

  “Senor,” she managed, “I can’t believe it. Lyle’s just an ordinary man who has somehow missed his way. Those gems ...” Then she remembered that many of them had been bought by the Conde’s sister, and the mosaic floor of the terrace lifted towards her as though it were hinged. But she clung to her senses. “You ... you told the police about Lyle?”

  His teeth snapped and a muscle jerked in his jaw. “I did not. I told them only that the jewel had been found and they must keep it till it was claimed.”

  “You did that! Why?”

  “Dios ... why! I do not know,” he said, steely-voiced. “Except that you are young and unbelievably foolish, that you do not deserve to be mixed with that creature!”

  “But how do you know so much about his activities?”

  “I have taken it upon myself to discover, from the police and others. It was only when I knew for certain that he was a smuggler that I passed the stone to the authorities. They suspected that the smuggler lives in the Bahia de Manca, but they do not know him.”

  “Do you think they will find out all about him?”

  “In time, yes. It is inevitable. And he will deserve the punishment they give him. As for you, senorita...”

  She got up, nodded shakily, “You don’t have to say it, senor. I ... I don’t quite know what I’m going to do, but I certainly shan’t approach you about it again.”

  “And this Whitman,” he said forcibly. “I command you not to see him!”

  “I can't promise because ... well, I’m not sure how things will go,” she said weakly. “Please believe that I don’t want to see him.”

  “I will believe that if you obey me,” he said curtly. “Your distress is comprehensible, of course, and you will naturally be desolate for some time. Perhaps you have learned a lesson—perhaps not.” That cruel tightness came back into his expression. “I will give you my opinion, Miss Darrell. You came here without a guardian and played with your freedom. Mario Perez was Spanish and quite new to you in his ways; Whitman was experienced and a little different from the Englishmen you knew in England. Both of them flattered you and you were ready for a love affair. With Mario it could not advance very far, but Mr. Lyle Whitman did not scruple to use his charm for his own ends. You were in a mood to be enchanted.” The violence had completely gone and left him cold and stern. “I regret that such a man should make you suffer. I do not know if he is truly bad or if he is merely the victim of his own weakness. However it is, he is no fit mate for any woman. I advise you to forget him.”

  “And if I can’t?

  “I myself will tell the police where to find their smuggler. I will also cable your relatives in England!”

  Juliet said nothing at all. She felt Ramiro very close, and found that her hands were clenched wetly against her sides and a cold sweat was standing out across the bridge of her nose and at her tem
ples. He took her wrist suddenly in a grip that bruised; she cast him a startled glance, backed instinctively and felt the stone wall against the soft flesh of her side.

  The next moment Tony chased round the pond below and yelled something about being followed by the Moors.

  The tension snapped; her hand was dropped. Ramiro moved away, called down to the child with stony calmness.

  “Find your sister, Tonio. I am taking you all back to the villa.”

  They drove away from the Castillo and as, from a bend in the road, Juliet caught a glimpse of the old sculptured walls, she had the fatal conviction that she was seeing them for the last time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE next couple of days passed quietly at the Villa Massina. Luisa went down to town and to church, so that Juliet was often alone in the house and garden with the children. All three of them forged ahead with Tony’s fishpond, and the physical exertion provided relief. Rina was persuaded to stay in the shade and she was given some raw tiles to paint and was promised that those which were good enough would be sent to one of the cottages where they made pottery, for glazing. Tony used an ancient spirit level which had been borrowed, through Juan, from a retired builder, and though he was not too sure what he was about, he worked feverishly and with excitement.

  On Saturday morning the children went down to the beach, and she followed them, bringing with her a thermos flask of ice-cold milk flavored with strawberry and a few biscuits. They all bathed and dug, snoozed in the sand under the pines, and when they were fully awake again Rina spoke of school lessons. She hadn’t had any at all since Christmas, so she did some simple arithmetic with a twig in the sand and Tony took the keenest pleasure in scrubbing each sum out as she finished it. He was very willing to wait till early September before starting school.