‘Have no fear, Jaime,’ he said. ‘I am not rash enough to imagine that I will make a conquest immediately. Cathy will be hard to win!’
Catherine felt distinctly uncomfortable. The others were looking at her, Teresa with amusement, Lucia with frank distaste, and Don Jaime with something like anger in his eyes. No one answered Ramon’s foolish boast, but the unguarded remark suggested that he might be the gay Lothario of the family, the youngest son encouraged to be macho by indulgent parents because they had little more to offer him. Eduardo had been their heir, and Don Jaime after him, but a third son would have to rely solely on his wits and whatever charm he might possess.
The meal ended with large bowls of fresh fruit being passed round, peaches, dates and sweet Almeria grapes, all grown on the estate, and Don Jaime refilled their glasses with the smooth white wine which he had poured for the main course. A good sharp cheese followed with the excellent coffee which Dona Lucia poured at the table.
It was midnight before they finally rose to go to bed and Lucia, as befitted the hostess, lingered in the sala while the others moved towards the staircase.
‘Jaime,’ she said briskly, ‘may I speak with you for a moment?’
Don Jaime turned back towards the fireplace where they had all been sitting discussing Madrid.
‘Now, out will come all the complaints!’ Teresa murmured. ‘Jaime will have to listen to every little detail of domestic upheaval until she gets it all out of her system. Also—’
She paused and Catherine turned to look at her.
‘There’s you and me,’ Teresa added. ‘Neither of us pleases my stepmother. I never have, and you have just come as a great shock to her. She expected you to be middle-aged and plain.’
‘Everyone did,’ Catherine sighed. ‘Even Don Jaime. When he first met me at the airport I thought he was about to send me straight back to London on the next flight.’
‘The Marquesa would not have it, and I am glad,’ Teresa declared, linking her arm in Catherine’s. ‘It is good to have someone young to talk to.’
‘Your stepmother isn’t exactly old,’ Catherine pointed out.
‘She’s twenty-nine,’ Teresa returned briskly. ‘One year older than Jaime. She married my father when she was twenty-five because no one else had spoken for her.’
‘Must a girl still be “spoken for” in Spain?’ Catherine asked doubtfully.
‘Not always. We are more emancipated now and can choose for ourselves, but Lucia came from a very strict family and she had lived all her life in the country. She was very old-fashioned, but always she was jealous. It is a very dangerous thing to be, don’t you think?’ She paused by the bedroom door.
‘Carried to excess,’ Catherine admitted.
Ramon, who had followed them up the staircase, came to say a final goodnight.
‘Still gossiping!’ he observed. ‘You will not be able to rise early in the morning if you stay up half the night talking.’ He held Catherine’s friendly smile. ‘Let me take you riding tomorrow, senorita,’ he begged. ‘I will show you the hacienda at its best.’
‘You will not!’ Teresa exclaimed. ‘I am going to do that and, besides, Cathy has no skill in riding. She must go quietly at first, and you are a demon on horseback, Ramon!’
‘Would you prefer that I ride a little donkey?’ he mocked. ‘You do not like it because I can handle a horse better than you!’ He was openly teasing now. ‘We will find Cathy a gentle mount and all will be well.’
‘You must remember that I have come here to work,’ Catherine protested.
‘Oh, work!’ Teresa frowned. ‘I have too much of that already.’
‘You will return to the convent in the autumn,’ her uncle pointed out, ‘and then you will have to work.’
The pregnant silence with which Teresa met his challenge suggested that she would resist a return to her schooldays with all her might.
‘We shall see,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I shall be seventeen before the autumn and quite grown up.’
‘I must wait around to see that day!’ Ramon grinned. ‘Buenas noches, Cathy—until tomorrow!’
As he left them to walk round the gallery to the other side of the house Don Jaime and his sister-in-law came to the foot of the stairs, and suddenly Catherine felt her gaze drawn downwards to where they stood. Don Jaime was frowning as he watched his brother’s progress along the gallery and then he turned and went out through the patio doors into the star-filled night.
In the morning Catherine was last down to breakfast because it had been almost two o’clock before she had finally fallen asleep.
‘I’ve disgraced myself,’ she said, glancing at the used plates on the circular table in the morning-room. ‘Everyone seems to have gone to work.’
She was thinking of Don Jaime more than anyone else, wondering what he might have had to say about her late appearance.
‘Oh, Jaime and Ramon leave at the crack of dawn,’ Teresa said, helping herself to a ripe peach, ‘and Lucia is already about her household tasks. Didn’t you hear the noise from the kitchens as you came down? There is always a battle scene first thing in the morning, since nothing is ever quite right for Lucia.’
Her stepmother put in her appearance at the open doorway.
‘Ah, you are there, Miss Royce,’ she observed, leaving an unspoken ‘at last’ quivering in the air between them. ‘Don Jaime thinks that Teresa and you should have the use of a study for your work.’ She had stressed the final word. ‘I have arranged that this should be so and Teresa will show you the small salon which I can put at your disposal while you remain here.’
In the full, clear morning light she looked older than her twenty-nine years, but there was no doubt about the beauty of the long, blue-black hair which she wore coiled regally about her head. It was her crowning glory, and this morning she had dressed it even higher with a magnificent tortoiseshell comb thrust into the plait at the back, adding extra height to her slim, taut figure as she stood waiting for Catherine’s reply. The sun was shining and birds were flitting among the garden trees while the scent of a thousand flowers filled the air. It was a day to be out in the open, but Lucia had stressed the fact that the English girl had come to Soria to work.
‘Thank you,’ said Catherine. ‘I’ll arrange my books there as soon as they arrive.’
Lucia hesitated in the doorway.
‘Surely Teresa has sufficient books of her own,’ she suggested. ‘I seem to remember that her father was always buying her books of one kind or another when he visited Madrid, but Don Jaime has spoken to me about the books you expect to arrive and I will see that they are delivered to you immediately.’
It was as if they were living in separate establishments, Catherine thought, noticing that Lucia was still wearing the ruby which had been her sole adornment the evening before. In the bright sunshine it gleamed against the dark background of her dress like a malevolent eye, absorbing the light to fling it back in shafts of living flame which were almost dazzling to the eye. Not a jewel to be worn first thing in the morning, Catherine would have thought, reminding herself in the next breath that Lucia’s ruby was no affair of hers.
‘We can work in the open on the shaded end of the patio outside the salon windows,’ Teresa suggested when they were left alone. ‘Lucia must have her little say, but it amounts to nothing. Jaime will not object to us studying in the fresh air or even riding while we talk. We will not even have to consult him.’
They spent the entire morning arranging the little salon for their own use. It was an intimate little room at the far end of the patio, its windows shaded by the overgrown creeper which cascaded from the tiled roof of the colonnaded walkway leading on to the terraces, and the view of the valley it commanded was truly magnificent. Time slipped away pleasantly until Teresa pointed out that it was one o’clock.
‘Let’s eat here,’ she suggested. ‘It will be fun doing as we please.’
Already some of the sullen expression had left her face; she
smiled more often and had been far more communicative as they had planned a suitable schedule for their daily work, even offering a suggestion or two of her own to augment Catherine’s quite lengthy list of plays and books to be read, although she still insisted that they should often ride together.
‘You must try on a pair of my jodhpurs,’ she suggested, standing up to measure their respective heights. ‘They’re going to be wide round the middle,’ she sighed regretfully, ‘but you can always belt them in.’
Catherine wondered what her uncle might have to say about the riding lessons, but certainly they needn’t involve Ramon or keep him from his work on the estate.
Teresa went to order their lunch, which was brought to them on a tray by Sisa and laid out on the low stone wall of the patio among the flowers. It was a lovely setting, light and shade alternating along the entire length of the colonnades, with the dazzling brilliance of the sun beyond and, far in the distance, the ever-present peak of El Teide rising against the cloudless blue of the sky.
‘Pulpitos!’ Teresa exclaimed, raising the lid of a covered dish to reveal a quantity of fried squid. ‘Jaime likes them served “in their ink”, but Lucia orders them as a special dish for him. He does not often come back at midday unless he has to telephone to Santa Cruz or the puerto. It will be cocido tonight because he is also fond of that.’
Lucia obviously did her best to please her brother-in-law, giving her orders accordingly, and they heard her haranguing the servants as they made their way across the hall half an hour later.
‘There she goes!’ Teresa declared. ‘The exacting mistress of Soria who never lets one single detail escape her eagle eye!’ Then, on a sudden change of mood, she added lightly: ‘Come to my room as soon as you have taken your siesta and you can try on my riding trousers. Then I shall tell Manuel to bring round the horses.’
Unused to sleeping during the day, Catherine spent the next hour rearranging her room to draw the small writing-desk nearer to the window and place a chair up there, too. Sunshine was too precious a thing in her English eyes to waste, however, and she was soon out on her balcony looking out across the garden to the terraces below and beyond them to the distant sea. On either side of the vines another sea of waving banana fronds stirred languidly before a little errant breeze which stole down from El Teide, but otherwise the world was very still. In the quiet siesta hour the patio lay peacefully in the shadow of its overhanging eaves with only a fat green lizard darting occasionally among the stones. She thought of Lucia and the man in the enveloping poncho who had met and talked secretly down there the evening before. It could have been anyone—a servant, a male acquaintance reluctant to gatecrash, the family reunion on Don Jaime’s return—yet surely there should have been no great need for secrecy.
Another man made his appearance at the end of the terrace wall and she drew back with a gasp as he rode towards her. It was Don Jaime seated on a magnificent Arab horse, the Conquistador himself.
She had never seen him on horseback before, but this was surely his true element. Tall and straight, he sat easily in the saddle, one strong hand controlling the rein, the other negligently by his side, his proud head averted as his eagle gaze scanned the vast extent of his possessions. He had ridden long in the heat, it seemed, because the soft leather boots he wore were covered in the fine red dust of the valley, but he did not appear to be in need of the siesta which everyone else enjoyed.
She listened to the sound of the approaching horse as it negotiated the brick-paved road to the stables, but suddenly it was arrested. The Arab’s head was turned in her direction and Don Jaime de Berceo Madroza was looking up at her in full sunlight. Her heart seemed to miss a beat as he took off his wide-brimmed Cordoban hat and swept her a mocking bow.
‘I thought you would have been asleep,’ he said.
‘I never sleep in the middle of the day.’
‘That is very unwise of you. What have you been doing all morning?’
‘Arranging the “schoolroom”. Teresa and I will begin work there tomorrow in earnest.’
‘Have you everything you need? If not, you must ask Lucia or Manuel.’
‘Teresa thought we might ride a short distance later in the afternoon,’ she said tentatively.
‘Why not? You can’t be expected to work all day. Teresa, for one, would not agree! Besides, when you are riding together you can be talking together, but I thought you told me that you did not ride very well.’
‘Teresa thinks I should learn.’
‘So you shall. I will speak to Manuel about a suitable mount for you, one that will not run away with you the very first time.’
He seemed to be faintly amused by the thought of someone who could not ride, but he had been brought up with all the privileges, she told herself angrily.
‘Perhaps I would be safer on a mule,’ she suggested.
‘Mules can prove much more difficult to ride if they have the proverbial stubborn streak in them,’ he assured her, dismounting from his magnificent white horse. ‘You may have to use one occasionally—if you go to Las Canadas, for instance, to climb El Teide in the traditional manner— but for the present I would stick to one of the ponies, if I were you. I will speak to Manuel.’
He paused, still looking up at her, his dark head uncovered, his deeply-tanned face thoughtful for a moment, and suddenly the scent of stephanotis was all about them, too strong for Catherine to bear. She drew back into the shelter of her room as he led the horse away.
Five minutes later, Teresa was calling to her from her own bedroom.
‘Come and try these on,’ she commanded when Catherine made her appearance at the adjacent door. ‘I haven’t worn them for a long time, so they should almost fit.’
She held out a pair of yellow jodhpurs made from very fine cavalry twill and patched on the inside of the leg with a pale skin as delicate as chamois, which possibly came from the local goats roaming in abundance among the hills.
‘Are you sure?’ Catherine asked, laughing as her eye caught the inscription blazoned in lipstick across Teresa’s dressing-table mirror.
‘CAKES ARE DANGEROUS’, the younger girl had printed in letters a foot high.
‘I have to be constantly reminded,’ she confessed. ‘Do you think I will ever slim?’
‘If you try hard enough you will soon be asking for those back.’ Catherine had slipped into the perfectly-fitting jodhpurs to survey herself in what was left of the mirror. ‘Thank you for being so kind, Teresa.’
They went downstairs and out to the courtyard to find Lucia there with Don Jaime.
‘But I shall need Manuel this afternoon,’ Lucia was saying. ‘I wish him to carry the flowerpots to the patio for me.’
‘You have Alfredo to fall back on,’ her brother-in-law pointed out. ‘I am sure he is quite as efficient as Manuel when it comes to carrying flowerpots.’
His suave rejoinder seemed to madden Lucia.
‘Manuel is my personal servant!’ she exclaimed furiously. ‘I will not have him used for—anyone else.’
It was evident that she meant Catherine, and suddenly the atmosphere became electric as Manuel led two well-groomed ponies into the courtyard. Catherine turned to look at him. He was small and dark and intense, with a magnetism about him which she found hard to describe as she gazed back into his coal-black eyes. He was the man in the poncho whom Lucia had met so clandestinely in the shadowed colonnades of the patio the evening before.
There could be no doubt about it. The small figure in the gaily-coloured blanket was unmistakable, although now Manuel stood back obediently, waiting for his mistress’s command.
‘You will go with the senoritas this afternoon, Manuel,’ Don Jaime told him, ‘and you will lead Vivo most of the way.’ He turned back to Catherine. ‘Vivo is one of our quieter ponies,’ he assured her. ‘His speed belies his name.’
‘I hope so,’ Catherine smiled. ‘I’ve only been on a horse once before and I don’t think he really took to me.’
‘Vivo will be your friend if you handle him properly.’ He cast an expert eye over her trim figure, obviously approving the borrowed jodhpurs.
‘Teresa lent them to me,’ she explained.
Manuel was standing beside the pony, waiting to help her into the saddle, but his master stepped forward to hold the stirrup for her. Suddenly the little animal seemed enormous, but she would not let Don Jaime see how nervous she was. Besides, Lucia was looking on with faint scorn in her eyes. I’ll do it as gracefully as I can, Catherine thought, glancing sideways at the ancient mounting-block which nobody seemed to use.
‘Up you go!’ said Don Jaime, supporting her until she was safely in the saddle.
She sat there holding her breath for a moment after that initial effort, but whether it was at the touch of his hand or from nervousness of a new experience was difficult to say. Teresa leapt on to the back of the other pony, urging him across the cobbles with a disdainful look in Manuel’s direction which dared him to suggest a leading-rein, but Catherine was glad of the young Spaniard’s quiet assurance as he led Vivo slowly away.
Looking back as they rounded the gable end of the house, she saw Lucia turn angrily along the patio, but Don Jaime stood watching their progress until they were finally out of sight.
Manuel, mounted on his own shaggy pony, kept the leading-rein firmly in his hand, a fact for which she was grateful as Teresa took off at some speed in the direction of the door through which they had entered the afternoon before. Waiting for Manuel to open it, she looked down at him with some scorn.
‘You have no need to be silent, Manuel,’ she said. ‘I know you can speak English quite well and will listen to everything we say.’
Meeting in Madrid Page 7
