Bride in Waiting

by Susan Barrie

  BRIDE IN WAITING

  Susan Barrie

  Don Carlos de Formera y Santos was one of the most eligible men in the whole of Spain, and he had a beautiful sixteen-year old ward for whom he had the greatest affection, and who would obviously give anything to become his wife.

  Why then did he propose marriage to a very ordinary English girl whom he hardly knew?

  CHAPTER I

  The flat seemed very empty as April moved about it. In Senora Cortez’ bedroom her hastily denuded dressing-table was still thick with powder, and there were one or two dresses hanging up in the wardrobe, but otherwise the room was completely changed. Not even the heavy scent of French perfume could bring Senora Cortez back to the room as a regular occupant.

  Of the dresses she had said disdainfully, as she cast them aside:

  “I shall not require them. My husband chose them, and I dislike them intensely, so you can have them. They’re about your size, and they’ll see you through a few parties if you’re thinking of going gay during the next few weeks.”

  Not a word about the many weeks of salary owing to April, or the price of her fare home to England. Presumably she had been leaving these pertinent matters to her husband to be dealt with, but Senor Cortez had flounced out of the flat in the early hours, and the only message he had left behind had been to the effect that he was flying to Brazil. When Senora Cortez saw the message she shrugged her shoulders.

  “And I am flying to New York!” she said. “So that makes two of us clearing out of this torrid place. Three, because I shall not leave Juan behind!”

  Juan was the little boy, with very large eyes and engaging milk-white baby teeth, for whom April had been engaged as a kind of nanny-companion-governess.

  It was certainly very hot in Madrid at that fiercest of all seasons of the year. August, in England, can be mellow with the approach of autumn, but in central and northern Spain it seems to reach boiling point around that month. It could be one reason why tempers had flared so the night before, after the dinner party guests had departed, and the host and hostess who had looked so elegant presiding at opposite ends of the flower-decked table had resorted to throwing things at one another in the huge sala that positively reeked of the fragrance of various kinds of exotic tobaccos and expensive feminine perfumes.

  As April entered it and saw the overturned coffee tables and flower vases lying on end, magazines scattered like withered leaves and liqueur glasses ground into the carpet, she experienced a sharp sense of distaste. The Senor and Senora had done the job thoroughly. They had quarrelled with a violence that had sounded really alarming to the girl who had already gone to bed, and was trying to get to sleep with the sheet pulled up over her ears. They had stormed at one another in a mixture of English and Spanish—with a few Americanisms thrown in, for Senora Cortez was from Philadelphia—and, when it seemed that the battle was at its height, Senora Cortez had rushed through into her bedroom and started dragging at suitcases and banging at wardrobe doors until the whole flat shook with her frenzy.

  Still in her evening gown of black lace over apricot satin, with diamonds in her ears and sparkling at her throat, she had appeared at April’s door and informed her that she was leaving ... leaving just as she was! Her husband had already shaken the flat further with his slamming of the front door, and it didn’t matter to her in the least that she might never see him again. She was flying home to her parents in America, and that was what mattered.

  She was flying home to her parents in America, and she would sue for divorce at the very earliest possible moment. A stream of vituperation directed against her husband left her lips, and April was horrified. She had known for some time that Venetia and Pedro Cortez were on the verge of breaking up—two such opposite temperaments, Latin and blatantly American, could not possibly get along together for long—but she hadn’t dreamed the break-up would be so sudden

  And on top of an apparently successful dinner party too!

  But it was the dinner party that had brought about the crisis. Pedro had accused Venetia of flirting with one of the guests, and she hadn’t denied it. Furthermore, he had accused her of doing so in front of a particularly important guest, and that was the last straw. Don Carlos de Formera y Santos was an old and close friend of the Cortez family, and in the best Spanish circles there were methods of behaving, and methods by which one was judged and found wanting if one had the bad taste to follow them and flout old and valued traditions by staring them insolently in the face.

  Venetia hadn’t merely stared them in the face, she had tossed them carelessly over her shoulder. She had found Don Carlos de Formera y Santos an acute bore, and told her husband so. He might be the richest man in the world—the most successful man, with the bluest of blood in his veins—but every time he looked at her down his aristocratic straight nose, and out of his dark disapproving eyes, she had wanted to scream because she was quite sure he was finding a lot wanting in her, and a lot of other things he couldn’t approve of besides.

  Part of the battle that had raged had been over Don Carlos, and others of his kind who behaved exactly like him ... stiff-necked, formal, unimaginative Spaniards, who liked their women to be stiff-necked, formal, and unimaginative too.

  Venetia had declared that she was tired of trying to conform to a pattern of life for which she was quite unsuited. She was tired of formality and primness, unvarying correctness, stupidity and dullness. The women of Spain had only two interests ... their husbands and their children. They had no conversation outside these two interests, and their minds became atrophied before they were out of their twenties. Venetia was determined that hers should not become atrophied, and she was determined to escape from the heat, the dust, and the monotony of Madrid. The vicious flare-up with her husband provided her with an excuse, and while April looked on with detached amazement—somewhat sleepy amazement too, since she had not yet been permitted to close her eyes—her employer literally tore off her splendid dress, designed by a top couturier in Madrid, scrambled into something suitable for travel, lifted her child bodily out of his cot and dressed him too, and then telephoned for a taxi. And at such an unseasonable hour that was rather a lengthy process.

  In between abusing the operator, the night porter, local taxi services, and—above all!—the dreadful Spanish lethargy which prevented one getting anything done quickly, Venetia Cortez issued a few random instructions to the English girl.

  “You can stay here for the next few days, if you like. At least until you’ve got your own journey home fixed. If you’ve got any sense you won’t take another job in Spain.”

  April said a little awkwardly:

  “But I ... I’m not at all sure I’ve got enough money to pay for my fare home!”

  This was no more than the truth. The Cortez’ owed her quite a bit, for although they lived well and luxuriously, the original arrangement for paying her her salary monthly had been allowed to drift into a policy of supplying her with a cheque at some distant future date. And the little money she had had when she went to them had been exhausted by the need for clothes, and various other small expenses. In her handbag, at that moment, April had about five pounds in English money, and perhaps another five pounds in Spanish pesetas.

  Venetia made an expressive gesture with her hands. She had learned a lot of Spanish gestures since she became a Spaniard’s bride.

  “Oh, don’t worry. Pedro is bound to return within a few hours, even though he says he’s flying off to Brazil. As far as I know he’s taken practically nothing with him.”

  “And supposing he doesn’t return?” April voiced the possibility quietly.

  Venetia looked at her in some astonishment.

  “Return? Of course he will! He has this flat to dispose of, and
all that sort of thing. And he’s bound to remember that we haven’t paid you for ages.” Mild curiosity crossed her face. “How many weeks’ money are owing to you?”

  “About twelve,” April told her.

  Venetia’s feathery eyebrows rose. She was a butterfly personality, eager to be on the move, eager to be doing something fresh always. And her pretty, uninteresting face was restless too. For one instant she looked vaguely uncomfortable.

  “It’s rather a lot, isn’t it?” she admitted. “But don’t worry ... Pedro may bore me to death, but he isn’t dishonest He won’t rook you of your wages.” She fumbled with the clasp of her handbag. “I’d pay you myself, but I’ve got to be sure I’ve enough money to settle all my own expenses ... and Juan’s. You can’t take risks with a child.”

  “But you could wait until it’s absolutely certain Senor Cortez intends to return to the flat,” April suggested.

  Venetia was galvanized into further activity by the suggestion.

  “Not on your life! I wouldn’t be here when he comes back for a ... a million dollars! I’ve finished with him!” She fumbled once more with her handbag. “Here, take this.” A tiny roll of lower denomination notes fell at April’s feet. “They won’t get you far, but they’re something. And if you’re really in a fix you can always go to the Consul ... That’s what Consuls are for!”

  Then, as she heard the taxi drive up outside, she grabbed her crocodile dressing-case, and a jewel-case made of shagreen, with a heavy gold clasp and gold initials. She took the somnolent Juan by the hand.

  “I must go. Thanks for all you’ve done for Juan, and ... good-bye!”

  And, before April could attempt to give a final, farewell hug to the little boy, she had gone, the flat door had closed behind her, and April was standing in the middle of the hall in her dressing-gown, looking and feeling completely bewildered.

  When the servants failed to turn up in the morning she wondered whether the news had gone round that Senor and Senora Cortez had fled. She wondered, also, how much money was owing to the domestic staff.

  She wandered through the flat, after making herself some coffee for breakfast, and wondered what her next move should be, and what on earth she was going to do if Pedro Cortez failed to return.

  But he had always struck her as a solid, dependable type. Perhaps a little too solid, for he was running to flesh, but sincere and rather pathetically devoted to his wife and son. It was going to be a bad blow to him when he discovered they were neither of them likely to be restored to him for some considerable while, unless he held some card he could play to induce Venetia to return. And, even if that happened, the quarrels would re-commence, and the bickerings.

  It was not a pleasant atmosphere for a young child to grow up in.

  April put away some of Juan’s toys, and tidied the nursery. The nursery-maid usually made her appearance about eight o’clock, but, along with the cook and the sleek manservant, she was conspicuous this morning by her absence.

  The dining-room was a depressing sight with the long table still loaded with china and glass and high-piled dishes of fruit, to say nothing of wilting flowers. April threw open the windows and then closed the shutters against the fierce assault of the morning sunshine, already strong enough to be an enemy if one was out of doors in it without a hat or a pair of dark glasses.

  The streets of Madrid were alive with glare, the pavements hot enough to blister sandalled feet. Yet many pairs of feet hurried over them towards offices and shops that would be closed during the even fiercer heat of the afternoon. In the fashionable shopping-centre, where streets like the Gran Via, San Jeronimo and the Alcala attracted numbers of fashionable women during the few short hours when shopping was feasible, the doors were already being opened to intrepid purchasers.

  But the smell of hot dust, spicy flowers and weary humanity that rose up with the echoing patter of feet caught at April’s tired throat, and made her wonder still more—and with a mounting sense of depression—what was ahead of her during the next few hours, and why such an unenviable situation should have arisen and why she should be the one who had to cope with it.

  Her first job abroad, and she hadn’t even been dismissed from it... It had suddenly ceased to exist!

  She pushed the hair back from her brow—heavy dark brown hair that she wore a little longer than was strictly fashionable—and regarded her own reflection in a mirror with worried, soft brown eyes. The combination of brown hair and golden-brown eyes was unusual in Spain, and therefore immediately striking, for Spanish men and women tend to a great depth of darkness when their eyes are dark ... which they very nearly always are. And eyes the colour of pale amber—as limpid as pools—are a distinct rarity.

  And, allied to luxurious, silky brown eyelashes, a perfect English complexion, as yet unaffected by the heat of Madrid, and features as clear-cut as an old-fashioned cameo, the effect was sufficiently arresting almost always to arouse interest.

  Since coming to Madrid she had grown used to being stared at by amorous young men, but she was too free from conceit to realize fully why they stared. Just as she was too instinctively honest and uncomplicated to be capable of leaving anyone in the kind of temporary fix in which she appeared to have been left.

  For, if the worst came to the worst, she could, of course, go to the Consul ... But what an extraordinary position to have to explain!

  The Cortez furniture was heavy and massive, the furnishings far too sumptuous, and by the time the morning had worn itself out she was beginning to feel slightly revolted by the very sight of it. She put away Senora Cortez’ dresses—determined never to wear them herself—packed her own clothes in readiness for immediate departure just as soon as Senor Cortez returned, consumed a light lunch in the kitchen, drowsed through the appalling heat of the afternoon, and then heard the telephone ring about six o’clock.

  She fairly raced to it, her heart beating suffocatingly with relief.

  “Yes?” she said into the mouthpiece.

  A cool, clipped, masculine voice answered in Spanish.

  “Who is that?”

  “April Day,” she answered—conscious of the absurdity of the name as she did so. “I am employed by Senora Cortez to look after her little boy. Or rather,’ she amended confusedly, sick with disappointment because it was not Senora Cortez, “I was ... I’m not now!”

  “And why not?” the calm voice weighted with logic demanded.

  “Because Senora Cortez is no longer here ... and neither is her little boy.”

  “You mean they’ve gone away suddenly on some sort of a holiday?”

  “Oh no, they’ve gone ... for good!”

  “Indeed?” But the voice was quite unruffled. “And Senor Cortez?”

  “I—I’m waiting for him to come back.” Her voice caught with nervousness, and waves of agitation went out over the wire. “He—he left first, you see ... I mean, there was a quarrel...”

  “And at this precise moment you are alone in the flat?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what’s happened to the servants, but I am alone.”

  “So!” the deliberate voice said levelly, as if he was pondering the matter. “I rang to confirm a luncheon arrangement for tomorrow that I made with Senor Cortez last night, but if he is not there it doesn’t matter. That is to say, it is of no particular consequence. But the fact that you are alone is of some consequence. I will be with you in a little less than a quarter of an hour.”

  It was, actually, not any longer than ten minutes when he drove up to the entrance of the block of flats. April, watching from a window—although carefully screened by a curtain—saw him alight from a magnificent long cream car, which he had driven himself, and ascend the short flight of steps to the front door. She recognized him at once as Don Carlos de Formera y Santos, and within a matter of seconds he was whisked up in the lift, and a bare few seconds after that his long, firm index finger was pressing the bell of the flat door.

  CHAPTER II

  April
had to steel herself before opening the door. She suddenly felt acutely nervous at the thought of coming face to face, with someone like Don Carlos, whom she had never actually spoken to—except under somewhat extraordinary circumstances ten minutes before over the telephone—and admitting him to an empty flat. By conventional Spanish standards that was, for one thing, an unconventional thing to do, and Don Carlos was extremely conventional .

  “Good evening, senorita,” he said, as he stepped purposefully past her into the hall.

  He was wearing an impeccable light grey suit, and to her astonishment she saw that he was also wearing an Old Etonian tie. So he was a Spaniard who had been educated at Eton! And although he had not, so far, spoken anything but Spanish to her, she felt certain his English was perfect.

  He proved it by looking down at her with controlled curiosity from his infinitely superior height and stating more or less bluntly:

  “You are Miss Day. You said that your name was April Day. It is unusual.”

  She felt herself colouring ridiculously.

  “It isn’t a name I would have chosen for myself,” she confessed. “I mean,” at his look of surprise, “the combination of April and Day is too obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” he said. “But the obvious is not necessarily something to be avoided. And my memories of an April day in England are very pleasant.”

  He looked about him at the empty hall, noting the slight film of dust on the highly polished furniture, and the flowers that had not been replaced, although April had seen to it that they had fresh water.

  “So you are quite alone here,” he remarked.

  “Yes,” April replied.

  He walked towards the door which led into the main sala, and she followed him, apologizing for the confusion, although here again she had made an endeavour to restore order.

  “This is all quite extraordinary,” Don Carlos observed, drawing forward for her one of the satin-seated chairs. “Your employers were here with you last night, yet this morning they both departed without, apparently, giving you any clear idea when you can expect their return?”