Bride in Waiting

by Susan Barrie

  He released her chin abruptly, and she knew he was thinking of Constancia’s mother. Her heart sank ... she couldn’t prevent it sinking; and she couldn’t prevent herself feeling that the night was no more beautiful and filled with magic than any other night she had known.

  The love that grows out of affection ... Was that the love he felt for Constancia?

  Why, oh, why had he asked her to marry him? What had he meant when he told her that, by agreeing to marry him, she would be solving a problem for him? He had taken words out of her mouth ... “You happened to me at just the right moment!”

  But, for her, it had been the wrong moment! She felt it, she knew it. If she ever did marry him she would be paving the way to bitter unhappiness for herself. Her whole future would lie in ruins, and all because she had allowed him to over-persuade her ... because his will was stronger than hers, and he could, apparently, force her to his will! He could force her to become his wife, give her nothing but security, and that was why her future would he in ruins...

  For security was not what she wanted ... not security and nothing else! She knew that in a blinding flash of knowledge that affected her with dizziness, as if the stars had lurched in concert in the great void above her head, and the path that was a checkerboard of light and shadow had lurched, too, like the deck of a heaving ship.

  She wanted much, much more than security, but she was too staggered to put a name to what she actually did want. She only knew that if she didn’t get it...

  “The love one remembers is the love that hurts!...”

  Oh, no! she thought, shying away from the word like a frightened colt shying from something that had startled it. Don’t let me fall in love!.... Not with Don Carlos, who has loved once, and is possibly on the verge of loving again! Only he doesn’t really know about this second love. He merely suspects it, and is protecting himself against it ... by announcing his intention of marrying me!

  She felt his hand grasping her arm again.

  “We will go back to the house.”

  CHAPTER IX

  DURING the next week Don Carlos took April for several drives in the surrounding countryside.

  She discovered that it was mostly flat, and in places it reminded her of open desert, it was so scorched and bare, apart from the esparto grass and thorny plants that loved the dry, arid atmosphere. As far as the eye could see vast stretches of it quivered in the heat that had been known to cause mirages, and southwards there was always the sea, the deep blue Mediterranean that ran like an azure ribbon between it and the untroubled horizon.

  But Andalusia is a flowery land, a centre of sugarcane plantations and vineyards, as well as open spaces. Towns like Cadiz and Cordova, famed for other things apart from beauty, are, in themselves, bowers of flowers, and are set amidst orchards of luscious fruit; and in Santa Cruz the streets are so narrow that clematis and jasmine form arches across them and smother the balconies of houses opposite. Jerez produces sherry, and its vineyards lie close to it, extending along the flat coastal belt to San Lucar, which is about fifty miles south of Seville.

  April saw Seville for the second time when Don Carlos took her to view the cathedral, which is the pride and the pomp and the circumstance of Seville. Its nave is so vast that the beholder feels dwarfed by it, and the door of the Pardon recalls the days when Andalusia was under the influence of the Moors. He also took her to see the Giralda, which is so reminiscent of the Moorish period that it might almost be a minaret set down on the African side of the Mediterranean, instead of in modern Seville. The lovely pale pink shape of it, etched against the hard blue of the sky, had April quite entranced.

  Afterwards they had lunch at a very up-to-date hotel where the food was deliciously Spanish, and then they sat for a while in the cool of some gardens and drove home past the prickly pear and the cactus to find the white house with its pantiled roofs shaking off its afternoon inertia, and Rodrigo being entertained by Constancia in the big patio at the back of the house.

  Constancia was wearing slacks—a daring thing to do in a house presided over by Dona Ignatia, who as yet knew nothing about them—and she was parading them in front of Rodrigo with an air of being very well convinced that they became her, although she was also a little afraid of her own daring.

  “Senorita Day wears slacks,” she said, in extenuation. “Not often, but I have seen her wearing them in the early mornings, when she thinks no one is about who can take exception. I watch her often from my window when she is walking in the garden.”

  “Senorita Day is English,” Rodrigo pointed out, “and the English do many things Spanish girls are not permitted to do.” His voice was light and teasing. “And why do you watch her in secret? Are you envious of her golden looks, that have twined themselves about the heart of my dear brother Carlos?”

  An extraordinary expression stole into Constancia’s eyes. It was almost a calculating expression, and she caught her scarlet lower lip up between her teeth and bit it hard for a moment.

  ‘"She is charming, isn’t she?” she said slowly. “Very English ... very lovely in a quiet, unexciting way. But not as lovely as Senorita Hartingdon, who has red hair, and eyes of a quite unusual colour. I have heard it said that my guardian was very attracted by Sir James Hartingdon’s daughter!”

  “But not enough to marry her,” Rodrigo observed, rolling a long, thin Spanish cigarette between his fingers. “It is Miss Day he has asked to marry him, and being a man I am not surprised. She is fragile as blown glass, and her eyes, too, are unusual ... looking into them I have the feeling I am looking into twin lakes of limpid gold,” sending a cloud of fragrant smoke into the still air, and speaking almost dreamily.

  Constancia glanced at him contemptuously.

  “And does a man wish a creature as fragile as glass for a wife? She is stupid, and she cannot even ride!... She is afraid of Fadia, the beautiful new chestnut! Senorita Hartingdon—although I have no love for her personally!” with emphasis—“rides well.”

  “A small matter,” Rodrigo dismissed the comparison with that lazy, mocking sparkle in his eyes that were so fantastically handsome. “It is not in the least essential that a wife should ride, and the finer the glass the more resistant it often is. That goes for many things, my child,” wagging a finger at her as if he was attempting to teach her a lesson. “You must not be so easily deceived, and it is not a good thing to make comparisons. In any case,” regarding her between his thick eyelashes, “you are not trying to tell me that you would prefer it if Senorita Hartingdon became the wife of Don Carlos?”

  He was so certain that she loathed the very thought of any woman—even one of her own countrywomen—becoming the wife of Don Carlos that he was not in the least surprised when she rose to the bait or the soft taunt in his voice.

  “Of course I would not prefer it! I do not wish him to marry anyone ... anyone! At least—” Her slim breasts heaved, her eyes flashed stormily, she bit her lip again revealingly ... until a thin trickle of blood ran down her chin. “One day I would wish him to marry someone ...”

  “You, perhaps?” Rodrigo said softly. “In about another year, when you are less of a hoyden, and more of a woman.”

  “I am not a hoyden,” she said distinctly, her eyes seeking to transfix him, as a blaze of lightning might do. “And I am a woman already!”

  “But not in those slacks,” he taunted.

  “Senorita Day wears them,” she reminded him. “And she is a woman.”

  He agreed with a certain amount of fervour.

  “She is, indeed. The sort of woman a man might dream of ... I wonder how, and by what means, Carlos got in touch with her? How he got to know her! There is a certain amount of mystery about this sudden betrothal.”

  “That is what Dona Ignatia says,” Constancia told him, almost eagerly. “It is not an ordinary betrothal. They do not know one another very well ... they do not talk easily together. She is a little afraid of him, and he is more formal with her than he is with Senorita Hartingdo
n. He does not look at her as a man looks at a woman he loves and desires!”

  Rodrigo smiled slightly.

  “And what do you know of love and desire, little one? Does Carlos look at you sometimes as if he might desire you one day?”

  She seemed to withdraw into a shell.

  “He loved my mother,” she said sullenly.

  “But that does not mean it naturally follows that he will one day love you! You are foolish to count upon it ... if you are counting upon it?”

  She smiled in a Mona Lisa fashion.

  “I do not believe this marriage will come to anything. Dona Ignatia does not believe it will come to anything.”

  “Indeed?” Rodrigo said. He regarded her thoughtfully, then he looked suddenly disgusted. “Women,” he remarked, “are only happy when they are scheming for the downfall of someone they dislike, but I would not count upon it that my brother Carlos is not secretly burning with love for little English April. I could very easily burn with love for her myself,” he concluded, and Constancia’s eyes blazed with an entirely different set of sparks.

  “You!” she exclaimed. “She is not for you, in any case! And Don Carlos has it planned that you will marry Juanita Ribieros. She is very pretty, her parents are rich, and she will make you a very good wife.”

  His eyebrows arched mockingly.

  “I believe it has also crossed his mind that you might make me a good wife ... It would be one way of disposing of you! Your parents were not rich, but they left you a small amount of property, and together we might manage...”

  But it was at that moment that Don Carlos’s car slid under the arch, and he was spared the indignation of Constancia because her guardian might wish to dispose of her in some way or other, at some time in the immediate or distant future. Her cheeks were red with anger, however, and her eyes fairly blazing with resentment when he opened the car door for April, and the two of them crossed the patio.

  “What in the world are you doing dressed like that?” Don Carlos demanded, his expression as cold as ice as he reviewed the pale violet slacks.

  Constancia shrank, her anger evaporating before the concentrated fury in her guardian’s eyes.

  “I ... I bought them many weeks ago, when I was in Cadiz,” she explained falteringly. “I was with Senorita Hartingdon at the time ... She persuaded me. She said all girls wear them in her country.”

  “That may be so,” Don Carlos returned blisteringly, “but what young girls wear in Senorita Hartingdon’s country is no concern of yours. It is no concern of mine, and you are my ward.”

  “But Senorita Day ... April,” she managed, since he had more or less ordered her to drop the absurd formality she was continually striving to restore between herself and April only a couple of days ago, “April wears them. In the mornings I have seen her!”

  ‘That, too, is nothing to do with you.”

  “But if it is not respectable to wear slacks—”

  “In Spain we do not consider it respectable. You will go to your room and change out of them, and afterwards you may destroy them. Now go!”

  April intervened.

  “Oh, but really—!”

  “I said go!” Don Carlos’s voice was quite relentless.

  Dona Ignatia appeared at the head of the veranda steps. She was wearing a dress of rich purple silk, in spite of the heat of the day, and her pale face was smooth and bland.

  “What is it, Carlos?” she asked, the cooing of doves and pigeons in the softness and meekness of her voice.

  “I have ordered Constancia to go to her room and get rid of her offensive dress,” he replied brusquely. “It is an offence to the eye.”

  His sister spread her hands, and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Of course I agree with you, but Miss Day appears in similar costume in the mornings. It is not entirely fair ”

  “It doesn’t matter what Miss Day does!”

  “I see,” Dona Ignatia said, as if she saw a great deal more than was actually intended, her eyes widening in her paper-white face. “Then, in that case, Constancia, go to your room!”

  April felt the hot blood mantling her cheeks. Her usually very gentle eyes glittered.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been guilty of a rather bad faux pas,” she exclaimed. “But I’d no idea I was seen wearing slacks. They’re comfortable, and I was careful to keep out of the way of the windows. But if it’s not respectable for Constancia to wear them—”

  “Constancia is my ward,” he snapped coldly. “Her behaviour is important.”

  “And mine is not?”

  His eyes were as remote as northern ice fields, and although he glanced at her for an instant in faint surprise there was no apology in his voice—only added impatience—as he continued:

  “She is being groomed for an important role in life. It is essential that no false ideas should be put into her head, or anything that will interfere with the full flowering of my plans for her permitted for a single instant.” The concentrated fury in his voice was a revelation to her, the sharpness of his tone enough to make any young woman who was engaged to him feel amazed. Especially when he spoke to her like that in front of his closest relatives. “If you must be informal, please don’t try and communicate your notions to Constancia. Please avoid trying to influence her, as Miss Hartingdon has so obviously striven to influence her!”

  April was astounded, but she was not quite abashed. She turned away, biting her lip, her golden eyes agleam with humiliation and anger at the same time, and Rodrigo came to her quickly and whispered:

  “Don’t take any notice! When Carlos is angry he seldom spares anyone, but it is simply that he is angry...”

  “Thank you,” she replied, without attempting to modulate her voice. “But so far as I’m aware, I have done nothing to arouse his anger! Perhaps I too had better go to my room.”

  But Rodrigo detained her with a hand on her arm.

  “Please!—I am here for just a short while!” His shatteringly handsome eyes were full of undisguised pleading. “Do not go, senorita, when there is no need...”

  Dona Ignatia had repeated her command to Constancia to leave them, and the girl had fled silently up the steps and become swallowed up by the silent dimness of the house. Don Carlos turned to his brother and demanded to know what he was doing there.

  “You are leaving for Madrid in the morning. Have you not plans ... last-minute arrangements to make?”

  “My arrangements are all made, amigo,” Rodrigo replied soothingly. “But my man, Jaime, has been called away to the sick-bed of his father, and his wife is a poor cook, so I thought perhaps I could stay here to dinner. Even, perhaps, occupy my old room for the night?”

  “You can, of course,” Don Carlos assured him coldly. “Your room is yours whenever you wish to occupy it, but in future try to give us some warning when a visit from you is imminent.”

  Rodrigo looked quietly jubilant.

  “I will,” he promised. “But Constancia saw to it that I was entertained. That young woman is quite capable of receiving visitors when Ignatia is resting, or is not free to do so.”

  “I have no doubt,” his half-brother snapped. “But you are not an ordinary visitor, and you have a habit of upsetting her, which I do not approve. Apart from my annoyance just now because she was unsuitably clad, I was annoyed because you had so obviously been baiting her, and she was agitated. In future you will not amuse yourself at her expense, do you understand, senor?”

  At the excessive formality Rodrigo’s eyebrows rose, and then he grinned impudently, and just a trifle wickedly, across at April.

  “I understand, amigo!”

  “Then go to your room and unpack whatever you have brought with you for the night.”

  As Rodrigo disappeared—following another jubilant smile directed quite deliberately at April—Don Carlos took April by the arm and purposefully led her away along the path instead of permitting her to enter the house also, as she had been on the point of doing. She felt shi
ny-nosed and dusty, after the heat and the long day devoted principally to sight-seeing, and she was longing for a bath in her opulent bathroom, and a complete change of garments. But Don Carlos thought otherwise, at any rate for the moment.

  “I want to talk to you for a few minutes,” he said, leading her away from the house and along an ilex-bordered path to a remote corner of the garden, where on a sort of raised terrace that looked out towards the distant sea, some garden chairs were arranged in the shelter of a kind of natural arbour. “If you will be so good as to listen to me!”

  April said absolutely nothing, feeling perhaps angrier than she had ever felt in her life before. She had been made to look trifling, and a little vulgar—to say the least!—in front of Dona Ignatia and Rodrigo, to say nothing of a black-eyed, sixteen-year-old girl who hated her. Of that she was quite convinced. And it was one reason why her anger had got out of hand, for although Don Carlos had rebuked Constancia, he had also championed her. He had admitted that his anger was partly due to the fact that Constancia looked agitated.

  And that meant that Constancia must mean a very great deal to him ... A very great deal!

  Which was natural, perhaps, but not so natural that it explained the reason why he dismissed April as unimportant. At least, not when she was officially engaged to marry him!

  “You will sit here,” he said, and pulled out a chair for her. His dark eyes regarded her for a moment with a flickering of interest. She was trying to get the better of her secret agitation by clenching her hands rather tightly as they were held down at her sides, and she was biting her lip hard, because for some absurd reason her lower one didn’t feel very steady. Her eyes had a somewhat fixed expression in them.

  The sun, that was shedding a warm path across the sea, fell goldenly all about them, and the air was full of sweet scents, and the coolness that the approach of evening nearly always brought. Although sometimes, after dark, the heat seemed to return again, and the nights were very breathless.