by Susan Barrie
“I see,” April said.
He regarded her coldly.
“I am sure you will enjoy, seeing Granada. It is one of the ‘musts’ on the lists of most visitors to our country. Such sights as the Alhambra are not quickly forgotten, and in the Generalife—which was the summer residence of our kings—there is the famous Courtyard of Lions. And there is much besides that you will no doubt find of interest.”
He sounded as if he was quoting monotonously from a guide-book, and she wondered what had happened to the wooing voice—the throbbing, tender, masculine voice—that had described for her the charms of Andalusia only the night before.
Now she and he might be the completest of strangers, and it was impossible to believe that she had ever been held passionately close in his arms, and that he had called her his little love. She swallowed, and then started to wonder whether something had happened to her the night before that had led her to believe in happenings that never actually occurred.
She parted her lips to remind him, “I told you last night that I couldn’t marry you!...” But somehow, in his present mood, and while he looked at her with such icy displeasure—as if she had committed a serious crime he found it hard to forgive—the words wouldn’t leave her lips.
Instead, she heard herself say colourlessly:
“I’m sure I shall find it very interesting, but it’s Constancia’s birthday we will be celebrating. It’s for her to enjoy it!”
From then until the day they left for Granada he behaved towards her as if they were the merest acquaintances—or she just an honoured guest in his house—and not betrothed to be married. Towards Constancia, on the other hand, he behaved with frequent and marked displays of affection, gentleness and indulgence, and she went about with a brighter smile on her face, and brighter eyes, than April had ever known her to have before. And whenever she looked at April there was an unmistakable gleam of triumph in her eyes.
Her birthday morning dawned with all the brilliance of an Andalusian morning at that season of the year, and they set off in two cars soon after a very early breakfast. Jessica had been right about Dona Ignatia, and she declined to accompany them, but Rodrigo had accepted the invitation with alacrity. They picked up Lady Hartingdon and her daughter at Sir James Hartingdon’s house, and Mark Ferrers was with them. Jessica drove her own car, and with her she elected to have Rodrigo, while Lady Hartingdon sat between Constancia and Mark Ferrers on the back seat of Don Carlos’s second, chauffeur-driven car. He himself had April in the seat beside him at the wheel of his long cream-coloured car.
But if April had imagined he might thaw on the journey—perhaps attempt an apology for his behaviour since the night of their engagement dinner—he did nothing of the kind. He had been all brilliant, caressing smiles when he saw Constancia for the first time that day, took her in his arms and saluted the top of her lovely dark head with a feather-like kiss, and presented her with a morocco jeweller’s case that contained a set of bracelets and a necklace made of beaten silver and turquoise. In her delight she had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him shyly but ardently—so ardently that April found it necessary to avert her eyes—and Dona Ignatia had decided it was a good moment to offer her own gift, thereby making it necessary for Constancia to drop her arms and assume a new kind of pleasure, even if she didn’t feel it.
April had done up a small gift for Constancia in an attractive package, and when the Spanish girl opened it she looked unexpectedly, but quite genuinely, pleased. For the package contained some English lawn handkerchiefs and a bottle of French perfume which had been a gift to herself, but which she had
“Oh, but you are kind!” Constancia said quickly, and looked, for a moment, as if she were tempted to give April a hug too—until she remembered who she was, and why exactly she was there. Then she coloured and looked a little uncomfortable, and repeated, “You are very kind. I am most grateful!”
April experienced a quick twinge of regret. If only Constancia had been a normal ward of Don Carlos—without any proprietorial interest in Don Carlos!—then, she was more or less certain, the two of them would have got on very well.
Don Carlos let his eyes rest on April for rather a lingering moment, then he said briskly that they must be off. Dona Ignatia came out into the courtyard to watch their departure and wave to the two cars before they disappeared under the arch, and then they were on their way to the Hartingdons’.
But the brief flash of good humour, the urbanity inspired by Constancia, did not survive being alone with April in a car, and even before they reached the Hartingdons’ Carlos had withdrawn into his composed and self-contained shell again. He was charming to Lady Hartingdon, suave to Jessica, and then the charm evaporated, and the long drive to Granada had commenced, with polite talk concerning the countryside the only talk that took place between the Don and his bride-to-be.
They stopped for lunch in a delightful small town where the townsfolk were immensely interested in the procession of smart cars, and then continued without interruption (save one) until they reached their objective. The interruption was during the fiercest part of the afternoon, when they paused for refreshments in the cool garden of a roadside cafe, and Don Carlos insisted that the ladies took advantage of the interlude by reclining in rattan chairs under the protection of an age-old vine. After that he arranged with the proprietor’s wife for them to wash and attend to the ravages to their complexions in one of the bedrooms of the cafe.
When they were on their way again April realized that, but for that interlude, she would have found the heat far more trying than she actually did—although Don Carlos’s car travelled at such a speed that a constant thin current of air was churned up by their passage. And when they finally arrived in Granada she was not nearly as exhausted as she had expected to be.
There was no attempt at sight-seeing that day, for when they arrived it was already growing dusk, and they went straight to the hotel where rooms had been reserved for them. It was a very unusual hotel, more like a centuries-old inn than a modern hotel, and it was gay within with quantities of beaten copper, brass and Moorish-style hangings, and so close to the palace of the Generalife that visitors sipping after-dinner coffee on the terrace could watch the slender green yews that rose above the palace swaying dreamily against the backcloth of starry night sky.
And in Granada the stars are so bright that the vast canopy of the sky is like a jeweller’s display counter scintillating with diamonds and plushy with velvet. The Sierra Nevada rise against the sky, an impressive sight in daylight, even more impressive when lighted by the fires of sunset, and a solid dark wall reaching for the stars when night swoops down over the fertile valley that is heavy with the scent of tobacco plantations at the closing of the day.
April was filled with admiration for the fertility of this wonderful valley, wherein the Moors set down Granada, when she saw it for the first time on the last lap of their day-long journey. She had become accustomed to the flamboyance of Andalusia, but here was a richness undreamed of, an abundance of fruit, flowers and grain. Never had she seen such golden wheat, never had she smelt such an exciting perfume as the perfume of the tobacco plantations as the light died out of the sky, and the dusk fell softly, like a gauzy mantle.
Her eyes were still wide with wonder, as well as rimmed with tiredness, when they arrived at the hotel. She was glad that everyone went straight to their rooms, and she was glad that her own had a luxurious private bath, which she made immediate use of, after which she dressed for dinner in something simple and cool that had not been designed for evening, but was quite suitable after a long day devoted to travel.
When she descended to the ground floor of the hotel Lady Hartingdon and Jessica, both elaborately gowned, were sipping drinks with Don Carlos in one of the attractive public rooms that opened out on to the terrace. Beyond the windows the night was sensuously warm and still, and from the terrace came bursts of laughter, voices and the occasional popping of champagne corks and the c
hinking of ice against the sides of glasses.
Don Carlos stood up at once to provide April with a chair, but before she was comfortably seated Constancia joined them, wearing the bright scarlet dress which was the most colourful one in her wardrobe. She looked as gay and vivid as the dress, not a bit tired after the long journey by road, and as it was her birthday she sat opposite her guardian at the large table devoted to their party when they went in to dinner, and acted the part of hostess.
Toasts were drunk to her health and happiness, and she sparkled like the many facets of a diamond. Mark Ferrers, who sat near to her, admired her so openly with his eyes that April, seeing the way Carlos began to frown, wished she could do something to warn him to be more careful, especially as Rodrigo also began to look a trifle black. But, seated at the right hand of her fiancé, with Lady Hartingdon between her and Mark, there was nothing she could do.
The music from a nearby ballroom was most inviting, but Carlos was quite firm in his refusal to permit his ward to dance that night, after such an exhausting day, and she went quite meekly to bed at last ... although her eyes were very bright as she sent a final, almost challenging look, at both the younger men, to be divided equally between them. And the look said plainly that she was enjoying their joint admiration.
Only April noticed that her guardian’s lips grew tighter than ever. She herself made her excuses and went to bed, but she had no idea when Jessica retired ... or whether she seized the opportunity to inveigle the host out on to the moonlit terrace to have a few words with him in private as soon as the coast was reasonably clear. For Lady Hartingdon was scarcely likely to go to the trouble of reminding her daughter that Don Carlos was engaged to be married.
But as April got into bed she thought of Jessica’s gorgeous gown, her flaming red hair and her fascinating eyes, and tried not to be consumed by jealousy. She thought of Constancia, like a vivid flower in her red dress, and Carlos’s smouldering look as the evening wore on ... and she realized that here was something too powerful and important to evoke jealousy. It merely made her feel acutely unhappy as she lay in the darkness of her room and recalled Carlos’s cool kiss on the back of her hand when he said good night.
The next day was devoted to sight-seeing, and in the brilliant sunlight—that made the light powdering of snow on the Sierra Nevada sparkle like diamond dust scattered broadcast—April had her first sight of the Alhambra, a palace of red rock well deserving to be known as “The Rosy Towers.” Alhambra means red, and Don Carlos explained this to April. Then he took them into the very heart of the palace—which is actually three palaces, all contained within the enormously thick outer walls—and they walked in the Courtyard of Lions, and the Court of Myrtles, where strange fish disport themselves in a marble basin, tall cypresses sway dreamily against the sky, and twelve lions cast their shadows across the pavement and in so doing mark the passing of the hours.
When they emerged from the Alhambra April was confused by the colour of it, by the beauty of the gilded domes and the brilliance of the lacy stucco work inlaid with glass like precious gems, the endless corridors and the underground chambers. There was the scent of hot yew in her nostrils, the feel of hard marble beneath her feet, and she was glad of a temporary respite on the terrace of their inn, where they were restored with reviving drinks before going on to more sight-seeing. And, before lunch, she had received a vague impression of Granada, with its old Zacatin street as busy as a beehive, its silk bazaar, crowded and redolent of spicy Arab scents that emerged from strange Arab-style shops, and its many bridges that cross the famous Darro gorge. It seemed to her that Granada, in spite of its hordes of tourists, all of whom had to be housed in modern hotels, was made up of steep and narrow streets, paved with slippery round cobbles, and that for colour and picturesqueness it could outdo anything the world might have to offer.
She could see Mark Ferrers growing rapt with admiration as the hours passed, and she realized that the artist in him was in the ascendant, and that for the time being Constancia was of comparatively little interest. He talked to April because she too was full of the somewhat dazed appreciation of the foreigner, and Constancia flirted outrageously with Rodrigo whenever she had the opportunity, and her guardian’s back was temporarily turned to her. Jessica attached herself to the host’s side, and asked him many eager questions, although she had seen the whole thing before—probably more than once!—and only Lady Hartingdon complained of the heat, and announced that she would do no more sight-seeing after lunch, and would not even put a foot outside the hotel until they left the following day.
April had the feeling—and she was probably right—that Carlos was ignoring her, in so far as his natural politeness would permit him to ignore her. He saw to it that she was never overtired, that she took advantage of every patch of shade, and sank into every vacant chair he could procure for her. But as he did precisely the same thing for all three of the other female members of his party, this did not set her apart. And, by this time, not even the knowledge that she was his fiancée had the power to fill her with anything approaching a sensation of being “set apart.”
It was Constancia whom he watched, Jessica to whom he lent an attentive ear, and April for whom he had nothing but frigid politeness.
That evening they dined early, in order to be able to devote an hour or so to dancing before midnight. It was Constancia’s real birthday celebration, for normally she was not permitted to dance in hotel ballrooms, and this was to mark her emancipation from sheltered girlhood. She would be permitted one or two frivolous evenings from now on, until she was handed over to the care of a husband ... but when that event would take place no one was in a position to guess. Least of all Constancia, who seemed to be really enjoying herself for the first time since April had known her.
Whether her life under the protective wing of Dona Ignatia was too narrow to allow her the opportunity to develop as normal girls develop, whether the boredom of such an existence—with few friends, constant supervision, and no outlet for natural energies—had caused her to concentrate on her guardian to such an extent that she had gradually come to convince herself that he was all-important to her, April could only begin to surmise, but since arriving in Granada she had certainly displayed an avid need for fresh experiences. She never ceased to sparkle, and if her guardian rebuked her she pouted mutinously for a moment ... but it was only for a moment, and then she was gay again.
The fact that he could be displeased with her occasionally had suddenly ceased to worry her, and the fact that he was ready to spoil her if she used the right methods of coaxing obviously meant less, too. There were the two young men—Mark Ferrers and Rodrigo—both eager to compliment her and sit beside her and dance with her when permission was reluctantly granted, and even carry her out into the dusk of the hotel garden—without waiting for permission!—if she herself was willing, and the knowledge seemed to go to her head.
She was allowed one glass of champagne with her dinner, and that too seemed to go to her head. But in a way that made her violently attractive, bewitchingly beautiful, infectiously gay. She teased Don Carlos into leading her out on to the dance floor just as soon as their dinner was over, and because it was her birthday celebration the other women looked on with varying smiles of approval. April smiled because she realized Constancia was quite extraordinarily lovely, and anyone as young and lovely as she was ought to be feted during their birthday celebration; Jessica smiled more tightly because she was supposed to be a great friend and supporter of Constancia, and there wasn’t very much else she could do. Lady Hartingdon smiled because she too was enjoying herself, and Don Carlos was a wonderful host. She hadn’t had such a magnificent dinner for a long time.
Rodrigo and Mark were the ones who looked on without any noticeable enthusiasm. But soon Mark was dancing with Constancia, Jessica danced with the host, and April with Rodrigo sat talking at their table on the edge of the floor. Lady Hartingdon had vanished to repair the ravages to her complexion caused b
y a warm night and a rather too tightly fitting dress, that brought beads of perspiration to her forehead, under her elegant hair-style.
Rodrigo looked sullen ... April had never seen him look so sullen before. He did not ask her to dance, although—doing his duty, perhaps, as a host—Carlos had passed her over in favour of Jessica when deciding to take to the glistening floor himself.
No doubt, in due course, he would return to the table and ask his fiancée to dance ... but for the moment she was a wallflower, the only one of the female members of the party who was simply hating the evening, wishing it would end. In her handbag was a letter from Senora Cortez, who sent profuse apologies from Brazil for the way she had unfortunately had to treat her excellent nannie-companion for little Juan Cortez, explaining that she was now reunited with her husband, and offering to cable funds immediately if April would consider rejoining them, and taking on her old job again.
Apparently Don Carlos had been in touch with them, but he had not informed them that he and April were now engaged to be married. And Senora Cortez, having seen to it that her husband discharged his debt to the Don by paying April’s arrears of salary into his bank, could see no reason why April should not be quite glad to become a member of their family again. Only this time it would be in Brazil ... an exciting place for a young unattached girl, or so the Senora assured April.
Watching her fiancé dancing superbly with his beautiful ward—in white again tonight, with white flowers in her hair—although he was giving nothing away by his expression, April felt her fingers close over the letter inside her slim brocade handbag, and she wondered suddenly whether she ought to do something about it. Whether she ought to look upon it as a directive ... a way out of an impossible situation! A termination of that situation!
“I dislike him so thoroughly that I would like to slit his throat,” Rodrigo muttered at her elbow. He was watching Mark Ferrers being charming to Jessica, but with eyes over the top of her head for Constancia. “If he were not here tonight I could enjoy myself. Constancia is changing! She is not so obsessed with my excellent half-brother, whom she has adored for so long. Tonight she is ready to be flirtatious ... and that is something! But the pity of it is there is another man for her to be flirtatious with!”
