And for those few terrible, precious days, there was the sight of Richard Blodmore.
We had little time in each other’s company. We were only ever briefly alone. And yet, whether the men shot birds in the marshes, or deer and boar in the dry sandy areas among the pine and the cork oaks, we each seemed never for an instant to be able to forget the presence of the other. I would think of Richard as we rode, my eyes searching the ground and sky, mindful of the warnings and directions given by the guides who had lived at Doñana all their lives, and whose fathers and grandfathers had taught them the ways and the secrets of the wilderness; I would think of Richard as I was obeying the commands of the guides, watching for the game, and I would turn and find his gaze on me, and know what he had been thinking. Most days we lunched at the Palacio de Doñana, the palace which the dukes of Medina Sidonia had built for their hunting, and which it had been the pleasure of many Spanish kings to visit. Protocol was imposed by the presence of King Alfonso, even in that relaxed setting, but wherever I was in that gathering, I would find Richard was briefly at my elbow, a glass of wine in his hand for me, a murmured greeting. We often managed to cross the river morning and evening in the same boat, but there were always half a dozen others with us. At times the tension grew until it was almost unbearable. It seemed to me impossible that the others around us didn’t know what we, with all our senses, were silently telling each other.
Once, when the party stopped to rest and have the English afternoon tea the Marquesa provided, we walked alone in the area of the sand dunes. These are the small mountains of Doñana, shifting dunes which with infinite slowness move year by year, engulfing the forest of pines which lie behind them, engulfing and moving on, leaving behind the ragged, burned skeletons of the trees, gaunt against the sky. The dunes are high, and from their top the only sight is of the Atlantic. From the Guadalquivir, Columbus had set out on his third voyage to the New World; these dunes may have been his last glimpse of Europe. I shivered a little at the thought.
‘You’re cold.’ Richard said. ‘We shouldn’t have come up here. The wind’s too strong.’
‘Yes, cold,’ I agreed. ‘I seem always to be cold when you’re near me. Out there, on the marshes in the sun, I’m cold. Part of me aches so much, like an old wound when the damp crawls in. Why does it have to hurt so?’
‘When it ceases to hurt, you don’t feel ‒ anything.’
‘I’ll be numb then ‒ or dead. I don’t want to be dead, Richard. But I can’t imagine life just going on this way. There’s Carlos … and my children. I love my children, Richard. I’m fond of Carlos. But if he were gone tomorrow, for some reason ‒ I wouldn’t miss him. He isn’t essential to me. And I keep believing you are … and still you’re no part of my life, and never can be.’
He put his arm about me, and turned me to face him. The wind blew strongly in from the sea, the aftermath of a storm the night before; the sand was whipped on the top of the dunes like the spray of the sea itself. The waves crashed against the shore with a hollow boom. It was not like the feeling when we had first seen each other on the shore at Clonmara. What might have been a quick, swiftly-fading infatuation had only matured in the time between. There were lines on Richard’s face which had not been there before. My own body had borne three children. We were older, but the conventional wisdom of forgetting, the prudence of putting behind what was behind had not come. The girl on that loved, familiar shore in Ireland was a woman now, wholly committed to this man, as we walked this alien wilderness, with the Atlantic thundering near our feet. Both of us had built our lives about other people, and we would not recklessly abandon them. But I knew as surely as if I spoke for my own soul, that Richard Blodmore belonged in his inner core to me. Did I sense a kind of blasphemy in that? ‒ I had been taught that I must love only God in this way, before any other creature. But for me God was distant, unknown. And Richard stood by my side, real, human, beloved.
‘I am part of your life, Charlie. I always will be. I’ll never let you go.’ He held back my hair which the wind whipped into my eyes. ‘I have no rights to you ‒ except that I love you. I will go away and leave you here. And you will stay. We’ll each bring up our families, and we’ll always think that each child might have been the child of the other. And to think I was the one who didn’t believe it was possible to fall in love. Romantic love didn’t exist. Perhaps it doesn’t, but if that is so, then I know that obsession does exist. I think of you every day. And I’ve grown almost to hate the scent of roses …’
We resumed our walk. What did we say to each other? Very little, I think. We made no plans for the future, for there could be none. We did not talk of Richard coming again to Jerez, or of my visiting Ireland. There was no sense to any of it. This was an irrational, illogical love, with no hope of consummation. Yet it possessed us both. It was dangerous, and hurtful; and it was real.
We had turned back, and walked towards the place where we had crossed the steep height of the dunes to the beach. We saw the figure of a woman standing there, the wind holding her skirt close to her body. Even from a distance we knew it was Elena, and we did not know how long she had been standing there, if she had witnessed that moment when we had paused and briefly lived in each other’s arms.
As we came near, she called something, which the wind carried away. ‘She is probably telling us that the party is leaving,’ Richard said, as if it didn’t matter.
‘She knows,’ I said. ‘She knows we love each other.’
‘Yes ‒ she knows. She’s known since the first day at Clonmara. And I think she would prefer that I had a dozen flesh-and-blood mistresses living on my doorstep. Those she could have fought. She can’t fight a spirit, a phantom, someone who haunts the rose garden at Clonmara, but is never seen in the flesh. For me, there are ghosts of you in every corner of the house, and she knows it. She’s had her own disappointments, but we might have made a reasonable marriage if it hadn’t been for a young girl who did nothing more than pass through my life, hardly more than glimpsed. Men like me, of my age, are not supposed to fling their hearts away like that. To me it seems I had no choice. It just happened. There is nothing Elena can do. She is a good wife, a good mother, a good housekeeper. If she indulges her very considerable passions, she is very discreet about it. She knows that she is beautiful, and she also knows that for me she hardly exists. Many women could fill her function. But none can fill yours. It doesn’t seem fair, does it, Charlie? But I can do nothing about it.’
‘What you dream, Richard, is always better than reality. In time you would have grown used to me ‒ even bored with me. The sort of love we feel now doesn’t last when you meet it over the breakfast table every morning.’
‘Yes, but we never have. That’s what Elena can’t fight. Neither of us is quite real to the other. The dream lives, even if I sometimes wish it would go away and leave me in peace …’
Peace. There was no peace. There would be peace for neither of us. The woman standing on the dune gestured to us, summoning us. Then she turned and disappeared down the steep slope towards the pines. The high angle of the dune was empty and wind-blown. It was almost as if she had never been.
* *
The ten days of the Marquesa’s gathering at Sanlucar seemed endless. At nights Carlos snored gently beside me, contentedly filled with the Marquesa’s superb food and wine. He had been good-humoured, pleased to be among that company, and not once had those flashes of ill-temper marred his charm. He seemed determined to prove to his father, and to the Marquesa, just how well he could behave, how at ease and how gracious he could be, how he could win smiles and laughter even in the presence of the King. He shot as well as he rode, and that made him outstanding ‒ and therefore happy. He was gentle with me, and kind, and even paid me compliments on my new dresses. ‘A real beauty you’ve become, Carlota. Having children suits you. Your mother will have a rival soon.’ It was said teasingly, but with good humour. I thanked the basic simplicity of his nature that he did not seem to
suspect my preoccupation with Richard. And with Elena he seemed equally off-handed. He talked with her, even flirted a little, was often seated next to her at dinner, and yet I did not think her presence affected him strongly. Carlos had not been made to waste himself on hopeless causes. He had once wanted Elena, and she had been taken away from him. It was over and done with. With Carlos passion ran swiftly, but it did not seem to run deep.
I was aware of the extraordinary effort my mother made during those days. She counted her copitas as carefully as Maria Luisa counted our money. She had been delighted to be allowed to shoot among the men, and she had gained new admirers for this skill. She still drew a small crowd of men about her, but she was quieter than I had ever known her. Perhaps she, like all the party, felt the dominating presence of the Marquesa, a hovering presence that seemed to create about it the small hush of awe which a sighting of the Imperial Eagle, or the entry of the King could compel. There were certainly some among the party, both at Sanlucar and at the Palacio de Doñana, who regarded the Marquesa’s position as almost level with the King’s, those with long memories who knew her Hapsburg blood as well as her Bourbon ancestry. Certainly a sense of the history of both these ruling houses lingered in the Palacio. Stories were told of famous hunting parties of the past, the most spectacular of which must have been the times when Felipe the Fourth had been entertained by the Duque de Medina Sidonia. The story was told again of the time Goya had stayed at Doñana, and had painted his mistress, Cayetana, Grand Duchess of Alba, as the immortal naked Maja. It was a place where romance and legend were woven into its being, and none of us was immune to its spell. Even the sadness which seemed to overhang the marshes was part of the legend of the woman, Doña Ana, wife of the seventh Duque de Medina Sidonia, who had given her name to this silent wilderness, she who was said to have spent her whole life in prayer for the soul of her scandalous mother, the Princess of Eboli. From his retreat here with his wife, the wretched seventh Duque, never a sailor, had been forced to take command of the great Armada which Felipe the Second sent against England. To Doñana he had returned to die and be buried beside his wife. That, at least, was what the legends said. At Doñana it was easy to believe them.
The Marquesa seemed part of it all. She hunted and rode like a man, her slender athletic body seemed that of a woman much younger. She commanded, and was obeyed, and even the strength of Don Paulo’s personality seemed to pale a little in her presence. I found myself avoiding her gaze whenever I was in the company of Richard, lest she, of all people, should guess the tumult of my soul. And I wondered, as I observed my mother, trying so desperately not to disgrace us by any unseemly behaviour, if the Marquesa had brought us here particularly to observe Lord Blodmore and his wife, to see their healthy infant sons, so that we would know all the more surely how completely lost Clonmara was to us. Beside all the splendours of Doñana, and the Marquesa’s palacio and estate at Sanlucar, Clonmara seemed a poor enough place. But had she wanted to thrust home to us how finally it had passed into the sway of her influence? It was her money which had married Richard to Elena, her money which now restored Clonmara. With her actions she seemed bent on a curious revenge on the man who, thirty years ago, had preferred the daughter of Don Paulo to the great Marquesa de Pontevedra. In the midst of all the festive meals, the conversation, the laughter, the guitar-playing, in the midst of the wild-boar hunt, the shooting, the silent floating on the marshes, I think she meant me to remember that rejection. She meant me to remember the woman with the ravaged face who lived on the rock of Arcos with her dolls. The Marquesa had not planted dolls at Clonmara, but live, healthy children. I could not be the only one who was aware that Elena, as her closest blood relative, would inherit the title of Pontevedra, if perhaps not all of the great fortune that was spread over Spain and beyond. And through Elena, Richard Blodmore’s older son, Edward, would inherit the title of Pontevedra as well as the earldom of Blodmore. That would have been the same inheritance which would have gone to any son born to a marriage between the Marquesa and my grandfather. After thirty years the Marquesa appeared to have settled the score.
* *
Amelia was not strong enough to accompany us during the day’s hunting, but she was present at all the evening’s entertainments. On the last night at Sanlucar we sat alone for a few minutes before any other member of the party came down to dinner. She said to me in a quiet, calm voice, ‘You did not tell me, Carlota, that Lord Blodmore was in love with you.’
I turned away from the fire, and looked at her directly; with her gaze steadily on me, I could not attempt to deny it.
‘I didn’t believe he still could be in love with me … We … we don’t know each other. It’s all … all absurd. It shouldn’t be.’ And then the sharp thought came. ‘Does it show? ‒ has anyone noticed?’
She shook her head. ‘Only those who know you very well, Carlota. I have plenty of time to sit and watch … to sit and think. Sick people often see things healthy people are too busy to notice. And you love him also. What will you do?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘We will do nothing. He will go back to Ireland. I will stay here.’
She nodded. ‘I thought it would be that way. You are not wild, like your mother, Carlota. But still, you are a little mad. I think all the Blodmores must be a little mad. But be careful of the Marquesa. She has sharp eyes.’
Don Luis joined us then, and the conversation went to the day’s hunting, the change in the weather to rain, the journey back to Jerez the next day. The dispersal was beginning. I sat through dinner almost silent, trying not to look towards Richard.
I avoided talking to him the whole evening, and was thankful when it was time to go to bed. I lay awake, trying to will myself not to think of Richard and Clonmara; I thought of my children and my vines.
* *
Lord and Lady Blodmore came to pay a courtesy call on my mother the day before they left Jerez. I was at the vineyard house, and missed seeing them, something I was thankful for. I found my mother alone in the drawing-room, surrounded by the tea things which Serafina had not yet removed. The fire was dying in the hearth, and I busied myself rebuilding it. The decanter of brandy was close by my mother’s hand, and it was half empty.
‘It’s all right, Charlie,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t have anything to drink while they were here. I did all the right things. Asked the right questions. Elena told me all about Clonmara. The changes … they’ve enlarged the stables. They’ve built a new summer house, and cleared out a lot of the rhododendrons and laurels. Richard seems to be a good Master of the Hunt. That’s important for the Blodmores, isn’t it, Charlie? We would have hated someone who couldn’t be a good Master to take over. He’s turned out better than I expected. He’s … he’s steadier. But he looks sad. He looks older than he should. Such a handsome man … Elena said they were going to buy another motor car. I hope it doesn’t frighten the horses …’ The bright chatter faded. I straightened from my task of building up the fire, and looked at her. A film of unshed tears stood out in her eyes. It was unlike her to weep.
‘Mother …?’
Her face seemed to crumple, and to age; suddenly she was no longer the bright beauty of the drawing-rooms and the hunting-field, but a woman of forty who needed the ease the brandy gave her. ‘Oh, Charlie ‒ I can’t help it! I’m so homesick! I try to make the best of things here, but it isn’t home. It just isn’t home, Charlie!’
I cradled her head against my breast, and rocked her as I rocked my children. ‘Hush … it’s all right, Mother. You do so well. Really well. I know it’s hard at times, but you do so beautifully … We all love you …’ I let her weep, and I continued to say the things that might bolster and support her. I could do nothing to promise a release from the longing for home, because it was in my heart too. And I couldn’t let her look up and see the tears in my own eyes.
Chapter Two
I
I went back to my vines and to my children. In them I found some relief from
the aching sense of loss that the sight and presence of Richard had renewed to an almost unbearable degree. The promise of the vines and the children was my hope for the future, the reason I lived from day to day, but looking still to the years ahead. Without them, the future would have loomed only as a vast, empty waste.
It was not even the same with Carlos after the time at Doñana. I grew impatient with him because he was not Richard, and he, sensing that I was no longer so pliant, no longer the girl who had been grateful for the fact of marriage, no longer so manageable, so willing, so amiable, grew moody, and, for the first time, a little sullen. He was demanding of me physically; his love-making grew more passionate, less tender. Perhaps it was my fault. If I let thoughts of Richard flow through me as I lay in Carlos’s arms, could I blame him if he tried to impose himself more fully on me, to shake me out of the kind of blankness that fell on me when we now made love?
‘What is it, Carlota?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t please you any longer. You try to draw more from me. Well, then ‒ you shall take more.’ And his love-making would become wild, and sometimes cruel.
‘Damn you,’ he shouted at me once. ‘You’re not even thinking of me. You’re thinking of something else ‒ or some other man. Is that it, Carlota? Some other man?’
The Summer of the Spanish Woman Page 25
