by Isobel Chace
‘I don’t own any houses, or furniture, or anything like that,’ Megan said simply. She smiled suddenly.
‘I’m not the eldest son of a Spanish family!’
‘I’m glad you’re not!’ he said gravely.
‘I don’t know—’ she began, then stopped. ‘You mean, you’re glad I’m not a boy—that I’m a girl?’ She stopped again, looking resolutely out of the window at the falling snow. ‘I mean, I’m an only child,’ she said.
‘I meant that I am glad you are a girl, pequena,’ he agreed, smiling.
Megan was silent, savouring the moment. The car started forward, the tyres slipping a little on the crushed snow.
‘Do you think any planes will be taking off in this?’ she asked him.
‘Will you mind waiting, Meganita, if we have to?’
‘The endearment added to her name pleased her.
‘N-no,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I find airports rather exciting places. I like to hear the names of all the different places being called out.’
But in the end their plane was not held up. The snow had been brushed off the wings and the snowploughs had been busy all along the length of the airstrip. The Comet IV heaved itself into the air and climbed up above the snow clouds and into the pale, wintry sunshine.
‘All right, amada?’
Megan nodded eagerly. ‘What will the weather be like when we land?’ she asked him.
‘It will be sunny, with the temperature about fifteen degrees. That will take the shadows away from under your eyes!’
‘I haven’t got any!’ she denied. ‘Fifteen,’ she mused. ‘That’s about sixty, isn’t it?’
He shrugged his shoulders, producing a whole lot of papers out of his briefcase. ‘Have you something to read?’ he asked meaningly.
She smiled and produced a paperback out of her handbag, but she had no intention of reading anything so dull as the thriller she had with her. Instead, she watched, fascinated, as the stewardesses hurried up and down the aisle, selling their tax-free wares, serving breakfast to the passengers and tending to their needs, as the plane raced onwards towards warmer climes.
After a while, Megan felt sleepy and she sat well back in her seat, finding that she could study Carlos’ profile without even moving her head. She found she liked looking at him. His clean, tanned skin pleased her as much as she liked the green of his eyes and the tough springiness of his black hair. Then, quite suddenly, he felt her eyes on him and he looked up enquiringly. She was hotly embarrassed and returned quickly to her neglected book. Without a word, he stretched out a hand and took it from her, stuffing it into the pocket in the rear of the seat in front of her.
‘Your breakfast,’ he told her.
She accepted the cardboard tray from the stewardess, suddenly aware that she was hungry, and broke into the plastic cover eagerly. The rolls were fresh and crisp and she spread them with butter and jam, eating them quickly while she waited for another stewardess to bring their coffee.
‘I didn’t eat much last night,’ she explained, wriggling a little under Carlos’ amused gaze.
‘It doesn’t look as though you slept much either,’ he said frankly. ‘What were you doing? Packing? Or painting the town red one last time?’
She winced. ‘The girl-friend I share with was away,’ she said flatly. ‘I didn’t do anything in particular.’
‘I thought your mother might come up for the night and to see you off this morning?’ he said curiously.
Megan shook her head. ‘She would never leave my father.’
He looked at her curiously. ‘Are you often alone?’ he asked.
She made an attempt to laugh off his enquiry, but in the end she couldn’t. ‘It works both ways,’ she said at last. I can’t imagine myself cancelling all my arrangements because my mother wanted to put in an extra bathroom either!’
‘But that is family life!’ he exclaimed.
‘In Spain,’ she said. ‘In England it’s different.’
‘Perhaps, he said, but she could tell that he didn’t believe her. She smarted a little under his implied criticism of her own family and longed to defend them, though quite what from she didn’t know.
‘In the last resort they’d do anything for me!’ she declared.
‘I am sure they would,’ he smiled. ‘But one does not live continually in the last resort!’
That struck her as funny and she laughed. ‘Speak for yourself!’ she admonished him. ‘I’m not sure that I don’t!’
He smiled and collected up their empty breakfast trays, pointing out of the window to the grey mountains beneath them. ‘Mallorca!’
With mounting excitement, Megan stared down at the island below her. It was considerably bigger than she had thought, and it was hard to see much of what it was really like, for the clouds drifted beneath them, hiding the land from her eager eyes. Then, unexpectedly, the sun broke through the clouds and she was able to see literally hundreds of windmills beneath them.
A few minutes later, Palma appeared, together with the long, sandy beach, edged from end to end with hotels. The engine note changed and there was a faint bump as they landed. Just two hours and twenty minutes after leaving England, they had arrived in Majorca.
CHAPTER IV
Senora Vallori was waiting for them outside the airport in the car. Carlos hurried their suitcases through the Customs and then led Megan out into the sunlight. He kissed his stepmother on the cheek and introduced Megan to her, leaving them to get into the car while he stowed the luggage away in the boot.
‘Have you known Carlos long, Miss Meredith?’ Senora Vallori asked her.
Megan shook her head. ‘I don’t know him well,’ she admitted.
‘But you like him?’
‘I like both him and Pilar,’ Megan answered carefully. ‘They both came to lunch with my parents.’
‘Pilar is my daughter,’ Senora Vallori said with pride. ‘She is devoted to Carlos—always has been. He takes her about with him quite often. Isabel, my other daughter, is more reserved. You haven’t met her?’
‘No,’ Megan agreed.
Senora Vallori sank back into the car with a sigh of relief. Looking at her, Megan could hardly believe that she was English. To begin with, she was the only person she had ever seen who wore the traditional Spanish comb in her hair, complete with mantilla, which she used to veil the sides of her face. She was not particularly tall, but she looked shorter than she was, for she was more than a little plump and her legs were shorter than is usual in an Englishwoman.
‘Do you mind sitting in the back?’ she asked Megan indolently. ‘We only have this little Seat in Mallorca—not at all comfortable!—but they are excellent for the narrow streets in Palma, and just adequate for the rest of the island.’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ Megan assured her. She pushed the driving seat forward and struggled into the back, watched lazily by her hostess who made not the slightest effort to help her. ‘You have two houses here, don’t you? I expect you have a lot to do, running both of them and the almond orchard too?’
The Senora laughed in the back of her throat. ‘Not I! My husband spoilt me dreadfully when he was alive and I never had to stir hand or foot. Carlos doesn’t approve of the result, but he realises it’s too late to change me now!’ She said this with such satisfaction that Megan was faintly shocked, but she said nothing. Carlos folded his long length into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition key, nosing the car away from the kerb and away from the airport.
‘Well, how are things, Margot?’ he asked his stepmother lazily.
‘I have been in flat despair,’ the Senora answered placidly. ‘I can’t think why you suppose it’s a good idea for me to live here, caro. It’s only February, but the whole place is swarming with tourists! What will it be like in the summer?’
‘You’ll shut yourself inside behind the shutters whatever it’s like,’ he retorted callously, ‘so I can’t see that they need bother you much!’
�
��If your father could hear you—’
‘Come on now, Margot, you know it was his idea that you should live here!’
‘Was it?’ The Senora smiled bravely. ‘Perhaps it won’t be as bad as I think, but I should have liked to have gone to England.’
‘It isn’t as you remember it,’ he told her flatly. ‘Ask Megan!’
The Senora stirred herself to look over her shoulder at Megan. ‘Carlos will have it that London has changed in the last few years, but I don’t believe him. London has always had a quality of its own!’
Megan wasn’t sure whether she was being asked her opinion or not. ‘I like London too,’ she admitted.
‘There you are!’ the Senora said complacently. ‘Megan agrees with me!’
‘Megan would hardly remember the London you are talking about,’ her stepson said dryly. ‘She’s just a baby!’
‘She looks fully grown to me,’ the Senora drawled.
Megan felt herself blushing, but she was grateful that somebody thought she was old enough to have an opinion.
‘Do you think so?’ Carlos laughed.
‘She’s a bit thin,’ the Senora went on, ‘but that’s better than the other way about. How old are you Megan?’
‘She’s eighteen,’ Carlos answered for her.
‘Old enough!’ the Senora grunted enigmatically.
Carlos grinned at his stepmother. ‘Don’t get ideas, Margot.’
The older woman chuckled comfortably. ‘I won’t, if you don’t! How is Pilar?’
Megan shut her ears to the family chat going on in front of her and stared out at the strange sights all about her. The windmills were almost all stationary, and some of them looked to be in bad repair, but there were so many of them, drawing up the water to irrigate the land, that they dominated the area, only losing their importance when they slipped on to the motorway that led straight into Palma.
The little car sped along the highway, slowing only as they came into the city just below the Cathedral. Carlos drove fast and well, even when the traffic grew thicker, turning this way and that without apparently giving any warning at all of their intentions. At the major crossroads, a traffic policeman was stationed on a high red and white stand, blowing his whistle frantically whenever some intrepid driver ignored his instructions; at other junctions there were traffic lights, the red light twice the size of the green and amber, but even so rather difficult to see.
Then, in hardly any time at all, Carlos turned off into the Plaza Santa Eulalia and down the narrow Calle Morey. He drew up in front of the heavy wooden doors of one of the houses, that were left open to reveal the patio inside, around which the house was built. Megan leaned forward eagerly, delighted by the patterned marble tiles that covered the floor, the flowering plants that had been placed about the playing fountain, the elegant steps that led up into the house itself, half hidden behind the upstairs terrace that rested on fluted columns taking the eye upwards from the patio below.
‘It’s beautiful!’ she breathed.
‘Do you think so?’ the Senora asked, surprised. ‘I’m not very keen on the Italian influence myself. It looks nice enough, but it doesn’t make for comfort!’
‘I’d put up with quite a lot of discomfort to have a patio and a staircase like that!’ Megan exclaimed.
The Senora looked amused. ‘You must ask Carlos to tell you the history of the house. If you like it, the inside is a gem of its kind too. I don’t like it.’
‘I don’t see how you could help it!’
The Senora smiled. ‘You’re younger than I thought,’ she remarked. ‘Age brings a desire for comfort, and there’s very little of that in this house!’
‘Still complaining?’ Carlos asked his stepmother cheerfully as he pushed the suitcases through the open doors into the patio. ‘Take Megan inside, will you, Margot? I’ll get rid of the car.’
The Senora stood beside the fountain, eyeing the suitcases with distaste. ‘What a lot of luggage you have!’ she exclaimed.
Megan felt uncomfortable. ‘Only one suitcase is mine,’ she defended herself. ‘The other two belong to Carlos.’
The Senora’s face brightened. ‘It looks as though he means to stay a little while this time. You’ve no idea how lonely it is when I am all by myself!’
Megan was just about to say something comforting when she was interrupted by the arrival of two maids who came scurrying out of the house, scolding the Senora for not calling them immediately. They grasped the suitcases and hurried up the wide staircase, chattering to each other as they went.
‘We’d better go inside too,’ the Senora said reluctantly. ‘Don’t worry about your things. Juana will unpack your clothes. She speaks a little English, by the way. She worked in one of the hotels until recently, but she prefers to be in a proper home and I pay excellent wages.’
Megan followed her up the stairs, pausing at intervals to admire the carved intricacies of the stone banisters. At the top was a long picture gallery, full of sombre paintings of the various Vallori ancestors. Megan would have liked to have studied them more closely, but the shutters kept out any light that might have crept into the house, and all she could see was the occasional pale, aristocratic face amongst the shadows.
The gallery led directly into a lofty salon, hung about with Flemish tapestries and full of Renaissance nailed seats, and a few chairs upholstered in leather. Megan was forced to agree that comfort had been sacrificed to the strict formality of the furnishings. It was hard to imagine anyone actually sitting in such a room, let alone relaxing.
‘Do you use this room much?’ she asked nervously.
The Senora screwed up her nose in horror. ‘Never!’
Megan was relieved. It was beautiful of course, there was no denying that, but she couldn’t feel at home there.
‘We sit here,’ the Senora went on, sweeping Megan into the next room. ‘Once you’ve got used to the red pine panelling and the draughts that haunt the marble floors, and the total lack of any proper heating, it’s just tolerable.’
Megan tried not to look as though she were too curious, but this room too was quite unlike any other sitting room she had ever seen. The few chairs were arranged in straight lines, facing each other, and there was a curious bronze contraption in the middle of the floor, held by a wooden frame, that had no possible use that she could see.
‘When it’s cold, we put a fire in that,’ the Senora explained, her amusement getting the better of her apathy. ‘It smokes rather, and it gives out remarkably little heat, but we’re seldom here in the winter, so we never put in central heating like most of our neighbours.’ She thrust open a shutter, allowing a shaft of light into the darkened room. ‘Can you understand why I don’t want to be banished here?’
‘Yes,’ Megan said flatly.
The dark eyes of the older woman met hers, a twinkle lurking in their depths. ‘I thought you would fall in love with the place?’ she said.
‘I have!’ Megan agreed. ‘But it is cold, and it is a little like a museum. Couldn’t we make it a little more comfortable, senora? Then it would be a truly lovely place to live!’
‘It would be such a lot of trouble,’ the Senora objected.
‘Not really!’ Megan’s quick enthusiasm was now thoroughly aroused. ‘You could have an English style room for your own use! Think how much more comfortable you would be then!’
The Senora shrugged. ‘You can suggest it to Carlos if you like,’ she said with apparent indifference. ‘He wouldn’t like it if I were to suggest such a thing! He’s never liked changes in anything connected with his family.’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Megan exclaimed. ‘Most of the house would be just as it was! Besides, one can’t live entirely in the past, no matter how beautiful! I’m sure your son will see that!’
‘My stepson,’ the Senora corrected her automatically.
‘It makes no difference!’ Megan said warmly.
‘What makes no difference?’ Carlos asked from the doorway. He
looked very much at home in the rich, formal room. He might even, Megan thought, sit upright in the uncomfortable chairs and think nothing of it. He shared the same elegance, the same richness as the ancient house.
‘Megan wishes to make this room more habitable,’ his stepmother drawled. ‘She agrees with me that it is not very comfortable as it is.’
Carlos looked about him in surprise. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ he demanded.
For an instant Megan thought he was angry, but the lift of his eyebrows reassured her. ‘It doesn’t look as though anyone ever sat in here in their lives,’ she told him frankly. ‘It’s—it’s like a museum!’
‘I suppose it is,’ he agreed, looking amused. ‘It is certainly very different from your parents’ house! But I am not sure that you can make this room look the same as theirs?’
‘I wouldn’t try!’ she exclaimed. ‘My parents’ room is comfortable, but it isn’t—’ She broke off, blushing uncontrollably.
‘You wouldn’t choose it?’ the Senora put in helpfully.
‘N-no,’ Megan agreed quickly. ‘It isn’t elegant.’
Carlos gave her an interested look. ‘I agree with you. It is warm and comfortable, but there are pieces of furniture that I should not care to live with myself.’ He hesitated. ‘Very well, Megan, I give you a free hand to do what you will with this room. But the rest of the house shall be kept as it is for the time being.’
‘But your stepmother—’
Carlos stiffened. ‘Margot cannot be bothered with domestic matters,’ he said tersely.
The Senora shrugged her shoulders. ‘Why should I?’ she said. ‘I prefer that other people should do these things for me.’
Megan looked from one to the other of them. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she promised. ‘But it might cost a bit of money.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Carlos agreed dryly. ‘English type furniture is expensive anywhere but in England.’
‘And you don’t mind?’ Megan pressed him.
‘Not if the results are satisfactory,’ he confirmed. ‘Have you seen your room?’ He waited for her to shake her head. ‘I suppose Juana is unpacking for you. Meanwhile, you may as well see the rest of the house.’
