Separate Bedrooms

by Anne Weale

  SEPARATE BEDROOMS

  Anne Weale

  His proposal seemed like a lifeline!

  Antonia’s first young romance had ended tragically; her strict Spanish relatives repressed her. An empty, dreary life loomed ahead.

  But then Cal Barnard, a dynamic English industrialist, unexpectedly asked her to marry him. And suddenly the future was transformed into a sunny vista of endless possibilities.

  The only cloud on her horizon was the fact that she and Cal were not in love. Still, she thought sadly, I suppose a woman who has loved and lost can’t expect to find love again...

  CHAPTER ONE

  On the morning of her marriage to a man whom she liked but did not love, Antonia Marlowe, the daughter of an Englishman who had spent most of his life in Spain, sat in her marble-floored bedroom in a great house in Valencia, and contemplated her wedding night with a sudden shiver of apprehension.

  At the time of her engagement two months earlier, marriage to Cal Barnard, the dynamic young English industrialist, had offered a tempting escape from the increasing unhappiness of her life since the death of her adored father. But now that the moment had come to commit the rest of her life to someone who, in many ways, was still a stranger, she was filled with doubt and trepidation. She sat at her dressing-table, while the most skilful hairdresser in the third largest city in Spain arranged her hair for her wedding and her mind went back to the day she had first set eyes on the man who had never yet kissed her with passion, but who by tonight would be her husband.

  Although she had been born in Valencia and grown up there, Antonia was very much her father’s daughter. From her beautiful, frivolous, easily influenced mother, Dona Elena, she had inherited only her large eyes and slender figure. Her hair was fair like her father’s, and she had his temperament. This, since his death, had made it very difficult for her to bear the restrictions of her life in the house which, when she was born, had belonged to her Spanish grandparents, and which now was ruled by her mother’s domineering sister, Tia Angela.

  It was Tia Angela who had decided to sell the Finca de la Felicidad, a weekend house on the side of a mountain some sixty miles south of Valencia. It was an old farmhouse which John Marlowe had bought and restored, and furnished in the English manner, making it cheerful and homely, unlike the mansion in Valencia which was gloomy and formal.

  Antonia had been aghast when her aunt announced this decision. The finca was Antonia’s favourite place, the scene of all her happiest memories, and the only house where she felt completely at ease.

  Although to John Marlowe the pleasures of life in his adopted country had far outweighed the disadvantages, one thing to which he had never accustomed himself was the habit—perhaps a legacy from the Moors who had ruled Spain for many centuries—of excluding the sun, even in winter. At the finca he had had many of the windows enlarged and, except in the two hottest months of July and August, the shutters had not been kept closed or only slightly ajar as was the case with the houses in the nearby village.

  Antonia had grown up sharing his preference for rooms filled with light, and she found the funereal dimness of the family mansion infinitely depressing. At the finca she felt a different person, and the prospect of losing her haven had been another painful shock in a year which had already brought her much grief.

  She knew it was no use appealing to her mother to contest her aunt’s decision. Dona Elena was incapable of standing up to her strong-willed elder sister.

  Antonia suspected that her aunt had decided the finca must be sold for the spiteful reason that she had never liked her English brother-in-law and had been jealous of her sister’s devotion to him. She had never been able to bully him, but now that he was dead she could bully his daughter whom she had always considered to have had far too much freedom.

  Without spoiling its rustic charm, John Marlowe had installed many luxurious features which made the finca a property worth a great deal of money. Only someone of wealth could afford such a place and, to Antonia’s relief, prospective buyers were few and those who looked did not buy.

  But one day one of her uncles, a widower who was the managing director of a large manufacturing company, announced that an English businessman whom he knew and liked was interested in the finca, and he had invited Senor Barnard to spend a night or two there on his way from Alicante to Valencia.

  Thus the following weekend, with Tio Joaquin and her mother, but not Tia Angela who disliked the country, Antonia set out for what might be one of her last visits to the house she loved.

  They set out early and arrived about eleven, dropping Antonia and the luggage at the house before going on to visit a former servant of the family who was now gravely ill.

  As Senor Barnard was not expected until shortly before lunch-time at three o’clock, Antonia decided to spend the rest of the morning walking up one of the mule paths which criss-crossed the mountain behind the finca. She wore jeans to protect her legs from the gorse and carried a light nylon rucksack containing a bocadillo, a crusty roll from the village bakery, filled with jamon serrano, the dark red mountain ham similar to Italian Parma ham, and a plastic bottle of mineral water. They did not drink the tap water at the finca; it was rainwater, stored in a huge underground cisterna, the home of an eel whose function was to eat algae and the larvae of mosquitoes which might otherwise breed there.

  On her way down the mountain two hours later, thinking sadly of her father and of Paco, she met a tall man whom she knew at once to be a foreigner. But as there were many foreigners living in that part of Spain, it surprised her when, instead of standing aside for her to pass, he said ‘Buenos dias, senorita. Yo soy Cal Barnard,’ and held out a large brown hand.

  Had he not been a prospective buyer she would have liked him on sight. In height and breadth of shoulder he reminded her of her father who also had been a six-footer, towering over most Spaniards. Somehow she had assumed that he would be a man of her uncle’s age, but in fact he was young, with a lean and muscular frame quite different from the paunchy, desk-bound figures of many up-and-coming Spanish businessmen. But according to her uncle Senor Barnard was not merely up-and-coming. Although not far into his thirties—she herself was approaching her twenty-first-birthday—he had already arrived. The high price of the finca would be well within his grasp.

  She said, in English, ‘Good morning, Mr. Barnard. How did you know who I was?’

  ‘Someone described you to me. They said’—his well-cut mouth slanted with amusement—‘that you had a perfect figure, blonde hair and eyes like pools of dark honey. I thought they must be exaggerating, but I see they weren’t. It seems unlikely that more than one girl in this neighbourhood fits that description.’

  Antonia found herself blushing, although not because she was unused to compliments. She had been accustomed from childhood to people praising her beauty, although her father had not approved of the Spanish practice of flattering children in their hearing. What made her blush was that, when Mr. Barnard referred to her figure, his eyes had swept up and down in a much bolder way than any man had looked at her before—at least while she was aware of it.

  She said stiffly, ‘I’m sorry there was no one at the house to welcome you. My uncle has gone to Pedreguer’—indicating the mountains further inland—‘to see an old man who used to work for us, and who is dying. I didn’t expect you until later, or I shouldn’t have come out for a walk.’

  ‘On the contrary, it’s I who should apologise for arriving too early,’ he answered. ‘I finished my business in Alicante sooner than I expected, and it seemed a pity not to spend as much time as possible in the country before going on to Barcelona.’ He turned to survey the view from where they were standing. ‘This is a beautiful part of Spain. It’s almost as gr
een as England.’

  She said, ‘Yes, I love this valley—especially in February when the almendreras are in flower.’

  While he was admiring the froth of pink and white blossom on the almond trees on the terraces below them, she looked at him. She had never been to her father’s country, and had met few English people. The finca was in a part of Spain which because of its superb winter climate was popular with expatriates of many nations. But most of them were retired people, the men white-haired and weatherbeaten, and the women dowdy compared with the elegance of the wealthy, leisured Spanish women in her mother’s family social circle.

  On summer weekends Antonia and her father had swum in their private pool, or had gone by boat to coves inaccessible by land, avoiding the packed tourist beaches. Thus an Englishman of Cal Barnard’s age and type was an unknown quantity to her.

  Reared among men whose eyes were commonly light or dark brown, and sometimes grey or hazel, she found his vividly blue eyes by far his most striking feature. Later she discovered that the reason why his nose was such an odd shape was because the bridge had been broken by the impact of another boy’s head during his schooldays. In profile, the flattened bridge gave his already rawboned face an extra toughness. Spanish men of the middle and upper classes never had his kind of face, although she had seen it among gypsies and bullfighters.

  As this thought was passing through her mind, her uncle’s guest turned and caught her studying him. Between them a rock formed a step so that he was standing considerably lower than she was. But because of his height, his eyes were still above hers.

  He said, ‘You’re an unusual girl, Miss Marlowe.’

  ‘Am I? Why?’

  ‘You haven’t asked me who described you in those poetic terms. Aren’t you curious to know who your admirer was, or are you so accustomed to admiration that it no longer excites you?’

  She said, ‘I was lucky in having two good-looking parents, Mr. Barnard. My mother is far more beautiful than I am. Anyway, I think a clever brain is more important than a pretty face. It lasts all one’s life, which beauty doesn’t.’

  ‘True: but while it lasts beauty gives more pleasure than cleverness.’

  ‘To others, perhaps, not necessarily to the person concerned. I should have preferred to be clever like my father. He died last year.’

  ‘Yes, so I was told.’ He did not add the conventional expression of regret. She had the impression he was a man who had little time for commonplaces.

  They walked down the mountain in single file, Antonia leading the way. At the house she asked him if he would like a drink or wished first to go to his room.

  ‘A cold beer would be very acceptable.’ He began to look round the living-room with its closely packed shelves of books, and the paintings which her father had collected throughout his lifetime.

  ‘Do you read much, Miss Marlowe?’ he asked, when she brought the beer to him.

  In the mansion in Valencia everything was done by the large household staff, but at the finca John Marlowe had preferred to live more informally, helping himself to drinks from a concealed refrigerator instead of pressing a bell to summon a servant.

  ‘Yes, I read a great deal.’

  ‘And presumably with equal ease in Spanish or English.’

  ‘Yes, but mostly in English as it happens. My tastes are not very highbrow. She’s one of my favourite authors’—touching the spine of a book by a popular English thriller writer.

  ‘And of mine.’

  Presently the others returned and for the rest of the day Antonia took little part in their conversation. It was clear from the outset that Cal Barnard liked the property and, by ten o’clock that night, as they were sitting down to dine, he announced his decision to buy it, provided the price included the furniture and other contents so that it would be habitable at once, and he would not have the trouble of refurnishing.

  ‘But certainly, Senor,’ said her uncle. ‘We have no use for the things here. They were chosen by my late brother-in-law, and are not in keeping with our homes.’

  ‘But I want to keep Papa’s things,’ protested Antonia.

  ‘Where would you put them, querida?’ said her mother. ‘I’m sure Senor Barnard won’t mind if you choose a picture or two, and perhaps a few favourite books. But to keep everything is impossible.’

  ‘Yes, of course you must keep some mementoes of your father, Miss Marlowe,’ said the Englishman, who was sitting opposite her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, in a low voice. But she had to lower her lashes to hide the rush of hot tears which blurred her vision.

  Somehow it had not occurred to her that not only the finca but most of its contents would be lost to her. She had assumed they would be stored until she had a home of her own—not that that was an imminent happening after the tragic end of her relationship with Paco.

  The next day she meant to absent herself, leaving Tio Joaquin and her mother to entertain their visitor. But shortly after she had set out for another walk, she heard a whistle from below and looked to see him striding up the track.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you? Or would you prefer your own company?’ he asked, when he caught up with her.

  Courtesy obliged her to say, ‘By all means, if you wish, Mr. Barnard.’

  But he was too sharp-witted to have missed the fractional hesitation, and his next question was, ‘Do you dislike me personally, Miss Marlowe? Or is it merely that I’m dispossessing you of a place to which you are particularly attached?’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve seemed ... unfriendly. It is very hard to part with a house one has loved. Perhaps it sounds silly to you, but I’ve always felt curiously alien in my mother’s family home in Valencia. I take after Papa, you see. I’m much more English than Spanish, in spite of having always lived here.’

  ‘I accept that you’re more like your father than your mother, but you’re certainly very unlike many English girls of your age.’

  ‘Really? In what way?’

  ‘You have qualities which are no longer fashionable in England—gentleness, modesty. Your speech isn’t peppered with vulgarisms. Your manner isn’t aggressive. I should judge that you’re still a virgin.’

  She said nothing, but the rush of colour in her cheeks confirmed that his judgment was correct.

  Perhaps it was because nobody, not even Paco, had ever made such a forthright remark to her that, normally as sure-footed as a goat, she lost her footing on a loose piece of rock and gasped with pain as her left ankle twisted under her.

  That the pain had been caused by more than a transient wrench was evident from the rapid swelling.

  ‘A sprain, I’m afraid,’ said Cal, having lowered her on to a flat rock so that he could examine the injury.

  ‘I’m sorry. How stupid of me. I’ve never done it before.’

  He looked up, his blue eyes amused as they had been the day before. ‘Perhaps I unnerved you by speaking frankly, senorita.’ His expression changed. ‘This ankle needs a cold compress. I’ll have to carry you down but, since I’m not a superman, it will have to be piggyback fashion. Here, put your arms round my neck.’

  He crouched on the track with his back to her and, when her arms were round his neck, he put his arms under her knees and rose to his feet.

  In spite of the pain from her ankle, what she was most conscious of as he carried her back to the house was the crisp dark hair close to her face, and the sinewy back between her thighs. Often, as a small child, she had ridden piggy-back with her father. But somehow this time it was different. The sunburned skin of his neck had a distinctive, agreeable smell which had nothing to do with after-shave lotion or pomade. It was merely the natural smell of clean, brown, healthy male skin, and she found it as pleasant as the fragrance of freshly-baked bread, or sheets which had dried in the sun and been stored with sprigs of fresh herbs.

  Her mother was resting. Her uncle was out. It was Cal who put ice on her ankle, and strapped it with a crepe bandage. She was glad that the day be
fore she had shaved and creamed her slim legs, and trimmed and painted her toenails.

  ‘I’ll be here again in a month, and meanwhile you can decide which things you want to retain,’ he said to her later.

  The next morning, before she was up, he was on his way north to Barcelona.

  About two weeks afterwards one of the servants brought to Antonia a package with English stamps on it. It was a padded bag with a green and white label marked Printed Matter and bearing three Royal Warrants. It came from Hatchards at 187, Piccadilly, London, booksellers by appointment to Her Majesty the Queen, H.R.H. The Duke of Edinburgh, and H.M. Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother.

  At first glance, before she realised it was addressed to her. Antonia thought it must be a book ordered long in advance by her father who had had an account with the firm, and had often received parcels from them.

  Inside, further protected by a fold of corrugated paper, was a newly-published thriller. On the fly-leaf, in a bold hand, was written—In anticipation of our next meeting, when I hope we shall find other tastes in common. C. B.

  The next time they met was when, with her uncle and her mother, she was invited to dine with him at one of Valencia’s most luxurious hotels, the Rey Don Jaime.

  Had he chosen to entertain them at the Astoria Palace or the Reina Victoria, she would have enjoyed the occasion. But the Rey Don Jaime was a modern hotel on the north side of the river, and throughout the delicious meal she could not forget that, not far from where she was sitting, had lived her love—her lost love.

  The city of Valencia was bisected by the wide but waterless bed of the Rio Turia. The last time water had flowed there had been in the 1950s after exceptional flooding, for the Turia had long been diverted to irrigate the rice fields and orange groves surrounding the city. It was not unusual to see a herd of sheep grazing in the shade beneath the bridges, and between two of them there was a football pitch. The heart of the city and all its finest, most historic buildings were on the south side of the river, although the north bank had the University and the Bellas Artes museum of religious and modern art.