‘Why do you look so surprised? You know we are trying to locate your brother.’
‘I thought you’d given up. Obviously he isn’t proving easy to find and . . .’
‘You must think I give up very easily.’ His tone was both remonstrative and teasing, and of the two it was the latter which disturbed her most.
‘It’s not that at all. I wasn’t questioning your persistency. I’m quite sure that whatever you set your mind to is accomplished with . . .’ Her voice finished on a high, incomplete note.
‘Ruthless determination?’ he suggested, supplying a possible ending. ‘Or would “by fair means or foul” be more what you had in mind?’
‘No it would not,’ she replied with spirit. ‘I don’t hold such a low opinion of you.’
His breath released slowly. ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ he said on a bland smile.
Dorcas wished she had something to smile about. She hoped Carlos never managed to trace her brother. She didn’t want Michael here.
CHAPTER FOUR
They had lingered too long. The Señores de Roca had already arrived by the time Dorcas and Carlos stepped down into the hall.
Dorcas was barely aware of the grey-haired caballero and his comely spouse. This, even though her eyes had to skip past them to reach Isabel who was being warmly greeted by Rose Ruiz. All her impatience achieved was a second glimpse of Isabel’s back. As if her memory needed refreshing of that impossibly tiny waist and tightly drawn-back, black hair. Rose Ruiz’s watchful eyes met Dorcas’s over the top of Isabel’s head. Dorcas hadn’t realized how tiny Isabel was. She was like a doll.
And then Isabel was swinging away and approaching Carlos in a rustle of stiff crimson silk. She held up a pale, untouched-by-the-sun cheek for his kiss. Not coquettishly, but with the warmth that exists between friends of long-standing.
She turned, slowly. And Dorcas braced up to looking at the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. Her long lashed, black eyes and doll features could take the severe hairstyle; the delicate china complexion looked good above the crimson silk that scooped and contoured her body in the most dramatic way. Dorcas’s throat lumped. She couldn’t think what Carlos was waiting for. Why didn’t he pick Isabel up and rush her to the altar before someone else did?
‘So you are Dorcas,’ Isabel said, tilting her chin and letting the delight and pleasure flow freely from the bright sincerity of her eyes. She was, apparently, as sweet as she looked. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. And yet you are not at all as I expected.’
Dorcas could have returned that compliment—because it was said in a complimentary sense—neither was Isabel as she expected, despite Rose Ruiz’s cautionary words.
‘I thought you would be—oh, I don’t know—hard and sophisticated. It is not enough to travel on your own, which shows much enterprise, but to have the nerve to do what you did for Feli and Rosita. You risked your own life! I’m quite in awe of you. I should have gone to pieces.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ Dorcas said generously. ‘In similar circumstances, you would have done just the same. It was an intuitive reaction. A lucky one too. I’m not brave, and I rarely jump the right way.’
Rose Ruiz entered the conversation. ‘Dorcas is a modest heroine.’ Her voice was warm with pride. ‘Later, you two girls can talk all you want to. Right now, Isabel, I want to introduce Dorcas to your mama and papa. As you know, Dorcas, don Alfonso and doña Maria are the dearest of all our friends.’
Don Alfonso was very correct, very Spanish in his bearing, but not in a way that Dorcas found intimidating. The timidity she always felt when meeting a new face melted under his kindly influence. He spoke to her in English and Dorcas returned the compliment by trying out her Spanish on him. When she said: ‘Encantada,’ she truly meant that she was delighted to meet him.
His señora, her dark eyes reflecting his like a second thought, was dressed in the sombre drama of the unrelieved black which Latin ladies of her age group still favoured. It was too harsh for her. Dorcas couldn’t help thinking that a less severe silver grey would have been a kinder choice.
The moment the introductions were completed, Carlos offered his apologies for not being at the door when they arrived.
‘It is forgotten,’ don Alfonso said expansively.
Isabel interrupted, impishly: ‘Do not let him off so lightly, Papa. Why were you detained, Carlos? We thought you’d got lost.’
‘Not lost.’ Carlos’s eyes slid between mischief and reflection. ‘We might have wandered off the track for a moment, but we weren’t lost. Wouldn’t you agree, Dorcas?’
Dorcas could neither agree nor disagree. She was temporarily without a voice.
Isabel came out tops by not losing her composure. She even managed a smile as she said: ‘We must have a delicious long gossip soon, eh Dorcas? We could—how do you say it? —make the comparison?’
‘Compare notes,’ Dorcas supplied automatically. ‘Er . . . yes. That would be nice,’ she finished flatly.
At the table, Dorcas ate from habit, with no sense of enjoyment, although a special meal had been planned for the Rocas’ visit. She drank the wine—the pride of don Enrique’s cellar—with as little appreciation as if it were vinegar.
Rose Ruiz indicated it was time to leave the men to their cigars and brandy, and the womenfolk got up from the table.
‘It’s stuffy indoors,’ Isabel announced. ‘Shall we go out on the terrace?’
‘You and Dorcas may,’ her mama said. Judging by the look on Isabel’s face this was the reply she anticipated. ‘Tía Rose and I are more comfortable where we are. But take your shawl, Isabel. It can come in quite cool at night and you know how easily you catch a chill.’
‘Yes, Mama,’ Isabel said dutifully. ‘I left my shawl in the hall. I will go for it straight away. Is there anything I can get for you, Tía Rose? Perhaps you would like me to fetch your embroidery or your fan?’
‘No, child,’ said Rose Ruiz, smiling fondly. ‘I am all set for a nice long gossip with your mama. There is nothing more I could want for.’
Nodding, smiling, Isabel made her escape, whisking Dorcas along with her.
‘Let us sit here,’ Isabel said, pointing to the chairs on the terrace. Sitting down, she threw her shawl from her shoulders in a gesture that was oddly revealing. She fixed Dorcas with her big ingenuous eyes. ‘Do you despise me for humouring Mama and being the oh so obedient daughter, and for fawning over Tía Rose?’ Without waiting for a reply, she said in self-mitigation: ‘It makes Mama feel good and it does me no harm. As for the other—’ Her eyes slid down to her lap, then up again, but now they were without expression. ‘I’d be silly, surely, not to make the nest as comfortable as possible? I don’t see how Carlos and I can escape marrying, and there’s no point in being on bad terms with my future mama-in-law.’
Dorcas said weakly: ‘Do you want to escape?’
‘Not really. Carlos will make me a good husband.’
‘But—’ Dorcas released her breath on a shocked gasp—‘you do not love him.’ Statement, not question.
‘That is true.’ Shrugging her shoulders haughtily. ‘This will give me the enormous advantage. Biological attraction is very nice, I suppose, but it does have the disadvantage of dimming one’s judgement. I can see Carlos as he really is. Which I would not be able to do if my heart beat for him to the point of divine madness.’ And then, answering the disapproving set of Dorcas’s mouth: ‘It works both ways, you know. Carlos does not love me, and so he will know exactly what he is getting. I will adorn his house quite prettily; I will entertain his guests and give him many fine sons.’
‘It sounds a cold formula for a marriage,’ Dorcas couldn’t help saying. ‘All set out, like a contract.’
‘Precisely so. Marriage is a contract, surely?’
‘I suppose it is. But not one I would wish to enter without love. Isabel, don’t you ever yearn to be dazed out of your senses? To feel all aglow and intensely alive, and treasure his every smile as
something sacred. To live for him alone, and know you would willingly die for him. Feel giddy and shook-up. All because of . . .’ She stopped. She was giving too much away. Not only to Isabel—to herself. Did she really feel this intensely about Carlos?
Daintily and fastidiously, Isabel shrugged her shoulders. ‘I would not care to feel that way about my husband. To be so vulnerable . . .? No, no, I would not like it at all! I have made a study of the marriages of friends and relations. My observations have told me that it is difficult enough to sew a marriage together. Why add to the complications by being emotionally involved?’
‘Marriage is not a patchwork quilt. There is no set templet to work to. You can’t measure out the requirements to a calculated size—this square of fidelity is too large so let’s snip a bit off—and expect to sew it up to make happiness. Don’t do it, Isabel. Can’t you see what I’m getting at?’
‘I would be stupid not to. You want Carlos for yourself. I can’t say that I blame you. He is tall and good looking, and fun to be with. He’s kind, and even if he does drive me mad with his teasing, most of the time I feel lucky to have him. He’s mine and I’m keeping him. I can’t let you have him. I’m sorry. It’s true that I don’t love him, but he is not repulsive to me, which is something. My parents could have chosen someone old enough to be my father and as fat as a butter-ball. Neither is Carlos too steeped in the old tradition. He will cherish me as a wife, without being irksomely protective.’
He is good to look at and fun to be with. He’s kind and considerate, tender and arrogant, and he drives me mad with his teasing, but if he were mine I’d feel lucky all the time. I would never ask for another thing if I could have Carlos.
Aloud, Dorcas said: ‘Your views are too calculated. We’re back to the patchwork quilt again. You’re not being fair to Carlos.’
‘You do not need to feel sorry for Carlos. I will not cheat on what goes on under the patchwork quilt.’
Dorcas felt sick.
‘Then you are not being fair to yourself. To close your eyes to love is like closing your eyes and your senses to the beauties of nature. Never to hear a bird sing or smell a flower.’
‘Who said anything about closing my eyes to love? Carlos will have his women, and I will have . . .’
‘Are you two girls having a pleasant conversation?’ The interruption was timely.
Isabel smiled up at Carlos. ‘An enlightening one!’ she said mischievously. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Dorcas?’
‘Oh . . . yes!’
‘M’m,’ said Carlos, his grave eyes acknowledging the touch of atmosphere that still lingered between them.
Did he know they hadn’t been chewing on the usual candied girlie gossip, but something with more of a bite to it? If he suspected his name had figured prominently, his self effacing expression gave no clue.
‘Would either of you girls care for a refreshing drink? Your usual, Isabel?’
‘No.’ Isabel’s face grinned teasingly up at him. Dorcas asked herself: Was it the face of a girl who had always skimmed the surface, never felt out of depth or had her emotions snarled? ‘Tonight I feel . . .’ The Spanish girl paused on the word . . . ‘adventurous. I have the taste for something different. Surprise me, Carlos.’
Dorcas very nearly missed Carlos’s look of amused appreciation. Her mind was fully and unpleasantly occupied with the thought that Isabel was not as cool and unfeeling as she cared to make out.
Carlos said: ‘What would you like, Dorcas?’ His eyes were now on her. In them she saw a flame that beckoned and sweetly burned, a glow that met in her an answering glint of tears.
How could he look at her like this, hold her so close in spirit that they could even block Isabel out? But he could not block out the thought that although the moment was hers, the future was pledged to Isabel.
I won’t ever be able to have him, she thought with a panicky, violent, self-pitying realization of truth. Everything is stacked against me. Foolish of her to hope that there was some way of controlling the twisting currents that would eventually separate them.
Memory’s shutter flickered open. His mother’s words came back to her. ‘If Carlos played at love with Isabel, before long he would come to love her.’ Her mind then reproduced Isabel’s voice. Clear as a bell, she again heard Isabel say: ‘Tonight I feel adventurous. Surprise me, Carlos.’ If that was not an invitation to play, she did not know what was.
How long would Carlos continue to tease the child and deny the beautiful and alluring woman she had become? And could Dorcas bear to be around to see brotherly affection quicken to a lively interest; gentleness and humour warm to desire?
She would have run from both of them that instant, but she had nowhere to run. So she remained seated, joining in the conversation, sipping from the tall frosted glass Carlos brought her, responding to the mood with as little vivacity as a robot. Until Carlos looked at her with questioning eyes and asked: ‘Are you feeling unwell, Dorcas?’
She did not know how to answer his thoughtful consideration. She saw Isabel draw the discarded shawl up round her shoulders, and this gave her the inspiration to say: ‘I’m cold, that’s all. I haven’t got as much sense as Isabel.’ She managed to force a smile to her lips, but she couldn’t smooth the edge from her voice as she offered the face-saving explanation: ‘I didn’t bring a shawl.’
Moonlight sheered the terrace with a cold, silvern touch.
‘I should not have allowed you to sit out here so long,’ Carlos said, instantly contrite. ‘Our nights tend to be cold in contrast to the heat of the day.’
Warm, hurrying fingers grasped her arms. He used physical force to lift her to her feet. But it was an inner force that lifted and held her gaze. A strength of mind that browbeat her into submission. She had no will to look away. Then no wish to look away. He smiled. He had known this was how it would be. Her battling spirit was no match for his dominance, the superior power, the magnetism he wielded over her. His arrogance was such that he knew. From somewhere a thought mocked her. The woman who resists domination hasn’t met her master.
His eyes laughed into hers, efficaciously, taunting her to applaud his ability to produce the result intended. Yet not in a mocking way, inviting her to share his triumph rather than scoring off her.
‘Who says I want sense in my woman, eh?’
His hand on her cheek turned it to fire. He had done it again! Shattered her to a tender wreck of her normal self, then expected her to go into company looking totally unaffected.
Isabel led the way, pretending to be unaware of the tension in her wake. But her back was unnaturally stiff.
As it happened, their return to the room took second place to the arrival of another guest. The first intimation was voices, followed by a shuffle of feet, in the hall. A servant quietly entered, addressing Enrique Ruiz.
‘Señor, there is a Señor West at the door.’
Enrique Ruiz’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘Excellent! Show him in at once.’ He then explained for the benefit of the Rocas: ‘Señor West is Dorcas’s brother. We have been expecting him. We instructed the search soon after Dorcas was hurt in that dreadful landslide while saving my Feli and little Rosita.’ His thoughts lingered there for a moment. He went on, his tone more gentle, less brisk, ‘He has been a difficult man to find.’ Turning to Dorcas he said: ‘This must be a memorable moment for you, my dear.’
Dorcas stared, pale and numb, momentarily overwhelmed. Finally she managed a wooden: ‘Yes,’ that emerged without the tiniest inflection of joy, causing the old señor’s eyes to search hers with shrewd concern.
‘Aren’t you glad to be reunited with your brother?’ Carlos said quietly in her ear, offering for the company at large: ‘I do believe Dorcas is overcome.’
It served as a possible explanation for her apparent lack of enthusiasm. She sent him a grateful smile.
And then Michael was bursting through the door, his long stride making short work of the length of the room so that he seemed to shoot,
tall and golden, in an arrow-straight line to Dorcas.
Gathering her in his arms, as though her tiniest hurt caused him untold pain, he crooned gently: ‘Little sister, what have you done to yourself?’
The falseness of it stuck in her throat, prohibiting reply. But it was all right. These kind, moist-eyed, deceived people took it as another demonstration of her full heart. With perhaps one exception. She didn’t think Carlos would be taken in like the rest of them.
Not that she could blame him if he was, because Michael’s portrayal of a caring brother was faultless. Oh, he was clever, this brother of hers. Something—intuition?—must have told him to ignore everyone but her to the point of rudeness. His concern for her would naturally rise above the simple courtesy of first addressing the head of the house.
Remembering this omission, his hand smote across his forehead. Dorcas awarded him top marks for that touch of realism. His eyes, so like Dorcas’s and yet with molten depths that made hers look pale and insignificant by comparison, turned appealingly to Enrique Ruiz. ‘Señor. Please forgive me for an appalling breach of etiquette.’
Dorcas would never know how she resisted applauding, ‘Bravo! Splendid performance!’
Enrique Ruiz’s pointed beard jumped with approval. ‘Think nothing of it. Your concern for your sister does you credit. But now I think we will give a little time to the introductions. I want you to meet my wife, my son, and our guests. Then, while a meal is being prepared for you, I will tell you all about your very brave sister to whom we are greatly indebted.’
A big tear held in Dorcas’s throat, enlarging into a thought. Michael’s fingerprint on any passage of her life betokened no good for her. He would spoil everything. He always did. If there had been any hope in her that the unreality of the past few weeks could be anything more than a bitter-sweet interlude, it died a sudden death.
It had been a forlorn hope, anyway, in opposition to fact and common-sense. Perhaps there was some good in Michael’s coming at that, because his presence would act as a truth serum. Had she ever truly thought that someone as remarkable in every way as Carlos would find lasting happiness with her? He had so much; she had nothing—but her innate honesty and a heart that promised to beat for him long after he’d forgotten the shape of her nose or the pitch of her laugh. She hoped he wouldn’t forget too soon the girl who had entered his life by mistake, and for a short while had given it colour. She hoped she had given it colour. She hoped his memory of her lingered on the nice things . . . that it wouldn’t be too terribly tarnished by anything Michael might do.
Dancing in the Shadows Page 6
