by Anne Weale
He lifted a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You tense every time I come near you, Cassia,’ he said drily. ‘It may not be obvious to the others. It is to me.’
She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t deny it. Her nerves had been as tight as bowstrings since she had first heard his voice in the hall. Merely knowing that he was in the house made her feel deeply uneasy. Being with him like this, alone, was even more stressful. To look at him was to remember how it had felt in his arms, to be torn between regret for what she had missed and dread that he might try again—and she wouldn’t have the strength to resist him a second time.
The Marqués rose from his chair. ‘Most people feel strung-up whey they’re taking their test. Driving with me will be a useful learning experience—how to keep calm while being inwardly muy nervioso.’ As he came round the desk his dark eyes gleamed with malicious amusement.
She had the unnerving feeling that she was going to be punished for being the first in a long history of conquests to repulse him.
In the car, she forced herself to watch and memorise everything he did. It wasn’t easy. He drove the way he made love—with a light but sure touch. Even Jack, who called his vehicle ‘she’ and paid more attention to the Range Rover than some men gave to their wives, did not stroke through the gears the way Simón did. The movements of his long fingers reminded Cassia how they had felt caressing her neck, her bare shoulder, her uncovered breast.
It was one of Spain’s golden mornings, when the mountains were sharply outlined against a pale blue sky, every crag and cleft clearly visible as far as the eye could see.
Simón pointed out a kestrel hovering in the bright air, scanning the vineyard below it for the movement of some small prey. Some weeks ago the vines had been pruned, the rust-red clay soil rotary-ploughed. Seen from her bedroom window, the grotesquely shaped vines had looked like rows of black cross-stitch. Now the first new leaves and clusters of minuscule grapes were appearing.
In Granada she had often seen men driving aggressively, pounding their horns at the slightest delay. The Marqués’s manners didn’t deteriorate when he was at the wheel. When they passed through the neighbouring village he slowed down to a crawl, smiling and raising his hand to housewives who, chatting in the narrow streets on their way to and from the shops, drew aside to let the car pass.
Cassia saw by their faces that they’d got a momentary lift from eye-contact with the good-looking driver of the opulent car with a Madrid number plate. Perhaps, if they’d noticed her beside him, they’d envied her for being young and free and out with a man whose charisma was as powerful as his car.
Leaving the village, he said, ‘Apropos what we were talking about yesterday—’
Did he mean her virginity? She hoped not.
‘Although I have doubts about Laura, I have none about Jack…not as far as his relations with the kids are concerned. He’s the man for the job. There’s no question about that.’
Ignoring the implication that there were other aspects of Jack that he was less happy with, she said, ‘It turns out that Roberto did his mili in the Spanish Foreign Legion, so he and Jack have a lot in common. Did you do military service?’
‘Of course. Everyone does…or did, when I was conscripted. I was in the Navy.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Very much. I was based at Mahon in the Islas Baleares. Menorca’s an interesting island. For a time it belonged to the British, and one of my mother’s ancestors commanded the garrison in Admiral Lord Nelson’s time. So I felt I had links with the place.’
Cassia had never been to the Balearics herself, although her father had spent time on Mallorca before she was born. She visualised Simón in uniform—not, perhaps, as unnervingly sure of himself as he was now, but still devastatingly attractive, especially to girls sequestered on a small island like Menorca which, so she had heard, had never been as ‘swinging’ as Ibiza, a mecca for drop-outs.
She wondered how many Menorcan hearts he had broken, and if most of the girls he had dated still had wistful or painful memories—memories such as she would have ten years from now.
‘Why are you frowning?’ he asked. ‘What are you thinking about?’
‘I—I was thinking about my father.’
‘Sorry…I should have guessed.’ He took his right hand off the wheel, reaching for her left hand and giving it a quick squeeze. ‘You must often miss him.’
The sympathetic tone and gesture were immeasurably warming. She wanted to take his hand and hold it against her cheek. She wanted so much to love him and show her love. But that wasn’t what he wanted. If and when he embarked on a long-term relationship, it wouldn’t be with someone like her. She wasn’t the stuff marquesas were made from. She might seem classy to the girls from Madrid, but she wouldn’t pass muster with his mother.
Simón took his hand away. Glancing at him, she saw a tight knot of muscle showing at the angle of his jaw—usually a sign of impatience or annoyance.
Then, the road being clear, he began to point out the dials and buttons on the dashboard. There was no irritation in his voice. Perhaps she had imagined his displeasure.
When the time came for her to take the wheel she fixed her mind firmly on proving Jack a good teacher and herself a good pupil.
Half an hour later Simón directed her in and out of a small town which didn’t have any hazardously narrow streets but where it was market day and there was a policeman on duty at a central roundabout.
Cassia kept her head, and acquitted herself well enough for Simón to say, ‘Your road sense is excellent. I’m impressed, and I’ll see what I can do to get you tested as soon as possible. I’ve no influence myself, but some of my friends have. Unless, of course, you have strong moral objections to queue-jumping?’
Being still at the wheel, she kept her eyes on the road, but knew by the tone of his voice that he was teasing her. She said, ‘I might…in other circumstances. I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking the place of someone waiting for medical treatment. But it would make life easier for Jack if he didn’t have to do all the driving.’
‘Your wish is my command, señorita.’
If only it were, she thought longingly. To have Simón at her feet—even metaphorically—was a fantasy she had forbidden herself to indulge in.
Presently they changed places, and she took it for granted that they were heading back to Castell de los Torres until, with the surrounding countryside still totally unfamiliar, she realised that they were travelling west, which must be taking them further inland.
CHAPTER TEN
‘WHERE are we going?’
‘I thought we’d have lunch out,’ Simón said casually. ‘There’s a restaurant on the way to Albacete, recommended by my friend with the aeroplane. I called them this morning to make sure they were open today. You’re not in any hurry to get back to the house, are you?’
‘There are things I ought to be doing, but nothing which can’t wait, I suppose,’ said Cassia. ‘Did you tell Laura we’d be out?’
‘Naturally. If we weren’t back when she expected us, she might think we’d had an accident.’
As it was not yet mid-morning, and an inland restaurant would be unlikely to start serving lunch before half past one at the earliest, Cassia wondered how he was planning to spend the interval.
When they stopped at a village bar for coffee, it turned out that their destination was near a large, lake-like reservoir which Simón intended to walk round. ‘We shan’t need boots. There’s a road. I gather it’s a popular picnic area at weekends and on fiestas.’
Later, as they strolled in the sun along a lane near the water’s edge, passing one or two anglers but otherwise having the lovely place to themselves, she wondered why she was here with him. She couldn’t fathom his motive for bringing her, unless, after lunch, he meant to make another pass. But he had specifically said that that wasn’t his intention, and he wasn’t behaving like a man with seduction in view.
Today, judging by their co
nversation, it seemed to be her mind, not her body that he was interested in—her favourite painters and authors, even her political opinions. He seemed to be taking her seriously and that, she discovered, could be as seductive as being flirted with. She felt herself warming, weakening, becoming dangerously happy when it turned out that they shared an enthusiasm or a dislike.
Their lunch was served at a table in the corner of a terrace. The rest of the restaurant’s clientele, who all looked like travelling salesmen, ate inside in the busy dining room, which soon became noisy and, at the coffee stage, smoky.
The Marqués and Cassia could see the smokers lighting up through the window overlooking the terrace but were spared the noise, which would have made their own quiet tête-à-tête impossible.
‘Not great cuisine, but very well cooked, don’t you think?’ he said, peeling a pear while she dipped her spoon into a crunchy topping on a home-made flan.
Cassia savoured the contrast between the caramelised sugar and the creamy smoothness of the custard before saying, ‘I’ve enjoyed every mouthful. Thank you for bringing me.’
‘Would you have come if you’d had the chance to opt out?’
‘I don’t know. Possibly not.’
‘Why not?’
When she didn’t speak, he answered for her. ‘Because of what happened the last time I was down here.’ It was a statement, not a question.
She put down the spoon, her enjoyment evaporating.
‘Why did you have to bring that up?’ she said in a low voice, looking towards the lake.
‘Would you rather we ignored it?’
‘I—I hoped we were on a different footing now. Friends.’
There was a long silence. When she flicked a glance at him, he was looking at the mountains on the far side of the water. His face gave nothing away.
Eventually he said, ‘Very well, if that’s the way you want it. Coffee?’
On the drive back they listened to a tape of what Simón called ‘mountain music’—classical orchestral pieces.
Sitting beside him, Cassia was aware that somehow the day had gone wrong, and their pre-lunch rapport had been lost. They weren’t friends. They could never be friends. It was a textbook case of a man wanting one thing and one thing only from a woman—something she wanted too, but not on the same terms.
When they got back, Laura greeted the Marqués with the news that soon after he’d left a lady had called from Madrid to say that she was paying him a visit and would arrive in time for dinner. Her name was Antonia Bretano. Laura had already prepared a bedroom for her.
Less than an hour later a loud tattoo on a horn drew Cassia to a window overlooking the plaza in time to see Simón coming out of the front door and opening his arms to the driver of a silver sports car.
When they finished hugging each other, his visitor drew back to reveal herself as a tall, thin redhead in her late twenties, obviously on close terms with him.
Evidently she was an artist. As Cassia watched she unlocked the boot and unloaded an aluminium easel, a collection of boards strapped together, and a motley assortment of bags—including two airline bags, three shopping carriers and a Greek-island bag.
Feeling another pair of hands might be needed, as well as being curious to meet her, Cassia ran downstairs to help.
By the time she’d emerged from the house Simón had his visitor’s belongings slung over his shoulders, tucked under his arms and held in his hands.
To Cassia’s surprise, he introduced them in English. ‘Toni, this is Cassia Browning, whose father was an artist. Toni is also a professional painter.’
‘How do you do? May I help you with your things?’
‘That’s kind of you. Gracias. I came impulsivamente, and packed in a hurry,’ said the redhead, her English having an American accent. She was not a beauty, but she had beautiful eyes as golden as nispero honey.
‘Tell me about your father. What sort of painter was he?’ she asked, handing over a rolled mohair rug, a canvas satchel and a plastic bag full of shoes.
After Cassia had told her, Toni said, ‘I paint windows…old windows. I’m obsessed by them. Don’t ask me why.’ She paused to look up at the façade of the Casa Mondragón. ‘I expect I’ll paint some of these…if I’m not going to be in the way?’
‘You’re never in the way,’ the Marqués assured her, his voice warm, his eyes affectionate.
Suddenly Cassia had the feeling that this lanky woman, with her almost flat chest, boyish behind and wild mane of dark red hair, might be the only member of her sex, apart from his mother, for whom he felt any real warmth.
Toni flashed him a smile. Although she had none of the attributes flaunted by Isa Sanchez, she had a lot of sex appeal. In Spanish she said, ‘Thank you, darling. I only wish everyone felt the same way. I always love staying with you. You let me be myself…unlike the aunts.’ Turning to Cassia, she explained, ‘I was brought up by two bossy aunts…both of them “ladies who lunch”. They want me to join that club, but shopping and socialising bore me. How about you?’
‘Cassia’s life has been dominated by her father,’ Simón answered for her. ‘She might enjoy all the things you reject.’
‘Are you being bullied by this sexist beast?’ Toni asked, with a grin. ‘Simón has some attitudes to women that would get him lynched by the fundamental feminists. But he isn’t all bad.’
Considering she was talking to one of his employees, Cassia expected him to look rather put out by this disrespectful comment. But he said, ‘Toni has been a thorn in my side since before she could walk. I remember her lurching into a nuclear reactor I was constructing on the Arenal beach during one of our holidays at the Jávea beach house. She’s been making a nuisance of herself ever since.’
That evening Antonia Bretano came down for supper in a pair of supple suede trousers, a silver-studded belt, a tie-dyed shirt and a mirror-glass Indian waistcoat—an outfit that brought all the teenagers’ eyes out on stalks. Especially as her accessories included dramatic earrings, abundant rings and bracelets all unusual and interesting—and a velvet peaked cap, worn back to front with a brooch pinned above her forehead.
Whatever her paintings might be like, it was soon clear that she had a genius for making friends with people, regardless of their ages and backgrounds.
After the meal Laura beckoned Cassia to her, saying in an excited undertone, ‘I knew her face was familiar. It’s suddenly come to me where I’ve seen her before.’
‘Where?’
‘In Hola! magazine, that’s where. My friend has a stack in her flat going back four or five years. I was leafing through some of the old ones, before she threw them out, and who should I see but her…Antonia Bretano.’
‘Are you sure? I thought all the people in Hola! were showbiz stars or royalty.’
‘Most of them are. She’s the daughter of a count,’ said Laura. ‘It’s all coming back to me now. Her parents were married about the same time I was. Her father, the Conde de Bretano, was one of the richest men in Spain at the time he inherited the title. But he was a compulsive gambler. After his wife died in childbirth he gambled the whole lot away. Then he took to the bottle until his liver gave out.’
‘What a dreadful thing. Are you sure?’
‘I’m certain. You ask Don Simón.’
‘I think he’d tell me to mind my own business,’ said Cassia. ‘I do know that he and Señorita Bretano have been friends since they were children.’
‘Condesa de Bretano,’ Laura corrected her. ‘She’s inherited the title.’
Cassia said, ‘I shouldn’t mention this to anyone else, Laura. If Toni’s social status was important to her, Simón would have introduced her more formally. First and foremost, she’s an artist.’
‘They showed one of her paintings in Hola! I wouldn’t have wanted to buy it. A shabby old persiana enrollable, some of its slats broken, hanging over a balcony. Who would want that on their wall?’ said the housekeeper.
Cassia liked the old-fas
hioned exterior Venetian blinds, still to be seen at the windows of older houses, but rapidly being replaced by more modern aluminium blinds in new buildings. There was something typically and intriguingly Spanish about a weathered persiana draped over the rail of a balustrade to keep out the summer sun but admit any breath of air to the shadowy interior within.
‘Those old persianas will have disappeared before long.’
‘High time too,’ said Laura. ‘They might look picturesque, but you try keeping them clean!’
The next day Simón took Toni to revisit the beach where they had played as children.
Cassia accompanied the others on a trail-clearing outing. By now the wild flowers were out, and Roberto, a keen botanist, did his best to fire his charges with some of his own enthusiasm.
Although it would have been impossible not to enjoy the sunny day and the wild beauty of the scenery, Cassia’s thoughts were often elsewhere.
She felt sure that Toni’s visit wasn’t merely a sudden whim to recapture the mood of carefree holidays at the seaside. She had come with a purpose, and Cassia thought that purpose might be to bring Simón to the point of proposing to her. It seemed likely that a marriage between them had always been on the cards. People in their walk of life chose their partners for different reasons than those whose known family history went back no further than two or three generations.
Like thoroughbred horses, Spanish grandees had bloodlines going back centuries—in Simón’s case at least five centuries. The men might occasionally marry a less well-bred heiress if the family coffers were empty, but mainly they married their own kind. When they had known each other all their lives, as Simón and Toni had, and a strong affection existed, as clearly it did between them, it must work out quite well. Better, perhaps, than a passionate love match.
During the afternoon, while fooling about on some rocks, showing off to the girls, one of the boys missed his footing and fell, hitting the back of his head. For some moments he lay stunned and then staggered up, bleeding profusely.
