by Amanda Doyle
Anna crossed the lawns, and walked through the trees towards the path that led to the beach.
The steps in the rock face were not so steep as they had appeared from above, and she took her time making the descent, pausing now and then to admire an unfamiliar plant thrusting bravely from an arid cranny, and at one point to marvel at a soldier-like procession of giant ants which crawled busily over their own well-worn highway in the scanty grass.
The beach itself was delightful, a curve of deserted white sand, with a damp-edged frill where waves shallowed into scallops of lacy froth.
Anna sank down near the edge of the water, kicking off her shoes and digging patterns in the wet sand with her toes.
She found herself wishing she had worn her swimsuit, and then suddenly she was glad she hadn’t. A movement out to sea caught her eye, and she stopped making her sand-scribbles abruptly. A figure had appeared on the deck of the yacht, and now dived in a graceful arc from the gunwale, cleaving the water with scarcely a splash. There was a primitive power about the spring the man had taken and the controlled ease with which he now approached the shore which told Anna that the swimmer must be the Conde himself. Her heart began to thud unaccountably, and she experienced all the unnerving qualms of a trespasser caught in the act of invasion.
Certainly he had told her with Latin charm that his house was hers, but he hadn’t included his beach, had he? Very possibly he might resent her being here without specific permission.
She was relieved when the sleek, dark head turned towards the jetty, and watched rather breathlessly as he hauled himself up on to the pier with catlike grace and disappeared into the boathouse.
Anna scrambled hastily to her feet, and brushed the sand from her toes. She hadn’t moved a muscle up till now—for some reason, she’d been rooted to the spot. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her, and she’d be able to beat a retreat undetected.
She fastened her sandals and walked quickly towards the cliff-face again. She was more than halfway up, and breathing rapidly because there seemed to be far more steps than there had been on the way down, when an imperious voice arrested her flight.
“Hola! Yes, it is indeed Miss Trent. For an instant I thought I must have mistaken you for a winged nymph of the sands. Is it your custom always to ascend such heights at this alarming speed?”
The Conde de Barientos came up behind her and placed a supporting hand at her elbow, helping her upward as he fell into step. He wore pale drill trousers, an unbuttoned shirt thrust carelessly in at his narrow waist, and rope espadrilles which made no sound on the stony path. His hair gleamed wet and dark as a raven’s feathers, and so did the whiteness of his teeth gleam against the tan of his face as he gave her an urbane smile.
To her chagrin, she noticed that he wasn’t even slightly breathless, whereas her own words came out far more pantingly than she’d hoped.
“Good morning, Senor Conde. What a surprise to run into you here!”
“Yes?” The scepticism behind that single word, and the knowing glint in his narrowed eyes, told her clearly that he had seen her down there on the beach after all. He also knew that she had tried to run for it.
“The surprise is mutual, senorita,” he continued smoothly. “I little thought to find a companion on my sands so early in the day.”
It was Anna’s turn to smile.
“Goodness, this isn’t early for me,” she corrected him, genuinely astonished that he could think so. “Why, by this time, back in England, I’d have checked my files, had a couple of interviews, and might even be out on my visits by now.”
She had spoken unthinking, and wished she could retract her words immediately. He was so close that she felt the tensing of disapproval in his lean body as he helped her up the final steps, and slowed to guide her through a clump of almond trees.
“This I accept, senorita,” he told her stiffly. “There is no need to dwell upon the point. I have already indicated that I find the thought of a child of your years undertaking work of this nature distasteful in the extreme. The fact that you have no close relatives to whom to turn for comfort and distraction at the end of one of these depressing days you so clearly describe makes the career, as you call it, even more ill-chosen in my eyes. Were I even a pariente—a relative—of the most distant, I would not permit that you do this, pequena.”
Anna flushed at his tone. She had no wish to argue with this dogmatic Spaniard.
“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t, senor,” she replied appeasingly, and then decided that she had sounded merely sarcastic. “We—we see things differently over there, you know.”
“This much is obvious,” he agreed oppressively. “Here, in Spain, we protect our women from as much unpleasantness as possible. This is right, and as it should be. The nature of woman is gentle and easily hurt. Her place is in the home, where she may cherish and be cherished. Her purpose is for love, firstly for her husband, and then for the lives and loves which are the natural consequence of their union. She is loved and protected, and in her turn loves and protects. You understand me, senorita?”
“I—yes—I understand.” Anna’s tone was peculiarly stifled, because there was a tightening in her throat. She kept her eyes on the short-bladed lawn over which they were now treading, wondering how best to defend her position without giving offence. “But in my place, senor, one couldn’t dare to think like that. One has to help oneself, you know. In England, we have a saying—God helps those who help themselves.”
“In Spain, also, we say this.” He halted her abruptly, and explored her upturned face intently. “There are many proverbs of my country, senorita. One may apply them suitably to almost any situation, and in your country they have their equivalent. The one I will quote you is Spanish entirely, and you would do well to ponder the inference behind it. Translating from my own tongue, it is said, ‘A woman and glass are always in danger.’ You see my point, Miss Trent?”
His tone was at once gentle, insistent, and slightly satirical. Anna swore she detected the light of mockery behind his dark, impenetrable gaze.
Oh, he was detestable! He was actually laughing at her, and she couldn’t think of a suitably belittling retort. She withdrew her arm angrily from his grasp, and walked away with all the dignity she could muster.
His quiet laughter burned her ears before she closed the patio door behind her and shut out the sound.
When Anna entered Cecily’s room a few minutes later, she found her sitting up in bed making a delicate and unsuccessful attempt to peel an orange with a small, pearl-handled knife. A finger-bowl and a snowy linen napkin lay on the table behind her.
“Here, do this for me, will you, for heaven’s sake.” She passed the knife to Anna, and dipped her fingers in the water irritably. “If Mercedes had come herself she’d have peeled it for me. Instead, she keeps sending that dolt of a girl—what’s her name?—Paquita?—who doesn’t understand a word I say, and doesn’t even try to, as far as I can see. Where have you been, anyway, Anna?”
She shot the question fiercely, obviously directing her annoyance at the human target nearest to hand.
“I went for a walk. I didn’t think you’d be awake, and as there didn’t seem to be anyone else even stirring, I thought I’d have a look at the beach. It’s the loveliest, most peaceful little stretch of sand you’ve ever seen.”
Anna handed Cecily the segments of orange, neatly arranged on a side-plate, and turned to rinse her hands.
“Were you alone down there?”
The question took Anna unawares.
“Of course.” She turned surprised eyes upon her companion. For some reason, she felt strangely reluctant to reveal her unintentional meeting with Nicolas de Lorenzo y Valdarez, but she was saved from dissembling by an abrupt contradiction from Cecily.
“You weren’t, you know.” There was a decided edge to her voice, and an unpleasant glitter in her hard green eyes. “You were with Nicolas, weren’t you? You needn’t pretend with me, Anna. I heard your voices on the law
n quite clearly. I even caught the tail-end of your conversation.” She eyed Anna speculatively, obviously enjoying her discomfiture. “What were you talking about, for goodness’ sake, to make him go on like that?” she enquired nastily. “A woman and glass, indeed!”
Anna’s colour deepened.
“We’ve—we hardly spoke at all, Cecily, really. I only met him when I was near the top of the steps on my way back. I had no idea he was already there when I went down to the beach. When I saw him, I tried to get back here before he’d seen me. I—I knew he was under the impression that he was alone, and that he wouldn’t care for strangers trespassing.”
“I’m glad you realised that much, at least,” said Cecily carefully, popping the last portion of orange into her mouth with relish. “I hope you realise also, Anna, that you’re simply not on the same planet as far as Nicolas is concerned,” she continued after a moment. “So I’d advise you to keep out of his way. He finds your type a little bit embarrassing, if you want to know. He’s indicated as much to me, but of course, he understands that Daddy had to find someone fairly practical to come with me, and as you’re my companion here, he has no option but to accept you along with me. Nicolas likes his women to be feminine and appealing, and let’s be candid—that’s not you, darling, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” Anna confirmed tautly. “And I’ve no intention of putting on a pose, if that’s what you’re afraid of, Cecily. I’ve had to be independent ever since—since the plane accident, and I can’t change what I am. That doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful to your family, Cecily. I think we all know why I want to stand on my own feet, and not be a burden. You gave me material assistance at a time when I’d have been utterly helpless, though, and I’ve never forgotten it.”
“Then don’t forget it now, Anna,” advised Cecily creamily. “You know why Daddy sent you, and you’d do well to remember it. You’re supposed to be my companion, and already you’ve left me lying here half the morning while you’ve been out enjoying yourself. You can jolly well stick around so that you’re about when you’re needed from now on, instead of leaving me to the mercies of that foolish Paquita.”
Anna pressed her lips together, determined not to quarrel. It was altogether typical of Cecily to behave like a spoilt and neglected child, but she could be shockingly callous and unjust as well, and that was what always hurt so much in their enforced relationship. The only solution was to play along with her demands as best she could, and in the next few days that was just what Anna did.
She stayed with her cousin as much as possible, read out small items of interest in the local newspapers, and had cause to be grateful to the helpful Paquita, who produced a selection of rather dated American fashion magazines which were more in Cecily’s line, and passed the hours for her.
Senora de Ceverio and the Conde himself made frequent courteous visits, and Doctor Lamas appeared punctually at twelve o’clock on the two subsequent mornings, and seemed well pleased with Cecily’s progress.
On the third morning, however, it was not his sallow countenance that hovered behind Mercedes’ comfortable figure as she entered the room and plumped up her patient’s pillows with unnecessary fuss.
Instead, a young man with Saxon-blue eyes and unruly fair hair paused for a moment in the doorway, having absorbed the delightful picture that Cecily made as her bored gaze met his own and became immediately more animated. For a second, his eyes held that look of wonder common, it seemed, to all men who beheld Cecily de Manard for the first time. It was quickly extinguished, however, and with more assurance he closed the door behind him, and approached the bed.
“Good morning, Miss de Manard. And you must be Anna. Is that right?” he asked. He was completely English.
“Si, si, senor,” clucked Mercedes, helpfully pointing from one girl to the other with excited, jabbing movements of her fat, brown fingers. “La Senorita de Manard—y aca, Senorita Trent.”
He waved her away, took up Cecily’s wrist in a professional hold, and studied her composedly for a few seconds.
“Uncle’s right. Not a thing wrong with you that time and obedience won’t cure.” His smile was mischievous. “I’ll bet you two are surprised to find a fellow-countryman in your midst.”
It was more a statement than a question.
Cecily found her voice first.
“Surprised isn’t the word,” she drawled with attractive emphasis. “Would you mind telling us who you are, and what you think you’re doing holding my hand like that?”
The young man grinned.
“A strictly clinical contact, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, to the obvious disapproval of Mercedes, who rushed forward to place a velveteen chair suggestively in front of him. He obligingly transferred his tall frame to its crimson depths, and the old woman, satisfied, retreated once more.
“I’m Guy Harding, and medically qualified to go round holding hands,” he told them lightly. “Old Lamas isn’t, of course, my uncle, but I call him that. His son and I went through our residency together when we graduated, and became friends. I’m actually over here on holiday for three months. I went down with a recurring bronchitis at the end of the winter, and Mateo was decent enough to insist on me borrowing his home and his Spanish sunshine for a while to shake it off. Doctor Lamas thought it might cheer you up to have a talk to someone other than our dear old watchdog here.”
Their new acquaintance rolled his eyes sideways in Mercedes’ direction, but fortunately she was rearranging a curtain at the other side of the room, unaware that she had been included in the conversation.
“He must be psychic,” declared Cecily feelingly. “It’s all right for Anna here—at least she gets out for a walk in the garden now and then. Not that Nicolas hasn’t been perfectly sweet and attentive, of course.”
Dr. Harding’s brows rose.
“Well, well. So it’s Nicolas, is it? Already? Personally I wouldn’t dare, but you girls can get away with anything. I find these formal Spanish aristocrats intimidating, to say the least, although I must say the Conde was pleasant enough on the terrace just now. Insisted on giving me some quite superb wine before he summoned our chaperone, and floored me with his knowledge of topical events back home.” He settled himself more comfortably, prepared to expand on his subject. “Uncle thinks the world of him, naturally—they all do in these parts. He may be something of a despot, but the estates are incredibly well maintained, and he’s a legend in the villages. There he receives nothing short of worship, so I’m told.”
“And expects it, too, I’m sure.” Anna spoke for the first time. She was still smarting from the Conde’s high-handed censure the other morning.
“Well, he deserves it, according to old Uncle Lamas,” affirmed Dr. Harding mildly. “He not only runs these estates here, but conducts the family business—iron foundries, I think—they’re very old-established, offices in Barcelona and so on, all very successful and still expanding. I met him once in London about a year ago. Mateo introduced me and we spoke for a mere couple of minutes, but he remembered me instantly downstairs just now. I’m not too sure that he was exactly sold on the idea of Uncle and me swopping visits today, but he was very polite about it, of course. Anyway, the old boy wouldn’t have dreamed of suggesting it unless he’d been sure you were on the mend, and more in need of cheering up than anything.”
“The more the merrier,” Cecily assured him gaily. “It’s been a bit dull here with Anna, I must confess, but Nicolas has promised to show me every single thing as soon as I’m able to get around again. Do call us Cecily and Anna, and we’ll call you Guy, if you don’t mind. It’s so much more friendly.”
She looked arch and uncertain and extremely pretty. “Cecily and Anna,” he repeated, glancing thoughtfully from one girl to the other. Probably marvelling at the contrast in types, thought Anna, amused. “It will be a pleasure to take you around a bit when you’re better. I have my car over here, at your disposal whenever either of y
ou wish.”
He smiled at Cecily.
“It’s a humble model compared with the beauty you pranged, by Uncle’s accounts, but it’s all yours.”
“Thank you, Guy. We’ll just have to see how things go.” Cecily’s smile answered his, but she was obviously not going to commit herself further. Anna wondered what was going on inside her beautiful head just now. There had been an oddly satisfied look on her face as she listened to their new friend extolling the virtues, wealth and position of the Conde de Barientos, almost as though the information confirmed something already in her mind. Now, although perfectly civil and charming to Guy Harding, she was more cautious and less enthusiastic than was customary for Cecily when in the presence of a personable young man.
Guy came regularly after that, several times accompanied by Doctor Lamas, and on each occasion Cecily seemed pleased at the diversion his company provided, but at the same time indifferent. As if sensing her attitude, Guy addressed his remarks more and more to Anna, who tactfully did her best to respond. He was a thoroughly nice person, she decided, kind, intelligent, and dependable. She did hope that Cecily would not have cause to injure his feelings. Men fluttered round her like moths around a candle, dazzled by her vivid beauty. Sometimes they were apt to forget how painful it can be to get too near the flames.
Towards the end of the week, Cecily was again taken to Barcelona, this time by Doctor Lamas himself.
When she returned, she was in a cheerful mood, and lost no time in demonstrating her prowess at clumping along on the small iron hoop beneath the neat walking plaster which had replaced the previous more cumbersome one. She was like some bright, restless bird released from captivity, and her personality responded to the freedom, regaining all its former glow and vigour and cynical wit.
