by Amanda Doyle
“What is this you read?” He appeared to be in a pleasant and conversational mood. “Garcia Lorca’s ballads? You know these, senorita?”
“My father had them in his collection,” she replied. “I just happened to recognise the name.”
“And what else had your father in his collection?”
“You mean in Spanish literature?”
“That is what I mean.”
She hesitated, thinking back.
“Oh, the usual things. Cervantes.”
Nicolas permitted himself a small smile.
“But of course, this goes without saying. All England knows Don Quixote, just as all Spain knows your Shakespeare. What else, then?”
“Oh—Jimenez, Baroja, Machado’s ‘Campos De Castilla.’ Also de Valera, Miro—I don’t remember them all.”
“But quite a number, yes, Miss Trent. It is a tragedy for you that your parents did not survive your own youth, chica.”
“Yes, Senor Conde,” she agreed quietly. “It’s one of those things one has to accept.”
“But now this man whom you marry will care for you, no? He is a good man, this—Mr. Hanway?”
“Yes, senor, he’s a good man.” Anna spoke with difficulty.
She was beginning to feel hot and cold by turns. How had the conversation taken this personal turn?
“You will marry almost immediately you return?”
“I—yes—I—I think so.”
“And you will live happily always after, as in the fairy tales?” he persisted.
“Yes, Senor Conde,” she repeated woodenly, “I’ll live happily ever after.”
She felt hollow and bewildered.
Nicolas was very near. He watched her intently.
Suddenly he took the book from her, placed it on a small table, and turned her once again towards the painting.
“Miss Trent, it is my wish that you accept this small study, which holds such a great appeal for you, as a gift from myself on the occasion of your wedding—a wedding present, no?”
Anna made a small, startled sound.
The colour drained from her cheeks. She actually had to clutch at his arm to steady herself.
“A—a wedding present?” Her voice sounded a million miles away. It sounded quite unrecognisable, even to her. “I’m—I’m afraid I couldn’t accept it, senor. It’s more than kind of you, but it’s—quite impossible.”
He frowned down at her.
“Impossible? There is nothing impossible in the giving and receiving of a marriage gift.”
Anna removed her hand from his arm, and brushed it over her forehead as though her head ached. What could she say? She loved the little painting dearly. She would like nothing better than to possess it, her only reminder of Nicolas, her only link with him. If it was a cheap copy, it might have been possible, but if it was an original, it could be worth thousands.
“Is—is it a—is it genuine, Senor Conde?” She had spoken the question before she could help herself.
Nicolas obviously misunderstood. She felt, rather than saw him, draw himself up beside her.
“But naturally it is the original work of Murillo, Miss Trent,” he informed her somewhat haughtily. “As such, you will accept it, and you will look at it often, and perhaps spare moments of thought for the persons here at the Castillo.”
“I’m very sorry indeed,” Anna said quite positively, “but I simply cannot accept it.”
She lifted her eyes to his, willing him to understand.
Instantly she knew that she had offended him deeply. There was a look of indescribable anger in his eyes. It almost bordered on cold dislike.
Anna was desperate. She couldn’t carry her deception one step further, come what may—not when she had to suffer such a look. She couldn’t endure it. Anything was preferable.
“Senor, there is something which I now feel bound to tell you,” she began, running her tongue over her trembling lips.
“So?” Instantly he was alert, waiting.
“The—the reason I can’t accept your gift is—is more complicated than you think.”
“Continue.” Again the one word, spoken so softly that Anna hardly picked it up.
She twisted her fingers together, looking at them. She couldn’t dare to meet his eyes any longer. They had narrowed almost threateningly, and his mouth had become a thin, cruel line.
“Yes, I—you see—it’s a bit difficult to explain, but—I’m not getting married, and I—I couldn’t possibly accept your gift under false pretences.”
“You are not getting married, and you cannot accept my gift under false pretences?” Nicolas repeated the statement exactly as she had spoken it. Never had she heard his accent sound so foreign and unfamiliar.
“That’s right, senor. I—I’m sorry to have deceived you. Please just accept what I say, and try to understand.”
“I am doing my best to understand, I assure you,” he told her, more gently. “Let us first be certain that I have the situation completely clear. You return to England in three days’ time? Yes?”
“Yes.”
“But you are not intending marriage when you reach your own country?”
“No.”
“You are, in fact, betrothed to no man at this time?”
“No,” whispered Anna.
“And you still leave us on Thursday, Miss Trent?”
“Yes, I’m leaving.” Anna felt deathly tired and spent, but somehow cleansed of guilt now that she had confessed. “It’s high time I was back at work, anyway,” she told him wearily. “Holidays can go on for too long sometimes, I think, don’t you? Do you mind if I go now, senor? There’s really no more to be said.”
Nicolas stroked his lean chin abstractedly. She wondered at first if he had heard her, but he must have done.
He crossed to the door with a couple of long, graceful strides, and held it open for her.
“Hasta luego. We will turn to this matter yet again, you and I.”
He bowed briefly and permitted her to pass, and Anna heaved a sigh of relief.
She had no intention of finding herself alone with him again before she left. She’d beg Cecily not to leave her for a moment.
Lunch was easy, because his aunt was there too, and this was the afternoon she and Guy were going in to Barcelona for the last time. Guy was to collect some reports from a pathologist for Doctor Lamas, and pay a visit to the dispensing department of a wholesale chemist.
While he was thus engaged, Anna said she would walk down to Senora Moreno’s with the new course of treatment which Guy was leaving her.
“Tell her I’m sorry I won’t have time to come, Anna, and say goodbye for me, there’s a dear. I’ll meet you here on the corner adjoining the main street, or if I’m longer than you are, go to the cafe. We’ll have a drink before we go back.”
Anna was tempted to linger at the Morenos’.
This was the last time she would cuddle these little dark-eyed children, and watch their eager faces as they tried to guess what she had brought them. This time it was a box of the delicious Spanish nougat, plus the inevitable cake of chocolate for Timoteo, who didn’t like nuts.
She washed the last lingering stickiness from faces and mouths, and led the little ones outside. She wanted a last word with their mother, if possible in private. It was surprising what listening ears could pick up, and the half-baked interpretations childish minds could apply to what they heard. She didn’t want them to get any alarming notions about their mother’s health or their father’s absence.
Anna was in the very act of saying goodbye when the air was rent by ear-splitting yells. Carlos had fallen and skinned both his knees.
She rushed him inside and dealt with him expertly. It took a while to boil some water, after which she applied antiseptic cream and some strips of clean white cloth. Eventually Carlos eyed his bandaged knees proudly, perfectly satisfied as to the importance of his wounds.
By the time Anna finally waved goodbye it was very nearly dark
. She could just distinguish her way in the fading light, and hoped she wouldn’t take a wrong turning before she reached the main thoroughfare. She also hoped she hadn’t kept Guy waiting for too long. It was a wonder he hadn’t walked down to meet her, but perhaps he too had been held up.
First right, cross over two sections, then next left.
She hadn’t much further to go when some instinct warned her that she was not alone.
What she had first thought to be a shadow in the deserted alley was not a shadow at all. It was a man standing in the shadow, close to a rough, overleaning wall.
As she passed he moved alongside her.
Anna felt panic welling up within her. He was slimly built, and no taller than she was, but his steps were longer. He had a curious, quiet lope, that made no sound. She quickened her own gait, not daring to look at him, although he was still there, his step quite unhurried.
Beads of perspiration broke out on her brow. The street couldn’t be all that far away.
Suddenly he closed in, quite soundlessly.
His arm shot out and grabbed her own, trying to wrench her handbag from her. Anna hung on grimly, thinking of her passport and small book of traveller’s cheques. She just couldn’t lose them.
She fought silently, pitting her strength against the man’s, trying to push him off. Each wrenched at the bag so that Anna thought it must surely be torn in half.
Her breath was now coming in gasps. She’d hoped that she could frighten him off, but the silent battle went on.
“Get away! Leave me alone! Get away!” she cried hysterically, realising belatedly that she had spoken in English and he wouldn’t even understand.
Maybe he was surprised to hear a foreign voice. His grasp slackened a little, and Anna, quick to take advantage, kicked out with all her remaining strength, catching him fairly on the shin.
With a howl of pain and rage he let go the bag, and put both his hands around her throat, pushing her roughly to the wall.
It was then that Anna screamed.
She managed it twice, the first time not very loudly, the second quite shrilly.
For what seemed an eternity she was shaken back and forth as a terrier shakes a rat. She couldn’t seem to breathe or think, except that she mustn’t lose her passport.
The next moment there were swiftly running steps.
Anna’s assailant was wrenched away from her, and flung without ceremony into the gutter, where he lay for a mere second or two before scrambling up and taking to his heels.
Anna leaned weakly back against the wall, her hands to her burning throat. Her bag lay open at her feet, but she couldn’t reach it. She was afraid her limbs just wouldn’t support her, and she couldn’t move while the cobbles spun and whirled and mingled with the odd assortment of lights that danced before her eyes.
Then she was being pulled free of the wall, encircled by a pair of strong arms and held crushingly against a comfortingly broad chest.
An urgent voice spoke roughly into her hair, a very dear familiar voice.
“Anna, querida, tell me that you are unharmed. Has the brute hurt you?”
“Oh, Nicolas,” she managed to gasp, and then she collapsed, sobbing, against him, clinging to his coat in spite of herself.
“Don’t let me go,” she begged. “Don’t let me go!”
“I have not the smallest intention of doing so, chiquilla,” he replied calmly, and the arms that held her tightened reassuringly.
CHAPTER XI
For some minutes he let her cry, soothing her gently, but when her trembling and tears showed no signs of abating he held her away, and said sternly,
“Basta ya! Enough, Anna! It is finished, and we cannot remain standing here.”
He passed her his own handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes, steadied by his tone. It was like a plunge of cold water, being spoken to like that. She returned to reality with an unpleasant bump.
Her mind had regained control of itself, but she was still shaking and weak.
Nicolas took her arm in a firm grasp and propelled her forward with him, back towards the main centre.
“We must speak, I think, but not here. Courage, Anna. You will try to walk as always and appear as normal as possible. Please make this effort for Nicolas. Soon I will have you in some place of privacy where you may take time to recover from your experience.”
Anna moved as though she were in an unpleasant trance.
Once they reached the gaiety and bright signs of the Ramblas, they didn’t walk much further. She was guided up shallow steps and realised they were in the foyer of some small hotel.
Nicolas made a sign, and a man came forward quickly.
“You wish, Senor Conde—?”
“A room at once, please, where we may be without interruptions. I do not mind where it is, so long as there is privacy.”
“But certainly, Senor Conde, this way. You may have my own personal study for as long as you desire. It is quiet here, and no one will disturb you.”
The manager led them into a small room with a desk, a couple of utilitarian chairs and a solid-looking velveteen sofa. He eyed Anna’s white face curiously as she entered. It was obvious that he already knew who Nicolas was.
“You wish for anything further, Senor Conde?” He hovered hopefully at the door. Nicolas gave him rapid instructions, then took Anna over to the couch.
She sank back against the cushions, closing her eyes thankfully.
The door opened and shut once more, but she was beyond caring what went on about her. She felt Nicolas’s hands examining the bruises on her throat with careful gentleness.
“Por dios!” he said dangerously. “Had I been able to leave you to pursue him, I would have killed the fellow. Come, Anna, drink this, if you please.”
Anna sat up slowly, but shook her head.
“No, thank you,” she said stiffly, feeling all at once terribly self-conscious and ashamed of her exhibition of weakness. “I’m sorry for that display just now. I’m quite all right, really—just a bit shaken.”
“You will drink this spirit, nevertheless,” she was commanded, “And I also have need of it. Mi madre! When I think of the incredible risk you have taken, to be alone in that quarter in darkness, while all the time I wait for you, not knowing where to look!” His voice faltered oddly.
He took his brandy down in one swift gulp, refilled his glass and left it on the desk. Then he came over and knelt down beside her, chafing her hands in turn between his.
“That’s better,” he observed more calmly. “Your colour at last returns a little. You must forgive me, little one, for speaking brutally to you a short while ago, but it was necessary that you regain control quickly. Come, a little more of the aguardiente, because again I must be fierce with you.” He held the glass to her lips, only satisfied when she had taken the last drop. “How could you have been so trusting, to go alone as you did? Have you not yet learned, little foolish one, that there are bad amongst the poor, just as you will one day discover there are good among the rich? At night all cats are grey—some good, some evil. But you are unwise, and trust blindly! Have you not learned the dangers of such innocence?”
Anna fingered her bruised throat shakily.
“Yes, I—think I have,” she agreed with humility. “I don’t think I’ll ever do it again.”
“Clearo! You will not do it again, for I will not permit it. Always from now, I will take care of you, pequena. I will be the one to decide where you will or will not go, and you will obey, because it is insupportable to think that I might be called upon to go through such agonies of mind again. It is understood?”
Anna looked at him in complete bewilderment.
His lean dark face was stern and imperious, and there was a smouldering light in his eyes that she had seen there once before. She returned his stare dumbly, wondering what it could possibly mean.
Nicolas gave a groan of pure frustration and took her gently into his arms.
“My little pigeon,”
he uttered thickly, cupping his hand behind her head and drawing her forward against his shirt. “Can you not know that I love you, querida? Is it not obvious that my heart is yours, and that I do not intend you to carry it away with you to England? I cannot live without you, Anna. You will marry me, you comprehend? You will become my wife, and I will teach you to love me as I already love you.”
“Oh, Nicolas,” breathed Anna, almost mute with wonder.
She lifted her head, and he could not have mistaken the adoration shining in her eyes. His lips came down upon hers with a tender touch, and then he was kissing her with mounting passion. Anna’s arms crept about his neck, and she gave herself up to the rapture of it.
Presently he drew away.
“I detect no reluctance there. It appears you will make a very satisfactory pupil,” he told her huskily, “and God willing, there is a lifetime ahead of us in which you may learn.”
“I don’t need to learn, Nicolas. I’ve always loved you,” she said simply.
He was watching her gravely.
“There is much to explain, little Anna. I wish to hear, if this is already so, why you have tortured me with your indifference, why you would leave me to suffer a half-existence while you go away with my heart?”
She ran a hand over her hair, trying to restore its tidiness, searching for words.
“You appear well to me, pequena, with your hair in this disarray. Now leave it, and answer my question,” he ordered. The old familiar imperiousness was back in his voice.
“Well, I—I thought—”
“You thought—?”
“I—thought you were going to marry Cecily.”
He drew back, incredulous.
“Cecily?” The black brows moved in a thunderous scowl. “It’s impossible! How came you to think such a thing?”
“Well—” Anna squirmed beneath his demanding gaze, feeling completely helpless—“you were always together, or so it seemed, and the other day—the bracelet—I—I thought it was a betrothal gift.”
