Castle in Spain

by Margaret Rome

  CASTLE IN SPAIN

  Margaret Rome

  Never again would she dance on stage

  Birdie's career as a ballerina was over, ruined by a fluke accident. Reeling from the shock, she let sympathetic friends lure her to the island of Menorca for a rest.

  It was there that Birdie met the Conde, a man who was the antithesis of all she knew--and who wouldn't let her retreat into herself. He was overbearing and manipulative; Birdie knew his power could wreak even more havoc in her life!

  CHAPTER ONE

  'MENORCA is an island of peace lost in the middle of the sea . . As the yacht nosed the length of a long deep bay, seeking a berth in the charming, bustling port of Mahon, Birdie was reminded of Lady Daphne's enthusing when she had urged her to leave the depressing dampness of London and embark with herself and a mutual friend on a cruise of the Balearics.

  'I'm certain you'll find Menorca especially appealing, my dear,' the deeply concerned widow had insisted. 'Everyone who knows it agrees that it possesses a certain serenity, a sense of well-being—sosophrine is the Greek word for it— which, combined with warm sun and sea air, will build you up physically and restore the mental tranquillity you have temporarily lost.'

  But as Birdie leant with her elbows on the rail studying on one shore slopes of green topped by elegant white villas each with steps ascending to a private stretch of beach; the outline of a ruined fortress; a fishing village festooned with nets drying in the sun, and on the opposite shore a cram of yachts, cool white except for brasses glistening sun-hot; a waterfront road made frantic with speeding cars and motorcycles, then rising upwards from the harbour the_ houses and hotels, the shops, the spire and belfries of the capital city, Mahon, she felt no uplift of spirits, no surge of warmth in spite of the brilliance of sky and sea.

  the hot caress of the sun.

  For weeks she had been gripped by an attitude of dazed suspension, a subconscious refusal to admit that the accident had ever happened, that the wire attached to a harness designed to 'fly' her high across the stage had not snapped on the closing night of La Sylphide, sending her crashing to the stage with one slim, cherished ankle twisted awkwardly beneath her. For the umpteenth time she was reliving the incident that, with the suddenness of a snapping wire, had wrenched from her grasp all hopes of a brilliant career. Top London specialists had exercised all their skill in an effort to restore to her ankle the strength and flexibility built up through years of dedicated training. Exceptional talent is the only currency necessary to gain entry into the ballet world, which was why, with the help of keen-eyed teachers and determined foster-parents, she had been accepted as a pupil by a celebrated ballet school when barely eleven years of age.

  The discipline of the ballet world begins young and never ends. Far from being merely pretty entertainers, ballet dancers are forced to train harder than any athlete in any sport, every day of their dancing lives. But because dancing unearthed from within her a lightness of spirit, a happiness almost too great to be borne, and because of the depth of gratitude she had felt towards her foster-parents and the teachers who had been quick to recognise her talent, Birdie had not begrudged one moment of the gruelling exercises designed to bend and stretch a dancer's body into shape, to ensure that balance, control and the correct distribution of body weight are attained. Determined to succeed, she had found the courage to crash her tortured limbs through a barrier of physical pain, and as a consequence, in less than a year she had been judged strong enough to go up on pointe. She had absorbed lessons like a sponge, delighting choreographers with her ability to translate their instructions into fluid movement; gratifying conductors with her perfect sense of timing; amazing teachers with the magically expressive way she was able to convey her feelings without the use of words. No other pupil had taken quite so much to heart the call for dedication, the warnings that even after years of training only a handful of them could hope to reach the top of their profession. She had skipped without regret the lighthearted flirtations and giggling companionship her teenage contemporaries had shared, working at the barre until her muscles had screamed in protest, even forcing back sleep in order to practise in her mind the gestures of mime.

  Her reward had come as a solo spot that had brought acclaim from critics and public alike, her future had stretched endless with possibilities, abundant with promise, yet she had felt that a lifetime would barely be long enough to contain all the roles she wished to dance, all the effort she intended to expend in order to reach the pinnacle of perfection. Then, against all odds, in spite of daily checks and painstaking precautions, a flaw in a length of wire had gone undetected ...

  Anthony Ashwell strode soft-footed on deck, his roped-soled shoes giving no warning of his approach. He hesitated at the sight of the girl leaning against the rail, her expression pensive, her body a slim line of dejection which normally, because she was concerned about his self-imposed burden of guilt, he was never allowed to glimpse.

  When she shifted slightly, obviously seeking to ease the strain on her injured ankle, he winced. In time, the specialists had promised, the pain would lessen and the limp would become almost imperceptible, but the injury had been so severe that unfortunately a stiffness would always remain—a diagnosis which the majority could accept as a slight inconvenience but which to a budding ballerina had represented crippling disaster. Inevitably, his mind drifted back nine years into the past to the moment when he had first set eyes upon Jennifer Wren, a brown-haired, overawed schoolgirl whose stammered responses to his questions had not impressed him in the least, whose nervous blinking, born, he was later to learn, of a tragically insecure childhood, had irritated him to the point of rudeness. Her combination of muted, almost drab colouring, birdlike timidity, and an unfortunate coupling of names had prompted her fellow pupils to christen her Birdie, but not until she had begun to dance had it become obvious how deserving she was of the unconsciously apt title. The nervous, fluttering girl had responded to the sound of music by spreading her wings and soaring with indescribable grace across the width of the stage. Training had unearthed artistic .flair; exercises had developed her exquisite line; maturity had bestowed a pale, haunting beauty and though shyness was inherent she had learnt to hide her feeling behind a mask of serenity, making it difficult to gauge the extent of her hurt, the degree of pain imposed by clipped wings.

  As if sensing his presence, she swung round to face him. 'Good morning, Tony!' The warmth of her welcome made nonsense of his theory that she must consider that his negligence had contributed to her accident because as director of the opera company he was ultimately responsible for the safety of every one of its members. 'Don't look so sad,' she read his expression correctly, 'you have been assured over and over again that you were not to blame—it was a mishap no one could have foreseen, an act of God ...' She faltered, then trembled into silence, yearning for sufficient eloquence to rid the sensitive, artistic man of his unjustifiable sense of guilt.

  A glint of tears beneath gold-feathered lashes sent him striding towards her, cursing inwardly the self-absorption that had caused her further upset. Determinedly dismissing the subject that caused them both intolerable pain, he hugged her shoulders and confided briskly:

  'Daphne is toying with the idea of throwing a party on board this evening. As the yacht is newly commissioned she wishes to show it off to her friends among the yachting fraternity, many of whom she expects to find moored in the harbour when we berth. A christening party, would you believe! After much deliberation, our fervent ballet-lover has finally decided upon a name for her new toy. Predictably, she combed the ballet world for a source of inspiration and she's now beaming with complacency at haying made what she considers to be a brilliant choice! But please, Birdie, my love, don't ask m
e what it is ...'

  'Oh, but I must!' she insisted on a gurgling breath, 'You can't keep me in suspense, it would be most unfair!'

  'Terre-a-terre,' he admitted with a groan. 'If she were anyone other than Lady Daphne Durant, our beloved patroness and balletomane, I would condemn her to the depths of the Mediterranean for her mastery of trite verbiage.'

  His fine, rather stern features lightened when a sideways glance confirmed that his deliberately acid observation had succeeded in amusing her. Laughter was bubbling like a well, the pale oval face defined clear as a cameo by dark brown hair, severely parted, then winged to the nape of her neck to nestle in a silken bun; hazel eyes, set within gold-dusted lashes, a sweet, rather solemn mouth that once had been quick to smile, were alive and dancing.

  'I don't know about that,' she pretended to consider, struggling to keep the corners of her mouth from lifting. 'I think I'll side with Lady Daphne, I quite like the connotation and consider she's been very clever. Terre-a-terre, the ballet term for choreography with few jumps, is a unique name for a yacht, and its literal translation "ground to ground" seems to me to be an excellent choice for a vessel designed to transport people from one land to another.'

  'You disappoint me, Birdie,' he groaned. 'I have no alternative but to withdraw from the argument—one illogical female I can fight, but not two!'

  'You know you think the world of Lady Daphne!' she dared to reprove the man who up until her accident had appeared as aloof and untouchable as some Olympian god, 'so why. do you persist in criticising her?'

  'Self-defence,' he confessed with wry candour. 'I seldom dare admit even to myself that I adore her.'

  'Then why ‑' she began, then faltered, ashamed of her inquisitiveness.

  '... don't I ask her to marry me?' he prompted. 'Because she has too much money and because I don't possess sufficient strength of character to rise above the sort of remarks made to men who marry wealthy widows.'

  'But you love her,' she protested vehemently, 'and when you're together even a blind person could sense that she's mad about you.'

  'Perhaps,' he nodded briefly, his grey eyes clouding, 'but she's also mad about travelling, especially in her own private yacht and accompanied by friends tuned in to her own particular wavelength. Although the majority of her guests are chosen from out of her own aristocratic circle, with a smattering of musicians, painters, literary men, and women famous either for their beauty or their personality, she's by no means a snob -- one only needs to be outstanding in some field to be invited on one of her cruises. As you say,' he frowned 'we're in love, yet I keep having to remind myself that we're temperamentally unsuited. Daphne is a nomad, it would be most unfair to expect one of her restless temperament to settle in London for eleven months of every year, in no time at all she would be pining to return to the sun and the idyllic existence she enjoys here in the Mediterranean.'

  Birdie parted her lips to argue, then thought better of it. Tony's decision had not been reached lightly, his mind was tortured by doubts, but only Daphne was qualified to convince him that he had drawn a wrong conclusion. So she tried to convey sympathy by leaning her cheek against the slender, sensitive hand resting on her shoulder and murmuring as casually as she was able:

  'Poor Lady Daphne, condemned and sentenced without being given the chance to utter one word in self-defence!'

  When his grip upon her shoulder tightened she braced to withstand a spate of his notoriously scathing temper, but was spared the ordeal when Lady Daphne's voice intruded, calling him by name.

  'Tony! Tony! Oh, there you are,' she trilled appearing from below deck looking anxious and unusually harassed. Sunshine formed a golden nimbus around her hair as she hurried towards them, looking trim and workmanlike in brief denim shorts that displayed to advantage her very shapely legs, and wearing a sleeveless cotton top tucked inside a slim waistband. Conscious always of the need to keep wrinkles at bay, she tried not to frown, but when she reached them the look in her wide blue eyes was doleful.

  'I shall have to postpone the party,' she declared in a tone flat with disappointment.

  'Oh ....?' Tony queried warily, familiarity rendering him immune to her dramatic outbursts.

  'We've run out of olives,' she confirmed with such an air of tragedy Birdie almost burst out laughing. 'The chef is much too busy to be bothered, and the rest of the crew have been promised time off immediately we dock provided they return in good time to wait upon my guests. So what am I to do?' she wailed. 'There's no one else I can send—unless, Tony darling,' she eyed him speculatively, 'you could run this tiny errand? After all, I shall be busy all day supervising the preparations for tonight, which means that you'll be left at a loose end.'

  'Indeed it does not!' he contradicted. 'There are letters I must write and have despatched immediately from Mahon. Besides which,' he sounded slightly irritated, 'if olives are so essential to the success of your party why not postpone it until tomorrow night or even the night after, giving yourself ample time to send out invitations?'

  'Invitations!' Lady Daphne drew indignantly erect. 'My dear Tony,' she withered him with a look, 'I never need to send out invitations to any of my parties, it's known the length and breadth of the Med that the very first night we drop anchor in any port I'm at home to all friends and acquaintances!'

  Sensing a storm brewing between the two volatile personalities, Birdie offered hastily: 'Let me collect the olives, if you'll just head me in the right direction I'll be glad of a chance to stretch my legs.'

  'Certainly not,' Tony snapped. 'You can't be allowed to roam about alone in unfamiliar surroundings.'

  'Why, thank you, my dear!' Gratefully, Lady Daphne seized upon her offer, allowing Tony's protest to fall upon deaf ears. 'The shop that supplies us with provisions is a mere five minutes' walk from the waterfront, and you're sure to enjoy the stroll. Mahon is a beautiful old town.'

  Leaving them locked in heated argument, Birdie slipped down to her cabin to change, then went back on deck, eager to step ashore immediately the yacht had settled into a berth along the stretch of waterfront crammed with yachts of every nation, large and small, ancient and modern, trim and ungainly, battered and sleek, but none that came anywhere near the size and opulence of Lady Daphne's gleaming new toy.

  'How nice you look, my dear Birdie!' Lady Daphne beamed, handing over a basket and a slip of paper on which was written the name of the shop and one or two other small items to accompany the olives. 'I've drawn you a map naming each street so that if you should get lost, which is very unlikely, it will be a simple enough matter for you to ask directions, because many Menorquins speak English. Now are you certain you don't mind running this errand?' Belatedly, she looked anxious. 'Tony is so cross with me, he insists that I'm imposing upon your good nature.'

  'Nonsense,' Birdie assured her, looking unfamiliar in a green cotton sundress printed with yachts in full sail, narrow at the top where green strings were knotted on each bare shoulder, then billowing like a tent, disguising her slim form completely. A kerchief bound around her head and a pair of huge-rimmed sunglasses ensured her anonymity. 'I'm looking forward to my first foray into foreign territory, also the doctors did emphasise that walking is the best possible exercise for my ankle, remember?'

  'Good girl!' her hostess beamed, completely reassured. 'Off you go and enjoy yourself, but promise me that if you feel the least pain in your ankle you'll call a taxi.'

  Birdie stepped ashore into an exciting new world, a world filled with noisy vehicles being driven on the wrong side of the road by maniacs with fingers permanently depressing their horns; by smiling faces with merry eyes and skin tanned to shades ranging from nutmeg to darkest ebony; by scantily-clad urchins sitting with legs dangling over the harbour wall dipping home-made fishing lines into crystal blue water alive with tiddlers. Across the width of the road watchful grandmothers dressed entirely in black sat in the doorways of humble-looking dwellings, each with a single living-room no bigger than a large boat-house,
but with an uninterrupted view of the harbour and beyond that a heavenly blue vista of sea and sky, wheeling gulls, and the sails of fishing boats bringing husbands and sons safely back to harbour.

  Inhaling deeply, Birdie picked her way along the waterfront in the direction of the Maritime Steps she had been told would lead her into town, trying to identify an assortment of smells, a combination of diesel oil, shellfish, strong cheese and spiced sausages, the perfume of orange trees and flowering shrubs running riot over the hillside propping up the town, then lastly, the intoxicating odour coming from a gin distillery she had been surprised to discover tucked in between a workman's cafe and a shop selling local handicrafts.

  At the top of the steps she stopped to consult her map, then set off in the direction indicated to find the shop that supplied their provisions. She took her time, sauntering along streets so narrow pedestrians had to turn sideways on the foot-wide pavements to avoid cars' brushing past. Revelling in the breeze that turned a network of alleyways into cool, whitewashed wind tunnels, she stole glances through open doorways and saw sparsely furnished but spotlessly clean kitchens where tiles and dishes sparkled and a pan of soup seemed to be simmering on every stove.

  'If you prefer, we could deliver these goods to Lady Daphne's yacht,' the proprietress assured her in hesitant English when eventually Birdie found the small general store so choc-a-bloc with goods she had to tread a careful path towards the counter.

  'Thank you, but as they weigh so little I'll take them with me,' she declined politely, suppressing a smile at the sight of a notice hung prominently on one wall, misprinted in English, 'We deliver slopping to your yacht'.

  'I'll have a pound of plums, please.' She indicated a mound of luscious-looking fruit, each one three times the size of any she had seen at home.

  Sticky juice ran down her chin when she succumbed to the temptation of sampling one while, with the basket dangling over her arm, she continued on her way, drawn to explore the sights and sounds of activity issuing from the far end of the narrow thoroughfare. With a feeling of pleasurable guilt she demolished the whole of the purple, sun-sweetened fruit, savouring its delicious flavour but guiltily aware that, in spite of natural slimness, she would not have dared to indulge in such luxury while still in training.