Indiscretion

by Hannah Fielding

  Alexandra was about to ask her what she meant when they were interrupted by the sound of drums in the distance, heralding the pasos, and so the question died on her lips.

  ‘Here they come,’ Esmeralda whispered as the first marchers appeared. A great murmur stirred in the crowd and those watching from nearby balconies and windows leaned forward to get a better view.

  From her vantage point, Alexandra had clear sight of the procession as it went by, stepping in time to the tattoo of the drums and the eerie call of trumpets, stopping every hundred yards or so to allow the bearers to rest. The great puppets of Christ and the Virgin Mary had a surreal, life-like appearance, she thought. They seemed to be moving alone, without human help, lifting their arms or nodding their heads slowly, in rhythm with the men who carried them.

  ‘Here comes our float, Santa María de Concepción,’ Esmeralda told her as a dazzling tableau of the Holy Mother came into view. She was clothed in a blue robe, richly embroidered with gold and silver threads. A great train spread out behind her, falling in harmonious cascades over the back of the paso. With a jewelled crown surmounting her face, she looked radiant amid a sea of glowing candles.

  As the float reached Alexandra and her party, it paused. The thirty men carrying the load on their shoulders set down their burden, kneeling on one knee as they did so. Heads appeared from beneath the heavy cloak that hung over the paso, to claim a drink from the water-carrier.

  She immediately noticed Salvador. His pale face glistened with sweat; the skin taut over his prominent cheekbones and his hollow eyes made him appear like a flesh-and-blood embodiment of the wooden figures in the procession, seeming to reflect, like them, the agony of the Passion.

  All of a sudden, a drawn-out wailing sound came from out of the crowd, searing the evening air with its harrowing and mournful notes. Alexandra shuddered, startled, and saw several women cross themselves, while others threw themselves on the ground. She had read about these impromptu prayers directed to the Virgin Mary, which could burst forth, uninhibited, from someone in the congregation. She turned her gaze to Salvador. Kneeling there, he looked drawn and exhausted. As she watched him gulp down a draft of water and nod his thanks to the water-carrier, it struck Alexandra how he so epitomized the tragic soul of this fervent people. She wondered if she would ever get used to the colour and drama of Spain. Tragedy, blood and death surrounded her. Yet she could feel that this land had stirred something inside her from its sleep, that was reaching out to the passion of these people and, with a force now gathering momentum, gradually claiming it as her own.

  As the shrilling saeta drew to an end, a signal was given. The lighted image was moved smartly into position; the bearers returned to their place under the drapes, where they straightened their backs and continued bravely on their way. More floats passed by, and with them the sound of drums and trumpets, which died away as they moved into the distance. Finally the penitents came — by far the largest group in the procession — a glittering bank of candles, silent, mysterious and solemn. They wore long, loose coats girdled with thick cords, and high-peaked hoods of every colour and description, concealing their identity, save for two holes allowing them to see their way.

  It was getting late. The crowds were beginning to show the first signs of weariness. Bread and tortillas had emerged from napkins and baskets; people peeled oranges, bananas and mandarins, or chatted, now and then casting a cursory glance at the show that had been the original purpose of their outing. Children, muffled in great shawls, cried as they tried to stay awake, in spite of the attempts on their parents’ part to keep them quiet.

  It was time to go back. Doña Eugenia and Mercedes, together with Esmeralda, moved off in the direction of the car in silence, still under the spell of the spectacle they’d just witnessed. Alexandra, hanging back, noticed Esmeralda glance over her shoulder one last time, her eyes deep and melancholy. Wanting to be by herself for a little while, Alexandra started back on her own, blending in with the crowd, her heart brimming with a new fervour.

  * * *

  It was a beautiful sunny morning, tempered by a breeze blowing from the north, which bore with it the scent of wild flowers and herbs. A week had passed since the Easter festivities. Salvador had remained out of sight for most of that time. He only appeared for meals and still shunned Alexandra’s company — always civil, but cool and offhand. Out of pride and a sense of self-preservation, she didn’t go out of her way to speak to him either, and largely tried to pretend he simply wasn’t there.

  One day she was coming back from her daily walk along the avenue of oaks that stretched across the grounds at the back of the hacienda when she caught sight of him. He wore his riding breeches, an open-neck shirt and polished brown boots. Instead of heading for the stables as was his custom, he strode to the coach house on the opposite side.

  An impulse seized her and she called out his name, darting off the path as she did so. Hedges of laburnum and lilac in the full bloom of spring screened her from his view. Alexandra remained hidden for a few seconds, taking pleasure in watching him without being seen.

  ‘Hey, Alexandra!’ he shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth. His eyes were casting around, and then he glimpsed her through the branches, laden with yellow clusters, and rounded the hedge to meet her.

  ‘Buenas dias, querida,’ he said, taxing her with his most charming smile, his smoky grey irises alive with some unfathomable emotion.

  ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’ she replied, her heart fluttering like the wings of a moth. Alexandra had no idea why she had chosen this occasion to stop avoiding him but she was here now and, to her amazement, he was beaming at her, his face so painfully handsome that the fluttering in her chest became a beating ache.

  ‘I’m on my way to our dressage school,’ he declared. ‘Would you care to join me?’ Like quicksilver, he had switched back to his beguiling persona and Alexandra didn’t know whether to be delighted or nervous.

  She felt the colour rush to her cheeks. A spontaneous smile lit her delicate features but she paused, not wishing to fall straight back into this game. Last time they had spoken, she’d made herself more vulnerable with him than ever before.

  He must have sensed her apprehension and took a step towards her, adding sheepishly, ‘I’ve been a little … preoccupied lately. Sorry if I’ve neglected my duty as host. Besides, this visit would give you more of an understanding of how things run at El Pavón, and perhaps there’ll be some material there for your book. Horses are very important to us in Jerez.’ Salvador’s eyes glittered and Alexandra felt herself falling helplessly into their abyss once more. She was lost, and knew only her compulsion to be with him.

  ‘I can’t think of anything that would give me greater pleasure,’ she said, all the while hoping the sudden surge of feeling that burned her face wasn’t too obvious. She added quickly, ‘And you’re right, it would be useful for my notes. Do I need to change?’

  His eyes ran quickly over her slim body clad in a sensible cotton dress. ‘You look lovely, as always, but I thought we could go riding afterwards. I don’t mind waiting if you want to change.’ Salvador met her self-conscious gaze, the glow in his eyes making her feel light-headed. He smiled broadly and continued, ‘You haven’t had much occasion to go beyond the boundaries of El Pavón, so why don’t we remedy that? There are some very beautiful spots in the region and nothing would please me more than to be your guide.’

  Was this a sudden change of heart? Salvador seemed in an unusually sprightly and attentive mood. Would she ever get used to his whimsical states of mind? They changed like quicksilver, always extreme. She wondered if he, too, was still thinking about that night at the Parador de La Luna. Suspended as she was in a constant state of uncertainty, Alexandra found her emotions ridiculously impulsive, and she hated that her reason had become unreliable too. Still, her misgivings were drowned in the elation she felt at the thought of spending a few hours alone in Salvador’s company.

  As she dressed
and fixed her hair into a more practical chignon, Alexandra had to admit that although she was thrilled at the idea of spending time alone with Salvador again, she was not overexcited at the thought of going riding. Up until now, she had managed to avoid it; her father’s suggestion, when she first arrived, that they should go riding together was never taken up: he was so rarely at the hacienda these days, choosing instead to travel on estate business most of the time. (She guessed this was a ploy to keep out of the way of his wife and the awkwardness he must feel at her frequent jibes at Alexandra.)

  Aunt Geraldine had insisted that she be initiated at an early age both to the practice of a musical instrument and to riding. Alexandra had taken to the first like a duck to water but she had to recognize that the same hadn’t been true for the latter. ‘You can’t live in the country and not know how to ride,’ Aunt Geraldine had told her niece firmly when the child had aired her fear of horses. Even now, her aunt rode to hounds every season and, as a teenager, Alexandra was forced to go hunting with her from time to time, as well as attend endless dressage classes, though she would much rather have been up in her room penning a story. It was yet another way in which she had found it difficult to conform. Finally, to her great relief, everybody had to admit she had no affinity with horses, and that riding was not for her.

  But now was not the time to be negative, she reprimanded herself. Finally she was going on an outing alone with Salvador and, if nothing else, perhaps this time they could get along like adults and have a civilized conversation. If that meant she had to do a little riding, then so be it.

  Salvador was waiting for her at the front of the house with the small open carriage that was normally reserved for the hacienda’s daily errands. He held out his hand to help her up and settled himself in the seat next to her, brushing her leg with his thigh as he did so. Alexandra’s heartbeat quickened. She could hear it thundering in her ears as she watched his long suntanned hands take firm control of the reins and, at the same time, she detected the familiar fragrance of soap that mingled with the leather of his jacket. His whole masculine being was redolent of animal magnetism and his proximity, as usual, sent her mind and body into a chaotic whirl.

  The school was ten minutes away from the hacienda by carriage. Perched high on the gig, Alexandra had a full view of the countryside. Colour dominated the scene: the brick-red and chocolate-brown of the soil, the many shades of green and yellow in the trees, the dense banks of hibiscus hedges stretching for miles on end, the whole lot blazing under a permanently brilliant sky. It was enough to take her breath away and distract her momentarily from Salvador’s disturbing closeness.

  He told her of his work, which he also regarded as his hobby. ‘Spaniards, and especially those from Jerez, have an inborn affinity for horses,’ he said as they came in sight of the school.

  ‘I’ve noticed that,’ said Alexandra. ‘In the town, there are always so many men on horseback or riders in carriages like this.’ She decided not to mention her own less than impressive experience with horses.

  ‘Indeed, and for centuries this town has been the centre for breeding the cartujano.’ Salvador flicked on the reins, caught up now in his favourite subject. ‘It’s descended from the Arab horse and was developed by the monks of Chartres. In the sixteenth century, the royal stables at Frederiksborg, in Denmark, were founded using our Spanish horse. Later, some specimens were exported to Austria, and from these were derived the famous Lipizzaners of the Spanish Riding School in Vienna.’

  He spoke enthusiastically, with a vivacity that was new to Alexandra, and she listened to him without interruption, not daring to speak for fear of breaking the spell. She knew that horses were his passion and that riding wildly through the countryside released the emotions he held so tightly inside him. It was a part of him that she had never seen, and she was fascinated by this different side to his complex character. The carriage rocked from side to side as they trotted briskly along the road, and Alexandra was acutely aware of the heat of Salvador’s body whenever it collided gently with hers.

  Suddenly conscious that she was staring at him in silence, he broke off, slanting her an embarrassed smile that somehow made him look younger. ‘But I’m boring you with all these stories. Please forgive me, I always get carried away when on the subject of horses.’

  ‘Do go on,’ she insisted, flushing slightly at the thoughts she was trying to conceal. ‘I grew up with horses, my aunt has stables, but I’m embarrassed to say, I know very little about them. I liked hearing you talk about the history of the Spanish horse.’ And then, as an afterthought, she ventured to add, ‘I appreciate their beauty, of course, but don’t quite share your passion for them.’ Salvador steered the carriage off the main road and they turned on to a dirt track that led them to an imposing two-storey stone building with a terracottatiled roof. They drove through an archway into an inner courtyard with a circle of grass and a cobbled turning area. Alexandra was impressed: this was not just a stable-block, it was a veritable temple for horses.

  A groom rushed out of the building to greet them. After exchanging a few words with the young lad, Salvador helped Alexandra out of the carriage. His hands felt warm and strong, and she was aware that he was watching her intently.

  ‘Ácqui estamos, here we are: the Cervantes de Rueda Riding School. Let me show you around,’ he said, gently taking her arm and leading her across the grass circle into the main barn. Together they walked down the central aisle inside, on either side of which were open-backed stalls. In each stall a horse, tied to a wall ring and wearing a head collar of the finest leather, stood quietly munching hay. ‘Further down, we keep boxes to house mares with foals, the colts and sick horses,’ Salvador explained, ‘On the upper floor we keep the feed and hay.’

  Over the years, Alexandra had visited many stables but she had to admit that none had been fitted out quite as extravagantly as this. The state of upkeep was far superior to anything she had come across in England: evidence of the extent of care and money that had been lavished on the place.

  They came out of the other side of the barn into the sunshine. Here a sand manège had been built, with the same disregard for expense and a similar attention to quality and detail as everywhere else. On either side lay paddocks where colts grazed the spring grass, unfettered and content under the blazing sun.

  They walked towards the wooden fence of the manège to watch three young horses trotting on the lunge rein. Salvador motioned proudly towards the handsome animals.

  ‘Look at our cartujanos. Over the centuries, their bloodline lost its purity and was injected with new strains that have made it stronger. Today, not only does the blood of their Moorish ancestors run in them, but also that of the Nubian horse, which the Romans used in their chariot races.’ He folded his arms and watched the horses being taken through their paces. ‘Last year, we introduced thoroughbred strains from England.’

  ‘I’m really very impressed, Salvador. You clearly have a great passion for these horses. I can tell how much time and care has been put into maintaining the school.’

  Salvador’s voice was a sensual, throaty purr. ‘I take great care with everything I’m passionate about, Alexandra.’ She looked up, meeting his intense silver gaze. Warmth flooded her cheeks and his mouth curved into an enigmatic smile. ‘You must have plenty of fine thoroughbreds in England,’ he added, politely moving the conversation back to safe ground.

  Alexandra looked at the spirited young creatures with their striking long shiny manes. Though not as big as hunters, they seemed strong and intelligent, as well as graceful.

  ‘We keep hunters and thoroughbreds at our stables in Kent and some of our friends breed Arab horses for racing but, I must confess, I’ve never come across such handsome and healthy animals,’ she told him, recovering her composure. ‘No wonder every sovereign and gentleman in the last century who has had a portrait painted of himself on horseback has been depicted seated upon one of these lively cartujanos.’

  ‘It’
s the cross-breeding and injection of new strains that have made the cartujano what he is today.’ He turned to stare ahead at the manège. ‘A pure-bred horse, just like a human born of a dynasty founded on intermarriage, has a tendency to become degenerate.’

  Alexandra’s clear laugh rang out. ‘Do you mean that you’re against marriage between relatives, señor?’ she teased.

  ‘In certain cases, of course, especially if they are very close and if similar marriages have occurred over generations. In fact, did you know that this very thing gave rise to the expression “degenerate”?’ He leaned his elbows on the fence, his long body appearing even more lithe and powerful. ‘Of course, mixed marriages make the most handsome children. Aren’t you the living proof of that?’ At this he looked at her askance.

  She felt herself blush again under his teasing gaze. ‘Whether or not I agree with you on this point isn’t important,’ she said carefully, not wishing to mar the moment by entering into that sort of personal discussion with him, ‘but I do understand your passion and your pride in such an achievement.’

  Salvador laughed. ‘You’re eluding the question but I forgive you because I’m in such a good mood and because you like my horses.’

  Alexandra glanced up at his face, which was in profile. For the first time since their stroll round Seville, he seemed relaxed, at peace with himself, happy. His complexion, usually pale in spite of his tan, was flushed and his eyes, often so sad, now sparkled with excitement.

  ‘You really do adore your horses,’ she remarked, giving him her brightest smile.

  ‘For once, querida, you’ve guessed right,’ he said, beaming at her. ‘Of all the creatures I have known, their character is the noblest. They are intelligent and easy to train and, above all, big-hearted.’

  ‘What do you train them for?’

  ‘For the cavalry, the show ring and competitions but also, in small numbers, for the arena, where they have to face the bull, of course.’