Indiscretion

by Hannah Fielding

  Standing up, Don Alonso said, ‘Come, I’ll walk out with you.’ They left the room through the French doors and, as they emerged on to the terrace, they saw Marujita sauntering across it, her hips swaying provocatively as usual. It was obvious to Alexandra that she had come from Salvador’s apartments. The gypsy girl was wearing a clingy dress of very fine silk, which emphasized the curves of her voluptuous young body. With her lustrous black hair swinging softly to her hips, she looked bewitching and alluring. Don Alonso stopped her as she was passing.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked in a severe tone Alexandra had never heard him use before.

  ‘Señor Salvador’s apartments,’ replied the gypsy girl with a smirk.

  ‘You’re aware of the rules. Her Grace the Duquesa has strictly forbidden you to set foot in this house. You have your own quarters and simply no business here,’ he told her coldly.

  Marujita threw back her head in that defiant Amazonian gesture so typical of her people. Briefly, she looked Alexandra up and down. ‘It was Señor Salvador himself who asked me to come,’ she said, giving them a quizzical half-smile. ‘He needed my services.’

  ‘That can be done at your own place,’ retorted Don Alonso, struggling to keep his cool.

  ‘But he wanted me here, now, immediately,’ she went on shamelessly, stressing each word in the slightly husky voice Alexandra had no doubt was enticing for most men. She felt her blood boil.

  ‘I am here every night …’ The gypsy girl looked daggers at Alexandra, a sly glint of triumph in her eyes. ‘I satisfy his hunger, quench his thirst. Without my warmth, my fire, his body lies cold and lifeless, tortured by a need only I can fulfil. He is my master and …’

  ‘That’s enough,’ cut in Don Alonso sharply, clearly shocked by the graphic, shameless impudence of the girl. ‘I’ll have you remember who you’re talking to, girl. And I’ll have your story checked, believe me. Go on, get out — leave now!’

  Alerted by the noise, José hurried out and grabbed the girl by her shoulders. Marujita fought like a wild cat, scratching and stamping her feet.

  ‘He’ll never be able to do without me!’ she shouted after them in a shrill voice as the major domo dragged her from the terrace. ‘I’m the match that lights his fire. Without me, he’s nothing, he’s no good. And by the Madre Santa he knows it!’

  After they’d gone, Don Alonso shook his head. ‘This has gone far enough, it’s getting quite out of control,’ he sighed, as if to himself. Alexandra watched dumbly as, taking leave of his daughter, he retired once more to the sanctuary of his office. His ostrich policy had obviously served him well in the past and this was no exception.

  She made her way to the front garden, a stream of sombre thoughts tumbling through her mind. This was the final straw. Hot anger smouldered within her as she totted up everything pitted against her: Salvador’s casual and chauvinistic attitude to women, her father’s cowardice, Marujita’s effrontery … and that was the least of it. She strolled on to the front lawn. Enough was enough, she would no longer put up with it.

  ‘Good afternoon, Doña Alexandra.’ She jumped, rudely forced out of her deep reflection, to find Don Felipe at her side. Evidently she had been so wrapped in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard his car draw up.

  ‘Don Felipe,’ she exclaimed. ‘How lovely to see you. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you arrive.’

  ‘I came by horse and carriage and left it further down the drive. I thought you might like to take a ride with me.’

  She smiled as the young man brought her hand to his lips.

  His dark, burning eyes scrutinized her face. ‘You look very doleful today. Is anything the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re very perceptive,’ Alexandra said, still smiling. ‘I think I could do with some pleasant company at the moment.’

  The idea of escaping the stultifying atmosphere of the hacienda, with all its intrigues, made the torero’s offer particularly appealing. Don Felipe had always been courteous towards her, and although he had perhaps been somewhat over-assiduous in his attentions, Alexandra saw no reason not to reciprocate his friendliness. It was difficult to make out why Salvador held him in such contempt. Certainly, he was flirtatious, and she imagined that sometimes the mischievous glint twinkling in his eyes might have landed him in trouble, but he was consistently cheerful and charming. And, quite frankly, today she needed someone to make her feel good about herself for a change.

  ‘I was on my way in to Puerto de Santa María for my weekly visit to our bodegas, and wondered if you’d care to accompany me …’

  ‘You’ve taken me rather by surprise,’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘I’m quite aware that I should have dropped my card earlier and given you more notice,’ he said apologetically. ‘My only excuse was my eagerness to see you again.’

  Alexandra hesitated a few seconds. Shouldn’t she tell someone where she was going? Perhaps ask Sarita to accompany her? Suppose someone was to look for her? Aunt Geraldine had warned her against the narrow-minded bigotry of the Spanish and the de Fallas were no exception, as she’d now seen for herself. They were sure to condemn her behaviour: one did not go out in the company of a young man without a chaperone. She mentioned her reservations to Don Felipe.

  ‘It’s only three o’clock,’ he reassured her. ‘I promise you’ll be back before dark, and well before dinner. Our bodegas aren’t far, just a few kilometres between here and Santa María, on the sea.’ He gave her his most engaging smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’m a trusted friend of the family. You’ll be perfectly safe with me, I assure you.’

  For a second, Alexandra thought of Salvador, whom she felt wouldn’t quite agree on his ‘trusted’ epithet, but then she laughed and pushed her qualms to one side. After all, she wasn’t a prisoner in this house and Don Felipe had promised she would be back by dinner. Anyhow, she doubted anyone would miss her. She had a habit of going out for long walks in the grounds and so far no one had ever come looking for her. If they did today, well then, she would just have to face the consequences …

  ‘Oh, goodness, why not?’

  ‘Wonderful!’ The torero took Alexandra’s arm and hurried her rather energetically down the drive towards the gig, whose horse was patiently waiting, munching on grass. ‘We must leave straight away so as not to waste any more time.’ He helped her into the carriage and took up his seat beside her.

  ‘Thank you,’ Alexandra said with a grateful smile. ‘I really did need to get away.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, beautiful señorita, the pleasure is all mine,’ he declared gallantly, with a crack of his whip.

  The sky was azure-gold and hazy, the afternoon sun beating down on the fields both sides of the road, where vines stretched to the horizon. No wonder fruit and vegetables ripened here so rapidly. What else could they do under such sultry persuasion? This was the route Alexandra had taken with Ramón on that long-ago night of her arrival. It was siesta time and there were few pedestrians. To her right, almond trees edged the road mile after unbroken mile, their sweet-smelling blossom now coming to the end of its life, covering the ground like a snow-white carpet. What an exquisite sight, she thought.

  ‘There’s a legend attached to the almond blossom,’ said Don Felipe, whose watchful eye seemed to have read her mind. ‘It goes back to the days when we were ruled by the Moors, and tells the story of the sultan who brought a beautiful princess back from Scandinavia.’

  Alexandra laughed lightly. ‘I think I should be writing a book of Spanish legends instead of a romance, I’ve collected so many.’

  ‘Then I hope this one will not disappoint you.’ He fixed her with a suave smile.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t. I love to hear them.’ She relaxed against the low-backed leather squab, letting the torero’s silky voice wash over her.

  ‘When winter came, this fair lady took to her bed,’ continued Don Felipe, his hands loosely on the horse’s reins as the carriage jogged along. ‘She pined and seemed to be fading away. No amo
unt of cajoling, potions or entertainment seemed to do the trick. The Sultan consulted his viziers, his doctors and his magicians, but no remedy could be found.

  ‘One day, a wise man from the East was passing by. As he sat in the town square, he heard the story of the ill-fated sultana. He presented himself at the palace and asked to meet with the desperate King. “May I suggest, your Majesty, that the Queen is yearning after the wintry ice and the snow of her native land,” he said. The Sultan was surprised at such a suggestion. How could anyone prefer the bitter cold of the northern countries to the languorous air and warmth of Spain?’ Don Felipe broke off, glancing at Alexandra.

  She nodded and gave a half smile. ‘Yes, indeed.’ She went back to studying the sweep of vineyards they were passing.

  ‘Nevertheless, he would do anything to save his beloved wife. According to the wise man there existed a tree the blossom of which, when in flower, would give the impression of snow. So the Sultan gave the order that almond trees should be imported from the East and planted on every inch of ground visible from his wife’s windows. One morning in spring, the fair Sultana woke to a vision of purest white, a spectacle of snow-white blossom that reminded her of the icy flakes of her country. From that moment, she no longer yearned for the snow-mantled lands of Scandinavia and the almond tree became a popular species, planted all over Spain.’

  When Don Felipe finished his story, they both fell into silence again, though Alexandra could feel the bullfighter’s eyes on her frequently. She gazed out over the hot, intensely foreign landscape, thinking about the sad queen and the life that she herself had left behind in England earlier that year. So much had happened, where did she fit in now? She wasn’t the same person who had left London in the spring, but still she wondered if she would ever truly belong in this strange country. The thought disturbed her.

  They went through Puerto’s main street, on either side of which the rich wine-merchants’ mansions stood shuttered in the shade of acacias and jacaranda trees. In the reddish glow of the afternoon light, the sun-baked town seemed to bear the amber hue of Spain’s famous sherry. Scattered about the town, the bodegas gleamed a spotless white in vivid contrast to their red-tiled roofs and emerald-green shutters, their arcades opening on to shady patios. Some of these wineries covered areas of several acres, forming whole districts.

  It was a beautiful sunny afternoon and at Alexandra’s side sat one of the most attractive and sought-after men in Andalucía. That she must be the envy of many women, Alexandra was in no doubt. Yet deep down, she felt disillusioned. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to drive Salvador from her thoughts. He seemed to delight in hurting her and she couldn’t block out the questions about him that circled obsessively in her mind.

  Freshest in her thoughts was Marujita’s alarming presence at the house. The gypsy girl seemed so sure of her hold over him. Could there be some truth in her words or was Salvador one of those men who had mistresses rather than a wife? That would explain his changeable and irascible attitude towards her, especially if he felt the tightening web of the Duquesa’s matchmaking plans looking to force him into finding a suitable wife to run El Pavón. Wasn’t that what her father had intimated?

  Equally as unsettling as Marujita’s presence on the terrace that morning was the conversation she had overheard in the grove. Suddenly, events appeared to be conspiring against her in a way she was finding almost impossible to cope with.

  Why was life not simpler? Or rather, why were people so complicated? She liked Don Felipe; in fact, in many ways she liked him a lot. He was handsome, smart, well-read and well-travelled, brave, with a good sense of humour. Furthermore, he’d been courteous and attentive to her needs. Why then could she not find it in her heart to enjoy the present?

  ‘You’re very pensive today,’ remarked her companion, shaking Alexandra from her reverie. She smiled faintly, unable to answer. ‘Is there something worrying you?’ Don Felipe continued with concern. ‘I can’t believe that a young lady as accomplished as you doesn’t have all she wishes for.’

  Alexandra gave a little hollow laugh. ‘I wish …’ she sighed.

  ‘We’ll put an end to those worries right away,’ he said determinedly, as the carriage turned into one of the narrow, twisting lanes that led towards the sea.

  As the briny smell of the coast became stronger, memories flooded back to Alexandra of the picturesque fishing village, Puerto de Santa María, that first morning when she’d arrived at the railway station. She felt a pang of nostalgia tugging at her as she remembered the hope and excitement that had filled her at the idea of meeting her estranged family. How very differently things had turned out.

  ‘We’ve arrived, and there’s nothing a glass of our marvellous Jerez won’t cure.’ The bullfighter’s voice, coupled with the jerk of the halting carriage, once more roused Alexandra from her grim thoughts. Don Felipe leapt out on to the roughly paved drive and went round to help her down. ‘Welcome to the bodegas of Vincente Herrera and Son,’ he said, bowing courteously and waving his arm in a wide flourish towards the building.

  The bodegas of Vincente Herrera consisted of a huge warehouse and rows of outbuildings stretching as far as the eye could see. Alexandra could tell from the style of its architecture that the main building was ancient; it looked as if it had formerly been a convent. The present owners had gone to great lengths to preserve its unique character, down to the smallest detail. The passage of time had imprinted itself on each pillar, arch and flagstone.

  ‘This place has such presence,’ Alexandra murmured, looking around the walls, her voice echoing back to her. In fact, it felt slightly spooky, though she didn’t admit that to her host. ‘How old is it?’

  ‘It was built in the seventeenth century, originally as a nunnery.’ He glanced at her, as if reading her mind again. ‘They say that it’s haunted by the ghost of a nun who broke her vows of chastity with a monk. After the sentence of “in vade pace” was passed upon her, she was walled up alive in her cell.’

  Alexandra’s eyes snapped back to him. ‘God, how grisly!’ she declared.

  ‘Yes, but fascinating all the same, wouldn’t you say? That this young nun would risk such a fate for sexual gratification …’ Don Felipe’s eyes had darkened curiously.

  ‘Has anyone ever seen her ghost?’ Alexandra couldn’t help asking, intrigued and appalled at the same time.

  ‘No, but some people have heard scraping noises and despairing wails echoing around the old part of the bodega. Just think how long it would have taken her to die of starvation.’ For a long moment he stared intensely into space. ‘“Vade in pace”, “go into peace” …? I think not. Fascinating …’

  Alexandra felt the stirrings of unease but then the torero flashed her a brilliant smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t wish to dwell on such macabre things. Besides I have much to show you.’

  Don Felipe led the way into the nave. An atmosphere of gloom and mystery reigned, created by eternal dust accumulated over the years and of long-woven cobwebs. Along the whitish side aisles, piled one on the other, lay thousands of venerable casks of seasoned grey-brown oak, inside of which was the clear wine that filled the air with its delicious aroma. The floor of the cellar was damp calcareous soil and a chill rose from it. In the semi-darkness, a dozen workmen handled with great care the butts of this prestigious vintage, each containing more than a hundred gallons of the valuable sherry.

  At the head of the group, an older man in a brown cotton overcoat was holding an avenencia, a ladle with an extremely long whalebone handle, at the end of which was a thin silver goblet. He moved among the rows, from barrel to barrel, giving an order here, adjusting a row there, tasting, muttering indistinctly, and spitting the wine into the dust.

  Don Felipe took Alexandra’s elbow. ‘Come and meet Toma. He’s nicknamed “El Colonel” because he rules this bodega like an officer leading an army,’ said the torero with a grin. Alexandra noticed he was still carrying the horsewhip and she wondered why he ha
dn’t left it in the gig.

  Don Felipe beckoned the foreman over. A broad smile creased the man’s weatherbeaten face into a hundred small wrinkles. Toma was in his sixties, yet in spite of his mop of grizzled hair, he retained in his muscular body and dark magnetic eyes all the vigour of a man still in the prime of life. There emanated from him a kind of innate nobility and elegance, which, had he been in another setting and dressed differently, would have allowed him to pass for an aristocrat.

  Toma gave them a courteous nod. ‘Señor, señorita.’

  ‘When the wine arrives at the bodega, and during this first phase of life, it is Toma’s responsibility to classify and blend it in each barrel to reach the best quality and the finest taste,’ Don Felipe explained.

  Alexandra smiled at Toma. ‘That sounds awfully involved, how do you do that?’

  Though her question was directed at the foreman, it was Don Felipe who answered. ‘We use an elaborate system called solera,’ he said, his gaze fixed on Alexandra. ‘This process requires great care and experience. I am a mere bullfighter, I enjoy a good glass of Fino, but I am totally ignorant of the complicated methods used to produce it.’ Turning to Toma he added, ‘Would you explain to the señorita this marvellous system that allows us to produce wines of such quality?’

  Toma did as he was bid. In his gruff but melodious voice he described in detail the method used at the Herrera bodegas, which required that sherries of various ages be left to ferment and mature spontaneously in six tiers of barrels, without being disturbed for a number of years. ‘During this process,’ the foreman explained, ‘a minute bloom grows on the surface. It’s called the flor, e le da un sabor de nuez al vino, and gives the nutty flavour to the wine. The flor is formed twice a year, usually over a period of six years. After that it sinks to the bottom, leaving a clear wine. This is the wine we draw from for blending. It is then replaced in the barrel by the next oldest wine directly above it, and a younger wine is added at the top tier, and so on.’