The gay awning flapped, the proprietor called his waiter to dust a table and take an order and slid back into his chair in M id the morning paper.
Philip saw Linda seated at the round table and took his place opposite. He looked purposeful and calm, and not to be lulled with. She knew a stab of uneasiness which was personal, inside herself and unconnected with anything but her own heart. He said it was a grand morning and she nodded; he told her she must not miss a Spanish game of association football, and she nodded again. Then their coffee was in front of them, and with it a plate of little pastries, and the waiter had moved away to serve a couple of young men who were on their way to their places of business.
Philip leaned forward and said abruptly, “Until I came to your house last night I took it that your servant would have told you all there is to know about Sebastian de Meriaga. But during dinner I realized that she dotes on the chap to the exclusion of everything else. She wouldn’t tell you anything that might jeopardise his chances with you.”
“Oh,” she said flatly. “You’re warning me against Sebastian. You didn’t have to bring me here for that.”
His tone hardened. “There was no other way of ensuring privacy. My servant understands English, and she’s friendly with your Anna. You’re in a strange country, your Spanish is negligible, and the young man is fiery and personable. I thought it my duty to tell you all there is to know about him, that’s all.”
“All right,” she said resignedly. “It seems rather unfair to him, though. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me himself.”
“Take my word for it that he’d go to lengths to keep it from you!” he said bluntly. “I know quite a bit about him because I happened to be here a year ago when he was sowing a wild oat or two. He’s something of a playboy, your Sebastian.”
“Well, I suppose he is, After all, he’s free of emotional entanglements and his father’s bodega doesn’t take much of his time.”
“He could do a job of work in Barcelona; a good many Montelisanos do. However, he preferred to wait on your aunt in the hope of inheriting her property ... and he doesn’t see you as much of an obstacle to it.”
She stared down at the decorated pastry shapes on the plate between them. “I think you must have made a mistake about Sebastian. He knows I’m not here for long, and he hasn’t yet attempted to persuade me to stay.”
“I can’t believe that. He must have mentioned marriage.”
“Yes, he did—the first time we met. But not since.”
“He’s much cleverer than you think. Over the years he had much practice in handling your aunt, and he’s probably learned that with the English it pays to place one’s cards on the table and then to behave impeccably. I may add that he’s not quite so restrained with his own countrywomen!”
She laughed a little. “His temperament would take care of that. If I fell in love with him I wouldn’t mind his having been a bit wild.”
His glance was keen. “Could you fall in love with such a man?”
“Of course! He’s handsome and dashing, and I’m sure his love-making would be anything but disappointing! In any case, one could be quite sure he wouldn’t put his work first.”
“How right you are,” said Philip drily. He tried his black coffee and shifted the plate of cakes as if the rich smell were revolting after a good breakfast. “When your lips are tingling from his kisses you might try to remember that those of several senoritas have done the same,” he stated sardonically. “And don’t lose sight of the fact that when he tells you how beautiful you are, how he adores your little chin and the soft brown hair, how miraculous are the blue of your eyes and the line of your nose, what he’s really getting at is the charming appearance of your villa and its contents.”
She watched him tip the glass thimble of cognac into the rest of his coffee. Her own allowance of cognac trembled in a thin shaft of sunshine like a liquid topaz, and she thought what a pity it was that it didn’t taste as wonderful as it looked.
“I’m a little disappointing to you, aren’t I?” she said. ‘You thought I’d be frightfully upset to hear that Sebastian has had his affairs.”
Offhandedly he said, “Maybe you’re less innocent than I took you for. Had you been anything like Maxine I wouldn’t have bothered.”
“Because you feel that Maxine can look after herself?”
“A woman as attractive as she is wouldn’t be unmarried at twenty-four if she weren’t self-assured.”
She drew in her lip. “Yes, she’s very lovely.”
He looked at her speculatively. “You have a certain something, yourself,” he said, without any particular expression, “but I can’t imagine what sort of bond there can be between you two.”
“It isn’t important,” she said quickly. “Do you mind if I don’t drink the coffee?”
“Not at all. It was merely the price of a seat while we talked. As a matter of fact,” rather sharply, “I haven’t quite finished with you. I don’t think I’ve made it clear that whatever happens it’s important that you keep an even keel. If, as you say, you’re staying only about a month, there’s bound to come a time when Sebastian will get a little desperate. But you won’t notice it. What you’ll see will be a heightening of his gaiety and bombast. He’ll treat you to heady draughts of flattery and even more than, the Spaniard’s usual extravagance when he’s after a woman.” She laughed. “Even if he floors me, I shall turn him down.”
He looked thoughtful. “Will you? Are you sure?”
“Of course. I shall know it’s only infatuation because one doesn’t fall in love so quickly.”
“No?” There was a glint in those imperious grey eyes. “How long would you say it might take one to fall in love?”
“I’ve never thought about it in those terms. I’ve always imagined that you meet someone with whom it’s easy to be cosy and intimate, and then gradually you become indispensable to each other.”
His nod was satirical. ‘You would. Let’s hope it turns out that way for you. I’m not at all sure you’d be able to deal with anything more explosive.”
This final remark had a flavor Linda did not relish, but he was smiling in that withdrawn fashion of his, and it occurred to her that taking his profession into consideration he had noticeably relaxed. One should not expect too much of a man who was living most of the time in ancient Araby.
So she said, “I’m very grateful for your concern on my behalf, Mr. Frensham. Seeing that I’ve already taken half an hour of your valuable time, perhaps we’d better say good-bye.”
They rose simultaneously. “We may as well walk back together,” he said.
“Thanks, but I want to buy some things.”
“What sort of things?”
She gestured vaguely. “Some of those marvellous orange cups and saucers with white sides, a pair of espadrilles and one of those lovely straw belts. And a basket to put them in.”
“I’ll go with you,” he said. “You may need my Spanish.”
“What about your work?” she asked doubtfully.
“I set myself a limit each day and always achieve it.” He led her from under the cafe awning and along the narrow pavement. “We’ll get the basket first. What about one of these?”
They were flexible rush baskets, hanging in their ornamental dozens on strings outside a shop so small that three-quarters of its wares had overflowed. The doorway was framed in ropesoled sandals of every conceivable color and type, and Linda bought one pair in bright yellow which laced over the foot and round the ankle and another strapped in scarlet like a coolie sandal. Basket and espadrilles cost five-and-six!
Philip smiled at her amazement and pleasure. “It’s just a case of supply and demand,” he said. “Living is cheaper here than almost anywhere. Can you wonder that Sebastian angles to share your cottage and twelve-pounds-ten a month?”
“I wish the cottage and money were really mine,” she said. “I’d give them to him. Oh, look!” She had stopped near a window in which seve
ral pictures were displayed. “Isn’t it beautiful—that one of the fishing harbor. It’s ... yes, it’s Montelisa!”
“It’s by a fellow named De Gamba. You’ll find two or three of his paintings in almost every resort in Spain. He upends a few days here and there and leaves the result of his efforts with a local agent.”
“How much do you suppose that one is?”
“About seven guineas. Let’s go in and ask.”
“No.” She qualified the abruptness of the negative: “Not today, anyway. He won’t sell it yet, because it has only a limited appeal.”
He shrugged and they moved on. Linda acquired her cups and saucers and was assured they could be delivered with no trouble at all. The straw belt she fastened about the waist of her print frock, and her feelings, as she mounted the road towards the cottage at Philip’s side, were distinctly agreeable. The sun still shone, birds twittered, the passers-by wore black voluminous skirts with white aprons if they were women and black velveteens much rubbed at the knees if they were men. Sabots clattered over the cobbles, sandals whispered and bare feet made no sound at all. Donkeys cropped the grass on the sea side of the road; they looked very peaceful and happy with their lot.
They were nearing Philip’s house when a bicycle came wobbling down the road. Philip hailed the rider and had a few words with him before he jogged on. To Linda, Philip said: “I thought he might have taken up a telegram for me, but be hasn’t. I’m expecting an answer to one of mine, but I’d rather they put the information I want into a letter. A telegram is restricting.”
Linda’s happiness chilled. She looked back at the cyclist, who had now rocketed dangerously to the bottom of the hill and was turning a corner. “Is he a telegraph boy?”
“That, among other things.” He looked at her curiously. “Worried about something?”
“I only thought he might have taken a telegram to the cottage for me. One always expects dreadful things to happen while one’s away from home.” She had remembered, with a stab, that by now John might know the worst. The lighthearted hour with Philip seemed a kind of treachery. Her head was bent and her mouth serious as she went on walking.
At his gate she put out her hand to take the basket, but he waved her on. A tension had sprung between them; it pointed the vast difference between Linda Braden, who lived over a neat bookshop in a provincial suburb, and Dr. Philip Frensham, who consorted with emirs and sultans and gave expert opinions upon the exotic and archaic.
He opened her gate and surrendered the basket. His tone unpleasantly sharp, he said, “Don’t forget the real reason we met this morning, will you? Sebastian’s a charming chap, but a menace.”
Unaccountably, it was an effort to answer. “I won’t forget. Thank you for helping me with my shopping.”
He paused, and looked towards the house. Linda saw Maxine walking lightly across the lawn, a wide-brimmed white hat shading the pointed, honey-tanned face, a lavender frock emphasising slim lines. Maxine was smiling adorably, tangerine lips enhancing the whiteness of her teeth.
“Philip! I’m so glad I don’t have to burst in upon you while you’re working. I’ve been marching round the house gathering courage, and now it isn’t necessary at all. You do have a car here, don’t you?”
“Yes.” It seemed to Linda that the smile he gave Maxine was spontaneous and from the heart; obviously his mood had made a swift change. “Want to borrow it?”
“Please! I have to go into Barcelona.”
“Are you licensed to drive in Spain?”
She laid long, coaxing fingers on his sleeve. “If I’m caught, I’ll pay the fine.”
“You can’t have the car on those terms. They may throw you into prison.”
“Oh, dear.” She looked pretty and silly and forsaken, and took no notice at all of Linda. “It’s awfully urgent, Philip. If I can’t borrow your car I shan’t know what to do!”
His smile was resigned, but not in the least acid. “I’d better drive you into Barcelona myself.”
“Would you really?” she was radiant. “I promise to get my errand over very quickly.”
“There are one or two bits of business I can do myself; it will save me a broken morning later in the week. Are you ready to go at once?”
The gate closed behind them and Linda walked up the path and went into the house. She lowered the basket into a chair, took off her cap and reflected what a poor, homemade scrap it was compared with Maxine’s creation. Maxine’s frock, too, had made her own appear faded and out of date. The trouble was that she, Linda, had little use in her ordinary life for summer creations. The white nylon had been her only real extravagance for this trip, and she had bought it as an investment, thinking it would be easy to wash it out and wear it nearly every day in different Spanish owns. Her other cottons and silks and even the powder-blue suit seemed out of date, compared with the nylon.
Somehow, the joy she had had in the espadrilles and the pottery was gone completely. She thought of Philip sarcastically sparing her an hour of his time in order to warn her about Sebastian, and then cheerfully going off with Maxine for the rest of the morning. She thought of his firm, guiding hand on her elbow, now transferred to Maxine’s and recalled his remark about Maxine’s attractiveness. It seemed that he was as blind to her character as other men were.
Had he decided to make the most of Maxine’s stay at Montelisa? Why not? He was capable of strenuously making up for lost time once the cottage was empty and rented by him. Linda told herself she wouldn’t have cared had she had that conception of him from the beginning. The change in him, somehow, was utterly distasteful.
She got into a swim-suit and robe, and went down to the beach. The rocks glistened in the morning sun and a dilapidated little boat rocked at anchor not far from the shore; the sea was huge and white-rimmed, but when Linda ran down to it she found it surprisingly cold—or perhaps she was hot. This, she told herself, was what swimming should be; not a hardy business of wading into icy depths that were grey from overhead clouds and murmuring, “It’s quite warm when you get used to it!” above the chatter of one’s teeth. One should swim only when the sea gave a shock of cold pleasure and then was cool and smooth, an invitingly fresh element under a burning, sensuous sun.
Beneath her, the water was flexible blue glass, and small fish hid under masses of sponge or darted among trailing red seaweed. The sea was so calm that it would have been dangerously easy to float out and out, half-drugged and indifferent in the mysterious cradle of the Mediterranean.
She felt better after the swim. Drying off, she watched in the distances the casual exodus from the tiny harbor of Montelisa’s fishing fleet: a couple of long rowboats and one with red sails. She thought of the picture in that window in the village, and remembered the solid chipped stones of the waterfront, the light striking down from whitewashed walls, the harbor shops which were shadowed caverns behind piles of cabbages and oranges, bunched onions, fish hooks from which dangled hanks of barked cord, rolls of hessian and bath tubs full of cheap crockery. One could almost smell the garlic, the ripe cheeses, the fish, the fruit and tarred ropes.
To one who had so far only afforded a guinea print and made the frame for it herself, anything over two pounds ten for a picture was adventurous. But Linda wanted that one very badly. The cottage would never be hers in the sense Aunt Natalie had meant it to be; in fact, she had the conviction that at the end of a month or so, when she left it, she would go for good. But the picture would remind her that Montelisa had not been a dream.
Next time she was down in the village she would go to the shop and ask the owner not to sell the picture without first consulting her. He would do that; everyone here was very obliging. And then, at the end of the month when, presumably, Senor Garcia, the lawyer, would pay the twenty-five pounds, she would do her best to spare the price of the picture. Much would depend on whether Maxine intended regarding herself as a paying guest or as a visitor. On the whole, thought Linda, the other woman would certainly have a nerve
if she didn’t offer to pay her own expenses. But it was already agreed that Maxine did have a nerve.
She climbed back to the house, put on a frock and had a talk about the food with Anna. About half an hour later the postman came up on his donkey, bringing a letter for Maxine from her father and one for Linda from Miss Dean.
In the stress caused by Maxine, Linda had forgotten Miss Dean. That intrepid Englishwoman had settled into a pretentious villa in Valencia and was finding her pupil not so much backward as neglected. Miss Dean thought she would rather enjoy her three months, but she was very sorry Linda had not yet found time to visit Valencia, perhaps she would come over to Spain again before long?
Miss Dean, of course, knew nothing yet about Maxine’s arrival; nor could she be told the whole truth of it. But it was balm, Linda found, to be able to write to an old family friend who was not so far away, and to promise that she really would go to Valencia before leaving for home. Miss Dean would be glad to hear that she had stayed on in Montelisa.
She had scarcely finished the letter before Anna announced lunch, and Linda discovered it was nearly three o’clock. Apparently those two were still in Barcelona. Well—Linda ripped an old envelope to pieces and dropped it in the wastepaper basket—the longer Maxine stayed away the better. As for Philip Frensham—he could keep his advice about Sebastian or anything else. Let him use all that brute honesty of his on Maxine!
It was just after four when Maxine came in, and she looked so vital, so pleased with herself, that Linda knew instantly that the posy of rosebuds in her lapel had been bought in the Rambla and probably pinned into position by Philip. To disguise the hardening within her, she asked:
“Have a good time?”
“Wonderful. We parted for an hour while Philip did his business and I did mine. Then we looked at the shops and he collected some books he had ordered, and after that it was time for an early lunch—early for Barcelona, that is.” She gave a low, exultant laugh. “Linda, he wants us to have dinner with him tomorrow. Didn’t I tell you the invitation would come!”
A Cottage in Spain Page 6
