Philip held the blue robe and dropped it about Linda’s shoulders, gave a little tug to the sleeve, so that she sat down with him. He lit a cigarette and offered it. Her heart, beating a little heavily from the swim, now leapt and throbbed in her throat. Her lips received the cigarette, and a quick glance showed him watching her as he might watch the uncovering of a rare piece of tiling or sculpture—with a sardonic but intense interest. The cigarette straight from his lips tasted like heaven. The brush of his arm against her cool wet one was like the lick of a flame. Steady, she told herself, as she pushed her arms into the sleeves of the robe; this is just an interlude.
“What are you thinking about, Linda?” he asked lazily, “I’m not thinking,” she answered quickly.
“What are you feeling, then?”
She smiled tremulously. “Just ... just nice. I’m so very glad you let me come, Philip.”
“D’you feel happier here than at Montelisa?”
“Yes, I think I do. There it seems all the time as if I must get away—back to England.”
“Is it simply the place?” His glance was keen but enigmatic. “Nothing to do with the people?”
“It can’t be, can it? You and Maxine are here.” Hurriedly, before he could give a list of those who were not, she added, “Don’t let’s talk about Montelisa. Did you and Chris get through all the work you meant to, last night?”
He leant back on one hand. “All right,” he said with the hint of a taunt in his tones, “let’s change to a less dangerous topic. Yes, thank you, Chris and I did extremely well.”
“You must be very used to each other,” she persisted, pulling the wrap closer about her. “He’s likeable, isn’t he?”
“Very likeable.”
“And Veronica is awfully unusual.”
“I suppose she is, for a woman. In a way, she’s good for Chris. She’s not the type to make a man suffer.”
Fleetingly, she looked at his profile; it told her nothing. So she asked, “What made you say that?”
“I was merely stating a fact. It’s generally the woman who can suffer herself who is able to put a man through hell. Veronica used to complain that she could never write good poetry because she hadn’t much capacity for pain. I used to mock at her, but now I think she’s lucky.”
He spoke so calmly and reasonably that she was sure he was generalizing. He knew nothing about the kind of suffering that a woman can deal out to a man. He was above and beyond it. She tapped ash from her cigarette.
“I don’t think it’s lucky to be insensitive,” she said a little stubbornly. “One would miss too much that’s good.”
“Wait till you’ve had a knock or two,” he observed in a rather crisp tone. “When you have, you’ll be more cautious.”
She turned her head slightly to look at him more fully, and her eyes followed the clean, arrogant fine from the deep brow to the well-cut mouth. Then her glance went back to the sea, and to skirt the peril which seemed to hover, she said,
“You’d think some crazy Englishman would have converted that lighthouse into a home. They do it in England.”
“As a matter of fact,” he told her, “one did. He turned the lower floor into a bed-sitting-room, and the tower into a sort of workroom with a view. He was all set to do professional bird-watching, but discovered within a month that there aren’t many birds on this coast; nothing uncommon, anyway. His furniture was cheap local stuff, and it had been so much trouble to install that he simply rowed back to land and left it. As far as I know it’s still there.”
“Really? Do you suppose it’s intact?”
“It may be rotting, but it won’t have been stolen. The islanders don’t steal.” A pause, then he said casually, “Would you like to see inside the lighthouse?”
“I’d love it! Could it be arranged?”
“I’ll borrow a boat and take you over.”
“Today?”
He smiled. “I couldn’t dampen such enthusiasm. Yes today. But we’ll have to drive round the island with the others first; Chris and Veronica will expect it. The evening is the best time in a lighthouse, anyway. You get a more vivid impression of spooks and loneliness.”
He went on talking, negligently, and Linda pressed her cigarette into the sand and lay back with her hands under her head, listening to the deep, electrifying voice. The sun was warm on her head and an occasional breeze lifted the honeybrown hair and brushed her cheeks with it. Lying there so near to Philip that with a movement of her hand she could have touched him, Linda came near to bliss. The island was theirs; the blue sky, too. A place for knowing each other, for ... loving.
He ended a short silence. “Here’s Maxine. Where in the world did she get that remarkable hair?”
The hair was short but flowing silver-white, perfumed and just curly enough. Maxine’s beach coat flared from the shoulders and sported Cuban hats and seductive girls under palm trees all over the lower half. Philip had got up and moved, so that Maxine slid between the two of them neatly.
“I’m not going to swim,” she announced. “Salt water is too sticky. I thought you’d be resting, Philip, after a night of archaeology.”
“I am resting.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting into a frock, Linda? Chris is up, and talking of setting out in about half an hour.”
Philip answered: “There’s no hurry. When Chris says half an hour he means some time before lunch. Cigarette, Maxine?”
“Not just now, thanks.” She looked sharply at the reclining form of Linda. “The sun is on your nose; you’ll have it peeling.”
“It’s not that hot.” Linda knew Maxine wanted her to go, but she was determined to take her time. Maxine would not be openly hostile in front of Philip.
Maxine slipped forward to lie front downwards in the sand. She dug in her elbows and rested her pointed chin in her hands. Her movements were as graceful as those of a lovely cat; it transpired that her thoughts were feline, too “If you’d known Linda in England, Philip, you’d be quite amazed at the change in her since she’s been in Spain.”
“Maybe not,” he returned, idly. “Environment always works a change in people and the Spanish atmosphere is pretty powerful.”
“In Linda’s case it’s been almost too powerful, hasn’t it, my pet?” There was no acid in her voice; only a faint hardness in the undertones. “Eave you written to your father about Sebastian, Linda?”
“I’ve told him about Sebastian,” she replied quietly.
“I mean recently,” Maxine persisted. But apparently she was not too eager to know the answer, for she added, “I know it’s a headache, darling, but it has to be faced. Sebastian was in a false position over that beastly cottage, but you’re beginning to credit him with having a soul above sticks and bricks, and I do feel your father should be brought up to date on the business.” She turned her face appealingly to Philip. “Don’t you agree? Mr. Braden would be awfully worried if he knew the truth of the set-up at Montelisa.”
And how! thought Linda, her heart twisting with bitterness. But Philip spoke before she could.
“I don’t see much wrong with it,” he said. “There are complications, of course, but nothing insoluble. Linda and I have already discussed them.”
A pause. “Have you?” said Maxine carelessly. “Are you for or against this mixed marriage?”
“Does the question arise?” he asked. Clearly, he did not take this turn of the conversation very seriously. “Sebastian, it seems, has a passion for one Carmen Artino, whom you may know. He didn’t declare it to me, but the young lady did, in his presence, and I promised to help them.”
“Oh, Philip!” Maxine sounded genuinely amused. “She was trying village tactics on you. Sebastian doesn’t want the girl.”
“He does,” put in Linda, her hopes faint, however. “I’ve tried to convince him that he has only to marry the girl for everything to come out right.”
“How ingenuous, my sweet,” from Maxine, “and how hopeless you are at convincing. Or
perhaps it was with gratitude that Sebastian swept you into his arms the other day? Anna said it was certainly some kiss!”
Linda felt something thud dully inside her. She hadn’t realized that this was what she had been trying to ward off, this sly revelation from Maxine. She only knew it had happened and that she could not deny it. She kept her eyes tightly closed; but not against the sun. She might have known Anna would not keep the incident she had witnessed to herself, but at worst she had imagined her confiding in her friend, Maria Gonzalez, and her, Linda, having to explain it away to Carmen. Anna didn’t like Maxine; she would only have told her in a moment of triumph.
Desperately, she wanted to look at Philip. She imagined him remote and forbidding, angry, cynical or mocking, because it would seem to him that at last she had fallen for the facile lovemaking of Sebastian de Meriaga. Her hands clenched inside the deep sleeves of the robe. Why, oh why, was she tied like this! The truth about Maxine, about the letter left by her aunt, about Sebastian, who had nearly succeeded in persuading himself that he loved Linda Braden—why should she be so trapped into silence on all points? It was more than the human heart could stand.
When Philip’s voice came it was cool and indifferent. “Shall we go back to the house? Chris may be chafing.”
* * *
All that day Linda had a painful ridge in her throat. She admired the little harbor at Soller, the rugged grace of the coast, rich patios with their colonnades and stone jars of flowering plants, wrought-iron window grilles, miles of olives and almonds, the few elegant carretons pulled by good-tempered mules, and gentle fountains everywhere although there was so little water to feed them; but she felt nothing at all for these things. The trip to Majorca had gone dry as sand in the mouth. Her lips smiled as she conversed with the others, but she was colorless and neutral. As far as she was concerned the picnic was a fiasco.
Philip was withdrawn, as she had known he would be. The fact that she had been kissed by Sebastian would prove to him only that she had let him down, but being let down was something he no doubt found it difficult to accept from anyone. Maxine contrived to be more subtly attractive than ever before, and she actually made a point of including
Linda in the brief excursions they made from the car. She was being “decent” and “affectionate.”
It was about six-thirty when they arrived back at the house to find a meal prepared which the servant called “tea” but which had the substance of a good supper. They all washed and sat down to it; paper-thin slices of pink ham, hard-boiled eggs with salad and several kinds of cheese with milky white bread and yellow butter.
Linda pretended to eat, but as soon as the meal ended she excused herself on some pretext and went to her room. And because she had to do something and the evening had turned chilly, she changed into a thin sweater and a skirt and sat down at the bedside table to write a note to her father.
Till she had come to Spain she had enjoyed writing letters. Now, though, each epistle left out so much she knew she should have included that the result, to her honest eye, was a concoction of half lies. And it hurt to write in that way to her father. But for the fact that it would have worried him, she would have sent postcards, as Maxine had advised.
She was on the last line of the letter when Maxine came into the bedroom. She felt the other woman close, so she signed her name quickly and folded the two sheets of paper. The envelope was sealed and addressed before she moved, to slip it into her bag.
Maxine said, “So you’re writing to your father. I didn’t intend you to take me so quickly at my word. Don’t you know a joke when you hear one?”
“I know malice when I hear it,” Linda remarked. “Nothing you could say would have the least influence on my actions—not any more.”
The green eyes went dark. “What do you mean by that? I had your promise, you know.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep it. But don’t depend on me to make any more promises. I’ve no feeling for you, Maxine. Except for what you did to John, I don’t even hate you very much, and I’m certainly not going to take any more of your vindictiveness.”
“My dear,” said Maxine, her lips thin, “I did no more this morning than tell the truth, and if I hadn’t found you making up to Philip I wouldn’t have said a word. You know my plans, and every time you act against them you’re asking for trouble. I don’t mind telling you plainly that when-ever you ask for that kind of trouble you’re going to get it!”
“I’m sure of that, but I’m equally sure I don’t care. You can’t hurt me much more than you have already.”
Maxine’s smile was tinged with a glitter of triumph. “Don’t be too certain! I still have a card or two up my sleeve.”
Linda was trembling; she would never be able to take a scene like this in her stride. She picked up her bag and went to the door. Her sensitive little face was pinched about the nostrils.
“I don’t want anything that’s yours,” she said. “Just leave me alone.”
Her knees were still weak when she went into the long lounge, which was lit by only one small lamp. It was so dark in there, in fact, that she did not at first see anyone else. Then Philip’s long frame rose from a chair and it looked as if she had escaped from one trap into another.
“I ... I was going to ask Veronica for a stamp,” she said hastily. “I’m sure my father would like a letter from Majorca.”
He went to a bizarre-looking writing table and extracted a square of stamps from the corner slot of the blotter. “Have one of these.”
“I’d rather ask first.”
“Chris and Veronica have gone to one of the neighbors. He suddenly remembered they’d promised to look in on a party.”
She accepted the stamp and stuck it to the envelope, then stood there teetering a moment, as if poising for flight.
With a grim kind of casualness, he said, “There’s a boat down below—if you’re still keen to visit the lighthouse.”
“Are you?” she asked wistfully.
He made a small sound of exasperation. “I said I’d take you.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t like it to be on sufferance.”
“Get a coat,” he said tersely.
She remembered, thankfully, that she had left a jacket in the veranda, and swiftly she went out to get it. Suddenly she recalled Maxine’s warning, but with fright came an urgent and imperative need to hurry out with him before they could be stopped.
But, perversely, she asked, “Shouldn’t we invite Maxine along?”
“The sea is high,” he said. “She’d hate it.”
As he took her arm and went with her down to the beach, Philip didn’t unbend. He was remote and stern, a man who had said he would show a girl over a lighthouse and was now in the act of keeping his word. The roar of the sea made speech unnecessary, and even when they had walked along the beach and found the rowing boat Philip did not say much.
He examined the oars and the bottom of the boat, then shoved it for a few yards till it was half lapped by water. He bade her get in, gave another push and swung himself over the side and into the boat, using the oar against the beach. The waves were big but not vicious, so that with strength and some sea knowledge it was not difficult to keep the little craft headed straight between the rocks towards the small island upon which the lighthouse stood.
With her coat tight about her and buttoned high, Linda sat watching him. The sea tossed them mercilessly, but Philip just went on pulling at the oars and looking back over his shoulder to ensure a direct course. His face was a rhythmic-moving blur against the dark background of the sky, but she knew instinctively that this was the sort of challenge he enjoyed: big seas in a small boat, or a waste land beneath which a civilization might be buried and only a handful of men to unearth it.
The spray came like grit against her cheeks, the wind whipped up the blood to an. exultant pitch, and there was a queer excitement in knowing herself out here alone with Philip in the beating darkness. But, that icy absorption of his in his
task checked her desire to voice some of the vehemence within her. So she looked on, wishing she could help.
With an expert manoeuvre he drew alongside the platform of the lighthouse. The wall of rock rose a dozen feet above them, but down one side of it a flight of steps had been hacked, and near them a great iron ring stood out from a bed of concrete. Philip tied up.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll go together but with you in front, in case that foot of yours slips. Not scared, are you?”
As though she could possibly be scared, with Philip! “No. I’m thrilled.”
“I thought you would be.” He sounded cynical. “This adventure is just about your age.”
| “Now you’re being a beast,” she said evenly, “but I don’t mind. The difference between us is that you’ve done everything already, and I’ve hardly done a thing.”
“That’s why you had to kiss a Spaniard,” he said, and J though he spoke without expression his grip on her wrist had the feel of cruelty. “Was the kiss different from that of an Englishman?”
“I don’t know.” Her tone was surprised. “Believe it or not, apart from my father and brother, I’ve never kissed an Englishman.”
“You might remedy that, too, in Spain. I’m sure the agreeable doctor would oblige.”
She sighed, moving cautiously with him up the steps. “You’re a brute, Philip. I didn’t kiss Sebastian; he kissed me.”
“Don’t let’s quibble, cara mia,” he replied with a hard sarcasm. “It’s always been my contention that it takes two.” The topic could not be pursued just then, for the steps, grown over with seaweeds and shells, were dangerous to negotiate. And when eventually they reached the smooth surface of the platform it, too, had a shiny wet surface which looked like a thin coating of ice when Philip flashed on his flashlight. He murmured something about its being lucky she was wearing the flat shoes, and added,
“When a lighthouse is in use someone has the task of keeping the platform scraped clean. Just hold on tightly to me. There’s the door, over there.”
Tonight, the sky was black, and the lighthouse, seen from the beach in daylight as a picturesque beacon of ordinary proportions, loomed suddenly as wide as a villa and stretched up into eternity. The heavy oak door had no lock, but it was so swollen that Philip had to force it open. His flashlight illumined a bare circular space shut in by a wall of huge concrete blocks. He pushed the door into place and shone his light for a moment on the great rusted iron bar which was a batten for the door, either inside or out.
A Cottage in Spain Page 16
