A Cottage in Spain

by Rosalind Brett

  “I’ll speak to her,” she said. “And thank you again.”

  As she walked up the path she flung the back of her hand to her forehead as if to rub away the cobwebs that obscured the problem. She felt sick and humiliated. She knew she had been weak where Maxine was concerned, and that her weakness had led the other woman to suppose there need be no limits to her treachery. But there was a limit to endurance, and Linda was sure that she herself had reached it.

  In the sitting-room she paused. Then, resolutely, she went upstairs and knocked on Maxine’s door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Linda. I must speak to you, Maxine.”

  “Can’t it wait.” Linda turned the handle and found the door locked. “Maxine, I’ve just heard about the newspaper article. Surely you don’t want me to shout about it?” Linda!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m tired.”

  A quick anger steeled Linda’s nerve. “You know very well what I’m talking about. That article didn’t appear on Monday, as you hoped. It was in today’s paper.”

  For a minute there was complete silence. Then a movement sounded on the other side of the door and the key was turned in the lock. Maxine stood back in the room, her poise superb, her expression carefully blank.

  “What is all this? I really do think you and I have seen enough of each other, for a while.”

  “I came to put the same thing to you,” said Linda, in an unfamiliarly hard voice. “How dare you give that horrible interview in my name? You did it coldbloodedly!”

  The green eyes flickered. “Did you say it appeared today?”

  “Yes. And tomorrow the editor will publish a denial and an apology. How do you like that?”

  Maxine’s shoulders shrugged within the silk wrap. “Don’t let’s be melodramatic, my dear. The man called in search of news; it seems he’d heard a rumor about your aunt’s will, and followed it up. I happened to be here, and you weren’t. He took me to be you, and I thought it fun to pretend to be Linda Braden but give my own opinions; some of them, anyway. I’ve always liked my existence to be spiced with excitement, as you know, and I’m afraid Montelisa doesn’t provide quite enough. Too bad they couldn’t find space for it on Monday.”

  The insolence of this speech left Linda temporarily witless. At last, however, she managed to say, “A few minutes ago I was glad Dr. Reeves had kept your name out of the paper; now, I wish he hadn’t!”

  “Don’t be silly, darling.” Maxine wandered to the four-poster and sat at the foot of the bed, on a stool. “If anyone but you ever taxes me with this business I shall deny it, completely. Yes, and that goes for the interfering doctor, too.” Her mouth tightened maliciously. “The doctor’s piqued because I’ve never put on an act for him. You can tell him from me that I never thought he was worth it.”

  “You forget we could bring that reporter here to prove it was you he saw!”

  “Reporters can be squared,” said Maxine negligently.

  “I could tell Philip the truth,” said Linda desperately. “I could make him believe me.”

  Maxine leaned back and her long slim fingers curled about the carved bedpost. “If you go to Philip I’ll go to him as well. I’ll disclaim all knowledge of the article and the apology, and suggest it was probably inspired by Sebastian. Into the bargain, I’ll tell Philip you’re in love with him!” Linda gripped the edge of the door, suddenly, her face so white that even Maxine was startled. Then a cruel, knowing smile curved the thin red lips.

  “Ah, my little Linda! Now we know where we stand. You poor idiot. Quite by accident I’ve stumbled on the kernel of the matter, haven’t I? I knew you were attracted to Philip, but I didn’t for a moment guess it had gone this far. What a good thing I mentioned to him that kiss of Sebastian’s! And the newspaper interview was an excellent idea, after all. Have you realized that tonight he’ll hate you for that? The apology tomorrow will come too late to save you from being hated all night by Philip Frensham! Honestly, my dear, I’m sorry for you. It must be hell to love someone and inspire hate in return.”

  Somehow, Linda got away from that doorway and stumbled along to her own room. Shorn and shaken, she sank into a chair and dropped her face into her hands.

  * * *

  The next few days were oddly quiet. The apology was printed, in fulsome language and large type, and anyone who had had an urge to demand of Linda what she had meant by expressing such opinions no doubt through better of it. She wrote to her father that she would soon be leaving Spain, and put into a letter to Senor Garcia her wish that Sebastian should have the cottage till the end of the year. She saw nothing of Sebastian or Carmen, and Anna, was strangely subdued and aloof.

  A few times, from her bedroom window, she saw Philip walking in his garden. He was in a sports shirt and slacks, his hands dug deeply into the pockets, his head bent as if he were thinking deeply. Yet even at this distance there seemed to be a leashed savagery about him. Though Linda’s heart had never been so heavy, the sight of him brought a painful happiness, and if he happened to go into the house while she was watching it was as if the sun had vanished, leaving only a cold darkness. Whenever she awoke in the night there was a light in the house next door.

  Her mind pulsed restlessly. Purposely, she did not pack her clothes or look up trains, because when the time came she wanted to be busy, frantically busy. So to fill her time she resorted to the only remedy she knew, work. In the garden she helped the old man who came two or three days a week. In the house she catalogued the books—for Sebastian, she told herself; though he was no book-fiend. And finally she bought cheap but lovely handwoven materials and made herself a couple of frocks, a skirt and a blouse.

  Maxine’s voice, those few days, was velvet, and she was as tranquil as a summer breeze. Much of the time she was in Barcelona with friends, and one evening she went there with Philip. Linda knew they went together because Maxine’s car remained in the little timbered garage and Maxine had dressed in a new and beautiful green and gold suit and worn her diamond collaret.

  At last a letter came from John. “I wish I could have written you as soon as I received your telegram, but I just had to wait until I’d grown used to the knowledge that everything is over between Maxine and me. You’re not to worry about me, Linda; maybe I’ve more resilience than you think. I believe I’ve known all along that something like this would happen, because although the blow was severe it wasn’t a shock. Father will have told you we’re managing well without you, chiefly because I’ve been able to put in plenty of time with him. Believe it or not, he and

  I are drawing up a deed of partnership, but my participation will be on a sparetime basis. It will tie me down rather, but I shan’t mind. The business, you will agree, is wonderfully interesting, and Dad is awfully bucked. As soon as it’s signed and sealed, he’ll write to you.”

  There was not much more. Good old John, she thought, her throat full. What a mercy he was able to force himself to conceal his wounds and appear prosaic. In face of his stoicism his friends would soon give up commiserating, but she knew that for a long while he would be embittered against women. Life was so unfair.

  John hadn’t mentioned Maxine’s father, so presumably the two men had not met. Which meant that Mr. Odell had been at least partly satisfied with Maxine’s explanations. Linda smouldered a little, knowing those explanations would have been unflattering to John, and then she decided it didn’t really matter. The important thing was that John should be spared more pain of that kind.

  Suddenly, one morning straight after breakfast, Philip walked into the sitting-room. Maxine was still in bed and Anna was busy in the kitchen. Linda had arranged one bowl of tall white flowers and was picking over the greenery left in the basket. She saw Philip, felt the familiar lurch of her heart within her, and said a polite, “Good morning.”

  “Hallo,” he said. His smile was as curt as his greeting. “You’re quite the hermit. How’s the foot?”

  “Healthy, thanks.”r />
  “No headache?”

  She replied coolly, “That was a fast move from one extreme to the other. No. No headache.”

  “I thought I’d come in person to invite you this time.”

  “This time?”

  “You turned me down, through Maxine, the other day. You’d have enjoyed that party in Barcelona, and Count Bardeno would have thrilled you through. This is another chance to mingle with the Spanish aristocracy. I’ve an invitation for two to a celebration in one of those palatial residences just outside Barcelona. Will you go with me?” His manner was stiff and cool. If it hadn’t been she would have told him that Maxine had not passed on his previous invitation. Deep inside her she knew this was a courtesy gesture. There was no cordiality in him, no friendliness. If she accepted, he would take her through the evening like a charming stranger; a shattering experience. In any case, she did not possess the sort of clothes necessary for such a function.

  “Thanks, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

  He leant one shoulder to the mantelpiece and got out his cigarette case. “I expected that. No conventional reason?”

  “I don’t think we’d enjoy it, either of us.”

  He offered her cigarettes and when she had shaken her head he took one himself and slipped it between his lips. “I don’t suppose we would, but some agonies are worth enduring for what they teach you. Ever thought of that?”

  “I don’t imagine you’ve ever endured much in the way of mental agony.”

  “You’d be surprised.” He lit the cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling. “I’ve done very little work since we came back from Majorca.”

  “Really?” She looked up sharply. “Why?”

  He straightened and looked round for an ashtray. Offhandedly he said, “Thinking too much, I guess.”

  “What about?”

  He gave a laugh which had little humor in it. “It would be great if life’s problems could be solved by the direct question and answer system of the young. I happen to have something on my mind, little one.”

  And quite obviously it had nothing to do with Linda. Chilled, she asked, “Can’t you do anything about it? I always think of you as being utterly in control.”

  “So do I,” was his cynical response, “and there’s the rub.” As if irrelevantly, he queried, “Are you missing Sebastian.”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. Then: “It’s only that I’m wondering what’s become of him. Hasn’t he yet come back to Montelisa?”

  He strolled to the window and with his back to her, said, “Yes, he’s come back, but I’ve told him to leave you alone. I think it’s safer, don’t you?”

  “I hoped you’d given up interfering in my affairs.”

  “Too bad,” he said calmly but with a sharpness in his tones. He turned about, squashed out his cigarette on the rim of a tiny blue bowl and dropped the butt into it. “I’ve also sent Carmen Artino away from Montelisa. Believe it or not, she had a stiletto ready for you.”

  Linda’s hands closed tightly over the arms of her chair. “It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t do more for her. I’ve made it very plain to her and to everyone else that if I could give Sebastian the cottage today, I would.”

  “That didn’t seem to be in question.” He stared down at her. “She didn’t take too kindly to that article in the newspaper. I was no sooner home from Majorca that evening than she came into the house all flames and snapping teeth because you’d publicly admitted to an infatuation for Sebastian after having assured her that he meant nothing to you. To worsen matters, she’d also heard about a certain passionate kiss.” With contempt he added, “You certainly have a weird way of showing a desire to help that marriage forward.”

  She sprang up. “So it’s the article in the newspaper that brought you here today! The invitation to a party was a blind, because you knew I wouldn’t go with you, after what happened in that beastly lighthouse! You believe I really did put over that stuff to a reporter, don’t you?”

  “Someone gave him the facts,” he returned, his lean face dark with anger, “and Maxine herself told me she saw the chap here, talking to you. When I read that little essay I couldn’t credit its coming from you.”

  “Fine,” she said bitterly. “Did you read the apology next day?”

  “Yes, and I was aware that Beeves had blackmailed the editor into inserting it, because I went into Barcelona for the same purpose, that night.” He came nearer to her, his nostrils thinned. “Hugh saw that you’d been terribly unwise and he hastily acted for the best. He’s a good friend to you, Linda,” sarcastically. “You should be grateful to him.” She was breathing so fast that she could hardly speak. After a moment she did manage to say, “Well, if you’ve finished...”

  “Yes, I’ve finished.” His eyes glinted. “Except for a word of warning. While you’re in Spain, my child, do as the

  English do. They gamble and dance, they may watch a bullfight and even make a spot of tempestuous love, but they don’t lose their identity. You’ve been losing your identity since the moment you arrived here.”

  “I’ve had no chance to consider myself at all,” she was stung to retort. “And you’ve made everything as difficult for me as you possibly can!”

  “I?” His stare was cold and penetrating. “I’ll admit I’ve tried to shake some sense into you. I’ll also admit that I don’t seem to have made a very good job of it. But if you hadn’t been such a clam we might have got somewhere, even at that. You haven’t been so reticent with Reeves!”

  “He happens to have a heart!”

  Philip paused. His voice came crisply. “He also has a large house and no woman in it, which is inconvenient for a doctor. Forgive me if I draw my own conclusions.”

  He seemed suddenly to be so near that she had to move away, precipitately. Sunshine slanted across her hair from the window, turning it to dull gold, and a breeze through the open door whipped petals from the camellias in a vase close by, and pasted a couple of them to light grey linen frock. With trembling fingers Linda picked one off and felt its velvety coolness. She would have given a great deal to feel as smooth and lifeless.

  “Do you mind going?” she said huskily.

  “It’ll be a pleasure!”

  And then the doorway darkened. A trim figure stood there, clad in smart tweeds which were neither old nor new, a flat brown felt hat and shoes of matronly proportions. The eyes below the hat-brim were like a bird’s, except that there was a subtlety in their watchfulness.

  “Miss Dean!” said Linda faintly.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “WELL, my dear!” Miss Dean appeared to think Linda’s astonishment somewhat overdone. “You haven’t been to see me so I came to see you—but not for long, I’m afraid.”

  She gave Philip a lively look, took some pleasure in his bow towards her, and waited.

  “This is Mr. Frensham,” said Linda baldly. “He lives next door.”

  “Very nice, too. Glad to know you, Mr. Frensham.”

  He was as suave as if no gleam of anger had darkened his eyes a moment ago. “Come in and sit down, Miss Dean. Cigarette?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Can I get you some tea?” urged Linda.

  “Thanks, but I’d rather talk. I travelled to Barcelona with the parents of my pupil, yesterday. The man has a business appointment this morning and we’re leaving again at noon. I didn’t have time to come and see you last night, but they’ve lent me the car this morning. How are you, Linda?” She leaned forward shortsightedly. “You look peaky. Doesn’t the climate suit you?”

  Linda had hoped Philip would excuse himself politely and walk out. Instead he had propped himself against the wall facing the chair in which Miss Dean was sitting, and was looking her over with some interest. It was he who answered, sardonically:

  “It isn’t the climate, Miss Dean. As often happens in Spain, emotions have been running high.”

  “Oh.” She smiled in her quick way. “I thought I detected strong vibrations
as I came in. You haven’t written me very fully, Linda, and the tone of your letters worried me a little. What’s been going on?”

  Philip shifted. “Yes, Linda,” the grey eyes glittered, “tell us what’s been going on.”

  Linda swallowed as unostentatiously as she could. “Miss Dean is an old friend of our family and it seems we shan’t have much time together. Do you mind if we don’t say anything too confusing?”

  “My dear little girl,” he said, not very pleasantly, “you must know by now that I’d go to lengths to find out just what it is you keep locked in that brain of yours. Don’t mind me. I’m merely an onlooker.”

  Admirably, Miss Dean veiled her curiosity. She sat more comfortably and looked round the room. “Quite a lovely house, isn’t it? And the furniture has something, even if the whole effect is rather dim. Did Maxine leave you?”

  “Maxine?” Linda floundered, gathering her wits. “No ... no, she’s still here.”

  “Aren’t you happy with her?” asked the forthright Maud Dean.

  Linda cast a hurried glance at Philip and saw that although he seemed to be lounging negligently, there was an eagle intensity about him. She knew an impulse to get up abruptly and invite Miss Dean to her bedroom, but quelled it, because Miss Dean’s perspicacity was by no means negligible.

  “We get along,” she answered with an effort. “Are you sure you won’t have a cup of tea?”

  “Perfectly. Where is Maxine now?”

  “Dressing, I think. She’s not an early riser.”

  “Good gracious, she certainly isn’t!” The other woman looked disapprovingly at her watch. “Do you suppose she’ll mend her ways when she’s married to John?”

  Linda’s mouth was dry. She tried to glance a frantic signal to Miss Dean, felt Philip’s lithe presence as though it were a hovering sword, and said woodenly, “She isn’t going to marry John. It’s been over some ... time.”