Dancing in the Shadows (6 page)

Dorcas caught the top box and pulled off the lid. ‘Oh, Teresa, look!' she said, reverently lifting a floor-length dress in a deep orchid pink with billowy sleeves cut to flow from the waist. ‘Have you ever seen anything as lovely?' she said ecstatically.

‘
Si
, señorita, this,' said the little Spanish maid, peering into a second box at a misty blue, evening trouser suit.

The discarded tissue-paper was tossed carelessly aside until the floor was floating in filmy sheets of pink and blue and white that settled like giant-sized confetti. The two girls, as happy as larks in full song, exclaimed and gasped and twittered delightedly until the last box was unpacked and the wardrobe and drawers housed all these exciting garments.

She'd never had this many new clothes at once, not even after a childish growing spurt when her dresses strained across her chest and crept up her leg. Her mother had taken her shopping and bought her a whole new wardrobe, including ballet shoes, because in the golden days before her parents died it had been her ambition to be a ballerina. She had the build. The small head and the graceful, well-set neck; strong straight legs and well arched feet. She kept up her dancing, after the untimely death of her parents, but by this time
she
knew she lacked the star quality to reach the top. She could laugh now at the supreme egotism of her long-ago dream. There were too many things she hadn't taken into consideration; the fierce competition, her lack of ruthlessness, the tug of family commitments.

When her big break came, she hadn't been able to take it. A rather important man had come to see her backstage at the theatre within thirty minutes walk of her grandmother's home. Bluntly he told her, ‘In my opinion you'll never achieve star status, but your talent is wasted here. I'm taking my company on tour next month. There's an opening for you if you're interested.'

Dorcas was interested. She knew that he had paid her a tremendous compliment. But the timing was wrong. Her grandmother's health was beginning to fail. It wasn't until she thought about leaving that Dorcas realized how much her grandmother had come to rely on her. She had no alternative but to turn the offer down.

All that, of course, was in the past. She must put any hopes firmly behind her, now that she did not possess two strong legs. She probably wouldn't have made the grade, anyway.

She didn't feel bitter, because it wasn't in her nature to harbour acrimonious thoughts, just sad, nostalgic perhaps. She was glad her suitcase was lost in the wreckage because in it
were
the ballet shoes she never went anywhere without. At least she didn't have them staring her in the face as a painful reminder.

CHAPTER THREE

Next day, even before Dorcas had breakfasted, the nurse came to dress her leg. Her name was Anita. Olive complexioned, dark hair tied back to give a neat, workmanlike appearance, she had a pert, pretty face and a fresh, engaging manner.

‘Well now,' she said, examining the long cut which in turn had caused severe bruising to the muscle. ‘That's what I call a very tidy job. You had a good surgeon, señorita. Your healthy skin will soon heal this up. See how neatly it is knitting together. That slight redness there is your army of corpuscles fighting off the infection. I will dress your leg now. Very soon I hope to leave the bandage off.' She worked as she spoke; her movements had the same brisk efficiency as her mode of speech. When she had finished she gave Dorcas's leg a little pat. ‘There you are.' She rocked back on her heels and surveyed Dorcas with wide, serious eyes. ‘You do know, don't you, that had the injury been a fraction to the left, had the cut been say about here, you would have sustained more than a bruised muscle and could have permanently lost the use of your leg? I hope you realize what a lucky girl you are.'

‘Yes,' said Dorcas, suitably sober, ‘I know I am a very lucky girl.'

‘I
want you to use that leg,' the little nurse instructed, ‘but I don't want you to abuse it. By that I mean take only gentle exercise and rest it the moment it feels tired. If your leg suddenly gives way and lets you down, don't worry, it's only the muscle objecting to what's happening to it. The sooner we get the bandage off the better, and then we can get you into that splendid swimming pool out there.' She smiled, picked up her capacious bag and said: ‘
Adiós. Hasta la vista.
'

Dorcas echoed the goodbye, then wandered out to the patio overlooking the swimming pool. A maid, older than her own Teresa, but with the same dark eyes and shy demeanour, appeared to ask her if she would like her breakfast served on the patio.

‘Is it usual?' said Dorcas, before she noticed the table there for apparently just that purpose, complete with the remains of somebody's breakfast which had not yet been cleared away.

‘
Sí
, señorita—' Stacking the pretty breakfast service with painstaking care ‘—The young señor prefers to take his breakfast on the patio.'

Dorcas touched a coffee pot that was still warm to the fingers. ‘I suppose don Carlos has left for work?'

‘
Sí,
señorita.' The maid added the coffee pot to the things on the tray. ‘I will bring the señorita's breakfast at once. Has the señorita
any
preference?'

‘No. How are you called?'

‘Brigida, señorita'

‘Then, Brigida, just bring me fruit juice, rolls and preserve—any kind. Oh, and coffee please.'

‘
Sí
, señorita.' Brigida's taut features warmed into a shy smile. She returned with Dorcas's breakfast in express time.

As Dorcas ate the flaky, crusty rolls to the aroma of perfect coffee, she felt deliciously lazy, pleasantly unrushed. She couldn't help comparing this feeling of relaxed content with her past rushed existence.

About this time she would have been staring at some ghastly patterned wallpaper, choking down toast, in all probability after its burnt edges had been scraped in the kitchen sink because she didn't seem to have the knack of choosing landladies who could achieve even an elementary stage of cooking. And then, after gulping down a cup of weak coffee, or worse—stewed tea—she would dash off to a day dedicated to strenuous dance routines. She wondered if it was wicked of her not to regret overmuch what had happened.

The dancing that had been her very life, and which she thought would always be her first passion, was already fading into insignificance. She dare not admit to herself that Carlos was responsible for this.

‘You've had breakfast?'

Dorcas
looked up to see the slight elevation of Rose Ruiz's exquisitely shaped eyebrows.

Dorcas said she had.

‘A second cup of coffee, perhaps? To keep me company?'

‘It will be my third,' said Dorcas in acceptance.

Brigida brought a fresh pot of coffee. Rose Ruiz poured out two cups, placing one in front of Dorcas.

Dorcas lifted her cup as a child might, hoping her fingers would not disgrace her. Charming as her hostess was, there was still that something indefinable in her manner that made Dorcas feel nervous.

Yet no eyes could have been kinder as their owner enquired: ‘Did you sleep well?'

‘I had a wonderful night's sleep, thank you. And I love the room you have given me.'

‘I am so pleased. And Teresa? Do you find her compatible?'

‘Oh yes! Teresa and I are friends already. I feel spoilt having her. You must know I'm not used to having my own personal maid.'

‘A little spoiling does nobody any harm. You are a natural target for a bit of cosseting. You have a charming lack of avarice that makes giving a pleasure. It isn't in your nature to covet what is someone else's.'

Dorcas had the feeling that this was not idle flattery. The sweet talk was leading up to something specific, something less sweet.
Irrelevantly
she noticed that Rose Ruiz's lipstick and nail varnish were the same pearly shade. It made her want to fold her own unvarnished nails into the palms of her hands. When she looked they were already there.

‘If there is anything you want, Dorcas, don't hesitate to ask. Try to look upon this as your home, if you can. Make free use of any of the rooms. If you're a reader, you'll find a fair selection of books in English. Carlos, especially, regretted not being able to take today off to keep you company. But, well, it's not so easy at the moment. My husband's business, like that of his friend's, Alfonso Roca's, is a small fish being eaten by the sharks. It is, I believe, a world-wide problem.'

‘We certainly have it in England. The larger competitive companies are swallowing the small family concerns.'

‘And what do the small fish, the family concerns, do to combat the sharks?'

‘They join forces.'

‘That is precisely what my husband and don Alfonso are considering; in fact the details of the merger are under discussion. It would be a great pity if something unforeseen were to happen to prevent it taking place.' Midnight blue eyes steadied on sherry-gold ones. Dorcas found herself holding her breath on the knowledge that the point of the conversation was soon to be explained to her. ‘Looking to the future, when my Enrique and don Alfonso
retire,
because don Alfonso has no son of his own, Carlos will be in full control.'

Dorcas saw what Rose Ruiz was getting at.

‘Don Alfonso cannot be expected to agree to the merger unless he is certain in his mind that his daughter's interest will be safeguarded. It is both a blessing and a relief that Isabel and Carlos find each other
simpático.
'

‘Are you saying their engagement is a major clause of the merger?' Dorcas managed.

‘No, I'm not saying that. It's pretty obvious, though, that don Alfonso will feel happier about handing over the running of the business to Carlos if he's his son-in-law.'

Dorcas's heartbeats seemed to fill her ears as her mouth moved to ask: ‘What does Carlos think about this?'

‘I can assure you that Carlos is not the sacrificial lamb,' Rose Ruiz replied on a small, wry smile. ‘It is true that Carlos has not admitted to himself that he could love Isabel yet. Any problem there is of a purely temporary nature. The realization of love takes many forms. It can erupt like a sunburst—and risk burning itself out on its own intensity. By far the best sort of love creeps up so gradually that it is difficult to pinpoint the exact moment it entered the relationship. That is how it will be for Carlos and Isabel. Carlos has known Isabel since she was a child, and still regards her as such. He
taught
her to swim, alongside his sister, even regarded her as a second sister. But Isabel is not his sister and she has reached an age when he could teach her other things, and learn something himself in the process. If he played at love with her, before long he would come to love her. Isabel is a sweet girl. It would be no hardship.'

It occurred to Dorcas that Rose Ruiz wasn't just explaining the set-up, but warning her off. She obviously saw Dorcas as a threat. She had taken a hand-to-shoulder contact and an exchange of glances and exaggerated it in her mind.

Dorcas didn't believe that Carlos's marriage to Isabel Roca was as cut and dried as his mother was making out. It was a possibility—no more and no less—in no way threatened by Dorcas's presence.

Rose Ruiz stressed: ‘It will be a good marriage. Isabel has been brought up to accept the fact that Spain is a masculine country. She will expect Carlos to dominate the marriage. It wouldn't do for you, Dorcas. I have never found marriage to a dominant man stifling, for the simple reason that prior to my marriage I'd never tasted this so-called freedom and equality of the sexes. We didn't have it in my day. You don't miss what you've never had. What you know isn't always best, but it's safer to stick to it.'

Meaning I should stick to what I know best,
thought
Dorcas.

‘The independence we enjoy now has been too hard-won to be lightly thrown away,' Dorcas agreed, allowing that as a point in Rose Ruiz's favour. ‘I enjoy the liberty that, for example, has allowed me to travel abroad on my own. I can't see myself ever accepting the passive role in marriage. I would want to be an equal.'

‘Equality is a hard pendulum to set,' Rose Ruiz replied with undeniable truth.

Dorcas nodded. ‘I know what you mean. In America it has gone the other way. The women there dominate the marriage. And that's no good either. If one is aware of the danger . . . surely . . . ?' She didn't really expect a reply to her half formed question. On the other hand she did not expect such an abrupt, laughably transparent twist to the conversation.

‘I must invite the Rocas over for dinner. Soon.'

Dorcas felt a moment's pity for her. She still doesn't know, she thought. Carlos was her son. A son is a person of the highest ideals. As well as being a son, Carlos was also a man. He looked at Dorcas with a man's eyes, and liked what he saw. Perhaps he even wanted to do more than look. It didn't mean he wanted to marry her.

Dorcas thought she had made a fair job of the evaluation, until she remembered she
hadn't
accounted for the blanks. The earlier part of her stay in hospital, while she was under heavy sedation, was a blank. People had come and gone, but Carlos had stayed by her bed. She experienced an impression of closeness that came in almost remembering. Trying to clarify her thoughts was like trying to feel through glass. Splinters of memory pierced her awareness, but not enough to piece together to make a whole.

* * *

That evening, at dinner, Dorcas did not feel hungry. The soup went down very slowly. The fish left on her plate was an insult to the cook. She couldn't face the pot-roast of veal.

Enrique Ruiz leaned forward to rap her knuckles in a proprietorial gesture, establishing her entry into the bosom of the family by reproof. One did not upbraid a guest.