House of Dreams (5 page)

Read House of Dreams Online

Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
8.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Por Dios,”
he breathed.
It was as if he had forgotten that they stood beside each other, mere inches separating them. Cass wet her lips. It was impossible for her not to be acutely aware of him as a man, and a damned great-looking one at that. The wool sleeve of his tuxedo jacket brushed her bare shoulder. And he smelled as good as he looked. She was suddenly insanely jealous of her sister.
Antonio straightened, glancing down at her. He did not smile. His expression remained stunned.
“Do you know something about this necklace?” she asked, unable to tear her gaze from his, completely diverted now from her thoughts about Tracey.
He hesitated. “Yes. Yes, I think that I do.”
Cass straightened. “What? What is it?”
He hesitated again. “I believe this necklace—or one very similar to it—was worn by one of my ancestors.”
Cass felt her eyes widen. “But how is that possible? You are Spanish and this necklace was found by Lady Hepplewhite at her home in
Highridge Hall. Which, as you must know, dates back to the fourteenth century.”
He nodded. “I know all of that. One of my ancestors was briefly married to an Englishwoman. Her name was Isabel de la Barca. She died sometime before 1562, when my ancestor took his second wife.”
Cass was about to make a comment about his knowledge of his own family tree, when Catherine said, her voice quiet, “No.”
In unison they turned. Dread crept along Cass's spine as she saw how her aunt was staring at Antonio. There was no mistaking her fear. Or was it revulsion?
“No,” she said again. “Her name wasn't Isabel de la Barca. It was Isabel de Warenne. She was the earl of Sussex's daughter, back in the middle of the sixteenth century.”
Cass stared at her aunt, a prickle of excitement rising within her in spite of her worries. “De Warenne?” Cass asked breathlessly. “Any relation of ours?”
Catherine finally looked at her. “Yes, but not directly. She had no children. We share the earl's father as our common ancestor.”
Cass was amazed, not that Catherine knew so much about the family's history, but that she revealed it offhandedly, and she was amazed at the coincidence they now found themselves in. “Our families intermarried in the sixteenth century,” Cass gasped, facing Antonio. She almost grabbed his hands but managed to restrain herself. “Do you know what the odds of that are?”
He smiled at her, as if swept up by her excitement. “Quite unlikely. There is a portrait in my family home, and the necklace Isabel is wearing in it is remarkably similar to this one.”
“I'd love to see it,” Cass said without hesitation. It was a vast understatement. She would die to see it.
“It would be my pleasure to show it to you,” Antonio said, his gaze on hers, and Cass felt the moment that their eyes locked.
And as she stared into the brown and green flecks of his irises, she had visions of traveling to Spain, to his ancestral home, to view a portrait of the ancestor who had linked their families once, centuries ago.
“No. Cassandra is not going to Spain.”
Her aunt's voice was so harsh that Cass flinched before facing her. “What?”
Catherine flushed. “How can you go to Spain? You are in the middle of a deadline.”
Cass stared, realizing what her aunt was up to. She did not want her
involved with Antonio de la Barca, just as she did not want Tracey involved, because of the secret of the past. Because Antonio might discover what had happened to his father. If the matter were entirely closed—or entirely innocent—Catherine would not be so stricken. “I am in the middle of a deadline,” Cass finally allowed, with a quick smile at Antonio. She did not tell him she had an entire year to finish the book she was working on, and she was also dismayed. How she wanted to go to Spain, to this man's home, to see the portrait of Isabel de Warenne, her ancestor.
If Antonio was disappointed, Cass could not tell. “I suppose I could photograph the portrait,” he said, studying them both. “And send the photographs to you.”
Catherine did not reply. So Cass said, “That would be great,” with an enthusiasm she did not feel. But now she was determined to get to the bottom of Catherine's secret, and to go see the portrait for herself without opening up any cans of worms. “Has the portrait been evaluated?” Cass asked. “Do you know when it was painted? And by whom?”
Antonio smiled, perhaps at her fervor. “Actually, no. But as I said, Alvarado de la Barca remarried in 1562. So the portrait was painted before that. She seems quite young, eighteen, maybe, if I recall correctly. I haven't been back to the house in a number of years.”
Cass found that last statement a bit odd, and she thought she saw a darkness flitting through his eyes as he spoke. But she might have imagined it, because now he smiled a bit at her. “Where is your family home?” she had to ask.
Before he could reply, Catherine's voice rang out. Loudly. Oddly. “She died in 1555.”
Cass stiffened, turning to gaze at her aunt in surprise. “What?”
Catherine was extremely pale. “She died in 1555. Isabel. She was a heretic, and they burned her at the stake.”
Cass stared at her aunt, who stared back, her eyes wide, blue, burning—almost unseeing, almost fanatically. And Cass was filled with dread. She shuddered.
What a terrible way to die.
Cass quickly moved over to Catherine, putting her arm around her. Her mind was spinning, racing. “The year 1555 would be the last year of Mary's reign. A number of heretics were burned at the stake.”
“Yes, they were. Even more heretics were burned in the empire,” Antonio said.
Cass knew he referred to the Hapsburg Empire, inherited by Mary's husband, Philip II of Spain. “What a terrible death.” She shivered. She felt sick to her stomach just thinking about it. “But didn't nearly everyone who was Protestant when Mary came to the throne profess outwardly to being Catholic? Why was Isabel singled out for heresy, I wonder?”
Antonio stared at Cass, and Cass thought she saw a new respect in his eyes. “Only fanatics were prosecuted, as a warning to the rest of the populace,” he said. “I did not know about Isabel's fate.” He regarded Catherine. “However did you learn of her death? And are you certain of it?”
Catherine pursed her mouth, her eyes blurring with tears. “I had forgotten,” she whispered almost inaudibly. “For a while.”
More alarmed than ever, wondering if her aunt would make herself ill, Cass tried to change the subject. “Have you had a chance to see that stunning necklace yet?” she tried lightly, hoping to distract her.
But Catherine seemed riveted by Antonio. “Every time I look at you, I see him. I am so sorry …” Her voice broke. She cleared it. “He was
researching your family's history,” she said. “Here at the British Library. I am so sorry.”
And Cass, looking at her, hearing her, had to close her eyes. The plea for forgiveness was all too apparent. A terrible sadness began to weigh Cass down. Could this really be happening? Had her aunt killed Antonio's father, or had it been an accident? And surely her aunt didn't intend to confess to something that had happened thirty years ago? “We had better get back to our guests, Aunt Catherine.” She managed a small smile at Antonio while tugging on her aunt.
“I was only four years old when he died,” Antonio said suddenly, causing both Cass and her aunt to turn. His gaze was unwavering. “I have so few memories. My mother remarried two years after his death—and never speaks of him. I was hoping, maybe, when you have the time, that you might share your memories with me.” His eyes were brilliant, demanding, intense.
Cass grew more alarmed. That would be a terrible idea! “I'm sure my aunt would love to sit down with you and reminisce when she's feeling better. She's fought a flu all week,” she added as an afterthought. And she flushed, hating the white lie.
Suddenly Catherine spoke. “We met here in London. I was on the board of the British Museum, where he was also doing research.” She smiled. “We met at a function for the museum. And quickly discovered the two ancestors which we had in common.” But Catherine was crying now. Tears had slipped from her eyes.
Cass gave Antonio a warning look. “Aunt Catherine, you are not well,” she said firmly—she would brook no protest. “Maybe you should lie down for a few minutes before returning to the party.”
Catherine finally tore her gaze from Antonio. “I am sorry,” she whispered, sagging against Cass. “I am not well. I know we have guests, but I must go upstairs. Cassandra, I am exhausted.”
“I'll take you right up,” Cass said quickly. And she was relieved, because she did not want her aunt conversing with de la Barca. “Will you excuse us?”
“Of course,” he said. “I only hope that you will feel better tomorrow, Lady Belford.”
“Cassandra? I am having difficulty breathing. It is too stuffy and warm in here,” Catherine said.
Alarmed, Cass realized how much paler her aunt was becoming. But her aunt's statement was odd, because the dining room remained oddly chilled. And Cass became even more alarmed, because Catherine kept
touching her throat, and she was taking deep heavy breaths through her mouth. “To bed,” Cass said quickly. “And I will bring you some chamomile tea.”
“Cassandra.” His accented voice halted her in her tracks. She glanced over her shoulder at Antonio. “I'd love to continue this conversation about our families,” he said.
She hesitated, and her passion for the past won out over her better judgment and her fear. She had to smile. “So would I.”
They walked across the room. “No, Cassandra,” Catherine said, low and husky, so Antonio would not hear. “His father was obsessed with the past. Clearly he is, too. Why else would he be here? I have asked so very little of you.” Her gaze was wide, even wild. “Leave this subject entirely alone, stay away from Señor de la Barca, and please, try to get him out of our home. And then, just forget about this entire night.”
Catherine was no longer making any sense. Cass stared at her aunt, almost gaping, and saw not an elegant older woman in a black Oscar de la Renta tuxedo with a diamond and pearl pin, but someone old and so terribly tired, someone frail and failing. Suddenly her aunt's wrinkles were striking, when Cass had never noticed them before. Suddenly her blue eyes seemed watery. Suddenly she seemed every bit her age. She was an old woman, and Cass had never realized it before.
Cass put her arm around her. Tears slipped unbidden down her cheeks. “I'll do my best,” she lied. She was not going to boot Antonio out. She could never do such a thing. Or could she? If he left, it would be a relief—as far as safeguarding her aunt's secret went. “It's late. It's been a rough day. Don't worry about anything now, Aunt Catherine, except getting a good night's sleep.” She could not force a smile, but she hugged her aunt, hard.
Catherine nodded wearily, leaning against her niece. “Thank you, Cassandra. Thank you. I knew I could trust you.”
Trust. What a significant word, Cass thought, suddenly weary. As Cass guided her aunt from the room, she finally glanced back at Antonio.
Their eyes met.
And then they both looked back at the necklace simultaneously—as if on cue. And this time, when their eyes lifted and met, it was in silent communication.
Come hell or high water, Cass knew she was going to Spain to see Isabel's portrait.
 
 
“You are such a blessing, Cassandra,” Catherine said, clad in an ivory, red, and gold Japanese kimono, her red hair loosened now and hanging about her shoulders. They were in Catherine's lavishly appointed bedroom. “Why don't you call The Golden Hart and see if they have a room for Senor de la Barca?”
Cass stared. “Aunt Catherine,” she said slowly, “this is so unlike you. How can we ask him to leave? He's Tracey's guest. Maybe it would be better to just let this play out; he'll be gone tomorrow anyway.”
“I thought you understood,” Catherine cried.
Quickly Cass went to her. “Aunt Catherine, do you need a glass of water?”
Catherine shook her head. “I need a gin and tonic and an aspirin.”
Cass bit her lip. “I'll get you the drink if you really want it.” But she did not move. “Aunt Catherine, I'm going crazy with worry. You didn't really mean what you said earlier, did you?”
Catherine met her gaze. Then she turned her back on Cass, walking over to the bed but not getting into it. “I made a mistake,” she said softly. “I shouldn't have said a word. And now I am not going to discuss the subject. Not now. Not ever.” She turned, and her face was set.
Cass's heart drummed. She had to know what had happened, but she was also frightened for her aunt's health and did not want to push her now. “Were you lovers?” she asked.
Catherine's face changed. She began to shake her head no, and then she covered her face with her hands. “He loved his wife, but even more than he loved her, he loved the past. I loved Robert, I have always loved Robert. Eduardo and I were friends—drawn together by his work.” She did not continue.
Cass could fill in the blanks. They had begun as friends and had ended up in bed.
Catherine rubbed her brow. “I had erased this part of my life from my mind. I wish Antonio de la Barca had never come into our lives!” she cried with vehemence.
Cass stared at her aunt, who was so pale. She hesitated, then asked, “Do we have to worry about criminal prosecution, Aunt Catherine?”
Catherine looked at her. And she said, “The police said it was an accident.”
Cass's heart turned over. What was the meaning of Catherine's words? Her tone had been strange—as if the police had been wrong.
“You said it was an accident, too,” she whispered, her throat constricted.
Catherine suddenly reached for her small beaded evening bag, and she pulled a tissue out and dabbed her eyes. “I need that drink, Cassandra. Please.”
The bedroom door opened and Tracey rushed in; Cass took one look at her sister's tight expression and she knew that fireworks were imminent. She rushed to her. “Trace,” she began. Hoping to warn her sister to lay off because Catherine was not well.
“What have you both done?” Tracey cried, hands on her hips. “My God! How could you!”
Catherine straightened.
Cass intercepted her. “Whatever you are upset about, this is not a good time. Catherine isn't feeling well. Let's go.” She grabbed Tracey's arm, but her sister did not budge. “Supper's about to be served. We need to go downstairs.”
Tracey was flushed, and she shook Cass off. “Antonio said he's leaving. He said he has somehow upset Aunt Catherine, and that it would be better if he stayed elsewhere tonight. He's going back to London!” Tracey regarded Cass with such a look of disbelief it was almost comical. But Cass also saw the genuine hurt in her blue eyes. “I can't believe this!”
Cass bit her lip. “I'm sorry,” she began, meaning it. “You can see him in London—”
“I won't have it! This is
my
affair.
My
night.
My
life.” She looked at Catherine. “And my boyfriend. How could you be so rude to him!?” she cried.
Cass stiffened. “Are you sure his leaving is our fault?”
Tracey's eyes darkened. “Just what the bloody hell are you implying?”
Before she could respond, Catherine stood. “Tracey, you must trust me, this is for the best. Let him go. You cannot be involved with him. Terrible things will happen, I am so sure of it—and I am so afraid for you, for all of us.”
Tracey's eyes widened; so did Cass's. “Not be involved with him? I love him! I'm going to marry him,” she declared. She turned to Cass. “I don't know what you're thinking. But you and Aunt Catherine did or said something to make him decide to leave.
I
had nothing to do with it.”
Cass felt her heart skipping a series of beats. Was Tracey being literal? Were they engaged? An image flashed through her mind, of Tracey and
Antonio together on their wedding day. Cass could not shove it aside, for Alyssa was with them, as the flower girl. Cass stared. “You're getting married?” She could hardly get the words out.
“Well, we haven't exactly made plans,” Tracey began, and Cass didn't really hear the rest of her sentence, she was so relieved.
They would not take Alyssa away from her.
“Cass? Are you even listening? I love Antonio,” Tracey was saying. “But you always take Aunt Catherine's side.”
“Tracey, I understand,” Cass said quickly, unable to believe how shaken she had been, and all for no real reason. “Look, I'm not always taking Catherine's side, but maybe it's better if Antonio doesn't spend the night here. Catherine really isn't well.”
Immediately tears came to Tracey's eyes. “You want to boot him out, too? If he leaves, I leave,” Tracey cried, suddenly furious. “Aunt Catherine, this is absolutely unfair.”
Cass grew angry. “Tracey, can't you cut Aunt Catherine some slack?” she asked. “Does everything always have to be your way?”
Tracey gaped at her. “Always my way? Nothing is ever my way! I come home and get pounced on by all of you, the moment I step in the door. Nothing I do is ever right.”
“What?” Cass gasped.
“No.” Catherine stood. She was trembling. “Stop it. The two of you. Stop it now. And listen to me. Tracey, I do not want you involved with that man.
I won't have it.”
Tracey gaped. Even Cass blinked at their aunt and did a double take.
“I will not have it,” Catherine said firmly. “For all of our sakes.”
A huge silence fell over the room.
And Cass looked from her unyielding aunt to her astonished sister. In that moment the only thing she could think of was when Tracey had come home one day at the age of fifteen with a thirty-year-old boyfriend who drove a red Jag and wore alligator boots. Catherine had tried to talk some sense into her, but to no avail. Tracey had dated the man for a good six months anyway. And Catherine had never issued an ultimatum.

Other books

The Citadel by Robert Doherty
Sacred by Dennis Lehane
04 Once Upon a Thriller by Carolyn Keene
Ammunition by Bruen, Ken
Glitter by Kate Maryon
Surrender by June Gray
The Wind From the East by Almudena Grandes
Mid Life Love by Williams, Whitney Gracia