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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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“I wonder why Antonio didn't meet us at the airport,” Alyssa asked, standing beside her mother in the dim shadows of the hallway of a turn-of-the-century apartment building.
Tracey was frazzled. Their flight had been delayed for two hours, time that she and Alyssa had spent in the VIP lounge with little to do other than chat. The problem had been that Tracey didn't really know her own daughter, and all of the subjects that interested Alyssa were foreign to her, even her friends. The longer Alyssa had gone on, the more inept Tracey had felt. The longer they spent together, the more Tracey kept comparing herself to her perfect sister. Cass would be enjoying the delay. She would be all smiles, all good cheer. Tracey had begun to regret bringing Alyssa with her to Madrid. What if Antonio saw how incompetent she was as a mother? She had wanted to impress him, and now she was worrying that the opposite would be the case.
But there had been no choice. Her aunt and her sister had made this trip inevitable.
Tracey felt all of the hurt and anger welling up in her as she thought about how Cass and Catherine had taken sides, once again, against her. And to make matters even worse, maybe she should have waited a few days before traveling. She was exhausted; she didn't feel well. She felt weak and shaky.
“Mother? Are you well?”
Her daughter's voice jerked her back to the present, and Tracey had to take a couple of deep, soothing breaths. “Yes.” She smiled at Alyssa, but it was forced. “Actually, he isn't quite expecting us. We're surprising him.”
Alyssa almost gaped at her mother.
And Tracey was angry, because there was a judgment in her daughter's reaction to her, too. “He will be thrilled to see us,” she assured herself as much as Alyssa. He would be thrilled, wouldn't he?
Alyssa flushed and looked down.
If Tracey did not know better, she would think that her seven-year-old daughter thought that it was incorrect to appear without an invitation. Had Cass already instilled such values in her? Tracey knocked again, her stomach upset with tension, perspiring now in her short summer skirt and paper-thin cashmere tank top. God, Spain was so hot. But then, she already knew that.
She glanced at her watch. Antonio should be at home. Classes had been over for one week now, and knowing him, while he would be
immersed in research of some sort or another, at this hour he would be having a late lunch with his son.
She had never met such a devoted father before. In a way, he was just like Cass.
It flitted through her mind that they deserved one another. Tracey did not like that thought, not one bit. She reminded herself that Cass was hardly his type.
There was no answer, and after a few minutes had gone by, Tracey began to realize that no one was home.
She felt her temper rising, “Just great,” she muttered. “Now what am I going to do? Sit on the floor and wait?”
“Mother?”
For one moment, Tracey had forgotten that Alyssa was standing beside her. “What is it?”
Alyssa flushed. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“Oh, great!” Tracey cried. Now she was regretting the fact that Antonio had never given her a key to his apartment. God knew he should have. She had certainly spent enough time there. And the memories that flooded her, in that instant, were all of their torrid lovemaking. She began to relax. Her wavering confidence began to return. Antonio was a
man.
A very passionate man. She could manage him, of course she could.
The elevator whirred behind her, and Tracey spun around, hoping it was Antonio. But his neighbor, a middle-aged woman, stepped from the elevator instead.
“Señora, buenos
dias,”
she said, glancing curiously at Alyssa.
“Hi,” Tracey said. Then, “Have you seen Senor de la Barca today? Do you know if he's at his office at the university?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Señora, my English no is good.
Senor no está en la universidad. Está
en
Castilla.”
Tracey didn't speak Spanish, but she got the gist. “He's in Castile? In the north? At his country home, Casa de Sueños?” she cried, distraught and disbelieving.
“Sí. Senor fue a Castilla.”
“What?”
“Ahh—went …
ayer. Ayer.”
Yesterday. Antonio had gone to the country yesterday. Tracey just stared, unable to believe her damnable luck.
Alyssa tugged on her hand.
Tracey almost snapped, “Not now,” but the older woman was smiling kindly at them both. She inhaled. His country home was an hour north of Segovia. He'd showed her once on a map. What was the name of that little town it was outside of? Damn it! Pedamo, Pedaso, no, Pedraza. Tracey was certain that was it.
“Can my daughter use your bathroom, please?
El servicio?
Por favor?”
A moment later Alyssa was entering the woman's apartment, while Tracey was making plans.
 
 
The following morning, Cass sat at the desk she worked at in the library. It was covered with books, several of which were open. She was taking notes, but she couldn't concentrate.
By now, Tracey and Alyssa should have been in Madrid for several hours. Cass had contacted Mark Hopkins earlier, with great trepidation. He had been extremely closemouthed, but at least he had admitted that mother and daughter had flown abroad the night before. He had not raised the subject of a custody battle, but he had said that he would be in touch.
Cass shoved the biography of Mary Tudor aside, aware of a headache lingering just behind her temples. As she did so, the photograph she had tucked into the back of the book started to slip out.
Cass took out the color print of the sixteenth-century ruby necklace, staring at it without quite seeing it. Should she be relieved that Hopkins hadn't called her and hadn't raised the topic that she dreaded? Should she dare to hope that Tracey had been bluffing when she'd said her lawyer would call? Tracey hadn't actually specified just why her lawyer would be calling, but then, whom was Cass fooling? They had been fighting over Alyssa. And what about her aunt, who remained ill with a bacterial infection? Catherine was on antibiotics, but her fever remained high, at 100 degrees. For a woman of seventy, that was serious. What if her aunt died?
Cass was filled with worry, panic, regret, and guilt. She regretted their arguments. She still didn't understand how so much vehemence had blossomed between them, when they'd only shared warmth and camaraderie until then.
And Cass kept hearing Catherine in her delirium. At least she had not been delirious again.
Cass found herself staring down at the photograph she held in her
hands. This had all started, hadn't it, when Antonio de la Barca had appeared at their home? Or had it started decades ago, when his father had been killed, accidentally or not, by an automobile in some town called Pedraza?
Or had it begun centuries ago?
Cass was dismayed by her last thought.
No good can come of the families being involved … You are starting to understand …
Her aunt's words echoed disturbingly in her mind. Cass's headache increased. Centuries ago, one of her ancestors had been, apparently, burned to death at the stake. An important woman, the earl of Sussex's daughter, a noblewoman married to a Spanish nobleman. Cass had done a bit of research. The de la Barca heirs were the counts of Pedraza. A number of heretics had been burned at the stake toward the end of Mary's reign. But most of those who had suffered such a death had been fanatically Protestant. Had Isabel been a religious fanatic? But then how had she married a Spaniard, who would obviously be devoutly Catholic?
Suddenly Cass could envision a lovely woman in period Tudor dress—in chains and manacles. She was used to her imagination running away with her—in fact, she expected it—so her flight of fancy hardly surprised her. But her sudden compassion did. Poor Isabel. If she had really met such a tragic fate.
Suddenly Cass wondered if Antonio was lobbying various museums, hoping to make a museum sale privately for the ruby necklace. She studied it critically now, wondering if Isabel had worn it, and if Isabel was really her ancestor—which would mean that her family was indeed connected with the de la Barcas. And what if Isabel had had children? Then Antonio's family was very distantly related to hers. Cass stood up abruptly, entirely perturbed, setting aside the necklace.
Tracey and Antonio, Catherine and Eduardo. Then she thought about her own reaction to Antonio.
This
is
nonsense
, she decided angrily. Even though she was a romantic and the kind of woman to believe in destiny, there was no destiny here. Catherine might think so, but it was all terrible coincidence.
Cass folded her arms. Uneasily she stared down at the photograph. The problem was, she did believe in destiny and fate. She always had, and it was a theme in her novels, one she had repeated time and again. Were there a few too many coincidences present here?
Catherine had said that Isabel had died in 1555—the last year of Queen Mary's reign. How in the hell would her aunt know, or even remember, that?
The very last entry in her aunt's journal had mentioned Isabel. Cass shivered. She was so cold, and it was a coldness that began in her very bones.
Cass suddenly glanced around at the library where she usually worked, a room that she loved. The walls were painted a moss color with a satin finish, the ceiling was pink with a gold starburst in the center, the woodwork and wainscoting were all gilded, and every piece of furniture in the room had its own treasured past. The past. It was a part of the present, a part of all their lives; it had always been that way.
But it had never felt more present, or stronger, or more imminent, or even more urgent, than now.
“Ms. de Warenne?”
Cass was so engrossed in her own mental rampaging that she jumped at the sound of Celia's voice. “You scared me.” Her heart was thundering.
“I beg your pardon. Lady Belford's fever has broken. She's awake, and she's asked for you.”
“Thank God,” Cass cried, overcome with relief. It would only take her half an hour to reach the hospital.
Thank God!
“And you have a phone call,” Celia added.
Cass hadn't even heard the phone ring. “Would you please take a message.”
Celia looked her in the eye. “It's Ms. Tennant.”
Cass froze. And then she leapt forward, dashing to the phone. She was breathless as she picked it up, and she could hear her own deafening heartbeat. “Trace?” she cried eagerly.
“Hi, sis,” Tracey said with some hesitation.
Relief washed over Cass again and again. Catherine was recovering, her sister had called. “Thank you for calling. Tracey, I am sorry about our fight. How is Alyssa? Is she okay?”
“Alyssa's fine.” There was a pause. “Are you really sorry?”
“Yes, I am,” Cass said quickly. “I'd do anything to make it up to you!” And she meant it.
“I'm sorry, too,” Tracey said, and her tone grew hoarse. “I didn't mean all those terrible things I said.”
“Neither did I,” Cass cried, gripping the phone so tightly her hand hurt.
“We're marooned,” Tracey said. “Cass, we need help.”
Cass was immediately alarmed. “Marooned?! Where are you?”
“At the Ritz, in Madrid. Cass, I need your help.”
Cass finally absorbed Tracey's dramatic statement. Being stuck at the Ritz was hardly a hardship, but she said quickly, “How can I help?”
“Antonio went up to Castile. I can't get a damned driver on such short notice, can you believe it? Tonio's country home is a good three hours from here. I have a great idea. Why don't you take the next flight to Madrid, which is at eight this evening, and we'll all go up to the north together first thing in the morning?”
Cass stared blindly at the phone. “What?”
“There's an Air Iberia at eight. Out of Gatwick. It's only noon. If you leave by two, you can make it. I need you to drive, Cass. Otherwise we have to wait until Monday to get a driver. And you can spend the weekend with us. That's what you wanted in the first place, isn't it?”
Cass didn't have to think about it. “Of course I'll come,” she cried eagerly. “You book that flight while I pack! I will make that eight P.M., Trace, I swear it.”
“Cass, I already booked the flight for you, and your return as well.”
For one second Cass digested the implications of Tracey's statement, especially that of her return being finalized after the weekend. And then she shoved those thoughts—and the discontent they would bring—far aside. “Can I speak to Alyssa?” Cass asked eagerly. It was sinking in. They were no longer fighting, even if things weren't perfect. She was going to join her sister and Alyssa in Spain, even if for only a short time. She'd be able to shore up their truce, and make certain Alyssa did come home when the summer was over. And Antonio de la Barca, who had invited her to see Isabel's portrait, would be there as well.

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