Meeting in Madrid (7 page)

Lucia, Catherine thought. This was the present and, perhaps, the future mistress of Soria. It was then that she noticed the ruby. A large, unmounted stone, it hung by a slender chain round Lucia’s neck, burning against her bare flesh like fire as the light from the lantern leaped in its many facets, bringing them to glowing life. It was utterly magnificent, yet peculiarly evil in some curious, inexplicable way which she could not understand, a thing of beauty which could also destroy.

‘Lucia,’ said Jaime, ‘this is Teresa’s new tutoress, Miss Royce.’

Catherine met the dark eyes above the glowing ruby, conscious of the scarcely controlled fury in their depths.

‘How is this so?’ Lucia demanded, addressing her brother-in-law in Spanish. ‘It is not as we wished. You know that, Jaime! It is some mischief of that old woman, your grandmother. She is a viper! She is determined to have a finger in every pie!’

The smile faded from Don Jaime’s face.

‘Miss Royce may be younger than we expected, Lucia,’ he said quietly, ‘but she is also competent to teach Teresa, and this we must accept. A mistake has been made, but that is impossible to change now. Please see that she is welcomed to Soria in a reasonable manner and comfortably housed.’ He drew himself up to his full, commanding height. ‘Our hospitality must not be impaired by the fact that she is not what we expected.’

Lucia turned on the bottom stair.

‘Come this way,’ she said in halting English, as if she was almost reluctant to use the language which Don Jaime wished her stepdaughter to master. ‘I will show you to your room.’

Catherine followed her up the staircase, not quite knowing what to say. The slim, ramrod-straight back was as hostile-looking as Dona Lucia’s eyes had been only a moment before, and she led the way along the gallery without another word. Here and there large items of Spanish furniture placed against the whitewashed walls cast even darker shadows on their way, and the heavy oak doors leading to the upstairs rooms were all carefully closed against intrusion, giving what should have been a happy family residence the air of a prison. She remembered what Teresa had said about Soria in Madrid, thinking that it was all understandable now that she had come here.

Lucia paused at an archway leading to a suite of rooms beyond the gallery.

‘You will be here, with Teresa,’ she announced. ‘Out of harm’s way.’

It was an odd remark to make, but Catherine was not in a position to question it at the moment. Lucia flung open one of the doors beyond the arch, standing aside so that she might go in, and Catherine had the impression of a sparsely-furnished room which yet was adequate for her requirements, with bright chintz curtains at the windows and the inevitable four-poster bed against one wall.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Dona Lucia. I shall be very comfortable. I’m sure.’

She looked up into the unresponsive face, but all she could see was the ruby lying like a spot of blood at Lucia’s throat and the eyes above it burning with hatred as Teresa came slowly towards them along the gallery.

‘
Buenas noches, madrastra
!’ said Teresa. ‘I hope you are now well.’

‘Well enough, in the way you mean.’ Lucia had frowned at the word ‘stepmother’ but let it pass. ‘Of course, I am still mourning your father’s death, as no one else here seems to do.’

A deep red colour stained Teresa’s cheeks.

‘We all grieve for him,
madrastra,
but we do not all wear our hearts on our sleeves,’ she said. ‘I will never forget him, although it is three years now since he was killed.’

Three years is nothing!’ Dona Lucia turned to leave them. ‘You had a pleasant stay in Madrid?’ she asked with pointed courtesy.

‘Very pleasant. You know I always like to go there,’ Teresa said.

Her stepmother laughed unpleasantly.

‘I know that you like to put as many miles as possible between us,’ she conceded, ‘but you cannot do as you like until you are eighteen and your own mistress.’

The flush deepened in Teresa’s cheeks.

‘You remind me of the fact so often,
madrastra
, that I am hardly likely to forget,’ she countered, ‘yet you will be glad to be rid of me when the time comes.’

A guarded look came into Lucia’s eyes.

‘You know that Jaime wishes you to remain here,’ she said in an altered voice. ‘He is responsible for you until you come of age. He made a promise to your father before he died.’

Without waiting for her stepdaughter’s answer she swept away along the gallery to her own room, closing the door firmly behind her.

There was a small, awkward pause as Teresa and Catherine looked at each other.

‘She does not like you,’ Teresa said, at last, ‘because you are young and beautiful and because you may one day attract Jaime.’ A spark of glee dawned in her dark eyes. ‘That would be something worth waiting for,’ she declared. ‘Dona Lucia in second place! Why are you blushing, Cathy?’ she demanded. ‘Surely you know that you are beautiful with your fiery hair and skin like a ripe peach and a figure almost as slim as Lucia’s? She is not in the least beautiful except, perhaps, for her hair which she attends to so lovingly. Do you not think that her face is too long and her eyes too near together? Besides, she has the Velazquez nose, which is too high and too sharp to be attractive in a woman.’

Teresa’s description of her stepmother had been apt but decidedly cruel, and Catherine would not encourage her.

‘I thought her distinguished,’ she answered carefully. ‘Does she always wear that magnificent ruby at her throat?’ It was the wrong question to ask. Teresa’s eyes filled with angry tears.

‘It belonged to my mother,’ she gulped, ‘but my father gave it to Lucia on their wedding day. It is the Pablo ruby and it should have been mine. It has been handed down in my mother’s family for many years.’

Wondering if this might be the main cause of dissension between Teresa and her stepmother, Catherine began to unpack her suitcases, hanging up her dresses once more in a capacious wardrobe and folding her underwear neatly in the dressing-chest drawer. For how long this time? Dona Lucia’s dislike of her seemed to hang above her head like the Sword of Damocles, yet it would be Don Jaime who would finally ask her to go.

She crossed to the windows to look out, opening one of them to step out on to the creeper-covered balcony which overhung part of the
patio,
and suddenly the scent of stephanotis was all around her. It hung in the still air like incense, cloying, overwhelming, dangerously sweet, holding her there in the darkness until she was aware of a movement on the terrace beyond the thin silver thread of the fountain. A man and a woman were standing out there, half in shadow, half revealed, and the woman was too tall to be anyone but Lucia.

Catherine stepped back involuntarily. Lucia and Don Jaime? She could not see the man plainly enough, but the two were undoubtedly deep in conversation until Lucia finally made a gesture of dismissal and the second figure dissolved into the shadows cast by the motionless palms. Lucia came towards the house along the colonnaded stretch of the
patio,
glimpsed here and there before she finally disappeared inside, but once she had gone from the terrace her companion of a few minutes ago returned. It was not Don Jaime. The man was shorter and more sturdily built and he wore a
poncho
over his clothes, as if he had just come in after a long journey. The horse he had been riding followed him out of the shadows, led on a long rein.

Catherine drew a sharp breath of relief, although why she should have thought that it was Don Jaime down there on the terrace when he could have spoken with Lucia openly in the house she could not imagine.

Ramon opened his mouth to reply, but decided against the impulse.

‘I hope he has been looking after Seda for me while I’ve been away,’ Teresa remarked.

‘Every day,’ Lucia observed drily, ‘but do we have to talk about Manuel all the time? He does his job at Soria and that is all we have to be concerned about.’

‘So long as he does it well,’ Don Jaime agreed, serving Catherine with a portion of the delicious mountain ham sliced so thinly as to be almost transparent. ‘I will see him in the morning about the horses.’

‘Cathy ought to have a horse to ride,’ Teresa suggested. ‘It is the only way to get around the estate when all the cars are in use.’

‘Can you ride?’ Don Jaime looked round at Catherine with a hint of doubt in his eyes.

‘Not very well,’ she was forced to confess. ‘I didn’t live that sort of life in England. My home was in London.’

‘Everyone rides here,’ Ramon interjected. ‘I will teach you, Cathy.’

Don Jaime frowned.

‘I think we will rely on Manuel,’ he said drily. ‘You have other work to do.’

A quick flash of resentment sparked in his brother’s eyes. ‘You must know that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,’ he said, ‘but I will concede that Manuel does the teaching while I supply Cathy with the experience—in my free time.’

Their gaze met over the silver candelabrum which adorned the table, the small flames of the candles reflected in their eyes as they confronted one another on yet another issue, before Ramon laughed.

‘Have no fear, Jaime,’ he said. ‘I am not rash enough to imagine that I will make a conquest immediately. Cathy will be hard to win!’

Catherine felt distinctly uncomfortable. The others were looking at her, Teresa with amusement, Lucia with frank distaste, and Don Jaime with something like anger in his eyes. No one answered Ramon’s foolish boast, but the unguarded remark suggested that he might be the gay Lothario of the family, the youngest son encouraged to be
macho
by indulgent parents because they had little more to offer him. Eduardo had been their heir, and Don Jaime after him, but a third son would have to rely solely on his wits and whatever charm he might possess.

The meal ended with large bowls of fresh fruit being passed round, peaches, dates and sweet Almeria grapes, all grown on the estate, and Don Jaime refilled their glasses with the smooth white wine which he had poured for the main course. A good sharp cheese followed with the excellent coffee which Dona Lucia poured at the table.

It was midnight before they finally rose to go to bed and Lucia, as befitted the hostess, lingered in the
sala
while the others moved towards the staircase.

‘Jaime,’ she said briskly, ‘may I speak with you for a moment?’

Don Jaime turned back towards the fireplace where they had all been sitting discussing Madrid.

‘Now, out will come all the complaints!’ Teresa murmured. ‘Jaime will have to listen to every little detail of domestic upheaval until she gets it all out of her system. Also—’

She paused and Catherine turned to look at her.

‘There’s you and me,’ Teresa added. ‘Neither of us pleases my stepmother. I never have, and you have just come as a great shock to her. She expected you to be middle-aged and plain.’

‘Everyone did,’ Catherine sighed. ‘Even Don Jaime. When he first met me at the airport I thought he was about to send me straight back to London on the next flight.’

‘The Marquesa would not have it, and I am glad,’ Teresa declared, linking her arm in Catherine’s. ‘It is good to have someone young to talk to.’

‘Your stepmother isn’t exactly old,’ Catherine pointed out.

‘She’s twenty-nine,’ Teresa returned briskly. ‘One year older than Jaime. She married my father when she was twenty-five because no one else had spoken for her.’

‘Must a girl still be “spoken for” in Spain?’ Catherine asked doubtfully.

‘Not always. We are more emancipated now and can choose for ourselves, but Lucia came from a very strict family and she had lived all her life in the country. She was very old-fashioned, but always she was jealous. It is a very dangerous thing to be, don’t you think?’ She paused by the bedroom door.

‘Carried to excess,’ Catherine admitted.

Ramon, who had followed them up the staircase, came to say a final goodnight.

‘Still gossiping!’ he observed. ‘You will not be able to rise early in the morning if you stay up half the night talking.’ He held Catherine’s friendly smile. ‘Let me take you riding tomorrow,
senorita
,’ he begged. ‘I will show you the
hacienda
at its best.’

‘You will not!’ Teresa exclaimed. ‘I am going to do that and, besides, Cathy has no skill in riding. She must go quietly at first, and you are a demon on horseback, Ramon!’

‘Would you prefer that I ride a little donkey?’ he mocked. ‘You do not like it because I can handle a horse better than you!’ He was openly teasing now. ‘We will find Cathy a gentle mount and all will be well.’

‘You must remember that I have come here to work,’ Catherine protested.

‘Oh, work!’ Teresa frowned. ‘I have too much of that already.’

‘You will return to the convent in the autumn,’ her uncle pointed out, ‘and then you will have to work.’

The pregnant silence with which Teresa met his challenge suggested that she would resist a return to her schooldays with all her might.

‘We shall see,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I shall be seventeen before the autumn and quite grown up.’

‘I must wait around to see that day!’ Ramon grinned. ‘
Buenas noches,
Cathy—until tomorrow!’

As he left them to walk round the gallery to the other side of the house Don Jaime and his sister-in-law came to the foot of the stairs, and suddenly Catherine felt her gaze drawn downwards to where they stood. Don Jaime was frowning as he watched his brother’s progress along the gallery and then he turned and went out through the
patio
doors into the star-filled night.

In the morning Catherine was last down to breakfast because it had been almost two o’clock before she had finally fallen asleep.

‘I’ve disgraced myself,’ she said, glancing at the used plates on the circular table in the morning-room. ‘Everyone seems to have gone to work.’

She was thinking of Don Jaime more than anyone else, wondering what he might have had to say about her late appearance.

‘Oh, Jaime and Ramon leave at the crack of dawn,’ Teresa said, helping herself to a ripe peach, ‘and Lucia is already about her household tasks. Didn’t you hear the noise from the kitchens as you came down? There is always a battle scene first thing in the morning, since nothing is ever quite right for Lucia.’

Her stepmother put in her appearance at the open doorway.

‘Ah, you are there, Miss Royce,’ she observed, leaving an unspoken ‘at last’ quivering in the air between them. ‘Don Jaime thinks that Teresa and you should have the use of a study for your work.’ She had stressed the final word. ‘I have arranged that this should be so and Teresa will show you the small
sal
o
n
which I can put at your disposal while you remain here.’

In the full, clear morning light she looked older than her twenty-nine years, but there was no doubt about the beauty of the long, blue-black hair which she wore coiled regally about her head. It was her crowning glory, and this morning she had dressed it even higher with a magnificent tortoiseshell comb thrust into the plait at the back, adding extra height to her slim, taut figure as she stood waiting for Catherine’s reply. The sun was shining and birds were flitting among the garden trees while the scent of a thousand flowers filled the air. It was a day to be out in the open, but Lucia had stressed the fact that the English girl had come to Soria to work.

‘Thank you,’ said Catherine. ‘I’ll arrange my books there as soon as they arrive.’

Lucia hesitated in the doorway.

‘Surely Teresa has sufficient books of her own,’ she suggested. ‘I seem to remember that her father was always buying her books of one kind or another when he visited Madrid, but Don Jaime has spoken to me about the books you expect to arrive and I will see that they are delivered to you immediately.’

It was as if they were living in separate establishments, Catherine thought, noticing that Lucia was still wearing the ruby which had been her sole adornment the evening before. In the bright sunshine it gleamed against the dark background of her dress like a malevolent eye, absorbing the light to fling it back in shafts of living flame which were almost dazzling to the eye. Not a jewel to be worn first thing in the morning, Catherine would have thought, reminding herself in the next breath that Lucia’s ruby was no affair of hers.

‘We can work in the open on the shaded end of the
patio
outside the
salon
windows,’ Teresa suggested when they were left alone. ‘Lucia must have her little say, but it amounts to nothing. Jaime will not object to us studying in the fresh air or even riding while we talk. We will not even have to consult him.’

They spent the entire morning arranging the little
sal
o
n
for their own use. It was an intimate little room at the far end of the
patio,
its windows shaded by the overgrown creeper which cascaded from the tiled roof of the colonnaded walkway leading on to the terraces, and the view of the valley it commanded was truly magnificent. Time slipped away pleasantly until Teresa pointed out that it was one o’clock.

‘Let’s eat here,’ she suggested. ‘It will be fun doing as we please.’

Already some of the sullen expression had left her face; she smiled more often and had been far more communicative as they had planned a suitable schedule for their daily work, even offering a suggestion or two of her own to augment Catherine’s quite lengthy list of plays and books to be read, although she still insisted that they should often ride together.

‘You must try on a pair of my jodhpurs,’ she suggested, standing up to measure their respective heights. ‘They’re going to be wide round the middle,’ she sighed regretfully, ‘but you can always belt them in.’

Catherine wondered what her uncle might have to say about the riding lessons, but certainly they needn’t involve Ramon or keep him from his work on the estate.

Teresa went to order their lunch, which was brought to them on a tray by Sisa and laid out on the low stone wall of the
patio
among the flowers. It was a lovely setting, light and shade alternating along the entire length of the colonnades, with the dazzling brilliance of the sun beyond and, far in the distance, the ever-present peak of El Teide rising against the cloudless blue of the sky.

‘
P
ulpitos
!’ Teresa exclaimed, raising the lid of a covered dish to reveal a quantity of fried squid. ‘Jaime likes them served “in their ink”, but Lucia orders them as a special dish for him. He does not often come back at midday unless he has to telephone to Santa Cruz or the
puerto
. It will be
cocido
tonight because he is also fond of that.’

Lucia obviously did her best to please her brother-in-law, giving her orders accordingly, and they heard her haranguing the servants as they made their way across the hall half an hour later.

‘There she goes!’ Teresa declared. ‘The exacting mistress of Soria who never lets one single detail escape her eagle eye!’ Then, on a sudden change of mood, she added lightly: ‘Come to my room as soon as you have taken your
siesta
and you can try on my riding trousers. Then I shall tell Manuel to bring round the horses.’

Unused to sleeping during the day, Catherine spent the next hour rearranging her room to draw the small writing-desk nearer to the window and place a chair up there, too. Sunshine was too precious a thing in her English eyes to waste, however, and she was soon out on her balcony looking out across the garden to the terraces below and beyond them to the distant sea. On either side of the vines another sea of waving banana fronds stirred languidly before a little errant breeze which stole down from El Teide, but otherwise the world was very still. In the quiet
siesta
hour the
patio
lay peacefully in the shadow of its overhanging eaves with only a fat green lizard darting occasionally among the stones. She thought of Lucia and the man in the enveloping
poncho
who had met and talked secretly down there the evening before. It could have been anyone—a servant, a male acquaintance reluctant to gatecrash, the family reunion on Don Jaime’s return—yet surely there should have been no great need for secrecy.

Another man made his appearance at the end of the terrace wall and she drew back with a gasp as he rode towards her. It was Don Jaime seated on a magnificent Arab horse, the Conquistador himself.

She had never seen him on horseback before, but this was surely his true element. Tall and straight, he sat easily in the saddle, one strong hand controlling the rein, the other negligently by his side, his proud head averted as his eagle gaze scanned the vast extent of his possessions. He had ridden long in the heat, it seemed, because the soft leather boots he wore were covered in the fine red dust of the valley, but he did not appear to be in need of the
siesta
which everyone else enjoyed.

She listened to the sound of the approaching horse as it negotiated the brick-paved road to the stables, but suddenly it was arrested. The Arab’s head was turned in her direction and Don Jaime de Berceo Madroza was looking up at her in full sunlight. Her heart seemed to miss a beat as he took off his wide-brimmed Cordoban hat and swept her a mocking bow.

‘I thought you would have been asleep,’ he said.

‘I never sleep in the middle of the day.’

‘That is very unwise of you. What have you been doing all morning?’