At the Villa Massina Page 11

  Minutes passed before she was again aware of what went on about her. She rested her clasped hands on the velvet-faced wall and stared rather blindly at the parading cars. Long, bullet-shaped things in many colors, bright beetles, silver-grey torpedoes, each letting out a deafening roar as it slowed at the corner and then accelerated to zoom round the plaza. One man at each wheel, under each crash helmet a brownish face which seemed to have no identity.

  She followed them with a half-seeing glance and noticed tokens thrown and caught, ardent gestures exchanged at a distance of twenty feet or so. Many, who were riders from other parts of Spain, kissed their finger-tips to any senorita who happened to be looking their way. The whole affair, at this stage, might have been arranged only with amorous intent. For each car bore a woman’s name in square print or script across the bonnet. Yes, even Mario’s.

  He was almost the last in the line-up for the parade round the plaza. His car was one of the powerful-looking torpedoes, and he had left it unpainted except for the word “Juliet” in mid-blue. Juliet saw it without taking it in; she even saw him raise a flower to his lips and throw it into the caseta as he passed. But she couldn’t have responded in any way had her life depended on it.

  There was movement as Ramiro bent; a pink gardenia, identical with the one she wore, was dropped over her shoulder and into her lap. It was bruised, as if it had been deliberately crushed by a shoe. She thought detachedly, as one does sometimes think in moments of nightmare, of the two camellias from last Saturday which had been in better shape as they stood in a tumbler on her dressing-table, when she had got ready this afternoon.

  Then her fingers felt the flower juice oozing from wounds in the petals, and she knew that Ramiro had concluded that the flower at her collar had been sent to her by Mario and worn at his request, that he utterly disapproved of a public display of sentiment between two people who could never mean anything to each other.

  Inez said carefully, “I hope he will not be rash, that Mario. He has promised his family that if he wins today he will never race again. He is not the type.”

  “Does he ... stand a good chance?” Juliet asked a little hoarsely.

  “Better than most,” said Ramiro, very coolly. “In the last few days he has learned every small bump and bend in the coast road, and the machine is the best on the market. Whether the inspiration was quite strong enough, we must wait to find out.”

  It was strange that there, in the caseta, among his own and his sister’s friends, he could sound so merciless. Juliet sat still, watching the cars line up in pairs down the Alameda but unaware of the shouting spectators. The gun was fired, the cars shot away with the noise of a thousand thunderbolts, and in no time at all they were no longer visible, and people were again streaming all over the plaza and the road, the tension dissolved in volubility.

  In the caseta, the chairs were rearranged into a circle about a low table, where coffee and wines were set with tiny crayfish savouries and small sweet pastries. Again Inez sat to the right of Juliet, but Ramiro had moved round, so that the senora’s other neighbor was now Manuel Verrar, that courtly diplomat with silver wings at his temples and too noble a brow for a man who was no more than forty. Inez poured coffee and Don Manuel handed the cups; Ramiro took charge of the wine.

  It was a convivial gathering. The women were accustomed to being idle and entertained, and the men appeared to be very willing to abet them. Ramiro’s neighbor was Elena de Mendoza, who, like most Spanish women, was conscious charmer. If Ramiro became engaged to her she would show the world that she loved him. If he didn’t, no one would ever know what she felt about him; her breeding would take care of that.

  Today, Inez’ touch in conversion was light and sure. Ramiro’s dark glance rested on her often, and he smiled with assurance at Don Manuel.

  At one point he said, “We must persuade you to spend the last days of your leave at the Castillo, Manuel. It seems we have had too little time for talking with you, Inez and I.”

  “It would give me great pleasure,” the other man answered, “if it would also please Inez. I would not wish to intrude.”

  Ramiro’s gesture was very foreign. “But how could you intrude, amigo! We have all known each other for years. The Castillo is yours.”

  Inez said nothing, but she gave the well-bred smile. Some of the guests decided to take a walk for ten minutes, and drifted away, but Inez elected to remain in the caseta with Juliet. Eventually Ramiro escorted Elena down the carpeted steps and out into the plaza, where pedestrians deferentially parted for them. Only the two women and Don Manuel were left.

  For Juliet, the next fifteen minutes were heavy going. She turned to look out once more on to the street, but she could hear the other two exchanging an occasional banality in Spanish. She watched a man gesticulating violently, as a Spaniard sometimes will, over nothing at all, and she saw brown girls with tall pitchers of coffee on their heads, selling a drink to anyone who could provide a container. Up in the fretwork balconies young people flirted under the jaded eyes of duennas, and on the top floor an occasional old woman sat close to the window, peering down.

  Juliet pressed back her shoulders and half turned—in time to see Manuel place his hand over the white one which rested on the narrow carved arm of the chair near him. The fine-boned fingers gripped for an instant on the wood, and then gently slipped away from his hold. That was all.

  Manuel Verrar stood up and came to the wall, bowed and said he would send someone to sit with the senoras until the other guests returned; then he went down into the street.

  Drama among the Spanish aristocracy, thought Juliet, feeling wretched for the man. Just then she intensively disliked Inez de Vedro. She didn’t even look at the woman as she moved and came beside her.

  With rather less gaiety than she had shown earlier, Inez said, “This waiting stretches the nerves, does it not? I suppose you are disturbed for Mario?”

  “I do wish he hadn’t entered,” Juliet admitted, “but I can’t really feel I’m to blame.”

  “You are not, of course. Let me tell you something.” Her voice lowered slightly. “You are not really his first affair of the heart. There was a distant cousin in Madrid who would be a good match, but he was too shy—would never make the advances—till this young girl becomes very angry and tells her parents she will not see him again because he is timido. It is finished. But Senora Perez has now noticed a change in him, so this cousin and her mother are invited. They are here already.”

  “So I’ve shaken him up, even though I didn’t notice myself doing it,” said Juliet, feeling thoroughly out of tune with everything. “I can’t begin to understand your customs, senora.”

  There was a silence so sudden that Juliet looked at the woman at her side. Inez was pale, those delicate nostrils very thin. Juliet was on the point of a swift apology when she again caught sight of the brooch, and the apologetic mood changed swiftly. This woman who was hurting people needed a jolt!

  “Senora,” she said, “I’ve seen that brooch before, not so long ago.”

  Again, as if in a reflex action, the hand moved up to touch the white jade. With admirable composure, Inez echoed, “You have seen it before? It has a milky purity, has it not? Against black, I think, it is superb. That is why I bought it.”

  “You bought it?”

  “But, yes! How else would I acquire it?”

  “From ... Lyle Whitman?”

  A pause. “Yes, from Mr. Whitman—but I do not wish others to know.” Her tone softened and took a smile. “He is very clever and not enough appreciated—his books, I mean. They earn him very little money, and now he is compelled to sell some of his collection. I had the utmost difficulty in making him accept money for the brooch—a hundred pounds in English currency, though I am sure it is worth more. I have also acquired from him some excellent opals and turquoises, which I shall have made into bracelets—but not until Ramiro has gone back to Cadiz. You ... you understand?”

  The slight hesitation bel
ied Inez’ serene smile. Juliet felt as if she were fighting her way through blankets of cobwebs. She looked away from Inez.

  “You must have been seeing him often.”

  “Only three times. I enjoy his sensitive mind and the way he talks. He has so much respect for my opinion that I am almost humble.”

  Oh, good heavens. His sensitive mind, his respect! Would she ever believe that all the man wanted was her money?

  “Senora,” she asked desperately, “why are you so anxious that your brother shouldn’t know about Mr. Whitman?”

  “It is obvious.” The cool arrogance was back. “Ramiro is so proud himself that he would not understand a man who changed his nationality for a whim. Also, he would not wish me to encourage a dilettante or to buy jewels without consulting him; he has knowledge of stones. This is a friendship, Juliet, that I will keep to myself!”

  But Juliet wasn’t daunted. “I don’t trust Lyle Whitman. He uses people.”

  If she could have told Inez about Norma the whole business would have ended in that moment; it could not have survived the shock to the senora’s exalted system. But Norma’s name could not be coupled with Lyle’s in any connection whatever; Inez had to remain under the impression that Juliet Darrell and Lyle Whitman had come together casually, because they shared the same country of origin.

  Inez lifted her shoulders. “You do not know the man, and I have no wish to explain him. All I will say is that he stimulates me as no other man has ever done and I find him most unusual. If I decide to help him in his small financial trouble it is my own concern. Years ago, one would take such a writer into one’s home and encourage him, make him independent of the literary foibles of the people, so that he could please himself what he wrote. Those days are over, but it is still permissible for a woman of my age and experience to buy something from another human being without its being considered strange or indiscreet. You will please forget this conversation, Juliet. Here are Senor and Senora de Mendoza.”

  Following the de Mendozas came Ramiro and Elena and others. They recounted happenings in the streets, spoke of friends from outlying districts whom they had not seen since the last festival in the town. For everyone, from the poorest fisherman to the Conde himself, when he was in residence, attended the fiestas at least for an hour or two.

  After the emotional incidents of the afternoon, the end of the race was anti-climax—but a strong one. With much shouting the Alameda and plaza were cleared again, and the casetas were packed with spectators intent on the finish of the race. The wait seemed endless, though it was no more than five minutes before the first car appeared at the other end of the long Alameda, between the groves of palms and acacias. There was literally no time for conjecture as to the identity of the driver.

  The car zipped along, a grey torpedo, and then, half-way up the Alameda, it swerved to avoid a child who had unaccountably chosen that moment to duck under the ropes and run across the road. The child finished its journey unscathed, the car twisted alarmingly and the following machines slid past it just as it turned over on its side. After leading for more than half of the course, and within sight of the finishing flag, Mario was defeated.

  Amid consternation, the casetas emptied. Ramiro dropped his binoculars and vaulted the low wall, and as soon as she could, Juliet went out and tried to push their way towards the accident. But it was hopeless. She steadied herself unhappily against a wall till someone came pushing through, shouting, “El vive!”—he lives. Then she groped her way towards a side turning and struggled up the hill to the villa.

  “Well, if Mario didn’t win, who did?” clamoured Tony, ten minutes later.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Juliet wearily. “All I know is that it’s no use taking you down there yet, and I don’t suppose there’ll be anything to see, anyway. I expect you two are full of energy?”

  “Well, you did tell us to rest,” mentioned Rina.

  “Yes, I know. I’ll go down to the beach with you, if you like.”

  This met with qualified approval, and Juliet slipped off the navy frock and got into a beach cotton which buttoned to the hem and was belted. They went across the garden and down the steps, left their sandals under a tree and waded along in the edge of the sea. The children forgot that they were missing the excitement in the plaza, and Juliet felt a little soothed.

  The sun was going down, casting a prodigal amount of gold over the sea, and the evening breeze rustled through the pine trees. Juliet left the children paddling and trod the dry sand towards the shade. She glanced towards the steps at the back of the villa, and her heart, which by now was needing tranquillity, gave the old familiar lurch. She stopped, knew there was no avoiding Ramiro, and began to walk towards him. They were still a dozen feet apart when he spoke.

  “I have been searching for you, anxiously; Why did you not do as the others did, and wait in the caseta for the car?”

  “Did they wait?” she said weakly, looking away from the leaping dark eyes. “I ... tried to get near to Mario’s car, but it was hopeless. Then someone shouted out that he was all right, so I ... well ...”

  “So you ignored the fact that I was your host and responsible for you,” he said rapidly. “You came here, possibly without even thinking that your absence would present a problem. I confess that I do not understand in the least how your mind works! You are so distraught about Mario that you must fight your way among the crowds, even though I had already gone to ascertain how serious was the damage.”

  “I did wrong,” she said quietly, “and I apologize, I thought everyone would turn out of the caseta and that there would be no point in going back. I’m afraid I took it for granted we had all lost each other and that you’d know I’d walked home.”

  “Dios!” he said under his breath, his tones vibrant. “How infuriating you are. Do you not realize how a man feels when a woman acts as you do—so independently? He feels,” he brought up a clenched hand and tensed it in front of her eyes, “that there must be some way of teaching! To me it seems that you are wilfully different from us, that it is a thing of pride with you to act in opposition to our ways.”

  “No,” she said, looking down at her feet and wishing they weren’t bare because she was so small beside him. “I wasn’t intentionally thoughtless. It had been rather a ... gruelling afternoon.”

  “So?” he said crisply. “You were unhappy before this accident?”

  She nodded, her head still lowered, and tried to forestall a further probe by asking, “Have you seen Mario?”

  “Yes. He has been taken home.”

  “Was he hurt?”

  “Physically, there were only abrasions and shock. Mentally, there is some shame that a car bearing your name should not bring him victory.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t necessary, senor.”

  “Something is necessary,” he said violently. “You make excuses, you are pale and unhappy. Why are you unhappy, senorita?”

  Juliet bit at her lower lip. What if she said, “Chiefly because I’m unwisely in love?” Would that confirm whatever his suspicions were at the moment—or only anger him further? Never in a thousand years would he believe himself in any way connected with her heartache. For which attitude of mind, she told herself, she should be infinitely thankful.

  She gave a small shrug. “It’s several things, and none of them can be altered.”

  He said keenly, “My sister told you about this distant cousin of Mario’s?”

  “Yes, she told me.”

  “So that is one of these several things!” He bent upon her a tight smile which showed the white edges of his teeth. “You will recover. Miss Darrell. There are other admirable young men.”

  It was no use. She quelled the sharp longing to be open with him, looked back and beckoned the children. With Ramiro she felt small and empty, hardly capable of that cool indifference which she had decided was necessary in dealing with him. She pushed back a lock of streaky gold hair and began to move forward, towards the steps, showing him only a cal
m profile which revealed none of the uncertainty and dread in her heart. She bent, willowy but tired, to retrieve her sandals, and she found Ramiro bending with her, to pick up the children’s espadrilles.

  Down there, for an instant, they faced each other unexpectedly; Juliet had no time to disguise the shadow of strain in the grey eyes. She stood swiftly, blinked away the wave of dizziness.

  As she straightened he said quietly, but harshly, “You are an imbecile to feel this business so much. Come, have a cigarette.”

  Automatically, she took one from his case, watched him flick the lighter and steady her hand as she leaned to the flame. Watched, without feeling. After inhaling, she made a brave attempt to give a mocking little laugh, and succeeded quite well.

  “Tomorrow’s a new day, senor. My only regret is that it isn’t likely to be my last in San Federigo. I intend to have a wonderful summer in England.”

  Maybe it convinced him, maybe not. He called to the children, peremptorily, gave them their espadrilles and sent them on ahead. At the foot of the rough stone steps he took Juliet’s sandals from her hand, said curtly,

  “It is not necessary to lacerate the feet in order to show one’s fortitude. Sit down.”

  She sat and held herself stiffly, willing herself to remain unconscious of his strong, long-fingered hands as they slipped the sandals over her toes and fastened the straps. His dark shining head was a few inches above her knee, and without much movement she could have put her lips to his temple.

  She went cold. What in the world was happening to her? This was Ramiro Fernandez de Velasco y Cuevora, Conde de Vallos!

  She went up the steps slowly, found Rina’s hand and held on to it tightly. They all walked round the villa, and came to the long black car, parked in the shade. Inside the car sat two people; Manuel Verrar and that dusky flower, Carmen Perez.

  Ramiro said, with the urbanity which was his stock-in-trade, “Well, Miss Darrell is suitably penitent and very tired, so we will leave her to rest for the evening.” And smiling distantly at Juliet: “Manuel and Carmen are dining at the Castillo with Inez and myself tonight—Manuel’s time is short, and Carmen was not at the plaza, so she has saved herself for a pleasant evening. Adios, ninos! Goodbye, Miss Darrell.”