At the Villa Massina Page 16

  Her tones weren’t beautiful. “What happened? Was he awkward?”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  The blue glance went stony. “Not there! Had you mistaken the time or the place?”

  “No, I’m certain of that. I think he may have got wind of something, and cleared out.”

  A slight relief showed in Norma’s expression. “It could be that, though he might have been held up in some way. What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. If he was prevented from turning up by an accident or something, he’ll try to get in touch with me again.”

  “You don’t mean he’ll come here!”

  Juliet gestured. “I’m not in Lyle’s confidence. The first time he came here I tried to get him to promise not to come again. He didn’t promise, but he hasn’t plagued me. He disliked having to mix me up in the business, but from his angle he had no alternative. Norma, I think you ought to say something to Ruy about it.”

  The other paled, and her bright red lips went thin. “Be quiet, Juliet. You don’t know what you’re suggesting. Do you think I haven’t gone over it, again and again, since we’ve been here, wondering and quaking! Supposing I told Ruy that Lyle had pestered me last year, that I’d kept quiet about it because he was born an Englishman ... how long do you think it would be before he started tormenting himself with suspicions? Our life together wouldn’t be worth anything at all. No, we have to get rid of Lyle—unless he’s removed himself already.” She pressed a tight fist into the other hand. “It’s so unfair that a small indiscretion should be permitted to haunt one like this! Juliet, you must go to Cortana. It’s chancy, but there’s nothing else.”

  “I’ve had too much of it, Norma.”

  “Please, Juliet. For Ruy and the children, if not for me. I can’t go on living under this load!”

  “I’ve stood it for several weeks,” Juliet pointed out.

  “But those threats Lyle made—about publicizing his friendship with me. You’re sure he was serious?”

  “Deadly serious. I don’t think he’s a cad from choice, but he’d go a long way to save his own neck, and if the means of saving it were withheld he might be vindictive enough to spill all he knows. Why not go to Cortana yourself?”

  The blue eyes flashed her a look of pure hate, but Norma’s voice was deliberately gentle. “I’m appealing to you, Juliet. It isn’t only Ruy and the children. Perhaps if I told Ruy I could some day restore his faith in me—I don’t know. But there’s Mother and Father. You love them very much, don’t you?”

  Juliet straightened and stared into her cousin's eyes. “I believe I love your parents more than you do, Norma; certainly I could never be ashamed of them, as you are. I’m going to do a little blackmailing on my own account. I’ll see this thing through with Lyle Whitman—if he’s still about—on condition that you invite your mother and father here for a month this summer. I’ll undertake to look after the bookshop.”

  “You’re mad” said Norma angrily. “They’d hate it here.”

  “They’d be in heaven, and you know it. Those are my terms, Norma. Promise you’ll invite them, or I definitely leave tomorrow morning for Cadiz.”

  Norma moistened her lips, and then as she took a swift breath her teeth tightened. “I wouldn’t have believed that modest little Juliet had such venom in her,” she said. “Very well, if you’ll act as I tell you till we’re sure what’s going on, I’ll send that invitation.”

  “I’m not going to demand your promise,” said Juliet, feeling horribly tired, “because it wouldn’t be worth anything. I’ll convey your invitation in person, and I’ll help Auntie and Uncle to pack and see them off.”

  Norma was at the door now, her fingers on the handle. “You can go to Cortana in the morning, by boat ... but not Juan’s,” she said frigidly. “I’ll tell Ruy that you want to tour Manca on your own.” And she was gone.

  A series of crises, even mild ones, is bound to blunt the senses, particularly if one is normally lighthearted and very willing to enjoy life. It was some time, of course, since Juliet had felt normal, but such is the resilience of the young that between blows she had managed to find delight in the beach and the sun and the trees, the old buildings and the townspeople. However, she did not give herself time to return to normal before she went to Cortana.

  She set out very early, when half of the shops on the waterfront were still being swept out, and the boatman she chose had no English, so there was no question of his dallying on the way to point out landmarks. As they went round the headland into the small bay at Cortana he did mention contrabandistas and point to the caves, but Juliet deemed it safer to nod and smile and leave it at that. He took it that she wished to buy lace, and attached himself to a group on the beach to await her return.

  Juliet remembered the cottage which had been pointed out to her. She could actually see the apex of its tiled roof above the pines, up on the cliffside, and without hesitation she walked up the winding cobbled road, found the gate and passed into an unkempt garden. She approached the cottage, knocked on a door which had once been a gay yellow, and waited. Knocked again.

  The place was untenanted, she decided, after walking round the squat building. Lyle had neglected it disgustingly, and there was even a heap of tins and bottles in the back garden, as well as a patch of blackness where he had recently burned rubbish and papers. She walked towards the road on a side path, was suddenly aware of a grizzled head poking through the thick growth of climbers which separated this garden and the next. She was regaled with a stream of Spanish, shook her head.

  “No comprendo, senor,” she said, hoping that was the correct expression. “I am English.”

  “Oh, Ingles,” he nodded disparagingly, “like Senor Whitman. I talk it a little. If you wish to rent this villa you must sign that you will keep it clean and neat. It is no enough to pay a big rent—it means more that everything should be tidy. Senor Whitman would always laugh and say, ‘Some time it shall be done.’ But what happens? He gives me the last rent and ... pouf! ... he is gone. I have to have the house painted and the garden cleared before a new tenant will consider it!”

  “Isn’t he coming back?”

  “No,” he said decisively, and now his hands were visible among the leaves, gesticulating. “We in Spain take care of our villas and the land. Mr. Whitman would not trouble.”

  “All English aren’t like that, I assure you,” she said quickly. “Do you know where he’s gone?”

  Again a sharp negative. “There is a seaman who cooked for him sometimes, and he packed the senor’s goods and took them away in the car. I know no more.”

  “Nothing at all? Did Mr. Whitman have friends in Cortana?”

  “For friends,” he said impressively, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears, “he would have kept the house clean. There was no one, but these writers are incomprehensible. Next time, I do not want a writer in the house!”

  “So you can’t help me at all? You see, I’m trying to trace Mr. Whitman.”

  He looked at her severely. “That is not discreet. You are young. Forget this man who cannot even pull a weed in his garden. You may be sure you will not find him in Cortana.”

  There, more or less, she had to leave it for the moment. Juliet went back to the waterfront, hesitated, and entered a shop which sold almost every commodity and enquired whether anything was known of the whereabouts of Mr. Whitman. Again she was told that he had left Cortana, his destination unknown. There was really no one else in the place to consult.

  The boat took her to Manca where she hurriedly looked over the buildings and into a bodega in case Ruy should question her, and then back to San Federigo, where she arrived in time for a late lunch. Norma accepted Lyle’s departure with uneasy relief, but insisted that Juliet should stay on at the Villa Massina for a while, in case of complications.

  Days passed and Lyle Whitman receded. Ramiro gave a private engagement dinner for his sister, which Ruy and Norma attended, taking with them Juliet’s polite r
egret that she could not be with them owing to an indisposition, and her good wishes for Inez’s future. For once, Juliet had been in agreement with Norma’s decision, though her reasons for staying away from the Castillo differed from her cousin’s reasons for keeping her apart from her noble friends. Juliet was settling into fatalistic mood; it helped considerably.

  The following day Ruy’s car was delivered by coastal boat from Cadiz, and he had no sooner demonstrated that he could now use the injured hand for driving, than Ramiro called with some Spanish novels Inez had promised to lend Norma. He stated it was a pity Juliet had been unable to attend their party, and that he was happy to see that her indisposition had not been serious; he was right in assuming that she had recovered very quickly after Norma and Ruy had left for the Castillo last night, was he not?

  All very aloof and sarcastic, but Juliet weathered it. He stayed fifteen minutes, and as he left he mentioned that he would be away tomorrow.

  “Inez goes to give her good tidings to her old godmother in Malaga. I will take her there and come back late. She will no doubt remain with the old senora for a few days.”

  “Then perhaps we can persuade you to have dinner with us on Saturday, Ramiro,” said Norma sweetly. “I thought also of inviting Carmen Perez.”

  “I shall be charmed to accept, my dear Norma, but Carmen goes with us tomorrow and will remain with Inez until I fetch them home.” He looked indifferently towards Juliet and added, addressing Norma, “You remember the brother, Mario? His parents have heard that he is already dazzling the senoritas where he is staying, near the mine. He has changed considerably, Norma. You would not know him.”

  And then he was in the long black car with the extravagant crest on its side, and sliding away on to the road, to gather speed and vanish. Almost detachedly, Juliet reflected that Carmen must be the chosen one; she would not otherwise accompany Inez on her delightful errand. Perhaps it was already arranged that the two engagements should be announced to the old godmother. It couldn’t matter to Juliet, anyway. Everything was settling down now, and Norma was already tired of having her young cousin at the villa. Very soon she would consider herself safe enough to dispense with a shield. Only yesterday she had asked Ruy about the sailings for England.

  Juliet went through those days as if she were suspended in time. She played with the children in the garden, carried on with the swimming lessons, took them for walks, mended their clothes and helped Luisa in the bedrooms, though she was not allowed in the kitchen except on one occasion when she asked to be instructed in the art of making paella.

  On Saturday, Luisa was touchy, because the Conde was coming to dinner and her cooking could never be good enough for him.

  “Your cooking is splendid,” said Juliet, as they made the beds together, “and as your niece is going to do the waiting you’ll have nothing to worry about. I’d back you against any cook in the world.”

  “There are three cooks in the Castillo,” Luisa pointed out, “and two of them are men. How can one hope to equal such perfection!”

  “Three first-rate cooks can’t do better than one,” said Juliet reasonably. “They can only cook more food. And even the Conde hasn’t the capacity to eat more than one meal at a time.”

  Luisa was scandalized. “You do not care enough what you say, senorita. The Senor Conde is worthy only of excellence!”

  “He’s just a man,” said Juliet stubbornly, perhaps as much to convince herself as to tease Luisa.

  “I have said before that you English are peculiar,” said Luisa. “I remember the day when Tonio invited the Senor Conde to lunch. Even Senora Colmeiro would have been distracted to know what to do—but you were not distressed, only cold in your manner towards him. Be assured, senorita, the Senor Conde notices such things!”

  Juliet let this go. She had been trying to think up an excuse for being absent this evening, but young ladies do not go into town alone at night in Spain. There was no question of slipping into a cinema for a couple of hours, or even of sitting in a café to watch the flamenco dancing. And the indisposition couldn’t very well be given another run. She would have to go through with the formal dinner, but it was more than likely that Norma would abet her if she decided to go to bed after coffee.

  As evening approached, she felt less steady. She put on the navy silk she had worn at the motor racing, and the ghost of a perfume reminded her of a bruised flower, and a strong, fleshless hand on the caseta wall. She stared at her reflection. Where, now, was the girl who had hummed while she dusted books, who, clear-eyed and eager, had loved weekends outdoors, walking and common-sense conversation, plenty of freedom? She was hidden there somewhere, behind the pale face and masked eyes. She must be!

  Cool indifference, she adjured herself, as she had done many times before. And to prove that she still possessed her share of the quality, she went straight down to the sitting-room, took a couple of small russet orchids from the vase and attached them to her frock just below the shoulder. And when Ruy came in and complimented her she felt better. The Conde was only another man like Ruy—younger, more handsome, titled and commanding ... but still a Spaniard who would never quite understand the English mind.

  However, she trembled as the car drew up and Ruy went to meet him, and almost at once she sensed that Ramiro’s charm and excessive courtesy to his host and hostess disguised an inflexible mood. He bent over Norma’s hand, shook Ruy’s, bowed with a slight set smile on his lips to Juliet.

  “How very pleasant to be here with you, my dear Norma,” he said as he saw her seated. “Needless to say, you are lovelier than ever.”

  “And our Juliet,” remarked Ruy. “She becomes more and more attractive ... and clever in the small touches. I am permitted to say such things because I have known her since she was a young schoolgirl. You must agree the wild orchids could not be more appropriate!”

  Ramiro smiled upon her, coolly. “It seems she has outgrown the phase of pink gardenias. You are quite well this evening, Miss Darrell?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Bueno. That shows courage.” He did not elucidate for the benefit of Ruy and Norma, but went on, “I have messages from Inez. She will remain in Malaga until Manuel returns to San Federigo. They will be married almost at once.”

  “And how did the godmother receive the news?” asked Norma playfully.

  “She was full of joy and will come here to the wedding. She was also much taken with Carmen, whom she has not seen for several years.”

  “Carmen’s a dear!”

  “I agree,” stated Ramiro. “She is like a dark red rose, and yet docile and tractable. One could never imagine her behaving without the utmost discretion, and that is what we all admire so much in our women. Eh, Ruy?”

  Ruy agreed wholeheartedly. Norma made no comment and Juliet sipped the drink she had been given and pretended to herself that there were no double meanings anywhere. The talk ran an easier, more conventional course. They discussed the yacht, the alterations Ramiro was making on the estate, Ruy’s business in London and here in Spain, the wrist which was mending so well after the manipulative operation and the new oil-extraction plant which was on order for the olive-growers of the district.

  Then dinner was served, seven superb courses beginning with crayfish cocktail and ending with a foamy cheese soufflé. By Spanish standards, the meal progressed at an ordinary pace and to good conversation. It was just as the fruit dishes and finger bowls were transferred from the cabinet to the table that Ramiro, who sat to the right of Juliet, turned to her and said smoothly,

  “I am thinking of rearranging the small library in the Castillo. Perhaps, with your knowledge of books, you could advise me?”

  Without a tremor, even though he was so heart-breakingly close, she answered, “I doubt that, senor. I know nothing whatever about Spanish literature.”

  “No, I suppose not.” He paused. “This bookshop where you are an assistant in London—they manage well without you?”

  “Splendidl
y, so I hear.”

  “Try some fruit, Ramiro,” said Norma quickly. “The peaches are good, I believe.”

  “Thank you, no.” He pushed aside his fruit plate, fingered the silver knife contemplatively. “Tell me, Miss Darrell, do you find many of your customers interested in Spain?”

  “A few. Most tourists go to the northern coast, but lots of people are keen on travel literature and novels about any part of Spain.”

  “Ah, and where exactly is this shop?”

  Unexpectedly, Ruy broke in. “It is in the north of London, not far from Hampstead. Not very big, but it has an old-world atmosphere.”

  Ramiro smiled. “It sounds like something after my own heart. These small bookshops have personality, due, I suppose, to the fact that they are mostly owned by individuals and not by companies. Miss Darrell has told me that her employer is a man of about sixty, who loves books.”

  “That’s quite true,” Ruy nodded. “I should know, Ramiro. He is my father-in-law.”

  High color had sprung in Norma’s cheeks, her smile was brittle. “The bookshop is my father’s hobby,” she said, placing her hands on the table as if preparing to rise. “He is really retired from business.”

  But Ruy shrugged. “I would not say that, cara mia. He is the sort of man who will never retire—and why should he, when he is doing the thing he loves and making some money from it? I think you would like my father-in-law, Ramiro.”

  “I am sure of it.” Again Ramiro cast a glance towards Juliet. “Why did you not tell me the owner of the bookshop is your uncle?”

  Norma did get to her feet then, and the men, perforce, did the same. “You are embarrassing Juliet, Ramiro,” she said in clear light tones. “She prefers to think she’s doing real work, like other young women in England, and now you have brought to light the fact that she merely helps my father in his hobby. That’s cruel of you. Shall we go to the sitting-room for coffee?”