At the Villa Massina Read online

  The children drank milk, said adios and went upstairs to rest. Luisa brought coffee to the sitting-room, and Juliet poured. She clung instinctively to the sweetness of the moment, determinedly avoided meeting that dark intent gaze.

  Everything was bright and in sharp focus. The windows with their draped curtains, the old carved tables, the bowls of scabious and miniature lilies; and Ramiro, in his immaculate light suit, his legs crossed carelessly, one hand, showing a crested ring, resting on the arm of his chair.

  She stayed there, with her head against the tall back of the tapestry chair, her face small and sensitive, her mouth sweet, but unsmiling because of her thoughts. She drank some coffee with the flat taste of dread spoiling the flavor. And still she postponed the moment of voicing the reason for the dread.

  “You are thinking of the bookshop in London?” he asked tentatively.

  “No, I rarely think of it now. It seems so very far away.”

  “Only a few hours. Tell me about it. Is it owned by some scholarly old man who keeps a bookshop because he likes books, or by some commercial chain company?”

  “It’s owned by a man who likes books—he’s not particularly old or scholarly?”

  “So? A bachelor?”

  She smiled faintly. “Oh, no. He’s a plump sixty and well married. Normally I’m his only permanent assistant, but he’s taken on a substitute while I’m here.”

  “You like the work?”

  She nodded. “I like reading new books the moment they’re out, too, but I could never afford to buy many, so I get double enjoyment from my job.”

  “What is this shop? Perhaps I have heard of it.”

  She said quickly, “I don’t think you have; it’s in North London and we don’t advertise.”

  “Will you find it easy to go back there, after this?” He threw out an indolent hand. “I see you here very plainly, but I cannot see you there, patiently advising people who have no notion of what they wish to buy, wrapping up books and making out the small bills.”

  “Don’t forget the dusting,” she said. “There’s lots of that.”

  His smile displeased, he flicked his fingers. “And you pretend you do not mind! I think you must regard this post in a bookshop as a ... what is it ... stop-gap, till you marry.”

  “But I don’t. When ... when the owner retires I may take over the management of the shop. But that’s all in the future. Do you have a library at the Castillo?”

  “A small one. Most of my books are at Cadiz, where I have a very large collection. That is something else you must see before you leave us.” There was a short silence; then he said, “Senorita, I still have the cat’s eye ruby.”

  The subject was open without her having done a thing about it. Cool indifference, Juliet reminded herself, to still her quivering nerves.

  “I suppose so,” she said. “Are you willing to give it back to me now?”

  “No. Have you again seen this man?”

  “Yes, senor.”

  Just faintly, his mouth thinned. That veneer wasn’t so impenetrable after all. “Did you tell him the stone is in my possession?”

  Juliet tried to decide quickly whether it would be wise to answer this. For a moment she was tempted to tell him everything; Lyle’s name and occupation, his attraction to Inez, and even a part of the reason she had got to know the man. If Ramiro had not had that look of sharpness about mouth and nostrils she would certainly have used a little frankness, anyway. As it was, she made a decision which was to have far-reaching effects.

  She said coolly, “I think you have entirely the wrong conception of the situation, senor. I’m not one of your household, to have my behaviour watched and disapproved of. Whatever you may think, I’m entirely free, and if I choose to be slightly friendly with a man who came from England it’s no one’s concern but my own. I demand that you return that stone to me!”

  It was the wrong approach, of course. Even other men did not demand certain behaviour from the Conde de Vallos; obviously a woman, and a very ordinary young woman at that, should never in her most reckless moments have used such words and such a tone. Ramiro’s eyes flashed once, warningly, his teeth showed in a tight smile.

  His tone was light and metallic, the accent very foreign. “I understand. I understand very well. I do not know this man but I do know he is worthless. It is unfortunate that you should have fastened so much feeling upon him, but it often happens, I believe—the love of a perfectly nice woman for a ... timador!” He leaned towards her with a sort of tense coldness. “Once more, let me make things very clear for you, senorita. My sister’s good friends, Ruy and Norma Colmeiro, have asked that you have her protection. This request was renewed in their last letter, received yesterday, and it is possible that had I not been here, Inez would have asked some other friend of ours—some man she trusts, such as Manuel Verrar—to watch over you and the children. You may be certain there would have been someone! But I am here for the present, and it is I who am in the position. Therefore I have a right to know who are your friends ... and to disapprove of them!”

  “You can’t disapprove of someone you don’t know!”

  “If he were an excellent young man of the type you should marry you would not so anxiously guard his name.”

  “There’s no question of anything like that,” she returned crossly. “I haven’t been here long enough to form that sort of attachment, anyway. You seem determined to see the whole thing from a simply fantastic angle.”

  His words were like pebbles dropped into a pool. “I have not the details of this matter, Miss Darrell, but I feel there is an element of the fantastic in it. Why, otherwise, should you be so frightened for this man? For you are frightened. I can see it!”

  She lay back, willing herself to be calm, drew in her lip. “If you won’t give me the stone, there’s no more to be said, is there? I don’t want to quarrel.”

  “How exceedingly good-natured of you,” he said rapidly, with cold sarcasm, as he stood up. “You have at least accomplished part of your purpose. I regret that I accepted your hospitality.”

  She jumped to her feet, discretion forgotten. “You’re deliberately misunderstanding me! I reasonably ask for the return of something you found in this villa, under the table. You not only refused to give it, but you make unpleasant statements about me and someone I met only a week ago.”

  “One comes to certain conclusions, senorita.”

  “Do they have to be of that kind? You may have come to San Federigo to choose a wife, but I certainly didn’t come here to find a husband! I think...”

  But it was too late for Juliet to qualify the statement. Ramiro’s face had tightened into a mask and his eyes burned like hot coals. “You will be quiet, Miss Darrell! The matter is closed, until this man asks me himself for the stone. I will leave you now.”

  Juliet put a finger to her temple and felt sweat there.

  She stumbled as she went with him into the hall, but he was too angry, too aloof to notice. His shoulders were back, his head high and the muscle in the lean jaw was taut. In the porch he bowed and frigidly murmured his thanks in Spanish.

  He was down on the path with his hand on the car door when another car, Mario’s, shot round into the drive and the young man catapulted from his seat and approached at a run. Breathless and polite, he remembered to greet Juliet and wish her well, but the next moment he was speaking rapidly to Ramiro.

  Then he came up apologetically to Juliet. “My parents are away in Malaga today, and my sister has had an accident and hurt her head—just here.” He indicated a spot above the hairline. “It is not so terribly serious, but I have called the doctor and naturally went to the Castillo. I was told Ramiro had come here.”

  “I’m sorry about your sister, Mario,” said Juliet automatically. “I hope the wound will soon heal.”

  She met Ramiro’s glance, saw it cold and deadly with a sparkle almost of malice in its depths. He was remembering the rash remark she had made, possibly reminding her of
it; did he know she was aware that Carmen Perez was one of the chosen three? Then he inclined his head again, courteously, and got behind the wheel.

  Mario murmured urgently, “I am much occupied at the moment with my racing car. You will come to the plaza on race day?”

  “Perhaps,” she said mechanically.

  “You must believe in me, and I shall win.”

  She nodded, dazedly. He ran past the Conde’s car to his own, whose engine was still running, and quickly backed on to the road. The Conde followed without a backward look, leaving Juliet as depleted as if she had taken part in a marathon.

  Later that day, Juliet wrote a note to Lyle Whitman: “The Conde turned me down flat, but I’m sure he would give you the ruby. He seems anxious to know who you are, but once he does know he’ll be satisfied. His sister has accepted you, and it’s possible he’ll do the same, so long as you’re candid. It seems a deadlock; you either have to claim the stone or resign yourself to leaving it in his pocket. I’m sure he won’t speak about it to anyone. Sorry I couldn’t do more.”

  The letter was scrappy, but she posted it and hoped rather desperately that she would hear no more about it.

  There was no reply for a couple of days, anyway, which was soothing. A change in the weather helped. It rained, a wind left the floribunda roses in a tangle from which the sunshine and the gardener eventually extracted them. Then the swimming lessons were continued, and one morning Inez came to the villa.

  “I must find out why we see so little of you,” she said almost merrily to the children. “It seems that with your Juliet one has to be conventional and extend invitations!”

  “You look very well, senora,” said Juliet formally.

  “I am extraordinarily well,” came the reply. “Sometimes I wish I had kept up the swimming and sailing myself. You know, when I was young, I could sail a small yacht with Ramiro. Now, I am a little afraid to start again. However, one cannot have everything, and matters are as happy as one could wish them.”

  As something seemed to be expected of her, Juliet queried, “Matters? I’m glad to hear it.”

  Inez shrugged charmingly. “I meant that events at the Castillo are clearer in some ways. Myself, I prefer Elena de Mendoza, as you know, but if Ramiro finds Carmen more to his taste ... well, I will not mind very much! He is very solicitous over this bruised head.” She smiled. “So long as it is not Lupita!”

  “You don’t care for Lupita?”

  Again the smiling shrug. “She has vivacity and a certain grace, but, you know, there was a foreign grandmother in that family. She is dead now, but she was an American. Lupita is not what one would call pure Spanish.”

  Juliet said evenly, “That wouldn’t seem very important to me.”

  “Perhaps not,” Inez nodded. “In the old days our kings used to marry foreigners, and it is said for that reason their heirs were stronger than they would otherwise have been. But in our family we have had only one mixed marriage. The son that resulted was so wild in his ways that he met his death in a duel at the age of twenty-one. Well, there are no duels today, but there are many other ways of terminating one’s life violently at an early age!”

  The topic was dropped, and Inez graciously consented to walk in the garden and admire the fish-pond which as yet existed only in a small rough depression in the back lawn and in Tony’s mind. The child explained his plans, wondered solemnly whether it wouldn’t be possible to put picture tiles in the bottom of the pond, like those at the Castillo. Inez did not dismiss his prattle as childish; she listened and advised almost as Ramiro might have done, with faint humor in her tones.

  The difference in her became more marked the longer she stayed, and when she had coffee with them in the porch she relaxed in a chair as Juliet herself might have done, had she felt easier. But Inez’ ease had the reverse effect on Juliet.

  It was after Luisa had taken the tray, and Inez was standing up and ready to leave, that the Spanish woman asked, casually, “Do you see Mr. Whitman, Juliet? Does he come often from Cortana?”

  “I don’t believe he does,” Juliet answered. “I daresay he has to work a good number of hours each day.”

  Inez nodded. “He came to the Castillo that morning which we arranged, and spent some time in the pavilion and out-buildings, but I think he is too conscious of the difference in our positions to come often.” A pause. “You are not, of course, familiar enough with my brother to tell him about such things?”

  “It isn’t my business if you wish to make a friend of Mr. Whitman, senora. It would never occur to me to mention it to the Conde.”

  “I thought that,” she said with a cool smile. “It is not so much that I wish to have a secret from Ramiro—though there is fun in that, too. But my brother is much involved in his own life at Cadiz; although the Castillo here is his, he is apt to regard it as mine. I do not wish to worry him with details of my friendships.”

  The excuse sounded a trifle thin, but to Juliet, Inez needn’t have offered one at all. The two went down the steps and the chauffeur put Inez into the blue car.

  The dark head showed close to the window. “I forgot something, Juliet. I am to tell you that a car will collect you and the children at ten o’clock on Saturday morning. The children are to be left at the Perez villa, where they will spend the day with several others, and you will join the party who are going into the country. I myself will not be with you this time.”

  “I see. Thank you, senora.”

  “Perhaps one day you will find it possible to call me Inez, no?” She kissed a hand to the children who were still in the garden. “Adios! We meet again soon.”

  As she went back into the house Juliet’s feelings were mixed. She would never be comfortable with Inez de Vedro, and quite passionately she did not want to go on this trip into the country. But there was no way of avoiding it, none at all.

  When Saturday morning came she felt lack-lustre. She saw that the children were neatly dressed, and wondered what to wear herself. A linen suit or her best summer frock? A suit showed creases quicker than a frock, but the rest of the women were bound to be dressed formally, even for an informal occasion. Juliet compromised, wore a thin white blouse with the skirt of the blue suit so that the jacket could be discarded if necessary.

  The car arrived meticulously on time, Juliet and the children were put into the back seat and driven down through the small town and out to the huge white villa in spacious grounds where the Perez family lived every summer. There, Rina and Tony made the acquaintance of several tidy, dark-eyed Spanish children, and Juliet was assured that they would play and be fed and put to rest as if they were at home.

  Mario and his sister entered the car, Mario beside the chauffeur, and Juliet made rather difficult conversation English was limited. She looked at the girl’s smouldering good looks, her dark orderly curls and thought again how exceptionally beautiful young Spanish women always were. For the ten years between fifteen and twenty-five they were incomparable.

  There followed the arrival at the Castillo, drinks in one of the salas, and the disposition of the guests in the cars. Three cars, each with two occupants in the front seat and three behind. Juliet found herself between Manuel Verrar and Elena de Mendoza, in a car driven by Elena’s father. The fifth occupant was Senora de Mendoza, a slim elderly woman of thin aristocratic features.

  The car was moving down the drive when Manuel Verrar, looking back towards the courtyard, commented rather heavily, “We all start together, it seems. It is possible that Inez is being left behind?”

  Elena de Mendoza gave the reply. “She has an old school friend arriving for just an hour or two this afternoon, so she must stay. I should have thought you would have been told, Manuel.”

  He shook his head and settled back glumly into his comer. “My holiday here is running out and I am doing very little with it. Before I report back to Madrid I must see some members of my family at Toledo.”

  “I am hoping for an assignment here in Spain, but one canno
t be sure.”

  It was one-thirty when they reached their destination, a fine old inn in the shadow of a monastery. They were expected, for several people came out on to the cobbled drive to welcome them, and Juliet heard herself being introduced to many owners of long illustrious names. Mario, at her side, explained that it was usual on this day of the year, a week before the beginning of Holy Week, for this party to be held here. As darkness fell the villagers would come up for an evening fiesta.

  “You will enjoy it, Juliet,” he told her eagerly. “Here at Granderro it is the one night in the year when one may forget the conventions and dance with whom one pleases. A mask is worn, you understand?”

  “I didn’t know it was an all-day affair,” she said. “What will happen to Rina and Tony?”

  “Do not worry. My mother has a passion for children, and always takes this opportunity of indulging it. When a little one tires he will be put to bed, or the nursemaid will be sent for. You may be sure that your servant will be called and all three sent home together before eight o’clock.”

  Mario, Juliet realized, had been detailed to look after her, probably because his English was good. She sat between him and one of the local grandees, and told herself that this was another occasion she must remember for Aunt May and Uncle George. She had to think of them, back there in London, or she would have lost all sense of reality. For nothing like this could possibly happen in England!

  The food was plain but rich. Shellfish of several kinds, meats cooked in wine, many different vegetables, mousse of fruits, fresh fruits, cream cheese and incredible coffee. Yet it was very easy to forget this was an inn because these men and women, though gay in their conversation, were never anything but hidalgos and their senoras. The meal ended with toasts, proposed by an elegant old man and brilliantly replied to by Ramiro.

  By now, Juliet was allowing herself to be swept along, unresisting. She was carried off to a large house, with other women, given a room to herself in which to rest. Later she washed and made up, drank the cup of chocolate which a servant brought but wished it was tea, and eventually went down to join the others. But only half the guests were here. The rest, including Ramiro, had gone to the Visconde’s mansion for the afternoon. She walked with Mario in a large geometrical garden, and at six o’clock went back to the house for what he called, teasingly, “high tea.”