At the Villa Massina (14 page)

It was a nice point—whether Ramiro preferred obedience to intelligence in a wife, for no intelligent woman could be wholly obedient.

Juliet remained detached; she really had no alternative. She hadn’t that strange serenity which enables some women to ride misfortune, but she did possess a degree of willpower. Even though her smooth young face had become lean and shadowed, her cold bruised spirit remained hidden. She did not acknowledge to herself that she was desperately and bitterly in love; only that there was a task to do, as quickly and neatly as possible.

For two days she did nothing whatever about it. Inez de Vedro made one of her polite calls and was as distant as ever, except with the children. Mario sent a note in which he blamed himself for the accident to his racing car and said that he held Juliet in even higher esteem; he would not be able to see her before he went away, but he sent her his very good wishes and hoped she would send him her own regards in return. Juliet didn’t. She had already broken contact with Mario.

Then, on Thursday morning, part of the decision was made for her. It was cloudy and cool, a good day for a walk in the town. She took the children out on to the road and closed the gate, had taken only a pace or two before the black car swept up, and stopped. Ramiro got out, looking taller and more distinguished than ever in an immaculate cream sports suit.

“Buenos dias,” he said, flicking at the brim of Rina’s straw hat. “You are all well, I hope?”

“Hallo, Don Ramiro,” said Tony in his chummy fashion. “Were you coming to see us?”

“I was. I thought I would spend half an hour with you in the villa, but if you wish we will all go back to the Castillo.” With chilly sarcasm he added, “Miss Darrell must consent first, of course.”

Juliet’s heart was beating so heavily that she was afraid he would hear it. So this was it! Well, what was she dithering about? It was straightforward enough. A renewed request, and perhaps at this last moment she would think of something to back it up. Certainly she couldn’t put it off much longer.

“We’d like to go with you, senor,” she said calmly.

He must have expected a more half-hearted reply, for he lifted an eyebrow, and looked at her more closely. “The days are gathering warmth. You find it tiring?”

“Not very.”

“But you lose color, I think, each time I see you. I would say you do too much walking. Can you not be content with the beach?”

“We manage very well, thank you senor.”

He flashed her one of those rapier glances. “You do not change, Miss Juliet,” he said abruptly. “Come, ninos, into the back seat. You will find there a little gift I was bringing to you. In the box.”

He saw the three of them seated and slipped behind the wheel. As they moved away Rina gave a delighted laugh.

“Easter chicks!” she squealed. “All sweet and chocolate. Look, Juliet, this one even has sugar feathers!”

She had leant forward and was holding a small yellow and brown object over the back of the seat. Juliet nodded and smiled, agreed it was a most lifelike chicken.

As they neared the Castillo Ramiro slowed and pointed down over green pastures where a few cattle browsed. “Next year, this will be a vineyard as it used to be a hundred years ago, and over there we shall have a new winery. It is not till now that I have realized how little has been done with this hacienda. It is strange, but I find myself liking it almost as well as the estate at Cadiz. Before, I have left everything to the gerente ... what you call a bailiff, but I find there is much that could be done to improve his plans.”

“Won’t you have any cattle?” she enquired politely.

“But certainly. They will be moved elsewhere, that is all.” He turned the car between the pillars of the Castillo, but went on in the same instructive manner, “I am also hoping to erect oil-extraction machinery somewhere ne
the town. Did you know there is not enough olive-oil in the world, Miss Darrell?”

“No, but then I’m from Britain, where we don’t use so much cooking oil.”

“Ah, one is from Britain, and that excuses everything,” he said coolly, as he braked. “You children would like to play in the pavilion, no?”

“Yes, please,” said Rina.

“Very well. Let us first place Miss Darrell in the salon, and I will find someone to go with you. Come.”

As usual, there were uniformed servants ready to save the Senor Conde a yard’s walk, but he waved them away, saying that he himself would look after the guests. He put Juliet into one of the ornate hall chairs, told her he would not be more than two minutes, and took the children through one of the rooms and into a corridor. Juliet sat stiffly, with her hands clasped. She could feel nerves tingling all over her body and knew it would do her much more good to stand up and walk about. She did get up, but she did not move far, for through a doorway she saw the portrait which had puzzled and interested her that day when she had brought Lyle Whitman to the Castillo.

The room was empty, and Juliet drew closer, till she was inside the doorway. It really was a most magnetic portrait. The proud head of dark red curls with that audacious blue plume, the pink and white skin, the glorious black and silver gown drawn into a tiny waist; she looked seductive, her expression proud and defiant.

Juliet did not hear Ramiro till he was just behind her, and then it was too late to withdraw from the room. So she said,

“The girl in the portrait looks very young, and very fiery. What is she—seventeenth century?”

“Yes, very early in that century.” He looked from the portrait and back to Juliet, consideringly. “You admire her?”

“Yes, I think I do. She must have had tremendous spirit. She wasn’t a Spaniard, was she?”

“No, she was not a Spaniard. She was from Scotland—the daughter of a duke. There was a young son of the Conde de Vallos—my ancestor—who visited Scotland and fell in love with her. He brought her here for his father’s approval to their marriage, but she and the eldest son fell furiously in love, and after the manner of those times, the younger son was removed for the wedding-day and the heir took his place. With such a beginning, their married life was bound to be turbulent!”

“So she eventually became the Condesa. How old was she when the portrait was painted?”

“I have sometimes compared her with my own countrywomen and wondered. Now, seeing you here beside the portrait, I would say she was twenty-two, as you are. At Cadiz I have the history of the marriage; they were always fighting and making love, those two, and both were favorites with Philip, the King.”

“What was her name?”

“Very Scottish—Jean, though she appears in letters as Juana.” Again he gave her a long contemplative glance. “Why does she interest you so much?”

“I don’t know. Possibly because she’s so unexpected in a place like this. I suppose she’s the one foreigner you’ve had in your family?”

“How did you learn that we had had only one?”

“Inez told me.”

He turned from the portrait and shrugged. “No doubt Inez also told you that the only son of this woman was a young man with the wild blood of the old Scottish kings in his veins—that he was killed in a duel. His uncle succeeded to the estates.”

Juliet heard herself saying lightly, “Well, she was a warning, wasn’t she? I daresay Spanish blood is quite warm enough when it’s unmixed.”

“Yes, you are right,” he said non-committally. “One would think very deeply about marriage before departing from the tradition.” He paused. “I believe Inez keeps a copy of the family records here in this desk. But, no, she has locked the drawer, and she is out with a friend at the moment so we must save that pleasure for another day. You would like some coffee, senorita?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you, senor. As a ... matter of fact, I’ve something I ... I wish to ask you.”

The dark glance became watchful. “You are hesitant. Is it something which embarrasses you?”

 “Yes. Yes, it does. I hope you’ll be patient with me ... and not get angry.”

He stiffened slightly. “Let us go outside, Miss Darrell. We will have a small drink on the terrace and you will tell me this thing which may make me angry. I warn you, on one or two subjects I am not approachable at present.”

Uneasily, Juliet smiled. She let him take her elbow and lead her down that magnificent terrace with the Moorish arches overhead and the great expanses of formal gardens to the right; tasted the sweetness of his nearness. Nearly at the end of the terrace a door stood open, and outside it a table and low cushioned chairs were set. Ramiro gave no orders, but a servant appeared, bearing a tray loaded with glasses and bottles, a crystal jug, a silver bucket of ice, a chased silver dish of tiny shellfish.

Perhaps through nervousness, Juliet laughed. “You Spaniards are all the same at this hour of the day. Seafood snacks and wines. I didn’t think I’d come across it here at the Castillo.”

As he poured he looked very foreign and unsmiling. “No? But we too are Spanish. Why should we at the Castillo be so different from the business men who take mid-morning refreshment at the Cafe? A light wine for you, Miss Darrell—and please drink as if you enjoy it.”

Actually, it was an excellent wine, which even Juliet might have appreciated at some other time. She raised her glass near his, smiled perfunctorily at his “Salud!” and sipped. A nerve was jumping at the back of her jaw and she was afraid that if she spoke at once her voice would crack. So she set down the glass and looked through the curved and ornamented fretwork of the terrace wall at a rectangular pond where pink and yellow lilies opened their waxen beauty against the gleaming dark green of huge leaves. The lawns and paths edged by long carpet runners of blossom, the flowering shrubs, the deodars and cedars, the ornamental palms, the distant maze, topiarized into bird and animal shapes, the trees beyond and the heavenly sky.

“One can understand your sister liking this estate so much,” she said, to test her own voice control. “One can see it’s been as lovely as this for centuries.”

He nodded, apparently as willing to put off her problem as she. “I wouldn’t like Inez to be able always to use this place, but it is not good for her to stay here permanently. You are an observant young woman, Miss Darrell, so you have probably noticed that it would give me great pleasure if she were to marry Manuel Verrar.”

Looking down at her fingers she said, “Both you and Dona Inez are anxious to get each other married. Perhaps if one of you decided, the other would be persuaded it was a good plan.”

Coolly, he said, “You may be right, Miss Darrell. But I feel there is more to this change in Inez than I have yet discovered. Her life here does not alter, yet she herself is changing rapidly. In one way, this difference is good, because she is more alive, more conscious of everything than she has been since the sudden death of her husband. In another way, it is unfortunate; Manuel Verrar had set his heart on this marriage, with my complete approval.”

“So you feel you’ve ... failed?”

It was another of the words one should not use to the Conde. The skin seemed to tighten just slightly across his cheekbones, his eyes narrowed. “No, the setback has merely irritated me,” he said with a superb gesture of indifference. “I will deal with it. And now, senorita, for this business which embarrasses you. Am I right in assuming it is concerned with a gem which came into my possession?”

This was too sudden. Juliet smiled weakly, found the smile wouldn’t hold, and didn’t bother any longer how she appeared. She took another sip of wine and sat back in the low chair.

“You are quite right, senor,” she answered with creditable calmness. “I’ve been trying to find the courage to come here and ask you for it.”

“Even though I had already refused to give it to you? Why do you think I should change my mind, Miss Darrell?”

“I ... only hoped.” She paused, to swallow on the dryness in her throat. “I can’t explain everything, but it would mean a great deal to me if you would let me have it without any more ... probing.

“The ... probing, as you call it, is very inconvenient I know that,” he said sharply. “You take great care not to be seen with this man, but obviously you communicate with him, and he is growing impatient. Good! I am glad to hear it. And now tell me why the return of this stone is so important to you. Why are you so desperately anxious to do this man the favor? He is handsome, and you are infatuated, no?”

For an instant she thought of telling him the truth—that Inez might be involved. But the fear of what could happen to Norma’s marriage if she spilled so much as a syllable kept her sane.

She said huskily, “I’m not asking you to do this for anyone but me. You’ve said many times that I’d only to ask you for help and it would be forthcoming; yet when I beg for this—yes, I’m begging, senor!—you turn me down every time.”

“And I will continue to do so!” he said violently, across the table. “But this time I will tell you why. You and this enganador have been carefully attempting to hoodwink me, but I was not deceived, even for a moment. He is smooth, this Lyle Whitman, and he uses his dual nationality with cleverness and charm—particularly is he irresistible to his countrywomen, for they understand him and yet are teased by this slightly alien air. Do not deny anything to me, senorita. I know too much!”

His mouth was thin and cruel, his speech rapid. “I learned it the day after I found the stone in the villa. Do you think it is usual for a young woman, newly arrived among us, to be visited by a stranger who carelessly displays his collection of jewels? It is not! That is why I took immediate steps to discover his identity. A writer, or so he pretends—with a private income, and the habit of carrying his collection about with him. He is also something more!”