At the Villa Massina (19 page)

“This is the first time we speak together this evening,” he said, drawing her to a chair and seating himself beside her. “We are honored that this time you consented to come.”

“It’s a special occasion,” she answered as coolly. “I came because I was anxious to wish your sister every happiness.”

“That is very good of you. The fact that you are here tonight also means that you will consent to go with us to Cadiz tomorrow. It is all part of the invitation, as your cousin has no doubt told you. We will stay one night at the Castillo—or longer, if the guests so decide. There is much there that will interest you.”

Juliet gave the practised smile, was grateful for the brief exchange with Elena de Mendoza, which had prepared her. “You’re very kind senor.”

And very correct, she thought; correct and bordering on the austere. No, she was imagining it. There he was, half-rising and smiling as an older woman and her escort passed them to go out to the terrace. He had no feeling, this man; only moods, according to whether he were pleased or otherwise with other people.

“You are feeling happier now;” he asked distantly.

She was purposely obtuse. “Happier, senor?”

His chin lifted a fraction as though he scented the threat of battle, but he spoke as calmly. “For two weeks we have left you more or less alone to recover from ... disillusionment. I think you should now be ready for normal life. That is why I insisted to Norma that you must take part in our celebrations for Inez.”

“I see. You’re most considerate. I feel very well, thank you.”

“And you look enchanting tonight. So much so, that poor Caspar Mendes can see nothing but a blue gown and golden hair.”

“The gown of Fate,” she said involuntarily.

“Why do you call it that?” he asked sharply. “What do you know of such things?”

“It’s just a local superstition that Ruy told me about when he and Norma gave me this frock. I certainly don’t believe in it.”

“It is not even a superstition,” he said brusquely. “Any woman will prefer a particular dress in which she has been supremely happy; that is all.”

“Very well, senor.”

“You will learn,” he said stiffly, “that small consolations—such as Caspar Mendes—do not last. I am afraid you are still very young and unwise.”

“The years will take care of it. May I have a cigarette?”

He looked about him, saw that one or two women were smoking and got out the flat platinum case. Juliet saw the familiar crest on the corner of it, and somehow the sight steadied the sudden fluttering of her nerves.
He was Ramiro Fernandez de Velasco y Cuevora, Conde de Vallos.
She only had to keep that in mind for a few more hours.

She smoked, and wished he would either say something or make an excuse and leave her. It was so unlike him to sit there looking stern and thoughtful in the middle of one of his own functions. At last he looked at her briefly.

“You will be relieved to know that Whitman has escaped from Spanish waters.”

“You’ve ... heard?”

“I delayed the chase. His crime against Spain was very small—merely the use of a few feet of the beach at Cortana for wrong purposes. But he will not escape for ever.”

“Did you stop the police from acting?

His smile glittered at her, unpleasantly. “Let us say I laid my information a little late. It is amazing, the power of tears in a woman’s eyes!”

The next moment he was standing and had called a young man to his side. “Miss Darrell might like to dance,” he said, “and I am sure she is in need of a stimulant.” After which he moved away and mingled with the others.

The night passed. At about two Juliet was swept away with Norma in Ruy’s car, and she did not even glance back for a last sight of the Castillo. The sense of finality was overwhelming.

She went to bed, and dozed as dawn broke, to awaken an hour later when Tony began running up and down the corridor outside her room. She got up, took a shower and dressed in a dark, short-sleeved frock. Methodically, she finished packing the suitcase which had stood half full on the stool for the past week. She locked it, found a label and addressed it, tied it to the handle. Into the smaller case she packed summer frocks, a cardigan, some underwear and a pair of walking shoes. Then she went downstairs to breakfast.

She spoke to the children over their fruit juice and scrambled eggs, drank some coffee herself. Tony had plans.

“We’re going to be alone here with you and Luisa today and tomorrow,” he said, “so I’m going to ask if Juan can bring his boat round to our beach. We could play Treasure Island.”

“I’d like to go with the grown-ups to Cadiz,” remarked Rina.

So even the children knew what Juliet had had to learn by accident.

“You’ll enjoy it more here,” she said. “There won’t be any children at Cadiz. Had enough to eat, Tony?”

“Had too much,” he told her benignly, as he slid from his chair. “I’m going to talk to Luisa about Juan’s boat.”

“Go with him, will you, Rina?” said Juliet. “If Luisa’s against it, don’t let him pester her.”

Rina folded Tony’s napkin and pushed it through the silver ring, adjusted the chair he had left askew and followed him to the kitchen. Juliet swallowed the rest of her coffee, found herself puffing on a cigarette with shaky fingers, resolutely dropped the cigarette into an ashtray and went upstairs.

At the door of the main bedroom she hesitated. They would both be tired this morning, but she had to talk to Norma for a few minutes. It was awkward, though, for only Luisa or the children knocked on that door. She passed into her own room, stripped the bed and tidied the bookshelf. Then she placed the heavier suitcase in the corridor and went back for the smaller one, her handbag and the light raincoat. These last she took downstairs to the porch.

In the hall she stood still, her hands clenched damply at her sides. Then she heard a door open overhead, and taking the stairs two at a time she arrived on the upper landing in time to see Norma, in a flowing emerald robe, pause at the wide-open doorway of Juliet’s bedroom.

Juliet reached her and went into the room, and without a word Norma followed her and closed them in. She indicated the stripped bed, the cleared top of the dressing-table.

“Sudden, isn’t it?” she said with studied pleasantness. “When are you going?”

Juliet held herself tightly. With Norma, this could be carried through very easily so long as neither of them grew heated.

“Right away,” she answered. “I was leaving on Saturday, anyway, so it’s only three days early.”

“There’ll be no bus.”

“No, but a boatman will take me round to Manca, and the service is good from there. By Saturday, I shall be in Malaga. I think it’s best, Norma.”

“So do I, my dear. Why didn’t you mention it to me yesterday?”

“I decided last night, at the Castillo. I found out something you hadn’t told me—that there was a sort of comprehensive invitation covering last night’s party and a couple of days at Cadiz. It’s too much for me, I’m afraid.”

“I didn’t tell you because I was sure you’d be against it. I simply took it you’d stay here with Luisa and the children.”

“Well, Ramiro’s expecting me to go with you and Ruy.”

“Ramiro?” Norma’s lip curled slightly. “You flatter yourself that he’d care whether you were there or not? He might notice your absence—he even notices if one of his footmen has a plaster on his finger—but I doubt whether your staying out of the party would jolt him.”

Juliet was unmoved. “There’s a part of this that even you don’t know about, Norma. Not trying to persuade me to stay, are you?”

“Hardly. For the moment I’ve had you in a big way, darling. But I don’t want any unpleasantness over your departure. We can’t have you just running out without reason. Let me think a bit.” She did think, pacing across to the window and back again, the gown rustling with every step. “Look here, Ruy’s terribly tired this morning, and the next couple of days may be hectic, so I should have no trouble in keeping him in bed for an hour or two. We go aboard the yacht at one, for lunch at one-thirty when we’re on our way.” She looked at her watch. “It’s not quite nine, so you have plenty of time.”

“You mean to get away from San Federigo before Ruy realizes I’ve gone?”

“Well ... yes. You won’t be able to say goodbye, but I suggest we make it look as if you just went off without our knowing anything about it.”

“It’s not the sort of thing I’d do.”

“Who’s to know? I think you should write a note—something very short and non-committal. Like, ‘I have the offer of a lift and have decided to accept. Didn’t like to wake you, Ruy, as you were so late to bed last night. Will write later. Thanks for everything.’ Something like that.”

Juliet considered the idea with a sort of cold awareness. “What about the children? I had breakfast with them.”

“Where are they?”

“With Luisa in the kitchen. At least, they were about a quarter of an hour ago.”

“They wouldn’t stay with her that long. If they’re not in the house it’s quite likely they’ve gone to the beach, so you’re safe. Will you write those few lines and leave them here? I’ll find the note later in the morning, and show it to Ruy.”

“Is a note absolutely necessary? I’d rather call goodbye to Ruy through the bedroom door.”

“And how would that make me look?” exclaimed Norma. “He wouldn’t let you go, and he’d be disappointed in me for being willing to allow it. The least you can do is to leave some sort of evidence that I’m not implicated in your running away. I refuse to be mixed up in any more escapades!”

It was fair enough, thought Juliet. The affection she had once had for Norma had become very much diluted during the last few weeks, but she was still unwilling to put difficulties in her way. A note would do no harm.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll write it now.”

“Good, I’ll go back to bed for an hour. If the children should turn up send them back to the beach for something. What about your luggage?”

“The large case in the corridor can be sent home for me.”

“Then you’d better bring it back in here and mention it in the note. The rest of your things, I suppose, you’ll take with you. You’ll have to carry it, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll manage,” said Juliet, her tones cool and dry. “You can leave things to me now.”

With her coral-tipped fingers on the door-handle, Norma paused. “What if the children start looking for you?”

“Luisa won’t let them come upstairs. They’ll think I’ve gone down to the town.”

“Then everything’s taken care of?”

“Pretty well. Goodbye, Norma.”

“Goodbye, and for heaven’s sake be quiet and quick!” She didn’t even look at Juliet as she spoke, but opened the door, inspected the corridor and slipped out, closing the door behind her.

Juliet moved the big suitcase; then she sat down at the writing-table and took up the pen. The note was accomplished, the envelope placed conspicuously on the blotter, and she went straight downstairs to the hall. There was still no sound of the children, but Luisa’s croaking voice was audible as she spoke to the old gardener. Then the back door clicked and there was silence.

Juliet threw her raincoat over one arm, picked up her case and handbag and walked out, into the porch where the hydrangeas spread their full-blown rich ness and down the steps, along the path and on to the road. No one saw her leave the Villa Massina. No one in the world knew that her heart was too frozen to feel.

She went on walking, down the steep street towards the waterfront, her lips tight and her head well back. She reached the beach and spoke to one of the boatmen. Yes, he could take her to Manca for sixty pesetas; yes at once, if the senorita would come this way.

Her bag was stowed in a locker, she sat on the inevitable fish-smelling camp-stool. He pushed out and spun the motor. San Federigo receded, became a whitish blur between green cliffs.

At ten o’clock Norma poured coffee for her husband, gave him the morning paper and trailed off to take a bath. She lazed for a long time in the scented water, sat at the small dressing-table beside the bath and used many of the creams in the crystal jars. Back in the bedroom she found Ruy still enjoying his paper, so she passed into the dressing-room and got into a white skirt and an indigo blouse which had an embroidered anchor on the pocket. For Ruy’s benefit, she postured.

“Like it?”

“Whatever you wear you are adorable, my darling, and always so appropriate. I am afraid I have not even a yachtsman’s cap to match you.”

“You always match me,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him. “I could never have found a better match anywhere.”

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “I suppose I must now get up myself.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry. I’m going down to the children. Now that we’re off for a couple of days without them I feel as I did when they left England!”

She blew him a kiss, took another look at her own perfection in the tall mirror and went downstairs to the sitting-room. Through the open door she could see Tony and Rina on the lawn. They were busy on a large sheet of white kitchen paper, sketching the tent they proposed to erect on the beach. Norma looked at them but stayed where she was. Tony, of course, was the stubborn and cheerful little Britisher; all he had inherited from his father was a pair of brown eyes. Rina, though, was a mixture; she had a Latin sensitiveness and sense of neatness, a reserved nature like her English Grandfather’s; she thrived in hot places yet loved the cool, moist English woods. Oh, well, one didn’t bother too much about the mentality of children, Somehow, even without a clogging, maternal anxiety, they got through. For Ruy’s sake she was glad the children existed, but with a different kind of husband she could easily have dispensed with a family.