Authors: Brenda Joyce

House of Dreams (6 page)

BOOK: House of Dreams

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Until now.

But Catherine's guilt in a man's death, accidental or not, had not been an issue then, either.

“You won't have it?” Tracey finally echoed.

“I will not. I have raised you as if you were my very own daughter, and if you have any respect for me, any love, you will respect my wishes
in this matter,” Catherine said very firmly. “You will let him leave. And you will not see him again.”

Tracey stared at her, speechless.

Cass felt as if she were in some surreal dream. “Aunt Catherine,” she interjected gently, “let's drop this subject for the moment. What do you say?”

“I'd rather not,” Catherine said firmly.

Cass felt as if she were conversing with an utter stranger. Was this actually her aunt speaking?

“Forget it,” Tracey said to Cass, harshly. “There's nothing to discuss, and that is that.” She flung a last, furious look at her aunt and stalked from the room, her bare pale blue gown swishing open about her legs.

Cass went to her aunt, placing her hand on her shoulder. Now she truly understood the feeling of dread she had had all day. Cass was so upset she could not imagine going downstairs to join their guestsâmuch less surviving the evening.

Catherine barely looked at her. “Dear, please get me that drink,” she said in a barely audible whisper.

“Coming right up,” Cass said as cheerfully as possible. And giving her aunt one last worried look, she left the room.

Catherine waited until she was gone. And when she could no longer hear her niece's footsteps, she went to the door and closed it. Then she went to an armoire, opened it, and knelt beside the lowest drawer. It was hidden, and a secret latch let it spring free.

She withdrew the old, faded, leather-bound book carefully, held it to her breast, and fought tears of rising panic.

It was her private journal.

The last entry had been noted in July of 1966, just hours after Eduardo de la Barca's death.

She had never destroyed the diary; she had been oddly, insanely, unable to. And she had always regretted it.

She prepared to destroy it now.

It was well after midnight, and Cass stood in the foyer against one wall, half-hidden by a huge marble table and a large seventeenth-century clock, arms folded tightly across her chest. She was still clad in her evening clothes, and all of the guests had left. Except for one.

He was coming downstairs. She heard his footsteps, but that wasn't how she knew it was he. Even had there been other guests about, she
would have known. There was something about his presence that made her tense with expectation.

He came into the dim, flickering light of the foyer. Their gazes met and held.

Feeling uncomfortable, Cass looked away. “Thank you for being so understanding,” she said.

“It is not a problem. I only hope your aunt feels better tomorrow.”

Cass looked up. “So do I.”

His gaze was searching. “Will you call me and let me know? I would appreciate it.”

Cass nodded. “Do you have a card?” Her pulse was racing, stupidly.

He smiled at her as he handed her one. “The last thing I wished to do was to upset this household or my hostess.”

How much did he guess, how much did he sense, and how much had he heard? “It's the flu. She'll be back to herself in no time.”

He didn't smile. His stare was scrutinizing. “You are very close to her,” he said.

“She raised us, Trace and me,” Cass said simply. “She is more than my surrogate mother. She is my best friend.”

“She seems like an admirable woman.”

“She is.”

A silence fell, hard and awkward, between them.

“Well, I think the night was successful. I know a few guests appreciated the necklace,” Cass tried. Oddly, she did not want him to go. Not yet.

“Yes.” Then, “The piece belongs in a museum. I intend to try to convince Sotheby's to offer it privately first to several institutions.”

Cass's eyes widened. “Is that possible?”

“Here in Europe, yes. The auction houses never do such a thing in your country.”

Cass couldn't smile. A slight noise made her glance toward the stairs, but she saw nothing and no one. “I guess Tracey's asleep?”

He hesitated. “She was not gracious about this situation. She is very upset.”

Apparently Tracey had changed her mind about leaving. Cass suspected Antonio had made her stay. She was impressed. “Tracey's my little sister,” Cass said, unable not to defend her. “She's always been a bit spoiled. It's not her fault. Her beauty has allowed her to get away with things the average person never could.” Cass shrugged. “It's always been that way.”

“Sometimes beauty can be detriment and not an asset,” he said.

Cass was so surprised that she stared. He was also staring. She heard the clock behind her ticking loudly in the night.

He finally smiled, slightly. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Cassandra. And any time you wish to discuss the sociopolitical consequences of the cult of Saint James upon the Spanish people and Christendom, I would be glad to comply.”

Cass felt her mouth drop open. He remembered her. Not only did he remember her, he remembered a brief intellectual debate they had had on the subject of one of Spain's most important patron saints, all those years ago at the Met.

He bowed and strode past her, into the night.

Cass watched him go, smiling.

“I thought you might be able to stay a few days, instead of rushing back to London like this,” Catherine said the following day.

Tracey was packing her garment bag, clad in a black pleated miniskirt, a thick beige sleeveless sweater, and black, knee-high riding boots with odd little flaps on the calves. Her legs were bare, her skin flawless and glowing. But her movements were abrupt and angry. “I never said I was spending the weekend. Besides, is there any point in staying?” She straightened to stare at Catherine.

And Catherine's expression was filled with hurt and dismay. “We would love to have you,” she began softly.

“Last night was a bloody disaster,” Tracey cried.

Cass was also present, standing tensely by the foot of the bed. “Tracey, if you have to go this morning, at the crack of dawn”âand that was an exaggerationâ“couldn't we at least talk this out first? So there are no hard feelings?”

“No. I really have to go. So much to do.” Tracey smiled at them. It was brittle. Hurt was also reflected in her blue eyesâalong with an anxiety Cass hadn't noticed before.

It suddenly occurred to Cass that her sister was chasing after Antonio. That for once, she was so infatuated that, like most lovers, she was nervous and filled with doubts. And in spite of herself, Cass felt for her then. “The auction's ten days away,” Cass tried. “It would be so great if you didn't rush off.”

Tracey began zipping up the garment bag. “It would have been great if Tonio hadn't felt compelled to leave last night.”

Cass went over to help fold the large Val-Pack and place it on the floor. “Look, I agree. Last night didn't go that well. I mean, I think the guests all had a great time, but we certainly had it out. I'm sorry, Trace.”

Tracey straightened, hands on her hips. “Are you? I think you took Catherine's side for another reason. Because you are jealous.”

Cass froze. “What?”

“You heard me.” Tracey stared.

Cass started to tell herself that she was not jealous, then she gave it up. Of course she was, just a bit. It was natural. A woman would have to be blind in order not to be jealous of her sister as far as Antonio de la Barca was concerned. “If I acted out of any desire, other than the one to protect Aunt Catherine, I apologize,” Cass said quicklyâand instantly regretted her choice of words.

Tracey shrugged. “I am having dinner with him tonight before he returns to Madrid.” She smiled.

Cass managed a halfhearted smile in return.

“Tracey, we have to speak,” Catherine said firmly, her arms folded tightly over her breasts.

Cass knew what was coming, but she pretended not to. She carried the heavy bag to the door. Maybe it was for the best if Tracey did leave. The tension was becoming unbearable.

Tracey faced her aunt with a too innocent look. “About?”

“I think you know.”

“I haven't a notion.” Tracey smiled, a bit too sweetly, a dead giveaway.

“You must listen to me very carefully,” Catherine said slowly, her coloring paler than usual. She seemed to be choosing her words with care. “There is a cloud hanging over the de la Barca family. A cloud of tragedy and death. And â¦ there is a history between our family and Antonio de la Barca's. No good has ever come of the families being involved. Please, do trust me, Tracey. Do not see him again.”

Cass stared at her aunt, considering her words. Before Tracey could protest, Cass stepped quickly between them. “What kind of history, Aunt Catherine?” Cass tried to meet her aunt's gaze, but Catherine wouldn't allow it.

Catherine busied herself with straightening the cushions on a settee. “Over the centuries, our families have been entangled, Cassandraâtime and again. In business, in love, in war, in politics. And it has always turned out badly for everyone involved.” Still Catherine did not look at her.

Cass stared. What wasn't her aunt telling her? “How badly?” Cass asked. “As badly as Isabel being burned at the stake for not being a true-blue Catholic?” She did not add,
As badly as Eduardo being tragically killed?

Catherine started, paling. “Let's not even bring her up.”

Cass was on alert. “Why not? You love our family history as much as I love history, period.”

Catherine shook her head. “No good can come of it,” she said.

Before Cass could ask whether no good could come of discussing their ancestor or no good could come of Tracey's involvement with Antonio, Tracey cut in. “What nonsense,” she said. “This is madness. Who cares about the past? I'm going to Madrid at the end of the monthâand I intend to spend most of the summer there.”

Even Cass whirled. “What about your job?”

“I'm leaving. I've thought about it and decided that I do not suit Sotheby's.”

Cass just stared, not really surprised. And she did not doubt that Tracey's decision had little to do with Sotheby's and everything to do with Antonio de la Barca.

Catherine came forward, taking Tracey's hands. “Oh, darling, don't leave. You are so perfect for Sotheby's. You have class and elegance and a high profile which they needâ”

“I belong with Antonio, Catherine. I can't manage a long-distance relationship, with an entire sea between us. I can't bear it when we are apart.” Tracey turned her back on them to walk into the bathroom. The door was wide open, the lights on, and she picked up her makeup case.

“Please, Tracey, just this one time, listen carefully to me. I know too well what I am talking about,” Catherine pleaded.

Tracey stared, holding the makeup case. “You don't know. Antonio is marvelousâI've never known anyone like him before. I'm not going to let this one get away from me. I meant it when I said I'm going to marry him.”

Cass heard herself say, “You know, Trace, a good marriage is built on a foundation of shared interests. You and Antonio don't seem to have very much in common.”

Tracey stabbed her hand at her. “I knew you would take her side. What in bloody hell would you know about marriage, relationships, or, for that matter, even men? You've had one relationship in your entire life, and he wasn't even in love with you.”

Cass felt as if she had been struck.

“Point made,” Tracey said coldly.

Before Cass could dare think through her thoughts, Catherine's cold voice interrupted her.

“If you go”âCatherine slowly turned, her chest heaving with the effort her words were costing herâ“I am disowning you.”

Tracey turned white. Cass thought she lost all of her own coloring, too. “Catherine. You don't mean that.” She knew her aunt was mistaken. She knew Catherine was speaking hysterically. She could not mean to disown the niece she had adored for an entire lifetime.

But she had never seen her aunt's expression so severely set.

My God,
Cass thought, unable to breathe.
She means it.

“I don't need your damned inheritance. Go right ahead and disown me.” Tracey was furiously bitter.

BOOK: House of Dreams

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