Indiscretion (52 page)

Still lost in thought, she turned right along Chelsea Embankment. Here, the wholesome smell of sea tar mingled with that of wet earth and rain. The traffic was denser: cars, taxis, buses, a few brightly coloured flower wagons and vans making evening deliveries hurtled along the tarmac by the river. Suddenly, and for no reason she could think of, they started to hoot. She smiled to herself. This was a more sophisticated Triana, but nonetheless cacophonic.

The part of Cheyne Walk where Alexandra lived was a row of grand old mansions, some dating back to the time of Charles II. They were set a little back from the Embankment, separated from it by a narrow strip of gardens planted out with shrubs. When Alexandra reached Newton Place, her aunt's townhouse, she stopped in front of it for a moment before mounting the steps to the front door. It was one of the newer Victorian houses with their fine red brickwork, and she took some time to enjoy the curving gables, jutting oriels, terracotta ornaments and white painted balconies. It felt all at once familiar, solid, comforting.

Godfrey, the butler, let her in. Alexandra smiled at the whiskery old man who had known her since she was a child.

‘Would you like dinner to be brought up to you, Miss Alexandra, or would you prefer to eat in the dining room this evening?' he enquired, taking her coat and draping it over his arm.

‘Thank you, Godfrey, but if Jenny could bring up a cup of broth and some bread later on, that will be fine.' She added that she did not wish to be otherwise disturbed, thanked the old butler and
went upstairs. Mrs Jeffrey, the housekeeper, was never there after four o'clock, Aunt Geraldine was away in Kent for the summer and Alexandra welcomed the idea of spending what remained of the evening alone.

After the success of Alexandra's first two novels, Aunt Geraldine had given over the whole of the third floor of Newton Place to her. ‘It's only proper,' she had said, ‘that you enjoy space and privacy for your hobby.' Aunt Geraldine never referred to Alexandra's writing as anything other than her ‘hobby'. Alexandra was convinced that, despite the success of her novels, her aunt was patiently waiting for her niece to grow out of this phase, and one day see sense enough to succumb to the more conventional pastime that was marital life.

Without bothering to turn on the upstairs landing light, she exchanged her shoes for a pair of silk slippers, which were always kept beside the wall at the top of the stairs, a habit ingrained in her from childhood by her aunt.

It was a small suite of rooms, furnished tastefully. They had a meticulous simplicity that reflected Alexandra's personality; at least that part of her nurtured by her life in England. She walked down the narrow corridor panelled in old limed oak to her bedroom, where she put on a silk house gown before collapsing into her favourite armchair in the adjoining boudoir. As she leant her head against the upholstered back, she closed her eyes.

Struggling to bury her feelings in the deep abyss of her soul, Alexandra was sent reeling again as a rebellious wave of anguish washed up on the shores of her consciousness. She fought back, telling herself not to be so ridiculous; she didn't love Salvador and was not unhappy at losing him. Losing him? She had never had him in the first place, that was really the truth of it. A romantic, sentimental fool, all along she had fallen for the Spaniard's charisma, his exotic looks; his charm. That shadow of sadness, which sometimes flashed in his eyes, made him seem vulnerable, appealing to what Aunt Geraldine called her ‘Florence Nightingale' side. Perhaps that was why she'd been compelled to rush to his rescue.

What did it matter whether he married Doña Isabel or not? After all, the
Marquesa
was far better suited to him than Alexandra: they came from the same world. She should have known from the beginning that she and Salvador had too much against them — even though their chemistry was compatible, they were wrong for each other in so many ways. Yet, somewhere in the depths of her being, where the small flame of truth and instinct still burned, that small voice was shouting out its dissent and would not be silenced.

Discouraged and weary, she went over to the wide bay window. A pale glow from the bulbous Victorian lamps strung along the Embankment heralded the swift fall of dusk. The misty skyline had deepened to a mournful purple and the dark shapes of working boats and barges on the softly glimmering water of the Thames appeared to take on a more abandoned aspect than usual. How imperial London looked at night along the river, with the bright majestic lines of Albert Bridge overshadowing the colossal four chimneys of Battersea's coal-fired power station beyond. It was almost dark now and the city she loved, normally so familiar and comforting to her, looked at this moment as if it stretched on forever into the night, making Alexandra feel small and alone.
He will never take me in his arms again
, she thought wistfully as tears burnt her eyes.
Stop this immediately
, she admonished herself angrily.
What good is there in thinking about all that? You're just hurting yourself
.

Since her return, Alexandra had woken every morning with a lump in her throat and a heavy heart. She'd tried to drive Salvador from her mind by throwing herself into work, but the Count's handsome face kept returning to haunt her. Like the ebb and flow of the river's tide beyond her window, the events which had taken place during her stay at El Pavón and during the subsequent weeks in Granada surged ceaselessly back and forth in her mind; and although she sometimes thought she had rid herself of her nightmares, they inevitably came thronging back, always more vivid, more poignant, to torture her.

How could she erase the wild ecstasy that had swept over her in Granada when he had overwhelmed her with his love, taking
possession of her entire being to the point of making every fibre of her body and every part of her mind vibrate with passion? But, more than anything, how could she forget the look in his eyes, that long, pained look, heavy with disbelief, hurt and contempt burning into her before he left her alone in the garden?

All the same, what was the use of longing now for what might have been? Had he not said that night in Ronda at the Parador de la Luna: ‘
Once the cork is drawn you have to drink the wine
'? Indeed, the cork had been drawn and, for her, the wine had turned into tears and bitter regret.

Once in London, she had written a long letter to her grandmother but Alexandra's missive hadn't been answered. She couldn't be certain the old lady had received it, as the Spanish postal system wasn't exactly trustworthy. But even if the
Duquesa
had simply chosen to ignore the letter, Alexandra couldn't find it in her heart to blame her for not responding; she had grown deeply fond of Doña María Dolores and felt profoundly guilty that she, like so many other members of the family, had disappointed her grandmother. She could only hope that, with time, the dowager would find it in her heart to forgive her.

She had heard nothing from Esmeralda. Perhaps a letter would find its way to her once her cousin was settled. Alexandra was curious to know what kind of new life the eloper had found with her lover. She dearly hoped she had discovered the happiness for which she had so longed. Her father had not written and, while hurt by his silence, she was no longer all that surprised.

Only Ramón had sent her a letter, in which he briefly announced his imminent departure for the United States. She was pleased he'd found a way to escape the family and follow his own dreams at last. A scribbled afterthought right at the bottom of his card, so characteristic of her scatty cousin, had somewhat disconcerted her, given the recent newspaper revelation. It read: ‘
Since you left, the sad eyes of our perpetually troubled cousin are sadder and his mood is gloomier by the day
.'

More than once, Alexandra had been on the point of writing to Salvador. At one point, she had even plucked up the courage to finish an entire letter and seal it in an envelope; but when the time had come to post it, she had changed her mind and the letter, like so many other drafts, went to join the pile of scrunched-up scraps in the bottom of the wastepaper basket. And now it was too late.

A knock at the door jolted Alexandra from her thoughts: it was the maid, Jenny, with her supper. ‘Thank you, Jenny. Just leave it there,' she instructed her with a faint smile. ‘You can go now, I won't need you any more tonight.'

Alexandra left the window and once more sought the refuge of her armchair. She didn't touch her food. Tonight at Gloria's party she had begun to feel relaxed for the first time since returning home and somehow hopeful for the future. Now that feeling was crushed by a dark shadow that overwhelmed her. Burying her head in her arms, she broke down and wept bitterly. Utterly heartbroken, she cried for a long time, with what seemed only brief respites of exhaustion, before despair for the lost love she had never grasped began to beat against her heart again and the tears flowed once more.

Suddenly everything seemed pointless. A wave of bitterness swept over her; she was crushed by a sense of total helplessness. She pushed the electric switch and a crystal chandelier flooded the room with a bright light, dazzling her eyes. Turning it off again, she lit the two candles on her writing desk; their aureoles of subdued golden light were easier on the eye. She had always preferred candlelight to the strong electric glare; it appealed to the romantic in her. The advantages of modern life were undeniable; still, part of Alexandra would have been happy to live in the nineteenth century, with its horse-drawn carriages, oil lamps, bustles and corsets; where ideals of love and beauty were cherished alongside Gothic adventures of drama and mystery.

She glanced at her image in the big mirror hanging majestically above the mantelpiece. Her eyes looked hollow, rimmed with dark
circles, and her mouth was a sad little crease. Collapsing back in her chair, she curled up and closed her eyes, trying to calm her mind. She dozed in and out of sleep, her thoughts struggling to find a way out of the quicksand of contradiction and absurdity that gripped her, threatening to suck her down.

Alexandra jolted awake and rubbed her eyes, unsure how long she'd been sitting there. Her head was thumping and she was worn out. She looked up, her mind still numb. The hands on the luminous face of the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to nearly four o'clock. She must have fallen asleep, although she felt in no way refreshed. How long would this torment last? Hours? Days? Years?
I must snap out of this!
she firmly told herself.
After all, Salvador never promised me anything, and if I was naïve enough to indulge in false hopes, I have only myself to blame for being disappointed.

The next day she would join Aunt Geraldine down in Kent, where her aunt spent most of her time since Uncle Howard's death, a year and a half ago. Alexandra loved the countryside; the air would do her good. What was more, since her return from Spain she had not yet had the opportunity of talking to her aunt and she had no doubt that her common sense would help her take a step back and view things in a fresh light. For all Aunt Geraldine's often strong opinions on how her niece should live her life, Alexandra knew deep down she was fiercely protective and loyal.

Alexandra felt relieved now that she had made up her mind. She went to her bedroom and wrapped herself in the beautiful shawl Salvador had bought her in Seville. ‘
So you will think of me when you wear it
,' he had told her. If only he knew how much time she spent thinking about him.

She went back to the window; London was deep in slumber. One more night was drawing to an end and nearly four hours of a new day had already passed. Once more her thoughts turned to the Count. Ramón was probably reading something into nothing. No doubt Salvador was sleeping peacefully in his bed, quite oblivious to the distress he was causing her.

The Thames flowed sluggishly in the nocturnal darkness under the lighted bridges. Trees along the river began to tremble as a gentle wind rose out of the east. Alexandra shivered, instinctively gathering the Spanish shawl more tightly about her shoulders.

Soon the sky would flood with a clear pale light as dawn stole slowly and stealthily over the city. The black shadows that had enshrouded the sleeping capital were gradually melting away, one by one.

In the street, the lamps were losing their brilliance; simultaneously, in the now greyish sky above, the stars were slowly quenched. And then the misty veil of shadows slowly lifted and the outlines of the scene framed in Alexandra's window grew gradually firmer, until she saw it clearly and in its entirety. A new day had been born and with it another page of life had been turned.

* * *

With dawn, Alexandra had become much calmer and had eventually drifted off to sleep. It was late when she finally awoke. The soft morning light brushed her face and stole quietly to her closed eyes. She gently rubbed her eyelids, still tender and heavy with sleep. The hands of the clock on her bedside table pointed to twenty past nine. Her gaze wandered round the objects that furnished her bedroom. How she loved this room, with its white cotton curtains spotted with blue, and the matching wallpaper. It had remained unchanged since her childhood and she found its familiarity comforting.

The recent events in her life suddenly rushed back to her. ‘Salvador,' she sighed. All of a sudden she realized that although she mourned her lost love, she didn't regret her stay at El Pavón. She had come out of the experience emotionally shattered but so enriched. If nothing else, she viewed life from a different perspective and would now be able to write about it in a new way, with fresh eyes.

She had fallen in love with Salvador from that very first evening at the masked ball … no, when she came to think about it, from the
minute she had laid eyes on him at the harbour in Puerto de Santa María. Had it been love at first sight? She had always wondered what that might feel like, and now she knew what it was to have your world suddenly ignited and turned upside down at the same time. Now she knew what it was to feel alive; to feel every emotion vibrate and rage with an intensity she had never experienced before. Even the de Fallas, and the guilt, shame and anger they inspired in her, had played a part in her growing up, these past few months. It was their bizarre and oppressive ways that had provoked her headstrong rebelliousness to collide with her naïvety, with disastrous results; and yet the thought of the family she had lost and found, and lost again in the blink of an eye, tinged her heart with further sadness.