The Flesh and the Devil (57 page)

         
‗Yes, yes, I am coming! Call on us, señor, before you
leave – perhaps I may be able to help you make good your…loss?‘

         
‗I fear I have other commitments.‘ The slanting eyes
flickered automatically to the blind white walls of the Casa de Herroros, and
the Condesa followed his glance.

         
‗Oh, come, I cannot believe that
la viuda
 
will break her old rule for you! It is all
over own that she refuses to see or be seen until tomorrow night, when we are
all bidden to meet this new protegée of hers. You have not lost that impudence
of your if you are seeking to anticipate that!‘

         
‗Tomorrow night?‘

         
‗Why, yes, I am invited with my husband.‘ She slanted
a look at him from under her lashes. ‗You could accompany us, perhaps, if
you have such a strong –

         
curiosity.‘

         
‗Elena…‘

         
‗Yes, very well, Iñigo! We cannot talk here,‘ the
Condesa said rapidly, ‗but come and visit me soon, and we shall discuss
how I can help you…achieve your aim.‘

         
Tristán inclined his head, his eyes unreadable. ‗I
shall. And you live…?‘

         
‗Oh, our town house is in the Calle Negro – anyone
will direct you.‘ She watched him bow over her extended fingers with an odd
smile trembling at the corners of her mouth, then whispered as he straightened,
‗Tonight – at eleven.‘

         
The green eyes met hers in an enigmatic stare for a moment,
and then the heavy lids masked them.

         
The Condesa added more loudly, ‗When we meet again we
must talk over old times – when I was so young, and so very, very foolish.‘

         
Tristán bowed briefly to the Conde, then turned on his
heel.

         
The old man watched him do, then tugged at his wife‘s arm. ‗Elena,
must you talk so in the street? What have you been saying to him?‘

         
The Condesa laughed richly. ‗You must not be jealous,
my poor Iñigo! I have known that gentleman since he was a persistent stripling
of eighteen – would you have me ignore such an old acquaintance? Besides, he
might divert me from my boredom when you go to Toledo next week about your
boring business…‘

         
Juana was shivering as she laced once more into the
pearl-coloured gown; she had not expected to feel frightened of meeting Dona
Jerónima‘s guests, yet now, when she had need of her feeling of detachment, it
had deserted her. When she woke that morning she had felt so sick that she had
feared to put her feet to the ground, and had lain there, sweating and
suffering and despising her own cowardice, until the nausea passed. All day she
has eaten little, and now she felt light-headed and panic-stricken.

         
‗I wish you would drink something, señorita.‘
Sanchia‘s anxious voice broke in on her thoughts like an echo. ‗There is
sure to be so much wine at the feast that you will feel queasy if you do not
take something first. Just a little milk -

         
?‘

         
Juana smiled at the plain, good-natured face. ‗Just a
little milk, then, Sanchia, but we must be careful – think what Dona Jerónima
would say if I were to stain this gown!‘

         
Sanchia crossed herself without speaking and bustled away.

         
Trying to distract her thoughts, Juana moves to the mirror.
Small wonder, she considered, that her head ached already as if it were bound
with an iron band. It had taken Dona Jerónima‘s hairdresser close on two hours
to transform her hair from its natural state to this fashionable cumbrousness,
oiling it to an unnatural sleekness and spreading it over the curved, yoke-shaped
frame that fastened to the crown of her head. Often, Señor Lajos had informed
her, it was necessary to eke out a lady‘s hair with curls from someone else‘s
head – even someone else‘s horse! – but for the señorita, no such aid was
needed. Thick blue-black curls framed her whole head like a stiffened halo,
coral-pink roses glowing against their dark-ness like studded jewels in ebony.
Her hair had been dressed like this for her arrival the Castillo Benaventes,
she remembered, and here she was still someone else‘s doll; first her father‘s,
now Dona Jerónima‘s, to be pranked up and shown off.

         
Sanchia has returned with the milk and Juana sipped at it,
at first cautiously and then with growing relish. It settled her, soothing her
inner queasiness. She was becoming a coward, she told herself; she had been
used to pride herself on her courage, but now, since she met Felipe Tristán…

         
He had not been in the Plaza Mayor that day, she reminded
herself, grimacing over the milk as if it has suddenly soured. She had kept a
close watch, but she had not seen him – perhaps he had accepted defeat, given
up the game. Juana sighed and told herself that it was for relief; it was
better, she told herself, to have made a quick ending. But then everything had
happened so quickly – it was not two months since she had been Miguel de
Arrelanos‘s pampered daughter, with no thought in her head but marrying Jaime
de Nueva. In those short weeks she had lost everything to Tristán, like a
desperate gambler staking more and more on a poor hand of cards: her family,
her home, and what she had believed was love; her chastity, her courage and
finally, reluctantly, her heart.

         
She had not known how fragile a gift that was to give, and
she had not been aware that she gave it; by the time she knew he had it, it had
been too late. Now she had run from him and left it behind her so that she need
not see the icy enjoyment with which he prepared to break it. It had meant
leaving the new, free future that she had glimpsed to briefly, but Juana hid
not care – at least, she thought, she had chosen her own path this time, even
if it led to a wilderness.

         
She hoped wryly, as she handed the glass back to Sanchia
that Dona Jerónima would quickly tire of her game of dolls.

         
Long after dusk had fallen, the Plaza Mayor was still
bright with torches as carriages, chairs and litters spilled their burdens
outside the Casa de Herreros. Doors stood wide; two newly-hired lackeys waited
outside, four more in the hall, and Don Bautista Zorilla, glistening-eyed,
forgot to calculate the hole that their wages and liveries would make in five
thousand reales. He trod hurriedly to where his hostess stood, magnificent in
tawny-yellow satin.

         
‗Jerónima, you look radiant.‘ His voice was heartfelt.
And her eyes twinkled.

         
‗Well said, Bautista. I will concede that sometimes
you remember your manners! Your wife is not with you?‘

         
‗No.‘ He flushed uncomfortably. ‗She could not
come. She said -‘

         
‗That only a fool would expect her to set foot in
that
woman’s
house, yes?

         
Good! Most wives have said the same, and I cannot regret
their absence. They would have inhibited their husbands‘ appreciation of my new
work of art.‘ Dona Jerónima fluttered her fan before her face and smile at a passing
gentleman.

         
‗Though I cannot claim very much credit, I confess –
this little jewel scarcely needed polishing. Go and see it in its setting.‘ She
waves him away, but he hovered.

         
‗She is alone?‘

         
‗I have set her to dance with Alonso Feria. He is
harmless enough and too moonstruck to talk to her while they dance, and in the
meantime the rest can take good view of her.‘

         
Don Bautista gave a snort of amusement, turned it into a
cough and went hastily up the stairs towards the source of the distant music.
Dona Jerónima watched him out of earshot before she released her sigh of amused
resignation, then turned to greet the next arrivals. A success, she was
thinking as she smiled and talked; an assured success. Now that her reputation
had brought them here –

         
they might gossip about her behind her back, but they all
came flocking when she bade them – the little Margarita would draw them back
time and again. This evening should mark the beginning of a long, profitable –
she savoured the word –

         
auction.

         
Juana, moving carelessly through the measured paces of
dance with a solemn-eyed youth who stared fixedly at her, did not at first
notice anything amiss with her surroundings. It was only as the music drew to a
close that she could take the opportunity to scan the room at large, and see
that her hostess‘s arithmetic was palpably at fault. Amongst a score or more of
men there were only two or three women, and those past their first youth – did
the widow, then, dislike rivals under her roof? Yet her own presence seemed to
contradict that thought. She inclined her head to the young man bowing and
stammering his thanks before her and turned with some relief to greet Don
Bautista. His was the only face she recognized, for he had called on Dona
Jerónima several times since she came, and she was grateful for his tact in
never once referring to the day of her arrival, when he had been present. Now
she smile in simple recognition, and he hesitated visibly before approaching to
bow low over her hand.

         
Before he could do more than utter a few disjointed
compliments, however, a rustling of skirts and a wave of scent heralded the
arrival of Dona Jerónima. Her face was complacently smiling, but there was a
hint of steeliness in her eyes and the curve of her painted lips.

         
‗I have left my steward to greet the last comers, as
this is such an informal affair. Now, Bautista, do not hover over Margarita
like that – you are blocking her view of the room.‘

         
More importantly, the room‘s view of Margarita, Don
Bautista realized. He edged to one side and asked hopefully, ‗May I take
the señorita in to supper later on? The privilege of a prior acquaintance -‘