The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (22 page)

Part Two

Chapter 25

Valencia,
Spain,
1913

E
rnesto Martinéz de Amo, master of La Glorieta surveyed his land from the top of the craggy bluff astride his black stallion, Don Diablo. Both man and beast struck a magnificent pose as the western horizon cast its warmth across the land, caressing them in an amber glow and confirming to Ernesto that unless he hurried he would be late for dinner.

Ernesto was tall, taller than the average Spaniard, with years of physical labour clearly evident in his well-toned muscles and broad shoulders. He wore a contented smile, giving his face a boyish charm. His skin was dark from spending long hours in the sun, and it accentuated his white teeth and bright eyes that sparkled with a passion for life. His black hair curled up at the nape of his neck and fell teasingly across his forehead underneath his wide-brimmed hat, which sat cockily at the back of his head.

He was, in character, a fair man, but he was not a man to suffer fools. He despised some of his own class for their blatant arrogant snobbery—rich and powerful men who believed that it was their divine right to sit back and do nothing while half the country starved and lived in abject poverty. His peers despaired at the way he ran his hacienda, and his unilateral treatment of the peasants who worked his lands brought screams of treason from some quarters known for their continuous objections to any type of change whatsoever.

Ernesto paid his peasant workforce more than the national average of two pesetas and a plate of watery soup a day because he could afford to do so, but his convictions and conscience had segregated him from a large proportion of Valencia society, a society of aristocratic arrogance and hypocrisy. These gentlefolk were Spain’s shame, he had thought many times; they ate until their bellies were full whilst their peasants lived their lives in perpetual hunger. His peers lived their lives blindly believing that their way was the right way, God-given, and they therefore thought that they were untouchable and unstoppable. Ernesto believed that rich Spaniards were, for the great part, guilty of the monstrous abuse of peasants already sinking in a pit of hellish misery. He also believed that civil unrest would eventually lead to something even more sinister, and that when the day of reckoning arrived, he would be branded as a wealthy landowner and aristocrat and therefore treated in the same way as the blind fools he had disagreed with all his adult life. That was what worried him most.

He walked his horse amongst the citrus groves with a soft breeze on his face, and his peasants removed their hats and waved as he passed. This was his favourite time of the day, when the scent of the orange blossom from the groves overpowered the land and the sun sank between the peaks of the White Mountains at the edge of the Mediterranean.

As he neared his home, he thought briefly about his guests. They would be waiting for him. He didn’t know much about Señor Ayres the lawyer, having only met him twice, but Señor Rawlings had recommended him, and what was good enough for his friend was good enough for him.

He had searched long and hard for good contacts in the shipping industry but had been disappointed on numerous occasions. Long weeks spent in London and Liverpool had left him feeling disillusioned and, at times, outraged at the extortionate prices and terms he had received from the ship owners who believed Spain to be nothing more than a country filled with backward-looking squabbling peasants. He had been lucky to find Rawlings, a rich man no longer feeling the need to conquer or destroy competition or overcharge naive foreigners. He was a man who had done it all and now wanted nothing more than to spend time with his family. He looked forward to meeting him again.

The young woman who had arrived with them was a different matter entirely, Ernesto thought. In fact, she was a complete mystery. Yes, Señor Ayres had told him about her sad circumstances: that she was barely a woman yet was a widow with a baby and that she needed a new start to get over the terrible loss of her husband and wanted nothing more than to have a respite from her grief. Señor Ayres had also told him that she was well educated and more than able to teach his Miguel elementary lessons in the English language, but that was all he had learned about her. How terrible, he thought, to lose her husband at such a young age and with such a young baby too. He understood how hard that was; he had been through it himself.

He rode on to higher ground through the rocky passes that led to the back of the house and thought some more about the woman who had come to join them for an indefinite period. Would his family do as they always did? He laughed to himself. Would they look after her, nurture her back to health, and do everything they could to ease her pain? And then, when she felt a little better, bombard her with insufferable questions until the poor girl screamed with desire to go back home to London? When the Martinéz family home came into view, he spurred his horse on. He’d spent far too much time thinking about his guests instead of getting home to greet them. They would think him rude, and that wasn’t the way he wanted to start the evening.

The house stood four floors high, with a turret on each of the four corners of the roof. A large sprawling house, it looked more like a castle in design. Inside its walls were twelve bedrooms, two dining rooms, kitchens in the basement, and four large salons used for entertaining guests and dignitaries. Ernesto’s mother, Marta, and his five sisters conducted their most important discussions in the pink salon situated above the kitchen and looking over the patio garden. The range of subjects was endless. Who had married whom was always top of the list, for if a lady didn’t marry well, she was never seen in good society again.

The subject of fashion and accessories closely followed the question of marriage, and it always became the most heated of conversations. The ever-changing world of fashion and what one should wear to dazzle a man and, more importantly, other women was a subject that, according to them, should not be taken lightly. However, the most frequent conversations were about the grandchildren and their progress, with height, weight, and beauty periodically monitored and scrutinised. To the women of the house, family was everything, and the more children they bore, the happier they became.

Ernesto and his father, Don Miguel, chose their own salons at the other side of the house, where they could conduct their individual affairs in relative peace and quiet without having to listen to the raised and squeaky voices of the womenfolk, who, according to Ernesto’s father, were capable of waking the dead in the village cemetery two kilometres away. Four of Ernesto’s sisters were married, and only Rosa, the spinster of the family, lived at home. It was now only on family occasions or holidays that the others sisters came, together with their husbands and children in tow, but as far as Don Miguel was concerned, there were still too many family occasions.

The larger of the two dining rooms was used only for formal occasions, and the other, the smaller and more intimate one, was where the family ate in winter. The surrounding gardens and patios were in a spacious hollowed courtyard in the centre of the building, hidden from view by the outer walls of the structure. This was the family’s private sanctuary, an area where they could sit in comfort and discuss topics away from the eyes and ears of the house servants, who nonetheless always managed to spread some trickle of gossip around the village.

Family meals were lengthy and entertaining, and at this time of year, they ate outside in the patio area, shaded by tall palm trees overlooking the perfectly manicured gardens. The colourful geraniums, bougainvillea, and roses mingled together against stone walls, and scented jasmine climbed the patio’s stone-clad facade. The majestic fountain in the centre was a great source of comfort in the oppressive summer heat, and the sound of the water splashing against the rocks gave the area an impression of coolness, even on the warmest of nights. Life was good, but by August, even the aristocratic, opulent surroundings of La Glorieta became intolerable, and the entire family retreated to the coast, where they spent the remainder of the summer.

Ernesto dismounted his horse, patted it on the back, and handed the reins to a waiting stable boy.

“Buenos tardes, Sara,” he said, walking hurriedly past the maid and towards the stairs. “Have my guests arrived yet?”

“Sí, Señor. They are in the rooms that Doña Marta told me to put them in. I told them that dinner would be served at nine thirty, just as your mother instructed.”

“Good. Show them to the blue salon when they come down,” Ernesto shouted over his shoulder. “And tell Juana to bring my son to me.”

Ernesto threw off his clothes and washed quickly. He didn’t have much time, and he wanted to spend at least a few minutes with his son, Miguel, of whom he saw precious little. He sat on the edge of the bed, picked up a framed photograph, and stared at it without registering emotion. Carmen, his dead wife, stared back at him. Her hair, blue black, curled all the way down her back, framing cold, calculating eyes that taunted him in death as they had in life. Their marriage had been arranged while they were still children. Their fathers were old friends and allies who believed that the only way to keep their lands from the peasants was to marry their children to the children of other landowners. The landowners, the Catholic Church and aristocrats, owned almost 50 per cent of Spain, whereas the peasants owned nothing, and that was the way their fathers wanted it to remain.

Ernesto still searched that face for the smallest signs of friendship, compassion, and love, but there were none. She had died as she had lived, hating him, resenting him, and cursing him for the child he now loved so much. Carmen had had a beautiful face, but there had always been a well-rehearsed aloofness about her that made that beauty unattractive to Ernesto’s eyes. He knew well that she had never loved him; she had never pretended otherwise. Like him, she’d been bound by a code of obedience, and their marriage had taken place with great pomp and ceremony, with both of them being led to the alter like lambs to the slaughter.

Their union, though short, had never given either of them a single day of happiness. Within weeks of the marriage, Carmen was spending most of her time alone in Valencia, refusing to stay at La Glorieta unless she was ordered to do so by her father. Ernesto placated her as best he could, and he, ironically, was probably the only person who empathised with her situation. They were both young and headstrong and had fought against the arrangement right up to the last minute. Carmen mourned her dreams of passion and excitement, the trips to Paris, and balls where she could shine and drive the young men wild with desire. Ernesto had stood by her side, faithful and loyal against a backlash of disapproval from society, parents, and the Catholic Church.

Ernesto believed that the Catholic Church and society in general were not prepared for someone like Carmen. They had found it impossible to overlook such disrespect from a wife, especially when she flaunted her disobedience, had affairs with married men in seedy hotels, and never once excused herself for the unforgivable crimes committed against the Church and family.

When Carmen gave birth to a son, Ernesto had laughed at the irony of it all. To this day, he couldn’t be sure if the son he adored was his or not. He believed that he was, but gossip still lingered over long dinners in Valencia homes, and Ernesto knew that little Miguel would always be scrutinised in whispered debates over the origin of his conception. He put the photograph back in its place and let out a long tired sigh. Carmen had died, her body ravaged with infection and fever, just days after giving birth. She was the only person who could have answered the burning question surrounding Miguel’s patronage, but that answer had been buried with her, so he had chosen to believe that Miguel was his.

At precisely nine thirty, Celia was formally introduced to the Martinéz family at the dinner table. Afterwards, she sat down in quiet contemplation, placed her napkin on her lap, and made closer observations of the Spanish family with whom she had come to live. Her eyes took her first to Marta, Ernesto’s mother, who sat at the bottom end of the long dining table, which was surrounded by oversized flower displays and candles of all shapes and sizes.

Marta was small in height but large, and she was not remotely attractive in any way, save for sparkling humorous eyes that had devoured Celia from the top of her head right down to the tips of her toes. She had a head of silver hair that was pulled away from her round face and rolled into a loose bun at the nape of the neck. Her dress was plain, buttoned to the neck, and black in colour. She wore a strange-looking comb in her hair, and it sat high above her head. It, in turn, held together a black veil that flowed heavily across her shoulders and down her back. Celia lowered her eyes and stared at her feet, trying to stifle a nervous giggle. There was no malice in Marta’s stare, she thought, but she was looking her over as if she were a cow at auction, and she displayed no shame and no embarrassment in doing so.

Celia then turned her attention to Rosa, Ernesto’s sister. She was dark-skinned like her brother, with deep-set lines on her cheeks and crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth, giving her the appearance of a woman much older than she really was. She was as round as she was tall and, like her mother, was dressed in black. Celia was mesmerised by Rosa’s only accessory, a pearl rosary. The beads were twisted around her chubby fingers, and every now and again, they moved and then stopped moving, with Rosa mouthing silently in unspoken words. She must be praying before dinner, Celia thought, coming up with no better answer.

As the meal progressed, Celia’s undisciplined eyes became more and more attracted to the tall dark man seated at the bottom end of the table. Ernesto Martinéz was not at all how she had imagined him. He didn’t possess the classic looks of an English gentleman, but his strong features were what she could only describe as extremely interesting, hypnotic almost. His thick black hair framed a long, narrow face with prominent cheekbones. His moustache was as thin as a pencil line and stretched with his lips when he smiled, a smile that was both warm and endearing. His candid, self-mocking dark brown eyes had a life of their own, dancing and sparkling in the candlelight, and they were framed with long curling lashes. But it wasn’t just his looks that held Celia spellbound; his warm character and infectious laughter enveloped her and washed over her like a summer sun.