The House of Adriano (15 page)

“Well, I guess we do,” Bart agreed. “We just discovered that we have something in common.”

“Something that is always a pleasant discovery,” Duarte remarked with urbane charm. “But not always possible,” and just momentarily his glance flicked over Aileen, giving her the feeling that they had nothing at all in common and that Alesandra was the type of woman who understood him and was understood by him. Something oddly depressing threatened to settle on her at that thought, but she quickly banished it and turned to Dona Teresa with a smile as the elder woman spoke to
h
er.

“Is it permitted that we know what this thing in common was?”

“Well...” She
hesitated. Although she might have admitted to Do
n
a Teresa at any other time that a career was not the sole objective she sought for her future, she could not bring herself to do so with other people there, especially Duarte himself.

Do
n
a Teresa’s eyes twinkled. “I will excuse you answering, my child. I understand. It was personal.”

“Not exactly. Shall we say ... we just discovered that we’re both old-fashioned,” she temporised.

Duarte’s black eyebrows went up. “You surprise me,” he remarked urbanely. “I thought your beliefs were ... rather
modern
.”

“Only in some things,
senor
,” she told him evenly. “In other things they are quite old-fashioned.”

The dark head inclined slightly, as if he acknowledged somethings, but she did not know quite what it was supposed to be, then quite suddenly he smiled. Aileen felt the breath catch in her throat and wondered at herself for it. After all, plenty of men had smiled at her before. Yet she could not help remembering that exactly the same sensation had come to her that time he had smiled at her in the car, after more or less upbraiding her for being out alone. Something began to warn her that Duarte Adriano could be dangerous even to a girl who disliked him.

The guests had all departed and Do
n
a Teresa had retired to her room. Aileen went to see that Peter was sleeping peacefully, then went through to her own room, but she was strangely restless and in no mood for sleep. The moonlight shining through the glass doors that led on to her balcony drew her irresistibly and she opened them and went outside, resting her hands on the wrought-iron that surrounded it. The trees and shrubs down in the patio looked ghostly in the moonlight, and almost opposite was the arched doorway that led through into extensive gardens.

She turned from the balcony on an impulse as irresistible as the one that had originally taken her out on to it, made her way across the lounge and out into the corridor, closing the door silently behind her. There she paused. There were two ways of reaching the patio and the door that led into the garden, but the more direct route meant taking the corridor that passed Duarte’s own apartments, and she was strangely reluctant to do that. Why that should be so was a matter for conjecture. A slight sense of guilt perhaps, in case it was quite unusual to want to go out into the garden at this time of night. There was no guarantee that Duarte was even in his room, or that he would hear her if she passed his door, but she was still reluctant to take that route. If he did catch her, it would be hard to explain where she was going. She did not like to admit the truth, knowing the sort of remarks that would be forthcoming if he found out she was going to visit gardens, dreaming fairylike in the moonlight.

In the end she took the indirect route, walking silently down the softly carpeted corridor where her own rooms were situated, to another stairway, ran quickly down it into a little vestibule and opened the heavy, nail-studded door that led out into the patio. It took only a few minutes to cross the patio, through the archway and into the garden. On the other side of the archway the gardens were terraced, leading down to a lower level. It was formal and well kept, but very lovely, leading down to a little stone seat. Side paths branched off, and she took the first of them, walking between tall standard rose bushes, down to another level still, where there were borders of dahlias and geraniums and beds of campanillas and azules. A little further down still were beds of
enredadera de campanillas
, colourful convolvulus-like flowers that had a short time of glory, blooming for a day only and then dying ... celindas, which carried a mass of white flowers in May ... salvias and more roses. She had seen it all before by daylight, yet at night it seemed different, all the colours muted to silver in the moonlight and a fairylike, dreamy air over everything.

The path she had been following stopped suddenly at a little stone wall that seemed to serve no other purpose than to cut off one part of the garden from the next. It certainly did not obscure anything of the other side - in particular it did not obscure the tall figure of the man who stood not ten feet away and, as he turned at that moment, she knew there would be no hope of escaping unseen, because the moonlight was outlining her own figure in the light dress she had worn for the dinner party.

He came towards her, and only when he put out his hand to open it did she notice the low, wrought-iron gate, the same height as the wall, a few feet from her. Another path led from the gate and in a few short moments he was at her side.

“For a moment I thought the moonlight was playing tricks with my eyes.” Undoubtedly there was something just faintly mocking in the cultured, attractive voice. “Surely, I told myself, the career-minded Senorita Aileen would not seek the gardens by moonlight.”

Aileen stiffened at the mocking note in his voice, but managed to reply with a careless shrug.

“I couldn’t sleep ... so I thought I would take a walk.”

“Alone?” The moonlight was brilliant enough for her to detect an unreadable glint in the dark eyes. “Moonlight, a garden and a beautiful
girl ... alone
. Surely it would have been a waste.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she managed to reply as carelessly as before, although she was aware of a strange inner tumult. It must be this dratted moonlight making everything seem so different. “As you remarked a moment ago, I’m career-minded.” She determined to pass over his remark about her being beautiful. She knew she was normally attractive, but did not consider that she was anything out of the ordinary.

“But I begin to wonder now whether you are as career-minded as you would have us believe,” he went on pensively. “There needs to be a certain hardness, and that I have not detected in you.”

“Not necessarily,” Aileen argued. “I’ve met plenty of women, older than myself, who have been following a career for years and years, and they hadn’t grown hard. It depends a lot on your state of mind, I think. If you are one of the girls who badly want to get married and marriage passes you by, then probably you might get hard about it, but if you have remained single through choice I don’t see that there is anything to cause you to become hard.”

“Perhaps.” But his voice was quite enigmatic and gave no hint of whether or not he agreed with her - most probably not. “I wonder what you would do if love came into this very independent life of yours?”

These Spaniards with their pigheaded notion that love was the only thing in a woman’s life! She might believe more or less the same thing herself, but she was darned if she was going to admit it to him.

“I don’t see any need to fall in love unless you want to.”

“
Gran cielo
!’
He laughed, and this time she could not decide whether it was mocking or not. “Tonight I hear things to amaze me. So you think love can be controlled. Can one put out a fire?”

“Easily,” she retorted. “A good dousing of water will always do that.”

She had the uneasy feeling that he was leading her somewhere, but could see neither the direction nor the destination and just had to feel her way. She was not sure if she herself believed in some of her answers. Could you really control love? She had never been in love, but she had seen its impact on other people and sometimes it was startling. Even the most hardheaded and invulnerable fell a victim to it.

“You twist my words,” he countered. “I am talking about the fires of love.”

I wish you wouldn’t, she said to herself. He was apparently in one of his dissecting moods. She did not know whether to continue to try to counter his probing or say something which would make him retire into his Conde de Marindos shell. She was a little wary of doing that, though. Duarte Adriano, the man, might be completely charming and completely infuriating by turns, but the Conde de Marindos could be positively chilling, making one feel like a small and naughty child.

“I think these so-called fires of love are rather overrated. I’m sure they don’t make you lose complete control of yourself.”

She could not help feeling that her voice sounded almost childish, even prim, and was not really surprised when he laughed again and the mocking undertone came back into his voice.

“It is easy to see that you know nothing about love.”

“Are you a connoisseur on the subject,
senor
?”
This was perhaps a dangerous challenge, but the words had slipped out almost of their own accord. In any case, as she had come to the conclusion once before, although he might for some passing fancy delight in verbally tilting at her independence, he would still not forget who he was.

“No man is a connoisseur.” He moved slightly, leaning against the wall and looking down at her. It could have been a most close and uncomfortable scrutiny had it been daylight, and she was glad that the moonlight did not reveal expressions too clearly.

“I suppose not ... nor any woman.” That sounded rather banal, so she simulated a yawn, deciding it was time she returned to her room. “I think I really am sleepy now. I’d better go back.”

He came back with her, walking at her side, and she found there was something oddly disturbing in having him so near to her, his fingers lightly beneath her elbow, in case she should trip on the flagged path.

Inside the little vestibule she wished
him
a quick goodnight and almost ran up the stairs, feeling rather breathless, but that of course was due to having gone upstairs so quickly. Nevertheless, it did not account for a peculiarly unsettled feeling. Lying on her back, her hands clasped behind her head and the moonlight streaming across her bed, she wondered what the feeling was ... of something creeping up on her ... something frightening and yet oddly exciting.

CHAPTER VIII

Aileen
always made a point of going to Dona Teresa’s room in the mornings, to see if there was anything she could get her, and this morning the older woman was sitting up in bed reading some letters when she entered. Her skin looked wrinkled, yet at the same time almost girlishly fresh, and her dark eyes were brilliant. She might be old, but she still had an excellent grip on life.

She dropped the letter
s
he had been reading and smiled across at the girl.

“You enjoyed the party?”

Aileen nodded. “It was wonderful.”

“Good.” She patted Aileen’s hand gently. “I like having you here, my child. We must see that you do not want to run away.”

“Thank you. I like being here. I wish I could do more, though.” She shook her head, looking worried. “I feel as if I’m not really earning my salary. I have far too much free time.”

“Nonsense! When one is young one appreciates having free time. I do not know how you could bear to be shut up in an office all day.”

Aileen smiled. “It was a case of necessity. I had to earn my own living. I think people last night got the idea that I was just doing it for fun.”

“Then it is good that now you have more time to enjoy life.”

“But that’s not the point. I wish I could do more.”

Do
n
a Teresa smiled almost mischievously. “You can keep Manola out of my hair,” she said, bringing out the slang term with delightful relish. “It is not her fault, I know - but she bores me. I like someone I can talk to about serious things,” and she thereupon completely astounded Aileen by launching into a discussion on politics, then having given her opinion of how the world’s affairs could be settled, swung entirely away from the subject and asked with startling suddenness, “Do you like Alesandra?”

Aileen hesitated. It was one thing to discuss the Spanish girl
with Bart, but an entirely different matter to do so with Dona Teresa, when the girl would probably be marrying her nephew.

Dona Teresa smiled again, with the same impishness. “I do not like her myself, so you may be quite truthful in your answer.” She laughed as Aileen’s expression apparently gave her away.
“Ah ...
so you do not like her either.”

“Well ... it’s not exactly
...
”
She broke off, hesitating again, still reluctant to admit it. After all, there was no real reason for her dislike. She had met the girl only the evening before and there had not been a single rude or discourteous word between them. If anything, Alesandra had been all smiling sweetness - and beneath it that sense of antagonism.

“It is that exactly,” Dona Teresa corrected. “And I think you sensed that she does not like you either.”

Aileen gave her a startled glance at that. “You sensed that too?”

“The old sense these things ... even more so than the young, I believe.”

“But why should she be antagonistic towards me? Come to that, why should I dislike her?” Aileen asked, a little puzzled.

“Don’t you know?” She paused, seemed about to say something, but frowned and apparently changed her mind. “Perhaps it is just a case of one of those instinctive antagonisms.”

“You mean two people just meet and dislike each other?” That was how it had been between Duarte and herself - or at least that was how it had been on her part. She did not imagine that Duarte felt strongly enough about it actively to dislike her. She had probably annoyed him because she had had the t
e
merity to stand up against his plans for Peter, but as for any active dislike that implied a personal interest and outside of an occasional desire to while away the time by a few jabs at her apparent career-mindedness, she was quite sure he was totally indifferent to her or how she felt about him. She was just the encumbrance which had unfortunately had to be brought along with Peter.

“Perhaps it was just that instinctive antagonism,” Dona Teresa said slowly. “Or perhaps it was something else ... something quite different.”

“In what way?”

“She knows, I think, that I do not care too much for her.
Perhaps she fears that I may favour you more.” A bright, birdlike glance slanted towards her. “You do not think that may be the answer?”

“I don’t quite understand.” Again Aileen looked puzzled. “I’m glad you like me,” she added with a smile, “but I don’t see how that could affect Alesandra.”

“Don’t you?” Dona Teresa gave an enigmatic little smile. “Alesandra hopes to marry my nephew.”

“I still don’t...” Then she paused, the astounding meaning breaking in on her mind. “You ... you mean
...?”
She could not finish it, because it was so utterly fantastic and would be even more so put into words.

“Precisely. She may fear that I would favour a match between you and Duarte.” Again that bright, birdlike glance was slanted towards her. “Absurd, isn’t it?”

“Yes ... yes, of course. Completely absurd,”
Aileen
said rather disjointedly. “We don’t even like each other.”

Yet some odd kind of stinging pain was lancing through her and there was startled confusion in her mind. It was completely absurd and a short time ago it would probably have made her furious, that anyone should think such a thing, but now ... well, it did not make her furious. She did not know quite what the feeling was that came to her.

Dona Teresa patted her hand again. “You must not let Alesandra’s dislike worry you. She is just a silly child. And now run along and enjoy the sunlight before it becomes too hot. I think I shall rest for a while.”

She settled down on her pillows, and Aileen went slowly from the room, trying to sort out the turmoil inside her. She certainly would not have wanted anything like that to happen, but it hurt that Dona Teresa, even though she said she liked her, should remark that such a situation was completely absurd. That was she told herself. That little hurt was what had caused the strange feelings that had come to her - and probably also after-effects from the party and the late night, she reasoned eventually, and went along to the schoolroom, instead of out into the sunlight as Dona Teresa had instructed, collecting Peter on the way.

“
Buenos dias
,” he greeted her with his infectious grin. “This is a silly language. Why can’t they speak English?”

“Because it’s Spain,” she retorted. “And don’t let your uncle hear you call it silly. It’s his language and I’m sure he thinks it’s the best one there is.”

She had not known what to instruct the boy to call Duarte, but had compromised on uncle, even though it was not really that relationship. Eric and Duarte had been cousins and that made Peter ... what? She had never been able to work out those complicated cousin-relationships.

Peter looked up at her with his head on one side. “He’s not so bad after all, is he? I didn’t like him when I thought he was going to take you away from me, but it’s all right now.”

“No ... he’s not so bad really,” Aileen agreed slowly, and was surprised to find that she really meant it. After all, he had allowed her to come over here with Peter, when he could quite easily, as his legal guardian, have refused to let her have any further contact with the boy, especially after the way she had acted.

They went along to the schoolroom together and the young tutor greeted them with his shy smile. Aileen remained there for the Spanish lesson, then left Peter and went back to her own rooms. When she reached them, a surprise awaited her. In one
corner
of her sitting room was a new addition, a small cabinet of some glossy amber-coloured wood, and her radio had been moved along slightly so that the power point was between them. Intrigued, she opened the cabinet and on the first shelf found a silver tray, with a teapot and electric kettle, also of silver, and a fragile little tea service. On the next shelf were tea things and a sealed box of imported English biscuits.

As she stood looking at them, surprised and delighted, a remark Dona Teresa had passed some days ago flashed through her mind, a half joking remark that probably she missed her cups of tea. She had denied it and said she had always liked coffee also - and now Dona Teresa must have arranged this for her, sensing perhaps that she had not quite spoken the truth when she had declared she liked coffee just as much as tea.