White Witch (11 page)

Laurel felt a great surge of emotion at this unexpected sight of him. Involuntarily her hands went out to him and he took them in his, drawing her towards him. She had forgotten the pain of their last encounter, the insults he had heaped upon her, remembering only that she loved him and had longed for him to come and find her. Luis eyes were glowing, and for a moment it seemed as if he were going to embrace her in the open doorway of St Agnes’, in full view of the people in the street. Then he dropped her hands as if they were red-hot and the light went out of his eyes like a switched off lamp.

Laurel became aware of her bedraggled appearance which must have revolted him. Her apron was not clean, under it she was wearing the shapeless grey dress that was doled out to the staff as a kind of uniform, her hair was a mess and she wore no make-up, she had no time for such frivolities during her working hours, and there was probably a smut on her nose.

‘
Nombre de Dios
, what have you done to yourself?’ Luis demanded.

A good question, more correctly it was what he had done to her.

‘Nothing. I’m working for my living,’ she retorted.

He took in the dingy passage with its row of children’s coats, the vinyl-covered floor; the pervading smell of stale food caused his aristocratic nose to wrinkle.

‘Here?’

‘Yes, here.’ She looked at him defiantly. ‘It’s very worthy work, very necessary, very rewarding.’

She was babbling, thrown off balance. She had forgotten how good-looking he was, Prince Charming invading Cinderella’s kitchen, and her heart was beating wildly. Somewhere an infant howled.

‘I am sure it is,’ he observed drily. ‘Laurel, I have to speak to you. Is there somewhere private?’

Had he come to make a belated apology at last?

Silently she led the way into Mrs. Carter’s sitting room where visitors were usually received. Once a gracious room, it had acquired the institutional touch and needed redecorating, but there were two fairly comfortable armchairs. She indicated one of them.

‘Please sit down.’ She was struggling to untie her apron, but of course the string had to be knotted. ‘How is everyone? Is Peter all right?’

At last the apron was free and she folded it up hastily.

‘It is about Pedro I have come.’

Alarmed, her confusion forgotten, she demanded: ‘Has something happened to him? Is he ill?’

‘I am afraid he is very poorly.’

She should not have left him, he hadn’t been looked after properly. She whispered: ‘Not ... not dead?’

‘Oh no, not as bad as that. Sit down, Laurel,’ and as she made no move, he took her arm and propelled her into one of the armchairs.

‘
Pequena
, there is nothing of you, you are mere skin and bone!’ He looked genuinely concerned.

‘Never mind about me. Tell me about Peter.’

‘He had to have an emergency operation for appendicitis. He came through all right, but he is not recovering as he should. It is still hot in Malaga where he is in hospital, and he asks continually for Tia to come and cool him.’ Luis looked straight into her eyes. ‘A memory, I believe, of his previous illness when you nursed him through measles and ’flu.’

He was telling her obliquely that he had confirmed the truth of her story, but Laurel did not care about that now, her whole mind was concentrated upon Peter.

‘I must go to him,’ she declared, twisting the apron in her hands, thinking of the miles of sea and land that separated her from the boy. ‘Somehow.’

‘Of course you must,’ Luis told her briskly. ‘I have come to fetch you. I hope your passport is up to date?’ She nodded. ‘I have a hired car outside to take us to Gatwick. How soon can you be ready?’

Mrs. Carter came bustling in. ‘Okay, Laurel, you can go now.’ She glanced at Luis. ‘Would you be the gentleman who rang up about an adoption?’

‘I am afraid not, madam. I have come to borrow your assistant.’ He explained about Peter.

‘But if the child’s had the operation, he’ll soon be better,’ Mrs. Carter protested. ‘Children are very resilient, and it’s a long way to go if it isn’t really necessary.’

She had found Laurel’s services extremely useful and was loath to part with her. She hoped to make of her in time a dedicated worker like herself.

‘You know we’re in the middle of a staff crisis,’ she went on. ‘You can’t really be spared.’

But staff crises were perennial at St Agnes’. ‘Oh, I
must
go,’ Laurel protested.

‘Though the boy is her sister’s child, Laurel has always been like a mother to him,’ Luis said quietly, thereby conveying that he knew the truth. ‘I assure you, madam, her presence is necessary for both their sakes.’

‘Oh, very well,’ Mrs. Carter sighed resignedly. ‘How long will you be away?’

Luis answered for her. ‘Two or three weeks, depending upon the boy’s progress.’ He looked fixedly at Laurel. ‘I see Pedro still comes first with you, though I know you have other commitments.’ He didn’t mean the Home, though Laurel was too perturbed to notice that. His eyes went from her face to her left hand, as though he expected to see a ring there. He went on: ‘As soon as Pedrillo can be moved you shall take him up into the mountains, Laurel, where it will be cooler and you look as though you could do with some mountain air yourself. You can stay at the Toro Negro in Ronda.’

‘The what?’ Mrs. Carter asked.

‘It’s a hotel,’ Laurel told her, wishing Luis had suggested somewhere else. ‘Luis owns about a dozen and uses them like weekend cottages.’

‘Dear me!’ Mrs. Carter looked from one to the other, noting that Laurel had used the visitor’s first name, but incredible as it seemed, he was one of poor Joanna’s in-laws, though Laurel had omitted to introduce him. If her husband had looked like this one, why on earth had the little fool run away from him?

‘Well, come back as soon as you can,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But after all, I can’t expect to keep you for ever. You’ll be leaving us when you get married.’

For unfortunately a girl with Laurel’s looks was bound to marry some time.

Luis’ face closed up like a clam and he looked at his watch pointedly.

‘Will you please hurry, Laurel, or we will miss the plane.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Laurel raced up the three flights of stairs to her attic bedroom. Looking at herself in the glass, she saw she had got a smut on her nose ... and—oh heavens, her hair! She could not have presented a less glamorous appearance when she opened the door to Luis if she had tried. Not surprising he had jibbed at kissing her, for she was sure he had been going to do so, when he had taken her hands. But none of that mattered now in the face of Peter’s need. She tore off her uniform dress, wishing she had time for a bath. In cord trousers, sweater and pseudo-suede coat, she looked more presentable. She threw what she thought she would need into her suitcase, which was still more battered than when she had hauled it off the conveyor belt at Malaga in the spring. She was about to embark upon the journey which she had never expected to take again and with Luis of all people, who was so indifferent he had not bothered until now to let her know he had discovered his base suspicions were unfounded. He must have become officially engaged to Cristina by this time, and she wished he had not selected Ronda for Peter’s convalescence, but supposed it was a logical choice. Would the roses be still in bloom?

CHAPTER TEN

Ronda
was mild and sunny for the most part, cooled by fresh breezes off the sierras. Occasionally there were heavy rain storms and the Guadalevin had become more than a trickle, leaping over the rocks from the New to the Roman bridge in a flurry of white water. Often Laurel wondered what Luis had been going to say, after she had told him she had never slept with a man, and Esteban had come barging into the conversation. ‘In that case...’ That he must leave her alone? That she needed initiation? She would never know now. Ronda was cold in winter, she was told, and there would be snow on the mountains, but the winter was very short, and it had not yet started.

Tourists still came to the Toro Negro, but in fewer numbers. Laurel and Peter were lodged in a private suite overlooking the gardens, and in the pure air he was fast regaining health and strength. The halcyon days were numbered, for when he was judged fully recovered, he would return to Mijas and she would go back to St Agnes’. She existed in a state of pleasant melancholy, for Luis never came to visit them, lost in dreams of what might have been if Luis had not been a proud Spaniard, and she not Joanna’s sister. Their only contact with the outside world was Dona Elvira’s frequent phone calls, which were all about Peter, and Ronda was a place for dreaming, especially the old town, with its winding streets and ancient fortifications, where she wandered at will while Peter was resting.

Laurel had only needed to spend a few days in Malaga, until Peter was considered strong enough to stand the journey to Ronda. This was accomplished in a luxurious limousine, with a nurse in attendance and frequent stops for refreshment. As for the flight to Malaga, that had passed without incident, Luis being courteous but distant, their conversation only of Peter-Pedro, and most of the time she had dozed. He made no reference to their last meeting, nor did he mention either his family or Cristina, and she, with her mind wholly occupied with Peter, had not wanted to introduce any controversial subject.

Peter had greeted her with plaintive reproaches.

‘Tia, you said you’d not go while I wanted you, and I wanted you awful bad when my tummy hurted.’

‘I came as soon as I heard about it, darling, but I have to look after lots of other children with no mummies or daddies. They need me too.’

‘But I’m the most important,’ Peter declared with Aguilas arrogance. ‘You’ll stay until I’m well again?’

‘Of course.’ She was relieved to note he did not expect her stay to be permanent.

She did not see Luis again after he had decanted her at her hotel, another Aguilas property. Dona Elvira was also staying there, so that she could visit Peter daily, and seemed glad of Laurel’s company, when they were not at the hospital. Esteban, she told her, was in the States, learning how the Americans did it, and what they expected in return for their dollars when on holiday. Mercedes was immured in her convent.

‘So, I am much alone,’ she sighed, ‘except for Pedrillo, and he will be going away to school when he is seven.’

Too young for boarding school, Laurel thought anxiously, but obviously he would need younger company than his grandmother. Because she was longing to hear him mentioned, she said:

‘But you still have Luis?’

The Spanish woman waved her small pudgy hands expressively.

‘He is here, there, everywhere. Never do I believe he will settle down.’

‘But when he is married?’ Laurel asked, and waited with bated breath for her reply.

‘Luis,’ Dona Elvira said despondently, ‘seems averse to matrimony. I thought he was prepared to wed Cristina, but
ay de mi
, still there is no engagement.’ She gave Laurel a veiled look. ‘It would appear he has a mistress somewhere who is the obstacle. Cristina is sure of it.’

‘Not guilty,’ Laurel told her, with a forced laugh. ‘I haven’t seen your son since I left Mijas except for the journey here.’

The Senora looked at her doubtfully. ‘He was in England for quite a long time.’

‘I heard he’d been there from a mutual acquaintance, but I thought it was just a flying visit.’ She stifled a pang. They had been in the same city, he for quite a long time, and he had not thought her worth a call.

‘Then it must be that Manuelita Gomez in Torremolinos,’ Dona Elvira declared. ‘She is a flamenco dancer and half gypsy. All the men are crazy about her, the slut, and he may find the competition a challenge. Naturally she will give him preference.’ She lifted her dark head, in which there was as yet no grey, proudly. ‘My Luis is a king of men.’

A confidence Laurel would have preferred to do without. Cristina she had had to accept, but she knew it was not a love match; that Luis was involved elsewhere pained her. She pictured a sultry, sexy beauty in the glamorous flounced dress the dancers wore, who would have completely eliminated any lingering memory of Laurel Lester, who had become washed out and uninteresting in the service of others. She glanced at her toil worn hands lying in her lap, which had once been so white and smooth. She could have taken better care of them, but it had not seemed worth while.

‘Won’t you come with us to Ronda?’ she had asked, thinking she would welcome the other woman’s company now she seemed disposed to be friendly. She had already been told there would only be herself and Peter there.

‘No, no, I do not like mountains, and the Casa will need my supervision.’ She gave Laurel a half sly smile. ‘You are a good, kind girl, Laurelita, and I always thought Joanna’s letter was a lie, whatever Mercedes said. Luis received glowing reports of you from your friends.’

‘But he never came to see me,’ Laurel blurted out.

‘Perhaps he had his reasons,’ Dona Elvira had said enigmatically.

A fascinating flamenco dancer, how could goodness and kindness compete with her lure? Do-gooders were not sexually exciting, and when she met Luis again she had had a smut on her nose!

Two days after this conversation she had left for Ronda with Peter.

The gardens had an autumnal air, the agave blooms were over, the geraniums losing their petals, but there were still roses, a few dark red ones lingered on the bush whence Luis had picked one for Laurel. She knew now her love for him was still strong, neither his cruel accusations nor his neglect had killed it, that moment on the doorstep of St Agnes’ had revived it, but she had looked a drab, and Luis had recoiled from her. It was only her looks that had attracted him, she thought drearily, he was not interested in the woman behind them. If he lost his, would she be similarly affected? She did not think so, he would be still Luis, the man she loved, and however disfigured he became, she would only love him all the more for what he had once been.

One day after they had been at the hotel for about a week, she and Peter were finishing their lunch, when a party was ushered into the restaurant with unctuous deference by the head waiter. It comprised a stout middle-aged couple, obviously husband and wife, another middle-aged man, with a fine head but a dissolute face, and Cristina. The Ordonez family having a day out, or was Cristina expecting Luis would be there? Laurel hoped she would not be noticed, but Peter exclaimed loudly:

‘There’s Tio Luis’
novia
.’
Cristina turned to stare at them, and Laurel smiled mechanically, as she told Peter to hush. ‘Finish your dessert, dear, it’s time for your rest.’ The Ordonez party having ordered, Cristina rose from her seat and came across to them.

‘So you here again,’ she said rudely.

She had put on a little weight, as her too tight suit revealed, and her eyes were unfriendly.

‘Tia came because I’ve been ill,’ Peter explained proudly. ‘I had my tummy cut.’

Cristina glared at him. ‘We all know that. Luis make more fuss of you than if you his own son, which...’ She gave Laurel a glacial glance, ‘perhaps you are.’

Laurel sighed. Peter’s paternity apparently had opened up a fresh area of conjecture. If only he had been dark!

‘Is Senor de las Aguilas here?’ Cristina demanded, without giving Laurel time to say anything.

‘No, and I’ve no idea where he is,’ Laurel replied. ‘Peter, I mean Pedro...’ Peter insisted upon the Spanish form of his name now, ‘and I are here while he is convalescing. Senor de las Aguilas has not been here at all.’

‘Tio Luis is too busy,’ Peter supplemented.

Cristina looked unconvinced. Then she shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Send that brat away,’ she commanded, ‘I have something to tell you.’

Laurel sighed again, foreseeing an unpleasant interrogation, but she could not avoid it without being rude, and she had an unwilling curiosity to know the state of affairs between Luis and this girl, which Cristina probably meant to reveal.

‘Shall we wait until you’ve had your lunch?’ she suggested, ‘I see your starters have arrived and I have to settle Pedro for his siesta. I will be at your service on the terrace,
senorita
.’

She had some difficulty in persuading Peter to rest. He was incensed at being called a brat, and he didn’t want Cristina to be his tia. ‘Tio Luis can’t know how nasty she is,’ he insisted, adding with perception beyond his years. ‘But she’s never nasty to him.’

When at length she was free, she went to sit among the white tables and chairs set out on a terrace facing the blue humps of the
distant mountains
beyond the garden. She ordered coffee and waited resignedly for the other girl to appear.

Eventually Cristina came, replete with a good lunch, waving her fan, and sat down opposite Laurel, eyeing her with hostility.

‘You still run after Senor de las Aguilas?’ she enquired insolently. ‘You get nothing there. He never, never marry a slut out of an
orfelinato
.’

‘There has never been any question of that,’ Laurel told her with dignity. ‘I’ve only seen Senor de las Aguilas once since I left Mijas and that was when he came to fetch me when Peter was in hospital. If you came up here expecting to find him with us, I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. He hasn’t been to Ronda while we’ve been here.’

Which had been disappointing. Laurel had thought he would find time to come and see how Peter was progressing, but he had not done so, nor, when she rang up, had his mother suggested he might be coming. Ronda without Luis was Eden without Adam, but at least she could face Cristina with a clear conscience.

Cristina stared at her belligerently, but the wistful expression on Laurel’s face seemed to reassure her. She relaxed visibly.

‘No see me either,’ she said plaintively, and Laurel felt sorry for her. Luis had treated her very casually. ‘He go to England,’ Cristina went on, ‘I think to find you. He come back, but he do not come to Sevilla. I am told you here, so I come, but no Luis.’ She looked round as if expecting him to materialise in a puff of smoke like a pantomime demon. ‘
No comprendo
.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Laurel spoke gently. ‘Do believe me that it isn’t on my account Luis has been so neglectful. We haven’t communicated since I left.’

‘Ah!’ A malicious gleam shone in Cristina’s dark eyes. ‘He get over his madness, so.’ She closed her fan with a snap. ‘Men fickle.’

‘I always understood he was going to marry you.’

‘Not now. I look for him to tell him I marry the Duque de Ortego y Montanero. Not rich like Luis, but I have title. Papa give me huge dowry. A
duque
much better than a hotel keeper.’

She looked at Laurel triumphantly.

Laurel recalled noticing the middle-aged roué in the dining room. Was that the duke? As a man he was a poor exchange for Luis. Cristina was assuaging her wounded pride with a title. ‘Congratulations,’ she said sincerely.

‘
Gracias
,’ She opened her fan again. ‘Luis young girl’s dream, but...’ she shook her head sadly, ‘him no good. I wait no longer.’

‘I wish you every happiness,’ Laurel said, and meant it.

‘To be
duquesa
make me very happy.’ Cristina nodded complacently. ‘Luis at Mijas?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

Cristina looked at her commiseratingly. ‘You tired,’ she said, and anxiety over Peter on top of toil at St Agnes’ had quenched most of Laurel’s sparkle. ‘So Luis drop you.’

Laurel smiled wryly. ‘He never picked me up.’ They became silent, looking over the garden to the distant mountains, both were recalling a vanished dream.

Finally Cristina stood up.

‘I ring the Senora,’ she said decisively. ‘Maybe she tell me where to find Luis. I wish everyone to know of my betrothal.’

She held out her hand; now Laurel was no longer a rival she could afford to be sympathetic. They were both in a sense Luis’ victims. Laurel took it, noticing the ruby bracelet on Cristina’s wrist. Was that the duke’s engagement token?

‘
Adios
,
senorita
,’ Cristina said graciously.
She teetered away on her high heels to rejoin her duke. Laurel sat on watching the shadows lengthen. Luis’ fancy for her had died, and he had abandoned Cristina for a gypsy dancer. As the Spanish girl had said: ‘Men fickle.’

Dawned the morning of their last full day at Ronda. On the following one they would be leaving. The manager informed Laurel at breakfast that El Senor would be arriving to check the hotel’s accounts and other business before noon. He would be engaged all day, and would spend the night. In the early morning he would take her and Peter back to Mijas. Transport would be provided for her from thence to Malaga, where a reservation had been made for her on the plane to London. Would this be satisfactory to the Senorita? The man was ill at ease, a visit from Luis was an ordeal for his staff, for any shortcomings would be severely reprimanded.

Laurel assured him the arrangements would suit her perfectly and watched him hurry away with some amusement. The advent of the big boss was causing a flutter in the dovecote and her own heart was fluttering too. Luis was coming at last, and though he might be busy all day, she would have the long drive back to Mijas beside him, a bittersweet pleasure with the recollection of their former journey to and from Ronda with no cloud between them except a shadowy Cristina. Now that had dispersed, but a gulf between them had opened, she had lost much of her good looks, and Luis was enamoured of a dancer in Torremolinos.