Meeting in Madrid Page 2

  ‘I will see to your luggage,’ he said.

  Thank you.’

  Formality hedged them round, yet she had the disconcerting feeling of being carefully observed. Before they reached it the door in the wall was opened and an ancient retainer saluted them.

  ‘You will see that the senorita’s luggage is taken to her room, Lucio,’ Don Jaime commanded. ‘I will look after the car myself.’

  The old man nodded, offering Catherine a tentative smile.

  ‘Buenas tardes!’ he greeted her. ‘Yo el sigo.’

  When he had collected her two suitcases he followed them across the enclosed garden to the house itself, a tall, three-storeyed edifice with small, wrought-iron balconies at the windows on the upper floors and a grilled door which stood hospitably open to bid them welcome. In the hall beyond an old lady in a dark silk dress stood leaning on an ivory-handled stick, her slender, delicate-looking hand gripping it closely. Although obviously depending upon its support, her back was as straight as her grandson’s and her large black eyes equally clear. They scrutinised Catherine with frank curiosity, taking in the cut of the plain blue suit she wore and the sensible low-heeled shoes, finally coming to rest on her face and the silken, red-gold cap of well-brushed hair which surrounded it.

  ‘Abuela, this is Miss Royce,’ Don Jaime said, turning to leave them, but his grandmother held up a detaining hand.

  ‘You will lead her to her room, Jaime, and then I will expect you in the salon to take tea with us in the English manner,’ she commanded. ‘No doubt your routine has been disturbed by the services I have asked of you, but this is an important matter as far as Teresa is concerned.’ She was still gazing at Catherine. ‘Indeed, I am surprised, but we will go into that later.’

  Don Jaime nodded abruptly, while Catherine felt that she had been weighed in some sort of delicate balance and found wanting.

  ‘Your grandmother seems to disapprove of me,’ she said as Don Jaime led the way to a flight of marble stairs. ‘What is it this time, or is it still my youth?’

  He looked round at her with a faint smile in his eyes.

  ‘You must not judge my grandmother as quickly as you have judged me, senorita.’ he said. ‘She would not come to any swift conclusion about you. She will wait till you have shown her your true worth. She will give you the benefit of the doubt, as you so succinctly say in your own country.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t?’ she challenged. ‘You are prepared to judge me untried!’

  ‘That would not be so if I were employing you myself, but in that case I might have been more explicit in my demands,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, feeling at a disadvantage. ‘How old is your niece, Don Jaime?’

  ‘Sixteen. A great age, you may be sure! Teresa is full of confidence, you will find, and quite certain of the way she wants to go, but that might not be entirely her own fault. Small Spanish girls are brought up from babyhood to believe themselves the centre of the universe. They are told from birth that they are guapa, as you know, and so they are spoilt.’

  ‘While little Spanish boys are encouraged to be macho!’ she pointed out drily. ‘You can’t criticise one while you applaud the other.’

  ‘Encouraging a boy to be masculine is not quite the same,’ he said dismissively, ‘but you will judge Teresa for yourself, I dare say. She has gone for a music lesson, by the way, if that is where she really is.’

  His voice had hardened on the final words, as if he did not trust his effervescent niece who had been encouraged from infancy to believe that she was incredibly beautiful.

  ‘I hope I can understand Teresa,’ Catherine said involuntarily. ‘Already I feel sorry for her.’

  ‘You needn’t be. She is a very fortunate young lady, although she does not acknowledge the fact. She is also very headstrong,’ he added, ‘and prone to go off at a tangent when she feels “imprisoned”.’

  Catherine paused on the landing.

  ‘Surely you don’t mean me to act as her jailer!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s something I would hate to do.’

  ‘Not at all.’ His voice was as cold as ice. ‘I am her legal guardian, as you may have guessed, and I am greatly concerned about her welfare.’

  ‘Have you ever thought of slackening the rein—giving her a little more headway? I know she’s young to be kicking over the traces at sixteen, but it’s happening all the time nowadays,’ Catherine pointed out.

  He turned to look at her.

  ‘How old are you, Miss Royce?’ he asked without attempting to answer her impulsive question.

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘And have you ever “kicked over the traces”, as you put it?’

  ‘I—never really needed to. You see, I was trusted to be sensible, even when I was very young. My parents were abroad a great deal, and I owed it to the aunt who looked after me to conform to her ideas of normality.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, pausing before one of two massive doors set in an archway at the far end of the upper hall. ‘That is quite different!’

  He opened the door, ushering her into a pleasant room full of sunlight with windows opening on to a small balcony overlooking the side garden and a narrow lane beyond the wall. The room itself was full of fine old Spanish furniture in the style of a century ago, family heirlooms which had been handed down from one generation to the next and greatly treasured. A heavily-carved wardrobe took up much of one wall, while a four-poster bed stood against another, flanked by little tables skirted in pale blue brocade. On the third wall, between the two long casements, stood an exquisite writing-table with a brocade-covered chair placed in front of it, ready for her use, while a dressing-table and a black, carved chest stood on either side of a communicating door leading into a large, tiled bathroom.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘It all looks—very comfortable.’

  ‘And very sedate!’

  A young, dark-haired girl had entered the room behind them, frankly amused by what she had heard of their conversation. Catherine knew that this must be Teresa even before they were formally introduced, and if insisting since babyhood that she was guapa had been meant to enhance her confidence it had certainly succeeded. Catherine thought that she had never seen anyone so lovely as Teresa in that moment as she stood beside the door with a world of merriment in her eyes. Added to their dark, magnetic beauty was a flawless, apricot-tinted skin and blue-black hair and small, delicate hands and feet which made her look like a pretty, animated doll. She drew in a deep breath of appreciation as their eyes met.

  ‘I can’t quite believe it!’ she exclaimed in her accented English. ‘You really are young and with it!’ She looked up at her uncle, a mischievous smile curving her red lips. ‘What do you think of her, Jaime?’ she demanded. ‘Isn’t she quite fantastic, or do you disapprove of her as firmly as you did of Madame Mauriac?’

  ‘Madame Mauriac taught you to speak French without an accent, therefore she did what was expected of her,’ Don Jaime observed. ‘We can only hope that Miss Royce will be equally successful with your English.’

  ‘Which is atrocious!’ Teresa acknowledged without due concern. ‘Perhaps it is because I have no true desire to learn,’ she suggested.

  ‘You will try,’ her uncle decided with a firmness which put any doubt in its proper place.

  Teresa continued to study Catherine as he left the room. ‘You’re not at all what I expected,’ she said, at last. ‘Not what anyone expected, for that matter. When I think about it we could have lots of fun together while we are allowed to stay here in Madrid. I hope it will be for another week or two,’ she ran on excitedly, ‘but in that respect we must wait for Don Jaime’s decision. He is the arbitro of our fate, both here and at Soria. You will see!’ Her vivid little face took on a sullen expression which marred its beauty and the dark eyes were suddenly alight with passion. ‘I am old enough to do as I wish without everyone directing me this way or that,’ she declared with fierce intensity. ‘Spanish girls are now em
ancipated; they go everywhere on their own and take advantage of life. They are no longer protected by eagle-eyed duenas who do not wish them to enjoy themselves. They are free!’

  ‘I’m sure you are permitted to please yourself, up to a point,’ said Catherine, aware of conflict but unwilling to take sides. ‘Your family must have your ultimate welfare at heart.’

  ‘But not my happiness!’ Teresa declared with an obstinate stamp of her foot. ‘They know that I wish to dance and they say that there is still time. Time for what? To drink in culture and take a university degree so that I will be “equipped” for the future. What does that mean, I ask you? To be a great dancer would be of equal importance, don’t you think?’ She rushed on before Catherine could form an opinion. ‘It is all their way and not mine, and then they wonder why I should rebel. I have everything I can possibly desire, both here and at Soria,’ she mocked, ‘and that must be the end of any argument!’

  Pushed by family pride and hedged round by tradition, Teresa had come to a stubborn halt, digging in her heels like the little mules of the Spanish countryside, her ears laid flat against her dainty head. Catherine suppressed the smile which rose to her lips, knowing how serious Teresa was.

  ‘We all feel that way occasionally,’ she sympathised. ‘We long to spread our wings and fly away at one time or another, but it is not always best to do it in a spirit of rebellion. I’m sure, when the right time comes, your grandmother and Don Jaime will agree to set you free.’

  ‘You do not know Jaime!’ Teresa cried. ‘He is as hard as a rock. What rock is it that is harder than any other?’

  ‘Granite,’ Catherine supplied much too quickly.

  ‘Well, that is as hard as he is! You will see,’ Teresa declared. ‘He can also influence Grandmother, which is more than anyone else can do.’

  Catherine felt that Teresa was only telling her what she already knew. Don Jaime de Berceo Madroza was the undoubted power behind his grandmother’s throne. The old lady might be the distinguished head of the family, but her grandson had the final say. She wondered about Teresa’s parents, about the mother and father who had not been mentioned so far, but Don Jaime had described himself as Teresa’s guardian, so perhaps they were both dead.

  She began to have a certain amount of sympathy for this lonely girl brought up at second-hand, so to speak, although she knew that it was dangerous to form such firm opinions on such a short acquaintance.

  ‘I’ll help you to unpack,’ Teresa offered, dismissing the young Spanish girl who was hovering in the doorway. ‘You may go, Conchita,’ she said with an autocratic wave of her hand vaguely reminiscent of her uncle. ‘Tell the Marquesa we will not be long.’

  The girl hesitated, her dark eyes apprehensive.

  ‘It is my work, senorita,’ she objected in Spanish.

  Teresa stamped an impatient foot.

  ‘Do as I say!’ she admonished. ‘It will save time if I help Miss Royce. You are so slow!’

  The girl retreated, shamefaced by the hasty criticism, and Teresa laughed.

  ‘There you are! I am quite heartless, as you can see, but I wished to help you and look at all your lovely clothes!’

  ‘I think you may be disappointed,’ Catherine smiled, prepared to humour her, ‘but shouldn’t we go down to the salon immediately and not keep the Marquesa waiting?’ She decided that the difference in their respective titles must mean that the old lady was Don Jaime de Berceo Madroza’s maternal grandmother. ‘I’m finding everything a little difficult just now,’ she confessed. ‘And I don’t want to antagonise anyone.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Teresa replied chirpily. ‘You will already have antagonised Jaime, anyway. He does not like women ever since one of them decided to betray him a long time ago.’

  A cold little shiver ran through Catherine at the knowledge. So that was the reason for Don Jaime’s apparent dislike of her! It was nothing personal, as she had originally believed, but a deep-seated dislike—hatred, perhaps—of all women, as Teresa had implied.

  ‘Even so,’ she found herself saying, ‘I mustn’t start off on the wrong foot. The Marquesa said she would be waiting in the salon and we really ought to go.’

  ‘You must want to wash first,’ Teresa suggested, her inquisitive gaze still lingering on the suitcases. ‘I will wait for you.’

  It took Catherine less than ten minutes to wash and tidy her hair, but when she returned from the bathroom Teresa had gone. Unpredictable, she thought, like most girls of her age, but peculiarly likeable even on such short acquaintance!

  Would they get on together, she wondered as she descended the wide staircase, or would Teresa come to regard her as an irritating watchdog employed to check on her every movement while she endeavoured to teach her the finer points of the English language? Determined not to act as Teresa’s jailer under any circumstances, she opened the salon door.

  Old customs were scrupulously observed in the Marquesa’s household and Catherine found that her ‘English tea’ was strictly a Spanish affair. It was served by a male retainer with a muchacha hovering in the background ready to run for more hot water or extra cakes, and it was a meal in itself. The average Spanish woman’s addiction to pastries would no doubt spoil Teresa’s figure in time unless, if she really wanted to be a dancer, she could bring an inflexible will to bear on her present capacity for the lethal sweetmeats. She ate heartily, enjoying them to the last crumb, while the Marquesa looked on indulgently.

  Don Jaime stood in the background skilfully balancing his teacup and a plate in one hand, but eating little. He had been deep in conversation with his grandmother when Catherine had entered the room, but their exchange of confidences had ceased abruptly as soon as she appeared. He drew forward a chair for her.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Royce,’ he said briefly. ‘We have been discussing the future.’

  Catherine glanced in Teresa’s direction to find her frowning into her teacup.

  ‘I asked the agency for an older woman,’ the Marquesa said, looking at Catherine, ‘but no matter. We will see what you can do.’

  ‘I think you had a copy of my references,’ Catherine responded formally. ‘If not, I have the originals with me; also my college certificates. I understand your language, but naturally I hope to benefit by living in a Spanish household. That was part of my reason for coming.’

  ‘And the other part?’ Don Jaime asked coldly.

  She turned to face him.

  ‘My parents have travelled a great deal for as long as I can remember,’ she explained, looking directly into his hostile eyes. ‘My father is a university professor who does a lot of research and they are not often at home. Now they have gone on a lecture tour of America which will keep them away from London for the best part of a year.’

  ‘I see,’ he said as if he had discovered her true reason for taking the job. ‘It would inconvenience you a great deal to return to England at this stage.’

  Catherine swallowed the hard lump in her throat which must have been disappointment, turning to look at the Marquesa.

  ‘If you have come to the conclusion that I am unsuitable,’ she said firmly, ‘of course I must go.’

  ‘We do not make decisions as swiftly as that,’ the old lady answered. ‘When you have finished your tea you must go and supervise your unpacking. I take it you brought all your luggage from the airport?’

  Catherine hesitated.

  ‘I sent some books overland. I thought they might prove useful when I came to read with Teresa in English.’

  ‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ the Marquesa agreed. ‘Jaime will see that they are picked up as soon as they arrive.’

  ‘Please let me do that for myself,’ Catherine begged. ‘Don Jaime must have other things to do.’

  ‘It is a service we perform for our guests,’ the Marquesa declared, looking keenly at her grandson. ‘Jaime will be glad to oblige.’

  It was difficult to accept the old lady’s assurance, because Catherine felt quite sure that Don
Jaime would have sent her packing back to London if he had any say in the matter, but apparently the final decision would be his grandmother’s.

  She did her own unpacking in the end because Teresa had disappeared and the dismissed Conchita was now keeping her distance. The capacious wardrobe which stretched most of the way along one wall of her bedroom was more than adequate for her needs, and soon her skirts and dresses were carefully hung up and the blouses and sweaters she had brought installed in the row of glass-fronted drawers in the end section of the wardrobe.

  What to do now? The final meal of the day in a Spanish household was rarely taken before ten, and it was not quite six o’clock. Catherine crossed to her windows to look out, wondering if Teresa might come in search of her, but although she stood looking down into the enclosed garden for another ten minutes she was not disturbed. There was no sign of life in the patio beneath her windows nor in the garden beyond where a riot of flowers blazed beneath the trees in the bright sunlight. There would be no harm in her going down, she felt, to enjoy the last of the sun and sit for a while on one of the narrow stone benches under the trees.

  When she reached the hall she saw that the salon door was open and for a moment she hesitated.

  ‘It is unfortunate that she is so young, so very near Teresa’s own age.’

  The Marquesa’s voice floated out to her, and suddenly she was standing stiffly in the centre of the hall waiting for the reply to the old lady’s remark.