Meeting in Madrid Read online

  ‘More than unfortunate,’ Don Jaime returned. ‘I feel that it might even prove disastrous, but we have no time to change our minds now.’

  He was standing just inside the salon door, and Catherine knew that she had to escape. Otherwise, she felt that they would be involved in an angry exchange which would do nothing to resolve the situation and could prove completely embarrassing. She had already made her offer to return to England immediately, an offer which the Marquesa had rejected, saying that she must be given a fair trial and, after all, she was in the old lady’s employment and not her grandson’s. She decided to ignore Don Jaime, although that might be very hard to do. Cautiously she turned back towards the staircase.

  ‘Ah, Miss Royce,’ he said, coming to the open door. ‘Were you about to join us?’

  ‘No.’ She swung round to meet his mocking smile. ‘I was looking for Teresa. I thought she might be in the garden.’

  He did not believe her; the mockery was still in his eyes, accusing her of eavesdropping.

  ‘I did hear what you said,’ she told him bluntly, an angry colour rising into her cheeks, ‘but I can’t see that it makes much difference. You are not my employer, and I will do my best for the Marquesa. That way I feel justified in staying here for the time being.’

  ‘It is as you wish,’ he acknowledged briefly, ‘and as my grandmother desires. She has decided to try you out and I will look after the books you have so thoughtfully consigned by rail for your future use.’ He looked at her long and searchingly. ‘You do know, of course, that you will not be living in Madrid for any length of time. This is not Teresa’s home.’

  ‘Oh! I thought—’

  ‘It was no more than an accommodation address till we settled the problem of her further education,’ he went on to explain as distantly as before. ‘Teresa has been long enough in Madrid.’

  Catherine had to keep reminding herself that he was Teresa’s guardian, yet he had allowed her to believe that the Marquesa was her true employer.

  ‘My grandmother goes south, to Andalusia, for the summer months and Teresa and I return to Soria. My work is there, not in Madrid.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ A fleeting memory of the equestrian statue pictured in her father’s book flashed across her mind, the man on horseback with the look of conquest in his eyes, a man so like Don Jaime de Berceo Madroza as to seem uncannily the same. Yet she had never seen him seated on a horse. On the contrary, he still wore the immaculate light grey suit which made him look every inch the conventional Spanish business man, and his thick dark hair was sleeked back closely against his head. No helmet, no plume, no lance grasped firmly in those shapely hands! She smiled faintly at the thought. ‘Of course I understood we would be staying in Madrid,’ she added carefully, ‘but it really doesn’t matter where we live. I thought Teresa might be going to university here.’

  ‘Eventually, if we can dissuade her from taking up a career as a dancer,’ he said.

  So he did know about Teresa’s secret ambition and firmly disapproved of it on principle.

  ‘Perhaps that is where her real talent lies,’ she suggested impulsively.

  ‘If I thought so we would consider it more seriously,’ he decided. ‘Teresa, at the moment, doesn’t know what she wants. Miss Royce. She is young and volatile and sometimes very foolish when she imagines that she has the bit between her teeth. It is nothing new in our family, I assure you, but while I am responsible for her welfare I must be sure that she conforms to a reasonable code. My grandmother thinks that she should be encouraged to go on with her formal education until she is quite sure what she wants to do.’

  ‘And you don’t really consider sixteen to be the age of discretion?’

  ‘In your county it may be so, but in Spain it is not so long ago that emancipation was never spoken about. Girls did as they were told, and although I don’t believe in them living in seclusion until they are old enough to be married, they had very little experience of freedom. Sixteen is too young an age to loosen the parental grip altogether. You can see that I take my responsibilities fairly seriously,’ he added, ‘although you may not agree with my methods.’

  She was forced to smile.

  ‘I have no right to criticise,’ she conceded.

  ‘So we are in agreement in that respect, at least.’ He led the way towards the patio door. ‘I dare say you will find Teresa outside at this hour. She likes to walk the dog.’

  Teresa came in by the door in the wall as Catherine turned along the garden path. She was leading a small dog which seemed to be a cross between a poodle and a dachshund and she looked dishevelled, although there was very little wind.

  ‘I’ve been to the park,’ she explained. ‘Ferdi doesn’t get enough exercise shut up in the house most of the day, and besides’—she lowered her voice—‘I meet people I can really talk to. If my family had their way I would only meet the people they know—their sons and daughters— and they are mostly stuffy intellectuals who talk of nothing but politics or art or what they will do when it becomes too hot to stay in Madrid.’

  Some sort of chemistry was developing between them. Catherine, who felt half sorry for Teresa and wished to understand her point of view, could already feel it, although she knew that it would be dangerous to encourage the younger girl’s rebellion against the present situation or even to advise her until she actually asked for some sort of direction.

  ‘I thought you liked Madrid,’ she said instead.

  ‘Sometimes I wish I could stay here all the time,’ Teresa confessed, letting Ferdi off the lead, ‘but even if I do come back to university I would only be here during the term. Even that would be better than it is now,’ she mused, swinging round to face Catherine in the fading light. ‘You know what’s going to happen, of course? We are to be packed off to the hacienda to vegetate there all summer. I have been too long in Madrid for everyone’s liking!’

  Something pathetic about the impassioned declaration touched Catherine in a sensitive spot.

  ‘Tell me about the hacienda,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, it’s beautiful, of course, and the climate is perfect—neither too hot nor too cold, even in winter—but it is so isolated you just wouldn’t believe!’ Teresa’s face clouded. ‘There is nothing for me to do all day except ride or swim or go visiting on the neighbouring estates and obey my stepmother because she is devastated by my father’s death. That was an accident. There were ugly rumours, but I don’t believe Jaime had anything to do with it. I think my father had a quarrel with someone else.’

  Catherine drew back aghast at what she had just heard.

  ‘I wouldn’t repeat that unless you’re absolutely sure,’ she cautioned. ‘Ugly rumours are hard to suppress. I thought you were—quite fond of your uncle.’

  ‘In an odd sort of a way,’ Teresa agreed, sitting down on one of the stone benches to continue the conversation. ‘You see, he has been more like my brother. He was ten years my father’s younger—junior, I mean—and now he is the proud owner of Soria, which was something he coveted, I suppose.’

  A chill ran through Catherine as she sat on the edge of the bench, as if a cold little wind had blown against her heart, but she had no intention of getting too deeply involved with this amazing family, no intention of taking sides.

  ‘Surely you’re wrong,’ she said, aware that her volatile young pupil might be prone to exaggeration. ‘Don Jaime doesn’t look the kind of person who would covet his brother’s inheritance.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Teresa allowed, ‘but you have yet to learn how ruthless he can be. I said that I did not believe the rumours and I think that my stepmother would like to marry him, but I do not say so because I am not supposed to know about such things.’ She laughed, her white teeth flashing against her apricot-tinted skin. ‘They imagine that I am still a child and I have been sent to Madrid to absorb a little culture, but I am tired of the Prado and all the Goyas and Velazquez and the tapestries well-brought-up Spanish girls embroidered in the past!’
Her lips parted excitedly. ‘I can show you another Madrid, Cathy—the one I love—full of music and romance. I will go one day to the University at Casa de Campo and it will all be mine!’

  ‘And worth waiting for,’ Catherine suggested.

  Teresa considered her with thoughtful eyes.

  ‘Tomorrow I will show you,’ she promised. ‘We have not long before we leave for the hacienda.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The meal they shared in the long dining-room was quite elaborate. As the sun went down behind the distant Guadarramas they had gathered in the small salon while Don Jaime poured them each a glass of sherry, but no toast had been proposed either to the future or the past. It was a nightly routine, Catherine supposed, when he raised his own glass to the light and saluted his grandmother with a brief smile. The Marquesa returned his smile, as if words were quite unnecessary between them, and they all went in to dinner.

  The old lady sat at the head of the table in a high-backed chair and he occupied the place at the far end after seeing Catherine and Teresa safely seated in their respective chairs. Above them a magnificent chandelier hung from the painted ceiling, shedding its yellow light on the highly-polished wood and on the glittering silver and crystal which adorned each place-setting, and the old retainer who had brought their tea served them with Conchita’s help. Don Jaime rose to carve the joint of meat at the massive sideboard which occupied most of the wall behind his chair, and it was almost midnight before they rose to take their coffee in the adjoining room. When the little silver carriage clock on the mantelpiece struck half-past twelve Catherine followed Teresa up the staircase to their respective rooms.

  ‘I am not to chatter,’ Teresa said when they reached her own door, ‘because you must be tired after your journey. Buenas noches, senorita!’ she added with a small, mocking laugh. ‘Usted habla espanol muy bien!’

  ‘And you will do well with your English in time,’ Catherine responded. ‘It’ll be fun learning together!’

  In the morning Teresa was waiting for her at the breakfast table, looking excited.

  ‘I am to take you to the Prado this morning, but we will not remain there all the time,’ she said. ‘Jaime has promised to take us to lunch,’ she added quickly when Catherine was about to protest. ‘It is quite in order, you see. He will join us in the museum and we will eat in a restaurant of his choice.’

  Catherine was surprised, but perhaps the Marquesa had made the request and he would not refuse her. She felt sure that he could not want to take them out for a meal.

  The old lady’s breakfast was carried up to her room each morning at nine o’clock, and before they left for the museum they went in to pay their respects to her. She looked like a queen sitting there in the great four-poster bed with its heavy canopy of intricately-carved wood and the richly-brocaded curtains shielding her from any possible draught. The room itself was cluttered with the accumulated treasures of a lifetime, photographs and souvenirs from her travels, precious bric-a-brac and small pieces of silver, heavy combs from her Andalusian girlhood and a beautiful collection of ivory and silk fans which was displayed in a bow-fronted cabinet between the windows and on the high chimneypiece on the opposite wall.

  ‘You will enjoy our city, Miss Royce,’ she said as Catherine stood beside the bed. ‘Especially the Prado. It is many years since I have been there, but one day I must go again just to sit and absorb the beauty of the true masters. You know our famous Goyas, of course—the mafas and his clever portraits—but there are many other artists of note also on display. Do not try to see everything in one morning,’ she warned, ‘for that would be impossible. Teresa has been many times, but does not yet truly appreciate what she sees.’

  ‘I think that if I had decided to be a painter instead of a dancer it would have been all right with my family,’ Teresa said with a pout as they went down the stairs. ‘Shall we take a taxi?’ she added brightly. ‘Or would you rather walk?’

  ‘A taxi might be quicker if we are to see as much as possible before one o’clock,’ Catherine decided, thinking that Don Jaime must not be kept waiting.

  Sitting close up at the window, she gave her full attention to the beauty of the Spanish capital. Wide, tree-lined avenues spread in every direction, flanked by gardens and magnificent buildings, many of them originally built for the old aristocracy in marble and polished stone. Where change had been inevitable it had been made with the past in mind, and there were flowers everywhere and cool stone benches under the trees.

  At the end of the Calle Mayor they turned into the Calle de Alcala with the Plaza de Cibeles fountain directly ahead of them.

  ‘We are nearly there,’ Teresa informed her, gathering up her satchel and silk headscarf.

  Catherine was spellbound, gazing at the magnificent centrepiece of the square with the chariot-mounted daughter of Uranus rising out of the water drawn by two stone lions. It was the most arresting group she had ever seen, the Greek goddess dominating even the cathedral-like Palacio de Comunicaciones on the opposite corner, and even here there were trees and benches and a shady promenade where the Madrilenos could take their ease.

  The taxi driver set them down at the side entrance to the museum and from there onwards Teresa was in charge.

  ‘I know every crumby inch of the way,’ she declared in practised slang, ‘but it is something we must do if we want the remainder of the day to ourselves. The Vegas have asked us to eat with them later on, but we can make our excuses and come away early. I have a plan, you see, to show you more of Madrid.’

  ‘One thing at a time!’ Catherine laughed, following her into the great rooms where they wandered for an hour before they sat down to rest.

  Time after time Catherine had found herself confronted by the portraits of men so like Don Jaime as to be almost his painted likeness, although all of them wore the clothes of a bygone age. Stem, dark eyes gazed back at her from under domed helmet and velvet cap, the aquiline nose and long, determined chin predominating wherever she looked, features handed down through generations of Spaniards to the present day. All of them had been men of great strength and vision, the conquerors who had gone out to claim a new world for their own. Painted as Velazquez had seen them, they were magnificent, and their blood still flowed in the veins of Jaime de Berceo Madroza.

  They filed through the rooms containing the paintings of Goya’s ‘black period’, when he was already deaf, turning into the longer galleries which Teresa said she liked better. Before one of the larger groups of a royal family she paused.

  ‘This one always fascinates me,’ she declared. ‘It says so much. It is Charles IV and his queen, Maria Luisa, and her boy-friend, Godoy. Horrible, isn’t he? Like a bull. How could she have loved anyone so gross?’ She examined the royal group for a moment longer. ‘My stepmother had a lover before my father died,’ she announced almost casually. ‘Nobody thinks I know, but I do!’

  Catherine looked round at her in surprise.

  ‘Surely that’s something you shouldn’t repeat,’ she said uncomfortably.

  ‘Why not, since it is true?’

  ‘Where is she now?’ Catherine asked, knowing even before Teresa supplied the answer.

  ‘At Soria—where else? She is determined to live there until Jaime asks her to marry him. Then she will once again be the undisputed mistress of the hacienda.’

  Catherine drew in a sharp breath.

  ‘Surely that’s your uncle’s affair,’ she suggested. ‘If he’s in love with her he’ll want to marry her.’

  ‘Jaime isn’t in love with anyone—yet. He has still to get over his first disappointment with women,’ Teresa declared, sounding much too old for her years. ‘Would you like to hear about it?’

  A faint colour stained Catherine’s cheeks.

  ‘I’ve listened to enough family gossip for one morning,’ she declared more hastily than she realised. ‘It doesn’t concern me, Teresa.’

  ‘It might,’ Teresa suggested slowly, ‘if you were to fall in l
ove with Jaime.’

  ‘That would be ridiculous!’ The colour in Catherine’s cheeks deepened. ‘Anyway, here he comes! Please don’t repeat what you’ve just said,’ she added hastily.

  Don Jaime strode towards them.

  ‘Have you had enough culture for one day?’ he asked, glancing at the pictured group they had been studying. ‘A cruel portrait,’ he observed, ‘but it was a degenerate age.’ He looked at his watch to check the time, dismissing the royal husband and his faithless wife with a shrug. ‘Where would you like to eat?’

  ‘Surprise us,’ Teresa suggested. ‘You know all the best places.’

  They went in search of his parked car and he drove them along the Castellana to a secluded restaurant on the top floor of one of the higher buildings where Catherine could enjoy a panoramic view of the city while they ate, and somehow he seemed more mellow as he ordered their sherries, naming points of interest for her benefit as he stood at her shoulder to point them out.

  Turning suddenly, she caught an amused twinkle in Teresa’s eyes, but for once she refrained from her usual sly observation and kept silent.

  ‘What do you intend to do with the remainder of the afternoon?’ Jaime asked when he had ordered for them. ‘Go shopping?’

  ‘I have to be measured for a pair of shoes,’ Teresa explained carefully, ‘and I will collect my shirts from Antonio.’

  ‘And spend a great deal of money in the boutiques,’ he suggested good-humouredly. ‘I’m sorry I can’t collect you later in the day as I have an appointment in Toledo, but I believe you are going on to the Vegas for an evening meal.’