Meeting in Madrid (14 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

At
ten o’clock the following morning Catherine went briskly across the hall and tapped on the study door.

‘Adelante!’

She took a deep breath and went in.

Don Jaime was seated at an enormous black desk in the centre of the room, but he rose to his feet as she entered, pulling forward a chair for her to sit down.

‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

‘Completely recovered.’ Should she apologise for the events of the day before or leave him to reprimand her in his own way? ‘I never thought I would sleep so soundly.’

‘You were exhausted. It was a long way for you to ride in the sun. Remember never to go out again without a hat. But I think you have learned your lesson in that respect,’ he added.

‘I’ll borrow one from Teresa.’

They were speaking about the future, even though it was in an oblique sort of way, and Catherine had imagined that there was not going to be any future for her at Soria. Her heart lifted a little, although she had tried not to let him see how distressed she was.

‘Ah, Teresa!’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you about Teresa.’

She waited for him to continue, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes clear on his.

‘You have already helped her in a good many ways,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘She is no longer as sullen as she was, although she will always be unpredictable. She is too much her mother’s daughter, I fear, to change completely, and I would not wish her to be entirely without spirit.’

He looked above her head to where a life-sized portrait in oils hung on the wall above a sofa upholstered in ruby-red velvet.

‘You will see what I mean if you are any judge of a painted likeness,’ he suggested.

Catherine turned in her chair to look at Carla de Berceo Madroza for the first time. What she saw was a young girl in her late teens with glossy black hair which cascaded over her shoulders to frame a face so hauntingly beautiful that she caught her breath in instant admiration. Carla’s skin was like alabaster and the blue eyes, half-hidden by a fringe of black lashes, were deep and intense as they gazed back into hers. Small, delicate-looking hands lay clasped in the folds of a voluminous skirt which spread in tier after tier around her, and close against her throat lay the blood-red ruby which Lucia now wore. Subconsciously she noticed that Carla had posed for her portrait on the velvet-covered sofa which now stood beneath her framed likeness, brought to the study, no doubt, by a man who still remained in love with her.

Eduardo or Jaime? Was that why Don Jaime had never married? Could this be the tragedy which had led to the ugly local rumours on his brother’s death?

Looking back at the dark, unfathomable face on the other side of the desk she could not bring herself to see the mark of Cain on Jaime de Berceo Madroza’s brow.

‘She was lovely!’ she heard herself say. ‘No wonder Teresa worships her.’

He frowned.

‘Teresa didn’t really know her,’ he said abruptly. ‘That is what I want to tell you. She has built up an image of her mother which would be hard to dislodge, even if I wished to do so, but occasionally I am worried by the similarity of their natures. You see, Carla did not die here, at Soria. When her child was three years old she ran away. The quiet life we led on the
hacienda
was too dull for her and she went back to Rio de Janeiro to dance.’

He sat gazing at the portrait which faced him across the room.

‘My brother met her in Santa Cruz. She was a dancer on the threshold of fame, but they fell in love and married within the month. Teresa was born a year later, small and dark, like her mother, and with much of Carla’s fiery intensity in her veins.’

Lucia had been less generous when she had called it ‘gipsy blood’.

‘She came of gipsy stock,’ Jaime continued almost as if he had read her thoughts, ‘and perhaps that is why she danced so well and why she would never have settled at Soria or anywhere else. I dare say she was fond of my brother in her own way, but she loved dancing even more. She saw fame ahead of her and a different way of life, and she abandoned her child and her husband to go in search of it.’

He did not sound like a man who had been deeply in love with his brother’s wife. He had been sorry for Carla and Eduardo and little, innocent Teresa at the time, and he had done his best to make amends to Teresa, at least. Only now it seemed that Teresa was prepared to run contrary to all her teaching and to the Marquesa’s undoubted love for her. Catherine watched his mouth firm into an implacable line.

‘I promised my brother to take care of her,’ he said firmly, ‘and I owe it to the family to see that no harm comes to her of her own making until she is really able to judge for herself. She will go to Madrid in a year’s time to the University to finish her education, and then, if she still wants to dance, she can do so.’

‘I think you’re being very fair,’ Catherine said, although Carla’s intense blue gaze seemed to register some sort of protest from the canvas hanging on the wall behind her, ‘and I believe in the end Teresa will respond.’

He sat looking at her in silence for a moment.

‘I think, in an odd sort of way, that will be up to you,’ he said, at last. ‘She speaks highly of you, Cathy, even after so short a time, and you are young and progressive enough to understand her. I confess that I did not think you at all suitable when we first met in Madrid—I had quite the wrong idea of what a responsible teacher should look like—but now I am prepared to apologise. I see that what Teresa really needs is a companion, someone near her own age but more mature.’

‘I must try to fill the bill, Senor Don Jaime.’ She gave him his full title with an impish smile in her eyes because she was so relieved. ‘In the end I think Teresa may come to terms with her desire to dance and accept the fact that you are trying to give her the best sort of life possible. Sometimes I feel convinced that she already knows how lucky she is in that respect, but you can’t blame her for wanting to kick over the traces occasionally.’

He smiled at that, and she rose, confronted by the litter of papers on the broad desk between them. ‘Teresa thought she might be allowed to help you,’ she suggested. ‘It would be something constructive for her to do.’

Jaime looked at the accumulation of letters and business documents spread out before him.

‘She wouldn’t stay at it for five minutes,’ he predicted. ‘She is like Ramon in that respect, too erratic by far.’

‘Would you let me help?’ she asked impulsively. ‘I took a business course after I left school and I can type. When Teresa is at her music lessons I have very little to do.’

He hesitated.

‘It wasn’t exactly in your contract,’ he pointed out.

‘Does that matter? I wouldn’t expect you to pay me.’

‘But that is very unbusinesslike of you,’ he said. ‘I will give you a salary for what you do. It would be a great help to me,’ he acknowledged, ‘since I’m not exactly cut out for office work. Being closed in, sitting behind a desk even for an hour or two, irks me.’

‘Then it’s settled.’ It was foolish to feel such childish elation over such a little thing, Catherine told herself. ‘Do you wish me to start this afternoon?’

He cast his eyes over the piles of foolscap.

‘It’s a formidable task,’ he observed.

‘I’ll cope.’ She felt almost excited at the prospect. ‘I’ll deal with the letters first and try to pair them with the relevant documents, and when I’m really stuck I’ll come and say so.’

‘There’s a typewriter somewhere. Eduardo used to use it.’ He opened a cupboard door. ‘In here, I think. Yes, here we are! Will you be able to manipulate such an ancient machine?’

‘I can try.’

‘Lucia has used it once or twice, but she considered it inadequate.’

For the first time Catherine thought of Lucia, realising that she had not won the day in her argument with her brother-in-law on the long ride back from Las Rosas.

‘I hope Dona Lucia won’t think I’m neglecting my duties where Teresa is concerned,’ she began uncertainly, but Jaime cut her short.

‘Why should she? You were not engaged to instruct Teresa twenty-four hours of the day. I shall tell Lucia what we have arranged.’

Once again he was the autocratic master of Soria, the arbiter of all their fates while they remained under his roof. Catherine could not argue with him nor would Lucia be able to do so unless she had a very strong case to present.

When she told Teresa about the new arrangement her pupil seemed vastly amused.

‘Lucia will hate the idea,’ she said, ‘and so will Ramon.’

‘Why Ramon?’

‘Because he likes to think that you are there all the time at his beck and call.’

‘You exaggerate!’

‘No, I know Ramon very well. He is never happy unless he has a pretty girl at his feet.’

‘It should be the other way around!’ Catherine laughed.

Teresa shook her head.

‘Ramon will pretend to fall at your feet, but he will not mean it.’

‘I’ll remember the warning!’

‘Alex Bonnington was the only one who sent him away—how do you say in English?—with a fly in his ear.’

‘A
flea,
but I don’t think the Marquesa would appreciate the expression!’

‘I wish she would come to visit us,’ Teresa mused. ‘It is never dull at Soria when she is here. Perhaps she will, one of these days, when she grows tired of Andalusia, although I cannot think how long it will take. When are you going to start work for Jaime?’

‘This afternoon, when you go for your music lesson.’ Twice a week Teresa made the journey to Santa Cruz to be instructed by a well-known professor of music in the art of playing the piano, and quite often she would accompany Ramon when he took up his guitar in the evening, although there were a good many arguments between them over the finer points of presentation. Ramon, who was self-taught, was unable to read music, but their disputes generally ended in laughter or a compromise, which seemed to please them both.

‘I thought you might come with me to Santa Cruz,’ Teresa pouted. ‘You could look round the shops while I was with the professor and then we could have tea at the Mency or the Bruja, where there is a swimming-pool!’

‘Teresa, stop! I’ve already told you I’m going to work,’ Catherine protested. ‘If we have a full day off for the
fiesta,
I really should do something constructive to earn my keep.’

Teresa regarded her pensively for a moment.

‘You are much too conscientious,’ she declared. ‘Maybe Lucia will want to go to Santa Cruz.’

The car drove off with Teresa sitting in the back in solitary state, however. It was two o’clock and the noise in the kitchens was beginning to die down. Soon it would be the
siesta
hour and a deep quiet would settle on the house itself to match the peace of the sun-drenched plantations beyond. Now and then a lorry would trundle by, laden with banana fronds, but otherwise there would be little sign of life in the shimmering heat. It would be even warmer in Santa Cruz, where the mountain wind didn’t penetrate. Catherine was glad she had stayed at Soria.

At three o’clock she made her way towards the study, opening the door on the confusion which lay within. She crossed to the desk with the odd feeling of being watched, but the only gaze she encountered was the painted one on the wall above the red velvet sofa. Carla de Berceo Madroza looked back at her with pensive eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’ she seemed to say. ‘It is no place for you to be.’

She settled down to work, her gaze drawn again and again to the beautiful, painted face, her eyes fastening on the fabulous ruby at Carla’s throat. It was the kind of jewel that only someone like Carla could wear to advantage, she thought, fire and blood imprisoned in a precious stone. Teresa could have worn it, but it was wrong for Lucia, who was too cold to show it off to advantage. It was a gem to reflect the fire in its wearer’s eyes, not to lie dormant among the lace at Lucia’s throat.

She worked till the clock on the high chimneypiece struck five and by then she had tidied most of Don Jaime’s papers into neat piles, ranging them in order of importance along the desk. It had been a gallant effort and she felt pleased with herself, so pleased that she did not hear the door opening.

‘What are you doing here, may I ask?’

Lucia’s incisive question cut across her pleasant musings like the crack of a whip.

‘I’ve been working.’ Catherine rose from the desk. ‘I offered to help Don Jaime in my spare time, since he appeared to have so much else to do.’

Lucia came further into the room.

‘What do you hope to achieve?’ she demanded. ‘Do you imagine that working for him will make him appreciate you more? If so you are mistaken. Yesterday you were almost on your way back to England because he thought you careless and inefficient, so you cannot hope to impress him by typing a few letters and clearing up a mess.’

‘I like the work,’ Catherine said defensively, ‘and I had nothing else to do when Teresa was at her music lesson. It was too hot for Santa Cruz in the afternoon.’

‘Don’t trouble with excuses,’ snapped Lucia. ‘I know quite well why you are doing this. You imagine that you can make yourself indispensable to him as an unpaid secretary.’

‘Not unpaid. He has offered me a fee.’

‘Indeed?’ A slow, dark colour mounted into Lucia’s cheeks. ‘And you have accepted it, no doubt.’

‘Naturally. Don Jaime pointed out that it was a business arrangement, and it was the easiest way to settle the matter.’

Lucia did not appear to be listening. She had turned round and was looking at the portrait of her predecessor, and all the venom of which she was capable was reflected in her eyes.

‘You understand that you are unwelcome here,’ she said. ‘You have never been anything else than a trial since you came.’

‘Yes, I think I realise that now,’ Catherine acknowledged, ‘but I’ve done my best, Dona Lucia, hoping to please you.’

‘Hoping to please Jaime, you mean! Well, you may do so for a week or two, but it will not last. He has very little faith in women and that is something you cannot change. Even that old woman, his grandmother, has no real power over him.’

‘Then I have very little hope,’ said Catherine, trying to smile.

Lucia continued to study the portrait, staring at Carla’s painted face as if she might find an answer to the unspoken question in her heart.

‘I never tried to take her place,’ she said, speaking almost to herself. ‘I couldn’t have done, even if I had wanted to, but I did more for Soria in the end. Jaime is aware of that,’ she declared aggressively. ‘He knows how much the
hacienda
owes me and he will not overlook it.’ She swung round to confront Catherine again. ‘You may work your fingers to the bone for him if it pleases you, but he will not forget what he owes to me!’