'But will improve rapidly with day-to-day conversation,' he interposed swiftly.
'… Also,' she continued doggedly, ignoring his interruption, 'though possessed of all the necessary qualifications, I've had very little actual experience of teaching. No,' she rejected the plan with a shake of her head, 'the sort of person you ought to be looking for is a mature, well-qualified teacher capable of casting a mantle of authority over any classroom, someone who is in sympathy with your aim to plant seeds of learning in the minds of gypsy children and who would be prepared to remain in Andalusia for as long as it may take to nurture tender shoots towards mature fruition.'
'That is exactly the type of teacher I do not want!' Prisms of light speared from the jewelled cloak disturbed by the irritated shrug of his shoulders. 'Such an experiment has been tried and failed, because of the gitanos' resentment of any stranger attempting to exert authority. The very fact that you are so obviously of a meek and mild disposition will weigh heavily in your favour,' he assured her with a note of finality that fell like a leaden fetter upon her last hope of freedom. 'Don't worry too much about the language barrier,' he encouraged almost kindly. 'Gypsies have their own basic tongue known as Romani, but the tribe whose children you are to teach— because it has remained so long under my family's protection—has little by little grafted so many Spanish words on to its own idiom that even local farmers find it easy to communicate. Provided,' he amended with a frown, 'the gypsies are disposed towards feeling friendly. If they should not be so inclined, they revert to their own secret code of communication that ranges from drawings traced in dust to knots twisted in the branches of bushes, a custom taught by Eastern ancestors who were parents to a culture born unknown centuries ago.'
Becoming suddenly impatient of the subject, he drew deeply on his cheroot, then stubbed it into a handy ashtray.
'Can I take it that the worst of your fears have been laid to rest, seňorita, and that you will now cease worrying about children who pick up words as quickly as pigeons pick peas?'
Pride reared against the unmistakable note of dismissal in his voice.
'I have made plain my unwillingness to undertake such a task,' Frances retorted quickly, 'yet you speak as if my acceptance were a foregone conclusion.'
'It is—if I wish it to be!' Swiftly, he rose to his feet so that the loose white garment billowed like wings around his towering frame. 'And I do so wish!' he stressed, baring white teeth in a humourless smile that made her feel weak and powerless, cowering as a sparrow in the shadow of a Spanish imperial eagle.
CHAPTER FIVE
'Droboy tume, Romani chi!'
Frances responded with an uncertain smile to what was obviously a traditional Romany greeting.
'Gracias, Sabelita,' she replied in Spanish. 'I shall have to ask El Conde to lend me a Romany dictionary so that I can extend the courtesy of replying in your own language.'
'Nais tuke is the usual response to such a greeting, seňorita' Sabelita beamed, 'but you will not find it written down in any book. Those of us who are still able to speak a complete Romanes are determined to ensure that the language, though secret, is not allowed to die out—that way, whichever countries of the world my people choose to visit they will be able to converse freely with members of their own race.'
She moved around Frances' bedroom, flicking a cloth at imaginary specks of dust, twitching curtains, moving an ornament here, a flower vase there, taking surreptitious peeks into drawers and wardrobe, making no secret of her disappointment with their contents. During the twenty-four hours that had elapsed since Frances' arrival at the Palacio, Sabelita had adopted a role that was a mixture of self-appointed protector, servant, friend and voluble informant on every subject, ranging from meals currently being prepared in the kitchen to details about El Conde's behaviour as an infant, as a tragically orphaned schoolboy, as a reckless adolescent up until—though Frances suspected. that her revelations at this stage owed much to supposition—the present-day man whose aloof, forbidding manner she claimed could be blamed entirely upon too much solitude and the absence from his life of a devoted, loving wife.
Conscious that she was being highly honoured to share such confidences and that the old woman's absorption with the subject of El Conde was motivated by an almost fanatical devotion to the individual who had been placed in her charge minutes after his birth, Frances had made only feeble attempts to stem the flow of intimacies, nevertheless, a further succinct statement from Sabelita jolted her towards the realisation that the old woman's imagination was being allowed to run riot.
Flinging the door of a wardrobe open wide, she stared aghast at the oddments of shirts and denims spread out among the hangers and exploded wrathfully.
'Wearing clothes such as these, how can you hope to attract the interest of our Romany Rye! Where are the colours to draw his eye as a bee is drawn into the heart of fiery petals? Where is the plunging cleavage, the slit seams, the hip-hugging skirt designed to tantalise and excite a man until his senses reel? Where are the crimson and orange shawls, the gold bracelets and earrings to make music that will jangle in his ears long after he has ceased dancing? You have been blessed with the grace of a fawn,' she swung on her heel, black eyes accusing, 'with immature curves holding a promise of voluptuousness, with a skin matt as cream, pale and pure as the milk men choose in preference to wine whenever they feel a desperate need to slake their thirst—so why do you hide the vivacity that is the gift of women behind the gravity of clothes that should only be worn by boys?' Her wave encompassed every despised article of clothing contained within the wardrobe. 'El Conde's nature tends towards impatience, he craves the novel, he is bored by the familiar, yet all that is needed to drive the devils out of his heart is the companionship of an attractive, adoring wife.'
Shocked to the core by the impassioned tirade, Frances remained mute, then had to subdue an impulse to laugh the old woman to scorn by reminding herself that because of her age her mind could be confused, even a trifle unbalanced.
Quietly, she attempted to ease her back on to an even keel by reminding her, 'I met El Conde for the first time only two days ago, Sabelita. I have no designs upon him nor, I'm certain, has he upon me. I simply cannot imagine what has led you to believe otherwise. Try to think reasonably,' she urged gently, 'ask yourself why El Conde, who could probably choose a bride from a dozen beautiful, eligible, highly-bred Andalusian girls, should cast so much as a glance in my direction. I'm sure the commonsense answer to that question will be that such a notion is impossible.'
'Not so,' Sabelita shook her head with a solemnity that caused Frances a tiny spurt of fear. 'It is written in the stars, in the sand and in the movements of the planets, that you and Romany Rye will take the bread and the salt.'
Feeling desperately ill at ease, Frances moved across to the window, trying to concentrate her mind upon a superb view of the Sierra Nevada and the green, well cultivated valleys sweeping down below the foothills; and at the gardens of the Palacio lying directly below, where curved stone archways were smothered in vines, where in ceramic-tiled patios the fruits of lemon trees were ripening in tubs and nearby fountains were arcing water endlessly from the mouths of birds, mammals and cherubs on to lily leaves floating on a surface of water that once might have reflected the dark, Oriental features of the Moorish prince and his young bride.
Feeling ill equipped to argue further with the old gypsy who seemed so certain of her ability to foresee the future, Frances seized upon curiosity as an excuse to change the subject.
'What do you suppose the Principesa looked like?' she pretended to muse aloud. 'Was she dark or fair, slender or well endowed, meek-natured or high-spirited? Whatever her looks, she must have possessed charm in abundance if, as legend would have us believe, she was able to sway the mind of her Moorish master away from thoughts of slavery and to persuade him to fly in the face of ancient taboo by elevating a lowly slave girl to the status of an aristocratic bride.'
'Isabella was a visi
on of female loveliness, with eyebrows that resembled picture clouds and arched over like a fighting cockspur; a nose like an opening jasmine bud, a neck with a triple row of dimples, a head like a bird's egg, and lips like the fissure of a pomegranate,' Sabelita almost intoned. 'Such abundance of beauty could not fail to attract the Moor's roving eye, but it was never his intention to make the young Isabella his bride, he meant merely to hold her captive until her attractions began to wane. But fetters of gold are still fetters to a gypsy girl whose spirit can be charmed but never tamed. So it fell to the lot of the elders of her tribe to reverse the position, to secure her release from bondage by turning master into slave.'
Frances turned away from the window, intrigued yet inclined to be sceptical. 'According to El Conde, the gypsy tribe appealed to the Moor for protection against harassment, persecution and unfair treatment, so its members would hardly be in a position to exert pressure upon a man wielding power and influence, even if he had become enamoured of a beautiful gypsy girl. But then,' she shrugged, 'time is a noted distorter of fact into fiction, and it did all happen a very long time ago.'
'The flamenco does not lie!' Sabelita cried out, obviously incensed. 'Flamenco stories are passed on by word of mouth from father to son— storytellers are keepers of gypsy history, they record our migration from the East centuries ago, help to preserve our traditions and our culture by chronicling the day-to-day lives of our people. Many of us cannot read or write, but our music is something that does not have to be written down, it expresses all our frustrations, our hopes, our fears, and it is the single most important bond that holds all gypsies together, not only in Spain, but all over the world. Were it not for flamenco, the tale of how our tribe—to which the young Isabella belonged—cast spells potent enough to draw down the moon, and concocted magic love philtres which were stirred into her master's drinks until he became besotted enough to make a barefoot gypsy slave girl his bride would never have been recorded! Were it not for flamenco, we would never have known how the Moor was persuaded into agreeing that his firstborn male child should, be given the name Romanes, in case he should ever be tempted to forget that he had fiery gypsy blood racing through his veins, and also to act as a reminder to his gypsy family how greatly favoured it is to have as its chief a Romany Rye, a true gypsy gentleman!' she interpreted triumphantly.
Romany Rye! Frances jolted with surprise, realising for the very first time the significance of the name often used by Sabelita when addressing the Conde. So the first Condesa de Nomadas y Aquila had belonged with the gypsies! But surely the genetic strain could now be considered extinct, dissolved into oblivion by generations of aristocratic breeding? Or had it thrived, even been strengthened by some means known only to a race of nomads whose roots were buried deep within the bowels of the mystical East, a place of soothsayers and superstitious beliefs; of fakirs, hermits, taboos and sacred cows; of firewalking and levitation that confounded human logic; of mystic rites performed to placate the gods, of amulets and blue beads worn to act as a safeguard against the 'evil eye'?
She swallowed hard. 'Your tribe is fortunate to have El Conde as its patron, Sabelita,' she frowned doubtfully, 'and he has made obvious the strong natural affection he feels for your race. Nevertheless, I am surprised by your eagerness to claim kinship with one whose measure of gypsy blood must now be minimal.'
With anxious eyes she quizzed Sabelita's face, hoping that the old gypsy woman would not take offence, then found herself wavering between surprise and relief when she read complacency in her smiling features.
'The truth of my claim is visible to all with eyes to see,' she asserted with a proud toss of her head. 'Each generation has been blessed with a Conde endowed with eagles' wings—the silver-tipped markings inherited from the first Condesa and shared by descendants of her family right up until the present day—that proves beyond doubt that he is one of us!'
Frances retreated from her bedroom, and with Sabelita's triumphant cackle still ringing in her ears made her way downstairs towards the courtyard at the rear of the Palacio from where the Conde had despatched a servant with a message requesting her presence.
She found him leaning with one shoulder propped against a trellis, his head tipped backward as he studied the height of the mountain above the tree line where a wilderness of grey rock, precipitous paths and melted snow streams bordered by purple irises and blue periwinkles began. When he remained unaware of her soft-footed approach she paused to inhale deeply the sweet, fresh aroma of springtime that was spreading a mantle of green over the lower slopes, coaxing fig leaves and mulberry leaves to open, and sticky poplar buds to unwrap in preparation for the arrival of the swallow, the cuckoo and the melodious nightingale.
As if becoming suddenly conscious of her presence, he swung round with a courteous greeting on his lips.
'Buenos dias, seňorita! I hope you slept well and that you are feeling sufficiently rested to join me in a stroll around the gardens. Not far from here, within the boundaries of my estate, is situated the lake of the flamingos, a spectacle which I'm certain you will find both exciting and amusing.'
Warily, she eyed the tall frame looking utterly relaxed in a short-sleeved sports shirt, open at the neck to show the swing of a golden medallion, and casual, lightweight slacks. The previous evening he had seemed surrounded by an aura of Oriental authority, this morning, with Sabelita's words still running through her mind, she imagined she could sense an air of amused tolerance that left her feeling shy and inexplicably tonguetied.
'Thank you, I'd like that very much,' she finally managed to mumble. 'If you don't mind waiting just a couple of minutes, I'll slip upstairs to get my camera.'
'Don't bother,' he brushed aside her request, 'the flamingo lake affords such a spectacle of colour and grace that over the years my study has become crammed with shots taken from every conceivable angle. You are welcome to take your pick. But perhaps you would like a coffee before we set off, or. a cool drink, perhaps?'
'No, nothing for me, thank you,' she assured him hastily, anxious to avoid having to exchange polite social chitchat with the imperious, eagle-eyed Spaniard.
'Very well,' he looked relieved, 'in that case, seňorita, permit me to lead the way.'
For a while they walked in silence along paths meandering through extensive grounds filled with flowers and freshly blooming shrubs which she knew, back home in England, would still be lying dormant, their leafless, frost-burned branches as yet untipped by buds of springtime green. The sun fell warm upon her shoulders, warning that later in the day its heat would burn like a scorch upon skin protected to the pale sheen of milk by scarves and jumpers worn as a defence against thin, icy winds. The air hung still and heavily scented, yet an impression of coolness was achieved by the sound of running water that was never out of earshot, water spouting into fountains, tumbling in streams down the side of the mountain, springing straight from deep underground fissures and caverns where it had seeped after trickling down from snow-tipped peaks, welling from underneath rocks to form deep still pools.
'I had imagined, seňor,' she was moved to sigh, 'that the whole of Spain was a barren, parched plain. Nothing I'd read had prepared me for this… this,' she waved an encompassing hand, 'green and pleasant oasis of fertility.'
He checked his stride, seemingly too absorbed in thought to assimilate the meaning of her words, then comprehension dawned as a glimmer of appreciation in his dark eyes, in the faint hint of a smile playing around the edges of a gravely-set mouth.
'We are blessed with an abundance of water,' he agreed. 'During winter it is left to flow into the ravines, but in summer it is fed into channels, some to maintain a constant supply to the villages, the rest being used to irrigate the valley.'
'Yes, you are fortunate,' she confirmed a trifle shyly. 'I would count myself lucky to see daffodils blooming in my garden back home, yet here apricots and persimmons are ripening and even orange trees are bearing fruit.'
'But our winter can also be c
old,' he reminded her, his lips twitching slightly when she looked unconvinced. 'Believe me, there are some months of the year when I shun large areas of the Palacio and confine myself within one small salon that can be heated by a fire fuelled by small oak logs brought down from the mountains. Nevertheless,' her look of faint derision forced him to concede, 'in spite of autumn winds that seem to blow and blow, I suppose that, compared with your English winters, ours are relatively mild.'
They continued walking in companionable silence through a grove of chestnut trees ringed like a setting around a jewel-hued garden, the Conde guiding her around patches of soggy moss, indicating with a nod or a pointing finger a nest with an unidentifiable clutch of chicks bobbing above its rim, the darting progress of a colourful lizard, the wheeling grace of an eagle circling above the open canopy of overhead leaves.
Speech was superfluous, yet Frances felt that the silence he had imposed upon them was meant to serve some purpose. This suspicion was confirmed when a peculiar, monotonous grumbling sound fell faintly against her ear, then began gradually to swell, louder and louder as if, she thought, they were approaching some unseen, resentfully muttering crowd. She darted a look of enquiry towards the Conde, but with an inscrutable smile he waved her onward. Obediently she responded, her puzzlement growing as step by step the noise grew louder yet remained completely distinguishable from any other sound she had ever heard.
Ten minutes later, when they stepped out of the trees into a huge clearing, she was hit by the impact of the most unusually beautiful bird spectacle she had ever seen. A few hundred yards from where she stood rooted, .the waters of a lake seemed to be rippling beneath a mysterious white eiderdown hovering above a forest of long, thin stilts. She blinked, doubting the wisdom of her eyes, then as the Conde urged her forward the floating white mirage materialised into a vast flock of flamingos nestling neck to neck, bustling, surging, jostling for position on long, stiff spindly legs jutting above the surface of the water. Busily, with heads bent low, they were sifting with their beaks through shallow water in search of food, too intent upon foraging to notice that they were being observed.
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