Beloved Tyrant

by Violet Winspear

  The revelation did not surprise Lyn. She had suspected all along that Rosa had a problem and that it involved a man - it was a pity the man was married!

  “It is a stupid, useless business falling in love with a married man,” Rosa admitted. “But love takes us unaware and it was three years before the day I looked at him and realized I was looking at a man I cared for. Once I was aware of how I felt, the damned loving began to grow. It’s a progressive emotion, as you must know yourself, honey, so six weeks ago I told him I needed a vacation and I ran like a rabbit back under the roof of the hacienda, miles from New York, if you ignore the fact that jet planes exist. I guess I hoped I’d forget him, and that if Cort proposed again I’d accept him. But tonight when he kissed me—” Rosa sighed and shot the stub of her cigarette into the night. “God, what is wrong with our bodies that they must have what isn’t good for them? I admire Cort tremendously, but the other guy excites every nerve I have.”

  “So you turned Cort Langdon down?” Lyn murmured.

  “Not flatly.” Rosa gave a rueful laugh. “I never do, and he’s too nice for such treatment. He’s forty-two, Lyn, and he’s beginning to champ at the bit for a wife and a family. He has a large ranch, a big heart; and I’ve seen other people happy without being madly sent by the man they marry.”

  “Does Cort know that you love this other man?” Lyn asked.

  “I’ve never told him, but he may suspect something. He’s no fool or I wouldn’t consider marrying him at all. I could bear to live with him - it’s just that I’m not crazy about him. I can have Cort, but I can’t have the other guy, except in a way I wouldn’t like. He has children, and his wife is a pretty nice person. So, Lyn, what do I do? Make of Cort a compensation figure? The answer to my inevitable frustrations?”

  As Lyn hesitated and thought of the good, strong face of Cort Langdon, Rosa caught her by the hands. “Tell me what to do,” she pleaded. “Shall I marry Cort and hope that his love for me will ignite something stronger than the affection I feel for him? Or shall I return to New York to become a mistress instead of a wife?”

  “You mustn’t do that!” Lyn was no puritan, but she liked Rosa too much to want her to make so precarious a life for herself. In such a situation there could be no children, unless one was completely selfish, and Rosa did not strike Lyn as selfish or hard, and she might become both if she became the mistress of a married man.

  “I’m old-fashioned enough to believe that people should only marry if they are crazy about each other,” she said. “I am also realistic enough to know that many marriages are not at first made in heaven, that love often follows, and develops from kindness and affection. Mr. Langdon struck me as a nice person, strong and straight, and your sort, Rosa.”

  “A riding man, eh? A humorous, down-to-earth sort?”

  “Yes. Like unto like isn’t a bad thing, Rosa.”

  “It isn’t passion - the earth shaking at a look!” Rosa swung away, to lean moodily against the veranda. Vines rustled against a wall and the scented breath of furled roses was like an incense.

  “And what about you, Lyn? Are you going to waste your youth pining for a man who can no longer hold you in his arms?”

  Lyn thrust her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “I - I try not to pine,” she replied.

  ‘I’m a cat!” Rosa groaned. “Oh, lord, if only love could be automated, so we could switch it on and off like a radio and get on with the job of living without getting all emotional.”

  “What would happen in the event of a power cut?” Lyn smiled. “Awkward to be looking tempting in a stunning dress, under a gauzy moon, and all emotion blanked out by a broken cable.”

  “I think you and I are far too romantic,” Rosa decided. “We aren’t nearly as self-reliant as we make out.”

  “Self-reliant women are half male.”

  Rosa swung to Lyn with a startled laugh. “That’s what Rick thinks!”

  “I was under the impression that giddy females brought out the mockery in him.”

  “Sure, Rick has some pretty trenchant views about women, but he likes them. He isn’t a wolf so much as a tiger, and he likes women to be ornamental, spirited, and warm-hearted.”

  “He demands rather a lot,” Lyn said drily.

  “He’s a lot of man, remember. He isn’t a rake like Felipe del Rey, but being an artist he has naturally mixed with all kinds of people in all sorts of places. He paints women as if he understands them like a Moor - which could account for another tendency in Rick!”

  “He will make the woman he marries his prisoner of love,” Lyn suggested, smiling and yet meaning it.

  “You’ve analysed him, haven’t you, honey? Yes, he’s an autocratic devil in lots of ways, but I’ll tell you something. If ever you’re in a spot of bother he’ll help out and not make a song and dance about it. I’m not saying he won’t throw in one or two sardonic remarks, just as a small bonus for himself, but he keeps cool in a crisis, and he makes a pretty solid leaning post.” Lyn thought of him at the rodeo, calmly taking charge of “operation Leoni” and relieving Lyn of her burden of anxiety. Yes, an unexpected vein of gold ran beneath the surface granite, even though a girl got bruised looking for it.

  “What do you make of Glenda Martell?” Rosa asked.

  “She’s sensationally attractive,” said Lyn, “and very sure of herself.”

  “And of Rick, eh?”

  “It appears so.”

  “Yes, I guess wedding bells will eventually ring over their pagan heads.” Rosa heaved an audible sigh. “But what am I to do about Cort? What am I to do?”

  Lyn couldn’t tell her. It was a decision Rosa alone could make, so they bade each other goodnight and drifted indoors.

  One afternoon Lyn took Leoni into Amijo to treat her to a fudge sundae at the cafe there. They emerged, after a mutual enjoyment of the ice-cream, to see a familiar pink Pontiac come sweeping into the village with its rather narrow main road. The horn blared as the big car was brought to a standstill by a flock of goats. A ruddy head came thrusting out of the driver’s window and in a resounding voice Glenda Martell ordered the goat herd to get them out of the way. “Pronto!”

  “Si, senora, pronto!” The herdsman began to berate his flock, who disdainfully swung their neck bells and did everything but obey his commands.

  Leoni slipped free of Lyn’s hand and ran to the side of the car. “Hullo, Auntie Glenda,” she sang out.

  “Hullo, nuisance! I see you’ve got ice-cream all round your mouth as usual.”

  “It was ice-cream fudge and it was lovely.” Leoni stood on the running board and used her pink tongue to clean up the fudge. Glenda gazed past the child to the pavement where Lyn stood. Quite unexpectedly the young widow said: “Would you like to come back to the casa for tea. Miss Gilmour? Do say yes!” as Lyn hesitated. “We haven’t really got acquainted yet, and my cousin Felipe is anxious to see you again.”

  And in case Lyn refused the invitation Glenda opened the door of the car and let Leoni inside. Lyn was obliged to follow, and it flashed across her mind that with Rick away for a few days Glenda felt in need of a little diversion.

  When the goats were finally bullied off the road, the Pontiac shot forward, to turn off the main road after a few miles on to the private drive that led to Glenda’s house. The driveway climbed steeply, ran beneath an avenue of tall trees and in under a wrought iron archway which spelled out in Spanish the Casa del Rey. Years ago, so Rosa had told Lyn, the casa and the grounds had belonged to Glenda’s people, but her father had been a heavy gambler and the place had fallen into the astute hands of Henry Martell. Glenda was no less astute, Lyn reflected. Her old family home was back in her hands, along with the oil fortune accumulated by her late husband.

  The casa was gracious and mellow, and so situated that it commanded a view of a wooded valley, filled with bird song. Cascades of pink honeysuckle cloaked the wall of a concealed patio, and lacy iron enclosed the windows.

  The house brooded peacef
ully as Glenda’s car followed the curve of the flower cloaked wall, and braked to a standstill.

  “Agostino!” Glenda led the way into the patio, and when a white-coated manservant appeared she told him to bring tea for three. “Lashings of fruit and cream today. We have a chica to entertain.”

  “Si, senora. Senor Felipe is in the sun loggia. Will he be joining you?”

  “Tea for four, Agostino.” Glenda broke into a smile, and glanced at Lyn. “Would you like iced tea, or your own British kind?”

  “It’s lovely iced,” said Lyn, and she tried to sound warm and enthusiastic about this unexpected tea party.

  Leoni was hopping up and down like a flea on a cat. “Do you want to go to the comfort station?” Glenda asked. The child nodded and Glenda led her indoors, calling back over her shoulder to Lyn to make herself at home. “That’s the sun loggia.” She waved a hand in its direction, the great emerald sparkling on her finger. “Go and speak to Felipe.”

  Lyn, recalling his rakish good looks, concentrated on the flowers instead, and watched the white doves cooing and tumbling on its walls. Big golden bees lifted on the honeyed air and then sank again into the lush cream cups of the magnolia blossoms. Butterflies drifted from the bright blue anchusa to the multi-pink carnations, and when she disturbed the leaves of some scarlet monarda a fragrant scent was released, making her close her eyes with delight.

  She opened them quickly when a voice spoke from the doorway of the sun loggia. “It’s much cooler in here.” Felipe del Rey lounged among the roses, clad in a canary-yellow shirt worn outside his fawn slacks. He looked very much at his ease, and picturesque enough for a poster advertising a tropical vacation.

  “Hullo,” said Lyn, and when she joined him in the loggia she saw that its roof was formed of the umbrella crowns of two giant palms, whose shade was very welcome. Rattan chairs like circular fans were set about a sunken fish-pond, and there was a lattice-work table, and gay rush matting on the floor.

  “Leoni and I have been invited to tea,” Lyn explained, her corn-gold dress riding above her knees as she sat down in a rattan chair. The dress was sleeveless and made her look slender as young corn. She saw the lazy appreciation in Felipe’s eyes as he lay back in a chair facing her.

  “How do you like living at the Hacienda Rosa?” he asked. “And how do you get along with the Corderas family?”

  “Quite well, really,” she said. “And I must say I like the Spanish atmosphere of the hacienda.”

  “The aunt is a bit of a harridan, isn’t she?” Felipe grinned. “Have you had any trouble with her?”

  “At the beginning. She thinks a governess should be a sort of duenna, and I don’t quite match up.”

  “You were an airline stewardess, weren’t you?” His eyes flickered over her. “It seems much more your line than playing nursemaid.”

  “I don’t play at it, senor!”

  “No, of course not.” His eyes danced. “Does Leoni often give you the run-around, the way she did at the rodeo?”

  “Don’t remind me of that,” Lyn pleaded.

  “I felt for you, honey.” Felipe brushed lazily at a ladybird that had settled on his arm. “Especially when Rick turned on you like a puma interrupted at the kill.”

  “I didn’t want to break in on his conversation with Glenda, but I was at my wits end, very nearly.”

  “Isn’t the redoubtable Rick Corderas one of your favourite people?” Felipe gazed into Lyn’s eyes, with their doe-like tilt and their pansy-brown irises. In any mood, angry, gay or sad, Lyn’s eyes were those of a sacrificial fawn, though she was totally unaware of the fact. Felipe held them with his own, deliberately and admiringly. “Women are inclined, I believe, to find Rick either detestable or desirable. I’m somehow not surprised that you find him maddening

  Felipe broke off and turned his handsome head as Glenda strolled into the loggia followed by Leoni and the tinkle of tea things on the trolley Agostino was wheeling.

  “We’re discussing your favourite man, Glen. Lyn finds him hard to get along with, but you find him packed with dynamite, don’t you, my sweet?”

  The look which Glenda gave her cousin was not sweet. “Agostino, you may leave the trolley. I shall serve my guests.”

  “Si, senora.”

  He withdrew, and Lyn felt a hint of tension in the air.

  “Here’s a pussy for you.” Leoni dropped a big furry caterpillar on her arm, but if the imp of mischief hoped for a show of alarm she was disappointed. Lyn picked the caterpillar off her arm and placed it on the straw-like trunk of one of the palm trees. Felipe was shaking with laughter.

  “You’re a regular load of fun, aren’t you, kid?” Felipe handed Leoni a plate with a chocolate-covered cake on it. Leoni sank her teeth into it and kept her big dark eyes fixed on his face.

  “I like you,” she informed him, treating him to a flirty smile that was rather spoiled by the dob of chocolate adorning her nose.

  “All the girls like Felipe,” drawled Glenda, handing Lyn a glass of iced tea. “And he returns the compliment - when they’re pretty.”

  When they had finished their tea, Felipe obligingly took Leoni to the stables, where a pretty black foal had been born the day before. Glenda asked Lyn if she would like to see the interior of the casa, which had been redecorated.

  “Yes, indeed.” Lyn rose from the curb of the fish-pond, water glistening on her fingertips. “I was telling Felipe how much I like the atmosphere of these fine Spanish houses. Yours and the hacienda must be two of the finest examples in California?”

  “They are,” said Glenda, leading the way into the house. Its rooms were strikingly attractive, especially the lounge, where the predominant colour was sea-green used cunningly to enhance Glenda’s titian good looks.

  But what magnetized Lyn’s eyes was a painting of a bullfight above the fireplace. It glowed with life and colour, except where shadow hovered above the dark head of the matador, so lean and active as he faced the tempered bull, bristling with the cruel darts. The tense excitement of the crowd could be felt, almost. The lining of the matador’s cloak was scarlet ... symbolic.

  “Rick painted it,” Lyn murmured, before Glenda could tell her so.

  “Yes, terrific, isn’t it? He’s been invited to paint murals for the clubroom of Mexico’s largest arena.” Glenda lounged with picturesque grace beneath Rick’s painting, cigarette smoke trickling from her nostrils. “He’s gone there to discuss the matter with the director.”

  Lyn was unsurprised that Rick should be so expert at painting the national sport of his people, but she couldn’t suppress a shudder at its cruelty so vividly depicted by his own hand.

  “It isn’t just a cruel spectacle, you know.” Glenda’s lip curled with a hint of scorn she made no attempt to hide. “It involves a great deal of courage, skill and endurance. A fighting bull is about the most dangerous opponent a man can face, deliberately, and I might add that the Spaniard who goes to the bullfight would never hurt a child. Spanish men have great kindness and patience when it comes to children.”

  “I’m sure they have,” said Lyn.

  “Rick paints well, doesn’t he?”

  “He has exceptional talent,” Lyn agreed.

  “He sacrificed me on the altar of his career five years ago, and that’s why I married Henry. I didn’t love him, but he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had married a woman over whom men like Rick and Felipe were ready to fight.”

  “And did they fight?” Lyn was well aware that the question was expected of her.

  “Like panthers,” Glenda purred. “Like matadors intoxicated with the fight. But Rick was avoiding the chains of marriage at that time and out of pique and because Henry was rich I married him.” Glenda showed her white teeth in a gay smile. “You think me quite shameless, don’t you, Lyn? You are so British, so cool and restrained - to all outward appearances.”

  A hint of danger tingled in the air and Lyn glanced at her wrist-watch. “I think I should be taking Leon
i home—”

  “Oh, come, you don’t have to dash away just yet.” Several bracelets made music as a tanned arm indicated a deep chair. “Felipe will run you both home in the car - of course he will! That’s better. Sit back and relax while we continue our intriguing discussion about men.”

  Glenda arranged herself in a chair facing Lyn. “Both Rick and my cousin are attractive brutes, don’t you think? Or do you prefer the more restrained looks of your countrymen?”

  “I’ve seen some striking Englishmen,” Lyn rejoined, not merely stung to loyalty but because the statement happened to be true.

  “The Viking type, eh?” Glenda lay back in her chair, her mouth a vivid bow against her tanned skin. “I like my men dark and dangerous, with a suggestion of the jungle cat about them. Have you noticed Felipe’s eyes, the oblique way they’re set? And Rick’s supple control over his body and his limbs? Such men are rather cruel at times, and inclined to be secretive, but they are never doggy in their approach. They never paw a girl, crumple her best dress, or generally behave like animals.” She paused, and then added deliberately: “Was Felipe joking, or do you really dislike Rick?”

  Lyn knew at once that Glenda was probing, that she was remembering the morning Lyn had cantered home with Rick on his stallion. She was curious, and she was not letting go again of what she had lost five years ago. “I don’t fully understand him,” Lyn replied, and she gave Glenda a perfectly frank look. “You are right to say he reminds you of a jungle cat. He is - unpredictable.”

  “And therefore exciting,” Glenda purred. “He’s an enigma like most artistic people, but that can only make life with him that extra bit fascinating. I intend to make my life with him, and to be the only woman in the future whom he will fascinate.” In that moment Glenda’s sea-green eyes had the sheen of steel, and the sensuous curve to her mouth was determined. “He’s an established artist now. The time has come for him to marry, and quite frankly, my dear, the thought of marrying Rick makes my toes curl.”