Image of Love

by Rebecca Stratton

  'You knew that Pablo was a painter, didn't you, Marta?' As if she wondered where she was leading, Marta nodded. 'I'd no idea how good he was,' Rosanne went on, 'because I never saw any of his work, but Don Jaime has a portrait in his study that I'm pretty sure was done by Pablo.'

  'So?' Obviously Marta had expected something more exciting and she looked vaguely disappointed. 'If Pablo was his cousin that is surely not so surprising.'

  'I suppose not.' Rosanne evaded those curious eyes uneasily. 'But it's a portrait of me. It stands in his study covered with a cloth and no one would know what it was unless they moved the covering.'

  Marta's eyes had a bright quizzical look and she was half smiling, knowing the answer well enough. 'And you moved the covering and looked, Rosanne?'

  Rosanne shrugged. 'I know I shouldn't have done, it was prying in someone else's house, but I was looking for those miniatures Beatriz told me about and I couldn't resist it.' She grimaced ruefully. 'The trouble is, Don Jaime saw me looking at it.'

  'Oh, Rosanne!'

  'What I don't understand is why he didn't say anything.' She shook her head, still unable to . believe it. 'He just closed the door again and walked away without saying a word.'

  Marta was staring at her. 'He said nothing?'

  'Not a word!' Rosanne spread her hands and laughed, a short and slightly breathless sound. 'You were there when I came back to the sala; you heard everything he said.'

  It was obvious that Marta was as puzzled as she was herself and she pulled thoughtfully at her lower lip. 'Are you sure that it was Don Jaime that you saw, Rosanne?'

  'Oh, I'm sure!' She saw again in her mind's eye that tall rangy figure with one hand on the door of the sala, not turning his head probably because he suspected she might have seen him and followed him.

  'But simply to walk away?' Marta used her hands in a gesture of resignation. 'He is a strange man!'

  Rosanne was looking at her curiously, more certain than ever, of the answer, even before she asked the question. 'Beatriz doesn't know anything about that portrait, does she, Marta? She'd have said something to you if she did, wouldn't she?'

  'I am sure of it! We talked of nothing to do with Don Jaime, only about our husbands and their work, but I am sure that if Beatriz had known about such a portrait she would have told me.'

  'That's what I thought. I can't imagine why he has it, even if Pablo did paint it. Not tucked away in that quiet little room that obviously no one ever goes into except him.'

  Something showed in Marta's eyes suddenly that made her uneasy. 'It is like you, this portrait, hah?'

  Rosanne put down her coffee cup and moved across to the open window, breathing in the scented air, and standing with her back to Marta's bright, inquisitive gaze. She remembered how curiously zmfamiliar certain aspects of the painting had seemed, and wondered if she could possibly convey the impression to Marta.

  'It's very definitely me and yet in some ways it isn't like me; at least not like I see myself. It has a look in the eyes that I'm certain isn't me.'

  'Unless it is how you appeared in the eyes of an amante, perhaps?' Marta suggested, and Rosanne was on the point of denying it emphatically until she realised suddenly how right she could be.

  As it was, she tempered her denial to something less forceful. 'No, Marta, I hardly' think so. I'm certain Pablo painted the portrait, but he wasn't my lover, although I suspect Don Jaime believes he was.' She turned at last and the reflected sunlight from outside gave a golden sheen to her light brown hair but left her face in the shadows. T didn't know him long enough; three weeks isn't time enough to fall in love.'

  'No?' Marta's opinion obviously differed, though she chose not to pursue it at the moment. 'Then in what way is it different?'

  It wasn't easy to describe that disturbingly sensual look about the eyes and mouth without further convincing Marta that the portrait was the creation of a lover, and Rosanne took a moment or two to come to terms with the idea. Perhaps Marta was right, and Pablo had been more enamoured of her than she had realised at the time.

  'I don't quite know,' she confessed. 'Maybe you're right; perhaps it was seen through the eyes of an amante, but I have no definite reason for thinking so. Pablo never was my lover in the true sense of the word, and I'm certain he never saw me look the way he's made me look in that picture.'

  'Perhaps without being aware of it?' Marta suggested, and Rosanne shook her head. Somehow the idea was much too discomfiting.

  But even supposing Marta was right, it did not explain why Don Jaime had the painting hidden away in his private study. It was a good work even she could recognise that, but if he kept it for its workmanship as well as being a memento of his cousin, it would have made more sense if it had been hung in a more prominent position in the house.

  She turned once more to the window, looking out at the gardens and reminded of how Jaime Delguiro obviously liked to surround himself with beauty. The portrait had an undeniable beauty of its own and was undoubtedly worthy of being hung in a place where more people than he could appreciate it; the fact that he kept it to himself raised all sorts of disturbing possibilities that Rosanne hastily dismissed as she turned back to Marta once more and smiled.

  'Well, finding it solves one mystery at least,' she told her. 'Ever since I met Don Jaime I've been puzzled by the way he looks at me each time we meet. I always got the impression that he knew something about me that I didn't know myself, but now I know he's got the portrait of me, it explains it!'

  'He looks at you—in a curious way?' Marta's face was fully in the light from the window, and in that Rosanne had the advantage at the moment; she could see every expression that flitted across it, and the bright dark gleam in her eyes. 'How is it that he looks, Rosanne? As if he knows something about you that you do not know?' Her hands fluttered, making expressive gestures in the air, and she laughed softly. 'Maybe he knows that he has the feeling for you that his cousin had, mi amiga, have you thought of this, hah?'

  'Oh, Marta, for heaven's sake!'

  Rosanne was caught between laughter and despair. Whether or not Marta was serious, the idea of Don Jaime nursing an unrequited passion for her caused Rosanne a churning sense of excitement that she could do nothing to still. It was one thing to have such notions straying into her own mind, but to have Marta suggesting them as a definite possibility was another matter.

  The telephone in the hall shrilled loudly and at the sound of it Rosanne started as if she had been struck. Getting to her feet to answer it, Marta gave her a curious glance over her shoulder. *You are too nervous, Rosanne,' she told her with a faint smile, and Rosanne turned hastily back to the window.

  She was aware of Marta somewhere in the background, talking in Spanish to someone on the other end of the line, but she was glad of a few moments alone to gather herself together. In fact she had very little time, for the call was brief and in a few moments Marta was back with her again, looking quite pleased with herself.

  'That was Beatriz,' she informed Rosanne. 'She is to be away herself for a few days, but the week following this her mother and sistpr will return from Paris and we are invited to Casa Delguiro to meet them.'

  So it had come—the moment she had been anticipating since Jaime Delguiro had put a ban on her visits that morning. It had come so much sooner than she expected that she was unprepared and said nothing at first, only looked at Marta rather vaguely. Then she laughed shortly and shook her head. 'I won't be able to come, Marta, I'm sorry.'

  'You do not wish to go?' There had to be more to it than that, and Marta knew it; Rosanne just wished it did not sound so impossibly dramatic put into words.

  'I'd like to go, you know that, but—well, Don Jaime's forbidden me to go to Casa Delguiro again.'

  'Forbidden you!'

  She had been right, it did sound impossibly dramatic, and he hadn't worded it just like that. Not that it made much difference, for Marta would find it just as hard to accept, however it was worded. 'That's the gist of it,'
she said, trying to keep the explanation from sounding as dramatic as the announcement itself.

  'But I do not understand, Rosanne.'

  Rosanne half smiled. 'No, I don't suppose you do, I'm not sure I understand it myself, but I might as well tell you what happened now I've told you so much. You know I took myself out of the house for a while this morning out of your way?' Marta nodded, an eager and interested listener. 'I was by the patio gates when Don Jaime came along and he stopped his car and spoke to me. That's when I learned that he and Pablo had been cousins.'

  'He stopped and spoke to you?' Marta's eyes gleamed with unmistakable relish at the news and Rosanne smiled ruefully.

  'I was surprised too! But if I'd known what he had in mind when he asked if he could speak to me for a few minutes, I'd probably have told him to go away! As it was he wasted no time at all in coming to the point—namely that I was no longer welcome at Casa Delguiro and that I'd be unwise to go there again.'

  It surprised her rather to realise how angry it could still make her feel when she remembered it, and she clenched her hands tightly in her lap. Her eyes were suspiciously bright because, quite unexpectedly, it hurt a little too. It shouldn't, because she scarcely knew the man and their meetings so far had been hardly friendly. He had, on that very first occasion, allowed a definitely masculine appreciation to appear in his eyes, but never since.

  'So' you see—I can't come with you because Don Jaime won't allow it!'

  'Madre de Dios!' Marta made a breathless appeal to heaven, but it was obvious that even now she was curious above all else, and seeking some deeper reason than any that came to mind so far. 'Has he taken leave of his senses, Rosanne?'

  'I don't imagine he thinks it's unreasonable to lay down the law about who visits his home and who doesn't,' Rosanne told her, and laughed shortly at the idea of her trying to see his side of the question. 'If Don Jaime doesn't want me calling on Beatriz again, there's very little I can do about it, Marta. It's his home and it's his privilege!'

  'You think, of course, that this is something to do with his cousin being Pablo Ostera and with you being the one who--' Marta spread her hands, unwilling to put it into words, and Rosanne shrugged.

  'I wish I knew, Marta.' She felt strangely helpless suddenly without quite understanding her own reactions. 'I suppose it has to be Pablo, since he denies it has anything to do with the fact that he doesn't like strangers or that he found me in his study. But it all comes down to the fact that I can't go with you to see Beatriz and I'll have to ask you to explain as best you can for me, if you will.'

  Marta's eyes had a bright gleaming darkness that boded ill for the reputation of Don Jaime and she set her mouth firmly. 'I shall most certainly tell Beatriz how badly her cousin is behaving towards you,' she promised. 'And then we shall see!'

  Rosanne recalled that dark, autocratic face looking at her so fiercely because she had voiced her own suspicions about the reason for the ban, and she shook her head. 'It won't do any good, Marta, but Beatriz will have to be told something, and I'd much rather she knew the truth than thought it was because I didn't want to see her again.'

  'We shall see,' Marta promised. 'We shall see what is the truth behind this—this locuro of Don Jaime's!'

  Madness or not, Rosanne thought, he was unlikely to change his mind after being so adamant about it, and it surprised her to realise just how much she wished he would.

  For the next couple of days Rosanne felt vaguely restless without knowing quite why. Very soon now Marta would be visiting the Casa Delguiro to see Beatriz, and no doubt to inform her of her cousin's inexplicable behaviour, and Rosanne supposed her own present state of mind had something to do with that.

  She had gone into Almaro to do some shopping and she was leaving the little estanco with some magazines when she bumped into Federico. He was obviously just as pleased to see her as she was to see him, for he beamed her a smile and took both her hands in his for a moment while he looked down at her with bright dark eyes.

  'Rosanne—it is delightful to see you once more!'

  It had occurred to her a couple of times during the past two days that Federico might have contacted her, but she did not bother to speculate on his reasons for not doing so now that she saw him, for she felt herself warm to the blatant appreciation in his eyes.

  'Now that I see you again you will have lunch with me, si?'

  It was Pablo all over again, Rosanne thought, but was nothing loth to be rushed off her feet once more. Even so she took time to consider before she agreed with the suggestion, noting idly that he did not retain his hold on her hands for very long. It was something she had noticed about Federico before; he was so very proper in public.

  'I don't know, Federico, I was just going back to lunch with Marta, and she——'

  'Senora Segovia is a most understanding lady,' Federico claimed extravagantly. 'She is also on the telefono, si?'

  He took her arm and turned her in the direction of a public telephone and he ever handed her the price of the call, then stood by and watched while she dialled Marta's number, smiling broadly and very plainly satisfied with his speedy manoeuvre. Feeling as if she had been caught up in a'whirlwind, Rosanne informed Marta of her unexpected invitation to lunch, and it was quite obvious that she approved from the tone of her voice.

  'Dicha, Rosanne!' She chuckled as she hung up and Rosanne shook her head. Good luck indeed!

  'All fixed?'

  She nodded and Federico smiled his satisfaction. 'Are we lunching here at that nice little restaurant across the road?'

  That did not please him quite so much, she could see, and she wondered why not. But seemingly he was anxious to please her and he shrugged lightly. 'That is where you would like to go?'

  'I would rather,' she told him. 'I like that little place, it has a lot of atmosphere.'

  He hesitated, but only for a second, then he took her arm and guided her across the square. 'Muy bien, as you wish!'

  The sun was at its hottest and Rosanne was glad to gain the shelter of the trees bordering the pavement. Nothing, she thought, seemed to have changed since she saw the place last, and even the same scrawny black dog still snuffled in the gutter, its sensitive nose teased by the smells of hot oil and spiced meat that wafted from the restaurant doorway. It was all so very much as it always was, and to Rosanne that unchanging sameness was Almaro's main charm.

  'I never eat a very big meal in the middle of the day,' she warned, and Federico looked at her despairingly as he reached for the menu.

  'You eat so very little, Rosanne, that the wonder to me is that you can remain so His hands described a rather exaggerated female form, and he pulled a face.

  He had made the same complaint when they had dinner together after visiting San Felipe, but no matter how he felt, she had never been capable of keeping pace with the Spanish appetite. By now Marta was accustomed to it and did not worry, but Federico still did not understand and she thought he probably read something much more meaningful into her refusal to indulge when she was with him.

  'I just can't cope with too much.' She smiled, half apologetic because he would restrain his own appetite for politeness' sake. 'Don't let it stop you, though,' she encouraged him. 'Go ahead and have as much as you normally would, I shan't mind.'

  For a second or two he appeared to be trying to come to terms with the situation and then, with typical Latin resignation, he shrugged eloquent shoulders and went back to studying the menu. 'This is an unexpected pleasure,' he told her when he had seen the waiter off with their order, and his dark eyes glowed warmly at her across the small table.

  Remembering her earlier restlessness Rosanne could only agree, and she smiled readily to let him know it. 'I couldn't have wished to bump into anyone nicer,' she told him. 'And a surprise lunch date is very good for my morale.'

  He leaned his elbows on the table and those dark eyes said so much, reminding her yet again of Pablo. 'Ana and Eduardo are away for today,' he confided, 'and I had resigned
myself to a solitary lunch—but instead I find you! Bella Rosanna!' He reached over and for a second his fingers squeezed hers, but it was a very discreet gesture, she noticed, and was not likely to have been observed by anyone 6Ise. Federico was sometimes so much more reserved than she expected, but it was all to the good and she found him charming company.

  Rosanne had a little smoked ham, sliced tissue-paper thin and served with artichokes, a slice of ice-cold melon and a light, sharp Alella white wine, and felt well satisfied, although Federico made no secret of the fact that he felt she had almost starved herself.

  'It was plenty for me,' she assured him, laughing at his expression. 'It was a wonderful meal, Federico, really, and I enjoyed it enormously.'

  'If you are content with so little ' He shrugged and used his hands to express resignation.

  Rosanne was feeling a little lightheaded. Lunching with Federico had done wonders for her earlier unrest, and the Alella had given her a wonderful warm feeling of well-being so that she could not resist teasing him. 'The more usual follow-up, in England at least,' she told him with a laugh, 'is to say something like— we must do this more often.'

  She thought for a moment that she had said something he misunderstood, for Federico looked distinctly uneasy and she could not imagine why. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to the women of his acquaintance being so bold as to make remarks like that, and remembering his rather reserved outward manner, she hastened to amend any wrong impression.

  'That was only a joke, Federico; I wasn't being- brassy, or whatever the Spanish equivalent is.'