'Adios, Jaime.'
He had already turned away and was getting into the car when it occurred to her that she did not even know if he had yet told his aunt that the picture was still intact. If she should meet Beatriz—'Jaime 1' Calling after him was purely instinctive and, as had happened once before, when he turned the expression in his eyes sent a shivering thrill through her whole body. 'Does Dona Elena know you still have Pablo's portrait of me?'
Briefly a shadow of the familiar frown drew at his brows and she had the awful suspicion that she had once more said too much. But after a second a small sardonic smile curved his mouth and he shook his head. 'No, Rosanne, she does not yet know. That is one
of many things I have to do before ' His shoulders lifted resignedly, and he turned once more to the car.
'Adios, Rosanne!'
CHAPTER NINE
Preoccupied without realising how absent it made her seem, Rosanne got on with her dinner and was completely unaware of the glances exchanged by Marta and her husband. Rosanne was far from unhappy, for she had been in a kind of rosy dream ever since she came back from Ciudad Roca with Jaime at lunchtime, but there were other things on her mind that occasionally penetrated the dream world and reminded her that everything was not as perfect as it might be.
For one thing she hated the idea of Catalina Ostera feeling so bitter towards her. It shouldn't matter so much what a virtual stranger thought of her, but it mattered because Catalina was Jaime's cousin, and. close to him., Catalina's attitude, Rosanne felt, could affect her standing with Jaime, and that disturbed her more than she cared to admit.
Every time she allowed her mind to wander, she was back in Jaime's arms, and her body tingled at the memory of those strong arms folding her close to the exciting, masculine leanness of him, and the fiercely passionate mouth that could make her senses whirl into ecstatic chaos. It seemed almost inevitable that she had fallen in love with him, and the realisation came to her quite suddenly. She had no doubt at all that she loved him, even though she had more than once declared it was impossible to fall in love in such a short time.
What she was much less certain about were Jaime's feelings for her. He was a passionate man, she had had proof enough of that in her own experience, but she was still uncertain if his passion was the purely physical, or if it went deeper than that. In the very beginning one of the things about him that had intrigued her had been that air of reticence; now it was that very same characteristic that made her so uncertain.
She would have denied it quickly if someone had suggested she was unhappy, but there were still too many uncertainties concerning Jaime and his family, and wondering about them made her appear absent and unnaturally serious. It was a situation that was sure to attract Marta's notice sooner or later, and they were half way through dinner when Rosanne felt a light fingertip touch on her forearm.
'Rosanne?' Marta's dark eyes questioned her anxiously, as well as looking curious. 'Is there something wrong? Something between you and Don Jaime, perhaps? You have been so—detached ever since you returned from having lunch with him.'
'Oh no, everything's fine, Marta, honestly.' She smiled when the memory of Jaime's kisses came once more to the forefront of her mind, and the shine in her eyes was bright and warm. 'I had a wonderful time, and we didn't quarrel once!'
'And yet you are distracted—thoughtful.' Marta sought for words to suit her purpose and, failing, shrugged eloquent shoulders instead. 'I have the suspicion that you feel much for Don Jaime, am I not right?'
'Marta!' Julio Segovia looked shocked at his wife's frankness, but Rosanne, who was more accustomed to her friend's interest in her affairs, shook her head and smiled at him reassuringly.
'It's quite all right, Julio, I'm used to her!'
Julio frowned, obviously puzzled not only by his wife's interest, but by Rosanne's apparent acceptance of it. 'You do not mind such personal remarks, Rosanne?'
Giving Marta a glance from the corner of her eyes, Rosanne laughed. 'Not really. Marta's an incurable matchmaker, Julio, she never gives up. And now that Federico Sanchez is out of the running she's got her sights fixed firmly on Jaime Delguiro!'
To Julio the idea obviously came as a shock and he was shaking his head at his wife in firm disapproval, regardless of Rosanne's reassurances. 'How could you do such a thing, Marta? And with a man like Don Jaime too!'
'You think Don Jaime is incapable of loving a woman like Rosanne?' his wife demanded, and Julio flicked a vaguely uncertain glance in Rosanne's direction. It was plain that he would much rather drop the matter, for it embarrassed him perhaps more than it did Rosanne.
'I have not considered the matter,' he informed his wife with an air that was meant to put her firmly in her place, but Marta was smiling.
'Oh, Julio, mi amor! He is a man, hah?'
'Most certainly,' Julio agreed readily. 'But I am not happy that you indulge in such fancies, Marta.' He glanced once more at Rosanne, trying to make something of her determinedly evasive gaze. 'Nor do I think that you should make such endeavours on Rosanne's behalf.' He inclined his head in a gallant little bow and gave her a smile. 'Rosanne has no need of such assistance!'
He was a charmer, Rosanne thought, and quite understood her friend's devotion to her husband. 'Oh, Julio, bienquisto, no one is hurt, and I am so happy in my own marriage that I wished only for my friend to be as happy. That is not so wrong, eh?'
Those huge dark eyes could not fail to persuade him, and Marta was fully aware of it. Julio adored her as much as she did him, and both were staunch advocates of the married state; he could hardly argue with his wife's motives. He held her gaze for a moment, then smiled and shook his head.
'But not too boldly, enamorada, eh?'
Marta nodded, wise enough to leave well alone. She said no more about Jaime, but apparently changed the subject. 'Perhaps it will make you feel more cheerful if we go to see the fiesta, eh, Rosanne?'
There was nothing more guaranteed to distract Rosanne than the prospect of a fiesta, for she had seen enough of the lively, noisy and colourful displays that the Spaniards seemed to produce at the slightest excuse to be a thorough convert. The one put on by Almaro for its patron saint would not be very big, but it would lack nothing but size. The zeal and enthusiasm would be there in plenty, triggered off by the religious procession that was the excuse for the more worldly entertainments that followed it.
'I'd love it!' she agreed unhesitatingly, and Marta nodded, giving her husband a brief but unmistakably satisfied smile as she gave her attention once more to her meal. 'It's tomorrow, isn't it, Marta?'
'Tomorrow afternoon,' Marta said, and once more looked at her husband. 'Julio will come with us, will you hot, mi amor?'
Julio, under no illusions at all, looked across at Rosanne and broadly winked one eye without even showing a trace of a smile. 'If I do not, bienquista, you will not go either, hah?'
'Oh, Julio!'
He laughed and reached for her hand, pressing her fingers tightly before kissing their tips. 'Of course I will take you, enamoradq, and Rosanne too, on the understanding that you do not try to find Rosanne a husband from the crowd!'
Marta's bright dark eyes sparkled mischief and she turnied them briefly in Rosanne's direction before smiling again at her husband. 'I do not think I have to find a husband for Rosanne,' she told him with exaggerated archness. 'There is no longer need!'
Whether or not she expected a response from Rosanne, there was none forthcoming, for Rosanne was determinedly getting on with her meal and she kept her eyes firmly downcast. It was a subject she preferred not to comment on at the moment.
The tiny square in Almaro had almost disappeared under a veritable deluge of flowers and banners. Every building was draped with coloured garlands and hung with flags and banners, showing saints or coats of arms, and ribbons and streamers fluttered limply in the hot still air.
The sidewalks were packed with people, and everyone of them seemed to Rosanne to be talking at once. It w
as hot and noisy in sharp contrast to its normal quiet tranquillity, and she had seemed at one time in imminent danger of being trampled underfoot. But the excitement of the occasion infected her as it did the Spanish crowd who had come in from the districts around to swell the small population of Almaro itself.
It was possible there were one or two foreign faces in the crowd, but as far as Rosanne could tell the rest of the faces that surrounded her were darkly Spanish and as lively and animated as only a Spanish crowd in holiday mood can be. The three of them had managed somehow to find places on the steps at the base of San Pablo's statue at the far end of the square from the church, and from there they had a panoramic view of the crowd and the road.
San Pablo's cool stone feet were pressed against her back and his shadow kept off the worst of the sun's heat as she waited eagerly for the procession to begin. The first sign was when a local band came into hearing, the wavering but fortissimo notes of a hymn wailing above the clamour of human voices; a valiant group dressed in hot and heavy uniforms that made them suffer in the hot sun. Playing with more gusto than skill, but setting the scene for the rest of the procession—nothing was too much to suffer for their patron saint.
Next came the children, all in white and with their small solemn faces concentrating on the task of scattering rose petals and the perfumed heads of carnations before the image of San Pablo himself. Borne on the shoulders of four stalwart men, the heavy wooden statue was dressed in a brown velvet version of a monk's habit trimmed with gold; finery that was seen only once each year, on the occasion of his fiesta. The holy relic was in an ivory box at his feet.
The priests and choristers followed, chanting and carrying a colourful flotilla of religious banners, rich with embroidery, while all around men and women fell to their knees on the crowded sidewalk as the saint passed, and bowed their heads in a moment of humility that was incredibly touching and yet did nothing to dim the air of excited anticipation.
Rosanne, with the rest, was craning to see across the square when she felt a light touch on her arm and, looking round, she found Marta with bright dark eyes gleaming, looking over her shoulder. 'I have seen him,' she whispered, her face leaned close so that Rosanne could hear her above the crowd. 'Don Jaime was down
there at the back of the crowd, Rosanne!'
With so many faces around, Rosanne felt she might easily have been mistaken, but just the thought of Jaime possibly being close by brought a sudden warmth to her cheeks and she could hear her own heartbeat even above the persistent thudding of the drums in the procession.
'Marta, how could you be sure '
'He was here to look for you, Rosanne, I know it; I could see it when he saw you up here!'
'But '
Rosanne had turned herself almost right round so that she could see as much as possible for the small space she had to move in, and she had been about to confirm her doubt when she glanced down into a shadowed space at the rear of the statue of San Pablo. The deeper shadows in front of the shops this side of the square had a still kind of coolness that contrasted vividly with the brighter noisier sunlight on the road and her eyes adjusted themselves rapidly to the change.
Very few people stood that far back, because the statue of the saint made it impossible to see what was going on, but Jaime stood in a doorway while some people passed him, his tall lean figure drawn back out of the way. When Rosanne saw him and caught his eye, he made a signal with one hand that was unmistakable in its meaning and stepped forward to stand at the foot of the steps.
'He is there, yes?' Marta must have seen her smile and it was answer enough. She nodded her satisfaction and pressed back to allow Rosanne to get past her on the limiting width of the stone step, whispering in her ear as they passed, 'We will not look for you, mi amiga —mucha sverte!'
Rosanne nodded, wholly concerned with getting to Jaime as quickly as she could, but he was still standing there at the bottom of the steps when she eventually got to him. Taking her hand, he held it for a moment before drawing her along with him, behind the border of people hemming the sunny square. Rosanne raised no question, it was enough that he had come and sought her out, and she did not even wonder for the moment, how he came to know she was there.
Jaime said nothing as they walked along in the shadows, but it occurred to her suddenly that he had an air of seriousness about him and the strong fingers that held hers so tightly had a suggestion of tension in their grip. Content to simply go wherever he led her, she did not for a while realise that they were making for the tiny park of San Pablo, not until they were walking along the tree-lined path that led to the little lawn and the shading palms where she had met him yesterday.
The scent of' the roses and the solitary magnolia were headily effective, and not a soul else seemed to be seeking refuge from the clamour and excitement of the fiesta. The strident efforts of the bands reached them only dimly, smoothed and softened by distance, and the voices of the people seemed to come from another world as Jaime headed, as if by instinct, for the shadow of a huge oleander. .
It grew half way across the path, slightly straggly and untidy with that same look of neglect that the rest of the shrubs in the park had, but it was thick and heavy-headed with deep red blooms and it encompassed in its depth one of the white iron park seats. A palm tree grew behind it, leaning drunkenly and forming a feathery, umbrella-shaped roof, so that between the two the seat stood virtually in an arbour, a hidden place where no one was likely to come across them and certainly not to see them from anywhere else in the park.
Not that anyone in Almaro was interested in anything else, with the fiesta in full swing, but a rendezvous like this was likely to be viewed with some suspicion even during the less strict atmosphere that prevailed during the celebration. A couple sitting together in a public park would not even raise an eyebrow in England, but in Spain's more formal climate it was a little different.
Drawing her into the natural arbour, Jaime sat on the seat beside her, one hand still'holding hers. 'It is quiet here and we can talk,' he said, and Rosanne could find no fault with the idea at all. She sat half turned towards him and looked into the dark stern face with a boldness she had never felt before, but when she met his eyes she knew at once that there was something amiss. That it was not simply because he had wanted to be in her company that he had sought her out and taken her away from the fiesta, and realising it brought the inevitable sense of disappointment, even though she told herself she had half expected it.
'How did you know where to find me, Jaime?'
'I called at the house of your friends,' he explained, 'but I found no one there, not even a servant, and then I remembered that it was the day of the fiesta of San Pablo and I guessed that you would be here somewhere.' He shrugged his broad shoulders and gave her a brief smile. 'I had not thought to find you quite so easily or so quickly, but it was impossible to miss you at the feet of San Pablo himself.'
It was difficult to concentrate on what he was saying, because she was so aware of the man himself. The shirt he wore fastened high at the neck, and was of such snowy whiteness that his skin looked duskily dark in contrast, and the dark suit, she realised, was not dissimilar to the traditional Andalucian costume. It fitted his rangy leanness perfectly and emphasised his height so that even sitting beside him, Rosanne felt small and tremblingly aware of his very masculine nearness.
'It's lucky we chose such a prominent spot, or you'd never have found me.' She tried to steady her voice, but it still trembled uncertainly, and Jaime smiled, although his eyes were still dark and serious as he looked down at her.
'I have taken you away from your friends and from the fiesta,' he said, as if he only now realised it. 'I am sorry, Rosanne.'
'Oh no, please don't be!' She hastened to reassure him, and barely resisted the temptation to reach up and touch his face. 'I don't mind, Jaime.'
'You do not like the-fiesta?'
She nodded. 'Oh yes, but—well, I quite like talking to you too, so I do
n't mind.'
The admission, made as it was, had a certain naivete, she supposed, but somehow it didn't seem to matter at a time like this, and she could not deny that she would much rather talk to him than watch the procession. It seemed to please Jaime too, for he reached out a long finger and stroked it across her cheek, bringing a shivering response from her senses that she could do nothing about.
'I have only unhappy news for you, mi pequena, it is for that that I brought you from the fiesta. I am sorry.'
'Bad news?' She hardly knew what to expect, and she was looking at him with her eyes wide and curious. 'What is it, Jaime?'
'Unhappy news.' He repeated it, as if her own description had been less accurate. 'It is possible that I have misjudged your—sensitivity, but I think not.'
'Jaime '
It seemed he needed to stand to say whatever it was he had to say, and he got to his feet suddenly, one hand brushing back through thick black hair. 'The painting that Pablo did of you, Rosanne '
She was on her feet in a second, her heart thudding hard even though he had not yet actually told her anything. She had sensed there was something wrong and she could almost have guessed that it would concern that controversial portrait.
'What is it, Jaime? Has Dona Elena discovered that you didn't destroy it? She told me about that,' she said when he looked at her in surprise, 'when I came to see her.'
Image of Love Page 16