by Penny Jordan
There was quite a busy throng around the Calvortex display and it was several minutes before Colin could talk to one of the young men in charge. He explained his purpose in Seville, producing the letters of recommendation he had brought with him, while Jessica swiftly translated.
'Unfortunately I am merely a member of the staff,' the young man exclaimed regretfully to
Jessica, 'but I will certainly mention this matter to my superiors. If we have a telephone number where we can reach you?'
Handing him both his card and their telephone number at the hotel, Colin announced that they had done enough for one morning and that it was time for lunch. Typically he decided that they would lunch, not at the restaurant within the exhibition, but at another one, far more expensive and exclusive, as Jessica could tell at a glance when their taxi stopped outside it.
She was wearing another of his outfits, and attracted several admiring looks from the other diners as they were shown to their table, Colin beaming delightedly at the attention they were receiving.
Over lunch though he was more serious. 'I hope to God I do manage to get to some arrangement with Calvortex,' he confided.
Jessica, sensitive to his mood, picked up the tone of worry in his voice.
'It would be very pleasant,' she agreed, 'their fabrics are fantastic, but it won't be the end of the world if we don't, will it?'
'It could be,' Colin told her gravely. 'Things haven't been going too well this last couple of years. The people with money to spend on haute couture are getting fewer and fewer, and we don't exactly produce high fashion stuff. Calvortex fabrics have a world-wide reputation, if we could use them for our clothes I'm convinced it would help boost sales—I've already had one approach from the Americans, with the proviso that we use Calvortex. Somehow they got to hear that we hoped to do so, and they've suggested an excellent contract. There'd be enough profit in it for us to start a cheaper line—bread and butter money coming in with the designer collections as the icing.'
What he said made sense, and Jessica knew enough about the fashion world to know he wasn't exaggerating. Several of the larger fashion houses were cutting back; designers came, were acclaimed for a couple of seasons, and then simply disappeared, but it was like chilly fingers playing down her spine to realise that Colin might be in financial difficulties.
'Well,' Colin told her when they had finished eating, 'let's get back to the exhibition and see if we can find something to fall back on if we don't get anywhere with Calvortex, although I'm afraid if we don't we'll lose the American contract—and one can see why. The texture and colour of those tweeds they were showing…'
'Mmm,' Jessica agreed, 'they were marvellous. I wonder how they manage to get such subtle colours?'
'I don't know. I've heard it's a closely guarded secret. Their Chairman is also their main designer and colour expert. It's quite a small concern really, but as I said before, extremely exclusive.'
The rest of the exhibition, while interesting, fell very far short of the standard of the Calvortex display, although Jessica did think that some of the supple leathers and suedes might prove useful to them. For some time she had been trying to persuade Colin to try a younger, more fashionable line, and she could just see those suedes, in pewters, steel-blues and soft greens, in flaring culottes and swirling skirts, topped with chunky hand-knits.
It was shortly after dinner that Colin received a message from reception to say that there had been a call from from Calvortex.
'Stage one completed successfully at least!' he announced to Jessica when he returned to the bar, faintly flushed and obviously excited. 'I've spoken to the Chairman and he's agreed to see me tomorrow. I've explained to him that I've got my assistant with me, so he's arranged for us to tour the factory, and afterwards we can talk.'
She wouldn't be included in the talks, of course, Jessica reflected, but it wouldn't be too difficult a task to occupy herself for a couple of hours—in fact she would enjoy seeing how such beautiful fabrics were made.
Although Colin had not suggested that she did so, she dressed with particular care for the visit— an outfit chosen from their new season's designs, a cream silk blouse and a russet velvet suit with a tiny boxy jacket with narrow puffed sleeves and scrolls of self-coloured embroidery down the front. The skirt fell smoothly in soft loose pleats from the narrow waistband, and it was an outfit that Jessica knew suited her.
Colin obviously thought so too, because he beamed with approval when he saw her.
'Very apt,' he approved as he looked at her. 'The jacket has a certain matador air, very much suited to this part of the world, and I must say I'm very pleased with the way that embroidery has worked out. The colour suits you as well.'
'I thought about the tweed,' Jessica told him, referring to a tweed suit which was also part of the new collection, 'but as it doesn't compare favourably with their fabrics, I thought…'
'Quite right,' he approved. 'Now, I've ordered a taxi for us, we've just about got time for a cup of coffee before it arrives.'
He looked more like an Old Etonian than a famous designer, Jessica reflected, eyeing his sober Savile Row suit and immaculate silk shirt. Colin belonged to an older generation that believed in dressing correctly and that one could always tell a gentleman by his clothes; in Colin's case expensive and discreet clothes—Turnbull & Asser shirts and handmade shoes.
The factory was situated just outside Seville, surprisingly modern and with access to the river and the port. It was, as Colin pointed out, very well planned, close to main roads and other facilities, and when he gave in their names at the gates they swung open to allow their vehicle to enter.
They were met in the foyer by a smiling dark-haired young man, dressed formally in a dark suit, his glance for them both extremely respectful, although there was a gleam of male interest in the dark eyes as they discreetly examined Jessica.
Having introduced himself as Ramon Ferres, he told them that he was to escort them round the factory.
'Unfortunately the Conde cannot show you round himself,' he explained in the sibilant, liquid English of the Spaniard, 'but he will be free to have lunch with you as arranged,' he informed Colin. 'Forgive me if I stare,' he added to Jessica, 'but we did not realise when Senor Weaver mentioned an assistant that he was talking of a woman. I'm afraid you might find the chemical processes of the factory a little boring…'
'Never,' Colin interrupted with a chuckle, while Jessica suppressed a tiny flare of anger at their escort's chauvinistic remark. Of course in Spain things were different. On the whole women were content to take a back seat to live their own lives, especially in the more wealthy families. No doubt someone such as Sebastian de Calvadores' wife, if indeed he had one, would never dream of interfering in her husband's life, or of questioning him about it. That was how they were brought up; to be docile and biddable, content with their families and their homes.
'You'll find that Jessica is far more knowledgeable about the manufacturing process than I am,' Colin added to their guide. 'In fact I suspect she prefers designing fabrics to designing clothes, if the truth were known.'
'Both fascinate me,' Jessica said truthfully.
The next couple of hours flew past. There was so much to see, so much to learn. The factory was the most up-to-date she had ever seen, the equipment of such a sophisticated and superior type that she could only marvel at the technological advances made since she had left college.
They were shown the dying vats, but prudently Ramon Ferres said nothing about how they managed to produce their delicate, subtle colours. All he would say in answer to Jessica's questions was that in the main they used natural and vegetable dyes.
'But surely there's always a problem in stabilising such colours?' she pressed him.
He smiled and shrugged slim shoulders. 'This is so,' he agreed, 'but we have been lucky enough to discover a way of stabilising them—I cannot tell you how, you understand, but be assured that we have done so.'
'And next s
eason's range?' Jessica queried. 'Could we…'
Again Ramon Ferres shook his head. 'That is for the Conde to decide,' he explained. He glanced at his watch. 'I will escort you back to the foyer, it is almost time for lunch.' He glanced at Jessica. 'Originally it was intended that we should lunch together, but as I explained, we had expected Senor Weaver's assistant to be a man.'
It was plain that he had expected Colin's assistant to want to talk shop over lunch, and it exasperated Jessica that he should think that simply because she was a woman she was merely paying lip-service to appearing interested.
'I should love to have lunch with you,' she said firmly. 'There are several points I should like to clarify regarding the manufacturing processes; problems you might have in maintaining the quality of your wool, for instance…'
They were back in the foyer, and an elegant, dark-haired secretary came to conduct Colin into the Chairman's private sanctum, leaving Jessica with Ramon Ferres.
A little to her surprise he guided her out to car, explaining that although the factory had a restaurant, they operated a scheme similar to that adopted by the Japanese, in that all the staff dined together.
'While the food is excellent, the atmosphere is no conductive to a serious discussion. However,there is a restaurant not far from here.'
'And the Chairman?' Jessica asked curiously, visions of Colin in his Savile Row suit sitting down to eat with several hundred noisy Spaniards.
'He has a private dining room in his suite which he uses for business entertaining.'
As Ramon Ferres had said, the restaurant was not very far away. It had once been the shipping office of a wine exporter, he explained when Jessica expressed interest, but had now been converted into a restaurant.
As they walked inside the unusual barrel-vaulted ceiling caught Jessica's attention, and as they were shown to their table Ramon told her that there were deep cellars beneath the ground.
'Almost every house in Seville has its cellars—a legacy from the times of the Moors—places of sanctuary and safety.'
'And sometimes prisons,' said Jessica, shivering a little. Like most people she found something distinctly frightening about the thought of being imprisoned underground.
'That too,' he agreed. 'The thought distresses you? There are not many of our leading families in Seville who have not had recourse to their cellars, for one reason or another, at some time in their history.'
'This is a very fascinating part of Spain,' Jessica commented as they were served with chilled gazpacho. 'A true mingling of East and West.'
'Not always with happy results,' Ramon told her. 'The Moorish character is a proud one, sombre too, and those in Seville who can trace their line back to the Moors are inordinately proud of their bloodlines. It has not always been so, of course. There was a time, during the Inquisition in particular, when to own to Moorish blood was to sign one's own death warrant.'
'Do you have Moorish ancestors?' Jessica asked him, genuinely interested.
He shook his head ruefully. 'No, my family was originally from the north, but the Conde can trace his family back to a knight attached to the Court of Pedro the Cruel. It is said that he ravished away the daughter of his arch-enemy, although there is a legend in the Conde's family that this was not so; that the girl was seduced by her cousin and in fear of her father she laid the blame at the door of his most bitter enemy. The Conde's ancestor was a proud man, and rather than endure the slur on his good name he offered to marry the girl—that is the story passed down through the Conde's family.'
And it bore a sombre echo of truth, Jessica thought wryly. She could well imagine a man who could not be moved by any other emotion being moved by pride; pride in his name and his race. She could almost see the dark flash of bitter eyes as he was faced with his crime… She shook herself mentally; what was the matter with her? For a moment in her mind's eye she had mentally imagined Sebastian de Calvadores as that accused ravisher. She would really have to stop thinking about the man. What was the matter with her? She was behaving like a teenager! If she felt anything for him it could only be contempt—and yet when he had stood there saying those dreadful things to her she had longed to tell him the truth, to see him smile instead of frown.
It was Jessica's turn to frown now. Why should she care whether Sebastian de Calvadores frowned or smiled? It was immaterial to her; not that she was ever likely to see him again anyway!
Ramon Ferres was an entertaining companion, and although Jessica suspected that he did not entirely approve of a woman in what he plainly considered to be a man's world, he answered all her questions as pleasantly and fully as he could.
'Much of this you will have to ask the Conde,' he told her with another of his shrugs, when she had asked several highly technical questions. 'I'm afraid I am employed more as a public relations manager than a technical expert. The Conde, on the other hand, knows everything there is to know about the manufacturing process. The whole thing was his brain-child; he conceived the idea when he was in South America working on the rancho of his godfather—it is from there that he gets the wool; it is of the highest quality and the partnership is a good one. It is said that Senor Cusuivas would like it to be even closer— he has a daughter who would make the Conde an excellent wife. Forgive me,' he added hastily, 'I should not have said that. The Conde…'
'I've forgotten it already,' Jessica assured him, amused that he had so far forgotten himself to gossip a little with her. As he had said himself, he was not from Southern Spain, and perhaps a little homesick here among the more taciturn, secretive people of Seville, who had lived too long in the shadow of death and danger not to weigh their words carefully. Centuries of bloodshed had stained this soil, leaving the inhabitants a legacy of caution—deep-seated and ineradicable,
'I shall have to leave you in the foyer for a few minutes,' Ramon apologised to her when they got back to the factory. 'Senor Weaver should not be long, and I'm afraid I have some business to attend to, but I shall leave you in Constancia's capable hands.'
Constancia was the secretary. She gave Jessica a brief smile, and offered a cup of coffee. Jessica accepted; the wine with their lunch had left her feeling thirsty.
The girl had been gone about five minutes when the door behind her desk was suddenly thrust open.
'Constancia…'
Jessica felt her heart lurch in recognition of the voice, less grim than when she had heard it last, but recognisable all the same. She was halfway out of her seat, the blood draining from her face, when Sebastian de Calvadores turned and saw her, frowning in disbelief. 'Dios!' he swore angrily. 'You would pursue me even here? Have you no pride, no natural feminine reticence? I have told you as plainly as I can, senorita, that my brother has no interest in you. And nor will you find him here. He is away from home at the moment, visiting the family of his novia-to-be,' he added cruelly, 'a young girl of excellent family who would rather die than tell a man to whom she was not married that she was to bear his child.'
This last gibe brought the hot colour back to Jessica's face.
'Did you send your brother away so that he couldn't see… me?' she asked heatedly.
'Hardly. I had no prior warning of your arrival. However, I am sure that had we done so, Jorge would have thanked me for saving him from an unpleasant confrontation. What did you hope for by coming here? To browbeat him into changing his mind and offering you the protection of his name—our name?' he added proudly.
Before Jessica could retaliate the door opened again and Colin came out, beaming as he caught sight of her.
'Ah, Jessica my dear, you're back. Conde,' he smiled, turning to Sebastian de Calvadores and astounding Jessica, 'allow me to introduce my assistant to you. Jessica—the Conde de Calvadores, Chairman of Calvortex!'
'This is your assistant of whom you have spoken so highly to me?' Just for a moment Jessica saw that Sebastian was practically dumbfounded, although he managed to conceal his shock faster than she could hers.
He was the Chair
man of Calvortex! He was the person on whom the future success of Colin's business depended. Her heart sank. She couldn't see him agreeing to anything that involved her, no matter how remotely.
'Yes, this is Jessica,' Colin was agreeing happily, plainly unaware of any undercurrents. 'Like Senor Ferres, the Conde expected my assistant to be a man,' he added to Jessica.
'Perhaps because I'm a woman he would prefer to see me shut away behind a locked gate—or better still, in one of Seville's many dungeons,' Jessica said lightly, and although Colin laughed, she knew from the tiny muscle clenching in the
Conde's lean jaw that he had not missed her point.
'The Conde has invited me to join him for dinner this evening,' Colin told her. 'We have still not discussed everything.'
Jessica's heart pounded. Was the discovery that she was Colin's assistant going to affect his decision adversely? Surely as a businessman Sebastian de Calvadores would make his final judgment on commercial grounds only, and yet she couldn't help remembering what Ramon Ferres had said about his family and how it tied in with her own impression that he was an inordinately proud man. Would he turn Colin's suggestions down simply because Colin employed her?
Constancia returned with her cup of coffee and Jessica took it, grateful for an excuse to turn away from Sebastian de Calvadores' bitter eyes.
What an appalling coincidence! She had never imagined for one moment that Jorge's arrogant brother and the head of Calvortex would be one and the same man.
'… and of course, Jessica is of particular help to me because she speaks several languages fluently,' she suddenly heard Colin saying, and her fingers trembled as they curled round the coffee cup and she realised that the two men were discussing her.
'Most fortuitous,' she heard Sebastian de Calvadores replying, cynicism underlining the words, and bringing a faint flush to her pale skin. 'I believe you told me that she was also fully qualified in textile design and processing?'