by Anne Mather
* * *
Enrique had always thought that Seville was the most Spanish of cities. It was also one of the most beautiful places in Spain, some might say in the world, and he’d always loved it.
But today even the sight of its famous cathedral did little to lift his spirits. The huge Gothic church and the Giralda tower, which was the city’s most famous landmark, were just monuments to a way of life that he didn’t want to identify with any more.
Cassandra’s words had cut deeply into the fabric of his existence. The devastating realisation that for the last ten years he had been living a lie left him feeling sick and bewildered. Although he wanted to deny it, to accuse her of using one mistake to justify her actions, he knew in his heart of hearts that she was telling the truth.
The boy was his. David was his; the child he had so instantly recognised as being his own flesh and blood was in reality so much more. Flesh of his flesh; blood of his blood; fruit of his genes, of his loins. The son he had never expected to have.
And Cassandra’s, he added tensely. Though there was no chance of him forgetting that. He gave a snort of disgust. God, and he had blamed her for keeping the child a secret from them! She must have spent the last ten years hating him, hating his father, hating the very name of de Montoya. No wonder she had been so shocked when he had turned up at the pensión in Punta del Lobo. He must have been the very last person she wanted to see.
If David hadn’t written that letter…
But he couldn’t think about that now. He had other, arguably more important, matters to attend to. His father was due to leave the hospital tomorrow and his mother had requested him to come and drive the old man home to Tuarega. She had asked him to come today because she wanted all the formalities dealt with in advance of her husband’s release date; or so she’d said. But Enrique suspected that she still hadn’t told Julio about David and she wanted him to tell his father before he arrived at the palacio and discovered the truth for himself.
It was still early when he arrived at the block of apartments where his mother was staying. Not yet ten o’clock, and already he felt as if he had done a day’s work. He hadn’t eaten since Cassandra’s revelation of the night before; hadn’t slept. And now, faced with the prospect of telling his mother who David really was, he felt hopelessly unequal to the task.
Yet strangely elated, too, he realised, parking the Mercedes in the shade of a huge flowering acacia. Its yellow blossoms dripped feathery shadows over the car and as Enrique got out he inhaled the distinctive aromas of heat and vegetation and the unavoidable smell of exhaust fumes that hung in the languid air.
The de Montoya apartamento occupied the top floor of the five-storey building that overlooked the formal gardens of one of the city’s parks. After exchanging a few words with the doorman, Enrique took one of the old-fashioned elevators up to the penthouse. A padded bench furnished the small panelled cubicle and hand-operated wrought-iron gates replaced the efficient sliding doors he was used to but Enrique scarcely noticed. Everything about the building proclaimed its age and conservatism, but his parents liked it and there was no doubt that, when any of the apartments became vacant, there was always a list of would-be tenants waiting to move in.
Bonita, his mother’s housemaid, let him in, her plump face exhibiting her surprise at his early arrival. ‘Señora de Montoya is not yet up, señor,’ she explained, following him into a spacious salon whose long windows gave a magnificent view of the cathedral. ‘I will tell her you are here.’
‘There’s no hurry, Bonita,’ he replied, glancing about him at the familiar surroundings of the apartment. Heavy carved furniture, richly coloured upholstery echoed in the thick drapes hanging at the windows: the room was a mirror-image of the apartments his parents occupied at the palacio but without its height and space to mitigate the oppressive effect. ‘I’ll have some coffee while I wait.’
‘Yes, señor.’
Bonita bustled away to do his bidding and Enrique moved to the windows, standing with his hands pushed into the hip pockets of his black trousers, the collar of his dark green shirt gaping open to expose the hair-roughened skin of his throat. The apartment was air-conditioned and he was grateful for it. He’d begun to feel the heat coming up in the elevator.
‘Enrique!’
His mother’s voice disturbed him. Turning, he found her standing just inside the door that led to the inner hall of the apartment, a lavender-coloured velvet robe wrapped tightly about her, as if she was cold.
Judging by her expression, Enrique apprehended that she thought his early arrival heralded bad news and he hurried to reassure her. ‘Mamá,’ he said, going to her and bestowing a kiss on her dry cheek. ‘How are you? All ready to return to Tuarega?’
‘As I’ll ever be,’ declared Elena de Montoya shortly. ‘I take it you are eager to tell your father what you’ve done? That is why you are here before breakfast, I assume?’
‘You haven’t told him?’ Enrique knew it was a pointless question. Obviously she hadn’t or she would have said so.
‘No.’ Elena gathered the folds of the robe at her throat and gave him a haughty look. ‘You brought that woman and her son to Tuarega, Enrique. It is your duty to tell your father who they are.’
‘They are your daughter-in-law and your grandson, Mamá,’ retorted Enrique, feeling the nerves coiling tightly in his stomach. ‘You cannot dispute that.’
His mother drew a deep breath. ‘The boy is a de Montoya,’ she agreed. ‘Of that there is no doubt.’
‘Then?’
‘But he has not been brought up as a de Montoya, Enrique,’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘As he would have been if he had been your son.’
‘He is my son, Mamá.’
It was as easy as that. The words simply formed themselves and before he could consider their impact they had slipped out, as clear and as damning as the conviction behind them.
His mother stared at him blankly for a moment. Her eyes dilated, mirroring the numbing effect of his words, and it was apparent that she was in a state of shock.
He would have gone to her then but she waved him away, moving to the armchair nearest to her and groping for its support. Like a much older woman than she actually was, she lowered herself onto the cushioned seat and sat for several seconds just gazing at him as if she’d never seen him before.
Then, when his own skin was feeling clammily damp with sweat, she spoke again. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘As you told me you had discussed David’s future with Sanchia?’ Enrique sighed. ‘I didn’t know before last night.’
His mother avoided his question and asked one of her own. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘But you must have—’
‘No.’ Enrique’s nostrils flared. ‘No, I didn’t. How could I? You know how Cassandra feels about me, about us. She didn’t even want to come here, to Spain. That was David’s idea; the letter was David’s idea. If he hadn’t written to Papá…’
‘We would never have known of his existence,’ said his mother faintly, and Enrique nodded. ‘But why not? Surely she must have known how we would have felt if we’d known she was expecting a child?’
‘My child?’ suggested Enrique drily, and his mother came unsteadily to her feet.
‘Your child,’ she said incredulously. Then, with harsh emphasis, ‘How could you, Enrique? How could you? Your own brother’s wife!’
‘She wasn’t his wife when—when we—’
‘Spare me all the sordid details,’ exclaimed Elena, shaking her head in distaste. ‘I cannot believe this, Enrique. All the time that I was at Tuarega; all those hours I spent talking with David, believing he was Antonio’s child.’
Enrique shrugged. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ His mother looked up at him with bitter eyes. ‘Sorry does not even begin to cover it.’ She paused. ‘But how do you know that woman—Cassandra—is not lying? How can you be sure that
David is your son?’
‘He is,’ said Enrique flatly.
‘But how—?’
‘She was a virgin when I made love to her,’ replied Enrique harshly, and his mother winced. ‘She and Antonio never had the chance to consummate their marriage. He was killed only hours after the wedding, remember?’
‘How could I forget?’ asked Elena bleakly, and then glanced round apprehensively when Bonita came back carrying a tray of coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice.
The housemaid greeted her mistress warmly, setting the tray on the table nearest to where she was sitting before turning to Enrique. ‘Some toast or a croissant, perhaps, señor?’ she suggested. ‘I have some home-made strawberry conserve.’
‘The coffee will do, Bonita,’ he replied with a small smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘And you, señora?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’ Elena waved an agitated hand at the housemaid. ‘Leave us.’ This as the woman went to pour the coffee. ‘My son can take care of it. He seems to think he can handle everything else.’
‘Yes, señora.’
Bonita withdrew, but not before she had exchanged a startled look with Enrique, and after she had gone he pulled a wry face. ‘There’s no need to take your feelings out on the staff,’ he remarked reprovingly. ‘It’s not Bonita’s fault that you’re stressed.’
Elena’s lips tightened. ‘Nor mine either,’ she reminded him tightly. ‘And please don’t use that language in my presence. You are a de Montoya, Enrique. That should mean something to you.’
‘It does,’ he said flatly. ‘It means arrogance, and pride, and an overwhelming belief in one’s own importance in the scheme of things. But do you know what, Mamá? All of a sudden that sounds awfully hollow to me.’
‘Because you’ve just found out that you have a son you never knew?’ she demanded contemptuously. ‘We all make mistakes, Enrique. Even you.’
‘Yes, we do,’ he agreed, suddenly wanting to be out of the apartment and away from this dried-up old woman who always believed she was right. ‘But you’ll never guess what my mistake was. Never in a million years!’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ENRIQUE didn’t return to Tuarega that evening.
Cassandra had spent the morning in a state of extreme agitation, sure he would want more of an explanation than she had given him the night before and steeling herself to face his anger. But her lunch had been served without any explanation being given for his departure, and she consoled herself with the thought that the longer he stayed away, the shorter time there would be left for them to remain at the palacio when he got back.
She was reluctant to consider what he might be thinking. If he had believed her, she didn’t want to contemplate what his actions might be. No matter how attractive the proposition, the possibility that he might have dismissed what she’d told him as pure fabrication became more and more unlikely as each hour passed. He’d believed her, she thought sickly, and now she had to ponder how she was going to deal with it.
The most attractive option was to leave Tuarega. The idea of calling a cab, of loading herself and David into it and driving to the airport to catch a flight back to England, was almost irresistible. But she couldn’t do that. Apart from anything else, she doubted David would want to go with her, and, while she could override his wishes, sooner or later she was going to have to face the consequences of what she’d done.
Why had she done it? she had asked herself again that afternoon, having left the palacio in search of her son and found herself standing at the rail of one of the paddocks where some of Enrique’s bulls had been grazing the lush grass. Why had she told him? No one had forced her hand. However loath she might be to admit it, hadn’t she secretly just been waiting for a chance to cut the ground out from under him? To wipe the smug smile from his face once and for all?
She had shuddered, wrapping her arms about herself as the cold suspicion took root. She didn’t want to admit that she’d found any pleasure in telling him. She hadn’t, she assured herself fiercely. But she must have hurt him and that was an emotion she could identify with very well.
‘Señora?’
It had been Carlos, his lined face wearing an anxious expression, and Cassandra had wondered if Enrique had confided in him before taking off for God knew where.
‘Hi,’ she said, forcing a smile. And then, nodding towards the bulls, one or two of whom had lifted their heads and were regarding them with disconcerting interest. ‘I was just admiring the stock.’
‘Sí, señora.’ Although Carlos spoke a little English he understood considerably more and he looked at the powerful herd with a certain amount of pride. Then, with a shrug, ‘But you do not like los toros, no?’
Cassandra tried to be objective. ‘I have nothing against the animals exactly…’
‘But you do not like the—um—bullfight, sí?’
‘Sí,’ agreed Cassandra, resting her elbows on the rail and gazing at the bulls with doubtful eyes. ‘It’s—cruel.’
‘Ah, cruel.’ Carlos used the Spanish pronunciation. ‘Many things are cruel, señora.’ He paused. ‘El toro dies a—how would you say?—a death valeroso, no?’
‘A valiant death? No.’ Cassandra was diverted from her own problems by his teasing provocation. ‘The bull dies in pain; in agony. It bleeds to death, doesn’t it?’
‘Ah, no.’ Carlos lifted one finger and shook it from side to side. ‘El torero, he kills with la estocada. His sword. Into the neck, so!’
‘I’d rather not hear the details.’ Cassandra shivered and the old man smiled.
‘Señor Enrique: he was like you when he was younger.’
‘Enrique?’ She couldn’t believe it.
‘Pero, sí.’ Carlos watched one of the bulls that was approaching them with wary eyes. ‘Even today, he does not attend the corrida, señora. These are his bulls; his toros bravos. But he has no wish to know what happens to them after they leave, entiende usted?’
Cassandra shook her head, remembering what she had said to Enrique, what she’d accused him of. Dear God, was there no part of their relationship that had not suffered from misunderstandings? Was she always to feel the ignominy of being in the wrong?
‘Come, señora.’ Carlos indicated the bull which was now only a few feet away and was watching them with sharp beady eyes. ‘We would not want to offend nuestros companeros, no? Let me escort you back to the palacio. Señor Enrique would never forgive me if anything happened to you.’
Cassandra went with him, but she doubted Enrique cared what happened to her. From his point of view, it would make his life considerably less complicated if she were to go back to England. Alone, of course. After her revelations, he would have even more reason to want to keep David here.
David himself was another matter. She didn’t honestly know how her son would react if he was given the choice. He loved her; of course he did. But he loved being here, at Tuarega. And it was bound to be a temptation if Enrique explained that it would all be his some day.
Depression enveloped her. All this, and she still hadn’t taken into account how her son would feel when he learned the truth. Would he blame her for keeping him from his father? Would he ever understand her dilemma after the way the de Montoyas had treated her?
Somehow, she doubted it. In David’s world, things were either black or white, bad or good, and telling lies did not come naturally to him. It was one of the things she had always loved about him. His candour, and his honesty; his willingness to take the blame if he was at fault. But he wasn’t at fault now. She was. And she didn’t know what to do about it.
Then, that evening, she got a call from her father.
She’d left a forwarding address with the proprietor of the pensión where they’d stayed in Punta del Lobo, mainly because she hadn’t wanted to phone her father and tell him where they were going. She’d known Mr Scott wouldn’t approve and it would have taken too long to explain the situation to him. Or that was what she’d told herself. Fo
olishly, she’d imagined that all explanations could wait until they got home, but now it seemed her father had decided to ring and assure himself that all was well and they hadn’t been there.
‘What’s going on, Cass?’ he demanded, as soon as she came on the line. ‘I thought you told me you had no intention of contacting Antonio’s family.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Cassandra quickly, aware of David standing behind her, listening to every word. ‘I—David wanted to meet them.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘He’s here. Do you want to have a word with him?’
‘No, I want to know why you’d go to Tuarega without telling me where you were,’ retorted her father shortly. ‘For heaven’s sake, Cass! Don’t I deserve an explanation?’
‘Of course you do.’ Cassandra sighed, and David came to stand by her shoulder. ‘Look, we can’t talk on the phone. We’ll be home in a few days. I’ll tell you all about it then.’
‘Is that Grandad?’ asked David, catching on. ‘Let me say hello.’
‘In a minute.’ Cassandra felt as if she was wedged between a rock and a hard place. ‘Dad, give me the chance to explain.’
‘Explain what?’ He was angry. ‘You had all this planned, didn’t you, Cass? You knew exactly what you were going to do before you left England. All that talk about worrying whether the de Montoyas might find out where you were was all—rubbish, wasn’t it?’
‘No.’ Cassandra was hurt that he should think so. ‘I had no idea that David—’
She broke off, not wanting to tell him what her son had done, but her father wouldn’t leave it there.
‘You had no idea that David—what?’ Mr Scott snorted. ‘You’re not going to tell me that this was his idea?’