by Susan Barrie
“Not yet! We have much to discuss, but for the present I would prefer you to relax, and enjoy your evening. I had it in mind to let you see something of our dancing, and hear our flamenco songs. I don’t suppose you’ve had an opportunity to do so before, have you?”
She admitted that she hadn’t, and they went on to a fashionable night spot where the decor was so magnificent that it took her breath away, and in an atmosphere heavy with cigarette smoke and exotic perfume she watched for the first time the excitable movements of Andalusian dancers, and was fascinated by the waving castanets, the billowing dresses, the wildness of the famous flamenco music. With someone like Don Carlos sharing the little table on the edge of a glittering floor with her—someone so controlled that not a flicker of his eyelashes betrayed what he was really thinking or feeling—it was impossible to believe that Spaniards were the volatile, emotional people the dances seemed to indicate. On the contrary, if Don Carlos was anything to go by, they were remarkably unemotional.
He ordered a bottle of extremely expensive champagne which April barely sipped at, and explained to her in an undertone the various movements of the dancers, and gave her a brief resume of the history of flamenco dancing. It seemed to appeal to him in an entirely detached manner, as something to be watched coolly and with much criticism, and without any noticeable enjoyment whatsoever ... although around them there was much handclapping in the intervals, and other pairs of dark eyes glowed with excitement and pleasure. And when the lights went up he acknowledged the presence of various acquaintances with stiff little bends of his sleek dark head.
April had the feeling that, in spite of the packed condition of the room, she was the cynosure of many pairs of eyes as she sat there with him on the fringe of the floor. Although they had arrived late they had been bowed at once to this enviable position where they could see without anything getting in the way of their line of vision, and the whole room could observe them if it wished.
She felt as if her black dress was under a kind of microscope, her English colouring the subject of much quiet discussion. She could almost hear these ladies of Madrid discussing her, while diamonds flashed in their ears and on their strikingly white throats and bosoms, and their menfolk tried to provide information as to whom she could possibly be. In England the men would have remained discreetly silent, but Spanish men are almost always intrigued by pale colouring such as April’s, and quite a number of the looks directed at her were looks of admiration. These were the masculine ones, and to their wives they endeavoured to explain their obvious interest.
“It is the English senorita who has charge of the Cortez son and heir. Pedro Cortez, whose wife is also English...”
“No, American,” another man corrected him, and his eyes brightened perceptibly. “A very charming woman ... and beautiful!”
“They are all beautiful, these Anglo-Saxon types,” the first man commented. “But Pedro Cortez’ wife has not the looks of that girl, and she is too vivacious. That girl is quite ... something!”
His wife looked down at the flashing rings on her hands, and her eyes flashed dangerous sparks.
“Don Carlos de Formera y Santos is not usually to be seen about with one of her type ... whatever that type may be!” spitefully. “He is a man of taste and the utmost discretion, and is as good as engaged to the daughter of a retired English Ambassador who still lives in Seville. I have it on the very best authority that Sir James and Lady Hartingdon are quite delighted at the idea of the match, and the marriage is expected to be announced at any moment.”
Both men looked at one another, and one lifted his eyebrows.
“In that case it certainly seems a little odd that ...” And then he glanced again at April. “Although perhaps it isn’t really odd,” he murmured, sotto voce. “But it might have been wiser if he had not brought her to quite such a public place.”
April was feeling that very strongly as she sensed the curiosity around her. She was not one of them, and they knew it, and Don Carlos was submitting her to an ordeal that was quite unnecessary. If he thought that he was providing her with some pleasurable entertainment then the pleasure was overlaid by the uneasiness she felt at being thrust into so much public notice in his company, and by her recollection of his remarks at lunch time. He had talked about her being compromised because they had been seen leaving the empty Cortez flat together ... Now that they were on full view in a night-club together, according to his codes every minute that passed she was being more seriously compromised, and as for him...!
Was he trying to convince her that he was perfectly serious when he proposed to her at lunch time?
She looked across the table at him a trifle agitatedly.
“Don Carlos,” she said quickly, “I would like you to take me back to my hotel now, if—if you please...”
“The night is young,” he said gravely, making no move to comply with her wish. “I had hoped you were having an enjoyable evening.”
“I am,” she assured him eagerly. “But I’m not used to the late hours you keep here in Spain, and—and I’m taking up a great deal of your time...”
“Under the circumstances,” he returned, “that is perfect nonsense. But if you are tired,” with a sudden display of concern that filled her with considerable amazement, “I will most certainly take you back to your hotel. We will meet again for lunch tomorrow and have the talk that I was hoping we would have before we parted tonight ... or rather, this morning...”
“Is it as late as that?” with an aghast glance at her watch.
“It is nearly three o’clock.”
“Then, Don Carlos, I must go.” She could no longer keep the agitation out of her face. “Don Carlos, earlier today you talked to me about...”
“I asked you to marry me.”
“And of course I understood that you were merely being chivalrous. An Englishman wouldn’t have considered for a moment that there was any necessity to be chivalrous just because ... just because of a chain of circumstances in which he became involved. And anyone might have telephoned the flat at the time that you did, and anyone might have called...”
“That,” Don Carlos told her, with a heavy frown between his brows, “is one reason why I find it hard to forgive Senor and Senora Cortez for placing you in the impossible situation that, through their complete lack of consideration, they did place you in. As you say, anyone might have called at the flat! And you were alone!”
Her eyes widened in astonishment.
“But I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself!”
“And your reputation?” he inquired.
“In England we don’t bother as much about reputations as you do. I mean,” as she saw him frown swiftly, and hoping she could correct a false impression, “we don’t concern ourselves quite so much about people’s reputations as you do here in Spain. We accept it that they are—what they appear to be!—and if something unfortunate happens to them we don’t instantly think the worst.”
She thought his whole expression grew a trifle bleak.
“In Spain we endeavour to protect our young women, but that quite obviously is what you do not do in England.”
She could have pointed out to him that she hardly came under the category of “our young women,” but there were other things that had to be made clear before they parted that night, and she decided not to waste any more time.
“Senor, before you take me back to the hotel—”
The same handsome, elderly woman who had bowed to Don Carlos at lunch time, while her demure-eyed daughter was with her, swept past in the company of several friends, on their way to a table, and Don Carlos stood up at once and almost pointedly greeted her and bowed over her hand.
“Allow me, senora,” he said with much ceremony, “to present to you my fiancée, Miss April Day! April, my dear”, turning to her with equal ceremony—and, even in the midst of her complete astonishment, April was aware of the way in which he said her name, with so much distinctness that it echoed
in her ears for some time afterwards, and with a queer Spanish intonation that made it sound altogether different, somehow—“I would like you to meet my dear old friend, Senora Isabella Ribieros.”
If Senora Ribieros was astounded by the introduction, April was completely taken aback. For one instant she was so uncertain that she had heard aright that she couldn’t marshall her wits sufficiently to rise from her chair and acknowledge the Senora’s aloof bow and jerkily spoken words of congratulation. And then, when she was on her feet, she had no idea whether to offer her hand, since the other made no attempt to offer hers, and the Spanish that she had acquired somewhat laboriously over the past few months fled from her as if she had never attempted to learn even a word.
“You are English, senorita?” the Senora said, coming to her aid and speaking awkward English even more jerkily.
April inclined her head, and was never afterwards in the least certain what she said beyond that. Or even whether she said anything at all that made sense to the other woman.
Senora Ribieros smiled bleakly at Don Carlos, and reminded him that he had English blood in his own veins. Was it not his maternal grandmother who was half English? Or was she wholly English?
“Wholly English, I believe, senora,” Don Carlos returned, and of the three he was the only one who was completely calm and complacent, seeming slightly to enjoy the situation, as if his old friend’s obvious perturbation—and it was very likely the demure daughter was not far from her thoughts—aroused an echo of amusement when it might have called for sympathy. “But that doesn’t make me anything but extremely Spanish,” he added, smiling with sudden devastating charm at both of them. “And although I am proud of my English blood, I’m afraid it was very watered down before it reached me.”
“Not watered down,” Senora Ribieros returned, with sudden spirit. “Possibly none of it reached you at all, otherwise you would not be so very Spanish. And,” she emphasized, “it is a good thing to be very Spanish!”
She looked directly at April as if she could never possibly like her, and then remarked that no doubt they would be meeting frequently in the future, and she would await further news of the wedding with bated breath. Indeed, the news was so unexpected that it would enchant everybody—all Don Carlos’s numberless friends!—and she had no doubt at all that his relatives were all greatly charmed.
“Especially your sister,” she added, with a strange smirk of a smile. “I’m sure she is delighted.”
“On the contrary, she knows nothing—as yet—about my plans,” Don Carlos informed her smoothly. “Neither do any of my relatives. And you are the first of my friends, senora, to meet Miss Day.”
“Is that so?” But her smile was beginning to wither her lips. “The privilege of a very old friend! I do appreciate it!” She bowed. “I mustn’t keep you now. Young lovers are the same the world over, and delight in being alone. But you mustn’t keep Miss Day from her chaperone too long, Carlos!” with an arch, cold look. “That would never do, when your fiancée is so obviously very young!” and she passed on and joined her friends in such a state of secret agitation that she could barely say a word when they spoke to her.
Don Carlos smiled to himself—as a newly engaged man has a right to smile—and then took April by her cool forearm and suggested that they leave.
“The ladies’ cloakroom is at the head of the stairs if you wish to avail yourself of it. Although I believe you haven’t a wrap to collect?”
“I haven’t.” She bit out the words, and then bit her lip. “Don Carlos, how dared you? I was about to tell you that I couldn’t possibly marry you under any circumstances when Senora Ribieros came in—”
“And instead I told her we are betrothed to be married! It was an opportunity, and I seized it. By noon tomorrow the news will be all over Madrid!”
She looked suddenly almost frightened.
“But, Don Carlos,” she whispered, “you know very well that it isn’t true.”
“Isn’t it?” His fingers gripped her arm a little cruelly. “I do assure you, Miss Day—no, I mustn’t say that! I must get used to the delightful name of April!—I do assure you that when I make an announcement I mean it! I was afraid you were not prepared to treat my proposal seriously, and as it was very serious, and I could not permit you to refuse me, I made it impossible for either of us to retreat. Whether you like it or not you are to become Senora Carlos de Formera y Santos in as short a time as arrangements can be made for our marriage.”
She gasped.
“But you can’t force me ... you can’t!”
His eyes gazed down coldly into hers.
“I said that we can neither of us retreat!”
CHAPTER V
AFTER that it seemed to April that some influence quite outside her own control had taken over the running and ordering of her life.
Although she would never have believed it, she found herself engaged to marry a man she knew little or nothing about, a man for whom she felt absolutely nothing save a kind of awe because he was so handsome and autocratic, with the power to impose his will on other people to the extent that they obeyed him when he insisted that something should be done. Even a young woman like herself, born and bred in freedom, and encouraged to use her will and think for herself from the time that she was considered old enough to go for walks by herself.
But now, because of some ridiculous idea about the conventions having been defied—Spanish conventions, at that!—she was to become the wife of a man who was no more interested in her than she was in him. Perhaps less interested, for whereas he had a certain power over her—he must have, since she wasn’t laughing in his face and rushing off to her British Consulate for an assisted journey home—she had none whatsoever over him. Judging by the expression on his face whenever he looked at her he neither admired her nor approved of her. He had become involved with her through no fault of his own, and his peculiar Spanish conscience insisted that he put the matter right.
Although, looked at from the point of view of April, there was nothing to put right.
Then why did she allow him, from the moment that she met the bleak coldness of his eyes at nearly four o’clock in the morning, while they were still surrounded by all the over-opulent splendour of a Spanish night-club, and the lights were about to go down for yet another spell-binding performance by a couple of far-famed dancers, to wrest from her what little will she had left to oppose him and toss it carelessly away, as if it was a thing of no account? Why did she find it impossible to say a word as he guided her out into the night?
He took her back to her hotel, and told her he would be unable to see anything at all of her the following day, but the day after that he would telephone and prepare her for the hour at which he would call to take her out either to lunch or dinner, or merely for a short drive if he found himself too tied up with his engagements to spare her more time. He recommended her to enjoy herself placidly while he was unable to see anything of her, and if she wanted a car to take her on shopping expeditions, or for brief tours of Madrid, she had but to telephone the reception desk in the hotel and one would be round for her almost immediately.
“I don’t know how much sight-seeing you have already done,” he remarked, “but Madrid is a storehouse of treasures for those who can appreciate them. Our churches, our museums, our art galleries, are all worth seeing. You need not be bored even for a moment if these things appeal to you.”
“They do,” she confessed, “but the thing that concerns me very much is ... how I’m going to pay my hotel bill when the time comes! I’m so terribly afraid it’s going to be much, much more than I can afford!”
Instantly she felt the freezing coldness of his disapproval.
“We will hear no more about your hotel bill, if you please, mia cara,” he requested her, while she wondered whether there were many men in Spain who were as tall and as impressive as he was ... particularly in a white dinner jacket with a gardenia in the buttonhole. “That is something that no longer c
oncerns you, and my affair entirely. You are not to worry about financial matters of any sort.” He paused. “I have paid into your bank the sum of money that was owing to you from Senor Cortez. If you want anything further you have but to ask for it.”
She reached frantically for her independence, and tried hard to hold on to it.
“I will pay you back,” she assured him, “if ... if I have to touch it!”
He smiled. She wasn’t at all certain that she liked the smile, although it revealed his beautiful, hard white teeth, and was rather more amused than most of his smiles.
“You forget,” he reminded her, “that in a short while there will be no necessity for you to even think of paying me back. I shall be-your husband!”
The next morning flowers were delivered to her suite, and although they were not the offerings of a lover—flesh-pink carnations and roses, so delicate, so exquisitely scented that their perfume was soon filling the room—she gathered them up in her arms when she had lifted them from their box and held them against her face, and for one moment she was almost completely overwhelmed by the unexpectedness of the gift.
But that didn’t prevent her haunting the air-line offices that morning, and several times she stepped forward to address one of the clerks behind the polished counter, and request a vacant seat on an early flight to England. There was enough money in the bank to cover her fare—actually far more than that—and she could do as she had said she would do and pay Don Carlos back as soon as she got back to her own country. There was the tiny sum deposited in an English bank, which was all that her father had been able to leave her, which she could draw upon when the necessity arose, and there must be some means of overcoming currency difficulties and getting the money back to Spain and the man who had lent it to her. Although she knew that he refused to regard it as a loan.
But every time she stepped forward someone got between her and the counter, and suddenly she found herself confronting the mental image of Don Carlos, and seeing that strange, forbidding look in his eyes—that look which challenged her—as he said, as if she no longer had the smallest option to pursue her own road through life, without finding it necessary to devote at least an occasional thought to him: