by Susan Barrie
She lay staring into the dimness for about an hour, and then got up and sat beside her shutters for another hour, peering between the slats at the golden world outside. And it was while she was doing this that she saw the slim cream car glide round an angle of the house and slip beneath the arch into the courtyard.
It was still very warm, and she changed into something very cool, and the colour of a pale pink carnation. She slipped her feet into open-toed white sandals, added a touch of cologne, to her temples and the backs of her hands, picked up a white purse handbag containing a fresh handkerchief and the usual mirror in which to peep at herself when necessary, and sat waiting for the moment when she felt she might emerge from her room without transgressing any rules.
But barely had she sat herself down to wait than there came a knock on her door, and the maid who had been deputed to wait on her came to tell her that Dona Ignatia was entertaining visitors in the main sala, and would like her to join her as soon as possible.
April stood up, feeling relieved, but she wondered who the visitors were, and whether they had any connection with the white car she had seen slipping under the arch. When she got down to the sala she no longer had to wonder, for the two ladies were both wearing brilliant yellow, and it was a flash of canary yellow that had attracted her eye when the car first appeared round the corner of the house.
Dona Ignatia mentioned the name of the elder lady first.
“Lady Hartingdon, wife of Sir James Hartingdon, who was British Ambassador to Madrid for several years. Lady Hartingdon was so devoted to this country that she persuaded her husband to settle in it.”
“As a matter of fact it was the other way round,” Lady Hartingdon asserted. For an exceptionally plump English matron she was not entirely suited to yellow shantung with large white blobs on it, and a vast picture hat lined with yellow, but although she had a slightly peevish face her small blue eyes were bright with interest as they roved over April. “And there was the servant problem at home, and all that sort of thing. I couldn’t see how we were going to manage, so I agreed it would be a good thing to stay out here.” She offered a limp hand to April. “I understand you’re going to marry Don Carlos, my dear. You’ve certainly given us all a surprise!”
The other, much younger woman—not a bit like her, so it was difficult to think of them as mother and daughter—wearing a green skirt and a yellow sun-top, also offered her hand. She had jade-green eyes that were quite remarkable, a chrysanthemum mop of bronzish-red curls, and a figure that was tall and graceful enough to be the figure of a model.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, as she, too, studied April with quite unconcealed interest. “I couldn’t believe it when word got round that Carlos had got himself engaged to marry a girl from the Old Country! And you are English, aren’t you...? Yes, of course you are, with a complexion like that, and a name that couldn’t be anything other than English! But when Carlos went to Madrid about a month ago we had no idea he was planning matrimony!”
“As a matter of fact, I—I don’t think he was,” April returned awkwardly, not knowing quite what to say while the other was staring at her so hard, and so suspiciously. For, although her voice was friendly, and even her eyes had an alert, friendly smile in them, at the back of those eyes April sensed there was something that was not at all friendly. And the brevity of her handshake had indicated a disinclination to go through with such a formality at all.
“You mean you’ve only recently met, and it’s one of those whirlwind affairs? Love at first sight, and that sort of thing? Marriage the natural outcome!”
“I—well, I don’t know about that...”
“Jessica, my dear, don’t put so many impertinent questions,” Lady Hartingdon intervened, fanning herself with one of her gloves, although the room was beautifully cool. “You can’t expect Miss Day to enjoy being catechized by you, and it really isn’t any affair of yours.”
She was sitting on the edge of one of the tapestry-covered, chairs, and Dona Ignatia was pouring out tea with a certain awkwardness at a handsome tea-equipage which had just been wheeled into the room. There were little cakes and biscuits, and the tea was pale and straw-coloured, and became even more straw-coloured when cream was added. The ladies all, with the exception of April, refused sugar, and Lady Hartingdon asked for lemon because her figure was getting out of hand. If occurred to April that the operative word should have been “got,” and not “getting.”
Don Carlos was not in the room, and neither was Constancia. Dona Ignatia explained that her brother was having a busy day inspecting the estate, and going into details connected with it, but she offered no apology for Constancia’s absence.
Jessica Hartingdon disposed of several little cakes, and all the time her eyes were on April. April felt certain that there was no detail of her dress, her looks —everything about her—that escaped the other girl, and she began to feel so acutely uncomfortable at last that Lady Hartingdon once more came to her rescue. Although it was doubtful whether that was what she intended.
“I must say we never thought to have an English neighbour here at the Casa Formera, although when you marry Don Carlos you’ll become Spanish, won’t you? I wonder how you’ll like that?” She nibbled a biscuit, and fanned herself vigorously with the glove in her free hand. “Yes; I wonder how you’ll like that, my dear? I always say it’s one thing to live in a country, but quite another to live as the natives do, if you’ll forgive me, my dear Dona Ignatia, for referring to all you delightful people as ‘natives’!”
Dona Ignatia retained an expression of calm inscrutability, and Jessica rested her head against the carved back of the chair behind her and inquired with a sidelong look at April:
“How did Constancia take the news when it was broken to her? Or are you only in a position to guess?”
April’s expression grew more alert, and she measured the curiously veiled glance of the late Ambassador’s daughter with rather a level one of her own.
“Is there any reason why she should not have accepted it as normal? After all, she must always have expected her guardian to marry one day.”
“One day ... yes!” The green eyes glistened curiously, and Jessica leaned forward to make a confidential aside. “But that isn’t precisely the point. With Constancia it isn’t the day that is of so much importance, but her guardian’s choice of a bride. And I don’t suppose you’ve known her long enough to have the least idea what sort of a bride she’d foist upon Don Carlos!”
Her mother murmured something warningly, and Jessica took the hint. She smiled complacently and said:
“We’re having a cocktail party on the fourteenth. You must persuade Don Carlos to bring you.”
But Don Carlos himself suddenly made his appearance in the sala, and she jumped up and greeted him with so much enthusiasm that April was not surprised Dona Ignatia tightened her lips and looked prim.
But Jessica Hartingdon plainly looked upon the Spaniard as an old and close friend, and she made no attempt to conceal the pleasure that leapt into her eyes when she first realized he was standing there in the opening of the tall french windows. He was wearing one of his light, beautifully-cut suits, and as always he looked immaculate, with a tie that flowed carelessly although it was meticulously knotted, and impeccable linen. He might, for him, have been having a hectic afternoon connected with his own interests, but his appearance was cool and calm and collected, as if he was newly bathed, newly shaved, and smelling slightly of shaving cream and after-shave lotion.
He came into the middle of the room and smiled when he caught sight of the visitors. Before permitting Jessica 'to annex him and pour forth her congratulations he bowed in front of her mother and inquired after her health, inquired after the health and wellbeing of Sir James Hartingdon, and then turned to the redhead, who had flushed engagingly at the very moment that she realized his presence, and met the full blaze of delight in the jade-green eyes.
But Jessica was also reproachful. She laid a hand on his
sleeve, and shook her head at him.
“You didn’t even tell us you were going away to Madrid! And now that you are back we hear that you’re engaged to be married!”
He smiled charmingly, with a quirk of humour at the corner of his mouth.
“News travels fast. You heard this from my sister, of course? She has already made you and my fiancée known to one another?”
“Of course I have been introduced to Miss Day,” she returned, a little impatiently, “But it wasn’t from Dona Ignatia that I heard of your engagement ... at least, not in the first place. As you say, news—good news!—travels fast, and I should think everyone in the district was aware of the surprise you had prepared for us in Madrid by this time yesterday afternoon. That, I believe, was the time you were expected back?”
“And you knew of that too?” His voice was smooth, but his expression was dry.
Jessica’s colour increased, and her mother said hurriedly:
“We simply couldn’t wait to congratulate you, Don Carlos, and although I never allow anything to interfere with my afternoon siestas normally I said to Jessica that whatever else she had on hand, she simply must bring me over here to let you know how happy we are you are to be married at last!”
“That was most kind,” he said, and bowed gravely. “Most kind!”
If anything, Jessica’s colour heightened. But her green eyes flashed a few unexpected sparks.
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it, Carlos?” she murmured, looking directly at him. ‘“So little time lost, and all because we were so keen to meet your fiancée!”
“And, now that you have met her,” he said suavely, moving over until he stood behind April’s chair, and placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, “I hope you feel that you two will get along well together? After all, you are both English, and that should be a bond.”
“Oh, it is a bond, certainly,” Jessica agreed casually, pulling on her gloves. “But I may not be here very much longer. I’m hoping to get a job modelling, in either London or Paris. I have actually been offered something.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Carlos returned, with the same suavity. “With your so delightful appearance I’m sure you will prove quite a sensation.”
For a long moment she looked at him, as if she was endeavouring to convince herself that he was absolutely serious, and not mocking her in a strange, polite way. And then she said almost defensively:
“But, of course, I want to be here for your wedding. I wouldn’t miss that for anything!”
“And we wouldn’t have you miss it for anything,” he replied.
She bit her full lower lip hard, with some very white and perfect teeth.
“Have you any plans yet?” she asked, somewhat jerkily. “Is the wedding to be soon?”
“We have only been betrothed for a fortnight ... a little less than that,” Don Carlos told her, his black eyes unflinching as he gazed at her, and also a little humorous. “You would not rush us into marriage before we have had an opportunity to become accustomed to the idea of being betrothed, would you?”
Jessica’s eyes gleamed again.
“But you must have known one another some little while...”
“Barely three weeks altogether,” he surprised April considerably by admitting softly. “But it is astonishing how little time one needs when one’s mind is made up!”
“Obviously,” Jessica murmured, plainly surprised. Then her eyes narrowed. “But there is such a thing as marrying in haste and repenting at leisure!”
Don Carlos’s affable expression did not waver.
“That is what I mean to avoid,” he said, “Wasn’t it Jacob who waited seven years for his Rachel? I do not intend to wait seven years for April, but seven weeks, seven months ... who knows?”
April had an extraordinary sensation as she sat there, his hand upon her shoulder, his breath lightly stirring her hair, while he and Jessica went on exchanging utterly uninformative looks, and their conversation sounded as if they were engaged in a kind of wordy duel. Soft-spoken sentences that were like lightning flashes, each seeking to find a mark or parry a thrust.
And seven weeks, seven months ... what did he mean by that? When she had no feeling at all that they would ever be married!
“And of course, there is Constancia you have to consider, haven’t you?” Jessica put in smoothly, as if she realized she was delivering a kind of final thrust. ’’She has always been a bit of a problem, hasn’t she? And now you may find she is a very big problem!”
Lady Hartingdon rose hurriedly.
“Darling, I think we ought to go now,” she said.
They departed after a series of bows and smiles and handshakes, with Don Carlos escorting them out to their car.
“And you will bring your fiancée to our cocktail party on the fourteenth, won’t you?” Jessica purred smoothly as she drove away.
That night, after dinner, April wandered for a while in the garden, while Don Carlos attended to some pressing business in his library, and Dona Ignatia sat beneath a soft flood of lamplight in the sala and put infinitely tiny stitches into her sewing.
The night was warm ... not with the dried up, suffocating warmth of Madrid, but a velvety warmth that was tempered by the breezes from the sea. How many flower-scents floated in the atmosphere around her April could only guess, and how many stars burned brilliantly in the clear sky above her she could not even begin to guess. She only knew that they were like lamps hanging near the earth, and the golden crescent of the young moon had increased to a pale slice of melon shedding a faint light across the garden.
Wearing something cool and diaphanous, April drifted like a wraith, not consciously thinking of anything, not even attempting to dwell upon the future. And then Don Carlos came striding briskly over the paths to look for her, and she practically collided with him as she turned to walk back to the house.
Instantly his arms closed round her, to prevent her from stumbling, and she made a clutching movement at the front of his dinner jacket. She didn’t really realize what she was doing until she felt his eyes peering down at her through the gloom, and looking upwards quickly she met the faint sparkle of humour in the night-dark depths, and saw in the light of the moon that his lips were curving quizzically.
“I might have hurt you,” he said, “coming so quickly along the path.” His voice grew soft, anxious. “I didn’t hurt you, did I, cara? You are so small it would be easy to trample you underfoot!”
She tried to laugh, but her laugh sounded self-conscious.
“I’m not as small as all that. And I’m afraid I was hurrying too.”
“Because you were afraid?” There was a quality in his voice that disturbed her, shook her. He was still, in spite of the fact that she had released his dinner jacket, holding her lightly in his arms, and her head with its swinging dark hair was on a level with his white dress tie. She could smell the fragrance of his tobacco as his breath set the shining hair stirring softly, and if she’d moved her head but a fraction she would have touched the square tip of his dark chin. “You are not afraid of the garden at night, are you, amada? There is nothing in it to hurt you! Although I would prefer that you didn’t wander in it alone!”
She felt as if all her pulses were leaping and bounding riotously.
“You don’t imagine I expect an escort every time I go for a walk at night, do you?” she said, a little incoherently. “In England I often go for walks by myself, at night and any other time that I feel like it.”
He replied somewhat soberly, allowing his arms to drop, but slipping a hand beneath her elbow as he guided her back along the paths:
“I have a feeling that in England you do many things I would not approve ... many things our girls would not be allowed to do!”
“Such as?” she couldn’t resist inquiring, turning her face towards him, and her eyes up to him.
He looked down at her with eyes that were very dark indeed.
“You have affairs with young m
en that would be frowned upon here. You go to cinemas with them, and to dances. You have a strange freedom with young men of your own age ... a dangerous freedom!”
She smiled for an instant, and then assured him:
“I know very few young men of my own age ... and I hardly ever go to dances. To the cinema sometimes, of course.”
“Escorted by a young man?”
She smiled again.
“There was one young man once ... but only for a very short time.”
“And how old were you?”
“Eighteen.”
He frowned swiftly,
“And did you imagine yourself—in love with this young man?”
“Oh, no.” There was no doubt about the decisiveness of that. “I have never been in love. I don’t suppose I ever will be ... now,” she added, in so low a voice that he could hardly hear it. But she realized that he had heard it when he stopped and regarded her gravely, putting his fingers under her chin and lifting it to peer once more into her eyes.
“And why not now?” he asked, very quietly.
She found it impossible to answer.
“Because you have consented to marry me? Because in future there will be no other man in your life but—me!”
It was certainly a shattering reminder, but it shattered her in quite another way as well. It made her feel suddenly weak at the knees, a little breathless, as if she had been running, over-quick to lower her eyes as she felt his eyes piercing the velvety shadows of the night and boring their way into hers.
“Love comes to all of us, sooner or later,” he told her quietly. “We none of us know quite when it is coming, but it does come. Sometimes it grows out of affection, sometimes it is the result of a single meeting, sometimes it is the cause of a lot of bitter unhappiness. Perhaps the most worthwhile love is the love that grows out of affection...” speaking in such a brooding voice that she was almost mesmerized by it. “But the love that one remembers is the love that hurts!”