‘But I cannot force him. I could not endure that kind of marriage.’
‘A marriage there must be, querida. And to Carlos. If it kills me I will make arrangements. Yes … I will make arrangements. Say nothing to your mother. She would not blame you ‒ but she might not be … discreet. Yes, I must make arrangements.’
* *
It took several days and several meetings with Carlos. ‘He resists … and yet he is willing to be persuaded,’ Maria Luisa reported. ‘The harvest has fully begun, and they work long hours at the bodegas, checking in the must from the vineyards, taking in the grapes from the growers who do not press their own, seeing that all the tallies are in order. I had to wait two hours today before seeing him and then it was the siesta … I had to keep out of the way of Don Paulo …’
‘Do not see him again,’ I said. I had been ill each morning, and feeling faint, and trying to keep it from my mother. ‘If he needs persuasion, then it just can’t be. I won’t be foisted on him. I’ll leave ‒ I’ll go back to Ireland.’
‘To what?’ Maria Luisa said sharply. ‘To take your child back to Lord Blodmore? ‒ Carlos’s child? It will not do. No, be patient. Be calm. Carlos twists and turns, and does not know what to do. I’m certain he cares for you … but there is Don Paulo.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘there is always Don Paulo. Even though Carlos is illegitimate, he might be expected to make a far better marriage than me! Don Paulo’s favourite son … he must be expected to go much further and much higher.’
‘You will do him honour,’ she answered fiercely. ‘Whomever his other sons marry, you will bring the most credit to his house. Life is not lived in a day. You have your years ahead of you to prove your value. But better light a candle or two,’ she added, ‘that the child will be a boy.’
She came next day, her face greyish with exhaustion, her thin body sagging with weariness. ‘It is done. He has agreed, and the arrangements are made.’
‘What ‒?’
‘Don’t question. Just do as I say. Other matters will sort themselves out in time.’ She smiled thinly. ‘They always do.’
II
Andy had the landau, its hood up, waiting before five o’clock the next morning. A faint mist which the rising sun would burn through lay over the town. I had made only one of the arrangements of that day myself. Balthasar and Half Moon were hitched to the back of the landau. Pepita lay across one seat. Pepe ran beside us, wide-eyed with wonder at what this secretive, early-morning departure could mean; he had only minutes ago been shaken out of his bed by Andy.
We drove to the church of Santa Catalina. It was tiny, hidden away among the squares of the old part of Jerez, unnoticed by me before this. Pepe was left to hold the horses; we found the side door of the church unlocked. Deep quiet and shadow greeted us, and a musty smell. A sleepy acolyte was lighting candles before the altar.
An old priest came to greet us, his faded eyes gazing at me with interest. ‘This marriage will be blessed by God,’ he said in careful English. ‘I will hear your confession, my child.’
Since we had sinned by loving unwed, Carlos and I must confess, receive forgiveness, so that we might receive the sacrament of marriage. I wondered how all of this might have gone if my grandfather had chosen to bring me up as a Protestant. Even Maria Luisa might have foundered on that rock.
I had so little, and so much to tell the priest. He listened in an absent-minded fashion, probably not understanding too much of my rush of English. His manner seemed to imply that the lusty passions of young people were a gift of God, to be taken for granted. That we sanctified our passion with marriage was all that the Church required. I was relieved, and when it was over, and he had given absolution, and his blessing, I ventured a question. ‘Will Don Paulo be angry with you, Father? He is a powerful man.’
He considered the words, framing his reply slowly. ‘I am too old to fear the wrath of any man, my child. I am too close to the wrath of God, should He be pleased to consider only my sins, and not my few virtues.’
I smiled at him. For the first time in many days I also did not fear the wrath of Don Paulo.
Carlos was late, but at last he came. I could see the visible relief in Maria Luisa’s face, the way she let her shoulders sag in weariness while Carlos, in his turn, withdrew to make his confession. ‘It is almost done,’ she whispered, the words meant perhaps only for herself. ‘Gracias a Dios.’
We were married before the bells of the angelus sounded. We went to the sacristy to sign the register, Maria Luisa and Andy being the witnesses. I wondered how she felt about putting her aristocratic name beside the childishly formed writing of a stable-hand from Ireland. But no matter; she trusted him as Richard Blodmore had trusted him, and she was lady enough to bring him up to her level.
‘A small matter of interest, Don Carlos,’ the priest said, as we rose from the table after signing. ‘A long time ago … I remember this marriage was also celebrated very early in the morning.’ He took a much older leather-bound book from a tall cupboard, turned the stiff pages until he came to what he sought.
‘Your illustrious father, on a momentous occasion … a happy coincidence you have chosen the same church, and that I should be the one to join both the father and the son in the Holy Sacrament.’
He pointed to the page, blank except for two names, two names so special that they deserved the space to themselves, as if they were royal.
I saw the signature I remembered ‒ Santander. And then, scrawled slantingly upwards across the page, so that no other name could be written there, just a single name. This was no anxious writing of a nervous bride, as mine had been. There was pride, authority and great arrogance in that word, and in the large ink blot that finished it, as if the writer had been impatient to be done with the business. I stared at it. Pontevedra.
The Spanish Woman.
* *
Outside the church, where the early Mass-goers stared at this little, unexpected assemblage, Carlos went at once, automatically, to rub Balthasar’s nose. I went to his side. ‘I have brought him for you. It was the only wedding-gift I could make.’ I did not add that I was not entirely sure that Balthasar was mine to give. But Carlos loved Balthasar, and if I had to steal to give him, then I would do it. My mother would forgive me.
Carlos looked down at me, and his smile had the warmth of the sun that was beginning to touch the high roofs about us. The look of anxiety he had worn was vanished. He seemed taller, and already older, as if he could take whatever consequence our marriage that morning would bring.
‘Carlota, you do me great honour. Both by this marriage and by your gift.’ It did not sound like one of his usual flowery compliments.
We were going to the vineyard house. I was grateful for the refuge. I did not want, at this moment, to return to the house in the Plaza de Asturias, nor could we go to Don Paulo’s house. Later in the day, Carlos would return to the bodega and confront his father. ‘But first I will eat my wedding breakfast with you, querida.’
I wanted to ride Half Moon, but Carlos insisted that we both ride in the landau, and Andy drive us to the vineyard house, Andy then returning with the landau and horses to my mother. ‘I will not risk my child by having you ride, Carlota. Remember you are to be the mother of a brave bull.’ He said it proudly before the others, and made me proud also. So many of my thoughts, selfishly, had been for myself; I had thought so little of the child. I suppose it was from that moment I began to love it, and a new emotion opened for me.
So Maria Luisa, still looking tired, but treading with a sprightly step, set off to walk back to my mother’s house. At her side was Pepe. Pepe seemed not quite sure of what had happened except that it was something of great importance. Why else would the son of Don Paulo be abroad at this hour of the morning? He gave a little anticipatory skip, no doubt at the thought of the marvellous gossip he would have to relay, as he followed that black-clad figure from the square. Andy urged the horses on, and the white stallion and the mare fol
lowed. On the seat across from us, Pepita yawned. Carlos took my hand. I wanted to whisper my gratitude, my thanks, but he did not seem to expect it, and something beyond my usual impulsiveness warned me not to express it. A marriage had begun, and neither of us must be too humble before the other. The blood of our separate, proud families would mix; I was beginning to understand that pride was not only a desirable quality in a Spaniard, but a necessity of life. I must not only be proud and brave, but I must also be the mother of brave bulls.
* *
Along with all else she had managed to arrange, Maria Luisa had taken time to send a message to the vineyard house to expect me, and another, early that morning, and to prepare accommodation. Carlos’s name, of course, had not been mentioned. A look of astonishment swept across the faces of Antonio and Conceptión as Carlos sprang down from the landau. Though they must rarely have gone to Jerez itself, like all country people they seemed to know the names and faces of the rich who ruled their lives. Carlos spoke to them too rapidly for me to understand, and then broad smiles spread on their faces. Even if Don Carlos was a bastard offshoot, he still was of the house of Santander, and through that allied to the even greater house of Pontevedra. It was evident from their expressions that they thought their simple little Irish Miss had brought off a great coup. Antonio reverently received Balthasar and Half Moon into his care, and Conceptión, with many curtseys, and apologies for the humbleness of the arrangements, led us inside. They did not know, of course, that the marriage had not Don Paulo’s approval, and that this tumbled-down vineyard house, in the midst of the fields of brush, was all Carlos and I had between us.
Maria Luisa had packed a basket to furnish our wedding breakfast ‒ cold chicken, ham, cheese. From the cellar of my mother’s house she had packed another basket with bottles of some of the greatest vintages we possessed. Obviously, she had reasoned that Carlos must not be too rudely thrust into the poverty that might be our lot. In the first days the wine would help. It did help. Most of all, I thought, it helped me.
Carlos was quite unselfconscious about his intention of taking me to bed at once. Had he not married me? Such things did not have to wait for conventional hours. Thrusting the glasses and plates aside when we had eaten, he led me to the bedroom Conceptión had prepared, the bedroom with the big brass bedstead, the white cotton curtains, the yellowing lace spread. There he undressed me with expertise, and a show of tenderness, buried his dark head between my breasts. Then he made love to me in such a way that even the lingering thought, the desire for Richard Blodmore was driven from my mind. The sheer maleness of him carried its undeniable stamp; there was no need for him to be rough or swift or brutal, but he would have his way. And I found myself responding as I had never imagined possible, urging him on and on. I did not recognise the cries that came from my own mouth; it was as if some hitherto unknown person, locked inside me, had broken out. I cried for more and more, and then at last Carlos burst into laughter, lying beside me, spent, the sweat bathing our two bodies.
‘Truly, Carlota, it is a bull you need. Our nights will be interesting ones, querida.’ Then he was quiet a moment. ‘But we must be careful ‒ gentle. The child. We must not hurt the child.’
‘But not yet,’ I answered, wondering where I got my knowledge. ‘There’s lots of time yet.’
‘Time … yes, time. For a moment we have all the time in the world. We hold it in our hands, like you the child in your belly.’
‘Then kiss me, and say it’s all right.’
He did, and it was.
He went to wash then, his naked body astonishingly beautiful in the diffused light which came through the closed cotton curtains. Then he dressed, and kissed me good-bye. ‘I must attend to the day’s work at the bodega. And I must see my father.’ Searching his face, I saw not the least sign of apprehension.
I parted the curtains a little to watch him ride Balthasar down the road between our brush-choked earth and our neighbour’s beautifully tended vines. He was erect, and held himself like a king. Then I went back to bed, to smile a little at the beginning, then to weep a little for my lost love, Richard Blodmore. Then I slept, peacefully, all the rest of the morning.
But when I woke the thought came, like a rain-cloud over the vineyards, that now I was irrevocably committed to Carlos, to Jerez, to a life in Spain. There would be no return to Ireland for me. I must not even dream about Clonmara.
* *
He returned quite late that night, his clothes dusty from the ride. Conceptión had slaughtered one of her precious chickens and cooked it in a delicious sauce. She put it on the table, and then left us alone.
He drank some wine, talking of nothing in particular. The harvest was good, the volume greater than last year, the expectation of the quality of the must was high. Yes, it would be a prosperous year for Jerez. They would make the wine, and all it needed was someone to sell it well. He seemed to talk all around the subject and at last I had to ask him.
‘Your father … you told him?’
‘I told him, Carlota.’
‘And ‒?’
He was thoughtful, and sipped his wine several times before he answered. ‘He seldom shows his anger. But one knows it is there, all the same. I am his beloved son, and I will always be his beloved son. But I am foolish and mistaken. I have made a mismatch ‒’ The blood of shame rushed to my face, and gently he reached out his hand to cover my mouth so that I should not interrupt. ‘I told him truly that I had made no mismatch. He expected great things of me, and I have achieved them. I have married you, Carlota. You are my wife. No man, not even my father, may say such things and expect me not to strike back.’
‘But how? How can you strike back at Don Paulo?’ I felt helpless and afraid.
‘Through the only weapon I have. His love of me. He tries to hide it, but he loves me. That old man loves me, and sees his future in me. Already one can sense ‒ can know ‒ his longing for the child. I threatened … I threatened that I would leave Jerez. That I would go north. Perhaps to Madrid. Perhaps even to London. I am certain that I could find employment in the sherry trade there, though not with the firm of Fernandez, Thompson. I threatened to take you ‒ and his grandchild, away.’ Carlos smiled at me, but his face was weary, as if he did battle all over again. ‘He did not exactly crumble, my father. He is not that kind. We made a formal arrangement. I am to stay on at the bodega. I shall receive my salary, but nothing more. It means a little time of waiting, only, Carlota. In time he will come around. He is rich, querida. And he is growing old. He will not live forever. He desires to live to see his grandchildren flourish. A man like that lives to pass on his vineyards to his grandsons. You will give him his first grandson. And one day he will die, and then perhaps I shall be rich!’
‘Carlos, how can you talk like that? ‒ He is your father!’
His features twisted, and he no longer smiled. ‘I talk like that, Carlota, because all my life that man has told me what to do, what to think, how to act, to be. Today I am my own man. Today I have married my woman, without asking him if I might. I shall have my son, and he shall not be just the grandson of Don Paulo, Marqués de Santander. I do not know who my own mother was, and he will never tell me. She was of no account, it seems. But I am of account. I receive no favours from him. I expect none. When he chooses to give, it will be because it is my right, not because I beg. We shall be poor, Carlota. I shall not now have all the gifts it has pleased him to shower on me. So, I will do without. I am no man if I cannot do that. You’ve heard the rumour that my mother was a gypsy? ‒ you must have. Everyone says it ‒ particularly my half-brothers, Pedro and Ignacio. And if that is so, then I am also my mother’s son. I spit on him and his money. I spit on the alliance with Pontevedra, and on everything he had planned for me ‒ or perhaps what she had planned. That woman!’ He stopped, and sipped his wine again, refilled his glass. The lamplight made his dark eyes seem unnaturally bright, and then I suddenly realised that he struggled against unshed tears. The words he
had used were brave and defiant ones, but had they been true? Perhaps he was as fearful as I was, and would not say so. Perhaps he did love his father, and would not say that either. The interview between father and son must have been painful and bitter, and I was inexpressibly grateful because he still declared his pride in me. Carlos could not be humble, no more than his father.
I trembled, and shivered, even in the warmth of the night; he reached for my hand. ‘Come, querida ‒ to bed.’
It was as beautiful as it had been that morning, but something was gone that we might never know again. In the passage of that short day we had both grown in experience. I was a young girl no longer, and Carlos had won his freedom, for which he had paid. The shadow of Don Paulo was with us that night, and would be with us many times in the future. We slept clasped in each other’s arms, as much for comfort and reassurance as for love.
III
The carriage arrived quite early the next morning, not long after Carlos had left for the bodega, almost as if the coachman had waited to see him go. The doors of the carriage bore the crest of Santander, the horses were as fine a matched pair of bays as I had ever seen, the harness silver-decorated and flashing in the sun. There was a liveried coachman, and two footmen, whose gold buttons bore the same crest. Antonio and Conceptión and the huddle of children were awed into complete silence. A footman handed me a note which bore the now familiar signature. There was no term of address, just the brief script. ‘I trust you will favour me with an interview. It would be best if you came in my coach, as we have some further travelling to do.’
I dressed quickly, but with care. Of course, as yet, my condition did not show, so I wore one of the gowns Maria Luisa had had made for me, a pale green muslin, a plain straw hat trimmed with a black ribbon, gloves and a parasol. A real Jerez lady I told myself I looked, as I peered into the age-spotted mirror. The face that looked back was older than yesterday’s face, and much older than the face that had been reflected for the last time in the hall mirror as I had walked down the stairs at Clonmara. I welcomed what I saw; I felt that today I would need the scant wisdom of every day I had ever lived.
The Summer of the Spanish Woman Page 18