I was not religious, and she must have known it. But I nodded. ‘I will light a candle for you every day.’
She smiled, satisfied. ‘I will not be here when your son is born.’ This time she made no pretence of keeping up the fiction that my child’s birth was still months away. ‘I would have liked to be godmother to him.’
‘You shall be.’
She smiled, but without conviction. ‘Here ‒ you must have this. Something to remember me by.’
I gasped. From her dress she was unpinning a brooch of diamonds and rubies. It was the gift of Don Luis, and uniquely belonged to Jerez, since it was a tiny replica of the traditional venencia, the inner part of the little cup being rubies, represented the wine. ‘You cannot! It is from your husband.’
‘Luis would let you have anything I wished you to have. He likes us to be friends. He keeps saying he is too old for me, and that you need all the friends you can find. Is that true, Carlota? Do you really need me? No one else does.’
‘Luis does. I do.’ I took her cold hands in mine. ‘You will come back well, and you will be godmother to my child.’ Suddenly, here in the midst of the riches of this house, the Chippendale furniture, the Georgian silver tea service, surrounded by Wedgwood vases and pictures of horses painted by English painters, I was aware of the wealth I possessed, even though by these standards, we lived in poverty. My body was healthy, and I carried a child. The little jewelled venencia seemed to be Amelia’s tribute to that.
I showed it to Carlos that night, but he seemed to take no pleasure in it. ‘Are you sure it was Amelia who gave it to you? That mealy-mouthed whiner is a friend to nobody. Wasn’t it Luis who gave it to you?’
‘Jealous?’ I said. ‘You think any man wants me the way I am?’ I indicated the swollen bulk of my figure.
Carlos rose, thrusting back his chair angrily. ‘Jewels are all Don Luis can give a woman. He hasn’t got anything else!’ Then he left the house, not saying where he was going. He too often did that now that I was getting near to term. Moving into the house in the Plaza de Asturias had changed nothing. We dined with my mother and Maria Luisa, and had several rooms set aside for our own use, but Carlos was seldom there except for a token presence at mealtimes.
Maria Luisa was blunt about it. ‘All Spanish men are said to have mistresses,’ she said. ‘Carlos is young. He cannot be tied at home. Just be thankful he married you.’
I tried to be thankful for that, but it was not enough. The thought of other women hurt. What sort of women? I wondered. Married women ‒ for the unmarried were guarded too well. Which women? Perhaps one of a class and sort I would never know. I spent sleepless nights on that thought, without an answer. Was it inevitable? I wondered with Richard Blodmore if it would have been inevitable. In these days of growing inactivity, while I waited, my thoughts often turned to Richard Blodmore. Sometimes I dreamed of the rose garden, and I willed him to remember me each time he touched its gate. The hurt that Carlos inflicted on me slipped away in the remembrance of Richard Blodmore.
During that time we attended the wedding of Don Paulo’s son, Ignacio, in the Collegiate church. It was not a good day for Carlos. All of fashionable Jerez was there, all resplendent in the finest clothes, showing off their best horses and carriages. The bride came from a family of French origin, settled in Jerez generations ago, and reputed to be among the richest in the sherry trade. She was pretty, splendidly dressed, and displaying the security that only a fat dowry can give. Maria Luisa had done her best to see that I was well turned out for the occasion, but my vineyard had squeezed the budget dry. Carlos had complained about having to wear a jacket which he claimed had grown shiny at the elbows. It was an exaggeration, but he had been used to new clothes whenever he felt like them. He had been receiving his salary from the bodega, but neither my mother nor myself, and not even Maria Luisa had so far suggested that he contribute to our household expenses. After all, my mother reasoned, it would be too bad to have to charge him for his food and wine, and how could we charge him for the rooms I also occupied? So Carlos kept his money and spent it as he pleased. He still played polo, but he nagged that he was obliged to play on borrowed ponies. It seemed Don Paulo was no longer prepared to support this particular extravagance; it had been done, of course, as part of the punishment for Carlos’s rash action in marrying me, but it was only one of the many things that rankled. ‘I hate this penny-pinching,’ he would say, and he was openly envious of the fortune that Ignacio would now control through his bride. ‘The accountant will have a busy time,’ he said bitterly. I could not face the reception at the bride’s house so I went home and left Carlos to enjoy himself in any way he could, unburdened by the presence of an ungainly wife. If it had been the marriage of anyone but a son of Don Paulo I would have stayed away. But I had promised myself, and my grandfather, that never again would I show fear or apprehension of the man. So I went, and endured it, and then dragged myself home. Only pride that matched any Spaniard’s kept my body and head upright.
That night while Carlos danced, and undoubtedly flirted at the reception for Ignacio and his bride, Margarita, I wept when Maria Luisa and I were left alone. My mother had also gone to the party. Her relationship to Carlos demanded that an invitation also be extended to her. Maria Luisa had shaken her head over my tears.
‘Do not weep, Charlie. Never let a man see you weep. It drives him further away. Smile when he comes, and never let him see you weep.’ She brought me a glass of brandy, and made me laugh. ‘You see what a treasure of wisdom some man has missed just because it pleased God to make me ugly? One day I shall have to ask God to pay what He owes me.’
* *
My son was beautiful and healthy, and so big that no one could have believed he was premature. All of Carlos’s good humour and hope had returned. ‘Well, Ignacio’s scrawny little bride will have to work hard to do better than that.’ Then he laughed loudly. ‘And so will Ignacio … so will Ignacio!’
He grew quiet, though, as the time for his father’s visit approached. He had been at the bodega for a short time that day, doing nothing more than receiving congratulations on the birth of his son, but his words dropped to nothing when we heard the sound of the carriage in the outer courtyard, and calls of Paco and the two boys, excited by the day’s events, and the visit of Don Paulo. Pepita, for no reason, suddenly shivered at the sound of the voices, the sound of the steps in the marble passages, and she crept close to the bed. I held my son proudly and protectively in my arms.
My mother entered first, her face flushed, but not, I thought from wine. Maria Luisa followed closely, two unusual patches of red staining her sallow cheeks. ‘The … the …’ For a moment her sense of protocol deserted her. ‘The Marquesa de Santander y Pontevedra,’ she stammered. ‘The Marqués de Santander.’
Carlos was bowing low over the hand of the lady who was his father’s wife. If Carlos had ever been flustered, it was then. ‘You are welcome, Marquesa.’
She took little notice of him as if she already knew all there was to be known about him, and he didn’t interest her. She was dressed, as before, in black, and with jewels only on her hands. She swept towards the bed, bending low over my son, carefully examining the tiny, creased features, the features that, as yet, seemed to have no definite shape.
‘Well, Santander,’ she demanded at last, ‘what do you think of your first grandson? Or should I say your first recognised grandson?’
Don Paulo took his time about crossing to the bed; he spent an equal time about examining the child. The Marquesa’s hands were already busy, trying to unwrap the shawl that loosely covered the child. ‘He is all right?’ she said. ‘There is no … no weakness?’ Her tone was sharp, peremptory. I held the baby closer. We seemed almost to be tugging him between us.
‘He is perfect. He is as strong as any baby less than a day old can be expected to be.’ The infant’s eyes were already trying to focus on the flashes of light which sprang from the Marquesa’s hands. His own tiny hand atte
mpted to reach towards them.
‘He is greedy, the little one,’ the Marquesa said. ‘Already he wants the best.’ She was suddenly good-humoured, almost gay.
‘He shall have it.’ Carlos was beside me, protective of us both in a way that amazed me. ‘He is as strong as a lion.’ Already his son had changed from a horse to a lion. He had started out as a brave bull. Carlos would expect much of him, I thought.
‘And he has the eyes of a cat,’ Don Paulo said. ‘He has the Blodmore eyes.’
‘All young babies’ eyes look like that,’ I said defensively.
‘Not all children have the Blodmore eyes,’ Don Paulo answered, staring at me, and then looking towards my mother. In this feature we both so much resembled my grandfather, and it offended Don Paulo.
‘What will he be called?’
‘Paulo,’ Carlos answered promptly.
Through the long day I had listened to Carlos’s insistence that this, and only this, should be the first Christian name of our son. He would have a string of other names, of course, but Paulo would come first. I had been inclined to give way to him, anything to keep his good humour, even his favour, perhaps even to win a scrap of favour for the child from Don Paulo himself. Now these two came, thrusting themselves into my room as if it were they who were the new parents, though they had shown no concern through the long, tiring months of pregnancy. They came as if they brought precious gifts for the child; they angered me and stiffened my resistance.
‘He shall be called after my grandfather. He shall be called John.’
A cry of pure pleasure broke from my mother. ‘Oh, Charlie ‒ how wonderful. How proud he would have been!’
‘John … Juan …’ The name sounded tenuous on the Marquesa’s lips. ‘Juan ‒ that is what I used to call him. Yes ‒ the child’s name shall be Juan.’ It was decided, not because I had decided it, but because the Marquesa had given her approval. All at once I did not want the name any longer. I could sense Carlos’s confusion, as he looked from his father to this impossibly arrogant, overbearing woman. He waited to take a cue from Don Paulo, but none came. The habit of command had been too long abdicated where this woman was concerned.
‘I shall be his godmother,’ she announced.
‘I have already asked Amelia,’ I said coldly.
‘Doña Amelia,’ the Marquesa said briskly, as if it were a matter of no consequence, ‘will not live to fulfil her duties as a godmother. A godmother, you know, has a very special place in a child’s life.’
At that moment, despite the sweet spring-time warmth of the beautiful May day on which my son had been born, in spite of the blankets and shawls, I was cold. In my mind there flashed the remembrance of that fairy-tale told to me long ago ‒ which one had it been? ‒ the one in which a sorceress, forgotten among the list of those invited to be godmothers, uninvited to the christening, had nevertheless come, and bestowed her unwanted, terrible christening gift upon the child. I saw the jewelled hands of the Marquesa upon my son, and I wanted, more than I had ever wanted anything, to snatch him out of her reach. But I had neither the strength, nor the chance. Her mark was upon him already, her will proclaimed.
I loved Carlos at that moment. He moved closer, sat upon the bed beside me, put his arm about my shoulders, and thus embraced the baby also. As much as could be in the nature of someone so easy-going, he was stern.
He looked at his father’s wife, the lady of legendary power and wealth who had ruled his life from a distance for so long. Everything that was masculine and brave in Carlos came out at that moment. He said: ‘I think my wife, Marquesa, has the right to choose the godmother. And if Doña Amelia …’
But I knew that Amelia was far away in Vienna, might never return. And how, I wondered, did the Marquesa know so much about her condition? How did she know so much about everything? Abruptly, the buoyant strength which had sustained me through the birth, through the day of joy and excitement, through this interview, drained from me. I felt depleted, as if all my strength had gone to my son. He would need every part of it if he were to fight this woman who had declared herself his godmother ‒ and yet, if he were to fight the world, wasn’t she a powerful ally to have with him? I could not refuse him that alliance. I felt my shoulders sag within the protective circle of Carlos’s arm.
‘It shall be. Doña Amelia will be represented by proxy. You could not refuse her that? She is, after all, the wife of Don Paulo’s partner, your own relative.’
I bowed my head, and silently begged my son’s forgiveness.
Through a haze of weariness I heard her voice again. ‘I am to be a godmother by proxy. We have had news from Ireland. Richard Blodmore’s first child has been born. A son … an heir for Clonmara.’
* *
The baptism took place six days after Juan was born. It was put forward because the Marquesa had decided not to remain any longer at Sanlucar ‒ which was where she stayed rather than her husband’s home in Jerez. The child, they said, was healthy; there was no risk. The mother, however, was not expected to be present.
After they all had left in the carriages provided by Don Paulo, Maria Luisa carrying my son, I called Serafina and told her to help me dress. I took no notice of the protests. Gentlewomen were not expected to rise from bed for several weeks after childbirth ‒ only peasants were back in the fields a few days later. I took no notice, pretended not to understand, but told Andy who had been left behind, to harness the landau. ‘We will be there for the baptism, Andy.’ He understood.
I was supported by Andy and Serafina into the Collegiate church. Around the baptismal font was gathered a splendidly dressed group. The fact that the Marquesa de Pontevedra was godmother to my child had drawn even the most reluctant guests, and many who had not been invited. I could not see my child for the crowd that surrounded the font. All I heard were his lusty yells of protest as the water was poured on his still tender forehead, as the taste of salt was put upon his tongue.
And now I heard that familiar voice answering the query: ‘Dost thou, in the name of this Child, renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of the same, and carnal desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow, nor be led by them?’
The voice, overriding every other sound, came calmly and assuredly, as if no thought of such things had ever troubled her soul.
‘I renounce them all.’
On the way out, helped by Andy, I lighted a candle for Amelia.
* *
The christening gifts arrived the same day. From Don Paulo a beautiful, and from what I learned from my grandfather’s book, a rare carriage clock in a golden case: To mark the golden hours of your life ‒ Santander. From the Marquesa came a three-year-old dappled grey pony, a beautiful animal, graceful and spirited, wearing red leather harness studded with silver. By the time Juan was able to ride him, he would most probably have turned completely white, and be just the right age and size for the child. In the meantime, he had to be fed and exercised. Both Carlos and Andy were joined in their admiration of him. ‘Naturally,’ Maria Luisa said. ‘It is not they who will have to pay the feed bills ‒ nor the Marquesa either.’
BOOK TWO
NOON
Chapter One
I
Juan was only a little more than a year old when his first brother was born. We named him Martin Paulo Carlos. When the next son, born after almost the same frighteningly short period arrived, he was called Francisco Paulo. Each time the Marquesa appeared, and assumed her self-appointed role as godmother. She seemed to sense almost to the hour when the births would take place. Each time she was in residence at her palacio at Sanlucar, would come temporarily to take up residence with Don Paulo at Las Fuentes, and would appear at the Plaza de Asturia within hours of the birth.
‘It’s not decent,’ Maria Luisa exclaimed. ‘Barely time to make you presentable.’
By now it was taken for granted that I would produce my children with ease, and that they w
ould be healthy. The christening ceremonies had become almost a boring ritual with Carlos, except that each time he became more sure that the birth of male children was as important to the Marquesa as to his father. Each time there were handsome christening presents, and presents on the name-day of each child, elaborate, expensive presents which generally were of little interest to the children. ‘She might try, for a change,’ Carlos remarked, ‘giving some shares in her Barcelona concerns or Rio Tinto. That would make more sense.’ The little dressmaker was now a permanent fixture in our house, busy each day making up the lengths of cloth which came from Seville and Madrid at the Marquesa’s orders. ‘I must have my godchildren presentable,’ she said.
‘Then the seamstress will have to be paid,’ Maria Luisa insisted. ‘And since she is so busy making unnecessary clothes for small children who grow out of them, we also need an assistant seamstress to do the ordinary household mending. Sheets have to be patched, Marquesa ‒ in this house, sheets have to be patched.’
The Summer of the Spanish Woman Page 22