The Shadow and the Sun

by Amanda Doyle

  The emotion had turned out to be a slowly-mounting rage which took Anna completely unawares, since it appeared to be directed largely against herself.

  “Is something wrong?” Cecily mimicked softly, with hissing sarcasm. Her voice rose. “Of course something’s wrong, you simple little idiot! Everything’s wrong. Nothing’s worked out and it’s all because of you, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Me?” Anna’s query was a bewildered squeak.

  “Yes, you!” accused Cecily. “The mere fact of your being here has spoilt everything, just as I knew it would. If I hadn’t been saddled with you like this, Mike would have come like a shot.”

  She jabbed at the ignition button with a vicious thrust, ground the gear into reverse, and backed up a side-street at savage speed.

  It occurred to Anna then that her cousin had not once mentioned Michael Britton-Harvey’s name since they’d left Dover. Anna had wondered from time to time if Cecily’s feelings for him ran somewhat deeper than Colonel de Manard gave her credit for. She’d thought she had been nursing a sore heart all these weeks, but now it looked as though she had been biding her time happily in the knowledge of some future arrangement between them.

  “Were you going to meet him here, in Montpellier?” she asked.

  Cecily had the grace to blush under Anna’s faintly accusing stare.

  “Not here. In Florence. We were going to meet in Florence. Mike has always wanted to be the first one to show me Italy. He knows the country intimately, and I’ve never been further than Viareggio with Mummy and Daddy.”

  “But I thought we were to stay with those friends of your father’s—the ones with the silk shop.”

  “I hadn’t the least intention of it,” Cecily informed her coolly. “Mike and I had everything worked out, and he was going to confirm everything by letter to me, to the Poste Restante at Montpellier, and tell me where to meet him. Well, there’s no letter waiting there, and I just know it’s because of you. You’d have had to go along too, and Mike couldn’t face it. He gets just as impatient of these childish apron-strings to which I’m tied as I do. And who could blame him?”

  She shot Anna a venomous look of dislike.

  They were racing away from the outskirts of the town now, and Anna sighed resignedly. She’d known this amiability which Cecily had shown her couldn’t go on for ever, but it had been pleasant while it lasted. She had actually been dreading her enforced holiday, but up to this point it had been surprisingly enjoyable. The scenery had been unforgettable, the food delicious and the weather more than kind. Anna sometimes had to pinch herself to be certain that it was really she, Anna Trent, who was having these delightful experiences. It was a far cry from that scruffy room in London, and her recent scene with Basil had taken on a curious unreality.

  Now she had a sudden longing to be back there again, amongst the dingy familiar buildings, and surrounded by the old familiar faces, and even to be faced with the old familiar problems.

  Anything was preferable to whizzing through a foreign countryside at this stupidly reckless speed, on the wrong side of the road at that, with a cold-faced stranger beside her. She had often witnessed Cecily’s tantrums before, but never such a transforming one as this.

  She clung to the seat as Cecily swung the vehicle back to the right-hand side of the road at the approach of a horse-drawn dray with huge iron-framed wheels. Having assured herself that they were now going to remain on the correct side, she reached for the map.

  “Where are you heading for now?” she asked cautiously.

  “Spain,” Cecily had replied, tight-lipped.

  “Spain?”

  “Yes, Spain. I don’t happen to care much where we go, now that Mike isn’t here, but just in case he changes his mind, I intend to save Italy for later. I’ll have to try to contact him somehow. Spain’s as good as any other place, I suppose—or don’t you agree?”

  Anna somehow didn’t, but at the moment deemed it wiser not to say so. She had the idea that Uncle Nigel would probably disapprove of this unscheduled sortie into Spain, of all places. Just the two girls alone. But at least it was preferable to Italy with Mike Britton-Harvey. Anna shuddered to imagine herself explaining that away when they returned home. He would doubtless think her the most deceitful and disloyal of chaperones.

  Anna found herself hoping fervently that Mike would not enter the picture again. Cecily, driving on relentlessly, was preoccupied and remote, and doubtless hoping the very opposite.

  That was how it had been right through the morning, and that was how it still was.

  For hours, it seemed, they had been crawling over the mountainous roads. The heat of noon hung like a pall about them, and even the stiff breeze that rushed towards them as the car pressed on was hot, beating at them with cloying intensity. The white ribbon of road plunged and wound, through steep, timbered gorges with rough boulder-strewn outcrops of dusty pink rock. The little villages had been silent and shuttered, their windows like so many blank, sightless eyes, unwelcoming, impersonal. Not a soul was to be seen, not a living tiling stirred, save for the occasional donkey cropping the sparse vegetation at the roadside, or the odd scrawny chicken which fluttered and screeched and sped, long-necked, from the path of Cecily’s little car.

  They had been thankful to call a halt and devour the crisp French rolls, filled with cool, limp lettuce and delicious veal galantine which Anna had had the foresight to buy at a charcuterie before they crossed the border. She had brought some vin ordinaire too, warm now, and with a pungent bouquet. It was red wine, rough and rather heavy, and neither girl took more than a few mouthfuls. Anna found herself wishing she had stocked up their flask with coffee instead. It would have proved more refreshing in this heat, she was sure.

  It was soon after lunch that they discovered they had somehow mistaken their road.

  Cecily, of course, blamed Anna, who begged her to go back to the little wooden bridge, now a few miles behind them. There were converging ways at its approach, and Anna felt sure that it was there they had gone wrong. She was unsurprised at the other’s stubborn refusal to turn and retrace those two miles. It fitted in with Cecily’s present mood, and Anna did her best to suppress an uncomfortable feeling of guilt at her inaccurate interpretation of the map spread out in front of her. Guilt was what Cecily intended that she should feel. That much was obvious. Anna couldn’t help being a little bit hurt at her cousin’s calculated unkindness. She should have been accustomed to it by now, but it still had the power to injure her feelings.

  Goodness knows where they went after that. The hours passed with the same monotonous regularity as did the miles.

  They were descending now into a valley of indescribable beauty, and Anna felt her senses reawaken. They must be heading east, she guessed, because the sun was behind them. She didn’t speak her thoughts aloud, because they shouldn’t be going east. Yet she had the feeling that the coast might lie beyond the range of sage-green hills in front of them, and that wasn’t right either. They were supposed to be going inland still, but instinct told her that the sea was not far away.

  Anna kept her thoughts to herself, and admired the groves of olives which curtained the slopes, and the lemon plantations which made glossy, darker splashes here and there.

  Perhaps even Cecily was at last captivated by the beauty of the scene, after the arid wilderness through which they had just come. Perhaps she was gazing, as rapt and enthralled as Anna was. At any rate, she didn’t see, until it was too late, the long cream car bearing down upon them in a sweeping cloud of dust. Even then she turned her wheel the wrong way.

  There was a maddening scream of brakes, and Cecily jerked frantically to the right once more. Anna was aware of the swarthy grimness of a saturnine face as the driver’s eyes met hers. Then Cecily’s wheels sank into the soft dust at the shoulder of the road. For seconds they hung, poised at a crazy angle of uncertainty, and then they were over, rolling slowly down towards a clump of stunted trees.

  Anna f
elt herself catapulted through the air, to land with a breath-catching thud in an arid patch of coarse flat grass.

  She didn’t lose consciousness, but clung to her senses with every ounce of determination she possessed. There was an unpleasant pounding in her head, and the sunlight spun and danced in orange circles. Finally, with an effort, she forced herself to sit up and look about her, her brain suddenly obsessed with Cecily’s safety.

  A man knelt on one knee beside her cousin, where she lay not far away. From this angle, he was in profile, and Anna was struck by the hawklike appearance of his swarthy, prominent features. His skin was so brown that it gave him a distinctly piratic air, and his inky-black hair, as straight as her own, hung forward over his fine forehead as he leaned over Cecily’s prone form, one hand upon her wrist.

  There was an air of quiet concentration and primitive grace about him, as he crouched there, that filled her with a sudden and uncomfortable feeling of awe. Perhaps he was a brigand, she thought dizzily. She had read that they actually did exist in places such as this. He would need to be the leader of the gang, though! He had an aura of undisputed authority about him, and in spite of his dust-marked attire, a certain respectability became more evident with each moment that it took Anna’s jolted mind to return to normal.

  Common sense warned her that he must be none other than the driver of the powerful cream limousine which had been in the act of passing them when they heeled over, in which case he had every reason to be seething with righteous indignation.

  He turned towards her abruptly from his contemplation of the other girl, and addressed her in rapid Spanish.

  Anna detected a note of interrogation in his words, and pushed back her hair. She felt nervous and confused, and dreadfully afraid for Cecily.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Please speak more slowly.” Her voice shook a little, and her tongue tripped over her halting Castilian. “Is my cousin—will she—she won’t die, will she? She looks so—pale.”

  The man flicked a finger impatiently and muttered something beneath his breath. Then he came over to where she still sat, agonised with worry.

  He smiled at her a little grimly. His eyes, almost ebony-black, not brown as she supposed, had little points of light in their sombre depths. They observed her with the same intentness as they had done Cecily only moments before, and there was something so curiously penetrating about that gaze that Anna felt an impact as effective as a douche of ice-cold water. The last cobwebs cleared from her brain, and she even had the presence of mind to pull her faded cotton dress more decently over her knees. She noticed with detachment that her stockings were beyond repair, and she seemed to have lost a shoe.

  “Permit me, senorita.” He had retrieved it for her and now slipped it deftly upon her foot once more, speaking easily and fluently in attractively-accented English as he did so. “Bueno! Good! You have suffered a somewhat severe bruising, but I am content that you have sustained no serious injury. Allow me to assist you to your feet and you will see that I am right.”

  She felt the imperious pressure of his supple brown fingers upon her own as he urged her to obey, and she was drawn gently to her feet, surprised to find that she could stand unaided. She felt battered and stiff, but there was no doubt she was still in one piece.

  Anxiety for Cecily swamped her afresh, and she followed awkwardly as their rescuer went back to his former position.

  “Do not concern yourself too greatly, senorita. The main trouble appears to be at the ankle, which I am afraid may indeed be broken. See, already the colour returns, and your friend appears better. I suspect a small blow on the head to be the culprit—here.” His finger caressed the swelling on Cecily’s temple in corroboration, as he studied her countenance again. She looked quite lovely lying there, with her glorious Titian hair spreading out around her, and her classic features completely untouched save for the ugly bruise at the side of her brow.

  Her eyes opened and stared up. They no longer held that glittering green anger, but were soft and round with puzzlement, misted with wonder as she took in her position and the proximity of the swarthily handsome face above her. She attempted to sit up, but he held her back with a firm hand.

  “Gently, senorita. Do not be in a hurry to move your limbs. You have had a nasty fall, and I am thankful that you have recovered your senses, but you must not—how do you say it—push your good fortune too far. The left foot pains you even as you lie there, no?”

  “It does rather,” Cecily admitted slightly breathlessly. She was gazing in fascination at her rescuer, and knowing her as she did, Anna could very well guess the trend of her thoughts. She was quite overcome with relief at hearing Cecily speak at all, however, and was forced to blink back the tears which threatened suddenly to overflow. She had to blow her nose, which drew the man’s attention to her once more, but she avoided his speculative glance, and took Cecily’s hand, only to find herself pushed away pettishly.

  “Don’t fuss so, Anna,” she was told, not altogether kindly. “I’m feeling better already, and we’re both very lucky to be alive.”

  Cecily turned to her rescuer and gave a pale, inviting smile. Anna surmised that it must have cost her some effort to smile at that moment, for she must be in considerable discomfort. There was, and always had been, a streak of animal courage in Cecily which Anna admired.

  Now she was murmuring prettily,

  “What a lucky thing for us that you happened to come along, Mr.—er—Senor—?”

  “Barientos,” he supplied. “Nicolas Gaspar Francisco de Lorenzo y Valdarez.” He bowed formally to Cecily as he spoke, and then favoured Anna with a similarly impartial gesture. There was a peculiarly foreign fluidity about his every movement which appeared to intrigue Cecily. She studied him with interest.

  “Lorenzo y Valdarez,” she repeated softly. ‘I thought you said your name was Barientos? Which do we call you, senor?”

  “I am the Conde de Barientos, at your service, he informed her indifferently, adding somewhat dryly, “And I did not just happen to come along, as you appear to believe, senorita. Do you not recall your attempt to claim my path up there, what one might suitably describe as my right of the way? It is fortunate that our cars did not meet with their heads up there on the road, for I fear your vehicle, being very much the smaller, would have experienced a humiliating defeat, and you yourself might have been more dangerously injured—not that this poor ankle is not sufficiently serious, and you are bearing your misfortune with courage, senorita. Now we must see what we can do to bring about your relief!”

  Cecily flushed. The Conde de Barientos, indeed! A Count, no less. This might possibly prove more diverting than Italy with Michael. She didn’t speak the thought aloud, but she didn’t need to. Anna, watching her, recognised the quickly banished gleam that had appeared momentarily before she replied demurely,

  “You are far too kind, Senor Conde. I do hate to be a bother, of course, but what am I to do? I don’t believe I can even support myself on my ankle, so it would appear that we are at your mercy.”

  The appealing look she threw him indicated better than any words that this was not an unpleasant situation in which to find herself, and she infused just the right amount of helplessness and anxiety into her limpid gaze.

  His lip curved in an austere smile.

  “True, senorita, and the sooner I can procure you proper medical treatment, the quicker will that mercy be of benefit. So much is obvious.” He paused a moment, stern and preoccupied. “I shall take you up to the Castillo, senorita—your friend also. It is not far removed from this place, and you are most welcome to rest there and recover from your ordeal for as long as may prove necessary. My house is yours”—here another bow.

  Cecily smiled apologetically.

  “What can I do but accept?” she asked deprecatingly. “But there is absolutely no need for Anna—Miss Trent—to inconvenience your household as well. Naturally she will put up at an hotel if you will be so kind as to direct her to on
e.”

  Black brows drew together in a scowling frown. “Impossible, senorita. Naturally my invitation is extended to her also. Miss Trent has escaped severe injury, but without doubt she appears shaken and a little pale. She also requires rest and perhaps some slight medical observation to ensure that she has been unharmed by her adventure. Furthermore, it would appear unseemly to my ménage at the Castillo if it were thought that a young inglesa had been travelling alone at the time of her unfortunate accident. The Spanish, senorita, are understandably concerned about such things. They do not readily comprehend the freedom with which it is permitted to the English to travel unchaperoned at such a tender age—and, above all, in a foreign country.”

  “Oh, but of course I am chaperoned,” Cecily declared coolly. “I am Cecily de Manard, and Miss Trent here is actually in my father’s employment. She was to be my constant companion while I’m in Europe. Daddy absolutely insisted upon it, and—and—hired her for the post. And I must say, up till now, she has filled the position fairly satisfactorily, right up to the time when your car came round that bend. After that—well, I really must apologize for our stupidity, senor Conde. If Miss Trent hadn’t panicked and wrenched my arm on the wheel, the whole thing need never have happened. I expect Daddy will be far from pleased about it when he hears.”

  Anna dropped her long-lashed lids over hurt grey eyes as she encountered Cecily’s challenging look. She felt a tight knot of indignation gather in her throat, and a helpless sense of frustration pervaded her. How typical of Cecily to put her in the wrong! She wondered drearily why she put up with it, but there was nothing to be gained by an undignified argument in front of a stranger, and the thought of her indebtedness to the de Manards kept her silent.

  Quite close to her bent head, she heard the Conde de Barientos speak in level, soothing tones.