The Shadow and the Sun

by Amanda Doyle

  Guy stopped his car a little way off, and walked with Anna over the grass.

  Near the patio he paused, and for a moment they stood facing each other.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening, Guy.”

  “Did you enjoy it, Anna? I’m glad if you did.” Suddenly he put up his hands, and cupped her face between them. She was aware of his kind blue eyes, searching down at her for a moment.

  “Nice little Anna,” he whispered. “Life hasn’t dealt you much of a hand up to this point, has it? Well, J hope it deals you a couple of aces some fine day soon. You deserve them, I reckon. We’ll have another expedition soon, seeing you enjoyed this one. All strictly brotherly. I’ll be in touch. Goodnight, my dear.”

  He gave Anna a gentle kiss, and then he was gone. She waited until the sound of his car had faded, and then she carefully raised the window and stepped over the low sill.

  She was almost half-way across the little morning-room through which she must pass to gain access to the main hall, when a suave voice spoke from the semi-darkness.

  “Good evening, Miss Trent—or should it be good morning? Indeed, I feel it should, or had you not observed the hour?”

  Anna’s heart sank.

  It was the Conde himself.

  CHAPTER VII

  How stupid of her not to have seen him, and prepared herself!

  He was sitting in a pool of moonlight, which streamed in, casting eerie shadows on the walls and furniture. His white shirt-front showed up starkly, and his face and hands seemed almost black in the phosphorous light.

  Anna registered frozenly that he was leaning back in the leather lounger where she often sat herself in the mornings with his aunt. One long leg was flung carelessly over the upholstered side, and she could smell rather than see the smoke of his cheroot as it wreathed about his head.

  When he leaned back and flicked the switch of the table-lamp behind him, she noticed a balloon-shaped glass there too. The light played mellifluously over the inch or so of amber liquid at its base.

  For some reason, she kept her eyes upon it, rather than look at him.

  Unhurriedly he got to his feet, went across the room, and produced another glass.

  “This is an unexpected surprise, Miss Trent. I had thought all members of my household to be safely in bed, and as you may see I was enjoying a quiet smoke and a cognac before I also retired. Will you join me?”

  Dumbly Anna shook her head.

  “You do not care for cognac? No, perhaps, after all, it is not a suitable drink to offer a young woman who finds herself alone with a man at this hour. But of course, such a situation holds no alarm for you, does it, Miss Trent? It is merely an extension of the situation which has existed for you all through the evening, save that the man is now a different one. Is this not so?”

  Anna gazed at him, mesmerised, wondering if he could possibly expect an answer. If so, she was too witless to supply one just then.

  A chill of foreboding was beginning to seep into her very bones. This man, whom she thought she was beginning to know and understand and like—oh, Anna, not like, it’s more than that, isn’t it? taunted that horrid little voice of truth within—had suddenly become a stranger. Furthermore, a frightening stranger, whose foreign tones were smooth as velvet and yet relentless as steel.

  He selected a bottle from the cupboard beneath the lined shelves of books, and liquid made a small gurgle in the silence.

  “Grenadine,” he said. “Quite palatable and harmless, I assure you. A twist of lemon—a small dash of angostura—so—removes the sweetness.”

  The Conde de Barientos came over and placed the glass beside his own.

  “So you are not alarmed, Miss Trent, to find yourself alone here with me at this time?” he enquired again conversationally.

  “Of course not,” stated Anna hardily.

  “Well, if you are not, you should be.”

  Suddenly, he turned.

  Anna found her wrists locked in an iron grasp, and she was drawn, almost pulled, towards him, so that her face was within inches of his white shirtfront.

  For a moment their eyes met and held. She knew hers were wide and grey and dark with fright, and she could see that his were black and angry and hard, blazing with some altogether unfamiliar emotion.

  She couldn’t look any longer. She bent her head, and for seconds more was aware of his face looming above her, and his breath stirring her hair into little wisps on her forehead.

  Then she was released abruptly.

  “Par dios!” he uttered thickly. “When will you learn that your innocent trust may some day be misplaced? Do you not realise that such ingenuousness is a challenge, and that you took a foolish and unnecessary risk in remaining with a man you can scarcely know, in the last hours of darkness?”

  Anna pushed a shaking palm through her hair, trying hard to appear calm.

  “I took no risk,” she replied mildly. “If I hadn’t known that Guy was reliable, I wouldn’t have gone out with him at all.”

  “And yet you permitted him to kiss you out there, just now? Believe me, I could not help but see it. You did not choose your position very discreetly, and it was the last scene on earth that I expected to witness when I came to sit here in solitude for a short while.”

  “It wasn’t a case of permitting him,” Anna defended herself.

  Nicolas gave vent to a muttered, unfamiliar oath. “You mean that this was against your wish? If so, then—”

  “No, no, I don’t mean that, either.” Anna twisted her hands together nervously. How did one explain to this arrogant and insistent man? “It—it just—happened. It was just a way of saying ‘g-goodnight and thank you for a lovely evening.’ Guy is English, and he understands.”

  “And I do not? Is that what you are saying?” The Conde reached for his glass, and took a controlled sip of brandy.

  “In truth, you are right. I do not understand. I do not understand at all. I find myself at a loss to reason why someone whom I invite particularly to a special dinner this same evening should instead go out with another man, without a word of apology. And not only this, but permits his kisses beneath my very windows when she returns.”

  “One kiss,” corrected Anna numbly. Her mind was in a torrent of confusion, and for a moment the rich design on the carpet advanced and receded in front of her eyes.

  Her elbow was grasped in a firm hold, and the same hideously accusing voice spoke somewhere near her ear.

  “Come, senorita, it is best to sit down, and we will continue our discussion more calmly.”

  The Conde indicated the lounger which he had not so long ago vacated. He waited until she was seated before passing her the grenadine concoction, and chose for himself a studded chair opposite.

  His expression was once more impenetrable, but there was a scarcely concealed impatience about the way in which a match rasped in the silence, as he lit another of the slender cheroots, and flicked the flame to extinction, before resuming his catechism.

  “Your health, senorita.” He raised his glass to hers, almost impersonally. “Shall we drink to this enjoyable evening with the Englishman who understands? Or shall we drink to the absent guest at the dinner of Nicolas?”

  Anna was genuinely distressed.

  “Senor Conde, I’m terribly sorry. I seem to have offended you, and not for anything would I have been guilty of that. Please, you must believe me.”

  “I prefer that you will call me by my name, which, as you are well aware, is Nicolas. Or does your British caution preclude such a familiarity alone with the Spanish man, while at the same time it permits kisses to a compatriot whom you have known scarcely as long?”

  How wounding and cruel he could be! Anna was beginning to feel the chill of despair. Didn’t he know that he was hurting her to the very depths of her being with his ruthless taunts?

  She realised that she was on the verge of tears. Not for anything would she give him the satisfaction of seeing them overflow.

  “Pleas
e, senor Conde—”

  “Nicolas.”

  “Please, Nicolas, d—did Cecily not explain?”

  “Yes, Cecily explained,” he replied coldly. “The good Cecily explained. And you feel that that was sufficient? To allow her to make apologies for you when already the guests are arriving and I look about me for my little English visitors, and find but one at my side? To hear that you have gone to the city with the fellow Harding, dressed for sightseeing, is it not, and that you do not bother, or even intend, to return in time to be present when I make the introductions to my friends? You think this is enough?” Anna could only stare at him, horrified.

  One good thing, sheer shock had banished the threat of tears.

  “Senor—”

  “Nicolas,” he insisted grimly.

  “Yes. Nicolas,” she asked, and to her surprise her voice was as cool and smooth as an icy mountain stream, “do you believe that of me? That I would go off like that, without a word, allowing you to think that I was coming to your party, and then just—just not turn up?”

  The Conde spread his lean brown fingers in an expressive gesture.

  “I believe nothing, I question only. I merely have stated the facts, well supported by the more recent evidence of my own eyes.”

  He was watching her shrewdly. His face looked lean and austere, the aristocratic features thrown into hard relief by the little lamp beside him. A muscle jerked in the brown cheek, and there were taut, tense lines about the mouth.

  Anna had a sudden absurd desire to throw herself upon him, and beg for trust and understanding. But what, after all, would be the use of that? It was too late for that. No trust or understanding would be forthcoming, and who could blame him for thinking as he did? It wasn’t that he really minded her not being there tonight, it was her rudeness in not telling him beforehand. She could understand that, and if things had really happened the way he thought, then she’d be the first to agree that her conduct was unforgivable.

  But things hadn’t happened like that. She knew it, but he didn’t. And Cecily had promised to explain to him. She had promised. Leave it to me, she had said.

  Anna felt tiredness and that familiar resignation wash over her. There was no point in treating this man to a tirade against Cecily. It was all too cheap and tawdry to expose, and she could almost picture the disdain and disbelief on that hawklike face if she attempted it.

  “Well, it would appear there’s little more to be said. One can’t explain away facts, can one?” she heard herself saying bitterly. “I think, if you’ll excuse me, that I’ll go to bed. I’m—I’m really awfully tired.”

  She dragged herself wearily to her feet, dazed with unhappiness. It must have made her careless, too, for the next moment she had stumbled, and would have fallen but for the quick arm which came to support her.

  “Anna—”

  For one moment warm dark eyes probed into defeated grey ones.

  “Yes?”

  “It is of no consequence, pequena. As you rightly observe there is little more to add to what has been said, and further discussion might only serve to increase the feeling of constraint that already exists. You feel this also?”

  She nodded wordlessly, allowing him to lead her to the door.

  There he released her, and saw her safely to the foot of the beautiful wrought-iron stairway. The ancestors looked down on them from the gallery, every bit as forbidding and chastening as the man who stood beside her—the man she now knew she loved, beyond question, beyond hope, beyond reason.

  “Goodnight, Nicholas,” she murmured huskily, and fled somewhere blindly upstairs.

  When Anna woke next morning, she was languid and listless.

  She hadn’t slept very well.

  In her mind, she fought against this new feeling which she had admitted to herself last night. Self-pity had never been a part of her make-up, and she didn’t indulge in it now. It could only add a delusive quality to her already confused state. She would just have to smother her emotions as best she could. After all, she and Cecily shouldn’t be here much longer now. As far as she was concerned, every extra day they stayed would be an added torture, and she found herself praying for strength to conceal her secret, and give herself away to no one.

  She could imagine Cecily’s cruel amusement at her expense if she ever suspected, and even Guy would think her not only sweet and simple, but positively stupid to have allowed it to happen. What had been his words, though? ‘A headlong dive, and by the time reason takes over, one is ensnared.’ Well, she was that, all right. Hopelessly ensnared. The ache of it was like a physical illness.

  Did it become chronic, and did one have to battle against it all one’s life, for ever afterwards? Anna quailed at the possibility.

  She hadn’t realised that love could be like this. She’d thought it grew and blossomed over a long association. Hers hadn’t, though. It had exploded suddenly within her like a burst of stars. Stars with sharp, wounding points that tore at her outer serenity, and threatened her inner peace.

  She got up and dressed, taking comfort in the automatic routine. When she got home, she’d immerse herself in work. If one were busy and therefore tired, one couldn’t think too much. Here, though, it was far more difficult. There wasn’t enough to keep her occupied, and the sight of Nicolas would be a constant reminder of her own foolishness.

  She’d just have to keep out of his way.

  Anna slipped the green cotton over her head. It was still lying over the chair where she had placed it last night, and she couldn’t think about anything so mundane as the selecting of another dress. This was her best and most presentable cotton, and she should really be keeping it for more special occasions than a morning at the Castillo, but she was affected by a curious mental lassitude that discouraged detailed thinking.

  She ate her breakfast alone on the terrace.

  Cecily’s plate and cup had obviously not been used. Anna supposed it would be lunch-time before she would appear.

  Mercedes brought strong coffee and warm rolls and a hand-turned pottery bowl filled with a conserve of fresh apricots. She clucked and fussed over Anna, urging her to eat when it became apparent that she intended to partake of the coffee alone.

  “You are not well today, senorita? It’s true that your cheeks have not colour at all!”

  Anna smiled at the old woman.

  “I’m quite well, really, Mercedes—just not hungry, that’s all. You forget that I was out with the senor doctor last night, and we ate an enormous dinner, very late. Am I the first one down this morning?”

  “But no, senorita. Already the Senor Conde has gone away to his offices. He does not swim this morning, because he sleeps later than is usual. He wishes to be punctual for his appointment with his mayordomo, you understand. Every morning the Senor Conde meets this man, who tells him of business matters for his attention, or problems which have arisen among the people who dwell in the villages. Always the Senor Conde will listen to what the mayordomo has to say, and no matter is too small to merit his particular attention. For this, the people who live on the estates of the Senor Conde are indeed fortunate, you will agree?”

  Anna’s nod was answer enough, it seemed. It would, in Mercedes’ eyes, be nothing less than heresy for anyone to disagree that her beloved employer was quite above reproach in all things. It would take some happening of momentous importance to shake the man out of his assurance, Anna suspected. Apparently he had slept well and late, unaffected by the tense little scene he had created last night. While she had tossed and turned for hours, and felt miserable and unrefreshed, he had risen with his usual boundless energy, his mind turning over the business of the day already, and a forsaken bathe in the sea was the only penalty he had to pay.

  Such were the ways of men—or, at least, of men such as Nicolas de Lorenzo y Valdarez.

  Mercedes pushed the rolls nearer to Anna hopefully, then went to stand at the other end of the terrace, her snowy napkin over her arm.

  Anna forced he
rself to eat a little, and drank a second cup of coffee. In spite of everything, she began to feel better. Mercedes had been right after all. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow—tomorrow, what? If only I could get away tomorrow, she thought, but I can’t, of course. Cecily hasn’t even got her plaster off yet, and what reason could I give that wouldn’t seem hopelessly phoney?

  For a long time after Mercedes had removed the used china, she sat there in the sun, only half thinking. It was pleasant to feel the warmth increasing by the hour, sending one into a dreamy, mindless state. By noon it would be too hot to sit here like this.

  She realised afterwards that she must have gone to sleep. The sound of uneven clicking of heels over the tiles brought her back to the present.

  It was Cecily, in a white two-piece of some sort of uncrushable synthetic fabric, and a delicate, high-heeled sandal on her sound foot.

  Mercedes appeared as if from nowhere, again armed with a pot of freshly-made coffee.

  “Hullo, Anna. Sleeping?” Cecily waved a careless hand in Mercedes’ direction. “Tell her I couldn’t eat a thing, will you, there’s a dear. And I don’t want coffee either, at this hour. I’d much rather have a long cold drink of some sort. Cinzano and soda would do.”

  Anna communicated this message to the willing Mercedes as apologetically as she could, marvelling at her cousin’s lack of courtesy and basic tact in another’s house. The old woman went away once more with the tray, her wrinkled brown face quite unreadable.