by Amanda Doyle
Then Nicolas struck a match.
His cane chair creaked as he changed his position, leaning back and stretching his long legs in front of him. Smoke curled upward about his dark head. His expression was quite impassive. If he were as surprised as Anna, he certainly didn’t show it, but his eyes were black and remote.
“Permit me to offer my felicitations, Miss Trent, belated though they are,” he told her smoothly. His voice brought to mind the way in which the oil from his precious olives might drip from the neck of the bottle, Anna noted miserably. “Of course, my tardiness in offering my happy wishes is due entirely to my ignorance of your betrothal. It appears I am the last person to hear this interesting news.”
There was a curious note in his voice now. Anna didn’t know whether he was hurt or angry or affronted, or simply quite uncaring.
The two girls eyed each other warily.
It was easy to imagine what Cecily’s thoughts might be. There was a small smile hovering about her mouth and an audacious mockery in her eye.
As for Anna, she was thinking wildly, with sudden reckless inspiration—well, why not? Why not let him imagine she was engaged to someone in England? Wasn’t it a perfect cover-up for her tormented feelings, and there could be no possible harm in letting him believe it. It would help to salvage her injured pride if she could pretend it was true, and carry it off successfully. She intended to have the whole matter out with Cecily afterwards, but as for Nicolas, the only thing she now desired was to convince him that such an engagement was a fact. It was the perfect red herring! For once, Cecily had turned up trumps, although that had no doubt been far from her intention!
Anna heard her own voice, far more assured than she had dared to hope it could be.
“Thank you, senor, for your good wishes.”
“You guarded your secret well, little one. One wonders why?”
Anna sipped her drink while she rallied her thoughts.
“There was no secret at all about it, Senor Conde.” She gave a small shrug. “If I had thought it of any possible interest, I’d have told you before, but you didn’t happen to ask.”
“No, I did not happen to ask.” The Conde’s tone was slow and measured and thoughtful. “I would not have thought it possible. There is about you an undiscovered quality, the quality of one who has not experienced the overwhelming emotions common to both man and woman in these situations. It would not have occurred to me to ask such a question of you, Miss Trent.”
“Well, I can assure you I—have experienced the feelings you describe, senor.” Her voice faltered with pure anguish. She didn’t have to be much of an actress to say that bit sincerely. “I simply don’t advertise what I feel to the whole world, that’s all—especially when I’m on holiday.”
That bit went rather well, she thought. You’ll end up in Hollywood at this rate, Anna.
“I perceive you do not wear a ring?” was his next observation. “Is this not the custom of your country, senorita? A ring of betrothal upon the left hand?”
Anna was flummoxed.
Surprisingly, Cecily intervened on her behalf.
“They don’t always, you know, Nicolas,” she interposed lightly. “Some young couples prefer to save that sort of expense and put the money towards their future needs. That’s what you and Basil decided, I think, Anna?”
Anna said yes, that’s exactly what they had decided.
She didn’t look at Nicolas, and she didn’t look at Cecily. She felt bewildered and despairing, and not quite sure what any of this business was about, even though she had turned it to her advantage.
To her relief, Nicolas pursued the matter no further, and the subject was dropped. Conversation flagged, though, as if each one of them was too occupied with his own separate thoughts to participate in polite general talk.
Presently the two girls excused themselves, and went upstairs to bath and change into something more formal for the evening.
“I think it’s my turn to demand a little discussion, Cecily,” Anna said, surprised at her own feeling of fatalistic calm. “I’d like to hear your explanation of what you said down there to N—to the Conde. Why should you tell such a fantastic lie?”
“Is it such a lie, sweetie?” Cecily replied with seeming lack of interest. “You told me yourself that the admirable Basil had asked you to marry him, remember.”
“Yes. I also told you that I had turned him down. You seem determined to twist what I say, first implying that I’m mad about Guy, and then inventing this—this—engagement.”
“Call it an understanding, if it makes you happier, darling,” Cecily advised her artlessly. “Tell me, is Guy really engaged to a girl in London? He’s not, is he?”
Anna looked genuinely shocked. ’
“Cecily, of course he is. I’ve told you he is, and why should I lie?”
“You’ve never said anything about it before this evening.” Cecily still sounded doubtful.
“I know I haven’t. Guy told me in confidence, but I—I just felt driven to tell down there, with you both coming at me from different angles.”
“So there’s nothing at all between you, Anna, even though you’re always going about together?”
“Look, Cecily, I’ve told you there isn’t, and I don’t know why you should want to hint that there is. We’re simply friends, and it’s purely platonic. Got it?” Anna was becoming increasingly indignant. “And perhaps, now that we’ve got that point cleared up, you’ll be good enough to tell me why you invented that impossible tale to the Conde about me and—Basil?”
“My dear girl, you yourself have given the impossible tale far more credence and backing than I expected or dared hope, although I guessed you wouldn’t argue it out in front of Nicolas,” Cecily reminded her with satisfaction.
“Why did you do it?” Anna insisted tiredly.
Cecily walked to the window and stood looking out for a moment. When she turned, there was a new look on her face, one of almost disarming friendliness and pleading.
“Anna, I know we haven’t been getting along too well lately,” she admitted regretfully. “Partly it’s my fault. This beastly plaster and the inactivity makes me crotchety and impatient, and you know I’ve never been good at controlling my feelings the way you do. I realise you may not believe me, but I honestly thought I was doing you a good turn with Nicolas just now. It’s hard to stand by and watch him twitting you about the way you go out with Guy, just because he’s stuffy and disapproving, and doesn’t understand our English ways. I knew you’ve been having fun with Guy, and I took your side, that’s all.” She threw out a hand in an appealing gesture. “You do see, don’t you, Anna? It was a bit silly of you to tell him Guy belongs to another woman. Being Nicolas, he’d be deeply shocked if you continued going out with him after admitting that. All I did was to even up the score. If he’s engaged and you’re engaged, too, it doesn’t look so bad. Obviously even Nicolas must realise then that you’re booked already, and that your relations with Guy are perfectly respectable and platonic, and he’ll not make any fuss about it from now on, you wait and see if I’m not right.”
Anna gazed at her searchingly. Cecily certainly seemed to be speaking the truth. Her eyes were wide with candour, and met Anna’s unflinchingly.
“I suppose I’ll have to believe you, Cecily. You were only trying to help, it seems, so th—thank you for your good intentions, however misguided they were.”
“Pray don’t mention it, darling.”
Once she had cleared that hurdle, some of Cecily’s old assurance returned. The friendliness in her beautiful face was rapidly replaced by a sort of watchful thoughtfulness.
“There’s just one thing,” she said, reaching for her cigarette case. “When I invented that engagement just now, I didn’t believe that Guy was unavailable. I thought you’d made it up on the spur of the moment so that Nicolas would stop going on about it. You seemed to be going after your goal in the wrong way, and I thought I’d lend a helping hand. The odd thi
ng is that you leapt in and supported me much better than I thought you would. You seem almost glad for Nicolas to think you’re tied up with Basil, even knowing that Guy belongs to someone else. I wonder why, Anna?”
Anna’s heart did a somersault. Hot colour flooded her cheeks.
“I—it seemed a—good idea,” she said painfully.
“Why did it seem a good idea?”
Anna ran her tongue over dry lips.
“I suppose I half cottoned on to your own idea. Cecily, that it would make it easier to continue going out with Guy,” she returned, with last-minute inspiration.
“But if he’s really engaged to someone else, there’s no future in it, is there? Or are you hoping to filch him away from his fiancée or something?”
“Oh, Cecily, of course not!”
She sought desperately in her mind for some feasible excuse—anything, so long as it didn’t involve her feelings for Nicolas. Her secret must never be suspected.
“If you must know, I find things rather boring here, Cecily. I’m used to being busy, and I’m not accustomed to being about a house all day, especially in surroundings such as these. They’re a bit overwhelming after a bed-sitter, you know.” She managed a brittle laugh. “I’ll really be glad when it’s time for us to leave. Meanwhile, Guy gets me away from it. We do have fun, and I hope I can keep it up until we go. I’m not a bit interested in stealing someone else’s man—or in men, at all, if it comes to that. After Basil’s persistence, I—I hope I don’t get involved with a man again—not for years and years.”
And you never will, that small silent voice reminded her. There’ll never be another man. Never, ever. You’ll never be able to love another one, because there’ll always be Nicolas. You’ll be haunted by thoughts of him, and taunted by longings for him, and every other man you meet will seem insignificant and negative after knowing Nicolas.
Cecily appeared satisfied with Anna’s explanation. In fact, she seemed more than satisfied. One would have said, the way she smiled, that she had been both relieved and—something else. Anna couldn’t be sure what that particular expression meant. The wary look had left her face, and she put a friendly arm about Anna’s shoulders for a moment.
“Poor pet! Of course you’re bored. It’s different for me, naturally. Nicolas is so sweet and attentive that I don’t notice the days passing, and he’s promised we’ll do such a lot of exciting things once my plaster’s off. He’s even suggested that he and I—but no, it’s too soon to speak of it openly, and I dare say he’d rather announce it himself. I’m glad I’ve been able to help you over this business with Guy, Anna. And in future Nicolas and I will be away in the car more often ourselves, and he won’t notice whether you’re in or out. So far as he’s concerned you’re engaged to Basil and I’ve merely stolen you away for a while to be my companion on holiday, so don’t think another thing about it.”
Good advice, perhaps, but impossible to carry out. Their conversation haunted Anna for days. She found herself going over and over it, painfully trying to face all the unpalatable but not unexpected implications.
After all, it was only what she had thought could easily happen. Cecily and Nicolas. Cecily and Nicolas. Someone so dynamic and handsome and aristocratic was bound to be drawn to Cecily, so challenging and lovely. What a striking pair they made, the one so dark and swarthy and full of lean grace; the other so fair of skin, with those glowing emerald eyes and wonderful, flamboyant hair with its shot-silk flames.
What had Cecily said? “It’s too soon to speak of it openly.”
They didn’t need to speak of it openly, as far as Anna was concerned. She wasn’t blind. She was achingly aware of the amount of time they spent together, searingly conscious of Cecily’s tinkling laughter and Nicolas’s low, teasing tones. A white hand linked through a jacketed arm. A dark head, bent attentively to catch a whispered word.
For Anna, there was continued unfailing courtesy from a host in whom courtesy was ingrained. There was an occasional polite observation, and now and then an enquiry after health.
“You appear a little pale, I think, Miss Trent,” he told her one day, coming on to the terrace where she sat unravelling a tangled skein of embroidery silk for Senora de Ceverio. “One would assuredly think you yourself had been our patient, and not your cousin Cecily. You are well, pequena?”
When he called her that, in a gently concerned tone, Anna’s very bones felt like melting.
She wanted to get up and run away, but even if the embroidery silks had not been contained in her lap, she couldn’t have done that. She had to pretend, and how she hated pretending, and deceiving this man.
“Perfectly, thank you,” she heard herself replying.
“You do not find the time long? If the young Guy is not to be in attendance today, perhaps you might benefit from an excursion with Cecily and myself. The change might put those peach tints back where they belong, no? You would care to do this?”
“No, thank you, Senor Conde,” Anna returned hastily. She could in fact think of nothing she would like to do less. “I’m enjoying doing this for Senora de Ceverio, and after that I think I’ll go for a walk along the beach.”
Anna bowed her head again, and allowed her nimble fingers to resume their task, although she knew he was still standing beside her.
“As you please,” he said indifferently. “Without doubt you appear languid, however you may deny it, and such a walk by the sea might serve a useful purpose. It is possible that you fret for the fiancé whom you do not see for many weeks.”
Anna’s hands fumbled over their work. These were the moments of deception that she hated most. They unnerved her, especially when she was the object of such hawklike scrutiny.
“I was prepared for a few weeks’ separation when I agreed to come, senor,” she informed him nonchalantly.
“And you do not resent this enforced parting from the man you love?” he asked curiously.
Anna’s fingers slipped, and the ball of green silk she had been winding fell to the ground and rolled underneath her chair.
Hastily she bent to retrieve it, and just as quickly so did Nicolas. For an instant their heads were close, their eyes almost level.
He handed back the spool, but remained in a half-kneeling position, so close that she could have reached out and touched him.
“Well?” he queried. “You have not answered my question.”
Anna forced herself to meet his gaze.
“What is there to resent?” she said weakly. “It’s not for very long after all. What’s a few weeks in a lifetime?”
Nicolas continued to search her face.
“My innocent senorita,” he told her quizzically, “a few weeks are a lifetime, if one is parted from the person one truly adores. To be parted from a loved one is not to live, but merely to exist. One breathes, but not satisfactorily. One sees, but dimly as through a veil. One hears, but inadequately, as through a curtain. One moves, but the limbs are unwilling. The heart, you understand, plays not its part in full, and minutes turn to hours, and hours to years.”
There was utter silence.
The teasing note had gone from his voice. Instead she detected an urgency, a reproof, a relentless clarity in each word, so that they hung in the air between them even after he stopped speaking.
Anna was aware that she had been holding her breath.
She expelled it now in a half sigh, half gasp. She rose to her feet in a sort of blind panic, tumbling the embroidery silks helter-skelter into the seat she had just vacated.
“If you’ll excuse me, Senor Conde,” she said shakily, “I—I think I’ll take my walk now.”
Nicolas drew himself up gracefully to a standing position beside her.
“Muy bien,” he told her. “Run along, little one, and enjoy your walk. Truly, it is as I thought, senorita. You have much to learn. Let us hope that senor Basil Hanway is a good instructor.”
Anna’s face was burning, and her legs felt unsteady.
She
dragged herself over the sand, willing herself to extract some pleasure from the solace of sun on her face and sea-breezes playing over her body. She stayed down there on the beach for a long time, but when she returned to the Castillo, she felt completely unrefreshed, almost giddy, in fact.
She put a hand to her throbbing head. She hoped she wasn’t going to become ill! That would be the last straw!
The following Monday, Cecily’s plaster was removed. The ankle itself was still faintly discoloured, but the swelling was negligible, and Cecily found to her delight that she was able to strap a pastel-coloured sandal over her foot, and the honey sheerness of her nylons disguised the few remaining marks on her skin.
“It will soon be just as flawless as its companion,” the old doctor told her, “but in the meantime, I would advise against such very high heels, Senorita de Manard. Have you nothing lower, preferably even flat, for safety’s sake, you understand?”
Cecily shook her head.
“I’m afraid not, but don’t worry. I’ll be careful. I’ve never liked low heels, and I’m quite accustomed to managing these ones.”
“But, senorita, for a certain time there will be weakness in the foot, and I do not like to think what may happen if you stumble, perhaps, on these so-high heels.”
“I won’t,” Cecily told him gaily. “Believe me, I’ve no wish to invite another of those horrid plasters ever again.”
“Nevertheless,” interposed Nicolas firmly, “you will do as the good doctor suggests. If you do not possess a pair of suitable shoes, Cecily, I myself will take you to the city today and we will buy some that are safe.” Cecily peeped at him coyly.
“Nicolas, you’re a bully, do you know that? What does it really matter, anyway?”
“It matters to me,” he stated calmly. “Have you not been counting the days until you are able to skip and run, and even dance again, Cecily? It would not be well to tempt disaster once more, when there are so many pleasant things one wishes to do.”