The House of Adriano

by Nerina Hilliard

  Sometimes his attitude was so much as it had been before he had made his amazing declaration that Aileen wondered if she might have imagined it, then she would suddenly see a flash of seriousness in his expression, a warmth in his eyes, although he never put anything into words since that time in the car when he had told her he loved her. He seemed to want her to treat the matter as if nothing had happened between them, on the surface at least, but knowing that, she could not help thinking about it. When a man tells her he loves her, a girl’s whole attitude towards him must instinctively change, however much she might try to keep things normal on the surface.

  About a week after that a minor crisis occurred to take her mind off both Bart and herself, when she found Peter in a storm of tears in his room. Eventually she managed to get out of him that it was because he had just heard that there was no Santa Claus in Spain.

  “Darling, there must be some mistake,” she insisted.” He goes everywhere ... doesn’t forget anyone at all.”

  “He does ... he does!” Peter told her tearfully. “He doesn’t come anywhere near Spain. Vanetta told me so. A big black man comes instead and drives him away.”

  Eventually she managed to get the full story out of him. Apparently he had said something to Vanetta about Santa Claus and she had said it was not that venerable gentleman who called In Spain, adding something about a black man coming instead, which Peter had apparently construed to mean that poor Santa Claus was chased away. Convinced that it could not be the whole story and that Vanetta’s exceedingly poor English - almost non-existent - and Peter’s only primary Spanish phrases had somehow managed to muddle things, she decided to consult Dona Teresa.

  The old lady laughed when she heard what had happened, but quickly sobered when she realised that Peter had taken it seriously.

  “The poor child! It must be explained to him what really does happen.”

  “Then there is a custom of Santa Claus here, after all?”

  “No.”

  “But I thought it was more or less world-wide.”

  Dona Teresa smiled. “Some version of the Christmas gift custom is world-wide, I suppose - but in Spain it is the Three Kings who call, and on the sixth of January, not Christmas Eve.”

  She went on to explain that instead of hanging up stockings, the children always looked to find their presents on the balcony. First of all, though, when they awoke, they ran straight to the mirror to see if the sign was there on their face which meant the Three Kings had called while they slept. The three kings in question were called Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar. Balthazar, apparently, was a Negro, and it was there that Peter had picked up his muddled version of a black man in the story. Balthazar’s chief duty, it seemed, was to kiss the sleeping child, and to effect that little pretence it was traditional to dab a little charcoal on the child’s cheek.

  “So you see, it’s not really so bad after all,” she said, in turn explaining to Peter. “It’s the Three Kings who call instead of Santa Claus.”

  “I wonder why he doesn’t come here, though.”

  “Well, it could be because he might be rather busy,” she invented. “After all, he does have rather a lot of countries to see to in such a short space of time. Maybe he deputed the Three Kings to take care of the Spanish children, or they offered to help out.”

  After a little reflection he agreed that it was quite logical, and in the end became quite intrigued by the idea, wishing that Christmas - or rather January the sixth - was nearer, but the next morning it seemed that one of the kings might have paid a mid-year visit.

  She was sleeping peacefully when Peter bounced on to the bed and awakened her with rude abruptness, following it with a hug that almost strangled her. At the same time a damp, pink tongue endeavoured to lick the exposed portions of her face.

  “Thank you ... oh, thank you, Auntie Aileen!” he gasped breathlessly. “It was such a marvellous surprise!’

  Aileen with a mighty effort managed to untangle herself from bedclothes, small boy and one diminutive but excited puppy who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. She restrained him from his attentions to her face, looking at him with amused surprise.

  “Well - where did you come from?”

  Peter grinned impishly. “I know you put him there. You needn’t try to pretend.” He hugged her again, threatening to choke her for the second time, while the puppy wriggled down and transferred his attentions to a slipper. “I’d always wanted one.”

  With another effort she disengaged herself from Peter, rescued her maltreated slipper and scooped up the exuberant puppy. He was a shiny golden brown, with sad eyes that were belied by his disposition, and long silky ears, a thoroughbred spaniel by the look of him.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she looked from one to the other of them. “I didn’t put him there, I’m afraid, pet.”

  “Oh?” He regarded her with large dark eyes - the dark eyes that were so much like Duarte’s. “Who did, then?”

  “Perhaps your uncle did,” she suggested gently.

  His eyes widened even more at that. “Gosh, do you really think he did?” He turned in a flurry of pyjamas and puppy. “I must go and thank him.”

  Aileen caught him by a handful of pyjamas. “Better wait until you’re dressed,” she advised. She did not think that Duarte would be too pleased by the sight of Peter running around the house in pyjamas, even if a dressing gown was added to them.

  A little later, Peter now decorously dressed and with his black curls brushed as tidily as they would ever go, they went together to find Duarte, Peter clutching the puppy in his small, strong arms. They found Duarte in his study, a room that was furnished with the same unobtrusive luxury as the rest of the house, but more austere, doubtless because it was a solely masculine domain.

  Peter thanked him breathlessly, to which he replied with the smile that could be so breathtakingly attractive, nothing like the aloof, distant one Aileen noticed he had been reserving for her lately. She actually felt jealousy of Peter receiving such a smile while all she received was a species of distant courtesy, immediately feeling ashamed of herself for such a thing.

  She endured the situation for two more days and then, whether or not it had been pride holding her back before, she knew she had to make another attempt to get him to understand what had happened.

  Vanetta had already told her he was still in, not having left immediately after breakfast as he sometimes did, so she somehow or other rallied her courage and went downstairs to his study, paused at the door, her hand raised, then knocked firmly.

  His voice called to her to enter, and as she came in he rose to his feet with the courtesy that was so natural to him.

  “Could ... I speak to you for a moment ... if you’re not too busy?” In spite of herself her voice faltered slightly.

  “But of course.”

  He drew a chair out for her to sit down. The dark eyes flicked over her with hardly any expression, but his manner, as always, was perfectly courteous. He did not sit down himself behind the large polished desk, but took up a position by the window, looking down at her with an inscrutable expression.

  “I wanted to explain about Bart taking me to El Escorial,” It came out in a rush, with no preliminaries. “I honestly didn’t know he was going to.”

  “I told you before - it was of no account,” he returned evenly, still without much sign of expression on his dark face. “You are quite at liberty to choose your own companions.”

  “But you still don’t believe me, do you?” She bit her lip, wondering how she could make him believe her.

  “It is best to forget the matter. After all, no harm has been done.”

  “Hasn’t it?” She lifted her head a little defiantly there. “You’re in effect accusing me of lying.”

  She was surprised to hear her voice sounded quite crisp, but after all nobody liked to be accused of lying, especially when the accusation was not true. It was probably entirely the wrong way of going about it, but it was too late
to alter her tone now. No doubt a Spanish girl in her place would have made a great play of fluttering eyelashes and even shed a few tears, but she realised, with a stiffening of inner pride, that she could not act like that. She was still herself, however much she might love him.

  To her surprise he smiled slightly. “It seems that I should apologise ... and I do so most sincerely.” He came nearer to her, so that her heart leapt alarmingly. “You will accept my apology?”

  “Of course,” she said quickly and just a little breathlessly. It was just as well he did not know she would have forgiven him anything.

  “We had an unfortunate beginning,” he went on. “It is perhaps natural that there should be more misunderstandings.”

  “I suppose it is,” she agreed more slowly. She looked up at him suddenly. “I’ve sometimes wondered ... if I hadn’t acted so precipitously ... would you have asked me right at the beginning to come out here with Peter?”

  The dark head nodded. “I had that in mind.”

  Aileen bit her lip, looking down at her clasped hands. “I’m sorry.”

  She was a little surprised when a thin, strong finger under her chin suddenly tipped her head up.

  “I think perhaps the past should be forgotten. A new beginning is always a wise thing.”

  “Yes ... yes, it is.”

  He smiled again, more fully this time. “Then our armistice might perhaps be renewed?”

  She nodded almost shyly. “I don’t really like being bad friends with anyone.”

  There was a little pause, almost an enigmatic pause, then he smiled again.

  “Perhaps then we shall become good friends.”

  “I hope so. Senor...”

  “I have a name,” he suggested gently.

  “I never know quite how to address people out here,” she said a little apologetically.

  “So?” He shrugged. “You will become used to our customs. What was it you wished to say?”

  “I was going to ask if it might be possible for Peter to have some friends of his own age. He is used to it, you see ... and to going to school. He doesn’t say anything, but I think he misses his former friends.”

  He frowned slightly at that, and for a moment she thought he was going to refuse outright, without even considering the matter. Apparently he read her expression, because he shook his head.

  “Do not misunderstand me even before I speak. I was trying to think of some way in which your request might be met. Unfortunately, he might find children of his own age too different in outlook.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that.” She frowned slightly herself, remembering that what Spanish children she had met had been rather prim and unchildishly polite, probably not the type to be able to appreciate or join in with Peter’s sometimes boisterous games.

  He was watching her expression closely again. “A difference in background can cause strain between children as well as adults.”

  “Yes, I suppose it can.”

  He frowned again, thoughtfully. “I have an acquaintance with several English and American families who live in Madrid. We shall be going to the Castillo very shortly. When we return perhaps we shall find him some new friends. I do not want to surround him with too many restrictions. That was done before and caused too much trouble and sadness.”

  “Eric, you mean?”

  He nodded, then asked abruptly, “Did my cousin dislike me also? Is that why you were prejudiced against me even before we met?”

  So he had, as she had suspected, felt her antagonism when Marius Jenton had introduced them, before he had even given her cause to dislike him. She could not let him think that Eric had disliked him though, so she shook her head quickly.

  “No, he didn’t dislike you. I think it was more a question of not being able to understand you. You are very different from him,” she added frankly. “He was far more Irish than Spanish.”

  “I realised that long ago.” His face set a little grimly. “Dona Luana apparently did not.”

  Aileen did not say anything, reflecting silently that she was glad she had never met Dona Luana.

  “The background one knows as a child is never quite lost,” he went on, almost as if he had forgotten she was there. “Something is instilled so deeply that it can never quite be escaped from ... however much one may try.”

  It seemed such a strange thing to say that she looked at him with quick curiosity. Surely he had never tried to escape from his background? He seemed so ideally suited to it.

  He noticed her expression and smiled a little mockingly, but she did not mind it this time.

  “Perhaps you, like Eric, also find Duarte Adriano hard to understand?”

  “I suppose so,” she said slowly. “You said yourself ... different backgrounds...”

  “But perhaps one day we also shall find our common meeting ground.” That odd, enigmatic expression was back in his eyes. “You will perhaps understand me ... and I perhaps shall become more used to that so very infuriating independence of yours.”

  What could be their common meeting ground, though? People said that love was a common meeting ground - yet how could they ever meet there?

  CHAPTER XI

  Within a few days arrangements were completed to move to the Castillo. Dona Teresa had said that it was very different from Marindos, the town house, but until they arrived Aileen never realised just how different it was.

  They left fairly early, so that they could be up into the mountains by the time the sun was really hot. Their road south took them across flat, fertile plains that stretched far off into the distance on either side of the road, through village after village, until gradually the countryside and the architecture became more Andalusian. The houses were whitewashed, dazzling in the sunshine, ornate iron grilles at the windows. The temperature was rising rapidly, yet it was still not too uncomfortable in the luxurious car. At one stage Peter fell asleep, the rest of the time he spent looking out of the window. As always he was a good traveller and a picture of good behaviour

  Soon the end of the cultivated plain was reached and they started climbing up into the mountains. Duarte drove fast, but was a very good driver, so the speed did not seem to matter. When they were right up in the mountains a brief stop was made for lunch at an old building that had been turned into a hotel. It was beautifully preserved and the meal served was of excellent quality, as might have been expected. Aileen could not have imagined Duarte stopping at any other kind of place. The Adriano family seemed to be well-known there, and the deference with which they were treated might once have caused her some irritation, but she had grown accustomed to that now with Duarte. Perhaps he did have a “lord of creation” air, as she had once termed it, but it was natural and quite unconscious. One or two speculative glances came her way and she guessed they were wondering what her standing was, since although she accompanied Peter she was not attired as his nurse, or anything like that.

  After lunch they went on again, still travelling fast. They were well into the mountains now, and a short way back the main Madrid-Granada railway line had disappeared into the heart of one of the mountains. Great outcrops of grey rock towered above them, shading the road.

  With the plain of La Mancha behind them they came out on the other side of the mountains to a scene of vast olive groves, travelling mile after mile, until eventually the road began to degenerate somewhat and Duarte was forced to slow his speed. They were climbing again now, towards the distant Sierra Morena, although it was not a steep ascent as yet.

  They stopped again for refreshments in the mountains, sitting on a terrace that overlooked the valley of the Guadalquivir. When they went on again they left the main road they had been following, until in about .half an hour they came to a fairly large village

  “Now at last we come to Marindos,” Dona Teresa remarked from the back seat.

  Aileen looked around her for some sign of the Castillo, but nothing that looked remotely like it was in view, unless it was a rather picturesque ha
cienda, somewhat larger than the rest of the houses in the village. She did not think it could be that. No stretch of imagination could make it into a castillo.

  Dona Teresa laughed. “I am sorry. I puzzled you. I should have said that we now enter the Marindos estate. There are three of these villages, another to the west and the third near the Castillo itself.”

  Aileen glanced at Duarte, but he did not answer and seemed intent on his driving. The villages apparently knew the car and there were old-fashioned curtsies from the women as it went by, men dragging off their hats and bowing, children waving boldly.

  Duarte did dart a swift sideways glance at her after a moment. “Do not let the feudal atmosphere frighten you. We are comparatively modern at the Castillo.”

  “I don’t really mind isolation,” Aileen replied. She was sure that was not quite what he had been speaking about, but since she did not know just what his true meaning had been, she chose to take it that way. “I think I mentioned once before that I used to live on a station when I was a child.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “We must arrange about this mount for you. I remember you said you had once ridden frequently.”

  “Please don’t put yourself to any trouble,” Aileen said hastily.

  “It is no trouble,” he replied with equable firmness.

  He still spoke as if her stay was to be of a fairly long duration, and that puzzled her. She did not try to work it out, though, because she had long since given up trying to account for the actions and remarks of such a complex personality as Duarte Adriano.

  After a while the second village Dona Teresa had mentioned came into view. This was larger than the previous one - and perched high on a hill she at last saw the Castillo Marindos.

  Even from a distance it took her breath away. There seemed to be a wall at the foot of the hill - whether it ran all the way round, for many miles, she could not see - but on the other side of the wall terraced gardens were visible, climbing step by step up to the Castillo, a great building that merged two distinct styles of architecture. Even from where she was she could see that part of it looked very ancient, the traditional castle appearance, but the main section was Moorish, reminding her that in Granada, not very far away, the Moors had made their last stand before they had at last been driven out of Spain.