The misery of her fellow passengers was evident when they were disgorged from the bus into rain-swept Mahon. More damp and uncomfortable than she had ever been in her life before, Birdie plodded doggedly in the direction of the port, suspecting that insufficient time had elapsed for the Conde to have made his departure yet too wet and miserable to care.
The expensive white limousine parked alongside the yacht confirmed her suspicion, so, as silently as she was able, she began tiptoeing up the gangplank and across the deck in the direction of her cabin. Her hand was touching the rail of the stairway leading below deck when the door of the main salon opened and the figure of a man appeared on the threshold.
She stood rooted, transfixed by the surprised, imperious stare of the man who had stepped outside to enjoy the sight of storm-lashed sea and discovered instead a piece of tossed, bedraggled flotsam.
'Stop!' The snapped command galvanised her into action. Casting a fear-ridden look across her shoulder, she spurted down the stairway and had almost reached the bottom when an iron hand clamped her shoulder. With a speed that knocked her breathless, she was hustled above deck and shoved without ceremony inside the elegantly appointed salon.
'Good heavens ...!' Lady Daphne was stricken dumb.
'Just as well I stepped outside when I did,' the Conde shook Birdie until her teeth chattered, 'otherwise we would have known nothing of this intruder I caught sneaking below deck, no doubt intent upon robbery.'
'Intruder be blowed ...!' Tony was the first to marshall his scattered senses. 'That's Birdie—put her down this minute!' he glared. 'Damn it, man, did you have to terrify the girl half out of her wits by pouncing like a hawk after a sparrow?'
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN Birdie returned to the salon, dried off and respectably attired in a brown cotton dress as inconspicuous as the plumage of the timid bird after which she had been named, she saw at a glance that the Conde de la Conquista de Retz was not amused.
Tony had regained his equilibrium; Lady Daphne's mouth kept teasing upwards in an amused smile; Lucita, an enchantingly mature child whose piquant features, dark eyes and rioting black curls held a promise of great beauty, erupted into giggles each time she glanced at Birdie who, after scurrying into a seat in a corner, began crumbling the cake on her plate between agitated fingers, trying to subdue the blush that had scorched her cheeks from the moment the Conde had released her and stepped back to apologise with chilling disdain:
'Forgive me, senorita, I must remember in future never to condemn a nut because of the state of its shell.'
If only I were a nut, she was thinking miserably, with a shell to hide me from eyes of blue flint that spark annoyance whenever he's forced to look at me!
His young ward, however, was registering unqualified approval. Obviously spoiled and pampered, isolated from children of her own age because of her illness, she had spent her entire life in the company of adults whose attitudes she found boringly predictable. But towards Birdie she displayed an immediate affinity—she too had cringed from the lash of his scolding tongue, she too had suffered the humiliation of being hauled into the presence of adults to account for some trifling misdemeanour, but the most gratifying discovery of all was the fact that, in a world that seemed full of physically perfect people, there was one in addition to herself who was also lame.
'Senorita Birdie ...!' The plate almost jerked out of Birdie's grasp when the childish yet self-assured voice demanded her attention. 'Why are you named after a bird?'
'Don't be impertinent, Lucita!' The Conde's tone rang cool with displeasure.
'But, Tio, I should like to take the name of a bird!' she protested, quite undeterred by his sharp warning glance. Birdie tensed, anticipating a look that would reduce the child to silence, only to be confounded when she saw his lips twitch with amusement, his hard glance soften as it rested fondly upon his precocious ward.
'Very well, my little parrot, you shall be,' he teased with a gentleness that left Birdie mentally floundering.
'No, no, Tio ...!' Lucita giggled a delighted protest. 'I want a name similar to Senorita Birdie's so that perhaps I might grow up to walk gracefully, to seem to float on air as she does, in spite of being lame!'
A heartfelt silence fell, a silence filled with sympathy for the beautiful child so sensitive to her disability. Even the Conde looked so helpless Tony felt moved to intervene. Clearing a huskiness from his throat, he began explaining quietly:
'A boy does not grow big simply because he has been given a giant's name, Lucita, but rather the reverse. If a boy should develop the characteristics of a giant and suddenly begin to grow tall then his friends will quickly note the comparison and re-christen him with an appropriate name. That was the way it happened with Birdie ...' Birdie's embarrassment' became acute when every head turned in her direction. '... She was not born graceful, with a step as light as thistledown; the carriage you envy was achieved by years of training, hard exercise, and dedication of the mind. As a child, she was christened Birdie by her fellow pupils because she was apt to flutter with a shyness that made her appear awkward, ungainly as a cygnet who had not gained proper use of its legs, but once she was taught how to dance the cygnet turned into a swan, a graceful ballerina whose spectacular leaps and acrobatic feats of ballet enraptured audiences all over the world.'
Feeling the Conde's speculative glance upon her ankle, Birdie blushed crimson and thrust it out of sight beneath her chair, feeling angry with Tony for reviving memories she would have preferred to forget, and for forcing a man to revise his opinion of a girl he had twice treated as a servant and once, unbelievably, as a common thief. She could almost sense the questions forming on his lips, but was spared his inquisition when Lucita uttered a cry of wonder and slid from her chair to limp across the carpet until she was near enough to rest small, pleading hands upon her knee.
'Please, senorita,' she gulped, her wide brown eyes fastened upon Birdie's face, 'could you show me how to become as graceful as a swan? With you to teach me I know I could dance!'
'Oh, of course you could, darling!' Aching with compassion, Birdie clasped the child in a warm, encouraging hug.
Abruptly, the Conde rose to his feet. 'That's enough, Lucita, it is time for us to go!'
'But, Tio ...!' she wailed.
'No argument, if you please,' he snapped icily.
For a second Lucita stared into his implacable face, her body tense, fists bunched with impotent rage, then suddenly, employing the guile of a woman four times her age, she flashed him a sweet smile.
'Very well, Tio,' she capitulated demurely, limping forward to place a small, trusting hand in his.
Lady Daphne turned aside when she read his expression of startled relief, her quirk of amusement broadening to a wide grin when she caught Birdie's eye and realised that she, too, had seen through the young charmer's ploy. Bringing great effort to bear, they managed to keep their faces straight until the Conde was out of earshot, but once his car had disappeared from view they startled Tony by dissolving into uncontrollable laughter.
'What's so funny?' he appealed. 'Am I to be allowed to share the joke?'
'Oh, dear!' gasped Lady Daphne, holding her aching sides, 'is it any wonder that men are so often deceived when their insight into the ways of women extends no farther than the ends of their noses?'
'I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about,' Tony retorted, completely bewildered.
'I believe you,' Lady Daphne gurgled, sinking down into a convenient chair, 'nor has poor Vulcan the slightest idea that he's about to be hoodwinked by the child who I suspect is a reincarnation of Eve! How could anyone be blind to such guile?' she appealed to Birdie. 'I should make a deal with her, if I were you,' she twinkled. 'When she returns—as she most certainly will once Vulcan has been brought to heel—I should offer to teach her to dance on condition that she shares with you the secret of her ability to lull a man's suspicions, to Outwit even the hawk-eyed Vulcan, without his having the faintest not
ion that he's being manipulated.'
'My dear Daphne,' Tony drawled rebuke, 'you speak like a novice who imagines that the art of dancing can be taught in minutes. Need I remind you that we're due back in London at the end of the month?'
'You are, Tony dear,' she mused thoughtfully, 'but I can think of no reason why Birdie should not take advantage of an opportunity to revel in sunshine for a month or two, to give herself time to recuperate from her accident and to sort out in her mind what she intends to do with the rest of her life.'
Birdie's heart lurched when the problem she had deliberately pushed to the back of her mind was suddenly brought out into the open. Sensitive to her distress, Tony leapt in with the assurance:
'Though Birdie's ankle will not permit her to dance strenuous roles, she still has much to contribute to the ballet world,' he reminded Daphne coldly. 'Her knowledge and expertise will make her invaluable as a teacher and she will also be called upon to play the occasional mime role.'
His words lifted the blanket of depression from Birdie's spirits. To be allowed to play an immobile part in the steady flow of organised movement that made up a ballet, to mime to music instead of participating with skilful body movement designed to move audiences to laughter or tears, would be bread without jam, egg without salt, but at least it would prevent her from being starved of contact with the ballet world. Acting without words, conveying feelings without the use of speech, was a vital part of the ballet; there were movements that demanded a set of gestures to put across the story, gestures that were a part of the sign language of mime understood all over the world. Undoubtedly, she would find immobile roles frustrating, nevertheless she had been trained to convey joy when her heart was breaking, to express laughter when her throat was aching with the throb of unshed tears. In her final role she had been cast as a sylph, an elemental being that inhabited the air, an insubstantial presence hovering between the choice of living in the physical or the spiritual world, but with her fall to earth the decision had ceased to be hers—there was no choice of role in the world of fantasy for a human cripple!
Filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude, she gulped, 'Thank you, Tony. I wish I could bring myself to refuse your offer, but I know I possess neither the courage nor the will to train for any other career. The world of ballet is the only world I know, to be cut off from it would be comparable to being deprived of a limb. I know that at first it will be hard to accustom myself to being more or less a bystander,' her throat closed tight as a vice, 'but I'm willing to undertake any task, however menial, in order to stay with the company.'
'Birdie, my dear,' Lady Daphne's voice was not quite steady, 'are you sure you've come to the right decision? I can understand your reluctance to make a clean break, but I wish you would give yourself more time to think about your future. Why not consider my previous suggestion?' she urged with rising enthusiasm. 'A long procession of ladies—governesses, tutors, companions, call them what you will—has passed beneath the portals of the Casa de Solitario and been quickly turfed out again. Vulcan has despaired of ever finding a suitable companion for his wayward ward, therefore if you should be offered the post—and I don't doubt that Lucita is at this very moment exercising all her wiles towards that end—you would be doing both yourself and Vulcan a favour by accepting.'
Birdie had placed so little importance upon Lady Daphne's prediction that she was thrown into utter confusion when the very next morning a servant delivered to the yacht a letter inviting Lady Daphne, Tony and herself to the Conde's residence that afternoon to take tea.
'Oh, what a pity!' Lady Daphne exclaimed with suspicious alacrity. 'Tony and I have a previous engagement, but you must go, Birdie, and convey our apologies to the Conde in person.'
'No, I couldn't ...!' she protested, appalled at the idea of being forced into what amounted to solitary confinement with the intimidating Conde.
'But you must!' Lady Daphne was already scribbling a note of acceptance on her behalf. 'Lucita has obviously worked hard upon her uncle, and now that her spell has worked she'll be terribly disappointed if you should fail to appear. There!' with a sigh of satisfaction she sealed the note in an envelope and passed it to the waiting manservant. 'The deed is done, you can't back out now.'
Half an hour before the Conde's limousine was due to pick her up, Birdie was ready and waiting, prowling the deserted deck, her quick, nervous steps marking time with agitated thoughts. Would he be his usual forbidding self, or would breeding demand a show of politeness towards even an unwanted guest? Yet breeding had not managed to disguise his resentment at being made to look a fool. Once the misunderstanding had been sorted out, his manner towards her had been so impeccably polite that only she had been uncomfortably aware of the crystal-blue stare betraying a stirring of the deep-rooted animosity Menorquins had nurtured for centuries against their English foes.
By the time the chauffeur-driven limousine arrived she had worked herself into a state of acute anxiety. Mentally indicting Lady Daphne for her well-meaning interference, she made her way down the gangplank, but with nerves so shaken she stumbled and almost fell into the opulent embrace of a suede-upholstered seat so spacious that when the car moved off she fell back floundering.
In no time at all, or so it seemed, via a succession of narrow streets and busy thoroughfares, the car drew to a standstill in a quiet secluded alleyway in front of a pair of wrought iron gates through which she glimpsed a patio lined with tubs filled with flowers splashing brilliant daubs of colour against whitewashed walls; a marble fountain spouting water through the lips of a pouting cherub, and a flight of stone steps leading up to a solid, heavily carved door.
With a muttered apology the chauffeur stepped in front of her to tug once on an iron bellpull, then stepped aside when almost immediately the door was opened by a middle-aged woman dressed in severe black with a bunch of keys hanging from the belt around her waist, in the manner of a dignified chatelaine.
'Please come this way,' she instructed Birdie without a trace of a smile disturbing her thin lips. 'El Conde is expecting you.'
With her heels tapping erratically as her heartbeats, Birdie followed in the woman's wake across a marble floor, then through a doorway into a room lined from floor to ceiling with shelves full of books.
'The Senorita Wren has arrived, senor,' the woman announced, then quietly withdrew, leaving her staring across a long stretch of carpet at the tall figure standing directly in the path of sunshine filtering through fine net curtains, still and expressionless as an image on a stained-glass window.
'Buenas tardes, Senorita Wren, please take a seat.'
'Gracias,' she mumbled, conscious of being scrutinised closely as a butterfly on a pin as she limped towards a chair. He had indicated a comfortable armchair, but she made the mistake of choosing instead a strictly functional straight-backed chair placed directly in front of his desk which, immediately she sat down, transported her back to her schooldays and the few occasions when she had been called to appear before her headmistress for a reprimand. Steadying shaking fingers around the clasp of her handbag, she managed to husk:
'Lady Daphne and Tony asked me to convey regrets for their absence; they had already made arrangements to meet friends before your invitation arrived.'
'I know.' The cool admission left her breathless. 'I was there when the appointment was made, which is why I chose this particular time; I wanted to speak to you alone.' His severe expression did not soften as he sat down opposite and began regarding her coldly across the width of the desk.
'Oh, I see ...' she gasped, then floundered, wondering what on earth he had to say to her that was so important it needed to be said in private.
'But first of ail,' he continued without warmth, 'may. I say how sorry I was to learn of the accident that put an end to what I believe was a very promising career.'
Birdie winced from the pain of discovering herself to have been an object of discussion, then jerked to attention when he added, 'When one has dedic
ated one's life to a career it must be difficult to be suddenly east adrift, talents rendered useless, and with no other option but to seek a niche in the outside world. Nevertheless,' his tone developed an even harder edge, 'though your situation may be desperate, it does not justify the cruelty of encouraging a crippled child to believe herself capable of being taught to dance simply in order to manoeuvre yourself into suitable employment.'
Her dazed brown eyes roved his face, seeking the meaning behind his outrageous words. 'I don't understand ...' she faltered, then gasped into silence when his knuckles gleamed white around the hilt of a paper-knife before thrusting downward, jabbing through a blotter with terrifying force.
'How very predictable!' he sneered, jerking to his feet to stride angrily towards the window where, keeping his back turned towards her, he fought to regain control of his temper.
His voice, when he continued speaking, held a note of calmness totally at variance with a man who seemed to have inherited all the qualities of his namesake—Vulcan, god of fire. Consequently it sounded all the more frightening. 'Because you were once successful in making me look a fool, Senorita Wren, do not be foolhardy enough to attempt to repeat that small triumph. You may have managed to bewitch my young ward into believing that your show of compassion hides no ulterior motive, but she is, as yet, too young to appreciate the damage done to our people in the past by the acquisitive English, or to understand the more insidious danger of moral contagion being imposed upon our youth by an invasion of your permissive-minded contemporaries. I suspect,' he concluded disdainfully, 'that England is a paradise filled with angels of cant, hypocrisy and immorality!'
Castle in Spain Page 3