'No, thank you ...!' She jumped to her feet incensed. 'I think you must have forgotten, senor, that I already have a job—as a dancer!'
She had not noticed how incredibly cruel his mouth could be until his lips tightened.
'On the contrary, senorita, you are the one who is refusing to face reality, you must learn to accept that it is no longer your destiny in life to dance the role of Odette in Swan Lake; the sleeping, beautiful Princess Aurora, or Romeo's youthful Juliet! I know what you are about to say,' he held up a hand to silence her shaken protest, 'but it would be the act of a coward to go back to the ballet world to be treated as an object of pity, to be dealt crumbs instead of cake!'
Birdie closed her eyes to combat the pain of hearing said aloud what she knew in her heart to be true and to shut out the sight of her taunting Spanish inquisitor. 'Tony said,' she gasped piteously, clutching the one remaining straw, 'that I could be ‑'
'His Coppelia ...?' he interrupted hatefully. 'A girl with enamelled eyes, a lifelike doll with clockwork apparatus where her heart should be, who will move her arms and legs, even dance when she is wound up, who will talk and smile to order so that from a distance no one will guess that she is not a human being but a feelingless wooden puppet!'
'Stop ...!' she cried out with pain, unconsciously pushing her arms outward with palms uplifted in a gesture of mime she had used many times on stage to convey horrified defence against a wall of invisible oppression. 'You're heartless,' she almost sobbed, casting a tortured glance around the luxurious room, 'all your life you've had everything you could possibly wish for, you've never had to live with the indignity of knowing that you were born unwanted, left on the steps of a Home, your only inheritance the contents of a cardboard box! You grew up in these surroundings,' she charged shakenly, 'so you can have no conception of life, as it is lived in an institution where everything has to be shared, where a moment of solitude is a treasured luxury, where one's only personal possession is a toothbrush. I didn't merely work to achieve my ambitions, senor, I flogged my body to the brink of exhaustion, practising at the barre until my limbs felt tortured, studied until my mind felt crammed and my eyes felt gritty with lack of sleep—so why are you attempting to rob me of everything I've earned? Why are you determined to destroy my dreams, my hopes, even my dignity ...!'
He rose to his feet, his autocratic features devoid of compassion. 'Dignity is a luxury you cannot afford, senorita,' he chided coldly. 'Instead of dwelling upon what has passed, never to be regained, you should be feeling grateful for my offer of alternative employment, for giving you an opportunity to retire with dignity from a scene in which you have no further part to play. Now is the time to face the fact that you have no wares left to sell in the market place of ballet. Once again you have been reduced to poverty,' stressed the inhuman Conde who would not be crossed, who expected to have his every whim fulfilled, 'everyone needs to eat—you will soon discover that it is impossible to exist on a diet of pride!'
CHAPTER FIVE
BLEAKLY, Birdie stared at the gradually lengthening wake stretching between Mahon and the boat that was speeding her across to the opposite shore where the Conde's villa stood in splendid, white-cubed isolation. The space where the Terre-a-terre had been berthed was now empty. Earlier that morning Lady Daphne's yacht had set sail with only herself and Tony on board.
During a farewell party the night before Birdie had been called upon to enact the most brilliant performance of her career, to play the part of a girl bemused by her good fortune at having been chosen by the Conde de la Conquista de Retz as a companion for his young ward. In reality, although she had smiled and chatted her way through the nightmare evening, accepting the good wishes and congratulations of the assembled guests, her movements had been purely mechanical, her senses numbed. But now the numbness was beginning to fade and she found herself alone, grappling with the agony of reliving the shock she had experienced after leaving the Conde's house on the day she had joined him for tea.
Quietly, unobserved, she had slipped aboard the yacht intending to make her way down to her cabin to lick her wounds in solitude. But then she had hesitated and changed her mind when she heard sound of voices engaged in conversation coming from the direction of the main salon.
Recognising Tony's even drawl, she had veered towards the salon, eager to have her shattered confidence restored, to gain the reassurance that only he could give, but when she had almost reached the threshold Lady Daphne's clear voice had dropped a bombshell of worried questions into the quiet air.
'Can't you see how unfair, how positively cruel, it is to encourage the idea that there's room in the ballet world for a girl who's permanently crippled? Hasn't Birdie suffered enough without having the added heartbreak of being encouraged to return to London where, once pity wanes as it surely will, she'll become the butt of snide remarks, accusations of favouritism, and attitudes of intolerant contempt? The members of the corps de ballet can be made up to look like angels, but some of them are capable of acting like veritable devils towards anyone they think might be blocking their advancement. To appear in the spotlight even for a second is regarded as a great accolade, as you're very well aware, Tony, so how do you intend to protect Birdie from envy and spite whenever, as promised, she's favoured with minor mime roles?'
'I shall have neither the time nor the patience to become involved in such trivia, dammit!' Tony had exploded, 'nor am I prepared to begin worrying about a situation which I doubt will ever arise! Birdie may be quiet and self-effacing, but she's always commanded the highest regard from the rest of the company.'
'Because her talent demanded it,' Lady Daphne had reminded him quietly.
'And will continue to do so!' he had spat with a savageness that had betrayed his underlying anxiety.
It was then that she had crept out of earshot and stumbled down to her cabin to brood, to wrestle with an inner voice screaming that she must pretend not have overheard, then finally to bravely come to terms with the unpalatable conviction that the Conde had been correct in his assumption that she had nothing of value to trade in the ballet market place. In only one respect had he been wrong—instead of the gratitude he had demanded, she felt a dislike akin to hatred for the man whose sword-edged tongue had slashed a chasm of uncertainty around her stumbling feet.
The Conde's manservant cut the engine of the boat and allowed it to glide to rest against a wooden jetty that seemed to be pointing an accusing finger into pure aquamarine sea. A flight of stone steps led upwards from a crescent of silver sand protected from trespassers by yuccas and prickly cactus set against walls built from stone quarried out of the terraced hillside on which the villa was built. When they reached the top of the steps the man guided her along a path that wove through an orchard of almond trees, then petered out into a garden ablaze with colourful flowering shrubs set around a sward of finely-manicured lawn.
Sunshine beat down upon their heads as they trudged up an incline paved with warm patchwork stone, then when they reached the top he hesitated, swept his arm through the air, then waited with an anticipatory smile for her reaction.
In spite of her low spirits, her resentment at feeling trapped, she gasped appreciation when her eyes fell upon the house he had indicated. At close quarters, stark white walls outlined against a background of vivid blue sky were so hurtful to the eyes she turned with relief towards a pink-tiled swimming pool and a shady covered terrace floored with black slate flagstones. Moorish simplicity dominated the scene, tables and chairs of honey-gold cane were dotted around the terrace; potted palms with huge fringed leaves formed a restful contrast to the hot splash of geraniums against white walls. Window grilles, and decorative wrought iron lamps suspended from sloping beams, emphasised the Arabic ambience, as did a crudely coloured blanket hung upon a solitary expanse of wall, and low stools set around carved wooden tables where guests would gather to drink Turkish coffee or Moroccan tea after lunch or dinner.
A tall figure, his tanned features
outstanding against the stark whiteness of a shirt left casually unbuttoned to the waist, strolled across the terrace at their approach.
'Gracias, Juan.' He dismissed his manservant with a nod before turning his cool blue gaze in her direction.
'So, Senorita Wren,' his smile was totally lacking in warmth, 'you have finally decided to make your nesting place in my home.'
'Decided, with its inference of free choice, is hardly appropriate, senor,' she trembled, feeling lost and nervous as an abandoned fledgling.
'Were you abducted ...? Coerced ...?' he challenged thinly.
'No,' she sighed the admission, 'but very cleverly cornered, wouldn't you say?'
A squeal of delight forestalled his angry retort, and with relief she turned to greet Lucita who had erupted on to the terrace and was limping quickly towards her.
'Senorita Birdie!' she called in a high, excited treble. 'Is it true what Tio told me? Have you really come to stay with me for ever?'
'Not quite as long as that,' she smiled. Compassion for the crippled child welled up inside her as she dropped gracefully to her knees and held out her arms just in time to catch her small frame quivering all over with ecstatic joy.
'Oh ...!' Suddenly Lucita's face dropped, her small mouth forming a quivering moue of protest. 'But Tio said so, he promised,'' she gulped.
When the threat of tears seemed imminent Birdie hastened to console. 'I'll stay for as long as you need me,' she promised rashly, then froze with foreboding when a glance of sardonic blue warned of quick retribution if ever she should be tempted to renege against her unwary statement. She wanted to bite back her words, to retreat from the trap of her own making, but he was quick to slam the door on his captive. With smooth, narrow-eyed insistence he set a seal upon her subservience.
'You can rest contented now, Lucita, little flightless one, for the senorita has given her solemn word, and if the English possess but one virtue it must be the virtue of integrity.' Obviously amused by Birdie's fiery confusion, he continued to mock: 'It is said -that the English race is prepared to suffer unbelievable hardship in the cause of principle—it will be interesting to discover whether Senorita Wren's character provides us with proof of the maxim that every cask becomes infused with the qualities of the wine it contains.'
It was a relief to escape with Lucita, who was eager to lead the way up to a bedroom adjoining her own that had been prepared for her new companion. To one who had grown used to sleeping in dormitories, then latterly in a hostel room shared with three other girls, the spacious bedroom that would be flooded with sunshine immediately shutters were removed from its two windows; with its whitewashed walls, fitted wardrobes, shelves holding a selection of English novels, an abstract painting, a scattering of carved wooden animals, and a floor tiled in the same restful green as the traditional Spanish bedcover fitted neatly over a low divan bed, was almost enough to compensate for being cut off from the life she loved, wrenched from the niche in which she had been so happily entrenched.
'I helped to arrange the flowers,' Lucita prattled joyfully as she urged her inside to admire an urn spilling a profusion of blossoms, two geranium plants set in vivid ceramic pots, and a trailing ivy displayed on a wide shelf running the full length of one wall with the smallest window set in its centre, a chair of convenient height, a blotter, and a selection of pens and notepaper indicated that some thoughtful person had designated the shelf as a writing desk.
'How lovely ...!' Much to Lucita's delight Birdie seemed lost for further words.
'Tio and I spent ages discussing which colours would suit you best,' the mentally-mature child preened importantly. 'My bedcover and lampshades are red and I wanted you to have the same, but Tio said: No, a timid English wren might take flight and fly from a background that is too ex ... exotic,' she stumbled, then beamed, proud of having managed the awkward word. 'You are not feeling frightened now, are you, Senorita Birdie? I want you to teach me to be as graceful as a swan, I could not bear it if you should fly away.'
The child's obsessive awareness of her deformity was worrying. Birdie sank down upon the divan and waited until Lucita was perched alongside her. 'Your limp is very slight,' she assured her gently, 'even less noticeable than my own. As you grow older the muscles in your ankle will gain strength and quite probably the limp will disappear completely, so why don't you try ignoring it?' she suggested lightly. 'If you forget about it, then everyone else will.'
'Dolores does not think so.' She was shocked to see Lucita's bottom lip beginning to quiver. 'I heard her telling Juan that Tio will find it difficult to persuade any man to take a wife who is crippled. I don't want to grow up like Dolores,' she gulped, 'she has no husband, no children, so she finds it difficult to smile.'
Birdie, too, found it hard to smile, and even harder to suppress the anger she felt for a household full of adults all so selfishly absorbed in their own affairs they could not spare the time to listen to and disperse the fears of an over-imaginative child. Dolores's remark was unforgivable, but the bulk of her anger was directed towards the Conde, whose negligence she blamed for permitting the child to be left too often within earshot of gossiping servants. Her main consideration at that moment, however, had to be Lucita, whose expression was betraying a sadness completely alien to a five-year-old.
'Let's explore the rest of the house,' she suggested brightly, rising to her feet. 'I'm sure you must have lots more to show me.'
'I have, I have ...!' Lucita's volatile spirits rose. The pressure of excited fingers dug into Birdie's hand. 'You must see the room that Tio has had specially fitted out to help us with our exercises.'
Birdie was almost tempted to forgive the Conde his many faults when, after guiding her along the passageway outside of their rooms, Lucita ran ahead to fling open a door.
'Isn't it splendid ...!' Rapidly she twirled her fingers through curls bunched either side of her head—an enchanting mannerism she adopted whenever she was highly excited. Barely able to contain her eagerness, she waited for Birdie's reaction to a room that was completely empty, its wooden floorboards bare, filled with ample light and space and with mirrored walls stretching the entire length of two practice barres.
Birdie's surprised expression and shining eyes seemed to supply all the answers Lucita needed. 'Isn't Tio kind, Senorita Birdie?' she clapped, sparrow-hopping on the spot. 'I do hope tomorrow comes quickly, I can hardly wait to begin!'
'The senorita is not to be rushed, Lucita!'
Birdie swung round to face the approaching Conde, who eyed her with amusement, seemingly aware of the opposing factions of resentment and gratitude battling for supremacy inside her.
'Are you pleased with the surprise we planned for you, senorita?' he drawled. His mocking glint tipped the balance of her emotions in favour of resentment.
'The facilities appear to be adequate,' she said frostily, 'but I can't give a definite verdict until I've tried them out. If you wish,' she dropped her lashes, deliberately adopting the role of a newly-taken slave before a master she despises, 'I'll change into a leotard and practise a few exercises.'
'That will not be necessary.' Her heart kicked with triumph when he snapped his displeasure, then plummeted when he punished her gentle sarcasm by ordering Lucita, 'Dolores is waiting to serve your lunch. When you have finished it please take your rest without argument, comprende? Meanwhile,' he flicked Birdie a distant look, 'you will accompany me downstairs, senorita, we have many matters to discuss.'
Fearful of trying his patience too far, she obeyed without demure, following sedately in his footsteps as he led the way towards the terrace where a table had been laid and a servant was waiting to serve lunch. Throughout each course they conversed with distant politeness, but once she had disposed of a fluffy omelette stuffed with broad beans, and a strange, delicious dessert consisting of a long, narrow strip of puff pastry rolled in quince jelly and dessicated coconut, then topped with pieces of crystallised greengage, apricot and a whole preserved orange, he seemed t
o consider that the time was ripe to return to the attack. He waited until the servant who had served them with coffee had disappeared from view before commencing his startling attack.
'Now, senorita, I should like to be told the reason behind your sudden change of attitude towards my offer of employment. When you left my house in Mahon you were in no frame of mind to even discuss the matter, yet the following morning you wrote me a letter of acceptance. Why ...?'
'Because I'd had time to think things over,' she replied levelly, determined not to be intimidated, 'to realise the truth of your claim that my dancing career was finished, that I had no family to turn to, no permanent home and no experience in any other type of work.'
'I see ...' He nodded thoughtfully, yet still appeared unconvinced. 'And yet those same circumstances existed when you turned my offer down?'
Birdie hesitated, loath to disclose the conversation she had overheard between Lady Daphne and Tony, and too sensitive to perpetuate the lies she had told them about her eagerness to prolong her visit to Menorca, to enjoy the facilities of the Conde's luxurious home, to break away completely from a world in which she could no longer achieve success.
She took so long to reply that he prompted with rising suspicion. 'Well, senorita, I am waiting ...?'
'I ... I didn't want Tony to begin regarding me as an encumbrance,' she husked, her cheeks fired by a blush of humiliation. 'He's such a wonderful man, always so kind and considerate-— especially since my accident—but I couldn't bear pity, not from him ...' She stumbled into awkward silence.
'You mean your ambitions lay in other directions?' He sounded suddenly dangerous. 'Even though you must be aware of the deep attachment between Tony and Lady Daphne, you are gambling upon the chance that your absence might jolt him into realising that his feelings for you are stronger than mere affection?'
She stared, too appalled for words.
'You looked shocked, senorita,' he stated dryly, 'but then acting is part of your training, is it not? Unfortunately, you have not yet mastered the art of controlling a mercurial blush that acts like a barometer, defining your degree of emotion.'
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