Castle in Spain

by Margaret Rome

  The impulse to speak out in her own defence was killed by the force of her anger. The fact that he was now her employer did not entitle him to pry into her personal affairs, nor to demand insight into her private thoughts. Though he had jumped to a wrong conclusion she would not contradict him because she could not care less about his poor opinion.

  'I had formed the impression, Senor, that the object of our discussion was to outline my duties,' she dared to remind him, then tensed, sensing from his stillness that a terrible anger was about to erupt. But as she waited, terrified, an expressionless mask closed over his features, his blazing eyes became hooded.

  'You are right,' he agreed tightly, 'it is time we moved on to more important business. What do you know about the after-effects of polio ...?'

  'Very little,' she gasped, 'except that often a limb is left paralysed.'

  He nodded curtly. 'Mercifully, Lucita's infection was slight and once the inflammation died down her ankle, the only limb affected, began to show signs of functioning which proved that the nerve cells had not been destroyed. All that can be done now is to try to strengthen the weakened muscles. She has had courses of therapy, of course, but in polio more than in any other disease only thirty per cent of the cure depends upon the doctor, the rest depends upon the patient herself. Which is exactly why you are here, Senorita Wren. You are the last of a long string of helpers with whom Lucita has stubbornly refused to co-operate.' He pushed back his chair and with an air of preoccupation began striding the length of the terrace. She sat rooted, wondering if an attempt to escape would attract his attention in the way the flutter of wings attracts the sharp eyes of a prowling tomcat. She had almost, decided to chance it when his prowling footsteps halted in front of her and she was forced to stare into his brooding eyes.

  'There is a second reason for your presence here,' he frowned. 'Lucita lacks the security of a family atmosphere—she needs to share the confidences of a sister, to learn to tolerate a brother's teasing, and above all she needs a permanent feminine presence to supply love and reassurance immediately it is needed. In the past, because of the child's possessive attitude, it has been difficult for me to introduce another woman into my household but now that she has transferred a great deal of her attention to you my task should be made somewhat easier. Can I rely upon your cooperation, senorita?'

  'My co-operation in what ...?' she stammered, completely at a loss.

  'Surely I have made my meaning clear!' He bent towards her until his aggravated mouth was mere inches from her bewildered face. 'I am appealing to you for help,' he enunciated slowly as a teacher to a backward pupil, 'asking you to ensure that Lucita is kept fully occupied so that I am left free to concentrate upon the task of finding a suitable wife!'

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE task of finding a suitable wife! With which criteria would the Conde judge a woman a suitable candidate for marriage?

  Throughout the previous evening while she had been left to dine alone, Birdie had pondered upon the cold-blooded attitude of the man whom she had earlier glimpsed making his way down to the jetty where a servant had been waiting to ferry him across the bay to Mahon. In spite of his white dinner jacket, knife-creased slacks and a dress shirt with cravat ruffling down to an elegant cummerbund, she had been reminded of a Spanish conquistador, one of the wild, ruthless men whose captives had been given the choice of becoming slaves or having their throats cut; who had drunk rum, fought duels, and plundered cities of their treasures. Which unsuspecting victim, she had wondered, was about to have her emotions besieged? How many ambitious fathers were about to extend hospitality towards a guest wearing a cloak of courtesy and charm, good manners and witty conversation, while carrying out a cool, calculating assessment of their daughters?

  Yet in spite of her insight into his motives, in spite of her instinctive recoil against the idea of a planned, emotionless marriage, as the boat had sped away leaving a trail of frothing water in its wake, she had been annoyed by the unbidden thought that even when thinly spread the Conde's charm could be effective—concentrated, it would be deadly!

  'Senorita Birdie, how do I look ...?'

  Jolted from her deep study, she spun round to examine Lucita's small frame poised to display a pale blue leotard. She nodded, suppressing her amusement at the vanity registering in every line of Lucita's body as she stood on tiptoe in unshod feet, a minute pair of ballet shoes dangling by their tapes from a limply outstretched hand.

  'Very workmanlike,' she approved, then suggested tactfully, 'but just a little chilly so early in the morning, don't you find?'

  Frowning, Lucita dropped her pose and advanced into the practice room, her expression openly critical of Birdie's outfit.

  'Why are you wearing that clumsy woollen vest and thick leggings over your leotard?' she accused, her mouth drooping with petulance.

  'It is normal practice for dancers to wear crossover bodices and knitted legwarmers at the beginning of a class,' Birdie enlightened gently, 'they help to keep unexercised muscles warm and are gradually discarded as the work-out begins generating natural warmth. Shall we try to find you some woollens?' she extended a coaxing hand in Lucita's direction. 'I'm certain there'll be something suitable in your drawers.'

  'No,' Lucita pursed a mutinous bottom lip, 'I'm happy just the way I am—I don't feel the least bit cold.'

  Birdie sighed, mentally preparing herself for conflict. Though the atmosphere outside was warm, the sun had not yet progressed towards the back of the house where the room was situated and as a consequence, in just a few short minutes, Lucita's bare arms and legs were displaying evidence of goosepimpling. To have demanded obedience from the pampered infant would have been to court an undignified battle of wills, so instead she began sauntering towards the door in an attitude of negligent unconcern. 'In that case, I'm afraid I won't be able to help you,' she told the surprised child. 'A dancer's working day is organised to the exact minute, therefore the very first lesson that has to be mastered is the acceptance of discipline. Such a shame,' she directed a sympathetic smile, 'that one so keen to dance should fail at the very first hurdle.'

  She had crossed the threshold and walked half the length of the passageway before her stubborn pupil decided to capitulate.

  'Don't go, please, senorita!' Her cry rang out tearfully plaintive. 'If you wait just a second I'll fetch a vest and some stockings from my room!'

  When the lessons eventually began it became evident, to Birdie's relief, that Lucita had absorbed the principles of discipline at her very first attempt, that the vain child who had pictured herself an instant ballerina had abandoned high-flown fantasy in favour of dedicated plodding, settling down with a gratifying show of concentration to practise the five basic positions of the feet that had been worked out to ensure that a dancer's balance remains perfect whatever the position of the body, positions with which almost all the steps in classical ballet begin and end.

  Lucita was standing perfectly positioned, with the heel of her front foot 'locking' into the back foot's instep, when Birdie was startled by the sight of the Conde's image appearing on the mirrored wall. She kept her back turned when he stepped inside the room, but could not avoid the chilling blue scrutiny reflecting through glass.

  'Tio, look at me!' Lucita rocked and almost overbalanced in her eagerness to attract his attention. 'This is one of the five positions that have been taught to dancers for over three hundred years!'

  'Then they must be of the utmost importance,' he asserted gravely, his questioning eyes upon her teacher.

  Sensing that some sort of reply was expected of her, Birdie turned reluctantly to face him. 'We must wait until Lucita is expert in these movements before we can begin proper training. You will notice, senor, how her feet are turning out from the hip at an angle? Not only will such exercises help her to achieve freedom of movement and an elegant appearance, they will also do much to strengthen her ankle. However, Lucita,' she turned with relief to address the child, 'you've practised enou
gh for one day. As a beginner, you're bound to find the exercises tiring, so you must try to curb your impatience and be satisfied to make progress slowly.'

  When Lucita's body slumped, the Conde forestalled her threatened protest.

  'I'm pleased to hear you say so, Senorita Wren, because although I felt reluctant to interrupt your first lesson I became concerned that my ward might, overtax her strength. Run along to your room, little workhorse,' his teasing charm seemed to work effectively even upon infants, 'and tell Dolores that before lunch you are to take a warm shower.'

  He seemed taken aback when she obeyed—even responded with alacrity to Birdie's instruction to retrieve vest and legwarmers from the floor where she had dropped them, and with elevated brows he watched as she limped out of the room.

  'What magic have you worked upon the child who, in the manner of wild cactus, has always refused to be trained?' he questioned dryly.

  'No magic, senor. Lucita is simply responding to the appeal of the unusual. For the first time in her life she has been made to work to rule, and she enjoyed the experience because basically all children feel a need for discipline.'

  She guessed from his frown that this concept was alien to his impulse to over-indulge his ward. 'I have always found Lucita more responsive to persuasion than to severity.'

  'And it is my experience that a young branch will take on all the bends one cares to impose upon it,' she countered serenely, reflecting with gratitude upon her own rigid training, the alphabet of classroom steps that she had been made to practise until perfect because they formed the dictionary from which she was later to construct her choreographic sentences.

  When his eyes pinpointed she moved away, unnerved by the frosty glance of a man unused to feminine argument, one brought up in the Spanish tradition that whatever a man says is right—because he is a man. To punish her daring he employed a weapon against which she had no defence, a leisurely, studied appraisal of limbs laid bare to inspection by a leotard designed to give dancers complete freedom of movement, to enable teachers to examine every movement of the body and so spot mistakes at a glance. Birdie was used to such scrutiny, but never before had a critical eye forced upon her a need to fight an inner trembling, never had she felt stripped by a look of cool cynicism.

  'So worldly-wise, yet so physically immature!' he mocked, skimming the surge of small breasts against flimsy material, an incurving waist, and shapely legs with the knowledgeable eye of a slave trader. 'In my country feminine slimness is regarded as a sign either of extreme youth or dire poverty.'

  A blush rose under creamy skin, lashes swept down to screen telltale signs of panic beneath an agitated quiver, but the head on the slender, vulnerable neck remained unbowed, her reined-in voice remained steady.

  'And in my country, senor, a man could make the same remark without fear of sounding hypocritical, for we English have a deep contempt of double standards. It appears to me that a curious feature of the Spanish man's conventions for women is that he applies them only to his own womenfolk—wives are treated like minors, consequently they permanently adopt the role of dependent children and in turn your children are reduced to the status of playthings. Yet you are quick to cultivate the acquaintance of girls who are not content to be mere animated dolls, to enjoy their intelligent conversation, even to entertain them alone in your bachelor. apartments, when to suggest such a thing to a girl of your own race would be considered unthinkable! You may tell yourself that your traditional attitude of masculine possessiveness is prompted by chivalry, senor, but I am tempted to suspect that intelligence and artistic distinction is deliberately repressed in your womenfolk in order to perpetuate the myth of masculine superiority.'

  It was doubtful whether the scion of the House of Retz had ever before suffered such a scathing condemnation of himself or his countrymen. In his eyes, woman had been created by God from Adam's rib in order to supply man with a companion, a comfort, a pleasant diversion—never with a critical equal!

  Birdie held fast to her composure even when a thin blade of displeasure sliced above her head.

  'You seem intent upon declaring war, Senorita Wren. In the past, many battles have taken place between our respective countrymen, but this time, if you insist upon resurrecting long-dead feuds, I must warn you there will be no surrender— Menorquin honour will be upheld whatever the extent of bloodshed!'

  With her spirit in tatters she retreated to the security of her room, only to discover, as she stepped across the threshold, that she was once more within range of a barrage of Spanish fury. The door connecting her own room with Lucita's was open and the child's haughty treble was clearly audible.

  'I do not have to rest after lunch today, Dolores, Senorita Birdie said so!'

  'The senorita had no right!' The reply was spat with a fury that caused Birdie to quake, nevertheless she advanced into Lucita's room, knowing that to act the part of mediator was included in her duties. If she had stopped to think, her approach to Dolores might have been more diplomatic, but nerves still jangling from her confrontation with the Conde prompted the hasty interruption.

  'Lucita is quite right in what she says, Dolores, I did promise ‑'

  The housekeeper whirled in her direction, a black-clad vision of quivering indignation. 'La nina has been my responsibility since she was an infant. I nursed her all through her illness and have seen to her wellbeing ever since without interference from anyone until you arrived! You are a bad influence!' she cried, her eyes small black buttons of sparkling jet. 'First you English came to Menorca to murder with cannon and musket, and now you come in your thousands, overrunning our island for six months of every year, corrupting our young men by parading almost naked and outraging their elders by displaying a disgraceful lack of decency!'

  Birdie withstood the pointed reference to her revealing costume with a show of dignity she knew would have to be maintained if Dolores was to be prevented from claiming supremacy. 'I'm sorry you don't approve of me, Dolores,' her quiet apology left the housekeeper completely disconcerted, 'but I feel that any complaints you have to make would be better addressed to the Conde. Meanwhile, as only he has the authority to overrule my decisions, I'm taking Lucita into, the garden where, as promised, I shall read to her for a while.'

  Throwing a look of pure triumph towards Dolores, Lucita scrambled off the bed and ran to Birdie's side. But as neither the time nor the place was right, she stifled an impulse to lecture the child on showing respect towards her elders and as a balm to the housekeeper's pride instructed Lucita:

  'You will apologise to Dolores for your show of ill temper, if you please, Lucita, and promise her that never again will you be guilty of disrespect.'

  'But, Senorita Birdie, it was she ‑'

  'Discipline, remember, Lucita ...?'

  The warning rang a bell. 'Very well.' With sulky ill grace Lucita turned to the simmering housekeeper. 'I beg your forgiveness for my ill manners, Dolores.'

  'Nada, nada buena chica!' the housekeeper cried, casting a look of venom at Birdie as she brushed past her and ran out of the room, leaving her feeling drained by what she suspected had been a mere rehearsal of battles yet to come.

  But by the time they had changed and made their way to the terrace to stretch out on a comfortable lounger with a parasol to protect their heads and a view of the pink-tiled swimming pool to lend an illusion of coolness, the problem of Dolores's hostility had been pushed to the back of Birdie's mind.

  'From which book would you like me to read?' she invited when Lucita had snuggled close to her side.

  'From the one containing stories about the ballet,' she promptly decided, then startled Birdie with the irrelevant statement, 'I have a brooch of painted enamel that once belonged to my madre.'

  'How nice,' Birdie replied, momentarily at a loss. 'You must show it to me some time.'

  'Enamel is hard, and so thick I cannot see through it. Does that mean that the girl in the ballet—the one with the enamelled eyes—was blind?'
/>   'Do you mean Coppelia?' Birdie felt as surprised as she sounded. 'What can you possibly know ‑' She stopped abruptly when a notion struck her. She and the Conde had been alone when he had so cruelly likened her to the puppet heroine, nevertheless, only last evening upon checking Lucita's room and finding it empty, she had searched the house and discovered her tiptoeing along a passageway clad only in her nightdress, pausing outside of every door like a listening, inquisitive wraith.

  'Lucita, have you been eavesdropping?'

  The unrepentant child nodded. 'Before you came to keep me company I had nothing else to do,' she admitted cheerfully. 'Often, when the night is warm and I cannot sleep, I take a walk ‑'

  'And listen at keyholes!'' Birdie concluded wrathfully. 'Promise me you will never do such a thing again!'

  'Oh, very well,' Lucita shrugged, 'I find grownups' conversation very hard to follow in any case, especially when they speak of a girl with enamelled eyes who has a clock where her heart should be and can only move when she is wound up. Please, senorita, will you explain to me the story of Coppelia?'

  There seemed little point in prevaricating. Lucita's interest had been fired by snatches of conversation, but it seemed feasible to assume that once her curiosity had been assuaged she, unlike her insensitive guardian, would cease to connect the doll of the ballet's title with her unfortunate self. She sighed, wondering how members of the Retz family managed to become such adepts at getting their own way.

  'Very well. Briefly, the story is as follows. Once there lived an old man whose name was Doctor Coppelius who studied ancient books on magic and hoped that some day he might become a famous magician. He was also an expert toymaker whose wonderful clockwork dolls could move their arms and legs and walk and dance about whenever they were wound up. He liked to pretend that they were real humans and that he was a magician who had endowed them with life, especially the doll he named Coppelia which, from a small distance away, could actually be mistaken for a real human girl.'