The child tried to follow her but then a man suddenly appeared out of nowhere. At first he had no face, then his features seemed to take shape. She stared wide-eyed, trying to identify him, but the image was blurred, almost illusory. Then the scene changed once more, and now she was no longer a child; it was her wedding day. The man at her side was smiling; he had Ramón’s features. But when she looked again, it was no longer Ramón: it was the man on the prayer stool and the smile had disappeared.
* * *
Alexandra slept fitfully until early morning. She woke feeling less tired, but restless. As she drew back the heavy curtains, the room filled instantly with light. The brilliant sun heralded a magnificent day. Stretching lazily, she raised her head to let the warm rays wander over her face. Through the window she could see small groves of pink-blossomed trees, the ground sprinkled with clumps of bluebells. These shady areas were framed by paths leading off on either side to a colourful patchwork of smaller gardens that, she guessed, extended round to the front of the house. She was just about to leave her vantage point when she noticed two people at the edge of one of the groves that cut through the gardens.
The woman was tall and slender, with ash-blonde hair falling loosely to her waist. That must be Esmeralda, thought Alexandra. Her father had spoken about Salvador’s very beautiful sister. He had described her as cold and distant, always daydreaming, and compared her to a lovely yet lifeless statue. However, this apparently passionless ornament was now locked in the embrace of a young man in a faded blue shirt and was returning his kisses with an ardour that appeared to match his. Suddenly, breaking away reluctantly from her partner’s arms, she ran off towards the house.
Alexandra, feeling slightly embarrassed at having watched the passionate, and obviously private, scene, looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was still early, not even seven-thirty. There was plenty of time to explore the grounds before breakfast. She ran herself a bath. The water was rather lukewarm but she did not mind it: after all, the temperature was several degrees higher than she had been used to at Grantley Hall, where the boiler always had a mind of its own. From the age of twelve, Alexandra had spent all her holidays at the huge and rambling country house in Kent, after Aunt Geraldine had married Lord Howard Grantley. Looking round the bathroom here, with its exotic blue-and-orange mosaic tiling and dark, carved oak mirrors, she was reminded of how far away she was from Grantley Hall and everything English.
She washed rapidly and went to the wardrobe to choose an outfit. Sarita must have come in while she was asleep: her beautifully pressed dresses, blouses, skirts and trousers were all hanging up and her underwear had been neatly folded and tidied away in the chest of drawers. She selected a fresh-looking, full-skirted dress in white lace and cotton. The wide red patent-leather belt, bought on a trip to Italy with Aunt Geraldine, encircled her tiny waist and showed off to advantage her graceful and shapely form. To protect her face from the sun, she wore a straw hat with a wide brim embellished with a couple of pink roses. In twenty minutes she was on her way to the garden.
Alexandra had no difficulty in finding her way through the house. Walking along an oak parquet corridor, she passed a series of cuarterones, heavy panelled doors inspired, she noted, by ancient carved Moorish screens, some with deeply panelled squares and others with a variety of geometric shapes. She guessed that behind them must be other bedrooms, dressing rooms and guest accommodation. The wide marble staircase swept down to a vaulted entrance hall that, on either side, led to huge ceremonial rooms lined with oriental rugs and embroidered hangings.
The chimes of the great wooden Catalan clock standing grandly in the hall resonated noisily through the sleeping household, startling her; it was now eight o’clock.
Once outside, Alexandra stood and looked at the front of the house. It had been too dark to see anything much when she’d arrived the night before, and she was curious to get a view of the hacienda in daylight.
El Pavón was a large, rectangular edifice with three quite distinct storeys, its whitewashed walls splashed here and there with patches of brilliantly coloured purple bougainvillea that crept up to brush the rounded brown tiles of its roof. Its style was neo-classical, the proportions pure: an austere structure.
An imposing seventeenth-century portal, which she later discovered was originally from a convent in Toledo, flanked by double Tuscan columns at the top of three widely fanning steps led into the vaulted hall. Placed at equal distances from the main entrance, at each end of the long façade were two identical narrow doors, richly decorated with carvings and marquetry. They opened on to separate wings, the private apartments of members of the family. Together they enclosed an inner shady courtyard. The ground-floor rooms at the front of the house each had French doors that opened on to an uncovered terrace running the length of the building, punctuated by fragrant miniature orange trees in large terracotta pots. Fronting the house was a wide gravel carriage circle that enclosed a huge round lawn, spread out like an emerald carpet beyond the foot of the main steps. Balconies with wrought-iron consoles and uprights lined the upper two storeys.
Flanking the great house were great expanses of manicured lawns and landscaped gardens curving round to the back of the hacienda. Beyond these, on the west side, stretched protective groves of oleander trees where statues and fountains joined in an interplay of cascading water and iridescent spray. The de Fallas, of which the present generation was the fourth to have lived at the house, had built up a sizeable business in wine production and horse breeding on the estate; and to the east of the hacienda, beyond the lawns, lay the stables and pastureland, neighboured by stretches of flourishing vineyards.
The house and its grounds, set in the wild and arid Andalucían countryside, seemed like a flashing jewel thrown on a sandy beach by a giant hand. With its green lawns, colourful shrubs, myriad flowers and tall trees, the hacienda had all the grandeur and panache of the peacock, el pavón, after which it had been named.
Alexandra relished the prospect of discovering every part of this spectacular place, realizing that it would take more than one morning to discover all its secrets. Now she turned towards the flowery grove where she had seen her cousin earlier. Soon she reached a path at the end of the garden where centuries-old sycamores and cypresses spread their dense shade. On either side, orchards of carefully tended lemon, pomegranate and orange trees exhaled their intoxicating scent. She paused momentarily, not wanting to become lost before she could make it back to the house in time for breakfast, but an impulse to explore further got the better of her. All at once, at a bend in the avenue of trees, she came to a clearing where the shade was less dense, a sort of elevated plateau overlooking the surrounding countryside from where several narrow paths ran in different directions.
Alexandra stopped to take in the impressive view that stretched boundlessly to the horizon. Scattered in the distant, windswept hills were modest whitewashed buildings, olive groves, fig trees, and herdsmen on horseback with their long lances, tending the horses and bulls. She breathed in the air, listening for the slightest sound.
England seemed so far away: the house in Chelsea … Aunt Geraldine … Alexandra’s attention returned to the landscape and she leaned against the trunk of a cypress tree, closing her eyes. The air was balmy, dense, charged with a multitude of different sounds and intermingling scents. There was the soft rustling of leaves and the continuous buzzing of insects, the noisy chirping of birds and the muffled murmur of a nearby stream, punctuated by the strident creaking of norias, ancient water wheels that still dotted the countryside, the buckets attached to them used to raise water and transfer it to various irrigation channels. Suddenly, she was startled by a voice calling from behind her: ‘Doña Alexandra, I presume.’
She turned sharply. Lounging against the trunk of a lemon tree, in the orchard beside the track on which she was standing, his arms folded, a man was looking at her with a mocking smile. She watched as he approached. He was tall and fair, with a weather-beat
en complexion that emphasized the colour of his corn-yellow hair, which seemed to Alexandra a trifle too long. His countenance looked, to her mind, somewhat vulgar, although doubtless many women would find him seductive. She instantly felt a visceral dislike for him.
He gave a slight bow. ‘Fernando Lopez, steward and trusted servant of His Grace the Count of Rueda, at your service,’ he announced smiling and, without waiting for her reply, he went on: ‘Isn’t it a glorious morning?’
‘Indeed,’ she agreed. ‘I couldn’t resist your dazzling sun. I’m afraid I’ve managed to get lost,’ she added, eager to escape from the man as quickly as possible. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to direct me back to the house.’
‘It will be a pleasure to escort you there, dear señorita,’ the steward replied in an oily voice.
‘I can make my own way, thanks. What time is it?’
‘Twenty past nine, you’d better make haste.’
She disliked his proprietory tone. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because breakfast is served at half-past nine,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s common knowledge that her Grace the Duquesa has rather eccentric views about punctuality at mealtimes, and I don’t think it would be wise to run foul of the old girl when you’ve only just arrived.’
Alexandra raised her eyebrows in surprise at the evident lack of respect that Fernando Lopez had just shown towards her grandmother. She surveyed him coolly. ‘I don’t think my grandmother’s requirement that her family join her at mealtimes is the slightest bit eccentric,’ she said curtly. ‘On the contrary, it shows a sense of family and is completely justified, since she’s the head of it. I’d be grateful if, in the future, you restrain yourself from criticizing any member of the family in my presence.’ Her green eyes flashed angrily. She was taken aback by her own vehemence on behalf of the Duquesa, towards whom she herself had felt such antagonism for so many years. Still, through some impulse of instinctive loyalty, she felt compelled to set aside her mixed feelings in the face of such impertinence.
Clearly aware of his tactlessness, the man bit his lip. They returned in silence, an intangible feeling of animosity establishing itself between them. Alexandra sensed that her rebuke had already made an enemy of him.
Don Alonso de Falla was waiting for his daughter on a stone bench on the lawn at the front of the house. A broad smile lit up his face as she appeared and he rose, folding the newspaper he had been reading as he did so. Alexandra hurried towards him, thankful to put some distance between herself and the steward. Even though it had been only a few months since father and daughter had last spent time together in London, she was happy to see him again and was looking forward to getting to know him on his own turf. Hopefully, he would become an ally: someone who would help her acquaint herself not only with this newly found family but with a land that seemed so different to everything she had known until now.
‘My dear Alexandra, you’re here at last,’ Don Alonso declared, kissing his daughter warmly on each cheek. ‘You’re more beautiful than ever. Our Spanish sun agrees with you already, I can tell. Ah, good morning, Fernando,’ he said, addressing the steward who had come up behind Alexandra. ‘I see you have met my daughter.’
Fernando Lopez nodded.
‘Have you shown her around the stables yet?’ Don Alonso asked and then beamed at Alexandra. ‘Are you still riding? Perhaps we can go out after breakfast.’ Without waiting for his daughter’s response, he nodded to the steward: ‘Would you ask Miguelto saddle up two horses? Prince for me, and Chiron for Doña Alexandra.’
‘Very well,’ replied Lopez, and he strolled off unhurriedly towards the stables.
Don Alonso turned to his daughter and placed an affectionate hand on her hair. ‘As you walked up the drive just now, I thought I was seeing your mother again … the same large green eyes, you are like her in so many ways, querida.’
Alexandra hugged her father. She could not help but smile at his obvious emotion on seeing her again. Riding would not have been her first choice of how to spend her first morning with him but she told herself she would find a way to get out of it later. ‘And now you are finally here at El Pavón …’ Don Alonso sat her down on the bench beside him. ‘I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to see you with the family at last.’
‘Yes, Papá. And now that I’m here I’m also hoping to capture the whole flavour of Spain for my new book. Perhaps we could spend some time together and you could help me with my notes on Spanish culture?’
‘Sí, sí, I remember you told me in London you were writing about your homeland. That pleases me too, querida. What is it that Lord Byron said? “Oh, lovely Spain! renown’d, romantic land!” An Englishman, but impeccable taste nonetheless.’ Don Alonso grinned and took his daughter’s hand, patting it affectionately as they sat side by side, looking out across the lawn and colour-drenched gardens.
Since he hadn’t answered her question directly, Alexandra gently persevered. ‘There’s much I’m sure you could show me in the local area that I couldn’t discover on my own.’
‘Mmm?’ Don Alonso turned to look at her and, as if carried off on some other thought, he smiled wistfully. ‘You know, I do wonder what it would have been like if your mother had remained in Andalucía and you had grown up here.’
As Alexandra had often observed with her father during his stay in London, their conversation was going to be like trying to catch butterflies and so she quickly changed the subject.
‘How is your family?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Mercedes must be nearly eighteen now. I can’t wait to meet her.’
‘They’re your family too, my dear,’ Don Alonso replied. ‘I have told her so much about you and I’m sure she’s just as eager as you are.’
‘Has she asked about me much then? She must be curious.’
‘Of course, of course.’ He smiled and waved his hand nonchalantly. ‘Our dear Mercedes is curious about everything and everyone. Such spirit! It’s difficult to keep up with her half the time. The two of you will get on espléndidmente.’
Alexandra had learned a little of Mercedes from her father’s letters but had never even seen a photograph of her Spanish half-sister. She would have loved to have had a sibling for company when she was growing up, instead of rattling around on her own for hours in the house in Chelsea or at her aunt and uncle’s country seat in Kent, though she wondered what kind of welcome she would receive from the child who had been used to her parents’ undivided attention. She still hoped that they could form some kind of sisterly bond, given time.
‘Does she look like me?’
Don Alonso looked surprised. ‘Do you know, I’ve never even thought about it. You have the beauty of your mother, particularly your eyes. Mercedes is a pretty girl, there’s no doubt about it, but she’s more like Eugenia and the apple of her mother’s eye, of course. She has no shortage of admirers already but, between you and me, Eugenia and I have high hopes that she and Salvador will make a good match when she’s a little older. He’s a fine young man and it would strengthen the family to have such a marriage.’
Don Alonso had just started to enquire about her journey, apologizing for not having been there to greet her, when a girl in her late teens strode across the lawn towards them. Alexandra took in every last detail of the girl, who, she guessed, must be Mercedes. Petite and well proportioned, she had two bunches of black corkscrew curls held up with blue ribbons that swung gracefully at each side of her heart-shaped face. Her overly elaborate blue-and-white organza dress seemed somewhat out of place in the country and at this time of day. Like the woman she had seen at the little Santa María church the day before, Mercedes seemed to evoke another era. Alexandra was reminded again that the modern world had not yet reached this quaint and wild country, which seemed to have been frozen in time.
‘Good morning, Papá,’ the young girl said, giving Don Alonso a peck on the cheek while casting a sidelong glance at Alexandra through long lashes.
‘Ah, Mercedes, there you are,’ h
e exclaimed in a tone that forced cheerfulness.Alexandra could sense that he wasn’t entirely comfortable. After taking a breath, he added, ‘This is your sister, Alexandra. I’m sure you’ll get on very well. You’ll have plenty to talk about.’
Mercedes pouted but did not answer; her almond-shaped black eyes surveyed the newcomer without a hint of warmth. Looping an arm through her father’s, she cast a wan smile towards Alexandra, who was disappointed though not entirely surprised by the cool reception.
During the awkward silence that followed, Alexandra inspected her younger sibling. So this was the adored child of her father’s second marriage to Doña Eugenia de Juni. Everything about her was small and dainty, like a china doll.
‘Shall we go into breakfast? I’m famished,’ suggested Don Alonso with feigned enthusiasm. ‘Mother is expecting us and you know how she hates to be kept waiting.’
CHAPTER 3
Alexandra followed her father and Mercedes into the dining room through the French doors that led from the terrace. She found it even grander than she’d expected. Research for her book had involved hours spent looking at photographs of Spanish architecture and furniture within the pages of collectors’ magazines such as Connaissance des Arts and Apollo, but the articles she’d read did not do justice to the distinctive style of the real thing. Impressive though the interior was, and beautiful in its own way, Alexandra did not warm to it and felt like she’d stepped into a daunting theatre set.
It was a huge, high-ceilinged room, situated on the west side of the house, with an open arch to the right that led to other living rooms. The oak furniture was dark and austere. Hangings in the typical Spanish ‘repostero’ style, decorated with coats of arms, lent warmth to the white walls, while an exquisite Afghan carpet covered part of the floor, its rich hues scarcely dimmed by age.
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