For a moment Linda was tempted to discuss with Anna the relationship between Aunt Natalie, Sebastian and herself. Then she realized that the old woman’s viewpoint was hopelessly biased and that she, Linda Braden, held no place of her own in Anna’s heart. She had been welcome because the Senora de Meriaga had set her mind to this plan—that Sebastian should inherit the villa only through marriage with an Englishwoman.
“There’s one thing I don’t quite understand,” she said. “How was my aunt to know I wouldn’t marry someone in England and put an end to all this?”
Anna shrugged her broad shoulders. “She had the conviction and she knew her days were few. She would say that if you married some other man before she died it would be Fate. But she did not believe you would.”
It was all very perplexing but somehow Linda could not analyse the situation seriously. Friendship with Sebastian would be amusing; anything more intimate unthinkable. But it would be wiser to keep her own counsel. In any case, she felt, not much could happen in the short time she would spend in Montelisa. A reflection which only proved that she knew very little about Spain!
The next couple of days passed tranquilly. Sebastian called and was as ardent as he dared to be; an English couple, both writers, came along from their villa higher up the coast and patently considered the niece less interesting material than the aunt; and a fish-seller named Paco revealed himself, in a brief and genial conversation with Linda, as the Casanova among the peasantry of Montelisa.
Maxine’s bedroom was made beautiful with Spanish embroidered curtains and bedspread, a couple of delicate water-colors and some deep armchairs. Perhaps, thought Linda hopefully, this was a heaven-sent opportunity for her to get really friendly with the woman who was to marry her brother. On the whole she knew very little about Maxine Odell. In Maxine’s opinion the bookshop was a bore, and privately she no doubt lumped with the bookshop the people who worked in it. Her own reading matter, she confessed airily, was confined to fashion books and diet charts.
Try as she would, Linda could not imagine Maxine as a sister-in-law. Nor could she now see her sunk happily into the cottage for a month, but she had to do her best for John, who was a darling, straight as a ramrod and utterly dependable. And in a way she had to admit that she was grateful for the chance to stay on in Montelisa.
But Maxine liked plenty of life—not the joyous, rustic type which abounded in the Catalan countryside, but the sophisticated entertainments of the city. Linda thought, rather despairingly, how pleasant it would have been to have a family of English holiday-makers as neighbors instead of the off-hand Mr. Frensham. What would Maxine make of him, if she ever saw him?
Linda had to smile to herself. It was really quite funny that Philip Frensham, who was determined to hang on to his solitude, should be burdened with two young women as neighbors. Aunt Natalie would have pleased him, because she was clever and liked beautiful things and had reached an age of safety and wisdom. It struck her suddenly that if he had stayed before with the Garnett-Smiths, who owned his cottage, he must have met Aunt Natalie; consequently there were things he must know about her which Anna, or even Sebastian, did not. Pity he was so cold and unsociable.
It was not necessary, stated Sebastian next morning, to arrive at the station before noon, because the train was bound to be late. Everything was always late in Spain; did she not know? With a certain ironic gaiety he showed off his father’s car, which was large and old and beautifully kept.
“It has been with us ever since we disposed of the family carriage,” he told her, with a resigned lift of his eyebrows. “One day I shall cut away the top and paint the body a bright purple. Afterwards I shall leave home in disgrace, but they will have to buy a new auto!”
His lightness of heart was infectious. Linda had hardly a qualm when she got in beside him and the car purred ponderously down the road and through the village, towards Barcelona.
CHAPTER THREE
AMONG the drab crowd which had left the train, Maxine was a pink and white flower. The rose linen suit was bandbox fresh, and the matching cap above the white-blonde hair tilted engagingly over the left eye. She wore needlepoint heels in white, and a cluster of white sapphires at each ear. In keeping with the sunny south, her make-up was of the palest golden tan with a faint dusting of cyclamen over the cheekbones. No doubt it, thought Linda; Maxine was ravishing.
She held out a hand. “Hallo, Maxine. What sort of trip did you have?”
“Not too bad, I suppose,” was the languid answer. “I’ve done it before, so I knew what to expect.”
“How’s John?”
Maxine said negligently, “I wouldn’t know any more than you do,” and bade a porter follow them with her white leather cases.
Linda drew in her lip. Whatever happened, she mustn’t have words with Maxine; she owed that to John. She led the way to the car, and somehow it seemed normal to see Sebastian standing beside it and bowing with all his considerable charm. She saw that bold gaze of his sweep over the tall young woman; caught his sharp look of humor and admiration which said: “Caramba, but you are right. She is magnifica!” But his spoken words were low and formal.
“It is enchanting to know you, senorita.” And he bowed the two women into the wide back seat of the car.
Maxine lit a cigarette and looked out of the window. Linda pointed out the mimosa and rose gardens, the first glimpse of the wild coast and the brown and green of the mountains. She did it desperately and against her inclination, for Maxine scarcely moved a shoulder in acknowledgement. Sebastian, true to his promise, was quite silent, but Linda knew he must be wondering what it was about Spain that had upset this lovely creature who perfumed his car. Linda, who knew that Marine was rather bored than upset, felt she owed him an apology.
They ran through Montelisa and up the coast road. At the cottage Sebastian insisted on carrying the bags inside, but he did not linger. He bowed stiffly to Maxine with a question in his eyes. To Linda he said lightly, “Till tomorrow, pequena. I am all yours!”
When he was gone Marine drew off her hat and gloves. She glanced without interest about the sitting-room and lit another cigarette.
“So this is your cottage,” she said. “Don’t you hate all this tapestry and carved wood? You’d think an Englishwoman would have had more originality.”
“The house grows on one,” Linda replied steadily. “Normally we don’t have lunch till three, but if you’d like something now...”
“Don’t bother, I’ll have a drink. A Tio Pepe.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know a Tio Pepe from a Bourbon. The drinks are in. the cabinet. Would you care to help yourself?”
Apparently Marine changed her mind; she sat down with a crème-de-menthe at her elbow. As she shook away ash a narrow diamond bracelet glittered at her wrist. Her eyes, very green in the dim cool light, were expressionless.
“Linda, have you told anyone about me—anyone here, I mean?”
“Only that you were coming. Anna had to know, and Sebastian.”
“The whole village will be aware that I’m here, of course; that’s how villages are. What I meant was—did you suggest there was some sort of relationship between us?” Linda shook her head. “They couldn’t be interested. They know nothing of my family, and the fact of your being engaged to my brother wouldn’t register. I just called you a friend.”
“Good. I thought you would.” Maxine crossed her slim ankles and her glance followed the curve of her instep. “We’ll keep it that way, Linda. I’m a friend on a visit to you—nothing more. You won’t be deceiving anybody, because it’s the truth.”
“The truth?” Linda echoed slowly. She was standing near the table, looking down at the silky white head. “Have you ... have you quarrelled with John?”
“My dear,” said Maxine coolly, “I never quarrel. I’ve broken off my engagement to your brother, that’s all.” Linda was suddenly too conscious of John’s pain, to be glad. She could see him, dumb with hurt, unbelieving. “He
didn’t mention it in his last letter.”
Maxine raised her head. The smile which moved her lips was small and patronizing. “There’s a grim likeness between you and John, Linda. That do-or-die quality is bad enough in a man, but in a woman it’s just comic. No woman ever got what she wanted by being honest and intense.”
“Weren’t you ... honest with John?”
Maxine flicked pale, scarlet-tipped fingers. “In England I merely told him I had to get away, but I wrote him yesterday from Madrid, dispelling his last illusions about me.”
“That was cruel—to write.”
“I don’t think so. About the written word there can’t be any doubt, and if I’m not there he won’t be able to do any fruitless pleading. You should be glad to have him spared that.”
Linda felt choked. It occurred to her, like a blow upon the heart, that John would not yet have received Maxine’s letter. He would get it tomorrow, or perhaps even the day after. Today he would be happy in the knowledge that his intended wife and his sister were together under one roof. But would he?
“Why did you come here, Maxine?” she asked huskily. The other sipped her drink. “For two or three reasons,” she answered, touching a wisp of lace to her lips. “I knew weeks ago that I couldn’t marry your brother, but I wasn’t sure how to break it up without a fuss.”
“Why did you ever pretend to be in love with him?”
“Oh, come now.” Maxine sounded sarcastic. “At your age you must have had a love affair and wriggled out of it. But maybe not; you’re a little too earnest for that. It was John’s earnestness that got me down.”
Linda’s voice was tight. “If you weren’t in love with him you shouldn’t have become engaged. How could you treat him like that?”
Maxine jabbed out her cigarette and for the first time spoke with a hint of sincerity that seemed genuine. “I don’t blame you for being loyal to John and putting me in the wrong, but you just don’t understand other women. I did fall a little in love with John because he was different from other men. I found that I could be talking to someone else at a party and bring him to heel with a glance. I’d look up from a dinner table to find him staring with a peculiar, vulnerable intensity. He loved being near me, and quiet. He didn’t play around like the others, he had no sophisticated talk, no love affairs to brag about, and he hated my having plenty of money. More important—he’s the only man among my friends that my father took to without question. That alone was such a relief that when John proposed I accepted him. But I didn’t seriously think ahead; a marriage between us would have been fantastic.” Her expression was tolerant, but watchful as she added, “I couldn’t have made your brother happy, Linda. He hasn’t got what it takes to handle my kind of woman.”
Which was so true that Linda fell wretchedly silent. Slowly, she moved over to the window. Clouds were riding the sky and the climbing roses were blowing, scattering petals like pink snowflakes. An ominous roar came up from the sea and the poignant trill of a bird ended in a frightened squawk. Perhaps they would have the rain the garden needed so badly.
Maxine said evenly, “I had to tell you all this at once, but there’s no sense at all in our being enemies over it. I’m sure you wouldn’t have me marry John without loving him.”
“Of course not.” But Linda was too sore to give conviction to the words. “Do you think he half expects your letter?”
“I’m sure of it. My chief problem, as a matter of fact, is my father. He’ll be terribly angry. He’s the real reason I decamped.”
“But why did you come here—to Montelisa?”
Maxine sighed her impatience. “It was so easy. I needed n holiday and you—John’s sister—were in Spain. My father couldn’t possibly object to my visiting you. But don’t worry. If it all blows over as I hope, I shall be moving out again in a week or two. After a winter as a sober fiancée I need to hit a few high spots!”
It didn’t touch her, this terrible wound she was inflicting upon John Braden, yet it left Linda as sick as if she herself wore to blame. Before, she had had very little feeling at all where Maxine was concerned, but now she was conscious of a militant dislike. Foolishly, she began composing in her mind a telegram which would warn John of the approaching letter; but the next moment she knew that such an action would not cushion the blow for him. In any case, he was sufficiently like herself not to want signs of sympathy.
All at once she was irritated with this country where it was mostly summer. Rambler roses should bloom in June, and the great yellowing oranges on the trees were outrageous. Nothing was real here, nothing at all.
She said to Maxine, “While you’re here you’ll have to be content with very little social life.”
Maxine shrugged, and her eyes narrowed in a sharp smile. “I don’t know. You seem to have picked up an admirer very quickly. I like your Sebastian.”
“He’s not mine—that’s his way. By rights, this house is his, and if I were able I’d give it to him. Everything is so tied up, though, that I’m afraid he’ll never live here.” Because it would have to come out sooner or later, Linda explained the situation.
Reflectively, Maxine drummed with her long finger nails on the arm of her chair. She still had the thin-lipped smile. “Why don’t you marry the man, Linda? You’d find him far more exciting than an Englishman.”
“I should think you’d be the last one to advise me to marry without love.”
“Not at all. I don’t really believe in love, but I do believe in thrills, and I’m sure you’d have plenty with that young man. He looks like a matador.” Maxine pushed lazily up from her chair. “Still, as I said before, in character you’re like John, and he’s not built for thrills, either. I suppose you’ll eventually marry some dull young man and live out the rest of your life in a suburb.”
“Even so,” retorted Linda, “I might be happy, and make someone else happy as well.”
“Of course you will, my dear.” Maxine’s tone was condescending and amused. “The drones are the salt of the earth, if you’ll forgive the mixed metaphor.” As if she had voiced a compliment rather than an insult, she sauntered to the table and picked up her gloves. “Do you mind showing me my room! I need a change of clothes.”
Linda hadn’t known she could feel so intolerant and angry with another woman. She led the way upstairs to the bathroom and then to Maxine’s bedroom, but she did not wait to listen to the other woman’s comments on the four-poster. After making sure that Anna knew their visitor had arrived, she went out and down the rough-hewn steps to the beach. She would have liked to put the ocean between herself and Maxine Odell.
She walked along the beach, at first under the palms and then in the shade of the overhanging rocks of the headland. She picked up a sponge and sat down on a smooth rock to stare entreatingly at the sea and pull the little white mass to pieces.
What was she to do about Maxine? How could she possibly be friendly with the woman who had callously broken her engagement to John and was now using the cottage merely as a background? Maxine hadn’t wanted to come to Montelisa, but it had been more convenient than facing her father’s opposition to any other plan.
Of course she, Linda, could tell Maxine to go, but probably Maxine herself knew that she wouldn’t. The bond between Linda and her brother was so strong that she couldn’t possibly move against the other woman unless John agreed to it. And Linda was horribly afraid that while Maxine remained at the cottage he wouldn’t give up hope. What on earth could one do in such circumstances?
The more she conjectured the bigger the problem became. She daren’t think of his feelings or of her father’s disappointment; but neither did she care to think more than superficially about Maxine, who was as hard and bright and heartless as the diamonds she wore.
The whole venture was spoiled. Linda wished she had refused Aunt Natalie’s cottage from England, and arranged a fortnight’s summer holiday in the Channel Islands, as she had intended. Spain, as far as she was concerned, had turned out a flop.
Presently she made her way back to the house, and she had to admit that it looked peaceful and lovely nestling in greenery and flowers, with a blue and white sky hanging overhead like an inverted Wedgwood bowl. If only Maxine would go!
But Maxine, in the sitting-room, was very much at home. Bo was the man who sat on the edge of the table talking to her. Linda stared at him from the doorway, saw him straighten and look her way, and was momentarily shaken by an uncanny gust of vexation. But somehow she managed to speak first, and without much emotion.
“Good morning, Mr. Frensham. This is a surprise!”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” He spoke carelessly. His glance flickered over her blue floral print and moved back to Maxine, who had changed into a sun-top frock in delicate green and white stripes. Was it Linda’s imagination, or did the glance linger on the creamy shoulders and the throat encircled by a heavy gold necklet? “I had a letter from Toby Garnett-Smith this morning. He’d only just heard about your aunt’s death, and it seems that various things he borrowed from her are on his conscience. They’re chiefly gramophone records and books, and I was wondering if you have a list of those the senora owned. The books, I dare say, will have her name on the flyleaf, and we might eventually sort them out, but I’ve no idea which of the gramophone records don’t belong to Toby. He has everything from Beethoven to crooners.”
Linda had cooled. She was conscious of Maxine’s green eyes calculating this big man in slacks and a white shirt, who lived in the next house, and she remembered with a queer little stab that Maxine was free.
“I’ve looked through my aunt’s gramophone records,” she said, “and noticed particularly that the music is practically all Spanish, so it’s probably safe to say that any Spanish music among yours was borrowed. There’s an inventory of the belongings of the cottage, but I believe it was made only a week or so ago, just before I arrived.” Maxine said carelessly, “What a fuss about a few books and records. Surely you don’t want them, Linda?”
A Cottage in Spain Page 4