A Cottage in Spain

by Rosalind Brett

  “Your brother John?” put in Philip, with a courtesy that was almost sinister.

  “Yes,” she said hurriedly. “They weren’t really engaged.”

  Miss Dean’s obtuseness was out of character. “But they were engaged, Linda,” she stated doggedly. “Why, on that last evening in England, when you and I had supper with your father, John was out with Maxine, and it was common talk that she picked him up every day at his office in that red roadster of hers. Still, I must confess I’m glad the engagement is at an end. John needs someone with integrity, not a model for gowns and jewels. But I daresay he was badly hurt, poor boy. Did she run out on him?”

  “Please, Miss Dean,” begged Linda wretchedly.

  “Tell us some more, Miss Dean,” said Philip evenly.

  “Oh, but I’m not telling; I’m asking,” came the innocent reply. She turned to Linda. “How could you bear to have her in the same house? Is that why you’re looking as if you need a good cry?”

  With a quite savage movement Philip straightened. Very softly and through his teeth he said, “This is just what you need, Linda. A good probe by a woman who knows no limits. Give it to her, Miss Dean. I’ll be back.”

  But he hadn’t taken a pace before the tapping of high heels sounded on the stone staircase. Linda was sure that if she sat there for one minute longer she would suffocate, but she was equally sure she couldn’t possibly move. Her knees were paralysed and the rest of her was so taut that she could only sit there watching the doorway.

  Maxine came in lightly, like a drifting flower. The thin suit she wore was delphinium blue and an enchanting little cap of the same color sat slightly to one side of the white silky head. Her shoes were off-white, like her gloves and bag. She brought with her an elusive and expensive fragrance.

  “Why, Philip,” she said, and her voice was a caress. “Your being here at this hour must mean you’re not working this morning. Do go with me into Barcelona.” Then for the first time she saw the visitor. Very slightly she stiffened, but there was no change in the green eyes. “Good grief, if it isn’t Miss Dean. I’d forgotten you were in Spain.”

  “Good morning, Maxine,” said Miss Dean pleasantly. “If you’re in a hurry don’t let me keep you.”

  Maxine, of course, had no intention of being kept. She was beside Philip and the two of them were outlined in the doorway, her hand on his arm, her chin tilted.

  Philip spoke to Miss Dean. “Good-bye,” he said. “We’re sure to meet again.”

  For minutes after they had gone Linda lay back in her chair, spent. Oddly, Miss Dean kept quiet, too, though there was a short furrow between her brows while she appeared to take an interest in the carving of the workbox which had been Aunt Natalie’s.

  “He went with her without a murmur, didn’t he?” she remarked wonderingly. “And I take it he knew nothing whatever about her engagement to John. Well, well. Maxine isn’t in for as agreeable a morning as she thinks. Could you explain, briefly?”

  Linda was literally wringing her hands. She was pacing jerkily and trying hazily to decide how much she was at liberty to divulge. “Maxine came here as my friend,” she said unhappily. “I didn’t know till she was here that she had ended the engagement, but I agreed that no one need be told. She’ll think I’ve broken my promise!”

  “Don’t worry—that man of hers will put her right.” Linda winced, visibly, and Miss Dean added bluntly, “Is he in love with her, or isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not the kind to fall in love easily, but Maxine meant to have him almost from their first meeting. He ... he dwells among the rich and exotic for most of the year and she’s wildly anxious to share it with him. Miss Dean, you ... you mustn’t think I’m not terribly glad to see you, but...”

  “But I planted my brown brogue right in the thick of it,” nodded the older woman, comprehendingly. “I can’t say I’m sorry, though. Why should Maxine Odell climb in and claim everything she fancies with no trouble at all! What about poor John?”

  “He’ll get over it, in time.”

  “Quicker than he’d have recovered from marriage with the creature! Linda, you’ve been an awful fool. There can hardly be another girl in the world who would have had her here for so long.”

  Linda might have given details of the threats, subtle and not so subtle, that she had endured from Maxine, she might even have confessed to the pull of attraction which had kept her, Linda, at Montelisa. But she couldn’t keep her foolish heart and mind from winging away after Philip and Maxine.

  Miss Dean, unwittingly, had precipitated a crisis. Some mad trick of Fate’s had deposited her at the cottage while Philip was there, and to trim things off Maxine had trailed into the party. Would Philip consider himself deceived and let down? Would he tax Maxine with dishonesty? If he did, she would have her answers lined up and a special smile and flutter of the fingers to accompany them. Her voice would be sorrowful and husky:

  “I’m so dreadfully ashamed, Philip darling. I wanted so much to tell you, but as the days passed I had less and less courage. Then I got the idea that Linda must have told you, because you and I seemed so much in tune with each other. I couldn’t marry dear old John if I didn’t love him, could I?”

  Oh, yes, she’d get away with it. Long before they reached Barcelona they would be smiling, and closer than before. Because the very fact of Philip’s accusing her of deceit would be proof of his special interest in Maxine. Maxine would come back radiant and sneering, and she might even be able to assert with truth that she had Philip’s kiss of forgiveness.

  Linda stood still suddenly, overcome by a sensation of excessive fatigue. If she could have felt angry there would have been no room for fatigue. Anger was a satisfying emotion, sharp, positive and clean as a flame; it consumed itself. This exhaustion was negative, an ache of misery. She turned to Miss Dean.

  “Would it be possible for me to go with you to Valencia?”

  Slowly, the other woman replied, “These people I’m with would probably think it odd, but it might be managed. Valencia is some way, you know, and I’m afraid you’d have to stay at an hotel.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. I just have to get away from Montelisa for a few days.” There was a note of strain in Linda’s pleading. “I’ll slip into a suit and bring a clean blouse and pyjamas. I guarantee I won’t be longer than ten minutes.”

  While Linda was upstairs Maud Dean wandered about room, fingering the ornaments. She stopped for a moment near the window and looked across the garden at tiny glimpses of romantic imagining, but she did think it a pity that men were drawn so irresistibly to women like Maxine Odell. Particularly when there was also a tender and appealing young woman on hand. But Mr. Frensham seemed to have it in for Linda; she recalled quite vividly the crackle of electricity as she had come into the room. It was all very depressing, and it did seem as if there were nothing she could do for Linda.

  She heard her hurrying down the stairs, a quick exchange between the girl and the servant. Then Linda came in, carrying a small light case. She looked so pale and drained that Miss Dean knew that this first step was essential. They went out together to the car, the chauffeur saw them seated in the back, and they started on the way to Barcelona.

  By tacit consent, neither spoke of the cottage or of Philip Frensham and Maxine. After giving the situation thought, Miss Dean suggested that she ask her employer for a couple of days’ leave, so that the two of them could be together in some small resort on the other side of Barcelona.

  “I’m sure they’ll agree,” she said confidently. “Their daughter has improved wonderfully even in this month. Actually, all she needed was someone with patience, but they look upon her progress as the beginnings of a miracle. So they won’t deny me a short break from routine.”

  Linda hardly cared where she went, so long as it was away from Montelisa. Barcelona might be dangerous, but one of the villages beyond sounded just right. Perhaps two days in the sane company of Miss Dean would give her the courage she needed.


  It was all arranged smoothly. The Spanish husband and wife with whom Miss Dean lived were the typical well-bred middle-class. They would be very happy for Miss Dean to spend some time with her young friend, and would send the car for her in two days’ time. No, they insisted, it would be no trouble at all; it made them happy to know they could do this for the two English ladies.

  In fact, they drove the “two English ladies” to a small inn not far from Villa Nueva, and saw them received there by a landlord with long moustaches and his buxom and very willing wife. By two o’clock Miss Dean and Linda had inspected their simple and spotlessly clean bedrooms and were seated at a garden table under a gay umbrella, drinking orange juice and nibbling desultorily at a sandwich. The table would not have been complete without its carafe of wine, but neither of them tasted it. There was a strange relief in being able to behave as English as they pleased.

  They were so peaceful, those two days. Miss Dean, the inveterate tourist, scoured the district and revealed much that was interesting. She found a gipsy encampment which appeared as permanent as a village, and in the darkness there were singing and dancing to wild, impetuous rhythm, frequent yells of “Ole! Ole!” and crescendoes of stamping feet and shrieked applause.

  In a village they found a morning market where the fruit and vegetable and dairy products were so cheap that Miss Dean worked out how a vegetarian could live sumptuously on ten shillings a week. If it were not for the fact that she so enjoyed late summer and autumn in England she would retire to Spain, she stated.

  They strolled through cobbled streets, heard a girl’s laughter and the soft “Caramba! Eres mucha bella!” of her swain. There were donkeys in the doorways, olive-skinned, dark-eyed children tumbling about their hooves, and sometimes a beautiful old peasant woman with the patina of age upon her skin, sitting in the sun and talking to the children.

  They went into churches, and were once invited into the sun-drenched patio of a priest. They were on the beach when the fishing boats came in, and yearned to have a use for the succulent fish which were offered at something like a shilling a dozen.

  At the inn they were almost too well looked after. The food was rich, plentiful and excellently cooked, and nothing was too much trouble for their host and his wife. True, the inn was open as a tavern most of the time, but the agricultural workers and fisher folk of the district sought their beds before midnight. When they had a mind for festivity, they spent a hilarious night, eight hours long, in Barcelona.

  The second afternoon the two women paused on a low hilltop, and sat on an overgrown wall which ran alongside an orange-grove. Miss Dean nodded appreciatively at a distant even greenness which had the silky, wind-blown texture of vines.

  “Last year I stayed at one of those farms in France where they distil essences for perfumes,” she said. “They had acres of ground looking like that, and then suddenly it burst into bloom and you never saw or smelled anything like it.”

  Linda nodded, as if understanding, but made no comment.

  The older woman picked a tiny blossom from a clump embedded in a crevice of the wall, and sniffed at it absently. Gently, she asked, “What are you going to do, Linda?”

  “I’m going home,” she replied quietly. “After we part tomorrow I’ll book a room in Barcelona. Then I’ll go to the cottage and pack and have my cases taken to the hotel. I’ll leave Barcelona as soon as the journey home is fixed up.”

  Miss Dean sighed. “I did so want to show you Valencia, but it can’t be helped. I think you’re wise to go, even if you do lose that sweet cottage. It’s occurred to me once or twice that we should have let that servant of yours know where we are. What do you suppose Maxine is doing?”

  A small shiver ran down Linda’s spine. “I can’t guess. She’ll stay next door to Philip if she can, but I shan’t give her permission. I’ll give my key to the lawyer and instruct him to hand it to Sebastian; if he wants possession he’ll charmingly turn her out.”

  “Oh, dear. What a waste it’s been. And I thought you’d love it at Montelisa.”

  Worse than a waste, thought Linda bleakly. It was a catastrophe, because she’d met Philip and he’d spoiled her for anyone else. He made every dream she had ever had about a man who would sweep her close into his heart and never let her go, seem like a fantasy thought up by a child. She felt that something had changed within her, hardened a little, permanently. Her smile had become a brittle mask, her new calmness was an armor. But she would never attain that unassailable quality which was Maxine’s. The only thing she envied Maxine was her invulnerability.

  “I do wish,” said Miss Dean, “that I hadn’t taken this coaching job. You know, Maxine would never have got her foot in if I’d been with you at the cottage when she arrived.”

  Linda said pensively, “No, she wouldn’t, because there are only two bedrooms.”

  “And I’d have seen to it,” inserted Miss Dean firmly, “that there was no cheating. To me, and to everyone else at Montelisa,” with a faint emphasis, “she would have been your brother’s ex-fiancée.” She made a noise which could only be described as a refined snort. “The insulting way she looked at you when she come into your sitting-room! If she hadn’t gone out at once I’d have been rude to her.”

  Linda shrugged helplessly. “It’s just Maxine. She’s grown up believing the world is her footstool and I suppose she’s too sure of herself now to change.”

  “She wouldn’t be so sure of herself if Philip Frensham decided she wasn’t his type, after all. A disappointment of that sort would bring out her true colors!”

  The discussion was pointless; it only brought an unbearable sense of failure and loss. Linda told Miss Dean about John’s new venture into partnership with her father and of their apparently untroubled existence without her.

  On a sad little laugh she said, “I’m wondering if there’ll be room for me when I get back. Miss Woodham is one of those remarkable housekeepers who manage to find time for other work between times, and her sister has taken to the gift counter as if born to it. My father said that after only a couple of weeks the younger Miss Woodham was muscling in on the children’s bookshelves.”

  “There’ll be a place for you,” Miss Dean assured her comfortingly. “How do they distinguish one Miss Woodham from the other?”

  “The housekeeper is still Miss Woodham, of course. The younger one is nicknamed Bunnie, so that’s what they call her. You know how absent-minded Father can be sometimes; he gravely introduced her to a customer as “Miss Bunnie, our new assistant,’ and the poor girl was convulsed. My father wrote me about it as a joke against himself.” Miss Dean smiled. “If I were you, I’d take advantage of Miss Bunnie’s efficiency, and slip down to Bournemouth or Torquay for a real holiday. And try to forget about that mad aunt of yours, who didn’t know her own mind I” There were no conversations between them more intimate than that one. Of necessity, Linda had to keep silent about much that had happened at the cottage, and when at odd moments she knew an impulse for closer mental contact with Miss Dean, she would be pulled up sharp by the knowledge that this or that incident was better left unexplained. But, she told herself gratefully, it must have done her good to be alone with the older woman at some distance from Montelisa. The short break had given her time to gain a more objective outlook, and Miss Dean was definitely a person from “home”, whom she had known most of her life.

  Nothing was arranged for next morning because Miss Dean was not sure at what time the chauffeur would have left Valencia, and she did not wish to be out when he arrived. She used her fluent Spanish on the landlord, and Linda gathered some of his history and rather less of his wife’s. They were simple, courteous folk, much interested in the Inglesas though they patently disbelieved many of the things Miss Dean told them about England. Both confessed they had never travelled farther east than Barcelona nor farther west than Tarragona. Spain to them was a vast country; the world was only something one read about in the newspapers—if one could read!


  “Marvellous, isn’t it?” remarked Miss Dean later, as they waited in the garden for the car. “A proportion of every race has to think along those lines; that’s where a country gets its backbone. The travellers provide fresh blood and muscles.”

  Linda supposed that she herself was backbone, and Miss Dean one of the others.

  The car swung to a halt in front of the inn at about one o’clock. Linda had accepted Miss Dean’s offer of a lift into Barcelona, but the chauffeur stated that his employer had given him permission to drive the senorita to Montelisa before taking Miss Dean back to Valencia. So Linda changed her plan; it was bound to be easy to book a single room in one of the hotels, and she might just as well pack her belongings first. By late afternoon she would be through with the cottage and Montelisa for ever.

  They stopped at a kiosk in Barcelona to buy a book for Miss Dean’s journey back to Valencia, and further on Miss Dean had to inspect and admire some of the massed tubs of flowers presided over by sleeping vendors.

  “I do love Barcelona,” she said regretfully, “and the Catalan dialect is really beautiful.” But her watch said two-thirty. “We’ll have to be quick, now.”

  So they drove on, to Montelisa. As soon as they were out on the familiar road, Linda’s chest tightened. The flower gardens hurt the eyes with their brilliance; workers slept under the trees and their donkeys idled nearby, sometimes nuzzling a tree-trunk or ludicrously scratching an ear with a hind foot. This was siesta, but nature was blazingly awake.

  Birds fluttered, bees sang and hovered, and suddenly, in the middle of a small field of maize, as if left carelessly to please the eye, she saw a tree smothered in scarlet. She must have seen that tree before, but the blossom was new and startling. Above it, symbolically, hung a round white cloud which was dark at the very center.

  As they went up the coast road Miss Dean was carefully at her most serene. “Write to me as soon as you know when you’re leaving and if I possibly can I’ll see you once more. And if there’s any bit of business I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask. In fact, it might not be a bad idea to give your lawyer my address in Valencia. Do try, if you can, to go home with one of the conducted tours. They’ll sometimes fit one in. If you can’t, tack yourself on to another Englishwoman.”