A Cottage in Spain Page 7

“It’s uncanny,” said Linda.

  “Not so very. He’s horribly frank. The dinner invitation is off if neither of us interrupts him between now and six tomorrow evening.”

  “Either of us!” exclaimed Linda. “He’s the last person I’ve any wish to interrupt. Did you ... did you angle for the invitation?”

  “Don’t be naive, darling.” Maxine twirled her hat on her finger. “Philip Frensham isn’t the sort of man to do anything against his will. Have you seen that car of his?”

  “Yes,” briefly.

  “Don’t pretend you weren’t impressed. You know, there must be big money in archaeology.”

  “There could be—or he may have a fair-sized private income. I wouldn’t care if he were a millionaire; I still wouldn’t want him for a neighbor!”

  “Why, Linda!” The darkened eyebrows, slender wings above the green eyes, rose slightly. “That sounds remarkably like a confession to an attack of nerves.” Then, coolly: “Don’t grow fond of him, my sweet. It wouldn’t pay off. But you know that, of course, or you wouldn’t have spoken that way. I suppose a man of his type puts fear into you.”

  “He might have done,” Linda replied hardily, “if he hadn’t stepped down so swiftly from the heights.”

  “You mean he did it for me?” This titillated Maxine. In an unconscious gesture of vanity and grace she patted the white-blonde curls above her ears. She looked statuesque and unreal as she stood there, poised. “He puzzles me, and being puzzled about a man puts a woman on her mettle. I’ve travelled a bit and I’ve met all sorts of men, but none quite like Philip. I’ve decided to prove that in one important aspect he’s just like the rest.”

  “And when you’ve proved it?”

  Maxine flicked her fingers. “I shall marry him and live a wildly exciting life. He told me this morning that a woman as fair as I am would be a riot among the princes of the East.’

  “Then why bother to marry him?” asked Linda dryly. “I couldn’t go to those places alone, and in any case a married woman would have far more fun. Besides, Philip does something to me. He rouses me.”

  Linda’s heart contracted. “Didn’t John rouse you?”

  Maxine’s mouth thinned, but her tone was plaintive. “It’s not fair to remind me of John. He was a mistake that I made purely to please my father. I couldn’t possibly have married him, and you know it. As a matter of fact,” a pause during which she found a shred of lace and dabbed at her nose, “John was the reason I went to Barcelona this morning.”

  Linda sat up very straight, her grey eyes wide. Involuntarily, her hands had clenched themselves in her lap. “I ... I thought you went to the bank.”

  “So I did, but that could have waited.” She turned to face Linda fully, her eyes as hard and cold as emeralds. “Don’t make a fuss over this, Linda, because there’s not a thing you can do about it. There was a telegram this morning from John, and I went into Barcelona to answer it because I know how one’s business gets around in a small place like Montelisa.”

  “I saw the telegraph boy,” said Linda dazedly. “Had John received your letter?”

  Maxine nodded. “The telegram said he would be leaving for Spain tomorrow unless he heard news from you which made it unnecessary. So I had to make sure he wouldn’t come.”

  “News from me? Why did he say that?”

  Maxine spoke clearly and deliberately. “The telegram was addressed to you. I opened it because I saw it was from England, and I decided very quickly that I must answer it myself.”

  “How could you see it was from England?”

  “Well ... I guessed it.”

  Linda was on her feet. “You had no right to answer that telegram.”

  “I had every right.” Maxine lifted the flap of her white bag and took out a thin gold cigarette case. Without hurry she selected a cigarette, and with it unlighted between her lips, she looked hard at Linda. “It was about me, and I knew the answer to his question. I told him that Maxine had left Spain without saying where she was going, that he had better forget Maxine and was positively not to jeopardize his job by coming here. That,” she commented with a curl of the lips, “would appeal to his common sense. I signed your name.”

  Linda was so angry that it was a strain to talk coherently. “You dared to open the telegram and even reply to it! Even if it did concern only you, you might have waited five minutes and talked it over. Instead you rushed off with the reply, so that you could present me with an accomplished fact. It was a filthy trick!”

  “Oh, no.” Maxine thumbed a pretty gold lighter and held her cigarette to it. With smoke issuing from her nostrils she added, “It was the most sensible way to handle it. You would never have consented to telling him a deliberate lie, yet, if you think it over, it was the kindest thing to do.” It was true, but Linda felt as if all her emotions were tied in knots, painful ones. And the insolent manner in which Maxine had handled the matter was quite intolerable. The woman regarded John as something cast off but clinging, and what she thought about Linda herself must be pretty well parallel.

  “It seems to me,” she said with difficulty, “that the least you can do is to make my telegram true as soon as possible. I’ll get Anna to help you pack!”

  Maxine sauntered over to the window. Linda was in the center of the room, but by turning that way she could see more or less what the other saw: a winding path, a trellis smothered in jasmine, a wooden gate which was never bolted, and the continuation of the path under the trees right up to the white wall of the house next door. In that moment Linda felt as if she were trapped in a cloying silken net.

  Over her shoulder Maxine said, “I’m staying, Linda. If you make it impossible for me to live here in this house I shall rent another, near enough to be a nuisance. And it would look awfully odd, too, wouldn’t it?”

  “Why should it? Hardly anyone knows us here.”

  “Montelisa is small, and I can do you much more harm than you could ever do me. The people know you as the old senora’s legatee, and unless you marry Sebastian, they’ll resent you. Also, you and I are supposed to be friends; if you turn me out your reputation will suffer.”

  “I intend going back to England, so that will scarcely matter.”

  The lavender-clad shoulders shrugged. “You can’t leave Spain without a passport. I took the liberty of hiding yours the moment after I’d read that telegram this morning. You see, I rather foresaw a scene like this and I took all precautions. Don’t worry, your passport is safe enough, but I shan’t give it back to you just yet, and you’ll certainly never find it.”

  Linda was pale. “I’ll get the lawyer’s advice.”

  Maxine turned about, slowly. She was smiling. “You don’t suppose I’d admit to anyone else that I’d seen the thing, do you? What a babe you are, Linda, and so very easily upset. All I ask, my dear, is that we go on as we are for a few weeks. I’ll pay my way and do it generously, and you can have your fun out of Sebastian or anyone else who may turn up. The way we are now suits me very well.” She nodded at the letter which she had not bothered to pick up from the table. “I suppose my father is anxious and furious, but I can put that right by posting him a letter from Barcelona; he has old-fashioned qualms about the Continent so he won’t dare to leave me without money. I’ll use the bank as a forwarding address.”

  “Nothing troubles you, does it?” said Linda in a low voice. “You calmly annex my passport and make plans as though any action of mine were bound to be negligible.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Maxine, still smiling. “You Bradens are brave and foolhardy souls, even if you do have common sense. I’ve protected myself, that’s all. Think it over.”

  Linda felt as if she would never think straight again. Rather foggily she said, “My father won’t expect me to remain here alone.”

  “But why not? You could easily have been caught up in the charms of Montelisa.”

  “I refuse to write to him as if you’re not here.”

  “Aren’t you splitting hairs?�
�� Maxine sighed, as if she had really had enough. “Once John has that telegram neither he nor your father will expect you to mention me. Send postcards—you can get away with anything on those.”

  There was a silence. Then Maxine put the letter from her father into her bag and lifted her hat from the table. She yawned slightly and moved to the door.

  “I need a bath and a change of clothes.” And, as if in afterthought, “You can have that tan brocade frock of mine, if you like. You might wear it when we dine with Philip tomorrow. Why not come up and try it on?”

  Linda smouldered, but couldn’t blaze. “I’d sooner go in slacks,” she said, and walked out into the garden.

  She felt so quenched that she walked to a seat and sat down, with her face in her hands. Some time she would be able to sort this all out and there would be a clear path ahead. Just now she seemed to be bearing a great weight on her heart, and she wasn’t really conscious of anything till Sebastian exclaimed, with the utmost concern.

  “But you are sad, pequena! And I have come hoping to find you happy and full of eagerness to go with me to the gipsy dancing tonight.” He dropped to the bench beside her, grasped both her hands between his and looked into her clouded eyes. “Tell me, my dear one.”

  She laughed suddenly on a caught breath. “No one is ever sad where you are,” she told him shakily. “Take me to the gipsy dancing, Sebastian. I want to go.”

  “Brava! I will teach you the flamenco and we will eat fried meat and eggs and drink aguafuente! You will not know yourself, Linda!”

  What a blessing that would be, she thought as she jumped up. “I’ll change and we’ll go now, Sebastian. If we’re too early for the dancing you must show me other things till it is time.”

  Sebastian demonstrated his delight in her swift response by flinging an arm about her waist and whirling her up to the patio. His eyes were brilliant in his laughing face, his lips on her fingertips held a promise.

  “I can hardly wait,” he said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE bodega owned by Don Jaime de Meriaga was more than a mere wine-shop, though upon entering its dim interior from the street one was conscious only of the shelves of dusty bottles, a small seamed counter beneath which hid a till hewn in a past age from a slice of cork oak, and a solitary rush-bottomed chair that appeared none too safe. A man in a felt apron would supply one’s needs and even advise upon vintages if one was not a Montelisano.

  But tonight a door at the back of the store which was hardly noticeable in daytime stood open, revealing a large beamed room alive with men, women and wine. The setting was rustic but the crowd seemed to be a mixture of city and country folk. There were women and girls in long taffeta frocks or shorter peasant skirts with loose white blouses; there were mantillas and fine combs, tumbled black curls caught back with a magnolia or a spray of lemon-flowers, discreet black shawls covering the greying locks of duennas. And the men were hardly less spectacular in their tight-hipped trousers, flowing silk shirts and embroidered waistcoats; their hair gleamed in rich waves, gold teeth flashed and eyes were warm and seeking. But Sebastian, thought Linda, as she stood at his side and blinked in the lamplight, was the most handsome of them all.

  “Now,” he whispered, after exchanging greetings with his friends, “we will pay respects to madrecita and papa. They are over there, at the table in the corner.”

  It was then, perhaps, that Linda first realized the importance of the de Meriagas in Montelisa. Though the noise continued unabated, she felt the watchful glances as she moved at Sebastian’s side, and in the corner bulwarked by the de Meriaga clan there was almost a silence. Clan was the word for it, for besides the impeccable Don Jaime of the shrewd eyes and spade beard, and his severe senora in black lace mantilla and gown, there were the two elder sons who managed his business and the vineyards, their prim, pale-faced wives, and several cousins, uncles and aunts who inspected Linda with an intensity which embarrassed even Sebastian.

  Very clearly and slowly, as if she had rehearsed two sentences and found this the more suitable, the Senora de Meriaga said, “You are like your aunt.”

  “Only vaguely,” said Linda. “According to her portrait, at my age she was beautiful.”

  The elderly woman looked blank, and Sebastian laughed with a rather false heartiness, and turned to Linda. “Always my little mother will display her English and come to a full stop. She does not know what you have said, chica. Pardon me.” He then talked swiftly in Spanish to his parents, and finally told Linda: “We have permission to leave them and join the young people. Will you please smile and curtsey?”

  This request Linda was only too happy to obey. She knew so little about the Spanish that she was unable to gauge her effect upon any of these de Meriagas, yet she was sure she felt a coolness in them. Which was strange, because Aunt Natalie had elected, after her husband’s death, to live as near as possible to his family; that was why she had come to Montelisa. But she had known the country and the people, and been fluent in the language. Linda was very glad she had not fallen in love with Sebastian! His family would have been crushing.

  He introduced her to his friends and their vivacious young women who were under the vigilant eyes of duennas. An accordion played softly, and a man began to sing a melancholy love song. His voice throbbed like the sad beat of a heart, heavy but pleasurable with a bitter sweetness. It was while the final words hung on the air that Linda became aware of a dark glance unwavering focused upon Sebastian. The young woman sat demurely, her hands clasped upon her lap, her feet, in flat-heeled, dainty shoes, planted neatly on the flagstones. She wore a plain scarlet frock with black bands about the full skirt, and her blue-black hair was brushed back, showing a creamy complexion to its best advantage. She had the usual full-lipped Spanish good looks, and Linda thought she might possess the usual Spanish temperament; for there was something leashed about her—leashed and waiting.

  The music ended. Shouts of “Ole!” and “Otra vez!” were followed by the deliriously swift rendering of a Catalan chant. Then the mugs and glasses were refilled with a full-bodied red wine, the center of the room cleared and a woman dancer appeared, clicking castanets, head thrown back, eyes defiant.

  “La Bella Lilita,” Sebastian explained gaily. “She is the leader of the gipsy dancers. Tomorrow they start a season in Barcelona.”

  Linda would have preferred to believe the dancing as spontaneous as it appeared; a season in Barcelona suggested entertainment manufactured for tourists. But she enjoyed the dancing of La Bella Lilita. The woman challenged, her skirts were a whirl of lace and the automatic snapping of the castanets was hypnotic yet exciting. When a man stepped suddenly behind her, disdainful and rigidly strutting, she stamped to the music beat and flaunted her fan at him. It was traditional, but here, where wine flowed and many feet tapped an ever-swifter rhythm, it had something more than movement and music. It was an elemental picture, the man demanding submission, the woman provocative; passion rising like a tidal wave till it engulfed them both and she lay swooning in his arms.

  Linda clapped; Sebastian drank his wine and said she was good, that dancer. And the young woman who had been watching Sebastian clenched her hands in her lap, as if to stop a fit of trembling. Linda felt a sudden pity for her. Was she one of his “wild oats?” He did seem to avoid looking her way, and wasn’t he drinking rather more than he should? Not that it was Linda’s business.

  More gipsy dancing by a troupe was followed by a gipsy singer who, Linda thought, rather let the side down. That harsh, wavering cry interspersed with strings of unintelligible words held no beauty; it plucked unpleasantly at the nerves and it was a relief when it ended and the professional troupe drifted away.

  After a few dreamy bars the accordion and the guitar dashed into a flamenco, and Sebastian whirled Linda on to the floor. He showed her how she must stamp and spin and pirouette, and when she was breathless he shouted with laughter.

  “Like that, Linda mia, you are marvellous! Your eyes are not
blue and cold. They are the violet of the night sky and they shoot fire like diamonds. Snap your fingers, cara! Now come into my arms!”

  Like most Spanish dances, this one ended abruptly. When her senses were restored Linda saw that the de Meriaga family had disappeared en masse, and that the girl who had watched Sebastian leaned alone near a small window, looking out at the night. The dark head turned and across a dozen feet of crowded space Linda caught the jet glance and her heart jumped. This was her first hint of a contact with the stiletto-in-the-stocking woman of Spain.

  Involuntarily, she asked Sebastian, “Who is the girl near the window?”

  His smile was a trifle uneasy. “She is Carmen Artino, from Andalusia. Come, let us eat.”

  He led her into still another room, where the gipsies were taking supper. A buxom woman served tomato and onion soup in which floated poached eggs; then came chicken cutlets with masses of spiced potatoes, and wads of fruit-filled pastry. Sebastian, who normally tucked in with gusto, ate hardly at all, but he lowered the wine in the carafe.

  “You wish more dancing?” he asked, when Linda had to admit defeat.

  “It’s rather late, for me. I think I’ll go home, Sebastian.” He did not demur. “Very well. I will take you.”

  They slid through a back door into a night that was warm and starless. There were plenty of people about in the village and along the harbor wall, for much of Spain stays awake most of the night, but as they climbed towards the cottage the road became deserted and when, presently, he stopped under a wide, fragrant tree, they seemed to be alone above the rocks and the sea.

  For Sebastian, he was abnormally quiet. He rested against the tree-trunk, his hands sunk into his narrow pockets, his face visible in the darkness but unreadable.

  “I love your country, Sebastian,” she said softly.

  “And the countrymen—do you love us, too?”

  “On the whole, yes. But why is it that people who drink wine as if it were water are so volatile?”