Meeting in Madrid (3 page)

‘You do not know Jaime!’ Teresa cried. ‘He is as hard as a rock. What rock is it that is harder than any other?’

‘Granite,’ Catherine supplied much too quickly.

‘Well, that is as hard as he is! You will see,’ Teresa declared. ‘He can also influence Grandmother, which is more than anyone else can do.’

Catherine felt that Teresa was only telling her what she already knew. Don Jaime de Berceo Madroza was the undoubted power behind his grandmother’s throne. The old lady might be the distinguished head of the family, but her grandson had the final say. She wondered about Teresa’s parents, about the mother and father who had not been mentioned so far, but Don Jaime had described himself as Teresa’s guardian, so perhaps they were both dead.

She began to have a certain amount of sympathy for this lonely girl brought up at second-hand, so to speak, although she knew that it was dangerous to form such firm opinions on such a short acquaintance.

‘I’ll help you to unpack,’ Teresa offered, dismissing the young Spanish girl who was hovering in the doorway. ‘You may go, Conchita,’ she said with an autocratic wave of her hand vaguely reminiscent of her uncle. ‘Tell the Marquesa we will not be long.’

The girl hesitated, her dark eyes apprehensive.

‘It is my work,
se
n
orita
,’ she objected in Spanish.

Teresa stamped an impatient foot.

‘Do as I say!’ she admonished. ‘It will save time if I help Miss Royce. You are so slow!’

The girl retreated, shamefaced by the hasty criticism, and Teresa laughed.

‘There you are! I am quite heartless, as you can see, but I
wished
to help you and look at all your lovely clothes!’

‘I think you may be disappointed,’ Catherine smiled, prepared to humour her, ‘but shouldn’t we go down to the
sal
o
n
immediately and not keep the Marquesa waiting?’ She decided that the difference in their respective titles must mean that the old lady was Don Jaime de Berceo Madroza’s maternal grandmother. ‘I’m finding everything a little difficult just now,’ she confessed. ‘And I don’t want to antagonise anyone.’

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Teresa replied chirpily. ‘You will already have antagonised Jaime, anyway. He does not like women ever since one of them decided to betray him a long time ago.’

A cold little shiver ran through Catherine at the knowledge. So that was the reason for Don Jaime’s apparent dislike of her! It was nothing personal, as she had originally believed, but a deep-seated dislike—hatred, perhaps—of all women, as Teresa had implied.

‘Even so,’ she found herself saying, ‘I mustn’t start off on the wrong foot. The Marquesa said she would be waiting in the
sal
o
n
and we really ought to go.’

‘You must want to wash first,’ Teresa suggested, her inquisitive gaze still lingering on the suitcases. ‘I will wait for you.’

It took Catherine less than ten minutes to wash and tidy her hair, but when she returned from the bathroom Teresa had gone. Unpredictable, she thought, like most girls of her age, but peculiarly likeable even on such short acquaintance!

Would they get on together, she wondered as she descended the wide staircase, or would Teresa come to regard her as an irritating watchdog employed to check on her every movement while she endeavoured to teach her the finer points of the English language? Determined not to act as Teresa’s jailer under any circumstances, she opened the
sal
o
n
door.

Old customs were scrupulously observed in the Marquesa’s household and Catherine found that her ‘English tea’ was strictly a Spanish affair. It was served by a male retainer with a
muchacha
hovering in the background ready to run for more hot water or extra cakes, and it was a meal in itself. The average Spanish woman’s addiction to pastries would no doubt spoil Teresa’s figure in time unless, if she really wanted to be a dancer, she could bring an inflexible will to bear on her present capacity for the lethal sweetmeats. She ate heartily, enjoying them to the last crumb, while the Marquesa looked on indulgently.

Don Jaime stood in the background skilfully balancing his teacup and a plate in one hand, but eating little. He had been deep in conversation with his grandmother when Catherine had entered the room, but their exchange of confidences had ceased abruptly as soon as she appeared. He drew forward a chair for her.

‘Sit down, Miss Royce,’ he said briefly. ‘We have been discussing the future.’

Catherine glanced in Teresa’s direction to find her frowning into her teacup.

‘I asked the agency for an older woman,’ the Marquesa said, looking at Catherine, ‘but no matter. We will see what you can do.’

‘I think you had a copy of my references,’ Catherine responded formally. ‘If not, I have the originals with me; also my college certificates. I understand your language, but naturally I hope to benefit by living in a Spanish household. That was part of my reason for coming.’

‘And the other part?’ Don Jaime asked coldly.

She turned to face him.

‘My parents have travelled a great deal for as long as I can remember,’ she explained, looking directly into his hostile eyes. ‘My father is a university professor who does a lot of research and they are not often at home. Now they have gone on a lecture tour of America which will keep them away from London for the best part of a year.’

‘I see,’ he said as if he had discovered her true reason for taking the job. ‘It would inconvenience you a great deal to return to England at this stage.’

Catherine swallowed the hard lump in her throat which must have been disappointment, turning to look at the Marquesa.

‘If you have come to the conclusion that I am unsuitable,’ she said firmly, ‘of course I must go.’

‘We do not make decisions as swiftly as that,’ the old lady answered. ‘When you have finished your tea you must go and supervise your unpacking. I take it you brought all your luggage from the airport?’

Catherine hesitated.

‘I sent some books overland. I thought they might prove useful when I came to read with Teresa in English.’

‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ the Marquesa agreed. ‘Jaime will see that they are picked up as soon as they arrive.’

‘Please let me do that for myself,’ Catherine begged. ‘Don Jaime must have other things to do.’

‘It is a service we perform for our guests,’ the Marquesa declared, looking keenly at her grandson. ‘Jaime will be glad to oblige.’

It was difficult to accept the old lady’s assurance, because Catherine felt quite sure that Don Jaime would have sent her packing back to London if he had any say in the matter, but apparently the final decision would be his grandmother’s.

She did her own unpacking in the end because Teresa had disappeared and the dismissed Conchita was now keeping her distance. The capacious wardrobe which stretched most of the way along one wall of her bedroom was more than adequate for her needs, and soon her skirts and dresses were carefully hung up and the blouses and sweaters she had brought installed in the row of glass-fronted drawers in the end section of the wardrobe.

What to do now? The final meal of the day in a Spanish household was rarely taken before ten, and it was not quite six o’clock. Catherine crossed to her windows to look out, wondering if Teresa might come in search of her, but although she stood looking down into the enclosed garden for another ten minutes she was not disturbed. There was no sign of life in the
patio
beneath her windows nor in the garden beyond where a riot of flowers blazed beneath the trees in the bright sunlight. There would be no harm in her going down, she felt, to enjoy the last of the sun and sit for a while on one of the narrow stone benches under the trees.

When she reached the hall she saw that the
sal
o
n
door was open and for a moment she hesitated.

‘It is unfortunate that she is so young, so very near Teresa’s own age.’

The Marquesa’s voice floated out to her, and suddenly she was standing stiffly in the centre of the hall waiting for the reply to the old lady’s remark.

‘More than unfortunate,’ Don Jaime returned. ‘I feel that it might even prove disastrous, but we have no time to change our minds now.’

He was standing just inside the
sal
o
n
door, and Catherine knew that she had to escape. Otherwise, she felt that they would be involved in an angry exchange which would do nothing to resolve the situation and could prove completely embarrassing. She had already made her offer to return to England immediately, an offer which the Marquesa had rejected, saying that she must be given a fair trial and, after all, she was in the old lady’s employment and not her grandson’s. She decided to ignore Don Jaime, although that might be very hard to do. Cautiously she turned back towards the staircase.

‘Ah, Miss Royce,’ he said, coming to the open door. ‘Were you about to join us?’

‘No.’ She swung round to meet his mocking smile. ‘I was looking for Teresa. I thought she might be in the garden.’

He did not believe her; the mockery was still in his eyes, accusing her of eavesdropping.

‘I did hear what you said,’ she told him bluntly, an angry colour rising into her cheeks, ‘but I can’t see that it makes much difference. You are not my employer, and I will do my best for the Marquesa. That way I feel justified in staying here for the time being.’

‘It is as you wish,’ he acknowledged briefly, ‘and as my grandmother desires. She has decided to try you out and I will look after the books you have so thoughtfully consigned by rail for your future use.’ He looked at her long and searchingly. ‘You do know, of course, that you will not be living in Madrid for any length of time. This is not Teresa’s home.’

‘Oh! I thought—’

‘It was no more than an accommodation address till we settled the problem of her further education,’ he went on to explain as distantly as before. ‘Teresa has been long enough in Madrid.’

Catherine had to keep reminding herself that he was Teresa’s guardian, yet he had allowed her to believe that the Marquesa was her true employer.

‘My grandmother goes south, to Andalusia, for the summer months and Teresa and I return to Soria. My work is there, not in Madrid.’

‘I had no idea.’ A fleeting memory of the equestrian statue pictured in her father’s book flashed across her mind, the man on horseback with the look of conquest in his eyes, a man so like Don Jaime de Berceo Madroza as to seem uncannily the same. Yet she had never seen him seated on a horse. On the contrary, he still wore the immaculate light grey suit which made him look every inch the conventional Spanish business man, and his thick dark hair was sleeked back closely against his head. No helmet, no plume, no lance grasped firmly in those shapely hands! She smiled faintly at the thought. ‘Of course I understood we would be staying in Madrid,’ she added carefully, ‘but it really doesn’t matter where we live. I thought Teresa might be going to university here.’

‘Eventually, if we can dissuade her from taking up a career as a dancer,’ he said.

So he did know about Teresa’s secret ambition and firmly disapproved of it on principle.

‘Perhaps that is where her real talent lies,’ she suggested impulsively.

‘If I thought so we would consider it more seriously,’ he decided. ‘Teresa, at the moment, doesn’t know what she wants. Miss Royce. She is young and volatile and sometimes very foolish when she imagines that she has the bit between her teeth. It is nothing new in our family, I assure you, but while I am responsible for her welfare I must be sure that she conforms to a reasonable code. My grandmother thinks that she should be encouraged to go on with her formal education until she is quite sure what she wants to do.’

‘And you don’t really consider sixteen to be the age of discretion?’

‘In your county it may be so, but in Spain it is not so long ago that emancipation was never spoken about. Girls did as they were told, and although I don’t believe in them living in seclusion until they are old enough to be married, they had very little experience of freedom. Sixteen is too young an age to loosen the parental grip altogether. You can see that I take my responsibilities fairly seriously,’ he added, ‘although you may not agree with my methods.’

She was forced to smile.

‘I have no right to criticise,’ she conceded.

‘So we are in agreement in that respect, at least.’ He led the way towards the
patio
door. ‘I dare say you will find Teresa outside at this hour. She likes to walk the dog.’

Teresa came in by the door in the wall as Catherine turned along the garden path. She was leading a small dog which seemed to be a cross between a poodle and a dachshund and she looked dishevelled, although there was very little wind.

‘I’ve been to the park,’ she explained. ‘Ferdi doesn’t get enough exercise shut up in the house most of the day, and besides’—she lowered her voice—‘I meet people I can really talk to. If my family had their way I would only meet the people they know—their sons and daughters— and they are mostly stuffy intellectuals who talk of nothing but politics or art or what they will do when it becomes too hot to stay in Madrid.’

Some sort of chemistry was developing between them. Catherine, who felt half sorry for Teresa and wished to understand her point of view, could already feel it, although she knew that it would be dangerous to encourage the younger girl’s rebellion against the present situation or even to advise her until she actually asked for some sort of direction.

‘I thought you liked Madrid,’ she said instead.

‘Sometimes I wish I could stay here all the time,’ Teresa confessed, letting Ferdi off the lead, ‘but even if I do come back to university I would only be here during the term. Even that would be better than it is now,’ she mused, swinging round to face Catherine in the fading light. ‘You know what’s going to happen, of course? We are to be packed off to the
hacienda
to vegetate there all summer. I have been too long in Madrid for everyone’s liking!’

Something pathetic about the impassioned declaration touched Catherine in a sensitive spot.