Dancing in the Shadows (5 page)

Dorcas countered: ‘Isabel will be a very lucky girl. I will think of her in her mountainside home, surrounded by so many beautiful things, when I am back in cold, rain splashed England.'

‘So you know about Isabel! I like you, Dorcas. I like the polite way you put an interfering old woman in her place. I've always spoken my mind, and few have dared to answer back. Isabel Roca is not right for my grandson. I can reduce Isabel to a shivering heap with just one look.'

‘How barbarous!' said Dorcas, forgetting herself.

Her rash reply did not cause offence, and even tempted a slight smile.

‘It is our heritage. We have been captured by barbarians so many times that this streak of cruelty runs in our blood. Do you like my grandson?'

‘You have a fine collection of porcelain, señora,' Dorcas said, pointedly turning the subject.

*
* *

It was time for them to leave. Doña Madelena told Dorcas: ‘You must come and see me again, child.'

‘I would like that.' Dorcas kissed a cheek that was surprisingly smooth, with little hope that she would be able to keep her promise.

‘It will be,' said the old señora, confidently squeezing Dorcas's fingers.

* * *

‘You made a hit with Grandmother,' said Carlos, when they were on their way.

‘Yes.' Dorcas surreptitiously wiped a tear away with her fingers. It had worked both ways. Carlos's grandmother had made a hit with her.

‘I admire the way you stood up to her. People have been known to faint when she fixes them with that eye of hers. She is a barbed-tongued old aristocrat with a dash of the devil in her soul.'

‘Carlos Ruiz, that's a horrid thing to say and totally untrue. You don't deserve such a dear, sweet, kind . . .' She stopped. The adjectives didn't fit. But that wasn't her main reason for breaking off. A thought had just struck her. She took it up.

‘You must have been listening. I only stood up to your grandmother once, and that was
during
a supposedly private conversation. When you were with us, my conduct was exemplary.'

‘If you must know, Grandmother told me.' There was an essence of teasing in his smile. ‘She said, “Yes, my grandson, you were right” '

Dorcas frowned. There wasn't another remark he could have flung at her so guaranteed to pique her curiosity. He's daring me to ask him to explain, she thought. Well I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing that I'm curious to my toenails. She averted her chin from the mocking speculation of his gaze.

He pulled the car into the side of the road and switched off the engine. He then turned her face with his hand. ‘I shouldn't spar with you, however much I enjoy it. Not while you are still so weak. I'm taking an unfair advantage.'

‘Men do,' she said.

‘What do you know about men?'

He took both her hands in his. The conciliatory gesture dampened the fire of her anger, and stoked up another fire. ‘Enough.' She modified: ‘Enough to put me on my guard now.'

She could not stay annoyed with Carlos while her hands were cherished within his, neither could she stop the pulse in her wrist responding to his touch. He held her hands captive, but it was her heart she feared for.

In her awkwardness and confusion, the
words
she never meant to say leapt impetuously from her tongue. ‘What did you say about me to your grandmother that made her reply the way she did?'

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘If you really want to know, I told my grandmother that she would meet her match in you. She told me I was right. Would you like to know what she said to me after that?'

‘Not really.'

‘I'm going to tell you, just the same. She told me that I too had met my match.'

‘What a silly thing to say.'

‘Wasn't it,' he said annoyingly. ‘But then, women do say silly things.'

‘Of course, you have a vast knowledge of women.'

‘Enough,' he said, without modification.

Dorcas sat up very straight. After a pause, long enough to accommodate a mental count of ten, she said: ‘There is something I would like to make absolutely clear.'

‘Yes?' He looked more amused than apprehensive.

‘I am not returning with you voluntarily to your home. Circumstance has put me in the invidious position of having no alternative.' And don't you dare laugh at that, she thought, clenching and unclenching her taut fingers.

He did not laugh. On the contrary, a frown shuttered his expression. ‘I am sorry you find it so painful. It does not please me to bend you
against
your will. That is the last thing I would want to do.'

Just before he closed his eyes, as if the bright light pained him, Dorcas saw a look there she had never seen before. Tenderness? Perhaps. And something else she did not dare to analyse. Up to that moment she had been in full control of herself. To her disgust, his glance slit through her resolve to expose her vulnerability. She was glad he closed his eyes. He could not see that her hands were trembling and that her eyes were filled with tears.

She knew she had said it all wrong. She was prickly and gauche in the ways of men. Her grandmother had frequently told her she was an awkward girl, completely without charm. ‘You should take a leaf out of Michael's book,' Dorcas had been told on countless occasions. But Michael had influenced by flattery and bewitched by whatever flowery falsehood he could lay his tongue to. If this was charm, then she wanted no part of it. She did not regret not having her brother's false tongue, but in that misunderstood and painful silence, she wished she possessed the gift of simple eloquence.

They ate the picnic lunch Carlos's grandmother had thoughtfully provided. Conversation was desultory, and the food stuck in Dorcas's throat.

‘I did not mean to sound ungracious,' she said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘I
know. It's all right, Dorcas.'

He lingered over saying her name. Without looking at his face she knew his expression had softened towards her.

‘It's just that . . .' She shrugged helplessly. It was blissfully clear in her head. She knew what she wanted to say, but the words would not form. She had apologized. He had accepted her apology. It would have to stand at that.

‘Come,' said Carlos at length. ‘We should make a move.' This time, instead of unlawfully entering the curly wrought-iron gates, her suitcase bumping against her legs, she arrived at the Villa Serena, an honoured and welcome guest.

Enrique Ruiz came down the terrace steps to greet her. His beard brushed the back of her hand, and his eyes spoke a welcome before the extravagant words fell from his lips. ‘My house is your house. Come.'

He took her arm to guide her up the steps to where his wife stood, one hand-made shoe of grey suede tapping the blue-grey tiles.

‘Welcome to Villa Serena,' said Rose Ruiz. Although her greeting was as warm as her husband's, Dorcas sensed, because it wasn't apparent to the ear, a holding back. The eyes briefly transferred to her son had clouded depths. Yet nothing clouded the compassion in her voice as she said: ‘You look tired, Dorcas. The drive has stolen the colour from your cheeks.' Rose Ruiz continued to talk, making
comforting,
welcoming noises that melted into the ice of Dorcas's reserve. Dorcas disclosed, on kindly probing, that they had eaten, but yes she would love a cup of tea. The conversation was conducted in English, but a cup of tea said welcome in any language.

The tea was served with cakes and pastries. To be polite, Dorcas selected a biscuit which left a lingering taste of honey in her mouth. There was an underlying taste, a tangy sharpness that Dorcas could not make out. And it was the same with Rose Ruiz's manner. She was very sweet . . . and yet.

Carlos was talking now. In making a point, his hand came to rest, not sensually but in friendly familiarity, on Dorcas's shoulder. She had a sudden craving to turn her cheek into his hand. Her shoulder and his hand were in delicious harmony and she wanted to draw in every last drop of comfort.

A teacup rattled against a saucer. Rose Ruiz's eyes were concentrated on her in a look of such fixed intensity that Dorcas's cheeks turned pink. Something jumped between them. Rose Ruiz set her cup down. Her fingers shook and Dorcas saw that she had splashed some tea on her skirt.

‘Would you like to rest in your room before dinner, Dorcas?' The slight edge in her voice did not deprive it of kindness and nobody but Dorcas seemed to notice her agitation.

Dorcas replied gratefully: ‘I would, please.
How
kind of you to know.' Still dwelling on the thought of kindness, she said: ‘Thank you for providing me with these lovely clothes. I seem to be causing a great deal of trouble.'

Before Rose Ruiz could make the appropriate answer, Enrique Ruiz stepped in to say: ‘You could never be a trouble, my dear. As for the suit you are wearing, I'm not sure whom I should compliment. My wife for having the good taste to choose it, or yourself for looking so attractive in it.'

‘Anyone would look attractive in this suit,' Dorcas replied sedately.

‘You are too modest, Dorcas,' Rose Ruiz told her. ‘I did not choose that suit. Carlos did,' she admitted, forestalling the question on Dorcas's lips.

‘Did you?' said Dorcas, her eyes swinging back to Carlos in surprise.

The spontaneity of her delight found its twin in his eye. And more. The warmth she read smoothed out her nervously twisting fingers. It wrapped her in sympathetic understanding and made it easy for her to sparkle a big ‘Thank you' up at him.

His return smile encompassed his gratification. She felt a deep wave of relief because they were still friends. Deeper friends than they would normally have been because of his vigil by her bed in hospital. Something stirred in her memory, but it slid away again as Rose Ruiz said:

‘If
you are ready, Dorcas?'

As Rose Ruiz conducted her to her room, Dorcas managed to look around. The feeling was of space and tranquillity. A predominance of white walls and grey-blue floors. Occasional touches of old gold and rose pink, with the odd splash of crimson. Restful, but not dull. The residence of a Spanish gentleman only lightly influenced by his English bride. Don Enrique's English Rose had obviously slotted into the Spanish way of life and had not tried to imprint her own strong personality, at least not on any of the public rooms.

Even though Dorcas was dragging her feet with tiredness, she had to stop for entrancing seconds to admire the beauty of a mosaic floor, and to let her eye climb a pillar to a frieze depicting chivalrous deeds from the pages of Spain's long and turbulent history. The wide, cool hall was hung with tapestries showing scenes from Don Quixote; in the courtyard beyond, water from a fountain splashed into a smooth marble basin.

A finely scrolled staircase led to a gallery where family portraits looked down at Dorcas with haughty expressions and living eyes. At least three were obviously by the hand of the same painter. He had put on canvas not only the features but the characters of his subjects. Or so it seemed to Dorcas. Here and there were paintings of notable scenes and places by famous Spanish painters. She thought she
spotted
a Velázquez. Another painting had the harsh colouring and distortion of shapes in the style of El Greco. There was time to be spent here in pleasant discovery. But later. Now she was being shown into the room that was to be hers.

Once again the walls were white to complement the rich dark wood of the furniture, which was almost the colour of purple grapes. A
vargueño
stood in the corner, its two doors hung vertically and it stood on bun feet. Crimson rugs splashed the floor, resembling giant paeony heads.

Rose Ruiz adjusted the shutters to show Dorcas the birdcage balcony. And, crossing the room again, opened a door to reveal the luxury of a private bathroom.

‘I think you will be comfortable,' she said in amazing understatement. It looked like heaven to Dorcas. ‘When you have rested, I will send Teresa along to introduce herself. She is very young, but during the time she has been with us she has acquitted herself well. She will look after you nicely.'

‘Thank you, señora.'

Rose Ruiz inclined her handsome head and her lips closed on a gentle smile. ‘Later we will talk.' She adjusted the shutters again so that the light filtered meagrely into the room.

Dorcas took off her trouser suit and watched her hostess hang it in the wardrobe. It looked very forlorn, all by itself. Forlorn was
how
Dorcas felt as she crept into bed. Bewildered, used up—no reserves of strength left to carry her through an uncertain future.

Rose Ruiz went. Dorcas slept. To dream.

In her dream she was walking in the gallery, beneath the stately portraits of the long-dead Ruizs. Steely fingers thrust themselves out of the frames, and the picture people passed her from one to the other, hustling her down the stairs and through the stout outer door which slammed shut with such a violent bang that Dorcas woke up. She was trembling and her sleep-flushed cheeks were wet with tears.

‘Oh, señorita! The wind got behind the door and made it bang. I'm sorry. I did not mean to wake you.' Two frightened eyes peeped at Dorcas. ‘The señorita's clothes have just arrived and I thought I might very quietly steal in and unpack them as a surprise for when the señorita woke up. Only . . .'

‘My clothes!' said Dorcas, at once vitally awake. ‘You mean my suitcase has been recovered, Teresa? It is Teresa, isn't it?'

The little maid blinked back her surprise that she wasn't going to be scolded for waking her mistress, and bobbed a curtsy that nearly sent the boxes in her arms toppling to the floor.

Dorcas's knowledge of Spanish was not good enough to take in every word, but she managed to get the gist of what Teresa was saying. Her suitcase had been pronounced
irretrievably
lost in the wreckage. The clothes, in their fine boxes, had been ordered from an exclusive fashion shop in Madrid.