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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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Antonio said, “My father spent the last few years of his life compiling information about my family's history. The library here is a treasure trove—although nothing has been categorized or filed. I have only just begun to delve into his files and notes.”
Cass met his intense hazel eyes one more time. She hesitated, and said, slowly, “How old were you when he died?”
“Four.”
Cass had thought that was what he had said before. “How did he die?” Her heartbeat was so loud now. Surely everyone in the room could hear it. And her tension was so high she was sweating buckets. Of course, should anyone notice, they'd think it the summer heat.
“It was a tragic accident,” he said as slowly. “He was hit by a car.”
Cass nodded, feeling like a liar and an accomplice. Relief almost swamped her. She should have never tested him to see what he knew.
“Actually,” Antonio said, his tone oddly casual, “I went to the
policia
the other day.”
Cass blinked at him, praying she had misheard. “What?”
“Returning here made me more than curious,” he said, and now his gaze was on her, green and amber and golden, pupils black and wide. “I wanted to understand how it happened. You see”—he did not smile, but continued to regard her with such intensity that Cass was breathless—“my mother would never speak of him after his death. Not even of the accident. She was very bitter.”
Cass thought she managed to bob her head up and down in the
parody of a nod. Of course his mother would have been bitter—if she had learned about her husband's affair with Cass's aunt.
“There was a woman with him there, that day, the day that he died.”
Cass froze. Incapable of movement, of taking a gulp of air, of anything at all. And she thought, No.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “It was Lady Belford. Your aunt was with him when he died. In fact, he died in her arms.”
The faces leered at her, grotesquely altered by memories and the passage of time. But she knew them, she did. Eduardo, his two sons, his wife. And Isabel …
Catherine woke up with a cry. And for one instant she did not know where she was, for one instant she thought she was somewhere cold and frightening and dark, and the sickly sweet scent of violets was everywhere.
But then her eyes adjusted to the dimming daylight and she made out the familiar outlines of her bedroom—a room that had been her sanctuary ever since she had first come to Belford House as a very young, naive bride. She had been dreaming about the past, a haunting nightmare she had not had in decades, but which she now had every night since that damnable black-tie affair. She sat up, pushing off the covers, still trembling and breathless.
And when she finally stood, filled with sorrow and stricken with fear, she glimpsed her ravaged reflection in the mirror across the room and she was shocked by her appearance. She was no longer the young, beautiful girl with stars in her eyes who had wed a much older man; she was no longer the mature, self-assured woman who had made a terribly immoral choice, then committed an unspeakable crime. Nor was she the elegant, older woman hiding an unbearable secret who was aunt, mother, and great-aunt to her nieces and grandniece. Suddenly she was old and ancient beyond description.
Eduardo's favorite saying rang in her ears, so much so that she could
hear his patrician voice with its tantalizing foreign accent.
What is past is prologue.
How often had he told her that?
She thought about Tracey and Eduardo's son, and tears ran down her cheeks.
There was a desk in the corner of her room. Catherine slowly made her way toward it, aware now of being chilled through and through, in spite of the fire that blazed in the hearth, in spite of the heavy wool robe she wore. At her desk she eased herself down into one of the Louis XV chairs, and then she reached for the phone.
“Lady Belford! What are you up to, out of bed, roaming about, with you as weak as a newborn kitten?” Celia cried from the doorway.
She was as weak as a newborn kitten, and Catherine closed her eyes, wondering what Celia's reaction would be if she told her the truth, as she had told Cass. Catherine was never going to forget the look on her niece's face when she had confessed to Eduardo's murder. The look had been one of disbelief—followed by shock, and horror.
The very same look had been on Eduardo's face, in those last seconds when he realized what she had done and that he was dying.
Celia had come over and Catherine looked up. “Call the airlines. Book flights for me. I must go to Spain.”
Celia was astonished—justifiably so. “Lady Belford! No disrespect intended, but I must speak my mind!”
Catherine thought, wearily,
When ever have you not spoken your mind?
Celia had come to work for her shortly after Robert's terrible stroke.
“You have been very ill, and now is not the time to go traipsing off after your nieces and Alyssa. Trust me. All will be fine.”
Catherine felt far older than her seventy years just then, but she had always been a strong woman, and she drew on all of her strength now. “I am going to Spain. Even if that is what she wants. And either you shall book my flights, as well as a driver, or I shall. I will leave—as soon as possible.”
Celia gaped at her.
Catherine finally looked up.
And Celia must have seen the resolve in her eyes, because she grimaced. “At least the fever is gone,” she said. “I'll make the calls from another room, then.” And as she walked out, Catherine heard her grumbling to herself.
Catherine did not care.
She was old, and now she knew she was going to die much sooner
rather than later. Because the past was prologue, and she was going to Spain, to prevent the very worst from happening, to save her family. And no one was going to stop her, not loyal Celia, not the
policía,
and not a woman who had been dead for 445 years.
May 3, 1966
 
These past weeks have been the most exciting of my life. Eduardo and I have worked side by side without interruption, piecing together the puzzle of Isabel de Warenne's life. I have come to admire him immensely. Eduardo is brilliant, but unlike many brilliant men passionately devoted to their careers, he has never sacrificed his family for his work. However, I begin to suspect that his wife fails to understand him as she should. Having met her several times, including recently for a lunch we all shared, I begin to feel that she is jealous of our relationship.
It is a shame. She has nothing to be jealous of. Eduardo and I have become close friends in our pursuit of Isabel de Warenne, but nothing more.
I understand him too well. A liaison is as foreign to him as a language like Chinese. And even though Robert and I have not had relations since the stroke, nor could I live with myself if I took a lover.
Together we have accomplished more than he ever could alone, or with the help of one of his students. We have over one thousand pages of documented notes.
He has invited me to his home in Castilla. To Casa de Sueños, where Isabel's husband once lived—where she, perhaps, also lived. I am aware that I should have refused, because of Maria. But how could I refuse? When I cannot wait to set foot in his home, when every instinct I have tells me that the answers we seek lie there?
As I write this most recent entry, my plane is descending, about to land in Madrid. In a few more hours, I will be in Castilla. I am as impatient as a young girl. I just cannot wait. Our first order of business, we have decided, is to explore the family crypt in the hope of finally locating Isabel's tomb.
Cass closed the dusty armoire, which creaked in protest, and smiled at Alyssa. “Ready for that siesta?” she asked. They had just finished unpacking a portion of their things. For Cass, the task had been performed almost mindlessly. Antonio's words continued to ring in her ears, and all she could think was,
What does he know?
Did he know anything at all other than the fact that her aunt had been with Eduardo when he died? Surely he did not suspect that foul play had befallen his father? But why else would he have responded—and looked at her—the way that he had?
“I am really tired,” Alyssa admitted.
Cass propelled her toward the bed, in a state of exhaustion herself. Most of it, she knew, was emotional. “While you nap, I'm going to explore this house,” she said. She felt compelled to locate Isabel's portrait. But what should she do about Antonio now that he knew—or suspected—that her aunt was involved in his father's death?
What could she do, other than react to whatever he threw out next?
Alyssa paused, not climbing onto the high bed. “Aunt Cass, I don't want to stay here alone.”
Cass had to face her niece. But even as she did so, she could sense what was coming. The bedroom had a dark and uncomfortable feeling to it. “Why not?”
Alyssa folded her arms across her flat chest. “I don't really like this room,” she said slowly.
Cass met her gaze. And she couldn't help glancing around their bedroom. It was a charming room. She knew that. But it was so unbearably still inside.
Suddenly she realized that she wasn't really thrilled with leaving Alyssa alone in the room, either.
“This place is too old, it's creepy,” Alyssa whispered, not moving to get into bed.
Cass looked at her, then scanned the room. She had partially opened the four sets of draperies, and even though it was almost seven in the evening, bright sunlight was streaming into the room. Through the parted curtains she could glimpse the stark terrain stretching away from the house. She could even make out the castle's twin towers. On the
other side of the room, there were views of the courtyard and the opposite wing of the house. And while the room and the furnishings were old, everything was undeniably beautiful. Except … except what?
Something just wasn't right, something was amiss. The whole house was so still and dark and cold. It was almost as if the house was just waiting for something to happen.
Which was absurd.
Cass scanned the room again. Her gaze landed on the portrait hanging over the fireplace, and she tensed immediately. Isabel de Warenne's husband did not appear to be a pleasant man. His face was stern and set; Cass had little doubt he had been both a difficult and a narrowminded man. It was his portrait that was disturbing, she decided. He was disturbing.
Alyssa followed her gaze. “He's creepy. He looks like a mean man.”
Cass patted her head. “Honey, I couldn't agree more, but it's only a painting.” Poor Isabel. Cass shivered. However had she managed to marry Alvarado? Their cultural and religious differences alone would have doomed the marriage, much less the nature of his personality.
Cass shivered again.
“Can't I come with you?” Alyssa asked, a plea in her tone.
“No.” Cass was quietly firm. “Jump into bed, and I'll be right back.” She dismissed her apprehensions as ridiculous. “We are both overtired,” she said. “That is all.”
Alyssa's face was filled with anxiety as she did as Cass asked. Cass removed the covers, except for a gold sheet. And she stroked Alyssa's hair, just once. “I'll open the windows. Maybe there's an evening breeze.”
Cass opened two windows. When she turned, her niece was soundly asleep.
The sight of the sleeping child made her smile, love welling up inside her breast. Thank God she had come to Spain to join Tracey and Alyssa. Thank God they were through the worst. Cass knew she would have to do something to make sure an incident like this one never happened again. But what?
Fight her sister for Alyssa.
Cass should be Alyssa's mother. Tracey did not deserve to be the mother of her own child.
Cass froze.
She was stunned. How could she have had such terrible thoughts? Where had such thoughts come from?
She had never contemplated taking Alyssa away from Tracey. Because in spite of how difficult Tracey could be, in spite of how irresponsible and inconsistent, she was Alyssa's mother. And she was also her sister and Cass loved her. Cass never wanted to hurt her. They were family, for God's sake.
Cass turned away, frightened, wishing she had never identified her thoughts. And as she left the room, unease pricked at her again. For some damn reason, she hated leaving Alyssa alone.
She turned back, hesitating. But sunlight was streaming into the room, dust motes drifted in the air, and Alyssa was smiling slightly as she slept. Cass turned away.
In the corridor, Cass paused. Tracey had been given a bedroom next to the bathroom they would share, and her door was solidly closed. Cass didn't know whether her sister was inside, and she didn't really care. She suspected Tracey and Antonio would do a lot of bed-hopping because of the need for separate rooms—which Tracey hadn't seemed particularly happy about. It wasn't her business what they did behind everyone's backs, and she refused to dwell on it.
She wanted to see Isabel's portrait. In fact, the more time this weekend she spent brooding over Isabel, the less time she would be able to contemplate her sister's relationship with Antonio. He had said the painting was on the other side of the house.
Cass walked quietly down the corridor to the spacious landing on top of the stairs. She found the opposite hallway, which ran parallel to the one she had just been in. All of the doors lining the hall were closed; one side of the corridor had windows overlooking the balcony above the courtyard. As Cass walked down it, she was disappointed, because there were no paintings hanging anywhere at all. Had she misunderstood?
Someone stepped out of the shadows.
Cass cried out—but it was only Tracey. She had just stepped out of a room, and like Cass, she was startled. Then Tracey said, with some anger, “You frightened me! What are you doing prowling around up here?”
Cass's own heart beat too rapidly; she had practically jumped out of her skin. “You also gave me a fright,” she said. “I'm exploring.”
Tracey eyed her, coming closer, still in her miniskirt and tiny top but barefoot, her hair down. It was disheveled. “Outside of Antonio's bedroom?” she asked pointedly.
Cass stood utterly still. She realized then what Tracey had been up to with their host, but really didn't want it shoved in her face and down
her throat. Being there with them was hard enough. “I was hoping to find Isabel's portrait.”
“Right,” Tracey said, reaching into the pocket of her skirt and withdrawing a cigarette pack and a lighter. “Right.” She lit up.
Cass felt her frayed temper flare even as she tried to tell herself to walk away until she was well rested; no good could come of this conversation, and the weekend had only just begun. “At least you waited until your daughter was asleep,” she heard herself say. And the moment she spoke, she regretted it.
Tracey stepped closer. “Don't judge me.” And for one instant, the light in her blue eyes was utterly hateful.
Cass was so shocked by the hatred she saw that she stepped instinctively backward. And when she blinked, Tracey was standing there, looking annoyed and put off, but there was no hatred on her face, no vehemence in her eyes. Cass realized she was shaking. Had she just seen what she had thought she'd seen, or had she imagined it? “I'm not judging you,” she said carefully. “I don't care what you do. As long as it doesn't impact on Alyssa.”
“Of course. My daughter. My daughter and Saint Cassandra.” Tracey crossed her arms tightly, still clenching the cigarette.
Cass stiffened. “Let's not fight. It's been a hellishly long day. We're both tired—”
“Crap!” Tracey said, tapping her foot. “What is wrong with wanting to make
love
? Especially when you're in love? I am sick to death of your holier-than-thou attitude! I just can't take it anymore!”
Cass recoiled. It was a moment before she could speak. “I don't want to fight, I didn't come here to fight—”
“No, you came here to drive us to the country.”
Cass blinked. She fought her base instincts, and lost. “Actually, I came here to rescue you from the crisis of being stuck at the Ritz for the weekend.”
Tracey smiled. “Saint Cassandra to the rescue. Always doing what is right.”
“I'm hardly perfect—in any way,” Cass said, trying to keep her tone calm. “But I hate to say this, I am not the one with the attitude. I am not the one holding a grudge. I came here hoping to put that horrible fight behind us. Why can't we do that?”
Tracey inhaled with anger on her cigarette. “Is that what you really want?”
“Of course,” Cass said automatically, but her earlier thoughts echoed in her mind—she could fight her sister for Alyssa … Tracey did not deserve to be the mother of her own child.
And then there was Antonio. Why should Tracey have him, too?
Cass didn't want that last thought, didn't want to even admit to it, face it, or anything else, but it loomed large, uncontrollable in her mind. Her heart sank. She was unable to control her own mind, her own feelings, and it was frightening.
“I think you came here for another reason entirely,” Tracey said flatly, exhaling a plume of smoke upward into the air.
Cass was still. “Really? Well, whatever you are thinking, it is wrong.”
“Why were you really up here, then?” Tracey pressed. “And don't tell me after all of the driving we did today, you came upstairs to look at some moldy old painting! Could it be that you were in search of Antonio?”
Cass felt her heart lurching. “You're nuts,” she finally said.
Tracey stepped closer, her eyes intent on Cass's face. “Your feelings are obvious. Every time you look at him, it's obvious. You are going to embarrass yourself, Cass.” And it was a warning with too many layers to count.
Cass stared, dismayed and becoming angry. “I don't have feelings for him.”
“You eat him up alive with your eyes. Every time he looks at you, you blush! Talk about being gaga over a guy!” Tracey realized her cigarette was about to burn her fingertips. She hesitated, glancing around, but there was no ashtray there in the middle of the hall. She carefully stubbed it out on the baseboard. Cass could only stare.
Her ears were ringing. Her face was burning. The truth hurt.
“Cass.” Tracey straightened, her tone calmer. “Do you really think all of your babbling about that Isabel de Warenne will snare him?” She shook her head. “You might entertain him, but that's about it. He's the man I intend to marry and I love him. But you're my sister, and I care about you, too. And I don't want to see you hurt, or making a fool of yourself. I mean, your feelings are really obvious, and Antonio is hardly stupid.”
Cass shifted, feeling as if she had just been blindsided. “Thanks for the advice, sis,” she managed stiffly. “But I'm not interested in your boyfriend, not that way. I find him brilliant as a scholar, period. I know I'm not his type. Just like I know he's yours.”
“I think I'll take that siesta now,” Tracey said. Her look was meaningful. “I'm exhausted.”
Cass folded her arms and stared. Thinking, Okay,
rub
it
in—you
bitch.
And then she recoiled, and although the physical act was to step back and away from her sister, her horror was directed at herself. She had felt such a surge of hostility and vehemence toward her own sister that it had almost been like hatred.
What was happening to her?
How could this be happening?
It was happening because Antonio de la Barca stood between them. Just as Catherine had warned.
“Coming?” Tracey asked, with a brief smile—as if their entire conversation had never occurred.
And suddenly Cass found herself walking down the corridor with her sister. She felt dazed, numb. And she couldn't help wondering, what if her aunt was right?
“You know, Cass, if you don't mind some more advice, I think you need to get laid.” Tracey was cheerful.
Cass looked at her, even more dumbfounded. Had she just heard what she thought she'd heard? “What?”
“I don't know how anybody could live the way you do,” Tracey said, very pleasantly. “You know, Spanish men are something. They really are. Why don't you have an affair while you're here? It would be good for you, I can guarantee it.” She smiled.

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