Indiscretion Page 10

  ‘Even if he did steal,’ Alexandra cut in, her eyes flashing, ‘no offence gives you the right to carry on so contemptibly. I don’t know what rules govern this estate but in England you’d be dismissed for far less.’

  The youth was huddling by a tree, his swollen and bleeding face rendered almost unrecognizable by the blows. Looking more closely, she saw that he was one of the stable boys she’d noticed working with old Miguel, the head gardener and stableman.

  ‘Go and fetch help,’ she ordered curtly. ‘We’ll take him to the house.’

  Again, the smile from Lopez did not reach his eyes.‘No te preocupes, don’t worry yourself. Let me deal with this. I’ll take him to his family. They live on this land, not far from here. Besides, as I said before, Pablo is a bad lad and it’s not the first time he’s been in trouble.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll accompany you then.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Doña Alexandra,’ Lopez replied, and made as if to start hauling the boy to his feet. ‘I wouldn’t want to put you to any more trouble.’

  ‘But I insist,’ she said dryly, glancing at Pablo, who was still cowering on the ground.

  The estate manager paused, narrowing his eyes, and gave a grudging nod. ‘Just as you wish, señorita.’

  Alexandra motioned to indicate that he should carry the boy. Reluctantly, Lopez bent down and picked up the lad, who groaned painfully.

  They left the shade of the lemon trees, following the avenue of sycamores, and turned into the sunken lane, retracing Alexandra’s footsteps. Finally, they stopped in front of the picturesque white cottage capped with mimosa.

  ‘Consuelo! Marujita!’ Fernando Lopez called out in a surly voice.

  The older of the two women appeared at the doorway, hands on hips.

  ‘Hey, not so loud,’ she exclaimed, ‘you’ll wake the baby.’ Suddenly aware that the estate manager was carrying her son, she rushed to the boy, her hands to her mouth, muffling the cry that died on her lips.

  ‘Pablo, Pablo, mi hijo, my child! Santa María, how did he get into such a state?’ she wailed.

  Standing unnoticed, well behind Lopez, Alexandra couldn’t make out the man’s answer. Marujita ran up now, alarmed by her mother’s cries. The trio and their burden disappeared inside the house and, for a moment, she wondered if she should wait to check that the steward made no further trouble for the boy but decided, given her intervention, that was unlikely. He wouldn’t dare risk her anger again. For the second time that morning, Alexandra started back to El Pavón, her thoughts disturbed by what she’d seen.

  Her relations with Fernando Lopez had already got off to a shaky start. She had no doubt this incident would damage them further. Lopez was clearly a cruel and dangerous man. He had seemed to enjoy hurting the boy; Alexandra had sensed that he was almost enacting some sick fantasy; she shivered. People like that ought to be locked up. She must have a word with her father.

  * * *

  As the afternoon slipped into early evening, Alexandra sat in her wide pedestal bath, immersed in the comforting warmth of the hot water, freshly run by Sarita and scented with homemade flower oils. She played absent-mindedly with the soapy foam on her sponge. The time of the ball was growing closer and, with every minute, a strange excitement built up inside her. Only a few hours away from discovering the identity of the mysterious stranger, this so-called Conde, she had to admit she was intrigued. She closed her eyes. The recollection of the deep tone of his voice sent a pleasant sensation rippling down her spine. Her writer’s fantasy was conjuring up all sorts of situations for their imminent meeting.

  Then something more than romantic fancy unsettled her, and the stranger from the church once more intruded into her thoughts. She could feel his soft grey gaze on her again, melancholy yet probing in a way that had stirred her inexplicably, and the prickling sensation in her spine intensified, moving lower, making her muscles clench deeper inside.

  After wiping the wet sponge over her face, she opened her eyes. It was a shocking realization that no sooner had she set foot on Spanish soil than two men were occupying her fantasies. She had inherited her looks from her mother; perhaps she had inherited some wayward streak from her too, she wondered. Had she been so deprived of romance back in England that the attentions of both these strangers had made her lose control? After all, Latin men were famous for their effusive, flamboyantly romantic ways. Silly girl, she chided herself, you’re acting like an unsophisticated teenager.

  A knock on the door startled her. She rose, dripping, from her bath, wrapped herself hastily in a large pink towel and went to answer it. Standing in the doorway was Agustina, her grandmother’s chambermaid.

  ‘Her Grace the Duquesa has sent me to help you with your costume.’

  ‘How kind of Grandmother,’ said Alexandra. ‘You’ve come at the right time, I couldn’t possibly have managed my hair by myself,’ she smiled.

  The maid laughed. ‘I should think not! Agustina will handle it.’

  Alexandra had seen Agustina on the first day when the housekeeper had given Doña María Dolores her medicine, and often after that in the dark corridors of the house, but she had never paid much attention to her. She was a matronly woman in her fifties, handsome, with the golden-brown skin and large dark eyes so typical of the women of her country. Agustina had undoubtedly been a great beauty in her youth. Her hair, black and shiny like a raven’s wing, was strewn with a scattering of silver threads and was drawn back into a large chignon, held at the nape of her neck by a net and a wide tortoiseshell comb. Her black frock was of heavy silk that rustled when she moved; a stiff white collar and a starched apron trimmed with lace brightened up the rather austere outfit. She smiled frequently, as she was doing now, showing off two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. There was an intelligence in that face and Alexandra could well understand why her grandmother had appointed Agustina as her personal servant. She followed her to the dressing table and sat down.

  ‘I’m going to give your hair Agustina’s special treatment,’ the duenna said, picking up the brush and running her fingers through Alexandra’s copper mane. ‘It will leave it so sedoso, silky and shiny, that all the women at the ball will be envious.’

  Alexandra smiled and gave a docile nod, instantly warming to the older woman. ‘I’m in your hands, Agustina. I’ve never been to a masked ball,’ she admitted. ‘It’s very exciting. What a marvellous idea of my grandmother’s.’

  ‘The masked ball has been a tradition at El Pavón since the days of Her Grace’s late brother, the Count. She was still a young girl then,’ explained Agustina, brushing Alexandra’s hair energetically.

  ‘Is it held for any particular reason?’ asked Alexandra, glancing up at the duenna in the mirror.

  ‘I was a child but my mother, who was in service here at the time, told me about it. In the old days, it was open house to all the European nobleza. The festivities lasted a whole week and ended with the masked ball at the house. At the back of the hacienda, at the other end of the garden where the gypsy camp is now, the servants had their own celebrations. It was a sort of feria to honour spring and mark the end of the late orange harvest. Nowadays, only the great Spanish families are invited, along with artists and writers, and all sorts of distinguished types.’ Agustina put down the brush. ‘As for the domestic staff, their festivities now take place later in the year, at the end of the grape season.’

  ‘When is that?’ asked Alexandra. She moved over to the bed where the sumptuous costume of the sultana was laid out.

  ‘In the autumn, on the banks of the Guadalete. Ah, just to hear the guitars and castanets! You’d love it, I’m sure. Everyone takes part: women, children, masters and servants, even gypsies. Nobody sleeps much, as most of the night is spent singing and dancing. The gypsies fall on all the free food and drink given out for the occasion. The crafty ones hold their own fiestas during this season: weddings, christenings and the like. In my opinion, they’re usually an excuse to cause chaos.’

>   ‘If they are so troublesome, why does Grandmother allow them to camp on her property?’

  ‘They’ve been here for generations,’ explained Agustina. ‘They were here before this house was built by your ancestors, though their camp used to be near where the horses are now kept. The gitanos always help out with the orange harvest. It’s good money for them, and they know which side their bread is buttered.’

  ‘I’ve read a little about the gypsies in Spain and suppose it must be difficult for their kind in this country. It can’t be easy being treated like second-class citizens and it must be hard to find work.’

  Agustina shrugged. ‘The Franco government sees their people as undesirables. They’re not the only ones. Freemasons, homosexuals, socialists, Marxists, Jews … they all get a hard time but they seem to survive somehow. The gypsies are a wily bunch, you see. If they’re not tricking people out of their money, they’re stealing it from them outright. Just look at Andalucía’s bandoleros in the old days: gypsies, murderers and thieves, the lot of them. As they say, Dime con quien andas y te diré quién eres, tell me who you go with, and I will tell you who you are. Mark my words, bad company seeks out bad company. El Tragabuches, that famous bandolero, he was a gypsy. And they say his father ate a newborn donkey.’ She shook her head and muttered an oath.

  Alexandra laughed, delighted by the duenna’s description. ‘Agustina, how can you possibly believe such things? Nothing but old wives’ tales and colourful legends.’

  Agustina lowered herself into a chair and began tidying the brush. ‘Anyhow, it’s always better to have these people on your side. We have a saying in Spain: Deja el jabalí dormir, es solo un gran cerdo, molestalo y estas muerto, let the boar sleep and he’s just a large pig, upset him and you’re dead. It’s the same with the gitanos. Leave them alone and the damage is small: a bit of poaching and petty thieving. Attack them, try to pick a quarrel, and you open the gates to a flood of troubles.’

  ‘You seem afraid of them,’ Alexandra remarked as she did up the cuff buttons of her blouse.

  ‘Los gitanos trae mala suerte, gypsies bring bad luck,’ muttered Agustina under her breath, shaking her head with disdain.‘Desgraciado.’

  Only that morning, Fernando Lopez had used the same words to describe young Pablo. The day before, old Jaime the shopkeeper in Jerez had also mentioned bad luck. This was a land riddled with superstition and prejudice. Lost in her thoughts, Alexandra remained silent until she had finished dressing and Agustina had done her hair.

  At last she was ready. It had taken a while to don her outfit: the magnificent sultana’s costume was made up of several distinct parts. First, there was a transparent jerkin that moulded to her body perfectly and was worn under a bodice with loose-fitting sleeves. The bodice itself was made of fine ivory-coloured silk that revealed the delicate curve of her breasts. Over the bodice came a short bolero jacket, entirely embroidered with silver thread, seed pearls and precious stones. Loose-fitting trousers, also in ivory silk, clothed her legs in graceful folds; they were bound at the ankles with a bias band and held in at the waist by a wide belt, similarly embroidered with pearls and stones.

  Agustina had skilfully plaited the lustrous hair on either side of Alexandra’s head and brought it up into a braided chignon. The veil resting on the crown of her head was fastened in place by the tiara her grandmother had given her. Dangling at the centre was a pear-shaped pearl, resting on her forehead like an iridescent tear, while the matching pair of drop earrings swung gently from her ears.

  Alexandra studied the willowy image gazing back at her from the mirror, excitement lending her pearly complexion a glowing hue. Her large eyes, rimmed with thick brown lashes, seemed a deeper green now, seen through the narrow slits of the black velvet mask drawn across her face. She ran her fingers lovingly over the fabulous necklace encircling her swanlike neck and lifted her head proudly, smiling back at her reflection. Her image really did call to mind the mysterious characters from the tales of One Thousand and One Nights. The anonymous Conde would not be disappointed, she thought with satisfaction. She turned round, aware Agustina was watching her silently.

  ‘Agustina, you’re a fairy godmother.’ Alexandra rushed to her and planted two big kisses on the duenna’s blushing cheeks. ‘I would never have managed such a complicated hairstyle without you. It suits my disguise so well, I’m really grateful.’

  Agustina beamed. ‘You are too kind, señorita. I simply let nature do its work.’ She hesitated and her eyes clouded, suddenly grave. ‘Tener cuidado, be careful, my child. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a very beautiful young lady. Tonight many people will be jealous of you and los celos son la madre de la malicia, jealousy is the mother of malice.’

  * * *

  For the week leading up to the masked ball, confusion had reigned on the ground floor at El Pavón. Servants had shifted out furniture, rolled up carpets, prepared tables for the buffet in the dining room, and chandeliers, wall sconces, columns and cornices had been decorated with garlands of bright roses interspersed with jasmine and orange blossom from the garden. As the evening began, and the sweeping strings of ballroom music filled the hacienda, El Pavón seemed transformed into a magical palace.

  Although the ball was in full swing as dusk gave way to night, cars were still arriving. They stopped at the foot of the stairs with a rasp of gravel and young drivers in dark-grey suits and caps leapt out to open the doors.

  In the garden, an array of colourful lanterns hung from arbours, dangled between fruit trees, encircling the fountains and pools, twinkling with light. While in the great ballroom, overlooking the east-facing gardens, Doña María Dolores’ guests, attired in all sorts of disguises, drank, joked and glided happily on the polished oak dancefloor.

  The ballroom was long and rectangular, taking up the entire length of the house. At each end, French doors opened out on to terraces stocked with exotic plants. Down one side, more windows led to the wide green lawn at the side of the hacienda. High mirrors hung between the windows, framed with gilded beading. Supported on marble columns was a gallery with a wrought-iron balustrade where musicians in evening dress were playing romantic dance melodies from tangos to Viennese waltzes.

  Alexandra paused on the threshold of the vast room, a trifle overwhelmed by the grand spectacle. All the guests wore masks of velvet, satin or lace, giving them a mysterious air. She watched for a moment as Ondine, Goddess of the Northern Seas, leant against a column, lost in a dream, her head slightly tilted to one side. In her long tunic of turquoise silk sprinkled with iridescent sequins, she appeared to have just risen from the depths of the ocean, her beautiful golden hair draped gracefully about her bare shoulders. A torero in black silk breeches, drawn in at the hips, with a waistcoat brocaded with silk, knee-length stockings and shiny flat shoes, gazed at her. Just as he had decided to approach, another gallant figure, Oreste, bearing his father’s sword in his belt, swooped in first and, bowing deeply before her, drew her on to the dancefloor. They passed a maharani wearing a magnificent sari of dark gold brocade, who was walking towards the veranda arm-in-arm with a American Indian in a headdress of multi-coloured feathers and a jacket of brown suede.

  A hand tapped Alexandra’s shoulder. Startled, she turned, almost bumping into a couple of waiters carrying trays laden with appetizing tapas and small glasses of fino sherry. The intruder was a musketeer in a wide soft hat, loose breeches and a leather doublet. A black mask hid his twinkling eyes but she recognized the beaming smile.

  ‘Well, Cousin,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I didn’t have to search very long to find the most beautiful girl at the ball. I told you I could spot you under any disguise.’

  She smiled at Ramón, happy to find a friend in this sea of masked strangers, but it was difficult to concentrate on what he was saying. Her eyes were scouring the dancefloor, eagerly scrutinizing the whirling couples from behind her velvet mask. What, or more precisely who, was she looking for, exactly? After all, she knew nothing of the
mysterious Conde, except that he had a deep and seductive voice. Recalling it made her pulse run faster and her knees slightly weak. Could the peculiar episode at Mascaradas have been merely a foolish jest designed to mystify her? Surely Old Jaime would not have taken part in a practical joke? She started with indignation at the idea she might be the victim of some prank. Yet, the more she thought about it, the more that seemed improbable. It would be an expensive joke to play, after all. No, the sheer cost of her beautiful costume had to be proof of the generosity and admiration of her romantic stranger.

  Ramón’s voice broke into her thoughts once more. ‘Madre de Dios! Doña Isabel has just walked in. I didn’t know she’d been invited. After the way she behaved two years ago, I’m amazed to find her here this evening. I wonder if Salvador had anything to do with it.’ Ramón peered over the heads of the guests, as if talking to himself. ‘He certainly seems keen to move on from all that business, and doesn’t exactly shun her company. Far from it … Dios Mio, this really will set the cat among the pigeons, as you English say. Both Abuela and Eugenia will be furious, though for different reasons. I don’t think Mercedes will be getting many dances with Salvador now,’ he chuckled, then shrugged his shoulders and took Alexandra’s hand. ‘Anyway, what do I care about all that? Come, let’s dance.’ He forced a passage through the couples and squeezed himself on to the crowded dancefloor.

  Alexandra’s curiosity was aroused. ‘Tell me more about Doña Isabel.’

  ‘She’s the daughter of the owner of the second biggest bodega in Jerez, the one who almost married Salvador. Doña Isabel ditched him, definitely a bad move. He is, after all, one of the most prosperous wine growers and stud owners in the region. Anyway, she married a Marqués forty years older than herself, who died shortly after that of a heart attack. Today, she’s titled and enormously rich, very much the cheerful widow.’