Dancing in the Shadows (2 page)

‘What are your parents thinking of?'

‘My parents are dead.' Her voice was so low it barely stirred the silence.

Quick concern touched his features. ‘I'm sorry. I've brought the shadows to your eyes. The last thing I intended was to bring back a sad memory.'

‘It happened a long time ago. Ten years to be exact.' Her voice was softly forgiving. ‘They were killed in a plane crash.'

‘Ten years ago you must have been little more than a baby. Who brought you up?'

‘Grandmother. She never let us feel deprived. My brother Michael and I were lucky to have such a kindly, understanding parent substitute.'

Even though a winter and a spring had passed, it was still too recent not to invoke bitter and painful memories. She remembered everything of that night, from the moment her key grated in the lock. Beyond the threshold, her brother Michael had been waiting to impart the news.

‘Grandmother has been taken ill. A stroke, apparently. The doctor is with her now. At this stage it's difficult to tell how severe, but it looks pretty bad.'

Then
Doctor Chandler was coming towards her. ‘Go to her, quickly, child.'

‘Of course, Doctor. Coming Michael?'

‘No.' Her brother's face contorted, and she saw the heightened colour in his cheeks which linked with the glass of whisky in his hand. ‘I've gone to her for the last time. All her life she's had the whip hand. I'll be damned if I'll go running to her in death.'

‘What a thing to say! How can you be so cruel and unfeeling? Michael!' she implored. But her brother turned from her, and Dorcas went to the sick-room alone.

It was a long and lonely vigil. She couldn't face food. What little sleep she had was taken curled up in the high-backed, blue velvet chair, within sight of the ivory and gold counterpane.

Michael looked in occasionally, his head buzzing as he speculated the size of his inheritance. He knew exactly what he intended to do with the money. Dorcas was shocked beyond belief.

‘Grandmother is still alive. How can you plan what to do with her money! How can you talk as if she's already dead!' His callousness and greed appalled her more than anything she had experienced in her life.

Just before the end, as sometimes happens, her grandmother rallied, briefly easing the presentiment of death. For a short while she seemed almost her old lucid self. ‘Where is Michael?' she asked.

‘He's
been here all the time you were asleep,' Dorcas lied lovingly. ‘He just slipped out for a moment.' Perhaps she didn't lie too well at that, because the old eyes were darkly condemning. ‘Don't be too harsh.' The skeletal fingers closed round Dorcas's wrist. ‘Just because he's prettier than you are, don't spite the boy. I've no time for petty jealousy. Never have had.' Then she said querulously: ‘Where is Michael? Where is my beautiful boy? We've all spoilt him, you know. It's not his fault if we've spoilt him, is it?'

‘No, Grandmother, it isn't,' Dorcas had said, struggling not to be hurt by the unjust criticism.

With perfect timing Michael returned, his face a pale slash of concern at the doorway. Dorcas had risen stiffly and stood to one side, her twisting fingers hidden behind her back. She'd always stood aside for Michael. Grandmother was wrong. She adored her golden brother along with everyone else. She wasn't jealous of him.

Michael's hand tapped her shoulder. ‘It's all over. The old girl's gone.' His matter-of-fact tone nauseated her. As the violent tears slid down her cheeks, pinging like needles on her clenched fists, she knew that somehow she must make a life for herself without her brother.

She didn't anticipate difficulty, and she met none. When she told him her decision to ‘go it
alone'
he seemed quite relieved.

Grandmother hadn't left any money, just the tall, dignified house, which she had willed to Michael. Predictably, he decided to sell. Dorcas got rid of what possessions wouldn't fit into a suitcase and this she dragged with her, resting it briefly in a series of drab lodging houses as she tried to carve a career for herself in the one thing she did with any degree of fluidity and grace. She was a dancer. On the stage her awkwardness vanished and her fey personality and swift gazelle purity of movement captured the attention of the audience. But she was the first to admit that she lacked that special something that is hard to define, the plus element that assures stardom. In both her home and her working life she followed the same inescapable pattern. It seemed she was destined to dance for ever in the shadow of someone else's brilliance.

A finger and thumb snapped under her nose. ‘Please come back,' said Carlos. ‘I do not like conversing with a stone.'

‘I'm sorry. You were saying?'

‘No. You were saying. You were telling me about yourself. I am desolate to realize you are so alone. What is your brother thinking of shirking his responsibilities! He should not allow you to wander like a waif.'

‘Can one be a waif at twenty-two?'

‘Are you? I had wondered. And set you a year or so under. I am pleased you are twenty-
two.
A woman.'

‘Who should still be under the protection of her brother?' she said, a puckish smile teasing up her mouth.

‘You mock. But yes, that is what I think. A son of Spain would honour such a responsibility.'

‘That has a tyrannical ring to it that sets my teeth on edge. I should object most forcibly to being protected. Protection is so often another word for domination. I should hate to be dominated and told where I may go and what I am permitted to do, which I think is what you mean by honouring a responsibility. I am glad you are not my brother.'

‘I second that most heartily.' His tone was dry. ‘In view of my thoughts, that would be a most improper thing to be.'

With commendable dignity, Dorcas said: ‘It is time I went.'

‘And risk engendering fate's disapproval?' he teased inventively. ‘Fate is a woman who does not like to be crossed. Think of all the trouble she must have taken to arrange this meeting between us.'

His chin was tilted in arrogance, his blue eyes were brilliant in laughter. Dorcas found him dangerously attractive. A greater proportion of English reserve, a smaller helping of Spanish charm, would have produced a more manageable man. But not such an interesting one, was the renegade
thought.

Sighing, she rose to her feet. ‘Thank you for the tea. Goodbye.'

‘If you are determined to go, I cannot stop you.' His smile was philosophical. ‘The world is not such a big place and it is shrinking daily. Perhaps . . .' The implication that they would meet again was as empty as the air it trailed into.

He could not mean the regret his tone conveyed. Flattery was a basic Spanish trait. Relish it, then relinquish it. Prudently observing this thought, Dorcas dragged back the hand given to him in goodbye and bent to pick up her suitcase.

‘Let me take that. Allow me to drive you somewhere.'

‘No. Thank you but that won't be necessary.' The only voice at her command had husky undertones. ‘I'm perfectly capable of carrying my own suitcase.' She straightened her shoulders, as if to strengthen her independence.

His smile no longer seemed quite so arrogant. ‘As you wish.' His rueful expression dimmed his Don Juan image. He looked—yes—unhappy to see her go.

Dorcas walked away imprinting it all in her mind. The blending of scents drifting on the breeze, the wild non-uniformity of colour spilling joyously from the flower urns skirting the steps. Colours fade, scents evaporate;
Dorcas
knew that Carlos Ruiz would stay brilliant in her mind for some time to come.

The sun ploughed into a bank of cloud, plunging the hazy gold overtones of the day into premature twilight. She had the strange, soul-sinking sensation of walking away from light and laughter.

* * *

On arrival at the railway station, Dorcas looked round for a seat in expectation of a long wait. Spanish trains were slow and often late. Neither were they all that frequent.

She was fretful and on edge. Leaving her suitcase, she walked the length of the platform, then resumed her seat. Her normal command of patience was conspicuously absent.

One moment she was quite alone on the platform, the next it was swarming with people. She identified them as a break-away dozen or more of the Ruiz party.

She pressed her shoulders against the hard platform seat, as though wishing to disappear into it. Silly of her, because had Carlos Ruiz intended to follow her, he would have done so straight away. Also, he would have come alone.

No great mystery. The reason they were here turned out to be the obvious one. To wish godspeed to a girl of about her own age, a girl blessed with luxuriant black hair and sparkling
eyes.
She had a champagne personality, bubbling over with animation. Words effervesced from her lips.

‘I've had such a
wonderful
time. I have so much to tell my dear Jaime when I get home. Yes, I wish I could have stayed longer. No . . . no . . . I will not be persuaded to change my mind. I have already been parted too long from my dearest husband. My heart aches at the absence . . . besides which, my Jaime is too attractive and has the too plausible tongue to be left on his own.'

This sage-tinged witticism received its expected laugh, and then Rose Ruiz came into the limelight with an imploring: ‘But Feli, my child, I beg you to reconsider. In a few days the road will be open and your brother will be only too pleased to drive you home. The train journey is so tedious. Think how much more pleasant it will be by car.'

Was the ‘my child' a figure of speech, or was Feli her daughter? Was Carlos the brother Señora Ruiz referred to? More to the point, was Carlos here?

Dorcas searched faces until her eyes felt screwed-out and sore; then the sound of that memorable voice directed her head.

‘Mother is right. It would be more sensible to stay until I can drive you home.' But his words were flat and without command, and he gave his sister but scant attention. It was as if he were aware of Dorcas's scrutiny and his
head
was alerted for sight or sound of her.

Dorcas was on the point of coming out of the shadows and revealing her presence when two white arms slid up and fastened round his neck. A voice, husky with meaning, demanded: ‘Can love ever be sensible, Carlos? Is it not natural for Feli to want to hasten to her man? As any woman does, for that matter. Are you so cold that your heart does not beat faster at the thought?'

He replied: ‘Isabel, you may hasten to me any time you wish.'

Strain as she might, Dorcas could only get a tantalizing back view of the daring Isabel. And Carlos's two hands clasped proprietorially round her incredibly slender waist.

So! It was exactly as she had surmised. His English blood had not diluted his aptitude for meaningless Spanish flattery. What had passed between them had no greater significance than an English wink or a wolf whistle. While she was in Spain, Dorcas would do well to remember that unlike his English counterpart, the Spanish male makes a gala performance of a simple act of appreciation.

The train drew in. Dorcas slipped unobtrusively aboard. Feli scrambled on breathless seconds before it started to move. From the door she blew kisses and goodbyes, and began to progress totteringly along the swaying carriage. Her eyes were still turned in on happy thoughts so that although she chose
to
sit opposite Dorcas, she did not actually see her. The baby, a girl, gurgled in her arms and pushed her fat feet against Feli's flat stomach.

Dorcas gasped in spontaneous delight. ‘I didn't know about the baby! I didn't see her.'

‘Why should you know about my baby?' Feli enquired, puzzled. ‘I do not think we are acquainted.'

Afraid lest Feli thought she was too pushing, Dorcas drew back. ‘No. I witnessed the leave-taking just now.'

‘Papa was holding Rosita. She is the light of his life. The second best flower in his garden.'

‘Rosita? What a pretty name.'

‘Mama, the flower of his existence, is Rose. My little one just had to be Rosita. Little Rose.'

‘How charming. And so is she. You must be very proud of her.'

‘Beware. That is a most imprudent remark. I am tempted to answer at great length. I am told I can talk for hours on the subject of my daughter. Or any other subject for that matter. In the family circle I am called a chatter-box. Are you certain we are not acquainted? I feel that we've met somewhere . . . quite recently.'

‘I hardly think that likely,' Dorcas put in quickly. ‘I should have felt it too.'

‘Yes. Of course you are right. Are you visiting friends? Or are you on holiday?'

‘I'm on holiday. I decided rather late and the package tours of my choice were fully
booked,
so I'm doing it the adventurous way.'

‘And is it? Adventurous?'

‘It has not been without trauma. I hired a car and it broke down on me. I decided to continue my sightseeing by train.'

‘A most wise decision,' said Feli, nodding over the baby's head, ‘considering the havoc wrought by the recent rain. Have you been to Spain before?'

‘No. This is my first visit.'

‘
Caramba!
' exclaimed Feli, waving her free hand in a gesture of dismay. ‘You came for the sun and found the tempest. What a dreadful first visit. I've never known such torrential rainfall. I don't wonder that landslips have made the roads impassable. That was a violent storm we had last night. Did you manage to get any sleep?'

‘No. As I lay in bed I felt that at any moment a thunderbolt was about to crash through the roof of the hotel. Finally I got up and sat it out by the window. I've never seen lightning at such close quarters before. I could quite clearly make out the forked shape. It was scary, unreal. I've never seen anything so spectacular or as frightening in my life. I could hardly believe it when the sun blazed in the sky this morning. I think that's what unnerved me.' And made her susceptible to later events.