Meeting in Madrid (2 page)

Catherine shook her head.

‘I haven’t even been to Spain before,’ she confessed. ‘This is a first time for me for everything. I’ve never taught English before, I’m afraid, but I have an adequate knowledge of Spanish, which was all the agency asked for. I believe I was the only suitable person available.’

Except for my age, she thought, when he did not answer her immediately. He seemed to be concentrating on the rapid flow of traffic which sped towards the capital, although he drove with ease. Catherine stole a quick glance at the chiselled profile silhouetted against the sudden green of trees as they glided along: the high forehead surmounted by thick black hair, the finely-pencilled brows drawn over the commanding dark eyes, the long, aquiline nose and hard mouth all culminating in a strong chin which gave the face its true character. A man of iron, used to command, who would brook no disobedience from anyone who served him just as he would hold himself on a tight rein where his own responsibilities were concerned. The fact that he was here, in an expensive limousine, driving rapidly towards the heart of one of the liveliest capitals in the world, seemed incongruous in the extreme, completely out of character, in fact, when she could see him so clearly pictured on a bronze horse with a lance in his gauntleted hand and all the hard purpose of a
conquistador
king in his eyes. He should have been far from Madrid making his mark on the wider world, riding over vast estates, but perhaps that was no more than her over-active imagination at work. In her first position in a strange land she would have to be more practical in her outlook and less of a day- dreamer in order to make a success of what she had undertaken.

As they drove into the heart of the city a quick excitement stirred in her veins, for this was all that she had expected, and more. Wide thoroughfares and elegant, tree-lined
plazas
opened out in all directions, with new and ancient buildings lining their sides and an air of spaciousness everywhere she looked.

‘A great deal of Madrid is being rebuilt to make way for the future,’ her companion explained. ‘My grandmother deplores the fact that venerable old buildings have been pulled down to widen the boulevards for the increasing traffic, but what is the use of trolley-tracks when the trolley-cars themselves are no longer viable? The relics of the past are rapidly being swept away, but City Hall has been wise enough to consider the traditional Castilian values of reserve and austerity, too. They hope to strike a happy medium between yesterday and tomorrow, and I think that they will succeed.’

‘It looks a lovely city,’ Catherine agreed, taking in the broad panorama of elegant buildings and busy thoroughfares with shining eyes. ‘I know I shall be happy here.’

It was a foolish remark to make, she realised, because the man by her side would be no more concerned with her personal happiness than her real employer would be.

‘Your grandmother?’ she asked. ‘Does she live in the city?’

‘At its very heart. She would never wish to live anywhere else,’ he said. ‘She is a true
Madrile
n
a
who still enjoys her own tempo of living, although she moves out of the city like everyone else for two months in the summer when the heat becomes unbearable. She is, you see, a very practical person, ready to compromise when she can do nothing much about a situation which gets out of hand.’

Was that some kind of warning? Catherine glanced at Jaime de Berceo Madroza and wondered, knowing that he would be too polite to show his true feelings to a stranger. The age-old Spanish tradition of courtesy and hospitality would be rigorously observed, no matter what he thought about their present situation, but she could not forget the swift frown which had momentarily darkened his brow when they had met for the first time.

Driving into the heart of the city, they came to a wide
plaza
where high fountains sparkled in the sunshine and the unmistakable likenesses of Don Quixote and his faithful Sancho rode in deathless stone. Side streets flanked by large mansions originally built for the nobility, which were now either museums or public offices, led to a quiet residential area where the brick facades of the houses were steeped in sunshine and mellowed by time.

‘We are almost at our destination,’ Don Jaime told her. ‘My grandmother will be waiting for you.’

In spite of her resolution not to be intimidated in any way, Catherine was suddenly nervous of this second meeting with a member of the Madroza family, for it seemed that his formidable grandmother who would have the final say about her suitability for the position she had come to fill was no mere figurehead but an active participant in the affairs of the family in general.

They drew up before a stout mahogany door in a brick wall over which could be seen the tops of high trees set, no doubt, in an ancient garden. The street itself was so quiet as to seem almost deserted, yet a few minutes ago they had been driving along the busy Avenida de Jose Antonio, the Great White Way stretching through the heart of Madrid. Her companion got out from behind the steering-wheel to open the door on her side of the car.

‘I will see to your luggage,’ he said.

Thank you.’

Formality hedged them round, yet she had the disconcerting feeling of being carefully observed. Before they reached it the door in the wall was opened and an ancient retainer saluted them.

‘You will see that the
senorita
’
s
luggage is taken to her room, Lucio,’ Don Jaime commanded. ‘I will look after the car myself.’

The old man nodded, offering Catherine a tentative smile.

‘
Buenas tardes
!’
he greeted her.
‘
Yo
el sigo
.’

When he had collected her two suitcases he followed them across the enclosed garden to the house itself, a tall, three-storeyed edifice with small, wrought-iron balconies at the windows on the upper floors and a grilled door which stood hospitably open to bid them welcome. In the hall beyond an old lady in a dark silk dress stood leaning on an ivory-handled stick, her slender, delicate-looking hand gripping it closely. Although obviously depending upon its support, her back was as straight as her grandson’s and her large black eyes equally clear. They scrutinised Catherine with frank curiosity, taking in the cut of the plain blue suit she wore and the sensible low-heeled shoes, finally coming to rest on her face and the silken, red-gold cap of well-brushed hair which surrounded it.

‘
Abuela,
this is Miss Royce,’ Don Jaime said, turning to leave them, but his grandmother held up a detaining hand.

‘You will lead her to her room, Jaime, and then I will expect you in the
sal
o
n
to take tea with us in the English manner,’ she commanded. ‘No doubt your routine has been disturbed by the services I have asked of you, but this is an important matter as far as Teresa is concerned.’ She was still gazing at Catherine. ‘Indeed, I am surprised, but we will go into that later.’

Don Jaime nodded abruptly, while Catherine felt that she had been weighed in some sort of delicate balance and found wanting.

‘Your grandmother seems to disapprove of me,’ she said as Don Jaime led the way to a flight of marble stairs. ‘What is it this time, or is it still my youth?’

He looked round at her with a faint smile in his eyes.

‘You must not judge my grandmother as quickly as you have judged me,
senorita
.’ he said. ‘She would not come to any swift conclusion about you. She will wait till you have shown her your true worth. She will give you the benefit of the doubt, as you so succinctly say in your own country.’

‘But you wouldn’t?’ she challenged. ‘You are prepared to judge me untried!’

‘That would not be so if I were employing you myself, but in that case I might have been more explicit in my demands,’ he pointed out.

‘Of course,’ she said, feeling at a disadvantage. ‘How old is your niece, Don Jaime?’

‘Sixteen. A great age, you may be sure! Teresa is full of confidence, you will find, and quite certain of the way she wants to go, but that might not be entirely her own fault. Small Spanish girls are brought up from babyhood to believe themselves the centre of the universe. They are told from birth that they are g
uapa,
as you know, and so they are spoilt.’

‘While little Spanish boys are encouraged to be
macho
!’ she pointed out drily. ‘You can’t criticise one while you applaud the other.’

‘Encouraging a boy to be masculine is not quite the same,’ he said dismissively, ‘but you will judge Teresa for yourself, I dare say. She has gone for a music lesson, by the way, if that is where she really is.’

His voice had hardened on the final words, as if he did not trust his effervescent niece who had been encouraged from infancy to believe that she was incredibly beautiful.

‘I hope I can understand Teresa,’ Catherine said involuntarily. ‘Already I feel sorry for her.’

‘You needn’t be. She is a very fortunate young lady, although she does not acknowledge the fact. She is also very headstrong,’ he added, ‘and prone to go off at a tangent when she feels “imprisoned”.’

Catherine paused on the landing.

‘Surely you don’t mean me to act as her jailer!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s something I would hate to do.’

‘Not at all.’ His voice was as cold as ice. ‘I am her legal guardian, as you may have guessed, and I am greatly concerned about her welfare.’

‘Have you ever thought of slackening the rein—giving her a little more headway? I know she’s young to be kicking over the traces at sixteen, but it’s happening all the time nowadays,’ Catherine pointed out.

He turned to look at her.

‘How old are you, Miss Royce?’ he asked without attempting to answer her impulsive question.

‘Twenty-two.’

‘And have you ever “kicked over the traces”, as you put it?’

‘I—never really needed to. You see, I was trusted to be sensible, even when I was very young. My parents were abroad a great deal, and I owed it to the aunt who looked after me to conform to her ideas of normality.’

‘Ah,’ he said, pausing before one of two massive doors set in an archway at the far end of the upper hall. ‘That is quite different!’

He opened the door, ushering her into a pleasant room full of sunlight with windows opening on to a small balcony overlooking the side garden and a narrow lane beyond the wall. The room itself was full of fine old Spanish furniture in the style of a century ago, family heirlooms which had been handed down from one generation to the next and greatly treasured. A heavily-carved wardrobe took up much of one wall, while a four-poster bed stood against another, flanked by little tables skirted in pale blue brocade. On the third wall, between the two long casements, stood an exquisite writing-table with a brocade-covered chair placed in front of it, ready for her use, while a dressing-table and a black, carved chest stood on either side of a communicating door leading into a large, tiled bathroom.

‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘It all looks—very comfortable.’

‘And very sedate!’

A young, dark-haired girl had entered the room behind them, frankly amused by what she had heard of their conversation. Catherine knew that this must be Teresa even before they were formally introduced, and if insisting since babyhood that she was
guapa
had been meant to enhance her confidence it had certainly succeeded. Catherine thought that she had never seen anyone so lovely as Teresa in that moment as she stood beside the door with a world of merriment in her eyes. Added to their dark, magnetic beauty was a flawless, apricot-tinted skin and blue-black hair and small, delicate hands and feet which made her look like a pretty, animated doll. She drew in a deep breath of appreciation as their eyes met.

‘I can’t quite believe it!’ she exclaimed in her accented English. ‘You really are young and with it!’ She looked up at her uncle, a mischievous smile curving her red lips. ‘What do you think of her, Jaime?’ she demanded. ‘Isn’t she quite fantastic, or do you disapprove of her as firmly as you did of Madame Mauriac?’

‘Madame Mauriac taught you to speak French without an accent, therefore she did what was expected of her,’ Don Jaime observed. ‘We can only hope that Miss Royce will be equally successful with your English.’

‘Which is atrocious!’ Teresa acknowledged without due concern. ‘Perhaps it is because I have no true desire to learn,’ she suggested.

‘You will try,’ her uncle decided with a firmness which put any doubt in its proper place.

Teresa continued to study Catherine as he left the room. ‘You’re not at all what I expected,’ she said, at last. ‘Not what anyone expected, for that matter. When I think about it we could have lots of fun together while we are allowed to stay here in Madrid. I hope it will be for another week or two,’ she ran on excitedly, ‘but in that respect we must wait for Don Jaime’s decision. He is the
arbitro
of our fate, both here and at Soria. You will see!’ Her vivid little face took on a sullen expression which marred its beauty and the dark eyes were suddenly alight with passion. ‘I am old enough to do as I wish without everyone directing me this way or that,’ she declared with fierce intensity. ‘Spanish girls are now emancipated; they go everywhere on their own and take advantage of life. They are no longer protected by eagle-eyed
due
n
as
who do not wish them to enjoy themselves. They are free!’

‘I’m sure you are permitted to please yourself, up to a point,’ said Catherine, aware of conflict but unwilling to take sides. ‘Your family must have your ultimate welfare at heart.’

‘But not my happiness!’ Teresa declared with an obstinate stamp of her foot. ‘They know that I wish to dance and they say that there is still time. Time for what? To drink in culture and take a university degree so that I will be “equipped” for the future. What does that mean, I ask you? To be a great dancer would be of equal importance, don’t you think?’ She rushed on before Catherine could form an opinion. ‘It is all
their
way and not mine, and then they wonder why I should rebel. I have everything I can possibly desire, both here and at Soria,’ she mocked, ‘and that must be the end of any argument!’

Pushed by family pride and hedged round by tradition, Teresa had come to a stubborn halt, digging in her heels like the little mules of the Spanish countryside, her ears laid flat against her dainty head. Catherine suppressed the smile which rose to her lips, knowing how serious Teresa was.

‘We all feel that way occasionally,’ she sympathised. ‘We long to spread our wings and fly away at one time or another, but it is not always best to do it in a spirit of rebellion. I’m sure, when the right time comes, your grandmother and Don Jaime will agree to set you free.’