The Japanese Screen Read online

  She was given little time to admire the lamplit courtyard with its wrought iron balconies and hanging plants before a woman dressed all in black apart from a long white apron appeared and approached them. She was the epitome of the Spanish housekeeper with greying hair secured in a knot at the nape of her neck, a sallow skin, and bright inquisitive eyes. She gave Susannah a quick appraising stare and then spoke to Pedro in rapid Spanish. The chauffeur answered equally swiftly and then urged Susannah forward.

  ‘Este Señora Gomez, señorita.’

  Susannah forced a smile, but the woman ignored it. ‘You are Señorita King, are you not?’ she queried, and at Susannah’s nod, she went on: ‘I am the housekeeper of Don Fernando’s house. If you will come with me, I will show you your room.’

  Susannah cast a helpless look in Pedro’s direction and chanced a grimace. His conspiratorial grin in return made her feel heaps better suddenly, and she followed the housekeeper with an eager step, aware of Pedro coming behind with her suitcases.

  They entered the building through long panelled doors which gave on to an immense hall. The floor was composed of marble tiles in amber and white, while the high arched ceiling was richly panelled and carved with strange-looking figures. The staircase to the upper floor was marble, too, but the balustrade was intricately curled wrought iron. There were statues of saints in the narrow window embrasures, and urns of exotically coloured flowers stood on tall pedestals. It was totally unreal, and Susannah marvelled again that anyone could actually live in such surroundings.

  To the left and right of the hall, corridors led away to the farthest reaches of the house. The building was built round the central courtyard, and it was the focal point. The housekeeper did not approach the magnificent staircase as Susannah had half expected, but instead led the way along the right-hand corridor. A great number of doors opened on to this corridor, most of which were closed, but just occasionally Susannah caught a glimpse of the beautifully furnished apartments within.

  At the end of the corridor was another staircase, narrow and winding, and this the housekeeper did ascend, glancing round momentarily to assure herself that Susannah was following.

  ‘This is the staircase you will use to reach your room, señorita,’ she said, with deliberate emphasis, Susannah thought. ‘Of course, when you are with the Señorita Marla, you may be permitted to use the other.’

  ‘Yes, señora,’ Susannah nodded, and was relieved when they emerged on to the upper landing. To her surprise, she saw that they were now on the balcony at the far side of the courtyard, but even as she moved to look over the balcony rail, Señora Gomez threw open the door of a room behind her, and said:

  ‘This is your apartment, señorita. As you will see, there is a bathroom—here!’

  Susannah turned and stepped into the room as Señora Gomez switched on the lamps. Then she gave an involuntary gasp of pleasure. It was totally unlike the rather drab accommodation she had occupied at the Castana house. Colour-washed walls in apple green, wrought iron tracery behind a wide bed covered with an apricot spread, long wild silk curtains also in apricot, dark wood furniture that in no way dispelled the room’s airy lightness.

  ‘It’s—beautiful!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I am glad you are satisfied, señorita,’ observed Señora Gomez calmly, but even she could not entirely hide her gratification at Susannah’s enthusiasm. She stood aside for Pedro to deposit the suitcases in the middle of the floor and then after he had left them, she said: ‘If you would like a few minutes to wash and tidy yourself, señorita, before meeting the señora, I will leave you. I will send someone to escort you to the señora’s rooms when you are ready.’

  Susannah’s excitement evaporated as quickly as it had come. The señora! And who was that? Monica d’Alvarez? It had to be, didn’t it? But how could she inquire anything of this formal housekeeper any more than she could have inquired of Pedro?

  Breathing a deep sigh, she nodded. ‘I—I would like to change.’

  ‘Very well, señorita.’ The housekeeper moved towards the door. ‘Your meals will be served in your room while you are here,’ she added. ‘Dinner this evening will be served at nine o’clock.’

  Susannah realized as the woman spoke that it was hours since lunch and yet the thought of food had not occurred to her.

  ‘If you would like some coffee, I will have some sent up to you,’ the housekeeper was saying now, and Susannah thought how welcome a cup of coffee would be.

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ she murmured quietly.

  Señora Gomez inclined her head. ‘Very well. If you will excuse me…’

  After she had gone, Susannah explored her domain more thoroughly. The adjoining bathroom was as impressive as the bedroom, with an apple green step-in bath that would have accommodated half a dozen people. The taps were beaten gold, the shower curtains apricot, and a generous assortment of bath oils and lotions lined the mirrored shelves.

  Stripping off her clothes, she took a shower, revelling in the coolness of the water against her warm and sticky skin. Then she quickly opened one of her suitcases and was fastening the zip of a simple navy day dress when there was a knock at her balcony door. A young maid entered at her summons carrying a tray of coffee, very dark and very Spanish, her inquisitive eyes missing little in that first appraisal.

  ‘Buenas tardes, señorita,’ she greeted Susannah, with a smile and a little bob. ‘Señora Gomez said you wished cafe.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Susannah secured her zip and straightened. ‘Will you put it down on the table? Who are you?’

  ‘Maria, señorila.’ She put down the tray on the bedside table Susannah had indicated. ‘Señora Gomez said to wait and take you to Señora d’Alvarez, si?’

  Susannah walked over to the tray and poured herself a cup of the aromatic beverage. It tasted as delicious as it smelled, but she looked up in surprise when Maria walked to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I will wait outside, señorita.’

  ‘No—that is—well, that’s not necessary, Maria. I—I shan’t be a minute.’

  Susannah snatched up her brush and began tugging it through the thickness of her hair. She was trying desperately to think of a way to ask Maria about the family, but it wasn’t easy.

  ‘Have—have you worked for the Alvarez family for long, Maria?’ she asked at last.

  Maria shrugged. ‘Since I was at school, señorita.’

  ‘I see.’ Susannah put down the hairbrush and picked up a colourless lipstick. Maria was perhaps eighteen or nineteen. She must have been here three or four years at least. ‘So—you know the family well?’

  ‘ Si, señorita. ’

  Susannah caught her lower lip between Her teeth. ‘And—do you like working for Señor and Señora d’Alvarez?’

  ‘ Si, Señorita. ’

  Clearly, Maria had no intention of gossiping and Susannah gave up the struggle. She would know soon enough. It was just that name—Don Fernando. And Cuevas! But surely there were many Don Fernandos in Spain.

  She finished her coffee, Maria collected the tray and then led the way down the winding staircase to the corridor below. Now Susannah’s eyes were drawn to the floodlit fountains in the courtyard, and the scores of flying insects dancing about the brilliance.

  They crossed the hall Susannah had seen earlier and entered the corridor at the opposite side, halting after only a few moments at a panelled white door. Maria tapped lightly on the panels with her nails, and a voice called: ‘Entrar!’

  Susannah hung back. It didn’t sound like Monica d’Alvarez at all, but Maria was urging her forward.

  ‘Señorita King, señora,’ she announced politely, and Susannah found herself propelled inside and the door closed firmly behind her.

  The woman seated on a low striped couch was most definitely not Monica d’Alvarez. She was much older for one thing, easily seventy, and totally Latin in appearance, with elegantly styled hair and a pale, aristocratic face. Arou
nd her lined throat, her wrists, her fingers was a veritable fortune in diamonds, and she rose to her feet with unconscious dignity.

  ‘Ah, Señorita King,’ she observed, in cold modulated tones. ‘Please to come and sit down. I trust you had a comfortable journey.’

  Susannah stepped forward reluctantly, looking helplessly about her. The room was huge by normal standards, with tapestry-hung walls and more of the Moorish arches evident in the window frames. The carpet underfoot was of a fine Chinese design, and in the lacquered cabinets that lined the walls she could see collections of china and jade. An enormous fireplace with a marble sill drew attention to the portrait of a young woman above, while the empty grate itself was concealed behind a magnificent Japanese screen. She had the ridiculous idea that she had come to the wrong house, that this woman could not be Señora d’Alvarez, that some terrible mistake had been made.

  But the woman was taking her hand and shaking it, albeit fleetingly, indicating that she should sit in the armchair opposite. Then she reseated herself and subjected Susannah to an intent scrutiny.

  ‘So?’ she said at last. ‘You are to teach Marla.’

  Susannah swallowed with difficulty. ‘Yes, señora.’

  ‘You realize, do you not, that we do not approve?’

  Susannah’s bewilderment grew. ‘We?’ she echoed faintly.

  ‘Of course, señorita. My nephew and myself.’ She frowned as Susannah continued to look blank. ‘The child’s father, señorita!’

  ‘Oh! Oh, I see.’ At last something was beginning to make sense.

  ‘My nephew’s wife—she is impulsive, señorita.’ The old woman forced a smile, but Susannah sensed the hostility behind it. ‘She does not appreciate that Marla’s position as my nephew’s heir necessitates that she should be brought up to take her place at the head of the company. It is unfortunate that there is no male heir to the estate, but…’ She gave a shrug that was purely continental in origin.

  Susannah licked her dry lips. ‘Perhaps—perhaps the fact that—Señora d’Alvarez is an American—’

  ‘Marla is not an American, señorita!’ The old woman was very definite about that.

  ‘No, señora.’

  ‘You may be wondering why I am telling you this, señorita,’ she continued. ‘It is because I wish you to know at the outset that so far as Marla’s father and myself are concerned this arrangement you have made with—with Señora d’Alvarez cannot be of a lasting duration, do you understand?’

  Susannah caught her breath’. ‘You’re—dismissing me, señora?’

  The old woman’s lips curled, ‘Don Fernando will ask you to leave, señorita, not I. I am merely warning you that you would be unwise to expect to stay here longer than a few days.’

  Susannah rose to her feet, suddenly stifled by the-scarcely veiled antagonism. ‘If that is all, señora—’

  ‘That is all, señorita.’

  The señora was completely in control of herself, whereas Susannah felt hot and upset, not to say embarrassed. Surely if this was the situation here, Monica d’Alvarez should have had more sense than to engage a governess without first consulting either her husband or his aunt. And where was Monica anyway? Why couldn’t she have been here to meet her instead of this aristocratic old—old harridan?

  ‘You may go, señorita,’ the señora was saying now. ‘My nephew will no doubt wish to interview you himself before you meet Marla. Perhaps later would be suitable—after dinner, si? We will let you know.’

  Susannah didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. Señora d’Alvarez—if indeed that was her name—had a way of making statements that brooked no argument.

  She went to the door reaching for the handle, but before she touched it it turned, and she stepped back quickly to avoid being struck as the door swung inwards.

  It was suddenly as though all the blood was draining out of her face, and afterwards she wondered however she had managed not to make some startled ejaculation. But a man had entered the room—a tall, lean, dark man—a man whose image was indelibly printed on her memory. Dressed all in black—black silk shirt, open at the throat, black breeches that clung to him like a second skin, and thrust into black-knee-length boots. There was no mistaking his identity.

  As Susannah stood there as though carved from stone, he ignored her, looking past her to the old woman who had risen to face them. It was then that she realized that he was not shocked at finding her here—that he had known of her arrival—that it was he who had stood in the shadows while Pedro was taking her suitcases out of the car…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SUSANNAH wondered how she could ever have thought her bedroom attractive. She hated it, she hated everything about it; she hated this beautiful house; but most of all she hated Fernando d’Alvarez!

  She paced restlessly about the room, unable to sit down, unable to even think coherently, and certainly unable to eat any of the delicious dinner which Maria had brought up on a tray half an hour ago. She was empty, certainly, but it was an emptiness more of the spirit than of the body.

  What a fool she had been, she told herself over and over again. She ought to have known—she ought to have guessed that there were too many coincidences for them all to be accidental. Fernando was Monica’s husband, incredibly; and Marla’s father.

  Her breath caught on a sob. She thought she would never forget the way that Fernando had looked at her when his aunt introduced them a little over an hour ago. There had been cold anger and contempt in his eyes—in his eyes, when it should have have been she who was feeling angry and contemptuous—of him!

  She sank down into a chair and buried her face in her hands. Thank God that his aunt didn’t want her here, that he himself didn’t want an English governess for the child. How could she have stayed here—seeing him every day, watching him with Monica, teaching their child!

  She couldn’t remain seated, She had to think—to think! And oh, God! where was Monica? And when would she be coming back?

  A knock came at the balcony door and she started violently, But it was only Maria, and Susannah opened the door wide, indicating that she could take away the untouched tray.

  But Maria shook her head at the tray, ‘No, señorita. Don Fernando wishes to see you now. Please to come with me.’

  Susannah stared at her disbelievingly. ‘Don Fernando—wishes to see me?’ she echoed.

  ‘Si, señorita. If you have finished your dinner, naturalmente.’

  Susannah pressed a hand to her churning stomach. ‘I—I wasn’t hungry,’ she murmured awkwardly.

  Maria shrugged. ‘Then we will go, si?

  ‘I suppose so.’

  What choice did she have? Susannah asked herself. Since leaving the room downstairs where Señora d’Alvarez had interviewed her, she had been expecting some sort of a dismissal, not a summons.

  They went downstairs to the lower corridor and Maria indicated another door some distance along. ‘El estidio de Don Fernando, señorita,’ she said, pointing, and Susannah understood enough to know that this was Fernando’s study. This time it was left to her to knock and await his command, and when it came it was with much reluctance that she entered the book-lined room.

  Fernando was standing by the windows, his back to her, his dark head outlined against the ruby red velvet of the curtains. He did not even trouble to turn and look at her as she closed the door, but said harshly: ‘Sit down, señorita!’ an uncompromising order.

  Susannah remained standing, hovering near the door, ready for escape if need be, and heard the swift intake of breath from someone else in the room. She looked round and saw a girl seated in an armchair in the far corner of the room, her presence not immediately discernible in the shadowy lamplight. Pale, sallow features, straight black hair confined in a single braid over one shoulder, a somewhat old-fashioned dress of wine-coloured silk—it had to be Marla, and Susannah wondered whether she had been brought here deliberately to witness the dismissal.

  Fernando turned then and surveyed her
with unconcealed impatience. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘sit—down, señorita.’

  Please!

  She remembered him saying that word before—pleading with her to look at him, to see him again, to forgive him, to go to Wendcombe with him…

  Deciding that her legs were not at all reliable just at this moment, Susannah sought a straight-backed chair with arms carved like claws. Then she faced him, summoning all her pride and composure. All right, he was married, that accounted for all the peculiar reactions he had made to her innocent comments, but she was not to blame for his disloyalty. She had been unaware that all the time he was making love to her he was not free to do so. No wonder he had said he did not want to hurt her, did not want to defile her innocence! He had known he had no right to arouse her untried emotions. But was that the only reason for the grim contempt she had glimpsed earlier, or was it simply that he was angry that she had found him out in his deception?

  ‘Now…’ Fernando came to his desk which stood squarely in the centre of the floor, a dominant piece of furniture in mahogany and leather. ‘I understand my aunt has told you that my—wife engaged you without our foreknowledge, señorita.’

  Susannah stiffened. So that was how it was to be—as it had been before in that other room with the old Señora d’Alvarez. They were to behave as strangers. She curled her nails into her palms remembering something else—one small item of information about himself which he had volunteered. When his mother had died, his father’s sister had come to take charge of the family—the woman who had interviewed Susannah had to be that sister, the aunt of whom Fernando had spoken so emotionlessly. Having met her, Susannah could understand how intimidating she must have seemed to a boy of ten! And yet now it seemed he and his aunt were allied against his wife…

  ‘ Señorita? ’

  Susannah realized with a sense of shock that Fernando was waiting for her reply and that she had been sitting staring into space, scarcely aware of her surroundings in those few moments.