The Japanese Screen Page 12

  ‘I—yes. Yes, she had.’

  Fernando’s eyes narrowed. ‘Marla is a pupil at the Convent de l’Asuncion. I cannot imagine why my wife should imagine she requires further tuition.’

  Susannah straightened her back. ‘You wife thought it might be preferable for Marla to learn a little more about the world from a different viewpoint, señor.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Fernando’s eyes moved past her to rest for a moment on the girl curled in the armchair in the corner.

  Susannah glanced round at Marla also. In England a girl of Marla’s age would have had something to say for herself on this subject. But Marla sat, impassive, waiting for someone else to make the decisions. Susannah began to think that perhaps Monica d’Alvarez had a point after all. And she should have been here to raise it. But as she apparently was not…

  She turned to Fernando again. ‘I think your wife considers the Spanish way of education somewhat—restrictive, señor.’

  Fernando’s fist came down on the desk hard, and his eyes flashed dangerously as he held her gaze. ‘I am perfectly aware of my wife’s opinions of all things Spanish!’ he snapped savagely.

  ‘Yes, señor.’ Susannah’s voice was barely audible, and she had to force herself not to shrink from the fury in his face.

  ‘So,’ Fernando rested his palms on the leather surface of his desk, gaining control of himself again. ‘So, señorita; and what is your opinion?’

  Susannah drew an unsteady breath. She would have no opinions in this matter. Her main objective was to leave this house as quickly as possible. But when she took a moment to glance at Marla again she had to be honest.

  ‘I—I agree with your wife, señor,’ she replied quietly.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes.’ She took another breath. ‘And in any case, shouldn’t Marla have—have the right to say something for herself? Er—señor!’ Fernando straightened, a scowl marring his lean features. ‘Marla is happy at the convent, señorita.’

  ‘Is she?’ Susannah couldn’t prevent the words or the dryness of her tone.

  ‘Why do you doubt it?’ he demanded, his eyes dark and intense.

  ‘Why do you not?’ Susannah clenched her fists. ‘Have you asked her?’

  Fernando took a cheroot out of the carved ivory box on his desk and put it between his teeth, lighting it with a silver lighter. His expression was brooding and Susannah wondered why she didn’t just get up and walk out of here. By talking with him, arguing with him—albeit about Marla’s future—she was involving herself in his affairs and they were not and could not be anything to do with her. It was a pity that Monica d’Alvarez was not present. Then she could have seen how futile was her determination to change Marla’s future.

  Fernando drew deeply on his cheroot and then beckoned the girl to him. Marla slid obediently from her chair and came to stand beside him, tall for her age and slim, her features bearing a very slight resemblance to his own.

  ‘Ahora, Marla,’ he said encouragingly, ‘you have heard what Señorita King has said, have you not? She believes that you may not be happy at the convent.’ He frowned. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Si, Papa.’

  Fernando raised dark eyebrows. ‘Is that the truth, Marla?’

  ‘Si, Papa.’

  Fernando inclined his head towards Susannah and she felt a rising sense of frustration. She had changed her mind, too. Asking Marla whether she was happy at the convent was not going to solving anything, not when the child was brought up to obey her elders implicitly. She might well be happy there, or perhaps untroubled was a more honest description. But how could she decide when she was offered no alternative?

  Pushing back her chair, Susannah rose to her feet. ‘If that is all, señor, I’ll go back to my room and pack my belongings. I will have to throw myself on your hospitality for tonight, but I’ll telephone for transport in the morning and leave as early as I can—’

  ‘Basta!’ Fernando’s voice was harsh and angry, and for an instant Susannah saw something violent in the depths of his eyes. ‘Do not be in such a hurry, señorita. You cannot leave here until my wife returns. She employed you, not I.’

  ‘But Señora d’Alvarez said—’

  ‘I care not what Señora d’Alvarez said, señorita. You will remain here, at least until my wife returns.’

  Susannah found it hard to breathe. ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘I do not know for sure, señorita. A few days, a week—who knows when Monica will choose to return to the boredom of my house!’

  Susannah turned a startled gaze on Marla, but there was no emotion in her face. If she had heard and understood what her father had just said, it meant nothing to her. Susannah’s throat was parched. ‘I—I cannot stay here, señor—’

  ‘I am afraid you must, señorita.’ There was an implacable hardness about him now.

  Susannah looked again at Marla. ‘How do you propose to enforce that, señor?’ she asked tautly.

  Fernando’s lips twisted. ‘Do you owe no sense of loyalty to my wife, señorita? I understand that she paid you a month’s salary in advance to ensure that you did not change your mind.’

  Susannah’s cheeks flamed. She had forgotten Monica’s generosity, her eagerness to have her teach her daughter.

  ‘I—I will repay it,’ she began awkwardly, but he shook his head.

  ‘I think not. You will stay, señorita. If you are as—concerned for Marla as you pretend, then you should regard this as a challenge!’

  Susannah twisted her hands together. ‘You know I can’t stay—’

  His eyes were cold. ‘I know nothing of the kind, señorita. Are you or are you not the kind of young woman who—how do you say it—gives up at the first obstacle?’

  Susannah caught her breath. He was deliberately goading her, challenging her; they might have been the strangers he was pretending them to be.

  ‘I—I—’ She looked at Marla despairingly. ‘Does—does your daughter want me to stay?’

  Fernando looked down at Marla. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Would you like Señorita King to stay? Shall I arrange for you to have leave of absence from the convent so that you can take lessons with the señorita?’

  Marla’s lips parted, but her eyelids veiled her expression. ‘If that is what you want, Papa,’ she said dutifully.

  Susannah shook her head, and half turned away. ‘Very well, señor. You leave me no choice.’

  Fernando pressed out the stub of his cheroot in an onyx ashtray. ‘You came here to do a job, señorita. Just because the—er—conditions are not as you expected it does not mean that the task should be abandoned.’

  Susannah swung round to face him, anger overcoming her despair. ‘You aunt gave me to understand that I was not wanted here, señor. I see nothing in your attitude to change that opinion.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is decided. You will stay until Monica’s return.’

  ‘And what are my duties to be?’ Susannah spread a helpless hand. ‘Señor, I cannot teach Marla in the way the convent has been teaching her. Were I staying it would be different. We would have a routine—work out a schedule. How can you expect me to achieve anything in such a limited period of time?’

  ‘That can be decided, señorita,’ he answered shortly. ‘I suggest we leave the details until tomorrow morning. Marla is tired, and so, I am sure, are you.’

  Susannah was tired, she was exhausted, but she doubted whether several hours spent sleepless in that comfortable bed upstairs would make a scrap of difference to her condition.

  ‘May I go, then, señor?’ she inquired, unable to withstand any more of this barbed verbal fencing.

  Fernando hesitated, and then he shrugged. ‘If you wish, señorita.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Susannah walked jerkily towards the door, conscious of his eyes following her. As she opened the door she looked back. ‘Good night, señor. Good night, Marla.’

  The girl looked up, and a faint smile touched her pale lips. ‘Good night, señorita,’ she said politely
.

  * * *

  Susannah did not sleep well, but at least she did sleep even though her dreams were punctuated with bouts of restlessness that brought her awake, hot and sweating, staring into the darkness with desperate eyes.

  She had expected Fernando to get rid of her at the first opportunity, but he was forcing her to stay! It didn’t make sense. His attitude when he had first encountered her had shown his contempt for her presence, so why was he now inventing obstacles to prevent her departure? It was obvious that he did not really want her here—he could not want her here—and she for her part had no wish to stay. She had been foolishly naïve imagining a man like Fernando Cuevas might not be married in a country where family life meant such a lot. But he had seemed so sincere and she had wanted to believe that he was unattached. And yet now, everything remembered pointed to the existence of his wife. He had said so little about himself for one thing, never discussed his home or his family except from the distance of years when he had spoken about his own childhood. He had never suggested that she might write to him, or visit him in Spain, and she went cold when she considered how nearly she had come to making a complete fool of herself. And the night they had spent together at the cottage in Wendcombe, his wife had been only a couple of hours’ drive away at the Castana house.

  She rolled on to her stomach and buried her face in the pillows. At least he had not taken advantage of her innocence; his conscience must have asserted itself at the last moment. And it hardly seemed possible after the way he had treated her this evening that once he had been eager to hold her in his arms, to kiss her intimately, to make her overwhelmingly aware of his physical need of her.

  Even thinking such thoughts caused a wave of heat to envelop her body and she moved her legs restively. She wondered what he would have done if she had attempted to renew that kind of relationship with him here. Or had he been afraid that that was what she intended, and had invited Marla to join him to avoid such difficulties?

  Thinking of Marla brought Susannah’s thoughts to Monica d’Alvarez once more. Where was she? She had known the date Susannah was due to arrive. They had corresponded. So why had she chosen this particular time to be absent? Unless she was with Max Rosenberg…

  Susannah turned on to her back again. What had Lucia said about Monica and Max Rosenberg? Until now she had not been interested, but suddenly she needed to remember. And why? she asked herself bitterly. To justify Fernando’s behaviour—with her.

  She heaved a sigh. Nevertheless, Monica had seen a lot of the man while she was staying with the Castanas, nothing could alter that. He was, Susannah supposed, in his middle fifties, and Lucie had disparagingly dismissed him as one of Monica’s starving artists. She had not elaborated upon his talents except to say that Spain had a surfeit of such hangers-on, and Susannah had not been sufficiently bothered to find out. All the same, if Monica was as old as Susannah had thought her to be, she was considerably older than her husband, and maybe she found consolation in the belief that other men still found her attractive.

  But to say that was to presuppose that Fernando no longer found her attractive, and Susannah did not know that. On the contrary, the fact that he had written that letter repudiating any association with her pointed to his wanting to sustain his marriage. And certainly this evening he had behaved as any husband would have behaved confronted by a situation contrived by his wife. Except…She frowned into the darkness. Except when she had asked about Monica’s return. Then a little of his bitterness had shown. But whether that bitterness was directed towards himself or his wife, she could not know.

  She must have fallen into a deep sleep just before dawn, because she didn’t wake until brilliant sunlight swept across her bed as Maria threw back the curtains and opened the shutters.

  ‘Buenos dias, señorita,’ she greeted Susannah cheerfully. ‘It is after eight o’clock, and Señora Gomez said you would wish to be up, si?’

  Susannah propped herself up on her elbows, blinking and raising a hand to shade her eyes. ‘Thank you, I would.’ She reached for her watch from the bedside table and saw a tray on which reposed a pot of coffee, hot rolls under a perspex cover, curls of butter and conserve. ‘Oh—is this for me?’

  Maria nodded and smiled ‘Si’ señorita.’

  Susannah dragged herself into a sitting position and examined the face of the watch she had retrieved. Twenty past eight! It couldn’t be! But it was.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, sliding her legs from beneath the covers to sit on the side of the bed next to the tray, ‘what time does Señorita Marla usually leave for the convent?’

  Maria paused by the door. ‘The señorita begins lessons at eight o’clock, after mass, señorita.’

  ‘Eight o’clock!’ Susannah shook her head confusedly. ‘And has—has she gone to the convent today?’

  ‘No, señorita. Don Fernando say you are to teach Señorita Marla for a little, si?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Susannah didn’t sound enthusiastic. Maria went out of the door, but stopped again as Susannah called: ‘What do I do—I mean, after breakfast? Where am I to teach the señorita?’

  ‘There is a room, señorita, for the niña. Perhaps you will use that.’

  ‘And can you show me where it is, Maria?’

  Maria hesitated. ‘I think I will speak with Señora Gomez, señorita. She will know what you must do. I will come back and tell you what she says, si?’

  ‘Please,’ Susannah smiled. ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘De nada. ’

  Maria wanted no thanks and after she had gone Susannah poured herself some of the delicious-smelling coffee and buttered a roll. She had not eaten since lunchtime the previous day and in spite of everything that had happened her naturally healthy body required sustenance. Somehow, with the sun streaming through her windows, warming even the tiles of the floor, and the scents of the hanging blossoms on the balcony pervading the atmosphere with their redolent perfumes, it was not possible to remain completely dispirited.

  After two rolls and three cups of coffee she felt infinitely more ready to face the day. She showered and dressed in the grey skirt and white blouse she had worn as uniform in England. She brushed her hair, coiling it into a knot at the nape of her neck with several pins. She used make-up sparingly and was ready and waiting when Maria returned. If the Spanish girl thought the transformation from tumbled sleepiness to businesslike neatness rather startling she concealed it admirably and said:

  ‘I am to take you to Señorita Marla, señorita. Will you come with me.’

  To Susannah’s surprise, Maria led her back to the room where the elderly Señora d’Alvarez had interviewed her the evening before. She couldn’t help the way her nerves tightened as Maria first knocked at and then opened the door, but she need not have been alarmed. There was no sign of the old matriarch this morning. Marla was alone.

  The door closed behind the maid and Susannah stood for a moment just looking at her charge. Marla was seated neatly on the edge of an armchair, her hands folded in her lap. She was wearing a navy blue dress with a heavily pleated skirt and a pristine white collar. It was a very warm morning, and Susannah in her thin blouse and skirt was feeling the heat, while Marla, in her long-sleeved dress, appeared totally unconcerned. And yet for all that, Susannah was appalled that a child of her age should not expose more of her limbs to the sun.

  ‘Good morning, Marla,’ she said, at last, as the girl continued to look down at her hands folded in her lap.

  Marla lifted her chin. ‘Buenos dias, señorita,’ she replied politely.

  Susannah took a deep breath. ‘Well, I suggest we get to know one another, don’t you?’

  ‘Si, señorita.’

  ‘And I think we should begin by speaking English, Marla.’

  ‘Yes, Miss King.’

  Susannah glanced round. They were getting nowhere fast.

  ‘Is this where we are to do our lessons, Marla?’

  ‘No, Miss King.’

  ‘Then
where are we to work? Has your—father left any instructions for me?’

  Marla linked her fingers together. ‘We are to work in the studio upstairs, Miss King. But this morning, my father thought you might like to see more of the casa—the house.’

  ‘I see,’ Susannah nodded, relieved. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.’

  Marla shrugged. ‘My father made no stipulation as to time, Miss King.’

  ‘No. No, I know he didn’t, but…’ Susannah broke off. This would not do. A governess was always in command. She sighed. ‘Well—where shall we begin?’

  Marla rose to her feet. ‘Would you like to see the pool?’

  ‘The pool?’ Susannah raised dark eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know there was a pool.’

  Marla allowed a slight smile to curve her lips. ‘Come with me,’ she directed. ‘I will show you.’

  They went outside, into the brilliant sunlight which even at this hour of the morning possessed a fierceness never felt in cooler climes. Now Susannah could see that the balcony which shadowed the courtyard was supported by a series of pillars forming arches between. Beneath the balcony was a cloistered walk, and she was glad to seek its coolness. Stone seats edged the fountains, and as the sunlight reflected in the water it sparkled iridescently, dropping in tiny globules on the leaves of bougainvillea that spilled its blossoms round the rim. Hanging baskets of fuchsia and geranium provided vivid splashes of colour adding a European touch to purely Moorish architecture.

  Marla followed the shade of the balcony to where another arched way, similar to the one Susannah and Pedro had used to gain access the night before, gave on to yet another courtyard. The building was much bigger than Susannah had realized. It was not simply the rectangular shape with its fourth side missing as she had imagined, but instead an E-shaped structure with two inner courtyards.

  A magnificent pool almost filled the central area, reflecting the tracery of the inevitable arches that flanked it. Tiling in an intricate design of blue and green and gold surrounded the edge of the pool, but although it looked inviting, Susannah guessed that no one ever used it for bathing.