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  Susannah sensed what it had cost him to admit that. He was loath to find any excuses for his behaviour.

  ‘So now you can see the ghastly dilemma I was in. My father had never asked anything of me before. I could not fail him.’

  ‘No.’ Susannah’s voice was quiet.

  ‘But of course it didn’t work. Oh, we tried to begin with, but it was useless. Monica and I are simply not suited to one another, but for Marla’s sake we maintain appearances.’

  ‘And is that enough?’ exclaimed Susannah, aghast.

  ‘No.’ His voice was strangled. ‘No, of course it is not enough. Not now, at least. Before—before I met you, I did not care. But in London—’ He broke off bitterly. ‘It would be better if we had never met.’

  ‘You—you told Monica about—about us?’

  ‘No.’ Fernando shook his head vigorously. ‘No. I could not have borne her vile satisfaction at the news that I was no better than she,’ he muttered. ‘Cristo, Susannah, why did you come here? When I thought you had known I was married and had come here to torment me, I pretended I hated you. But when, in your innocence, you declared the truth, I was desperate for you to leave. I was afraid—afraid that if you did not go, this might happen!’

  He raised tormented eyes to hers, searching her face for some sign that she still felt the same. The haunting sadness of her eyes, the vulnerable curve of her pale cheeks, the parted softness of her lips were too much for him to withstand. With a groan of despair that was compounded of his desire to touch her and the self-loathing it inspired, his hands encircled her throat beneath the neckline of her gown, lingering against the silky swathe of hair loose about her shoulders. He drew her towards him and pressed his lips to the hollow between her breasts where her gown had parted. His touch was probing, gentle, devastatingly destructive to any defence she might try to raise against him. Then he was on the bed beside her, and his mouth was covering hers, gently at first but with ever-increasing passion. Susannah was pressed back among the silken bedcoverings, and in the scented darkness the weight of his body was an added protection against the world outside her room.

  ‘Susannah, Susannah,’ he breathed harshly against her throat. ‘Forgive me, but I love you so much…’

  Susannah’s arms were around his neck, her fingers were tangled in his hair, and a sensuous lethargy was creeping over her body. Fernando should not be here, and certainly she should not be allowing him to kiss her and caress her as he was doing. But the events of the day had been such that they had weakened her resistance to him, and in those mindless minutes she had no thought of the possible consequences to herself.

  But with cruel indifference the intimacy between them was suddenly shattered. The bedroom was brilliantly illuminated as a hand flicked the switch at the door, and Fernando rolled on to his back as Monica came slowly into the room. She was still wearing the orange chiffon gown she had worn earlier, and the inevitable cigarette was between her fingers.

  ‘My God!’ she muttered disbelievingly, her eyes shifting from Fernando to Susannah and then back to Fernando again. ‘Amalia was right. That is the way of it. My God, no wonder you were so quick to defend our dear governess this evening. Hypocrite! How dare you preach at me when all the time—’

  ‘It’s not like that—’ began Susannah desperately, holding the neckline of her gown closely to her. But Fernando was rising from the bed and he signalled to her to be silent.

  He fastened the buttons of his shirt with deliberate slowness, apparently uncaring of the fury on his wife’s face, and walked towards her.

  ‘Before you begin making accusations, Monica, I suggest we continue our confrontation elsewhere—’

  ‘Why? Why should we? Do you want to spare your mistress the sordid details—’

  ‘Susannah is not my mistress!’ he muttered violently.

  ‘No? You could have fooled me!’

  Fernando’s mouth twisted. ‘Do not be coarse, Monica!’

  ‘Coarse? What’s coarse? I walk in here and find the man who’s supposed to be my husband—’

  ‘Be silent!’ He almost shouted the words. ‘Who sent you here? Oh, yes, you mentioned Amalia. It would be her.’

  ‘She’s obviously more astute than you had given her credit for being,’ remarked Monica coldly. ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘It has not been “going on”,’ retorted Fernando grimly. ‘What you have just seen was the culmination of a situation you yourself contrived to create!’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a little premature?’

  Fernando’s eyes flashed. ‘Susannah and I have known one another for almost three months.’

  Monica’s lips parted. ‘You mean, there was something in what Lucie intimated?’

  ‘As I have no idea what Lucie Castana might or might not have intimated, I cannot answer your question.’

  ‘She said you had shown an exorbitant interest in the girl.’

  Fernando made an impatient gesture. ‘I see. Did she also tell you that she greeted me one morning in a transparent negligee intended to arouse an interest that was never stimulated?’

  Monica dropped the end of her cigarette on the tiles and stamped her foot on it. ‘All right, you don’t have to tell me about Lucie Castana.’ She gave Susannah a brooding look. ‘I always thought you were a pretty cool individual. It just shows—looks can be deceiving.’

  Fernando raked a hand through his hair. ‘I suggest we leave—Susannah—to spend the rest of the night in peace, Monica. We are all tired. We might be tempted to say things we do not mean.’

  Monica shrugged her shoulders. ‘Just tell me something: exactly what’s with you and—and her?’

  Fernando heaved a sigh. ‘Is that important?’

  Monica gasped. ‘I think so. And I’m pretty sure she thinks so, too. Or is this whole scene intended to humiliate Miss King into leaving?’

  Fernando clenched his fists. ‘Very well, Monica. I love Susannah. Is that enough for you?’

  ‘Does she love you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Susannah answered abruptly. ‘Yes, I love him. But I didn’t know he was married when I came here.’

  Monica gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘Didn’t you?’ she mocked.

  ‘No, I didn’t. How could I?’

  ‘I gather my dear—husband—didn’t tell you himself.’

  Susannah bent her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Typical!’ Monica gave a scornful snort. ‘Well, Fernando? And what are you going to do about it? Marry the girl?’

  Fernando took a step towards his wife and then halted, his jaw taut. ‘I suggest you get out of here, Monica!’ he muttered, and Susannah thought she had never heard anyone sound more threatening.

  Monica merely grimaced. ‘Well?’ she taunted. ‘Why don’t you? Marry her, I mean. Then we could all live happily ever after, couldn’t we?’

  Fernando caught her upper arm in a steel-like grip. ‘There is a limit, Monica,’ he snarled, ‘to what I will take. Do not tempt me to take you at your word. There might be the small matter of disposing of you first, and who knows, I might find that very enjoyable!’

  Although Monica maintained a brave face it was obvious his attitude had intimidated her at last. ‘Don’t be a fool, Fernando,’ she exclaimed, snatching her arm out of his grasp, moving voluntarily towards the door. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll go. You don’t have to twist my arm. You don’t even have to come with me. I’m broad-minded!’

  Before Fernando could make any retaliatory move she had gone, slipping through the door and allowing it to swing to behind her.

  Fernando’s shoulders sagged as he looked across at Susannah, pale and trembling on the bed. ‘What can I say?’ he muttered violently. ‘To apologize would be to pretend that I would not do the same thing again given the chance, and I know I would.’ He pressed a hand wearily to the back of his neck. ‘It seems a pointless euphemism, but I have to say I am sorry for—for the unpleasant scene that has just taken place.’

  ‘Fernando
—’

  ‘No, please. Do not say anything. I must go. Who knows, Amalia herself may be waiting at the foot of the stairs.’

  ‘Fernando, you don’t have to…’

  ‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes, Susannah, I do.’ He walked towards the door. ‘Good night, amada. Try to sleep. Things will look much different in the light of morning.’

  * * *

  Susannah hardly slept at all, but towards dawn exhaustion caused her to lose consciousness for a short period. Even so, she was showered and dressed before Maria appeared with her breakfast at a quarter to eight. The maid showed only mild surprise at the English governess’s early rising and there was nothing in her manner to indicate that she knew anything of the events of the night before.

  After the maid had left her, Susannah poured herself a cup of coffee and paced about the room drinking it. Her head ached with trying to find solutions to the problems that had robbed her of her sleep, and she determined to leave the casa as soon as possible. She couldn’t stay now, that much was blatantly obvious, but the knowledge that in all probability she would never see Fernando again was tearing her apart.

  But what else could she do? In spite of Monica’s callous behaviour, and no matter how much she loved Fernando, she could not spend the rest of her life in the shadows of his, conscious that in all matters of importance Monica had the right to demand his first consideration. What kind of a life would that be, never at peace, never able to bear his children, never to know the day-to-day experiences of bringing up a family. At best it would be a purely selfish arrangement, at worst a constant humiliation to his daughter.

  Susannah arrived at the studio at nine o’clock, deciding to tell Marla right away that she would be leaving, but the girl was not there. After waiting around for fifteen minutes, there was still no sign of her and Susannah went down, not without some misgivings, to the room where they usually took morning chocolate with Amalia d’Alvarez. Marla was not there either, but Doña Amalia was, and she looked up without surprise when Susannah entered the room.

  ‘Ah, Señorita King,’ she observed with satisfaction. ‘I thought you would come here. Are you looking for Marla?’

  Susannah was loath to discuss her affairs with Amalia d’Alvarez, but she had no choice other than to tell her that Marla had not turned up for her lessons.

  ‘Marla will not be having any more lessons with you, señorita,’ said Doña Amalia, putting aside the cloth she had been so meticulously sewing. ‘She is returning to the convent.’

  ‘Returning to the convent?’ Susannah felt a distinct sense of shock. ‘When?’

  ‘I do not think that need concern you, señorita. It is my nephew’s decision.’

  Susannah drew an unsteady breath. ‘I see.’

  Doña Amalia looked at her steadily. ‘You know why, do you not, señorita?’

  The hot colour burned in Susannah’s cheeks. ‘I—I don’t know what you mean, señora—’

  ‘I think you do, señorita. You surely realized you could not remain here after—after everything that has happened.’

  Susannah wondered with a sinking heart how much the old woman actually knew and how much she had guessed. It was inconceivable that Fernando should have discussed his affairs with her, and similarly Monica was hardly likely to confide in her arch-enemy. Even so, it was disconcerting to find that one’s personal affairs could become common knowledge without any apparent effort.

  ‘As—as a matter of fact, señora,’ she managed at last. ‘I wanted to see Marla for that very reason—to tell her I was leaving.’

  Doña Amalia could not hide her delight at this news. ‘I am sure her father will already have informed her of his decision, señorita.

  Susannah’s throat was dry. ‘Yes. Maybe.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘Is—Don Fernando in his study, señora?’

  ‘My nephew is not in the casa, señorita. He will not be back until this evening.’

  That was a blow. She had somehow imagined that today of all days Fernando would make himself available. If, as Doña Amalia had said, he expected her to leave, surely he did not expect her to go without seeing him? Or did he? Wouldn’t that perhaps be the kindest way?

  Now she moved her shoulders in a confused gesture. ‘I—is Señora d’Alvarez available, then? Señora Monica d’Alvarez, that is?’

  ‘I have no knowledge of Señora d’Alvarez’ movements, señorita,’ retorted Doña Amalia coldly. ‘Why do you wish to see my nephew or his wife?’

  ‘I feel I should offer my resignation to my employers, señora—’

  Doña Amalia’s relief was evident. ‘Is that all? My dear Señorita King, I can offer your apologies to my nephew and his wife, if indeed such apologies are necessary.’

  Susannah looked at the old woman unhappily. She didn’t altogether trust her. She had only her word that Fernando intended to dismiss her. Surely she ought to insist upon seeing him before leaving. Doña Amalia seemed overly keen to get her away from the casa.

  ‘I really think—’ she was beginning, when a shadow darkened the doorway and glancing round Susannah found Monica behind her.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ remarked the American woman mockingly, ‘what is going on here? Where’s Marla? Isn’t she having any lessons today?’

  Doña Amalia looked furious. ‘Señorita King and I were having a private conversation, Monica. I should be grateful if you would leave us to finish it.’

  Monica ignored her, touching Susannah’s shoulder imperatively. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Where is Marla?’

  Susannah sighed. ‘I understand Marla is returning to the convent for lessons—’

  ‘Really?’ Monica put a cigarette between her lips. ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Monica, please!’ Doña Amalia rose from her seat.

  ‘I want to know on whose authority Marla is returning to the convent. Fernando’s?’

  ‘Of course it is my nephew’s wish,’ declared Doña Amalia coldly. ‘Señorita King is leaving. That is her decision, not mine.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Monica stared at Susannah in dismay. ‘You can’t be!’

  Susannah was flabbergasted. That Monica should want her to stay on after the scene last night was incredible.

  ‘I’m afraid I must,’ she said quietly.

  Monica compressed her lips angrily. ‘For God’s sake—you can’t!’

  ‘Leave the señorita alone, Monica.’ That was Doña Amalia. ‘There is nothing for her here.’

  ‘I disagree.’ Monica’s face was grim. ‘Señorita King is in love with your nephew. Did you know that?’

  Doña Amalia clenched her small hands. ‘I do not think such matters warrant discussion, Monica—’

  ‘Why? Why not? What if I told you that Fernando was in love with her, too?’

  ‘Monica!’ Doña Amalia was pale.

  ‘Well, it’s true.’ Monica flung herself into an armchair, one leg draped ungracefully over its arm. ‘My God, just when I was beginning to think there might be a small chance—’ She raised her eyes heavenward. ‘Is there no justice?’

  Doña Amalia’s face looked pinched. ‘I wish you would leave us, Monica. There is no point in embarrassing Señorita King unnecessarily. What you are suggesting is impossible and you know it. You will please to go!’

  ‘Oh, yes. That’s what you’d like, isn’t it? Hide the facts at all costs! Don’t let anything mar the image of the unsullied Alvarez family!’

  ‘Monica, I beg of you—’

  ‘You? Begging me? Oh, Amalia, really! Don’t you know that you and I passed the point of appeal many years ago when you first discovered about Max—’

  ‘I—I feel faint.’ Doña Amalia swayed realistically and judging from her pallor Susannah thought it more than likely that she meant what she said.

  Without waiting for Monica to retaliate she hurried forward and lowered the old lady back into her seat, looking down at her with concerned eyes.

  ‘Can I get you anything, señora?’ she asked. ‘A drink perhaps?’
>
  Doña Amalia fanned herself with her handkerchief. ‘I—I—a little Vichy water, perhaps,’ she faltered, but Monica sprang to her feet and said:

  ‘Can’t you see she’s putting it on? She’s afraid you’ll learn something that hitherto has been kept a family secret.’

  Susannah looked from the old señora to the younger woman at her side. ‘Then perhaps if it is such a secret I ought not to be told,’ she suggested quietly.

  Monica’s lips twisted. ‘Really? Not even if I told you that there is absolutely no reason why Fernando shouldn’t marry you?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SUSANNAH propelled Toni’s pushchair through the park, pausing when the little girl caught sight of the ducks on the pond. ‘Quack-quacks!’ announced Toni, in her babyish treble, and Susannah smiled and knelt down beside her, pointing out the graceful swans who maintained an aloof distance between themselves and their impetuous cousins.

  And while Toni was distracted, Susannah sat cross-legged on the grass, her chin cupped on her hands, wondering whether she had made the right decision in accepting the post of English mistress at the nearby comprehensive school in Kennington.

  It was almost two months since she had returned from Spain, two months since that dreadful morning when Monica had made her startling announcement.

  To begin with, it had been very hard, a series of sleepless nights and tortured days when she had brooded over the things Monica had told her. But gradually things were falling into perspective and she no longer blamed Fernando entirely for what she had gone through. This post, which just happened to be at the school where Margaret’s husband, Peter, worked, had unexpectedly become vacant, and they had both urged her to take it and remain with them for the time being.

  They had been marvellously kind, Susannah acknowledged, with a warming sense of gratitude. They had not asked a lot of awkward questions, or encouraged her to get another job until she had shown herself ready for it, and gradually, in her own time, Susannah had told them the whole story. In fact, in spite of her earlier antipathy towards Fernando, it had been Margaret who had argued the justification of his actions, and through her Susannah was learning to live with the truth.