The Japanese Screen Page 8

  Susannah turned back. ‘I’m so glad you approve of something, Mrs. Minto,’ she murmured a little dryly, and the housekeeper looked at her sharply. Then she nodded.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m an interfering old woman. I’ve heard it before. My daughter says it all the time.’

  Susannah shook her head, and with a casual word excused herself. In the living-room she walked to the windows and looked out on the walled garden. She was glad to be away from Mrs. Minto’s sharp tongue, but she couldn’t help but wonder what the other villagers thought of the Cunninghams and their guests. And how often was this cottage used by other people than themselves?

  She sighed. It had been strange hearing Mrs. Minto call Fernando Don Fernando, and yet she supposed that was how he was addressed in his own country. She knew so little about him. How did one discover the answers to leading questions without appearing to probe? She shook her head again. No doubt he would tell her all about himself in his own good time. Right now, she was content just to be with him.

  She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered in anticipation of the night to come. Not even Mrs. Minto’s disapproval could destroy the memory of those few minutes before she arrived when Fernando had demonstrated only too clearly how much he loved and wanted her. To imagine the culmination of that love was an ecstasy too great to contemplate without wanting to throw out her arms and show everyone how happy she was. Giving in to the impulse, she spun lightly round on the spot and then came to an abrupt halt as Fernando came running down the stairs and saw her. His hair was damp from the shower he had just taken and he had changed into a white silk shirt with full sleeves that fastened at his wrist with pearl buttons. His trousers were cream, closefitting at the hip, revealing the taut muscles of his thighs beneath the fine cloth, flaring towards the ankle above suede boots. Several of the buttons on his shirt were unfastened showing the brown skin of his chest, and she could see a silver medallion glinting amongst the hair. She thought he looked dark and alien, more like a pirate of old than a man who ran a prosperous wine-exporting business.

  A curiously guarded look entered his eyes as he saw her and turning away he said: ‘A drink, I think. What will you have, Susannah?’

  She walked slowly across to join him by a small cabinet and gave an involuntary little shrug. ‘I don’t know. Sherry, perhaps?’

  ‘Sherry?’ He looked sharply at her and she took a step backward at the fierceness of his gaze.

  ‘Is there something wrong with that?’ she ventured, in surprise.

  He tore his gaze away, shaking his head. ‘No. No, of course not. Sherry it shall be.’

  She moved away to sit on the couch, puzzling over his change of attitude. Then she inwardly chided herself. She was much too sensitive where he was concerned. No doubt he was a little tired, a little tense—just as she was.

  He came to join her carrying their drinks. She noticed he was drinking brandy and that when he sat down he left a liberal amount of leather between them. Frowning, she sipped the sherry and covertly watched him as he stood down his glass to take out one of the cheroots he favoured and light it. When he was inhaling with obvious satisfaction, she said:

  ‘Mrs. Minto is preparing us a traditional English meal—roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Fernando rested his dark head against the back of the couch.

  ‘I am not particularly hungry,’ he confessed quietly. ‘Tortillas would perhaps be more appropriate.’

  ‘Tortillas? Are they pancakes?’

  He tilted his head towards her. ‘It is the Spanish form of an omelette, but a little more filling than your English omelettes. Have you never tasted them?’

  Susannah bent her head. ‘How could I? I’ve never been to Spain.’

  ‘But the Castanas—do they not eat Spanish food?’

  ‘Occasionally Mrs. Travers, that’s the housekeeper, makes a special effort on their behalf, but I usually eat whatever the servants are having.’

  ‘I see,’ he nodded.

  ‘You—you don’t talk much about Spain, do you?’ she tendered, with great temerity.

  She couldn’t be absolutely certain, but she thought he stiffened. ‘You are interested in my country?’

  ‘Naturally I am.’

  He shrugged. ‘What do you wish to know?’

  She sighed. Put like that it sounded so cold and impersonal somehow. Searching for words, she said: ‘Tell me about where you live. About Cadiz. There’s a certain amount of Moorish influence in that part of Spain, isn’t there?’

  ‘There is a certain amount of Moorish influence in the whole of Spain,’ he commented dryly. ‘But you are right to mention Andalusia.’ The way he spoke that word was a caress, and Susannah’s senses stirred to the feeling in his voice. ‘Nowhere was the Moorish rule so strong and enduring. It is a great irony that their civilization should have been overthrown from within, as it were.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He leant forward resting his elbows on his knees, looking along at her intently. ‘The Moorish ruler fell in love with a Christian girl; but he was already married. He tried to supplant his wife with his new love, but she was a jealous woman. She fled from his palace with her son and raised an army to overthrow her husband. She succeeded, and her son was made king in his stead. But the conflict had weakened the Moorish forces and eventually they had to surrender to the onslaught of Christianity.’

  Susannah was fascinated. ‘What an intriguing story,’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide and innocent.

  Fernando studied her intent face and then flung himself back on the couch. ‘Yes, is it not?’ he conceded tautly. ‘One day you may go to Granada—to the Alhambra—and see for yourself exactly what the Moorish ruler lost for love!’

  ‘Granada!’ Susannah said the word slowly. ‘Such beautiful names, aren’t they? Cadiz—Seville—Malaga!’ She sighed. ‘You must miss it very much.’

  He gave her a quick look, and then rose abruptly to his feet. ‘Yes, I suppose I should.’ He walked to the window, looking out, a frown marring his lean features.

  Susannah finished her sherry and put down her glass. She didn’t altogether understand his mood, and it troubled her that he seemed withdrawn now and almost morose.

  ‘I have heard it is a very beautiful country,’ she volunteered awkwardly. ‘Particularly Andalusia.’

  He turned, leaning back against the window. ‘But like all beautiful things, it has a darker side to its nature,’ he said harshly. ‘There is cruelty as well as beauty.’

  Susannah looked down at her hands. ‘I expect there is no more cruelty there than anywhere else. It is an imperfect world.’

  He strode across the floor. ‘I agree. Nevertheless, I doubt you would speak so tolerantly of the corrida.’

  ‘The bullfight?’

  ‘Si.’ He bent his head. ‘It is perhaps a fitting description of the more violent forces in our nature.’

  ‘I know very little about it,’ she admitted quietly.

  ‘That is obvious.’ His tone was almost disparaging. ‘Sin duda, if you saw a ravaged beast spitting its blood into the sawdust of an arena on some otherwise peaceful Sunday afternoon, you would be as disgusted as many of your compatriots!’

  Susannah winced at his descriptive ability. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ she burst out tremulously. ‘What do you expect me to say? Do you want me to despise the ability of your compatriots to delight in blood lust? Do you wish me to feel distaste—loathing? To decry all Spaniards because of the behaviour of a minority—’

  ‘They are not a minority. The corrida is in our blood. It is a way of life!’

  ‘All right. All right!’ Susannah rose to her feet unsteadily, pressing the palms of her hands over her ears. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’ She made a confused movement of her shoulders. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do—unless it’s to destroy what’s between us. If that’s what you want to do, you don’t have to go to such nauseating l
engths—’

  He uttered an expletive in his own language and then throwing his half-smoked cheroot into the empty fire grate he came to her, grasping her arms in a savage hold, hauling her close against him. ‘Idiota!’ he groaned against her mouth. ‘Mi guapa idiota! Do you not know how I feel—how I despise myself for wanting you so much that I am prepared to go to these lengths to possess you!’ His fingers cupped her throat. ‘I do not think I am worthy of you, Susannah mia!’

  Susannah raised her own hands to cover his. ‘Don’t say such things, Fernando,’ she breathed, looking up at him with eyes that revealed all too transparently what her feelings were. ‘I agreed to come here, remember?’

  He gathered her more closely against him. ‘And when the Castanas leave for New York,’ he murmured huskily, ‘will you be going with them?’

  Susannah pressed her face against his chest. ‘Do you want me to?’

  Fernando lifted her chin. ‘Me—I want you to stay in London. But I am selfish. I cannot bear to think of coming to England to find you gone.’

  ‘Oh, Fernando.’ She caught her breath. ‘I won’t go to New York. I don’t think I could bear to think of so many thousands of miles between us.’

  ‘Susannah.’ His voice was thickening with emotion, and his mouth was devouring hers when a throat was cleared behind them, and Mrs. Minto said:

  ‘Excuse me, I’m sure, but can I lay the table for dinner, sir?’

  Fernando closed his eyes for a minute, and then put Susannah away from him and turned to face the unsmiling face of the housekeeper.

  ‘Ah, Señora Minto,’ he inclined his head politely. ‘I hope you are well, señora.’

  Mrs. Minto thawed the tiniest bit. ‘I’m very well, thank you, Don Fernando.’ She indicated the cutlery in her hands. ‘Can I set the table?’

  ‘But of course.’ Fernando gave her a faint bow, and then bent to extract another cheroot from his case on the table.

  Susannah admired his composure. He was completely in control of himself again, no doubt an indication of his breeding, while she was still shaken and trembling, bereft from the enveloping warmth of his nearness.

  Mrs. Minto began to lay the polished table in the dining-alcove, taking cut glasses from a sideboard and placing them beside each raffia mat. Fernando lit his cheroot and then after a devastating glance at Susannah, disrupting all her new-found composure, he strolled casually towards the housekeeper, asking her about her married daughter, even remembering her daughter’s name. Mrs. Minto blossomed under his attentions like a full-blown rose, and Susannah thought that no one could entirely resist such charm if he chose to exert it.

  The meal when it was served was good and wholesome without having much in the way of embellishment. A vegetable broth was followed by the roast beef, with a fruit flan and cream to finish. Unfortunately neither of them did full justice to the food, and Susannah was intensely conscious of the housekeeper’s disapproval when she came to remove their plates.

  By the time coffee had been served and Mrs. Minto had finished her chores in the kitchen, it was well after nine o’clock. Because they were both aware of the housekeeper’s presence, Fernando switched on the television set that resided on one of the broad shelves beside the fireplace, and Susannah tried to concentrate on the film that was showing. It was a terrifying study in fear set in a lonely cottage miles from any other form of civilization, about a young girl who had arranged to meet her lover there, unaware that he was the psychopathic killer who had already murdered half a dozen other women. Susannah was conscious of Fernando’s eyes upon her at certain points in the narrative and she smiled without looking at him, realizing he was amusing himself by identifying them with the situation being enacted on the screen.

  Mrs. Minto eventually emerged from the kitchen, putting on her coat. ‘Well, I’m going now, sir,’ she said, addressing herself to Fernando. ‘There’s nothing else you want, is there?’

  Fernando rose to his feet. ‘I do not think so, thank you, Señora Minto.’ He smiled. ‘The dinner was delicious, and I do appreciate the work you have done for us.’

  Mrs. Minto looked flustered. ‘Why, it was nothing, Don Fernando,’ she denied, looking embarrassed when he pressed a note into her hand. ‘But—thank you, anyway. I’m sure I hope you and—and the young lady find everything to your liking. Would you like me to come back in the morning and cook breakfast—’

  ‘That will not be necessary, thank you, señora.’ Fernando was firm. ‘Give my regards to your daughter, will you not?’

  ‘That I will.’ Mrs. Minto nodded vigorously and moved to the door. ‘I’ll say good night, then.’

  ‘Good night.’ Fernando inclined his head in that gesture which was half bow, half dismissal. Susannah glanced round and bade the housekeeper a brief ‘Cheerio,’ and then sighed with relief when the door closed behind her. Fernando secured the lock and then walked back to where he had been lounging on the couch, flinging himself down and stretching lazily.

  ‘Pues? You do not like her?’ he inquired, looking at Susannah out of the corners of his eyes.

  Susannah tried not to be distracted by the broad expanse of his brown chest. ‘I—I neither like nor dislike her,’ she said honestly. ‘I—she—we had a difference of opinion earlier.’

  ‘What was that about?’ He frowned. ‘Ah, let me guess—she did not approve of our being here, si? Ya me lo figuro.’

  Susannah shrugged. ‘She has a very high opinion of you, anyway.’

  Fernando gave an impatient snort. ‘To Señora Minto, there is only negro y blanco—black and white. No shades between.’

  Susannah smiled. ‘I think she considered you beyond such behaviour.’

  Fernando closed his eyes. ‘Too old, perhaps.’

  ‘You’re not old!’

  He opened his eyes. ‘Compared to you? Oh, yes, I am, Susannah. There are sixteen years between us, remember.’

  Susannah pressed her lips together. ‘Don’t say things like that. Age is not important.’

  ‘At your age, I would agree. But each year means a greater experience of life. I feel—very experienced when I am with you, pequeña.’

  Susannah got up from her armchair and came to sit beside him on the couch, close beside him, sliding her hand across his chest, feeling the heavy beat of his heart. Her fingers encountered the small medallion suspended from its fine silver chain and she lifted it, leaning forward to examine it closely. It was the usual kind of disc made to commemorate one of the numerous saints of the Catholic religion, but on the reverse side there was a small inscription: Pilar, 1932. She looked up into his face. ‘What does this mean?’ she asked curiously.

  Fernando looked down at the medallion in her hand. ‘It belonged to my mother,’ he told her quietly. ‘My father gave it to her on the occasion of their marriage. When she died it was given to me.’

  ‘I see.’ Susannah fingered the disc. ‘Did she—that is—has she been dead very long?’

  ‘Very long,’ he conceded, somewhat grimly. ‘She died when I was ten years old.’

  Susannah looked up at him again. It was hard to imagine the young Fernando, but the vulnerability of such a disaster to any small boy made her lean closer against him and rest her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Did you miss her?’ she asked, the compassion evident in her voice.

  Fernando seemed to stiffen. ‘It was a long time ago. I have forgotten any agony of mind I suffered at that time. An aunt—a sister of my father’s—came to live with us, and she took my mother’s place quite adequately.’

  Susannah frowned. ‘That sounds—cold!’

  He sighed. ‘I suppose it does. But in my country one is not permitted the indulgence of self-pity. My mother was dead—it was an inescapable fact and we had to accept it. My father made the best arrangements he could to prevent any disruption of the household.’

  Susannah shook her head, the silky swathe of her hair swinging against his skin. ‘And it was so simple to replace your mother?’ she exclaime
d incredulously.

  His arms closed around her, and she felt his lips against her hair. ‘No. No, of course it was not,’ he admitted emotively. ‘And my father would no doubt tell you that my mother’s death had a most disagreeable effect upon me. My aunt and I did not—how do you say it—get along? We were not simpatico, no? I can remember being in trouble more often than not.’

  Susannah nestled closer. ‘That sounds more human.’

  ‘Si. I was very human.’ His tone was dry. ‘When I was your age my father despaired of ever being able to—’ He broke off suddenly and drew a deep breath. ‘But that is enough. You do not wish to hear of my disreputable past.’

  ‘Oh, but I do!’ She sat up. ‘I—I want to know everything about you.’

  Fernando looked into her flushed face and then shook his head, his eyes half closed. ‘I am tired,’ he said softly. ‘Are you?’

  Susannah shivered. ‘A—a little.’

  ‘Then I suggest we go to bed, si?’ He pressed a light kiss to her parted lips. ‘You go up. I will smoke a cheroot and follow in five minutes.’

  Susannah nodded. The moment had come and there was no drawing back now. The pleasant evening they had spent, the homely aromas of the food they had consumed, the television still playing away uselessly in the corner were suddenly a sensitized sequence of events that flashed before her eyes. She went up the stairs automatically without looking back. She washed, cleaned her teeth, and got undressed, putting on the white lawn nightgown she had bought several months ago and never worn. Then she climbed into the enormous bed, aware that she had never slept between silk sheets before, and turned out the light.

  Lying there in the darkness she heard Fernando come up the stairs and then the sound of running water in the bathroom. He had obviously entered from the landing and she tensed into a stiff imitation of herself. It was no good. She was frightened. And she didn’t know what to do about it.