Dancing in the Shadows Read online

  DANCING IN THE SHADOWS

  DANCING IN THE SHADOWS

  Anne Saunders

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781445829456

  Copyright © Anne Saunders 1978

  All rights reserved

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  When her hired car broke down, Dorcas admitted to herself that it had been foolish of her not to stick to the beaten track. The hot Spanish sun dried her throat, and she was glad to find a patch of shade as she prepared for a lonely wait. This proved to be even longer than anticipated and despair was beginning to set in when a car came into sight.

  It stopped in response to her frantic hand wave, and a man climbed stiffly from behind the wheel. Rotund figure, bright flower decorated shirt, his perspiring face wide in a smile. He—and his round-faced female companion—just had to be English!

  How sweetly his straight-to-the-point: ‘Help needed?’ fell on her ears.

  ‘That’s the understatement of the year,’ she admitted. ‘I’m Dorcas West. My car has broken down. Do you know of a garage near here?’

  ‘Passed one not too far back, my dear. Garage Inglés. They say it’s run by an Englishman by the name of Tom Bennett. My name is Henry Brookes, and this is Martha, my wife.’

  It was Martha Brookes who said: ‘Let Henry have a look first. He knows quite a bit about cars.’ As Henry obligingly delved beneath the bonnet, her eyes whisked over Dorcas. Dorcas writhed under an expression that clearly deplored her lack of prudence in travelling alone.

  The car defeated Henry. After a short consultation between husband and wife, Dorcas gratefully accepted the offer of a lift back to the garage. She hated troubling these nice people, especially as Henry Brookes kept glancing furtively at his watch, as if time was a vital factor.

  She was relieved on their account, as well as her own, when Tom Bennett turned out to be a fair haired giant, with a wholesome manner that motherly Martha Brookes took to on sight.

  Giving a small involuntary sigh, Martha Brookes said: ‘I think we can safely leave you in Mr Bennett’s dependable care. Goodbye, dear. Good luck.’

  A salutary parting wish that was to look the other way. Dorcas was mercifully unaware of this as she turned to match Tom Bennett’s friendly grin.

  Tom took a note of the abandoned car’s whereabouts, and nonchalantly left Dorcas in charge of his garage while he went to have a look at it. He returned with the car on the end of a tow rope.

  ‘Not good?’ she said, reading his expression.

  ‘Rented job, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Some firms are quite reputable. Some wouldn’t allow this heap of rubbish on the road.’

  ‘As bad as that?’ Dorcas questioned in dismay.

  ‘Let’s put it this way. Shall I phone the car hire firm and give them a few blistering comments, or will you?’

  ‘You please, if you don’t mind. I don’t know any blistering comments. The language class I attended didn’t teach us any.’

  ‘It wouldn’t. Want me to tell them to send a replacement car? Might be some delay. The recent rain, after that long dry spell, has caused a landslip and the main road is temporarily closed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that. I haven’t been sticking to the main road. Are the trains getting through?’

  ‘At the moment, yes.’

  ‘That would seem my safest bet. Don’t bother about a replacement car. Just ask them to collect their property. I’ll catch the train.’

  ‘Wise girl,’ he approved. He told her how to get to the station. Then added in friendly speculation: ‘Not that I’m trying to hurry you away.’

  ‘I really must go. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I paid the hire car fee in advance. There should be a refund. If there is, please keep it for your trouble,’ she said punctiliously. He reminded Dorcas of her brother, Michael. Which was odd because they weren’t really alike.

  Memory of her brother put a bar between her eyes, and Tom took this as a sign of rejection to his friendly overture. As his heart was already spoken for he thought that perhaps it was as well, and when Dorcas asked if there was anywhere she could get a cup of English tea, he directed her to Mama’s Hacienda, assuring her that Mama made an excellent brew. He watched her walk bravely up the road, her suitcase bumping against her bare legs.

  Tom had said Mama’s Hacienda was the third villa past the monastery. She must have been mistaken because here it was and the monastery was beyond, on the rise of the hill. The foliage-laced, sparkling white villa was exactly as Tom had described it.

  Voices drifted to her on a gentle breeze the moment before she spied the tables and chairs set in the chequered light and shade beneath a canopy of trees. She walked through the imposing wrought-iron gates, a presentiment of loneliness clutching at her throat, a feeling that her presence was an intrusion.

  It will pass in a moment, she thought, brushing it off as her usual awkwardness when having to face strangers. And so many of them. It must be a very popular place. To her growing consternation, she saw there wasn’t a vacant seat.

  She stood, feeling lost and irresolute, not knowing whether to go or stay. Already she was collecting a fair share of attention. Her own glance chanced upon the regal-looking English lady presiding over a large silver teapot. Mama? Having a preconceived picture of a fat, homely señora firmly established in her mind, she felt slightly cross with Tom Bennett for not warning her that Mama was a compatriot.

  This very unlikely-looking Mama enquired in highly cultured English: ‘Yes? Did you want something?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ said Dorcas meekly and was unprepared for, and a little hurt by, the ripple of laughter her request brought. Hating to be so very much in the limelight, she darted the gallant Spaniard who offered her his seat a look of undying gratitude. She dare not look at him properly, not yet, until her embarrassment had evaporated a little.

  ‘Tea for the señorita,’ she heard him say. And shortly afterwards a welcome cup of tea was handed to her.

  Her Spanish gallant procured an extra chair from somewhere and asked permission to join her. Dorcas nodded. In the circumstances she could hardly do otherwise.

  He spoke excellent English and as she raised her eyes for the first time, she began to doubt her original hurried assessment of his nationality. He was tall, even by English standards, and his skin wasn’t as dark as a Spaniard’s, although he had a Spaniard’s arrogant features. It was a bold, challenging face; a face with the medieval quality one finds in the well-preserved portraits that hang in art galleries. But the well-defined mouth was that of a modern-day buccaneer. And the eyes, unexpectedly the blue of a midnight sky, contained a most indecorous twinkle.

  She sipped her tea, feeling more disconcerted by his gaze than the collective gazes of everybody else around her. She wondered, inconsequently, where he’d got his dark blue eyes from.

  ‘I did not expect to see so many people,’ she said conversationally.

  ‘These are my parents’ friends. They are here to celebrate my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary.’

  Dorcas’s cheeks flushed a brighter red than the blood-red roses on the table.

  ‘Wedding anniversary!’

  She should have suspected something like this. For one thing, everybody was dressed for an occasion. No way did they resemble the usual oddly garbed collection of tourists. And, of course, this explained the stares and amused glances.

  She drew in an agonized breath. ‘I’d no idea
I’d gatecrashed a private party. I didn’t know Mama’s Hacienda wasn’t open for normal trade.’

  Worse was to follow.

  ‘Mama’s Hacienda?’ His surprise turned to amusement. ‘I see!’

  And quite suddenly Dorcas saw too.

  ‘This isn’t Mama’s Hacienda?’

  ‘No. This is the residence of the Señores Ruiz. The distinguished looking bearded gentleman is Enrique Ruiz, my papa. My mother is Rose Ruiz. She is English, as you are probably aware. I am Carlos Ruiz, although I answer just as happily to Charles, the English equivalent of my name.’

  Dorcas realized he wanted some return for all that information. She reasoned this out very slowly because her mind was still in shock. ‘Oh . . . yes . . . please forgive me. I’m still reeling. What a dreadful mistake to make. I’m Dorcas West. And I must go.’

  ‘I offend you by laughing.’ He sobered instantly. ‘I am not laughing at you.’

  ‘That’s very nice to hear, but I’m still . . .’

  ‘I am smiling at the benevolence of the kindly fate that directed your steps. Please stay.’

  In her struggle for composure, she was clumsily honest. ‘This isn’t fate-planned. This is the hand of human error. Mine.’

  ‘Don’t you believe in fate?’ he said with dry audacity. The impression being that he was challenging her to believe in something he regarded with scepticism.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Yet . . . absurdly . . . it was as if an unknown force had brought her here, and that a step taken today could never be retraced.

  The dark blue sorcerer’s eyes teased her gullibility. It hardly seemed fair, not when these same eyes were guiding her into this area of thought. It was weak of her to allow her mind to be manipulated in this way. She should break free and run; yet she sat motionless, hardly daring to breathe for fear of breaking this—yes!—enchanted spell her common-sense was frantically denying.

  She must have moved, must have obeyed the feeble spark of rebellion and made some effort to escape, because his hands were easing her back into her chair.

  ‘You can’t go until you have told me all about yourself. There is something about you I find intriguing.’

  Her hands fidgeted on her lap.

  ‘You are . . .’ His brow creased as his mind plundered his brain for the word . . . ‘an enigma. A sealed book whose pages would make a fascinating perusal. I do not embarrass you?’

  ‘No,’ she lied, choking on his effrontery. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed!

  ‘You are so English,’ he said. ‘As English as the rose, and tea in delicate china cups.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am half English,’ he said, with a Spaniard’s pomposity that widened her smile into a laugh.

  Her gaze escaped past his to the ama de casa, Rose Luiz, this disturbing man’s English mother. ‘You’ve got your mother’s eyes.’

  ‘And whose eyes have you got, Dorcas?’ He used her name naturally, without familiarity. ‘Sherry-gold eyes.’ He reached up as if to touch them, but his fingertips drew circles round them in the air. ‘And the smallness and grace of a gazelle. You are well-named. Who have you to thank for such foresight?’

  ‘My father chose my name. In Greek, Dorcas means gazelle, as you obviously know.’

  She turned her chin from the penetration of his gaze. His hand lightly touched her cheek, flooding it with colour. ‘I wonder if you know how beautiful you are.’

  She made herself remember that all Spaniards flattered to the point of exaggeration. Very probably he was saying what he thought was expected of him. It did not cross her mind that he could be flirting with her—showing unwarranted interest in her personal background—out of kindness. Certainly, if his intention was to take her mind off her faux pas, he was one hundred per cent successful. Her embarrassment in his interest made her forget she was an interloper.

  ‘I am not beautiful,’ she declaimed. ‘My brother is beautiful. I am insignificant beside him.’

  ‘Is your brother travelling with you?’

  ‘No. He is touring France. I chose to holiday in Spain. I am alone.’ Should she have said that? Was it wise to advertise her vulnerability?

  ‘What are your parents thinking of?’

  ‘My parents are dead.’ Her voice was so low it barely stirred the silence.

  Quick concern touched his features. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve brought the shadows to your eyes. The last thing I intended was to bring back a sad memory.’

  ‘It happened a long time ago. Ten years to be exact.’ Her voice was softly forgiving. ‘They were killed in a plane crash.’

  ‘Ten years ago you must have been little more than a baby. Who brought you up?’

  ‘Grandmother. She never let us feel deprived. My brother Michael and I were lucky to have such a kindly, understanding parent substitute.’

  Even though a winter and a spring had passed, it was still too recent not to invoke bitter and painful memories. She remembered everything of that night, from the moment her key grated in the lock. Beyond the threshold, her brother Michael had been waiting to impart the news.

  ‘Grandmother has been taken ill. A stroke, apparently. The doctor is with her now. At this stage it’s difficult to tell how severe, but it looks pretty bad.’

  Then Doctor Chandler was coming towards her. ‘Go to her, quickly, child.’

  ‘Of course, Doctor. Coming Michael?’

  ‘No.’ Her brother’s face contorted, and she saw the heightened colour in his cheeks which linked with the glass of whisky in his hand. ‘I’ve gone to her for the last time. All her life she’s had the whip hand. I’ll be damned if I’ll go running to her in death.’

  ‘What a thing to say! How can you be so cruel and unfeeling? Michael!’ she implored. But her brother turned from her, and Dorcas went to the sick-room alone.

  It was a long and lonely vigil. She couldn’t face food. What little sleep she had was taken curled up in the high-backed, blue velvet chair, within sight of the ivory and gold counterpane.

  Michael looked in occasionally, his head buzzing as he speculated the size of his inheritance. He knew exactly what he intended to do with the money. Dorcas was shocked beyond belief.

  ‘Grandmother is still alive. How can you plan what to do with her money! How can you talk as if she’s already dead!’ His callousness and greed appalled her more than anything she had experienced in her life.

  Just before the end, as sometimes happens, her grandmother rallied, briefly easing the presentiment of death. For a short while she seemed almost her old lucid self. ‘Where is Michael?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s been here all the time you were asleep,’ Dorcas lied lovingly. ‘He just slipped out for a moment.’ Perhaps she didn’t lie too well at that, because the old eyes were darkly condemning. ‘Don’t be too harsh.’ The skeletal fingers closed round Dorcas’s wrist. ‘Just because he’s prettier than you are, don’t spite the boy. I’ve no time for petty jealousy. Never have had.’ Then she said querulously: ‘Where is Michael? Where is my beautiful boy? We’ve all spoilt him, you know. It’s not his fault if we’ve spoilt him, is it?’

  ‘No, Grandmother, it isn’t,’ Dorcas had said, struggling not to be hurt by the unjust criticism.

  With perfect timing Michael returned, his face a pale slash of concern at the doorway. Dorcas had risen stiffly and stood to one side, her twisting fingers hidden behind her back. She’d always stood aside for Michael. Grandmother was wrong. She adored her golden brother along with everyone else. She wasn’t jealous of him.

  Michael’s hand tapped her shoulder. ‘It’s all over. The old girl’s gone.’ His matter-of-fact tone nauseated her. As the violent tears slid down her cheeks, pinging like needles on her clenched fists, she knew that somehow she must make a life for herself without her brother.

  She didn’t anticipate difficulty, and she met none. When she told him her decision to ‘go it alone’ he seemed quite relieved.

  Grandmother hadn’t left any money, just the tall, dig
nified house, which she had willed to Michael. Predictably, he decided to sell. Dorcas got rid of what possessions wouldn’t fit into a suitcase and this she dragged with her, resting it briefly in a series of drab lodging houses as she tried to carve a career for herself in the one thing she did with any degree of fluidity and grace. She was a dancer. On the stage her awkwardness vanished and her fey personality and swift gazelle purity of movement captured the attention of the audience. But she was the first to admit that she lacked that special something that is hard to define, the plus element that assures stardom. In both her home and her working life she followed the same inescapable pattern. It seemed she was destined to dance for ever in the shadow of someone else’s brilliance.

  A finger and thumb snapped under her nose. ‘Please come back,’ said Carlos. ‘I do not like conversing with a stone.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You were saying?’

  ‘No. You were saying. You were telling me about yourself. I am desolate to realize you are so alone. What is your brother thinking of shirking his responsibilities! He should not allow you to wander like a waif.’

  ‘Can one be a waif at twenty-two?’

  ‘Are you? I had wondered. And set you a year or so under. I am pleased you are twenty-two. A woman.’

  ‘Who should still be under the protection of her brother?’ she said, a puckish smile teasing up her mouth.

  ‘You mock. But yes, that is what I think. A son of Spain would honour such a responsibility.’

  ‘That has a tyrannical ring to it that sets my teeth on edge. I should object most forcibly to being protected. Protection is so often another word for domination. I should hate to be dominated and told where I may go and what I am permitted to do, which I think is what you mean by honouring a responsibility. I am glad you are not my brother.’

  ‘I second that most heartily.’ His tone was dry. ‘In view of my thoughts, that would be a most improper thing to be.’

  With commendable dignity, Dorcas said: ‘It is time I went.’

  ‘And risk engendering fate’s disapproval?’ he teased inventively. ‘Fate is a woman who does not like to be crossed. Think of all the trouble she must have taken to arrange this meeting between us.’