Dancing in the Shadows Read online

  ‘No. How are you called?’

  ‘Brigida, señorita’

  ‘Then, Brigida, just bring me fruit juice, rolls and preserve—any kind. Oh, and coffee please.’

  ‘Sí, señorita.’ Brigida’s taut features warmed into a shy smile. She returned with Dorcas’s breakfast in express time.

  As Dorcas ate the flaky, crusty rolls to the aroma of perfect coffee, she felt deliciously lazy, pleasantly unrushed. She couldn’t help comparing this feeling of relaxed content with her past rushed existence.

  About this time she would have been staring at some ghastly patterned wallpaper, choking down toast, in all probability after its burnt edges had been scraped in the kitchen sink because she didn’t seem to have the knack of choosing landladies who could achieve even an elementary stage of cooking. And then, after gulping down a cup of weak coffee, or worse—stewed tea—she would dash off to a day dedicated to strenuous dance routines. She wondered if it was wicked of her not to regret overmuch what had happened.

  The dancing that had been her very life, and which she thought would always be her first passion, was already fading into insignificance. She dare not admit to herself that Carlos was responsible for this.

  ‘You’ve had breakfast?’

  Dorcas looked up to see the slight elevation of Rose Ruiz’s exquisitely shaped eyebrows.

  Dorcas said she had.

  ‘A second cup of coffee, perhaps? To keep me company?’

  ‘It will be my third,’ said Dorcas in acceptance.

  Brigida brought a fresh pot of coffee. Rose Ruiz poured out two cups, placing one in front of Dorcas.

  Dorcas lifted her cup as a child might, hoping her fingers would not disgrace her. Charming as her hostess was, there was still that something indefinable in her manner that made Dorcas feel nervous.

  Yet no eyes could have been kinder as their owner enquired: ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I had a wonderful night’s sleep, thank you. And I love the room you have given me.’

  ‘I am so pleased. And Teresa? Do you find her compatible?’

  ‘Oh yes! Teresa and I are friends already. I feel spoilt having her. You must know I’m not used to having my own personal maid.’

  ‘A little spoiling does nobody any harm. You are a natural target for a bit of cosseting. You have a charming lack of avarice that makes giving a pleasure. It isn’t in your nature to covet what is someone else’s.’

  Dorcas had the feeling that this was not idle flattery. The sweet talk was leading up to something specific, something less sweet. Irrelevantly she noticed that Rose Ruiz’s lipstick and nail varnish were the same pearly shade. It made her want to fold her own unvarnished nails into the palms of her hands. When she looked they were already there.

  ‘If there is anything you want, Dorcas, don’t hesitate to ask. Try to look upon this as your home, if you can. Make free use of any of the rooms. If you’re a reader, you’ll find a fair selection of books in English. Carlos, especially, regretted not being able to take today off to keep you company. But, well, it’s not so easy at the moment. My husband’s business, like that of his friend’s, Alfonso Roca’s, is a small fish being eaten by the sharks. It is, I believe, a world-wide problem.’

  ‘We certainly have it in England. The larger competitive companies are swallowing the small family concerns.’

  ‘And what do the small fish, the family concerns, do to combat the sharks?’

  ‘They join forces.’

  ‘That is precisely what my husband and don Alfonso are considering; in fact the details of the merger are under discussion. It would be a great pity if something unforeseen were to happen to prevent it taking place.’ Midnight blue eyes steadied on sherry-gold ones. Dorcas found herself holding her breath on the knowledge that the point of the conversation was soon to be explained to her. ‘Looking to the future, when my Enrique and don Alfonso retire, because don Alfonso has no son of his own, Carlos will be in full control.’

  Dorcas saw what Rose Ruiz was getting at.

  ‘Don Alfonso cannot be expected to agree to the merger unless he is certain in his mind that his daughter’s interest will be safeguarded. It is both a blessing and a relief that Isabel and Carlos find each other simpático.’

  ‘Are you saying their engagement is a major clause of the merger?’ Dorcas managed.

  ‘No, I’m not saying that. It’s pretty obvious, though, that don Alfonso will feel happier about handing over the running of the business to Carlos if he’s his son-in-law.’

  Dorcas’s heartbeats seemed to fill her ears as her mouth moved to ask: ‘What does Carlos think about this?’

  ‘I can assure you that Carlos is not the sacrificial lamb,’ Rose Ruiz replied on a small, wry smile. ‘It is true that Carlos has not admitted to himself that he could love Isabel yet. Any problem there is of a purely temporary nature. The realization of love takes many forms. It can erupt like a sunburst—and risk burning itself out on its own intensity. By far the best sort of love creeps up so gradually that it is difficult to pinpoint the exact moment it entered the relationship. That is how it will be for Carlos and Isabel. Carlos has known Isabel since she was a child, and still regards her as such. He taught her to swim, alongside his sister, even regarded her as a second sister. But Isabel is not his sister and she has reached an age when he could teach her other things, and learn something himself in the process. If he played at love with her, before long he would come to love her. Isabel is a sweet girl. It would be no hardship.’

  It occurred to Dorcas that Rose Ruiz wasn’t just explaining the set-up, but warning her off. She obviously saw Dorcas as a threat. She had taken a hand-to-shoulder contact and an exchange of glances and exaggerated it in her mind.

  Dorcas didn’t believe that Carlos’s marriage to Isabel Roca was as cut and dried as his mother was making out. It was a possibility—no more and no less—in no way threatened by Dorcas’s presence.

  Rose Ruiz stressed: ‘It will be a good marriage. Isabel has been brought up to accept the fact that Spain is a masculine country. She will expect Carlos to dominate the marriage. It wouldn’t do for you, Dorcas. I have never found marriage to a dominant man stifling, for the simple reason that prior to my marriage I’d never tasted this so-called freedom and equality of the sexes. We didn’t have it in my day. You don’t miss what you’ve never had. What you know isn’t always best, but it’s safer to stick to it.’

  Meaning I should stick to what I know best, thought Dorcas.

  ‘The independence we enjoy now has been too hard-won to be lightly thrown away,’ Dorcas agreed, allowing that as a point in Rose Ruiz’s favour. ‘I enjoy the liberty that, for example, has allowed me to travel abroad on my own. I can’t see myself ever accepting the passive role in marriage. I would want to be an equal.’

  ‘Equality is a hard pendulum to set,’ Rose Ruiz replied with undeniable truth.

  Dorcas nodded. ‘I know what you mean. In America it has gone the other way. The women there dominate the marriage. And that’s no good either. If one is aware of the danger . . . surely . . . ?’ She didn’t really expect a reply to her half formed question. On the other hand she did not expect such an abrupt, laughably transparent twist to the conversation.

  ‘I must invite the Rocas over for dinner. Soon.’

  Dorcas felt a moment’s pity for her. She still doesn’t know, she thought. Carlos was her son. A son is a person of the highest ideals. As well as being a son, Carlos was also a man. He looked at Dorcas with a man’s eyes, and liked what he saw. Perhaps he even wanted to do more than look. It didn’t mean he wanted to marry her.

  Dorcas thought she had made a fair job of the evaluation, until she remembered she hadn’t accounted for the blanks. The earlier part of her stay in hospital, while she was under heavy sedation, was a blank. People had come and gone, but Carlos had stayed by her bed. She experienced an impression of closeness that came in almost remembering. Trying to clarify her thoughts was like trying to feel thr
ough glass. Splinters of memory pierced her awareness, but not enough to piece together to make a whole.

  * * *

  That evening, at dinner, Dorcas did not feel hungry. The soup went down very slowly. The fish left on her plate was an insult to the cook. She couldn’t face the pot-roast of veal.

  Enrique Ruiz leaned forward to rap her knuckles in a proprietorial gesture, establishing her entry into the bosom of the family by reproof. One did not upbraid a guest.

  ‘Why are you not eating?’ He spoke like a father addressing a much-loved but tiresome daughter. His eyes were kindly and concerned.

  ‘I am not hungry.’ Dorcas looked squarely at him. She thought she had never liked anyone more, except of course, Carlos. To please him she would eat up every spoonful of her dessert. But oh! how pleased she would be when the meal was over and she could go to her room. She needed to come to terms with her thoughts.

  The level of the wine carafe was considerably lower; the coffee cups were empty. At last she could say: ‘I am rather tired. Will you excuse me, please?’

  Enrique Ruiz smiled, and once again his smile was almost a hug. ‘Yes, niña. Your eyes grow small in your head. Goodnight. Sleep well, my dear.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ said Rose Ruiz.

  It didn’t seem an odd notion for the señora to accompany her to her room and perhaps tuck her in bed. Nevertheless, Dorcas said in a sleepy voice: ‘Please do not trouble. I can find my own way.’

  ‘As you wish. Goodnight, Dorcas.’

  ‘Goodnight señora, señor.’ Before she could add his name, Carlos had risen from his chair and his hand was supporting her elbow.

  ‘I will see you to your room.’

  The moment they were on the other side of the dining-room door, he said: ‘Even as tired as you are, a breath of air will prove beneficial before you turn in. Come out into the garden for just a little while.’

  There was an element of self-punishment in saying yes, but Dorcas did not have the will to turn down the invitation.

  In the blue-mink sky, every star had come out of hiding. She stroked her bare arms and said, because she felt the need to fill the dangerous silence with meaningless chatter, ‘How delicious to feel so warm so late in the evening. At home I would have had to cover up my arms, muffle up even.’

  Carlos’s eyes regarded her indulgently. ‘Chatter if you like. If it makes you feel less nervous of me.’

  ‘Why should I feel nervous of you?’

  ‘Oh Dorcas, that look. You put your head on one side. So. It looks very chic and provocative, but it’s not that at all. You do it when you are uncertain, not quite in command of the situation. I am beginning to understand you a little. I thought that endearing naivety was deliberately contrived. Only it isn’t, is it Dorcas?’

  ‘Since you know it all . . .’ She was going to say, ‘there is little more I can add, and as I really am tired, I’ll say goodnight.’

  Carlos’s: ‘I know what you are going to say,’ cut her off.

  ‘Then please tell me.’

  ‘You can hardly keep your eyes open. You want to go to your bed and sleep for a week.’ The stiffening of her body told him that in essence he’d got it right. ‘Do you always run away from things that—’ Slight pause—‘perplex you?’

  Run away? Did she? Because she lacked the courage to follow up her impulses.

  ‘Why are you so jumpy? Is it me, or are you always like this when you are alone with a man? We aren’t all alike, you know.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means I can’t make up my mind about you. You’ve either had a disastrous experience . . . or no experience at all.’

  ‘I’m not going to challenge you to guess which,’ she said huskily.

  ‘See what I mean? That’s either a provocative response, or a naive one.’

  He put his hand up and combed his fingers through his hair in a sort of reflex action that accentuated his puzzlement and made him look oddly vulnerable. She knew an overriding impulse to raise her own hand and allow it to follow the course his had taken.

  And then she wasn’t thinking it, she was in the process of doing it. His hand was there to ambush hers, trapping her fingers against his cheek as he eased her forward. Not to kiss her; to hold her. It was a nursery embrace, tender as any he could have given his tiny niece. Yet little Rosita’s spine would not have tingled at the encounter. Rosita might have felt safe and warm though, and let her head drop . . . just so . . . against his broad chest.

  ‘You’re not playing this one fair.’

  He didn’t need to tell her that. Even as he held her so lightly, she could sense his inner struggle not to crush her close. It was delicious to feel safe in his arms—knowing she wasn’t.

  In bed, just before sleep put in its drowsy claim, her mind drifted on bitter-sweet thought. It was this sort of madness Rose Ruiz, so kindly intentioned, had warned her off. There was no permanent place in Carlos’s life for her. She was risking her heart for his temporary amusement. Perhaps this new dalliance would make him resist the pressures for a while longer, but in the end the interests of the family business would come first and Carlos would accept his . . . the word that boomeranged to mind mocked her . . . fate.

  The days passed, one melting sweetly into the next, without turning up any event of great significance. To her surprise, Dorcas found she had made a friend in Rose Ruiz. Although she often looked at her with tucks in her forehead, on the whole she seemed glad of the company Dorcas provided.

  The dressing was removed from her leg. A physiotherapist was engaged and Dorcas dutifully did the exercises she was given. She made certain that she only went in the swimming pool when she was confident of not being seen. She was conscious of the ugliness of the scar, which seemed to be taking its time in fading. For this reason she never wore shorts or short skirts, but settled for jeans and sun-tops during the day, and every evening she blessed fashion for long skirts and trouser suits.

  One lunchtime as Dorcas was enjoying her garlic flavoured, fried baby eels seasoned with hot peppers, Rose Ruiz announced without warning: ‘The Rocas are dining with us this evening.’

  The hotness searing her throat was because of the peppers, Dorcas told herself. She was glad she was going to meet Isabel Roca, if only to appease her morbid curiosity!

  She dressed for the event with a chill, premonitory excitement, selecting her prettiest dress, a fine silky lawn in an ethereal shade of green. The beauty of the dress was in the generously full sleeves, caught in lavishly embroidered wristbands. The fragile green of the dress enhanced her hair to a silken fairness, but it stole the colour from her cheeks. Perhaps it was not a good choice at that. It made her look younger and more vulnerable than her twenty-two years.

  A knock sounded on her door and in answer to her: ‘Adelante,’ the man who was never far from her thoughts entered her room.

  She was startled. She had thought it would be Teresa or one of the other maids. It was the first time Carlos had been to her room. In a strict Spanish household, it was slightly improper.

  ‘I’ve come to fetch you. Are you ready?’

  ‘Almost. Will I do?’ she asked impulsively.

  He smiled at her need to ask for his assurance. ‘You look charming.’ Simply said with sincerity. More touching than the most extravagant compliment. ‘Although—a little pale.’

  ‘I have still to colour my lips.’

  She picked up her lipstick, but before she could apply it to her mouth, he planted a kiss there.

  ‘That was a very arrogant thing to do,’ she protested.

  ‘I am an arrogant Spaniard. You, in keeping with most English women, are not naturally subservient, but I will make allowances. Ah . . . the effect is achieved. But I will never know whether it was my kiss, or temper that has brought the colour to your cheeks.’

  Dorcas could not think of a thing to say to that.

  ‘Come.’ He propelled her by the arm. ‘Let us go. Our guests will be
arriving at any moment and it will be discourteous if we are not with my parents to greet them.’

  They walked down the stairs. From their baroque frames, the long-dead Ruizs looked down on Dorcas, their painted features impervious to the state of her mind. Not so the man at her side. Carlos knew, not only how to, but that he had tied her emotions in knots. The effects of this most recent emotional skirmish with him coalesced with her anticipatory dread at meeting Isabel Roca.

  ‘You look like a little girl in mortal trepidation of her first grown-up party,’ Carlos said perceptively.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t said that. I was hoping it didn’t show. I wore green then.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At my first grown-up party. I can remember it all so clearly. I wouldn’t let go of my brother Michael’s hand. He became very annoyed.’

  ‘I would have found your shyness rather touching.’

  ‘Not if you were several years older and didn’t want a small nuisance around, upsetting your plans and cramping your style.’

  ‘I am several years older.’ He stopped walking and automatically so did she. ‘You are a small nuisance and you have upset my plans. As for the other . . .’

  She wondered if he knew what ‘cramping the style’ meant.

  Once again he demonstrated that uncanny and disturbing quality to read her mind. ‘My mother is English. Had you forgotten? I have visited England, staying with my English relatives, often enough to have picked up the idiom. And so I repeat, as for the other, that too. You have most decidedly cramped my style. In all fairness, perhaps not you, but the circumstances of your enforced stay. You have not fully recovered from your ordeal. Not only did your leg sustain injuries, but your emotions have been badly shaken up. It does not help that you are alone, in a strange country. All these things combine to create a false picture. Propinquity, gratitude, both have chameleon qualities that are all too easy to mistake. It will be better when you are not so alone, when your brother arrives.’

  ‘M-my brother?’ Dorcas, who had never stuttered in her life, did so now. ‘Michael’s on holiday s-somewhere in France. Why should he come here?’ Nothing he could have said could have deflated her more.