Indiscretion (7 page)

Ramón accompanied Alexandra upstairs to check that everything was in order and she had all she needed, before bidding her goodnight.

Once alone, Alexandra looked round the huge room with its two tall windows opening on to a balcony. The impression of space was emphasized by the height of the ceiling and the whitewashed walls,
bare of ornament except for a tapestry representing a pastoral scene, which hung over the canopied bed, a wooden crucifix on one wall and a magnificent mirror mounted above the dark oak dressing table.

Her gaze wandered from the delicate sparkling crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, with its shining candle lights, to the heavy curtains of thick silk. Alexandra loved everything: the elegant winged chair in the left-hand corner of the room, the carved cabinet that lay between the window and the Louis XVI writing desk; the antique bronze lamp and leatherbound books on the bedside table.

She walked across the room to admire the vase of spring blossoms that formed a colourful display on a chest of drawers between the windows. This room was furnished with exquisite simplicity and impeccable taste. Someone had taken a good deal of care to create a welcoming atmosphere. Overwhelmed with gratitude, her previous doubts and foreboding melted away.

There was a knock at the door as Sarita, the young maid, came in carrying a cup of steaming hot tea. She then moved to the adjoining bathroom and started to run Alexandra's bath in the cast-iron pedestal tub before rejoining her to ask if she would like her to unpack the cases. Alexandra was thankful for the offer, suddenly overcome by a wave of weariness to which she had refused to submit throughout her long and eventful journey.

Half an hour later, she slipped between the silky sheets of a bed that must have dated from the last century. As Alexandra stared into the darkness, her mind wandered back to the church and the stranger who had so disturbed her. She found herself imagining what he might have said, had they not been interrupted.

An unfamiliar heat crept through her body as she recalled his arresting gaze, which had struck an unusual chord in the depths of her heart. She lifted her hand to her throat, startled by the memory: so powerful that she could feel his eyes on her again. What was this curious, incredible sensation that inflamed her so she felt as though he had actually touched her? It made her aware of herself, her body, her womanhood, in a way she had never known before. In the last
moments before exhaustion took over, she ruefully wished their paths might cross again but that was the stuff of fairytales, she thought, and sank into a deep sleep.

Alexandra dreamt of piercing eyes that reminded her of England's grey wintry skies; steel eyes, cold as the waters of the North Sea; sad, desperate eyes that seemed to be following her. She knew she had seen them before.

Abruptly the scene changed. She found herself inside a marvellous cathedral. She was seven years old … it was her first communion. The organ was playing and someone was singing a hymn to the Virgin Mary. She was standing at the altar, dressed in white. Beside her stood a beautiful young woman, who also wore white. Alexandra looked up at her to recognize her mother. She reached out for her mother's hand but already she was moving away.

The child tried to follow her but then a man suddenly appeared out of nowhere. At first he had no face, then his features seemed to take shape. She stared wide-eyed, trying to identify him, but the image was blurred, almost illusory. Then the scene changed once more, and now she was no longer a child; it was her wedding day. The man at her side was smiling; he had Ramón's features. But when she looked again, it was no longer Ramón: it was the man on the prayer stool and the smile had disappeared.

* * *

Alexandra slept fitfully until early morning. She woke feeling less tired, but restless. As she drew back the heavy curtains, the room filled instantly with light. The brilliant sun heralded a magnificent day. Stretching lazily, she raised her head to let the warm rays wander over her face. Through the window she could see small groves of pink-blossomed trees, the ground sprinkled with clumps of bluebells. These shady areas were framed by paths leading off on either side to a colourful patchwork of smaller gardens that, she guessed, extended round to the front of the house. She was just about to leave her
vantage point when she noticed two people at the edge of one of the groves that cut through the gardens.

The woman was tall and slender, with ash-blonde hair falling loosely to her waist.
That must be Esmeralda
, thought Alexandra. Her father had spoken about Salvador's very beautiful sister. He had described her as cold and distant, always daydreaming, and compared her to a lovely yet lifeless statue. However, this apparently passionless ornament was now locked in the embrace of a young man in a faded blue shirt and was returning his kisses with an ardour that appeared to match his. Suddenly, breaking away reluctantly from her partner's arms, she ran off towards the house.

Alexandra, feeling slightly embarrassed at having watched the passionate, and obviously private, scene, looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was still early, not even seven-thirty. There was plenty of time to explore the grounds before breakfast. She ran herself a bath. The water was rather lukewarm but she did not mind it: after all, the temperature was several degrees higher than she had been used to at Grantley Hall, where the boiler always had a mind of its own. From the age of twelve, Alexandra had spent all her holidays at the huge and rambling country house in Kent, after Aunt Geraldine had married Lord Howard Grantley. Looking round the bathroom here, with its exotic blue-and-orange mosaic tiling and dark, carved oak mirrors, she was reminded of how far away she was from Grantley Hall and everything English.

She washed rapidly and went to the wardrobe to choose an outfit. Sarita must have come in while she was asleep: her beautifully pressed dresses, blouses, skirts and trousers were all hanging up and her underwear had been neatly folded and tidied away in the chest of drawers. She selected a fresh-looking, full-skirted dress in white lace and cotton. The wide red patent-leather belt, bought on a trip to Italy with Aunt Geraldine, encircled her tiny waist and showed off to advantage her graceful and shapely form. To protect her face from the sun, she wore a straw hat with a wide brim embellished with a couple of pink roses. In twenty minutes she was on her way to the garden.

Alexandra had no difficulty in finding her way through the house.
Walking along an oak parquet corridor, she passed a series of
cuarterones
, heavy panelled doors inspired, she noted, by ancient carved Moorish screens, some with deeply panelled squares and others with a variety of geometric shapes. She guessed that behind them must be other bedrooms, dressing rooms and guest accommodation. The wide marble staircase swept down to a vaulted entrance hall that, on either side, led to huge ceremonial rooms lined with oriental rugs and embroidered hangings.

The chimes of the great wooden Catalan clock standing grandly in the hall resonated noisily through the sleeping household, startling her; it was now eight o'clock.

Once outside, Alexandra stood and looked at the front of the house. It had been too dark to see anything much when she'd arrived the night before, and she was curious to get a view of the hacienda in daylight.

El Pavón was a large, rectangular edifice with three quite distinct storeys, its whitewashed walls splashed here and there with patches of brilliantly coloured purple bougainvillea that crept up to brush the rounded brown tiles of its roof. Its style was neo-classical, the proportions pure: an austere structure.

An imposing seventeenth-century portal, which she later discovered was originally from a convent in Toledo, flanked by double Tuscan columns at the top of three widely fanning steps led into the vaulted hall. Placed at equal distances from the main entrance, at each end of the long façade were two identical narrow doors, richly decorated with carvings and marquetry. They opened on to separate wings, the private apartments of members of the family. Together they enclosed an inner shady courtyard. The ground-floor rooms at the front of the house each had French doors that opened on to an uncovered terrace running the length of the building, punctuated by fragrant miniature orange trees in large terracotta pots. Fronting the house was a wide gravel carriage circle that enclosed a huge round lawn, spread out like an emerald carpet beyond the foot of the main
steps. Balconies with wrought-iron consoles and uprights lined the upper two storeys.

Flanking the great house were great expanses of manicured lawns and landscaped gardens curving round to the back of the hacienda. Beyond these, on the west side, stretched protective groves of oleander trees where statues and fountains joined in an interplay of cascading water and iridescent spray. The de Fallas, of which the present generation was the fourth to have lived at the house, had built up a sizeable business in wine production and horse breeding on the estate; and to the east of the hacienda, beyond the lawns, lay the stables and pastureland, neighboured by stretches of flourishing vineyards.

The house and its grounds, set in the wild and arid Andalucían countryside, seemed like a flashing jewel thrown on a sandy beach by a giant hand. With its green lawns, colourful shrubs, myriad flowers and tall trees, the hacienda had all the grandeur and panache of the peacock,
el pavón
, after which it had been named.

Alexandra relished the prospect of discovering every part of this spectacular place, realizing that it would take more than one morning to discover all its secrets. Now she turned towards the flowery grove where she had seen her cousin earlier. Soon she reached a path at the end of the garden where centuries-old sycamores and cypresses spread their dense shade. On either side, orchards of carefully tended lemon, pomegranate and orange trees exhaled their intoxicating scent. She paused momentarily, not wanting to become lost before she could make it back to the house in time for breakfast, but an impulse to explore further got the better of her. All at once, at a bend in the avenue of trees, she came to a clearing where the shade was less dense, a sort of elevated plateau overlooking the surrounding countryside from where several narrow paths ran in different directions.

Alexandra stopped to take in the impressive view that stretched boundlessly to the horizon. Scattered in the distant, windswept hills were modest whitewashed buildings, olive groves, fig trees, and herdsmen on horseback with their long lances, tending the horses and bulls. She breathed in the air, listening for the slightest sound.

England seemed so far away: the house in Chelsea … Aunt Geraldine … Alexandra's attention returned to the landscape and she leaned against the trunk of a cypress tree, closing her eyes. The air was balmy, dense, charged with a multitude of different sounds and intermingling scents. There was the soft rustling of leaves and the continuous buzzing of insects, the noisy chirping of birds and the muffled murmur of a nearby stream, punctuated by the strident creaking of
norias
, ancient water wheels that still dotted the countryside, the buckets attached to them used to raise water and transfer it to various irrigation channels. Suddenly, she was startled by a voice calling from behind her: ‘Doña Alexandra, I presume.'

She turned sharply. Lounging against the trunk of a lemon tree, in the orchard beside the track on which she was standing, his arms folded, a man was looking at her with a mocking smile. She watched as he approached. He was tall and fair, with a weather-beaten complexion that emphasized the colour of his corn-yellow hair, which seemed to Alexandra a trifle too long. His countenance looked, to her mind, somewhat vulgar, although doubtless many women would find him seductive. She instantly felt a visceral dislike for him.

He gave a slight bow. ‘Fernando Lopez, steward and trusted servant of His Grace the Count of Rueda, at your service,' he announced smiling and, without waiting for her reply, he went on: ‘Isn't it a glorious morning?'

‘Indeed,' she agreed. ‘I couldn't resist your dazzling sun. I'm afraid I've managed to get lost,' she added, eager to escape from the man as quickly as possible. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to direct me back to the house.'

‘It will be a pleasure to escort you there, dear
señorita
,' the steward replied in an oily voice.

‘I can make my own way, thanks. What time is it?'

‘Twenty past nine, you'd better make haste.'

She disliked his proprietory tone. ‘And why is that?'

‘Because breakfast is served at half-past nine,' he shrugged. ‘It's common knowledge that her Grace the
Duquesa
has rather eccentric
views about punctuality at mealtimes, and I don't think it would be wise to run foul of the old girl when you've only just arrived.'

Alexandra raised her eyebrows in surprise at the evident lack of respect that Fernando Lopez had just shown towards her grandmother. She surveyed him coolly. ‘I don't think my grandmother's requirement that her family join her at mealtimes is the slightest bit eccentric,' she said curtly. ‘On the contrary, it shows a sense of family and is completely justified, since she's the head of it. I'd be grateful if, in the future, you restrain yourself from criticizing any member of the family in my presence.' Her green eyes flashed angrily. She was taken aback by her own vehemence on behalf of the
Duquesa
, towards whom she herself had felt such antagonism for so many years. Still, through some impulse of instinctive loyalty, she felt compelled to set aside her mixed feelings in the face of such impertinence.

Clearly aware of his tactlessness, the man bit his lip. They returned in silence, an intangible feeling of animosity establishing itself between them. Alexandra sensed that her rebuke had already made an enemy of him.

Don Alonso de Falla was waiting for his daughter on a stone bench on the lawn at the front of the house. A broad smile lit up his face as she appeared and he rose, folding the newspaper he had been reading as he did so. Alexandra hurried towards him, thankful to put some distance between herself and the steward. Even though it had been only a few months since father and daughter had last spent time together in London, she was happy to see him again and was looking forward to getting to know him on his own turf. Hopefully, he would become an ally: someone who would help her acquaint herself not only with this newly found family but with a land that seemed so different to everything she had known until now.