The Last Illusion. Diana Hamilton
pleaded in that language, ‘Slow down! I’m rusty—I need more practice!’
‘Then that I will give you—Andrés, too. He is still here—everyone is still here; all is the same as it was. All waiting for you to come home.’
It was only Sebastian’s cool demand that the señora’s room be made ready that stopped the flow, and that only after the stout elderly woman had imparted, ‘All has been in readiness for four years, Don Sebastian, make no mistake. And now, perhaps, we will not see such a high head and such a long face!’
Recalling the look of smothered irritation on the dark devil’s face, Charley relaxed her soft lips reluctantly into a smile. Teresa was no respecter of persons—no matter how exalted they believed themselves to be. In Charley’s year-long experience of her rule, Teresa was never afraid to speak her mind, though she herself doubted if her enforced presence here would make much difference to Sebastian’s ‘high head and long face’! Unless it was a sly smile of satisfaction at having forced her, yet again, to dance to his tune.
Nevertheless, she might do well to emulate the housekeeper’s bluntness where her unwanted husband was concerned. She might even be able to cut him down to size once in a while. Because, although she had given in to his demands on this one occasion, it wouldn’t happen again. Four weeks here, under his roof, was as far as it would go!
She found Teresa in the kitchen, ordering Pilar—the maid-of-all-work—around in stentorian tones, and had her own offer of help rejected in the same decisive manner.
‘The kitchen is not the place for you, señora. Tomorrow I will come to you for your instructions. Have you forgotten all I taught you?’
‘Dare I ever?’ Charley riposted drily, remembering with affection how immediately Teresa had sized up her lack of experience, had thrust her firmly beneath her wing and taught her all she needed to know about running a Spanish household of this size. And now the housekeeper seemed to think she had come back to stay, and at the moment she didn’t have the heart or any real inclination to explain that she was only here for four weeks, and that under duress.
Charley left the room disconsolately, because helping with the preparations for the evening meal would have taken her mind off what she had let herself in for. And not knowing what exactly she had let herself in for, what Sebastian had had in mind when he had made his agreement to a divorce conditional upon her staying here, was going to give her nightmares. Already she had the beginnings of a niggling headache, and she guessed she ought to go to her room and try to relax. She would need to be on top form, have every last one of her wits about her, if she were to hold her own with him over dinner tonight, demonstrate that she wasn’t the feeble push-over she’d been when he’d first met her.
To her quiet amazement she found her way through the passages as if she’d never been away, and laid the palm of her hand on the sumptuously carved door to her room as if she had only walked out of it an hour or so ago.
She had proudly believed that she’d forgotten everything, erased the year of her marriage—and all that had gone with it—right out of her mind. Now she knew that it wasn’t in her power to forget, and quickly, before she panicked and blindly ran from the Casa de las Surtidores and the memories it contained, she pushed the door open and resolutely stepped inside.
The wide, long room was exactly as she had left it, she saw as she flicked the switch down and the lamps in their delicate holders sprang to glittering life along the length of the room.
Everything—the row of tall shuttered windows, the arch of the carved and painted ceiling, the ornate furniture and near-priceless carpet—everything, right down to the crystal vase of the long-stemmed white roses she had always used to pick from the garden to place on the table near the bed.
The lump in her throat made her grit her teeth. It was like stepping back in time, watching the hands of the clock of her life spin relentlessly backwards, like finding a part of herself she had presumed lost.
And she couldn’t bring herself to look at the bed.
They’d had separate rooms, right from the start. She hadn’t been able to understand it at first. It had been the first hurt he had inflicted. The first of many. Transplanted into this vibrant, alien land, surrounded by the undreamt-of elegance and luxury of old and arrogant wealth, by deferential servants whose language she couldn’t understand, swept away from her quiet, studious background, from everything she was familiar with, she had been too unsure of herself to question the sleeping arrangements and had comforted herself by deciding that it must be a Spanish custom.
Of course he had visited her from time to time, his lithe body dominating her between the silken sheets, sweeping her away on an avalanche of rapture she hadn’t known how to handle. But she had slept alone for many long, lonely nights, willing him to come to her, if only to hold her comfortably in his strong arms and sleep at her side, then gradually coming to understand the pattern, recognise how he never came near her when Olivia was in residence.
He hadn’t needed to.
Only when the scalding of tears flooded her eyes did she take a firm grip on herself. This wouldn’t do! Surely she had more self-respect than to weep for the slice of her past she had already consigned to a mental dustbin?
Jerking her chin up, she turned and looked at the bed and made herself see it for what it was: simply a superb piece of furniture, a great, voluptuous four-poster, the carvings depicting a riot of flowers and fruit and improbable cherubs, the whole thing swagged and swathed with fine jade-green silk.
At least she should get a good night’s sleep, she told herself prosaically. If she remembered correctly, it was supremely comfortable. And of course everything remained the same—why shouldn’t it? She doubted if much had been changed since the house had been built!
And as for the white roses—well, Teresa must have remembered how she had enjoyed cutting them herself from the gardens, under Andrés’s watchful yet friendly eyes, how the small task had given her something to do, how she’d enjoyed the way the blooms had perfumed the room, the welcome sight of their pale purity comforting her a little when she emerged from her often bitter dreams.
And someone had deposited her case on the chest at the foot of the bed. Footsteps firm, she walked over and snapped open the catches. She had brought very little with her, just one or two cotton skirts and tops, a serviceable pair of washed-out jeans, a swimsuit and enough changes of underwear to last the week she had allowed herself.
So if Sebastian still dressed for dinner, tough. He would have to put up with her looking like the budget-class tourist she had planned on being, driving around the province, staying at low-cost hostels or restaurants with rooms, saying goodbye to the places she had grown to love, knowing she would never return.
Selecting a gathered skirt in fine black cotton and a sleeveless cream-coloured cotton top, she laid them on the bed and carried the rest of the things over to the cavernous wardrobe, and felt her heart clench with shock as she dragged open the heavy doors.
All the things she had left behind were still here: the silks, glistening satins, the froths of chiffon and the elegant severity of tailored linen and heavy sleek cotton. Charley stared at the expensive garments, her mouth going tight.
Sebastian had been generous with his money; she could never accuse him of stinginess. But then—her mouth went even tighter—being generous when he had enough to keep him in luxury for half a dozen lifetimes was hardly a big deal!
And she had been so lonely at times—lonely for his company—that she had forced herself to make treats for herself, enlisting the help of one of Teresa’s many nieces, Francisca, arranging for her to accompany her to Seville—even Barcelona or Madrid—staying a few nights in luxurious hotels and buying everything in sight. But no matter how much she’d spent, how beautiful the clothes, she had still felt gauche when Olivia had been around.
Olivia had been so beautiful, so svelte and charming, that Charley had felt like a bunchy, overdressed schoolgirl. So she’d given up trying to compete, had stopped spending Sebastian’s money, and had concentrated fiercely