Red Lotus Page 5

  "Poor Julio!" Sisa sighed. "He cannot love anyone." Philip's mouth relaxed as he looked at her.

  "And you, querida," he answered gently, "are in love with the whole world!"

  In the moments of his tenderness to Sisa he was a different being, Felicity realized. There was no harshness in him, no guile. Even his habitual arrogance of manner was softened by Sisa's smile; he had made an adoring slave of her cousin.

  Their belated meal was brought into the dining-room beyond the pillared archway at the far end of the room where they sat.

  "I have ordered entremeses because I thought that Felicity would not care for soup on such a warm evening," Sisa informed Philip

  It would seem that Sisa accounted to Philip automatically

  for all that went on at San Lozaro, and he nodded absently as the food was served, his thoughts obviously busy with something else.

  That they were disturbed, even angry, thoughts was not too difficult to imagine. He had followed them through the pillared archway and taken his place in the heavily-carved armchair at the head of the table with only a second's hesitation. It was probably her uncle's chair, Felicity decided, and she supposed that he had hesitated before the choice of occupying it or leaving it tragically empty for the duration of the meal.

  Or shouldn't Julio have occupied that chair? Anger flooded her heart for a moment until Sisa said with evident relief:

  "You are going to take care of us, Philip. You are not going to leave San Lozaro now that Papa is taken away?" Philip's face remained inscrutable.

  "For the present, querida," he said, "I shall remain with you."

  Sisa applied herself half-heartedly to her plate of hors-d'ruvres, and the two other chairs at the table remained unoccupied for the duration of the meal.

  Their coffee was served on a tray in the drawing-room, but although it was now eleven o'clock, neither Julio nor his sister had joined them.

  Once or twice Felicity saw Philip glance at his wrist watch, but he made no comment on her cousins' absence. Sisa began to yawn.

  "Had you not better go to bed?" Philip asked. "Carlota will go up to your room with you till Conchita returns."

  "Conchita will not return," Sisa said with conviction. "She is afraid of death. She will not come until the morning, until Father Anselmo brings her back."

  Philip's mouth hardened.

  "We shall see," he said. "Meanwhile, do you wish your cousin to go up with you?"

  Felicity wondered if this was dismissal. Philip seemed to have so much power in the house and he used it ruthlessly.

  "It is not necessary," Sisa returned with a smile in Felicity's direction which was meant to soften the refusal. "I am in no way afraid."

  Unlike Conchita, she was not disturbed by death. After

  that first heartbreaking abandonment to grief which she had conquered behind the closed door of her room, she had turned her face resolutely from fear, but less than an hour ago she had confessed to an uncertainty about living. With her roots torn up by her father's passing, she had appealed to Philip for help, and he was evidently not the man to fail her, for the present at least.

  "I'll follow you upstairs in a minute, Sisa," Felicity said as the stout old woman she had first met came to the drawing-room door in response to Philip's ring. "May I come and say goodnight?"

  "Yes, please come," Sisa said solemnly. "I shall not be asleep."

  Felicity felt that she had to speak to Philip alone. There was so much that she had to clear up in her mind, and she believed that it could be done best by the direct approach. It was how Philip himself would handle a similar situation, and she expected him to be frank.

  "Mr. Arnold," she began as soon as Sisa and Carlota had left the room, "there are a good many things that puzzle me about San Lozaro. I feel that they would have been cleared up by now if my uncle had not died so tragically as soon as I got here, and I think that you might be able to help me to make a few adjustments."

  She paused, waiting for his reply, hoping that he would help her over what was, for her, at least, a difficult moment. She did not want to probe into his affairs, but she had to know something about her uncle's family and it seemed that he was quite closely connected with it.

  He did not answer her at once, pouring another cup of coffee for himself before he strode with it to the window overlooking the terraces and the district plantations.

  "What is it you want to know?" he asked.

  He was not going to be particularly helpful, she realized. He would answer her questions and no more.

  Once again anger stirred in her, the anger of frustration and uncertainty, but she knew that it would be useless to voice it. Philip Arnold was not the type of man to be browbeaten into a revelation he had no desire to make.

  "It—would be helpful if I had some definite idea just what my uncle expected me to do," she confessed. "He said he had work for me. That was how he put it in his

  letters, and I admit that I found it easier to accept his invitation under these conditions."

  She saw him smile.

  "An admirable sentiment," he acknowledged. "Independence is one of the few virtues I appreciate, and your question is quite easy to answer. Your uncle wanted you to preserve the English atmosphere in his home so that it would not become entirely Spanish, at least for Sisa's sake."

  "And Conchita and Julio?" she asked.

  "Julio has become a law unto himself," he admitted, frowning. "His father hoped that he would be able one day to take on the responsibility of the estate where he laid it down, but Julio, I'm afraid, is running true to type."

  "You mean," she frowned, "that he is wholly Spanish?"

  "Not entirely. Julio has Guanche blood."

  "Can you tell me what that means, please? I'm afraid I am very ignorant of your island's history."

  "As far as Julio is concerned, it means complete irresponsibility," he explained. "The Guanches were the original inhabitants of these islands, Miss Stanmore. They were a sturdy peasant race, and they fought bravely for their liberty, but since the Conquest they have been more and more thrust into the background of the island's living until they have agreed to take second place. You will see the true types among the cave-dwellers in the troglodyte villages, but there has been gradual intermarriage between certain types of Spanish settlers and these people, and so we have Julio."

  "A—throwback?"

  "So far, I'm afraid, as character is concerned."

  "He is very young." She felt that she had to defend Julio.

  "That may be our one hope for the future."

  " 'Our,' Mr. Arnold?" she repeated. "Then you have a definite interest in San Lozaro?"

  He put his coffee cup back on the table between them and stood looking down at it for several seconds before he answered the direct question.

  "A personal interest," he agreed, "as well as the interest I expect to have vested in me when your uncle's will becomes known."

  Swiftly her eyes shot up to his, meeting the cold blue

  gaze which had disconcerted her so much earlier in the afternoon.

  "Are you trying to tell me that you have been left in charge here?" she asked incredulously.

  "Does it seem so amazing to you?" The hard mouth had not relaxed, although he looked faintly amused by her disbelief. "I have served your uncle for more than ten years—conscientiously, I hope. I was brought up in a neighbouring valley where my mother struggled unsuccessfully with one misfortune after another when my father died. When she, too, died, I was brought to San Lozaro and given a home."

  She was silent a moment, wondering why he had confessed so much.

  "Your father was English, of course," she said at last.

  "Both my parents were. They loved Lozaro Alto—the valley above this one—and they made their home there. My father was a writer of sorts—a dreamer, perhaps—and they grew vines in the valley, but it did not pay. After his death my mother planned to return to England, but she could not tear herself away. She could not
leave the sun. Lozaro Alto had become her life."

  "And so you want to remain here?"

  "I shall remain on the island whatever happens."

  "What—power has Julio?" she found herself asking, remembering her cousin's impassioned outburst of little more than an hour ago.

  "None at all until he is twenty-one. Your uncle was an Englishman, remember!"

  Felicity forced a smile.

  "I can imagine him being almost aggressively British," she admitted.

  "At least it may pay dividends in Julio's case."

  She did not know about that. She could not imagine her cousin submitting to further domination now that his father was dead. The hand that had been on the rein had slackened and an eighteen-year-old Spaniard with a dash of Guanche blood in his veins would be no more amenable to an enforced discipline than an English teenager in similar circumstances.

  If Philip Arnold meant to take up the reins again and even to use the curb, might not Julio rush off headlong to

  some form of distraction while the bit remained temporarily between his strong white teeth?

  "Do you—expect trouble?" she asked.

  He shrugged.

  "I shall try to avoid it where I can, but you heard Julio to-night. Unfortunately he labours under the delusion that he is being unfairly treated. His father took a firm hand with him some time ago, and he has never liked me." He strode back towards the window. "He blames me, you see, for his sister's death."

  "Maria?"

  The word had forced itself from between Felicity's lips and she remembered the effect it had had on Sabino when she had first arrived. And also the effect on the man who now stood with his back towards her so that she might not see his face.

  "Perhaps I can most safely call it the tragedy of San Lozaro and leave it at that." His voice was harsh and almost cruel in its bitterness. "It is something that we never discuss."

  And something which I must not ask about again, Felicity thought with a small, pained intake of breath as she remembered that Maria had been her uncle's favourite child.

  Yet, surely Robert Hallam had not shared Julio's belief that Philip was responsible for the tragedy which had led to his daughter's death? Otherwise, how could he have entrusted his family's entire future to this man?

  Baffled and suddenly overwhelmingly tired by the events of a very long day, she felt that she could not attempt to cope with the problem or hope to bring any very clear reasoning to bear upon it until she had come to know her cousins better.

  She had still to meet Conchita, and it was almost midnight. Where was she? And quite apart from her fear of death, what had kept her away from San Lozaro at such a time? There was, she felt, some other reason for Conchita's absence.

  Curiously enough, she did not want to ask Philip Arnold about Conchita. His tight mouth and drawn brows when he turned back from the window were evidence enough that Conchita should have been safely in the hacienda long

  ago and that he was both anxious and worried about her. He glanced at the clock and then at his watch.

  "It is almost midnight," he said on a definite note of dismissal. "You must be tired after your journey. If there is anything you want that has been forgotten you have only to ring for Carlota or Sabino to fetch it—or to ask Sisa."

  He stood waiting, and for the first time Felicity was aware of her own incredible tiredness. It seemed as if a weight had been put upon her shoulders which was heavier than she could bear, the weight of running contrary to this man's will if she thought it necessary to do so in defence of her uncle's family.

  "Do you mind if I go to see my uncle?" she asked. He held the heavy door open for her.

  "I should have been disappointed if you had not," he said.

  Two elderly, black-clad servants were leaving Robert Hallam's bedroom when she approached the door and a third rose from her knees beside the bed when she went in.

  Standing there beside the great bed where her uncle lay, in the yellow glow of its flanking candles, she made her silent promise to look after his family. She had not known this man in life, but something of his strong character was still to be seen in the rugged face with its square jaw and black, beetling brows that stood out so plainly beneath the snow-white hair.

  In some ways it was the face of El Teide again, the granite countenance crowned by its white cap of snow, beneath which the ancient volcano slumbered. It was years, Philip Arnold had said, since El Teide had been it eruption, yet there was still evidence everywhere of the devastating effects of his wrath.

  And Philip himself had all the granite qualities of the sleeping giant of a mountain that guarded their silent valley, the harshness and the domination and the undeniable strength.

  Was it that strength, then, that her uncle had recognized and accepted as the only possible salvation for San Lozaro when he had gone?

  She did not know, and only the coming days would allow her to find out. She would try not to begin their enforced partnership with any personal prejudices lurking

  in the offing, although her uncle's agent had been at little pains to conceal his own.

  She could not forget that he had said that San Lozaro was already "full of superfluous women."

  Walking slowly along the gallery in the direction of her own rooms, she remembered her promise to Sisa. Was her cousin asleep by now, she wondered, and would it merely be awakening Sisa to fresh sorrow to go to her? But she had made a promise, and somehow she knew that Sisa would expect her to keep it.

  She tiptoed to the door outside of which she and Philip had waited, and immediately Sisa's voice bade her go in.

  Her cousin was in bed, her small figure entirely enveloped in a long nightgown liberally flounced with the island embroidery, her two dark plaits knotted together at her back. She looked small and peculiarly vulnerable sitting up there in the big bed with her hands clasped tightly about her knees and her eyes expectantly upon the door.

  "Hasn't Philip come?" she asked, trying to hide her disappointment when he did not appear. "He always comes to wish me goodnight."

  "I think he is rather worried about Conchita," Felicity confessed. "She hasn't come in yet. Does she generally stay out so late as this?"

  It did not seem at all incongruous to be speaking to Sisa as if she were an adult. She had an adult perception in most things and a quick way of expressing herself that made her seem older than her actual years. Felicity remembered that the Spanish girl matured young, that what would have seemed precocious in an English child of Sisa's age was only natural in the Spaniard, and she found herself waiting for Sisa's answer with the conviction that it would give her her first real insight into Conchita's character.

  "She is sometimes very late when she goes to Zamora, but that is because Rafael brings her home in his car. When she is going to stay there overnight, she always sends a message with one of the servants." The fine dark brows were suddenly drawn in a perplexed little frown. "That is what I cannot understand," Sisa added anxiously. "There has not been any message, and Rafael is away in Madrid."

  Felicity hesitated, her heart beginning to beat faster than she cared to acknowledge.

  "Is—the Rafael you speak of the Marques de Barrios, Sisa?" she asked slowly.

  Sisa's eyes widened as she fixed them on her face.

  "Yes," she agreed. "But how did you know? Rafael is the Marques de Barrios and Isabella is the Marquesa. They live in the valley next to this one and Conchita can ride over there whenever she likes. Isabella says that it is essential that Conchita should have friends of her own age, but, of course, Conchita could not go to Zamora unless she had a chaperone. There is a country club there where tennis can be played and croquet. Conchita adores that sort of life. It is not such a closed-in valley as San Lozaro."

  It seemed to Felicity that Sisa's voice was coming to her from some great distance. Names that she had not even heard of twenty-four hours ago crowded in upon her, one after the other, confusingly. Isabella and Rafael and Philip Arnold: Zamora
and Lozaro Alto, where Philip's widowed mother had fought her losing battle against circumstances too powerful for her to subdue; and San Lozaro, torn by conflict, where she had promised to make her home.

  Isabella and Rafael! A deep colour stained her cheeks as the names recurred, linked inevitably by the title which had rolled off Sisa's garrulous little tongue with the familiarity of long use. The Marques and Marquesa de Barrios! Don Rafael, Marques de Barrios, was married, then, and she had made a fool of herself in front of Philip Arnold by being so obviously captivated by his easy charm!

  The gall that rose in her heart was out of all proportion to the cause of her humiliation, but she was too tired to think any more, too stunned by the swift progress of events to reason clearly.

  "The Marques came back in the plane with me," she explained to Sisa to still her anxiety. "He came on at Madrid." She rose to her feet. "I must go, Sisa," she added quickly. "Try to sleep, and we will talk again in the morning."

  "Don't worry about Conchita too much," Sisa murmured drowsily when she had tucked the sheets securely round her thin little body. "Philip will take care of her."

  Walking along the gallery in the direction of her own rooms, Felicity was aware of a movement in the hall beneath her. The lamps still burned in their wrought-iron

  sconces along the wall, but the shadows seemed to have

  deepened as she went to the balcony rail and looked down.

  Beneath her Philip Arnold was standing in the centre of the tessellated floor, and she saw with some surprise that he had changed into riding-breeches and a thicker jacket. Remembering how cold it had become with the setting of the sun, she supposed that he was preparing to go out, but where could he possibly be going at this hour of night?

  Then, almost with a sense of shock, she saw the riding whip in his hand. And Conchita had, according to Sisa, ridden over to Zamora earlier in the day. Was Philip going to meet Conchita? Was he going to bring her home?

  Subconsciously she knew that she must not interfere with his decision. She drew back among the shadows of the silent gallery, waiting till he had gone before she crept to her room and tried to sleep.