The Spanish Promise Page 19

  Struck dumb, she turned, leading him quickly across the plaza, only just able to stop herself from breaking into a run. He climbed into the front seat of the car – which was waiting on the opposite corner – twisting round to introduce himself to Marina and her grandmother with an easy smile that he pointedly kept from her. Charlotte saw the flicker of appreciation in Marina’s eyes as she shook his hand, the suspicion in the old woman’s.

  ‘To the airport?’ the driver asked, looking at Marina in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Yes please.’ She looked stiffly out of the window, her arm resting on the windowsill, her hand covering her mouth as they pulled away. How was she supposed to do this? It was like torture, some sort of sick game . . .

  But as the car eased away, her stare became fixed on the windows of Apartment 3 above the tapas bar: a woman had come onto the balcony. At this distance the details were hazy, but Charlotte could make out that she was tanned, wearing a black strappy sundress and her long curly dark hair was wild. Even 150 metres away, she looked sexy.

  But as the car glided round the corner and out of sight, the last thing she saw was not the woman on the balcony – it was the baby she was bouncing on her hip.

  Ronda, 10 July 1936

  The snip of the scissors was the only sound to be heard as the dark lengths of hair fell into the white basin, feathering it like a nest. She kept her eyes on her reflection, working fast, not caring if it was level or neat – only that it was gone. What had taken years to grow halfway down her back was being undone in moments, and as the last cut fell she allowed herself the luxury of absorbing her new identity. She ran her hands quickly through the cropped cut, shaking it out and feeling the peculiar new lightness of her own head. It felt boyish and feathery through her fingers, like a baby bird’s down, and she was pleased to see there was nothing now to reveal who she was, or rather had been – her luxuriant hair left here not so much unceremoniously as pointedly, all the other trappings of her former life unclipped and pulled off and left in defiant tangled heaps on the mahogany bed.

  With one final glance she met her own eyes, seeing the determination within them. She was going to have to find resources she had never needed before; she was going to have to be fast, strong and wily if she wanted to stay safe for there was danger outside these walls, yes – but it was still nothing to the threat that persisted within them.

  Grabbing the swollen grain sack she had carefully packed with food – stolen over a week from the kitchens – she hurried to the window and looked out. The dark sky was still peppered with stars, only the faintest blade of light beginning to bleed up behind the distant hills. Throwing one leg over the sill, she took a moment to marvel in the freedom that came with wearing trousers (another steal, this time from Arlo’s room). She jumped like a cat onto the veranda of the porch, and carefully scaled down the bougainvillea trellis; she had done it numerous times as a child but as a full-grown woman she couldn’t be absolutely sure it would take her weight, and when her foot touched the parched soil she breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  Without looking back, she broke into a sprint, heading for the cover of the cork oaks on the far side of the pasture. Leviatan was in there, somewhere, but she didn’t care – tonight she knew she could outrun him; she had something bigger than a two-tonne bull to escape. Her feet kicked up red dust, dirtying her clothes and legs, but she embraced it, for it was yet another small sign of the freedoms now afforded to her. She ran until the house was out of sight and her lungs were burning, keeping crouched down as she vaulted the estate wall. And as the moon slid behind a cloud, she slipped into the open countryside and the big wide world, leaving behind one life and stepping into the next.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ronda, July 2018

  Charlotte stared down at the landing strip, an anomalous rectangle in the vast plain. It had been a punishing summer and the long grass around it was bleached calico. The pilot had explained that these huge tracts of land had once been the grazing pastures for the bulls that had made the Mendoza family’s name and fortune; now, they stood bare – converted into a private airfield – the family’s attentions directed these days towards large-scale citrus farming. But then, Charlotte and Nathan already knew all that. They had sheaves of paper on these people: how they’d made their money, how much there was of it, where they invested it. There was only one thing they didn’t know about them and it seemed to be the most important thing, the only thing worth knowing: why the prodigal daughter had run.

  Señora Quincy was catnapping, one of the chairs converted into a chaise for her, Marina beside her, sitting with her face pressed to the window and fogging the glass. She had been to the toilet four times on the short flight, prompting Charlotte to suspect she was just enjoying looking around and the autonomy of moving about as she pleased. Nathan was sitting towards the front of the plane, keeping to himself and absorbed in reading on his iPad; he had said barely a word in the car and hadn’t lifted his head since wheels-up.

  She looked down as the plane circled in the hot sky. Even from up here, the hacienda looked impressive: a vast, sprawling white building with peach roof peg-tiles, it was arranged around an inner courtyard with two large and newer-looking wings spanning out at either side. There were numerous outbuildings too: a clay tennis court, two pools, an equestrian arena and what looked from here like a polo pitch. All the toys and trappings in other words, it read almost like an inventory of what the modern magnate’s estate should be.

  The landing was hard, but then so was the ground, and they were greeted off the steps by a team of young white-jacketed staff who took their bags and fawned over Señora Quincy as though she was a queen returned from exile. Charlotte watched on with interest, wondering what Mateo had told them. Did they know who she really was?

  They drove over the arid ground in golf carts; Señora Quincy and Marina were in the one ahead, her and Nathan following behind. Occasionally, his thigh knocked against hers as they bounced over the rough ground but he said not a word and she wouldn’t look at him; she didn’t trust herself to, the shock of his betrayal seeming all the worse for the fact that he’d tried to cover it up, instead pushing all the blame onto her. She concentrated instead on admiring the ‘view’, although, as with any airfield, there was nothing to see – just vast expanses of flat, fallow land. She would be gone again in a few hours, she told herself over and over. She could get through this. She would be back with Stephen tonight – her loyal, steadfast fiancé who deserved so much better than this, than her; she would step back into their careful life and it would fold around her and keep her safe. Nathan had a family, yes, but so did she. She could turn her back too.

  The grass grew steadily greener as they approached the cortijo estate, the human element meaning scrubland became fields, pastures and ultimately lawns. In the near distance she could see an ancient oak forest, old stone walls and the remains of a metal water store; she wondered as to the people who had farmed this land and the stories they could tell. She wondered what had made the old woman in the buggy in front run from here and never come back.

  The grass grew shorter, the bosky bushes tamed, clipped and shaped as they drew ever closer until finally they drove beneath a grand arched gateway. The studded wooden gates were almost as high as the main house, with casitas incorporated on either side, creating a walled courtyard. In contrast to the arid land outside these walls, within was an oasis – bright blooming bushes of hibiscus and oleander planted in rustic, white-painted stone planters and troughs, a large black dog sleeping in the shade and oblivious to their arrival.

  They drew up to the hacienda compound, every one of them looking around greedily at the lush sight. At ground level, the building – though vast and sprawling – was surprisingly low-built, squat even. It seemed somehow friendlier up close, the thick, rough walls punctuated with round-arched windows, like a gingerbread house, and yellow pinned-back shutters. Deep bushes of hot pink bougainvillea were trailed up every wall and arou
nd every orifice, the decorative black grilles against the ground-floor windows making pretty lace patterns on the walls, froths of jasmine spilling from giant clay pots at the bottom of the steps.

  The cart in front had come to a stop but Señora Quincy was still sitting in hers, taking it all in. Charlotte could imagine it would be emotional even just seeing the house – her childhood home – again, and she could see Marina holding her hand and stroking it.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Nathan asked, tipping his head slightly in the Marinas’ direction but keeping his gaze forward.

  ‘I think it’s a bit overwhelming for her, that’s all,’ she murmured. ‘She’s been away a long time.’

  He gave a hard shrug. ‘Why? The past is dead. It can’t hurt her now.’ And he swung himself out, grabbing his travel bag off the rack at the back.

  Charlotte watched him go. Her heart felt like a rock in her ribs, heavy and inert. Who was he now? It was clear she had no idea at all.

  Forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other, she followed after him to where a woman in her sixties was standing on the steps, her hands folded in front of her stomach. She too was all in white, her dress rather like an old-fashioned nurse’s outfit.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said, nodding deeply, her hair tucked back in a low bun. ‘We are delighted to have you as honoured guests at La Ventilla. I trust your journey was pleasant?’

  ‘Very comfortable, thank you,’ Charlotte smiled, aware that Nathan had arched a wry eyebrow, somehow managing to mock her even without words. A private jet comfortable? It was the height of luxury for most people.

  ‘Don Mateo passes on his apologies that he could not be here to welcome you himself. He is in Seville this morning.’

  ‘Yes, he said,’ Charlotte replied. ‘Has Señor Mendoza been discharged, do you know?’

  ‘Soon, I understand.’

  ‘Does he know Señora Quincy is here?’

  ‘I believe not yet.’ The housekeeper gave a brief smile. ‘Please follow me. I will show you to your rooms.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for the others?’ Nathan asked.

  Charlotte looked over at Señora Quincy, still immobile in the golf buggy. Three members of male staff had rushed out and were assembling a makeshift step to help her navigate her way down from the cart. It would be easier just to lift her down – she must weigh practically nothing – but she could see from the old lady’s patience and posture that she wouldn’t allow it. Was it a matter of pride? Dignity? As if, having once run from here, she would not allow herself to be carried back in?

  ‘Señor Mendoza has arranged for Señora Quincy and her granddaughter to reside in the west wing. There are some bedrooms on the ground floor there; he felt that would be best for ease of access. The main house has stairs that are difficult to navigate.’

  ‘How thoughtful.’

  ‘He has liaised with Señora Quincy’s carers and assigned a medical team to take care of her during her stay here. You and Professor Marling, however, are in the hacienda. Señor Mendoza thought you would like to experience the authentic Andalusian lifestyle?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘My name is Mayra and if there is anything I can do for you during your stay, please do not hesitate to ask,’ she said, as she began leading them up the steps.

  ‘Thanks, Mayra,’ they said in unison, the harmony making them both glance at, and recoil from, one another.

  ‘This is the great hall,’ Mayra said, fanning her arms lightly as they walked into a dark-panelled, double-height hallway. The floors were laid with terracotta tiles, an intricate staircase winding up and around, the walls studded with the mounted heads of at least a hundred bulls. Charlotte couldn’t suppress her gasp in time, nor Nathan his look of disgust. ‘The Mendoza bulls are of course very famous. All the heads you see here are of the champion bulls that were granted pardons.’

  ‘Pardons?’ Nathan questioned.

  ‘For bravery in the bullring. On occasion, when a bull impressed the matador or the crowd with his big heart, nobility and courageous spirit, he would be pardoned and allowed to live out his days in the pastures. These bulls you see here all died of old age.’

  ‘The lucky ones, huh?’ Nathan smiled, but Charlotte recognized the edge in his voice. She remembered how he had clashed with her shooting-hunting- fishing friends at Cambridge; clearly bullfighting wasn’t going to become a great love of his anytime soon either.

  They walked through the space to a narrower hall, the inner courtyard Charlotte had spied from the air now off to her right. It was laid to lawn, with an ornamental pond and fountain in the centre, elegant orange trees dotting each corner. She spied some benches in the shade and wondered whether anyone ever came out to use them, or whether they were purely ornamental.

  ‘All these rooms are of course available for your use – the card room, billiard room, the library,’ Mayra said, gesturing towards the half-closed doors as they clipped past. ‘The dining hall and drawing room are on the other sides of the courtyard. Señor Mendoza entreats you to use the house as your home.’

  They turned into the corridor at the back of the square, a more modest staircase than the one in the great hall, flanked against the wall. Stone pedestals were topped with church candles in hurricane lamps, a tapestry hanging stiffly from a pole. The low curved ceilings swept down to the solid arches of the windows like sheets caught mid-billow, or the vault of a crypt.

  ‘How old is the house?’ Nathan asked as Mayra led them up the stairs.

  ‘The oldest parts are eighteenth-century, with new additions in the last hundred years.’

  ‘It’s very imposing,’ he said. ‘Have you worked here for long?’

  ‘All my life, professor. I came here as a housemaid and never left.’

  ‘Worked your way up, huh?’

  ‘That is correct,’ she nodded, stopping outside a carved, carbonized wood door. ‘Señora Fairfax, this is your room.’

  She opened the door wide and stood back to allow Charlotte to enter. It was large but sparsely and simply decorated with whitewashed walls and a tiled floor, a charming yellow toile fabric dressing the bed and the windows. A walled wardrobe stood proud on the left-hand wall and opposite was the black bedstead, an image of the Madonna hanging above it, and on the far side, a door to the en-suite.

  ‘Uh, it’s beautiful, thank you,’ Charlotte smiled hesitantly. Was the housekeeper aware she wasn’t staying tonight? That she was here simply to drop off the guests of honour? ‘But—’

  ‘Professor, you are next door,’ Mayra said, leading him onwards. His eyes met hers for a moment as he turned and followed her down the corridor, but Charlotte stood where she was. Curious though she was to see his room too, she couldn’t follow; this wasn’t some jolly trip with friends – ‘Ooh, let me see your room.’ She sank onto the bed and remembered to switch back on her phone. She listened to their voices through the open door, Nathan’s brief but polite murmurings rolling back to her like a ball.

  She felt at a loss. What was she doing here? Every minute in his company felt like torture. She couldn’t believe he had lied to her so easily, made her feel so wretched for cheating on Stephen when he – he was the one already married, with a child.

  She couldn’t believe he had a child, that he was a father. Over and over on the plane she had tried to imagine it – him, them – but her mind simply wouldn’t allow the image to form and instead she was distracted by the pain in her heart and the sense of panic it brought to her limbs, making her want to flee.

  ‘. . . No, we can’t. They’ll all be waiting for us downstairs,’ she protested reluctantly, pulling away from his embrace and walking over to the window.

  ‘Let them wait. They’re dull anyway, and you know it.’

  ‘They’re my friends!’

  ‘They’re punching above their weight then,’ he sighed, collapsing back on the bed. ‘All they ever talk about is the going at Goodwood and Mary’s latest pair of new shoes. And Julian’s latest s
hag conquest, of course.’

  ‘Oh, Nate, you won’t be difficult this weekend, promise me? Let’s just have a good time. I know you find them boorish but they mean well. Contrary to popular opinion, Jules gets a really rough time of it at home with his old man.’

  ‘A slap around his head could only be for the good in my opinion. Please don’t give me his poor little rich boy story.’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong about him, you know.’ He had loathed Jules ever since he’d overheard him describing Nathan as ‘chippy’ in the toilets at the pub on one of their first nights out as a couple. His integration into the group had been awkward, to say the least, and initially it had seemed that Jules had offered the friendliest welcome, making the betrayal all the greater when his true feelings were finally discovered.

  ‘I don’t think so – he’s spoilt, pampered and entitled. I can’t think why you’d want to defend him.’

  ‘Because I know him. The real him. We go back a long way.’

  ‘And are you going to go forwards a long way too?’

  She shot him a look. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know it’s not like that between us.’

  ‘It was when we met.’

  ‘Precisely. And then we met and I realized how utterly clueless I’d been about love.’ She blew him a kiss. ‘You’re the one for me.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said noncommittally. ‘That will remain to be seen.’

  ‘On what?’ she asked indignantly.

  ‘On whether I can suffer another of these weekends with your friends.’

  ‘If you love me, you will,’ she said coquettishly. She didn’t want to fight; they only ever seemed to argue when they were with her friends. Standing at the window, she looked down upon the stepped garden carved into the steep Tuscan hillside, the square white sun umbrellas like unfolded handkerchiefs from this elevated viewpoint. ‘Come and see this view.’