Spanish Lace Read online

  SPANISH LACE

  Joyce Dingwell

  Zoe and Diana, doing the Australian’s traditional “Grand Tour” of Europe, had both fallen in love with Spain—but Diana had fallen in love with Miguel as well, and when the time came to move on to London, Zoe had to go alone, leaving Diana planning her marriage. But it was not long before an S.O.S. reached Zoe in London—Diana's engagement was in difficulties, mainly owing to the disapproving attitude of Miguel’s uncle; so Zoe went rushing back to Spain to help, finding the charming Don Ramon Raphaelina a tower of strength in the process. But Don Ramon turned out to be none other than Miguel’s formidable uncle—and what would Zoe's chances with him be worth when he discovered not only who she was, but how she had been deceiving him?

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘SOS STOP I NEED YOU STOP LETTER FOLLOWING STOP HURRY.’

  Only one person could have sent such a cable, and Zoe put the despatch down and smiled fondly. Di, of course. How flamboyant ... and typical ... of Diana.

  But because Di was beloved by her in spite of that sometimes quite embarrassing flamboyance, because the two friends had started their world tour together and had intended to finish it that way, except that Fate had had her say, because Di was still, comparatively, a stranger in Spain, Zoe did not dismiss the message as it probably, and she affectionately admitted it, deserved.

  In the beginning Zoe had been shocked at Di’s insistence on staying on in Lamona, that small, delightful Spanish village they had both fallen in love with at first sight, south of Madrid, north of Seville and Cordoba, but near enough, by Australian distances, to what they wanted to see in Spain ... (though after Lamona they both had agreed that Spanish beauty could not rest on its laurels!). But the shock had not been because of Diana’s early dropout from a tour that had been planned to include a lot of the world, and certainly all the countries of Europe, but because of Diana’s frank reason, for even in these forthright days, Zoe had thought, a girl should not trap her man, or at least refuse to move away until he trapped her.

  But Di had stuck out her lip ... how well Zoe knew her friend’s obstinacies ... and had said, ‘Miguel loves me, I know it; he’s simply shy. Beneath that bold veneer, Spaniards are shy. If I move on with you now the flower will never open.’ As well as being flamboyant and stubborn, Di had a taste for words.

  ‘Do you love Miguel?’ Zoe had asked directly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But really and actually, Di. Not because it’s Spain, and different, but because—well, because you do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It would be wiser to go through to England as we originally planned.’—The two girls had disembarked at Lisbon from Sydney on their working holiday abroad, eager after Durban, Capetown and Las Palmas to taste Portugal and Spain before they travelled overland to the U.K.—’Then if Miguel really cares—’

  ‘No, Zoe. No. I know what I’m doing. I’m over twenty-one and I’m not destitute. Darling, just take my word for it and go on.’

  Finally, had. She had spent the time and the money that she had earmarked for Paris when they passed through on staying with Di, staying in Spain much longer than she had scheduled, but in the end she had gone with a clear conscience, feeling all was well. Miguel was a fine young man. Undoubtedly he felt sincerely for Diana. He seemed fairly comfortably situated. Although, when Zoe had left Lamona, he had still not brought himself to the pitch of proposing, his eloquent eyes had told a tender story, and since Diana had snared herself an excellent summer post as companion to a comfortable Spanish family and nursery governess to their one remaining small son not yet at school, it had seemed safe enough to leave.

  ‘I’ll come out,’ Zoe had promised, ‘for the wedding.’

  ‘I’ll keep you up to that,’ Diana had sealed. Since then her letters to Swiss Cottage, London, where Zoe had found herself a bedsitter, had been deliriously happy, though there still had been nothing definite—or, as Di had put it, no flower had opened. All the same it had seemed quite smooth sailing until this cable that had awaited Zoe when she had returned from work this afternoon.

  Zoe’s bedsitter was on the top floor of one of the red brick, rather Flemish-styled houses in Aberdare Gardens. As Zoe had climbed the steep stairs she had frowned over the despatch for all her smiling knowledge of her friend.

  But she had not frowned too deeply; she understood the drama in Di. She knew only an impulsive girl would have cabled in such a manner before writing, an unnecessary procedure, really, and one she would not have adopted herself, though of course Di was better endowed financially, she had parents in Sydney to send handy subs, she was not dependent, as was Zoe, on her own capabilities. In all, Zoe had summed it up, what had seemed a storm at that moment of despatch quite probably mightn’t even be a breeze by now. All the same ... sitting by this at the window that looked over red rooftops and rose gardens up to Finchley ... she had better go through her resources. If something had happened that might cause her to hurry to Spain and to Diana, she had better be prepared.

  Monetarily, she saw at once, she was not prepared. Examination of her little book of expenses told her so at a rueful glance. The only thing was to advise Di to hold her troubles off until savings could accrue again; either that or instruct her firmly not to count this time on Zoe Breen.

  But she would never say that, and Zoe knew it, knew that Di would know it. They were friends of long standing. However ... with a shrug ... it was no use. Eleven pounds ten into a trip to Spain simply didn’t go, so that was that, and Zoe had crossed to the gas-ring and begun her tea.

  While the eggs had bubbled she had read the paper, and the way eyes are attracted at times to something, had instantly seen the ad.

  ‘Lady taking a tour to Spain would like travelling companion. Fare supplied only. Apply—’

  One of the eggs had popped its shell and Zoe had thrown the paper down.

  She had thought no more of the advertisement for the plain reason that she was still unconcerned over Di. Di’s letter wouldn’t come, or, if it did come, it would be happy talk again. No SOS. No needing her. No hurry.

  Then, two days later, when Zoe arrived home from the office again, it was on the table where the cable had been, a blue aerogramme, and its postmark Spain.

  Still not overly worried, Zoe had gone upstairs. This time she had watched over her tea before she concerned herself with the letter’s contents, but even after she set the tray and put out her meal, she hadn’t eaten. Not when she had read Di’s scrawl. For it appeared that it was not a breeze after all, but a storm; the SOS and needing her and hurry were really intended.

  ‘... if you could come, it would help terribly, Zoe,’ said the agitated writing. ‘This uncle of Miguel’s must be one of the old Spanish school ... simply impossible to break down Spanish traditions. If I had your support I believe I might win through...’ On and on it went, making little real sense, which was typical of Diana and in its way reassuring, until that final sentence that did alert Zoe, that brief: ‘Celestina urges me not to waste time, not to wait, to marry Miguel now.’

  Celestina, Zoe thought...

  Celestina.

  Diana and Zoe had first encountered Celestina at the Youth Hostel that second morning after their arrival in Lamona, that, charming little village set in a countryside of hills, vineyards, orangeries and olive groves, and reached, in their case, behind a little engine giving out prodigious puffs as it pulled three carriages as though they were thirty. But the vista of pastures, meres and mouldering castles ... one almost restored palacio on a hill that had brought instant joy to both their hearts ... had enchanted them, and they had alighted instead of going on to somewhere more pretentious.

  The hamlet’s sole hostel had catered more for itinerant pickers than tou
rists, but the hosteller’s wife, Rosina, had flashed her black eyes in welcome and had prepared her simple peasant meals with quite exquisite care, so that even without the enchantment of orange-sweetened air, of ilex trees and white lupins, the welcome lightness on their resources of pesetas, they would have wanted to linger in Lamona.

  The half Spanish, half English girl (as Zoe had learned later) had got out of the jeep with the tall young Spaniard. As Miguel Jose had stood estimating Diana and Zoe ... or was it only Diana? ... Celestina had stood behind him also estimating, only with a different brand of estimation, and her eyes, after a perfunctory look at Zoe, had rested on Di.

  Because she was unwatched Zoe had been able to consider the girl’s estimation, and she had not liked the animosity in the narrowed look. Young women were often sulky with Diana, whose flame-red hair and flamboyant colouring made everyone else seem a little pallid, but this young woman’s spite, Zoe felt, went far deeper than just that. She had been thankful at once that she had been born more a field daisy than a glowing tiger lily ... though ‘peeled sticks’, she had recalled laughingly and lovingly, had been her dead father’s description of her straight, pale hair.

  Whatever it was, obviously it had offered no challenge to the girl ... Celestina, as they were to discover ... for only Di had challenged her. The reason had been only too apparent—the beauty and colour of Diana, of course, her obvious attraction to an Iberian. The young Spaniard had crossed to her as though magnetized. And Di? Di had just gazed back.

  Celestina had tried to break up the tableau, to come between the pair.

  ‘You’re wasting precious time, Miguel. These two young ladies would not be interested in a few days of vineyard work.’

  Either the sharp voice or the fact that she, anyway, would be very interested in earning some extra money had prompted Zoe forward a step.

  ‘On the contrary,’ she had acclaimed, and had been rewarded with two quick looks, one of pleasure from the Spaniard, one of resentment from the girl.

  Di, still under that spell, hadn’t registered anything. And she hadn’t said a word.

  She had said plenty that night, though, and it had all been in the same strain: Miguel.

  How nice he was. How tall. How dark-eyed. How gallant. How—

  ‘And Celestina?’ Zoe had inserted.

  ‘Is that her name?’

  ‘Yes. Celestina Javes.’

  ‘Javes? But that’s English.’

  ‘And so was her father. The mother was Spanish.’

  ‘When did you learn all this?’

  ‘While you were looking at Miguel. Incidentally, they’re kind of cousins, but don’t let that give you the idea that Celestina isn’t interested in Miguel. She is very interested. Also she informed me that in Spain cousins marry, in fact it’s preferred. They’re a very clannish race.’

  ‘And why,’ Diana had asked, ‘would she tell you that?’

  ‘It was obvious. You two, you and Miguel, stood looking at each other as though you had never seen a man or a girl before in your life.’

  ‘Perhaps we hadn’t,’ Diana had said in a breathless little voice.

  ‘Oh, darling, have some sense!’

  ‘No, Zoe, don’t have sense, have—have love.’

  ‘Di!’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘One hour!’

  ‘Many more tomorrow, the day after.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Happy ever after,’ Di had said.

  They had gone to work in the vineyard ... or at least Zoe had worked. Celestina, joining her upon occasion, had tried to persuade Zoe to make their stay even shorter than the several days.

  ‘It is a pity to come all the way from Australia only to work in a vineyard,’ she had commented.

  ‘I find it quite fascinating.’

  That was the time Celestina had lost her temper.

  ‘You, perhaps, but not that one. Oh, why did I take my father’s eyes but my mother’s hair, for Spaniards are fools with hair that is not black.’

  ‘No one has been a fool with me.’

  ‘But you are nothing,’ Celestina had dismissed Zoe carelessly.

  ‘My father,’ Zoe had stated affectionately, ‘called me a peeled stick. Or at least my hair peeled sticks.’

  But Celestina had not been listening to her, she had muttered, ‘You must go. Anyway, the grapes will all be picked by tomorrow.’

  ‘Then of course we will go.’

  But they hadn’t or at least only half of them had gone. It was then that Di had said: ‘Miguel loves me, I know it; he’s simply shy. If I move on with you now the flower will never open.’

  Zoe had argued, had used every commonsense plea she could think of, but when Antonio, the husband of Rosina, had approached Diana on behalf of a wealthy patron who was anxious for an English companion for his household for the summer season, it had seemed that Fate had stepped in.

  ‘I’ll come out,’ Zoe had promised, resigning herself, ‘for the wedding.’ But under her breath she had added cautiously, ‘If Celestina permits.’

  Yet here was Celestina urging Diana not to wait, not to waste time, to marry Miguel now, Miguel whom she had unmistakably earmarked for herself.

  It just didn’t ring true.

  ‘I’ll have to go out to Di,’ Zoe said aloud. ‘I don’t know how, but I’ll have to. And soon.’

  It was then she remembered the ad.

  The paper was still there, and it didn’t take long to get through to the given number. The post would be filled, of course, but one must try.

  The voice that answered Zoe was scarcely a pleasant one, but what it had to say was pleasant ... for Zoe. The post was not filled. There had been many applicants, the woman’s voice informed her in a distinct whine, but none of them suitable ... why, most of them had no passport in readiness, the fools.

  ‘I have a passport and visa,’ Zoe had inserted.

  ‘I need someone young, strong and able. I am a semi invalid.’

  ‘My late father was a doctor, and though untrained I have a smattering of what to do in medical matters. I’m also very strong,’ Zoe assured her.

  ‘Are you intelligent enough to cope with foreign countries?’

  ‘I thought it was a tour, and on a tour the courier—’

  ‘Answer my question. It may be a conducted tour, but I have been on many of these tours, and couriers are all fools.’

  ‘Well, I looked after myself from Australia.’

  ‘Oh—Australia!’ the voice demeaned. After a while it said unenthusiastically, ‘Well, I suppose I must take a risk. The tour begins tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ echoed Zoe.

  ‘What’s wrong? You said you had your papers.’

  ‘I have. And I can be ready.’ Zoe could. Her post was only a typing pool post, just carrying on from day to day.

  ‘You understand there is no salary?’

  ‘Yes, I understand that.’

  ‘I always do this sort of thing,’ went on the voice. ‘I always buy two tickets, reserve two seats.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be cheaper for you to fly? Or take a private tour?’

  ‘Quite. Also I am fully conscious that I am not mixing with my equals when I indulge in these outlandish whims.’

  No wonder, thought Zoe, that the post has not been filled!

  ‘But I heartily dislike air travel, and I consider private touring boring. No, moving along en masse can be most amusing, I’ve discovered ... the people you find travelling as well as you! But one must be safeguarded, of course. Do you know that on one occasion I was actually asked to share a room with someone else?’

  ‘It happens on most tours. These foreign hotels—’

  ‘Well, this time I at least will have someone with me that I have screened.’

  ‘Ye—es.’ Zoe found herself wishing she had never seen the ad.

  But the voice’s next words cheered her considerably, even though monetarily it could, not be considered good news.

&nbs
p; ‘You understand you have to find your own way back. I intend to remain in Spain for a while.’

  That made it all much more possible. Anyone could put up with a gorgon if it wasn’t for too long. Zoe had not the faintest idea how she would return, but perhaps there would be more work at the vineyard to help her save her fare, or she could borrow from Di and then return it to her. The main thing was that she could cable in all certainty to Diana: ‘Coming.’

  And on that note, after hearing that her benefactor’s name ... benefactor? ... was Mrs. Fenton, and that they departed from Europa Tours and Travels, Piccadilly, at nine a.m., Zoe rang off.

  No need to tell her landlady. Probably she would be home again under two weeks; no need to do anything save put a few things in a bag ... and wonder about Mrs. Fenton. Unpleasant-sounding Mrs. Fenton, thought Zoe, folding frocks in the expert manner travel now had achieved her. Then think, after she had finished with Mrs. Fenton, of Celestina.

  Why Celestina had changed around?

  CHAPTER TWO

  The full complement of the tour, announced the harassed courier at the Europa Tours office in Piccadilly, would not assemble until Calais. Some of the tourists had elected to fly across, some already were in France. So until they all gathered at the appointed place, he would not present his ‘children’ ... a rather desperate attempt at jocularity, Zoe thought ... to each other.

  Mrs. Fenton’s sniff at his ‘children’ was not unexpected, for already she had made her presence known, indeed, she was the sole cause of the courier’s harassed state, the other boat train travellers having behaved quite well.