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- Herausgeber: London Wall Publishing
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
A young writer becomes entangled in an illicit gypsy love affair, pulling her into a world of secrets, deception and dark desire. Summer, 1976. Luz de Rueda returns to her beloved Spain and takes a job as the biographer of a famous artist. On her first day back in Cádiz, she encounters a bewitching, passionate young gypsy, Leandro, who immediately captures her heart, even though relationships with his kind are taboo. Haunted by this forbidden love, she meets her new employer, the sophisticated Andrés de Calderón. Reserved yet darkly compelling, he is totally different to Leandro - but almost the gypsy's double. Both men stir unfamiliar and exciting feelings in Luz, although mystery and danger surround them in ways she has still to discover.
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MASQUERADE
HANNAH FIELDING
Copyright
First published in paperback and eBook in the UK in 2015 by London Wall Publishing Ltd (LWP) 24 Chiswell Street, London EC1Y 4YX
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2015 by FaberFactory
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a database or retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law.
Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Copyright © Hannah Fielding 2015
EB ISBN 978-0-9929943-7-2
And, after all, what is a lie?
’Tis but the truth in masquerade.
LORD BYRON
Contents
CHAPTER 1
Cádiz, 1976
Luz set eyes on him for the first time from her seat on Zeyna’s back as the fine white Arab mare stepped down the narrow path from the cliff that led to the beach. He was sitting on the edge of the track, leaning nonchalantly against a wild carob tree, watching her while chewing on a sprig of heather. As she drew nearer, she met his steady gaze, spirited and wild. At that moment she had no idea this man would have the power to change her world and create such havoc in her heart, that she would emerge from the experience a different person. Fate had not yet lit up the winding pathway of her life nor the echoes of history along it, but now, in front of this stranger, a disturbing awareness leapt into flame deep inside her and began to flicker intensely. Without thinking, she tugged on Zeyna’s reins to slow the mare down.
For a moment they stared at each other. He was clearly a gitano, one of those people that Luz’s family had always warned her to steer clear of. The frayed, cut-down denims sat low on his hips, revealing deeply tanned, muscular long legs, and his feet were bare as though he had just walked straight from the beach. Unruly chestnut hair, bleached golden in parts by the sun, tumbled to his shoulders; his smooth copper skin glowed more than that of any gypsy she had ever seen. As she allowed her gaze to flick back to his face, Luz caught the flash of amused, provocative arrogance in those bright, burning eyes, mixed with something deeper that she didn’t understand. She swallowed. The overwhelming masculinity of the gitano unsettled her. Luz lifted her chin resolutely but felt the pull of his magnetism reaching out and gripping her, beguiling and dangerous, so that instinctively she nudged her mount and they broke into a smooth canter. The thumping of her heart sounded loud in her ears. She could sense his eyes on her, as a palpable touch, even as she rode away, trembling, and the feeling remained with her until she knew she was out of sight.
Had Zeyna picked up her mistress’s inner turmoil? Luz was pulling on her bridle as the mare tossed her head this way and that, snorting. Surprised by the horse’s unusual behaviour, Luz looked down at her hands and realized that she was clutching the reins much too tightly. She relaxed her hold. ‘I’m sorry, old girl. My fault,’ she whispered, leaning forward to pat the mare’s neck. Feeling free, the handsome creature surged forth without hesitation.
The wind blew warm and salty; it touched Luz’s long black hair like a caress, threatening and tantalizing, wrapping a few silky wisps around her face. An unusual heat coursed through her, even though she was dressed only in a T-shirt, jeans tucked into riding boots. She raised her head against the breeze, letting the briny air course over her body, willing it to drive away this unfamiliar disquiet from her mind.
Gradually her sense of foreboding subsided and the awesome setting regained its hold. She felt an exhilaration and breadth of freedom in the vast solitude of the deserted beach and the wide horizons of the sea. The intense blue of the bay lay before her in the late afternoon sun. The lines of the land were so recognizable to her: no trees, no shrubs, no delicate tinting nor soft beauty, but a pure, distinct outline of form, almost terrifying in its austerity. Then, from time to time, there were the shadows of great clouds moving overhead, staining this infinite expanse of dunes that stretched before her like a vast tapestry in shades of cream, greys and silver. Galloping in the wind on the back of her beautiful white mare, Luz felt in harmony with the Andalucían landscape and with herself. She had left her flat in Chelsea, finished her job in Scotland and now she was back in Spain, a newly born post-Franco Spain, ruled by an energetic young king and teetering on the edge of new possibilities. She was back at last in her beloved country, this time to stay.
Luz María Cervantes de Rueda was the only child to Count Salvador Cervantes de Rueda and his beautiful half-English, half-Spanish wife, Alexandra. At the time, their love story had made newspaper headlines and had been a favoured subject for wagging tongues in the drawing rooms of Spanish society. There had been a scandal involving Count Salvador, a young gypsy girl and her ne’er-do-well brothers. To add to the gossip, Alexandra de Falla was not from a pure Spanish background. Her foreign ways had caused suspicion and disapproval among the cloistered circles, their traditions still so deeply rooted in conservative Spanish society. The fact that she was a romantic novelist, too, had caused many raised eyebrows. Some predicted doom when the couple’s fairy-tale marriage was announced but, as in all fairy tales, the pair had surprised everyone and were still living happily ever after.
For the first eleven years of her life Luz had lived in Spain, spending July and August in Kent with her Great-Aunt Geraldine. Later, when she was sent to boarding school in Gloucestershire, she would return three times a year to El Pavón, the ancestral home of her father outside the city of Jerez: at Christmas, Easter and for part of the summer holidays.
Luz had just arrived in Cádiz that morning, straight from England. She intended to spend at least a week at L’Estrella, the family’s summer house, before going on to see her parents at El Pavón. She was excited, pulsing with life, feeling as though she was on the verge of embarking on a great adventure.
It had been a long haul that had started with Cheltenham Ladies’ College when she was eleven, through a master’s degree in history and modern languages at Cambridge and, finally, two years spent in the Highlands of Scotland penning the biography of an ancestor for one of the great families of Britain. Now that book was delivered, she could feel that Spain was where she was meant to be, where she was always meant to be. Here, she could breathe, feel her body come alive under the Spanish sun, and let all the pent-up, reckless instincts she had tried so hard to tame all through boarding school in England run wild and free. Luz had never thought that those compulsive feelings she had were the secret machinations of ‘destiny’; there was a sceptical, no-nonsense side to her inherited from her mother, along with a talent for writing, but she knew that the fiery Spanish nature that was her father’s – and always got the better of her – had finally pulled her back to Andalucía.
Only that morning, when Luz had arrived at L’Estrella laden with suitcases, Carmela had handed her a letter that had come the day before. Ever since she had replied to an advertisement in the local paper for a biographer, she’d been praying for an interview. And here it was: a letter inviting her for a first meeting that week. Luz had barely been able to contain her relief and joy as she pulled the housekeeper into a delighted hug. She had really set her heart on this job, not only because she would be writing about Count Eduardo Raphael Ruiz de Salazar, one of the great painters of modern Spain, but also because the artist was from this part of the world and a large portion of the research would be done locally in Cádiz and its neighbouring towns. It seemed that now Luz had been given her reason to stay.
She brought Zeyna to a halt at the edge of the shore. The wild salty air seemed to be sweeping up from the beach as it brushed her cheek. She closed her eyes to savour its breath, delicious odours laden with iodine and fruits of the deep. The sun was setting in the late afternoon and the sky, gloriously mottled with apricot-pink and lilac, was broken here and there by shafts of light reflecting on the surface of the water, turning the calm ocean into a spectrum of peacock colours.
Now she could make out the fishing boats in the distance returning after a day’s work: black toy insects, the antennae of their masts bristling against the flamingo-tinted sky. Gulls and terns mingled overhead, screeching, impatient for the laden fleet’s arrival. Luz did not care much for birds. She found them – even the beautiful ones – eerie and menacing. It was time to be starting back.
The beach was no longer deserted. As she cantered along the shore she passed a few joggers and a couple of lovers strolling hand in hand. A child and his mother were flying a bright-red kite; a bunch of gypsies loitered on one of the dunes by an upturned wreck of a rowing boat. She was used to seeing these vagabonds around; they did not bother her – on the contrary, she found them colourful and mysterious, stirring her imagination. Today the gentle agitation in her moved a step further and, for a second, Luz’s thoughts flashed back to the young gypsy who had so unnerved her. Her parents were wary of gitanos and Luz suspected that the reason she had been swept off to the protective cocoon of an English boarding school was to shield her from something. She had heard whispered snatches of gossip concerning the gitanos’ involvement with her family. She had often attempted to prise some answers from her parents but they had always dismissed her questions, brushing off the stories as servants’ tittle-tattle and malicious rumour. Not everyone approved of their marriage, they explained, and there were always narrow-minded and prejudiced people in the world. Every time Luz pushed, she found herself no further forward than before and although her inquisitive nature was dissatisfied by their explanations, she had given up asking questions and, for the time being, dismissed the whole thing from her mind.
As Luz approached the group, she noticed that the young gypsy was among them. She was nearly level with the gitanos when he turned, his eyes rising slowly to meet her gaze. For all their lazy manner they were sharp, green and sparkling, shadowed by thick, long dark lashes. Transfixed, Luz felt herself blushing under the watchful lion’s gaze. Her stomach gave a little flutter; her concentration wavered. Then it all happened very quickly.
From the corner of her eye she was aware of the red kite falling. Spooked, Zeyna shied suddenly. The young woman tried to control her, but it was too late: the mare swerved to the right. Luz put her weight on the stirrup to steady herself but the girth was not tight enough and the saddle slipped sideways. Slowly and inexorably, she came off her mount with a cry. As she hit the hard sandy ground with a sickening thud to her head, the landscape swirled around her and she felt herself sinking into a deep black well. She fought to regain consciousness, hearing rushing footsteps, noises and voices all around her. Then two powerful arms lifted her; she felt her head fall back against a strong shoulder, then the shutters came down and she was plunged into oblivion. The blackout was complete.
* * *
‘I’m taking her back to the camp,’ Leandro announced to his companions as he scooped the unconscious young woman carefully into his arms.
His words were greeted with roars of laughter.
‘I’m sure this will improve your relationship with Rosa no end,’ scoffed a lanky youth with tattoos on both arms.
Leandro shrugged and took the lead, heading back up the beach. ‘Her horse has bolted and we must make sure she’s all right. That was a bad fall.’
‘Yeah, yeah, talk about taking advantage of a chaotic situation. Do you think we’ve all been struck blind, amigo? We all saw the look you gave each other. And now you’re her rescuing hero.’ The lanky youth grinned, ruffling Leandro’s hair, and playfully dodged the responding sideways kick of his friend’s foot. ‘A rio revuelto, ganancia de pescadores, it is good fishing in troubled waters!’
‘And you are paddling in the wrong river, Juan. You’re lucky I have my hands full or I’d clip your ear.’
‘Yeah, yeah. But your hands are full, amigo.’ Juan winked at him.
‘You’re too cynical.’ Leandro gently adjusted the svelte form higher in his arms and shook his head nonchalantly. ‘I just want to make sure she’s not hurt.’
‘Do you know her?’ Juan and the others fell into step alongside him.
‘I’ve seen her around a few times,’ Leandro said lightly. He deliberately kept his gaze level. Yes, he had seen her around often, going to and from the port at Cádiz every few months, or when his wanderings had taken him along the cliff, close to the house in the clouds. Usually she went riding along the beach and sometimes he saw her jogging; she always seemed to be on the move. He couldn’t fail to notice that her body was supple and strong, yet so graceful. The first time he’d seen her, elegantly stepping out of her boat on to the quay, it was like a goddess had leapt into his vision and his heart had given a corresponding somersault. It was a feeling that had disturbed him. He had always observed her from afar after that, always without being noticed.
Today it had been different. By pure chance he had been at the port to see her motorboat drive in. She was back. He had known she would come down to the beach that afternoon – she always did on the day of her arrival in Cádiz – and he had deliberately waited for her at the side of the track. This time he was fixed on drawing her attention to him. It was his swift glance that had made her look at him; he had willed her to look at him. Then, as he had guessed, she headed slowly for the beach and it hadn’t taken long for him to rejoin the others, knowing she would pass by. It was his fault that she had been distracted and fallen off her mount. She was normally a brilliant rider: he had watched her many times as she cantered up and down the beach on her white mare, a beautiful Amazon with her long raven-black mane flying behind her as though she was racing the wind. But he had needed those startling eyes to lock on to his once more.
Guilt washed over him. Protectively, his arms tightened a fraction around her and he clenched the slim, inert body a little closer to his muscular chest. The white V-neck T-shirt she was wearing was close-fitting, making him conscious of the curves beneath his hands. His chin brushed accidentally against her hair. Delicate whiffs of wild rose, jasmine and sandalwood, the essence of the bath oils she had bathed in before going down to the beach, came to him. The disturbance he felt was deep and strong. He moistened his dry lips and walked up the steep slope of rock, his gaze still fixed straight ahead, not daring to look down at her in case he lost control and gave himself away. The situation was awkward enough as it was. He was breathing hard. Some may have thought it was because his burden was too heavy, but Luz was light as a feather. No, it was not her weight that was making his chest rise and fall laboriously but the warmth of her soft curves pressing against him.
The sun was setting. A little distance from the sea in a glade as dry as brown wrapping paper, wild and barren lay the encampment. Yawning with caves and split by rocky gorges, it was a smaller than usual site and somewhat modern compared with most gypsy camps. It was close enough to Cádiz to be hooked up with electricity and running water. The caves had been excavated from the soft rock hundreds of years before, during the Moorish conquest of Spain, and after the Arabs’ expulsion the gitanos quickly appropriated them as their own. Formed in a rough crescent along the hillside skirting the glade, many of these homes had crude rectangular doorways in front of which were assembled rickety chairs, tables and lines of washing.
Several tents and wooden caravans were grouped here and there, painted in bright reds, pinks, yellows and greens, and embellished with a wealth of carving. They were set up in an uneven semicircle facing the caves and completed the wide enclosure of haphazard dwellings. Right at the front of the camp, near the track leading down to the beach, was a solid bank of sacks and boxes of rubbish that marked the entrance.
Great wood fires were burning, above which large copper containers filled with stew – the powerful smelling pirriá for the evening meal – hung from iron hooks. Two gypsies were singing while beating metal horseshoes on an anvil over a fire, their strong, hoarse voices resounding loudly in the camp. Men sat in groups of three or four in front of their tents, chatting or playing cards; decrepit-looking mongrels sniffed around the cooking pots, hoping for a bone; olive-faced urchins of various ages played hopscotch or ball in front of their doorways.
They ran towards Leandro, clamouring, and clustered around him as he walked into the camp, carrying the girl. Children liked Leandro. He would usually take time to play and joke with them or hand out the sweets and chewing gum that were always kept in his pockets. Today, however, he walked right past them, his face grave, towards the largest and most elaborate-looking cave.
A gitana was standing at the entrance. She must have been in her late forties or early fifties, still handsome and well preserved for a gypsy, not a wrinkle on her olive skin, which nonetheless had a somewhat pallid look. A mass of tousled black hair undulated wildly around a fiercely sensual but hard face, and down to her shoulders. The gold and silver chains and bracelets she wore spoke of her status within the camp: a striking gypsy queen. A big black cat idled beside her as she stooped to stir the steaming contents of a large pot on the fire. Upon Leandro’s approach, her blazing dark eyes broke into a smile, softening her features and making her look almost gentle.
‘Where have you been, my boy, and what have you there?’ Her voice was low-pitched and slightly husky.
Leandro gestured with his head towards the dunes. ‘Her horse bolted so I brought her back here to make sure she wasn’t hurt. She hit her head and lost consciousness.’
The gitana flicked a glance over Luz. ‘Huh, this one’s a gajo! We don’t let their sort in the camp, you know that.’ She pushed the ladle roughly through the stew, a heavily ringed hand resting on her hip.
‘Mamacita, what would you have me do with her? I couldn’t just leave her on the beach, she needed help.’
She met his expectant gaze and stopped stirring. ‘So now I’m to let a gajo into my house because you decide to play rescuer, eh?’ She sighed, her expression losing its hardness. ‘You have a kind heart, my son, maybe too kind … very much like your father, may God rest his soul.’ For a moment, her eyes filled with dreaming, and then the look was gone. She nodded curtly towards the cave. ‘Take the stranger to my room. Lay her on my bed and I’ll make her a brew for when she wakes up.’
Leandro pulled Luz closer, feeling her steady breathing against his chest, but made sure not to look down. His mother was keen-eyed, the last person he wanted to guess at any attachment he might have formed to a gajo.
‘No one in the whole of Andalucía has your healing touch,’ Leandro offered quickly. He grinned. ‘If anyone can put her right, it’s you.’
‘We’ll see,’ she murmured begrudgingly and watched her son as he went inside.
Many of the caves were one room, though some of the larger ones had two or three, fashioned out of the knobbly rock with low-domed ceilings and rough terracotta tiles on the floor. This cave was vast, its thick whitewashed walls hung with a scattering of religious pictures. In the bedroom an old iron lantern had been fixed into the rock of the eight-feet-high arched ceiling above the brass double bed. The floor was tastefully tiled and the space richly furnished, somewhat in conflict with the outside surroundings. There was a heavily carved wooden cupboard, an ancient armchair draped with brightly coloured brocade and a delicate chair that stood in front of a good-quality coiffeuse dating from the nineteenth century.
Leandro lay Luz gently on his mother’s bed and arranged the pillows behind her head. He gazed down at her, aching to run his fingers through the long raven-black hair that splayed out in lustrous strands on the pillow like spun silk. The alabaster colour of her skin and the purity of her bone structure seemed to him the most exquisite and serene beauty he had ever beheld in a woman. Her thick dark lashes spread fanwise on her cheeks, like those of a Madonna in repose. Luz shifted slightly and her soft full lips parted a little, as though offering a subconscious invitation in her sleep.
The gypsy’s blood stirred. Never before had he felt desire so strong – not even Rosa had awakened his senses with such vibrancy – coupled with immense tenderness. For a moment he thought ruefully of the gypsy girl whose savage and primitive beauty had once driven him wild, but that was before. He knew now that he could no longer continue his dalliance with Rosa and that he would have to extricate himself from it: everything had changed.
Leandro’s eyes travelled over Luz. The urge to reach out and touch her, to feel the smoothness of her skin beneath his hands, was overwhelming. For a few moments he fought to keep a check on his movements and then abruptly left the room.
He went out into the night to get some air and made his way to the wooden hut that served as a stable for some of the gypsies’ horses. It made sense to saddle up Ventarrón, his black stallion, so he could take Luz back to her house once she had woken. Much as he would have liked to keep her close by him for just a little longer, he knew that this would be opening a Pandora’s box of trouble if he were to encourage any sort of intimacy with a gajo inside the camp.
In the meantime Leandro’s mother had returned to her bedroom carrying a cup of herbal brew, which she laid on the dressing table. She went over to the bed and leaned over Luz, sucking in her breath as she noted the girl’s fine and unmistakable features and her undeniable beauty. A shadow passed over the gypsy’s face and, just then, the gold locket that hung around Luz’s neck caught her eye. With the nimble fingers that had served her well all her life, she flicked it open. There was a fierce gleam in the jet-black eyes and they narrowed a little, blazing now with a strange expression. With just as much dexterity, she detached the clasp, took the locket and slipped it in her pocket. As she did so, her big black cat uncurled himself from the bed, jumped to the floor and padded towards the gitana, mewing and waving his tail. He brushed against her legs, purring loudly, winding himself around her ankles.
‘Yes, mi caballo negro, my black knight, we’re in luck,’ she whispered, a look of triumph on her face. ‘We are most certainly in luck.’
The gitana went to a shelf and pulled down a pot, from which she retrieved some dark purple pods. She crushed the seeds they contained into the cup of liquid on the dressing table and returned to the bed. There, she placed a thumb over one of Luz’s eyes, opened the lid and peered at the pupil.
‘Mmm, nothing wrong. She’ll be awake soon,’ she muttered.
She scooped up the cat, stroking it slowly as she stared down at Luz, who groaned a little and then was still again.
‘Better she doesn’t wake here.’
Leandro returned, carrying a blanket. ‘How is she?’ he asked. ‘Has she woken up?’
His mother’s face set itself into an impenetrable mask. ‘She has stirred a few times. I’ve examined her. She’s unharmed, but she must have had a nasty shock.’
‘She looks pale.’
‘Yes, she needs time to recover.’
The gypsy let the cat jump from her arms and motioned to the cup on the dressing table. ‘There, feed her that brew. It will calm her, but most of all it will make her sleep deeply till morning. I must attend to our dinner. Lucas and some other dealers are coming over to discuss the next horse fair with Juanillo and your brothers.’
But he wasn’t in the mood to put up with them at the moment; besides, he had a trip to make up the cliffs. ‘I won’t be around for that tonight.’
‘Suit yourself.’ She coughed roughly.
Leandro sensed the change in his mother’s mood but he was used to her erratic behaviour. She was a creature of impulse: sometimes mischievous and diabolical; a vociferous spitfire in anger, vengeful and unyielding; and at other times so loving, so caring … at least to him, her eldest son.
‘You should look after that cough and give up the pipe. You know you’re not well.’
His mother threw him a dark look. ‘You worry too much, my boy. We gypsies are tough,’ she said gruff ly, waving him away with her hand.
He picked up the cup as she swept out of the room and sniffed at the pungent brew. Valerian root, he thought. Indeed he, too, was once given some of this concoction by his mother, he recalled, while suffering with insomnia and it had sent him off to sleep for many hours. He sat on the edge of the bed. Luz stirred and opened her eyes briefly; they were sapphire-blue with the depth and mystery of the ocean he loved so much. He smiled at her, but the long black lashes shuttered down again. Placing an arm around her shoulder he lifted her slightly to give her the tea his mother had concocted.
‘Here, drink this,’ he whispered, leaning over her as he held the cup to her lips. ‘You’ll feel better.’
Luz seemed to revive slightly at the sound of his voice and the feel of the liquid at her lips. She forced open her heavy eyelids and sipped a few mouthfuls of the brew but then looked faint and a pained expression crossed her face. Despite her wrenching effort to sit up and talk, she fell back on the pillows with a little groan and closed her eyes, once more overcome by sleep.
Leandro glanced at his watch: it was getting late. They must be looking for her by now if the mare had returned to its stable. Maybe it would be better if she were examined by a doctor, but the colour had returned to her cheeks and she looked perfectly serene in her slumber. She had just been shaken by the fall. His mother’s potions were renowned for their powerful healing properties. Hopefully, the herbal brew would have a beneficial effect and she would rest till the morning.
He found his mother sitting on a stool at the entrance to the cave, smoking a hubble-bubble.
‘I’ll take her home to her family, they must be looking for her. If the horse found its way back, they’re sure to be concerned.’
The gitana stopped smoking and tossed her head back arrogantly. ‘What is it to us? Anyhow, do you know where she lives?’
‘I have a pretty good idea.’
‘Do you know her name and who she is?’
He paused. ‘No, but I can find her house.’
The gitana turned to look at her son, pipe in her mouth, her bright, hawkish eyes considering him pensively. She shrugged and returned to her hubble-bubble. ‘Well, my son, do as you please, but when you get back, come and see me. It’s a full moon tonight, a night of good omens, the night I’ve been waiting for so long.’ She flicked an inscrutable glance at him. ‘I will not rest until you have said goodnight.’
Leandro smiled and kissed his mother. ‘Always mysterious, always speaking in riddles, Mamacita! Tell me, do I ever go to bed without first saying goodnight?’
Her gaze softened. ‘No, my boy, you never do. You’re a good son, and your father would have been proud. I’m a lucky woman.’
Her expression changed as the sound of boisterous cheering rose up from a group of young men opposite. Wineskins were being passed around while a couple of youths sent pebbles flying through the air from large catapults, knocking over tins lined up on barrels.
‘But your brother is another matter,’ she murmured, watching one of the youths detach himself from the group and saunter towards them.
‘Mamacita, did you see that? Twenty-three in a row! Brought them all down, even after a skinful. Hey, Leandro, want to try your hand?’ The youth was swerving slightly and came to an unsteady halt in front of them.
‘No, thanks, Toñito. I’ve got better things to do tonight.’
‘Better things, eh?’ Toñito, who wore faded jeans and a petrol-stained T-shirt, curved his overly full lips into a sneer. ‘Yes, always better things, brother.’ The young gitano pulled at the catapult in his hand, stretching the sinuous elastic. His eyes were like his mother’s, jet-black and fiery, and now they were fixed on Leandro, who stood calmly watching him, arms folded.
‘Isn’t that right, Mamacita?’ Toñito gesticulated dismissively with his catapult. ‘Angel Boy here, your pride and joy, has better things to do than share a bottle of brandy with his brother and play a little target practice. Anyone would think you only had one son. Well, I need a little respect too.’
He punched his chest with his fist, swaying a little.
Leandro narrowed his eyes. ‘Take a look in the mirror sometime. Respect is earned, little brother.’
‘Earned? And what have you earned in your life, eh? You think you’re so much better than me, isn’t that right, Angel Boy?’
Leandro took a step forward, looking his brother straight in the eye. ‘Call me that one more time and we’ll see who’s an angel.’
Toñito was too drunk to catch the dangerous expression on Leandro’s face and jeered at him, ‘Espetiede bastardo!’
‘Toñito, watch your tongue, or one day someone will tire of it and have it out.’ The gitana glared at her younger son, who scowled back at her.
Toñito started to say something, then, obviously thinking better of a confrontation, raised his arms in mock defeat and grinned crookedly.
‘Okay, okay, I’m off.’ He shoved the catapult in his back pocket.
Just then another gale of laughter erupted from the group of men opposite. An older man had joined them and was playing with a knife while a couple of the gitanos rushed to pour him a cup of brandy.
‘Hey, Toñito,’ one of young men shouted, ‘our Uncle Juanillo here reckons he can beat your record with his navaja and there’s a bottle in it for the winner!’
Toñito turned his bleary gaze to Leandro. ‘Enjoy your better things, brother.’ He spat on the ground and took a step backwards. ‘Diego, you can tell him I accept his challenge,’ he called back. As he turned, he almost unbalanced, then staggered off to rejoin his group.
The gitana sucked on her pipe. ‘Foolish boy! He may come from my loins but he’ll never amount to anything.’
‘He’s young and foolish, true, but he’ll grow up soon.’ Leandro stared after his brother for a moment, then sighed. He picked up a stick and threw it on to the fire. ‘He’s just trying to please you, that’s all.’
‘Please me, eh? Before you came along, my little brother Pablo was the only one I could rely on. Since he left us, it’s just you. Anyway, be off with you now. Do what you need to do with this girl and hurry back.’
‘I’ll take her back on Ventarrón,’ the young man told his mother but she was not listening any more. She smoked placidly, her eyes staring vacantly, the shadow of a smile hovering across her face.
In the still of the night, under a velvet sky studded with stars like diamonds and a bright golden moon hanging in the heavens like a big porcelain saucer, Leandro rode to L’Estrella, holding Luz to him on his jet-black stallion. The sea was quiet, the air soft with an all-pervasive smell of iodine and seaweed. They made their way, corkscrewing along the empty cobbled backstreets of Cádiz that snaked uphill to the top of the cliffs. There, L’Estrella lay; the focal point of an enchanting setting, a tiny jewel-like circular house in calm seclusion, halfway between fascinating reality and a mirage. Its whitewashed walls gleamed almost luminous under the full moon and a faint breeze whispered through the cluster of almond trees fringing the entrance.
The house was dark. Luz was still asleep – the concoction must have been strong, his mother perhaps a little heavy-handed with the herbs. Leandro was perplexed: no one seemed to be waiting up for her. The lights were off but the front gate was wide open. He quietly steered Ventarrón to a holm oak in the courtyard. Carefully leaning Luz forward against the stallion’s mane and holding on to her with one hand, he slid to the ground. With the other, Leandro tied the horse to the trunk of the tree and then carried the young woman into the hacienda.
The grounds of the villa were all steps and corners, arches and angles, linked by patios and punctuated by sweet-smelling shrubs and orchard trees. Leandro walked up to the house and circled round it: the place seemed deserted. Gently hitching Luz closer to him, he searched her pockets for a key but there was none – it must have been lost when she fell. He was toying with the idea of taking her back to camp when he noticed, in the light of the moon, Zeyna grazing on one of the expanses of grass at the edge of the garden. The creature lifted its head and regarded Leandro for a few moments before bending back down to the ground. ‘Well, at least the mare is back,’ he muttered to himself.
As he turned with Luz in his arms, a veranda draped in wisteria caught his eye, f lanked by a handsome flight of stone steps. He climbed to the top of them and was relieved to find a French window slightly ajar. Nudging it open with his foot, he gazed into the moonlit room. It was a bedroom – Luz’s bedroom by the look of it. He walked in.
She was still fast asleep against his shoulder. He laid her carefully on the bed and slowly removed her riding boots. He spotted a blanket neatly folded on a chest next to the window and gently tucked it around her. For a moment he stood there, feasting his eyes on the ripe perfection of his Sleeping Beauty. Her eyes were closed, her mouth pink, and thick dark lashes feathered against her pale face. She was lovely, but unconscious and remote. What would she, a rich gajo, say if she woke to find that he had brought her home and was standing in her bedroom alone with her? What had she thought of him when she had looked his way? She fascinated him. He stretched out a cautious hand and touched her silky black hair. A slight frown creased his brow and he hesitated, then stooped and gently, ever so gently, brushed her soft, parted lips with a kiss. There was a hint of worship in his caress.
* * *
Later that night Leandro rode back slowly from L’Estrella. He hadn’t returned immediately, wishing to avoid Lucas, the visiting horse dealer, and the rest of his family. Instead, he had sat on the beach near Luz’s cliff house for a long time, staring at the inky, glistening ocean.
Now, as he made his way through the gypsy camp, he watched the dark clouds drift towards the large shining moon as if intent on devouring it whole. So vibrant by day, the camp was now bleached of colour in the pale light. The fires were almost out, copper pots lay discarded and some caravans and makeshift improvised tents glowed from the lamps inside. The place smelt of burnt wood and petrol. A few figures were huddled round the dying embers, murmuring to one another, and some were passed out next to the dogs on the ground. The sound of a donkey braying somewhere was replaced with the harsh miaow of squabbling cats. Leandro nudged Ventarrón on, the bells on the horse’s reins jingling softly. He sighed. Tonight, for the first time, the encampment was the last place he wanted to be.
His mother was waiting for him, sitting at the cave entrance with a tall gitano with long, greying, wiry hair and a worn face, who had a deep scar down one of his cheeks. He put the wineskin he was holding down at his feet and dragged on his long cigar.
‘Juanillo.’ Leandro brought his horse to a stop and nodded a greeting. He had never liked his uncle and was irritated that he was still there.
‘Leandro,’ Juanillo responded in a gravelly voice, nodding back. ‘We missed you earlier.’ He regarded his nephew with a squint as the smoke curled out of his nostrils. His hawkish eyes were black as coal, with a hard edge that made many give him a wide berth when passing him on the street.
Leandro met his gaze unflinchingly. ‘I was busy. I trust you and Lucas struck a good deal for your two horses and those mules you wanted rid of?’
‘I did – Lucas is a thieving rascal but I’ve always managed to make him see sense.’
‘I’m sure, Tío.’ Leandro dismounted and began unfastening the saddle.
‘Your business tonight must have been important to take you away for so long, sobrino, nephew.’
‘Important enough.’
‘Well, take care you don’t leave your mother alone for too long. There’s no more important business than family and Marujita’s already suffered plenty for hers.’ Juanillo took out a small whetstone from his pocket and played with it while smiling sardonically.
‘That she has, Tío.’ Leandro pulled the saddle off Ventarrón without looking up.
‘Be off with you, Juanillo!’ Marujita patted her brother’s back. ‘You’ve had enough brandy to kill the Devil in you today and I need to talk to my son.’ Her features were glowing, her midnight eyes shining with an intensity Leandro had never noticed in them before – he could see she was agitated.
Juanillo allowed his gaze to linger a little on Leandro before he rose to his feet with his wineskin. ‘Yes, you talk to your son. And if the Devil wants to come and get me any time soon, he knows where I am,’ he grunted and lurched off into the darkness.
When Leandro had put Ventarrón away for the night, the gitana emptied her pipe on the ground and stood up. ‘Come,’ she commanded in a tone that bore no contradiction, ‘we must talk.’
Once they were in the privacy of her bedroom she poured a couple of glasses of manzanilla and sat in one of the wooden chairs flanking a low round table at the foot of the bed. She swigged at her glass and dangled a gold locket hanging at the end of a chain in front of him as he took up the chair opposite her.
‘Look what I’ve found,’ she chuckled.
Leandro recognized it immediately. ‘Oh, Mamacita! Why did you have to take that?’ he said reproachfully. ‘I’ll get you a hundred gold lockets, if you want. You know you don’t need to do that any more.’
‘This is different, my son, you don’t understand. Saint Cyprian, the King of Sorcerers and patron of all fortune tellers, has finally answered my prayers.’
Leandro’s mouth twitched with amusement as he gulped a mouthful of the sherry. ‘Mamacita, Saint Cyprian might be the patron of diviners but if I remember right, he gave up being the King of Sorcerers when he renounced Satan. He converted to Christianity and died a martyr. Trust me, he would not condone theft. I will take that back to its owner tomorrow.’
His mother lifted her eyes to the ceiling. ‘You will do no such thing,’ she retorted, clutching the locket tighter. ‘Sometimes I wonder if you really are my son,’ she declared in an exasperated tone. ‘Listen to me carefully.’ There was urgency in her voice. ‘This illness claws at me like the Devil himself. I don’t have long to live.’
‘But if you let me take you back to the doctors, things could be different for you,’ Leandro stood up and started pacing. ‘If you would just try—’
‘I don’t need any more doctors,’ she cut in. ‘Doctors cannot give me more life than God intends. I have seen it in the fire … in my dreams … cast in the runes. I know my fate.’ Her grim expression turned to something fiercer as she studied Leandro’s face. ‘But my wish has been granted and only you, my beloved son, can carry it out to its final closure so I may die in peace.’
A curious, blank feeling came over him, a kind of foreboding that froze him to the bone. ‘What are we talking about here?’
Marujita opened the locket. Inside were miniatures of a man and a woman.
‘Don Salvador and the high and mighty Doña Alexandra de Rueda,’ the gitana enunciated triumphantly. ‘Can’t you see? They are that chit’s parents,’ she snorted. ‘My lifelong enemies: the whore who stole Don Salvador from me, and the man himself, who not only rejected my love but threw me in prison and was the cause of my eldest brother’s death.’
Leandro paused as the meaning of her words sunk in. An icy heaviness took hold. ‘Mamacita, all this happened such a long time ago. Can’t you forgive and forget?’
A sudden flush burned her cheeks. She rose to her feet, her finger stabbing at the air, sending her bracelets ringing again like a warning. ‘Don’t you dare speak like a gajo and forget you’re a gypsy. You are Marujita’s son!’ Her mien had altered with the speed of a chameleon changing its colour. The gitana’s eyes shone wildly and her features contracted in an ugly spasm, a look that had caused her to be branded Il Diabólica, the evil one, by some. ‘Gypsies never forget a bad deed, you know that. The evil actions of our enemies must be returned upon them or their children, it’s our law,’ she rasped, holding the locket up to him again as if the two faces contained within it were already her grisly war trophies. ‘La venganza de Calés is not something to be bargained with. Fate has put that girl in your way for a reason.’
‘Perhaps.’ Leandro stared at Marujita. Even though he had often seen the darker side of her, she was scarcely recognizable to him at this moment. He had never anticipated that he would be placing Luz in danger by bringing her there. The story of Don Salvador and his wife from England was well known to him; his mother had bitterly reminded him often enough how it had affected their lives. And now he had unwittingly brought the daughter of Marujita’s sworn enemies straight to the gitana. The look in his mother’s eyes was clear and chilled his blood. So he was to be the instrument of her revenge.
Leandro paused, watching her. ‘Why me?’
Her laugh was bitter, more like a sneer. ‘Why me, he asks! Remember that because of them, you saw your first light of day in prison and, for that reason only, you were torn away from me. My baby son, wrenched from my arms. Even though you were only days’ old, you clung to me. I can still hear you crying as I watched you through the bars of my cell, disappearing down the long dark corridor of that prison.’
There was pain as well as anger now in her dark irises and it caught at the strings of Leandro’s heart.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked quietly. He knew her well enough to dread the answer.
The gitana moved over to him, her eyes shining coldly as she smiled up at her son. ‘You are a handsome young man,’ she whispered, brushing his cheek with her tapering fingers. ‘It is a known fact that gajo women go mad for Caló men. It would not be difficult to seduce her and if you get her with child, even better. Let’s see how her stuck-up family likes that!’ She paused to take a breath, which set off a fit of coughing. Leandro was in the process of turning away but she held up a hand. ‘Then … then, you will toss her aside as her father did me.’
Marujita stepped back and flicked up her fingers, sending her bracelets jangling roughly. ‘She will be used goods. No honourable Spanish man will marry her after that. La honra in those aristocratic circles obeys rules just as fierce as ours. It will ruin her life and her parents will shed tears of blood, as I have. And trust me, their punishment will be nothing compared with the pain they caused me, your mother!’
Leandro stepped back from her. ‘What you’re demanding of me is an evil thing. Do you really want your son to be a part of this?’
Glaring at him, she lifted her chin with a haughty movement of her head. ‘Why not? Anyway, what they did to me and your uncle was not evil?’ She ran a hand through her untidy hair and turned away from him as if to hide the effect those painful memories had on her. ‘May God and all the Saints preserve you from ever being in prison. In the summer we were scorched with heat, eaten up with vermin. In the winter we slept, without either bed or rug, on the cold stone floor, with one wretched meal a day of coarse rancho or foul-tasting soup to fill our starving bellies. The place had hardly any windows, no drains worth speaking of – the stench was unbelievable. But we are gypsies and we’re not supposed to be able to feel or smell.’ She turned sharply back round. ‘Do you want me to continue my list? My brother died young, in a filthy hovel, away from his people as a direct result of that and those wretched gajos.’
Leandro returned the look steadily. ‘Your brother knifed Don Salvador, who would probably have let you go if not for that. Don Salvador was taken to hospital. There was no choice, the police had to get involved.’
‘Why?’ she retorted resentfully. ‘They could have called the family doctor and let us go. After all, it was thanks to me that Don Salvador became a whole man again in the first place. If it hadn’t been for my gifted hands, he would still be lying in his bed, a shadow of himself and no use to anybody.’
She walked over to the table to drain the last of the manzanilla in her glass and shook her head, her fiery eyes fixed on some invisible point. ‘There is an old Moorish saying: “He eats the dates and then attacks with the stones.” Those people think of us as dirt. Our caste is ostracized by them and they spit on us at every opportunity.’ Her voice began to rise. ‘Do not speak to me about evil. He who sows the thorn does not reap the grape. And in this case they would be reaping only half the thorns they sowed.’ She spoke vehemently, her whole body trembling with the force of her hatred.
Leandro guessed any other woman would be letting her tears fall but not Marujita, the gypsy queen. Instead she wore her pain like a battle shield. Suddenly, he pitied her and took her, still quivering with anger, in his arms. He smoothed her hair, trying to soothe the hurt away, and kissed her forehead tenderly. ‘Please, Mamacita,’ he whispered hoarsely in her ear, ‘don’t make me do this, I …’
But she pushed him away with the strength of a virago, eyeing him with contempt. ‘Huh, you’re soft like your father! I have brought a coward into this world.’ She laughed then, though it was more like a bitter cackle. ‘Un ombre de versa, a real man would be proud to take his revenge but you whimper like a woman. I will die of a broken heart before this illness kills me. What’s more, I will leave this earth ashamed to be your mother and curse you forever from my grave.’
Leandro took another step back as though she had struck him. The force of her vitriol shook him deeply. Until then he had never realized how much his mother had been consumed by the hostility she felt towards Luz’s parents. She was as pathetic in her wrath as she was frightening yet what was more disturbing to him was the idea that some of her darkness might have infiltrated his blood, imprinting itself upon his own nature. That he was the son of this vengeful, dying gypsy queen with a duty to carry out her venganza now lay on him heavily like an iron cloak.
He turned without a word and left his mother standing in the cave, the chain of the locket still wound tightly between her fingers, her eyes a blaze of black fire.
* * *
It was early morning when Luz woke up. At first, she seemed to have lost her bearings. Then, still in a dreamy state, she realized she was in her own room. A vague memory kept returning of the previous day’s incident on the beach and the time spent in the gypsy encampment. Initially in a haze, then clearer, as though her mind had taken in details that at the time she had scarcely noticed, she remembered the powerful smell of smoky log fires and cooking food, the shrill banging of a hammer on iron that echoed noisily in her head and seemed to increase the pain across her eyes, the clamouring of children’s voices and the sense of a glittering-eyed woman leaning over her. But, first and foremost, it was the face of the young gypsy that kept floating into her mind’s eye. She saw his features in detail now: the prominent cheekbones in a narrow, burnished face, the short nose and the generous mouth with full, curved lips. Most of all she remembered his eyes, those elongated green eyes set under perfect brows that had ensnared hers and burned with such fire she had been conscious of little else.
For a while she remained still, aware of a rare sense of wellbeing. She felt strangely rested – odd after the previous day’s events. Then, in some alarm, she realized she was still fully dressed and that she was wrapped up in a blanket. How had she got here? Who had brought her back? It must have been him. Who had let him in? Carmela and Pedro were away for the night; they were due to return today so it couldn’t have been them. Then she remembered she had left both the gate and her window open, not expecting her outing to be a long one. How did he know her house? It was not as though she was well known down in the town – up until now she had only spent time at L’Estrella during the holidays. And Zeyna … she remembered her horse had bolted. Had the mare found its own way back to L’Estrella?
She tumbled out of bed. Beyond the French windows opposite, the sea glistened in the distance. The sky was a clear and endless blue, paling at the horizon; the air was soft and the whiteness of the light filled it, dazzling her eyes, still full of sleep. Lost in thought, she went to the bathroom and ran herself a bath. She washed quickly then pulled on her jeans and a loose white shirt tied at the waist with a white leather belt. Images, voices, scraps of conversation kept rising then receding to the back of her mind like the ebb and flow of tidewater. The only thing that remained clear was the disconcerting impact of the gitano’s eyes and the way it had shot through her like a bolt of lightning. It still startled her when she thought of it.
As she surveyed herself in the mirror, she noticed that her locket was missing. She cherished that pendant more than any of her other jewels for it contained the miniature portraits of her mother and father. It never left her neck. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, Doña Maria Dolores, who had given it to Luz on her tenth birthday, a year before the old lady died. Luz was definitely wearing it when riding on the beach.
For a moment her parents’ warnings echoed dimly in her head and the disturbing thought that the young gypsy might have taken it crossed her mind. She dismissed it immediately. Even if she couldn’t vouch for any of the other gypsies, something told her this one was different. He would never do such a thing.
No, the chain must have broken when she fell off her horse, she thought gloomily. It would probably be hopeless to attempt to find it on the beach, though she would certainly try; and the idea of reporting it lost to the police, as she would have done in England, was pointless here in Spain, she conceded. The morning would have to be spent doing some important chores she had put off, including making arrangements for the rest of her things to be shipped from England, but as soon as that was done she would go down to the beach to look for it. Perhaps she might bump into her rescuer and she could thank him personally for his kindness, she told herself. But before any of that, she had to make sure Zeyna had come back and was unharmed.
The house was quiet. Pedro and Carmela had obviously not returned yet. She went straight down to the stable block. Zeyna was there in her box, happily munching on a handful of hay. As Luz reached out and patted her mare’s nose, the animal snorted and started to paw the ground.
‘There, there, my beautiful girl, calm down. We’re not going anywhere together today. I just wonder how you got here and who put you in your box.’ It must be the gypsy, she thought. This afternoon, after searching for her locket, she would go looking for him. She felt her pulse race and her stomach churn at the idea of seeing him again. There was something about the gypsy that sparked an unknown thrill deep inside her.
Luz went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee, taking it back up to her bedroom with some fruit. She loved the fruit in Spain – the peaches and oranges had such a delicious scent and they tasted of sunshine. So much more succulent than the pale imitations endured back in England, she thought with a sigh, biting into the sweet flesh of an apricot.
The sun was benevolent today so she seated herself comfortably on the veranda. A particularly fecund crop of orange and lemon trees hung like illuminated lanterns on one side of the terrace, backed by the whitewashed walls of the villa.
A veranda encircled the house on two floors and the entire outside walls were festooned with green creepers, purple wisteria, morning glory and pink-stained bougainvillea, which spilled over the awning roofs. In the cool interior of the villa, the elegant and rustic look of exposed beams, white walls, high wood-inlaid arches and warm flagstone floors were typically Andalucían.
Count Salvador Cervantes de Rueda had bought the summer house in Cádiz to celebrate his wedding anniversary and his only daughter’s twenty-first birthday. On the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, the house looked across to Puerto de Santa María and the church where he had first caught sight of Alexandra. Their daughter had been conceived in Cádiz, the ‘city of light’, on the last euphoric night of their honeymoon and when she came screaming lustily into the world, nine months later, both Salvador and Alexandra instantly agreed that Luz, meaning ‘light’ in Spanish, was the only fitting name for their adored little girl. She had now grown into a charismatically beautiful and spirited young woman.
Luz loved the house on the cliff – La Casa Sobre las Nubes, the house in the clouds. The villagers had given it this name because on some moonless nights, when the far-off lights shone from its windows, it seemed to be the only bright spot twinkling in the darkness, suspended above the clouds. Salvador and Alexandra named it L’Estrella, the star.
After L’Estrella was purchased, Luz spent most of her time there. She loved the sense of freedom it gave her to be perched high above the sea, as if in a magical tower, removed from the cluster of other village houses dotting the cliff further down. It didn’t matter whether her parents accompanied her there or not – it was only forty-five minutes away by ferry from Puerto de Santa María and transport into the mainland. Anyhow, she used her father’s small motorboat or the family launch to take her to and fro across the water, which was much quicker. Sometimes she would remain at L’Estrella for a few days; the housekeeper, Carmela, and her husband, Pedro, made sure she wanted for nothing. They lived in a separate annexe in the grounds; Carmela took care of the cleaning, laundry and cooking while Pedro looked after the horses and the garden.
The bright and airy summer house was so different from the imposing hacienda of El Pavón and for those who knew her well, it was little wonder that Luz found as many excuses as possible to escape here, where she could be near the wild and windswept cliffs and let the invigorating smell of the sea fill her lungs.
The views from her vantage point on the terrace at the back of the villa were wondrous; there was so much incident to the ever-changing skyscape and to the land itself. It was as if nature was behaving like a magician with a wand, revealing or concealing vistas of the most beguiling beauty. Under a huge arc of sky, where racing cotton-wool clouds folded and unfolded, appeared and disappeared, an enamelled sea the colour of pure cobalt spread itself in front of her. Dancing waves unwound over stretches of glistening white sand,
