posts, and a cream silk counterpane embroidered lavishly with butterflies in green, pink, gold and silver. Hanging at the back of the bed was a huge embroidered panel in the shape of a butterfly, using the same colours as the bedcover.
Nicola thought, 'La Mariposa—of course!'
Maria smoothed the counterpane with an almost proprietorial air.
'This was the room of Dona Micaela, the mother of Don Luis, señorita? she volunteered in a hushed tone. 'And before her, may God grant her peace, it was the room of his grandmother. Always the mistress of the hacienda has slept in this room.'
And the master? Nicola wanted to ask. Where does he sleep? She looked across at the wide bed, imagining generations of Spanish-born brides lying there, waiting and wondering if the door would open to admit their husbands.
And soon she too would lie waiting in the shadow of the butterfly.
'The bathroom, señorita,' Maria announced proudly, and Nicola turned away, thankful to have another focus for her attention, It was a charming bathroom, probably converted originally from a dressing room, tiled in jade and ivory, and including a shower cabinet among its luxurious appointments. Nicola noticed toiletries ranged on the shelves, all brand new, the seals on the flasks and jars unbroken, most of them made by names which a girl earning her own living had only heard of. It was a room dedicated to beauty, and to the art of making oneself beautiful for the appreciation of a man, and it made Nicola feel slightly sick. A little cage, she thought, where the bird can sit and preen herself all day.
But the thought of the shower was an irresistible temptation. Her hair was like tow, and she needed a change of clothes. She groaned inwardly as she remembered that the only luggage available to her was Teresita's. The Mexican girl had hastily filled a couple of cases from her vast wardrobe, in spite of Nicola's protests.
'You must have luggage with you, Nicky, or it will seem suspicious,' she had said. 'And all these are things I no longer need, so that you may leave them behind you when you run away.'
All the clothes now hanging in the cupboards and filling the drawers were elegant and expensive, but few of the styles or the colours were what she would have chosen for herself, and the thought of having to present herself downstairs in another girl's dress to the scornful looks of Dona Isabella and Pilar was unpleasant.
The next shock was that Maria clearly considered it her duty to assist Nicola with her shower. Nicola spent several minutes firmly disabusing the girl of this notion, and dismissed her, promising that she would ring if she needed anything.
The shower was delicious and she revelled in it, letting the warm water stream through her hair and down her body. She wrapped herself in a fluffy bath sheet, tucking it round her body like a sarong as she came back into the room. No doubt somewhere there would be some means of drying her hair, but she was reluctant to ring for Maria again. She needed to be on her own for a while.
She sat down on the stool in front of the dressing chest and stared at herself. Could this really be happening? It seemed impossible. Tomorrow or the next day she should have been in Merida, preparing to start her holiday, and instead she was here in this beautiful room, a virtual prisoner.
And somewhere in this house was the man who had made her his prisoner. The man she had promised to marry. She swallowed, fighting back the bubble of hysteria rising in her throat. It was all a monstrous joke—it had to be. She was no demure Spanish dove accepting the gilded cage provided for her, and offering in return her duty and obedience to a comparative stranger.
Not love, she thought, but compliance, surrendering herself to her master's will, but making no demands of her own. Asking no questions.
Men like Luis de Montalba—men like Ewan— expected the wives they had married for convenience to look discreetly the other way while
Nicola thought, 'La Mariposa—of course!'
Maria smoothed the counterpane with an almost proprietorial air.
'This was the room of Dona Micaela, the mother of Don Luis, señorita? she volunteered in a hushed tone. 'And before her, may God grant her peace, it was the room of his grandmother. Always the mistress of the hacienda has slept in this room.'
And the master? Nicola wanted to ask. Where does he sleep? She looked across at the wide bed, imagining generations of Spanish-born brides lying there, waiting and wondering if the door would open to admit their husbands.
And soon she too would lie waiting in the shadow of the butterfly.
'The bathroom, señorita,' Maria announced proudly, and Nicola turned away, thankful to have another focus for her attention, It was a charming bathroom, probably converted originally from a dressing room, tiled in jade and ivory, and including a shower cabinet among its luxurious appointments. Nicola noticed toiletries ranged on the shelves, all brand new, the seals on the flasks and jars unbroken, most of them made by names which a girl earning her own living had only heard of. It was a room dedicated to beauty, and to the art of making oneself beautiful for the appreciation of a man, and it made Nicola feel slightly sick. A little cage, she thought, where the bird can sit and preen herself all day.
But the thought of the shower was an irresistible temptation. Her hair was like tow, and she needed a change of clothes. She groaned inwardly as she remembered that the only luggage available to her was Teresita's. The Mexican girl had hastily filled a couple of cases from her vast wardrobe, in spite of Nicola's protests.
'You must have luggage with you, Nicky, or it will seem suspicious,' she had said. 'And all these are things I no longer need, so that you may leave them behind you when you run away.'
All the clothes now hanging in the cupboards and filling the drawers were elegant and expensive, but few of the styles or the colours were what she would have chosen for herself, and the thought of having to present herself downstairs in another girl's dress to the scornful looks of Dona Isabella and Pilar was unpleasant.
The next shock was that Maria clearly considered it her duty to assist Nicola with her shower. Nicola spent several minutes firmly disabusing the girl of this notion, and dismissed her, promising that she would ring if she needed anything.
The shower was delicious and she revelled in it, letting the warm water stream through her hair and down her body. She wrapped herself in a fluffy bath sheet, tucking it round her body like a sarong as she came back into the room. No doubt somewhere there would be some means of drying her hair, but she was reluctant to ring for Maria again. She needed to be on her own for a while.
She sat down on the stool in front of the dressing chest and stared at herself. Could this really be happening? It seemed impossible. Tomorrow or the next day she should have been in Merida, preparing to start her holiday, and instead she was here in this beautiful room, a virtual prisoner.
And somewhere in this house was the man who had made her his prisoner. The man she had promised to marry. She swallowed, fighting back the bubble of hysteria rising in her throat. It was all a monstrous joke—it had to be. She was no demure Spanish dove accepting the gilded cage provided for her, and offering in return her duty and obedience to a comparative stranger.
Not love, she thought, but compliance, surrendering herself to her master's will, but making no demands of her own. Asking no questions.
Men like Luis de Montalba—men like Ewan— expected the wives they had married for convenience to look discreetly the other way while
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