away across the yard and Catherine was suddenly overwhelmingly sorry for him. Poor Manuel, who dared to love the lady he served! Poor Manuel, destined to worship her for ever with no hope of love in return!
‘You look dishevelled,’ Lucia observed, glancing in her direction. ‘Have you met with an accident?’
‘Not quite. Vivo took fright and bolted, but he did not go very fast or very far,’ Catherine explained.
‘Jaime rescued her,’ Teresa interposed. ‘He was off in pursuit before Manuel or I were in the saddle. I think he imagined she might be killed.’
Lucia turned away with an angry gesture which indicated that she had no desire to hear the details of their little adventure or to learn exactly how her brother-in-law had come to the rescue.
‘In future I think you had better ride inside the walls, Miss Royce,’ she suggested coldly. ‘The valley roads are too rough for a—novice.’
‘We’d better go and change,’ Teresa decided, ‘and then we can listen to Ramon’s music. He plays quite well, as a matter of fact, and sings like an angel.’
An hour later the sound of a guitar played softly beneath her window took Catherine on to her balcony, although she did not look beyond it to discover who might be serenading her so romantically by the light of the moon. She knew that it was Ramon and she listened half impatiently until the poignant love song came to an end. It finished on a long-drawn-out note, like a sigh, and something of its intensity lingered in the still night air before Ramon broke into the lively music of a gay Catalan sardana. All the Spanish dances had their own individuality and charm and soon her foot was tapping out the rhythm of the tune she already knew.
‘Come down,’ Ramon called to her softly when he had ceased to play. ‘It is better if I can see you than just knowing that you are there.’
‘Don Juan in person!’ Teresa observed, coming into the bedroom behind her.
Catherine swung round, unable to control the swift rush of colour which rose to her cheeks.
‘He plays beautifully,’ she remarked lamely.
‘Too beautifully at times! Ramon could charm a heart of stone with his music, and he uses it shamelessly for his own ends. You must not take him too seriously,’ Teresa warned, ‘because Ramon is not serious all the time. Guitar music is meant for lovers,’ she added, ‘but only if they are truly in love.’
‘How worldly-wise we are tonight!’ Catherine pushed back the hair which had fallen over her eyes. ‘I like your evening skirt,’ she added. ‘Is it traditional?’
Teresa pirouetted obligingly to show off the brightly-coloured flounced skirt she wore.
‘Traditionally Andalusian,’ she agreed. ‘Gipsies wear them when they dance flamenco round their camp-fires, and fine ladies put them on to ride in open carriages full of flowers at fiestas and ferias. We have them here, too, you know, though not as many as in Spain.’ She skipped towards the door. ‘If you are ready we will go down and join Ramon on the patio .’
She never referred to Ramon as her uncle, probably because they were too near an age or because she had less respect for him than she had for Don Jaime. He was still playing his guitar when they walked across the polished floor of the hall to the long open windows leading to the patio, and he rose to bow mockingly as they approached.
‘At last!’ he said. ‘I have waited almost too long and nearly in despair! What shall I play for you, se n oritas? A fandango or a gay sardana, or just another love song? There are so many of them to choose from, you know.’
‘Play for me to dance,’ Teresa commanded. ‘Get me into the mood!’
Ramon hesitated.
‘Go on! I am waiting.’ She stamped an impatient foot.
Ramon drew his fingers across the strings of his guitar in a preliminary chord.
‘What will you dance?’
‘The canto jondo ,’ she decided after a moment’s consideration.
He raised his eyebrows, but he did not
‘You look dishevelled,’ Lucia observed, glancing in her direction. ‘Have you met with an accident?’
‘Not quite. Vivo took fright and bolted, but he did not go very fast or very far,’ Catherine explained.
‘Jaime rescued her,’ Teresa interposed. ‘He was off in pursuit before Manuel or I were in the saddle. I think he imagined she might be killed.’
Lucia turned away with an angry gesture which indicated that she had no desire to hear the details of their little adventure or to learn exactly how her brother-in-law had come to the rescue.
‘In future I think you had better ride inside the walls, Miss Royce,’ she suggested coldly. ‘The valley roads are too rough for a—novice.’
‘We’d better go and change,’ Teresa decided, ‘and then we can listen to Ramon’s music. He plays quite well, as a matter of fact, and sings like an angel.’
An hour later the sound of a guitar played softly beneath her window took Catherine on to her balcony, although she did not look beyond it to discover who might be serenading her so romantically by the light of the moon. She knew that it was Ramon and she listened half impatiently until the poignant love song came to an end. It finished on a long-drawn-out note, like a sigh, and something of its intensity lingered in the still night air before Ramon broke into the lively music of a gay Catalan sardana. All the Spanish dances had their own individuality and charm and soon her foot was tapping out the rhythm of the tune she already knew.
‘Come down,’ Ramon called to her softly when he had ceased to play. ‘It is better if I can see you than just knowing that you are there.’
‘Don Juan in person!’ Teresa observed, coming into the bedroom behind her.
Catherine swung round, unable to control the swift rush of colour which rose to her cheeks.
‘He plays beautifully,’ she remarked lamely.
‘Too beautifully at times! Ramon could charm a heart of stone with his music, and he uses it shamelessly for his own ends. You must not take him too seriously,’ Teresa warned, ‘because Ramon is not serious all the time. Guitar music is meant for lovers,’ she added, ‘but only if they are truly in love.’
‘How worldly-wise we are tonight!’ Catherine pushed back the hair which had fallen over her eyes. ‘I like your evening skirt,’ she added. ‘Is it traditional?’
Teresa pirouetted obligingly to show off the brightly-coloured flounced skirt she wore.
‘Traditionally Andalusian,’ she agreed. ‘Gipsies wear them when they dance flamenco round their camp-fires, and fine ladies put them on to ride in open carriages full of flowers at fiestas and ferias. We have them here, too, you know, though not as many as in Spain.’ She skipped towards the door. ‘If you are ready we will go down and join Ramon on the patio .’
She never referred to Ramon as her uncle, probably because they were too near an age or because she had less respect for him than she had for Don Jaime. He was still playing his guitar when they walked across the polished floor of the hall to the long open windows leading to the patio, and he rose to bow mockingly as they approached.
‘At last!’ he said. ‘I have waited almost too long and nearly in despair! What shall I play for you, se n oritas? A fandango or a gay sardana, or just another love song? There are so many of them to choose from, you know.’
‘Play for me to dance,’ Teresa commanded. ‘Get me into the mood!’
Ramon hesitated.
‘Go on! I am waiting.’ She stamped an impatient foot.
Ramon drew his fingers across the strings of his guitar in a preliminary chord.
‘What will you dance?’
‘The canto jondo ,’ she decided after a moment’s consideration.
He raised his eyebrows, but he did not
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