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Authors: Hannah Fielding
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she recalled his arresting gaze, which had struck an unusual chord in the depths of her heart. She lifted her hand to her throat, startled by the memory: so powerful that she could feel his eyes on her again. What was this curious, incredible sensation that inflamed her so she felt as though he had actually touched her? It made her aware of herself, her body, her womanhood, in a way she had never known before. In the lastmoments before exhaustion took over, she ruefully wished their paths might cross again but that was the stuff of fairytales, she thought, and sank into a deep sleep.
Alexandra dreamt of piercing eyes that reminded her of England’s grey wintry skies; steel eyes, cold as the waters of the North Sea; sad, desperate eyes that seemed to be following her. She knew she had seen them before.
Abruptly the scene changed. She found herself inside a marvellous cathedral. She was seven years old … it was her first communion. The organ was playing and someone was singing a hymn to the Virgin Mary. She was standing at the altar, dressed in white. Beside her stood a beautiful young woman, who also wore white. Alexandra looked up at her to recognize her mother. She reached out for her mother’s hand but already she was moving away.
The child tried to follow her but then a man suddenly appeared out of nowhere. At first he had no face, then his features seemed to take shape. She stared wide-eyed, trying to identify him, but the image was blurred, almost illusory. Then the scene changed once more, and now she was no longer a child; it was her wedding day. The man at her side was smiling; he had Ramón’s features. But when she looked again, it was no longer Ramón: it was the man on the prayer stool and the smile had disappeared.
* * *
Alexandra slept fitfully until early morning. She woke feeling less tired, but restless. As she drew back the heavy curtains, the room filled instantly with light. The brilliant sun heralded a magnificent day. Stretching lazily, she raised her head to let the warm rays wander over her face. Through the window she could see small groves of pink-blossomed trees, the ground sprinkled with clumps of bluebells. These shady areas were framed by paths leading off on either side to a colourful patchwork of smaller gardens that, she guessed, extended round to the front of the house. She was just about to leave hervantage point when she noticed two people at the edge of one of the groves that cut through the gardens.
The woman was tall and slender, with ash-blonde hair falling loosely to her waist.
That must be Esmeralda
, thought Alexandra. Her father had spoken about Salvador’s very beautiful sister. He had described her as cold and distant, always daydreaming, and compared her to a lovely yet lifeless statue. However, this apparently passionless ornament was now locked in the embrace of a young man in a faded blue shirt and was returning his kisses with an ardour that appeared to match his. Suddenly, breaking away reluctantly from her partner’s arms, she ran off towards the house.
Alexandra, feeling slightly embarrassed at having watched the passionate, and obviously private, scene, looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was still early, not even seven-thirty. There was plenty of time to explore the grounds before breakfast. She ran herself a bath. The water was rather lukewarm but she did not mind it: after all, the temperature was several degrees higher than she had been used to at Grantley Hall, where the boiler always had a mind of its own. From the age of twelve, Alexandra had spent all her holidays at the huge and rambling country house in Kent, after Aunt Geraldine had married Lord Howard Grantley. Looking round the bathroom here, with its exotic blue-and-orange mosaic tiling and dark, carved oak mirrors, she was reminded of how far away she was from Grantley Hall and everything English.
She washed rapidly and went to the wardrobe to choose an outfit. Sarita must have come
Alexandra dreamt of piercing eyes that reminded her of England’s grey wintry skies; steel eyes, cold as the waters of the North Sea; sad, desperate eyes that seemed to be following her. She knew she had seen them before.
Abruptly the scene changed. She found herself inside a marvellous cathedral. She was seven years old … it was her first communion. The organ was playing and someone was singing a hymn to the Virgin Mary. She was standing at the altar, dressed in white. Beside her stood a beautiful young woman, who also wore white. Alexandra looked up at her to recognize her mother. She reached out for her mother’s hand but already she was moving away.
The child tried to follow her but then a man suddenly appeared out of nowhere. At first he had no face, then his features seemed to take shape. She stared wide-eyed, trying to identify him, but the image was blurred, almost illusory. Then the scene changed once more, and now she was no longer a child; it was her wedding day. The man at her side was smiling; he had Ramón’s features. But when she looked again, it was no longer Ramón: it was the man on the prayer stool and the smile had disappeared.
* * *
Alexandra slept fitfully until early morning. She woke feeling less tired, but restless. As she drew back the heavy curtains, the room filled instantly with light. The brilliant sun heralded a magnificent day. Stretching lazily, she raised her head to let the warm rays wander over her face. Through the window she could see small groves of pink-blossomed trees, the ground sprinkled with clumps of bluebells. These shady areas were framed by paths leading off on either side to a colourful patchwork of smaller gardens that, she guessed, extended round to the front of the house. She was just about to leave hervantage point when she noticed two people at the edge of one of the groves that cut through the gardens.
The woman was tall and slender, with ash-blonde hair falling loosely to her waist.
That must be Esmeralda
, thought Alexandra. Her father had spoken about Salvador’s very beautiful sister. He had described her as cold and distant, always daydreaming, and compared her to a lovely yet lifeless statue. However, this apparently passionless ornament was now locked in the embrace of a young man in a faded blue shirt and was returning his kisses with an ardour that appeared to match his. Suddenly, breaking away reluctantly from her partner’s arms, she ran off towards the house.
Alexandra, feeling slightly embarrassed at having watched the passionate, and obviously private, scene, looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was still early, not even seven-thirty. There was plenty of time to explore the grounds before breakfast. She ran herself a bath. The water was rather lukewarm but she did not mind it: after all, the temperature was several degrees higher than she had been used to at Grantley Hall, where the boiler always had a mind of its own. From the age of twelve, Alexandra had spent all her holidays at the huge and rambling country house in Kent, after Aunt Geraldine had married Lord Howard Grantley. Looking round the bathroom here, with its exotic blue-and-orange mosaic tiling and dark, carved oak mirrors, she was reminded of how far away she was from Grantley Hall and everything English.
She washed rapidly and went to the wardrobe to choose an outfit. Sarita must have come
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