Free (2/3) The Teeth of the Gale by Joan Aiken Page A

would make an excellent member of its tribunal.
    "Professor Lopez de Haro—Professor Enrique Mores—Professor Redmond."
    She pressed her lips and frowned as if she could not recall any positively harmful information about these men, and rather regretted that this was so.
    "I see ... And what will you be doing with yourself when your studies are completed?"
    What is that to your purpose, you old hag? I felt like asking. What has all this to do with the rescue of the de la Trava children? But, trained by years of politeness to my great-aunts, I answered, "I may very likely travel to England, señora. To visit once more the estates of my English grandfather, the Duke of Wells." And what possessed me to reply thus, I cannot imagine, for I had no such intention, not the least in the world. Perhaps I said it
because
it was the very last thing I planned to do—since I had taken a strong dislike to the Reverend Mother and felt, instinctively, that she was a meddler, an organizer, one from whom plans had best be kept hidden lest she remake them to suit her own ends.
    At all events, the introduction of my English ducal grandfather into our conversation certainly gave her a surprise; I saw her eyes open wide, under the snowy headband.
    "Indeed?" she said slowly. "That I did not know..." with a degree of displeasure, as if persons employed to furnish her with information about me had signally failed in their duty. Maintaining a very solemn and serious demeanor, I gazed back at her while she sharply scrutinized me.
    "You have an English tide?"
    "Yes, señora—in that land I am the Marquess of St. Winnow."
    She tapped thoughtfully with her nail on the white-painted sill of the window. Then, apparently making up her mind, said, "Go away now, Señor Brooke, and return at this time tomorrow. I shall need to take advice.
    Wonderful! I thought. Is there someone to whom even this dry old vulture turns for counsel?
    Perhaps it might be God, of course.
    Feeling horribly disappointed and thwarted, I would have liked to ask, Señora, may I not have a glimpse of Sister Felicita?
    But instinct again warned me that would be a very, very unwise thing to do. So I merely bowed, and was retreating to the door, when the Reverend Mother added, "You may escort Señora de la Trava back to her residence."
    These words nearly startled me out of my skin. I had assumed that the well-dressed lady telling her beads on the settee was some unrelated visitor on some other errand.
    She had risen also, and said to me softly, "If you would be so good as to wait for me a short moment outside—" then turned for some low-voiced consultation with the nun. I walked into the passage wondering what I was supposed to do.
    "Escort Señora de la Trava back to her residence," the Reverend Mother had said.
    Looking out across the courtyard I could see the rain still pelting down. Was I expected to walk with the lady through the deluge, or must I run down into the town and somewhere find her a sedan chair? My education at the University of Salamanca had not taught me how to deal with problems of this kind.
    In fact the solution proved simple. "When the lady joined me, it turned out that she had left a wet umbrella in the corridor. With this I was permitted to shelter her across the courtyard; and outside the gate a handsome carriage was waiting for her.
    "I should be very glad, Señor Brooke, if you would give me the pleasure of your company to my parents' home," she said. "They wish so much to meet you. We have all heard about the gallant cavalier who rescued my cousin Juana."
    A fat coachman had jumped off the box and opened the door. He took the umbrella from me and guided the lady across the cobbles as if she had been made of sugar icing. Then, when she was seated inside, he held the door for me.
    Very reluctantly I climbed into the carriage, unable to think of any polite excuse for refusing. But I was hot with embarrassment. At eighteen one is not pleased to be complimented