Free Meeting in Madrid by Jean S. Macleod

had been only a moment before, and she led the way along the gallery without another word. Here and there large items of Spanish furniture placed against the whitewashed walls cast even darker shadows on their way, and the heavy oak doors leading to the upstairs rooms were all carefully closed against intrusion, giving what should have been a happy family residence the air of a prison. She remembered what Teresa had said about Soria in Madrid, thinking that it was all understandable now that she had come here.
    Lucia paused at an archway leading to a suite of rooms beyond the gallery.
    ‘You will be here, with Teresa,’ she announced. ‘Out of harm’s way.’
    It was an odd remark to make, but Catherine was not in a position to question it at the moment. Lucia flung open one of the doors beyond the arch, standing aside so that she might go in, and Catherine had the impression of a sparsely-furnished room which yet was adequate for her requirements, with bright chintz curtains at the windows and the inevitable four-poster bed against one wall.
    ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Dona Lucia. I shall be very comfortable. I’m sure.’
    She looked up into the unresponsive face, but all she could see was the ruby lying like a spot of blood at Lucia’s throat and the eyes above it burning with hatred as Teresa came slowly towards them along the gallery.
    ‘ Buenas noches, madrastra !’ said Teresa. ‘I hope you are now well.’
    ‘Well enough, in the way you mean.’ Lucia had frowned at the word ‘stepmother’ but let it pass. ‘Of course, I am still mourning your father’s death, as no one else here seems to do.’
    A deep red colour stained Teresa’s cheeks.
    ‘We all grieve for him, madrastra, but we do not all wear our hearts on our sleeves,’ she said. ‘I will never forget him, although it is three years now since he was killed.’
    Three years is nothing!’ Dona Lucia turned to leave them. ‘You had a pleasant stay in Madrid?’ she asked with pointed courtesy.
    ‘Very pleasant. You know I always like to go there,’ Teresa said.
    Her stepmother laughed unpleasantly.
    ‘I know that you like to put as many miles as possible between us,’ she conceded, ‘but you cannot do as you like until you are eighteen and your own mistress.’
    The flush deepened in Teresa’s cheeks.
    ‘You remind me of the fact so often, madrastra , that I am hardly likely to forget,’ she countered, ‘yet you will be glad to be rid of me when the time comes.’
    A guarded look came into Lucia’s eyes.
    ‘You know that Jaime wishes you to remain here,’ she said in an altered voice. ‘He is responsible for you until you come of age. He made a promise to your father before he died.’
    Without waiting for her stepdaughter’s answer she swept away along the gallery to her own room, closing the door firmly behind her.
    There was a small, awkward pause as Teresa and Catherine looked at each other.
    ‘She does not like you,’ Teresa said, at last, ‘because you are young and beautiful and because you may one day attract Jaime.’ A spark of glee dawned in her dark eyes. ‘That would be something worth waiting for,’ she declared. ‘Dona Lucia in second place! Why are you blushing, Cathy?’ she demanded. ‘Surely you know that you are beautiful with your fiery hair and skin like a ripe peach and a figure almost as slim as Lucia’s? She is not in the least beautiful except, perhaps, for her hair which she attends to so lovingly. Do you not think that her face is too long and her eyes too near together? Besides, she has the Velazquez nose, which is too high and too sharp to be attractive in a woman.’
    Teresa’s description of her stepmother had been apt but decidedly cruel, and Catherine would not encourage her.
    ‘I thought her distinguished,’ she answered carefully. ‘Does she always wear that magnificent ruby at her throat?’ It was the wrong question to ask. Teresa’s eyes filled with angry