In her bedroom, after a quick shower, she put on the cream dress. Simply styled, it was tiered in pleats from a square neckline banded with crunchy cotton lace. Worn with the flip-flops she had brought with her, the dress felt pleasantly cool and airy.
Back downstairs, she quickly found the corridor the maid had described to her, and the doors from it that led into the cloistered walkway that she could now see ran the full width of the courtyard. As she came out of the darkness of the corridor into the brightness of the sunlight beyond, momentarily dazzled by the light, Fliss came to an abrupt and self-conscious halt. She realised that she hadn’t got the courtyard to herself.
The woman she could see seated at an ornate wrought-iron table, drinking a cup of coffee, had to be Vidal’s mother. They had the same eyes—although in Vidal’s mother’s case their gaze was warm and gentle rather than cold and filled with contempt.
‘You are Annabel’s daughter, of course,’ the Duchess said, before Fliss could retreat, adding, ‘You are very like her. But I think you have something of your father’s blood as well. I can see it in your expression. Please—come and sit here beside me,’ she invited, patting the empty chair next to her own.
Hesitantly Fliss made her way towards her.
Tall and slender, her dark hair streaked with grey and worn in the kind of elegant, formal style that suited Spanish women so well, Vidal’s mother smiled at her and apologised. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be here to welcome you yesterday. Vidal will have explained that I have a dear friend who is not very well.’
A small shadow darkened her eyes, causing Fliss to enquire politely, ‘I hope your friend is feeling better?’
‘She is very brave. She has Parkinson’s disease, but she makes light of it. We were at school together and have known one another all our lives. Vidal tells me that he is taking you tomorrow to see your father’s house? I would have liked to go with you, but my friend’s husband was called away unexpectedly on urgent business and I have promised to keep her company until he returns.’
‘It’s all right. I mean, I understand …’ Fliss told her truthfully. She stopped talking when she realised that the Duchess was looking past her into the shadows of the house, her smile deepening as she exclaimed, ‘Ah, Vidal, there you are! I was just saying to Fliss how sorry I am that I shan’t be able to accompany you to the castillo.’
Vidal.
Why was that quiver of sensation racing down her spine? Why did she suddenly feel so aware of her own body and its reactions, its womanhood and its sensuality? She must stop reacting like this. She must ignore these unwanted feelings instead of focusing on them.
‘I’m sure Felicity understands why, Mamá. How is Cecilia?’
Immediately she registered Vidal’s voice. Fliss’s heart went into a flurry of small frantic beats that made her feel more breathless than she liked. It was because she hated him so much, she assured herself. Because she hated him for betraying her mother.
‘She is very weak and tired.’ The Duchess was answering Vidal, then suggesting to him, ‘Why don’t you join us for a few minutes? I’ll ring for a fresh pot of coffee. Fliss looks very like her mother in her pretty cool dress, don’t you think?’ she asked.
‘I suspect that Felicity has a very different personality from her mother.’
‘Yes, I have—and I’m glad. My mother’s gentleness meant that she was treated very unkindly.’
Fliss saw the colour leave the Duchess’s face and Vidal’s mouth tighten. Her remark was not the kind a guest should make to her hostess, but she had not asked to stay here with her late father’s family, Fliss defended herself, before turning on her heel and heading for the opposite end of the courtyard, wanting to put as much distance as she could between herself and Vidal.
The only reason she had chosen to escape further into the garden and not the house was that to get into the house she would have had to walk past him. Knowing how shamefully vulnerable her body was to him, that was something she had not been prepared to do. Now, hidden from view of the cloistered terrace by the shadows thrown by the rose-covered pergola at the bottom of the garden, Fliss lifted her hand to her heart to calm its angrily unsteady thudding.
The petals on the roses trembled as her sanctuary was penetrated. A tanned male hand brushed aside the branches, and pink petals swirled down onto the tiled pathway as Vidal stepped into the rose-cented bower formed by the pergola.
Without any preamble Vidal launched into his verbal attack, telling her coldly, ‘You may be as antagonistic as you wish to me, but I will not have you hurting or upsetting my mother—especially at this time, when she has her friend’s health on her mind. My mother has shown you nothing but courtesy.’