Authors: Isobel Chace
Megan nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s funny to think that he composed his stuff here on a piano that was bad
l
y out of tune and had only been loaned to him while he waited for his own to get here from Paris. Then, when it did arrive, it was too late. He was leaving in a day or so.’
Margot looked bored. ‘I shouldn’t have thought he was your cup of tea. Don’t you sing more popular stuff?’
‘Mostly
,’
Megan admitted.
‘
One can like all sorts of things that one can’t sing, though.’
‘
I suppose so,’ Margot agreed. ‘I didn’t know about the piano.’
Megan turned into the main street of the little town and triumphantly parked the car. It was cold when they got out of the car, a wind blowing down the hills and along the street. Megan shivered and tied her coat tighter about her. The shops were not as exciting as she had expected. There were one or two Spanish bars, advertising themselves as English tea-shops, and several souvenir shops, all selling much the same goods. Margot strode past them all without a single glance to either side. Megan, who would have liked to have browsed through the carved wooden figures and the collections of Spanish hats and unlikely-looking dolls dressed in Mallorquin costumes, followed after her, wondering where they were going.
Margot knew exactly where she was going. She turned up a steep slope, pointing to the signpost that directed them to La Real Cartuja, the Royal Carthusian Monastery that was founded in 1339 by King Martin, who gave up the royal palace of the Kings of Majorca for the purpose. In 1853, the monks left the convent and it was used as a kind of hotel, to put up visitors who wanted to hire the three-roomed cells for their own use. It was in the winter of 1838-39 that George Sand, her son and daughter, and her lover, Frd
ede
ric Chopin, moved in and suffered the rigours of a totally unheated Mallorquin winter, in beautiful surroundings that were apparently hardly appreciated by any of them. Nevertheless, it was here that Chopin composed some of his most famous Preludes, while moving steadily nearer to his death. What kind of nurse George Sand made, in her male attire and busy writing her own brilliant account of their time there, is better left to the imagination. If she disliked the local inhabitants, there is no doubt that they found her, and her whole manage, bizarre in the extreme.
Margot bought the tickets for them to enter and hurried Megan through the rooms that the famous visitors had occupied. Both pianos, the one Chopin had actually used and the one he had bought in Paris and had had transported at such cost, were proudly displayed, together with some of his music
and the handwritten manuscript of George Sand’s
Winter in Majorca.
But, if anything, Megan preferred the quaint little gardens that were attached to each cell, each one cut off from the others by high walls.
From
these one could see the most superb view,
down from
the little town and across the valley below, almost as far as Palma itself.
‘They
must
have been happy here
!’
Megan exclaimed.
‘
If it was as cold then as it is now, I should think they were glad to get back to civilisation,’ Margot retorted.
‘I
would never have agreed to come here in the first place. Romance, especially romantic surroundings, is seldom comfortable.’
Megan gurgled with laughter.
‘
Perhaps not. I wonder if the blossom was out while they were here?’
‘
I don’t know,’ Margot answered.
‘
Probably not.’ It was obvious that the older woman was glad to leave the atmosphere of the convent behind her. She refused to visit the private rooms
of the old palace that had been left as they had been in the days when royalty had visited Valldemosa, and hurried Megan back to the car.
‘
It isn’t far to Soller,’ she said, ‘but the road runs slap over those mountains and we won’t be able to go very fast
.
Will you be all right driving, or shall I?’ Megan wondered which the other woman would prefer. ‘I expect you know the road better than I do,’ she began.
‘That’s why I’d prefer you to drive,’ Margot said firmly.
‘
Carlos says you’re quite a good driver.’
‘
Does he?’ Megan was pleased beyond all reason.
‘
I don’t know why he should think that,’ she added.
‘
I haven’t exactly shone on the occasions when he has seen me at the wheel.’
‘Carlos always thinks he knows everything whether he does or not,’ Margot remarked unkindly. ‘If you can get us safely over those hills, I’ll tell him what a
good driver you really are
!
’
Megan was very much on her mettle as they climbed away from Valldemosa, taking the road to Soller. It was not particularly steep on the way up, but on the other side, they almost fell down the side of the cliff into the valley in which Soller was situated. Megan changed down into a lower gear, using the engine of the car to brake their descent, thus allowing her to be more sparing with her use of the protesting foot-brake.
‘It’s worse getting back,’ Margot announced gloomily.
‘It’s a pity you haven’t a more powerful car,’ said Megan.
‘Oh, you can’t do better than these little Seats,’ Margot affirmed. ‘Old age is all that’s wrong with this one. I bought her second-hand years ago. I
never
came to Mallorca in those days, so it didn’t matter what sort of car I had here.’
Megan picked out the road to Soller, pausing at the crossroads to see if any traffic was going the other way.
‘The house is at Puerto de Soller, not in the town itself,’ Margot directed her. ‘You have to turn left here.’
Megan did so and, a few minutes later, they came to a large, imposing house overlooking the sea. Two pillars marked the entrance, both of them bearing the Llobera crest, that Megan recognised from the one in Carlos’ room in Palma. Without having to be told, she turned into the drive and parked the car beside a huge scarlet poinsettia that offered a certain amount of shade.
Margot looked about her with distaste. ‘Ostentatious, isn’t it?’ she said with displeasure.
Megan, who was busy admiring the sheer beauty of her surroundings, couldn’t agree with her. If anything, the house was shabby and badly in need of a coat of paint. But nothing could hide the pleasing lines of the building, built to take the best advantage of the view of the sea and the harsh, stony mountains. And the garden was a delight, full of flowering shrubs, orange trees, and the ubiquitous almond trees trailing their
cl
ouds of glory against the bright blue of the winter sky.
A dog came running out of the house, longing to bark at them but obviously unsure as to whether it was expected of him. There followed, more slowly, an old lady, dressed totally in black and walking with the aid of a stout stick. Her skin had been burned brown and was as wrinkled as a nut; her eyes, jet-black and autocratic. There was something familiar in the way she held her head and in the aristocratic air that dominated her frail body. This, without a doubt, was Carlos’ grandmother.
Margot advanced hurriedly towards the old lady.
‘
Senora
,’
she exclaimed, ‘you are here
!
How fortunate, as we have come to invite you to a little party I am giving.’
The old lady almost smiled, but refrained from actually doing so. ‘How kind,’ she murmured. ‘Is Carlos with you?’
‘
No, no, unfortunately he is in Barcelona.’
‘
Of course,’ the old lady said. She turned away from Margot, devoting her whole attention to Megan who was standing hesitantly beside the car, waiting to be introduced. ‘Is this the English girl I have been hearing about?’
Megan coloured defensively. ‘It depends what you’ve heard,’ she said. ‘I am English, or rather I am Welsh.’
The old lady laughed, her shoulders shaking. ‘I had not heard that,’ she admitted. ‘Strange, because I told Carlos to tell me all about you
!’
‘Have you seen Carlos recently?’ Margot demanded.
‘He came over to see me the other day,’ the old lady replied dryly. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘No,’ Margot said reluctantly. ‘I didn’t know you were in residence until Senora de la Navidades told me. I brought Megan over to meet you. We’ve been visiting the Cartejo at Valldemosa.’
The old lady’s attention was instantly diverted.
‘
Megan,’ she repeated.
‘
Is that some kind of pet name?’
Megan chuckled. ‘No, it’s a real name,’ she said.
‘
You must come inside,’ the old lady invited. ‘We can talk in comfort in my sitting-room. My daughter will entertain you, Margot, in the garden, as I am sure you will prefer.’ She tucked her free hand into Megan’s and started back into the house.
‘
You are very young,
cara mia.
Very, very young. I hope my grandson is behaving himself and not expecting too much too quickly?’
Megan felt herself colouring again.
‘
I am here as Senora Vallori’s companion,’ she said.
The old lady looked amused. Really, she was very like her grandson
!
‘
And how do you like your employer?’ she asked.
Megan was caught completely off balance. ‘I—I like her. Naturally,’ she claimed.
‘
I have never liked her,’ the old lady returned, completely unperturbed.
‘
She was a poor comedown for Stefano after my daughter.’ Her jet-black eyes surveyed Megan placidly. ‘You don’t believe me?’ she accused, the
corner
s of her mouth twitching with amusement. ‘You think I am prejudiced? So I am
!
But I am not a fool and I have lived a long time in this world. I know a thing or two
!’
Megan grinned, ‘I’m sure you do!’
Senora Llobera rapped her sharply over the knuckles. ‘So you have a tongue in your head
!
’
Megan rubbed her knuckles ruefully. ‘I’m afraid so. Because of it, I am almost permanently in disgrace
!
With
everybody
!’
she added somewhat wildly.
‘
Meaning with my grandson?’
Megan blinked, forcing herself to meet the ironic gaze of the old lady. ‘I suppose so,’ she admitted with a sigh.
‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry,’ Senora Llobera advised. She pushed open the door of a small sitting-room and sat heavily in the nearest chair, breathing hard. ‘How tiresome it is to grow old
!’
she complained. ‘It is I who should be in a hurry
!
It is my ambition to see my grandson settled in life before I die. It is not much to ask, but I ask it of the good God every day of my life—and see how he repays me! By making my body a misery to me while I wait
!’
She laughed shortly. ‘What do you think of Inez de la Navidades?’
Megan looked down quickly, hiding her eyes from the Senora’s shrewd gaze. ‘I’m not the right person to ask,’ she said carefully.
‘
She—she seems to have led a very secluded life.’ She glanced up. ‘From an English point of view,’ she added.
The old lady grunted.
‘
You’re right. She has no depths. She would bore Carlos in a few weeks, just as his father bored his mother
!’
‘Did he?’ Megan gasped before she could prevent herself.
The old lady’s eyes twinkled. ‘It is not something I tell everyone, but it is no more than the truth. It is something that Carlos will never admit, but then I don’t suppose he was old enough to understand these things. All he knew was that he had a mother who was often restless and always impatient of the life she was forced to lead, and for this he blamed his father. Margot was the right wife for Stefano, but Carlos could only resent her. She seemed small and narrow after his mother.’
‘Did she seem like that to you too?’
‘Perhaps. I was not judging the whole female sex by one woman.’
Megan blinked. ‘Do you mean that Carlos expects
women to bore him?’ she asked frankly.
‘I am afraid he might,’ his grandmother answered.
‘Do you bore him?’
Megan chuckled again.
‘
No,’ she said. ‘I annoy him too much to bore him! He disapproves of my wanting to earn my living by singing. He thinks I’m a child in need of both protection and discipline.’
Senora Llobera laughed heartily. ‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘A great age
!
’ the old lady mocked.