Dancing in the Shadows by Anne Saunders Read Free Book Online Page A

portraits looked down at Dorcas with haughty expressions and living eyes. At least three were obviously by the hand of the same painter. He had put on canvas not only the features but the characters of his subjects. Or so it seemed to Dorcas. Here and there were paintings of notable scenes and places by famous Spanish painters. She thought she spotted a Velázquez. Another painting had the harsh colouring and distortion of shapes in the style of El Greco. There was time to be spent here in pleasant discovery. But later. Now she was being shown into the room that was to be hers.
    Once again the walls were white to complement the rich dark wood of the furniture, which was almost the colour of purple grapes. A
vargueño
stood in the corner, its two doors hung vertically and it stood on bun feet. Crimson rugs splashed the floor, resembling giant paeony heads.
    Rose Ruiz adjusted the shutters to show Dorcas the birdcage balcony. And, crossing the room again, opened a door to reveal the luxury of a private bathroom.
    â€˜I think you will be comfortable,’ she said in amazing understatement. It looked like heaven to Dorcas. ‘When you have rested, I will send Teresa along to introduce herself. She is very young, but during the time she has been with us she has acquitted herself well. She will look after you nicely.’
    â€˜Thank you, señora.’
    Rose Ruiz inclined her handsome head and her lips closed on a gentle smile. ‘Later we will talk.’ She adjusted the shutters again so that the light filtered meagrely into the room.
    Dorcas took off her trouser suit and watched her hostess hang it in the wardrobe. It looked very forlorn, all by itself. Forlorn was how Dorcas felt as she crept into bed. Bewildered, used up—no reserves of strength left to carry her through an uncertain future.
    Rose Ruiz went. Dorcas slept. To dream.
    In her dream she was walking in the gallery, beneath the stately portraits of the long-dead Ruizs. Steely fingers thrust themselves out of the frames, and the picture people passed her from one to the other, hustling her down the stairs and through the stout outer door which slammed shut with such a violent bang that Dorcas woke up. She was trembling and her sleep-flushed cheeks were wet with tears.
    â€˜Oh, señorita! The wind got behind the door and made it bang. I’m sorry. I did not mean to wake you.’ Two frightened eyes peeped at Dorcas. ‘The señorita’s clothes have just arrived and I thought I might very quietly steal in and unpack them as a surprise for when the señorita woke up. Only . . .’
    â€˜My clothes!’ said Dorcas, at once vitally awake. ‘You mean my suitcase has been recovered, Teresa? It is Teresa, isn’t it?’
    The little maid blinked back her surprise that she wasn’t going to be scolded for waking her mistress, and bobbed a curtsy that nearly sent the boxes in her arms toppling to the floor.
    Dorcas’s knowledge of Spanish was not good enough to take in every word, but she managed to get the gist of what Teresa was saying. Her suitcase had been pronounced irretrievably lost in the wreckage. The clothes, in their fine boxes, had been ordered from an exclusive fashion shop in Madrid.
    Dorcas caught the top box and pulled off the lid. ‘Oh, Teresa, look!’ she said, reverently lifting a floor-length dress in a deep orchid pink with billowy sleeves cut to flow from the waist. ‘Have you ever seen anything as lovely?’ she said ecstatically.
    â€˜
Si
, señorita, this,’ said the little Spanish maid, peering into a second box at a misty blue, evening trouser suit.
    The discarded tissue-paper was tossed carelessly aside until the floor was floating in filmy sheets of pink and blue and white that settled like giant-sized confetti. The two girls, as happy as larks in full song, exclaimed and gasped and twittered delightedly until the last box was unpacked and the wardrobe and