Madrilene's Granddaughter. Laura Cassidy

to replenish his glass. “What happened with them, I wonder?”

      “Oh…my lord Earl preferred your mother, I believe.”

      Hal came back to her, frowning. “So. My mother knew your grandmother, too? When did all this happen? Surely not after my parents were wed?”

      “I believe so.” Why had she begun this? Rachel wondered. Only because she had desired his full attention after his disparaging treatment of her in the stable and later in this hushed room. Well, she had his full attention now: his blue eyes were fixed accusingly on her face. Yet, it was truly so long ago. But, surely, strong emotions must have a life of their own and continue to exist long after those who felt them were consigned to the cold grave, or sterile old age? Madrilene de Santos’s passion for Harry Latimar, so often expressed, even when she should have been past all physical longing, had been so vital—its very substance and force was tangible even in this quiet room, in this quiet house, where she had never visited. “I loved him so!” she had so often, and so fervently, declared, “and he would have loved me, too, if that coldhearted woman had been prepared to let him go.”

      Bess Latimar had been that coldhearted woman, Rachel thought. Bess, who had most warmly welcomed her rival’s granddaughter to her home, Rachel also thought guiltily: and it is her son who stands before me now, defensive for his mother. Perhaps he would always associate her with something which had happened a lifetime ago, and judge Rachel Monterey as he must judge Madrilene. He had mentioned his father’s reputation—but we are two different people, Rachel and Hal, and should meet as distinct personalities. Even so, seeing the cynical smile playing over his mouth, she thought, if he has family to defend, so have I! She said indignantly, “It was not like that!”

      “Like what?” Hal was startled once again by her sudden change from resigned composure to vivid attack.

      Rachel got up. She crossed the room with her graceful step and stood before the portrait. Harry Latimar’s likeness looked disinterestedly out of the faded canvas. “I know what you are thinking,” she said. “But it was not like that. My grandmother was not one of your father’s…light o’ loves. She was a lady of the first water.”

      That curious dignity, thought Hal, looking at her straight back and delicate, yet strong, shoulders. It is so hard to define, but I recognise it. My mother has it, and all my family. But it is more a part of this girl than them, for it has been hard won, and hard to maintain for her…And that expression in her eyes! As if she had just now seen the biggest threat to something dear to her. He reached behind him and closed the window with a sharp thud. “Well, as you say, it was all a long time ago. Now, you must be tired. If you have finished your drink, you will wish to seek your bed. I will show you where.”

      Rachel swallowed. Why was she continually making herself appear foolish before this man? It seemed a long time since anyone had been able to provoke her so. She watched him select and light a candle, trying to decide why he antagonised her.

      He came to the door and stood back so she could pass through before him, giving her his negligently charming smile as he did so. At the door of her room, he opened it, placed the candlestick on a table just inside and bade her a courteous good night.

      Surprisingly she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the well-stuffed pillow.

      In the early morning she awoke and lay for a few moments wondering where she was. Her room at Maiden Court was small, but well appointed; lowceilinged over a very comfortable bed, richly curtained as was the glazed window. A luxuriously thick rug covered almost all the floor space. Rachel sat up, noticing the polished chests, the shallow bowls of dried herbs and flower petals thereon, the way the sunlight streaming in picked out the delicate embroidery of the wall hangings. A beautiful and tasteful room, she thought with satisfaction, arranged exactly as she herself would have done.

      This chamber had one door to the passage and another to a larger apartment which had been given to Katherine. It was too early yet, Rachel judged, for Katherine to begin to call for hot water, for food, for…well, anything the spoiled young woman wanted and which she expected her despised young kinswoman to provide for her.

      Rachel lay back a moment, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury and leisure. What had Hal Latimar said last night? Take any nag from our stables and try it! She thought she would do that now.

      Suitably dressed, she found the stables. A groom came forward and politely asked if he could help her. Together they examined the satin-skinned animals, and—Oh! the delight of choosing a lively, lovely creature with breeding and pride in every line; the joyous freedom of galloping out into the new day, scarcely dawned but already warm and fragrant with the scent of summer. To be riding through leafy country lanes, the fields on either side so full of healthy crops. Rachel rode for miles, ecstatically happy, until the position of the sun overhead reminded her she was a long way from Maiden Court and should turn back. She rode more slowly home; her mare was still lively but Rachel knew better than to return her to her stall in a lather. As she cantered gently down the slope before the manor house another rider joined her and she saw it was Hal Latimar.

      “Good day, lady.” He removed his cap as he drew level with her. “I see you took me at my word last night.”

      “Indeed.” She smoothed Belle’s damp mane. She was embarrassed by the exchange between them the previous evening, but saw that no such awkwardness existed for him. He sat carelessly on his tall chestnut, playing with the reins, his eyes fixed on the flushed roof of his home. The climbing sun turned his hair to gold. “You are out early today.” Somehow she had fancied him one of the breed of men who lay long abed in the mornings.

      He turned to survey her and, as if reading her thoughts, replied, “We are early risers, us Latimars—well, apart from my sister who dearly loves to waste the best part of the day. Shall we ride on down?” He assisted her to dismount in the yard and took both horses into the stables.

      Bess was already in the hall. She had enjoyed the supper last night, but would enjoy today even more for her precious great-grandchildren would be present.

      “May I help you with anything?” Rachel asked, shedding her cloak.

      “How kind. I would welcome your help cutting some flowers from the garden. I love to have fresh blooms in the house, but fear bending is difficult for me these days. There is a basket and shears by the door.” The two women strolled out into the radiant day.

      “It will be hot today,” Bess remarked.

      Rachel lifted her eyes to the sky. “Yes. I enjoy this warm weather, it reminds me of home—my old home, I mean.” Her voice was so wistful.

      Bess said in quick sympathy, “Yes, I suppose you must miss Spain very much.”

      “Oh, I do!” Rachel said, adding impulsively, “You cannot imagine, unless you have seen for yourself, how much colour and light there is there. Even the poorest of dwellings has its brave show of flowers in little pots the owners have made themselves. And the sea is almost as bright a blue as the sky.” She paused as she saw Bess regarding her with a little pucker on her brow. “I beg your pardon, my lady.” She flushed. “Of course it is not quite…proper in England to praise anything Spanish.”

      Bess began to walk along the path, looking into the flower beds. She touched a fragrant bush of roses. “Shall we have some of these? They smell so sweet, apart from being beautiful. As to praising one’s home—we all should be allowed to do that.”

      Rachel bent to snip an armful of the glossy-leaved flowers and, as she leaned close to Bess, her own perfume hung in the air between them. Bess closed her eyes a moment. It was not a scent favoured in England; it was both subtle and invasive and it held memories for her. Of another girl in another time.

      “Madrilene…” she murmured.

      Rachel started. “That was my grandmother’s name,” she said without pausing to think. “Madrilene de Santos—very unusual, I believe. Few have heard it.”

      “I have heard it,” Bess said shortly. She began to walk swiftly away. Rachel followed uncertainly.

      “My