Dear Conquistador

  DEAR CONQUISTADOR

  by

  MARGERY HILTON

  Hilary’s trouble was too much honesty; the Conde Romualdo de Pacquero y Zaredopenas’s was too much heart-shaking, arrogant charm — as Hilary found to her cost when she became companion to his young niece Juanita.

  Hilary had tried to help Juanita to find happiness, but soon found that it was at the cost of her own. For she could never cross swords with this Conquistador — and win.

  CHAPTER ONE

  When Hilary Martin was born the Fates bestowed on her two very precious gifts: a loving heart and honesty. For good measure they threw in the bloom of health, an aptitude for languages, and a spoon which, if not silver, maintained its lustre throughout a happy and uncomplicated childhood. But there was one gift for which, when she counted her blessings, she was to sigh and beg forgiveness for her greed: the gift of dissemblance. If only she were able to pretend!

  It was not until the day of her thirteenth birthday that she became aware of this particular omission in her personality, and it was inevitable that this occasion should coincide with her first experience of the shattering effect the masculine sex was capable of accomplishing without any apparent effort.

  Long afterwards she realized that he was quite an ordinary mortal. He was no more immune to the miseries of a streaming cold or the vagaries of life which try the frailty of human temper than any other mortal, but through the rosy haze of romance which veiled her eyes she saw him only as the shining centre of this wonderful new experience which was transforming her entire vision of living.

  He was a colleague of her father, a few years younger than Mr. Martin, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to blurt out an invitation to her birthday celebration, which, after understandable surprise and a querying glance at her father, he accepted with some amusement, and then forgot to come.

  While the new record player blared out the new records and the teenage gang screamed and swooned and laid bare the buffet table and sidled out in search of niches suitable for little experimental forays into human relationships Hilary mooned through her party with an expression which would have inspired an Ibsen. That the cause of it remembered belatedly two days later and hastily forwarded a box of chocolates made no difference; he was guilty of betrayal, and all the chocolates in the world would not bring consolation.

  Finally her father took her aside late one evening and launched into what the family called ‘one of Father’s little philosophies’. After a dissertation on being reasonable, and growing pains in the young female, and a few diversions into sidetracks that didn’t really have anything to do with the matter, he said on a note of despair:

  ‘Darling, you must learn not to let people see! ’

  There was a lot more in this strain, about it being a hard world, and an honest trusting nature being a drawback at the times when the carapace of a crustacean was a better asset, and while he had no desire to see her become tough and insensitive he didn’t want her to get hurt. And that sometimes blurting out the truth led to more trouble in life than a tactful evasion at the right moment.

  Yes, it all came back to the gentle art of dissemblance, an art, not a gift, and this was just the beginning of realizing what life could mean to a girl who wasn’t very skilful at disguising her feelings.

  Hilary began to think about it and to learn, painfully, what seemed to come like second nature to her feminine friends. She still suffered the relentless force of honesty, however. She still risked missing her stop on those odd occasions when the bus conductor missed taking her fare and she had to hunt for the right change to drop into the little box beside the driver. She would still confess instantly if she made a slight error at work, even if her confession resulted in wrath descending on her fair, silky head. She still blurted out the whole unvarnished truth to anything she was asked, but she did gradually learn to be a little more reserved when her path began to intertwine with that of the opposite sex.

  Until she reached the age of nineteen and fell in love with her new boss.

  For three months the dividing line between heaven and earth was a very blurred borderline. He took her dining and dancing, initiated her into the thrills of sailing, and all the while told her things that made her flower into tender, awakening beauty, and finally he took her to Rome on a business trip, where for the first time he was truly honest with her and she was more honest than she’d ever been. She told him in no uncertain tones that she didn’t want to be seduced, that she couldn’t dream of having any sort of relationship with a married man, even if she loved him and his wife was an absolute bitch to him, and finally, at the end of the disastrous trip, she told him she didn’t even want to work for him any more. After which she cried quite a lot, until she acknowledged that disillusion could contribute quite a lot to heartbreak, and somehow it didn’t hurt quite so bitterly once she faced that sad little truth.

  When the ensuing family uproar subsided and Hilary reached the point where she’d scream if one more word was spoken on the subject, her father said wearily: ‘You didn’t have to throw up the sponge altogether. You could have requested a transfer to another department. What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m going abroad,’ Hilary said simply.

  ‘Abroad?’ Mr. Martin cried.

  ‘Abroad ...’ Mrs. Martin faltered. ‘For a holiday, darling?’

  ‘No. To work.’

  The shocked silence which followed this statement was almost as intense as the one which had greeted her account of the cause of it all. Before they could gather breath and marshal objections she said firmly:

  ‘Listen. I’ve always wanted to travel. My French is supposed to be good and my Spanish was good enough to deal with the correspondence from the firm’s South American agencies. So why should I waste it?’

  ‘But what kind of a job?’ her mother asked anxiously.

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I’ve been to a bureau and talked it over and they’re going to let me know when something suitable comes along.’

  ‘There was another silence, then Mr. Martin said: ‘You’re set on this?’

  ‘I am, and I’ve thought it over very carefully, so please don’t try to talk me out of it. Try to understand,’ she said pleadingly.

  ‘Hm, well, I don’t see why not. You mightn’t get the opportunity when you’re older and settle down,’ he said slowly, and she could have hugged him. ‘I wonder if old Jameson could help,’ he went on musingly. ‘I believe he has connections with Heatherly’s continental side. He might know of a secretarial opening. I suppose you’re thinking of Paris?’

  Hilary looked steadily at him and shook her head. ‘I wasn’t. Actually I was thinking of North Africa, or the Canaries, or even,’ she hesitated, ‘South America.’

  Mrs. Martin sat down weakly and echoed this somewhat startling announcement. Hilary cut in quickly: ‘But don’t you see, it all depends on the job, and the people. I’ve got to be prepared to be fluid. It’s no use picking on one particular place and refusing to consider anywhere or anything else. I might wait ages for the right thing to turn up, if it ever does.’

  For a week or so it seemed as though Hilary was going to be unlucky. She had several interviews, but each time either Hilary didn’t have the exact qualifications the prospective employers required or they lacked the qualifications Hilary required, and gradually the family began to breathe more freely again. It wasn’t that they wanted to hamper her freedom or keep her tied to home-strings, but they could not help suffering the qualms natural to loving, responsible parents when a much loved young daughter suddenly decides to remove her place of residence to a strange land across the seas. And the mention of South America had been a little too overwhelming for Mrs. Martin.

&n
bsp; Then one morning there was a telephone call from the bureau asking Hilary to call that afternoon.

  Lunch was unusually quiet that day. There was an unspoken conviction that ‘this’ was going to be ‘it’, even though Hilary smiled and assured them that it would probably prove to be another false alarm.

  But all the same she dressed with care and took particular pains with her grooming. Her gold-spun silky hair fell sleek and shining to the small collar of her apricot-toned suit. Four big pearly buttons closed the jacket and matched the plain bronze patent pumps which enhanced the shapeliness of her long slender legs. Her eye make-up was rather more discreet than usual, and a light film of apricot lip-tint emphasized rather than hid the candid sweetness of her mouth.

  The room in the bureau was light enough with its pastel decor, but Hilary brought a freshness into it that made the rather blase-faced woman at the desk look up more closely at her and smile with sudden warmth.

  ‘It looks as though it’s turned brighter outside?’

  Hilary said, ‘Yes’, smiling, and took the chair indicated, composing her hands in her lap and trying not to betray her inward twinges of nervousness while the woman scanned a paper on the desk. She looked up.

  ‘Now, Miss Martin, this post ... It’s an exciting opportunity for the right girl, although not exactly a secretarial job. How do you feel about working with children?’

  Hilary forgot her anxiety. ‘Children?’ she exclaimed. ‘It - it’s not an aupair arrangement?’

  ‘Far from it.’ The woman shook her head. ‘There’s a boy of six, and the main requirement here is practice in English conversation and some French. There is also a girl of seventeen to whom you would be a companion. The salary is generous and I’m sure you would receive every consideration. This is a very good family of the highest repute - the Conde’s ancestry can be traced back to the days of the Conquistadors. Needless to say,’ the woman smiled reassuringly, ‘we would not dream of sending you so far away unless we were assured of your welfare. We have our own high reputation to maintain. But of course you also must be prepared to furnish references as to your own suitability.’

  ‘Yes, I realize that, but ...’ Hilary hesitated, ‘you said, “so far”.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I’d merely mentioned that it was a Spanish family. You would be in residence with them at their home in Lima, Peru. ’

  She waited a moment, obviously prepared for some signs of withdrawal.

  Hilary betrayed none, except for a sudden sparkle of interest in her hazel eyes, and the woman continued: ‘Also, you would have to be very sure, because you would have to undertake to remain there, barring genuine illness, naturally, for at least one year, and be prepared to travel with your two charges should the necessity arise, otherwise you will forfeit your air fare - a considerable sum, as you will realize. So if you have the slightest doubt say so before we proceed any further. ’

  ‘I haven’t, so far.’ Hilary met the woman’s gaze levelly. ‘But I presume I will be given further information at an interview with this prospective employer?’

  The woman inclined her head. ‘There wasn’t any point in sending you along until we’d got the preliminaries over. Now ...’ She readied briskly for the phone, consulting the open book on her desk as she did so.

  Hilary drew back, turning her head and pretending a tactful interest in a flower print which was remarkable only for its colourless insipidity, while the woman spoke briefly into the phone.

  Presently she replaced it. ‘Now, if you go along to this address, Miss Martin, before four-thirty, and take this card with you ...’ she paused to write quickly on one of the agency’s introductory cards, ‘Senora Alvedo will have a talk with you and make her recommendation accordingly.’

  ‘I won’t be meeting the - the actual person who will be employing me?’ Hilary asked.

  The woman smiled. ‘Good gracious, no. Lima is more than six thousand miles away. Senora Alvedo is acting as the family’s representative - it’s quite often done in a case like this. Now don’t be nervous, you’ll find her most charming and understanding.’ She stood up. ‘You’d better hurry. Good luck! ’

  A taxi was dropping a fare as Hilary emerged from the building. On impulse she waved and ran towards it, reflecting that as the hotel was at the other side of town she might as well take the cab and save time.

  She felt excitement quickening her heartbeats, and a distinct stirring of butterflies in her stomach as she paid the driver and stood for a moment outside the hotel entrance. Thank goodness she’d taken pains to appear her very best ... so this was where the other half dallied while in transit! Taking a deep breath, she

  advanced into the warm, quiet opulence of the London Luxor.

  Across the half moon sweep of the gleaming reception desk the polite mask of the reception clerk did not flicker. ‘ Senora Alvedo? First floor. Number nineteen. Take the lift, madam.’

  There seemed to be about half a mile of deep blue carpet to cross. Hilary decided to take the stairs; the lift would only stir the butterflies to renewed frenzy. Room nineteen. Her age. It seemed a portent ... She trod softly, counting down to zero until she stood outside the white and gilt panelled door.

  There was no immediate response to her tap, then the door opened and a dark-haired girl in a scarlet coat looked out and grinned, ‘Another one? Come and join us.’

  Hilary had not expected to see other applicants - a ridiculous notion, she thought as she entered the ante-room and glanced at the other occupants. It was supposed to be an exciting opportunity; why should she be the only applicant?

  There were four of them: an older woman whose pale face and taut mouth betrayed her inward tension; a plump cheerful girl who looked about Hilary’s age; a teenager, and the girl in the red coat. The very young girl looked little more than fourteen or fifteen. She caught Hilary’s glance and pulled a grimace of resignation, putting up her hand to push back her mane of thick, ash-blonde hair. It immediately flopped forward again as her hand fell and the tiers of gaudy bangles jingled down to her wrist. She giggled nervously, and the girl in the red coat said: ‘The suspense is killing, isn’t it?’

  The other two made no response, but the young girl said: ‘I bet it turns out to be another au pair swizz. If it is I shan’t take it. Talk about slavery! I know, I’ve had some. But just think of it. Flying to South America. Isn’t a Conde a sort of Spanish count? I’ll bet—’

  The inner door opened and a rich foreign voice queried: ‘Miss Marilyn Jones...?’

  The teenager grabbed her bits and pieces and bounced in jauntily.

  After three or four minutes she emerged, not quite so jauntily, giving a gallant little thumbs down as she opened the outer door.

  The older woman lasted a little longer, and the plump girl almost ten minutes, then the girl in the red coat was summoned and Hilary was left on her own.

  She took the opportunity to check that her appearance was still immaculate. Hilary was not vain, to the contrary, she had never fully comprehended the attractive picture she made as seen through other people’s eyes, and a natural fastidiousness made her dislike a careless, ungroomed appearance.

  She was dropping her compact into her bag when the dark girl came out and she became aware of how tight was the coil of tension within her. The dark girl whispered wryly: ‘Don’t ring us

  - we’ll ring you,’ and shrugged. ‘I think I’ve missed that plane after all.’

  Once more Hilary was alone, waiting now for her own voice of fate. A minute ticked by, then another ... and another ... There wasn’t a sound from the inner room. She stood up, frowned, and hovered uncertainly. They couldn’t have forgotten her ... She heard the clatter of a tea trolley passing the outer door, faint muffled voices beyond, then silence again. Abruptly she moved forward and tapped lightly.

  There was no response. She bit her lip, then tapped again and opened the door a little way. She looked round it, the tentative, ‘Excuse me’, hovering on her lips, and blinked with
puzzlement. The spacious sitting-room of the suite was empty.

  Frowning, she withdrew and gently closed the door. Slowly she went back to her chair near the outer door and hesitated uncertainly, debating her next move. Was it worth waiting any longer? But the whole day would be such a waste. She sat down and took the agency card from her bag. She was definitely at the right place. She had an appointment. They must be expecting her. Aware of a distinct sense of disappointment, she looked at the blank closed door. Perhaps Senora Alvedo had been called away for a few minutes. Perhaps she wanted to take aspirins, or wash her hands, or make notes, or something ... One had to allow for the small unexpected things which were so easily explained. She would wait another five minutes, then she would knock again. Perhaps the elusive Senora Alvedo would have returned. If not ... she would call it a day. After all, there was no guarantee that she would land the job, and something else would come along.

  Hilary bent to retrieve her glove and the next moment she saw stars. The glove fell from her hand and she straightened dazedly, straight to the dark stare as startled as her own.

  ‘Santo—! I beg your pardon!’ The door which had just made painful contact with Hilary’s head swung back and a tall man in an immaculate pale grey suit towered over her. ‘Are you hurt? I had no idea ... ’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s my own fault for

  sitting so near the door. ’

  His dark brows flickered. ‘Oh no, not at all. You are sure you are not hurt?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ This was, as always, the truth. A bump on the head soon dropped to a losing place against the competition of a masculine force like this one! With some difficulty Hilary broke free of the compulsion so unaccountably present in what was, after all, merely a politely concerned regard. ‘Quite sure, senor,’ she repeated.

  An alertness flashed momentarily over the dark, imperious visage, then he inclined his head with polite finality and turned towards the inner door. Hilary relaxed, then the stranger checked his stride and swung round.

  ‘You were wishing to see me, senorita?’