Uncertain Joy

  Uncertain Joy by Hilary Wilde

  The job offered to Penny by the impressive Señor Juan del Riego certainly sounded glamorous, and it couldn't have come at a better time as far as she was concerned. Señor del Riego had invited her to become governess to the three small children under his care and guardianship, on a tiny island off the coast of Spain. Would she be able to cope with it? But when Penny arrived on Vallora to

  take up the post, she soon realised that it was not the job itself which was going to cause all the problems, but the hostility of the children's family. The children's mother resented her, their uncle Alfonso seemed actively

  to wish her ill. Her only friend seemed to be Michael Trent. Would his encouragement be enough to keep

  her going?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Penny Trecannon hurried home through the pelting rain from South Kensington station to the small flat she shared with her father and stepmother. It was a cold evening and she was tired, and miserable, because her boss had asked why she was suddenly making spelling mistakes and forgetting things.

  `It's not like you,' he had said. 'What's wrong?'

  So she had told him. 'Since Dad married again, I've felt . . . well, I've felt I'm the odd one out. When Mum died Dad turned to me. I've always adored him and maybe I should be ashamed, and I am, but I'm just plain jealous. Fiona, you see, is only about three years older than me and . . .'

  `You poor kid,' the boss had said. 'You should get another job—in another town, maybe another country.

  But I don't want to leave Dad . . .' she had begun, and then saw the look on his face. 'I know,' she had added. 'I'm being just plain selfish.'

  It was true, too. Dad was so much happier since he married Fiona—and Fiona was super; apart from being most attractive, she was kindness itself, but did they really want a third person with them?

  Penny let herself into the flat. Fiona came running down the hall, her long dark hair swinging, her face eager.

  `Oh, Penny, I'm glad you're back—I need your help. You know the Favershams? At least, you've heard of them. Your father and I play bridge with them. Well, they've got a very important friend coming—a Spanish millionaire—and are taking him out to dinner. Their usual baby-sitter is sick and they can't get another, so they asked me to go, but your father has got tickets for us to go to the theatre and it's a super comedy. Have you a date for tonight?'

  `No.' Penny made herself smile, hoping Fiona would not see how it hurt when Dad took Fiona out alone, leaving his own daughter behind. Not that he always left her behind, but he took it for granted she had friends she wanted to be with. She had a few, but she would have far preferred to be with him. 'Of course I'll baby-sit, but I don't know the child.'

  `I'll give you the address. It's up near the Albert Hall. Bless you, Penny. They're such good friends I didn't like to let them down, but I didn't want to let your father down either. Have a quick bath and I'll cook you some supper and you have a taxi each way. They'll pay for them.' She went off to the kitchen, singing happily.

  Penny hurried to her bedroom. She looked around the room thoughtfully. She and her

  Father had moved to this small flat after her mother died. It had been large enough for two of them, but three . . . That was a different story.

  Half an hour later she got out of the taxi and went into the tall, impressive-looking marble-pillared building. The Favershams were on the fifth floor. As she rang the bell the door opened and a tall man let her in. He smiled. 'You're Jock Trecannon's daughter Penny?' he asked, shaking her hand warmly. `He's always talking of you. Thinks the world of you, he does. I'm Reginald Faversham. We've got an important guest—an old friend but also a client.' He chuckled. 'Thanks for helping us out.'

  Mrs. Faversham appeared, a small blonde woman with a grateful smile.

  `We were feeling desperate. You can't just leave your child with anyone.'

  She led the way into the luxurious sitting-room, switched on the television and poured out a glass of sherry.

  `Little Estrella is in here,' she said, leading the way to the bedroom. A small four-year-old child lay asleep, her long black hair spread out over the white pillow case, her little face serene.

  `The only thing is . . .' Penny hesitated, but went on. 'Won't she be frightened if she wakes up and finds a stranger here?'

  `No one could be frightened of you, my

  Dear,' Mrs. Faversham said with a smile. 'She very rarely wakes up.'

  Left alone, Penny curled up on the sofa, tossing off her shoes, watching the television yet seeing none of it, for her mind was too busy with her problem.

  Was she being a nuisance to her father? Would they be happier if she left them? Only she'd have to do it so that they didn't think she had done it because of them—that would upset both Dad and Fiona. Penny closed her eyes, trying to imagine how they must feel. She had never been really in love; there had been a few boys she had liked very much, but after her mother's death she had rarely accepted invitations as she had hated leaving her father alone, and the boys got tired of rejections and dropped her. But none of them had she really loved—that was something quite different. Fiona really loved her husband, Penny knew that—and Dad loved Fiona. And who could blame him when his young wife waited on him and fussed over him and made him feel young again despite his forty-four years?

  Penny heard a sound and hurried to the bedroom. Little Estrella was crying, so Penny knelt by her side and took her in her arms.

  `Did you have a nasty dream, darling?'

  Estrella nodded and went on crying. Penny rocked her gently.

  `I have dreams like that,' she said. 'But they're only dreams.'

  `I thought was true . . .'

  It was half an hour before Estrella went to sleep, but she looked serene again with her little elfin face still and her hair spread out.

  Penny fell asleep on the couch and woke with a start as she heard the door open and voices. She sat up, stifling a yawn, brushing back her long red hair and rubbing her green eyes.

  Joan Faversham came in. 'I'm afraid we're very late, dear. How did things go?'

  Penny was on her feet. 'She's fine. She woke up once with a nightmare. I said I had them, too. Then I told her stories and she went to sleep.'

  `No trouble?'

  Penny laughed. 'No trouble at all. She's sweet.' Reginald Faversham came in, too, followed by a man at whom Penny stared in amazement. He must be the Spanish millionaire—the Favershams' old friend—and he was a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties! She had expected an old man. He was the sort of man she had never seen before. His hair was dark and thick. His skin was olive, so were his eyes dark. Strange eyes that were looking at her in an odd way—as if he was questioning her, trying to read her thoughts.

  Reginald Faversham introduced him to her. `This is Señor Juan del Riego,' he said, 'an old friend of ours. Juan, this is the daughter of a friend, Penny Trecannon. She's very kindly

  been baby-sitting for us. I'll run you home, my dear.'

  Juan del Riego spoke quickly. 'If I may suggest it, it would be more simple for me to drive the young lady home. It is no hardship,' he added, his eyes amused.

  `That's fine,' said Joan Faversham. 'It's near South Kensington station—Penny will tell you. Thank you so much, my dear.'

  `I enjoyed it,' Penny said with a smile.

  She went with the Spaniard down in the lift. They did not speak as he took her to his car, a huge white one with a yawning chauffeur jumping out and coming to open the car door.

  `What is your address?' Juan del Riego asked. Penny told the chauffeur and he nodded, he knew the road well.

  `It was good of you to help my friends. They are devoted to their little girl,' Juan del Riego said. He was elegantly dressed but not over
dressed, she thought. Very polite, if only he would not keep staring at her in that odd fashion, as if he wanted to discover something in her or find an answer to a question he had in mind. It made her feel uncomfortable.

  He escorted her politely to her door, waited until she had unlocked it and held out his hand. She thought he was going to shake hers, but instead he bent and kissed it.

  `It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Trecannon. We shall meet again,' he said politely, then turned and left her.

  She went into the flat, closing the door gently, for her father was a light sleeper. In her own room, she hurriedly undressed and got into bed. What a nice couple the Favershams were, no wonder Dad liked them. And Estrella was a little darling. And the Spanish millionaire . . . like someone from another world with that old-fashioned courtesy. What had he meant when he said: `We'll meet again'? When would they? How— where?

  It was three o'clock before Penny fell asleep, so next day she overslept. Fiona woke her at ten o'clock with breakfast on a tray.

  `How did you get on?' she asked.

  `Fine.' Penny rubbed her sleepy eyes. 'Estrella is sweet.'

  And the millionaire?'

  An unusual sort of man. Most unusual. So polite—so . . .'

  `Tell me later, love. I'm doing your father an omelette. He's got a bit of a cold and not much appetite, but I know he loves omelettes,' Fiona said, and disappeared.

  Penny ate her breakfast, got up, showered and dressed. She didn't hurry, since there was no need. On Saturdays she always helped with the housework and had no reason to go out, and when Fiona came to the door and said in a

  strangely excited voice: 'There's a . . . there's someone to see you, Penny,' Penny didn't even bother to look in the mirror. It could only be Jill or Rosemary who lived round the corner coming to see her.

  But as she followed Fiona to the sitting-room, she caught her breath, her hand flying to her untidy red hair and her shiny nose—for there stood Señor Juan del Riego.

  She felt confused, for she knew she must look like something the cat found in the dustbin, as her mother would have said.

  `I didn't . . . didn't know . . .' she stammered, looking down at the jeans and white shirt she was wearing. 'I overslept and . . .'

  `That is obvious, Miss Trecannon. This is a business call and not a social one, so your appearance is not important, although in some ways it may be—but I will deal with that later. Is this how you always appear except when at a party? Last night you looked quite different.'

  Her cheeks burning, she leapt to her own defence. 'Of course not. This is only when I'm at home and doing housework. Besides, last night it wasn't a party—I was baby-sitting.'

  `Was that your real reason for being there? I mean, I wondered if you had arranged it in order to meet the famous Señor Juan del Riego?' He sounded amused.

  Again Penny flushed. 'I'd never heard of you,' she began, then wondered if she was being rude. 'I'm sorry, but . . . but ought I to

  have heard of you?'

  How he laughed. He looked completely different. 'That is good, Miss Trecannon. Maybe you do not read the financial news or listen to the television interviews with international financiers. I am a very wealthy man, so usually I am well known and naturally always suspicious when I meet a charming girl like you.' He chuckled. 'I can see I was wrong, and I apologise. Perhaps you will understand that for a man of my kind, life is not always easy. Could I sit down?' he asked, his deep vibrant voice changing again.

  `Of course. I'm so sorry . . .' said Penny, thinking that he was clever in making her feel uncomfortable and stupid. 'I'm sorry.'

  Fiona spoke then from the doorway: 'Would you like some coffee?'

  Penny turned and saw that Fiona was looking most strange, her face showing her surprise and dismay as if she couldn't understand what was going on.

  Señor Riego gave a little bow. 'It would be most pleasant,' he said, and smiled.

  It was the most amazing smile Penny had ever seen. Quite different from his look of amusement or his boisterous laughter, this was a smile that lightened his face, which had a squarish chin and a somewhat large nose.

  As Fiona left the room, Juan del Riego gave a little bow to Penny, indicating a chair as he sat down. Penny also sat down hastily but on

  the edge of an upright chair.

  `You are fond of children?' he asked.

  The question was unexpected, though he had been staring at her in such an odd manner

  that she had wondered what could be in his mind.

  `Why . . . why, of course.'

  `I can see no "of course" about it. Unfortunately I know quite a number of people who have no time for children. There is an old saying: "Children are certain sorrow but only uncertain joy".'

  `Certain sorrow but uncertain joy . . .' Penny quoted, looking puzzled. 'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

  `Neither do I,' he said with a short laugh. 'I believe it is a Swedish proverb.'

  Fiona had brought in the tray and she spoke quickly.

  `I think it's horrid. Making out that you may get some happiness but you're bound to get sorrow. I don't agree at all. I want children of my own.'

  `That is good to hear. And you, Miss Trecannon?'

  ` I . . . I haven't thought about it,' Penny admitted.

  `You have not thought of marriage and motherhood? Surely that is unusual?' He sounded as if he was condemning her, blaming her for not being a woman.

  Fiona laughed. 'She's only nineteen, Señor

  Riego, and has had no desire yet to marry.'

  `Nineteen?' Juan del Riego repeated slowly, his eyes looking up and down Penny's slight body. She felt terrible, wanting to run to her room and put on something clean. What a sight she must look! 'I have a problem and I would like to tell you what it is,' he went on.

  Fiona answered as she poured out the coffee. but of course. We shall be delighted to listen. Sometimes talking about it helps you find the solution,' she said almost gaily. She was looking prettier than ever, for she was a real extrovert, liking to meet people and talk to them. 'If only I was like that,' Penny was thinking.

  Señor Juan del Riego smiled. 'You are so right. I must start a long way back. My Aunt Lucille met Fernando Dominguez when he was on a visit to England. His good looks and charm hid his narrow mind and his arrogant callousness. They married and had a son, Pedro. My mother went to stay with them on the island of Vallora . . .' He spoke proudly as if it was the only island of any importance in the world and that there was no need for him to name it. 'She was enchanted by my father.' There was a bitterness in his voice. 'Like all the family, he had great charm, unfortunately. What a mistake those two English girls made! You must understand that a Spaniard has firm ideas as to how his wife and children must behave, and this is not always in accordance

  with the ideas of an English lady.' His hands moved expressively as he spoke and he smiled —that strange smile that changed his face and fascinated Penny.

  `It is not always good to marry someone who has not your background, your training or your ideals. I am sad to say that both my mother and her sister were most unhappy and so were their children. It is these that should be considered before marriage is undertaken.' He frowned. 'I am very much against mixed marriages as it is not fair to the children.' Now he spoke curtly and he looked at Penny, a strange look that sent a cold shiver down her back. Was he trying to tell her something? Was he threatening her? Why—why? What had she done?

  `Pedro, of whom I am speaking,' Señor del Riego went on, 'was a delicate child. He was a few years older than I, but we were always close friends. It is tragic when a father and mother do not live in harmony, but they did not. My uncle would not allow a word of English to be spoken, though my aunt did her best to teach Pedro a little, as much as she dared, for her husband had a bad temper. My uncle died and my aunt sent Pedro to a school in England. Life was difficult for that delicate child who found it hard to learn another language. I tell you all this so that you will under
stand later. He was unhappy at that school and has always said he will not allow it

  to happen to his children.

  `I was more fortunate, for my mother was a stronger character than her sister. She taught me English from a child. This is what Pedro has said in his will . .

  `He is dead?' Fiona sounded shocked.

  `Unfortunately, yes. A tragic death after many years of illness. My parents had gone to South America to live. At one stage, Pedro was too ill to govern Vallora. He asked his cousin Alfonso Rodriguez Melado to take over, but Alfonso is the kind who expects to be given everything for doing nothing. He was leading a gay life and had no desire to work. So Pedro wrote to me and I went. I was on Vallora for five years until Pedro's health improved. This is why in his will . .

  `Is it his will that's your problem?' Fiona asked, her face eager as she leaned forward.

  His hands moved expressively. 'You are so right. It is his will. But I must shorten this long story.' He glanced at his wrist watch and nodded. 'I have much to do and little time in which to do it. I have changed my plans. I am now flying back to the island this afternoon.'

  `Yes, the will . . .' Fiona repeated as if trying to hurry him as she poured out second cups of coffee. Fiona loved to listen to other people's problems, Penny thought affectionately. She herself was more fascinated by the man himself, the way he moved his hands, the changes in his face and in that deep vibrant

  voice that had an arrogant tone one moment and a surprisingly gentle one the next.

  `When my cousin died, he left a generous allowance for life for his wife—the rest was to go to his three children when they reached a certain age and I . . .' Señor del Riego paused dramatically, yet Penny knew he did not do it intentionally. He was not showing off, but this drama was part of his strange Spanish/English background.

  `Pedro asked me to be guardian of his children and to look after the island which they would inherit. He also wished me to guard them from their uncle, Alfonso Melado, who believes that control of the island should be his and is determined to get it back again, no matter at what cost. Also to protect them from their mother, who has no time for children at all.'