Chapter Eleven

Ronda, late June 1936

Even by her family’s standards, this was something else. Nene stood by her window and looked out at the party, the bodies of the guests swaying lightly to the music, the ladies’ dresses billowing in the breeze. She had never seen her home look so beautiful before; always imposing, tonight it was transformed: thousands of white gardenias had been threaded onto cord and strung in an intricate lattice between the orange trees that lined the courtyard; rows of long tables were decked with candles, the crystal and silverware glittering like fireflies as the dusk lengthened. Her eyes flitted to the stone fountain – her father had seriously considered having it replumbed to flow champagne for the night, the statues carefully spotlit in the corners.

Everything was beautiful, elegant, opulent yet refined – like her mother. That had been her father’s brief: tonight had to reflect his exquisite wife. He had bought her a white satin Schiaparelli dress from Paris especially for the occasion and it skimmed over her lovely figure, her long dark hair worn swept to the side and secured with a comb of fresh gardenias. Nene too had had a new dress: violet dotted cotton with puff sleeves and an empire waist, a garland of pale yellow rosebuds made especially for her hair.

She had seen the approving way her mother had nodded and looked at her as she had gone into her bedroom for a quick appraisal before the guests arrived, knowing Felix Lacuna was expected tonight. His family owned most of the land between Huelva and Seville, and Nene knew her parents had hoped she would catch his eye. And perhaps she had for he had spoken at length to her about boar-hunting, which he seemed to find fascinating.

But if dull, he was certainly handsome, with a clean-cut appearance that matched hers these days, for she was changed beyond recognition from the girl she had once been, free and running around the estate with Santi. Everything had changed when he had left, the fun falling out of all the activities she used to love to do with him – even Arlo, sweet, gentle Arlo, couldn’t engage her, though he had tried; but he was too scared of their father, too quick to appease and play by the rules to be any fun. His spirit was trussed up in chains and though she loved him, she despaired of his weakness. And so, her wild, girlhood curiosity had gradually been replaced by a numbed sedation. There were never scrapes on her knees any more or dirt beneath her fingernails, her hair was always brushed and pinned up, her skirts firmly untucked from her knickers, and her mother believed this meant she had become a lady at last.

But if losing Santi the first time round had stripped her of a comrade, losing him the second time had taken her spirit; she felt as though a light had gone out of her, the shame of what her family had done, what they were, dimming her into obsolescence.