He started for the door but changed his mind at the last moment. He went to the safe, and following a hunch he punched in the date of their wedding. One, two, two, five: December 25, Christmas Day. The safe gave a distinct beep as it popped open. A little light went on inside. Imprisoned in a small frame leaning against the back of the space was the photo of the two of them, a copy of the one on the dressing table in their room, the photo he hadn’t had the heart to contemplate when summoned here. álvaro’s wedding ring sat on a copy of The Man Who Refused. Manuel recognized the bright-colored dust jacket devised by his publisher and the worn edges of the same copy he’d autographed for álvaro fifteen years before. Beneath it were some papers.
“The Man Who Refused,” he muttered, and a little smile crept across his face. “The Man Who Refused.” The presence of this novel in this place at this moment was as deeply meaningful to him as the careful safeguarding of the wedding ring.
The wall safe was at chest level, so he didn’t need to lean over to make out the first letters of his own name engraved within the ring along with the date álvaro had chosen as the code for this hiding place. Manuel reached out and put his finger through it. The metal was warm, as if only a few seconds had passed since its owner took it off.
Shouting echoed in the corridor. He took the ring, left the book, and closed the safe. The door clicked shut with a quiet beep of acknowledgment. He opened the bedroom door and suddenly came face-to-face with a furious Santiago, who was about to seize the door handle. A woebegone Herminia was visible over the man’s shoulder, watching from the landing.
Santiago stepped up to him. His face was deeply flushed with a red that extended like some virulent infection all the way back to his ears and neck. He’d been shouting outside as he approached, but he choked with rage as he addressed Manuel.
“What are you doing here? Who gave you permission? You can’t come in here as if you . . .”
Manuel expected a punch. Any other man in such a fury would have struck him, but Manuel saw that the blaze in Santiago’s face was merely frustration, an infantile temper tantrum in response to an impossible situation. Manuel noticed that the door at the end of the hall had opened and a motionless black silhouette was watching.
He tried a conciliatory approach. “I just wanted to visit álvaro’s room.”
“You have no right!” Santiago shrieked in a voice higher and even more congested than before.
“Yes, I do. álvaro was my husband.”
That very word jolted Santiago. Then frustration in his face was replaced by an arrogant, cruel sneer that Manuel had seen before. It lasted only a moment but betrayed a hatred and contempt for homosexuality. He was too much a coward to put those feelings into words. His features twisted in a childish pout.
“You said you were going to leave, but now you’re back again. Showing your disrespect and sticking your nose into everything like a common thief. What did you take from there?”
Manuel opened his hand to reveal the gold ring, and without thinking slipped it onto his ring finger to accompany his own ring. Santiago brushed rudely past him to inspect the bedroom.
Manuel put up with the affront but didn’t budge. He looked at Herminia. She responded with a silent apology and rolled her eyes in the expression one uses when a child is crying with fatigue or a friend has had too much to drink.
Santiago must have found the room as barren as Manuel had, for he came out immediately. “What were you doing in here?” he shouted. “What were you looking for? Herminia! Why did you let him in?”
She remained calm. “Who am I to stand in his way?”
Frustrated again, Santiago confronted him. “You can’t be here. You can’t just turn up anytime at all, you can’t!”
Manuel kept his gaze level. “I can. And I’ll come here as many times as necessary until I get some straight answers.”
Santiago’s face turned an even deeper red, but then his expression suddenly changed from that of an impending apoplectic fit to one of indifference. He looked as if he’d suddenly lost all interest. Or perhaps the opposite: he looked as if he’d just found the solution to his problems. “I’m calling the police.”
Manuel’s grin at that preposterous declaration stopped Santiago cold. Halfway to the staircase the young marquis hesitated, apparently surprised to see his threat hadn’t had the intended effect.
“Oh really? And what are you going to tell them? To come take away the owner?” The mocking smile that accompanied his question was a crushing blow to the man’s self-regard.
Santiago walked back to Manuel, ready to burst into tears. “So that’s how it is then? I should have guessed from the first that a down-and-outer wouldn’t give up something he doesn’t deserve.” He almost spat the words: “It’s because of the money!”
The door at the end of the hall swung entirely open, and now the light from inside the room illuminated the profile of a tall slim figure.
“That will do, Santiago! Stop behaving like an idiot.” The voice was polite and firm and brooked no discussion.
“Mother!” Santiago protested with the voice of a helpless child.
“Se?or Ortigosa,” the female voice from the depths of the hall addressed him. “I would like to speak with you. Would you be so kind?”
All trace of anger had disappeared from Santiago’s face. Even so he tried again. “Mother . . .” It was obvious from his plaintive tone he wasn’t expecting a reply.
Manuel hadn’t felt threatened by Santiago even at the height of the marquis’s fury, but he had an idea the man could turn violent if humiliated. Manuel nodded an acceptance of the invitation but didn’t take his eyes off the young marquis. He waited two long seconds until at last the man turned and went to the stairway. At the last moment Santiago slammed his fist into the wall. The cast on his hand cracked and released a shower of plaster dust.
The figure at the end of the hall was gone but had left the door open as an invitation to enter. Standing in isolation on the landing, Herminia gave him an unhappy look, shook her head like a long-suffering governess, and followed Santiago down the stairs.
Manuel calculated that the dowager’s suite must occupy the entire upper floor of the west wing. A row of tall windows overlooked the front lawn, and others faced the cemetery. The gauzy lace curtains permitted one to see everything outside. A huge fireplace of rough Galician stone dominated the interior wall. The roaring fire was boxed in by blackened stone slabs. The room’s baseboards and molding were of the same dark wood as elsewhere in the manor, visible only around the doors and windows, in those few places along the wall not covered by Persian carpets in tones of red and gold, and in the imposing crossbeams that held up the ceiling. The room connected to a glassed-in terrace. Before the doors to the closed-off terrace was the tall thin figure of the woman, initially only a dark profile but with features more defined as he approached her.
She wore black trousers and a thick high-necked sweater snug about her body. She looked delicate, as if feeling chilled or suffering from a cold, but that was only a misleading impression conveyed by her clothing. She appeared to be comfortable despite the extreme warmth of the room. Her hair was in a tight bun, and her only jewelry consisted of heavy gray pearl earrings.
She made no move to shake his hand but spoke in a firm, courteous voice. “I am Cecilia de Mu?iz de Dávila, Marquess of Santo Tomé. I believe we haven’t yet been properly introduced.”
“I’m Manuel Ortigosa, your son’s widower,” he replied in the same formal tone.
She stood looking at him. A slightly peevish smile appeared as she gestured toward the sofa before the fireplace and took an armchair. “Do excuse Santiago,” she said after she’d settled herself. “He’s quite temperamental and has been so since his childhood. Whenever vexed, he would fling his toys and break them, and then he’d weep for hours. But don’t be taken in. My son has no guts. He’s a fraud from head to toe.”
Manuel couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Yes, se?or Ortigosa, it is a disgrace to me. All my children have been disappointments.” She glanced behind her. “I hope you will join me for tea.”