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Silence fell. There was no sign whatsoever that Señora Alvarez intended to break it. “Did you paint the walls?” Arthur asked her.
She looked at the country vistas that decorated the four blank walls. “Not these,” she said.
Did she mean that there were other walls, somewhere, that she had painted? This seemed unlikely. Arthur placed his pastry offering on the table and opened the box.
“Tarta de limón,” said the lady.
“Do you like them?” Arthur asked.
“One of my favorites,” she replied in an odd, almost accusing tone. She started to rise. “I must go…”
Tom returned before she could slip away. “What about our picnic?” he said. “It’s all planned.”
“Another time. You have a visitor.” She stood.
“But you must join us,” said Arthur. He meant it as a cordial invitation, but she looked offended.
“MustI?” The phrase was nearly a growl.
What the deuce was wrong with this woman?
“But there’s tarts,” said Tom. He took several from the box and set them out with the bread and cheese he’d fetched. The other pastries went to a table where people could help themselves. Tom also opened the small hamper he’d brought and extracted a packet of sandwiches, a stoppered jug, and six small cups that fit into each other as a stack.
Señora Alvarez stood rigid for a long moment. She was really angry, Arthur thought. That was obvious. But why? He could see no reason for it. No credible reason. He glanced at Tom to see if the lad understood and received a bland smile in return.
The lady whirled and strode back inside the workshop. Arthur wouldn’t have been surprised if she never returned, but she came back with a wedge of blue-veined cheese and a handful of olives in oiled paper. She cast these onto the table as if they were a challenge to a duel and sat down with the same defiant air.
Arthur took an olive and bit down with pleasure. “Ah.”
“You like olives?” she asked.
“Very much.” Her turned-down lips caused him to add, “Does that offend you somehow?” He could not help asking in a tone that impliedwhyever should it?
She shrugged. “Many Englishmen do not.”
“I am not ‘many Englishmen.’”
“No, you are an earl. We all know this.”
Before Arthur could respond to this unwarranted remark, Tom uncorked the jug with a loud pop. Arthur turned at the sudden sound to find that Tom was grinning as he poured cups of cider. What he found to smile about, Arthur did not know, but that was often true of Tom. They portioned out the food and began to eat.
One made polite conversation over a meal, Arthur thought. But neither of his companions seemed inclined to try. He racked his brain for a likely subject. “Were you fond of the theater in Spain?” he asked the señora. “Er, Lope de Vega? Cervantes?”
She looked at him as if he’d said something very odd. “No, I never saw plays until I came to England.” She sipped her cider as if it was the finest champagne. Her posture suggested that she wished he would disappear from her potential field of vision.
Arthur felt aggrieved. What the deuce was this? People did not treat him this way. Some disliked him, of course, as was their right. His life was not all ease and deference. But he could usually discover a reason for their aversion, and often amend it. Señora Alvarez had no reason. “When did you come to England?” he asked her.
“Some time ago.”
Her tone said she didn’t wish to talk about her life. Not to him, at least. That was very clear. “Are you enjoying London?”
“I have not been in London long.”
Arthur wondered where in England she’d been before, and what she’d done before that. But she clearly didn’t intend to tell him anything at all. Not one small fact about herself. Which was making this conversation ridiculous. Well, let it be then. “Did you ever meet Joseph Bonaparte?” he asked.
She stared at him, incredulous. “Of course not. Why would I?”
Her face was very expressive, Arthur thought, happy to have provoked a reaction at last. “I just thought you might have,” he answered. “Living in Spain.” And clearly among the nobility, he added silently.
