Passionate Protection

AS A PREDICTION it wasn’t entirely true; Jessica felt strangely on edge and tense, her muscles clenching every time someone walked into the dining room where they were having breakfast.

She would be glad to get back home, she thought wryly as her nerves jumped for the third time in succession at the sight of a dark-haired man. Arrogant brute! He hadn’t even given her an opportunity to explain, denouncing her as though she were some female predator and his brother her completely innocent victim. She thought about what she had learned from Isabel and grimaced slightly. How could her cousin have behaved in such an unprincipled way? She had always had a streak of wildness, a tendency to ignore any attempts to curb her headstrong nature, but to actually try and force Jorge into marriage … And that was what she had done, no matter how one tried to wrap up the truth, Jessica admitted unhappily. Even so, that was no reason for Sebastian de Calvadores to speak to her in the way he had.

‘Time to leave for the exhibition,’ Colin reminded her, dragging her mind back to the real purpose of her visit to Seville.

Half an hour later they were there, both of them lost in admiration of the fabrics on display.

‘Just feel this suede,’ Colin murmured to her. ‘It’s as supple as silk. It makes my fingers itch to use it!’

‘And these tweeds!’ Jessica exclaimed. ‘The wool comes from South America, I believe?’

‘Many Spaniards have family connections in South America,’ Colin reminded her, ‘and I suppose it’s only natural that they should turn those connections to commercial advantage, in this case by importing the wool in its raw state, and dying and weaving it here in Spain.’

He drew Jessica’s attention to the display belonging to the company they were to see. ‘In a class of its own, isn’t it?’ he asked, watching the way she handled the supple fabric. ‘And those colours!’

‘They’re incredibly subtle,’ Jessica agreed with a touch of envy.

On leaving college her first intention had been to find a job in a design capacity with one of the large manufacturers, but such jobs were hard to come by—even harder with the downturn in the textile industry in Britain, and although her languages had stood her in good stead, she had found that without exception the Continental firms preferred to take on their own young graduates. Now working with cloth in its raw stages was only a pipe dream.

There was quite a busy throng around the Calvortex display and it was several minutes before Colin could talk to one of the young men in charge. He explained his purpose in Seville, producing the letters of recommendation he had brought with him, while Jessica swiftly translated.

‘Unfortunately I am merely a member of the staff,’ the young man exclaimed regretfully to Jessica, ‘but I will certainly mention this matter to my superiors. If we have a telephone number where we can reach you?’

Handing him both his card and their telephone number at the hotel, Colin announced that they had done enough for one morning and that it was time for lunch. Typically he decided that they would lunch, not at the restaurant within the exhibition, but at another one, far more expensive and exclusive, as Jessica could tell at a glance when their taxi stopped outside it.

She was wearing another of his outfits, and attracted several admiring looks from the other diners as they were shown to their table, Colin beaming delightedly at the attention they were receiving.

Over lunch though he was more serious. ‘I hope I do manage to get to some arrangement with Calvortex,’ he confided.

Jessica, sensitive to his mood, picked up the tone of worry in his voice.

‘It would be very pleasant,’ she agreed, ‘their fabrics are fantastic, but it won’t be the end of the world if we don’t, will it?’

‘It could be,’ Colin told her gravely. ‘Things haven’t been going too well this last couple of years. The people with money to spend on haute couture are getting fewer and fewer, and we don’t exactly produce high-fashion stuff. Calvortex fabrics have a worldwide reputation, if we could use them for our clothes I’m convinced it would help boost sales—I’ve already had one approach from the Americans, with the proviso that we use Calvortex. Somehow they got to hear that we hoped to do so, and they’ve suggested an excellent contract. There’d be enough profit in it for us to start a cheaper line—bread and butter money coming in with the designer collections as the icing.’

What he said made sense, and Jessica knew enough about the fashion world to know he wasn’t exaggerating. Several of the larger fashion houses were cutting back; designers came, were acclaimed for a couple of seasons, and then simply disappeared, but it was like chilly fingers playing down her spine to realise that Colin might be in financial difficulties.

‘Well,’ Colin told her when they had finished eating, ‘let’s get back to the exhibition and see if we can find something to fall back on if we don’t get anywhere with Calvortex, although I’m afraid if we don’t we’ll lose the American contract—and one can see why. The texture and colour of those tweeds they were showing …’

‘Mmm,’ Jessica agreed, ‘they were marvellous. I wonder how they manage to get such subtle colours?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve heard it’s a closely guarded secret. Their Chairman is also their main designer and colour expert. It’s quite a small concern really, but as I said before, extremely exclusive.’

The rest of the exhibition, while interesting, fell very far short of the standard of the Calvortex display, although Jessica did think that some of the supple leathers and suedes might prove useful to them. For some time she had been trying to persuade Colin to try a younger, more fashionable line, and she could just see those suedes, in pewters, steel blues and soft greens, in flaring culottes and swirling skirts, topped with chunky hand knits.

It was shortly after dinner that Colin received a message from reception to say that there had been a call from Calvortex.

‘Stage one completed successfully at least!’ he announced to Jessica when he returned to the bar, faintly flushed and obviously excited. ‘I’ve spoken to the Chairman and he’s agreed to see me tomorrow. I’ve explained to him that I’ve got my assistant with me, so he’s arranged for us to tour the factory, and afterwards we can talk.’

She wouldn’t be included in the talks, of course, Jessica reflected, but it wouldn’t be too difficult a task to occupy herself for a couple of hours—in fact she would enjoy seeing how such beautiful fabrics were made.

Although Colin had not suggested that she do so, she dressed with particular care for the visit—an outfit chosen from their new season’s designs, a cream silk blouse and a russet velvet suit with a tiny boxy jacket with narrow puffed sleeves and scrolls of self-coloured embroidery down the front. The skirt fell smoothly in soft loose pleats from the narrow waistband, and it was an outfit that Jessica knew suited her.

Colin obviously thought so too, because he beamed with approval when he saw her.

‘Very apt,’ he approved as he looked at her. ‘The jacket has a certain matador air, very much suited to this part of the world, and I must say I’m very pleased with the way that embroidery has worked out. The colour suits you as well.’

‘I thought about the tweed,’ Jessica told him, referring to a tweed suit which was also part of the new collection, ‘but as it doesn’t compare favourably with their fabrics, I thought …’

‘Quite right,’ he approved. ‘Now, I’ve ordered a taxi for us, we’ve just about got time for a cup of coffee before it arrives.’

He looked more like an Old Etonian than a famous designer, Jessica reflected, eyeing his sober Savile Row suit and immaculate silk shirt. Colin belonged to an older generation that believed in dressing correctly and that one could always tell a gentleman by his clothes—Turnbull & Asser shirts and handmade shoes.

The factory was situated just outside Seville, surprisingly modern and with access to the river and the port. It was, as Colin pointed out, very well planned, close to main roads and other facilities, and when he gave in their names at the gates they swung open to allow their vehicle to enter.

They were met in the foyer by a smiling dark-haired young man, dressed formally in a dark suit, his glance for them both extremely respectful, although there was a gleam of male interest in the dark eyes as they discreetly examined Jessica.

Having introduced himself as Ramón Ferres, he told them that he was to escort them round the factory.

‘Unfortunately the Conde cannot show you round himself,’ he explained in the sibilant, liquid English of the Spaniard, ‘but he will be free to have lunch with you as arranged,’ he informed Colin. ‘Forgive me if I stare,’ he added to Jessica, ‘but we did not realise when Señor Weaver mentioned an assistant that he was talking of a woman. I’m afraid you might find the chemical processes of the factory a little boring …’

‘Never,’ Colin interrupted with a chuckle, while Jessica suppressed a tiny flare of anger at their escort’s chauvinistic remark. Of course in Spain things were different. On the whole women were content to take a back seat to live their own lives, especially in the more wealthy families. No doubt someone such as Sebastian de Calvadores’s wife, if indeed he had one, would never dream of interfering in her husband’s life, or of questioning him about it. That was how they were brought up; to be docile and biddable, content with their families and their homes.

‘You’ll find that Jessica is far more knowledgeable about the manufacturing process than I am,’ Colin added to their guide. ‘In fact I suspect she prefers designing fabrics to designing clothes, if the truth were known.’

‘Both fascinate me,’ Jessica said truthfully.