by Anne Mather
Juan hesitated and then he nodded. ‘No, that is true. A moment, señorita.'
He left her and crossed the room to the door through which Miguel had entered before. The door closed behind him and for a while there was total silence. Emma felt unnerved. The impulse to escape while she had the chance was strong upon her, but something even stronger compelled her to stay.
The inner door opened again and Juan appeared and beckoned her. ‘Come! I have told Señor Salvaje you have something further to say to him.'
Emma wondered if that was exactly true. Did she have anything further to say? And if so—what? But she moved automatically towards him, and past him into Miguel's bedroom.
Miguel was not, as she had expected, in bed, but lying on top of it. And it was a very opulent bed with its quilted satin headboard and silken, tasselled covers. The whole room was elaborately furnished, but somehow Emma knew that Miguel would not have chosen such a setting had he had the choice.
Juan waited a moment by the opened door and then with a characteristic shrug went out and closed it behind him. Emma stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor, not quite knowing what to say now.
Miguel took the onus from her however, by saying: ‘You are fully recovered, señorita?'
Emma nodded. ‘I'm sorry.'
‘Why be sorry?'
‘Well, for—for having to—’ She broke off. ‘Miguel, I—’ She halted and looked miserably down at the thickly carpeted floor.
‘Juan tells me that you have something more to say to me,’ he urged, but his voice was cool, controlled.
‘I—I wanted to ask what you intend to do—about—about the attack.'
‘You are concerned for your fiancé, of course,’ he remarked bitterly.
‘I am concerned—about everything,’ she amended, looking at his injured hand, swathed in bandages, lying on the coverlet. ‘How—how long will it be before you can—use your fingers again?'
Miguel's jaw tightened. ‘Four—maybe six weeks.'
‘And your tour is cancelled. You are returning to Mexico.'
‘In a few days, yes.'
‘Yes.’ Emma took a step forward. ‘And afterwards—after the fingers mend, how long will it take—I mean, everything will be the same as before, won't it?'
‘You mean will I be able to play as well as before, don't you?'
‘I suppose I do.'
He shrugged. ‘That is in the lap of the gods, as they say. A pianist is an exceptional case. His fingers must be deft, agile, continually in use, continually flexed. If they are not used they begin to stiffen, the muscles harden, they lose their flexibility. To become a successful concert pianist takes years and years of dedication and practice. To anticipate the extent of the damage done by any means except time and experience is impossible.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘If you came in here seeking reassurance, expecting me to absolve you from all blame, then you will, I am afraid, be disappointed.'
Emma's lips trembled. ‘I didn't expect that. On the contrary, I'm overwhelmingly aware that it's all my fault—'
‘No.’ Miguel swung his legs to the ground and stood up. ‘No,’ he repeated harshly. ‘It is not all your fault. We are all to blame in some measure. But whether the punishment fits the crime is for you to decide.’ He walked the few spaces between them and stood looking down at her, his injured hand concealed again in the pocket of his robe. ‘You look so guilty, Emma. Why? I do not expect Harrison will lose much more than face.'
Emma glanced up at him. ‘You—you still maintain that Victor is involved. How—how can you be so sure?'
‘You know a boy called Michael Hanson?'
Emma gasped. ‘Of—of course.’ Michael Hanson was the nineteen-year-old son of Miles and Delia, at whose anniversary celebrations she had been this evening—with Victor. Unwillingly she recalled Victor's self-satisfied attitude; his smugness which had only been dispersed by her own foolish behaviour. ‘Why—why?'
‘He was one of the youths that attacked me.'
‘No!'
‘I'm afraid he was.'
‘But—but how do you know it was Michael?'
Miguel shrugged. ‘He lost something—something that belongs to him.'
‘But whatever it is, how—how can you prove you didn't just find it?'
Miguel's expression was wry. ‘What a devious little mind you have, Emma. That is a very intelligent observation. However, I am not without friends myself in London, and I think with the evidence at my disposal…’ He drew out his injured hand and fingered the heavy gold ring inset with a ruby which Emma had noticed before. ‘Yes, I think the facial appearance of this boy, Hanson, will take some explaining. I do not consider it will be too difficult to build up a case.'
Nor did Emma. ‘And that's what you intend to do?’ She licked her lips.
‘You have an alternative suggestion?'
‘How could I have?’ Emma felt sick again. ‘I—I'd better go.'
Miguel made no immediate move to prevent her and she moved unhappily towards the door. But then, as she reached for the handle, he said: ‘I have an alternative to offer.'
Emma looked back. ‘Yes?'
‘Yes.’ Miguel folded his arms, his bandaged fingers hidden again. ‘Marry me, and come back to Mexico with me, and I will forget all about this—unpleasantness.’ His lips twisted. ‘At least—I promise not to make things uncomfortable for Harrison.'
Emma grasped the door handle for support. ‘What did you say?'
‘I think you heard what I said, Emma.’ Miguel shrugged. ‘Marry me, and the policia shall hear no more of this.'
It was too much for her to absorb, and shaking her head a trifle bewildered, she pulled open the door and re-entered the lounge. The room was empty and she stood, swaying a little, her legs like jelly beneath her. She simply could not assimilate what she had just heard.
Miguel followed her and stood leaning against the door jamb watching her as she looked distractedly about for her coat. ‘What is wrong?’ he queried coldly. ‘The suggestion has no appeal, I gather.'
Emma turned to him in confusion. ‘I—I don't consider it amusing to be made a fool of,’ she said.
‘A fool?’ He frowned. ‘Why should you imagine I am trying to make a fool of you?'
Emma clenched her fists at her sides. ‘You can't honestly expect me to believe that you're actually asking me to marry you!'
‘Why not?'
Emma's mouth worked helplessly. ‘Why should you want to marry me?'
Miguel made an indifferent gesture. ‘I have my reasons.'
Emma stared at him, and then sighed in exasperation. ‘Oh, honestly!’ She lifted a cushion and tossed it down. ‘Where's my coat?'
‘You're turning me down, then?'
Emma halted again. ‘Miguel, this is England! I don't know what outlandish methods you have for choosing a bride out in Mexico, but here there has to be more than just an arrangement!’ She sighed again. ‘Besides, I don't believe you're really serious, whatever you say.'
‘Why?’ Miguel came further into the room. ‘Why shouldn't I want to marry you?'
Hot tears of frustration sprang to Emma's eyes and she dashed them away with a careless hand. ‘Stop it!’ she cried, covering her ears. ‘I won't listen to any more!'
Miguel came across to her, and when she would have backed away he put his uninjured hand round the back of her neck, gripping it so painfully that she was forced to take a step nearer to him. Her knees brushed the silk hem of his gown and she trembled violently.
‘Now,’ he said huskily, looking down into her face, ‘tell me: why shouldn't I want to marry you?'
Emma swallowed hard. ‘Please—let me go, Miguel!'
‘No. No, I won't let you go. And you don't really want me to, do you?’ He tipped her chin up with his thumb. ‘Do you?'
Emma fought for sanity, but she was overpoweringly conscious of his nearness, and when his hand slid down her back propelling her close against him, she realized that only the thin silk of his robe separated h
er from his lean, muscular body.
With a cry, she tore herself away from him, taking advantage of the fact that he had only one good hand, and not until she looked back at him did she realize that she must have hurt him. The pallor of his face was pronounced and he sought support from the back of a chair.
‘Oh, what do you want of me?’ she cried.
‘I want you,’ he replied harshly. ‘On my terms.'
She saw what a strain this was placing on him as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and compassion overcame all else. ‘You must go back to bed!’ she exclaimed. ‘We—we can talk about this when—when you've had time to rest.'
‘No.’ The word was a command. ‘I want your answer now—before you leave this apartment.'
‘But I don't know you—anything about you!’ she protested.
‘You will,’ he answered coldly.
‘You expect me to break my engagement to Victor and marry you wiithout giving myself time to think?'
‘What is there to think?’ Miguel's face was hard. ‘I wonder what Harrison would say if he knew how you were dicing with his reputation.'
‘That's not fair!'
‘Nor is this.’ Miguel held up his bandaged hand.
‘No—no, I know.’ Emma sighed. ‘But—but I can't make a decision, straight away. I can't.'
‘Why?'
‘Well, because—because it's so—so—'
‘Uncivilized?’ He uttered a low imprecation. ‘Very well, señorita, you have twenty-four hours to decide. And I am being more than generous.'
Emma's body sagged. ‘I can go now?'
‘Yes. You can go.’ He turned and walked back into his bedroom, and Emma stared after him helplessly. He had not told her where her coat was, and how was she to get home at—she consulted her watch—five o'clock in the morning!
As Miguel's door had closed behind him, she went nervously over to one of the other doors and knocked. There was no reply, and with great daring she turned the handle. But as the door opened, a sense of hysteria welled up inside her. It was a clothes closet, and there, hanging in front of her, was her coat.
She tugged the coat from its hanger, and put it on, and then started guiltily as another door opened. But it was only Juan Castillo and he looked at her curiously. ‘You are going home, señorita?'
Emma wondered whether he had expected her to stay. Perhaps he had thought that once in Miguel's bedroom there was little chance that she would emerge before daylight.
‘Yes,’ she said now. ‘Yes, I'm going home.'
‘I will take you.'
‘That's not necessary. I can get a cab.'
‘I insist.’ There was the same note of finality in Juan's voice as there had been in Miguel's and Emma gave in gracefully. She was too distraught and tired to make too many objections, and besides, she badly needed to be alone at home to try and make some sense from the confusion of the last hour.
* * *
Mrs. Cook was not about when Emma reached home, and yet she sensed somehow that the housekeeper was not asleep. Deciding to make some tea, she was in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil when Mrs. Cook came in, rubbing her cheeks tiredly.
‘So you're back!’ she remarked wearily. ‘How is he?'
Emma poured boiling water into the teapot. ‘Do you want some tea?'
‘Yes, please.’ Mrs. Cook looked at her strangely. ‘How is Señor Salvaje?'
‘He'll survive.’ Emma added milk to a second cup. ‘How many sugars?'
‘Two.’ Mrs. Cook perched herself on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. ‘How was he injured?'
‘Some youths set about him, apparently. As he left the theatre yesterday evening. Or perhaps I should say two evenings ago.’ Emma shook her head confusedly. ‘There's your tea.'
‘Thank you.’ Mrs. Cook stirred the steaming liquid absentmindedly. ‘That's terrible! Was he badly hurt?'
‘Multiple cuts and bruises. But that wasn't the worst of it. They broke three of his fingers.'
‘Oh, no!’ Mrs. Cook was genuinely shocked. ‘How awful!'
‘Yes, isn't it?’ Emma sipped her tea slowly. But all the time she felt numb. As though none of this was real, not Miguel, or Juan, or even Mrs. Cook, sitting there so reassuringly, making small talk. It couldn't be real. Victor couldn't have arranged for those boys to attack Miguel, just because the Mexican had given him a few bad moments. And Miguel couldn't have asked her to marry him and leave all this to go to a country she knew nothing about, to live with him God knows where. It was all fantastic; a dream, or perhaps a nightmare; certainly something that would disappear in the light of morning.
‘There'll be no more concerts, then,’ Mrs. Cook was saying now. ‘I suppose they'll catch the culprits, won't they? I mean, it would be terrible if they didn't. There'll be damages, of course. Considering what's at stake, I should think they'd be sky-high, wouldn't you?'
‘What?’ Emma was absent.
‘The damages! Heavens! Pianists’ fingers are insured for thousands of pounds, you know.’ She touched Emma's arm. ‘Aren't they?'
Emma sighed. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose so.'
‘You don't sound very concerned,’ remarked Mrs. Cook dryly. ‘Well, whoever is responsible deserves all they get, that's all I can say. They may have ruined his career, not to mention his life.’ She shook her head. ‘The violence that goes on in London today frightens me, it really does! Young thugs! They want a few strokes of the cat, that would settle them down!'
‘Oh, stop it, can't you?’ Emma's nerves were frayed to breaking point, and she couldn't prevent the outburst.
Mrs. Cook stared at her in surprise. ‘Well, I'm sorry, I'm sure,’ she said huffily, but Emma shook her head and gripped the older woman's arm tightly.
‘No! No, don't get upset, Mrs. Cook. I—I couldn't bear that. Not right now.'
Mrs. Cook frowned. ‘What is it? What's the matter with you? Why are you looking like that?’ An expression of dawning comprehension came over her face. ‘That man—he—he hasn't—'
Emma made an impatient gesture. ‘No, no, no! He's not seduced me, if that's what you're thinking. Nothing like that.'
‘Then what is wrong?'
Emma traced the pattern of the wood grain with a careless finger. ‘Lots of things,’ she answered distractedly.
Mrs. Cook sniffed. ‘Oh, Miss Emma! As soon as you get involved with that man again there's trouble! For heaven's sake, have nothing more to do with him!'
Emma gave a mirthless laugh, and Mrs. Cook looked really concerned. ‘You're tired,’ she said reprovingly. ‘You get along upstairs to bed, and if Mr. Harrison comes round this morning I'll tell him you can't see him.'
Emma gave the housekeeper a faint smile. ‘Oh, Mrs. Cook, if only it was that simple.'
‘What do you mean?'
‘What I say.’ Emma realized that no matter how she might pretend otherwise it was real, everything was real, and that sooner or later Mrs. Cook would have to learn the truth. Taking a deep breath, she said: ‘He wants me to marry him.'
Mrs. Cook could not have looked more astounded. ‘Who? This—this Salvaje fellow?'
‘That's right.’ Emma returned her attention to her tracing. ‘He asked me—about half an hour ago.'
Mrs. Cook gasped and got up to get herself another cup of tea. ‘I—I can't believe it,’ she exclaimed. ‘Why, he hardly knows you.'
‘I don't know him at all,’ replied Emma flatly.
‘Oh, it's ridiculous!’ Mrs. Cook came back to her seat. ‘Isn't it?'
‘Is it?'
‘Well, don't you think so?’ Mrs. Cook frowned. ‘You haven't—well—accepted him, have you?'
‘No.’ Emma was abrupt.
‘Thank the Lord for that!’ Mrs. Cook raised her eyes heavenward. Then she looked again at Emma. ‘So what's all this about?'
‘I haven't—refused him—either.'
‘What? But what about Mr. Harrison?'
‘Indeed! What about Mr. Harrison?’ Emma was sarcas
tic.
‘You know you're going to marry Mr. Harrison,’ went on Mrs. Cook severely. ‘Good heavens, you're just talking nonsense! You love Mr. Harrison and he loves you. I think he's been very patient with you in the circumstances.'
‘Do you?’ Emma sounded cynical. ‘I'm fond of Victor, of course…’ But even as she said the words a mental image of Miguel's bandaged fingers rose before her eyes. The Victor she was fond of would never have arranged such a brutal assault. Perhaps she didn't know him at all. They said you didn't know a man until you lived with him…
Mrs. Cook tapped her fingers on the table top nervously. ‘I think you're just saying all this to upset me,’ she said. ‘You can't seriously be considering marrying this—this—foreigner!'
Emma sighed. ‘Don't you like him?'
Mrs. Cook snorted. ‘I've only met the man a couple of times, and on neither of those occasions did he behave in a way I would have approved of.'
‘Why? Because he didn't adhere to the rules?'
‘Rules? What rules?’ Mrs. Cook was confused.
Emma shook her head. ‘Never mind,’ she replied. A sense of inevitability was overtaking her and she could have smiled to herself when she considered how complacently she had gone out to the Hansons’ party with Victor, never dreaming that within twelve hours her whole life would have been turned upside down.
Mrs. Cook rose to her feet. ‘Well, if you're going to talk like this I'm going back to bed. I don't know what's got into you, Miss Emma! I've said it before, and I'll say it again, this man causes nothing but trouble, and you're a fool if you have anything more to do with him.'
Emma looked up at her. ‘Lots of girls would envy me,’ she remarked dryly. ‘He's a very attractive man, don't you think so?'
Mrs. Cook pursed her lips reprovingly. ‘It's nothing to do with me,’ she said shortly. ‘But I think you'd better write to your father and ask his opinion before you decide to do anything rash.'
‘I couldn't do that,’ Emma returned her attention to her half empty cup. ‘I have to give him an answer this evening.'
Mrs. Cook caught her breath, and then turning, walked determinedly out of the kitchen.
After she had gone, Emma hunched her shoulders and propped her chin on her fists. If only her father had been there, she thought longingly. But then, if he had, she could never have told him the truth any more than she could tell Mrs. Cook.