The High Valley

by Anne Mather

  She shook her head at him, compressing her lips, and Morgana felt uncomfortable at this unexpected display of emotion. To hide her confusion, she turned and looked out through the glass panels of the door to the courtyard. The sun was dipping behind the mountains and long shadows painted the terrace in sombre shades. A sudden sense of melancholy gripped her, and a longing for familiar things and familiar places swept over her. How long was she expected to remain here, and why was she being subjected to such individual treatment? Would she have felt better amongst the other passengers? Would she have felt more secure?

  She rubbed the side of her nose with an impatient finger. She must not be so stupidly sensitive to her situation. She must try to harden herself so that whatever was to happen to her would be that much less painful when it happened. But what was going to be so painful? she asked herself searchingly. Why was she so afraid suddenly of being hurt, of losing her identity in feelings that could only bring misery and devastation? She was allowing events to control her instead of her controlling them, and perhaps being brought here was the best thing that could have happened to her in the circumstances. Maybe detachment from the object of her self-assessment would bring detachment to her. She hoped so; oh, she did hope so. Luis Salvador was not like other men, and no matter how she might argue otherwise he was the reason for her sense of desolation …

  A moment later he came to her side and looked at her intently. “Well, Morgana,” he said. “I am leaving now. I shall be back in two – maybe, three days.”

  Morgana hardened her expression. “And I suppose you cannot tell me how long I must remain here?”

  Luis's eyes darkened. “No. But you are well here, and you will be adequately looked after. Surely that cannot be so bad?”

  Morgana opened her mouth as though to protest and then closed it again. Marianna was watching them with unconcealed impatience and as though sensing this Luis put out a hand and opened the door. His mother came forward at once and they exchanged another kiss before he went out without speaking another word to Morgana.

  After he had gone she felt limp and wholly incapable of dealing with a woman as obviously strong-willed as Marianna Salvador. She had no idea how they would deal with one another. Their situation was so strange that they had no precedent on which to draw. She gave one final glance to the courtyard beyond the glass panels of the door and saw the heavy wooden doors being opened by the boy and Luis canter through on his great black stallion. Then the doors were closed and he was gone.

  A real pain tore through Morgana's stomach for a moment, almost paralysing her, and Marianna Salvador considered her white face with curious eyes. Then she said: “Come! I will show you your room and then we will dine together. Benjo!”

  For a moment Morgana thought the word she had spoken meant some command, but as a man appeared from down the hall at her summons she realised this must be the name of the servant. He bowed politely in Morgana's direction and Marianna indicated that he should take charge of Morgana's cases. Morgana followed her hostess up the softly carpeted staircase rather unsteadily, silently admiring the intricately carved balustrade and the high arched ceiling above them. They reached a long narrow landing and Marianna flung open a door to their right, entering the room and gesturing that Morgana should do likewise.

  Morgana found herself in a softly carpeted apartment that would not have looked out of place in one of the luxury hotels in Rio. There was a wide bed covered with a deep blue satin coverlet, a teak wardrobe and dressing table, and a heavy teak writing bureau. Orange and blue curtains hung at tall windows that stood ajar to a balcony that looked out over the whole sweep of lake and gorge. Morgana was drawn irresistibly to the balcony, stepping out and allowing the wind which was stronger now as evening drew on to lift her hair into wild disorder. The chill of its fingers cleared her head and she gripped the rail tightly for a moment before turning back to face Luis's mother.

  “It's – it's beautiful!” she said, helplessly. “I – I never expected anything like this.”

  “Did you think we were savages then?” Marianna asked, and her voice was coldly challenging.

  Morgana shook her head. “No, of course not. It's just – well – so unexpected to find a place like this so far from –” She halted. She had been about to say civilisation, but she knew that was the wrong thing to say to a woman like Marianna Salvador who was so obviously civilised. But although she had not finished her sentence she sensed that Marianna knew exactly what she had been thinking.

  Marianna looked about the room with obvious pleasure. “This is Luis's room,” she said, with reluctance. “But, of course, lately he has not used it.”

  Morgana's palms moistened at these words. “I see,” she said. “I – I – is there no other apartment I could use? I mean –” She hastened into speech: “If – if you would rather I did not use this room, of course!”

  Marianna's cool eyes turned in her direction. “You are to have this room,” she said, firmly, and then with a vague gesture of her hands she turned away and spoke to Benjo who was putting Morgana's cases on a low ottoman that stood at the foot of the bed. Then, after the man had departed, she said: “Dinner will be ready in a little over half an hour. If you would like to wash and comb your hair I will leave you now. Come down to the hall when you are ready.”

  “Yes, senhora!” Morgana bit her lip awkwardly.

  Marianna hesitated. “Oh – I should tell you. The bathroom adjoins this room, but as there is only one we must share. Bathrooms are an expensive luxury even here.”

  Morgana nodded, and with a faint acknowledgement of her eyes Marianna left, closing the door securely behind her.

  After she had gone, Morgana sank down weakly onto the bed, smoothing the satin texture with exploratory fingers. This was Luis's room, she thought rather tremulously. This was his bed. And no doubt he had commanded that she slept here. Certainly the decision had not been his mother's from her attitude. Morgana lay back, lifting her hair so that her neck was against the cool material of the coverlet. What a strange man he was. A man against whom she had no defences …

  Later, after taking the unexpected luxury of a bath, she felt refreshed. Somehow the water must be pumped from the lake, she thought, and a gas heater, run no doubt from cylinders, provided deliciously hot water on tap. She wondered as she lay in the water how many people lived at the Villa Carrilhão. She mused, too, on that word, carrillião. Even her limited Portuguese ran to its translation – the chiming of bells. She sighed, soaping her arms liberally with the perfumed soap that was provided. It was a charming name, and certainly the house itself had charm, but what of its chatelaine? Marianna Salvador was as yet an enigma. And yet in many ways already Morgana had witnessed the similarity between her and her sons. She wondered if Marianna had any daughters, or whether Luis and Ricardo were her only offspring. Certainly she had never heard any mention of any other member of the family, apart from Vittorio of course and he was only their uncle.

  She dressed in a long gown of pale blue chiffon which had an elaborately smocked bodice that fitted tightly below her breasts and flared into folds of softness to her ankles. Her initial doubt as to what was suitable had given way under the acceptance that she must wear what seemed most suited to the occasion and she had the distinct feeling that Marianna Salvador would most definitely dress for dinner.

  She brushed her hair until it shone and then left it loose, confined only by two combs at her temples. She stood before the dressing table mirror for several minutes before plucking up courage to go down but finally she knew she had to go.

  Darkness had fallen while she was taking her bath and in her absence someone had lighted gas lamps in her bedroom, and as she descended the staircase she found that the hall was now illuminated by a huge crystal chandelier in which burned dozens of small candles. It was very imposing and Morgana wondered, rather uncharitably, whether Marianna Salvador was endeavouring to intimidate her by this display of magnificence.

  However, as
she reached the hall and stood, looking about her rather hesitantly, a man came out of a room at her right and came to meet her. As he drew into the light of the chandelier, Morgana saw he was a priest, wearing the dark clothes and round white collar of his calling. He was a man past middle age, dark and heavily built, bearing a distinct resemblance to the other members of the Salvador family.

  “Senhorita Mallory,” he said, smilingly. “Good evening.”

  “Good evening,” responded Morgana, rather nervously, glancing round for Marianna.

  The man took her hand and raised it almost to his lips in a gallant gesture. Then he said: “I must apologise for my sister-in-law's absence, but she has not yet come down, and now I must introduce myself. I am Juan Salvador, uncle to Luis and Ricardo. Their father was my brother.”

  Morgana made some polite response, and the priest said: “Shall we go into the – er – lounge? My sister-in-law will be down shortly, but we may help ourselves to a drink, I think.”

  Morgana accompanied him helplessly, and they entered an enormous room, one wall of which was almost entirely fitted with windows overlooking the lake as her room – Luis's room – did above. It was luxuriously carpeted in a deep gold and blue design while the comfortable chairs and couches were upholstered in golden hide that was soft and buttoned and looked extremely comfortable. There was a cocktail cabinet flanking rows of book-cases, a desk and a record-player, and an enormous fireplace which was presently filled with the aromatic scent of burning pine logs. Although lamps had been lighted in the room the curtains were not drawn and there was sufficient light still to see the expanses of the lake far away below them.

  Luis's uncle indicated that Morgana should sit down by the fire and then crossed to the cocktail cabinet. “What may I offer you?” he enquired. “A wine, or perhaps a martini, or a cocktail?”

  Morgana shook her head quickly. “Some – some fruit juice would be fine,” she said, awkwardly, and he looked aghast.

  “Oh, come, you must taste our wine, grown here in the valley.”

  Morgana coloured. “Very well. Thank you.”

  Juan Salvador poured some pale liquid into a glass and came across to hand it her. She noticed he drank nothing, but seated himself beside her studying her with obvious intensity. When her gaze flickered defensively to his, he smiled again.

  “You are nervous, senhorita,” he murmured softly. “Don't be. You have nothing to fear from us – only from yourself.”

  Morgana frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He frowned now and shrugged his shoulders. “I sense a certain – shall we say – vulnerability about you, senhorita. To me that means only one thing. You are in some way involved in what is happening. You do not perhaps wish to be involved, but nevertheless you are.”

  Morgana managed a bright smile. “Are you a psychologist, senhor?”

  He compressed his lips. “Are we not all just a little capable of assessing our fellow human beings? I was merely commenting on the undoubted warmth of your nature.”

  “But you know nothing about me, senhor.”

  “You may call me Father Juan,” he said. Then: “And I know much about you. Both Luis and Ricardo have spoken of you, and your presence in the valley has caused no little – upheaval.”

  “But why?” Morgana couldn't prevent the question.

  Juan Salvador sighed. “You don't know?”

  “If I did, would I be asking?” Then she sighed also. “I'm sorry. That was rude.”

  Juan smiled. “But understandable,” he remarked. Without answering her however, he went on: “Tell me what you think of this house.”

  Morgana gave a resigned shrug of her shoulders. “It's – it's very unexpected,” she said. “Do you live here, too, senhor?”

  He inclined his head. “For the present,” he conceded. “But soon I must go and visit other districts – other villages. My people stretch the whole length of this troubled country of ours, but soon their suffering must cease and the dictator, Queras, must be deposed.”

  Morgana was taken aback at the vehemence of his tone, and as though sensing this he sank back against the upholstery and stretched his legs towards the fire. “Now you must forgive me,” he said. “I must not bring politics into our conversation.”

  “No, please,” exclaimed Morgana, “go on! I find it fascinating.”

  Father Juan shook his head. “I would rather talk about you, senhorita. How long have you known my nephews?”

  Morgana frowned. “Just since the reception at the Embassy, she replied. “Didn't they tell you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Father Juan was vague; deliberately so, Morgana thought. “And what do you know of them?”

  “Very little,” she replied, quickly. “Why do you ask?”

  The priest put the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully. “I am curious to know the relationship between you,” he said. “It is important to me.”

  Morgana compressed her lips. “I'd rather not discuss such matters,” she said. “My involvement with your nephews is purely involuntary.”

  “You know that is not true.”

  “I know that Ricardo arranged that I should be on the plane that was captured, but apart from that …” Her voice trailed away.

  “But you cannot deny that you find my nephews – er – attractive – interesting?”

  Morgana stiffened. “I don't know what you mean.”

  Father Juan sighed. “I think you do, senhorita.”

  Her colour deepened. “Look, senhor, I was brought here under duress. I'd willingly leave your valley tomorrow were I given the opportunity! I cannot see how my personal relationship with either of your nephews need be of any consequence to you!” She was breathing quickly as she finished, and the heated exchange had dispelled any small appetite she might have had. With a muffled exclamation, she got to her feet, and was about to excuse herself when there was a sound outside and Marianna Salvador swept into the room.

  Swept was the perfect word to describe her entrance. Morgana had been correct in thinking that her hostess changed for dinner, and in a gown of turquoise brocade Marianna was magnificent, her dark hair secured by jewelled combs. Long diamond ear-rings hung from her lobes and around her neck was a collar of diamonds and emeralds. Her gaze flickered over Father Juan and came to rest on Morgana's flushed cheeks Then she looked back at her brother-in-law.

  “Juan?” she said, questioningly. “What have you been saying to our guest?”

  Juan Salvador spread his hands apologetically. “Why, nothing of consequence, Marianna,” he denied, lightly. “The senhorita feels rather strongly about her position here, that is all.”

  Morgana made an involuntary gesture. “I wonder – could I be excused?” she asked, tautly. “I – I'm not hungry, and I am rather tired. It's been quite – quite a day!”

  Marianna frowned. “Oh, come, Senhorita Mallory. Surely you are not afraid of us. I can assure you, there will be no more catechisms tonight.”

  Morgana twisted her hands together. “If you wouldn't mind–”

  “But I do mind,” said Marianna, firmly. “Now – let us have no more of this ridiculousness. Benjo has the food all ready for us. Juan – shall we go in?”

  Dinner was served in a small dining room adjoining this huge lounge. The table was lit by candelabra, and there was a centre piece of white magnolias set among lush green leaves. The polished surface of the table reflected the silver cutlery and crystalware, and Morgana managed to make an effort to eat when her meal was served on bone china plates. But her appetite was practically non-existent, and not even the exquisitely prepared casserole, only lightly spiced, or the fresh peach gateau could tempt her. There was coffee to follow, which was delicious, strong and aromatic, to which she added cream and sugar. Father Juan and her hostess also had a liqueur, but she refused and drank two cups of coffee instead.

  Then they returned to the lounge and Morgana was allowed to escape. She was quite sure her hostess would have liked to have question
ed her, too, but after the interchange earlier she had decided to delay it. So Morgana went up to her room, and closed the door firmly against all comers.

  Without switching on the light, she walked to the window, stepping out onto the balcony compulsively. In the far distance, vague lights could be discerned and she wondered whether it was possible to see the other end of the valley from here. It seemed doubtful, so the lights must be nearer than she had thought. Below, deep and mysterious, stretched the depths of the lake, and a faint thunder, carried on the breeze, was the sound of the waterfall. It was very lonely, and very peaceful, and it seemed incredible that she was here because of the violent actions of a few men. It didn't seem possible that across these mountains, on the plains above the coast, a man was presiding over his government, hardly aware that plans were being made at this moment to destroy his regime …

  CHAPTER VII

  WHEN Morgana awoke the next morning she lay for some minutes wondering where she was. Her surroundings were so comfortable, the bed so luxuriously soft that she couldn't believe she was still in La Nava. But as full realisation came to her, she stretched sleepily, wondering with sensuous release how long it was since Luis had used this bed. Thinking of him brought the warmth flooding to her body, and with impatient movements she slid swiftly out of bed, padding to the window and leaning on the balcony rail. Although her gown was very revealing she did not bother to use a wrap. There was no one to overlook her here.

  The air was still chill, and a glance at her watch told her it was only a little after seven a.m. But for all there were mists on the mountain, the sun was slowly beginning to penetrate the clouds auguring well for another beautiful day. No one, she thought, could imagine a more idyllic place to live, even though it was isolated and relied entirely on itself for sustenance. There was something so primitive and natural about its existence that it seemed far removed from the strivings of modern society.

  Turning back into the room she washed quickly and then dressed in dark pants and a polo-necked blue sweater. The house seemed deserted as she descended to the hall and she looked about her curiously wondering what the arrangements were for breakfast.