by Anne Mather
She swung round in her seat. “I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something, señor,” she remarked coldly.
Rafael sighed, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had not agreed to become a part of this impossible situation. “It is simply that my brother is concerned for the child’s welfare, señorita,” he stated flatly. “Is it not natural that this should be so. These past weeks she has been—how shall I say?—the centre of attention.”
“But she doesn’t remember who she is, does she?” Miranda retorted. “How do you think she’ll feel when she discovers that her—her parents are dead?”
“That is impossible to answer, of course.”
“Of course.” She hunched her shoulders. “But don’t you think that for a child of Lucy’s age, having someone she knows, someone she really knows, to care for her, is more important in the immediate term than anything else?”
“Perhaps so, señorita.”
“But you’re not sure, are you?” She tossed her head impatiently. “I’m beginning to think I know why your brother did not come to meet me himself. He wanted you to plead his case—didn’t he? Be his advocate! But why? What does Lucy mean to him?”
Rafael saw the lights of Puebla looming ahead of them with some relief. “We will complete our journey by helicopter, señorita,” he stated stiffly. “Then you will meet my brother and judge for yourself what his motives may be.”
At the airport, formalities were soon dealt with, and he led the way to that quieter corner of the airfield where a silver and blue helicopter glinted in the dull lights. Miranda had said nothing since leaving the car, and if she was surprised to find herself expected to complete the journey in a helicopter she made no demur. It was Rafael who found himself growing increasingly disturbed and after securing her in the seat beside him he fastened his own straps with impatient fingers. He should never have come on this mission. If anything he had prejudiced the girl against Juan by his own carelessness.
In the air he felt a little more relaxed. Flying, whether in the helicopter or in the monoplane also owned by the estate, always relaxed him. His father had been a keen pilot and some of Rafael’s earliest memories were of being taken up in an aeroplane and subjected to the kind of aerobatics calculated to shake the hardest nerves. But Rafael had loved it, and by the time he was fourteen he could handle a plane almost as well as his father. Of course, his mother had not known, not then, but as soon as he was old enough to hold a licence it had become one of his greatest pleasures. A pleasure he had denied himself of late.
Now as he turned the helicopter towards the valley of the Lima, he reflected that he could afford to be pleasant to the girl when in a little over an hour she would no longer be his responsibility. He knew the terrain like the back of his hand, and felt he could have flown the chopper in blindfold. He glanced towards his passenger and saw her taut features revealed in the diffused lighting from the instrument panel. He felt a sense of remorse. He had been cold and unyielding, totally unlike his normal self. It was not her fault that he instinctively recoiled from her easy familiarity. What must she be thinking of him?
He shook his head. Juan should not be too disappointed. After all, he, too, had been expecting an older woman. What he would say when he confronted this emancipated specimen of womanhood might be interesting to hear. But something had to be said now and Rafael sought for suitable words.
“No one has any intention of trying to—take your niece—if indeed the child is your niece—away from you, señorita,” he averred at last.
She looked sideways at him. “No one could.”
Her determination was irritating. She was obviously unaware of the power of the Cueras family if she imagined her words would carry much weight here.
“I—should not take that attitude, señorita,” he replied quietly. “You are not in England now.”
“Are you threatening me, señor?” she demanded incredulously, and his knuckles showed white through the skin of his hands.
“No, señorita, I am not threatening you. I am merely offering sound advice.”
She directed her attention towards him. “And what do you do, señor? Do you work for your brother on this estate Father Esteban mentioned in his letters? Are you working for him now?”
Rafael could not remember feeling so angry for a very long time. “No,” he managed, through clenched teeth. “I do not work for my brother, señorita. I have no connection with the estate.”
“I see.”
But she was puzzled. He sensed that. However he had no intention of enlightening her further. She would learn soon enough no doubt. But not from him. He did not altogether understand his antipathy towards the girl, but he wanted nothing more to do with her.
Thereafter there was silence between them. They flew in over the mountain ranges, dropping low into the valley where lights pricked the gloom below them. A fugitive moon slid from behind clouds long enough to illuminate the grey walls of the Hacienda Cueras, but then they fell behind them as the helicopter dropped down to the valley floor where a narrow airstrip flanked by adobe buildings provided a necessary landing area. As they landed Miranda looked curiously about her., probably noticing the lack of formal buildings.
“Is this it?” she asked, and he nodded.
“This is it, seˉnTorita,” he agreed coolly, thrusting back the sliding perspex door as the propellers slowed to a stop. “Only a short journey in a Landrover and you will be at the Hacienda Cueras.”
“Oh, but—” Miranda broke off. “I thought Lucy was staying at the mission with Father Esteban.”
“She is, señorita. But the mission is small, accommodation is limited. My brother insists you accept his hospitality. Besides, it would not be advisable to upset the child at this time of night.”
He thought she was about to refuse, but although her mobile mouth tightened she tossed back her hair with a careless hand and bent to unfasten her safety harness. He offered her his hand to climb out, and after a moment’s hesitation she took it, her fingers slim and cool in his. It was the first time he had touched her, and he could tell from the way her eyes darted to his face that she was not unaware of him. But he withdrew his hand as soon as he could and turned away with relief to speak to Gerardo Sanchez, the mechanic, who lived in one of the adobe buildings. They spoke in a swift patois, a mixture of Mexican and the native Nahuatlan, which successfully excluded Miranda. All the same, Rafael was conscious of her standing there, behind him, slim and elegant, in spite of her casual attire, looking about her with interested eyes.
It was quite cold now, and after a moment he dismissed Gerardo and turned back to her.
“Come,” he said. “The Landrover is waiting, and so, too, is my brother. Gerardo tells me that he did not get my message last evening informing him that your plane had been delayed.”
He set off across the tarmac and she fell into step beside him. “What do you mean?” she asked in surprise. “Didn’t you telephone.”
Rafael cast her an impatient look. “There are no telephones in the high valleys of the Chiapas, señorita.“ He shrugged. “No doubt both he and my mother have convinced themselves by now that I have either run the Mustang off the highway, or crashed the helicopter!”
Miranda bit her lip, looking at him anxiously, and in the fleeting light of the moon she saw the amusement touching his mouth. She smiled suddenly, and a gulp of laughter escaped her.
“It is not funny,” he asserted, straightening his lips, but her smile was infectious and in spite of himself he grinned back.
“You look so much nicer when you smile,” she exclaimed impulsively, and he was glad that they had reached the Landrover and thus was not obliged to make any response.
Gerardo slung the luggage into the back and raised his hand in farewell, and then they bumped off across the grassy sward that led to the track. The scent of pine and underbrush filled the air, mingling with the baser scents of earth and humanity. Rafael handled the Landrover expertly, accelerating as they
left the airstrip behind and began the ascent into the foothills.
The Hacienda Cueras looked particularly beautiful in the light cast from its many windows, and Miranda exclaimed at the mosaic tiling on the stone fountain in the forecourt which he usually took for granted. He found the sound of its falling waters cooling on a hot afternoon, but that was all.
He had hardly stopped the vehicle before the shallow steps which led up to the shadowed portico when the mesh door was opened and his mother stood silhouetted against the light beyond. She spread her hands welcomingly and came hurrying down the steps towards him as he stepped from the Landrover.
“Rafael! Oh, Rafael!” she exclaimed weakly. “Dios gracias, estas aqui! De donde—”
“No ahora, Madrecita,” said Rafael soothingly. “Estoy seguro.” He took her clinging arms from around his neck, glancing back to where Miranda Lord was just getting out of the Landrover. “Esta Miss Lord, Madrecita. Miss Miranda Lord.”
Doña Isabella’s eyes widened in surprise as she took in the informally clad girl behind him. “This is—the child’s aunt from England?” she asked in that language.
Rafael hid his amusement at his mother’s astonishment. If he had been surprised, his mother was shocked.
“That is correct,” he agreed. “Miss Lord, this is my mother, Doña Isabella Cueras.”
Miranda held out her hand and Doña Isabella shook it politely, but her expression was far from welcoming. However, politeness was an inbred instinct, and she managed to say: “I hope you had a good journey, señorita.”
Miranda nodded. “Reasonably so. The flight was delayed twenty-four hours in Jamaica through engine trouble. I’m sorry if you’ve been worried, but your son did send a message.”
Doña Isabella’s dark eyes turned to her son. “Is this so, Rafael?”
“Of course. Gerardo told me you did not receive it.”
Doña Isabella made an impatient sound. “No, we did not. We have been most concerned about you, Rafael. And—and about you, too, of course, señorita.“ This last was clearly an afterthought.
Rafael leaned into the back of the Landrover and hauled out Miranda’s belongings. “Well, it is over now. We are arrived safely. And if you will excuse me, there are matters which require my immediate attention.”
Miranda stared at him in dismay. “You’re—leaving?”
Rafael made her a slight bow. “I am afraid so. As I told you, señorita, I do not live at the hacienda. My mother will take care of you and presently my brother will show himself.”
She made a helpless gesture. “But—”
Rafael turned away from the appeal in her eyes and ignoring his mother’s reproachful: “Rafael!” he climbed back into the Landrover. “Adios, amigos. Nos hablaremos pronto. Adios!”
CHAPTER THREE
MIRANDA had never slept between silk sheets before. Indeed, she had scarcely been aware that such luxuries existed, born as she had been into an ordinary household whose budget only ran to flannelette in winter and cotton in summer. Of course, after her parents had been killed there had been no household to speak of; her sister, Susan, was already married and as Miranda herself had been only fourteen and still at school at the time she had had little choice but to make her home with them. It had not been an altogether satisfactory arrangement. She and Susan had vastly different temperaments and Susan’s jealousy over the younger girl’s popularity caused a great deal of dissention. In addition to which, Lucy had just appeared on the scene, and as Susan chose to neglect herself in favour of the child, her husband turned more and more towards Miranda. Miranda didn’t encourage him, but she was naturally friendly with everyone and it wasn’t until it was too late that she defined his intentions. It was perhaps fortunate for all concerned that she was able to leave school and go on to college, and in the holidays she always managed to get work that provided living accommodation. But it was still a shock when they went missing, although she did not miss them as much as she would have done had they always been a closely knit family.
Now Miranda moved her legs lazily beneath the silken coverings and wondered however she was going to sleep with so many disturbing thoughts on her mind.
Her room, to which she had been shown after Rafael Cueras’s departure, was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. The walls were hung with caramel silk, the wide bed and long windows were draped with apricot brocade, and there was a long fitted unit in a dark wood which she felt sure was not just a veneer. There was a circle of fluffy white carpet on the floor and around its edges the wood gleamed from frequent polishings. Adjoining this magnificent apartment was an equally magnificent bathroom whose appointments, while being a little outdated, were nevertheless built on the grand scale. The whole building exuded luxury and elegance and was far more impressive than anything she had expected. As for the owner, Juan Cueras—well, he was apt to be overshadowed, in her mind at least, by his brother, Rafael.
She sighed and rolled on to her back. Don Juan! She said the words deliberately. She had never expected to meet an actual Don Juan in the flesh, although the living being had been far different from the legend. His brother would have suited the name more appropriately. Rafael!
She punched the soft pillows impatiently. Why did her thoughts turn persistently to that man? He had not even treated her with common courtesy. He had behaved as if she were guilty of some crime in coming here to find her niece. All the same, he had been attractive, she conceded moodily, and it was the first time in her young life that any man had treated her with such indifference. His brother had treated her altogether differently, so why didn’t she think of him more favourably?
After Rafael had driven away, Doña Isabella had escorted her into the hacienda. She, like her son, did not appear to look with favour on his visitor from England, but she was infinitely more polite. She suggested that Miranda was tired and that perhaps it would be as well if she left all further introductions until the morning. She proposed that Miranda should be shown to her room, offered some food, and then retire for the night.
And, indeed, that prospect was not altogether displeasing to Miranda herself. She was tired, and she guessed that Doña Isabella, like Rafael, had expected someone older and therefore needed time to make the adjustment. But at that moment, a door to their left opened and a man emerged who could only be Juan Cueras. She saw the resemblance to Rafael at once, only this man was more swarthy, thicker set, and only about her own height.
“Qué?” he exclaimed in surprise when he saw them. “Donde es Rafael?” And then a curious smile spread over his face. “I hear a vehicle, Mama,” he went on in English. “Is Rafael home?”
His mother’s lips tightened. “Rafael has been and gone, Juan. Miss—Miss Lord’s plane was delayed in Jamaica. That was why he did not come home last night.” She bit into her lower lip. “Er—this is my son, señorita—Don Juan Cueras.”
Miranda responded to his warm smile. “How do you do, señor. I’m very grateful to you for offering me your hospitality.”
Juan Cueras surveyed her appraisingly, and then shook his head. “You are the aunt of the child?” He chuckled. “But no—you are little more than a child yourself, señorita.”
His words were similar to those used by his brother, but his intonation was vastly different. It seemed that at least one person did not object to her presence here in Guadalima, and of all of them he perhaps had the most reason.
Doña Isabella was less enthusiastic. “I was just suggesting that Miss Lord might prefer to go at once to her room, Juan,” she remarked insistently. “I have no doubt that she is tired, and all discussions concerning her reasons for being in the valley can be conducted so much less emotionally in the light of morning.”
Juan looked speculatively at Miranda. “And is this your wish, too, Miss Lord?”
“I—” Miranda had been at a loss to know what to reply. “I am tired. I did not sleep well in the hotel in Kingston.”
Doña Isabella looked relieved. “It is so, then.
I will have Jezebel show you to your room. Everything is prepared. Jezebel is the housekeeper here, señorita. She will ensure that you have everything you need.”
“You’re very kind.” Miranda managed a smile of thanks, but when his mother went to summon the housekeeper, Juan Cueras lingered.
“Tell me, Miss Lord,” he intoned quietly, “did my brother tell you how—me gusta—er—I—I care for the niña? Lucy, is it not?”
Miranda relaxed, “Of course. And I should thank you for what you’ve done for her. Father Esteban has written and told me how often you’ve visited her—how often she had visited you here.”
Juan’s swarthy features expanded. “No tanto. Soy su amigo—we are friends, si?”
“I’m sure your attention has made everything so much easier for her,” insisted Miranda, looking about her with interest. “And this beautiful old house—she must love coming here”
Juan was making some deprecatory comment when his mother returned accompanied by an elderly Indian woman whom Miranda assumed must be the housekeeper, Jezebel. It was an unlikely name for such a wizened old creature, but her eyes were sharp and appraising and Miranda guessed they missed nothing.
“You will show Señorita Lord to her room and provide her with a light meal, Jezebel,” Doña Isabella was saying as they neared the others, and Jezebel was nodding.
“Si, señora.” Continuing to stare at the newcomer, she said: “You come—por favor?”
“Yes, go with Jezebel,” directed Doña Isabella, linking hands on which glinted a veritable fortune in diamonds. “She will take good care of you. We will meet again in the morning.”
“Yes. Yes, thank you.” Miranda glanced awkwardly at Juan. “Goodnight then—Doña Isabella; señor.”
She could not bring herself to say Don Juan, although she supposed that this was his usual appellation. However, he seemed to notice nothing amiss and presently she was walking behind Jezebel up a baroque staircase followed at some distance by one of the menservants carrying her case and haversack.