by Anne Mather
Miranda turned to look at him in surprise, and he flexed his shoulder muscles wearily, unconsciously drawing her attention to the silver cross on its slender chain resting among the curls of dark hair on his chest. Then, as though becoming aware of her scrutiny and resenting it, he slid from his seat, saying abruptly: “Come! I will provide you with some coffee, señorita.”
“This is your house!”
Miranda was incredulous, but she wished she had not shown such astonishment when he replied curtly: “Yes, señorita. This is where I live while I am here. It is not so impressive as the hacienda, I know, but it is clean and it suits me very well.”
Miranda scrambled out of the Landrover. “I—I didn’t mean—that is—I think it’s delightful!” she exclaimed uncomfortably.
Rafael made no comment but went ahead of her up the path to the door. Inside, a stone-flagged passage ran from front to back, with several doors opening from it. It was cool inside after the heat of the day, and there was a lingering scent of ground coffee.
Rafael opened a door to their right as they entered and showed her into a small sitting room. The floor here had been tempered by the strewing of several rugs, and there was a comfortable settee, a desk, and an occasional table.
“If you will please sit, I shall not be a moment,” he suggested politely, and Miranda couldn’t think of anything else to say at that moment.
However, after he had left her, she moved about the room restlessly, and presently opened the door into the corridor and looked out. Perhaps she ought to have offered to make the coffee for him, she thought, impatient with herself for not thinking of it before. But did he live here alone, or did someone share it with him? She remembered again what Constancia had said about Rafael thinking like a doctor. Was he a doctor? Was this perhaps his surgery as well as his home? And what had he meant by saying that this was where he lived when he was here? Where else did he live? Not at the hacienda, she was sure of that.
Leaving the sitting room door ajar, she walked tentatively along the passage. The other doors were all closed except for one at the end, but when she peeped in here she found it was the kitchen and Rafael was heating a percolator on a small gas stove.
“Can I do anything to help?” she asked, and he looked round at her, almost irritably, she thought. But why? He had brought her here. She hadn’t asked to come.
“No. No, I can manage, señorita,” he refused curtly. “It is almost ready.”
Miranda lingered. She could sense that she was not welcome, but as she couldn’t understand why she didn’t see why she should scuttle away like a chastised mouse.
“Do you live here alone?” she asked, running her fingers over the roughened surface of a scrubbed wooden table that clearly served the dual purpose of working and eating space.
Rafael nodded. “More or less.”
“What does that mean?”
He turned off the percolator as it began to bubble. “Sometimes Doctor Rodrigues will leave a patient in my care. I have rooms to spare.”
Miranda looked at him through her lashes. “And are you a doctor?”
He looked up. “I am entitled to put M.D. after my name, if that is what you mean, señorita.”
Miranda didn’t understand this ambiguous remark and was silent for a moment as she watched him pouring strong black coffee into thick white beakers.
“I regret I cannot offer you bone china,” he commented, passing her a beaker and indicating the jug of milk and bowl of sugar on the table. “Please—help yourself.”
Miranda spooned sugar into her cup and stirred it. “This is fine,” she said, forcing a polite smile.
“Shall we go back to the lounge, señorita?” he suggested, inclining his head towards the door, and she hesitated for a moment before saying:
“There’s no need.” She sat down on the wooden stool beside the table. “This is fine.”
She sensed his impatience at her perversity, but short of ordering her out of the kitchen there was nothing he could do. Instead, he rested his back against the white stone sink and raised his beaker of coffee to his lips. Miranda watched him surreptitiously and wondered at her own curiosity about him. He was attractive, it was true, but she had known many more handsome men. So what was it about him that aroused this awareness of his physical presence? Why were her eyes continually drawn to his unsmiling dark face, to the lean hardness of his body? The muscles of his thighs were taut beneath the close-fitting cotton trousers, his legs long and powerful. She looked down into her beaker. She wondered what he would do if showed that she found him attractive. It might be amusing to find out. She had never known a man so emotionally unmoved by her personality.
Then she bit hard into her lower lip. What was she thinking about? She wasn’t here to indulge in promiscuous flirtations with dark-eyed Mexicans who might indeed prove more than she could handle. She was here to gain Lucy’s confidence—to bring her back to her own country.
Following this line of thought, she said: “So your opinion, so far as Lucy is concerned, is that I should wait a few days before making any decision?”
Rafael was drinking from his cup, his head tipped back, and her eyes followed the moving line of muscles in his throat as they expanded and contracted in swallowing. Then he lowered the cup and looked across at her. “Naturally it is up to you to decide what you think is best, señorita.”
Miranda felt exasperated. “Must you continually call me that? she exclaimed. “Señorita! Why can’t you call me Miranda?”
“Does my brother call you—Miranda, señorita?” he enquired gravely, and her name on his lips had a curiously alien quality about it.
“No, of course not,” she snapped. “I hardly know your brother.”
“You hardly know me, señorita.”
She supposed in all honesty that that was true, and yet for some reason her relationship with Rafael was different from the contact she had had with Juan. She didn’t altogether understand why, but already she was beginning to rely on Rafael.
“I—I feel as though I do know you,” she protested slowly. “I—I can’t explain exactly, but—well, it’s different with you somehow.”
She was shocked by the grimness in Rafael’s expression which her words provoked. “You are mistaken, se$oTrita,” he assured her coldly. “Our association is in no way—different! On the contrary, it is my brother to whom you should be expressing your doubts and uncertainties, not me!” He slammed his beaker down on the draining board next to the sink. “And now, if you have finished—”
“I haven’t.” Miranda pursed her lips indignantly. “And I don’t know why you should get so steamed up just because I paid you what I thought would have been taken as a compliment.”
Rafael turned his back on her, tapping his thigh with impatient fingers. “I do not need your compliments, señorita.”
Miranda’s fingers trembled as they gripped her cup. “Then I don’t know why you brought me here if you find my company so distasteful!” she declared tremulously.
“If you must know, I felt sorry for you,” stated Rafael harshly, and she caught her breath.
“Oh—oh, all right!” She swallowed the remainder of her coffee at a gulp and almost burnt her mouth in the process. “I’m finished. Let us go, by all means.”
Rafael turned then, his features composed, long lashes hiding the expression in his eyes, concealing his feelings which she knew to be far from composed. He gestured towards the door and she went ahead of him along the stone passage and out into the heat of the day.
The journey to the hacienda was completed in silence, but when he brought the Landrover to a halt at the foot of the shallow steps leading up to the terrace, she turned to him impulsively and said: “Thank you for the coffee anyway. I did enjoy it. And I liked your house.”
Rafael’s eyes darkened as they rested on her warm beauty, lingering for a tantalising moment on the parted softness of her mouth. But the hardness was in his voice as he said:
“De nada,
señorita. It was nothing.”
He would have gone then, but unexpectedly his mother’s voice stopped him. “Rafael, Rafael, uno momento! Con te quiero hablar…”
Miranda stepped away from the Landrover as Doña Isabella came regally down the steps towards them. However, she scarcely spared a glance for the girl but went straight to the vehicle, speaking in remonstrative tones to her son. Miranda had no idea what she was saying, but it was obvious that something had annoyed the older woman, and feeling slightly de trop she began to climb the steps to the terrace.
“Do not go, señorita. I wish to speak to you.”
Miranda turned in surprise to find that Doña Isabella was addressing her now. “Yes, Doña Isabella?” she murmured politely, pausing halfway up the steps.
Rafael thrust open the door of the Landrover and climbed out. “Madrecita, you must not interfere,” he commanded forcibly.
Doña Isabella looked at him reproachfully. “Rafael, this has gone far enough. Juan is besotted with the child. Miss Lord must take her back to England, at once!”
Miranda looked at each of them in turn, her brows drawn together above troubled eyes. “Doña Isabella, that’s what I want to do—” she was beginning, when Rafael interrupted her.
“Senorita, my mother knows quite well that it would be cruel to separate the child from the small things which have become familiar to her, to eject her into a society of which she has no recollection.”
“And what do you suggest, Rafael?” exclaimed Doña Isabella tremulously.
“I suggest that you give Miss Lord time to get to know her niece—to gain her confidence—to talk with her about her parents,” replied Rafael.
Doña Isabella uttered an impatient sound. “How long will such an undertaking last? How can Miss Lord get to know her niece here when Juan monopolises her attention?”
Rafael sighed. “You are making difficulties, madre mia. There is no urgency—at least—” his glance flickered over Miranda, “—at least so far as we are concerned, is there?”
Doña Isabella’s lips tightened. “Miss Lord is to stay at the hacienda, then?”
Rafael raised his eyes heavenward. “Where else would she stay?”
“I see.”
Miranda felt terrible. “If there is somewhere else—” she ventured, but Rafael turned such cold eyes on her tentative suggestion that she fell silent.
“You will stay at the hacienda, señorita,” he stated uncompromisingly. “Is this not so, Madre?”
Doña Isabella looked at her son strangely. “You are giving orders, Rafael?” she questioned quietly, and Miranda was astonished by the spasm of emotion which twisted his face.
“Si. Si,” he muttered, turning away to grasp the frame of the Landrover. “I must go. I promised Rodrigues I would go and see the child of Calero.”
“And what did you promise me, Rafael?” asked his mother emotively, pressing a scrap of lace to her lips.
Rafael turned to look at her with tortured eyes. “I—I—what do you want of me?”
Doña Isabella held up her head, and Miranda wished she could disappear off the face of the earth. “I want for you to come to the hacienda, Rafael. You promised you would come. Do I warrant none of your time?”
Rafael swung himself up into the driving seat of the Landrover. “It is impossible today,” he exclaimed, turning the ignition.
“Tomorrow, then.” His mother was insistent. “Come to dinner.” She glanced round at Miranda. “I am sure Miss Lord will be glad to see you.”
Rafael slammed the vehicle into gear. “Esta bien. I will come to dinner,” he agreed briefly, and without any word of farewell he drove away.
After he had gone there was an awkward silence, and feeling she had to say something, Miranda spread her hands. “I don’t know how to thank you for allowing me to stay here, Doña Isabella.”
The older woman looked up at her and then began to climb the steps heavily. “Do not thank me, señorita. I have no authority here. I am permitted to stay here only by the good grace of my son.”
Miranda sighed. “Nevertheless, I am grateful. I just wish Lucy had recognised me, that’s all.”
“So do I, señorita.“ Doña Isabella passed her and continued on up the steps so that Miranda felt obliged to accompany her. When they reached the terrace the older woman turned to her. “Tell me, señorita, where did you go with my son?”
Miranda was taken aback. “With your son, Doña Isabella? Why, we went to the monastery to see Lucy, of course.”
“Not Juan!” Doña Isabella sounded impatient. “Where did you go with Rafael?”
“Oh! Oh, I see.” Miranda could feel herself colouring and despised herself for allowing this autocratic woman to intimidate her. “We—we went to his house, señora.”
“You went to my son’s house, señorita? You went there alone with him?” Doña Isabella sounded horrified. “Why did you go to his house?”
Miranda realised belatedly that to the restricted view of Doña Isabella such behaviour was reprehensible. “I—we—had coffee,” she replied, forcing a smile to her lips. “I—it’s a nice house, isn’t it? Small, but attractive. And so convenient for his patients, I suppose.”
Doña Isabella’s lips curled. “I have not seen this house, señorita. So far as I am concerned, the hacienda has and will always be my son’s home.”
Miranda tucked her thumbs awkwardly into the low belt of her jeans. “Yes. Well it’s always a—wrench—when a member of one’s family leaves home—”
“You do not know what you are talking about, señorita.“ Doña Isabella was barely civil. “This is not England. The Cueras estate is not one of your modest British homes! You can have no conception of what Rafael is giving up!”
Miranda shook her head. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to explain that every mother has to face this problem at some time in their lives. And you do have Juan to run the estate—”
Doña Isabella shook her head vigorously. “You do not understand, as I have said señorita.“ She drew a deep breath. “Excuse me. There are matters requiring my attention.”
And with that she walked away along the terrace, a small but elegant figure in the flowing voile gown which complemented the slender lines of her figure.
After she had gone, Miranda herself drew her breath in a trembling gulp. What was all that about? She moved her head uncomprehendingly. So much emotion, so many undercurrents. And she was only conscious of a slight undertow. What might be lurking in deeper waters?
The sound of Lucy’s excited voice distracted her. The sound had come from the side of the house and with curiously dragging steps she followed the line of the terrace until she could see them, Lucy, Juan and Constancia, playing a ball game on the stretch of lawn that sloped down to an ornamental pool.
Juan saw her at once and raised his arm to wave to her. “Hola, señorita!” he called. “Come. Join us!”
Miranda descended the steps to the lawn with determined effort. It was no use allowing the conflicting emotions around her to influence her judgement. She was here for one reason and one reason only, that of identifying Lucy and ultimately taking her back to England.
CHAPTER FIVE
BY the evening of the following day, Miranda had to admit that she had made no progress with Lucy whatsoever. And it was all Juan’s fault. Loath as she was to endorse Doña Isabella’s opinion of her son’s attitude towards the child, she could not ignore his selfish behaviour. Far from encouraging Lucy to talk to her aunt, he continually distracted her, treating Miranda rather like an arbitrator who had come here to decide whether or not to assign the child for adoption. His was a continual demonstration of the child’s affection for him, and no one else was allowed to come between.
Not that Lucy made any objections, Miranda had to concede that also. On the contrary, like all children she revelled in constant attention, and Miranda could see that in a very short time she would be completely ruined.
But what could she do? When she spo
ke to Lucy, Lucy was hostile, regarding her aunt as an intruder, not wanting to hear anything which might involve a change in her status. In a short space of time her immature mind had adapted itself to her circumstances here and Miranda suspected that the longer she stayed the greater the mental block would be. So little was known about the subconscious that it was possible to speculate that the mind might physically reject something as terrifying as a plane crash and the subsequent discovery that her parents were dead. What if the amnesia she was suffering was in a way self-inflicted? She might never recover her memory if she didn’t want to do so.
Miranda wished she knew more about amnesia. Father Esteban had offered little explanation of that aspect of the affair in his letters to her. He had told her that the child had been found by a man called Benito Sanchez while on a climbing expedition into the mountains. Sanchez had found the child on a plateau above a narrow ravine, unconscious and suffering from severe exposure. The eventual solution to these circumstances had been that a plane must have crashed into the ravine and that somehow the child had been thrown clear. There were shattered fragments of an aircraft on the plateau which seemed to support this theory, but although a search party had returned to the scene, no further trace of wreckage had been found. Wild though the theory had seemed to Miranda when she had first heard it, the snow had lain thickly on the mountain slopes and it was not entirely inconceivable that it could have cushioned Lucy’s fall. Sanchez had brought the child down to the mission at the Monasterio de San Miguel where Father Esteban had cared for her, but it was not until she was able to speak again that it was discovered that she was English and had no apparent recollection of who she might be. It had taken many weeks of investigation to learn that a plane was believed to have crashed in the mountains and that there had been an English family on board.