by Anne Mather
“Me?” Juan made a dismissing gesture. “Mas, no! You know you are welcome here, señorita.”
“Thank you.” Miranda breathed a sigh of relief and Lucy resumed eating her melon.
Señor Vargas swallowed the remains of his coffee and looked at the other man. “I understand that Rafael is still here, Juan,” he stated thoughtfully. “We expected he would have returned to Mexico City, ya?”
Miranda tried not to appear too intent on Juan’s reply. “Mama is loath to let him go, Don Carlos,” he said, shrugging. “So long as he is here, she has hopes of—persuasion, no?”
Señor Vargas looked troubled. “But is this likely?” he exclaimed, and then made an apologetic gesture towards Miranda. “I am sorry, señorita, I am most impolite. Forgive me. Juan and I will discuss this some other time, eh Juan?”
Juan inclined his head and the older man rose to his feet. “Excuse me, will you not? I must go and attend on my wife. No doubt I will see you again, señorita.”
Miranda smiled and he saluted and walked away. After he had gone there was silence for a while and then Juan broke it with a startling comment: “You do not—how you say?—envy me, señorita, no?”
Miranda looked at him in surprise. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You think is going to be dificil—the life with Valentina, si?”
Miranda coloured. “I’m sure I’ve never thought about it, señor.”
“No?” Juan shrugged in continental fashion. “But I am doing much thinking. Do you think Valentina likes Lucy?”
Miranda made a helpless movement of her hands. “Señor, it’s nothing to do with me!”
Juan frowned, shredding the skin of the melon with his knife. “Verdad? I might—disagree, señorita.”
“What do you mean?” Miranda was completely at sea.
Juan looked at Lucy who had finished her melon and was watching them with wide eyes. “Vaya, Lucy. Go and play. I wish to speak with privacy to your aunt, si?”
Lucy pouted. “Can’t I stay, Tio Juan?” she asked appealingly. “I won’t listen, I promise.”
Juan had to smile at this. “No, chica. Five minutes only. Mire, you may take my watch and count the minutes, no?”
Miranda was horrified when he unstrapped the expensive gold watch from his wrist and handed it to the child, but Lucy was entranced. And well she might be, thought Miranda ironically, realising that to Juan Cueras a watch worth several hundreds of pounds was merely a very small item. Lucy went off with the watch, well pleased, and Juan turned his full attention on Miranda.
“Ahora, señorita, we are alone. We can talk.”
“Yes, señor?” Miranda was wary.
“Si.” Juan pushed his plate aside and stretched a hand across the table to capture one of Miranda’s. She was so astounded at this unexpected action that she didn’t immediately draw her fingers away, and encouraged by her lack of protest, he said huskily: “Señorita, what would you say if I tell you I find you—encantador—enchanting, no?”
Miranda snatched her hand away, pressing it into the palm of the other that rested rather nervously now in her lap. “I—I can’t imagine why you’re saying such things to me when your fiancée may appear at any moment!” she exclaimed.
Juan squared his shoulders. “And if I care not what Valentina may see?”
Miranda caught her breath. “I don’t understand you, señor.”
Juan’s eyes bored into hers. “Do you not, señorita? I think you do.” He paused. “Miranda. Is a beautiful name, no? Miranda—Cueras! Do you think that sounds even better?”
Miranda got to her feet. She was trembling. “I—I think you’re teasing me, señor. If—if that’s all you have to say, I’ll go and find Lucy—”
“Ah, Lucy.” Juan lay back in his chair looking up at her. “Dear little Lucy! Would you not like to solve her problems and your own together?”
“Señor, I really think—”
“Si. Think!” Juan sprang to his feet, approaching her determinedly. “Think Miranda. You do not take me—seriamente, I think.” Although she had backed away from him he caught both her hands in his, holding them tightly in his moist fingers. “I mean what I say, cara. I think I am in love with you.”
Miranda gasped, and with a desperate effort freed herself, putting the width of the glass-topped table between them. “Señor, I don’t know what your game is—”
“Game? Is no game, Miranda. I want to marry you.”
Miranda breathed deeply. “You’re not serious!”
“I am. I am. Can you not see that I am telling you the truth?”
Miranda clutched at straws. “You’re doing this for Lucy. It’s Lucy you want.”
Juan shrugged. “I admit—I care for the child. But marriage is more—much more than making babies, no?”
Miranda’s cheeks flamed. “I—I—” She felt tonguetied. “I’m—sorry—”
“Sorry?” Juan frowned. “Por qué?”
Miranda shook her head helplessly and at that moment Carla came strolling on to the patio, dressed as she frequently was in riding clothes. Her expression was as composed as ever, but Miranda wondered uneasily how she could have failed to overhear at least part of their conversation. Certainly she gave no indication of it as she turned to her brother.
“Valdez is waiting in the hall, Juan,” she advised him crisply. “You had better go and speak with him. Apparently a cat has been driven down from the mountains by the rains and has killed a number of cattle.”
Juan uttered an imprecation and looked regretfully at Miranda. “Qué fastidio!” he sighed. “Muy bien, I will speak with him. Wait for me, Miranda.”
After he had left them Carla’s eyes fastened on Miranda’s hot cheeks. “So,” she murmured. “I was right, señorita.”
“You weren’t right,” retorted Miranda, feeling slightly sick. “I—your brother is making a terrible mistake.”
Carla’s eyes narrowed. “He will not be allowed to make it.”
“Well, that suits me,” muttered Miranda.
“So—when are you leaving, señorita?”
“Leaving?” Miranda shook her head. “I don’t know. As soon as possible, I suppose.” She moved vaguely towards the gardens, needing time to think—to be alone—to dismiss Juan’s preposterous proposition from her thoughts. “Er—I must find Lucy,” she said abruptly, and walked quickly away.
As luck would have it matters of the estate occupied Juan for the rest of the morning and at lunch time Doña Isabella was more than willing to grant permission for Lucy to share Miranda’s meal in her room. Lucy was not enthusiastic. She had wanted to return Juan’s watch. But Doña Isabella saw it and took charge of it, assuring the child that she would see that Juan gained possession of it once more.
After lunch, Juan sent a message asking Lucy and Miranda to join him on the patio.
Lucy was delighted, but Miranda said she had a headache and asked Lucy to make her apologies for her non-appearance.
“But you were all right five minutes ago!” exclaimed the little girl, lingering by the door where Iñez waited to escort her, perceptive enough to realise that her adopted uncle would not be pleased at Miranda’s refusal.
“It’s just come on,” lied Miranda, turning her revealing face away. “I’ll be all right if I rest for a while.”
Lucy hesitated a moment longer and then with a shrug she left her. After she had gone, Miranda breathed a sigh of relief and began to pace restlessly about the room. She was still by no means decided over what she could do about Juan’s proposal, and while she told herself that he had not been serious, that he already had a fiancée who would not relinquish him so carelessly, she could not dismiss his determination to gain control of Lucy. Since their conversation that morning, she had pondered the possibility that Lucy had told him about recognising the kitten in the snapshot, thus convincing him that her memory was returning gradually. But would he ask her, Miranda, to marry him just to retain his hold on the child? He couldn’t r
eally be in love with her, could he? She shook her head miserably. She had the disturbing feeling that they were in the clutches of a petulant child who would do anything—promise anything—to get his own way. If only Rafael had been the one…
She wrapped her arms closely about herself. Rafael! But this situation would never have arisen with Rafael. He simply wasn’t interested in her in that way—in any way.
She stared dejectedly out of her windows, looking down the valley, as though by the pure concentration of her thoughts she could summon his image to sight. But no Landrover appeared to climb the hill towards the hacienda, and her spirits drooped. Where was Rafael? Why didn’t he come? Why didn’t he return her clothes if nothing else?
She turned back into the room and stood for a moment thinking hard. How could she get down to his house without anyone being aware of it? She could drive, but no one was likely to offer her the use of the car without some specific destination in mind. She could walk—but it was quite a long way, and she didn’t want to have to come back possibly in the dark. She sighed. If only there were telephones she could use. But even her letter, which she had eventually decided to send, had had to be given to Doña Isabella for transportation to the airport and from there to Mexico City. Pony express! she thought impatiently, and then uttered a small gasp. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She could ride! And as there were horses in the stables at the back of the hacienda, there was no reason why she should not ride to the village.
She clasped her hands together. But how? How to approach the stablehands? And what if Carla or someone else was there? But no! Carla rested in the afternoons, as did her mother and sister, and no doubt Señora Vargas and her daughter rested, too. Juan was on the patio with Lucy. She ought not to be missed for an hour or so.
She looked down at her shirt and trousers. At least they were suitable on this occasion, she thought wryly. Taking a ribbon from the drawer, she secured her hair at her nape and then after a quick glance at her reflection she left the room and went quietly down the stairs.
As she had expected, the house was unnervingly quiet, but she managed to reach the front terrace without incident and made her way in the direction of the stables. A young Indian boy was polishing some harness in the yard and he looked up in surprise when he heard Miranda’s footsteps.
“Buenas tardes, señorita,” he greeted her politely. “Puedo ayudarle?”
Miranda replied with what she hoped was a engaging smile. “I—I want a horse,” she said slowly. “En—un caballe?”
“Un caballo, señorita? Ah, you wish—ir a caballo?”
Miranda looked doubtful and he smiled and patted a saddle close by. Then he made a motion of holding reins and she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I want to go riding.”
The boy seemed pleased that they had solved their difficulties but then he hesitated. “Is—permit, señorita?” he asked, frowning at her obviously unaccustomed attire.
Miranda bit her lip. Then she nodded. “Don Juan has given his permission,” she said, crossing her fingers behind her back.
The mention of Juan’s name was sufficient to remove any lingering traces of doubt in the boy’s face, and she hoped he would not be called upon to account his reasons for letting her have a mount. But why should he? she argued with herself. She would ride to the village and see Rafael, and be back before anyone became aware of her absence.
The mount the boy produced for her seemed gentle enough. It was a chestnut mare with doe-like eyes and a thick swishing tail. She made no objection when Miranda climbed into the unfamiliar saddle, and at a pressure from her knees trotted obediently out of the stable yard. Miranda raised a hand in thanks to the boy and then gave her attention to the animal. So far so good.
However, once the yard was left behind, the mare seemed to find her spirit, and when Miranda tried to direct her down the track to the village she left the path and began to descend the grassy slope instead. Deciding that no doubt the animal knew the way better than she did, Miranda gave in trying to force her back on to the track again, and although they were going down at a quicker pace than she would have chosen, she was too busy holding on to worry overmuch. Below them, the river sparkled in the heat of the sun, and Miranda could feel the dampness at the back of her neck. She should have brought a scarf, she thought impatiently, and looked forward to reaching the coolness of Rafael’s house.
The Chapel of the Innocents was just below them now and beyond she could see the torn slats of the bridge which had taken such a beating on the night of the storm. Further along the riverbank, she could see the white stone walls of a single-storied building and her heart lifted. Rafael’s house.
However, the mare was seemingly in no hurry to reach her destination now and refused to be spurred on. She lingered at the water’s edge and for a heart-stopping moment Miranda thought she was about to receive another unwelcome dipping. But the mare halted and stood sniffing the air, as though deciding what to do next.
Anger and impatience made Miranda attempt to climb down from the saddle. She thought she would lead the mare the rest of the way. But one foot was still in the nearside stirrup when the horse began to move and although Miranda tried to scramble up again, she lost her balance and fell heavily to the ground. The fall winded her, but her weight slowed the mare to a standstill again. But not before Miranda became conscious of an agonising pain in her hip.
By a great effort of willpower she managed to dislodge her foot from the stirrup and lay still for several minutes getting her breath back. The mare wandered a few yards away, cropping at the grass with seeming indifference to her plight, and when she was able Miranda propped herself up on her elbows and tried not to succumb to the tears of pain and frustration that blurred her vision.
There was no one about from whom she could have asked assistance, but an attempt to stand confirmed her worst fears. She had obviously injured her leg in some way and every step she took sent a sharp pain right up her spine. An unsuccessful attempt to catch the mare’s reins brought more tears to her eyes and with a set face she turned determinedly towards Rafael’s house.
By the time she reached the front entrance, she was bathed in sweat, and not only from the effort of walking in the afternoon heat. Her leg and her back were burning balls of pain and she felt sick with reaction. Rafael’s Landrover was parked out front and the original reasons which had brought her here quickened her step. If he was ill, she would have to overcome her own discomfort.
The house seemed deserted and her heart pounded anxiously. Lounge, office, kitchen—all were empty. He must be in the bedroom, which meant her worst fears were realised. She stumbled along the hall opening doors—a bathroom, a broom cupboard, a room containing two beds, and finally another room containing three beds, one of which was occupied. She stood unsteadily in the doorway, listening to his heavy breathing. There was congestion there as he had said, and she put a trembling hand to her lips. Oh, God, she thought desperately, how could she help anyone in this condition?
“What are you doing here, señorita?”
The cool purposeful tones behind her sent Miranda teetering on her uninjured leg. “Raf—Rafael!” she gasped, hardly aware that she had used his name. She stared at his lean face as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, then she looked back at the bed. “I—I thought—that was you!”
Rafael drew her outside and closed the door behind them with a definite click. “I asked what you were doing here, señorita,” he repeated coldly.
Miranda’s lips trembled. “I—I came to see you. I thought you must be ill. There—there was no word—”
Rafael’s eyes narrowed and he took a few steps along the hall obviously expecting her to do the same. When she did not he came back to her, a scowl marring his attractive features. “I had work to do, señorita,” he told her impatiently. “As you saw, there is a sick man in that room. Rodrigues has had a spate of illness since the storm.”
Miranda made a gesture of acquiescence. She should not have come h
ere. Her back was paining her abominably with standing in one position for so long, and she had no idea how she was going to get back to the hacienda. And as for capturing the mare… An ache was beginning somewhere near her temples and seemed to be penetrating to her nape. Realising she had to say something, she said: “That’s all right, then, isn’t it?” and swayed a little.
Rafael was staring at her curiously. Perhaps he had only just noticed that there were beads of perspiration on her forehead and that her cheeks were pale and drawn. He laid a hand against her forehead, and she just managed not to flinch away from his touch. His fingers felt cool, but she guessed it was her head that was burning. “Sagrada Maria!” he snapped huskily, “are you ill?”
Miranda moved her head painfully from side to side. “I—the horse—I was trying to dismount and—and it moved away—” And for the first time in her life she slid into a dead faint at his feet…
When she recovered consciousness, she was lying between thin cotton sheets in one of the narrow beds she had glimpsed earlier. There was another bed beside her, but it was empty, and she recalled the twin-bedded room she had looked into during her search for Rafael. Someone had removed her clothes and her body felt relaxed, but tender. She still ached, but it was a bearable thing compared to what she had suffered. She tried to move her legs and immediately became aware of vague sensations of pain hovering just beyond conscious reach.
She lay still trying to calculate what time it must be. It was still daylight outside the narrow windows, but the sun was sinking fast and soon it would be dark. A sense of dread enveloped her at the realisation that everyone must know what she had done by now, and humiliation brought her into an upright position. The action was painful, and she was fighting away waves of dizziness when the door opened.
As Rafael walked towards the bed, she pressed the sheet closely to her breasts, her cheeks darkening at the knowledge that it must have been he who had undressed her and put her to bed.