She expected to shiver when she left the plane, but the air was warm and humid, and slightly misty, and the airport buildings held little more individuality at that time of morning than any other international airport. Glass and concrete streamlining did not have nationality, and as she went through the clearance rigmarole dear to officialdom she reflected wryly that reality was proving less exciting than the anticipation of imagination. She passed into the ken of whom she hoped was the last grey-uniformed official.
Briskly he scrutinized her papers, reached for his stamp, frowned, then scrutinized them again. He looked up, and Hilary’s heart quailed; what was wrong?
‘You are Miss Martin? Miss Hilary Martin?’
‘Yes.’ She looked anxiously at the stamp which had not descended to make its vital impress.
He looked down again at her papers, stamped them with a flourish and closed her passport. Relief came, only to vanish again as he stood up, her papers still in his hand, and said politely: ‘Will the senorita come this way, please?’
Now what? Was he going to impound her? And papers and luggage and all? Her imagination working overtime, she followed him along the concourse to a side door which he held open, motioning to her to enter.
There seemed to be only one occupant of the small lounge, and as that occupant rose to his feet Hilary gasped ‘Thank goodness!’ and made no effort to disguise the fervency of her exclamation.
The Conde came forward. ‘There is something wrong?’ ‘N-no-at least I—
‘Everything is in order, Senor Conde,’ the official announced briskly. ‘The senorita’s papers ...’ He held them out to the Conde and then turned to the door, snapping his fingers smartly. A porter materialized like magic, holding Hilary’s cases, and despite her tiredness she felt fresh respect for the Conde. This; after all she’d been warned about ... ‘Ah, manana ... Tomorrow ... The official bowed. ‘I trust the senorita will have an enjoyable stay in our country,’ and with a deferential nod to the Conde he departed.
‘Well, so you are here at last,’ the Conde smiled. ‘Have you had a pleasant journey?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Suddenly she felt uncertain, and quite unable to say anything else.
‘You sound unsure.’ His smile faded into an expression of gravity. ‘Something is worrying you?’
‘No. I thought something was wrong.’ She looked up. He seemed to expect some sort of explanation. ‘When he - that man - kept my papers and - I didn’t expect to see you here.’
The dark brows arched. ‘But surely, senorita, you did not imagine I would allow you to arrive here at this hour of the night and not meet you to escort you to the villa?’
She said nothing, suddenly aware of weariness now that the tension of the long journey was over and she was actually here at last. He looked down and noted the faint violet shadows under the hazel eyes and the lids that wanted to droop their shadowing fans of dark silky lashes. His own tawny-dark eyes softened.
‘You must be very tired after that long flight. Come,’ he tucked one hand under her elbow and took her blue airline bag from her, ‘my car is outside and it isn’t a very long journey.’
Afterwards, she retained only a blurred impression of that car ride through an alien darkness, of a garden scented by blossoms unseen, of a vast salon with gilded frescoes and huge mirrors, a wide staircase opening upwards like a great ivory and gold fan, and the Conde handing her into the care of an elderly, grave-faced woman. Her refusal of refreshments was not countered, but a tray holding milk and biscuits was brought into her bedroom, and when the woman withdrew Hilary lay for a little while, reflecting on the unexpected appearance of the Conde at the airport. It was kind of him to turn out himself to meet her in the middle of the night ... rather comforting ...
Her lashes fell against her cheeks and she sighed softly, letting her contours relax and settle into the cool silken comfort of a deliciously soft bed ... She stirred once or twice, blinked towards the light showing at the edges of the Venetian blinds, thought she should check on the time, and slept again before she could reach for her watch, until suddenly she was wide awake with the uncanny sensation of being watched.
She sat up, and a small voice said solemnly: ‘It is twenty minutes after eleven. Are you going to wake up soon?’ Hilary blinked and rubbed her eyes, trying to see the speaker through the dimness as she groped for a not yet familiar lamp switch. The small voice said: ‘ Shall I undo the shades? I know how they work. ’
She located the lamp switch in time to see the little figure carefully sorting out the cords of the blinds. Suddenly they slid open and the bright bars of sunlight spilled across a turquoise and white carpet and the figure of a small boy who turned and regarded her solemnly. He said, ‘Is that enough, or shall I send them - pouf!’ He raised his hands upwards.
‘They will do as they are for the moment.’ She looked at her small mentor and smiled. ‘Did you say it was after eleven?’
He nodded and came to the bedside. ‘ You are the English senorita who flew all the way from England yesterday?’
‘I am. And you are ...?’
‘I am Joaquin.’ He held out his hand. ‘How do you do, Senorita Martin. ’
‘How do you do, Joaquin.’ Equally gravely she accepted the proffered hand and shook it. ‘Thank you for coming to wake me.’
‘You do not mind?’
‘Not at all. I might have slept for—’
There was a movement outside the door Joaquin had left partly open. A light, slightly anxious voice said queryingly: ‘Joaquin, where are you? Joaquin - you’re not—’ There was a small silence, then a tap, and ‘May I come in?’
As Hilary called assent the door was pushed open and a piquant oval face topped by glossy, raven dark hair looked round. The tentative smile on the young mouth faded abruptly, to be replaced by indignation. ‘So you are in here! You are one very naughty boy. You know what you were told.’ The rest of a very attractive girl appeared as she advanced into the room. ‘Come at once. You are disturbing Miss Martin and she is very tired after her long journey.’
‘No, don’t scold him,’ Hilary said quickly. ‘It’s high time I got up. If he hadn’t—’
The girl came forward. ‘No, you are not to get up, not yet. Joaquin, go tell Concepta - the breakfast tray, immediately.’ Looking rather mutinous, Joaquin obeyed, and the girl turned back to a still sleepy Hilary. ‘I’m sorry he disturbed you. You are to have breakfast in bed this morning. It is an order. ’
Hilary hesitated. ‘Are you sure? I have come here to do a job, not to be waited on like - like a special guest.’
The girl gestured. ‘It is the Conde’s order; that you were not to be disturbed this morning until you felt sufficiently rested, and then breakfast was to be sent to your room. Joaquin has been very naughty and disobedient, and he will have to be punished. ’
‘Oh no, not for ...’ Hilary got out of bed and searched for her wrap among the things she had taken from her case earlier that morning. She found it and slipped it on. ‘I’m very glad he came and wakened me. How do these work?’
‘I will show you.’ Joaquin reappeared and went importantly to the window to cope with the gaily coloured blinds. ‘You just do this, so, and they - pouf!’
‘Joaquin! You know you are forbidden! Already you break them in your own room. Now come and leave Senorita Martin in peace or she will want to return to England on the next plane.’
His small brow petulant now, Joaquin was escorted from the room, reminding Hilary of a little grandee who discovers that his subjects will not bow to his rule as he hopes. She smiled to herself, suspecting that her new job might be many things but dullness would not be one of them.
Concepta arrived with a beautifully set breakfast tray and the request that the senorita must ask if there was anything she particularly wished to her taste. Hilary assured her that it was all perfect and when the little maid had gone she settled down to enjoy an unaccustomed luxury. For several years now she had made it her job a
t home to take her mother an early morning cup of tea, ever since the attack of pneumonia which had come near to costing Mrs. Martin her life when Hilary was fifteen. Verging on the mid-teen years which all too often produce an impatience towards parents that is more thoughtlessness than lack of affection, Hilary had suffered a salutary lesson and never forgot the vow of thankfulness she took the night when the crisis was passed.
She poured herself a second cup of the delicious coffee and wandered over to the wide french window, wondering inconsequently if her father was remembering the small morning ritual with the tea. She found the window catch and gently pushed one side open, drawing a deep breath of pleasure at the vista before her.
There was a balcony to her room, a traditionally styled one of lacy wrought iron, and it overlooked a garden like a corner of Eden. Immediately below was a terrace, and shallow steps to a path winding between smooth lawns flanked by scarlet verbena and trailing vines of small waxen bell-like flowers. Dreamily her gaze roved on to the sunken rock garden and the pool in which enormous waterlilies swam, to the arbors and the flaunting bougainvillea, the shrubs which cascaded with golden blossoms, the jacaranda trees beyond which the path meandered from sight, and farther away to the left more lawn and a superb swimming pool. Hilary leaned over the balcony and sighed again, revelling in the sensuous pleasure of being able to linger on a balcony in a thin nylon wrap, the warm scented tendrils of breeze caressing her throat, and not having to retreat from a sudden squall of rain or the biting attack of an English nor’easter. It was too good to be true; there must be a snag somewhere!
Reluctantly she turned away. She must shower and dress and unpack, and then see about commencing her duties.
An hour later she left her room and looked over the balustrade of the stairway at the great hall below. It seemed deserted and there was no sound to give a clue to the whereabouts of Juanita and Joaquin. Slowly she descended the shallow stairs and looked uncertainly at her reflection in the big gilded mirror. Lost? the girl in the mirror seemed to ask, and Hilary turned away, towards the big double doors opening on her right She tapped, twice, received no response, and opened one a fraction. It swung soundlessly to her touch and she paused on the threshhold, still uncertain and feeling like an intruder. Wishing someone would come and wondering if she should return to her room and wait, she became aware of being watched. It was the second time this morning, and she exclaimed aloud at her silly fancies as she located the cause. Yes, she was being watched, but the eyes were painted!
On the far wall of the room she was looking into hung a large portrait in oils. She stepped forward, instantly recognizing the dark, aristocratic features, and was drawn by those compelling eyes until she was standing beneath the great portrait.
The resemblance was quite unnerving; the smouldering, full-lidded eyes, the lean, slightly aquiline nose, the wellshaped mouth with ruthless determination in its sensuous lines, and the tangible air of authority that would brook no questioning of its domination were the depiction of the living Conde - except for the differences which the strange power of the painting had made nebulous in its first overall impact on Hilary.
Only now did she consciously note the small pointed beard, the stiff cream ruff, the pewter-silver tones where the breastplate caught the light, the warm alizarin crimson of the doublet sleeve and the fall of lace over the strong hand resting on the sword hilt ... This Conde had been captured in oils all of four hundred years ago. Captured ...? Hilary frowned. No, that was the last word with which to—
‘ So you have discovered my ancestor. ’
Hilary gasped as the deep tones spoke at her shoulder. She spun round and met the dark living eyes, and the smouldering impact of the reality was infinitely more compelling than that of the painting.
If the Conde noticed her loss of composure he gave no hint of it. His regard intent, he did not allow it to flicker as he remarked coolly: ‘You find him interesting?’
‘Yes, he - he’s very like you.’
The moment the words were uttered she would have given anything to reclaim them. How naive they must have sounded. But the Conde threw back his head and laughed outright. ‘So they all say. Sometimes they go as far as to define the resemblance even further.’
‘Oh.’ She glanced back to the portrait, perceiving some ambiguity in his words but knowing the hidden foundation for it must remain unknown until she became better acquainted with her new employer - if ever she should become acquainted with him, she reminded herself abruptly.
‘May I ask who he was?’
‘But of course! We are very proud of him. He served with Pizarro and became a law officer, one of the founders of this land as we know it today. See,’ the Conde touched her shoulder lightly, ‘here is his helmet and sword.’
She had recovered from her moment of startlement at his unexpected advent and the loss of composure at the unguarded naivety of her remarks. Interested now, she turned her attention to the other objects in the vicinity of the painting, and their growing significance.
The sword, a wicked tapering blade of Toledo steel, was mounted on the wall and beneath it, on a heavy old cabinet of ebony and bone inlay, rested a finely engraved and polished armoured helmet. She looked up into the dark eyes of the Conde.
‘He was one of the Conquistadors?’
The Conde inclined his head.
She reached out and touched the chasing of the helmet. ‘There were only a score or so of them at the beginning, weren’t there? Pizarro drew a line in the sand with his sword, on the Island of Gallo, and challenged his men to cross it, and so they came to the empire of the Inca,’ she said slowly. ‘Only a tiny band of soldiers, yet they conquered it.’
‘Less than a score crossed that line and made that first venture into unknown territory, facing sickness and perils to discover the land of riches Pizarro was convinced against all argument was there. And when he finally succeeded in surmounting opposition and raising a force it was with less than two hundred soldiers that he toppled the might of the Inca and claimed Peru for Spain.’ The Conde turned as he finished speaking and lifted the sword from the wall.
He held it out for her inspection and ran his hand under the length of the blade.
There was something of a caress in the touch of those long, well-shaped fingers, and as he raised his head and looked at her she felt a tremor pass through her. Beneath that polished twentieth-century urbanity ran the fire of Conquistador blood, and the arrogance of his forebears. Hilary was silent. Tales of the Conquistadors were legion, of their valour, their ruthlessness, and their cruelty. They scythed through resistance and took what they desired, whether it was life, or love, or gold.
He said, ‘You do not care to be close to such weapons, senorita? ’
‘Not if there is blood on them, Senor Conde,’ she returned, and averted her glance to the painting.
‘History is filled with bloodshed. One cannot escape it.’ He replaced the sword carefully. ‘How well are you acquainted with our history, senorita?’
‘Well enough to know that Pizarro and his soldiers raped this land and subjected a brave, cultured people.’
‘Who had subjected many others to thralldom,’ he reminded her. ‘And some of those cultures embraced cruelties such as you would not credit. Practices to make your blood run cold and sicken your heart. ’
‘In Mexico, yes.’ Defiance tinged her tone and she refused to allow herself to be intimidated. ‘The Aztecs practised a vile religion, but the Incas were wise and just rulers, even of the tribes they conquered.’
‘Not always. They still enslaved them and robbed them of their independence and their possessions, tore them from their homes and territories if they dared to attempt revolt, and bound them within a harsh, rigid regime.’
‘But there must be discipline in all ordered societies.’
‘True,’ he nodded gravely.
‘Then you tore up all their roads and destroyed their temples. Wonderful things which can never be built again. Wh
y?’ The heat of argument rose in her and her voice quickened. ‘Why must conquerors loot and pillage and destroy? Is the triumph of conquest itself not enough?’
‘You feel very strongly about the sins of my ancestors, senorita,’ he said smoothly, apparently unmoved by her vehement outburst. ‘Do you feel as strongly about the sins of your own Empirist fathers? Or is that different?’
‘Yes, and no. We realize now that we did a great deal we are not proud of, but at least we admit it. We also realize the dreadful ills of our industrial revolution. But we also tried to do some good. We built communications instead of destroying them, we took medicine where it was needed, and we tried to protect minorities.’
‘Ah, yes. Philanthropy, even if somewhat misguided. May I remind you that we also brought the Church to dark paganism.’ He inclined his head gravely. ‘We must have further discussions on the misdeeds of my renowned ancestors, and I must take you to visit the Pizarro chapel where the names of the first Conquistadors are engraved on a memorial tablet. But for the moment we had better return to more mundane
Dear Conquistador Page 3
