Juanita nodded sagely. ‘And then Consuelo can - how you say it - set her cap at Tio with her conscience clear.’
‘I should have thought Consuelo would be the epitome of correctness,’ Hilary said tartly. ‘Surely it’s for your uncle to decide who should do the cap-setting. ’
‘Ah, but we have our ways of helping them decide.’ Juanita giggled softly. ‘Do you think we are entirely without wiles?’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ Hilary straightened, an automatic prelude towards departure. ‘But if he must marry one of them he’d be wiser to chose Sanchia,’ she added flatly.
Juanita rested her chin on her cupped hands and looked up soberly. ‘I think so, too. For her, Consuelo would stand aside
- but for no one else. That one should have been the oldest sister. She is too bossy - but Tio will tame her tantrums,’ she added with a quirk of malicious glee.
The thought did not bring the satisfaction it might have done. Hilary frowned, decided it was time to bring the discussion of Consuelo and the Conde’s marriage prospects to an end, and Juanita broke in suddenly:
‘They were talking about you this afternoon, my Hilary.’ ‘Really!’
‘They are hoping that you and Senor Gilford will become drawn to one another. Consuelo is certain that he is attracted to you.’ Juanita leaned forward confidingly. ‘Already they are planning to invite you and him to join the party for the fiesta. You have never seen a fiesta, have you? Oh, it is wonderful -especially for lovers - and when—’
‘It’s getting late.’ Hilary moved abruptly. With an effort she hid her anger until she bade Juanita goodnight, but when she reached her own room she was seething.
How dared they discuss her and couple her name with Bruce’s? Apart from the sheer stupidity of it - with a man she’d known so short a time and been out with only once! - it was sheer impertinence. What on earth would Bruce think if it got to his ears? Probably he would only laugh, but it wasn’t funny. And the Conde... Surely he had not partaken of the stupid speculations about...
Suddenly she wished she had not arranged to spend the rest of the week-end with him. It would certainly give them cause for further conviction. Oh, why couldn’t they mind their own rigid convention and not apply it to her? They just didn’t understand ... Wild thoughts of cancelling the arrangement for the following day raced into her angry brain, only to be dismissed by the reaction of logic. She would have to let Bruce know, which meant telephoning him tonight, and that would mean hanging around for another hour to give him time to get home.
She sat on the edge of her bed and thought of the phone in the little alcove under the curve of the stairs. This was the one for the general household - the Conde had his own personal line in his library, and Dona Elena an extension in her suite -and its situation did not exactly make for privacy. Hilary felt a marked reluctance to venture down there at so late an hour to make a call which, if overheard, could give rise to further misleading impressions.
A fresh spurt of resentment made her shoulder out of her light jacket and slam the door of her wardrobe. Why should she worry? When was she going to get it into her head that her personal life wasn’t beholden to the Conde and the rest of the Pacquera clan? If she went out with half the English colony in Lima it was no affair of his, and neither he nor his friends had any right to couple her name with anyone’s. She was free, she was British, and Spanish protocol had no part in her life - thank heaven! She would ignore the whole silly business ... All the same, she would tell Bruce tomorrow, before somebody else had a chance; they would have a giggle
- hadn’t he once warned her never to get involved in the family quarrels? He might have warned her of their liability to involve her in their matchmaking gossip...
But although her anger had abated to a wry acceptance of it all by the next morning it had uncovered an odd sense of depression she could not shake off as she got ready to meet Bruce.
She tried to define it, telling herself that it was natural now that she knew there was speculation about herself and Bruce. It was bound to spoil what had promised to be a very happy friendship. For it was only a friendship. She wasn’t going to fall in love with Bruce, and instinct told her that he wasn’t going to fall in love with her. It was simply that they were both temporary expatriates and Bruce was attractive and good fun. But how could she expect the Latin mind to see it that way?
Somehow, once she was with Bruce, she found she couldn’t bring herself to mention it to him, and instead of the shared amusement she had visualized there was only the annoying little depression to sober her spirits as she boarded the train with Bruce. However, once the journey commenced and the first few miles through the cottonfields were passed her interest was caught and the mountains began to exert their spell.
The tiny village stations were fascinating, each one with its purveyors of fruit, wares and refreshments for the travellers, and the climb itself, high into the heart of the Andes, was breathtaking and at times almost terrifying.
The train roared and hurtled round bends and over switchbacks that left the heart several beats behind, only to slow and puff at the next incline while the heartbeats caught up with it and the eye could take in the spectacular vistas of mountain scenery. One moment a precipice of steely grey shale would loom ahead, then the world would fall away into a fathomless green ravine while the train seemed to sway on two slender silver threads and the rhythm of the wheels roared over the spidery steel span bridging the wild foaming torrent below.
At each swooping bend Hilary was pressed against Bruce and his hand would reach out to steady her until centrifugal force released its grip. The most hair-raising moment came at one point where the train turned abruptly, by means of its rear engine, and began a steep climb that made Hilary feel slightly giddy when she looked down at the drop of hundreds of feet immediately below.
Bruce gripped her hand reassuringly. ‘This is nothing to what’s at the top,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Peru has the highest passenger rail station in the world. They come along the train with oxygen to revive the passengers - those that survive that far, that is.’
‘Bruce!’
‘Don’t worry, honey, we’re not going there today,’ he said in assuring tones. ‘We wouldn’t have time. It takes best part of the day to get there. Besides,’ he added, gathering up their belongings, ‘I’m not going to risk your suffering an attack of siroche.’
She frowned, puzzled, and he explained: ‘Mountain sickness. It gets you if you’re not used to high altitudes. The Indians, who are born to it, have a far greater lung development than we have. They’d never work and survive on the high plateau if they didn’t.’
He helped her down from the train and paused to select a flower favour from one of the vendors whose wares were set out along the side of the track.
He tucked the small posy behind her ear from where it immediately fell out. Hilary caught it and laughed as she met the wide-eyed gleam of amusement from the Indian girl who was watching.
‘When the man does this in a film and tucks a flower in the girl’s hair it always stays put at a perfect angle,’ Bruce grumbled, ‘but when I try it look what happens.’
‘Yes, but they probably do about fifty takes in a film to get that one casual little incident to stay put,’ she laughed, searching in her bag for a pin to fasten the posy at the neck of her dress. ‘Where are we going?’
‘There’s a market here - nowhere near as famous as the one at Huancayo but quite interesting - and a spiral track winds up the mountainside to the church. There’s a little bridge up there
- that’s if you feel like walking and looking at views. Or would you rather go to the market?’
‘You’re the guide,’ she said demurely.
‘We’ll walk just a little way first,’ he said, taking her arm to guide her, ‘then we’ll go to the market, by then we’ll be ready for some grub. And there’s a nice little spot I know of where we can picnic.’
His prosaic tones had not prepared her for the sheer grandeu
r of the scene that awaited when they left the little wayside halt and turned to the narrow path that wound up the hillside and overlooked the whole valley. There were terraces of carefully tilled crops, from the distance looking like long green steps edged with pearly grey pebbles, and the long straggle of little houses clinging to the steep hillside like a widening swathe through the patchwork of smallholdings. And for the first time Hilary saw the Andean lndios in their colourful traditional dress.
They were returning from church, the gay colours of their striped ponchos and the women’s full skirts making a picturesque frieze of reds and blues and pinks against the skyline as they crossed the bridge by the church and wound their way down the path to the village.
The air was thin and clear, and the colours seemed to glow, but it was the peaks beyond, far in the distance, that brought an almost overwhelming sense of awe and made Hilary shade her eyes and stay silent as she gazed at the scene.
An enigmatic sun cast a film of gold and apricot across the snow-capped peaks and threw the cruel grey crags into sharp relief. That day there was little cloud to soften the starkness of those peaks and the bland blue of the sky under that great sun only served to emphasize the might of the mountains and the punity of man. Suddenly Hilary shivered. Her gaze strayed to the neat green terraces of maize, quinoa, and tubers, hard-won by patient toil from the thin, unyielding soil, and she perceived how harsh was the life of the Andean Indian.
Bruce touched her arm and she turned away, to take his guiding hand and pick her way down the steep, uneven path. A short walk brought them to the village and the central square which was the hub of village life. They spent a leisurely hour wandering through the market, fascinated by the infinite variety of crafts displayed by the stall-holders. Hilary admired the gay textiles hand-woven from alpaca wool, and the pottery formed to traditional designs that had come down through the centuries. After a great deal of indecision she chose a piece of silver-work in the form of a cross-shaped pendant to send to her mother and after a brief argument desisted gracefully and allowed Bruce to buy her a scarlet-fringed poncho.
‘You’ll feel as though you belong here now,’ he grinned, slipping it carelessly across her shoulders before they moved on.
The market place was thronged now and noisy, the bartering voices shrill through the thin dusty haze hanging in the air. Bruce had brought a small picnic basket and when he shot an inquiring glance at Hilary she nodded, conscious of thirst if not hunger.
They found a secluded spot by the winding path and unpacked the lunch Bruce’s housekeeper had prepared. There were small, deliciously crusty rolls stuffed with herb-seasoned minced meat and tiny sharp-tasting onions, plump gherkins and golden tomatoes, avocado pears and little sweet seedless grapes that spurted juice as the teeth sank into them, and a bottle of sparkling wine to complete the menu. Bruce laid the bottle of wine in the stream and they watched the clear mountain waters ripple over it while they ate. By the time they were ready for the wine it was deliciously cool and sharp.
Solemnly Bruce filled two glasses and inspected one frowningly before he handed it to Hilary. He held up his own and quirked inquiring brows. ‘To what? The mountains? The old country? Bacchus - or just us?’
This last was uttered in a lower, more meaning tone, or so it seemed to Hilary. The scarlet fringe of the new poncho made a gaudy necklace on the grass near her feet, and suddenly she was conscious of all the troublesome thoughts of the early morning. She looked down, and Bruce said evenly: ‘Have I said something I shouldn’t?’
‘No, not at all.’ Her mouth curved tremulously as she tried to regain the light-hearted mood of moments ago. She held up her glass. ‘To us - and all those other things you said.’
Bruce responded, but the carefree mood had vanished and she was painfully conscious that Bruce himself was aware of it. She sipped her wine and looked at the crystal peaks, trying to summon up a pert remark that would restore normality. Before she could do so Bruce said quietly: ‘What’s the matter?’
The perfect cue to laugh off the very thing that was the matter, but now she was unable to meet his gaze, still less to begin explanations. How could one tell a man that people were coupling his name with that of a girl he had met only twice previous to this day? And that the people concerned were making no secret of their match-making plans? Bruce would be furious, as furious as she had been, and suddenly she knew that his friendship mattered a great deal to her. Perhaps she was not so seasoned a traveller as she had believed; but Bruce was of her own kind and the thought of not having his reassuring presence near at hand was oddly disturbing. She forced a smile. ‘Nothing’s the matter, you idiot. It’s a perfect day.’
‘Sure?’ Bruce looked unusually serious. ‘I had a notion that something was bothering you this morning and decided that I was imagining things. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘That’s my natural early morning expression - I can’t help it,’ she fended quickly.
But his expression did not lighten. He leaned back on one elbow and regarded her with a level glance. ‘Are you quite happy here?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Here?’ For an inane moment she took the question too literally, believing he meant the immediate moment, then her half-smile of surprise faded. ‘Yes, of course I’m happy,’ she said. ‘The country’s fascinating and there’s so much to see and discover. ’
‘I didn’t mean that.’ Bruce’s mouth compressed. ‘I mean your job. Are they treating you okay?’
Her surprise returned. ‘So far, I can’t complain. But what makes you ask?’
He shrugged. ‘You’re still a slip of a kid, and I wouldn’t like to think that things weren’t turning out as well as you’d hoped.’ He sighed and relaxed back. ‘I’ve been out here a few years and I’ve heard of a few cases of wide-eyed innocents coming to grief - not that anything like that will happen to you where you are at present,’ he interjected as he read shocked comprehension on her face. ‘But putting it at its mildest I’ve known of girls coming out here and to the States, lured by salaries that sound like riches compared to what they can earn back home and fabulous apartments thrown in, then when they’ve got here they find a homesickness they didn’t bargain for, and very often the job proves far more demanding than they’d ever imagined. But by then it’s too late and they have to stick out the year, or the two years, whatever they’ve contracted for, or repay their air fare, which in most cases is out of the question for them. ’
‘Yes, but employers have to insist on that,’ Hilary said gently, ‘or the more irresponsible types would take the job as an excuse for a jaunt abroad and pack it in after a few weeks.’
‘Which is all the more reason why the girls like yourself shouldn’t be victimized,’ he said grimly, ‘and while the Pacquera family is above reproach in the obvious ways there are scores of more subtle aspects that could affect their treatment of you, simply because their way of life is different. ’ Hilary was touched by his thoughtfulness, even as memory threw up a strange little paradox to illustrate Bruce’s words. Unbidden came recall of the day Joaquin had ‘wounded’ her with the conquistador’s sword, and the sequel; then memory made its second instant leap to a sultry afternoon at the Plaza de Toros. Strangely enough, that had been the day when she had instinctively looked to Bruce for understanding - only to find it from a source where she least expected ...
She said softly, ‘It’s nice of you to care, but everything’s fine. And they aren’t so different really, not once one discounts the surface trappings of convention and tradition.’ ‘Don’t you kid yourself,’ he broke in, so abruptly she was startled. ‘You’ll never fathom the Latin mind as simply as that, and if you’re wise you—’
He stopped at the sound of voices, and Hilary looked round. She could hear the sounds of people approaching, although the steep curve of the path hid them from view. Then she stiffened. The child’s voice was unmistakable. It rang clear on the still air and was plainly indignant:
‘But it is! I tell you i
t was the Senorita Martin! She is with Senor Gilford. And round here you will see that I-’
Joaquin’s small dark head appeared above the screen of silver-leafed shrub and he saw Hilary. He stopped, plainly torn between wanting to rush to greet her and staying to state his triumph. The latter won.
‘It is!’ he proclaimed, turning towards the as yet unseen figures making their leisurely way up the incline. ‘I told you, Tio. They are here! ’
With that he came exuberantly across to Hilary and Bruce and began a volley of questions. Bruce responded with indulgent amusement, but Hilary’s responses held a certain mechanical note. She watched the tall figure of the Conde come into sight and offer a courteous hand to Sanchia and Consuelo in turn as they stepped over the narrow verge of the path. Only then did he move across the small shaded clearing where the picnic things still lay waiting to be repacked.
His greeting to herself was formal and faultlessly easy, and she could not help wondering at that blend of arrogant charm, Imperious bearing and sheer masculine appeal that he wore with the carelessness he would don a favourite garment. He instantly became the central point of any radius he entered, she thought with a flash of inexplicable resentment. Why had he decided on the same outing, this same day? Certainly it did not strike her as the kind of outing that either Consuelo or Sanchia would have chosen.
She became aware of the Conde’s gaze resting on her, and thought she detected aloof disapproval flickering in its dark depths. To her annoyance she felt colour warm her cheeks and she turned aside.
Consuelo gave her a cool smile. ‘I am glad that you have found Bruce to show you around. It is not always pleasant to go alone around a strange country.’
‘I’m jolly glad I found her to show around,’ Bruce put in with a firmness that seemed rather exaggerated. Hilary had a fleeting impression that he also was hiding annoyance, then she decided she was imagining things as he looked down at a demanding Joaquin and grinned. ‘Now what is it, amigo?’
Dear Conquistador Page 14
