Juanita remained standing there, picking at a blossom and shredding the soft white petals with angry fingers. She flung the mutilated flower away and said furiously: ‘I could kill her. Why did she not stay with you all? Instead of walking down the path, right into us. And the things she say to Tio
afterwards, about you. That you had schemed and told untruths. Oh!’ Juanita stamped and whirled petulantly. ‘I wanted to kill her. I know it not true, and I wanted to bring you, so that you could explain, and Tio would not let me. Par dios! I have never seen him so angry.’
She paced round the room like a little caged cat, her oval features dark with bitter anger. ‘I do not know why she hate us so much. We have done nothing to her. If she had not spied on us when we went riding none of this would have come to pass. And now Ramon is gone, and Tio is sending me to that school in Switzerland. He will not let me go back with Grandmother. But I do not want to go to Europe, and I will not stay here. I will run away! I will—’
She stopped, seeing Hilary bow her head in her hands, and the fire died from her face, to be replaced by the dawn of remorse. She ran to the side of Hilary’s chair and looked down at her with worried eyes. ‘What is the matter? You - you are not crying, my Hilary?’
‘No.’ Hilary shook her head and got up abruptly as she made the choked little denial. ‘Come on, Juanita, let’s swim or something. It - it’s no use going over and over it again, making ourselves more unhappy.’
She began to hunt out swim things, and Juanita watched her.
‘It has made you very unhappy too. I - I’m sorry, my Hilary.’
Hilary said nothing. Unhappy expressed it mildly. The three days since the return to Lima had dragged like a leaden eternity, and she still felt a stab of sick despair every time she remembered that fateful evening. She would never forget the icy condemnation in the Conde’s eyes, or his silence. Sometimes she wished he had lashed her with stinging censure, with his anger and accusations. But he hadn’t. He had merely excluded her from the family row that took place behind closed doors when the errant young lovers came guiltily back to the house. And the following day he had bidden his guests farewell as though nothing had happened.
If it hadn’t been for Bruce’s quiet sympathetic support that awful day Hilary doubted whether she would have maintained a semblance of control. As they’d parted at the airport he had taken her aside and tried to reassure her. ‘It’ll blow over,’ he had whispered. ‘Try not to take it to heart. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’
With a rush of fresh despair she had remembered that he
was leaving that week. ‘I’ll see you before you go?’
‘Yes - we’ll fix something. Don’t worry.’
But how could she not worry? If only she had looked more closely at that dim curled shadow on Juanita’s bed. She would have seen it for what it was: a housecoat lying untidily where Juanita had tossed it, but in the dimness it had been easy to assume that it hid the outline of a small huddled figure. She had expected to find Juanita in an upset state, and so when a glance seemed to confirm a sleeping girl the last thing she wanted to do was disturb her ... And then an evil fate had chosen to bring the Conde across her path...
She had seen him only twice since they came back, and the length of the dining table might have been the length of the South American continent, so cold and remote was his manner.
Juanita continued to wander around the villa like a wan little ghost and refused to be comforted. Now that Ramon had gone she seemed to have one desire, to return to Valparaiso with the Condesa when she departed at the end of the week.
‘I thought you did not like going there,’ Hilary said, trying to jolt her out of the apathy which had followed anger and despair.
‘I have more freedom there,’ Juanita said, somewhat surprisingly. ‘Chile is a very modern country now.’
‘You never told me about Carlos,’ Hilary said suddenly. ‘What was he like?’
Juanita shrugged. ‘He is but a boy,’ she said indifferently. ‘He means nothing to me. If only Tio would allow us to go with Abuela.’
‘You mean Joaquin? I didn’t know he wanted—’
‘No - he has much studying to do,’ Juanita said impatiently. ‘I mean you, my Hilary. I asked Abuela if you might come also. After all, you are my companera and duena, so why should you not accompany me?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t been a very successful duena,’ Hilary said sadly.
‘Quia! Do not say that! Abuela said that certainly you may accompany me. But Tio must give his permission.’ Juanita sighed deeply. ‘He will be back tomorrow. Perhaps he may relent. ’
Hilary did not share this faint optimism. The Conde returned from his business trip, remained at the villa long enough to change and collect Joaquin, and departed for a day’s fishing. Joaquin returned boasting of a magnificent battle with a tuna, but the Conde did not deign to endorse the report. The following day the Condesa left on the morning flight, Dona Elena was indisposed and remained in her own suite, and sheer bleakness closed in on the two girls. One of Lima’s periodic grey mists descended, a further depressant of the spirits, and suddenly Hilary felt a stirring of her old defiance. She could not bear this icy limbo a moment longer. Before her courage could desert her she went with fast-beating heart to the forbiddingly closed door and tapped firmly on the heavy panel.
‘Si? What is it?’
Her hands trembled as they turned the ornate gilt doorknob and almost refused to obey her will. But the door swung silently inward at her touch and she saw the Conde seated at his desk at the far end of the big room. His cold expression betrayed no flicker of surprise as his gaze lighted on her taut face. He stood up. ‘You wish to see me, senorita?’
She swallowed hard and whispered, ‘Yes, senor,’ quelling the craven instinct to turn and run. She came forward, aware of the painted eyes of the great portrait above him, and ignored the chair he indicated with a brusque gesture.
‘Well, senorita?’ he said after a moment of silence.
She put her hands on the desk and took a deep breath. ‘Senor, you must know why I’ve come. I— We can’t go on like this indefinitely. It—’
‘We?’
‘Your niece - it doesn’t matter about me. Won’t you try to understand? She’s suffered enough. Won’t you change your mind?’
He stared. ‘What is it you wish, senorita? That I should announce the betrothal?’ he said icily.
‘No!’ Her eyes showed bewilderment. ‘Let her stay with the Condesa for a few weeks as she wishes to. Surely you can’t question the correctness of her staying with your own mother. ’
‘Not at all.’ The frost did not thaw in his tone. He walked from behind the desk and pointed at a map hanging near the ebony cabinet. ‘ Senorita, either you are incredibly naive or you imagine me to be so. If you will step over here...’ He raised his hand to the map of South America and traced a line down it. ‘Here is the Central Valley in Chile. There is Valparaiso, and there is Santiago, near which is the vinedo where Ramon is now employed. It is not exactly within walking distance of Valparaiso,’ he said sarcastically, ‘but it is
a great deal nearer than Lima.’
‘And you think ...’ She took a step back and stared at him with pain-filled eyes.
He stalked back to the desk and said in peremptory tones: ‘ Sit down, Miss Martin.’
Suddenly she knew with a sense of fatality that a crisis was at hand, one it seemed she had provoked by her own rashness in seeking this interview. She wanted to refuse to obey his curt order and defy him across the width of the desk, but a trembling in her limbs forced her to back a pace and then, quelled by the dominance in his dark gaze, sink on the velvet padded chair.
His mouth was grim as he watched her and he remained standing. ‘I do not care to make mistakes, still less to have to own to them,’ he said deliberately. ‘But I am forced to own to this one. When I brought you here I was prepared to swear by my judgment of character; now I am not so sure. I believed t
hat you possessed qualities of honesty and responsibility which would make you leave behind you that aura of permissiveness on which your society prides itself, and that you were sufficiently perceptive enough to realize that total freedom to indulge one’s every desire is not always an unblemished ideal. I also believed that you understood quite clearly what was required of you. Now,’ he paused and his mouth compressed, ‘I have no alternative but to admit that my judgment has never been so sadly at fault. My niece’s behaviour has been inexcusable and I have no option but to attribute it to the adverse influence you have brought to bear. Defiance I can understand, even forgive,’ he said heavily, ‘but the one thing I can never condone is deceit. ’
The silence after he finished speaking seemed to press round Hilary. Shock robbed her cheeks of every scrap of colour, and for a moment she could only stare back into those dark accusing eyes as though to implore him to tell her it was all a dreadful nightmare.
But the hurt and the bitterness was all too real, as was the choking rush of emotion that tightened her throat and stung her eyes. It was all she could do to keep the tears back as she summoned the frail defence of pride and straightened her trembling shoulders. She stood up and faced him.
‘Very well, Senor Conde. I will save you the trouble of dismissing me. Naturally you will not want so bad an influence in your employ a moment longer. ’
‘You admit to being at fault?’
‘I admit to nothing,’ she said in a thin voice, ‘but I can see it would be useless to protest, or expect you to listen. I—’ Her voice broke and she knew she was going to break down if she didn’t escape. She turned away. ‘I’ll leave as soon as it’s convenient. ’
‘One moment, Miss Martin.’
The icy command halted her.
‘Do you always break agreements so carelessly? You entered into a contract, remember?’
‘Yes, I remember,’ she stared blindly past him, ‘but you have me at a disadvantage, Senor Conde. Whatever I do now is bound to be wrong or - or unsatisfactory,’ she added bitterly.
‘That is true,’ he said cruelly, ‘but I will need to make other arrangements before I release you. Until then, you will do me the courtesy of remaining.’
Through the blur of tears she saw the outline of him move to open the door. She forced herself to move slowly, keep her head high, until the sound of the door closing released her from the need for control. She ran, so blinded by tears she did not even see Juanita stop on the stairs. The Spanish girl’s startled exclamation went unheard as Hilary stumbled past and reached her room. Five minutes later, having bathed her hot face with cold water and snatched up her jacket and bag, she was running downstairs, surrendering to the overwhelming need to get away from it all.
The Renault was in the long carport, alongside the enormous sleek monster belonging to the Conde. Just the sight of it was enough to start the ache in her throat again, and she dashed her hand impatiently across her eyes; she was a fool, every kind of a fool, to waste tears and heartache over a man who could misjudge her so cruelly. The Renault was unlocked and the keys in the ignition. She switched on with trembling fingers, trying to force herself to be calm as she checked over the position of the controls. She had not had occasion to try out the car since the day he had told her to use it when she wished, and the anxiety of not making any mistakes as she backed it out on to the drive helped to drive emotion into the background. Although she had not driven since she left home she soon became accustomed to the feel of the car and discovered that everything was positioned similarly to that of her father’s car.
When she set off it was with no definite idea of where she was bound. Within a very short time she found she was nearing the busy section of the city and the familiar horn-blasting of Lima’s many impatient drivers. Abruptly she took the next turning, instinctively seeking to by-pass the city centre, and suddenly she knew where she was going.
It took two misturnings before she got on the right route, but once she was on the broad coast highway she knew she would recognize the turning for the Verdano Valley. A small sense of relief soothed her and made her relax as she gathered speed. She had to talk to someone, even if she could not confide everything, and Bruce Gilford was the only person she could turn to who would understand. Some two hours later, when she drove into the valley and cast bitter glances at the Navarre hacienda in the distance as she passed, it had still not occurred to her that it might have been wiser to telephone before she set off. She had thought only of getting to Bruce and hoping his friendly understanding would restore a little of her bruised pride. So when she drove up the track to Bruce’s house she did not notice that his big station wagon wasn’t in its usual place at the side.
The veranda door was open and she ran eagerly up the three steps, calling, ‘Bruce ... ?’ as she tapped on the panel.
There was no response, only silence, and the desperate hope ebbed from her eyes. She tapped louder and shouted again, and then heard a breathless, ‘Have patience - I am coming!’ A moment later Maria’s plump figure came hurrying from the garden behind the house. She stopped when she saw Hilary and threw up her hands, breaking into a torrent of explanation Hilary had difficulty in following.
Then her face paled as she began to understand. Bruce couldn’t have gone already! Not until the weekend. And what was this about a letter? And the Senora Alvado? Sanchia?
‘But come inside, senorita,’ Maria said breathlessly. ‘I start to clean, you understand. All to be painted new while Senor Gilford is gone.’
Weakly, Hilary went indoors, conscious of dismay as she looked round the room Maria had already stripped of all loose covers and curtains. The housekeeper tipped a heap of papers off a chair and bade her sit down, while she went to bring the letter. ‘He ask me to post it, you understand, senorita. He in so big a rush and he say the letter may still be in his pocket when he gets to England. Here it is. ’
Hilary stared at it, her face wan with lost hope. Bruce gone. The only person who might have advised her how to escape the heartbreaking situation in which she was caught. Her mouth parted and trembled as she began to thumb open the envelope. How could Bruce go without even letting her know? She drew out the two sheets and even as she scanned the first few sentences her eyes darkened with shock. Her lips framed the words silently as she read: ‘ By the time you get this you'll be able to congratulate us - I hope. Sanchia and I are leaving on the morning flight for London, where we're being married. How's that for the best kept secret of the century? We were tempted to tell you, but Sanchia didn't want to risk it - we were both determined that nothing should interfere with our plans. I’ve loved Sanchia for a long time, ever since she fell in love with my buddy from Montana. We were a couple of penniless young vaqueros in those days and Pete never stood a chance against her family - I guess that’s why he packed in and went home to fall in the arms of his old childhood sweetheart. So now I've persuaded her to say “Si” I’m taking no chances until I’ve put the ring on her finger. Wish us luck, honey, you'll never know how much you helped us keep them in the dark, andforgive us. Bruce.’
There was a hastily scribbled postscript on the back. It was a note of the name and phone number of an English couple Bruce knew in Miraflores; if she needed friends any time she was to contact them.
Hilary looked up into Maria’s plump concerned face.
‘It was a shock, si? I make you some coffee?’
‘No, thanks, Maria - you’re far too busy.’ Hilary stood up and wandered blindly outside. She got into the car and heedless of the hot sun blazing down on her head she read the letter again. She still couldn’t take it in. Bruce and Sanchia lovers! Eloping! How had she never guessed? Now that she thought back she could remember the small pointers, the times when Sanchia had looked at her so coldly when she fooled about and chaffed with Bruce. But surely they could have told her. Didn’t they trust her to keep their secret?
Hilary let the pages fall to the car seat at her side. Forlornnesss rushed over her an
d she couldn’t help reflecting bitterly that they had used her as a blind. It was all so obvious now that she knew the truth. It couldn’t have worked out better for their plans, allowing the family to believe that they were succeeding in their efforts to throw Bruce and herself into one another’s company.
But nothing could alter the fact that she was too late, and only now was she realizing just how much she had been depending on finding Bruce at home today. Tears welled up
into her eyes and she turned the ignition key angrily.
There was no response except a splutter from the engine and her mouth twisted bitterly as she tried again. It was hopeless! That was all she needed - a breakdown. She bowed her head over the wheel, summoning weary strength to return to the house and phone for help, and the hot tears splashed on her wrist. How was she going to get through the time that remained before the Conde released her? How was she going to face him? How was she going to forget him?
She did not hear the swish of car tyres in the dust until the dark shadow overtook and pulled across the front of the Renault. A door slammed and the tall figure loomed above her.
‘So I was right,’ the Conde said grimly. ‘And now I suppose you are running away.’
Her lower lip quivered. She shook her head dazedly. ‘It - it won’t start.
‘The car?’ He frowned and leaned over her, trying the starter. His sharp glance ran over the gauges and he said dryly: ‘I am not surprised. The petrol tank is empty.’
The pressure of his shoulder brushing her bare arm as he straightened was unbearable. She flinched away, and he opened her door, the silent command unmistakable. She stayed sitting. ‘I - we - we can’t leave the car here. I—’
He dismissed the broken little protest with a brusque gesture. ‘I will arrange to have it picked up. Come, Miss Martin, you don’t imagine I am going to allow you to run away so easily.’
The curt tones stung an already bruised spirit. ‘I am not running away,’ she retorted, ‘and I - I’d rather walk than - than be beholden to you,’ she finished in a desperate little rush as she made to scramble out of the Renault.
Dear Conquistador Page 20
