A Savage Beauty

by Anne Mather

  There was a small reception at Miguel's hotel attended by one or two friends and some musicians from the orchestra, at which Miguel announced that he and Emma would be having a church wedding once they were back in Mexico, but that was the first she had heard of it. Then the cake was cut, good wishes were given, and soon only Paul, Loren and Juan remained of their guests.

  Emma was terribly nervous, and dreaded the moment when they would be alone. For all he attracted her so devastatingly, she had never shared any kind of intimacy with a man before, and the idea of getting undressed before him, of him having the right to share her room and her bed, terrified her. She didn't know what she felt about him that day; he had seemed like a stranger to her, and she desperately yearned for a little time to be alone, to gather her thoughts and her composure.

  But she need not have been alarmed, had she but known it. The evening of that momentous day in her life was no different from the evening she had spent at the hotel when she told Miguel she would marry him. Paul stayed until eleven, by which time Loren had gone to bed, but Juan showed no signs of leaving them. On the contrary, after Paul had gone he took some papers out of a briefcase and he and Miguel began discussing them almost as though Emma wasn't there.

  Eventually Juan seemed to sense her unwilling presence, and standing up, suggested to Miguel that he showed her where she was to sleep. Emma had expected some reaction from this, some effort on Miguel's part to be alone with her, but although her heart fluttered alarmingly, and her knees became shaky beneath her, Miguel merely made a casually assenting gesture and Juan indicated that she should go with him.

  She was not shown, as she had expected, into Miguel's room. Instead, she entered one of the other bedrooms where her case stood waiting for her to unpack it. It was a beautiful bedroom, warmly decorated in shades of pink and gold, with an enormous double bed, but to Emma it was cold and unwelcomingly.

  She remembered now how she had lain awake for hours waiting for Miguel to appear, shivering in the nylon wraper she had daringly bought herself for her wedding night.

  But he did not appear. And eventually she supposed she must have fallen asleep, for she was awakened by Juan with her breakfast on a tray.

  If, in those early days, she had thought about Miguel's family at all, it was to assume that they knew what he was doing, and that none of them had attended the wedding did not seem so surprising in the circumstances. After all, they were returning to Mexico almost immediately, and several thousand miles was a tremendous distance to travel just for a couple of days.

  But the pattern of their life together so far had been set. Just like Juan Castillo and Loren Delmar, she was treated as another member of his entourage, but without the consideration they received. On the contrary, it appeared that Miguel was avoiding her and only when some outsider was present did he seem to behave more naturally. She couldn't understand it, and, hurt and miserable, she withdrew into a shell she had erected around herself. Not even the magnificent trousseau which Miguel had insisted she bought before leaving London could compensate for the knowledge that in some way he had induced her to marry him without feeling anything for her whatsoever. He simply wasn't the same man who had taken her out on the dunes and made passionate love to her, and her mind ached with the constant torment of trying to find reasons for what he had done.

  She didn't see Victor again, although Mrs. Cook had told her that he had called several times. But she was never available. Miguel saw to that, even though he might not be with her at the time.

  They left for Montreal on Saturday morning, and that, for Emma, was another revelation. It appeared that Miguel's father owned his own aircraft, and it was this small, sleek jet which transported them across the Atlantic. The interior of the plane resembled nothing so much as a lounge and there was every luxury provided for their comfort. Emma couldn't help but feel excited at seeing her father again, but when she mentioned this in one of her rare moments alone with Miguel he merely smiled enigmatically and said that they would only have a couple of hours to spare.

  Crushing her disappointment, Emma wondered what her father would make of her changed appearance. In the soft feminine clothes Loren Delmar had helped to choose for her she looked vastly different from the severely dressed young woman who had used to accompany Victor everywhere. Now she looked young and almost beautiful, but so far as her husband was concerned she might never have bothered.

  Montreal was like any other big city, impersonal and traffic-jammed. A taxi transported Emma and Miguel to her brother's house in the suburbs, but by the time they reached their destination half their allotted time had been wasted. In consequence their conversation had to be brief, but at least Emma was assured of one thing: her father thought she was happy. And indeed with Miguel behaving in the charming way he was capable of doing she was happy. But as soon as they left he reverted to his usual detachment and she hadn't the courage to ask what was wrong.

  They flew on to Mexico in the late afternoon, arriving at Mexico City's international airport late at night. But here one of Miguel's father's limousines was waiting for them and this took them into Mexico City itself where they spent the night at another luxury hotel.

  They spent three days in Mexico City while Miguel saw specialists about his injured fingers and Juan conducted some business of his own. As far as Emma was aware, no one contacted Miguel's family while they stayed in Mexico City, and this surprised her somewhat. But she was too eager to get used to the rarefied atmosphere and take in the warmth and beauty of her surroundings to pay much attention to anything else.

  She got to know Loren rather better, too. Although she doubted they could ever be close friends, nevertheless, being of a similar age and left to their own devices, they went about a lot together. Loren knew the city well, of course, and so long as they avoided personal topics they could spend many interesting hours together. Emma came to know Chapultepec Park and the Paseo de la Reforma almost as well as the Mexican girl, and they spent hours in the Museum of Anthropology studying the fascinating remains of the mingled cultures that had helped to shape Mexico's development. They saw the murals, too, at the National Palace which were painted by the Indian patriot, Diego Rivera. They depicted the story of the conquest of the Aztecs by Hernando Cortes and his Spanish conquistadores, and Emma, used to hearing the story from other sources deploring the human sacrifices made by these primitive Indian tribes, was almost shocked to be told that Cortes was the usurper, destroying a civilization far in advance of its time. The guide was Indian, of course, and she was quite glad to emerge into the sunlight again and realize that it had all happened more than four hundred years ago.

  More humbling an experience was entering the imposing Cathedral, the oldest Christian building in the Americas, built over the ruins of the Aztecs’ Great Temple.

  They eventually left Mexico City on Wednesday afternoon, this time travelling by helicopter, bound for Puebla, which was the nearest big city to Lacustre Largo.

  The nearer they drew to Miguel's home, the more morose he seemed to become, and Emma couldn't understand it. She wished he would just talk to her, share with her a little the fears and apprehensions she was experiencing in this strange and alien environment. She needed him more with every mile they travelled, while he seemed to need her less and less…

  The country over which they were flying was rather terrifying, too. Mountains and gorges, inland lakes and fertile valleys, the whole possessing a wild and savage beauty that Emma had never seen before. Miguel sat up front with the pilot while she, Loren and Juan were closely pressed together behind. If Miguel spoke at all it was to the pilot or to Juan, who, while seeming to appreciate Emma's anxieties, could in no way alleviate them.

  They landed on a private airfield at Puebla in the late afternoon. Emma, who had eaten practically nothing all day, was feeling hot and a little faint, but no one seemed to notice. The owner of the airfield turned out to be a man called Felipe Alvarez, a big fat individual who welcomed Miguel like a son
and proceeded to ignore everyone else.

  Juan seemed unconcerned. ‘We will have a meal here,’ he explained to Emma, as she smoothed the white skirt she was wearing over her slim hips and watched her husband disappearing into the airfield buildings with Felipe Alvarez.

  ‘Will we?’ Emma's tone was dry and she endeavoured to hide her frustration. ‘Then what?'

  ‘Then we fly on to Lacustre Largo,’ announced Juan firmly.

  The meal Alvarez's wife provided was not to Emma's taste. Until then she had managed quite well with the highly spiced food, choosing only those dishes she had known and recognized. But the tortillas, stuffed with meat and onion and tomato, and served with a thick spicy tomato and chilli sauce, were far too rich, and she had to swallow mouthfuls of the liquid they were given to drink to get anything down. It wasn't until afterwards when her head felt slightly swimmy that she realized that what she had been drinking must have been alcoholic.

  She remembered little of the journey from Puebla to Lacustre Largo except waking up once with her head on Juan's shoulder to find Miguel remonstrating angrily with him in Spanish about something which she couldn't understand. But it was dark anyway, and there was nothing much to see.

  They landed some distance from the house and now Emma was wide awake. She could vaguely make out the silhouette of Miguel's father's home and there were lights and the sound of voices almost before the helicopter was fully landed. Shimmering away to the left was a stretch of water painted palely now by the moon and she supposed that was Lake Largo, Lacustre Largo, from which the house got its unusual name.

  With the propellers slowing, Miguel thrust back his door and climbed out, standing for a moment looking out towards the lake. Then he turned and began to help Loren disembark. Juan was last, and he took a deep breath of the sharp air, savouring it like wine.

  ‘Marvilloso,’ he declared, with a smile at Emma. ‘There is nowhere like it.'

  Miguel regarded them for a moment, dark and brooding in black slacks and a black silk shirt he had worn for travelling. Overall he wore a dark green suede waistcoat that hung loosely from his shoulders, and Emma thought he had never looked more attractive or more alien.

  ‘Come,’ he said, taking Emma's arm, surprising her by this gesture. ‘I will take you to meet my father.'

  Emma went with him, as much out of curiosity as anything else. She noticed he had not mentioned his mother or the other members of his family and decided that in Mexican households the man of the family was obviously considered of supreme importance. She wasn't altogether sure she agreed with this premise.

  They crossed a sweep of grass before the house which Emma could now see stood on a rise of ground, stone built, with the sloping roof of a hacienda. It was a split-level dwelling, she saw, thickly surrounded by tropical foliage which in daylight would look quite startlingly beautiful.

  But for the moment her surroundings were of secondary importance to what was before her. Before they could reach the house, however, several servants appeared, chattering excitedly in their own language, which Miguel answered with good-natured fluidity, obviously glad to see him back again. The Indian girls were dark-eyed and dark-skinned, peeping at Emma curiously, clearly speculating as to her identity. Emma wondered if Miguel's father had told them that his son had married an English girl.

  Juan and Loren were following them and they mounted the shallow stone steps, crossed the terrace, and entered through an arched doorway into the hall. It was tiled in a blue and gold mosaic, and the walls were exquisitely painted in murals illustrating Indian art in its most moving form. It was an intricate design of costume and craft and humanity. Although the lighting was electric, the lamps through which it filtered were again of Indian design, and the vase supporting some exotic orchids appeared to be of Aztec origin.

  Emma stared about her in wonder as Miguel released her to speak to one of the manservants hovering about him. It was all so spacious, so beautiful, so vastly different from even her wildest imaginings. Imagine being born here.

  She returned her attention to her husband as Juan and Loren came into the hall, and hearing the word padre in Miguel's conversation realized that he must be asking where his father was. Surely no one could not have heard the helicopter overhead.

  And then, as though Carlos Salvaje had just heard the sound of his son's voice, or perhaps the sudden upheaval of his house had attracted his attention, he came striding through a doorway to their right, and walking up to Miguel, embraced him warmly and passionately. This was undoubtedly Miguel's father, Emma realized. He was tall, like his son, and the facial resemblance between them was pronounced, but whereas Miguel's hair was dark, his father's was turning grey, and the older man's body was looser, less muscular.

  ‘Miguel! Mi hijo, mi hijo,’ he cried, his voice husky with emotion, and Emma felt a lump in her throat watching them. Then Carlos drew back to look searchingly at his son. Lifting Miguel's injured hand, he shook his head. ‘Que tragedia!’ he muttered fiercely, and then went on to talk swiftly in Spanish so that Emma lost all track of what they were saying.

  But gradually Miguel drew away from his father and Carlos paid attention to the other members of the group standing in the hall. He spoke warmly to Loren and to Juan, but his gaze lingered longest on Emma and there was no doubt about his surprise at seeing her there.

  Emma's stomach plunged, and she had the first inkling that everything was not as it should be. Carlos turned to his son and in rapid Spanish asked who she was.

  Then Miguel came across to her, putting an arm protectively across her shoulders. ‘We will speak English, padre,’ he said quietly. ‘My wife speaks very little Spanish.'

  ‘Your wife!’ There was bitter disbelief in Carlos's angry protest. ‘Miguel, you cannot be serious!'

  ‘But I am,’ replied Miguel calmly, and Emma sensed the pleasure he was gaining from telling his father this. ‘Are you not going to congratulate me?'

  Emma slid out of bed now. She could not bear to remain there any longer. She walked to the long windows and releasing the catch stepped out on to the terrace. She cared little that the air was cool and that all she was wearing was the chiffon nightgown she had bought on the Avenida Insurgentes in Mexico City. The coldness she felt came from within, not without, and no one was likely to see her here at this hour of the night. Everyone was asleep.

  She thought back over the last few hours with chilled foreboding. Juan had told her that Miguel had a mother—brothers—sisters—but where were they? The only other person who appeared to share this house with Carlos Salvaje was his niece, Miguel's cousin, Carmen Silveiro.

  Emma shivered. She had not liked Carmen Silveiro, and it was certain that Carmen did not like her. Like her uncle. she had been ignorant of Miguel's marriage to the English girl, and her greeting to him had been warmly possessive. Carmen was very beautiful and very Spanish, small and dark and exotic, her hair a cap of ebony silk. She made Emma feel tall and ungainly, although that was only her opinion. She had thrown herself into her cousin's arms only a few minutes after Miguel had exploded the shock of his marriage on his father when they were all still standing there looking at one another, and the kiss she had given him had been more than just cousinly.

  But when Carlos had passionately informed her of the facts the change in her had been quite remarkable. Her olive cheeks had paled and the glance she had cast in Emma's direction had been purely malevolent.

  The scents from the flowers below the terrace invaded Emma's senses, and she stretched her arms disconsolately, longing for the peace of mind she seemed to have forfeited for ever. The cry of the mountain lion came again, and she stiffened. Perhaps if she remained here it would come for her and destroy her, and take away this misery that was engulfing her once and for all. Then she would not have to see Carlos Salvaje again, not have to bear witness to his extreme displeasure with his son for marrying without his permission, not have to share this house with people who she knew desposed her—not least of these being he
r own husband…

  She leant wearily against the terrace wall, her hands spread dejectedly along the stonework, the rounded contours of her body outlined through the filmy chiffon, her hair, silvered by the moon, cloaking her slender shoulders with heavy silk.

  ‘Dios! Emma, have you taken leave of your senses?'

  Emma almost jumped out of her skin at the unexpected sound of Miguel's voice, low and angry, behind her. She turned slowly, one hand pressed to her throat, and looked at him as though she couldn't really believe he was there, as though he were some figment of her imagination conjured up out of the depths of her despair.

  ‘Miguel,’ she murmured faintly.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ he demanded, stepping towards her, and now she could see he was still fully dressed in the black clothes he had worn to travel in.

  ‘I—I couldn't sleep,’ she replied unsteadily, becoming conscious of the scarcity of her own covering. A chiffon nightgown was hardly the thing to confront an irate husband, she thought hysterically. Or perhaps it was. Perhaps that was how woman's weakness overcame man's strength.

  The roar of the mountain lion sounded closer now, and Emma glanced round almost fearfully, as though she half expected to find the animal behind her.

  ‘You had better go inside,’ said Miguel, indicating the opened glass doors of her bedroom. ‘The puma has been known to seek the more civilized districts of this area in search of its kill.'

  Emma looked at him tremulously. ‘Do you think I care?'