‘It was terribly good of you to let me stay here, senora, but I think I ought to be going soon … if there’s an afternoon train to Toluca I mustn’t miss it. Do you think I could telephone for a taxi?’
‘Telephone for a taxi? You think you will leave this afternoon?’ Senora Rivel raised her eyebrows, and glanced at her grandson. Then she smiled indulgently. ‘My dear child, you are still shocked. In two or three days’ time … perhaps. My own excellent Doctor Farola shall come and see you, and then, if he says that all is well…’
‘My grandmother is perfectly right, senorita.’ As he spoke, Diego Rivel looked across at her rather as if she were an insignificant but troublesome problem that had temporarily slipped his mind, but which he supposed had better be attended to. ‘You would be most unwise to resume your journey until you are completely recovered.’
‘But I am … I am completely recovered. And I want to see my brother. I’m only on holiday—I haven’t really very much time.’
Senor Rivel raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps I should apologize for having brought you here at all, Miss Ashley,’ he remarked coldly. ‘I did not realize that every minute of time was of such immense value to you. I see now that I should simply have placed your unconscious person on a southbound train, and should then, as you say in England, have washed my hands of you.’
Caroline flushed vividly. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. But, apart from anything else, I can’t go on taking advantage of your kindness, senora,’ turning anxiously to the small, aristocratic figure of her hostess. ‘After all, I am a complete stranger, aren’t I? There’s no reason why you should have to entertain me.’
The old eyes looked rather amused, although at the same time it struck Caroline that there was something oddly thoughtful—even a suggestion of anxiety—lurking at the back of them. ‘But I like having you here, chiquita. It is pleasant that for once there is someone young and pretty in this house. Do you not agree, nieto mio?’ And as she turned to Diego for support the amusement in the old lady’s eyes became more pronounced than ever.
‘Undoubtedly, madame, it is most pleasant,’ her grandson agreed. But judging from the tone of his voice, and the bleakness in his hard black eyes, a casual observer could have been forgiven for assuming that he found the English girl’s presence anything but pleasant.
Caroline began to feel a little desperate. ‘I—I would like to stay, but you see, I must go. … I must!’
‘Very well, senorita.’ Diego Rivel’s shoulders lifted themselves in an almost imperceptible shrug, and in the same instant his grandmother flashed him a rather extraordinary look. It was a look of surprise and something curiously like alarm, and as the girl intercepted it she felt not merely puzzled but just for a moment, for some strange reason, almost uneasy. And then she forgot all about it, for the older woman said nothing, and Senor Rivel had begun to go into details about the projected journey.
‘I am afraid I don’t know very much about the train services, Miss Ashley, but in any case rail travel is not usually the pleasantest or most comfortable method of transporting oneself from one place to another. And as you are still in a sense convalescent’—with a hint of sarcasm—‘and my grandmother would certainly be distressed to hear that you had collapsed on the way, I think it will be better for you to travel by road. One of my cars—the Mercedes in which you travelled last night—is ideal for a fairly long journey, and when my grandmother has been kind enough to give us lunch I shall telephone Carlos, my chauffeur, and ask him to bring it over here. He will then drive you to Toluca, to your brother’s house, and … I shall no longer be responsible for you.’ He displayed even white teeth in a rather curious smile. ‘Does that arrangement suit you, senorita?’
For the second time, Caroline flushed. ‘It’s very kind of you, Senor Rivel, but I couldn’t possibly—’
‘You couldn’t possibly take advantage of my kindness?’ Pausing in the act of lighting a cigarette, he looked down at her with a glimmer of what she decided was rather contemptuous amusement in his night-dark eyes. ‘You are independent, senorita, and that is not good. It can even be foolish!’
All at once the Senora intervened, and it seemed to Caroline that she looked ridiculously concerned— even distressed.
‘Diego, Miss Ashley is still suffering from the effects of her accident. Would it not be better to wait…?’ As she spoke, she looked straight at her grandson, and for several seconds the two pairs of dark eyes held each other. Then Diego looked away.
‘Miss Ashley is anxious to leave,’ he said quietly. ‘And I think that the sooner she reaches Toluca the better it will be for her.’
For a few seconds longer his grandmother studied his face. And then she turned to Caroline.
‘If you are going, chiquita, do as Diego says. In his car you will be safe.’
At precisely three o’clock that afternoon, Caroline shook hands with Senora Rivel, thanked her sincerely for all her kindness, and climbed into the back of Diego’s magnificent silver-grey Mercedes. The long, awesome-looking vehicle was parked in the Senora’s little courtyard, and as Carlos, the chauffeur, closed the door upon Caroline and then slipped back into position behind the steering-wheel the old lady stayed on her doorstep to wave. She continued to wave as the big car crept gingerly out through the arched gateway into the street, and in fact until it was finally lost to view, while Caroline waved back through the rear window. And then, with a clash, one of the maids closed the wrought-iron gates behind them, and as the English girl settled back against the Mercedes’ superbly comfortable upholstery she wondered fleetingly why, right up to the very last minute, the Senora had continued to look so unhappy about her guest’s departure.
She and her grandson and Caroline had had lunch together—a brief, uncomfortable lunch, in the course of which nobody had seemed to say anything very much—and afterwards Diego had said his goodbyes and left to return to his own house, promising to send his car for Caroline within less than half an hour. In the still heat of the afternoon Caroline had gone upstairs to attend to her hair and her make-up, and collect her suitcases, with which Manuela helped her, and by the time she came downstairs again Diego’s car was at the door, and there was no time left in which to say very much to her hostess. She didn’t quite know why, but she wished now that they had had time for something in the nature of a talk.
And then, all at once, she realized that the car was moving through the heart of Mexico City, and as she eagerly leant forward to gaze through the windows everything else was swept out of her mind.
The first impression she received was that most of the streets along which they were travelling were very broad, and rather startlingly modern. In the distance, tall white skyscrapers glistened sharply against the lovely, velvety blueness of the sky, and nearer at hand rows of massive office blocks, some of them undeniably ugly, lined many of the plazas and avenidas. But there were fine old houses too—the town houses of the conquistadores’ sons, with the look of Spain about them—and magnificent baroque churches. There were quiet, tree-lined boulevards and intriguing side-streets overhung by balconies, and there was the sombre Victorian magnificence of the statues in the Paseo de la Reforma.
Caroline decided that it was a city of strange contrasts, and it fascinated her as she had never expected it to fascinate her. She hoped she would see something more of it before she finally left Mexico, and after all, as Toluca was less than fifty miles away, and her brother would almost certainly have a car—she couldn’t imagine Peter without a car—there could surely be no reason why they shouldn’t do a little sightseeing together. Provided, of course, that everything was all right.
The road to Toluca was broad and well made, in fact a motorway, and she soon realized that it wasn’t going to take them very long to get to their destination. In the distance, ridges of misty-mauve mountains rose against the sky, and in what she had somehow imagined would be a kind of sunbaked desert there were vivid splashes of colour. There was the
green of the fir woods, the warm gold of scrubland, the startling translucent blueness of the occasional half-glimpsed stream. And what struck her most forcibly was the brilliance and clarity of the atmosphere, the purity of the light. It made her think of the famous light of Greece, which she had once seen for herself while on holiday with her father.
As the big car moved on southwards along the wide motorway she began to realize that this country which she had never wanted to visit had a really remarkable charm. There was nothing torrid, nothing parched, about Mexico. The air was soft and mildly exhilarating, and the bright landscape spread out around her was intensely beautiful.
Just after half past four they reached Toluca, and Caroline’s interest mounted. The Mercedes had to slow almost to a crawl as its ponderous bulk negotiated the narrow, winding streets, and several times it plunged into deep shadow as overhanging balconies shut out the sun. Caroline leant forward and spoke to the chauffeur.
‘You—you do know the way…?’
Carlos smiled toothily, and nodded his head. ‘Si, senorita.’ In careful English he added: ‘Not there yet. Four, five kilos more.’
They left the pretty colonial town behind them, and now the road they were following was very narrow, little more than a track. Caroline leant forward in her seat, and realized that the palms of her hands were hot with perspiration. Soon, now she would know the truth about Peter, whatever it was.
The rutted roadway grew worse and worse, and after a time they turned off on to another which was not made up at all. Small clouds of dust rose around the car, and Caroline coughed as the stinging grains blew in through an open window.
‘Perdone, senorita.’ Carlos shut the window, and once again grinned cheerfully as he did his best to peer through the brown haze ahead of him. ‘Much dust. Very bad road. Bad place, senorita.’
Caroline began to feel faintly alarmed. The road they were travelling now was almost certainly the track leading to Peter’s ranch, and it was obviously very badly maintained. At least, it didn’t seem to indicate very much in the way of prosperity. Almost at a crawl, they lurched around a sharp bend and over a narrow wooden bridge.
And then, all at once, it was in front of them.
A long, low building with a pantiled roof and oddly tired-looking pink-washed walls, backed by a line of fir trees, and flanked by little groups of pink-washed outbuildings. Vines clambered over the outbuildings with riotous abandon, and a large crack showed in the facade of the house.
With a flourish, Carlos turned the car into the thick red dust of the corral, and pulled up before the front door.
‘Here we are, senorita. The Casa la Golondrina!’
Caroline swallowed, and glanced up at the Casa’s undeniably grubby windows with a sudden feeling of overwhelming apprehension. Peter must be doing very badly … would he be annoyed because she had come? He had always been sensitive and unpredictable, and he also had a great deal of pride. It wasn’t that she regretted having come, for at last she knew what was really happening, and she might be able to help Peter, to advise him—at least she would be someone for him to talk to.
But at the moment she felt tired and she had a headache, and, possibly as a result of the long and bumpy car journey, she felt a little sick.
Carlos opened her door for her, and steadied her as she stepped out, rather shakily, into the dust. Then he pulled the rusty chain of the doorbell.
For what seemed like an eternity nobody came, and he was just about to pull the bell a second time when they both caught the sound of unhurried footsteps, approaching the door on the other side.
‘It is the old woman,’ said Carlos. ‘She is like a snail, but she comes at last. You will be all right now, senorita … I go, yes?’
‘Oh! Yes, of course, you must get back.’ Hastily, she fumbled in her handbag, and when she had presented him with what she was afraid was an absurdly generous tip he beamed at her with expansive gratitude, and accorded her a little bow.
‘Muchisimas gracias, senorita!’
And then he was gone. The Mercedes’ powerful engine purred into life again, and Caroline knew a moment of ridiculous uneasiness as her link with civilization sped away from her.
In the meantime, the person on the other side of the door was evidently having rather a struggle to get it open. There was a considerable amount of rattling and shaking going on, and Caroline was just beginning to wonder whether she ought to address the person concerned through the keyhole when a particularly violent jolt apparently obtained the desired result, and the door swung open, to reveal the figure of a plump, middle-aged Mexican woman.
‘Buenos dias.’ The woman was still panting from her exertions, and her greeting was distinctly surly. She regarded Caroline with disfavour, at the same time taking in every detail of her appearance.
The English girl struggled to remember one or two items from a phrase-book she had been studying recently. ‘Habla usted inglis?’ she ventured hopefully. ‘Can I—can I see the Senor? Is he in?’
‘El Senor … si.’ The woman appeared to understand, and she motioned to the visitor to enter.
The hall they moved into was dark and sparsely furnished, but considering the external appearance of the place it was surprisingly clean, and what furniture there was had even been kept well-polished. There were one or two rather nice rugs on the floor, and Caroline’s spirits actually lifted a little as she followed the servant into what was evidently the principal sala. Perhaps Peter wasn’t really doing so badly after all?
On the threshold they paused, and the Mexican woman spoke.
‘La señorita inglesa, señor.’
She spoke as if the guest were expected, and if Caroline had noticed the fact she would have felt surprised. But she didn’t notice it. She simply stepped forward impulsively into the room.
‘Peter …’ she began. And then the words she had been about to utter faded in her throat, and she stood still, staring. A man had risen from, a chair on the far side of the room, and he was advancing towards her, but it wasn’t Peter.
It was a man with night-dark hair, and depressingly cold black eyes. A man whom she had last seen only a few hours earlier, in Mexico City.
It was Diego Rivel.
For several seconds Caroline simply went on staring at the slim figure of the Mexican as if she half suspected him of being some sort of ghost. And then she looked rather wildly around the room.
‘Why—why are you here?’ she asked. ‘Where is my brother?’
There was a still, frightened note in her voice, and her throat felt dry. Ever since she left England she had known, in her heart, that things were not quite right where Peter was concerned. And now, standing in the shabby sala of Peter’s lonely ranch-house, looking into the eyes of Diego Rivel, she knew with absolute certainty that things were very far from right.
‘I am here to take you back to civilization, senorita,’ Diego informed her softly. He pushed a wicker-work armchair in her direction. ‘But before we leave, I think that perhaps you should sit down.’
‘I don’t want to sit down.’ Her voice was becoming faintly hysterical, and her eyes, which were almost exactly the same colour as her dress, were enormous, and definitely accusing. ‘This is Peter’s house … isn’t it?’
‘It was his house, Miss Ashley. At one time. But it is not, however, his any longer.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simply that he has sold it. To me.’
‘S-sold it?’ Strands of her bright hair, damp with perspiration, had begun to cling to her forehead, and she pushed them back impatiently. ‘Then he isn’t here? He isn’t here at all?’
‘No. He isn’t here at all.’
‘But why… why didn’t you tell me? ‘Her eyes widened still further, as a thought struck her. ‘He is all right, isn’t he? Nothing … nothing has happened?’
‘Miss Ashley, your brother is safe and well—or he was when I last saw him, which is not very long ago—go it is quite unnecessary for you to di
stress yourself about him. And now, if you will sit down, I will explain the situation to you.’
‘But why did you let me come here?’ Instead of sitting down, she backed away from him a little. ‘You knew this wasn’t his house any more … why did you let me come?’
With two swift strides he had covered the ground between them, and his firm fingers fastened themselves upon her wrist.
‘If you are going to become hysterical, senorita, I shall have to call Antona. She is a capable woman, with a most excellent way of handling such situations. I have seen it at work upon her daughter. Well? Shall I call her, or will you control yourself?’ Caroline was not quite certain whether he was being serious or not. But she wrested her hand away from him, and said stiffly:
‘I’m not hysterical, Senor Rivel. I only want to know what has happened to my brother, and why you sent me here, if he doesn’t live here any longer.’
‘Then you must sit down for ten minutes.’ She still hesitated, and he added drily: ‘If you please, senorita.’
Reluctantly, she subsided into the wicker arm, chair, and he bestowed one of his cold smiles upon her—the coldest smile, she thought, that she had ever seen in her life
‘Shall I ask Antona to make you some coffee? Or perhaps, as you have had a shock, you would prefer something stronger?’
‘I’d rather not have anything, thank you.’
‘Very well.’
He moved across to one of the windows, and as he stood silent for a moment, looking out, she noticed that although he must have driven very fast, through dusty countryside, to get to the ranch ahead of her his appearance was still as immaculate as it had been when he was in Mexico City. His beautifully tailored grey suit was without a crease, and his white shirtcuffs were spotless. Somehow the very impeccability of everything about him infuriated her.
He turned away from the window, and resting one hand on the back of a chair, stood looking across at her. ‘Senorita, when your brother told you that he planned to buy a ranch here in Mexico, for the purpose of breeding horses, were you not surprised?’
The Mountains of Spring Page 3
