The Mountains of Spring

by Rosemary Pollock

  ‘It’s—it’s like Kensington Gardens,’ she told her companion breathlessly, and he laughed.

  ‘Oh, no, not quite. A London park could beat anything in Mexico City. I know London … I’m an Anglophile. I love everything English.’

  He spoke with a kind of whimsical intensity, and she felt a little confused. So far he had not talked very much, but she felt that he looked at her a great deal, and she wished heartily that he would look a little less, and talk a little more. She was not usually inclined to vanity, but she couldn’t help being aware of the fact that he was deriving quite a lot of pleasure from being with her, and the intensity of that pleasure alarmed her a trifle. He was nice, but as far as she was concerned that was absolutely all. They had, however, a very pleasant lunch in the dining-room of the Jockey Club. Caroline, who always found people fascinating, thoroughly enjoyed being in a position to observe the colourful cross section of Mexican society which swarmed all around her, and as her companion was kind and attentive, and for the most part kept the conversation on a light, impersonal level she gradually began to feel more relaxed. It was actually possible, she discovered, to watch the racing from the Jockey Club dining-room, but as Castaneta’s moment was not due to come until the middle of the afternoon, and neither of them had any particular reason to be interested in the other events they didn’t avail themselves of this advantage. Instead, they enjoyed a leisurely meal, and then strolled outside to mingle with the crowds. There was an infectious lightheartedness in the air, and Caroline began to feel herself caught up in the excitement.

  ‘Do you think your horse will win?’ she asked Dick Weldon, and he laughed.

  ‘Of course she will. You’re here!’

  It didn’t seem to Caroline that this was an argument which anyone wishing to place a bet on Castaneta would have found very convincing, but her escort, who seemed to have a strong streak of puritanism in his make-up, was not, she discovered, a betting man in any case. He raced horses for the thrill of the contest rather than the possibility of financial profit, and presumably for this reason he didn’t seem particularly worried about the outcome of Castaneta’s race.

  For a while they wandered about in a desultory fashion, for the sights of Mexico were intriguing to both of them. During one race they leant against the rails to see the horses flash by, and as they passed in a cloud of red dust, and a roar rose from the throats of the spectators Caroline gave a little gasp.

  ‘It’s—exciting!’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at her. She was wearing a silk suit, in a shade of pink which made him think of wild English roses, and a shady white straw hat beneath which her skin looked flawless. ‘It’s breathtaking!’ he agreed.

  Then he noticed that they were surrounded by quite a dense crowd, and that he wasn’t the only person admiring his companion. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he suggested.

  They turned to make their way back through the crush, and just as they did so Caroline caught sight of a familiar head and shoulders, and uttered a little exclamation of pleasure.

  ‘There’s my brother!’

  ‘Oh?’ The man beside her glanced round indulgently. ‘Where?’

  But by this time Peter had caught sight of them, and was forcing a way towards them. His handsome blond head towered dauntingly above most of those around him, and he didn’t have very much difficulty in clearing a path for himself. When he finally reached them he was grinning boyishly—although it occurred to Caroline that there was something just a little self-conscious about him.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘I didn’t expect to find my little sister here with you, Dick!’

  ‘Neither did I,’ Dick assured him with humility. ‘I’m still having difficulty in believing that she is here. But if you say you see her it must be true!’

  ‘Mr. Weldon asked me to come with him because his new horse is running,’ said Caroline. She was beginning to wish they hadn’t bumped into Peter. It was quite obvious what sort of conclusions he was jumping to, and for some reason it actually upset her to think that anyone could imagine she and Dick Weldon might even be seriously interested in one another.

  The two men began to discuss Castaneta’s chances, and as the race in which she was scheduled to run was the next on the programme they also started to walk towards the paddock. A great many other people were moving in the same direction, and all around them there was noise and laughter, and a hum of rapid Spanish. There were a considerable number of very smartly dressed men and women among the mass of humanity surging down to look at the horses, and Caroline, who was far from being held spellbound by the conversation of her two companions, glanced at some of the dresses with interest, for quite a few of them bore the stamp of Paris.

  And then suddenly, for the second time in ten minutes, her attention was caught by the sight of a face she recognized. Diego Rivel, binoculars in hand but apparently quite unaccompanied, was moving purposefully in the direction of the paddock. A little pulse began to beat at the base of her throat, and she felt her cheeks grow slightly pink. The sight of him threw her completely off balance, and although she didn’t really know why he should have such an effect on her she supposed that it was at least partially because of his behaviour on the occasion of their last meeting. That behaviour had certainly not been entirely impersonal, and it was only natural that on seeing him again she should feel a certain amount of embarrassment. She did wish, though, that her inside would stop turning over, and that her fingers in their cream-coloured gloves didn’t feel quite so absurdly tremulous.

  Dick Weldon’s glance had followed hers, and he lifted his eyebrows. ‘Your employer’s amongst us.’ he informed Peter. ‘Did you know?’

  Peter started, and a close observer might have decided that he looked very nearly as shaken, in a somewhat different way, as his sister. His eyes followed the Mexican as he made his way into the parade ring ahead of them, and a quiet but forceful expletive issued from between his lips.

  ‘That chap’s everywhere,’ he muttered.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ agreed the American. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the impression that you’d rather not run into him just now. Do we see you after the race?’

  ‘No.’ For a moment, Peter had actually stood still in his tracks, and he was still hesitating. ‘No … I don’t mind running into him.’ And then he seemed to make his mind up about something. ‘But I’ve just remembered there’s someone I’d better have a word with. I’ll see you later.’ And with a brief word to his sister he was gone, making his way back in the general direction of the stands.

  Nearly all of the horses which were to run in the next race were in the paddock by this time, and several of them had little clusters of interested spectators grouped around them. Castaneta had just been brought down, and as her owner led Caroline towards her she was giving a little trouble. Her jockey, who had twice been unseated, was swearing at her in a peculiar variety of fractured Spanish, and the stable-boy in charge of her seemed to be running the risk of serious injury from her flying back hooves.

  ‘The little mare’s got some spirit,’ observed Dick Weldon, without seeming unduly shocked. And Caroline, whose thoughts had been more than half on Diego Rivel, came back to an awareness of her surroundings. She looked at Castaneta, and was instantly enchanted.

  ‘Oh, but she’s lovely!’ she exclaimed. ‘She’s— she’s the colour of ripe corn.’

  ‘Yes, and she’s got the temper of Lucifer,’ said her proprietor cheerfully.

  The jockey made a third attempt to mount, and with abandoned enthusiasm Castaneta plunged wildly. There was a torrent of vituperation, and as the little Mexican slid to the ground again he and the stable-boy embarked upon what was obviously an extremely violent argument. By this time quite a crowd had gathered, and a good deal of free advice was being offered. Dick Weldon spoke, after a moment or two, to the jockey, who replied in English even more wildly distorted than his Spanish, and the gist of
his reply was that if the Senor wished his mare to run in the next race it would perhaps be as well if he rode her himself.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll do that,’ said her owner placidly. He seemed to be deriving a considerable amount of entertainment from the scene in front of him.

  Becoming increasingly theatrical the jockey commenced upon a series of gestures which were evidently meant to indicate the sort of fate he could reasonably expect if he should be so unwise as to persist in his efforts, and at that moment the mare, completely affronted, reared straight on to her hind legs. As her forefeet plucked the air women screamed in all directions, and Dick Weldon, suddenly active, dragged Caroline out of the way.

  But then, as even the stable-boy lost his grip and people scattered in alarm, a man impatiently pushed his way through them, and walked straight towards the hysterical horse. It was Diego Rivel, and while Caroline watched in a kind of fascinated horror the tall, impeccably dressed Mexican reached out a hand and grasped Castaneta’s bridle. She had been just about to rear again, and if she had persisted in doing so he would have been in an extremely unpleasant position, but something … something utterly inexplicable … seemed to prevent her. She tossed her head and neighed piercingly, and several times she kicked out fiercely with her hind feet. But from the moment that Diego drew near to her it was obvious she had begun to quieten. Within a minute or two she was standing almost motionless, her sleek golden head drooping, her only movement the compulsive trembling of violent nervous reaction, and as the shaken stable-boy repossessed himself of the leading-rein the man who had calmed Castaneta issued some terse instructions in Spanish. Then he turned away, leaving the horse to the care of those normally responsible for her well-being, and as he did so he came face to face with Caroline.

  As Castaneta was restored to tranquility there had been a little burst of applause from the onlookers—subdued applause, of course, as nobody wished to be responsible for upsetting her again—and a good deal of interest had been shown in the man whose intervention had been so startlingly successful, but now the people were dispersing, and everything was more or less restored to normal. It was all over, and in the sudden calm Caroline felt as if she had come through a period of appalling strain. Something seemed to be telling her that it was nonsense to feel like that, for she herself hadn’t really been at any time in the slightest danger, but she knew that it wasn’t for herself she had been afraid. As she looked at Diego her face was absolutely white.

  ‘Senor,’ she whispered, ‘that—that was a wonderful thing to do.’

  He stared at her for a moment, and then glanced at her companion, who as Castaneta’s owner had just thanked him for preventing what could have been a very unpleasant incident.

  ‘You are kind, senorita,’ he said. And then, without another word, he bowed and walked away.

  Fortunately, Castaneta was not too badly upset to be able to race. Some ten or fifteen minutes after she had been quietened down by Diego Rivel she finally permitted herself to be mounted, and with two or three minutes to spare she was ridden down to the start.

  Caroline was by this time seated in the stands with Dick Weldon, and was doing her best to display a genuine interest in what was going on around her. Ever since the incident in the parade-ring Dick had been watching her with a good deal of solicitous anxiety, for it was quite obvious that she had been badly upset, and there was little doubt that he imagined Castaneta’s unprecedented behaviour to have been exclusively responsible. She had had a serious fright, and had reacted very naturally.

  What she couldn’t explain to him was something she had only just realized herself … namely, that it wasn’t the danger she herself had been in—if she had been in any danger—but the risk that had been taken by Diego Rivel, the appalling risk that made her shiver whenever she thought about it … That was the thing that had left her feeling as if she had just been through a shattering ordeal. She couldn’t even explain it to herself, and if she had been able to do so it wasn’t a thing she could discuss with Dick. She was aware of the fact that when she had spoken to the Mexican he had virtually snubbed her, and this too had upset her, for she couldn’t account for it. She felt confused and disturbed, and found it difficult to concentrate at all on the little knot of horses assembling at one end of the track for the start of the next race.

  A pair of binoculars, however, was pressed into her hand, and she was able without much difficulty to identify Castaneta. Then, almost before she realized it, the race had started, and all around them a huge, vague murmur of excitement was rising from the crowd. She couldn’t see Castaneta now; the golden mare was lost to view, hidden somewhere in a cluster of other horses. Dust rose around them, and all at once there was nothing at all to see but outstretched necks and crouching jockeys. One horse was pulling ahead, but it wasn’t Castaneta, it was a big, powerful black. Its supporters began to grow enthusiastic, and their roars of encouragement filled the stands and echoed around the track. A thrill of disappointment ran through Caroline. She knew now that she had really wanted Castaneta to win. Castaneta had once belonged to Diego Rivel!

  The black horse was leading by about two lengths, and its adherents in the stands were becoming ecstatic. Beside her, Dick Weldon was watching the race very calmly, and as the tension mounted she began to wish that he would lower his binoculars and say something. But he said nothing, and now there was only about a furlong to go. Her own binoculars when she raised them again were badly focused, and it took her a few seconds to adjust them.

  And then, as her vision cleared, she saw that something had changed. The big black horse was no longer quite alone in galloping free of the rest of the field. Another foam-flecked shape had detached itself from the main body of horses, and it seemed to Caroline that it was moving with the speed of an arrow. The afternoon sunlight glinted on its golden neck, and as the distance between it and the leader narrowed she caught her breath on a little gasp of pure excitement. The gap between the two horses grew less and less, and then, suddenly, there was no gap. The winning-post loomed close to them, and as they were almost on top of it Castaneta drew clear. Caroline watched her as she passed the post like a streak of sunlight, and she heard the roar of the crowds swell into thunderous delight. Castaneta, apparently, had even more supporters than the black horse.

  ‘Well, well! I said you’d bring me luck.’

  The matter-of-fact voice of Dick Weldon recalled her to herself, and she realized that in the excitement of the moment she had risen to her feet. She sat down again, feeling self-conscious.

  ‘That was wonderful!’ she said.

  He looked at her. ‘You’re fond of that word,’ he remarked.

  ‘Fond of that word?’

  ‘Oh, never mind!’ he laughed, and stood up himself, drawing her back on to her feet. ‘Are you coming with me to greet the winner?’

  They entered the unsaddling enclosure at more or less the same time as Castaneta, and Caroline was just about to go forward with Dick to congratulate the jockey and bestow a cautious caress on the beautiful animal who had just provided her new owner with such ample proof of her worth when she caught sight of another figure moving in the same direction, and instinctively she hung back.

  Diego Rivel was also coming to pay his tribute to the winner.

  He saw them, hesitated a moment, and then walked straight towards them.

  ‘You are pleased, senor?’ he enquired, after bowing briefly to Caroline.

  ‘Oh, very!’ Dick Weldon assured him. It struck Caroline that he didn’t sound quite as pleased as he might have done in the circumstances, but it was only a passing impression, and she didn’t dwell on it.

  ‘She is an excellent animal,’ Diego was saying. ‘It took speed and power to pass Stella Negra. I am sorry, a little, that I sold her to you. But that is your good fortune.’

  They were standing beside Castaneta now, and as he turned to speak to her jockey, the Mexican placed a hand on her glossy neck.

  ‘Would you like h
er back?’ It was an abrupt question—especially from Dick Weldon. Carolina, at least, was startled.

  Senor Rivel’s hand fell from the horse’s neck, and for several seconds his eyes were focused penetratingly on the other man’s face. Then he said smoothly:

  ‘You wish to sell her back to me?’

  ‘Yes, I’m willing to sell.’

  Caroline, startled out of her own embarrassment, stared at the American in astonishment, and saw that his mouth had twisted into an odd kind of smile.

  ‘You will expect to make a profit, no doubt?’ There was an almost sneering note in Diego’s voice.

  ‘That doesn’t bother me too much. I’ll take what I gave for her.’

  ‘A sudden decision, senor. And a strange one, surely, in the circumstances?’

  ‘I guess I just shouldn’t have had her in the first place. It didn’t strike me until this afternoon, but getting her back to the States with me would present quite a problem. So, if you’re sorry you parted with her…’ He shrugged slightly.

  Diego turned his head, and for a moment his gaze rested, half absently it seemed to her, on Caroline.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I understand very well, senor. I will make out to you a cheque, and the beast will become mine again.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine,’ said Dick Weldon.

  The Mexican bowed and turned aside, apparently to have a few words with Castaneta’s jockey. But at that precise moment something or somebody in the crowd of bystanders caught his attention, and he quite visibly stiffened. Caroline automatically followed the direction of his eyes … and what she saw very nearly made her jump with shock and apprehension.

  For moving through the colourful crowd, not twenty-five yards away from them, was Peter. He wasn’t moving very rapidly, and with the aid of a second glance it was easy enough to see why. He was pushing a wheelchair in front of him … and in the wheelchair, looking startlingly pretty and youthful in a white dress, and with her dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders, was Isabel Dominguez.