by Flora Kidd
The air was cool and slightly damp as cloud had come down to obscure the view. Brooke was glad she had a sweater with her. She untied its sleeves from round her neck and pulled it on over her shirt. The action dishevelled her hair and she brushed it back out of her eyes with the back of her hand, and met Miguel’s admiring
stare.
“You are the first woman I have ever known who is casual about clothing and appearance,” he remarked. “Yet you are completely and beautifully feminine.”
She was disturbed by the expression in his eyes. She had met him accidentally, or at least Brooke hoped the meeting had occurred by accident. She had been shopping and had been on her way to her little car when she had met Miguel leaving the same building. He had told her that he had been on his way to phone her because he had news for her about the search for her father, and had suggested that since it was such a clear day they should go up Mount Avila where they could talk unobserved and uninterrupted.
“Oh, that’s coming it a bit strong,” she replied, laughing a little to cover up her uneasiness. “I’m not and never have been beautiful. Plain Jane and no nonsense, that’s me.”
He tilted his handsome head to one side an expression of puzzlement on his face, and she realized that he did not understand the idiomatic English she had used.
“You laugh at yourself in the English way too, and when you laugh your eyes sparkle like moonlight on the sea. Who is this plain Jane you talk about?”
She explained the meaning of the phrase and Miguel shook his head.
“I disagree. You are not plain. Your hair is spun gold, your skin is like fine porcelain and your goodness of heart shines in your eyes. You are natural. I wonder if you are innocent too?”
She stared at him gravely, trying to assess what lay behind his compliments.
“I thought we came here to talk about the search for my father,” she said quietly, turning away from him to lean on the stone balustrade of the terrace, trying to peer through the clinging mist to see the distant city. “Have you anything to tell me, or was it just an excuse to get me to come up here with you?”
He leaned beside her and lifted one of her hands in his. Before she could retrieve it he had raised it to his lips and she was reminded of the time he had kissed her hand in the darkness of the
car, the first time she had dined with him.
“I could fall in love with you very easily,” he said softly.
Brooke snatched her hand away and looked around to see if anyone had seen him kiss it.
“Miguel, please behave. I’m not impressed by Latin manners. You’re not falling in love with me - you mustn’t be.”
“You find it strange, amusing perhaps? I find it strange too, because you are different from my other loves.”
“Have there been so many?” she teased, trying to keep the situation on a humorous plane.
His charming smile flashed out.
“Many, but only one of them was really serious.” His smile faded as suddenly as it had appeared and a dark, bitter expression took its place. “I did not think that I would ever have cause to be jealous of Owen, and to hate him with every breath of my body.” The violence of this announcement alarmed her. He looked suddenly vicious, capable perhaps of violence, and she realized she was seeing a different Miguel, the one hidden beneath the sophisticated veneer of civilization.
“Why should you be jealous of Owen?” she asked. “You have everything - wealth, family, position. You are handsome and courteous.”
“Thank you, senora” he said mockingly. “Yet in spite of my wealth, position, my handsome face and courteous manners, he has succeeded where I have failed. He has won the love of the only woman in the world I shall ever love seriously. You see, for all his lack of polish Owen has a great deal of natural charm, just as you have. He also has an innate grace of mind inherited from his forebears. He has their humour, the Welsh love of music....” Love of music. Which music? Ballet music? A vision of Stella pirouetted through Brooke’s imagination and she turned to look at Miguel with greater interest.
“It was his love of music which sent him to concerts and to the ballet to seek distraction when his wife had gone to England,” Miguel continued bitterly. “He met Stella Cordoba. For years I have loved Stella, ever since I met her, the youthful bride of the man who was my hero. I worshipped them both. Because she was married to Julius I kept my distance, although I longed to show my love. From that distance I watched her fall in love with Owen. She did not care who saw or who knew. She showed she loved him, openly seeking him out—”
“Chasing him because she knew he was unattainable.” Brooke’s voice was crisply dry and he flashed a surprised glance in her direction.
“Do you think so?” he said. “Perhaps you are right, but all that matters to me is that at the time when she most needed help and comfort she turned to Owen and not to me. I, the worshipper waiting patiently in the wings, was cast aside in favour of the man who until that time had been my best friend. Now you know why I’m jealous of him and would do anything to hurt him.”
Brooke was tempted to laugh at him. Then she realized that her laughter was the result of uneasiness. Such passionate avowals of love and jealousy were alien to her cool English ears. Miguel was Venezuelan and the blood of proud and lustful conquistadors ran in his veins. He was ruled by emotion far more than he was by reason.
“You must not be jealous of Owen, and you and I must not meet again,” she said quietly but firmly.
“Why mustn’t we meet?” he exclaimed.
“Because our meetings are causing too much gossip.”
His eyes glinted wickedly. “I am glad to hear it,” he said. “I intended that they should. I wanted to hurt Owen through you.”
“Oh, how could you?” protested Brooke. “It’s nothing better than revenge!”
This time his smile had a curiously satanic quality.
“But of course. However, my plans do not seem to be working, and you have found me out. Owen is not hurt and Stella is still in love with him even though he has married you and not her. I am becoming desperate and I shall have to take stronger action.”
There was a strange glitter in his dark eyes and she drew back from him.
“I wish I could help you, but there’s nothing I can do,” she said coolly, although she longed to turn and run away from him. She could not begin to understand the dark deep workings of his mind. As far as she was concerned planned revenge was something which belonged to the past and not to the twentieth century. It was medieval. Staring at his handsome profile, she saw him as an expression of his country. On the surface he was like Caracas -modern, sophisticated, elegant, but underneath he was like the jungles, the wide plains, the high mountains, primitive and partially unknown.
“I must go home soon,” she said. “Please tell me about the search for my father.”
The cloud lifted and the sun shone on them. Brooke welcomed its warmth and light. For those few minutes while Miguel had talked of revenge she had felt as if she had been in a dark, evil place.
“The department have decided to renew the search,” he replied, “but they would like to know in which direction your father decided to go. Did you ask Owen?”
She told him what she had learned from Owen.
“Bueno. That helps. He could be right about the Indians. It would depend on how your father handles them. I have reason to believe he would be successful in dealing with them because he is a kind and humane person, always interested in his fellow man. I’ll keep you informed of progress.”
They descended the mountain and parted at the ground terminus. Aware that she had been out longer than she had intended, Brooke drove quickly back to the Casa Estaban. She parked the car in the driveway and hurried into the house. As soon as she stepped into the hall she sensed that something had happened.
From the direction of the lounge came the sound of a woman’s voice. It was strong and forceful, speaking in Spanish and being answered by Owen, als
o in Spanish.
Slowly Brooke drifted across the hall in the direction of the archway leading to the lounge. The woman was speaking again and it was easy to tell that she was berating someone. Her deep voice rang like a bell, clanging through the house. Brooke paused under the archway and looked into the room.
The woman was tall, full-breasted and majestic. She was dressed in a simply-cut black and white dress. Her iron grey hair was coiled neatly round her well-shaped head and as she talked her long hands gestured in the Venezuelan way so that the jewels in her rings flashed and glittered in the afternoon sunlight which shafted through the window like a spotlight in a theatre.
Sitting in one of the armchairs was a stockily-built man who was dressed in a light grey suit and white shirt. His hair was almost white and it curled closely to his head. His face was square-jawed and pugnacious and his heavy-lidded eyes were almost lost in the lines of shrewdness and humour which radiated out from their corners. A faint smile curved his wide mouth as if he was enjoying the woman’s performance.
In front of the long window Owen was standing with his hand in his trouser pockets. As usual his hair looked as if he had been running his fingers through it and his suit jacket was off, slung over the back of the nearest chair. His glance lifted to Brooke and the expression in his eyes was so hostile that she felt as if she had been struck.
“Inez, love,” the man in the chair came slowly to his feet and Spoke sharply so that the woman stopped speaking and turned to look at him, “I don’t suppose Brooke understands much Spanish yet. If she does she won’t like what you’re saying about her, so I think you should dry up,” he said quietly. He turned to Brooke and held out a hand. “Come in, girl. Let’s have a look at you,” he added.
The familiar Welsh cadence in his voice comforted Brooke and she moved towards him. He was Owen’s father. Formidable he might be in business and as a father, but his smile was welcoming and his hand grasped hers warmly.
“I’m Ivor Meredith,” he said. “And this is my wife Inez, whose bark, I’m glad to say, is much worse than her bite.”
The glance he gave Inez was full of affectionate mockery and Brooke recognised that they knew and understood each other very well, in the way that a couple who have lived and loved together for many years do.
“Buenosdias, senora,” she murmured, turning to Inez.
Golden eyes, sharp as an eagle’s; a proud beak of a nose curving above a thin-lipped mouth; skin tanned to the colour of teak; there was both pride and beauty in the woman’s face.
“You are very tall,” she said in heavily accented English, as she took Brooke’s hand in hers.
“As tall as you are, senora,” replied Brooke with a smile, looking directly at the golden eyes which were on a level with her own. Inez nodded coolly, but the glint in her eyes showed that she was slightly disconcerted by her stepson’s new wife.
“There’s spirit for you, Inez. This girl isn’t going to be frightened easily,” chuckled Ivor. “Owen has been telling us about your father, Brooke. Have you any news about him?”
“No, not yet, but I heard to-day that the Department of Development has decided to re-open the search now that they know in which direction he went.”
Across the room her glance clashed with Owen’s again. He scowled and the yellow flicks in his eyes flared smokily as he guessed she had seen Miguel again.
“That’s good. We mustn’t give up hope,” said Ivor, patting Brooke kindly on the shoulder. “There’s many a person been lost in this country and found again. And now, Inez, I think I’ll go and have a little rest before dinner. That flight tired me out. I’m sure you have many instructions to give Pilar and much to find out from her.” He chuckled as his wife flashed him an indignant glance. “She’ll tell you all that’s been happening while we’ve been away and what mischief Owen’s been up to, I’m sure. And I expect he’s wanting to talk to Brooke about Megan.”
In a few words he had organised them all and there was no arguing with him. With an expressive lift of arms and shoulders Inez followed him from the room, although Brooke guessed that the woman would have dearly like to have stayed and listened in to the conversation between her stepson and his new wife.
They had hardly left the room when Owen said abruptly,
“Where the hell have you been?”
The roughness of his speech disturbed her. He was very angry
about something.
“I’ve been shopping. Didn’t Pilar tell you?” she countered warily. “Anyway, what are you doing home so early, and where’s Megan?”
“She’s in hospital.” The terse announcement sent shock tingling through her. In a few steps she had crossed the room to his side. She placed a hand on his arm.
“What happened to her?” she asked, aware of a twinge of conscience. She should never have let Miguel persuade her to go up Mount Avila with him.
“She fell - slipped on the damned polished floor of the hall, twisted an ankle and banged her head, and knocked herself out cold.”
With a movement which betrayed his extreme irritation he pushed her hand from his arm and flung himself down in the nearest armchair.
“Oh, Owen,” she gasped, “I’m sorry!”
“So you should be,” he retorted savagely, and his glance was a whiplash which scourged her. “When it happened Pilar phoned me and I came straight home. She was in a terrible state and Megan was unconscious. You’d said you’d be back for lunch, but you didn’t turn up and Megan threw one of her tantrums. She kept crying that you’d left her and wouldn’t be coming back. It was while Pilar was trying to comfort her that she broke away and ran out into the hall. You know she can’t run yet, so I can leave you to imagine the rest. Are you going to tell me where you’ve been, or am I going to shake the information out of you?”
While he had been talking some of his anger evaporated and he merely looked weary and depressed. Appalled by his recital of events but remembering the way he had shaken her the previous night, Brooke stepped back warily.
“There’s no need for violence,” she retorted, and a ghost of his usual brash grin flickered about his mobile mouth as if he too remembered the incident of the previous evening and was amused by it. “I’ll tell you,” she continued. “I ran into Miguel. He said he had something to tell me about the search for my father. He suggested we went up Mount Avila, and since I’d never been I
agreed to go.”
“Why? Why couldn’t he tell you there on the street or wherever it was you met him? What was so secret about it? Or did he have a few other things to tell you he didn’t want anyone else to hear?” Owen asked with a cynical twist to his mouth.
She flushed painfully as his jeering question touched almost near the truth.
“I can see that he did,” he remarked. “I suppose he told you he could fall in love with you. He’s a great one for worshipping other men’s wives.” He paused, then added slowly, “Unless, of course, there’s some truth in what Inez was saying about you when you arrived just now.”
“You didn’t tell me that she and your father were coming home to-day,” she countered.
“I didn’t know. I found them here when I returned from the hospital. The letters from Eva and the other Merediths telling them that I’d married again had caught up with them, and Inez couldn’t rest until she could get on a plane and fly back here to give me a piece of her mind. You can imagine, perhaps, that when I told her that Megan was in hospital again and that you were out gadding about when the child fell, my dear stepmother was only to ready to point out to me the error of my ways. She suggested that I’d been caught again by a selfish little fortune-hunter without any morals.”
“Owen, I’m sorry I wasn't here. I can’t say any more than that. Megan could have had the accident when I was here. My presence wouldn’t have made any difference,” she pleaded. “I had to go and find out what Miguel knew about the search for my father. I just didn’t think it would take so long.”
Seeing the stu
bborn expression of disbelief on his face she felt curiously helpless, unable to find a way to convince him that accidents have a way of happening no matter how anyone tries to prevent them. Then in a sudden flash of insight she realised that Inez had hurt his feelings by what she had said. Hurt because he was hurt, she knelt on impulse beside the chair, leaning her arms on its arms so that she was close to him.
He gave her a wary glance from under frowning brows.
“I honestly thought Megan would be safe with Pilar,” she said quietly. “The woman loves her so much. I’ve left her before and she hasn’t behaved like that. I have to have a little time to myself. No mother has to be with a child all the time.”
“I know that. I guess I’m just disappointed in the child. She seemed so much better,” he muttered. He closed his eyes and raised a hand to his forehead. “I can’t help wishing, though, that you hadn’t gone with Miguel. I understand why you had to go, but other people don’t.”
“I’ve told him I don’t want to see him again,” she said. “He’s jealous of you because of Stella. He believes you won her love away from him.”
He opened his eyes and from under the shadow of his hand they glinted with amusement.
“So at last you’ve found it out why he has it in for me, he remarked. “He’s wrong. He imagines it. Oh, I’m not denying that Stella and I were friendly for a while when she lived here....”
“And your stepmother would have liked you to have married her. That’s why she’s angry with you for marrying me, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” he said non-committally.
“Why didn’t you marry her, Owen?”
“Because she was married already,” he countered smoothly, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes.
“But you must have known her husband was going to die. Why didn’t you wait until he did?” Brooke persisted.
He gave her one of those long considering glances and then said slowly,
“Can you imagine Stella as a mother to Megan?
She couldn’t, of course. Stella was too career-orientated to ever wish to be a mother.
