by Flora Kidd
“Is that why you stayed here?” she asked.
“Not the only reason,” he said with a chuckle. “I saw my way to making my fortune like many another lad who has come out here, but I mightn’t have stayed if my first wife hadn’t died and I hadn’t met Inez and her brother Henriques. You see, they had the standing in the community, well-known name and good family. I had the know-how. Between us we made a grand partnership.”
The house where the party was held was entirely modern in design yet still owing the inspiration of its architecture to Spain in the use of wrought ironwork, bright colours and dark woodwork. The people gathered there were nearly all members of the Estaban family, or related to it in some way and, although most of them spoke Spanish all the time Brooke did not feel left out, because Ivor kept her by his side, often putting his arm affectionately round her shoulder as he introduced her as his new daughter-in-law.
Eva and Diego were there, and at once Eva said to Brooke, as she drew her to one side,
“Why isn’t Owen here?”
“He had to go away,” Brooke explained.
“How annoying of him! I’m surprised he didn’t stay so that he could accompany you and introduce you. Mother is angry with him.”
“I know, but it’s not because he isn’t here. It’s because he married me and not Stella,” said Brooke bluntly. Here at last was someone in whom she could confide and who would listen sympathetically. “She wants me to leave him.”
Eva’s golden eyes, a similar colour to her mother’s yet so much softer in expression, opened wide.
“You can’t be serious!” she remarked. “What does Owen say to that?”
“He doesn’t know. She asked me to-day.”
“He’ll be furious when he does know. I’ve told you he hates interference. Oh, Mother mine, why do you interfere? Brooke, you mustn’t do as she says.... ”
“Buenos noches, senoras. You are both looking far too serious for such a gay family party,” said a familiar slightly mocking voice. “Miguel!” exclaimed Eva, her delightful smile lighting up her face as she turned to greet her relative who was elegantly dressed in a ruffled white shirt and black dinner suit “It’s a long time since I last saw you.”
“And you grow more beautiful every time I see you, Eva,” he murmured. Then turning to Brooke he said, “I have some information for you.”
“I can take a hint,” said Eva laughingly. “I can see Manuela over there. I must go and talk to her, I shall see you again, Miguel, I have something to say to you.”
He made a face at her.
“That sounds ominous. Already I am searching my mind to discover what I have done to offend you.”
“Not me, Miguel, but if you’re not careful you may offend someone else, then heaven help you,” said Eva with a gurgle of laughter, and went off to talk to Manuela. As he watched her go with a mystified expression on his dark face Miguel said,
“You did not expect to see me here?”
“No, not really,” replied Brooke.
“It was a last-minute decision. When I heard that Owen would not be present I came. To see you is better than calling you by phone. I have news, Brooke, of your father.”
Her heart began to pound excitedly. It must be good news. Miguel would not look so relaxed and unperturbed if it was bad.
“The helicopter in which he flew south was found abandoned in the forest,” he continued. “There were no bodies with it and it was obvious that it had made a crash landing. The searchers followed a trail which had been blazed through the forest and came upon an Indian encampment. The chief of the tribe told them that some white men had stayed for a while and then had set off to explore the surrounding district, after which they were going to make for the nearest town. The searchers went to that nearest town and waited. Yesterday your father and the two other men arrived there, tired with walking, but none the worse for their adventure.”
Speechless with joy, Brooke could only stare at Miguel as tears filled her eyes.
“I have made you happy?” he murmured, and she nodded.
“When will he come here?” she asked.
“In a few days. He is tired and suffering from malnutrition.”
“I would like to go and see him. Would that be possible?”
“It might be ...” He broke off, his eyes narrowing as he looked past her. Inez had come up. After she had greeted Miguel he told her the good news.
“This is wonderful for you, Brooke,” Inez exclaimed.
“I wish I could go and see him,” Brooke sighed.
“Why not? Miguel, it must be possible for Brooke to go.”
Inez was at her most imperious. Miguel dragged his gaze away from Stella Cordoba, who, graceful and slight, had just entered the room and was being greeted by Carla and Henriques Estaban, and inclined his head politely at Inez.
“As always, Tia Inez, your wish is my command. It can be arranged for Brooke to go and see her father, to-morrow if she would like.”
“Oh! But I can’t leave Megan. I promised Owen....”
“I shall look after Megan,” said Inez in that same imperious way. “Eva will be staying with us for a few days and she can also visit the child. This is one time when she does not come first. You must go and see your father - it is only natural that you wish to see him. Owen will understand. Ah, there is my dear Stella at last. Excuse me.”
She swept off, and again Miguel’s glance wandered in the direction of the lovely ballerina. Seeing the expression of bitter hunger on his face, Brooke tried to divert his attention to herself again.
“Do you really mean to make arrangements for me to go and see my father?” she asked.
“Yes, I really mean it. You can fly to Ciudad Bolivar in the morning. I shall come with you.”
Ciudad Bolivar. Owen had gone to a site south of there and would be returning to-morrow. It was possible they would pass in midair. At any rate she would be gone before he returned.
Manuela was by her side and there was no chance of any further private talk with Miguel, because Eva claimed him. Brooke hoped to avoid Stella, but found it impossible because the woman sought her out deliberately.
“I hear that you have failed in your job as a mother recently and that Owen was not pleased. He will not forget or forgive easily an accident which would not have taken place if the proper care and attention had been taken of the child by you,” she said.
Rather upset by this direct attack, Brooke took refuge as usual behind an appearance of cool serenity.
“You seem to be well informed, senora, about the incidents which take place in our family.”
Stella’s dark eyes flashed as she took exception to the emphasis Brooke put on the word “family”.
“Si. I have a very good friend who is well placed in the house and who knows what goes on,” she retorted, and Brooke went cold. How much did Inez tell the ballerina about the relationship between herself and Owen? “Have you spoken to Owen about the subject you and I discussed when we last met?” queried Stella sweetly, for all the world looking as if she was carrying on a pleasant conversation with Owen’s wife.
“Yes, I have,” Brooke felt herself being as abrupt as Owen was when he didn’t want to reveal what he thought or felt.
“And his answer?”
“He said nothing.”
Stella raised her finely-plucked arched eyebrows mockingly.
“But how typical of him! But do not be deceived by his silence into thinking he would not like to do something. His noncommittal attitude reveals, surely, that he is reluctant to do anything until you show your hand. He will be waiting for you to take action. Owen is a great believer in acts. He prefers them to words which he knows often mean nothing. Possibly you should just go away, leave him and make it easy for him. When will you go?”
“I think you’ll agree that I can choose my own time about that,” replied Brooke, keeping her voice cold with an effort.
“But you have a heaven-sent opportunity to-morrow, if
all I hear is true. Such wonderful news for you, to hear that your father has survived his wanderings in the wilds and has been found. I believe you are going to see him to-morrow if a certain good friend of yours can arrange it, and I am sure that he will. Everyone has been remarking to-night how attentive Miguel has been to you lately, and the fact that Owen has made no attempt to stop you from seeing Miguel must surely show you how little he cares for you.” Stella’s spite was sugar-coated and therefore all the more insidious. “You could go south, stay with your father until he is ready to return to Britain and go back there with him. So easy and simple. Painless too, for all concerned.”
Was that the way it should be done? Should she fly south with Miguel to-morrow before Owen returned? Should she leave a note saying that she would not be back? Or just go because to Owen her action would speak louder than any words?
Through the jumbled chaos of her thoughts Brooke was aware of Stella watching her, and beyond Stella was Inez talking to someone, but also watching as if she was interested in the outcome of the conversation which was taking place between her stepson’s wife and the ballerina.
“Supposing I leave and the marriage is annulled but Owen decided not to marry you, what will you do then?” she could not resist asking Stella.
“He will marry me. I shall make sure he has no choice,” murmured Stella. “Please excuse me. There are so many friends
of mine here, I must try to see them all.”
For Brooke the party could not end too soon. The latest conversation with Stella, the knowledge that Inez approved of what the ballerina had suggested, weighed on her mind and made her immune to gaiety. Also she had a queer feeling that everyone there was watching her, waiting for her to make a move or perhaps to make an announcement. It was, after all, the sort of occasion at which one might make an announcement; to inform family and friends of a forthcoming marriage or the expected birth of a child. Perhaps she should stand up on a chair and call for silence, then say, “Ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure in announcing that I am going to leave Owen so that our marriage can be annulled and he can then marry Stella Cordoba.”
Brooke put the brakes on her thoughts and they skidded to a stop. She was thinking wildly and irrationally and not as she thought normally. Once she was alone, away from those watchful family eyes, she would be able to think straighter with her usual coolness and decide on what to do for the best.
On the way back to the Casa Estaban as they drove through the city, glittering with light, she heard Inez telling Ivor of the plan for the next day and how Miguel had very kindly offered to escort Brooke to Ciudad Bolivar. She heard Ivor approve of the scheme. It seemed that even he who, she sensed, liked her and would want her to stay with Owen, was not going to prevent her from leaving Caracas before Owen returned, and once again she had a crazy idea that she was being gently but firmly removed from the place to ensure that she and Owen would never meet again.
In bed she tried to order her thoughts, but they would not be disciplined. Several times she composed in her mind the note she would leave for Owen the next day. It would explain where she had gone and why she would not be coming back. But when morning came she could scrawl only a few words to say that she had gone to see her father and hope that he would understand. She found she could not bear to say she would not be coming back because she could not bear to think of leaving him and never seeing him again.
CHAPTER SIX
The twin towers of the Simon Bolivar Centre, graceful columns of cream and peach-coloured concrete, their windows glittering with reflected sunlight, soared up against a brilliant blue sky. Then the small car which Miguel was driving swept under them and out again the other side and a new aspect of the city came into view, tower upon tower rising above the warm glow of the red roofs of older buildings, shining against the green of the hills.
As always the clear light of morning in the city made Brooke feel better. The muddled thoughts of the night had been dispersed and she was looking forward to the journey by air and to seeing her father again. After that meeting with him she refused to look.
Her companion also seemed to be in high spirits and talked exuberantly of the journey ahead of them. He was taking her in his own plane which he would pilot himself so that she would have the experience of flying in a small plane.
Down through the hills to the airport they drove, leaping over deep ravines spanned by graceful bridges, roaring through the dim tunnels which delved through the thick rock; down to that other magnificent feat of engineering, the airport, where a whole hill had been flattened to make way for level runways beside the dancing glittering Caribbean Sea.
As she stood beside the two-seater plane which sparkled white and red in the sunshine, Brooke felt excitement surge through her. The sea breeze whipped at her hair and twitched at her shirt. From the nearby sea came the tangy scent of salt. The rumbling roar of big jet engines warming up almost deafened her and Miguel had to shout his instructions to her. With his help she climbed up into the cockpit of the little Cessna plane and had hardly settled in her seat when he was beside her in the next seat showing her how to fasten the safety belt and how to fit the oxygen mask.
“You will only need the oxygen if we have to fly above ten thousand feet,” he explained. “We may not have to fly that high
today. Visibility is good, so we can fly between the mountains.”
“How far can a plane like this go without refuelling?” she asked, and he gave her a strangely wary glance.
“As far as you and I shall go to-day,” he replied crisply, and turned on the engine.
Once it had warmed up and Miguel had received clearance from the ground staff as well as from the airport’s control tower, he guided the plane along the runway. Gradually and rather bumpily it gathered speed, left the ground and rose slowly into the air. Brooke was conscious of a feeling of weightlessness as the runways swayed beneath them and buildings swung to one side as the plane turned and headed straight towards the sun and the soaring mountains. A wall of runnelled red rock loomed in front of them and was bypassed as the plane tilted to avoid it. Below, the vegetation of the lower slopes of the mountains looked like a carpet of green moss.
They flew through the coastal range, following the route of the road through the valley. Soon they were over Caracas, zooming down to look more closely at the ovals of the sports stadiums of the University, hovering over the twin towers of the Bolivar Centre under which they had so recently driven, and then they were away, hopping over the racecourse and entering another wide valley through which a road wound back and forth penetrating into the mountains.
“Do you like it?” shouted Miguel, above the noise of the engine.
“Oh, yes. I’ve always wanted to fly in a small plane. And now I really feel as if I’ve slipped the surly bonds of earth. And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings’,” she replied.
He glanced at her, his dark eyes glinting with interest.
“That describes the feeling exactly,” he said. “You are quoting someone else, perhaps?”
“Yes. The words are from a poem by a pilot called John Magee. I learned it at school”.
Below the land shimmered in the sunlight, a patchwork of brown, green and purple. Small lakes and rivers glittered and flashed and over all the burning blue of the sky stretched as far as she could see.
As she watched white-walled red-roofed villages slide by underneath Brooke tried to visualize the map of Venezuela. In a short time they should be free of mountains and over the llanos, the wide plains which lay to the south of the Central Highlands and which stretched to the banks of the Orinoco River.
South? But they were no longer flying south. They were flying west, still keeping to the wide valley. Mountain peaks towered on either side several thousand feet high and she was glad that visibility was good, thinking that she would not like to fly amongst those sheer walls of rock in bad weather. Ahead something flashed in the sunlight; snow, scintillating and glittering.<
br />
Snow? Brooke’s heart seemed to somersault. Where would there be snow in Venezuela? In the Sierra Nevada or the Merida lying to the south-west of Caracas. But surely they did not have to fly in that direction to reach Ciudad Bolivar?
Once again she looked down at the plain of the wide valley where the road wound dusty grey amongst fields. Was it possible that the road was the great Trans-Andean highway linking Caracas with Bogota, the capital of Colombia, miles away from the llanos?
She glanced at her watch and saw with surprise that they had been flying for more than a hour. She looked at Miguel intending to ask him where they were. Was it possible that he was lost? He did not look lost. In fact he looked extraordinarily complacent for him, as if he had achieved something on which his heart had been set for some time.
The plane changed course and once again they were flying south. Brooke relaxed a little as they left the high mountains behind and flew over hills stippled with jade green vegetation and small fertile valleys. A town came into view, the twin towers of its old church reaching up to them, cars crawling along its main street between white flat-roofed houses.
“Miguel, where are we? What is the name of that town?” she asked.
“Valera, in Trujillo state. And there you can see the Motatan River,” he replied smoothly.
“Trujillo? But what are we doing here? We can’t be going to Ciudad Bolivar?”
“You shall see, senora, you shall see,” he replied, and laughed.
“Miguel, what are you up to? Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
He shook his head, smiling at her.
“Don’t worry, Brooke, you are quite safe. We shall soon be at our destination.”
It was useless, she could see, to persist. He would not answer if he did not wish to and he knew she could do nothing to stop him from taking her where he wished. So she sat silently frowning, trying to smother the disappointment she felt because she would not be seeing her father that day after all.
