Pale Dawn Dark Sunset

by Anne Mather

  “That’s better,” remarked Juan with a smile. “Don’t you think you deny yourself enough without including food?”

  “I eat enough,” replied Rafael quietly, toying with the empty glass. “It’s perhaps a question of how little one needs. One should not gorge oneself when half the population of the world is dying of starvation.”

  “And do you think if I deprived myself of one more croissant—one extra cup of coffee, I would be doing anything to aid those starving peoples?” exclaimed Juan impatiently

  “We have had this argument before, Juan, as you pointed out,” observed Rafael, pushing the glass away from him.

  Jezebel appeared with a laden tray, setting it down on the table and setting out a second coffee pot, cream and sugar, croissants and curls of butter, and more of the thick apricot conserve.

  “Now you make a good meal, señor,” she instructed severely, casting a less than respectful glance in Juan’s direction. “Your brother, for once, can show you a good example!”

  Rafael hid a smile as he obediently lifted a croissant on to his plate and spread it thinly with butter. Jezebel waited a moment to satisfy herself that he did indeed intend to eat it and then went away, muttering imprecations against anyone who neglected the common necessities of life.

  Juan waited until Rafael was tackling his second croissant and then he said: “I wish you to do something for me, Rafael.”

  Rafael looked up. “Yes?”

  “Yes.” Juan felt about his person for his case of cheroots. “You remember the child from the mission, do you not?”

  Rafael frowned. “The English girl—of course.”

  Juan nodded, putting a cheroot between his teeth and making a second search for his lighter. “Yes. Well, it appears that her name may be Lucy Carmichael.”

  “Maybe?”

  “That is correct. As the child has apparently forgotten who she is, it is impossible to say with any certainty who she might be. But aboard this aircraft which crashed several weeks ago there was a family called Carmichael; mother, father—and daughter of some eight years.”

  “I see. And you think this might be the child found by Benito Santos?”

  “Well, it may be.”

  “But is that possible? Where did this aircraft crash?”

  “In the mountains—some eighteen miles from here.”

  Rafael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It seems a remote possibility.”

  “But a possibility nevertheless. And unfortunately the authorities have insisted that I investigate every possibility.”

  “Unfortunately?” Rafael was intrigued.

  “Yes, unfortunately. You must know that the child has taken a liking to me—that I have had her here several times to visit.”

  Rafael lay back in his chair viewing Juan through narrowed eyes and his brother felt a fleeting sense of envy that Rafael could exude such an aura of latent sensuality without any apparent effort. It was not fair in someone who was prepared to deny even his own masculinity. “But what were your intentions towards the child?” he asked curiously.

  Juan sighed. “I don’t know. It’s too soon to say. I may have considered adoption—”

  “Adoption?” Rafael lifted his shoulders in surprise. “But she may have relatives.”

  “She has.” Juan got irritably to his feet. “That is why I need your assistance.”

  “My assistance?” Rafael shook his head. “I’m sorry, I seem to repeat everything you say. But I do not see what I can do.”

  Juan puffed impatiently at his cheroot. “If you wait a moment, I will explain.” He walked round his brother’s chair and back to the table again. “The authorities have discovered that there is someone—an aunt—the sister of the child’s mother.” He drew a deep breath. “As one would expect, she lives in England.”

  “And has she been informed of the possibility that her niece may still be alive?”

  Juan nodded. “Yes. Yes, she has. And that is how you can help me.”

  Rafael frowned. “Yes?”

  “Yes.” Juan licked his lips. “This woman is on her way to Guadalima to see the child—to find out for herself whether indeed she is this Lucy Carmichael.”

  “I see.” Rafael inclined his head. “But how can I be of assistance?”

  “Wait—wait!” Juan was obviously finding it difficult to put into actual words what he wanted his brother to do. He drew deeply on his cheroot and seated himself opposite Rafael again, resting his elbows rather nervously on the table. “You see, Rafael, it is like this. This woman—her name is Lord, Miss Lord—is arriving from England tomorrow. I—well, I want you to meet her!”

  “Me?” Rafael was taken aback. “Why me? Where is she arriving?”

  “Mexico City, where else?”

  “Juan!” Rafael stared at his brother incredulously. “You cannot be serious! I cannot go to Mexico City to meet this woman. She does not know me. I hardly know the child. If you wish to see her you must meet her yourself.”

  Juan flung himself back in his seat. He heaved a heavy sigh and spread his hands expressively. “You ask me this?” He shook his head. “What am I to say to her?”

  “What am I to say to her?” remarked Rafael dryly.

  “It is different for you,” exclaimed Juan, leaning towards his brother again. “You are used to talking to people—you have—authority. And besides, you have a much better grasp of the English language than I have.”

  Rafael poured himself some coffee. “And this is why you sent for me?”

  “Yes.”

  Rafael drank some of the black coffee reflectively. “I do not understand all of this,” he said at last. “Why are the authorities not arranging for this woman to be brought to Guadalima?”

  “Father Esteban at the mission left the matter in my hands.”

  “I see. And what do you hope to achieve?”

  Juan coloured slightly. “Achieve? That is a curious word to use, Rafael. It smacks of conspiracy.”

  Rafael shook his head. “On the contrary, what you wish to do for this child is admirable. I just cannot think that Valentina will welcome a ready-made daughter into your household.”

  “Valentina and I are not married yet, Rafael.”

  “No.” Rafael conceded that point slowly. “Even so, you know that it is expected.”

  Juan scowled. “Will you meet the woman? Madre de Dios, Rafael, what would I find to say to some middle-aged spinster? How could I explain my feelings for the child? If she is this Lucy Carmichael, how can I persuade her that the child might be happier here with us than taken back to that cold and unfeeling country of her birth?”

  Rafael half smiled. “I think you are being rather uncharitable, Juan,” he commented mildly. “You really know nothing about England, and the child may be content to return with her aunt—a blood relation. After all, seeing her aunt again may restore her memory.”

  “I know, I know. Do you think I have not thought of that?” Juan sounded impatient. “That is why I wish you to speak with this woman—this Miss Lord. I want you to tell her about me—to explain that I am not a villain with designs on her niece. I want you to explain that the child herself likes me, that I find her enchanting. And that for her aunt to take her away without first considering what she might be depriving her of would be—how shall I say?—precipitate?”

  “In other words, you want me to extol your praises,” observed Rafael ironically. “You think perhaps she might then look more kindly on the possibilities of leaving the child here?”

  Juan tapped his nails irritably against the glass surface of the table. Across the patio a walled rose garden was giving off a fragrant perfume, and humming birds vied with the butterflies for brilliance. He turned back to his brother. “And you, Rafael? Do you not think the child would be happier here, amongst all this?” He spread his hands again. “This woman—this aunt—she cannot possibly give her what I can give her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Juan sighed
. “It is obvious. The child’s clothes—the pitiful things she was found in were not the garments of a rich child. Her reactions to everything I have done for her have not been the reactions of a child already satiated by luxury.”

  “And might she not have forgotten these things also?”

  “No. Ordinary every day things, she remembers. It is the personal details she has forgotten.” Juan pressed out the stub of his cheroot in the onyx ashtray. “The doctors are confident that she will recover. It is only a matter of time. I have had Delgado out from Mexico City—”

  “Ramon Delgado?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “As a matter of fact we were at university together.”

  “I see.” Juan’s lips twisted. “Well, as I say, Delgado expresses the opinion that it is only a matter of time before her memory returns completely. Needless to say, this news arouses mixed feelings inside me. Naturally I want her to regain her faculties, but I am afraid if this woman comes here—stimulates the child’s recollective abilities and then takes her away without first giving her a chance to decide for herself—”

  “But you say the child is only some eight years old?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then how can she decide what would be best for her future? Juan, you have to accept that in this instance you are helpless.”

  “No, I will not accept that.” Juan’s face was grim. He turned again to his brother. “Rafael, I ask very little of you—surely it is not too much to ask you to help me in this…”

  Rafael sighed now. “I don’t see how anything I can say can make the slightest difference.”

  Juan hesitated. Then he said: “Rafael, you have influence. Won’t you use it? The influence of your position?”

  Rafael had known this was coming, of course. “Juan,” he said patiently, “Juan, I have no influence, I am nothing yet.”

  “But you will be soon. You already assist Father Domenico—”

  “In a lay capacity only!” Rafael shook his head and pushed aside his dirty cup and plate. “These people, Juan—the Carmichaels—were they Catholics?”

  Juan moved his shoulders awkwardly. “I—no! I believe they belonged to the Church of England.”

  Rafael’s hand descended heavily on the table. “And you expect this woman to leave her niece—the only surviving member of her sister’s family—with you, the brother of a man who may ultimately become a priest in the Roman Catholic Church?”

  Juan’s jaw moved spasmodically. “So you won’t help me?”

  “I don’t see how I can.”

  “Then you’re not listening to me, Rafael. What can this woman—this aunt—give the girl? She is not even married! She does not have the support of a husband. She is a secretary or something with some firm in London. She has no money—no influence—no position in society!”

  “These things are not so important to some people,” pointed out Rafael quickly. “And I do not speak only for myself. If this woman lives alone, she may be glad of the child’s companionship.”

  “But how can she care for her? If she is at work all day, how will she manage? Always supposing she can afford to support her.”

  “If you really want to help the child then perhaps you ought to offer to support her in the manner in which you would like to see her.”

  Juan stared at Rafael in astonishment. “No! No, I could not do that.”

  Rafael shrugged. “It was a suggestion, nothing more.”

  Juan looked thoughtful. “Will you not do as I ask and meet this woman at least,?” he appealed. He paused. “It may just be—possible to persuade her to change her mind…”

  Rafael’s face darkened. “Juan! You would not—offer her money?”

  Juan moved uncomfortably. “Did I say I might?”

  “It was implicit in your words.” Rafael’s jaw hardened and he thrust back his chair and got abruptly to his feet. “Very well, I will meet your Miss Lord. But only because I am afraid that if I refuse you will think of some other way to keep the child.” He shook his head. “I have never known you to be so obsessed with another human being.”

  Juan could smile now that he had got what he wanted. “I would not call it an obsession, Rafael. I am fond of the child, I admit it. It pleasures me that she treats me like the father she has lost. It is a—satisfying sensation to feel oneself the centre of a child’s world.”

  “And when she recovers her memory? What then? The realisation of the loss of her parents must eventually be faced.”

  “I know it. But I am hoping that by then the life I have given her here will compensate—”

  “And if it does not?”

  Juan’s lips tightened. “We will face that contingency if and when it occurs.” Then: “Now, you will go and see our mother, will you not? You know she would be heartbroken if she learned you had visited the hacienda without spending some time with her.”

  Rafael nodded, thrusting his hands deeply into his trousers pockets. He would have preferred to leave the hacienda forthwith, to go back to his own house and ponder the disquieting aspects of the situation while he bathed and changed his clothes. But it was not to be. He sighed. He had not realised when he left Mexico City how much more difficult it was to remain detached from the intimacies of one’s own family. The seminary had been a refuge from the everyday problems of living, and he admitted he had enjoyed its isolation. But here, involved as he was, he could feel emotions stirring inside him that had been long suppressed. He must not make judgments, he told himself impatiently. He was the outsider here, it was not really his affair. But his intelligence told him that this was just a whim on Juan’s part which could easily be replaced by another.

  His mother was still in bed when he entered her room at the head of the stairs. It was a beautiful room, the floor coolly mosaiced, and strewn with rugs in cinnamon and gold. Wide windows opened on to a balcony, edged with wrought iron, which overhung the patio, and a cool breeze stirred the lemon chiffon draperies. The bed, a magnificent fourposter which was said to date back to the eighteenth century, was wide and comfortable, and Rafael’s mother was ensconced among the soft pillows. A used breakfast tray was pushed to one side and she was reading a newspaper until, at the advent of her son, she thrust it swiftly aside and held out both hands to him.

  Rafael greeted her warmly, taking her hands in his and bending to kiss her perfumed cheek. Then he released himself and took up a stance before the open balcony doors.

  “So you are going to Mexico City to meet this woman, Rafael,” remarked Doña Isabella softly.

  Rafael glanced significantly behind him. “You heard?”

  “It would have been impossible to do otherwise. Juan is so vehement.” His mother sighed, plucking at the silk coverlet. “You do not think he should do this.”

  Rafael shrugged. “I am only afraid…” He shook his head. “Juan is old enough to make his own decisions.”

  Doña Isabella shook her head. “Is he? I wonder?” She stared penetratingly at her eldest son, a troubled expression marring her smooth olive features. “Rafael—Rafael, if you do go to Mexico City, you will come back, won’t you?”

  Rafael’s face relaxed. “Of course. How else is this woman to find her way here? But soon—soon I must return to the seminary.”

  His mother pressed her lips together. “Not too soon, Rafael, not too soon.”

  “I’ve been here two months already,” he protested.

  “I know, I know. But we see so little of you, my darling. You so rarely come to the hacienda…”

  Rafael made an apologetic gesture. “There is so much for me to do—” he was beginning, when his mother interrupted him bitterly.

  “I know. Everyone demands your time, your advice, your medical knowledge, while I—your mother—am spared only a few minutes every week!”

  Rafael approached the bed helplessly, sitting down beside her and taking her hands in his again. “Madre mia, I am sorry,” he muttered huskily, guilt at his neglect of her
overwhelming him. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “But you must understand that I cannot deny Rodrigues my help.”

  Doña Isabella laid a hand on his dark head, smoothing the unruly vitality of his hair. Then she sighed. “I am sorry, too, Rafael. I am a selfish old woman. But knowing you are in the valley and not living here at the hacienda… Could you not come and stay with us?”

  Rafael released her hands and spread his own expressively. “You know that the hacienda is too far from the village. The house I have is easily accessible, and besides, I can be alone there.”

  “And this is important to you, isn’t it?” His mother’s voice had a note of acceptance in it now. “Very well, Rafael, I won’t insist that you come and stay here. But surely—after this trip to Mexico City—you could spend a little more time with us? After all, when you leave the valley, Rodrigues will have to manage, will he not?”

  Rafael got to his feet. “Very well, Madrecita. I will come as often as I can. But now—” He glanced at the plain gold watch on his wrist, “now I must go. I am hot and dirty and I need a shower. Besides, I must tell Father Domenico that I shall be leaving for Mexico City first thing in the morning.”

  “You will take the helicopter to Puebla?”

  Rafael nodded. “Yes. I presume there is a car there I can use.”

  “A Mustang.” His mother inclined her head. “As I recall it, Juan bought two.” She bit her lip. “But you will drive carefully, won’t you, Rafael? The roads can be so dangerous.”

  Rafael smiled, revealing his even white teeth. “You worry too much, Madrecita.“ He kissed her once more and then moved towards the door. “I will see you tomorrow evening. When I deliver Miss Lord.”

  “Very well, Rafael. Take care!”

  Rafael bade her goodbye and went down the stairs slowly. Now that he was free to go he was curiously loath to do so. This house had been his home for so many years and he knew a fleeting temptation to go to his old room and use the bathroom there. He knew his room remained as it was when he had left it. His mother insisted on it always being ready and available to him. But such temptations were never overwhelming and he walked across the wide hall and out onto the steps above the forecourt.