by Anne Mather
“Rafael…” she breathed achingly, but with a frightening change of mood, Rafael’s expression had hardened into angry disgust.
“Cristo!” he groaned, dragging himself up and away from her. “Estoy loco rematado!” His fists clenched by his sides, water dripping unheeded from his shirt and pants. “Get up! Get up, señorita! We leave—at once!”
Lucy, who had watched what had occurred from the far side of the lake, now came running towards them, but her lips drooped disappointedly when she overheard Rafael’s last words. “We’re leaving, Tio Rafael?” she exclaimed in dismay. “But why? Why?” She looked down resentfully at Miranda. “Why can’t she just take off her clothes and dry them in the sun? Why must we all go back just because she was stupid?”
Miranda scrambled indignantly to her feet. She had had just about enough. “It may have missed your notice, Lucy, but your—your—Don Rafael—is soaked, too!” She stumbled over the words.
“I know. Because he had to rescue you!” retorted Lucy.
“No one had to rescue me,” replied Miranda bitterly. “I was perfectly capable of making the shallows myself.” She glanced at Rafael and felt angry that he could so coldly dismiss that devastating moment which had left her feeling weak and hurt and oddly vulnerable. But at least she had proved one thing, she thought without enthusiasm. He was not indifferent to a woman, to the feel of a woman’s body against his…
“Anyway,” Lucy was going on, “Tio Rafael can take off his shirt, and his trousers will soon dry—”
“Your uncle needs to get into dry clothes,” returned Miranda fiercely, realising that his wellbeing was none of her affair but unable to prevent herself anyway. “He already has a cold from the last time!”
“Well, you shouldn’t have climbed on that silly old log!” declared Lucy scornfully. “I thought grown-ups were supposed to have more sense—”
“Bastante, Lucia!” Rafael silenced the little girl with a curt command. He was unbuttoning his shirt as he spoke and tugging it off his wet shoulders. Although his trousers still clung wetly to his hard body he seemed to have himself in control again. “We will go, as I have said. Immediatemente. The señorita—your aunt—can take off her wet garments and wrap herself in the rug I keep in the Landrover. Myself, I will survive until we get back.”
Miranda wanted to protest that he, more than she, should shed his wet clothes, but she realised that to do so would accomplish nothing. Besides, she wanted nothing so much as to leave this beautiful little canyon and return to the hacienda where at least she could be alone with her thoughts. Even Lucy seemed to sense that there was no point in arguing, and after Miranda had shed her shirt and jeans behind the Landrover and wrapped herself sarongwise in the roughly woven rug Rafael had handed to her, they climbed into the vehicle and began the precarious journey home.
Miranda couldn’t help but notice that Rafael coughed more on the homeward journey, and during that period of negotiating the narrow pass he began to shiver in the chill air. She wanted to say something, anything to show that she cared what happened to him regardless of whether he cared what happened to her, but one look at his set countenance was sufficient to silence any sympathetic remark she might have made.
They came down into the valley just before noon and Rafael accelerated swiftly through the village and up to the hacienda, paying scarce attention to the greetings that were called to him. A strange car was standing in the courtyard when he stood on his brakes by the fountain but if he recognised it he made no comment and merely waited impatiently for them to climb down. Then with a curt: “Adios!” he drove away, and it wasn’t until Miranda turned to mount the steps in her makeshift sarong that she remembered her shirt and jeans were still in the back of the Landrover. Her nerves tightened. She hoped she met no one in this state.
Lucy accompanied her up the steps in silence, her small face mutinous, and Miranda made no attempt to reason with her. The whole morning had been a disaster and she felt sick at heart. When they entered the imposing entrance hall, Lucy ran off, to find Juan no doubt, and Miranda turned eagerly towards the stairs.
“Señorita Lord!”
The shocked tones of Rafael’s mother arrested her, and she turned reluctantly to face her hostess. “Buenos dias, Doña Isabella.”
“But what is this?” Doña Isabella ignored her greeting. “Señorita, what is the explanation of your attire? Where have you been? What have you been doing? Where is the little one?”
Miranda sighed, holding the rug more firmly about her breasts. “I—fell in the lake, I’m afraid.”
“You—fell—in the lake?” Doña Isabella’s lips thinned. “You were with Rafael?”
“Yes.” Miranda paused. “You—knew we were going to the lake? Jezebel delivered the message?”
Doña Isabella nodded curtly. “So—where is my son?”
“I—I’m afraid he’s gone, señora. You see, he was wet, too.”
“Rafael was wet?” Doña Isabella’s fingers clenched. Clearly she was impatient to know every detail of this disturbing affair. “You will please to tell me how my son is wet also.”
Miranda sighed. “Of course. But couldn’t I go and change first, señora?” She looked down at the rough folds of wool that chafed her skin. “This rug is very—uncomfortable. And damp.”
Doña Isabella stared at her coldly. She obviously cared little for Miranda’s comfort, but her innate sense of courtesy restrained the retort that trembled on her lips. “Very well,” she agreed at last. “But you must come down quickly and tell me what happened. We have guests. My son’s fiancée, Señorita Vargas, and her parents are visiting us. It would not do for you to discuss such things in their presence.”
“No, Doña Isabella.”
“And the little one? She has been taken back to the monasterio?”
“No.” Miranda shook her head. “I think she went to find Ju—that is, Don Juan, señora.”
Doña Isabella clicked her tongue angrily. “Oh, but this is most annoying! I must go and find her immediately. She cannot be permitted to disrupt my son’s conversation with his fiancée and her parents. I will go and find her. Diaz must take her back to the monasterio.”
“Oh, but—” Miranda put out an appealing hand. “Could—couldn’t Lucy and I have lunch together—in my room? I mean, it would give us more time alone together—to get to know one another.”
Doña Isabella considered this request and then she nodded. “I do not see why not,” she admitted grudgingly. “Indeed, it might solve the problem. Juan is sure to want the child to stay, whereas Valentina may have other ideas. And besides, her parents would not approve of such a situation. No—no, I think that will do very well, señorita.”
“Thank you, señora.”
It was a minor concession, but as Miranda shed the irritating folds of the rug and showered in the luxuriously appointed bathroom she half hoped Juan would refuse his permission. Somehow she doubted that Lucy would find her a suitable substitute for Tio Juan, and after this morning’s events, Miranda’s nerves felt shot to pieces.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN Miranda came downstairs again some fifteen minutes later, neatly dressed in a plain blue cotton skirt and a white blouse, her hair secured with the tortoiseshell comb, one of the Indian maids was awaiting her in the hall.
“Doña Isabella send me to fetch you, señorita,” she said, in heavily accented tones. “You come?”
Doña Isabella and Lucy were in a small reception lounge, and when Miranda appeared the older woman dismissed the maid and said: “Lucy has told me what happened, señorita.”
Miranda looked at the child’s rather smug expression. “Has she?”
“Yes, señorita. Unfortunately she has told everyone—including my son’s guests.”
Miranda shrugged. “I’m sorry.”
“It would seem you have been most careless, señorita. It is fortunate that my son was there to save you.”
Miranda’s dark brows drew together and she lo
oked again at Lucy, who was innocently watching the antics of a fly caught in the rays of the sun through the slatted blinds. “I—I don’t know what Lucy has told you, señora,” she ventured quietly, “but I was not in need of rescuing. I’m quite an adequate swimmer. It was all a misunderstanding.”
Doña Isabella looked sceptical. “That is hardly my conception of the facts. But I do not wish to argue with you, señorita. Sufficient to say that your behaviour has caused a certain amount of embarrassment to my son—to both my sons—and it would be as well if you kept to your room for the remainder of the day.”
Miranda could feel her cheeks burning. She felt like a reprimanded child and she wished that Doña Isabella could have chosen a more suitable time to speak to her when Lucy was not present. She was quite sure the little girl was finding all this vastly entertaining.
“Very well, señora,” she managed now. “Is that all?”
Doña Isabella looked down at Lucy. “No. I have spoken to my son and he has given permission for Lucy to take lunch with you in your room. Afterwards she will be driven back to the monasterio.”
Now it was Lucy’s turn to look disconcerted. “Oh, but Tia Isabella—” she exclaimed, only to be silenced by the look of reproval on Doña Isabella’s face.
“It is settled, Lucy,” said the older woman firmly. “And now, you will excuse me. I must get back to my son and our guests.”
Left alone, Lucy fidgeted restlessly, avoiding Miranda’s eyes. Miranda watched her for a few minutes, and then she said: “Well? Shall we go upstairs? As we’ve both been banished from the lunch table?”
Lucy looked up at her warily. “Aren’t you cross with me?”
Miranda put her hands on her hips. “Now why should I be cross with you, Lucy?”
Lucy coloured. “I don’t know. I—I just thought you might be.”
“What you really mean is, you’ve been making up stories and you’re afraid I might decide to punish you for it, don’t you?”
“No.” Lucy hunched her shoulders. “I only said that you had fallen off the log and that Tio Rafael had rescued you.”
“Is that all?” Miranda took her by the shoulders and looked squarely into her troubled face. “Is that really all?”
Lucy shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. At least—well, I—did say that you—that you—”
“That I what?” Miranda was impatient.
“I just said that—that you shouted for help!”
“Oh, Lucy!” Miranda was horrified. “You know that’s not true.”
Lucy sniffed unhappily. “Well! You might have done, mightn’t you? And—and Tio Rafael did carry you back to the shore, didn’t he?”
Miranda shook her head. “No wonder Doña Isabella looked so annoyed. No doubt she thinks I fell in deliberately.”
“Why should she think that?” Lucy looked puzzled.
“Oh, never mind.” Miranda felt a sense of resignation. “Well, shall we go and have lunch together? We might as well. We don’t seem to have a lot to say to one another otherwise.”
Iñez served their meal on Miranda’s balcony. It was very pleasant sitting there in the shade of the eaves eating shellfish served with a crisp salad followed by fruit and cheese and strong black coffee. Miranda spoke little during the course of the meal, but she was conscious of Lucy’s eyes upon her several times and wondered what the little girl was thinking now.
When Iñez had taken their plates away, Lucy slipped off her chair and wandered curiously round the room. She fingered Miranda’s brush and comb on the vanity unit and unscrewed a jar of skin perfume, inhaling its fragrance.
“This is a lovely room, isn’t it?” she said, speaking voluntarily for the first time.
Miranda tried not to feel too encouraged. “It’s all right,” she conceded indifferently. “I’m used to something a lot less opulent.”
“Opulent? What’s that?”
“Oh—luxurious, expensive. I’m used to more modest surroundings.”
Lucy wrinkled her nose. “In England?”
“Of course.”
“You live in London, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Miranda was cautious.
“I know. Tio Rafael told me.”
“Tio Rafael?”
“Yes. This morning, at the lake. He was telling me that people come from all over the world to see London. He talked about Buckingham Palace where the Queen lives. I’ve seen the Queen, haven’t I?”
“Y—e—s.”
“I know.” Lucy tossed her head. “I told Tio Rafael I had.”
Miranda licked her lips. “Do you remember that?” she ventured tentatively.
Lucy sniffed. “Of course.”
Miranda drew an unsteady breath, hardly daring to go on in case she destroyed this tenuous beginning. “Do—do you remember who you were with when you saw the Queen?” she asked gently.
Lucy frowned, obviously thinking hard. Then she shook her head and Miranda’s hopes scattered. “No.” She pulled inquisitively at a drawer, her eyes widening when she saw the scraps of nylon underwear it contained. “Are these yours?”
“Yes.” Miranda tried to hide her disappointment. What was the use? She was getting nowhere.
Lucy closed the drawer again. “I’d like some underclothes like that,” she murmured wistfully.
Miranda bit her lip. Then she thought of the photographs in her handbag and determination spurred her on.
“Lucy! Bring my bag here, would you?”
It was easier than Miranda had expected. The little girl hovered beside her after bringing her the bag, clearly curious to know why Miranda had wanted it. With trembling fingers, Miranda extracted the wallet of photographs she carried with her and began to flip through them. As she had expected, Lucy’s curiosity got the better of her and she peered over Miranda’s shoulder.
“That—that’s me!” she exclaimed at last.
“That’s right.” Miranda tried to sound casual.
Lucy drew back. “Why are you showing them to me?”
Miranda shrugged. “I’m not. Nobody asked you to look.”
Lucy considered this, her fingers plucking nervously at her dress. Then she looked down at the photograph that was presently occupying the top of the pile. She stared at it for several seconds and a troubled expression crossed her face. But no sign of recognition.
Miranda sighed. Was she doing this all wrong? Could the shock of seeing photographs of her parents do more harm than good? She wished she knew.
Lucy pointed to the photograph. “Who—who is that?” she asked reluctantly.
Miranda hesitated. “That—that’s my sister, Lucy.”
“Your sister?” Lucy pressed her lips together. “You mean, that’s the lady who you said was—was my mummy?”
Miranda bent her head. “Yes.”
Lucy began to tremble. “Well—well, I don’t know her.”
“That’s all right.” Miranda gathered the photographs together, half wishing she had never begun this.
“It’s not all right.” Lucy twisted her hands together. “I—I should know her, shouldn’t I? If she’s my mummy?”
“Calm down, Lucy.” Miranda thrust the wallet back into her handbag. “Come along. I’ll show you something I brought for you.”
Lucy was distracted for a moment. “Something you brought for me?” she murmured. Then she looked back at the handbag. “I—I want to look at the other photographs first.”
Miranda sighed again. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”
“Why not?”
Miranda shook her head. “Let me show you what I’ve brought for you first. It’s a little pendant—”
“No. I want to see all the photographs.” Lucy bent and picked up the handbag. “Go on, show me!”
Miranda opened the wallet again with reluctance, but Lucy snatched the snapshots out of her hand and began to look through them with trembling fingers, crumpling the corne
rs in her haste. Watching her face, Miranda could see that none of them seemed to arouse any feeling of identification, and she could see the child’s confidence waning. And then suddenly, her eyes brightened and she clutched one of the pictures to her for a moment before looking at it again.
“Th—there!” she stammered, thrusting it at Miranda. “Th—that—that’s Fluffy, isn’t it?” and she burst into tears.
Miranda looked down at the photograph of a little girl holding a small white kitten and a swelling feeling of excitement made her feel slightly sick.
“You—remember—the kitten?” she whispered. “Your kitten?”
Lucy nodded, sobbing uncontrollably.
“You know this is you with Fluffy, don’t you?”
Lucy nodded again. “Wh—when—when I—I was a—a little girl—girl,” she sobbed.
“That’s right.” Miranda drew a deep breath. “Do you remember anything else?”
Lucy shook her head. “N—no.”
“Well, never mind.” Miranda tried to be positive about this. “Dry your eyes. It’s a beginning anyway. At least you remember Fluffy.”
Lucy rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands, accepting a paper tissue from Miranda and taking the photograph again to stare at it. “Wh—where is Fluffy?” she asked at last.
Miranda had been half dreading that question. “He—he’s in England,” she said casually.
“W—with Mummy and—and Daddy?”
“No.” Miranda shook her head. “He lives with a Mrs Cross now.”
Lucy frowned. “But he’s mine!”
“I know, love. But—well, you were going away, and you can’t take cats out of the country unless you want to leave them in quarantine for months and months after you get back.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, when you take a cat or a dog—any animal—out of England you have to leave it in sort of boarding kennels when you come back. You see, there are strict rules about things like that. And besides, if you had brought Fluffy to South America he might have caught some horrible disease and died.”
Lucy nodded slowly. “But he’s there for when I get back?”
