A Savage Beauty Page 15

  ‘What would you have me do?’ he demanded coldly. ‘Say—gracias, padre, for taking my wife to meet my mother without my prior knowledge or consent? Gracias, for showing her that my mother was never my father's wife!'

  Emma sighed frustratedly. ‘You should have told me yourself.'

  Miguel clenched his uninjured fist and turned away. ‘Oh, yes,’ he muttered. ‘Oh, yes. And have you any idea how?'

  ‘But I was bound to find out—'

  ‘Here? Yes! Yes, of course. You were meant to find out. I would have taken you to meet her. I wanted to be there when she met you for the first time. Strange as it may seem, Emma, I love my mother. I love my brothers and sisters. I just wish to God that Alfaro Diaz was my father!'

  Emma stared at him unhappily. ‘You don't—not really.'

  ‘What do you mean?’ He swung round.

  ‘Miguel, no matter how you may rile against it, you're Carlos Salvaje's son, and were you not, you wouldn't be the man you are—can't you see that? You're a very lucky man—you have a talent envied by millions, you have the power to induce magic from an instrument made of wood and metal! That's no small achievement. Don't belittle it by resentment. Whatever—your father is like, whatever his faults, he loves you, make no mistake about that. And that's why he took me to see your mother this morning—because he wanted to hurt you, as you've hurt him by marrying me!'

  ‘I? Hurt him?’ Miguel laughed contemptuously. ‘I haven't hurt him! I've thwarted him, that's all.'

  ‘All right, have it your way. But whichever it is, you're not winning any victories by hiding away here, attempting to destroy the one thing in the world you really care about—your music!'

  Emma trembled at the violence in his face. ‘How do you know what I care about? Why should you imagine my triumph as a concert pianist is due to anything more inspiring than a craving on my father's part for a vicarious success?'

  ‘I believe it because no one—no other person—could inspire such dedication, such attention to detail, such emotive perfection! That's why you're successful, Miguel. Not because someone else is driving you on, but because you play with your mind as well as your body. People can sense this; it's that indefinable quality that no amount of cultivation can ever simulate. It's something that's there—in you. It's been there since you were born.’ She stared desperately at him. ‘Can't you see? Can't you understand? Don't you know how lucky you are to have a gift like that?’ She made a sweeping gesture encompassing the magnificent room. ‘I've no doubt there are pianists all over the world without the facilities or the opportunities to make use of their talent, but you're not one of them. You have all this—everything that anyone could desire—yet you still pretend that your father is only doing it for himself, for some selfish idea of gaining prestige! What need has he of such things? Don't you think what he already has achieved is enough?'

  Miguel moved his shoulders in a defeated gesture. ‘You don't understand,’ he said heavily. ‘I never wanted to be a—a performer! I liked to play, yes. I had an aptitude for the piano, yes. But when my father recognized this he employed the most expensive tutors he could find.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn't object. Why should I? I loved music. I wanted to learn everything there was to know.’ He ran his fingers lovingly over the smooth polished surface of the piano. ‘I played everything. Not just classical, but all kinds of music. I used to spend hours, just entertaining myself. I think even then it was an escape.’ His features hardened. ‘But then my father intervened—his favourite pastime, as you will discover.’ His lips were bitter. ‘He told me I was wasting my time, wasting all the training he had paid so highly for. He said I should give up composing—’ He halted abruptly. ‘I should explain. In those days I used to compose quite a lot. Nothing great, you understand, but little pieces that pleased me. I used to imagine that one day I might write something really remarkable—a symphony, or a concerto perhaps.’ He sighed. ‘That was what I really wanted. I had no desire to become famous as a performer, to play before thousands of people—'

  ‘And yet you do it so—so naturally!’ she breathed.

  Miguel dropped down on to the piano stool and touched the keys softly. ‘That is because I pretend,’ he said, looking up at her, the anger disappearing from his face. ‘I pretend I am here—alone—and when it is over I am almost shocked to hear the applause.’ He half smiled. ‘An admission indeed from someone reputed to be so calm on the platform. But I gain nothing from an audience, they do not lift me, as they say. I am always glad when it is over.'

  Emma digested this slowly. She recalled the first time he had come to her father's house in London, the way he had pleaded with her to have dinner with him, how he had wanted to avoid recognition. She had thought he was ashamed of being seen with her, but she could have been wrong. For the first time she felt close to her husband, as though by the admission of his vulnerability he had opened a door and let her see through.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ The sardonic voice was like a douche of cold water, and the opening door slammed abruptly. Carlos Salvaje walked into the room, and everything was as it was before. His presence had destroyed the gentle intimacy which had been developing between them, and Miguel's face as he faced his father was cool and emotionless.

  ‘What a clever girl, you are, Emma,’ Carlos went on smoothly, ignoring the tenseness of her expression. ‘I am afraid I underestimated you. When you said you could do it, I didn't believe you!'

  ‘I didn't—that is—’ Emma stared at Carlos disbelievingly, and then glanced imploringly at her husband's face. ‘Miguel, I didn't say that—'

  Miguel rose to his feet. ‘Whether you did or did not is not of the least importance to me,’ he replied, but although his tone was cool it would have taken a mind reader to know whether or not he was angry with her.

  Carlos looked at him impatiently. ‘Do I take it the vigil is over?’ he asked, controlling his annoyance with obvious difficulty.

  Miguel shrugged. ‘How dramatic you make it sound, padre. If my seeking a little solitude is regarded as a vigil, then yes, I suppose you could say it is over.’ He moved away from the piano and pulling a cord the long jade curtains were swept back to admit the brilliance of the afternoon sun.

  Carlos turned his attention to Emma. ‘And what has my son been telling you to make you look so drawn, little one?’ He flicked a careless hand towards her pale cheeks, but Emma flinched away from him and he smiled derisively. ‘So? You are angry with me, too? Because I teased you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Or has this been the time for confessions—for weeping on the shoulder?'

  Miguel swung round irritably. ‘Why have you come here, padre? Are there no distractions on the terrace? Are the other members of this little house party poor entertainment?'

  Carlos's lips tightened. ‘I should have thought you were better equipped to answer that than I!'

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Miguel glared at him, and Emma moved uncomfortably, wishing herself far from this confrontation. She was the outsider here, the unwanted third, and she half believed they had forgotten she was there.

  Carlos folded his arms. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Miguel. Do not pretend my wishes concerning you and Carmen were wholly the result of an overcharged imagination!'

  Emma caught her breath, and the small sound that escaped her reached Miguel's ears. His lips twisted and he deliberately reached for her, dragging her close against him, within the circle of his arm.

  ‘How unfortunate, padre,’ he said mockingly. ‘For once, I have to disappoint you. But Emma and I are very happy, as you can see, and when our son is born I am convinced you will take to the role of abuelo like the flamingo to the lake!'

  Abuelo! Emma knew that word. It meant grandfather! She wriggled protestingly in her husband's grasp, but although to outward appearances he was looking tenderly down at her, the steel in his eyes brooked no argument.

  Carlos stared at his son incredulously. ‘You cannot mean—'

  ‘But yes, padre, that
is what I am saying.’ He put his hand lightly but possessively on Emma's middle. ‘Emma is encinta; we are going to have a child!'

  ‘But how can this be? You have only been married a week!’ Carlos's scepticism was tinged with anxiety.

  ‘How pasado de moda you are, padre. How old-fashioned! Emma is a modern young woman, not a duenna-escorted doncella! We have been lovers since the beginning.'

  * * *

  The sun went down on that day in a blaze of glory, but Emma paid little attention to it. For the past couple of hours she had been lying on her bed staring unseeingly at the ceiling. She dreaded the moment when she would have to leave this sanctuary and join the others for dinner, particularly as she was sure that Carlos would waste no time in telling everyone of her condition.

  Of Miguel, she had seen nothing since she left him in the music room after his shattering announcement. She didn't know what Carlos said after she left, she had only known that she could not stand there and listen to a discussion about a fictitious pregnancy that had only been conceived in Miguel's mind.

  She buried her face in the pillow, but tears would not come. What a terrible mess! She loved a man who had married her solely to prove to his father that he had a mind and a will of his own…

  Eventually she stirred, and after a shower dressed in one of her new gowns, a long, amber-coloured chiffon, that swathed the warm contours of her body, and hinted at the curves beneath. Surveying herself in the mirror before leaving her room, she knew she had never looked more attractive, the hollows of anxiety giving her face a haunted beauty.

  Juan was alone in the lounge when she appeared and he gave her an admiring smile. ‘Marvellous!’ he exclaimed. ‘You look—’ He kissed his fingers extravagantly.

  Emma managed a smile. ‘Could I have a drink, please?'

  ‘But of course. What will you have? Cinzano? Sherry? Or something a little stronger?'

  ‘Something a little stronger, please.’ Emma moved to the long windows which opened on to the terrace. It was dark outside, but the fragrance of the garden was still in the air. She breathed deeply, calming herself, and then turned to accept the gin and vermouth Juan offered.

  Juan stood beside her, holding a glass of tequila rather absently, studying her averted face. ‘Something is wrong,’ he said. ‘Do you want to talk about it?'

  Emma sighed, tracing the rim of her glass with her forefinger. ‘I met Miguel's mother today.'

  ‘I know you did.’ Juan frowned. ‘It has upset you?'

  ‘Not in the way I think you mean.’ She looked up, her eyes wide and distressed. ‘Oh, why do Miguel and his father seem to hate one another?'

  ‘They don't hate one another.’ Juan shook his head. ‘Emma, I know this is hard for you to understand, but it is because they are so much alike that Carlos and Miguel are constantly in conflict. Unfortunately, I feel, Miguel feels a strong sense of loyalty towards his mother, and it is this that from time to time erupts into violence in his relationships.'

  ‘Unfortunately?, Emma was confused. ‘Why should it be unfortunate that Miguel feels loyalty towards his mother? Surely it's the most natural thing in the world?'

  Juan sighed. ‘As I say, it is difficult for you to understand, Emma. Our customs are not your customs, and what happened thirty-three years ago should not be allowed to destroy the present. Carlos is a possessive man so far as Miguel is concerned, you must know this is true, and he resents any attempt on Miguel's part to thwart that possessiveness.’ He studied the liquid in his glass thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he hoped that Miguel would never learn the truth of his parentage, but Elissa saw to it that he did.'

  ‘Elissa?’ Emma frowned now. ‘Who is Elissa?'

  ‘Elissa was Don Carlos's wife. She died almost twenty-five years ago.'

  ‘Oh, yes. He told me his wife was dead.'

  ‘That is correct. She was not well for many years. She became mean and embittered,’ He swallowed a little of his tequila. ‘Not that I am excusing what happened. No one could do that. But you have no doubt gathered, even in this short time, that what Don Carlos wants he invariably gets, and in this instance it was a son.'

  ‘You mean—Miguel's father took—took Maria as his mistress?'

  ‘Yes.’ Juan was obviously finding it difficult to go on, but he persevered. ‘Maria was already of a marriageable age. She was sixteen, and here one marries so much younger. Her family were farmers, not rich, you understand, but not peasants either. They were of poor Spanish descent, and very proud. Alfaro was working for Don Carlos at this time. He is what is called a mestizo, that is a person of mixed Spanish and Indian blood. After—after Don Carlos's son was born, he persuaded her parents to allow Maria to marry Alfaro. He gave them money and a house, on the understanding that none of this should ever come out. The child was to be brought up as Don Carlos's son, he was legally adopted, and although Elissa had obviously hated the whole affair, she made no immediate objections.’ Juan shrugged. ‘Perhaps the baby, small and defenceless, was not something to hate. Only as Miguel began to grow, as he developed his father's characteristics, did Elissa turn against him. When he was seven, she told him who his mother really was.’ He swallowed the remainder of his drink in a gulp. ‘I do not think Miguel has ever really got over it.'

  ‘I see.’ Emma realized she had not touched her drink and raised the glass automatically to her lips. ‘And Don Carlos?'

  ‘He was furious, as you can imagine, but Elissa died soon afterwards and so escaped his wrath.'

  ‘And I suppose Miguel wanted to spend time with his mother—with his half-brothers and sisters?'

  Juan nodded. ‘Of course. Knowing Miguel as you do, you must know he is not a man to avoid problems simply because it is easier to do so. Don Carlos objected, of course, but what could he do, short of beating the boy? And he loved him, that was the most important thing.’ He made an involuntary gesture. ‘Perhaps he loves him too much.'

  The sound of footsteps in the hall precluded any further discussion and Juan moved away towards the centre of the floor as Carmen Silveiro came into the room. Tonight the Spanish girl was wearing black, and the smooth flesh of her throat rising from the low-cut bodice had the creamy thickness of magnolia petals. She really was quite startlingly beautiful and Emma felt her throat tighten in despair. How could she ever have hoped to challenge a woman like this? A woman confident and sophisticated and overwhelmingly sure of herself and of her position in this household? And what other reason could Miguel have for rejecting her except an insane desire to oppose his father?

  Carmen glanced indifferently at Emma, assessing her and dismissing her, and then looked at Juan. ‘Where is Miguel this evening?’ she inquired mockingly. ‘Surely as he ate no lunch, he must need food! Or has love—’ the word was a sneer, ‘—destroyed his appetite?'

  ‘Miguel is dining out this evening,’ observed Carlos, entering the room behind her, suave and handsome in his evening clothes. His gaze flickered to Emma, and she felt peculiarly like a fly on a pin. ‘I am afraid we are all to be deprived of his company, even Emma.’ He smiled thinly, and Emma felt tense. Now it would come, now he would tell them what Miguel had said, and how was she to answer them?

  But she was wrong. Carlos turned instead to Juan, making some comment about the estate, and the moment passed. Nevertheless, throughout that long evening she waited with bated breath for him to reveal what he knew, and she wondered whether in fact she was underestimating him. How easy it would be to snap the tension; she could do it herself, but he knew she wouldn't, and how much more enjoyable it was for him to sit back and watch her as she waited for his move, knowing that her nerves were being stretched to screaming point…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE following morning, after breakfast had been brought to her room again, Emma bathed and dressed and then walked along the tiled passage to the wide hall. Sunlight bathed everything in a golden glow, striking sparks of fire from the polished metal of the Indian lamps. Instead of entering the lounge, she turned
through the opened doors on to the terrace and stood looking at the view without any of the anticipation she had felt the day before.

  Suddenly the unexpected sound of the helicopter broke the stillness, sending the brightly plumaged macaws shrieking into the air, and as she watched the helicopter itself rose above a belt of trees, hovering like some huge bird before flying off towards the blue line of the mountains.

  Emma frowned. Since their arrival two nights ago, the helicopter had been stored in a huge hangar near the stables and there had been no talk last evening of anyone leaving today.

  Shrugging, she turned to walk back into the house, and as she did so Carlos appeared. Immediately, Emma stiffened. If he was about to ask her to go riding with him again, he was going to be disappointed.

  ‘Buenos dias, Emma,’ he remarked, pleasantly enough, but his smile, she thought, had a predatory quality about it.

  ‘Good morning.’ Emma was brief, and would have continued on her way had not Carlos gone on:

  ‘You have been watching Miguel leave?'

  She halted uncertainly, and looked back at him. ‘What did you say?'

  ‘I said—have you been watching Miguel leave in the helicopter?’ Carlos looked innocent, but she knew his question was not.

  Taking a step back towards him, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of the denim jeans she was wearing, she said: ‘Are you trying to tell me something, señor?'

  ‘Oh! Señor! So formal!’ Carlos shook his head. ‘My dear, I am your father-in-law, as Miguel says—soon to be the grandfather of your child. Surely you can permit yourself to call me Carlos.'

  Emma seethed with impatience. ‘What do you mean by saying that Miguel has gone away?'

  ‘Carlos!'

  ‘All right—Carlos!’ Emma gritted her teeth.

  ‘That is better.’ He smiled again. ‘We should not be so formal with one another.'

  ‘Will you please go on—Carlos?'