The High Valley Read online

  But contrary to her expectations, Matthew Mallory seemed in no hurry to return home, and now that he knew his daughter was safe and well he seemed determined to sample the delights of Brazil's cultural capital. In spite of Morgana's demurs, he had insisted on taking all of them to a night club last evening and as it was only Morgana's second evening back in Rio, she had thought his behaviour rather thoughtless. But on reflection, she realised that in normal circumstances she would have enjoyed such an outing and the release from the restrictions of the last two weeks, and it was only her bruised emotions that spoiled things for her.

  Even so, it was becoming obvious that Matthew found the Dennisons good company and was in no hurry to leave quite yet. Ruth, of course, found the whole affair very exciting, and Morgana had the feeling that she was almost glad circumstances had brought Matthew unexpectedly quickly into her life again. Morgana felt no sense of dismay that this might be so. Ruth was a nice girl, and if her father ever did decide to marry again she would rather he chose Ruth than some complete stranger. But she had the feeling that while Matthew enjoyed Ruth's company, he had no real desire to give up his independence.

  Ruth left her to finish her bath in peace and after she had gone Morgana lay for a few more minutes savouring the fragrance of the water. She should have been feeling so happy, so relieved that everything had worked out so well, but all she felt was enervated. Since leaving La Paz two days ago she had neither read nor heard anything of the internal strife of Monteraverde and every time she considered the possible consequences of an unsuccessful attempt to gain power she died a dozen deaths. Even now, Luis could be lying somewhere badly injured, dying even, with no one to help him. Or he could be alive and imprisoned in one of Queras's prisons, unable to face any future but one of execution or slavery …

  She rose swiftly out of the bath, wrapping herself in a voluminous bath sheet, deliberately trying to thrust such awful thoughts from her mind. She must not think about him at all. Whatever had happened, whatever was to happen, it was nothing to do with her, and she must put all thoughts of him out of her mind for good. Their relationship had been an experience, that was all, a brief interlude that was in itself unreal. Luis had chosen to send her away and after all it was nothing less than she had anticipated.

  The authorities in La Paz had been immensely understanding but seemingly unconcerned about the internal problems of Monteraverde. And the erstwhile passengers from the plane had all been only too willing to forget what had happened. They had all been informed on reaching Rio de Janeiro however that there would be an inquiry into the plane's disappearance, but this was only a formality. The authorities had already received the information regarding the plane's whereabouts.

  For most of the passengers that was the end of the matter. They had been able to bring their luggage out with them, and only Morgana had had to make do with what she was wearing until she arrived back in Rio and met her father and the Dennisons. She had no idea whether she would ever get her clothes back, but quite honestly she didn't much care.

  Now she emerged into the bedroom, which had been hers since her arrival in Rio almost a month ago, to find that Ruth had left some more clothes for her. She had insisted on supplying Morgana with a plentiful quantity of lingerie, and although Matthew had brought his daughter some casual clothes for day wear, Ruth had provided two evening gowns which she insisted she never wore anyway.

  Morgana sighed and shedding the towel began to dress. She was in her slip, drawing sheer nylon tights over her slender legs, when there was a tap at her door and after a slight hesitation, her father came in. Matthew Mallory was an attractive man in his early forties, with greying brown hair and lean tanned features. He perpetually wore hornrimmed glasses for short-sightedness, and they gave his face a rather youthful appearance.

  Closing the door behind him, he smiled affectionately at his daughter. “You're looking very refreshed,” he remarked. “Did you enjoy your soak in the tub?”

  Morgana returned his smile. “Yes, thank you,” she said, smoothing down her slip and reaching for one of the dresses Ruth had given her. “What have you been doing?”

  Matthew shrugged and seated himself on the side of her bed. “Nothing much. Dennison took me to meet some colleagues of his for drinks, that's all. Why?”

  “No reason.” Morgana stepped into the dress, a clinging creation made of ice-blue chiffon. “Zip me up, darling.”

  Matthew willingly complied and then his hands lingered on her shoulders turning her towards him. “What's wrong, Morgan-le-Fay?” he murmured, using his pet name for her. He touched the dark rings round her eyes. “What is causing these?”

  Morgana bent her head. “I – I suppose I must be tired, that's all, it's been a pretty exhausting time –”

  Matthew shook his head, halting her flow of words. “I must admit that was what I thought in the beginning,” he said, “but you've been back two days now and if anything you're looking even more drawn than when I saw you get off the plane at Galeao. Morgana, what's wrong? Tell me. Did something happen back there in Monteraverde that you don't like talking about?”

  Morgana pulled herself away from him, turning her back on him and reaching for her hairbrush. “Now what could be wrong?” she parried, with what she hoped was a light tone.

  Matthew shrugged. “You tell me. But I know you pretty well, Morgana, and I know that something is disturbing that smooth brow of yours.”

  Morgana heaved a sigh. “Have you mentioned this to the Dennisons? To Ruth?”

  Matthew frowned. “I asked Ruth if she knew what was the matter with you, yes.”

  “And what did she say?”

  Matthew sighed. “She said something about a man you had met at the Monteraverdian Embassy. She wondered if you had seen him again.”

  “I see.” Morgana fingered her brush restlessly. “I wish you hadn't said anything to her.”

  “Why? You're my daughter. I have a right to know when something is worrying you, and something is worrying you, that's obvious now.”

  Morgana sank down onto the side of the bed. “All right,” she said, half wanting to tell him anyway. “There was a man. His name is Luis Salvador. His father was once president of Monteraverde. The present dictator, Queras, had him assassinated.”

  Matthew nodded slowly. “And what has this to do with you.”

  “The man – Luis Salvador – is – was – the leader of the guerillas in Monteraverde – the man behind the plane's disappearance !”

  “What!” Matthew was astonished. “And you mean to tell me that this man – this revolutionary – means something to you!” He sounded angry now.

  Morgana bent her head. “Yes.” And as her father would have protested further, she went on: “You don't understand. The guerillas – they're not mercenaries, their ambitions are only for the good of the country.”

  Matthew looked sceptical. “They all say that.”

  “I know, but in this case it's true. Luis isn't some kind of bandit I He's an educated man. You would like him. Everybody likes him.”

  Matthew shook his head. “Well, at least he let you all go unharmed.”

  “Yes.” Morgana felt the familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “But anyway, it doesn't matter now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the revolution can't have succeeded. It was supposed to be all over two days ago.”

  “Is that so?” Matthew frowned. “I wonder if that was what those chaps were on about at the club.”

  Morgana swung round. “What chaps?”

  “At this club Dennison took me to. There was quite an uproar just before we left. Someone had brought in the latest paper, and they mentioned something about this man, Queras, I'm sure.”

  Morgana clasped her hands. “Do you know what they said?”

  Matthew shook his head. “I didn't take much notice, and Dennison was talking to these other fellows. We left just afterwards.”

  “Oh.” Morgana compressed he
r lips.

  Matthew walked restlessly across the room, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. Then he swung round again. “You know I'd never stand in your way if you ever met the man you could share your life with, whatever his social status,” he said, heavily. “But dammit all, I didn't imagine you'd get involved with some bearded brigand from one of these highly volatile South American states!”

  Morgana looked at her father with reluctant amusement. “Luis is neither bearded, nor a brigand,” she said. Then her eyes darkened. “Besides, you don't have to worry in that direction, father, Luis doesn't want to marry me.”

  Matthew stopped his pacing to stare at her. “What is that supposed to mean? That he's already anticipated the joys of the married state?” He sounded furious.

  Morgana shook her head. “No, of course not. How many times must I tell you, Luis isn't like that.”

  “Then what is he like?” Matthew was impatient.

  Morgana sighed. “He is going to enter the seminary at Voltio.”

  Matthew stared at her incredulously. “And this is the man who is leading the guerilla forces?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how does he reconcile his proposed status with his present one?”

  Morgana shrugged. “You don't understand. He is doing what he has to do, and then he will join the priesthood.”

  “And this is the man you have fallen in love with?”

  Morgana hesitated only a moment. “Yes,” she said.

  Matthew hunched his shoulders wearily. “I see. So that is why you can't sleep – why you're going about like some pale shadow of yourself. In heaven's name, Morgana, whatever possessed you to fall for a man like that?”

  Morgana shook her head. “I couldn't help myself.”

  Matthew raked a hand through his hair. “And I suppose you would rather leave Rio in the circumstances. All this must be torture for you.”

  “How did you guess that?” Morgana's eyes were bright.

  Matthew sighed. “I've been through it all myself,” he remarked, quietly. “When your mother died I wanted to get away from everything that reminded me of her – that brought back such painful memories.”

  Morgana went to him, sliding her arm through his. “I'm sorry, father. And you were enjoying yourself here, weren't you?”

  Matthew frowned. “Up to a point.”

  “What do you think of Ruth, now she's grown up?” Morgana deliberately introduced a lighter topic.

  Matthew smiled. “What am I supposed to think?”

  “She likes you.”

  “I know – and I like her. But if you're thinking what I think you're thinking, then forget it. I have no desire to get emotionally involved with another woman yet.”

  Morgana sighed. “Oh, father, I wish – I wish –”

  Matthew patted her arm. “Don't wish your life away,” he advised, softly. “Now, come along, the Dennisons are waiting dinner for us.”

  After the meal, Morgana sought the sanctuary of the library where she knew she would find the evening papers. She had brought her dictionary with her and she scanned the front page intently, searching for the name of Monteraverde. At last she found it, a small item in the stop press, and she quickly translated it into English. In brief it related that news was just coming through of a revolution in Monteraverde. Queras had been deposed and the army of the liberation was in control. There was no mention of leaders’ names or casualties, and Morgana thrust the paper aside impatiently. Well, she thought, at least Queras had been deposed, but that told her nothing about Luis. With an aching heart she made her way back to the others, wondering whether she would ever be able to think of him without this misery tearing her to pieces.

  Two weeks later, Morgana walked down the high street of Friars Warren, a shopping basket in her hand, wondering what she could prepare for dinner that evening. Her father had told her that he might bring Professor Collings back for a meal and as it was the first time he had done such a thing since their return from South America, she did not want to disappoint him.

  Since their return, he had been wonderfully understanding and in the warmth of his solicitude Morgana was beginning to feel whole again. She knew she would never ever get over her feelings for Luis, but at least here there was no one to remind her of that disastrous interlude, and she could mentally lick her wounds in peace.

  Friars Warren was not a large place, and its High Street comprised its whole shopping area. It was the kind of small country town where everybody knew everybody else and in her capacity as Professor Matthew's daughter Morgana was quite a well-known member of the community.

  Now she halted outside the butchers, looking at the display of meat with thoughtful eyes. Should she buy some steak and serve it grilled with fresh salad, or should she buy a joint and roast it with some potatoes? She frowned, and as she continued to look through the window she noticed the reflection of a huge limousine that was cruising along the High Street behind her. It looked such an unusual vehicle to be found in this farming community that she couldn't resist glancing round at it with curious eyes to see exactly what sort of car it was. Its sleek cream lines were within a few feet of her and she shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun as she looked at it and noticed as she did so that several other people were staring at it too.

  Then her heart rose up into her throat with suffocating intensity, and she stepped back rather unsteadily against the reassuring wall of the butcher's shop, groping for something – anything to hold on to. Luis was driving the car! There was no mistaking the arrogant curve of his jawline or the darkly tanned features of his face.

  But he had not seen her; he drove slowly past, the cream car soon disappearing behind other vehicles on the road.

  Morgana stepped away from the wall, and stood for a long moment looking up the road, almost prepared to believe she had been seeing things, when Mrs. Kennedy, the doctor's wife, halted beside her.

  “Are you all right, Morgana?” she asked with some concern. “You look awfully pale!”

  Morgana swallowed hard, and then gathered her scattered wits. “Oh – yes – I'm all right,” she managed, awkwardly. “Just a little tired, that's all.”

  Mrs. Kennedy smiled understandingly and then looked down the road in the direction the car had taken. “Did you see that enormous Cadillac?” she asked, casually. “I wonder who it belongs to. I don't think I've ever seen anything like that around here before.”

  Morgana looked at her. “You saw it?”

  “Of course. I should think everyone did.” Mrs. Kennedy chuckled. “Such outrageously big automobiles the Americans make, don't they?”

  “What? Oh, yes.” Morgana was vague, and Mrs. Kennedy gave her another searching look before deciding she might as well get on about her own business.

  But Morgana's mind was buzzing with thoughts. What was Luis doing in Friars Warren? There only could be one explanation, she thought, shakenly.

  Forgetting all about the meat she needed for dinner that evening, she turned and began hurrying back down the High Street. Luis's car was no longer in view and she wondered whether he had her address and had driven there only to find no one at home.

  She quickened her steps, realising that her half-running pace was drawing more attention to her. But she couldn't just walk when her whole being was suffused with excitement.

  Then abruptly, she slowed. She was allowing her imagination to run away with her. Even if Luis was here in Friars Warren to see her, there was no reason for her to suppose that his motives were as personal as she was thinking. She tried to calm her racing heartbeats, and assume some composure, but she found it almost impossible. And yet, if Luis had come here for any other reason than to see her wasn't he being unnecessarily cruel? Until now, Friars Warren had been a refuge, free from the imprint of his personality, but after today that would no longer apply.

  She turned into Maxwell Close and her heart sank to the pit of her being. There was no sign of the huge automobile here. The sma
ll cul-de-sac was empty of all traffic.

  She halted, and looked round, wondering whether he had been here and gone away again. But he wouldn't have had time, her brain argued, and she hesitated uncertainly at the corner of the road, wondering whether to take the chance and walk back into town. She glanced at her watch. It was only a little after eleven-thirty, and her father was not coming home for lunch. She could easily walk back into town, indeed, she ought to do so for she had done none of her shopping.

  But somehow, the prospect of walking back into the High Street in the hope of seeing the cream Cadillac seemed wholly unacceptable to her. She didn't want to have to face people, not in her present state of mind.

  A thought struck her. What if Luis were in England on business and had simply decided to drive through Friars Warren out of curiosity? What if her seeing him had been merely an unlucky chance? She felt nausea welling up inside her, and with jerky movements she made her way quickly up the Close to where her father's house stood, slightly apart from its neighbours, and surrounded by banks of rhododendrons.

  She went up the drive and inserted her key in the lock. Inside, she ran swiftly upstairs to the bathroom and in the coolness she allowed the sickness to overwhelm her. Afterwards, she lay weakly against the tiled wall, trembling all over. She was a fool to allow her emotions to devastate her like this, she thought, but she had had such a shock and she was still very weak.

  After washing her face and hands and dampening the hair round her temples, she went slowly downstairs again, looking at herself critically in the hall mirror. She looked ghastly. Her skin had a waxy pallor, and there were dark lines round her eyes. Her lips seemed devoid of all colour and the dampening of her hair had robbed it of its natural silky vitality. But even as she stood there, regarding herself, the door bell chimed, echoing round the house with persistent clamour. Morgana moved automatically, opening the door with reluctance, expecting to find a neighbour, or some colleague of her father's, outside. But it was none of these. It was Luis.