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  He sighed. ‘Very well. Miguel has gone away. What could be more simple than that? You mean he didn't tell you?'

  ‘You must know he didn't.’ Emma felt tremulous, but she refused to let him see it. ‘Where—where has he gone?'

  ‘Carlos!'

  ‘All right. Where has he gone, Carlos?’ She wanted to scream with frustration.

  Carlos stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I do not know whether I should tell you. After all, Miguel may have withheld this information on purpose. It may be that he does not wish you to know. After yesterday, I am loath to interfere.'

  Emma didn't believe him. She didn't believe a word he was saying. He was merely playing with her, and her most sensible course of action would be to leave him alone to tell her in his own good time. If he thought she was interested he was likely to keep her dangling like a fish panting on a hook. Oh, yes, she thought, Miguel might well have justification for his bitterness and frustration. Right now, her strongest desire was to slap that mocking smile from his face.

  Gathering her small store of composure, she managed to remain calm. ‘Well, if you really feel I shouldn't be told, then I can't force you,’ she said. ‘Excuse me. I was about to go to my room.'

  Carlos regarded her intently, and there was a trace of irritability in his eyes. ‘You think you are so clever, don't you?’ he said. ‘Tricking my son into marrying you by the oldest method in the world!'

  Emma's eyes widened. Did this mean that Carlos believed Miguel's story of her pregnancy? Did he imagine that their marriage had been her idea? Or was this merely a way of salving his own conscience? Of assuring himself that Miguel would never have gone against his wishes without good cause?

  Shaking her head, she moved to leave him, but his hand curved round her upper arm. Emma shook him off, but his eyes stayed her. ‘You are not legally married yet, señorita,’ he said, and there was no mockery in his tones now. ‘A civil ceremony performed in a British register office means nothing in the eyes of my church. You are a fool if you think you can call yourself a Salvaje before you have been married before the priest in the cathedral at Puebla!'

  Emma dragged herself away. She was trembling all over and she knew that unless she left him quickly she would disgrace herself by bursting into tears in front of him.

  But in her room, the tears would not come. Instead, she sat dry-eyed before her mirror, wishing she had never taken the trouble to visit her godfather on his birthday.

  * * *

  No one seemed to know where Miguel had gone and why. If his father knew he was not telling, while the others were as ignorant of his motives as Emma herself.

  The days passed slowly. With time on her hands, Emma spent more and more of it at the stables, talking in halting Spanish to José, the groom, and helping him exercise the horses. There were three mares and four stallions, and José explained that Don Carlos bred horses for the bullring. It was a profitable sideline and one which Don Carlos could take an active interest in himself.

  Loren seemed to find plenty to do about the house. Don Carlos apparently appreciated her services in clearing up his own correspondence and consequently she was not around to keep Emma company.

  Juan, too, had work of his own to occupy him, but occasionally he walked in the grounds with Emma and once they took a rowing boat out on the lake.

  The surroundings were so magnificent that she should have been happy, but she wasn't. She ached for news of Miguel, and from time to time she felt a deep resentment that he should think he could bring her here and then just abandon her. Where was he? Who was he with? And when would he return?

  In one respect at least, Don Carlos had not run true to form, she thought. He had told no one of her supposed pregnancy, and she wondered why. The only solution she could come up with was that by not mentioning it he could pretend it wasn't there. And it wasn't, a hysterical voice inside her cried. How could it be when their marriage was no marriage at all?

  Once Juan took her driving in a Landrover that Don Carlos used in wet weather for getting about the estate. Until then she had imagined that the only means of access to this mountainous area was by the use of the helicopter, but now she discovered there was a road, such as it was.

  A mountainous track, pitted with potholes, wound through a dried-up gully, and it was possible to reach Puebla in a matter of hours. The route in miles was not distant, but the conditions were such that one had to drive very carefully.

  Juan stopped the Landrover at the head of the pass and Emma looked down on the estate spread out below her, It was early morning, and the lake was lemon-tinged, its edges darkening to purplish green. The reflection of the mountains cast their shadows like giants crouched at bay, and she marvelled that anyone could have created such beauty and cultivation from what must have been wild and savage countryside.

  Now she looked at Juan and said: ‘When do you think Miguel will come back? Don't you really know where he has gone?'

  Juan looked as though he had been expecting these questions, but he could only shake his head. ‘I do not know anything,’ he answered honestly. ‘I cannot understand why he found it necessary to go alone.'

  Emma realized that Juan was hurt by this aspect of the affair. ‘But surely Don Carlos must know something. Where is the helicopter? Why doesn't he try to have it located if he is worried?'

  ‘I have no doubt that the helicopter is at the airfield in Puebla. You remember—where you met Felipe Alvarez?'

  ‘You think Miguel is in Puebla?’ Her heart leapt.

  ‘No. But the helicopter will wait there.'

  ‘And if Don Carlos needs it in the meantime?'

  ‘Don Carlos rarely leaves the estate. But if he should require to do so, he has only to send a message.'

  ‘Of course.’ Emma sighed. ‘I don't know what to think!'

  Juan shrugged. ‘I shouldn't think Miguel would confide in his father at this time.'

  ‘Perhaps you're right.’ Emma was doubtful. ‘Oh, Juan, I wish he would come back!’ Her lips trembled and he gave an exasperated ejaculation. Covering both her hands with one of his, he said softly:

  ‘You're in love with Miguel! I never realized…'

  Emma could not reply. She was too distressed, and to her relief Juan sensed this and said no more, but started the engine and began the drive back to the house.

  Occasionally she was tempted to go and visit Maria Diaz, but she was afraid that if she did so, Carlos would distort what she had done when he accounted her movements to Miguel.

  One evening, about ten days after Miguel had left, Emma entered the lounge before dinner to find only Carmen Silveiro in occupation. She was surprised, because normally this was the time of day she liked best, when she and Juan shared a drink together before the meal and before anyone else arrived. Carmen was usually last to appear, and this made it doubly surprising.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she said, throwing a languid hand towards the soft hide couch, but Emma chose a chair. ‘What will you drink?'

  ‘Er—just sherry, please.’ Emma spread her skirts. She was quite content to let Carmen behave as though she was the hostess here. In that respect she had no aspirations whatsoever, whereas it was obvious that Carmen coveted her role.

  The Mexican girl handed her the glass and Emma took it, holding it lightly between her fingers. Carmen, she noticed, took nothing, but came to stand before her, looking down on her with rather discomfiting intensity.

  Emma glanced round. Where was Juan? Why didn't he come? She had no desire to enter into a tête-à-tête with the woman Carlos had expected Miguel to marry.

  ‘Tell me, señorita,’ Carmen began, examining the long painted nails that extended from her fingers, ‘when is it going to become apparent to you that so long as you are here Miguel will not come back?'

  Her words, spoken so calmly and so quietly, were far more shocking than a violent ejaculation would have been. They caused Emma's whole body to film with sweat and her initial reaction was to get up out of the chair and
leave the room. But then common sense prevailed, and she realized that to do so would merely give the other girl a small victory. So, sipping her sherry, she pretended a calmness she did not feel.

  Carmen's nostrils flared. ‘Did you hear what I said?'

  Emma looked up. ‘Yes, I heard. However, I don't happen to believe you. I've no doubt that—that Carlos put you up to this, and I am quite used to his—little eccentricities.'

  The Mexican girl looked furious. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?'

  ‘How dare I?’ Emma felt amazingly cool now. ‘Surely, as Miguel's wife, I have more right here than you have.'

  ‘I live here!’ said Carmen arrogantly. ‘This is my home.'

  Emma shrugged. ‘And for the moment, it's mine, too.'

  ‘Never!’ Carmen was adamant. She walked restlessly about the room. ‘Why do you think Miguel has gone away?'

  Now Emma pretended an interest in her drink. She could not let Carmen read the uncertainty in her eyes which appeared whenever she seriously tried to find an answer to that. ‘Do you know why he has gone away?’ she asked.

  Carmen plucked impatiently at the material of her gown. ‘I know he has gone to Mexico City,’ she said, and then as though realizing she was answering questions instead of just asking them, she went on: ‘But if you are truly his wife, if he really intends to come back, he would have told you that.'

  ‘If he had told me,’ said Emma carefully, ‘why should you imagine I would tell you?'

  Carmen sneered, ‘Oh, please, do not pretend with me! You did not even know he was leaving, let alone where he was going. And the purpose behind his trip is a mystery to us all. Although I think Carlos knows something—but he is not telling. They are very close, those two.'

  ‘You think so?’ Emma was sardonic.

  ‘But of course. Oh, do not think this little upset over your arrival will last for long. You are not used to us, señorita, you do not understand the Latin temperament. Miguel will come back and all will be forgiven, you will see. But as for you—’ She snapped her fingers. ‘I do not give that for your chances!'

  ‘That will do, Carmen!’ As before Carlos silenced his niece, entering the room with a cat-like noiseless tread that could unnerve Emma on occasion. He looked down at her, still seated in her chair, and raised his eyebrows. ‘This will not do. Two beautiful women quarrelling over my son. I am jealous!'

  But he was mocking her and Emma knew it. Getting to her feet, praying her legs would support her, she said, as casually as she could:

  ‘Where is Juan?'

  Carlos moved his broad shoulders indolently. ‘You do not know?'

  ‘Oh, stop this cat-and-mouse game!’ Emma was becoming distraught, but although Carlos answered her civilly enough, she sensed his pleasure in her distress.

  ‘Juan has gone to see Miguel. He left this afternoon. José drove him to the railway station at Vasos, and from there he will take a train to Mexico City.'

  Emma was aghast. ‘You mean—there has been word from Miguel? Why wasn't I informed?'

  Carlos shrugged. ‘The message was not for you. It was for Juan, as I have said.'

  ‘But why didn't Juan tell me he was going to see Miguel?’ Emma was really distressed now.

  Carlos spread his hands. ‘That is not my affair.’ He glanced knowingly at Carmen. ‘It would seem, Emma, that so far as Miguel is concerned you have ceased to exist.'

  ‘No!’ The word was torn from her, ‘No, I don't believe you.'

  Carlos grimaced. ‘That is up to you, of course.'

  ‘How do I know you're not just making this up?'

  ‘Find Loren—ask her. She must know that Juan left this afternoon.'

  Emma drew a trembling breath. Facing the two of them, she felt totally inadequate, totally unable to cope. With a muffled sob, she turned and fled out of the room and down the hall until she reached her bedroom. Once there she slammed shut the door and flung herself on her bed, and now the tears did come, hot, choking sobs that tore up through her body, shredding her emotions, devastating her…

  * * *

  No one came to find her, and she didn't expect them to. No one cared about her in this house, and now that Juan was gone she felt as though her only friend had deserted her. He might have told her he was leaving, but then so might Miguel, and with more reason. She would never begin to understand either of them.

  A sense of despair, of homesickness, gripped her. How far away her life in London seemed, not just in miles, but in experience. These last few days she seemed to have run through the whole gamut of her emotions and there was nothing left; she felt completely drained.

  This marriage was a farce, perpetrated in anger, and without any basis on which to build. If Miguel had stayed, if they had tried to make something out of the vague attraction he sometimes felt for her, perhaps it would have been different. But then she had only herself to blame that their marriage had not been consummated. That night in this very room, he had wanted her, she had known that, but she, fool that she was, had thought she could wait until there was more than just wanting. And now he was gone, and whether or not he intended to return made little difference. Their relationship had never seemed more remote.

  Some words of Tennyson's filtered through her brain: we die, does it matter when? They were appropriate somehow, only in this case it was the death of a marriage. Did it matter when it was over? Sooner or later it was bound to happen, and could she bear it if the victory was Carlos's after all? Did she want to stay here for more humiliation, more contempt? Was she prepared to give Carmen the satisfaction of seeing her treated by her husband as she had been treated by his father? No!

  She sat bolt upright on the bed. She refused to contemplate such a thing. She might not have much to commend her, but she had her pride, and so long as she remained here she was inviting contempt.

  She slid off the bed and walked to the long windows looking out on the moon-painted landscape. It was all beautiful. She had never seen anything so beautiful. It appealed to the sensitivity of her nature. But like all gardens of Eden, there had to be a serpent; in this case two.

  So what was she to do? She could go to Mexico City and try to find Miguel and ask him what his intentions were, but that seemed totally ineffectual. How on earth did one go about trying to trace someone in a foreign city when apart from everything else one did not even speak the language? She could go to Puebla and question the pilot of the helicopter, but that sounded unlikely. And in any case why should she assume he would tell her anything without first gaining Carlos's approval?

  So what was she left with? Only two alternatives. To stay here—or go home!

  Home!

  What a delightful sound that word had, and what reassuring associations. Mrs. Cook was looking after the house until her father returned. She would be glad to see Emma. Oh, how marvellous it would be to feel wanted and sheltered and protected again!

  She turned and surveyed the room behind her. She could leave in the morning. No one was likely to try and stop her. On the contrary, she was almost prepared to believe this whole series of incidents was a carefully designed plot to achieve just this end.

  All the same, the idea of facing Carlos and telling him she was leaving did not appeal to her. She could almost see the look of delighted anticipation in his eyes, hear him consoling her with platitudes when all the while he was secretly laughing at her.

  No, somehow she couldn't face that. She would have to leave without his knowledge. She could send him a cablegram from Mexico City a few minutes before her flight took off, so that if for some nefarious reason of his own he found it unacceptable to have her leave at this time, he would not be able to stop her.

  It was amazing how once one's mind was made up, things could run in such a way as to make her plans almost easy to accomplish. As Juan had taken her driving in the Landrover, it was not a particularly difficult feat to suggest to Carlos after breakfast next morning that she might use the vehicle herself.

  Carlos
seemed morose, occupied with his own thoughts, and made no demur, so that ten o'clock found Emma on her way up the mountainous track towards the dried-up gully pass. Of course, she had not been able to bring much with her without causing comment, just a large vanity case into which she had stuffed a couple of changes of underwear, a dress and some trousers, but fortunately her old clothes would be still in her wardrobe in London as she didn't think Mrs. Cook was likely to have thrown them out without her father's permission.

  Her greatest anxiety had been in obtaining her passport from Miguel's room. She had never entered his bedroom before, and there had been a painful delight in doing so. It was a much plainer room than hers, with a polished floor strewn with rugs, and dark blue bedcovers and curtains. She had not even been certain she would find her passport there, but a swift check through his bureau had produced not only her passport but his.

  She had looked at his picture for a long time. The fact that his passport was there proved that he intended to come back at some time and also that he had not left the country. For a moment, her determination had faltered, but then she had told herself that even if he did come back things would never be the same, so she might as well break with him now before something irreparable happened. Like a child, she thought, biting her lips to stop them from trembling.

  The journey to Puebla was the most uncomfortable journey she had ever made. Apart from the discomfort of the deplorable road conditions, she was also gripped with a nervous anticipation that Carlos would not let her get away with this, and any minute she expected to hear the helicopter overhead, on its way to Lacustre Largo.

  But, in fact, nothing happened, and her only feeling was one of intense tiredness and emptiness when she reached Puebla.

  It was the middle of the afternoon by this time, and she asked a policeman in halting Spanish where the railway station might be. But he merely shook his head, explaining volubly, half of which Emma did not understand, that there was no railway station, and the only way she could reach Mexico City was by coach.

  But the coach depot proved just as unhelpful. There were no buses leaving for Mexico City until the following morning, and she dared not wait that long. Her only means of escape was the Landrover, and while she supposed Carlos could accuse her of stealing it even that was preferable to waiting here for him to send someone to pick her up.