Pale Dawn Dark Sunset Read online

  She sighed now. If she didn’t go to sleep soon she would be too tired to drag herself out of bed in the morning. But everything was so strange, so uncannily quiet after the sounds of traffic that constantly created noise beneath the windows of her small flat in Chelsea. It was strange to think that life was still going on as usual beneath those windows half across the world, and that one of the typists from the pool would be taking shorthand from David Hallam possibly at this very moment.

  David had not wanted her to come to Guadalima to identify her niece. He valued her services too highly as his secretary to appreciate the disruption her departure had caused. He had said it would have been much more sensible to have the child flown to England for identification as that was where she was going to live. But then David was a cold fish, and had never fully recovered from her rejection of his marriage proposal four months ago.

  It had been at the time when her sister and brother-in-law had first gone missing, and no doubt he had imagined she would welcome his offer with open arms. But he had been mistaken. Much as she liked David, much as she was aware of his fair good looks, much as she knew that the other girls in the office envied her position as his private secretary, she had no illusions about her own feelings. She couldn’t picture herself married to David Hallam. She couldn’t see herself hostessing his little dinner parties, taking care of his service flat, bringing up a clutch of children exactly like him in every way. He was too correct, too—sedate. His shirts were always pristine white, his ties were never crooked, his hair was never overly long. In short he was the glossy magazine’s idea of the successful young businessman, and he never forgot it. Miranda felt sure that had she accepted him he would have attempted to mould her into the successful young businessman’s wife, and she simply wasn’t interested. It wasn’t that she was careless with her own appearance. She liked wearing casual clothes, but she equally enjoyed putting on pretty dresses and being absurdly feminine. However, a mortgaged detached on a suburban estate was not her idea of what life was all about, although she had to admit that she liked the company of men and some day would want a home and children of her own.

  Thinking of marriage brought her thoughts back to the conversation she had had with Rafael Cueras on their way to the airport at Puebla. He had been most determined in his negation of her question about his own marriage. She wondered why. Had some woman jilted him in the past—or was he merely a woman-hater? The former seemed unlikely, the latter equally so. He was so arrogantly masculine himself, he could not possibly dislike the opposite sex. And yet he had seemed totally unmoved by her personality, and she moved restlessly when she recalled how coolly he had treated her.

  She turned on to her stomach, feeling the silken sheets like a caress against her bare skin. Somehow cotton pyjamas had seemed an unsuitable accoutrement to these exquisite appointments, and besides, after the tossing and turning she had done she felt hot, her skin sticky.

  Tomorrow, she thought determinedly, she would think about tomorrow, not today. And then perhaps she might find it easier to relax.

  * * *

  She must eventually have slept, because when she opened her eyes it was to the sound of someone drawing back her curtains, throwing wide the shutters of her windows. She blinked, rolling on to her back, drawing the sheet which was her only covering with her. A young Indian girl was turning from the windows, and a smile spread over her rather flat features when she saw that Miranda was awake.

  “Buenos dias, señorita,” she greeted her cheerfully. “Esta hambre?”

  Miranda struggled up on to her elbows, holding the sheet firmly against her breasts. “Er—I’m afraid I don’t speak Spanish,” she said, shaking her head. “No comprende!” Were they the right words? “Do you speak English?”

  The girl frowned. “Inglés, señorita? Ah, no.”

  Miranda sighed. “Never mind.”

  “Qué?” The girl stared at her anxiously, clearly thinking that something was wrong, and Miranda shook her head again, smiling this time.

  “It’s not important,” she said, hoping her tone would convey her feelings, and then became aware of a delicious aroma of roasted coffee assailing her nostrils. She looked round in surprise to find a tray resting on her bedside table. A closer investigation revealed a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, croissants under a perspex cover, a dish containing curls of butter, a jar of apricot conserve and a pot of the aromatic beverage which had first attracted her attention. ‘Hmm, how marvellous!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. She looked back at the girl. “Thank you—er—gracias!”

  “De nada, señorita.” The girl smiled again. “Esta bien, si?”

  “Si, bien,” agreed Miranda, draping the sheets sarongwise about her and wriggling across to the table. “Gracias.”

  “Gracias, señorita.”

  The girl was obviously loath to leave and seemed to find the shining swathe of red-gold hair which hung in a tangled curtain about Miranda’s bare shoulders quite fascinating. She murmured something in her own language, tugging her own skein of black hair impatiently and rubbing at the coppery texture of her skin, and then at last moved to the door. Miranda breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind her. She was not accustomed to such intense scrutiny.

  As she drank some of the chilled orange juice she looked at her watch. She was surprised to discover it was after nine o’clock. She must have slept more soundly than she had thought.

  The informal meal was as delightful as she had expected. The warm croissants melted in her mouth and the conserve had whole pieces of apricot to prove its authenticity. She drank several cups of the strong black coffee and then slid out of bed.

  Her room was at the side of the house and double doors opened on to a balcony overlooking the sweep of the valley below. She could see a river in the distance, picking its way over stones, while immediately below her a terraced garden was bright with hibiscus and oleander and exotically flowering cacti. There were more familiar blossoms like roses and lilies, sunflowers and poppies, but in this unfamiliar setting they had a curiously alien appearance. Besides, their colours were so much more vivid, their size so much more aggressive.

  She breathed deeply and looked away down the valley. She wondered where the mission was situated and whether anyone had told Lucy yet of her arrival. Of course, the child might not be Lucy, but she had grown so used to thinking of her as such that any contingency of a mistake had not really occurred to her. It had to be Lucy, and if Lucy was alive there was always the possibility that Bob and Susan had survived too.

  She was about to push open the balcony doors when awareness of her state of undress brought a mischievous smile to her lips. Somehow she did not think Doña Isabella would approve of her guest attracting the curious eyes of her servants—not to mention her son…

  She turned instead and entered the bathroom. There was a shower fitment which squirted an erratic flow of water over her heated body and after she had dried herself she tackled her suitcase. She had refused Jezebel’s offer of assistance in unpacking its contents the night before, but now she wished she hadn’t. She needed a change of clothing and she had soon spilled the contents of the case over the floor. She was buttoning the waistband of a pair of cream levis when there was a knock at her door and she swung round in surprise. “Come in,” she called tentatively.

  It was the old housekeeper who entered, her shrewd gaze quickly taking in the strewn contents of the suitcase and the rumpled state of the bed.

  “Buenos dias, señorita,” she said politely. “Inez tells me you wish something?”

  Miranda frowned. “Oh, you mean the girl who brought the tray? No. No, actually, I asked her if she spoke English, but she didn’t.”

  “No, señorita.”

  “Er—your English is very good.” Miranda strove for something to say. “And—and the breakfast was—out of this world!”

  “Out of this world, señorita?” echoed Jezebel, frowning. “What is this?”

  Miranda bit
her lip. “I’m sorry. It means—heavenly! Marvellous!” She looked round and changed the subject. “As you can see, I’ve made quite a mess. Is—is Don Juan waiting for me?”

  “Waiting for you, señorita?”

  Miranda couldn’t make up her mind whether Jezebel really didn’t understand or whether she was being deliberately obtuse. She suspected the latter.

  “Yes,” she explained now. “To take me to see my—the child.”

  “Oh, Oh, no, señorita. Don Juan is taking breakfast on the patio, por corriente.”

  “I see.” Miranda picked up a crumpled shirt and began to fold it. “Thank you.”

  Jezebel put her hands on her hips and gestured at the mess. “You like Jezebel put things away?”

  Miranda stared at her in surprise. “Why, no. I can do it.”

  Jezebel shook her head impatiently. “Is no trouble señorita. I do it.”

  Miranda hesitated. “It’s very kind of you, Jezebel, but—”

  “Is my job, señorita.”

  Miranda decided not to argue. Besides, now that she was dressed she was eager to see Lucy. It was an exciting prospect after all this time. She pictured the little girl’s face when she saw her aunt. She imagined the relief she would see there. How could the child be expected to remember who she was when she was surrounded by strangers, albeit well-meaning strangers? When she saw her aunt, when she recognised her, it would be different.

  Leaving Jezebel to bring down the tray, Miranda left her bedroom and walked along the cool tiled corridor which led to the gallery at the head of the flight of stairs. There were portraits on the walls here which she had noticed the night before, but they were dull, unimaginative paintings and she paid little attention to them. In every niche there was a small statue of Christ or the Virgin, impressing upon her most strongly that this was a Catholic household.

  Wide doors were open to the terrace at the front of the house, and as she descended the stairs trailing her fingers along the wrought iron balustrade she could smell the perfume from the flowers. In the hall she looked about her doubtfully. This was as far as she had progressed the night before and she had not thought to ask Jezebel how to reach the patio. Of course, it must be at the back of the house, but there were so many archways, so many rooms inviting exploration, and she would hate for Doña Isabella to find her trespassing.

  As she hesitated, there were light footsteps behind her and swinging round she came face to face with a girl of about her own age. Small and dark and attractive, she bore the unmistakable Cueras features, and Miranda guessed she must be another member of the family. The girl frowned, however, taking in Miranda’s jeans and denim shirt with scarcely concealed distaste. She was wearing well cut jodhpurs and a lemon silk blouse which went well with her darkly tanned skin. Miranda thought inconsequently that it was strange how many shades of colouring there could be in one family. Rafael Cueras’s skin had been tanned, but not excessively so, whereas his brother Juan was swarthily Latin. This girl’s colouring fell some way between the two.

  As she realised that the Mexican girl was not about to rush into speech, Miranda’s lips curved upward, and she said: “Good morning. I’m Miranda Lord. You must be some relation of Don Juan. I wonder if you would direct me to the patio.”

  “I am Carla Cueras,” remarked the girl arrogantly. “Juan is my brother. And of course, I know who you are.”

  This last was said with evident disdain and Miranda curbed the desire to make some equally insolent retort. Instead, she said: “I understand your brother is breakfasting on the patio. I would like to see him.”

  Carla raised her dark eyebrows. The fact that she was several inches smaller than Miranda did nothing for her temper and she flicked a riding crop impatiently against the side of her boot.

  “It is through there,” she said offhandedly, indicating an archway to their right.

  “Thank you.” Miranda’s mouth tightened as she turned away and walked through an exquisitely furnished reception area. So that was the sister of the two men she had met yesterday. She wondered if they had any other brothers or sisters, and if so, whether they would be as unfriendly. All in all, Juan’s had been the only friendly face she had encountered since arriving in Mexico.

  The patio was white-paved and set with colourful garden furniture. Tubs of geraniums and smilax spilled their contents on to the pale stonework of low walls, while beyond a trellis, a rose garden gave off its own inimitable perfume. Beyond the gardens of the hacienda, the verdant slopes of the valley walls gave way to rocks and craggy outcrops where only the hawk and the eagle made their homes.

  Juan Cueras was seated at a glass-topped table, smoking a cigar and drinking some of the aromatic coffee Miranda herself had enjoyed earlier. However, at the sound of her approach he looked round and at once sprang to his fee.

  “Miss Lord!” he exclaimed, with apparent pleasure. “I was just thinking about you.” He indicated his chair. “Please to sit. You would like coffee?”

  Miranda accepted his chair but refused the coffee. “No, thank you, señor—I mean, Don Juan. I—actually I came to find you—to find out how I get to the mission.”

  “But, por cierto, I will take you, señorita.”

  “You will? Miranda’s eyes brightened as he seated himself across the table from her. “Is it far?”

  “Far? No, señorita. At the other end of the valley, that is all.”

  “Oh, good.” Miranda relaxed.

  “Did you sleep well, señorita.”

  “Very well, thank you.” She excused herself the exaggeration. “This is a beautiful place, isn’t it?”

  “Gracias, señorita.” He inclined his head. “Esta hacienda—this estate—is in my family—how you say?—muchos generacions?”

  “Many generations?”

  “Si, many generations,” He smiled. “My English is not so good.”

  Miranda laughed. “It’s better than my Spanish.”

  Juan chuckled. “Rafael—my brother—he speaks the good English, does he not?”

  Miranda nodded, but made no comment. She didn’t want to think about Rafael Cueras any more. He had been responsible for her restlessness the night before and this morning she had deliberately erased his image from her mind. But now, with a word, Juan had renewed that image in all its disturbing force.

  “Tell me,” Juan was speaking again, and she was more than willing to be distracted, “you like—er—aprender hablar español, si?”

  Miranda frowned. “To learn Spanish?” she suggested, doubtfully, and relaxed when he clapped his hands.

  “Bravo! You see, it is not dificil. Rafael will help you. If he has the time, naturalmente.”

  “Oh, but really, that’s not necessary—I mean—I couldn’t trespass on your brother’s time—”

  “Quia! My brother spends too much time away from the hacienda, señorita. I will speak with him.”

  “Oh, no—please—”

  But Juan was not listening to her. He was staring broodingly across the patio and his smooth good looks were shadowed. Then he said: “Esta deseosa estar con la niña, señorita?”

  If he imagined her earlier success enabled her to understand everything he said, he was very much mistaken, and Miranda was looking at him helplessly when a female voice said:

  “My brother is asking whether you are eager to see the child, señorita.”

  Miranda looked up in surprise to see the girl she had spoken to so briefly in the hall leaning against a stone pillar which supported the balcony above. But she had changed her clothes. She was no longer wearing riding gear, but instead, a caftan in shades of blue and green which suited her equally as much as the lemon blouse had done. She had spoken less aggressively too, and Miranda thought she glimpsed sympathy in the lustrous dark eyes. What a transformation!

  “Thank you,” she said now, smiling her gratitude, and Juan gathered his thoughts and got awkwardly to his feet.

  “Lo siento, señorita, I am not thinking. My sister, she is our tra
nslator, si?” He turned to the other girl. “Constancia, have you met our guest?”

  Constancia? Miranda was confused. The girl had said her name was Carla!

  But now she was speaking. “No, Juan. I did not meet the señorita last evening. Como esta usted, Miss Lord?”

  Miranda took the girl’s proffered hand, but her eyes were puzzled. “I thought—that is, didn’t we meet just now? In the hall?”

  The girl frowned, shaking her head. Then her expression cleared. “Oh, no, señorita. That would be my sister, Carla. She must be back from riding.”

  Miranda made an apologetic gesture. “You’re so alike!”

  Constancia smiled. When she did so she reminded Miranda forcibly of the man who had brought her to Guadalima, and the knowledge of that unconscious awareness of him on the outer perimeter of her mind irritated her.

  “We are twins, señorita,” Constancia was saying now. “I am the older by fifteen minutes.”

  “I see.” Miranda shook her head. She should have guessed. This girl had a much gentler appearance, a gentler personality, and in that respect she did not resemble her handsome brother. On the contrary, Carla’s attitude more closely reflected Rafael’s.

  Juan straightened. “We go to the mission Constancia,” he said. “Why do you not come with us? Your presence might be—helpful, si?”

  Constancia hesitated. “If Miss Lord does not object.”

  Miranda made a deprecating movement of her shoulders. “Please come. Lucy—that is, the child knows you. She may not know me.”

  “Very well. Give me five minutes.”

  Constancia disappeared indoors again and Miranda got to her feet and walked across the patio to touch the petals of an exotic calla lily. The plant life here had a disturbingly physical presence and Miranda thought of some carnivorous plants she had once seen in a botanical garden back home. Their hairy stalks and smooth rubbery leaves had sent curious shivers of anticipation up her spine, and she could feel that same sensation beginning now.

  They drove to the mission in a sleek blue and chrome convertible. Juan himself was at the wheel, although he confessed to preferring being driven. Miranda sat with Constancia in the back.