Pale Dawn Dark Sunset Page 8

  But now Miranda seated herself before the mirror in the vanity unit and surveyed her appearance. Her hair, which she had washed before taking her bath, was almost dry, and hung in thick strands about her bare shoulders. She was still wrapped in the enormous cream bath-sheet she had draped about her when climbing out of the bath, and she knew that in a few minutes she would have to abandon the reassuring isolation of her bedroom and go downstairs to take dinner with the family. It was not a prospect which filled her with any pleasure, and for the past half hour she had been lying on her bed thinking of anything but the evening ahead.

  The previous evening she had dined in her room. She felt sure it had been a tactical manoeuvre on Doña Isabella’s part to demonstrate that although Miranda might be staying at the hacienda, she was not considered a guest. But this evening Juan had invited her to join them and she had not been able to think of any good reason to refuse.

  She had had the uncharitable thought that had Lucy still been around even Juan might have had second thoughts, but Lucy was still staying at the monastery and although she had been at the hacienda all day this evening, as last evening, Diaz, the chofer, had driven her back across the valley.

  Rafael was coming for dinner this evening, too, and that consideration had not been absent from her thoughts when she had wished she might be excused this ordeal. It was not that she disliked him; on the contrary, he disturbed her in a way which she didn’t altogether care for, but his attitude towards herself was such that she felt herself to be in a constant state of confusion in his presence. She didn’t understand him, of that she was certain, but she also felt that his behaviour was influenced by circumstances of which she had no knowledge.

  And there was one other reason why she had no desire to join the family party—Carla.

  She had seen the sister of the friendly Constancia twice since that initial encounter yesterday morning and on both occasions Carla had made her dislike of the other girl blatantly obvious. She clearly resented Miranda’s presence in the hacienda, and Miranda herself wondered whether the situation would have been any the less fraught if she had turned out to be the middle-aged lady they had expected.

  The first of her meetings with Carla had been at lunch the previous day. Miranda would have much preferred to take all her meals in her room, but she could not afford to waste any opportunity offered to talk to Lucy, and she had been delighted to find that her place was beside the child’s. No doubt this had been Doña Isabella’s doing, but Carla was directly opposite, which rather spoiled things.

  Lunch in the Spanish style was taken late and languidly. Wine glasses were kept brimming by attentive servants, and there was much talk and discussion over the meal. They began with tiny spiced pancakes, stuffed with strips of meat and onion and peppers, and Miranda chose to ask Lucy what they were.

  Lucy seemed surprised at being asked such a question but she answered: “Tacos,” politely enough, pausing in the process of stuffing huge forkfuls into her mouth.

  Miranda would have liked to have pointed out that she was not starving and therefore there was no need for such haste, but as no one else seemed to have noticed she was loathe to draw attention to the child in that way. Instead, she said: “We don’t have such things back home, do we, Lucy. We eat our pancakes with lemon or syrup. Do you remember? You used to love them.”

  “Did I?” Lucy was doubtful. “I don’t remember, señorita.”

  Miranda hid her irritation at the formal form of address. “Don’t call me señorita, Lucy,” she protested gently. “You may call me Aunt Miranda—or Auntie—or just Miranda, if you’d rather. But we are related and it seems rather silly for you to behave as though you’d never even seen me before.”

  “Perhaps she hasn’t,” remarked Carla then, looking challengingly across the crystal of her wine glass at her adversary. “How do we know you are who you say you are, señorita? Have you shown us any proof of your identity?”

  “Carla!” It was Doña Isabella who had spoken. “Miss Lord is our guest. You will please to remember that.”

  “But how do we know she really is my aunt, Tia Isabella?” Lucy took up the strain, and Miranda was back where she started.

  “Look,” she said determinedly, bending to pick up her suede shoulder bag from the floor beside her chair, “I have some photographs. Would you like to see them? They’re of you—and someone else.”

  “I do not think is good idea, señorita,” put in Juan urgently, shaking his head. “Photographs are—how you say?—personal? I think is dangerous to attempt the shocking tactics, no?”

  Miranda put her bag down again. And it was then that she realised that she was going to get nowhere so long as Juan or some other member of his family was present. Or perhaps that was a little sweeping. Certainly Doña Isabella—and Rafael—would not stand in her way.

  Her second confrontation with Carla had occurred at lunchtime today, only this time it had been just before the meal. Miranda had worn a simple lime green cotton shift instead of her usual shirt and jeans. It had been a small concession towards the undoubted distaste Doña Isabella displayed every time she saw Miranda’s trousers, but Carla had seen it altogether differently.

  “What are you hoping to achieve, señorita?” she had hissed in Miranda’s ear as they stood waiting for Doña Isabella to appear so that they could all move to the table. The meal was to be served in the high-ceilinged dining room with open French doors on to the terrace.

  Now a cool breeze that drifted through these doors fanned Miranda’s suddenly heated cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, slanting a glance in Carla’s direction.

  “Yes, you do, señorita. You are thinking how pleasant it is here, and how sensible of Lucy—if that indeed is her name—to decide to stay. Perhaps you are thinking that my brother is—how do you say?—sympathetic to lost causes, no? That perhaps with a little persuasion he may be prepared to take responsibility for you also.”

  Miranda gasped. “That’s a despicable thing to suggest!”

  “Is it?” Carla flicked a careless finger at Miranda’s dress. “But this is designed to attract his eyes, is it not? And who knows—you may be successful. My brother, Juan, is not the most astute of men, I think.”

  To Miranda’s relief Doña Isabella appeared at that moment and her swift appraisal of her appearance was hearteningly reassuring. “How attractive you look in a dress, señorita,” she commented politely. “I must confess to preferring women to look like women.”

  “Ah, but Miss Lord looks most femenina in the pantalones, Mama,” exclaimed Juan, joining them at the moment and hearing his mother’s words. “Mas, I agree—she is looking muy guapa!”

  The conversation was such that Miranda could be forgiven her flushed cheeks, and she couldn’t help the small sense of triumph which came from beating Carla at her own game.

  But now it was time to dress for dinner, and Miranda rose and tugged the towel free, dropping it in a heap on the carpet. She took clean underwear from a drawer and then extracted the only long dress she had brought with her from the long fitted robe. It was a simple gown of black silk which she had originally bought for a trip to Copenhagen she had made with David, but as it happened she had not worn it after all. She had bought herself a caftan while she was there and had worn that on the evening they had dined with David’s business associates.

  In consequence, she had a moment’s doubt when she slid the dress over her shoulders and allowed it to fall softly to her ankles. Then she relaxed. It looked most suitable. Didn’t Spanish and Portuguese women favour black anyway? She shrugged, adjusting the low neckline thoughtfully. The sleeves were long and mediaeval, puffed at the shoulder and narrowing to cling to her forearms, while the skirt was draped and hinted at the slender curve of her legs. It would have to do in any event. She had no alternative.

  She hesitated a little longer over her hair. After its washing it was silky thick and looked well spread over the dark material of the gown. During the heat of
the day she had secured it at her nape with a tortoiseshell comb, but this evening she decided to leave it loose.

  When she was ready to go downstairs she found she was trembling, just a little. It was ridiculous, she knew, but a sudden cold awareness of how alone she was here had swept over her. Perhaps it was the night, she consoled herself, twisting the silver bracelet watch, which had been Susan and Bob’s twenty-first birthday present to her eighteen months ago, round her wrist. All the same, she wished she could believe that there was someone here on whom she could depend.

  The family were gathered in the main sala, an imposing apartment overlooking the front terrace, with magnolia silk walls and a sculpted ceiling. It was furnished with lots of chairs and sofas, also upholstered with silk in shades of mauve and green, and small tables, some of which supported vases of fine porcelain, or jade figurines. Wall cabinets contained a collection of china and glassware, some of which, Miranda felt sure, dated back hundreds of years. It was a room which she felt instinctively even Lucy would not be allowed to enter. It would be all too easy for a careless toe to stumble over one of the richly coloured Bokhara rugs and send a fragile table flying, and with it, its priceless ornaments. It was also a room which served to deepen the gulf which Miranda already felt stretched between herself and the Cueras family.

  She hesitated in the wide doorway, waiting for someone to notice her. Doña Isabella was there, talking to a tall man wearing the black robes of a priest who for a moment Miranda imagined to be Father Esteban. But when he turned to speak to Carla she saw that he was much younger than the elderly keeper of the monastery. Both Carla and Constancia were dressed alike this evening in long white gowns splashed with a floral design, and Miranda hoped she would have no difficulty in identifying them. She did not expect to do so; Carla’s face was infinitely sharper than her sister’s. Juan, his dark evening clothes suiting him very well, was talking to Constancia, and the third man with his back to her was unmistakably Rafael. But before anyone else observed her, Juan looked up and saw her standing there. With a brief word to Constancia he strode across the room to her side.

  “Señorita!” he exclaimed, his eyes alight with admiration. “You—you look beautiful!”

  Miranda forced a smile. “Don’t sound so surprised,” she teased, and he took her hand and raised it almost to his lips.

  “No. I mean it.” He shook his head. “I compliment you, señorita.”

  Their conversation had attracted the attention of the other members of the group and after only a moment’s hesitation Doña Isabella brought her companion across to be introduced.

  “Father Domenico takes good care of our chapel in the valley, Miss Lord,” she explained, after they had shaken hands. “He also lives at the monastery with Father Esteban.”

  Father Domenico’s smile was warm. He was an attractive man, in his early forties, Miranda guessed, and he had not lost his appreciation of beauty during the course of his ascetic pursuits. “So you are the aunt of our little niña, señorita?” he queried. “Qué es impossible! You are so young!”

  Miranda parried their compliments with a smile, always conscious that standing silently in the background was the man she most wanted to admire her. A fleeting glimpse had assured her that it was Rafael, lean and disturbingly attractive in evening clothes. He held a glass of some amber liquid in his hand and from the amount of attention it was receiving she thought he must find it absolutely fascinating. His behaviour irritated her. He had spoken more to her than any of the others. Why couldn’t he be like Juan, like Father Domenico even? Why couldn’t he greet her in the same friendly way as the rest of his family? But that wasn’t entirely true, she admitted reluctantly. Carla still stood by the ornamental fireplace, her expression mirroring again that she was in no way enamoured of their unwelcome guest.

  Miranda was provided with a drink and conversation became general. For her benefit they spoke in English, and only occasionally did Juan lapse into his native tongue. They dined by candlelight, and Miranda would have been enchanted had the reasons for her being there not troubled her so much. Silver candelabra shadowed centrepieces of interleaved magnolia and hibiscus blossoms, while the exquisite white lace mats were a fitting backcloth to finely wrought silver and crystal.

  To Miranda’s surprise, Rafael sat at the opposite end of the table from his mother, not Juan as she would have expected, with the twins on either side of him. Miranda sat at the other end of the table, near his mother, beside Father Domenico and opposite Juan.

  The meal was slow and prolonged. Miranda found herself drinking rather a lot of wine, but it was something to do during the long discussions the men were having concerning the merits of various agricultural schemes. The women seemed quite content not to play a great part in the conversation, and although Miranda tried to speak to Doña Isabella about Lucy, the older woman seemed disinclined to listen while her sons were speaking. Or perhaps sons was the wrong denotation; it was Rafael who captured his mother’s attention to the exclusion of everyone else.

  Miranda was puzzled. Rafael’s position in the household puzzled her. Previously, it had seemed quite a simple situation—the elder son inheriting the estate, the younger son dedicating his life to the sick. But was Rafael the younger son? He certainly looked younger than Juan, but perhaps the fact that Juan was so much stockier, so much swarthier, added to his years. And if he was not the younger son, why was Juan running the estate?

  So many questions, so many perplexities; and not least of these her own confusion towards Juan’s intentions with Lucy…

  Coffee was served in the sala, and Juan adjusted some records on a turntable so that soon soft music of the guitar filled the room. Then he made, his way towards Miranda, standing with Constancia, admiring a jewelled silver crucifix from one of the wall cabinets.

  “It is very old, señorita,” he murmured in her ear, so that Miranda started, her fingers tightening for a moment over the carved stem.

  “I have been telling Señorita Lord that this particular piece is reputed to have been brought to Guadalima by our ancestor, Alberto Cueras, Juan,” explained Constancia, taking the crucifix again as Miranda held it out to her and putting it almost reverently back into its place.

  “Our ancestor, si,” Juan smiled. “And did Constancia also tell is more old than—er—anos trecientos?”

  Miranda nodded. “It’s quite beautiful. But then all religious relics have a certain mystique, don’t they? I suppose they are imbued with the divine revelation of faith. What was it Tennyson wrote—an arm clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.”

  “And do you believe in mysticism, señorita?” enquired Father Domenico, suddenly appearing beside her.

  “That rather depends on the connection, señor,” replied Miranda carefully. “I believe in a divine presence. Whether or not that presence has manifested itself on earth is a matter for individual belief.”

  Father Domenico smiled. “Muy discreto, señorita, very discreet. You do not commit yourself. But you are not of the Faith, are you?”

  “The Catholic faith, señor? No. But I keep an open mind.”

  “What is this?” Father Domenico frowned.

  Miranda shrugged. “It means—the denomination of faith is less important to me than the faith itself.”

  Father Domenico was impressed. “That is an interesting theory, Miss Lord. I should like to discuss it with you further at some other time. I had not thought to find so mature an understanding on such young shoulders.”

  “Miss Lord is an interesting young woman, padre,” remarked Rafael, but his tone indicated the irony with which he said the words.

  Miranda, who had been unaware of him crossing the room to join them, felt her nerves tauten at his nearness, but Father Domenico turned to him eagerly and said:

  “You agree, Rafael? It is an interesting conception, is it not? Something towards which the Ecumenical Council is constantly striving.”

  “And something with which you cannot agree, padre,”
commented Rafael dryly. “Can you?”

  Father Domenico shrugged. “One does not need to catch a fish to enjoy the occupation of casting one’s line, Rafael.”

  “And is that what you are doing, padre? Casting a line?”

  The smile Father Domenico shared with Rafael was at once affectionate and challenging. “You know me too well, Rafael,” he observed without rancour. “But I detect more than a little interest in your tones, too, my son.”

  Rafael shook his head. His hands were thrust deeply into the pockets of his trousers and he seldom looked up from his apparent contemplation of the toes of his black suede boots.

  Across the room, Doña Isabella was seated on a low striped sofa, dispensing coffee from a silver service. She chose that moment to beckon both her sons and Father Domenico towards her, and with reluctance Juan and the priest excused themselves to go and accept their cups. Constancia had already wandered off to examine the records by the player, and for the moment Miranda and Rafael were alone.

  Although this was a situation which Miranda had desired above all things, now that it had happened she was at a loss. Unable to think of anything else, she murmured foolishly: “Oughtn’t you to join your mother, too?”

  Rafael glanced sideways at her, his gaze flickering over the creamy skin of her throat. “I am not a schoolboy, señorita. I am capable of making my own decisions.”

  Miranda flushed. “Oh, all right. I’m sorry I presumed to make a suggestion!”

  Rafael studied her with intent dark eyes and she half wished he would resume his scrutiny of his boots. “It seems you have the knack of attracting both my brother and Father Domenico, señorita. That should compensate you for my lack of—deference.”

  Miranda’s eyes mirrored the hurt he was deliberately inflicting. “Why do you say such things?” she exclaimed indignantly. Then she looked down at her hands. “Why don’t you go and join your mother? It seems I don’t attract you at least.”