Pale Dawn Dark Sunset

“Me?” Rafael was taken aback. “Why me? Where is she arriving?”

“Mexico City, where else?”

“Juan!” Rafael stared at his brother incredulously. “You cannot be serious! I cannot go to Mexico City to meet this woman. She does not know me. I hardly know the child. If you wish to see her you must meet her yourself.”

Juan flung himself back in his seat. He heaved a heavy sigh and spread his hands expressively. “You ask me this?” He shook his head. “What am I to say to her?”

“What am I to say to her?” remarked Rafael dryly.

“It is different for you,” exclaimed Juan, leaning towards his brother again. “You are used to talking to people—you have—authority. And besides, you have a much better grasp of the English language than I have.”

Rafael poured himself some coffee. “And this is why you sent for me?”

“Yes.”

Rafael drank some of the black coffee reflectively. “I do not understand all of this,” he said at last. “Why are the authorities not arranging for this woman to be brought to Guadalima?”

“Father Esteban at the mission left the matter in my hands.”

“I see. And what do you hope to achieve?”

Juan coloured slightly. “Achieve? That is a curious word to use, Rafael. It smacks of conspiracy.”

Rafael shook his head. “On the contrary, what you wish to do for this child is admirable. I just cannot think that Valentina will welcome a ready-made daughter into your household.”

“Valentina and I are not married yet, Rafael.”

“No.” Rafael conceded that point slowly. “Even so, you know that it is expected.”

Juan scowled. “Will you meet the woman? Madre de Dios, Rafael, what would I find to say to some middle-aged spinster? How could I explain my feelings for the child? If she is this Lucy Carmichael, how can I persuade her that the child might be happier here with us than taken back to that cold and unfeeling country of her birth?”

Rafael half smiled. “I think you are being rather uncharitable, Juan,” he commented mildly. “You really know nothing about England, and the child may be content to return with her aunt—a blood relation. After all, seeing her aunt again may restore her memory.”

“I know, I know. Do you think I have not thought of that?” Juan sounded impatient. “That is why I wish you to speak with this woman—this Miss Lord. I want you to tell her about me—to explain that I am not a villain with designs on her niece. I want you to explain that the child herself likes me, that I find her enchanting. And that for her aunt to take her away without first considering what she might be depriving her of would be—how shall I say?—precipitate?”

“In other words, you want me to extol your praises,” observed Rafael ironically. “You think perhaps she might then look more kindly on the possibilities of leaving the child here?”

Juan tapped his nails irritably against the glass surface of the table. Across the patio a walled rose garden was giving off a fragrant perfume, and humming birds vied with the butterflies for brilliance. He turned back to his brother. “And you, Rafael? Do you not think the child would be happier here, amongst all this?” He spread his hands again. “This woman—this aunt—she cannot possibly give her what I can give her.”

“How do you know that?”

Juan sighed. “It is obvious. The child’s clothes—the pitiful things she was found in were not the garments of a rich child. Her reactions to everything I have done for her have not been the reactions of a child already satiated by luxury.”

“And might she not have forgotten these things also?”

“No. Ordinary every day things, she remembers. It is the personal details she has forgotten.” Juan pressed out the stub of his cheroot in the onyx ashtray. “The doctors are confident that she will recover. It is only a matter of time. I have had Delgado out from Mexico City—”

“Ramon Delgado?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“As a matter of fact we were at university together.”

“I see.” Juan’s lips twisted. “Well, as I say, Delgado expresses the opinion that it is only a matter of time before her memory returns completely. Needless to say, this news arouses mixed feelings inside me. Naturally I want her to regain her faculties, but I am afraid if this woman comes here—stimulates the child’s recollective abilities and then takes her away without first giving her a chance to decide for herself—”

“But you say the child is only some eight years old?”

“That’s right.”

“Then how can she decide what would be best for her future? Juan, you have to accept that in this instance you are helpless.”

“No, I will not accept that.” Juan’s face was grim. He turned again to his brother. “Rafael, I ask very little of you—surely it is not too much to ask you to help me in this…”

Rafael sighed now. “I don’t see how anything I can say can make the slightest difference.”

Juan hesitated. Then he said: “Rafael, you have influence. Won’t you use it? The influence of your position?”

Rafael had known this was coming, of course. “Juan,” he said patiently, “Juan, I have no influence, I am nothing yet.”

“But you will be soon. You already assist Father Domenico—”

“In a lay capacity only!” Rafael shook his head and pushed aside his dirty cup and plate. “These people, Juan—the Carmichaels—were they Catholics?”

Juan moved his shoulders awkwardly. “I—no! I believe they belonged to the Church of England.”

Rafael’s hand descended heavily on the table. “And you expect this woman to leave her niece—the only surviving member of her sister’s family—with you, the brother of a man who may ultimately become a priest in the Roman Catholic Church?”

Juan’s jaw moved spasmodically. “So you won’t help me?”

“I don’t see how I can.”

“Then you’re not listening to me, Rafael. What can this woman—this aunt—give the girl? She is not even married! She does not have the support of a husband. She is a secretary or something with some firm in London. She has no money—no influence—no position in society!”

“These things are not so important to some people,” pointed out Rafael quickly. “And I do not speak only for myself. If this woman lives alone, she may be glad of the child’s companionship.”

“But how can she care for her? If she is at work all day, how will she manage? Always supposing she can afford to support her.”

“If you really want to help the child then perhaps you ought to offer to support her in the manner in which you would like to see her.”

Juan stared at Rafael in astonishment. “No! No, I could not do that.”

Rafael shrugged. “It was a suggestion, nothing more.”

Juan looked thoughtful. “Will you not do as I ask and meet this woman at least,?” he appealed. He paused. “It may just be—possible to persuade her to change her mind…”

Rafael’s face darkened. “Juan! You would not—offer her money?”

Juan moved uncomfortably. “Did I say I might?”

“It was implicit in your words.” Rafael’s jaw hardened and he thrust back his chair and got abruptly to his feet. “Very well, I will meet your Miss Lord. But only because I am afraid that if I refuse you will think of some other way to keep the child.” He shook his head. “I have never known you to be so obsessed with another human being.”

Juan could smile now that he had got what he wanted. “I would not call it an obsession, Rafael. I am fond of the child, I admit it. It pleasures me that she treats me like the father she has lost. It is a—satisfying sensation to feel oneself the centre of a child’s world.”

“And when she recovers her memory? What then? The realisation of the loss of her parents must eventually be faced.”

“I know it. But I am hoping that by then the life I have given her here will compensate—”

“And if it does not?”

Juan’s lips tightened. “We will face that contingency if and when it occurs.” Then: “Now, you will go and see our mother, will you not? You know she would be heartbroken if she learned you had visited the hacienda without spending some time with her.”

Rafael nodded, thrusting his hands deeply into his trousers pockets. He would have preferred to leave the hacienda forthwith, to go back to his own house and ponder the disquieting aspects of the situation while he bathed and changed his clothes. But it was not to be. He sighed. He had not realised when he left Mexico City how much more difficult it was to remain detached from the intimacies of one’s own family. The seminary had been a refuge from the everyday problems of living, and he admitted he had enjoyed its isolation. But here, involved as he was, he could feel emotions stirring inside him that had been long suppressed. He must not make judgments, he told himself impatiently. He was the outsider here, it was not really his affair. But his intelligence told him that this was just a whim on Juan’s part which could easily be replaced by another.

His mother was still in bed when he entered her room at the head of the stairs. It was a beautiful room, the floor coolly mosaiced, and strewn with rugs in cinnamon and gold. Wide windows opened on to a balcony, edged with wrought iron, which overhung the patio, and a cool breeze stirred the lemon chiffon draperies. The bed, a magnificent fourposter which was said to date back to the eighteenth century, was wide and comfortable, and Rafael’s mother was ensconced among the soft pillows. A used breakfast tray was pushed to one side and she was reading a newspaper until, at the advent of her son, she thrust it swiftly aside and held out both hands to him.

Rafael greeted her warmly, taking her hands in his and bending to kiss her perfumed cheek. Then he released himself and took up a stance before the open balcony doors.

“So you are going to Mexico City to meet this woman, Rafael,” remarked Doña Isabella softly.

Rafael glanced significantly behind him. “You heard?”

“It would have been impossible to do otherwise. Juan is so vehement.” His mother sighed, plucking at the silk coverlet. “You do not think he should do this.”

Rafael shrugged. “I am only afraid…” He shook his head. “Juan is old enough to make his own decisions.”

Doña Isabella shook her head. “Is he? I wonder?” She stared penetratingly at her eldest son, a troubled expression marring her smooth olive features. “Rafael—Rafael, if you do go to Mexico City, you will come back, won’t you?”

Rafael’s face relaxed. “Of course. How else is this woman to find her way here? But soon—soon I must return to the seminary.”

His mother pressed her lips together. “Not too soon, Rafael, not too soon.”

“I’ve been here two months already,” he protested.

“I know, I know. But we see so little of you, my darling. You so rarely come to the hacienda…”

Rafael made an apologetic gesture. “There is so much for me to do—” he was beginning, when his mother interrupted him bitterly.

“I know. Everyone demands your time, your advice, your medical knowledge, while I—your mother—am spared only a few minutes every week!”

Rafael approached the bed helplessly, sitting down beside her and taking her hands in his again. “Madre mia, I am sorry,” he muttered huskily, guilt at his neglect of her overwhelming him. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “But you must understand that I cannot deny Rodrigues my help.”

Doña Isabella laid a hand on his dark head, smoothing the unruly vitality of his hair. Then she sighed. “I am sorry, too, Rafael. I am a selfish old woman. But knowing you are in the valley and not living here at the hacienda… Could you not come and stay with us?”

Rafael released her hands and spread his own expressively. “You know that the hacienda is too far from the village. The house I have is easily accessible, and besides, I can be alone there.”

“And this is important to you, isn’t it?” His mother’s voice had a note of acceptance in it now. “Very well, Rafael, I won’t insist that you come and stay here. But surely—after this trip to Mexico City—you could spend a little more time with us? After all, when you leave the valley, Rodrigues will have to manage, will he not?”

Rafael got to his feet. “Very well, Madrecita. I will come as often as I can. But now—” He glanced at the plain gold watch on his wrist, “now I must go. I am hot and dirty and I need a shower. Besides, I must tell Father Domenico that I shall be leaving for Mexico City first thing in the morning.”

“You will take the helicopter to Puebla?”

Rafael nodded. “Yes. I presume there is a car there I can use.”

“A Mustang.” His mother inclined her head. “As I recall it, Juan bought two.” She bit her lip. “But you will drive carefully, won’t you, Rafael? The roads can be so dangerous.”

Rafael smiled, revealing his even white teeth. “You worry too much, Madrecita.“ He kissed her once more and then moved towards the door. “I will see you tomorrow evening. When I deliver Miss Lord.”

“Very well, Rafael. Take care!”

Rafael bade her goodbye and went down the stairs slowly. Now that he was free to go he was curiously loath to do so. This house had been his home for so many years and he knew a fleeting temptation to go to his old room and use the bathroom there. He knew his room remained as it was when he had left it. His mother insisted on it always being ready and available to him. But such temptations were never overwhelming and he walked across the wide hall and out onto the steps above the forecourt.

Two girls were dismounting from their horses in the shadow of the Landrover, assisted by a dark-skinned Mexican stableboy, and Rafael recognised his two younger sisters, Carla and Constancia. They were eighteen-year-old twins, the last children his father had sired before his fatal illness. When they saw Rafael they came exuberantly towards him, hugging him enthusiastically and protesting that he could not leave yet.

“I must,” insisted Rafael, disentangling himself from their clinging hands. “I have things to do.”

“I expect Juan has been asking you to go and meet this woman—this aunt of the little one’s—for him, hasn’t he?” suggested Carla perceptively. “Are you going?”

Rafael’s expression was wry. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I don’t think you should.” That was Constancia, the quieter, more introspective of the two. “Let Juan meet her himself!”

“I agree,” chimed in Carla. “Why should you have to waste your time going to meet some stuffy old maid?”

“That will do, Carla.” Rafael’s mouth turned down at the corners. “You know absolutely nothing about Miss Lord, and I do not think we should make wild statements about someone who is totally anonymous to us.”

Carla pouted. “Can I come with you?”

Rafael shook his head. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“Why not? At least you wouldn’t be bored—”

“I am never bored, Carla,” returned Rafael grimly, and climbed determinedly into the Landrover. “I’ll see you both tomorrow evening. When I get back.”

Constancia came to the door of the vehicle and touched his arm. “I wish I could come with you, Rafael,” she murmured wistfully, and for a moment he was tempted. But then he caught sight of Carla’s indignant face and realised he could not possibly take one without the other.

“There wouldn’t be room in the helicopter,” he replied, touching her cheek with a lean finger. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hmm?”

Constancia stepped back reluctantly and Rafael put the Landrover into gear. Then he drove swiftly down the drive and out on to the track to the village.

CHAPTER TWO

THE international airport at Mexico City was a seething mass of humanity in the heat of the late afternoon. More and more people were discovering the fascination for the past which gave the Aztec civilisation such an irresistible appeal. Where once only scientists and historians came to investigate the relics of that ancient culture there now thronged safari-shirted tourists, slung about with cameras and binoculars, and all the other paraphernalia of the cult fanatic.

Rafael disliked the crowds. He avoided them whenever possible. And the reasons for his being here at all were gradually arousing an unmistakable feeling of irritation inside him. The aircraft bringing this woman who might or might not be the child’s aunt out from England had developed an engine fault and had been delayed twenty-four hours in Kingston, which had meant that Rafael had had to book in at the airport hotel and spend a whole day kicking his heels. But finally the flight’s arrival had been announced, and he walked reluctantly towards the reception area. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his close-fitting corduroy pants and as he wore no jacket because it was so hot, his thin cream knitted shirt clung to his skin. He was hardly aware that several pairs of female eyes turned speculatively in his direction. He was simply not interested. He was totally absorbed with the disruptive quality of his own thoughts.

The plane had landed by the time he reached reception, and because of the delay in Jamaica and certain formalities which had been conducted there the passengers were quickly dealt with. Luggage was unloaded and gradually the passengers trickled through to collect their belongings and be greeted by welcoming relatives and friends.

Rafael stood to one side, his feet slightly apart, assessing all the women who emerged with equal penetration. There were several middle-aged women and his stomach muscles tautened when he contemplated approaching one of them with his brother’s proposition. But fortunately they were all quickly encompassed into welcoming groups and Rafael viewed the men that followed without interest. Most of the passengers looked relieved that the journey was over and he conceded that knowing one’s aircraft had developed an engine fault on the first leg of the journey could not make for a comfortable completion.

A woman in a wheelchair came next, propelled by a tall girl who looked round the reception area with curious eyes. Rafael frowned. Could this perhaps be Miss Lord? This woman in the wheelchair who looked rather pale and drawn.

But no! He stifled his increasing impatience as a man and a woman approached them and bent to speak consolingly to the woman in the chair. Then they spoke to the girl and she smiled, and said something which from her manner appeared to be deprecating their obvious gratitude.

Rafael looked away. Where was the woman? he silently demanded, feeling his reserves of tolerance running desperately low. Surely she would have the sense to realise that someone would be sent to meet her! Surely she wouldn’t leave the confines of the airport and seek accommodation at some hotel?

“Excuse me, señor!”

The feminine voice to one side of him broke into his absorption and his brows drew together in a scowl as he turned to look at the girl who had spoken. She was the girl who had been propelling the wheelchair and at once his spirits rose a little. Could it be that the woman in the wheelchair was Miss Lord, after all?

“Si?” He was abrupt, but he couldn’t help it.

The girl smiled, seemingly unconcerned by his uncompromising attitude. Objectively, he had to concede that she was an unusually attractive young woman. She was tall, perhaps five feet six or seven, and without the angular thinness sometimes associated with girls of her height. She was slim, but not excessively so, and firm breasts were moulded beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. A mass of straight red-gold hair fell in a heavy curtain about her shoulders, her features were even, her eyes an amazing shade of green and fringed by dark, gold-tipped lashes, her mouth full and mobile. She was dressed in the kind of casual attire affected by the youth of the day—cotton denim jeans that clung to her hips and tapered at the ankle, thonged sandals on her bare feet. A canvas holdall was draped over her shoulder drawing attention to the open neck of her shirt where the smooth column of her throat was clearly visible. Without a doubt, he decided, she was not unaccustomed to the ready admiration of the opposite sex. It was there in the slightly slanting eyes, in her awareness, in the confidence she exuded—and Rafael withdrew behind a façade of coldness that was totally alien to him.

“Excuse me,” she said again, and her voice was warm and husky and unmistakably English. “But you’re not by any chance—Señor Cueras?”

Rafael stiffened. “I am Rafael Cueras,” he agreed politely.

“Oh, I see. Rafael!“ The girl looked disappointed. “I’m sorry. It was a Señor Juan Cueras I was looking for.”

Rafael drew himself up to his full height and looked down at her. “Juan Cueras is my brother, señorita. Do you speak to me on behalf of Miss Lord?”

“On behalf of—” The girl broke off. “Oh, no, señor. I don’t speak on behalf of anybody. I am Miranda Lord!”

To say Rafael was surprised would be a masterpiece of understatement. He was astounded, flabbergasted! He stared at the girl as though she had just announced her intention to stick a knife in his ribs. He couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t. That this female—this girl—was the expected aunt from England! It wasn’t possible. Aunts in his country were middle-aged to elderly women attired in black, not slips of creatures little more than children themselves.

Miranda Lord was smiling at his amazement. “Is something wrong?” she enquired in an amused voice. “Am I not what you were expecting?”

That she should so precisely put her finger on what was wrong irritated him. He disliked the way she was looking at him, the way her eyes mocked his confusion. “I—no, señorita,” he retorted curtly. “You are perhaps—younger, that is all.”

She nodded. “Well, my sister was twelve years older,” she conceded, a cloud of remembered grief darkening her eyes for a moment. Then she shook her head impatiently. “I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment to you.”

The amusement was back again and Rafael cast a swift look around them. He realised they could not go on standing here when at any moment another aircraft would be landing and other passengers would be crowding this lounge, but he was curiously loath to take responsibility for her. Still, it had to be done.

“You will please to come with me, señorita,” he directed, his English worsening as his irritation irrationally increased. “You have suitcases?”

Miranda looked across the room. “Only one. That’s it over there. I’ll get it.”

“I will get it, señorita.”

Rafael strode away and picked up the square black case, noting its battered edges with a tightening of his lips. It was obvious that the situation was as Juan had suggested. This girl had no money, and was certainly not the kind of guardian he would have chosen for a child of eight years. For the first time he felt a small sympathy towards his brother’s cause. Perhaps Juan was right after all.

He came back to the girl, and she said: “You don’t have to keep calling me señorita. My name is Miranda. I’m used to that.”

Rafael made no reply to this but merely indicated that she should accompany him across the well-lit entrance hall and out into the cooling warmth of the late afternoon.

“I expect you’ve been waiting since yesterday, haven’t you?” Miranda suggested, as they walked to where Rafael had left the car. “I’m sorry. The plane developed a fault. It was quite nerve-racking really.”

But she didn’t appear to be suffering any ill-effects, thought Rafael with unusual cynicism, and despised himself for feeling that way.

“Aren’t those flowers beautiful!” she was exclaiming now, spreading her hands and giving a little shake of her shoulders. “I can hardly believe it, you know. That I’m here—in Mexico. I’ve done very little travelling, I’m afraid.”

Rafael’s nostrils flared. “I should have thought that the reasons behind this journey were less than stimulating, señorita.”

She glanced sideways at him, and her eyes were coolly appraising. Tall as he was, she did not have to look up far into his face and it was rather disconcerting to him. Most of the people he associated with, men as well as his mother and sisters, were much smaller than he was.