The High Valley

Ruth eyed her rather enviously. “You must know the cheapest clothes look elegant on you,” she retorted, which Morgana thought was a kind of back-handed compliment, but refrained from saying so. Ruth had always said exactly what she thought and if what she said sometimes hurt her listener it was usually unintentional.

Ruth's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Dennison, were engaged in conversation with an elderly man and another woman who was apparently his wife, and Ruth said in an undertone to Morgana that he was one of the secretaries at the Embassy. “These affairs are always terribly formal,” she complained, glancing round at the guests. “Everyone seems to spend their time discussing politics or business of one kind or another, and I'm sure these receptions are used as an excuse to get all the men together.” She sighed resignedly.

“It is very exciting though, isn't it?” said Morgana, now recovered from her fright of finding herself abandoned. “I mean – do you attend a lot of functions like this?”

Ruth gave her a bored look. “Oh, lord, yes,” she exclaimed. “There's always some kind of social gathering going on in diplomatic circles. You've only been here three days, Morgana, but you'll soon get used to it.”

Morgana smiled. “I imagine by the time I get used to this I shall be leaving Brazil,” she remarked. “After all, I promised my father I'd join him in two weeks.”

Ruth lifted her shoulders. “Yes, that's a pity. Still, I'm only glad you could come at all. After all, had your father not been invited on this lecture tour of California, I doubt whether he would have allowed you to come so far alone.”

Morgana nodded. “That's true. Since my mother died he's felt rather a strong responsibility where I am concerned. That's really how I came to attend Brackenbury. I doubt very much whether, in the normal course of events, my parents would have been able to afford a boarding school for me.”

Ruth raised her eyebrows. “And then we never should have met, which would have been a pity,” she commented sardonically. “Anyway, never mind, you're here now, and you can't imagine how wonderful it is having someone to talk to. There aren't many people of my age in our diplomatic circles, and sometimes I get positively depressed thinking how long Daddy will be here on his mission. You don't know how I envy you your life in England, near London and so on. This is practically uncivilised by comparison.”

Morgana raised her dark eyebrows, and helped herself to two cocktails from a tray held by a passing waiter. Handing one to Ruth, she said: “I don't suppose the Brazilians would care to hear your description of their cultural capital, Ruth. Besides, I think Rio is a marvellous place. You'd certainly miss the sun and the beaches if you came back to England. And, you don't really want to do that. As for preferring my life – well – we don't lead a particularly exciting existence. Oh, now and then we go up to town to a concert or to the theatre, and occasionally there's a local gathering my father wants to attend. But we don't spend our time going from one social function to another as you and your parents seem to do. Nor do I find London very inspiring. I prefer Friars Warren every time.”

Ruth nodded, sipping her cocktail reminiscently. “I remember Friars Warren quite well,” she smiled. “I did enjoy my visits there, Morgana. Your father was so kind to me. I remember on speech days and prizegivings, when my parents couldn't attend, he always made me feel part of your family. I thought he was marvellous. He's so young.”

Morgana chuckled. “He would like to hear you say so,” she remarked dryly. “He's forty-two, you know.”

“It was a pity your mother died as she did,” said Ruth, sighing. “Peritonitis always seems so unnecessary somehow. I mean, if the appendix is such a useless organ, why are we given one?”

Morgana shrugged. “Who knows? Anyway, that was all a long time ago now and we were talking about you, not me. Surely you have some friends here.”

Ruth finished her cocktail. “Not many. As I said before there aren't many young people in diplomatic circles here and the older ones don't seem to have offspring of my age!”

Morgana glanced around. “But there are heaps of young people here tonight.”

Ruth raised her eyes in an expressive gesture. “Oh, yes, there are young people. But Daddy doesn't encourage me to get involved with South Americans!”

Morgana frowned. “Heavens, why?”

“He says they're a very volatile race of people, highly emotional and probably unstable, and quite frankly, darling, I can't see myself succumbing to Latin charms!”

Morgana regarded her friend with amazement. “So all your friends have to be British, is that it?”

“Not exactly. Europeans aren't so bad and North Americans are perfectly acceptable.”

Morgana shook her head. “Well, I think you're wasting a fabulous opportunity,” she exclaimed. “And quite honestly, my father wouldn't dream of trying to influence me when it came to choosing my friends.”

Ruth grimaced. “Oh, well, you know Daddy's awfully socially conscious. He can't help it, and Mother flaps so if I make a scene.”

Morgana turned away, her feet unconsciously moving in time to the rhythmic music that was issuing from the orchestra's dais. She could understand Ruth's problems, having met Mrs. Dennison, but she thought Mr. Dennison's reasoning was narrow and old-fashioned. Personally, she found the dark-skinned Brazilians a particularly attractive combination of their arrogant Portuguese ancestry and modern chivalry. But it was no business of hers and presently Ruth's parents concluded their conversation with the embassy official and rejoined their daughter and Morgana.

“Well, Morgana,” said Mr. Dennison jovially. ‘Are you enjoying yourself? We lost you as we came in, didn't we?”

Morgana smiled politely. “I'm afraid so,” she admitted. “It was all so unusual and exciting I didn't hear what you said. But I am enjoying myself. I didn't realise it would be such an impressive affair.”

Mr. Dennison nodded. “Oh, these affairs are usually well-attended. And particularly here, at the Monteraverdian Embassy. Right now there's trouble brewing in Monteraverde and quite honestly I think this reception is a deliberate attempt to show where the power lies.”

Morgana listened with real interest. The violent politics of these South American states never failed to fascinate her. “Do you mean there is likely to be a revolution?” she asked, excitement making her eyes sparkle.

Mr. Dennison chuckled. “I shouldn't think so,” he answered, dampeningly. “The presidente, Queras, is not a man to risk being overthrown.” He lowered his voice. “Even now, there are rumours of reprisals being taken against a handful of guerillas who were captured some weeks ago. At present they're in prison in Queranova, awaiting trial and sentence.”

“Queranova?” echoed Morgana, with interest. “That's a similar name to the president's, isn't it?”

Mrs. Dennison gave an impatient click of her tongue. “Of course. These revolutionaries always attempt immortalisation by naming highways and towns after themselves, and then the next government comes along and renames them all in their own image. It's juvenile!”

Morgana shrugged her slim shoulders. “I suppose it's life,” she remarked. “And such vagaries are not the sole prerogative of the South Americans. Isn't Kennedy Airport named after the late president of the United States?”

Mrs. Dennison bestowed a slightly impatient glance upon her. “That's quite different, Morgana,” she averred, and turned her attention to other matters. “Laurence, isn't that Colonel Matthews over there?”

Mr. Dennison drew his eyes away from the attractive picture Morgana made in her dark blue gown, her hair a silvery curtain about her shoulders, and looked in the direction his wife indicated. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “And that's his wife, Sheralyn. Do you want to meet her?”

Mrs. Dennison's face grew harsher. “No, thank you. Imagine a man of his age marrying a slip of a girl like her!” There was censure in her voice. “He must be almost forty.”

“You would have had me marry him, Mummy,” Ruth remarked dryly. “And I'm only twenty-two. Sheralyn is around my age, surely.”

Mrs. Dennison grimaced. “That's altogether different. You're – well – mature, for your age.”

Ruth cast a mocking glance in Morgana's direction. “You ought to be grateful you have no designing matron on your heels,” she murmured, in an undertone, and Morgana hid a smile.

Presently, two attachés and their wives joined their group, and as the men had already danced with their wives, the women did not object when their husbands invited Morgana and Ruth to dance. Morgana was glad of the opportunity to escape from Mrs. Dennison's rather boring chatter for a while and Michael Lawson, her partner, entertained her by telling her who some of the guests were. Among this glittering throng of people there were television personalities, film stars, ambassadors and consuls, and the usual accompaniment of officials, all of whom had been welcomed by a huge man who stood by the bar at the end of the room, talking to some of his guests.

“That's Juan Montoya,” said Michael, as they passed the group. “Weren't you introduced to him on your arrival?”

“I'm afraid I got lost,” explained Morgana, with a smile, momentarily remembering the man who had collided with her so briefly.

“I see.” Michael nodded. “And I imagine Mrs. Dennison made a beeline for His Excellency!”

Morgana caught the twinkle in his eye. “Probably,” she agreed.

Later in the evening, they sat in the buffet lounge watching the guests dancing and enjoying some of the delicious food that was available. Morgana had some shell fish, and tasted the em padinhas de camarao, or shrimp pasties, light pastries spiced with olives and peppers, one of the local delicacies. There was plenty of meat, cooked in a variety of ways, and fruit and cheese for those who wanted it. The wines they drank were light and palatable, but Morgana preferred the fruit cordials which were freshly squeezed and slightly bitter.

The Lawsons, and the other man, David Grover and his wife, had stayed with their party, and they had also been joined by a young American army officer called Hugh Bernard. They were all sitting together, talking companionably, in the lounge, when Morgana saw again the man that she had accidentally bumped into. But now he was not alone, two other men and a girl were with him. Curious, in spite of herself, Morgana turned to Michael Lawson who was sitting to one side of her, and said: “Who are they? Do you know?”

Ruth who was on her other side, leant forward to listen, and Michael followed her gaze with interest. “Oh, you mean the Salvador brothers, Luis and Ricardo,” he replied. “That oldish man with them is Vittorio Salvador, their uncle. I don't know the girl. Why?”

Morgana coloured and shrugged her slim shoulders. “I was curious, that's all,” she answered swiftly, taking a sip of the wine from the glass that was on the table in front of her.

Michael studied her expression. “They're certainly a striking pair,” he commented dryly. “But like many handsome animals, they are also dangerous!”

Laurence Dennison had caught the drift of their conversation, and now he leaned across the table and said: “Are you talking about the Salvador brothers?”

Morgana felt slightly impatient at his intrusion, but Michael merely nodded. “Yes, we were. Why?”

Mr. Dennison glanced round surreptitiously. “You have heard they're supposed to be behind the guerillas in Monteraverde?”