Pale Dawn Dark Sunset

After Rafael had driven away, Doña Isabella had escorted her into the hacienda. She, like her son, did not appear to look with favour on his visitor from England, but she was infinitely more polite. She suggested that Miranda was tired and that perhaps it would be as well if she left all further introductions until the morning. She proposed that Miranda should be shown to her room, offered some food, and then retire for the night.

And, indeed, that prospect was not altogether displeasing to Miranda herself. She was tired, and she guessed that Doña Isabella, like Rafael, had expected someone older and therefore needed time to make the adjustment. But at that moment, a door to their left opened and a man emerged who could only be Juan Cueras. She saw the resemblance to Rafael at once, only this man was more swarthy, thicker set, and only about her own height.

“Qué?” he exclaimed in surprise when he saw them. “Donde es Rafael?” And then a curious smile spread over his face. “I hear a vehicle, Mama,” he went on in English. “Is Rafael home?”

His mother’s lips tightened. “Rafael has been and gone, Juan. Miss—Miss Lord’s plane was delayed in Jamaica. That was why he did not come home last night.” She bit into her lower lip. “Er—this is my son, señorita—Don Juan Cueras.”

Miranda responded to his warm smile. “How do you do, señor. I’m very grateful to you for offering me your hospitality.”

Juan Cueras surveyed her appraisingly, and then shook his head. “You are the aunt of the child?” He chuckled. “But no—you are little more than a child yourself, señorita.”

His words were similar to those used by his brother, but his intonation was vastly different. It seemed that at least one person did not object to her presence here in Guadalima, and of all of them he perhaps had the most reason.

Doña Isabella was less enthusiastic. “I was just suggesting that Miss Lord might prefer to go at once to her room, Juan,” she remarked insistently. “I have no doubt that she is tired, and all discussions concerning her reasons for being in the valley can be conducted so much less emotionally in the light of morning.”

Juan looked speculatively at Miranda. “And is this your wish, too, Miss Lord?”

“I—” Miranda had been at a loss to know what to reply. “I am tired. I did not sleep well in the hotel in Kingston.”

Doña Isabella looked relieved. “It is so, then. I will have Jezebel show you to your room. Everything is prepared. Jezebel is the housekeeper here, señorita. She will ensure that you have everything you need.”

“You’re very kind.” Miranda managed a smile of thanks, but when his mother went to summon the housekeeper, Juan Cueras lingered.

“Tell me, Miss Lord,” he intoned quietly, “did my brother tell you how—me gusta—er—I—I care for the niña? Lucy, is it not?”

Miranda relaxed, “Of course. And I should thank you for what you’ve done for her. Father Esteban has written and told me how often you’ve visited her—how often she had visited you here.”

Juan’s swarthy features expanded. “No tanto. Soy su amigo—we are friends, si?”

“I’m sure your attention has made everything so much easier for her,” insisted Miranda, looking about her with interest. “And this beautiful old house—she must love coming here”

Juan was making some deprecatory comment when his mother returned accompanied by an elderly Indian woman whom Miranda assumed must be the housekeeper, Jezebel. It was an unlikely name for such a wizened old creature, but her eyes were sharp and appraising and Miranda guessed they missed nothing.

“You will show Señorita Lord to her room and provide her with a light meal, Jezebel,” Doña Isabella was saying as they neared the others, and Jezebel was nodding.

“Si, señora.” Continuing to stare at the newcomer, she said: “You come—por favor?”

“Yes, go with Jezebel,” directed Doña Isabella, linking hands on which glinted a veritable fortune in diamonds. “She will take good care of you. We will meet again in the morning.”

“Yes. Yes, thank you.” Miranda glanced awkwardly at Juan. “Goodnight then—Doña Isabella; señor.”

She could not bring herself to say Don Juan, although she supposed that this was his usual appellation. However, he seemed to notice nothing amiss and presently she was walking behind Jezebel up a baroque staircase followed at some distance by one of the menservants carrying her case and haversack.

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.