The Mountains of Spring (3 page)

But Peter had settled down in Mexico. He had bought himself a ranch, and gone in for horse
-
breeding—on rather an ambitious scale, if his first enthusiastic letters on the subject were anything to go by. And then, at the end of a year—during which time he had become progressively less satisfactory as a correspondent—he had given up writing altogether. Two, three, four, eventually half a dozen of Caroline
’
s letters had gone unanswered, and when nearly another twelve months had elapsed and nothing further had been heard from him she had become very worried indeed. Peter wasn
’
t the type, normally, to be very neglectful. He had always taken letter-writing much more in his stride than most young men of his age, and even when he was still at school he had had a graphic, amusing style which always made entertaining reading. In addition, Caroline knew that since their father
’
s death six years earlier he had felt vaguely responsible for her well-being. They had no other brothers or sisters, and as their mother had died when she was bo
rn
she knew that at heart he had felt very guilty about taking himself off to Mexico at all. But she
h
ad had—and still had—an excellent and very secure job as secretary to the head of an established and solidly respectable fashion house. And, as he had pointed out, she could always come and join him in Mexico.

The one thing that had never seemed to occur to him had been the possibility that he ought to resist the temptation to remove himself to a distant and thoroughly alien country. He had behaved very much as if he were under some sort of spell, and nothing that any of his friends had been able to say in condemnation of his plans had had any noticeable effect whatsoever. Caroline herself had done little to persuade him. His idea obviously meant so much to him, and it didn
’
t seem fair to interfere
...
although later, as the months went by, and no word came, she had often wondered whether her attitude had been the right one. And at last she had made up her mind to go to Mexico and find out for herself what, if anything, had happened to her closest surviving relative.

The fare was not very much
of an obstacle, for she earned a good salary, and found it easy to save. She always saved up for her summer holiday anyway, and when Peter had been away for nearly two years, and for months nothing had been heard from him, she knew exactly what she was going to do. It was January when she reached her decision, and within a few days she had arranged with her employer that that year she would take her holiday in April.

And now it was April, and here she was in Mexico, and by what did seem to be a quite remarkable stroke of luck she had already run into somebody who claimed to know Peter. That, she knew, ought
to give her a good deal of comfort. Whatever else Diego Rivel might be, he was undoubtedly a man of quite considerable importance—possibly a very rich
man
—and if Peter knew people like that he couldn
’
t be doing too badly. She stared at the pretty dressing-table, on which, the night before, the maid Manuela had carefully placed her handbag, and determinedly pushed aside the uneasiness that nagged at her.

Because she was Peter
’
s sister, Senor Rivel had already done quite a lot for her. And that must mean something.

A little later on, just as she was deciding guiltily that it was high time she got up, dressed herself and ventured downstairs in search of her hostess, there was a knock at the door and Manuela came in. To Caroline
’
s genuine horror, she was bearing a breakfast tray, and as she deposited it on a pale oak table beside the bed she expressed a rather grudging hope that she was not disturbing the Senorita too early.

‘
Oh, no
!
’
Caroline flushed, and sat up quickly.
‘
I
’
m so sorry. I was going to get up, and go down-stairs—I didn
’
t want you to have to bring anything up to me.
’

Manuela shrugged.
‘
In this house,
senorita,
nobody has breakfast downstairs. Except,
’
she added conscientiously,
‘
Senor Diego. And he is not often here.
’
She tugged lightly at the Venetian blinds, and a small quantity of fierce white sunlight filtered into the room. Then she turned, to study Caroline more closely.
‘
You are better,
senorita
?’

‘
Oh, yes, thank you, I
’
m perfectly all right now.
’
Manuela continued to stare at her, and Caroline felt vaguely embarrassed.
‘
As soon as I
’
m up, and have had my breakfast, I shall have to leave,
’
she
said.
‘
It was terribly kind of Senora Rivel to take me in, but of course I mustn
’
t take advantage of her hospitality for any longer than I have to. Where can I find her, when I want to say good-bye?
’

The maid moved towards the door, her starched apron rustling.
‘
The Senora does not get up before twelve o
’
clock,
’
she told Caroline firmly.
‘
After that, I expect you will find her in the
salon
.’

Manuela left the room, and feeling a little chastened Caroline turned her attention to the hot rolls and steaming coffee weighing down her breakfast tray. She certainly didn
’
t want to disrupt the household—and it didn
’
t seem likely that she would be allowed to do so, anyway—but it was still only half past nine in the morning, and she would have liked to be on her way again before twelve o
’
clock.

When she had finished her breakfast, she got out of bed and went straight across to the window, where, after struggling for several minutes with an amazingly complicated selection of cords, she eventually succeeded in raising the blinds.

Outside, the sunlight was vivid and dazzling, and as its glare filled the room she almost recoiled physically. Her windows overlooked a little courtyard, in which fountains played, and around the walls of which hanging baskets overflowed with exotic flowers, and in the middle of the courtyard a magnificent Siamese cat was sunning itself, stretched out at full length upon the stones. In the distance she could just hear the subdued hum of traffic, and nearer at hand the sound of somebody s
inging
, with more enthusiasm, than skill, in Spanish, and for the first time the knowledge that she was really in Mexico sent a little thrill of excitement quivering through
her. Mexico was, after all, supposed to be an exciting country, romantic and primitive. And this whole mission on which she had embarked was, in a sense, an adventure.

By some miracle, all her luggage had been safely collected from the airport and carefully stacked in her room, and as she had plenty of time at her disposal she decided that before she made her way downstairs she might as well pay the maximum amount of attention to her appearance. As it happened, she had with her an extremely adequate wardrobe, for her job in a fashion house made it easy for her to collect good clothes at fairly reasonable prices, and it was some time before she was able to make up her mind what to wear. But eventually she selected a slim, sleeveless linen dress, in a heavenly shade of blue that very nearly matched her eyes, and by the time she had brushed her pale hair until it shone like silk, and her finger-nails had received a fresh application of delicate, pearly polish, she knew that she was looking almost at her best. Her forehead, it was true, was still marred by a small patch of sticking-plaster, her face was paler than usual and her eyes, if one looked into them, had a tired look, but she had never been what her grandmother, whom she could just remember, would have called
‘
vain
’
, and she had always had a remarkably modest opinion of her own looks. She believed in making the most of herself, but if for some unavoidable reason she was not looking quite as attractive as she might have been the fact did not particularly upset her. In certain circu
ms
tances—if, for instance, she were going to meet a
fiancé
, or someone likely in
the foreseeable future to become a
fiancé
—she was prepared to admit that she might feel very differently. But she had no
fiancé
, and she had never even been in love, so she had no idea at all what effect being in love might have upon her.

Just before twelve o
’
clock she took a final look at herself in the mirror, glanced around the room to make sure that she had left everything in order, and then made her way out on to the landing. She had remembered it from the night before, an unusual circular gallery around the white walls of which little jewelled saints looked out from specially prepared niches, and in the centre of which, above the staircase, a great antique lantern was suspended. There was some graceful wrought-iron balustrading around the well of the stairs, and before going down she leant against it for a moment, looking down into the hall and instinctively hesitating because she had heard voices below her. But from where she was standing she could see no one, and in any case whoever had been speaking had evidently left the hall for one of the rooms that opened off it, for she heard the sound of a closing door, and after that there was silence. Slowly, she walked down the stairs, and at the bottom stood hesitating once again, for although it seemed certain that one of the five or six arched doorways around her must give access to the
salon
she hadn
’
t the slightest idea which one, and she had no wish to blunder into a room that was in any way private.

And then, as she stood looking around her, one of the doors opened, and a man emerged. For a moment she didn
’
t recognize him, and when she did realize who it was she went on standing still, unable, for some curious reason, to
think
of a
thing
to
say. For several seconds he said nothing either, and to Caroline
’
s surprise and considerably to her annoyance a blush began to creep up over her cheeks.

Then he took a step towards her, and bowed.
‘
Good morning,
senorita
.’

He was studying her, she realized, with a cool and detached kind of interest, and his scrutiny made her feel extraordinarily shy. She had never in her life before seen such deeply black, penetrating eyes, and the intensity of their concentrated gaze seemed to have the effect of making her feel slightly dizzy. Or it could be, she supposed, that she had not yet quite recovered after all from her experience of the previous evening.

He seemed to appreciate that she was still not really quite herself, and covering the remainder of the space between them he placed a hand beneath her arm.

‘
You will come into the
salon, senorita.
My grandmother is waiting for you.
’

When they entered the
salon,
a long, sun-filled room in which brilliantly coloured furnishings glowed st
riking
ly against the sharp, clear whiteness of the walls and ceiling, Senora Rivel was seated bolt upright in a chair which had first seen the light of day in seventeenth-century Spain, and for the second time Caroline was struck by the strangely perfect elegance and charm of her diminutive figure. As soon as she saw the English girl she smiled and indicated the chair beside her own, and when Caroline was seated she made one or two enquiries.

‘
You slept well,
senorita?
You are recovered? Manuela tells me that you say you are, but is that quite true?
’

‘
Oh, yes, I
’
m quite all right now, thank you,
senora
.’

‘
But the poor head was so badly hurt.
’
Her hostess looked as if the thought of the injury caused her considerable personal distress.
‘
Last night, you looked so ill. I thought that perhaps it would be a week at least before you were better.
’

Her grandson put a glass of she
rr
y into her hand, and then turned to hold one out to Caroline.

‘
Miss Ashley
’
s injuries were not serious,
abuela
.’
His voice, with its unobtrusive Mexican accent, was quiet and cool, and he sounded as if he thought more than enough time had already been wasted upon the subject of Caroline
.
There were evidently one or two things which he wished to discuss with his grandmother—he had just, it seemed, bought a house in Rio de Janeiro, and was rather pleased with the acquisition—and without further ceremony he proceeded to describe his new possession in detail, while Caroline, feeling supremely uncomfortable, sipped slowly at her drink, and longed for the courage to ask how she could best find out about trains to Toluca.

If it had not been for the fact that she felt she already owed him a certain amount of gratitude Diego Rivel
’
s behaviour would have annoyed her intensely, and as it was she couldn
’
t help feeling decidedly resentful. She watched him, covertly, while he was absorbed in conversation with his grandmother;
and
it occurred to her that he possessed perhaps the most arrogant face she had ever seen in her life. His features were fine-drawn and very regular, and there was a look of old Spain about them, particularly in the handsome aquiline nose, and the hard, narrow mouth. His eyebrows were intensely dark, and his eyelashes were also dark, and, for a man, extraordinarily long and noticeable. His hair was so black that in certain lights it seemed to have almost a bluish sheen, and although it seemed to have a natural inclination to wave slightly it was clear that its owner did everything in his power to discourage such a tendency.