Читать книгу Fallen Angel - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 8

THE mare was a solid little creature, with the gentlest eyes Alexandra had ever seen. Her colouring was not distinctive, a kind of rusty grey with spots of white splashed over her hindquarters, but compared to the horse they had had at the convent, she was a veritable thoroughbred. Alexandra was glad now she had spent so much time with the old shire horse at Sainte Sœur, grooming him and riding him, most times with only a blanket for a saddle.

Not that Ricardo had been convinced of her ability. He had had her ride the mare round and round the paddock until he assured himself that she was able to handle the animal, and her spine, still tender from the previous day’s journey, ached from the unaccustomed exercise.

It was the morning after her arrival at San Gabriel, and Alexandra had awakened with a distinct feeling of discouragement. It was unusual for her, she was normally of an optimistic disposition, but she had lain for a few minutes recalling the events of the previous evening with depressing clarity.

After her confrontation with Jason she had felt little like eating supper, but a hasty bath, after Miss Holland had vacated the bathroom, and a change of clothes, had lightened her mood. It was too soon to jump to any conclusions, she had told herself firmly, flicking the skirt of an embroidered caftan down over her hips. Just because she and Jason had had their first row it did not mean that he was regretting bringing her here. They had had a difference of opinion, that was all—but deep inside her she had known it was more than that. At the first sign of his responding to the curious emotions he aroused inside her, she had bolted like a scared rabbit, and she was left with the disturbing evidence of her own immaturity.

Rummaging through her case—which had been brought by the same dark-skinned man who had provided Miss Holland’s tray of tea—she had brought out the tattered copy of Desert Rhapsody, from which she had gleaned much of her knowledge of the man-woman relationship. It was most explicit in its descriptions of the torrid affair between a fragile English girl and a hawk-eyed Arab sheik, but although the girl shrank from the Arab’s passions, the book never actually explained why. Indeed, the passions themselves were described in such a way that Alexandra scarcely understood what was going on. She only knew her imagination ran riot when Tarik ‘tore the shimmering gauze from her slender body, and threw himself upon her’, and there was an odd sensation in her lower limbs when she contemplated that intimate scene. It was strange, because the girl always gave in to the man, despite constant assertions that she hated him. Yet, as soon as he touched her, ‘she was aflame’. Alexandra sighed and put the book away, and went down to supper with a rather thoughtful expression in her shadowed eyes.

They ate in what she assumed to be the dining room. It was a bare room, with a long low dresser set with plates, and an equally long table, covered by a linen cloth. Darkness had fallen, and the shutters had been drawn against the night insects, but their wings were still audible. They fought to reach the lamps that were standing at either end of the dresser, golden globes, that reminded Alexandra of the old oil lamps they used to use in the cellar at the convent. The lighting in the house was electric, however, and she had been surprised at this modern innovation in what was essentially a traditional dwelling.

As well as taking part in the serving of the meal, Estelita also ate with them, along with Ricardo Goya, and Pepe, the manservant who had brought their cases. Meeting Ricardo for the first time, Alexandra was rather intimidated by his enormous frame and grizzled dark hair, an extension of which grew down his cheeks and curled beneath his strong nose in exuberant mostachos. But his hearty laughter rang often in the high-ceilinged room, and his teasing baiting of Estelita made Alexandra his friend for life.

Pepe was a different proposition. A rather morose Jason had introduced the thin young man as Estelita’s brother, and watching them together, Alexandra could see the resemblance. Both were very dark-skinned, although their features were predominantly Spanish, but Pepe’s features were not quite so refined as his sister’s. She was the older, too, possibly twenty-nine or thirty, Alexandra estimated, while Pepe was hardly more than her own age. He spoke little throughout the meal, and it was left to Estelita to question Jason about his journey, and Ricardo to make jokes at the housekeeper’s expense.

All in all supper had not been a comfortable meal. Miss Holland had not joined them, after all, and Alexandra was very conscious of her own alienation among these people. She spent her time studying the relationships between them, avoiding the most obvious one between the man who persistently parried all questions, and the woman he called his housekeeper. Although from time to time, she sensed Pepe’s eyes upon her, they dropped as soon as she lifted her head, and she came to the conclusion that he was intrigued by her pale skin. She had seen few pale-skinned people since coming to South America, but contrarily she admired the brown skins she had seen, envying them their immunity to the sun’s rays.

Ricardo spoke to her once or twice, asking her about her father, and revealing that he, too, had known Charles Durham. It was reassuring to hear that her father was not forgotten by these men, but although she would have liked to have asked him questions, she was all too conscious of Estelita’s cold dark eyes upon her.

The meal itself was rather too rich for her palate. A casserole of meat and vegetables, very highly spiced and hot with peppers, was an assault to a stomach still not attuned to the change of latitude, and Alexandra contented herself with crumbling the bread which accompanied it, and spreading it thinly with butter that tasted slightly rancid.

‘You are not eating, señorita,’ Estelita remarked once, her lips twisting contemptuously. ‘She will never lose that boyish figure if she does not put some flesh on her bones, eh, Jason?’

Ricardo made a comment to this which seemed to amuse him greatly, and which caused the housekeeper’s eyes to flash angrily. Her response was a vituperative tirade in their own language, which Jason silenced with a curt admonishment. But Ricardo was unrepentant, and turning to Alexandra, he explained:

‘I tell Estelita she does not need any more flesh on her bones, no? I think perhaps she could afford to spare you some, hmm?’

‘Ricardo!’ Jason’s impatient interjection gave Alexandra the chance to avoid an embarrassing answer, but Estelita was not appeased. She spent the remainder of the meal in sullen silence, only responding when Jason suggested she should serve the coffee.

Alexandra, apprehensive of Jason’s censure, was glad when, after the meal was over, he disappeared, and making the excuse of seeing how Miss Holland was faring, she left the room. The hall was a silent cavern, and the lamp standing on the chest cast pools of darkness in shadowy corners. The remoteness of their situation was suddenly a tangible presence, and shivering slightly she crossed the tiled floor to the stairs. A shaft of light from an open doorway caught her gaze as she ascended the stairs and dipping slightly to peer into the room, she saw Jason standing behind a square desk. The desk was strewn with papers, and he was presently engrossed in the sheet he held in his hand, a brooding expression marring his lean features. His indifference to the isolation was reassuring somehow, but she went on her way, aware that for tonight at least, Jason’s company was barred to her.

In her room, she turned out the light and stepped out on to the balcony. The scent from the passion-flower vine below her windows rose tantalisingly to her nostrils, and she tried to relax. But the starlit darkness was like a wall between her and the life she had known, and succumbing to a ridiculous sense of unease, she closed the shutters and went to find Miss Holland.

Morning had displaced the shadows of the night, and although it was early, even for her, Alexandra was up soon after six. Her system was still adjusting to the time change, and besides, she was eager to dispel her first impressions. She was sure her anxieties of the previous evening had been exaggerated, and the prospect of seeing more of the estancia lifted her spirits. She was even prepared to believe that that scene with Jason had never happened, that it had been some figment of her imagination, and she determined to show him that her feelings towards him had not changed. Exactly what those feelings were, she was not quite sure. She felt a sense of gratitude towards him, of course, but it was more than that that made her senses tingle when he was near her. He was much older than she was, even if he was much younger than her father had been, but not old enough to regard in that light. She only knew she liked being with him, better than with anyone she had ever known before, except perhaps her father, but even in her innocence she sensed that the relationship she wanted with Jason was much different from the relationship she had wanted with her father. It was all most disturbing. She had sent herself to sleep trying to imagine how she would feel if Jason treated her as the sheik had treated his fair prisoner, but her inexperienced imagination had been unable to provide any satisfactory answer.