Dear Conquistador Read online

  ‘My birthday party. You will be receiving a formal invitation, but I wish—’ Joaquin drew him aside importantly to make explicit explanations.

  Consuelo smiled again. ‘It is a pity that Lima is such a long drive away for Bruce to meet you. You know,’ she paused, her sloe-dark eyes considering, ‘I do not see why you should not stay overnight with us should you wish to spend a long weekend in the country. Is that not a good idea. Sanchia?’

  ‘You would be most welcome,’ Sanchia affirmed, but her tone was automatic. Her gaze had fallen on the scarlet-fringed poncho where it lay on the ground beside the picnic things and suddenly it seemed to flaunt there with a thoroughly abandoned air.

  Hilary looked up, to meet the Conde’s gaze again, and his silence seemed to underline everything that Juanita’s confidences had imparted. She could not tell what he was thinking, and suddenly the warm discomfort of colour came into her cheeks again. Her mouth tightened and abruptly she turned away, murmuring a brief acknowledgment of Consuelo’s invitation before she began to gather up the picnic things.

  Joaquin had discovered that some wine still remained in the bottle, and under Bruce’s amused gaze was about to drink it. She glared at Bruce and took the bottle from Joaquin. Uncaring of his little-spoilt-boy protest, she thrust it into the hamper then took the glasses to the stream. A shadow fell across the ripples.

  ‘You do not approve of children taking wine, I suspect.’

  ‘No, senor,’ she did not look up and continued to rinse the glasses very thoroughly, ‘it is not that entirely. The weather is warm and the wine will be sad by now.’

  ‘Like your afternoon, perhaps?’

  Now she did glance up, and glimpsed beyond him Sanchia sitting on the grass at Bruce’s side while Joaquin chattered and Consuelo stood looking on. ‘I am not in the least sad, senor,’ she said coolly. ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘Question - and question.’ The sardonic note she knew so well lingered behind the cool little rejoinder. Then subtly it altered, to a note not so easily defined, as he added more softly: ‘Do not worry. I shall remove the intrusion very soon and endeavour to direct my nephew’s powers of observation elsewhere.’

  She polished the glasses carefully. ‘It is no intrusion, senor. Joaquin would have been very welcome to join us today. I thought I made that quite clear two days ago.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but the circumstances have changed since then.’

  The inference to be drawn was quite clear. ‘Not at all,’ she said coldly. ‘Joaquin likes Bruce’s company. He would have enjoyed the day with us. ’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Aloofness returned to the Conde’s expression. ‘But it is hardly a suitable arrangement. I thought I had made my wishes quite clear in that respect.’ He turned and called sharply to Joaquin.

  But Joaquin merely responded with a careless, ‘Si, Tio -come and look,’ and returned his attention to something across the valley.

  There was a rough rail at one side of the clearing and a single plank of timber spanning the stream. Joaquin was standing on the tiny bridge while Bruce moved to lean over the rail, and the two girls went slowly to stand one at each side of him, to follow the pointing directions of the small boy.

  Bruce said something, and Sanchia laughed softly, then Joaquin’s small voice piped a comment Hilary didn’t quite catch and brought smiles from the trio, followed by an exclamation of annoyance from the Conde. He moved across the clearing and laid an admonishing hand on Joaquin’s shoulder, and the boy lapsed into silence.

  Hilary fastened the lid of the picnic basket, then straightened and moved slowly to the rail to see what had caught everyone’s interest. From this vantage point the valley could be seen spread out below, stretching down to the grey and white huddle of the village about the dark patch of the market square. It was a picturesque scene, but did not appear to hold anything of undue fascination for a small boy in his native land. Hilary rested her hands on the rail and surrendered herself to an odd little mood of discontent normally foreign to her nature. She wished the others hadn’t turned up, and she wished they hadn’t seen her with Bruce, and she wished they hadn’t guessed that Bruce had bought her that poncho - and the Conde was bound to have noticed the wilting flower at her throat ... He would allow that girls didn’t usually buy themselves a posy ... But what the devil did it matter if he had noticed? And why on earth did she have to keep blushing when he looked at her ...? Then abruptly she was jolted out of her angry little musings by a blinding flash of light.

  She blinked, and exclaimed aloud as it came again from a small shadowy hollow under the crags some distance down the valley. She looked away, thinking that a car windscreen was catching the sun down there, then another flash scintillated from the same spot and she realized it could not be a car as there was no trace of any road or wide enough track to be seen. The flashes began again, this time a dazzling series in rapid succession, and she exclaimed aloud: ‘It must be a mirror!’

  Bruce leaned forward and looked along to her, smiling, He nodded. ‘It’s an Indian boy. He’s trying to attract the girl of his choice. You can’t see her at the moment, but she’s down there quite near to him. He’s trying to catch her face in the reflected sunrays to tell her he wants to court her. ’

  ‘Some of these customs are charming,’ Sanchia said in her gentle voice. ‘He will turn her hat inside out when she has answered him, then they will make a little model of the house they hope to build and they will take it to the church to put it on consecrated ground. ’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Bruce. ‘And they’ll add effigies of the children they wish for, the llamas and cattle that will bring them prosperity, and they’ll plant com round them. If the corn grows high over them their wishes will come true; if it doesn’t...’ he opened his hands, palms upwards.

  ‘You seem to be well versed in the Indios superstitions,’ Consuelo observed dryly. She glanced at Hilary. ‘Have you brought your own mirror in readiness?’

  ‘Only a compact - probably the same as your own,’ Hilary returned in tones equally dry, and was secretly delighted to see the smile fade from Consuelo’s face.

  The tic-tac of mirror play began again, and Hilary was suddenly aware of the Conde at her shoulder. She tensed, certain that some sardonic comment was about to come, but it did not, and a moment later Bruce said quickly:

  ‘Look - there she is. And she’s given him her answer.’ Hilary almost missed the small shy flash of the second mirror, but she saw the movement and picked out the bright blue colour of the Indian girl’s poncho and her dark red skirt. ‘She’ll run away from him now,’ Bruce continued his commentary, ‘and he’ll pursue her. Then he’ll probably try to snatch her hat or scarf. Once he does that she’ll never escape him. His possession of something that has touched her hair gives him power over her, a kind of magic spell, for as long as he keeps it. ’

  Hilary could see the little Indian girl quite clearly now. As Bruce had foretold, she was running up the hillside, her laughter and her cries ringing through the crisp air, and the boy was bounding over the craggy slope. His entire mien expressed the purpose of pursuit and very soon his quick agile steps narrowed the gap between himself and his quarry. Then the girl’s laughing cries changed to a squeal as she caught her foot in a fold of her long, voluminous skirt and went sprawling.

  The boy’s shout of triumph rang out and the next moment he had seized her wide-brimmed hat and darted away. From a safe distance he watched as she picked herself up and turned uncertainly in his direction. There was a little more by-play that made it quite clear to the onlookers that the girl wasn’t trying as hard as she might to regain her property, and at last the pair went swinging down the hillside towards the village, no doubt to break the news of the betrothal to their families and friends.

  ‘A pretty custom! ’

  Hilary whirled, startled by the voice close to her ear, and met the Conde’s dark, sardonic gaze.

  ‘You find these superstitions romantically appealing, I see,’ he
added sarcastically, replacing his dark glasses with a casual movement of his hand.

  ‘And why not?’ Conscious of the others turning towards her, she held the enigma of his masked gaze with defiant eyes. ‘Since you ask, I do. I think it’s a very romantic and appealing custom, and I hope that when they plant their corn for their future children and llamas and their little home that every grain of it grows strong and tall - and I hope she doesn’t steal her hat back, either!’ Hilary paused and drew a deep breath. ‘But of course, you, senor, would not deign to believe in magic spells.’

  For a moment he stared down at her and the chiselled lines of his mouth betrayed no hint of his inward reaction to her outspoken remark. Then the corners compressed slightly.

  ‘To win a woman, senorita? Is that what you mean?’

  She made no reply, and he allowed himself the ghost of a smile. ‘But is not the whole concept of love a kind of spell? And one, alas, senorita, that does not always keep its magic.’

  While she looked at him, quelled by the cool, imperious tensity of his manner, he inclined his head mockingly and turned to the others. Almost before she realized what was happening he had drawn his small party together and departed after the briefest of leave-takings. Almost as though he were keeping that stupid promise, Hilary thought wildly. Removing the intrusion!

  For the moment Bruce was forgotten. She rested her hands on the rail and listened to the gritting sounds of footsteps gradually fading down the dry, stony path to the village. Then there was silence, broken only by the slight sounds of Bruce gathering up the things, and suddenly the valley seemed empty.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE preliminary arrangements for Joaquin’s birthday occupied a fair amount of Hilary’s attention during the next few days. Everyone in the household from Dona Elena to Concepta, the little maid, began to evince a fervent interest in the subject, which was, apparently, something of an innovation to them all.

  ‘He will be demanding this every year,’ observed Dona Elena when Hilary went to consult her over the invitation list.

  It was here that the first problem arose. Joaquin demanded printed invitation cards. He also stipulated that they should be printed in English. In vain they all argued with him, and even when Hilary tried to convince him that specially printed cards weren’t an essential feature of a British child’s celebration he refused to listen.

  ‘We usually buy them ready-printed,’ she assured him. ‘It’s only practical to have them individually done if you’re having an enormous affair with lots of people.’

  ‘I want them with my name on,’ he said stubbornly. ‘And I shall fill in all the guests’ names myself.’

  ‘You can’t write in English, silly nino!’ Juanita taunted.

  ‘Their names are exactly the same in English.’ He turned such a withering, small-boy glance on her that she giggled and raised a defensive hand to shield her face.

  Dona Elena decided it was time to settle the argument. ‘I should have them printed,’ she said with a fond glance at her young nephew, whom she fended to spoil outrageously.

  But Hilary was unable to find a printer who could do the rush job in the short time that remained. She came back that afternoon, exhausted after a shopping tour in town, and was overtaken by the Conde’s car just as she reached the drive.

  He surveyed her numerous parcels and her heated face. ‘You did not use the car, senorita?’ he said rather sharply, taking her shopping bag and parcels out of her tired arms.

  ‘No, senor,’ She gave a sigh of relief at being relieved of her burden. ‘I went by bus.’

  He looked down from under deep lids. ‘But I do not expect you to use public transport when there is a household car at your disposal.’

  ‘I use public transport to go to work at home, senor,’ she responded evenly, ‘so why shouldn’t I use it here when necessary? Besides, Rico has gone home early today, so he

  couldn’t have driven me. His wife is ill.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’ The Conde frowned. ‘I must inquire into that situation. But you can drive, senorita?’

  ‘Yes, senor.’

  ‘Then in future use the Renault. But be sure to take utmost care on our roads. ’

  She smiled and thanked him, and he looked down at the largest of the parcels. ‘Have you been buying souvenirs, senorita?’

  ‘No, they’re for Joaquin’s party. Little gifts and prizes for the games, and various other things.’ She dropped her handbag on the patio seat and took the biggest parcel from the Conde. ‘This is his birthday present - I want to sneak it in before he sees it. It’s such an obvious shape he might guess what it is.’

  The Conde studied the rose-pink cheeks and glowing eyes above the curiously shaped package and shook his head. ‘I should never guess. May I share the secret?’

  ‘Of course! It’s a kite. Silver and blue. Do you think he’ll like it? I couldn’t think what to get for him.’

  ‘I am certain it will become his most treasured possession,’ the Conde assured her, then raised querying brows. ‘The preparations are going according to plan?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Except...’ Suddenly it was very easy to confide the present difficulty, and when she had finished he said briskly: ‘I will arrange that. Let me have a note of the required wording straight away, senorita.’

  Unexpectedly he smiled at her exclamation of pleasure. It was a smile untinged by cynicism or guile, or the mere politeness that lacked the depth and warmth only spontaneity can give. The softening it brought to his strong, rather austere features was quite remarkable, and it evoked in Hilary a response that took form in a request far from her mind the moment before that unusually sweet smile flashed warmly.

  ‘Please, senor, why don’t you call me Hilary? Almost everyone else does now.’

  The moment the impulsive little exclamation was out she felt her cheeks glow with fresh colour. He did not respond instantly, only that smile settled in the curves at the corners of his mouth and lingered there briefly before his normal graveness reformed. He inclined his head.

  ‘I shall be delighted - I could not very well suggest it previously - Hilary. And now, if you will let me have a note of

  the printing requirements ... ’

  She hurried in search of pen and paper, a strange, secret little source of pleasure guiding her steps. Later, when she was stowing away her purchases she relived the small interlude on the patio and could not help comparing his mood then with that of the previous Sunday. Why can’t he be consistent? she wondered wryly, her face sobering as she recalled the afternoon in the mountains. The advent of the Conde had snapped the smooth thread of the day with Bruce and left her with a restlessness and feeling of irritation that persisted all the rest of the day. Once acknowledged, it was not so difficult to define. The Conde had an uncanny power to needle her and it was all the more infuriating when she considered the ease with which he could disarm her and make her forget all those other disturbing occasions.

  It’s that Latin charm! she told herself wryly as she stowed the big kite at the back of her wardrobe. He can turn it on like a tap! But it shouldn’t worry Bruce, she mused, her memory ranging back again to the outing.

  Bruce had been rather withdrawn during the journey back, and this had surprised her. He did not appear to be a moody type, at least not at first impression. When they had got back to Lima late in the evening and collected the car he had driven rather aimlessly through the city and then stopped near San Cristobal hill and looked down at the lights twinkling in the old part of the town. Suddenly he had said, ‘Do you want to go straight back? I’d like to go for a drive.’

  Sensing this echo of her own restlessness in him she had agreed to the extension of the trip and he had jabbed at the starter, saying vehemently: ‘Good! I’ve a yen to get right away from the Latin temperament just for one night.’

  He had headed south, passing the moonlit pleasure beaches down the coast from Lima, and then let the powerful car have its head on the broad stretch
es of the Pan-American highway. The speed was exhilarating, if at times a bit hair-raising when other speed-masters roared out of the night, headlights ablaze, and the blare of car radios turned up full volume merged with the throb of engines and left the echoing strains of music on the midnight blue stillness.

  It had been long after midnight when Bruce finally dropped her at the villa. The fast drive seemed to have restored his good humour and he had bidden her a cheerful, ‘So long, honey - sleep tight,’ apparently unperturbed by the prospect of the long lonely drive back to the Verdano Valley and the hacienda.

  ‘I hope he didn’t drive as madly over that road,’ she murmured aloud, experiencing a twinge of concern as she remembered that she hadn’t heard from him since then.

  However, he telephoned the following evening, to say he would be down in Lima on business at the end of the week and could they meet for a meal and a drink?

  So that was all right; and the Conde had fixed the invitation problem. How he had overcome the ‘manana’ trait so characteristic of the South American she did not know, but the neat little pack of engraved cards arrived three or four days later and the job of sending them was done immediately.

  Joaquin personally wrote each one out, and was persuaded that his flourishing signature was not needed as endorsement. A menu of true English fare, sausage rolls, cheese dip, crisps, savouries, ice cream and trifle was decided on; in secret Hilary made a birthday cake which she would ice and decorate, and, much to Juanita’s delight, Ramon was co-opted to help make out a programme of games and entertainment for the great occasion.

  They spent several happy evenings concocting clues for a treasure hunt and planning out the locales of the clues, and then, one morning about ten days before the day, Juanita rushed into Hilary’s room and broke into a storm of temper and tears.

  Hilary listened, at first not sure if she was grasping the right gist of the angry, incoherent account Juanita was pouring out. It seemed that the Conde had sent for her immediately after breakfast and told her he had just received a letter from his mother, the Condesa, whom he was going to visit during a business trip to Valparaiso that week. Unexpectedly, the Condesa had expressed a wish to see her granddaughter - and the Condesa’s wishes were not usually ignored. But that was not all.