Forbidden Flame. Anne Mather

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ a church tower stood silhouetted against the sky. Her eyes followed the river as it rushed through a narrow gorge to disappear from sight, only to appear again in the shimmering distance, a spreading, shifting expanse of water. Caroline blinked. That was no river, she realised in sudden excitement. It was the sea. Only the sea could give that blue-green tinge to the horizon, and her spirits soared. She had known Yucatan was a peninsula but somehow she had never imagined San Luis de Merced might be near the sea. She gazed at it eagerly, savouring its familiarity, and breathing deeply, as if she could already taste its salty flavour.

      With an effort she allowed her attention to be caught by a movement near at hand. There was a herd of cattle grazing some distance from the house, and her eyes widened at their number. There must be hundreds, she thought incredulously, then wondered with some misgivings if one had to negotiate the herds to reach the estuary.

      She sighed. No doubt she would find out. But once again the more immediate present gripped her, reminding her that she had yet to meet her charge, the young Emilia, or the elderly retainer, Doña Isabel.

      There was a bathroom adjoining the bedroom, and checking that it was still quite early, barely eight o’clock in fact, she went to take a shower. She had been too exhausted the night before to do anything more than wash her face and hands and clean her teeth, but now she surveyed the bathroom’s luxurious appointments with more enthusiasm.

      Like everything else, the bathroom was ornate. The walls were lined with gilded mirrors, the taps on the bath and handbasin were gold-plated, and even the shower had a gold-plated spray. Still, the water was hot, and refusing to allow the memory of how the majority of the population lived to deter her, Caroline pulled on a shower cap and stepped beneath the invigorating cascade.

      Towelling herself dry, she returned to the bedroom again, viewing her still-packed cases with some distaste. They would have to wait until she discovered what her duties were going to be, she decided, and determinedly dismissed the fleeting urge to beg Luis to take her with him when he left for Mariposa.

      Dropping the towel, she rummaged for clean underwear, but when she turned back, the shred of cream cotton clutched in her hand, she encountered her reflection in the long gilded cheval mirrors. They were very narcissistic mirrors, she realised, folding one upon the other, throwing back her image from every angle. But they were candid, too, in their search for perfection, and there was no way one could disguise any possible flaw.

      Reluctantly, Caroline allowed herself a moment’s assessment. Her body was slim, without being angular, her hips shaped, her legs long and attractive. She sometimes thought her legs were her best feature, although Andrew had insisted she had equally desirable attributes elsewhere. Her tongue circled lips that were unknowingly sensuous, troubled a little by her thoughts at that moment. It was not of Andrew that she was thinking but of Luis de Montejo, and her own disturbing awareness of him as a man. She had never met a man quite like him before, but then she had never had a conversation with a Roman Catholic priest before. Mr Thomas, the Church of England vicar at St David’s back home, bore no resemblance to the man who had rescued her from Señor Allende’s unwanted attentions, and even now she found it difficult to associate Luis with the Church.

      Luis! The way his name came so easily to her tongue was disturbing, too, and she drew her lower lip between her teeth, nibbling on it uneasily. Unwillingly she recalled Don Esteban’s behaviour over dinner. His attitude towards his brother had been deliberately offensive, and, as the evening progressed, increasingly crude. He had spoken of things in Caroline’s presence, things which even she, in her self-asserted role of emancipist, would have preferred not to hear, and she had badly wanted to escape. When he baited Luis, when he made a mockery of his tolerance towards the people, when he spoke of his celibacy, Caroline had wanted to die of embarrassment, but Don Esteban had seemed to enjoy her discomfort far more than his brother’s indifference.

      And Luis had maintained a façade of detachment, whether it was real or otherwise. He had refused to answer his brother’s coarser comments, and adopted an air of resigned fortitude, that succeeded inasmuch as it seemed to drive Don Esteban almost to distraction. His speech got more slurred, he filled his glass more frequently, and finally slumped in his chair, the victim of his own frustration. Several of the servants came at once to carry him to bed, almost as if this was a regular occurrence, and Caroline had been left to face Luis’s intent appraisal, with the distinct perception of her own inadequacy.

      She had wanted to rant at him then, to accuse him of knowing to what he was bringing her, to question his integrity in allowing her to believe that his brother was an ordinary man—but she hadn’t. How could she blame him for her own foolhardiness? How could she despise him, when she had chosen this job? If anyone was to blame, it was Señora Garcia, in deceiving her so completely; although even that imposition didn’t hold water, when she considered how ambiguously the advertisement had been worded. It was her own fault, and hers alone. She had accepted the post, she had come here with such a high opinion of her own capabilities, and if it proved to be a disaster then she would have to extricate herself.

      She gave a grim little smile now, as she recalled their conversation on the way to San Luis de Merced. What must he have been thinking when she made her stand for women’s liberation? How subtly he had avoided discussing his brother’s position. He must have known how soon her eyes would be opened, and yet not then, or last evening, had he voiced the obvious cliché.

      With an exclamation of impatience she put on her scanty underwear and reached for the simple pleated skirt, folded on top of her suitcase. The matching silk shirt that went with it was the colour of African violets, and the outfit was in sharp contrast to the pale fall of ash-blonde hair. Her hair was straight and silky, smooth from a centre parting, and ideal in this climate, where more elaborate styles would droop with the humidity. She could wash it and dry it in an hour, without requiring any artificial assistance.

      She was smoothing a shiny lip-gloss on to her mouth when there was a knock at her door. Half turning, she called: ‘Come in!’ and after a few moments’ pause the door was tentatively opened. A young Indian girl stood just outside, holding a tray. She was attired in the black dress and white apron, which seemed to be uniform for all the female staff, and she ducked her head politely, and said: ‘Desayuno, por favor, señorita. Puedo entrar?’

      Caroline put down her lip brush and smiled. ‘You can put the tray over there,’ she said, indicating the marble-topped table near the windows, and then, summoning what little of the language she could remember, she added: ‘Su nombre—que es?’

      The girl put down the tray and straightened nervously, folding her hands together. ‘Carmencita, señorita,’ she answered, the wide dark eyes darting about the room. ‘Puedo salir ahora?’

      Caroline sighed. She wasn’t absolutely sure, but she guessed Carmencita had orders not to gossip with the new governess, and spreading her hands, she gave her permission to leave.

      With the door closed again she approached the tray with some misgivings. She would have preferred to go downstairs, to accustom herself to her new surroundings before she was summoned to meet her charge, but obviously she was obliged to follow orders. So she lifted the silver cloches that protected hot rolls and scrambled eggs, tasted the peach preserve, and poured herself some rich black coffee into a cup of such fine china it was virtually transparent.

      Then, summoning all her composure, she opened her door and let herself into the corridor outside. The night before, Consuelo had escorted her to her room, bidden by Luis de Montejo, after his brother’s undignified departure. Whatever his position in the house, his word appeared to carry as much weight as that of Don Esteban, and Caroline suspected that they respected him more. Two brothers could hardly have been more different, yet the result was the same. And did it really matter to these people?

      The СКАЧАТЬ