Pale Dawn Dark Sunset. Anne Mather

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and white blossoms, tiny star-shaped flowers in the colours of the Eucharist. Already he could see women hurrying up the worn stone steps, drawing black scarves over their heads, and he felt the familiar sense of well-being that always came from this duty. This was what he wanted, he told himself. Everything else came after.

      Later in the morning, when the sun was climbing steadily to its zenith, Rafael drove through the wide stone gateway that gave access to the grounds of the hacienda. Although it was still early the shutters were thrown wide, and the scent of beeswax which he always associated with its polished floors was in the air. He could remember sliding across them as a child, incurring the wrath of Jezebel, the housekeeper, who always knew who to blame when she found skidding marks of muddy feet marring the shiny surface. Jezebel, Rafael smiled. Whoever had chosen her name had paid little heed to the connotations of her namesake.

      He walked into the wide hall and looked about him appreciatively. It was a beautiful old building and it never failed to please him. This hall, the two rooms adjoining, and the gallery above were all that was left of the original building, but successive generations had added to its bulk, strengthening its foundations and rebuilding where necessary so that today it rambled over half an acre, split level, and partially two-storied. The furnishings, much of them antique, had the worn patina of years upon them, but its faded elegance went well with the heavily carved panelling and baroque ironwork.

       “Senor Rafael!”

      The housekeeper’s voice was filled with warmth and devotion. So far as Jezebel was concerned, Rafael was still master here. She came towards him eagerly from the door at the back of the hall which led to the kitchens and servants’ quarters, taking one of his hands in both of hers.

      “Good morning, Jezebel.” Rafael looked kindly on the elderly Indian woman who had served his family for over thirty years and who still ran the household with a rod of iron. “I had a message that Juan wanted to see me. Do you know where he is?”

      Jezebel released his hand with reluctance, her fingers indicating the lines of sleeplessness around his eyes. “You do not take care of yourself in that little hut down in the village,” she exclaimed.

      Rafael was patient. “It’s hardly a hut, Jezebel,” he protested mildly. “Where is my brother?”

      ‘señor Juan is breakfasting on the patio, señor. You have had breakfast?”

      “As a matter of fact, no.” Rafael shook his head.

      Jezebel glared at him disapprovingly. “You see? You do not eat—you do not sleep—”

      “Jezebel, I had work to do last night—”

      “Ay, ay!” Jezebel nodded her head. “Of course. I am remembering. It was the Maqueras woman, was it not? Her time had come. Her husband—he come here looking for you last night—very late!”

      “That’s right.” Rafael moved his shoulders wearily. “Maria had another daughter. And now—I must see Juan.”

      “I will bring you coffee and croissants, señor,” insisted Jezebel firmly, and Rafael inclined his head.

      “That would be very nice, Jezebel,” he agreed, and with a faint smile he passed her and walked through the arched entrance to the reception lounge which opened out onto the patio at the back of the house.

      Juan Cueras was seated in a cane-latticed chair at the glass topped table. He was like Rafael, yet unlike. Rafael was tall, lean and dark, his features clearly defined. Juan was not so tall and thicker set, and yet the similarity was there in the darkness of their skin, the curve of their brows, the thin firmness of their mouths. Juan’s mouth was perhaps a little fuller, a little more sensual, but that was only to be expected in a man who did not share his brother’s desire for asceticism. He looked up now, as Rafael came through the long glass doors to join him, thickly spreading an apricot preserve over the croissant in his hand. He took a mouthful, nodding at his brother in welcome, and then wiping his lips with a napkin he said:

      “Good morning, Rafael. I see you got my message.”

      “Did you doubt it?” Rafael lounged into the chair opposite his brother, flicking an insect from his sleeve. “But I’d be obliged if you’d be brief. I have a lot to get through today.”

      Juan finished the croissant with evident relish, and poured himself more coffee, offering the jug to Rafael.

      “Jezebel’s bringing me some more,” said Rafael, shaking his head. “She has this inescapable idea that I’m not looking after myself.”

      “You’re not.” Juan was candid. “I simply can’t understand—” He broke off. “But we’ve had that argument before.” He pushed a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice towards the other man. “Go ahead—have some. I don’t enjoy eating alone.”

      Rafael took the glass that was proffered and poured himself some of the fresh fruit juice. He tasted it experimentally and then, finding it to his taste, drained the glass.

      “That’s better,” remarked Juan with a smile. “Don’t you think you deny yourself enough without including food?”

      “I eat enough,” replied Rafael quietly, toying with the empty glass. “It’s perhaps a question of how little one needs. One should not gorge oneself when half the population of the world is dying of starvation.”

      “And do you think if I deprived myself of one more croissant—one extra cup of coffee, I would be doing anything to aid those starving peoples?” exclaimed Juan impatiently

      “We have had this argument before, Juan, as you pointed out,” observed Rafael, pushing the glass away from him.

      Jezebel appeared with a laden tray, setting it down on the table and setting out a second coffee pot, cream and sugar, croissants and curls of butter, and more of the thick apricot conserve.

      “Now you make a good meal, señor,” she instructed severely, casting a less than respectful glance in Juan’s direction. “Your brother, for once, can show you a good example!”

      Rafael hid a smile as he obediently lifted a croissant on to his plate and spread it thinly with butter. Jezebel waited a moment to satisfy herself that he did indeed intend to eat it and then went away, muttering imprecations against anyone who neglected the common necessities of life.

      Juan waited until Rafael was tackling his second croissant and then he said: “I wish you to do something for me, Rafael.”

      Rafael looked up. “Yes?”

      “Yes.” Juan felt about his person for his case of cheroots. “You remember the child from the mission, do you not?”

      Rafael frowned. “The English girl—of course.”

      Juan nodded, putting a cheroot between his teeth and making a second search for his lighter. “Yes. Well, it appears that her name may be Lucy Carmichael.”

      “Maybe?”

      “That is correct. As the child has apparently forgotten who she is, it is impossible to say with any certainty who she might be. But aboard this aircraft which crashed several weeks ago there was a family called Carmichael; mother, father—and daughter of some eight years.”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ