Forbidden Flame. Anne Mather
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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 long hall stretched ahead of her, its stonework inlaid with panels of carving, and interspersed with portraits of long-dead Montejos. Overhead, the ceiling was an arch of heavily embossed moulding, and because it was without windows, it was constantly lit by a series of gothic sconces, each accommodating an electric bulb. It was curious, but the night before Caroline had scarcely been aware of its eerie isolation, those painted eyes in their canvas sockets troubling her not at all. But this morning, the remoteness of her rooms from the rest of the hacienda seemed infinitely significant, and she could not dispel the realisation that she was completely without support here.
She hurried along the corridor, her heels silent on the softly piled carpet that unrolled its length in shades of black and gold, and emerged at the head of the staircase with a feeling of having navigated a particularly treacherous expanse of ocean.
Thinking of the nearness of the ocean, she endeavoured to dismiss her foolish fears. She was allowing the house, and its lavish appointments, to influence her impressions of her employer, and the sooner she found a true perspective the better.
Downstairs she encountered some of the servants, already at work, polishing the massive width of the hall on bended knees. They looked up curiously as she hesitated, uncertain as to her destination, and then the sound of a child’s laughter erased the last traces of her irresolution. Nothing was more delightful than the spontaneous laughter of a child, she thought, crossing the hall in the direction of the voices she could now hear. Don Esteban must hold some affection in his daughter’s eyes at least, and she was relieved to have the burden of indecision lifted from her.
But when she reached the arched doorway that led into a huge, sunlit salón, she faltered once again. Sure enough, her charge was there, a small, plump little girl, extravagantly arrayed in a white dress with layer upon layer of frills, overset by strings of pink ribbon, but the man who was on all fours, and on whose back she was energetically riding, was not her father.
‘Ah, Miss Leyton! Good morning!’
With a lithe effort Luis de Montejo swung the child down from his back and got easily to his feet, quelling the little girl’s protests with a soothing hand on her long black hair. In the same linen trousers he had worn the night before, but this time a cream silk shirt to complement them, he was relaxed and magnetic, a vibrant masculine being, with the unmistakable glow of good health. His shirt had become partially unbuttoned during his antics on the floor, and now his long fingers probed to fasten it, but not before Caroline had observed the dark arrowing of fine body hair that disappeared below his belt.
‘Tio Vincente, Tio Vincente!’ Emilia, for this was evidently Don Estaban’s daughter, tugged impotently at his sleeve. ‘Quien es?’ she exclaimed, subjecting Caroline to a malevolent scrutiny from beneath dark brows. ‘Que desea? Ella no me gusta!’
‘Hush, little one. Speak in English, remember?’ Luis exhorted her softly, restraining her sulky tirade. ‘Miss Leyton is here to teach you your numbers, as you know very well. And I do not wish to hear that you have been rude to her.’
Emilia’s lips pursed. ‘I know my numbers,’ she declared, in perfect English, surprising Caroline by her lack of accent. ‘Miss Thackeray taught me my numbers, and my letters, and I do not need any more teachers.’
Miss Thackeray? Caroline’s brow furrowed. Had Miss Thackeray been her predecessor, and if so, why was she no longer here?
‘Miss Thackeray used to be my governess,’ Luis inserted, dryly, correctly interpreting Caroline’s little frown. ‘She lived at San Luis from the time I was six years old, but unfortunately she died last year, and since then Emilia has had no formal education.’
‘I see.’ Caroline endeavoured to hide her relief. For an awful moment she wondered if she was the last in a succession of governesses, all of whom had objected to living at the hacienda.