The South American's Wife. Kay Thorpe
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son, I inherited outright ownership.’ His lips slanted when she failed to comment. ‘I sense disapproval.’
Karen stole a swift glance at the hard-cut profile. ‘It seems a bit unfair, that’s all. In England all the children would be entitled to a share—male and female.’
‘This is not England,’ came the short response. ‘Raymundo is no pauper. He could found businesses of his own. As to Regina, she bears the name only until she marries.’
‘Is that imminent?’
‘Regina has yet to meet someone capable of retaining her interest for longer than a few weeks.’
‘Well, at eighteen she has plenty of time. After all…’
‘After all, I waited long enough to find the right person,’ he finished for her on a sardonic note as she broke off.
‘What you obviously believed was the right person at the time,’ she said, gathering her resources once more. ‘We can all make mistakes.’
‘Especially when judgement is clouded by a lovely face and body.’
‘I doubt that you’d have allowed your libido to rule you to such an extent.’ Karen kept her tone level with an effort. ‘Any more than I would myself.’
Luiz made no reply. He looked remote again. Karen leaned back against the seat rest and closed her eyes, willing herself to stay in control. Whatever happened from here-on-in, she could only go along with it.
They drove through a sizeable township bright with greenery, turning off the road on to a narrower one some fifteen minutes later, to pass beneath a tall wooden archway with the name carved into its surface.
Fencing stretched to either hand as far as the eye could see, though with no sign of either cattle or habitation. The latter proved to be hidden behind a large clump of trees a half mile or so ahead.
Anticipating something akin to the ranch houses seen in cowboy films, Karen was totally thrown by the lovely colonial-style building that came into view. Fronted by beautifully landscaped lawns, its white walls glinting in the late afternoon sunlight, it had verandas running the whole way round.
The girl who came out from the house as the car drew to a standstill was an Andrade through and through, her waist-length hair darkly luxuriant about her vibrant young face, her figure, clad casually in shorts and sleeveless top, lithe and lovely. As Luiz had predicted, she gave no quarter to the amnesia, descending the steps with open arms and a radiant smile.
‘So wonderful to have you home with us again!’ she declared. ‘But your poor face! How it must pain you!’
‘Not any more,’ Karen assured her. ‘And the marks will soon be gone too.’ She found a smile of her own, overcoming the awkwardness of the moment by sheer willpower. ‘Perhaps my memory will have returned by then.’
The shadow that passed across her sister-in-law’s face was come and gone in an instant. ‘It will! I’m sure of it!’
‘I think refreshment would be a priority at present,’ said Luiz with a questioning look at Karen. ‘A cold drink, perhaps?’
She hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose tea would be available?’
‘Of course.’ His tone was tinged with humour for a moment. ‘You insisted on it. Too much coffee, you said, was bad for the health.’
Mood lifting a little, she tried a lighter tone herself. ‘Not very tactful in a coffee-producing country!’
‘I like tea too,’ claimed Regina. ‘I’ll have some prepared immediately.’ She held out an inviting hand. ‘Come.’
Karen accompanied her indoors to a wide hall. A wrought-iron staircase rose from the centre to branch off left and right to open galleries. Plant-life abounded, spilling from standing pots, from hanging baskets, from the galleries themselves.
The woman who appeared in an archway under the curve of the staircase was in her mid-twenties. Unlike Regina’s, her hair was a dark blonde; her striking features were formed from a totally different mould, her figure voluptuous. There was no welcome in the tawny eyes, just a cold watchfulness.
She spoke in Portuguese, drawing a sharp admonishment from Luiz.
‘We will all of us speak only English when Karen is present. The way we did when she first came to Guavada.’
‘Does that mean I learned to speak Portuguese myself?’ Karen asked, picking up on the nuances.
‘You acquired a fair grasp,’ he confirmed.
She found that difficult to take in. She’d shown little aptitude for compulsory French in school, much less other languages.
On the other hand, she’d never lived in a foreign speaking household before.
‘You expect us all to believe this claim of yours?’ demanded the newcomer, who could only be Beatriz.
‘What you believe is your affair,’ Luiz cut in hardily before Karen could form an answer. ‘What you say in this house is mine. Where is Raymundo?’
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