Pale Dawn Dark Sunset

All the same, he realised belatedly he had not offered her a meal before embarking on this journey, and sooner or later he would have to bring up the question of the child. He was not looking forward to that.

“How far is it to Guadalima?” she asked suddenly, as clouds began to obscure the slanting rays of the setting sun.

“Some distance yet, señorita.“ Rafael paused. “I did not think of it at the airport, but perhaps you are hungry?”

Miranda shook her head. “Not particularly. We had a meal on the plane.” She looked down at her nails. “Tell me—I understood your brother was to meet me—is—is he ill or something?”

Rafael’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “No. No, not ill, señorita.”

“But there must have been some reason, mustn’t there?” she insisted, her eyes challenging his. “After all, you didn’t want to come, did you?”

Rafael was taken aback. “Why do you say that.”

“It’s obvious.” She slid lower into her seat, drawing up her foot and draping her arms round her knee. “I get the feeling I’m something more than a nuisance.”

Rafael was contrite. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly.

She wrinkled her nose. “No, you’re not. I’m just trying to work out why you should come to meet me if you feel this way.”

Rafael sighed and a little of the tension went out of him. “You must forgive me, señorita. I am a little—tired.”

She shook her head. “Tell me about Lucy.”

Rafael hesitated. “You’re sure the child is Lucy, then?”

“Well, I’ve seen a photograph of her, sent by this priest, Father—Estoban?” He nodded and she went on: “It’s not the best photograph I’ve seen of her, but it certainly looks like her. And I don’t suppose there are too many children wandering about Mexico answering her description.”

“No.” Rafael had to admit that.

“I understand your—brother—has been very good to her.”

This was his opportunity, but Rafael did not immediately take it. He had the feeling that this girl was different from any contingency Juan had considered. And he wasn’t altogether sure that she would be prepared to abandon her niece however tempting the offer.

Now he said: “My brother has grown very attached to—to the child.”

She nodded. “So I understand from the priest. I must thank him for taking such an interest in her. Does your brother have no children of his own?”

“My brother is not yet married, señorita,” replied Rafael dryly, but she merely smiled.

“I see.” Her eyes danced. “Then of course he couldn’t have, could he?” But he sensed she was laughing at him again.

Rafael’s lips thinned. “As a matter of fact Juan is—betrothed, señorita.”

“Oh!” She drew her lower lip between her teeth. “And you, señor? Are you married? Do you have children?”

“No!” Rafael shook his head.

She raised dark eyebrows. “You sound very definite about that.” She shrugged. “Nor am I. But I always imagined people married younger in Latin countries.”

“Not everyone wishes to get married, señorita,” he was stung to retort.

“No. No, I realise that. It’s going out of fashion, isn’t it?”

“That was not what I meant, señorita.”

“Wasn’t it?” Her eyes flickered over the open neck of his shirt, lingering for a while on the hair-roughened skin of his chest before continuing down to his bare forearms where he had rolled back his sleeves. She contemplated the plain gold watch on his wrist and then dropped her eyes to her hands.

No woman of his own race that Rafael had ever known had looked at him in quite that way before, and he felt annoyed. Had she no respect, this girl from England? Did women there consider themselves the equals of men in every sense of the word? He had heard that this was so, but he had found it hard to believe.

With a heavy sigh, he said: “Do you have any intentions of getting married in the near future, señorita?”

Her eyes widened and she turned to look at him. “Not in the near future, no. Why?”

Rafael moved awkwardly. Such personal questions were alien to him. “I—wondered, that is all, señorita.“ It was growing dark and he was impatient to reach the airport at Puebla. “If—if the child is your niece, what are your intentions?”

Miranda frowned. “My intentions, señor?” She shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I phrase myself badly.” Rafael braked and changed gear as a handcart suddenly appeared on the road in front of them. “What I mean is—will you take her back to England?”

“Of course,” She sounded surprised. “Where else would I take her? I’m her only relative now. Susan—that is, my sister and I have no parents. They’ve been dead for more than eight years. When Bob—Susan’s husband—got a job in Brazil, I was still at college. I hadn’t seen either of them for over a year when—when I had news that they were missing.”

“I see.” Rafael paused. “So you may find it—difficult to cope with a child?”

Miranda half turned in her seat towards him. “Do you really care, señor…?”

Rafael stiffened. That she should ask him that! He made a dismissing movement of his shoulders. “Of course it is the duty of anyone to care, señorita. The child is young—impressionable. She needs a firm hand as well as a secure background. She needs good food and clothing, someone to whom she may turn in times of trouble someone who is always there in the background, always ready to offer assistance and advice.”

Miranda traced the grain in the leather at the back of his seat with a careless finger. “And don’t you think I can provide these things? Is that what you’re getting at?”

“I did not say that, señorita. But you are young, you have your own life to lead. What place in it would there be for an orphaned eight-year-old girl?”

She swung round in her seat. “I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something, señor,” she remarked coldly.

Rafael sighed, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had not agreed to become a part of this impossible situation. “It is simply that my brother is concerned for the child’s welfare, señorita,” he stated flatly. “Is it not natural that this should be so. These past weeks she has been—how shall I say?—the centre of attention.”

“But she doesn’t remember who she is, does she?” Miranda retorted. “How do you think she’ll feel when she discovers that her—her parents are dead?”

“That is impossible to answer, of course.”

“Of course.” She hunched her shoulders. “But don’t you think that for a child of Lucy’s age, having someone she knows, someone she really knows, to care for her, is more important in the immediate term than anything else?”

“Perhaps so, señorita.”

“But you’re not sure, are you?” She tossed her head impatiently. “I’m beginning to think I know why your brother did not come to meet me himself. He wanted you to plead his case—didn’t he? Be his advocate! But why? What does Lucy mean to him?”

Rafael saw the lights of Puebla looming ahead of them with some relief. “We will complete our journey by helicopter, señorita,” he stated stiffly. “Then you will meet my brother and judge for yourself what his motives may be.”

At the airport, formalities were soon dealt with, and he led the way to that quieter corner of the airfield where a silver and blue helicopter glinted in the dull lights. Miranda had said nothing since leaving the car, and if she was surprised to find herself expected to complete the journey in a helicopter she made no demur. It was Rafael who found himself growing increasingly disturbed and after securing her in the seat beside him he fastened his own straps with impatient fingers. He should never have come on this mission. If anything he had prejudiced the girl against Juan by his own carelessness.