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Authors: Jean S. Macleod
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your enemy, and I don’t envy you. She can’t possibly be expecting anyone like you, anyone so young. I don’t mean to sound too alarming,’ she added quickly, noting the rising colour in Catherine’s cheeks, ‘and of course, this is only a job as far as you’re concerned.’
‘I would wish my work to be satisfactory to Don Jaime and Dona Lucia equally,’ Catherine said a little stiffly.
Alex laughed, although not unkindly.
‘You must be quite starry-eyed,’ she declared, ‘but you have yet to meet Lucia.’
Teresa returned with the necessary bandage, leaving Catherine to tie it while she looked on.
‘Splendid!’ Alex commented, surveying her wrist with satisfaction. ‘I won’t bleed to death, after all! ’Bye, once again. I’m sure Jaime will be wondering what’s happened to you.’
Don Jaime was standing beside the parked car, glancing at his watch. He seemed impatient, and Catherine was surprised to find how far the sun had travelled down the sky.
‘Jaime will want to reach Soria before nightfall,’ Teresa explained. ‘He will know that my stepmother expects us before dark.’
Catherine offered their apologies.
‘Miss Bonnington had a slight accident,’ she explained. ‘She cut her wrist and I bandaged it up for her.’
‘Something’s always happening to Alex,’ Ramon observed. ‘Is she badly hurt?’
‘No, not at all. It wasn’t a very deep cut, but it bled a lot.’
They got into the car, the men in front this time, with Ramon driving. Don Jaime had not offered to occupy the back seat.
Retracing their way along the same road, they branched right to travel high above the sea, and in the rapidly-fading light Catherine could just make out the black volcanic line of the shore with white waves, like lace, breaking along it and the calm stretch of dark water beyond which seemed to stretch to infinity. Above them, dominating the whole island, stood the Pico de Teide, withdrawn now into his mountain fastness to sleep away the coming night.
The road they followed stretched for miles, always high above the sea, with a small township here and there clinging to the hillside. It all seemed so far removed from the busy world of Orotava and its guardian port and the brash new hotels which had sprung up to cope with an increasing tourist trade. This was the real Tenerife in all its desolate splendour, scarred by black rivers of calcined lava which had flowed from Teide’s last eruption and dark with mystery.
Abruptly Ramon turned the car inland, climbing a little way before they began to drop down into a hidden valley where all the lush vegetation of the north was renewed. The sea was behind them now and densely wooded hills closed them in, but the land on either side of the road was intensely cultivated. Fields of bananas stood motionless in the still air, while figs and vines clothed the foothills in terrace after terrace, irrigated by a semi-circular dam at the top. This wide cultivated strip stretched as far as the eye could see until they came to a high wall running beside the road, and here Ramon slackened speed and Catherine’s heart began to pound because she knew that they had reached Soria, at last.
At a wide, arched doorway in the wall they pulled up, and almost immediately the door was opened by a small, swarthy youth who saluted them as they passed through. Ramon turned the car along a brick-paved road bordered by a hundred flamboyant plants and flowers whose scent rose headily into the evening air, assailing their nostrils as they drove along. One perfume seemed to dominate, and Catherine turned to Teresa to ask what it was.
‘Stephanotis,’ Teresa replied indifferently. ‘It is everywhere.’
The house itself lay in a little hollow sheltered by a group of palms, its adobe walls gleaming pinkly in the pale evening light, an old house built many years ago in the Moorish style and added to periodically as the family grew. Planned originally round an inner courtyard, it had
‘I would wish my work to be satisfactory to Don Jaime and Dona Lucia equally,’ Catherine said a little stiffly.
Alex laughed, although not unkindly.
‘You must be quite starry-eyed,’ she declared, ‘but you have yet to meet Lucia.’
Teresa returned with the necessary bandage, leaving Catherine to tie it while she looked on.
‘Splendid!’ Alex commented, surveying her wrist with satisfaction. ‘I won’t bleed to death, after all! ’Bye, once again. I’m sure Jaime will be wondering what’s happened to you.’
Don Jaime was standing beside the parked car, glancing at his watch. He seemed impatient, and Catherine was surprised to find how far the sun had travelled down the sky.
‘Jaime will want to reach Soria before nightfall,’ Teresa explained. ‘He will know that my stepmother expects us before dark.’
Catherine offered their apologies.
‘Miss Bonnington had a slight accident,’ she explained. ‘She cut her wrist and I bandaged it up for her.’
‘Something’s always happening to Alex,’ Ramon observed. ‘Is she badly hurt?’
‘No, not at all. It wasn’t a very deep cut, but it bled a lot.’
They got into the car, the men in front this time, with Ramon driving. Don Jaime had not offered to occupy the back seat.
Retracing their way along the same road, they branched right to travel high above the sea, and in the rapidly-fading light Catherine could just make out the black volcanic line of the shore with white waves, like lace, breaking along it and the calm stretch of dark water beyond which seemed to stretch to infinity. Above them, dominating the whole island, stood the Pico de Teide, withdrawn now into his mountain fastness to sleep away the coming night.
The road they followed stretched for miles, always high above the sea, with a small township here and there clinging to the hillside. It all seemed so far removed from the busy world of Orotava and its guardian port and the brash new hotels which had sprung up to cope with an increasing tourist trade. This was the real Tenerife in all its desolate splendour, scarred by black rivers of calcined lava which had flowed from Teide’s last eruption and dark with mystery.
Abruptly Ramon turned the car inland, climbing a little way before they began to drop down into a hidden valley where all the lush vegetation of the north was renewed. The sea was behind them now and densely wooded hills closed them in, but the land on either side of the road was intensely cultivated. Fields of bananas stood motionless in the still air, while figs and vines clothed the foothills in terrace after terrace, irrigated by a semi-circular dam at the top. This wide cultivated strip stretched as far as the eye could see until they came to a high wall running beside the road, and here Ramon slackened speed and Catherine’s heart began to pound because she knew that they had reached Soria, at last.
At a wide, arched doorway in the wall they pulled up, and almost immediately the door was opened by a small, swarthy youth who saluted them as they passed through. Ramon turned the car along a brick-paved road bordered by a hundred flamboyant plants and flowers whose scent rose headily into the evening air, assailing their nostrils as they drove along. One perfume seemed to dominate, and Catherine turned to Teresa to ask what it was.
‘Stephanotis,’ Teresa replied indifferently. ‘It is everywhere.’
The house itself lay in a little hollow sheltered by a group of palms, its adobe walls gleaming pinkly in the pale evening light, an old house built many years ago in the Moorish style and added to periodically as the family grew. Planned originally round an inner courtyard, it had
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