to her silent uncle. ‘Did you fall off?’ she enquired tentatively. ‘Or did Jaime catch you?’
‘He caught up with me,’ Catherine allowed, made suddenly uncomfortable by the speculative look in Teresa’s eyes. ‘I think I was ready to fall,’ she added lightly, ‘but he saved me the indignity.’
‘Will you ride home with us now?’ Teresa asked Don Jaime. ‘Perhaps you do not trust us to go carefully any more.’
‘I have other things to see to,’ he assured her, ‘but I will be home quite soon. You may tell Ramon that I will be waiting at San Bartolome.’
He would not return home until the last lorry with its consignment of bananas was well on its way to Santa Cruz, and no doubt Ramon would be kept working later than usual to make up for his unexplained visit to the puerto. The two brothers were evidently not seeing eye to eye about Soria, and possibly there was another bone of contention between them. Ramon was something of a philanderer, a charming latter-day Don Juan whose idle lovemaking would incense a man of Jaime de Berceo Madroza’s calibre and make him impatient, to say the least. What, then, must he have thought when he had come across the little tableau outside the packing-sheds? Ramon had been standing in the centre of the group holding Catherine’s stirrup while he looked up at her with frank admiration in his eyes, and Catherine knew that she had responded with a happy smile. Ramon was so easy to like, but the fact that his work had been neglected would be far more important in his brother’s eyes.
When they were almost at the high wooden door in the surrounding wall they met Ramon riding swiftly in the opposite direction.
‘I’ll be back in under an hour,’ he promised, ‘and then we will have some music. Jaime cannot possibly work in the dark!’
He flourished the mislaid bills of lading as he rode off in his efforts to make amends for his irresponsible forgetfulness.
‘Ramon will never make a farmer,’ Teresa commented as they rode in under the creeper-covered arch. ‘Jaime should let him go to Santa Cruz or Madrid.’
‘He must need him on the estate,’ Catherine found herself saying. ‘Otherwise, I think he would let him go.’
Teresa drew a deep breath which was half a sigh.
‘How little you know of Jaime,’ she said. ‘If he thinks it will be best for Soria he will keep Ramon here for ever. But perhaps if he marries Lucia. Ramon will be free to go.’
There was an abrupt movement at Catherine’s side as Manuel dismounted to lead her pony across the cobbled yard. Half hidden by the wide-brimmed hat he wore, she could not see his face from where she sat in the saddle, but something about his hunched shoulders and the way he moved suggested despair and an inner abandonment to grief.
Lucia was waiting for them on the patio. She had changed out of her habitual black dress into a long evening gown of some soft, clinging material, not grey, not blue, but somewhere between the two colours, which was both mysterious and attractive allied to her jet-black hair and sombre dark-lashed eyes. Once again her only jewel was the magnificent ruby which she wore close to her throat.
Manuel, who was leading the ponies, stopped in his tracks to look at her, the light of adoration burning in his eyes, though he thought that none could see.
‘What is the matter with you, Manuel?’ Lucia asked imperiously. ‘Why do you stare? Are you afraid to be reprimanded for some indiscretion or other? You are like a nervous pe o n who has not done his work properly.’
The fact that she had reduced him to the status of a field labourer sent a wild colour into her servant’s cheeks.
‘I have only done your will, senora, ’ he said with admirable patience. ‘I can do no more.’
‘Then be off with you!’ Lucia commanded, amused by the havoc she had wrought. ‘I will ride tomorrow morning early,’ she added, ‘before the sun is strong.’
‘ Si, senora .’
He led the ponies
‘He caught up with me,’ Catherine allowed, made suddenly uncomfortable by the speculative look in Teresa’s eyes. ‘I think I was ready to fall,’ she added lightly, ‘but he saved me the indignity.’
‘Will you ride home with us now?’ Teresa asked Don Jaime. ‘Perhaps you do not trust us to go carefully any more.’
‘I have other things to see to,’ he assured her, ‘but I will be home quite soon. You may tell Ramon that I will be waiting at San Bartolome.’
He would not return home until the last lorry with its consignment of bananas was well on its way to Santa Cruz, and no doubt Ramon would be kept working later than usual to make up for his unexplained visit to the puerto. The two brothers were evidently not seeing eye to eye about Soria, and possibly there was another bone of contention between them. Ramon was something of a philanderer, a charming latter-day Don Juan whose idle lovemaking would incense a man of Jaime de Berceo Madroza’s calibre and make him impatient, to say the least. What, then, must he have thought when he had come across the little tableau outside the packing-sheds? Ramon had been standing in the centre of the group holding Catherine’s stirrup while he looked up at her with frank admiration in his eyes, and Catherine knew that she had responded with a happy smile. Ramon was so easy to like, but the fact that his work had been neglected would be far more important in his brother’s eyes.
When they were almost at the high wooden door in the surrounding wall they met Ramon riding swiftly in the opposite direction.
‘I’ll be back in under an hour,’ he promised, ‘and then we will have some music. Jaime cannot possibly work in the dark!’
He flourished the mislaid bills of lading as he rode off in his efforts to make amends for his irresponsible forgetfulness.
‘Ramon will never make a farmer,’ Teresa commented as they rode in under the creeper-covered arch. ‘Jaime should let him go to Santa Cruz or Madrid.’
‘He must need him on the estate,’ Catherine found herself saying. ‘Otherwise, I think he would let him go.’
Teresa drew a deep breath which was half a sigh.
‘How little you know of Jaime,’ she said. ‘If he thinks it will be best for Soria he will keep Ramon here for ever. But perhaps if he marries Lucia. Ramon will be free to go.’
There was an abrupt movement at Catherine’s side as Manuel dismounted to lead her pony across the cobbled yard. Half hidden by the wide-brimmed hat he wore, she could not see his face from where she sat in the saddle, but something about his hunched shoulders and the way he moved suggested despair and an inner abandonment to grief.
Lucia was waiting for them on the patio. She had changed out of her habitual black dress into a long evening gown of some soft, clinging material, not grey, not blue, but somewhere between the two colours, which was both mysterious and attractive allied to her jet-black hair and sombre dark-lashed eyes. Once again her only jewel was the magnificent ruby which she wore close to her throat.
Manuel, who was leading the ponies, stopped in his tracks to look at her, the light of adoration burning in his eyes, though he thought that none could see.
‘What is the matter with you, Manuel?’ Lucia asked imperiously. ‘Why do you stare? Are you afraid to be reprimanded for some indiscretion or other? You are like a nervous pe o n who has not done his work properly.’
The fact that she had reduced him to the status of a field labourer sent a wild colour into her servant’s cheeks.
‘I have only done your will, senora, ’ he said with admirable patience. ‘I can do no more.’
‘Then be off with you!’ Lucia commanded, amused by the havoc she had wrought. ‘I will ride tomorrow morning early,’ she added, ‘before the sun is strong.’
‘ Si, senora .’
He led the ponies
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