indeed she is this Lucy Carmichael.”
“I see.” Rafael inclined his head. “But how can I be of assistance?”
“Wait—wait!” Juan was obviously finding it difficult to put into actual words what he wanted his brother to do. He drew deeply on his cheroot and seated himself opposite Rafael again, resting his elbows rather nervously on the table. “You see, Rafael, it is like this. This woman—her name is Lord, Miss Lord—is arriving from England tomorrow. I—well, I want you to meet her!”
“Me?” Rafael was taken aback. “Why me? Where is she arriving?”
“Mexico City, where else?”
“Juan!” Rafael stared at his brother incredulously. “You cannot be serious! I cannot go to Mexico City to meet this woman. She does not know me. I hardly know the child. If you wish to see her you must meet her yourself.”
Juan flung himself back in his seat. He heaved a heavy sigh and spread his hands expressively. “You ask me this?” He shook his head. “What am I to say to her?”
“What am I to say to her?” remarked Rafael dryly.
“It is different for you,” exclaimed Juan, leaning towards his brother again. “You are used to talking to people—you have—authority. And besides, you have a much better grasp of the English language than I have.”
Rafael poured himself some coffee. “And this is why you sent for me?”
“Yes.”
Rafael drank some of the black coffee reflectively. “I do not understand all of this,” he said at last. “Why are the authorities not arranging for this woman to be brought to Guadalima?”
“Father Esteban at the mission left the matter in my hands.”
“I see. And what do you hope to achieve?”
Juan coloured slightly. “Achieve? That is a curious word to use, Rafael. It smacks of conspiracy.”
Rafael shook his head. “On the contrary, what you wish to do for this child is admirable. I just cannot think that Valentina will welcome a ready-made daughter into your household.”
“Valentina and I are not married yet, Rafael.”
“No.” Rafael conceded that point slowly. “Even so, you know that it is expected.”
Juan scowled. “Will you meet the woman? Madre de Dios, Rafael, what would I find to say to some middle-aged spinster? How could I explain my feelings for the child? If she is this Lucy Carmichael, how can I persuade her that the child might be happier here with us than taken back to that cold and unfeeling country of her birth?”
Rafael half smiled. “I think you are being rather uncharitable, Juan,” he commented mildly. “You really know nothing about England, and the child may be content to return with her aunt—a blood relation. After all, seeing her aunt again may restore her memory.”
“I know, I know. Do you think I have not thought of that?” Juan sounded impatient. “That is why I wish you to speak with this woman—this Miss Lord. I want you to tell her about me—to explain that I am not a villain with designs on her niece. I want you to explain that the child herself likes me, that I find her enchanting. And that for her aunt to take her away without first considering what she might be depriving her of would be—how shall I say?—precipitate?”
“In other words, you want me to extol your praises,” observed Rafael ironically. “You think perhaps she might then look more kindly on the possibilities of leaving the child here?”
Juan tapped his nails irritably against the glass surface of the table. Across the patio a walled rose garden was giving off a fragrant perfume, and humming birds vied with the butterflies for brilliance. He turned back to his brother. “And you, Rafael? Do you not think the child would be happier here, amongst all this?” He spread his hands again. “This woman—this aunt—she cannot possibly give her what I can give her.”
“How do you know that?”
Juan sighed. “It is obvious. The child’s clothes—the pitiful things she was found in were not the garments of a rich child. Her reactions to everything I have done for her have not been the reactions of a child already satiated by luxury.”
“And might she not have forgotten these things also?”
“No. Ordinary every day things, she remembers. It is the personal details she has forgotten.” Juan pressed out the stub of his cheroot in the onyx ashtray. “The doctors are confident that she will recover. It is only a matter of time. I have had Delgado out from Mexico City—”
“Ramon Delgado?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“As a matter of fact we were at university together.”
“I see.” Juan’s lips twisted. “Well, as I say, Delgado expresses the opinion that it is only a matter of time before her memory returns completely. Needless to say, this news arouses mixed feelings inside me. Naturally I want her to regain her faculties, but I am afraid if this woman comes here—stimulates the child’s recollective abilities and then takes her away without first giving her a chance to decide for herself—”
“But you say the child is only some eight years old?”
“That’s right.”
“Then how can she decide what would be best for her future? Juan, you have to accept that in this instance you are helpless.”
“No, I will not accept that.” Juan’s face was grim. He turned again to his brother. “Rafael, I ask very little of you—surely it is not too much to ask you to help me in this…”
Rafael sighed now. “I don’t see how anything I can say can make the slightest difference.”
Juan hesitated. Then he said: “Rafael, you have influence. Won’t you use it? The influence of your position?”
Rafael had known this was coming, of course. “Juan,” he said patiently, “Juan, I have no influence, I am nothing yet.”
“But you will be soon. You already assist Father Domenico—”
“In a lay capacity only!” Rafael shook his head and pushed aside his dirty cup and plate. “These people, Juan—the Carmichaels—were they Catholics?”
Juan moved his shoulders awkwardly. “I—no! I believe they belonged to the Church of England.”
Rafael’s hand descended heavily on the table. “And you expect this woman to leave her niece—the only surviving member of her sister’s family—with you, the brother of a man who may ultimately become a priest in the Roman Catholic Church?”
Juan’s jaw moved spasmodically. “So you won’t help me?”
“I don’t see how I can.”
“Then you’re not listening to me, Rafael. What can this woman—this aunt—give the girl? She is not even married! She does not have the support of a husband. She is a secretary or something with some firm in London. She has no money—no influence—no position in society!”
“These things are not so important to some people,” pointed out Rafael quickly. “And I do not speak only for myself. If this woman lives alone, she may be glad of the child’s companionship.”
“But how can she care for her? If she is at work all day, how will she manage? Always supposing she can afford to support her.”
“If you really want to help the child then perhaps you ought to offer to support her in the manner in which you would like to see her.”
Juan stared at Rafael in astonishment. “No! No, I could not do that.”
Rafael shrugged. “It was a suggestion, nothing more.”