Carlos seemed absorbed with his own thoughts, and like Miguel could cut himself off from those around him with the mental dropping of a shutter. Emma didn't particularly care. She had her own thoughts to occupy her, not least being the thought of confronting her husband after her stupidly adolescent behaviour of the night before.

Lacustre Largo dreamed in the heat of the midday sun. There was a deceptively tranquil air about it. As they neared the house, Carlos suggested that Emma should dismount and he would see their horses into the stables, and she was glad to do so. The ride back had not been so comfortable for her, and her muscles were protesting at so much activity.

She ran up the steps into the hall almost eagerly, but then halted abruptly when her husband came through one of the arched doorways that led off the hall and grasping her arm in a cruel grip, demanded: 'Where tile devil do you think you've been?'

Emma struggled to free herself, but it was useless. eIf you must know, I've been riding - with your father!' she declared triumphantly.

'Riding? With my father?' Miguel glared at her furiously. 'Where did you ride?'

'I don't think that's any -business of yours-'

'd.a.m.n you! Where did he take you?' Miguel's hold tightened and she could feel the blood draining out of her wrist.

'Let go of me, and I'l tell you!' she cried, trying to prise his fingers from her arm.

' Tell me now!' He was incensed, and she felt a trembling sense of fear invading her.

'We - we rode to the village-'

'What village?'

'L - Largo. We went to see a man who works-'

'Diaz!' muttered Miguel violently. 'Alfaro Diaz!'

'Yes, that's right,' said a mocking voice behind them, and glancing round Emma saw Carlos just entering the hall. 'Your wife enjoyed the outing, I am sure.'

Miguel was staring at his father now and there was concentrated hatred in his gaze. 'Why, you-' He bit off an epithet, and Carlos raised his dark eyebrows sardonically.

'Miguel!' he reproved. .'Remember, we are not alone. Is that any way for a son to speak to his father?'

Miguel let go of Emma's wrist so suddenly that she almost lost her balance, and stood rubbing it painfully, watching the two men as they faced one another.

'You never give up, do you, padre?' Miguel almost spat the words.

'I don't know what you mean, Miguel,' returned Carlos, in pained tones. 'I can't think what I have done that should cause you so much annoyance. Surely after meeting your father, it was only right that Emma should meet your mother, was it not?'

CHAPTER TEN.

THERE were five people for the light colacion which was served about two o'clock - Loren and Juan, Carmen and Carlos, and Emma. They ate in a small dining salon adjoining the lounge.

Here the walls were plain and unadorned except for one or two exceptionally fine charcoal drawings which Juan explained had been done by a local artist. There . was a main course of salad and minced pork, into which mashed avocado had been added, and fresh fruit and cheese to follow.

Emma was unused to the variety of fresh fruits available such as apricots and pomegranates, and watched with distaste as Loren peeled the skin off the black flesh of a zapoie.

They ate with the plaintive sounds of. one of Chopin's sonatas drifting in through the open doorway, and every flow and then a discordant cacophony of sound erupted as the pianist touched a wrong note and lost his temper.

Emma wondered if everyone else was as conscious of that music as she was. She ached with the desire to leave the table, to seek out the music room where Miguel was attempting to a.s.suage his anguish, and show him in some way that what Carlos had done didn't matter in the least to her.

But how could she? He would never invite her sympathy and without an invitation she had not the right to thrust herself upon him. Besides, judging by the contempt he had shown her when she had arrived back at the house a couple of hours ago, she was the last person he would want to see.

She still felt a feeling of nausea when she recalled that scene in the hall. No wonder Carlos had seemed to behave so charmingly, no wonder Maria had been so shocked! He had smiled at their disbelief and taken sustenance from it.

Emma felt cold. It had been such a cruel thing to do. Not just to her, and to Miguel, but to Maria. Even now, she had no real knowledge of the truth as it actually was. She could only a.s.sume that at some time Carlos had had an affair with Maria and when their son was born he had adopted him.

But Carlos had also said that Miguel had been born in the bed where he himself had been born, and although his wife was dead now, where had she been at that time? Had she known of his affair with Maria? It seemed unnatural - uncivilized. She frowned and concentrated on the peach she was paring. That word kept cropping up, and yet these were civilized people.

There was a loud crash of ba.s.s notes and she started, her eyes going automatically towards the open door. Miguel ought not to be trying to play at all. His fingers were not healed yet. He could be doing irreparable damage. Didn't he care? Didn't anyone care?

She looked round the room despairingly and caught Carlos's eyes upon her. 'Something is wrong, Emma?' he queried silkily.

She clenched her fists. 'Someone should stop him,' she said. 'He shouldn't be touching the piano yet'

Carlos lay back in his chair. 'And who do you suggest should tell him this? Me?' He pointed to himself. 'Or you?'

Emma glanced round. 'What about - Juan?'

Carlos raised his eyebrows. 'I think Juan knows better than that'

Emma looked entreatingly at Miguel's manager, but he sighed and shook his head. Carmen Silveiro laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound.

'They are all scared of him, senora ,' she said mockingly. 'When Miguel is angry it is best to stay out of his way.' Her eyes were taunting. 'You do not know him very well or you would not suggest interfering. Miguel is angry - and unhappy. He has offended his father, and he regrets-'

'That will do, Carmen!' Carlos's voice was clipped and instantly silenced his niece. 'Now,' he went on, more gently, 'it is a glorious day. Let us enjoy it while we can. We will take our coffee out on to the terrace and, perhaps drowse for a while, in the sun ...'

But Emma could stand no more of it. Excusing herself from them, she made her way back to her room, going inside and closing the door almost as if by doing So she was shutting out the rest of the world.

But after a time, when she was sure the others would be firmly ensconced on the terrace, she left it again, and went in search of the music room.

Miguel was still playing and the sound seemed to come from further along the corridor, beyond her room and beyond Miguel's bedroom which she knew was the next bedroom along.

Smoothing her hair with her hands, she walked soundlessly down the pa.s.sage until she stood before double doors from behind which the music was definitely emanating. She wondered whether to knock first or just walk in, but caution overcame all else and she rapped lightly on the panels. The melancholy strains of Brahms at his most appealing went on without cause and she realized he could not have heard her. Uncertainty gripped her.- Her determination was ebbing with every minute that pa.s.sed, and she dreaded the confrontation which might follow her intrusion.

Then a discordant note shattered the fragile melody and there was a m.u.f.fled curse before silence descended on the room and the pa.s.sage where Emma was standing.

Taking a deep breath, she turned the-handle of the door and pushing it open squeezed into the room. Pressing against the wall, as if to disguise herself as part of the exquisite murals that depicted scenes of Mexico's fight for independence, she looked round in amazement. All the rooms in this house had astounded her by their individuality, and this was not least of them. A magnificent grand piano, at which Miguel was slumped^ wholly unaware of her presence, was reflected in the polished wood of the floor, but as the ceiling was made up of dozens of squares of gla.s.s that in their turn reflected the floor, ana also provided the wonderful acoustics, the instrument and its exponent were reflected over and over and over again. The jade green curtains at the long windows were drawn, however, and all the lighting in the room was artificial. Miguel had shut out everything and everybody.

The door clicked noisily as it closed and Emma froze. But he had heard it, and lifting his head he turned to stare at her almost uncomprehendingly. Then, as his brain cleared, he rose to his feet, tipping over the piano stool heavily on to the floor.

'What are you doing here?' he demanded. T thought I made it plain that I did not want to be disturbed.'

Emma straightened and moved away from the door. 'Why have you drawn the curtains?' she asked, playing for time. 'It's such a beautiful day outside.' 1 Miguel made an impatient gesture. 'I asked why you came! Did - my father - send you?'

Emma glanced at him, pretending an interest in the pile of ma.n.u.script on the piano. 'No. Why should he?'

Miguel sounded sceptical. 'Why not? I should have thought it was perfectly logical. He knows better than to come himself.'

Emma sighed. 'I came because I was concerned about you. You must know you could be doing your fingers irreparable damage by attempting to play the piano-'

'What business is that of yours?' He was cold.

'It's the business of anyone who appreciates your playing-only it's obvious that no one else here-'

'I think you should leave now.'

'No!' Emma moved towards him. 'Miguel, be sensible!. Don't behave like a spoilt child-'

'A spoilt child!' He glared at her bitterly. 'Is that what you think I am?'

'No! That is - well - oh, Miguel, why are you doing this? Can't you see how foolish it is? You're only hurting yourself-'

'Bien, that's something, isn't it? At least I don't interfere in other people's lives.'

'Meaning your father does.'

'You've noticed!' He was sarcastic.

'Oh, Miguel, if you mean what happened this morning-'

'What happened this morning was merely a continuation of what has been happening all my life!'

'It wasn't important-'

'It was. To me!'

'Miguel, if you think meeting your mother like that has shocked me-'

'Hasn't it?'

'No.' Emma flushed.

'I'm afraid I don't believe you. But it doesn't matter. What's done is done, and I can't make a better of it.'

'Your father loves you-'

'Oh, yes, yes.' Miguel's lips twisted. 'He does, doesn't he? Like the spider loves the fly - to destruction!'

'That's not true. Your father's not like that!'

'Isn't he?' He was bitter. 'Oh, I can see he's got a champion in you!

How delighted he would be if he could hear you defending him - to me!'

'I'm not defending him,' she snapped hotly, hurt by his a.s.sumption that she was trying to take sides. 'I'm simply trying to make you see that by - behaving like this you're only making things more difficult for - for everyone!'

'What would you have me do?' he demanded coldly. ' Si gracias,padre , for taking my wife to meet my mother without my prior knowledge or consent? Gracias, for showing her that my mother was never my father's wife!'

Emma sighed frustratedly. 'You should have told me yourself.!

Miguel clenched his uninjured fist and turned away. 'Oh, yes,' he muttered. 'Oh, yes. And have you any idea how?'

'But I was bound to find out-'

'Here? Yes! Yes, of course. You were meant to find out. I would have taken you to meet her, I wanted to be there when she met you for the first time. Strange as it may seem, Emma, I love my mother. I love my brothers and sisters. I just wish to G.o.d that Alfaro Diaz was my father!'

Emma stared at him unhappily. 'You don't - not really.'

'What do you mean?' He swung round.

'Miguel, no matter how you may rile against it, you're Carlos Salvaje's son, and were you not, you wouldn't be the man you are -.

can't you see that? You're a very lucky man - you have a talent envied by millions, you have the power to induce magic from an instrument made of wood and metal!, That's no small achievement. Don't belittle it by resentment. Whatever - your father is like, whatever his faults, he loves you, make no mistake about that. And that's why he took me to see your mother this morning - because he wanted , to hurt you, as you've hurt him by marrying me!'

'I? Hurt him?' Miguel laughed contemptuously. 'I haven't hurt him!

I've thwarted him, that's all.'

'All right, have it your way. But whichever it is, you're not winning any victories by hiding away here, attempting to destroy the one thing in the world you really care about - your music!'

Emma trembled at the violence in his face. 'How do you know what I care about? Why should you imagine my triumph as a concert pianist is due to anything more inspiring than a craving on my father's part for a vicarious success?'

'I believe it because no one - no other person - could inspire 'such dedication, such attention to detail, such emotive perfection!

That's why you're successful, Miguel. Not because someone else is driving you on, but because you play with your mind as well as your body/People can sense this; it's that indefinable quality that no amount of cultivation can ever simulate. It's something that's there - in you. It's been there since you were born.' She stared desperately at him. 'Can't you see? Can't you understand? Don't you know how lucky you are to have a gift like that?' She made a sweeping gesture encompa.s.sing the magnificent room. 'I've no doubt there are pianists all over the world without the facilities or the opportunities to make use of their talent, but you're not one of them. You have all this - everything that anyone could desire - yet you still pretend that your father is only doing it for himself, for some selfish idea of gaining prestige! What need has he of such things? Don't you think what he already has achieved is enough?'

Miguel moved his shoulders in a defeated gesture. 'You don't understand,' he said heavily. 'I never wanted to be a - a performer! I liked to play, yes. I had an apt.i.tude for the piano, yes. But when my father recognized this he employed the most expensive tutors he could find.' He shrugged. 'I didn't object- Why should I? I loved music. I wanted to learn everything there was to know.' He ran his fingers lovingly over the smooth polished surface of the piano. 'I played everything. Not just cla.s.sical, but all kinds of music. I used to spend horn's, just entertaining myself. I think even then it was an escape.' His features hardened. 'But then my father intervened - his favourite pastime, as you will discover.' His lips were bitter. 'He told me I was wasting my time, wasting all the training he had paid so highly for. He said I should give up composing-' He halted abruptly.

'I should explain. In those days I used to compose quite a lot.

Nothing great, you understand, but little pieces that pleased me. I used to imagine that one day I might write something really remarkable - a symphony, or a concerto perhaps.' He sighed.

That was what I really wanted. I had no desire to become famous as a performer, to play before thousands of people-'

'And yet you do it so- so naturally!'.she breathed.

Miguel dropped down on to the piano stool and touched the keys softly. That is because! pretend,' he said, looking up at her, the anger disappearing from his face. 'I pretend I am here - alone - and when it is over I am almost shocked to hear the applause.'

He half smiled. 'An admission indeed from someone reputed to be so calm on the platform. But I gain nothing from an audience, they do not lift me, as they say. I am always glad when it is over.'

Emma digested this slowly. She recalled the first time he had come to her father's house in London, the way he had pleaded with her to have dinner with him, how he had wanted to avoid recognition. She had thought he was ashamed of being seen with her, but she could have been wrong. For the first time she felt close to her husband, as though by the admission of his vulnerability he had opened a door and let her see through.