Eliza’s Daughter

by Joan Aiken

  ‘Bueno! As the Señora wishes. What shall we do with this rubbish?’ pointing to the dead João.

  ‘I don’t know. Drop him in a ditch, perhaps.’

  There was a crevice below the cliff, where gorse and brambles grew. They stowed him in there, out of sight, first prudently going through his pockets, which yielded a few silver coins. These they shared out scrupulously – first having offered them to me. But I refused with horror.

  ‘Evidently the Señora is not used to war. The winner takes the spoils.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I am not used to war. I would prefer for you to have the money. And I am very glad you came by when you did.’

  Indeed I was. Their friendly presence had lightened that bleak moment when I must face the fact that I had committed murder.

  ‘The Señora will be lucky in her life, I think,’ said one of them, looking in a calm, uncommiserating manner at my right hand still grasping the mule’s rein. ‘She is a d*******.’ And he used a Spanish term that was unfamiliar to me.

  ‘Just the same, she should be on her guard,’ said the other. ‘The peasants around here – who, I may say, are a barbarous, backward race – many of them believe that a person with such hands as the Señora’s must be a l*****.’

  Another unfamiliar word.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘One who is a man or woman by day, but at night becomes a wild beast and runs about devouring sheep or children.’

  ‘Oh, a werewolf. Perhaps that is why those two guides thought it best to make away with me.’

  ‘Not so! They simply acted according to their natures. If we encounter the other rogue, we will cut his liver out. Now, Señora, is there anything else, any other service we can render you? Would you wish to meet our companions? They are very good sort of men.’ He beamed at me again. Indeed, both of them, rough-looking as they were, seemed very good-hearted and well-disposed, not at all the way the gallegos had been described to me.

  I thanked them heartily, but said I had an urgent errand to seek out a sick friend and must be on my way.

  ‘Adios, Señora, then. Vaya con Dios.’

  ‘Vaya con Dios to you also.’

  And so we parted. I shall remember them all my life.

  Considerably cheered by this encounter I continued on my way, keeping the sun behind me as recommended, and presently, in the distance, over a few wooded ridges, I saw the spires of what must be the town of Vila Real, the Royal City.

  The mule was plodding along more and more slowly. I would sell it in Vila Real, I decided, and if possible buy another. It was indeed fortunate, I thought, that João and Manuel had not known how much money I carried, or they would have made a much more determined attempt to murder me. My hat, in which I had constructed a false crown of black leather, was lined with banknotes, as well as my travel documents. And the left-hand boot held enough gold moidores to buy a vineyard. Thanks to the Duke.

  One day, I thought, I would tell the Duke about the death of João. Nobody else. And not in a letter.

  As the mule slowly trudged on its way, I meditated on the death I had caused, trying to teach myself, as I knew I must, how to give this happening a place in my mind without excessive horror or needless guilt. Oddly, what I most felt was a wish that I had known the man better. His death seemed – was – so much that of a random stranger. If only he had been Dr Moultrie! Or Squire Vexford! Or his brother! Or one of the Bath Beaux. I could then have felt there had been a purpose and a value in removing him from the human race. But about this man I knew nothing, not even if he had a wife . . .

  ***

  Vila Real is a largish shabby town, with large shabby houses and wide streets, and a feeling of being perched high up on a wide and windy plain. It seemed quiet and subdued; the elderly men all walked about wrapped in shawls. I inquired my way to the nunnery and there learned, with some exasperation, that Lady Hariot and her afflicted child had indeed stayed there with the nuns, for some considerable time – ‘Eu! la doenta!’ – but that, seizing the chance when a train of merchants went by with supplies, they had transferred – or planned to do so – to Lamego, a city south of the Douro, where there was a famous church, Nossa Senhora dos Remédios, approached by a great many steps, where miraculous cures were performed; or were said to be performed. Doubtless, the nuns said hopefully, by now the poor little one had recovered the use of her limbs.

  The Holy Sisters were delighted to offer me a bed for the night. I was accommodated in a cell, whitewashed and spotless, where I slept on a rush pallet – or, at least, tried to sleep; the image of Manuel’s face, his eyes twitching aside to watch his comrade pick up the rock, the instantaneous knowledge that my life depended on rapid movement, getting away – these things kept me awake, or plagued me with fearful dreams, from which I woke gasping to find that I had hurled myself off the mattress on to the floor.

  In the morning, studying myself in the tiny glass (no bigger than a crown piece) which Pullett had given me for a last Christmas gift (ah, poor Pullett!), I discovered that the crack on the head which João had dealt me had left its legacy in the shape of two notable black eyes, glossy and contused, from which my own bleary optics peered out painfully.

  ‘Ay, ay!’ cried the sisters in horror. ‘What happened to you?’

  I explained that a rock had fallen upon me, which satisfied them.

  ‘Such things are not uncommon in the mountains.’

  But they persuaded me to remain in Vila Real for several days, which in truth I was glad enough to do, since I felt shaky and weak and my head ached amazingly.

  ‘And then, it is very fortunate, Father Soeiro will be travelling to Lamego, and you can travel with him.’

  Peering again into the little mirror, at my blackened visage, I now realized who it was that the strange Englishman in Oporto had resembled: it was myself!

  Chapter 15

  Father Soeiro was a remarkably cheerful, chatty companion. He travelled in comfort, with an escort of two mounted manservants and a baggage mule. Evidently when it came to procuring four-legged transport, the good father had better connections than Enrique Morton. Through his helpful offices I too was enabled to exchange my sorry mount for a healthier beast, and we made our way back to Peso da Régua at a much more rapid pace than I had achieved on my outward journey.

  When we reached the spot at which the man João had met his sudden end I kept my gaze firmly away from the cleft in the rock where his body lay; Father Soeiro noticed nothing, but continued his disquisition on the English: a most extraordinary race, he found them, large, fair, mad, fond of pursuing hares and disgracefully given to adulterating their port-wine with elderberry juice. ‘But we Portuguese have passed edicts forbidding them to do that!’ he cried triumphantly.

  I said, ‘I am very sure my guardian the Duke of Cumbria permits no such practices in his vineyards.’

  ‘Well, let us hope not; but it must be said,’ the Father allowed with a sigh, ‘that the English are excellent fighters. Ah, that Wellington!’ He pronounced it Velington. ‘What a man! I have seen him, wearing a plain grey frock-coat. Nosso Grande Lorde! He sent a thousand carts with guns up the breakneck hill from the Douro valley to Lamego. That was before the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo. Wait until you see that hill! You will be amazed. He had three armies, and he swept them all secretly together and drove the French eastwards. And when he crossed the river where it marks the frontier with Spain he rose in his stirrups and shouted, “Farewell, Portugal!” Ah, what a man!’

  Father Soeiro wore a dark blue cloak and a slouched hat. If ever we passed a charcoal-burner collecting pine cones in a basket, or a peasant ploughing his field with a crooked broken branch, or a fisherman casting his line over a trout stream, they would fall on their knees as we went by and greet him: ‘Bom dia, Senhor Padre!’ and he always replied with a blessing: ‘Praised be Jesus Christ our Lord!’ to which the reply was: �
��And praised for ever and ever!’

  His arrangements had all been made in advance. When we reached Peso da Régua there was a narrow boat, a saveira, waiting to ferry us across the river. ‘Agua de Douro, caldo de pollas,’ quoted Father Soeiro fondly, looking down into the swirling waters – by which he intimated that the water was as full of fish as chicken broth of meat.

  Across on the opposite bank from Régua more mules were standing ready.

  ‘Nada, nada!’ said the good father when I offered to pay my share. ‘Give the money instead to the church of Nossa Senhora.’

  I had glanced cautiously about the streets of Régua, wondering if I might set eyes on Manuel – or Mr Morton. Had there been any previous connection between Morton and the two guides, I wondered. Or had he merely – annoyed with this tiresome female wished on him by his employer – fobbed me off with the first two vagabonds and the first sorry nag that came to hand?

  I saw neither of them. Morton, doubtless, was preparing for the vintage.

  I wondered what Father Soeiro would say if I told him that I had killed a man; but I had not the least intention of telling him any such thing.

  In fact, I thought sadly, there was nobody now Pullett was gone, except the Duke, to whom I could impart such a tale. To Mrs Jebb I could have told it, once upon a time. She would have received it dispassionately. Elinor Ferrars? No, no, not possible. She would feel in duty bound to pass it on to her husband.

  Recalling Elinor, I fell to wondering about her sister Marianne. Was it conceivable that I might encounter her in my wanderings about Portugal – this strange country where the roads were no better than mule-tracks, even though English, French and Spanish armies had galloped along them, only three years before, where the towns were so small, so isolated, so widely scattered apart? At what refuge in this land, I wondered, had Marianne Brandon come to rest? And her husband, Colonel Brandon? Was he really dead? And – most teasing, tantalizing question of all, where now was Willoughby?

  During the two days of inactivity passed at Vila Real, my first wild speculative supposition had hardened into a certainty. The man I had seen in Oporto at the convent, asking questions, must be Willoughby; my father. That one lightning impression I had of him remained with me still, as a single glimpse of a brightly lit scene lingers imprinted on the closed eyelid.

  His face – I now realized – was exactly the same shape as mine. His eyes were set like mine; they differed only in being black. His voice – rather harsh and resonant – that was mine too. I hoped that my face might never set into such lines of grief or discontent – but that was not impossible. No wonder he had seemed familiar. I saw his face in my mirror every day.

  He was searching for somebody, making inquiries at convents. And so was I. We might well meet again.

  ***

  Lamego lies high in the mountains south of the river Douro. Conspicuous on the summit of a hill, as you approach the city, is the church of Our Lady of Remedies, at the top of its daunting flight of steps. True pilgrims climb the steps on their knees, reciting a prayer on every step. For the lazy or unbelieving there is a track which winds around the hillside. In the town down below there is also a handsome cathedral, various noble mansions, and other churches, besides the remains of a 500-year-old castle.

  All my hopes and thoughts, however, were centred on the convent, which lay behind the Church of Nossa Senhora. It is famous for its medical offices.

  I said goodbye to kind Father Soeiro, who was bound for the bishop’s palace, and he wished me godspeed. Then I urged my mule up the track which ascended Our Lady’s hill. At the top there were groves of pine trees. I left the mule tethered to a tree and made my way to the portress’s lodge of the convent. There I knocked and asked my usual question.

  ‘A lady and her sick daughter? Meninha Teresa?’

  Ah, yes, said the portress, they were indeed here. In fact, on a fine day such as this, they would be taking the air in the convent gardens. If the Senhora cared to follow the path to the right, and then to the left, and then to the left again, and proceed through the orange grove, she would most likely find the ladies out on the terrace, where the air was freshest . . .

  Carefully following these instructions, I passed through a vegetable garden, where two Sisters were hard at work among cabbages, pumpkins, artichokes and tomatoes; then a flower garden, fragrant with roses and geraniums; then through the orchard; and came out from its shade into the glare of a wide cobbled terrace overlooking the impressive panorama of the town’s roofs and spires down below, and the vine-covered country beyond.

  They would hardly sit here, I thought, in this blazing sun. But then I realized that there was an immense pine at the far end of the terrace, casting a patch of shade as big as a ballroom; and against the trunk of the pine two figures were sitting, one on a stone bench and one in some kind of basket-chair.

  Suddenly my heart felt as huge as the pumpkins the Sisters had been cultivating. It beat so strongly in my chest that I had no room to breathe. Slowly I walked the length of the terrace and approached the two figures.

  And they were Lady Hariot and Triz.

  But so changed.

  ***

  Of course, I recognized them. They were unmistakable. But Lady Hariot reminded me of the crooked branch I had seen a peasant ploughing with earlier in the day: she was so thin, she was so dry, she was so brown, she was so bent. Her eyes, though, were exactly as I remembered, one looking severely in my direction, the other gazing obliquely at some distant scene, visible to her alone.

  And Triz. Could this be Triz? My little, pretty playfellow? This wan, dry, twisted creature, bundled in the basket-chair, with stick-like limbs dangling limply, mouth awry, staring eyes fixed on something dreadful? My heart turned over with horror at the mere sight of her.

  And yet she knew me.

  I had thought at first that perhaps she was mad – her face was so vacant and lacking in response to anything about her.

  But when she saw me slowly approach, she started and her hands gripped the arms of the chair. She let out a little cry, then babbled a soft stream of words that were incomprehensible to me. The poor lopsided mouth curved into a smile. By degrees, I began to take in the meaning of what she said.

  ‘Alize!’ she was saying. ‘Alize! Alize! Alize.’

  ‘Oh, Triz! Oh, my dear little Triz!’

  I knelt down beside her, gave her a hug, and kissed her poor twisted face. And yet – I hate to say it, but it is true – I had to suppress a severe shudder of repulsion to do so. She was so horribly different from my little fair-haired charge and companion. She looked like a changeling indeed – some strange wizened elf-being left behind by the hill-people in place of the human babe they have stolen. She looked sick, vacant, deranged. Spoiled. Dreadfully spoiled.

  But now Lady Hariot was gripping my hands – with her old, remembered strength – and her voice, warm, vibrating, full of intelligence, transported me at once back to Kinn Hall, to Growly Head, to the gardens dropping down in terraces above Byblow Bottom.

  ‘Eliza! My dearest child! You came! You found us! Oh, that was so good of you! See, Thérèse knows you! She recognizes you! Even in your Portuguese hat! Do, please, take it off, and let us have a thorough look at you!’

  So I removed my hat and kerchief, placing the hat (with all my wealth inside) carefully under the stone bench.

  ‘No, you have not changed in the very slightest,’ declared Lady Hariot. ‘Unlike us! And, look, Thérèse thinks the same. I believe that is what she is trying to say.’

  Triz was babbling away, eagerly, incomprehensibly, her thin hands clasping and unclasping, her eyes intently fixed on mine.

  ‘Do you know,’ Lady Hariot murmured to me, ‘she has not spoken – at all – since then. I really do believe that your coming here may be – may be the – ’ Her mouth shook, and she clapped her hand over it. I flung my arms aro
und her.

  ‘Dearest Lady Hariot! I am so very glad to have found you.’

  ‘I do hope,’ she said after a moment, taking firm control of herself again, quietly stroking Triz’s dry, straw-like hair. ‘I do hope, dear Eliza, that leaving England, that making your way here, did not prove too much of a difficulty?’ She spoke absently, her eyes were back on her daughter. Or one of them was. The other was on the horizon.

  I thought of the Duke, piteous, his eyes swimming in tears. I thought of Pullett lost in the Bay of Biscay; and the startling smoothness and ease with which my knife had slipped between João’s ribs.

  ‘Not too difficult,’ I said.

  ‘I do hope that you can remain here with us for a long time. I do believe that – with your help – now she has moved, now she has spoken – you will be able to bring Thérèse back to life again. She – look! – she even moved her knee a little.’

  ‘Alize,’ said Triz again. And then, ‘Carthur, Carthur.’

  ‘What can she mean?’ said Lady Hariot, puzzled. ‘Carthur? What is it, my love?’

  ‘I think it is a game that she and I used to play. King Arthur and Sir Bedivere.’

  ‘Bedvir, Bedvir,’ agreed Triz joyfully. Her dull eyes opened wide. And then, of a sudden, she yawned and nodded, and the eyes closed. I looked in alarm at Lady Hariot, but she was unperturbed.

  ‘She does that. She grows tired and falls asleep quite suddenly. It is partly that – we have to feed her on pap – she can hardly swallow – and I think the nuns mix in a little poppy juice with her food to keep her tranquil; otherwise, at first, she used to go into frenzies, which were quite terrifying.’

  ‘Oh, Lady Hariot. What you have been through. For you, it must have been worst of all. Even worse than for her.’

  ‘How can we judge? But now,’ she said, ‘I believe it is going to be better.’

  A handsome blue-robed Sister approached us along the terrace.

  ‘This is Sister Euphrasia, the Sister Superior,’ Lady Hariot said to me in French. ‘She has been our good angel. Sister Euphrasia, see, here is my friend, my daughter’s old playmate, come all the way to us from England! And my daughter knew her! She spoke! Now, I do believe that Thérèse may get better!’