‘It’s siesta time still.’ Jaime had noticed. ‘Your aunt and uncles will doubtless be ready to greet you when you have refreshed yourself after your journey. As for Mrs. Brett, she seldom leaves her room these days.’
‘I see.’ Submitting to the warm, garlic-laden embrace of a plump matron, Juana recognised, at the last moment, a childhood friend and accomplice. ‘Maria! It’s good to see you!’
‘Maria has consented to come back as your personal maid.’ Jaime was formal now, and dignified, as befitted his role of master of the household. ‘She will show you to the rooms we have had prepared for you. I hope you will be pleased with them, senhora.’
‘Rooms! I’m sure I shall be delighted with them, Jaime. You’ll have my grandmother told I am here?’ It remained disconcerting to have come so far for so little welcome.
‘I’m sure Mrs. Brett knows already.’ It was undoubtedly true. The uproar of welcome in the shady, vine-hung central courtyard of the castle must have roused the most indomitable sleeper.
Following Maria up one of the winding stairs that led from each corner of the courtyard, Juana found time to think that Mrs. Brett had made no effort to imitate her grandsons in appearing Portuguese. The daughter of an English duke, Lady Charlotte Beauroy has decided, when she married James Brett, to sink her courtesy title in what she thought the more important one of Mrs. Brett. After her husband’s death, the English appellation had become something of a fetish with her, and it had been an unlucky servant who forgot and called her senhora.
Maria threw open the heavy, metal-studded door at the top of the stair and ushered Juana into a room that made her gasp with surprise. Here were none of the dusty cut-velvet draperies she remembered from her childhood, when every table or chair had its flounces. This light corner-room with its two sets of windows was furnished for a girl in pale wood and gay chintz. ‘You like it?’ Maria crossed the room to draw a curtain more closely against the afternoon sun.
‘Like it!’ She, too, moved to the window to make sure that it faced the sea. ‘It’s lovely, Maria. But I don’t remember this part of the castle.’
‘No wonder. It was shut up when we were girls. Don’t you remember? We found the door open once, you and I, and got on the stair. Mrs. Brett found us!’ (She pronounced the name very badly, as did all the servants.) ‘Corpo de deus, what a beating I got! Mrs. Brett had it done over last month. I wondered then – we all wondered what it meant. Oh, I’m glad it meant you’ve come back to us, Ju – menina.’
‘I wish you could call me Juana.’
‘I can’t, amiga, and you know it. But it doesn’t mean I’m not glad to see you. It’s worth leaving Tomas, and the children.’
‘Tomas? You’re married, Maria?’
‘Well, of course.’ Affronted. ‘What do you think? We have been married four years, Tomas and I. We live down there, in the Vale Allegre.’ She took Juana’s hand and pulled her away from the window that faced the sea and across to the one over the valley. ‘Tomas works on the vines – he’s a skilled man.’ Proudly. ‘But I’d rather be here with you. Three children in three years are enough, and my mother-in-law takes care of them better than I could. Besides, he beats me.’ She rolled up the sleeve of her black bodice to show a great range of livid bruises, then rolled it down again in a hurry as two menservants appeared with Juana’s box. ‘Put it there, you idiots, and no need to stand gawping either. No one’s been up here yet,’ she explained when they had gone. ‘The rooms were only finished the other day. It’s been a nine days’ wonder in the castle. Oh, I’m glad you’re back, amiga. Do you remember—’ The tide of childhood reminiscence flowed freely as she helped Juana out of her riding dress and into an Indian muslin that shocked her by its cut. A shawl, perhaps, she suggested, to cover that low neck?
But: ‘I’m an English girl,’ said Juana firmly. ‘We wear them like this. And it’s hot, Maria.’
‘You call this hot! You must have forgotten. No wonder if you look (forgive me) a trifle pale and peaked, if this is a hot day by English standards. But we’ll have you in looks again in no time, with some of our good Portuguese sun, and our food and wine. Do you really live on raw beef and beer, over there? It sounds barbarous to me.’
Juana laughed. ‘Well, not quite, but I did miss the sun. Yes?’
This time it was Jaime, knocking on the door, to summon her to her grandmother. Did he, too, look a trifle anxiously at her low-cut muslin? She smiled to herself. He should have seen Lady Caroline Lamb at Forland House.
Mrs. Brett’s apartments were in the other seaward corner tower, but in order to reach them one had to go down to the courtyard and along the Moorish cloisters that flanked it on the south and west sides. The other half of the castle had been burned down by the Spaniards years ago and replaced by a comparatively modern block which housed the family’s general living rooms and her aunt and uncles’ private apartments. Peering up at them from the vine-shaded coolness of the cloister, Juana could see no sign of life, but then they mostly looked out the other way, towards the ridge road and the Pleasant Valley.
The heat and the smell of burnt lavender in Mrs. Brett’s rooms took her breath away. Here, everything was as she remembered it: crimson velvet, dark in the corners, faded where the sun had struck it, dusty everywhere. Two poor relations and a waiting-woman were giggling in whispers in the anteroom, but stopped when they entered. Juana remembered them all, and did not need Jaime’s introduction to tell her who to smile at and who to kiss. But there were none of the leisurely reminiscences she had expected. ‘Mrs. Brett is waiting for you,’ said her cousin Estella.
‘She’s impatient.’ Manuela was tall and thin, with an immense Brett nose.
‘It’s the full moon.’ Estella was plump, and soft, and smelled, as she always had, of stale orris root.
‘She’s always at her worst then,’ added Manuela.
Juana had forgotten their habit of speaking in chorus. Now, as she accepted information from each in turn, it all came back to her, and with it, the very taste of childhood. How frightened she used to be when summoned, like this, to her grandmother’s presence. Well: was she not now? And, honestly: a little, she admitted to herself. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘we had best not keep her waiting.’
‘She’s in bed,’ said Manuela.
‘She aches all over,’ said Estella.
‘Of course she never admits it.’
‘But we know.’ Manuela opened the door at the far end of the room and ushered Juana into her grandmother’s presence.
If possible, it was hotter still in here, where damask curtains, drawn against the setting sun, filled the room with warm red light. The hangings on the huge four-poster were red too, and Mrs. Brett, propped up among pillows, looked like some ancient ivory statue in its shrine. She had always seemed very old to the child Juana, now she seemed beyond age, timeless.
‘You were long enough getting here!’ Mrs. Brett spoke in English, her voice deep and resonant as ever. ‘My orders were that you would leave at first light. I’m too old to be crossed, Juana.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I came as quickly as I could.’ This, to, in English and, mercifully, without a difficult word. She crossed the room as she spoke, and bent to kiss the paper-white cheek and feel the bone beneath the skin.
‘Don’t stand gawping there.’ Mrs. Brett scolded the two cousins in Portuguese. ‘You may go.’ And then in English again as the door whispered shut behind them: ‘Draw the curtains, child. I want to see you. Are you as plain as they say?’
‘Yes.’ Juana looped back the heavy damask with its golden cord and turned to face her grandmother.
‘Plain enough.’ Ruthless eyes missed nothing. ‘Not that it much matters. But this stammer: I don’t notice it.’
‘I d … d …’ Juana’s hands writhed together. She began again: ‘It’s only on some letters.’
‘And in Portuguese?’
‘Never.’
‘Well, that’s something,’ said Mrs. Brett, in
that language. ‘Bring up a chair, child; sit down. I’ll break my neck if you go on standing over me like a giraffe.’ And then, as Juana obediently pulled up a straight-backed chair, ‘You’re huge, aren’t you? Taller than I was. And they called me Atalanta in my day. But I was a beauty!’
‘And I’m not. Who wrote to you about me, ma’am?’ But she knew. It was Gair Varlow who had described her as plain. In her general fury with herself, with him, this was hardly even a last straw.
‘Who? Well, at least you’re not stupid. Why not your father?’
So many reasons. ‘Because he’d have said I was beautiful.’
The old lady’s laugh was as resonant as her voice. ‘Not at all stupid,’ she repeated. ‘You’re right of course. Poor Reginald never faced a fact in his life. But we’re wasting time. The sun’s setting already. What kind of person are you, child?’
‘What kind? What do you mean, ma’am?’
‘Don’t hedge. Tell me about yourself. Are you a coward? Can you keep your head? What would you do in the face of danger?’
‘How do I know? I’ve never faced it.’
‘No?’ How piercing the old eyes were. ‘You sang them down at Forland House. And in English too. Surely, in Portuguese, you’d be no coward.’ She seemed to be discussing it with herself. ‘You know, I suppose, that there’s talk of an invasion of Portugal.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And you weren’t afraid to come? That you might end up in a French prison?’
‘I was, a little.’
‘So why did you come?’
‘Because I was miserable at home.’
‘Good girl! I was afraid you’d say: “For your sake, grandmother.”’
‘I nearly did.’
‘Well, you’re honest, by all appearances. How did you learn that, I wonder.’
‘By watching—’ She stopped.
‘By watching your poor father, who’s not? It could work like that. Your mother was one for facing facts. You don’t remember her?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. It was the convent for her, or your father. She chose your father. If she regretted it, she never let it show. Oh yes, she had backbone, that one, for all her ill health. If you take after her … But there’s no time. You’ll have to do. I can’t manage alone any longer. And as for my family … Trust no one, Juana. Before we go any further, get that into your head. No one.’
‘That’s what Roberto said.’
‘Roberto? You’ve seen him?’
‘Yes.’ She explained quickly about their meeting. ‘They couldn’t talk long, of course, as the court was on its way to Lisbon.’
‘The court! Pah! My grandsons hangers-on to that priest-ridden cipher of a Prince Regent! Trade’s not good enough for them! Nor their family name. Brett-Alvidrar! I always thought they would help when my strength failed me. And now look at them! They hardly like to come home any more for fear of being accused of belonging to the English party. Well, they’re no great loss: bullfights, and lounging under a lady’s balcony, that’s all they’re good for. You should hear Roberto sing those Brazilian modinhas that are all the rage. And Pedro – he’s a huntsman; almost as mad for it as Carlota Joaquina herself. I’m surprised he was with Dom John: I thought he’d attached himself to his wife. After all, she’s a Spanish Princess – might be Queen if the Spanish invade instead of the French. Or along with them. Either way, God help the country. You understand what’s going on?’
‘Not precisely, ma’am.’
‘No wonder.’ The old lady snorted. ‘No one does. But something you must understand, for your own safety – and mine. Portugal’s in greater danger now, I believe, than she’s ever been since the bad old days after King Sebastian’s death. There was no King then, there’s none now. The Queen’s mad; the Prince Regent’s a well-meaning fool and his wife conspires openly against him with Spain. There’s no great man now, no Pombal to save the country. The government are a pack of fools and idlers—’ She stopped. ‘I’m talking too much, and about the wrong things. There’s no time—’ she had said it before. ‘And I don’t think so clearly as I once did. There’s so much to tell you, Juana. But, one thing; I’ve made us allies now: If you were to tell the Secret Police what I’ve said to you today, Brett or not, I’d be in prison tomorrow.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ It was the opening Juana needed. ‘But, in fact, we are allies already. I have a message for you, from Mr. Varlow. That’s why I was late. He asked me to meet him in St. Roque. He said to tell you his messenger is dead, stabbed in the street. Until he can find another he will have to come himself. He says my being here will give him a pretext.’ Had she kept the fury out of her voice? ‘He’s coming tomorrow.’
If Mrs. Brett noticed anything odd about Juana’s tone, she made no comment. ‘Stabbed? In the street? By whom?’
‘He doesn’t know. He said it might mean nothing, or everything. That we were all in danger till he knew. Grandmother, what does it all mean?’
‘Danger, as he says.’ Somewhere down in the centre of the castle, a deep bell sounded. ‘There’s not time to tell you now. That’s why I wanted you here early. But never mind, you were right to meet Mr. Varlow, though I wonder just why you did.’ And then, on a new note altogether. ‘I’m sorry, child. You’ve much to forgive me already, have you not? But this is too important. You’ll understand when I explain.’
‘I wish you would.’ Buffeted at once by anger at Gair’s betrayal and excitement at returning to the castle, Juana had hardly had time to ponder his extraordinary statement that her grandmother was a secret agent. Mrs. Brett, who had been an old woman ever since she could remember? And – what in the world could she do, out here, in the deep country, at the Castle on the Rock?
But Mrs. Brett was shaking her head. ‘Not now. You must go and meet your cipher uncles and your mad aunt and behave as if nothing was the matter. I won’t come down. I’d meant to, but I must save my strength. You do understand that I’ve trusted you with my life?’
‘I begin to. I only wish I understood why.’
‘Because I’ve no alternative. And, whatever you think of him, because Mr. Varlow advised it, and I respect his judgment. Shall I show you his letter? No, perhaps not.’
‘I don’t want to see it.’ And that was a lie.
But it pleased Mrs. Brett. ‘Good girl! I’m going to like you, Juana. I’m glad we’re to be allies. And now – run along. Eat your supper; bear with your uncles; be good to your poor aunt; and come back to me as soon as you can leave them without arousing comment. We have much to do tonight, you and I.’
‘But, grandmother—’
‘No time now. Your uncles and aunt will be waiting for you. Nothing must seem out of the way tonight of all nights. Be off with you, child; eat a good supper and rest while you can. We’ve a long night ahead of us.’
Juana found her uncles and aunt awaiting her in the big drawing room on the east side of the castle courtyard. Kissing each one dutifully in turn, she thought that time seemed to have stood still with them. Perhaps her Uncle Prospero was a little solider and her Uncle Miguel a shade gaunter, but her Aunt Elvira was exactly the girlish figure she remembered. Her cheek was soft and fragrant as ever to the kiss, her smile still as sweet and impersonal as the touch of a butterfly’s wing.
Only Juana herself had changed. She could remember finding Uncle Prospero a formidable and Uncle Miguel a sinister figure. Prospero was a scholar, who spent his days in the library working on what was to be the definitive edition of Camoens. Miguel was devout. He lived surrounded by indigent priests with whom he was to be heard day in, day out, discussing abstruse points of dogma. In the old days these activities had filled her with awe; only now, listening to Prospero as he stuffed himself with preprandial sweetmeats and held forth about the deplorable translation of Camoens’ Lusiads published by the British minister, Lord Strangford, did she realise that it was all just talk. Probably, shut up in the library, he ate more sweetmeats, a
nd slept.
As for her Uncle Miguel, even as a child she had had her doubts about his piety, having seen him look up from discussing the infinite mercy of God to ogle a maid or condemn a manservant to be beaten. She had never much liked her uncles, she realised now, and indeed it was hard to believe they were her father’s brothers, so completely Portuguese did they seem. But that, she knew, had been old Mrs. Brett’s plan. Their estates, their thriving wine trade, their entire wealth was in Portugal. Obdurately English herself, she had intended her sons to be Portuguese, and, with the exception of Reginald, she had succeeded.
Aunt Elvira put down her embroidery and rose to lead the way into the dining room. Here, too, nothing had changed. Solid family silver stood where it always had on table and sideboard; the hot air was heavy with scents of olive oil and garlic; a servant stood behind each high-backed chair, ready to pull it out when Uncle Miguel had said his elaborate Latin grace.
On his right, Elvira gazed vaguely downwards. Her own maid stood, as always, behind her chair and saw to it that she ate a few morsels from each dish. From time to time, she would smile to herself and whisper a snatch of song. She had been like this since the unlucky visit she had been sent on, as a girl, to her mother’s aristocratic connections in England. No one had ever told Juana what had happened there. Perhaps no one knew. But she had been sent back in haste, the strange creature she had remained ever since. Her brothers ignored her, as they had done for years, and, this evening, came pretty close to ignoring Juana too. They treated her, still, as the child she had been when they last saw her, and she expected that at any moment one of them would ask her if she had been a good girl and done her lessons today.
The Winding Stair Page 7
