Juana sighed. Could her grandmother really have forgotten that the party was a few days before the full moon? At such a time, she was hardly likely to find Gair Varlow’s company dull.
. . .
‘Don’t stoop, child!’ It was the day of the party and Juana had been helping her grandmother down the steep stairs from her room. The old lady’s voice was sharp as she went on. ‘There’s nothing shameful about being tall!’
‘No?’ Juana thought how Daisy and Teresa used to tease her.
‘No. Have some pride, can’t you? They used to twit you with it, I collect, those step-sisters of yours?’ The old lady could be disconcertingly sharp at times.
‘A little. It was my fault, I’m sure, for minding so much.’ Looking back, she saw, with surprise, that this was true. Daisy and Teresa had teased each other just as much.
Mrs. Brett had stopped in the shade of the cloister. ‘Have you ever wondered what made your aunt the poor thing she is?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll tell you. It was her brothers who began it. She was never brilliant, you understand, but a good, sweet girl whose only aim in life was to please. Her kind brothers, my Prospero and my Miguel, discovered that by teasing they could make her blush. From the blush to tears was an easy step … They were driving her crazy without knowing what they were doing. I should have stopped them, of course, but with no husband I found them hard to handle. In the end, in despair, I sent Elvira to stay with my relatives in England. I thought she would be happy there. She was miserable. By the time I understood, it was too late. She came home the poor thing she is. Do you understand what I am trying to tell you, Juana?’
‘I think so.’ She straightened her shoulders.
‘Exactly. And now’ – she moved forward into fierce sunshine – ‘let us go to this party.’
As Lord Strangford came forward to greet them, it struck Juana for the first time that the party must inevitably be conducted in English. Sweat prickled in the palms of her hands, as she tried to chart a course without ‘t’s or ‘d’s through the hazard of the introductions. Lord Strangford was surprisingly young, auburn-haired and blue-eyed and bubbling with Irish charm. She found she did not like him. Lord St. Vincent, on the other hand, grizzled and tanned by years at sea, struck her as the kind of father one would have liked to have had. What a fine quarter-deck sanity he would have brought to one’s miseries.
Misery? Lord Strangford had given one arm to her grandmother and the other to her and was leading them into the cool, tiled saloon where wine and sweetmeats were being served. ‘I’m delighted to meet you at last, Miss Brett. My Mr. Varlow says you are the new Catalini. Perhaps, later on, you will give us a song?’
She had not sung in public since that night at Forland House. Could she? In English? She simply did not know. ‘I’ll d … d …’ Idiotic not to have foreseen the hazards of the phrase ‘do my best.’
Mrs. Brett interrupted her. ‘My granddaughter will be delighted to sing for you. Those modinhas, perhaps, Juana, that you were singing to your cousin the other day? As a student of the Portuguese arts, Lord Strangford would be interested, I am sure. They are charming, don’t you find, my lord, the melancholy Portuguese love-songs?’
‘Miss Brett!’ Gair Varlow appeared, every inch the lover, at her elbow. ‘Let me give you a glass of this carcavelos wine and congratulate you on your Portuguese glow. You were made for sunshine, I can see.’
‘I was so pale and pitiful in England?’ She loathed this charade.
‘Never pitiful, Miss Brett. A snowdrop, perhaps …’
‘Drooping on its stalk?’ At least, since he was as tall as herself, she could hold herself up and look him in the eye.
He had been moving them, little by little, so that she was in a corner and he facing her with his back to the room. Now, bending toward her with a lover’s eagerness, he said, very low: ‘Miss Brett, I hate it quite as much as you do.’ Then went on, louder: ‘Or a lily, perhaps, the fleur de lis, queen of flowers? But now, a flower of the sun: the sunflower, the marigold …’
‘A poppy, maybe?’ Suddenly, it was simply a game the two of them could play. A game like chess?
‘The rose, Miss Brett. The rose of England. And, now, before you sing for us, let me show you Lord Strangford’s garden.’
This was daring. No Portuguese young lady would think of strolling alone with a young man. Did she care? She thought not. Gair Varlow had taken her arm to steer her back to where her grandmother and Lord Strangford were discussing the poetry of Mr. Pope.
He seized his chance when Mrs. Brett paused after quoting her favourite passage from The Rape of the Lock: ‘My Lord – Mrs. Brett: may I have your permission to take Miss Brett for a turn on the terrace before she sings for us?’
‘Outside?’ Mrs. Brett could be very much the great lady when she chose. ‘Alone?’
‘This is an English party, ma’am,’ intervened Lord Strangford. ‘Surely English customs can prevail? As for Mr. Varlow, I’d trust him with my own daughter.’
‘If you had one,’ said Mrs. Brett. ‘But it’s true, I’ve lived so long in Portugal I tend to forget our healthy English customs. So, run along, child, before I remember where we are.’
‘Lord, she’s clever.’ Gair Varlow waited to speak until they were well out of earshot of the house. ‘Do you see what she’s doing?’ He lapsed in Portuguese. ‘She’s establishing that we can be alone together. I was wondering how she would work it. You can’t very well report to me with your Aunt Elvira listening. Frankly, I’m never quite sure just how mad she really is.’
‘I know what you mean. There’s something north-north-west about it.’
‘Precisely. “When the wind is southerly, she knows a hawk from a handsaw.”’ And then, turning to face her in a paved space between well-trimmed myrtle hedges. ‘I’m sorry you find this so disagreeable.’
Now she found she could laugh about it. ‘It must be quite as bad for you, Mr. Varlow. We’ll just have to make the best of it until you discover another messenger. What hopes have you?’
‘Not many. Things have reached such a point here that no one can be trusted. What with Dom John’s party and his wife’s; the Catholics and the madmen who believe the French talk about liberty and equality …’ He moved a little nearer to her and took a quick look up and down the deserted terrace. ‘Not to mention the Sons of the Star. I hear you’ve had a demonstration of their kind of vengeance. I can’t tell you how sorry I am you had such an unpleasant experience, but I hope it has taught you to take them seriously.’
‘Seriously! If it were not for my cousin, I doubt if I’d be in a position to take anything seriously now. But how did you come to hear?’ She was oddly disappointed at having her story forestalled. She had meant to work it into the conversation so casually …
‘Of course I heard. Lord Strangford was bound to, since it concerned an Englishwoman, and you must give me credit, Miss Brett, for some concern for you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘This cousin of yours who rescued you. Tell me about him. Is he to be trusted, do you think?’
‘Trusted? He saved my life.’
‘Yes, but who is he? I’ve managed, so far, to find out nothing about him.’
‘I suppose not. He grew up in France, you see, and has only just come back.’
‘France? I don’t much like the sound of that.’
She laughed. ‘Poor Mr. Varlow. How tedious it must be to trust no one. My poor cousin! I suppose I had better explain to you. He has quite other things to think of than your all-important politics.’ It made her angry to find herself blushing as she explained Vasco’s circumstances to Gair. ‘He’s gone to Lisbon now,’ she concluded, ‘to find someone he hopes can prove his parents’ marriage.’
‘And then?’
‘He says he’ll come back. I hope he does. I’m bored to death out there at the castle. It’s just as well I’ve not had to count on you for company, Mr. Varlow. I thought you were to p
ay me constant court?’ Why had the fact of Vasco made it so much easier to deal with Gair?
‘I’m sorry. And you’re right. I do owe you an apology. But you must see that so long as St. Vincent’s been here there’s remained a chance that he might put that mad kidnapping plan of his into execution. But the crisis is over now, thank God. I shall be free to play my part again. So long as Lord Strangford continues at Sintra it will be the most natural thing in the world for a love-lorn swain to ride constantly to the Castle on the Rock.’
‘I shall look forward to it.’ Her mocking note was just right. ‘And you’ll be riding over?’
‘Why, yes.’
‘Then I shall persuade my grandmother to let me ride out with you as I did with my cousin.’ She turned away to pick a sweet-scented sprig of jasmine.
‘You will be thought a very unusual young lady by the Portuguese.’
‘I don’t care. You know how they treat their own young women? Shut up, almost as if in a harem; allowed to giggle in the shadows when there are visitors, but not to appear. It’s no wonder if they have not a thought in their heads, save of food and dress.’
‘And religion.’
‘Yes, but what does it mean to them? They play with religion as children do with their dolls. Oh – I’m not being fair, I suppose, but I’d forgotten what it’s like. Or maybe I never knew. I was a child when I left here, with a child’s freedom.’
‘Miss Brett, I’m sorry.’
‘No need to be. Don’t think I’m not glad I came. My grandmother needs me. It’s the first time in my life that anyone has.’ They had reached the end of the paved walk and she bent for a minute to gaze down into the tumbling stream it led to, then turned to face him. ‘It’s time we went back to her. But, first, since we must see so much of each other, promise me that you will never feel in the slightest degree responsible for me.’
‘But how can I help it?’
‘That’s your problem.’ She turned away and walked swiftly back toward the house.
The party was in full swing now, the rooms crowded with people and echoing with a babble of talk in two languages. Juana paused in the doorway, her eyes dazzled from the bright sunshine, and Gair Varlow paused beside her. ‘It’s such a small thing to beg.’ His voice was the lover’s again, and he spoke as if he had been begging thus all the time. ‘The flower you are going to throw away would be my most treasured possession. I should wear it next to my heart.’ And he laid a hand on the blue superfine that covered that improbable organ.
‘Your heart, Mr. Varlow? Have you one?’
‘I had. Till I met you.’ This with a languishing glance that irritated more than it amused her.
Did he recognise this? At all events, he was suddenly the perfect secretary again. ‘Miss. Brett, the Princess is here. May I have your permission to ask leave to present you?’
It seemed very complicated. ‘If you wish,’ she said. And then, puzzled. ‘But where?’
‘The Princess? Over there, talking to Lord Strangford.’
‘Good gracious.’ Dom John’s wife, the Spanish Princess Carlota Joaquina, was one of the ugliest women Juana had ever seen. Short and thick-set, she had bad teeth, bloodshot eyes and coarse frizzy hair. And as if that was not enough, she had chosen to attend Lord Strangford’s party in a man’s green hunting jacket and a green cloth petticoat short enough to show her stocky ankles.
‘It’s a great honour that she should choose to come.’ Gair’s voice held a warning. ‘She is a neighbour of Lord Strangford’s, you know. She lives mostly at her quinta of Ramalhao here in Sintra and has come in, like a neighbour, incognito. You’ll excuse me? I must pay my respects and ask her permission to present you.’
‘Must I?’
‘I think so.’ And then, reverting to the lover’s voice: ‘But, first, must I beg again, on my knees perhaps?’
‘For goodness sake, don’t.’ She twisted the sprig of jasmine between her fingers. ‘It’s beginning to droop already, poor thing.’ She watched with irritation as he made a business of tucking it in his buttonhole, then bowed and turned away.
‘Juana!’ The furious voice made her spill the drink she held.
‘Pedro! You made me jump.’ She had minded, a little, that neither Pedro nor Roberto had visited the Castle on the Rock since she had arrived, and now held out her hands in warm greeting. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘I wish I could say the same to you. What in the world are you doing here?’
‘I came with my grandmother.’
‘Mrs. Brett? She’s here?’
‘Don’t look so cross, Pedro. I know Portuguese young ladies don’t go out much, but do try to remember I’m not really Portuguese.’ And then, aware that this merely made him angrier. ‘After all, this is an English party.’
‘So much the worse.’ They were talking low, in Portuguese.
‘Oh, Pedro! It’s all over now. The French army is half way across Europe and we can all breathe again. Anyway, what are you doing here?’ Anything to change the conversation.
‘I’m in attendance, of course. You don’t think I’d have come here of my own accord?’
She laughed angrily. ‘And I deluded myself that you had come to see me! But of course, if you think I ought to be mewed up in the castle, like a nun …’
‘A nun! That is not at all what you made me think of when I saw you flirting with that hanger-on of Lord Strangford’s. Yes: I saw you come in from the garden with him; and give him the flower you were carrying! I’m glad to see that at least you have the grace to blush.’
‘If I am, it’s with anger. What right have you—’ She stopped. ‘We must not quarrel here. You’re in attendance, you said?’
‘On the Princess, my mistress.’
‘But I thought—’
‘A lot of nonsense, just like a woman. You would say’ (he lowered his voice) ‘that because you met me the last time in the train of the Prince Regent I must serve him. In fact, Roberto serves Dom John and I his wife. Unfortunately’ (lower than ever) ‘they are not at the moment, on good terms.’
She could not help a smile for the understatement. Everyone knew that Carlota Joaquina had recently tried to persuade her father, the King of Spain, to help her get her husband declared unfit to rule, so that she could take his place. Everyone knew, too, that, having failed, she had been reduced to a kind of voluntary retirement at her quinta of Ramalhao. ‘Yes.’ she said: ‘I did hear something of the kind.’
‘Quite so. But they know their duty to the country. They must keep in touch, must meet for ceremonial occasions. They find it convenient to have Roberto and me to act as messengers between them. He serves the Prince; I serve the Princess. We both serve Portugal.’
‘Most creditable.’ It seemed a long time since they had played Blind Man’s Buff in the courtyard of the Castle on the Rock.
‘Where is our grandmother?’ He was hardly paying attention to her. ‘It is not suitable that you should be talking alone, even to me.’
‘She was with Lord Strangford.’ And then, at his impatient exclamation. ‘After all, he is our host. And a very charming one.’ She knew it would enrage him.
It did. ‘That popinjay! I warn you, Juana, steer clear of him. It’s bad enough to be giving flowers to his servant. But Strangford! A liar and a loose fish: writes improper letters to Lord Rosslyn and then boasts about them. I tell you, I don’t like to see you in his house.’
‘Or be here yourself? But how well informed you are, Pedro.’ A curious, horrid idea had been growing in her mind as they talked. It was what he had said about women that started it – something about it not being their place to think. It had sounded disconcertingly like the kind of thing the Sons of the Star said. Could he be one of them?
‘Well informed?’ He took her up on it. ‘Nonsense. Everyone knows that. The trouble about you English is that you have no sense. You think you are above comment.’
‘I’m glad that at least you admit I am English.’
&n
bsp; This was too much. He held out his arm, ceremonious courtesy masking rage. ‘Let me take you to our grandmother.’
‘But Mr. Varlow wants to present me to the Princess.’
‘Varlow! Nonsense! I will present you, cousin, if that is your wish.’
‘I never said it was.’ But she submitted to the presentation with a good grace and was surprised to find herself liking the ugly, forthright woman who plunged at once into a series of the most personal questions. Juana was a stranger in Portugal like herself. Was she happy? Was she homesick? And then, suddenly: ‘Hullo! What’s happening?’ She looked past Juana with the easy rudeness of the great.
Turning too, Juana saw that a young naval officer had come dustily into the room and was making the quickest way manners allowed toward Lord St. Vincent.
‘Despatches,’ said Carlota Joaquina. ‘They must be important ones. Come along, child; you’re English; you have a right to know.’
Lord St. Vincent had glanced quickly over his letter and now held up a hand for silence. Since most eyes had been upon him already, there was an instant hush in the room, so that Juana could hear the shrilling of crickets outside.
‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’ St. Vincent spoke across the crowd to Strangford. ‘I’m sorry to break up your party, but Fox is dead.’
‘God rest his soul.’ The Princess’s strident voice rose above a little hurricane of exclamation and comment. And then, to Juana. ‘He was one of your Whigs, was he not? Will this mean a change of government, do you think? The Admiral looks sick enough.’
‘Yes,’ Juana said. ‘I think everyone loved Mr. Fox.’ She was thinking about Gair Varlow. He was Fox’s man. What would happen to him now?
Looking around, she could see that the same kind of question was in the minds of all the English. They were not only mourning the death of a great man; they were wondering, every one of them, how it would affect them personally. The party broke up almost at once, with a mixture of condolences and thanks for Lord Strangford, who had already declared his intention of riding back to Lisbon that night. Of course, Gair Varlow would go with him, and Juana was afraid, for a moment, that in the general confusion he would not manage even to say goodbye.
The Winding Stair Page 13
