The Winding Stair

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

  ‘The English mail’s in. Senhor Macarao brought it out with him from Lisbon. I think the Whig Government’s really going to fall at last. They’ve raised the Irish question again. No good ever came of that. God knows they have been shaky enough since Mr. Fox died, but I think this is the end.’

  ‘You meant the Tories—’

  ‘Are bound to get in. And then what will happen to Mr. Varlow?’

  ‘He’ll lose his place?’

  ‘Probably. It’s happened before, of course. One gets used to it. But I’m too old now for changes.’

  Too old, too, Juana found herself thinking, to spare a thought for what this change must mean to her. She had taken on this dangerous assignment in the first place as much for Gair Varlow as for her grandmother. And, these days, Mrs. Brett was more and more the invalid, less and less the ally. Without Gair Varlow … With a stranger … It did not bear thinking of.

  ‘You can’t stop, you know.’ The old woman could still read her thoughts. ‘They’d kill you.’

  ‘How many of them know who I am, do you think?’

  ‘Too many for safety.’ She pulled her shawl around her with hands that got more like claws every day. ‘Oh, well, you never know your luck. Maybe the new man will be someone more eligible than Mr. Varlow. And that reminds me, what do you hear from your cousin?’

  ‘He’s still searching among the wounded from Eylau.’ Juana made herself speak quietly, but felt sick with suppressed anger. More and more, these days, her grandmother struck her as heartless, inhuman, hardly a person any more. ‘He refuses to give up hope, he says.’ She made herself go on talking.

  ‘He’s a man, that one. Worth ten of the Englishman. I wish he’d come back.’ Dried-up hands plucked restlessly at the fringe of her shawl. ‘I’m worried for you, Juana. Suppose I die … Suppose Mr. Varlow goes … Write and tell your cousin I want him to come back, name or no name. No – if you don’t want to do that—’ (Had she seen Juana’s instinctive recoil?) ‘Write for my signature.’

  ‘But I don’t know where he is, ma’am. He gives no address.’ As so often, when it was a question of Vasco, she did not know whether she was glad or sorry. But her grandmother’s reaction surprised her. ‘It’s all too difficult—’ Tears spilled out of the dark-circled eyes. ‘It’s gone on too long. I don’t know what to do. I can’t even remember any more. How long is it till the meeting, Juana?’

  ‘Only six days.’

  ‘That’s good. No need to send for Mr. Varlow. We can count on his coming out afterwards to hear your report. You must ask him then what chance he thinks there is of his being replaced.’

  ‘Yes.’ Juana’s nails bit into the palms of her hands. It was all very well for her grandmother to be glad the meeting was so soon. She did not have to go down the winding stair.

  The meeting on March 23rd began like all the others. When Juana opened the secret window of her cell, the hooded figures were in their places round the table, under the huge star whose light cast long shadows behind them on the rocky floor. As usual, the leader was speaking: … ‘A new member. Is it the will of you all that he be introduced now?’

  ‘It is.’ The words buzzed round the table.

  ‘Then let him be admitted.’ The acolytes went back to reopen the big doors, but Juana was staring at the leader. Surely, tonight, for the first time, he was someone new? She thought he was both shorter and more squarely built than the man who had occupied the chair of the Star at the previous meeting.

  It was only as the acolytes returned, leading a third gowned figure between them that she remembered she should have shut the secret panel the minute they moved away from the table. Lucky for her that they had gone straight to the big door and back again. Otherwise … It did not bear thinking of. She was so shaken by her own carelessness that she missed the beginning of the ritual by which the new member was initiated as one of the Sons of the Star. When she began to notice again, he was kneeling on the bare rock across the council table from the leader, with the seat between them vacant. The two acolytes stood on either side of him, holding a rope that tied his hands and seemed also to go round his neck. His head was entirely covered by a black cloth which reminded her suddenly of the blanket the brigands had thrown over her head. She found that even in the cold cell her hands were sweating in sympathy as he repeated the horrible oaths by which he was sworn in as a Son of the Star.

  At last it was over. The two acolytes removed the covering from his head, revealing him as already wearing a hood like the others. The two members who sat on either side of the vacant chair came forward as his sponsors. One of them attached his emblem, a silver serpent, to his hood, the other took the ends of the rope from the acolytes.

  ‘Unbind his hands,’ said the leader, ‘but leave the noose about his neck to remind him of the death in life that will be his if he should betray the oaths he has taken.’ And then, as the new member took his seat directly opposite him. ‘You, Brother of the Silver Serpent, will be silent tonight, in token of your submission to the rules of the Brotherhood. Next month, you will be one of us and free to speak as the equal of anyone here. And now, Brothers, to business. I am come from Poland to bring you hope, and a message from Napoleon himself. As soon as he has disposed of the Russian threat, he means to turn his attention once more to the west. Then, Brothers, our hour will come.’

  ‘How soon?’ asked the Brother of the Silver Hand.

  ‘Who can tell, Brother? But it should not be long now, since the Russians are embroiled with the Turks as well as the French.’

  A vigorous discussion followed. The Brother of the Lion reported the fall of the Ministry of all the Talents in England and the Brother of the Silver Hand argued that they should strike at once, without waiting for French support. As usual the question of Spain was raised at this point and the upshot of it all was that the new leader agreed, rather reluctantly, to return to Poland and press their cause with Napoleon.

  ‘He didn’t much like it,’ Juana told her grandmother next day. ‘Do they often change leaders, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Mrs. Brett seemed to be thinking about something else. ‘They do change from time to time. It makes no difference. Have you thought how you are going to contrive to see Mr. Varlow alone, child?’

  ‘I expect I’ll manage somehow. Daisy and Teresa are only too helpful.’ She disliked the coy way they made excuses to leave her alone with Gair, but had to admit its usefulness.

  But this time, Gair did not come. Seven slow days dragged by with not a sign of him. ‘This is intolerable,’ Mrs. Brett said at last. ‘There’s been no message even? You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’ Anxious and restless herself, it was hard to endure her grandmother’s nervously repeated questions. ‘Shall I send for him?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you think? I’m tired, Juana. You must decide. Send me Manuela; tell her I must rest …’ Her voice trailed off. She was almost asleep already.

  Juana had never felt so lonely. Up to now, her grandmother had been the leader in their strange partnership. She had taken the decisions; Juana’s part had been to obey. Today, unmistakably, she had abdicated: ‘You must decide.’

  Daisy and Teresa were laughing together in the cloisters at the foot of Mrs. Brett’s staircase. ‘There you are, Juana. We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Luis is back from Lisbon with the mail. There’s a letter for you. Nobody writes to us.’ But Teresa’s bright glance as she said this suggested that she was sufficiently contented with her lot.

  A letter from Gair? ‘Where is it?’

  ‘And who’s it from?’ Daisy was in one of her teasing moods. ‘Tell true, Juana, who would you have it from? Mr. Varlow who neglects us so, or that mysterious cousin of yours? We long to meet him, Teresa and I. Is he really as handsome as Maria says? To listen to her, he’s Adonis himself. He’s a worker of miracles, too; that we do know. How else did he persuade the old lady to let you keep the mare? An
d receive his letters! Mamma says she was never so shocked in her life.’ Her voice was tolerant. With the advent of Pedro and Roberto, Cynthia Brett had been quietly relegated to the background of her daughters’ lives.

  Juana often felt sorry for her, but just now she had other things to think of. ‘But my letter?’ She made it casual. To show eagerness would merely encourage Daisy to prolong the torment.

  ‘First guess who it’s from!’ Daisy produced the letter from her pocket and held it up tantalisingly out of reach. Then she had a better idea and darted out into the centre of the courtyard to hold the letter over the pool where the goldfish swam. ‘Guess quick, Juana, or I’ll drop it in.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Juana was surprised at her own anger. ‘Stop playing the fool, Daisy, and give me my letter.’

  ‘Temper!’ But Daisy sounded subdued as she handed over the letter. ‘I’m sorry, Juana, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Of course not.’ The letter was from Vasco. She knew his hand-writing by now. It was dated, as the last one had been, from Eylau. He had still not found his vital witness. ‘These delays are breaking my heart,’ he wrote. ‘But not my spirit, cousin. Think of me sometimes, here in the frozen north. I think of you constantly.’ It was phrases like this that made it a relief to be unable to answer him. Or was it? Did not her helpless silence seem, somehow to be suggesting acquiescence? In each of his letters he wrote more like a lover, less like a cousin. She was not sure how she felt about this, was sure only that he was going altogether too fast for her. Sometimes she even found herself wishing her grandmother had not let her accept Sheba or receive his letters.

  ‘How is the gallant cousin?’ Daisy’s voice was a reminder of everything she disliked about the business.

  ‘Cold,’ said Juana. ‘It’s still freezing up there, he says, and the snow deep on the ground. Those poor soldiers.’

  ‘Yes, poor things.’ Daisy’s sympathy was perfunctory. Her imagination did not extend itself much beyond her own affairs. ‘But when is he coming back, Juana; does he say?’

  ‘No.’ If the monosyllable was intended as a rebuke, Daisy did not notice.

  ‘Still pursuing his quest?’ she asked. ‘I do think it’s the most romantic thing. Like Tristram, or something out of Mrs. Radcliffe.’

  Juana could not help laughing. ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t find it very romantic,’ she said. ‘He is going from one stinking sickbed to another, he says.’

  ‘Oh.’ Daisy wrinkled her pretty nose in distaste. ‘How horrid.’

  When Gair Varlow finally arrived next day, Juana did not try to conceal her relief. ‘I began to think you were never coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He answered the reproach in her voice. ‘I’ve been hoping for news from England.’

  ‘There’s none yet?’

  ‘Nothing certain. Except that the Ministry of All the Talents has fallen. That’s sure enough, I’m afraid.’

  ‘They seemed to think the Tories were bound to get in.’ When they were alone, ‘they’ invariably meant the Sons of the Star.

  ‘I’m afraid they are almost certainly right.’

  ‘What will happen to you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She could see he hated to have to admit it. ‘If you go, I go too,’ she said. ‘Tell them that. You got me out here. I won’t do it for anyone else.’

  ‘But your grandmother?’

  ‘Doesn’t care. Not about me. Not about anything, I sometimes think. Gair, sometimes I don’t trust her. It’s horrible. I don’t understand it. Of course, she’s so old.’, She was making excuses for her. She knew, too, what he was going to say next. ‘And don’t read me a lecture about patriotism either! I hope I’m a good Englishwoman, and hate Napoleon and all that kind of thing, but there are limits, and I’ve just about reached them! It begins to seem as if it would go on for ever. And now, this week, waiting for you; wondering if you’d never come, if you’d been sent home already … It was the last straw, don’t you see? Tell the people you work for that I won’t go on; not if they send you home.’ And then, furiously: ‘Gair! You’re not even listening!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He had been on the defensive ever since he had arrived. ‘I truly am. Only – I was trying to think what I should tell you.’

  ‘The truth, perhaps? It would make a change.’

  ‘Truth can be dangerous. It’s you I’m thinking of; I beg you to believe that. The less you know, the less danger you are in.’

  ‘I’m not so sure of that. Sometimes ignorance is more dangerous than anything. Oh! Here they come!’ Daisy and Teresa had been out riding when Gair arrived, so that they had been able to achieve this tête-à-tête on the seaward terrace, but now she heard the girls’ voices as they came out through the castle. ‘What is it you have to tell me? Quick!’

  ‘Just this. I have reason to hope that whatever happens I won’t be recalled. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s certain.’ He turned away from her to greet Daisy and Teresa as they emerged into the sunshine. ‘Miss Daisy! Miss Teresa! I was beginning to think you would never come.’

  They were still in their riding habits, their cheeks flushed and their golden curls becomingly ruffled from their morning ride.

  Daisy laughed. ‘You missed us, Mr. Varlow? Has Juana been telling you she’s had another letter from her handsome cousin? Your nose is quite out of joint, I can tell you. We’re all Portuguese here now. You English might as well go home to your fog and fox-hunting. There’s no future for you here.’

  ‘I hope you are wrong,’ he said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  At the April meeting of the Sons of the Star, the new Brother of the Silver Serpent spoke for the first time. His theme was caution. ‘How do we know we can trust the French?’ he asked, citing the example of Holland where what had at first seemed liberation had soon showed itself in its true colours of tyranny. ‘Surely, Brothers, we do not wish to exchange the comparatively mild rule of Dom John for that of one of Napoleon’s brothers? I say: Let us act alone, or not at all.’

  ‘I was impressed with him,’ Juana told Gair two days later. ‘He seemed to me to talk sense.’

  ‘Did he convince the others?’

  ‘He shook them, I think. At least, nothing was decided, though the Brother of the Silver Hand made one of his inflammatory speeches, calling for action at once. But I think they are waiting for the leader who was here last time – the one who has gone back to Napoleon. I think he’s the real master: the meeting seemed different when he ran it. While he’s away, I think, they’re merely marking time. They’ve actually cancelled the May and June meetings, thank God.’

  ‘Have they?’

  ‘Yes. They agreed not to meet until July, unless there’s an emergency. I can’t tell you what a relief it is.’

  ‘I’m glad. And I’ve good news for you too. I’ve heard at last from Canning, the new Foreign Minister. Nothing’s to be changed. It’s what I hoped. Strangford stays too. But it’s time we joined the others.’ They had managed a few minutes alone at the edge of the seaward terrace, defying the north wind that rattled the stiff leaves of the aloes and blew her short hair about her face.

  ‘I’d forgotten the nortada.’ She turned beside him to walk back to Daisy and Teresa who were sitting in the sun, sheltered by the retaining wall of the terrace.

  ‘It blows all summer, they say,’ he joined her in this innocuous topic.

  ‘Straight from England.’

  ‘You’re never homesick, Juana?’ Daisy came forward to meet them. ‘Myself, I don’t care if I never see England again. They can keep it all: fog, mud, roast beef …’

  ‘Even Almack’s.’ Teresa looked up from her sewing. ‘You can’t really want to go back, Juana?’

  ‘I d … d … I’m not sure.’ Sometimes she did not understand herself. But then, it was all very well for Daisy and Teresa, up here in the sunshine with the sea wind blowing. They knew nothing of the dark cavern that lay deep in the heart of the cliff. Speaking still o
nly the most rudimentary Portuguese, they were happily unaware of the currents of suspicion Juana felt always seething beneath the placid surface of life at the castle. No need for them to be listening always for some word or phrase that might betray a familiar household figure as one of the Sons of the Star. ‘I’m sorry?’ She realised, belatedly, that Daisy had said something to her.

  ‘Moonstruck!’ Daisy laughed. (And that was nearer the mark than she knew.) ‘Confess, Juana, you were miles away. In Poland, perhaps?’

  ‘Poland?’ Juana regretted it the minute she had spoken.

  ‘Isn’t that where Eylau is? And a certain cousin, who talks of coming back, and never does? But at least he writes to you. Has he named the day yet? For his return, I mean,’ she added innocently.

  ‘Of course not. It’s no affair of mine.’ She was annoyed with Daisy for raising the subject in front of Gair Varlow, angrier still because she was afraid her anger showed.

  Life at the castle was not, somehow, quite so pleasant now as it had been in the first flush of family reunion after Christmas. Cynthia Brett hated the heat and grumbled about it endlessly. Elvira hardly spoke at all, and, when she did, confined herself, disconcertingly, to octosyllabic couplets. Pedro and Roberto were still away – Pedro presumably waiting on the Spanish court’s pleasure at Madrid and Roberto in attendance on Dom John at Mafra. Missing them, Daisy and Teresa had slid back a little into the old sport of baiting their step-sister and the question of Gair and Vasco was an all-too-obvious subject for jibe and innuendo.

  It was almost a relief to Juana when Gair rode out to the castle one breathless May morning to pay a formal call of leave-taking. ‘I could not go, even for so short a time, without saying goodbye to you.’ This, with a languishing air, to Juana, was for the benefit of the family group he had found assembled in the comparative coolness of the Ladies’ Parlour.

  ‘You’re going back to England?’ Her heart plummeted. Had he been recalled after all?