Blue Hills of Sintra

by Anne Hampson

  ‘You definitely want to marry her?’

  ‘There is nothing on earth I want more,’ he answered fervently. Eleanor said nothing; she was waiting for his response to words she had spoken earlier and he began to tell her that, when Miguel had said he was taking Carlota to her aunt, he had suspected that it was in order to conceal some disgrace. When Eleanor interrupted to ask why he should have reached a conclusion like this he said, a spasm of pain vibrating through his words, ‘It was due to something Miguel’s wife said— But I must tell you the rest first; this other will come in its place.’ Eleanor leant back as he continued to speak, amazed at the complete lack of restraint between the Visconde and herself. As he said, it was as if they had known each other far longer than a mere three hours or so. She listened intently, and heard how, having decided on the reason for Carlota’s being taken away, he waited to see what would happen and when Miguel let it be known among his friends and acquaintances that he was taking his sister to London for a holiday he immediately guessed that she was to enter a nursing home there. ‘The time was about right, you see,’ he added, colouring again. ‘When I heard about you, I knew your role was in the nature of protectress—a role grossly neglected by Miguel’s late wife,’ he added bitterly, his eyes blazing for a second before shadowing again. ‘I somehow concluded that you were a nurse at this hospital, and that it was because you were in the secret that Miguel had decided to offer you the post of companion to Carlota. ’

  ‘I was in the secret.’ She went on to tell him how this came to be, continuing by explaining just sufficient to put him in the picture. He then asked, with a difficulty that could only be described as painful,

  ‘What happened to the baby? Was it adopted?’

  ‘It died, Sanches,’ replied Eleanor quietly, and then, after a long pause, ‘You’re willing to overlook this, apparently?’

  ‘I love Carlota dearly. Also, I know for sure that this wasn’t her fault. She was a mere child, Eleanor—she still is, and still innocent in my eyes.’ He glanced up on noticing that Miguel and Inez had gone over to the piano. ‘I expect we are to dance. They are looking for my sister’s favourite fado.’ He continued after this interruption, going on to tell Eleanor how he and Carlota used to see a good deal of each other because Miguel came up here more often, with his wife. He knew Carlota liked him and hoped that when she was older she would fall in love with him. ‘I should have approached her brother sooner,’ he added with deep regret. ‘But she was always so very young for her age and at fifteen she was still a little girl. Miguel had to go away, naturally, as he has other quintas, but he thought that Dora was taking care of Carlota. Instead, she was—’ Sanches stopped and a frown clouded his brow. ‘Dora did not do her duty,’ he said after what was clearly an interlude of word re-phrasing. ‘It was she who introduced Carlota to Lourenco, a good-for-nothing who, I am fully convinced, received a very large sum of money from Miguel to induce him to leave Portugal and go to live in the south of France. It is my belief also that he still receives money regularly from Miguel, and will continue to do so.’

  ‘Miguel had to buy his silence?’

  ‘That is so. The man’s a scamp. He was employed by Dora’s father—now deceased—and that’s how Dora got to know him. It was a strange relationship—’ Again Sanches pulled himself up, but he seemed unrepentant at having put suspicions of the nastiest kind into his listener’s mind.

  ‘You said that it was Dora who gave you the idea that— that all was not well with Carlota?’ Aware now of the most concentrated and frowning regard of Dom Miguel, who was still by the piano but had left the searching through of the music to Inez, Eleanor felt she ought to bring this conversation with Sanches to an end. He and she had been speaking so quietly, their heads together at times, that it suddenly occurred to her that the Conde might not be pleased.

  ‘She saw one day that I was in love with Carlota, because I was scowling when I noticed her go off walking with this

  Lourenco, and, laughing in a way she had, Dora said, “Poor Sanches! Better forget her, though. You wouldn’t want her now—neither you nor anyone else! ” And the way she looked—’ Sanches’ brow became damp and he brushed a hand across it, then brought out a handkerchief and dabbed it for a second or two before continuing, ‘I knew, Eleanor, by the way Dora looked! She hated Carlota, but was always so very careful not to let her husband know this.’

  Hated... How could anyone hate the lovely child who, even now, seemed to be possessed of a virginal innocence and charm that was accentuated by the dress she wore? Of billowing layers of lilac tulle, it seemed to guard her curves even while allowing them to be sedately revealed. Sanches was speaking again despite the intruding strains of the Fado of the Mansos which Inez was now playing.

  ‘You will help me, Eleanor? But yes, I know you will.’

  A lingering silence ensued; for Eleanor it was the hesitation of necessity, not of doubt, since there was no question of her refusing to help Sanches. But what of her own position once Carlota was married? Dom Miguel had expressed the hope that she would make her home with him and Carlota permanently, but that was when he had been convinced that his sister would never marry. The situation was now changed, and Eleanor accepted the fact that she would have to leave and return to England. Leave—Her eyes sought the aristocratic figure of the Conde, and a sudden tightness caught at her throat, painful and persistent no matter how hard she swallowed to remove it. Never to see him again. Somehow it seemed quite impossible that this should be so— and yet it could not possibly be otherwise. She and Carlota would correspond, but Eleanor couldn’t foresee any visits taking place between them. Her lip quivered quite unconsciously and she noticed the slight frown that creased her employer’s brow. He was puzzled, she could tell, as his eyes moved from her to the man sitting beside her on the

  couch.

  ‘I should like to help you,’ she told the Visconde at last, but added that at present she could see no way in which this could be done. ‘I’ll think about it carefully,’ she promised, ‘and I’m sure something will present itself to me.’

  He smiled then, and the shadows left his face.

  ‘You’re kind, and you shall have my everlasting gratitude if you do help us—’ He glanced up, into the face of his host who was looking at him with a very odd expression.

  ‘Would you dance with me, Eleanor?’ Dom Miguel spoke with quiet courtesy, but there was a glint in his grey eyes which sent a tingle of apprehension running along Eleanor’s spine. Had he guessed at their conversation? she wondered. But no ... he would assume that Sanches would keep his own counsel—and in any case, as he had been refused his request to court Carlota it would seem most unlikely to Miguel that he would mention this to someone who in effect was a total stranger.

  The Conde’s arms were open and within seconds Eleanor was whirled away into the centre of the room, carried by the long graceful strides of her partner. Armchairs were moved and another couple got up—Clara and Andre Garcia, and then Sanches and Carlota. Eleanor watched them, unconsciously twisting her head to do so.

  ‘You appear to be excessively interested in Carlota ... and her partner.’ The smooth, accented voice was, to Eleanor’s ears, distinctly unfriendly, resulting in a sudden dejection descending on her despite the undeniable thrill she experienced by being in Dom Miguel’s arms.

  ‘The Visconde and I have been chatting,’ was all she could find to say.

  ‘So I observed,’ with a subtle pointedness which clearly invited Eleanor to supplement her brief statement. Should she reveal the whole story? No. Her rejection was instantaneous. She must find a more subtle way of helping the couple.

  ‘He is a most charming young man, though a little diffident,’ she vouchsafed at last, and although she kept her head averted she knew instinctively that her partner’s mouth had tightened. What was he thinking? Perhaps, she thought with a little gasp as the idea struck her, he was putting an altogether wrong interpretation on that little scene on the couch. B
ut surely not! For one thing, the Visconde was a little younger than Eleanor, and for another, he had given Dom Miguel to understand that he loved his sister. Eleanor’s eyes sought the couple again; Carlota had her head against Sanches’ shoulder and seemed unable to look up, into his eyes. He was talking, and she nodded several times but still refused to meet her partner’s eyes.

  ‘So you found the Visconde charming?’ Dom Miguel’s voice broke into Eleanor’s reflections and she raised her head. His gaze was following the couple, but suddenly he shot his partner a swift all-examining glance. ‘Many young girls have found him attractive, I believe.’ Stiff the tone and edged with something indefinable yet disturbing. It was almost as if he resented Eleanor’s pronouncement that the Visconde was charming.

  ‘I expect many girls have found him charming,’ agreed Eleanor in her quiet, pleasantly-modulated voice. ‘But the Visconde himself... ? Does he bother very much with these girls?’ Her inquiry was made in faintly breathless tones; she failed to seize the fact that this could quite easily be misconstrued.

  ‘As I don’t visit my quinta here very often,’ replied the Conde in cool dispassionate tones, ‘I am not in a position to say.’

  Completely discouraged by his manner, Eleanor fell silent, following where her tall distinguished partner led, and because in her sudden dejection she kept her eyes on the lapel of his jacket, she failed to notice the interest of the other couples in the room. Even Sanches was saying what an

  arresting spectacle they made, Carlota was to tell Eleanor later.

  The piano stopped and the waltz ended. Dom Miguel dropped his hands but stood for a second or two looking into Eleanor’s face, his own features an unreadable mask. But quite unexpectedly a reluctant smile broke; it found an instant response in the gentle curving of Eleanor’s lips ... and as this smile fluttered she saw the muscles contract at the side of his jaw. He seemed quite unable to take his eyes off her, and quite oblivious of everyone else in the room. It was a hushed, profound interlude, fleeting yet leaving something so endurable that its memory was to remain with Eleanor for the rest of her life.

  For during those few seconds there came to her that which she no longer could deny... The admission that she was irrevocably in love with her exalted employer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Inevitably the conversation between her and Sanches occupied Eleanor’s mind for a long time after it had taken place. In fact, it kept her awake far into the night, her thoughts occupied first by one revelation the Visconde had made and then by another. At one moment she would have on her mind only the problem of Sanches and Carlota, and she would understand how Dom Miguel felt, and why he had dismissed the young nobleman’s appeal. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep secret his sister’s misconduct and his pride would not allow of a situation where he would be forced to make a confession of Carlota’s guilt. This attitude was taken merely owing to the assumption that the secret was confined to three people: himself, Carlota, and Eleanor—apart from the aunt with whom Carlota had stayed, and who did not count, as she lived the life of a recluse and spoke to no one. Had Dom Miguel known that Sanches was also in the secret, and was willing to marry Carlota in spite of her having had the child,

  then obviously there would be no problem at all. As this had occurred to Eleanor before the break-up of the dinner-party, she had sought out Sanches and suggested that he write to Dom Miguel mentioning, very tactfully, that he was aware there might be a good reason for the Conde’s refusing to allow his suit, but that he dearly loved Carlota and whatever had happened in the past was of no interest to him.

  ‘It’s simple after all,’ she had added, feeling happy at her swift discovery of a solution to the problem.

  ‘It seems simple,’ he had replied. ‘But you see, Eleanor, Miguel will insist on knowing how I learned about Carlota. He worshipped his wife; he deeply mourns her loss and cherishes her memory. I cannot tell him that she laughed in my face and as good as told me that Carlota was expecting a child by the rogue Lourenco, that she told me to forget about Carlota because neither I nor anyone else would want her now.’ Sanches shook his head. ‘I had already thought of this writing of a letter to Miguel, but dismissed the idea immediately. ’

  Eleanor frowned, owning that there was much in what Sanches said, but reminding him that Miguel must have been aware of his wife’s shortcomings regarding the protecting of Carlota. Eleanor knew without doubt that this was so, as Carlota had spoken of the quarrel between her brother and his wife, but naturally Eleanor refrained from disclosing her knowledge to Sanches.

  ‘He did realize that Dora had failed in her duty— there was proof of it—and I expect, knowing Miguel, that Dora would be in real trouble for a time. But even such serious lapses cannot kill love, and when his wife died he would forget anyway, and forgive. One does not speak ill of the dead, Eleanor, especially to the grief-stricken husband of the dead person. No, I cannot spoil his memories.’

  ‘You really believe he’s grief-stricken?’ What was she desiring in his reply? Eleanor had asked herself. And yet she knew—knew that she wanted Sanches to say the grief might be fading, that Miguel might by now be getting over his wife’s death. But this was not so; the fact that he could not bear the sight of Dora’s portrait proved that the wound was

  still wide open.

  ‘He manages to hide his feelings very well, because dignity would not allow for anything else. But it is a known fact that he worshipped his wife. It couldn’t be otherwise, as she was the most beautiful woman any of us had ever seen. She hated Carlota for her youth—certainly not her beauty, lovely as Carlota is. Dora was thirty-five, you see, a year younger than Miguel.’

  So that was that. The problem loomed as large as ever; Eleanor pondered over it, trying to find a solution, but gradually the image of the Conde’s wife intruded, insistent, overlapping and finally eclipsing the main problem as in the darkness the character of the woman unfolded itself into something distinctly objectionable. Sanches had hinted at infidelity ... at a ‘strange relationship’ with one of her late father’s employees. This man she had introduced to an innocent child of fifteen, then left the pair in each other’s company even though she knew her husband was trusting her to take care of Carlota. And when tragedy had overtaken Carlota she had laughed on hinting about it to the man who, she knew, was in love with the girl—the Visconde Teixeira Goncalo Sanches de Cavaleiro, eminently suited to be the husband of a girl with Carlota’s exalted connections. She had been jealous of the girl’s youth.

  It was abundantly clear that the woman had been totally unworthy of a man like Dom Miguel—unworthy both of his position and his love. It seemed inconceivable that he could love her, for surely he must over and over again have had illustrations of her real character, no matter how cleverly she might often hide it. Carlota had kept from him the fact of her sister-in-law’s dislike, so perhaps Dora had in fact managed to keep her true character successfully hidden from him.

  ‘She must have done,’ whispered Eleanor to herself, drowsy and yet unable to catch the thread of sleep, ‘for otherwise he could not possibly have loved her to distraction, as appears to have been the case.’

  It was almost dawn before she slept ... and the final image to remain with her was not that of any of the people who had kept her awake. It was that of her employer, standing in the centre of the drawing-room, looking down at her with that unfathomable expression, his jaw muscles contracting, his entire attention with her so that he seemed unaware of anyone else in the room.

  Carlota was having her breakfast in bed, Dom Miguel told Eleanor when she entered the room in which the meal was being served.

  ‘She sent word down—lazy child! But you...?’ He suddenly noticed the shadows under Eleanor’s eyes. ‘Haven’t you slept?’ he added anxiously.

  She shook her head, taking up her napkin and unfolding it.

  ‘I expect it was the excitement of the evening,’ she said, managing a thin smile. ‘It was wonderful.’
/>   His eyes kindled strangely.

  ‘The excitement kept you awake? Thoughts are what usually keep people awake.’

  She flushed a little.

  ‘Yes, it was thoughts. They—they were troublesome—’ She stopped, darting him a glance. Why on earth had she said a thing like that?

  ‘The Visconde?’ he inquired suavely, a distinct edge to his voice. Eleanor blinked at him. What sort of a mood was this? He looked angry, and the hand holding his knife was tightly closed.

  ‘Dom Miguel,’ she ventured after a rather timid hesitation, ‘I am not attracted to the Visconde, if that is what you are implying.’ She glanced down at her plate, half expecting a word of censure for daring to speak to him in that way.

  ‘Would you pour my coffee?’ was all he said for the moment, and she obeyed, although the hand holding the pot trembled. She was unable to steady it and as the coffee threatened to spill over Dom Miguel reached across the table and took it from her.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ he declared, returning the pot to its silver stand and then helping himself to sugar. ‘You are not looking at all well this morning. ’

  She swallowed hard. This concern gave pain when it should have given pleasure. How could she have been such a fool as to allow herself to care for a man so utterly beyond her reach as the Conde Ramiro Vicente Miguel de Castro? She could almost have laughed at her stupidity had her heart not been so heavy and her mind laden with the weight of the unhappiness of others as well as her own. It was not often she resorted to the relief of tears, but Eleanor was almost on the verge of them now and she did wonder if it were advisable to excuse herself and leave the table, just to ensure she didn’t make a fool of herself and embarrass the Conde at the same time.

  ‘If I’m appearing to be off colour,’ she said at last, ‘it’s as I said, the result of lack of sleep.’

  ‘I suggested something was wrong,’ he reminded her with an inflection in his tone which was in effect a command. ‘You would like to talk to me about it?’