by Anne Hampson
So much for her efforts at control; so much for the determination to keep from him her feelings. No pretence would now undo what was done, she thought wryly. But did it matter? Miguel was not the man to kiss her like that unless he cared. The thought of his wife naturally crossed her mind, and she did wonder that he could give his attention to another woman so soon after her death, especially as it was firmly assumed that he was secretly mourning her loss. But Eleanor was only human and she was in love with the handsome Conde; she therefore put the beautiful Dora away, out of her consciousness, and when yet again he masterfully tilted her chin and demanded her lips, she gave them gladly, responding even when his gentleness had progressed to ardour so strong that she was swept into a maelstrom of temptation and desire. Breathless when at last she was released, she could only stand there, close to him, and intimate, and stare into his grey eyes, her mouth quivering, and warm from his kisses. He smiled down at her, his hands resting lightly on her arms, his features softened by the translucent, unfolding light as the drowsy moon emerged from the filigree of summer cloud, into the open sky.
‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said softly, ‘and very, very sweet. Stay that way, my dear ... always stay that way.’ Eleanor gave a start as these last words were uttered, for they rose from the very depths of him, carried on a trembling sigh that was totally at variance with his innate superiority and confidence, and his strength.
‘I’ll never change,’ she whispered in response, driven to voice words she knew he wished to hear. And she added, when the lengthy silence at last became oppressive, ‘I’m not a changeable kind of person.’
Miguel looked at her long and hard, an unfathomable expression on his face. At last he said, a harshness creeping into his voice,
‘We all believe that—but we do change, nevertheless.’
His change of voice hurt and it must have showed, for his face softened again and a smile appeared. ‘No, Eleanor, you’ll not change,’ he murmured, soothingly as if placating a child. ‘There’s a steadfastness about you that made an immediate impression on me. You’ll be constant to your husband.’
She glanced swiftly at him, but his face was an unreadable mask. Did he care? she asked herself, terribly afraid that she might be mistaken, and he had kissed her merely as a diversion, and because of the pleasant day they’d spent together. Was his heart still captive to the memory of his lost wife? If so, would it remain captive for ever? This had happened before, many times, and such was Miguel’s character that Eleanor could very well imagine his being faithful to Dora right to the very end of his life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Just over a week after their return to the Palacio Eleanor found herself with an afternoon entirely free, Carlota having decided to take a siesta and Miguel having gone into Lisbon on business. The garden tempted and Eleanor took a book on to the lawn. But it lay idle on her lap, as she reclined there, on a chair, drowsily contemplating the scenery—the colourful terraced gardens flaunting exotic flowers, the lovely Fountain of the Mermaids, and the stream meandering about before disappearing into the wooded park. Beyond the park rose the craggy mountain range, presenting a picture of untamed romantic grandeur as its escarpments swept down across the coastal plain to the sea. On the summits castles or palaces stood gauntly outlined against a clear metallic sky, while the gentler lower slopes and foothills certainly brought to mind the fact that Sintra had once been called ‘this fertile Eden’.
Sighing contentedly, Eleanor picked up her book, but her dreamy gaze was on the house, fully appreciative of the elegance of style and structure. The granite facade shone in the sunshine, the long verandah, profusely decorated with blue and white azulejos, was also a spectacle of floriated colour which was reflected in the three huge windows of the crimson drawing-room behind it. Eleanor’s eyes moved, higher, and suddenly she went taut. Julia was at the window of Dora’s room, staring into the garden, and on impulse Eleanor opened her book and to all appearances became immersed in it. But surreptitiously she darted a glance from under her lashes. Julia had moved but reappeared at another window. She could be up there cleaning out the room, mused Eleanor—but decided this was not the case. Nerve-ends tingled as the idea of a mystery loomed before Eleanor’s vision again. What should she do? Instinct urged her to find some tactful way of imparting her suspicions to Miguel, but the next moment she was querying what those suspicions were, and she found no answer. She had seen Julia with the mink coat, taking it from her former mistress’s room—but as
Eleanor had already admitted, there was probably a perfectly legitimate reason for removing it. Then there was the couple in the park; she, Eleanor, suspected that the woman might be Julia, but she hadn’t the merest thread of a clue on which to base that suspicion. And now... The fact that Julia was at the window meant absolutely nothing. The room, like any other in the house, had to be cleaned.
Somehow, Eleanor’s suspicions remained and, impelled by some force she could not understand, for she had always been the sort of person to mind her own business, she went into the house half an hour later and mounted the stairs. Coming to a halt outside the door of the room in question, she listened, one eye on the stairs. All was silent; not a sound anywhere and, gently turning the ornate silver-gilt knob, Eleanor pushed the door open. The room was empty and she entered, closing the door behind her, her eyes automatically flitting to the communicating door, her heart leaping as she did so. If Miguel should happen to open it—But he was out, she reminded herself sternly. No need for this mad pulsation of heart and nerves.
For a long moment she stood there, just inside the door, her eyes sweeping the beautiful room and coming to rest, quite naturally, on the box in which she had placed the diamond clip. And, quite naturally, she moved over to it and lifted the lid, a little gasp escaping her as she saw that not only had the clip disappeared, but also a gold and sapphire bracelet which had lain on a pad of white velvet. Her blood seemed to freeze as the idea became rooted that the girl was stealing. Stealing ... and passing the treasures to an accomplice? It would seem like it. Yes, Eleanor was now very sure that this was what was taking place, and once again she asked herself what she must do. How could she drop a hint to Miguel without creating a situation whereby questions must inevitably ensue? It was not possible, and yet she felt in duty bound to do something about the matter.
‘I can’t,’ she murmured instantly, ‘not without revealing
my own interference.’
Having stood there turning the situation over in her mind for a long while, she at last left the room. But her footsteps seemed to take over, guiding her towards the smaller stairway leading up into the attics. She made no pretence about wanting to look upon the portrait of Miguel’s late wife and after entering one of the rooms and finding nothing more than old trunks and suitcases, and a few items of furniture covered with dust, she moved along the passage and entered the room next door. She saw at once that this was where the portrait would be, as there were many pictures in frames leaning against the walls. The one she sought was there, right at the front, and, as if handling something hot, Eleanor tilted it, then moved away, gasping as she did so, her eyes wide and disbelieving as, coming to a halt, she stared, fascinated, at the sheer beauty of the face that looked back at her. Both Carlota and Sanches had remarked on Dora’s beauty, but words could not describe it. The eyes, enormous and full of expression, were widely set and framed by thick curling lashes that seemed almost unreal. The high forehead was unlined, the facial contours so exquisitely formed that they might have been the work of some perfectionist sculptor.
Eleanor’s gaze remained fixed; she was quite unable to draw it away from the portrait, which seemed to have cast some intangible spell upon her. She had decided from the first that Miguel was possessed of just about everything nature could bestow; Dora had been equally blessed and as in imagination Eleanor saw them together she visualized all heads turning as people looked, and looked again at so superlative a couple. Eleanor would have found
a fault if she could, but the hint of hardness she felt must surely be portrayed either in the eyes or the mouth, was not to be seen. On the contrary, the beauty of the face was enhanced by an expression of pure innocence, of sheer feminine softness and sincerity. No wonder her husband had loved her!
At last Eleanor moved, acutely conscious of the void within her. She felt drained, empty, as she began to wonder how she could ever have cherished the hope that Miguel would some day fall in love with her. True, he liked her, but with the vision of his wife always there it was beyond the bounds of possibility that he could ever give his love to anyone so comparatively plain as Eleanor. And so low did her spirits sink that the tears actually gathered in her eyes.
With faltering steps she at last went towards the portrait, intending to replace it exactly as she had found it, when suddenly she stopped, nerve-ends springing to the alert as she spun round, the colour receding from her face as she saw the tall figure standing in the open doorway.
‘Miguel!’ The portrait slipped from her nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. Horrified, she glanced down; part of the beautiful gilded frame had come away. ‘I—I’m s-so sorry...’ Her voice trailed away to a frightened silence, for on his face was that satanic expression she had noted on two previous occasions. His mouth was twisted harshly, his eyes were dark and cold as unpolished steel. She swallowed saliva collecting in her mouth, swiftly stepping back as he entered the room.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded harshly, his angry eyes sweeping her from head to foot. ‘How dare you tamper with that portrait?’
Dumbly she shook her head, unable to voice an explanation, and in the ensuing silence she noticed with increasing agitation that white drifts of fury were slowly creeping along the sides of his mouth. Without doubt he was encompassed in rage.
‘Answer me! Don’t just stand there!’
‘I—I—’ Helplessly she spread her hands. ‘I’m so sorry—’ ‘Why are you here? What reason have you for prying around like this?’ He came closer, and stood towering above her. ‘That portrait—what were you doing with it?’ Accusation edged the fury in his tones; Eleanor felt as if she had committed sacrilege by even so much as handling the
portrait.
‘I can’t explain, Miguel,’ she whispered, vaguely aware that this was not the time for addressing him like this. ‘Your—your wife’s portrait—I had a—a desire to l-look at it... ’ Swiftly she averted her head, miserably conscious of the utter lack of reason in her stammered words.
‘Who told you it was here?’ Stooping as he spoke, Miguel picked up the fallen portrait and placed it against the wall. Then he picked up the broken piece of frame and held it in his hand. Eleanor fixed her gaze upon it, biting her lip at her carelessness. What must he be thinking of her? The tears that had already brightened her eyes at her bitter acceptance that he could never love her began to fall on to her cheeks and swiftly she brushed them away.
‘I mentioned the portrait to Carlota—I mean,’ she stammered as his haughty brows shot up in a gesture of inquiry, ‘that I—I mentioned the space in the gallery, and asked her if—if your wife’s portrait had been there.’ Eleanor paused, hoping this was sufficient, but he said grittingly.
‘Continue, if you please!’
‘Carlota said you had ordered the portrait to be put up in the attic.’
He stared down into her face, eyes glinting, the hand holding the piece of frame moving spasmodically, revealing the intense emotion under which he laboured.
‘So you decided you wanted to see it?’ His narrowed gaze held hers, piercingly.
‘Some inexplicable impulse,’ she murmured, deep contrition edging her tones. ‘Forgive me; I should never have done it. ’
The harsh satanic look had vanished for a space, but as he turned to glance at the portrait it reappeared, sending shivers along Eleanor’s spine. The man looked as if he could commit murder!
‘Well, you’ve seen it! And what do you think of my wife? Speak! ’ he rapped out finally when she remained dumb.
‘She was very beautiful,’ answered Eleanor in a husky whisper. ‘I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful than she.’
To her amazement he laughed—laughed harshly and yet with an insidious softness that only added to the idea that he could commit murder. The man had a dual personality, that was for sure. This was not the urbane, aloof and aristocratic Dom Miguel de Castro; this was a devil, a being capable of virulent emotions ... and actions.
‘Beautiful, eh?’ He glanced at the portrait again. ‘Yes! No woman ever lived who was more beautiful. Every other woman is plain in comparison—’ His eyes glittered with a sort of burning intensity as they came from the portrait to settle on Eleanor’s face. She stepped back, terrified of this man whom she had grown to love, her thoughts flying to what Carlota had once said about his mind being affected by his wife’s death. ‘Did you look well? Did you envy her her beauty?’ The laugh again echoed softly round the musty -smelling room. The light was dim, coming slantingly in from a window in the roof. Eleanor shivered; her companion noticed but was unaffected. ‘Answer, girl! Did you envy her her beauty—? Here, have another look! Peerless, isn’t she? Look, I say!’ The portrait was thrust before Eleanor’s face. Obediently she looked at it, trembling violently and wanting only to escape from this madman who had her cornered, for as she had stepped back he had followed, so that she was in a captive position.
‘Yes,’ she quivered, anxious to placate him. ‘Yes, Dom Miguel, I have seen it now—’
‘Well, see it again—and again! You wanted to, didn’t you? Then keep on looking, so that you’ll never forget!’
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please put it down.’ Fear choked her and because she hated to see him like this she was overcome with misery and remorse, and to her dismay she wept unrestrainedly. Words came haltingly through her sobs, words of apology at hurting him, words of contrition at allowing her curiosity to get the better of her. She should not have come up here, she said again, and begged his forgiveness. ‘I would be the last one t-to cause you h-hurt,’ she cried, lifting her hands from her face to look up at him. ‘Believe me, I’ve hurt myself m-more—’ She stopped, horrified as the portrait was violently flung into the farthest corner of the long narrow room. ‘Dom Miguel!’
‘Downstairs,’ he ordered, stepping to one side and flinging out an arm towards the door. ‘And don’t you ever dare to pry around here again!’
Trembling from head to foot, Eleanor stood in the middle of her bedroom, hands clasped tightly in front of her, her face growing hotter and hotter as she lived through that moment when, turning, she had seen the Conde standing there, framed in the open doorway. How had he come to be there? He had returned earlier than she had expected, but there was nothing surprising in that; his business had been conducted in less time that he had anticipated. What was surprising was the fact of his having come up to the attic. But perhaps there was something there which he wanted ... or he could have been wanting to look at the portrait. Whatever the reason, the incident had resulted in deep humiliation for Eleanor, and must without doubt impair her relationship with her employer. Certainly it would remain deeply stamped on Miguel’s consciousness and Eleanor wondered however she would be able to face him again.
Anguish at the knowledge that she had caused him pain, and fury at her own weakness in giving way to the curiosity which had taken her up to the attic, mingled to add further to the burden of utter dejection that was weighing her down. There had been little hope for her before; there was none at all now, for Miguel must be feeling the utmost contempt for her and, of course, blaming her for the pain and misery that had resulted in his tossing the portrait across the room. Where was he now? Still up there?—lovingly handling the portrait and perhaps subconsciously asking Dora’s pardon for what he, in his anguish, had done to it?
He had been like a man deranged, she thought, puzzled all at once by the violence exhibited when, thrusting the portrait before her eyes
, he had ordered Eleanor to keep on looking, so that she would never forget. Did it mean that she must take in the woman’s beauty and having done so admit to herself that she had no chance?
‘Every other woman is plain in comparison... ’ His words came back and she closed her eyes tightly. She was plain in comparison, he had in effect been telling her, and Eleanor now believed she understood. Miguel, discovering that he liked Eleanor, had acted in a way which he had since come to regret. Up there, just now, he had made it plain that no other woman could compare with his wife, and that if Eleanor had any ideas about his being unfaithful to her memory, then she could think again.
This idea slowly grew to a conviction, and at last Eleanor came to the reluctant decision that she must leave the Palacio just as soon as possible. The thought did strike her that Miguel would dismiss her, but she put it aside; he would require her services until the day Carlota was married. After that, whether he still wished to retain her services or not she intended to return to her own country. Once there, she told herself, she would soon forget the handsome Conde who could thrill her one moment and put fear into her the next. Fear... Involuntarily she shuddered. Never had she been so frightened as she was a few minutes ago when he had stood so close, his anger flaring because she had dared to touch the portrait of his wife.
It was inevitable that Carlota should notice Eleanor’s rather haggard appearance, and the moment they met at the tea table she remarked anxiously upon it.
‘Are you feeling ill?’ Her eyes scanned Eleanor’s face, shadowing as a frown creased her brow. ‘You’ve been crying,’ she added, unaware of any lack of tact in this pronouncement.
‘I’ve a headache,’ lied Eleanor, reaching for the teapot.
‘It’s nothing; it’ll go when I’ve had a cup of tea.’
Carlota shook her head emphatically.
‘It’s more than a headache,’ she stated. ‘You haven’t had any bad news from home, or anything?’
