by Anne Hampson
‘Most certainly I do not believe you! This bag— isn’t this proof that you are stealing?’
‘No, senhorita, it is not.’ The girl was trembling slightly, but still she appeared to possess a certain confidence, as if the card she held would beat all others. ‘The coat? Where is it?’
‘I gave it to someone—’
‘Who paid you money for it,’ snapped Eleanor with swift contempt.
‘No one paid me, senhorita—Oh, forget all about this! Give me back the bag and forget!’
So vehement was the last word that it actually brought colour to the girl’s cheeks on its utterance. Bewildered now, Eleanor stared for a long moment without speaking.
‘You’re quite absurd,’ she said at last, puzzled by the girl’s manner but at the same time unwilling to allow Miguel to be robbed. Yet as her thoughts flew ahead she found it difficult to imagine herself handing the bag to Miguel and telling him she had caught Julia with it. ‘It’s impossible for me to forget.’ A small pause. ‘Look, Julia, if you will return everything you’ve stolen and make me a solemn promise not to touch anything again, then I on my part will promise not to inform Dom Miguel of what I have discovered. ’
‘I cannot return what I have taken,’ said Julia in a stiff and resigned sort of tone. ‘I do not have them.’
‘You’ve sold them.’ It was a statement and she added immediately, ‘I’m sorry, but I must speak to Dom Miguel about this. It would be disloyal of me, as an employee of his, to let you rob him like this, especially of items which, as you must know, he treasures greatly.’
‘Treasures?’ Julia’s lip twisted and for a moment she seemed to forget Eleanor’s presence altogether. ‘It is funny— yes, funny!’ And to Eleanor’s utter astonishment the girl actually began to laugh. ‘He treasures them! Madam, are you going to forget what you have seen?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous—!’
‘You’re determined to tell my master that I have stolen Dona Dora’s jewellery and her clothes—yes, a great many of her beautiful gowns and other clothes are gone, senhorita. You’re going to tell Dom Miguel that you caught me stealing?’
Biting her lip, Eleanor hesitated. How could she tell Miguel that so many of his wife’s possessions had been stolen? On the other hand, this girl’s activities could not be allowed to continue. Whatever she decided later, Eleanor was determined to threaten the girl. Indeed, there was no other course open to her, since she could not now quietly submit to the girl’s demand for silence.
‘Yes, Julia, I am going to tell Dom Miguel that I caught you stealing.’
‘That is your last word, senhorita?’
‘It is—I’m sorry. If you’d agreed to return the things—’ ‘The things, senhorita,' cut in Julia softly, ‘have gone back to their owner. ’
Silence. Eleanor’s lips parted, but no sound issued from them. A sudden pain shot through her head, throbbing in her temples; her face drained of all colour and a dampness settled on her brow.
‘Their—their owner...?’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘Dona Dora, the wife of Dom Miguel.’ The girl’s eyes glittered; she seemed filled with hatred all at once and that ugly twist returned to her mouth. ‘My mistress—my beautiful mistress whom I love! She had to go away—was driven away by her husband! I take her things to the man who has befriended her, and he gives them to her. And now, senhorita, are you going to forget what you have seen? I said I had not stolen anything; perhaps you are willing to believe me now?’
Dazedly Eleanor shook her head, as if fighting to waken from a nightmare. Miguel married...
‘Dona Dora ... why did she go away?’
‘I’ve told you, she was driven away. Oh, senhorita, I have seen the way you look at Dom Miguel, for I watch many times. You think he is—what do you say in your language? Wonderful—yes, that is what you believe, for I see this in your eyes, when I serve you sometimes at the dinner-table. Perhaps you had ideas,’ she added with a distinct sneer, ‘because you thought he was a widower. It is laughable, is it not? I shall send the message to my beloved mistress, who is banished to a small island in Greece. She will consider it funny that an English girl thinks her husband is wonderful—’ ‘Stop it! Stop—before I slap your insolent face! Here—’ The bag was thrust at her. ‘Send it to your beloved mistress! ’ ‘Thank you, senhorita.’ With astonishing quietness the words came, as Julia took hold of the bag. ‘You will now agree to keep silent about what you have discovered?’ No answer from Eleanor and the girl added, ‘Of course you will, because it will upset Dom Miguel if he knows that one of his servants is in the secret that his wife isn’t dead. You would not want to see him upset?’
‘I shall keep silent,’ returned Eleanor stiffly.
‘It is good. I will leave you, senhorita.’
Eleanor’s eyes followed and girl as she went quietly along the corridor. Miguel married...It was so hard to credit it, and yet there was no doubt at all in her mind that Julia had spoken the truth. Eleanor would have liked to know more, but the last thing she would do would be to stand there and question one of Miguel’s servants. Married—The word hammered incessantly at her brain, filling her with despair. No chance for her at all now.
Miguel had driven his wife away, sent her to a small Greek island. It wasn’t feasible; there was some other reason for the separation, Eleanor decided, unable to believe that the fault was Miguel’s at all. Sanches had hinted at infidelity, Eleanor recalled. He had mentioned a ‘strange relationship’ between Dora and the man Lourenco, father of Carlota’s child. Eleanor had instantly formed a far from attractive picture of the Conde’s wife, which was natural, seeing that she had in addition neglected her duty regarding the protection of her sister-in-law. So much that had puzzled Eleanor was explained now. Miguel had not been grieving at all, but he certainly had been bitter, and this explained his fury over the portrait. Bitterness had flared on seeing it again, after ordering it to be taken up into the attic, out of his sight. Why had he come up that day? At the time she had believed he had actually wanted to see it, but not now. Perhaps he had heard footsteps—yes, that could be it, for the attic was right above his bedroom.
At last Eleanor moved on towards her own bedroom, footsteps dragging, her heart as heavy as lead itself. One thing was certain: Miguel cared for her, and that was the reason for his insistence that she stay at the Palacio. But how did he think it was all going to end? There never could be a divorce, and in any case, everyone believed Dora to be dead, even Carlota. Eleanor frowningly shook her head as she opened her door and entered her room. It was incredible that he could carry off such a scheme ... and even more incredible that he would even think of doing so. It was with his wife’s co-operation, evidently, so it appeared that she did not mind that everyone believed she was dead. This meant she was never coming back, and for one brief moment Eleanor’s spirits lifted, but she was instantly cast down again on reminding herself that there could never be a divorce. Swiftly on this deduction came the thought of the man who had befriended Dora. He was the same man she had seen in the park, obviously, and he had been accepting Dora’s belongings from Julia. The clip had been dropped, and it suddenly struck Eleanor that much jewellery must have been handed over if a piece like this was not missed.
There was so much she did not know, thought Eleanor. And she never would know any more; she had no wish to, and in any case, she was now determined to leave Portugal immediately after the departure of Carlota, which would be on her wedding day. The following morning Eleanor would also leave, no matter how strong her employer’s persuasions might be.
Miguel had returned when she went downstairs half an hour later and she joined him for afternoon tea.
‘Carlota and Sanches are still out,’ she said as his brow lifted in a preliminary gesture of inquiry.
‘You ... you’re very pale; are you not feeling well?’
She stood in silence for a moment.
‘I’m feeling quite well,’ she returned stiffly at length, a
nd a frown came to his brow.
‘Something’s wrong—I can see it in your face.’
She glanced fearfully at him, and shook her head vigorously.
‘There’s nothing wrong. I don’t know why you should think there was.’ She endeavoured to inject a lightness into her voice, but his studied piercing gaze underwent no change, and Eleanor was impelled to avert her head, in order to avoid it.
‘Nothing wrong...?’ After an undecided moment he shrugged. ‘Then we must leave it at that. Sit down, dear, and perhaps a nice cup of tea will do something to relieve your most unnatural pallor. ’ Subtle words, and she glanced swiftly at him, colouring prettily.
‘I—I’ve had a slight headache—’ she began, when the commanding lift of a finger cut her short.
‘No need to find excuses, Eleanor. I’ve said we’ll let the matter drop. Are you going to pour the tea?’
‘Yes—’ An awkwardness assailed her because of his interruption, which revealed his knowledge of her lie. He watched her as she poured the tea from a silver pot, while she, still feeling awkward, refused to meet his gaze.
‘I have to go away for a day or two,’ he murmured a short while later, his face suddenly taking on a masklike expression. ‘It will be early next week.’
She looked at him in surprise.
‘So soon before Carlota’s wedding?’ she said impulsively, and only then realized she ought not to have commented at all. However, Miguel made no sign that he considered she had spoken out of turn; on the contrary, he smiled fleetingly at her before the mask dropped again.
‘It’s vitally necessary.’ His eyes were fixed on the vortex in his cup as he absently stirred his tea. ‘I shall have a long talk with you before I go, so that you can take on the supervision where I leave off—’
‘Oh, but... ’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘I can’t, Miguel—and besides, neither the workmen nor your staff will take orders from me.’
‘You can—and they will,’ he declared promptly. ‘I shall arrange all this before I go. Don’t look so scared, child. I should never leave you in charge unless I was confident of your ability to see that my instructions are carried out. ’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured shyly, gratified by his trust while at the same time experiencing some measure of trepidation at the idea of shouldering so great a responsibility. So much was being done at one and the same time, both inside the house and out. ‘I hope I shan’t disappoint you.’
His smile returned.
‘You’ll not disappoint me, Eleanor.’ So soft the words— almost a caress, and her heart seemed to turn right over, but not with excitement or pleasure. No, it was sheer misery that engulfed her, and yet somehow she managed to maintain a perfectly unmoved composure. And she managed to respond to his smile, and thank him once again for his confidence in her. Yet uppermost in her mind at this present time was her vow to leave the Palacio as soon as Carlota married. Clearly Miguel would be upset, and he would endeavour to inflict his will upon her again, but she must be firm. There was no future in being in love with a married man; she could never agree to an affair, and in fact she knew full well that so sordid a business would never appeal to Miguel either. She felt instinctively that he had no definite plan in mind at all just now; he merely knew that he desired Eleanor to remain near to him.
The night before his departure he and Eleanor sat up very late, Eleanor receiving his instructions and writing everything down in a methodical manner so that she would make no mistakes. At last it was all done and with a sudden smile he said,
‘You must be tired. Do you want to go to bed at once?—or will you stay and have a drink with me?’
‘I’ll stay and have a drink.’ The reply came spontaneously and the expression in his eyes thanked her. ‘It’s such a lovely night, so can we have it on the verandah?’
‘Of course; I was about to suggest just that.’
During the past hour or so he had appeared to have something on his mind, even though outwardly he was concentrating on the task of giving Eleanor all instructions, slowly, so that she could make her notes. Now, however, he seemed free of whatever held him, and although it was nearing midnight when they had finished their drink he talked on, completely relaxed, and appearing to be happier than she had ever seen him.
‘I don’t suppose you’d care to walk with me?’ he invited, looking doubtfully at her. They had both risen and Eleanor had opened her mouth to say good night. ‘No, dear, you’re far too tired...?’
Readily she denied this, and after they had been walking for a minute or two Miguel took hold of her arm and drew it through his. Her heart throbbed far too quickly; she ought to have refused his invitation, she told herself even before, stopping by a tree-embowered lake, he took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips.
‘Miguel,’ she whispered, ‘you shouldn’t...’
‘Why not?’ A firm demand in his tone, and his eyes searched hers in the moonlight. She would have lowered her head, but his grip of mastery held it high. ‘What reason have you for saying a thing like that?’
‘No reason,’ she faltered, regretting that impulsive whisper, and to her relief he decided not to pursue the matter.
‘I shall miss you, my dear. Tell me, shall you miss me?’ Her mouth trembled; she had no strength to tell him an
untruth, even though she was admitting that the scene was too intimate by far and that she ought prudently to end it by a dissembling note.
‘Yes, Miguel, I shall miss you.’
His eyes kindled, and they searched. He said, on a note of humility which was inordinately out of place, ‘Thank you, Eleanor, for saying that,’ and a deep and prolonged sigh escaped him. This was a man vastly different from the arrogant Conde whom she had known at the beginning, and Eleanor was once more reminded of her conviction that he could be quite human, once one got to know him. The veneer of superiority would always be there, since it was an innate part of him, inherited from a long line of aristocratic forebears bearing a noble name in Portuguese history, but underneath he was a man who could give love, generously, unstintingly, and if a fair degree of mastery attended that love, then this would only enhance its attraction for the recipient. To be his wife would be heaven, decided Eleanor, and wondered how anyone so fortunate as Dora could have run the risk of losing him.
Having removed his hands from her face Miguel took her hand as they began to stroll on again. They remained silent for a while, Miguel remote all at once, as if totally immersed in private thought, and Eleanor trying to crush the stimulation of nerves and senses which his nearness set in motion. The night was too suggestive of romance, with moonlight picking out the fountains and the lakes, transforming them to silver. It shone on the elaborately-carved facade of the Palacio, accentuating that essence of ancestral grandeur which it possessed. The large imposing windows and doors were highlighted, while the stone balconies on to which they led were mellowed by the shadows cast by vines and bougainvillaeas and other semi-tropical climbers which embellished the massive pillars. High above, the huge armorial crest lorded it over all, as was fitting.
‘Getting tired?’ Miguel’s voice, soft and almost tender. It drifted through the deep silence like the caress of a summer breeze. ‘Shall we go back?’
Automatically she shook her head. Dangerous it might be, but she could stay out here all night.
‘I’m not a bit tired—’ She cut off, aware of her eagerness. ‘The—the air’s so clear and fresh. It wakes you up.’
Nothing was lost on him, she thought, glancing into his face. A half-smile lay on his mouth, and in his eyes a hint of amusement gleamed. She was aware of a tiny increase of pressure on her hand, and had the almost irrepressible urge to reciprocate by curling her fingers around his.
‘So you’ve wakened up? I agree our air’s refreshing, especially at night. But wait until the spring ... the air’s like elixir then. And the light is lucid and soft, with that particular translucent quality one expects to find only
in Greece. The hills are blue in spring, Eleanor, and the meadows vivid green. It’s a delight, with everything so lush—the orchards and olive groves, the neat vineyards, and the cottages literally dripping with flowers.’ He paused, but she was thinking that she would never see the spring in Portugal. ‘You’ll love my country then, and be glad you decided to stay. ’
So confident that she would honour her promise. Eleanor lowered her head, wondering how on earth she was to inform him of her change of mind, and that she intended leaving him after Carlota’s wedding. But that was in the future, she thought; for now, she had the opportunity of forgetting everything that must happen in the future, and snatching a brief interlude of happiness, of having Miguel all to herself.
‘I suppose there are great differences between the north and south of the country,’ she remarked conversationally after a short silence. ‘I mean—Portugal is about three hundred and fifty miles long, so there must be differences.’ ‘Of course. The wild flowers in particular are varied. In the south we have the vivid scarlets of the poppies and the lovely white blossoms of the moon-daisies, and the most charming blue of the wild anchusa. In the north, above the Douro River we have flora similar to that in Scotland, with broom growing everywhere, and of course, heather.’
He talked on as they strolled towards a terrace where granite seats lined the walls. From here they had a magnificent view of the Serra on one side and the coastal plain and the sea on the other. Miguel stopped, retaining Eleanor’s hand, and for a long moment stared, in a sort of faraway silence, at the single light shining from one of the cottages clinging to the wooded side of the Serra. But from the Quinta de Romingos more brilliant illuminations spanned the distance. This noble casa was owned by the Visconde de Romingos who, like Miguel, belonged to the class which, privileged by birth and inheritance, owned all the wonderful quintas in and around Sintra. Some of these families lived here in the summer only, Eleanor had learned, for the winter could be cool and damp, with mists curling over the Serra, which naturally attracted them.
