by Anne Hampson
As for Laura herself, she was enjoying the work immensely, confident of success. She and Rex had said goodbye but he was intending to write to her quite often, he said. He would be back on the island at Christmas time and hoped she would still be here. Well, that all depended on the Conde, and whether he would permit her to work on those paintings which she had originally come here to restore.
‘Senhorita,’ he said one day, ‘I asked you for those testimonials.’
‘Oh ...’ She had completely forgotten to give them to him, so absorbed had she been in her work. ‘I’ll bring them to you after lunch. ’
‘Good. I shall be in my study for the whole of the afternoon.' His eyes wandered to the picture she was working on, giving it the final touching up. She stood back so that his view was not blocked, saw him nod his head in a satisfied way, and felt exultant.
‘Excellent,’ he observed. ‘And the other?’
‘It’s ready for the final touching up—when this blue is dry, that
is.’
‘You have great talent,’ he said, and Laura knew that such an admission from the Conde was praise indeed. She coloured, thanked him shyly and then turned away, hiding her embarrassment.
The testimonials were delivered later in the day. The Conde, having invited her to enter his study, merely accepted the envelope from her and said coolly,
‘Thank you; I shall read them and let you have them back this evening.’
Suave, dispassionate. A man of many moods, decided Laura, remembering how human he could be at times.
The following morning she was riding Nayrilla in the Great Park when she sensed another presence. She turned her head, and saw the Conde sitting on a fallen tree, his horse tethered to another tree a short distance away.
‘Senhorita,’ he murmured, and she saw the glint of a smile touch his lips. ‘You’re not with Clara and her nanny this morning?’ He looked questioningly at her; she dismounted, driven to this action by a compulsion she could not resist.
‘They’re not ready yet,’ she said, aware that her hair had been flying behind her and must be untidy. Almost nervously she fumbled with it, endeavouring to put it to rights. ‘I’m early, but you, Dom Duarte, must have been very early indeed.’ Laura thought of Dona Eduarda, who usually rode with the Conde, and wondered if she, like Clara and Marianna, was still in bed.
‘The sun was too tempting by far,’ said Dom Duarte, his cool gaze fixed upon Laura’s flushed face. ‘Do you usually rise so early, senhorita?’
‘Not this early,’ she answered with a laugh. ‘At home we don’t have the sun to waken us at so early an hour. ’
His gaze was still fixed upon her, in a sort of searching scrutiny. And there was a hint of indecision about him which puzzled her. This, she decided, was one of his ‘human’ moods. Yes, indeed, because he was smiling at her, and there was a strange softness about his face, as if some of the stern lines had been miraculously erased.
‘Sit down,’ he invited, indicating the tree trunk. ‘You’ll find the seat a little hard, but not too uncomfortable, for all that.’
Shyly she obeyed, choosing a spot some distance from where he himself sat. Her heart was fluttering; she was by no means sure she wanted to stay with him ... yet she did not want to go ...
‘For some time now I have been thinking, senhorita, of that incident when Clara went into the sea,’ began the Conde unexpectedly. ‘I suggest you tell me exactly what happened—?’ ‘Tell you what happened?’ she repeated, startled, and forgetting his strictures about interrupting him.
‘Yes!’ returned the Conde briefly.
Laura stared straight ahead, searching her mind for an answer. That the Conde suspected that all was not as it had appeared was evident, but just what would be his reaction if she told him the whole truth? Laura would clear herself, and there was nothing she would like better, naturally, but what of Clara? It seemed to Laura—knowing the Conde as she did—that he would consider untruths in an even graver light than the wilful damage done to his paintings. He would punish the child severely ... No, Laura could not tell him the truth, she decided firmly. She herself would have to lie, that was all.
‘You know what happened, Dom Duarte,’ she replied in low respectful tones. ‘I invited Clara to come into------’
His raised hand halted her words. He said imperiously,
‘I repeat, Miss Conroy, I want you to tell me exactly what happened that day. ’
She coloured instantly, disconcerted by his awareness of what she intended doing.
‘Does it—it matter?’ she murmured after a pause.
The grey eyes were fixed speculatively on her profile. ‘It would seem that I must give you an order, Miss Conroy.’
She turned her head.
‘An order?’
The Conde’s mouth compressed.
‘I want to know the truth!’ he snapped. ‘Immediately!’
She bit her lip. No use prevaricating any longer, and yet ...
‘Dom Duarte, will you please make me a promise?’ The words were out before she realised just how he would take them.
‘Clara------’
‘Miss Conroy,’ he said icily, ‘people do not attempt to bargain with me! ’
‘No ... I’m sorry--------’
‘The truth, now!’
Admitting that she had no alternative than to tell him what had happened, Laura began to speak, watching his face becoming grimmer and grimmer. She hesitated a moment, then decided that she ought not to divulge the lie which Dona Eduarda had told. The Conde was in all probability intending to marry the girl, and it seemed to Laura that he would be shocked at the idea of Dona Eduarda’s unnecessary lie, and in consequence he would be unhappy. No, decided Laura firmly, she must not give the girl away.
‘Well?’ asked Dom Duarte softly as Laura continued to hesitate.
‘That’s all,’ she shrugged, hoping he would not suspect that she had kept a part of it from him.
The grey eyes stared into hers, subjecting them to a most searching scrutiny. At length he said, still in the same soft tone, ‘You’re sure, Miss Conroy, that you have told me everything?’ She swallowed. It was so difficult to lie while he was staring at her in this direct manner. However, she did at least manage to say, with reasonable conviction, that there was nothing else to tell him. He continued to look at her as if he was not quite sure. And
then, to her great relief, he nodded in acceptance of what she had said. But his face was stern and she now realised that the part she herself had played was to bring down his wrath upon her head. After his homily was over he added,
‘So along with the lie told by Clara, you yourself lied?’ The censure in his voice matched the expression in his eyes. ‘Lied again by your silence.’
Laura hung her head, unable to meet his gaze.
‘I s-suppose it w-was like lying,’ she murmured contritely. ‘But at the same time I could see no gain in getting Clara into trouble.’ A silence followed, and eventually she lifted her face and looked at him. ‘Can’t you see, Dom Duarte, just how difficult it was for me?’ The sincerity in his voice was bound to affect him, and she saw his face soften slightly. Again he nodded, thoughtfully. Laura knew for sure that he was now understanding her position at that time.
‘I do see that there was some excuse,’ he conceded at last, but went on to add that he was nonetheless disgusted, both with Laura and with his niece. Relieved that his real anger had subsided, Laura ventured to ask, ‘Please don’t punish Clara, will you?’
The Conde’s face was coldly arrogant.
‘Miss Conroy,’ he said through tightly-compressed lips, ‘I shall deal with my niece as I think, considering her deceit, and the fact that she is in my charge and, therefore, must be punished for any misdemeanours.’
Laura frowned, and noticed his cold eyes narrow. ‘Senhor,’ she begged, undaunted by his austerity, ‘can you not see the situation from the child’s point of view? You now know—because I have just explained to yo
u—the reason why Clara damaged the paintings. In her child’s mind this was making amends because, as I said, she had guessed that the lie she had told had caused you to send me away.’ Laura paused, to note the Conde’s reaction. His face was a mask, cold and unreadable. ‘She’s only five, Dom Duarte,’ she added on a little desperate note. ‘There’s no real wickedness in her.’ No answer from the Conde. He was watching his horse, Burkan, contentedly cropping grass growing beneath the tree to which he was tethered. His face was thoughtful; Laura had the impression that he was weighing her words, willing to consider them seriously, and to draw a final conclusion. She waited a little breathlessly for his voice to break the silence, which at length it did. He had turned to her again, his interest
appearing to have been arrested in some inexplicable way.
‘Perhaps I shall be lenient with Clara,’ he said, but this was by no means a firm promise. ‘You appear to have an understanding of a child’s mind. Miss Conroy?’
‘It isn’t because I’ve had much to do with children,’ she admitted. ‘I expect every woman has a certain amount of instinct regarding them.’ She spoke matter-of-factly, not realising that the Conde might be weighing these words too, and deciding there was a great deal of common sense in them. His cool and alien voice had a strange ring to it as he said,
‘You’ll make a very understanding mother, one day.’ She coloured, naturally, and glanced away, to where her own horse was standing, his coat gleaming in the sunshine.
‘It’s nice of yon to say so, senhor,’ she murmured after a while. But she added, this time with a wry grimace, ‘Perhaps I shall never marry, though, for I’m exceedingly fond of my work.’
Her companion responded by saying that, in England, many married women continued to follow their chosen careers, at least, for a time.
‘I have a friend in England whose wife manages to work as a secretary and yet bring up a family. She has a nanny, of course.’ Surprised that he should have said this without a trace of contempt or disdain entering his voice, Laura said impulsively, ‘You don’t consider it wrong, then, for a married woman to follow her career?’
‘In England it’s accepted that she should.’ For a second his eyes rested on her shining russet-brown hair and all she could think of was that it was wind-teased, so different from the immaculate elegance of Dona Eduarda’s. ‘In Portugal, and in Torassa, of course, this would not be permitted—not in the Portuguese families, that is. The natives of the island do often have both husband and wife contributing to the expenses of the home.’
‘A wife’s place is in the house?’ Laura knew there was a note of criticism in her voice and was not surprised to see the Conde’s brows lift a fraction. ‘In Portugal, I mean?’
‘It is a woman’s destiny to take care of the home,’ he retorted evenly. ‘The man is the breadwinner.’
‘A rather antiquated idea, is it not?’
‘In your country, yes,’ he replied. ‘In my country, no.’ Laura shrugged her shoulders. She was suddenly thinking of his words about her making a good mother ... and she knew again the deep attraction of the Conde, was aware of the sort of hopeless pleasure of his company, now that his censure was past. She found herself picturing his children ... And hers ...
A smile leapt involuntarily to her face, and with it that moist and limpid quality to her eyes. The Conde’s attention became focused on the charming picture she made, sitting there, some small distance from him, against a background of exotic vegetation and thickly-foliaged trees. The tropical sun burnished her hair, and highlighted the delicate lines of her face. Laura saw a muscle move in his throat, saw the withdrawal of his gaze, which he then concentrated on his horse. He was distant all at once, as if he had no interest in her at all. She had the odd and half-vague sensation that he was vexed with himself, that he was taking himself sternly in hand—as when one puts a rein on one’s impulses because they are leading one astray. And to support this idea the Conde rose majestically from his seat, bowed stiffly as he bade her goodbye. Laura rose also but stood quite still, watching him swing lightly on to Burkan’s back and ride along the path until, eventually, he and the horse were lost to view.
A deep sigh escaped her; she was fighting desperately to put from her thoughts of love, profoundly aware of her foolishness, and of the vast gulf which yawned between the Conde and herself. Even if by some miracle he were to fall in love with her, it would never serve, so great was the social distance between them. He, a wealthy Portuguese fidalgo, a man of the most noble birth; she, an ordinary English girl working for her living, a girl whose only assets—from the material point of view—were a flat and its contents.
‘Not that he ever would fall in love with me,’ she sighed, taking up the bridle and at the same time patting the gleaming neck of her horse. ‘I don’t believe he could fall in love with anyone; he’s too austere, too coldly impersonal.’ Emotions like deep affection and love were unknown to him, she felt sure. They would always be unknown to him, and therefore it was as well that his interest lay with a woman like Dona Eduarda who herself was cold and unemotional.
Exactly a week later Laura was in the Gallery, examining other paintings and making more detailed notes than those she had made previously. For the Conde, expressing himself more than satisfied with her work on the two which had been damaged by his niece, had not hesitated to ask her to restore the rest. He came up and turned with a swift smile. Dona Eduarda had left the Palacio that very morning, and for Laura it seemed that a shadow had been lifted from the house.
‘How much progress have you made?’ he asked.
‘I’m doing all the preliminaries,’ she told him. ‘It’s always difficult to define the colours exactly. I’m making notes on my own suggestions for the mixing of certain colours. Of course, the pictures must be washed first, as you know.’
The Conde nodded thoughtfully, putting out a finger to touch a brittle and discoloured patch on one of the paintings.
‘It is obvious that this kind of work demands a great amount of concentration, senhorita. I feel you ought not to work such long hours as you have been doing.’
She looked swiftly at him, not quite sure if she had actually heard a note of concern in his voice, or if she had imagined it.
‘I’m capable of working long hours------’ she began,
then stopped as she noticed the warning glint in his eye. It was an order he had given her, she realised, and he expected it to be obeyed without question. Nevertheless, she did make a small protest, saying she would take twice as long to do the work if she took the afternoons off, which was the impression she had from
the way he spoke. ‘There’s such a lot of buckling------’ She
pointed, indicating one of the paintings which had suffered more than any of the others. ‘It will be a long job, senhor ...’ She tailed off, biting her lip.
‘Not only do you interrupt me, senhorita,’ said Dom Duarte coldly, ‘but you argue with me as well.’ The severity of his gaze brought the colour leaping to her cheeks, and at the same time caused her to lower her head, feeling guilty of some serious breach of etiquette. ‘It might interest you to know that you are the only person who has ever had the impertinence to argue with me.’
‘I’m sorry, senhor.’ Laura swallowed hard, and concentrated on' the painting in front of her. As before, she felt the censure of all these faces looking out from the canvases—ancestors of the Conde, illustrious men and their high-born wives and children.
‘You will please me by working during the mornings only,’ said the Conde in his cool accented voice. ‘The afternoons will be your own. ’
She nodded, her thoughts wildly unhappy despite the stern austerity with which she was being treated by her employer. Mornings only! This meant that the work would be prolonged, taking about a year. Yet rising as a barrier to her happiness was the acute realisation of her own feelings towards the Conde. To be near him, to have him come up here regularly to see what she was doing, to dine with him by candl
elight ... How could she hide her love for a whole year? Better by far to stop now, and leave the Palacio. The next twelve months would then serve to make her forget ... but to go on would only mean that her love was kept vitally alive, and even be strengthened. Yes, that was inevitable, and yet she knew that common sense could never prevail, that it was the desire of her heart which she would follow. The Conde was eyeing her rather sternly, as if expecting her to make some further protest. She remained silent, a half-smile fluttering to her lips. The Conde’s full attention became fixed on her eyes. He frowned, as though at his own thoughts, and turned away with an abruptness that startled her.
She watched him stroll around the Gallery, saw him stop now and then and study something that had caught his attention. He spoke, drawing her own attention to some flaw he had just discovered, asking if she herself had noticed.
Laura nodded at once.
‘Yes, Dom Duarte. I rather think I have discovered just about everything. ’
He gave a small sigh.
‘It was little less than a tragedy that these lovely paintings were damaged.’ His mouth tightened. ‘The unreliability of workmen,’ he added tersely. Laura was recalling how little faith he had had in her ability at first, and decided she could not altogether blame him.
‘It certainly was a pity that you didn’t know where the paintings would be stored.’ He nodded absently. Laura had already mentioned that she knew how the paintings came to be damaged.
‘One does not expect such stupidity,’ he said after a space. He had turned towards her, but was now some distance from her. His eyes, though, were focused on her, and Laura found the colour mounting her cheeks. His interest was puzzling, and disconcerting too. She said, more to ease the moment than for any other reason,
