by Anne Hampson
‘My father would have loved to work on these paintings.’
The Conde did not speak for a while. He appeared to be giving some consideration to what she had said.
‘You would have accompanied him, though?’ he commented at last., ‘He always had you to assist him, you said?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Was it imagination, or had the Conde been seeing a situation where she herself was absent, and her father working here, on his pictures? For one absurd moment Laura had the impression that Dom Duarte would have been sorry if her father had come here without her!
Her heart began to flutter; she protested inwardly at her foolishness in assuming, for one second, that the illustrious Conde Duarte Andre Volante de Taviro Mauredo could be glad that he had met her!
His attention had returned to one of the paintings. She automatically moved closer to him, and together they discussed what was to be done by -way of restoration.
‘I feel I am most fortunate in having you do this work for me,’ stated the Conde unexpectedly, and on that he turned and strode swiftly from the room.
Strange man! Laura would have expected a smile to accompany words such as he had just uttered, but instead she felt sure he was frowning inwardly. And the abrupt termination of those words, then his hasty departure from her presence, almost as if he had to escape from something dangerous!
‘Oh, dear, I’m all at sixes and sevens with him,’ she sighed, addressing the obese and grotesque figure of the Conde’s ancestor: Ricardo Soeiro Jose de Taviro Mauredo. ‘He’s distant and reserved one moment, but the next moment he’s offering praise. Sometimes he’s arrogant, letting me see that he’s a man of importance, lord of Torassa. At other times he thaws out for a space but retains that air of superiority. He looks at me now and then as if he’s found something interesting about my features, but suddenly he becomes aloof again, as if he considers he’s lowering his dignity by this interest.’ Laura grimaced at the whiskered face and moved away, to where she had been working when interrupted by the Conde.
That evening she and he dined alone. There was music to add further romance to the atmosphere and Laura found herself in a world of unreality, her mind a little dazed by the very idea of her being here at all, in this stately Palacio, dining by candlelight with its noble owner. He was immaculately attired, with that air of the aristocrat very much in evidence. So correct his every action! And yet so gracious too, as he inquired if she had enjoyed her meal.
‘Yes, it was delicious.’ She felt shy, but a smile came swiftly to her lips. Her eyes met his, moist and limpid. The Conde’s mouth moved; she expected him to say something, but to her surprise he remained silent, speaking only after they had left the table and entered the sitting-room where Gigo was ready to serve them with their coffee and liqueurs. ‘I expect you will be doing a little more exploring of our island, now that you’re to work mornings only,’ he said when they were both seated.
‘I shall certainly try,’ replied Laura, settling back in her big armchair. Her long dress of lilac-coloured lace trailed the floor, so full and flowing was its skirt. The bodice, high-waisted and with a mandarin collar, was very tight-fitting, so that her tender curves were more obvious than usual. Dom Duarte glanced her over; she had the impression that he would have liked his eyes to linger but that he was disciplining himself to remain indifferent and aloof.
‘Teresa’s available if you want her,’ he said, picking up his glass. She knows Torassa from end to end.’
‘Her people have always lived here?’
The Conde nodded.
‘They’re a most respected family. Her father and two brothers grow citrus fruits on their estate.’
‘Estate?’ Laura’s eyes widened. ‘People can have estates here, then?’
At her surprise he smiled faintly.
‘I have an idea that you have branded me a feudal lord,’ he said, watching for her reaction. She was nodding almost before he had finished speaking. ‘I assure you, senhorita, that it isn’t like that at all.’
‘But you are the owner of this island,’
‘Of course, and in consequence my word is law—which is as it should be. However, my tenants have rights, which is also as it should be. They use their lands as they wish, and I would object only if they should want to do something that would detract from the beauty, and the privacy, of our island.’
Laura looked at him, noting that he referred to Torassa as ‘our’
island, which in effect meant that he regarded it in the light of the heritage of the natives just as much as his own heritage.
‘It’s wonderful that you can keep the island so private,’ she said at length.
‘I shall always endeavour to keep it private, not only for myself, but for those who, like me, want to avoid any form of commercialism.’
‘The natives want to keep it to themselves, obviously.’
‘I believe that, if anyone else had bought it from the Englishman, it would have been a holiday resort by now. So many people are concerned with money. They despoil nature’s wonderful work in order to possess far more money than they require.’
She thought about this and found it to be true. However, she knew that the Conde had so much wealth he would never be able to use any extra money and therefore it was reasonable to assume that the total absence of necessity had at least something to do with his attitude regarding the island’s destiny. She could not resist asking,
‘Would you feel the same, Dom Duarte, if you were less wealthy than you are?’ and it was only when the question was out that she realised just how impertinent it must sound. He seemed not to have noticed, because as she looked at him over the rim of her glass she saw that he was considering her words.
‘Yes,’ he answered presently, ‘I would feel the same. To be comfortable is the most important factor of living, Miss Conroy.
What is the use of a great deal of money if one is surrounded by masses of flats and supermarkets, by hideous artificial lights which mask the stars and the moon? What good is a white-sanded shore if instead of it being fringed with palm trees it has ugly icecream stalls and is littered with orange peel and toffee papers?’
‘You know all about these things?’ she said in surprise.
The Conde’s straight dark brows lifted a fraction.
‘I do travel,’ he returned haughtily. ‘I also have a home in Lisbon.’ Laura coloured slightly.
‘I meant the toffee papers, and the ice-cream stalls,’ she murmured, staring into her glass rather than at the Conde. ’
‘Those one does see in Lisbon, Miss Conroy.’
‘I expect,’ she said, ‘that you visit this other home only when it is necessary?’
‘Quite right.’ The Conde picked up his coffee and took a drink.
‘Torassa was bought so that my people could have a home in natural surroundings. We have all treasured it, being grateful indeed to the man who purchased it.’
Laura suddenly recalled Avice’s saying that men like the Conde never stop to think that it was their ancestors whom they had to thank for what they possessed. It was not like that with Dom Duarte, obviously; he was more than grateful for his inheritance. Laura warmed to him, glad that she was able to find attractive traits to his nature. The recollection of what Avice had said naturally brought with it other things which she and Laura had mentioned, as, for instance, the Conde’s austere wife, and his sons. A swift and irrepressible smile leapt to her lips, and her eyes shone with amusement. The Conde, noticing her change of expression, looked askance at her and, when she offered him no explanation of her humour he asked outright,
‘What is it that you find so amusing, senhorita?’
Instinctively she shook her head, to indicate her inability to explain. But his concentrated gaze was compelling, even coercive, and Laura found herself saying,
‘It was something my friend and I were discussing the evening before I came here.’
‘Yes?’
‘I—er—we concluded
you’d be married, with several grown-up sons.’
The dark brows shot up.
‘Indeed? And what, might I ask, gave you an idea like that?’
‘I really don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘We both took it for granted that you would be much older than you are.’
‘And with a wife ...’ The Conde spoke softly, to himself, but his eyes were fixed on Laura’s face, the most odd expression in their depths. ‘Tell me, senhorita, what was my wife like?’
Laura looked at him in surprise, having expected him to be annoyed on hearing of the conclusions which she and Avice had come to.
‘She too was older, naturally,’ she replied presently, and with some hesitation.
The Conde said perceptively,
‘And not a very nice person, eh?’
‘Oh ... er ... we never thought of her like that—’ Dom Duarte’s imperious gesture brought her protest to an abrupt stop.
‘I have my own ideas as to the picture which you conjured up,’ he said, not without a hint of amusement which added to her surprise. ‘However, I shall not embarrass you by insisting you confess all.’ A smile curved his lips and Laura caught her breath. He was too attractive by far! Every nerve and sense was affected by this attraction. She felt excitement and hopelessness mingling with fear—fear that she would never really recover from the hurt which would be hers when eventually she had to leave the island, never to set eyes upon Dom Duarte again. Her eyes shadowed and he noticed. His own eyes flickered strangely and he seemed to frown.
She sensed a certain hesitancy about him, a struggle of some kind going on in his mind. She heard a soft sigh escape him, felt it was half impatient, half angry. And suddenly it was imperative that she get away, for the whole atmosphere seemed charged with tension.
‘I think I’ll go for my usual stroll,’ she said, drinking the last of her coffee. ‘If you will excuse me, Dom Duarte?’
To her surprise he frowned and said, glancing at the clock,
‘It’s early yet, senhorita. Perhaps you would like to listen to some records?’
She shook her head instinctively.
‘I’d rather go out,’ she said, staring at him. ‘It’s so beautiful out there, in the gardens.’ She rose as she spoke, and moved uncertainly towards the door, afraid of offending him and yet unwilling to stay, because of the way she felt, and because of the Conde’s strange attitude towards her, which was more friendly than it had ever been before. Laura had never expected any real show of friendliness from him owing to the fact that he believed that she had intended leaving his niece to drown.
‘Very well, senhorita.’ His voice was cool, impersonal. ‘You must do as you wish. ’
She left the room, dejection sweeping over her at the change in his voice and manner. Yet she had only herself to blame; she could have stayed, and chatted to him.
‘Why didn’t I?’ she asked herself angrily as she wandered in the gardens a few moments later. ‘Why didn’t I stay with him, enjoying his company? He wanted me to—he must have done so, for otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me to stay.’
CHAPTER NINE
It was a week later that Marianna complained of a sore throat, but when the Conde suggested she stay in bed she assured him that she could carry on with her duties. However, noticing the girl's pallor and listlessness, Dom Duarte ordered her to take a rest.
‘Will Teresa take charge of Clara?’ Laura inquired, but the Conde shook his head, informing her that he had given Teresa a week’s leave in order that she could spend some time in the house which she and Martin were renovating.
‘I wonder,’ continued Dom Duarte, ‘if you yourself would look after Clara for a while?’
Laura stared, surprised that he would trust her to take good care of the child, believing as he did that she had left Clara to drown. He was looking inquiringly at her and she said she would be happy to take on the role of nanny to his niece. He then went on to warn Laura that she was a handful, and that if Laura did take on the responsibility he was asking of her, he would expect her to keep the child out of mischief. ‘I’ll take good care of her,’ promised Laura.
‘If you do have trouble with her then you must come to me immediately. ’
Laura nodded, although she did not contemplate any trouble with Clara, since she and the child had always got along excellently together.
‘Being with you will improve her English,’ the Conde stated. ‘Marianna tends to speak in Portuguese for much of the time—when she and Clara are alone, that is.’
Clara was delighted at the idea of being with Laura. They rode together, and went for long walks into the woods or along the seashore, where they collected numerous shells and pieces of coral. These Laura decided to make into a sort of collage. Dom Duarte saw this in progress and commented on Laura’s flair for the artistic.
‘It’s natural,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve been brought up in the world of art.’ ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘you would allow Clara to try her hand with this collage?’
‘Of course. In fact, she has already glued on some of the shells and coral.’
‘You’re not afraid of her spoiling it, obviously?’
‘She’ll not be perfect, but it doesn’t matter. Children love to be creative and they never see anything wrong with their own work, not at Clara’s age, that is.’ Laura paused, expecting the Conde to make some remark, but when he remained silent she continued, ‘One should not, of course, bring the child’s attention to any faults which he or she has made. Not at first. Too much fault-finding only discourages children and they lose interest.’
‘You have a rather wonderful philosophy where the minds of children are concerned.’ Dom Duarte’s voice was soft, gentle almost, and in his eyes there was a warmth she had never encountered before. ‘As I once remarked, you will make an excellent mother one day.’ Laura inclined her head so that her expression was hidden from those shrewd grey eyes of his. The last thing she wanted him to know was that his manner disturbed her, that his praise brought swift colour to her cheeks ... that her lips were moving tremulously, the result of the increased speed of her heartbeats. She considered his words, wondering if she ever would be a mother, now that she had given her heart to this man who was so far above her, so totally out of reach emotionally. Perhaps, a long time hence, she would find that the threads of her memory had weakened, that the Conde’s face was no longer clearly etched in her mind. She might meet someone whom she could marry ... A great wave of dejection swept over her, and found outlet in a trembling sigh. The Conde spoke, asking in some concern if anything was wrong.
‘No,’ she answered at once. ‘No, Dom Duarte.’
‘Look at me.’ So soft the command, but imperious for all that.
Laura nevertheless ignored it and heard the Conde repeat it, even more softly, yet this time she was impelled to obey him.
She lifted her face, her eyes meeting his intense and searching scrutiny.
‘You are upset about something,’ he asserted. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing, senhor.’
‘Senhorita!’ he said sternly, ‘you do not always tell me the truth.’ She stared at him, catching her breath. For there was a subtle implication in his tone which made her wonder—as she had already wondered—if he had doubts as to the truth of Dona Eduarda’s accusation that Laura intended leaving Clara to her own fate. Was he saying—though not in actual words—that she, Laura, had lied even yet again, by her silence? She said, playing for time, ‘I don’t understand you, Dom Duarte.’
The steely grey eyes glinted, still watching her face intently.
‘I believe you do understand, senhorita. Yes, I believe you understand much.’ And on that very cryptic statement the Conde turned on his heel and left her, without any further pursuance of the question which he had seemed so intent on her answering.
That afternoon Laura and Clara went walking into the hills. The ground in parts was marshy where pockets of peat had formed. Clara suddenly decided to run through one o
f these marshy areas and to Laura’s horror she began to sink swiftly into the sodden peat.
‘Clara! ’ she cried, fear rising as she saw the child’s feet and ankles disappear. ‘Come out!’ But Laura knew the futility of the order and without hesitation she herself entered the bog. The water squelched about her feet and legs, soon reaching her knees. Terror caught at her throat so that the cries she made could scarcely be heard, especially as Clara was herself screaming with terror. Her arms were raised, threshing at the air; she was almost up to her neck, and still sinking. ‘Clara, give me your hand!’ Laura was almost sobbing, her mind dazed by what had happened, and so swiftly that she scarcely had time to think of what she could do. ‘Don’t struggle—oh, please don’t! You’ll only sink further in!’ Despair swept over her like a deluge, since she herself was over waist-deep in the peat. And then, just as she reached the child and took hold of her hand, she heard the Conde’s voice, urgent, stern, imperious. She stood still as ordered, while the Conde came to her, treading carefully so as not to make too great a disturbance of the boggy substance through which he was proceeding.
‘Can you stay?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Yes—oh, yes! Clara’s almost—’
‘I’ll take Clara and then come back for you. But stand still! If you move you’ll sink far more quickly than if you do as you’re told!’ As he spoke he was lifting the screaming child from the mire, but his eyes were on Laura and she had no doubts at all that he was profoundly anxious about her. She heard his almost harsh voice commanding Clara to be quiet, saw him place her roughly on the firm ground and turn with haste to come back to Laura. He lifted her; she felt his heart throbbing almost wildly and was staggered by the fact that his emotions could be stirred in this way. It was of course quite natural that he would be troubled about her, but this seemed out of all proportion, especially as he was telling her that she would not have sunk to any dangerous depth, not after she had obeyed his order to stand still. She was crying softly when at last he placed her on the firm ground beside his niece.
