by Anne Mather
Luis felt a creeping sense of disbelief invading his senses. Trevellyan had called the girl Rachel. Rachel! And down at the tavern in the village, the young fisherman had angrily thrown the name of Trevellyan’s wife at him and that had been Rachel, too. Deus, this girl could not be Trevellyan’s wife, could she? He felt almost sickened at the thought.
He looked round, but she had gone, and suddenly he wished he had let Juan or Alonzo come here in his place. He wanted no part of this.
But he was here, he was committed, and he had to ask the inevitable question:
‘That young woman, senhor? She is some relation of yours?’
Malcolm Trevellyan sniffed and gathered the rugs closer about him. ‘I suppose you would say that. I have to talk to you about her, senhor.’
Luis folded his hands behind his back again. It was a favourite position of his and right now he had no desire to sit in this man’s presence.
Malcolm Trevellyan seemed to realise that Luis was waiting for an explanation, and with a sigh, he began: ‘Rachel is my wife, senhor.’
Luis felt the muscles of his face hardening. ‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, but please, let me explain.’
‘You did not explain the situation to my mother, senhor.’
‘I know, I know. And I’m sorry. But there was no way I could, you see. It’s something I needed to talk to you about, to discuss with you, to explain the circumstances——’
‘What circumstances, senhor?’
Trevellyan tugged at the lobe of his ear. ‘Rachel and I have been married three years, senhor. She was only eighteen at that time, and her father had just died.’ He shook his head. ‘I am not one to judge people, but Rachel was a trial to her father. Poor man, he did not know how to deal with her. She’s an artist, senhor, and perhaps even in your country you know what artists are. They like to call themselves free-living individuals. For free-living, substitute free-loving, and there you have their way of life in a nutshell.’
Luis’s ring with its large inset emerald dug into his fingers. ‘What are you trying to say, senhor?’
Trevellyan sighed. ‘It’s not easy, senhor. Rachel is my wife, and I love her. But I don’t always understand her.’
‘Go on!’ Luis was impatient.
‘Very well. At the time her father died, Rachel was pregnant. The man, whoever he was, had deserted her, and she was alone. Her father and I had always been friends and I couldn’t see her destitute. I offered marriage on the understanding that she could continue with her painting, and she accepted. Unfortunately she miscarried, and the child was never born.’
‘I see.’ Luis felt a sense of distaste. ‘And you could not tell my mother of this?’
‘How could I? Is it something you could baldly write in a letter?’
‘Perhaps not.’ Luis shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘So what do you expect her to do now?’
Trevellyan lay back weakly on his pillows. ‘Rachel knows me, senhor. She knows my likes and dislikes, and she has cared for me, after her fashion. I wouldn’t like to leave her here alone, at the mercy of her own weaknesses.’
‘You are suggesting that—that your wife accompanies us to Mendao?’
The other man’s eyes sought his appealingly. ‘Would it be such a trial to you—to your mother? I promise you, she would cause no trouble.’
Luis could have almost laughed at the farcical aspects of this situation had it not been so serious. How could Trevellyan expect to control his wife from his bed—or even a wheelchair for that matter? Unless years of marriage with him had tempered her rebellious nature, destroyed the streak of wildness which had previously caused such unhappiness. He took a deep breath. Even after everything he had heard, the idea of that girl being married to Malcolm Trevellyan could make him feel physically sick. And he couldn’t imagine why. It was nothing to do with him.
Now Luis ran a hand round the back of his neck, over the smooth black hair that brushed his collar. ‘But it seemed obvious when I arrived that—that Senhora Trevellyan knew nothing of my reasons for being here.’
Trevellyan plucked at the bedcovers. ‘I know, I know. I haven’t mentioned my plans to her yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘How could I? I didn’t even know whether you—or your mother—would permit her to accompany me.’
‘I see.’ Luis’s hand fell to his side.
There were footsteps outside in the hall and presently the girl entered the room again carrying a tray. Luis’s immediate instinct was to take the tray from her, but then he stood politely aside and allowed her to place it on the table beside the bed.
Malcolm Trevellyan seemed to come to a decision. ‘Allow me to introduce you, senhor,’ he said. ‘This is my wife Rachel. Rachel, this is the son of a good friend of mine, Senhor Martinez.’
Rachel looked up at the tall dark Portuguese. ‘Senhor Martinez introduced himself at the door,’ she said, without expression in her voice.
Her husband sniffed. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ he demanded in a low tone, and Luis intercepted the look that passed between them and there was no friendliness in it. He felt repulsed. Repulsed by them, by this whole situation.
However, the girl seemed stung by her husband’s contemptuous tone. Her voice when she spoke was low and attractive with little of the Cornish drawl evident in that of Malcolm Trevellyan. ‘Why is he here, Malcolm?’ she asked, rather heatedly. ‘What did he mean earlier about you finding some foreign place less demanding than here? What’s going on?’
Trevellyan looked to Luis for guidance and with a sigh Luis said: ‘You may or may not be aware, senhora, that your husband’s family cared for my mother many years ago when she was orphaned. Afterwards, she married a Portuguese, my father, but she and Senhor Trevellyan’s family maintained a correspondence and in latter years she visited England with my father and met your husband again.’
The girl looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t know that, but what of it?’
Luis’s lips thinned. He was not accustomed to being spoken to in that cursory manner, particularly not by such a slip of a girl.
‘Naturally when—when your husband became ill, my mother was concerned about him. I must confess she did not know he had taken a wife, but nevertheless she suggested to Senhor Trevellyan that he might come to Portugal, to our estates at Mendao, to recuperate for a few weeks.’
‘I see.’ The girl’s eyes were wide as she turned back to the man in the bed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Malcolm Trevellyan sniffed. ‘I wasn’t sure about the arrangements. I didn’t want to—raise your hopes unnecessarily.’
‘Raise my hopes?’ She stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘You mean I can stay here?’
‘No, that’s not what I mean!’ Trevellyan looked momentarily incensed. Then he calmed himself. ‘I simply meant that I didn’t want to raise your hopes about this holiday in Portugal until I was sure you would be welcome there.’
‘A holiday in Portugal!’ echoed the girl. ‘I—I don’t want to go to Portugal.’
Luis clenched his fists. ‘Surely you would not allow your husband, a sick man, to travel there without your ministrations, senhora?’
The girl Rachel turned stormy green eyes in his direction. ‘I’m sorry, senhor, if I sound ungrateful. But I can assure you my husband doesn’t require my ministrations.’
‘Rachel!’ Trevellyan’s face was grim. ‘Stop this at once! If Senhor Martinez will overlook this unpleasantness, naturally you will accompany me to Portugal.’
Rachel Trevellyan’s breast rose and fell with the tumult of her emotions. Animated like this, she was quite startlingly attractive and unwillingly Luis felt a sense of compassion for her. Whatever she had done in the past she had forfeited a great deal in becoming the wife of a man as old as Malcolm Trevellyan.
Then he inwardly chided himself. She had not been forced to marry him. A girl with more strength of mind, with more courage in her convictions, would have managed somehow, would have found a wa
y to support herself and the unborn child. No, Rachel Trevellyan had taken the easy way out of a difficult situation and now resented the very person who had helped her most. Luis allowed contempt to replace his earlier compassion. Rachel Trevellyan deserved nothing else.
Malcolm Trevellyan shuffled across the bed. ‘Come along, Rachel,’ he said. ‘Pour Senhor Martinez some tea, and stop behaving like a spoilt child.’
For a moment Luis thought she was about to refuse, but then, obediently it seemed, she lifted the teapot and poured the hot liquid into two cups. Turning to him, she said: ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Thank you, sugar only,’ he replied quietly, and she added two lumps before passing the cup to him.
‘Do sit down, senhor.’ Malcolm Trevellyan indicated a chair now, and although it was not his nature to sit in the presence of an adult female who happened to be standing Luis subsided into the cane chair by the bed.
Rachel poured her husband’s tea, added milk and sugar, stirred it and then handed it to him. There were sandwiches on the tray too, and she proffered these, but Luis declined. He had had a late lunch on the way down, and although in his own country he could have enjoyed a late dinner, the idea of sandwiches did not appeal to him. In truth he wished he had made some arrangements to stay at a hotel, even though in the correspondence Malcolm Trevellyan had had with his mother he had suggested that Luis might stay here overnight; and now, late as it was with the mist outside and the evident lack of accommodation facilities nearby, he had no choice.
Rachel seemed to be on the point of leaving them, when her husband said: ‘Well, senhor? What arrangements have you made? And what conclusion have you reached regarding—Rachel?’
That was difficult. What conclusion had he reached? Luis replaced his half empty cup on the tray. It was a decision he had never expected to have to make and he realised that had either Juan or Alonzo come here in his place they would have had to have deferred a decision until either his mother or himself had been informed.
As he was here things were different. If he were to contact his mother and discuss it with her, it would only worry her unnecessarily. After all, she could hardly withdraw her invitation at this late date, even taking the changed circumstances into account, and although he was well aware what her reactions to a young woman like Rachel Trevellyan would be, there was little he could do without disappointing Malcolm Trevellyan.
And there was not just his mother to consider at Mendao ...
Rachel Trevellyan stood by the door. ‘It’s obvious that Senhor Martinez does not wish me to accompany you to Portugal, Malcolm, whatever he says,’ she declared. ‘Why can’t I stay here? What harm would it do?’
Luis rose to his feet. Her attitude of dissension was reacting on him as an eagerness to accompany them would never have done. In his country women did not argue with their menfolk. They were mild and agreeable, totally feminine in every way. Rachel Trevellyan spoke without respect, assumed a responsibility for her own affairs which was not seemly in a young woman, let alone a wife.
‘I have thought the matter over, senhor,’ he said, addressing himself to Malcolm Trevellyan, ‘and naturally my mother would wish me to extend our invitation to include your wife.’
There was a gulp from Rachel Trevellyan at this point, but Luis ignored her, keeping his eyes on the man in the bed. A look of gratification was spreading over Malcolm Trevellyan’s features and he nodded in a satisfied way.
‘Thank you, senhor, that’s very civil of you. Very civil indeed. And when Rachel gets used to the idea, she’ll thank you, too, won’t you, Rachel?’
Again a strange look passed between them, and Luis saw the girl visibly shrink. ‘When do you expect me to be ready to leave?’ she exclaimed helplessly. ‘I’ve made no arrangements. What about a passport?’
Trevellyan fixed her with a stare. ‘You forget, Rachel. You went abroad with your father only a year before he died. I happen to know your passport is still valid.’
‘But—but I need time——’
‘Why?’
‘There are arrangements to be made——’
‘What arrangements?’
She shook her head. ‘Lots of things.’
‘Rachel, all you need to do is pack a suitcase. We leave in the morning.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. Naturally, Senhor Martinez will stay here tonight——’
Now Luis felt uncomfortable. ‘That’s quite unnecessary,’ he began automatically. ‘I can stay at a hotel.’
‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed Trevellyan. ‘Of course you’ll stay here. It’s the least we can do, isn’t it, Rachel?’
‘If you say so.’ There was a lacklustre quality about her now.
Luis controlled a sigh. He wished it were morning already. He had no desire to spend a night here, conscious as he was of Rachel Trevellyan’s resentment. But he could hardly refuse without throwing Malcolm Trevellyan’s hospitality back in his face.
‘I’ll go and see about making up a bed,’ said Rachel now, and her husband nodded.
‘That’s right. You can let us know when it’s ready. I’m sure Senhor Martinez is tired after his journey.’
While Rachel was away, Malcolm asked about Luis’s mother, the Marquesa de Mendao. For a few moments at least, Luis relaxed. It was reassuring to speak about his mother. At least there were no undercurrents there. He removed his overcoat and sat comfortably in his chair, lighting a cheroot which he favoured when Malcolm produced cigarettes.
By the time Rachel returned Luis was feeling infinitely less tense, although the atmosphere changed again as soon as she entered the room.
‘The room’s ready,’ she announced, and Luis stood up.
‘I’ll bid you goodnight, then,’ said Malcolm, apparently indifferent to his wife’s attitude. ‘What time do you want us to leave in the morning?’
‘I suggest we say as early as possible and leave it at that,’ remarked Luis. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’ Malcolm smiled, rather smugly, Luis thought, but then he accompanied Rachel from the room without another word.
They went upstairs and into a room at the front of the house. The rest of the building struck chill after the unpleasant heat of Malcolm Trevellyan’s bedroom, but Luis saw that Rachel had turned on an electric fire in the room he was to occupy.
It was a large bedroom, sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a wardrobe, and a kind of washstand. The only floor covering was a rag rug beside the bed, but as with the rest of the house everything was spotlessly clean.
‘I’ve put a hot water bottle in the bed,’ said Rachel, remaining by the door when he advanced into the room. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
Luis thought of his suitcase locked in the boot of his car, but shook his head. His eyes encountered hers. He had never seen such green eyes before and fringed as they were by long black lashes they seemed to overshadow her other features. The feeling of unease he had felt earlier stirred again and he didn’t know why. Something told him he ought to call this off here and now and refuse to take either Malcolm Trevellyan or his wife back to his home in Mendao. But that was ridiculous, he told himself angrily. He was allowing weariness to make him fanciful. What possible harm could come from offering the Trevellyans their hospitality for a couple of weeks? His mother might not welcome Rachel’s presence, she might take exception to her mode of dress, but surely that could be modified. For all her English upbringing, his mother’s forty years in Portugal had made her typically Portuguese in outlook.
And if Amalia considered it unseemly to have a young woman, albeit a married one, staying in his house in these weeks before their wedding, then perhaps some other arrangements could be made within the confines of the estate.
He realised suddenly that he had been staring at Rachel for an unconscionably long period and that her cheeks had suffused with colour under his gaze.
Forcing his attention to other things, he said: ‘Thank you, senhora. I have everything I need. I’m sure I s
hall be very comfortable.’
His voice was cool, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about this girl that disturbed him, and it was a new experience for him. Normally he was in complete control of his reactions.
‘Very well.’ She made to close the door. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, senhora.’
He gave a stiff little movement of his head and the door closed. But after she had gone, he was conscious that he would be unable to banish her so easily from his mind as from his sight.
CHAPTER TWO
SINCE leaving the coast, the road had wound through a series of lushly cultivated valleys, bright with blossoming trees and shrubs, scented with pine and citrus. Rachel saw vine-clad terraces, orchards of fig and almond trees, pergolas draped with the lemon-vine while the varied colours of bougainvillea rioted in every available space. She had never seen jacarandas growing wild before, or longed to touch the satin-soft petals of the oleander. It was all new and stimulating, and she could not entirely deny the rising sense of excitement that was stirring inside her. Her fingers itched to take her paintbrush and try, probably without success, she thought, to transfer some of this beauty and colour on to canvas. This was Portugal, the country of the lean, dark man seated beside her at the wheel of his luxurious silver limousine, the natural background of this aristocratic nobleman, this unexpected friend of Malcolm’s, who regarded her with obvious contempt.
Her lips twisted and she shivered in spite of the heat of the day which had already forced her to shed the jacket of the slim-fitting cream slack suit she had worn to travel in. Her husband, overcome by the temperature, was asleep in the back of the limousine, but Luis Martinez, Marquês de Mendao, seemed totally unaffected by the climate.
She glanced surreptitiously towards him. His concentration was all on the road ahead and for a moment she was able to look at him unobserved. Who would have thought that in less than twenty-four hours her life could change so completely? Yesterday afternoon she had spent at her easel, trying to finish the portrait of one of the village children while Malcolm slept, aware of a certain excitement about him which she had not been able to explain. That the explanation had come in such a startling way was scarcely believable. And yet, last night, when she had opened the door and found the tall dark alien on the step, she had known that he was in some way responsible for that latent excitement. But even then she had not suspected that Malcolm intended to take her away.
