by Anne Mather
‘This is Eduardo, senhora,’ said the girl, with a slight smile. ‘He is to be your husband’s—er—criado?’
Rachel frowned. ‘You mean a kind of—manservant?’ She made a helpless gesture. Malcolm would not like this.
‘Sim, sim, senhora,’ the girl was nodding gratefully. ‘That is the word; manservant, sim.’
‘But——’ Rachel broke off for a moment. ‘I usually look after my husband myself.’
The girl looked most disturbed. ‘But not in the Quinta Martinez, senhora!’ she exclaimed. ‘The Senhora Marquesa could not permit such a thing.’
Rachel sighed. ‘Just a moment.’
She walked quietly to the door to the bedroom and pressing the handle opened it slightly. It was dark now, but in the faint light from outside she could see that Malcolm was still asleep. Perhaps she might go and see the Marquesa and explain, and be back before Malcolm was even aware that she had gone.
Closing the door again, she turned to the two young Portuguese waiting in the sala. They were an attractive couple, she saw now that she relaxed sufficiently to notice them, and she thought how in other circumstances what a boon this could have been. To be relieved, even for a few weeks, of the necessity to do everything for Malcolm would have seemed like a real holiday. But she knew also that Malcolm would never agree.
‘All right,’ she said now. ‘I’m ready.’
If the girl thought the English girl’s attire unusual, she hid it well, and turning to Eduardo she instructed him to remain in the suite until the senhora’s return.
The young man smiled and nodded and Rachel flashed him a grateful smile before accompanying the girl from the room. As they again traversed the corridor, she said: ‘What’s your name?’
‘Rosa, senhora.’
‘Rosa.’ Rachel repeated the word. ‘What a pretty name!’
‘Obrigada, senhora.’ Rosa seemed pleased at the small compliment.
Lamps had been lit along the wide corridor, and a chandelier illuminated the hall, casting prisms of light on to the fluted woodwork and delicately carved statuary. From the garden came the drifting scents of stocks and honeysuckle, fanned through the windows by a cooling breeze.
Rosa led the way across the hall to a tall, white-panelled door and tapped lightly. A feminine voice called: ‘Entre!’ and then Rosa pushed open the door and urged Rachel before her into the room.
‘Senhora Trevellyan, Senhora Marquesa,’ she announced.
‘Thank you, Rosa. You may leave us.’
The voice came from a woman who was standing gracefully on the soft rug before an exquisitely carved fireplace. Small and slender, silver-grey hair immaculately coiffured shaping a face that was smooth and unlined, dressed completely in black to her small ankles, the Marquesa de Mendao was an imposing figure. Another woman, perhaps a little younger than the Marquesa, was seated on a tapestry-covered chaise-longue and as Rosa withdrew they both regarded Rachel with what seemed to her to be a rather hostile scrutiny.
Although Rachel had little chance then to take in her surroundings, she had an impression of book-lined walls and long, crimson hangings, rosewood furniture, and polished wooden floors. The whole room had an aura of elegance and good taste, and there was a faint smell of leather and good tobacco.
Then the Marquesa de Mendao was moving towards her, holding out her hand in greeting. ‘How do you do, senhora,’ she said, speaking English and yet managing to sound wholly Portuguese. ‘So you are Malcolm’s wife. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’
Rachel shook the Marquesa’s hand nervously. She was distinctly tempted to curtsey, so gracious and imperious did the Marquesa seem, but she managed to reply to the greeting calmly and the Marquesa turned back to her companion.
‘Allow me to introduce Senhora Ribialto,’ she said. ‘The senhora has been with me for many years now. She is my friend, my associate.’
Rachel presumed that Senhora Ribialto performed the duties of a lady-in-waiting. Certainly she was overshadowed by the personality of the woman who called herself her friend. In a plain dark gown, buttoned to the neck, her hair drawn severely into a chignon on the nape of her neck, she was a colourless individual.
Rachel shook hands with her, too, but she saw the dark eyes of the other woman move with distaste over her slim-fitting trousers. Turning back to the Marquesa, she said, because it was obviously expected of her at this point: ‘It’s very kind of you to invite—Malcolm—and myself here, Senhora Marquesa. You—you have a beautiful home.’
The Marquesa inclined her head. ‘Thank you, senhora. And you may call me Dona Joanna as you are Malcolm’s wife. Although, of course, we were unaware that Malcolm had a wife until my son informed us some little time ago.’
Rachel felt a wave of colour sweeping up her neck. ‘I know——’ she was beginning when the Marquesa interrupted her with an eloquent movement of her hand.
‘There is no need to attempt to explain, senhora. My son has explained everything to me. Nevertheless, I felt it was a good idea that we should become acquainted—should perhaps understand one another before I speak with Malcolm.’
That sounded ominous. Rachel stiffened. But the Marquesa seemed completely at ease.
‘Won’t you sit down, senhora?’ she suggested, indicating a damask-covered armchair. ‘Perhaps you would care to try a little wine, some of our own wine, grown in the Martinez vineyards. Sara!’
Rachel subsided into the chair, glad to be off legs which had grown decidedly shaky. She was about to refuse anything to drink when the other woman, Sara Ribialto, rose to her feet and crossed the room to a shadowy corner where a cabinet revealed a comprehensive array of bottles.
‘What is it to be?’ enquired the Marquesa, seating herself opposite Rachel. ‘Some sherry? Or perhaps the wine for which Portugal is famous?’
Rachel would have preferred a simple fruit juice, but she knew that to say so would be tantamount to insulting their hospitality. She agreed to try some port, and although it was not really to her taste, she sipped it obediently and complimented the Marquesa on its quality.
‘Do you know much about wine, senhora?’ asked the Marquesa, watching her closely.
‘Very little, I’m afraid.’
‘I thought as much.’ The Marquesa’s lips twisted. ‘You will not then be aware of the care which must be taken to produce exactly the right kind of grape for each vintage. You will not know that the sun must not be allowed to make the grape too sweet, or that to pick a grape too soon can make it bitter. Wine producing is a very delicately balanced business, handed down from father to son. It can take many years to perfect a wine, did you know this?’
‘I’m afraid not, Senhora Marquesa.’
‘Dona Joanna,’ corrected the Marquesa smoothly.
‘Very well, then. Dona Joanna,’ said Rachel, biting her lip. ‘But please—call me Rachel. I’m not used to such formality.’
The Marquesa merely smiled at this and made no comment. Rachel was aware of Sara Ribialto coming to stand behind the Marquesa’s chair, like a silent guardian, and she sensed that pretty soon she was to hear the thing she had been brought here to hear.
‘Here in the valley,’ went on the Marquesa, ‘we are all aware of such things. It is second nature to us to scan the horizon for signs of cloud, to listen with bated breath for the rumbling of a sudden storm which could ruin a crop. It is our way of life. A way of life which must seem entirely alien to you.’
Rachel stroked the rim of her glass. ‘Different, yes,’ she agreed.
‘And just as our way of life is different, senhora, we are different.’ Rachel noted the studied formality of that word, senhora. ‘You may say I was born in England and therefore I am English, but after forty years in Mendao I consider myself wholly Portuguese.’
‘Yes?’ Rachel didn’t know what all this was leading up to.
‘And because of this, you present a problem, senhora.’
‘Me!’ Rachel pressed a hand to her throat.
; ‘Yes, senhora, you! When I invited Malcolm here for a visit, it presented no difficulties. I understood that he was a sick man, invariably confined to his bed, or occasionally a wheelchair; someone whose presence would create no upheaval whatsoever.’
‘But I don’t see——’
‘Let me finish, senhora.’ The Marquesa’s nostrils flared and Rachel felt as though she had been severely reprimanded. ‘We were not to know that someone like yourself would accompany him. Someone young, impulsive, perhaps even a little irresponsible, if you will forgive the word——’
‘Irresponsible!’ Rachel was stung by the Marquesa’s tone.
‘Please. Allow me to go on. You must agree that you are young, and therefore no doubt you expect to share in the life of the quinta to a much greater extent than your—husband would have done had he been alone.’
‘What are you trying to say, Senhora Marquesa?’ Rachel was on her feet now, her hands trembling slightly, almost spilling the liquid in her glass.
‘If you will permit me, I will tell you.’ The Marquesa’s lips thinned. ‘You see—you are angry already because I suggest that your presence here might upset the household——’
‘Upset the household!’ Rachel was astounded.
‘Of course.’ The Marquesa took a deep breath. ‘Luis, my son, is to be married soon, in ten weeks to be exact. His betrothed, the Senhorita Amalia Alejento, is a frequent visitor here. It would be an impossible situation if you were present on these occasions.’
Rachel felt hot all over. She might never have had that shower earlier. But also she was chilled inside, chilled by the coldness of this small, but intimidating, woman. ‘Are you suggesting that I ought to leave?’ she demanded tremulously, putting down her glass, ‘because if you are, I should tell you that nothing would suit me more——’
‘No! No, that is not what my mother is saying!’
The cold, clipped masculine tones fell into the heated air of the library. In that stormy confrontation they had all been unaware of the door opening and of Luis Martinez entering to stand just inside, regarding them bleakly.
The Marquesa turned to him at once, crossing the room to take his arm. ‘Oh, Luis!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am so glad you are here. Perhaps you can explain the situation to Senhora Trevellyan without creating any more unpleasantness.’
Rachel was breathing unsteadily. She suddenly felt exhausted, as if she had just completed a long and gruelling race. She looked at the three faces all staring at her and there was not an atom of warmth or understanding in any of them.
With a little muffled exclamation, she rushed across the room past them, and out of the door, not even stopping when Luis Martinez said: ‘Senhora!’ in grim, arresting tones. She looked round the dim hall helplessly, saw a corridor which she thought led back to Malcolm’s suite of rooms and started along it chokingly, a hand still pressed to the constriction in her throat.
But almost as she realised that this corridor was not the one she had been along earlier, footsteps sounded behind her and seconds later Luis Martinez came abreast of her and stepped across her path, preventing her from making further progress even if she had wanted to. His eyes were not cold now, they were blazing with his anger, and a ripple of awareness ran up her spine. For the moment, the hot Latin temperament of his ancestors had the upper hand, overwhelming and subduing the cool, English indifference which he normally displayed.
‘Where exactly do you think you are going, senhora?’ he enquired peremptorily, and she took a backward step away from the violence that emanated from him.
‘I was trying to find my way back to—to Malcolm.’ She used her husband’s name deliberately, assuming a defiance she was far from feeling. ‘Obviously, I’ve taken the wrong corridor.’
‘The quinta is a large place, senhora,’ he snapped. ‘It would not be difficult to get lost in its corridors.’
Rachel’s nerves were taut, but she could not let it go. ‘And is that what your mother was trying to tell me, senhor?’ she asked, with scarcely veiled sarcasm.
His fists clenched and for a brief moment she thought he intended her actual physical injury. But then he relaxed, and managed to get control of himself.
‘No, that was not what she was trying to say, senhora,’ he stated, taking a deep breath. ‘She was merely endeavouring to explain the difference between entertaining a man who is mostly confined to his bed, and entertaining a young woman who might expect certain privileges.’
‘I expect nothing, senhor,’ she replied, half turning away. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me——’
‘Wait a moment! I have not yet finished.’ His jaw was hard. ‘Surely you can see that my mother did not expect Senhor Trevellyan to live, as they put it—com familia—as one of the family.’
Rachel stared at him. ‘And you think I expect that?’ she asked incredulously.
‘We do not know yet, senhora.’ He was calm now.
‘Well, I can assure you I don’t,’ she retorted, unevenly. ‘I have no desire to mix with people who consider me their social inferior——’
‘It’s not a question of that!’ For a moment his eyes flashed again.
‘Then what is it a question of, senhor? My outlook on life? My clothes? Oh, yes, you didn’t care for them, did you? On the way here you politely tried to warn me, but foolishly I thought you were exaggerating. Well—I’m convinced now. You are different, totally different, and I don’t want to be like you any more than you want to be like me!’
And with that she marched away down the corridor, her head held high, when all the time she felt ridiculously like the child who has just said an unforgivable thing to the headmaster.
Once reason ruled her head again, it was a simple matter to distinguish which corridor from the hall led to Malcolm’s apartments, and she hurried along, hoping against hope that Malcolm would still be asleep.
But he was not, he was awake, and Eduardo was looking most concerned when she went into the bedroom and found him trying to reason with her husband in broken English. As soon as Malcolm saw her however, he ignored the Portuguese and shouted angrily: ‘Where the hell have you been? I told you not to disappear, damn you!’
Rachel heaved a sigh, wondering whether Eduardo understood what Malcolm was saying. Certainly he understood the other man’s tone of voice, and his swarthy face was anxious.
‘The Senhora Marquesa sent for me,’ she replied quietly. ‘Would you have had me refuse to go?’
‘Why couldn’t she come here?’ Malcolm was aggressive.
‘I think she’s going to. But you were asleep, and I suppose she thought it would be a good opportunity to—to speak to me.’
‘What did she say?’
Rachel sighed and glanced at Eduardo. ‘This and that.’ She linked her hands together. ‘You can go, Eduardo. And will you tell whoever is responsible that Senhor Trevellyan and I will eat in our rooms?’
‘Sim, senhora.’ It was obvious that Eduardo understood more English than he spoke. With an awkward bow in Malcolm’s direction he went out of the room and presently Rachel heard the outer door close behind him.
‘What did you do that for?’ asked Malcolm, unpleasantly. ‘You don’t know what arrangements have been made about us taking our meals.’
Didn’t she? Rachel’s mouth felt suddenly dry, but she refrained from mentioning it. Instead, she said: ‘How do you feel?’
Malcolm heaved an impatient sigh. ‘I’m all right,’ he muttered. ‘I just want to know what Joanna said to you. Did she mention me?’
Rachel ran her tongue over her upper lip. ‘Not—not really. I think it was me she wanted to look over.’
Malcolm looked belligerent. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, you know.’ Rachel turned away, picking up his shoes and placing them neatly under the end of his bed. ‘Curiosity, I guess.’ There was no point in angering him still further with the Marquesa’s real reasons. Things were going to be difficult enough here without Malcolm’s involvement in the affair. All the s
ame, she wished Malcolm were the kind of man she could tell, someone with a sense of pride who would refuse to stay here under such circumstances. But then, she thought dryly, had Malcolm been that kind of a man this situation would never have happened.
‘Well?’ he said now. ‘So what happened?’
‘Very little. We—we drank some wine, and—and she explained that her son is getting married in a few weeks’ time and that naturally, not knowing that I was coming with you, she was going to have little time to spare to entertain me.’
Malcolm hunched his shoulders. ‘That’s just as well, isn’t it?’ he grunted. ‘I don’t want you disappearing every minute of the day when I might need you.’
Rachel turned. ‘That young man who was here just now—Eduardo—he—he was sent to help you. I—I believe the Marquesa would like you to accept him as your manservant while you’re here.’
Malcolm’s expression darkened. ‘I don’t need any man-servant.’
‘Why not?’ Rachel spread her hands. ‘Aren’t I entitled to a holiday, too? I shall be here, if you want me. It’s just that—well—it would make things easier.’
‘I’ll bet it would.’ Malcolm tugged viciously at the bedspread. ‘And how do you think I’d feel submitting to the ministrations of a stranger?’
‘You did that when you were in hospital.’
‘That was different. They were nurses, trained nurses. Eduardo! Pah!’
The subject was dropped. Malcolm wanted Rachel to help him get ready for the Marquesa’s visit. She helped him into the wheelchair and guided him into the bathroom. The delightful accoutrements of this apartment made no apparent impression on him. They were purely functional requirements so far as he was concerned.
Back in the bedroom he decided to put on his pyjamas and receive the Marquesa in the bedroom itself. It was easier and infinitely more comfortable for him to put on a pair of cotton pyjamas than a heavy suit, and besides, it created the impression that he wanted to create.
She came just before their dinner was to be served, arriving at the suite in the company of Sara Ribialto and her son. To Rachel, it smacked of a royal visit, and after taking one look at Luis Martinez’s dark face she left them, unable to listen to Joanna Martinez without feeling a decided sense of distaste.
