by Anne Mather
It was amazingly cool outside after the heat of the day, but not cool enough for Rachel to need a coat. On the contrary, she enjoyed the faint breeze that fanned her arms and neck. All the scents of the day had been intensified by the coming of night, the perfumes of the flowers lingering long after the last rays of the sun had disappeared below the horizon.
Luis walked with his hands folded behind his back, strolling beside her silently. For the moment it seemed he had nothing to say, and Rachel tried to calm her tautened nerves. She was being ridiculous, feeling this way. Just because a man had asked her to take a walk with him! She was so stupidly inexperienced where men were concerned, her only criterion the careless cruelty of her husband.
At last he said: ‘I went to Oporto today. A friend of mine was selling some horses. I bought a rather fine colt. Would you like to see him?’
Rachel made a deprecatory gesture. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Bom! We will go to the stables. It is this way.’
The stables were not far from the house, but the path was shadowy in places and Rachel followed close behind the Marquês. This was an area she had not seen before and she silently admired the white-painted buildings and cobbled forecourt.
Everything was locked up for the night, but Luis took some keys out of his pocket and unfastened the padlock which secured the stable door. Then he went inside and lit some lamps before signifying that Rachel should join him.
There were three horses housed in this building, and they came to their rails nuzzling Luis for sugar and sweetmeats. He spoke to all of them, and Rachel, following, realised he felt a real affection for the beasts.
At the end of the row, a slim, nervous-looking animal whinnied impatiently. It was all black, the muscles of its body rippling smoothly beneath its coat. It was quite magnificent, and Luis gave a rather satisfied smile.
‘This is Arrojado,’ he said. ‘Which means daredevil! Isn’t he beautiful?’
‘Beautiful,’ echoed Rachel, going forward to stroke the colt’s muzzle. ‘Who chose his name?’
‘I did,’ replied Luis, bending under the rail and going into the stall with the animal. He ran his hand lightly along the jerking muscles of its back. ‘Fique tranquilo, Arrojado. Calma!’
Rachel leant on the rail watching him. Under his gentle reassurance, the colt stopped its heavy breathing and began nuzzling him as the other horses had done. When Luis smiled, as he was smiling at the animal, he looked quite devastatingly attractive, and Rachel wondered if he smiled at Amalia Alejento like that. What did they talk about when they were alone together? Did he kiss her, caress her, make love to her? Her lips trembled and she turned away, forcing herself to move to another stall where she could not see Luis. It was nothing to do with her, so why did she continually think about it? How could she have this disturbing knowledge that a woman like Amalia would never make a man like Luis happy? She had no real idea what did or did not make him happy.
Luis ducked out of Arrojado’s stall and strode along the gallery to where Rachel was standing. She didn’t look at him but slowly began to walk towards the open door. Her impulse was to hurry, but she didn’t want to arouse his curiosity by behaving foolishly.
Outside, the cool night air was a balm to her hot face, and she stood hugging herself while he closed the door again and secured the padlock.
Then he dropped the keys into his pocket again, and said: ‘Do you ride, senhora?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to learn?’
‘Perhaps.’ She was cautious.
‘I could teach you.’
Rachel drew a deep breath. ‘Shall we be going back now?’
She heard his swiftly disguised imprecation. ‘As you wish.’
Rachel turned and followed the path which brought them out through the trees to the side of the drive. It was amazing how surely she found her way, but fear had quickened her step and her awareness. But fear of what? She was being ridiculous again.
They entered the quinta through french doors into the sala. Only one lamp burned in here, and the large room was shadowy. Rachel saw the exquisite ornamentation she had admired on the afternoon of that disastrous tea party and walked carefully between the small tables, half afraid of damaging some other unique object.
The doors to the hall were closed and as she reached for them, Luis said: ‘Won’t you stay and have a drink with me before you go to bed?’
Rachel turned, resting back against the carved panels of the doors. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ He had closed the french doors and was standing regarding her intently.
Rachel sighed. ‘If—if your fiancée were here, Senhorita Alejento, would she be permitted to stay and have a drink with you before going to bed, senhor?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Amalia is a single woman, what you would call—a maiden; it would not be fitting for her to stay and have a drink alone with me.’
‘I see. But it’s all right for me.’
He moved towards a tray of drinks resting on a table in a corner. ‘Let us not enter into an argument, senhora. You are at liberty to refuse my offer.’
‘Yes, I am, aren’t I? Very well then, I refuse.’
He poured himself some brandy and swallowed half of it at a gulp before turning to face her the glass in his hand. ‘I wish you would not,’ he said.
Rachel stared at him, her eyes troubled. ‘Why? Why, for heaven’s sake? Why do you want my company?’
Luis’s expression darkened. Even across the width of that enormous room she saw the anger in their depths. ‘Is it not sufficient that I do?’ he demanded, crossing to stand only a few yards from her.
‘No. No, it’s not.’ Rachel’s mouth was working. ‘I don’t understand you—oh, senhor!’ She added his title almost impatiently. ‘I—I wish you would leave me alone!’
‘Do you?’ He swallowed the remainder of his brandy and then studied the empty glass almost without realising he was doing so.
‘I’d better go.’
Rachel straightened away from the door, and put her hand behind her back, seeking the handle. But she couldn’t find it, and she turned jerkily to do so.
‘Allow me, senhora.’
He was right behind her, reaching past her to take the handle and pull the door wide. For an instant he was close to her again, as he had been that day by the river. Only this time his arm brushed her body and she had only to turn to press her face against his chest. The urge to do so was overpowering. To touch him, any part of him! She could feel the fine material of his jacket against her arm, and smell his breath with its faint odour of brandy.
‘Oh, Luis!’ she murmured, almost under her breath, but he heard her. He looked down at her searchingly, almost angrily, she thought, and with a helpless shake of her head, she added: ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, senhor!’
‘So you think of me as Luis,’ he murmured huskily, not moving away from her. ‘Say it again!’
‘What?’ Rachel felt as though she couldn’t get her breath.
‘My name; say it again!’
‘Luis.’ Rachel spoke convulsively. ‘I’m—I’m sorry.’
His breathing had quickened now, she could hear it, she could feel it. She could see the tautened muscles of his wrist on the hand that had reached for the door handle. She could feel his eyes moving over her like a lick of flame across her flesh.
‘Deus, Rachel!’ he groaned hoarsely, and the door slammed shut again. ‘Tu queria ...’
But when he moved forward to imprison her against the door with the weight of his body, she moved with astonishing speed, jack-knifing out of his reach.
‘No!’ she exclaimed chokingly. ‘No, Luis! I—I’m not that kind of woman!’
He turned. Now he was resting against the door and he ran a hand over the thickness of his hair almost dazedly. ‘What are you talking abou
t?’ he asked, his voice thickened by his emotions.
Rachel pressed both hands to her breast. ‘I want to go now,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Please—please open the door!’
Luis looked at her for several minutes and then he seemed to come to his senses. With a hardening of his jaw, he straightened and pulling open the door stood to one side stiffly.
Rachel didn’t look at him as she walked quickly out of the room.
The following morning Rachel looked tired and strained. She had slept very badly, and when she went along to Malcolm’s suite she was totally unprepared for his first words:
‘Did you enjoy yourself last night, Rachel?’
She halted in the middle of opening the shutters. Her hands shook, and she stared uncomprehendingly at him. ‘What—what did you say?’
Malcolm looked smug. He hoisted himself up on to his pillows and smiled unpleasantly at her. ‘I asked whether you enjoyed yourself last night,’ he repeated.
‘Last—last night——’ she faltered.
‘Yes, last night. You went out into the grounds, didn’t you? After I was safely tucked up in my bed!’
Rachel turned back to the shutters. She felt sick. Malcolm knew that Luis had come here last evening. He must have heard them talking as she had been afraid he might. Deciding to make a clean breast of it, she said: ‘I thought you were asleep. I’m sorry if you feel I shouldn’t have gone.’
She waited for the storm to break, but it didn’t. She turned back to him. ‘Did—did you hear what I said, Malcolm?’
‘Yes, I heard.’ Malcolm’s face wore a strange expression.
Rachel frowned. ‘And you—don’t mind?’
‘Why? Is there something I should mind?’ Malcolm became suddenly aggressive.
‘No!’ Rachel took a step away from him. ‘No, of course not.’
Her vehemence must have satisfied him because he nodded his head slowly and the anger left his voice. ‘No, of course not. You’re not like that, are you, Rachel? You’re not interested in men! I sometimes wonder what you are interested in!’ His lips twisted. ‘But he doesn’t know that, does he? And it’s becoming pretty obvious he’s more than a little interested in you!’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Malcolm!’ Rachel didn’t want him to put into words the thing she was becoming most afraid of.
His face changed again. ‘I’m not silly! I heard him last night—asking you to take a walk with him. I wonder what his mother would say to that! And that whey-faced Alejento girl. What a shock it would be for her to learn that her so aristocratic fiancé isn’t above making passes at a married woman!’
Rachel gasped. ‘He—he didn’t make passes!’ she denied hotly.
‘Didn’t he?’ Malcolm shrugged. ‘In their book, even coming here and taking you walking is tantamount to a flirtation——’
‘But he didn’t come here to take me walking,’ she protested. ‘He came to see you. He had heard about us being in the sala yesterday morning, and he thought you wanted to see him. Heavens, if you were awake, why didn’t you let me know? You could have talked to him.’
‘It didn’t suit my purpose to do so,’ retorted Malcolm. ‘I was curious to know how far he would go. Poor Joanna! She thought she could escape me by leaving the quinta. The idea of her son being anything less than incorruptible never even entered her head.’
‘What are you talking about, Malcolm?’ Rachel felt that awful uneasy feeling again. ‘Why should you want to corrupt the Marquesa or her son?’
Malcolm adopted an innocent attitude. ‘Did I say I did?’
‘No, but—oh, Malcolm, it’s obvious we’re not welcome here. Let’s go home. Please!’
‘No!’ Malcolm was adamant. ‘I’m not finished here. Not by a long chalk.’
Rachel turned away. What was the use? No matter what happened, Malcolm was determined to exact his pound of flesh, but what that pound of flesh might turn out to be, she had no idea.
She was discussing with Rosa the possibility of her obtaining some material for Rachel so that she could make herself a couple of cheap dresses when the Marquês arrived later that morning. He strode through the open door of the sala and said in imperative tones :
‘Where is Senhor Trevellyan? I wish to speak with him?’
Rachel twisted her hands together, avoiding his eyes. ‘He—he’s in the bedroom, senhor,’ she replied, and got no further before Luis had crossed the room and after a peremptory knock had thrust open the door and entered the bedroom.
Rosa’s dark eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Ceu!’ she exclaimed, clasping her hands. ‘The Senhor Marquês—he is very angry, is he not?’
Rachel swallowed with difficulty. ‘Is he?’
‘But of course, senhora. Did you not see his face? I have never known him do such a thing before.’
‘Such a thing as what?’
‘To come into a guest’s room without first obtaining permission, and then to ask to see your husband without first a greeting! No, senhora, the Senhor Marquês is very angry.’
Rachel quivered. Her momentary interest in the dresses had waned. She had thought the activity might give her something to do, might act as a distraction for her thoughts. But it was useless. How could she concentrate on anything, aware as she was of the precariousness of their position here?
Rosa bustled away. Obviously she considered it would not be politic to be still about when the Marquês emerged from Senhor Trevellyan’s bedroom. Rachel agreed to talk to her later, and then after the girl had gone she went out on to the patio.
It was very hot, and she stretched her length in one of the low loungers. Her instincts urged her to leave Malcolm’s suite and seek the comparative sanctuary of her own suite of rooms, but Malcolm might conceivably call her and she had to remain on hand to avoid arousing any further speculation on his part. What a situation! Her head ached when she thought about it, and determinedly she picked up the tablet and crayons which lay on the glass-topped table nearby and began sketching. Her crayon moved swiftly and surely across the paper and the outline of a man’s head began to take shape. Deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, a thin, intelligent profile, a lower lip with a hint of sensuality; she stared at the face taking shape almost irritably. Couldn’t she even escape from her thoughts in her work now? She had always been able to do so. It had been the one inviolable part of her existence and that was why Malcolm had resented it. But it seemed even that was to be denied her.
She tore off the sheet and screwed it into a ball and threw it on the mosaic tiling of the patio. She would not look at such a revealing example of her own vulnerability.
She looked behind her, towards the french doors leading into the sala. Was Luis still with Malcolm, or had he slipped away without her being aware of it? But no. If he had gone, Malcolm would be sure to send for her. So what was going on? Why had he come this morning? What were they talking about?
She was staring blindly at the blank page in front of her when she heard the door of Malcolm’s bedroom open and Luis emerged. She did not look round, but he came out on to the patio and stood stiffly beside her chair.
‘Bom dia, senhora,’ he said, just as stiffly. ‘How are you this morning?’
Rachel glanced upward, but only as high as his jacket lapels. ‘I’m very well, thank you. And you?’
‘Rachel! Rachel, where are you?’
The sound of Malcolm shouting her name echoed loudly round the small courtyard. Rachel sighed and putting aside her sketching tablet made to get to her feet. But Luis’s next words made her hesitate.
‘I came to apologise,’ he said quickly, in a low tone. ‘For last night.’ His voice was cool. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I apologise. It won’t happen again.’
Rachel got to her feet then, smoothing the sleeves of her blouse, brushing the sides of her trousers. Still not looking at him, she said: ‘That’s quite all right, senhor.’
‘Rachel, where the hell are you?’
Malcolm was growing impatient, a
nd Rachel gave an apologetic gesture and made for the french doors. She heard Luis’s barely concealed expletive, but then she was entering Malcolm’s bedroom and he was indicating that she should close the door behind her.
‘What the hell have you been doing?’ he snapped angrily. ‘I’ve been calling you for ages!’
‘No, you haven’t, Malcolm,’ she replied carefully. ‘I—I was just outside—on the patio. You can’t expect me to run every time you call.’
Malcolm hunched his shoulders. ‘You saw him arrive, I suppose?’
‘You mean—the Marquês?’
‘Of course I mean the Marquês. Don’t play games with me, Rachel!’
‘I’m not.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘Well? What did he want?’
‘He wanted to know how soon we’d be leaving!’
‘What?’ Rachel could hardly believe her ears. ‘And—and what did you tell him?’
‘The same as I’ve told you. I’ll go when I’m ready and not before.’
Rachel gasped. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said I had another week and then he was afraid he would have to ask us to leave!’
Rachel sank down on to the side of the bed. ‘I see.’ She moved her head a trifle dazedly. ‘Well, that’s something anyway.’
‘What—is something?’
‘Staying another week, of course. Oh, it’ll be nice to go home——’
‘We’re not going home!’
‘But you just said——’
‘I said that was what he had said. I didn’t say I agreed with it.’
‘But—but you can’t stay here against his wishes! He—he could have you—ejected!’
‘I doubt whether Joanna will agree to that.’
‘The Marquesa’s not here.’
‘I know. But she will be.’
‘What do you mean? Is she coming back to the quinta soon?’
Malcolm plucked at the satin bedcovering. ‘I think she might.’
Rachel gave a helpless sigh. ‘Oh, Malcolm! What on earth is the use of antagonising these people? We’ve been here two weeks—three, if you count next week as well. Surely that’s long enough for you!’
