Marianna

by Nancy Buckingham

  ‘You mean the nuns were afraid of being murdered in their beds?’

  Dick’s face turned red with embarrassment, and Marianna went to her son’s aid.

  ‘Keep very quiet, Lucia, and listen hard,’ she suggested. ‘Sound carries so extraordinarily well in this place that you can almost hear if someone drops a pin down in the village.’

  Not quite a pin, perhaps. But they heard a woman calling to her child, the tinkle of a goat’s bell, the soft gurgle of the ribeiro.

  Then, as quickly as the clouds dispersed, they came rolling back and the vision was lost. The four of them made their way down the irregular stone steps to where the burriqueiros waited with the horses. Finding a sheltered spot, they spread out the picnic meal which Marianna had brought — rolled slices of thinly-cut beef, cold partridge, tunny fish pate, stuffed eggs, and various kinds of tarts and sweetmeats. After they had finished eating, and the weather still looked disappointing, Marianna thought that Lucia might be interested to hear the famous legend about the pair of ill-starred lovers who were supposed to have come to the wooded isle of Madeira even before the accredited discoverer, Zarco, in the year fourteen nineteen.

  ‘The story starts in England at the time of King Edward the Third,’ she began. ‘That is, the late thirteen hundreds. A young man, Robert Machim, who was the son of a humble squire, fell deeply in love with Ana d’Arfet, the daughter of a nobleman, and she with him. But Ana’s father was enraged, and he forced the girl to marry a much older man of her own rank. So Robert contrived to carry off his beloved, with the intention of escaping across the sea to Brittany. However, their ship was driven by the most terrible gales for thirteen long days and nights, and then finally it made landfall at some unknown and uninhabited island. Sadly, though, poor Ana had suffered so grievously from her privations that she died within a few hours of being carried ashore. Robert was brokenhearted and tortured by remorse, and he survived her by only five days. The two lovers were buried by the ship’s crew side by side on the beach, in the place that was later to be known as Machico. And according to some people, the ancient chapel there was originally built to mark their grave.’

  ‘I suppose you realize it’s all a lot of tommyrot,’ Dick broke in scornfully. ‘Just a silly old romantic legend.’

  ‘Well, you men can scoff if you wish,’ said his mother. ‘But I think Lucia will agree with me that it’s a very beautiful story, and we would like to believe that it’s a true one.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed the girl, her eyes shining.

  Briefly, Jacinto’s glance met Marianna’s, then he said with an easy laugh, ‘I do not scoff at love stories, like Dick.’

  ‘So there,’ she said to her son. ‘You are quite outvoted, as you deserve to be.’

  A sudden heavy squall obliged them to gather up the remains of the picnic and seek shelter. Not far away they found a small cave cut into the rock for roadmenders, where they could just about stand up. Ten minutes later the rain stopped as abruptly as it had started, and they emerged into bright sunshine. The air was sparkling fresh and filled with fragrance. Above them, arching across the sky, was a magnificent double rainbow, its spectrum colours glowing vividly.

  As they stood watching in awed admiration, Jacinto began, ‘I remember how —’ He checked himself sharply, and Marianna caught her breath. It was so natural to speak of a recollection from his childhood, yet so dangerous.

  ‘You remember what, papa?’ asked Lucia.

  Jacinto answered, after a tiny pause, ‘I remember when I was a very little boy, I used to think that rainbows were painted across the sky by the angels.’

  She and Dick rode up to the quinta early on the morning that their guests were due to arrive. Linguareira insisted on accompanying them, but she was too fat and breathless now for horseback riding and was obliged to resort to a hired hammock for such journeys. There were wheezes and gasps as she lowered herself into it, and on the route Dick kept giggling at the muttered quips of the two pole bearers to the effect that, the Holy Saints be praised, it was a pleasure to carry the weight of such a sylphlike creature.

  The first thing Marianna did on their arrival was to go and see Rosaria, finding her sitting on the doorstep of their whitewashed casa, busy embroidering a scalloped linen collar.

  ‘The grape picking is almost finished,’ she explained, ‘and I am anxious to get this done. It is for her ... his daughter.’ She glanced from side to side, but no one was about. ‘For my grand-daughter,’ she amended with pride.

  ‘I am only sorry, Rosaria, that you cannot acknowledge her as such,’ Marianna said, bending to admire the delicate stitchery.

  ‘In my own heart I can, thanks be to God!’

  Marianna knew that this simple, devout woman considered she had been amply rewarded for the annual performance of her sacred vow, for the bruised and bleeding knees she had suffered in mounting the hard stone steps to the church. God had answered by bringing back her son, even if not in a manner which could be openly acknowledged.

  ‘Lucia is a charming and beautiful girl,’ said Marianna.

  ‘Sim, Jacinto told me this when he came. It was secretly, you know, one night. He promised then that he would look for a way to let us see our grandchild, and now you, menina, have made it possible. May the Holy Virgin heap blessings upon you for your goodness.’

  Jacinto and Lucia arrived on horseback an hour later, having come direct from Monte. After a short tour of the quinta — which Jacinto was supposed to be seeing for the first time — they took their lunch at a table on the veranda, where all the scents of the garden drifted towards them on a light breeze. Linguareira refused to sit with them, insisting that she knew her place. They could hear her voice from inside the house, berating the servants for being lazy good-for-nothings, and Marianna knew it was the old woman’s way of relieving her anxiety. On seeing Jacinto for the first time in the Rua das Murças, she had swept him into a fierce, emotional embrace; after which she had treated him with neutral politeness.

  It was an afternoon with racing trails of cloud, the sun and shadow patterns fleeting across the slopes of the ravine, lighting up the dark-veined rockface behind the quinta and lingering for a moment on the two paler pinnacles of the Devil’s Horns. The party wandered down through the fragrant garden, past the hibiscus bushes where hawk moths flitted, and came to the vineyard.

  There was much less activity now, with the last-to-ripen bunches being picked and trodden. Hating the necessity for it, Marianna introduced Eduardo to Jacinto as though they were strangers, and father and son bowed gravely to one another. Eduardo, speaking as the humble feitor, presently announced that his wife would be greatly honoured if the senhor and Senhora Dona Marianna would partake of refreshment at their small house. Marianna caught Jacinto’s eye and smiled to convey that this met with her approval; that, in fact, it had been arranged by her in advance. So Eduardo led the way to the thatched cottage where Jacinto had spent his childhood.

  It was dark inside, for the principal room, where in the old days all the family had gathered and several of the children had also slept, possessed only one small window. But it was spotless, the stone floor swept clean, the few small pieces of furniture rubbed to a high polish. On the table in the centre of the room bottles and glasses had been set out, and an array of sweetmeats — bolo de mel, cinnamon biscuits and little custard tarts flavoured with orange. Lucia went forward to admire the tablecloth of white linen embroidered with an intricate floral and bird design in several colours.

  ‘How very lovely!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you make this, Senhora Teixeiro? You must be very clever,’

  Rosaria’s seamed face broke into a wide smile. ‘You shall have it, menina. It will be my gift to you.’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly.’

  Marianna gave a quick shake of her head at Rosaria, indicating that such a gift was far too lavish. ‘But I’m sure,’ she said, ‘that Lucia would be delighted to be offered something smaller as an example of your embroidery.�
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  So the scalloped collar was produced from a cupboard, passed around and much praised, and finally accepted with an impulsive kiss from Lucia. Then they all turned their attention to the wine and cakes, and the atmosphere became more relaxed. Covertly watching Jacinto, Marianna realized how much he must be wanting to embrace his father, to hold his mother in his arms. As they were leaving, she contrived to allow him the opportunity of a few moments alone with his parents by strolling ahead with the two young people on their way back to the quinta.

  This visit of Jacinto’s was sweet torture for Marianna — having him so near, in these domestic surroundings, yet unable to exchange an intimate word, unable to so much as touch him. And all the time she was afraid that someone might recognize him for who he really was.

  On the second night of their stay, the end of the grape harvest was marked by special celebrations in the gardens of the quinta, lit for the occasion by lanterns and torches of juniper wood. Much baking had been done at the house, and a pig had been killed for the meat to be roasted on long laurel spits, and everybody ate and drank their fill. There was also singing and dancing to the music of guitarras, machetes and fiddles, and those who did not have instruments beat out the rhythm on any suitable piece of wood they could find.

  From the veranda, Marianna and Jacinto watched the two young people enjoying themselves in the thick of things. When he reached out and touched her hand, Marianna did not draw away. By unspoken consent they turned and descended the wooden steps and slipped across in the shadows to the denser shade of the cedar tree.

  They strolled on, their fingers entwined, and climbed a bank to reach the path beside the levada. The noise of revelry was fainter now. A light breeze stirred the leaves of the chestnut trees and their footsteps on the grassy path could scarce be heard above the whisper of flowing water. It was a beautiful evening. On the far side of the ravine a huge orange moon hung serenely in a sky of deepest indigo, seeming so near that an outstretched hand could pluck it down.

  Jacinto said softly, ‘There has been so little chance for us to talk, querida. I know almost nothing of how the years between have treated you. Tell me, what prompted you to return to Madeira and face such a formidable struggle?’

  ‘Yes, it has been a struggle, I admit that.’ Marianna hesitated, considering how much to reveal. ‘I was dreadfully unhappy in England. Ralph Penfold never once admitted — even to me in private — that he had seen the two of us together on the bridge, that afternoon when William died. Nevertheless he lost no opportunity to be unpleasant. He was his father’s sole heir — though naturally William had made provision at the time of our marriage for myself and any children I might bear him — and Ralph treated me as an interloper in the family. At least this property of my father’s in Madeira, for what little it was worth, had passed entirely to me — that was part of the marriage settlement. This island beckoned me like a haven of peace. So after Dick was born, as soon as I felt he was old enough to make the voyage, I turned my back on England and came here. There was just one person I regretted having to leave — Hilda, my maid.’

  ‘The one who helped you come to London and warn me?’

  ‘Yes. We both owe so much to that girl, my dear. I asked Hilda to come away with me, but she was courting one of the footmen at Cadogan Place and they wished to marry. I was able to give them a little help in purchasing a small grocery shop, and this has thrived. Hilda has four children now, and we still keep in touch at Christmastide.’

  Jacinto came to a halt and drew her round to face him. He held her by the shoulders and there was an intensity in his voice as he said, ‘I heard it mentioned in the Commercial Association that you are the equal of any man in the wine trade.’

  ‘So you talk about me, do you?’ she said, with a curious feeling of unease.

  ‘No, but I listen.’

  ‘Then without doubt you will also have heard things to my discredit.’ Marianna made to stroll on, but he restrained her and demanded urgently, ‘What of those two men – Rapazotte and da Silva? From thinly-veiled hints, I surmise that they are-’

  ‘They are what?’ she asked dangerously, and wrenched herself from his grasp. ‘You had better say it plainly, Jacinto.’

  ‘Very well! Is it true that those two men are, or have been, your lovers?’

  Anger that he should dare pose such a question robbed her of breath. Jacinto seemed to take her silence as shame, and he said with less aggression, ‘Marianna, it is not my intention to cast blame...’

  She could have told him the truth — that neither Carlos nor Augusto nor any other man had been her lover. That, despite a flagrant use of feminine wiles, something had always held her back from the ultimate step. But she refused to demean herself, as she saw it, by rushing to deny Jacinto’s charge.

  ‘How very magnanimous of you,’ she said furiously. ‘How noble that he who is himself blameless should generously refrain from casting blame.’

  ‘But I didn’t say—’

  ‘You have said quite enough. I do not claim to have led an unblemished life. There are certain things that I would wish undone, if only it were possible. But be clear about this, Jacinto. I feel no sense of shame for the steps I have taken in reinstating the name Dalby as a force to be reckoned with. I feel no shame in giving back a decent livelihood and a sense of human dignity to the many loyal and good people who worked for my father. I have stood up to men, and fought them on their own terms. And if I have sometimes found it necessary to use a woman’s weapons against them, it is because the world of men allows my sex no other way.’

  His tone was contrite, yet he persisted. ‘Your life has made you hard, Marianna. When I remember how innocent you used to be...’

  ‘Innocence is for children,’ she flared. ‘I soon lost my innocence when I married William Penfold. But do you suppose it is not the same heart that beats in my breast?’

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. Forgive me.’ He touched her cheek lightly with his finger. ‘But these men, did they make you forget me, querida, even for a little while?’

  ‘You know the answer to that.’

  ‘But I want to hear you say it.’

  There was such anxiety, such uncertainty in his voice, that Marianna was moved to compassion.

  ‘Never for one moment have I ceased to love you, Jacinto,’ she whispered. ‘You are everything to me. You are life itself, my darling one.’

  In the moonlight she could see the planes and hollows of his face, she could see the look of love and tenderness in his dark eyes. From far away the sounds of merrymaking belonged to another world and it was just the two of them, alone. They kissed passionately, clinging to one another. Marianna felt a glorious sense of peace and contentment, yet at the same time there was an aching need in her that demanded fulfilment. They sank down together upon a bed of fern and bracken, and under the velvet canopy of night, with the sweet scent of honeysuckle tangling into their senses, they loved again as they had loved so long ago.

  * * * *

  As autumn slipped into the mild Madeiran winter she and Jacinto met whenever it could be conveniently arranged, but they were rarely alone for more than a few minutes. Catarina’s condition steadily worsened, except for one period of three days when the leste blew, the hot wind from the sands of the Sahara which, while oppressing everyone else, brought relief to her tortured lungs. Marianna several times made the journey up to Monte to sit with her an hour or so, sometimes reading aloud the poems of Mrs Elizabeth Barrett Browning for whom they shared an admiration. She had discovered a real liking for this wan invalid. She begrudged Jacinto’s wife nothing, except the long years.

  When Catarina went into her last decline, Marianna saw nothing of Jacinto and Lucia for more than a fortnight. Then one morning he walked into her office bringing the news that his wife had passed away.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said, with a genuine feeling of sadness.

  ‘The end was very sudden and very peaceful. I was with her, thank God.’

&nbs
p; ‘How has Lucia taken it?’ Marianna asked.

  ‘Not well, poor child. She was always devoted to her mother and she will be lost now.’

  ‘We must try to cheer her up, within the limits of what is seemly.’

  Jacinto did not stay for long. There was a restraint upon them, and they did not even touch hands. Next day Lucia was brought down to Funchal to be with Marianna during the burial, which Dick attended as a mark of respect. A quiet ceremony had been anticipated, with few people beside Jacinto and Dick, and the menservants from the rented quinta, to follow the pall bearers up the sixty-eight steps to the pretty church of Nossa Senhora do Monte. But Dick reported later that there had been a large number of mourners — men of the town to whom Marianna had introduced Senhor Dom Joao Carreiro, and various neighbours in Monte.

  ‘Do you know, mama, even Eduardo from Alecrims was there, standing right at the back of the church and trying not to be noticed. I wonder how he came to know that Dona Catarina was dead? But it was nice of the old chap to come all that way, wasn’t it? I thought when we were up at the quinta that he seemed to get on very well with Dom Joao.’

  Four weeks later the Christmas season was upon them. Marianna suggested to Jacinto that, rather than face the festivities that were customary in and around Funchal, it might be preferable for them to spend the time at the Quinta dos Alecrims — just herself and Dick, himself and Lucia. She had expected opposition to the idea from her son, thinking he would be loth to miss all the parties and masquerading and fireworks. But Dick was surprisingly amenable.

  ‘I can see it wouldn’t be quite the thing for the Carreiros to be in the midst of things in Funchal,’ he said, ‘and it would be a pity not to have them join us.’

  They arrived early in the evening of December the twenty-third and dined quietly, though this time Marianna insisted on Linguareira joining them. Afterwards, the three adults sat over a few hands of bezique at a table by the open window, while on the veranda Dick showed Lucia how to play the machete. Tomorrow, Marianna thought contentedly, they would all go out and gather Christmas decorations for the house — boughs of silver pine and trails of giant smilax, ferns and yellow sedum, and the beautiful arum lilies that grew wild everywhere around.