Instinctively, she turned away from that thought. She would face it, if it became necessary, in time. For the present, she only hoped he had received her latest letter and would be there to meet her when she arrived.
Straeford, in fact, had received all of his wife’s letters but had not replied because he deliberately delayed reading them. One letter he had carried in the pocket of his tunic, and at stray moments when his hand inadvertently touched the thick parchment, he would feel a start of pleasure that angered him. Then he would grasp the missive as if to throw it away but could not bring himself to do so.
Eventually he did read it in the privacy of his tent at his outpost in the lonely Beira Valley, and as he read the softly flowing sentences by the flicker of candle flame, he was transported back to Straeford Park. He felt the warmth of Marisa reach out to him and saw the gleam of her smile, and wondered how it was that that white witch took such hold of his imagination.
She wrote that Meg had become engaged to the Fairfax boy and that every prospect for happiness now existed for the couple. But her most important information was that she was studying Portuguese and reading Camoes’s Lusiads in translation. “I believe the soul of a nation is expressed in its national epic,” she wrote. Witch! What was her muse that led her so unerringly to those private pursuits that he felt were uniquely his own? He had tried to throw her off the scent that time he had found her among his books in the library at Berkeley Square, but obviously to no avail. No doubt she would discover the convent at Alcobaga too.
Not only had Marisa discovered the abbey in her studies, but she was planning to visit it as well. Straeford would have strangled her had he known.
The day Edward Harding received his wife’s letter informing him of Lady Straeford’s projected arrival, he went in search of Straeford and stuck his head in his friend’s tent.
“Busy?” he queried.
“I’m trying to finish a dispatch to Wellington if I could only find ten consecutive minutes without some damned interruption,” Straeford replied, not troubling to dissemble his annoyance.
“Sorry, old man,” Harding rejoined without the slightest contrition and settled himself comfortably in a chair near his friend’s desk. “Oh I say,” Harding noticed the pink envelope cast unopened to one side of the desk. “You haven’t read your mail.”
Compressing his lips, Straeford grunted something unintelligible.
“But it’s from the countess. Surely you want to know what she has to say.”
“No, damn it, I don’t!” Straeford exploded.
“Deuce take it, but you’re a damn odd fish, Just. But do as you please.” Harding walked out on his comrade.
Straeford watched him go, and then flicked his eyes to the pink envelope. Grinding his teeth, he went back to his report. An hour later he thrust back his chair, and cursing, stared down at the blank sheet of paper. He strode to the other side of the tent, stopped, came back and grabbed the pink envelope, ripping it open.
“My God!” She was coming to Portugal and it was too late to stop her!
Edward Harding and Roger Claridge acted as hosts to the party of British wives when they docked at Lisbon. The gentlemen met the ladies and their entourage, at the quay with carriages ready to transport them to their hired villas which once housed the Portuguese nobility. Marisa and Ann were to share a residence that Harding had secured for them, as Valerie and Carol were to share another acquired by Roger.
Lisbon seemed a giant cauldron of teeming life. Brilliant sunshine flooded everywhere. Many of the narrow streets were crowded with barefoot varinas carrying creels of fish to market in baskest delicately balanced on their heads, and peddlers of every description were hawking their wares of birds and flowers and fruit. Soldiers also, both British and Portuguese, swarmed the streets, and none on his best behavior.
As their coach pressed on through Black Horse Square where the statue of Dom José in plumed helmet dominated the lower city, Marisa caught fleeting glimpses of broad, tree-lined avenues. Above them climbed houses and buildings that clung perilously to mounting hills. They reached daringly into a sky of such crystalline blue that it took Marisa’s breath away.
The carriage ride was brief, and soon they turned through a pair of magnificent wrought iron gates. They followed a broad circular drive lined with tall cypresses and pulled up before a three-storied structure of white stucco topped by a roof of deep red tiles. Each window of the second story supported its own carved balcony over which flowed trailing vines and climbing red roses. The uppermost story displayed a gallery of columns and arches in shadowy recesses that suggested an aura of mystery and seclusion. The faint sounds of a mournful melody drifted hauntingly from the darkened corridors above.
“Hush,” Ann whispered to her companions. “What is that sound I hear?”
“That’s probably the gardener’s son serenading one of the upstairs maids. You’ll find the Portuguese to be a very musical people, my dear,” Edward enlightened his wife.
“What a lovely sound,” Marisa added her thoughts to the others.
Once inside, the sudden shift from brilliant sunlight to shadowy darkness almost blinded the ladies. Gradually they were able to discern the enchanting design of the home they were to occupy during their sojourn in Lisbon.
“It is breathtaking,” Marisa murmured to Ann.
“I cannot believe my eyes,” Ann rejoined eagerly. “It is a veritable palace.”
The floor on which they stood was a tiled mosiac of geometric pattern in varying shades of sienna and green. Hanging from a high vaulted ceiling that reached the full three stories above hung an ornate lantern made of golden panes of leaded glass supported by a massive black chain riveted securely into the darkened ceiling above.
Sunlight could be seen gleaming at the other end of the long central hallway which was lined with doors and arches that led into chambers beyond. An imposing carved staircase curved up to the second floor where a gallery circled above.
“But Edward, such a monstrously vast establishment you have chosen. Marisa and I shall be lost in these dark corridors. However shall I find the nursery?” She was breathless with excitement. “And all the marble and gold…”
“The Portuguese nobility go in for a rather ostentatious display, my dear. I’m sure you can accustom yourself to the grand style, can you not?”
“Well, dear husband, I should be needle-witted were I to complain of such luxury. What do you say to these sumptuous accommodations, Marisa?”
“I’m all agog,” she smiled. “It is so good of you, Major Harding, to allow me to intrude myself into your plans.”
“Nonsense, dear lady. I am delighted to be of service. As soon as Ann’s letter reached me, I set about locating the best possible establishment.”
“Nevertheless, I apologize for my rag manners in thrusting myself forward so unexpectedly, but my decision to accompany Ann and your son was made rather suddenly,” Marisa continued to apologize.
“I’ll hear no more about it, madam. There was no trouble in finding a large enough residence, as you can see. Many of the fine houses hereabouts are empty since the Regent and his court fled to Brazil. It was just a matter of choosing one magnificent villa from among a plentiful array. This particular villa once housed the Trudenjos family.”
“Lud, you two, but I’m weary of your polite prattle. Is there a housekeeper or upstairs maid, Edward dear, who can see us to our rooms? I do hope Nurse has your son and heir comfortably settled by now. As for me, I vow I must have a bath and a rest before dinner. What do you say, Marisa?”
“My sentiments exactly, Ann. I feel such a shabby sight with the dust and stain of travel on me.”
In truth, Marisa could barely restrain herself from cornering Edward Harding and bombarding him with questions about her husband, but she knew that she would have to bide her time until the amenities of arrival were settled, and she could discreetly broach the subject. She yearned desperately for knowledge of the darkbrowed earl, but
must content herself to wait. She chided herself for a fool, and would admit to no one her bitter disappointment that he had not met her at the quay. Romantic folly surely, to dream that he would magically appear because she so ardently desired it.
Besides, their first meeting was certain to be anything but romantic. If the past were any guide to the future, she should be quaking with fear instead of teasing herself with fanciful hopes.
Dinner that night introduced the ladies to Portuguese delicacies—some of questionable desirability. The smoked ham and melon were delicious, as were the tawny peaches from Alcobaga served in creme.
Later, over coffee in the drawing room, the subject of Straeford was finally approached.
“Well, ladies, what news do you bring from London?” Major Harding asked.
“La, Edward, I scarce know where to begin with the latest tittle-tattle. You do know, of course, that Lady Claridge comes to Portugal to keep the eagle eye on Roger. The on dit is that he has found himself a dusky bit of muslin this side of the Atlantic, and she means to…”
“Ann, my dearest darling wife, the latest scandal broth is not the news which I seek to hear.”
“Oh dash it, Edward, what else is there?” She was abashed.
“I was thinking more of the press and its attacks on Lord Wellington…”
“Really Edward, since when have you ever known me to diddle my wits over politics and war?”
“My dear Ann, such expressions you use! You are, getting harder to follow with each passing year.” His fond amusement touched Marisa.
“There is much in the journals that is vicious in the extreme.” Marisa took up the conversation. “They say the duke will shoot any poor Portuguese peasant who does not follow his orders, and they cannot understand why there has not been further engagement of the enemy.”
“As usual, they report what will create dissension and do not trouble themselves with truth or accuracy,” Major Harding claimed with more heat than Marisa believed him capable of showing.
“I think they dare such slander because our government does not support the Portuguese effort.”
“True. True,” Harding agreed.
“Lord Liverpool’s complaints are often written up, and naturally they stir the rabble to protest…”
“I see you exercise your wits over more than the latest scandal mongering, Lady Straeford.” The major looked meaningfully at his wife, who pouted prettily.
“Fiddle dee dee,” she smiled airily, ignoring his attempt to chide her, and tapped his arm with her fan. “Who gives a fig?”
Turning to Marisa the gentleman added, “Your grasp of the situation is very thorough, Lady Straeford.”
Marisa flushed at the admiration in his eyes. “If I am so attentive to the press reports, it is only that they are my sole channel of information about matters that concern me deeply.”
“I take your meaning, my dear lady. Let me set your mind at ease about his lordship. Presently he is stationed about one hundred miles from here in a mountainous area to the north.”
“Does he know about my coming to Portugal?”
A slight flush stained Major Harding’s cheeks as he recalled that afternoon in Straeford’s tent. “I believe you may safely assume he is aware of your arrival…”
“I see.”
Marisa’s crestfallen face caused the major to wish he had spoken less frankly, and he tried to cover what he knew to be Justin’s attitude on the matter. “Then again one can’t be too sure of mail delivery in that region. And often there are enemy patrols to contend with—skirmishes, you know—and it is sometimes many days that men are away from camp.”
These words caused Marisa such obvious alarm that the major silently cursed himself for a blundering fool. “Lady Straeford, if I may speak openly for a moment…” He paused.
“Please do, sir. I look on you and Ann as my dear friends.”
“You do us honor.” Both he and Ann smiled warmly. “I do not wish to intrude in your private life, Lady Marisa. But if I could offer a few words of advice, or perhaps, of explanation…” She nodded eagerly. “How shall I say it?” He paused again. “Justin was forced to come to conclusions about life—and the fairer sex—at an early age, an age too young for proper understanding. A man’s impressions undergo many transformations from the time he is a young man, transformations which Justin was not allowed to experience. There are some attitudes that, unfortunately, have become hardened in him, but that I feel one such as yourself may in time soften.”
“Perhaps it is too late,” Marisa replied softly.
“Do not believe it, ma’am. There is a warm heart beneath that thorny exterior. Just have patience, and you’ll see it for yourself.”
Marisa could not prevent the tremble in her voice as she spoke. “You give me hope when I am in sore need of it, Major. I shall hold to the thought you have expressed. I am deeply grateful to both of you. And now if you’ll excuse me, I think I shall retire for the night. Thank you again.”
Edward and Ann watched as Marisa left the room. They looked at each other silently, not daring to express the fears that fretted their innermost thoughts.
A Christmas reception and ball at the palace had the ladies in a state of high excitement. It was the first formal occasion to be held in honor of the wives from England, and each woman was determined to outshine the other. The remaining Portuguese nobility would be present, as well as members of the British Legation and officers of His Majesty’s Royal British Army.
It was with a heavy heart that Marisa prepared herself for the glittering holiday affair. She allowed Lucy to arrange her blond tresses in a mass of tumbling curls starting high on her head and cascading down her back, in style imitating a waterfall.
She could not help being pleased with her reflection in the cheval glass. Her gown, which daringly revealed the creamy curves of her bosom, was a sea-green froth of spider gauze sprinkled with brilliants that sparkled and winked beguilingly with every movement of her graceful form. She would go to the ball and laugh and be gay, and Straeford be damned!
But why oh why had she received no word from that arrogant devil? Perhaps he would come to the ball and dance with her. For a moment her spirits rose as she entertained a fantasy of herself waltzing deliriously in his arms, his heart beating close to hers.
Ah well. She put aside the dream and greeted Ann, whose gown was a cerulean blue satin caught up with tiny velvet rosettes on the bodice and hem. Her soft brown hair was gathered in loose curls fastened with more rosettes, and she presented a charming picture of vivacious femininity.
Edward Harding was profuse in his compliments as he escorted the elegant pair to their waiting coach. After a short ride, they pulled up before a massive marble palace whose windows were ablaze with lights. No less than three flights of sprawling stairs led to a pillared entrance from which opened enormous gilded doors leading inside. Extending from either side of the central building were additional wings lined with rows of fluted columns supporting carved entablatures and tiled roofs which supported further ornate towers and domes.
Once inside, the Harding party passed through a long corridor lined with gilded mirrors which reflected a dazzling array of bejeweled ladies in modish gowns accompanied by elegant gentlemen in evening attire. The receiving line was headed by a member of the British Legation, Sir Arthur Ashington, in consort with Senhor and Senhora Almarez of the Portuguese Regency Council.
“I vow I shall never cease in amazement at the Portuguese display of wealth,” Ann whispered confidentially to Marisa.
“One can’t help being impressed,” Marisa agreed.
The coffered ceiling of the main ballroom was gilded and painted in a floral pattern of roses and vine leaves that were repeated in side panels along the walls. Interspersed between these panels were floor to ceiling mirrors and glass doors leading to supper rooms beyond. The vast floor was laid out in a figured marble of polished moss green bordered in white, and the entire room was lighted by crystal ch
andeliers supporting huge clusters of candles. Urns and vases overflowed with red roses.
“Ann darling,” a lady called to them just as they were taking seats along the wall.
“Lady Claridge, how good to see you here,” Ann smiled happily. “Isn’t this exciting, Marisa? All our friends from the crossing are here.”
Lady Claridge approached them in the company of a pale, faded-looking woman whose face showed traces of a lost beauty. She stared hard at Marisa, who wondered at the lady’s undisguised interest.
“Ann dear, I want you to meet an old acquaintance of mine who is living here in Lisbon. Adele Buxton, may I present you to Lady Straeford and Ann Harding, two of my companions who traveled to Portugal with me.”
“How do you do?” The. lady regarded them( with an hauteur that was barely concealed.
“How nice to meet you, Mrs. Buxton,” Ann claimed. “What good fortune for us to discover someone who is already familiar with Lisbon. There must be so much you can tell us about this fascinating country.”
“There is not much to tell, really, not much that is fascinating, anyway. I find Portugal quite a dirty, inhospitable land.”
“Oh,” Ann replied stupidly. The lady’s ungracious retort for once silenced the irrepressible Ann.
“Have you lived here very long?” Marisa picked up the limping conversation.
“Since last spring. My husband is with the foreign office and works closely with the Portuguese government here—if government it can be called.” Again a sarcastic rejoinder.
“Well, well,” Lady Claridge intervened nervously. “Roger is with the foreign office, Adele. My husband finds the Almarezes and others to be quite agreeable.”
“Really?” Adele replied haughtily. “I’ve met that handsome husband of yours, Valerie. He does have a winning way about him. Perhaps he is inclined to look kindly upon the Portuguese.”
Marisa could hardly believe it, but the lady seemed to be deliberately implying something nasty.
Tender Torment Page 23
