by Susan Barrie
“If only I’d taken a secretarial course I might have been in demand this weekend!” Eileen remarked drily. “But if neither of the distinguished visitors has a word of English, you won’t be able to be of much assistance to them, will you?”
“The Marques de Barrateira is half Irish,” Kathie explained unwillingly, for somehow she disliked discussing her employer’s concerns. “And he has estates in this part of the world.”
“Really?” Bridie lifted her head, and her delicate eyebrows arched. “How intriguing! A Portuguese nobleman who is half Irish! And a godson of Lady Fitz!.. What else do you know about him that we might find of interest?”
“Nothing,” Kathie replied, “except that his visit to Eire is connected with his estates. He has been travelling a good deal lately, and his other reason for coming here is to see his godmother before returning home.
“To Portugal?” from Eileen.
“Yes—to Portugal!”
Eileen clasped her slim white hands together, and held them beneath her chin.
“Portugal,” she echoed softly, dreamily. “That’s a country I’ve always wanted to see — even more than Spain. Blue skies, and sunshine, and masses of flowers in the springtime!.. And the people sing sad songs called fados. It’s a romantic country.”
“Is this romantic-sounding marquis married or single?” Bridie wanted to know.
Kathie hesitated for a moment, as if she didn’t quite know how to put it into words.
“As a matter of fact, he’s a widower,” she admitted at last. “His wife died tragically about a year ago, and that’s why he went on a world tour.”
“Intriguinger and intriguinger,” Bridie commented, as she bent above her nails. She added a coat of subtle coral color to the shapely tips of her fingers, and added thoughtfully, “A Portuguese nobleman with Irish blood in his veins and a broken heart, and presumably lots of money — since he goes in for world tours! I wish I could do something about it ... the broken heart, I mean!”
Kathie looked at her in almost a startled fashion for a moment, as if she was shocked by such an observation, and Bridie glanced up at her with amusement from under languorous white eyelids and sweeping dark eyelashes. She wasn’t in the least like either of her sisters, having a sleek cap of dark hair and glorious dark eyes. Her complexion was like new milk — or luscious cream —
and her mouth was very red and very soft.
“I mean it!” she said a trifle mockingly. “Your Barrateira man sounds right up my street, if only I could get an introduction to him.”
Kathie looked round rather restlessly, and finally appealed to her mother.
“Is it all right if I go and start packing my case, Mummy? I won’t have very much time if the car’s coming for me at half-past two.”
“Yes, I suppose so, darling,” Mrs. Sheridan agreed, but there was a dissatisfied note in her voice in spite of her determination to keep the peace. “I do wish, however, that Lady Fitz was not so addicted to commanding rather than requesting. I was going to get you to make a batch of scones this afternoon, and one of your
special sponges. However...”
Eileen turned her back on them and walked to the window.
“I won’t offer to lend you anything glamorous out of my wardrobe,” she remarked, as she curled herself up on the opposite end of the window seat to Bridie. “You’ll probably find yourself in the kitchen, helping Mrs. O’Hara, before you’ve finished — especially if she’s on a sit-down strike! But if the Marques decides to stay on for a bit, you might remember that you’ve a couple of personable sisters who would appreciate an invitation to afternoon tea! Use your influence with Lady F. and see what you can do for us!”
When Kathie had escaped, Mrs. Sheridan looked a little rebukingly at her favorite daughter.
“Lady Fitz isn’t in the least likely to turn Kathie into a household drudge,” she observed.
Eileen shrugged her shoulders dismissingly, as if it was not important in any case. And then she clasped her hands round her knees and said with a note of inspiration in her voice:
“If the Marques does stay on, and Kathie fails to prove useful, you might wangle something for us, yourself, Mummy! Couldn’t you send me up to the house with a subscription card, or something of the sort...? You know, the Poor Children’s Holiday Fund, or the Waifs and Strays Christmas Party! The Marques might give generously, and I could wear my new blue woollen ... the one with the short skirt that shocked Miss Murphey. And my flimsiest nylons!”
Bridie glanced at her a little contemptuously, as if that would certainly not be her method; but Mrs. Sheridan’s eyes had already softened. The thought — slightly unbalanced — leapt through her mind that Eileen would make an enchanting marquesa.
If wishes were horses, and beggars could ride ... Oh, what an enchanting marquesa Eileen would make!
Upstairs in her room Kathie packed her case, and was ready when Lady Fitzosborne’s chauffeur called for her at the appointed time. She said goodbye to her father, and he promised not to smoke all the tobacco she had bought him that morning, and then climbed into the old-fashioned car with its glittering fitments that attracted all the dancing beams of sunlight as they broke through the mist.
Mount Osborne, on a slight eminence overlooking the loch, always warmed Kathie’s heart. From its windows you could look not only right across the loch, but to the mountains beyond. And on a summer evening, when they turned russet in the sunset light, it was a wonderful sight. On a soft spring afternoon such as this, with the mist still clinging patchily to the lower levels, the whole scene was like a delicate color etching that would provide an entrancing memory if one was ever in a situation that called for relief from violent hues.
Kathie didn’t know it then, but there were to be moments in her future life when every nostalgic thought of which she was capable harked back to this green and peaceful scene that was her native Eire. Then, even the crumbling boat-house on the shore of the loch, and the leaky punt that was the property of the inhabitants of Little Carrig, was to have its niche in her memory; and she was to see them under the rain-washed sky, and hear the whistling of the wind as it came whipping across the surface of the water, after having sprung up quite unexpectedly when the weather was calm.
And she would think of Little Carrig with its faded stucco, and the plaintains on the lawn ... And her father doing a crossword puzzle inside his cramped study walls.
But not on the afternoon when Lady Fitzosborne sent for her, and she sat behind the grizzled back of the chauffeur and decided that if he hadn’t already reached his four-score years and ten he would very shortly be doing so.
Lady Fitzosborne never took a nap in the afternoon. Instead, she worked at petit point in the morning-room, and thought over scraps of information for her memoirs with which Kathie would be helping her the following morning. Lady Fitz had done so many things in her life — from being acclaimed belle of any number of balls to entertaining royalty. She had ridden in a howdah on the back of an elephant when her husband was governor of an Indian province, and had a handsome black-eyed maharajah fall violently in love with her. She had also flirted discreetly with a Russian prince in St. Petersburg, and got herself temporarily mixed up with suffrage for women in London. She had been extricated from the latter by a violent revulsion of feeling, when she decided that femininity was all-important for women; and in the declining years of her life she was one of the most feminine of females, delicate as porcelain, fragile as blown glass.
When Kathie came hurrying in to her she looked up with a smile, and put away the petit point. She also said how nice Kathie looked in her three-year-old tweed suit, and the white blouse with the round Puritan collar that made her look like a schoolgirl who had been granted permission to have afternoon tea with a relative.
“If I had your complexion and your hair, I’d never ask for anything else from life,” the exquisite elderly lady remarked, gazing with much gratification at the hair and the complexion. “You only
need to look a little older to be a sensation.”
Kathie shook her head, and rescued the petit point from Pug — who, incidentally, was a pug, and extremely diminutive and destructive — before he could tear it into shreds. Lady Fitz merely smiled blandly as Kathie put the needlework away in a drawer, for Pug was the offspring of her adored Pamela, who had won many prizes.
“You have to have something more than hair and a complexion to become a sensation,” the girl remarked, as she sat down on a footstool close to her godmother.
“Don’t you believe it, my dear. And if you have, well — let’s say you’ve got it, shall we?” The girl was like a wand, she thought — straight as a wand, and slim as a reed. And her eyes, with their lovely brown glow, actually warmed one. Lady Fitz sighed, with the pleasure of one who always had to do something about attractive things ... rescue them, if necessary, and place them in suitable settings. And she had long ago made up her mind that she would have to do something about Kathleen Sheridan...
If her latest idea didn’t work out, then she would have to think up something fresh. Something like taking her to London and buying her a whole outfit of clothes, and seeking invitations for her from the right people. But she had what the Americans call a ‘hunch’ about this new idea of hers, and she felt almost excited as she let her mind dwell on it. What a shock for that dreadful woman, Patience Sheridan, who had turned Gerald Sheridan into a poor creature waiting for his days to be numbered — Lady Fitz could remember him when he was something to write home about, and a menace to every susceptible woman with warm blood in her veins! — and what a worse shock for those two self-centred girls who imagined they were the only worth-while plums in the district.
“Ring the bell, my dear,” she said to Kathie, “and we’ll have tea. My visitors won’t be likely to join us, for they don’t take afternoon tea, and the Marquesa likes a long rest after lunch. These people who live in warm climates always indulge in a prolonged siesta.”
When Kathie had obeyed her she looked a little enquiring. Her eyes said, Does the Marques also like a long siesta?
Lady Fitz disabused her of the idea.
“He takes long walks, my dear. At least, he suddenly seems to appreciate long walks.” The tea was brought in, and she motioned to Kathie to pour out. “As a matter of fact, I am a little concerned about him — in fact, very concerned! As you know, I wasn’t expecting to be a hostess until next weekend, but Sebastiao grew restless and refused to stay in London. His appearance shocked me.”
Kathie buttered a piece of scone, and waited for her hostess to unburden herself. She was plainly coping with a certain amount of distress.
“I am very fond of Sebastiao. As a small boy he was adorable, and in his Eton days he used to come and see me a lot. His mother was my greatest friend — my greatest!” She paused. “Sebastiao started off in life with everything ... money, charming parents, charming grandparents, and the prospect of inheriting an old and revered title one day. He has now inherited the title, for his father died a couple of years ago, and his stepmother is devoted to him. He is lucky still!... Save that a highly unsuitable wife, whom he chose without consulting anyone, was killed while they were on holiday in some place like Bermuda. I think she was drowned during a yacht race.”
“How — awful!” Kathie exclaimed, her heart melting with sympathy for the Marques. “How absolutely ghastly for him!”
Lady Fitzosborne made a shrugging movement with her shoulders.
“Perhaps. But she was ten years his senior, a widow, and an Austrian Baronin in her own right. She had lots
of friends — not as much money as he has! — and the six months of their marriage were one wild whirl of gaiety. I don’t think they ever visited Portugal during the marriage, and whether they had any plans for settling down and accepting a few responsibilities I don’t know. But her death has aged him ... It really has turned him into an old, different, and unapproachable man. I was quite shocked!” Her face puckered, and she made use of a wisp of cambric handkerchief she kept tucked up her sleeve.
“I’m so sorry.” Kathie’s voice sounded very soft and Irish. “Sorry for you, I mean ... And the Marques, of course.”
“My dear child, your sympathy would be wasted on the Marques! He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t seem to want anything, save to be left alone.”
“Well, that isn’t very unnatural, is it?” Kathie murmured reasonably.
Lady Fitz dabbed at her eyes.
“I don’t like to see it ... the way he’s changed. And although the Marquesa is so very devoted to him I don’t think she’s behaving very wisely just now. There’s some young woman in Portugal — very suitable, apparently, — whom everyone thought he would marry before he made his disastrous marriage, whom she keeps pushing down his throat, and I can see that he’s had about enough, for he’s not ready for marriage again yet — at least, not with girl he was probably never very keen about, anyway. You know how these things are arranged in countries like Spain and Portugal ... alliances formed for reasons that have nothing to do with a young man’s desire to take a wife. Probably to unite property, or to keep a fortune in a family.”
“Then this young woman has a fortune?” Kathie heard herself asking — not because she was particularly interested, but because she had to say something.
“I don’t know ... I imagine so. But I do know that Sebastiao would be better left alone just now. Not to brood ... but free from being pestered about his future, and talk of heirs, and so forth. Sebastiao will have an heir all in good time, but it’s indecent to thrust such matters on his attention just now. But I can’t make Paula see this.”
“Paula is the Marquesa? Sebastiao’s stepmother?”
“Yes; a charming woman — a very human woman. But with the Portuguese type of mind.”
Conversation lapsed for a few minutes while Kathie refilled the teacups, and then Lady Fitz seemed to pull herself together, and to remember why it was that she had invited Kathie to Mount Osborne for the weekend. It soon became clear that it was nothing to do with any sort of domestic crisis.
“Dear child, I felt so overwhelmed by all the unhappiness, and the cross-currents, and so forth, that I simply had to have someone like yourself to relieve the strain. And that,” she stated, with a slight disregard of the truth, “is why I sent for you. And now you’re here I want to know whether you’ve brought a pretty dress with you for dinner tonight.”
“A pretty dress?” Kathie looked slightly taken aback. “I haven’t got a really pretty dress...” She made a wry face. “My pink lace, that I’ve got to wear for the O’Shaughnessy dance on the twenty-sixth, didn’t strike me as very suitable for Mount Osborne, so I brought a black net that once belonged to Mummy, and was cut down for me. It’s not very smart...”
“I don’t suppose it is,” Lady Fitz observed, also making a wry face, “if Miss Murphey had anything to do with the cutting down. But you could hardly look wrong in black, and I’ll lend you my pearls to brighten you up a bit. The only thing I beg you not to do is lose them.”
“Of course I won’t!” Kathie exclaimed. “But why should you lend them to me? Why should I have to wear pearls...?”
“Why not?” Lady Fitz returned, a trifle enigmatically. And then she rose and picked up Pug and announced that she was going to her room for a quiet interval before facing the others. “You know the way to your room, my dear. It’s the one with the new rosebud chintz, next to Mrs. O’Hara’s sitting-room. If there’s anything you want she’ll see to it. You’re a great favorite of hers, and in spite of having to rise to the occasion for unexpected guests, she’s in quite a good humor.”
But Kathie decided there was no need to trouble Mrs. O’Hara for anything, and spent the next hour taking the keenest possible pleasure in her charming bedroom — quite unlike her little low-ceilinged room at home — and preparing herself for the evening. It was early to dress for dinner, since the dinner-gong didn’t sound until half-past eight at Mount Osborne, but she
soaked herself in a beautifully hot bath, and then took time with the details of her dressing.
She brushed her hair until it shone, and then combed it into a loose style so that it swung a little against her neck, and the burnished waves threw into prominence the pearly pallor of her skin. She used very little lipstick, but the little she did use brought her lips to life, and in some curious way drew attention to the tenderness that dwelt at the corners of her shapely mouth — the mouth that gave Lady Fitzosborne acute pleasure when she watched it breaking into a smile that was as radiant as the early morning.
Her big brown eyes gazed back at her critically from the mirror, for the black dress had been altered rather badly, and only the shadowy darkness did things for her. That and Lady Fitzosborne’s pearls, which she did not, however, dare to wear until the last possible moment. And as there was still time on her hands she slipped into a tweed coat and crept down the back stairs for a walk in the garden before the dusk closed down.
