“I’m twenty-four.” She sat on a pouffe and sipped at her sherry without any real relish. “But sometimes I feel considerably older.”
“Why?” He shot her a glance as if he was temporarily intrigued. “Why should you feel older sometimes?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s my weight of years pressing on me, I expect. I feel them. And living alone. ... I don’t think- it’s healthy to live alone.” “That’s funny,” he observed,” because I’m perfectly happy living alone. Not,” extending his hand to her in case she found something amiss in that statement, “that I’m not happier having you with me. Honestly, Poppet, it’s a change ... a very pleasant change to have a female cluttering up the place. Nylon stockings in the bathroom, other nylon unmentionables draping the towel-rail. That sort of thing is intriguing to a bachelor.”
“Then why don’t you get married?” she asked, once more watching him with her chin on her hand.
He replied with his most disarming and guileless smile.
“Shall we say I was crossed in love a few years ago, and have never got over it? It’s soured me . . . just as living alone is apparently souring you.”
“I don’t believe it,” she returned, with emphasis. “You don’t look in the least sour. I’m sure you don’t feel sour.”
“Then I’ve never yet met the woman I could fall desperately in love with. That happens to be the truth.”
“That goes for me, too.” She sighed, clasping her arms about her slim knees. “Sometimes I wonder whether I ever will fall in love! Whether I’ll meet a man who’ll inspire me to fall in love, I mean. I want to,” she assured him, solemnly, her eyes very darkly blue, and uncannily attractive in the light that was fading fast in the cottage. “I want to get married and have a family of my own, much more than I want success modelling other people’s children’s heads for them. And I’m sure you’d much rather have a nice little wife of your own draping the bathroom with her smalls than an increasing success as a landscape painter.”
“That,” he assured her, “is not altogether true.” He crushed his cigarette out in an ash-tray and lighted another before he continued. “Success is much more important to men than it is to women, and to me it means quite a lot. I’ve worked hard, and I mean to go on working harder and climbing a little way farther up the ladder which means real achievement before I’m very much older. But you ...” He ruffled her hair, and even tilted her chin so that he could look deeply and curiously into her eyes, “You’re so attractive that you ought to be married! If I didn’t happen to be your brother I’d describe you as lovely ... a very, very lovely young woman!”
“But not as lovely as a Portuguese woman at her best?” she heard herself enquire as if his answer was important to her.
His eyebrows went up for a moment, and he looked surprised. And then he admitted:
“A Portuguese woman at her best is quite, quite something! Lush and doe-eyed, and as smooth as cream! I’ve painted one or two of them, and so I know ... She may grow fat as she grows older, she may have a one-track mind and few actual brains, but her eyes will never lose their sparkle, and no amount of sunbathing will ruin her skin. For one thing, she won’t sunbathe without the protection of an umbrella, and for another her skin is an affair of several layers, each one more matt and perfect than the last.”
“And you consider it more attractive to a man’s eye than, well—an English complexion?”
He shrugged.
“It all depends whether the man is an Englishman or a Portuguese. The Portuguese admire their women, and I don’t think many of them are attracted by the roses from the south ... But the roses needn’t worry, for the whole world acclaims an Englishwoman’s complexion. Yours, for instance, is perfect, even though you persist in treating it as if it was an unfinished canvas you must touch up sometimes!”
“And Portuguese women don’t touch up their faces? They don’t attempt to improve on Nature?”
“Well, I suppose they do use make-up . . . But it’s a very discreet form of make-up. Discretion isn’t merely the better part of valour in a Portuguese woman’s life, it’s the very essence of her life.”
Steve walked over to the window and looked out at the darkening sea, and the first star that was hanging like a brooch in the softened blue of the sky.
“And your friend, Dom Manoel, is very Portuguese, isn’t he?” she said.
“Very,” Tim agreed. “One hundred and fifty per cent, I’d say.”
Later, when they had cooked supper between them and had it in the tiny but dignified dining-room, Steve left Tim cleaning a palette and went out into the garden. At that hour, before the moon rose, it was intensely shut in, intensely quiet ... But the scent of the flowers gleaming palely in the gloom was so strong that it was like a heady form of incense. Below her, on the beach, the sea was murmuring gently, making little inroads up the whiteness of the beach, slapping softly against the sides of the monstrously shaped rocks.
Steve opened a little door in the garden wall, and lowered herself agilely by means of a slightly crazy path to the sand that was still warm after the heat of the day. She could feel the warmth coming up at her, engulfing her, bringing back memories of the fierce July sun, the brazen glare of the sea. Only now she could see nothing . . . only sense that the sea was near, and that the line of cool breakers was nearer still.
She moved cautiously, waiting for the foam to break over her feet, waiting also for the moon to rise and dissipate the blackness.
And when she saw it climbing like a lantern right out of the path of the sea she held her breath, her whole being engulfed by wonderment, every instinct she possessed taut with appreciation and the desire to express that appreciation in some way or other. Even if it was only a clumsy attempt later on to consign it to canvas, as Tim had so frequently done.
Only she knew she could never mix colours and wield a brush as Tim could do. She yearned to do so, but the ability was not there.
So she just stood and absorbed it all into her being —the widening arc of light, the glittering path across the sea, the black shapes of the high-prowed fishing- boats becoming visible all at once high up on the beach. And down by the water’s edge, very near to where she was standing, another boat grounded unexpectedly, following nothing but a light splashing noise or two, and a low murmur of voices.
Two figures leapt ashore, the boat was pushed up the beach, and one voice said clearly:
“That was good, Jorge. Tell Rosaria I will be calling on her tomorrow. There is much to be done, and time is short . . .”
“Very good, senhor. Rosaria will be honoured, as always . . .” Steve was able only to make out a few words, for the voices spoke in Portuguese, and her knowledge of the language was strictly limited. But she would have recognized that crisp, arrogant tone of the first speaker anywhere, that inflection of supreme confidence and poise, having heard it for the first time only a few hours before. And having seen the way the man moved, his grace that conflicted with a suggestion of iron-bound strength and vigour about him, she was not surprised that he lent every possible assistance in getting the boat up the beach, and that Jorge thanked him with gratitude before they parted.
“The senhor should not do these things,” he protested. “I could manage very well myself.”
Dom Manoel laughed.
“You are too independent, Jorge. I have enjoyed my trip, anyway.” He stepped out of a pair of waders, and tossed them into the boat. “Where are my shoes? They are somewhere amongst your gear.” Steve could see him searching for his shoes; she saw Jorge put them into his hand with many further apologies because they were difficult to find, and Dom Manoel bent carelessly and dealt with the fastenings. Then he held out his hand to the fisherman, and their fingers took a close grip of one another. “Good-night, Jorge.”
What he actually said was, “Boas noitres, Jorge.” He came on
along the beach towards the spot where Steve was standing, and in sudden ridiculous pan
ic she turned to flee. But she had left it a little too late, and he collided with her just as he was about to pull
his stout
fisherman’s jersey over his head. With an oath he freed his face of the jersey, flung it over his arm and reached out to grab at her all in the same movement—or so it seemed to her; and the astonishment in his voice kept her petrified to the spot, not even resenting the hard clutch of his fingers or the way they bruised her flesh.
“Senhorita Wayne!” he exclaimed. “What in the name of—?” And then he broke ofl. “I hurt you?” he demanded, swiftly. “My apologies, senhorita, I hadn’t the least idea you were standing here!” His hands were clasping her now in order to prevent her losing her balance, and all at once they were protective hands, exquisitely gentle, imparting a sensation of security in the darkness.
She stammered:
“I’m sorry, senhor. . . . It was my fault, I—I was watching the moonrise. . . .”
“Ah,” he exclaimed, softly, “like your brother you appreciate these things! And what is there more magnificent than a moon-bathed sea?” Together they gazed out over it, and because she was standing so close to him she caught the wet fragrance of his fisherman’s jersey, and a far more subtle masculine perfume compounded of expensive tobacco and something that must either have been shaving-cream or after-shave lotion also rose to her nostrils. “You have come to the one corner of the earth where beauty is guaranteed, ” he remarked, even more softly, very close to her ear. And because at that moment a ray of moonlight touched her hair, and she looked up at him rather wonderingly, a faintly surprised expression crossed his face as if his observation had provided him with food for thought.
Abruptly he released her. His hands plunged into the depths of his trousers pockets.
“But I’m not at all sure I approve of you being down here alone on the beach at night,” he told her more severely.
She laughed a little unsteadily.
“Oh, senhor, how ridiculous! In England I go for long country walks at night . . . alone! At least, I have done—”
“You wouldn’t do so if you belonged to—if you were a Portuguese girl,” he amended. “Most certainly not without a suitable escort.”
She laughed again.
“That sounds funny,” she declared. “In England I live alone, I work alone for hours at a time ... I can’t remember the last occasion when I was escorted anywhere.”
For an insant his eyes gleamed.
“What are the young men of your country thinking of, then, senhorita,” he asked. “Or is it, perhaps, that they are born blind?”
The colour rushed to her face—she hadn’t expected that sort of question—and she turned away. He took her elbow very lightly between his thumb and finger and propelled her forward up the beach.
“I think in spite of your independent attitude we will return you to your brother,” he remarked. “He is a very sensible young man, is Tim. . . . I like him. I like, also, his work. My walls at the quinta are becoming covered with examples of it. You will see them when you condescend to visit me.”
“I shall love to visit you, Dom Manoel,” she returned, demurely, “when I receive an invitation. That is,” she added, more hastily, “I shall love to see the inside of the quinta.”
He laughed.
“It must be the moon,” he said, whimsically glancing up at it, and for an instant his fingers seemed to tighten a little on her elbow.
Outside the gaily painted front door of the cottage, with the light of an antique lantern shining down on them, he bade her good-night.
“Won’t you come in, senhor?” she enquired, politely. “I’m sure Tim will be disappointed if you don’t. . .” But he shook his head.
“No, thank you, I won’t inflict myself on you. But give Tim my compliments, won’t you? And another night when you venture down on to the beach—”
“Yes?” she said.
“Be careful of whom you bump into. Jorge was even wetter than I am,” and he looked down at his long, lean, graceful person—graceful even in casual slacks and a silk shirt that had become badly stained by sea water—to discover just how wet he himself was. “But I enjoy these evening trips with Jorge.
Sometimes, when he is fishing in earnest, we stay out all night. To-night, I regret to have to inform you, we caught no fish.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, but her dark blue eyes were dancing suddenly. “Perhaps your presence had the same effect as a jinx on the boat.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed.
For a long moment they looked at one another, and it was only when she realized that he was looking her up and down that vexation swept over her. Twice in one day she had met him, and on each occasion she had to be unsuitably clothed—from his point of view. For black velvet matador pants are hardly feminine wear . . . not strictly feminine wear.
“Oh, drat!” she thought, and bit her lip.
He became suddenly very formal. He held out his hand, and when she put hers into it he carried it up to his lips and saluted the inside of the wrist. She felt as if her breath was literally swept away from her.
“Good-night, Miss Wayne,” he said. “Although I mentioned the possibility of your returning to the beach on some other evening to watch the moonrise I would prefer that you didn’t do it alone. Perhaps you can persuade Tim to join you.”
He was actually walking away when she called after him.
“But, how are you going to get back to the quinta? Surely you’re not going to walk . . .?”
“No, my car is waiting for me on the road.” He bowed. “Goodnight, Miss Wayne. Sleep well,” he added, almost inconsequently.
She stood listening to the sound of his car starting up, and she thought. . . . And then she realized that her thoughts were chaotic, and what she was thinking didn’t make sense. She had never thought thoughts quite like them before. Her heart was pounding slowly, heavily, unevenly when she pushed open the door of the cottage, and she waited for a few minutes in the hall before joining her brother.
CHAPTER THREE
FOR the next week she dressed herself decorously and expected an interruption to the daily routine throughout every minute of the morning, and certainly throughout the whole of each afternoon. Subconsciously she listened for the sound of a car drawing up outside the cottage and stopping.
But the only car that ever stopped there was Tim’s, and that was so noisy that she recognized it immediately.
Tim told her that the villagers were getting wildly excited about the wedding. So were all the peasants in the area. It was being rumoured that Dom Manoel was giving each of his employees an extra week’s wages when the event took place, and in addition there would be gifts of food and wine, and, of course, presents for the children. And as Dom Manoel had a very large number of peasants on his pay-roll the excitement was intense.
In the course of the last month or so the Quinta Rosa had been entirely redecorated, and a new wing had been built on to it. Tim had been commissioned to paint the murals in the handsome new sala that would not be ready for a few more months, and having been permitted to admire the proportions of every room in the new wing he was looking forward to his task. Steve knew it wasn’t merely the money that attracted him; he would simply love the job of decorating Dom Manoel’s walls for him.
“And Senhora de Romeiro . . .? Will she be consulted before the sketches you submit are approved?” she wanted to know.
Tim looked doubtful.
“I shouldn’t think so. Dom Manoel has already let me know what he wants . . . No birds and flowers, and that sort of thing. He wants seascapes. The room overlooks the sea, and the colour-scheme is a sort of twilight blue in the main. It’ll be a restful room. . . . Unusually charming.”
“But surely,” Steve protested, “Senhorita Almeida ought to be consulted? After all, if she’s got to live there, and she’s marrying Dom Manoel. . . . Any English wife would almost certainly insist on being consulted!”
Tim smiled at her l
ook of indignation.
“Ah, but this is Portugal, not England,” he reminded her. “And fair Madelena will not be an English wife! She will have a dominating lord and master in Manoel, and she probably recognizes it already. She will be quite happy with the seascapes.” “I wouldn’t,” Steve declared, mutinously. “Even if I liked them I—I would object! On principle!”
He laughed.
“And Manoel would have a right to beat you! A Portuguese wife is as much a chattel as a wife, you know. . . . Part of the furnishings, once she’s married, or not much better!”
Steve looked aghast.
“Then I’d hate to marry a Portuguese.”
She played with a lump of clay that she had been experimentally twisting into shapes between her fingers.
“Is it possible, do you think,” she asked after a period of silence, “that Dom Manoel is—is in—love— with Senhorita Almeida?”
Tim glanced at her quizzically.
“Poor Stevie!” he observed. “Womanlike she has to insist upon a love interest . . . But I honestly couldn’t tell you whether he’s in love with her or not. I know he admires her tremendously, keeps an enormous silver-framed studio portrait of her on the desk in his library, talks about having her painted after the wedding—I,” he admitted, modestly, “hope to get the commission! And didn’t he say something to you about modelling her head?”
“Yes, but I expect he’s forgotten that.”
“He may have forgotten it, and, on the other hand, he may not. Dom Manoel has an excellent memory, and seldom forgets things. One of these days he’ll breeze in here and tell you that she’s arrived, and ask you to get your modelling things together.”
But, as day after day passed, and Dom Manoel did not breeze in, Steve gathered that his fiancee had not yet arrived. Or else he was too preoccupied with her to have time for outside interests like watching her loveliness reproduced in clay.
The wedding-day was not yet, apparently, officially fixed, but everyone knew it couldn’t be far away. Steve, who seemed to find a lot of time to think these days—or, rather, to dream, curious, abstracted dreams—imagined the prospective bride surrounded by yards of satin and lace as virginally pale as she was herself, while Dom Manoel consulted jewellers about the resetting of certain family heirlooms and purchased ropes of pearls for her to wear on her wedding-day.
White Rose of Love Page 2
