by Anne Hampson
Hydee had to smile. It was surprising, she had to admit, how optimistic she was about the step she had decided to take.
‘I expect we’ll survive for longer than that,’ she stated. The children are Carlos’s first concern, and therefore he isn’t going to do anything that will upset me. Surely you can see that?’
‘The only thing I can see is disaster!’
‘And I can see only a very pleasant, happy and contented existence.’
‘You’ll be contented with no love in your life?’
‘The children will love me. I shall do everything in my power to make them love me.’
‘So confident! A normally sensible girl going like a lamb to the slaughter!’
‘Ellie,’ said Hydee persuasively after a pause, ‘don’t go on any more, please. I know I’m making the right decision.’
‘If only you could forget Noel. . . .’ Ellie allowed her voice to trail away to silence, the expression on her face one of anger mingled with resignation. ‘I give in,’ she almost snapped. ‘Yes, Hydee, I give in.’
And once having come to accept that Hydee’s mind was firmly made up, Ellie successfully hid her misgivings and helped Hydee all she could to settle her affairs. There were things to sell, some of which Ellie bought for the home she and Ray were setting up. Other, more personal possessions were carefully packed in the crate which Carlos had had sent to the flat by a firm of movers who would themselves have done the packing, but Hydee preferred to do it herself in her own time. The crate was then collected by the shippers, who would see that it arrived safely at the Palacio. Hydee had explained to her employer that she was getting married the following Saturday and going to live abroad. If he experienced any astonishment, he hid it, and as he’d had a young lady in mind for a job for some time, he obligingly allowed Hydee to leave on Wednesday afternoon, as this other young lady was ready to start work on Thursday morning.
On Saturday Hydee and the marquês were married by special licence in the little church not far from the bridge on which she had so often stood, looking from the hills to the sea and then staring at the river beneath her, watching its sparkling waters flowing towards the wide blue ocean. She was in a charming suit of beige linen with coffee‐coloured embroidery on the lapels of the jacket. Her handbag, shoes and gloves matched the embroidery, but her hat was of the same shade as the suit. Ellie and Ray were there, and that was all. It was a very quiet wedding; no emotion, no glances of love between the bridegroom and his bride, no kiss, no con‐fetti. . . .
And less than two hours after the ceremony Hydee—the Marquesa de Alva Manrique—was boarding an airplane with her husband, the children having been taken to Portugal two days previously by Doreen. Lunch was served on the plane, but Hydee could not eat. What had she done? Carried along as she had been by the unveering desire to have a post where she could be with children, she had had no time for anything other than those numerous, all‐absorbing tasks that would bring her nearer to her goal. But now . . .
Chapter Five
During the flight Hydee had several times attempted to engage her husband in conversation, but for the most part he was silent and she became acutely conscious of his withdrawal. She fell to wondering if he were recalling his first marriage and the occasion of his bringing another English bride to his ancestral home in one of the most beautiful regions of Portugal. On that occasion he was in love, though, with a woman who loved him. Now there was no love on either side; it was purely and simply a marriage of convenience which would never have taken place but for the needs of his two young children.
A small sigh escaped her, and inevitably her mind turned to those idyllic days of her engagement to Noel. It was on a sparkling winter afternoon, when they were both part of a skating party on a lake, that they had first met, having tumbled after colliding with one another. Their laughter had echoed on the crystal air; they had dined together that evening, and that was how it all began.
Hydee, with a mental shake, thrust the memories from her mind and dwelt instead on the few things she had learned about her husband, mainly from Doreen, but a little from Carlos himself. She knew he had no parents but did have a sister, Isobella, two years younger than he, married with one young son, Pedro, aged seven, the same age as Ramos. She knew he had several aunts and uncles, and two cousins, Gasper, a bachelor, and Ines, married only a few months ago. All these people descended on the Palacio for the Christmas celebrations and stayed on for several days. Hydee had also learned a little about the business of wine‐making—the collection of the ripe grapes in large baskets and their transportation to the adegas, where they were trod, sieved, and the juice left to ferment.
‘You will enjoy the vintage,’ Doreen had said, for there was much fun and merrymaking after all the hard work was over and the harvesting done.
‘You’re a long way off, Hydee.’ Carlos’s quiet voice broke into Hydee’s musings, and she smiled at him, nodding her head.
‘I was thinking of what Doreen said about the vintage. I shall look forward to it.’
‘It’ll be starting in September. Then, after that, our next festivity’s Christmas.’ He went on to explain how different it was from an English Christmas, and as he continued to speak, Hydee had the impression that he had decided he’d neglected her too long and was feeling a trifle guilty because of it. Perhaps he was sorry for her, too, and a little concerned, aware that she must be feeling rather lost and lonely, coming like this to a foreign land, with a man she scarcely knew.
‘Christmas sounds fascinating,’ she commented when he had stopped speaking. ‘Just think, it’s only about four months away.’
‘Time passes swiftly.’ He took up the airline’s complimentary magazine and idly thumbed the pages. So once again Hydee was left to her own thoughts, and they turned to the children, who for a full week were staying with their Aunt Isobella at her mansion, which was situated four miles from the Palacio. Carlos had said he was doing this so that Hydee could settle in before assuming her duties; she must get to know her way about, must become familiar with the servants.
‘They all speak English tolerably well,’ he had told her, so she would have no trouble being understood.
‘All?’ she had faltered, this being another aspect of her new life which she had not examined. ‘How . . . how many are there?’
‘A large number. You’ll meet some of them as soon as we arrive at the Palacio.’ He had already sent word that he was married and that the servants would be expected to be there, ready to meet his wife.
On hearing this, Hydee was filled with consternation, visualising a long line of servants standing there in respectful silence, waiting in a state of extreme curiosity to meet the new marquesa.
‘It will be too overwhelming,’ she had said, an unconscious plea in her voice. ‘Couldn’t I meet them one at a time?’
He had laughed then and informed her that it would be impossible for her to meet them all, anyway.
‘There are hundreds of workers on the estate. You will meet the house servants only, the ones with whom you’ll be coming into daily contact. The rest will meet you later.’
‘I see. Thank you,’ she murmured, and again he seemed amused.
Hydee looked out the window, seeing only clouds. They were still very high, but she guessed they were not too far from their destination. Casting a sideways glance at her husband, seeing the forbidding line of his profile, she knew again a sense of misgiving, and another little sigh escaped her, this time to be heard, bringing Carlos’s head round in a gesture of inquiry.
When she did not speak, he asked if anything were wrong. ‘You look depressed,’ he observed, frowning.
Depressed, on her wedding day. Yes, it was the truth, and yet alongside her depression was the determination to make something of her life now that the opportunity had been given her.
‘I suppose it’s apprehension,’ she confessed, an unconscious little catch in her voice that made her seem very young, like a child, almost. ‘The dram
atic change in my life-style, for one thing, and the change of occupation, too. . . .’ She stopped, because his straight black eyebrows had risen, and because of the look of censure that was darkening his eyes. ‘I feel I’m nothing more than a nanny,’ she said by way of explanation.
‘You’re my wife,’ he returned softly and, to Hydee’s ears, a little warningly. ‘ I shall expect you to act normally, as a wife would be expected to act, around the servants. I abhor gossip in the kitchen, and unless you remember your position as the Marquesa de Alva Manrique, there will certainly be gossip.’
Warmth came to her cheeks, mantling them with colour. How could she possibly assume the dignity which her husband obviously expected of her when she had no experience of the life to which he was used?
‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could find to say, and she fully expected him to leave her to her own reflections yet again. But instead he made polite conversation, for which she was grateful, as it brought her out of her dejection. At last the sound of the engines changed and the plane began its descent. A little while later it made a smooth landing on the broad runway and then turned and slowed before taxiing to a stop. Within half an hour Hydee, her husband’s hand lightly beneath her elbow, was moving towards a sleek white limousine. She noticed the immaculate uniformed chauffeur waiting, the silver crest above the car’s radiator, the arms emblazoned on the panel of each door. How many cars and chauffeurs did Carlos have? she wondered, realising that the car he had used in London must be coming back by ship, along with Casco. Dazed by all that was happening to her, she afterwards realised that she scarcely took in much at all until they were speeding smoothly along the road and she was leaning back, relaxed, against the soft luxury of the upholstery. She glanced at Carlos, at the forbidding profile, haughty and noble, familiar by now in its bronzed impressive‐ness. She moved her glance to the window, and her heart was lighter all at once, for all this was novel and exciting; she did not know how her eyes sparkled, or that there was an elfin quality about her face that the man beside her noticed. . . .
‘Have we far to go?’ she asked, disconcerted by his scrutiny and aware of the spread of colour into her cheeks.
‘We have a fair journey, but you will find it pleasant.’ He smiled. ‘The quinta and the vineyards are in the valley of the Douro River, where the mineral content of the soil is just right for the properties of the grapes.’
‘The vintage will start soon,’ she reflected, remembering he had said that it always began in September.
‘That’s right.’ He stopped as his chauffeur said something to him in Portuguese; he answered, then lapsed into silence on seeing that Hydee had become absorbed in the scenery through which they were passing. The road was tree‐lined for as far as the eye could see; numerous exotic flowers still bloomed in the hedgerows as they drove along, the tall poplars rising like sentinels beside them.
At last the Palacio came into view through the trees. Carlos pointed it out to her as he said casually, in his low‐toned foreign voice, ‘There it is, your new home.’
Her home. . . . She gasped, then stared speechlessly, nerves quivering as awe and wonderment mingled to produce an unwanted tension that almost deprived her of the ability to appreciate what she saw. A magnificent building occupying a lush green plateau on the valley side, it had an essence of mediaeval grandeur about it, and yet at the same time there was an impression of mellowed simplicity which contributed much to its charm. Formal gar dens could be seen surrounding it, and these were enhanced by the forest of ancient trees rising majestically as a backcloth both to them and to the Palacio. The gardens spread from the plateau onto a spur; and below this, the vineyards—terraces cut by hand into the valley sides—rose right up to join the farmlands of the quinta.
Soon the chauffeur turned the car and they sped down a mile‐long avenue of massive umbrella pines after entering through imposing ironwork gates above which was the spreading armorial crest of the Manriques. As they neared the house, she had an immediate impression of vast quiet and beauty, of immaculate care and good taste, of warmth and welcome . . . and of promise.
The car came to a stop on a wide, semicircular forecourt, and moments later Hydee was standing stock‐still, looking up at the imposing façade with its large windows, its magnificent doorway, and the pillared verandah running along its whole length. Fountains playing at either side of the forecourt were decorated with carved stonework and azulejas—blue and yellow tiles forming pictures which were scenes from Portuguese history. The sweeping lawns, velvet smooth, were divided by long flowerbeds flaring with colour from asters and zinnias, crimson gladioli and deep purple irises. Numerous other flowers added their contribution, and the result was perfection.
She heard her husband give a small cough, was vaguely aware of the chauffeur—whose name was Geraldo—watching her with a sort of amused expression that was yet intensely curious. And she did not know what move to make or what to say. Her mouth was dry, and something cold and aching affected her stomach. For this was not for her—just an ordinary girl who had been jilted, cast off for another. In this mansion would be treasures of the kind she would not dare touch . . . and yet she would be the mistress, wife of a nobleman of impeccable lineage, a proud man, conscious of his inheritance. For a fleeting moment Hydee thought of another girl, Arminda Venancio, who would surely be better fitted for the position than she. How was she going to take the matter of the marriage? Well, there was nothing she could do. It was too late now . . . for everyone. Too late. A terrible fear rose within Hydee’s breast, and unconsciously she lifted wide and pleading eyes to meet those of her husband. Sensing her heightened and unpredictable emotions, he immediately dismissed the chauffeur and asked her what was wrong.
‘I d‐don’t belong here,’ she stammered, far too upset to feel any embarrassment. She felt she would have given anything to be back in the simple, four‐room flat with Ellie, who was keeping it on till her marriage. ‘I w‐won’t fit in. Please . . . .’ Her voice faltered helplessly, tears coming closer with every second that passed. She shook her head involuntarily and added in a choked little voice, ‘It’s d-done now, isn’t it, and . . . and it can’t b‐be undone.’
Much to her surprise, he took her hand, holding it strongly, and she felt then that he was no longer a stranger to her, aloof, distant and unapproachable, but someone close and on whom she could lean if ever the burden of her new life became too heavy for her to bear alone.
‘Yes, Hydee, it’s done. And once you’re used to it here, you’ll find you have no regrets. It is strange, and it seems so big and perhaps unfriendly—’
‘No, not unfriendly,’ she was swift to deny. ‘Just the reverse, in fact.’
The ghost of a smile touched the fine outline of his mouth, and again she felt she had someone to rely upon.
‘Then surely half your misgivings are dissolved? You’re right, Hydee, this house does have a warm and friendly atmosphere. It welcomes everyone who cares to visit it, and this you will realise at Christmas when all my relatives—and they’re yours, too, now, remember—arrive for the holiday.’
She nodded, managing to hold back the tears that had almost fallen a minute or so ago. ‘You’re very reassuring, Carlos,’ she murmured, aware that this was the first time she had been able to use his name without embarrassment. ‘Thank you for helping me to get over my depression.’
‘Come,’ he said at length. ‘You have to meet the servants.’
Another ordeal, but this time she did not feel at all apprehensive. It was as if her husband’s action in taking her hand, making physical contact with her, and the kindness of his words, had erased her fears, and she was ready to try her best to assume her new role as the wife of the marquês.
The front door had been opened by the butler, who was introduced to Hydee as Bento; then came Clara, the housekeeper, and Amelia, the cook. There were two housemaids, Ana and Jesuina, and the pretty young girl who had been looking after the children since the last nanny had left. S
he was Caterina and, said Carlos, she would be Hydee’s personal maid. She was nineteen and engaged to Luiz, the head gardener.
‘Caterina will show you to our suite.’ Carlos’s suave words startled her; Hydee turned swiftly, but the question on her lips was stemmed by the warning glance thrown to her by her husband.
‘I forgot to tell you we’d be sharing a suite,’ he said apologetically a few moments later, having entered the big bedroom she was to occupy. ‘It was remiss of me, but no harm’s done.’
‘I didn’t think we’d be so close.’ Hydee’s anxious eyes strayed past him to the door through which he had entered her room. ‘That’s a . . . a communicating door?’ It was a superfluous question, but she was flustered, Ellie’s warning filtering into her mind, the warning that Carlos would assert his rights if he ever felt like it.
‘Surely you realised that appearances must be kept up before the servants,’ he said rather shortly.
‘I didn’t give it a thought,’ she confessed, a sigh on her lips.
‘You’ll be quite safe,’ he assured her with a trace of amused irony, and it almost seemed to Hydee that he thought she was not good enough for him.
‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘I know I’ll be safe.’
‘You don’t appear to be too sure,’ observed Carlos dryly. ‘Do I strike you as a man who would go back on his word?’
She stared up into his proud, aristocratic face, fully conscious of the challenge he had thrown out to her. He was waiting for her answer; she frowned and shook her head bewilderedly because at this moment she was for some inexplicable reason vitally aware of him as a man, of his strength and the impression of latent virility in his lean and sinewed frame.
‘I d‐don’t know,’ she answered feebly. ‘Ellie said . . .’ Too late she stopped; his brows lifted a fraction in a gesture of haughty inquiry.
