Lavenham was taking no chances, but rebuked his sister roundly in French for talking a language their guest could not understand, and then, breaking into English with an apologetic glance at Dom Fernando, continued, “And if you do not understand that, I will tell you in plain English that I am tired out and have no wish to discuss my travels tonight.” Chloe, always unpredictable, amazed Camilla by bursting into a golden peal of laughter. “Why, Lee, you are disguised! I have not seen you so since your coming of age. Did you know you had a toper for a husband, Camilla?”
Camilla had been watching Dom Fernando throughout this interchange and was now convinced from his expression that he understood every word they were saying. She noticed something else, too. A dark patch was forming on the sleeve of Lavenham’s evening jacket. His wound was bleeding again and had already soaked through the bandage. It was only a matter of time until either Dom Fernando or Chloe noticed; and Dom Fernando had just poured himself another glass of wine and seemed to have settled down for the night. She rose to her feet, exclaiming: “My head aches so,” and moved towards the window, then, as she passed the chair where Dom Fernando was sitting, swayed on her feet and fell towards him. To her intense relief, he caught her, and laid her on a nearby sofa with exclamations of solicitude and alarm, in which the others joined. For a few minutes, she let herself lie there with closed eyes, listening to the little tumult her collapse had caused. Then, as Chloe held a vinaigrette under her nose, she let her eyes flutter open, looked vaguely around and tried to sit up, with a murmured apology: “The heat ... the blood ... Dom Fernando, what will you think of me?”
Lavenham had taken his cue. “I was afraid the bullfight might prove strong meat for English stomachs,” he said. “Chloe, ring for your sister’s maid. She will be best in bed.” Camilla allowed herself a sigh of pure exhaustion. “Oh yes,” she said, “I fear the excitement of the day has given me the vapours. All that blood ... Lavenham, you’ll not leave me?”
He took her hand in his, which burned ice cold. “Of course not. You must forgive us, Dom Fernando. Perhaps we may continue this most interesting conversation tomorrow?”
Thus directly applied to, Dom Fernando took his leave at last, and Camilla, who had been thinking rapidly, allowed herself to be supported to her room by Lavenham and her maid. Better that Chloe should think her a weakling and a neglectful wife than that she should guess at her brother’s condition. Chloe showed signs of lingering with further offers of smelling salts and spirits of lemon, but Lavenham disposed of her with a husband’s firmness before turning to Camilla, whose maid was busy on the other side of the room.
“Admirably acted.” He pressed her hand. “At least,” anxiously, “I trust it was acted? Yon are not really unwell?”
“Not the least in the world. I will come to you as soon as I can rid myself of Frances. Your wound needs dressing again. Best get to your apartments before it is noticed.”
He looked quickly down at the dark patch that was spreading over the cloth of his sleeve, pressed her hand once more, and then, as Frances approached with her negligee, made her a speech of husbandly solicitude and took his leave. By the time Frances left her the house was quiet. Camilla jumped out of bed and put on the swansdown-trimmed blue satin negligee Lady Leominster had chosen for her. What a mockery, she remembered, it had seemed at the time. Now, impatiently sliding her feet into the matching slippers, she was glad of it with its look almost of a morning gown. In the main hall, a night light burned dimly; no light showed under Chloe’s door; the house seemed asleep. She tapped gently on the door of Lavenham’s apartments at the end of the hall and opened it quietly. The light of his guttering candle showed that he had managed to struggle out of his bloodstained jacket before collapsing, exhausted, on the bed. Now he slept heavily, his flushed face and loud breathing bearing witness to the unusual quantity of wine he had drunk under the strain of Dom Fernando’s visit. For a moment, beside his bed, Camilla hesitated. It seemed wicked to rouse him. But the blood was still seeping through the bandage on his arm, and besides, it would be dangerous to let him he all night like this.
Very gently, she shook his good shoulder: “Lavenham, it is I, Camilla.”
He stirred in his sleep, then woke all at once, gazing at her with wild and startled eyes, then, obviously remembering: “Oh, it is you—I was dreaming.”
“Yes, I am come to change your bandages. I will not disturb you for long.” And she began deftly unwinding the bloody bandage.
Involuntarily, he winced at her touch. “This is no work for a young lady,” he said. “You will be wishing that you had seen me at Jericho before you married me.” And then, wincing again as she reached the wound itself, “Pour me a glass of wine, will you? And one for yourself. It will make the work go better.”
Reluctantly, for she was convinced that he had already had more than was good for him, she poured two glasses from the decanter that stood on a side table, and brought him one, leaving hers where it stood. But he insisted, with the obstinacy of fatigue and near-intoxication, that she drink with him before she finished bathing and binding up his wound, and toasted her solemnly: “My invaluable wife.”
Colouring with pleasure, she raised her glass to his and drank, recognising, as she felt the strong wine bloom within her, that she needed it. It seemed to have revived him too, for as she began once more to work on his wound, he began to talk, quick and freely, as she had heard him do in Portuguese but never, before, in English.
“Do you know,” he was saying. “Out there, when they attacked the carriage, I was afraid? Afraid of death. I have never feared it before. Do you think I can be beginning to wish to live?”
“I hope so. There.” She had finished and laid his arm gently on the pillow. “Now I wish you will let me help you to bed. You will catch cold, lying thus.”
He caught her hand with his good one. “No, do not dismiss me so. I will be your obedient patient presently, but tell me first one thing; when you so admirably pretended to swoon, you called for me. ‘Lavenham do not leave me,’ you said. Of course, that was feigning too?”
She sat there for a moment by his bedside, looking at his flushed face, wondering what to say. Pride, which had stood by her so well, told her to lie, to tell him it had all been pretence, but something else in her, was it the wine, or something stronger, would not be denied. “No,” she said, “that was not feigning, Lavenham.”
“Then drink up your wine.” He drained his glass as she obeyed him. “Perhaps there is no need to be afraid any more.” And with a sudden, fierce movement of his good arm he pulled her down on the bed beside him while his lips closed hungrily over hers. For a moment, some sober instinct made her resist, then, as his kisses became fiercer and more demanding, she felt her need of him rise up to meet his. On the table beside the bed the two glasses stood empty, the candle guttered out, and cool moonlight shone into the room as there, among his bloodstained sheets, she found herself, at last, his wife indeed.
CHAPTER 7
Waking, much later, to quick happiness and the first morning sound of birds, Camilla was alarmed at once by Lavenham’s restless tossing and muttering at her side. He was all too evidently in a high fever, his broken murmurings part dream, part delirium. She slipped quickly out of bed, pulled the bedclothes closer around him, and shut the large casement through which cool morning air was pouring into the room. Returning to the bed, she found Lavenham’s pulse rapid and disordered. His hot forehead and flushed cheeks added to her anxiety. But what should she do? Her first instinct was to summon a doctor, but it would be impossible for him to tend the invalid without discovering his wound. For a moment she thought of explaining this away as a domestic accident of some kind, but who would believe her? And besides, there was Dom Fernando to be considered. It would be well nigh impossible to invent an accident that could convincingly have happened after he had left. No, she would have to pray to God and nurse Lavenham herself. She was slightly encouraged in this determination by memory of his stri
ctures on Portuguese medicine. Perhaps after all she would be saving his life by keeping the doctor from him.
Only the deep, unspoken happiness of her new relation with Lavenham carried her through the anxieties of the next few days. He continued half conscious or, worse still, delirious, while his fever resisted all the medicaments she had brought with her from England. The only point of consolation was that, miraculously, his wound continued to heal, and she thought the fever must be due mainly to exhaustion and, perhaps, to the blow he had received on his head. As he continued deliriously calling out for his mother and, it seemed, acting over again the duel of long ago when his father was killed, she became increasingly anxious lest his brain should have been affected. If only she could get expert advice. But Lord Strangford was still away and there was no one else to whom she felt she could turn.
Chloe’s anxiety and Dom Fernando’s daily visits of polite inquisition exacerbated her misery. For them, as for the servants, she had to pretend that Lavenham’s illness was merely trifling, a matter of overfatigue and inevitable recovery. But as the anxious days passed, it became increasingly difficult to keep up the pretence, and on the third day, as she sat by his bed bathing his hot forehead with spirits of lavender, she had almost made up her mind to give way to Dom Fernando’s pressure and let him summon a doctor. Lavenham’s mind was wandering again. Surely she was a murderess to keep expert attention from him. And yet, she was sure, a Portuguese physician would bleed him at once, and he had lost enough blood already. She was sitting there, a prey to the most agonising kind of uncertainty, when he suddenly reached out and grasped her hand, “Mother,” he said, “Mother, you will not leave me?”
“No, never.” How truly she meant it “Lie still, my love, lie still and rest.”
“You never called me that before.” To her delighted surprise, he seemed to have taken in what she said, though attributing it, no doubt, to the mother he had lost so long ago. “Stay with me,” he went on, “stay with me always.”
“Of course.” Very gently, still .holding his hand in hers, she used the other to stroke the disordered curls away from his brow. Was she imagining it, or did this feel cooler to her touch? Scarcely daring to hope, she sat there and watched as he fell at last, still holding her hand, into a deep and refreshing sleep. Time passed. The shadows lengthened in the room and Chloe came scratching at the door to whisper that Dom Fernando was below, asking for her. Camilla did not stir from where she sat, merely turning to whisper over her shoulder that Lavenham was better, but she could not leave him.
Towards night, he woke at last, a characteristic apology on his lips. “I have been ill, and a monstrous trouble to you, I fear.”
“No trouble, my love.” The endearment slipped out without thought, and she saw a look of faint puzzlement cloud his face. Was she going too fast for him? Hastily recovering herself, she went on, “Do not trouble yourself about anything; I have not had the doctor to you; nobody knows what has been the matter with you.”
“No one knows? No doctor?” He looked more puzzled than ever. “But why not?”
A cold finger of fear touched her heart. “But do you not remember?”
“Remember? Let me see.” His head moved restlessly on the pillows. “I was dreaming of my mother ... but that’s not it. Ah, now I have it. I went to Spain, did I not? And was attacked, returning ... Poor Jenks, was he killed, or did I dream it?”
“You told me so.” She watched his restless movements anxiously.
“And then—what? I remember nothing more. I must have come home somehow, for here I am. And you have not had the doctor to me— Of course, it was all to be secret. I remember planning it with Strangford. He thinks Dom Fernando less than a friend. Has Fernando been here?”
“Yes, soon after you arrived, but do not trouble yourself, he knows nothing, although, I think, he suspects much.”
He managed a flicker of a smile. “So you have nursed me single-handed and kept the world at bay. I see I am more indebted to you than ever. It was a lucky day for me when my grandmother made us marry. But you must be worn out. Tell me, how long have I been ill?”
“Only three days.” Her thoughts were in a turmoil. His tone, as much as his words, told her that he remembered nothing of the night that had changed her world. What could she do?
He was looking at her anxiously. “Have I been so great a trouble? I wish I could remember ...” Again his head moved restlessly among the pillows. His colour was rising.
She reached out to feel his pulse: “Do not trouble yourself about anything. You must rest. You will remember soon enough.” Deeply and desperately she hoped it was true, as she sat and watched him drift off again to sleep. If he did not? What could she do? The answer was obvious: nothing. That moonlight night must be forgotten. She must return to the old formality, the old pretence. She had never known such chill despair before, but sat there, quietly, by his bed, watching him as he slept, while, silently following each other, the tears ran down her cheeks.
There was at least some consolation in his rapid and continued recovery, but with it came no blessed return of memory. In answer to his questions, she had told him of his exhausted return and of how, between them, they had kept Dom Fernando’s curiosity at bay, but this did not, as she had hoped, rouse any answering gleam of remembrance. “So you got me to bed and I turned lunatic on your hands,” he concluded. “What a plague I must have been to you. It is no wonder you look exhausted. We must lose no time in moving to Sintra, where I hope the cooler air will refresh you.”
She laughed. What an effort it was to get back the old lightness of touch. “You are scarce flattering. Am I indeed looking so haggard?”
He reached out to press her hand. “You look like someone who has just saved her husband’s life,” he said.
She slept better that night. Surely, it was only a matter of time, and all would be well. Dreaming she was in his arms again, she woke to fresh hope and renewed resolutions of patience. Lady Leominster had said she must be patient as Job and had come nearer the mark than she knew, for by now Camilla had learned only too well how an unguardedly tender word or look could startle her husband back into his lonely shell. At all costs, she must keep up the light and teasing relationship she had managed to evolve between them, and leave the rest to time.
Luckily for her, as soon as Lavenham was well enough to go out, he plunged into the arrangements for their move to Sintra, and indeed the idea of a mountain change after the dusty July heat of the city was most welcome to Camilla. But to her surprise, Chloe proved almost mutinous. They were well enough where they were, she said. What was the use of going off to ruralise in the mountains and exposing themselves at the same time to all the tedium of attendance on the Court. For the villa Lavenham had taken would be all too convenient both for attendance at the Prince Regent’s court at Mafra and for visits to his estranged wife, who was living on her estate of Ramalhao in Sintra itself. It was in vain that Camilla pointed out how necessary such attendance was for the success of Lavenham’s mission. Chloe refused to be comforted and sulked ostentatiously until Camilla could have shaken her. Not for the first time, she found herself grateful for Lavenham’s detachment, which kept him from noticing his sister’s bad behaviour.
He came home early one evening to announce, rather sooner than Camilla had expected, that all was ready: they could make the move to Sintra next morning. Camilla’s own preparations were well in hand, but she suspected that Chloe had done little or nothing about getting ready, and hurried out into the garden to break the news to her. Not finding her in the shady walks of their own garden, she crossed the little stream that separated their estate from the deserted gardens of the Marvila palace next door and wandered through the overgrown thickets of myrtle and jasmine calling softly for Chloe. But the evening wind, fiercer than usual tonight, was tearing early fruit from the plum trees and her voice was lost in its wailing among the branches.
So it happened that she turned the corner of one of the orange
groves and came, unawares, on Chloe, sitting on a rustic bench, her arm entwined with that of a man Camilla had never seen before.
“Chloe!” At the sound of her voice, the absorbed couple sprang to their feet, and apart. Chloe coloured crimson; the man, who was thin, brown, wiry and considerably older than she, made a low bow and stood his ground, still holding Chloe’s hand in his, somewhat, Camilla suspected, against her will. For a moment, the silence stretched out. Chloe was tongue-tied; Camilla could think of nothing to say that would not seem unduly melodramatic; the stranger looked, she thought angrily, faintly amused. It was he who broke the silence at last.
“Well, mon ange,” he said to Chloe, “will you not make me known to your sister—and mine?” He spoke in English, but with a marked French accent.
Camilla would not believe her ears. “What do you mean?”
He made her another bow, elegant, courtly—infuriating. “I would have known you anywhere,” he said. “Your likeness to our lamented mother is startling. But it seems I have the advantage of you, and since this dear child will not do it, allow me to present myself: M. Boutet, the butcher’s son, or, being translated, your long lost brother. Is this not a touching reunion?”
“I do not understand. Chloe, what does this mean? When did you meet this gentleman?”
Chloe spoke at last. “At Corpus Christi,” she said. “He brought me home, when Lavenham would not even trouble himself to look for me. I was like to sink when he told me he was your brother, Camilla. Is it not the most romantic circumstance? Of course, it is tedious that he is one of the enemy Lee fusses about, else I would have made him known to you long ago. Indeed I am glad you have discovered us now; you can give us your counsel as to how best to make Lee see reason. How can I be expected to come to Sintra when my heart,” she made a wide dramatic gesture, “my heart is here.” Camilla had never been so angry. She looked at her brother and wished that his strong and discouraging likeness to their father did not convince her of the truth of his claim. “I do not know what to say to you.”
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