MAN OF DESTINY
Rose Burghley
Caroline, as governess to little Richard de Fonteira, was rather apprehensive about meeting his grand-sounding uncle, the Marques, who was to take charge of the boy’s upbringing.
The Marques, however, turned out to be perfectly charming. It was his man of affairs, Vasco Duarte de Capuchos, who was the difficult one!
CHAPTER ONE
CAROLINE looked down at Richard and adjusted his tie for the tenth time since breakfast. “I suppose you’ll do,” she said. “But it seems to me dreadfully hot to be dressed up in this formal fashion when an open-necked shirt would have been so much more comfortable for you, and infinitely more sensible considering the state of the thermometer.”
“Mama says my uncle will expect it,” Richard—who was always completely imperturbable—returned in a small, emotionless voice, although the tie was beginning to choke him. “I’m a de Fonteira, don’t forget. And the de Fonteiras are terribly important people in this part of the world.”
He said it as if he was reciting a lesson.
Caroline glanced out of the porthole window and thought how brilliant the shoreline looked, and how incredible the blue of the sky above it ... almost as blue as the sky above Mombasa, from which colourful corner of the globe they had just journeyed all the way by sea.
“I’ve no doubt your uncle is an important person,” she remarked, as if she was musing on the matter. “In England a marquis is a high-ranking title, and a Portuguese marquis shouldn’t be any lower in the social scale. Probably higher, as titles are going out of fashion in England.”
“Why?” Richard wanted to know, surveying her with his large, brilliant, beautiful black eyes.
Caroline smiled, and ruffled his hair.
“It’s just that everybody is equal nowadays ... or so some people like to pretend. But in Portugal you’re more feudal. I’m already in awe of this magnificent relative of yours.”
“Mama says he’ll come aboard, and you’ll have to introduce me to him. But who will introduce you?”
“I shall.” Her perfect little even white teeth gleamed as her grey-blue eyes danced impishly. “Since there’s no one else to do it.”
“But why can’t Mama—?”
Ilse de Fonteira put in her head, and it was plain from her expression that she was growing agitated. She had even removed her dark glasses and was clutching them in a thin, tanned hand with fantastically long, bright fingernails and tapping them agitatedly against her cheek.
“Richard,” she called, “come here!”
Richard obeyed, and stood in front of her. She plucked at his tie and straightened his collar, and insisted that Caroline produce a comb and re-comb his hair. Then he was made to stand several paces away from her while she scrutinised him carefully, his shining shoes and tussore silk shirt, the handkerchief that peeped from the breast pocket of the shirt, and his neatly turned down socks. No small boy of seven years old, with a thick wing of hair that dipped down over one eyebrow, a slightly sallow but perfectly clear skin, and beautifully marked features, could have appeared more satisfyingly turned out.
He was a Fonteira to his fingertips, and she was proud of him. There was even something slightly disdainful in his expression as he gazed back at her, and that, too, pleased her. She was saying goodbye to him, but it didn’t upset her, because one day he would step into his uncle’s shoes, and she would be able to say casually to her friends and acquaintance:
“My son, the Marques de Fonteira ...”
And that was what his father wanted above everything else; his son to inherit the family fortune, lands, title ... To be the Marques de Fonteira. She had given her word to poor Carlos that she would hand over Richard to his uncle, and that was what she was about to do now. It caused her a purely temporary pang to think that she might not see him again for quite some time—perhaps years, since she was marrying again, and the Fonteiras would hardly look upon a second marriage with favour. Once married to Rob—her darling Rob, who was so different from Carlos, and so much, much more exciting—she would be out so far as her present in-laws were concerned. Particularly the present Marques, who was reported to be a stickler for every form of correctness, and as stiff-necked as the devil and as unbending when the mood was on him. He might even stop her allowance when she married.
But he couldn’t last for ever, and he must be pretty ancient by this time. A white-haired autocrat who would rule her life if she gave him the opportunity, but who might have the decency to move on before very long and let her son inherit in good time to share the richness of his inheritance with his mother and stepfather. For, fortunately, Rob got on very well with the boy. They were good friends.
“Darling,” she said, stooping to him suddenly and sounding a trifle mournful. The softness of her cheek touched his for an instant, the perfection of her mouth brushed his hair. He could smell the strange, exquisite, exciting loveliness of her perfume, feel the silk of her sun-top as he was drawn close to her for a moment. And then the sunlight that filled the cabin was making a splendour of her neatly coiled hair as she backed away from him again, and he was dazzled by the brilliance of the long green eyes between the skilfully darkened eyelashes.
“Darling,” she repeated, “I’ve got to go now.”
“Goodbye, Mama,” he said in his small, emotionless voice.
She dabbed at her eyes with a wisp of lace handkerchief, and for Caroline’s benefit she sniffed a little.
“Write to me, darling, won’t you?—Write often! And give my regards to your Uncle Duarte. Tell him—let him understand that I have made a sacrifice!”
“Yes, Mama,” said Richard monotonously.
“And, Caroline...” She turned to the girl, and held out her hand. “I know I can safely leave him with you, and that you will not attempt to desert him until the Marques has made clear what his plans for Dick are. It is more than likely that he will expect you to remain with him for a few days, but your air fare to London is all taken care of and it will only be a matter of days that you are likely to be detained here in Portugal.”
Caroline felt Richard’s small hand steal into hers and cling to it a trifle convulsively. He looked up at her.
“You will stay, won’t you?” he said. “For as long as I—for as long as they’ll let you!”
“Of course, poppet,” she said quietly.
The sudden fear disappeared from Richard’s dark eyes.
“Goodbye, my dear.” Mrs. de Fonteira sounded suddenly a trifle less melancholy than before—even a trifle sharp-tongued. “Don’t let Richard cling to
you like a baby, and for goodness’ sake see to it that he doesn’t give the Marques the wrong impression. We have brought him up with a knowledge of his position, and he isn’t stupid. Not as tough as Rob and I together would have made him, but tough enough—for the heir to a marquisate!”
Caroline felt her fingers touching hers for an instant, coolly, and then she was gone ... And the cabin was still full of sunlight—hot, strong, Portuguese sunlight—but they were alone. The small boy and the English girl who was now entirely responsible for him until his uncle came on board and deprived her of the responsibility.
Richard stood solemnly staring out of the porthole window, and at last he asked:
“How soon will it be before—he comes?”
“I don’t know. Soon, I should think. But, in any case, we haven’t docked yet—” the ship was still slipping through the water, and as yet the bright waterfront was some distance away—“and it might be quite a while before visitors are allowed on board. We can go up on deck now, as your mother is going to remain in her cabin. Would you like to watch the ship tie up, or whatever happens? They may just heave an anchor overboard and take us off i
n boats.” Richard rather liked the sound of that, forgetting that his uncle would also be in the boat.
“Let’s go,” he said eagerly. “It’s hot in here,” and he tugged at his tight shirt collar.
Caroline took a sudden decision. She ripped off his tie and opened the neck of his diminutive shirt. “That better?” she asked.
He sighed with relief.
“Much.”
CHAPTER TWO
THEY stood together in the sunshine on deck while people said farewells and exchanged addresses all around them.
It was surprising what a large number of passengers were going ashore at Lisbon, although as it was a Portuguese vessel it was perhaps not so surprising.
Lisbon drew closer at the head of the Tagus, one of the most beautiful capital cities in the world, with white and colour-washed buildings built on the edges of almost perpendicular cliffs, and running down by means of lush valleys and flowery gardens to the very brink of the Tagus. The sunlight set a shimmer on the water that was actually hurtful to the eyes, unless they were protected by dark glasses; and the movements of little boats on the water were also confusing. Not so confusing, and far more restful to fix the eyes on, was the splendid range of the Serra da Arrabida, which can be seen on clear days from all over Lisbon, in violet relief against the sky; and the castle of Palmela, standing like a sentinel on its isolated hill.
Caroline had grown used to colour in the past few weeks, having been engaged to act the part of companion-governess to Richard while he was still in Africa, and on the journey home. They had now known one another for three months, but it seemed longer to her as they stood there on the deck with all the bustle around them, and the luxury of first-class accommodation pressing upon them, as it were, from the very bulkheads.
The voyage had been wonderful, and utterly memorable ... the more so to her because, obeying her instructions, she had flown out to Africa, and it had all been over so very quickly. But this long, leisurely return journey had seemed like one long, leisurely unfolding of blue days and starry nights, with that touch of unreality that always attaches itself to a community at sea. She and Richard had sampled all the delights of the voyage, the sunbathing, the games, the atmosphere of complete relaxation.
There had been the minimum amount of study and the maximum amount of fun and freedom. Mrs. de Fonteira had agreed that the trip should be looked upon as a kind of holiday, and as she herself had been completely preoccupied with the man she was to marry, and her own strictly personal future plans, there had been no criticisms, and no serious attempts to keep an eye on them.
They had been free to do as they pleased, and fortunately Caroline had a very keen sense of duty and what was expected of her in return for a salary, so Richard had not suffered in any way from the lack of parental supervision and interest. Other passengers on board had occasionally lifted their eyebrows and passed comments because the beautiful Mrs. de Fonteira seemed quite unaware that she had a son, but the knowledge that these comments were passed merely aroused in Caroline an additional protective feeling, and now that she knew the voyage was over she was rather appalled by the thought of the separation ahead.
Another day, two days ... perhaps only a few hours, and she would have to say goodbye to Richard, hand him over to a man she knew nothing about, make excuses for his mother who had left the ship at Genoa ... or that was a lie she had to hand out The thought of it stuck in her throat.
Why couldn’t a woman with so much charm of appearance be really womanly and see the last of her son? Why did she stoop to such petty deception?
Because her late husband—and he had been dead rather less than six months—had warned her that his uncle, the head of his family, was not an easy man to handle, and might have strict views on the length of time that should elapse before a woman who had been left a widow should abandon her widowhood and become the wife of another man? Who had been very much in the picture even before the husband was dead!
That was it, of course. Or partly it ... Ilse was not entirely free from a sense of guilt, but the Marques de Fonteira might expect her to show signs of unhappiness because of her recent widowhood, whereas she had never been happier in her life, because at last she was free—free, free, free!—to marry Robert Burden Prentice, who was five years her junior and devastatingly attractive to all women.
Except Caroline. Who suspected him of being something of a philanderer even while making plans to marry, and whom she would certainly not have chosen to be a stepfather to her own son should similar circumstances have made it desirable for her to provide a son of hers with a stepfather.
But Richard would probably never see his stepfather once the Head of the Family of Fonteira took over the control of his destiny. Or if he did see him again it would only be for short periods, just as his mother was only expecting to see him for short periods.
She was handing him over ... without any real thought for his future happiness. A small boy of seven, who might be lonely, bitterly unhappy, resentful, even desperate when the realisation fully sunk in that he had been abandoned. Or as good as abandoned.
Caroline felt his cold fingers clinging to her hand, and she wanted to give him comfort and reassurance. But what could she say when she might be leaving him any minute now, and she had no more knowledge of the Marques de Fonteira than the few scraps of information concerning him that Ilse de Fonteira had flung at her occasionally.
And one of those scraps was that he was old, that he might die at any minute, and Richard become a marques. Well, perhaps Richard would like that. But she doubted it ... Richard would much rather have other children to play with, and go to a nice school in England where his name—Richard—wouldn’t sound so strange.
Instead of which he would almost certainly go to school in Portugal, and become a real little Portuguese boy ... which, of course, he was, by birth.
A bronzed third officer passed them as they stood close to the rail, and he waved a hand regretfully to Caroline. She was all white and gold, and very English, and he disliked the thought that he would probably never see her again.
“Goodbye, Senhorita Worth! I hope you like Lisbon!”
“I shall, I’m sure,” she called back. But her smile was regretful. “But I’m afraid I won’t be staying there long.”
“Long enough to lose your heart to it ... that much I predict!” He kissed his hand to it and her.
“Perhaps.”
“Goodbye, Richard.” He thought the small boy was looking bleak and forlorn, and sought to encourage him with a flashing, white-toothed smile. “Be good.”
Richard gazed upwards at Caroline with wondering, definitely anxious large eyes.
“Will my great-uncle, the Marques de Fonteira, expect me to be very good?” he asked.
Caroline answered immediately, and without hesitation.
“No, darling, just a normal small boy.”
There was a slight commotion at the head of the gangway, and a tall man in white detached himself and stepped towards them. He had dark, hawk-like eyes and a tightly closed mouth, and apart from that he was very bronzed and immaculate. He bowed with considerable formality in front of them.
“I am given to understand that you are Senhorita Worth,” he said in English, in clipped accents.
“Yes,” she answered. She gazed at him in astonishment. “But you are not—you can’t be...”
“And this is Richard?” he said. He held out his hand to the boy, a lean dark hand that extended beyond an immaculate shirt-cuff. “How do you do, Richard? You are much smaller than I expected ... quite a baby, in fact. And being a mere baby,” with a queer little fluttering smile just touching his lips, while the dark eyes remained cold and appraising, “do you miss your mother very much indeed? I understand that she left the ship at Genoa.”
Richard let his fingers rest in the dark ones for the merest possible fraction of time, and then he shrank closer to Caroline. He even made a little clutching movement at her, as if he was afraid she might
vanish into thin air at any moment.
“Y-yes, sir,” he stammered.
Caroline put her arm about his shoulders.
“The Marques de Fonteira, I presume?” she stated rather than asked, with a correctness of speech she had been practising.
For the first time a gleam of humour lit the dark eyes.
“I’m afraid not. You honour me, however, for the Marques is a very good friend of mine. He is, however, at his estates in Estoril, and resting for the time being. I am his—” he waved that strong brown hand —“how do you call it? Bailiff, man of affairs, manager...? In addition to being a kinsman on my mother’s side. The name is de Capuchos—Vasco Duarte de Capuchos.”
Caroline looked suitably impressed.
“How do you do, Senhor de Capuchos?”
“How do you do, Senhora Worth?”
“We have had a very pleasant voyage.” She found the amused look in the strange eyes far more confusing than the coldness. “Richard has enjoyed it ... Haven’t you, Richard?” giving him a gentle prod.
“Y-yes,” he stammered again.
“And the weather, of course, has been perfect.”
“It normally is on such a voyage.” He directed at her a glance of amused contempt. “But you, of course, are English. The weather is important to you.”
She felt the colour sting her cheeks ... a tiny rush of resentful, very hot colour. His arrogance was far worse than anything she had expected from the Marques. If this was his man of affairs, and Richard was to be handed over to him, the outlook was not good.
“Where is your luggage?” The clipped voice was suddenly even more clipped and extraordinarily brisk. “Everything is out of your cabin? There is nothing that you have overlooked?”
“No. The heavy stuff has already gone ashore.”
“Yours, as well as Richard’s?”
“Why, yes. I understood that I am to remain with him for a few days.”
A slight shrug of the shoulders deprecated anything of the kind.
“It is not necessary—except, perhaps, for a couple of days. I shall arrange for someone to take charge of him as quickly as possible, and in the meantime a member of the hotel staff could make herself responsible for him. I have booked rooms at the Aviz, so we’d better go there without delay. Is this yours?” He picked up a small hand case that was standing on the deck beside her, and she instantly denied that there was any necessity for him to carry it.
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