Before long, the sun had risen, and it was full daylight. As I dressed, I felt a growing sense of trepidation at being so near the end of my journey. What should I find at the Quinta dos Castanheiros? What would my reception be?
But when, after a hurried breakfast, I emerged with Mrs. Forrester on deck, the fascinating scene that greeted us swept aside my anxiety. The ship lay at anchor in a wide estuary of clear, silvery blue water. Lisbon rose before us, tier upon limpet-like tier of white and pink and terra-cotta buildings clinging to the slopes of its seven hills. Everything was delicately gilded with a golden haze of sunlight.
“It’s so beautiful!” I exclaimed in delight.
Mrs. Forrester went to the rail and began bargaining with a swarthy boatman to row us ashore, an altercation that was conducted with perfect good humor on both sides. When a rate was finally agreed upon between them, our baggage was lowered into the small boat. Against the strong current, we made slow but steady progress, while Mrs. Forrester scanned the shore for a glimpse of her husband.
“He will be there to meet me by the customhouse, if I know the major,” she said confidently.
My attention was suddenly arrested by a scene on the quayside, where a smart, open carriage had drawn up and the liveried coachman was loading a large leather portmanteau. Beside the carriage, talking animatedly with its occupant, was Stafford Darville. The woman seated within held a scarlet parasol with one hand. She was very elegantly dressed, with the features of a rare, haunting beauty.
Beatrice Forrester had noticed them, too. She remarked disapprovingly, “I am surprised they can be so blatant about it.”
“Who is she?” I inquired.
“Hardly a person I should want you to know, Elinor. If Mr. Darville must indulge in such an affaire, I do think he might at least show a little more discretion. But then, Stafford Darville was never a discreet man, even when his wife was alive. It is no wonder that the poor woman was driven to—”
Mrs. Forrester broke off abruptly. I understood only too well what she had been about to say, though, and a tremor of shock ran through me. Mrs. Forrester believed that the death of Stafford Darville’s wife had been no accident, but a deliberate act of suicide. She believed that Luzia Darville had been driven to take her own life by her husband’s flagrant infidelity.
I looked again at the carriage on the quayside. Stafford Darville had climbed in and was seated beside the woman. I watched as they drove off at a brisk pace and rounded a corner out of sight. I felt sick at heart, all the sympathy he had won from me instantly swept away.
“Has this liaison existed for long?” I asked in a low voice. “I mean, even before his baby son died?”
“Indeed yes, well before that. From all I’ve heard it began shortly after the child was born—” Again Beatrice Forrester checked herself, then added in a sort of half-apology, “Lisbon is always seething with scandal and rumor, my dear. You mustn’t take too much notice of it. People who have too little to occupy their lives exist on gossip, you know.”
“But you believe it to be true, don’t you, Mrs. Forrester?” Then I asked again, “Who is she? To look at, she seems to be a person of ... some consequence.”
“Perhaps notoriety would be a more apt word. Inesca enjoys fame as a fadista—a singer of a certain type of popular love song. She has a wide circle of male admirers, I believe, as women of the demimonde so often do. The fado, as it is called, is sung in places of doubtful repute—places that no respectable lady would visit. Unless, of course, simply out of curiosity.”
“Have you ever heard Inesca sing?” I inquired.
“Well, yes. Once or twice my husband has taken me with a party of friends.” Suddenly, she started waving frantically at someone on the shore. “Look, there is the dear major now, come to meet me just as I said he would.”
Major Forrester, not surprisingly, was a man of upstanding military bearing. He had graying hair and a small waxed moustache. He clasped his wife in his arms, and their delight at being reunited was touching to see. After a breathless exchange of inquires about each other’s health and well-being, Mrs. Forrester broke free to introduce me.
“Delighted, Miss Rosslyn, delighted.” Her husband clicked his heels and raised my hand to his lips. “Welcome to Portugal.”
“Thank you, Major Forrester. I am very pleased to meet you.”
“Arthur, dear, I have a splendid idea,” Mrs. Forrester went on eagerly. “Elinor is traveling to Cintra, so what do you say to her coming with us in the carriage? Then, when we are delivered at home, Sancho can drive her on. I should feel happier knowing she is in good hands.”
My protest that I couldn’t possibly inconvenience them so much was swept aside as irrelevant. As soon as the official formalities were completed, I was squeezed in between the Forresters in their victoria, the calash top let down so that the morning sun shone upon us. Driving along the waterfront, leaving behind Black Horse Square with its gracious public buildings and the large equestrian statue (which was not black at all, but the green of weathered bronze), we soon turned into the Rua do Alecrim, translated for me as Rosemary Street. Up the long hill we climbed, the pair of lively mares undeterred by the steepness of the gradient. I enjoyed the strangeness of it all—dark-haired townsfolk swarmed everywhere, street vendors shouted their wares, and mule carts rattled impatiently past the slower wagons drawn by plodding oxen. The narrow cobbled streets were overhung with tall houses faced with colorful, patterned tiles, and from their balconies trailed lines of freshly laundered washing, and luxuriant ferns and geraniums in every possible shade of pink and red and purple.
At length we drew up before an elegant house with intricate wrought iron window grilles, which faced a small public garden massed with flowering trees and shrubs. The tall, studded, green doors were flung open, and outran smiling servants to greet their homecoming mistress and carry in the luggage.
“Good-bye, Elinor, good-bye,” called Mrs. Forrester, standing with her husband on the pavement as the coachman jerked the reins and we drove off. “God go with you, my dear. And come and visit us soon.”
The carriage turned a corner, and they were left behind. I was alone, to wonder anxiously about the welcome that awaited me at the Quinta dos Castanheiros.
I tried to take an intelligent interest in the scene around me, but my mind insisted on wandering. All I received was a series of confused impressions in no coherent order—a great arched aqueduct spanning a valley ... quaint little windmills, sometimes singly, sometimes clustered upon a hilltop, their white canvas sails drifting lazily in the barely perceptible breeze ... a bent old man in a black hat leading a donkey bearing great panniers of cabbages ... a ragged child in a cottage doorway, thumb in mouth, dark eyes watching solemnly as the carriage went past. Growing amid the fields of young corn were huge spiny cactuses and ancient, gnarled trees with silvery leaves that I guessed must be olives, and here and there a grove of cork oaks, their trunks a bright orange color where the bark had been stripped off. I remember thinking how hot it seemed, coming straight from the east winds and April showers of England.
Ahead a range of hills rose up, their craggy peaks almost completely enshrouded in mist. The open heathland, patterned with moon daisies and wild orchids, gave way to trees and verdant shrubs, and waterfalls plunged from rock to rock, catching the sunlight. I felt upon my cheeks the refreshing touch of cooler mountain air. We passed many fine residences set in their shady gardens, and I endeavored to put a name to the flowering trees and the climbing plants that trailed over lichen-crusted walls—magnolia, oleander, lilac, daphne, clematis montana, and fuchsia—but others were new and exotic to me.
In Cintra’s pretty square we stopped for Sancho to inquire the way from a man with a string of saddled donkeys for hire. I looked at the Royal Summer Palace—I recognized it at once from the engraving in my guidebook with its two great Moorish chimneys that thrust up from the roof like dunce caps. I wondered if Dom Luis and his queen were in residence.
The broad carriageway led through an avenue of dark-green cypress trees, so evenly spaced, so identically matched in rows that they might have been guardsmen in bearskins standing stiffly to attention. At the far end rose a great pink and white mansion. The central pediment, in Grecian style, was flanked by two balustraded wings presenting a wide facade with many tall windows, each one elaborately decorated with whorls and curlicues of carved stonework. Before the house were formal knot gardens, dwarf box hedges trimmed to precise geometric patterns, with enclosed flower beds and smooth graveled walks between. In the center, a circular fountain of nymphs and tritons sent dancing jets of spray high into the air.
Skirting these gardens, the coachman drew to a halt by a wide apron of steps. In the stillness and silence, broken only by the musical whispering of the fountain, the noonday sun beat down hotly. Glancing up, I saw that at every window the green shutters were firmly closed. There was no sign of life anywhere. If I had not known that I was expected today, if the carriage had not been freely admitted by the man at the gate lodge, I would have imagined that the Quinta dos Castanheiros was empty and deserted.
Chapter 3
I was conducted into the mansion by a young manservant attired in a braided livery of green and gold, with a black mourning armband. I followed him across an antechamber into a great hall, where slender pale pink columns, carved in the form of twisted ropes, gave support to an arched gallery. A pair of magnificent crystal chandeliers hung from the intricately molded ceiling, and the floor was of black and white marble in gleaming hexagons. To the right and left of me were a number of paneled double doors, and at the far end rose the twin-branching staircase, also of marble, with a wrought iron balaster of wreaths and rosettes picked out in gold.
The footman ushered me into a salon, where the only light was that which filtered through the closed shutters. After the tiring heat of the journey the shadowed coolness was welcome. With a low bow the servant withdrew, closing the doors behind him. I took a seat in one of the tapestry chairs and tried to compose myself.
While I waited, I glanced around at the opulent decorations and furnishings, which made the Carlisles’ elegant house in Harley Street seem almost humble by comparison. The walls were hung with damask silk of a deep rose shade, and the floor was a delicate parquetry of pale and dark woods. The furniture, in the French style, was ornate and gilded.
The shroud of silence, accentuated by the faint ticking of a handsome pedestal clock, gave a curiously eerie feeling—as though the salon, the whole great house, was expectantly waiting for something to happen. Perhaps this was because the Quinta dos Castanheiros was doomed to pass out of Milaveira hands, I thought, remembering how Stafford Darville had told me that the entire estate was heavily mortgaged. But I preferred not to follow that train of thought. I preferred not to think of Stafford Darville at all.
Suddenly, my musing was arrested, and I gasped out in fright. Something smooth and soft and stealthy had brushed against my ankles. Then a sleek dark shape emerged from beneath the chair and glided across the polished floor. A cat, I saw in wild relief, but my heart still thudded from the shock. The creature stationed itself near the door, surveying me with its yellow slit eyes, its long tail jerking to and fro in swift, angry flicks.
I heard a sound, then one of the doors opened and a woman entered the salon. Although inclined to plumpness, she looked regally dignified in the purple gown she had chosen for her mourning. Her dark hair, drawn back smoothly at the nape of her neck, framed features that, if not exactly beautiful, were well shaped and indeed striking. In this filtered light it was impossible to be sure of her age, but I judged she was in her middle forties.
For a moment she paused in the doorway, and her amber eyes swept over me, assessing me. Then she came forward with her ringers graciously extended, a cool and distant smile upon her lips.
“So you are Elinor,” she said in carefully precise English. “I trust that you had a good journey.”
I had risen to greet her, but before I could take her hand, she caught sight of the cat. She turned on it in a fury, berating it with an angry flood of Portuguese. The poor animal shot past her and escaped through the open door, a black streak of fear.
“Wretched creature,” the woman continued to me. “Heaven knows how many of them she has now. They are everywhere about the place. But they will go, of course, as soon as I have my way here. However, Elinor, I daresay you are wondering who I am, so I will introduce myself. I am Carlota da Milaveira—the Condessa da Milaveira.” She announced the fact majestically, her chin held high.
“But I understood that my grandmother was the Condessa da Milaveira,” I faltered in bewilderment.
She gestured impatiently. ‘The old lady retains the title, of course. She is the condessa mother. But I am the wife of the new Conde da Milaveira.”
“Oh, I see—my uncle. Then you are my aunt, Tia Carlota.”
A quick frown of displeasure marred her face, and I realized that I had said the wrong thing. Surely, I thought, she didn’t expect me to address her as Senhora Condessa.
“I am glad you are arrived safely,” she continued. ‘Though why you have come, I must confess, is quite beyond my comprehension. You are not, I presume, expecting to take up permanent residence at the Quinta dos Castanheiros?”
Her tone was so unwelcoming that I felt a quick rush of tears sting my eyelids. “I have come here to see my grandmother. I understand from Mr. Darville that she is in poor health.”
“Oh, Stafford.” What was it I detected in her voice— scorn, dislike, anger? She certainly wasn’t troubling to conceal her low opinion of the man. “Well, Elinor, in the regrettable circumstances of your mother’s elopement, you are fortunate that your grandmother has consented to see you at all. I will present you to her later, when you have settled in.”
I wanted to rush to my mother’s defense, but I realized that it was useless. The haughty Carlota da Milaveira was clearly in no frame of mind to listen to an appeal for understanding and sympathy.
“I suppose,” I said hesitantly, “that you and my uncle live here at Castanheiros?”
“Naturally.”
“When will I be able to meet him? Is he at home?”
“My husband is a member of the government, Elinor; he sits in the House of Peers. Today he is to make an important speech on the construction of the new railways, and I should have gone to Lisbon with him. But I remained at Cintra so as to be here when you arrived. It is inconvenient, but no matter.”
I would have to overlook her deliberately offensive manner, I realized. Keeping my voice even, I inquired, “Will my uncle be home later today? Shall I see him then?”
“Really, miss, you are very persistent. You will meet the conde when he has an hour to spare for you, and I cannot say when that will be. His time is valuable.”
I inclined my head. “I have no wish to incommode him— nor you, Tia Carlota. Perhaps I might go to my room now, and then I will not need to trouble you further.”
Her pale amber eyes flickered, and she turned her head to consult the clock.
“Luncheon will be at two o’clock today. Normally it is served at one, but I ordered it to be delayed especially on your account. You have almost an hour to ready yourself.” She moved toward the door. “Come, Elinor, I will show you to your room myself. I told Vicencia to have the blue bedroom prepared for your visit. It faces the rear and will be cooler than the front of the house.”
“Thank you, that is most considerate,” I murmured politely as I followed her. “Who is Vicencia?”
“Vicencia? Oh, she attends to domestic matters for me. She is not here at present.”
We crossed the wide expanse of the great hall a
nd began to mount the staircase. Where it divided, rising separately to the upper gallery, Carlota took the left branch. But almost immediately we were halted by an imperious voice behind us, coming from above.
“Where are you taking the girl? Bring her to me at once. At once, I say.”
Carlota hesitated, and I sensed that she longed to ignore the command. Then she turned slowly, sighing. I turned too, but I could not see the speaker, who must have been standing in the shadow of a pillar.
“It is the old lady,” said Carlota wearily. “We had better do as she says.”
This was not in the least the way I had hopefully pictured my first meeting with my grandmother. I felt tired and travel-stained, and I had eaten nothing since early this morning when, in the ship’s saloon, I had been too pent-up to swallow more than a cup of tea and a morsel of toast. As Carlota and I retraced our steps and started up the opposite stairway, my heart was beating painfully.
My grandmother stood at the stairhead as motionless as the portraits on the wall behind her, a small slender figure in black crepe. Had I not known differently I might have mistaken Dona Amalia for a much younger woman, for she held herself very upright, with a graceful poise that betrayed no sign of old age. Only as we drew near did I see her lined face and gaunt cheekbones, the skin dry and papery—it was the ghost of a face that must once have been very beautiful. Her hair under a lace cap was silver white and thickly abundant. Her eyes glittered like the jet brooch at her throat, and to my great disappointment I discerned in them no hint of welcome.
“So you are Joanneira’s child.”
Cradled in her arms was a glossy black cat, which regarded me with an unblinking stare—the same one, perhaps, that I had encountered downstairs in the salon. The animal’s presence discouraged me from greeting my grandmother with a kiss on the cheek as I would have liked.
“How do you do, Grandmama?” I said quietly.
“Does Joanneira’s daughter have the right to call me by that name?” she challenged, her black eyes stabbing at me.
The Jade Dragon Page 3
