“You are very young and full of high ideals, my dear Elinor. Sometimes it is not so easy to cling to one’s principles. Life seldom works out the way one would wish.”
I glanced at her apologetically, afraid that I might have caused offense, but Vicencia smiled back at me.
“You are wondering, I believe, whether my own marriage was one such as I have described. At least it was not that. How could it be, for my father was by no means a rich man. Papa was the director of an orchestra in Lisbon, and sometimes, to augment his income, he took pupils in musical composition. That was how I came to meet my husband. Music was the one thing Carlos cared about passionately. He showed considerable promise as a composer when he was a young man, and the orchestra included several of his pieces in public concerts. Unhappily, after Papa’s death, Carlos somehow seemed to lose all his inspiration. He never achieved the success my father had forecast for him.” Vicencia suddenly rose to her feet. “Shall we stroll among the trees, Elinor? You have hardly seen the grounds at all.”
The path she chose climbed gently in a shady woodland walk. Beside us a glinting stream tumbled among rocks and boulders, here and there forming a clear, dark pool where goldfish lurked and giant ferns dipped their feathery fronds. The damp earth was starred with wild hyacinths and periwinkles, and we passed dense clusters of camellia bushes, splashed with their rose red blooms.
While we walked, my mind lingered upon what Vicencia had told me about her marriage. Was it after all so different from the others? Carlos da Milaveira, it appeared to me, had chosen Vicencia as his wife in exchange for something he I valued even more than wealth—the chance of fame as a composer. The Milaveiras all seemed to have been singularly calculating in their material alliances.
“Vicencia, you promised to tell me about your husband’s side of the family,” I reminded her.
“So I did. It is not a happy story, Elinor, in the true Milaveira tradition. My father-in-law, Duarte da Milaveira, was your grandfather’s younger brother, and when the two of them inherited from their father, they struck a bargain. Your grandfather had recently married again, and there was Dona Amalia’s dowry available. So the two brothers agreed that Duarte should take his share in the form of cash, while Fernando, the elder, should retain the vineyards and family properties. Each of them, I suspect, privately thought he had made the better deal. Duarte at once set off for Paris and embarked on a wildly spendthrift existence. He married, but that made little difference to his way of life. There were two children—my husband, Carlos, and Luzia, who became Stafford’s wife.”
We had come to a place where a grotto had been cut into the rocky hillside. Ivy and creepers trailed across the cavelike entrance, and from the dim, mysterious interior I could hear the cool trickling of water. I would have liked to pause and explore it, but this hardly seemed the right moment. “What happened, Vicencia?” I asked.
She glanced at me with a brief, rueful smile. “Oh, the inevitable happened, Elinor. It was not long before Duarte’s money was all gone in gambling and extravagant living. The family somehow managed to scrape by until, in his mid-forties, Duarte suddenly died of a stroke. His widow, driven by sheer necessity, swallowed her pride and returned to Portugal, throwing herself and her children upon the mercy of her brother-in-law. She lived at Castanheiros for the rest of her days, and here her children were brought up, tolerated as poor relations. And now all three of them are dead, and I remain—so long as I make myself useful.”
We had obviously taken a circling route, for a turn in the path suddenly brought us out onto the grand avenue of cypress trees. A carriage was approaching up the driveway, a smart turn-out drawn by two sleek chestnut mares. Vicencia gave a little gasp of pleasure and ran forward to meet it. As the barouche drew to a halt, I saw to my astonishment that the occupant was Stafford Darville.
“Stafford, my dear, how delightful to see you again!” exclaimed Vicencia as he descended. “I have missed you sadly these past weeks.” Laughingly, she lifted her face for him to kiss her cheek. “It is such a comfort to know you are back in Portugal, Stafford, and not far away in England.” She slipped her hand through his arm. “And now that you have decided to pay us a visit, promise you will stay for a nice long time before you go dashing back to that gloomy office of yours in Lisbon. Elinor, add your voice to my own and entreat this brother-in-law of mine to remain with us.”
He stood before me holding his hat, and his face was unsmiling. “Good afternoon, Miss Rosslyn,” he said in cool, polite voice.
Vicencia threw up her hand in protest. “Miss Rosslyn. Oh, Stafford, you must not be so formal. After all, we are all family, are we not? Already I have become so fond of dear Elinor, and I positively insist that you call her Elinor, too—as she must call you Stafford.” She glanced from one to the other of us. “Now, is that clearly understood?”
He awarded her a quick smile, but only a pale echo of it remained when he turned back to me. “Well ... Elinor, do you agree?”
“If you wish, Stafford.”
He motioned the coachman to drive on alone, and the three of us strolled toward the great house, not keeping to the carriageway but cutting through the paths of the knot garden. Vicencia chattered with the greatest animation asking about his visit to London. I realized how very much she depended upon Stafford Darville, her only friend at Castanheiros until my arrival.
An elderly gardener was working among the flowers, weeding with a curiously shaped hoe. He straightened up as we passed, doffed his black woollen cap, and addressed Vicencia, evidently asking for instructions about something. She hesitated, looking slightly put out, then smiled and suggested that we should go ahead. “I’ll catch up to you in just a moment.”
So it turned out that Stafford Darville and I entered the house alone together. We crossed the anteroom without exchanging a word, but in the great hall he halted and turned to me.
“Well, Elinor? Now that you have arrived, what do you think of your inheritance?”
“My inheritance? But you insisted that no part of all this is really mine—that the entire Milaveira estate exists on borrowed money.”
He didn’t answer but stood studying my face for what seemed an age, and his slate-dark eyes were as unreadable as always. Would it ever be possible, I wondered despairingly, to guess what he was thinking?
“So you believe me now, do you?” he said at last. “I wish that everyone in this accursed house could be convinced so readily. May I ask what caused you to change your mind, Elinor?”
I was gripped suddenly by a black depression. Stafford Darville’s arrival, which had brought such delight to Vicencia, only intensified the confusion in my mind. I had a ridiculous urge to turn and flee from him, from his searching gaze. I wanted to race up the branching stairway to the sanctuary of my room.
But would it be a sanctuary? Alone, I would still keep remembering those unfathomable eyes and the dark unsmiling features of this man who so disturbed my peace of mind. And I would remember, too, my grandmother’s hostility to me—yet, paradoxically, her challenge to my courage when I had suggested returning at once to England.
“I have not changed my mind about anything,” I told Stafford angrily. “In London, I entirely accepted what you said about the heavy debts that have rendered the Milaveira estate worthless. But Dona Amalia insists that this is nonsense, that the debts are no more than a passing difficulty. So now I don’t know what to think, whom to believe.”
His eyebrows lifted questioningly, but he did not speak. Behind us, Vicencia came hurrying in through the door with quick, light footsteps. “My goodness,” she laughed, “why-ever are you two looking so grim? Standing there like statues, glaring at each other. Come, we will have some tea brought for us, and then I have things to do. I must make sure the butler knows there will be an extra one for dinner, and then there is your room to be made ready. You see, Stafford, you cannot turn up unexpectedly without upsetting the entire household.” She smiled up at him fondly. “Not that I would h
ave it any other way, my dear man.”
Still chattering happily, Vicencia moved toward the doors of the tapestry room. As we followed her, I heard a sound and turned my head to see Carlota coming down the last few stairs.
I had a feeling—more than a feeling, a conviction—that Carlota had not just this minute descended. I felt positive that she had been hovering on the staircase in the shadow of a pillar, watching Stafford and me and listening to everything we said.
Chapter 6
After dinner that evening, Dona Amalia came downstairs to join the family in the gold drawing room. A footman flung open the doors and stood to one side, bowing most deferentially, and the old lady made her entrance with slow, stately steps. She wore a gown of black bombazine, with a lacy woollen shawl drawn about her shoulders.
Everyone rose hastily, and the two men hurried forward to escort Dona Amalia to a seat. She chose a brocade sofa near the fireplace, where logs of some aromatic wood were burning. Carlota, Vicencia, and I resumed our seats, and my uncle and Stafford remained standing. Dona Amalia nodded graciously to each of us in turn, and when she came to me her gaze lingered.
“So everyone is here, the sum total of my family.” She spoke in English for my benefit. Then she cast a glance at Stafford and added, “You brought back more than you bargained for from England, my friend. Eh?”
“If you are referring to Elinor,” he countered mildly, “it so happens that we traveled on the same ship. But the decision to come to Portugal was entirely her own, as I told you this afternoon, senhora.”
The old lady switched her attention to Affonso. “I hear, stepson, that you have been talking in the Cortes about railways. It seems to me that you politicians will not rest content until the entire kingdom is covered with those abominations. I could never bear to travel in a train, so smelly and noisy and dirty, and hurtling along at a speed the good Lord never intended.”
“But Portugal must not lag behind in the race for progress,” Affonso insisted weightily, fixing his monocle. “I am happy to say, madrasta, that my speech was most favorably received. I am greatly encouraged by the interest shown on all sides.”
Dona Amalia seemed unimpressed. “You would do well, Affonso, to devote more time to the pressing matters that concern this family of ours. As things are, with you spending all your time on government matters, we are left entirely in Stafford’s hands. I do not doubt that it suits Senhor Dom Stafford Darville very well to buy our fine Collares wines at absurdly low prices and sell them in England at a vast profit to himself.”
Stafford smiled at her, seeming not in the least put out. “Alas, senhora, there are no vast profits to be made these days, neither for the grower nor for the shipper.”
The relationship between my grandmother and Stafford intrigued me. There seemed to be a closeness, a mutual regard that I would never have anticipated from the way each of them had spoken about the other.
“Are we to take it, Stafford,” she continued, “that you will be returning to Lisbon tomorrow? There can be little to interest you at Cintra.”
“Actually, I had planned to remain here for a few days, senhora condessa—if I may?”
“Willingly. But you surprise me. After your long absence in England, are you not tempted to hurry back to the, er, shall we say the diversions of the city?”
It could only be a barbed allusion to Inesca, the fado singer. I was amazed that the jibe seemed lost on Stafford. He remarked, frowning, “I was most distressed to find that, even after all this time, ugly rumors are still circulating in Lisbon concerning the manner of Luzia’s death.”
“Oh, Stafford, how shameful!” exclaimed Vicencia. “The official finding that Luzia’s death was accidental should have put an end to all the speculation. No one pauses to consider what grief can be caused by this idle tongue wagging.” She looked at him with compassion. “My earnest advice, dear brother-in-law, is to ignore these people.”
“I cannot ignore them, Vicencia,” he replied somberly. “My silence would be interpreted as evidence that the rumors are true.”
Carlota fluttered her fan and burst out irately, “Something will have to be done. It is intolerable that the Conde da Milaveira’s name should be linked with such an affair, however remotely. Any sort of scandal could seriously damage Affonso’s political career.”
“I think, my dear, you exaggerate a little,” her husband said mildly. “In any case, nothing can be done about it. We shall just have to wait until people lose interest.”
“What do you say, Stafford?” asked Dona Amalia. “Is there anything you can do to refute these unpleasant insinuations?”
“I sincerely trust so, senhora. I shall not rest until I have succeeded.”
“Stafford, you are upsetting yourself needlessly,” Vicencia put in, a look of deep distress on her face. “I beg you to rise above all this. Do not give the gossipmongers the satisfaction of seeing that you are in any way concerned.”
An angry frown from Carlota rebuked Vicencia for daring to voice an opinion on family matters. However, Dona Amalia supported Vicencia. “She is right, Stafford, we must rise above all this talk, ignore it. Whatever may be the true facts about Luzia’s death, we shall never know them now.” She held up her hand to deter him from interrupting and continued with a note of defiance, “Never forget, Stafford, that we have a good friend and guardian who will protect this family from harm—now, just as surely as in the past. Consider how we have survived over the years. Reflect how the Milaveiras came through the Miguelite troubles unscathed when other great families were toppled. We are impregnable, Stafford, so long as we have faith. Faith.”
“O Dragao de Jade,” Vicencia murmured in a husky breath.
“The Jade Dragon?” I queried, puzzled by the strange intensity in her voice. “Do you mean that statuette in the Chinese salon?”
She nodded her head without speaking and kept her eyes averted. Recalling Carlota’s remark that this small piece of sculpture had a value to the Milaveira family above that of the salesroom, I inquired, “What is so very special about it?”
There was a curious silence in the room, as though no one wished to be the first to speak. Then, just as Stafford was about to answer my question, Carlota cut across him.
“The Jade Dragon, Elinor, has been in the possession of the family for more than three centuries. It was a personal gift from the emperor of China to Henriques da Milaveira. Henriques was one of the early navigators and did much to extend our trading routes to the Far East. He was virtually the founder of the Milaveiras, establishing them as one of the great families of Portugal. The Jade Dragon was presented to him as a mark of especial esteem, and ever since it has been regarded as the talisman of our continuing good fortune. So long as the Milaveiras possess the Jade Dragon, it is believed, no serious harm can come to them.”
“How very strange. According to all the legends I’ve ever heard, dragons are supposed to represent the spirit of evil, to be a malign influence, not a beneficial one.”
“The Chinese see things quite differently,” explained Stafford. “To them, the dragon is never symbolic of evil, but is an emblem of royalty. And jade has always possessed a special mystical quality. Combine the two in the form of a jade dragon, and you have a very powerful influence indeed.”
I looked at him skeptically. “Surely you don’t believe that? How can any piece of carved stone
exert a supernatural influence, whether for good or evil?”
For a brief instant his dark eyes met mine, then he glanced away. “Unfortunately, Elinor, what I believe or do not believe about the Jade Dragon is of little consequence here.”
Glancing about me, I saw Vicencia twisting her fingers nervously in her lap, while Dona Amalia stared into the flames of the log fire, thinking her own thoughts. It was Carlota who broke the awkward silence by announcing triumphantly that she had finally persuaded Affonso to take a box for the opera next season entirely in his own name, instead of having only an abonnement to a thi
rd of the performances, as previously.
“Now that he is the Conde da Milaveira, it is expected of him,” she went on. “In the past, when Affonso wished to entertain someone of importance, it was infuriating to discover that it was not one of his evenings at Sao Carlos. The additional expense will be a mere trifle, counted against the advantage.”
Watching Stafford, I noticed his quick frown of disapproval, but he made no comment, and the conversation drifted to other topics. It seemed to me that everybody was being careful to avoid anything controversial. Then Dona Amalia suddenly announced that she was tired and rose to her feet. She glanced at Stafford and asked him to be so good as to escort her upstairs. It was a signal for the family gathering to break up, and a few moments later both Affonso and Carlota went from the room, leaving Vicencia and me alone together.
“Vicencia, might we go and have another look at the Jade Dragon?” I said.
She seemed uneasy. “Why not wait until morning? In the dark, it is easy to start imagining things.”
“Imagining things? Don’t tell me you believe in the power of the Jade Dragon?”
She glanced quickly around, as though wishing to assure herself that we were indeed alone. Then she laughed, a laugh that was by no means convincing.
“Really, Elinor, you cannot really believe that I am so superstitious. Naturally, we will go and see it now, if you wish.”
Vicencia picked up a candelabra before leading the way across the great hall. As we entered the Chinese salon, she closed the double doors, clearly wanting us not to be observed, and we crossed to the far end of the room by only the flickering light of the three candles.
The carved jade figure stood upon its alabaster pedestal. It was no more than twelve inches high, a grayish green in color flawed with streaks of white, the polished surface gleaming with a curious clouded brilliance. The creature was portrayed rampant, rearing upon its scaly tail and squat hind legs. The eyes were ugly and protruding, the mouth gaped in a brutish snarl, and its long-clawed foreleg was raised aggressively.
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