Master of Hearts

by Ives, Averil

  there beneath the hot sun, to be crushed into wine at the time of the wine-harvest; and she wondered how many of those terraced slopes were the property of the man beside her, who was, as she knew, an immensely rich landowner. As if he read her thoughts he informed her conversationally:

  "At the time of the wine-harvest our people make merry as well as toil hard. It is far too early yet to be thinking of celebrations and the crushing of the grapes, but in the autumn you will see how everybody enjoys themselves. And you, too, will probably have some little part in the enjoyment!"

  "You mean that there are festas and things?"

  "There are celebrations, as I said. Much dancing and singing . . . particularly singing! You have yet to hear our Portuguese fados. Such sad, simple songs, and yet so full of charm, quite unlike any other songs you will hear in any other corner of the world."

  "I have heard them in Lisbon," she said. "At one of the popular restaurants."

  "Ah, but that is a very different thing to hearing them here on the lips of the truly simple people."

  "You employ many people?" she heard herself asking. "You own many of these vineyards, don't you?"

  He waved a careless hand to indicate the extent of his possessions.

  "As far as you can see," he told her. "As far as you will see until we reach the outskirts of Amara."

  "We are going into Amara?" she asked rather quickly, hoping that her curiosity hadn't sounded a little crude.

  "We will provide those two small creatures in the back with some ice-cream, or a cooling drink, and then we will return by way of a little valley that I think you will find enchanting. And perhaps there we will stretch our legs, and your charges might pick you a bunch of wild flowers—although the season for wild flowers at their very best is over."

  "You mean the springtime?" she said.

  "Springtime in Portugal is—beautiful!" he said, and in the way in which he said it convinced her that in his opinion Portugal was always beautiful.

  It seemed strange — in fact, very strange — to be sitting at a small table on a raised hotel terrace mopping up ice-cream as it trickled down the sides of Jerry's and Joe's mouths in the company of the uncle they held in so much awe. Kathleen would not have believed, when they started out, that he would have permitted himself to be seen in public with these two small encumbrances and herself—nothing more than a nursery-governess whom he himself employed. And although it was true he selected the most exclusive hotel in the town for refreshment that could have been enjoyed beneath an ordinary café umbrella, he didn't look as if he was actually revolted when a lump of strawberry ice landed on Joe's bare knee, and Jerry threatened to overturn the vase of flowers in the centre of the table.

  He merely told the children quietly to behave, and then looked across at Kathleen and smiled whirimirally.

  "What a life you must have," he said, "disciplining—or striving to discipline!—these two! We shall have to think up a reward for you that will make it all worthwhile!"

  But she didn't feel in need of any reward as they returned to the car, and he once more put her into the seat beside him. In this relaxed, indulgent mood of his he could hardly have been more pleasant, and she was beginning to be certain that Peggy had underrated his charm. Every time he smiled at her and she saw his white, perfect teeth flash brilliantly by contrast with his dark face, and his sea-grey eyes underwent curious softening processes that rendered them disturbingly handsome watching her as they did between his thick eyelashes, her heart behaved in a peculiar fashion. And sitting beside him and watching his hands on the wheel, strong and firm and shapely and exquisitely cared-for, was a pleasure in itself. The whiteness of his cuffs emphasised the lean brown strength of his wrists, and the

  heavy gold ring that was embellished by a crest winked on his middle finger in the gay morning sunshine.

  But the heat of the day was increasing, and it was pleasant when they reached the little valley he had talked to her about to leave the car and wander for a while in the cool shade of the trees. It was all too short a while for Kathleen, who was prepared to agree that it was an entrancing valley, with tall, straight trunks rising up on both sides, a carpet of velvety-textured grass, and a little stream meandering through it The wild flowers were few but brilliant—nothing like the glory that must have spread itself there in the spring, and saturated the air with perfume.

  Jerry and Joe, once they were released from the car, raced across the floor of the valley and made for the stream. They knelt beside it and delightedly scooped water into their hands, to the detriment of their silk blouses and brief blue shorts, and Kathleen made to go after them and prevent them ruining their appearance altogether. But Miguel stopped her with a hand laid on her arm.

  "Leave them," he said. "We are here only for a few minutes, and small harm can be done in that time And I recall that when I was their age I knew the fascination of running water, too."

  Kathleen glanced up at him in surprise, as if the last thing she could imagine was his immaculate person ever in the slightest danger of being despoiled by a muddy stream, but he smiled down at her with amusement, as if yet again he read her thoughts.

  "You do not believe that?" he said. "You do not believe that I was ever really young?"

  "I—" The colour rose to her clear skin in a lovely tide, and he refused to turn away his eyes. "I am sure you were never quite like Jerry and Joe."

  "Heaven forbid!" he murmured. "My parents would have found some means of disposing of me if I had resembled them at all closely. But I managed to enjoy myself just the same, and always I have thought that

  Life is good. Nowadays I am inclined to think that it is very good!"

  No wonder, she thought, a little wistfully. With all his possessions, his looks, his charm, his confidence in the future. For him Life must hold everything!

  "No, not quite everything," he said, very softly, startling her with his uncanny reading of her mind. "There is much in store—I hope! Very much more in store! The most important thing of all, although I'll confess I didn't always recognise its importance!"

  She glanced up at him again with wide, enquiring eyes, and he kept his hand below her elbow, guiding her along the well-worn path, making certain that she didn't stub her toes on a jagged piece of stone, or a tree root. Her golden hair swung in the sunshine that trickled through the leaves, her slim figure was that of a slim pink dryad; the delicate scent she used, nothing more than a very English toilet water, stole up to him.

  "Tell me," he asked, very quietly, "have you ever been remotely near to falling in love, Miss O'Farrel?"

  Her heart started to thump.

  "Never," she answered at last, as if, nevertheless, she had had to give the matter some consideration.

  "You are too young, you think?"

  "I am twenty-three," she told him. "Many girls," she added, "are married at that age."

  "It is a woman's age," he admitted, "a delightful age. In Portugal, I would say, most young women are married at that age. If not, they begin to feel anxious lest they are left, as you would say, 'on the shelf."

  She laughed rather ruefully, overwhelmingly aware of his warm fingers gripping her elbow.

  "Are you suggesting that I'm in a certain amount of danger, too?"

  "Never," he answered. "There is no danger that you will be left on the shelf. For one thing you are English, and therefore you appear younger; and for another—" There was a second's pause. "One day you will fall in love!" he said.

  She quivered slightly.

  "Perhaps," she said feebly.

  "There is no 'perhaps' about it! With your eyes, and the warm feeling that you cannot disguise even for those impossible twins down there on the edge of the stream . . . and your mouth, which is a very lovely mouth!" His eyes were on it, but she didn't dare to turn her own eyes up to his and discover this fact for herself. "And several other things about you, I don't hesitate to predict that one day you will fall very violently in love! Perhaps not in a very
English way!"

  "Meaning that the English are not as good at falling in love as the Portuguese?"

  "I know one English girl who could be—I think! And I know one Portuguese who lost his heart some little while ago!"

  "Yours, senhor?" she enquired, trying, but failing, to speak absolutely lightly.

  "Yes, mine." He warned her against a sudden depression in the track, and then caught back a trailing bramble so that it wouldn't fasten its thorns in her dress. "My heart is irrecoverably lost, and one day soon I hope that my bachelor days will be over. Then I shall really begin to live!"

  Kathleen felt as if the twitter of birdsong around them died, and the golden trickles of sunshine finding their way through the branches suddenly ceased to have any warmth. Even the little patches of blue sky that she could see between the leaves paled so that the day might have been grey instead of triumphantly blue and gold.

  "You—you mean that you are planning to marry?" she asked, stumbling over the depression, and having to be politely assisted by him up the other side.

  "As I said—one day! When one is as much in love as I am one naturally hopes it will be soon!"

  The children came running towards them, and although they were a little mud-stained and wet, they also looked supremely happy, and in their grubby hands they each

  clutched a few flowers.

  "For you, Kathie!" Jerry said, and thrust them at her, and Joe also insisted upon her relieving him of his spoils.

  "You do like them, don't you, Kathie?" he demanded, and the Conde allowed one of his sleek dark eyebrows to rise a little.

  "Since when have you been calling Miss O'Farrel Kathie?" he asked. "And who gave you permission?" Jerry looked at him obliquely.

  "No one," he admitted. "But her sister and her brother call her Kathie, and anyway it's her name. Kathleen—it's written in one of her books!"

  The Conde smiled a little peculiarly, and pinched his ear.

  "So you really are beginning to read! . . . Well, that much we owe to Kathleen! Or am I, too, permitted to make it Kathie?" glancing into the rather rigidly down-bent face of the girl.

  "Perhaps it would be as well if you stuck to Miss O'Farrel," she answered a little hastily, and as his eyebrow ascended again bent and brought her own handkerchief to the task of cleansing his grubbiest nephew's face.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN they got back to the quinta Dona Inez was awaiting them in the hall.

  She looked a little surprised at the sight of her family being off-loaded from her brother's car, and seemed still more surprised at the sight of Kathleen, who had quite obviously accompanied them.

  "I was given to understand that the children had gone for a drive," she said. "But I wasn't certain with whom. I thought it possible someone had called and taken them out, or that Miss O'Farrel had been given permission to use one of the cars."

  "Instead of which you make the discovery that I have been devoting a morning to my nephews," the Conde returned rather drily.

  She looked at him with an enigmatic gleam in her eyes.

  "And Miss O'Farrel has been helping to make the burden a little lighter!"

  "Considerably lighter," he agreed. "I couldn't have coped without her."

  Dona Inez, in heavy white silk and a lot of fine gold bracelets that jingled on her wrists, studied the grimy appearance of her sons.

  "It would seem that they have been running wild," she remarked, but there was no actual criticism in her tone as she glanced at Kathleen. "I would never have believed that you would endanger the immaculate interior of your car by allowing two such bedraggled specimens to enter it, Miguel," she observed, the gleam in her glorious eyes becoming a spark of definitely quizzical humour.

  Then she offered a hand to one of the boys, and turned to lead him up the steps.

  "By the way, it was a pity you chose this morning to remember your duty as an uncle, Miguel, for we had two unexpected visitors. Carmelita and her aunt are back,

  and they were most disappointed not to find you here! Carmelita was almost distressed!"

  Miguel came to a halt at the foot of the steps, and threw back his head.

  "Carmelita? But she was not expected back for another week!" His whole expression changed. It grew animated —really animated—for the first time since Kathleen had known him, and even his voice warmed, although it was acutely disappointed at the same time. "But that is most unfortunate! Naturally I wished to be here when Carmelita paid her first call, but naturally also I expected to be given ample warning that she had returned!"

  "Naturally," his sister agreed, with a soft, amused note in her voice, and a half-indulgent narrowing of the eyes. "However, it is not quite a disaster for we are to dine with them tonight, and Carmelita is so much looking forward to seeing you that she begged me tell you she will be counting not the hours, but the minutes!"

  She looked meaningly into her brother's eyes, and although he smiled slightly as if he understood the reason why she did so, after a second or so the smile vanished, and he stood very still.

  "Tonight?" he echoed, and Kathleen felt sure he was savouring the thought of the evening ahead of him. "That will be very pleasant!" Then he turned casually to Kathleen. "I hope you will not be tempted, since you will be dining alone, to have a meal on a tray in your room, Miss O'Farrel. That sort of thing is not approved of in this house."

  Inez enquired:

  "When did Miss O'Farrel have a meal on a tray in her room?"

  "The first night she was here," he answered. Inez lifted her shoulders.

  "I don't suppose it did her very much harm, and possibly she is used to having meals on trays." But she sent her brother a long look. "However, the important thing now is to clean up these children for lunch."

  At the Day Nursery door she handed them over to Kathleen.

  "I'm sure you will enjoy making the acquaintance of Carmelita," she remarked. "She is a great friend of ours, and during the next few weeks will almost certainly be coming very often to this house."

  "Will she?" Kathleen murmured, wondering why the other was favouring her, too, with a very direct look. Inez nodded.

  "She is not a beauty, but one of those placidly lovely young women who, once they had laid a gentle hand on a man's heart, decline to let go. Do you know what I mean?"

  Kathleen didn't, and she looked a little bewildered. Inez explained.

  "The heart is held firmly forever, despite the gentleness of the clasp! The man would not wish it otherwise!"

  The following afternoon Kathleen was crossing the hall when the Conde emerged from his library and spoke to her.

  "I was wondering whether you would like to visit your sister this afternoon?" he suggested. "A car can be ready for you at once if you would care for a break. And perhaps you would express to your sister the pleasure it would give us if she and her husband would dine with us here at the quinta tomorrow night? I am aware that it is somewhat short notice, but we are having a little party, and if Senhor and Senhora O'Farrel would consent to swell our numbers it would add greatly to the success of the evening."

  It was gracefully put — even persuasively put — but Kathleen stared at him, as if for the moment she wasn't certain of the reply she ought to make. She could only think that Dona Inez would hardly be likely to share his views. An employee's relatives could hardly contribute to the success of any evening presided over by Dona Inez!

  But at last she heard herself say:

  "It is very kind of you, senhor

  "The kindness will lie in the acceptance of my invitation." He smiled at her. "And nowhere else."

  Peggy shared Kathleen's views when the invitation was extended to her, and she immediately decided that they couldn't possibly accept it because she hadn't anything fit to wear.

  "Not really fit to wear." She pushed back the hair from her flushed brow. She was making cakes in the tiny kitchen, and although the windows were wide the atmosphere of the small enclosed space was definitely a little unbearabl
e. "And even if we could afford it there isn't time to buy anything new."

  Kathleen helped herself to a feathery-light cake from the wire tray, and perched on the edge of the kitchen-table. Already she was feeling more relaxed in this humbler atmosphere, and despite the warmth she was happy to have escaped for a few hours. It wasn't that she was unable to appreciate the beauties and magnificence of the quinfa—on the contrary, she appreciated very keenly the luxury of her surroundings—but there was always the feeling that there was an unbridgeable gulf between herself and her employers. And since the Conde had confessed to her that he was planning to marry soon the gulf had seemed to widen, and she was unhappily certain that in the event of his marriage taking place before Jerry and Joe were ready for school (or the services of an English governess were found to be unnecessary) she would find it quite impossible to remain there.

  Just now she wasn't thinking very much about the depleted condition of Peggy's wardrobe, she was thinking about something else. She finished her cake, dusted the crumbs from her fingers and the front of her dress, and then asked as if the matter was not of any very great importance and she was merely suffering from a mild form of curiosity:

  "Who is Carmelita Albrantes, Peggy? And have you ever met her?"

  Peggy frowned a little. She was mentally trying to decide which of two evening-dresses she possessed—a dull gold taffeta or a somewhat outmoded black net — would make her look less like a rather hard-up English

  artits's wife if she did decide they ought to accept the invitation to the Quinta Cereus.

  "Carmelita Albrantes?" She knitted her brows, finally dismissing the black because it was at least three years old. "The Albtantes family is remotely connected to the de Chaves family, and their estates run side by side in this corner of Portugal. Papa Albrantes died about six months ago, and Carmelita, who is the only daughter—in fact, I think, she's the heiress to the estates—has been staying with a relative in Lisbon. I've never met her, but I was once presented to her mother who, like Dona Inez, likes to be thought of as a kind of semi-invalid. That's to say, she doesn't mix very much even with her own set, and I think poor Carmelita would have rather a thin time but for this aunt, who takes her about and chaperones her, and so forth."