‘Nonsense. Of course you can. I’ve heard you.’
‘But that was d … d …’ Fatally, she stuck on the ‘d’, writhed on it for a minute, then looked up at Sheridan and said, quite simply: ‘You see.’
Sherry was a kind man. He took her hand in his. ‘I may see, my dear, but I don’t pretend to understand.’ And then, with obvious relief. ‘Ah, Varlow. Do I hear you’ve had news from town this morning? Any word of poor Fox?’
‘No. And, surely, in his case, no news must be good news.’ Gair turned to Juana. ‘Miss Brett, I am come to thank you for the great pleasure you gave me – gave us all – last night, and, alas, to take my leave.’
‘So soon?’ For an instant, her face was a disappointed child’s. Then, admirably, she rallied, smiled up at him, and half sang, half whispered the words from the clown’s song that had almost been lost, last night, in the storm of applause: ‘ “But that’s all one, our play is done—”’ She stopped, blushing, as she remembered the next line.
‘You could please me any day of the week, Miss Brett.’ Sheridan came gallantly to the rescue. ‘But I, too, must take my leave. There was talk when I left town that poor Fox may have to be tapped for his dropsy. I’d not like to be away …’ His departure brought on a little storm of leave-taking, in the course of which Gair contrived to find Daisy and Teresa, irritated ciphers on the fringe of their sister’s success.
‘I could not leave without saying goodbye to you.’ The emphasis, the little extra pressure on each hand was exactly right. Now what? ‘I shall count on seeing you next time I visit my sister.’ He was pleased with that, suggesting, as it did, both that he wanted to meet them, and that Vanessa would invite them again. Turning back to Juana, he saw that she had been buttonholed, now, by Lady Melbourne herself. ‘Make my adieus to your sister,’ he went on. ‘She is in too exalted company for me.’ It was only half way back to London that he was swamped by an uncomprehensible, an absurd feeling of loss because he had not had a chance to press Juana’s strong brown hand in farewell as he had her sisters’ too-willing ones.
The Bretts left soon afterwards, and Daisy and Teresa spent the short drive home in making sure, as they said, that their sister had not been totally spoiled by the flattery she had received. They declared themselves vastly amused at Mr. Sheridan’s suggestion that she might become another Mrs. Billington and coined a good many phrases to describe her success at Drury Lane; the stuttering diva, was one they liked, or the prima stammer. Normally, Juana would have been in tears by the time they turned in at the shabby entrance to their own house. Today, she surprised her tormentors by merely smiling and saying nothing. She was busy with thoughts of her own. Of course, it had been disappointing that he had not contrived to say goodbye to her (there was, at the moment, only one ‘he’ so far as she was concerned) but Daisy and Teresa had made a point of delivering his message, suggesting as it did, to them, that it had not been worth the effort to seek her out.
She read it quite differently. It was merely another instance of Gair’s extraordinary consideration for her, of the instinctive understanding that had done so much to get her through the ordeal of the last few days. Sitting silent in her uncomfortable position, bodkin between her sisters, she was serenely occupied in going back over every word, every intonation, every look from each of their meetings.
She would probably never see him again. That had been clear enough from what he had said to her yesterday in the maze. But whatever happened to her (or for that matter to him) she would always know that he – Gair Varlow – the most attractive man she had ever met – would have liked…. if only things had been different … she blushed, boggling at finishing the sentence, even to herself, and came out of her abstraction to hear her sisters arguing heatedly about which of them Gair had preferred.
‘We shall see when he comes to call,’ said Teresa.
‘Mr. Varlow call on us?’ Mr. Brett surprised them all. ‘You must be moon-mad, you two. Gair Varlow call on two dowerless country girls! Do you take no notice whatever of what goes on around you? Or do you contrive to see only what you want to? Surely, anyone can see that young Varlow is on the catch for just such a lucky marriage as his sister made. And with her behind him, not a doubt in the world that he will bring it off. No, no—’ The carriage had stopped now, and he rose, as the gardener-turned-groom let down the steps, to help his wife alight. ‘Don’t waste your valuable time quarrelling about Gair Varlow, girls.’
The pronouncement added the last touch to the gloom of that return. After Forland House with its trim shrubberies and exquisitely tended lawns, there was no denying that their own straggling laurel bushes and grass-grown drive presented a depressing enough spectacle. Indoors, it was no better. The narrow hall-way smelled of damp, and cabbage, and stale orris root. ‘I wish we hadn’t gone,’ said Daisy petulantly, throwing down her bonnet and gloves.
And, ‘I’m not sure you’re not right, my dear,’ said her step-father.
Even Juana, creeping away, unnoticed, to the privacy of her tiny room, found herself tainted with the general depression, and tried hard to pretend that it had nothing to do with what her father had had to say about Gair Varlow. The idea of his hanging out for a rich wife did not at all fit in with her picture of him. She sat, for a long time staring at nothing, before she could decide to her own satisfaction that her father was merely taking his usual refuge in cynicism. It was a fortune of his own making that Gair Varlow was after, and why not? After all (even she could not help contrasting this bleak little room with her luxurious bedroom at Forland House) it was no use pretending that money was not important. And she drifted off into a series of daydreams, in which Gair made a fortune in India, went to sea and captured a Spanish treasure-ship, or even joined the church and was presented with a handsome living by his brother-in-law. This, suddenly, was too much for her: Gair Varlow in the church! She giggled to herself, took off her bonnet and went downstairs.
In the next few weeks, she needed all the comfort that daydreaming could give. The visit to Forland House had had a profoundly disturbing effect on the whole household. Mrs. Brett grumbled even more than usual about their straitened circumstances, and her husband found himself missing anew the civilised living he had lost when he quarrelled with his rich mother. If he had not insisted on coming to England, he might be a rich man now. At least, he would be living in the slovenly luxury he remembered as home.
So it was with a pang of almost unbearable excitement that he opened the postbag one wet July morning and saw a letter in his mother’s unmistakable angular hand.
His wife had noticed it too and hardly gave him time to decipher the hand-writing which had grown a good deal less legible since he had last seen it. ‘Well! What is it? What does she say? Has she come to her senses at last?’ Mrs. Brett’s staccato questions brought the girls’ attention to bear on him too.
‘In a manner of speaking.’ He knew, only too well, how angry the letter’s message was going to make her. ‘She’s been ill,’ he went on pacifically.
‘Has she!’ Cynthia Brett did not try to conceal the satisfaction this gave her. ‘And I suppose she has discovered what a useless set your brothers and sister are. And about time too! Though I must say, by all reports, this is hardly the moment to be moving to Portugal. Suppose the rumours are true: suppose Bonaparte invades: what then? I’m not sure that I would be justified in taking my girls there. But, after all, I suppose, blood is thicker than water. What does she offer, Mr. Brett? I’m not going to live in that draughty old castle of hers, that’s one thing certain. If she wants us, she must find us a suitable house of our own in the district. Sintra would be best, by what I’ve heard. There sounds to be quite a civilised English society there. Not like that grim castle by the sea where you grew up. It always sounded a dead and alive hole to me. Well: why don’t you answer me? What does she say, Mr. Brett?’
He knew her too well to point out that she had hardly given him a chance to speak. ‘I was waiting to tell you
, my dear,’ he said, now, mildly. ‘It’s not precisely what you think.’ And then, quickly, to get it over. ‘It’s Juana she wants.’
‘Juana!’ His wife snatched the letter from him and read it through, literally trembling with rage as she struggled with the difficult hand-writing. ‘Been ill indeed! Over-eating again. I have no doubt. Needs someone to write her letters for her: well, that’s true enough! I never saw such a scrawl. But what about those boys of your brother’s? Oh, I see!’ She turned the page. ‘They spend their time in Lisbon, do they? At the bullfights, I expect.’ And then, with a snort. ‘Lonely, is she! Wants female company! Tired of that crazy daughter at last? And never a word; never so much as a message for me! Not a word about my Daisy, my Teresa! I was never so affronted in my life. Of course you’ll say no, Mr. Brett. It’s not only an insult; its nonsensical. Send Juana! A child of seventeen, who’s never even been to London alone. And a stammerer, too. Just imagine her: “P … p … please, sir, where’s the p … p … packet for P … P …”’
‘But, my dear, consider a little …’ His eyes sought Juana’s in mute apology. ‘We don’t want to do anything to make mother angrier than she is already. Just think: if she liked having Juana – it might change everything—’ And then, belatedly: ‘Would you like to go, Juana?’
‘Oh, father!’ In her excitement, she hardly noticed her stepmother’s mockery. ‘Back to Portugal! To the Castle on the Rock! More than anything in the world.’ And then, conscience-stricken, she jumped up to give him a quick, shy kiss. ‘Forgive me. That sounds heartless, d … d …’ She gave it up. ‘That’s it, you see.’ This in her quick, easy Portuguese. ‘I don’t stammer there. Don’t think I won’t hate to leave you—’ If there was the slightest emphasis on the pronoun, he did not notice it. ‘But – I was happy there—’
‘Hoity-toity—’ her step-mother cut in ruthlessly. ‘I thought we had agreed, miss, that it was the worst of ill manners for you and your father to speak Portuguese in front of the girls and me.’
‘I’m sorry, mamma, but you see, I d … d …’
‘She doesn’t stammer in Portuguese, you know, my love,’ put in her father. ‘She was merely saying she would like to go, if we could see our way to sparing her. Do you think you could, my dear? I know what a useful girl Juana is about the house.’
‘Thank you, father.’ Juana’s eyes were suddenly full of tears. ‘Of course I won’t go if you need me here.’ In English, she picked her words with care. ‘But if you could manage.’
‘Oh, as to that! As to managing!’ Mrs. Brett was on her high horse again. ‘I don’t believe my Daisy and my Teresa are altogether incapable girls. I’m sure we can manage well enough without Juana if you really mean to let her go.’
‘I think I must, my dear.’ He was relieved to find it so easy. ‘My mother writes as if she needs her badly. Only I wish I knew what to do for the best. Suppose the French do invade Portugal? There was a good deal of talk about it at Forland House. You’re English, Juana, don’t forget. You might even find yourself a prisoner of war like the poor souls who were in France when the war broke out again in 1803. I don’t know whether I should let you go. And yet – I don’t want to offend your grandmother.’
‘Of course not.’ Cynthia Brett had made up her mind. ‘I never knew such a man for making mountains of molehills. The French invade Portugal indeed! Why should they? There’s nothing there for them.’
‘I don’t know.’ He turned, wretchedly, undecided, to Juana. ‘What do you think, child?’
‘If you’ll let me, I want to go, father.’ This, carefully, in English. ‘If there really is going to be trouble, it’s all the more reason, isn’t it, why grandmother may need me? And we’ll be safe enough out there at the Castle on the Rock, surely?’ She did not quite manage to keep the eagerness out of her voice.
‘Quite heartless,’ said Mrs. Brett. ‘And after all I’ve done for you. But how in the world shall we get her there, Mr. Brett?’
‘I shall take her to Falmouth myself and put her in charge of the captain of the packet. If they don’t roll out the red carpet for her on board, things have changed a great deal since I last made the voyage. The Bretts are not quite unknown, you know.’ And then, seeing that this had made her angry all over again. ‘If you can really spare Juana, my dear, I think we should send her as soon as we can.’
‘Of course we must. Juana’s right. She shall go as she is, and if they find her shabby, she can just explain to the old – to her grandmother about the straitened circumstances we live in, and about my poor girls with no dowries. Why, depend upon it. that handsome young man, Gair Varlow, would have proposed for one or other of them long since, if he had not known them to be poor as church mice. You’ll explain it all to your grandmother, won’t you, Juana my love?’
‘I’ll try, mamma.’
Juana did her best to conceal how she felt about going back to Portugal. But only now, when it was almost over, did she dare admit to herself what a misery her life in England had been. Her own fault, of course. If she had not been such a self-contained little oddity, her step-sisters might not have made her their butt. And if her Uncle Prospero had not encouraged her, back in the Castle on the Rock, to read wide and freely in the shabby, well-stocked library, she might not have irritated their governesses so much. But there had been something, she saw now, quite fatal about her combination of learning and ignorance. No wonder if Daisy and Teresa had joined one governess after another in making her life a misery with taunts that still echoed in her ears. And then, all of a sudden she had started to grow and found herself towering over plump Daisy and tiny Teresa. Hard to see, now, why they had resented that so much, but it had merely accentuated her general differentness. Even her name had been a cause of friction. They had wanted her to spell it the English way, and she had refused, in floods of passionate tears, to lose this one last link with her dead Portuguese mother.
Well, it was all over now. Her small box was strapped and ready. Her step-mother and sisters had said goodbye the night before since she and her father must make an early start in order to pick up the Falmouth coach. She took one last look round the room she had hated, blew out her candle, and was asleep before the raw smell of tallow had ebbed from the room.
The journey was delicious adventure all the way and it was only when they reached Falmouth and found that the wind was fair and the weekly packet just ready to sail that her courage failed her for a moment.
‘Father?’
‘Yes, my poppet?’ He had never dared use the old pet name at home.
‘Say I’m right to go.’
‘I hope so.’ He was plagued with anxieties of his own. The talk, in the Falmouth coach, had not been reassuring nor had the amazed glances that had greeted his admission that Juana was sailing to Portugal by herself. But of course it was all rumour and moonshine. Mr. Fox and his friends were men of peace. Lord Lauderdale was in Paris, as everyone knew, negotiating with Bonaparte’s government. It was only a question of time before the armistice was signed. So why were their fellow-travellers so gloomy?
Juana was looking at him anxiously. ‘You don’t mind my going, father?’
‘Mind! Of course not. After all, we must think of your poor grandmother. I only wish the news was more encouraging.’
‘Oh, that.’ She had a girl’s healthy disregard for world affairs. ‘You’ve been listening to those dismal men on the coach! Don’t worry about me. After all, I’m half Portuguese. And you know everyone loves Grandma Brett. Even if the French should invade, we’ll be safe in the Castle on the Rock.’
‘Of course you will.’ He was glad to let her convince him. It was only on the coach going back to London that he realised how much he was going to miss her.
Chapter Four
No French privateer interrupted their safe, swift voyage. Juana woke on the fifth morning to sense a difference in the ship’s motion. Sitting up in her narrow cot-bed, she peered out of the porthole to see that they had passed Fort St. J
ulian and were well into the first narrow reach of the Tagus. Though it was only mid-August, the hills were golden brown already, throwing into relief their fringe of white-sailed windmills. Now, as they slid along by the left bank of the river, she saw a country house whose brilliant white stucco and blue woodwork stood out against the luxuriant green of a well-watered garden. They must be almost up to Belem. She threw herself into her clothes and hurried up on deck in time to see the Tower of Belem ahead, like some fantastic piece of confectionery served up for dessert at Forland House.
A sharp order, and a scurry of barefoot sailors across planks already hot with morning sun reminded her that incoming ships must lie to and wait for clearance from the Tower. As the sails came down and the ship’s pace slowed, she stood quietly at the rail, keeping out of the way and watching for remembered landmarks. There was the towering monastery of the Geronimos. She shuddered, cold in the hot sun. Somewhere along the shore here they had built the scaffolds, years ago, after the Tavora plot (if it had been a plot) against the life of Joseph I. It had been a story to be told, in whispers, at twilight, to a frightened child: the lonely road, the king’s carriage, the volley of shots that wounded but did not kill. And then, the long sinister silence.
When the vengeance of Joseph’s formidable minister, Pombal, had struck at last, it had been cataclysmic, horrible, like the earthquake that had preceded the so-called plot. The families of Tavora and d’Aveiro had perished, dreadfully, on the scaffold here at Belem. Juana’s own mother, a child at the time and merely a remote cousin of the Duke d’Aveiro, had been lucky to be immured in a convent outside Oporto. She had not emerged into ordinary life until Joseph’s death and Pombal’s consequent fall from power. Joseph’s daughter, Queen Maria, had freed Pombal’s surviving victims, and indeed her present madness was rumoured to be partly due to her doubts about the authenticity of the famous attempt on her father’s life.
But the d’Aveiro family name of de Mascarenhas was still an unlucky one. When the Tavoras were cleared by Queen Maria’s courts, the Duke d’Aveiro’s guilt was confirmed. His son was reduced to living on Tavora charity, and there was not much future for his kinswoman in the convent at Oporto. So the kind nuns were delighted when a young Englishman, Reginald Brett, on business there for his mother, had seen Juana de Mascarenhas, just emerged like a gentle moth into the daylight, fallen in love with her on sight, and married her out of hand. Juana sighed. It was all history to her. Childless for ten years, her mother had dwindled away after she was born, and her own first memories were of her Portuguese foster-mother, old Anna, and of kind, vague Aunt Elvira who had brought her up as tenderly as her dread of her own fierce mother, the matriarch, Mrs. Brett, would allow.
The Winding Stair Page 4