The dream of the past was shattered by a shout from the Tower of Belem, and the quick exchange of question and answer, through speaking-trumpets, that cleared the ship to go on into the main harbour of the Tagus. Juana shook herself. These thoughts of the past were morbid, foolish … Why, almost, for a moment, she had felt a twinge of fear at the thought of the return she had longed for. Nonsense, of course. Pombal and all he stood for were dead long since. There were no scaffolds now on the dusty shore beyond Belem; only the gardens and menagerie of the Ajuda Palace. And why did that make her remember, as a child, being shown the pillar marking the spot where the Duke d’Aveiro’s palace had stood before Pombal had had it razed to the ground, and the site symbolically sprinkled with salt?
A shout from the masthead brought her back to the present. ‘Ships of the line! Ours. One two … six of them!’
Hurrying across to the starboard side, Juana saw the six ships anchored in formation just below the tangle of shipping in Lisbon harbour, lying, she noticed, where they could command a view both up river and down to the bar.
‘Six of them!’ The packet’s captain joined her, an anxious little cross-eyed man with a hearty respect for the name of Brett. ‘I don’t much like the look of that. It’s the most we’re allowed to bring in here, by treaty. I hope it doesn’t mean the French have invaded – or are going to.’ He peered at them anxiously through his glass. ‘That’s the Hibernia, Admiral St. Vincent’s flagship, and flying his flag. What brings him here from his station at Brest? I don’t like it, Miss Brett; I don’t like it above half. You won’t think of going ashore till we know what it means. Not that you’ll be free to do so for a day or so, if I know anything of the way they go on here.’
‘No. My father said I would have plenty of time to let my grandmother know I was here before we were cleared for landing. I have a note ready for her, if you’d be so good as to have it sent ashore by the first boat?’
He took it, still looking doubtful. ‘But, Miss Brett … those six ships may mean that the French have invaded. If so, you will have no alternative but to return with me.’
‘No alternative? After coming this far? I am here because my grandmother needs me, Captain Fenton. If the French really have invaded, she will need me more, not less.’
‘Quite so.’ Her tone of authority had surprised him, but after all she was a Brett, if a young one. ‘I’ll send your note, Miss Brett. I’m sure your grandmother will be the first to forbid your going ashore if there is really danger. At all events, we should know soon enough. There’s a boat pulling off to us from the Hibernia now.’
His verdict, after the young lieutenant from the Hibernia had been and gone, was not encouraging. ‘There’s no invasion – yet,’ he told Juana. ‘But Junot’s at Bayonne, with 25,000 men, and the Spaniards are massing on the frontier. It don’t look good, Miss Brett. Remember, Napoleon’s no respecter of persons – or of the rules of war. He makes prisoners of civilians-look what he did three years ago. I’m sure I don’t know what to do for the best. But,’ cheering up, ‘we’re invited to dine on the Hibernia. They’ll advise you there, I’m sure. Lord Strangford, our minister, is to be there.’
‘Oh, what a pity.’ Juana really meant it. ‘But I’m afraid I am not well, Captain. I must ask you to make my apologies.’
He did not try to hide his astonishment. ‘But, Miss Brett—’
‘I’m sorry.’ She was not prepared to invent an ailment. ‘Say all that is proper for me.’ Back in her cabin, she unfolded and reread the note she had found on her pillow after the Hibernia’s boat had left. It was short and to the point: ‘If you are invited on board the Hibernia, refuse. This is no time to be seen with the English. And, when you land, insist on saying a prayer of thanksgiving to St. Roque. Whatever happens, your grandmother expects you. Remember Sebastian.’
Gair Varlow? It must be. Who else would refer to Sebastian? But what in the world could it mean? Puzzling over it, she had obeyed, so far, instinctively. But – a prayer to St. Roque? She could not see the church yet, on its hill above Lisbon harbour, but there could be no question of what the note meant. Nor would it be difficult to do. Her father’s lapse from the Catholic church had exacerbated his breach with his mother, and, in England, Juana had gone, with the rest of the family, to the local church. But she had missed the strong framework of Catholicism and had already decided that, once back in Portugal, she would return to her mother’s church. She was ashamed of herself for having left it, and would have much to say to St. Roque, her own saint. Only – it was certainly not for that reason that the note told her to go there. Was it absurd to hope that she would find Gair awaiting her in the church on the hill?
She decided to recover and be back on deck by the time the Captain and her three fellow-passengers returned from dining on St. Vincent’s flagship. After all, as the only woman on board, she might allow herself a certain unpredictability.
They returned early since Captain Fenton wanted to take advantage of the evening tide to move his ship up to the main harbour. ‘I’ll not waste a moment, once I’ve got my clearance,’ he told Juana. ‘The sooner I’m safe out at sea again, the happier I shall be. And if I were you, Miss Brett, I’d resign myself to making the return voyage. Disappointing for you, I know, but better than spending years in a French prison.’
‘Are things so bad?’
‘They’re not good. No one really knows anything mind you. Those goddamned Portu – I beg your pardon, Miss Brett – the Portuguese have been keeping St. Vincent at arm’s length. That Prince Regent of theirs – Dom John – is still up at Mafra hobnobbing with his monks. There’s been no one here for St. Vincent to talk to – he only received pratique yesterday, when their first minister, d’Araujo, finally got back from Mafra. Polite as you please now, of course, and all apologies, but it don’t alter the fact that St. Vincent’s been cooling his heels here in the bay for the better part of a week, and you can imagine how the old fire-eater has liked that. And Lord Rosslyn too – they let General Simcoe ashore, as a great concession because he’s ill, poor man. He’s at Sintra, and not likely to recover, they say.’
‘Rosslyn and Simcoe are here too?’
‘Yes. Their frigate must have passed us on the way out. You can see why I say it’s serious. They’re here to arrange for military aid, if it’s needed. Which it probably will be. We’ve an army all ready at Portsmouth, standing by to embark the minute the French cross the frontier. Mind you, they’ll have to be quick about it, if they are to do any good. The Portuguese army couldn’t hold back an invasion of mice. So you see, Miss Brett—’
‘You say yourself that nobody really knows anything. It may all be a false alarm. My father was sure that we’d hear, any moment, that Lord Lauderdale has signed an armistice in Paris.’
‘I’ll believe that when I hear it! But no need to look so anxious. Judging by what happened to St. Vincent, we’ve not a hope of receiving pratique for a while. Plenty of chance to hear from your grandmother between now and then. And maybe time, too, for news from the frontier.’
In fact, time crawled. Anchored well out from Pombal’s handsome Praça do Comércio, they were still near enough to see the stir of life in the square and hear the innumerable bells of the churches scattered over Lisbon’s seven hills. Standing at the rail, Juana was content for a while, to make out the various landmarks, remembered from childhood visits to the city. There was the Castle of St. George, up above the Cathedral and the tumble of red roofs that represented the old Moorish district, spared by the earthquake. And there, much nearer, was St. Roque itself, reminding her of the question that lay, all the time, at the back of her mind. Was she really going to make an excuse to go up there when she landed? An excuse of her religion? She was angry with herself even for considering it, angrier still with Gair Varlow (if it was he) for asking her. She turned impatiently away, to look downstream to where a crowd of small boats kept plying between the English warships and the shore. The sight made it all the more maddeni
ng that they themselves had lain incommunicado all the long, hot day, waiting on the whim of the Portuguese authorities.
‘Mind you’ – Captain Fenton stopped beside the canvas shelter he had had rigged for her on deck – ‘no news is good news. St. Vincent promised he’d let me know if anything happened.’
‘Yes.’ She had been pretending to work on her detested embroidery. Now she dropped it. ‘Look! There’s a boat coming.’
‘The officials already?’ He admitted it grudgingly, unwilling to find anything good about the Portuguese. ‘The Inquisition too, by the look of it. You’ve got nothing out of the way in your baggage, I hope?’
‘You forget, Captain. I’m a Catholic.’
‘Good God, so you are.’
Catholic or not, Juana could not help a little shiver as the black-garbed representative of the Inquisition came aboard. Ridiculous, of course, to find herself thinking of the scaffold and the wheel. The days of autos da fé were gone for ever. So why did she feel this queer little shiver down her spine?
In fact, the formalities were accomplished with the greatest speed and courtesy, and the only objection was raised by Captain Fenton when Juana’s papers came to be examined. ‘It’s not sure yet that Miss Brett is landing,’ he said. ‘I can’t let her if there’s any chance of a French invasion. As an Englishwoman, she’d be in the gravest danger.’
‘An Englishwoman?’ The Portuguese official looked up from Juana’s papers. ‘Nothing of the kind. On the mother’s side, Miss Brett is of the Portuguese nobility. We are proud to welcome you home, senhora.’ And then, as Juana curtsied her acknowledgement, he searched among his papers and brought out a note. ‘From the Castle on the Rock, senhora.’
It was short and to the point. ‘Welcome home, at last. I expect you tomorrow, without fail.’ These last two words underscored several times. ‘Jaime will be on the quay at first light. Lose no time.’ Again these words were heavily underscored. And then, without more greeting, the familiar signature, a little more shaky now, ‘Charlotte F. Brett.’
‘She expects me tomorrow.’ It was disconcerting to realise that they were all waiting to hear what the note held. ‘She says nothing about danger.’
‘Of course not,’ said the official.
And, ‘Absurd,’ said the priest.
‘Well, I don’t know …’ began Captain Fenton.
‘I d … d …’ Juana stamped her foot on the hot deck, stopped, and started again. ‘I’ve made up my mind, Captain. I may go ashore in the morning?’ To the official.
‘Of course, senhora. I have instructions to give you every assistance.’
‘Thank you.’ That settled it. Only, after the official boat had returned to shore, Captain Fenton tried once more. ‘You’re sure, Miss Brett?’
‘Quite sure. At first light. Please?’ There had been something oddly urgent about that brief note.
‘Very well. At least’ – he was reassuring himself as much as her – ‘it’s clear that you are powerfully protected. I understand now why I got my clearance so quickly.’
‘You mean—?’
‘Of course. It’s not for everyone that those jack-in-office Portuguese officials will act as messenger-boys. I reckon you’ll be all right, Miss Brett. It’s odd to think of you as Portuguese.’
‘Yes.’ Curiously enough, after all the homesick years in England, she found it a little odd herself.
But next morning she felt nothing but eager anticipation as she gazed shorewards from the packet’s boat, straining her eyes to try and pick out Jaime, her grandmother’s camereiro mor, or chamberlain, among the morning crowds in the Black Horse Square, as she still was English enough to call the Praça do Comércio. Home at last! But first – what about Gair Varlow? She still had not made up her mind. Was she really going to visit the church of St. Roque this morning? And what would she find if she did?
Still debating this, she looked up at the church on its hill above the harbour. It looked near enough, in the clear morning light, but would involve, she knew, a considerable delay if she decided to go. Jaime would not like that, and nor would her grandmother. Besides, what right had Gair Varlow to order her about?
What right? ‘Remember Sebastian,’ he had said. He had been wonderfully good to her at Forland House. Did she owe him this? Or was she merely trying to convince herself that she did, because she wanted to go?
Would she? Would she not? The boat scraped against the quay and Jaime came hurrying breathlessly to shout a greeting and help her ashore. ‘Welcome home, senhora.’ His hair had gone grey and he was smaller than she had remembered. ‘Meu Deus, but it’s good to see you. The Castle on the Rock will come alive again, with you home. This is all?’ He lifted her small box on to his shoulder.
‘Yes, but should you carry it, Jaime?’ Disconcerting to find him old like this.
‘Who else? The carriage is here in the square. The boy is holding the horses.’ He turned to lead the way, and she paused for a moment to thank the sailors from the packet in English, then in Portuguese again, ‘Jaime! You brought Rosinante!’ She had recognised her own mule, tied to the back of the huge, old-fashioned carriage.
‘Yes. I thought you’d like to ride part of the way – when we are out of town.’
‘Bless you, Jaime. I would indeed. No—’ He had opened the carriage door for her. ‘We can’t start yet: first I must go up to St. Roque.’
‘St. Roque? But, menina —’ Unconsciously, he reverted to the old name for her, ‘little one’.
‘It’s a vow, Jaime. An old one. You know I was born on his name day. I was so homesick: I promised him my first prayer on Portuguese soil if he would only bring me home.’ She was ashamed of the lie as she spoke it.
Jaime was looking anxiously up at the sun. ‘It’s early yet, it’s true; and – a vow’s a vow. But your grandmother said to lose no time. And you remember how it is, menina. The road goes miles round …’
‘But I shall walk up the steps. That’s part of the vow.’
‘You can’t.’ He was horrified. ‘It’s bad enough coming back like this, unattended. But you must remember, young ladies don’t walk here. It was all very well when you were a child … But now – Mrs. Brett would never forgive me.’
‘I shan’t be a young lady, Jaime.’ It was odd to find that part of her brain had apparently worked out the whole plan. She pulled out her purse. ‘Here! You will bribe one of those old women over there – the sardine sellers – to sell me her shawl. I’ll be a penitent, in black to the eyes. Nobody knows me anyway. Only, hurry, Jaime, or grandmother will really be angry. I’m going, you understand, so let’s waste no more time in talk.’
‘Yes, senhora. You sound just like your grandmother.’ It was hard to tell whether he meant this as praise, but at least he took the money she held out to him and hurried away to the little group of black-shawled old women who were shouting their wares on the corner of the square nearest to the fishmarket.
Juana had not thought how the shawl would stink of fish and old woman, but she wrapped herself in it without flinching as they left the carriage at the end of the Rua do Ouro. ‘You may come too, Jaime.’ She knew perfectly well he would refuse to be left behind. ‘But don’t speak. I have my prayers to say.’ And, liar, she said to herself again as they started up the steep cobbled lane, part path, part staircase, part sewer, that formed the direct route to St. Roque. She had forgotten how dirty Lisbon was, and how one had to pick one’s way through piles of rubbish, some dating from the earthquake, some more recent and less sanitary. Had she, as a child, just not noticed?
The smell of the shawl she was wearing, familiar now, was almost a protection against the odours that assailed her as they climbed higher among the crazy conglomeration of houses, pigsties and cattlesheds. Lean, scavenging dogs snarled as they passed; a scrawny cat was tethered by a long rope to a doorstep rather cleaner than the rest; a woman leaned out of an upstairs window to empty her slops with a cry of ‘Agua vai!’ Juana pulled her shawl more close
ly round her.
Jaime, who had been walking a step behind, partly out of deference, partly because there was only one path beaten through the piled-up filth of the lane, pulled almost level to speak quietly in her ear. ‘I told the boy to bring the carriage round to the church. It will be better so.’
‘Oh, thank you, Jaime.’ She could have cried with relief. It was bad enough this time, but to have to do it again …
They came out, at last, into the purer air of the ridge where the church stood. ‘You will wait here, Jaime,’ She made it a command, but was relieved when he made no difficulty about obeying.
‘Right here, menina. I’ll watch for the carriage. It should not be very long. So say your prayers with a free heart.’
‘Thank you.’ She felt horribly guilty as she pushed open the heavy church door, and her first action was to go forward to the main altar and kneel there, praying for forgiveness. It was no use. She could not forgive herself. She rose to her feet and looked about her. Lit only by flickering altar candles, the church was dark, almost empty, and smelled of damp, of wax, and old incense.
She stood there, irresolute. None of the shadowy half-seen figures moved toward her. Where was Gair Varlow? Had it all been some horrible practical joke? Had she made a mockery of her faith for nothing? And her grandmother was waiting, would be angry … She could not afford to lose time, standing here, doing nothing. She began to move slowly around the circuit of ornate little side-chapels, hating herself for having come.
The Winding Stair Page 5