by Anne Hampson
‘Mind your own business,’ said a tiny voice within her.
But she was intrigued and although she knew it was very wrong, she could not resist just having a peep into that room. And when she opened the door she stood and gasped.
So Dom Miguel had been married...!
Slowly, and drawn by some strange compulsive force, Eleanor moved over to the dressing-table. A more elegant and lovely piece of furniture she had never seen—in fact, it was this as much as the splendour of the rest of the room which had drawn that gasp from her in the first place. On the dressing-table gold-backed brushes lay, with a matching comb. Crystal perfume bottles, lovely Dresden seraphs with hands outstretched ... these were to hold jewellery, rings and necklaces and bracelets. But there was nothing on them now. Automatically she picked up one of the brushes, noting the initials: D. A. P. de C. Replacing the brush, but somehow unable to move, Eleanor found herself recalling the several incidents which had, to her imaginative mind, compounded to form a mystery. There was the space beside the Conde’s portrait, the profound hush when she, Eleanor, had suggested to Carlota that her brother would marry some day. There was the ‘lady’s maid’ of which Carlota had spoken. All these added up—but not to a mystery as Eleanor had supposed. No, it was all very clear and straightforward. Dom Miguel’s wife had died. Or had she? Could there possibly have been a divorce? Automatically Eleanor shook her head. She did not believe that Dom Miguel would agree with divorce.
Dom Miguel a widower, and so young. Eleanor recalled that terrible look on his face, that day in the portrait gallery. She had thought at the time that his expression was harsh, Satanic; she now knew it was pain that had brought about that terrible twist to his features. Pain ... She felt her breath catch, her heart quiver in a strange unfathomable way. And suddenly, for no tangible reason, she wanted to go back in time—just a few moments—to when she knew nothing of this wife of the Conde’s, this wife on whom he had lavished luxury ... and love.
At last she moved, her eyes narrowing as she saw again the maid with that beautiful coat. Obviously there was a good reason for removing it, and Eleanor supposed the Conde had ordered that it be put where it would be protected from moths. How long had his wife been dead? Not long—not if the coat were only now being removed. Stopping again and standing by the large white bed, Eleanor told herself that one or two parts of the picture did not quite fit in. The coat would surely have been removed before this. And in any case, why was Julia acting in so furtive a manner? Had she been told by Dom Miguel to remove the coat then why was she going on as if she were stealing it? Then there was the question of Carlota and her baby. Carlota had been lonely, she said, because her brother was away visiting his other quintas, and that was how she came to be keeping company with the man who was to become the father of her child. Where at this time was the
Conde’s wife? He could have taken her with him, of course, but surely he would have taken Carlota also. In fact, it had already puzzled Eleanor that Dom Miguel should go off and leave so young a girl to her own devices. The last, and most important and tantalizing question was why neither Dom Miguel nor Carlota had ever mentioned this wife. Eleanor supposed that, had she mixed with the servants, she might have gleaned something about the Conde’s marriage, but right from the first Eleanor had sensed that her employer would not approve of her mixing with them and in fact there had been neither the need nor the opportunity of doing so.
Musing again on that silence which followed when she, Eleanor, had touched on the question of the Conde getting married some day, she did wonder why Carlota had not admitted that her brother had been married, for in the hospital she had not been in the least averse to confiding in Eleanor.
Frowning heavily, Eleanor chafed at her inability to find answers to all these questions, then admonished herself for making fanciful deductions in the first place; had she not done so the questions would not have arisen. Her deductions were probably all wrong. Dom Miguel might not have been married at all ... but some instinct told her that in this at least she was not mistaken, for so much pointed to the fact of his at one time having a wife. That space in the portrait gallery— undoubtedly it had once been occupied by the portrait of the Conde’s wife. And, stricken with grief at her death, he had had it removed.
‘There I go again,’ she admonished. ‘His wife might not have died; there could have been a divorce—improbable but certainly not impossible.’
Impatient with herself, and frustrated at her inability to fit the pieces into a clear connected whole, she dismissed the matter from her mind and, realizing with a start that she had been here far too long already, and that at any moment the Conde might return, she closed the connecting door, left the Conde’s apartment, and went along the thickly-carpeted corridor to her own bedroom.
What had she come up for? Eleanor could not for the life of her remember and she gave a deep sigh as she sat down on the bed. She felt inexpressibly flat and depressed and there was a strange tightness in her throat. Once again she wished she could go back just that few moments in time. Why should she feel like this simply because she had discovered that Dom Miguel had been married?
‘You don’t know for sure!’ she told herself sternly, and on that she determinedly did put the whole matter from her mind.
But not for long. Something had happened to her up there in that beautiful room, with its white bed and curtains, and its walls hung with blue and gold damask. And questions persisted, refusing to be thrust off. She also experienced a tenseness, a tingling of nerves and muscles, this especially at dinner that evening when, sitting at the candlelit table with Dom Miguel and his sister, she fancied that he looked at her with rather more interest than previously. It could be imagination, she told herself, and yet, several times when she looked up from her plate, it was to find his grey eyes fixed upon her.
‘Senhorita,’ he murmured in his deep rich voice, ‘you are not eating.’
She had been staring at him, she suddenly realized, flushing self-consciously and quickly taking up her knife and fork. Her emotions were chaotic, for although she now lowered her gaze and appeared to be concentrating on her food, all she really wanted to do was continue to look at him! Presently she raised her eyes, but avoided his—with extreme difficulty. She looked across at Carlota instead, noting with satisfaction that she appeared to be improving rapidly and Eleanor felt thankful that the experience through which the girl had passed had not done any permanent harm, especially to her mind. Eleanor dwelt for a space on her future, wondering if, when the right man came along and asked the Conde’s permission to marry Carlota, the ‘lapse’ would be kept from him. Glancing at Dom Miguel from under her lashes, Eleanor felt deeply for him, aware that to such a man pride was perhaps the most important thing in his life, and she could not imagine him lowering it sufficiently to inform any suitor of his sister’s indiscretion. On the other hand, she knew without doubt that he was possessed of an innate honesty which must assuredly influence him. Did he feel any selfblame over the affair? she wondered, once again puzzled as to his leaving Carlota to her own devices, for of a certainty there was a deep sense of duty supplementing the affection he had for his sister.
After dinner the three retired to the beautiful salon overlooking the floodlit gardens, where exotic trees and shrubs drowsed in the deep silence of the night. To one side of the great expanse of lawn fronting the Palacio stood a fountain shaped like an arch supported by four pillars and caryatids, and decorated by early blue azulejos. On the high front, ornately engraved on a stone plaque, was the crest of the Castro family. A small chapel shone in the moonlit distance, the private place of worship of the family. Built in Italian Renaissance style, it was exquisitely decorated with cherubs and shepherds and garlands of flowers, while mellowed stone reliefs represented the Adoration of the Kings. In the reflected light seductively emitted from concealed lamps fixed to the ornamental facade of the Palacio, the water from the fountain became dyed with rainbow colours, rising as if from some fa
iry-tale spring. Leaning back in her chair, sipping the liqueur which had been served with the coffee, Eleanor allowed her thoughts to wander retrospectively to that last meeting with Terry Kershawe, in the hotel; she recalled her dejection at the idea of having him for her headmaster for the probationary year of her teaching; she remembered her growing fear and dread that had culminated in her acceptance of the Conde’s offer. So much was changed then, and as she gazed at the scene out there, in the magnificent Palacio grounds, she knew a feeling of unreality, as if this were all some rather wonderful dream from which she must reluctantly awake. Her eyes strayed to Carlota, who was stifling a yawn. Once the girl was married then there would be no need for a companion to protect her. Eleanor’s eyes moved from the girl to her brother, deep in thought with one long lean hand halfclosed, resting under his chin. He was too attractive by far, she thought, unable to take her eyes from that noble finely-modelled face. The Conde Ramiro Vicente Miguel de Castro had just about everything nature could bestow—this in addition to possessing more than a fair share of the world’s goods. Wine and cork ... from these his wealth had come, mainly, though Carlota had once said that he had important interests in the famous Portuguese fishing industry, owning factories where several kinds of fish were canned for export.
Faintly Eleanor sighed, her musings reverting to the time when her services were no longer required and she would return to her own country, to take up the teaching career for which she had been trained. Life must assuredly be dull after all this, but she expected she would adapt without too much trouble, and this interlude would become a pleasant memory which she would enjoy recalling, and about which she would love to talk.
‘Miguel,’ Carlota was saying, dainty fingers going to her mouth, ‘I’m so very tired. Will you excuse me if I go to bed?’ Her glance strayed, to embrace Eleanor who automatically nodded her head. Dom Miguel smiled and said gently,
‘Yes, dear, of course. It is only tiredness?’ he went on to add, an anxious note creeping into his voice. ‘You’re not feeling unwell?’
Carlota smiled reassuringly, saying no, she was not feeling unwell.
‘But Eleanor and I walked and walked this morning, and now the effect of so much fresh air is catching up on me.’ Rising as she spoke, she looked at her brother for a moment. ‘You yourself do not seem as well as usual. I think you work too hard. ’
‘Perhaps I shall take a rest,’ he decided unexpectedly. ‘We might all take a holiday. ’
His sister’s face brightened.
‘That will be lovely! Where shall we go?’
A spread of Miguel’s hands and then, carelessly,
‘I’ve no idea, Carlota. Perhaps you and Eleanor would like to make the decision; then I can make the plans.’
Eleanor felt her colour rise at the use of her name. Hitherto it had always been the formal ‘senhorita’, spoken with a faintly accented aloof withdrawal, although Eleanor noticed particularly that there had never been any hint of condescension in his manner towards her; she felt that although he made no show of it he was in reality extremely grateful to her for consenting to come to Portugal as companion to his sister.
‘You mean,’ she said a little awkwardly, ‘that I am to come on the holiday too?’
‘But of course,’ from Carlota without hesitation. ‘I cannot ever do without you now, Eleanor. ’
A suspended smile hovered on the Conde’s fine lips, breaking only after Carlota had turned and left the room.
‘You are good for my sister, senhorita.’ he said as the door closed. ‘I hope that you will make your home with us permanently. ’
Startled by this unexpected request, Eleanor forgot the tinge of flatness that had followed his reversion to the more formal mode of address, and she looked into his face bewilderedly as she said,
‘Carlota will marry some day, Dom Miguel, and then my services will no longer be required.’
‘Marry?’ with a lift of his brows. ‘I’m afraid marriage for Carlota is not possible now, senhorita.’
‘But—?’ Making a small impatient gesture with her hand, Eleanor went on to say that one small lapse could not mar his sister’s whole life. The Conde’s brows rose even higher, and a sort of frowning censure entered his eyes.
‘Here, senhorita, what happened to Carlota would not be considered a small lapse. Is that how you yourself consider it?’
Nerves tingled; the marked alteration in his voice, the penetration of those metallic grey eyes, the strange tenseness of his manner... All these spelt some subtle point in the question, and even his attitude of waiting, eyes narrowing slowly and almost imperceptibly, seemed to heighten the importance of the query ... and of her reply. Guardedly she
spoke, looking gravely at him.
‘I have never treated such matters lightly, Dom Miguel, please don’t think that. But on the other hand I never judge others harshly. There is a saying, you know, “But for the grace of God there go I.” We are not entitled to condemn others for what we have escaped ourselves. ’ Her eyes were open and frank and quite unconsciously she was shaking her head a little, and the light caught her hair bringing out tints that for a fleeting moment held the entire attention of the Conde.
‘You are generous, senhorita,’ he said at length, pausing a moment before he added, ‘I’m not quite sure that I agree with the word escaped. One escapes from a trap. My sister deliberately courted trouble.’
For a few seconds silence hung on the air; Eleanor knew an awkwardness in this conversation, and in addition it did seem most strange to her that the Conde should be speaking to her so dispassionately about his sister’s misdemeanour. It would have been more in character, she thought, if he had refrained from ever mentioning it again. Of course, this had ensued after her own mention of marriage for Carlota, so perhaps it was understandable that the conversation should have followed along these lines.
‘No young girl, especially one in Carlota’s position, deliberately courts trouble. Carlota told me she was lonely when you were away from home... ’ She tailed off, aware that she should not have repeated this. And yet, now that the words had unwittingly left her lips, she was inordinately interested to note their effect on her companion, since they must bring home to him his own mistake in leaving the girl to her own devices.
A long profound silence followed; she held her breath, fearing she was in for a reprimand, if only mildly given. Dom Miguel’s expression remained impassive for a short time and then, as on a previous occasion, her blood seemed to turn to ice in her veins as she watched the transformation in her companion’s features. By what process did his mind work to bring out this satanic harshness? she wondered fearfully.
What unbearable memory caused the ugly twist to his mouth, and the dark savagery to enter his eyes? She recalled that other occasion, in the portrait gallery, when she had raised an involuntary, ‘I’m sorry,’ but before it could be uttered Dom Miguel had left her standing there, wondering at the dramatic change which her casual inquiry had caused in him. Now as then she felt an urge to apologize, but she held her tongue, realizing she was tensed and every nerve in her body seemed to be stretched and taut, painfully so. She felt poised on a knife-edge as she waited, for what seemed an eternity, before he spoke. The harshness she expected to hear in his voice was absent; what she heard—the faintly unsteady note—she took to be pain at some agonizing memory, and her mind switched naturally to the wife she felt sure he once had.
‘It was most unfortunate she was left—’ His voice cut off; the changed expression was once again miraculous, for now his features had resumed their familiar attractive nobleness, and the full mouth seemed almost tender. ‘I blame myself for that. I should have been more observant... ’
Observant? Eleanor stared at him, questioningly. But he seemed a long way off and she was prevented from intruding into his thoughts by some warning whisper inside her. He was with the woman he had loved, she felt sure, and instinct urged her to rise and say good night, leaving him alone ... with hi
s memories. She was almost on her feet when he turned, and she saw him frown slightly and shake his head, as if he would not have her go at all, but remain with him, so that memories could not take full possession—and bring excruciating pain.
‘I—I was going to bed,’ she stammered, sitting down again awkwardly in her comfortable low armchair.
‘You’re tired, senhorita?’ Coolly now and with the merest hint of a smile.
Eleanor shook her head, conscious of a desire to stay with him ... to be alone with him in this lovely room with its atmosphere of cosiness despite its luxurious appointments, and of peace despite the obvious turmoil of her companion’s mind.
‘Not really—but I felt you would like to be alone.’ He
looked surprised. It was almost as if he himself were not aware of the tenseness of the past few moments.
‘I gave that impression?’
A hand fluttered in a little helpless gesture as she sought for a casual-sounding reply.
‘You looked sort of—preoccupied, and I thought that perhaps you’d prefer to be left on your own.’ Her awkwardness remained, though inwardly. Dom Miguel examined her face as if seeing it in a new light.
‘You obviously have a deep understanding of people, senhorita,’ he murmured at length, but added that, no matter what impression he had given, he had no immediate desire to be on his own. Such an admission, coming from the proud and superior Dom Miguel de Castro, naturally took Eleanor by surprise. It also imbued her with a strange sort of warmth and as in the soft silence she found his dark eyes holding hers she knew a profound sense of expectancy ... and of fear.
A long while later, lying in her big bed, so comfortable and warm, and yet unable to sleep, Eleanor went over the whole events of the evening. The Conde had been different ... and so had she. It was as if, for the first time, they had been equals.
CHAPTER FOUR
Eleanor was in the garden, strolling about in the bright summer sunshine as she waited for Carlota to come down from her room. They were going off to pay a visit to the Sunday market where, so Eleanor had been told in a recent letter from a friend who had stayed near Sintra, it was possible to buy small antiques and other bric-a-brac. A collector in a small way, Eleanor was looking forward to picking up something really attractive.