Blue Hills of Sintra

by Anne Hampson

  She glanced up automatically to the balcony outside Carlota’s bedroom, and smiled to herself. Like all girls of her age Carlota spent far too long making herself look pretty. But with a shrug of resignation Eleanor continued to stroll in the warm sunshine, stopping at one of the most beautiful adjuncts to the grounds—the Fountain of the Mermaids. Unusual embossed azulejos formed part of its structure. Of Moorish design and very old indeed, they depicted flowers and trees and vine-leaves. Eleanor reflected on what Carlota had said about the Palacio’s collection of Moorish tiles; it was excelled only by that of the old royal palace, which until the end of the sixteenth century had been the favourite summer retreat of the royal family of Portugal. That was why so many of the Portuguese nobility, like Dom Miguel’s forebears, had settled in the environs of Sintra, establishing great quintas amid fairytale-like country which formed a delightfully verdant oasis above the arid plains and was coolly shaded by the forests of the Serra. The same trees, sweet-scented evergreen strawberry-trees and the magnificent cedars, grew in the grounds of the Palacio, as well as the more exotic Judas trees and jacarandas, coral-trees and delicately-perfumed oleanders.

  For five minutes or more Eleanor stood in drowsy silence before the fountain. Cherubs and angels adorned the high arches, or reposed supinely along its low walls which themselves advertised the graceful elegance of rococo. The

  Portuguese, Eleanor decided, were endowed with an instinctive desire for embellishment. Her eyes wandered to the flamboyant peacocks strutting about on the terraced lawns, to the cascading stream and waterfalls, and the pavilion with its classical lines illustrative of the Italian Renaissance. Over the low walls of the terracing along one whole length of the lawn climbers tumbled in a riot of subtropical profusion—the soft pinky-mauve and blue stars of the passion flowers caught the sun’s rays in a delightful flare of colour; bougainvillaeas spilled over in their midst; the coral, red and orange of bignonias mingled with the smoother, softer hues of the fragile convolvulus. Eleanor wondered just how many varieties of trees and plants the grounds of the Palacio boasted, for down through the ages ancestors of the Conde had introduced specimens from many countries of the world, including Australia and New Zealand, China and Japan, South Africa and the West Indies. This Carlota had told her one day when they were sunbathing on the lawn. Dom Miguel had joined them, clad in shorts and a casual shirt, and in his customary formal, rather austere way, he had supplemented what Carlota was saying, so that Eleanor now had in her possession knowledge of the various stages of alteration and improvement through which the lovely building and its grounds had passed. One point stood out; there had never been a time when the cost was counted. The Castros had always been able to afford what they wanted—and more. Yet despite the air of superiority and hauteur with which as a noble hidalgo he was endowed, Dom Miguel had spoken with a noticeable modesty when referring to his possessions, which left Eleanor with the impression that he was ever conscious of the fact that these were inherited, and he the fortunate heir.

  That conversation filtered into her memory now and she recalled the way the Conde’s attraction had made an impact on her very similar to that which she had experienced on the night he had driven her home after having caught her in his sister’s room at the nursing-home. She had known once again that strong emotional grip, and this time, with a sort of desperate and angry negation, she had thrust away the dawning glimmer of revelation which strove to penetrate her consciousness. And ever since, she had whenever possible avoided conversation with the Conde, and certainly she had avoided finding herself alone with him, since it was neither comfortable nor sensible to allow him to dominate her thoughts the way he had after she had gone to bed that night. For several hours she had lain awake, seeing his handsome face, austere yet compelling, proud and yet attractive, with character lines clearly etched in features dark and strong, and formidable in a way that could frighten even while they excited.

  Turning to glance up at Carlota’s window, Eleanor wondered what on earth she could be doing all this time. If she only knew, she was as lovely as could be, without the necessity of resorting to the artificial. Her beautiful dark eyes required no shadow or mascara, her lips no added colouring.

  Reaching the south border where the garden merged almost imperceptibly with the woodlands that constituted the Great Park beyond, Eleanor was just deciding she would turn back when to her surprise she noticed a movement in the distance. It was no more than a flash of colour in the trees a long way off and although she stood still, waiting, she was already telling herself that it was only a bird in flight that had caught her eye. Ready to forget all about it, she suddenly felt her nerves go taut and her pulse quicken, and instinctively she took cover behind the thick trunk of a tree.

  A man and a woman... So great was the distance that features could not be focused; also, the vegetation was thick, with flowering bushes occupying grassy clearings in the woods, and so it was impossible to estimate even the build of the couple. They were talking, and Eleanor saw the woman point once or twice towards the house. What were they doing in Dom Miguel’s park? Who were they? Eleanor’s first thought was, naturally, of burglary—she wondered if they were planning one. Then immediately she dismissed this, as it was absurd. No would-be robbers were going to stand in the park and talk about their plans. What should she do? Eleanor felt like approaching them and asking what they were doing here, but then it occurred to her that they might be Dom Miguel’s employees, with a perfect right to be standing talking together on his property. Yes, she finally decided, actually feeling foolish at her suspicions, they must belong here; no one would trespass on the Conde’s land.

  ‘Eleanor ... where are you?’ Carlota’s voice reached her across the great expanse of garden and Eleanor automatically turned her head ... but not before she had seen the man and woman dart for the cover afforded by a small ornamental copse close to where they had been standing.

  Carlota was running towards her and Eleanor reluctantly left the spot and went to meet her.

  ‘Oh, dear, do forgive me, Eleanor,’ gasped Carlota, 'but my hair took so long to do! I hope you like my new style!’

  ‘Carlota,’ interrupted Eleanor as the girl would have added something to this, ‘there is a couple—a man and woman— over in the woods. Do you know if they have any right there?’ ‘A man and woman?’ Bewilderedly Carlota looked in the direction indicated by Eleanor’s hand. ‘I don’t know. We have many men working in the grounds— even on Sundays. ’ ‘The woman—what would she be doing there?’ Frowning slightly as she spoke Eleanor wondered once more if she were worrying unnecessarily, imagining something which wasn’t there. True, the couple had appeared to be acting guiltily in making for the copse on hearing Carlota’s call, but it now struck Eleanor that the meeting could be in the nature of a romantic one, and clandestine, the man being an employee of Dom Miguel who was taking time off to talk with his girlfriend, who had stolen into the park to see him. This would be

  a most feasible explanation for the hurried dart into the copse.

  ‘I don’t know why a woman should be there,’ replied Carlota in a puzzled voice. ‘Where are these people? I can’t see them. ’

  ‘They went into that copse when they heard you call to me.’ Carlota was still looking puzzled, but not particularly interested and, shrugging, Eleanor added, ‘There must be some reason, I expect. But it isn’t important to us. Come, dear, let’s go.’

  ‘I wish Miguel were at home,’ unexpectedly as they got into the car, behind the wheel of which sat a uniformed chauffeur. ‘We could then have told him about that woman.’ ‘Yes,’ agreed Eleanor with a faint sigh, ‘we could.’ Dom Miguel was at his quinta near Portalegre where he grew leagues of cork-oaks. He would be away for about four or five days, he had said. On his return they were to take their holiday, but as yet the girls had not decided where they would like to go. Carlota had suggested that Eleanor would like to visit Lisbon and Eleanor agreed, but she hesitated about making a definite d
ecision as, somehow, she doubted very much whether Dom Miguel would enjoy taking a holiday in the capital. From the way he had spoken she imagined he would prefer a more relaxed type of holiday, for after all he was taking it merely for the rest from work.

  The market at Sao Pedro de Sintra more than exceeded Eleanor’s expectations. She bought two ivory figures, an exquisite small lustre jug and, at another stall, some handmade lace table mats.

  ‘Is it too late to have lunch out?’ Carlota asked the question in doubtful tones, as it was almost two o’clock. ‘Perhaps we had better go home and have a snack.’

  ‘You can get lunch at this time, senhorita,’ said Gregorio to Eleanor as the two girls stood, undecided, by the car, ‘at the Palacio de Seteais.’

  ‘You’re sure, Gregorio?’ Carlota looked eagerly at him.

  ‘You know this for certain?’

  ‘I do know this, senhorita,’ he replied respectfully, and so off they went to the luxurious ‘Palace of the Seven Sighs’, built by a Dutch diamond merchant and now an hotel owned by the State. After pre-lunch drinks on the terrace overlooking the gardens to the sea below, Eleanor and Carlota ate a delicious meal of presunto served with chilled honeydew melon, baked duck served in a dish of saffron-coloured rice, pudim flan and tiny cheeses made from fresh curds, which they ate with a glass of wine.

  ‘That was lovely!’ Carlota exclaimed, and Eleanor had to smile.

  ‘You sound as if you’ve never had such a meal in your life, Carlota.’

  The Portuguese girl responded to her laughter.

  ‘It was so nice having it with you. My brother was very kind in finding me so amiable a companion as you. ’

  ‘How formal you sound! And I shall blush at your flattery if you continue like this. I love being here, Carlota. I’ m the lucky one, having procured so pleasant a post—and so easy a one. Why, I’m always telling myself that I don’t earn my money.’

  ‘Money,’ frowned Carlota with a shake of her pretty head. ‘Don’t mention it, Eleanor, please. I don’t at all like the idea of Miguel’s paying you a salary.’

  ‘No?’ with a touch of amusement from Eleanor.

  A reluctant smile broke over Carlota’s features.

  ‘You have to be paid—but you know what I mean. I want only to think of you as my friend. You see, I’ve never had a friend before,’ she went on confidingly, and with an eager impetuosity that brought forth what she hadn’t meant to say. ‘Dora disliked me intensely—and so she never took me anywhere with her—’ With a tiny gasp she broke off, staring at Eleanor with a scared expression. They were approaching the car, beside which Gregorio was standing, straight and almost military-looking in his severity. They got in and Eleanor had to say, as the car began to glide from the front of the hotel,

  ‘Dora was your sister-in-law?’ She was thinking of the initials on the hairbrush which she had picked up from the dressing-table on the day she had seen Julia with the fur coat.

  A most odd silence fell upon the car while Carlota seemed to be struck with hesitancy about replying to Eleanor’s question. But at last she turned to her and nodded.

  ‘Yes, she was.’ Eleanor said nothing. Some weight had dropped on her, a weight which she impatiently endeavoured to throw off, but she had the premonition that it would in fact become heavier still. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken of Dora,’ Carlota was saying a little fearfully. ‘My brother gave orders to everyone that she must not be mentioned. But I’m glad I’ve told you about her, because several times her name has almost slipped out, and it’s a strain when you have something about which you must remain always guarded. You will not ever let my brother know that I have spoken of Dora, though?’

  ‘Of course not, Carlota.’ A pause and then, ‘She’s dead, I suppose?’ Why so tense her nerves? Eleanor wondered. But why prevaricate with herself? Without analysing her feelings regarding the Conde, Eleanor did at least know that she would be relieved to discover that he had no wife living.

  ‘Yes, she’s dead.’ Something unfathomable caught at Carlota’s voice; Eleanor concluded she was feeling deeply for her brother at this time. After a little while Eleanor just had to say,

  ‘Your brother was very much in love with her?’

  Carlota nodded her head.

  ‘He adored her,’ replied the girl in husky tones. ‘She was so very beautiful. Eleanor, you have never seen a more beautiful woman than my sister-in-law. It broke my brother’s heart when he lost her. ’

  Eleanor swallowed hard, attempting to clear the sudden blockage in her throat. It was all as she had deduced. The Conde broken-hearted, though in the main managing successfully to hide his pain; his having to remove the portrait of his beloved simply because he could not bear the sight of it—not yet, thought Eleanor. Some day he would have recovered a little and then he would surely have it replaced. She recalled the savage expression that had swept every vestige of attractiveness from his face, and she could see now that he had been bitterly cursing the fate that had robbed him of the woman he loved.

  ‘How long...?’ Eleanor stopped, aware that to Carlota this conversation must be painful in the extreme, not because of any pain the loss might have given her, as this could not have been very great, but because of the unhappiness of her brother, whom she dearly loved, just as he loved her. ‘I’m sorry, Carlota; you don’t want to talk about your sister-in-law.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind—not now that I have mentioned her to you. She’s been dead just over eight months.’

  Eight months—Thoughtfully Eleanor looked at the back of Gregorio’s head, reflecting on what Carlota had just said about Dora’s disliking her, and in consequence never taking her about with her.

  ‘You once said you felt lonely when your brother went away—did he take his wife with him?’

  ‘No; she remained at home.’ Eleanor frowned, wanting to ask another question but refraining simply because it was far too personal. However, on glancing sideways at Eleanor, the Portuguese girl seemed to guess at her thoughts and went on to explain, without any hesitation whatsoever, that Dora had had many friends and always there was a call on her time. This was how she, Carlota, came to be left alone so much, with the result that she had resorted to the company of the man who was eventually to bring dire disgrace upon her.

  ‘Much as my brother loved his wife,’ Carlota went on, her face losing a little of its colour as if at some terribly unpleasant memory, ‘he was in a dreadful fury with her when he discovered what had happened to me. Dora would not accept any responsibility and, as I tried to make my brother believe, no blame at all attached to her. I—I knew what I was doing.’ Carlota turned away, which was natural, and for a long moment her attention appeared to be on the fierce-looking Moorish castle perched dizzily on the rocky heights of the Serra. ‘It was awful that I was the cause of a quarrel between them so soon before her death,’ faltered Carlota at length, still avoiding her companion’s gaze. ‘It was only a week later that she died. ’

  ‘So suddenly? Was it an accident?’

  Turning at last, Carlota looked at her.

  ‘I don’t know, Eleanor.’ She seemed to be stiff and cold inside, and her pallor had increased. ‘She went away for a holiday, and my brother was called to her. When he came back he was like someone in a daze—and so harsh he had become, Eleanor! I never thought to see such a change in my dear brother. He simply said that Dora was dead, and that I must never mention her name to him again. I concluded that it would be too painful for him to bear. He gave orders to the servants also—but of course, they must have discussed the matter among themselves. You see, it was all so very puzzling, as Miguel would say nothing more than that she had died abroad, and been buried there—in Greece it was. She had friends on a small island there, and you have to be buried within twenty-four hours of death. It’s the law because the climate’s so hot.’

  Eleanor’s gaze had pensively settled on the chauffeur’s head again. How dreadful for the Conde to be forced to leave his beloved wife’s remains in
a strange land. Here, close to the chapel, was the family vault; this was obviously where he would have preferred her to rest. Allowing her thoughts to run on, Eleanor found her heart aching for him. So much to bear in so short a time—his wife’s death, and then his sister’s trouble. No wonder he was frequently distant and withdrawn, so inclined to retreat within himself, becoming totally absorbed by his own secret reflections, which must in reality be memories of happier times. That his wife should take a holiday away from him, and that he should in turn visit his other estates and leave her at the Palacio, were circumstances which Eleanor would not associate with a perfect marriage, her own visions being of a position where neither husband nor wife could be happy away from the other. She supposed the lives of the nobility were different from those of the less exalted. There were duties to perform, both business and social, and so perhaps entire intimacy was impossible.

  ‘How long were they married?’ she inquired of Carlota at last, and was told that Dora and Miguel had celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary a fortnight before Dora’s death. ‘Five years... and no children—’ Eleanor spoke to herself, her heart again going out to the Conde, for most certainly he must have wanted an heir.

  ‘No children,’ repeated Carlota, shaking her head. ‘How I would have loved Miguel to have had a son. But none came,’ she added with a deep sigh, ‘it is something over which we have no control.’

  For a long moment Eleanor thought about this wife of the Conde. He had loved her to distraction apparently, but, somehow, Eleanor formed a picture of her that was not altogether pleasant. Perhaps the reason for this was the woman’s dislike of Carlota, Eleanor told herself when trying to find an explanation for this conclusion, for she herself had grown so fond of Dom Miguel’s sister that it seemed impossible that anyone else could regard her with dislike. She was amicable and affectionate, and possessed of a charming naivete despite her recent unhappy experience. Automatically Eleanor shook her head. No, she could never imagine this