Blue Hills of Sintra

by Anne Hampson

  ‘No—I mean ...’ Her voice retreated, but, noting again the kindling of his eyes, she was overcome with sudden panic, as it was more than evident that he was determined to make her speak.

  ‘Yes, Eleanor,’ he prompted gently, ‘you mean...?’ She looked at him appealingly.

  ‘Why are you questioning me?’ she quivered, forgetting completely that he was her exalted employer. For the moment, he seemed just an ordinary man. ‘My— my thoughts are private.’ Her eyes felt moist and she blinked rapidly. Dom Miguel’s gaze fixed her across the table. He was thoughtful; she knew he was aware of her emotional upset and wondered if he would spare her the questioning she dreaded. Her appealing glance had left him totally unaffected, she was soon to learn, for her employer said, quietly yet with a sort of arrogant inflexibility meant to convey to her the futility of resistance,

  ‘I asked if you would like to talk to me about this thing which is troubling you. Eat your breakfast,’ he commanded, flicking a hand to indicate her grapefruit, untouched in its crystal glass. ‘You can talk at the same time.’

  Automatically she shook her head, still gripped by panic. ‘Dom Miguel—’ she began, when she was instantly interrupted.

  ‘Were I not convinced that the matter affected me then obviously I should not be insisting that you speak of it.’ He noted her quick start, her nervous rise of colour, and his almost imperceptible nod of the head was proof and more that he had at least a hint of an idea what the conversation with Sanches had been about. His next words added strength to this conviction. ‘If Sanches wasn’t flirting with you, then he was confiding.’

  Eleanor’s heart sank. What she was being ordered to relate must assuredly enrage her employer, as she had no right at all to discuss either him or his sister with one of his guests ... and especially that particular guest. It suddenly struck Eleanor that, had it not been Sanches with whom she had been in so apparently an intimate conversation, the Conde would not have been so interested in the matter. It also struck Eleanor that she could omit certain parts of the story, and the effect was to lift a little of the dejection from her. Yes, she thought, as she dwelt on the omissions, she might even escape Dom Miguel’s wrath completely.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said forcing a smile, ‘he was confiding.’ Having made the plunge she paused a second. Dom Miguel merely looked straight at her and said,

  ‘Yes?’ in a very soft tone which was an order for her to continue.

  ‘Sanches—the Visconde—he was telling me about his love for Carlota. He’s very upset that you won’t allow him to court her, and he asked for my help.’

  Dom Miguel continued to look into Eleanor’s eyes but she noticed his own had hardened and that his mouth had twisted into an arrogant line.

  ‘I thought as much! Sanches had no right to approach you, a total stranger. And you, senhorita, had no right to enter into a discussion concerning your employers!’

  Senhorita... The formal mode of address. Nothing could have hurt more than this and the tears that hovered so close began to fill her eyes. No words were spoken for a moment, but the silence was broken by the raucous cry of a peacock on the lawn outside, as it strutted, white as drifting snow, in front of the three peahens who were fully occupied in preening their feathers.

  ‘I knew you’d be angry,’ Eleanor spoke at last, and her voice carried evidence of her dejection. ‘That’s why I didn’t want to tell you of my conversation with the Visconde.’

  Arrogance characterized his whole manner as in silence he reached for a piece of toast and put it on his plate.

  ‘You had better continue,’ he ordered after a moment or two. ‘I prefer to know the whole in spite of my distaste for the subject.’

  Another startled glance from Eleanor was caught by Dom Miguel and his grey eyes narrowed.

  ‘There—there isn’t m-much more to—to tell,’ she stammered nervously.

  ‘Senhorita,’ he murmured in a dangerously forceful tone, ‘I would remind you that you were talking to the Visconde for almost half an hour.’

  She flushed hotly, and lowered her head. So although he had appeared to be totally engrossed in conversation with several of his guests he had in fact spared some of his attention for the two on the couch.

  ‘We—we talked of other things as well—’ Eleanor stopped, her words cut abruptly as the flat of the Conde’s hand came down on the table, causing the cutlery to jump.

  ‘I said I prefer to know the whole!’ he reminded her imperiously, retaining his dignity in spite of his wrathful gesture. ‘I want to know all that was said about Carlota and myself!’

  All... Something almost akin to terror seized her; she was beginning to wish with all her heart that she had put an end to the conversation between Sanches and herself as soon as it had dawned on her that the Conde might not like to see his employee so intimately talking to a distinguished guest. All... This would include informing the Conde that Sanches knew about the baby ... and on this being imparted to him Dom Miguel would without doubt demand from Sanches the source of his information, since to his knowledge no one knew of it outside himself, Carlota and Eleanor. It would never enter his head that his own wife could have been the informer, and it was going to add salt to his wound when he learned that this was so.

  ‘I can’t tell you the whole!’ cried Eleanor impetuously as she saw what this disclosure must do to him. ‘Please, Dom Miguel, don’t ask me to tell you any more than I have!’

  He stared at her, taken aback by her unexpected outburst, the significance of which had not stuck Eleanor in those few frantic seconds of impulsiveness. Now, she saw that her words had provided damning evidence that much had been said which the Conde would not like to hear. That he was becoming more angry than ever was evidenced by the slow emergence of colour under the tan of his skin. It crept up from the sides of his mouth, and in addition to this the sudden twist of his lips before they compressed gave to his features that satanic look which Eleanor had seen on two previous occasions, although this time in a much milder form. It was frightening, nevertheless, to see this expression on his face, because now it was the result of something she herself had done, and she steeled herself for the unpleasant repercussions, unaware that her eyes were even brighter now, reflecting her unhappiness and regret that a scene such as this should be taking place between her and the employer with whom up till now she had had so excellent a relationship.

  ‘Am I to understand,’ said Dom Miguel in tones of icy hauteur, ‘that the subject matter of your discussion with the Visconde was such that, if repeated, it would greatly offend me?’

  ‘It would hurt you,’ she answered swiftly, again without due thought, and the Conde’s arrogant brow lifted.

  ‘Hurt, madam?’ he snapped.

  Madam... This was even more cold and formal an address and Eleanor found herself biting hard on her lip, endeavouring to hold back the tears. She looked at him, deep regret in her lovely eyes, where the moisture was swiftly gathering for all her efforts at control. To her dismay she found it necessary to seek in her pocket for a handkerchief and as she was busy dabbing at her eyes she failed to notice the strange expression which crossed her companion’s face, or the tenseness of his mouth that denoted some inner twinge of conscience. What she did notice, however, was the marked alteration in the timbre of his voice as he said,

  ‘I must ask you to be frank with me, notwithstanding your conviction that what you have to say will— hurt me.’

  Clearly he was curious, and she had in all honesty to own that there was every reason why he should be. It was also understandable that he should demand from her the full content of a conversation which he knew concerned both Carlota and himself. What was to be done? Should she refuse absolutely to obey him then she was going to place herself in a position which would be impossible ... seeing that she felt the way she did about him. It were bad enough that he had no personal interest in her at all; it would be unbearable altogether if there should be open animosity in his attitude
towards her. Already he had hurt her by his anger and his stiff formality in dropping the use of her Christian name; she was now under no illusions whatsoever that he had it in his power to hurt her far more. However, if on the other hand she did obey his command and tell him all, then, as she had said, he was going to be hurt. He was also going to be humiliated, and this in turn would reflect upon Eleanor, affecting his manner with her. She gave a deep quivering sigh; the position was too involved for her and she told him haltingly that she would like time in which to decide whether or not she could relate to him the whole of the conversation between the Visconde and herself. She had a vague idea of contacting the Visconde by telephone and warning him, of advising him to think up some way of deceiving Dom Miguel when he asked from where the Visconde’s information had come. But Dom Miguel might have guessed that there was a reason for this final prevarication, for his immediate response was an inexorable threat to give her a month’s notice if she refused to tell him all—at once. Eleanor heard this in amazement, the idea of dismissal never having entered her head. She thought of Carlota and said in faltering tones,

  ‘Your sister ... she’ll be lonely again... ’

  The Conde’s lids came down. Eleanor knew for sure that the last thing he wanted to do was sack her, but she also knew for sure that his threat was not lightly made.

  ‘Should it become necessary, I shall engage another companion for her,’ he replied quietly in response to

  Eleanor’s words. His grey eyes were intently fixed upon her, challengingly. ‘I mean what I say,’ he added in a very soft tone, and, spreading her hands in a gesture of resignation and helplessness, Eleanor began to relate almost everything that had been said the night before, leaving out only those parts concerning his wife.

  Dom Miguel’s face remained grim while Eleanor was speaking, and when, after a very short time, she stopped, not a muscle moved. What were his thoughts? she wondered, staring at him and reading nothing at all from that inscrutable mask. She sensed with astonishment that anger was absent, and this lightened exceedingly the weight that had settled on her heart. Perhaps the knowledge that Sanches was willing to marry Carlota had gone a long way to assuaging any hurt to Dom Miguel’s pride. At length he spoke, to ask the question which she dreaded most of all, for it touched on one of the several things Eleanor had omitted.

  ‘Did Sanches tell you how he came by the information that Carlota was having a baby?’

  Without thinking she shook her head; it was an automatic, delaying action, and the lie had to be forced to her lips, for those metallic eyes were profoundly disconcerting now.

  ‘No—he didn’t.’

  ‘Don’t lie!’

  She jumped, feeling like a child slapped out of a tantrum, and the colour rushed hotly into her cheeks.

  ‘Dom Miguel,’ she faltered, ‘I would rather you asked the Visconde yourself.’

  His eyes narrowed to mere slits. Whatever conclusion he had reached was unmentioned for the present.

  ‘I reminded you that you were talking to Sanches for almost half an hour,’ he said in a very soft tone, ‘and what you have told me has taken no longer than a mere three or four minutes.’ She could find nothing to say to this and he continued, still in those soft and measured tones, ‘You do realize that you have added little to what you told me at first?’ She moistened her lips, looking at him pleadingly and shaking her head faintly as if she would will him to understand and cease from asking these tormenting questions.

  ‘There wasn’t a great deal to tell, Dom Miguel,’ she said in a low tone. ‘The Visconde talked about the times when he and Carlota were together—that was when you visited your estate here more often—and he said he used to hope that she would fall in love with him. He also said he regretted not approaching you earlier, but that Carlota was such a child—’ Eleanor tailed off, because of the Conde’s marked impatience and the steely glint in his eyes. ‘This is most difficult for me,’ she pointed out, fluttering a hand helplessly. ‘My—position, Dom Miguel—’

  It was a long while before he spoke, but when at last he did most of the arrogance had disappeared from his voice. Eleanor had the astonishing impression that he no longer wanted to regard her as an employee but rather as a confidante, and she was reminded of that evening when, Carlota having gone to bed and left them alone, Dom Miguel had unbent sufficiently to talk about his sister in a way that bordered on the intimate in that the trouble she had gone through was mentioned, and Eleanor had even been brave enough to hint that the girl should never have been left. Eleanor also recalled her feeling that, for the first time, she and the Conde had been equals. She felt that way now, even before Dom Miguel broke the silence to ask, quietly and with a distinct note of acceptance in his voice.

  ‘Did Sanches happen to mention my wife?’

  ‘Yes, Dom Miguel, he did.’

  A small hesitation and then,

  ‘I understand your reluctance, Eleanor—’ Another pause. ‘And I appreciate your concern for my feelings.’ She looked up, relieved, and strangely happy even though she knew he must be experiencing acute pain at this moment.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said a little shakily. ‘I was so troubled about—about arousing your anger. ’

  An almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

  ‘I’m afraid I was more than ready to be angry,’ he admitted, but added instantly that it would have been most unreasonable of him when she was so clearly concerned about his feelings. His smile deepened as he looked at her and she responded gratefully, her mind bridging the few words spoken since the use of her name again. Strange how his addressing her as Eleanor could dissolve the weight of depression she had been carrying. ‘Did you know about my wife before last evening?’ inquired Dom Miguel, as the idea occurred to him, and after the merest hesitation Eleanor admitted that she did. For this was a moment of total honesty and in any case she could not have told him another deliberate lie.

  ‘Carlota did let something slip out once—quite by accident,’ she added hastily.

  He became thoughtful, but much to her surprise there was nothing in his expression to justify her previous assumption that he must be suffering hurt. Undeniably there was a strange light in his eyes, but it was a hardness rather than one of brooding pain; it was also fleeting, for much to Eleanor’s relief it faded just as swiftly as it had appeared.

  ‘My wife is never mentioned,’ he said dispassionately. ‘The reason need not be disclosed.’ Having finished his meagre breakfast he leant back in his chair, watching Eleanor as she toyed absently with the grapefruit which she had scarcely touched. He had told her to eat, she remembered, and as there was sudden censure in the sharp tilt of his head she lowered her own and took more interest in what she was doing. ‘I have reached my own conclusion as to how Sanches learned about Carlota’s trouble,’ continued Dom Miguel after a moment or two, and a small sigh accompanied this statement. ‘However, it’s of no matter now. The important thing is that Sanches is willing to marry Carlota.’ The Conde paused, then added, when Eleanor had lifted her head, ‘He asked for your help, you said?’ A small, deprecating shrug and then,

  ‘We didn’t discuss any particular way in which I could help. I said I’d think about it and try to find a solution to the problem. ’

  ‘The problem being my refusal, obviously?’

  ‘Yes. You see, Sanches—the Visconde,’ she amended rather quickly, only to note a faint curve of her companion’s lips which brought faint colour to her cheeks, ‘he knew why you refused, but was unable to tell you this.’

  ‘Naturally. ’

  The matter was too delicate, Dom Miguel was thinking, surmised Eleanor, pausing a moment before she ventured, ‘You’ll not withhold your consent now?’

  ‘You’re obviously eager to see Carlota married to Sanches?’ he asked, leaving her question in abeyance— although she knew what the answer must be. He was watching Eleanor intently, saw her eyes shadow and her mouth quiver before she said,

  ‘Yes,
Dom Miguel, I would.’

  Silence as their eyes met. Eleanor was the first to glance away, and to break what was now becoming a tensed, electric hush affecting them both equally.

  ‘I—I do understand that I’ll no longer be needed—’ Rapidly she blinked away tears. What was the matter with her? she asked herself angrily. Never in her life had she been so tearful as this. Unsteadily she rose to her feet, dropping her napkin on to the table. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she quivered, ‘I must—must—’

  ‘Eleanor,’ said Dom Miguel gently, also rising from his chair and moving round to her side of the table, ‘you will be needed. ’ As if acting without thinking he took hold of both her hands, felt her tremble at his touch even while she looked up at him through her tears, registering the greatest astonishment. ‘Yes, my dear, you will be needed.’ Wonderingly she shook her head.

  ‘I can’t be—I mean, in what capacity?’

  He frowned at his own thoughts and his voice was edged with a sort of bitter helplessness as he said,

  ‘I don’t know in what capacity, but there’ll be a—a post for you.’ Turning her hands over, he looked at them in quiet contemplation for a long and brooding moment, while Eleanor still continued to stare, bewildered, uncomprehending ... and yet acutely aware of her own pounding heart and a strange surge of hope rising in her breast. ‘Promise me you’ll stay, Eleanor,’ he at length demanded in forceful, imperative tones, his grip tightening on her hands. ‘Promise!’

  ‘I promise,’ she responded huskily. ‘Yes, of course I promise.’

  His features relaxed and were softened by a smile. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said quietly, and before her astonished mind could quite take it in he had lifted her hand and pressed it fleetingly to his lips.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Eleanor thought about his action long after he had left her, and although there was not the slightest doubt in her mind that the act had been involuntary, and that had he stopped to think he most certainly would have held back, the very spontaneity was a revelation in that the Conde’s regard for her was obviously not entirely impersonal, and to strengthen this idea was the memory of that profound moment last evening when, the waltz having ended, he had stood looking down as if he could not take his eyes off her. It would seem that he liked her, if only a little, she told herself breathlessly and with a return of that feeling of hope resulting from his declaration that she was still needed. So strange a thing for him to say, though, since she had come to Portugal for the precise purpose of protecting his sister. If she and Sanches married then that should by rights have meant the termination of Eleanor’s services, but Dom Miguel had said there would be a post for her. Vague his words had been, and as she viewed the situation in a far less emotional atmosphere than that prevailing at the breakfast table, Eleanor admitted to her mind the fact that there was something most odd about the whole affair. It suddenly struck her that the only important thing to the Conde at present was that she should stay, and that as for the future—it was unpredictable. However, it was enough for Eleanor that she could remain close to the man she had come to love. It might be that he would never come to love her—or, if he did, it might be years hence, when the memory of his first wife had faded sufficiently for him to be able to look at someone else. In the meantime, she would be satisfied just to know he was there, and that he wanted her to be there.