by Anne Hampson
‘I think it is time we went back.’ The decision came reluctantly from Miguel’s lips; there was a sudden dejection about him that was reflected in his voice. What were his thoughts? Eleanor wondered, herself attracting his mood as she felt the full impact of a lonely, hopeless sequel to this stay in Portugal. Was it his wife who occupied his mind at this moment? Did he wish for freedom?—or was he recalling all the happier times ... and wishing for a return of them? While it was apparent that he was bitter about whatever his wife had done to him, and while it was also apparent that he was attracted to Eleanor, he could still be yearning—if only subconsciously—for a reconciliation with the beautiful wife who, according to Julia, he had driven away. This Eleanor did not believe. For one thing, the Conde’s character was such that she knew without doubt he would honour that pledge ‘for better, for worse’. Dora had gone off for a holiday, Carlota had said, and Eleanor believed this. Miguel was called to her... By Eleanor’s deductions—which she admitted might be wrong—it seemed that Miguel had been informed by his wife that she was never coming back. That this came as a shock was certain, since Carlota had described him as being in a daze, and a madman. As to why Miguel had decided to tell everyone, including his sister, that Dora was dead, was something for which Eleanor could find no explanation at all. It seemed to be such a risk—the sort of risk that would be the very last she would have expected Miguel to take. Had he been under some sort of pressure? she wondered as the idea suddenly crossed her mind. That could certainly be the explanation, although much as she racked her brain, Eleanor could not think of what such a pressure could be. ‘Yes,’ Miguel was murmuring into her pensive mood, ‘we must go back. I have to be up early in the morning.’ Turning as he spoke, he gazed down into Eleanor’s eyes. ‘I have a plane to catch at half-past eight.’
‘A plane?’ She had concluded that he was going to one of his other estates.
He nodded, and she gained the impression that the mention of a plane had been a slip.
‘I’m going abroad,’ was all he said, but later, as they began strolling back across the park, he said, rather too casually, ‘There’s no need to mention my going abroad to Carlota. She’s probably taken it for granted that I’m going to Portalegre—if she has given the matter a thought at all,’ he added with a faint smile. ‘The child’s out of this world half her time these days.’
At this Eleanor forced a small laugh, making a light remark that, with her wedding so close, it was only to be expected that Carlota would be totally wrapped up in her own affairs. But underneath the lightness Eleanor was wondering where Miguel could be going. Of a certainty it was not a holiday that was taking him abroad, simply because this was not the time for thinking of holidays, not when all the prewedding activity was absorbing every single person at the
Palacio. Besides, Miguel had said he would be away only for a day or two.
An idea began to push itself into the forefront of her mind. Miguel was going to Greece.
CHAPTER TEN
With this conviction eventually becoming firmly fixed in her mind Eleanor was plunged into a state of utter dejection. That Miguel had gone to Greece to sound out his wife about the possibility of a divorce seemed more than feasible, especially in view of his having told Eleanor to leave matters as they were for the present—this latter being the significant phrase. But it did not require much stretching of the imagination to conjure up a picture of reconciliation between the superlatively beautiful Dora and her husband. She must surely desire a return to the luxury and status of her former position and in consequence would undoubtedly use her wiles to achieve this. Miguel had worshipped her ... so it was almost inevitable that he would succumb—and gladly. Eleanor, whom he had liked quite a lot, would fade from his dazzled vision and a reunion would take place. How this was to be achieved, with Dora supposed to be dead, Eleanor could not conceive, but she was sure that all difficulties would be overcome.
The acceptance of her own personal inadequacy made the acceptance of defeat less difficult to bear; it was the idea of being ‘the other woman’ that was so repugnant. She felt guilty, though no crime had been committed; she squirmed inwardly and would have given ten years of her life to be able at this moment to go somewhere and hide or, better still, to go home to England. As this was impossible she had no alternative than to contain her patience, and to put on a front that would deceive her young charge. And so she was laughing with her when Sanches appeared, having telephoned yesterday asking Miguel if he might come over to see his beloved. Eleanor and Carlota were having tea in the salon and for a moment Sanches stood in the doorway, looking extremely handsome, though youthfully so.
‘A most charming picture,’ he said gallantly, ‘and a happy one. I trust, my dear Carlota, that I myself might in some
small way be responsible for your happiness?’
She blushed adorably and lowered her long dark lashes.
‘In a very large way,’ she returned, pulling a bell-rope at her elbow. ‘You’re just in time for tea.’
‘So I perceive,’ with some amusement as Carlota kept her lashes lowered. ‘I am ready for it,’ he added when she failed to speak.
Presently Eleanor left them alone and went to see what the workmen had been doing in the Great Hall. They were fixing to the ceiling several large glass balls formed of hundreds of sequin-like mirrors. These balls would rotate while the dancing was taking place, the main lights of the Hall being extinguished, leaving only a few shaded ones, the reflection of which would catch the mirrors as the balls turned. Eleanor consulted her instruction notes and frowned.
‘There should be eight of these—four on each side—and a larger one in the centre,’ she said.
Only one of the men could speak English and he translated for the foreman. A moment later he was saying,
‘The large one was broken, and so we are putting three on each side, one in the centre, and one over the platform where the musicians will be playing.’
Eleanor shook her head emphatically. She knew the Conde well enough by now to be sure that what he wanted he would have.
‘How did the large one come to get broken?’
A silence followed before the man said,
‘We dropped it, senhorita. ’
‘Then you must have another one made—’
‘But the cost is very great, senhorita.’
‘Never mind that. Get in touch with the firm at once and order another. ’
The man turned to his foreman, who nodded presently and gave an order. The men stopped work and he gave them fresh orders. When Eleanor left the men were preparing to undo the work they had spent the whole of the morning, and most
of the afternoon, doing.
She sighed, wondering if she should merely have stopped the work, putting the men on to something else until Miguel’s return.
But she need not have worried; when told what she had done he said she was right. He looked dreadfully tired and depressed, she thought, and wondered what had happened. Clearly there had been no reconciliation and she began to think that perhaps she had made a mistake in jumping to the conclusion that he had been to see his wife. After all, she had nothing on which to go except her intuition.
He arrived very late at night and Carlota had gone to bed. But Eleanor, affected by some compulsive force, had waited up, knowing he would be back some time around midnight. He seemed surprised at seeing her sitting there in the small sitting-room, but he appeared impatient, somehow, and she gained the impression that he would have preferred not to see her that night. This was borne out when, after listening for five minutes or so to what she had to tell him about the work, he stifled a yawn and said he was going to bed.
The wedding was the main topic of conversation for miles around as, Eleanor surmised, Miguel’s own had been several years earlier. Carlota was a vision of sheer loveliness in her flowing white gown and many gasps were heard as she entered the church on her brother’s arm. So noble they both looked, and the Conde was s
o proud and distinguished. Eleanor, herself looking very lovely in her bridesmaid’s dress of beryl-coloured velvet with pink accessories, caught her breath in admiration. And, later, she caught his glance ... and saw with some astonishment that his eyes darkened and his mouth went tight. And then he looked away and watching his profile she saw a nerve working spasmodically in the side of his jaw. He seemed suddenly to have been affected by a spasm of pain that was reflected in a fleeting moment of anger.
She swallowed hard to clear her throat of the hurt that had lodged there. The days following his return had not been happy ones for her. He had retreated into himself; had completely withdrawn from her. They were right back at the beginning. He never talked directly to her unless it was necessary and if he found himself alone with her he would instantly rise from his chair and say he had work to do in his study. Eleanor had the impression that he wanted her to lose interest in him ... and it came to her suddenly that he actually wanted her to go home when the wedding was over.
Bewildered and dreadfully unhappy, she had wept in the privacy of her room, and on one occasion he had noticed evidence of this but made no comment. She had looked at him, but he avoided her gaze, turning abruptly away. But she felt instinctively that he too was unhappy and she longed to talk to him and discover what was wrong. She dared not, though, for she was acutely conscious now that she was regarded as nothing more than an employee, the girl who had come to Portugal as the paid companion of his sister.
She sat next to him at the reception, and his manner for this one special occasion was relaxed, friendly. He spoke smilingly to her and later when the dancing started he claimed her for several dances.
‘May I take this opportunity of saying how beautiful you are today, Eleanor?’ Stiff, just a little, and she continued to gaze at the lapel of his coat. It was their first dance and she felt shy all at once, and poignantly aware of his nearness and his magnetism ... and the fact that the memories gathered on this occasion must last her a very, very long time. ‘Have you nothing to say, my dear?’
My dear. ... He had not said that since his return; it hurt now and she realized her lips were trembling. ‘There—there isn’t anything t-to say.’
His arm tightened; she felt that he fully understood how she was—unhappy and bewildered. But all he said was,
‘No, Eleanor dear, there isn’t anything to say.’
She looked up swiftly, blinking in order to keep back the ready tears.
‘You’re so strange, Miguel,’ she whispered, not really meaning to say anything like this, yet urged by an irresistible desire to bring him out, to make him talk to her and explain what had happened to bring about the change in him. ‘I—I don’t understand you at all.’ He sighed deeply and shook his head. And without another word he swung her from the outer edge of the Hall into the centre, so that they were no longer separated from the rest of the dancers.
Sanches claimed Eleanor later in the evening and said, bending his head,
‘Thank you, dear Eleanor, for helping us. I shall never forget.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ she protested, but he shook his head.
‘I shall always remember that it was due to you that Carlota and I were able to marry,’ he went on as if the interruption had never occurred, ‘and if ever the time should come when I can repay you, Eleanor, then you can be sure I shall—no matter when it is, or how much trouble it costs me.’ He spoke with vibrant sincerity, as if he actually hoped the day would come when he could repay her. She merely smiled and thanked him, knowing that no such occasion was ever likely to arise.
The couple caught the midnight plane from Lisbon, their ultimate destination being Mexico, where they were to honeymoon in a lovely mansion lent to them by one of Sanches’ uncles who was at present visiting relatives in the United States.
‘How flat everything goes when the bride and groom leave a wedding-party.’ Miguel was dancing with Eleanor again and this time she managed to speak in her normal voice, unhampered by the tightness which had affected her throat for almost the whole of the evening.
‘It was a wonderful celebration, Miguel. You are an expert
organiser. ’
‘Experience,’ he returned rather carelessly. ‘We often have large and important parties.’
She nodded against his shoulder.
‘I believe Christmas in Portugal is really something to remember. ’ Especially in the home of a great hidalgo like Miguel, she added, but to herself, naturally.
‘Christmas...’ The word seemed to emerge with bitterness. But then he said, ‘Yes, Eleanor, we do have a rather exceptional way of keeping Christmas.’
‘I shall not be here.’ She had to say the words, just to know what his reaction would be. This reaction took the life right out of her and she wished with all her heart that she had kept silent, and allowed herself a little more time to collect her pitiful store of memories.
‘You’re determined to leave, then?’ without protest or persuasion.
She lifted a white face and replied unsteadily,
‘Yes, Miguel, I’m determined to leave.’
‘In that case, I have nothing to say, except of course that I thank you for coming, and for—for everything.’ His voice caught and with an almost violent movement he swung Eleanor off the floor. The music stopped at that moment, saving them both embarrassment. It was the last dance. The party was over.
Spring was well under way and Eleanor had the children out for a nature walk. They were collecting wild flowers and herbs from along the river bank and her eyes and senses were fully alert.
‘Susan, keep away from the edge.’
‘I can swim, Miss Salway—if I fall in, I mean.’
‘It will be far simpler not to fall in.’
Susan laughed and moved away from the edge.
‘It sort of tempts you, doesn’t it, Miss Salway?’ from Stephen, who was grinning mischievously as he took slow
and deliberate steps towards the river.
‘In that case,’ decided Eleanor, ‘we’ll leave the river and go farther into the field. ’
‘Oh no!’ from a chorus of voices. ‘Stop it, Sue and Steve!’ shouted Avril crossly. ‘We’re not all going to be punished because of you two silly things!’
Half an hour later, loaded with flowers and herbs and grasses, they all returned to school.
‘Playtime! Goody!’ Avril dumped her treasures on her desk and ran from the classroom. The other children followed suit, joining the rest of the school in the playground. Eleanor went along to the staff-room and sat down in a big armchair. The headmaster smiled at her and asked about the nature walk.
‘You didn’t bring back any corpses, I hope?’
She smiled obligingly and shook her head. It wasn’t unusual for this comment to be made when a teacher took her children out.
She was handed a cup of tea and offered biscuits by a senior girl whose turn it was to see to the tea that particular week. It was funny, mused Eleanor, watching her pass the biscuits round, how the girls loved doing this task. They’d have grumbled if asked at home to do a chore when they could have been outside, playing. But children were like that, and mothers always laughingly complained that their little Johnny or Mary would do more for their teacher than for their mother.
Her thoughts strayed, as they so often did, to Portugal, and the Conde.
What was he doing now, at this very moment? Sometimes she felt strangely drawn to him, as if by telepathy he would have her know that he cared. He had explained nothing, but had let her go, two days after the wedding. He had taken her himself to the airport, stopping the car in a quiet lane before entering Lisbon. Turning, he had gathered her gently to him, and she felt his heart throbbing just as violently as her own.
His lips found hers and they were so very gentle, and tender. ‘Just a goodbye kiss, my very dear Eleanor,’ he whispered, and, releasing her, he drove on to the airport.
She thought she knew what had happened. He had asked Dora abou
t a divorce and she had refused. This seemed to rule out the idea of infidelity which had previously crossed Eleanor’s mind. It created a puzzle also, the puzzle of why the separation had occurred in the first place. But as there was nothing to be gained by attempting to solve this Eleanor did her best to put it from her. She must forget the Conde Ramiro Vicente Miguel de Castro just as quickly as she could. He wasn’t for her.
Forgetting wasn’t easy; she knew it would not be. But she threw herself into her work, having taken a post up in Northumberland—a long way from where Terry Kershawe was living, for during the few days when she had stayed with her cousin she had, to her disgust, twice bumped into him.
Carlota had wanted to correspond and so Eleanor agreed, unable to find any way of telling her that she would prefer to make a clean break. However, letters were few and far between, and this was mainly Eleanor’s fault. She allowed weeks to elapse between receiving a letter and replying to it. Eventually she and Carlota would cease corresponding altogether.
Eleanor arrived home before Jean, with whom she shared a flat, for Jean worked in an office and didn’t leave until five o’clock. So Eleanor made the meal, which she always had ready for about six. After they had eaten Jean saw to the dishes and Eleanor usually began marking her books. It was a regular routine, and dull, but Eleanor became fairly content despite the fact of her love for Miguel, which to her dismay showed no signs at all of declining with the passing of time, or even becoming less intrusive. It was always with her for every wakeful moment. In the classroom she was ever subconsciously aware of the ache within her, though outwardly she was giving all her attention to the children, of
whom she had thirty-two in her charge.
She had just got in that afternoon when the doorbell rang and on opening it she stared, dumbfounded, at the tall slim figure of Carlota’s husband.
‘Don’t look so scared,’ he said at once. ‘There’s nothing wrong. Can I come in?’ he added with a hint of amusement as she continued to stare.