Lovers in Lisbon

by Barbara Cartland

  Then she knew that it was all part of a plan thought out not by herself but by Fate.

  As the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children, Juan’s son should pay the debt that his father owed her.

  It was not that she hated Juan.

  What she felt was far too poignant for hatred.

  In fact she still loved him and loved him overwhelmingly, as she had when they had been so happy together.

  She knew in her heart that if he had asked her to die for his sake, she would have been willing to do so.

  But that was very different from dying because she could not live without him.

  When she had intended to throw herself into the sea, it had been an act of complete and utter despair. But there was no animosity or hatred towards him.

  Yet now, when she had come back to lay his ghost, she had decided that his son should suffer just a little of the agony that she had suffered all these years.

  As she looked back, she had to admit that she had been exceedingly lucky in being saved from destruction by the Duc.

  He had brought her a great deal of interest and, if she was honest with herself, enjoyment into her life. Even though the one thing he could not give her was love.

  Of course there had been men to offer her love, especially after the Duc died and she was all on her own.

  She was still a beautiful woman and very rich with a house in France which was hers for her lifetime.

  She also had a Villa in Monaco, which he had given her, again for as long as she lived.

  She was rich enough to go anywhere in the world, London, Vienna, Rome, all the places that she had been to with the Duc.

  She was aware that she would be fêted and entertained everywhere as if she was Royalty.

  There had been many men who were attracted by her beauty besides the delicious aura of luxury that surrounded her.

  They had been quite genuinely ready to lay their hearts at her feet and eventually she had succumbed just once or twice to their pleading and taken them as lovers.

  It had been from her point of view a dismal failure.

  Something within her had either shrunk in horror or else resisted violently another man touching what belonged to Juan. It was not the men’s fault that her only reaction to their love-making had been a repugnance that she found hard to hide.

  She smiled bitterly at the thought of it as she recalled the flames that leapt within her when Juan had ignited them.

  She could hear the soft cries on the night air when he made her his.

  She could remember too how when he was away, her whole body would burn with desire until he returned.

  ‘Just why have I come back?’ the Duchesse asked herself in the darkness. ‘Why? Why? Why?’

  Then she thought of Juan’s son in the Palace da Azul.

  She realised that she must go there, she must see him and make sure that he was like his father.

  If he was, he would pay the price for it, a price that was only a fraction of what she had paid over the years for losing her heart so completely and utterly.

  *

  Felicita woke early as she always did.

  Because she was so excited, she jumped out of bed to stand at the window looking out at the sea.

  Last night it seemed very strange when she had sat alone in the luxurious dining room.

  She had been waited on by Pedro and the young footmen engaged to help him.

  The dinner had been really delicious and yet after the first two courses, Felicita, having eaten so little for so long found it virtually impossible to eat anything more.

  There had been a superb golden wine for her to drink.

  When she had finished the meal and had left the dining room, it was apologetically.

  She felt that the chef would be disappointed that the last two dishes had been sent away untouched.

  She was feeling very tired and she had gone upstairs at once to her bedroom.

  Like the Duchesse’s it looked over the sea and it was furnished with the inlaid furniture of which the Portuguese were Masters.

  The room contained several pictures that Felicita thought should be displayed in one of the Art Galleries in Lisbon.

  She was, however, far too tired to appreciate anything but the delightful softness of her mattress.

  She fell asleep while she was still thanking God that she was no longer hungry and alone.

  *

  This morning she had explored the garden.

  She had then walked quickly to the edge of the cliffs to see the sun dancing on the waves before Pedro told her that breakfast was ready.

  She was not surprised that she again ate alone and she was sure that the Duchesse would not want to rise early.

  She finished an omelette that was beautifully cooked and ate a croissant warm from the oven.

  The Duchesse’s lady’s maid came to the door.

  “Madame la Duchesse wishes to see you, m’mselle.”

  Felicita jumped up eagerly.

  As last night she had not met the Duchesse’s lady’s maid, she held out her hand as she said,

  “Bonjour. I know that you look after – my aunt.”

  It was difficult to say the words and she blushed as she did so.

  Equally she had the feeling that it was what the Duchesse would have expected.

  “That’s right, m’mselle,” the maid replied. “I’ve been with Madame for fifteen years and I don’t think she could do without me.”

  “I am sure that would be impossible,” Felicita smiled.

  She hurried up the stairs ahead of the maid to the Duchesse’s bedroom.

  She found her sitting up in bed, already rouged and powdered and wearing a light pink dressing-jacket trimmed with priceless Valenciennes lace.

  “Good morning, Felicita,” the Duchesse greeted her when she came into the room. “You slept well?”

  Felicita curtseyed before she replied,

  “Very well, thank you, Aunt Inès, and I have just eaten a large breakfast.

  She saw the approval in the Duchesse’s eyes before she replied,

  “That is good. Pedro tells me that the dressmakers are here and we must start dressing you as befits my niece.”

  As she spoke, Pedro ushered into the room two middle-aged Portuguese women.

  From the glint in their eyes it was obvious that they were expecting a large order from anyone as prestigious as the Duchesse.

  They were not disappointed.

  Two hours later Felicita had tried on a number of gowns. Some were too big for her and had to be altered.

  Others met the Duchesse’s approval and Felicita could wear them immediately.

  An order for a dozen others sent the dressmakers scurrying back to Lisbon in a hurry.

  There was extra money if their workers could provide what was required within forty-eight hours.

  “It’s impossible, madame!” one dressmaker had exclaimed.

  Then before the Duchesse could speak, she had added quickly,

  “No, no, it is possible and somehow it will be done!”

  When the women had gone, Felicita asked,

  “How can I thank you? How can I tell you what it means to have such beautiful clothes to wear?”

  “Remember, they are only a frame for your own beauty,” the Duchesse pointed out.

  She knew that she was quoting the Duc. She was saying what he had said to her many years ago and which she had never forgotten.

  “What is important,” she went on, “is the picture itself and that is you!”

  “What do you want me to do?” Felicita asked.

  “After luncheon,” the Duchesse declared, “we are calling at the Palace da Azul and the Marques Alvaro.”

  She saw Felicita’s eyes widen in surprise and then she added,

  “His father was a friend of mine – a great friend.”

  It was strange, but she thought as she spoke that she heard Juan laugh.

  *

  The carriage, wh
ich was the same one that the Duchesse had hired the day before, carried them up the steep road which led to the Palace da Azul.

  Perched on a hill it overlooked the countryside for many miles around.

  All the time they were driving towards it the Duchesse was vividly aware of the beauty of its turrets and towers silhouetted against the sunlit sky.

  She thought of how often she had travelled this way and how she had been so impatient because the horses could not go any quicker.

  Her one idea had been to reach Juan, who would be waiting for her.

  Because The Palace was so high, it was sometimes enveloped in clouds.

  She thought of it being in the Paradise that Juan had taken her to.

  When she arrived, she would be shown immediately into the room where he was waiting for her.

  As she looked at him with adoring eyes, she would be thinking that he was not a man but a God.

  The moment they were alone she would run to him and he would put his arms around her and kiss her, kiss her until the huge room with its pillars, its marble mantelpiece, its polished floor and chandeliers, swung round them.

  He would draw her to the window and they would look out at the view of the green trees sloping down to the valley and beyond it the sea.

  It was then that she ruminated that she and Juan were far above the ordinary difficulties and miseries of other people.

  Their happiness was so perfect and sublime that it was theirs for ever.

  The Duchesse was aware that Felicita, looking very different from the way that she had yesterday, was now gazing at The Palace with wide eyes.

  The sun was shining on the Arab minarets and the green cupolas.

  “It might have stepped out of a ‒ Fairy Story,” she quavered in an awed voice.

  It was exactly what the Duchesse had always thought herself.

  Now she was seeing it all again with its gardens brilliant with blossom and the ancient stone fountains she knew so well were playing amid a maze of traditional box hedges.

  She felt for one short second as if she had come home.

  Then bitterly she remembered the truth. Her blood had not been good enough to entitle her to live here!

  She had been able only to creep in like a thief in the night and to leave as stealthily just in case anyone who mattered should see her.

  She had been, although she had not realised it at the time, something slightly shaming.

  To be hidden away and ignored except when it pleased her ‘Lord and Master’.

  That, she thought, was what Juan had indeed been.

  The Palace was a perfect background for Juan. It was strange and most unpredictable, a mixture of different cultures, different civilisations and different affections.

  The carriage drew to a standstill beside the door.

  Two footmen then rolled down a red carpet and a senior servant came to the door of the carriage.

  “I am La Duchesse de Monreuil, and I wish, if it is possible, to see the Marques Alvaro.”

  The servant bowed.

  “I will enquire, madame, if my Master is available.”

  Felicita’s eyes were on the fountains.

  As the Duchesse looked at her, she knew that it would be impossible for any young girl to look lovelier.

  She was wearing one of the gowns that she had bought for her that morning.

  Of soft blue silk, the colour of Felicita’s eyes, it was simple, a young girl’s gown.

  Yet it clung to her figure, revealing that she was, with the soft curves of her body, very nearly a woman.

  The hat which encircled her dark hair like a halo was trimmed with a few musk roses.

  The colour seemed to accentuate the whiteness of Felicita’s skin, which was as unusual in a Portuguese as her blue eyes.

  A man would be blind, the Duchesse thought, if he saw her without being aware that she was unique.

  The servant returned and then announced,

  “My Master would be honoured if Madame la Duchesse would join him.”

  The Duchesse stepped out of the carriage and Felicita followed behind her.

  They walked through the front door into an enormous hall.

  There were a large number of stone statues and a majestic staircase, carved and gilded, sweeping up to the next floor.

  They crossed the hall while two footmen opened the double doors of the salon.

  The Duchesse wanted to close her eyes.

  How well she knew what she would be about to see.

  The long exquisitely proportioned room, with windows opening out onto a terrace from which the view was a sheer delight. But first there were the two great chandeliers, just as she remembered them and magnificent inlaid furniture.

  The pictures had been handed down for generation after generation of the family

  There was the carved mantelpiece and in front of it a man was standing.

  For one second it was impossible to move.

  It was Juan who stood there! Juan, just as she always remembered him.

  Then, as he walked towards her, her feet, without the impetus of her will, moved towards him.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure, madame,” he said in a voice that was so like Juan’s that she could hardly bear to listen to it. “I saw you in the distance when I was last in Paris, but I had no idea that you were now in Portugal and at last I should have the pleasure of meeting you.”

  “You are very gracious,” the Duchesse replied. “You may not be aware of it, but I knew your father and so I wanted my niece, La Comtesse Felicity de Monreuil, to see what I have often described to her as your ‘Palace in the Clouds’.”

  The Marques laughed.

  “That is indeed a very good description of it.”

  He put out his hand towards Felicita.

  The Duchesse saw with satisfaction the look of astonishment in his eyes.

  Chapter Four

  To Felicita The Palace was an enchantment that she could never have imagined even in her dreams.

  The pictures were what she had always longed to see.

  But more than the treasures which filled every room, there was an atmosphere. It seemed to vibrate through her and make her feel more excited than she had ever felt before.

  The Duchesse had persuaded the Marques to take them on a tour round The Palace.

  Felicita was very perceptive. As they looked around the amazing collection of treasures, she was aware that in some strange way she did not understand, the Duchesse was suffering in every room they visited.

  The Marques then said almost apologetically,

  “I am sure you have seen enough.”

  Yet the Duchesse insisted that they should go further and see more of The Palace.

  Finally they stepped out into the garden that was bathed in sunshine.

  Felicita was aware that the Duchesse drew in a deep breath. It was almost as if she was finding it hard to breathe and was gasping for life itself.

  She did not know how she knew this, she just thought of it with a perception which had been hers for many years.

  Her father had cultivated it in her when he read her his poems and made her read aloud those of Portugal’s greatest poet, Luis Vaz de Camões.

  There was not only what she saw on the walls, the tables and The Palace itself, but there was also the Marques.

  Never had she imagined that any man could look quite so attractive, so handsome and so masculine.

  She did not express it like that to herself as she felt only that he was full of life and light and that she was vividly aware of him.

  Finally, when they returned to the salon where they had first met, the Marques asked,

  “Is this as you remember it, Duchesse?”

  “Yes – just as I remember it,” the Duchesse replied simply.

  The Marques raised his eyebrows as if he was surprised, but he said nothing.

  Only Felicita knew that he had expected the Duchesse to exclaim over the alterations he had made and to mention
the furniture and pictures that he had added since his father’s death.

  He had pointed them out diligently as they went round and Felicita had the idea that the Duchesse was not listening, but had stepped back into the past.

  In the meantime afternoon tea had been laid in the salon and the Marques said with a smile,

  “Although I am sure, madame, that being French you would not take tea, you must, of course, remember that I had an English mother.”

  The Duchesse laughed.

  “And the English cannot live without their afternoon tea.”

  “Exactly!” the Marques agreed. “So I was brought up to enjoy it.”

  Felicita parted her lips as if to say something and then, as if she thought that it would be indiscreet, she was silent.

  “Do you enjoy your tea, Comtesse?” the Marques enquired.

  Felicita was just about to say that being Portuguese she more often drank coffee when she remembered with a little start that she was supposed to be French.

  She therefore smiled and replied,

  “ Superb and I am greedy enough to ask if I may have another of those delicious cakes.”

  “But, of course,” the Marques agreed at once. “They are what I used to love myself when I was young.”

  He rose to offer Felicita the plate of cakes that she had requested.

  Then he sat down a little closer to her than he had been before.

  “Do tell me about yourself,” he suggested, “and if you are enjoying my country.”

  “I think – it is very – beautiful.”

  “As you are yourself!”

  Because the compliment to her was such a surprise, Felicita turned to look hastily at the Duchesse.

  Was she annoyed or shocked that the Marques should speak to her in such a way?

  She saw, however, that the Duchesse had risen from the tea table and had moved a little way down the room to where there was a picture by Portugal’s greatest painter, Gonçalvet, which she was examining closely.

  As if the Marques realised that he could not be overheard, he said insistently,

  “When you came into the room, I felt that I must be dreaming and that you were not real but one of the nymphs or Goddesses who many people in the valley believe live here in my Palace.”