Isle of Desire

by Anne Hampson

  ‘If you will wait there, I will be back directly.’

  He was not back directly, and by the time she did see him enter the room where she was sitting, she had convinced herself that the Conde had decided not to see her at all, but to give instructions for her to be taken back to the airport immediately.

  However, the butler was ready to show her to the room where the Conde was waiting. She entered, feeling very small and shy and inadequate, overawed even before her eyes had encountered the Conde himself. For the room, high-ceilinged and elegantly furnished with settees and armchairs covered in deep blue velvet with gold trimmings, was the most magnificent she had ever seen. The ceiling was painted in exquisite colours, its scenes depicting historical events in the history of Portugal. The carpet was Persian, the occasional furniture of rosewood, and beautifully carved. All this she absorbed in a flash, but she had the added impression of luxurious cushions, long velvet drapes, silver ornaments and light fittings, beautiful antique porcelain, and much more besides, all of which combined to create an atmosphere of elegance and good taste.

  And then she saw the man, standing with his back to the high wide fireplace, and a little gasp of surprise escaped her. Could this be the Conde?

  About thirty years of age, tall and straight with lean aristocratic features and a head of healthy black hair, he was very far removed from the picture that she and Avice had invented, which was that of an elderly man with a stoop and a paunch, and perhaps a bald head. His eyes were of a dark metallic grey, with lazy lids which were now half closed, narrowing his eyes to little more than slits; his nose had an aquiline quality which, combined with the high cheekbones, gave a sort of satanic appearance to his face. The mouth, firm but not thin, had a hint of sensuousness about it which seemed out of keeping with the general impression of cold hauteur which his manner gave.

  He was looking her over with a sort of quelling arrogance; she gained the impression that his mind was almost made up and she would not have been in the least surprised to hear him order her off the premises without even giving her a hearing. However, he did no such thing, but inquired, about her father, adding that his butler had informed him that she had come in his stead.

  ‘I don’t quite understand, senhorita^ he added, ‘but no doubt you will explain?’ His accent was alien and abrupt, but courteous for all that. ‘Sit down, if you please No, not there. Here.’ His gesture was imperious as he indicated a chair that faced the full flow of light coming through one of the floor-to-ceiling windows; it was plain that he meant to watch her closely as she spoke, which to Laura was more than a little disconcerting even before she opened her mouth.

  ‘Had my father carried out the commission which you originally gave him,’ she began, lifting her shy eyes to his, ‘I would have accompanied him here, as I’ve worked for him for some considerable time.’ She stopped for a moment, her discomfiture increasing rapidly under his cool, unsmiling stare. ‘I have testimonials to prove my own efficiency,’ she went on, but he interrupted her, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

  ‘Your father, senhorita, you haven’t explained why he isn’t here?’

  She bit her lip, finding herself quite unable to speak as freely and unreservedly as she had intended. But then this young and coolly autocratic nobleman was far more disconcerting than she had expected. In any case, she had come prepared to see someone much older and, therefore, perhaps more mellowed and tolerant. This man’s eyes were hard, like steel, his air one of superiority and detachment; she had felt at a disadvantage from the first moment of setting eyes on him.

  ‘The commissions which were outstanding---- ’

  ‘Senhorita,’ interrupted the Conde sharply, ‘I want to know why your father isn’t here!’

  She coloured swiftly, and averted her head.

  ‘He died eighteen months ago,’ she answered in a quiet, rather hopeless little voice. She might just as well make her departure at once, she thought, because she was gaining nothing by remaining here, waiting for the Conde to dismiss her from his august presence.

  ‘Died?’ repeated the Conde disbelievingly. ‘And you have come here, expecting to take his place?’

  She nodded her head, swallowing saliva that was collecting in her mouth.

  ‘I’m very capable, sir. I have testimonials here, in my handbag—if—if you would be so kind as to take a look at them? As I was about to say a moment ago,’ she went on perseveringly, ‘the commissions outstanding at my father’s death were taken over by me and have been executed to the complete satisfaction of the people concerned.’ As she had been speaking she had withdrawn a large envelope from her bag, but she did not offer it to him, for his expression restrained her from doing so.

  ‘Am I to understand, senhorita, that you have come here expecting to work on my pictures?’ His voice held an incredulous note; his brilliant dark eyes held censure.

  ‘I’m capable of doing so—’ She stopped and looked questioningly at him. ‘Your butler said it was correct for me to address you as Dom Duarte?’

  The Conde inclined his dark head.

  ‘It will be quite in order for you to use that form of address.’ ‘Well,’ she began again awkwardly, ‘as I was saying. I’m capable of working on your paintings, as you will agree once you have read my testimonials—that is,’ she added, deliberately injecting an encouraging edge to her voice, ‘if you would be so obliging as to take a look at them?’ She automatically took up the envelope, but again replaced it on top of her handbag, for the Conde was shaking his head;

  ‘My paintings are far too valuable for me to take any risks about their restoration.’ There was no mistaking the implacable note to the foreign, urbane voice, and once again Laura lost hope. ‘Might I ask your age?’ he added.

  ‘I’m twenty-four,’ she replied.

  The Conde lifted his straight black brows in a gesture that made her feel like a child of five years of age.

  ‘Twenty-four, and you boast of your experience in the world of art?’ The tinge of mocking amusement in the Conde’s voice seemed strangely out of place, discouraging though it was. Up till now he had displayed only hauteur; the fact that he could be amused seemed to make him a little more human. Nevertheless, he had caused her to colour up as embarrassment made itself felt. And because of this embarrassment, she also felt angry. He was an arrogant and pompous man to assume that, because she was young, she was not capable of working on his precious paintings.

  ‘I wasn’t boasting,’ she retorted. ‘I was merely stating a fact. I shall state that fact again, Dom Duarte. I am capable of handling those paintings.’

  The deep grey eyes glinted, and there was now a certain ruthlessness about his mouth which Laura had not noticed before. She found herself examining his face more closely, discovering that the lines which she had mentally described as obdurate could in fact spell cruelty, that the out-thrust jawline could denote a mercilessness rather than the mere quality of firmness which was her first impression. And yet she had to own to the superlative good looks which the Conde possessed; he was the most handsome man she had ever encountered.

  ‘Perhaps you are capable,’ came the Conde’s surprising comment at last, ‘but even if you are, do you suppose I’d condone the deceit you have practised on me?’

  ‘The letter you sent was addressed to L. Conroy ...’ Laura tailed off to silence, aware even before encountering the severity in his eyes that she was being absurd.

  ‘You knew to whom the letter was addressed, senhorita. It was incumbent on you to write to me, informing me of the death of the man I had commissioned to do my work, and offering your own services in place of his.’

  ‘Would you even have considered my offer?’ she challenged, her shy, grey-green eyes looking directly into his.

  ‘I believe I might have looked more kindly on such an offer than I can on this deception.’ He searched her face intently before adding, ‘Tell me, senhorita, just why did you practise this deceit?’

  ‘I thought that, if
I wrote to you saying Father had died, you’d then have cancelled the commission.’

  ‘ So it was to have been a fait accompli?’ His black brows were raised, his head shaking from side to side, slowly. ‘It was a great pity you didn’t know me, senhorita, for then you would not have

  acted so unwisely. ’

  She nodded unhappily.

  ‘You won’t give me a trial, then?’

  The Conde shook his head.

  ‘Not under the circumstances. Firstly, there’s the deceit, and

  secondly, there’s the doubt in my mind about your ability to restore my paintings to my entire satisfaction. I’m a perfectionist, and therefore I desire a perfectionist to do the work for me. That is the reason I sent for your father.’

  ‘But I’ve worked with him, Dom Duarte. No one has ever found fault with my work. ’

  ‘Perhaps the pictures you’ve restored are not so valuable as mine.’

  Laura’s chin shot up; it was on the tip of her tongue to inform this arrogant nobleman that she had titled people among her clients. However, she was quelled by his expression and merely said, in her low and musical voice,

  ‘If you would look at my testimonials, Dom Duarte, you would—I think—be most impressed by the names of the people who wrote them. ’

  ‘Most probably,’ he agreed in his clipped and alien accents. ‘However, I am a busy man, senhorita, and never spend my time unproductively. Therefore I shall, I’m afraid, be denied the pleasure of reading what these illustrious clients of yours have written about you. ’ He was rising as he spoke and she knew she was being dismissed. Humiliation and anger replaced that shy expression in her eyes and for a long moment the Conde stood taking this in until, a quality of shrewdness entering his voice, he asked her why it had seemed so important that she should come to Torassa.

  ‘I have a strong suspicion,’ he continued before she could reply, ‘that it was the idea of a few months’ sojourn in a tropical island that was the incentive, rather than a keen and sincere desire to do some useful work.’

  It was seldom that Laura’s temper was strained to the point where she failed to control it, but she was very close to that point now. Her eyes glinted, almost after the fashion of the Conde’s, a few minutes previously. She stood up, small beside his towering figure, but what she lacked in height she made up for in courage and pride. With great dignity she said,

  ‘I can see that there is no purpose in continuing this interview. If you would be so obliging as to have your chauffeur drive me to the airport I should be most grateful. I did not notice as I came away, but I expect there’s an hotel there where I might stay for tonight?’

  ‘Tonight, senhorita? There is no flight tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh ...’ A frown touched her clear high forehead. ‘When is there a flight, then?’

  ‘Not for another week. There is no flow of air traffic to this island. We like to retain our privacy as much as we can. ’

  So he must keep his island to himself, she thought. What he ought to have been was a feudal lord, living in the Middle Ages! She could quite easily imagine him riding arrogantly through his lands, finding fault with the poor peasants over whom he ruled— and probably ordering them, to be thrown into a dungeon, or flogged and put through some other kind of torture.

  ‘ I shall just have to wait, then. This hotel-------------’

  ‘Does not exist,’ he broke in suavely. ‘There is no necessity for one on Torassa, since we never admit tourists. The only visitors we have are friends or business acquaintances; these naturally are accommodated by the people they have come to see.’

  What a strange place! And yet on second thoughts she could admit that it was idyllic. A sun-drenched island in the tropics which the inhabitants were able to keep entirely to themselves. No intruders searching for land to use for hotel building, no holiday flats, no funfairs or gaudy souvenir stalls. Just what nature provided—the white sandy beaches, the lush vegetation, the brightly-plumaged birds ... and the Lord of the Manor to keep order.

  Laura gave a deep sigh, thinking of what might have been could she have persuaded this man to allow her to work on his pictures.

  ‘You sigh,’ he observed, and she could not be sure whether or not there was a flicker of mockery in his steely grey eyes. ‘Is it disappointment at not being able to stay here, on the island, for six months or so, or is it annoyance that there is no flight for a week?’

  She moved uncomfortably. His perception annoyed her as

  much as it surprised her. Yet she found herself saying, with a frankness she had not meant to betray,

  ‘I must admit, Dom Duarte, that the prospect of spending a few months on a tropical island did lend enhancement to the idea of doing your work for you. ’ She was looking up into his face, her customary manner of seriousness and reserve strongly to the fore. ‘What am I to do about leaving? Is there a boat I could take?’

  For a long moment the Conde remained silent, staring down at her, examining her expression as if analysing it thoroughly. For some reason she smiled, and her eyes took on that liquid radiance which her father had always found so enchanting, and invariably remarked upon, saying it reminded him of her mother. The Conde’s metallic eyes flickered and he appeared to be deep in thought. But at length he said, coolly, but not in those clipped accents which gave his English a rather unusual sound,

  ‘I commend you on your honesty, senhorita. Had you denied being disappointed at not being able to remain here, I should have known you were lying. However,

  you told the truth. As for a boat---------------’ He shook his

  head. ‘You will be accommodated here at the Palacio until a

  week today------’

  ‘Oh, but------’

  ‘During that time, senhorita, if you and I do come into conversation, you will kindly not interrupt me. I’m unused to such lack of respect from those around me. I hope I make myself clear?’

  She had coloured hotly at the rebuke, and as her temper was almost at breaking point she would have derived extreme satisfaction from telling him what she thought about him. She did nothing of the kind, though, being conscious of her obligation to him in being forced to accept his hospitality.

  ‘Yes, Dom Duarte,’ she said meekly at last, ‘you do make yourself clear. I am sorry for the interruption.’

  ‘Where is your luggage?’ he asked. ‘Is it still in the car?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she had to admit. ‘It was in the boot, but the chauffeur might have taken it out. ’

  ‘In that case it will be in the hall-----------’ He reached up

  to pull on a long bell-rope made of fine gold wire twisted into an intricate pattern and ending in a loop. ‘We shall soon see,’ he told her. ‘If you are ready one of my maids will be here directly to take you to your room. ’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The room to which Laura was shown was perfection in its sheer simplicity of taste and colour. The walls were of pale lilac, the drapes of white to match the thick-pile carpet and the fine hand-embroidered bedspread. The suite was of fine sandalwood; the headboard of quilted velvet was of pale lilac, as were the chair and the stool in front of the dressing-table. Laura, thrilled with it all, had a second surprise on being shown the bathroom, which was also in white and pale lilac.

  ‘Martim is bringing up your suitcase, senhorita.’ The maid, whose name was Teresa, smiled as she mentioned the chauffeur’s name. Laura was to learn that the couple were engaged to be married. ‘Would you wish me to unpack for you?’

  ‘No, thank you all the same.’ Laura looked faintly puzzled. ‘Do you all speak English?’ she inquired.

  ‘Most people here speak English, senhorita. You see, Torassa was once owned by an Englishman who brought many servants and friends here. The friends left when my master’s family bought the island from the Englishman, but the servants remained. They have married with the original natives, and so we are this colour--—’ She pointed to her cheek and laughed. ‘It is nice, don�
��t you think?’

  ‘Very attractive,’ returned Laura, smiling. ‘The Conde, though, he is pure Portuguese?’

  ‘Of course. He owns many estates in Portugal, and vineyards; from these he makes his money.’

  ‘But lives permanently here, on Torassa?’

  ‘That is right. Dom Duarte is a lover of peace and quietness. He is glad that his people of the past decided to buy this island. It is a very beautiful island, yes?’

  ‘I haven’t seen much of it at all yet. I saw the lovely beaches from the air, and some high land in the interior. ’

  ‘We have mountains in the middle of our island, with beautiful trees growing there and pretty streams starting their life.’

  Pretty streams starting their life ... What a poetical way of putting it, thought Laura, smiling at the girl.

  ‘I hope I shall be able to go up and see some of these streams,’ she said.

  ‘If you are Dom Duarte’s guest then of course he will see that you are shown everything. He is an excellent host, as you will soon discover.’ The maid glanced around. ‘If there is nothing else, senhorita, then I will go?’

  ‘There’s nothing else, thank you.’

  The girl departed and a few moments later the luggage had been brought up. Laura hesitated about unpacking all her things, but then she decided to do so, as her dresses and blouses would be better in the wardrobe than in the cases, even if the majority of them were never worn while she was on the island. A week ... so short a time, and yet, in a way, she was fortunate. Had there been a flight she would never have had any opportunity at all of seeing the island. As it was, she decided she would take what was offered and try to have an enjoyable week’s holiday on this paradise island upon whose shores tourists were not allowed.

  After unpacking she had a bath, then changed into slacks and an open-necked shirt-blouse. She wanted to explore the grounds of the Palacio de Mauredo, then proceed to the Great Park which surrounded it. After that, if she still had time before dark, she would make her way to the shore. She wondered about her food and if she would eat with the servants. She supposed she would, and this supposition naturally led to the question: what would the servants think about her? They would soon have learned that she had been refused the work which she had hoped to do, would know that her deceit had definitely not met with the Conde’s approval.