by Anne Hampson
She shrugged inwardly, deciding it was unprofitable to
dwell on such things. She had known from the first that what she proposed doing was a gamble. Well, it had not come off, and the venture had been a loss financially, since she had to pay her own air fare, which would not have been the case had she been able to carry out the commission. However, so long as she was having to pay her fare, she might as well have something for it. A week on the lovely island of Torassa would be an experience she would not forget for a long time to come.
Her room had a balcony and Laura stepped out on to it, her appreciative eyes wandering over the lovely scene of part of the Palacio gardens where exotic flowers spread their incredible colours between areas of smooth green lawns. A fountain shot its spray towards the clear blue crystal sky; its waters, penetrated . by sunshine, flashed every colour of the rainbow as they fell back into the lily pool from which they had emerged. Statues looked down upon another pool, which was lined with precious azulejos and into whose waters dipped the branches of willows growing along one side of it. At the other side was a terraced rose garden, while at both ends were shady bowers in which were brightly-coloured garden chairs.
A sigh escaped Laura; it was a mingling of pleasure and disappointment.
‘I wish it were six months,’ she said in a whisper. ‘But never mind; at least I have a week. ’
A few minutes later she was in the garden, walking slowly from one delectable bush to another and wondering how she could discover their names. Of the trees she recognised the fragrant frangipani with its thick glossy leaves and creamy white flowers, the Royal poinciana and the tropical Flame of the Forest. A slender allamanda spread a shower of delicate gold as it climbed all over the stump of a dead tree which had been left there specifically for the plant to use for its support.
Wandering on, Laura strolled past more colourful borders, trod wide paths between lawns, came upon little waterfalls and rock gardens, all basking in the warm sunshine of this quiet, enchanting island floating like a jewel in the tropical waters of the Indian Ocean.
How lucky the Conde was! —and all who lived here, for that matter. Those who worked for him seemed to be inordinately happy and contented. Laura shrugged away the access of regret which would have intruded into the pleasure she was deriving from her stroll. The sun on her face, the breeze from the sea teasing her hair, the flower perfumes assailing her nostrils ... all these compounded to vanquish any dampness of spirit she might otherwise have experienced.
Half an hour later she was in the Great Park, gasping over and over again at the beauty of the trees and shrubs. Here again were clumps of frangipani trees, some the lovely white which she had already seen, but some were bright red, making an impressive contrast to the gold of the dhak trees growing close by. The orange flowers of the flamboyant trees made another contrast, this time with the dark green foliage of the Chinese fan palms and the paler green of the beautiful mountain tallows. The ground beneath these trees was covered with a myriad varieties of low plants, all brightly-coloured, while in the branches of some of the tall trees could be seen orchids of many subtle colours and shapes.
Suddenly Laura tensed, aware of some slight sound disturbing the utter stillness and serenity of the Park. She turned her head, then stopped, wondering if her colour had heightened, as she felt it had. The Conde, dressed in white slacks and a white shirt, open at the throat and with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows, had come into the Park and was approaching her with the long easy strides of an athlete. He reached her and she found herself stammering as she asked if he minded her being here.
‘Of course not.’ His voice was the courteous one which he had at first used and she surmised that he was not going to mention her deceit again. She was not forgiven, of course, but neither was she to be reminded of her wrongdoing. She managed a smile as she thanked him, then ventured to comment on some of the wonders she had seen since coming out more than an hour ago.
‘I’ve never even imagined such beauty,' she added, ‘much less been fortunate enough to see it, and walk among it. Your gardens leave me breathless, Dom Duarte.’
The cold eyes remained expressionless, so that she could not discover whether or not her words had pleased him. What an aloof man he was! As she looked up into his face she thought: I might be looking at one of those stone statues over there, in the garden.
‘You must enjoy whatever my house and gardens offer,’ he said urbanely at last. ‘As you have to be here, then obviously you’ll want to make the most of your visit. ’
‘Yes, that’s how I look at it.’ Her smile fluttered; she saw his own eyes move with the merest flicker. ‘Thank you for saying I may enjoy what your house has to offer. I’m interested in antiques, naturally, and I shall love looking around. I know I shall
be especially interested in the pictures------’ She stopped, having
spoken without thinking. The Conde seemed to smile faintly and again there was a hint of a flicker in his eyes.
‘Naturally you will be interested in my pictures,’ he agreed in tones of sardonic amusement. ‘Most of them are in the gallery, which you will find on the first floor of the Palacio.’
‘Thank you.’ She wished she could feel more at ease—or, alternately, that he would leave her. She was puzzled as to why he was here, but dared not ask him. However, he explained within the next few seconds and she learned that, in the Great Park, there was a swimming-pool and something had gone wrong with its drainage system.
‘I should have thought you would have someone do it for you,’ she said, for the second time not stopping to think.
‘I certainly do not intend to fix drains myself,’ was the curt reply she received before, with a slight inclination of the head, the Conde went on his way.
Laura stood where he had left her, biting her lip and angrily asking herself why she had spoken out of turn, not once only, but twice. She felt awkward in his company, that was the crux of the matter. His cold austerity, his arrogance and superiority, the memory of her own act of deceit which had brought her here in the first place—all these contributed in part to her lack of
composure when in his presence. She wondered if her stay on this lovely coral island was going to be all rosy and pleasant after all.
It was half past seven that evening. She had watched from her balcony as the sun went down—a brilliant red disc hovering at the horizon’s edge, its fiery rays mirrored in the tranquil sea. Closer to, in the vast grounds of the Palacio, trees had been dappled with gold and saffron and flame, while the mountainsides in the far distance to the north of the island were already shadowed in duns and greys as the sky above them paled to turquoise before swiftly deepening to indigo, then to the deep purple through which the brightening stars appeared. The dusk had been beautiful, like a spreading haze of soft and gentle colour advancing on the last gilded rays that glowed from the dying light of the sun. And now the air was sweet and fresh; moths had appeared, and the chirping of crickets-mingled with the croaking of frogs and the occasional call of a monkey or a night bird.
Laura had changed into a dress but had not taken any special care; with her appearance. She had walked for miles since coming to the island that morning and she was tired— almost ready for bed, in fact, and had she not felt so hungry she most certainly would have turned in.
She was about to make her way down to the kitchen, which she had located earlier, from outside, when there was a gentle tap on her door and Teresa opened it in response to Laura’s ‘come in’.
‘Dom Duarte asked me to tell you that dinner will be served at half past eight in the small dining-room. ’
Laura blinked.
‘He means that I am to dine with him?’ she queried in surprise.
‘That’s right, senhorita,’ Teresa’s dark eyes made a swift and surreptitious examination of Laura’s attire. ‘It is customary for guests to dress for dinner,’ she murmured tactfully but with a smile. ‘Will you need my help at all?’
&nbs
p; Laura smiled and shook her head.
‘No, thank you, Teresa.’ A slight pause and then, ‘The small dining-room—is that it, next to the Blue Lounge?’
‘No, that’s Dom Duarte’s private sitting-room. I think I had better show you the small dining-room; it’s rather out of the way.’ A few moments later Laura was being shown the room, after having been taken through the large front hall, along a thickly-carpeted corridor into a side hall, and it was off this that the small dining-room was situated. Laura thanked the girl, then went back to her bedroom. She had managed to hide her apprehension from Teresa, but it had been there, for all that. Now, she realised, her heart was beating much too quickly and in a vague sort of way she was searching for an excuse not to dine with the Conde. A headache? Not convincing at all. She was tired? Again not convincing, seeing that it was still early evening. Laura sighed, aware that whatever excuse she could think up would carry no real weight. The Conde would know it was not genuine.
Resignedly accepting that she must dine with him, Laura examined her wardrobe for what she thought would be most suitable. She chose a simple outfit in the end—a plain black velvet skirt and a white lacy blouse with long sleeves and a neckline that fitted snugly to her throat.
The Conde, looking superlative in an off-white linen suit with frilled shirt and a black bow-tie, was standing by the long low window, looking out on to a scene of statuary and fountains, of terraces and parterres, all floodlit with lights of varying colours— soft yellows, rose pinks, gentle greens and mauves. He turned on hearing her soft footfall as she entered the room, and his grey eyes looked her over appraisingly. She coloured delicately, forcing a smile, which brought that limpid radiance to her lovely eyes. The Conde held a glass in his hand; he politely inquired if she would like a drink. ‘No, thank you,’ she returned shyly.
Do sit down,’ he invited. ‘Over here, on the window seat. Dinner will be about ten minutes or so.’
She sat down, feeling small and very much out of her element.
She spoke, voicing what was in her mind.
‘I was surprised to receive your invitation to dine with you. I had expected to eat in the kitchen. ’
The Conde’s steely eyes opened wide.
‘In the kitchen?’ he repeated. ‘What on earth gave you an idea like that?’
‘If I had entered your employ, then I’d have expected to eat with the servants.’
‘You would not have been that kind of a servant.’ He emptied his glass and placed it on the sideboard. ‘I had considered your father as an artist, working on his own account. I would never have thought of him as an employee of mine, but rather as a business associate who was doing me a service.’
Laura said, after a little hesitant pause,
‘ I am capable of doing that service, sir. My father taught me all he knew------ ’
‘But could not give you the experience that comes with age, senhorita,’ The smooth finality of this precluded any further attempts at persuasion on Laura’s part, and she resolved never to mention the paintings again.
An awkward pause was avoided by the Conde asking about her afternoon’s perambulations.
‘After strolling round the gardens here, and the Great Park, I went to the shore and walked along there for miles.’ She looked up at him from her seat in the window; he was not so very far away and she could smell the faintly perceptible fragrance of an aftershave lotion. ‘The beach is lovely. I’ve never seen white sands before ...’ She tailed off, pleasantly recalling the palms against the southern sky, swaying gently in the breeze drifting in from the coral sea. The waves washed, so gently, against the shore. Small boats could be seen, far out on the smooth waters, their brightly-coloured sails flapping in the breeze. She saw a surf-rider, and a couple of para-gliders, but the people on the beach could be counted on her hands. ‘Nor have I been on a beach with so few people on it. ’
‘Our population is extremely low here,’ returned the Conde in his distant, aristocratic manner. ‘This, and the entire absence of tourists, keeps our island as near as possible, in its original state. We have to build houses, but you will have noticed that they are thatched for the most part with palm leaves. Our roads are kept down to a minimum, so that it is possible to walk in the countryside undisturbed by the noise and dust of traffic. On the island are many kinds of terrain. We have some mountainous country, some level arable land, some terraced vineyards and even some jungle.’
‘It sounds fascinating.’ Her voice was low, her eyes dreamy. She had no idea just how attractive she was at this moment, or how appealing her manner. She turned her head automatically, to take in the wonders of the gardens behind her, gardens which, being a combination of what prodigal nature could produce, and the great care and attention given by dedicated men employed by the Conde, were the very acme of perfection. A small sigh escaped her; she thought of her father, wishing he had lived to enjoy the six months or more on Torassa which would have been necessary had he taken on the work of restoring the paintings. The Conde’s quiet, foreign voice came to her, penetrating her thoughts but not dispersing them.
‘You will have to explore as much of Torassa as you can in the short time you have. I will have someone at your service, if you so wish, who will take you around. ’ She turned to glance up into his mahogany dark face, a sudden smile appearing, and with it that limpid moisture which made her beautiful eyes even more arresting. The Conde’s attention was caught; his dark eyes flickered, then moved, in a slow examination of her features—the high unlined forehead and curving eyebrows, the thick curling lashes which threw enchanting shadows on to her pale, clearskinned cheeks. He noticed the firm little chin, pointed so that it gave the effect of an elfin quality, the youthful curves beneath the lacy blouse,, the narrow waist, the slender ankles, revealed because her legs were crossed, thus bringing the velvet skirt away from the floor.
‘That is kind of you, Dom Duarte,’ she said shyly. ‘It will be a great help if I have with me someone who knows the island.’ ‘Would you prefer a man or a woman?’
She gave a start of surprise. Aware of the strictness of the Portuguese nobility regarding morals, she had not expected to be given a choice of this kind.
‘I expected you would have given me a woman,’ she said, speaking her thoughts aloud.
‘Had you been my sister,’ he returned, ‘then most certainly you would have had a woman accompany you. However, in your country it is different and, therefore, I give you the choice.’
She said quietly, without even pausing to consider, ‘Could
I have Teresa?’
The merest smile touched his noble mouth.
‘Already you like her? Teresa has always been popular. Martim is envied by all his unmarried friends.’ The Conde nodded his head. ‘Yes, have Teresa by all means. She will, I expect, welcome an off-duty period like this.’
Laura looked at him, examining him in a new light. He seemed quite willing to give Teresa a week off from her duties in the Palacio; he had also spoken of her with a touch of admiration in his voice. Laura searched his face for a sign of softness, of real humanity. She saw only hard eyes like steel, a firm out-thrust-jaw, an implacable mouth. Did he ever unbend, this aristocrat with the air of a feudal lord?
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, suddenly aware that he was waiting for some comment from her. ‘ It will be far more pleasant to explore the island with Teresa than by myself.’
The dinner was soon served and, sitting opposite to Dom Duarte at the small table, Laura was amazed to discover that she was at ease. She had dreaded the meal, had assured herself that it would be a strain and that she would give a deep sigh of relief when it was over and she could escape to her room, away from the awe-inspiring presence of the Conde Duarte Andre Volante de Taviro Mauredo. Instead she was—perhaps subconsciously—wanting the meal to be prolonged, for the conversation, hinging on antiques and various well-known works of art, was naturally as interesting to Laura as it was to her noble host. For his part, he
several times betrayed his surprise at her knowledge, and when at length the meal was over and they retired to the Blue Lounge for coffee and liqueurs she felt sure his opinion of her had risen since the first uncomfortable meeting only that morning.
The coffee was brought on a gleaming silver tray, carried in by Gigo, an immaculately-attired manservant. His dark eyes slid to Laura, but only for a second.
‘You can leave the tray,’ said the Conde in English. ‘We will serve ourselves.’
However, once the man had gone Dom Duarte himself poured Laura’s coffee, and then his own. She watched his slender brown hands, noting their strength, and she gained the extraordinary impression that they could be infinitely gentle, this in spite of their appearance of iron-hardness and the idea that they could inflict the direst pain and cruelty on anyone who was unwise enough to arouse in their owner the primitive instincts which Laura was certain he possessed. Conscious of her intensive stare, Dom Duarte stopped in the act of passing her the sugar and his straight black brows lifted a fraction in a gesture of arrogant inquiry. She coloured adorably in her embarrassment, looked down into her cup of steaming coffee, and waited for him to speak.
‘Is something wrong, senhorita?’ The alien voice, cold as ice, plunged Laura into an inexplicable feeling of dejection. It was as if this change in his manner had spoiled the whole evening.
‘No—no, of course not,’ she stammered. ‘Why should you ask?’
‘The way you were staring at me,’ was his reply. And then, unexpectedly, ‘Tell me, senhorita, what were you thinking about?’
She glanced at his hands, one of which was now picking up the