Rachel Trevellyan

by Anne Mather

  Eduardo showed them into a room which seemed small compared to the rooms at the Quinta Martinez, but which was nevertheless a comfortable apartment. The room seemed full of people, and perhaps that was why it seemed smaller still, and Rachel’s eyes sped swiftly round the group of strangely silent faces, searching for her husband’s. And then she realised he was lying on a couch in the middle of the floor, and that someone, a man, was kneeling beside him, pressing his ear to Malcolm’s chest.

  Rachel shook off Jorge’s restraining hand and ran forward, dropping to her knees beside the couch, taking Malcolm’s hand, trying to tell herself that he was merely unconscious. His eyes were closed, one side of his face was hideously twisted, he didn’t seem to be breathing!

  The man rose to his feet, shaking his head helplessly. Rachel looked up at him, realising he must be Senhor Alejento. He had the same features as his son, and as Rachel had been so recently talking to his son, she recognised him at once.

  She moved her head slowly from side to side and then looked back disbelievingly at her husband. ‘Is—is he dead?’ she breathed in horror.

  ‘I am afraid so, senhora.’ Senhor Alejento spoke stiffly and without emotion. ‘It was very quick. There was nothing we could do.’

  ‘No!’ Rachel shook her head more quickly. ‘No, I don’t believe you. How—how can he be dead? He—he was perfectly all right half an hour ago!’ Her voice had risen as she spoke, and now she got to her feet, staring round at them wildly. ‘What happened here? Why is he dead? What have you done to him?’

  ‘He was an evil man!’

  It was the Marquesa de Mendao who had spoken, and Rachel swung round to confront her. She was standing beside another woman whom Rachel realised must be Senhora Alejento, who was supporting her with a comforting arm. The Marquesa looked ill, but Rachel could not feel pity.

  ‘How can you say that?’ she demanded tremulously. ‘You—the Trevellyans took you in—they—they cared for you!’

  The Marquesa moved her shoulders wearily. ‘You don’t know anything about it, senhora. Your husband came here to—to——’ She broke off. ‘If he is dead, he has no one to blame but himself.’

  Rachel stared at them all: at the Marquesa, leaning heavily on Senhora Alejento, so cold and unfeeling both of them in their silent condemnation. She looked at Senhor Alejento, and Amalia, who looked frozen, her calm features belying an inner torment, but why?

  She looked at Eduardo, realising his horror at his part in the proceedings. No doubt he was already anticipating Luis’s anger when he discovered Eduardo was responsible for bringing them here. And finally she looked at Jorge Alejento, the only person in the room who seemed concerned about her.

  She drew a trembling breath. It was suddenly very hot in here. She could hardly get her breath. The atmosphere was so tangible, she felt she could have cut it with a knife. It was a pressing, hostile atmosphere, and an unreasoning sense of panic rose inside her. This couldn’t actually be happening, it just couldn’t! Malcolm wasn’t dead, he was alive, demanding, aggressive, not cold and still and lifeless.

  She raised a confused hand to her forehead and found it was damp. She was sweating, but why? She felt cold, very cold. Her breathing was quickening, and she didn’t know why. Was nobody going to say anything? Was nobody going to express pity at the passing of a human being?

  She looked again at Jorge. His eyes were full of compassion. With a helpless gesture she tried to move towards him, but her legs felt leaden, they wouldn’t move. Her panic increased. An encroaching blackness was colouring the outer reaches of her brain. It was difficult to think, to move, to breathe ...

  A sob rose in her throat, but it was never emitted. Instead, she sank with a faint sigh, unconscious at their feet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE exact sequence of events of the next few days were never afterwards very clear in Rachel’s mind, although at the time they seemed acutely memorable. She was consumed with a sense of guilt, doubtful that had she accompanied Malcolm into the Alejento house this terrible thing would have occurred. She blamed herself for abandoning him, and would not listen to that inner voice which continually reminded her that Malcolm’s motives for going to Alcorado were not admirable ones. The Marquesa had not enlarged on her initial outburst just after Malcolm’s fatal stroke, but it was obvious that there had been some kind of confrontation. Even so, it was difficult to feel anything but guilt when grief seemed so elusive.

  There were times, of course, when a certain nostalgia overwhelmed her; but that was all it was, and when she recalled Malcolm’s treatment of her father and more lately of herself, bitterness choked her throat.

  She had recovered consciousness in one of the bedrooms of the house. There had been a maid stationed beside her bed, and Jorge Alejento had been hovering by the door. She had come round with a distinct feeling of foreboding which had increased when full consciousness brought full recall.

  Jorge had explained that Luis had been contacted, and that he was already on his way to take charge of the situation. By the time Luis arrived Rachel was downstairs again, pale but composed, scarcely able to accept the situation even then.

  Luis came straight to the sala where Rachel was waiting for him. Senhora Alejento was seated with her, but she might as well have been alone, for the senhora had not spoken a word.

  She didn’t know what explanations had been made to him, but Luis asked no awkward questions about why they should be at Alcorado in the first place, and merely enquired how she was feeling. His eyes mirrored a little of the concern of Jorge’s. Clearly, in spite of his mother’s involvement, he could not dismiss death so cold-bloodedly.

  Then he went away again, and something inside her froze. What was she going to do? What did one do in circumstances like these? Would Malcolm’s body have to be transported back to England for burial? Her mind shied away from the thought. If only there was someone she could have contacted back home, some relative perhaps who would come here and take charge of everything. But there was no one.

  Senhora Alejento sat very still. Rachel had never known such a still person. In her black morning dress, her dark hair smoothed into a chignon, she was immaculately groomed, her face bearing little expression. Surely she ought to say something, thought Rachel, a trifle hysterically. In similar circumstances she would have wanted to console the bereaved wife, not treat her like some particularly obnoxious creature who just happened to be present at this most inconvenient time. Were all this family like that? Senhor Alejento; Amalia! She came to Jorge, and unwillingly a sense of warmth invaded her chilled limbs. He was not like the others. He had warmth, and understanding; a sense of humour. Oh, yes, a sense of humour was so important even in terrible circumstances like these. She looked at Senhora Alejento’s stiff, unyielding features and a hiccough of suppressed laughter broke from her. How silly this was, sitting here, not speaking, not moving, acting like corpses themselves. But they were not dead; it was Malcolm who was dead; Malcolm who was lying so stiff and unmoving in that other room.

  She giggled, and the sound echoed round the quiet room. Senhora Alejento turned her head to look at Rachel with cold, disapproving eyes, and Rachel laughed again. She went on laughing. It was funny, she thought wildly, very funny.

  Senhora Alejento moved then, quickly. She hurried across the room to summon assistance and reached the door just as Luis burst through it. For once he was without his courtliness. He didn’t apologise for almost knocking the senhora over, but went straight to Rachel and slapped her face hard.

  Her laughter subsided as quickly as it had begun, and she gazed up at him with a pained expression. ‘You—you hit me!’ she exclaimed tremulously.

  ‘I had to.’ Luis glanced round impatiently and saw Senhora Alejento watching them from the doorway. ‘Look—please, calm yourself! We will be leaving very shortly.’

  ‘Leaving?’ Rachel was puzzled. ‘Leaving for where?’

  ‘The quinta, of course.’ Luis had a muscle jerking in his temple. ‘
The arrangements are almost complete. Wait only a few minutes more.’

  ‘And—and Malcolm?’ Rachel felt a lump in her throat.

  ‘Rest assured, everything is beings dealt with—er—senhora!’

  Rachel was sure he had added that final appellation for Senhora Alejento’s benefit. She was watching their interchange closely and Rachel realised that at no time had she addressed him in any formal way. But this wasn’t the time to be remembering those sort of things. They were not important. Malcolm’s death had proved how transitory a thing life could be. What was important was trying to assimilate her position now. She would be returning to England, of course, and somehow she had to accept that from now on she would be on her own.

  ‘You will be all right now, senhora?’

  Luis was speaking again, and Rachel nodded. ‘Of course,’ she answered dully, ‘Senhor Marquês!’

  Luis looked at her for a long moment, his expression enigmatic, and then without another word he turned and left the room. After he had gone, Senhora Alejento closed the door again and came back to her seat. But now she seemed disposed to talk, for she said:

  ‘You will be returning to England soon, senhora. No doubt you will be glad to do so.’

  Rachel hesitated. Would she be glad? Of course she would, she told herself vehemently. There was nothing for her here. England at least was her homeland, and although she had no relatives she had some good friends in Mawvry.

  Forcing a calmness she did not feel, she replied: ‘I expect I shall be leaving very soon. Tomorrow, perhaps.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her reply seemed to satisfy the senhora. ‘You are young, senhora. Perhaps you will marry again.’

  Rachel felt a sense of distaste. ‘I don’t think that’s at all likely. Besides, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss such a thing,’ she declared.

  ‘Why not?’ Senhora Alejento’s mouth assumed a haughty slant. ‘One must be practical, and surely your husband’s death cannot have been wholly surprising. He was not a young man, and he had been very ill, had he not?’

  Rachel got to her feet and wandered restlessly about the room. She didn’t want to talk to this cold woman. She wished Luis would hurry back.

  ‘It is as well it happened now,’ went on Senhora Alejento. ‘It would have been most unpleasant if your husband had still been here at the time of Amalia and Luis’s marriage. It could so easily have interfered with their arrangements, and after all, your husband was no relation, was he? No relation whatsoever.’

  Rachel clenched her hands. ‘I’d rather not discuss my husband with you, senhora,’ she said tautly.

  ‘Why not?’ Senhora Alejento raised her dark brows. ‘Surely you are aware that your presence at the quinta was an embarrassment to the Marquesa!’

  Rachel stared at the other woman with dislike. ‘Then she should not have invited my husband there!’

  ‘I cannot imagine why she did. She regretted it the moment it was done.’

  Rachel was about to make some rejoinder when the door opened again and Luis reappeared. She stood where she was, in the middle of the floor, and looked at him, and he said: ‘Come! We are returning to the quinta at once.’

  Senhora Alejento rose to her feet. ‘Everything is arranged, Luis?’ she queried.

  ‘I believe so, Dona Manuela.’

  ‘Where is Amalia?’

  ‘In her room, I think. I have not seen her within the last half hour.’

  ‘You will see her before you go?’ The senhora frowned.

  ‘Of course.’ Luis clicked his heels politely. ‘Senhora!’

  Rachel realised he meant her and with reluctant steps she preceded him out of the door. She did not look at Senhora Alejento. She had nothing more to say to her.

  In the hall the Marquesa and Sara Ribialto awaited them. Obviously they were returning to the quinta, too, for their luggage was beside them. The Marquesa gave Rachel a dispassionate stare, and Rachel looked away from that cold appraisal. The Marquesa seemed to have herself well in hand now and no doubt regretted her momentary loss of control.

  Outside the blue convertible stood unattended while Luis opened the door of the silver-grey limousine which he had used to bring them from the airport two weeks ago. Rachel looked round, then her brow furrowed. Where was Malcolm’s body?

  As though sensing her silent question, Luis came behind her and said: ‘I have made arrangements with a firm of agentes de funerais, senhora. Your husband will return to the quinta later.’

  Rachel looked up at him with agonised eyes, and the Marquesa stepped forward. ‘Is that necessary, Luis?’ she asked, through tight lips. ‘Would it not be more sensible to have—arrangements made at the airport? For tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Luis frowned. ‘What is to happen tomorrow?’

  Rachel knew what the Marquesa was meaning, and she was pretty sure Luis knew it, too. But he wasn’t going to help his mother in that respect.

  She sighed, twisting her lace gloves. ‘Luis, you know perfectly well that—that Senhora Trevellyan will be returning to England tomorrow. She has arrangements to make, funeral arrangements. She cannot afford to waste even a day. You must know that.’

  Luis’s mouth was a thin line. ‘On the contrary, Mama, Senhora Trevellyan needs time to decide what to do. It would not be feasible to fly her home tomorrow——’

  ‘Why not? I’m sure—Malcolm would want to be buried in Cornwall.’

  ‘Does it matter where he is buried?’ Luis spoke grimly. ‘Mama, I do not think we should act hastily. Surely you must realise the senhora has had a terrible shock. She is not fit to deal with funeral arrangements!’

  ‘Oh, really, I can manage——’ Rachel began desperately. She must not get involved in a quarrel between the Marquesa and her son. The Marquesa was right; it would be best for her to leave immediately. Tonight, if possible. Although the prospect of returning to that bleak house on the Cornish cliffs with only Malcolm’s body for company was terrifying right at this moment. Oh, she must pull herself together!

  ‘You see,’ the Marquesa was saying triumphantly to her son, ‘Senhora Trevellyan would prefer to go home! Of course she would. No doubt she has relatives there——’

  ‘She has no one, Mama,’ stated Luis categorically.

  ‘How do you know that?’ The Marquesa’s small hands were almost tearing the lace gloves to shreds.

  ‘Her husband told me,’ replied Luis distinctly. ‘Now, will you get in the car, Mama?’

  Rachel was still puzzling over how Luis should know that she had no relatives when goodbyes had been said and the sleek silver limousine was cruising smoothly down the drive. She had been installed in the front passenger seat, beside Luis, while his mother occupied the back with Sara Ribialto.

  The atmosphere before they left had been disturbingly hostile. Both Senhor and Senhora Alejento appeared to agree with the Marquesa that it was foolish having Malcolm’s body transported to the quinta, and Amalia when she appeared looked pale and strained.

  Rachel felt dreadful about the whole affair, but Luis would listen to no objections from her. He had taken charge completely, and just now she did not have the strength to gainsay him.

  It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the quinta and Rachel realised the faintness she was feeling was partially due to the fact that she had eaten nothing since breakfast. But in spite of her condition, the idea of food was anathema to her.

  It was peculiar travelling up the thickly wooded drive of the quinta, and to see the turreted outline of the building appearing through the trees. She felt a strange sense of homecoming, which was ridiculous in the circumstances, unless it was that the Alejento house had become such a cold and alien place to her. In any event, soon she would be on her way back to England, so there was no point in seeing the quinta as a refuge now.

  The car halted at the foot of the steps leading up to the terrace. Rachel got out immediately, without assistance, but Luis helped the Marquesa and she mounted the steps stiffly.
Momentarily Rachel wondered where Eduardo could be, and then realised he would be returning home with Malcolm’s body. There would be the coffin that Luis had arranged to pay for, and she felt a twinge of alarm. Did Malcolm have any insurance for an event like this? There were so many things to think about when someone died, and her head began to ache when she tried to think coherently.

  Mario and Luisa had both appeared on the terrace to welcome home their mistress, but Rachel still stood beside the car feeling actually physically sick. Luis, who had begun to follow the others, turned and saw her there, and came back to her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, and the gentleness in his voice was her undoing. She shook her head and turned away, huge tears overspilling her eyes and running helplessly down her cheeks. She rubbed her cheeks furiously with the palms of her hands, but he came round her and saw what she was doing.

  ‘Oh, Rachel,’ he exclaimed huskily, ‘don’t cry. Let’s go into the house.’

  But once she had started it was not so easy to stop, and she dragged a tissue out of her handbag and rubbed her eyes. She was aware of the Marquesa turning to see what was going on, and Luis, who put an arm around her shoulders and urged her up the steps, gave his mother an impatient look.

  ‘Luis——’ she began, but he shook his head.

  ‘Not now, Mama.’

  ‘But, Luis——’ The Marquesa sounded angry.

  ‘I said not now, Mama,’ returned Luis forcefully, and escorted Rachel along the corridor to her own suite of rooms.

  She was glad he did not take her to Malcolm’s rooms. It was too soon to go in there and begin the terrible task of packing his things away.

  In her rooms, Luis released her and stood silently by the door.

  ‘You are hungry,’ he said. ‘I will arrange for Rosa to bring you something.’

  ‘No! No, don’t do that,’ Rachel sniffed, trying to compose herself. ‘I—I’m not hungry.’