Rachel Trevellyan

by Anne Mather

  Curiously, she picked it up, expecting it to be Elizabeth Trevellyan’s birth certificate or perhaps her marriage certificate. But it was neither. It was a birth certificate, certainly, but it bore the name of Joanna Portreath.

  Rachel was astonished. The mother’s name was there, someone called Rosemary Portreath, but the father’s name was unknown. The date of birth was the seventeenth of August, 1914.

  Rachel got to her feet and stared at the certificate in dismay. The name, the date of birth, everything fitted. This had to be Joanna Martinez’s birth certificate.

  For several minutes she just stood there, looking at the slip of paper in her hand, trying to assimilate what this meant. Who was Rosemary Portreath, that was what she had to find out now.

  Dropping to her knees again, she riffled through the papers. Impatiently she opened old insurance policies, savings certificates, photographs that meant nothing to her whatsoever.

  And then she came upon it. The thing she had unknowingly been seeking: Malcolm’s mother’s birth certificate. And there it was: plain for anyone to see. Elizabeth, daughter of Amos and Naomi Portreath. This Rosemary Portreath must have been Elizabeth’s sister.

  Rachel tried to think. If Rosemary was Elizabeth’s sister, then that made Malcolm and Joanna cousins. She frowned. But Malcolm had said Joanna was orphaned and his parents had cared for her. Still, that was possible. If Joanna’s mother had died, she would be orphaned because her parents were not married; she had no father!

  Rachel caught her breath on a gasp. Now she was beginning to understand. This birth certificate was the real link between Malcolm and Joanna, the thing which had coloured their relationship.

  But why? Rachel asked herself. What use had Malcolm had for such an ancient document? What possible reason was there for him to have kept it all this time? Surely it was Joanna’s property.

  She bit hard at her lower lip. Of course, the inevitable answers presented themselves. In his dealings with her father, Malcolm had not been above blackmail, and this—this was something explosive!

  She thought of the Marquesa, so strict and correct; to imagine her horror at being exposed as illegitimate did not bear thinking about.

  But the more Rachel thought about it, the more convinced she became that she was right. So many things fitted into place, not least their acceptance into the Martinez household.

  But did Luis know? That was the question. Somehow she doubted it. She doubted whether he would submit to threats as easily as his mother, if indeed that was the case.

  She paced restlessly about the bedroom. How long had Malcolm known the secret of his cousin’s birth? How long had the birth certificate been in his hands? Surely he could not have been blackmailing her for forty years!

  Thrusting the certificate aside, Rachel went down on her knees beside the box again and began taking out the letters. They were still in their envelopes in most cases and she was able to read the postmarks on some of them. The earliest date she could find was a little over four years old. She frowned. Malcolm’s mother had died four years ago. It all fitted. That must have been when the birth certificate fell into Malcolm’s hands.

  Rachel dropped the letters as if they had burned her. So many things were falling into place, not least being the Marquesa’s attitude the day of the funeral. Her words about helping Rachel assumed a different appearance. How she had looked when Rachel had said she was not like Malcolm! Did she think—could she possibly imagine that she, Rachel, knew of Malcolm’s treachery?

  Rachel felt sick. The whole thing appalled her, but what could she do?

  And then she saw something else at the bottom of the box. It was black, and when she drew it out she found it was a bank book. She turned it over in her fingers curiously. She had thought Malcolm was a member of only one bank, and not this one.

  With trembling fingers she opened the book, and then she gasped in horror. Far from being short of money as Malcolm had always maintained he was, the contents of the book revealed that he had over ten thousand pounds deposited. Ten thousand pounds! But how?

  She turned the pages, and then everything became clear. There were regular deposits of three hundred pounds every month made over a period of three years.

  Rachel was horrified. This then was the man who had pretended an affection for the Marquesa, who had insinuated himself into her house when he thought his chances of bleeding her dry were escaping him.

  Rachel got to her feet again and heaved a deep sigh. She needed a cup of tea. Anything to take the horrible taste of blackmail out of her mouth.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, she sipped the scalding liquid, trying to think coherently. What now? What ought she to do? If she sent the certificate to the Marquesa, would that exonerate her from all blame? And what did one do about transferring such a large amount of money out of the country? Because that was what she would have to do. It was the Marquesa’s money and she wanted none of it.

  She sighed. If only there was someone to whom she could turn, someone to whom she could confide the ugly aspects of the situation. But there was no one. If she told the solicitors what she suspected, there might have to be a court case, and the last thing she wanted for this was publicity. The Marquesa had suffered all these years, living in fear of exposure. To reveal everything now would mean that those years of agony had been in vain. No, Rachel could not do that, not even to the woman who had treated her with such contempt. And maybe she had had some justification, Rachel conceded now. If she had believed that Rachel was a party to the conspiracy ...

  It was early evening, and on impulse Rachel slipped on a cardigan and went for a walk on the cliffs. She needed to get away from the house, from the pervading influence of her dead husband, so that she could seriously consider what to do.

  It was a beautiful evening, cool and fresh, with only a faint drift of cloud on the horizon. Spring was here and everything was burgeoning with new life. It was the time of year Rachel liked most and she thought with sudden longing of her oils and canvas. It seemed years, not just weeks, since she had picked up her brush and lost herself in the simple enjoyment of her work.

  It was dark when she finally returned to the house. She went straight upstairs and pushed everything back into the deed box again and then thrust it out of sight in the wardrobe. Downstairs, she breathed deeply. She would forget about it for the moment, she told herself determinedly. If she hadn’t seen the birth certificate she would never have learnt the truth, and it was certain that no solicitor knew of the deed box’s existence.

  Malcolm’s affairs took some time to tie up, but Rachel didn’t mind. She was told that the house would be hers, but there was very little money and it was doubtful that she would be able to afford to keep it on. The cottages Malcolm had owned in the village had only very small rents, and as he had refused to do any repairs he had had no opportunity to raise them. And it was certain that Rachel would not now be able to afford repairs. She refused to consider touching the money in the bank book in the deed box.

  So the cottages were sold, in some cases to their tenants at a quarter their value. The solicitors thought she was mad, allowing the chance for obtaining a small nest-egg to slip through her fingers, but Rachel thought it was the least she could do for people who for years had had to put up with Malcolm’s meanness.

  She had begun painting again, and although she sometimes found it difficult to concentrate, it nevertheless provided the outlet she needed.

  The days slid into weeks and the weather grew warmer. Tourists began coming to Mawvry and Rachel left the isolation of the house on the cliffs to mix more freely with her friends in the village. She was just beginning to feel normal again, her longing to see Luis dulled to a heavy ache in the region of her heart.

  Occasionally she would awaken in the early hours of the morning and find herself calculating how many more weeks it was to his wedding, but at night she made sure she was physically exhausted when she went to bed and usually fell asleep quite quickly.

&nbs
p; She thought she was losing a little weight and this troubled her sometimes. Since her marriage to Malcolm she had never had much flesh on her bones, but now they seemed to protrude through her tanned skin, her wrists particularly appearing veined and fragile.

  And then, one morning, there was a letter.

  She picked it up from the mat carelessly, expecting it to be from the solicitor, only to find it had a Portuguese postmark.

  Immediately her heart began pounding and there was a weakness in her lower limbs. She carried the letter into the kitchen and forced herself to put on the kettle before attempting to open it. It was from the Marquesa, and between the folded page was a cheque which fluttered unheeded to the floor.

  My dear Senhora Trevellyan, the Marquesa had written, I am enclosing a small gift which I trust you will use to your best advantage. Accept it as a token of my appreciation. Yours sincerely, Joanna Martinez.

  Rachel bent and lifted the cheque with some distaste. What was this supposed to mean? Why was the Marquesa thanking her? For what?

  The cheque was for forty thousand escudos, and Rachel’s mind reeled. Fifty thousand escudos! How much was that in pounds and pence? She shook her head. It didn’t matter how much it was for; it would have to go back. She wanted nothing from the Marquesa.

  She made her tea in a daze, trying desperately to understand why the Marquesa should have thought it necessary to send her money. And then she thought she knew. The Marquesa had waited to hear from her. She had not believed her when she had said she was not like Malcolm. All this time the old lady must have been waiting for the demands to begin and when they had not she had supposed Rachel was calling the whole thing off. This cheque was in the nature of a final payment.

  Rachel stared at the cheque again. She would have liked to have torn it into shreds there and then, but she wanted it intact to give to the Marquesa.

  For the rest of the morning she could settle to nothing. The Marquesa’s letter had renewed all her guilty concern about the birth certificate and the bank book upstairs, and she could no longer pretend that they were not there. Something would have to be done. But what?

  At last she decided what she would have to do. It meant going back to Portugal, it meant confronting the Marquesa again, but at least that way she could dispose of the other things at one and the same time. And if she saw Luis—well, after these weeks of separation she was calm again and would be able to face him with assurance.

  Rachel flew to Portugal at the end of the following week. When she arrived in Lisbon she had to make arrangements about hiring a car to take her to Mendao, and as there was no vehicle available until the following day she spent the night in the airport hotel.

  She arrived at the quinta at about eleven-thirty the following morning feeling hot and sticky and totally unprepared to face the intimidating presence of the Marquesa.

  She had the driver drop her at the gate marked Privado and walked up the drive to the house. It was amazing how clearly her memory had served her. She remembered every small detail, and a little ripple of anticipation ran down her spine.

  Luisa, the housekeeper, answered her ring and regarded her in astonishment. ‘Senhora Trevellyan!’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Rachel took a deep breath. ‘I’ve come to see the Senhora Marquesa, Luisa. Is she at home?’

  Luisa glanced behind her nervously. ‘Sim, senhora. The Senhora Marquesa is as you say—at home. But she is not well, senhora.’

  Rachel frowned. ‘Why? What’s wrong with her?’

  Luisa seemed to realise she was keeping a guest waiting on the doorstep and stepping back indicated that Rachel should enter the coolness of the hall. It was a relief to get out of the hot sun, and Rachel entered the cloistered coolness gratefully. Then she turned back to the housekeeper. ‘Now—what is it? What is wrong with the Senhora Marquesa?’

  ‘Don’t you—don’t you know, senhora?’

  ‘Me?’ exclaimed Rachel in surprise. ‘How should I know?’

  Luisa spread her hands anxiously. ‘I do not know, senhora,’ she murmured unhappily.

  Rachel sighed. ‘What is it? Luisa, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Who is there, Luisa?’

  Rachel would have recognised the Marquesa’s cultured tones anywhere. That cold inflection was just as much in evidence, and for a brief moment Rachel wished she had not come.

  The housekeeper turned in agitation. ‘Esta o Senhora Trevellyan, Senhora Marquesa!’ she replied uncomfortably.

  The Marquesa came down the stairs slowly, supporting herself with the handrail. Even to Rachel’s sun-blinded eyes she looked pale and weary, and when she saw Rachel a spasm of pain acrossed her face. She halted two or three stairs up and looked across the hall at the English girl, and then she said: ‘You may leave us, Luisa!’ in stiff, unnatural tones.

  Luisa took one last look at both of them and then scuttled away, clearly not happy about leaving her employer with this unexpected visitor. After she had closed a door behind her, the Marquesa spoke again. ‘Well, senhora!’ she said heavily. ‘Have you come to gloat?’

  Rachel’s lips parted. ‘Gloat, Senhora Marquesa?’

  ‘Yes, gloat! That is the right word, is it not? I have not been so long in Portugal that I have forgotten the word which means to feast one’s eyes on!’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Senhora Marquesa.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ The Marquesa’s lips twisted. ‘I’m sure you do. But you’re too clever to let me see it.’ She looked beyond Rachel to the door. ‘Are you alone?’

  Rachel wondered whether she had missed something here. Of course she was alone. Why shouldn’t she be alone? Who was there to accompany her? She felt confused. What was wrong with the Marquesa? Was this perplexing conversation a symptom?

  Speaking carefully, she said: ‘Yes, I’m alone, Senhora Marquesa. I—I—Luisa tells me you have not been well.’

  The Marquesa came down the last few stairs to stand in the hall. She was wearing a long hostess gown, but her hair was without its usual immaculate elegance, and there was something faintly pitiable about her. Rachel shook her head again. That was the last adjective she would have expected to use to describe this haughty little woman.

  ‘Come,’ the Marquesa said now. ‘We cannot talk here. We will go into the sala.’

  The huge sala was shadowy. Shutters guarded the windows and the light was filtered on to the exquisite ornamentation. It seemed, Rachel thought rather resignedly, that all the important punctuation marks of her life were to take place within these four walls.

  The Marquesa seemed tired. She sought one of the high-backed chairs and sank into it weakly. Rachel stood before her wishing there was something she could do to help her, but she didn’t as yet know what was wrong.

  ‘So!’ The old lady summoned all her composure. ‘Why are you here, senhora? Haven’t you done enough?’

  Rachel ignored the implications of the Marquesa’s words. She fumbled in her handbag and drew out the letter which she had received from the Marquesa ten days before. She stepped forward and placed the letter and the cheque in the Marquesa’s lap.

  The Marquesa picked them up in surprise. She looked at the cheque and then flicked open the page of her own handwriting. ‘Why are you giving me these, senhora?’ she asked, rather hoarsely.

  Rachel was disturbed at the reaction the cheque and letter had had. If anything the Marquesa looked paler than before, and her fingers moved in nervous agitation.

  Rachel gave a helpless movement of her shoulders and then drew Joanna Portreath’s birth certificate out of her handbag. She went forward again and handed it, and Malcolm’s bank book, to the old Marquesa.

  There was silence for several minutes. The Marquesa opened the time-worn certificate with trembling hands and read it silently. Then she opened Malcolm’s bank book and did the same. After she had examined them she laid them in her lap and just sat there, staring at them.

  Ra
chel grew anxious. What was wrong now? Surely the Marquesa realised that these were the originals.

  But then a thought struck her. The certificate was genuine, that was obvious, but like the negative of a film, other copies could be printed. It was all there at the Central Registry just waiting for anyone to check up on it. No documentation was necessary except as proof.

  ‘Senhora Marquesa——’ she began, only to be interrupted by the old lady.

  ‘Why have you brought this to me?’ she demanded. ‘I did not need proof to know such a document existed.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Senhora Marquesa——’

  ‘Oh, but I do. This cheque I sent you wasn’t enough. You’re a young woman, of course, senhora. Your needs are greater than those of a man past his prime——’

  ‘No!’ Rachel was horrified. ‘That’s not why I came!’

  ‘Then why did you come? If it was not to gloat and it was not to increase your demands——’

  ‘My demands?’ Rachel caught her breath on a sob. ‘I knew nothing about it. I—I only discovered it by accident when I was going through Malcolm’s papers!’

  ‘Then I repeat—why are you here? Did—did Luis send you?’

  ‘Luis?’ Rachel felt really out of her depth now. ‘No, of course Luis didn’t send me. He knows nothing about this from me.’

  ‘Ah, I see. You told him you were coming to effect a reconciliation, I suppose.’

  ‘A reconciliation?’ Rachel put a dazed hand to her forehead. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  The Marquesa was trembling. ‘I realise I am not being very coherent, senhora, but spare me the dramatics! Very well. You say Luis didn’t send you, that he knows nothing about this. Then why are you here?’

  Rachel stepped forward again. ‘I came to return the certificate, and the money, too, if you’ll have it.’

  The Marquesa put a hand to her head now. ‘And of course, Luis’s appearance had nothing to do with this sudden bout of conscience!’