Where am I?' She tried again to grasp some due as to what had happened to her. Was she in some sort of convent? she wondered.
You are in my master's house.' She eyed Coralie with a speculative look. Coralie could not tell from the tone of the old woman's voice whether or not she approved of her master's action.
Your master?' Coralie's pale brow was furrowed.
' Dom Ricardo Casimiro Carvalho,' came the reply, and the pride with which his name was uttered was unmistakable in any language—amounting almost to reverence.
A myriad lights seemed to flash somewhere inside Coralie's head, as memory came flooding back to her —that was, she thought vaguely, memory up to the
moment she had been swallowed into a dark abyss. Further than that she had no recollections.
The room was warm, yet Coralie found herself shivering from sheer weakness and bewilderment at the revelation that somehow she had been brought to the home of the man from she had so childishly fled—was it only yesterday? As memories came rushing back, there seemed so many unanswered questions jostling in her head—and 'Peter!' his name trembled on her lips as she wondered what on earth she was doing lying there in the ornate surroundings of a chance acquaintance, when surely by now she should have been with Peter.
' Did—I—have an accident ' her breath came in little gasps.
' Lie down, little one,' said the old woman, seeing her agitation.
Limp and exhausted, Coralie lay back, tearful in her disappointment that she still hadn't reached Peter. She must get to him now that she was so near. Surely he would be frantic with worry if he had expected her and she had not arrived. She felt a brown soothing hand on her forehead in her ramblings.
' Hush, child,' the old woman crooned in broken English. ' I will tell you. There was—very narrow escape in the fog on edge of cliff—car no more good,' the old one gestured with gnarled hands. ' The master he find the senhorita trapped in car, hanging over edge of dangerous rocks on lonely road.' The voice droned on, warming to its story. ' A miracle it had not fallen over cliff! ' Here the old woman crossed herself with a fervent glance directed at the crucifix on the cool wall. ' The master, he bring you here, senhorita, to his home. He says if he had taken you to the hospital, police would think it—suicide—no passport, see? The senhorita would not wish that, he say—also his home was nearer than the hospital and he did not know then if you could have survived the rough road.'
Coralie stared wide-eyed and silent as she tried to make some sense of the broken phrases. ' How long have I been here?' she whispered at length.
' Three days, senhorita,' came the unbelievable reply. ' But you must not worry—you will soon be recovered. It was the bump on your head, senhorita, that left you —what do you say—?'
' Unconscious,' supplied Coralie, with a sigh of resignation. ' Your master saved me, you say?' she asked, still struggling with chaotic thoughts.
' Yes. Look after her, he told me—I am his old nurse,' the woman offered. ' I have nursed him as a child from the day he was born and he trusted me with your life, senhorita. I am well rewarded to see you almost recovered.' Coralie took the gnarled brown hand that lay over her own slim white one on the coverlet and raised it to her lips in a gesture of gratitude. There came a responding glow into the old peasant's tired eyes. ' I will go and tell the master you are awake,' came the husky voice.
Coralie sensed again that strange feeling amounting to a suffocating panic at the thought of a second encounter with Dom Ricardo, the same feeling as when she had woken from her nightmare dreams to come face to face with the substance of those agonised hours. This time there was the added disadvantage of being even more highly indebted to him than before. She bit her lips to stop -them trembling.
' May I come in?' Again the deep note of inflection that stirred something within her against her will.
' Please do '—she knew she sounded timid and weak, like a child expecting a scolding. She clutched hard at the pastel sheets in an effort to control a further fit of trembling as the tall figure moved towards her, dominating the room; his presence overshadowing the ornate splendour of everything else about her.
She flinched at the memory of last time she had seen him, yet now he looked somehow different, perhaps not quite so remote and overbearing. No doubt it was the different clothes he was wearing. In fact there was something very reassuring about him just now—more casual in open-necked shirt and riding breeches, bringing in all the tang of the morning with him. He had evidently just returned from an early morning ride,
she concluded.
' Good morning, senhorita. You are feeling better, I hope?' His manner was coolly polite, doing nothing to betray the fact that they had met before. From the proud lift of his pagan head as she caught the full impact of his penetrating glance Coralie sensed that for some reason he did not want her to register any sign of recognition on her part.
I trust you feel little the worse for your unfortunate accident, senhorita.'
N—nothing but a slight headache,' she stammered, feeling more painfully embarrassed than she had ever felt in her life before. He frowned darkly.
' The doctor left instructions that when you roused from your coma, you must do nothing strenuous until he has seen you again, though you may get up whenever you feel like it.' There was a silence for some moments after he had spoken, which he made no attempt to break.
It seems I owe you a world of thanks, senhor.' Coralie's eyes were huge, shadowed by impossible emotions. He looked down at her tense white face and she stared back at him, disconcerted by the look in his eyes. So many things were crowding her thoughts; so many unanswered questions, but evidently aware of her acute embarrassment, he turned abruptly on his heel.
' See that the senhorita has plenty of rest, Nona,' he addressed the old peasant standing in the shadows. ' Perhaps the senhorita will be rested sufficiently to join me for tea this afternoon. There are matters that need to be discussed if you feel a little stronger by then.' Abruptly he was gone.
It was as he moved towards the door that for the first time Coralie noticed his slight limp. She opened her mouth to ask if he had been hurt in rescuing her, but before she could summon up the courage to speak again, the door had been closed behind him.
Coralie had wanted to call him back. This afternoon seemed a lifetime away to have to wait to discuss her situation with him, but for pride's sake she would
not have had him guess at the sharp sense of desolation with which she had watched the door close behind him. The old lady glanced at her oddly, she thought, and no wonder. Coralie was still staring at the door as if she had just seen the very devil himself. She must pull herself together—but she was suddenly tired. The old nurse brought a cup of something cool.
Drink this, my child. It will help you sleep. You will wake refreshed for your talk with the master.'
When next she awoke Coralie was feeling much better. The old woman still hovered beyond the bed curtains.
' Do you think you are strong enough to get up and dress?' she asked.
' I don't see why not.' Coralie pushed back the coverlet, surprised to feel the dinging chiffon of unfamiliar night attire, wondering briefly to whom it belonged—no doubt to Dom Ricardo's wife.
' I have no clothes! ' came Coralie's startled comment.
' Your dress was indeed unfit to be worn again,' the old woman explained as she crossed to the large wardrobe. ' The master had to cut much of it away to release you from your wrecked car.' A small gasp of dismay escaped Coralie at the thought. ' Here are the rest of your garments, senhorita,' as she produced Coralie's freshly laundered lingerie from an elaborately carved chest, and her sandals. ' The master says your bag was lost in the wreckage.'
So this was all she had left in the world! Coralie sighed dejectedly as she dressed in her clean lingerie. She found it hard to fight her depression and disappointment when she remembered that had it not been for her own stupidity, she would by now have been with Peter—and perhaps
they would have been married! What a fool Dom Ricardo must think her. She blinked back tears of self-pity.
You must not fret, child,' the old woman was saying soothingly. ' We always keep a little dothing for guests.' Opening the vast dark wood wardrobe, she produced an emerald silk housecoat. ' This will make you respectable until we can arrange for something
different for you. I will go now and order tea. The master likes us to be punctual, always. I must not keep him waiting. Come down to the sala when you are ready, senhorita.'
' Wait—Nona ! ' Coralie cried impulsively. Tell me, did Dom Ricardo injure his leg when rescuing me? I noticed he limped slightly—' She broke off at the shattered look on the old peasant's face.
' No,' Nona said sadly. ' It is not your fault that the master is lame. He was not always so—but it is something that the household is forbidden to talk of,' she finished abruptly, and left Coralie to sort out her own bewildering thoughts on the matter.
Dom Ricardo's slight limp had not registered with her at their first meeting in Lisbon, but then, thought Coralie, she was too taken up with the overwhelming personality of the man at that first encounter—then with dawning realisation she knew instinctively what had caused such bitter cynicism to be etched on that grim dark face. She experienced a small sense of shock as it occurred to her that a lame matador could never fight again—unless of course his lameness was not of a permanent nature—and yet the impression his old nurse had given was that this was the great tragedy of his life. And what a tragedy for a man of his nature! she mused. What a relief that it was nothing that she had done which was responsible for that grim countenance. The lines of her face softened and compassion trembled on her lips. How could such a man ever reconcile himself to that cruel quirk of fate that had stricken him in his prime? Defeat of any kind, to a man like Dom Ricardo Casimiro Carvalho, must undoubtedly give rise to an acute sense of mortification.
Coralie stood just inside the doorway of the sala,
trying desperately to compose herself, dad as she was
in the thin silk garment which did nothing to hide her
youthful curves. Her fingers clutched nervously at the
fluid folds of the material, as she accustomed her eyes
to the unfamiliar surroundings. The high, cool room
was decorated in a determinedly Algarvian style. It
had an air of old-fashioned grandeur, heavy furniture, chandeliers, and Portuguese carpets. Coralie's green gaze focused on an urn of mimosa like golden lace, gracing the great open hearth. The dosing of a door behind her startled the bewildered girl into the realisation that she was alone with the tall figure who stood looking at her from one of the great arched windows.
Welcome to the Quinta das Torres, Miss Grey.' Coralie became newly aware of the deep magnetic voice edged with only a slight accent. ' You look as if you would once more make your escape from me.'
She stood unmoving; her cheeks stung at the mockery in his voice. She lowered her eyes, feeling hopelessly out of her depth as his eyes flickered over the borrowed robe.
' Come, be seated, and we will talk.' He gestured to a finely carved chair, and Coralie was glad to take the weight off her trembling legs. He nterpreted her glance at the laden pewter tray set with an English tea.
' We always have tea in the English style,' he explained. ' My mother was half English.'
She was trembling as he moved towards her from the window, with an undoubted limp.
On this occasion I will not invite you to pour out the tea. I doubt if in your present state you could lift the urn.' His amused glance took in her nervousness.
' Here, drink this. You will feel better,' he ordered, his black eyes fixed upon her sensitive mouth as he handed her tea in an exquisite china cup.
' What beautiful crockery, senhor,' she ventured.
' Yes, it is beautiful—but not unduly old or valuable. We use the heirloom pieces only when we entertain on a lavish scale—not very often these days, I might add.' Coralie felt somehow deflated by his last remark. She had attempted an overture at amicable conversation, and sensed a sardonic undertone in his rejoinder. The hard line of his mouth held a hint of bitterness, and there had come a shadow of—could it be physical pain ?—over the proud face as he leaned
back, withdrawn into the depths of his chair, and regarded her from half-closed eyes.
She remembered his limp, but shyness overcame her and she could not summon up courage to enquire about it. Also she remembered the old peasant's warning that the master had forbidden any reference to his disability. She sat in constrained silence, taking little bites of daintily cut sandwiches.
The eyes of her host narrowed once more as they dwelt on Coralie's tense figure, dwarfed by the massive carved chair on which she sat as if it were a razor edge. Dom Ricardo drained his tea-cup and set it down. As if reaching a sudden decision he stood up and limped over to the great open fireplace, leaning for a long moment against its ebony mantel.
Coralie braced herself instinctively against a severe lecture from the proud master of the Quina das Torres—bull farm ! —on the foolhardiness of playing the ` innocent abroad '. Her eyes took on an impatient glitter, scornful of his old-fashioned, high-handed manner towards her. Gripping the sides of her chair with her hands, she addressed the overbearing figure whose devastating dark looks were a reminder that this merciless matador, who yet had her at an advantage, had not always been lame. Her tone verged on hysteria,
Senhor, you appear to have assumed an attitude towards me as of a wronged guardian. Since our first meeting you have treated me as a wayward child. Let me assure you that I am no child. In England I have an exacting profession at my fingertips, and have had to work hard to earn a living while nursing both my parents until they died.' With an effort to still her trembling lips as she saw those all-observant, gypsy-dark eyes on her, she continued, her voice quivering with pent-up emotion, M-meanwhile I have lived frugally to save up for this journey to your country where my fiancé is waiting for me—and where shortly we are to be married. If in my eagerness to join him, and to resume the happiness which for almost a year has been forfeit to us, I have inconvenienced you,
senhor, or have not conformed to your preconceived ideas of what an English girl should be, I truly apologise. But, senhor, let me make myself dear. I make no apology at my impatience to be reunited with my fiancé ! '
There had seemed to be a fleeting change in his expression as she spoke.
I think perhaps that this is the time to tell you, Miss Grey, that I have made extensive enquiries as to the whereabouts of your fiance.' He paused, studying her as if she were an object in its wrong setting among the priceless ornaments in this beautiful room. Coralie ran the tip of her tongue around her lips which had suddenly gone dry.
' I regret to inform you that I have found no trace of anyone answering to the name of Peter Radford.'
For a stunned moment Coralie could not believe that she had heard him correctly. Then his shattering words gripped her unmercifully.
' I—I don't believe you! ' she accused him, her voice low and wary. For one wild, dazed moment she believed that he was trying to deceive her. The notion struck sharply, bringing her to her feet. The dark eyes of, surely, some gypsy ancestry caught and held hers, then with deliberation he grasped her wrists together. A shudder tore through her at the fierceness of his grip.
' Let go of me!' she gasped faintly.
' Stop this nonsense!' he ordered. ' You little fool! You must take hold of yourself and not allow your imagination to run riot any longer.'
Coralie winced as his grasp tightened. She was made virtually aware of the hard flawless mask of his face, as if it disguised the reality of a heart of stone.
' Why should I lie to you about your fiancé?' His deliberate gaze seemed to burn like a flame into her innermost thoughts. ' You still harbour a schoolgirl's fancies that I am a ruthless tyrant who has brought you captive to his hideout to hold you ransom to your lover—o
r for any other empty-headed whim that you have no doubt concocted.'
Coralie felt the blood rush back ashamedly to her cheeks as he revealed the true nature of her thoughts, and swept dean their unworthiness with the wholesome truth of his words.
' It was fortunate that I managed to catch up with you on the road from Lisbon—even though it did appear at first that I was too late on the scene; however, no more about that for the moment.' His lips had compressed into a thin hard line. So he had followed her from the hotel I She blanched as she thought what would have been her fate had not Dom Ricardo reached her in time.
' As soon as I was assured of your recovery after bringing you to my house, I began to make exhaustive enquiries on your behalf as to the present address of your fiancé. You had given me brief facts of his whereabouts yourself in Lisbon, if you recall, and knowing that the village of Pera that you mentioned belongs to me, I arranged to drive you there—it would have been inhuman of me not to do so, knowing that our destinations lay only a mile or two apart. I knew there was a colony of artists there, and I anticipated that my search for Peter Radford would be an easy one. To my consternation I could find no trace of anyone by that name. My enquiries drew a blank, as I believe you would say, at every cottage and at each taberna. I feel certain that my questions were not always answered truthfully, Miss Grey, and I was left with the marked impression that Peter Radford has in fact been living in Pera, but for some unknown reason has left, presumably not wishing his identity to follow him. This is the only reassurance I am able to give you at the moment.' He loosed his grasp on her hands, and for a second looked as if he would say more, but then he sharply swung away from her, compressing his lips at the stricken look that darkened her lovely eyes.
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