"You're more good-looking than I recalled," Dr. Harcourt remarked matter-of-factly. "I don't know why, but I've always thought of you as dreamy and studious; it must be that job you did in England. Maybe it's as well that you won't be mixing much in local society."
She laughed with the astonishing happiness which kept bubbling in her veins. Everything was so different, so much more exciting than she had expected. She had never felt less dreamy and studious in her life.
This time they set out in the two-seater, following the road by which they had previously left the town. The gradient was gradual but unmistakable, and soon the trees became more orderly, so that each side of the road was walled in by thick flowering gums; ahead, the earth track stretched like a long brown triangle outlined in green and fuzzy vermilion, beneath a richly hyacinthine sky.
Presently Robert slowed and turned into a private road edged with cedars, at the end of which stood a great stone archway guarding wrought-iron gates. To left and right of the arch rose squat pillars crowned with ornate cupolas in blended marbles.
A Portuguese in a magenta linen tunic with a single line of gold braid at each cuff, swung back the gates and bowed almost to the ground. Robert drove through, up between spaced cedars and formal terraced gardens, where statuary was half-hidden by profusions of flowers, round the fountain, upon which a stone cherub took an eternal shower-bath, to come to rest at the foot of the veined marble steps.
Fenella let out a breath which had been imprisoned too long. She looked up at the covered terrace which extended all the way round the Quinta, at the massive doorway surrounded by an intricate pattern of Moorish tiles, at the series of palmettoes and flowering plants in alabaster urns which ornamented the terrace walls between the arches, and then she got out on to a courtyard paved with lustrous mosaic, which had a cross-pattern of rare black tiles
which she instinctively stepped over. She had to breathe rather deeply, and stand still.
"Remarkable, isn't it?" said her father. "Go up onto the terrace and look at the walls. There's a continuous line of azulejos showing sea battles and landings on foreign shores. The back entrance has a rococo facade . . ."
He was interrupted by another uniformed servant, from the house.
"Bons dias, senhor. The Senhor Pereira has a visitor." He indicated the deep armchairs on the terrace. "Queira ter a bondade de assentar-se?"
Robert Harcourt complied, but Fenella could not sit down. She wandered over the colourful stone floor, took a brief interest in the azulejos and came back to the terrace wall to view the vast garden which sloped away on every side, criss-crossed by terraced paths. Each lawn, smooth and close as green velvet, had its dome palms and flamboyants, or its yellow-massed bombax, or magnolias thirty to fifty feet high. There were borders of abutilons and oleanders and low walls dripping with the blue stars of plumbago and bluer constellations of passion-flower; the flower-beds rioted with giant cinerarias and begonias, Madonna lilies and huge speckled canvas. Birds flitted between bush and tree, compact little things with gay plumage and an impudent chirrup.
Still within the cool terrace, she turned the corner of the house and saw a flight of steps with stone, flower-encrusted balustrades, leading down to an immense pool surrounded by a low, sculptured parapet. For some minutes she stood leaning over the wall, staring down through the clear depths at the shimmering green tiles on the floor of the pool.
In a little while she became conscious of voices, men's voices. Behind her, a striped awning screened an open window, through which, at this moment, came clear, forcible tones which gave an alien emphasis to the consonants.
"I'm sorry, Frankland, but I cannot accept your excuse. You have no business to be in Machada on a weekday for any purpose. I am not surprised, my friend, that your farm in Kenya became so worthless if you will continually put personal pleasure before your work."
"But I haven't this time, senhor." This voice was quiet and lazy—rather nice. "There was the matter of the returns on the rice crop that you were keen to have as soon as possible, and the consignment of bags that didn't turn up . . ."
"Which you have converted into an excuse for the long trip into town with the little Maria de Gardena. You can trust Miguel to do such things for you."
"Would you have had me refuse to help the senhorita?"
"No, I would not. But if the senhorita is so indiscreet as to travel to Ibana without her mother or any other protection, let her put up with Miguel as escort. In any case, you know my views in the matter of Maria de Cardena. I will see that you receive a full load of bags tomorrow. You had better go now."
"Very well. Good-bye, senhor."
"Good-bye"
Fenella twisted at once to retrace her steps. She saw a man emerge from the palatial entrance; tallish, wearing knee-breeches and a white shirt, felt hat twirling idly between his fingers. His hair was a deep, dull gold, his face darkly tanned, and as he paused to light a cigarette his contour had a certain ruggedness and charm.
She heard her father call from his chair: "Hullo, Austin. Can you come over for a meal?"
And the reply: "I-wish I could. I have to get back." "Can't you stay till the morning?"
"Nothing doing, I'm afraid," the handsome young man returned blithely, flicking his match several yards into the fountain. "I've just been on the mat."
He laughed — an exceptionally pleasant sound — said, "Cheerio, Doc," and dropped down the steps to the courtyard. Carelessly, he tapped ash into an urn, and clamped on his hat. He disappeared; an engine roared, and a sports car sped into sight and zipped away down the drive. For his sake, Fenella was glad the wrought-iron gates had just been thrust wide; possibly the porter had already had experience of Senhor Austin Frankland's antics on four wheels.
There was no time to ask her father about him. The servant had reappeared and was inviting them to enter the cool, spacious hall which smelled of the mass of
gardenias that stood in a metal bowl on a carved table. A door beside the central staircase was opened, and a man advanced, his hand extended to Doctor Harcourt, while his smile, wholly courteous and interested, yet somehow aloof, was trained upon Fenella.
"Good evening, doctor. I apologise that you have had to wait. So this is your daughter. She is very English, is she not? How do you do, Miss Harcourt?"
Fenella responded. She was beginning to distrust her own judgment. First this fabulous establishment in sub-tropical Africa, and now the owner of it: much too tall for a Portuguese, his features so distinctive as to be almost sinister His cheek-bones were high, his eyes an extraordinary dark grey beneath sleek black brows. His nose owed much to his Scottish ancestors, but his chin had individuality—it was fearless and angular, peculiarly his own. His skin had the sallow tan of one who has lived most of his life in hot places. Indeed, his sole truly Portuguese feature was the thick black wavy hair which had been coerced into sleekness.
She sank into the long baroque chair which he had pushed forward.
"What will you drink, Miss Harcourt? I have a bland Madeira wine which has both body and soul—far better than cocktails and gins—though I have those, too. But I recommend the Madeira. It is not a dinner wine."
Fenella expressed her willingness to try some. At his own request her father was served with a tot of whisky which he weakened with water, and Senhor Pereira fastidiously hitched his white trousers and seated himself, with a strange, purple-tinted drink on the ornate table at his side.
From what her father had told her about the Pereira family, Carlos must be about thirty-three. Fenella thought he looked older. And there was something about him which lit within her a definite spark of hostility. Possibly she was influenced by having overheard the arrogant dismissal of Austin Frankland, who was obviously quite a charming Englishman. Or perhaps she merely disliked the fact of one man having dominion over so many others. Even though her father belonged to the mission, he was, in a measure, dependent on the bounty of Carlos Pereira.
"I am sure you will
like our country, Miss Harcourt," Carlos was saying, in those urbane, slightly foreign tones. "The soil will grow anything one cares to plant, the houses have age and grace to recommend them, and the people are hospitable and very kind. Have you learned any Portuguese?"
Fenella shook her head. "Only four words. Eu nao falo portuguese. My father taught me them this afternoon."
"Then we must teach you some more, in order that you shall not have to use those. It is a difficult language but not unapproachable if you already have some French and are eager to learn. Make a habit of studying the newspaper every morning, and you will acquire not only a few words of our language daily, but also a very good idea of how we live."
For all the world as if she were a sight-seeing student, fumed Fenella to herself. Fortunately, her father broke in.
"Frankland was leaving as we came in. He seemed in a hurry to get away in that contraption of his or I'd have had a word with him. Did he mention anything to you about those two suspected cases of typhus down at his camp?"
"You know Frankland," said Carlos austerely, and with some contempt. "His mind is never on his work for more than three hours a day—that is a liberal estimate I myself made enquiries about those cases yesterday, and I understand both boys are recovering. It was not typhus."
"Good." Robert emptied his glass and accepted a cigar. He operated the silver clipper and held the cigar in the steady flame of Carlos's lighter. "You must agree that it's pretty lonely at the camp for a man like Austin. Some men aren't built to withstand such monotony."
Quite deliberately, Carlos answered, "If you are appealing to me on his behalf it is useless, doctor. I have said six months ago that I will not have him living in Machada. If he cannot stand the loneliness at the camp he must go." He smiled, and a burden was lifted from the atmosphere. "Tell me, Miss Harcourt—how do you propose to occupy yourself ?"
"At the mission, senhor."
"You are trained to teach?"
"No, I'm not." To soften the abruptness of her reply, she added, "There'll be plenty for me to do. My father will fit me in at the clinic."
"So? We shall see," said Carlos.
Fenella felt an almost violent upsurge of powerless irritation and resentment against him. She watched the fat cylinder of ash plop from the tip of his long cigarette on to the Aubusson rug, and the toe of his fine white buckskin shoe as it ground over the ash, obliterating it in a couple of controlled movements. Difficult to believe that he had warm, Portuguese blood in him; one could imagine him getting coldly, mercilessly angry, but Fenella doubted his ability to become emotional and passionate. If he had any feelings they were held in check by the cautious Scot in him.
A servant knocked and quietly entered.
"Pardon, senhor. There is a messenger from the mission. The doctor is wanted in the native reserve."
Dr. Harcourt rose at once. "I've neglected my job today, but one doesn't have a daughter arriving every afternoon. We must go, Fenella."
Carlos, also, was standing, and disposing of his cigarette. "If you wish to go straight to the native quarters, I will drive Miss Harcourt to your house, doctor."
"Thank you, senhor. If it would be no trouble, it would help immensely."
With charming politeness, Carlos excused himself to Fenella and accompanied her father to the terrace.
She relaxed the extraordinary tenseness from her muscles. What a strange, exasperating man!
* * *
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
LEFT alone, Fenella let her eyes rove over the room. Presumably this was merely an entrance hall, and the great arched doorways opened into other reception rooms. The baroque staircase was lovely; it must be odd and thrilling to mount it to one's bedroom; a marvellous bedroom with a balcony overlooking those dazzling gardens. The portraits, probably by some famous Portuguese painter, were hung too high for a close inspection, but she liked the terra-cotta plaques at eye level, and wondered whose were the heads engraved upon them; they had a Greek appearance.
Fenella was not surprised that women were competing for the attentions of Carlos Pereira. His great wealth and position, his charm and emotional inaccessibility combined to form an irresistible, magnet. That he did not magnetise Fenella proved nothing at all, for she was just an ordinary girl from England and devoid of matrimonial ambitions. She wanted to fall in love, of course, but sensibly, with someone she stood a chance of understanding. Fenella had yet to learn that the process of falling in love is rarely accomplished with common sense; nor does understanding come with the first quickening of the pulses.
"Will you have some more Madeira, Miss Harcourt?" Fenella turned. "No, thanks It was good, but I'm not accustomed to wine."
"Like a great many English women," Carlos commented with a bow. "This country may change a little your habits. You are frowning. I have offended you, perhaps?"
"Of course not, senhor."
"Ah. I have it." He snapped his fingers. "I should have offered you cigarettes. Portuguese women do not smoke in company with men—at least, not the young and unmarried —but my English friends are less conventional. "Forgive me."
"No cigarette, thank you, senhor. My frown was simply an outward sign of concentration upon your lovely walls and carved woodwork."
"Visitors are always speechless before the loveliness and perfection of Portuguese art," he said calmly. "I had expected something different from you."
Fenella felt a definite rising of the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck.
Frigidly, she said, "Different? In what way?"
Indolently, Carlos lifted his shoulders. His mouth had taken a faint slant of amusement.
"You have a wide, candid brow, Miss Harcourt, and a small, determined chin. Your eyes, if I may say so, reflect too clearly your passing thoughts. I could not help but see that my reference to your gay young countryman, Austin Frankland, did not please you."
"I've never met Mr. Frankland, so I could have been neither pleased nor displeased." Fenella paused, chin up. "I'll confess, though, that I walked round the terrace and heard you talking to him."
"Oh." His smile became sardonic. "Then you do not need me to reiterate that Frankland is a philanderer, incapable of sincerity and not to be relied upon. There is nothing vicious about him; he has even been known to do brave deeds. But there is a flaw in his nature."
"Then why do you employ him?"
"Occasionally, I put to myself the same question." His tone dismissed the subject and reverted to the polite and impersonal. "Later, when you are acclimatised, I should like to show you the other rooms and our private chapel. Some of the Quinta is new and some is old. There is also much to be seen in the town. We have our own fruit canning depot, a rope and twine works, a factory where wicker furniture is made, and several others. One day you must see our ebonies growing, and the craftsmen at work carpentering ornaments and small animals from the wood. Also, our natives are encouraged to perpetuate their own crafts."
Fenella collected her hat. As they went outside, Carlos continued talking, the correct host escorting a guest from the premises. He put her into a car and himself slid into the driver's seat. He had the lithe grace which comes from constant, economical movement. In fact, thought Fenella, he was altogether too insidiously attractive.
They glided out into the road fringed with gums. And still Carlos went on with his descriptions of the countryside
and its products, the mixture of people who lived there, and the numbers by which they were increasing. Fenella listened, annoyed by the even voice with its un-English enunciation and scarcely a Portuguese interjection, and almost angered by the imperious manner which seemed, to her, to have an undertone of sarcasm.
As they passed the mission in the dusk, the nurses and servants curtsied and bowed, smiling with a genuine joy, and Carlos replied with the arrogant inclination of his head with which Fenella was already becoming familiar. He helped her out on to the path.
"Thank you, Senhor Pereira," she said distantly.
"Good night."
"One moment." He lifted a detaining hand. "I have been thinking about your working in the mission clinic. I do not care for the idea."
Fenella met his eyes, and hers were a little hard. "How can it affect you what I do? Surely my father may choose his own assistants?"
"Dr. Harcourt is in charge of the clinic . . . yes; but I also have a word in its management. If he needs another nurse I will procure one from Lourenco Marques."
Stung, she said quickly, "Isn't that rather high-handed? I'm not a slow learner, senhor."
"I do not doubt that," he said curtly, "but you will do as I say. I will not have an untrained English girl on duty among natives. It is neither seemly nor practical. Compreender aquilo? It is forbidden. Boas noites, Miss Harcourt!"
The car swept away.
So that, pronounced Fenella, flinging her hat into a lounge chair, was the lord of Machada. The air of him! How did her father stand the man? Though she grudgingly recollected that Carlos had spoken as an equal to Dr. Harcourt. Maybe he reserved the masterful severity for inferiors . . . and women. Well, he needn't try it on with Fenella Harcourt; she wasn't one of his moon-eyed admirers. And if there were ways in which she could assist at the clinic, Senhor Carlos Jose de Castilho Pereira would not prevent her.
After which private spasm of defiance, she picked up a note from a pinewood table, saw that it was addressed to
herself, and drew the single sheet of paper from its envelope.
"My dear Fenella (it read). So sorry I was not on hand to greet you this afternoon, but I do welcome you very gladly. We English at the mission are too few. No doubt your boy has already prepared dinner, or Mr. Westwood and I would have liked you to dine with us. However, perhaps you and your father will come over for an hour later. I do so want to hear all about your trip, and your first impressions of our beautiful Machada.
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