"Where will I get a mantilha."
"You can buy them but they're expensive, and you won't have much use for one afterwards. I've got a red thing which I intended posting to one of those English aunts and never did. You can borrow it."
"My colouring is all wrong." She was becoming excited. "But I could use darker make-up and blacken my lashes and brows—not terribly but just enough to disguise a fair skin. The mantilha will hide most of my hair. It sounds grand, Austin. Will you drive in specially from the camp?"
"Naturally, but that's easily handled, and I can return there before dawn the next morning. There'll be no bother about that. An evening festa starts about dusk but they don't warm up till an hour after. This one is to be held in the gardens at the end of the Avenida Paiva Manso. The band plays near the lake and they crop the grass like a bowling-green for dancing. I'll come for you at seven."
"Can't you make it earlier and have a meal with us?"
He laughed. "No. And don't you eat, either. There'll be heaps of delectable food, and wine galore. By the way," he winked. "I shouldn't say anything about it to the senhor. He might not approve." He tugged at the straying curl of her hair. "If I don't get over tomorrow I'll see you on Wednesday. So long."
Fenella didn't watch him go but she heard the roar of his car. She crossed her arms under her head and stretched, comfortably. Her time was beginning to fill out with absorbing interests. To-night, Lario Santos from next door was bringing Nurse Silva to dinner, and afterwards the Westwoods would come in for some music and gossip. On Monday, she and her father were due to dine with the Seixas family a couple of hundred yards away, and Dr. Harcourt's mail had contained an invitation to a film show
in the Hotel de cidade, which was the splendid white,
cloistered building on the Avenida used by the town council.
She had even prevailed upon the houseboy to take a night off each week, so that she could spend a delightful hour or two preparing an English meal. And there was the length of coral-pink brocade she was fashioning into a cocktail blouse for Aunt Anna's birthday .. . and dozens of smaller pleasures. Remembering her happiness on the boat in anticipation of the long vacation with her father in strange and thrilling surroundings, it seemed to Fenella that her expectations had not only materialised but been surpassed. Had caution been part of her nature she might have paused to wonder and be a little apprehensive of so much felicity. Being Fenella, she made the most of it and drowsed contentedly till Antonio came out to inform her that the bath was ready.
The evening was a success. Lario sang and his small, sleek-haired fiancée sat near him, her brown eyes smoky with contemplation of the past or future. Mrs. Westwood talked and her husband played bezique with Dr. Harcourt. At eleven Fenella went sleepily to bed.
Sunday mornings at the mission followed a pattern. At nine the native workers on the estate, their women and elder children assembled for an open-air service in Bantu. Mr. Westwood addressed them slowly, occasionally raising a concerted smile; and always, towards the end of his sermon his voice became strong and impassioned. Fenella noticed the swift reaction of the audience, the devotion in their bearing and the almost abstracted quietness of their dispersal.
Then the smaller children assembled and sang Bantu hymns, after which they heard a parable from Mrs. Westwood. At eleven-thirty followed a service in the mission for the white residents.
When Fenella came back to the house at twelve-thirty her father was swiftly compiling a report for Senhor Pereira.
"He hasn't asked for one recently—probably he's satisfied with the general health at the reserve—but he's entitled to know how his money is being spent. I shall be ready in ten minutes."
Fenella went off to wash and comb up her hair. At her dressing-table she used a light dusting of powder and a
rub of lipstick. In the breeze from the window the green silk tailored dress felt cool over her skin, and though it was difficult to become accustomed to wearing a hat every time one went into the open air, she had to admit that the wide-brimmed white straw enhanced the rich glow imparted to her cheeks by the sun.
When at last they set out for the Quinta, Fenella looked cool and challenging, but an exhilarating warmth coursed through her body and her eyes were bright as jewels in firelight.
* * *
* * *
CHAPTER FOUR
THEY were the last arrivals at the Quinta. Apparently Carlos had brought the five other guests from town in his car some time during the morning. When Fenella and her father got out of the two-seater Carlos was in the courtyard, bowing slightly and smiling that suave, aloof smile as he greeted Fenella and shook the doctor's hand. He mounted the long marble steps between them, his fingers light on her elbow till they were on the terrace. He had a way with him that made one feel special, and wanted.
Three dark-haired young women, wearing stylish linens and reclining in deep chairs, were introduced as Bianca, Beatriz and Helene. Fenella did not assimilate their surnames, nor those of the two young men who straightened from the terrace wall and bowed low when Carlos presented them. It was quite a while before she could differentiate Armando from Joao.
Wines were served, and Fenella found herself seated with a polite Portuguese on each side. Carlos looked at her across the low table, his eyes and mouth faintly amused. He snapped open the monogrammed cigarette case and leaned over.
"You will smoke, senhora?"
Fenella would have liked a cigarette. There is nothing so potent as the careless kindling and subsequent longdrawn exhalation of grey smoke to restore an uneasy balance to something approaching normal. But she was aware of the dark, enthralled glances of the senhoritas as they awaited her reply, and the expectant and adulatory presence of her immediate neighbours.
So she answered, "No, thank you, senhor," and sipped her wine.
The three Portuguese girls were not talkative. Fenella gathered that Armando was the brother of one of them, but the two young men received scant attention. It was upon Carlos that the velvety eyes rested most frequently and to him that their few remarks were directed in soft, supplicating tones.
"You t'eenk so, Carlos?"
"Minha fe, Carlos, but that is funny!"
"I would like to read the book you speak of, Carlos. You must lend it to me."
They spoke English awkwardly; obviously they would rather have babbled along in their own tongue, and Fenella could not blame them for that.
Presently one of the magenta-uniformed servants led the way along the terrace to the open double doors of the dining-room. The table, scintillating with cutlery and glass and rioting all down the centre with red and yellow flowers, had been so arranged that everyone had a view of the gardens and could feel the faint breeze which stirred the palmettoes on the terrace. Carlos, at the head, with Fenella his nearest companion to the right and Helene to the left, gave equal attention to both. He was the considerate host, the charming friend of everyone.
Conversation never lapsed. Before the meal ended Helene had rather shyly invited Fenella to her mother's cocktail party which was to be held before the cinema show next Friday, and had artlessly mentioned that "Armando would be there," for all the world as if Fenella were suddenly headlong in love with the man at first sight.
Fenella must have reflected her surprise, for Carlos laughed a little.
"Others are puzzled by our swift match-making Helene. They do these things differently and with great caution. The English do not allow themselves to fall in love till friendship begins to develop dangerously sharp corners which can only be smoothed by a closer, more intimate relationship A Portuguese knows the first moment he is in love . . . like that." He snapped his fingers. "It burns in his brain and stings in his blood. The English come to it with painful slowness."
The dark girl demanded incredulously, "Is that so, Miss Harcourt? Is it not very dull?"
Fenella's smile had a hint of helplessness. "I'm afraid my experience is limited, but I believe marriage in England is just as
exciting to the participants as marriage in any other country."
"Perhaps you will learn about marriage in this country
at first hand," Helene suggested, without much enthusiasm.
Fenella shrugged away a suspicion that the other girl's
haste to couple her with Armando had been for the benefit of Carlos.
Immediately after coffee on the terrace one of the Pereira cars appeared in the mosaic courtyard, with a chauffeur at the wheel. The five young Portuguese said good-bye, nodding and smiling as they went down the steps. The two young men bowed and made neat little speeches. Carlos saw them into the car and stood back, his hand upraised, as it glided away.
When he returned to the terrace Fenella was adjusting her hat.
"You are not leaving yet!" he exclaimed. "Siesta is the custom here, but we can rest on the terrace . . . unless, perhaps, the doctor would prefer to be within doors, in the cool of the morning-room?"
"I believe I would," said Robert. "I haven't yet persuaded Fenella that siesta is a good, sane habit in hot countries."
"Then she and I will sit on the side terrace, and I will give her a lesson in the history of Mozambique. That will both punish and entertain you, senhorita."
The "senhorita," Fenella rather thought, indicated a very slight degree of intimacy among the local Portuguese.
When her father had re-entered the Quinta, Carlos escorted her round to the terrace above the clear green pool which shone dully in a greener lawn. Fenella paused at the top of the flower-encrusted balustrade.
"Is this your bathing-pool, senhor?"
"Yes. It is old, but I use it myself every morning. It is also convenient when I have guests from the coast staying at the Quinta. They do not miss their swim." He turned and indicated a long basket seat heaped with cushions in a multitude of colours. "Let us relax while you tell me what you thought of my young friends."
Fenella subsided and again took off her hat. A shake of the head loosened the amber hair from her temples. She smiled at him from her corner of the seat.
"They're delightful, but I shall never really know them."
Carlos had taken the other corner of the seat and crossed his white-trousered legs. Out again came the cigarette case.
"That is a very grave statement. Why will you never know them?"
"I have no Portuguese, and though they speak English remarkably well, few people are completely at ease in any but their own language."
His shoulders lifted, and one brow rose higher than the other. "My language is Portuguese. Do you consider, then, that you and I will never know each other?"
"You're different," she answered unguardedly. "You're half-Scottish."
"So you have learned that much," he said without pause, though his accent had changed. "A cigarette, now that there are no onlookers?"
They were the long fat kind he smoked himself. Fenella shook her head and once more said, "No, thank you, senhor."
He selected a cigarette for himself and slipped the case back into his pocket. "It is time you called me Carlos, as others do."
She met the dark grey eyes and instantly looked away from them, unsure whether they quizzed or mocked.
"Not at once, perhaps," he added reasonably, "but as soon as you feel it will not be too great a strain on your English reserve. I would like you to become used to it before Antonie comes."
"I'll try," she said distantly, loathing the flush which was creeping up from her neck. "And now the history of Mozambique, please."
He laughed briefly, with just a trace of mockery. "You are a paradox, pequeno—a rather interesting paradox. You are outspoken and have no tricks. You do not use your hands and eyes to beguile, nor tease with your lips. Your manner is uncompromisingly English. Yet you have an intriguing modesty." He ignited his lighter and as he inhaled his lean jaw twitched. "The history of Mozambique, my child, is glittering and colourful, but to me the present has always more richness, more sparkle. For instance, my grandfather courted the Marqueza de Bordone on this terrace. She had been married only a day when her husband was killed by a jealous rival. She came to Mozambique, so young and lovely in her distress that my grandfather, then a man of thirty, was immediately captured."
Fenella could see them, the last Marquez de Castilho Pereira and the beautiful young senhora, the man ardent, the woman infuriatingly elusive in her grief.
"Did they marry?" she enquired.
"Indeed, yes. My father was their son. But that romance took place over seventy years ago. It has an old, musky perfume. Today has the fresh scent of gardenias, and a vital sap in its veins. We will not discuss yesterday, senhorita." Negligently, he flicked away half an inch of ash. "Why is it that you make no attempt to learn Portuguese?"
"You yourself warned me that it's difficult, and I'm only here on holiday."
"But think of the fun you are missing with young men like Armando! That one admires you very much."
"Perhaps if I could speak his language he wouldn't. The unknown is proverbially dangerous and dazzling."
"To a point that is true. But a Portuguese cannot make love in English You have not the words." He was openly smiling, his distinctive features pleasantly jeering. "You do not wish to be made love to—I am aware of that. You are afraid to infuse heat into your cold blood."
"That should have the approval of the Scot in you," she said coolly.
"In my attitude towards love, senhorita, I am more Portuguese than Scottish. Though it is my firm belief that the Scots are fully endowed with all the emotions; otherwise their population would have dwindled away." Smiling, he raised a hand. "I beg your pardon. It should have occurred to me that mention of such a subject would bring red into your cheeks. It is very odd how you English girls are so free yet so inhibited. When you talk of love you envisage only the reverent kiss, the gentle embrace; there is apparently very little room in your imagination for passion. Your men must be extremely patient."
"They're English, too," she reminded him, above the accelerated beating of her heart.
She had thought the topic safely by-passed till he put an unexpected query. ·
"You have never been in love, have you?"
"Why . . . no, senhor."
"Do you think you would be aware of it if you were?"
The flush deepened somewhat, as she retorted," Considering such an upheaval happens so seldom in a lifetime it's quite likely that I would."
"It is just as likely that you would mistake a passing fancy for the lasting emotion," he suggested.
"That needn't disturb you, senhor," she said, rather sharply. "May we walk?"
He stood up, his mouth sardonic. "But of course, if the matter is embarrassing." He became sarcastically conventional. "Some day you must stroll in the gardens; they are best in the early morning or just before dark. I would like you to see the orchards—we grow every known tropical and sub-tropical fruit—and our market-gardens, though uninteresting in aspect, are extremely useful. Now, it might be too hot for you. Come with me to the chapel."
His manner withdrawn and slightly haughty, he took her down the terrace, passing the rococo facade of the back entrance without a glance in its direction. They descended stone steps, paused in the spray from a fountain which was even larger than the one in front, and followed round an elaborate stone parapet to another flight of steps which ended at a paved path between thick, shapely trees.
In a few minutes the chapel was visible, its octagonal patterned dome brilliant against the sky. As they came closer Fenella could see that the outer walls were covered with blue azulejos, and above the fine baroque doorway a window was framed by sculptured motifs. Inside, the chapel was just as perfect an example of classical architecture. Gilt carvings reached high between the windows and the ceiling was beautifully panelled and, painted. The urns of flowers might have been placed there five minutes ago.
Carlos did no explaining; he merely guided her from one wall to another and from the altar back to the door.
As they
came out into the shade of the trees, he said quietly, "Since the family settled in Mozambique my father has been the only Pereira not to marry from the house in this chapel. He married in England, but even he went through a second ceremony here, six months later."
Fenella could think of no comment, so she went on moving beside him, noticing the puddles of pink and blue balsams on each hand, and the splendid lines of the Quints.
Agostinhos as it came into view. The man at her side had become as uncomfortably chilly as a berg wind.
Back on the terrace Robert Harcourt was awaiting them. "You will have tea?" Carlos said.
"I think not," replied the doctor. "I intended going through this report with you, but it's getting late and there's a case I'm watching. Fends, will type it for you and I'll send it over tomorrow."
"No." Carlos brushed the report aside. "You have my confidence, doctor, and anything you need may be ordered in the usual way. I hope it will not be long before you and your daughter come again."
With his unfailing charm, he saw them into Dr. Harcourt's two-seater. His farewell was as cordial as the one he had waved to the guests who had left earlier.
They were well on the road to the mission before Dr. Harcourt slanted a glance at her, and said, "What has Carlos been saying to make you so silent?"
"Nothing, particularly—it's the way he says it. He wants me to learn Portuguese so that I shall know when I'm being made love to."
Her father was smiling. "I hadn't thought of that. What are you going to do about it?"
"He accused me of being uncompromisingly English, and that's how I shall remain," she said firmly. "I had to give up working at the clinic at the senhor's command, but I'm dashed if I'll struggle with his language simply because he has an inflated idea of its importance."
"I don't quite see what grounds you have for animosity, my dear."
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