House in the Hills

by House in the Hills (retail) (epub)

  ‘As though the poor child does not exist and never existed. That is what is so bad.’ Conceptua shook her head. ‘Her mother gave her life to that man. She lived for him, poor creature. And died for him too,’ she added, crossing her copious chest.

  ‘This aunt she’s going to, is she rich?’ Antoine asked.

  Conceptua shrugged. ‘What does it matter? The child needs a home even if it is in the middle of nowhere. Her father no longer wants her.’

  ‘This new wife will be angry if she finds out about the girl. What will Mr Shellard do then?’

  Conceptua laughed bitterly, her eyes narrowing as she thought about all she’d seen over the years. She lowered her voice as though she were imparting an unknown confidence, though Antoine had been in service to Walter Shellard as long as she had and knew him as well as she did. ‘Neither is it likely that she knows how many women have lived in Villanova before Leonora. Walter Shellard has acquired and discarded more women than he has shoes.’

  ‘Such is the way of the English,’ said Antoine gravely.

  ‘Such is the way of men,’ spat Conceptua.

  Catherine stayed very still, her eyes closed but her ears burning and her heart beating fit to burst.

  Four

  Coming home was usually how Walter Shellard described his return to his house in Portugal. Today he was accompanied by his new wife.

  Home was the Castile Villanova; an opulent mansion situated a few miles south of the city of Porto. Grand and built in a mix of styles, the house was bounded by opulent greenery. Oranges, lemons, figs and almond trees cast shadows over the rich earth. With each breath of wind petals and perfume mixed with the dusty richness of the adjacent vineyards. Castellated battlements topped with tiles, as red and rich as the earth, ran the whole length of the flat sun-baked roof. At sunset its creamy walls were turned salmon pink. Along its drive an avenue of cypress trees threw pointed shade.

  Castile Villanova had retained its ancient atmosphere, its bright tiles, its flat roof and its sense of history. Lavish furnishings acquired from France, England and Italy adorned its many rooms. High, wide doorways opened on to a pillared colonnade around a courtyard. The courtyard was sprinkled with spray from half a dozen fountains – a Moorish fashion adopted centuries before.

  Ellen burned with excitement and was almost moved to tears by the glory of this place. It was nothing like anything she had ever seen before. And this, she told herself over and over again, is to be my home; my Portuguese home, she corrected, though already she was beginning to favour this place over the house back in England. She knew also that Walter loved this place.

  ‘It is the epicentre of my existence,’ he’d said to her. She’d thought he was exaggerating how wonderful it was and how he felt about it. She now knew he’d been speaking the absolute truth.

  ‘Are you happy, my dear?’ he asked as a matter of form more so than any real need to ask the question. He could see the delight on his sweet wife’s face.

  ‘The smell,’ she exclaimed, taking deep breaths of air laden with the heady smell of herbs, vines and all things growing. ‘Plants never smelled as rare as this back in England.’

  ‘It’s the sun,’ he said, enjoying her childish delight. ‘The sun warms everything; a little overnight dew, a sudden and very short shower, and the plants give off their scents.’

  Her face was flushed when she turned to look at him. Her greyish-blue eyes shone with delight.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever want to leave this place,’ she said, sighing deeply.’ She turned her eyes back to the castellated roof of the house. ‘It’s like a palace and so terribly romantic.’

  ‘That’s because it was a palace back in the days of battling Moors and Catholics. My family took it over a hundred years ago; added and improved to their taste, and made it their own. Thanks to Napoleon they made a fortune in port wine.’

  ‘I know,’ she said before he had chance to explain further. ‘There was an embargo on French wine, so the English bought Portuguese – only it didn’t travel well – so they fortified it. You’ve already told me that, Walter.’

  He chuckled and shook his head, delighted because Ellen made him feel like a young man all over again. When they’d first met, he’d delighted in telling her about port wine and how his family had started in the business. It pleased him that she’d retained that information so ably, Even though he was getting close to the age when people started repeating themselves, Walter did not do that and did not expect to have to do that. As with business he stated facts that he expected to state only once. Age was something that happened to other people. He could never see it happening to him.

  Ellen was wearing a powder-blue outfit. Her auburn hair was captured in a net of antique gold. Her skin was so white, so porcelain fine. He’d prefer her to keep it that way. Too much sun would tan her or, worse still, turn her skin pink. Yes, he decided. Too much sun was best avoided.

  ‘You must remember to use your parasol when you go out,’ he advised.

  ‘Now, Walter,’ she said, throwing him a look of outright rebuke. ‘Do remember that I’m not a silly girl. I do declare, my darling, that you’re acting the callow youth, almost as though you’ve never been married before.’

  She shook her head, tutted and turned back to the view.

  As she did so, the smile faded from his face. Referring to his first marriage had stirred up bitter memories. It was all very well informing her of how the family had started the business; how their first base had been a small wine shop in a street of the same name in Bristol. The Shellard family had been ambitious enough to purchase a warehouse where casks of wine and sherry could be stored in cool cellars off Trenchard Street and close to the quay. With the onset of the Napoleonic wars, they’d bought a ship and bought Portuguese wine – the famous port – running the chance of being intercepted by the enemy as they picked up the south westerlies – the trade winds – home.

  In order to strengthen their holdings and their grip on the wine trade, marriages and alliances were made and with it had come a London warehouse, ships and vineyards. The Shellards firmly believed that two families engaged in the trade were better than one – especially when the two were combined.

  Walter Shellard fixed his gaze on his new wife. Each time she turned away from the view to face him and make a comment, he was ready with a winning smile and a kind word. He loved her – in his own way. She fitted in so well with his plans – just like Diana.

  William had been in the depths of despair when Walter had introduced him to Diana. Just as he’d planned, William had seen her resemblance to his lost love, Leonora, who by then was warming his brother’s bed at Castile Villanova. In order to add a little spice to his game, Walter had pretended to be interested in Diana, but on this occasion had let his brother win the woman.

  ‘The best man won,’ said William, beaming on his wedding day.

  ‘Of course,’ said Walter, his eyes bright with triumph and a cold, cruel smile on his lips. ‘She’s the daughter of Jesmond Denton. The best thing that could ever happen to W. W. Shellard and Company.’

  Walter had slapped his brother on the arm. In anyone else William would have considered the action one of affection. Coming from Walter, along with the tart comment, it was like a hammer blow.

  ‘What do you mean?’ William had asked, his colour draining from his face.

  Sleek and smart in a fine suit tailored by the best outfitters in Savile Row, Walter had leaned one arm on the mantelpiece. With his free hand he smoked his customary best Havana cigar.

  ‘William, Jesmond Denton is a director of Denton and Gibson Bank. I’ve been talking refinancing for the last eighteen months.’ His eyes had darkened with subversive glee. ‘And now we’re all signed up. Had to come on board now he’s part of the family, didn’t he?’

  William had turned pale, his eyes staring. ‘You bastard! You rotten, lousy…’

  Walter gave no sign that he’d seen his brother’s hands forming tight fists. He f
elt no fear, indeed he’d predicted what would happen next. William stormed off – as per usual.

  ‘I trust this doesn’t ruin things for you,’ Walter had called out after him.

  Walter did not give in to emotions of remorse and never, ever apologized for anything. To his mind William’s marriage would do the company no end of good – and if it helped William get over Leonora then that was good too.

  Walter was ambitious – more ambitious than his antecedents. Port and sherry were not enough. He wanted to expand; he wanted to produce good quality wines good enough to rival the French vineyards. Ellen’s father would back him to the hilt, and his bottling interests wouldn’t go amiss. She was of the right family.

  Becoming a widower had given him a second chance. The opportunity had presented itself and he’d taken hold of it with both hands. But there’d been casualties he hadn’t planned for.

  He eyed the rosy, Portuguese evening and thought of Leonora. He did not consider himself a cruel man and neither did he think himself arrogant, selfish or unfeeling. But business was business. William had been devastated.

  Walter did not let on to anyone how shaken he’d been on receiving the telegram with the news that Leonora had shot herself. In fact he did not disclose that any such thing had occurred. He’d told William that she’d decided to enter a convent, just as she’d wanted to do when she was younger. He wasn’t sure whether William believed him. Neither did he tell him about Catherine. In time he might find out…

  Leonora had always been highly strung. It was going to happen sooner or later.

  He rested his head against the cool leather of the seat and let the last swaying of the car journey take him back in time.

  Leonora had been seventeen when he’d met her. She’d been coming down the church steps, her blue dress like a piece of fallen sky.

  But that was all in the past. Now there was Ellen. His wife was twenty-eight years old. Her figure was trim and she had money. She’d also been undeterred at the prospect of living abroad for a great deal of the time.

  She suddenly looked over her shoulder at him. ‘We’re here,’ she said, her voice hushed like a child on Christmas Eve.

  Gravel scrunched beneath the tyres as the chauffeur brought their car to a halt. The servants had been warned what time to expect them. They came in single file out of the house and stood in a neat row waiting to be introduced to their new mistress.

  The chauffeur went round to Walter’s side of the car first and opened the door. Walter got out and went to open the door on his wife’s side.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, taking hold of her gloved hand.

  The servants smiled and curtsied to their master and his new wife. Ellen, her eyes sparkling, smiled back and wished them a good evening.

  Walter eyed her with a mixture of amusement and pride. He treated his servants well enough as long as they did their job. He did not normally smile and greet them like long-lost relatives. Ellen was naïve and he liked that. In his opinion naïve women were submissive women, which suited him fine. He still had another woman in his life, but she knew how to be discreet. Sanchia was the least submissive woman he had had anything to do with, but luckily she was besotted with him.

  Curious eyes followed their progress into the shade of the front porch where brightly coloured climbing plants clambered over honey-coloured stonework.

  Ellen gasped with delight. ‘This is so extraordinary,’ she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she took in the marble floors, the ornate fretwork running the length of an overhead balcony, the fact that plants were climbing into the main house from an inner courtyard. The fountains were especially fine. He loved watching them, mesmerized by the falling water. So was Ellen, he noticed, the silvery droplets reflected in her eyes.

  ‘I’m glad you like it, my dear.’

  Walter flashed her a wide smile before kissing her hand. Servants bustled past them. Their luggage was being unloaded with swift efficiency.

  Her face flushed with excitement, Ellen whirled round on the spot, trying to take everything in at once. ‘I’ll never get over this place. I think it’s the loveliest house I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘The house probably feels the same about you,’ Walter returned with a smile, letting her hands drift from his.

  ‘This house has a mistress at long last,’ said Ellen in response. ‘The first for thirty years?’

  ‘Indeed it has.’ His smile hid the half-truth he’d employed. His first wife, Gertrude, had hated leaving England so had never set foot in Castile Villanova. That much was true. However, he had not mentioned Leonora; nor would he.

  ‘I love this place too,’ he added. ‘More than anything else I own.’

  She rushed to him, placing her hands on his shoulders and gazing up into his face. ‘More than me?’

  He clasped both of her hands in his. ‘You’re not a house. It’s not the same thing.’

  She accepted his explanation. The truth was he loved this house more than anything and that included her. But she was a woman and, he reasoned, would read into that comment a whole host of pleasantries to keep her satisfied.

  Walter had what he wanted, with one or two notable exceptions.

  ‘Have you noticed that this place has too many rooms for two people?’

  He saw the colour rush to her cheeks. As she smiled, she bit her bottom lip in a hint of shyness.

  ‘Is that why you were in such a rush to get married?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a well-known fact, princess, that when I make up my mind about something, I act quickly. That’s why the business interests passed on to me by my father have doubled since my tenure.’

  It was more or less the truth. The excuse to return to his business abroad made the swiftness of the marriage socially acceptable. He’d pushed the obvious consequences to the back of his mind, convinced that Leonora would fall in with his plans. There had been too many reasons for not marrying Leonora. There were too many reasons in favour of marrying Ellen, so he’d gone ahead and made her his wife.

  Tomorrow night a great party had been organized to welcome him and his bride to Portugal. All his business associates – and his competitors – had been invited.

  ‘But tonight’s for us,’ Ellen said to him, her complexion glowing in the soft light. ‘Thank you, my darling.’

  Walter was pleased with his choice of bride. Ellen promised him that whether his bed was in England, Portugal or Spain, she, as his wife, would also be there.

  ‘To the only man in my life,’ she said raising her glass in a toast.

  He did the same, raising his glass to his lying lips. ‘To the only woman in my life. Now and for ever.’

  Ellen delighted him, but Walter Shellard was not a man to be swayed by beauty alone. At the centre of his universe were the Shellard estates, vintages and warehouses. No woman had ever supplanted that. No woman ever would.

  An hour before midnight he excused himself to his study. ‘You go on to bed,’ he told her and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’ll be along shortly.’

  She kissed his forehead in return. ‘Don’t be long.’

  Sweet, he thought, maintaining a fixed smile until she was gone.

  Some minutes after she’d left him and made for their bedroom, his head of household – he couldn’t really call him a butler, he was housekeeper as much as that – came along to see him.

  Walter was stalking the room, smoking and frowning as though the taste of the cigar clenched between his teeth was not quite to his liking.

  José, a slim man with elegant features and striking eyes, padded towards him like a cat stalking a sparrow.

  ‘José, how did it go?’

  ‘It was a quiet funeral, sir.’

  ‘How did my daughter take it?’

  ‘Quietly.’

  He grunted and averted his eyes, thinking that he might have treated Catherine differently if she’d been a boy. But even then, a son might have taken on his mother’s weaknesses. Catherine looked like her mother, but might
have inherited some of his own characteristics. He thought about that for a moment, slightly anxious as to the sort of woman she’d turn into.

  The man recognized when he was being dismissed and left the room, the door whispering to a close behind him.

  Walter sorted through his mail with practised arrogance. If it didn’t look interesting or important, he didn’t read it straightaway. He came upon the one from Lopa Rodriguez, Leonora’s aunt. The handwriting was beautifully executed; amazing that such a rough-living woman should have such an elegant hand, he thought.

  This was a letter he didn’t wish to read. His daughter was being looked after. That was all he needed to know.

  He took hold of the envelope with both hands, ripped it down the middle and threw the two halves into the wastepaper bin. That particular period of his life was over. There was a new lady now and, given time, a new family.

  Five

  Throughout the long journey, Catherine fought to keep her eyes open despite the jolting of the carriage. The view from the window was sometimes breathtaking, sometimes mundane. Her eyelids grew heavy and she slept.

  The train followed the indented edge of the river until it arrived at Pinhao; a town set among vineyards flooding down from granite hills, the very heart of port wine country. By the time they’d reached their destination, her eyes were quite sore and she felt languorous and stiff due to her fitful sleeps. She felt numb about her surroundings, numb about what was happening to her.

  When I am grown-up I will do as I please, she thought, and I will live in the Castile Villanova again. The thought of returning to the place she loved lifted her spirits.

  But how will you do that?

  She frowned at the unwelcome thought. ‘Conceptua,’ she said, tugging at the plump skirt. ‘How much would it cost to buy the Castile Villanova?’

  Conceptua’s response was brief and indifferent. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, child.’