House in the Hills

by House in the Hills (retail) (epub)

  ‘He promised,’ she said, her eyes now full of pleading. ‘Her mother died of a broken heart and then her father, the master, sent her away.’

  Up until now the woman had gushed with emotion. Now her expression became more guarded, as though she’d said too much – and more than that, she’d spoken openly to someone she’d never met before.

  ‘Did you know Leonora?’ she asked pensively.

  Ellen could barely control the dizziness brought on by the woman’s words. She reasoned there must be a perfectly sound explanation, and yet, deep down she already feared the worst. Leonora had lived in this house before she had. What was more, the child Catherine had been her daughter – hers and Walter’s.

  Ellen looked down into the woman’s face. ‘Would you like a drink? To sit down?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me your name?’

  ‘Conceptua Delamora. I was Catherine’s nurse.’

  Ellen nodded her head slowly, her eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and sheer fright. Over the years she’d begun to guess that her husband was not the handsome, though mature, Prince Charming she’d been led to believe. His word was law, but he was not only ruthless but more selfish than she’d ever imagined. His family, the world at large and everything else took second place to Shellard Enterprises. His company was swiftly becoming a monster created by and controlled by her husband.

  Walter allowed no one and nothing to stand in his way. The love she’d borne him had faded away to a dull though dutiful physical routine. If he noticed her frequent absence from his bed, he did not mention it. Not long ago she’d come to the conclusion that he was acquiring satisfaction elsewhere. Like other long-suffering wives who knew, she swept it under the carpet and maintained the public face of a very successful and respectable family. Her mother had told her to turn a blind eye and think herself lucky. Happiness didn’t enter the equation.

  Ellen’s mouth turned dry before she could answer the question that burned her tongue although she’d already worked out the answer. But she wanted it confirmed. ‘Who was Catherine?’

  The old nurse looked up into her face as though she’d been abruptly awoken from a very deep and satisfying sleep. ‘I’ve already told you, signora. Leonora’s child, of course. Leonora Rodriguez. Catherine was sent away after her mother died. I took her up to Pinhao where she was met by someone who took her to her aunt’s farmhouse. A boy came to fetch her,’ she said, turning thoughtful. ‘A boy with reddish hair and a pony and trap.’

  Ellen barely heard her.

  Catherine Rodriguez.

  The name burned into her brain.

  ‘How did her mother die?’

  The old nurse’s face clouded. ‘I have said too much.’

  Ellen grabbed her shoulder. ‘Tell me.’

  Conceptua told her the circumstances, the place and the date. Ellen felt numb, as though her blood had turned to ice.

  ‘I go now,’ said Conceptua, everything about her now slower, more silent, and sadder.

  Ellen rummaged in her pocket for a few escudos. ‘Here. Take these.’

  Conceptua looked suddenly alarmed. ‘I want no money. I want Catherine…’

  Ellen clasped both the woman’s homy hands in her own softly refined ones. ‘I promise I will find out where she is and how she’s doing. I promise.’

  She smiled a hesitant though sincere smile, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. Her pity was not just for the old woman, but also for herself. Life, it seemed, had dealt both of them a hard blow. Now she had to decide how best to deal with it. She wasn’t a coward, but she knew her husband well. Confronting him would do no good at all. He might admit the existence of an illegitimate child, but he wouldn’t go into detail. He would leave her stewing, in fact she was almost sure that he enjoyed torturing her in that way.

  In the meantime she stared at the doll and tried to work out the best way forward. Who was close enough to Walter to know about this child? Not his mistresses, the women who shared his bed. Seth Armitage knew everything there was to know about the family, but Seth had been put out to pasture and replaced with a smart stockbroking type from Surrey.

  William! It had to be William.

  Taking her diary from a drawer, she counted the days until they returned to England. Seven days. Seven days and then she would arrange a meeting with her brother-in-law. If anyone knew of this Catherine and her mother, Leonora, it would be him. And she preferred talking to him rather than Walter. Walter would be dismissive. ‘Water under the bridge, my dear. I can’t waste time talking about what’s long past. I have a business merger to deal with.’

  Basically he wouldn’t care whether she knew or not. She was merely his wife and the gilt had worn off with the ongoing years. But Ellen was intrigued.

  That evening she entered the locked room next to the nursery in the north wing. She stood there a while, imagining she could smell Leonora’s perfume and hear her tinkling laughter.

  Dusk turned into darkness before she found the will to leave the room, closing the door softly behind her, as though she were loath to awaken old ghosts.

  On the contrary, she wished very much to know more about the woman who had died in that room. She wanted to know about Leonora and was overcome with a great urge to try and put right whatever wrong had been inflicted.

  Twenty-Four

  ‘I want to meet him today,’ Catherine said to Sanchia. ‘I insist.’

  Sanchia raised a beautifully plucked and arched eyebrow, part of a look of pure disdain.

  ‘You cannot.’ She sniffed, her nostrils flaring like those of a well-bred horse. ‘He is not ready for you. Besides, you need a bath.’

  ‘I’m not having one until he agrees to meet me.’ She slumped down on to the satin-covered bed. ‘I’m not moving from here until he does. And I’m not bathing.’

  Sanchia’s nostrils seemed to quiver at the prospect of her natural smell, unadulterated by French perfumes or soap, but she was not one to give in easily.

  The haughty countenance was transformed by a hearty, and uncharacteristic, smile. ‘Your father has given me money to take you shopping. You can buy as many pretty dresses as you wish plus lacy, silky underwear, stockings, shoes and accessories. Other girls of your age will be envious. Won’t that be wonderful?’

  Catherine narrowed her eyes until they were catlike slits. She scowled.

  Sanchia faltered and her smile slipped from her face like melting butter.

  ‘Well?’ said Catherine.

  Sanchia pursed her crimson lips as she thought it through. ‘It may be possible.’

  Catherine threw herself back on the bed, lying full stretch, arms above her head.

  Sanchia threw back her head, exclaiming her exasperation in Spanish through clenched and very white teeth.

  ‘All right. I will see what I can do. Will you get up? Will you bathe?’

  Catherine turned her head and looked at her. She saw Sanchia flinch – perhaps at the intensity of her look and the dark-grey eyes – or perhaps it was something else.

  ‘Will you promise?’

  Sanchia’s lips parted. Catherine discerned that she was wondering whether to lie; whether to promise in order to achieve what she wanted, then go back on her word.

  ‘Don’t promise unless you mean it. Otherwise I’ll run away.’

  A moment of panic flashed in the Spanish eyes. ‘You do not know this city. There are dangers.’

  Catherine turned away. ‘There are dangers all over this world. Not just here.’ She jerked her head back again, her eyes opened wide. ‘My aunt fed wolves. Did you know that? They killed her in the end. Ripped half her face off and chewed her fingers. Did you know that?’

  It gave her great pleasure to see Sanchia’s sophistication distorted by horror.

  ‘Liar!’

  Catherine rolled over on to her stomach and began picking at a loose thread in the quilted satin.

  ‘I relate, I never lie, and when I promise I ke
ep my word.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Do you?’

  Even before she said it, Catherine knew she had won. Sanchia presented herself as a confident and sophisticated woman. Underneath it she was the same as most women, obeying the orders of the man in her life. She was everything she was because of him whereas Catherine was herself, would love where she wished and be what she wanted. Of that she was now certain.

  Sanchia promised; just as Catherine had expected her to. Before leaving she promised to ring him from her room.

  ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  * * *

  Sanchia was not the sort to sigh in surrender – at least not to another woman. She knew when she was beaten, not just because of Catherine’s strategy, but because of the determined look in those dark-grey eyes. It confirmed beyond doubt that Catherine Rodriguez was indeed her father’s daughter.

  She thought of these things as she walked the sumptuous corridor of the hotel. Oblongs of chocolate brown with dropped corners broke up the plain beige walls. Each wall light consisted of three upturned triangles outlined in a darker chocolate. Normally she would have admired such a forward-thinking style inside a Baroque exterior. Today she was oblivious to the fashionable décor, the newly installed wall lights matching the same art deco style.

  Sweeping past the room she had been allocated, she made for the elevator and instructed the bellboy to take her to the fifteenth floor. He’d recognized who she was so didn’t question her choice. Hotel guests were not given the choice of going there. The official letting rooms available to the general public stopped at floor fourteen.

  Sanchia watched the stiff needle of the crescent-shaped indicator above the door. It finally came to rest on fifteen. The hotel was the loftiest in Porto. If the lower floors were sumptuous, the fifteenth was breathtaking. Burnished copper strips replaced the chocolate brown of the lower floors. The walls glowed with a colour just a few shades lighter than clay.

  Walter’s butler, Hopkins, a bland-faced man with pale eyes and greying hair, awaited her.

  ‘Is Mr Walter expecting you?’

  ‘No,’ Sanchia snapped. She’d mentioned to Walter that Hopkins’ habit of calling him Mr Walter irritated her.

  ‘He’s been with the family a long time. I am Mr Walter and my brother is Mr William. It’s his habit.’

  He’d given no indication that this was likely to change. Despite everything, Walter was very defensive about his family name and traditions. Like this hotel; he’d intimated that he didn’t want too many people to know he’d entered the hotel business. She’d never quite understood why; she’d presumed it was because he preferred to be known for wine – and port wine in particular. Not that it mattered to her. She loved Walter and she loved the luxuries he showered on her. How he made it was of no consequence.

  The butler peered at her in an unassuming yet puzzled way, like a tortoise poking its head out after a long winter’s sleep.

  ‘Do you wish me to disturb him?’

  He sounded quite concerned at the thought.

  ‘No. I will,’ Sanchia snapped.

  She swept past him in a flurry of perfume and swishing skirt, her arms swinging at her side.

  ‘Walter?’

  She found him dictating to his secretary, a frump of a woman named Miss Vincent.

  On seeing her, Walter’s face clouded. He jerked his head at his secretary. ‘That will be all for now, Joyce. Get those letters out and we’ll go back to the report later.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Miss Vincent adjusted her spectacles, tucked her notebook under her arm and nodded a brief acknowledgement to Sanchia on her way out.

  Walter got up from behind his desk and opened the adjacent cocktail cabinet. ‘Drink?’ he asked, raising a decanter of blood-red liquid.

  Sanchia frowned. ‘You don’t usually drink before midday.’

  He glanced at her, an expensive cigar clenched at the corner of his mouth. ‘You look as though you need one. Go on. Spit it out.’

  He passed her a glass. She drained it.

  ‘Aren’t you having one?’ she asked, her eyes widening questioningly as he placed the decanter back in the cabinet.

  His smile was rueful, almost triumphant. ‘You know me, my darling. I never drink until after sunset. It’s not good business practice.’

  She felt immediately that he had her at a disadvantage and that he’d done it on purpose. He’d caught her off guard, just as he did many people.

  ‘Your daughter wishes to meet you. She’s demanding you both meet now, today, right away!’

  He looked surprised. ‘Does she now! How very interesting.’

  ‘I tried to put her off. She’s very determined. She made me promise.’

  He turned away from her, slowly closing the cabinet doors. She watched him, taking the opportunity to scrutinize the mane of iron-grey hair tamed back from a widow’s peak at the centre of his forehead. At this angle she could not determine the expression in the cool, dark-grey eyes, but for some odd reason she fancied he was flustered. It came to her that she’d never seen him flustered; never known him to be thrown off balance by anyone or anything. And yet for a split second she’d thought she’d seen him hesitate. Someone not as intimate with his habits and movements as she was would not have detected it; but she knew him well. She’d known him for eighteen years; since she was twenty years old. Two years and she would be forty, a fact she tried hard not to think about; not the years themselves but the fear that, despite her lasting beauty, Walter might turn to younger women. There were many of a ‘modern’ turn of mind who would willingly take her place. She would do her best to keep rivals at bay.

  He turned to face her. He was wearing a navy-blue three-piece suit. A gold wristwatch of the latest Swiss design flashed at his wrist. His shirt was impeccably white and the strong face above the neat collar had not yet lost its firm lines, even though he was in his fifties.

  Even now, after all these years, her legs turned to water at the sight of him.

  ‘What shall I do?’

  His eyes were unblinking. A sly smile hovered on his lips. ‘Well, Sanchia my dear. Best not break a promise.’

  The rigid shoulders relaxed. Internally, Sanchia breathed a sigh of relief as the tension she’d breezed in with left her.

  ‘Perhaps tea?’ she asked, her tone of voice reflecting her sense of relief.

  ‘Tea would be fine,’ Walter’s mouth stretched into a smile. His teeth still clenching at his fine Havana.

  ‘I saw her getting out of the car. She looks pretty. Her clothes look dreadful. You’ll have to do something about that before we introduce her to Arthur Freeman.’

  ‘I can make a clothes horse look alluring,’ Sanchia exclaimed, throwing back her head and expelling a heavy sigh.

  She threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him longingly and deeply. The moment her lips met his, she wanted more… much more.

  She paused briefly for breath. ‘Darling, I should stay,’ she said, running her hand down his chest to his waist where he caught it before she could stray lower.

  ‘You heard me tell Miss Vincent that we have a report to write. Business before pleasure, my darling. Now ran along and fix a teatime meeting with my daughter. I’ll see you later.’

  Sanchia positively blossomed at his words. The proud exterior turned humble once his hands were upon her, although in bed he reckoned she became a tigress. Outside the bedroom, Walter was like a ringmaster and the tigress in her was tamed.

  After she left, he went through to the small office where Miss Vincent tapped away on her new Imperial typewriter.

  ‘We’ll get back to that report later, Miss Vincent.’ He looked tellingly at his watch. ‘I have a luncheon appointment in my apartment. We’ll resume the report at two.’

  His luncheon guest arrived at twelve noon precisely, as arranged. Hopkins ushered her in.

  ‘Miss Maria Elrosa,’ Hopkins intoned, his face implacable and giving no sign whatsoever of how he might feel about this g
irl.

  Walter smiled and offered his hand. As the girl took it he appraised her anew. She’d applied for a job as a waitress just two days ago. He’s spotted her in passing making an appointment with the concierge. The black hair coiled high on her head had immediately grabbed his attention. He disliked the new style for women to have their hair cut short. He loved the way a woman’s hair fell when released from its confines of pins and combs or from beneath a veil or hat. Short hair could not do that; neither could it replace the trailing of long tresses over naked flesh, one of the most sensual pleasures he’d ever experienced.

  ‘So, how much have we offered you to work here as a waitress,’ he asked, at the same time appraising her long legs, her rising bosom and the flare of her hips beneath the shapeless dress.

  She told him how much in a soft, lilting English. Owners of bodegas and others in the port wine trade stayed here quite frequently; speaking English was a definite advantage and he told her so. He also told her that she was pretty and would most definitely prove a great asset to the establishment.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, blushing profusely. The light of interest sparkled in her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think you will do very well.’

  In his mind he was finding a new position for Sanchia, perhaps in some venture away from Portugal, from Spain and from him. She was getting older. It was time for casting his net and seeing what could be caught.

  Twenty-Five

  Ellen Shellard couldn’t help fidgeting. Simpson’s was full and she was sitting alone at a table for two. Brushing her fingers across the blazing white tablecloth, she briefly wondered what other diners must think of her; did they wonder if she had a liaison? Don’t be silly, she told herself. You’re nearing thirty-five years old. Act your age. You’re here to meet your brother-in-law.

  But the jitters were endemic and she tapped her fingers, shifted in her seat, and played around with cutlery. In the process of doing all this, she dropped her handbag, a very expensive item from Harrods and made of Blue Nile crocodile – or so she’d been told. Walter had bought it for her for Christmas. On reaching down to retrieve it, she knocked a spoon and fork from the table and dipped down a second time to pick these up. As she did so, her foot brushed against the brown paper carrier bag she’d brought with her. It contained the doll she’d discovered at Castile Villanova.