House in the Hills

by House in the Hills (retail) (epub)

  The hated country! The hated city! A rough seaport on the western coast. ‘I don’t want to go to England! It’s your place. The place that killed my mother.’

  His eyes rose sharply to meet hers. ‘Your mother killed herself! Anyway, that’s beside the point. I thought I made it clear. You have no choice. You’re young but will adjust quickly.’ His eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘Besides, you wouldn’t want to be responsible for a defrocked priest, would you? I know the bishop in that area and the cardinal above him. I could ruin him with a word in the right ear.’

  Those cold eyes were like needles sticking into her mind. She knew he meant what he said and she couldn’t be responsible for Umberto’s destruction. Although she wished it were otherwise, she knew the priest would confess his sins – or perhaps not – and get over her. He would return to being a celibate priest, dedicated to God’s work, though perhaps more intensely now because he had known the face of temptation and could put it behind him. She knew exactly what Walter Shellard was saying to her. Do as he said and Father Umberto would continue in his chosen vocation. Disobey and he’d be destroyed.

  Twenty-Seven

  Walter Shellard slid his arms into his silk-lined dressing gown. With practised movements, his manservant brought one edge of the gown over the other, smoothing the front flat before tying the silk cord.

  ‘That will be all, Cedric,’ said Walter.

  His manservant backed away, dipping to pick up his master’s shoes on the way out. The door made a comforting click behind him.

  Walter Shellard let out a great sigh of relief. Alone at last. He enjoyed his own company. It gave him time to think and he had a lot to think about. Acquiring more vineyards both in Portugal and other wine-producing regions occupied most of his mind. His daughter, the offspring of him and the sloe-eyed beauty he’d accosted on her way from church all those years ago, occupied a lesser portion.

  To help him think he lit up a cigar. He had them made in Havana, his name embossed on the label; the cigars matched everything else in his life. He insisted on only the best.

  Feeling his eyes watering in response to the intense smoke, he opened the pale-green shutters and stepped out on to a red-tiled balcony. Narrowing his eyes he surveyed the hotchpotch of clay roofs glowing with the last rays of the setting sun. Old buildings creaked as they breathed out the warmth of the day, cooling with the promise of evening.

  The sky was still blue in places, like icy pools among hills of snow. Blue brought Leonora to mind. She had been little more than seventeen when he’d met her; he’d been twenty years her senior and married. Literally bumping into her as she descended the steps of the local church, her dark hair swathed in a white mantilla, her blue dress floating around her like a piece of fallen sky, she had taken his breath away. She’d been everything William had said she was, and although she insisted that she was to become a novice in the local convent, Walter had pursued her. Unlike his brother, he had refused to take ‘no’ for an answer but worn down her resistance until she’d finally given in.

  The time had been right for both of them. He had been ripe for love, not just his usual indulgences with fleeting fancies, but affection as well as passion.

  At the time marriage was not suiting either himself or his first wife. Gertrude had turned into an invalid just a few months after their wedding once she had discovered the secrets of the marriage bed and found them not to her liking. Her attitude towards Portugal was pretty much the same and based on just one visit. ‘I have no wish to ever see Portugal again. I shall stay here,’ she had announced in the bedroom of their home in Clifton. Things, opulent things, were more to Gertrude’s taste. She’d surrounded herself with clutter that suited her taste but did nothing for his. China-faced dolls with painted eyes and pouting mouths sat in tiers against one wall. In a fit of anger one day, he’d stolen one of those dolls, taken it to Portugal and given it to Catherine. Whether Gertrude ever missed it, she didn’t say. Anyway, he relished the small act of cruelty that he’d given something of hers to his mistress’s child.

  The house in Clifton, a superior area of the city of Bristol, suited Gertrude very well, though thankfully he succeeded in curtailing her dubious taste to her own suite of rooms. The Georgian façade and interior of Adelaide Court remained elegant and, for the most part, unembellished in its lofty spot overlooking the Avon Gorge and the ships journeying up the river.

  Feeling cheated and burning with the urges that no young man worth his salt could ignore, for a while he had considered whether he could endure the monk-like celibacy of a married man who is married only in name. But his blood had run hot; it still did.

  He did not seek her approval of him taking a mistress. Somehow he knew that she would not care very much at all – as long as such an arrangement was discreet.

  There had been many women over the years, but only Leonora had shared his home. Variety, he’d found, suited his nature. But always there had been Leonora. He smiled as he remembered their early passion.

  Dark and sensual, Leonora had expressed fear at a ruined reputation. Portugal, like the rest of Europe, was narrow-minded back then. It still was. He’d taken her from her family and her village; a place high above the River Douro where vineyards fell like green ribbons into the valley and folk were simple and honest. Only months after their first meeting, she had moved in under his roof. A year or so later she had given birth to a daughter.

  He’d considered himself a fortunate man. He had the best of both worlds; a legal spouse far away in a smart town house in Bristol, lying sick and fragile – at least, she was when he was home in Bristol – and a graceful and passionate young woman in Porto.

  ‘Gertrude fades every time I see her,’ he’d told Leonora. ‘One day, my dear, one day you will take her place.’

  He’d been right about Gertrude fading away. Bloated and pale, she had drawn her last breath on the couch where she spent most of her waking day complaining of headaches. The reason for the headaches became clear the day after her death when a servant had cleared out the bottles beneath her couch. Inactivity and the fruits of the vine had proved her downfall along with Fry’s chocolate and Cheddar cheese bought by the truckle from a farm near the town of the same name. She also drank Somerset cider, a heady dark-green brew festering with the pips and cores of the apples from which it was made.

  They’d lived apart for years, so he didn’t miss her and therefore did not grieve. There’d been no love, no physical contact and no mutual respect. They’d agreed over the years to tolerate each other, toleration made easier by distance. With hindsight, he should never have promised. His frown deepened at the thought of it, but he brightened again when he thought of Ellen and the children she’d borne him. Everything had worked out fine in the end – for him.

  ‘You’re a lucky man, Walter Shellard,’ he said to himself. ‘Keep lucky. Keep going, old man.’

  He did not turn at the sound of a key unlocking the door to his suite. He knew who it was and turned to face her.

  ‘She’s stubborn,’ said Sanchia, flinging aside her handbag. ‘Like you,’ she murmured. Her hat followed the handbag. ‘I take it she’s too old to be spanked.’

  Her words tumbled from between plush red lips at the same time as her unpinned hair tumbled around her shoulders. After unbuttoning her red jacket she tossed it to one side, exposing the upper half of a tightly boned basque. Her skirt followed. She let it fall around her ankles, stepping out of it as though it wasn’t there.

  Walter smiled and arched one eyebrow. His thoughts had caught on her idea. Sanchia had a most glorious backside, twin orbs as firm as ripe melons. Her waist was tiny, her breasts as voluptuous as her buttocks.

  ‘Where is my daughter?’

  Sanchia, his lady of Cordoba, took her time answering. By the time she reached him she was clad only in her corset, French knickers, stockings and high-heeled shoes. ‘In her room, staring out of the window. She does not want to be here. I think she prefers goats to civilized company.�
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  She pursed her lips and sucked on his, her arm sliding around his waist. Encased in pink and coffee-cream lace, her breasts pulsed against his chest. He would have covered one swelling mound with his hand, but there was something he had to arrange before they went to bed.

  Walter smiled to himself. ‘You’re right about one thing. She’s very like me.’

  His smile diminished at the thought of it. The fact that she was so like him was surprising, but nothing to worry about. After all, she could never rival him. She was a woman. Women were annexed to men. That’s the way it always had been, and in his opinion that was the way it would stay.

  Sanchia looked peeved at his declaration. ‘I expected her to be like her mother; insipid and slightly deranged.’

  Walter clenched his jaw. Her description irritated but did not anger. She knew very well that she was one of many. If the situation didn’t suit, why did she stay? As always, his voice was as straight as an arrow and did not reveal his reaction.

  ‘Now, now my dear. It’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead.’

  The red lips pouted. The dark eyes looked soulful. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Good,’ he said slowly prior to voicing the plan forming in his mind. ‘I want you to be a friend to Catherine.’

  ‘A friend?’ Now it was Sanchia’s eyebrows that were raised in surprise.

  ‘A surrogate mother if you like.’

  She looked puzzled by his request; this pleased him. He’d half expected her to explode like a volcano. She was the exact opposite of the fragile and gentle Leonora. Leonora had been subservient and dependent on him. Sanchia, on the other hand, was self-sufficient, strong and incredibly passionate. She was a red rose to Leonora’s white lily, and that’s what he liked; contrast, at least among his women.

  Sanchia flinched as the hand holding the cigar cupped one side of her face.

  ‘No need to be jealous, my dear. You’re still here and I need you. I need you to help form my daughter’s future,’ said Walter, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb.

  A dark cloud of shingled hair sloughed around Sanchia’s face as she tilted her head. Her eyes sparkled and pearl-white teeth showed from between Vermillion lips as she smiled up at him. ‘I will do anything you want – for your daughter and for you,’ she said huskily. Her pink tongue slid slowly and salaciously along her bottom lip, leaving it glistening. Her hands ran up and down his back, her fingers feathering out over his buttocks, her fingernails raking his flesh.

  ‘You’re distracting me,’ he murmured.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I want you to concentrate.’

  She adopted that sultry smile he knew so well. ‘Is that what you are calling it now?’

  She gasped as he took hold of a chunk of her hair, bending her head back so that she had to be still, she had to listen.

  His breath fell on her face, his eyes bored into hers. Even after all this time, she could still arouse him, though these days she had to work at it. Younger women did not, and in time they would take her place. But this was now and she was loyal and efficient.

  He began outlining what he wanted her to do. ‘I like things to be tidy in my life. I am responsible for Catherine. I have to do what is best for her, and you will help me do that.’ His statement was far from the truth. Control of Robert Arthur Freeman’s company was within his grasp and the poor fool would hardly even notice.

  Sanchia attempted to nod, her white teeth biting into her bottom lip, half with pain, half with pleasure.

  ‘Say you will,’ he said, jerking her head back that bit more.

  Sanchia gasped. ‘Yes! Oh, yes.’

  ‘I do not want her turning up at Castile Villanova. I do not want my wife knowing of her existence. I am shortly vacating my house in Bristol and moving to London so it’s not likely she’ll find out about her. In the meantime, there’s nowhere for her to go. Catherine is young, but old enough to get married. I would have left it a bit longer if Lopa Rodriguez hadn’t got herself chewed to death. I wish my plans to run smoothly. I want her to marry this man.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Sanchia, relaxing slightly as he released his grip. Her hand slipped beneath the silk dressing gown to do delicious things to his flesh.

  ‘She’s wilful and, as you say, stubborn. Arthur Freeman has been over here a few weeks and has probably spent the money I advanced. Luckily, he’s a charmer. It’s just a case of outlining what he should say to her and what he shouldn’t say. Meet the man and instruct him. I know you can do that.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied as she began to sink lower down his body.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said, his mind elsewhere for the moment as it tended to be when he wished to exert his will over others. ‘It’s imperative that you get him to act out a part – even if you have to resort to your most lethal powers of persuasion.’

  He saw her expression change. She knew exactly what he was asking of her. How few women would actually adhere to that? He answered his own question. Few. Very few.

  She knew him well enough to know when he was being serious and looked up at him over his loins, his belly and his chest.

  His eyes filled with cunning. ‘As for Catherine, become her companion. Gain her trust. This will work well on the boat trip over to England.’

  The wide smile returned to Sanchia’s face. Her hair now released, she pressed her body tightly against his. ‘And my reward for this service?’

  Walter smiled. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘You should know better than that.’ He shook his head. ‘You women. You always want most that which you cannot have.’

  She rubbed the curve of her cheek into his palm. ‘Or that taken in rebellion that is bad for us. That is our nature. You know women well, my darling Walter.’

  His smile was enigmatic, almost cruel. ‘Much to my advantage.’

  Defiance flared in her eyes before subsiding to be superseded by helpless adoration. He’d always had that effect on women. His thoughts returned to his daughter. The little bitch had it in her to be defiant. He’d seen himself in her dark anger and could almost smell the need for revenge burning beneath the surface. Nothing would come of it; if he put a stop to it now. She was young; as a wife her character would be moulded by her husband, if not wholly, then partially.

  ‘And for my reward?’ breathed Sanchia, her voice as rich and thick as melted chocolate.

  Walter sighed, bent his head and kissed the creamy orb of bosom swelling above the tight corset. ‘You, my dear, will receive your just desserts.’

  Twenty-Eight

  A week before departure, an army of seamstresses was employed in altering dresses purchased in Porto. Catherine sat having her long locks shingled into the latest ‘elfin’ cut. The result fitted her head like a glossy black cap and made her eyes look huge in her heart-shaped face.

  While the shorn hair was brushed from around her feet, she watched as Sanchia examined each and every outfit again and again.

  She struck a commanding picture, her long arms stabbing at the air like a musical conductor in charge of an off-key orchestra. Curt and to the point, she snapped out exactly what was wanted, insisting that full skirts were cut to take account of current fashion. ‘Have none of you seen a Hollywood film?’ she shouted. ‘Have none of you seen Mary Pickford? Take out the seams. Flatten the bosom. Shorten the hem. A glimpse of knee. Not ankle! Knee!’

  The women, most of whom were of late middle-age, exchanged shocked, round-eyed looks. Their own hemlines still reached the floor; their skirts were bulky over bulging hips.

  ‘Like this,’ shouted Sanchia, slapping open the pages of a fashion magazine, yet another featuring an article on Hollywood movie stars.

  On seeing the short-skirted ‘flappers’ the women exchanged more shocked glances before catching sight of Douglas Fairbanks. Their expressions softened noticeably and they began fingering the pages with hesitant interest.

  It was hard not to smile. The hairdre
sser intervened and so prevented the smile from becoming too wide. ‘Voilà,’ she said, teasing Catherine’s hair into feathery tufts around her face.

  Catherine eyed her reflection. Her glossy black hair framed her face. Her eyes looked huge, her lips too red against her creamy complexion. If things had been different she would have been pleased. As it was…

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Sanchia.

  Catherine shrugged but said nothing. She was letting this happen to her; she told herself this in defiance. Secretly she was pleased with the transformation. If she was ever to command the sort of respect Sanchia received, she had to look the part – only more so. Being confident and smartly turned out would enable her to take control of her own life, her own destiny.

  Occasionally she considered delving into Aunt Lopa’s chest to check exactly how much ‘pretty paper’ was in there. Fear of disappointment stayed her hand. Wait until you have no choice, she told herself. Wait until those bits of paper – small sums as they may – are your only way out of a difficult situation.

  ‘It suits very well. I like it,’ said Sanchia to the hairdresser. It sounded to Catherine’s ears as though it were the hairdresser’s crimped glory she was referring to, not the glum-looking girl sitting silently in the chair.

  ‘Perhaps the young lady would like to go outside a moment. The hair will brush into place so much more easily once it’s drier,’ said the hairdresser.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sanchia, gushing with unexpected enthusiasm. ‘I think that is a very good idea. Go on, Catherine. You may go to the courtyard. Sit there a while.’

  The hotel had become very familiar during the extent of her stay. Catherine knew very well where the courtyard was. She’d discovered it two days ago. It was pleasant to sit in, away from all these arrangements. Better still, she’d found someone to talk to.

  ‘Hello,’ he’d said, appearing from around the corner of a flowering shrub. He’d been whistling, so hadn’t taken her by surprise.