House in the Hills

by House in the Hills (retail) (epub)

  She’d said hello back, although she hadn’t really been in the mood to strike up a conversation. She needn’t have worried. He asked for her permission to sit next to her and from then on he’d done the talking.

  At first the conversation had been about him. He’d told her that he was an inveterate wanderer, a man who had travelled all over the world.

  Catherine had never met anyone who had travelled the world and was immediately intrigued. ‘Are you a famous explorer?’

  He shook his head. Fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. ‘No. I don’t travel to discover high mountains or deep rivers. I suppose you could say that I travel to discover myself.’

  His answer intrigued her. She immediately wanted to know more.

  ‘My name’s Catherine Rodriguez,’ she said, offering him her hand.

  She noted his palm was very warm. Her hand encased in it was very cool.

  ‘Call me Arthur.’

  ‘Arthur,’ she repeated, liking the sound of his name. ‘You’re so lucky to travel. I’ve never travelled anywhere except from Porto to my great-aunt’s farm. Tell me more,’ she said. ‘Tell me about the places you’ve visited. Tell me about the people.’

  His eyes held hers. He smiled as though much satisfied that she’d asked him.

  ‘Very well, Catherine Rodriguez. I will tell you. I’ve seen the pyramids at sunset, dawn over the high Himalayas, and gold-covered statues in Siamese temples. I’ve ridden horses, camels and elephants; I even attempted to ride a zebra in Rhodesia, but that didn’t prove very successful. It kicked like a mule! ’

  ‘You fell off?’ she asked, suddenly amused despite her depressed spirits.

  His eyes were a strange greyish green flecked with hazel and danced when he smiled. ‘Absolutely! Straight into a steaming pancake laid sometime earlier by a passing water buffalo.’

  She laughed at his meaning. ‘A very large one?’

  ‘Very! I have avoided zebras ever since. And as for the people; some were veiled from head to foot, and some were nigh on naked – begging your pardon, miss.’

  He doffed his hat when he apologized. It was a white panama with a black band. His suit was light-coloured and he wore a matching waistcoat with a gold watch chain that sparkled in the sunlight. He carried a silver-topped walking stick that he leaned on with both hands once his hat was back on his head.

  They were sitting beneath a cluster of shady palms. She guessed her new companion was at least ten years older than she was, perhaps more, but she didn’t care. He’d certainly put her at ease and she’d never known anyone quite so interesting.

  Throwing back her head she enjoyed the alternating pattern of sun and shade dancing over her eyelids.

  ‘I wish I could stay here for ever,’ she said, wanting desperately to hold on to the moment and her uplifting companion.

  He made an agreeable sound deep in his throat and looked around him. ‘It’s not bad.’

  Her eyes shone when she looked at him. He’d filled her head with such tales and fired up her imagination. ‘Did you ever enter a harem?’

  ‘Young lady!’ he said, taking on a shocked expression. ‘I’m surprised you know of such things.’

  Catherine narrowed her eyes. She could see a smile twitching around his lips. She shook her head. ‘You don’t mean that?’

  He pretended to be insulted, his chin seeming to recede into his collar. ‘Of course I do!’

  The afternoon had worn on and Sanchia had not come to fetch her, and she was sure she’d seen a flash of yellow dress lurking in the shadows. No matter. She readily agreed when he asked if he could see her again.

  So here she was, shrugging her shoulders in order to alleviate the itching around her neck.

  As she made her way to where they had sat, she shook her head, finding it strange that her neck felt so exposed to the air. Deep down she knew the fashionable haircut suited her, but she’d never admit that to anyone, least of all to Sanchia.

  Just as she’d hoped, her ‘explorer’ was sitting on the bench beneath the clutch of dark-leaved palms, his head back, eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar.

  Her spirits soared, though for a split second she paused and a small cloud of concern flashed over her face. Should she proceed? After all, so many of her acquaintances disappeared once she cared for them too much. Was it wise to enjoy the company of a man who would soon bid her farewell?

  No, she decided. One part of her wanted to go forward, to sit and laugh and talk with him as she’d done these few days past. The other was afraid, pleading with her to go, making her feet tap as she considered what was best.

  ‘You smell strange,’ he said suddenly. ‘Quite pretty, though.’ He opened one eye and regarded her along the length of his nose.

  ‘You’ve had your hair cut.’

  She had the instant impression that he didn’t like what he saw. ‘It’s the latest fashion,’ she blurted out. It sounded so lame, such a pathetic excuse for cutting off hair that had never been cut before. ‘I used to be able to sit on it,’ she said, sounding extremely apologetic.

  ‘Well you can’t stick it back on again,’ he said, shifting to sit up straight as he fixed his eyes on her. ‘Promise me that you’ll never cut it again.’

  Overwhelmed by his charm, she promised him.

  ‘I didn’t have it done by choice. Sanchia insisted,’ she said, sitting down beside him. She touched her shorn locks. ‘I hate it. I hate everything that’s happening to me. Have you ever felt like that? Hating what was happening but not being able to do anything about it? I don’t doubt that becoming a modern woman has its advantages. But there are sacrifices, like putting up with people you don’t really want anything to do with. I wish I wasn’t here.’

  He pulled a face as he appeared to think about it. ‘Sometimes I’ve wanted to run up a mountain and get away from it all. To do something outrageous to cleanse my system no matter what anyone else might think. Is that what you mean?’

  She nodded, her eyes shining at having met a kindred spirit, someone who would understand.

  ‘That’s exactly it. I don’t want to be the same as other people. My mother wasn’t the same.’

  ‘You mean she didn’t conform. I take it she was just as beautiful as you?’

  Catherine smiled enigmatically. This man was such a flatterer and was expecting her to blush; an impossibility on account of his comment. The most beautiful vision of her mother was of her lying in her coffin wearing a wreath of bloodstained lilies.

  ‘She was,’ she replied. ‘But I’m only like her in some ways. Looks, mostly.’

  She knew she was speaking the truth. Looks were one thing, but in other ways they were very different. Her mother had been submissive. She’d lived for Walter and through him.

  Catherine was beginning to realize that her weakness was not in being submissive but in being passionate. She had enjoyed her time with both Francisco and Umberto. Since leaving them both behind, she had had the chance to analyse the difference between the two. If his mother had acquiesced, Francisco would have given her the security of a wife and her passion would have been sated in the marriage bed. As it was, he’d let her down. Her relationship with Umberto had been something grabbed on the spur of the moment. She had also been the spur to his repressed sex drive – in that his passion had matched her own. Looking at her father and the fiery Sanchia, she knew from whence it had been inherited.

  ‘Now tell me what you’re going to do with your life,’ he said suddenly.

  There were a number of possible answers. She stared at him, trying to gauge from his expression whether he expected a maidenly answer. Maidenly! A maid was the last thing she could be.

  She countered his question with one of her own. ‘What did you do when you were young?’

  ‘I travelled,’ he said abruptly, his flecked green eyes fixing on a wasp and a droplet of sap oozing from a lemon tree.

  ‘Yes, of course. I wish I could travel, but my father has made other plan
s,’ she replied.

  Arthur related more of his travels. Catherine listened, enraptured by his tales of distant lands and strange peoples.

  ‘I’m going to England,’ she said suddenly. It was likely to be the only travelling she would ever do.

  ‘I am from England,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m travelling back to the old homestead shortly. Can’t say I’m keen on the idea, but there; I do have responsibilities and business matters to deal with.’

  It occurred to Catherine that they might be travelling back on the same ship. That would be nice, she thought to herself, but should I ask him? No! Asking would sound too needy. Being casual, almost indifferent to his plans, would suit her better.

  ‘If fate allows, we might meet up in England.’

  He smiled. ‘That is indeed a possibility, although…’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘I doubt that I’ll linger there too long, just enough to sort things out and then I’m off to pastures new. Our meeting would necessarily be brief. Foreign shores and foreign folk would beckon, I’m afraid.’ A heavy sigh was followed by a wry smile. ‘I would then have no recourse but to take you with me. How would you like that?’

  She tried not to show any reaction on her face, though her excitement might have gleamed in her eyes. The urge to throw her arms around him then and there was tempered by her determined self-control. Give in to such a suggestion and she’d give in to anything. And his eyes and his smile were so alluring… No, she warned. Be calm. Be careful.

  Her words were guarded. What did she know about travel? However, the thought of it intrigued her.

  ‘Travel? I’ve never ever left Portugal, though I know of England, of course. Because of my father. He has business and a house in both London and Bristol. And of course I can speak English.’

  ‘When do you sail?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I see.’ His sage expression and a resolute straightness to his mouth made him seem much older. She wondered she hadn’t noticed before.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to it.’ She refrained from mentioning the details of why she was travelling to England. Not that it mattered to her. Basking in the company of such a charming, well-travelled man helped keep her mind off her future.

  ‘No doubt we shall meet again,’ he said, the softening of his features regaining a few years of the youth she’d initially seen there. ‘But for now… parting is such sweet sorrow…’

  Taking hold of both her hands with his, he got to his feet. ‘Alas, we must part.’

  If he sounded dramatic, if his actions were theatrical, it didn’t really register – not until later, much later.

  ‘Goodbye, sweet Kate.’

  He kissed her cheek and took his leave, striding from her swiftly, as though he wanted to distance himself from her as fast as he could.

  ‘Good travelling,’ she called.

  He flung a casual wave over his shoulder.

  And then he was gone. If she felt hollow inside, her outside was as fragile as an eggshell and easily crushed. Meeting him had helped her cope with what was happening to her. Now she would have to cope alone.

  * * *

  Some miles away Father Umberto lay dying in the cool ward of a hospice where soft-footed nuns padded over stone floors, the hems of their habits whispering as they moved. The sister in charge had allowed them five minutes. ‘No more,’ she’d hissed like a wary snake when William Shellard had asked for ten. ‘Father Umberto is suffering from blood poisoning brought on by his wounds.’

  William was curious. ‘How was he wounded?’ He figured an accident; certainly no war was going on in the vicinity and the word ‘wound’ was more specific to that. Should she have said ‘injuries’?

  The sister’s jaw stiffened. Thin lines radiated from her pursed lips. ‘By his own hand,’ she said. ‘And now he must bear the consequences of overzealous self-flagellation. Blood poisoning, I’m afraid.’

  Her long white fingers swept across her chest in the sign of the cross before asking them to follow her.

  The priest was lying in a small cell bereft of ornament or decoration. The walls were glaringly white and the floor chillingly cold as the stone echoed with hollow footsteps.

  Ellen Shellard followed William. The sister swept out with a rustle of habit, though not before warning them yet again that they could have only five minutes.

  The priest’s face glistened with sweat. His breathing was laboured. He had the look of a dying man, one who no longer cared whether he lived or died.

  Ellen Shellard sucked in her breath. His face was not merely handsome; he was beautiful. She found herself thinking that if he’d been her priest, she would have gone to confession every day – mostly to have him forgive her for feeling desirous of him.

  Stifling her instant reaction, Ellen leaned forward and whispered, ‘Father Umberto?’

  Blue eyes flickered in puzzlement, stunning her even more.

  His eyes glanced over her and went to her brother-in-law. He frowned. ‘I don’t know you.’

  Ellen threw William a warning glance when he seemed likely to introduce himself. After all, they had only five minutes. She leaned closer.

  ‘Father Umberto, I believe you knew my stepdaughter, Catherine – Catherine Rodriguez.’

  His eyes flickered in a livelier manner than before. ‘Have you seen her?’ A froth of blood and spittle bubbling from one corner of his mouth.

  Ellen shook her head. If she could have told him, she would. ‘No. We’re looking for her. Do you know where she is?’

  He blinked as though he didn’t believe her. Or perhaps he didn’t hear properly, she thought, so she repeated her question.

  ‘A woman came,’ he said. ‘She took her. The last letter she received said someone would come if she didn’t obey her father. He wanted her to make her way to Porto.’

  Ellen and William exchanged surprised glances. William shrugged helplessly, was about to say that his brother knew a lot of women but remembered he was with his sister-in-law.

  ‘Do you know the woman’s name?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘No,’ said the priest, his deep-set eyes closing as though his lids were made of lead.

  Ellen frowned and turned to William, who was looking uncomfortable and had been intermittently ever since he’d found out that Leonora was dead and that she had given birth to a daughter.

  Once the smell of sickness and carbolic soap was behind them, Ellen pulled on her gloves, a determined look in her eyes. ‘I’m going to confront Walter. He must know where she is.’

  William was looking down at the ground, a troubled frown diminishing his amiable features.

  ‘Are you coming with me?’

  He looked thoughtful, then nodded. ‘Yes.’

  * * *

  ‘A fine vintage.’

  Walter handed the sampling spoon to one of his retainers. The man, who was Portuguese, wiped it with a scrap of linen before handing it back.

  A few steps along the red-brick floor and they were waiting at the next barrel.

  There were twelve huge barrels in this section alone, the blood-red liquid settling and fermenting before it was sent to be bottled.

  The tap was opened. Port, the fortified wine made from brandy and Portuguese vintage, poured slowly into the sampling spoon.

  Walter Shellard, as master of the wine lodge, had the honour of the first taste.

  Just as he was about to take the spoon, one half of the main door, a huge thing made of oak, slammed open. He raised his eyes and without pausing for a single beat, he sipped, tasted and spat into a silver ice bucket.

  Ellen was marching towards him like a soldier off to do battle. ‘Walter! I wish to talk to you.’

  He hid his immediate reaction and adopted a false if edifying smile. ‘Why, Ellen. I didn’t expect to see you here. Would you like a taste?’

  He nodded at the man who had custody of the sampling spoon. In response the tap was reopened, the spoon refilled.

  ‘That’s not what I’ve com
e to discuss,’ she said, her hands tightly clutching her handbag.

  Walter’s smile was sardonic, even mocking. He eyed the crushed crocodile handbag. ‘My, my, Ellen. You’re strangling that bag as though it were someone’s neck. Is it mine, by any chance?’

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  There was no mistaking the anger in her eyes. Walter refrained from showing surprise.

  ‘Then talk,’ he said, taking a second sample of the vintage he’d already tried, although this time he did not spit but swallowed.

  For a moment she was unnerved. ‘Here?’

  ‘If you must,’ Walter responded.

  The nerves passed. She seemed to come to an instant decision.

  ‘All right. It’s about Leonora’s daughter, Catherine. I want to know where she is.’

  ‘I see.’

  He spoke in such a cool, unflappable manner, that she was immediately taken aback. For a moment he was almost sure that she was going to turn away with a promise to talk about it later. To his surprise, the second of the day, she did not.

  There was no point in beating about the bush. He decided to be forthright. ‘She’s on her way to England. Her aunt died so I took her under my wing.’

  He could tell by Ellen’s face that she was in two minds about this now.

  ‘Where is she going?’

  ‘Rest assured, she won’t be living with us,’ he went on. ‘She’s going to be married.’

  His strategy had worked. She looked deflated, but also shocked. ‘Who is she marrying?’

  ‘A business partner of mine. Robert Arthur Freeman. I think you’ve met him, dear.’

  She shook her head.

  Walter smiled to himself. Of course she hadn’t, but it was never easy to recall nondescript people, people that did not easily fit the social scene. ‘She’ll be well looked after and very settled. Isn’t that what every girl wants?’

  * * *

  Ellen phoned her brother-in-law from Castile Villanova. She felt a fool as she repeated what Walter had told her. He went silent the moment she’d told him.