White Rose of Love

by Anita Charles

  Tim came in with a tray of drinks, and Madelena’s eyes started to sparkle again.

  “What is this?” she asked, as he put a small glass into her hand. “A cocktail? But I do not drink cocktails— Manoel would not approve!”

  “Never mind what Manoel would approve to-day,” Tim returned, a little harshly. “You are a young woman contemplating marriage, Madelena”—by this time they were all on Christian name terms—“not a child to be ordered around. That mixture contains only a little gin and vermouth, and it won’t do you any harm. Drink it up!” Madelena drank it up, her eyes registering an expression which revealed the fact that she felt very daring as she did so. Then she nodded, approvingly.

  “It was good. But in future I had better stick to orange juice. . . . After all,” even her voice sounding shadowed suddenly, “it is with Manoel I shall have to live!”

  Steve turned away. If it was she who had been faced with the threat of having to live with Dom Manoel she would have been radiantly happy. That just showed how two women reacted ... so differently that it was bewildering. Until one remembered that one was in love and one wasn’t! Madelena was not the least little bit in love with Manoel! On the morning of her birthday it was given out that she would have to disappoint her guests, because she was confined to her room. She wasn’t well. . . . She might make an appearance later in the day, but the garden-party guests were unlikely to see her.

  Dom Manoel appeared amongst the guests looking as if he, at least, was fit but grim. He wore a beautifully tailored suit of palest grey, and his silk tie flowed with an elegance that actually tinned Steve’s heart over when she noticed it. It was an Old Etonian tie. . . . He hadn’t told her he had been at school in England.

  He appeared amongst the guests with a suaveness that lulled their fears for Madelena. But when face to face with Steve and her brother, Timothy, the suaveness vanished. He was polite but distant . . . infinitely distant, Steve thought. He made a flattering comment on the portrait of Madelena which had been handed over for her birthday, and was arrayed amongst the birthday presents on display in one of the ante-rooms, but he said nothing about liking it himself, or commissioning Tim to do another one.

  It was a portrait that captured all the delicate charm of Madelena, and aroused much approval amongst the guests. It also suggested a Madelena who was younger, and happier, and more carefree than she ever appeared at the quinta ... a Madelena who could bubble over with fun and gaiety, make a batch of cakes in a tiny kitchen, take pleasure in washing-up and setting a table for lunch—with a vase of garden flowers in the middle of it!—and was at heart no more like the stiff and sedate women who were her forbears than Steve herself was.

  It was also a tender, faithful reproduction by a man who had loved his task.

  Steve was quick to realize that the Dom—although with no love in his heart for his future bride—was yet capable of feeling resentment because a man of an alien race appreciated her far more than he did. It wasn’t so much a question of jealousy, as a question of pride.

  When Tim had wandered off, and Steve was alone for a few minutes beside a sparkling pool of water overhung by flaming bushes, she found that her host had once again joined her. His expression was just as withdrawn and remote, but he asked her whether she was enjoying herself, and whether she was being properly looked after.

  “Yes, thank you, senhor.” Steve couldn’t turn her eyes up to his without flushing a little. “I have been regaled with champagne and some wonderful iced chicken, and now I’m enjoying the beauty of your gardens. They are so beautiful that they might not be real. . . .”

  She looked away over an emerald expanse of lawn to another silver pool, in the middle of which a fountain played, and beyond that to a vista of dark trees growing close together like well placed sentinels etched against the blue sky.

  “I shall think of the beauty of the Quinta Rosa when I am back in England.”

  “You are returning to England soon?”

  “In a few weeks, I expect. Tim has decided to come with me. He needs a bit of a change, and he’s thinking of holding a one-man exhibition. . . . He should do well, I think. His work has improved enormously since he came to Portugal.”

  “And you?” he asked, although they studiously avoided meeting one another’s eyes. “What will you do?”

  She shrugged her slim shoulders. She was wearing all white, and she looked like a pale flower—the white rose he had once likened her to—standing beside the pool.

  “I don’t quite know. Get myself a job, perhaps. . . . Go on with my work. But one has to live, and modelling heads isn’t very profitable.”

  “I want to pay you for the head you have modelled of Madelena. I would like to pay a sum of money into a bank named by you.”

  She glanced up at him witheringly.

  “Thank you, senhor, but I do not require or desire any money of yours paid into a bank for me. The head is a gift—as I stated it would be in the beginning—and you owe me nothing. Please don’t imagine that you do.”

  He bit his lower lip hard.

  “But I have to do something for you.... I must!” She turned away as if she would leave him.

  “You can stop insulting me, senhor!”

  It was obvious he made a tremendous effort not to reply to that. He turned first pale, and then his dark face grew swarthy with colour. She had the feeling that he was literally torn apart inside.

  “I hear that you have been doing a lot of sailing with Carlos D’Castelos,” he got out, after a moment of silence.

  “Yes.” She smiled suddenly, and in a more carefree fashion. “He has a beautiful little boat, and I’m becoming quite an enthusiast. Carlos is fun, too. . . .”

  “You like men to be ‘fun’?”

  “It’s amusing. Emotion gets a little wearing after a time.”

  They glanced quickly at one another, and then it was he who partly turned away.

  “Have you considered the possibility that you might marry him one day?”

  She dimpled suddenly, and rather wickedly.

  “As a matter of fact, I haven’t.... But I’ve a feeling he’s leading up to making just such a suggestion. He wants to go to America, and he wants a wife who isn’t Portuguese....” Her eyes began to dance as she fixed them on his face. “It would be fun if we were neighbours one day, wouldn’t it? I understand Carlos will inherit his mother’s estates in this part of the world, as well as his father’s property in Estoril. I like Carlos.... He makes me feel young and happy, somehow....”

  “And doesn’t bore you with emotion?”

  “I think we could both keep emotion in its proper place.... We recognize that it’s important, but not all that important. You yourself, I’m sure,” fluttering her eyelashes demurely, “Would be the first to admit that emotion is out of place in a Portuguese marriage.” This time he actually did turn away. Then he turned back to her and bowed stiffly.

  “Carlos is inclined to take risks with that boat of his. . . .

  Be careful, Stephanie,” he cautioned her. “I would much rather you had not discovered this liking for sailing.”

  She glanced up at the blue sky, that somehow was not as blue as it had been earlier in the day. There was a feeling of oppressive heat that made the atmosphere actually waver a little, and although she was wearing the very minimum of clothing Steve felt as if her few garments were sticking to her. She studied the sky curiously, and then at the curiously motionless tops of the trees.

  “We’re going for a trip round the headland this evening, but I’m afraid it will mean using the motor. There doesn’t appear to be any wind at all.”

  Dom Manoel also glanced up quickly at the sky, and then all around him.

  “There could be a great deal of wind later in the day. Too much wind. . . .” His face altered; it grew drawn and anxious. “Stephanie, give up this idea of going out in the boat this evening. I think we are due for a storm. . . . It will be short and sharp, but it will probably come about the close
of the day. Tell Carlos to postpone taking you out in the boat.”

  “I can’t do that. We’re both looking forward to it.”

  “But, I tell you that it would be foolhardy! . . .” Stephanie! . . .” His fingers gripped her wrist so ruthlessly that they hurt, and she had the feeling that he might suddenly shake her. “Stop being blinded by jealousy and resentment, and listen to me! Only a fool would go out in a small boat off a coast like this when a storm was brewing! You have had no experience of our storms. . . . You could lose your life!”

  “That wouldn’t worry me,” she admitted, and suddenly the pressure of his fingers brought the tears to her eyes.

  “Oh, Manoel, please—you’re hurting me!” she begged. Instantly he was thrown into a state of abject consternation and apology.

  “My darling! . . . My little one, forgive me!” he implored. They gazed at one another in a kind of desperation, while the light fell goldenly about them, and the sea surged sluggishly below them. People moved on the paths, and in the cloistered arbours around them, but they were hardly aware of them. They were aware only of each other. “Stephanie, my heart, forgive me!” he begged.

  She hid her bruised wrist behind her.

  “Of course I forgive you, Manoel,” she said huskily. “It was nothing, really, only I.... I can’t bear it when you’re furious with me! And of course I won’t do anything foolish

  this evening.... ”

  “You give me your word?”

  “Yes. If there’s going to be a storm, I’ll tell Carlos we won’t go out in the boat. . . .” Her blue eyes rewarded him with one of her loveliest smiles. “I promise you that!”

  “My own beloved!” he breathed. “I feel as if we’ve been ruthlessly separated, and now we’re together again.”

  He held out his hand for her wrist. There was no one to observe them. They were as good as alone beside the pool. He carried her slim wrist up to his face and saluted it with his warm lips. He felt her tremble.

  “You must believe that I love you,” he told her, his voice barely audible and shaken with feeling. “You must believe that for me it is even worse than it is for you! . . . Barely endurable!”

  But just before she and Tim took their departure Madelena made her appearance amongst the guests, and Steve’s new found peace of mind was all but shattered again when she saw the way in which Manoel greeted his fiancee. If she had been made of Dresden china he could not have treated her more tenderly, and concern for her and the delicate pallor of her face flamed from his eyes.

  He took her hand in his and drew it through his arms, his fingers retaining possession of her fingers. Steve, who was near enough to overhear an exchange of conversation, caught the words—in his mellow, vibrant voice:

  “If this is too much for you, little one, we will escape! I cannot have you utterly worn out by all these people. Would you prefer it if we had dinner alone somewhere? I can make your excuses to our invited guests . . . postpone

  the dinner-party until another day.”

  Madelena lifted heavy eyes to his face.

  “It would be nice if we were alone, Manoel! I don’t honestly think I can face up to a dinner-party. . . . It would be much pleasanter if there were just the two of us.”

  “Much pleasanter,” he agreed, with such an amount of emphasis on the first word that Steve felt suddenly a little sick. She touched Tim on the arm—he, too, had overheard—and whispered to him that they should go home. Tim, a trifle rigid about the face, agreed.

  The two of them drove back to the cottage in silence, and when they reached it they found Carlos D’Castelos, who had not attended the garden-party, encamped on their doorstep. He was wearing an open necked shirt and well-creased white slacks, and it was plain that he intended to take the Silver Streak out.

  He rose with relief when he saw Tim and Steve. The early evening was stiflingly hot, it was ominously still, and there were clouds banked up low on the horizon. Carlos indicated them.

  “That means trouble later on,” he said, “but if we’re quick we can round the headland and back long before it’s ready to break. Run inside and change your clothes, Most Beautiful Stephanie,” grinning at her, “and then I’ll see to it that you get a breath of cooler air than you’ll get on shore.” He put a finger down inside the neck of his shirt and grimaced. “My clothes are sticking to me. This heat is fiendish!”

  Steve hesitated for a moment, and then she glanced at Tim. He looked utterly depressed, and barely able to say a word. No use asking his advice.

  “All right,” she said, answering Carlos. “Wait for me! I won’t be long!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FROM the windows of the great sala at the Quinta Rosa, where he waited for his fiancee and her mother to join him before taking them both out to dinner, Dom Manoel could see how rough the sea had become in the last hour. When the last guests had taken their departure about six o’clock the sky had been definitely overcast, and already a wind had sprung up which promised a stormy night ... or a night when the fishing fleet would be unlikely to put out.

  Dom Manoel paced up and down. It was early for him to be dressed for dinner, but it had been a trying day full of sticky heat in the quinta gardens, and he had been glad to get away to his rooms and change.

  A bath had done something to take the tension out of his limbs, and, freshly shaved and groomed, he paced up and down in the beautiful room with its expensive furniture and furnishings. The house was very quiet. . . . It seemed particularly quiet after the departure of the mob that had wandered in and out of it all day. For one thing he was thankful, and that was that there was to be no formal dinner-party to-night, and he had been able to don a dinner-jacket instead of full-scale evening clothes.

  When Madelena joined him she was looking unusually pale, still, but otherwise herself. She declared she had been afflicted with a dreadful headache all day, but it had gone now. She didn’t add that the sight of Tim’s portrait of herself, arranged amongst her presents, had somehow affected her with a dreadful sensation of finality. There would be no more sittings at the cottage, no more impromptu lunches—with herself helping to prepare it—no more aprons tied roun her middle, or laughter in the middle of a tiny kitchen. In future it would be a surprise if she saw the inside of a kitchen, and Portuguese gatherings were not noted for their spontaneous laughter.

  She moved a little wearily over to the window, and although she was wearing a silver dress which drifted about her like silver cobwebs, and her make-up was perfect and her beauty wonderfully emphasized, Dom Manoel’s glance at her was not so much one of admiration as curiosity.

  “You are sure you feel like going out to dinner tonight?” he asked. “It is your birthday, I know, and naturally you wish to celebrate. . . . But if it is going to prove too much of an ordeal for you we will dine here quietly at the quinta.” But she shook her head.

  “Oh, no ... I shall like going out to dinner. And it is much cooler now, and altogether more pleasant.” She moved closer to the window. “The sea is quite rough. Do you think we are in for a stormy night?”

  “I should think it is highly likely,” Dom Manoel replied. She pressed closer to the coolness of the glass. “What white-caps there are! The waves are enormous, aren’t they? This house is so close to the sea that it seems to fill it.”

  “That’s why I decided on sea murals for the new addition to the sala,” her fiance explained, a little formally. “Tim Wayne will be beginning on them while we are on our honeymoon.”

  She nodded, and turned away. She caught sight of the tray of drinks on a side table and asked almost agitatedly: “Do you think I might have a—cocktail tonight, Manoel? My head is beginning to ache again, a little, and I feel as if I need something—a little stronger than orange juice. . . .” Dom Manoel studied her very deliberately as he mixed something very mild for her, in compliance with her request.

  “I didn’t know you had discovered the potency of cocktails,” he observed quietly, as he put a glass into h
er hand. “When did your initiation take place?”

  “It was a little celebration drink we had at—at Senhor Tim’s cottage.” She flushed slightly. “Just a small celebration, because the picture was nearly finished.”

  “I see.”

  He took his own glass to the window, and stared out at the darkening sea.

  “There is something small and white out there,”

  Madelena said suddenly, drawing his attention to it. “It couldn’t be a boat, could it? Not in such weather!” Manoel stood with his eyes focused on the tiny speck she had indicated, and his fingers tightened gradually on the stem of his glass.

  “If it is a boat,” he replied, “the occupants of it are either in distress or mad to have gone out at all. In any case, we must find out. . . . If your mother is not ready we will leave without her, and I will have her picked up later and driven to the hotel. But first we will pay a visit to the jetty, and find out whether that really is a boat out there. Eduardo will know.”

  Eduardo, in charge of a number of small boats hired out to tourists during the summer season, was able to answer for it that no one had hired—or been permitted to hire—one of his boats once the weather started to worsen, but he and a number of others had been watching the behaviour of the white speck that was undoubtedly some sort of small craft endeavouring to make its way round the headland into the harbour through glasses for the last twenty minutes, and he was prepared to swear that it was Senhor D’Castelos’s boat, the Silver Streak.

  “Senhor D’Castelos was talking of taking her out earlier in the day, but I warned of the weather. I could tell that it would break at any moment, but he would have it that there was no danger of a storm until much later in the day. Possibly late to-night. . . . But, now look at it! The wind is already approaching gale force! That boat cannot live out there unless Senhor D’Castelos is luckier than he deserves, and can gain some shelter from the land!”