He had received two polite letters from Francisca, the first assuring him that the weather was fine and that both houses had been in good order. In the second, aside from mere comments on the weather, Francisca stated that Lord and Lady Elvan were no trouble at all. The cold and formal tone of the epistles did not bother Dom José, but he wrinkled his brow deeply as he read that Francisca hardly saw either of her tenants.
That was odd. When she had asked him to rent the house to the Elvans, Francisca had claimed that Lady Elvan was a friend. Moreover, she had gone up to the house with them so that the delicate Lady Elvan should not be completely alone in a strange place—or so she had told him at the time. Dom José shrugged. Perhaps Francisca had already quarreled with the lady, or possibly she had used the excuse to get away from him. He had noticed that her interest in the business had been waning for two or three weeks before she left. He smiled none too pleasantly as he absently put her brief letter in his pocket. There was little business to attend to in any case. He would soon give Francisca a new interest.
He tied up the few loose ends that remained, having told his servants to close the house, all except his bedchamber, and to pack his clothing for a stay at La Casa des Ermidas. His last real duty was to have dinner with the man who had been Francisca’s guardian and had arranged their marriage. Their relationship was pleasant but formal, and Dom José was considerably surprised when, after they had eaten, Dom Pedro invited him to a private conversation.
“You should not leave Francisca alone without a duenna,” Dom Pedro said when they were in his study.
“A duenna,” Dom José echoed. “But she is a married woman, and her behavior has always been just as it should be. What do you mean?”
“I am not blaming Francisca for anything,” Dam Pedro replied distastefully. “She was properly raised and has always been modest and discreet. However, no matter how innocent the woman, people will smear filth if there is the smallest spot exposed. Dom Miguel de Andrade wrote to me a few days ago—a matter of a horse—but he mentioned that the tongues of the ladies of Lousa are clacking like castanets.”
“About Francisca? But why? What do they say?”
“It seems the English lady is very well liked.”
“Lady Elvan speaks against Francisca?” Dom José’s angry astonishment brought him to his feet.
Dom Pedro gestured him back to his seat. “Not at all. That is why the tale is so ridiculous, and I began by saying I do not believe Francisca to be in any way at fault. The Englishwoman has told everyone of Francisca’s kindness in arranging that she have the house. But you know that Francisca is reckoned proud and ungenerous by those women because she does not court their company. Thus, they have decided there must be another reason for renting the house to the Elvans.”
“I am surprised they do not say I am bankrupt and need the money,” Dom José remarked dryly.
“No, it is Francisca they wish to injure. They have put together the rental with the fact that Lord Elvan does not wish to attend the evening parties and entertainments in Lousa.
Dom José laughed. ”I do not blame him.”
“Nor do I,” Dom Pedro continued, “and, from what Dom Miguel says about Lady Elvan’s beauty, I should think no one would be surprised that her husband wishes to spend his evenings alone with her when his business in Lisbon draws him so often away. However, from these two small, silly bricks—Francisca’s kindness and Elvan’s uxoriousness—the idle, light-minded dames have built a castle of infidelity and deception. It is, they say, Francisca with whom Elvan spends his evenings—and his nights, too.”
Dom José made no reply, but his expression made Dom Pedro rise and put a hand on his shoulder.
“José,” Dom Pedro said, “do not be so angry. There is nothing one can do to silence the tongues of women. You are about to go to La Casa des Ermidas anyway. As soon as it is seen that you are on good terms and go about as usual together, and that you are friendly with the Elvans, the gossip will stop. However, in the future when you are not with Francisca, be sure there is an elderly companion, perhaps an aunt of yours, or ah… oh…if there is no one…er…available from your family, I have indigent cousins by the dozen.”
By the time Dom Pedro had finished, and walked back to sit down again, Dom José had his face and feelings well under control. He made some acceptable reply in an even voice, which did not betray his fury. Like Dom Pedro, he did not believe Francisca was unfaithful. Unlike him, he was not convinced that the gossip was directed against Francisca at all. He saw it directed against himself. The women gossiped about Francisca, he believed, not because of her pride but because she had married a common merchant rather than her own kind.
Rage, more furious because he was helpless to defend himself against those who offended him, ate at him. He was furious with Francisca, too. The fact that she had no way to control the behavior of Lord Elvan only made him angrier. She should have known better than to ask him to rent the house to such people. The additional fact that he had heartily approved her choice of tenants added fuel to the flames that were burning his insides.
But, the capping insult, the words that threw oil on the flames instead of water, was that remark about the duenna. Dom Pedro had spoken first without really thinking, as if to a man of his own class, suggesting an aunt. Dom Pedro had realized that the company of Dom José’s aunt would be no more regarded than that of a maid so he had offered his own cousin, whose blood was pure enough that her chaperoning would be of value.
Had Dom Pedro known what was seething under Dom José’s now placid exterior, he could have extinguished the worst of the rage. His hesitation after mentioning Dom José’s aunt had nothing to do with the commonness of her blood. It had occurred to Dom Pedro that any aunt Dom José had was either too old to act as a duenna or else was dead. He did not wish to make a point of the difference in ages between Dom José and his wife; that was all that had caused his slight embarrassment.
Soon after, Dom José had taken his leave, having found several more causes for insult where none was intended. Dom Pedro did not try to keep him, innocently accepting the excuse that he had much to do before his departure for des Ermidas. Naturally, Dom José took this as a further, more blatant, insult. Instead of going home to sleep, quite beyond reason now, he left that night. It was actually a good night to travel, cool, with a brilliant three-quarter moon, and the road from Lisbon to Leiria was excellent. Still, travel at night was less safe than during the day. Dom José took the precaution of arming himself and his servants with pistols and swords.
There was no need for the weapons or any other hindrance to travel, but it was impossible to move as fast by moonlight as in the daytime. The frustration Dom José suffered was merely increased by the inadequate distance covered by the time the moon set. He ordered that the horses be changed and that they continue. The stars were so bright and clear that it was possible to do so, but by no means possible to avoid ruts and rocks in the road, which might have been bypassed in daylight. The bruising and fatigue did nothing at all to improve Dom José’s temper. He began to remember slights and snubs long past to add to the new lacerations on his pride, and his fury multiplied.
Then disaster struck. The carriage hit a rock, bounced into a rut, veered to the side of the road, and tipped. An ominous crack gave warning that serious damage had occurred. Because the horses were moving fairly slowly, no accident took place, but they could go no farther. Dom José was forced to sit by the side of the road while one of the servants unhitched the horses and rode to the next town. It was ten o’clock the following morning before repairs were made and the carriage could go forward. Although he did not curse or strike his servants, Dom José was no longer rational.
Daylight made the ride smoother, and exhaustion overwhelmed Dom José. He slept intermittently, waking to a stiff misery that dampened the heat of his rage without assuaging it. While he was twisting to find comfort, a crackle of paper drew his attention to Francisca�
�s letter. He drew it from his pocket and reread it. For the first time a doubt of her virtue and honesty came into his mind. Why should she say Lady Elvan was her friend before they took the house and now say she never saw the woman? Lord Elvan was young and very handsome. Perhaps the ladies of Lousa were not so far from the truth in their gossip.
He tried to take hold of his careening mind, telling himself that Lord Elvan was not even at the dower house. He himself had spoken to Elvan on the twenty-eighth of July. The man had been very pleasant, not self-conscious or embarrassed. He had called on purpose to say how much better his wife was feeling in the cool mountain climate.
The road grew worse as they drove farther and farther from the capital. They changed horses again, but even the fresh animals could not make much speed up the hills. Dom José’s frustration grew and rationality had less and less grip on him. When they turned off the main highway onto the narrower, rougher road that went to Lousa, the speed of their progress diminished further.
Instead of feeling relief that he was so close, Dom José found his rage building again. He grew more and more sure that Francisca and Elvan were lovers. While he struggled to control an imagination run wild, he suddenly remembered that Dom Pedro had never implied that Francisca was virtuous or faithful. All Dom Pedro had said was that she was discreet and that he did not blame her. Well, Dom José raged, naturally he would not blame her for betraying a common creature like her husband. Perhaps Dom Pedro would even think that was a laudable act.
In some sane corner of his mind Dom José knew none of these accusations was true, knew that when he reached des Ermidas he would find his wife innocently embroidering or reading. He also knew that when he said he wished to come to her bed, she would refuse him. Then he would allow this rage and jealousy to boil over. It would give him the strength and the will to beat her and in the end to break her. But the sane corner was a small, cool spot far withdrawn from the inferno of hatred that burned within him.
The carriage turned into the steep track that climbed in a zigzag up from the road to La Casa des Ermidas. The tired horses barely crawled along in the rapidly failing twilight. At that slow pace the wheels and hooves made little sound on the dry earth of the track, which had been pounded into a thick dust the carriage passed the dower house, set back a little from the road, where soft lights could be seen through carelessly drawn curtains on several windows. Here the track curved away for almost half a mile, turned, and came back to make the slope to the gate of the main house negotiable for horses.
Even more impatient for a relief from his frustration, Dom José remembered there was a direct path between the houses. Probably it was dreadfully overgrown, but he was certain he would be able to find his way far more quickly than the exhausted beasts could trudge the last steep mile uphill. He called out to stop the carriage, told the servants he would walk because he was stiff and wished to exercise, and made his way around the dower house to the back where the path started.
There was still sufficient light to find the path without difficulty, and at first he thought it had been cleared. As it grew steeper, however, he realized that this was not the case. Branches whipped his face and caught at his clothing. Nonetheless, even though it was almost completely dark under the trees, it was surprisingly easy to find his way. His feet seemed able to pick out the path. The climb was steep, and Dom José soon paused for breath. While he was standing there aware that he could hardly make out the faintest glimmer of light from the sky any longer, the answer came to him. The path had not been cleared, but someone had passed over it several times very recently.
Fire burst in Dom José’s brain. Elvan is her lover, he thought. Strength flowed through his limbs and he began to climb the path in leaps. Sanity screamed at him that Elvan was in Lisbon, that a servant must have trodden down the weeds and grass when fetching something from the main house or delivering the messages women were forever sending each other. Sanity and breathlessness had nearly won when, as he thrust forward, a branch caught at his coat. He grasped at the cloth, to yank it free, and his hand touched the heavy bulge in the pocket where lay one of the pistols he had prepared to repel highwaymen.
There was another in the other pocket. Dom José’s mouth twisted, and he climbed more slowly. He was not living in some bad melodrama. When he got to the house, he told himself, he would find the small gate locked. Then he would be angry all over again because he would have to walk around to the main gate.
Only, the small gate was not locked. Dom José stood just inside it and stared at the house. The back, the kitchens and sculleries, were lit up, and here and there a dim lamp burned in the servants’ quarters, but Francisca’s—no, his—wing was dark, all dark. Not a glimmer showed from the reception rooms or in Francisca’s suite. Then she is out or the curtains are properly drawn for once, sanity told him. But the voice was very faint. Even when rage set his hand on a pistol butt and urged him through a scullery door and into a dark side corridor, sanity hardly protested at all.
Once out of the servants’ section and into the grand corridors, there was no chance of meeting anyone. Dom José walked along not even hurrying. The dark had not all been owing to curtains. There were no lights. It did not matter. His dark-adjusted eyes could see well enough not to bump into anything, and he knew the way. He paused for just one heartbeat with his hand on the latch of Francisca’s sitting room. Sanity uttered a tiny whimper. It is better not to know. They will still be your sons and bear your name.
Only they would not be his sons, or even if they were, he would never be sure. Quietly he opened the latch and stepped in, shutting the heavy door just as quietly behind him. A soft murmur of voices drifted from the bedchamber beyond. They had not even bothered to close the door. Dom José pulled both pistols from his pockets and cocked them. Sanity breathed a dying gasp of no, but it was too late.
In his private office Foreign Secretary Canning thanked Perce once more for his remarkable coup and, with marked sarcasm, for his patience in answering questions about the Russian and Prussian attitudes toward Bonaparte. The sarcastic tone was not unmerited. Over the past ten days Perce’s face had grown more like that of a graven image, his voice colder, and his answers briefer and more painfully pointed. However, there was considerable reason for Perce’s attitude of impatience, also. Well aware of what he had been sent to do, his information had been neatly summarized in his head and had been related in organized units with remarkable clarity.
Perce really had no more to tell, but Canning did not seem to believe it. He was accustomed to dealing with bureaucratic fools, and he did not trust the nobility. Actually, after a few days of questioning and probing, Canning had realized that Lord Kevern had not forgotten anything and had not told only what he thought was relevant. However, a highly secret operation was already being organized to blunt the effect of the special clauses in the Treaty of Tilsit, and Canning did not trust Lord Kevern’s discretion. Young noblemen had a weakness for the bottle and for women of doubtful reputation, and under the influence of either or both, tongues were known to flap. He could not quite put Lord Kevern under arrest, but be made sure, until it was too late for incautious talk to do much harm, that Perce had barely enough time to eat and sleep away from the Foreign Office or its personnel.
Having concluded his remarks, Canning fired a parting shot. With a self-satisfied smile he informed Perce that Lord Mulgrave, first lord of the Admiralty, also wished to thank him and that he expected to see Lord Kevern at eleven o’clock.
“I feel that I have received quite sufficient marks of the government’s gratitude,” Perce said stiffly. “And I know nothing about the navy of any country—and not much about sailing.”
“Be that as it may, you have an appointment at eleven o’clock with Lord Mulgrave,” Canning repeated sharply, making a gesture of dismissal and looking rudely down at some papers on his desk.
Perce stood still because he knew if he allowed himself to move, he would step forward and hit
Canning. That would be unpardonable on several accounts, like age, strength, skill, and propriety. Moreover, it was Canning’s usual manner toward everyone; no particular insult was intended. Impulse conquered, he left the Foreign Office and pulled out his watch. Barely time to get to the Admiralty. Perce sighed. He was not at all stupid. It had dawned on him some time earlier that all the appointments so carefully arranged had to be to prevent him from seeing anyone not a trusted government employee.
“I wonder what’s up?” he muttered as he signaled a cab.
Inside the vehicle he dismissed the question. It was none of his business, and, in a sense, Perce realized, there was some justification for Canning’s suspicions. He had told Roger about the articles the day he had returned from Canning’s country house. Was that why? Possibly, but if it were, Canning was a fool. Roger was safe. Perce had told Philip about the special articles in the treaty, too, but Philip was one of their own spies.
In any case the period of detention seemed about over. There was no mistaking the dismissal in Canning’s manner this morning. Now Perce would be free to leave for Portugal and not a moment too soon, either. Philip had been over in France again to attempt to discover the effect of the Berlin Decree—issued by Napoleon, ordering a blockade of Great Britain and the closure of the Continent to British trade—on the French economy. He had come back earlier than expected because there was no need for subtle investigation. France was being hurt by Bonaparte’s blockade far worse than England.
However Philip had also brought back a report that Bonaparte had sent or was about to send an ultimatum to the Portuguese. Roger had told Philip not to pass that information along to Perce, but it was too late. Discussion had calmed Perce’s immediate panic, but Philip’s news had hardened his resolve to go after Sabrina—a decision Philip endorsed heartily. He had been no slower to pick up the significance behind Perce’s interest in Sabrina’s welfare and had welcomed it more quickly and more enthusiastically than Roger. He had never really been comfortable with William, who was considerably older and more sophisticated. And, with typical careless optimism, he could skate over the difficulties and rhapsodize on the pleasure of the foursome they would make.
The Kent Heiress Page 30