The Jade Dragon

by Nancy Buckingham

  Within a few minutes I was settled down beside Dona Amalia, an embroidery frame before me. I selected a variety of greens from the twisted sticks of tapestry wool in her sachet, and we both stitched in silence until I broke off to show her what I had done. My grandmother surveyed it critically through her gold-rimmed spectacles, her lips pursed together, then she nodded for me to continue. At least, I thought wryly, she had not condemned my work, even though she didn’t seem overly impressed.

  After a while I became aware that she had stopped working and was looking at me thoughtfully. “What is the matter, Grandmama?”

  Her black eyes glittered, unreadable as always. “Elinor, are you unhappy here? Do you hate me very much for the anger I have expressed about your mother?”

  “Not hate you.” I protested. “How could I hate you? But frankly, I think you have been unjust to poor Mama. I wish you could understand, I wish that you could find it in your heart to forgive her.”

  “Come child, do not play with words. Perhaps you wished that I could be made to suffer as you believe I made your mother suffer? Perhaps you have sought a means to be revenged on me?”

  “No, you are quite wrong.” I cried. “No thought of revenge has ever entered my head. I would not dream of such a thing.”

  My grandmother seemed not to have heard me. “Elinor, my life has not been easy. Believe me, I have endured more than my fair share of unhappiness. Now I am nearing the end of my time on earth, and I beseech you not to add to the burden I have to carry.”

  I felt a sudden rush of emotion and took her thin fingers in mine. It seemed to me that this was an opportunity to break down the barriers of mistrust between us. “Please let us be friends, Grandmama. It is my dearest wish. Can’t we put aside all the bitter thoughts of the past and make a new beginning?”

  I felt her hand tremble, and she said huskily, “Elinor, you took the Jade Dragon, did you not? Put it back where it belongs, I beg you. If you do, then nothing more will be said about the matter, I promise you.”

  I stared at my grandmother in dismay, all my tenderness toward her killed in an instant. I felt sick with disappointment. So this was what her display of emotion was all about. She suspected me of having taken the Jade Dragon in order to wound her. She believed that I was capable of such a cruel act of revenge.

  “I did not take the Jade Dragon,” I said coldly. “How could you even imagine that I would?”

  She brushed aside my protest. “I meant what I said, Elinor. If the Jade Dragon is returned, there will be no questions asked. No recriminations. All I want is that it should be put back in its proper place.”

  I drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I did not take it, I tell you. I did not take it.”

  I rose to my feet and stumbled toward the door. Then with my hand on the knob I paused for a second, looking back at my grandmother for some small sign of regret, of apology. But she was staring at me with those gimlet black eyes of hers, and I knew that nothing I could say would convince her of my innocence.

  Chapter 8

  The invitation from Mrs. Forrester was very friendly and pressing. She wrote that she and the major would be delighted to have me visit them in Lisbon for a few days—or longer if I could spare them the time. I was only to name the date of my arrival, and they would be ready to welcome me.

  This was exactly what I needed, I decided—a short interlude away from Castanheiros. It would help me get things into true perspective. I sent a grateful acceptance by return post, saying I would come the day after tomorrow.

  During the past week my relationship with my grandmother had reverted to the same footing as before. I paid her a visit each day and stayed for a while. She had even made the suggestion herself that I should continue helping with the embroidery repairs. But the missing Jade Dragon was not mentioned between us again.

  Carlota’s attitude toward me had not thawed in the least. She was as hostile as ever. My uncle, on the other hand, was meticulously polite, but his conversation was restricted to trite generalities. Both of them succeeded, as I knew they intended, in making me feel out of place here. Were it not for Vicencia’s warm friendliness, I should indeed have felt unwanted. Stafford was no longer at Castanheiros. Three days ago he had returned to Lisbon without saying when we were likely to see him again.

  Having dispatched my letter to Mrs. Forrester, I went out of doors to find Vicencia. I located her without difficulty in the rose arbor, drawn by the piping notes of her flute. As I sat beside her on a seat decorated with pink and green porcelain tiles, I commented, “You have been playing more than usual these past few days, Vicencia.”

  She nodded and gave me a sad smile. “I like to play whenever I have an hour to spare. I find that music is a great solace to me, Elinor. These are such unhappy times for us all. Goodness knows what is going to happen.”

  Inwardly, I echoed her thoughts. Since the disappearance of the Jade Dragon I had been increasingly conscious of impending doom. Yet it seemed there was nothing to be done but bide time. I too was becoming infected with this curious sense of waiting helplessly for events to shape our destiny.

  “Vicencia, I’m going to pay a visit to my friends the Forresters in Lisbon. I have arranged to go the day after tomorrow.”

  To my astonishment she turned quite pale beneath her honey-toned skin. “Oh, Elinor, must you? With Stafford away, too, who will be my friend? I shall be alone here.”

  “But I’m only intending to be away for a few days,” I replied uncomfortably. ‘The time will soon pass.”

  She bit her lip. “Could you not delay your visit, Elinor? Why not make it next week? By then Stafford will probably have returned to Cintra.”

  “I’m sorry, Vicencia, I didn’t realize you would mind my going. I’m afraid I cannot change my plans now, for I have already posted my acceptance.” I felt touched that my company should mean so much to Vicencia, when she had known me for little more than a fortnight. “I promise to make my stay a brief one, though. Two nights away, or three at the most.”

  She summoned up a smile and pressed my hand gratefully.

  “I suppose it will be all right, Vicencia, for me to have a carriage to take me to Lisbon?”

  “Of course. You have a right to anything in this household, Elinor. I will arrange it for you.”

  “Thank you. I should like to make a fairly early start so as to be at the Forresters’ in time for luncheon.”

  Later, when I went to see my grandmother in her rooms, I was amazed that she too reacted strongly to my announcement. “Why should you go rushing off like this?” she demanded. “You have barely had time to settle down here.”

  “It will only be a short visit, Grandmama. Mrs. Forrester was very kind to me on the voyage. Besides, I want to take the chance to see something of Lisbon.”

  Dona Amalia’s black eyes rested upon me in a look that was almost wistful. Then her expression hardened, and she said curtly, “You must please yourself, of course. Now, are you going to help me today, or are you not?”

  * * * *

  On the first afternoon of my stay at the house in the Praça dos Cantos, Mrs. Forrester took me sightseeing. We drove up to the Castelo de Sao Jorge, dominating Lisbon from its rocky height. Viewed from the ramparts, the city lay spread below us, rising and falling over its many hills. And somewhere down there in that teeming maze of streets and houses was Stafford Darville.

  I was only half listening to my hostess as she pointed out the landmarks. The ruins of the Carmo church, destroyed like so much else in the terrible earthquake of 1775, the Estrela Basilica, a lovely white dome floating above the rooftops, built in fulfillment of a vow by a poor mad queen. And then there was the river, the wide blue waters of the Tagus, where ocean-going steamers lay at anchor and white-sailed fishing smacks moved lazily before the breeze.

  We descended by way of the old Arab quarter, the Alfama, our carriage wheels almost scraping the houses on either side of the narrow cobbled streets. Through dark doorways I caught glim
pses of stonemasons at work, and cobblers, and there was a strong odor of cabbages and fish.

  Women hanging out their colorful lines of washing from the upstairs windows paused to stare down at us. A wizened old man in a broad-brimmed black hat sat crouched over a charcoal brazier grilling sardines for sale. Behind him, on a flight of stone steps leading up through an archway, some ragged, barefoot children were romping with a lame mongrel. And I saw more cats than I could possibly have counted.

  On the way home, as a complete contrast, we stopped for tea in the Chiado, where all the most fashionable shops in Lisbon are situated.

  In the evening we went out again, to dine at some friends of the Forresters. Our route took us downhill toward the river, through a district I had not seen before. In a street wider than most, where mule-drawn tramcars clanked along, Mrs. Forrester pointed to a solid, rather gloomy-looking mansion of gray stone, with an elaborate portal arch and weighty wrought iron balconies at the upper windows.

  ‘That’s the Milaveira town house, Elinor. Though I suppose it is scarcely used nowadays.”

  “My uncle and aunt were talking only the other night of opening it up again,” I said. “I believe they are intending to come and stay in Lisbon for a while.”

  There were about twenty people at the dinner party, and it seemed strange to be talking and laughing lightheartedly again. I was introduced to two young men from the Legation who flirted with me, paying me extravagant compliments. The subject of bullfighting came up, and they told me they were planning to go to the bullring the next afternoon.

  “Have you ever seen a bullfight, Miss Rosslyn?” asked the one named Richard Vincent.

  “No. And I don’t think I much want to.”

  “Oh, but you’ve got quite the wrong idea. In Portugal the bulls aren’t killed, as in Spain. Everything is terribly civilized, with none of the blood and horror. Do come with us, Miss Rosslyn, and you’ll see for yourself. We’ll do it in style, I promise you—the best seats, on the shady side of the arena.”

  I laughed. “You still haven’t convinced me that I would enjoy it. Anyway, I can’t come. Mrs. Forrester is taking me to Belem to see the Jeronimos Monastery.”

  I wondered afterward why I had refused, when I could perfectly well have agreed to go with them. I knew the easygoing Mrs. Forrester would have raised no objection. Was it truly a disinclination to see a Portuguese bullfight? Or was it the curious feeling that to enjoy an outing with these two young men would in some inexplicable way be disloyal?

  Driving home in the victoria, the night air was deliciously cool after the breathless heat of the day, and the streets and squares were thronged. On a bandstand under some sycamore trees, a military band was playing a lively galope, and a crowd was gathered around humming the tune and clapping hands in rhythm. It made a very picturesque scene in the flickering gaslight, with a pale moon hanging above, and as we drove out of the square, the strains of the music followed us until it was no more than a faint drumbeat in the distance.

  I sighed deeply, my heart filled with a strange yearning.

  * * * *

  Next morning I wakened to the sounds of the city, barking dogs, and the clatter of carts. From the trees across the way came a medley of birdsong, and somewhere a cockerel crowed lustily. A cry in the street below drew me to my window. A plump, barefoot varina dressed in a colorful blouse and skirt was making her way around the square, calling out that she had fine fresh fish for sale in the flat wicker basket balanced on her head. On the corner, an old man was selling lottery tickets.

  I dressed and went downstairs to breakfast—a substantial English breakfast of kidneys and bacon and scrambled eggs. “The major and I are to attend a memorial service at the English chapel this morning,” Mrs. Forrester told me as she poured tea from a silver pot. “It is to honor a member of the Legation staff who retired a couple of years ago. He died last week at his home in Devonshire. Most of the English community will be there, so it’s a chance for you to meet people, Elinor, if you’d care to come along.”

  “Thank you, I’d like that.”

  The English Chapel was crowded and stuffy, and when the service was over, everyone emerged with relief to the cool shade of the beautiful cemetery garden. I was introduced to so many people that I couldn’t remember all the names, and I received more invitations than I could have accepted in a month. At length we began to move toward the gate where the Forresters’ carriage would be waiting outside. Then a deep booming voice hailed Major Forrester from behind, and we were obliged to pause again.

  “Oh dear,” whispered Mrs. Forrester, “it’s Colonel Grainger. You don’t want to meet him, Elinor. He’s a dreadful old bore. Slip along this path, and you’ll come to the grave of Henry Fielding, the novelist, who’s the most notable name here in the cemetery. The major and I will catch up to you in just a moment.”

  So I strolled between the Judas trees, laden with their rose pink blossoms, and looked at the headstones. Many were so old and weathered it was almost impossible to decipher the inscriptions. Then I came upon a new grave, and the name there halted me abruptly.

  LUZIA MADALENA DARVILLE

  A strange chill took hold of my limbs. It was such a shock, suddenly coming across the grave of Stafford’s wife like this. Yet surely, I told myself, it was only natural for the wife of a prominent member of the English colony in Lisbon to be laid to rest here.

  I stood with my eyes closed, trying to enter into the mind of this woman who lay buried in the shadow of a Judas tree. Had her death been a tragic accident, because she’d become dizzy, perhaps, and fallen into the water when there was nobody around to save her? Or had it, as was rumored in Lisbon, been a deliberate act by her own hand—and if that, for what reason?

  Hearing footsteps on the path, I turned quickly, embarrassed that Major and Mrs. Forrester should find me standing before Luzia Darville’s grave.

  But it was not the Forresters. Far worse, it was Stafford, looking impeccably dressed in dark clothes, with a crystal-knobbed walking cane. He was staring at me with astonishment, and I felt the color rush to my cheeks. “Elinor. What are you doing in Lisbon? What are you doing here?”

  “I ... I am visiting Major and Mrs. Forrester,” I stammered. ‘They invited me to stay with them for a few days.”

  His voice was reproachful. “You might have let me know you were coming.”

  “I didn’t know myself until after you had left Cintra.”

  “I see.”

  My host and hostess were approaching, and I saw Mrs. Forrester’s quick frown at finding me talking to Stafford. The major, however, greeted him with a warm smile and a firm handshake. “Heard you were in town, Darville. Pleased you could attend the service. I’ve seen nothing of you since you arrived back from London. Did you have a good trip?”

  “Yes, thank you, Major Forrester. It was very productive.”

  “You must come to dinner, my dear fellow. Why not make it while Elinor is with us? This evening, if you’re free.”

  “I should be delighted,” Stafford replied.

  I glanced at Mrs. Forrester, wondering how she would react. But she concealed any disapproval she may have felt and said graciously, “At seven-thirty then, Mr. Darville? It will be quite informal, you know—not more than eight or ten of us at table.”

  “I shall look forward to it, Mrs. Forrester.” With a lift of his hat, Stafford strode off toward the gate.

  ‘That chap’s got a good head on his shoulders,” the major remarked sagely. “A fine business brain, by all accounts. It’s a pity about that wife of his. I never met her, but they do say—”

  “Arthur dear, Elinor isn’t interested in gossip.” We had reached the tombstone of Henry Fielding, and this gave Mrs. Forrester an opportunity to change the subject.

  At dinner that evening, I found myself disturbingly aware of Stafford. He was seated across the table from me, looking by far the most distinguished man in the room, the light from the table candles picking out the hard, c
lean lines of his face and his gleaming dark hair. Several times our eyes chanced to meet, and I felt a little throb of excitement.

  I found myself reassessing my opinion of him. I had started out by disliking Stafford Darville intensely, and most people I’d met since then—excepting Vicencia—had seemed to confirm my judgment of him. But perhaps Vicencia was the person to whom I should pay most attention. She knew Stafford better than anyone, and far from condemning him, she held him in the highest regard and affection.

  Did Vicencia know about the fadista? I wondered again. I felt sure that she must. Stafford seemed to take little trouble to conceal his liaison with Inesca. And if Vicencia didn’t hold him blameworthy on this account, then had I any right to do so? For what did I really know of men and the desires that drove them?

  Later, when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Stafford came to stand behind my chair.

  “How long are you planning to stay in Lisbon, Elinor?” he inquired.

  “I am returning to Cintra tomorrow afternoon.”

  “So soon?” He sounded quite disappointed.

  “I promised Vicencia that I wouldn’t stay away for long,” explained. “She seemed quite upset that I was coming to Lisbon at all, especially as you were away, too.”

  He nodded his head thoughtfully. “You must share my carriage, Elinor. It would be foolish for us to travel separately.”

  “You, too, are going back to Castanheiros tomorrow, then?”

  “Yes indeed.” I had an impression, though, he had only that instant made the decision.

  I was by no means sure how I felt about the prospect of making the journey to Cintra in Stafford’s company. My revised feelings about him were too new, too untested. But at least, I told myself as I thanked him, it would save me having to accept the Forresters’ generous offer of their victoria.