The Jade Dragon

by Nancy Buckingham

  Chapter 15

  “How pale you are, Elinor. Did you not sleep well, after all?”

  Vicencia had come to my room quite early and seemed surprised to find me already awake and sitting up in bed. In actual fact, I’d passed the hours until daylight on the chaise longue, the quilt wrapped around me, feeling too afraid to return to bed. But those sleepless hours had been spent in fevered thought, and I’d reached the conclusion that nothing was to be gained by recounting what had happened. So, for appearance’s sake, I climbed back between the sheets and reversed my pillow to conceal the two telltale rents.

  “I had a very disturbed night,” I explained to Vicencia, adding after a moment’s hesitation, “There is no key on my door. Do you think I could have one fitted—today?”

  “Well, naturally, if you insist. But surely there is no need for that, my dear? You are perfectly safe here.”

  Safe. When my grandmother harbored such bitter thoughts against me that in her sleep they were twisted into an urge to destroy me. I had to have some form of protection; I should never get a minute’s rest at night unless I felt secure behind a good stout lock and key.

  I said apologetically, “All the same, I’d prefer to be able to lock my door at night. You see, it makes me nervous to think that my grandmother could walk in at any moment.”

  Vicencia frowned. “Oh dear. Has she been sleepwalking again?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes—last night.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t dream it, Elinor? The doctor’s draft was probably a strong one.”

  “No, Vicencia, I didn’t dream it. I wasn’t even in bed at the time.”

  “Not in bed. Then where—”

  “I couldn’t manage to sleep, so I got up and went over to the window for some fresh air. I was standing there when Dona Amalia came in. I watched from behind the curtains.”

  “What happened?”

  “She ... she stood there for a few moments, then she went out again.”

  “Poor Elinor, it must have been unpleasant for you. I’ll see that you have a key fitted to the door at once. I daresay you’d like to stay in bed for a while, to make up for the sleep you lost?”

  “No, I think I’ll get up, Vicencia. I’ve had enough of bed.”

  “It’s for you to say, but I really wouldn’t advise it.” She paused. “By the way, Julio is returning to Lisbon today. His leave of absence is up.”

  “Julio going? But he said nothing to me about it.”

  She gave me a reproachful look. “That’s not really to be wondered at, Elinor. You have given the poor boy little encouragement to confide in you. I’m afraid Julio is rather upset.”

  “I’m sorry, Vicencia. But it would have been useless to pretend.”

  She sighed. “How beautifully things could have worked out if only you’d let yourself feel for Julio what he feels for you. However, it’s too late now.”

  When I started to get dressed, I discovered that I was very tender and stiff. For once I could have done with the help of a maid, but in the circumstances I preferred not to ask for one. Poor little Maria, she had so adored her brother, so hero-worshipped him. I would call upon her at the bakery, I decided, just as soon as I felt up to it—tomorrow, perhaps.

  Julio was in the great hall as I descended the stairs, almost as though he’d been waiting around for me. “Vicencia tells me you are leaving us,” I said regretfully. “I shall miss you, Julio.”

  He seemed ill at ease, and I guessed that he didn’t know quite what to say at this parting between us. I felt a warm surge of affection for him. If only it were possible for me to return his love, I thought wistfully, how much happier I’d be at this moment. Julio would have been a fine choice of husband for me, if only things had been different.

  I said, my voice a little shaky, “I’m sorry we have to part like this, Julio. But let’s still be friends.”

  “Oh, Elinor, you cannot know how sincerely I wish you well.” He hesitated, then added in a different voice, “Have you considered returning to England? After all, that’s where you really belong.”

  “To be honest, I’ve been wondering if it might not be the best thing, Julio.”

  “You have? Then if I were you, I should catch the next mail packet. Within a week you could be home in London, and this terrible accident would seem no more than a bad dream.”

  A living nightmare, rather.

  “I shall have to see,” I told him. ‘In any case, I’m not fit to make the journey yet. I had a severe shake-up yesterday.”

  “You could so easily have been killed, Elinor. It terrifies me to think about it.”

  “It terrifies me, too,” I admitted. “But it is over now.”

  Julio looked at me for a long moment, then glanced away. “Go back to England as soon as you can, Elinor, and then it’ll really be over.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Stafford coming across the hall to join us. Quickly, I held out my hand. “Well, good-bye then, Julio. I have to go up to my room now.”

  “But you’ve only just this minute come down,” Stafford said, looking at me curiously.

  “Yes, I know, but I’ve forgotten something.” Turning, I fled up the stairs.

  Ten minutes later, when I remerged from my bedroom, Stafford was still waiting below in the hall. So I did not dare go down again. Instead, I skirted the gallery to Dona Amalia’s door. It took all my courage to enter my grandmother’s room, but I’d decided to act with her as though nothing was wrong between us. Steeling myself, I lifted my hand to knock.

  She was seated by the window, embroidering, and she looked surprised to see me. “I did not expect you to come this morning, Elinor.”

  “I prefer to keep active,” I murmured.

  My glance had flown at once to the tall, silver-gilt candelabra, which stood on the lacquered cabinet against the wall. As far as I could judge, it was undamaged, but, lingering as I walked past, I spotted that the tip of one of the golden leaves was bent over—not enough to be noticed until one looked closely. Probably it would remain undetected for weeks, and then some poor servant would be unjustly blamed for carelessness.

  Dona Amalia said irritably, “For goodness’ sake, child, hurry up and sit down if you intend to help me this morning.”

  And so I took my seat beside her, this woman who only hours ago had tried to kill me. Picking up a needle, I threaded it with crimson tapestry wool and began stitching. As far as my grandmother was concerned, it seemed that both the angry words we’d exchanged at my bedside yesterday and her murderous attack on me in the night were equally dismissed from her consciousness. But would her malevolence flare up again another night, so that in her sleep she would make a second attempt upon my life?

  With sudden longing I thought of the placid calm of the Carlisles’ house in Harley Street, to which I could so easily return and where I’d be welcomed with open arms. And yet, could I really leave Castanheiros now? Could I desert my dying grandmother? And Stafford—by going away was I to allow him free rein in whatever dishonest scheme he had a-foot concerning the Milaveira estate?

  A thought kept stirring in my mind. Could I be certain about what had occurred yesterday afternoon, in those moments before Pedro was killed and I myself escaped death only by a hairbreadth? So much had happened since that I was beginning to feel bewildered, unsure of the evidence of my own senses. Had it been a genuine accident, after all? The hand, the arm, appearing from the bushes—was that merely a startled animal, as Vicencia had suggested? And what had sounded to me like the crack of an exploding firework could have been a granite pebble splitting under the iron wheelrims of the victoria. Please, God, let that be the truth.

  But however much I tried to make myself believe this comforting explanation, the arguments against it came flooding back relentlessly. Above all, Pedro’s final words reverberated in my brain like the tolling of some funeral bell—Perhaps, senhora, I was not the last person from Castanheiros to see Senhora Dona Luzia alive.

 
; “Why do you sigh like that, child?” asked Dona Amalia reprovingly. “It is no use dwelling upon what might have happened.”

  I knew she was referring to the accident, and I marvelled that she could be so completely unaware of the dark inner forces that had driven her to try and kill me last night. How I wished I could pierce the armor of bitterness in which she had encased herself. I longed to break through to her, just as much for my own sake as for hers. I needed my grandmother’s love and affection, I needed the feeling of close kinship the two of us could share, if only I could find a way to her heart.

  I said quietly, “Grandmama, I want to talk to you about my mother.”

  I saw her stiffen, and her needle halted in the canvas, the stitch unfinished. “We had said all there is to say on that distressing subject, Elinor.”

  “No, we have not. I want to make you understand. She loved my father, and I’m certain that she never once regretted marrying him. But I know, too—I can appreciate it looking back—that Mama suffered great sadness in being separated from her parents and cut off from her native land. She used to talk to me often, not about you and Castanheiros but about Portugal—the countryside and the people. I think it was the nearest she dared allow herself to speak of what was so close to her heart. It was mostly when I was a small girl, before I went to school, and I’m afraid I’ve forgotten a lot of what she said. But I can remember clearly her telling me about vintage time, when the men climb into the huge tubs barefooted and link arms to tread the grapes, with a concertina and people clapping to urge them on, and about the village romarias, when the countryfolk from miles around put on their best clothes, and the children are dressed up as little angels, and after everyone has attended mass, they have a grand procession with a band and singing and dancing and feasting, and the day ends up with a great fireworks display.”

  Watching my grandmother, I saw her eyes misting over, looking inward, looking back.

  “Saudade, Elinor, saudade. This yearning, this longing that everyone with Portuguese blood is fated to suffer. We feel with the heart, we do not think coldly with the head, like the English.”

  ‘Then you do understand what Mama endured,” I cried triumphantly. “You do understand that it was never her wish to be alienated from you and her father.”

  In the silence, I heard the purring of the silver tabby that was rubbing its neck against my grandmother’s ankle. For once she took no notice, and I knew my words had moved her. “Why did Joanneira never write to us?” she asked wistfully. “Never a line, never a single word. She went off with that English doctor of hers and turned her back upon her parents forever. We loved her, and we would have forgiven her in the end, if only she had asked for our forgiveness. But she was too proud. She did not care enough. I waited and waited, certain that Joanneira would at least let us know she was alive and well. But in the end, when still no word came from her, I decided that my daughter -must be dead. Dona Amalia’s black eyes narrowed and became hard as flint. “I would rather my daughter had been dead, than that she should have treated us so cruelly.”

  I looked at my grandmother in dismay. Earlier, I had decided never to mention the letter my mother had written, agreeing with my uncle that to do so would cause more harm than good. But now I had to speak out. “Grandmama,” I said slowly, gently, “my mother did write to you. It was just after I was born. She wanted you to know you had a grandchild. She wanted you to know she was happy with my father. She longed for your blessing upon her marriage.”

  “But no letter ever reached us.”

  I could sense my grandmother’s astonishment, her sheer bewilderment, and I had no doubt that her reaction was genuine. “Oh yes, the letter reached its destination,” I said sorrowfully. “It was opened and read—and then returned to her in England. Returned without comment, just as she had sent it. Mama could not possibly have suffered a harsher rejection.”

  I was shocked by the swift change in the old lady. She paled to a deathly white, and her hands trembled violently. I went and put my arms around her, holding her, trying to calm her. But she shook me off angrily. “I do not believe this. Fernando would never ... not his own daughter. It is unthinkable—”

  “Grandmama, it is true. I did not know it myself until just before I left England. You see, my father told Dr. Carlisle, and the doctor told me. He told me in order to warn me that I would not be welcome here at Castanheiros.”

  The desolation and despair on Dona Amalia’s face was terrible to see. Had I done wrong to force this into the open, I wondered unhappily? But wasn’t the alternative worse, to let her go on believing a lie? To let her think so bitterly of the daughter she had loved, her only child, for the sake of preserving a false memory about her husband? Since both husband and daughter were dead now, wasn’t it better that she should at last know the truth? This way, perhaps, my grandmother and I could come together in real intimacy and affection for the little time she had left to live.

  But for the moment Dona Amalia was fighting against the truth. Still white and trembling, she shook her head emphatically from side to side. “Fernando would not do such a thing. It is wicked even to suggest it.”

  “But Grandmama “

  “Leave me,” she commanded. “Go, Elinor, I do not want you here.”

  “Please listen,” I begged, reaching impulsively for her hand. But she snatched it away.

  “Leave me, I said. Leave me at once, do you hear?”

  Sadly I turned away, weighed down by a sense of defeat. But as I reached the door, Dona Amalia called my name.

  “Elinor—”

  I paused, my heartbeats coming faster. “Yes, Grandmama?”

  The light fell from behind her, and I could not see her face clearly, but there was something beseeching, imploring in her manner. I feared she was going to beg me to retract what I’d said about the letter, to tell her it was untrue. But her question, when it came, surprised me.

  “My Joanneira, your mother—she really was happy with your father, Elinor?”

  My heart surged with relief, because I knew that at long last I had won through to her. “Yes, Grandmama, she was truly happy. They loved one another devotedly till the day they died.”

  Chapter 16

  The sense of relief was short-lived. Compared with my feelings about Stafford, my grandmother’s change of attitude seemed a very minor triumph. How I wished now that I had never questioned Pedro on the drive to Miramar. How I wished that I had never witnessed the two men talking together in the pagoda. Yet had I not done so, what then? I would still be blissfully in the dark, but the truth itself would be unchanged. What had Pedro known about Stafford that made it imperative for him to be silenced—first by the payment of money, then by the final silencing of death?

  Fortunately, no one was about as I went down the curving stairway. I slipped quickly across the great hall and made my way to the garden room, where the flurried chirping of the birds in the aviaries seemed to match my rapid heartbeats. I took a seat in one of the basket chairs and closed my eyes, trying to calm myself. But I was given no opportunity. Only moments passed before Stafford walked in.

  “I thought I saw you coming here, Elinor. How do you feel this morning?”

  “I ... I am still rather shaken.”

  He nodded, then said in an accusing voice, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because you have talked to other people, but not to me. Earlier this morning, when I interrupted your good-byes to Julio, you beat a hasty retreat upstairs. So why are you avoiding me, Elinor?”

  “You are imagining things,” I said nervously.

  “I think not.” He sat down in a chair beside me, and his tone softened. “I do realize you went through a very upsetting experience yesterday, but you mustn’t allow it to spoil our relationship, Elinor. The fact that you came to meet me at Miramar as I asked proves that you must care for me.”

  “It does nothing of the kind. You ... you asked me to go to Mir
amar to advise on the restoration of the house from a woman’s point of view “

  “How can you pretend like this?” he interrupted, giving me a reproachful look. “I asked you to come, I begged you to come—and you came. That is proof enough for me.”

  I made an effort to meet his eyes coolly and steadily, but I was forced to glance away. I felt the color burning in my cheeks. “If ... if I hadn’t gone, you might have read into my refusal a certain antagonism I didn’t want to convey. What happened that other afternoon at Miramar was a regrettable mistake, but you can hardly pretend it was of any great consequence. It cannot be undone, but it is best forgotten. If you’re a true gentleman, you’ll allow me to put it out of my mind by never speaking of the matter again.”

  “Elinor!” he exclaimed in a shocked voice. “Why are you saying these things? Not a single word of it is from your heart.”

  “What can you know of my heart, Mr. Darville?”

  “Mr. Darville. Has it really come to that?” Stafford tried to take my hand, but I snatched it away. Frowning deeply, he rose to his feet and began pacing around, hands clasped behind his back.

  “You raised the question of ... of a certain lady … of my association with her. I’ve always believed that over certain aspects of a man’s life it’s tactful to draw a veil. All the same, I recognize that you’re a young woman of high character and principles. Indeed, I value you even more for these qualities. That being so, I concede that you have a right to expect an explanation from me.”

  “I claim no such right, Mr. Darville. Your personal affairs are entirely your own. They have nothing to do with me.”

  “For God’s sake! How can you be so cruel to me, Elinor?”

  “I, cruel to you?”

  “You think, then, that I’m the one who’s being cruel? Tell me in what, pray. I’ve offered to explain about the issue that caused the rift between us.”