My intense longing to be convinced of Stafford’s sincerity, of his innocence, was in itself a warning to me. I knew it was dangerous to continue our conversation, dangerous because my powers of reasoning were being weakened with every moment that passed. I rose on unsteady legs, and turned to face him. “I must ask you not to pursue this any further, Mr. Darville—either now or in the future.”
“But I can make no such promise, Elinor. I’ll leave you now, if that’s what you want, but I shall seek you out again.”
“Then you’ll force me to speak of what I know,” I cried recklessly.
“And what is that, Elinor? Tell me.”
From the look on his face, he appeared to be genuinely puzzled, yet was he only mocking me? Because he knew that I could prove nothing. It would be his word against mine. Pedro, the only person who might have condemned him, was dead. Stafford had made certain of his silence. I felt myself trapped in a corner. How could I hope to fight back against this man? His mind was clear and cold and calculating. Mine was choked with memories of a love that had flamed briefly and transformed my whole life.
Evading Stafford’s question, I said, “I would leave Castanheiros and return to England, if it were not for my grandmother. You urged me not to come in the first place, and I know how relieved you would be to see me go---”. My voice faltered, and I turned away to make my escape. Then I halted abruptly. Vicencia was standing in the doorway.
“I wondered where you were, Elinor.” Her eyes glanced swiftly from the one to the other of us, and I could see that she knew we’d been quarreling, even if she hadn’t actually overheard anything. “Stafford, I think the poor girl is tired out, so you had better continue your chat another time. Off you go.”
For a moment, he stood hesitating, his eyes alive with anger. Then he shrugged his acquiescence. “Very well. I realize, Elinor, that you’re under great strain, so I won’t trouble you with my company any longer for the moment.”
When Stafford had left us, I moved over to stand by one of the large windows and looked out across the gardens, my forehead pressed against the cool smoothness of the glass. Behind me, I was aware of Vicencia moving about restlessly.
“Elinor,” she began at length, “I have to confess that I overheard some of your conversation with Stafford. I know it was wrong of me to listen, but you were both so absorbed, you did not notice me.”
My face crimsoned. “How ... how much did you hear?”
“Enough. I cannot tell you how relieved I am,” she went on. “I cannot tell you how it has grieved me to stand by helplessly and see what was happening to you. To you, of all people! I could have tried to warn you, but I knew you would never listen to me while you were so infatuated with him. Thank heaven, though, you have seen for yourself what Stafford is really like before too much harm has been done.”
“But I don’t understand,” I said in bewilderment, turning slowly to face her. “You’ve always shown such a high regard for Stafford. You never once had an ill word to say of him. Yet now you speak as though you despise him.”
“Despise?” she whispered, glancing away from me. “If only I could. But how is it possible for a woman to despise the man she loves?”
“You love Stafford? I never guessed. I knew you were very fond of him, that you greatly admired him. But ... but I didn’t realize it went further than that.”
She turned to look at me again, and in her brown eyes there was a sort of defiance. “That was a careless slip I made, but the truth is out now. Yes, I love Stafford. But I am compelled to hide my true feelings. Ours is a love that has to remain concealed for some time yet. You must not mention it to anyone, Elinor. Promise me you will not.”
My heart was beating painfully, and my throat felt tight. “You speak as if ... as if Stafford loves you in return.”
She gestured helplessly. ‘There is no use my pretending any more with you. Stafford and I... how can I describe the force that binds us together? It is like fate. And over the years Stafford has remained loyal and steadfast in his feelings for me, through all the secrecy that has been necessary, through all the deceptions. Luzia’s death made things harder for us, not easier—” I gasped out loud, and Vicencia gave me a sad little smile. “Yes, it is true. We were lovers long before Luzia died, before even my husband died. Stafford did not love Luzia. He never did. She was quite the wrong woman for him, as he very soon discovered.”
“And so he turned to you for consolation,” I said bitterly, feeling sickened and a little faint.
“Perhaps at first, but only at first. It didn’t take Stafford long to realize that I was different from all the other women to whom he has “turned for consolation,” as you put it. Between us there was something unique. Something unquenchable.”
I felt a burning need to hurt her, to revenge the pain in my heart. “I daresay the fado singer Inesca thinks that she too is different.”
“Oh, Elinor, you know nothing of the world.” cried Vicencia impatiently. “What is it to me that Stafford has other women? I understand the kind of man he is. He needs women, and he likes variety. I could even understand it when he started to look in your direction—you are very attractive, with a sort of youthful freshness that would appeal to him as a change. But I am never jealous when he strays. The only reason I minded about you was that I’d become fond of you, Elinor, and I didn’t want you to be hurt, as would undoubtedly have been the case. You see, I know that none of Stafford’s other women really mean anything to him. I have even been glad of them in a way. This fadista everyone whispers about, she has been useful in disguising the real truth.”
Waves of revulsion washed over me, and I felt an urge to turn and run, to put as much distance as I could between Vicencia and myself. But a question was hammering at me, and I had to know the answer to it. “These rumors about the way Luzia died—that it was not an accident, but suicide. Are they true? Did she take her own life, because she was driven to despair by the knowledge that you and Stafford were lovers?”
“Yes, I think she must have found out something about us,” Vicencia said slowly. “Why else did she behave as she did, rushing off suddenly to Cascais without a word to anyone? Luzia was always an impetuous creature. But if she had only paused to think, she would have realized there was no need to get so upset. She was Stafford’s acknowledged wife, and she had everything that goes with it—except his love. And that was something she’d never shown any sign of wanting.”
“Luzia had recently lost her little boy,” I murmured huskily. “She was in a disturbed state of mind.”
Vicencia shrugged. “If she was, then it was her own fault for making the child the be-all and end-all of her existence.”
I had been growing colder every moment as I listened to her. Was this really Vicencia, the gentle, misused Vicencia whom I had regarded as my friend? When she spoke of “love” it was a selfish passion that took no heed of other people’s feelings, that rejected all standards of decency.
Piercing through the misery in my mind came the memory of that afternoon when Stafford and I had stopped at a wayside inn on the drive from Lisbon. He had said then that his wife, only the day before her death, had told him she was anxious to make a completely fresh start, that she was ready to move away from Castanheiros to a new house of their own in Lisbon, that she was even prepared to have another child. Such plans hardly seemed to match the mental state of a woman who was on the verge of doing away with herself.
What had been Stafford’s object in telling me such things? Was it to turn my thoughts away from the idea that Luzia had taken her own life? Or worse, from the ugly suspicion that she had been deliberately killed, either by Stafford himself, or at his instigation?
The horrifying possibilities spun in my mind. If only I could find peace from this torment. If only I could be magically transported from Castanheiros, from all the heartbreak and disillusionment I had found here. I said, almost to myself, “Julio advised me to return to England. Perhaps he was right.”
“This morning, just before he left. When we were saying good-bye.”
She nodded. “He was very upset, poor boy. What a pity you couldn’t have seen Julio in a different light, Elinor. Then you need never have learned all this about Stafford and me. I did my best to bring you two together. It would have made an ideal match. But it was not to be.” She glanced at me thoughtfully. “Julio gave you sound advice, you should return to England. There is only unhappiness for you here.”
“I think I might decide to go back—if it were not for my grandmother.”
“But Dona Amalia has shown no consideration for you. On the contrary, from what you’ve told me she seems to have given you plenty of cause for distress.”
“No, all that is changed now. Grandmama and I have reached a new understanding of one another. I couldn’t possibly leave her, not when she has so little time to live.”
“But isn’t that precisely a good reason for your going?” Vicencia persisted. “Dona Amalia can only survive a few months more at most, and what then? Will you want to stay here after her death?”
“No,” I said in a low voice. “I think not.”
“Then go now, Elinor. You are young, and in England you would have a chance to be happy. But what is there here for you?”
“You said before, Vicencia, how glad you were that I’d come to Castanheiros. Now you seem anxious to be rid of me.”
“You mustn’t think that,” she protested. “But I know that our relationship can never again be quite the same, now that I’ve been forced to reveal the truth. It isn’t something I can hope that you will understand, because you’re cast in an entirely different mold from people like Stafford and me. I would see a look of pained bewilderment come into your eyes each time Stafford’s name was mentioned—it is there now at this very moment. Think, my dear, could you remain happily at Castanheiros, when Stafford keeps coming here to be with me? And what of the time—which I pray will not be long delayed—when Stafford and I can drop all pretense and allow our love to be seen openly, when we become man and wife? You know how much you would suffer, Elinor. And all this for an old woman who has treated you quite shamefully.”
I hung my head to conceal my tears. “I cannot desert my grandmother. She needs me now. There is no one else.”
“But there is Carlota, and myself. There is Affonso, her stepson, and Stafford, and a houseful of servants. Dona Amalia has every comfort she can possibly expect, every attention she can demand. What can you add, Elinor, that will make the final days of her life more easily borne?”
“I can give her love,” I whispered.
Love. The word was like ashes in my mouth. What did it mean, I asked myself, if it included this obsessive, greedy passion such as Vicencia had described? Love had become a word I did not understand anymore.
I wondered suddenly if Vicencia would be so blithely complacent about her relationship with Stafford if she knew the dreadful things I suspected about him—that Stafford himself had killed Luzia? That he had killed Pedro, and had planned to kill me, too. That only yesterday afternoon, while Vicencia had been with Julio in the gardens, playing her flute, Stafford had been ruthlessly awaiting the arrival of the carriage at Miramar, in order to send it plunging off the road.
The pendulum clock on the wall stirred into life and struck the half-hour. “Goodness me, how time flies,” exclaimed Vicencia. “Luncheon will not be long, Elinor. We had better go and get ready.”
These words suddenly crystallized for me the life to which I’d be committing myself. The ordinary everyday things would continue unchanged, and I would have to take my part in them. Could I twice each day sit down to eat with the family and join in the conversation around the table? It was beyond imagining.
“I ... I think I’ll have a tray brought to my room,” I told Vicencia. “For the time being, until I’m feeling properly well again, I shall take all my meals upstairs.”
“But Elinor, there is no need for that.”
“I would prefer it.”
Vicencia regarded me thoughtfully. “So already you’re beginning to realize how difficult things will be for you here at Castanheiros. Think again about going home, my dear. Think hard.”
Chapter 17
For the rest of the day, and all the next morning, I scarcely stirred from my room. I had intended going to see Dona Amalia as usual, but just before ten-thirty, her maid Josepha came with a message that the senhora condessa was feeling very tired. Although I was disappointed, I guessed she wasn’t quite ready yet to swallow her pride and admit how unfairly prejudiced she’d been against my mother all these years. I still felt confident, however, that the barrier keeping us apart was gone now, and there was nothing to prevent my grandmother and me from achieving a real sense of closeness.
At lunchtime, when my tray was brought up by a footman, there was a letter, too. It bore an English postage stamp. I stood for a moment holding it in my hands, looking down at the familiar lavender stationery addressed in Mrs. Carlisle’s flowing script. Oh, to be back once more in Harley Street, back to the calm, orderly life there. The prospect was wonderfully tempting, and nothing could be simpler to arrange. And yet, in my heart I knew that it wasn’t merely concern for my grandmother that held me in Portugal. Although my hopes and dreams about Stafford had been cruelly shattered, I still felt compelled to remain here. I had a strange feeling that the curtain was yet to rise on the final act of the drama at Castanheiros, and I had to know the truth, however terrible it proved to be.
Quickly, I slit open the envelope and withdrew Aunt Mildred’s letter. It was written in her usual chatty style, crammed with small details of domestic news …that she had given a dinner party two evenings ago, although it had been most aggravating because the poulterer had mixed up the order and failed to deliver the Aylesbury ducklings in time … that the promising new chambermaid, Elsie, had departed to take a post nearer her married sister in Wimbledon … how difficult it was to decide between Cambridge blue and eau de nil for the new decor in the drawing room … and what did I think? The doctor, she was delighted to say, had recently been consulted by a prominent member of Mr. Disraeli’s cabinet. On the last page, though, Aunt Mildred told me she had some serious news to impart that she hoped would not cause me too much distress. Oliver, during the past month, had become very engrossed with a certain Miss Catherine Blakeley, the sister of one of his colleagues at the hospital.
I fear it is serious and that an engagement is imminent. Catherine is a thoroughly charming young woman and well-connected, but naturally the doctor and I are saddened at having our long-cherished hopes dashed like this. Alas, young men can be very fickle in their affections. I only hope, my dearest Elinor, that with the diversions of your stay in Portugal you can overcome your disappointment and find it in your heart to wish them well.
I felt a stab of envy for the unknown Catherine Blakeley. Not that I begrudged her winning Oliver for one moment. It was the happiness and fulfillment in store for her I envied. But I determined to write back to Aunt Mildred very fulsomely, and I would drop a line to Oliver, too—a line of warm, sisterly congratulation. I owed him that.
Early in the afternoon I prepared for my visit to Maria’s home. Although I dreaded the prospect, I felt I had to go. I decided that I’d walk into Cintra. I was in no hurry to arrive, and since the accident at Miramar, I didn’t fancy the idea of riding in a carriage.
The knot garden simmered under the blazing sun as I set out, and I was grateful for the shade of the cypress avenue. At the gates, I turned left along the winding lane. Beside me, a tumbled mass of summer jasmine and purple heliotrope cascaded over an old stone wall, and the languid perfume hung like a cloud in the warm, still air.
I hadn’t gone far when I heard the sound of a carriage. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the green and gold phaeton from Castanheiros just rounding a bend beneath the darkly spreading branches of a cedar tree. My uncle h
eld the reins, with Carlota beside him. I prepared myself for an exchange of stiff courtesies as they went past, but, surprisingly, my uncle reined in the horses and drew the phaeton to a halt beside me. He raised his straw hat, and Carlota smiled at me sweetly from under her parasol.
“What are you thinking of, Elinor dear,” she protested, “walking in the heat like this?”
“I’m not going far, Carlota. I hardly thought it worthwhile asking for a carriage.”
“It’s fortunate, then, that we have come along and can offer you a ride.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t trouble you ---”
Already, though, my uncle had jumped down and was extending his hand to help me up the step. So I could hardly refuse. “Where are you going?” Carlota inquired, when I was settled in the seat behind them.
“I’m on my way to the bakery to offer my condolences to Maria and her parents.”
“Maria? Oh yes, the sister of the coachman Pedro. A most regrettable incident. Your uncle and I have been so worried about you, Elinor. I cannot tell you how much.”
So very worried, I thought dryly, that they hadn’t even bothered to come and ask me how I was. This was the first I’d seen of either of them since the accident. Though now, it seemed, Carlota couldn’t be friendlier.
“Do not concern yourself unduly about the girl, my dear,” she advised me. “Everything necessary will have been done, I can assure you.”
“But she is my personal maid, Carlota. Besides, I was in the carriage with Pedro, and it is only right that Maria and her family should hear exactly what happened from my own lips.”
“You won’t, I hope, mention anything about this strange fancy of yours that someone deliberately threw a firework to frighten the horses?”
“No, Carlota, I won’t say anything about that.” But I added quietly to myself. Even though I believe it to be true.
“Well, that’s a relief. Otherwise, we would have all manner of wild rumors spreading around the neighborhood. Just keep your visit short and as formal as possible. One can sometimes be too kind to these sort of people. Is that not true, Affonso?”
The Jade Dragon Page 17