Читать книгу Rachel Trevellyan - Anne Mather - Страница 8

SINCE leaving the coast, the road had wound through a series of lushly cultivated valleys, bright with blossoming trees and shrubs, scented with pine and citrus. Rachel saw vine-clad terraces, orchards of fig and almond trees, pergolas draped with the lemon-vine while the varied colours of bougainvillea rioted in every available space. She had never seen jacarandas growing wild before, or longed to touch the satin-soft petals of the oleander. It was all new and stimulating, and she could not entirely deny the rising sense of excitement that was stirring inside her. Her fingers itched to take her paintbrush and try, probably without success, she thought, to transfer some of this beauty and colour on to canvas. This was Portugal, the country of the lean, dark man seated beside her at the wheel of his luxurious silver limousine, the natural background of this aristocratic nobleman, this unexpected friend of Malcolm’s, who regarded her with obvious contempt.

Her lips twisted and she shivered in spite of the heat of the day which had already forced her to shed the jacket of the slim-fitting cream slack suit she had worn to travel in. Her husband, overcome by the temperature, was asleep in the back of the limousine, but Luis Martinez, Marquês de Mendao, seemed totally unaffected by the climate.

She glanced surreptitiously towards him. His concentration was all on the road ahead and for a moment she was able to look at him unobserved. Who would have thought that in less than twenty-four hours her life could change so completely? Yesterday afternoon she had spent at her easel, trying to finish the portrait of one of the village children while Malcolm slept, aware of a certain excitement about him which she had not been able to explain. That the explanation had come in such a startling way was scarcely believable. And yet, last night, when she had opened the door and found the tall dark alien on the step, she had known that he was in some way responsible for that latent excitement. But even then she had not suspected that Malcolm intended to take her away.

She drew a trembling breath. He had wanted to do so, goodness knows, only circumstances had prevented it. Since his illness he had been almost fanatical in his attempts to keep her away from people she knew, but she had believed his hands had been tied. How he must have laughed to himself to think that the very thing which she had thought would keep them in Mawvry among her friends, among the people she knew and cared about, was the very thing which had provided the means to get them away.

The car braked smoothly at a bend where a narrow bridge negotiated a rippling stream below them. The water ran swiftly over smooth stones worn by the passage of time, and an enormous elm spread its branches casting avenues of shade. The lush green turf invited relaxation beside the stream where the sunlight dappled quiet pools and muted the birds’ song. Rachel could have climbed out of the car then and paddled in that stream, and she sighed, attracting the attention of the man at her side.

‘You are tired?’ he queried politely, his clipped tones betraying a certain impatience.

Rachel shook her head. ‘No. Not tired.’ She did not add senhor, and she was almost sure he noted this.

‘What then?’

‘I was just thinking how delightful it would have been to paddle in that stream we passed,’ she answered quietly.

His long-fingered brown hands tightened on the wheel, but he made no comment. His hands were very attractive, she thought, her artist’s eye appreciating their length and shape. They were slender without being thin, the bones smooth beneath brown flesh. She wondered if they were hard hands; she felt sure they must be. In spite of the fact that they must have done very little actual hard work, they nevertheless possessed a certain strength and toughness evident in the bones of his knuckles. She would have liked to have touched them, to have felt their texture and shape for herself, to have painted them ...

She drew herself up sharply. There was no question of her being allowed to paint any part of the Marquês de Mendao, and in any case, why should she want to do so? She glanced round at her husband sleeping peacefully in the back of the limousine. It was just as well he was unaware of her foolish thoughts.

She settled lower in her seat, lifting the weight of her hair off her neck with a careless hand. Again her action drew the attention of Luis Martinez, and he said: ‘As your husband appears to be sleeping at present, perhaps this would be a good moment for me to make certain things clear to you.’

Rachel stiffened. ‘What things?’

‘First of all, I would prefer that you remember to add the word senhor to the statements you address to me.’ Rachel gasped, but he went on: ‘This is not something that is of a great deal of importance to me, senhora, but my mother is of the old school of Portuguese who expect a certain standard of behaviour. Also, it is more fitting that our acquaintanceship should be seen to be on a formal footing, do you not agree?’

‘I thought your mother was English—senhor.’ Rachel just remembered the suffix.

‘She was—she is, of course, although lately she has taken Portuguese citizenship. Nevertheless, the customs of my country have always been her customs.’

‘I see.’ Rachel’s tone was dry.

‘Secondly, your—appearance, senhora.’

‘My appearance?’ Rachel looked at him in astonishment.

‘Sim, senhora, your appearance. It is obvious that you do not pay a great deal of attention to the manner of your clothing, but in Portugal women do not wear slacks except on very rare occasions. They adhere to certain principles. A simple dress or perhaps a blouse and skirt are considered much more suitable—can you appreciate this, senhora?’

Rachel felt angry. It had not been her wish to come to Portugal, and now this man was daring to criticise her manners and her clothes. Just who did he think he was?

Controlling the tremor in her voice, she said: ‘I’m afraid I disagree—senhor. For me, trousers are the most comfortable thing in my wardrobe.’

His dark eyes encountered hers and there was unconcealed anger in their depths. His lips were drawn into a line of disapproval and she thought that even in anger he was the most disturbingly attractive man she had ever seen. He was not handsome; it would be an insult to use so paltry a term to describe the carved lines of his tanned features, the high cheekbones, the deepset eyes, that mouth, the lower lip of which when it was not drawn tight as now portrayed an almost sensual fullness. The whiteness of his shirt lay against the brown column of his throat, brushed by the straight black thickness of his hair. What woman, she thought, could not be aware of him as a man, of his extreme masculinity, even if she was married?

Now he looked back at the road, and said: ‘Do I take it you intend to oppose me, senhora?’

Rachel sighed, her own anger evaporating under other, more disruptive, influences. ‘I don’t intend any disrespect, senhor,’ she answered carefully, ‘but in the matter of my clothes, I consider I am the best judge of what or what not to wear.’

‘I see.’ His tone was chilling. ‘Perhaps I have approached this wrongly. Perhaps I should have mentioned the matter to your husband first and allowed him to broach it with you.’

Rachel’s face burned. ‘Is that a threat or a promise, senhor?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Surely it must have become apparent to you, senhor, that I am an—obedient wife?’

The dark eyes were enigmatic. ‘You do not wish me to mention this matter to your husband?’

‘Do my wishes matter—senhor?’ Belatedly she remembered to add the word.

His brows drew together in a frown. ‘I am afraid I do not comprehend your meaning, senhora.’

‘For once we agree. You do not.’ Rachel pressed her lips tightly together to prevent them from trembling, realising that this time she had forgotten to use his title altogether.

He expelled his breath through his nostrils. ‘Tell me what you think of Mendao,’ he said, changing the subject so unexpectedly and so completely that for a moment she was startled. ‘This is the valley where our village is situated, the valley of the Rio Meigo.’

Rachel forced herself to pay attention to her surroundings. They were descending into the valley through tree-clad slopes where the scent of pine was strongest. There were more vines, the sound of running water heralding the appearance of the broad but shallow waters of the Meigo which gurgled its way through orchards of cork trees.

Nearer the village, cottages came into view, colour-washed dwellings that while looking picturesque could not, Rachel felt, be very comfortable. They passed black-clad peasant women leading donkeys on which were laden baskets of fruit and vegetables, and children stopped what they were doing to watch them pass.

Many people saluted the car as they passed and Luis Martinez raised a casual hand in acknowledgement of their greeting. Rachel looked at him with sudden perception, beginning to appreciate his concern for formality. Here he was well known, the Marquês de Mendao, and while in England that might mean little or nothing, in his own country, in this valley where no doubt his family had been masters for generations, he was the Senhor, the Patrao, arbiter of their fates.

‘It’s very beautiful,’ she said at last. ‘But of course you know that. Do you own all this land, senhor?’

Luis shrugged. ‘The land belongs to all of us. We work for it, we till the soil and sow the crops, we gather the harvest; but no man can pronounce himself the owner of something that is the means of livelihood for so many people. The days of slavery are abolished, senhora. These people are free. Here in Mendao all men are treated as equals.’

Rachel considered this carefully. ‘Nevertheless, it’s obvious that you are regarded with—a certain deference. Surely you’re not saying that you compare yourself with these peasants!’

The hands on the wheel tightened perceptibly. ‘In my country, respect is given to the man, not to the property he calls himself master of.’

Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘Surely that’s rather a radical viewpoint for someone with such conservative ideas.’

He frowned. ‘We are talking at cross purposes, senhora. You think because my ideas of correctness and dignity seem old-fashioned to you that I must be backward-looking.’ He shook his head. ‘I assure you I am not. The system we have here will bear comparison with any system anywhere in the world and my people are given every opportunity to succeed.’

Rachel was looking at the village. It was quaint and somewhat unworldly to her eyes, but charming nonetheless. As well as a small store and a café, there was a school and a church, and the narrow footbridges over the river which divided the two halves of the village were arched and attractive. The road ran along beside the river for some way, shadowed by evergreen oaks and more of the spreading elm trees.

Beyond the village they branched on to a narrower track and presently came to a gate across the road with the word ‘Privado’ printed upon it. Rachel cast a questioning glance in Luis’s direction, but for the moment he ignored it, sliding out of the car to open the gate before getting in again and driving through. When the gate was closed behind them, he said:

‘I know what you are thinking, but that notice is not for the people who live here. They know they will never be turned away from the quinta. But we have turistas who can be quite a nuisance.’

Rachel had to smile at this. ‘Am I so transparent?’ she murmured lightly, and he looked at her.

‘To me—in this instance, yes,’ he said, and then as though realising the sudden intimacy between them he pressed hard on the accelerator and sent the sleek limousine cruising swiftly up the curving sweep of the drive.

Rachel’s first glimpse of the Quinta Martinez was through a belt of trees. Thickly foliaged trees and bushes encroached on the drive from both sides, successfully providing a natural screen between the quinta and the rest of the valley. It reminded Rachel of the thorn hedge which had grown up around the castle of the Sleeping Beauty in legend, and in fact, the Quinta Martinez did resemble a small castle at that first appraisal.

Nestling among trees, with dozens of small turrets outlined against a backcloth of deep green, it had an unreal quality, a fairy-tale appearance. Mellow stone was warmed by the rays of the sinking sun which winked on the small Gothic windows and gilded the sculptured façade.

Rachel leant forward in her seat, totally absorbed, for the moment oblivious of her surroundings, of her reasons for being there.

Then Luis said: ‘You like my home, senhora?’ and reality asserted itself.

She sank back in her seat. ‘Oh, yes, yes. It’s—unbelievably beautiful!’

‘My father’s family have lived here for many generations,’ he said. ‘Naturally in recent years the quinta has been extensively modernised inside, but not sufficiently to dispel its character, I feel.’

The car emerged from the trees and circled a central courtyard to come to rest at the foot of stone steps leading up to the arched entrance to the building. The steps were shallow, leading into the shade of a terrace which seemed to circle the quinta. There was a fountain in the courtyard which gave the sound of constant running water and this was the first thing Rachel noticed as she stepped unaided out of the car.

Luis had walked round to assist her with his innate sense of politeness and she looked up at him helplessly as she scrambled out. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not used to anyone opening doors for me—senhor!’

Luis’s lips tightened and then he looked up expectantly as an elderly man appeared at the head of the flight of steps.

‘Senhor Marquês!’ the old man exclaimed warmly. ‘Estimo muito ve-lo de novo.’

‘Boa tarde, Mario.’ Luis smiled, and Rachel looked away from the warmth of that greeting and leant into the car to say:

‘Malcolm! Malcolm, we’re here. At the quinta.’

Her husband opened his eyes reluctantly. ‘What’s that? What did you say?’

‘We’ve arrived, Malcolm. In Mendao. How do you feel?’

‘If you will permit me ...’

Luis was behind her with the folding wheelchair which he had taken from the boot of the car. Rachel drew back abruptly, almost cracking her head on the roof of the car as she did so. She was hot and nervous now that they were actually here, and the idea of meeting the old Marquesa was an intimidating one after what Luis Martinez had said.

She contemplated asking whether she might bathe and change before meeting anyone and thoughtfully went over the few clothes she had brought with her in an effort to think of something suitable to wear. But then she gave herself a mental shake. What was she thinking of allowing these people to influence her to such an extent that she was actually considering dressing to suit them? Good lord, she was not an impressionable schoolgirl, was she? She was twenty-two, and a married woman, completely indifferent to any reaction she might have on Luis Martinez’s mother.

At Luis’s instigation, the man Mario had drawn the wheelchair up the shallow steps and now Luis was lifting Malcolm out of the back of the silver limousine and carrying him up the steps to install him in the canvas seat of the chair. For the journey Malcolm had worn a dark blue tweed suit, and Rachel thought he must be feeling the heat as she was. Draping the jacket of her slack suit over one shoulder and the strap of her suede bag over the other, she mounted the steps after them, trying not to feel like the intruder she was sure she was.

Mario took charge of the wheelchair. Rachel sensed that Malcolm would have preferred her to guide him, but there was little he could say in front of Luis Martinez which would not sound ungrateful and he said nothing as Luis urged them across the terrace and into the coolness of the mosaic-tiled hall.

Rachel looked about her with sharpened interest. Every artistic nerve within her was throbbing with awareness of the magnificence of her surroundings. Carved pillars, a sweeping baroque staircase, a shadowed gallery above. There were long silk curtains at the windows the colour of wild roses, while on a marble plinth an enormous bowl of those delicately perfumed flowers provided a splash of scarlet. There were small statuettes of saints in the window recesses, reminding one if any reminder was necessary that this was a truly Catholic household, while to the right and left archways gave glimpses of other exquisitely furnished apartments.

If Rachel had imagined that the Marquesa de Mendao would meet them in the hall she was mistaken. On the contrary, at this late hour of the afternoon when the shadows were deepening and a certain coolness was entering the air the quinta was as silent as a cloister and only a small dark woman appeared with long black skirts and a white apron who was obviously another of the servants.

She greeted Luis warmly and then looked enquiringly at Rachel and Malcolm. Clearly she had not been expecting two visitors, but her expression was not reproving, merely expectant.

Luis spoke swiftly in his own language, apparently explaining that Senhor Trevellyan had brought his wife with him. Rachel recognised such words as espôsa and marido, but most of what he said was incomprehensible to her.

The woman, whose name was Luisa, eventually nodded and said something in reply which seemed to please her employer, for he nodded, too, and speaking in English, he turned to Rachel and her husband:

‘Luisa tells me that she has had a suite prepared for you on the ground floor, senhor. In the circumstances we thought it best that you did not have stairs to contend with. It will be a simple matter to prepare one of the adjoining rooms for your wife.’

Malcolm’s hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair tightly, revealing his tension, although his expression was complacent as he said: ‘I’m sure there’s no need to prepare a special room for Rachel. Naturally she will share mine.’

Rachel saw a spasm of something like distaste flicker across Luis’s face, and her own cheeks burned suddenly. It was as though Malcolm was speaking deliberately, as if he wanted to shock the other man, but why? What possible reason could he have? Back in England he had been only too eager to agree with everything Luis had said. She could only assume that since arriving in Portugal her husband had known himself home and dry and therefore he had no further need to behave subserviently. This was much more the man she was accustomed to.

‘Nevertheless, senhor, another room will be prepared,’ stated Luis quietly. ‘It is possible that your wife might prefer somewhere that she can undeniably call her own as well as sharing your rooms.’

Malcolm made an indifferent gesture. ‘Very well.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s Joanna?’

Luis stiffened at the familiarity. ‘My mother is no doubt resting, senhor. I suggest you allow Luisa to show you to your suite. We can all meet later in the library before dinner.’

‘All right.’ Malcolm inclined his head and looked round straight into Rachel’s face. ‘You wheel my chair, Rachel. I prefer you to do so.’

Rachel moved to do as he asked and Luis was forced to stand stiffly aside. But she sensed his silent impatience, his annoyance that in his house a woman should be made to do a man’s work when there was a man there capable of doing it. But he made no comment and with a brief bow left them, striding across the hall to take the stairs two at a time.

Luisa led the way down a hall to their left while Mario disappeared outside again to collect their cases. The hall was panelled, inset with narrow windows which overlooked the front courtyard where the fountain played. There were portraits on the opposite wall, grim-looking images of past members of the Martinez family, and Rachel thought how much more attractive the present Marquês was than his predecessors.

Presently Luisa halted before double white doors and throwing them open with a flourish, announced; ‘A sala, senhor, senhora. Is satisfactory?’

Rachel propelled Malcolm’s chair into the room looking about her with enjoyment. It was a large drawing room that they had entered, the polished floor strewn with skin rugs, the furniture all pale hide and coolly comfortable. Crossing the room she was able to see an inner courtyard which could be reached by opening long french doors, and she stared with wonder at the tiled patio outside, with its hanging baskets of hydrangeas and geraniums, and attractive striped garden furniture.

Malcolm had said nothing, looking about him without interest, but Rachel could not contain her enthusiasm.

‘It’s very satisfactory, thank you, Luisa,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m sure we shall be very comfortable here.’

Luisa smiled, her teeth very white against the darkness of her skin. ‘Is good. See!’ She opened another door. ‘The bedroom!’

Rachel looked into the next room and saw it was almost as large as the sala. A soft cream carpet covered the floor, there were lilac hangings at the windows, while the bedspread was of shades of African violet. Adjoining the bedroom was a bathroom also decorated in lilac and pink. Rachel was quite intoxicated by the beauty of it all.

Malcolm was waiting impatiently in his wheelchair, his fingers drumming on the wooden arms. Mario had arrived with their suitcases, but when Luisa offered to unpack for them, Malcolm was rude.

‘There’s no need for that,’ he snapped ungraciously. ‘My wife’s quite capable. Besides, I don’t want anyone poking around in my things. You can go.’

He dismissed them without a word of thanks and Rachel felt terribly embarrassed. She supposed she ought to be used to her husband’s attitude by now, but she was not, and here she had thought he would behave if only to present a façade of geniality.

Luisa and Mario closed the doors behind them and then Malcolm turned on Rachel. ‘What the hell do you mean by making eyes at that Portuguese all the way from the airport?’ he demanded.

Rachel’s lips parted in dismay. ‘What?’ she murmured faintly.

‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. Did you honestly imagine I slept all the way here?’

‘I—I—naturally I assumed you were tired.’ Rachel was too shocked to be retaliatory.

‘Well, I wasn’t. Not that tired, anyway.’

Rachel tried desperately to remember what she and Luis Martinez had spoken about on the journey. Her clothes, of course, but mostly they had argued. There had been no occasion when Malcolm could have imagined that the Marquês de Mendao was aware of her in any other way than that of the wife of a friend of his mother’s. Except for that moment at the foot of the drive ...

‘I think you’re the one who’s imagining things, Malcolm,’ she said carefully, dropping her shoulder bag on to a damask-covered ottoman. ‘Senhor Martinez and I spoke very little on the journey from the airport, and as you’ve seen to it that he regards me with scarcely veiled contempt, I fail to see how you can accuse me of making eyes at him!’

Malcolm stared at her for a long moment. ‘But you are attracted to him, aren’t you?’

Rachel gasped. ‘Of course not.’ Her expression hardened. ‘I’m not attracted by any man!’

Malcolm’s face grew ugly. ‘Well, see it stays that way. Or by God, I’ll find some way to make you pay——’

‘Please, Malcolm!’ Rachel pressed her arms about her thin body. ‘I’ve told you, you have no need to concern yourself about me.’

A little of the tension left him. ‘No. No, I suppose you’re right. In any case, a man like Martinez wouldn’t look at somebody like you, even without——’

He broke off abruptly and Rachel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even without what, Malcolm? Exactly what have you been telling him?’

Malcolm shrugged. ‘This and that.’

‘How did you explain—our marriage? Surely being married to someone so much younger than yourself hardly enhances your image.

Malcolm’s thin lips quirked. ‘There are ways of making the most of every situation,’ he replied.

Rachel sighed. It Was obvious he had no intention of telling her anything. And in any case, did she want to know? Wasn’t it better to remain in ignorance than to hear something which might make her feel even more embarrassed in Luis Martinez’s presence?

‘Now, get me out of these clothes,’ commanded Malcolm, unfastening his tie and the top two buttons of his collar. ‘I’m almost roasting alive.’

‘What are you going to wear this evening for dinner?’ Rachel asked, as she went forward to help him slide his arms out of his jacket.

Malcolm tugged his braces off his shoulders and made an indifferent movement of his head. ‘I don’t know. I may not join them for dinner. I can always feign tiredness after the journey.’

Rachel took charge of the chair to wheel it into the bedroom. ‘You surely don’t expect me to join them alone,’ she exclaimed.

‘No!’ He was adamant on that score. ‘No, indeed. You’ll stay here with me like the dutiful wife you are. I didn’t bring you here to Mendao for your amusement, Rachel.’

Rachel stopped the chair beside the bed and came round to face him. ‘Exactly why did you bring me, Malcolm?’

Her husband began levering himself forward in the chair and she helped him on to the bed. ‘You’re my wife, Rachel. I own you, don’t forget that. I wasn’t going to leave you behind in Mawvry!’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not blind, Rachel. I’ve seen the way men look at you. That Bart Thomas, for example.’

‘I’m not interested in the way any man looks at me!’ she declared. ‘You should know that.’

‘Huh!’ Malcolm stared at her impatiently. ‘That’s what you tell me. But how should I know what goes on inside that head of yours?’

Rachel heaved a sigh and began to help him off with his clothes. ‘I shan’t leave you, Malcolm. Much as I’ve been tempted to do. I made a promise, and I’ll keep it——’

‘Promises! Promises!’ Malcolm dragged himself up the bed to relax on the soft pillows. ‘I’ve heard that before. But you’re my wife, Rachel, and no one else is going to touch you, do you understand?’

Rachel straightened, hiding the pain in her face. ‘No one else would want to,’ she said quietly.

‘What the hell do you mean?’

Rachel turned away. ‘Nothing.’

‘Well, you listen to me: where I go, you go, do you hear?’

‘Then why didn’t you warn me—about coming here?’ she cried, turning back to him. ‘Why keep it all such a secret?’

Malcolm sniffed, running a hand across the hollow caverns in his throat. ‘I didn’t want anything to go wrong. I wanted to come here. Joanna owes me that much. If I’d had to tell her about you ...’ He shook his head. ‘It would have been difficult, very difficult. Portuguese women aren’t like English women. They have a very strict code of ethics. A man of my age marrying an eighteen-year-old girl!’ He pointed a finger at Rachel. ‘She’d have seen no possible reason for that.’

‘But this woman is English! And in any case, how can you now satisfactorily explain it? By telling the truth?’ She looked sceptical.

‘Joanna has lived so long in Portugal, she’s become like them,’ said Malcolm, ignoring her questions. ‘I saw that four years ago when she came to England. She came for my mother’s funeral, both she and Raul. That was her husband, the old Marquês, this man Luis’s father. Just like his son, he was. Cold and arrogant, conscious of his own importance!’

Rachel shook her head. ‘That still doesn’t explain——’

‘Leave it, Rachel.’

‘But why couldn’t you tell me?’ she sighed frustratedly.

Malcolm considered her thoughtfully. ‘If I’d told you what I’d arranged, how would you have reacted? Would you have been prepared to wait for this man to come and discover who you were?’

Rachel saw the logic of this. If she had known in advance she would have had to have written and told them the truth. She wasn’t like Malcolm. She couldn’t have waited, depending on their indulgence as he had done. And besides, Malcolm might have been afraid she’d run away at a crucial moment. She had wanted to do so many times in the past and he knew it.

She turned away. ‘I need a wash,’ she said vaguely. ‘I think I’ll take a shower. You’ll be all right, won’t you?’

Malcolm closed his eyes. ‘I suppose so.’ He opened them again. ‘And no disappearing if I fall asleep.’

‘Where would I disappear to?’ she exclaimed defensively.

‘I don’t know. But don’t, anyway.’

Rachel picked up one of the suitcases and flicked it open. Inside she found some clean underclothing and a towel. Leaving the bedroom, she entered the luxurious surroundings of the bathroom and although there was no need to do so, she locked the door. Then she turned on the shower and began stripping off her clothes. Her brain felt thick and fuzzy, and she was finding it hard to assimilate all this. It was too much in twenty-four hours, and she gave up the will to think ...