Rachel Trevellyan Read online

  ‘But you must eat!’ Luis was impatient. ‘You are already much too thin. You cannot afford to neglect yourself.’

  Rachel bent her head. ‘There—there are matters we must discuss,’ she said, ignoring his outburst. ‘About travelling home——’

  ‘They can wait!’ Luis was arrogant.

  ‘But they can’t.’ Rachel looked up at him. ‘Don’t you see? I’ve got to take charge of everything now. There is no one else.’

  ‘In England? I know that.’

  ‘You said that before. How do you know?’

  ‘Your husband told me.’

  Rachel tried to assimilate this. ‘Malcolm? But why should he tell you a thing like that?’

  Luis thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, tautening the cloth across his thighs. ‘He told me when he was explaining how he came to marry you.’

  Rachel quivered, forcing down the familiar feeling of sickness she always felt when she considered that particular period of her life. ‘I see.’ She would have liked to have asked him exactly what Malcolm had said by way of an explanation, but of course she couldn’t. ‘Well, anyway, there is no one——’

  ‘I said there was no one in England. I am here.’

  Rachel blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I shall take charge of everything for you. Malcolm can be buried here, in Mendao. There is no reason for you to return to England until after the funeral.’

  ‘Oh, but I—I couldn’t do that——’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shook her head. ‘There—there’s the money to consider——’

  He frowned. ‘That need not worry you.’

  ‘Of course it must.’ Rachel linked and unlinked her fingers. ‘I have to go home and see Malcolm’s solicitors—to find out what I must do——’

  ‘You can do that afterwards.’

  Rachel moved restlessly about the room, unable to hold his penetrating stare. She tugged at a strand of her hair which seemed too weighty for the slenderness of her neck, and moved her head in a confused way. ‘But—your mother——’ she began unhappily.

  ‘I am master here, not my mother.’

  Rachel sighed. ‘What about—the Alejentos; Amalia?’

  As she said the other girl’s name she coloured. Amalia was Senhorita Alejento to her!

  But Luis seemed unconcerned. ‘Amalia has nothing to do with this. She will agree with me.’

  Rachel spread her hands. ‘I—I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Then leave it to me.’

  She looked tremulously at him. ‘I wish I could!’

  Luis took a step towards her and then halted. ‘You can, and you know it,’ he said, in a strangely hoarse voice.

  Rachel turned away. ‘All right, if you say so.’ The trembling feeling inside her was increasing and nausea was threatening to overwhelm her. If he didn’t hurry up and leave her she would disgrace herself completely by being sick right there in front of him. ‘If—if you’ll—excuse me——’

  She walked blindly towards the bathroom door and Luis had perforce to let her go. She heard his footsteps recede along the corridor as she leant weakly against the cool wall of the bathroom. How long, she wondered despairingly, would it take her to begin to feel normal again?

  Malcolm was buried the following afternoon in the graveyard beside the small church down in the village.

  It was a Catholic burial, and Malcolm had not been a Catholic. But as he had had no religious affiliations whatsoever, Rachel didn’t think he would mind.

  Despite the unexpectedness of the occasion, it was not the insignificant little affair Rachel had imagined. The Alejentos were there in force, and Luis’s estate managers and their wives, as well as the Marquesa, Rachel, and Luis himself. Of course, she realised, the fact that the Marquês de Mendao was involved counted for something, and that, no doubt, was why the villagers turned out in force to see the procession and to hear the Mass.

  Rachel had been doubtful about what to wear. There was nothing black in her wardrobe, and as the women round here wore black or some other dark colour almost without relief, there was no doubt that something similar was required, but what? Apart from a pair of black trousers, she had nothing. Then Rosa came to the rescue.

  She came into Rachel’s bedroom as she was looking hopelessly through the few garments she had, and said: ‘You wish something for the funeral, senhora?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Rosa!’ Rachel turned to her. ‘Is there anywhere that I could buy a dark dress?’

  ‘Not in Mendao, senhora. But I could—how do you say it—lend you a dress, if you would permit me?’

  ‘Could you? Could you really? Oh, Rosa, that would be marvellous!’ Rachel closed her wardrobe door. ‘Anything would do. A black skirt, a dress—I can hardly wear trousers, can I?’

  ‘Nao, senhora. A moment. I will not be long.’

  When Rosa came back she was carrying a plain black dress not unlike the one she was wearing at the moment. Rachel stripped off her jeans and sweater and tried it on. It was very long compared to the dresses she was used to wearing, several inches below her knees, in fact, and because Rosa was of a more generous build it hung on Rachel’s thin shoulders. Nevertheless it was exactly what she wanted, and she thanked the other girl warmly.

  The funeral was to take place in the late afternoon and Rachel spent some time over her appearance. She wanted to do the right thing. She wanted to look suitable for once in her life.

  But when Luis came along to her rooms to tell her it was time to leave he stared in horror at the shapeless black dress and severely styled hair. He was looking particularly immaculate in a dark, pin-striped suit, and she felt very much the poor relation.

  ‘Meu Deus!’ he breathed, shaking his head. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

  Rachel coloured. ‘I borrowed this dress from Rosa, Isn’t it—suitable?’

  Luis rested one hand against the back of his neck, over the thick black hair. ‘It does not even fit you.’

  ‘I know. But it does—cover me, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed.’ His tone was dry. ‘But come! There is no time to change now. My mother is awaiting us.’

  The Marquesa’s expression when she saw Rachel was pained. Her narrowed eyes flickered over the girl with obvious distaste, and she quickly looked away without making any comment. In a slim-fitting two-piece of black silk, and a black straw boater, like her son she was coolly elegant, and Rachel fumbled for the black chiffon scarf Rosa had lent her for her hair.

  Fortunately for Rachel, the poignancy of the occasion was sufficient to strip her of any sense of humiliation, and not until Malcolm’s body had been interred and they were back at the quinta did she again become conscious of her appearance. Then she left the others as soon as they entered the coolness of the hall, hurrying back to the privacy of her rooms.

  But on impulse, she stopped at the door to the suite of rooms Malcolm had occupied and turning the handle, pushed it wide.

  In spite of everything that had happened, it was a strange experience to find the rooms empty, the bedroom visible through an open door. She stepped forward into the sala and ran her finger lightly over the back of the leather couch. It was cool to the touch and she walked slowly to the french doors and pushed one open. Beyond, the patio was empty. The glass-topped table and loungers had gone, and there was a curiously desolate air about it.

  A lump rose in her throat. Already the quinta had shed all trace of Malcolm’s presence. He might never have been here. And pretty soon now her rooms would look like this.

  ‘Senhora!’

  The voice behind her was sudden and unexpected. She turned to face the speaker reluctantly. ‘Yes, Senhora Marquesa?’ she responded politely.

  ‘May I speak with you for a moment?’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘If you like.’

  ‘It’s about—it’s about your leaving here, senhora.’

  Rachel had thought it might be. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you discussed y
our plans with my son?’

  ‘I haven’t actually made any plans yet, Senhora Marquesa.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should?’

  ‘I intend to. It’s just that—well, it’s all been so sudden. I don’t think I’ve really accepted the situation yet.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’ The Marquesa’s mouth was tight. ‘You must have had some thoughts on the future. You know you can’t stay here.’

  ‘Yes, I do know that. It may interest you to know, Senhora Marquesa, that I have no wish to remain here!’

  The Marquesa stiffened. ‘Good. I shall tell my son you wish to leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, you do that.’ Rachel’s nails dug into the palms of her hands.

  The Marquesa looked about her. ‘By the way, your husband’s belongings have been packed into his suitcase and are ready when you want them.’

  ‘I could have done that,’ said Rachel quickly, disliking the idea of a stranger disposing of Malcolm’s things. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I think so——’

  ‘What is going on here, Mama?’

  Luis had come to stand just behind his mother and she turned to him with a faint smile. ‘Nothing is—going on, Luis. Senhora Trevellyan and I were merely discussing when she planned to leave.’

  Luis stepped into the room. ‘Is that important at the moment?’ he demanded. ‘Valha-me Deus, give the girl a chance! We only buried her husband an hour ago!’

  His mother’s expression froze. ‘Luis, are you aware that there are less than eight weeks left to your wedding? There is still a lot to be done, you know that. How can you possibly behave so casually? It’s obvious that the Alejentos are becoming concerned at your attitude——’

  ‘A few days more or less will not create too many difficulties, Mama. Besides, everything is in hand and you know it. You are merely using this as a lever——’

  ‘Oh, please!’ Rachel wanted to be the cause of no more argument between Luis and his mother. ‘I want to leave! If it’s at all possible I’d like to go tomorrow.’

  Luis turned to her then. ‘You are not fit to return to England—to cope with dozens of finalising details. I have already contacted my own solicitor in Coimbra and he is arranging to have a representative sent to England to take charge of your affairs. You have only to instruct him and your wishes will be carried out.’

  ‘And—and what am I to do in the meantime?’ asked Rachel faintly.

  ‘You are to stay here, of course. A couple of weeks of complete rest and relaxation will do you the world of good. Then—and only then—will you be fit enough to take charge of your own affairs again.’

  ‘No!’ The Marquesa pressed a hand to her breast, staring at her son as if she couldn’t believe her ears. ‘I won’t allow it!’

  ‘You won’t allow it?’ Luis’s eyes were cold as he stared at his mother, and Rachel felt terrible.

  ‘There’s no need for you to get upset, Senhora Marquesa,’ she exclaimed. ‘I—I—I shan’t be staying!’

  Luis turned back to her. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You ask me that!’ Rachel spread her hands. ‘Oh, just go—both of you! Go away and leave me alone!’

  Luis was breathing heavily, and his mother was clearly bereft of words for the first time in her life. Rachel turned away. It was horrible when someone disliked you as much as the Marquesa apparently disliked her. And why? Because she had come here with Malcolm, and dared to upset her carefully laid plans. She would be glad to get away, she told herself fiercely. Better to be alone and independent than here where her presence created such open conflict.

  ‘Senhora!’

  That was Luis, his voice harsh and aggressive. He was glaring at her now, and she knew that had his mother not been there he would have said much more.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Rachel bent her head. ‘Thank you for your—your offer, but I have to go.’

  Luis stared at her impotently for several seconds and then he turned and strode out of the room. After he had gone there was silence and Rachel looked expressively at the Marquesa, expecting her to go, too. But the older woman stood her ground.

  ‘Thank you, senhora,’ she said, at last.

  Rachel was taken aback. ‘For what?’

  ‘For refusing my son’s invitation.’

  Rachel frowned. ‘You don’t have to thank me.’

  ‘Oh, but I do. You could so easily have accepted.’

  ‘I think not.’ Rachel wished she would go. She wanted nothing from this arrogant old woman.

  The Marquesa half turned and then halted. ‘You know, if—if there is any way in which I can help you financially, senhora——’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Rachel spoke bitterly. ‘I’m not like Malcolm. I don’t want your money!’

  The Marquesa went pale. ‘Why do you say that? What do you—that is——’ She broke off. ‘My offer was made in good faith, senhora.’

  ‘Oh, was it?’ Rachel drew a heavy breath. ‘Well, all I want is to be left alone.’

  The Marquesa took a couple of steps and then halted again. ‘You wouldn’t—I mean——’ She bit her lower lip. ‘What—what will you do?’

  ‘In England, you mean?’ Rachel shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Paint again, perhaps. Who knows? I might make a success of it.’

  ‘If you would care to send some of your work to me, I would see whether I could help you,’ volunteered the Marquesa.

  Rachel frowned. ‘Why should you do that?’ Then, with a shrug: ‘Anyway, I don’t want your help. There’s no way you can help me.’

  The Marquesa looked strained. ‘I see.’

  ‘And now, if you’ve nothing more to say, I’d like to be alone. I—I have some packing to do.’

  The Marquesa moved slowly out into the corridor. Her shoulders sagged, and she looked somehow defeated. Rachel couldn’t understand why. Surely she was doing what the Marquesa wanted. She followed her to the door and watched as the older woman went along the corridor. The sooner she got away from the quinta the better, for all their sakes.

  And yet, in spite of this conviction, the idea of returning to England and never seeing Luis again was desolating.

  CHAPTER TEN

  RACHEL returned to England the day after Malcolm’s funeral.

  She had refused to listen to Luis when he again appealed to her to remain in Mendao while his representative dealt with her affairs, although she could not prevent him from instructing his solicitors to handle all the legal details on her behalf.

  Instead, much to his mother’s relief, she felt, she left the beauty of the Portuguese quinta and travelled home to the lonely unattractive house on the cliffs where Malcolm Trevellyan had spent most of his adult life.

  She took a taxi from the railway station to Mawvry, and after the driver had deposited her and her luggage on the doorstep he drove away again, leaving her feeling more alone than she had ever felt.

  But perhaps it was that very knowledge that she had now to be mistress of her own affairs which gave her the strength to do what had to be done. Her initial desire to lock up the house and move into the village inn was squashed by simple economics, for she realised that very probably this big house would have to be sold soon, and she had no idea how many debts Malcolm might have run up. And there was still the funeral expenses to consider.

  All the same, it was a lonely mausoleum for one person, and those first few nights brought a series of terrifying nightmares in which her dead husband was the central character. She would awake sweating, to find everything was calm and still, but without being able to get back to sleep again.

  Of course, Luis himself was responsible for no small part of that insomnia. She thought of him too often and too much, and she was relieved she had had the sense to leave Mendao before something disastrous happened.

  Not that she ever fooled herself that Luis might have broken his betrothal to Amalia for her. On the contrary, she knew that for him to do such a thing would be against every dictate of the society he lived in and res
pected. But he was attracted to her, that much even she knew, and she was very much afraid that given the time and persuasion, she might have been tempted to take any small crumb he was prepared to offer.

  The village people were very kind. She realised that to them Malcolm’s death was in many ways a release, for they knew that she would never treat them as he had done. All the same, Rachel wondered what would happen, and felt a sense of revulsion at taking Malcolm’s place. She didn’t really want this house or his money, if there was any money to be had, and she began thinking of ways in which she might get a place of her own and earn her own living.

  It was several days before she could bring herself to go through Malcolm’s personal papers.

  She had contacted Malcolm’s solicitors, of course, the day after her return to England, and given the name of Valmez and Franca, Luis’s solicitors. She explained that they would deal with all the legal details on her behalf and was glad of the release this gave her.

  But to go through the small deed box which Malcolm had always kept locked in his wardrobe, that was something only she could do, and she realised that sooner or later the solicitors would want to know what it contained.

  She didn’t know why she should have such an aversion to going through Malcolm’s personal things. After all, they were only lifeless scraps of paper. There could be nothing of value there. His will had been deposited with his solicitors, they had told her that, and what little money he had had been in the bank books which he had taken to Portugal with him.

  When she first opened the deed box she sat back on her heels in surprise. She had expected to find only one or two items inside. Instead, what she found was a box full of letters and papers.

  It took her no time to realise that these were the letters Malcolm had received periodically from Joanna Martinez. There were quite a lot of them, but Rachel had no desire to read what the Marquesa had written.

  Instead, she concentrated on the other items. There was Malcolm’s birth certificate and their marriage certificate; some old photographs and insurance policies, and some papers which bore the name of Elizabeth Trevellyan, who Rachel knew had been Malcolm’s mother. There didn’t appear to be anything of any importance, and Rachel was loath to explore further. She was about to close the box again when she caught sight of another certificate which was protruding from the papers she had examined which had borne Malcolm’s mother’s name.