Rachel Trevellyan Read online

  She waited in the sala, pacing about restlessly, and when Luisa, the housekeeper, appeared to tell her that her room was prepared, she went with her gladly, eager to escape from the murmur of their voices in the other room.

  She had been given a small sitting room, bedroom and bathroom for her own use. They were a little further along the corridor than Malcolm’s rooms and opened on to the same inner patio. Designed in shades of turquoise and apple green they were beautifully cool-looking, and a little of her earlier enthusiasm came back.

  ‘You like, senhora?’ Luisa was anxious.

  ‘I like very much,’ Rachel replied, swinging round on her heels. ‘Very much indeed.’

  ‘That is good. The Senhor Marquês, he say you need more than just bedroom.’

  Rachel stopped her spinning. ‘The Marquês told you to prepare these rooms for me?’

  ‘Sim, senhora.’ Luisa folded her hands.

  ‘You mean—you would just have prepared a bedroom?’ Rachel spoke slowly.

  ‘Sim, senhora. There are other rooms—how do you say it—near—next to your husband’s.’

  ‘Part of the suite, you mean?’

  ‘Is correct, senhora.’

  ‘I see.’

  Rachel’s palms felt suddenly moist. Now why had he done this? How much easier it would have been for him to have directed Luisa simply to make up a bedroom adjacent to Malcolm’s, and yet he had instructed her to take the trouble to make ready a whole suite! And this from a man to whom she had spoken so rudely perhaps little more than a half hour ago.

  ‘Did—did the Marquês give any reason why I should be given a suite of my own?’ she asked, unable to prevent the question.

  ‘Sim, senhora. The Senhor Marquês, he say you paint pictures; that you need room to work.’

  ‘He said that?’ Rachel was astounded. She wasn’t even aware that Luis Martinez knew she painted. Malcolm must have told him. But that was surprising because Malcolm did not really care for this occupation. She became too detached when she was working, too remote, and jealousy prevented him from seeing any merit in the pictures she completed. And in any case, he had refused to allow her to bring any of her painting equipment with her to Portugal.

  Luisa was clearly waiting to be dismissed and with a smile Rachel complied. But after the housekeeper had left her, her thoughts continued to surge chaotically. What might Malcolm’s reaction to her being given her own suite of rooms be? He would surely not be enamoured of the idea. It might be easier to allow him to assume that she had merely been provided with somewhere to sleep and leave it at that.

  But she knew she would have to tell him. It was not in her nature to be secretive, and besides, what harm was there in her having somewhere to call her own?

  She returned to Malcolm’s suite to find that the Marquesa and her son had left, and Rachel went tentatively to the bedroom door, expecting another argument with Malcolm over her second disappearance.

  However, a trolley containing their dinner had been wheeled into the bedroom and Eduardo was in the process of serving it. When Rachel appeared, Malcolm regarded her broodingly, but he was clearly not angry as he had been before.

  ‘Where were you?’ he demanded, as she entered the room nervously.

  ‘I went with Luisa. She showed me my rooms.’

  ‘Rooms?’ Malcolm frowned, picking up the plural immediately.

  ‘That’s right. I’ve been given a sitting room, too.’

  Malcolm’s mouth twisted. ‘You won’t need it.’

  ‘I might.’ Rachel cast an awkward glance in Eduardo’s direction wondering how much of this the young Portuguese understood. ‘You apparently told the Marquês that I painted. He’s given me an extra room for that purpose. I imagine he thinks I’ll need something to do to fill my time when you’re resting.’

  Malcolm studied her intently. ‘But you haven’t brought your equipment with you.’

  ‘I know, I know. But the Marquês may not be aware of it. You shouldn’t have told him if you didn’t want him to know.’

  A strange looked crossed Malcolm’s face for a moment and he chose to pounce on Eduardo then, verbally castigating him for daring to drop a tiny speck of sauce on to the spotlessly white napkin he was using. By the time Eduardo had been dismissed, the topic was forgotten and Rachel was relieved. All the same, she wished she had brought her oils and canvas with her. She would have enjoyed working here.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RACHEL awakened next morning with a strange feeling of excitement. She couldn’t understand it, and she blinked rapidly at the rose-tinted sculptures on the ceiling above her bed, wondering with a sense of expectancy exactly where she was. When she moved her legs, they encountered nothing but cool silk, and when she looked towards the foot of the bed she saw pale turquoise drapes moving in a faint breeze by the windows. There were shutters on the windows which she had closed the night before, and bright sunlight was slatting through them.

  She sat up abruptly, the thick mass of her hair tumbling in confusion about her bare shoulders. Of course—she was in Mendao; in the Quinta Martinez; and what was more, this was her suite, her bedroom, her enormous bed!

  Grasping a handful of silk sheet, she cupped her chin on her fists. She had not expected to be allowed to sleep here alone, but after taking his tablets last evening, Malcolm had been tired, and in that drowsy state he had not cared where she slept. Indeed, since his illness they had slept apart, but after what he had said to Luis Martinez yesterday she had expected to be forced to share his bed.

  So she had come here, to her own suite, and after taking another cooling shower she had slipped between the sheets without bothering to don the nylon nightdress she had brought with her. There had been something exciting and sensual about sleeping unclothed, and this morning it was as though a little of that excitement had spilled over to infect the day. After all, in spite of the Marquesa’s remarks, in spite of Malcolm’s jealousy and irascibility, things looked so much brighter under the heat of the sun, and she could look forward to days of relaxing and sunbathing without any of the menial household tasks to trouble her.

  Unwillingly, thoughts of Luis Martinez, Marquês de Mendao, came to her mind. At some time she would have to thank him for all this, and perhaps apologise for her behaviour of the previous evening. But she didn’t want to think about him just now. He unsettled her, he made her feel nervous and restless, and she hoped his fiancée, the unknown Amalia Alejento, would be around to fill his time to the exclusion of everything and everyone else.

  She sighed, her oval face troubled. It was strange how that name, Amalia Alejento, had stuck in her mind. She didn’t know the girl, she didn’t even expect to get to know her. And yet it seemed that everything remotely connected with Luis Martinez remained annoyingly in the forefront of her mind.

  Thrusting all thoughts aside, she slid out of bed and then pulled on a quilted housecoat before approaching the shutters of the windows. Pulling them open, she leant on the sill breathing deeply.

  Outside in the patio, a glass-topped table had been laid for breakfast, but just for two. A gardener was watering the hanging plants and those that grew in such profusion in tubs set here and there, and beyond a belt of almond trees, presently thick with pink and white blossom, the lushness of the gardens could be seen. Rachel had never seen such a variety of flowering plants and shrubs, their scents proving intoxicating even at this early hour. For it was early, a glance at her watch had told her that; barely six-forty-five. There were scarlet glimpses of poinsettia and hibiscus, soft magnolias and white oleanders, all tumbling in profusion over stone walls and trellises, with exotically patterned butterflies adding a somnolent kind of humming sound to the already drowsy air.

  The gardener had finished his duties and disappeared, and on impulse Rachel went into her bathroom and after showering and cleaning her teeth, she quickly put on her clothes.

  The night before she had brought the suitcase containing most of her things into this bedroom, and n
ow she rummaged through her belongings and came up with a shabby pair of cotton jeans and a sleeveless orange sweater with a low round neck. She brushed her hair until it was thick and smooth, loose about her shoulders. It would have been cooler to put it up, she reflected, but she didn’t want to waste any more of these few moments of freedom.

  Emerging into her sitting room, she saw that as in Malcolm’s sitting room long french doors opened on to the inner patio. Pushing open these doors, she stepped outside and stood in the shadow of the balcony above, stretching with delicious abandon. Then she looked about her with interest.

  Clearly this inner patio was not the central point of the quinta. No doubt there were other inner courtyards like this, and probably these rooms had been chosen for them because they were self-contained and apart from the rest of the household. Her mouth twisted wryly. Oh, well, what of it? She didn’t want to mix with the Marquesa and her friends anyway!

  The glass-topped table was set partly in the shade of the balcony, and she walked towards it, silent on her sandal-clad feet, running her fingers over its smooth cold surface. She looked towards the almond trees. She would like to see what was beyond. It was very early. Dare she take a walk? What harm could it do? Malcolm wouldn’t be awake for hours yet.

  With an impulsive little movement of her shoulders, she started off across the courtyard. The sun was warm upon her shoulders and she rested one hand on top of her head, feeling the intense heat.

  Beyond the almond trees was a stretch of green turf, and beyond this was a rose garden. Rachel loved roses, and she strolled across the grass towards them. There was no one about, she might have been alone in the quinta, and she wandered into a small arbour fragrant with the scents of the gorgeous blooms. Surely they would all have won prizes at some garden show back home, she thought, tempted to finger the velvet-soft petals.

  The sound of running water brought her to another arbour where there was a fountain and a stone mermaid who drank constantly from an opened oyster shell in her hands. It was a curiously real sculpture, and Rachel went down on her haunches beside it, trailing her fingers in the coolness. She almost jumped out of her skin when an unmistakably attractive masculine voice, said: ‘Bom dia, senhora. I trust you slept well.’

  Rachel scrambled hastily to her feet, immediately conscious of her shabby jeans and thin ribbed sweater which showed such an expanse of her smooth throat. Although Luis Martinez was wearing casual clothes, his close-fitting cream trousers and navy knitted cotton shirt were immaculate, the lacing at the neck of the shirt not revealing so much as an inch of his chest. The short sleeves showed his muscular forearms, liberally covered with dark hairs, a gold watch, on a plain leather strap, glinting.

  ‘Thank you, I slept very well—senhor,’ she replied, brushing her palms down the sides of her jeans to dry them. ‘It—it was kind of you to provide me with—with a suite to myself.’

  Luis’s fine dark eyes were intent. ‘Which you—used, of course.’

  ‘Yes, senhor.’ Rachel felt vaguely embarrassed by his directness. ‘And—and while I have the opportunity, I—I should apologise for what I said yesterday evening. It—it was very rude of me, and I regret it.’

  ‘Do you?’ His eyes challenged hers. ‘What do you regret?’

  She sighed. ‘It’s better that we don’t become involved in arguments of that sort,’ she answered. ‘I—I’ve just been admiring your roses. They’re magnificent, aren’t they?’ She glanced round a little desperately. ‘I—am I trespassing?’

  He studied her for a long disturbing minute, and then he frowned and ignoring her question said: ‘Do you think you will do much work while you are here, senhora?’

  ‘Work?’ Rachel frowned. ‘What kind of work?’

  ‘I understand from your husband that you are an artist, senhora.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Is this not so?’

  ‘Oh! Oh, I see.’ Rachel nodded. ‘Yes, yes, it’s so. I do paint a little. Not very well, I’m afraid, but I make a little money at it.’

  ‘Well?’ There was impatience in his voice now. ‘And do you think you will do much work while you are here? I would hazard to guess that you will find few more idyllically suitable places to paint.’

  Rachel bent her head. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to, senhor. I—I haven’t brought my equipment with me.’

  He frowned. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I—I didn’t think of it,’ she lied, unable to tell him what Malcolm had said.

  Luis folded his arms. ‘I suppose you did have a lot to arrange in an extremely short time,’ he agreed. ‘It is conceivable that you might forget. And yet ...’ He shrugged. ‘So how do you expect to fill your days, senhora?’

  Rachel moved uncomfortably. ‘I expect I shall find plenty to do. I read, too, you know, and sometimes I read to Malcolm. Then there’s the sun ...’ She made an involuntary gesture towards the gleaming ball of gold above them. ‘You don’t have to concern yourself about me, senhor.’ A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth suddenly. As if he would!

  ‘Something is amusing you, senhora?’

  His face was suddenly grim and she sobered instantly. ‘Not really, no,’ she denied, turning away. ‘I’d better be going back ...’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘It is only a little after seven-thirty, senhora. Breakfast will not be served before eight. Come, I will show you something more of the quinta.’

  Rachel drew an unsteady breath. It was the very last thing she had expected him to say. ‘Perhaps some other time, senhor,’ she ventured unhappily.

  ‘Why not now?’ His tone brooked no argument and there was an arrogant tilt to his head.

  Rachel looked down at her sweater and jeans. ‘I don’t think your mother would approve, senhor,’ she began awkwardly.

  ‘I am not a child, senhora. I do not need permission to do something I choose to do. Do I take it that you do not wish to accompany me? That you are merely using my mother as an excuse?’

  ‘Not at all ...’

  Rachel stared at him helplessly, aware that she wanted to go with him very much. But that very desire was sufficient to still her acceptance at birth.

  Since her marriage to Malcolm she had had little to do with any other man. She had had little wish to associate with members of the opposite sex. Her experiences with Malcolm had left their mark on her, and in spite of her youthful appearance, she was not the inexperienced teenager she seemed, eager to sample the delights of every forbidden interlude that came her way.

  On the contrary, until now she had never felt a physical attraction towards anyone. The physical side of her marriage to Malcolm she had found so repugnant to everything that was artistic in her nature that she had come to the conclusion that she must be frigid, and that was why she found this desire to spend time in Luis Martinez’s company so unexpected and so disturbing. She didn’t want to feel attracted to anyone, least of all someone like him, and she realised her most sensible course of action would be to avoid him after this.

  Luis was unaware of her mental upheaval. He had taken her denial of making excuses as acceptance and was now indicating a path which skirted the stone mermaid in her watery basin and entered a network of trellised walks where the sun was filtered. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We will go this way, senhora.’

  Rachel hung back, shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid I have to go back, senhor,’ she said regretfully. ‘I—Malcolm might be awake and needing me.’

  ‘Eduardo will attend to your husband, senhora.’

  ‘But Malcolm won’t allow him to do so.’

  Luis’s face hardened perceptibly and she felt a momentary sense of loss that she should have been responsible for severing any tenuous relationship there might have been between them.

  ‘Very well, senhora.’ He made no further effort to detain her. ‘Adeus, for the present!’

  Without waiting for her to make any move, he turned and strode swiftly away, and she watched him go with a fast beating heart. Now why on earth had he offered to show her th
e grounds of the quinta? Had it been a desire on his part to atone for his own behaviour of the night before, or was it simply that having come upon her as he had he had felt obliged to be polite?

  Either way, it didn’t much matter. And as she walked back across the lawns to the shadows of the inner patio, she thought that no doubt he was more annoyed at her having turned him down when few people ever did than disappointed that she should find some reason to reject him. She sighed. What a situation!

  Back in her rooms, she found an elastic band and secured her hair with it before going out into the corridor and along to Malcolm’s suite. To her surprise, the young manservant, Eduardo, was already there in the sala, changing the flowers in the wide bowls which graced every available shelf and table top.

  He straightened at her entrance and bowing slightly, said: ‘Bom dia, senhora.’

  ‘Bom dia, Eduardo.’ Rachel said her first Portuguese words rather tentatively. ‘Er—is my husband awake?’

  ‘I don’t know, senhora. I have come now to change the flowers.’

  Rachel nodded. ‘You mean you’ve just arrived?’

  Eduardo smiled. ‘Sim, senhora. Agora mesmo!’

  Rachel wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but she smiled, too, and went lightly to the bedroom door. Inside, in the shadowy interior, she could just see Malcolm stirring in the huge bed. Taking a deep breath, she pushed wide the door and entered the room.

  ‘Good morning,’ she greeted him, going to the windows to open the shutters. ‘Did you sleep well? It’s a glorious morning.’

  Malcolm came round slowly, coughing a little as he struggled up on his pillows. ‘What time is it?’ he grunted.

  Rachel looked at her watch. ‘A little after eight. But already the sun’s very high.’

  Eduardo came to the bedroom door. ‘Bom dia, senhor!’ he saluted him, with apparent disregard for the way he had been dismissed the night before. ‘Would you like me to help you to dress?’