Rachel Trevellyan Page 8

  She sat in another of the high-backed chairs and tried to listen to the conversation. But it was boring. It began very formally with the Marquesa explaining to Amalia about Malcolm’s illness, and subsequent need for recuperation. Amalia was like a sponge, Rachel decided rather uncharitably. But she couldn’t help it. The Portuguese girl lapped up words like a cat lapping up cream, but very little emerged in return. Obviously all her life she had been subdued. She could not be very old, about twenty-one, and she was not yet married and therefore not expected to have much conversation in the presence of her elders, but surely she must have some personality.

  And what about Luis? thought Rachel reluctantly, biting into a dainty cucumber sandwich. What did she say to him when they were alone together? Or were they ever alone? Was the duenna system still operating here? Surely a man as sophisticated and enlightened as Luis Martinez required more in a wife than beauty and good breeding!

  Or did he? After all, his possible main concern was the assurance of the Martinez line, and no doubt Amalia would produce eminently suitable sons to carry on the family name. Rachel felt ashamedly feline at this thought. If ever women were treated as intellectual inferiors it must be here! Unless, perhaps, you happened to be like the Marquesa de Mendao, who now that her husband was dead had assumed all his arrogance. And maybe that was partially due to her English upbringing.

  Rachel drank her tea and felt that unsettled feeling stealing over her again. In spite of his attitudes, which she could not agree with, Luis Martinez was an intelligent and virile man. Could he really be satisfied with a wife like Amalia? Would she really be able to hold his interest after the initial period of readjustment was over? Or didn’t she care about that? Perhaps it was not uncommon for a man to have other—interests; a mistress, perhaps. Certainly, it seemed unlikely that Luis Martinez would be prepared to spend his intellectual abilities talking with a woman whose whole conversation centred round the family, and as to his physical needs ...

  Rachel shied away from such intimacies. It was nothing to do with her. None of this had anything to do with her, and she was being incredibly foolish even wondering about the lives of these people which were so far removed from her own.

  Unwillingly, her eyes drifted to Luis Martinez. She had avoided looking at him up until now, but at the moment he was talking to Amalia and it seemed safe to venture a speculative glance.

  In a dark blue suit made, she imagined, of silk, he looked lean and attractive, wholly confident and sure of himself. She thought again of that morning, of his totally unexpected invitation to her, and felt a panicky sense of confinement. She didn’t want to stay here, but what could she do? Malcolm seemed determined to exact every ounce of hospitality from the Marquesa, although she herself might as yet be unaware of it.

  Rachel bent and lifted her cup, sipping her tea thoughtfully. The china was very thin, almost fragile, transparent when held to the light. Like everything else at the quinta it was unique, irreplaceable. She suspected that Malcolm was aware of this, that he intended to leave here with more than just an improvement in his health, and it nauseated her.

  She suddenly realised that she was still staring at Luis, and that he had become aware of that scrutiny and was returning it in full measure. Faint colour entered her cheeks at that dispassionate appraisal, and she leant forward to replace her cup on its saucer, the long silky lashes veiling her eyes. But he had made her nervous, her hand shook and misjudged the whereabouts of the saucer, so that the cup fell to shatter into hundreds of tiny pieces on the polished wood floor.

  Rachel sprang to her feet, both hands pressed to her mouth in horror, while the shocked silence was broken by the Marquesa’s cold angry voice. She, too, had risen, and she stared at Rachel with unconcealed dislike.

  ‘Careless, careless girl!’ she snapped, her small hands clenched in fury. ‘How could you be so stupid?’

  Rachel was trembling. The enormity of what she had done was not lost on her and she did not need the Marquesa to tell her what a fool she had been. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began helplessly, knowing how inadequate were the words. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? Sorry? What use is there in being sorry? Can you tell me that words can replace something so irreplacable?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Rachel looked wordlessly towards Malcolm, praying for his support, but he looked furious too. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what else I can say.’

  ‘Have you any idea of the value of that small item?’ exclaimed the Marquesa. ‘Do you realise you have ruined a whole service——’

  ‘That will do, Mama.’ Luis’s quiet but compelling tones interrupted his mother in full cry. ‘I am quite sure that Senhora Trevellyan did not drop the cup on purpose. On the contrary, as she is an artist herself, I doubt her ability to destroy anything so beautiful.’

  Rachel was astounded, as no doubt, too, was the Marquesa. That aristocratic little woman drew herself up to her full height and faced her son with almost royal hauteur.

  ‘You would argue with me, Luis?’

  Luis had risen to his feet when his mother did, and now he folded his arms and shook his head.

  ‘Senhora Trevellyan is our guest, amada. It was an unfortunate accident, nothing more.’

  The Marquesa’s hands betrayed her agitation. They plucked restlessly at the pearls about her throat. ‘It is more than that, Luis. This girl—Senhora Trevellyan then—she is not our guest. She is an interloper here, an intruder!’

  ‘Mae!’ Luis’s voice had perceptibly hardened.

  ‘Well, it is true.’ The Marquesa’s lips moved nervously. ‘I did not invite her.’

  Rachel felt terrible. It had been bad enough before, but this was worse, much worse. ‘I—I——’ she tried to begin, only to be silenced by the look on Luis’s face.

  ‘I think the distress of losing something that was dear to her heart has momentarily destroyed my mother’s sensibilities,’ he said forcefully. ‘I must ask you to forget what has been said. The matter is closed. We will say no more about it.’

  There was a full minute’s silence at the end of this announcement, and Rachel looked appealingly towards Malcolm. Now was the moment for him to say something, to make some comment on what had occurred, if only to agree with what Luis had said. But he said nothing. His face was expressionless except when he looked at Rachel and she glimpsed the anger in the depths of his eyes. But whether that anger was directed towards her or towards others in the room she could not be absolutely certain.

  Then Amalia spoke. ‘Tell me, senhora,’ she said, addressing herself to Rachel, ‘how long do you expect to stay in Portugal?’

  Rachel sank down into her chair again with reluctance. The charade was to go on, then. The Marquesa had resumed her seat, and it seemed it was the expected thing to do. What strange, unnatural people these were who could speak so vehemently one minute and then assume a mask of indifference the next.

  Swallowing with difficulty, she said: ‘I—I’m not sure,’ and as she answered the question she wondered whether Amalia was as innocent as she seemed. Was she, in her own subtle way, showing that she too could play her part in the proceedings if she chose?

  Malcolm’s cup rattled ominously as it was replaced in its saucer on the low table beside him. ‘Joanna—the Marquesa, that is—didn’t stipulate any specific period for our holiday,’ he replied calmly. ‘We’re old friends. We have a lot of time to make up.’

  Amalia’s lips thinned. ‘Of course, senhor. I am aware of your—association with the Marquesa. However, with our wedding ...’ she glanced significantly at Luis ... ‘with our wedding being only a few weeks away, naturally there is a lot to be done——’

  ‘I shall look forward to that.’

  Malcolm’s succinct interjection was received with varying degrees of surprise and consternation, not least of these from Rachel herself. So he had said it. What now?

  ‘You expect to be here for the wedding ...’ Amalia’s voice trailed away, and Sara Ribialto, who had
taken the Marquesa’s arm earlier and drawn her back down into her chair, now pressed warning fingers on her employer’s wrist.

  Luis, as usual, maintained an air of enigmatism. Rachel had no idea what he was thinking as he said: ‘We shall see, shall we not, senhor. What is it you English say—something about not counting bridges before they are crossed, hmm?’ He leant forward and lifted a case of cheroots and offered them to the other man. ‘Try these,’ he suggested, almost as if the unpleasantness of the last few minutes had never happened. ‘I can recommend them.’

  Luis’s attitude served as an emollient, and because he was choosing to ignore the implications of what had just been said, Malcolm had to do likewise. He accepted a cheroot and allowed Luis to light it for him while Rachel sat there feeling absolutely shattered.

  Conversation dwindled inevitably. Not even Luis could sustain any kind of discussion with his mother sitting there with tightly pressed lips and Amalia clearly viewing the whole affair with disapproval. Rachel prayed for Malcolm to say they could go, anything to escape from this awful situation.

  Eventually it was the Marquesa who broke up the tea party. She rose to her feet again and pressing a lace handkerchief to her forehead, she said: ‘I have a headache, Luis. I’m afraid I must ask you all to excuse me.’

  ‘That’s all right, Joanna. We quite understand,’ said Malcolm reassuringly, but Rachel sensed that his reassurance did nothing for the Marquesa. She crossed the room to the door slowly, an expression of strain marring her normally composed features, and after she had gone Rachel heaved a heavy sigh.

  ‘I think I should like to go back to our suite now, Rachel,’ said her husband then. ‘I shall rest before dinner.’

  Luis pressed out the remains of his cheroot. He cast a glance in Amalia’s direction, and then he said: ‘I should like to have a few words with you, Senhor Trevellyan, if I may. In private.’

  Rachel, who had got to her feet when her husband spoke, now froze beside her chair. But Malcolm wasn’t prepared to be diverted from his own plans.

  ‘Some other time, senhor,’ he said calmly. ‘I am—rather tired.’

  Luis’s jaw was taut, but there was nothing he could say short of demanding an audience, and it was against his nature to be impolite even to someone who had clearly disturbed his mother. He allowed his gaze to move from the man in the wheelchair to the girl who stood so slim and straight beside her chair, and then he turned away.

  ‘Very well, senhor,’ he conceded abruptly, and with a rather satisfied little smile Malcolm indicated that Rachel should come and take charge of the wheelchair.

  She did so willingly, although she was overwhelmingly conscious of Luis’s displeasure and of the fact that Malcolm’s relationship with the Marquesa had undertones she had not even suspected.

  Back in their suite, she confronted Malcolm tremulously. ‘What was all that about?’ she demanded.

  ‘What are you talking about, Rachel?’ Malcolm assumed a bored expression. ‘I should have thought that it was I who should be asking you that question. You were careless, weren’t you?’

  Rachel rubbed her elbows with her palms. ‘It was an accident, you know that.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know it. But does the Marquesa?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing.’ He changed the subject. ‘I think I’ll sit on the patio for a while. The shadows out there look so cool and appealing.’

  Rachel stared at him impotently. ‘What’s going on, Malcolm? Why are we here?’

  ‘You know why we’re here, Rachel. So that I can recuperate.’

  Rachel wrung her hands. ‘There’s more to it than that, I know. Why won’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’d like to sit on the patio,’ remarked Malcolm mildly, but she could tell he was becoming annoyed.

  Sighing, she took the handles of the chair and propelled it outside. In the shade of the balcony she halted and looked upward. The sky was an arc of blue overhead. The shadows were lengthening, and in a short time the deepening colours of evening would darken the courtyard. Their first day in Portugal was drawing to a close, and what a day it had been ...

  Although Rachel half expected that Luis might come to their suite after dinner to speak to Malcolm, she was mistaken. They dined alone and no one came to disturb them. Afterwards, Malcolm was tired and retired to his bed. It had been an unusually strenuous day for him and Rachel was allowed to seek the refuge of her own rooms. Later, when she checked to see that he was all right, she found him fast asleep, and a spasm of desperation crossed her face. He was completely without conscience, she realised that now, whereas she was filled with anxiety and felt sure she would not close her eyes all night.

  In fact, she did fall into a fitful slumber, soon after midnight, but when she awakened next morning she felt dull and listless, and not at all exhilarated as she had done the day before. Too many thoughts tormented her brain, and she made her way along to Malcolm’s suite with some misgivings.

  They breakfasted indoors again, and then Rosa came to tell them that the Senhora Marquesa had placed a car at their disposal and should they wish to use it they had only to tell her.

  Malcolm was in another of his black moods, Rachel had found, and although the knowledge that a car had been provided for them momentarily lifted his spirits, the further information that both the Marquesa and her son were out for the day, visiting with the Alejentos, was sufficient to dampen them again, and he dismissed Rosa without a word of thanks.

  Rachel finished her coffee, and then she said: ‘Shall we go out for a drive this morning?’ in an effort to shift the weight of her own thoughts.

  ‘I don’t care to go driving,’ muttered Malcolm, pushing aside his plate.

  Rachel rested her palms on the cool surface of the silver tray. ‘Why not? It’s another beautiful morning. Oh, let’s get out of here for a while, Malcolm, please!’

  He regarded her dourly. ‘I’ve told you. I don’t wish to go out.’

  ‘But what am I supposed to do? How can I just wait here for you to decide to do something?’

  He drew his brows together. ‘Why shouldn’t you? You’re my wife. I need your company.’

  ‘But you don’t. We hardly ever talk together——’

  ‘There’s not a lot to say.’

  ‘Then there should be. Malcolm, please, let’s go home. At least there I have my—my work.’

  He smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. ‘And here you haven’t. That’s good. That’s very good.’

  ‘But why? Surely I’m entitled to have some interests——’

  ‘I don’t want to talk any more about it.’

  Malcolm rested back against the pillows and closed his eyes. Rachel opened her mouth to say something more and then closed it again. It was useless anyway. Once Malcolm had made up his mind there was nothing she could do to gainsay him. She might just as well accept the situation as continually frustrate herself by trying to change it.

  She spent the morning on the patio, wondering whether it would be possible for her to go down to the village that afternoon while Malcolm slept. She had seen a store there. Surely they might sell a phrase book for tourists, and maybe she could buy herself a pad and some crayons. Anything to fill the hours which in these circumstances could only drag.

  Malcolm ate an enormous lunch and afterwards was quite willing to relax on his bed. Naturally he expected Rachel to do the same in the heat of the day, and therefore he made no demur about her leaving him alone.

  Taking her dark glasses, and her purse, she left the house surreptitiously, hurrying across the courtyard and into the shade of the trees before anyone could see her. It was comparatively easy. The servants all observed the siesta and as both the Marquês and the Marquesa were absent there was no one to stop her.

  The drive was longer than she remembered, but it was quite pleasant walking in the shade of the trees. The sun was only filtered down to her, and there was a coolness from the shadows.

 
But once she emerged from the drive, through the gate marked Privado, there was a distinct difference. Now the sun beat down upon her head unrelentingly, and the road ahead of her shimmered in a heat haze. It was a dusty track, but luckily no cars were using it at this time of day and she could walk in the road without fear of being choked by dust.

  At last the village came into sight, the colour-washed cottages looking cool and inviting. She thought she would go into the café before returning to the quinta and have a long cool lemonade, and maybe by then the sun would have lost a little of its violence.

  But the worst was yet to come. The shops, the café, everywhere was closed and shuttered against the heat of the day, and she chided herself for her own stupidity. She should have realised that everyone observed the siesta here.

  She could have cried, so hot and tired did she feel. There was no one about except a couple of old men dozing in the shade of a balcony, while a few dogs roamed aimlessly about. No one to whom she could appeal, no one to give her a few minutes’ rest and relaxation.

  She looked at the stream, shaded by trees, and thought of paddling there. But she was no peasant girl, and the Marquês would not be pleased to learn a guest in his house had behaved liked one. There was nothing for it but to return to the quinta. It might be hours before the shops opened again, and if Malcolm awakened and found she had gone ...

  The dusty track seemed harder than before. Her sleeveless sweater and jeans left her arms bare and her legs hot and sticky. She felt near to tears when a sleek limousine passed her throwing up a cloud of dust, before halting some few yards ahead of her. Her heart leapt into her throat. What now? Was she to be accosted on top of everything else?

  She glanced back towards the village, resisting the impulse to run for safety. She mentally estimated how long it would take her to reach the first of the cottages and then gasped in dismay when a hand caught her arm and swung her round. She raised her other hand to strike her assailant, and then allowed it to fall when she encountered Luis Martinez’s dark gaze.