Rachel Trevellyan

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.’