Under the Brazilian Sun

With time for the kind of breakfast she never bothered with at home, Katherine sat at the open window to eat at her leisure as she looked out on the acres of beautiful gardens. No matter what happened about the painting, she was glad she’d been given the opportunity to see this heavenly place—and make the acquaintance of Roberto de Sousa. The Gaucho, no less. Very sexy.

The man waiting for her on the veranda later, however, looked weary rather than sexy. The shadowed eyes below the tumble of damp curls conveyed pain to Katherine.

‘Bom dia,’ he said as she joined him. ‘You slept well?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

Roberto eyed her tripod and work box with interest. ‘These are for your work?’

She nodded. ‘I take photographs of the painting to record its original condition, and then more shots as I go along. The box contains the various tools and solvents for the preliminary cleaning. This can be a messy process, so I shall need a place to work where I won’t spoil anything. And with bright daylight rather than strong sunlight, if possible.’

He nodded. ‘I shall arrange it. Do you still wish to walk for a while before you start?’

‘Yes, please. I’ve been gazing out over your gardens while I ate breakfast. I’d love to see more.’ And postpone the stress of her first encounter with the painting.

‘Vamos, then.’ He picked up the walking stick leaning against a pillar.

‘Are you sure you feel like a walk today?’ she asked, and regretted it when his mouth tightened.

‘I assure you I can hobble—if that is the word—for a while without falling, Doctor.’

She flushed. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘No! It is I who am sorry.’ He forced a smile. ‘Forgive me. I swam too much this morning and now I pay for it. Come. I will show you the pool.’

On the leisurely stroll they encountered two gardeners, elderly men who looked up with smiles as their employer stopped to have a word with them each time.

‘They were very pleased to see you,’ commented Katherine.

‘They have known me all my life,’ he informed her. ‘Quinta das Montanhas was my mother’s childhood home. Now it is mine.’

Katherine was impressed. ‘Your mother left it to you?’

‘She gave it to me. My mother is still very much alive. But since their marriage, when my father stole her away to live in Rio Grande do Sul, she does not come here often. She dislikes the long flight.’

‘I sympathise with her! The flight from the UK to Oporto was more than enough for me. Oh!’ she said with sudden pleasure, as they turned down another path. ‘A tennis court.’

‘You play?’

‘Yes, though not very well.’

‘Better than I—now,’ he said bitterly.

‘Forgive the personal question,’ she said with caution, ‘but can nothing be done for your limp?’

His mouth twisted. ‘Deus, yes! I do the punishing exercises, a physiotherapist tortures me, I swim and walk every day, and every day it is improving. Eventually, I am assured, I shall be normal. Whatever normal may be,’ he added savagely. ‘To achieve that I shall even endure plastic surgery on my face, so I do not give little children nightmares.’

Mentally kicking herself for bringing the subject up, Katherine was glad to reach the swimming pool, which was big enough to give any man a workout on his daily swim. ‘What a wonderful setting, with those trees in the background and the mountains beyond,’ she said brightly.

He nodded in brief agreement, but said nothing more until they reached a summerhouse on the way back to the house. ‘Before we return, let us inspect the estufa. Would this suit for your work? Here you have daylight, no one to disturb you, but you are near the house. Also,’ he added, ‘it revolves, for you to follow the light.’

Katherine ran up a shallow flight of steps into an octagonal room with a table and wicker chairs, a tiled floor and as much natural light from the windows as she could wish for. She beamed at Roberto. ‘This is perfect! All I need now is the painting, plus a large blanket and my equipment and I’ll get started.’

‘Coffee first,’ he said firmly, and waved his stick in the direction of the house. ‘We shall drink it on the varanda, where the painting awaits.’

It was frustrating for Katherine to keep to Roberto’s slow pace. Excitement and apprehension filled her now the moment of truth had finally arrived. Even if the painting was all he believed it to be, she might fail to identify the artist, which would be disaster after insisting that she possessed the necessary expertise. As they mounted the veranda steps the sight of the swathed package on the table accelerated her pulse.

‘Shall I unmask him?’ asked Roberto.

Katherine nodded, swallowing. ‘Yes, please.’

With care, he removed the wrappings from the un-framed canvas, then stood back. ‘A little dirty, nao e?’

‘Normal if there’s any age to the painting,’ she agreed, nerves suddenly gone as she looked down at the canvas, which showed a young dark-haired man in sober eighteenth century clothing. ‘Certainly no dandy,’ said Katherine slowly, ‘though he would look a lot more elegant without the layers of overpaint. The jacket is just a blob and there’s too much neck cloth.’

‘What does that mean?’ demanded Roberto, face tense.

‘The overpaint may be hiding a repair in the canvas, or an addition by another artist,’ she said absently, her eyes glued to the subject’s face, which had suffered less than the body. Itching to get started, she smiled absently at her client. ‘If you’ll have my gear sent over to the summerhouse—with a thick blanket to lay the painting on, please—I’ll get to work straight away.’

‘First you must drink coffee,’ he insisted as Jorge appeared to place a coffee pot on the waiting tray. Roberto gave him some quick-fire instructions, and the man bore the tripod and work box off to the summerhouse. ‘I shall carry the painting there myself when you are ready,’ he told Katherine, pulling out a chair for her.

Wishing she could get straight on with the job, she began pouring coffee. ‘After I’ve cleaned the painting with white spirit, I can remove some of the overpaint with solvent, if you wish. By then I might even have some idea about the artist.’ She had a pretty wild idea already, but had no intention of dropping names at this stage. Further investigation might prove her horribly wrong, and Roberto de Sousa’s faith in her opinion would be gone for good.

He sat down beside her. ‘You must not work too long without taking a break. Jorge will fetch you when lunch is ready.’

‘I won’t be able to face a meal in the middle of the day,’ she warned.

‘You must eat for energy. A small sandwich, at least,’ he said firmly. ‘I will join you here at one.’ He looked up as Jorge returned. ‘All is ready?’

‘Sim, senhor.’

Katherine found that the summerhouse had already been dusted and swept, and a second table brought in to hold a tray with glasses and bottled water in an ice bucket, also a large metal bell with a wooden handle and a thick brown blanket.

Katherine positioned the blanket where the light was brightest and Roberto laid the painting down on it. He stood back, his eyes on her face as she subjected the painted face to a close scrutiny.

Katherine took her time, her excitement mounting. He looked familiar. Could she possibly be right about the artist?

She turned to smile absently at Roberto. ‘Right. I’ll make a start now.’

He smiled wryly. ‘You wish me to leave you to your detecting, nao e?’ He touched the bell. ‘Ring if you need anything. Jorge will come. I shall see you at lunch.’

Alone with the portrait at last, Katherine took off the spectacles to peer through her magnifying glass. ‘Right, young sir. Time for your close up.’

She went over every inch of the painting, then took a photograph to record its original state. Her instinct was screaming at her to start cleaning, but she doggedly kept to her usual routine. Once she’d taken everything she needed from her box, she pulled on a builder’s mask and her binocular headband, drew in a deep breath and moistened the first cotton bud with white spirit.

CHAPTER TWO

KATHERINE could have sworn that only minutes had passed when Roberto himself arrived to say lunch awaited her on the veranda, by which time the bin liner at Katherine’s feet was piling up with swabs and she was in no mood to break off to eat. But she smiled politely and straightened her back as she exchanged the binocular lenses for her spectacles, aware of his obvious disappointment that she had so little to show for her labours.