As Marianna wandered through the knot garden and skirted the fountain’s marble basin, the shapeless figure of her old
aia
appeared on the balcony. She was beckoning frantically.
‘Make haste,
menina,
make haste.’
‘Am I late for luncheon again?’ Marianna called back. ‘I forgot the time.’
Linguareira gave a disapproving snort. ‘That Clever One, I suppose?’
‘Yes, I was giving Jacinto a lesson and...’
‘I wonder that your father permits it! Hurry up now and get you changed into decent clothes. Then it’s a morsel to eat and down to Funchal with us.’
“To Funchal? What are you talking about, Linguareira?’
‘Nuno arrived an hour since with orders from the master for you to go there at once. So make haste, I tell you.’
‘Papa hasn’t been taken ill?’ Marianna asked anxiously.
‘There is no cause to think so.’
‘Then why does he want me?’
A shrug. ‘That is not for me to know, miss. Now come on!’
Wondering, Marianna entered the house and went upstairs to her bedroom. A change of clothes was laid out on the bed in readiness, and Linguareira fussed around, chivvying her to hurry up. Marianna paid little heed, never doubting the affection lying behind the acid tongue.
Originally, Marianna knew, the Madeiran woman had been brought into the Dalby household as her wet nurse. But she had stayed on in an undefined capacity that changed with changing needs until she was now quite indispensable. Since the death of Marianna’s mother four years ago, their relationship had inevitably grown even closer, and her papa seemed more than content to leave his daughter in her care.
Papa had taken the death of his wife badly. Marianna was unhappily aware of the change in him, his growing dependence on the fine wines he produced and his constant need for convivial company. These days he rarely made the journey to the
quinta
but remained the whole summer at the house in Funchal, pleading pressure of work at the wine lodge.
‘Keep still, can’t you, miss,’ Linguareira grumbled. ‘How can I undo these hooks if you keep wriggling? There, you can step out now. You’ve got the hem of your dress wet, I see. Whatever have you been up to?’
Marianna made no answer and none seemed expected. As she changed into a fresh shift, she took care not to let Linguareira catch sight of her grazed knee.
‘Are you certain that papa didn’t explain why he wants me?’ she demanded.
‘How many more times must I say it? Now go and wash your face, for the good Lord’s sake!’ Relenting a little, she added, ‘It might be something to do with the English gentleman having come — the one who owns all those ships.’
‘Mr Penfold, you mean? He’s here? Oh, goody!’
Relieved to have some sort of explanation, Marianna submitted to having her face vigorously dried. Then, in a dark brown holland skirt and white muslin blouse, she followed Linguareira downstairs to the
sala de jantar
for a meal of cold pork and chicken, with a custard tart and some juicy passion fruit. She liked Mr Penfold — or Uncle William, as she was allowed to call him. He was always kind and jolly and brought her little gifts from England, making her search his pockets until she found them.
Afterwards, as she and Linguareira set off on horseback in the heat of early afternoon, the groom Nuno trotting along behind them on the rocky track and as often as not hanging on to the animals’ tails, Marianna’s thoughts turned again to Uncle William. She wondered what her life would be like if she were the daughter of such a wealthy man, living in England, instead of the daughter of a Madeira-born Englishman who was having a struggle to make ends meet. A few months ago, during one of his brief visits to Madeira, Uncle William had produced some photographs of his two children. Eunice, whom he obviously adored, was a year older than herself and extremely beautiful. Marianna had felt immensely flattered when Uncle William had remarked on a resemblance between them.
‘You remind me of Eunice In several respects,’ he said, chucking her amusedly under the chin. ‘You have the same pretty golden hair and lovely big blue eyes.’ In his impulsively generous way, he had added, ‘I have a capital notion. Whilst I am here, we’ll go along to a photographer’s and have your likeness taken, too. Would you like that, little Marianna?’
‘Oh, yes please, Uncle William.’
True to his word, he had borne her off the very next morning to Senhor Vicente in Rua da Carreira where she was photographed in various poses, with an aspidistra in the background. Uncle William had ordered two sets of prints to be made from the plates, one for her to keep and the other for him to take back with him to England.
Also very striking in appearance was his son, Ralph Penfold, whose features were of almost classical perfection. Three years senior to his sister, he wore a somewhat supercilious expression in each of the poses she had seen, as if he were bored with the whole performance of having his photograph taken.
‘When Ralph finishes at Oxford,’ Marianna had heard Uncle William telling her papa, ‘he’s coming into the firm with me. He protests that he doesn’t have any interest in shipping, but that young man will have to settle down and get his nose to the grindstone.’ There was a pause in which her father and Mr Penfold had exchanged glances. ‘He’s still very young for marriage, of course, but I’ll be a great deal happier when we’ve found a wife for him. I’ve told Ralph that I will set him up very nicely ... very nicely indeed.’
It was another world, a world where wealth and high position were taken for granted. A world of dreams, as far as Marianna was concerned...
‘Sit up straight, miss!’ But Linguareira’s reproof was only a token of her authority, and was not pursued. She herself was slumped on the back of her small brown mare, a grotesque figure with enormous hips but narrow shoulders, her black hair drawn back tightly on either side into large coils which protruded from under her straw bonnet. ‘Stop that humming, oaf!’ she shouted at Nuno in Portuguese. Then, flicking away the flies with her horsehair twitch, she subsided into sleepy silence as they crested the ridge and began the descent into yet another valley.
The Dalby residence in Funchal and, adjoining it, the honeycomb buildings of the wine lodge, were situated in Rua das Murças, conveniently near to the Custom House. Built two centuries previously by a Portuguese nobleman who was directly descended from Zarco, the discoverer of Madeira, his coat of arms still ornamented each window pediment and the handsome arched entrance.
Hot and dusty from their two hour ride, Marianna and Linguareira passed in from the sunbaked street to the cool shadows of the pebbled courtyard. But the clatter of the horses’ hooves brought no one running. They were obliged to dismount with only Nuno’s assistance and they found the door at the head of the stone stairway securely bolted against them. Marianna felt only mild surprise, resigned to the slothful ways of the servants since her mother’s death, but Linguareira was furious. Bending her ponderous body with an effort, she picked up a loose stone and used it to hammer on the door panel.
“You lazy good-for-nothing wretches!’ she screamed. ‘Make haste and open.’
From within came a shuffle of feet and a hoarse voice called, ‘May the saints in heaven protect us, who’s there?’ A bolt was drawn back
,
a chain rattled. The door was dragged open by a slovenly man in grubby shirt and trousers, with two or three days’ growth of black stubble on his chin. Seeing who it was, he stood aside to let them enter, one hand twisted behind him to scratch the small of his back.
‘Where’s the master?’ Linguareira demanded. ‘Is he at home, Codface?’ Like most Madeiran nicknames, this was particularly apt, for the man had bulging eyes and a slack, wet mouth.
‘He’s playing billiards at the English Club. His excellency said to send round for him as soon as the
menina
arrives.’
‘Well, she’s here now. So go for him, numskull, and be quick about it. Come, miss, we’ll get you clean and tidy before your papa sees you.’
They mounted four flights of echoing, gloomy stairs to the turret, which had been added to command a view after the house had been hemmed about with other buildings. Marianna’s bedroom was at the very top, a small but pleasant chamber with windows on two sides. In one direction could be seen the upper part of the town cradled in a vast amphitheatre of hills that soared up to the peaks of the high
serra,
with the twin-towered church of Nossa Senhora do Monte standing out whitely from deep chestnut woods. In the other direction was the whole majestic sweep of the bay, the Brazen Head promontory away to the left and the Deserta islands lying crouched on the misty horizon.
The windows, though, had not been opened to ventilate the room which in consequence was hot and stuffy; and the bed, prettily draped in white muslin looped with pink rosettes, had clearly not been made up in readiness. Linguareira fumed about this as she bustled her charge into a hasty
toilette.
With the grime of the journey washed off, Marianna donned a candy-striped poplin frock and Linguareira brushed out her hair and tied it in two bunches.
There was a loud rapping of knuckles on the door and Codface’s rasping voice informed them that his excellency was now at home and waited the
menina
in the salon. Marianna descended the turret stairs and passed through an ante-room before entering the grand salon. This had once been a most sumptuous apartment, according to her mama, and echoes of its former glory still remained. The walls beneath a high coved ceiling were still hung with the original silk flock of deep, rich crimson, but it was now patchily faded to various shades of brown. The window drapes, the easy chairs and sofas were all a little threadbare while, evidence of more recent neglect, the tables and commodes and pedestals which each bore an assembly of ornaments and knick-knacks were sadly in need of dusting. The room appeared to be empty, but as Marianna closed the door her father stepped in from the balcony.
‘Ah, so here you are then, my love.’
‘Hallo, papa.’ Running to him she stood on tiptoe and kissed his whiskered cheek. How poorly he looked, she thought with tender concern. His complexion was abnormally pale for summer and the blue eyes beneath sandy brows were tired and worried. His silk cravat was slightly askew, his brown hair rumpled, and the pervasive aroma of wine that she had come to associate with her father seemed even stronger than she recalled.
Perhaps observing his daughter’s critical assessment, James Dalby pulled himself upright and straightened his shoulders. Flicking aside his coat-tails, he linked his hands behind him.
‘I trust it wasn’t too uncomfortable riding down this afternoon,’ he began apologetically. ‘I would have suggested leaving it until the cool of the evening, but I wanted you here in good time.’
‘In good time for what, papa?’
He took a little turnabout of three or four strides. ‘Mr Penfold is paying us another visit, child.’
‘Yes, Nuno said. And on our ride down Linguareira and I spotted one of the Penfold Line ships anchored off the Loo Rock — the
SS Apollo,
I think. I was surprised to hear that Uncle William is here again so soon. It can’t be much more than three or four months since his last visit.’
‘Well, he ... he, er....’ A nervous clearing of the throat, ‘A matter of considerable importance to us has brought him back, my love.’
‘Oh? What’s that, papa?’
He regarded her dubiously and Marianna noticed that his cheeks above the straggle of sidewhiskers were crisscrossed with tiny purple veins. His gazed drifted away to a point beyond her left shoulder before he spoke again.
‘The Penfolds are extremely well-to-do, my love. They are a great deal wealthier, I venture to suggest, than you have ever imagined. Transporting wine for me is only a very small part of their business. All told there are sixteen vessels steaming under the Penfold flag, carrying every type of cargo to all quarters of the globe.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘Uncle William has told me about that himself, papa.’
‘We should consider it quite an honour to have the friendship of such an eminent gentleman.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed dutifully, though it never occurred to Marianna to think in such terms. Uncle William — the title was a purely courtesy one, of course — had intermittently been part of her world ever since she could remember. He and papa had become friends years and years ago when they were both undergraduates at Oxford. His visits to Madeira were usually of just a few days’ duration, while one of his ships was turned about for England or was re-coaled for voyaging on to the Cape or Brazil or the West Indies.
‘I place great value on Mr Penfold’s continuing friendship and goodwill,’ her father told her, and seemed at a loss for anything more to say.
Still seeking an explanation for her abrupt summons to Funchal, Marianna suggested, ‘You have arranged a dinner party in Uncle William’s honour this evening, papa — is that why you wanted me to be here?’
His eyes brightened. ‘That would be most appropriate, if you would agree.’
‘You have only to say what you wish of me, papa, and I will do the very best I can.’
Her father patted her cheek and called her his good girl. Extracting a cheroot from the inlaid cedarwood box on a side table, he lit it and puffed for a moment or two. When he spoke again it was half to himself.
‘This evening is too soon, of course, but something could be arranged for tomorrow by way of celebration. Just a small dinner party — a few friends, and the consul, perhaps. William would appreciate that, I’m sure.’
‘What is it we shall be celebrating, papa?’
He frowned, as if her question had disturbed his reflections. ‘You have become a young woman now, my love. Of an age to leave childhood behind and enter the adult world.’
‘I shall be sixteen on the third of next month,’ Marianna reminded him proudly.
‘Yes, yes! Just so. Exactly. You will agree with me, then, that there is no point in postponement for its own sake? When a good offer is presented — more than good, one of inconceivable excellence — it would be foolish to refuse merely because you are a little on the young side.’